Pansy was inspecting the bathrooms, making note of sinks that need fixing and shower tiles that were cracked. She was under a dripping sink when that damn feminine hiss curled into her right ear, making her hit her head hard against the porcelain.

"Pardon me misssss"

"Fuck!" This place was a hazard to her health. "You can come in here, too?!"

"I ssssserve you, madam" the creepy metal cobra was curling itself, popping out of the tiled wall.

Pansy grumbled. "Great."

"The headmisssstresss is at your door."

Pansy cursed again, tergeoing her hands and checking her manicure out of habit. "Right. Tell her I'll be right there." Pansy stood, straightening her simple scoop neck day dress and sandals and heading out of the dungeons directly to her hallway, where McGonagall was waiting.

"Good morning, Headmistress."

McGonagall turned, surprised to see her coming from the wrong direction rather than from inside of her rooms. "I was just inspecting the dorms, I apologize for the delay."

"Are the Slytherin dorms not up to your standards, Ms. Parkinson?" the usually severe woman didn't seem to be irritated, but then Pansy had never been able to read her well.

"On the contrary, ma'am, they're the best in the school, naturally."

McGonagall nodded. "Ah, you'll be a proud head of house, then?"

Pansy loftily agreed.

"Take a walk with me?"

"Sure." Pansy silently wondered exactly how far or quickly the older woman could walk.

McGonagall started strolling out of the dungeons at a surprisingly brisk pace, Pansy following at her side. "Is something the matter?"

"Oh no. I merely was unable to greet you yesterday, and wanted to be sure I did so."

"Ah. The welcome is appreciated, ma'am. The Bloody Baron escorted me to my rooms, I suppose I had forgotten he was such a gentleman."

"The Baron, like so much at Hogwarts, is far more than meets the eye, I think you'll find." Pansy wondered at that. Wasn't he mostly a violent soldier and rapist? What more did someone need to know about a person- even a ghost- really? "Have you selected portraits for your rooms?"

Pansy smiled. "No, ma'am, though I was trying to remember the location of the old portrait of Headmistress Burke?"

McGonagall stopped, frowning. "She hangs in the lower west corridor, at the bottom of the stairs. She has been temporarily silenced, of course, given her tendency to yell…inappropriate things, words which are no longer said aloud. I hope I don't have to ask you, Ms. Parkinson-"

Pansy interrupted, slightly insulted and defensive. "I believe that you'll find many Slytherins have outgrown the beliefs of our parents. Lessons learned, if you will."

The Scottish woman looked impressed, if skeptical. "Indeed."

"I merely thought, as the only previous female Head of Slytherin House, she might hold some wisdom for me at some point."

To Pansy's actual shock, McGonagall smiled. "Yes, I can see that."

"I did wonder, ma'am, I'm sure you don't have many women in the portraits in your own offices."

"You would be correct, Ms. Parkinson."

"Your tenure is all the more impressive, then, Headmistress. You do us proud."

McGonagall stopped short, turning to look at Pansy. "You didn't strike me for one who would notice such things, I must say."

Pansy internally frowned. For someone who had hired her, McGonagall didn't seem to know who she was or believe she was deserving of the job. "If you'll pardon my asking, Professor, how many Slytherin women have you known well?"

Resuming their path, McGonagall pensively shook her head. "I'm afraid to admit, there have been few. Aurora, of course, though I can't say we were close."

"Ah. Well, in my experience, our ambition is unparalleled, even against our male housemates, and as you surely know, women are far more successful when they have strong alliances with each other."

McGonagall was pensive. "Something Gryffindor women have not always excelled at, I'll admit."

Pansy merely allowed the thought to hang in the air, thinking of Granger's irritating "guy's girl" persona that had so been at odds with the friendships in the Slytherin girl's dorm.

Without Pansy's realizing it, they had reached the Great Hall. "Just in time for lunch. Do join us, now that we're all assembled together."

Pansy accepted, gesturing for the older woman to walk in front of her. She nearly bumped into her when the Headmistress stopped, leaning towards Pansy. "I find you much changed, Ms. Parkinson."

Pansy ducked her head, always aware of when to play the humble card, as one occasionally must. "Only older, ma'am, with perhaps some of the wisdom that comes with age."

The Headmistress gave a sad smile, and resumed her walk to the center table, with Pansy close behind.

Everyone who had attended dinner the evening before sat casually around the table, in various forms of dress- some in dusty work clothes from cleaning out classrooms, she assumed, others, like herself and the Headmistress, dressed more appropriately for a meal (not that Pansy would say anything). Pansy seated herself at the end, to the left of Dean Thomas, who was a new addition. Him, she recognized right away- even the Slytherin girls had been able to appreciate him from afar.

Just as food began to appear on the table, a figure came running into the hall, nearly tripping over himself, washing his hands on a rag before tucking it into a pocket. Pansy grimaced; she could see the dirt on his heavy work boots and pants, but his heavy white t-shirt was surprisingly clean, and irritatingly well-fitted, displaying a set of arms she surely would have noticed this morning had she not been drenched.

"So sorry, so sorry I'm late, the stinging nettle was refusing to be pruned again." Neville Longbottom sat himself directly across from Pansy, at the end of the other side of the table, and looked around at the rest of the staff seated there, his eyes finally finding hers. She thought he might have jumped a bit in his seat as their eyes met, and she smugly smiled to herself.

Pansy nodded her head to where he was emtergeoing/em his hands clean and inclined her head so that only those closest to them could hear her snip, "You could use a good hosing off, Longbottom."

He blushed fiercely, looking down at his plate.

She heard the buzzing of conversation surrounding them, leaving their end of the table awkwardly quiet. Dean moved towards Potter, on his other side, and their conversation had turned to Quidditch before she could chime in.

Neville leaned across the table, his voice low- meant only for her. It was deeper than it had been in school, no longer cracking with puberty. "I'm sorry for this morning. It was, well it was obviously an accident."

"You should be more careful." Pansy chided haughtily as she put salad onto her plate.

"Well- Yes. Though…you are the one that ran into me." He looked up at her, that arresting stare immediately unsettling her. "I don't remember an apology from you."

Pansy looked down, biting her lip to keep from smiling. Good for him, trying on a pair. "I thought you knew better than to get in my way, or were seven years of school not enough for that lesson to sink in?" She could feel the practiced edge of cruelty sneaking into her words. It felt good, safe, familiar.

"Has Neville told you about the new greenhouse, Pansy?" Dean had twisted in his seat, turning to join them in conversation. Pansy ignored the twinge of disappointment in her stomach.

Adjusting back to her "New Friendly Pansy Who Makes Friends" attitude, she turned to answer Dean. "I had been admiring it this morning, actually. When was it built?"

Despite the bit of food still in his mouth, Dean began to answer, "Oh well a few years ago, Nev's gran-"

Neville coughed loud enough to interrupt Dean, turning to face Pansy head-on once more, his gaze unwavering and intense, warming the back of her neck. "A few years ago."

"I'm surprised the school could afford such a beautiful building considering the drop in attendance, or was that misreported?" Pansy knew it hadn't been.

"Generous donor." His eyes were intense on hers, a flash of warning.

She glowered back, holding his stare, her heart quickening under her dress. "Ah. Was it dedicated to them?"

Dean opened his mouth again, but Neville beat him to it. "It was anonymous," he said. Pansy watched the way his tongue danced across the consonants.

"It's gorgeous." She turned to Dean, testing if it bothered Neville for her to touch the beautiful black man's arm to regain his attention. "Do you know who keeps it up so beautifully?"

Dean looked at her blankly, his mouth once again full of food. Pansy confidently crossed him off of the list of potential Hogwarts flirtations. He pointed at Neville, who, sure enough, did not look the friendly little Hufflepuff he usually did as his eyes flashed to her hand on Dean's arm. "Well, it's not just me-" he said to Dean before turning to her with more self-assurance than she would have thought possible for him- "but I'll take the compliment."

Just as Pansy opened her mouth to respond, McGonagall interrupted, announcing that they would spread out across the rest of the tables and work on student schedules for the afternoon.

Their eyes met. This isn't over, she silently expressed. The corners of his mouth lifted, in something she hoped meant, I didn't want it to be.

…

Pansy moved two tables over to have space and avoid distraction. McGonagall handed her the second through seventh-year lists, and she couldn't help but notice it was smaller than the other head's lists. She recognized some of the names- Sacred Twenty-Eight names or families she knew.

An enormous chalkboard was charmed at the front of the room, which filled in as the teachers attempted to structure their class schedules. It was much harder than Pansy expected, with class sizes, planning time, and meals to be considered. They were to fill in as many students' schedules as possible, and a generic first year schedule for new students. NEWT-level students were the most difficult, being a small number with completely varying needs. Would the lesson plans she had painstakingly written even work in these time blocks? With this number of students? When was she meant to use the restroom?!

Pansy started to imagine her students with this new information, deeply grateful for all the notes Slughorn and McGonagall had included for her benefit.

Hester Burke was practically Granger-level as far as academics, Pansy internally groaned, and had to be fit into six NEWT courses. Cosima Flint- Marcus' niece- had been Quidditch Team Captain since her fourth year. Ottilie Doyle had been a Prefect last year, and would be taking four NEWTs; her little brother Otis would be a second year. McGonagall had recommended Araminta Shabazz for the role this year. Tabitha Fawley and Flora Rosier, fifth years, had more detentions than even Draco had ever served. There were fewer notes- but far more students- in the lower years. She couldn't do this.

She heard the other tables buzz as teachers from the same house gossiped about their students. Alone at the Slytherin table, she repressed an oncoming panic attack.

She hadn't realized she had been staring at the papers spread out in front of her, forehead resting against her palms, until someone tapped on her shoulder, making her jump.

"We'll if one of us has the right to be a little jumpy in the great hall I think it's me"

She turned around, finding Potter, his glasses askew, smirking and visibly trying not to laugh. "Go away Potter, I'm busy losing my mind."

Instead of heeding her (very kind) warning, the scarhead sat next to her, straddling the bench. She turned towards him, instinctively straightening his glasses.

He didn't jump back but his mouth opened in surprise and she backed away from him instantly. "Sorry," she shook her head, "I don't know what that-"

Horrifically, he put a hand on hers. "You were married for eight years, Parkinson. I'd bet you're so used to taking care of another person you don't even think about it."

Something in his voice made her look sideways at him. "What do you know about it?" She meant to sound sharp, but the words came out sincere.

"Divorced." He shrugged. "About four years ago now."

"You mean the great chosen one wasn't, really?"

To her surprise he took that on the chin, a boyish laugh erupting from his throat. "Turns out you really shouldn't propose soon after coming back from the dead."

Pansy grinned in agreement, "or say yes when you're only 18 years old." Regrets lingered in the air between them.

"I don't know," Harry finally put forward, voice quiet and semi-serious. "Sometimes I think we were better off than the folks who stayed single. After all the shit we went through? At least I had Ginny to help process it, for a while."

His including her in that group filled her with something suspiciously like warmth.

"I mean, Hermione was single the entire time and just miserable-" he caught himself too late. "Fuck, I'm sorry. That was thoughtless I-"

"Anytime you want to tell me about Granger being miserable, I'm all ears."

Harry chuckled. "At least we had someone to process it all with, you know?"

Pansy nodded, her mind wandering to one of its dark little corners where she indulged in painful flashes of Hermione and Draco together.

"Hey," his face was suddenly in front of hers, interrupting the space ahead of her that she had been enjoying staring at.

He finally placed the parchment he was holding in front of her. "Anyway. I know you're head of Slytherin, but these kids will be your students too." He gestures to the lists arranged by year and house. "We made notes we thought would be more helpful than anything McGonagall would give you." His wink behind the smudged lenses was convincingly conspiratorial.

She picked up the parchment, waving it in surrender to their help. "Thanks." Turning back, she gave a long, analyzing glance at the crowded table he had come from. She watched Longbottom laugh so hard he leaned on Lovegood, who just patted his head with the kind of casual touch earned only through years of physical affection.

"Tell them I said thank you."

Climbing off of the bench, Harry shrugged. "Tell them yourself." He said, and left her to her misery.

…

Pansy took the papers back to her rooms, spreading out over her living room floor, moving stacks as Stewart decided to curl up on top of various lists. There were so many kids, and Potter and his team had added a huge variety of notes. This Hufflepuff was a war orphan, and that Ravenclaw's mom was in Azkaban for life. This Gryffindor was muggleborn, and that one, and this Slytherin had called them mudbloods all first year. This fifth-year boy was probably, as they had put it, "an actual freaking divinist," while his brother was "not the brightest."

By the time the metal snake hissed for her attention from a spot on the wall just above where Stewart had been sleeping until a nonsentient object began moving and speaking there, causing him to bark ferociously, it was dark out.

"Madam"

"Let me guess. There's someone at the door."

"Yesssss"

As Pansy pushed herself off of the ground, her stiff limbs telling her she'd been sitting too long, the snake followed her along the wall.

Opening the door, she was mostly unsurprised to see Potter, wearing a crimson jumper and grey joggers.

"Getting a little clingy, are we?"

He shamelessly looked her up and down, but Pansy kept her eyes forward, confident in the anti-wrinkle charm she had cast on her dress that morning.

"Not going to lie, I was half hoping for the pajamas."

"Came all the way down to the dungeons to flirt with your sworn enemy, Potter?"

Harry's grin was all teeth, achingly sincere. "You missed dinner. I thought you might be hungry."

Draco had known her so well, had known her for years. He knew she was never hungry, would never admit to hunger, and did not want to be chased down with calories she couldn't afford anyway. She skipped meals as often as she ate them, and no one in pureblood society had ever said a word about it.

But Potter didn't know her at all, did he? And he moved aside to show a house elf with a pink dress and a tray of food. "I'm really not-"

"Wendy brings miss's favorite plain lemon pasta and a nice Chardonnay, if she does say so herself." Had she been raised differently, Pansy's jaw would have dropped. It smelled heavenly.

"Thanks, Wendy." Harry said as the elf put the tray on the counter and disapparated with a crack.

Pansy peeked at the bowl. She could smell the capers and Italian parsley. She looked at the food, and up at Harry, who was standing, uninvited, in her kitchen, looking somehow entirely at ease.

She made a decision. "Potter, if I considered you polite company, I would never eat alone in front of you."

He shrugged one shoulder. "Then don't consider me polite company."

"Drink something, so I feel like I've hosted."

"Got more of that whiskey?"

Pansy smiled, began twirling pasta around a fork with intense focus, and pointed to the bar cart. "Help yourself."

Harry did so, and dragged the second stool to the other side of the counter, sitting with his back to the little stovetop.

Pansy, to her own shock, began shoving the food into her mouth. It was delicious and, it turned out, she had been hungry.

"Why did you miss dinner?" She could see they still weren't dancing around subjects, then.

Pansy washed down a bite with a healthy drink of the bitter but chilled wine. "Lost track of time."

Harry peeked over her shoulder to the stacks of parchment. "Ah. So studious."

She raised a finger. "Don't say it."

His smile this time was sly and playful, as he sipped his own drink. "Malfoy's got a type."

Pansy groaned. "Must you make light of my pain?"

He raised a dark eyebrow, the effect somewhat tempered from behind the black frame of his glasses. "I think you prefer it that way."

She squinted at him, suspicious of his insight. "What makes you think that?"

He leaned forward and she could smell the whiskey and something else, like scorched wood and that familiar unnameable smell of boy. "I have a type too."

"And what's your type, chosen one?" Their faces were close, the Chardonnay mixing with the whiskey in the air between them.

Wisely, he backed up, leaning back in his chair and taking his drink with him. "Girls with intimacy issues."

Pansy's laugh was genuine, rising up from her chest and catching her by surprise. "You've come to the right place, Harry Potter."

"So you are capable of saying my first name."

She grinned. "I'm capable of anything I set my mind too."

He laughed this time, toasting her with his glass. "I believe that."

"But don't get used to it. It's a little boy's name, and you're a grown man. Potter it is."

He frowned for a second, processing something she wasn't privy to. Shaking himself out of it, he returned his attention to her. "Then Parkinson it is for you."

"Pansy is nowhere near as juvenile as Harry" she exaggerated the more plebeian sounds of his vowel-heavy name.

"No," he said, squinting at her in a playful attempt at wisdom. "But I think you need the reminder."

"The reminder of my last name?"

He nodded affirmatively. "Hasn't been your last name for a while, has it?"

Pansy refused to respond to any of the tumult of emotions twisting through her mind.

Instead, she responded blithely, "I think if you started calling me Pansy people might start to think the world had flipped on its axis, anyhow."

She liked making him laugh. He did so with abandon she might have envied.

Harry finished his drink and set the glass on the counter. "I'll let you get back to your papers, then."

Pansy pressed the cloth napkin from her lap to the corners of her mouth and stood to escort him out. "So you really just stopped by to feed me?"

As he opened the door and stepped out, Harry glanced back, indulging in a pointed last look at her legs. "Well, that and the pajamas; but I'm used to living with disappointment."