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Pansy Parkinson perched on the stone bench just inside the Slytherin common room, legs crossed at the ankle, robes perfectly pressed. Her Transfiguration essay was open on her lap, but her eyes weren't on it. They were trained, discreetly, on Draco Malfoy.
He stood a few feet away, deep in conversation with Vaisey and Montague, arms folded, brow furrowed in that intense, delicious way of his. Pansy wasn't sure what they were talking about, Quidditch probably, but she didn't care. He looked magnificent. Pale and sharp and completely out of reach.
Until he turned to her.
"Pans," he said, his voice low and clipped, just the way she liked it. "Come here."
She snapped the book shut and stood in one graceful movement, pretending not to care that her heart had given a little jolt at the sound of that nickname. He rarely used it anymore, not since sixth year. Not since he'd started keeping distance.
"Yes?" she asked, folding her arms in what she hoped was a bored expression. Play it cool. Don't look eager.
Draco glanced over his shoulder at the others and then jerked his head for her to follow him down the corridor. She obeyed without question.
He waited until they were out of earshot, near the alcove that looked into the green-filtered depths of the lake, before he spoke.
"Potter's hiding something," Draco said.
Pansy blinked. "Other than his usual chronic self-righteousness and complete disregard for style?"
Draco's mouth twitched, but he didn't smile. "Quidditch, Parkinson. Gryffindor's changing up their formations this year. He's up to something, probably thinks he's being clever. I need to know what it is."
She stared at him. "So...you want me to ask him?"
"No. I want you to get close. Observe. Pretend you care about his team, his little flying routines, whatever. Talk to him. Get him to let something slip." His grey eyes flicked to hers, cool and sharp. "He's soft. He'll talk if you act interested."
Pansy hesitated. This was ridiculous. She didn't want to flirt with Harry bloody Potter. She didn't want to fake a smile at someone who barely knew she existed outside of an insult.
But Draco was asking.
And he was looking at her, the way he used to in third year, when he still saved her seats in class and asked her opinion on his tie.
"This is important," he added, voice low. "I need someone I can trust."
The words settled on her skin like perfume. I need someone I can trust.
"Fine," she said, lifting her chin. "I'll do it."
His smile was faint and approving. "Knew I could count on you."
Then he turned and walked back toward the others, leaving her alone in the corridor with her pulse fluttering and her pride stung.
But, somewhere deep in her gut, past the thrill of his attention and the satisfaction of usefulness, was a pinprick of something colder.
I need someone I can trust, he'd said.
Funny how, the more she thought about it, it sounded more like I need someone expendable.
o-o-o-o-o
Pansy Parkinson did not belong in the library on a Saturday afternoon. Or rather, she did, visually at least. She looked like she belonged everywhere. Immaculate uniform, glossy black hair pinned just so, expensive perfume that whispered wealth and tradition. But she preferred more glamorous backdrops. Places with mirrors and conversation, not dusty tomes and tired Ravenclaws.
Still, here she was, gliding between rows of bookshelves in search of a certain messy-haired Gryffindor with a hero complex and an unfortunately endearing scowl.
She spotted him near the back, hunched over a book on Quidditch theory like it was a Transfiguration text. A quill was tucked behind his ear, and his glasses had slipped a fraction down his nose. He looked confused. Good.
Pansy took a breath, squared her shoulders, and approached like she was attending a diplomatic reception. Unhurried. Regal.
"Potter," she said smoothly, standing just beside his table.
Harry jerked like someone had hexed him under the ribs. "What, uh, Parkinson?"
She offered a thin, nonchalant smile, the kind that implied she was doing him a favor by remembering his name. "Don't look so surprised. I can read."
His brow knit, eyes flicking around as though someone might jump out and yell pranked. "Are you...lost?"
Pansy bit back a sigh. Merlin, he's hopeless.
"I'm simply expanding my horizons," she said, pulling out the chair opposite him without asking. "Besides, it's not like the library's patented Gryffindor territory, is it?"
He blinked. "Er...no?"
"Good." She sat, ignoring the way he looked completely thrown off by her presence. As if she'd sat down in the middle of his dormitory, not a public table. "What are you reading?"
Harry hesitated. "Um. Quidditch tactics."
She leaned forward, resting her chin lightly on her hand. "How riveting."
He stared. "Since when do you care about Quidditch?"
"Since now."
More blinking. She wondered if he needed his glasses checked.
"I've been told I should take more of an interest," she added airily. "You know, broaden my social interactions. Branch out beyond... Slytherin."
His eyes narrowed slightly, confusion giving way to suspicion. "Are you...trying to be nice to me?"
Pansy smiled, cool, effortless, and untouchable. "Does that offend you, Potter? A girl being nice?"
"No, it's just..." He rubbed the back of his neck. "You used to hex my shoelaces together in first year."
"You've improved," she said simply. "I'm adapting."
Harry blinked again. She counted three full seconds of silence.
"Well," he finally said, looking like he'd rather face a nundu than continue the conversation, "um...you can read if you want. I'll just... keep doing this."
Pansy gave him a serene nod and opened the magazine she'd brought, Witch Weekly, which she had no intention of reading.
As Harry awkwardly bent back over his notes, ears tinged red, Pansy allowed herself a small, private smirk.
Step one accomplished. The princess had descended, and the boy was flustered.
Now all she had to do was survive more of these painfully awkward encounters without hexing herself out of sheer boredom, or worse, enjoying his company.
o-o-o-o-o
Draco was waiting near the entrance to the dungeons, leaning against the wall like he had nothing better to do than look like a portrait of brooding elegance. Pansy spotted him instantly as she swept down the corridor, robes billowing behind her like storm clouds.
He glanced up. "Well?"
She raised an eyebrow, slowing just enough to let him fall into step beside her. "It was about as thrilling as a cauldron-stirring manual. Honestly, Draco, are you certain Potter has a brain under all that hair?"
Draco smirked faintly. "You tell me. That's what you're for."
Pansy scoffed. "Hardly. I tried to get him to speak. Offered him my attention, my company, charm. And he just blinked at me like a befuddled house-elf. It's a miracle he doesn't trip over his own feet in the corridors."
"Did he say anything useful?"
She rolled her eyes. "Something about Quidditch tactics. I didn't even have to bring it up. He's apparently reading about them like a fifth-year before O.W.L.s. Very noble. Very tragic. Very dull."
Draco's mouth twitched in amusement, and Pansy flushed with warmth. She lived for those barely-there reactions.
"He didn't suspect anything," she added, just a touch more smugly. "He looked about as comfortable as a flobberworm at a fashion show."
"Good," Draco said, gaze flicking toward her, sharp and thoughtful. "Keep pushing. Sit with him again. Maybe he'll let something slip if he thinks you're... interested."
She frowned slightly. "Draco, it's Potter. He doesn't do conversations. He's like one of those Muggle appliances. Press the wrong button and it just sparks and dies."
"Then press the right button." His tone was cool now, distracted. Already thinking about the next step.
Pansy hated that tone. Hated how it reminded her that she wasn't standing beside him, she was a piece on his chessboard.
Still, she lifted her chin. "Of course. If it's for you."
He didn't answer, didn't thank her, just gave a brief nod like she was a servant delivering his tea.
And yet, as he walked ahead, tall and sure and beautiful in that cruel way that only a Malfoy could manage, Pansy felt a little flutter of triumph.
She was helping him. She was useful. She was near him.
That was all that mattered.
…Even if, somewhere in the back of her mind, she could still see Potter blinking up at her like she'd grown a second head.
o-o-o-o-o
Pansy slid into the seat across from Harry Potter with the confidence of someone who had already decided she was doing him a favor.
This time, he didn't flinch or gape. He simply glanced up, gave her a cautious nod, and returned to his notes. Quill in hand, brow furrowed.
Pansy set down a slim green book with a pointed little thump.
"Did you know that in 1972, the Kenmare Kestrels switched to a box formation defense halfway through the season and cut their average goals against in half?"
Harry looked up, blinking. "Er… no?"
"Well, they did," she said breezily, flipping open the book. "It's in Keen Formations for Clever Captains. I thought it might be useful to see how professional teams adapt their play mid-season. Might help Gryffindor teams too."
Harry blinked again. "You're… reading Quidditch theory?"
"I don't just lounge around charming the suits off Slytherin boys, you know."
He turned a bit pink. "Didn't say you did."
She watched him a moment, then leaned forward slightly, feigning casual interest. "You're studying strategies for Gryffindor's match against Slytherin, aren't you?"
Harry hesitated, then nodded. "Trying to, yeah. You've got new Chasers, and they're fast. We've been relying too much on the breakaway."
Pansy nodded like she understood, which, thanks to an hour of aggressive skimming, she sort of did.
"You might want to try the collapsing arc. It's aggressive, but it pulls Chasers toward the edge of the pitch. If they're not used to tight corners, they'll fumble."
He blinked again, slower this time, like he was reprocessing her existence.
"You really have been reading."
She tilted her chin. "I don't do anything halfway."
"No offense," Harry said cautiously, "but why the sudden interest in Quidditch? Thought you hated flying."
"I do," Pansy said crisply. "But I don't hate winning."
Harry gave a surprised huff of laughter. Not quite a smile, but something close.
She found herself weirdly pleased by it.
"I suppose you think I'm only talking to you because I'm bored," she said, watching him out of the corner of her eye.
He looked up, studied her for a moment. "Honestly? I'm still trying to figure it out."
She arched an eyebrow. "Not used to girls sitting with you?"
"I mean… not girls who used to call me 'scar-head' before lunch."
"That was years ago," she said, and waved a hand. "I've matured."
He looked skeptical.
She sniffed. "Besides, I thought you'd be grateful. You have the honor of discussing tactics with a Slytherin."
"Right. An honor," Harry muttered, but there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes now.
She didn't know why, but it made her feel… lighter.
She flipped the book open again. "So. Tell me why you're relying on the breakaway. Surely your Beaters can control tempo better than that."
Harry blinked.
Then, without quite realizing it, he started to explain.
And Pansy, surprised by how easy it was to listen when he stopped blinking so much and actually talked, didn't interrupt once.
o-o-o-o-o
Draco didn't look up as Pansy approached him outside the Slytherin common room. He was leaned against the wall again, arms crossed, eyes fixed on some middle distance as if reality bored him.
She stopped in front of him with a practiced flick of her hair and a cool, "You're welcome."
He raised an eyebrow. "For?"
"Speaking to Potter again." She gave a little smirk. "He's actually trying to learn Quidditch strategy. Reading books. It's almost adorable."
Draco gave her a flat look. "I'm not interested in his bedtime reading."
Pansy's smirk wavered. "He's working on adapting a breakaway-focused style. Their Beaters aren't dictating tempo, he knows that's a weakness. He's trying to patch it with speed plays."
Draco pushed off the wall with a small sigh. "So he's trying. Fine. Did he say what they're running? What formations?"
"He's circling around collapsing arcs and mixed support-box formations. Mostly in theory." She shrugged. "Nothing locked in yet. But-"
"Then you don't have anything concrete."
She paused. "Well, no. But we did talk through some possible counter-formations-"
"You talked through counter-formations with Potter?"
He didn't shout, but the way he said it with sharp scorn made her stomach twist.
"I was playing along," she said defensively. "You told me to get close. I needed to sound like I wasn't just fishing."
Draco's mouth twisted. "I don't care how close you get, Pansy. If you're not getting usable intel, it's a waste of time."
Her spine went straight. "I told you what he's thinking."
"You told me what he's reading. That's not the same."
For a second, she imagined telling him the rest, how Potter had sketched out a counter to Slytherin's wide-pitch weave, how she'd pointed out a flaw in his support angles, how he'd actually listened. Asked questions. Seemed surprised that she had thoughts worth sharing.
She didn't say any of it.
Because Draco wouldn't care.
He didn't want her insights. He wanted Potter's plans. Nothing else mattered.
"Fine," she said coolly. "Next time I'll flirt harder."
Draco's smile was sharp and empty. "That's the spirit."
As he walked past her, she stood very still.
She told herself that what she felt wasn't disappointment.
Just... recalibration.
o-o-o-o-o
The common room was awash in green and silver, the cheers nearly deafening, but Pansy found herself only half-listening as Draco replayed the match for the third time, sprawled dramatically across the long velvet settee like he'd personally scored every goal himself.
"…and the best part," he said between bursts of laughter, "was when Weasley tried that desperate overhead pass. It nearly brained one of his own Chasers! They were fumbling, Pans. Potter had no idea what he was doing."
Millicent snorted into her butterbeer. "I thought Gryffindors were supposed to be brave, not stupid."
Draco held up his hand for silence, grinning like a man who'd just discovered his enemies were armed with water balloons instead of wands. "They didn't change formation for ten minutes. Ten. Minutes. It was like chasing first-years on toy brooms. We adapted, boxed them out, and Potter just kept calling the same pathetic sweep left. I almost felt bad for him."
Pansy offered the smile she knew Draco wanted, all teeth and superiority, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. She'd watched the game more closely than anyone. It had been a disaster. But she remembered something else too.
The look on Potter's face when he'd gathered his team in a huddle midair, sweat clinging to his brow, lips moving urgently, eyes scanning not the other players but the pitch, the angles. Like he was trying, desperately, to see something. Like he was chasing the ghost of a plan he didn't quite know how to bring to life.
"He's not completely hopeless," she said before she could stop herself.
Draco arched a perfectly groomed brow. "Pardon?"
Pansy waved a hand, covering quickly. "I just mean… he kept trying. That shows some promise, doesn't it? He did change tactics a few times. Late, sure, and poorly executed, but he's obviously studying the game. Not like last year when he flew purely on instinct."
Draco scoffed. "Please. Potter couldn't outthink a mandrake."
Millicent cackled beside him, and the conversation shifted to celebrating their keeper's saves, but Pansy leaned back, her eyes flicking to the windows where the lake shimmered beyond the glass.
She wasn't sure why she'd defended Potter. Or why she'd noticed the frustration in his clenched jaw every time a play failed. Or why, despite her loyalty to Draco, she'd felt a strange, unwelcome sting of disappointment watching Gryffindor flounder.
He had tried. And no one else seemed to care but her.
Pansy folded her arms, pushing the thought away. She was still in love with Draco. Obviously.
…Wasn't she?
o-o-o-o-o
She wasn't looking for him.
Obviously.
She just happened to be walking past the Astronomy Tower. Alone. Even though she usually avoided the tower unless she had a specific reason. And today she had... none. Except maybe a vague, gnawing irritation that refused to go away ever since that match yesterday.
She should've been basking in the glory of Slytherin's win. Draco was insufferable about it. He was practically skipping through the common room, reliving every smug second. And Pansy had smiled, nodded, said all the right things. But the truth...
Well. The truth was nothing. Because she didn't care.
Still, her feet led her up the winding staircase, and when she reached the top, she found exactly what she hadn't been looking for. Potter. Hunched over seated in a window frame, arms looped around his knees, staring out over the pitch like it had personally insulted him.
Pathetic.
"You've got to be joking," she said, loud enough to echo.
He didn't look at her. "What do you want, Parkinson?"
She stepped closer, cloak snapping behind her in the wind. "To see how deep the brooding could go. Apparently, we haven't hit bedrock yet."
He glared at her, and she bristled in satisfaction. Good. Better angry than miserable.
"Go away," he muttered.
"Oh, trust me, I'd love to. But someone has to say it."
She didn't wait. The words came hard and fast, fueled by the same low burn that had been living under her ribs since yesterday.
"You spent weeks obsessing over tactics. You looked like a lunatic in the library drawing up plays on spare bits of parchment. You even explained one to me once, and it actually made sense. So what was that match yesterday? A nervous breakdown with brooms?"
He stiffened, and she kept going, louder now.
"You froze. Every time something went wrong, you flinched. You hesitated. You knew what to do, and you didn't do it. It was like watching someone drown in decisions."
Potter opened his mouth, but she cut him off.
"And don't give me that noble crap about pressure or expectations. This isn't about that. This is a game. You had one job. Lead. And if you're not going to do that, then stop wasting everyone's time."
She stepped forward until she was nearly touching him. "You can't keep second-guessing every play call because you're afraid of being wrong. Either trust yourself or give the captaincy to someone who will. Weasley. Creevey. Hell, maybe even Granger could manage better from the stands."
He blinked at her, stunned into silence.
Good.
Pansy turned on her heel before he could recover and say something annoyingly noble or infuriatingly honest. She didn't want that. Didn't want to admit she'd spent an hour yesterday trying to figure out why she felt so hollow after watching him lose. Or why it had felt wrong.
She wasn't worried about Potter.
Of course not.
She just hated wasted potential.
That was all.
o-o-o-o-o
The air in the Great Hall still buzzed with post-match chatter. Gryffindor's narrow win over Ravenclaw had people talking, just not always positively.
"They're lucky Davies fumbled that pass in the last five minutes," someone muttered behind her.
Pansy didn't turn. She had her notes to sort, and far more important things to do.
She spotted him by the fireplace at the end of the Gryffindor table, half a treacle tart on his plate, barely touched. The rest of the team sat further down the table, talking loudly, but Harry was quiet, focused on his own parchment.
She approached, and for once, he didn't look surprised to see her.
"Came to gloat?" he asked, without looking up.
"Please," she sniffed, sitting across from him. "If I wanted to gloat, I'd have done it after Slytherin beat you."
He cracked a faint smile.
"I took notes," she said, pulling a folded sheet of parchment from her sleeve. "Don't worry, I didn't cheer for you. But I did observe."
Harry raised an eyebrow, but leaned in anyway as she smoothed the paper between them.
"The breakaway worked in short bursts," she said. "But your hand-offs between Chasers were weak under pressure. Spacing was inconsistent, especially when Weasley tried to drive left wing. She overextends."
Harry rubbed his jaw, eyes on her parchment. "I've been trying to get her to stay tighter to formation. She just... gets excited."
"It's Quidditch, not a blood sport. Control matters."
"Try telling her that."
"I am telling you that. You're the bloody captain."
He gave her a sidelong glance, faintly amused.
She didn't smile. But she was pleased.
"There were a few strong moments," she allowed. "Finnigan's block at forty-three minutes, excellent angle. Creevey's feint-"
"He wasn't supposed to feint," Harry muttered. "He improvised."
"Well. It worked."
He reached for his quill. "So what would you run against Hufflepuff?"
She was momentarily startled. He was asking her. Not humoring her, asking.
"I'd shift to a staggered wedge. Use your Beaters to create false channels, let the Chasers bait movement and then reverse. It'll throw them off, especially with how flat Hufflepuff plays."
Harry blinked, impressed. "You're good at this."
"Of course I am."
He grinned.
She almost smiled back before catching herself.
"And for the record," she said coolly, "I have no interest in your team's success."
"Sure," he said, still smiling as he wrote down her suggestion.
She watched him for a moment longer, then said, more quietly, "But I don't like seeing tactics wasted."
Harry nodded, still scribbling.
Pansy folded her hands in her lap and said nothing else.
She didn't mention the empty space in her notes where she could have written counters. The ones Draco would have demanded.
She didn't mention Draco at all.
o-o-o-o-o
The Slytherin common room was warm, the fire casting flickering shadows across the dark stone walls. Draco was sprawled on the emerald-and-silver divan like he owned the place because, in his mind, he did. A smirk played lazily on his face as he flicked a small piece of lint from his sleeve.
"They barely scraped that win," he said with a scoff. "I've seen first-years handle brooms with more grace than Weasley."
Pansy sat primly across from him, back straight, fingers folded in her lap. She wasn't smiling.
"Ravenclaw's Keeper panicked. That's all it was," he continued. "Potter's play-calling was a mess. They don't trust each other, and it shows. That team won't last the season."
She raised an eyebrow. "They had moments."
He waved her off. "Flukes."
She inhaled. "You didn't see what I did. If they figure out how to sync with the system Potter's building-"
Draco laughed. "Potter is building a system?"
His eyes gleamed with amusement, and it made something cold settle in her chest.
"He's trying," she said firmly. "And some of it's working. He's thinking in new ways. He's got raw talent and the right instincts. They could become-"
Draco cut her off with a yawn. "Let me know if they manage to stop bumbling into a win like blind Pixies."
Pansy stared at him. He wasn't even listening.
Draco flicked his gaze back to her and offered a lazy, indulgent smile. "You can keep spying if it amuses you, darling. But it sounds like a waste of your time now."
Something in the way he said it, the way he gave her permission like she was a pet he'd grown bored of, made her jaw tighten.
"I'm not doing it for amusement," she said, quieter than she meant.
Draco shrugged. "Then do it for whatever reason you like. Just don't expect me to start taking Potter seriously. He's not you, Pans."
She blinked.
"Which is to say," he added with a wink, "he doesn't have my best spy watching his plays."
She gave him a slow smile, cool and hollow.
"Right," she said softly.
But she wasn't sure what stung more, his dismissal of her warning, or the fact that she suddenly wanted Harry Potter to prove Draco wrong.
o-o-o-o-o
"Right, so if we pull the Keeper to the left post, Ginny can loop behind and fake high before cutting low across the pitch-"
"No," Pansy cut in, shaking her head as she leaned over her sketchbook. "You'll be exposed on the flank. Smith reads those wide arcs. He'll collapse the lane and box her out."
Harry frowned, chewing the end of his quill. "Only if he sees it coming."
"He will," Pansy said, tugging the parchment toward her and redrawing his arrows. "Unless you disguise the feint earlier. Put Creevey in a decoy position just inside the arc. Let the Keeper think that's the main route."
Harry squinted at the sketch, then nodded slowly. "That… might actually work."
She smirked. "Of course it will."
They sat side by side in the empty corner of the library's upper level, the long oak table cluttered with parchment, inkpots, and old copies of Quidditch Monthly stacked around them like a fortress. They might be filled with fluff pieces on the lives of the players, but the diagrams of historic match layouts, and team rosters had notes scrawled into the margins comparing them to every player on every house team were written in Potter's chicken scratch and corrected neatly by Pansy's crisp cursive.
Harry was close enough that their shoulders brushed occasionally. Neither of them mentioned it anymore.
He leaned in, pointing at a new formation. "What if we staggered the Chasers vertically instead of laterally? Make the defense guess who's dropping back for the handoff?"
She nodded, quick and sharp. "Less obvious. Forces their Beaters to play reactive instead of proactive. And it puts Ginny in the power position again."
"I trust her shot more than anyone's," he said, grinning.
Pansy rolled her eyes. "We all know she's your favorite."
"I mean, she is the best Chaser on the team."
"That's debatable," Pansy muttered, but her lips twitched.
Harry glanced at her, then grinned wider. "You could probably give her a run for it."
She arched a brow. "Potter, are you flirting with me or just insulting Weasley's broom handling?"
His face flushed instantly. "What? No, I mean, I wasn't, I just meant-"
She laughed, light and surprisingly warm. "Relax. You're still hopeless at it."
He muttered something about "ruthless Slytherins" under his breath but went back to the parchment.
They argued for another hour, about tempo, about pattern rotations, about whether Demelza could remember a three-phase formation under pressure. Pansy teased. Harry protested. They revised the playbook again.
By the time they packed up, the sky outside the window had turned molten gold.
Pansy tucked her notes into her bag and glanced sideways. "You've got the beginnings of a real team."
Harry looked down at the scribbled formations, and then at her.
"I've got a good strategist," he said.
She looked away, brushing a stray curl behind her ear. "I'm just filling time."
But they both knew that wasn't true anymore.
o-o-o-o-o
The Slytherin common room felt colder than usual, shadows stretching long over emerald tapestries and the hush of whispered anxieties. The fire popped sharply in the grate, but Pansy didn't look up from her book.
Draco dropped into the seat beside her, breathless with urgency.
"They obliterated Hufflepuff."
She turned a page delicately, eyes skimming the words. "Good evening to you too, Draco."
He ignored the barb. "I'm serious, Pansy. That scoreline was humiliating. Gryffindor's tactics were tight, they didn't make a single useless pass. Potter was reading the whole pitch like he'd memorized it."
Pansy hummed noncommittally.
"They ran plays I've never seen before," he continued, voice sharp with frustration. "Smart ones. Coordinated ones. That isn't just luck or talent. He's not that clever."
She arched a brow and finally looked up. "I thought you said Potter was a non-issue. That my efforts were a waste of time."
Draco flinched slightly. "That was before they played like a bloody professional squad."
Pansy closed her book with an audible snap. "So now I'm useful again?"
"I didn't mean it like that." He leaned forward. "You were close to him for weeks. You must've seen something. How did he turn things around?"
She met his gaze evenly. "You told me to stop. You didn't care."
Draco's expression twisted into something imploring, an emotion she wasn't used to seeing from him. "I care now. Please, Pans, just… find out what he's doing. Who he's working with. We play them next. If we're not ready-"
"You'll lose," she finished softly.
He hesitated. "Just get close to him again. Like before."
Her stomach knotted.
Like before.
Before she started enjoying his company. Before Potter laughed at her jokes and passed her notes in the margins of strategy books. Before she looked forward to their arguments, to the way his eyes lit up when an idea clicked between them.
Pansy forced a small, sharp smile. "I'll see what I can do."
Draco relaxed, brushing his fingers against hers in thanks before standing and disappearing into the shadows.
She stared down at her book, unopened now, heart beating faster than she wanted to admit.
She didn't need to get close to Harry Potter again.
She'd never left.
o-o-o-o-o
Pansy was alone in the library again, but this time without her usual fortress of books and parchment. Her inkwell sat untouched. The quill in her hand hadn't moved in ten minutes. She was staring at a blank page and pretending that meant she was thinking.
She wasn't.
The chair across from her scraped against the floor. Her stomach dropped before she even looked up.
Harry.
"You've been avoiding me."
Straight to the point, as always.
Pansy didn't meet his eyes. "Busy week."
"You're always busy," he said, and somehow made it sound not accusing, just... disappointed. "But you still made time for our meetings. Until now."
She forced a smile and still couldn't look at him. "You don't need me anymore. You've got a rhythm with the team. Everything's working."
Harry sat down fully, elbows on the table, watching her carefully. "I'm not just using you for tactics, Pansy."
"Well, you should be," she said, sharper than intended. "That's what I'm good for."
His brow furrowed. "What's going on?"
"Nothing's going on," she said, too quickly.
He tilted his head, studying her. "Did I do something?"
That made her finally look up. "No. Merlin, no. It's not you. It's…" She trailed off, realizing there was no version of the truth she could actually say aloud.
He waited a beat, then tried again. "If this is about House lines since we're up against Slythern for the cup... or someone saying something-"
"Harry." His name came out quieter than she meant it to. Her voice softened as she added, "You're doing fine. Better than fine. You're better off running plays on your own now. You don't need me hanging about."
His lips twitched into a smile. "You're terrible at lying."
"I am not," she huffed, relieved for something to bristle at.
"You are when you're trying to push me away."
That knocked the air from her lungs in a way she hated.
"I'm trying to do the smart thing," she said quietly.
He leaned forward, voice low. "Since when do you do the smart thing when it feels wrong?"
Pansy swallowed hard. He knew her too well for how little time they'd actually spent together. That was the problem. Or part of it.
"I just think…" she tried again, her tone flat. "You'll get farther without me."
"I don't want to get farther without you."
She stared at him.
He stared right back.
Pansy stood abruptly, gathering her things. "I'll see you around, Potter."
"Pansy-"
But she was already walking away, parchment fluttering loose in her bag, her heart thudding in her chest like it hadn't chosen a side yet.
o-o-o-o-o
Pansy returned to the Slytherin common room late, hoping to go unnoticed. Her bag was lighter than usual, she'd left most of her books in the library under the excuse she might go back later, though really, she just hadn't wanted to pass by Gryffindor Tower again.
The moment she stepped inside, she knew something was wrong.
Draco was seated in the high-backed chair closest to the fire, legs stretched out, her sketchbook open in his lap.
Her sketchbook.
The one she kept in the hidden compartment of her bag.
The air turned frigid. "What do you think you're doing?"
He didn't look up right away. "Funny thing. You said you weren't talking tactics with Potter anymore. That it was a dead end. But these..." he flipped a page, one she'd labeled Counter-Box Drift Formation in her small, slanted handwriting "Say otherwise."
Pansy's breath hitched. "You had no right to go through my things."
He finally looked up, eyes narrowed. "You had no right to keep this from me."
"I didn't give that to Potter," she snapped. "Those are mine. He's never even seen them."
"You expect me to believe you came up with these?" His tone was edged with disbelief, almost disgust. "Pansy, please. I know you. You could barely read a play two years ago."
Her fists clenched. "People learn, Draco."
He stood, tossing the sketchbook onto the nearest table like it offended him. "Or you drew it all up for him while he buttered you up with fake praise."
The words hit like slaps.
She took a step forward, voice shaking. "You think I need him to validate me? You think I did all this for some bloody crush?"
"I think," he said slowly, "you let him get in your head. And now you don't know whose side you're on."
The silence between them crackled.
Finally, she said, very calmly, "I was on your side, Draco. Until I realized you never once thought I was worth listening to."
He scoffed. "Don't be dramatic. Just tell me what else Potter's planning."
Her stare was ice.
"I'm done telling you anything."
She turned on her heel, bag pressed tight to her side like a shield, and walked out of the common room, not stopping even when he called her name once, then again.
It wasn't that he'd read the sketches.
It was that he looked at them and saw him in them.
And not her.
o-o-o-o-o
Pansy stood outside the Gryffindor common room, sketchbook clutched to her chest like it might anchor her resolve.
She shouldn't be here.
She should be in the dungeons, pretending none of this mattered. Pretending Draco hadn't torn through her things. Pretending Harry's opinion didn't weigh more than all of Slytherin's combined.
But pretending hadn't helped her sleep last night.
The portrait hole swung open and Harry stepped out, alone. His hair was even messier than usual, and his shirt was untucked. He blinked at her like he wasn't sure she was real.
"Pansy?"
"I need to talk to you," she said quickly, before she lost the nerve. "Can we... somewhere not... here?"
He nodded without asking questions.
They ended up in an empty classroom, dust drifting lazily in the shafts of afternoon sun. Pansy paced, the words tumbling inside her skull like rocks in a jar.
"I lied to you," she said at last.
Harry's brows pulled together, uncertain. "Okay…"
"Draco. He asked me to get close to you. To... figure out what you were planning for Quidditch."
Harry didn't say anything. He didn't move, didn't interrupt. Just listened.
Pansy swallowed hard. "At first, I did. That first week, when I sat down and asked about formations, that was for him. And I reported back everything. Every time we talked."
Her fingers tightened on the edges of the sketchbook. "But it stopped being for him. Somewhere along the way, I liked talking with you. Learning. Arguing over strategy. I started coming because I wanted to."
She held out the sketchbook, arms stiff. "These are everything I've worked on. All of it. But... Draco found them. He's seen everything."
He looked at the book like it might explode in his hands.
"I didn't tell him about the last few plays," she added quickly. "I drew them up for you and was going to... But I thought... It doesn't matter what I thought. You should have this. You deserve it."
Still, he didn't speak.
She nodded like that was her cue to go. "You probably hate me now. I just… needed you to hear it from me."
And without another word, she turned and walked out.
She didn't see Harry's hand half-lift as if to stop her. Or the way he looked down at the sketchbook like it was something precious.
She didn't wait to find out if she'd lost him completely.
o-o-o-o-o
The roar of the crowd echoed like thunder around the pitch as Hooch blew her whistle, calling a pause to the match to check the Slytherin Keeper's equipment, but all Pansy could focus on was the sudden grip on her arm.
"Walk," Draco hissed, and before she could say anything, he was dragging her up the stairs to the top of the stands, away from the other students but still in full view. When they reached a relatively empty section, he cast a silencing charm around them with a flick of his wand.
A shimmering bubble of quiet enclosed them.
"What are you doing?" Pansy snapped, tugging her arm free. "People are staring."
"I don't care." His voice was tight, furious. "You're going to tell me what play Potter's about to run next."
She stared at him. "What? I don't know."
"Don't play dumb, Pansy. You sat next to him for weeks, sketching up plays. Your plays. You think I didn't recognize the transitions they're using? The angled sweeps? The center isolation?"
Her jaw clenched. "I don't know what he's going to use next, Draco. I'm not in his head. I'm not even on the damn team."
Draco's eyes narrowed. "Then guess. List them. Tell me what he's got left."
She drew in a breath, tried to focus, tried not to notice the dozens of eyes trained on them. Even with the bubble, people could see. A Slytherin yelling at one of their own, that wasn't done.
"Fine," she snapped. "They'll keep using the diamond weave. It tires out your Chasers and keeps the Bludgers off the Seeker. If you pull the Beaters back to protect your Seeker, you lose offensive pressure. If you try to mirror the diamond, they'll rotate into a false spiral and overload your left side because you always leave your left side open."
Draco's lip curled.
She kept going. "It will make you want to switch to a box press, and then if they switch to the staggered loop, you'll think they're isolating a wing, but they're actually drawing you out of formation. That's when they'll strike up the middle."
"You're working against me," he said coldly.
Pansy blinked. "What?"
"You always have been. You never told me half of this when I asked. You've been playing Potter's side this whole time."
"No, Draco, I-" But the words caught in her throat.
Of course she had. She hadn't meant to. She hadn't planned it. But somewhere between the first sketch and the last argument with Harry about turning too early on the break, she had stopped playing his game.
"I should have never trusted you," he sneered.
The bubble dropped.
A hundred heads turned away in that awful synchronized way that meant everyone had been watching.
Pansy stood frozen as Draco stalked off back toward the captain's box, fury radiating off him like heat from a cursed fire.
And she realized with a sickening twist in her stomach that she didn't care if he hated her.
She just hoped Harry didn't.
o-o-o-o-o
The portrait swung open and Pansy stepped hesitantly over the threshold into the Gryffindor common room.
The celebration halted like someone had cast a freezing charm.
Gryffindors stood frozen mid-laugh, mid-dance, mid-throw of pumpkin juice. The clamor of victory turned into stunned silence as a Slytherin girl walked into their den of red and gold.
Pansy lifted her chin, spine stiff with pride she didn't quite feel. She didn't know what possessed her to come, only that Neville Longbottom had showed up in the hallway outside the Slytherin common room, breathless and pink-faced, stammering something about how Harry said to invite her. Before she could decide whether it was a trap or a joke, her feet had already followed him.
The silence stretched. And then-
"Pansy Parkinson!" Harry's voice rang out above the crowd. "The brains behind our new playbook!"
Cheers erupted instantly, the room springing back to life as if he'd given them permission. Someone pulled her inside. Music blared again. She was pushed into a seat near the fire before she even realized what was happening.
"We thought it was Ron who came up with the reversal loop!" Finnegan exclaimed.
"Where did you learn that feint? That was brilliant!" Robbins asked, wide-eyed.
"How do you see openings like that?" Weasley added.
Pansy blinked, caught in the blaze of praise. Her mouth opened, then closed. Her mind scrambled for an explanation.
"I didn't…" she started, unsure how to finish. "I mean… I wasn't trying to make better plays. I was trying to break Harry's." She flushed. "I only noticed things because I was looking for weaknesses."
They stared at her.
"Wait, you figured those out by trying to break his tactics?" Weasley said, looking both impressed and a little terrified.
"Well, yes," she said slowly, brushing imaginary lint from her sleeve, not daring to meet Harry's eyes. "And then we talked through the flaws and, I suppose, we fixed them."
Weasley snorted. "You're a nightmare. No wonder we started winning."
That earned a round of laughter.
Someone pressed a butterbeer into her hand. Someone else started sketching play diagrams in the air with sparks. She was dizzy with heat and noise and the way no one here was treating her like she was a traitor.
Across the room, Harry caught her eye.
He didn't say anything.
He just smiled.
It wasn't smug. It wasn't victorious.
It was warm.
And suddenly Pansy felt the same way she had when he'd handed her back a quill she hadn't realized she'd dropped two weeks ago. Like maybe, just maybe, this was what it felt like to be seen.
o-o-o-o-o
The box was louder than she'd expected. Of course it was, stuffed full of Weasleys. Molly and Arthur, Bill and Fleur, Percy with a clipboard practically scorekeeping the entire match and penalties, the twins in their usual chaos, and Ron already hoarse from screaming himself half-senseless. The Granger family had taken the quieter corner, Hermione tucked between her parents, elegantly observational.
And Pansy Parkinson, dressed head to toe in red and gold, wearing his jersey, was trying very hard not to sweat through the armpits.
She crossed her arms tighter over her chest, as if she could somehow fold the big bold "Potter" across the back out of existence. She'd charmed the bloodstain near the cuff a little lighter, mended the ripped seam under the arm. She'd meant to leave it behind. Meant to return it. Meant to not wear it here, today, in this room.
And yet.
She couldn't not wear it.
Still. It felt a little like marching into enemy territory wearing the general's crest. Especially when Ginny was on the opposing team.
She peeked over the rail again, scanning the pitch. Puddlemere was holding, but barely. Holyhead had come out swinging, quite literally, if the Beaters were anything to go by. Ginny had nearly clipped Harry mid-turn, and she wasn't backing off.
"Come on, Potter, you know she'll take the inside line if you give it to her!" Pansy shouted, hands cupped around her mouth.
Fred (or George, she didn't have time to determine) leaned over from behind her. "Blimey, Parkinson, yelling already?"
"Not yelling," she said without looking. "Directing."
The other twin leaned in from the other side. "Think he hears you?"
"He bloody well better."
Pansy tried not to look at the mismatched monstrosities they were wearing. One had the right half of a Puddlemere "Potter" jersey sewn haphazardly to the left half of a Holyhead "Weasley." The other had the opposite. Together, they were a nightmare of conflicting loyalties.
"Are you switching who wears which side?" she asked, suspicious.
Fred-or-George grinned. "What, us? Trickery?"
"You'd never notice," the other added. "You only ever look at him anyway."
"Do not," she muttered, heat rushing to her face.
She did. Obviously. But she didn't need them saying it.
Behind her, Hermione gave a quiet hum.
"What?" Pansy asked, half-distracted as Harry banked sharp right and darted past a Chaser.
"I've just realized something," Hermione said, tone too casual to be actually casual.
"That sounds dangerous," Pansy said warily.
Hermione smiled. "You've been to every one of his matches. Haven't missed a single one."
"Plenty of fans do that," Pansy said, eyes on Harry again. He was gaining altitude, Ginny trailing his left wing.
"But they don't all wear that jersey," Hermione said gently. "Gryffindor Red and Gold instead of Puddlemere Blue and Gold." A pause. "With the bloodstain on the cuff from the final match of seventh year." Another pause. "The one he swore went missing that very night."
"I-" Pansy began.
"And," Hermione added, voice silk-smooth, "you only ever yell at him. Not the Beaters, not the Keeper, not even when the Chasers botch a pass. Just Harry."
Silence. Awkward and sudden.
Pansy stared at the pitch, heart racing. Harry pulled into a tight roll, cutting Ginny off as he surged toward the other end. "You... kept track of that?"
Hermione reached over and gave her wrist the gentlest pat. "If you two want to keep it quiet, that's perfectly fine. But just so you know… everyone's already on board."
Fred and George high-fived without context.
Ron blinked in slow realization. "Wait... what?"
Pansy groaned and dropped her face into her hands.
"Great," she muttered. "Just brilliant."
Down on the pitch, Harry interrupted a Holyhead offensive and turned toward the box, scanning the crowd.
When he found her, Pansy lifted her hands and made the clearest gesture she could.
Two fingers to her eyes, then pointed at him.
He grinned.
"Get your head back in the game, Potter!" she shouted, hands on her hips. "I am not watching you crash and burn just because you got distracted by my face!"