Pansy/Cho
There’s a haze around the castle. Dust motes and spellfire residue cling to the air. They’d been protected in the dungeons where Filch had finally set them free moments ago. But now… now they can see the remnants of the battle they had missed.
Pansy surveys The Great Hall where tables are set up as they always have been: the four houses, separate.
Scanning her classmates, Pansy notices the quiet differences: Dennis sits alone clutching a dirty camera; Lavender is absent—dead, Pansy assumes—and her, in dirty jeans and a Tutsill Tornados shirt.
Theo’s shoulder knocks against hers and nods his head toward the near-empty Slytherin table. Her lips tremble, unable to ignore the scathing whispers that follow her.
The Slytherins don’t speak, keeping their gazes on their empty plates in a silence filled with penance.
Until she appears by Pansy’s side. Eyes red-rimmed and haunted, gaze dropping to the dusty floor. Pansy can’t look away—she’s missed Cho, her slight body, her irreplaceable laugh, and the secret smiles shared as Cho weaves around the Quidditch pitch.
Still, Pansy can’t let her do this.
“You shouldn’t be here, Chang.”
Cho finally meets her gaze. “Move over.”
Shaking her head, Pansy whispers. “Go sit with your own.”
“You are mine.”
She’s reminded of sixth year. Of dark alcoves and abandoned classrooms. Of promises wrapped up in breathy sighs. The nights Cho claimed her. The nights she claimed Cho.
Without another word, Pansy makes room for her. On the bench and in her heart.