Those Wrong, Yet it's Right, Things

Chapter 20

Love is not blind, it sees more than less. And because it sees more, it is willing to see less.

~Author Unknown

Pansy sat by the window of the corner, third-floor room of Grimmauld Place. The sun was just rising, shining its brilliance over the dead garden that lay below her. She could see this house had once been the pride and joy of someone. Pansy knew this was Harry's godfather's place and suspected it had been his pureblood mother, because Pansy's mother had acted much the same way. Pansy had never had a flair or interest for gardens or cleanliness. She basked in dark beauty. Like the dark cherry headboard on the bed she'd just slept in or the desk abandoned in the corner covered in spider webs. She loved the stone hallways infested with shadows. But most of all, Pansy loved the extraordinary library she'd toured with its dark wood shelves and its inviting black furniture. She could tell it'd been updated, but she'd spotted Dark Arts books older then her ancestral line, many of which she hadn't yet read. Pansy pulled the big robe tighter around her, letting its warmth caress her skin. She loved this place.

Beside her sat a newspaper article with a big bold title that read 'The Boy-Who-Lived Lives Again! Harry Potter Resurfaces.' There was also an article about her rising from the dead as a reformed soul or a spy. Pansy hated reporters. They simply had nothing better to do with their lives then try to figure out someone else's. One article had even gone so far as to say her and Harry were 'in love.' Pansy couldn't understand their relationship yet, what gave them the right to pretend to know it?

Pansy had been surprised when she showed up at Grimmauld Place and discovered all it's inhabitants. Granger was living here, paying rent or whatever she called it. She claimed it was to watch after Harry and Ron and make sure they didn't 'waste away their lives.' Weasley was, of course, rooming here, living off the charity of his best friend. To be frank, neither of them had been all that delighted to see Pansy--except for the knowledge that Harry would stop sulking around now. And to be Slytherin, she was less then delighted to see them, too.

The only person who had greeted Pansy whole-heartedly was the only adult that stalked this place. Pansy was a bit surprised to see that their old DADA teacher was living with Harry, but did not voice it. She could tell he was depressed, but he tried to hide it. Pansy was so good at it she could practically smell a person like that. But she soon learned that he was acting as Harry's stand-in father. Harry's father was dead, his godfather was dead, and their best friend was all the father figure (besides perhaps Dumbledore) he had left. Remus Lupin watched over Harry and he had gladly welcomed the one person in that could mend the boy: her.

Harry explained they'd get together with what was left of the Weasley family often for dinner and whatnot. Pansy figured the Weasleys might as well just live there too. They all had their own bedroom at Grimmauld Place and Pansy had even spied an...experimental lab of the Weasley twin's down in the lower level. They were the only two Weasleys she could stand.

She felt strong hands wrap around her shoulders, ceasing her thoughts. She smiled distantly, but didn't turn to see him.

"What are you doing?" he whispered, his voice laced with sleep.

She thought a moment before she answered, "Watching the rain."

Harry smiled. "But it's not raining."

"It will be." She turned to him and he quickly placed his lips hungrily to hers, passion flaring through her cold fingertips. She pulled away a little breathless and stared at him. The instant she heard the pound of rain on the window, she smiled.

Harry's eyes widened. "It hasn't rained in England for three years," he whispered in awe.

"So I heard." She offered no explanation; just let a smirk settle in her features. Harry looked her over. She was skinnier then before, adding less scrunch to her face. Her nose was still too small and her skin was still pulled too tight around her ears. And even though Harry knew people would disagree, he thought she was beautiful.

She turned back towards the window, the raindrops racing each other down the glass. Reaching her fingertips out, she touched them to the cool, foggy reflecting substance. Letting her pointer finger dance on the glass, she finally pulled it away and looked at the word she wrote, a word that could not be interpreted to mean anything else.

"What does it say?" The warm question tickled the small hairs on her neck and she shivered. Harry was staring at the foreign word on the window, trying to decipher it.

"Vivre," she said, rolling the 'r' slightly on her tongue. "It means 'to live'." They sat for moments in silence, letting the simplicity of their freedom surround them.

"What will they think of us, Harry?" she said softly.

"They can think whatever they want," he answered, knowing fully that she was speaking of the reporters.

"Their worshiped, perfect Hero Boy with someone so corrupt, heartless, and evil like me. They'll think you've gone insane."

"I'll tell them it was love," he said unhesitant. It's exactly something Harry would say, but he knew she would probably never say it back.

"I hate your friends," Pansy responded instead.

A sad smile graced his lips. "I know."

"And I still hate Gryffindors. And don't expect me to get a job when I have my inheritance to live off of...."

"I won't."

"I do like this place though, Harry," she said taking another glance around the room. A large bed, covered in a deep maroon, lie in the middle, it's covers ruffled and disturbed. A small table sat in the corner next to a rug, two empty wine glasses--one with a dull rose lip print on it's rim--sat on it. A dusty rocking chair sat in the corner, leaning slightly to the left where it's fourth leg should have been. The heavy curtains were only open a crack, the crack she'd been peaking out of, leaving the room to lay in an eerie, yet comforting darkness. And sitting perfectly parallel to each other on the top of a dusty dresser, next to an empty silver picture frame, were two wands, abandoned long ago.

The corner of Pansy's lips curved upward slightly as she turned back to Harry. "It's dark and quiet and cold. It's like all the places I've ever called home."

Harry turned her around and kissed her again, taking in every curve of her mouth, his hands roaming the shape of her body. They finally broke apart, nothing but lust lingering in both of their eyes.

"You don't have to ever say it back," Harry whispered. "I don't expect you to."

She smiled at how well he understood. "Thank you, Harry."

"I love you, Pansy." Harry picked her up and greedily carried her to the bed.