Chapter Text
The snow had been falling for hours now, and outside the little glowing house, the world was soft and hushed with snow. Inside, the little girl crouched in front of the golden lights of the Christmas tree, arranging her stuffed animals carefully in a line in front of the presents. She positioned a unicorn next to the dragon, pausing to stroke its silvery mane.
“See,” Charlotte whispered to them, “you have to be good!”
A statue of Père Noël rested on the mantle above the fireplace, looking benevolently down over the sitting room.
Charlotte straightened, tipping her little face up. “Bring me my Papa, okay, Père Noël?”
“Charlotte,” a voice called out. “Where are you?”
Pansy appeared in the doorway. “It’s time for your bath.”
Charlotte scampered across the room.
“Maman,” Charlotte said in a loud whisper, as they padded up the stairs. “Is Père Noël lonely?”
“Why would he be lonely?”
“He’s here. What about his family?”
They stepped into a bedroom. It was like being inside a cake. Every surface was covered in pink and flowers.
“Oh,” Pansy said, “I think Père Noël goes home to his family each night. When you’re asleep.”
“What about Baby Noël?”
Pansy lifted her wand, and the dresser drawer slid open, Charlotte’s pyjamas flying out. “Baby Noël?”
“Père Noël is a Papa - a Papa like Uncle Pierre!”
“Père Noël is very old - if he has children, they are grown ups.”
“Grown ups,” Charlotte repeated, a little crease between her brows. “Grown ups don’t have parents.”
“Yes, they do. What about Grand-mère? Grand-mère is my mother.”
Charlotte’s eyes grew round. “No!”
“She is. She had me and I had you.”
Charlotte frowned. “Where is your Papa?”
“Grandfather is my father,” Pansy said. “He’s married to Grand-mère.”
Now her eyes grew even wider. “Grandfather is your father?”
“Yes, he is.”
“Where is my Papa?”
Pansy hesitated. “Not everyone has a father.”
“They do!”
“You have me,” Pansy said, smoothing Charlotte’s hair, “and Grand-mère and Grandfather, and Aunt Daphne, and Minette,” she added, naming a house elf her grandparents had.
“Did he go away?”
“No,” Pansy said, nudging her towards the door. “Now, into the bathroom, my love.”
Downstairs in the sitting room, the statue of Père Noël continued to preside over the Christmas tree, the fire in the fireplace growing colder and colder.
His first thought was that he had fallen out of bed and that was why he was on the floor. His second thought was that he hadn’t fallen out of bed since Dean and Seamus had snuck a Fanged Frisbee in his bed as a laugh during second year. His third thought was fuck, that hurt.
In the pitch black, he groped around for his nightstand. His hand bumped something, and a great muffled crashing sound followed. Cursing, Harry fumbled for his wand.
“Lumos.”
Light from his wand filled the space.
Instead of the familiar confines of his bedroom at Grimmauld Place, an elegant sitting room greeted him. A fireplace sat to his left, embers glowing faintly, and a Christmas tree rose up in front of him. Wrapped presents and stuffed animals were scattered across the floor. That must have been what he knocked over.
“What the fuck,” he muttered.
Was this a dream?
Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet, lifting his wand to further illuminate the space. It did not look like any sitting room he remembered. The decor reminded him of Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop - loads of pastel colors and fussy lace and little knickknacks.
Above his head, a floorboard creaked.
He lifted his wand higher. “Hello?”
Footsteps came quickly on the staircase.
“Hello?”
Maybe he should have been concerned, but this couldn’t be worse than the time that he had accidentally fallen into a cave system full of vampires in the Yorkshire Dales.
“You should know,” said a voice from around the corner - a woman’s voice - “that I have a Crup with me and she’s very fearsome!”
“Er,” said Harry. “Look, I have no idea what I’m doing here, and I certainly don’t want to harm you.”
More footsteps.
A figure in the doorway.
The woman had one hand clutching her dressing gown closed and the other hand white-knuckled around her wand, pointed too high at him. Her stance was all wrong—she clearly had no experience dueling.
“Hello, I—”
Her mouth fell open. “Potter?! What the fuck?!”
That upturned nose. Hair that was a little longer and wilder, but still just as dark. Hard eyes and a generous mouth.
“Pansy Parkinson?” he asked in astonishment.
She lifted her wand. “What the fuck are you doing in my sitting room?”
“This is your sitting room?”
She took a step into the room. “What are you doing here?”
“I have no idea!”
“How can you have no idea?! You’re in my house!”
“I don’t know,” said Harry, spreading his hands. “I just woke up here.”
“You can’t just ‘wake up’ in France, Potter! That makes no sense!”
“We’re in France?”
“Where did you think we were?”
“As I just said—I have no idea how I got here. One minute I’m asleep in Grimmauld Place and the next minute I’m here in the dark.”
“You can’t expect me to really believe that,” she said, taking another step closer. “You can’t expect me to believe that you just magically woke up in my house, breaking through wards that are supposed to be impenetrable!”
“Well,” said Harry, “stranger things have happened to me.”
His humor was not appreciated.
Her eyes flashed with irritation. She lifted her wand in a way that he assumed was supposed to be threatening. “You will tell me what you’re doing here or else I will scream for a house elf.”
“It’s like I told you,” Harry said. “I have no idea how I—“
“Mama?”
A voice from above. A child’s voice.
Her whole body tensed. Involuntarily, her gaze flicked upwards, to the source of the noise.
Harry started, “Is….”
“MAMA!”
Her internal struggle was written all over her face. She wanted to go, but she didn’t want to leave him to his own devices either, and so she was caught.
“Look,” Harry said, lifting his hands again. “I promise that I have no desire to do anything here. I would never hurt you, or anyone else. You should go to…”
“…my daughter,” Pansy finished after a long pause.
“Your daughter,” he repeated.
“Fine,” she said, lifting her wand again. “But don’t move from this room!”
“Right,” said Harry.
She came back down about ten minutes later or so. In her absence he had been trying to figure out if this was a dream or not—it certainly felt real when he pinched himself, and then opened a window to have his face blasted with cold air. He quickly shut it.
Why he would dream about being in Pansy Parkinson’s sitting room in France in the middle of the night, he had no idea. He had not seen her since…since…
Well, it would have to have been at that party.
Pansy stepped into the room.
“Everything all right?”
“Yes, fine—she just woke up with all the noise you made.”
“Sorry about that.”
She looked at him, hands on her hips. “Where were we?”
“You were going to scream for a house-elf?” Harry prompted.
“Yes,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “I want a real explanation this time. What are you doing here?”
“As I told you before—I have no idea. I just woke up here.”
“You can’t expect me to believe that!”
“We’re going in circles,” Harry said. “Look—think about it—why on earth would I want to be in your house in France in the middle of the night? It’s almost Christmas. I’m supposed to be at the Burrow tomorrow.”
“You’re going to be underground?!”
“What - no - never mind,” he said, shaking his head. “The point is, there is no reason why I would want to be here.”
“Well…” Pansy pressed her lips together. “Maybe you want revenge.”
“Revenge? For what?”
“Well…you know…”
“Oh. Right. You know,” he said slowly, lips quirking, “it does really keep me up at night, the time you said my hair looked like an overgrown patch of Knotgrass, but I think I can find it in myself to get over it, 10 years later—”
“No! You know that’s not what I meant!”
“I have no idea what you mean.”
Something flickered across her face. “You know…at the battle…”
The realization thumped down.
“Right. That,” he said.
Honestly, he had barely thought about it since it happened.
“You know…I hate to tell you, but you’re not very special—loads of people have tried to have me killed.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“Can you see now that there’s no reason why I would want to be here? And that I’m as confused as you are?”
She glared at him as if she was trying to make up her mind.
“Look,” Harry said. “Why don’t you just point me in the direction of the nearest hotel or Floo point and I’ll be on my way.”
“This is rural France—the nearest village is 30 minutes walk away, and it’s the dead of the night, everything’s closed.”
“Right,” said Harry. “Then I’ll…I’ll….”
He cast about.
He had been to France a few times for work, but only Paris. Could he apparate there? It was probably a significant distance, and without a strong memory to visualize and focus on…
On second thought, what did he even have with him? He had his glasses and his wand…but no wallet, no identification, no outerwear, and no shoes. He was still wearing the pyjamas he had gone to sleep in.
She threw her hands up in the air.
“Fine,” she said. “You can sleep here. And tomorrow you can go on your way. But just here,” she added pointedly. “Not upstairs! Don’t go upstairs for any reason! There’s a bathroom down here, so no excuses.”
“I won’t,” Harry said.
He had no designs on Pansy or her daughter, who he had no idea even existed before today, but repeating it seemed futile.
“You can sleep…here.” Pansy pointed to a pale pink divan.
“All right.”
He brought out his wand to transfigure it into something more resembling a bed.
Accusingly, she asked, “What are you doing?”
“I’m transfiguring.”
“Don’t fuck it up!”
“I’m an Auror.”
“What does that have to do with my decor?”
“I know how to transfigure things.”
“Don’t do anything weird,” she hissed, and stalked off.
“Goodnight,” he called out to her retreating back.
With any luck, this was all just one bizarre dream, and he would wake up tomorrow morning safely back in his bed at Grimmauld Place, Pansy Parkinson, her daughter, and her precious pink divan safely forgotten.