Pansy Parkinson
Harry decided to move to London. Tonks’ house didn’t have room for him, and it felt wrong to take Andromeda’s room. Teddy was too small to Apparate, so they relied on the Floo Network. Every trip to London meant Apparating first to 12 Grimmauld Place, the ancestral Black family home that now belonged to Harry.
Grimmauld Place was far from pleasant. Harry struggled to rid it of its perpetual gloom—fighting against the rotten smell, cobwebs, and peeling wallpaper. Over two years, he renovated the house, replacing furniture and removing the threadbare carpet. Yet, no matter how much he changed, the house clung to its oppressive vibe. Perhaps 80% of the misery could have been solved if he’d been able to remove Walburga’s portrait, but its permanent charm made her screeching a permanent feature. That said, Harry did remove every other portrait he could, ignoring Hermione’s protests about disrespect. She hadn’t argued when she tossed one out during the war, after all.
Despite the updates, Harry had avoided the fourth floor almost entirely. It housed only two rooms: Sirius’ and Regulus’. He didn’t need them; the house had seven bedrooms, and he only used one on the second floor. Occasionally, Hermione or Ron stayed on the first floor, but the third floor was rare territory, and the fourth was practically a myth.
Moving was a pain, but London made life easier with all his friends nearby. Harry had asked Draco’s opinion out of courtesy, but the decision was already made. Teddy had been upset about leaving the home he’d grown up in, but his excitement at having a massive room of his own in Grimmauld Place softened the blow. “I’m okay with moving as long as we stay together,” Teddy had said, melting Harry’s and Draco’s hearts. The boy had been terrified upon first entering the house, but within three days, he’d grown to love it.
Now, the house was quiet. Harry was at work, and Teddy had dozed off, leaving Draco alone with his studies. Despite completing his Healer training, Draco was still neck-deep in books, determined to excel and prove himself. He had to be the best; anything less would invite scrutiny, even in a small hospital where few recognized his name.
Draco was absorbed in his work when he noticed Teddy peeking down from the top of the stairs. The boy, wearing a white jumpsuit with pink polka dots and clutching his stuffed rabbit, rubbed his sleepy eyes.
“Don’t! Don’t come down! Draco’s coming to get you.” Draco rushed up, scooping the little boy into his arms before he could attempt the stairs. Harry had been helping Teddy practice, but Draco didn’t want to take chances.
“Dwaco, where’s Hawwy?” Teddy mumbled, snuggling into Draco’s neck.
“He’s at work. What should we do now? Hungry?”
Teddy nodded, grinning, and they headed to the kitchen. The cupboards were sparse—they’d need to go shopping soon—but Draco hoped Harry would handle that. Grocery shopping wasn’t his forte, especially when it came to inspecting fruits and vegetables. For now, he settled on cutting an apple. Potions class had taught him precision with a knife, but fruit preparation was an entirely different matter. His slices lacked Harry’s whimsical animal shapes, but they sufficed.
While Teddy played in the adjacent room, Draco sat by the fireplace, staring at the green flames flickering in the hearth. Draco stood in the middle of the parlor, a weight pressing heavily on his chest as he stared at the fireplace. The letter from the Ministry approving his Floo call to Pansy rested in his hand, the parchment crumpled at the edges from where he’d clenched it too tightly. He had requested this conversation days ago, carefully framing his reasons. They had been reluctant, no doubt wondering why a former Death Eater deserved such leniency.
And they weren’t wrong. Why did he deserve this? Why did he deserve anything?
Teddy’s laughter echoed faintly from upstairs, pulling Draco from his thoughts. The boy had been his salvation and his punishment all at once. He didn’t deserve the trust Andromeda had placed in him, nor the laughter of a child who saw him as more than the sum of his sins. But he’d promised himself he wouldn’t fail again. Teddy was the one good thing in his life, the only reason he still stood here instead of crumbling under the weight of who he’d been.
He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, glancing at the clock on the mantel. Time was running out on the precious few minutes he’d been granted. He picked up the small pouch of Floo powder sitting next to him, his fingers hesitating over its cold surface.
"Don't be dead," he muttered under his breath. He tossed the powder into the flames with more force than necessary, muttering her name.
“Pansy Parkinson.”
The flames roared higher, casting a green glow on the walls of the room, and her face appeared in the fire. She looked... drained. Even her sarcasm, which could normally cut glass, seemed dulled around the edges. Still, she smirked when she saw him. Draco wasn’t faring much better, but he had Andromeda’s kindness and Teddy’s joy to ground him.
Pansy had no one. Her father was in Azkaban, her mother had fled, and she’d dropped out of Hogwarts when the 8th year reopened. She lived alone in the ruins of the Parkinson estate, her savings dwindling. One day the money she had left would run out and she just wished that by then she wouldn't be alive. She did not deserve this. She wasn’t perfect—far from it—but Draco knew neither was he.
“Well, well, if it isn’t my favorite ex-Death Eater. Missed me that much, Malfoy?” she teased, though the sharpness in her tone felt forced.
Draco huffed, rolling his eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself. The Ministry finally let me call. Took weeks, thanks to Harry and his bleeding-heart arguments about letting me keep custody of Teddy.”
“Harry,” she said with a raised eyebrow, her smirk shifting into something more knowing. “First name basis now, is it?”
“It’s just practical,” Draco snapped, but the heat in his voice betrayed his discomfort. “We live together. For Teddy’s sake.”
Pansy’s smile widened. “Of course. For Teddy’s sake.”
“Did you eat today?” Draco asked.
“Yesterday, maybe. Grapes.”
“Fermented grapes?”
“Fine. A bottle of wine. But I don’t regret it.”
“You should.” Draco’s voice was firm but not unkind. The conversation shifted, and Pansy brought up Andromeda’s passing. She offered no condolences, but Draco didn’t expect any. It was common for her, no words of comfort, if she didn't feel it she just didn't say it.
“How are you?” he asked, the words coming out softer than he intended.
“I’m managing,” she said with a shrug. “The house feels too big, too empty. But that’s the price we pay, isn’t it?”
Her words hit him like a blow. Draco looked away, his gaze falling on the ornate rug beneath his feet. He thought of Blaise, isolated in his own way, and Pansy, with no one to pull her out of the shadows she had fallen into. And here he was, living in Andromeda’s house with a child’s laughter filling the halls and Harry Potter— Harry Potter —willing to share his home. What right did he have to feel anything but guilt?
“I called Blaise last week,” he said, breaking the silence. “He asked about you.”
Pansy snorted. “Did he now?”
“He cares,” Draco said firmly. “We all care.”
Her eyes softened, but she didn’t respond. Draco’s throat tightened. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Pansy was supposed to be the unshakable one, the one who carried them through with her sharp wit and endless confidence. Seeing her like this... it made him question everything.
“Draco,” she said, cutting through his thoughts. “How are you holding up?”
He hesitated. “I’m... adjusting.”
“To Potter?”
“To all of it,” he admitted. “Living with him... it’s practical. For Teddy. But I don’t understand why he trusts me. A Death Eater. Someone who...” He trailed off, his throat closing around the words.
Pansy leaned closer, her expression unreadable. “Such a Gryffindor thing to do, seeing the best in people… I bet he tried to forgive Voldemort”
Draco scoffed, but her words lingered in the back of his mind. What did Harry see? Did he even trust Draco? Or was he just waiting for him to fail, to prove that a Malfoy could never change?
The sound of the door opening pulled him from his spiraling thoughts. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Harry stepping inside, his Auror uniform still covered in soot. His heart leapt for reasons he didn’t want to examine.
“Potter’s home. I have to go.” Draco said quickly, turning back to the flames.
“Don’t you want to introduce me to your dear Harry ?” Pansy teased. “And how do you even know he’s coming? Does he have a tracking spell on him?”
“Firstly, my dear Harry wouldn’t want to be disturbed,” Draco deadpanned, lacing the words with sarcasm. “Secondly, that portrait makes an expression of disgust every time he’s near. Bye” The flames flickered while her laugh was heard.
Harry entered, the sight of him in his Auror uniform making Draco freeze. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen Harry in it, but the tight leather emphasized the shoulders and tapered waist in a way Draco found maddening. His arms, muscular and veined, looked strong enough to cradle the world—or Teddy, at least.
“Everything okay?” Harry asked as he unzipped his jacket and hung it neatly by the door.
“Yes,” Draco replied, his voice slightly strained. “Teddy just woke from his nap.” The words came out too fast, almost as if to hide the thoughts that had surged to the forefront of his mind.
“Good. I’ll shower first—probably covered in ashes.” Harry removed his gloves with a practiced ease, his hands red from the cold but strong, veins standing out just enough to be distracting. Draco’s eyes followed them involuntarily before darting back to Harry’s face, where that infuriatingly earnest expression lingered. His mind betrayed him. All he could focus on was how Potter seemed to fill the room, the breadth of his shoulders under that Auror’s jacket, and the way his shirt clung to his chest as he moved.
Draco bit the inside of his cheek. He knew how hypocritical it was to feel this way, considering the myriad reasons he assumed Harry hated him—or worse, found him disgusting. Surely, the great savior of the wizarding world didn’t trust him, not fully. Why would he? Draco wasn’t even sure he trusted himself most days. His past was a permanent stain, and yet, when he was face to face with Harry, his guilt and self-loathing were eclipsed by something much more troubling. Potter was hot as fuck .
He needed to say something, anything, to keep his thoughts in check. “Confidential?”
“Technically. But who cares?” Harry shrugged, his demeanor relaxed as he began recounting his day. He described a house fire they’d been called to, one that should have been handled by Muggle firefighters but ended up as an Auror task. There’d been a dog trapped inside, which Harry had rescued. His voice lit up as he shared the story, and he veered into a tangent about how much he loved dogs but didn’t feel ready to have one yet, given the chaos of his life.
Draco caught pieces of it—“fire,” “dog,” “I love dogs”—but his focus kept slipping back to Harry’s face, to the curve of his lips as he spoke, the way his hands moved animatedly when describing the rescue. It was unbearable how easily Potter commanded his attention without even trying.
“Draco? Are you even listening?” Harry’s sheepish grin snapped him back to reality.
“You talk a lot,” Draco deflected. “But your voice is tolerable now. Compared to when you were a teenager, I mean. Back then, you sounded like a Grindylow.”
“Fuck you,” Harry retorted, laughing. It wasn’t an angry laugh, just an easy, familiar sound that made Draco’s chest ache in a way he wasn’t ready to examine.
“Where’s Teddy, anyway?” Harry asked, glancing toward the staircase.
“Entertained by his new toy. Don’t ask me why, but he loves it.” Draco allowed a small smirk to tug at his lips.
Harry raised an eyebrow. “That’s obvious. The toy is for kids Teddy’s age.”
Draco’s smirk widened. “The box said 6 months and up. I’m up. I’m not laughing.”
Harry shook his head with a grin, heading toward the bathroom. As the door clicked shut, Draco exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. Being in the same house as Harry Potter was going to be the death of him.