Date: Tuesday, 17th December 1992
Location: Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, a secluded corner of the grounds near the old Quidditch shed
The last echoes of the Christmas holidays were still a week away, but a strange, anticipatory hush had already fallen over Hogwarts. The heavy snowfall of the past few days had ceased, leaving the grounds blanketed in a pristine, muffling white that swallowed sound and deadened the usual bustle. Most students were huddled in the warm common rooms, engaged in last-minute revision or simply trying to forget the creeping dread that had settled over the castle since the Chamber of Secrets had been opened.
Harry Potter was not in the Gryffindor common room. He was perched on the frost-hardened ledge of a high, narrow window in an abandoned corridor on the seventh floor, staring out at the snow. His breath came in small, white puffs. He was avoiding Ron and Hermione. Not because he was angry with them, but because he was tired of the conversations. The whispers about him being the Heir of Slytherin were louder than ever, a constant, hissing backdrop to his days. Ron's indignant denials were exhausting, and Hermione's frantic research, while admirable, only served to remind him that she was working twice as hard as anyone else to clear his name, a burden he felt he should be carrying himself.
The Dueling Club, four nights ago, had been a disaster of epic proportions. Not just because of the humiliating revelation that he was a Parselmouth, which had cemented the suspicions of half the school. No, it was the snake. The moment he'd hissed at the snake to leave Justin Finch-Fletchley alone, the look of stark, petrified terror on Justin's face… and on Hermione's. Even she had taken a step back. For a fraction of a second, he'd seen it in her eyes: the same suspicion that lurked in the gaze of every Slytherin. It had been a physical blow.
He pressed his forehead against the cold, leaded glass. He was used to being stared at, used to the whispers. But this was different. This was a fundamental wrongness, a stain he couldn't scrub off. He was a freak in a new and terrifying way. His own scar, the mark of his connection to the greatest dark wizard of all time, now seemed like a trivial thing compared to the hiss that came so naturally from his own throat.
A flash of movement outside, stark against the white landscape, snapped him from his brooding. It was distant, down near the Quidditch pitch. He squinted, his glasses fogging slightly. A small, dark figure was stumbling through the deep snow, away from the castle, towards the rickety old shed where the spare and broken brooms were kept. It was an odd thing to do at dusk, in the freezing cold. Curiosity, a welcome distraction from his own misery, pricked at him. He watched as the figure wrestled with the frozen latch on the shed door, finally disappearing inside.
After a long minute, the figure re-emerged, clutching something long and wooden. A broom. An old, battered one by the look of it. They dragged it a little way from the shed, into a small, natural hollow between two large drifts, a spot relatively sheltered from the wind. It was then that the dying light of the winter sun caught the figure's face, and Harry's breath hitched in surprise.
It was Pansy Parkinson.
She was the last person he expected to see. Pansy was the epitome of the pampered Slytherin princess, always found in the warm, luxurious common room or trailing after Malfoy like a well-groomed poodle. To see her out here, alone, in the freezing cold, wrestling with a decrepit school broom, was utterly bizarre.
He watched, his own problems momentarily forgotten, as she threw one leg over the broom. Even from this distance, he could see the awkwardness. Her movements were stiff, uncoordinated. She kicked off from the ground, and the broom shot up about six feet, wobbled violently, and then shot forward, straight towards a snowdrift. She didn't so much fall as become one with the snow, a Pansy-shaped hole appearing in the white.
She scrambled up, spitting snow and looking around frantically, as if checking if anyone had seen. The coast was clear. She brushed herself off with furious, jerky movements, her dark hair now a mess of melting snow. She mounted the broom again, this time with a grim determination etched on her face. The same thing happened. A shaky ascent, a wild lurch, and a tumble into the snow. Again. And again.
Harry watched for perhaps ten minutes. Each time she fell, she got up a little slower, her movements a little less certain, the determination on her face melting into something rawer: frustration, humiliation, and a deep, aching desperation he recognized all too well. It was the same look he saw in the mirror sometimes. The look of trying to force yourself to be something you're not, of battling a fundamental inadequacy in a world that expects you to be perfect.
He knew he should go back inside. This was none of his business. Pansy Parkinson was a Slytherin. She was Malfoy's girl. She'd spent two years sneering at him, calling him names, laughing at his misfortunes. The logical, sensible part of his brain, the part that sounded like a cross between Ron and Hermione, told him to let her fail. She deserved it. She was the enemy.
But the other part of him, the part that had been the smallest boy in his class, the one Dudley and his gang had chased and tormented, the one who knew what it was like to be alone and failing at something everyone else seemed to find easy… that part of him wouldn't let him move.
With a sigh that fogged heavily in the cold air, he pushed himself off the window ledge. He had no plan, no clever idea. He just knew he couldn't sit here and watch any longer. It was like watching a cat drown. You might not like the cat, but you couldn't just let it happen.
He made his way down the countless staircases and out through a side door, the cold air hitting him like a wall. The snow crunched under his trainers as he trudged towards the Quidditch pitch, his cloak pulled tight. The wind was sharper down here, cutting through his clothes. He rounded the corner of the old shed and saw her.
She was on the ground again, this time just sitting in the snow, her back against a low, snow-capped rock. Her legs were splayed out in front of her, the broom lying discarded a few feet away. Her shoulders were shaking. She wasn't making a sound, but the tremor in her back was unmistakable. She was crying.
Harry felt a sharp, unwelcome pang of guilt, as if he were intruding on something profoundly private. He scuffed his foot against the snow, deliberately making a noise.
Pansy's head snapped up. Her face was blotchy, her eyes red-rimmed and swimming with tears. For a moment, pure, unadulterated shock froze her features. Then, they twisted into a mask of fury.
"What are you doing here?" she spat, her voice thick and raw. "Come to laugh? Going to write to your little fan club about how you saw the ugly Slytherin girl fall off a broom? Harry took a second to recover before he spoke. "You're not ugly. I saw you from the window and thought I could offer some useful tips. For one thing, you're too far forward. You should be an inch back, and second, you're holding it too tight. As long as you know where you want it to go it'll go there". Pansy stared at him, her tear-streaked face a battlefield of warring emotions. Fury, humiliation, confusion, and something else—something that looked almost like hope—flickered across her sharp features before settling into a mask of pure, defensive spite.
"I don't need your help, Potter," she snarled, scrambling to her feet and brushing snow from her robes with aggressive, jerky movements. "I was doing perfectly fine until you showed up to gawk like the insufferable celebrity you are."
Harry stopped a few feet away, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. The wind cut between them, carrying the sharp scent of pine and frost. He could see her more clearly now. Her usually immaculate appearance was completely destroyed. Her robes were soaked through, her hair was a tangled mess plastered to her forehead and neck, and her lips had taken on a bluish tint from the cold. She was shivering violently, though he suspected the shaking was as much from emotion as from temperature.
"Yeah," he said quietly, glancing at the Pansy-shaped crater in the snow behind her. "Looked perfectly fine. Really graceful landings."
The sarcasm was mild, but it hit its mark. Pansy's face contorted, and for a moment he thought she might actually lunge at him. Instead, she grabbed the fallen broom and raised it like a club.
"Just go away, Potter! Go find Weasley and Granger and leave me alone! I don't need your pity!"
"I'm not offering pity," Harry said, and something in his tone made her pause, the broom frozen mid-swing. "I'm offering flying tips. There's a difference."
She gaped at him, utterly nonplussed. The broom lowered a fraction. "Why would you possibly do that?"
It was a fair question. Harry took a moment to consider it himself. Pansy Parkinson had been a peripheral but consistent nuisance since his first day at Hogwarts. She wasn't the main tormentor—that role belonged to Malfoy—but she was always there, a smirking accomplice, adding her sharp-tongued comments to every Slytherin slight. She'd laughed when Hermione's teeth grew past her collar after Malfoy's hex. She'd sneered at Ron's second-hand robes. She'd called him a lying fraud after the whole You-Know-Who-in-the-Forbidden-Forest incident first year.
But right now, standing here in the freezing dusk, she just looked like a miserable, frightened girl who desperately wanted to be good at something and was failing catastrophically.
"Because I know what it's like," he said finally, the words coming out simpler and more honest than he intended. "To try really hard at something and have everyone watch you fail. To feel like you're the only one who can't do it."
The broom clattered softly as her grip loosened. She stared at him, her dark eyes searching his face for mockery, for the trap she clearly expected. The silence stretched between them, filled only by the whisper of wind over snow.
"I'm not like you," she said, but the venom had drained from her voice, leaving something raw and uncertain in its place. "I'm not... I don't..."
"You're not a natural flyer," Harry finished for her. "So what? Neither was Neville Longbottom first year. He nearly killed himself every lesson. But he kept at it, and now he can at least stay on without face-planting the lawn."
A strange sound escaped Pansy. It might have been a laugh, though it was so choked and bitter it was hard to tell. "Don't compare me to that clumsy oaf."
"Fine." Harry shrugged. "I won't. But the flying advice still stands. You're sitting too far forward, and you're strangling the broom. It's not going to bite you."
She looked down at the broom in her hands, at her white-knuckled grip, and something flickered in her expression. Self-consciousness, perhaps. Slowly, deliberately, she loosened her fingers.
"That's better," Harry said, taking a small step closer. "Now, when you mount, you want to be balanced. Your weight should be centered, not tipped forward like you're trying to dive into the ground. And keep your grip firm but relaxed. Think of it like holding a quill—you want control, not a death grip."
Pansy sniffled, wiping her nose on her sleeve in a gesture so uncharacteristically unrefined that Harry had to suppress a smile. "I know how to hold a quill, Potter. I'm not a first-year."
"Could've fooled me, the way you were flying."
Her eyes flashed, but before she could retort, he raised a placating hand. "Sorry. Low blow. Look, just... try again. But this time, don't think about it so much. Flying is about feel, not thinking. The broom wants to respond to you. You just have to let it."
She stared at him for a long, searching moment. Then, with visible reluctance, she swung her leg over the broom. This time, she shifted back slightly on the handle, adjusting her position based on his comment. Her grip loosened fractionally.
"Now kick off. Gently. Don't try to shoot to the moon."
Pansy took a deep breath, her exhale forming a white cloud. She kicked off.
The broom rose smoothly, about three feet off the ground, and hovered. For one glorious second, she was perfectly steady, a look of stunned amazement spreading across her face. Then, as if remembering she was supposed to be bad at this, the broom gave a little wobble. Panic flashed across her features, and her hands tightened instinctively.
"Relax!" Harry called up. "You're fine! Just breathe!"
She sucked in air, forced her hands to loosen, and the wobble steadied. She hovered there, five feet off the ground, actually hovering, and the look on her face was something Harry knew he'd remember for a long time. It was pure, unadulterated wonder. The same look he'd seen on Ron's face the first time he'd made a chess piece move. The same look on Neville's face when his cauldron produced a passable potion.
"I'm doing it," she whispered, almost to herself. "I'm actually doing it."
"Now try moving forward," Harry instructed. "Just a little. Lean slightly in the direction you want to go. Don't think about it, just... feel it."
Pansy leaned forward, tentatively at first, then with a touch more confidence. The broom drifted forward, slowly, wobbling a little but maintaining altitude. She traveled perhaps twenty feet before panic overtook her again and she instinctively yanked back on the handle. The broom stopped dead, and she tumbled off the back, landing in a heap in the snow.
Harry winced. But this time, when she sat up, sputtering and covered in white, she wasn't crying. She was laughing. A genuine, surprised, slightly hysterical laugh that echoed oddly in the cold air.
"Did you see that?" she gasped, looking up at him with wide eyes. "I actually flew. I actually—Merlin's saggy—I flew!"
Despite himself, Harry grinned. "You did. For about twenty feet. Then you fell off."
"I fell off because I stopped," she corrected, scrambling to her feet with more energy than she'd shown all evening. "That's different from just falling off. I was actually flying, and then I stopped, and then I fell. That's progress."
"Technical distinction, but I'll allow it."
She grabbed the broom and marched back to her starting point, her earlier misery seemingly forgotten. "Again. Tell me what I did wrong at the end there."
"You pulled back too hard. When you want to stop, you just... ease back. Gently. Like you're slowing down a horse, not trying to yank its head off."
She mounted again, settling into the improved position. "Like a horse. Right. Slowing down, not yanking." She took a breath, focused, and kicked off.
This time, she rose smoother, steadier. She hovered for a moment, testing her balance, then leaned forward. The broom glided forward, faster than before but still controlled. Harry watched her travel, counting the seconds. She made it perhaps forty feet before she started to look uncertain, her speed dropping as she clearly debated how to stop. But instead of panicking, she eased back on the handle, just as he'd suggested. The broom slowed, hovered, and she managed to step off, landing on her feet in the snow with only a slight stumble.
She turned to face him, and her expression was radiant. Not pretty, exactly—Pansy Parkinson's face was too sharp, too pointed for conventional prettiness—but transformed. The perpetual sneer was gone, the defensive hostility melted away, and in its place was simple, unguarded joy.
"I did it," she said, her voice soft with wonder. "I actually did it."
Harry found himself smiling back, genuinely pleased for her. "You did. That was really good, Parkinson. Much better."
She walked back towards him, trailing the broom behind her, and for the first time, he saw her without the armor of Slytherin contempt. She was just a girl, younger somehow in the fading light, her face open and uncertain.
"Why are you really here, Potter?" she asked quietly, stopping a few feet away. "And don't give me that 'I saw you from a window' rubbish. You could have just watched. You could have laughed and told everyone. Why didn't you?"
Harry looked away, across the snow-covered grounds towards the distant lights of the castle. The question deserved an honest answer. "Because I know what it's like to be the one everyone laughs at. To try something and fail and have everyone watch. I've had plenty of practice."
"But you're Harry Potter," she said, as if that explained everything. "You're the Boy Who Lived. You're the youngest Seeker in a century. You're—"
"I'm a freak who talks to snakes and half the school thinks I'm the Heir of Slytherin," he interrupted, the bitterness leaking into his voice despite his efforts. "I'm the one everyone's afraid of now. The one even my friends look at like they're not quite sure about me anymore."
The confession hung in the cold air between them. Pansy was silent for a long moment, her expression unreadable.
"I called you that," she said finally, her voice very small. "At the Dueling Club. I called you—"
"I heard you." Harry's voice was flat. "Along with everyone else."
She flinched, looking down at the broom in her hands. "I didn't mean—I mean, I said it because everyone else was saying it, and Draco—" She stopped, biting her lip. "That's not an excuse. It's just... it's what I do. What we all do. We say what we're supposed to say."
"And what are you supposed to say about me?"
She looked up, meeting his eyes, and for the first time, he saw something other than hostility or calculation in her gaze. Something almost like guilt.
"That you're arrogant. That you think the rules don't apply to you. That you're just lucky, not talented." She recited the words like lines from a script. "That your fame has gone to your head and you're probably in Slytherin's pocket anyway, pretending to be a Gryffindor hero."
Harry let out a short, humorless laugh. "That's quite a list."
"It's what we say," she repeated. "It's what Draco says. It's easier to just... agree. To go along. You know how it is."
He did know. He knew exactly how easy it was to be swept along by the current, to let others do the thinking while you just floated. He'd seen it a hundred times. But hearing her admit it, with that note of shame in her voice, made him see her differently.
"So why are you out here?" he asked. "Flying alone in the freezing cold, trying to learn something everyone assumes you already know?"
She was quiet for so long he thought she wouldn't answer. She traced patterns in the snow with the tip of the broom, her dark hair falling forward to hide her face.
"My mother was on the Holyhead Harpies," she said finally, so quietly he almost missed it. "Before she married my father. She was really good. Everyone says so. She has trophies and clippings and photographs all over our house. And I..." She gestured vaguely at herself, at the broom, at the snow. "I can't even stay on for thirty seconds."
Understanding dawned. "She expects you to be like her."
"She expects me to be a Parkinson." Pansy's voice was bitter now. "And Parkinsons are good at everything. We're the best. We don't fail at basic, first-year flying. We don't embarrass the family name by falling off brooms in front of the whole school."
"So you've been sneaking out here to practice in secret."
"What else was I supposed to do?" She looked up, and her eyes were bright again, though this time with anger rather than tears. "Ask Malfoy for help? He'd laugh in my face and tell the whole common room. Ask a teacher? 'Oh yes, Professor McGonagall, I know I'm a second-year Slytherin, but could you please teach me how to fly like a first-year?'" She laughed, the sound sharp and painful. "I'd rather die."
Harry considered this. He thought about the pressure of family expectations, the weight of a name, the terror of being found out as less than what everyone assumed you were. It wasn't the same as his own experience, but it resonated in ways he hadn't expected.
"So you've been coming out here alone, in the dark, in the freezing cold, with a broken school broom, trying to teach yourself something that most people learn in an afternoon with proper instruction."
"Pretty much, yeah."
"And you've been doing this how long?"
She shrugged, a jerky movement. "Since October. Whenever I can sneak away without anyone noticing."
Harry stared at her. Two months. She'd been coming out here for two months, in the cold and dark, failing over and over, getting up and trying again, all because she was too proud—or too scared—to ask for help. It was one of the most stubborn, ridiculous, and strangely admirable things he'd ever heard.
"That's..." He struggled for the right word. "That's really something, Parkinson."
"Is that Gryffindor for 'you're completely mental'?"
"That's Gryffindor for 'I'm impressed, actually.' Most people would have given up."
She looked at him sharply, searching for sarcasm, and seemed to find none. "Well. Most people aren't Parkinsons."
"No," Harry agreed. "I suppose they're not."
Another silence fell, but this one was different. Less hostile, more contemplative. The sun had almost completely set now, the last sliver of orange disappearing behind the mountains. The temperature was dropping rapidly, and Harry could feel the cold seeping through his trainers.
"You should probably get inside," he said. "Before you freeze to death out here."
Pansy nodded, but made no move to leave. She was looking at him strangely, as if seeing him for the first time.
"Why did you really help me, Potter?" she asked again, and this time the question was genuine, not accusatory. "We're not friends. We're not even friendly. I've been horrible to you. To your friends. Why would you do this?"
Harry thought about it. He thought about the look on her face when she'd finally flown steady, the pure joy of it. He thought about the way she'd admitted her fear, her shame, her desperate need to be good enough. He thought about the Dueling Club, and the way Hermione had stepped back from him, and the cold isolation that had settled in his chest ever since.
"Because I could. Do I need any other reason, Pansy"? Harry asked as he stepped forward. " I saw you fail and could help. So I did. Now you can fly more than a few feet. Whatever we are to one another after this is up to you but for what it's worth I never thought you were ugly. Rude to be sure but never ugly. I fact if you smiled more I think most people would call you very pretty". Harry said as if it was a normal thing to say to a girl who called you names. The words hung in the frozen air between them, and Harry watched as Pansy's face underwent a remarkable transformation. First came disbelief, her dark eyes widening as if she'd misheard. Then suspicion, her features sharpening as she searched his expression for the inevitable punchline. But there was no punchline. Harry simply stood there, hands in his pockets, breath misting in the cold, looking for all the world as if he'd just commented on the weather rather than paying her an unexpected compliment.
"That's..." She stopped, swallowed, tried again. "That's a strange thing to say to someone who's been calling you names for two years."
Harry shrugged. "Maybe. But it's true. You've got a nice smile. When you're not sneering, anyway. You should use it more often."
Pansy opened her mouth, then closed it again. She looked utterly disarmed, stripped of all the sharp retorts and biting comments that usually served as her armor. In the silence, a gust of wind swept across the grounds, carrying a fresh flurry of snowflakes that caught in her dark hair and clung to her eyelashes.
"You're freezing," Harry observed, stating the obvious. "Come on. You need to get inside before you turn into a Pansy-shaped ice sculpture."
She laughed at that—a real laugh, surprised out of her—and something in Harry's chest loosened at the sound. "A Pansy-shaped ice sculpture. That's a lovely image, Potter. Really paints a picture."
"I have my moments." He gestured towards the castle. "Walk with me? Unless you want to practice some more, but I think your fingers are about to fall off."
Pansy looked down at her hands, still wrapped around the broom handle, and seemed to notice for the first time that they were bright red and trembling with cold. "Right. Yes. Inside. Good idea."
She started towards the castle, then stopped, looking back at the old shed. "I should put this away."
"I'll wait."
She trudged back to the shed, wrestled with the frozen latch again, and shoved the broom inside. When she returned, she was brushing snow from her robes and shivering violently. Harry fell into step beside her, and together they began the long walk back across the snow-covered grounds.
For a while, neither spoke. The only sounds were the crunch of their footsteps in the snow and the distant howl of the wind. The castle loomed ahead, its hundreds of windows glowing warmly against the deepening blue of the evening sky. It looked welcoming, inviting—a stark contrast to the cold isolation Harry had felt all week.
"You really meant that," Pansy said suddenly, breaking the silence. "What you said earlier. About knowing what it's like to be laughed at."
"Yeah. I meant it."
"But you're Harry Potter. You're famous. Everyone knows your name before you even get here. How could you possibly know what that's like?"
Harry considered the question. It was one he'd been asked before, usually by people who couldn't see past the scar and the story. But something about the way Pansy asked—genuinely curious, not accusatory—made him want to give a real answer.
"Before I came to Hogwarts, I didn't know I was famous," he said slowly. "I didn't know anything about magic or my parents or any of it. I lived with my aunt and uncle, and they... they didn't tell me. They made me sleep in a cupboard under the stairs. My cousin Dudley and his friends used to chase me, hit me, call me names. The teachers at my primary school thought I was a troublemaker because I kept getting into strange situations I couldn't explain. So yeah. I know what it's like to be the one everyone thinks is weird. To be the one no one wants to sit next to. To have people whisper about you behind your back."
Pansy had gone very still beside him, her eyes fixed on his face. "Your aunt and uncle made you sleep in a cupboard?"
"It wasn't so bad. It was warm in there. Small, but warm." He said it lightly, but something in his tone must have betrayed him, because Pansy's expression shifted into something he couldn't quite read.
"That's horrible," she said quietly. "That's really horrible, Potter. They're your family."
"Not really. They're my mum's sister and her husband, but they never wanted me. I was just... dumped on them. An inconvenience." He shrugged, trying to shake off the familiar weight of the memory. "Anyway. That's why I know what it's like. And that's why I came out here tonight. Because I saw you falling off that broom, and I saw you getting back up, and I thought... someone should help. Even if it's not me. Even if we're supposed to be enemies."
They had reached the edge of the grounds now, approaching the side door Harry had used to exit earlier. Pansy stopped walking, and he stopped with her, turning to face her in the shadow of the castle walls.
"I've been horrible to you," she said again, as if the fact was just now sinking in properly. "I've laughed at you. I've called you names. I've repeated everything Draco said about you and your friends. And you came out here in the freezing cold to help me fly because you felt sorry for me."
"I didn't feel sorry for you," Harry corrected. "I felt like I understood. There's a difference."
Pansy stared at him for a long moment, her dark eyes searching his face in the dim light. Then, slowly, hesitantly, she did something he'd never seen her do before. She smiled. Not a sneer, not a smirk, not the triumphant grin she wore when Malfoy succeeded in tormenting someone. A real, genuine, uncertain smile that transformed her sharp features into something almost soft.
"You're nothing like what I thought," she said. "Nothing at all."
"Maybe you just weren't looking very hard."
"Maybe." She pulled her cloak tighter around herself, shivering again. "I should go in. Before someone notices I'm gone and starts asking questions."
Harry nodded. "Same. Ron and Hermione will be wondering where I am."
They stood there for an awkward moment, neither quite sure how to end this strange encounter. Finally, Pansy extended her hand—the same hand that had been white-knuckled on the broom handle an hour ago, now trembling slightly from cold.
"Thank you, Harry."
It was the first time she'd used his first name. It sounded strange on her lips, but not unpleasant. He took her hand, surprised by how small and cold it was in his.
"You're welcome, Pansy."
She pulled her hand back, then hesitated, as if wrestling with something. "At the Dueling Club... what I said... I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. I just... I said it because everyone else was saying it, and I was scared, and—"
"I know," Harry interrupted gently. "It's okay."
"It's not okay. It was cruel. And you didn't deserve it." She met his eyes squarely. "You're not the Heir of Slytherin. I know that now."
"How do you know?"
"Because the Heir of Slytherin wouldn't have helped me tonight. He wouldn't have stood in the freezing cold for an hour teaching his enemy to fly. He wouldn't have said... what you said." She looked away, a faint flush coloring her cheeks despite the cold. "About my smile."
Harry felt his own face warm slightly. "Oh. That. Well, I meant it. You should smile more. It suits you better than sneering."
Pansy made a soft sound that might have been a laugh or a sniffle—he couldn't tell which. "You're very strange, Harry Potter."
"So I've been told."
Another moment of silence, then Pansy straightened, her expression shifting back towards something more familiar—though the sharp edges seemed somehow softer now.
"I should go. The Slytherin common room will be full of people, and if I'm not careful, someone will notice I've been gone." She paused. "Will you... will you be at the Great Hall for breakfast tomorrow?"
Harry considered the question. He usually ate with Ron and Hermione, but the thought of facing their questions about where he'd been tonight made him hesitate. "Probably. Why?"
"No reason." But the way she said it suggested there was definitely a reason. "Goodnight, Harry."
"Goodnight, Pansy."
She turned and hurried towards a different entrance, one that would take her down towards the dungeons. Harry watched her go until she disappeared into the shadows, then pushed open the side door and stepped into the warmth of the castle.
The contrast was immediate and overwhelming. The heated air wrapped around him like a blanket, and he realized belatedly just how cold he'd gotten while standing out there. His fingers were numb, his toes felt like blocks of ice, and his nose was surely bright red. But despite the physical discomfort, he felt lighter than he had in days. Weeks, maybe.
He made his way up through the castle, taking the familiar route towards Gryffindor Tower. The corridors were mostly empty, most students already settled in their common rooms for the evening. A few older students passed him without a second glance, too wrapped up in their own conversations to notice the famous Harry Potter trudging past with snow melting in his hair.
When he reached the Fat Lady, he gave the password ("Flibbertigibbet") and climbed through the portrait hole into the warm, noisy chaos of the Gryffindor common room. A fire roared in the grate, casting dancing shadows across the scarlet and gold furnishings. Groups of students huddled in armchairs, some playing Exploding Snap, others hunched over homework. In one corner, Fred and George Weasley were demonstrating something to a group of awestruck first-years that was almost certainly against school rules.
Ron and Hermione were in their usual spots by the fire, Ron with a book on Quidditch tactics that Harry suspected he'd read a dozen times, Hermione with a towering stack of books that looked dangerously close to toppling. They looked up as he approached, identical expressions of relief crossing their faces.
"Harry!" Hermione set down her quill immediately. "Where have you been? We've been worried sick. Percy said he saw you heading towards an abandoned corridor hours ago, and then you just disappeared—"
"I was just walking," Harry said, sinking into the armchair across from them. "Needed some air. Thinking."
Ron eyed him suspiciously. "For three hours? In this weather? You look frozen solid, mate."
"I'm fine." Harry held his hands out to the fire, relishing the warmth that seeped back into his fingers. "Really. Just needed to clear my head."
Hermione's expression softened with understanding. "The Dueling Club. What Malfoy said, and the snake, and everyone staring... it's been awful. I'm so sorry, Harry."
"Yeah," Ron agreed, his tone unusually serious. "It's total rubbish, what they're saying. You're not the Heir of Slytherin. Everyone who matters knows that."
Harry looked at his two best friends, saw the genuine concern in their faces, and felt a pang of guilt for not telling them the truth about where he'd been. But how could he explain? How could he say, "Actually, I was out in the snow teaching Pansy Parkinson to fly, and then we had a nice chat, and she smiled at me, and I think maybe she's not as horrible as we thought"?
They wouldn't understand. He barely understood it himself.
"I know," he said instead. "Thanks. Both of you."
Hermione studied him for a moment, her sharp eyes missing nothing. "You seem... different. Lighter, somehow. Did something happen while you were walking?"
Harry shrugged, aiming for casual. "Just had some time to think. Realized that what other people think doesn't really matter. I know I'm not the Heir of Slytherin. You two know it. That's enough."
It was a partial truth, but it seemed to satisfy them. Hermione smiled, reaching out to pat his arm. "That's very mature of you, Harry. I'm proud of you."
Ron made a gagging noise. "Ugh, Hermione, don't get all soppy. He's fine, we're fine, everything's fine. Now, Harry, tell me you at least saw something interesting on your walk. Any yetis? Wandering ghosts? A rogue Bludger?"
Harry laughed, the sound surprising him. "No yetis, Ron. You should know yetis don't live in Scotland. You may find some in Switzerland, I think most like to live in Nepal and other places like that. You know, really high up where nobody lives". Harry said with a light smile.
The fire crackled and popped, sending sparks dancing up the chimney as Harry's unexpected lecture on yeti geography hung in the air. Ron stared at him with a mixture of bewilderment and reluctant admiration.
"Since when do you know so much about yetis?" Ron asked, his freckled face scrunched in confusion.
Harry shrugged, feeling oddly pleased to have surprised his best friend. "The Dursleys took me to the library a few times during the summers. I'd hide in the geography section. Quiet, warm, and no Dudley." He didn't add that those library visits had been rare escapes from a home where he wasn't wanted. He didn't need to.
Hermione was watching him with that look she got when she was filing away information for later analysis. "That's actually quite fascinating. The yeti is often misclassified as a creature of pure myth when in fact—"
"Merlin's trousers," Ron groaned. "Don't start, Hermione. It's bad enough Harry's turned into a yeti expert. Next you'll be telling us about the migration patterns of trolls or something."
"Actually, trolls don't migrate. They're territorial and—"
Ron threw a cushion at her. She caught it mid-air with a swift movement and tossed it back, hitting him square in the face. Harry laughed, a genuine, easy laugh that felt like it belonged to someone else. Someone who hadn't spent the last four days feeling like the entire school was staring at him with suspicion.
The evening passed in comfortable familiarity. Fred and George's demonstration ended in a small explosion that singed the ceiling and sent first-years scattering. Percy emerged from the boys' dormitory to deliver a lengthy lecture on responsible behavior that everyone ignored. Hermione returned to her books, though she kept glancing at Harry with concerned little frowns. Ron fell asleep in his chair, his Quidditch book sliding from his fingers and landing on the floor with a thump.
And Harry sat by the fire, watching the flames dance, and thought about Pansy Parkinson.
He thought about the way her face had crumpled when she thought no one was watching. The raw, ugly despair of her silent tears. The fierce determination that kept her getting up, again and again, even when falling must have hurt. The way her entire being had transformed when she finally, finally stayed on the broom—that moment of pure, unguarded joy.
He thought about her hand in his, small and cold, and the way his name had sounded on her lips. Not "Potter" with a sneer, but "Harry" with something that might have been wonder.
It made no sense. She was a Slytherin. She was Malfoy's shadow, his echo, his faithful little follower. She'd laughed at Hermione, sneered at Ron, called him names and spread rumors and done everything she could to make his life slightly more miserable. By any reasonable measure, he should despise her.
But he'd seen her cry. He'd seen her fail. He'd seen her try. And somehow, in the space of an hour, all the easy categories of "enemy" and "friend" had gotten tangled up in something far more complicated.
He was still thinking about it when he finally climbed into bed, his frozen toes slowly warming under the heavy blankets. He was still thinking about it when he drifted off to sleep, the image of Pansy's real smile—soft and uncertain and utterly genuine—lingering behind his eyelids.
---
The Great Hall was its usual chaotic self at breakfast. The long house tables were packed with students loading up on toast, porridge, eggs, and bacon before another day of classes. The enchanted ceiling reflected the grey winter sky overhead, pale light filtering through clouds that threatened more snow.
Harry sat between Ron and Hermione, mechanically moving food from his plate to his mouth while his eyes drifted, almost involuntarily, towards the Slytherin table.
He spotted her almost immediately. Pansy was sitting in her usual spot, two seats down from Malfoy, surrounded by the familiar cluster of Slytherin girls—Millicent Bulstrode, Daphne Greengrass, and Tracey Davis. She looked... normal. Her hair was perfectly groomed again, her robes immaculate, her expression settled into the familiar sharp-edged neutrality she always wore in public. She was listening to something Malfoy was saying, nodding along, her lips curved in what might have been agreement or might have been a mask.
As if sensing his gaze, she looked up. Their eyes met across the length of the Great Hall.
For one frozen second, neither moved. Then, slowly, so subtly that no one else would have noticed, the corner of her mouth twitched. Not a smile, exactly. More like the ghost of one. A secret acknowledgment, just for him.
Harry felt his face warm. He looked away quickly, grabbing his pumpkin juice and taking a long drink to cover his sudden self-consciousness.
"You all right, Harry?" Hermione asked. "You've gone a bit red."
"Fine," he said, his voice slightly muffled by the goblet. "Just... hot pumpkin juice. Too hot."
"It's not hot," Ron observed, having just downed his own glass in three gulps. "It's barely warm. The house-elves have been off their game since Dobby kept showing up in the kitchens, apparently—"
But Harry wasn't listening. He risked another glance at the Slytherin table. Pansy had turned back to her conversation, but there was something different about the set of her shoulders. A relaxation that hadn't been there before. She reached for a piece of toast, and he noticed her fingers brushing against the fabric of her robes in a gesture that seemed almost... thoughtful.
Across the hall, Malfoy said something that made his cronies laugh. Pansy laughed too, the sound carrying faintly across the space between tables. It was a practiced laugh, the kind she'd perfected for public consumption. Harry found himself wondering what her real laugh sounded like. The one he'd heard last night, surprised out of her in the snow.
"Harry." Hermione's voice was sharper now, cutting through his reverie. "Are you sure you're all right? You're staring at the Slytherin table."
He snapped his attention back to his friends, heart thumping guiltily. "What? No. I wasn't staring. I was just... thinking."
"About what?" Ron asked, his mouth full of sausage. "Because if you're plotting revenge on Malfoy for the Dueling Club, count me in. I've got some ideas involving Dungbombs and his bed curtains—"
"No revenge," Harry said quickly. "I'm not thinking about Malfoy."
Hermione's eyes narrowed slightly, but before she could probe further, the morning post arrived. A flock of owls swooped through the open windows, descending on the Great Hall with rustling wings and soft hoots. Harry's heart leaped instinctively—but no owl landed near him. Instead, he watched as a small, scruffy brown owl he didn't recognize fluttered down towards the Slytherin table and landed directly in front of Pansy.
She stiffened visibly, even from this distance. Her hand moved slowly to retrieve the letter tied to the owl's leg, her movements careful, controlled. She unfolded the parchment and read it, her face going through a series of micro-expressions that Harry couldn't quite interpret from across the hall. Then, with precise, deliberate movements, she folded the letter, tucked it into her robe pocket, and resumed eating her breakfast as if nothing had happened.
But something had happened. Harry was sure of it. The set of her shoulders had changed again, this time into something harder. More defensive.
"Probably from her mother," Hermione murmured, and Harry realized with a start that she'd been watching him watch Pansy. "The Parkinson family is very... traditional. Lots of expectations. I've read about them in some of the old pure-blood texts."
Harry turned to her, surprised. "You know about her family?"
"I know about most of the old pure-blood families," Hermione said, a touch defensively. "It helps to understand the dynamics. The Parkinsons aren't as prominent as the Malfoys but they're well-respected in certain circles. Very concerned with appearances. Very concerned with maintaining their standing." She paused, her expression thoughtful. "Pansy's mother was supposed to be quite the Quidditch player before she married. The Holyhead Harpies, I think. She gave it up for the marriage, which was considered very proper at the time."
Harry stared at her. "How do you know all that?"
"I told you. I read." Hermione shrugged. "There's a whole section in the Hogwarts library on pure-blood lineage. It's mostly tedious genealogy, but some of it's quite illuminating. The pressures those families put on their children... it's no wonder so many of them turn out like Malfoy."
Ron snorted. "Don't go feeling sorry for them, Hermione. They're still a bunch of entitled gits who think they're better than everyone else."
"People are more complicated than that, Ron."
Harry said nothing. He was watching Pansy again, noticing the way she picked at her food without eating, the careful blankness of her expression. The letter was still in her pocket, a weight she carried while maintaining her perfect facade. He wondered what it said. He wondered if it had anything to do with why she'd been out in the snow last night, desperately trying to master a broom.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of classes. Potions with the Slytherins was its usual ordeal—Snape hovering, Malfoy smirking, Harry's potion bubbling ominously despite following the instructions exactly. But something was different. Pansy was at her usual station next to Malfoy, but she didn't join in when he made snide comments about Harry's brewing technique. She didn't laugh when Snape deducted points for no reason. She just... worked. Quietly, efficiently, her attention fixed on her cauldron.
Malfoy noticed. "Something wrong, Parkinson? You're awfully quiet."
"Just concentrating," she said, not looking up. "My mother expects top marks in Potions. I can't afford to be distracted."
It was such a perfectly reasonable response that Malfoy seemed satisfied. But Harry, stealing a glance at her across the dungeon, saw the slight tension in her jaw. The way her fingers tightened on her stirring rod. She was lying. Or at least, she was hiding something.
When the class ended, Harry lingered, pretending to pack his bag slowly. Ron and Hermione exchanged looks but waited by the door. As the Slytherins filed out, Pansy passed close to where Harry stood. For just a moment, her pace slowed. Her eyes met his.
"Midnight," she breathed, so softly he almost didn't hear. "Same place."
Then she was gone, swept up in the current of students heading to lunch. Harry stood frozen for a moment, processing. She wanted to meet again. Tonight. In the same spot where she'd been practicing.
"Harry!" Ron's voice carried across the dungeon. "Come on, I'm starving!"
He went, his mind churning. Midnight. Same place. What could she possibly want? More flying lessons? To talk? To thank him again? The possibilities spun through his head, none of them quite making sense.
That night, he lay in his four-poster bed, listening to the heavy breathing of the other boys. Ron was snoring softly, Dean and Seamus were dead to the world after a long day, and Neville was muttering in his sleep about Herbology. Harry had cast a silent Disillusionment Charm on himself—a trick Hermione had taught him from an advanced book—and slipped out of the dormitory with barely a creak.
The common room was empty, the fire reduced to glowing embers. He climbed through the portrait hole as quietly as possible, earning a sleepy mumble from the Fat Lady about "young people and their late-night wandering," and made his way through the darkened castle.
The side door he'd used before was still unlocked—someone really should do something about that, he thought—and then he was outside, the cold hitting him like a physical force. The snow had started again, light flakes drifting down from a sky the color of ink. He pulled his cloak tighter and trudged towards the Quidditch shed.
She was already there, a dark figure huddled against the same rock where she'd been sitting the night before. She straightened as he approached, and even in the dim light, he could see that she'd been crying again.
"You came," she said, her voice rough.
"You asked me to."
She nodded, swiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. "I didn't think you would. After everything... I thought you'd decide it wasn't worth it. That I wasn't worth it."
Harry stopped a few feet away, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I'm here. What's wrong?"
She laughed, the sound hollow and broken. "What's wrong? What's wrong is that I'm a complete disaster, Potter. I'm a second-year who can't fly, my mother just sent me a letter reminding me that the Parkinson family doesn't produce failures, and the one person who's been decent to me in weeks is supposed to be my enemy." She sucked in a shaky breath. "So pick one. They're all equally true."
Harry absorbed this, watching the snow collect in her dark hair. "What did your mother's letter say?"
Pansy's jaw tightened. "That she's arranged for me to try out for the Slytherin Quidditch team after the holidays. That she's told all her old Harpies friends that her daughter will be following in her footsteps. That if I embarrass her, I'll find out exactly how unpleasant a Parkinson disappointment can be." She laughed again, cold and bitter. "She doesn't know I can't fly. She assumes I can. Because why wouldn't I be able to? I'm a Parkinson."
The desperation in her voice was raw, visceral. Harry recognized it. It was the same desperation he'd felt facing a mountain of chores at the Dursleys', the same desperation he'd felt staring down a troll in the girls' bathroom, the same desperation he felt every time someone whispered "Heir of Slytherin" behind his back. The desperate need to be enough. To not fail. To survive.
"When's the tryout?" he asked.
"First week back after Christmas. January 4th." She looked at him, and in the dim light, her eyes were huge and dark and scared. "I have two weeks. Two weeks to learn something most people take years to master. Two weeks to become good enough to fool a team of experienced players and my mother's entire social circle."
Harry thought about it. Two weeks was nothing. Two weeks was a blink. But two weeks of intense, focused practice, with someone who actually knew what they were doing...
"I can help you," he said. "Every night. We'll meet here, midnight until whenever. It won't be enough to make you a natural, but it might be enough to make you passable. To keep you from embarrassing yourself."
Pansy stared at him. "Why? Why would you do this? You have nothing to gain. Everything to lose, actually. If anyone finds out you've been sneaking out to help a Slytherin—"
"Then they find out." Harry shrugged. "I don't care."
"You should care. Your friends would care. Gryffindor would care. The whole school would—"
"I don't care," he repeated, and something in his voice made her stop. "I'm tired of caring about what people think. I'm tired of being sorted into boxes and told who I'm supposed to hate. You needed help. I can help. That's it. That's all."
The snow fell between them, silent and soft. Pansy's face worked through emotions too quick to follow—confusion, hope, fear, wonder—before settling on something that looked almost like surrender.
"You're the strangest person I've ever met, Harry Potter."
"So I've been told."
She laughed, and this time it was closer to real. "All right. Yes. If you're serious—if you're really willing to do this—then yes. I accept your help. And I..." She trailed off, struggling. "I won't forget this. Whatever happens, I won't forget that you were kind to me when you had every reason not to be."
Harry felt his face warm again, grateful for the darkness that hid it. "It's nothing."
"It's not nothing." Her voice was fierce. "It's the opposite of nothing. It's—" She stopped, shook her head. "Never mind. We should start. We only have two weeks."
She retrieved the same battered school broom from behind the rock where she'd hidden it, and they began.