Sweet

“So, which one is it?” Draco Malfoy asks from beside her. Their shoulders brush as they stare at the display on the table, encased in one velvet box. From her periphery, she can see his eyes impatiently run over the family jewels, can feel his heart buzzing from nervous earnesty.  

Pansy hums impassively, tracing her fingers across the brilliant assortment of stones. Pearls and sapphires, emerald, topaz, lapis and peridot with a hint of orange flame in the middle. She rubs her index over the fresh, pearlesque moonstone perched over the diamond sphere and watches it glint in the scarce, powdery light of the cave-like vault. For an extended bit of security, Gringotts insists upon closing the doors of the vault as they check on their belongings.

She picks up the sapphire Draco talks over her head with a nervous, jittery voice. “They’re absolutely spotless. I checked to exclude anything from before the goblin renaissance, anything that was accepted as a bribe, and anything that was even remotely connected to blackmail, or coercion, or—” He scrunches his nose in distaste. “Or murder.”

“And that leaves only seven rings from your family vault?”

“It seems so.” He chuckles. “I just want her to have something from my ancestry. It was almost impossible to find something bloodless, I mean, it’s astounding—what an achievement of the Malfoys. But you know, it’s…”

“Still your past, still your family?”

“Exactly.”

Hesitantly, she puts the ring on her finger. The platinum band sends a shiver of cool on her skin as she checks the reflections of the hundred studded diamonds on its shank, all glittering in a rendition of a constellation, she’s sure, though she can’t name which.  

“I saw Theo this weekend,” he says just as she takes it out and picks up another. A classic Edwardian band with a gleaming pearl as its centerpiece.

“Great.”

“Yeah, we got into this bar,” he says suggestively. “And we talked for hours and finally got into talking about… you know.”

She tilts her head to the side to find him leaning in, almost gleaming in earnesty. “No, you did not,” she says bitingly.

He huffs. “You’re right. He’s such a tight-lipped asshole.”

“Just because he’s not into gossip as much as—”

“Excuse me. Worrying about my friend doesn’t make me a gossip .”

“ Why are you worried about me, Draco?”

“Why did you break up, Pansy?”

A blip of silence. “We didn’t break up. It’s not—” She huffs, feeling a numbing, nervous cold settle on her throat. “It’s not a break up . He’s going to Paris, there’s a guy who deals in antiques and he’ll settle some of his, uhm, ancestral belongings. He—”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“We’re just settling in. We’re taking a step back and—compartmentalising and—”

“Deflecting.”

“Oh shut up,” she snaps, turning to face him. The powdery, dim light illuminates him from some imperceptible corner of the vault. It lingers on the slope of his nose, the angular jaw, and his eyes. His eyes, cool and clear, grey like the cloud just before a storm are perched on her face. His arms are open, as if he’s just about to hug her.

“Please, Pansy, tell me.”

The light reflects peevishly on his beautiful, concerned face and her lips quiver. She can’t bring herself to lie.

“Harry Potter,” she says, and the name leaves her like a breath, light and airy. Consequential. “That’s what happened.”

A flicker of doubt, but then he nods. As if he understands, or comprehends, unsurprised, and unappalled. As if he knows . A shiver slithers past her fingers, crisscrosses over her wrist and arm and moves up; settles somewhere in the vicinity of her chest. 

“He, uhm, he came into Mungo’s a few weeks ago. He was… his arm. Doesn’t matter. He needed a healer and I thought that my supervisor chose me and asked me to treat him. So I did. A few weeks ago.” She takes a long breath and can still smell the grating, invasive smell of ointments and methylated spirit and the lemon zest airspary they persistently use on the corridors of Mungo’s. As if she’s still there.

“Three days ago, Ms. Antigone was looking over his file and asked me about him. And I, well, I reported as fit and then I thanked her. You know, for trusting me with this since he’s such an important person and she just looked so surprised . You should have seen her face. And after a moment, she said that she didn’t choose me. Of course I was qualified, but she would’ve done this herself if he hadn’t—asked for me.”

Draco’s eyes soften. “He asked for you?”

“Multiple times. Even when he gave him opioids he was—he was insistent.”

“Oh, Pans—”

She explains before he has a chance to encourage her. “I know it can be a lot of things. Maybe he heard that I was on duty from one of the nurses and just caught on to that, maybe he just wanted a familiar face, or someone who wouldn’t fawn over him like a fangirl.” She clutches onto the diamond in her hand. “Or it was just one of those ravings of people high on opium, without rhymes or reasons. I’m sure he’s forgotten all about it and yet I can’t—I can’t seem to let it go, Draco.”

The thought of him leaves a queer taste in her mouth. A numb, sour aftertaste of when you eat something too sweet but realise, after a while, that you shouldn’t have. It only leaves a sad, bland taste in your mouth.

“I have my life under control, okay?” she says bitingly. “I have a job and I’m competent enough. I have a boyfriend and we’re in love and I pay my bills and do my laundry and it’s been a long time since I took anything from my inheritance, but… he just waltzes in, says a few words, and my life is destroyed . In seconds.”

“It’s okay, Pansy.”

“No, it isn’t. I don’t know where Theo stands in all this. I’m cheating him, and I hate doing that. Draco, I—you know me. If I had any control over it, it’d kill it. But I—I don’t. I can’t control it, I didn’t ask for it.”

Draco touches her shoulder and she shakes her head. It irks her and it calms her that he knows. The fact that she’s in love with someone she can never have? That sometimes that love, soft and sweet, becomes feral? Like a knife scraping out her gut, like hoarding something she was never supposed to have, unable to carry the weight but having nowhere to put it? That irresistible, that overarching devotion, what’s she going to do with it? Harry Potter has no need for her love. Doesn’t that make it all worthless? A hole that never stops scraping? 

“I know how that feels,” he says softly. It takes a moment, but they’re hugging, she feels him rub his hands over her shoulder. 

“Didn’t it hurt? Before Granger saw you, I mean, really saw you? Didn’t it hurt to have all that love just… there. Nowhere to put it? Purposeless and useless?”

“Love is never useless, Pansy.”

There’s a sparse, dying ray of hope in her heart that agrees with this. And yeah, she knows, she does, that clinging to things isn’t wise, or nice, or womanly. But she can’t help it. It feels so good.

In answer, he just hugs her tighter. Words fail her, and what comes out are more of the same, useless tears. Draco doesn’t let go of her, even as she feels the room contort, breaking in on them. He holds her and she lets him and how comforting it feels, for a moment. Pansy holds onto her friend for dear life.

In the blunt red glow of her bar, Daphne is twirling. There’s a heedless buzz of noises around them. The sultry hum of the music, people talking over one another, happy, disjointed, quarreling and so involved with one another. Pansy is involved, too. She has her arm around her friend’s slender shoulder and is laughing along, somehow infected with Daphne’s glowering happiness. The music changes to something louder and their feet move faster to catch up, sleek and smooth and they’re losing their beats, still giddy, 

Pansy doesn’t see Millie until she throws her arm around them, pressing a characteristically sloppy kiss to their cheeks, mumbling congratulations and proclaiming that she’s so happy and—

“Is that Potter? ” she shrieks. 

“Where?” Daphne cranes her neck. 

“I heard he was in Brazil. Witch Weekly said that he and Ginny Weasly are trying to get back together.”

“Why is he here?”

“Astoria was saying he's looking for some—”

“I need to go to the loo,” Pansy interrupts. Moving back, she wipes her sweaty hand over her forehead, tousling her bangs rather pathetically. 

She pushes over the dancing people and makes her way out, it seems. Out from the loud, cloistering noise and into a free space. One of the people push against her, just as she reaches the door and she stumbles back, off balance, almost falling, but—

Someone holds her by the shoulders.

“Are you okay?” Harry Potter asks, leaning to her so she can regain her balance.

Pansy feels her face flush as she looks at him. Wordlessly, she nods, tips herself up against gravity and smooths her dress, a short, cocktail dress with white sequins glinting in the light. 

He stares at her with a curiously nosy expression. Half out of breath though he wasn’t dancing, he stares at her in the same, sweet wistfulness. The heat of his eyes burns at her and suddenly, she reaches over and touches her hair. The headband, white, pearly, beautiful with the wedding veil drawn over it gleams on her skin. Someone must have jokingly put it on her, though she can’t remember who.

“I—” she starts to explain, blushing, her head jittery and—

And some of the fire catches to him, too. Because he interrupts her, just as hastily. “No, I’m sorry. I was just… I didn’t think it was you. I mean. Wow. Congratulations.” He turns his head, and his blush spreads to his entire face. “It’s— him, isn’t it?”

She follows his gaze to find Theo locked into Astoria. They’d broken up a few months ago. And even though it doesn’t matter anymore, she blushes at what Harry’s insinuating. Pansy can’t really find an explanation for her next words. Maybe it’s nerves, the noises, the embarrassingly sincere expression on his perfect green eyes, or the fact that he’s just gotten back with Weasley that she says— “It’s okay. We, uh, we have an understanding.”

Harry purses his lips. “An understanding?”

Before Pansy can lie further, a familiar shriek breaks her away. Daphne throws her arm around her and Pansy awkwardly smiles at a continually bewildered Harry. 

“Where have you been? ” She pouts, drunker than Pansy had left her. “I was looking all over, I miss you— Oh . Oh.” Suddenly she notices her veil on Pansy’s head. “My turn.” 

Pansy can feel the brunt of his stare as she extricates the headband for Daphne and settles it on the bride’s head. “You looked good in it,” Daphne says good naturedly. “Didn’t she, Potter? Wouldn’t she make a pretty bride?”

“Beautiful,” Harry says strangely. “Absolutely.”

Daphne beams, suddenly taking Harry’s presence. “That is so—Hello. Did we invite you?” Her voice is more confused than rude and Harry chuckles awkwardly.

“Um, no, sorry,” he tells Pansy. Because , Pansy thinks sourly, he thinks it’s my engagement party . “I just—I was just…”

“Buy Pansy a drink.”

“What?”

“You’re welcome to the party, of course. Pansy doesn’t mind.” She drops her voice and says in mock secrecy. “She never minds when you —”

“Oh shut up, Daph.”

“I don’t know if—”

“Oh don’t be such a knobhead. Buy her a drink. You have to do as I say. After all, it’s my— ”

Pansy decides to blame panic as the reason why she reaches over and grabs Harry’s hand, jerks him away from the damned blabbermouth.

“Dry martini, right?” he asks.

“What? I mean, yeah. Yes, I drink—that. Why—?” No, how does he know? Realising she’s still holding his hand, she drops it instantly as if she’s electrocuted. “You don’t have to, really. Daphne’s a blabbermouth when she’s drunk.”

“I want to.”

The counter is surprisingly empty as they reach it. Harry shakes out of his jacket and sets it on the counter. His shirt is checkered with lines of black and grey. It’s sticking to his chest and Pansy feels herself flush against the sweet smelling air, her head light and airy. The music permeates her skin as they wait. The singer has a syrupy, lingering voice. Pansy runs her eyes over the crowd dancing to the provocative lyrics, wondering what the name of the song is.

“It’s called Dirty Love,” Harry says. 

Pansy opens her mouth to ask how he knew she was thinking about this, but then closes it promptly, because, well, the trail of shots she had is already working on her nerves, softening everything around her with a mellow, luminescent glow. She’s already having a drink with him, staring shamelessly at his eyes and his smile, light and appreciative, and… and she’s already far gone, never sure, and where would this question even take her? Them?

She smiles instead.

“I heard you got promoted.”

“Hardly. Just a fill-up for the moment. I heard you’re getting married.”

That’s it. That’s the chance to come out clean. But Pansy sees herself letting it pass, as if she isn’t quite here. As if she can’t quite help herself. “Couldn’t wait around for you forever, could I?”

He splutters his drink in surprise. “I mean—no, I guess. You couldn’t.” 

The flush on his cheeks makes her feel better about herself. By this time, all the wizarding world knows about his chance meeting with Ginerva Weasley in Brazil. A sultry, sweet summer for reconciliation. It gives Pansy a somewhat bizarre power, his misconception—it makes her believe that she’s on her way to her happy ending, too.

“Are you happy?”

“Am I—what?” She laughs, an uncomfortably chippy sound scratching from her throat. This is really him , unfiltered, unabashed and preposterous. “Harry, normally people start with—uhm, the weather and the economy before going on to the dark stuffs.”

“Is happiness a—”

“ Deep stuff,” she corrects herself, a little too quickly. “I didn’t mean—that. Deep and personal.”

He narrows his eyes, and Pansy has to tell herself not to fidget as he stares with the look, intense and appraising. The look, as if he can tell better than herself how much she is lying, has been lying for the better part of her life.

“Well,” he says finally, leaning back so she can breathe properly. “What do you think about the weather, Parkinson?”

She blinks. “Oh, the weather. It’s marvelous. The sweat and the humidity, the smell is of course—”

He chuckles. “Sounds nice.”

“How was Brazil?”

He taps his index thoughtfully on his glass before taking a sip. “Not very different.”

“I see.”

“A bit high on humidity, I guess. But it was cooler at night. The sky was so clear. I stayed in Santa Teresa mostly, a nice neighborhood. Beautiful place. You could see the milky way from my hotel room.”

A hotel room, probably double bed, with both them lingering in it through the early hours of the day. Her lips prick as she smiles back. “Sounds nice.”

A wistful, soft smile curves his lips. “We should’ve done this more often.”

“Done what?”

“Talk. Smile. Stare at each other.”

Suddenly she’s immersed in him, in this goddamn miasma of wistfulness. Ache and longing, tasting like blueberries, like peaches on a summer morning. In a glitz, the last few years rush into her head. All those sparse, irrelevant conversations, polite greetings, smiling in acknowledgement amidst a party. A sea of people, all busy and important, yet his presence glowing like the backend of a sun. Of finding him somehow, inexplicably staring at her when she’d finally give in to the measly habit of checking if he’s still there in the room. Of reading his horoscope after her own. All these moments, small and inconspicuous, build a picture she never was particularly keen on analysing. Still, as she finds a warmth creeping up her spine, her neck, her cheek, she can’t help mapping out the extent of his wish. What if?  

It is like mapping out a black hole. Like building an antithesis from everything that was missing. How do you measure something that isn’t there? How can she comprehend what they’ve missed now, after somewhere between half a fucking decade and their entire lives?

“You saved me once, you know,” she says gravely.

“Did I really?”

She nods. “My friends are good—they’re supportive. But none of them thought I’d be able to do this. You know, break away, start over and change, really. You believed in me when no one—and I mean no one else —did. I don’t know if you remember, but you had such grace… that night. You could've told me to become an astronaut, and I’d probably have given it a go.”

“I remember,” he says, and his face breaks in a glinting, wondrous smile. “Pansy, I do remember. I didn’t think you —well, I always had a secret hope that it meant as much to you as it did to me.”

She nods, not sure if she’s hearing him correctly. Or seeing correctly. Is he leaning in? Has the music stopped? Is there anyone in the world apart from them? 

“And I’ve never thanked you for it because,” she presses, “well, I’m afraid if you knew how hard I’ve been holding on to that—that hope of goodness in me, uhm, you’ll think I’m pathetic.”

“I don’t think you’re pathetic. Pansy, I think you are—” He blinks, suddenly stopping, as if sensing that she has stopped breathing altogether. “Do you remember that night we bumped into each other in Hogsmeade? It was our final year. You were there because it was—”

“The night they released my father? Yeah. I remember.”

“You talked about how if one thing changes, everything else follows. You cross one line and suddenly the world’s all wrong side up.”

“Maybe. I was drunk.”

“I know,” he says strangely. “I just wanted to say that It was the first time after the war I could entirely relate to someone. It was all murky after the war, too many healing charms, too many pain killers… I was so fucked up. Dissociating, picking fights and suddenly I saw you, and you were so lonely and bitter and I could—I could feel everything you were feeling. You asked me if I was lonely and broken and I…”

He shakes his head, closing his eyes as if he too is conjuring the memory, the snow and the chill and the obvious, irrefutable desperation. He opens his eyes and says, “I wanted to say that to you for a long, long time. Maybe since the moment you asked. I even have it all written somewhere, just to stare at it. It’s one of those things, you know? Those moments you wish you could go back and change, fix. I feel like if I’d told you that night, everything would be different. Better. ”

“Better how?”

He leans in, and she can smell him, the brunt of the alcohol, cigarettes, and somehow, inexplicably, peach. “Don’t you know, Pansy?”

Doesn’t she know? Hasn’t she always had a private suspicion that everything she felt when he was around and when he was not—the spark, the magic, the lingering pain slithering over her chest was somehow infectious? Reaching a viral hand that somehow, through everything that separated them, touched him too? Didn’t she always hope?

She leans over and kisses him. 

Her ears ring in defiance. He catches her by the shoulder, lips parting instantly, insistently as if he can’t help himself. Unsurprisingly, too, as if he knew she’d do this, fall back into him. Touch him. The song blares overhead as his hands move upwards, now he’s touching her cheek, and she’s grappling at his collar. The past, like a halo, glows over her. She almost stumbles back in time, staring at the girl and boy as she pulls him closer. There’s a buzz in her stomach like the nest of one hundred agitated butterflies and her heart flutters, hot and flush and—

He pulls back, suddenly. Cold air nips at her skin.

“What?” Pansy asks, breathless.

He traces her bottom lip with his thumb, his face bewildered. “Are you okay?”

“You keep asking me that.”

“You always seem…” He shakes his head. “I noticed Theodore leaving with Astoria.”

The mention of Theo shoots a sharp, but fragile pain in her chest. It takes a moment before she can stretch that uncaring, impassive smile on her lips. “Good for him.”

“And you?”

“All good. All—” A thought blinks at her, suddenly, invasively. She tilts her head. “Millie said you were looking for someone.” He blinks, and up this close, she can really marvel at his eyes, the forest green, the surprising gold speckled over his irises. Her question drops to a whisper. “Who were you looking for, Harry?”

His eyes are open with wonder, almost audacious with adoration. He swipes his thumb over her lower lips, leaning in, his breath ghosting over her mouth.

“You, Pansy,” he tells her, and she shivers from the proximity, the reality of it all. The way his eyes scan her face as if she’s the only person in the world. “Only you.”