Chapter 3
Two days later, the heat had broken.
The morning was still thick with summer, but a cool breeze threaded through the streets, stirring the litter along the curb, carrying the scent of warm bread and petrol.
Harry got to Clifton’s first this time.
He leaned against the wall outside, hands shoved deep into his pockets, eyes scanning the thin crowd. He’d barely slept the night before, the kind of restless, jittery excitement he usually only got before Quidditch matches.
It was stupid.
It was just Pansy.
But when he spotted her weaving through the crowd, black jeans and t-shirt again, Converse scuffing the pavement, something settled tight and warm in his chest.
She was tugging at the strap of her bag, face scrunched slightly in concentration like she'd gotten herself turned around again.
When her eyes landed on him, she immediately straightened, smoothing her shirt down unnecessarily and schooling her expression into something impassive.
Harry grinned despite himself and lifted a hand in greeting.
Pansy rolled her eyes but quickened her step, falling into place beside him.
"You’re early," she said, voice low but not unfriendly.
"You’re late," Harry countered easily.
Pansy shrugged one shoulder, a ghost of a smirk tugging at her mouth. "Fashionably."
They wandered into the shop again, ordering two teas this time and finding a small table by the window where the light made their glasses glow.
For a while, they talked about nothing—complaining about the heat, mocking the awful pop music piping in from the radio, exchanging dry commentary about the passing pedestrians.
It was easy.
Easier than it had any right to be.
At some point, Harry leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head, eyes bright with amusement.
And Pansy found herself blurting, before she could stop herself—
"So. Your little Gryffindor club."
Harry blinked, then laughed. "What about them?"
"You’re always with them," she said, stirring her straw in her drink.
"Granger. Weasley. Longbottom. And that redheaded girl." Her voice was casual. Too casual.
Harry tilted his head slightly, noticing her tone but not sure what to make of it.
"They're my friends," he said simply. "They’re... I dunno. They’re just always there. Like breathing."
Pansy hummed under her breath, expression unreadable.
"Ron’s... Ron," Harry said with a grin. "Loud. Loyal. Thick sometimes like me, but he'd throw himself in front of a Bludger for you without thinking twice."
Pansy traced the rim of her glass with one finger.
"And Hermione?"
Harry smiled—soft and real. "Brilliant. Bossy. Knows everything before you even finish asking."
Pansy’s jaw tightened imperceptibly.
Of course she was brilliant. Of course she was perfect.
"And Longbottom?" Pansy asked, voice sharper than she meant it to be.
Harry chuckled. "Neville’s great. Brave as hell. Just took him a while to believe it."
Pansy stared down into her butterbeer, feeling something sour coil low in her stomach.
It wasn’t fair, she thought bitterly.
Harry had people—people who loved him, who knew all his rough edges and still wanted to stay.
Meanwhile, she was a lone piece on a chessboard no one cared about moving.
And then there was Granger.
Pansy hated herself for it, but she couldn't stop picturing Hermione next to him—smart, pretty in that earnest way, good in a way Pansy knew she wasn't.
She took a careful sip of her drink, masking the storm brewing behind her eyes.
"And the Weasley girl?" she asked, too lightly.
Harry scratched the back of his neck, looking sheepish. "Ginny’s Ron’s sister. She's... cool. A bit scary, honestly."
Pansy allowed herself a thin, sly smile at that.
Good.
"Not dating anyone, are you?" she asked, feigning boredom, her eyes darting to the side.
Harry snorted. "Me? No. Who’d want to?"
There was something so honest in his voice, so genuinely baffled, that it cut through the tightness in her chest.
She didn't know what possessed her next.
Maybe it was fear.
Maybe it was the need to protect herself before she cared too much.
She leaned back in her chair, arms folding across her chest, voice lazy and dismissive.
"Plenty of silly girls would," she said. "Hero complex. Obsession with famous hair."
Harry laughed—really laughed—and the sound wrapped around her like sunlight.
He shook his head. "Not interested."
Pansy pretended she didn’t care.
Pretended she wasn’t cataloguing every casual word, every glance.
But something inside her steadied, like a bird settling its wings after a long, uncertain flight.
They spent another hour wandering through the streets, ducking into dusty shops and laughing over ridiculous trinkets.
Pansy let herself forget for a little while—forgot the masks, the expectations, the inevitable ending she always braced for.
Harry bought them ice creams without asking, handing her a cone with an easy smile like it was the most normal thing in the world.
They lingered in a park afterward, sitting on a low brick wall, trading stories and insults under the lazy roll of the afternoon clouds.
But as the sun began to dip lower, the edges of Pansy's mind frayed again—the familiar creeping fear whispering that this was borrowed time.
That he’d get tired of her.
That he'd remember she wasn't worth the effort.
She stiffened slightly, crossing her ankles, trying to reclaim her usual sharpness.
"You owe me again," she said coolly, brushing non-existent dust from her jeans.
Harry blinked. "Already?"
"Obviously," she said, lifting her chin. "You can’t just abandon me to my boring, miserable summer after one outing."
Harry studied her for a second longer than normal—something flickering behind his green eyes—but he only nodded.
"Alright," he said simply. "Name it."
Pansy faltered again, thrown by how easily he agreed.
By how real he was.
They walked back toward the train station, the streets quieter now, bathed in the soft amber of late evening.
When they reached the platform, Harry hovered near her, hands in his pockets, casual but present.
"You don’t have to wait," Pansy said again, almost reflexively, voice softer this time.
Harry shrugged, a small smile playing at his lips.
"It’s not a problem."
And he meant it.
Pansy stood there, heart thudding painfully, knowing she should leave before she said or did something stupid.
But—
She couldn't help herself.
She reached out and poked his arm lightly again, just two fingers pressing against the fabric of his t-shirt.
A small, confusing touch.
"You’re an idiot," she muttered under her breath. "Trusting witches you barely know."
Harry just grinned, a little bewildered, a little charmed.
"I’ll risk it," he said.
The train arrived with a low rumble.
Pansy hesitated one last heartbeat—then turned away, slipping onto the train without looking back.
Harry stood there until the last flash of her black hair disappeared from view.
That night, Harry lay in bed, arms folded behind his head, staring at the ceiling.
He didn’t understand everything that was happening between them.
Not yet.
But he knew this:
He wanted to see her again.
He wanted to make her laugh again.
And somewhere deep in his chest, something warm and stubborn bloomed and refused to let go.
Pansy curled up in bed, Harry’s easy smile burned into the backs of her eyelids.
Part of her screamed at herself for hoping, for caring.
Part of her wanted to claw the feeling out before it grew roots.
But despite it all—
Despite the self-loathing, despite the fear—
She drifted into sleep that night feeling something she hadn’t felt in a long, long time.
Hope.
Real, trembling, terrifying hope.
It rained two days later.
Not the wild, thundering storms Hogwarts was famous for, but a slow, steady drizzle that made the streets shine silver and left the air cool and heavy.
Harry waited outside Clifton’s again, the collar of his jacket flipped up against the mist, shifting from foot to foot.
He was nervous.
Not badly—not sick-in-his-stomach nervous.
Just... unsettled.
It was getting harder to pretend this was nothing.
Harder to pretend he didn’t care when Pansy ducked her head to hide a smile or let her fingers brush his sleeve when she thought he wouldn’t notice.
He caught sight of her crossing the street, her black jeans darkened slightly at the hems where they caught the wet, her Converse splashing through shallow puddles.
Pansy tugged the hood of her jacket lower as she neared, scowling up at the drizzling sky.
"Figures you'd pick the only day it’s miserable out," she muttered, but her voice lacked real venom.
Harry shrugged, flashing a grin.
"Miserable suits you."
The moment the words left his mouth, he knew he’d said the wrong thing.
Pansy stiffened.
It was subtle—just the slight tightening of her mouth, the way her arms folded tighter across her chest.
Harry’s stomach dropped.
"I meant—" he started, fumbling, but Pansy was already slipping past him, heading toward the small park around the corner.
He jogged after her, heart hammering.
She didn’t storm off dramatically or shout like Ron or Hermione might have.
She just moved faster, quieter, shoulders drawn tight, face blank.
By the time he caught up to her under a dripping oak tree, she was staring out across the empty playground, jaw clenched.
He hesitated, feeling the heaviness of the moment pressing down like the rain.
"Pansy," he said, voice careful. "I didn’t mean—"
"You don’t have to explain," she cut in, her voice brittle. "I know what people think."
Harry frowned. "I wasn’t trying to—"
"It’s fine," she said crisply, cutting him off again. She flicked a raindrop off her sleeve with sharp precision. "I know what I am."
Harry stared at her.
At the closed-off set of her shoulders.
At the way she hugged herself like she could keep the world at bay if she just squeezed hard enough.
And something in him cracked.
Without thinking, he stepped closer.
"You don’t," he said, voice steady. "You don’t know what I think."
Pansy glanced at him, quick and sharp, like she was preparing for a blow.
Harry didn’t move any closer.
He just stood there in the drizzle, his jacket soaking through, looking at her like she wasn’t some problem to fix or puzzle to solve.
"I was joking," he said, quieter now. "A bad one. I'm not... I'm not good at this."
Pansy’s throat worked as she swallowed hard.
She wanted to believe him.
More than anything, she wanted to believe he wasn't like everyone else—waiting for her to slip up, waiting for a reason to walk away.
The cold inside her—the old, familiar armor—wanted to shove him back, to laugh it off, to pretend she didn't care.
But the part of her that had smiled into a butterbeer glass two days ago—the part that had saved every letter he sent—
that part was winning.
Slowly, awkwardly, she shifted closer, until their shoulders brushed lightly.
The contact was feather-soft.
Accidental, almost.
But Harry didn’t flinch.
He didn’t move away.
He just let her stand there, close enough to feel the warmth of him through the mist, close enough to feel the tiny, dizzying pull between them.
They stayed like that for a long moment, the rain pattering softly against the leaves overhead.
Neither of them spoke.
There was nothing to say.
The silence wasn’t uncomfortable now.
It was heavy, sure—but full of something else, too.
Something steady.
Something safe.
Pansy closed her eyes briefly, letting herself feel it.
The way Harry stayed.
Not because he had to.
Not because she demanded it.
But because he wanted to.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, Pansy let herself believe that maybe—not today, not tomorrow, but someday—someone could see her sharpness, her broken edges, her heavy silences—
and stay anyway.
She tucked her hands into her pockets to hide their slight tremor and tilted her head toward him, letting a soft, wry breath escape.
"Still think miserable suits me?" she asked, voice low but lighter now, teasing at the edges.
Harry smiled sideways at her, rain glinting in his messy hair.
"Nah," he said. "You look better when you’re fighting."
Pansy’s chest gave a painful, traitorous flutter.
She huffed under her breath, nudging his shoulder lightly with hers in retaliation, and together they drifted toward the covered bus stop nearby, their steps syncing up without either of them meaning to.
The world stayed misty and grey around them.
But under that bus shelter, huddled together with damp sleeves brushing and laughter threatening to break through,
Pansy felt a tiny, stubborn piece of warmth flicker to life inside her—
and for once, she didn’t snuff it out.
They waited under the bus shelter, the steady tap-tap-tap of the rain filling the silence between them.
Pansy tugged lightly at the frayed edge of her jacket sleeve, stealing glances at Harry from under her lashes.
He was leaning back against the plexiglass wall, arms crossed, one foot propped casually against the opposite knee—completely at ease despite the wet, despite the awkward stumble they’d had earlier.
Pansy hated how much she noticed him now.
The way his hair refused to stay flat even in the damp.
The little crease between his brows when he was thinking.
The way his mouth tilted slightly when he was trying not to smile.
It wasn’t fair.
It wasn’t fair that he could see the mess she was and not seem bothered by it.
She scowled at her own thoughts and looked away, pretending to watch the traffic slosh by.
Harry, meanwhile, was fighting his own internal battle.
He liked being around her. More than he probably should.
Even when she was prickly. Even when she was impossible.
Maybe especially then.
He shifted, trying to shake off the weird weight sitting in his chest, and the sudden movement knocked his knee into hers.
Pansy jerked slightly, startled, then turned to glare at him, dark eyes narrowed.
"You trying to start a fight, Potter?" she muttered, one corner of her mouth twitching.
Harry grinned.
"I think I'd lose," he said easily.
Pansy huffed a laugh despite herself.
Without thinking, she gave his knee a small, firm nudge with her own.
Harry bumped hers back, grinning wider now, almost daring her.
Pansy bumped him again, a little harder.
They went back and forth for a few beats, knee knocking against knee under the pretense of irritation, but neither of them pulling away.
It was childish.
It was ridiculous.
But it cracked something open between them—
something bright and foolish and safe.
When Pansy finally stilled, letting her knee rest lightly against his for a moment longer than necessary, she found Harry looking at her.
Really looking.
Not laughing now.
Just... seeing her.
The rain blurred the world around them into soft greys and golds, but under the shelter, the space between them felt sharper, more vivid.
Pansy swallowed, her throat suddenly dry.
She was used to attention.
She was used to being judged, measured, dismissed.
But Harry’s gaze wasn’t like that.
It wasn’t pity.
It wasn’t curiosity.
It was... something steadier.
Something that made her feel seen in a way that terrified her and warmed her all at once.
She broke the stare first, ducking her head and pretending to fuss with her sleeve again.
Harry, sensing the shift but not pushing, just smiled quietly and leaned his shoulder lightly against hers.
Not a full press.
Not demanding.
Just... there.
Pansy went still for a breath.
Then, slowly, she let herself lean back, just enough that their shoulders stayed touching.
They stayed like that until the bus came, roaring up in a spray of mist and water.
Harry nudged her gently.
"Come on," he said, voice low and easy. "I'll ride with you a bit, if you want."
Pansy hesitated.
She should tell him no.
Should keep the walls up.
Should pretend she didn’t care.
But she just nodded, following him onto the bus without a word.
They sat side by side in the middle, the damp from their jackets making the cracked vinyl seats squeak slightly as they settled in.
As the bus rattled down the slick streets, Pansy let herself sneak a glance at him again.
Harry was staring out the window, one hand loosely curled on his knee, his whole presence radiating that steady, quiet warmth that made it so damn hard for her to remember why she was supposed to be guarded.
She thought of how easily he had forgiven her earlier.
How he didn’t pull away when she got sharp.
How he stayed.
Something inside her gave a small, painful lurch—
the kind of ache that came from wanting something too badly.
Without really thinking about it, Pansy let her hand drop from her lap—
until the backs of their fingers brushed lightly where they rested between them.
Harry glanced down.
And—after a second's pause—he shifted his hand, not grabbing hers, not twining their fingers together—
but letting his pinky hook lightly, barely there, against hers.
It was stupid.
It was small.
But Pansy felt the impact like a crack of sunlight through a long-closed window.
She let her hand stay there.
Quiet.
Still.
And Harry didn’t move away.
Outside, the rain kept falling, soft and endless.
Inside the bus, tucked between the world and each other, two broken, stubborn kids carved out a tiny, trembling corner of peace—
and neither of them dared breathe too hard, afraid it might vanish if they did.
The bus rattled on through the slick, gleaming streets, and the world beyond the rain-streaked windows blurred into watercolor smears of grey and green.
Inside, time seemed to slow.
Their shoulders stayed pressed together, a small point of contact anchoring them against the jostling bumps of the ride.
The backs of their fingers remained hooked by the barest touch—so slight it could have been explained away by accident, by gravity.
But it wasn’t.
The magic that lived deep inside them—quiet, wild, ever-present—buzzed faintly in the air between them, too subtle for the Muggles around them to notice.
Like static before a storm.
Like a spell half-whispered in the stillness.
Harry shifted slightly in his seat, the scent of rain-soaked cotton and something bright and sun-warmed rising off him. His hand stayed exactly where it was, his pinky brushing Pansy’s with that same maddening lightness, that same silent I’m still here.
Pansy stared down at her lap, pretending to study the worn seam of her jeans, but her heart thudded so loudly she was sure he could hear it.
The warmth of him at her side.
The steadiness of his breathing.
The simple, breathtaking fact that he wasn’t moving away.
It was almost too much.
When the bus jolted over a pothole, their hands bumped fully for a heartbeat before springing apart like startled birds.
Pansy snatched hers back into her lap.
Harry coughed, suddenly fascinated with the view out the window.
The moment was broken, but the air between them still thrummed, electric and breathless.
The bus rumbled to a stop near the outskirts of her neighborhood—a shabby, overgrown part of town where ivy clawed up brick walls and the streetlights buzzed with tired yellow light.
Pansy stood slowly, adjusting her bag over her shoulder, the dampness of her jacket brushing against his sleeve as she shifted.
Harry rose too, shoving his hands awkwardly into his pockets, as if anchoring himself against the sudden shift in gravity now that they were parting ways.
They stepped off the bus together into the misty, gold-lit evening.
For a long moment, they just stood there on the cracked sidewalk, the mist curling around them in lazy tendrils like smoke.
Pansy scuffed the toe of her trainer against a puddle, feeling the reluctance knotting up her throat. She wasn’t good at this part—this soft, uncertain middle ground where she wanted to say something but didn’t know how.
She could feel the old armor creeping back into place, the sharpness rising to her lips like a reflex.
"You don’t have to keep doing this, you know," she said lightly, without looking at him.
"The whole... waiting around. Playing nice."
The words were thrown like stones, meant to protect her, to build distance before he could.
Harry didn’t flinch.
He just tilted his head slightly, considering her the way he always did—like she wasn’t a problem to solve, but something rare and complicated worth figuring out.
"It’s not a chore," he said simply.
Pansy blinked, thrown off balance.
The mist coiled tighter around them, the low streetlights painting his face in soft, gold edges. He looked older like this somehow—less the boy the Prophet plastered on their front pages, more real, more solid.
More hers.
She opened her mouth, some sharp retort already forming, but Harry just smiled—a small, crooked thing—and before she could gather her defenses, he leaned down slightly and bumped his shoulder against hers.
Gentle.
Deliberate.
The way a boy might if he was saying I like you without having to say it at all.
Pansy's breath caught, her heart a stuttering mess behind her ribs.
"See you soon, Parkinson," Harry said, the faintest flicker of amusement warming his voice.
He stepped back toward the bus stop, hands deep in his pockets, his messy hair ruffling in the misty wind.
For a second, she just stood there, stunned, watching him go.
Then, without thinking, she called after him.
"Potter—"
He turned, looking back at her with that open, unguarded face.
Pansy hesitated—
felt her throat close up—
and instead of words, she flicked two fingers at him in a careless, mock-salute.
Nothing too much.
Nothing too obvious.
But Harry grinned like she’d given him something real.
Then the bus doors hissed open and he climbed aboard without looking back, disappearing into the rattling, mist-soaked evening.
Pansy stood there a while longer, the damp creeping into her clothes, the mist tangling in her hair.
The night around her was still grey and lonely and cold.
The house waiting for her was still empty.
But for the first time in a long, long time, she didn’t feel like she was walking back into the darkness alone.
Somewhere, tucked against her skin where no one could see it, Harry's quiet steadiness clung to her like a borrowed warmth—
and Pansy let herself carry it with her into the night.