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The plan is so simple it almost feels like I wasted a favour; a couple drops of Veritaserum poured into Harry's tea, a layer of glamour applied to my face so I can masquerade as Pansy's assistant, and some of Pansy's vicious determination to do a Harry Potter profile for her Witch Weekly column is all it takes to get to the bottom of a conundrum.
Two weeks ago, I probably would have felt awful about slipping Potter potions, but he's been ignoring me, and also, he's potentially broken my heart. So I feel like it's at least partially justified.
The first half hour is strictly business: Harry begging for Puddlemere summer program sponsors while Pansy drills him about team dynamics. I'm extraordinarily careful to avoid looking in Harry's direction. The effort is not really necessary, though, because the man barely spared me a glance when he entered, and has absolutely no chance of ever recognising me as the person he's been shagging for the last two months.
When she has everything she needs for the article, Pansy gets into the meat of things.
I do my best not to fidget.
"Why haven't you answered Draco's owls?" she asks with the same detached curiosity with which she has asked all of her questions so far. I'm watching a master at work; taking time to appreciate her no-nonsense efficiency means I'm not thinking about all the circumstances which may explain Harry's sudden cold shoulder.
Anyway, I'm not prepared for his answer.
"I didn't want to." The sentence bursts out of Harry's mouth with such force I almost roll my eyes, but then… "Did Draco tell you to ask me about him? H-He...Merlin, he's too much for me right now."
I should have guessed, really. How typical. Of course there's nothing wrong with him—I should never have spent a single fucking second being worried about some awful disease stopping our correspondence. Of course it's me. It's always me.
The slow-bubbling bitterness in my chest makes it so easy to ignore the furrow forming between Harry's brows; the spiteful part of me revels in his confusion.
"Why is he too much?" Pansy pushes, indifferently ignoring Harry's squirming.
"He thought we were in a relationship."
It's true. I did. Foolish of me, really.
"And what did you think?"
"We were just having some fun." Harry's frown deepens. He bites his lip. Clears his throat. It doesn't help of course; Veritaserum is not so easy to resist. "It wasn't serious. I never meant it to be serious."
Of course he didn't—I must have just... misread the situation. I want to strangle him. I want to jump out of the window. After all, it's completely normal to ask your nothing-serious to have dinner with your friends. It's completely normal to spend entire days lounging around together. It's completely normal to see each other five out of the seven days in a single fucking week.
"And you never wanted it to be serious? Ever?"
Half of me wants to rush out of the room, and the other half is still stuck on lunging at Potter and wringing his neck before he says another word. In the end, I stay paralysed next to Pansy and her unrelenting desire to know.
"No."
"Why not?"
Potter presses his lips together for a split second, and then, suddenly, leans back in his chair, crosses his arms over his chest and… stops resisting.
"Because he's in love with me."
Am I?
"Why do you say that?"
"Because it's obvious."
I am. Of course I am.
"And are you in love with him?"
"No."
It strikes my heart like a dagger. It hurts extra that it's not even a confession; Potter said it so easily, so carelessly, as if the potion barely had to loosen his tongue at all. And this single nonchalant, honest, uncomplicated, guilt-free word is the last stab needed for me to bleed out on a squeaky sofa in front of my best friend and my... ex-something.
In a way, the dagger is mine: why did I ever get my hopes up? Why did I ever ask Pansy to do this whole… theatre act? Why did I ever follow Potter back to his in the first place?
Here, now, rooted on the spot, staring at Potter's frowning, lightly-perspired face, I so easily choke on hindsight. What a stupid idea it was to let Potter into my life, into my bed. And just how much stupider it was to let him dismantle my carefully assembled defences. Each kiss toppled a brick, each night a layer of plaster.
Mouth dry, heart hammering, I do my best not to appear desperate and hurt and... lonely. I hope the glamour hides most of it. I hope I look okay.
I don't feel okay. I want to scream. And shout. And lie on the floor and cry and rebuild every single inch of the "safe for public consumption" mask I had thought forever abandoned on Potter's doorstep. Turns out, it really is more palatable; it really is better just to pretend.
Who in their right mind would prefer the real Draco Malfoy anyway?