Chapter 1
The sun was low, casting the castle grounds in long, slanting shadows as Harry made his way up the worn, winding stairs of the Owlery.
The air smelled of hay and dust and feathers, old and quiet in a way that made every footstep sound louder than it should. The parchment in his pocket felt heavier with every step.
Meet me at the Owlery.
No name.
No explanation.
But Harry knew exactly who had sent it.
He didn’t know how he knew. Maybe it was the handwriting—blocky, almost cautious, nothing like the loopy, confident scrawl most girls used. Maybe it was the time and place—strange, secretive, tucked away from the bustle of the end-of-term excitement.
Maybe it was something else entirely.
Something he'd been feeling without meaning to for a long time.
Pansy Parkinson.
He couldn’t remember the first time he realized she wasn’t what everyone thought she was. Maybe it was back on Platform 9¾, their very first year—how she had wrestled stubbornly with her trunk, cheeks pink with frustration, refusing to ask for help. He hadn’t known her name then. Just a girl with too-large robes and stiff posture, eyes darting nervously around the crowded station.
He had helped her without thinking.
She had stared at him for a second too long, something wary and startled flickering in her dark eyes, before muttering a hoarse, reluctant "thanks" and vanishing through the barrier.
Later, sorted into Slytherin, she hadn't acknowledged him. At least, not kindly. But the memory stuck with him—an odd, stubborn sort of softness buried under all her sharp edges.
Their paths kept crossing after that.
Charms class. Flitwick had paired them off for practice—an unlikely match that somehow stuck. Pansy had been efficient, quiet, ruthlessly precise. She corrected him when he was wrong, insulted him when he was right, and somehow, it worked.
There were the library sessions, too.
Quiet hours, pretending they weren’t studying together, exchanging dry comments under their breath while pretending they didn’t mind the other’s company.
To everyone else, Pansy Parkinson was sour, snobbish, cruel.
To Harry... she was something else.
Still sharp. Still cold at times. But there was a kind of honesty in her that Harry couldn’t find in most people. She didn’t flatter. She didn’t pretend. She didn’t care about anyone’s expectations, least of all his.
He liked that about her. Though he would never admit it out loud.
And maybe, just maybe, she didn’t quite hate him the way she pretended to, either.
He reached the top of the tower, the heavy wooden door creaking slightly as he pushed it open. The Owlery was dim, lit only by the last spill of sunlight creeping in through the open windows. Dozens of owls shifted and cooed from their perches high above, but otherwise, the place was empty.
Almost.
She was there.
Pansy stood near the ledge, her back to him, her dark robes stirring faintly in the breeze. She didn’t turn when he entered.
Her posture was rigid, arms folded tightly across her chest like armor.
The golden light caught in her hair, in the curve of her shoulder, and Harry felt a strange tightness in his chest—something he couldn’t quite name.
He hesitated in the doorway, the sounds of the castle fading behind him, replaced by the low rustle of feathers and the sigh of the wind through the open stone windows.
For a moment, he just watched her.
The girl no one really saw properly.
The girl he wasn’t supposed to see properly.
He stepped forward, quiet, almost tentative, the old wood creaking slightly beneath his trainers.
Still, she didn’t turn.
The parchment in his pocket crackled as he shifted his hand against it, the words whispering against his fingers.
Meet me at the Owlery.
He was here.
She was here.
And for the first time in what felt like a long time, Harry wasn’t sure what would happen next.
The stone beneath her palms was cold, but Pansy barely felt it.
She had been standing there for a while now, breathing in the heavy scent of owl feathers and old wood, watching the sky slowly bleed itself of color.
She wasn’t even sure why she had sent the note.
No—that was a lie.
She knew.
She just hated admitting it.
Pansy had spent her life building walls so high and so thick that sometimes even she forgot what was buried behind them. It was easier that way. Easier not to want things.
Easier not to be disappointed when the wanting turned to ash.
She had learned that early.
Her father—David Parkinson—had been a Muggleborn wizard from America.
A man with bright laughter, rough hands, and a wide, easy smile that she barely remembered now, like the lingering warmth of a hand long since lifted away.
He had loved her. She knew that, though the memories were faded, more feeling than fact.
He had been killed during the first war with Voldemort, before Pansy could even understand what death really meant. Before she could understand how the world could strip you of someone without warning, without mercy.
Her mother had never forgiven him for it.
Viola Parkinson had been born into one of the oldest pureblood families in England, raised with a silver spoon in one hand and a dagger in the other.
She had married David in a blaze of stubborn love—or rebellion. It hardly mattered now.
His death had stripped her of her standing, her friends, her future.
And in the wreckage, Viola had turned cold.
She never hit Pansy. Never raised her voice.
But she may as well have been made of ice.
There were no bedtime stories, no warm hands smoothing back her hair when nightmares woke her trembling. No laughter in their house. No forgiveness.
Just silence.
Expectation.
And disappointment.
Pansy had learned quickly: wanting affection was weak. Trusting people was dangerous.
Better to sneer first. Better to strike before they could see the cracks.
At Hogwarts, she counted the days until she could leave it all behind.
She wasn’t like the others in Slytherin, not really.
She didn’t believe in blood supremacy or tradition for tradition’s sake.
She just wanted out. Out of the cold house, out of the stifling expectations, out of a world where she was always somehow too much and never enough.
And yet.
Somewhere along the way, Harry Potter had slipped past her defenses.
Stupid boy.
It hadn’t been one thing.
It had been a dozen small ones.
Moments she never let herself linger on.
The way he had helped her with her trunk that first day, when no one else had even looked at her.
The way he didn’t laugh at her during Charms practice, even when she stumbled over the more complicated incantations.
The way he sat across from her in the library, shoulders tense but not unfriendly, offering quiet, unspoken companionship she didn’t know how to ask for.
He made her want things she had long since taught herself not to want.
And she hated him for it.
And, worse, she didn’t.
Pansy pressed her forehead lightly against the cool stone ledge, closing her eyes for a moment, breathing deep.
She had ruined it more times than she could count.
Every time Harry had gotten too close—every time he looked at her like he saw something worth knowing—she had pushed him away.
Mocked him.
Scoffed.
Pretended she didn’t care.
Better that than let herself hope for something that could be snatched away.
But after everything that had happened this year—after the Dementors, after Sirius Black, after Harry had saved a man’s life when everyone else had given up—Pansy couldn’t lie to herself anymore.
She didn’t want to spend the rest of her life pretending she didn’t care.
At least not with him.
The stone tower trembled slightly with a gust of wind.
Far below, the Black Lake shivered under the coming night.
Footsteps creaked on the stairs behind her, soft but steady.
Pansy straightened slowly, folding her arms across her chest like armor, staring out at the horizon as if it could shield her from what came next.
He was here.
She could feel it.
That reckless, maddening, stubborn warmth that was Harry Potter.
For one more heartbeat, she let herself stay hidden behind the safety of pretending she didn’t notice him.
She wasn't ready yet.
Not quite.
Harry shifted awkwardly near the doorway, shoving his hands into his pockets.
The air inside the Owlery felt heavier somehow, like the whole room was holding its breath.
Pansy didn’t turn around, not right away.
He opened his mouth, then closed it, feeling unusually off balance.
“So… you wanted to meet me?” he ventured, voice low.
For a moment, she said nothing.
Then, finally, she glanced over her shoulder, a flicker of amusement tugging at the corner of her mouth.
“You’re not very bright sometimes, Potter,” she said, the familiar dry sarcasm softening the tension like a knife blunted on purpose.
Harry scowled slightly, more relieved by the normalcy than insulted.
Still, he shifted his weight uneasily. “I guess I thought you were going to yell at me or… hex me.”
“No hexes.”
She turned fully now, arms still crossed, chin tilted slightly like she was sizing him up.
There was something different in her eyes, though.
Something thoughtful.
Harry resisted the urge to fidget under the weight of her stare.
“You’ve been acting strange,” Pansy said, voice crisp. “You and Granger. Even Weasley, a bit, though he’s thick enough no one notices.”
Harry tensed immediately.
She didn’t seem to notice—or maybe she did, and just didn’t care.
“At first I thought it was the Dementors, or Black, or all that usual Gryffindor drama you lot drag around like a badge.”
Pansy’s mouth twisted into something wry.
“But then I paid attention.”
Harry’s heart gave a low thud.
He said nothing.
“I noticed,” Pansy continued, her tone so casual it made Harry’s stomach knot. “After that night—when Black escaped. You and Granger disappeared. In the middle of everything.”
Harry opened his mouth to lie—to deflect—but the words tangled in his throat.
“And then," she said, dark eyes glinting, "suddenly Buckbeak’s gone. Black’s gone. Snape’s practically foaming at the mouth. And you’re standing there looking like you got away with murder."
Harry felt his stomach drop. Cold washed over him, colder than any Dementor had managed.
Pansy stepped closer, slow and deliberate.
"And funny thing..." she said, voice lower now, almost like she was musing aloud, "I saw you."
He stiffened. "What—?"
She rolled her eyes, short dark hair bouncing slightly. “Calm down. I'm not about to rat you out.”
Harry swallowed, throat dry.
"You were with Granger," she said. "And Black. On the hippogriff. I was up at the Astronomy Tower. Couldn't sleep."
Harry stared at her, stunned into silence.
“You’re not exactly subtle, you know,” she added with a faint, mocking tilt of her head. “Flying off into the bloody sunset like a fairy tale.”
Harry finally found his voice. “If you’re not going to tell, then why—?”
Pansy raised a hand, cutting him off, her mouth curving into a small, dangerous smirk.
"I just want something."
There was no malice in her voice. No threat.
Just a strange, deliberate calmness that made the hair on the back of Harry's neck prickle.
He tensed, instinctively bracing for the worst.
"You live near Little Whinging, don’t you?" she asked, voice deceptively light. "Privet Drive?"
Harry nodded stiffly, heart still hammering.
She shifted her weight, looking almost bored now, her arms dropping slightly from their defensive fold.
"First week of summer break," she said. "One day. That's all I want."
Harry blinked.
"One day?" he repeated, dumbly.
She tilted her head. "Spend one day with me. That’s the deal."
He stared at her, trying to understand.
No threats. No demands for favors or promises of gold or fame or anything he'd come to expect from Slytherins.
Just one day.
There was something strange about the way she said it.
Something almost... fragile.
The last remnants of tension bled out of him before he even realized he was nodding.
"Alright," he said quietly. "But you have to promise—"
"I won’t say anything," she said, almost before he finished. "Not to anyone."
He exhaled shakily, the world righting itself slightly.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
The golden light caught in the space between them, soft and strange and almost unreal.
Then, without warning, Pansy stepped closer.
Harry flinched, purely on instinct.
But she didn’t hit him.
She didn’t even insult him.
Instead, with a frown of concentration, she reached up and tugged at his tie, which had been hanging half-loose and crooked against his collar. Her fingers worked quickly, efficiently, straightening it into something neat and proper.
The whole thing took maybe five seconds.
It felt like forever.
"There," she said, smoothing the tie flat against his chest with a final, almost imperceptible brush of her fingertips.
Harry stood frozen, heart hammering in his ribs.
Pansy stepped back, expression unreadable.
"We have a deal, Potter," she said, voice cool again, but not unkind.
Then, without waiting for an answer, she turned and strode out of the Owlery, dark hair swinging against her shoulders, posture perfect with that strange, careless poise only she could manage.
Harry watched her go, too stunned to speak.
Somewhere deep inside, a part of him—the part that had always been cautious, always waiting for the next bad thing—felt slightly scared.
But another part—the part that remembered her hands fixing his tie, the quiet in her voice—
felt something else.
Something dangerously close to being impressed.
And for the first time in a long time, Harry wasn’t sure if he should be terrified...
or looking forward to it.
Harry didn’t move for a long time after Pansy disappeared down the stairwell.
The distant coo of owls filled the silence, broken only by the rush of the wind sneaking through the gaps in the stone.
He glanced down at his tie—straight, neat, tugged into place by her fingers—and felt his ears burn.
What the bloody hell had just happened?
He shook himself, finally pushing away from the ledge. His trainers scuffed softly against the floor as he made his way to the stairs, every step feeling strange, unsteady, like he was walking through a dream he hadn't agreed to.
By the time he reached the lower halls of the castle, the corridors were nearly empty. Most students were outside soaking up the last golden light of term, or tucked away inside with end-of-year celebrations and chatter.
Harry was glad for the quiet.
His mind raced, tripping over itself.
He should have been furious. Or panicked.
She knew—about Sirius, about Buckbeak, about everything.
And yet...
She hadn’t threatened him.
She hadn’t gloated or held it over his head like a proper Slytherin might.
She had just... asked for a day.
Harry shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, brow furrowing.
Why?
Pansy Parkinson had never seemed to want anything from him before. If anything, she'd gone out of her way to act like she despised him—snide comments, sharp looks, rolled eyes whenever he or Ron did something particularly Gryffindor.
But underneath all that, he'd always gotten the feeling that she didn’t really mean it.
Not entirely.
And now she had asked for a day with him.
Not his secrets.
Not his loyalty.
Not favors or promises.
Just a day.
It didn’t make sense.
Nothing about her ever really did.
He thought back to the way she had stood there, poised and composed and just a little too still, like she was daring him to say no.
The way her fingers had fixed his tie without a word.
It hadn't felt like blackmail, not exactly.
More like... a trade.
One that Harry had agreed to before he even realized he was doing it.
He rounded a corner, heading toward the common room, mind still buzzing.
One day.
The first week of summer.
He thought about the Dursleys—how miserable it always was at Privet Drive. How lonely. How much he hated those endless, empty days with no one who understood magic, who understood him.
And now Pansy Parkinson wanted one day.
A Slytherin.
A girl who knew his biggest secret—and yet hadn’t betrayed him.
Harry couldn’t tell if he was being incredibly stupid... or if he was about to stumble into something he didn’t even have a name for yet.
He exhaled through his nose, pushing the portrait hole open, barely noticing the Fat Lady’s grumble about muddy shoes.
Inside the common room, Ron and Hermione were arguing quietly over chess, the fire casting warm light across their faces.
For a moment, Harry just stood there, letting the familiar noise wash over him.
Tomorrow they would all be boarding the Hogwarts Express, heading back to their lives.
Back to the places that didn’t always feel like home.
And for the first time, Harry realized…
he wasn’t dreading the summer quite as much as usual.
Because somewhere out there—in the dry, quiet streets of Little Whinging—Pansy Parkinson was planning to collect on their deal.
And Harry wasn’t sure if he was scared...
or excited.
Maybe a bit of both.
He smiled faintly to himself, shook his head, and headed toward his friends—already feeling the small, strange pull of the summer ahead.
Pansy’s steps were measured as she descended the long stone stairwell of the Owlery, each footfall placed carefully, almost lazily, against the worn edges of the steps.
She kept her chin high, her back straight, her expression one of mild, aristocratic boredom—just another student taking an evening stroll, nothing more.
But inside?
Inside, she was glowing.
She wanted to laugh.
Proper, full-throated laughter—the kind that bubbled up from somewhere deep and rare.
The kind she hadn’t felt in years.
Harry Potter had agreed.
Just like that.
No haggling, no suspicion (well—not much suspicion), no attempts at noble resistance. He had agreed, almost eagerly, with that adorable flicker of fear and confusion in his too-green eyes.
Pansy turned a corner sharply, letting the folds of her robes swirl around her legs, her mouth twitching despite herself.
She felt like a cat who had not only cornered the canary—but had convinced it to build her a nest and sing her a lullaby while it was at it.
One day.
One entire day, on her terms.
No Slytherins watching, no pureblood expectations dragging at her ankles like chains. No icy disapproval waiting for her at home.
Just her.
And him.
It was madness, of course.
Completely reckless.
But Pansy had learned something important in her thirteen years of survival: sometimes, if you saw a crack in the world—a little fracture where the rules bent and the air shimmered with possibility—you took it.
Before anyone noticed.
Before the world could slam it shut again.
Harry Potter was a crack in the world.
A rare, brilliant flaw in the careful, cruel architecture of her life.
She would have this.
Just this one thing.
Even if she had to blackmail him—nicely—to get it.
Pansy allowed herself a small, private smile as she slipped through the shadowed halls.
The stone walls, the flickering torches, the smell of dust and wax—all of it felt sharper, more vivid, like she was seeing the castle through new eyes.
Tomorrow she would play the part she always did—aloof, sarcastic, untouchable.
Tomorrow she would wear her Slytherin mask again.
But tonight?
Tonight she had won something no one else even knew she wanted.
And no one—no one—was going to take it from her.
Her fingers brushed against her skirt absently, feeling the phantom texture of Harry’s tie between them—the way he’d frozen when she straightened it.
The slight flush that had crept up the back of his neck.
The stunned look he hadn’t been able to hide.
Pansy smiled wider, teeth flashing briefly in the dark.
She couldn’t wait to see what else she could do when the rules weren’t watching.
The next morning broke with the usual bittersweet rush of end-of-term chaos.
Trunks were dragged, owls screeched indignantly, and students hurried through the stone corridors with the frantic, disbelieving energy of those not quite ready to leave but desperate to get home all the same.
Harry moved through it all like a ghost.
A strange sort of anticipation buzzed under his skin, sharp and private, making everything else feel muted.
The ride to the station, the hasty loading of luggage, the scramble onto the Hogwarts Express—it all blurred together, distant and half-formed.
He barely even noticed when Ron and Hermione snagged an empty compartment and started bickering over Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans like nothing had changed.
But Harry had changed.
Or at least—something had shifted.
As the train lurched forward and the castle slipped out of view, he found himself glancing down the corridor, heart thudding harder than it should.
And sure enough—
There she was.
Pansy.
She stood a little ways down, framed by the open door of her compartment, talking quietly with Daphne Greengrass and Millicent Bulstrode.
Her posture was loose, casual. One hand tucked into her pocket, the other brushing her short dark hair back from her face in a careless gesture.
But her eyes—
Her eyes flicked to him the moment she felt his gaze.
Not an accident.
Not a mistake.
She caught his look, held it, let a tiny, knowing smirk tilt her mouth.
Not cruel. Not mocking.
Just sure.
Harry snapped his gaze away too fast, pretending to listen to Ron’s rambling story about wizard chess strategies.
His ears burned.
He heard soft laughter from down the corridor—Daphne, probably—and when he risked a second glance, Pansy had already turned back to her friends, like nothing had happened.
But Harry knew better now.
He knew what that glance meant.
A promise.
A reminder.
One day.
The thought made his stomach flip in a way that had nothing to do with the rocking of the train.
He spent the rest of the ride pretending everything was normal.
Laughing when Ron expected him to laugh. Offering Hermione polite nods when she asked about his summer plans.
But inside, he wasn’t thinking about Dudley’s endless whining, or Mrs. Dursley’s pecking, or Uncle Vernon’s lectures.
He was thinking about her.
And wondering—half-dreading, half-hoping—what exactly Pansy Parkinson had planned for him.
As the train sped toward London, carrying them all back to their separate lives, Harry leaned his forehead briefly against the cool glass of the window.
He felt the ghost of her fingers at his tie.
The brush of her eyes finding his across a crowded corridor.
He closed his eyes, heart thudding quietly to the rhythm of the wheels clattering on the tracks.
One day.