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Chapter Text

Harry's POV

The November air was sharp, biting at Harry’s cheeks as he mounted his Firebolt and kicked off from the ground. The roar of the crowd rose instantly, half the stadium scarlet and gold, the other half a sea of green and silver.

Gryffindor versus Slytherin was never just a game—it was war.

Harry tightened his grip on his broom handle, eyes flicking upward, scanning the pitch for a glimmer of gold. His stomach knotted with familiar anticipation. This was his first match of the year, and he couldn’t afford to lose. Not to Malfoy.

The whistle shrieked, Quaffle released, Bludgers cracking through the air—and the match exploded into chaos.

“Up you go, Potter!” came Malfoy’s jeering voice, already circling like a hawk. “Try not to fall off this time!” Harry ignored him, climbing higher into the sky. His focus had to be absolute. He needed that Snitch.

A Bludger whooshed past his shoulder, close enough that he felt the air shift against his face. He swerved, jaw tight. Crabbe and Goyle, the Slytherin Beaters, were grinning like they’d already won the Cup.

“Watch yourself, Potter!” Angelina called from below as she fought for the Quaffle.

Harry gave a curt nod, eyes never leaving the sky.

The Gryffindor stands roared with encouragement, banners waving, but the Slytherins were louder—chanting taunts, booing, and whistling shrilly whenever Harry flew past.

Above it all rose one unmistakable voice. “Knock him flat, Draco! Show Scarhead what a real Seeker looks like!”

Harry didn’t need to look to know it was Pansy Parkinson. She was always there in the background—laughing too loudly at Malfoy’s insults, sneering at Harry and his friends in the corridors, pretending her sharp tongue made her more dangerous than she was.

To Harry, she was just another Slytherin. Annoying. Predictable.

And right now, she was the least of his concerns.

He angled downward, eyes catching something glinting near the Gryffindor goalposts—only to have a Bludger careen in front of him, smashing into the wooden railing of the Slytherin stands with a deafening crack.

The sound sliced through the air like thunder.

Then came the scream.

Harry’s head snapped up in time to see Pansy Parkinson, arms flailing, tumbling over the broken railing.

For a heartbeat, he froze. She was falling—fast, headfirst, her dark hair whipping wildly around her terrified face.

Then instinct took over.

Harry leaned into his Firebolt, the broomstick surging beneath him as he dove. The crowd erupted in shouts, until the roar blurred into nothing. His world narrowed to a single point: Parkinson, plummeting toward the ground.

The wind tore at his ears, his eyes watering as he pushed the Firebolt to its limit. She was seconds from hitting the ground when Harry reached out, stretching, straining, his arm burning—

—and caught her.

The impact jolted through him, nearly knocking him off his broom. But he tightened his hold, one arm wrapping firmly around her waist, the other steadying the broom.

She gasped, nails digging into his Quidditch robes as though she could anchor herself to him, her breath hot against his neck, her entire body trembling in his grip.

The stadium was silent for a moment, stunned. Then a wave of sound. Cheers, gasps, shouts—half in awe, half in outrage.

Ignoring the noise, he angled the Firebolt downward, landing as smoothly as he could. When his feet touched the grass, he gently set Parkinson down.

She staggered, pale as parchment, her knees threatening to buckle. Madam Pomfrey was already rushing forward, but Harry only asked one thing:

“You all right?”

His voice was low—steady, almost gentle—as concern flickered in his green eyes.

Parkinson nodded, though her throat was dry and words felt far away. “Y—yes. I’m fine.”

Harry gave a curt nod, as if that settled it. Without another glance, he turned and mounted his Firebolt once more, shooting back into the air.

For him, the moment was over. He had done what was needed. Nothing more.

But for Pansy Parkinson, the world tilted on its axis.

Pansy's POV

Her pulse refused to settle.

She sat stiffly in the infirmary an hour later while Madam Pomfrey fussed with diagnostic spells. Pansy kept insisting she was fine.

She was shaken, yes. A bit bruised, yes. But she was alive—thanks to him.

Harry Potter.

Of all people.

She could still feel his arm around her waist—solid, protective—and smell the faint mix of broom polish, fresh air, and something warmer she couldn’t name.

His heartbeat had thundered against her side as if it were matching her own.

And his eyes—Merlin, those eyes. She had seen them before, of course. Everyone had. But never up close like that. Never looking directly at her. They weren’t just green; they were striking, alive, like sunlight through leaves.

How had she never noticed?

Pansy swallowed hard, staring down at her trembling hands. She should have been furious—humiliated, even—saved by Potter in front of the entire school, her housemates would never let her live it down. She could already imagine Draco’s scowl, the sneers, the whispered jokes.

But anger didn’t come.

Instead, every time she closed her eyes, she was falling again—only to feel him catch and steady her.

It left her unsettled in ways she couldn’t explain.

“Miss Parkinson,” Madam Pomfrey said, “no more leaning over railings in Quidditch stands, do you hear me?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Pansy murmured, her voice distant.

She barely heard the healer. All she could think about was Potter. He hadn’t gloated, hadn’t smirked, hadn’t said a single cutting word. He had simply saved her, asked if she was all right, and gone back to the match as though nothing had happened.

It made her chest ache in a way she didn’t understand.

And that was the most frightening part of all.

Chapter Text

Pansy's POV

The Slytherin common room was a furnace of whispers that night. Pansy Parkinson had never once been the subject of ridicule within her house—not truly. She had laughed the loudest, mocked the hardest, and sneered sharp enough to cut down anyone foolish enough to stand against her. But now, every time she caught someone’s gaze, she saw it: the smirk, the twitch at the corners of their mouths.

It was intolerable.

“I told you not to lean so far forward, Parkinson,” Blaise Zabini drawled lazily from the green leather sofa. “You nearly made a spectacle of yourself.”

Nearly. She had.

Pansy clenched her fists. The crack in the railing hadn’t been her fault. The Bludger had hit, splintering the wood, sending her sprawling forward. She had screamed loudly, —the sight of herself flailing helplessly above the pitch had been seen by everyone in the stadium. And then—

She swallowed. Heat crept into her cheeks at the memory.

And then Potter had caught her.

She buried the thought beneath venom before it could breathe. “I didn’t fall, Zabini. Potter grabbed me before I had the chance. Trust the Gryffindors to make a show of it.”

Blaise smirked knowingly. “Oh, he made quite a show of it.”

“Shut it.”

But Draco was worse.

He had been storming about the common room since they returned, his pale face pinched with irritation. “You should’ve been more careful, Pansy! Do you know what they’re saying out there? Potter—Potter!—is being called a hero for catching you. As if he needs more glory shoved down his throat.”

“I didn’t ask him to,” Pansy snapped back, sharper than intended.

Draco blinked, caught off guard by her tone. Pansy rarely contradicted him. She forced her expression into disdain. “If anything, it was embarrassing. Being grabbed mid-air like some helpless—”

The words faltered. Because she hadn’t felt helpless, not in that split second. She had felt… safe. Secure in arms that had no business being strong enough to steady her so easily.

No. She slammed the thought away again. This was Potter. Scarhead. The Boy Who Lived to Be an Annoyance.

Still, her cheeks burned.

The next morning, Hogwarts was buzzing. Pansy tried to carry herself with her usual smug air, chin high, eyes narrowed, ready with biting remarks. But everywhere she went, whispers followed.

“Did you see—”

“Potter caught her—”

“Maybe he’s got a soft spot for Slytherins now—”

The laughter scraped against her pride. She had spent years cultivating her reputation as Draco’s right hand, the sharp-tongued Slytherin queen who mocked Gryffindors mercilessly. And now, because of a stupid accident, she was the damsel in distress to Potter’s heroic rescue.

She loathed it.

Or at least, she told herself she did.

At breakfast, Pansy risked a glance at the Gryffindor table. He was there, of course—Potter. Head bent, hair as messy as always, Ron Weasley shoving sausages at him while Granger spoke animatedly on his other side. He didn’t look up once. Didn’t even acknowledge the stares.

For some reason, that unsettled her more than if he had.

If she had been rescued—humiliated—by Draco, he would have milked it for all it was worth. Smirks, boasting, retelling the story a dozen times to make himself the center. But Potter? He acted as though it hadn’t even happened. Pansy stabbed her eggs viciously.

By the afternoon, the whispers had shifted into open gossip. She heard it in the corridors, in the courtyard, even in the library where she attempted to hide with her notes.

“Bet she owes him now.”

“Do you think Potter fancies her?”

“Parkinson and Potter—hah! Imagine that!”

The last comment had come from a group of Hufflepuff girls, and Pansy’s quill nearly snapped in half. She wanted to hex them into oblivion. Instead, she slammed her books shut and stalked away, heart pounding.

Why did it sting? Why did it feel like every mocking laugh was peeling back something inside her?

She caught sight of him again later that week. She was on her way to Umbridge’s office, summoned to hand over a report Snape had demanded. Pansy froze by the notice board. She hadn’t expected to see him. He was walking stiffly, shoulders tense, face pale but set in stubborn lines.

He slowed as soon as he noticed her and came to a stop. Her gaze darted toward Potter, then she quickly looked away, pretending to study the parchment pinned to the board, though her chest was hammering. Still, her lashes flicked upward despite herself.

He was frowning. Neither of them moved.

Her gaze slipped to his hand, clenched tight in his sleeve. When he flexed it, she caught a glimpse—raw, red, angry marks across the skin. He shoved it into his pocket at once, but she had already noticed.

A strange twist gripped her stomach. She told herself it was satisfaction. Serves him right, troublemaking Gryffindor that he was. But when she looked at his face—eyes dark, jaw tight—she felt the same flutter she had the moment he’d caught her fall.

Her mouth parted, but no words came.

Their eyes met.

Green clashed with dark.

For a heartbeat, the corridor seemed to hold only that look. His gaze wasn’t mocking, not guarded, not even angry. Something else flickered there, sharp and unsettling, and it left her unsteady.

She tore her gaze away first, heat prickling at her cheeks. Without a word, she brushed past him, her footsteps echoing too loudly in the silence.

Only when she heard him walking away did she risk another glance. Her eyes lingered on his retreating form until he vanished from sight.

That night, lying in her bed beneath green hangings, Pansy replayed it all. The fall. The rush of air. The terror. And then—arms around her. Potter’s scent, warm and clean, like broom polish and something faintly woodsy. The steadiness of his grip.

Her heart gave a treacherous little skip.

“No,” she whispered into her pillow. “It’s Potter. Disgusting, arrogant Potter.”

But even as she closed her eyes, she saw those brilliant green eyes staring into hers, burning brighter than the memory of the sun.

She turned onto her side, scowling at nothing. The flutter in her chest refused to fade.

And Pansy Parkinson hated herself for it.

Chapter Text

Harry's POV

Harry had never thought much about Pansy Parkinson, and he would’ve been happy to keep it that way. But apparently, half the castle had decided otherwise.

It started the very morning after the match.

“Oi, Potter!” Dean had called across the Gryffindor table with a grin far too wide for this early in the day. “Didn’t know you’d taken up saving damsels in distress!”

Neville nearly choked on his porridge. Ginny smirked into her pumpkin juice. Ron leaned back with a snort. “Better you than me, mate. I wouldn’t have touched Parkinson if she was the last witch at Hogwarts.”

Harry stabbed at his toast. “She was falling. I wasn’t just going to—” He broke off, exasperated. “Forget it.”

But forgetting wasn’t an option. Wherever he went, there were whispers. Some mocking, some curious, some… disturbingly speculative.

“Potter and Parkinson—imagine!” he overheard one Ravenclaw giggle as he passed them in the corridor.

He clenched his fists tighter around his books. Of all the ridiculous things.

By the time he landed in detention again, Harry’s patience was stretched thin.

He hated the silence.

Not the comforting quiet of the library or the steady hush of the Forbidden Forest at night, but the suffocating, sticky silence that filled Umbridge’s office whenever she smiled at him. It was worse than her voice. Worse than the lace doilies and kitten plates. Worse than the quill.

Almost worse.

He gripped the quill tighter, watching the tip gleam faintly red as if mocking him. The parchment in front of him lay smooth and expectant, blank lines waiting to be filled.

I must not tell lies.

He pressed the nib to the page and dragged it slowly.

Pain seared across the back of his hand, hot and sharp. His teeth ground together, but he forced his hand not to shake. By the time the words finished bleeding onto the parchment, his skin was stinging, the letters carved faintly into the flesh: I must not tell lies.

He wrote it again. And again.

By the fiftieth repetition, the lines across his hand throbbed angrily. A thin trickle of blood had welled and smeared the page. His vision blurred, but still he kept going, jaw set, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a sound.

Umbridge sat at her desk, humming as she scribbled in her sickly pink notebook. Every so often, she glanced up, and her smile widened at the sight of his reddened hand.

Hours bled together. When at last she dismissed him with a chirpy, “That will be all for tonight, Mr. Potter,” Harry shoved the quill down, grabbed his bag, and left without a word.

The door clicked shut behind him.

The corridor outside was dim and cool, the silence almost welcome after the cloying air of Umbridge’s office. Harry flexed his hand gingerly, pulling his sleeve down to cover the angry words carved there. Each movement stung, but he didn’t care.

He was halfway down the corridor before he noticed her.

Pansy Parkinson.

She stood near the notice board, posture too stiff to be casual, eyes darting toward him. The faint glow of a torch lit her profile: sharp chin, pale skin, hair falling in a glossy sweep over her shoulder. She was pretending to study some papers, but her eyes kept straying.

To him.

Harry slowed, frowning. For a moment, neither of them moved. The corridor stretched between them like a taut wire. He couldn’t hear a sound except his own heartbeat, heavy and insistent.

Parkinson’s gaze flicked to his face, then down to his hand—the hand he was clenching in his sleeve. Harry shoved it into his pocket quickly. Parkinson's lips parted slightly, as though she might speak. But she didn’t. Instead, her eyes darted away, too quickly, like she’d been caught staring.

Harry’s jaw tightened. He told himself it was irritation that prickled under his skin. Parkinson, of all people. Always sneering, always jeering with Malfoy at her side. What business did she have looking at him like that?

Her lashes lifted again, and for a heartbeat, their eyes met properly.

Green clashed with dark.

It wasn’t mockery in her look—not exactly. Something else flickered there, something Harry couldn’t name. It made his stomach twist, and not in the same way Umbridge’s detentions did. This was different. Disorienting.

She broke the stare first, yanking her gaze away from Harry and hurried past him. Her footsteps echoed loudly as she brushed past him without a word.

But when Harry began walking in the opposite direction, he thought he felt her eyes on his back as he went.

“Harry, we need to do something,” Hermione said later, her voice urgent as she leaned across the table in the common room. Books and scrolls were scattered between them, parchment filled with notes about spells, incantations, counter-curses.

Ron groaned, dropping his head on the table. “Hermione, it’s late—”

“It’s not late, it’s necessary.” Her eyes blazed. “Harry, you said yourself: Umbridge isn’t teaching us anything useful. And after tonight—”

Harry winced as his injured hand brushed against his quill. He shoved it deeper under his sleeve, refusing to let either of them see.

“—we have no choice,” Hermione pressed on. “We need to practice defense. Properly. With you teaching us.”

Harry’s stomach twisted. He wanted to argue, to say he wasn’t a teacher, he wasn’t ready, that he didn’t need more people depending on him. But the truth sat heavy in his chest. Hermione was right.

He nodded once. “Fine. We’ll start small.”

Hermione smiled in relief. Ron muttered something about regretting it already.

Harry leaned back in his chair, exhaustion tugging at him. He should’ve been thinking about counter-curses, about how to organize a secret meeting, about how to avoid Umbridge’s ever-watchful eyes.

But instead, his mind kept flashing back to the corridor.

To the way Parkinson had stared at him. To the way his chest had tightened, just for that one instant.

He scowled at the memory, shoving it away.

The last thing he needed was Pansy Parkinson in his head.

And yet, when he finally drifted into uneasy sleep, green eyes met dark once again.

Chapter Text

Pansy's POV

Pansy Parkinson did not fluster.

She didn’t get red in the face, didn’t stammer, didn’t lose her footing. She was sharp, composed, perfectly in control. That was the mask she’d perfected over years, the armor that kept her standing tall beside Draco and the rest of Slytherin House.

And yet—

Her mind wouldn’t stop replaying that night in the corridor.

The torchlight on his face, the tightness in his jaw, the green fire of his eyes when they met hers. She told herself she had only stared because she was curious—because she wanted to see the Gryffindor Golden Boy cracked and bleeding after Umbridge’s punishment. But that didn’t explain the heat that had flooded her chest, the flutter that refused to die even after she pulled the curtains around her bed.

She had spent two nights berating herself for it. It was Potter. Arrogant, reckless, Gryffindor Potter. The same boy she’d mocked mercilessly for years. And yet every time she caught sight of him across the Great Hall, or walking down a corridor, or adjusting his broom on the Quidditch pitch—her stomach betrayed her.

Potions made it worse.

Snape had shuffled the seating “for balance,” though the sneer on his lips promised misery. Names rolled off his tongue, pairing Gryffindor and Slytherin alike. Then—

“Potter—Greengrass.”

The room went still.

Even Potter looked taken aback, his brows shooting up before he schooled his face back to neutrality. Everyone had expected Snape to humiliate him, to pair him with Crabbe, Goyle, or maybe Pansy herself. But Daphne Greengrass—poised, clever, elegant—was an entirely different twist.

She glided into the seat beside Potter with calm grace, her pale hair catching torchlight. “Potter,” she said, her voice soft, polite, and utterly unbothered.

Potter blinked at her, then muttered, “Er—hi,” shifting slightly to make room.

From her place just behind them, Pansy’s quill nearly snapped in two.

Snape swept by, robes snapping. “Well? Get on with it, Potter.”

Harry fumbled with his knife, and Daphne leaned closer, her cool hand adjusting the angle of his grip as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Potter gave her a small smile—awkward but genuine—and Pansy’s chest twisted hot.

Her knife bit too hard into the root she was dicing. Pathetic. Why should it matter? Why should it bother her to see Daphne leaning in, hair brushing Potter’s sleeve, while he didn’t even flinch away?

It wasn’t as if she cared.

And yet, every scrape of Harry’s knife, every low murmur exchanged between him and Daphne grated like nails on stone. When her hand slipped and the blade nicked her finger, drawing blood, she nearly cursed out loud. She pressed her thumb to the cut and glared at her cauldron, as if that could burn the image of Potter’s half-smile from her mind.

She told herself it was disgust.

She knew it was jealousy.

The jealousy lingered after class, even in the crowded corridor where students spilled out in clusters. She walked briskly beside Millicent, head held high, until a pair of Ravenclaws’ voices drifted too close.

“Honestly, I think he’s brave,” one gushed, clutching her books to her chest. “The way he stands up to Umbridge—it’s like he doesn’t care how much trouble he gets in.”

“And he’s fit,” the other giggled. “That hair—messy but in a good way. And those eyes—Merlin, he’s the kind of boy you just can’t ignore.”

Pansy nearly tripped on the stone floor.

She wanted to whirl around, snap at them for being ridiculous, for swooning over someone who was clearly insufferable. But the words clung to her, unwanted.

Fit. Hair, messy in a good way. Eyes you can’t ignore.

Because hadn’t she thought the same?

Millicent muttered something about the Ravenclaws being pathetic and tugged her toward the stairs. Pansy kept her chin high, pretending she didn’t care, but her ears burned.

By nightfall, the Slytherin common room was humming with whispers about Potter—as it always was, these days. Draco paced before the fire, voice sharp with scorn.

“They’re all talking about him,” he snapped, pale hair catching firelight. “Half the castle’s hanging on his every word, like he’s some kind of hero. As if he knows anything about the Dark Lord.”

Pansy lounged in her chair, smirking faintly. “It’s just gossip, Draco. It will pass.”

But Draco’s eyes narrowed. “Make sure it does. People are watching, Pansy. Don’t give them reason to think you’ve gone soft on Potter.”

Her laugh came too quick, too sharp. “Soft? On him? Don’t be ridiculous.”

Draco studied her for a long, tense moment before turning back to his pacing.

Pansy’s smirk slipped the moment his back was turned. She stared into the flames, their flicker blurring.

Soft. She hated that the word stung. Hated that when she finally went to bed, closing her curtains tight, she saw again the torchlight on Potter’s face outside Umbridge’s office, and the rare curve of a smile he’d given Daphne Greengrass.

And she hated most of all that she understood exactly why the Ravenclaw girls whispered about him in the corridors.

Because she couldn’t ignore him either.

Chapter Text

Harry's POV

Harry thought he was used to the stares by now.

Ever since the Ministry had branded him a liar, every hallway at Hogwarts felt like walking through smoke—whispers curling around him, suspicion clinging to his back. Add Umbridge’s pink nightmare of a reign, and he was already under a magnifying glass.

But even Harry hadn’t expected this.

“Potter—Greengrass,” Snape had drawled in Potions, and for a heartbeat the dungeon had gone silent.

Greengrass wasn’t Crabbe or Goyle, who would have dragged Harry down. She wasn’t Malfoy, who would have sneered the whole time. Daphne Greengrass was… calm. Almost unsettlingly so. She had slid into the seat beside him without fuss, adjusted his grip on the knife with cool fingers, and said, “Careful. You’ll blunt the edge if you hold it like that.”

Harry had blinked at her, thrown by how normal she was. “Er—thanks.”

And that was it. No insults, no dramatic Slytherin venom. Just quiet competence.

Of course, the dungeon had noticed. He’d felt eyes on him all lesson, sharp and burning, but when he turned, he never caught who it was.

The gossip started before they even made it back up the stairs.

“I heard Potter’s cozying up with Greengrass,” a Hufflepuff boy muttered loudly as he passed.

“Merlin’s beard,” another snorted. “First, he rescues Parkinson, now he’s paired with Greengrass? Looks like the Boy Who Lived’s got a thing for Slytherin girls.”

Harry flushed, tightening his grip on his bag. “Brilliant,” he muttered under his breath.

By lunch, it had snowballed into a joke. Two Ravenclaw girls at the end of the table giggled behind their hands, glancing at him as they whispered. He caught snippets—“messy hair, those eyes, you can’t ignore him”—and his ears burned. Dean and Seamus, never ones to let a chance for teasing slip by, leaned across the table.

“Oi, Harry,” Seamus grinned. “Didn’t know you were expanding your fan club. Slytherin’s finest, eh?”

Harry groaned, stabbing his fork into his potatoes. “Give it a rest.”

Dean smirked. “What’s next, you and Parkinson holding hands in the corridors?”

Ron nearly spat out his pumpkin juice. “Don’t even joke about that.”

Harry shot them all a glare, but it only earned him more chuckles. Hermione, at least, rolled her eyes and muttered, “Honestly, you lot are insufferable.”

But the jokes kept coming—whispers in the corridors, smirks in the common room, snickers behind his back. Harry did his best to ignore it. Merlin knew he had bigger problems. Umbridge was tightening her grip, the DA needed organizing, and his scar prickled with dull aches that no one else could possibly understand.

He didn’t have time for Slytherin gossip.

And yet…

In the following days, every time he passed Pansy Parkinson, he felt it again—that odd, prickling tension, like static in the air. She said nothing to him, of course. Sometimes her lips curved in a sneer, sharp and practiced. Other times she ignored him entirely, head high as though he didn’t exist.

But when their eyes met—briefly, fleetingly—it was different.

Something changed, something he couldn’t put words to.

He told himself he was imagining it. She was Parkinson. She hated him. He had no business noticing the way her gaze lingered a beat too long, or how her knuckles tightened around her books before she swept past.

It was nothing.

It had to be nothing.

Harry shoved the thought away and buried himself in DA plans. But deep down, he couldn’t shake it—that sense that whatever spark had flared between him and Parkinson wasn’t finished with him yet.

Chapter Text

Pansy's POV

Pansy Parkinson told herself she didn’t care.

So what if the castle hadn’t stopped whispering about Potter since the Quidditch match? So what if half the dungeons buzzed about him being paired with Daphne Greengrass in Potions?

Pansy Parkinson did not fluster. She did not get jealous.

And yet—when she walked into Defense Against the Dark Arts that week and spotted Potter seated two rows ahead, and Daphne Greengrass slid silently into the seat beside him again—her stomach sank like a stone.

Why her?

Of all the Slytherins, Daphne was the last one anyone would have expected. She wasn’t part of Draco’s little court. She didn’t sneer or jeer at Gryffindors, nor did she cozy up to Potter either. She was simply… cool. Always cool. The kind of girl who moved through the castle as though nothing touched her.

And now she was sitting next to Harry Potter.

Umbridge prattled on at the front about “order” and “respect,” ribbons bobbing in her curls, her voice syrupy and suffocating.

Potter muttered something under his breath. Pansy couldn’t catch the words, but she saw the set of his jaw, the spark in his eyes.

“Detention, Mr. Potter,” Umbridge sang.

The Gryffindors hissed, some muttering their disapproval. Potter just sat straighter, defiance carved into every line of his face.

To Pansy’s disgust, her chest fluttered. Again.

The assignment was an essay, useless as always. But while most of the class doodled or whispered, Potter and Daphne bent their heads together, parchment between them. Not laughing. Not smiling. Just working.

At one point, Potter’s wand slipped and scratched the parchment. Daphne calmly shifted the quill back into place, saying something too low for Pansy to catch. He nodded, gave a small grunt of thanks, and went back to writing.

Nothing remarkable. Nothing even remotely flirtatious.

And yet Pansy’s quill carved angry grooves into her parchment until her hand cramped.

Later that evening in the Slytherin common room, Pansy heard it again.

“So, Daphne,” Tracey Davis said with a smirk, lounging on the sofa. “Should we expect an invitation to the Potter–Greengrass wedding, or—?”

A few Slytherins snickered. Even Draco smirked, though his eyes stayed sharp.

Daphne, sitting with her legs crossed elegantly, didn’t even blink. “Hardly. The teachers paired us, and Potter’s competent enough if you give him clear instructions.” She glanced up from her book, her tone calm, unruffled. “It’s nothing worth gossiping about.”

Tracey pouted. “You’re no fun.”

“Correct,” Daphne said simply, and went back to her reading.

The conversation fizzled, everyone rolling their eyes at her usual frostiness.

But Pansy sat stiff, her insides coiled tight.

Because if it were her, she wouldn’t have answered so smoothly. She wouldn’t have brushed it off with that perfect, icy calm. She would have sneered, she would have spat venom, she would have proved she didn’t care.

But Daphne Greengrass didn’t have to prove anything.

And Pansy hated her for it.

That night, behind the curtains of her bed, Pansy pressed her palms to her eyes.

You don’t care. He’s Potter. You don’t care.

But the image burned all the same: Potter’s dark head bent close to Daphne’s pale one, the hush of their voices, the way the whole school seemed to think his name and Daphne’s in the same breath.

And it gnawed at her more than she could bear.

Lately, even Draco had started snapping more than usual — his jokes about Potter curdling into bitter jabs that made the common room go tense. Pansy told herself it was nothing, but a sour unease had begun to coil in her stomach every time he opened his mouth.

Chapter Text

Harry’s POV

The Great Hall hummed with noise as dinner wound down. Harry barely tasted the shepherd’s pie on his plate. His head buzzed with Hermione’s insistent voice about recruiting for their “defense group,” Ron’s grumbling, and the weight of Umbridge’s eyes from the staff table.

It was suffocating, all of it.

Across the hall, the Slytherin table gleamed with silver and green. Malfoy was holding court as usual, his voice rising above the din. Harry had been trying to ignore him—until his own name carried clear across the hall.

“…Potter struts around like he’s Dumbledore’s chosen soldier,” Malfoy sneered, his pale face twisted in scorn. “As if anyone actually believes his lies about You-Know-Who.”

A ripple of laughter spread down the table. Crabbe and Goyle snorted loudly. A few younger Slytherins leaned in, eager for the show.

And then Pansy Parkinson’s voice cut through.

“At least he’s doing something,” she snapped, sharp and sudden.

The laughter stuttered. Heads turned.

Harry froze, fork halfway to his mouth.

Parkinson’s cheeks flushed pale against the torchlight. For a heartbeat she looked almost startled at herself. Then her chin lifted, lips curling into a smirk that was too sharp, too late.

“Honestly, Draco,” she added with a mocking laugh, “you whine more than a first year. If you hate Potter’s so-called lies, stop talking about him every other sentence.”

The Slytherins chuckled uncertainly, the moment sliding back under Malfoy’s control. Malfoy scoffed, tossing his hair. “Whatever, Pansy. You know he’s pathetic. Everyone does.”

Parkinson smirked, leaning back against the bench as if she hadn’t just said anything unusual.

But Harry had seen it.

Not the smirk. Not the laugh. The flicker before—the raw flash of anger, quick and unguarded.

She had defended him.

His stomach twisted as he shoved his plate away.

Ron muttered around a mouthful of treacle tart. “What’s Parkinson playing at? First, she falls on you, now she’s snapping at Malfoy on your behalf. Think she’s gone soft in the head?”

“Maybe she’s just tired of Malfoy’s voice,” Hermione said briskly, though her sharp eyes slid toward Harry with quiet curiosity.

Harry didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

Because no matter how hard he tried, his mind kept circling back to that moment across the hall.

The heat in Pansy Parkinson’s eyes. The way she’d looked at Malfoy like she wanted to hex him into the floor.

And the uncomfortable truth that, for the first time, she hadn’t sounded like Malfoy’s shadow. She’d sounded like—herself.

Harry shoved the thought away, scowling at his empty goblet.

He had bigger problems than Pansy Parkinson.

But the sparks she’d left buzzing under his skin refused to die.

Chapter Text

Pansy’s POV

The Slytherin common room was always warm, firelight flickering against green-draped walls. Tonight it felt stifling.

Draco paced before the hearth, his voice sharp. “What was that at dinner?”

Pansy smoothed her skirt with careful fingers, tilting her head just enough to look bored. “What was what?”

“You defended him.” Draco’s pale eyes cut toward her, narrowed. “Potter. You snapped at me like—like he didn’t deserve every word I said.”

“I was bored,” Pansy said coolly. “You sound like a broken record sometimes. Even Blaise rolls his eyes when you go off.”

Across the room, Blaise smirked over his book, which didn’t help.

Draco’s scowl deepened. “You think I’m joking, Pansy? Potter’s dangerous. If people start thinking you’re soft—”

“Then I’ll sneer twice as hard tomorrow,” she cut in, rising to her feet. Her voice sharpened with practiced venom. “Honestly, Draco, if you’re this paranoid, perhaps you should worry less about what I say and more about keeping your own skin out of trouble.”

Draco blinked, caught off guard. For once, he had no retort.

Pansy swept past him toward the girls’ staircase before he could recover, her heart hammering far too fast.

She escaped to the library the next evening. It was late, the lamps dim, shadows stretching between high shelves. Few students lingered this close to curfew. That suited her fine.

Pansy traced a finger along a row of spines, pretending she cared about Arithmancy charts. The truth was, she only wanted silence—silence from Draco, from whispers, from the flutter in her chest that refused to die.

She rounded a corner and stopped short.

Potter.

He sat hunched over a table near the Restricted Section, books piled high, hair sticking up worse than usual. His quill scratched furiously, his sleeve tugged down over his hand. His jaw was tight, his face drawn in concentration.

Her first instinct was to retreat. But her feet stayed rooted.

Potter didn’t notice her, not at first. He was muttering under his breath, flipping pages too quickly, scribbling notes like the world would end if he slowed. His eyes burned with a focus she rarely saw outside of Quidditch matches.

And for a moment—just a moment—she saw past the arrogance. Past the “Golden Boy.”

He looked… tired. Too tired. Like he was holding up the whole castle on his shoulders, and no one cared enough to notice.

Her throat tightened.

She should leave.

She didn’t.

Instead, she drifted to the next shelf, pulling a random book free and pretending to read while her ears strained toward him.

His chair scraped suddenly. He stood, stretching stiffly, and his eyes landed on her.

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.

“Parkinson,” he said flatly.

“Potter.” She slid the book back onto the shelf, careful to keep her voice sharp. “What, haunting the library now? I thought your kind preferred broomsticks to books.”

He gave a humorless snort, shouldering his bag. “Don’t worry, I’m not here to bother you.”

He started toward the door, brushing past her. For a second, their arms nearly touched. Her breath caught at the faint scent of broom polish and ink.

And before she could stop herself, her voice slipped out:

“You’ll burn yourself out.”

The words hung in the air, raw and naked.

Potter halted. Turned. His eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

Pansy’s cheeks flared hot. Stupid, reckless—too honest. “Nothing. Just… don’t blame me if you collapse in class tomorrow and Granger has to drag you to Pomfrey.”

His stare lingered, unreadable. Then, without another word, he left, his footsteps fading into the hush of the library.

Pansy stood frozen, her pulse racing.

Why had she said that?

Because it was true. Because she’d seen him: hunched, exhausted, fighting battles no one else bothered to notice. Because for one reckless moment, she’d cared.

And that was the most dangerous thing of all.

That night in the dormitory, she lay awake beneath her green hangings, heart racing. She could still feel the space where his arm had brushed hers. Still hear her own voice betraying her.

She rolled onto her side, scowling into the dark.

“No,” she whispered to herself. “Not him. Never him.”

But her chest ached anyway.

Chapter Text

Harry's POV

If there was one place Harry wished he could vanish, it was the dungeons.

The air was always damp, the stones seemed to swallow every sound, and Snape’s gaze never left him for long. Potions was less a class and more a public spectacle: the Slytherins waiting for him to fail, Snape waiting to sneer.

Malfoy was in his element, lounging against his bench with that infuriating smirk.

Harry kept his eyes on the knotgrass he was chopping. One. Two. Even. Precise. He could almost hear Hermione in his ear reminding him that “precision in potion-making is the difference between a cure and a catastrophe.”

But Malfoy’s voice sliced through the simmer of cauldrons. “Careful there, Potter. Don’t lean too far forward. Wouldn’t want you tumbling into your cauldron. Though I suppose Pansy will come flailing to the ground again just to get your attention.”

The Slytherins snickered.

Harry’s jaw tightened.

“Imagine it, again” Malfoy pressed, his voice louder now, clearly angling for the whole class to hear. “The Boy Who Lived sweeping a poor, helpless Slytherin damsel into his arms. Tragic romance, isn’t it?”

Harry’s knife clattered against the desk. His temper snapped before he could stop himself.

“Better to save someone falling than watch from the sidelines like a useless coward,” Harry bit out, glaring across the aisle. “Not that you’d know the difference.”

The room stilled.

Malfoy’s face flushed an ugly red, his sneer twisting. “You—”

And then, cutting clean through his words, another voice spoke.

“Merlin’s sake, Draco, shut up.”

Harry’s head jerked up.

Parkinson.

She didn’t even glance at Harry. Her dark eyes pinned Malfoy, her tone razor-sharp. “You’ve been dining out on the same tired joke for weeks. Potter this, Potter that. We get it. You’re obsessed. Find a new topic before you bore us all to death.”

The ripple of laughter that followed was sharp and fast, bouncing off the dungeon walls. A few Slytherins smirked behind their hands. Even Zabini raised his brows in faint amusement.

Malfoy sputtered, his pale cheeks blotched with color. “I am not—”

But Parkinson had already bent back over her cauldron, her knife moving with calm precision. Her smirk was faint, deliberate, and final.

Harry stared, unsettled.

It looked like nothing more than Parkinson mocking Draco, just as she mocked everyone else when it suited her. But Harry had caught it—the flicker in her voice, hot and sharp, not the polished venom she usually wielded.

Not boredom. Something else.

Before he could pin it down, Snape’s voice cut like a whip. “Ten points from Gryffindor, Potter, for disrupting my lesson with your incompetence.”

The dungeon rustled back to life: quills scratching, cauldrons hissing, whispers rushing like wind through leaves.

But Harry’s thoughts lingered on Parkinson.

Parkinson, of all people.

Why did it feel like she hadn’t just been mocking Malfoy—like, for one second, she’d been angry on his behalf?

Pansy's POV

Her hand hadn’t stopped trembling since the words left her mouth.

She crushed sprigs of knotgrass into paste with unnecessary force, pretending her burst of irritation had been calculated. But it hadn’t.

Merlin help her, it hadn’t.

Draco’s jeers had needled her all lesson, the same shallow insults, the same endless droning about Potter. He was always at it these days—Potter this, Potter that, as if hating him was Draco’s only hobby.

And then Potter had snapped back, voice fierce, green eyes flashing. Something inside her had jolted like a live wire.

Before she’d even thought, she’d cut in. Shut up, Draco.

She never spoke against him. Never. Not in public.

And now here she was, lips curved in a practiced smirk while her pulse galloped under her skin.

She risked the smallest glance across the aisle. Potter’s brow was furrowed, his gaze fixed—not on his potion, not on Malfoy—but on her.

Heat rushed to her cheeks. She snapped her eyes back to her notes, scribbling harder than necessary.

It wasn’t for him.

She repeated the thought like a mantra. She’d snapped because Draco was tedious, because she was tired of hearing Potter’s name dragged into every conversation. That was all.

It wasn’t for him.

But the memory of his glare—furious, defiant, alive—burned behind her eyes. The way he’d looked at her, searching, unsettled, as if he’d seen through the mask for a heartbeat.

Her smirk stayed fixed, but her grip on the quill tightened until the feather bent.

Pansy Parkinson did not falter. She did not slip.

And yet somehow, with Potter in the room, she always did.

Chapter Text

Harry's POV

The castle was hushed after curfew, shadows pooling in the corners of the corridor. Harry should’ve been heading back to Gryffindor Tower, but his thoughts churned like storm clouds.

He couldn’t shake her.

Parkinson.

The library, the Great Hall, even in Potions—every time he thought he had her figured out, she slipped. She wasn’t just sneering anymore. She was snapping at Malfoy, glancing at him like she’d said too much, watching him when she thought he wasn’t looking.

And Harry hated puzzles he couldn’t solve.

So, when he spotted her moving alone down the corridor, he didn’t think. He acted.

“Parkinson.”

She stopped short, shoulders stiffening before she turned. Her expression was all sharp angles, chin tilted high. “Potter. Wandering again? Looking for detention?”

Harry strode closer, his voice low, edged with frustration. “What’s your game?”

Her brows rose, lips curling. “Game?”

“Don’t play dumb.” He planted himself in front of her, heart pounding. “You’ve been… different. Snapping at Malfoy, glaring at me, saying things you don’t mean—”

She laughed, brittle as glass. “Maybe you’re imagining things. Everyone knows the Chosen One sees things that aren’t there.”

The words stung, but Harry pushed through, jaw tight. “If this is about the Quidditch match—if you’re acting strange because I caught you—just stop. You don’t owe me anything.”

Something in her cracked.

Her eyes flared, voice cutting like a blade. “Owe you? You think everything I do has to do with you?”

Harry faltered, caught off guard by the heat in her tone.

“What else am I supposed to think?” he snapped. “You’ve been acting—” His hand cut through the air, helpless. “Weird. Like you can’t decide if you want to hex me or—” He stopped himself, breath sharp.

Her jaw tightened. Torchlight flickered across her face, catching the storm in her eyes.

For a moment, the corridor seemed to hold its breath.

Harry stepped closer, unable to stop himself. “Then what is it?”

Her lips parted. For half a heartbeat, it looked like she might actually say it—whatever it was, the thing that had been sparking between them for weeks.

But then her mask slammed back down.

Her voice was low, cold. “It’s nothing, Potter. You’re nothing.”

She shoved past him, her shoulder brushing his as she stormed down the corridor, heels clicking against the stone.

Harry stood frozen, chest heaving, fingers curling uselessly at his sides.

It was nothing. She was nothing.

So why did it feel like the ground had shifted beneath him?

Pansy's POV

Her pulse thundered as she stormed down the corridor, Potter’s voice still echoing in her ears.

What’s your game?

Her game? If only she knew.

Every step felt like her mask was cracking wider. She could still see his eyes—burning, demanding, searching her as if he could pry the truth out of her chest by force.

It rattled her. Potter had always been easy to hate. Reckless, self-righteous, Gryffindor to the core. The boy Draco obsessed over, the boy the whole castle worshiped.

She was supposed to sneer. To mock. To loathe him.

So why had his words cut deeper than Draco’s ever could? Why had she almost—Merlin help her—almost told him?

Like you can’t decide if you want to hex me or—

He’d stopped himself, but she’d heard it. She’d felt it, the same impossible thought she’d buried night after night.

Her hand pressed against the cool stone wall, breath coming too fast.

She should’ve laughed. She should’ve hexed him and walked away with her head high.

Instead, she’d faltered. Her tongue had tripped. For a moment, she’d been standing there, mask shattering, words on the tip of her tongue that could’ve undone everything.

And then she’d seen it—the way he was looking at her. Not with loathing. Not even with suspicion. But with something else, something dangerous.

So, she’d run.

Now, alone in the shadows, her hands trembled.

“It’s nothing,” she whispered into the empty hall. “He’s nothing.”

But the ache in her chest told her she was lying.

Chapter Text

Harry's POV

The dormitory was too quiet. Too still. Harry lay flat on his back, staring at the canopy above his bed, the words replaying in his head like a curse:

It’s nothing, Potter. You’re nothing.

The memory burned worse than Umbridge’s quill. Not because he believed her, but because he didn’t. Because the look in her eyes had betrayed every word.

Pansy Parkinson was slipping.

And Harry couldn’t stand not knowing why.

With a growl, he shoved back his blankets and reached for the Marauder’s Map.

“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”

Ink lines bled into existence, crisscrossing the parchment. Names pulsed faintly across the castle. Filch on the fourth floor. Umbridge in her office. Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle lurking near the dungeons.

And there — Pansy Parkinson.

Her dot slid slowly along a corridor on the Slytherin side. On patrol. Alone.

Harry’s chest tightened. He should roll over. He should forget her. But before he could think, his feet were carrying him down through the castle, the map folded in his pocket.

He had to see her.

The dungeons were colder than the rest of Hogwarts, damp stone pressing close around him. His wand lit the corridor in pale gold as he turned the corner—

“Potter.”

The voice snapped like a whip.

Malfoy stepped into the torchlight, Crabbe and Goyle looming behind him. Montague and Warrington flanked them, five wands already drawn.

Harry’s stomach lurched, but his grip on his wand didn’t waver. “Out without Umbridge? Surprised you can still breathe without her permission.”

Malfoy’s smirk curved like a blade. “Imagine her face when we hand you over. The Boy Who Lies, caught like a rat in the dark.”

Harry’s teeth ground. “Try it.”

Malfoy’s hand flicked. “Now!”

Spells tore through the air.

“Stupefy!” Harry bellowed, his curse slamming Montague to the ground.

“Expelliarmus!” Crabbe’s wand spun from his hand.

“Protego!” Harry’s shield flared, deflecting Warrington’s hex back into the wall.

“Rictusempra!” Warrington collapsed in wheezing cough, clutching his stomach.

Three down.

But Crabbe scrambled for Goyle’s wand, and suddenly three curses slammed at him at once. His shield shattered. A jinx struck his ribs, white-hot pain blooming through his chest. He staggered back against the wall, gasping, vision blurring.

Malfoy advanced, wand level. “On your knees where you belong.”

“Expelliarmus!”

The shout cracked down the corridor. Malfoy’s wand spun away, clattering into the dark.

Harry’s head jerked up.

Parkinson.

She strode from the shadows, her prefect badge glinting, wand blazing in her hand. Her eyes burned, furious and unflinching.

“Pansy—what—?” Malfoy sputtered.

But she didn’t let him finish. A curse snapped from her wand, striking Crabbe in the chest and folding him like paper.

“Traitor!” Malfoy angrily shouted.

The corridor erupted again.

Harry and Pansy moved in tandem, though neither spoke. Harry stunned Goyle, his body hitting the floor with a crash. He spun, wand raised—

“Potter, look out!”

The warning tore from Pansy’s throat. She darted in front of him, wand raised just as Warrington fired.

“Protego!”

The shield burst, shattering under the impact. The curse caught her in the side.

Pansy’s scream echoed off the stone as she crumpled to her knees.

“Parkinson!”

Harry’s world went white with fury. He hurled a spell so powerful it blasted Warrington across the corridor, unconscious before he hit the wall.

Malfoy’s face was pale, caught between fury and disbelief. He opened his mouth—then froze as Harry leveled his wand at him, eyes blazing.

“Try it,” Harry hissed.

For the first time, Malfoy faltered. His lips curled, but no words came. He grabbed Crabbe’s arm and dragged him away, retreating into the shadows with a final glare.

Harry didn’t chase him. He dropped to his knees beside Parkinson, his wand clattering to the floor.

She was clutching her side, blood seeping through her fingers. Her face was pale, lips drawn tight with pain.

“Are you mad?” Harry’s voice broke as his hands hovered uselessly. “That curse was meant for me!”

Her smirk was faint, trembling. “You’re welcome.”

“Don’t—” His throat tightened, anger and fear tangling. “You got hurt because of me.”

Her eyes fluttered, her hand slipping weakly from the wound.

Harry’s heart lurched. He slid one arm beneath her knees, another around her back, and lifted her carefully. She gasped at the movement, but didn’t fight him.

“You need Pomfrey,” he muttered, voice raw.

She tried to scoff, but it came out a whisper. “Playing knight again?”

“Shut up.” His grip tightened as he carried her, every step pounding with his pulse. Her weight pressed against his chest, warm and trembling.

The Hospital Wing doors loomed ahead. He kicked them open. “Madam Pomfrey!”

The matron bustled from her office, eyes widening. “Mr. Potter! Put her here, quickly!”

Harry laid Pansy on the nearest bed, reluctant to let go. Pomfrey was already bustling, wand flashing, muttering spells as potions appeared at her side.

“Out, Potter,” she barked. “She’ll be fine. Out!”

But Harry didn’t move. His eyes stayed locked on Pansy until her lashes fluttered. Her gaze met his, glassy but sharp.

Her lips parted. “Maybe I did… and maybe I don’t regret it.”

Harry froze, chest aching, the world narrowing to her whisper.

Pansy Parkinson. The last person he’d ever expect to take a curse for him.

And nothing made sense anymore.

Pansy's POV

Darkness pulsed at the edges of her vision, heavy and smothering. The only thing anchoring her was the heat of Potter’s arms as he carried her, the thud of his heartbeat against her ear.

Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.

She should be furious with herself—for stepping in, for taking the curse, for caring at all. That wasn’t who she was. That wasn’t who she was allowed to be.

But when the spell had flown toward him, her body had moved before her mind. No hesitation. No mask. Just the instinct to protect.

She felt herself lowered onto cool sheets, Pomfrey’s voice barking somewhere above her. Light flared, pressure eased at her side, but Pansy barely heard.

Because Potter was still there.

She cracked her eyes open, just enough to see him standing rigid beside the bed, his face pale, his jaw clenched. He looked… terrified. For her.

Something twisted deep inside her chest.

Her lips moved before she could stop them. The words slipped out, soft and broken: “Maybe I did… and maybe I don’t regret it.”

The shock on his face blurred as her eyes drifted closed again, too heavy to fight.

For the first time in her life, Pansy Parkinson wasn’t sure whose side she was on anymore.

Chapter Text

Harry's POV

Harry refused to move.

He sat in the hard-backed chair beside Pansy’s bed, arms folded, eyes locked on her pale face. Madam Pomfrey had scolded, threatened, even tried to levitate him out of the ward, but he hadn’t budged. She’d given up eventually, muttering darkly as she disappeared into her office.

Madam Pomfrey’s spells had sealed most of the wound hours ago, but she’d warned it would take a full day before the bruising and pain faded completely. Harry had watched the color slowly return to Pansy's face, the trembling in her hands easing with each breath. She was healing — but far from fine.

The Hospital Wing was silent except for the faint hiss of lanterns and the soft sound of Pansy’s breathing.

Harry should have gone back to Gryffindor Tower hours ago. Ron and Hermione would be frantic, the whole house would be buzzing after the fight. But every time he thought about leaving, his stomach clenched.

Because when Pansy’s body had hit the stone floor, something inside him had lurched in a way he didn’t want to name.

She stirred.

Harry’s head shot up. Pansy shifted faintly against the sheets, her brow furrowing. Her lashes trembled before her eyes cracked open, grey and hazy.

“You’re still here?” Her voice was low, hoarse.

Harry leaned forward, his throat tight. “Where else would I be? You nearly—” He cut himself off, jaw clenching. “You took that curse for me.”

Her lips twitched in a faint, mocking curve. “Don’t flatter yourself, Potter. Bad aim.”

“Don’t joke.” His voice came out harsher than he intended. “You could’ve—”

“I’m not dead,” she interrupted, shifting slightly before wincing. “So, stop looking at me like I’m glass.”

But her eyes slipped shut again, exhaustion pulling her under.

Harry stayed frozen in place, watching her chest rise and fall. His fists curled in his lap. He had no idea what to do with the way his chest ached.

He stayed until dawn.

By breakfast, Hogwarts buzzed like a kicked beehive.

Harry hadn’t even made it down the marble staircase before the whispers began.

“Did you hear—?”
“Parkinson, of all people—”
“She stepped in front of him—shielded him—”
“Malfoy’s furious—”

The hum followed him all the way to the Great Hall, swelling into open stares the moment he slid onto the Gryffindor bench. Heads craned. Conversations dropped to hushed murmurs.

Ron leaned in, eyes wide. “What the bloody hell is going on, mate? Everyone’s saying Parkinson saved your life last night.”

Harry’s jaw tightened.

Hermione leaned across the table, her brow furrowed. “Is it true? Harry, did she—?”

Ginny cut in before he could answer. “She hasn’t left the Hospital Wing. Madam Pomfrey said she took a nasty curse.” Her tone was sharp, challenging. “So unless you think she faked bleeding all over the floor—”

Ron scoffed. “Slytherins are cunning. Maybe it’s some plot. Earn your trust, get close, then—”

“She wouldn’t have taken a hit for him if it was just a trick,” Hermione said firmly.

Ron threw his hands up. “How do you know that? It’s Parkinson! She’s spent years—”

Harry slammed his cup onto the table. “Enough.”

The word cracked like a whip. Gryffindors nearby turned, startled.

Harry’s green eyes blazed as he looked at Ron. “She saved me. That’s the truth. You don’t have to like it—but don’t call it fake.”

The silence that followed was heavier than lead.

Pansy's POV

By mid-morning, she couldn’t hide.

Madam Pomfrey had fussed over her for hours, muttering that she’d keep her in the Hospital Wing a full day at least. The healing charms had closed the wound, but every step still sent a dull ache through her ribs — a constant reminder of the curse that had nearly torn her apart.

But news traveled faster than she could heal. By the time Pansy shuffled slowly back toward the dungeons, clutching her side, the castle already buzzed with whispers.

“Parkinson saved Potter—”
“Never thought she’d—”
“Traitor—”

Her jaw clenched. Her prefect badge gleamed in the torchlight, but it suddenly felt more like a brand than a shield.

The Slytherin common room went silent when she entered. Every eye turned.

Draco stood at the center, pale with fury. Crabbe and Goyle flanked him, sneers plastered on their faces.

“Well, well,” Draco drawled, his voice like venom. “Our very own heroine.”

A ripple of laughter spread, sharp and cruel.

Pansy lifted her chin. “Prefect duty. I stopped a fight. That’s all.”

“Stopped it?” Draco’s voice rose, cracking. “You shielded him. Potter! Against your own housemates!”

Whispers hissed. Someone muttered blood traitor.

Pansy’s fists clenched at her sides. She wanted to scream, to lash out, to hex Draco where he stood. But her mask slammed into place instead. She smirked, though her stomach twisted.

“Maybe if you and your goons weren’t incompetent, I wouldn’t have had to step in.”

Draco’s face flushed scarlet. He opened his mouth, but no words came. The silence that followed was worse than any insult.

He turned sharply, storming toward the boys’ dormitory. Crabbe and Goyle followed like dogs.

The rest of Slytherin scattered, eyes sharp, whispers trailing.

Pansy stood alone.

Harry's POV

The Gryffindor common room wasn’t much better.

Ron refused to let it go. “She’s playing you, Harry. She’s Slytherin, she’s Malfoy’s shadow—”

“She’s not,” Harry snapped, cutting him off.

Hermione’s gaze flicked between them, troubled. “Harry… even if she meant it, this won’t end well. Her house won’t forgive her. Yours won’t trust her. You’re putting both of you at risk.”

Harry’s shoulders sagged. He knew she was right. He also knew he didn’t care.

He kept seeing it, over and over—the flash of green light, her stepping in front of him, the way her body had crumpled.

She’d chosen him.

And that changed everything.

By evening, the story had grown teeth.

Hufflepuffs whispered in the library: “Maybe Parkinson’s not like the others.”
Ravenclaws speculated at dinner: “What’s in it for her? Blackmail? Or…”
Gryffindors argued in corners, Slytherins hissed in hallways.

Pansy’s name and Harry’s were suddenly chained together in every mouth.

Harry's POV

It didn’t take long.

By nightfall, Harry was summoned with a pink slip of parchment: Professor Umbridge requests your presence, immediately.

He found Pansy already there, pale but upright in the chair opposite Umbridge’s desk. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, her expression cool.

Umbridge smiled, sickly sweet. “Mr. Potter. Miss Parkinson. My, my, what curious rumors are fluttering through the castle today.”

Neither spoke.

Umbridge leaned forward. “A Slytherin prefect, shielding the very boy she has always opposed. How very… inconsistent.”

Pansy’s lips curved in a sharp, false smile. “Perhaps I was doing my duty. Prefects stop fights. Surely you approve?”

Umbridge’s smile tightened. “I approve of loyalty, Miss Parkinson. Loyalty to one’s house. To one’s Headmistress.”

Harry’s fists clenched. “She doesn’t owe you anything.”

Umbridge’s gaze slid to him, syrupy and venomous. “And you, Mr. Potter… do you imagine this will make your lies more believable? That a Parkinson—of all people—would suddenly validate you?”

Harry bristled. “She doesn’t answer to you.”

“Enough.” Umbridge’s smile dropped, replaced by cold steel. “I will be watching both of you very closely. One misstep…” Her eyes glinted. “And you’ll find the consequences severe.”

They left together, silence stretching down the corridor.

Harry glanced sideways at her, noting the stiffness in her movements, the hand she pressed lightly to her side. “You shouldn’t be walking yet.”

“Don’t start.” Her voice was brittle.

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”

She stopped, meeting his gaze for a fraction of a second. Her eyes softened—just barely—before her mask snapped back into place.

“Stay out of my way, Potter,” she muttered.

She turned sharply, vanishing into the shadows of the dungeons.

Harry stood frozen, the words hollow in his ears. Because he’d seen the truth in her eyes, no matter how much she tried to hide it.

And he knew the castle’s whispers were only the beginning.

Chapter Text

Pansy's POV

The Slytherin common room had always felt like safety: cool stone walls, low green light, the steady hum of her housemates. But now, every eye cut into her like a blade.

“Potter’s darling.”
“Blood traitor.”
“She’d hex her own for a Gryffindor.”

The whispers hissed like snakes as she walked past. She kept her chin high, steps measured, expression carved into ice.

Draco sat sprawled in the best armchair, eyes gleaming. Crabbe and Goyle flanked him, eager grins plastered across their faces.

“Well, if it isn’t our brave savior,” Draco drawled, loud enough to carry. “Tell us, Pansy—does Potter send you love notes now? Or does he just keep you warm at night?”

Laughter exploded.

Pansy’s nails dug crescents into her palms. She forced her lips into a smirk. “Jealous, Draco? He’d never pick you, no matter how you simper.”

Gasps, sharp and delighted, rippled. For a moment, she almost felt triumph. But Draco’s face hardened, fury twisting his features.

From that moment, her life in Slytherin became war.

Her bed was hexed cold. Her books vanished. Every time she gave an order as prefect, someone snickered or openly disobeyed. The badge on her robes burned like a scarlet letter.

She bore it with clenched teeth and razor smiles. She wouldn’t let them see her break. But each night, when the green lamps flickered low, the silence pressed heavy.

She’d never been so utterly alone.

“Mate, you can’t honestly trust her.” Ron’s voice carried across the Gryffindor common room, heated and loud.

Harry set down his quill, jaw tightening. “She saved me.”

“Or pretended to,” Ron shot back. “How do you know it wasn’t staged? Slytherins are snakes, Harry, they twist everything.”

Hermione sighed, rubbing her temple. “Ron, use your head. Pansy’s reputation is in tatters. Do you really think she’d choose to be mocked by her entire house just to trick Harry?”

Ron scowled. “She might. If it makes him vulnerable.”

Ginny snorted from the hearth. “Honestly, Ron. By the looks of it, I think Harry already cares for her, whether we like it or not.”

Heat shot through Harry’s neck. “I don’t—” He stopped, the denial thin on his tongue.

The room went quiet.

Ron muttered something under his breath, but Harry ignored it. His mind was already elsewhere. He kept seeing her fall, kept hearing her whisper: Maybe I don’t regret it.

And he hated how much it mattered.

Pansy's POV

She found refuge in the library’s farthest corner, between tall shelves dusted with neglect. For once, silence.

Until Potter appeared.

He dropped into the chair opposite hers, dropping his bag with a thud.

She scowled. “Can’t you take a hint?”

Harry’s eyes burned into her. “Why do you let them do it?”

Pansy stiffened. “Do what?”

“Draco. The others. They treat you like dirt and you just—” His hands curled into fists. “You don’t deserve it.”

Her laugh was sharp, brittle. “Spare me your Gryffindor pity. It’s my house. My problem.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Yes, I do.” Her voice cracked, sharper than she meant. “You think I can just walk away? You think I can be like you, standing on your pedestal, everyone cheering?” Her hands trembled on the table. “This is survival, Potter. Something you don’t understand.”

Harry flinched, but didn’t look away.

The silence between them burned. For a moment, she thought—Merlin help her—he’d reach across the table.

She stood abruptly, gathering her books. “Stay out of it.”

Her heels clicked sharp against the stone as she fled.

Draco cornered her by the stairs that night, eyes gleaming with malice.

“You’ve embarrassed me,” he hissed. “Made a fool of me. In front of everyone.”

Pansy folded her arms, mask in place. “You didn’t need my help for that.”

His wand pressed against her shoulder before she could blink. “Careful. You think you’re clever, but one word to Umbridge and you’re finished. She’d love to know a Parkinson turned traitor.”

Her breath caught, but she didn’t flinch. “Go ahead. Tell her. Then she’ll know you failed. She’ll know Potter bested you again.”

Draco’s face twisted. He shoved past her, fury vibrating off him.

She waited until the corridor was empty before her knees threatened to buckle. She pressed her hand against the cold stone wall, chest heaving, and for the first time, fear slithered beneath her skin.

Harry's POV

He found her in the empty classroom, perched on the windowsill with the moon spilling pale light across her face. Her arms were wrapped around herself, her profile sharp and unyielding, but her shoulders trembled faintly in the stillness.

Harry lingered in the doorway for a moment, then stepped inside.

“You’re going to catch cold sitting there,” he said quietly.

Pansy didn’t look at him. “Come to gloat, Potter?”

“No.” He crossed the room, leaning against the opposite wall. “I came because I didn’t want you sitting here alone.”

She laughed, short and sharp. “That’s rich. Gryffindor pity.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “This isn’t pity. I know what Malfoy did. I know what they’re saying about you.”

Her head snapped toward him, eyes blazing. “Then you know exactly what you’ve cost me. My house. My reputation. Everything I built to survive Slytherin—you’ve ruined it!”

Harry pushed off the wall, anger flaring. “I didn’t ask you to save me!”

“You think I don’t know that?” she shouted, sliding off the sill. “You think I wanted to? I should’ve let you take that curse, Potter. I should’ve kept walking. But I didn’t, and now—” Her voice cracked, fists trembling at her sides. “Now I’m the traitor.”

Harry’s chest ached. “Then why did you?”

The words hung heavy, echoing in the empty room.

Pansy’s breath shuddered. She shook her head, hair falling into her face. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I don’t know why I can’t—”

And before she could stop herself, she kissed him.

It was fierce, reckless, a clash of anger and desperation. The taste of salt, the heat of her breath, the shock of her lips against his—Harry froze, stunned.

Then she tore away, eyes wide with horror at what she’d done.

“No.” Her voice shook. “No, this—this was a mistake.” She turned, shoving past him toward the door.

“Pansy—”

He caught her wrist before she could flee. She spun back, breath sharp, but whatever protest she meant to make vanished when he pulled her in and crushed his mouth to hers.

This time, it wasn’t fury—it was fire. His hands cupped her face, hers tangled in his robes despite herself, and the world outside the classroom dissolved. There was no Gryffindor, no Slytherin, no whispers or shadows. Only them.

When they finally broke apart, both breathless, Harry rested his forehead against hers.

“I don’t care what they say,” he murmured. “I’m not letting you face this alone. Not Draco, not Umbridge—no one. I’ll protect you.”

Her breath trembled against his. Her eyes flickered, torn between scoffing and surrender. “You can’t protect me from everything, Potter.”

His hand squeezed hers, firm and steady. “Watch me.”

A laugh slipped from her, brittle but real. She shook her head, eyes bright in the moonlight. “You’re impossible.”

“Probably,” he said softly.

For the first time in weeks, the weight between them eased. They lingered, caught in fragile peace.

When she finally pulled back, her hand slipped from his, but her eyes lingered on his face longer than they should have.

“Don’t follow me,” she warned, but her voice lacked its usual venom.

And as she vanished into the shadows, Harry knew she didn’t really mean it.

Chapter Text

Harry's POV

The castle seemed to breathe around him. Every corridor, every staircase, every flicker of torchlight felt alive with the sound of his own heartbeat.

Harry didn’t know how long he’d been walking. The air was sharp in his lungs, and his fingers were stiff from the cold, but he barely felt any of it. His mind kept replaying the moment — Pansy’s sudden, desperate kiss, the shock in her eyes when she’d realised what she’d done, and then his hand catching her wrist before she could flee.

She’d looked terrified, like she’d just betrayed the entire world. But when he’d pulled her back and kissed her — properly, deliberately — he’d felt something strange, something right. Not relief, not victory. Certainty.

He passed a window and caught his reflection in the glass — pale, wind-stung, his hair a mess. He looked like a boy who’d run through a storm. Maybe he had.

By the time he reached the Fat Lady’s portrait, the corridors were silent. The castle had settled into its midnight hush.

“Password?” the Fat Lady said, squinting at him.

“Dilligrout.”

The portrait swung open, and warmth spilled out from the common room. The fire had burned low; the air smelled faintly of woodsmoke and parchment. Ron was sprawled in an armchair, one sock missing, half a chessboard between him and sleep. Hermione sat by the hearth, reading under the last pool of lamplight, her hair pulled back and her brow furrowed in concentration.

Both of them looked up the instant he stepped in.

“Harry,” Hermione said, closing her book. “Where have you been? It’s past curfew.”

Ron blinked, yawning. “Blimey, mate, you look like you’ve seen a Dementor.”

Harry hesitated. He could lie. He could say patrols, or Umbridge, or some half-truth. But the thought of doing that again — of hiding what had just happened — made his chest ache.

He crossed to the fire and stood there for a long moment, staring into the flames. “Something happened.”

Hermione’s voice sharpened. “What kind of something?”

He turned to face them, heart hammering. “Pansy kissed me.”

Ron’s head jerked up so fast he nearly toppled out of the chair. “Parkinson?”

Hermione froze mid-breath.

Harry nodded, forcing himself to stay calm. “And I kissed her back.”

For a moment, the fire crackled and nothing else moved.

Ron’s expression went from disbelief to horror. “Are you joking? Please tell me you’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

“Pansy Parkinson?” Hermione said slowly, as though repeating it might make it make sense.

“Yeah.”

“She’s—she’s Malfoy’s shadow!” Ron sputtered. “She called Hermione a—”

“I remember,” Harry said quietly.

“Then what in Merlin’s name possessed you?” Ron demanded.

Hermione shot him a look. “Ron.”

“What?” he said, throwing up his hands. “We’re all thinking it!”

Hermione turned back to Harry. “You said she kissed you first?”

He nodded. “Yeah. We argued. She was angry, I was angry. And then she just… did it. She panicked straight after, tried to leave, but I stopped her.”

Hermione’s voice softened. “And you kissed her back.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Harry stared at the fire, trying to find the words. “Because it didn’t feel wrong. It’s not simple — it’s never simple with her — but it’s… real. She doesn’t pretend with me, not anymore. And I don’t have to, either.”

Ron made a noise somewhere between a groan and a laugh. “Real? Harry, she’s Pansy Parkinson! The girl spent four years hanging on Malfoy like a shadow.”

“She’s not doing that now.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed. “You really believe she’s changed?”

“I do.”

Ron leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Alright, but even if she has — what then? You think anyone’s going to let it go? You and her walking around together while Umbridge’s out for your blood? You’re handing her a reason to make both your lives miserable.”

“She’ll find a reason anyway,” Harry said simply. “At least this one’s mine to choose.”

That quiet certainty made both of them pause. Hermione’s expression softened, cautious but curious. “You’ve thought about this,” she said.

“I have.”

Ron groaned. “Since when did you start thinking about Parkinson?”

Harry gave a faint smile. “Since she stopped acting like everyone else.”

Hermione studied him, and for a long time, she didn’t speak. The firelight caught in her eyes; the pages of her book rustled softly beside her. When she finally did, her voice was gentler. “You know what worries me?”

“That I’ll get hurt?”

“That you won’t see it coming if you do,” she said. “You care deeply, Harry — you always have. It’s one of your strengths, but it’s also—”

“My biggest flaw,” he finished.

She smiled, faintly. “Sometimes.”

He met her gaze. “I know what you’re both thinking. And maybe you’re right — maybe this is dangerous, maybe it’ll blow up in my face. But I’ve spent years letting people tell me who to hate and who to trust. I don’t want to do that anymore. I’ll take the risk.”

Hermione’s expression shifted — still uncertain, but not dismissive. She saw it in him: the quiet, stubborn kind of conviction that wouldn’t bend.

Ron sat back, shaking his head. “You’re mental,” he muttered. “Completely mental.”

Harry smirked. “You’ve said that before.”

“And I’m always right,” Ron grumbled. “Still… I guess it’s your funeral.”

Hermione nudged him sharply. “Ron!”

“What? I didn’t mean—” He sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “Look, mate, I don’t get it, but… fine. If you’re that sure about her, I’ll try not to hex her on sight.”

Harry’s grin was small but grateful. “Thanks.”

Hermione closed her book with a sigh. “Just promise us you’ll be careful. Don’t give Umbridge ammunition. She’ll twist anything she can.”

“I know,” Harry said. “But she’s already decided who I am. She always has. This isn’t about her.”

Hermione hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Then we’ll stand with you, whatever happens.”

Ron looked between them, resigned. “Yeah, yeah. But if she hurts you, I’m holding you to that funeral joke.”

Harry laughed, the sound quiet but real. The tension in the room finally loosened.

They sat there a while longer, the fire burning low, the storm outside tapping against the windows. Eventually Hermione gathered her books, and Ron stumbled toward the stairs, muttering something about “bloody Slytherins.”

Harry stayed behind. The silence after they left was thick and comfortable. He leaned back in his chair and stared into the dying fire.

He knew the storm he’d chosen — Umbridge’s punishments, the whispers, the scrutiny. He’d dealt with worse.

But when he closed his eyes, all he saw was the moment she’d looked at him — not as an enemy or a headline, but as if she’d finally seen the truth of him.

He touched his wrist absently, remembering the feel of her pulse beneath his fingers.

Whatever came next, he wasn’t backing down.

The fire crackled once more, then dimmed to embers. Upstairs, the tower slept. Harry sat for a long time in the half-dark, the taste of snow still on his lips and the faint echo of her name in his mind.

Pansy's POV

The dungeons swallowed every sound.

By the time Pansy reached the lower stairwell, the rest of the castle had gone to sleep. The torches burned low, their greenish flames flickering across slick stone, throwing her shadow long and thin against the wall. Her shoes echoed faintly, the sound swallowed almost at once by the heavy silence that always hung beneath the lake.

Her pulse hadn’t slowed since she’d left that room. Every step felt like a heartbeat too loud. She kept telling herself to breathe, to think—but memory clung to her like static.

She’d kissed him.

It came back in flashes—the anger, the panic, the split second when words failed her and instinct took over. The taste of snow on his lips, the warmth that shouldn’t have felt safe but did. And then his hand closing around her wrist, stopping her, pulling her back.

He hadn’t hesitated. He’d kissed her again—no confusion, no apology, just quiet, impossible certainty.

The thought made her throat tighten. She stopped in front of one of the torches, pressing her hand against the cold wall. The stone bit into her skin. She didn’t feel it. All she could think of was his eyes—clear, steady, maddeningly sure of her when she wasn’t sure of herself.

She cursed under her breath and kept walking.

When the wall slid open and she stepped into the Slytherin common room, every conversation died. The hush that followed was almost polite, as if the House itself were pausing to watch.

She could feel the weight of their stares—sharp, curious, already judging. Her steps clicked softly on the stone, the sound too loud in the silence. She didn’t hurry; she never hurried.

Nott’s low voice broke the quiet first. “Our prefect finally returns,” he drawled. “Late again. Must be exhausting, all that… extracurricular activity.”

Laughter rippled through the room, brittle and eager.

Zabini didn’t look up from the arm of the sofa where he sat, but his voice slid through the space, smooth as oil. “Perhaps she’s found new company. A Gryffindor, maybe? Red does terrible things for a Slytherin complexion, but who am I to judge?”

More laughter—quick, sharp, the kind that wanted blood.

Pansy stopped near the fire, tugged off her gloves one finger at a time, and laid them neatly on the mantel. “You’d think a House full of pure-bloods would have learned the difference between gossip and proof,” she said lightly.

The quiet that followed wasn’t comfortable.

Then Draco’s voice came from the far end of the room, smooth and venomous. “You’ve always enjoyed proof, haven’t you, Parkinson? Problem is, you’ve been seen. Out of bounds. Out of line. Out of loyalty.”

He moved out of the shadow beside the fireplace, the green light catching in his pale hair, in the gleam of his prefect badge. Around him, the others turned expectantly, like a court waiting for its prosecutor.

She gave him a measured look. “Since when do you keep count of my evenings, Draco? Surely you’ve got better things to do.”

“I make it a habit to notice betrayal,” he said, voice low, dangerous. “Especially when it wears silver and green.”

Nott smirked. “Maybe she’s color-blind. Happens when you spend too long in Gryffindor company.”

A few chuckled. Pansy’s lips curved faintly. “You’re right, Nott. Must be exhausting seeing everything in black and green all the time.”

Draco ignored the laughter that earned her. “You’ve been sneaking around, Parkinson. People have eyes. They’ve seen you. And it’s only a matter of time before Umbridge does too.”

Zabini finally looked up, the firelight glinting off his dark eyes. “The old toad might even thank you, Draco. Nothing like one of our own to polish her wand by turning scandal into discipline.”

“Enough,” Pansy said quietly.

But Draco only smiled. “What’s the matter, Parkinson? Feeling delicate? Or is it guilt that doesn’t suit you?”

Her shoulders straightened, chin lifting a fraction. The laughter dimmed again, waiting.

“I don’t feel guilt for anything I’ve done,” she said.

Draco tilted his head. “Not even for dragging your family name into the gutter?”

The temperature in the room seemed to drop.

A murmur ran through the room like a hiss. Even the younger years leaned in closer, hungry for spectacle.

Draco stepped out of the green light until he stood directly in front of her. “It’s tragic, really,” he said softly. “The Parkinson name used to mean something. Sacred Twenty-Eight. Old money. A Wizengamot seat. And now its only heir is wasting her time chasing after the Boy Who Lies.”

“Careful,” she said, voice even.

“Why? Afraid the truth might sting?” He smiled thinly. “You might think yourself above the rest of us, Pansy, but to the world you look like a fool. You’re standing with a liar and a half-blood. You’re already in ruins.”

“Ruins?” she repeated, almost laughing. “My family’s vaults could rebuild half this castle. We don’t fall because a few schoolchildren whisper.”

Nott gave a low chuckle. “You might want to save some of that coin, then. You’ll need it when Umbridge strips your badge and your father decides you’re an embarrassment.”

Zabini added lazily, “She’s not wrong, though. The Parkinson fortune’s impressive, but influence fades fast when it’s attached to the wrong company.”

Pansy turned her gaze on them, cool and contemptuous. “Remind me, Zabini—what company does your mother keep these days? I lose track of her husbands.”

The laughter that followed was sharp and startled. Zabini’s expression hardened, but he said nothing.

She turned back to Draco. “As for you, I’ve seen what your family calls power. Bribery and groveling in equal measure. The Parkinsons don’t bow. Not to Umbridge, not to your father, and certainly not to you.”

Draco’s composure slipped. “You really think your father will defend this? Defend you—caught fawning over Potter?”

Her eyes glinted, and for a heartbeat the whole room seemed to lean toward her. “My father may hate the idea of me getting involved with Harry Potter,” she said, each word measured, “but he’ll hate it far more if people start treating his only heir like a rug. You forget, Draco: influence doesn’t vanish because you sneer at it.”

He took another step, fury flushing his face. “He’ll disown you.”

“No, he won’t,” she said quietly. “He’s a Parkinson. We protect our own. Something your family never learned.”

Nott snorted. “She’s lost it. Falling for a Gryffindor’s made her mad.”

That drew scattered laughter, but it died when Pansy’s voice cut through it—low, cold, dangerous.
“Say one more word about him, Nott, and I’ll make you swallow your tongue.”

The threat hung in the air, too believable to test. Nott looked away first.

Draco’s eyes narrowed to slits. “You don’t even bother pretending anymore, do you?”

“Pretending?” she said. “That’s your game, Draco. You play at loyalty, play at courage, play at being your father’s heir. But underneath, you’re afraid. You always have been.”

The fire snapped behind them, throwing their shadows against the wall like dueling figures.

Draco’s jaw tightened. “When the time comes to choose sides, don’t expect anyone here to stand with you.”

“I don’t,” she said, gathering her gloves from the mantel. “That’s the difference between us—I don’t need a crowd to prove I’m right.”

The silence that followed was absolute. Even the lake above seemed to still, the green light flattening into a cold gleam across the stone floor.

Pansy drew her gloves through her fingers, once, twice, a slow deliberate movement. Then she slipped them on, turned toward the stairwell leading to the girls’ dormitories, and said in a voice that carried cleanly through the room,

“Next time you want to measure power, try standing on your own before you use your fathers’ names as crutches.”

No one answered.

She walked away from the fire, her heels clicking in the hush. The laughter and whispers began again the moment she reached the stairs, but she didn’t look back.

The girls’ dormitory was dark when she entered, the air still and cool. Moonlight filtered through the enchanted windows, painting silver patterns across the floor.

She unpinned her prefect badge and set it on the bedside table. The serpent gleamed faintly, proud and meaningless.

For a long moment she stood there, fingers resting on the edge of the table, the echoes of the common room still in her ears. Then she drew the curtains around her bed and sat down, the green light from the lake washing faintly across her hands.

The memory of the kiss returned—not its shock, but the steadiness in him afterward, the way he’d looked at her as though she wasn’t a Slytherin or a Parkinson or anything defined by anyone else. Just her.

For the first time in years, she felt the weight of her own name lift.

Let Draco rage. Let Umbridge threaten. Let the House whisper itself hoarse. She would face them all.

Because a Parkinson bows to no one—and because, somehow, somewhere between fury and defiance, she had found someone who saw her not as a trophy or a pawn but as equal fire.

The lake light shimmered against the curtains as she closed them, the water above whispering like applause.

Chapter Text

Pansy's POV

Breakfast in the Great Hall was quieter than it should have been.
Every scrape of a fork, every whisper, seemed to tilt toward her as Pansy crossed the floor. The long Slytherin table glimmered under the high, cold light, but no one made space for her. Plates shifted, shoulders angled away.

She set down her cup with deliberate calm and felt eyes dart up and down the length of the table. No one spoke to her, but the silence said everything. It wasn’t fear. It was exile carefully wrapped in manners.

Her badge felt heavier on her robe than ever before. The serpent crest caught the light, a little too bright against the black wool. She could feel the whispers trailing behind her—still about last night, still about Draco and her words, about how she’d stood there and defied him before the whole House.

But then something in the air shifted. A hush spread through the hall—slow, deliberate, rippling like wind through tall grass. Heads turned, one after another.

Pansy didn’t have to look up to know who had just entered.

She felt him before she saw him—the strange gravity of him, the way the room seemed to breathe differently when he walked in. Harry Potter moved through the doors with the same quiet determination that marked every step he took into danger. But this time, he wasn’t heading to his table right away.

He was walking straight toward hers.

A low murmur broke out among the students. Forks froze midair. Even the enchanted ceiling above seemed to pause, the drifting clouds hanging still.

Pansy’s hand tightened around her goblet. Her pulse thundered against her ribs, sharp and impossible to hide. She told herself to look away, to act indifferent, to remember where she was—but she couldn’t.

Harry’s green eyes found hers across the long expanse of benches and plates. Calm. Steady. Unafraid.

He didn’t hurry. Every step felt deliberate, each one defying the divide between red and green.
By the time he reached her end of the table, she could feel the entire House holding its breath.

He stopped in front of her, just close enough for his shadow to fall across her plate. The hall had gone utterly silent.

“Pansy,” he said softly, like it was something familiar, something he’d said a hundred times before.

Her throat tightened. “Harry.”

It wasn’t much—not in words—but it was everything in meaning.

He smiled at her then. Small. Certain. Enough to set the air crackling.

Her lips curved before she could stop them, a quiet, reflexive answer to that smile.

He nodded once, almost imperceptibly, and then turned toward the Gryffindor table, walking the rest of the way as though nothing extraordinary had happened. But when he sat beside Weasley and Granger, their eyes were wide, and the whispers that followed were a living storm.

Pansy didn’t move. She could feel the entire Slytherin table watching her—the disbelief, the fury, the dawning realization of what they’d all just witnessed.

That simple exchange, soft and public, had drawn a line sharper than any curse.

She reached for her goblet again, though her hand trembled faintly this time. Her heart was still racing, not from fear but from something startlingly like exhilaration.

It was only when she looked up again that she saw the look.

Umbridge’s look.

Across the hall, seated at the staff table in her ghastly pink cardigan, the High Inquisitor was staring straight at her. The sweetness had drained from her face, leaving something brittle and venomous underneath.

Pansy’s blood went cold. She held the woman’s gaze for one long, unbroken moment—neither bowing nor looking away—before calmly lowering her eyes to her plate.

A moment later, a small folded parchment appeared beside her breakfast. No one saw it arrive.

She knew what it would say even before she opened it.

High Inquisitor’s Office. Ten o’clock.

No signature. None needed.

Umbridge’s office smelled of sugar and iron.
The air was thick with the cloying scent of tea and something faintly scorched — sweetness gone sour. Rows of porcelain kittens lined the walls, frozen mid-pounce, their painted eyes glinting in the lamplight. The sound of their tinkling mews mingled with the steady ticking of the clock.

Pansy stood in the doorway, her shadow long and sharp across the pink carpet. She didn’t curtsey. She didn’t smile.

Umbridge looked up from behind her desk, syrupy and smug.
“Miss Parkinson,” she said, voice dripping warmth so artificial it almost hissed. “Do sit, dear. You look rather pale.”

Pansy stepped forward and sat without a word. The lace cushion sank under her, suffocatingly soft.

“I’m afraid this won’t be a pleasant talk,” Umbridge continued, setting down her quill and folding her stubby hands over a parchment embossed with the Hogwarts seal. “Certain reports have reached me — of insolence, and… questionable company. Behavior unbecoming of a Hogwarts' prefect.”

Pansy didn’t look at the parchment. “You mean Harry Potter.”

Umbridge blinked once, the smile twitching. “I don’t discuss other students.”

“Of course you don’t,” Pansy said softly. “Especially when it’s him.”

A pause. The quill’s feather shifted slightly in the still air.

“You’ve been seen,” Umbridge said, her tone turning crisp beneath the honey. “Out of bounds, wandering after hours, and fraternizing where you shouldn’t. The Ministry holds its representatives to a higher standard, Miss Parkinson — and we expect you to respect that.”

Pansy tilted her head. “You mean you expect obedience.”

Umbridge’s lips pinched. “I mean discipline. And since yours appears to have wavered, your prefect badge will be removed effective immediately.”

The words landed like a slap — but Pansy didn’t flinch. Her expression stayed perfectly composed, her posture a portrait of practiced grace.

“So,” she said at last, her voice low, even. “You remove my badge to make yourself feel taller.”

Umbridge’s smile hardened. “I remove it because power must be earned, not flaunted.”

Pansy’s eyes glittered. “Then you shouldn’t wear any.”

The woman froze. “Watch your tongue, Miss Parkinson.”

“I am,” Pansy said, her voice like glass. “Carefully.”

Umbridge leaned forward, elbows sinking into pink lace. “You would do well to remember your place, dear. Insolence carries consequences. You’ve seen what happens to students who overstep.”

Pansy’s pulse stilled — not from fear, but from the dangerous calm that came when fury refined itself into precision. Her hand drifted to her side, where the faint ache still lingered beneath the fabric of her robes — the same place the curse had struck.

“My father let one accident happen days ago,” she said, each word precise as a knife. “You remember — the fight in the corridor involving your precious Inquisitorial Squad, the curse one of them cast that left me injured? He believed me when I said it was a mishap. But he won’t be so forgiving a second time.”

The ticking clock filled the silence that followed.

Umbridge’s eyes flicked toward the movement of Pansy’s hand at her side before snapping back to her face. The pink smile faltered, revealing the pale, rigid line beneath.

“You’re threatening a Ministry official,” she said, her voice trembling around its own false sweetness.

“I’m stating a fact,” Pansy replied. “You may hold a title, Professor, but you are not power. You’re what people like my father allow to exist — a placeholder draped in lace and borrowed authority.”

The color drained from Umbridge’s cheeks.

“I could have you punished,” she hissed. “Do you understand that? I could make you an example.”

Pansy’s lips curved faintly. “You’ve made enough examples already. My father knows what your ‘detentions’ entail — how you carve your lessons into students’ hands. If you touch me, Professor, even once, he will come here himself. And the Ministry will remember exactly where his seat is in the Wizengamot.”

That landed. The silence was absolute, heavy as stone.

Umbridge’s quill slipped from her fingers, rolling across the desk.

“You think your family name will shield you?” she whispered.

“It already has,” Pansy said. “And it will again.”

She rose, every movement deliberate, her chin lifted with quiet, infuriating grace. “Borrowed power, Professor, always comes due.”

Umbridge could only stare, her pink walls seeming to shrink around her.

Pansy turned for the door.

“Your attitude will ruin you,” Umbridge called after her, voice sharp, almost breaking.

Pansy paused at the threshold, glancing back. Her eyes glinted like polished emeralds.

“My attitude built my House before you ever set foot in it.”

And with that, she left.

The door shut softly behind her.
In the corridor, the torches hissed as she passed, their light flickering gold and green across her face. Her hand brushed her side once more — not in pain, but in reminder.

They’d taken her badge.
They hadn’t taken her power.

And she meant to make sure no one ever tried again.

Back in the common room the green light had shifted to a darker hue, the lake pressing its weight against the windows. Conversation stopped when she entered, eyes dropping to the absence of silver on her chest.

Daphne Greengrass poured tea without a word and slid a cup toward her. It was the first human gesture Pansy had received all day.

“They think it’s the end of you,” Daphne said quietly.

Pansy looked into the tea’s pale surface and almost smiled. “They think too small.”

Harry's POV

The Room of Requirement had taken on the look of a proper dueling hall that evening — all open space and stone, a hundred flickering candles floating above them. The air hummed faintly with the static of spent spells and breathless laughter.

Harry stood at the center, wand raised. His chest still rose and fell from the last demonstration, but his voice carried easily.
“Again!” he called.

Neville and Ginny both lifted their wands and tried the Disarming Charm; twin flashes of red light missed him by inches. Harry deflected one, ducked the other, and sent a silent Stunner toward the practice dummy behind them. The dummy flew backward, crashing into the wall with a soft thud.

A few students cheered. The room was alive with adrenaline — and pride. The D.A. had grown sharper since their first meeting; the clumsy enthusiasm had hardened into precision. Even Zacharias Smith looked mildly impressed, which Harry took as a miracle.

“Good,” he said. “Now again — but this time, stay mobile. Never wait for your opponent to finish the spell.”

They paired off, wands raised. Sparks filled the air. Spells cracked and hissed, reflecting off shields that shimmered like glass.

Hermione watched near the wall, arms crossed, a smile tugging at her mouth. Ron was beside her, muttering advice to a third-year who couldn’t block properly. For a brief moment, the room felt almost safe — like they’d built a small, bright world separate from Umbridge’s suffocating one.

But safety never lasted long.

It started quietly — a ripple of murmuring near the back, quick glances passing between a few students. Harry felt the shift before he heard the words.

“Is it true, then?” a voice asked.

He turned. It was one of the younger Ravenclaws, face flushed. “About you and Parkinson?”

The question froze the room. Spells faltered midair. A Shield Charm fizzled out with a pop.

For a heartbeat, no one moved.

Then Zacharias Smith — always eager to stir a fire — stepped forward, eyebrows raised. “Everyone’s talking about it,” he said. “The whole school saw you greet her this morning. Thought you’d gone mad, walking up to a Slytherin like that. Especially her.”

A few others nodded uneasily. Even some of the Hufflepuffs looked uncomfortable, though none dared add to it. The whispers started again — Slytherin, Parkinson, Malfoy’s shadow — words that cut without names attached.

Harry didn’t raise his wand. He didn’t need to.
The temperature in the room seemed to drop all on its own.

He took a slow step forward, meeting each gaze that dared meet his. “You want to ask about her,” he said evenly. “Fine. Ask me.”

Silence. Then Smith muttered, “We just think it’s… strange, that’s all. She’s one of them. You can’t just—”

“Just what?” Harry interrupted. “Talk to her? Trust her?” His tone wasn’t loud, but it carried — sharp enough to cut through the murmurs. “Funny. That’s what people used to say about me.”

The words landed like a spell.

He let the quiet stretch, watching their faces shift — confusion, guilt, curiosity.

“I told the truth about Voldemort, and they called me a liar,” he said. “Now you’re calling her a Slytherin, as if that makes her the enemy. Maybe you’ve forgotten — Voldemort isn’t recruiting by House anymore.”

Almost all the members of Dumbledore’s Army flinched both times the Dark Lord’s name was mentioned.

Hermione stepped forward slightly, her eyes flicking from the crowd to him. She didn’t stop him. She didn’t need to.

Harry’s voice stayed calm, controlled, but there was steel beneath it. “This room isn’t about who we like or what we believe about each other. It’s about surviving what’s coming. You think Voldemort cares who your parents supported or what color tie you wear?”

He took another step forward. The candles above flickered, and their light threw long shadows across the walls.

“If anyone here can’t separate my personal life from the D.A.,” he said, “you’re free to leave. But don’t stand here and tell me you want to fight for what’s right while judging me for who I stand beside outside this room.”

No one moved.

For a long moment, only the sound of the clock in the corner filled the space.

Then Hermione lifted her wand. “You heard him,” she said quietly. “Wands up.”

The training resumed — hesitantly at first, then with renewed focus. But the energy had changed. The air thrummed harder, faster. Spells snapped louder. For all the unease, something new had rooted itself there — respect.

When the session ended, the room melted back into stillness, its walls reshaping into stone shelves and quiet lamps. Students filed out one by one, subdued but thoughtful. No one met Harry’s eyes, but none avoided them either.

Ron clapped him on the shoulder once they were alone with Hermione. “You handled that well,” he said, though his tone was wary. “Bit terrifying, actually.”

Harry managed a faint smile. “They needed to hear it.”

Hermione folded her arms. “You know this will spread, right? Half of them will run straight to their dormitories and tell everyone how you defended her.”

“I know,” he said simply. “Let them.”

Ron frowned. “They’ll talk.”

“They already do,” Harry said. “At least now they’ll be right about something.”

That earned him a look from Hermione — half-exasperated, half-sympathetic. “You’re choosing a hard path, Harry.”

“I’ve done worse.”

The three of them stood there in the soft gold light. The candles had burned low; the smell of ozone and dust hung in the air. It was quiet again — the kind of quiet that followed a decision that couldn’t be undone.

When they finally left, the corridors were dim, the castle half-asleep. Ron and Hermione turned down toward Gryffindor Tower, but Harry lingered at the top of the stairwell, looking out the window where snow drifted against the glass.

The night was pale and endless.

He thought of Pansy’s eyes that morning — the flicker of surprise, the quiet courage when she’d said his name back to him. That one small moment had drawn its own line through the school, sharper than any curse.

Let them talk. Let them whisper.

He wasn’t going to look away.

He reached the common room late, the fire burned low, his reflection dancing faintly in the window. For a moment, he could almost see her through it — the dark gleam of her hair, the defiant tilt of her chin.

The world would keep testing them.
So be it.

Harry Potter had made his choice.

And for the first time in weeks, that choice didn’t feel like a burden — it felt like resolve.