Chapter 4
The sky was soft and grey when Harry arrived at their usual meeting spot, the heavy clouds pressing low over the rooftops.
The air smelled faintly of rain, but none had fallen yet—a restless kind of stillness before a storm.
He stood by the crooked iron gate outside Clifton’s, hands shoved into his pockets, rocking slightly on his heels as he watched for her.
He was leaving for the Burrow tomorrow.
The thought made something in his chest twist sharply—something he didn’t have a name for yet.
She appeared from the alleyway across the street, moving fast, her bag slung over one shoulder, hood pushed back so the damp air could tug at her short dark hair.
Harry smiled instinctively when he saw her—
but Pansy didn't smile back.
She walked up to him, eyes darting over his face like she was memorizing it against her will, then glanced away just as quickly, pulling the strap of her bag higher on her shoulder.
"You're early," she said, voice low and flat.
"You’re late," Harry answered out of habit, grinning a little.
But this time, she didn’t roll her eyes.
She didn’t smirk.
She just shrugged, looking off down the street like she wished she were anywhere else.
Harry's smile faltered.
The easy rhythm they'd built over the summer—the teasing, the small accidental touches, the unspoken understanding—felt strained now, stretched thin under the weight of something neither of them wanted to say aloud.
He opened the gate for her without a word and fell into step beside her as they started walking toward the little market square.
Pansy kept a slight distance between them today.
Not much.
But enough that Harry noticed the absence of her sleeve brushing his.
He kept glancing at her, trying to read the tense line of her jaw, the way she bit the inside of her cheek.
She was angry.
Or upset.
Or both.
And Harry had no idea what he'd done wrong.
They wandered aimlessly past the open-air flower stalls, the vendors calling out half-heartedly under bright umbrellas.
The scent of wet earth and crushed petals hung in the air.
Pansy paused at one of the stands, pretending to study the wilting snapdragons.
Harry stopped a few steps away, waiting.
Finally, she spoke, voice too casual.
"So. Off to the Weasleys, then?"
Harry blinked. "Yeah. Tomorrow."
He caught the way her fingers tightened around the strap of her bag.
"You’ll have loads of fun," she said, her mouth twisting. "Big family dinners. Chudley Cannons posters. Endless rounds of 'isn’t Harry Potter wonderful' conversations."
The bitterness in her voice startled him.
"I like them," Harry said defensively. "They’re good people."
"I’m sure they are," Pansy snapped, yanking her gaze back to the flowers.
"They’re perfect."
Harry stared at her, confused and a little hurt.
"Pansy," he said carefully, stepping closer. "What’s going on?"
She didn’t answer immediately.
Just shook her head, blinking hard at the cheap bouquets like they held all the answers she didn’t know how to give.
Pansy knew she was being unfair.
She knew this wasn’t his fault.
But the thought of him—smiling with the Weasleys, eating homemade pies with Mrs. Weasley fussing over him, laughing with Hermione in the Burrow’s sun-drenched kitchen—
while she was stuck in the hollow emptiness of her mother’s abandoned house—
It made something sharp and wild rise up in her chest.
He’d leave.
And he wouldn’t need her anymore.
Maybe he never had.
Her fingers itched to push him away before he could leave first—before she could be left clinging to something that had never been hers.
Possessiveness, jealousy, bitterness—they tangled inside her like thorny vines.
She pressed her lips together, breathing carefully through her nose.
"You’ll forget," she said finally, voice soft and cutting.
"You’ll forget all of this."
Harry flinched like she'd slapped him.
He stepped fully into her space now, close enough that the rain-damp air between them turned electric.
"I won’t," he said fiercely. "I couldn’t."
Pansy stared at him, hating how much she wanted to believe him.
The world around them blurred—the scent of rain, the hum of magic thrumming under their skin, the grey swirl of the market square—and all she could see was him.
Harry.
Real and stubborn and standing in front of her like she mattered.
She dropped her gaze, watching a single raindrop slip off the edge of a flower petal and shatter against the pavement.
"I’m not... I’m not good at this," she muttered.
Harry smiled crookedly.
"Neither am I."
A heavy silence settled between them, but it wasn’t the brittle, sharp-edged thing it had been before.
It was softer now. Sadder.
But full of all the things neither of them could say.
Without thinking, Harry reached out and brushed his knuckles lightly against the back of her hand.
Pansy froze—startled—but didn’t pull away.
Their fingers brushed.
Slow. Careful.
The magic between them crackled faintly, like a distant summer storm.
Pansy breathed in, the cool, damp air burning in her chest, and let herself look up into his face.
The boy she’d spent her whole life warning herself against.
The boy who, somehow, had found all the broken pieces of her and decided to stay anyway.
For a long moment, they just stood there, two stubborn hearts trying to memorize the shape of each other before it was too late.
Pansy wanted to say something.
Anything.
But the words caught like thorns in her throat.
Instead, she took a small, reluctant step closer, bumping her shoulder against his in a quiet, clumsy truce.
Harry smiled at her—small, soft, real—and the rain finally began to fall, slow and gentle, washing the rest of the world away.
For the first part of their day, they walked through the misty market square, close enough for their hands to brush now and again, both pretending not to notice.
Both pretending that this, whatever it was, wasn’t fragile and terrifying and everything all at once.
And maybe, for now, pretending was enough.
The rain thickened around them, soft and steady, turning the pavement dark and gleaming.
Pansy pulled her hood up halfway, strands of her damp hair clinging to her temples.
She still hadn't said much, but the sharpness in her shoulders had eased, the way it always did when Harry didn’t push her—when he just stayed.
They wandered through the narrow back streets, cutting between shuttered bookshops and the misty edges of the market, neither willing to say it was time to go.
Pansy tried to memorize the details she’d never dare admit she noticed—
the way Harry’s hands always fidgeted slightly when he was thinking,
the way he huffed out a laugh through his nose when he was trying not to smile too wide.
Her chest ached.
It was stupid. It was reckless. It was dangerous.
And she wouldn’t trade it for anything.
They paused under the awning of a tiny bakery, the scent of yeast and cinnamon warm and heavy around them.
Harry shifted, brushing a hand through his messy hair, looking at her like he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure how.
Pansy crossed her arms, half-daring, half-dreading whatever came next.
And then—
Harry leaned in.
Not fast.
Not clumsy.
Just a slow, shy tilt forward, giving her all the time in the world to stop him.
Pansy didn’t move.
She felt the soft, nervous brush of his mouth against hers—tentative, careful, sweet—and her heart gave a traitorous lurch so fierce she thought she might actually break apart.
It wasn’t a grand kiss.
No sweeping passion, no fireworks.
Just the quiet, impossible magic of a boy choosing her, again and again, in all the small ways that mattered.
When he pulled back, cheeks flushed, Harry looked at her with a kind of open hope that made her throat close tight.
Pansy stared at him, wide-eyed, her brain caught between screaming and soaring.
Harry, still awkward, still brave, scratched the back of his neck and muttered, “Of course I fancy you.”
The words hit her harder than the kiss.
Pansy blinked once.
Twice.
Then she narrowed her eyes dangerously, stepping into his space until their toes almost touched.
"You'd better mean that, Potter," she said, voice low and sharp and shaking slightly.
Harry grinned—lopsided and unafraid.
"I do," he said. "I mean it."
The rain blurred everything around them—the windows, the street, the whole dizzy spinning world—but Harry was still there, solid and real and hers.
Pansy studied him for a long, suspicious moment.
And then, despite herself, despite every broken piece inside her that still warned her not to hope—
she smiled.
A real one.
Small. Crooked. Fierce.
She poked him lightly in the chest with two fingers, just like she had that first day, the way she always did when words failed her.
"You’re an idiot," she said fondly.
Harry laughed, catching her hand lightly, curling his fingers around hers in a loose, easy grip.
"Yeah," he said, voice warm. "But I'm your idiot."
Pansy rolled her eyes, but the flush blooming across her cheeks betrayed her.
Together, they stepped back into the drizzle, shoulders brushing, fingers tangling quietly between them.
The city spun on.
The summer would end.
They would be pulled in different directions, into battles they hadn't even imagined yet.
But for now—
For now there was only this:
A boy with a lightning scar and a messy heart.
A girl with dark eyes and a thousand defenses.
And the small, stubborn beginning of something neither of them dared to name—
but both of them, finally, dared to trust.
The first letter arrived three days after Harry reached the Burrow.
He had just come back from helping Ron de-gnome the garden—mud-splattered, sweaty, and half-convinced he was dying—when a sharp rap at the window startled him.
He stumbled over a basket of gnome repellant and flung the latch open.
A sleek, dark brown owl waited, rain flecked across its feathers, a small scroll tied neatly to its leg.
Harry grinned immediately.
He untied the letter, fingers clumsy in his excitement, and unrolled the parchment.
The handwriting was sharp, almost spiky.
Undeniably hers.
Potter —
Don’t get used to all the sunshine and pie.
Your brain will melt if you spend too long with the Weasleys.
Read a book. Or better yet, read two. You’re falling behind.
(Also. I hate you slightly less today. Try not to ruin it.)
— Pansy
Harry barked a laugh, startling Ron, who stuck his head into the room with a suspicious look.
"Letter," Harry said simply, folding it up and tucking it into his pocket like it was something precious.
He grabbed a scrap of parchment from the bedside table and scribbled back in quick, messy lines.
Pansy —
I’ll have you know I’m doing plenty of reading.
I just finished ‘The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4.’ That counts, right?
(Also. I definitely intend to ruin it. Seems like a worthy challenge.)
— Harry
He sent it back with Errol—the Weasley’s ancient owl—who barely made it out the window with a low, struggling hoot.
Over the next week, the letters came steadily.
Sometimes short, sometimes rambling.
Pansy’s always laced with sarcasm and dry observations about how horribly he was probably embarrassing himself in polite company.
Harry’s full of messy jokes and earnest, clumsy warmth that she pretended to find exasperating but read twice anyway before stuffing the letters under her pillow.
Each scroll felt like a bridge.
A way to close the gap between the sunlit Burrow and the hollowed manor she still called home.
A way to remind each other—without needing to say it aloud—that neither of them was quite so alone anymore.
One night, as the rain drummed gently against the windows and the Burrow’s warm light spilled into the dark garden, Harry tucked himself under the blankets and re-read one of her letters for the third time.
At the bottom, in smaller handwriting, almost like an afterthought, she’d added:
(You owe me a date next Summer.)
Harry smiled into the dark, the words burning warm and steady in his chest.
He didn’t know what the future would bring.
But he knew this:
He would fight every damn thing the world threw at him if it meant making his way back to her.
Every single time.