Work Text:
Summer Makes People Stupid! Pansy Parkinson always claimed. “It’s the heat,” she said, balancing her sunglasses on the end of her nose as she surveyed the Ministry charity picnic with open disdain. “One glimpse of sunlight and everyone begins behaving as though their lives are suddenly full of promise.” Harry glanced across the lawn. Someone from Magical Transportation had charmed a cluster of paper lanterns to drift above the drinks table. Children were chasing enchanted butterflies through the long grass. A string quartet played beneath a white pavilion while various Ministry officials attempted to look relaxed in linen clothing. “It’s a picnic,” Harry said. “It’s organised optimism.” “That sounds exhausting.” “It is.” Pansy took a sip of lemonade and grimaced as if it had personally offended her. Harry had noticed her slipping away from the crowd ten minutes earlier. He had followed without admitting—even to himself—that following Pansy Parkinson anywhere had become something of a habit. She stood at the edge of the Black Lake, emerald dress brushing the grass, heels dangling from one hand. The sinking sun scattered gold across the water. “You’ve got grass on your robes,” she said. Harry looked down. “I’m not wearing robes.” “Then it’s worse than I thought.” He sat beside her on the low stone wall. Behind them, the picnic continued in a blur of laughter and music. Out here, the voices were softened by distance, leaving only the rustle of reeds and the gentle movement of the lake. Pansy tilted her face towards the sun. For a moment, she looked almost peaceful. Harry knew better than to mention it. “You know,” she said, “if anyone sees us, they’ll assume you’ve finally lost your mind.” “They already think that.” “Yes, but currently they blame the war.” He laughed. Her mouth curved despite herself. That smile was the dangerous part. Not the secrecy. Not the stolen Saturdays or the whispered Floo calls after midnight. Not even the kisses, though there had been enough of those lately to leave Harry permanently distracted. It was the smile. The one she never gave anyone else. The one that made Pansy look less like the sharp-tongued socialite the papers enjoyed photographing and more like the woman who ate peaches over the kitchen sink because she refused to use a plate. The woman who cheated at croquet, cried during Muggle films and kept three separate lists of people she intended to avoid at every social engagement. Harry had fallen in love with that smile somewhere between the raspberry tarts and the lavender fields. He simply hadn’t told her. They were very good at not telling each other things. It had begun in June, at a garden party neither of them had wanted to attend. Harry had been cornered beside a fountain by an elderly witch who kept asking whether he planned to produce “another generation of brave little Potters.” Pansy had appeared at his elbow, announced that he was urgently required elsewhere and dragged him behind an enormous hedge. “You looked like you were considering climbing into the fountain,” she had said. “I was.” “In front of the Undersecretary for Magical Education?” “I hadn’t noticed who she was.” “That is because you possess no survival instincts outside active combat.” “You helped me.” “Don’t sound so surprised. Your public suffering was becoming embarrassing.” She had been wearing pale yellow, a colour Harry would never have associated with her. Sunlight caught in her dark hair. She had looked expensive, irritated and entirely out of place among the polite laughter and champagne. “Where are you going?” he asked as she started towards the boundary of the estate. “Home.” “You can’t Apparate from inside the wards.” “I’m aware.” “Then why are you walking that way?” She looked over her shoulder. “Because the eastern boundary is closest.” Harry followed her. Pansy stopped. “Why are you coming?” “I’m leaving too.” “You weren’t invited.” “To leave?” “To come with me.” Harry shoved his hands into his pockets. “I’ll walk you to the boundary.” She stared at him for several seconds. Then she sighed. “Fine. But if anyone asks, you pursued me relentlessly.” “You rescued me from a terrible party.” “You were hiding behind a statue when I found you.” “Details.” That was how Harry ended up spending his first Saturday at Pansy’s cottage in Wiltshire. She had bought it after the war because, in her words, Parkinson Manor contained too many portraits and too few exits. The cottage was small by pure-blood standards, with uneven stone walls, climbing roses and a garden that grew wild around the edges. Harry had expected chandeliers. Pansy owned chipped teacups. “You’re staring,” she said. “I’m adjusting.” “To what?” Harry looked around the sunlit kitchen. A bowl of peaches rested beside the sink. Bundles of herbs hung from the beams. A Muggle radio played softly on the windowsill. “You.” “That sounds ominous.” “I didn’t know you liked gardening.” “I don’t. The plants are simply aggressive.” She made tea. Harry discovered she took hers with lemon and enough honey to horrify Hermione. They sat on the back step until the afternoon became evening. He couldn’t remember what they discussed. Nothing important, probably. Ministry gossip. Awful parties. The surprising number of Aurors unable to complete basic paperwork. It was the first conversation Harry had enjoyed in months. When he finally stood to leave, Pansy frowned. “You can’t Apparate.” Harry glanced towards the darkening sky. “Why not?” “You’ve had four glasses of wine.” “I’ve Apparated after worse.” “Yes, and that sentence is precisely why you’re staying.” She made him sleep on the sofa. In the morning, Harry woke with a knitted blanket over him and a daisy tucked behind his ear. Pansy denied responsibility. He returned the next Saturday with a paper bag from the village bakery. “You forgot the strawberries,” she said. “I brought raspberry tarts.” “I specifically requested strawberries.” “You said fruit.” “A raspberry tart is not fruit.” “There are raspberries in it.” “There’s also half a pound of sugar and enough butter to incapacitate a Hippogriff.” “You’re going to eat one.” “I’m going to eat two. That isn’t the point.” It became their ritual. Every other Saturday, Harry arrived at the cottage with the wrong dessert. Pansy complained. Harry made tea badly. They completed the crossword in the weekend Prophet, though Pansy insisted on using ink and Harry accused her of inventing words whenever she became stuck. They walked through the fields behind the cottage, where rows of lavender rolled across the hills in swathes of purple. Pansy wore enormous sunglasses and complained about the insects. Harry wore old trainers and carried her shoes when she inevitably removed them. Neither of them discussed what the Saturdays meant. That would have required acknowledging how carefully they protected them. Ron thought Harry had taken up fishing. Hermione knew this was a lie because Harry did not own a fishing rod, but she chose not to expose him. Ginny merely watched him with the knowing expression she had perfected during their years at Hogwarts. The Prophet speculated that Harry was undertaking secret Auror assignments. Pansy cut out one of the articles and pinned it to her kitchen wall. “Apparently you’re dismantling a smuggling network in northern France.” “Impressive.” “I thought so. Particularly as you spent last Saturday asleep under my apple tree.” “I was conducting surveillance.” “You were snoring.” “Quietly.” “You frightened a robin.” The first time she kissed him, they were arguing over croquet. Pansy had moved one of the hoops while Harry’s back was turned. “I didn’t cheat,” she said. “You repositioned it.” “The ground was uneven.” “You moved it six feet.” “The original placement lacked imagination.” “That’s cheating.” “It’s creative problem-solving.” Harry laughed so hard he nearly dropped the mallet. Pansy watched him. Something shifted. The garden seemed to fall still around them. Bees hummed among the lavender. Somewhere beyond the hedgerow, a church bell marked the hour. “What?” Harry asked. “You’re ridiculous.” “So you keep telling me.” She stepped closer. Harry’s laughter faded. Pansy reached up and removed his glasses. “I can’t see you.” “That may improve the experience.” Then she kissed him. There was no warning, no nervous confession, no gradual leaning towards one another. It was entirely Pansy. Decisive. Impatient. Slightly annoyed. Harry dropped the mallet. She pulled away just far enough to look at him, though without his glasses she was little more than a dark blur edged in sunlight. “Well?” she asked. “I think I need my glasses.” She smacked them against his chest. Harry put them on and kissed her back. Afterwards, neither of them mentioned it. Pansy picked up the mallet and announced that he had forfeited the match. Harry let her win. The kisses became another ritual. In the kitchen while the kettle boiled. Beneath the apple tree after too much wine. Against the cottage door when Harry was supposed to be leaving. They kissed without asking what happened next. Summer made avoidance easy. Every week seemed suspended in warm evenings and endless light. Tomorrow remained somewhere beyond the horizon, far enough away to ignore. One afternoon, they lay in the long grass behind the lavender field, watching swallows turn against the blue. Pansy had stolen Harry’s glasses and placed them over her sunglasses, producing an effect so absurd he wished he owned a camera. “You look ridiculous,” he told her. “I look mysterious.” “You look like an insect.” “A beautiful insect.” “A confused one.” She removed both pairs and handed his back. Harry settled them onto his face. Pansy lay beside him, one arm tucked beneath her head. Without her usual careful makeup, freckles dusted the bridge of her nose. He had never noticed them before that summer. “You know what I like about you?” Harry asked. She groaned. “This should be unbearable.” “You never wanted me to be anyone else.” Her expression changed. Only slightly. Harry had become good at noticing the slight things. “Of course not,” she said. “You’re enough work as you are.” He smiled, but the answer settled somewhere deep. Most people had wanted something from Harry. Courage. Reassurance. A symbol. A story. Pansy wanted him to bring the correct fruit. She wanted him to stop leaving wet towels on the bathroom floor when he stayed over. She wanted him to admit that her crossword answer had been right and that the Prophet’s gardening columnist was a fraud. She did not care whether he was heroic. She cared whether he remembered the honey. Harry turned his face towards her. Pansy was looking at the sky. “Pans.” Her eyes closed. “Don’t.” He hadn’t known what he intended to say. Perhaps she had. “Don’t what?” “Ruin it.” There it was. The thing beneath all their silence. Harry pushed himself onto one elbow. “By talking about it?” “Talking leads to decisions.” “And decisions are bad?” “Usually.” “You decide things constantly.” “Yes, but those are decisions about other people. I’m excellent at those.” He smiled despite the ache beginning beneath his ribs. “What happens when summer ends?” Pansy’s mouth tightened. “That’s precisely the sort of question I asked you not to ask.” “We can’t spend the rest of our lives pretending this is nothing.” “Why not?” “Because it isn’t.” The words hung between them. Pansy sat up. Lavender stirred in the breeze around her, releasing its fragrance into the warm air. “You’re Harry Potter,” she said. “I had noticed.” “And I am Pansy Parkinson.” “I’ve noticed that too.” “Have you? Because sometimes I think you’ve invented a more convenient version of me.” Harry stared at her. She continued before he could answer. “The version who lives in a cottage and eats raspberry tarts and has no history beyond this garden.” “That isn’t what I think.” “The world remembers who I was.” “So do I.” Her eyes flashed. “And yet you’re here.” “Yes.” “Why?” “Because I know who you are now.” For one fragile second, she looked frightened. Then the armour returned. “You make everything sound simple.” “It doesn’t have to be complicated.” “Spoken like a man who has never attended a pure-blood dinner party.” “I’ve faced Voldemort.” Pansy gave him a flat look. “Voldemort never asked intrusive questions about your marriage prospects over soup.” Harry laughed. She didn’t. Eventually, he reached for her hand. Pansy let him take it. “We don’t have to decide today,” he said. “That’s cowardly.” “Yes.” She looked down at their joined hands. “I approve.” So summer continued. Until the Ministry picnic. Until the stone wall beside the Black Lake and the sun lowering over the water. Until tomorrow finally arrived. Pansy leaned her shoulder against Harry’s. He thought of all the things he could say. He could tell her he loved her. He could tell her he was tired of secrecy. He could ask her to come home with him, not for one night or one Saturday, but for all the ordinary days that followed. Instead, he said, “You forgot your sunglasses.” “They’re in my bag.” “You always wear them.” “The sun is nearly gone.” That was the problem, really. The sun was nearly gone. Pansy set her lemonade aside. Laughter drifted from the picnic behind them. Someone applauded as the quartet finished a song. “We can’t stay out here forever,” she said. “We could try.” “The mosquitoes would win.” “I’ve fought worse.” “Not in those trousers.” Harry looked at her. Pansy smiled. That smile. The dangerous one. He reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m going to miss this,” he said. The smile faded. Pansy looked across the lake. “I won’t.” The words landed harder than Harry expected. He dropped his hand. “All right.” She turned back to him. “Don’t do that.” “Do what?” “Look wounded. It’s manipulative.” “I’m not trying to manipulate you.” “Your face does it naturally.” “You said you wouldn’t miss it.” “I won’t.” Harry stood. Pansy caught his wrist. “I’ll remember it.” He looked down at her. She rose slowly, still holding him. “There’s a difference,” she said. “What difference?” “Missing something means spending your life wanting it back.” Her voice softened. “Remembering means admitting it mattered, even if it couldn’t last.” Harry stared at her. “Who says it can’t?” “The papers. My family. Half the Ministry. Most of your friends.” “I don’t care.” “I do.” He tried to pull away, but she tightened her grip. “I care because they’ll turn it into something ugly,” she said. “They’ll use every mistake I ever made to make you ashamed of choosing me.” “I’m not ashamed.” “Not yet.” “I never will be.” “You can’t promise that.” “Yes, I can.” Pansy looked at him as though he had said something impossible. Perhaps he had. Summer made people stupid. Harry stepped closer. “You said I invented a convenient version of you,” he said. “I didn’t. I know exactly who you are.” Her chin lifted. “Do you?” “You’re cruel when you’re frightened. You cheat at croquet. You pretend you hate happy endings because you don’t trust them.” Her eyes narrowed. “You put too much honey in your tea. You own six nearly identical black dresses and insist they’re completely different. You cry at dog food adverts.” “That happened once.” “Three times.” “The dog was very old.” “You hate apologies, but you leave peace offerings outside people’s offices.” Pansy went still. “You remembered.” “The biscuits you left for Susan Bones were terrible.” “They were from Fortescue’s.” “They tasted like chalk.” “That’s not the point.” “No,” Harry said. “It isn’t.” He took her face between his hands. “I know who you were. I know who you are. I know you’ll probably make my life impossible.” “Definitely.” “And I’m still here.” The last sunlight caught in her eyes. For once, Pansy had no clever answer. Harry kissed her. She resisted for half a heartbeat. Then her hands knotted in the front of his shirt and she kissed him back with all the fierce desperation they had spent the summer pretending not to feel. It tasted of lemonade and sunlight. Of raspberries and honey. Of every Saturday they had borrowed from the world. When they parted, Pansy kept her forehead pressed against his. “This is a terrible idea,” she whispered. “Probably.” “You’ll hate the parties.” “I already hate the parties.” “My mother will be unbearable.” “I’ve met your mother.” “She’ll be worse.” “I’ve met Voldemort.” Pansy laughed. It broke from her suddenly, warm and helpless. Harry smiled against her mouth. “There,” he murmured. “That.” “What?” “That’s what I’ll miss.” She drew back. Harry expected her to retreat behind another joke. Instead, she slid her hand into his. “Same time next Saturday?” she asked. Hope was a quiet thing. Harry had expected it to feel grand. Trumpets, perhaps. Fireworks. Something worthy of a man whose life had always been divided into prophecies and battles. Instead, it felt like Pansy’s fingers threading through his. “Only if the weather holds,” he said. She rolled her eyes. “The weather has nothing to do with it, Potter.” Together, they began walking back towards the picnic. People would stare. The Prophet would speculate. Ron might choke on his drink. Pansy’s grip tightened as the first heads turned in their direction. Harry squeezed her hand. She looked at him, nervousness hidden beneath a familiar arch of one eyebrow. “Summer makes people stupid,” she said. Harry smiled. “Then it’s lucky we have another month.” Pansy laughed again, and this time she didn’t let go. Years later, Harry would still remember that summer whenever the air smelled of lavender and warm grass. He would remember raspberry tarts, crooked croquet hoops and daisies tucked behind his ear. He would remember the golden light on the Black Lake and the moment Pansy Parkinson chose not merely to remember him, but to stay. Some loves were recorded in history books. Others arrived quietly, disguised as ordinary Saturdays. And some began with a woman insisting that sunshine made people foolish, only to discover that foolishness was sometimes another word for hope.