Daphne crept down the stairs, doing her utmost to ignore the hangover that worsened with every beam of winter sunlight cutting through the windows. She'd snuck back in around three in the morning after a couple of drinks at Pansy's.
She'd got away with it, she thought. Her father had been in his study, absorbed in whatever it was he was always absorbed in. For once, she seemed to have escaped unnoticed.
At least, that was what she believed right up until she turned the corner into the dining room.
Her heart sank the moment she saw him.
Her father sat at the head of the long mahogany table, the Daily Prophet open before him, a steaming cup of tea untouched at his elbow. His pale blue eyes — so like her own — lifted the moment she stepped into the room.
"Good morning, Daphne," he said. His voice was perfectly calm. Far too calm.
That was never a good sign.
"Morning," she replied, keeping her voice steady as she made straight for the sideboard of toast and eggs and sausages — mostly so she wouldn't have to look at him.
"You're up early," he continued. "Considering the hour you came in."
Daphne froze, her hand hovering over the tongs. Damn.
She composed herself before turning. "Couldn't sleep. Went for a walk."
"And did this walk happen to take you all the way to Parkinson Palace?" Her mother's voice was crisp as she swept into the dining room, looking impeccably turned out.
Daphne didn't turn immediately. She took her time loading a slice of toast onto her plate, poured a glass of orange juice with all the casual grace she could muster, and only then moved to take her seat — at the far end of the table, naturally.
She met her mother's gaze briefly. "Is visiting a friend over the holidays a criminal offence now?"
"Not if you ask permission beforehand," her mother answered, taking her seat beside Daphne's father. "And not when it involves coming home in the small hours."
"Would you have said yes?" Daphne muttered, buttering her toast.
"Astoria managed not to stumble in at dawn smelling of Bourbon," her father said, without directly answering her.
She reached for her eggs. "I was with Pansy. It's not as though I was dancing on tables at the Leaky Cauldron."
"Yes, I'm sure it was just Pansy," her father said, plainly unconvinced.
Daphne's jaw tightened as she cut into her breakfast, doing everything in her power to appear unbothered. She could feel her mother's gaze sweeping over her — yesterday's mascara faint under her eyes, her hair just a touch too dishevelled for the effortless look she was aiming at.
"Though I'm certain it will disappoint you, Draco Malfoy was not present," she said, shovelling a forkful of eggs into her mouth.
"Draco's home?" Astoria asked as she walked in, polished as ever, crossing to their father and kissing his cheek. "Morning, Dad."
Daphne kept her attention fixed firmly on her plate as her sister settled herself into a chair. The question floated in the air.
"Draco's home?" Astoria repeated, tone carefully innocent but eyes rather too bright.
"Why do you ask?" Daphne said flatly.
"Just curious," Astoria said with a nonchalant shrug that convinced nobody.
"Well, don't set your hopes too high. He doesn't generally date younger."
Astoria tilted her head. "And what's your excuse for why he hasn't asked you?"
Daphne set her fork down slowly, then smiled across the table at her sister. "How shall I put this? Draco Malfoy is the least of my concerns and entirely not my type."
"Draco is a perfectly nice young man," her mother said.
"He's pretentious, arrogant, self-absorbed, and emotionally constipated — and I say that as his friend. Imagine what I'd say if he weren't." She pushed her plate away and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I take it we're meeting a prospect for dinner tonight?"
Her father nodded. "Yes. Do try not to frighten him off. We're running rather low on respectable families with eligible sons in your age group."
Theo and Blaise stood against one wall of the Zabini drawing room, drinks in hand, watching the party move around them. Blaise's mother had assembled the usual lavish Christmas gathering, drawing in most of the notable pureblood families. Nearly everyone was in attendance. The Parkinsons had declined, already committed elsewhere; and the Malfoys — well, with Narcissa the only one presently at liberty — had declined as well.
"I have never been more envious of Draco in my life," Blaise muttered, sipping his drink.
Theo snorted. "You'd honestly rather be stuck with Granger in an empty castle than be here?"
"At least Granger's decent company," Blaise said. He grinned. "I'd love to see her walk in here, actually. Can you imagine the look on half these faces?"
"It would be rather magnificent," Theo agreed, swirling the amber liquid in his glass as he watched a pair of younger sons from some respectable family fumble through a deeply unsuccessful attempt at flirting with the younger Greengrass sister.
"D'you reckon he's made a move yet?" Theo asked, raising an eyebrow. "Draco, I mean."
Blaise rolled his eyes. "They're practically living on top of each other. They were already spending an absurd amount of time together, and now they have the entire castle to themselves. What else is there to do but talk and let all that tension finally do something?"
Theo let out a low whistle. "If he doesn't make a move by New Year's, I'm going to start wondering if he's picked up some sort of curse. Warts or something."
Blaise nearly choked on his drink. "Warts?"
"He has absolutely no reason not to have acted by now! It's either warts or a micropenis," Theo exclaimed. "I mean, the girl is brilliant, but she's hardly subtle."
"Is that why you haven't made your move with Daph, then?" Blaise raised an eyebrow. "She's been too subtle?"
Theo's gaze drifted across the room to where Daphne stood with her date — some pureblooded son of an unremarkable family, clearly far too young for her and no doubt arranged by her father.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Theo said.
Blaise gave him a look of elaborate patience. "Right. I suppose she hasn't been throwing herself at you all term. I suppose she didn't ask you to Slughorn's party. I suppose she hasn't been flirting every chance she—"
"Daphne and I are friends," Theo cut him off. "We've always been friends."
"Doesn't mean she hasn't developed other feelings now," Blaise said with a shrug. "Draco despised Granger, and now he'd crawl through the Forbidden Forest for the chance to snog her."
Daphne, for her part, could not have cared less about her date. He was in Astoria's year — a full year younger than her — and insufferable besides. Every joke he made left her wanting to roll her eyes towards the ceiling. She wanted nothing more than to escape to her friends as she had at every event for the past ten years, but she was making a point. If Theo wouldn't act, she was moving on.
She couldn't even recall the boy's name. Casper? Cadan? Something beginning with C. She honestly didn't know how much longer she could maintain polite interest in his story about broomstick racing in the Alps. Her jaw ached from smiling. Her drink had been watered down. And worst of all, she could feel Theo watching her — not enough to do anything, naturally, just enough to make her pulse quicken with something she'd rather call irritation than anything else.
Across the room, she caught Blaise's eye and watched as he raised his glass in a silent, smug little toast. She gave him the tightest of smiles and turned back to her date.
If Theo still didn't get the message, she was going to hex something.
"She's dying," Blaise murmured.
Theo glanced sideways, feigning ignorance. "Who?"
"Don't be dense," Blaise said flatly, nodding towards the corner where Daphne stood. "She wants you to do something."
"I wasn't aware you'd developed Legilimency," Theo drawled.
Blaise rolled his eyes. "You don't need to be a Legilimens, Theo. We've all known her since we were five. Look at her."
Theo's gaze settled on Daphne — just for a moment, flickering between her and the irritatingly young boy she was pretending to enjoy. He could see it plainly enough. She was performing with everything she had.
"She's trying so hard to look like she's having fun, you'd think she was being paid."
"She does that thing with her nose when she smiles at someone she's lying to," Theo muttered against the rim of his glass before he could stop himself.
Blaise turned to him with an expression of pure, theatrical shock. "Merlin's beard, you're in love with her."
Theo scowled. "I didn't say that. I'm just — observing."
Blaise hummed. "Look at you. Pining like something out of a penny romance."
"I am not pining. There's simply no point in disrupting her evening."
"Mate, that's a hostage situation if I've ever seen one," Blaise said under his breath.
"I'm not about to pull her away in front of half the wizarding aristocracy," Theo muttered, though his grip tightened on his glass. "Her father would murder me."
"Her father already can't stand you," Blaise pointed out, nodding almost imperceptibly towards Mr Greengrass, who had indeed been watching them with unconcealed disdain. "Might as well make it worth his while."
Theo's gaze moved to Mr Greengrass, and he exhaled slowly. It had always been this way — Daphne's father eyeing him like something to be tolerated rather than welcomed, for reasons Theo had never fully understood. He wasn't Draco Malfoy, no, but he'd never done anything to earn the man's contempt.
"Daphne wants someone who'll raise her family's standing," Theo said finally. "She wants to be seen, to be valued by them. I can't give her that."
Blaise shrugged, carefully sidestepping anything that might look like pity. "She also loves getting under their skin more than anything else in the world. And you already know that." He paused. "Look — you're just afraid to ruin what you have with her. But here's the thing: what you have with her is already ruined, mate. It's been ruined since the moment she decided she fancied you."
Across the room, Daphne offered her date a polite smile, cut him off mid-sentence with a bright "Would you excuse me for a moment?", and turned on her heel.
"She's heading this way," Blaise murmured, helping himself to another drink.
She crossed the room towards them and gave them both a polished, slightly withering smile. "Enjoying yourselves?"
Blaise grinned. "How's the date?"
Daphne exhaled through her nose. "Riveting. I've learned more about broom mechanics in twenty minutes than I have in six years of flying lessons."
"Sounds like a catch," Blaise said, his lips twitching.
"Perhaps Hermione and I can double. Me with the Dimwit whose name I can't remember, and her with McLaggen," Daphne muttered.
Theo had said nothing. But his eyes met hers for a moment too long, and she raised an eyebrow.
"No cutting remark, Theo? Not even an 'I told you so'?"
He took a slow sip of his drink. "Didn't think I needed one."
Daphne let out a short, humourless laugh and finished what was left of her glass. "Right. Of course not."
She looked at the empty glass. "I need a refill," she said simply, and crossed to the drinks table.
Blaise followed. "He's hopeless, you know," he said as Daphne poured herself something considerably stronger.
Daphne glanced at him sidelong. "If I haven't been direct enough, I don't know what else to do."
"Theo's more than a little dense," Blaise said.
Daphne set down the bottle with a quiet clink. "He doesn't fancy me," she said, arriving at the conclusion like it was a verdict.
"He notices when your nose does a thing, Daph."
She blinked. "What?"
"When you lie," Blaise said, mimicking Theo's tone with impressive accuracy. "'She does that thing with her nose when she smiles at him.' His words, not mine."
Daphne stared at him. Her mouth opened, then closed again.
"So yes," Blaise said, with a calm, smug nod. "He likes you. Probably more than he knows what to do with."
"I've known him since I was five, Blaise," she said, her voice less certain now. "Of course he knows my tells. You do too."
"No, I really don't," Blaise said simply. "Daph, I'm genuinely fond of you — we all are — but I don't notice when your nose does something when you're lying. I couldn't tell you what your hands do when you're trying not to smile."
"I do something with my hands?"
"I genuinely have no idea," he said, laughing. "But Theo does."
Daphne studied him for a long moment, as though she might be able to glare her way past the ache settling in her chest.
"He's still not doing anything about it," she muttered, smoothing a hand over her hair.
Blaise glanced back over his shoulder towards Theo, who hadn't moved from his post by the wall. He was still holding his glass like a prop, eyes aimed somewhere vaguely ahead without truly seeing anything.
"I've been owling Hermione," she said, changing the subject.
Blaise looked back at her. "In what sense?"
"Telling her to flirt with Draco." She paused. "She called him Professor Malfoy as a joke, apparently, and he apparently short-circuited on the spot."
Blaise choked on a laugh, clutching the edge of the table. "You're having me on."
Daphne shook her head, a small smile finally winning out. "She said he didn't speak for a full minute. Just sat there blinking, like someone had hit him with a Confundus."
"She is going to destroy him."
"No question." Daphne agreed. She picked up her fresh drink. "Why are all boys so hopeless?"
"Hey."
She raised an eyebrow. "You're included. I don't see anyone on your arm either."
"You could always kiss him, you know," Blaise said, ignoring her entirely.
Daphne's eyes widened. "With my father watching me from across the room?"
Blaise tilted his head in her father's direction. "Give him something worth scowling about, then. Walk over, grab Theo by the collar, and snog him properly."
"If I kissed Theo in front of all these people, half the room would spontaneously combust."
"Precisely," Blaise replied with a wink. "Best Christmas gift you could give us all."
Daphne hesitated, her gaze drifting back to Theo. He still hadn't moved. Same posture. Same brooding quiet. Same way he always stood when something was eating at him. Her stomach twisted.
"I'm not kissing him at a party your mother is hosting!"
"My mother just married her eighth husband. Trust me, she lives for this sort of thing."
Daphne shot him a look caught somewhere between exasperation and reluctant amusement. "I hate you."
"I'm telling you exactly what you've been telling Hermione," he said.
And after half a second's deliberation, she set her glass down and walked away.
"Showtime," Blaise murmured, reaching for another drink to enjoy the inevitable fireworks.
Theo looked up the moment he saw her approach, his brows pulling together at the purpose in her expression.
"Daph—"
She didn't let him finish. She stepped in close — closer than was remotely appropriate for an occasion like this — and looked straight up at him with fire in her eyes.
"Do you want me or not?" she asked, point-blank, her arms opening slightly as though presenting him with the full scope of the question.
Theo blinked. His mouth opened for one of his usual measured, frustratingly non-committal answers — then closed again. His eyes dropped to her lips, then returned to hers, and something in his expression cracked open.
"I—" he started, but Daphne had run out of patience for half-sentences.
"Because I'm not playing this game any longer," she said, her voice quieter now but no less certain. "I can't go on pretending I'm perfectly fine watching you look at me like that and then do absolutely nothing about it. If you don't feel the same way, say so. I'll walk away and I won't look back."
The fire in her eyes held steady as she tilted her chin. "You could have me. However you wanted. Do you want me? Or not?"
Daphne Greengrass — the girl he had known his entire life — was standing in front of him, stripped of every careful defence she usually kept in place. Her eyes, always so guarded, were open. She was giving him an ultimatum. She was offering herself to him outright, and only a complete idiot would throw it away.
"You're Daphne," he said.
Like the idiot he was.
She stared at him. "What does that even mean?!"
"You're Daphne," he repeated, as though the name itself were the entire point. "My friend. You've been my friend my whole life. I don't remember a time before you were in it."
The word friend landed like a Stinging Hex. Her arms fell to her sides, and for the first time in a very long time, she felt self-conscious. She took a step back.
"I'm not your friend anymore, Theo," she whispered.
Theo's stomach dropped. The words hit him somewhere he hadn't thought to protect. He stared at her, mouth slightly open, searching her face for some signal that she didn't mean it.
"You — what?" he managed.
"I'm not your friend anymore," Daphne repeated, her voice steady even as something beneath it wavered. "Not really. Not when it hurts to look at you and know you're never going to do anything — when you already know how I feel."
He hadn't — not once, in all the years they'd known each other — expected to hear this. Daphne, who had always understood him without words. Daphne, who had always been there without needing a reason. Standing in front of him now, telling him she couldn't be his friend anymore.
Something in his chest went very tight.
"No — Daphne—" He caught her arm as she turned to leave. "I don't want to ruin anything," he said quickly, his voice low, his eyes darting briefly to where her father stood watching. "I don't want to wreck what we have."
"You are already wrecking it!" she snapped, pulling her arm free. "Just go to hell, Theo!"
Blaise walked over as Daphne stormed away, regarding Theo with a slow, resigned shake of his head.
"Don't," Theo scowled.
"Pansy, come down, darling. The rest of the family has started arriving." Cassandra pushed Pansy's bedroom door open.
Pansy didn't look up from the mirror, pressing the back of an earring into place. "There's a remarkable new invention called knocking, Mother. You really ought to try it sometime."
"You've been in there for three hours."
"I was writing to my friends, and then I needed to get ready." Pansy stood and turned. "Presentable?"
Cassandra regarded her with the particular expression unique to mothers — equal parts appraisal and silent judgement.
"You look beautiful," she said at last. "Though I'm quite certain the gown I bought you didn't have a slit. Or a slit that high, anyway."
Pansy smoothed her hands down the sides of her sleek blue ensemble with a satisfied smirk. "I made it my own."
Cassandra sighed, not unkindly. "Yes, well — don't say I didn't warn you. And please do be civil to Octavia this time. She's had a difficult term."
Pansy wrinkled her nose. "Octavia is always having a difficult term. Probably because she spends more time snogging prefects than revising."
"She's your cousin."
"She's exhausting," Pansy muttered, following her mother out of the room and down the staircase.
Cassandra said nothing to that, merely employing her well-practised look — the one she used when she was silently counting to ten. Or twenty. Or, where Octavia was concerned, considerably higher.
As they reached the landing, the low murmur of voices drifted up from the drawing room below, punctuated by the clink of crystal and the occasional burst of laughter. The extended Parkinson family had descended upon the Palace for the evening, dressed in their finest, and were already well underway with their tradition of polite conversation laced with veiled passive aggression.
"We don't have to like our family," Cassandra murmured, just before they turned into the drawing room. "But we do have to tolerate them."
Their entrance prompted the usual ripple of reaction — admiration from some, barely concealed scandal from others, and the collective attention of the room as Pansy stepped fully into view, the slit in her dress catching the light with each step. She met it all with her most practised smile: Yes, I know you're looking. No, I don't particularly care.
Present in the room were her grandfather, her grandmother, Aunt Lucinda, Aunt Cressida, Uncle William, all with their respective spouses, and her six cousins — Octavia, Emmet, Chloe, Idalia, Elijah, and the newest addition, Leonard.
What kind of a name was Leonard, anyway?
"Pansy! Darling! Come and sit with me!" Aunt Lucinda called from across the room.
Aunt Lucinda was married to Carl Burke, new money but nevertheless pureblooded, from a well-regarded Russian wizarding family who had recently relocated when Carl secured a post at the Ministry. Their sons were Emmet, twelve, and Leonard, two. If Pansy were asked, she'd say Leonard had been rather unplanned. Lucinda had probably been attempting to prove she was still in the bloom of youth.
Pansy glided across the room with an air of easy ownership, pointedly chose a seat on the arm of the chair closest to the drinks cart rather than the cushion Lucinda had so eagerly patted, and made a silent note to pour herself something stronger than Pumpkin Fizz the moment the obligatory greetings were out of the way.
"How is Hogwarts treating you? Excruciatingly dull, I imagine?" Aunt Cressida asked.
Aunt Cressida was married to Sloan Travers. They had their eldest son Elijah, fifteen, and their twin daughters Chloe and Idalia, both ten, who lived out in the West Country. The twins had a particular habit of following Pansy around, which she found deeply unsettling.
Pansy crossed her legs with practised elegance, the hem of her dress shifting to reveal a scandalous inch of thigh. She caught Octavia's narrowed eyes from across the room and offered her cousin a razor-sharp smile before returning her attention to Cressida.
"Hogwarts is Hogwarts," she replied breezily, plucking a glass of sparkling elderflower wine from a passing tray. "Boys convinced they're suddenly attractive because they've made Quidditch captain or earned a prefect's badge. Girls lining up for the attention of the actually attractive ones. Classes upon classes. I can't say I've much to complain about, really."
Cressida gave a small, amused hum, though Pansy could already see her filing the response away for later dissemination. Probably something along the lines of: did you hear what Pansy said about Quidditch boys? Positively scandalous — though, I mean, she's not wrong.
Her Uncle William cleared his throat. "Is that entirely an appropriate topic, Pansy?"
Uncle William had married Mary MacMillan, from a gradually fading pureblood line. Their only child was Octavia, who shared approximately none of the Parkinson features. Pansy had a long-standing theory about that, but kept it to herself.
Pansy offered her uncle no response as she sipped her wine.
"Pansy, dear," came her grandmother's voice. "I hear the Malfoy boy has stayed at school for the holidays."
Pansy turned to her grandmother, Eugenia, and nodded. "Yes. Narcissa won't be hosting anything this year, so he felt no particular reason to come home."
"With her husband in Azkaban, I imagine she hasn't much to celebrate," one of her aunts murmured to another.
Pansy's fingers tightened fractionally around her glass, her smile slipping just slightly. The comment settled over the room like a chill, and every eye briefly flicked her way.
"I do hope Draco is managing on his own," Eugenia said, her tone polite but probing.
Pansy took another sip of her elderflower wine, avoiding the various expectant stares trained on her. "Draco is perfectly fine. Better than fine, if I'm honest. Lucius's imprisonment may have been precisely what he needed."
Cassandra cleared her throat in a pointed manner.
"I heard you spoke to Mrs Selwyn's son," Octavia said, cutting in suddenly. "The one in Magical Law."
Pansy looked at her. "Briefly. He recited four paragraphs to me on the rights of trolls."
"How passionate of him," Aunt Lucinda remarked.
"Yes, I believe he intends to marry one, actually," Pansy said.
"Passion in a husband is no bad thing," Uncle William pointed out, "provided it's directed appropriately."
A slow smirk spread across Pansy's face. "My life isn't exactly lacking in passion, Uncle William. I can assure you of that."
Cassandra pinched the bridge of her nose.
A pointed silence followed — the kind that hung in the air, scandalised and heavily disapproving.
Octavia stared at her mother. "Did she just—"
"Yes," Lucinda said through perfectly set teeth. "I'm choosing to move past it."
The twins giggled behind their glasses of juice, too young to fully understand the remark but old enough to know that Pansy had said something deliciously improper.
"But why, Aunt?" Pansy asked, the picture of innocence.
"Not everything requires being said aloud," Lucinda explained, somewhat stiffly. "I'm sure you'll find someone soon. Someone who will… temper that particular spark of yours."
Pansy smiled sweetly. "I've always preferred something a little warmer, actually. Burning to the touch. The sort of man who doesn't mind getting on his knees for me." She tried not to think too hard about the man who had done precisely that only a few days ago.
Cassandra got to her feet, clapping her hands together with the air of someone deploying last resort tactics. "Pansy, love, would you go and help set the table? Take the twins with you."
Pansy stood, muttering, "Are we peasants now?" as she passed her mother.
Cassandra shot her a look that left no room for argument.
Pansy swept into the dining room, the twins Chloe and Idalia padding after her on small, eager feet.
"What did you mean?" Chloe asked as they began setting the table.
Pansy glanced at her. "Sorry?"
"What you said just now," Idalia clarified.
Pansy set a fork down with a decisive clink and turned to face her younger cousins. They were watching her with wide, earnest eyes, heads tilted in that way peculiar to children who feel they've been left out of something important.
"What did you mean?" Chloe pressed.
Pansy let out a small, patient sigh, smoothing down the hem of her dress before answering. "Oh, nothing," she said airily, tossing a strand of hair over one shoulder. "Only a little joke for the grown-ups."
Idalia, the more persistent of the two, frowned. "But you said something about getting on their knees. What does that mean?"
Pansy's lips twitched. She'd quite forgotten how relentlessly literal small children could be, and she was absolutely not about to explain the full implications to two ten-year-olds. She steered the conversation accordingly.
"It's an expression," she said, folding a napkin with neat precision. "About showing respect. I expect your father has never quite had to do it for your mother." She had to work very hard not to smirk.
Idalia's eyes went round. Chloe tilted her head, both of them clearly turning the phrase over without fully landing on its meaning.
"Like if Emmet broke Mum's favourite vase?" Idalia ventured.
"Exactly," Pansy said. "Boys tend to do that when they've made a mess of something and know they're in need of forgiveness."
"I want people to apologise to me like that when I'm older!" Chloe announced with great conviction.
Pansy had to actively fight the urge to laugh outright as she placed the next setting. "If you play your cards right, you will."
"Did you forgive him?" Idalia asked. "The one who apologised to you."
Pansy paused over the spoons for a moment. "I believe I did."
"Do you like him?" Chloe pressed.
Was her entire family constitutionally incapable of minding their own business?
"Sometimes," Pansy said. "When he's not being an idiot. He's usually an idiot. I like him when he's… apologising."
Chloe and Idalia exchanged a glance, clearly captivated by the mystery of it all.
"Does he apologise a lot?" Idalia asked, deeply impressed by the concept.
Pansy gave a glass a polishing swipe. "Only twice so far."
"Is he handsome?" Chloe asked, in the direct way only children could manage.
Pansy stilled for a moment, her fingers resting lightly on the rim of the glass.
She didn't particularly want to answer. She didn't want to unpick the tangle of feelings she'd been carefully avoiding for days now. This was nothing more than what it was — heated, complicated, spectacularly ill-advised. How was she supposed to explain that to a pair of ten-year-olds staring at her with enormous, expectant eyes?
Pansy glanced sideways at Chloe, who was still watching her steadily. Idalia had resumed folding napkins into uneven triangles, though her ears were clearly still tuned in.
Merlin's bloody beard.
"He's…" She trailed off, turning the polished glass slowly in her hands. Was he handsome? The answer ought to have been simple. But Harry Potter — the Boy Who Lived to Make Her Life Complicated — was anything but.
"He's tolerable," she settled on, in a voice as flat and unimpressed as she could make it. Like describing lukewarm soup.
"Just tolerable?" Chloe asked, sceptical.
"He got on his knees," Idalia pointed out helpfully. "That sounds like more than tolerable."
Pansy couldn't help it — a laugh escaped her, bright and sharp, bouncing off the chandelier overhead. She covered her mouth immediately, glancing towards the hallway.
"He's passable," she amended, composing herself. "Which is, frankly, the highest praise I've ever given him."
"He's probably very handsome," Idalia decided.
"Definitely," Chloe agreed.
Pansy wondered, briefly, what he was doing right now — Potter — back at his godfather's house, or perhaps at the Burrow. Brooding, in all likelihood. Maybe flying around on that broomstick of his, trying to outrun whatever he was thinking about.
Or maybe he was still thinking about it. About the moment he'd dropped to his knees, those green eyes never quite leaving hers — defiant and desperate in equal measure. He was maddening. Confusing. And infuriatingly good at things she'd rather he weren't good at.
"Do you think you'll marry him?" Chloe asked.
Pansy nearly choked on air.
"Merlin, no," she said, rather too sharply, wiping nonexistent dust from the tablecloth to cover the flush creeping up her neck.
"But why not?" Idalia pressed. "He apologises. He's handsome. That's two of the important things."
"He was a mistake," Pansy tried to explain. "Something that happened once or twice and won't happen again."
"Is he mean to you?" Idalia asked.
Pansy sighed. "No. He probably ought to be. But he isn't. He's irritating. He pesters me. He…" She trailed off, her hand drifting absently to her throat as she recalled the feel of his grip in that narrow bathroom on the train.
"What now, then?" Chloe asked.
"Now," Pansy said, squaring her shoulders, "we have dinner. We smile. We survive our family. And I pretend I haven't made the most profoundly stupid mistake of my life."
Part of her envied their simplicity. The world was so refreshingly uncomplicated at nine. You liked someone or you didn't. You forgave or you didn't. You got married or you didn't.
There were none of the grey areas she was currently mired in — sleeping with someone you were supposed to loathe, then pretending it hadn't happened, even as the ghost of their touch returned at every inconvenient moment.
"Can we sit next to you?" Idalia asked as the adults began to filter in.
Pansy nodded. "If you like. Though fair warning — I'm terrible dinner company."
The twins beamed and scrambled to claim the seats on either side of her.
The room filled up steadily: Grandfather at the head of the table, Grandmother to his left. Cressida and Sloan murmured about the wine selection. William was already correcting someone's pronunciation of a transfiguration incantation. Lucinda balanced Leonard in the crook of one arm while attempting to prevent Emmet from flicking peas at Elijah.
Pansy exhaled slowly as a house-elf poured soup into her bowl. On either side of her, Chloe and Idalia mirrored her posture like small, earnest shadows, lifting their soup spoons with elaborate precision.
"Very proper," she murmured to them, lips twitching. "Don't forget to raise your pinkies, or you'll be written out of the will."
Both girls raised their pinkies immediately.
"You know, Pansy," her grandmother began, "there's a young man at the Ministry I think you ought to get to know. Fencing champion in his youth. Fluent in six languages."
Pansy brought her spoon to her lips with serene calm. "How charming," she said, without looking up.
Eugenia continued, undeterred. "Very good-looking. His mother is a Shacklebolt, you know — before she married. Impeccable lineage."
Across the table, William muttered something about diluted bloodlines under his breath, earning himself a swift kick from Lucinda. Pansy smirked into her soup.
"Shacklebolt? How old is he? Forty?"
"Thirty-one."
"I'm sixteen!"
"Nearly seventeen."
Pansy sat back and shook her head.
"I think your dress is lovely," Chloe offered, as though sensing a shift in pressure.
Pansy glanced down at her. "Thank you. I'm glad someone does."
"Mum says it's a bit much," Chloe added.
Pansy looked across the table at Cressida. "Yes, well, your mother still wears shoulder pads and considers it fashion."
Cressida produced a thin smile and swiftly redirected. "Have you thought at all about what you'd like to do after Hogwarts?"
"Actually, yes," Pansy said.
Cassandra looked up from her plate. "You have?"
Pansy nodded, folding her napkin with careful composure. "I've been considering furthering my education. Possibly something in International Diplomacy."
"The Ministry?" Aunt Lucinda asked, scandalised.
"Perhaps. Though I've also been speaking with a friend about a fashion programme in France—"
"Which friend?" Elijah asked.
"Hermione," she said — and immediately regretted it.
She should have said a friend. Or Daphne, if pressed. She knew better. The name had slipped out entirely without her permission, and there was absolutely no taking it back.
She cleared her throat. "We've become… acquainted."
Her grandmother's voice came carefully, as though trying to process the very idea. "The Muggle-born girl? You're associating with someone of that sort?"
Pansy's fingers tightened around her spoon, but her expression stayed perfectly composed. "Yes, Grandmother. She's an exceptionally brilliant student. You'd be surprised by how much we have in common."
"With a Mudblood?" Uncle William huffed.
"Fashion is merely one option, of course," Pansy said, moving on smoothly. "I'll make a final decision by the end of next year. International Diplomacy remains the stronger career path if stability is the priority."
"Career?" Her grandfather laughed, as though she'd said something very amusing. "And what of family, Pansy? Marriage? Continuing the bloodline? There are only so many years before people begin to wonder what's the matter with you."
Pansy set her spoon down. "What of it?"
"Well, surely you plan to marry. To have children."
"Aunt Lucinda has just had her second child at forty-two. I have plenty of time to build a career before I settle down."
"You believe a respectable man will still want you when you're older?" her grandfather said, with a short laugh.
"If he won't, then I simply won't marry!" Pansy said.
The table went completely still. Every piece of cutlery seemed to pause mid-air.
Cassandra dropped her head into her hands.
Pansy looked at her mother, guilt seeping into her chest. She hadn't meant to snap.
"What about Draco?" Aunt Cressida ventured, after a moment.
Pansy sighed. "What about him?"
"You'll marry him," Emmet piped up from across the table.
Pansy turned to her younger cousin. "Where on earth did you hear that?"
"Everyone says so," he explained.
"Everyone is very much mistaken."
Her words dropped into the air, clear and final.
She shook her head. "Draco is my friend. My best friend, in fact. That is as far as our relationship has ever gone and ever will go. I love him dearly, but I will not marry him. Not in this life or any other."
She pushed back her chair, setting her napkin on the table as she rose. "Would you excuse me for a moment?" She slipped from the room, needing a moment simply to breathe.
She found her way to the adjoining sitting room, pushed open the window, and looked out into the dark. Part of her briefly considered the drop. Not seriously. Just the usual sort of half-thought that arrived when a Parkinson family dinner ran too long.
It wasn't as though she had anywhere to go. Not with Draco at Hogwarts. Not with Daphne and Theo at Blaise's.
Cassandra appeared in the doorway, stepping in and pulling the door closed behind her. "Thinking about making a jump?"
Pansy straightened, pressing her expression back into something more controlled and quickly wiping her face. "I considered it. Decided the drop isn't quite far enough."
"You could always climb from your bedroom window."
"I have a window box planter. I climb down rather than jump."
"That explains a great deal, actually."
Cassandra moved further into the room, studying her daughter with the quiet attention she reserved for moments like this. "Draco's a safe choice," she said, more gently than Pansy expected. "Even with Lucius in Azkaban, the Malfoys still carry considerable weight. And he'll be the closest thing to a Black heir. You've been friends your whole lives."
Pansy said nothing.
"I'm not telling you to choose him," Cassandra added. "I'm simply explaining what they see."
"I suppose I ought to be grateful you're letting me have a say in it," Pansy said, and she meant it.
A quiet beat of silence settled between them. Cassandra studied her daughter with the patient look she always wore when she suspected Pansy might crack if given enough time.
"He's not one of us, is he?" Cassandra asked, her voice soft.
Pansy didn't meet her eyes. She turned back to the window. "I don't know what you mean."
Cassandra sighed and stepped closer.
"It's not serious," Pansy muttered, a faint flush climbing her neck. She talked about it loudly enough at school, made crude remarks she knew would scandalise the whole table — but actually admitting to her mother that she'd slept with Harry bloody Potter? Saying it out loud felt entirely different. Embarrassing. "It was a mistake. It happened once."
"What happened once?"
"Salazar, Mum, don't make me say it," Pansy groaned, pressing her fingers to her temples.
Cassandra raised an eyebrow. "Was it Draco?"
"No!"
"Who, then?" There was almost a note of amusement in her voice. It was rare to see Pansy lose her composure quite this thoroughly.
Pansy shook her head and buried her face in her hands, cheeks hot. She had no interest whatsoever in having this conversation.
"What if I simply promise to tell you the next time it happens?" she said, muffled.
"Was it a Weasley?"
Pansy dropped her hands and stared at her mother in genuine affront. "I made an ill-advised decision, not lost my mind entirely."
"Good. You had me frightened."
"It doesn't matter who he was, because it isn't going to happen again. It was reckless and impulsive. We were arguing the first time — I don't even entirely understand how it happened."
"The first time?" Cassandra's eyebrow crept higher. "I thought you said it only happened once."
Pansy groaned. "This is not happening. None of this is real. I'm having some kind of fever dream."
Cassandra's composure remained perfectly infuriating. She stood there, steady and patient, as though she'd expected every word of this. "You're acting as though I've asked for the minute-by-minute account," she said, quite reasonably. "I simply want to know what you intend to do about it."
Pansy let out a short, bitter laugh, pressing two fingers to her temple. "Nothing. There's absolutely nothing to do. It's finished. Done. A footnote in a deeply chaotic chapter of my life."
Cassandra tilted her head with the particular expression that meant she wasn't entirely persuaded. Pansy knew that look. Her mother had a gift for waiting in silence until the cracks appeared.
"Does he know it was a mistake?" Cassandra asked.
Pansy's fingers twitched. "Yes. I made that abundantly clear."
Cassandra nodded slowly, closing the distance between them. "And if he came knocking?"
"He won't."
"But if he did?"
"Then I'd hex him into next week."
"From everything you've not quite told me, darling, I rather suspect that would end with him in your bed again. Whoever he is."
Pansy glared at her.
Cassandra sighed, moving towards the door. "If you truly didn't care, you'd tell me his name," she said. "Think about that. Now — compose yourself and come back to dinner."
Back at the Burrow, the air was thick with the smell of fresh bread and the steady warmth of a well-stoked fire. Snow pressed quietly against the windowpanes, and outside the garden gnomes had burrowed deep into the frozen ground, sensibly avoiding the cold.
Ginny sat curled in an armchair near the fire, absently tracing patterns on the arm of the chair. A few days had slipped by since Christmas, and the New Year was drawing close. It ought to have felt exciting — a fresh start, a reason to celebrate. Instead, all she felt was a low, restless guilt she couldn't quite shake.
Her mum and dad had a party to attend for New Year's Eve, and — after considerable lobbying from Fred and George, who had pointed out at length that they were adults now — her parents had agreed to allow a small gathering at the Burrow. Ginny hadn't told them that the arrangement had only been sealed after Bill offered to chaperone, in exchange for their mother laying off Fleur for one evening.
She reached for Dean's latest letter, folded neatly on the side table. It was sweet, thoughtful — he wrote about missing her, about his mum fussing over him, about how much he was looking forward to seeing her again. She knew she ought to feel something reading it. A warmth. A pull. But all she felt was a dull, creeping guilt.
With a quiet sigh, she set Dean's letter aside and reached for the other one — heavier parchment, neater handwriting, and something cool and unfamiliar about the way it smelled.
Blaise's latest letter.
She hadn't quite intended to start corresponding with him. It had begun as polite replies to his unexpectedly sharp, dry observations, and had somehow become something she looked forward to. Which was, she recognised, a problem.
She shouldn't be looking forward to Blaise's letters more than Dean's.
She unfolded it, eyes moving over the lines. Blaise didn't write the way Dean did. He didn't reach for sentiment or say what he thought she'd like to hear. He wrote as though she could keep up — teasing, challenging, tossing out remarks that made her want to argue back immediately just to prove a point.
Theo's been camped here since Christmas. We've been effectively trapped in Zabini Zareba for days. He nearly set the drawing room alight trying to 'prove a point' about the practical applications of fire-based curses in duelling. (He failed, obviously.) The party was its usual horror. I'm astonished Theo and Daphne can be in the same room after the scene they caused. Theo still refuses to grow up and ask her out properly.
Ginny traced a finger along the edge of the parchment, lips twitching despite herself.
Theo and Daphne were a disaster in the making. She could practically hear Blaise's exasperation bleeding through the ink.
She picked up her quill without really thinking about it.
You pretend to be above all of it, but honestly — if Theo and Daphne actually got together, you'd be at a complete loss. What else would you have to complain about?
She paused, then added:
Tell Theo to put down the matches. And since you're apparently stranded at home, you've no excuse for taking ages to write back.
"Oi, you're brooding."
Ginny looked up with a start to find George leaning in the doorway, arms folded, wearing a deeply entertained expression.
"I am not brooding," she said, quickly tucking the letters under her thigh.
"You very much are, and it's becoming tedious. What's wrong? Need a hand plotting someone's downfall?"
She rolled her eyes. "No, thank you."
George pushed off the doorframe and dropped onto the couch across from her. "Boy trouble, then?"
Ginny shot him her best withering look, which only widened his grin.
"Oh ho. It is boy trouble."
"It isn't."
George tilted his head, studying her with unnerving accuracy. "Dean?"
Ginny hesitated. "…Sort of."
His grin faded slightly, and he moved across to sit closer. "What's happened?"
Ginny sighed, rubbing a hand through her hair. "Dean is perfectly lovely, really. He's kind, he's got on brilliantly with Ron and Harry, he remembers things and writes to me and buys me gifts. He's everything a decent boyfriend ought to be."
George watched her carefully. "But?"
Ginny dropped her head back against the armchair. "But… I don't know. It's not as though anything's wrong, exactly. It just…"
"Doesn't feel right?"
She nodded. "And he's coming for New Year's."
George let out a low whistle. "That's complicated."
Ginny gave him a pointed look. "Helpful, George. Really."
He stretched out comfortably. "I'm only saying — if you're already dreading your own boyfriend's visit, that tells you something rather significant."
She pressed her palms to her eyes. "I know. I know. But how do you break up with someone when you haven't got a particular reason?"
George snorted. "You've got a reason. You just don't want to say it out loud."
Ginny peeked at him through her fingers. "And what reason is that, oh wise one?"
"You're bored," he said, simply.
"That's a terrible reason!"
"It's a true one," George replied. "Dean's steady. Reliable."
"Predictable," Ginny added.
"That's not necessarily a bad thing," he pointed out, poking her in the side.
Ginny hesitated. "No. I suppose it isn't." She sat up properly and looked at her brother. "It's just — I look at Hermione, and she seems to have finally found something real. I'd always assumed she'd end up with Harry or Ron. Safe choices. Kind people who care about her. But the way she is with Malfoy now — I mean, yes, she fancies him, don't tell Ron — he challenges her. Actually challenges her, both academically and personally."
George let out a theatrical sigh, shaking his head. "That is a catastrophe waiting to happen."
Ginny smirked. "So is Theo and Daphne, and Blaise seems to think they'll sort themselves out eventually."
George raised an eyebrow. "Blaise, is it?"
She went very still for half a second before rolling her eyes. "Yes. Blaise. He writes."
"Does he." George's smirk spread. "And you write back?"
"Obviously."
He leaned forward with the gleeful expression of someone who had just cornered a Niffler. "And would you say his letters are… more interesting than Dean's?"
She grabbed a cushion and launched it at him, which he caught without blinking. "Shut up."
"You've got to break up with him."
"I can't do it at the party! That's horrible!"
"Look, it's not complicated. Be honest, be kind, don't drag it out. Dean's a good bloke. He deserves someone who's properly in it."
"And if he asks why?"
George shrugged. "Tell him the truth — your feelings changed. You don't need a grand reason. And for the love of Merlin, don't mention Blaise."
The Burrow was warm and loud as the clock crept towards midnight. The scent of Butterbeer and punch blended with the last traces of roasted meat and warm pudding, and the low thrum of music ran beneath the sound of laughter and overlapping conversation. Weasleys and friends and a few chosen guests spilled through the house, glasses raised, cheeks flushed.
Dean was beside Ginny, animatedly discussing Quidditch tactics with Ron, his arm resting easily across her shoulders. But Ginny's attention kept drifting, her thoughts circling back, inevitably, to the letters under her pillow upstairs.
Every time Dean's attention wandered elsewhere, Ginny found a quiet corner to unfold Blaise's latest letter and read it again, though she knew the words by now.
She'd written to him earlier and sent it off — half explanation, half provocation — but hadn't been able to send it while Dean's hand was still on her shoulder.
"Hey, Gin." Dean's voice pulled her back. He was holding out a glass of Butterbeer, smiling at her with easy warmth. "You alright?"
"Yeah," she said, mustering a smile. "Just thinking."
"About the New Year?"
"Something like that."
She let him steer her onto the makeshift dance floor when he asked, letting the music close around them, too loud to think clearly.
Ron, across the room, had apparently been Engorgio'd at the lips again, tucked away somewhere with Lavender. Charlie had found them.
Charlie looked mildly intrigued, arms folded across his chest, watching his youngest brother with the expression of a man who works with dragons and therefore can't be easily rattled, but is certainly taking notes.
Lavender appeared entirely oblivious to the scrutiny. She was twisting a lock of hair around her finger, laughing at something Ron had said.
"Ron," Charlie said at last, tone dry but not unkind, "have you developed gills recently, or was that for breathing purposes?"
Ron went crimson immediately, shunting Lavender off his lap in a way that earned him a squeal of protest and a very wounded look as she straightened her skirt with great injured dignity.
Lavender produced a tight smile for Charlie. "Happy New Year."
"Happy New Year," Charlie returned, before clapping a hand on Ron's shoulder and hauling him a few steps aside. "Merlin's beard, mate. You were about two minutes from combustion."
Ron jammed his hands in his pockets. "We were just… celebrating."
Charlie raised an eyebrow. "Is that what you lot are calling it these days?" He shook his head. "Whatever happened to Hermione?"
Ron went from red to a deeper shade of puce. "What?!"
Charlie held up both hands. "Nothing. Just — we all thought that was where things were headed, that's all." He moved away with the easy escape of someone who has absolutely no intention of getting further involved.
Ginny slipped upstairs when no one was watching. She crossed to her bed, slid her hand under her pillow, and pulled out the latest letter from Blaise, reading it again as though the words might have rearranged themselves.
You must be thoroughly bored if you're writing to me mid-party. Do try not to doze off while Dean waxes poetic. Or worse, agree to dance and lose the will to live. Send your owl if it gets desperate — I'll tell Theo to fashion a Portkey out of his shoe polish tin.
Ginny snorted and grabbed a scrap of parchment.
He made me dance. Still alive. Barely.
Party's loud. Food's good. Everyone's either snogging or having an argument in a corner. You'd love it. Or loathe it. Hard to say. Harry keeps rubbing his face like he's trying to chase off a thought. Not sure I want to know which one.
— Ginny
She sent the owl out through the window into the dark.
Back downstairs, Ron had surfaced from the Lavender situation, if only because Charlie had physically removed him from it. Charlie had moved on to talk to Fleur. Lavender, impressively, had already found new company.
Harry stood slightly apart from it all, trying not to check the Marauder's Map and failing. He knew Hermione had asked him to stop. But he wanted to know she was alright. He wondered whether she was tucked up in her dormitory with a book, celebrating the New Year in her usual quiet fashion, or whether — by some small miracle — Malfoy had coaxed her out into the castle.
How did Malfoy celebrate the New Year? Was it the way the Weasleys did? Loud and warm and chaotic? Or was it something grander, more formal?
Was that how Pansy celebrated?
He tried to imagine it — Pansy in some glittering gown, lounging dramatically across a velvet chaise while her mother presided over a room full of floating candles and crystal. Blaise would be there, no doubt, wearing something understated and expensive, trading barbed remarks with her while Theo knocked something priceless off a shelf and Daphne pretended she wasn't watching.
Harry scrubbed a hand over his face, irritated at himself. He didn't care. He had no reason to care.
Upstairs, Ginny leaned out the window to send the owl off, watching it vanish into the dark, then padded back downstairs.
She found Harry standing slightly apart from the noise, expression somewhere between troubled and distracted.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," she said.
Harry glanced at her. "Just Ron and Lavender. Again."
She hummed. "What are you actually thinking about?"
Harry hesitated. "Hermione—"
"Is a grown woman who can take care of herself," Ginny said. "What else?"
Harry looked at her sideways, something passing briefly across his face. "You're unsettling when you do that."
"Do what?"
"See straight through people like you've got a Legilimency O.W.L."
Ginny shrugged, leaning her shoulder against the wall beside him. "I just know you."
Harry exhaled slowly, eyes drifting across the room. "I slept with someone," he said. Just like that. "Before the holidays."
Ginny blinked. "What?"
Harry rubbed the back of his neck, eyes on the floor. "Yeah. It just sort of… happened. Twice."
Ginny's arms unfolded slowly. She turned to face him more directly. "Twice?"
Harry winced. "Yeah."
"With who?"
He hesitated.
"Oh my God, it's Pansy, isn't it?" Ginny hissed.
Harry's head snapped up. "How did you—"
Ginny pressed a hand to her face. "Blaise told me Daphne said Pansy had been acting oddly before the holidays. And that she'd apparently slept with someone but wouldn't say who."
Harry stared at her. "Wait — everyone knows?"
"No," she said firmly. "Not that it was you, at any rate. Gods, Harry, your taste in enemies is actually alarming."
"It wasn't planned!" he hissed, checking instinctively that no one nearby was listening. "We were arguing — a proper argument — and then she kissed me and it just — happened."
Ginny stared at him like he'd declared he fancied Aragog. "You were fighting?"
"Yes."
"And you let it happen again?"
Harry threw up his hands. "We were on the train!"
"On the train?!"
He gave her a helpless look. "I'm not proud, alright? I haven't told Ron."
"Obviously don't tell Ron," Ginny said. "He would murder you on the spot and then owl your mother."
Harry groaned and let his head fall back against the wall. "I don't even like her."
"Right," Ginny said. "Which is why you've done it twice."
He shot her a glare. "You're not helping. And the second time wasn't even — I'm going to stop talking now."
"I'm not trying to help," she said bluntly. "I'm trying to work out what alternate universe I've wandered into. You and Pansy Parkinson." She shook her head. "You have absolutely no grounds to say a single word to Hermione about Malfoy anymore."
Harry dragged a hand over his face. "You can't tell Hermione."
A pause.
"Well," Ginny said, with a shift in her voice that suggested she was moving on, "I'm going to break up with Dean."
Harry opened one eye. "Because of Blaise?"
She gave him a very deliberate look. "No. Sort of. Not exactly." She blew out a breath. "I genuinely don't know."
Harry studied her for a moment, something soft and quiet in his expression.
They stood in silence as laughter erupted from the kitchen and the clink of glasses grew louder, the clock pulling steadily towards midnight.
Ginny nudged him gently with her elbow. "So what are you going to do? About Pansy?"
Harry was quiet for a moment. "Nothing. Pretend it didn't happen. Hope she's already forgotten it."
Ginny raised an eyebrow. "You haven't forgotten."
Pansy had absolutely no idea how she'd managed it, but she'd somehow convinced her mother to allow a proper party for New Year's Eve.
It wasn't as though Parkinson Palace went without celebrations. Far from it. But her mother had declared this year would be quiet — a family affair — largely on account of the extended relatives who had settled in after Christmas like a persistent cold that refused to shift. That ought to have been the end of the matter. But Pansy had lobbied quietly, made her case at breakfast, dropped pointed remarks over tea, and finally staged a deeply theatrical sigh in front of her aunt and uncle about how terribly lonely the New Year would be without any of her friends.
By early afternoon, Cassandra had relented.
"You may invite your little… group," she'd said, with a measured sip of elderflower wine. "The drawing rooms stay closed. No one goes near the rose hall. You will not overindulge with the drinking. You will set a respectable example for your younger cousins. And if Theodore knocks over another antique lamp, he is personally banned for life."
Pansy had beamed and kissed her mother's cheek. "You won't regret it."
Now, the group had claimed the library for themselves, nestled in amongst the candlelight and the old, comfortable smell of polished wood and leather-bound books.
Theo had claimed the emerald velvet settee with the dedication of a territorial Kneazle — one socked foot dangling off the arm, the other propped on the coffee table despite Blaise's pointed look. Blaise himself was settled into a high-backed leather armchair by the fire, nursing something dark and undoubtedly expensive with the unhurried ease of someone raised in a house where his opinion was generally law.
Daphne was perched on the wide windowsill, legs drawn up, absently tracing the condensation on the glass with one finger. Her dress caught the firelight beautifully — silver, fitted, and rather dangerous-looking — though her expression suggested she was currently about half a world away from present company. Pansy suspected it had something to do with the fact that Theo hadn't complimented her once all evening.
"And for the record," Theo was saying, gesturing broadly with his glass as he neared the punchline of some ridiculous story, "I did not mean to knock it over. It was a strategic miscalculation made during an attempt at interpretive dancing."
"That lamp," Pansy said, deadpan, "was eighteenth-century Italian. My mother was on the verge of tears."
"Your mother is always nearly in tears when Theo is around," Blaise observed.
"Possibly because he keeps breaking things," Daphne said, not looking up.
A sudden burst of childish laughter from somewhere behind one of the bookshelves made Pansy turn sharply. She flicked her wand at a particular section of shelving, which swung back to reveal her cousins, caught in the act. She raised an eyebrow at them.
"We're bored," Elijah announced. "Mother said we could join you."
He was fifteen, and by the way his gaze had immediately gone to the case of Firewhisky on the floor, Pansy had a very clear sense of his actual motive.
"Unfortunate," Pansy said. "I didn't invite you." She plucked her evening bag from Chloe's hands. "And don't take my things."
"Can I try this lipstick?" Chloe asked, holding out the tube she'd already helped herself to.
Pansy studied her with narrowed eyes. Chloe blinked back, perfectly innocent. "That shade is for grown-ups, darling."
"You mean like when boys get on their knees to apologise?" Idalia asked.
Pansy's eyes widened, and she clapped her hand over Idalia's mouth before anything else could escape. She'd known they would repeat it — she'd simply assumed it would be to the family, not to her friends.
Theo sat up from his horizontal sprawl with an expression of sudden, gleeful interest.
"Out," Pansy said pleasantly, through gritted teeth, one hand still firmly over Idalia's mouth. "All of you."
"But—" Elijah started.
"Absolutely not." Pansy scooped the Firewhisky bottle off the floor and tucked it behind her back. "Out, out, out. Go play Gobstones. Ask Mother for a full recounting of the history of napkin etiquette. Or, radical suggestion, go to bed."
"But it isn't even midnight," Chloe said, aggrieved.
"Which means you still have time to learn about boundaries," Pansy replied, with a brilliant smile, shepherding them all firmly back through the hidden door. She gave one last, crystalline smile before it clicked shut behind them.
A brief silence.
Then—
"'Like when boys get on their knees to apologise,'" Theo repeated, with the delighted intonation of someone who had just found something very valuable. He leaned forward in his seat, eyes bright. "Do elaborate on that particular grown-up scenario, Pans."
"There is nothing to elaborate on," Pansy said, in a tone that would have frozen the Black Lake. She settled back into her chaise. "And if you're clever, Nott, you'll pretend you never heard it."
"He's not very clever," Daphne said.
Pansy sighed, accepting her margarita back from Blaise. "Right. Resolutions."
"I resolve to find out who you're currently sleeping with," Theo said immediately.
Pansy glared at him. "Proper resolutions."
"Seriously, Pans?" Blaise asked, raising an eyebrow. "We're not twelve."
"We're almost seventeen," Pansy said. "Which means everything is just getting progressively more complicated and confusing, so let me keep my tradition." She looked around the group. "Resolutions. Go."
Theo groaned with theatrical suffering. "Fine. I resolve to stop destroying priceless heirlooms."
"You said that last year," Pansy muttered.
"And the year before," Blaise added.
"And you have never once followed through," Daphne concluded, without so much as looking up.
Theo held up a finger. "Ah. But this year I mean it."
"You said that about not flirting with Madam Pince," Blaise said.
"She was giving me a look!"
"She was giving you a warning," Pansy said.
Theo waved this away. "Details. She fancies me."
Daphne turned from the window, one brow elegantly arched. "Fine. I resolve to stop wasting my time on people who can't decide what they want."
Pansy pressed her lips together as she glanced at an oblivious Theo. "Perhaps choose less stupid people to wait for."
Daphne looked at Blaise, passing the baton without a word.
Blaise sighed. "Very well. I resolve to remain devastatingly handsome, endlessly perceptive, and unreasonably patient with all of you."
"You forgot unbearably smug," Pansy said.
"And modest," Daphne added, raising her glass.
Blaise gave them both a slow, satisfied smirk and inclined his drink in their direction. "I didn't want to sound greedy."
Pansy rolled her eyes but found herself smiling as she settled more comfortably into her chaise, legs tucked beneath her. She swirled her glass idly, staring into the pale green liquid. "I resolve…" she began, then paused for a moment. She knew her resolution. To never sleep with Harry Potter again. She rather thought she couldn't say that one out loud. "I resolve to stop making spectacularly stupid decisions."
A small tapping sound came from one of the library windows. Daphne unlatched it to let a small owl in, which flew directly to Blaise and deposited a letter neatly in his lap.
"Secret admirer?" Theo asked, craning his neck.
Blaise unfolded the letter. "Ginny," he said, reading it through privately.
He made me dance. Still alive. Barely.
Party's loud. Food's good. Everyone's either snogging or having an argument in a corner. You'd love it. Or loathe it. Hard to say. Harry keeps rubbing his face like he's trying to chase off a thought. Not sure I want to know which one.
— Ginny
Blaise's lips curved slightly as he read.
Theo leaned sideways, trying to peer over Blaise's shoulder at the parchment.
"She says their party is mediocre, Dean made her dance, and Potter is doing something telling with his face," Blaise said, folding the letter and tucking it into his jacket pocket.
"Since when are you and the Weasley girl friends?" Daphne asked.
He shrugged. "She's good company." He picked up a quill and a scrap of parchment, scratched out a brief reply, and sent the owl back into the dark.
"What do you reckon Potter's trying not to think about?" Theo wondered aloud.
"Probably that his best friend is alone in a castle with his mortal enemy," Daphne said, with a touch of amusement.
The room settled into a comfortable sort of quiet for a moment — just the soft crackle of the fire, the clink of glass on glass, the faint smell of old parchment and polished wood. Warm and familiar. But with something missing that made the warmth feel just slightly incomplete.
It was Blaise who said it, eventually.
"It's strange without him here."
They didn't need a name.
Daphne's fingers stilled against the windowpane. Theo exhaled, less theatrically than usual, with a genuine weight behind it.
"We've celebrated every New Year together since we were children," he admitted. "I thought he'd at least send an owl. I haven't heard from him since before the holidays."
"Neither have I," Pansy said quietly.
Daphne looked at them both but held back from speaking.
Blaise narrowed his eyes. "You know something."
"I don't know anything," Daphne said, slightly too quickly.
"Greengrass," Pansy said.
Daphne sighed. "I haven't spoken to him. That doesn't mean I haven't been in contact with a certain someone else."
"Hermione," Theo said, brightening considerably. "What did she say?"
Daphne pulled her legs up beneath her. "I told her to just get on with it — that they had the castle entirely to themselves. She wrote back to say she'd gone to find him in the common room, and he'd been on his way out — that by the way he'd looked at her, she was sure he'd been about to come and find her. That he keeps watching her when they study together, as though he thinks she doesn't notice." She paused. "She was panicking that he might already know she fancies him."
"We told him she does, and somehow he's still oblivious," Blaise said.
"I assured her he hasn't a clue. He has been asking about Muggles, though — they've been eating together, just spending time. She's not terribly detailed about it, which is actually rather surprising. She did mention calling him Professor Malfoy at some point, which apparently produced quite a reaction." Daphne waved a hand. "That's all I know. I haven't had another letter, though they do take a while to arrive."
Pansy didn't mention the letter she'd received from Hermione that morning. It wasn't much. Only six words.
He's working on a Vanishing Cabinet.
"Think they'll kiss at midnight?" Blaise asked.
Theo propped his chin on his hand, intrigued. "Right, then. Ten Galleons says she kisses him."
Daphne raised an eyebrow. "Ten Galleons? Is that the best you can manage?"
Blaise leaned back in his chair, settling his drink against his knee. "I'll raise you ten. Twenty says they don't kiss at midnight."
"Overconfident," Theo said.
"Thirty says he kisses her," Daphne declared, throwing her lot in.
Blaise tilted his head. "He'll go in for it and then find some excuse at the last second. Convince himself he was just getting her hair out of her face."
Pansy considered the room for a moment, then smiled. "Fine. If we're betting — they do kiss. Just not at midnight."
Theo's eyebrows shot up. "Oh? You think they'll miss the mark entirely? Too busy glaring at each other from across the room until one of them snaps?"
"I think," Pansy said smoothly, swirling the amber liquid in her glass, "that they'll both spend midnight pretending they're not thinking about it. They won't quite be able to hold eye contact, because looking at each other means admitting what they're both thinking about. And then — later. When they think it's safe. When the castle is quiet and no one's watching." She paused. "That's when it'll happen."
"A post-midnight kiss," Blaise murmured. "A delayed explosion. Completely them."
"He'll do it," Daphne said, confident. "Not because he's brave — though he is. Because he's so thoroughly gone for her, he won't be able to help himself. She'll be too afraid of breaking whatever strange thing they've already built."
Theo stretched back against the cushions. "I want her to do it," he said. "Not just so I can take everyone's money, either. Just imagine the look on his face."
Pansy snorted. "It'd be a peck. Quick. She'd immediately need to explain it."
Blaise nodded. "She'd probably start quoting something about how kissing on New Year's is a meaningful cultural tradition across multiple societies."
"And he'd just stand there staring at her," Pansy said. "The way he does. Like he's memorising everything she says."
Theo shook his head, laughing quietly. "That's exactly her. She'd over-explain every single detail while he's still trying to work out why he can't think straight."
"The frustrating part," Daphne said, "is that we'll probably never know." She tilted her glass. "Unless one of them says something, it'll stay between them forever."