Leigh!fic | I'll See Your Heart & I'll Raise You Mine (1/1) | Harry Potter/Pansy Parkinson
Title: I'll See Your Heart & I'll Raise You Mine (1/1)
Author: Leigh, aka leigh_adams
Characters: Harry Potter/Pansy Parkinson
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~2,700
Summary: "Do you really think there's a happily ever after for people like us?"
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is JKR’s. No copyright infringement is intended, and no money is being made.
Author’s Notes: Written for the 2011 round of interhouse_fest. This is a condensed version of what I really wanted to do, but time and real life commitments kept me from being able to expound upon this the way I would have liked. Thank you to my wonderful beta, fiery_flamingo, whom I adore and who also fed my obsession with The Thomas Crown Affair with the prompt. <3
This was madness.
Harry shoved his hands deep in the pockets of his wool overcoat, ducking his head down deeper into his scarf to ward off the cold. Winter, it seemed, was mustering up all its furor for one final hurrah before succumbing to the spring thaw, and the wind that howled over the Thames was especially harsh for early evening in March. Of course, most sane people didn't loiter on the Millennium Bridge-- but then again, no one had ever accused Harry Potter of sanity.
Muggles passed him, completely oblivious to the internal battle raging within him. He was completely mad-- that was the only explanation. His inner voice, one that sounded suspiciously like Ron, said that he was mad anyway for embarking on this path, but Harry had experience with ignoring his friend's 'advice.'
Ron had never understood, not where Pansy was concerned.
Pansy. Her name made his stomach contract in a funny way, something he hadn't felt in years. For all his life experiences, Harry was relatively inexperienced when it came to women. Cho had been his first real crush, and he'd wound up marrying his second. That was the main reason Ron didn't understand Harry's relationship with Pansy; they were like brothers, but Ginny was his sister.
It didn't matter that, in the end, she had left him. There hadn't been a huge falling out-- despite what Rita Skeeter had reported. He still cared about her, and she cared about him, but they'd been so young. If his twenty-seven year old self could go back and give his eighteen year-old self a piece of advice, he would have said one thing:
Wait.
He'd married Ginny the spring of 1999. He had been 19, she'd been 18, and he'd felt like he could conquer the world. Despite the war, despite all that they had lived through together, they were practically kids. They didn't know what they were doing. And in the end, the rush of first love hadn't been enough to keep them together, and they separated in early 2003. Ginny was seeing someone else, and she was happy. In the beginning, when their marriage first fell apart, the idea of her with another man had felt like a physical blow to the chest. There was still a pang sometimes, but it didn't hurt anymore.
But still. Divorced before his twenty-fourth birthday. That hadn't been in the plans. Of course, neither had a relationship with Pansy Parkinson.
Maybe he was mad. What had started out as nothing more than sex between two willing-- and quite frankly, lonely-- adults had slowly evolved into something undefinable. It didn't have the butterflies of his relationship with Cho, nor the sweet simplicity of his marriage to Ginny, but rather a sharp burn of passion that had yet to go out. But it was more than just sex. Harry had found that he liked Pansy.
She couldn't cook, and he liked that she never tried. She didn't pretend to be someone she wasn't. She said what was on her mind, regardless of whether or not it was offensive to present company, and she made no apologies for it. They had only been on one "double date" with Ron and Hermione-- and that was the main reason for it.
Pansy was quick tempered, stubborn, and proud. She had never apologized for trying to turn him over to Voldemort, something that he was content with. She had been young -- Merlin, had it been ten years already? -- and scared. He didn't hold it against her. Not anymore. She had her reasons. She'd even told him what they were. Her mother, murdered in a fit of rage by the Dark Lord the year before, leaving Pansy alone with her Death Eater father who, despite everything, she still loved. He had been the only family she had left.
And he'd died that night atop the North Tower, leaving his only child an orphan to face a hostile world alone.
In the end, he simply didn't care about that anymore. He'd forgiven her long ago. It was something else that Ron couldn't understand -- another in a long list of things. But then, his best mate had only been in love once. He was one of the lucky ones. Married to his childhood love...
Fuck all, Potter, stop brooding! Either she shows or she doesn't.
Harry gave a defeated snort and hunched his shoulders to ward off the wind. First Ron's voice, now Malfoy's? Just because he no longer hated the sod didn't mean he wanted him narrating his inner turmoil.
Inner turmoil? Gods, you're melodramatic. How Pans puts up with you, I've no idea.
"Fuck off, Malfoy," Harry snarled loudly, ignoring the startled family of Muggles taking a picture next to him, Westminster framed in the background. As they hurriedly scurried towards St. Paul's, Harry leaned back against the railing with a weary groan.
This was madness.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
One week earlier...
"You're late."
Harry didn't bother to pull his wand out, even though it was pitch black in the spacious flat. Bad form for an Auror, Kingsley would say, but his 'trespasser' was not a threat. The words... he would recognize them anywhere, from the smooth aristocratic accent to the clipped tone in which they were spoken.
"I told you I'd be by after nine," he said wearily, letting his briefcase drop to the floor. A whispered incantation later, and light illuminated the flat-- and his visitor. "I thought you were taking a late supper with Astoria-- and why are you sitting in the dark?"
Pansy gracefully rose from her perch on the chaise lounge, her bare feet soft on the plush carpet as she crossed the room towards him. "She had to cancel at the last minute, some wedding emergency for Daphne," she explained. Her lips curled slightly as she stopped in front of him and reached for his tie, slender fingers working at the silk knot. "And I like the dark. It suits me."
His hand, which had settled on her hip as soon as she was within touching distance, slid around to the small of her back to draw her closer. "But I can't see you in the dark," he murmured. He ducked his head down, letting their breath mingled in the minute space between them. Running his nose along hers, he added, "And that's unacceptable."
"As it should be," she whispered, "now shut up and kiss me."
That was a demand he would happily comply with. His lips met hers in a soft, teasing kiss before he pulled back slightly. His lips curled at her soft sound of protest, and he was unable to stop himself from teasing her. "Someone's eager tonight."
She growled and reached up swiftly, nails raking across his scalp as her fingers fisted in his hair. "For Merlin's sake, Potter, shut up and say hello properly."
All thought of teasing vanished. Pivoting on his left foot, Harry spun them around and pressed Pansy back against the door, his lips meeting hers in a hard, needy kiss. Fingers dug into soft skin, curling in the silky fabric of her dress as he deepened the kiss. Her nails were sharp against his scalp, adding a tinge of pain to his pleasure, and he nearly growled when she ran the tip of her stiletto heel up the inside of his leg.
Without thinking, he murmured, "I love you," against her lips.
Pansy stilled and pulled back, all warmth gone from her blue eyes. Her hands slipped from his hair as she reached for his hands, tugging them away from her body. "We've talked about this, Potter," she told him. "That isn't the way we are."
Harry blinked, mouth slightly agape as she moved out from her pinned position against the door. "No, you've talked about this," he returned, glancing over his shoulder at her. She had moved back into the living room, to her half-finished glass of merlot. "I still maintain that you're wrong."
"You can't be in love with me, Potter." She raised the glass to her lips and took a long sip of her wine, and Harry was unable to resist letting his gaze linger on the smooth line of her throat-- skin he'd kissed and nibbled on so often he'd lost count. There was a flush to her cheeks, a startling splash of color against the paleness of her skin. "We don't do 'love.' We do sex. And that's all it'll ever be."
"Why?" he shot back. "Why is that it? Why can't we be more, be 'us'? What are you so afraid of, Pansy?"
She ignored his rapid-fire questions and threw back the rest of her wine in one swallow, immediately grabbing the bottle to pour another glass.
"You don't love me," she said finally. Her gaze was fixated on the deep red liquid as she swirled it around the bowl, as captivating as her own reflection. "You can't love me."
"I do love you," Harry replied, his tone even. "And what's more is, I know you love me, too."
"I don't love you," she said, almost automatically. Her eyes flickered up to meet his, and she tipped her chin up defiantly, daring him to contradict her.
"Liar," he said softly, his lips twitching.
"Perhaps I am," Pansy replied as she held his stare, standing firm. "Perhaps I'm not. What does it matter? I'm merely affirming society's belief in me -- Death Eater spawn, pureblooded bigot. Liar. Hardly worthy of the great Harry Potter."
Her words fell on deaf ears. He knew her, knew her in a way that no one else -- save maybe Malfoy -- did. He could tell, from the tightness around her eyes to the way her pulse jumped in her neck, that she was lying. She did love him.
And she was trying very hard to hide it.
"That might be what they see," he replied slowly, closing the space between them until there was but a hairsbreadth between them, "but you've never cared what others thought of you. And I certainly don't care what anyone else says. Why start now?"
Pansy's eyes widened slightly, then narrowed. "Get out."
Her breaths were rapid and shallow; Harry could see the rise and fall of her chest. The wine rippled slightly in the glass, the slight tremble in her hands making it shake. She was trying very, very hard to hide his effect on her, and it almost made Harry smile. If so much were not at stake, he would have done so.
He leaned in and brushed his lips over her cheek, lingering so he could whisper, "I love you, Pansy Parkinson, and I want all of you. All day, every day, you and I against the world."
"You're a fool," he heard her breathe, and his lips did curl at that.
"Maybe, but aren't we all fools in love?" he murmured. Sappy? Yes, but it was true. "Meet me at the Millennium Bridge on Friday evening, at six sharp. If you don't come, then this is goodbye. But if you do..." he trailed off and closed his eyes, pausing to take a breath. "Then you're stuck with me, and I with you."
He pulled away, and for a split-second, he took in her face; cheeks flushed, eyes closed, and lips parted slightly as if in a dream. And then her lids opened, and her piercing blue gaze met his.
"That was quite a show, Potter," she commented, arching one perfectly manicured brow at him. Her tone softened, but she held his gaze. "Do you really think there's a happily ever after for people like us?"
"I don't know." Harry turned away from her and bent to retrieve his briefcase. As he opened the door, he glanced back over his shoulder to look at her one last -- possibly for good -- time. "But I've made my choice, Pansy. Now it's your turn."
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
This was madness.
Harry felt like kicking himself. He'd had nearly a week to stew since leaving Pansy's flat, and every waking moment -- hell, most of his dreaming ones, too -- had been devoted to analyzing every single little detail from that night. What if he hadn't told her about his feelings for her? Would they be together right now, likely naked and entwined in his or her bed? Probably.
He would still have her if he'd just kept his mouth shut. But in the end, he knew his own mind. His unspoken feelings would have still been there, pressing down on his chest like a weight. There was a chance he still did have her, but as each minute passed, his anxiety grew.
He pulled out his pocket watch -- Sirius' pocket watch, squirreled away by Kreacher who had eventually given it to Harry -- and checked the time. Five fifty-seven.
Three more minutes.
If she came at all.
Pansy was meticulous about being prompt. She would be here at six on the dot. If she loved him.
There was no 'if' about it. She did love him; Harry knew it, and he also knew how hard she was fighting that fact. If he stopped to think about it, he could understand why. She was a fiercely independent woman who had been on her own since before her eighteenth birthday. Allowing another person into her life would open her up for heartache and leave her vulnerable once more. At the very least, he could empathize with her reluctance.
But of all people in the world, Harry knew what it was like to have people who loved him, even if that love came from beyond the grave. His mother's love had saved his life, and the love his friends had for him had kept him alive when nearly nothing else could. Love made a person vulnerable, but it also made them strong.
He could be strong for Pansy. He would be strong for her.
Five fifty-eight. Two minutes.
Thankfully, the Voice of Malfoy seemed to have buggered off from his brain for the moment. Harry wasn't sure he could have taken much more of the pointy ferret's remarks on the state of his relationship -- never mind the fact that Malfoy's remarks were a figment of Harry's imagination. Maybe he was going mad. It would certainly explain his recent state of mind.
He glanced towards the Tate Modern, the former power station's tower standing tall against the dark gray skies. Pansy loved art, but they'd never visited this particular museum together. Harry didn't really understand the fun in going to a museum; they were often crowded with tourists, and he could only stare at a painting for so long before boredom set in. Maybe they could go one weekend. If she showed up.
The wind picked up, moving for a brisk breeze to a harsh gust that flattened his unruly hair and made his eyes water behind his glasses. Maybe he should have chosen a more pleasing spot -- Pansy didn't like being cold, and she certainly didn't like Muggles. What if she avoided the bridge on principle?
Five fifty-nine. One minute.
Merlin, could he have sounded any more like a love-besotted fool at her flat? Whatever he'd been spewing had sounded like something out of a Priscilla Penwright novel -- bodice rippers that Hermione never admitted to liking, but he'd found two tucked in her desk drawer. Flowery prose with heaving breasts and tightly-cinched corsets. Setting a spot to meet to decide their future was exactly like something out of a bad romance novel.
Only in the novels, everything always worked out. Despite Harry's feelings for Pansy, he still had no idea if she would come or not. If she decided that the reward was greater than the risk, she would come. If she didn't...
The nerves simmering in the pit of his stomach jumped to a full-on boil, bringing another rush of anxiety to the front of his mind. He could feel the sweat trickling down his back, even as he tried to convince himself that he was just wearing too many layers of clothes. It all came down to this moment. He would either have his second chance at a happy ending with the most unlikely of partners -- one that, despite everything, suited him much better than Ginny ever had -- or he would be alone. Again.
Six o'clock. Time was up.
Harry waited.
Author: Leigh, aka leigh_adams
Characters: Harry Potter/Pansy Parkinson
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~2,700
Summary: "Do you really think there's a happily ever after for people like us?"
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is JKR’s. No copyright infringement is intended, and no money is being made.
Author’s Notes: Written for the 2011 round of interhouse_fest. This is a condensed version of what I really wanted to do, but time and real life commitments kept me from being able to expound upon this the way I would have liked. Thank you to my wonderful beta, fiery_flamingo, whom I adore and who also fed my obsession with The Thomas Crown Affair with the prompt. <3
This was madness.
Harry shoved his hands deep in the pockets of his wool overcoat, ducking his head down deeper into his scarf to ward off the cold. Winter, it seemed, was mustering up all its furor for one final hurrah before succumbing to the spring thaw, and the wind that howled over the Thames was especially harsh for early evening in March. Of course, most sane people didn't loiter on the Millennium Bridge-- but then again, no one had ever accused Harry Potter of sanity.
Muggles passed him, completely oblivious to the internal battle raging within him. He was completely mad-- that was the only explanation. His inner voice, one that sounded suspiciously like Ron, said that he was mad anyway for embarking on this path, but Harry had experience with ignoring his friend's 'advice.'
Ron had never understood, not where Pansy was concerned.
Pansy. Her name made his stomach contract in a funny way, something he hadn't felt in years. For all his life experiences, Harry was relatively inexperienced when it came to women. Cho had been his first real crush, and he'd wound up marrying his second. That was the main reason Ron didn't understand Harry's relationship with Pansy; they were like brothers, but Ginny was his sister.
It didn't matter that, in the end, she had left him. There hadn't been a huge falling out-- despite what Rita Skeeter had reported. He still cared about her, and she cared about him, but they'd been so young. If his twenty-seven year old self could go back and give his eighteen year-old self a piece of advice, he would have said one thing:
Wait.
He'd married Ginny the spring of 1999. He had been 19, she'd been 18, and he'd felt like he could conquer the world. Despite the war, despite all that they had lived through together, they were practically kids. They didn't know what they were doing. And in the end, the rush of first love hadn't been enough to keep them together, and they separated in early 2003. Ginny was seeing someone else, and she was happy. In the beginning, when their marriage first fell apart, the idea of her with another man had felt like a physical blow to the chest. There was still a pang sometimes, but it didn't hurt anymore.
But still. Divorced before his twenty-fourth birthday. That hadn't been in the plans. Of course, neither had a relationship with Pansy Parkinson.
Maybe he was mad. What had started out as nothing more than sex between two willing-- and quite frankly, lonely-- adults had slowly evolved into something undefinable. It didn't have the butterflies of his relationship with Cho, nor the sweet simplicity of his marriage to Ginny, but rather a sharp burn of passion that had yet to go out. But it was more than just sex. Harry had found that he liked Pansy.
She couldn't cook, and he liked that she never tried. She didn't pretend to be someone she wasn't. She said what was on her mind, regardless of whether or not it was offensive to present company, and she made no apologies for it. They had only been on one "double date" with Ron and Hermione-- and that was the main reason for it.
Pansy was quick tempered, stubborn, and proud. She had never apologized for trying to turn him over to Voldemort, something that he was content with. She had been young -- Merlin, had it been ten years already? -- and scared. He didn't hold it against her. Not anymore. She had her reasons. She'd even told him what they were. Her mother, murdered in a fit of rage by the Dark Lord the year before, leaving Pansy alone with her Death Eater father who, despite everything, she still loved. He had been the only family she had left.
And he'd died that night atop the North Tower, leaving his only child an orphan to face a hostile world alone.
In the end, he simply didn't care about that anymore. He'd forgiven her long ago. It was something else that Ron couldn't understand -- another in a long list of things. But then, his best mate had only been in love once. He was one of the lucky ones. Married to his childhood love...
Fuck all, Potter, stop brooding! Either she shows or she doesn't.
Harry gave a defeated snort and hunched his shoulders to ward off the wind. First Ron's voice, now Malfoy's? Just because he no longer hated the sod didn't mean he wanted him narrating his inner turmoil.
Inner turmoil? Gods, you're melodramatic. How Pans puts up with you, I've no idea.
"Fuck off, Malfoy," Harry snarled loudly, ignoring the startled family of Muggles taking a picture next to him, Westminster framed in the background. As they hurriedly scurried towards St. Paul's, Harry leaned back against the railing with a weary groan.
This was madness.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
One week earlier...
"You're late."
Harry didn't bother to pull his wand out, even though it was pitch black in the spacious flat. Bad form for an Auror, Kingsley would say, but his 'trespasser' was not a threat. The words... he would recognize them anywhere, from the smooth aristocratic accent to the clipped tone in which they were spoken.
"I told you I'd be by after nine," he said wearily, letting his briefcase drop to the floor. A whispered incantation later, and light illuminated the flat-- and his visitor. "I thought you were taking a late supper with Astoria-- and why are you sitting in the dark?"
Pansy gracefully rose from her perch on the chaise lounge, her bare feet soft on the plush carpet as she crossed the room towards him. "She had to cancel at the last minute, some wedding emergency for Daphne," she explained. Her lips curled slightly as she stopped in front of him and reached for his tie, slender fingers working at the silk knot. "And I like the dark. It suits me."
His hand, which had settled on her hip as soon as she was within touching distance, slid around to the small of her back to draw her closer. "But I can't see you in the dark," he murmured. He ducked his head down, letting their breath mingled in the minute space between them. Running his nose along hers, he added, "And that's unacceptable."
"As it should be," she whispered, "now shut up and kiss me."
That was a demand he would happily comply with. His lips met hers in a soft, teasing kiss before he pulled back slightly. His lips curled at her soft sound of protest, and he was unable to stop himself from teasing her. "Someone's eager tonight."
She growled and reached up swiftly, nails raking across his scalp as her fingers fisted in his hair. "For Merlin's sake, Potter, shut up and say hello properly."
All thought of teasing vanished. Pivoting on his left foot, Harry spun them around and pressed Pansy back against the door, his lips meeting hers in a hard, needy kiss. Fingers dug into soft skin, curling in the silky fabric of her dress as he deepened the kiss. Her nails were sharp against his scalp, adding a tinge of pain to his pleasure, and he nearly growled when she ran the tip of her stiletto heel up the inside of his leg.
Without thinking, he murmured, "I love you," against her lips.
Pansy stilled and pulled back, all warmth gone from her blue eyes. Her hands slipped from his hair as she reached for his hands, tugging them away from her body. "We've talked about this, Potter," she told him. "That isn't the way we are."
Harry blinked, mouth slightly agape as she moved out from her pinned position against the door. "No, you've talked about this," he returned, glancing over his shoulder at her. She had moved back into the living room, to her half-finished glass of merlot. "I still maintain that you're wrong."
"You can't be in love with me, Potter." She raised the glass to her lips and took a long sip of her wine, and Harry was unable to resist letting his gaze linger on the smooth line of her throat-- skin he'd kissed and nibbled on so often he'd lost count. There was a flush to her cheeks, a startling splash of color against the paleness of her skin. "We don't do 'love.' We do sex. And that's all it'll ever be."
"Why?" he shot back. "Why is that it? Why can't we be more, be 'us'? What are you so afraid of, Pansy?"
She ignored his rapid-fire questions and threw back the rest of her wine in one swallow, immediately grabbing the bottle to pour another glass.
"You don't love me," she said finally. Her gaze was fixated on the deep red liquid as she swirled it around the bowl, as captivating as her own reflection. "You can't love me."
"I do love you," Harry replied, his tone even. "And what's more is, I know you love me, too."
"I don't love you," she said, almost automatically. Her eyes flickered up to meet his, and she tipped her chin up defiantly, daring him to contradict her.
"Liar," he said softly, his lips twitching.
"Perhaps I am," Pansy replied as she held his stare, standing firm. "Perhaps I'm not. What does it matter? I'm merely affirming society's belief in me -- Death Eater spawn, pureblooded bigot. Liar. Hardly worthy of the great Harry Potter."
Her words fell on deaf ears. He knew her, knew her in a way that no one else -- save maybe Malfoy -- did. He could tell, from the tightness around her eyes to the way her pulse jumped in her neck, that she was lying. She did love him.
And she was trying very hard to hide it.
"That might be what they see," he replied slowly, closing the space between them until there was but a hairsbreadth between them, "but you've never cared what others thought of you. And I certainly don't care what anyone else says. Why start now?"
Pansy's eyes widened slightly, then narrowed. "Get out."
Her breaths were rapid and shallow; Harry could see the rise and fall of her chest. The wine rippled slightly in the glass, the slight tremble in her hands making it shake. She was trying very, very hard to hide his effect on her, and it almost made Harry smile. If so much were not at stake, he would have done so.
He leaned in and brushed his lips over her cheek, lingering so he could whisper, "I love you, Pansy Parkinson, and I want all of you. All day, every day, you and I against the world."
"You're a fool," he heard her breathe, and his lips did curl at that.
"Maybe, but aren't we all fools in love?" he murmured. Sappy? Yes, but it was true. "Meet me at the Millennium Bridge on Friday evening, at six sharp. If you don't come, then this is goodbye. But if you do..." he trailed off and closed his eyes, pausing to take a breath. "Then you're stuck with me, and I with you."
He pulled away, and for a split-second, he took in her face; cheeks flushed, eyes closed, and lips parted slightly as if in a dream. And then her lids opened, and her piercing blue gaze met his.
"That was quite a show, Potter," she commented, arching one perfectly manicured brow at him. Her tone softened, but she held his gaze. "Do you really think there's a happily ever after for people like us?"
"I don't know." Harry turned away from her and bent to retrieve his briefcase. As he opened the door, he glanced back over his shoulder to look at her one last -- possibly for good -- time. "But I've made my choice, Pansy. Now it's your turn."
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
This was madness.
Harry felt like kicking himself. He'd had nearly a week to stew since leaving Pansy's flat, and every waking moment -- hell, most of his dreaming ones, too -- had been devoted to analyzing every single little detail from that night. What if he hadn't told her about his feelings for her? Would they be together right now, likely naked and entwined in his or her bed? Probably.
He would still have her if he'd just kept his mouth shut. But in the end, he knew his own mind. His unspoken feelings would have still been there, pressing down on his chest like a weight. There was a chance he still did have her, but as each minute passed, his anxiety grew.
He pulled out his pocket watch -- Sirius' pocket watch, squirreled away by Kreacher who had eventually given it to Harry -- and checked the time. Five fifty-seven.
Three more minutes.
If she came at all.
Pansy was meticulous about being prompt. She would be here at six on the dot. If she loved him.
There was no 'if' about it. She did love him; Harry knew it, and he also knew how hard she was fighting that fact. If he stopped to think about it, he could understand why. She was a fiercely independent woman who had been on her own since before her eighteenth birthday. Allowing another person into her life would open her up for heartache and leave her vulnerable once more. At the very least, he could empathize with her reluctance.
But of all people in the world, Harry knew what it was like to have people who loved him, even if that love came from beyond the grave. His mother's love had saved his life, and the love his friends had for him had kept him alive when nearly nothing else could. Love made a person vulnerable, but it also made them strong.
He could be strong for Pansy. He would be strong for her.
Five fifty-eight. Two minutes.
Thankfully, the Voice of Malfoy seemed to have buggered off from his brain for the moment. Harry wasn't sure he could have taken much more of the pointy ferret's remarks on the state of his relationship -- never mind the fact that Malfoy's remarks were a figment of Harry's imagination. Maybe he was going mad. It would certainly explain his recent state of mind.
He glanced towards the Tate Modern, the former power station's tower standing tall against the dark gray skies. Pansy loved art, but they'd never visited this particular museum together. Harry didn't really understand the fun in going to a museum; they were often crowded with tourists, and he could only stare at a painting for so long before boredom set in. Maybe they could go one weekend. If she showed up.
The wind picked up, moving for a brisk breeze to a harsh gust that flattened his unruly hair and made his eyes water behind his glasses. Maybe he should have chosen a more pleasing spot -- Pansy didn't like being cold, and she certainly didn't like Muggles. What if she avoided the bridge on principle?
Five fifty-nine. One minute.
Merlin, could he have sounded any more like a love-besotted fool at her flat? Whatever he'd been spewing had sounded like something out of a Priscilla Penwright novel -- bodice rippers that Hermione never admitted to liking, but he'd found two tucked in her desk drawer. Flowery prose with heaving breasts and tightly-cinched corsets. Setting a spot to meet to decide their future was exactly like something out of a bad romance novel.
Only in the novels, everything always worked out. Despite Harry's feelings for Pansy, he still had no idea if she would come or not. If she decided that the reward was greater than the risk, she would come. If she didn't...
The nerves simmering in the pit of his stomach jumped to a full-on boil, bringing another rush of anxiety to the front of his mind. He could feel the sweat trickling down his back, even as he tried to convince himself that he was just wearing too many layers of clothes. It all came down to this moment. He would either have his second chance at a happy ending with the most unlikely of partners -- one that, despite everything, suited him much better than Ginny ever had -- or he would be alone. Again.
Six o'clock. Time was up.
Harry waited.