Chapter Text
“Mind if I sit?” asks Pansy.
She takes Harry’s grunt of indifference as whole-hearted enthusiasm, and slides onto his lap. Lying her head on his shoulder, she drapes her long, shapely legs over the edge of the couch. One of her leather pumps pushes his charms textbook off of the common-room table. It hits the ground, scattering pages of notes across the hardwood floor and towards the fire.
“Pans,” says Harry, looking anywhere but at the swell of her cleavage. “What the fuck?”
Pansy sighs and slips off of his lap, taking care to keep her head on his shoulder. If Harry weren’t completely apathetic to feminine wiles, her presence would be distracting at best and downright exciting at worse. She’s wearing a tight green crop-top with a denim jacket. Strands of dark hair fall from her ponytail and frame her dark eyes and pug-like nose. Backlit by common room fire, her face looks soft and almost kind. She looks nothing like the girl who slipped a vial of the draught of seasickness into his pumpkin juice when they were both twelve.
“I’m bored,” says Pansy, spitting out the word like it’s killed her entire family. “Draco’s being a bit of a drag. And you looked positively delicious over here, so I thought I’d say hullo.”
“Hullo,” says Harry, determinedly not looking across the 8th-year common room. Beneath the banner depicting the four house crests, directly besides the magnificent bookshelf, Malfoy is draped over a leather easy chair. Back when they were children, Hermione used to joke that Harry had a built in Malfoy radar. Harry’s uncomfortably aware of this, more-so now that they’re all living together in the West Tower of Hogwarts. If Malfoy is anywhere in the vicinity, there’s a 100% chance that Harry knows exactly where he is and what he’s doing. It doesn’t mean anything, Harry tells himself. It’s habit, a reflex from when Malfoy was a nefarious little shite.
Harry can feel Malfoy’s gaze on the back of his head, hot and pulsing. He’s watching Harry and Pansy tangle up in front of the fire, Harry can feel it. Something hot prickles in the bottom of Harry’s stomach, nervous and uncomfortable. At the beginning of term, when Harry and Pansy started hanging out, Harry couldn’t figure out if Malfoy’s scornful glowers were his usual “I hate you” glares or “Stop messing around with my girlfriend” glares. Someday, Harry will work up the courage to ask her if she and Malfoy are still a thing.
“Hullo,” says Pansy. She places a finger under his chin and forces him to face her, smiling the curved leer that puts Harry on edge. “How’s your night been?”
“Er…all right, I suppose,” says Harry, who really wishes Pansy would stop touching him. She’s like this with all her friends, he’s noticed. She’s always draped over Malfoy, or sprawled across Daphne, or hanging off of Zabini’s back. She’s physically affectionate in a way that Harry’s not used to. The first time she put her head on his shoulder was three weeks ago, when they were playing chess down by the lake. He almost shoved her into the water.
It’s as though she’s noticed his discomfort, because Pansy shrugs and draws back to a respectful distance. She kicks off her pumps and pulls her feet up onto the couch, crossing her legs in front of her. For a second, Harry thinks her feet are bleeding quite badly. Then he realizes that she’s painted her toenails a vivid red.
“Quick question,” says Pansy, her voice pleasant and all-too fake. “Why aren’t you wearing a shirt? Draco and I were wondering.”
“Ah…” Harry glances down at his bare chest. He feels his cheeks flush, and wishes the ground would open up and swallow him whole. Pansy is looking at him a bit too knowingly. Harry fights the urge to turn around and see if Malfoy is staring at the back of his shoulders.
“I was feeling warm,” he lies.
“So you stripped off your jumper, your scarf, your socks, your shoes, and your shirt?” Pansy raises an eyebrow. “Is there something I’m missing here? Is this Gryffindor etiquette?”
“I lost a bet,” Harry admits, trying to keep his voice quiet.
“You lost a bet?” Pansy repeats, so loudly that everyone in the castle can probably here. Over by the display case featuring everyone’s old Quidditch jerseys, Zabini and Neville look up curiously. Harry has no idea what they’re doing over there, nor what they’re scribbling in that old notebook, but he’s too afraid to ask.
“I lost a bet,” Harry says again, wishing his cheeks would cool down. “With Ron and Seamus. It’s kind of a long story.”
“I see,” says Pansy. “And how long can we expect you to waltz around half naked?”
“Just for the night,” says Harry, crossing his arms over his stomach.
“I’m just trying to plan out my week,” says Pansy. “See, I never expected to spend my evenings looking at the scrawny torso of the Chosen One himself. Back in the Slytherin common spaces, we had strict rules against impropriety. I’d hate to walk in the door tomorrow, only to find you and your red-headed friends running about starkers. I fear I’d lose my appetite forever.”
Harry peers down at his chest, wondering just how scrawny he appears to the average viewer. He’s not bad looking, he tries to tell himself. When Ron suggested that Harry lose an article of clothing every time he glanced over at Malfoy – it was a stupid challenge to accept, Harry realizes that now – Harry fully expected to lose both of his shoes. Maybe a sock or two. But by the time their game of exploding snap ended, and Ron retreated to the dormitory while barely concealing his laughter, the only article of clothing left on Harry’s body are his faded jeans. Even his pants were vanished with a discrete charm from Dean.
“Well,” says Pansy, when Harry doesn’t respond. “I was going to invite you to a party tomorrow night, but I’m afraid my dress code is too strict. Slytherins require our party guests to be fully clothed. Do you think you can manage that, or would you rather pull down your denims and show me your prick?”
“Do you want to see it?” asks Harry, who has no intention of letting Parkinson anywhere near his prick, no matter how much he’s begun to enjoy your friendship.
The corner of her lips twitch. “You know me so well, Pots,” she drawls. “You know, we actually had a game back in Slytherin. We’d all try to draw you naked, and whoever could create the most hideous and deformed genitalia was named King of the Snake House. They got to drink the best liqueur while the rest of us bowed before them.”
“That sounds fun,” says Harry, who’s never heard of anything that sounds less fun. “Can we play tomorrow at your party?”
Pansy beams at him. “Of course not, Darling,” she says. “This will be a classy event. Granger and Boot finished restoring the Room of Requirement, so we thought we’d test it out with a little soiree. Blaisie and Longbottom are getting us malloweed. Daphne’s hooking us up with Yamazaki’s finest fire whiskey. It will be delightful occasion for the finest students Hogwarts has to offer.”
“Why are you inviting me, then?” deadpans Harry.
Pansy tilts her head back and laughs. “I don’t even need to insult you anymore, you do it for me,” she murmurs, surveying him with the glassy eyes of a snake. “It’s your job to get the Gryffindors on board,” she says, quite suddenly. “Weasley and Thomas and the rest of them. And you need to keep Granger from running to McGonagall when she finds out we’ve got booze.”
“We’re all of age,” Harry points out.
Pansy raises her eyebrows. “McGonagall,” she says, as if that’s the only explanation needed.
“Fair enough,” Harry says. He chews on his bottom lip for a second, thinking over Pansy’s offer. He hasn’t been to many parties. He’s been busy, what with school and tyrannical dark lords trying to kill him every other week. Plus, he’s always had the feeling his year mates suspect he’ll find away to blow the whole thing for everyone.
It could be fun. Blowing off steam, bonding with the other houses…aside from the overlooking threat of getting caught drinking on school grounds, Harry can’t think of a good reason to say no. As an added bonus…
“Is Malfoy on board with this?” Harry asks, trying to keep his voice light and casual. Pansy narrows her eyes. For a second, she looks almost as shrewd as Hermione.
“Why do you care?” she asks. “This was my idea. You’re friends with me, not him.”
“I don’t care,” says Harry quickly. Too quickly. “I was just wondering.”
Pansy sniffs. “Like I said before, Draco’s being a drag,” she says. “He says he’s busy studying, but really he thinks everyone hates him.”
“He’s not wrong,” Harry mutters. Finishing his education was a condition of Malfoy’s pardon, and many school patrons were less-than-thrilled about a continued death-eater presence at Hogwarts. Harry testified for the soddy git, and even he’s conflicted about the court’s decision. On one hand, the underlying tension between the houses—and the outright hostility towards Slytherins—is reaching an all-time high. Most of the 8th-year students are too tired to engage, but the younger years are toeing a dangerous line.
Hermione said Malfoy apologized to her about a month ago, after the beginning-of-term feast. She wouldn’t go into details about what this apology entailed, not even when Ron hounded her as the three of them huddled around the common-room fire. “It’s private, Ronald,” she snapped, and then they bickered for a while, and then they started kissing and Harry went to bed.
Frowning, Pansy reaches over to flick one of Harry’s bare nipples. Harry shrieks and jerks back.
“Be nice,” snaps Pansy. “I’m not letting my two best friends continue this ridiculous pissing contest. You boys have been through a war. You’re eighteen now. Start acting like it.”
“Doesn’t mean he’s not a—” Harry breaks off and stares at her through narrowed eyes. “Hang on. Since when are we best friends?”
“Since I decided to take you under my wing,” says Pansy, promptly and with no shame. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ears. Harry can’t decide if her smile is charming or terrifying. “I looked over at the sad, messy-haired, spazzy lad in the ripped clothes and thought, you know how I can make my life more interesting? By mentoring a troubled youth.”
“Aren’t you the one who started the rumor that I don’t have a bellybutton?”
“We were fourteen,” says Pansy. Her eyes drag down Harry’s bare torso, and he squirms under her gaze. “And clearly I was wrong.”
“That was such a weird thing to do,” Harry says, remembering the week in Fourth Year when random students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, unused to Pansy’s shite, would walk up to him and ask to see his stomach. “What was going through your head?”
“You didn’t have parents,” Pansy says, shrugging an artful shoulder. “Where would you have gotten a bellybutton? I stand by that logic.”
“I have parents,” Harry says. Like most of his conversations with Pansy, he wonders if she's messing with him, or if she's just thick in the head. He can never quite tell if she's being serious or not. She'll butter him up one minute, and the next she'll destroy every ounce of self-confidence that he possesses. It's quite confusing, being her friend.
“I’ve never met them.”
“Because they’re dead! You know that.”
Pansy yawns. “This conversation bores me,” she says. “Goodnight, Pots.”
Harry doesn't know how to react to the abrupt change of pace. “Night, Pans," he says, wondering if he's still invited to the Slytherin Soiree.
She stretches, then leans forward and presses a kiss to his forehead. Harry doesn’t have time to squirm away. He feels black lipstick smear across his face, and tries to wipe it off with the back of his hand. He has the niggling feeling that any party planned by Pansy Parkinson is a recipe for disaster, but he forces the fears aside. She's extended the hand of friendship, and who is he to doubt her? The war is over, Voldemort is six feet under ground. If Neville and Blaise can put their antagonistic history aside, why shouldn't he play nice with the Ice Queen of Slytherin?
---
Once Pansy has disappeared up the narrow staircase leading to the girl's dormitory, Harry checks to make sure that Ron, Seamus, and Dean have all left the common room. He tugs his shirt and jumper back over his head. It's getting late. The moon has risen over the forbidden forest, and the fire has died down to glowing embers. It's time for Harry to head to bed. Not that he can relax, with Terry Boot's snores and the putrid stench of Neville's stinkbush.
Still, he hesitates in front of the passageway that leads up to the 8th year boy’s dormitory. Frowning, he looks over at Malfoy, the only one left in the common room. He’s draped across the same leather easy chair he’s been in all night, paging through a potions textbook. His tie is unknotted and draped over the back of the chair. His trousers are awfully tight, but they look extraordinarily good on him– it figures that Malfoy is the type of bloke to get his pants professionally tailored to fit his body. His blond hair, usually coiffed to perfection, sticks up a bit in the back from where his head has been rubbing against the arm of the chair. It makes him look painfully endearing, in a way that leaves Harry confused and agitated.
Summoning every ounce of his Gryffindor bravery, Harry crosses the room. It’s painfully awkward standing in front of Malfoy’s chair waiting to be noticed. Malfoy seems determined not to look up from his book, and for good reason—the last time they spoke to each other was through the bars of Malfoy’s cell, two days before his trial. Harry will never forget the way that Malfoy looked at him, with gaunt features and a desperate expression. His hair was unkept and long, reaching well below his chin. He’s cut it since. It looks good both ways.
Harry clears his throat and shoves his hands in his pockets.
“Do you want something, Potter?” Malfoy asks. He says ‘Potter’ with such a decisive air—artfully cold, in the way he’s spent years perfecting. Harry wonders if he practices spitting out the sound in front of the mirror.
“Do you have a moment?” Harry asks.
“No. I’m very busy.”
“I was talking to Pansy—” Harry says, and Malfoy looks up sharply.
“Pansy is being a bint,” he says coldly. “She’s always this way, I suspect she wasn’t given enough attention as a child. Whatever she told you is a lie.”
“I—what?” Harry rubs at the back of his neck and tries to collect his thoughts. “So, there’s no party tomorrow night?”
“Oh, that.” Malfoy relaxes and turns back to his book.
“Are you going to go?”
Malfoy sniffs and doesn’t respond. He turns a page in his book, leaving a smear of ink down the page. Harry shifts his weight from foot to foot and tries to think of something to say. He’s thought about talking to Malfoy one-thousand times since term started, but it’s clear to see that his fears were right: this is painfully, painfully awkward. Malfoy won’t even look at him, and Harry can feel his cheeks flushing. It was easier when they could just throw a couple hexes at each other, and be done with it.
“I reckon I’m going,” says Harry, feeling like he’d quite like to curl up in a hole and die. “You should come, too.”
"And where exactly should I come, Potter?"
He's being a prick on purpose, Harry just knows it. "The room of requirement," Harry says slowly, like Malfoy is stupid. "To the party."
“Hmm.” Malfoy’s lips twitch, but there’s no humor in his eyes. “Throwing a raging party over a flame-ridden burial ground doesn't really appeal to me," he says, "but thanks ever so much for the invite. Perhaps, come Halloween, we can do body-shots of cheap liqueur over your parent's graves.”
Harry forces his mind away from that mental image. “I forgot,” he says, trying not to think about the last time they were together in the room of requirement.
“Lucky you.”
Harry can’t remember what he said at Malfoy’s trial—it was some stuffy, formal speech that Hermione wrote out for him the night before. Things like forgiveness and moving on and coming to terms with past mistakes. Whatever he said, it must have been convincing, because Mrs. Malfoy was pardoned and Malfoy received probation. He thought Malfoy might write to him after—Mrs. Malfoy reached out to thank him—but he never did.
“I didn’t really forget,” Harry says, suddenly. “I think about it a lot.”
Malfoy doesn’t respond. “I have dreams about it,” Harry babbles, wishing he could put his foot in his mouth. “Dreams about you—”
“What else did Pansy say to you?” Malfoy asks, saving Harry from humiliating himself further. His voice is bored, but the gaze fixed on his textbook is sharp and unnerved.
“She asked if she could see my prick,” says Harry, “because apparently we’re best friends now.”
Malfoy makes a noise not unlike a squeak. He looks up at Harry, his eyes wide with horror. Harry grins down at him, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets.
“You should come tomorrow,” says Harry.
“Did she put you up to this?”
“No. I just think it would be nice if you did.”
“Have you been smoking Zabini’s melloweed?”
Harry shrugs. “Fine,” he says. “But I figure you and I should get on better terms, seeing as we’ve got the same best friend.”
“I—we—,” Malfoy glares up at Harry, with the glower he’s spent years perfecting. “Pansy is not your best friend, Potter. I don’t know what she wants with you—Merlin only knows what’s going on in that woman’s head—but make no mistake. She’s dead set to destroy you.”
“That’s supposed to be your job.”
“Clearly I haven’t been doing a good enough job of wrecking your life lately,” Draco raises an eyebrow and places a hand over his heart. “There’s no other reason why Pansy would feel the need to step in. My apologies, Potter.”
Harry grins and turns away. “See you at the party, Malfoy.”
Malfoy doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t say no, either. Grinning, Harry crosses the common room and walks towards the dormitory.
This could be interesting, Harry reasons. It will be good for them all to get to know each other. Maybe if Malfoy makes some new friends, he'll stop darting around like the world is out to get him. Like it or not, Harry and Malfoy have been tied to each other since the moment Harry testified for him. Maybe even before that, back when they started saving each other's lives like it was nothing. Or when Harry split him open in the bathroom - Merlin, Harry still has nightmares about Malfoy bleeding out on the white tiles. Maybe their weird, complicated involvement dates back even earlier than that. Who's to say?
Forming a tentative friendship with Malfoy couldn't be worse than hanging around with Parkinson. Besides, what's the worst that could happen?