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From the two speakers set up at the edge of the pool, Brendan B. Brown was daydreaming about a certain Noelle – whose boyfriend was an asshole – and making dozens of students, as uninhibited as they were topless, dance. Behind the DJ table, Seamus, sporting a black eye, fiddled with knobs that didn’t actually change a thing in the music. However, every twist did trigger bursts of giggles from the three girls who had to be from Stanford. The Berkeley girls, on the other hand, mostly rolled their eyes and shooed him away, either because a) he’d already fucked them but forgotten, b) he’d fuck with one of their friends, or c) he’d tried and passed out drunk halfway through.
Seamus, clearly in uncharted territory, grabbed one of their red cups and downed it in a single gulp. He wiped the beer running down his chin with the back of his hand.
Across the pool, Harry watched, half-horrified, half-fascinated, as Seamus went tongue-deep on the prettiest of the three – a curvy brunette whose bikini somehow revealed more than if she’d been naked. Harry glanced at his own lukewarm Get 27 with a splash of apple juice, then at the swarm of girls the Alpha Delta Phi had hauled over from Stanford and Berkeley. He wondered if ruining his immaculate white T-shirt in front of the first willing woman he came across was the secret to him, in turn, managing to stick anything into anyone, but the question only flitted through his mind before a determined hand snatched his glass away.
“Blechhh!”
Harry turned just in time to see Hermione spit her drink back into the cup, making a face of total disgust.
“How can you drink that? Here.”
She held out her cup, and Harry flatly refused it, pushing her wrist away with a faint grimace.
“You know, Hermione, if you’re really set on mixing our saliva, I know way better ways.”
“Blechhh!” she repeated with emphasis, tossing the contents into the nearest empty flower pot. “Never say ‘our saliva’ again, and definitely don’t say ‘mixing our saliva.’ It’s even grosser than whatever you were drinking.”
Harry brought a hand to his chest.
“Ouch, so cruel,” he feigned, staggering slightly. “Why are we even friends again?”
“To keep you grounded, idiot.” Hermione nudged his shoulder with hers, a sly smile tugging at her lips. “By the way, well done, champ! I don’t think I’ve congratulated you yet tonight.”
“It’s thanks to the whole team. They were amazing today,” he said, trying not to let the pink creeping across his cheeks show.
She rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide her amusement. “Hmm, hmm, if you say so. Your victory has nothing to do with the fact that you’re on track to pull off the Heisman trophy,” she mused, tapping her chin.
“The season’s far from over,” he pointed out.
Not to mention that since its inception in 1935, only one sophomore had ever had the honour of receiving it, but Hermione couldn't care less about that minor detail. He could have been the worst quarterback in Division I, and she would still have supported him with the same blind fervour.
“Sure, sure,” she said with a dramatic roll of her eyes. “The season’s not over, but seriously — who else has a shot?”
Harry didn’t even hesitate. “Wood, Diggory, Malfoy—”
“Malfoy, really?” she cut him off with a scowl, as if he’d committed some crime. He nodded, which only amplified her disdain. “Wait, wait, you can’t be serious. He’s just… ridiculous. His little meltdown during the match because he was – objectively, obviously – way worse than you? Rid-i-cu-lous,” she punctuated each syllable by tapping her finger against his chest.
Harry snorted a laugh. If Malfoy was known for his legendary outbursts at both teammates and his coach, he was, above all, a sharp strategist without whom Stanford’s team couldn’t hope to reach the top of the rankings — alongside Berkeley, for example. And today had been no exception; his attack plan could easily have secured them the win if his wings hadn’t compounded mistake after mistake and stoked his fury.
“Objectively speaking, obviously, and with all your league knowledge,” Harry teased gently.
“Shut up,” she shot back, but a grin spread across her face. “I’m trying to care about what you do, I’m doing my best.” She bumped her shoulder against his again, shooting him a sidelong glance. “Go make me something that won’t necrose my liver so I can consider forgiving your shameful words that deeply wounded me.”
Harry nodded as Hermione slipped inside the frat house, her steps as determined as any bad omen. This was going to be a long, very long night.
“Deeply wounded, huh?” he said, falling into step behind her.
“I’m a sensitive woman.” She shrugged, then turned around without stopping, walking backward toward the kitchen. The music — the latest single from The Offsprings — made her raise her voice to be heard. “I reserve the right not to speak to you for at least a week if what you concoct is as terrible as your passes to Seamus.”
“Concoct, huh? Such fancy words for a fragile woman. You know, your words hurt me too — I’m a very sensitive man myself.”
Hermione barked a disbelieving laugh, throwing her head back. “You, sensitive? Please,” she whined, pouting. “You are, without a doubt, the most—”
Her back collided with someone who dumped their entire drink over her shoulder before she could finish her unflattering comment. She spun around immediately, apologizing profusely.
“Oh, shit!” Hermione glanced down at the sticky puddle pooling around their feet, her hands flailing in every direction. “I’m really, really—” She lifted her head. “—sorry,” she finished pitifully, the last word barely audible.
Harry watched her shoulders slump, her hands fall to her sides, and any trace of her previously sharp — and objective — judgment about the one who alternated between glancing at them with a mocking smile, gone. He could have laughed at her reaction, no, correction, he would definitely have laughed at her deflation, like a soufflé straight out of the oven—if his attention hadn't been irrevocably drawn to the girl who was standing, as usual, under Malfoy's arm, and whom he avoided whenever he had the chance. His breath caught for half a second, just a ridiculous half second, but she seemed to notice, because an amused gleam began to dance in her clear eyes. She rolled her lollipop around her mouth from cheek to cheek, and if his breathing hitched again, Harry didn’t even notice, his thoughts entirely devoted to not imagining what else she could roll across her tongue. She sucked in her cheeks when she pulled the lollipop out, then moistened her lips; Harry, poor mortal, followed every movement while the scratch of Jump Around — God bless Seamus — hid the muffled groan rising in him.
“Hi, Harry,” she smiled, her voice barely carrying over the music and the conversation happening next to them. “Nice game.”
“Pansy, hey,” he returned, hoping his tone sounded casual. He wiped his already sweaty hands on the back of his jeans, lowering his gaze to meet her compliment. “Thanks. Didn’t know you were here today.”
Pansy tilted her head to the side, at least as much as Malfoy’s grip allowed, raising a skeptical brow. The hint of a smirk tugged at the corners of her mouth, and Harry got lost in it again.
“Hmm, weird…,” she feigned thought, pursing her lips — a gesture that freed him from her grasp. “I could’ve sworn I saw you while we were opening the match with the girls.”
The image of the final figure, a double backflip off the top of a human pyramid she’d executed perfectly — and which had given him more than his reptilian brain could handle — flashed through his mind. But Harry, whose honesty needed no proving, shook his head with a decisive “nope.”
“Hmm,” she hummed. The lollipop made a quick back-and-forth between her lips; suddenly, the conversation between Hermione and Malfoy seemed much more interesting to Harry. “I must’ve confused you with Dean Thomas.”
“Certainly.”
“You look sooo similar,” she insisted.
“We get that every day,” he said with ridiculous confidence for a statement that couldn’t be further from the truth.
Pansy snorted a giggle which, if not immediately followed by Malfoy’s boisterous laugh, would certainly have made him do something stupid. Like dropping to his knees and professing his eternal love from their first meeting at Stanford summer camp.
So he did what he did best: a tactical retreat, leaving Hermione in Malfoy’s clutches without a shred of remorse.
Harry splashed his face with cold water and let the droplets linger for a good minute, naively hoping they would wash away the consequences of the last drink he had foolishly chugged. He lifted his head, opened his eyes, and met his reflection in the mirror. Two pigtails, roughly tied with pink elastics — were… were there little teddy bears on them? — sat atop his head. Harry leaned closer to the mirror. A heart, roughly outlined in black, was drawn on his left cheek; on the right, the kiss Seamus had planted was nearly gone. He squinted. A barrette, as dark as his hair but sparkling with glitter in the flickering neon, valiantly kept a thick lock from falling in front of his eyes. His forehead touched the mirror, and he shivered at the cold.
Hmm. Pleasure. Best spot on the wor— No, better! Harry stepped back a few paces, eyes wide, with the greatest idea he’d ever had: the bathtub. He spun a few extra half-turns before finally facing the Grail. Ahhh. Even greater pleasure. He could already feel the delectable sides against his skin as he climbed over the edge, and if he lay down just like that, maybe he could even—
The bathroom door opened while his hands struggled with the puzzle that was his belt buckle. Harry jerked his head up so fast he almost toppled backward.
“Oh. O–K,” came a hiss.
Harry squinted to better make out the newcomer, a vague dark silhouette with edges kissed by the neon light — a pin-up with a leg wrapped around a pole — which illuminated the hallway fiercely. For a moment, she merged with the doorframe and— Ah. Of course, he lamented, raising a hand to his face to push up his glasses and realizing they weren’t there. He had taken them off and probably lost them. No wonder the figure looked so uncertain.
“Am I interrupting something?” the silhouette said, and he thought he recognized, in addition to the smile that threaded through her words, the timbre of her voice.
She stepped forward to half-close the door and leaned around it; the cold neon from the sink highlighted her high cheekbones and straight, Greek nose, freezing Harry in place.
Pansy, Pansy, Pansy, Pansy—
He straightened up, shoulders back, spine erect, as if posture could erase his embarrassment, and the pigtails. God, he had pigtails.
“Your girlfriend coming to join you?” she asked, thumb flicking over her shoulder. “Because if that’s the case, I’m sorry to tell you she got whisked away by some tall, obnoxious brute who–”
“My girlfriend?”
He watched her tilt her head, lips forming a tiny pout. “That clumsy little thing who, no offense, could really use a trip to a hair salon?”
“Hermi— No, no, no!” he protested, a little too vehemently.
“O–K?” she replied, dragging out the first syllable.
A long silence followed, during which the words pigtails and Pansy collided in Harry’s mind, before she gave a slight nod in his direction.
“So… what was the plan?”
The longest, most awkward “uhhhh” was the first reaction his brain deemed appropriate. He looked down at his belt, his left hand still gripping it firmly, then up at Pansy’s blurry figure.
“Sleep here?” he offered cautiously, pointing at the bathtub.
“Hmm, hmm, hmm, nice concept,” she agreed. She stepped away from the doorframe and crossed her arms beneath her chest. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but you don’t live on the campus that’s, like, literally five hundred meters from here?”
The campus. His room. He hadn’t even thought of it for a second.
“Not exactly, a little further,” he mumbled, trying not to sound more of an idiot than he already was.
Pansy hummed again, several times. She seemed to sway from one foot to the other — or maybe it was him rocking on his heels? — before asking casually:
“Need some help?”
“Uh?”
“With your belt,” she clarified. “Do you—” She stepped two paces forward, fully closing the door behind her, back pressed against it, and Harry could finally make out, with relative clarity, her features lit by the dim light. “—need a hand?”
He opened his mouth, then shut it so quickly that his teeth clicked together sharply. It was a bad, very bad idea, one of those kinds that Seamus would whisper in his ear before stepping back with a smug grin and an exaggerated eyebrow raise.
Yet Harry breathed out a yes.
Harry breathed out a yes because Pansy had haunted his loneliest nights, and the less lonely ones too, on a regular basis, for the past two years; more precisely, ever since she had sneaked into his dorm in the middle of their last night at summer camp to whisper in his ear that she was going for a swim in the lake. Moonlight for only witness, he had barely had time to glimpse the curve of her chest before being caught by a patrolling prefect. Naturally, he had cursed Mr. Filch across several generations.
The sound of the lock made him swallow. Okay. This was real. It was happening. Now. Pansy materialized before him in the blink of an eye and stepped over the edge of the bathtub. She drew closer until the tips of her toes brushed his, and Harry felt her sweet breath tickle his face. He blinked, unable to hold her gaze any longer, as their noses brushed.
“Pansy,” he murmured, a fragment of reason still lingering, “I don’t know if— it’s late, and we’ve been drinking and—”
“I don’t drink,” she cut him off.
She pulled back a few inches, and Harry thought he saw a fleeting flash of uncertainty cross her features. Harry closed the small gap instantly and made her laugh when he bumped his forehead against hers a little too hard. Something twisted in his stomach, and he couldn’t help grinning widely.
“O–K,” he caricatured, just to hear those melodious notes again, which worked perfectly.
“Harry Potter,” she admonished, finally wrapping her arms around his neck. His hands found their way to her skirt, and he deemed it wise to play with her zipper rather than venture elsewhere. “Are you mocking me?”
“Never.”
Pansy let out a delighted coo that settled unerringly in his lower stomach before leaning even closer. Her lips brushed his as she pleaded in a voice that made his legs weak:
“Tell me to go.”
“No.”
Harry felt her smile.
“O–K.”
Pansy tasted like cherry, and his name rolled beautifully on her tongue whenever she sighed it.
Only the small cathode-ray TV, playing all four Jaws movies back to back that night, lit up Harry’s modest room and captured Pansy’s full attention. Not that he minded, lying beneath her, giving him plenty of time to watch her without her slipping away. He let his fingers trace swirling patterns across the milky skin of her thighs, leaving a trail of shivers in their wake. He moved up to the tender spot that jutted out just under her hips, when she was sitting, pressing there since he couldn’t sink his teeth in. Pansy brushed his hands away with a squeak mixed with a giggle, but he returned them to the same spot, and she made no protest. Bart Quint was back on screen, and though Harry didn’t understand the fascination he held for Pansy — he had a mustache and sideburns, for God’s sake! —he knew he was defeated. The thought of raiding his godfather’s wardrobe next time came to mind; there was a good chance he’d find a military jacket and cap. He also noted, with a shudder, to never let them meet — Sirius’s mustache was far too menacing.
As his thumbs traced her hipbones, Harry's eyes wandered higher. He tried not to linger on the chain around her neck, the one with initials that definitely weren’t his, but his gaze stayed fixed. Pansy shook her head, tossing her hair over her shoulders, and the initials taunted him with a glint.
He only realized her attention had returned to him — the mayor of Amity must have reappeared — when she laid her hands on his face and smoothed the crease of vexation at the corners of his mouth. He looked up at her, catching a softness and tenderness in her eyes that short-circuited the storm of his thoughts. Her hands then slid down his neck, gliding to his chest, where they rested for support as she leaned toward him.
And as she kissed him, fingers slipping skillfully into his boxer, Harry tried to ignore the ticklish sensation caused by the initials.
More than Quint, Pansy loved Gothic novels — The Castle of Otranto was a classic he should read — and dinosaurs and other ancient creatures — mostly from the Triassic period, she had specified, though the Devonian also held a special place in her heart. She had joined a group of activists fighting against the captivity of marine animals and campaigning against SeaWorld in San Diego — as vile as the one in Orlando — but she hated shrimp antennae, because they stuck to her fingers when she tried to peel them, and she loathed that sensation.
“That’s… uncommon,” Harry commented, at a loss for another word.
He said he liked sports when she asked in return, which made her giggle. She gave him a little tap before pressing her forehead against his, their eyes wide open.
“I want to know your guilty pleasures, Potter.”
Gilmore Girls, he finally admitted, worn down by her innocent threats, and she threw her head back, laughing with abandon.
The snap of Hermione’s fingers just under his nose yanked him out of his thoughts and nearly made him topple off the chair he had been rocking on. The edge of the table cut his breath short the moment both feet hit the floor. Harry glared at her, but didn’t get a chance to speak before she cut him off immediately:
“Finally, you’re looking at me,” she mocked, wrinkling her nose. “I take it you weren’t listening to a word I said?”
He wisely didn’t pretend otherwise, and she rolled her eyes.
“Of course. You really should stop before she causes you real problems, aside from… this,” she finished, waving her hand in front of her.
“This,” he repeated flatly, feigning interest in the open textbook in front of him. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
“Please. Don’t play that game with me. You’ll fail your year if you keep going with this, this, this girl—” she lamented, exasperated, and he recognized the little pout she made whenever something, someone, disgusted her. “—who, honestly, I don’t even understand how she can do that to her boyfriend, it’s just so—”
Harry slammed his book shut so hard the sound echoed across the library.
“Thanks for your invaluable advice, Hermione, but, and I say this with all my friendship, just shut up.”
Something must have softened on his face, because her expression eased.
“Oh, Harry…”
He hated the pity in her tone.
He left the library before she could explain, step by step, the full extent of his naïveté and stupidity. He already knew it.
Hermione’s words kept spinning in his mind. At the next party, Harry made a real effort to steer clear of Pansy, to keep himself from sinking even lower than he already had.
He tried.
But when he caught sight of her in a quiet hallway, the way she stared him down from head to toe, biting her lower lip, he had no choice — he pulled her into the closest empty room.
Pansy flicked her tongue across the tip of his nose, struggling against his hold as he refused to let her move even a few steps away; she used his indignation to slip out of his arms.
“I have to make a phone call, you know that,” she reminded him for the fourth time since she’d arrived.
Harry put on a hurt expression, tilting his head, corners of his mouth turned down, and she closed the small gap she had just managed to create. She positioned herself between his open legs and grabbed his jaw with one hand to lift his head toward her while his fingers started to tap lightly at the back of her bare thighs.
“I promised I’d call him when I got to my aunt’s, otherwise… I have to call him,” she repeated, firmer this time in both her voice and her grip.
With a childlike sigh, Harry watched her move toward the wall-mounted phone. He fell back, letting himself sink as she dialed the number from memory — did she know his number by heart too? Probably not.
“Hey, hi, love.” He rested his forearm across his eyes, trying not to dwell on the softness of her voice. He chased away the image of the smile that must have accompanied the words. “No, it’s fine, traffic was heavy, I got here late. Hmm. Hmm. Nooo!” she giggled. Stars flickered behind Harry’s eyelids as he pressed his arm down harder. “I’ll be back Monday late morning, I think, and—oh? Coach canceled practice, didn’t I tell you? Hmm… I know, but it’s been a while, and I really really want to see them.” A smirk crept onto Harry’s face as the stars faded. “What?” she choked, pretending a bit of dust had lodged in her throat. “O-oh, uh, hmm, no, not at all! That was at my childhood friend Daphne’s, two weeks ago. Yes,” she insisted with perceptible annoyance, “you must be mistaken. I have to go, my aunt’s calling me to help with dinner.” Harry heard her fussing by the receiver and had to cover his mouth to stifle a laugh as she shouted into the empty room: “Yes, I’m coming, just two minutes, please! I’ll call you Sunday? No, I don’t know the number here and—YES, I’M COMING! Sorry, love, I really have to go, I love you, okay?” She hung up in a rush.
Harry took a deep breath to unknot his throat and release the weight pressing on his chest—which didn’t work. He plastered on his best smile, a funny grimace that fooled no one, as he lifted his arm and sat upright.
Pansy stayed in front of the phone, fidgeting with her fingers—a habit he’d often seen before games.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for you to—” She cut herself off with a breath, her expression so vulnerable it made his fake smile falter, then crossed her arms. “I’ll go to the upstairs booth next time.”
Harry opened his mouth to ask why she was apologizing, but stopped. His gaze lingered on the initials still hanging around her neck.
Draco Malfoy sent his fist, well deserved, right in the middle of his face, one rainy evening, in the Arby’s parking lot where Pansy was supposed to meet him. Harry collapsed like a rag doll under the force of the blow, a sharp pain overwhelming all his senses. He felt neither the wetness soaking through his clothes nor the corner of the stone that would leave him a scar in the small of his back, discovering it much later; he paid no attention to the taste of blood seeping into his mouth; nor did he hear the tirade of insults that followed — equally deserved. Although, if he had heard the terms he had used to describe Pansy, he might have reconsidered that last judgment and probably found the strength to get up and shut him up.
Harry stayed on the ground for a long moment; one hand pressed against his probably broken nose, the other submerged in a puddle forming beneath the downpour. His usually unruly curls were plastered to his forehead.
“I warned you,” he could already hear Hermione reminding him.
What a fool he had been to let himself fantasize about another outcome. How had he even thought, for a single second, that it could have turned out differently? Nope, poor idiot.
Tears welled up in his eyes, but he made the mistake of wiping them away angrily with his arm; the pain shot through his body like an electric shock, triggering a wave of nausea. Pathetically — because no word could describe him better at that moment, or in general — Harry rolled onto his side and barely managed to get on all fours before emptying the contents of his stomach. Then, he pushed himself up onto his knees, tipped his head back, eyes closed, arms dangling at his sides, letting the rain fall over his bruised face.
What unreal months. What a shitty life, he corrected, as in a flash every failure since the day he was born flickered behind his eyelids. As if he had any right to expect anything else — the audacity!
When he opened his eyes again, soaked to the bone and utterly humiliated, Pansy was kneeling in front of him. The Arby’s logo gleamed on her wet cheekbones and the tip of her nose, and her cheerleading uniform, normally pristine white, had taken on the dull tones of an autumnal greyness.
She seemed more beautiful than ever.
She crouched to his level. Harry wanted to tell her to stay standing so as not to dirty her skirt, but the words caught in his throat when the necklace, which had remained tucked under her top, jumped from its hiding spot as she collapsed awkwardly. His chest tightened. Did she…? He raised his eyes to her face, searching for an answer to a question he couldn’t bring himself to voice aloud.
Pansy pressed her lips together for a moment before forcing an uncertain smirk.
“Tell me to go.”
Harry raised his hand and let the chain slide between his fingers until he caught the pendant between his thumb and forefinger. He traced its outline, pressed the tip lightly into his fingertip, then shook his head.
“I don’t know if I can breathe the same air as someone with such terrible taste.”
Pansy pushed him away with a cry of indignation, and he fell back onto his butt.
“It’s an actual shark tooth!”