Magnets

Touch is a language on its own.

It’s a clash of atoms, a dissonance, repelling, pulling and meeting at the sight of two people coming into each other, transforming each other. Touch was there when nothing else was. It’s an invitation. It’s a cry for help. Pansy remembers being nine and scratching her knee on the grounds, she remembers being resorted to nothing but a helpless animal, an overlooked pet at the doorstep for her mother. Waiting to be picked up. Waiting to be coddled, kissed, touched at the site of hurt. Her mother made her elderly governess do it all. Pansy had never felt more betrayed. Memory floats, unbidden, of her when she was fourteen; memory of Draco in his grey robes panting over her. The abandoned classroom echoed their sounds—the grunts, the slick studding of bodies awkwardly meeting each other—like some foreign noise, blunted out. Muted. He held her waist, covered with her peach-pink silk robe, throughout it all. And when he came on top of her exposed thighs, he touched her cheek. She almost cried at the softness.

It’s the first instinct she remembers, except for hunger. Then again, perhaps it was just hunger with another name. Her mother did always say that she was a needy child. Desperate for attention. Feral for approval.

The first time she ever touched Harry Potter, skin on skin, without her turquoise silk gloves and his oversized robes coming to the rescue, was on the sixth day of their practice. His cheeks were a light baby pink in colour as he concentrated, his eyes were a brilliant shade of forest green, flaked with gold. She remembers the colours, recalls the dents, hollowed by unsteady sleep, with crystal clear sharpness. His fingers shook when she asked him to think about the exact weather of his memory. She reached out, before she could stop herself, to push against the tremor. He blinked. Time stopped.

They hadn’t stopped since.

Where do you want to take you? She asked every time. Even when she knew the answer.

Where do you want me to touch you? He whispered in her ear. Even when he knew the answer.

Something shifted in their skin from the first touch. Her pressure against the shiver. His grip on her elbow. Some molecules rearranged like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. His index flitting against the shell of her ear when he inspected the earning he gifted her, a half-moon smile blooming on his lips. Her breaking off the crusts of sleep from the corner of his eyes while calling him a brute. Him tracing the crescent shaped scar on her thigh. Her rewriting the words I must never tell a lie on the back of his palm. The way he picked her up by the waist and twirled her in thin air when he found out she decluttered some of the mess of his house, number twelve Grimmauld Place with Kreacher, somewhat proud to have a pureblood mistress.

Soot in her hair, dust on her cheeks; when they kissed, she tasted the age old mystery of the house, the history stuck behind the pillars. Sharp and sweet like cinnamon and clove, alive with magic.

Do you wanna go somewhere? I could take you. Where do you want me to take you? Harry had asked her with his arms around her shoulder. The day another damning article published on the Prophet about her. She was shamefully tired of people skewering her past like it was a piece of char-black meat. Good, honest people like her assistant believing that she deserved it.

Here , she answered, melting further into his body, soaking up the heat, feeling the collar of his robes grazing on her cheek. Just here.

Touch is a language on its own. Sentient. Feline. Creeping under your skin like a charm. Like the first time she heard him speak Parseltongue. A hiss, barely a wisp of breath, whistling out from his sleepy mouth. Pansy shuddered in the dark as she felt the touch of the foreign language, palpable, bristling under her skin. His eyes, closed with uneasy sleep, fluttered when she shook him. He hissed again. She’d heard about it, of course. Now she knew why everyone was afraid of it. Sibilating, velvet silky threatening. Barely a sound, barely anything else.

He couldn’t recall much when he woke up. Except the dread. Just the dread. She pulled him in.

You make it bearable though. Tired eyes, tired smile.

She shivered under the warm sheets . I could make it better. I could... where do you want me to touch you?

His lips parted, soft and dry. A heavy sigh left her mouth when he gripped her hand to lead to his chest. The middle of it. His heartbeat thumped under her palm.

Here , he whispered, soft and slow. Just here.

Pansy’s life spirals into a mesh of office visits and curating words of other people and running away, desperately, insistently from the words she’s afraid to say, the person she has never been strong enough to be. Her days fall into an immaculate routine with dinners and auctions and smiling coyly at her friends and pretending it never grates, never even bothers her to be lost in the cracks of senseless, bottomless convention. Most of the days she’s alright. Life dredges on, limping, hopping from one day to another like a maimed pet, hoping someone doesn’t notice her screaming, hoping they do.

At least she doesn’t meet with suitors anymore. She’d put an end to it the day that blasted article of Harry’s came out. 

Pansy Parkinson is an exceptional individual. Her unique perspective and natural pragmatism illuminates on every task she takes on. 

He droned about her ethics after that. Pansy couldn’t read the first time for the tear. She cried for half an hour, then wrote to her mother to bugger off.

A childish resolute, like biting into one’s own tongue to spite their mother. I’ll live my life. But no one can force me to be happy. Pansy almost convinces herself that she’s fine.

And then he comes into her life again.

Of course he does.

“This can’t go on,” Harry Potter announces loudly, swinging the door shut behind him.

Her office door shuts off with a blare. Wood on wood. The files in the hand slip and fall, with a plum, fat noise as she jerks her head back in surprise. Wine sloshes uncomfortably in her empty stomach as she stands. Pansy shudders at the intrusion, even before seeing him, dark robes like a blot of ink against the backdrop of the bleak white walls, excruciatingly real, standing with a closed off, determined look on his face. He stands still, hands clenched, lips pursed. Ready to fight.

The heavy oak door, now shut, is closing in on the distance between them.

She has always been overtly aware of it—the distance between her and him and everything else. She can tell—without knowing how, only guessing that it must be from somewhere deep, somewhere subconscious that only he is able to snatch that out—that there’s exactly five steps between them for her, three for him, and eternity to everyone else.

His face is flushed like the wine she gulped to calm her nerves. His stunned, irregular breath tapes off, swirls in the sour air. It hangs there like the silence, like a rope for a moment. Just enough for her to square her shoulders and build up her resolve.

“I can’t—”

“No,” Pansy breathes the word out. And as soon as she hears her voice, the timbre, the bristle, it tingles at her lips; it clicks —like a bolt to a lock. And suddenly, it’s easier. “No,” she says again, surprised, curiously light.

His entire face contorts. He takes a step.

Two steps for him. Four for her.

“Excuse me?” he asks incredulously, as if he never dreamt she’d ever refuse him. The audacity .

“I said no .”

“You didn’t even hear what I want to ask.”

“I don’t have to.” Memory, sex, love. None of it. She’d give him none. It’s been two months. She’s been trimming her edges each minute for sixty five days, diligently, like a gardener, or a sculptor. She’s weighed on the pros and cons, hurts and hearts and she knows now—with her skin raw and red—that she did the right thing.

“You can’t possibly —”

“Harry, I will not let you venture into your memory again,” her voice shakes, slightly. It sounds like an echo in itself. But she’s able to settle her weight on her heels with more determination. More purpose. “It’s bad for you.”

“Yeah, I know.” He says sourly. “You... explained it pretty well to Ron.”

Heat rises to her neck. She knew—of course she did—that Weasley would repeat her words to him. She’d made an active effort not to trudge up exactly what she’d spluttered in her hysteria. Or how he’ll look like when he hears them, but it’s hard to keep the thoughts—images, possibilities—at bay when he’s right here. In her office, with his scent—cigarettes and mint—wafting over the air between them.

Two steps.

She coughs. “ Yes , well—it’s the truth.”

His lips curl into a... she can’t say, exactly. “You explained it to Ron .”

“I told you, too. Many times I—”

 “I know.” He shakes his head, a dark fringe falling messily on his forehead. His hair is still messy. She still wants to fix it. “But... fuck, Pansy, you never said it was between you or that.”

“What?”

“You never said you’d leave if I didn’t... you never said that I had to choose .”

“Harry, I don’t—”

“Because I’d choose you. Merlin, I—” He runs his hand through his hair. He looks dishevelled. Lost. Like he’d just come out of a memory. “You knew that, right?”

Her mouth goes dry. A terse blip of silence follows the studding, drumming noise of her heart and she stutters back, dazed. She leans back and her hips dig into her desk and her hands—weightless, airy—settles on either side for leverage.

I’d choose you.

“I know I was reckless,” he carries on limply. “I know I went farther than safe. But you were always there with me. I felt... protected. So why on earth would you even think that I—”

“You’d choose me?”

“Yes.” That same incredulous look. “I told you, Parkinson, I love you.”

There. It’s out here again. Like an infection. Like a chill in the waiting to catch her cells. Her heart hammers on like a drum.

“Do you—” she croaks, breaking off. Blinks to regain composure. Again, “Do you remember that you said it to me? At the hospital, I mean.”

“Of course I do.”

“You were drugged. You said that you saw me in that cave.”

“A dream.”

“Projection of your memory. You couldn’t tell if it was real or not. You’d been slacking in work, you were having nightmares consecutively. Every night I had to take you to a new memory to gloss over the old ones. How can you possibly remember if—”

“I was drugged, not dead.” His eyes narrow. “I think you give me a lot less credit than I deserve.”

Words clot in her mouth. Clatter in her useless head. It takes an effort to string a coherent sentence. “You were hysteric.”

“I was restless. I wanted to let you know before I fell asleep.”

“Restlessness is a side-effect of—”

“Pansy, don’t .”

“What?”

“You’re deflecting, again. You’re running away.”

“I was not—I love you,” she hisses. Harry’s entire face contorts, flutters for the briefest moment before opening up. And Pansy can’t help that her mind wanders to a memory— his memory. Boy in front of the mirror of desire. Face opened up, a happiness to sharp it was almost painful.

She grips the wood tighter. “I was saving you.”

Another flutter. His cheeks flush with indigence. “And you didn’t think I’d have anything to add to that?”

“It’s my decision to—”

“I love you, you moron—” No one had ever called her a moron in her entire life. “How dare you think that it’s just your decision to make?” He scoffs. “You know what? This is just you, Pansy. This is just you snatching control of the situation the worst possible way because you can’t stand the idea of letting someone in.”

A flash of white hot anger bursts in her scalp. “I let you in.”

“And then you pushed me out,” he snaps, “without so much of a warning. I laid there on the bed, alone, drugged, swimming in and out of consciousness, thinking about you . Grasping on thoughts of you to stay afloat. And then I wake up to find Ron telling me you left. You left me when I needed you .”

Don’t leave, she remembers the words from another world, another night. A different reality altogether.

“You needed me,” she repeats now, dully, her insides twisting with a newfound vengeance. “But I couldn’t do what you needed me for without destroying you.”

“What do you mean needed you for ? For intimacy? For love ?”

Everything is too fast for her to process. Her heartbeat, the ever oncoming tide of blood in her ears, the glazing, tar-like insistence of his words. It snares up on her body by the ankles. It grips her skin like vines. Accusation prickles like thorns on her tongue. “You say you need me, for love, and yet every time I asked you… when we were…” She doesn’t want to say the word, doesn’t want to sound like a child. 

“What?”

“ Close . Every time we were close, and I asked you, you choose a memory instead of staying at present, in reality, with me.”

 “What? I don’t… then why did you ask me?”

“I wanted to keep you.” She sounds like a child. An impatient, impertinent child. Keep him. Like he was a fine piece of china, or an antique she wasn’t supposed to touch. “Why didn’t you ever decline?”

He takes a step. She’s close enough to see his pupils dilate. “You… you’re so closed off as it is, how could I risk breaking that fucking routine of ours? How could I know... you didn’t think I wondered, too? If you only needed me for your own demons?”

“Excuse me?”

The breath she tries to take stutters in her throat, unable to move. He carries on, not noticing her stupor. “You need to go to the memories as much as I do. You always need proof that you’re not the only one who feels… spent. You need to know others resent their history as much as you do… You used me just like I used you.”

“Harry!”

“But that’s OK, baby,” he says quickly, finally catching up to the fire in her throat. He touches her shoulder. “Don’t you see? It’s OK because we love each other.”

She scoffs. “Are you mental? How could that ever be—”

“Because that’s how relationships work, Pansy. We need each other, we feed off one another. And we let the other person do this because we love them, we want them better.”

Her mouth is dry. She can’t recall ever feeling so utterly weightless. “I couldn’t let this ruin you. I couldn’t... keep my rationality with you. I couldn’t say no and you wouldn’t stop and that’s why we have to... I couldn’t refuse you when you—”

“Refuse me? You don’t seem to have that problem now.”

“Because I practiced .”

“See? So that’s perfectly—”

“This is bad, Harry. You were… you should go back. Get better. Listen, the things that happened to you—the things that made you damaged and made you be with me should not have happened in an ideal world. So, in an ideal world this—” She gestures vaguely to the space between them. All that has happened, tar black lines of history she can never wash out. “ this would not have happened.”

“The things that made you bitter and cold and scared shouldn’t have happened in an ideal world, too, you know. Maybe, in an ideal world we do end up together. For different reasons.”

Pansy stays silent. His eyes widen.

“Oh god. You can't even fathom the idea that I can see you— actually see you—and love you for what you are.”

Her right hand reaches out, shrivels into the air like a leaf before it drops down. Gravity. “I’m just saying… you met me when you were looking for an escape—I was essentially your dealer , Harry. It’s only logical that whatever you felt… what  we felt was heightened by what we did. It’s not normal—”

“I love you because you’re fascinating and intelligent and the most empathetic person I’ve ever fucking met.” A spark of warmth flashes inside her skin as he touches her cheek. “You’re also impossibly beautiful, by the way. And you think I’d be happier with Ginny? Or I’d like… Rose? You don't see it, do you? He laughs, astounded. More perplexed than offended. “The entire night, when I wasn’t physically with you, I was comparing her to you. That she doens’t know much about horoscopes or law of relativity, she’s almost as crazy as you about antiques. I... I compare everyone to you. it's probably another complex of mine because it's entirely fruitless because—”

“Harry—”

“No one ever adds up.”

She has her argument ready, as hasty and erratic as they may sound. But the feral tenderness of his words has her shell-shocked. Makes her want to see sense in the chaos. She doesn’t want to fight him, she wants to elaborate . All of it. She wants to spell out her reasons, reasons that stick on her skin like vines. Reasons she knows by heart. The coils of them, sinew-like, rope like. For no conceivable reason, she wants him to understand too.

Then she wants him to break off all the logics.

An ear-splitting crack. Pansy almost jumps at the sudden clatter of noise. Her heart stuck to her throat, burning, respondent, as she whips her head to find a broken radio on the ground. Beside the smashed instrument her assistant Hannah stands, eyes wide and unapologetically set at them. Apparently, she’s heard what he said.

Pansy feels her cheeks blaze, a sureshot embarrassment makes her lips tremble. Harry’s voice comes out like a hiss, “Could we get one minute of privacy, please? ”

The blonde girl’s mouth falls open. A flush rises to her cheeks that seems to be more due to surprise than embarrassment. Harry is not the sort of person to—

“Leave us, Hannah,” Pansy tries to say kindly, without her voice breaking.

“But… we—we already sent the file to the auror depart—”

Pansy can’t—for the love god—recall what she’s talking about. She can’t find it in herself to care. She stares back at Harry who hasn’t moved away. Still staring in her face, still reading her expression. If Hannah knows, the entirety of the ministry is bound to get the lascivious details by noon tomorrow.

Pansy tries to sound casual as she sets her palms on top of his. Touch. Like the missing piece in a jigsaw puzzle. “It’s personal,” she replies, not looking away.

[DAY 199]

I’m so messed up, he breathed out. Pansy’s breath hitched in the middle of a moan. Stuck, crystallised in the air. She opened her eyes to find his already open, intent, on her face. Pupils dilated for all the effort, a thin line of sweat trickled down from his scalp. Her hands circled around his shoulder tightened like an instinct. He pulled her waist to make her sit closer on of him, legs on either side. Entirely naked.

I’m fucked up , he whispered again.

It’s OK , she trailed the crescent bite mark on his neck. Dark purple and blue lining the row of teeth. Fresh. Hers. We’re all a bit—

You’ve seen it now. He titled his face to catch her eyes. Don’t leave now that you’ve seen it .

She knew that look, wide eyes, scared eyes. She’d seen them blinking back at her from her mirror. Desperate for attention. Feral for approval.

Her index pressed into the hickey. The dark room smelled of sex and cigarette. And newly washed sheets.

I’m not leaving , she said finally, shifting to sit straighter. His length slid inside her further, fuller. She bit back another moan. Harry hesitated before he swayed forward, kissed her bottom lip first, then the top.

Then they moved. Slick and sweaty and hushed.

Below them, the ringing laughter of the party floated up like a charm. They were at 12 Grimmauld Place. Christmas. The last one he celebrated with his godfather.

That was the same night she heard him speak Parseltongue for the first time.

She cleaned the blasted house with Kreacher the next day, not correcting him when he called her mistress.

In the dark, she traces the creases their bodies left on the sheets. His room glints under the moonlight, shadows dance on the wall in lazy harmony. Pansy checks her breathing like she checks the waves of the wind rustling the covers of his window. Her right hand, the she let him grip in the party, still glows incandescently. She can’t believe she allowed it, can’t believe it hadn’t happened sooner.

The silence brewing between them is comfortable, warm—something she can imagine living into. She clasps her other hand, the one not illuminated with his and turns to his side of the bed. Covers up, fully clothed, he’s already looking back. His lips are curled into a half smile, a wistful smile and she leans closer. The silence is soft, is everything she could wish for and—

“Can you take me somewhere?”

Her heart drops. She knows that tone.

He continues calmly, tenderly, “It’s not like that. It’s a memory I want you to see.”

Her voice catches. “I thought you met with the healer I—”

“I did. I am , Pansy.” He touches her hand. 

“Then why—”

“I want you to see this. This one memory. Trust me with this.”

“With…”

“You can get me out any time you want. I trust you to do that.” He nudges his nose with hers. “I trust you with that. You need to trust me too.”

She blinks. There are a dozen arguments lying at the tip of her tongue. Just as many questions. Her heart twists in knots, uncomfortable, unsure. And yet, the look he gives her is earnest. 

Pansy takes a careful, measured breath. “The last one?”

“The last one. I promise you.”

The courtyard bristles with morning light, harsh, blinding as usual. Like rippling of a hundred streaks reflecting from a crystal. All sharp and pearlescent. Too much. The ground trembles under her feet before settling down. Pansy blinks at the light, her chest fizzing at the same disorienting sensation before she can settle, too. Hazes of forest green and brown and blue simmers in front of her. The air is crispy, smelling flowery sweet.

She knows its autumn even before the scene settles.

Then she notices the little girl.

It’s bright even when the memory sets. Pansy’s bare heels soak the moisture of the damp grass below, her sundress flutters at her knee as the wind, cool, soft breezes past them. She leans back instinctively when Harry touches her waist. Her head buzzes with an unfamiliar lightness, a flutter of confidence. They’re at Hogwarts, standing in the ground stretching out to meet the mythical lake. Can’t she smell the cool water? The distant, soothing hum of merpeople? She can see the water, too, rippling in silver shards, if she decides to turn back. But her eyes stay glued to the girl in dark robes, back against the trunk. Sunlight filters through the thick leaves and flickers, unceremoniously on the girl as she sits, hunched, face hidden in her palms.

Harry presses a kiss on the crown of her head. She can tell he’s smiling.

She can also tell that the memory is unpolluted.

Yet.

Carefully, she takes a step forward. Harry follows suit with his grip still on her waist. The girl doesn’t stir. A small, slight figure, doll-like, pristine-like; her skin is pale, arms are thin, knees smooth, her dark hair is pulled back in a vicious ponytail. Pansy squints. There’s a sliver of colour in the middle of her shirt... a deep, dark spring green. It was a Slytherin tie, she realises.

Pansy gasps.

“Is that—?”

“Yeah,” Harry says softly. “That’s you.”

She shakes her head in confusion. “What is this memory? I don’t remember...”

A boy rushes into the view. Small and skinny, his dark hair flipping on his forehead as she sprints to the castle. Pansy’s heart stutters. His scarlet tie swishes against the wind.

“It’s the first time we met,” Harry says.

She stares, unblinking, unable to hide her surprise, unable to come to terms with it. She doesn’t remember, even though she knows, without a doubt, with a baleful certainty cutting through her logic that it must be true. The memory is * and untainted. True. Strange, she always knew of him, the famous orphan wizard. She just doesn’t remember actually meeting him without a herd of people surrounding them.

“I don’t remember,” she whispers.

“It’s OK,” he replies, pressing his chin on top of her head. “Just watch.”

He stops, suddenly, when he notices the girl. His bag hangs precariously from his shoulder at the sudden halt. From the distant, Pansy can see confusion muzzling his features.

“Are you OK?” he asks timidly. His fingers slip in and out of his pocket. Pansy would smile at his discomfort if she wasn’t so busy being mesmerised. They look so tiny . Soft and inconsequential. Malleable like a slab of mud.

The girl— Pansy , younger, dumber, shinier—snuffles.

“Go away,” she says, croaks, really, after a moment—with what Pansy can assume a great deal of self-control. She’s still hiding her face in her hands. Pansy may not remember the memory, but she remembers the girl, like a negative image, like a blurry, watercolour painting. The little girl is trying to stop crying, ascertain the state of her face if she looks up. She couldn’t let a boy see her so... disheveled.

Young Harry tries again, “It’s... do you need help?”

“No.”

The Harry standing behind her snorts gleefully. “Defensive.”

She can’t stop herself from biting back. “Invasive.”

“That’s what you call a good boy trying to help?”

“That’s what you call a tired girl wanting peace?”

His answering laughter chimes sweetly in the background as the boy fumbles with his retort, red in the face. The girl smudges at her face determinedly and shivers before straightening her posture and looking up.

Pansy gasps.

The girl, sniffling, red eyes, looks even smaller than she did before. Her pale skin reflects like a pearl on the scenery. Her lips tremble, helpless, not curled in the sneer she always imagined herself having. She cranes her neck when Harry nudges her. The girl... the child is so different than what she remembers.

“I am perfectly alright,” she snaps. Then, perhaps guessing it was unbecoming, adds, “Thank you for your concern.”

Harry doesn’t seem to have that disconcertion. He kisses her neck, the pulsepoint, with a smile pulling at his lips. His arms tighten around her as the girl stares up at the boy, eyes squinting, lips pursed.

“So well-spoken,” he mumbles.

“You don’t look alright,” young Harry replies kindly. “Do you want—”

“I want you to leave me— wait a minute .” Her lips part. Pansy can tell exactly when she—the girl—recognises the boy. Her entire body juts up, brimming with interest. Her eyes shine.

Apparently, young Harry notices it as well. He shifts his weigh on the other leg, bends down to pick up his books.

“You’re... him,” she says. “You’re Harry Potter .”

His fingers twitch. “Yeah.”

“I can’t believe... I’ve heard, of course, but you can’t trust Daphne with—” She shuts off, again, and again Pansy sees her eyes widen, sees her hand twitch at her sides. The young Pansy sits straighter, her mouth hardening as if she remembered some awful fact.

The boy stands with his shoulder slacking to his left with the weight of the books.

The girl’s mouth curl in a snotty sneer. “Well, I’ve heard about you from Draco, too.”

His eyes narrow. “Draco Malfoy ?”

“He is my friend,” she replies proudly. Pansy remember when it felt good to say that, as if being his friend made her worthy of some greater renown.

“Your friend?”

“Well—” She sits straighter. Just like her mother taught her. “I am going to marry him someday, if you should know.”

Pansy’s cheek flame with embarrassment. But Harry stays still, his fingers flitting on her dress, nails bluntly scratching the dip of the fabric just under her breasts.

Young Harry chuckles disdainfully. “Good luck with that.”

His scorn catches up with her. Her cheeks puff up, red with the heat. “What?”

“Nothing. Just... no wonder you’re crying. If I was getting married to that pointy git—”

“Excuse you .” She stands up, positively indignant. “He is—”

“A moron?”

“Perfect.”

He laughs again.

“Well, he’s told me about you. How you sit on your high horse, completely overestimating yourself, surrounded by blood traitors and—”

“Don’t call them that!”

“Don’t call Draco a moron!”

Words fly, Pansy can’t catch half of them. By the time they finish, his face is puffed up in anger, hers is twisted in spite. His books fall over again, and she scratched the die of her own robes in scorn. She can feel Harry chuckle at them, can tell when he breaths deeper, but she can’t concentrate too hard, dissect every sigh, because she’s too busy coming to terms with the whirlwind in her own chest.

The girl in front of her is scathing, edgy, strung out like the sting of a guitar pulled too tight. She spits out mean words and harsh scoffs, but she also scratches her own skin when she’s distressed, when she can’t find the answer she’s supposed. Pansy remember the chilled down rage of hers, the spite tittering on the surface of her skin, trying to break free like some nameless creature. Remembers how cheap it felt to say ugly things, but still liberating. Making someone else feel worthless sometimes resulted in a false sense of self-sustenance.

At last, the kids have had enough. The girl stomps her feet and the boy scowls disapprovingly. Pansy stares helplessly as he gives her a once over before turning around, determined. The girls lets out a strangled scream, before she too turns around, dejected, scornful. The wind ruffles the long, thick leaves and somewhere along the memory, the smell has turned sweeter, thicker, slithering into her skin every time she takes a breath.

Pansy can’t help the deep, piercing ache in her chest.

“Look at them go,” Harry says, his voice soft with wonder.

“It was...” Her voice itches. “How do you remember?”

“I always did.” Another kiss on the side of her head. His sharp fresh mint cologne mixes with the autumn air. “And lately I’ve been thinking about it more often.”

The little girl unravelled something in her. Her forced out, strangled scream whirls around Pansy’s mind like a record. “I just realised... I wasn’t fair, right?”

“About what, darling?”

“All these time I spent hating me... hating her. I didn’t— she didn’t deserve all that hate.”

She feels him shaking his head in assurance.

“I mean, I did a lot of horrible things and said so many...” She struggles. He waits. “I mean I owe a lot of people apologies, but I also owe myself and that girl a life. I deserve a life.”

“You do.”

Pansy takes her time before turning around and facing him, his smile as bright as the day itself, his breath, as she kisses him, as fresh as the autumn air. The corner of his eyes crinkle, openly, unguardedly, when he smiles at her. She feels her inhibition chase off with his freshness like lime after a shot. She touches his cheeks, smiles instead of saying anything else. She guesses she could repeat she loves him again, she hasn’t said it too many times, not nearly enough. Or maybe she could elaborate the reasons why, like she told Ron Weasley at Mungo’s. But he knows it all anyway. Always did, even when she hadn’t accepted it herself. There’s nothing to say, she feels, but to hold on tight and true. The memory glitz, shifts in pressure because it doesn’t have their whole attention anymore. There are more important things to move to. She reaches up to catch his lips in what she presumes the first of many more surefooted kisses, good morning kisses, goodbye kisses, kisses for reassurance, or luck, or in the middle of an argument because they can’t help themselves. There’s a whole plethora of futures she doesn’t yet know, hundreds of wishes she can still conjure.

They both can.

The girl and boy of the memory run their separate ways, they are yet to make a hundred thousand mistakes before they find their paths crossed again.

The man and the woman hold onto each other tighter. The kiss, when she finally reaches up, is sweeter than anything she’s ever imagined.