Chapter Text
Harry woke with a start and tried, unsuccessfully, to slow his racing heart. There were still nights, six years after the fact, that he woke in a panicked cold sweat, mentally trapped and thrown back to his time on the run with Hermione and Ron. Day after day of wondering when they might finally uncover the last few discarded pieces of a crazed monster’s soul. The suffocating need to destroy each horcrux—destroy Voldemort—for good.
It never boded well for the day ahead.
In such moments, he was glad Hermione had convinced him, however briefly, to see a Mind Healer. He was by no means “fixed,” but he now possessed a few tools to regain control over his mind and body when the darkness pressed in a little too closely.
The grounding techniques were his favourite. He attempted to settle his body even more deeply into the mattress and let his gaze wander throughout his bedroom.
His wardrobe, open and cluttered with half-folded piles of work robes and everyday wear. His broom, the latest model of Firebolt that he still used weekly for interdepartmental pickup Quidditch games. A leather wand holster Hermione had gifted him this Christmas, draped across the back of a chair. His favourite framed picture of Ron, Hermione, and himself, tangled together and laughing about something he’d long since forgotten. His wand, eleven inches, made of holly and once smooth, now nicked and scuffed. Proof of all he’d survived over the years.
The sense of touch was next. A golden chain he’d taken to wearing a few years ago, a final gift from Ginny imbued with layers of protection charms, lay cool against his collarbone. The feel of his calloused fingertips as his thumb smoothed slowly over each of them. One hundred percent cotton bedsheets with the highest thread count money could buy, the softest material he’d felt in his entire life. A lone drop of sweat running down his neck to pool at the base of his clavicle.
His focus shifted to things he could hear. The harsh slam of a heavy car door being shut before keys were inserted and the engine revved. Kreacher’s light tread across old, creaking wood floors. The faint ticking of the hand-me-down gold pocketwatch Molly had gifted him in Seventh Year, a reminder that he was family, and loved, and cherished.
And then, what he could smell. Bacon and butter, possibly an entire fry-up if he were lucky and Kreacher was feeling especially generous, and tobacco smoke that still clung to his hair from the pipe George had been puffing on while they’d been out having a few pints at the Leaky in preparation for the week ahead.
Finally, taste. Rubbish, honestly.
Harry ran his tongue along the outside of his teeth and winced when he realised he’d fallen into bed the night before without even a simple cleansing charm. Whatever, it wasn’t as if he’d woken up next to anyone for it to be an issue in…well, it had been over a year at this point, hadn’t it?
He winced at the thought and lifted both of his hands to swipe down his face, pausing to wipe the sleep out of his eyes before pressing them against his eyelids. The grounding routine had worked to centre himself. He was now fully awake.
Fully aware of just how alone he felt.
Ripping off the duvet, he swung his legs off the side of his bed and pushed himself up and toward the large window across the room. Judging by the soft grey rays that were only beginning to light up his bedroom, it was going to be another cold, gloomy day.
He opened the window and leaned outside, not lending a care to how the January air stung and dried the vestiges of sweat that still clung to his bare chest. His fingers dug into the wood of the windowsill until his knuckles whitened, and it was only then that he allowed himself to think about the conversation he’d had with Ron last night.
“It’s been long enough since you and Gin ended things, hasn’t it, mate? Don’t you get lonely in that big, empty house?”
It definitely had been long enough. And yes, he was lonely some nights. Alright, most nights if he allowed himself to be honest. He’d long since gotten over Ginny, but what Ron didn’t know was that it had been close to a year since he’d taken anyone to his bed.
He’d learned that having a warm, naked body to nestle up to was only nice when you trusted the person. He came to despise jolting awake, screaming about things the average person couldn’t comprehend, next to someone whose name he’d forgotten immediately after it was drunkenly whispered in his ear some hours and shots prior. They’d tried their best to comfort him, attempting to coax him back to bed with half-drunken whispers of gentle promises and sweet caresses, but it never worked.
And so, he’d stopped trying. Work as an auror was exhausting enough without having to also worry about why someone wanted to go home with you. Trying to parse through their intentions to decide if they were actually interested in him as a person, or who they thought the “Chosen One” was more work than he was willing to put in at the moment. Stupid fucking moniker.
He let out a long exhale and watched the frosty cloud rise above his head. Maybe Ron was right. A quick shag, brought about by one too many shots of firewhiskey, would never be fulfilling or amount to anything that resembled some of the great love stories he looked up to. Maybe it was finally time to let his oldest friend set him up like he’d been offering to for months.
Maybe…
***
Harry’s hands worked their very hardest to massage away the dull headache that arrived the moment he stepped into his office to find Hermione furiously pacing.
Before he’d even opened his mouth to voice a “Good morning,” she’d started ranting.
“I wish you could have heard them, Harry. The audacity of those pricks! The way Tiberius spoke down to me after the final vote had gone through and he made his closing remarks. As if I should be thanking him because the law ended up being so much more ‘humane’ because couples don’t have to consummate until the first year mark.”
What the fuck? Tendrils of unease began to creep up his spine. What was Tiberius messing around with that had to do with couples consummating?
Hermione’s chest heaved as she sucked in deep breaths. If she were attempting to calm herself, it wasn’t working. “Jesus, Harry, you don’t know how close I was to hexing the lot of them.”
He’d stood and walked around his desk, aiming to intercept her on her next pass. She dodged his outstretched arms, continuing to pace.
“Please don’t touch me right now. I’m not sure what my magic might do, and I’d rather not accidentally hurt you.”
It had been years since he’d seen her wound this tight. His concern grew.
“Hermione…what’s happened?” He asked as calmly as he could before stepping back to brace himself against the front of his desk. Hermione was sure to see through the facade, but he wanted to try for her.
Her eyes darted to his and she winced.
“I couldn’t tell you, Harry. You have to understand. We all were under strict orders to keep this under wraps and I couldn’t risk my vote being nullified.” Hermione paused to rake her fingers through her hair, and he swore sparks crackled in their wake.
“Not that it fucking mattered anyway,” she muttered and finally paused before him. “It’s called the Magical Marital Act. Some Unspeakable, whose name they refuse to release, submitted a report to Kingsley about a projected future shortage of magical births and the Wizengamot panicked.”
Tears filled the corners of her eyes, and it took every ounce of self-control not to reach out and crush her into an embrace. It killed him to see her cry, and his magic welled beneath his skin at the need to take away the pain she was feeling.
She reached behind her and, a moment later, shoved a half-crushed bit of parchment toward him.
He reluctantly took it from her hand, eyes firmly still on hers, searching for any clue regarding what he was being handed. Though judging by what she’d called it, it wasn’t too hard to guess.
“Read it. It will explain…everything.” Her voice cracked on the final word, as she angrily swiped a tear from her cheek.
The tension that had slowly begun coiling within him since the moment she began speaking pulled tight around his heart and lungs and, for a moment, he struggled to draw in a breath. While his job had always been a dangerous one, he’d forgotten what it felt like to have this level of fight-or-flight triggered.
Adjusting his glasses, he smoothed out the paper as best he could and began reading.
Dear Miss Hermione Granger,
This letter has been sent to inform you of the most recent law passed that will affect all unwed witches and wizards in England between the ages of 20 to 50. Dubbed the Magical Marital Act, we hope to get ahead of the projected shortage in magical births that will occur if the situation post-war is not rectified. You have been matched with Cormac McLaggen.
The Ministry has provided a match based on compatibility. One week will be provided to make a different selection, provided they are a witch or wizard of the opposite sex and capable of procreation. If your assigned partner chooses another, you will be rematched at the end of the week with the most compatible of those also still unmatched.
The law consists of several parts, listed below:
Unwed witches and wizards are to present with a partner of the opposite sex to the publication of Banns within a week’s time.
After verification, the marriage is to be solemnised and put on record within a month.
Special exceptions shall be made for those wishing to abide by the honoured traditions of courtship and bonding. A matrimony ceremony concluded under such circumstances shall be publicised by the Ministry and an additional six months granted for planning.
Consummation of the marriage is advised promptly, however, an inquiry will only be conducted should the witch not fall pregnant after a year.
Cohabitation and adequate sleeping arrangements are to be established by the married couple.
Failure to comply with all relevant requirements will attract sanctions, including a wand ban and exile.
We preemptively wish you all the best in your upcoming nuptials.
From the desk of the Minister of Magic,
Kingsley Shacklebolt
The parchment slipped from his unsteady hands, drifting slowly to the floor, before he realised his grip had slackened in the first place.
Ice flooded his veins and his vision blurred. He felt Hermione settle onto the edge of the desk next to him and she let out a tired, broken sound as he tried to come to terms with everything she’d laid at his feet. What did this mean for him, and why hadn’t Hermione put a stop to it? No, that wasn’t fair. She’d done enough. They all had. The weight of the world wasn’t supposed to rest on their backs, not anymore. And yet…
She sniffled, and he glanced over to see her hands pressed to her eyes, attempting to hold back more tears.
“They…he…stuck me with McLaggen and I have it on good authority that you’ve matched with Romilda. Her mother is Tiberius’s sister. It’s obvious he's done this to keep us under his thumb, Harry.”
Anger zipped through him, as hot as Fiendfyre, and he laughed bitterly as he remembered what he’d decided earlier. “This morning…I had decided to let Ron set me up on a date. Jesus Christ, Hermione. This can’t be real.”
She leaned into him—for her support or his, he wasn’t sure.
“That isn’t even the worst of it.” Her voice was soft and she sounded utterly defeated.
But what could be even more shattering than the Wizengamot treating you like a petulant child after voting for the most devastating law since Voldemort had controlled the Ministry? Harry didn’t want to know.
“They’ll have matched the worst sorts of people to Draco, Pansy, Theo…As if they haven’t been punished enough. As if they haven’t already spent years atoning.”
Harry tossed the parchment back onto his desk and slid his hands under his glasses until the heels of his palms pressed into his eye sockets. Although Hermione had never officially confirmed his theory, Harry knew she had feelings for Draco. It was in the way they asked after one another and the subtle glances and touches when they thought no one was watching.
He and his childhood nemesis had both submitted applications to the DMLE after Eighth Year, and had gone through Auror training together. The first year they’d fought like cats and dogs, but after nearly dying during a practice mission, things had changed. Draco was now someone that Harry genuinely considered a friend, and the thought of him and Hermione losing out on a chance to be together because of this new decree had Harry’s blood boiling.
Hermione continued. “It’s obvious to me that the goal was to cause complete chaos. There will be a mad dash when everyone tries to find an alternative to avoid the worst matches. You watch. It’ll force quick obedience. No one’s going to stop to think more deeply about why this is happening or who is the one doing it.”
“What do you mean by that?” Did she know something he didn’t?
She waved a hand through the air as if to dismiss the question and he let it drop. She would tell him when she was ready.
“And there’s nothing we can do about this?”
Hermione laughed bitterly. “It’s already been done, Harry. You know Tiberius has been trying to force Kingsley out for the last several years. The Minister's ‘no’ vote meant essentially nothing.”
His whispered “fuck,” sank heavily between them. His mind raced with the implications of what he’d learned.
A marriage law? It was barbaric. Incomprehensible. How had they come out on the other side of a war only to be met with this? He felt caged in a way he hadn’t since first learning about his cursed prophecy.
“Agreed.” Hermione sighed, jolting him from his reverie. “Any whiskey in that desk of yours? Might as well call it quits on the day.”
Harry slowly pushed himself forward and crossed the room to where his partner’s desk sat. “No, but I know where Draco keeps his.”
He pulled out two crystal-cut glasses and a bottle of amber liquor that undoubtedly cost more than Harry made in a year. After pouring a liberal amount into each glass, he walked back over to Hermione and pushed one into her outstretched hand. She downed the entire thing in one quick gulp.
“More?” He asked, eyebrows raised.
She nodded but walked to fill the glass herself. Another pour, another gulp. She set the glass down on Draco’s desk and rubbed at both of her eyes furiously. “What are we going to do, Harry? What in the fuck are we going to do?”
He had no idea, but his heart was breaking for her. For Draco. For Luna and Hannah, and the dozens of others who hadn’t rushed into marriage once the war had finally ended.
“I’m so, so sorry, Hermione.”
They sat in silence for a long while after that, contemplating what this new decree meant for the British wizarding community.
***
Harry’s first course of action once the Ministry officially started sending the letters was to find Draco. He wasn’t sure where his partner had been all morning, or if he’d heard what had happened. Part of him was glad that he hadn’t been there to watch Hermione deliver the news and subsequently break down in their office.
Neither one of them deserved that. Deserved any of this.
As he re-entered the lift to return to Level 2, he allowed himself to think of how the Magical Marital Act might affect his future. He’d spent all morning worrying about Hermione and Draco. About Neville and Theo. About absolutely everyone other than himself.
What a sick coincidence that the morning he decided it was time to re-enter the dating pool was when this bloody fucking marriage law was announced. And the fact that he’d been paired with Romilda Vane? Harry was fully convinced that, as Hermione guessed, the match had Tiberius’s name written all over it.
But if not her, if he were to exert the small amount of free will that was afforded to him, whom would he choose? Who would even agree to that? Even if they were a more preferable choice than the witch who had once tried slipping him a love potion, this person would eventually bear his children.
Children. Godric fucking Gryffindor, the thought of bringing new life into a world with someone he’d been forced to marry made him sick to his stomach. Hell, the thought of living with a near stranger was bad enough. He’d dreamed about starting a family of his own for nearly his entire life, and now it was being forced upon him in a way he still couldn’t comprehend. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing away the onslaught of panic that threatened to overtake him.
The lift dinged suddenly and its doors rattled open, forcing him to stagger out and into the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. He forced himself to breathe. In and out, in and out, until his erratic heartbeat slowed and his blurred vision sharpened again.
“Harry? There you are!” Draco called out from further down the hall. His well-worn dragonhide boots made a specific clicking noise with every step he took, something that Harry ribbed him about mercilessly most days. He focused on the sound until his partner was before him.
Harry cleared his tight throat and croaked, “You look like shite, mate.”
Draco rolled his eyes and ran a hand through mussed hair that looked as if it had already seen his fingers dozens of times.
“As if I didn’t already know that,” he snapped.
Harry held up his hands in supplication, though he didn’t blame Draco for the cold response.
“You’ve spoken to Hermione then?” He asked, tentatively.
Draco’s shoulders slumped. “No. I’ve been with Theo all morning. He was having a conniption after finding the ring Longbottom had bought for him, and then the letters arrived…”
His heart plummeted. Neville had been planning on asking Theo to marry him? Gods, the timing of it all.
“Christ…I’m sorry.” This had to be, in short, the worst day any of them had experienced in years.
Draco waved off his apology. “It’s not as if you had anything to do with it. Who were you matched to? And…”
Harry knew whose match Draco truly cared to learn about, even if he seemed unable to voice her name himself.
“Romilda Vane for me. Hermione’s was…McLaggen.”
Draco turned and slammed a fist into the brick wall beside them, a strangled cry escaping him. Blood oozed from his knuckles, and Harry wondered if he’d gone so far as to break something.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he yelled and pulled back his fist to strike a second time.
Harry’s hand shot out and encircled Draco’s wrist before that could happen. “Pulverising every bone in your hand isn’t going to change anything.”
Draco pulled out of his grip and rolled his shoulders, as if physically trying to shed the anger that had him in its grip.
“I know,” he paused to blow out a sharp breath. “Gods, I fucking know.”
Their eyes met and Harry knew, without a single doubt, that Draco reciprocated Hermione’s feelings.
Harry opened his mouth to reassure his friend that it would all somehow be okay. That Draco and Hermione still had time to choose one another, and that even though it would have been nice for them to date first, they shouldn’t allow something as stupid as a marriage law to stop them from being together.
“Well, you two look like a breath of fresh air, don’t you?” A voice drawled from down the hall. They turned in unison to see Pansy Parkinson striding toward them with a purpose that made him nervous for reasons he couldn’t explain.
He clocked the moment her gaze shifted from him to his partner. The fire in her expression guttered for the briefest of moments once she looked at Draco before reigniting. He didn’t want to see someone as immovable as her shatter. The very thought had a pit forming in his stomach.
“You’ve gotten your letter then?” Draco guessed.
She nodded. “I came here to find Hermione. See if that brilliant witch could do anything.”
And then she turned that piercing gaze back on him. “Or what about you, Wonder Boy? Can’t you let one of those crusty old Wizengamot members suck your golden dick off and call things square?”
Draco choked, and Harry had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from barking out a laugh.
“Pans…” Draco started.
“No. No, Draco. I’m not doing this. Theo should not have to be doing this. Neville bought a ring for Theo, and does that just mean fuck all? This isn’t right and I won’t stand for it!” Her voice had risen to a screech by the end, and Harry stood, silent, feeling helpless as her chest heaved with each ragged breath she took.
If she didn’t settle down soon, he feared she would decimate this entire level of the Ministry.
“I’ll marry you,” was Draco’s quiet but firm response and it was Harry’s turn to choke on nothing.
What did that idiot think he was doing? Though it didn’t actually surprise him. He knew that the Slytherins he’d gotten to know over the years would go so far as to kill for one another.
Pansy’s nose scrunched, and she looked up at Draco like he was stupid. “What? No, Draco…No. Absolutely not.”
Harry watched Draco take her hand in his. He tried smiling at Pansy, but it looked more like a grimace than anything. After a beat, she lifted a hand to cup his cheek, and Harry contemplated turning away to give them privacy.
“Darling, no. Thank you for offering, truly. You know I love you, but…Draco, what about Hermione?”
If her voice hadn’t been so tender, Harry might have laughed out loud. As it were, Draco stared down at her, completely silent, as if she’d just asked the universe’s most difficult question.
“What about her?”
“Don’t be dense, Draco. It doesn’t suit you,” she snapped.
“Mate,” he began, feeling the sudden urge to help both Pansy and Draco. “I’m willing to bet she feels the same way...”
Pansy patted Draco’s cheek and gave his chest a small push. “Go find her, Draco. Before someone else does.”
That seemed to thrust him into motion, and Harry could all but see a strong sense of urgency overtake him.
“Okay. Okay…yes. I see…” He trailed off as a look of wonder crossed his face, and Harry heard Pansy huff a laugh.
“Yes, you dunce, now go. Find. Her.” She gently pushed him again.
He didn’t need to be told twice, and Harry watched as Draco set off in search of his best friend.
Once he was fully out of earshot, Harry turned to face Pansy. Her eyes were distant, unseeing, and she let out a strangled, “fuck,” before turning away and stumbling back down the hall to the lifts.
It was an odd thing, seeing a softer side to her personality that he wasn’t yet familiar with. His interactions, up until now, had been brief. Snippets of catty banter and sarcastic ribbing that he’d grown to enjoy over the past few years.
Today, though, was a good reminder that for all she put on a brave face, she was breakable after all. He watched her go, heart aching, even as a glimmer of an idea began to form.
***
Hours passed in a blur of paperwork and safety protocol meetings that he decided would be prudent for his team to participate in. It was as if the Wizengamot hadn’t wanted them to plan for any upheaval, which seemed odd until he remembered what Hermione had said.
“It’ll force quick obedience. No one’s going to stop to think more deeply about why this is happening or who is the one doing it.”
He wondered how it was possible for a society that was still healing from its second war in less than twenty years, led by a man who would have seen most of them dead in a heartbeat solely for the status of their blood, continuously be this apathetic. Part of him understood that burying one's head in the sand would also be the easier route, but that was not a luxury he’d ever been afforded in his life.
And then his mind drifted to Pansy. Her match, Draco had informed him, was Aloysius Burke. Co-owner of Borgin and Burke's, suspected supporter of Voldemort, and known abuser. An egregious match, one that made his own to Romilda Vane seem like a match made in fucking heaven.
She didn’t deserve that. No one did. A voice within him, one that hadn’t stopped since earlier that day, demanded he step in. Hermione would say it was his hero complex talking, but that wasn’t it, was it? Basic human decency demanded he make this right. Draco had offered first, after all. Why shouldn’t he? Unless one of her friends stepped up, it was something to consider.
He tapped the point of his quill against a scrap of paper before him, watching as what little ink remained in the nib sprayed out with each point of contact. He couldn’t shut his brain off. Couldn’t stop envisioning what a life married to Pansy Parkinson might be like.
An intricately folded bit of parchment zoomed into his office, scattering his thoughts and drawing him out of himself. He cast a quick tempus charm to see that it was 10:23 pm and winced before snatching the parchment out of the air and flattening it onto his desk.
Meet me in Chamber 13. Ensure you aren’t followed.
-H.G.
Harry quickly rose, gathering his wand and cloak, wondering what Hermione had gotten herself into this time.
***
Before his raised hand could even touch the door, it opened, and a familiar hand reached out to pull him into the room. The Invisibility Cloak, which he’d only just slipped off his frame and tucked over his arm, tangled around his legs, and Harry stumbled into someone’s solid chest.
A broad hand, one that smelled of dirt and fresh things, clasped him around his shoulder, righting him. Neville.
“Nev, what are you doing here?” Now even more confused, Harry looked around the dimly lit room to see that Hermione, Theo, Luna, and Pansy crowded around a small table littered with paperwork.
Each of them sported a range of expressions, from dread to anticipation, none of which clued him in to why they were there.
Neville’s hand squeezed his shoulder and he smiled easily down at him, though Harry could see tension in the lines that bracketed his mouth.
“Fancy a last-minute wedding, Harry?” His friend’s smile did reach his eyes then, and Harry looked over to see that Theo’s attention was glued to Neville.
He connected the dots fairly quickly after that. Luna would be there as bonder, Hermione for the paperwork that would need to be forged, and he and Pansy to sign as witnesses. It was brilliant, really. Who would question the legality of their union when three of the most prolific names of their generation were attached?
He grinned at Neville and rubbed his hands together as he walked closer to where everyone else was gathered.
“So what’s the plan? Quick and dirty to get the job done?”
Pansy scoffed and crossed her arms. Harry could feel the ire coming off her in waves.
“Ignore her,” Theo cut in. “We’ve actually decided to soul-bond. It’s what we would have done anyway…”
The Slytherin looked over at Neville, his love shining through despite the secrecy and risk they were taking. A sharp ache pierced its way through Harry’s chest. He wondered what it might feel like, loving someone that much.
It’d taken a few years to realise it, and though the love he and Ginny had shared wasn’t something he regretted, it hadn’t come close to this. And now, thanks to this fucking marriage law, he’d never have a chance to find it.
Hermione sidled up to him and nudged him gently in the side with her elbow. “Doing okay?”
He snaked an arm around her waist, drawing her close and squeezing for a moment before letting go. “You know me. I’ll be alright. And you? Did Draco find you?”
Her head came to rest on his shoulder and he glanced down to find a faint trace of pink dusting the tops of her freckled cheeks. “He did.”
Part of him itched to pry, but he refrained. She would talk to him about it when she was ready. The two of them deserved the minuscule amount of privacy allowed before their match went public.
Silence descended between them, and he watched as Luna broke off from her conversation with Neville and Theo to head their way.
“Oh, here we go,” Hermione grumbled. Harry pinched her side, willing his best friend to shut up.
No matter what anyone else had to say about the eccentric witch, Harry always valued what she had to say. There was never any bullshit to wade through when Luna Lovegood opened her mouth. She never lied, never gave false platitudes. It was refreshing when their world was still filled to the brim with pompous arse lickers like Tiberius McLaggen.
“Harry, your aura is looking dreadful, did you know?” Luna asked, looking more worried than he’d ever seen her.
As straight to the point as ever.
He winced and ran a hand through his hair, making a concerted effort to avoid everyone else’s gaze.
“S’alright, Luna. It’s just been a long day. Let’s get these two bonded, yeah?”
She nodded solemnly and gestured for Neville and Theo to stand before her. Drawing a white ribbon from within her artfully coiled hair, she reverently said, “Join hands, please.”
Harry leaned a shoulder against the wall and watched as Neville and Theo faced one another and joined hands. Hermione and Pansy drifted to stand behind Theo and Neville to lend their support, and when the time came, their magic to help seal the couple’s bond.
Luna intricately wound the ribbon around their joined hands and began. “I call upon these persons here present to bear witness that Neville Longbottom and Theodore Nott take one another to be bonded and lawful partners. To be loving, faithful and loyal to one another, in this life, and the next.”
Next, she drew a knife from somewhere on her person and pricked both of their thumbs, taking care to press them together in a way that ensured their blood mixed. She muttered an incantation that set the ribbon awash in pure, golden light.
Pansy let out a quiet gasp, and Harry glanced over to see her eyes shining with unshed tears. He wondered what she was thinking. Was it about missed opportunities, or was she just moved by the magic? Maybe she was terrified of the prospect of her current match.
Burke had been arrested less than a decade ago on charges of domestic abuse, but narrowly escaped time in Azkaban when his first wife recanted her testimony and mysteriously disappeared a week later. She’d left a note, he’d claimed, that she’d run off to America to start a new life.
Harry knew a liar when he saw one, and that man had never told a single truth in his entire life. His gut clenched, thinking of Pansy, of any woman, being forced to marry him. Was there anyone in her social circle still single whom she could choose instead?
He wasn’t an expert on everyone the Slytherins spent time with these days, but no one came to mind. Blaise married Ginny last year. Draco, madly in love with Hermione. Goyle, off in Bulgaria working at Durmstrang, is the last he’s heard. What few that remained from their Year were serving time in Azkaban.
Unease flooded his veins, even as the beautiful golden light expanded to fill the room. Luna spoke in Latin, something lyrical and old that filled the room with warmth and raw, crackling magic.
Harry’s gaze was finally torn from Pansy as Luna flourished her wand a final time, ending the incantation. The ribbon flared even brighter for a moment before sinking into the couple’s skin in an elegant tattoo. Neville and Theo gasped and looked at one another with wide eyes, filled to the brim with wonder and adoration.
Luna’s hands clapped together, and she laughed, a joyous sound that cut through the heaviness that shrouded his heart.
Harry smiled and laughed, too, feeling truly happy for the first time all day. Observing this bonding had healed something within him and given him the clarity he didn’t know he needed. He needed to speak with Pansy. Now.
But when he searched the small room for her, she was gone.
***
Harry could feel the bass of whatever song Pansy was blasting from within her flat. He knocked once, twice, three times with no response. The damned music was so loud it wasn’t a surprise she couldn’t hear him.
“Deny, you live your life in denial
Stand my whole life on trial baby
Deny Deny deny deny
All we are saying is give peace a chance ha ha ha”
Pansy screamed and sang along with the music, and he winced when he realised her words sounded a bit slurred. She must have worked fast if she was already drunk. It hadn’t been more than half an hour since he’d seen her last.
Fucking hell. Annoyance burrowed its way under his skin. He hadn’t accounted for her being drunk during this conversation.
He pulled out his wand, pointed it at the door, and cast a stronger-than-necessary “Alohomora.”
It banged open to reveal a pants-less Pansy Parkinson, paused in the middle of what looked like some sort of frenetic dance party. Her cheeks were flushed, chest heaving with exertion. Both arms were flung above her head, fists tightly clenched.
With another slash of his wand toward the boom box that was vibrating at its current level of volume, the screaming abruptly stopped, leaving them in a sudden silence that almost felt oppressive.
Her initial shocked expression melted away once she realised she wasn’t about to be attacked and distractedly she mouthed, "Not a bad look on him.”
Harry sent a silent thank you to Robards for having ordered him to take a lip-reading course all those years ago. He was fairly sure Pansy hadn’t meant to say that out loud.
“What isn’t a bad look?” He asked, more than a little curious, before lifting the bottom of his shirt to wipe the thin layer of sweat off his face that had formed on his rush over.
Her lips tightened into a thin line. Confirmation she hadn’t, in fact, meant for him to discover what she’d been thinking.
“Salazar’s sake, Potter, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” she spluttered, swaying just the slightest on her feet.
Fuck, how much had she drunk?
“What am I doing? Pansy, I’ve been knocking for the last ten minutes. What the hell have you been doing?” Harry asked, concerned.
Pansy squeezed her eyes shut for a moment before attempting to stagger in his direction. Her arms rose, palms facing him, as if she intended to push him back out the door.
“The fuck do you think I’m doing? Getting so black out drunk that I momentarily don’t have to live with the knowledge that the Ministry is forcing me into a marriage I do not want. Obviously.” She hiccuped on the last word.
Harry momentarily closed his eyes, wondering if he shouldn’t come back and try again some other time. The thing was, time was something they didn’t have.
“Christ, this is going to go poorly for me.” He grumbled under his breath.
Pansy straightened in a way that reminded him of when Dudley and his friends had cornered a cat and its back had arched, hissing, ready to swipe its claws at the danger before it.
“What’d you say? Tell me.” She swayed and stumbled two steps closer to him. “I can tell it’s gonna be bad. Tell me, golden boy. I can handle it.”
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Look, Pansy. This isn’t something I want to go into detail with you about when you’re in this condition–”
She scoffed, her skin suddenly turning a shade of green that made him nervous. “My day cannot get any worse.”
Well, that was that then, wasn’t it? He should get it over with and say it before she was sick or forced him to leave.
“I’ll marry you.” He said, simply. Speaking those three words into existence felt like something had been purged from him. Neither good nor bad, but some third thing he couldn’t put a name to. It wasn’t how he’d imagined a proposal would go, not in a million lifetimes, but when had anything ever gone to plan in his life?
Pansy’s expression morphed from annoyance to confused shock before her body tilted sideways. Harry’s hands shot out to steady her, and the second she was back upright, she vomited all over his scuffed-up trainers.
He knew, without a doubt, that this moment was the culmination of the foreboding feeling that had been building since the nightmare had woken him that morning.