From the Ashes

From the Ashes

Part Two

by Fourth Rose

Where can I go that you won't find me

Why can't I find a place to hide

Why do you want to chase me, haunt me

Every step you're there beside me...

(Marsha Norman, The Secret Garden)

* * *

The graveyard is quiet, shrouded in early morning mist; only the chirping of a few birds is breaking the silence. Harry is sitting on the granite slab that covers Draco's grave and is once again staring at the simple grey headstone. He hasn't been here since the funeral almost two months ago, but today, there was no way he could have avoided this place.

He doesn't know how long he's been sitting here, trying to think of a way out other than the one he sees looming before him. He hasn't found it yet, probably because there isn't one. The words on the headstone offer no solution, either.

"Damn you, Draco," he finally whispers; his voice seems eerily out of place among the silent graves. "How could you leave me to deal with this? I was half ready to quit for good, and now I'm supposed to play the hero again? Will it never stop? Why me, of all people?"

Once more, Harry finds himself picturing Draco as he last saw him, face impassive and eyes guarded, and he bows his head in defeat. He knows the answer, of course; knows it as clearly as if he'd heard Draco speak it aloud.

Because there isn't anyone else. No one will ever know if you just walk away from this, and believe me, nobody will thank you if you don't. The choice is yours. What will it be, Gryffindor?

No way out, then.

Resigned, Harry gets up and inhales deeply as he recognizes the familiar feeling of a heavy weight settling onto his shoulders. Has he really been stupid enough to believe that he would ever be able to get rid of it?

"I'm sorry, Draco," he says quietly before he turns to leave, "if you are really awaiting me, you'll probably have to wait a lot longer than we both anticipated."

* * *

The house-elf throws Harry a suspicious glance as she opens the door, though she curtsies with perfect politeness. "Sir?"

Harry tries to keep his face devoid of expression. "I'm Harry Potter; I'd like to speak to Miss Parkinson, please."

"Ketty is knowing Mr Potter, Sir. Please enter, the Master is awaiting you. If Sir will follow Ketty?"

Harry frowns at this, but enters nevertheless. The elf leads him up the main staircase and through a few corridors until she stops at a heavy oak door and curtsies again. "Master Parkinson is here in his study, Sir." Before Harry can say anything, she snaps her fingers and is gone with a loud crack.

Shrugging, Harry knocks and enters the study. Sure enough, there's no one in the room but William Parkinson, Pansy's father, a heavy-set man in his fifties with grey hair and piercing blue eyes. He rises from his chair when Harry enters, but doesn't offer him his hand.

"Mr Potter." The tone is cool and guarded; it's very obvious to Harry that he is not welcome. That, at least, doesn't come as a surprise.

"Mr Parkinson, I'm pleased to meet you. I'm here because I need to speak to your daughter."

Mr Parkinson's face remains expressionless. "Frankly, Mr Potter, I doubt that my daughter will wish to speak with you. I understand you have never been on the best of terms?"

Harry tries to channel as much of the aloofness he has seen Draco display on such occasions as possible. "That may once have been true, Mr Parkinson, but things change, especially in turbulent times like ours. If I may be frank, too, I don't think Pansy is in a condition to refuse my request."

He sees Mr Parkinson pale ever so slightly and has his answer.

* * *

Pansy's eyes dart between Harry and her father when she enters the study. "Why did you send for me, Dad? And what's he doing here?"

"Mr Potter came here to speak to you, Pansy," Mr Parkinson explains curtly and raises a hand to cut off her protest before she can even say anything. "I'm asking you to hear him out. I'll be back in fifteen minutes."

Pansy stares after her father when he leaves the study. Only when the door has closed behind him, she turns to face Harry.

"He's making me speak to you, Potter? He detests you almost as much as I do! What in blazes is going on here?"

"I need to talk to you." Harry tries to remain calm under her furious gaze.

"Didn't I make myself clear last time, Potter? I don't want to talk to you, and I've no idea why my father would ask me to!"

"Because," Harry answers with brutal honesty, "I as good as told him that I know you're pregnant."

Her dark eyes go wide; she backs away from him as if he'd lifted his hand to hit her.

"You unbelievable bastard." Her voice is low and strangely flat, as if there were just no way it could ever express the hatred that's written in her face.

Harry shrugs. "I wasn't sure if you had told your parents, but obviously, you have."

She seems to have recovered from the shock; now she's sneering at him once more. "Of course I have. Did you think I'd wait until they figured it out themselves after seeing me puke out my guts first thing in the morning for weeks?"

"Well, that should have stopped now thanks to the raspberry leaves and ginger roots."

Her eyes widen once more, but now she looks at him with an expression that almost - almost - borders on respect.

"So that's how you found out? How uncharacteristically resourceful, Potter."

Harry doesn't take the bait. "Your parents know, then - but do they know who..."

The way her posture stiffens tells him the answer before he has even finished the question. "You haven't told anyone?"

Pansy remains stubbornly silent.

He expects her to react badly to his next words, but he needs certainty. "This is his child, isn't it?"

His cheek is stinging before he even realizes that she is about to slap him. "Of course it is!" she hisses, her eyes blazing with anger. "What kind of slut do you think I am?"

"I'm sorry," Harry says quietly, resisting the urge to cover the burning imprint of her fingers - not as weak as I thought, after all - with his own hand. "I didn't mean to insult you, but I had to know..."

Pansy's hand has disappeared into her sleeve for a second; before Harry can react, she's aiming her wand at him. "There's nothing you have to know, Potter," she snarls, "this is none of your business, and you should be thankful if I decide just to Obliviate you instead of hexing you to hell and back!"

Harry slowly shakes his head. "I doubt you would risk hexing me, Pansy; your family's position is precarious enough as it is. I'm here neither to harass nor to threaten you, but I'm going to make this my business, whether you like it or not."

Trembling with fury, she takes a step towards him, her wand still pointing at his chest. "You self-righteous Gryffindor ar-"

"Pansy," Harry interrupts what is obviously going to become a string of profanities that will get them nowhere, "will you marry me?"

Suddenly, there's silence.

Then, a clatter: Pansy has dropped her wand. She doesn't make a move to retrieve it; she just stares at Harry as if he'd suddenly grown a second head.

After a while, she manages to get out a single word, a rather faint "What?"

Harry closes his eyes for a moment. This is it, then - the first step on a path that should never have been his in the first place.

When he looks at Pansy again, his face is calm.

"You heard me, Pansy. I'm asking you to marry me."

"You're out of your mind." Her voice is firm again.

"I don't think so. Call it a business offer, if you prefer; I believe this is the basic nature of marriage within pureblood circles."

She takes a step back and crosses her arms over her chest. "A marriage is a contract between two people who both hope to gain from the arrangement. I don't see what either of us could possibly gain from what you're proposing."

"Frankly, I think you can see very well what you would gain, Pansy - you and your child."

She pales; Harry knows he has hit a nerve. So he continues, "A child born out of wedlock, sired by an unknown father, would mean shame and disgrace for both you and your family. It would ruin your future and be destined to be nothing more than a stain on the family's reputation. On the other hand, openly admitting that it's Draco Malfoy's child you're bearing might be even worse given the current situation."

"You mean now that your precious side of the light was able to declare him not only a wannabe assassin and a traitor, but finally a proven Death Eater as well?" she sneers, but the venom is gone from her voice. "Yes, you can safely assume that a fatherless Parkinson bastard will still be better off in the wizarding world now than an heir to the blackened name of Malfoy."

"Things would be very different for a child whose last name was Potter, though."

She seems taken aback for a moment. "You'd want this child to be yours? What are you up to, Potter - what's in it for you in this deal?"

"I'd have expected you to understand, Pansy."

For the first time since she entered the room, Pansy is looking at him without anger or defiance. Her eyes seem to drill into his, examining him, questioning his reasons, his intentions, trying to see...

She remains silent for a long time before she says quietly, "I've underestimated you, Potter, I'll give you that. But this is neither the time nor the place for Gryffindor heroics. He is dead, and you're not going to get him back by trying to live his life in his stead."

"I know that," Harry answers, equally quiet, "and I'm not going to try. But there's something left of his life, other than just memories, and I'm asking you to let me be a part of it. I can make all the difference for this child's future, Pansy. I won't do it for your sake, just as you won't agree for mine, but for the sake of his child."

When there's no reaction from her, Harry continues, "I doubt you are going to turn me down, because you simply can't afford it - but I'm perfectly willing to beg if it makes you feel any better."

She shrugs. "No need, Potter. I recognize an offer I can't refuse when I hear it. Just tell me, have you actually thought about what you're doing here? About the consequences, the practical implications? Do you have any idea what it means to marry into an old pureblood family?"

Her eyes narrow in suspicion when she adds, "You're not seriously expecting me to share this half-Muggle kind of life you've been leading so far?"

Before Harry can answer, there's a short, sharp knock, and the door of the study opens: Mr Parkinson is back.

Pansy steps away from Harry and, picking up her wand in one swift movement, turns to face her father.

"Dad, you'll excuse me - you and Mr Potter have a few things to discuss, given the fact that he has just proposed to me and I have agreed to marry him."

* * *

Harry tries very hard not to fidget in his uncomfortable wooden chair when Mr Parkinson keeps staring at him from across his desk, which he seems to have placed between them as a kind of safety barrier. He doesn't look as apoplectic as Harry half expected him to, and Harry can't help wondering whether this is a good or a bad sign.

Well. You don't live to defeat a Dark Lord just to be intimidated by the unreadable mood of your prospective father-in-law afterwards.

Once more, Harry aims for that expression of haughty indifference Draco was so good at.

"Pardon me, Mr Parkinson, but sooner or later, you will have to talk to me."

Mr Parkinson shakes his head ever so slightly. "What do you expect me to say, Mr Potter? Don't you think you at least owe me the courtesy of an explanation?"

Harry shrugs.

"There's very little to explain, I believe. We are both aware of your daughter's condition, and I'm not going to back out of my responsibility. I hope you did not expect any more detailed... explanations from me?"

There. Nothing he said was actually a lie, even if it was bound to lead Pansy's father to the wrong conclusion, and hopefully, the self-assured arrogance of the last question would make him refrain from further enquiries - be it only to protect his own dignity. Not for the first time, Harry reckons that he really might have done quite well in Slytherin.

"I have no intention to dwell on what's happened and can't be changed, Mr Potter, but I think I have a right to know what your plans for my daughter's future might be. What are you going to do with your life, now that the war is over?"

"I haven't decided yet. I have been offered several positions, two among them at the Ministry, but I'm in no particular hurry to choose. It's not as if I had to work for the money, so I can afford to wait until an offer comes along that really suits me."

Mr Parkinson raises his eyebrows. "I wasn't aware you were so well off."

Harry smiles. "Don't tell me you thought that I was after Pansy's heritage?"

"No offence, Mr Potter, but the idea has crossed my mind."

"I'm willing to provide you with a full account of my financial situation if it will ease your mind, then."

"I'd appreciate that. Also, you probably know that although Pansy is my only living child, the main part of the Parkinson property will not go to her but to her late brother's son - Alexander was the eldest, after all, and his child is therefore heir to the family name and fortune."

Pansy had a brother? Try as he might, Harry can't remember ever having heard the name Alexander Parkinson before, and for a moment, he feels a surge of panic under Mr Parkinson's piercing gaze. If he admits his ignorance, it's undoubtedly going to raise questions about the exact nature of his relationship with Pansy - or rather, about the obvious non-existence of such a relationship since he doesn't even know the most basic facts about her background.

Harry takes a calming breath and decides to fish for a bit of information. "That seems reasonable - though, to be honest, Pansy hardly ever talked about her brother, so I didn't really consider it."

"I'm surprised she mentioned him to you at all. Alexander was murdered almost three years ago, right after our family had decided to remain neutral between the Dark Lord's and the Order's sides. We never found out whether it was Death Eaters or Order members who killed him. It doesn't make much of a difference anyway - at least, not to us who lost him."

He looks at Harry as if he were waiting for a reply, so Harry murmurs dutifully, "I'm very sorry," which is clearly not what Mr Parkinson was expecting him to say.

"No outraged defence of the Order's honour, Mr Potter? No assurance that the side of the light is incapable of lowering themselves to murder?"

Harry cringes at the bitterness in these words. Here's another man who has lost too much by doing what he believed was best - the Parkinsons were among the first pureblood families who supported Draco's dissident movement. "I have seen far too many atrocities committed by both sides during the war to ever believe either of them to be incapable of anything, Mr Parkinson." It is, Harry muses, probably the first truly honest sentence he has spoken in this whole conversation.

Mr Parkinson eyes him curiously. "Weary of fighting, Mr Potter?"

"To the bone." Harry realizes there's a rough edge to his voice and clears his throat before he continues. He's reciting now - a carefully formulated speech he has spent hours on the night before. "The last years have brought us nothing but death and destruction. I think it's time the wizarding world started to live again. There are still many open wounds to heal, many gaps to be bridged, and we've only just begun to struggle for a new order of things after the old one has fallen into chaos. I guess I don't need to tell you that there's much at stake right now - especially for families like yours."

Mr Parkinson's eyes narrow. "Is that meant to be a warning or a threat?"

"It's neither - take it as an offer instead. I don't want to steal your daughter away from you; I'm perfectly willing to consider myself part of her family once we're married, and therefore I'm going to act in said family's best interests. You may find that I won't be totally useless in the difficult times which are still ahead of us."

"I have no doubt about that." Pansy's father seems thoughtful; Harry knows that the support he's just offered him would be invaluable not only to the Parkinsons, but to all the pureblood families who have chosen the same alliances and are now regarded to be barely one step above the Death Eaters themselves by the winners of the war. It doesn't worry him overmuch what his own allies are going to say about it. He's not just the Boy Who Lived, but the Hero of the Second War as well - he'd probably get away with almost everything right now.

Finally, Mr Parkinson seems to have come to a decision. "I think I'll take you up on your word then, Mr Potter. Marry my daughter and stand with us when the need arises. I have my reservations, but I hope you will prove them unfounded in the future."

It's with a mixture of relief and apprehension that Harry rises and shakes the hand Pansy's father is finally offering him. He can't help thinking that in the best Gryffindor tradition, he has no idea what exactly he has just got himself into.

* * *

The following afternoon, Harry meets with Mr Parkinson's solicitor and hands him a meticulous list of all the possessions he inherited from his parents and his godfather. When he comes back into his room in the Leaky Cauldron, there's an owl waiting for him, carrying a thick roll of parchment: a letter from Pansy.

Potter, it says, my mother has this strange idea of wanting to see the man her daughter is going to marry, and you will therefore receive an invitation tomorrow. Enclosed, I'm sending you a bit of information about me - if you really want to pull this off, you'd better have it memorized when you meet her. Don't bother to send me your innermost secrets in return - I know everything about you that's worth knowing and then some. PP

With a sigh, Harry shakes his head and starts reading. It's pretty much what he expected: lineage, relations, a catalogue of friends, allies and business partners... hardly entertaining, but then, Harry hasn't survived seven years of Professor Binn's classes for nothing. Compared to learning about goblin rebellions, the Parkinson family history is still rather easy to memorize.

Things get a bit more interesting when he comes to the next part. It starts with what is obviously a copy of a birth certificate: Pandora Maria Parkinson, daughter to William George Parkinson and Maria Carolina Parkinson, née Zabini, born on Mai 22nd, 1980...

Harry pauses in surprise. Pandora? Sinister names must really have been quite the fashion among the purebloods back in the days before Voldemort's first downfall. And Pansy's mother is a Zabini? Harry checks the pedigree (consciously not thinking of the Black tapestry with all those names missing) and finds that Pansy is in fact a cousin of Blaise Francesco Zabini, son to Giovanni Enrico Zabini and Claire Madeleine Zabini, née Dupré...

Shrugging, Harry continues with Pansy's explanations. Once you're done sniggering about my first name, Potter, let me tell you that it was Draco Malfoy who came up with that annoying flowery nickname - he used to call me Pansy since our first meeting, and after a while, I was stuck with it. Consequently, he never missed an opportunity to point out that my name was bound to the soil while his was written in the stars.

For a moment, Harry closes his eyes and tries to recall Professor Sinistra's voice from an astronomy lesson that seems to have taken place a lifetime ago: the circumpolar constellation Draco, The Dragon - revolving around the North Star, visible all year... Ron was annoyed then, Hermione amused, while Harry remembers thinking that it seemed almost too perfect for their arch-enemy to be named after a constellation that was always there and right in the centre so that you couldn't ever hope to overlook it...

Sighing once more, he turns back the letter. It looks like it's going to be a long evening.

* * *

It's barely past six o'clock in the morning when there's a knock on Harry's door. He has been up with Pansy's monstrosity of a letter until well past midnight, and therefore isn't in the brightest mood when he opens the door just wide enough to peep out at whoever has had the nerve to disturb him at this ungodly hour.

There's a house-elf standing on the threshold. It is wearing what looks like a clean white towel with a navy blue pattern that is wrapped around the small creature like a toga, and it carries a huge parcel in its - thankfully un-bandaged - hands. When it sees Harry, the elf bows stiffly.

"Mr Potter, Sir. Mim was sent to you by Miss Parkinson."

Harry, suddenly conscious of the fact that he is wearing nothing but rather frayed pyjama bottoms, quickly reaches for his bathrobe before he fully opens the door. The elf obviously mistakes this for a permission to enter; the door falls shut behind it with a bang.

Once inside, the elf looks at Harry expectantly. Harry points at the parcel in its hands.

"Well, erm - Mim, is this what Miss Parkinson is sending me?"

The elf hands Harry the huge package, but shakes its head. "This is just a robe which Miss Parkinson wants Master to wear when he's meeting Mrs Parkinson to make sure that Master is dressed according to the occasion. What Miss Parkinson mostly means to send is Mim."

This statement sinks in together with the realization what the elf has just called him.

"Hey, wait a moment - she's sending me a house-elf like some kind of present?"

"Miss Parkinson has told Mim: Go to Harry Potter and serve him because he is your master now. That is what Miss Parkinson said, and it's what Mim is doing."

"Don't I get a say in this whole deal?" Harry is starting to get seriously irritated now.

The elf's bat-like ears suddenly seem to droop a little. "Master could send Mim back. It would be an insult to Miss Parkinson, though, and a great shame for Mim. He has never been sent away by any of his previous masters."

With a groan, Harry slumps onto the bed and rests his head in his hands. "So I basically don't get a say because..."

...because you're far too nice for your own good, Gryffindor golden boy. How often has Draco told him so? And why did he have to be so bloody right?

When he looks up, the elf is regarding him with a hopeful expression. Harry sighs again.

"Let's get a few things straight first, Mim. You are never and under no circumstances going to call me 'Master', do you hear me?"

The elf's ears perk up a bit. "Yes, ...Sir?" he ventures cautiously.

"I guess I'll have to live with that. Now what am I supposed to do with you?"

"Sir will need a servant! Sir is going to marry Miss Parkinson, and there is still so much to do! Also, if Mim may say so, Miss Parkinson wants Mim to help Sir getting used to the way things are done in a wizarding family..."

"I'm hardly a Muggle, for heaven's sake," Harry murmurs, though he has to admit that when it comes to the living style of the purebloods, he might as well be. Then he suddenly realizes what has been striking him as odd the whole time.

"No offence, Mim, but why are you speaking correctly? I don't think I've ever met a house-elf who did."

"Mim's former master trained him to, Sir. He said that house-elf talk was getting on his last nerve."

Harry frowns. "Your former master? I thought you - erm, belonged to Pansy?"

The elf lowers his head. "Mim has only come into Miss Parkinson's service when his master died a few months ago."

Harry opens his mouth to ask the obvious question - and realizes he already knows the answer.

It takes him a moment before he trusts his voice to remain steady. "Your previous master was Draco Malfoy."

"Yes, Sir." Tears are welling up in the large round eyes now. "Mim has served Master Draco from the day he was born until the night he was killed."

He blinks the tears away and looks at Harry once more. "Miss Parkinson said that Sir has many questions about Master Draco's death, but Mim is begging Sir not to ask them. It is the duty of every house-elf to keep his master's secrets, and Mim will not betray Master Draco's trust in him."

Harry nods dejectedly. He remembers all too well how hard it was for Dobby to talk about Lucius Malfoy's plans even when he wanted to - Dobby who managed to get rid of his owner only to be killed in the Order's service later.

"You must have known Dobby if you have served the Malfoy family."

Mim's face contorts into a strange grimace. "Yes, Sir, Mim knew Dobby."

"I take it you don't agree with the choices he made."

"What Dobby did was against the nature of house-elves, Sir. To a house-elf, there's no worse punishment than being set free. It was not proper for Dobby to desert his master, although it - it wasn't proper for Mr Malfoy to treat him the way he did, either." The last bit seems to have cost Mim some effort, but he isn't showing any inclination to punish himself for it - much to Harry's relief.

"It wasn't? I thought a house-elf's master could treat him as he pleased."

"No, Sir, not at all. Just as the elf is bound to serve his master, the master is bound to treat him well. There's a magical connection that has linked wizards and elves for many, many centuries to the benefit of both. It was with the first rise of He Who Must Not Be Named that a lot of his followers started to break the connection by treating their elves like vermin, and only then, some elves began to crave for freedom."

He gives Harry a pleading look. "Hopefully, Sir is not thinking of freeing Mim?"

"Don't worry, I won't. And since you're here, you might as well help me with this." Harry reaches for Pansy's letter and unrolls it. "I don't understand half of the stuff Miss Parkinson is rambling about. Why don't you try to explain it to me?"

The elf beams at him. "Mim is most glad to be of service, Sir."

* * *

The next weeks pass in a blur of activity. In between the lessons Mim is giving him about pureblood lifestyle in general and the Parkinson family in particular, Harry meets with lawyers and solicitors, signs contracts, strikes bargains and makes arrangements concerning his future with Pansy and her child. He is presented to Pansy's mother, who rather reminds him of a black-haired version of Molly Weasley with a posh accent and bombards him with questions he is mostly able to answer to her satisfaction thanks to the extensive preparation. The engagement is officially declared, a date for the wedding is fixed (it's going to be the day before Harry's birthday), and Mr and Mrs Parkinson ceremoniously allow Harry to call them Father and Mother since he'll soon be a member of the family. Harry isn't sure how he feels about it, so he avoids addressing them whenever he can.

After putting it off for as long as possible, Harry writes to Ron and Hermione to inform them about the wedding even if he doesn't invite them, assuming that they wouldn't come to see him marry Pansy Parkinson anyway. Hermione writes back from her parents' house and almost manages to mask her astonishment about the news when she sends him her best wishes that sound as if she were actually sincere. Ron doesn't answer at all, but Harry receives a stilted letter from Molly in which she's congratulating him although it's obvious how hurt she is by the fact that he is getting married only a few months after Ginny's death. Harry reckons that she will never forgive him once she realizes that Pansy's child, due at the end of the year, was conceived almost at the same time that Ginny was killed. He wonders only fleetingly why he can't bring himself to care.

In all these weeks of preparation, he never sees Pansy alone, which he is thankful for because he has no idea what they could possibly talk about. All the practical matters are being taken care of; how Pansy and he are actually going to manage living together is a question Harry doesn't have an answer to. He doesn't want to think about it, either - if he's honest with himself, Harry has to admit that at the moment, he doesn't want to think about what he's doing at all.

* * *

"Out late, Potter? Well, it is your stag night, after all."

Harry - who was just about to close the door behind him - startles violently as the words come out of the darkness in his room. Immediately, reflexes trained in years of fighting kick in; before he even realizes what he's doing, his wand is out - and just as quickly is flung aside by a quick "Expelliarmus!" from the intruder.

Only then, the fact that he knows the voice which has just spoken starts to register. "What the bloody hell, Pansy! Are you trying to give me a heart attack?"

A soft chuckle and then, "Lumos."

Pansy is sitting on the only chair in the room, ankles crossed in a perfectly lady-like fashion, a smirk on her face. "If I wanted to kill you, I'd wait another twenty-four hours so I could inherit your fortune. Though it would have been really easy right now - you're not being very careful, Potter. You've still got enemies, you know."

"Did you come here to tell me that? Because it's hardly news to me," Harry snaps, grumpily fishing his wand out of a corner and lighting the candles on the table.

"Then start acting accordingly. Black doesn't go well with my complexion."

Harry sits down on the bed, facing her. "As touching as your concern is, I doubt that it's the reason you're here. How did you even get through the wards I set up?"

"Mim let me in. You obviously forgot to tell him not to." Pansy smirks again when Harry's face darkens. "Still not used to having him around, are you?"

"I never get to see him until I call for him, although I know he's close by the whole time. It's creepy."

"On the contrary; it's proper. House-elves are not supposed to be seen unless they are called."

Harry sighs. "That's really fascinating. Pansy, it's almost eleven in the evening, I'm tired, and I suppose it's going to be a long day tomorrow. Could you perhaps tell me why you're here and then leave?"

"You still haven't told me where you've been. I have a right to ask now, haven't I?"

Harry forces a laugh; it sounds hollow even in his own ears. "I can't imagine why you'd care. But if you absolutely have to know, I've been at the cemetery."

"Isn't it a bit late to ask him for advice?" The smirk is gone; her expression is suddenly serious.

Harry shrugs. "He hasn't been very forthcoming anyway."

The left corner of Pansy's mouth quirks up for a second. "He's probably far too busy howling with laughter about the idea of the two of us marrying."

Almost unwillingly, Harry smiles too. "Yes, he would be, I guess."

"I'm here because there are a few things we still have to discuss before tomorrow, Potter." Pansy is suddenly all business. "But before we get started, could you open the window? I'm suffocating in here."

She is right; the day has been warm and sunny, and the air in the little room is stifling. Deciding not to ask why she didn't open the window herself while she was waiting for him, Harry gets up to walk over to the other side of the room - but before he can take a single step, her voice stops him.

"Stay right where you are!" Her tone is sharp. "Have you still not grasped the idea that you're a wizard and not a Muggle? It's a first-year spell, for pity's sake!"

At this, Harry's temper finally flares. "Heavens, can't you give me a break? Alohomora!"

He has overdone the charm; the window bursts open with such force that the glass cracks in several places. Fuming, Harry casts "Reparo" for good measure before slumping back onto the bed.

"There you are, Mylady. Happy now?"

Instead of taking the bait, Pansy just sighs and shakes her head.

"Potter, this is never going to work."

* * *