Charlie took a deep breath. A few more minutes and he could acceptably go to bed.
Molly and Arthur Weasley were amiably bickering about gnomes in the garden, having the same meandering conversation for the fifth time. As fondly as he loved the pair, a mostly empty Burrow was too eerie for him. He was looking forward to a full Weasley house for Christmas; all noise, laughter and madness.
Potter would soak up all of his Mother's mollycoddling and Father's curiosities. (At least the boy had one use other than utterly and inadvertently annoying Charlie). He could finally catch up in person with Ginny on her fledgling Quidditch career and ask George how Angelina liked her gift. Bill would bring that calm security he always did and Percy would entertain him with all his straight-laced oddity.
Once Christmas was over and they had basked in the season's gaiety (and ignored the ghosts in the room), he'd be back to Romania to his Longhorns and his mountains and her. Back to where the blood beat harder in his heart.
In quiet moments, Charlie would re-read the memory of that one night, full of food and dancing, where they had watched the dawn rise over the mountains and slept in each other's arms. He used that moment like a touch stone, taking it out as one does a trinket to admire. Thinking of it made a strange hope brew in his stomach… one that he did not quite have the courage to stoke.
He cleaned the dishes with an inexorable slowness, enjoying the warm water on his hands and the sharp smell of snow creeping in through the open window. The mountain at night and her; she being a nightmare of wit and will, and he being completely and entirely entranced.
Charlie was glad his back was turned to the others, because he could feel the goofy smile on his face. Ridiculous. How often he had thought of that night? And how often had it had this effect?
He could not quite say what made him look up. Perhaps the small pop had caught on the wind. Perhaps he had known she would come.
Outside the snow glowed under the moon. Dark silhouettes of trees stood still in the night.
One silhouette was new, in a strange but familiar way. It was formed with a clarity that did not fit here. The garden was a place Charlie was fluent with and it was like there was a word outside that jarred. Charlie's stomach clenched tight and the dish slipped into the sink. As if by thinking of her, he had wished her -
He was out the door in moments, snow to his knees and Pansy Parkinson in his arms, finally.
"It's the best Christmas eve present I could have wished for."
Charlie's eyes adjusted to the low light and the figure before him. She was both over and under-dressed, some flimsy and fashionable garb covering her arms with lace as thick as cobweb. Eyeliner smudged at the corners of her eyes and lipstick was mostly waned on her wide mouth. There was the echo of upset on Pansy's face, but at his words it disintegrated into relief.
"You charmer."
He drew himself up with faux-pride. "Well, Professor Flitwick always said my Charm work was reliably average… But be honest - you are more than welcome here- but is everything okay, did something happen?"
Pansy took a deep breath, so ready to tell him – what a relief not to want nor need to keep it secret! – until a voice called from within the crooked house: "Pansy, how lovely it is to see you!"
Charlie's eyes which had been bright with glee widen further with a warning look to Pansy. "Um, you might want to prepare yourself. You're about to enjoy a true Weasley welcome."
"Arthur." Molly uttered, her body alert by the window.
When her husband made no comment (he was busy trying to work out a Muggle Potato Clock. Unfortunately he was attempting this with the mash), Molly repeated his name with a tense hiss.
"Yes, my Mollywobbles?"
"It's Charlie. Outside. With a girl."
Arthur joined his wife at the window.
"Oh yes. Were we expecting company?"
"No. Wait – were we? It would be just like Charlie to forget to tell us about visitors. The boy is too laidback. Oh Arthur, I haven't polished the fireplace!"
"I don't think that's necessary –"
"What if we haven't got enough food –"
"Dear, I really wouldn't worry –"
"No," she turned to him, her expression indomitable in true Mrs Weasley fashion. "No. Charlie never brings girls- guests.- home. We must make her feel welcome. Arthur, you get Miss Makowski's Miracle Cleaning Fluid and I'll re-polish the silverware… How are we going to get this house into a fit state for Charlie's… um, Charlie's…"
"Mysterious woman friend? Perhaps we could welcome her by getting her in out of the snow? What's the girl's name?"
"Arthur… that's not…. That's not a terrible idea." Molly's eyes were distant as her mind sieved quickly through all the names Charlie had mentioned over the past few days. Only one had stuck out as being an unusual mention, only one name had been uttered with any tone of reverence. "Pansy. It must be Pansy."
"Who?" asked Arthur as his wife marched towards the door.
"Pansy," Called the stout woman from the doorway once more. "How lovely to see you – Charlie, do take this poor girl in from the cold she must be frozen. Do come in dear!"
"You were expecting me?!" Pansy whispered, throwing a scared smile towards Mrs Weasley.
Charlie honestly knew his family were not, and he could not quite grasp how Mrs Weasley had so quickly worked out who this was. His Mother's powers of deduction were truly frightening. Rather than reply, he gave Pansy a grin that was both sphinx-like and reassuring.
"You may want to prepare yourself. My Mother is known for being intensely… hospitable."
And so Pansy Parkinson, Magizoologist (in training), Scourge of Slytherin, One Time Fiancé to Draco Malfoy and Fan of Sacrificing Harry Potter to the Supreme Dark Overlord, entered the Burrow.
Sunlight and warmth woke her.
A lovely, safe smell encircled her, making her burrow her nose further into the pillow as she stretched out her limbs. She was happy to be awake, but she was also happy to enjoy the blurring, buzzing not-quite-thinking state she was in.
Slowly, ever so slowly, her mind started to note things.
Firstly, she was in Charlie's bed.
It was –rather innocently- a single bed. She could tell it was Charlie's because the thick, warm quilt was a patchwork glory of red, orange and blue, with every other patch displaying a wonkily stitched dragon. Many she assumed were Charlie's handiwork (few people would bother sewing the triple-horned detail into a Hebredian's skull). They also would not have made the dragons quite so goofy looking.
She could also tell it was Charlie's bed because that safe smell was distinctly Charlie. There was something very… soapy about it.
A third clue was the discarded red curls from Charlie's head on the pillow. Gently, Pansy prodded one with her finger. The fire-red strand gleamed in the sun. There was something so strangely intimate about seeing it.
A fourth clue was that she was wearing Charlie's blue jumper with the mustard-yellow "C" emblazoned on it. She would (probably) be quite embarrassed if someone had spotted her in what could be described as a Charlie Weasley fangirl jumper, but in the comforting warmth, she wasn't. Instead she rubbed her chin against the rough wool and waited as her mind caught up with her vision.
Despite all these clue, despite the very Charlie-ness of their nature, there was definitely no Charlie in this bed. Nor, Pansy thought, had there been.
Blinking, she stared around the room. It was crooked. Though this was unsurprising due to the crooked nature of this house, with extension haphazardly built on extension.
The walls on one half of the room (definitely Charlie's) were covered in Quidditch posters and the occasional academic diagram of a dragon. The other side of the room was a topographical masterpiece. There were old maps nestled beside pictures of pyramids, Aztec ruins, New Atlanta… and amid them, fighting for space, were band posters (none of which Pansy had heard of – they looked distinctly too cool for lesser mortals without someone welcoming them into the fold). Beneath this contrasting wall was another single bed with dark purple bedding.
There wasn't a Charlie in this bed either.
The rest of the small space was taken up with generic adolescent cast offs, though it was all kept in quite good order. There were no piles of dirty clothes or humps of mystery rubbish. Instead, Quidditch trophies glinted by neatly folded piles of socks and old joke-shop remnants were scattered on dust-free surfaces.
On Charlie's bedside table was a tall mountain of well-loved paperbacks. Surprisingly –or perhaps not surprisingly, seeing as he got enough of them in his day job- there was no novel on dragons. Instead there was a reasonably impressive collection of crime novels, a couple battered copies of Scamander journals and, notably, a book on knitting patterns. There were one or two books there that Pansy had on her 'to read' list. Looking at the collection she wondered if he'd want to borrow a copy of the Auror Account or even try a Sherlock Holmes…
A deep, sleepy breath brought her attention to the ground and she crept to the side of the bed. Careful not to make the ancient bed squeak, she peered half her face over and was relieved the sound came from a Charlie Weasley and not a Charlie The Something Else.
He too was in a Weasley jumper, a slightly newer one by the look of it, and his face was unperturbed in sleep. It felt like a strange and wonderful trespass to be able to look at him in this moment. Even in sleep that usual solidness was there and, inevitably, his gentleness. The sun split his face between light and shadow while Pansy followed the constellation of freckles on his face with her gaze.
How lovel-
!
!
…
…..
….
OH BY SALAZAR SLYTHERIN'S FRILLY PINK SUSPENDERS
OH
OH MERLIN
NO
NO NO NO NO
WHY WOULD THIS?
HOW COULD SHE?!
NOOOO
Pansy went from glorious calm to paroxysm of delayed guilt and shame. Her hangover –both physical and mental- suddenly swung at her as her mind finally woke up, launching itself back into the memories from last night.
She contorted herself into the fetal position while muttering under her breath "It's fine, it's fine, it can't be that bad – it can't be all that bad?" Then let out a groan as her mind concluded back Actually yes it can…
Awful, horrid, shameful moments came back to her as she shuffled through her memories. Please say she hadn't…
The evening had actually started off remarkably well.
It was a joy what non-Slytherin parents were like. When you complimented their child, they liked it. Usually when Pansy had said a nice remark in the past, the typical response was a look of suspicion twinned with a glare of "Well, obviously."
Arthur and Molly were tickled pink by what she was saying about Charlie. Quite sincerely she told them how well liked he was, what high esteem Wynne held him in, how he was a complete genius with dragons.
Charlie, midway through this onslaught realized she wasn't even being a little bit sarcastic, and turned a bright shade of beetroot.
To combat his embarrassment (and pride) he retaliated with compliments in a somewhat less rarefied manner, boasting of everything from her grand train-accio-ing first impression to the masterful way she de-scaled a dragon. Even though the latter wasn't incredibly flattering, at least it made her snigger… (After all, she was very good at de-scaling a dragon).
Unbeknownst to Charlie, Pansy was remarkably good at reading his Mother. Charlie tended to have this slight blind-spot in judging whether a story was too death defying or dull for family consumption, but in tandem with Pansy they made day to day tales thrilling and the more life critical stories sound like an adventurous jaunt. He had wondered whether his parents would take to her… but there was something about her old school wizarding manners, openness and their mutual fondness of the rogue Weasley that made this meeting work.
In fact the meeting went so well that it escalated to a surreal Celestina Warbeck duet between Pansy and Molly using rogue leeks as microphones.
That image (and caterwauling sound) would probably be seared in Charlie's mind for all eternity. Something about two of the most terrifying women in his life joining together in song felt awfully worrying…
The Weasleys didn't even notice that a couple of Pansy's Christmas "presents" (i.e. liberated bottled of expensive Elven wine from Malfoy Manor) had been partially drunk. Molly was much too worried that she was feeding Pansy left-over Shepard's pie to even notice that Pansy's gift of luxurious Nectar Chocolates had been partially scoffed already.
Overall, it had been a good first meeting with no wands drawn, no mention of Wizarding Wars, mudbloods, Gryffindor-Slytherin rivalry, dead/incarcerated/maimed family members, Death Eaters, Voldemort, the questionable politics of Albus Dumbledore, poverty, or possible marriage/romance. In fact, all slightly questionable topics were never even almost broached. Polite questions about Pansy's family and business came and went without a raised eyebrow or exclamation of "…But aren't you in cahoots with the Malfoys, YOU SLYTHERIN SCUMBAG?"
It was a perfectly polite and enjoyable evening, more enjoyable than either Pansy or Charlie would have predicted.
His parents finally retired to bed at 1am citing how frightfully late it was. Admittedly, Charlie was getting a little impatient at this point. It was great –and a bit scary- how well Molly, Arthur and Pansy were getting on, but he could not quite relax until he knew Pansy was okay. Something had happened, and despite Pansy's relaxed smile there was a weariness in her eyes that was not entirely due to midnight hours and the obligation to perform for parents.
In silence, they listened to the pair creaking up the stairs, easy domestic mutterings gradually fading as the ascended to bed.
"Hello," Pansy said as soon as the house fell quiet, a wicked grin on her face.
"Hello," Charlie replied, feeling a weird relief.
A moment alone felt wonderfully conspiratorial.
"Was that okay? Your parents seem absolutely lovely – and I'm so sorry to crash in like this, it's completely-"
"It's more than okay! Pansy… What was that? Do you have some kind of second degree in Parent Charming? Mum's known Hermione for about a decade and they've never done a midnight recital of 'A Cauldron Full of Hot Sweet Love' together. In fact, I think she still calls her Mrs Weasley…"
"I have my talents," she shrugged nonchalantly. (YES, Pansy's brain cried, I've won! Now it's 397 exams in Hermione's favour vs 1 charmed parent…)
"So… is this a possible rescue? However much my Mother might like you, I'm not sure how well it would go down if you kidnap me on Christmas."
Pansy gave a dry laugh. "No, not a rescue. It's a touch complicated. As it always is."
"Would you rather have a cup of tea and discuss Quidditch than talk about it? I'm easy with either. Like you, um, like you said to me once – I'm happy to talk or not talk."
Charlie's ears burned red as he realized the possible euphemism of his words. Pansy, feeling charitable and exhausted, let him off without even embarrassing him a little. (Well, she gave him a knowing look which made his blush spread to his neck – she is after all Pansy Parkinson, not some Hufflepuff saint).
"Those things aren't mutually exclusive are they? Because we really need to talk about what madness your friend Wood is stirring up in the Puddlemere United team..."
Charlie brewed them some milky, sweet tea and they moved to the living room. Pansy took the opportunity to nose around while Charlie stoked the fire. She was happy they'd moved rooms, the family clock had disturbed her. All the Weasley names, plus the three musketeers and that one pretty, Triwizard girl, were all present on there except for Fred. She wanted to feel disturbed that someone would know, at least vaguely, what you were doing at all times. She could see it was definitely a breach of privacy. Yet, what she actually felt was a little jealousy. Her family would never have considered such a device. She bet Draco would love to get his hands on it to see how it worked…
The thought of him, midway through her contemplation of a Weasley family picture (gosh, there were a lot of them), quashed her calm exhaustion.
"I went to stay at Draco's." Pansy declared to Charlie's back. And just in case that needed clarification, she added, "Draco Malfoy."
The back of his plaid shirt didn't give much of a response (it wouldn't, it's a shirt) so she charged on.
"He's one of my closest friends… it made sense. At the time. Weird sense. He kind of, well, proposed. And I didn't say yes. But I also didn't say no. I've said no now though, because it's frankly ridiculous and based on feelings from like five years ago and it only made sense from the perspective of a sociopathic robot. I don't feel for him in that way. I just want you to know. We were kind of together over the holidays, but it was more like play-acting and not what I want – he's not what I want-"
(Pansy in the present gave a groan as she remembered this bit, vaguely wishing to be consumed into nothingness so her babbling, rom-com idiocy talk could be forgotten. How awful. Was this the moment articulacy died?)
Charlie stood up and turned round. She did not have a prediction for how he would react. Loud anger? Sullen quietness? Or worse… would he not care at all?
Mirth was definitely not what she would have guessed at.
Bless him, he was trying not to, but the laughter bubbled up from somewhere and his typical Charlie chortle filled the room. His nose scrunched under the weight of hilarity as Pansy looked at him, shocked.
"Sorry. I'm so sorry, Pansy," he tried to say, seeing her gob-smacked displeasure but not being able to stop the belly laughs erupting in bursting chokes. He bent-double and fell onto the sofa. "It's … it's just… I have been so bored here. You cannot imagine. And you show up with your inevitable, wonderful self – and suddenly it's not boring anymore. You make everything very much not boring in the most surprising way."
"I broke off an engagement," Pansy started, trying to keep an icy, collected tone in her voice, but completely failing as his chuckling was completely contagious. "With a person who could be considered your family's remaining nemesis-"
"I know! My best friend almost marrying into the consumptive McEvil clan."
"- And you think this is hilarious?!" Pansy guffawed. She couldn't keep it in any longer. Slumping onto the sofa with him, limbs and laughter tangling, they giggled long and hard. Almost regaining composure, Charlie bundled her in his arms so they could properly look at each other and so that she knew they were still friends.
"I feel… I feel a lot of things about what you have just told me. Some I'm sure are not going to truly hit me for a little while. Mostly, and I think this is why I found the news so funny, mostly I think it's relief."
A strange, still look crept over Pansy's features, which Charlie recognized as her trying to hide… disappointment?
"When I saw you in the snow, I thought no way is Pansy Parkinson going to be gracing the Weasley household unless something had gone terribly, horribly wrong. I've spent the past few hours guessing whether some one had died or… or you'd become homeless… or…"
"It would not take me becoming homeless to visit you, Charlie."
"Well, I really appreciate that. And I'm very sorry that I just laughed at what is probably something very -"
"Surreal. It isn't traumatic or meaningless. But I feel okay about it. I hate to admit it but the laughing kind of helped. Draco and I have spent the past decade breaking up… this just feels like relief. Be honest… do you hate me? Even a little bit?"
Charlie paused. He wanted to be honest. He wanted to be brave.
He wanted Pansy and there was an element of this that hurt. Draco would have a part of her he could not touch, and he was in no way like a Malfoy. No wealth, no grace, no perfectly coiffed blond hair. If Pansy wanted Draco, there was little likelihood she would look his way.
"I, naturally, have some qualms about the Malfoys. However, getting to know you has shown me that… The war was a difficult, complicated time. I only know half the story. I'm sure he must have some redeeming feature?"
"Hmm, questionable."
"Still, if it were up to me, you'd be put in a safe place, far away from him-"
"With dragons?" Pansy added quizzically.
"Preferably with dragons. And not that I'd ever want to impose that safe place on you… but I'd possibly prefer it, which is selfish and I've forgotten my point entirely. Um. I like that you're here. I'm a bit confused over the Malfoy stuff. I'm not going to stop speaking to you like in Romania. Um."
Pansy leant over and wrapped her arms around his neck.
"Thanks."
"S'alright."
"So why on earth was Wood telling the Puddlemere team to do Chelmondiston Charge at every opportunity? It's bloody madness."
"Wood is a dangerous but wise man…" Charlie began.
It was about 2am at this point, and though the two were exhausted they had been so starved of the other's company that the conversation came quick and silly. Tiredness and stress was it's own kind of alcohol. Charlie spoke of George and the possibility of Angelina, while Pansy shared her thoughts about Millicent and Theo, and how lovely and unlovely it had been seeing her Slytherin comrades. She spoke in rationed terms about Draco – enough to show they were friends but that it was over. Charlie was tickled by the stories of the anthropomorphized topiary despite not really liking to here about this black comedic chaos of a person.
"How are you feeling?" Charlie asked as dawn crept through the curtains.
It had been a long time since anyone had asked her that question. They had, somewhat naturally, curled around each other. Pansy's legs over his, his arms around her waist, her head at his neck. Body contacting body. Pansy never knew how to refer to that reflective touch. Knowing that you were touching someone, and they were having an equal and opposite reaction to your skin.
She did not feel distressed. Quite the opposite. Draco felt like a far away thing. There was only Charlie and his charm and his comfort. They had been so easy and so tangled for such a period of the night that being suddenly aware of his hand here and her leg there felt bizarre. Reactions grew within her that she wanted to quash – no, I'm meant to be heart broken, not heart mended.
"Hmm?" He questioned again to her hairline, lips moving there in a secret and subtle kiss.
Pansy drew back, her black eyes blazing to his blue.
Purple dusted his eyes with tiredness and his curls were askew. Like his kindness and humour, there was no denying the pure physicality of Charlie. How did she keep not seeing it? She felt so used to his face and movements that she could almost not work out whether he was handsome or not. His jaw was clear and sharp, his mouth full and bee stung with a constant (lying) grin, and his freckles frankly ridiculous.
All of this she liked. All of this made something in her tug, and it had so for a long time.
She was going to make something happen. There was no point wondering. A true scientist would put it to the test.
One leg unhooked and repositioned to the other side of Charlie's hip as one hand clasped his collar. Pansy shifted so she was sitting in his lap. Charlie looked shocked (though his hands snaked up her waist like they belonged there).
This moment deserved some words. Meaningful, poetic, romantic words. Words that meant thank you and I want you and kiss me.
Nothing would suit.
Instead Pansy said her question to his lips, and thankfully, gloriously, he answered.