Pansy is as much a planner as Hermione; a trait nobody else in their circle of friends seems to have.
It’s part of the reason they are rather good friends themselves—amongst their shared love of house plants and Charms, both women had been the sole reason their respective trio’s had survived during school.
Simply put, they are Planners.
At this point it isn’t even a trait—it is something embedded into them, a phantom string weaving through their muscles that bleeds into everything they do. Hermione understands it better than most. Knows it the way only other Planners could.
Their friends on the other hand are a culmination of what Pansy has aptly dubbed Wrenches and Spurs. These kinds of people have a certain…aloofness about them. Not quite carefree, but not whimsical either. They ebb and flow with routines, predictably unpredictable with too much time on their hands. They always have something happen, in the way that becomes more ridiculous each time they arrive late or out of breath, eyes wild and a reason (read: terrible excuse) on their lips.
Yet despite all of this, Pansy has somehow found herself in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place, staring at the biggest Wrench she has ever known.
He even has that dumbstruck look on his face that she has often seen over the years.
She hates it. Hates this. Hates being here. Knows that it’s pointless. She’s already plotting her revenge on Draco for not only telling her such an obvious lie but allowing her to believe it, especially when she was clearly distressed. But Pansy is at her wits end, and although she knows the answer, she has to try.
“Can you make a pavlova?”
Potter raises his eyebrows. “And hello to you too, Pansy.”
Even though she has technically arrived in his kitchen without invitation or warning, Pansy still gives an exasperated sigh. “Yes, yes, hello Potter.” She drops into a nearby chair and crosses one knee over the other. “Isn’t the weather lovely?”
“Divine.” Potter follows suit but settles against the island counter, a good few paces from Pansy. “Remind me, when did I give you access to my Floo?”
“Never, I used Draco’s,” she eyes him warily, “So can you?”
“Can I what?”
She tries to keep her calm, tries to focus on possibility and not the probability that she was just delaying the inevitable, but it proves difficult when Potter refuses to answer the bloody question.
“Potter, I don’t have the time for this.”
He snorts. “Or the manners.”
She doesn’t take the bait and levels him with a flat look she often gave Blaise, Draco and Theo in their youth, and frankly, in adulthood as well.
“Can you make a pavlova or not?”
Years spent moving through the nine circles of Hell that was pureblood high society resulted in Pansy developing the keen and innate ability to know when she was being watched. She didn’t have to look at Potter to know he was doing just that—she could feel the sharp pinprick of his gaze lift the hairs on the nape of her neck, feel the weight as he assesses her.
But she is looking at him, and he is dissecting her. It is blatant and obtuse, but at least he does it to her face.
It doesn’t take long for him to find whatever he was looking for, and promptly pushes off the doorframe. Just when Pansy thinks he’s going to answer her, he defers again. “What makes you think I’d know how?”
It’s detestable how eager she is for an answer, but Morgana be damned if Potter’s inability to answer a simple question will get in the way of her making certain she doesn’t disappoint Hermione on Christmas, of all days.
“Draco mentioned it.”
“Did he now?” He keeps his focus on her hands, to which she takes the hint and promptly stops tapping her fingers, and he finally looks up, “Didn’t realise it had such an impact on him.”
“Potter.”
“Pansy.”
“Can you, or can’t you?”
“I can.”
The cortisol that has been coursing through her the last three days diminishes at his words. Waves of dopamine rise to meet her as plans begin to formulate in her mind, and although her posture remains rigid—how pleased her mother would be to know that the galleons on etiquette training still paid off—it is hard to not notice the tension unspooling in her shoulders.
"Excellent.” She flicks her wrist and her coat comes flying, “I assume you have a recipe, so if you could write it down—” She’s halfway through shrugging her coat back on when she pauses, her own mind furiously mapping out the rest of the night. Gleaning her wristwatch, Pansy’s brow furrows and readjusts the new plan accordingly. “Actually, if you want to go fetch the ingredients, I can pop back home and get the house set up. It should only take thirty minutes and we’ll be ready to start.”
"That’s a pretty tight schedule." Potter muses.
She rolls her eyes and adjusts the collar of her coat, “We don’t have a lot of time, Potter.”
“You don’t have a lot of time.”
Very slowly, with time she cannot afford to waste, she turns back around.
Potter hasn’t moved, hasn’t even uncrossed his ankles or straightened his spine. In true Wrench fashion, he remains just as lax, just as unbothered and without a hurry or care in the world.
“Pardon?”
He has the audacity to give her a pointed look and says, “I can make a pavlova Pansy, doesn’t mean that I will.”
“Are you being serious?” Even Pansy can’t quite register the disbelief in her tone.
“I don’t recall you actually asking.” The green of his eyes glint with humour but his tone remains serious. “Bit of a habit of yours, isn’t it?”
Pansy stiffens.
Potter remains entirely unaware he has struck a nerve until she pivots on her heel, storms out of the kitchen and heads straight for the Floo.
It’s her own fault and his fault too; for making a fool of herself and him for allowing it. He could have just said no, could have turned her away or cursed her out for being in his kitchen, anything other than dangling her last scrap of hope to make Hermione proud, to not let her down.
She is already at the grate with a fistful of Floo powder when he speaks again, “It keeps cracking doesn’t it?”
Her spine straightens immediately.
Hermione would give one singular look at the sad lump of Pansy’s pavlova and accept it with a polite smile, the one that doesn’t reach her eyes. And unfortunately, Pansy can’t really live with that reality. She won’t.
She tips her head back with a frustrated sigh.
With a backwards glance she meets his gaze. “What do I have to do?”
Potter grins.
Despite the warming charms, Pansy still folds her arms over to reserve her body heat as Grimmauld Place slides into existence.
After yesterday, Potter insisted on locking her out of his Floo network entirely, blathering on about ‘boundaries’ and ‘respecting others’, which she found to be rather hypocritical considering how often he had stepped out of Hermione’s fireplace whilst the two women were enjoying a thoughtful and lovely cup of tea.
“Wrench,” Pansy mutters absentmindedly, and heads up the cobblestone path.
Stopping at the door, she pulls one hand from the crook of an elbow to rap her knuckles on the door twice. She taps her foot for thirty seconds and knocks again, a little harder this time with an annoyed huff. Just as her knuckles brush the door does it swing open to a deeply amused Potter.
He was in one of those forsaken, gaudy sweaters from the Weasley Matriarch, the ones that many in their overlapping circle of friends start wearing around this time of year. Today’s sweater is a deep aubergine with a golden H embroidered on the front.
Potter arches an eyebrow, “Lovely weather.”
She gives him a flat look.
He says no more and steps to the side with a sweep of his arm to which she promptlyhurries in, soaking in the warmth of his hallway. Although certain he snickers, Pansy decides to be the bigger person and ignores it completely.
As she starts unbuttoning her coat, she soaks in her surroundings.
Every Pureblood knew of House Black; a cautionary tale that all should beware lest their house fall next. Pansy had only been here a handful of times, never beyond the lounge or kitchen, so it was only natural for her eyes to roam over the hallway, past the faded patches of wallpaper where portraits once stood, all the way into the towering rafters dotted with stars and back down again.
There is no surprise that a set of emerald eyes are on her.
“No, please, don’t stop on my account.” Potter deadpans.
As he turns to close the front door, Pansy gives him a generous eye roll “Shall we?”
She heads straight down the hall, not bothering to wait for the Boy Who Loitered, and pushes the kitchen door wide open.
“I assume—
Something wraps around her bicep, halting her in her tracks. “Not so fast.”
The Gryffindors were a rather touchy bunch. Pansy had been witness to it in more recent years, and although she wasn’t opposed to a hug from Hermione or a shoulder punch from Seamus (to which she would deliver back at a strength that had him wincing), rarely had anyone believe they had the kind of relationship to do anything so…casual.
A kind of relationship that she absolutely, resolutely would never have with Potter.
Yet, here he is with his palm wrapped around her arm, grip loose but filled with a silent promise of strength she has never seen him use. The warmth of his palm radiates straight through the cashmere sleeve, pricking her skin. Pansy doesn’t wrench herself free, not because of the above, but because she wasn’t the kind of woman to back down, be thrown off or lose.
Her eyes drift over the strange smattering of scars along the back of his hand before looking back up. “Must you man-handle me?”
“Only when you’re about to take charge.”
Her nose crinkles in distaste.
“Typical that you would be terrified of a woman in charge.”
Potter scoffs. “Hardly.” He releases her bicep and leans back. “I just don’t want you turning my kitchen into a crime scene.”
She takes a deep breath through her nose. For Hermione.
“So what are we doing then?”
Potter settles against the island with a thoughtful expression. “You want to learn how to make this?”
“Yes.”
He folds his arms over the golden H. “No matter what?”
“Obviously.”
“You mean it?”
Pansy is already superseding her record for exasperated sighs in one conversation. “Potter–”
“Do you mean it?”
She blinks, slightly taken aback by the seriousness in his tone. Since she has known him—properly known that is—he’s been very, well, relaxed. It made it easy to forget all the things he had done to maybe unlearn the relaxation.
“I do.” She clears her throat and stands firm. “I mean it.”
His eyes trail over her face.
“Alright.”
And with a flick of his hand, what Pansy had thought was a decorative taxidermied animal of some kind—one of the muggle ones from the zoo she had seen last year—flings open beside her. She doesn’t startle, doesn’t flinch or jump. She simply drops her gaze only to realise that it was no animal corpse, but a chest.
Curiosity piqued, her body starts veering forward only to be thrown off when Potter slinks into the space between the table and Pansy, and the expanse of his chest brushes her shoulder.
She glares at his now turned back, hoping it might pierce through the sweater and evoke what little self-preservation instincts he has so that he might stop invading her personal space. Potter drops to crouch in front of the chest and begins rummaging through She is curious, and impatient, and she can wait out many things, but Potter’s lack of explanations is not one of them. “What are you doing?”
“Finding a fuck to give,” he responds dryly.
“Any luck?”
“All out.”
Pansy snorts and before there can be a lull of silence, Potter’s muffled voice cuts through, “Just because I can make a pav doesn’t mean I’ll be doing all the work.”
“Figures.”
He tips further into the chest until the back of his sweater rises and reveals the sleek black band of his underwear peeking above faded jeans, and just above it, a stripe of warm, brown flesh. Pansy, who has never thought of Potter often, let alone his underwear, is suddenly faced with him being a man. A man who wears black underwear. She promptly shuts the thought down and clears her throat. “So what will you be doing then?”
“Not will, but what.”
Her ire returns with ease, underwear already forgotten. “Potter, do quit talking in riddles, it doesn't make you sound as clever as you think.”
He continues rummaging for a good ten seconds before halting. Just as Pansy tips forward to catch a glimpse of whatever he has found, the madman straightens up, whips around, and throws something directly at her.
She manages to catch it before it can hit her square in the stomach, the power of it leaving her stunned.
Pansy narrows her gaze and gives him a well-earned glare. He remains entirely unphased. In fact, he looks rather impressed by her reflexes.
“Potter—” She keeps the confusion out of her tone and fills it with derision because she’ll be damned if for one second that Potter might think he has one over her. “—is there a reason you’ve handed me a quaffle?”
When she looks back up, Potter has that maniacal glint in his eye.
“Training.”
There is something incredibly off-putting about this version of Potter—at least she tells herself that, because she isn’t quite prepared to deal with the reality of him with this kind of confidence and assurance.
The world might combust if she does.
“I’m starting to think you had too many bludgers to the head,” she says, and tosses the quaffle back to him.
He catches it with a raised eyebrow. “Not from dying, then coming back to life?”
“That too.”
He huffs a laugh and throws. “Believe it or not—”
“I don’t.” She tosses it back.
He catches with one hand. “—this is critical to making a pav.”
Pansy tries not to roll her eyes, she really does, but there is no way that he can’t hear himself. She asks, just in case he really has taken too many hits to the head.
“You do realise how insane that statement is?”
He shrugs his shoulders and spins the quaffle between his palms. “No more insane than me finding you in my kitchen last night.”
An affronted huff works its way up her throat, but then she remembers why she was here in the first place. She concedes with a tilt of her head and opens her palms. “Fair point.”
“As I was saying—” Another throw. “—this will help you make a pav.”
“Sure it will.”
He gives a short tsk, “Such contempt.”
“As opposed to your delirium?”
“Sticks and stones.”
“What?”
Undeterred by her bewilderment, Potter continues. “Making a pav takes time, and patience—” She bristles at his pointed look, “—it’s something that requires dedication, and it definitely is not done with magic.”
“Potter, it’s just food.”
“And that right there is why your pav’s are shit.”
Pansy clicks her tongue in disapproval but says nothing else before throwing the ball back to him.
They quickly fall into a rhythm, a graceful to and fro until everything falls away to the rhythmic thuds. Even Potter’s garish sweater is fading into the background of this strange game he has lured her into, until it is just him, her and the quaffle. And Pansy will never admit it, but it feels…natural.
He takes a step back and without really thinking, she follows. Soon they are drifting around the kitchen island in a slow circle, moving like magnets to the metronome of the quaffle.
“You’re not half bad.”
Pansy smirks. “Careful Potter, that was almost a compliment.”
“Ever considered playing Quidditch?”
At this her focus splits, because surely he must be joking. But Pansy sees that the sincerity of his tone matches the look in his eyes, and cannot believe it. A small chortle slips from her lips. His scar creases, confusion morphing his features, and she can’t resist the tug at the corner of her lips.
“You really do have terrible eyesight.”
This seems to rankle him, and suddenly the day is looking up, because it may not be for long and the scales of their fraught truce is at risk of being upended completely, but finally she has one up on Harry Potter.
“Come on Potter, it can’t be taking you this long, surely.”
The metronome continues, the pace only beginning to falter when there is a glint in his green eyes before they narrow.
“You.”
“Me.”
“You were Slytherin’s Chaser?”
She shrugs with faux indifference. “For a bit.”
There's a flash of the smile beneath his beard, eyes low and attention on the quaffle in his hands. When he looks back up, Pansy’s stomach drops.
Fuck.
She knows that look. Had seen it often at Hogwarts.
It was the face of raw and unadulterated determination, the kind that knew no bounds and would never rest.
He tosses the quaffle back to her.
“I think you’re ready for the next step.”
Five days.
Five whole days since Pansy had relented all reason and asked Potter for help. Five days of her swallowing her pride and following every instruction Potter would give, no matter how barmy or bizarre, she would do it, because at some point, they would actually get to the point. Five days of Potter’s constant and ever-watchful eyes and his stupid grin and his stupid sweaters. Five days of being fucked around with quidditch drills and pointless tasks, no magic, no wand and no pav in sight.
But then today happens.
Seeing the familiar ingredients that have been haunting her this last year, Pansy allowed a sliver of optimism in. She should have known there would be a caveat; a stupid, idiotic catch that only Potter could conjure up.
She’s still staring incredulously at Potter, trying to process what he has just said.
It still hasn’t settled in when the words spill out of her.
“You want me to watch?”
“Want and need are two very different things.”
Her eye twitches. “Are you fucking with me?”
Potter, the absolute Wrench, has the audacity to chuckle at her anger. “You’d know if I was fucking with you, trust me.”
“Why in the Four Founders should I trust you!? I’ve spent the last five days doing quidditch drills.” Pansy is already stalking towards him. “Quidditch drills! For making a pav! And then you keep calling me that stupid fucking name—”
“Padawan is very funny actually—”
“I don’t care if it’s funny!” Her voice carries through the house, “I don’t care about the values or tenets or whatever I’m meant to be learning!” Pansy is right in his face, manicured nail pushing into the sternum and straight towards his heart. “I care about not ruining Christmas for Hermione! Something I thought we might actually have in common!”
This seems to strike a nerve in the idiot, his gaze sharpening and face tightening. “You think I’m trying to ruin Hermione’s Christmas?”
“I think whatever scheme you are cooking up—don’t you dare—and enacting on with me here will result in it, yes!”
Fury courses through her, boiling her blood until she can feel her face grow hot and magic crackle on the tip of her tongue, the bitter tang of burnt sugar curling on her taste buds. Being this close to him allows certain things in, like that his eyes aren’t emerald but forest green, the exact shade of the gem in the family ring dangling around her neck and the rug in her lounge at home. That the scar cuts a notch into his left eyebrow, something obscured by his spectacles from afar, and there, on the right cheekbone where the edges of beard began to fade, is a beauty spot.
Neither of them speak for a moment, chests brushing against each other with each laboured breath of rage. The longer Pansy stares, the more certain she is that his scar really is crackling with magic too, a faint glimmer passing through it as though it really were made of lightning.
Being this close meant she can see the emotions flicker across his features, ones that she no doubt mirrors.
Wrench.
“I told you to watch.”
She tilts her head back and throws her hands up in exasperation. “It’s the same thing!”
“If you weren’t so busy with your tantrum, you might actually realise this benefits you.”
Her hands settle on the edge of the island, tampering down the urge to choke him at tenfold, to shake him until she hits whatever switch has flipped him back to what it was before all this. Flexing her fingers, she drops her chin and closes her eyes before taking a deep breath. On the exhale, she reminds herself of just who exactly she had grown up with, that she had to deal with not just one rich pureblood teen boy, but three, and if she could do that for seven years, she could do this.
She will do this.
“Okay Potter, how will this benefit me?”
He takes her white flag without hesitation.
“You haven’t been able to make a pavlova at all, right?”
“Obviously.” Her drawl would make Draco proud.
“I figure a demonstration might be a good place to start, and then you can have a go.”
Pansy raps her nails, pushes her tongue into her cheek and considers it for a moment.
“Okay.”
The room exhales in relief.
Potter nods. “Good.”
It feels strange, this truce is somehow different than the one they’d been operating on for the last week. And Pansy dares not rock the boat, not when she was finally getting where she needed to go. So she pulls out one of the high chairs tucked under the island and slides into it, folding her arms atop the wooden counter and watches Potter pad barefoot around the kitchen.
There’s something slightly endearing watching Potter run his hand over that tuft near the front of his head, the one that never flattens no matter what, only for it to spring back up. Strangely more endearing was that Potter didn’t even seem to notice he was doing it whenever he was looking for something. He finally seems to remember and disappears from sight only to pop back up with a teatowel in hand. Only when he flings it over his shoulder can Pansy decipher the embroidery on it to be words.
Kiss the cook.
There was even a sprig of mistletoe above it.
Pansy says nothing whatsoever.
The world falls into quiet and it’s a breath in the insanity that Potter has been orchestrating. The only sounds are the soft footfalls of his bare feet against the tiles, his noncommittal hums every so often, and Pansy intermittently drumming her nails.
Potter has only begun cracking the eggs when, for once, Pansy breaks the silence.
“Where did you learn?”
“Learn what?”
The jab feels less like a needle, more like a poke in the ribs and Pansy sighs, “Potter.”
A smile flashes and he cracks another egg. “Alright, alright. I did a lot of cooking growing up, and I liked it, but I hated cooking for them, you know? I wasn’t allowed a lot of things either.” He slides the yolk back and forth between his palms in a hypnotising motion and Pansy struggles to not be impressed at how easy he makes it look. “I remember once I had to hide in the garden just to listen to the news.”
His fringe falls over his eyebrows when he gives a small shake of the head. “But when I was fourteen, they were gone for a few days—a trip for Dudley’s birthday—and I got the house to myself.”
She perks up, eyes wide. “Did you destroy the house?”
She can see it now, a delicious serving of justice enacted and the horrified faces of these so called relatives. Probably more furious than Mrs Zabini or Narcissa had ever been in the shenanigans her and the boys once got up to.
Potter snorts, “No Pansy, I didn’t destroy the house.”
She deflates with a pout. “Spoilsport.”
He chuckles, a pleasant sound that she would rather hear over his sarcastic drawls or dry quips.
“I was very boring in my rebellion—I just watched tv.” He twists to the sink behind him, washing the egg whites off his hand before turning back to Pansy. “But I used to watch the cooking channels. Mrs Weasley used to tell me to bring her recipes, and when I was at the Burrow, she’d let me cook them with her. We still do it now.” A fond smile overtakes his features, something softening around the eyes, the look many of her friends wore when talking about their families.
It’s with a bitter and sharp pang that Pansy realises she hasn’t seen that look often on Potter’s face.
“But there was a whole thing on pavlova’s, and I remembered Hermione talking about them,” the smile widens, “her parents apparently met over a pavlova, and they made it every christmas—”
“And every birthday, she asked for a pavlova instead of cake.” Pansy finishes, her own smile growing.
Potter barks a laugh, eyes filled with mirth. “That’s Hermione for you.”
“A strange witch for sure,” Pansy adds.
Potter sets the bowl of egg whites aside, places the yolks into the fridge and pushes the fringe from his brow once more, flashing her his scar in full.
“As I was saying—I saw it on tv, and decided I was going to make it—” then he was bending to turn on the oven, shirt rising, and Pansy hones in on his shoulder where the tea towel hangs precariously, “—so I did. It took me two days, and I must have bought at least forty eggs. I probably looked like a madman to the bloke at the shops.”
Potter straightens back up, hooks his fingers into the loops on his jeans and tugs them up slightly. Pansy remains resolute in staring at the teatowel, straining her focus on the red leaves woven under the word ‘cook’, which the longer she stares, the more it looks like another ‘c’ instead of a second ‘o’.
Potter’s voice pulls her out of her thoughts, leaning his hips into the counter and measuring out sugar. When did he get sugar?
“My uncle was a big bloke and had this custom recliner made for himself that no-one could use, not even Dudley.” His smile hasn’t faded, warm as the sun spilling into the kitchen. “It was only natural that I spent the rest of the day in it, eating the pav.”
This is easy to picture: a scrawny fourteen year old Potter, clothes too baggy, hair too unkempt, stretched out in a gargantuan recliner that his feet cannot reach the bottom of, carelessly shovelling slice after slice into his mouth, eyes glued to the tv.
Pansy’s smile deepens. “Sounds like a good day.”
“The best day.”
Then he is bending again, fiddling with something she can’t quite see.
He pops back up, holding a bulky looking black rectangle with a handle. She had seen Hermione use it before, laughed out loud when she informed her it was called a beater, commenting about the lack of originality Muggles had, only to be startled when her friend had maliciously turned it on without warning.
In protest, Pansy had invested in a ‘stand-mixer’, but had yet to actually properly figure out the blasted thing. It was currently collecting figurative dust, because she’d be damned if her apartment wasn’t in pristine condition at all times.
Potter places the bowl of egg whites back in front of him, affixes the strange metal prongs to the beaters, flicks the switch and an acute sharp whirring fills the air.
She stares in fascination as the machine gets to work, unable to look away as the egg whites begin to transmute. Neither of them bother to speak over the noise, and she finds herself enjoying the low hum of it, the rapid blur of metal, the colour changing within the bowl. Hermione rarely allowed her to be this close to watch, declaring the kitchen as a ‘Pansy-free zone’.
Pansy had learned long to keep her help to the meticulous table settings and decor Hermione mapped out, which as a fellow Planner and friend, she religiously followed. The two women had hosted enough parties to know what they could do for the other and what was better left alone.
There was no doubt that was the reason why Christmas this year was a little different. Well, that and Charlie.
Being Hermione Granger's boyfriend came with many privileges which none of her friends could access, one of which was being able to speak up and get through to the stubborn witch. Something the wizard had been trying to do for years. Apparently Charlie wasn’t fond of his girlfriend doing the lion’s share of work for the last eight Christmases. Who would have thought?
Charlie had assigned everyone a dish to bring, and Pansy’s pride had her volunteering to make pavlova.
She blinks, takes three steps back inside her brain and sits on the information for a beat.
Everyone got a dish.
Pansy straightens up, gaze set on the man across from her.
“Potter.”
“The exclusive use of last names you Slytherin’s still adhere to…” he mutters to himself,
“What dish did you get?”
He flicks the switch, lifts the beater and examines the mixture. “I’m surprised it took you this long to ask.” And then he puts the beater back in the bowl, flicks the switch and starts again.
“If you say a pavlova—”
He lifts a small glass bowl, tips in grains of sugar and snorts, “I don’t have a death wish.”
“Then what is it?” she asks over the whirring.
“You actually want to know?”
“Yes.”
He pauses the beater and inspects the mixture. “I got the gravy.”
Pansy stares at him. “The gravy.”
He swipes a finger over the stiff peak and rubs the glossy white batch between a thumb and forefinger. “That’s what Hermione demanded, Charlie however has informed me I’m also on roast vegetables.” Then, to Pansy’s horror and bewilderment, he extends his arm and puts his finger in her face. ”Lick.”
Lick.
Potter is clueless, not an iota of sexual prowess in him—Pansy has never even considered Potter to be someone who knows what sex is. Not in the bumbling, blushing virgin bride way, but in the way that one doesn’t think of their parents or siblings having sex. Potter is…Potter. Head empty, strangely-athletic, sweater-wearing, sarcastic, oblivious Potter.
And in no universe does he have the capabilities to fluster Pansy.
There is just no way.
She shoves his hand away. “Have you no hygiene?” She leans over and dips her pinky on the edge of the beater he has not defiled. “Absolutely primitive.”
Her tongue darts out and immediately the hairs on the nape of her neck prick, but when she glances back to Potter, he’s washing his hands in the sink. She licks off the rest of the dollop, eyes dropping in contempt and admiration.
“This is…really good.”
Potter faces her with a grin, wiping a hand on the teatowel. “Don’t act so surprised.”
Pansy rolls her eyes and immediately halts, but it is too late, Potter has spotted it.
He sighs even though he is resolutely not disappointed in the slightest. “Alright Pansy, give me fifteen.”
With a huff she gets to her feet, thankful she had the foresight to forgo her usual stilettos and turtleneck for boots (Pansy wouldn’t be caught dead in trainers) and wide legged pants. With one last glare to Potter, she lowers herself to the ground, flattens her palms and begins.
Potter’s bemused tone fills the air, “One…two…three…”
The next three nights, Pansy lays awake thinking about the pavlova.
It was insanity, the way she was already obsessing over it; the orgasmic sound of the knife scraping over the sharp crisp outer crust, the fluffy meringue melting on her tongue undercut with the sweet tart of passionfruit and berries, the freshest she had ever had.
Hermione had spoken often of her love for pavlova, even though Pansy had never seen it at a Christmas or any event either of them hosted. Pansy had seen the photos in the magazines she had scoured for a recipe, picture-perfect and pure white with drizzles of red spilling down the edges. It also looked bland.
Pansy tried not to judge Hermione for it when she saw that picture in the magazine, tried to remind herself to keep an open mind. Hermione had done the same for Pansy, had she not? She had eaten mochi and dango and taiyaki—only drawing the line when Pansy produced takoyaki—more than happy to try things from Pansy’s childhood and the fond memories of visiting her grandparents back in Japan.
So Pansy would try too.
Unfortunately, she had been utterly decimated by the beast that was pavlova.
Unbidden, thoughts of Potter accompany the pavlova. It was to be expected really, considering she had spent the majority of her time with him of late, entirely natural that he would haunt her thoughts with his bemused smirk and untameable tufts of jet black and that stupid bemused tone she had heard far too much this week.
Completely ordinary.
She kept replaying it because despite the stupid exercise rules and his obliviousness, Potter’s skills and technique are unmatched.
It was rather captivating actually, something she had not planned for.
Potter, who has the charm of a flobberworm, was extremely intriguing when it came to baking. The lack of quips the further he was into the recipe, the forest green in his eyes darkening slightly as he focused, attentive and sharp, even the way he handled the dessert was mesmerising.
And his hands.
She knew them to be nimble things, what with the matches he had unknowingly versed her in and the playful duels at the Flamel Festival that the twins hosted, but it was a whole different world to see them like that. Watching the way he treated the pavlova, the whole process…
It made Pansy realise there was an astronomical difference in being treated as something that is delicate versus something that is important. Made her think the grip on her bicep—
Pansy shakes her head, flips onto her back and smothers a pillow over her face
Absolutely not.
Plans start with thoughts, a perfect little seed planted at the right moment.
This particular thought was ill-timed, untrue and unwelcome. She wanted to unearth it and hurl it into the ocean, crushed by waves and gravity until it was no more.
Every night before she slept, the silent countdown since she had volunteered for the pavlova would taunt her, beckon her to look back on what exactly she had achieved, dissect the process from the pavlova’s of the day—
And then Potter’s stupid face would pop into her mind.
Front and center.
Her frustration with Potter looked exactly as it had before, but its source had changed, emerging from the small flutter at the back of her stomach and top of her spine whenever he glanced at her. The close proximity she had demanded what felt like a lifetime ago only encouraged the flutter to expand its territory. It crawled over her skin when his hand brushed her lower spine when he had to slide between the space between her and the sink, seeped into her blood when he had reached for something on the top cupboard, revealing the planes of his midriff and the trail of dark hair disappearing beneath a white band with a name printed across it.
Whoever he was, Pansy wanted to curse and thank Calvin Klein simultaneously.
The flutter had officially taken over her body, seed flourishing into sapling with each of his sly comments and dry quips, the pieces of his life he would randomly share that felt more intimate than the one before, even though they were the farthest thing from it. The growth was rapid and starved, because even though her body had become host to this strange phenomenon, she’d be damned if she would feed it.
Because he was Potter, and she was Pansy.
Because it wasn’t real.
It was forced proximity and exposure, all pavlova, nothing else and never to be anything more.
A pavlova meant for Hermione to be precise. It’s the only reason he was helping Pansy. He certainly wasn’t prolonging this process by showing her all different kinds of pavlova’s just to spend more time with her. And she certainly wasn’t not arguing because she wanted to extend the hours in the kitchen with him.
She hadn’t gotten the pavlova right yet, hadn’t managed to replicate the one Potter had made all those weeks ago.
Hermione deserves the perfect pavlova, and Pansy will be the one to deliver it.
“Samhain.”
Silence seeps into the space, swelling until it becomes the enormous, glaring dragon in the room “You come to Christmas, New Year, Solstice, Flamel Day—you even came to the birthday party Draco and Ginny threw for their crup. But never Samhain, not mine at least.”
Potter stays seated, the bastard actually flips over to the next page in the aforementioned magazine Pansy had collected and she’s halfway ready to tell him to do fifteen push ups, but then he opens his mouth.
“Forgive a bloke for not wanting to celebrate the day his parents died.”
He says it like he’s asking for Pansy to hand him a quill, without fuss or flair, so casual and ordinary. It’s the same way she talks about her parents.
It’s why she doesn’t say anything, because there is no doubt in her mind that he hates the hollow apologies as much as she does, despises the pitiful looks and the way people change suddenly until they are strangers.
“Well, if you ever do decide to celebrate it, or just want to come, you’re always welcome.”
It’s the closest thing Pansy has ever been to sincere without the simmering boil of frustration with Potter, and it feels off and uncomfortable, but she refuses to overthink it.
She flicks the button and let’s white noise of the beater to fill in the silence between them.
Potter keeps watching and Pansy is thankful for it, more than happy to work in silence. Then she sees it—the infuriating twitch of his lips.
“What?” She barks with no bite.
Potter gives a small shake of his head, “Nothing.”
“It’s obviously something.”
“It’s just—you’re beating too hard.”
Pansy stops immediately, the switch flicks off, and levels him with a pointed look. “Really Potter?”
He blinks innocently. “What?”
If Potter is oblivious, then so is Pansy.
“Whatever you say Potter.”
With that, the beater is back on, and she merrily continues beating the eggs in the following silence, both of them unsuccessfully hiding their smiles.
It’s relatively easy to reason with this effect once she understands it’s only the pavlova.
Pansy has rationalised and reasoned out many things in her life, a skill that had gotten her out of an arranged marriage to not only Draco, but every other eligible bachelor her parents had cultivated.
It wasn’t Potter’s gaze that elicited a full body shiver, but the December air. Her stomach didn’t swoop because of his laugh, but because she hadn’t eaten and the dessert was mouthwatering. She didn’t flush when he crowds into her space in an attempt to show her the technique of spreading the pavlova in the tin and had even stopped batting his hand away, because he was trying to help.
Then a week and a half before Christmas, Pansy wakes up late.
That’s when it happens.
The telephone box is in view and gust of wind rushes over her, lifting the sharp cut of her bob, mussing her fringe and cooling the sweat—
Potter’s bemused countdowns fill her mind instantly.
Her stomach drops, the realisation a cold dawn, washing over her in icy waves, the ocean returning the seed she had thrown to it long ago. She stands on the pavement, scarf flapping in the wind that has knocked her flimsy excuses off their feet.
Fuck.
“Pansy?”
She looks up to see Potter’s quizzical expression.
Pansy musters up her voice. “What?”
“You’ve been staring at the bowl for a bit.”
She looks back down—the meringue is whipped. She doesn’t even recall starting the recipe.
This isn’t good. This is really not good.
Pansy doesn’t lose time, doesn’t lose her mind, doesn’t walk around like a Spur or Wrench, floating from one place to the next. She plans. She’s a Planner.
Something she has been unable to do since asking Potter for help all those weeks ago.
In hindsight, that particular thought was for certain the bowtruckle that broke the broom, the sharp reminder that the one thing Pansy had always been, always known, had fallen apart.
“Have you been experimenting on me?”
She probably could have had more tact, but it’s all rushing up, ringing in her ears and her stomach is all twisted up. She sets the beater down and grips the counter, staring at him head on because she isn’t a coward.
Potter blinks twice, “Have I…what?”
“Experimenting, brainwashing, charming—whatever you want to call it. Have you?”
“I don’t want to call it anything, because I’m not—I don’t—I—” Potter struggles to find the words, confusion morphing his features along with something else.
She gives an exasperated sigh. “I’m not stupid Potter, and I don’t know what the point is or why you’re doing it—”
He is on his feet. “I’m not doing anything!”
“Well you’re doing something!” She shouts back.
“Whatever you think I’m doing, I’m not—I just—”
“Potter.”
Her tone cuts through whatever path of rambling he was about to go down and gets his attention back on her. He stares at her longer than she would like before pushing the fringe from his face. He lowers his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose for one heartbeat, two, three, and rubs his hands over his face. He takes a deep inhale, slides the glasses back on and when he lifts his head, Pansy can feel the air change, the taut static between them, the strange calm before a storm.
“I’m—Pansy I wouldn’t,” he takes another breath, “alright, look, I was messing with you a little—”
Her heart hammers harder, burnt sugar on her tongue. “Are you—”
“It was only at the beginning, with the drills! Look, I always was going to help, and the drills…well, I did do it to help you, but you…you just barged in to my house and were so rude and demanding, and you do it a lot, and I just…” The words dissipate, hanging in the air between them.
Seamus trying to hide his grimace. “It’s just…a lot Pans.”
Daphne in fifth year, eyes filled with fury, “You’re such a bitch Pansy.”
“You don’t think it’s too much?” Draco eyeing the decorations.
Her father squeezing her mother’s shoulder, “You know what she’s like…”
Pansy is a Planner. She is confident, self-assured and importantly, she likes who she is. She knows her faults, counts out each flaw and works hard to be the best version of herself. She wouldn’t change it. And maybe she isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, but her friends love her. She never pretends to be anything else.
She is always honest.
Always.
“I asked you. I asked if you were fucking with me,” she flexes her fingers on the edge, “and you said you weren’t.”
He scratches the stubble, rubs his mouth and sighs. “I know. I was just annoyed, and I shouldn’t have made the drills go on for five days, and I’m sorry.” His eyes are brighter, sharper, pricking the nape of her neck, “but I haven’t been experimenting or brainwashing or whatever you think—”
She scoffs, a cutting sharp brutal sound that fills the room.
“I haven’t,” a muscle jumps in his jaw, “I wouldn’t.”
Her eyes cut to his. “And why should I believe that?”
They stare at each other, daring, waiting for the other to speak first.
But what is there to say?
Pansy releases the counter, giving herself a small nod, “I think we’ve done enough baking today.”
She says it mostly for herself.
Potter on the other hand says nothing.
He does nothing either. Not when she tosses the teatowel on the bench or when shrugs her coat back on, he doesn’t even follow her down the hall. But she feels the sharp prick on her neck the entire way down, even when she closes the door and heads back down the cobblestone.
It follows her all the way home where she kicks off her shoes and lays on the forest green rug, wondering how the hell she got here in the first place.
Christmas is under a week away and Pansy still hasn’t perfected the pavlova.
Potter. The name doesn’t taste as bitter as it had three days ago, but in between glaring at her kitchen and pacing in the lounge, she is also still unravelling the last six weeks with the wizard.
She sets the glass of wine down and sighs. She can’t keep spiralling. And she most certainly can’t go back there.
It would be a lie to say she isn’t still pissed, but it’s a sharp sting that is more knee scrape than wound when she thinks about their last conversation. Pansy is no stranger to messing with friends, Merlin, she can’t count the amount of times she has messed with her friends over the years, let alone Potter. She knows it wasn’t malicious, knows it was the smallest paybacks or paybacks, because well, it’s Potter.
Pansy is already at capacity just with the pavlova—there is no space to examine why she is still thinking about the wizard even now.
It’s hours later when it finally happens.
A plan.
It isn’t even that complex or really that much of a plan, but it is the first she’s had in weeks.
Pansy gets to her feet, off the rug and straight to the front door. She slides into her coat, tugs on her boots, slips the wallet that Hermione had gifted her two years ago for their trips into Muggle London together and after a quick glance, decides on her old house scarf.
She’s in the middle of adjusting the wand holster around her thigh when she stops abruptly.
“...not done with magic.”
There are too many variables, time wasted and sleep sacrificed—but surely, it would be interesting, a worthwhile theory to test just in case, right?
Pansy hangs the holster back up, and the scarf too, just to be thorough. And, in a decision that would have all her friends admonishing her at levels that even McGonagall had yet to ascertain, Pansy also leaves her wand behind.
Then, she is off.
The walk to the supermarket is nowhere near as treacherous as it is on the way back, but that has less to do with the weather and more in regards to the humanitarian aid levels of egg and sugar she has purchased. And she hates that she thinks of him, hates the smile that tugs at her lips, but she can’t help it. It’s easy to imagine the look that the cashier gave Pansy was the same that scrawny, scrappy, sarcastic fourteen year old Potter also got.
She jots down a short note and kneels in front of the fireplace, calling out a name before releasing the parchment into the green flames.
Even when she returns to the kitchen and is flitting about, moving into the next sector of her plan, the wand stays next to the front door.
And there it remains for the next four days.
Pansy is running on fumes, kinetic energy bouncing frantically between her ribs, or maybe that’s what happens after making pavlova every single day for seven weeks.
Sitting at the table, listening to the chatter surrounding her, dishes passed around and the air packed with aroma—Pansy should have felt a little more relaxed than she is.
After all, Hermione truly has optimised the seating chart, placing Pansy between Blaise and Neville, and sitting herself directly opposite Pansy. Unfortunately, she has also placed Ron next to Blaise, which in turn means that beside Ron is Potter.
Pansy has done an excellent job of keeping her mind a Potter-free establishment for the last few days, locking away the phantom touches she accidentally echoed over her bicep and waist, his two most common spots he had touched her by accident.
Potter is a good teacher, but he is a terrible distraction, one that Pansy can’t afford, at least until Christmas has passed.
Sitting here now, Pansy isn’t confident that Potter has the capabilities to wait until Christmas has even finished.
Thankfully due to the years of growing up with the friends she did, Pansy is able to block out the low chatter of his voice, and although she can’t numb the sensation of Potter watching her, she manages to push down the memories of that last conversation.
It is manageable.
Then Charlie appears with a very familiar white box.
“Everyone, if I could have your attention—”
Pansy can’t look away, eyes glued to the box Charlie carefully deposits in front of Hermione.
“—as you all know, Hermione has a bit of a sweeth tooth.”
Chortles and sharp barks of laughter fill the air and Hermione’s lips twist into a smile even as she rolls her eyes.
Fifteen push ups.
“And there are some sweets that are a bit hard to get in the UK, so Pansy made this to say thank you.” The hairs on the nape of her neck prick to a new level, but she can’t look anywhere but Hermione. “On behalf of everyone here, thank you for giving everyone here a home every year and a place where they feel welcome.”
Everyone follows Charlie as he lifts his glass—“To Hermione!”
The sentiment is echoed by everyone, glasses clinking in agreement, cheers and table thumping that absolutely comes from the Gryffindors. And then Hermione leans forward, eyes flirting between Pansy and the box, and in one swift tug at the bow, the box falls open.
The gasp Hermione makes, the waves of awe rippling across the tables—it is a rush of adrenaline she had never experienced, endorphins flooding her system, and it hits her like a freight train that for once in her life, Pansy has done something that is important.
The pav is crisp, tall and artfully decorated in the variety of fruits which she had requested from Neville through the fireplace earlier in the week. It is just as beautiful as the one beside it, the dark swirl of chocolate with meringue has a marble effect, topped with magical fruits that Neville managed to obtain.
Hermione stares at the pavlovas for what feels like eternity, but in actuality, was closer to thirty seconds.
Then she looks up and Pansy almost hexes her then and there, because she’ll be damned if she is going to start crying in front of everyone because of the look on Hermione's face.
“You made me a pavlova?” Her voice is small, brimming with disbelief.
Pansy swallows thickly. “Of course I did.”
Hermione gives a short nod and rolls her lips together, her gaze dropping back to the pavlovas. She tries blinking back the tears, and in doing so has to wipe the rogue ones away.“This is—” Hermione’s voice catches and she has to exhale a shaky breath to even it back out. “Thank you, this is the best Christmas ever.”
Pansy smiles, the wobbly one she rarely ever shows, and gives a small clap along with everyone else as Hermione sniffles.
A normal witch may have looked at the Wizard she likes by now, but Pansy is…well, Pansy. She only looks at Potter when Hermione cuts into the pav for the first time, and the knife scrapes over the gorgeous crisp crust.
She is a Slytherin after all.
It’s heading towards midnight when the majority of the crowd tapers off. The remaining survivors are Neville, Hermione and Charlie, all in the kitchen drunk and singing the school song.
Pansy however is alone at the table with Potter.
She drums her nails on the tablecloth, chin propped up by her other hand, staring at him unapologetically.
“That sweater is a crime against humanity.” Pansy’s eyes don’t leave the monstrosity. “What did you do to piss off Mrs Weasley?”
Potter scratches at the collar of the sweater. “This isn’t one hers.”
“Oh?”
“I went to quite a few second hand shops, found the ugliest sweater and bought it.”
“Run out of sweaters?”
“The opposite.”
“Ah, so you were looking for a bit of light torture?” Pansy tilts her head and smirks. “Unheard of.”
Potter shrugs nonchalantly. “I figured it might be a good start.”
“A good start for what?”
“Saying sorry.”
Pansy drops her hand and arches an eyebrow. “So we are doing that tonight.”
The look Potter gives unnerves her, and when he moves into Blaise’s former seat, Pansy knows she is done for.
“I’d like to, but I understand if you don—”
“I do,” Pansy clears her throat. “I would.”
Potter turns so his whole body faces her, arm slung over the back of the chair, the other flat on the tablecloth, incredibly close to her own.
“I haven’t brainwashed or experimented on you, nor would I ever do that.” His eyes flit to their hands and back to her, “and I am deeply sorry about fucking with you and lying about it.”
There is a tight feeling in her chest, the same one that had been plaguing her for weeks.
But Potter keeps going, “I was certain that I had ruined everything last week, and there was a moment I considered barging in via the Floo.”
Pansy snorts, drums her fingers again before splaying them wide, just a little closer to his than before. “I definitely deserved it.”
“You deserve a lot of things. Good things.”
It wasn’t the sincerity of his tone that made the flutter swoop through her body, it was the earnest, resounding belief in it. He said it like a fact.
“I’m sorry too.” She stares at their hands. “I was pretty…”
“Forward.”
“I was thinking entitled.”
Potter gives a noncommittal hum, a wry smile working its way onto his lips.
“I am a lot for some people, I’m blunt, I know what I want, I don’t have a problem asking for it. I’m independent too. And deeply stubborn. And prideful. I don’t even ask my friends for help a lot of the time.”
Potter inches his pinky a little closer and Pansy can feel the crackle of lightning coursing through his scar, down his arms and burgeoning on his fingertips.
“I kept thinking of you, at first I thought I was just because of the pavlova, and then it happened when I excercised—”
Potter leans in, his expression playful “Excercised you say?”
Pansy swats his arm, “I’m trying to be sincere here dolt.”
He stifles his smile and gestures to her.
“It turns out that I was just thinking of you all the time.” She admits.
Potter gives a thoughtful hum and sets his eyes on their hands and exhales. “If it’s any consolation, the feeling is mutual.”
Her heart hammers, eyes gravitating towards the minuscule space between their fingers. “How mutual?”
He says nothing and closes the distance between their hands.
Potter’s touch makes every nerve sing, the brush of one finger against her own has electricity coursing through her blood and she feels giddy, and a little bit insane.
He furthers this sensation by flipping his palm upright and sliding it under hers. Her stomach swoops again when he slides his fingers just enough that he can fill the spaces between hers, intertwined and weaved.
Harry holds her hand like it’s important. The most important thing in the world.
“I want to call you mine.” Her eyes drift back to his. “And I want you to call me yours.”
“Not Harry?” She teases.
Something flashes in his eyes. “You can absolutely call me Harry.”
Pansy laughs, and Harry laughs too. It truly is captivating, to watch him lift their joined hands like they’re important, to feel the brush of his beard over her hand and the warmth of his breath ghost her knuckles.
“Tomorrow then?”
“For?”
“Dinner.”
“Only dinner?”
“I’m open to dessert.” Harry presses his lips softly to a knuckle. “Just no more pavlova.”
Pansy leans forward with a smile. “No more pavlova.”