“Get out!”

Pansy Parkinson stared at the woman who stood before her, gesturing sharply toward the door of The Leaky Cauldron. In all their years together at Hogwarts, Hannah Longbottom née Abbott had struck her as a soft, emotional type, but something about that perception had indelibly been jarred into sharp contrast with the seething landlady of the Cauldron that she had become.

In those long-gone times, Pansy would’ve let it be known in no uncertain terms who she was and why spurning her patronage would be a mistake. She missed those days, but as Hannah was so fond of exemplifying, they didn’t miss her. Resigned, Pansy pulled her tattered jacket closer to her body and set back out into the frigid December rain.

The world was supposed to have been a more tolerant place after the Battle of Hogwarts. Dozens of people had laid down their lives so that Mudbloods could walk freely amongst decent folk and be seen as equals. It just struck Pansy as ironic that, in this newfound freedom of theirs, the new world had seen fit to discriminate against its own kind in a different fashion. Several businesses that had been run by people suspected of pure-blood favouritism had been boycotted far and wide throughout the country. Half of Knockturn Alley had been closed down because of this; even Borgin and Burke’s had taken a hit.

One would think that one of magical Britain’s foremost grocers would’ve been immune to such practices, but Parkinson’s Pantry had been amongst the first to be targeted by the boycotters. A group of students from Hogwarts had marched outside its doors, making sure anyone within shouting distance of the establishment — and that, being in Diagon Alley, was quite a few — knew of the laundry list of Roark Parkinson’s shady dealings with the Dark Lord’s followers. Of course, the Daily Prophet had caught wind of this, sensationalised it, and made the situation a thousand times worse. Within just a year, Pansy’s father was nearly bankrupt and had to sell their family home just to keep the business afloat.

It had come to the surprise of no one that, a year and a half after that, Roark had disappeared once the proceeds of the house’s sale had run out. Pansy, as well as her mother, Astrid, were left penniless and homeless, living in the back room of the abandoned shop and surviving on the non-perishable merchandise until that, too, was taken away, this time by Gringotts lenders who were unhappy with not receiving their payments.

These circumstances forced Astrid to take any odd job that she could get, and Pansy was forced to sell all of her nicest clothing back to Twilfitt and Tatting’s for a pittance so they could afford room and board somewhere. Even finding a ‘somewhere’ had become a problem; most reputable places cost too much, and some of the less reputable ones wouldn’t take them for fear of what had happened to Parkinson’s Pantry to fall upon their businesses. And it also seemed that friends were in short supply, as well, was they decided that associating with impoverished social pariahs wasn’t prudent.

A great amount of self-convincing had gone into Pansy walking through the doorway to The Leaky Cauldron, hoping that she would be met with a measure of sympathy but knowing very well that it could result in this. It had played out as many other similar encounters had done. Though, in all fairness, it probably hadn’t been prudent to call Hannah a ‘bloated Puffskein’ because she was wearing an angora jumper that Pansy had sold back to Twilfitt and Tatting’s, which had probably come from the clearance section. In her defence, though, Hannah did look ridiculous wearing something that was several sizes too small to accommodate her enormous chest.

Alas, that was life, a reality to which she had become accustomed. With a shrug, Pansy readied herself to Apparate to Hogsmeade, hoping that the Hog’s Head wasn’t quite as disgusting as she remembered. At least Aberforth wouldn’t turn her down for room and board; considering his typical clientele, it would be of the utmost hypocrisy.

However, before Pansy could concentrate on her next destination, a hand closed around her shoulder and spun her around. She couldn’t believe her luck — or lack thereof — when she saw a very angry-looking Harry Potter. He was glaring at her in that almost rabid way he used to look at Draco back at Hogwarts. Judging by his attire of dishevelled Auror robes, he was on duty and likely there to arrest her for disturbing the peace or some similar rot.

“What’s your problem, Parkinson? Treating people like dirt isn’t any way to get what you want, no matter how much the pure-blooded bigots you run with say otherwise.”

Wrenching herself from his grasp, Pansy controlled her anger in an attempt to avoid spending a night in the Ministry lock-up. When she felt sufficiently calmed, she said, “My only problem is that I haven’t eaten since yesterday and have no idea where I’m going to sleep tonight. I would think the bruised ego of a snobby landlady is hardly an offence worthy of an Auror.” Or are you that bad at your job? she added in her mind and luckily not aloud.

Confusion hadn’t been the expected reaction, but Potter stared at her like she was an alien. “Why would you think I’m here to arrest you?”

It was hard for Pansy not to laugh. “Well, you’re wearing Auror robes and have apprehended me in the street like a common pick-pocket.” Crossing her arms, she added, “I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me?”

After gaping at her for another solid thirty seconds, Potter shook his head briskly. “No, I’m off duty.”

“Then why the hell are you bothering me?”

Diverting his gaze, Potter said, “I thought you came in and just picked a fight with Hannah for the hell of it. It just seemed like something you’d do.”

Rather than feel insulted, Pansy was amused that Potter held the same sort of caricaturised view of her as he likely had at school. “Really, Potter, I should think I would have better things to do than go around and randomly annoy pub landladies to get my jollies.” Seeing that he was beginning to feel like a right arse — as he should — she sighed and said, “Can I go now?” Without waiting for an answer, she brushed by him.

But his voice behind her made her stop. “Wait!” Pansy paused, but for only a second before rolling her eyes at the remote possibility that he had anything of interest to say to her. However, he was nothing if not persistent. “Pansy, wait!”

Halting the step she was just about to take, Pansy hissed, “What do you want now?” She could hear him stuttering behind her, clearly either incapable of clarity or not even sure himself about why he stopped her.

Finally, though, he said, “I’m sorry about your dad. It must have been hard when he left.”

Pansy couldn’t think of anything she wished to discuss less than her father. Luckily, her back was still turned so Potter couldn’t see her bite her lip. When she was able, she replied measuredly, “Just one less mouth to feed. Not like he was doing any good for us anyway.”

“You don’t mean that,” he replied quietly.

“If I didn’t mean it, I wouldn’t have said it,” she lied.

Quiet fell between them for well over a minute before Potter spoke. “Listen, I was going to grab a bite to eat. Why don’t you, er, join me?”

Completely thrown by his invitation, Pansy wheeled around and fixed him with her best glare. What for, she had no idea, but the mere idea was insane. “Did you hit your head? Why would you want to take me to dinner? You hate me.”

His answer was not what she had expected at all. “Because I know what it’s like to not know when your next meal is coming from.”

“Fine,” Pansy said, not about to turn down a hot meal in a warm, dry place. The steady rain that had been falling was starting to chill her through her coat and its built-in Impervius Charm. Her teeth began chattering of their own accord, and her body shivered in kind. “B-but can we p-please get out of the r-rain?”

Flushing, Potter pulled her underneath a nearby awning. “Sorry. Guess it doesn’t bother me all that much.” He leaned against the side of the building and exhaled heavily. “Any preference?”

Shrugging and adopting a similar stance, Pansy said, “You’re buying.”

Potter reached into his robe pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes and offered one to Pansy. It wasn’t a regular habit of hers due to cost, but she accepted it and held out the tip for him to light. The first drag stung her throat, but she welcomed its familiar bite as she drew in for one extra-long inhalation. “God, that is good.”

As he blew out a small cloud of smoke, Potter said, “I reckon it’s probably a dirty habit and that I shouldn’t have started. Unfortunately, ploughing one’s way through a whole pack of smokes during stakeout duty seems to be a time-honoured tradition in the Auror Department. Really should try to quit.”

“Whatever,” Pansy replied dully as she finished her cigarette in record time, hoping that he would offer her more later. With a flick, she tossed the used filter to the ground and crushed it beneath her heel, Vanishing the remnants with a flick of her wand. She had needed that. Feeling more energised than she had in a while, she glanced over at him and offered the name of the most expensive place she could think of. “The Dusty Rose, maybe?”

Potter chortled. “I don’t think either of us is dressed for a place like that. They’d likely roast both of us in the gossip column by morning.”

“Who gives a shit?” Pansy said matter-of-factly. “Everyone already hates me, and I’d wager half the country would kiss your shoes if you asked them to.”

“Still . . .”

Sighing in annoyance, she then suggested, “Tangerine, then.”

“Done.” By then, Potter had finished his cigarette and extinguished in as Pansy had done. However, instead of stowing his wand, he muttered an incantation under his breath as he swished it around in an extravagant fashion. Immediately, Pansy felt the moisture that weighed down her coat wick away. That latent chill was quickly replaced by a lingering warmth that began to seep into her flesh and banished any hint of shivering.

Pansy gave him a quick nod of acknowledgment before taking the arm he offered. After the squeeze of Apparition, they found themselves standing in front of the modest yet understatedly nice Tangerine. It wasn’t nearly as upscale as The Dusty Rose, but it was nice enough that the upper crust of wizarding society wouldn’t be averse to being seen there. The food was good and reasonably priced and the environment welcoming, making it a favourite haunt of well-to-do pure-blooded teenagers on summer holidays from Hogwarts.

It was that memory in particular that made Pansy second-guess this choice in restaurant. There was a very good chance that she would know a number of patrons and an even greater chance that several of them would know her by her father’s reputation. She couldn’t recall ever having seen anyone be denied entry, but she bloody well didn’t want to be the first. Clutching Potter’s arm, she hissed, “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”

“Bollocks,” Potter replied without breaking stride toward the door, practically dragging her behind him. In what was nearly a mad dash to the entrance, Pansy found herself standing in front of the host.

As she suspected, the rather surly looking man was examining her thoroughly before redirecting his gaze toward Potter. “Two then?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Gesturing inside, the host said, “Right this way, sir. Miss.” The last word was practically spat at her, but it only made Pansy’s lip curl in amusement. This git had to be nice to her because she was with Potter, and her mere presence taunted him, which would likely leave a better taste in her mouth than anything on the menu.

They were seated in a quiet corner of the restaurant, presumably to keep her out of sight rather than as the courtesy of privacy. Either way, there were very few diners in that area, and most of them hardly paid any attention to anyone else. But that did leave her solely in Potter’s company, and she found that she had no desire to initiate a conversation. When the drinks arrived, there was no sound other than the light tinkle of wine being poured into glasses.

Fortunately, Potter broke the silence. “You actually impress me, you know that?”

Stopping mid-drink, Pansy swallowed hard, hoping not to choke. “I highly doubt that.”

Instead of sipping his beverage, Potter examined the glass as he said, “You’re trying to make it on your own and don’t take hand-outs. I respect that.”

Pansy drained her glass in one great gulp. “I’m taking one now. Try to keep up.”

“No, I mean you never went on public assistance or begged for money from loan sharks. I know of a lot of people who went that route and ended up owing money to all the wrong people”

The mental image of a large, scary man wielding a Beater’s Bat that had seen more kneecaps than Bludgers entered Pansy’s mind unbidden, causing a shiver that had nothing to do with the temperature. “Merlin, no.”

Another awkward cessation of conversation prevailed, which only served to replay the rather hideous scenario of violent loan sharks in her head. Eager to think about nearly anything else, Pansy searched her mind for anything that she knew about Potter. The first thing that came to mind was romantic involvement, but as she wasn’t sure if he had a girlfriend or not, she settled on the last one she knew he had for sure — Ginny Weasley. “So,” she started hesitantly, “how about those Harpies?”

Right away, Pansy got the feeling that she had stepped on a grave. Potter stared daggers into his newly refreshed wine glass before downing it. “Don’t really follow Quidditch much these days.”

Not sure what insanity was prompting her to push the issue, Pansy asked, “Things not go well with Weasley, then?”

“You could say that,” Potter replied. “She said my head wasn’t in the right place for a relationship. But really, we were both just messed up from the war. Neither of us were ready for anything yet. I suppose we’ll end up back together at some point, but I honestly think she’d be better off looking elsewhere.”

“As if she could do better,” Pansy scoffed, only to realise a second later that what she’d said was likely insulting. She hadn’t prepared for him to simply shrug off the comment.

“I just want her to be happy. If that doesn’t include me, then so be it. If I’m meant to have someone, then it’ll happen when it happens.” He sloshed around the tiny bit of wine lingering in the bottom of his glass before saying, “Anyone for you, then?”

Shaking her head, Pansy replied, “Not in the market. I’d rather get back on my feet and improve my chances of making a good match. At this point, the best I’d be able to do would be some common labourer who needs a woman to clean his house and hatch half a dozen children. I may be skint, but I still have standards.”

“You make domesticity sound like a disease,” Potter replied with a quirked brow.

Pansy sighed. “Just not for me. I can barely master basic household spells. They don’t teach those at Hogwarts, since the staff assumes parents teach their kids stuff like that . . . my mother did not.”

“Speaking of, where is your mum?”

“At work. She cleans loos at the Ministry after hours. I’m supposed to find a place to stay before she gets off for the night. I’ll likely end up at the Hog’s Head, since every other place in the country either refuses me service or costs more than I’ve got.”

The silence that arose was uncomfortable, and Pansy could’ve hugged the waiter who came to take their order. She purposely asked for far more than she could eat with the intention of taking the leftovers for her and her mother to share. Potter did not appear to object or even take note of it. Instead, he quietly picked out something simple for himself and asked that the bottle of wine be brought to the table. He then whispered something in the server’s ear.

Quicker than she had ever expected, a fine spread of dishes sat in front of Pansy as Potter poured her more wine. For a moment, she wondered if whatever Potter had said to the waiter had anything to do with the rapid service, but she was far too famished to truly care. As it was, it took a lot of effort to not devour as much as she could, but if this meal were to stretch as far as possible, she could only eat enough to take the edge off of her hunger and leave the rest for later.

She ate slowly and deliberately, but before she had got through half of her intended portion, Potter was already done. However, he didn’t seem impatient as she ate, instead sipping his wine and losing himself in his own thoughts. Unbidden, she wondered if any of those thoughts were about her, but she snapped those notions in half before they could take hold.

Soon, Potter gestured toward the waiter and asked for a takeaway box. Once it arrived, he nonchalantly began to scoop the remnants of their dinner into its paper-segregated sections, and once the dishes were cleared, he gently nudged the box toward her. Right after, the waiter arrived once more, but this time bearing the bill and the reason for the restaurant’s name: a small lump of tangerine-flavoured chocolate, which was tied up in an orange ribbon to hold together the confection’s small segments that resembled those of a citrus fruit.

This had always been one of Pansy’s favourite parts of eating at Tangerine. “Have you ever eaten one of these?” she asked Potter, an overly giddy squeak in her voice. When he shook his head, she pointed toward the rim of the serving tray on which it had arrived. “See those little tangerines printed along the edge of the plate?”

“Yeah . . .”

“On the count of three, press your thumb to the one on your side, and I’ll do the same over here.”

Potter examined the plate as if it would explode if he did as she asked. “What does it do?”

“Just do it,” Pansy replied, more sharply than she’d intended. “It’s fun.”

Casting her one last sceptical glance, Potter did as she instructed, even starting the count. “One . . .”

“Two . . .” she continued.

“Three!” they both said in unison as their thumbs found their respective places on the plate. Slowly, the ribbon began to loosen itself and rose into the air, allowing the chocolate-tangerine segments to fall artfully onto the platter. Then the ribbon snaked its way toward Pansy’s hand and wrapped around her wrist until it tied itself into a neat little bow. Tiny sprigs of decorative greens appeared atop the knot, forming a backdrop for a mini-cluster of little tangerines. Once it was finished, Pansy extended her arm, both to preen at her new corsage and to show Potter how it worked.

“Wicked,” he exclaimed as he snagged one of the chocolate segments, never taking his eyes off Pansy’s wrist.

Not expecting such attention but enjoying it nonetheless, Pansy said, “The plate is charmed to spot the first lady who touches it. The staff usually puts one ribbon on for every female present so everyone can get one.” Taking one of the pieces of chocolate as well, she added, “I’m surprised they didn’t jilt me on the ribbon, being who I am.”

Ignoring her remark, Potter said, “I’ve paid for a Floo for you, since you’ve probably drank too much to Apparate. There’s a room at The Three Broomsticks paid for through the week so you and your mum. Just check in with Rosmerta, and she’ll give you your key.” Abruptly standing up, Potter pulled out a handful of coins, most of which looked suspiciously like Galleons, and plunked them on top of the order ticket. “Same time next week, then?”

Before Pansy could ask him what the hell he meant, Potter stalked off and left her staring after him. It took a while before she looked away from the fireplace at the entrance from which he had exited and then down at the cheque. The order sum was twelve Galleons and seven Sickles, but there was easily twenty Galleons sitting on the table. Glancing around to make sure no one was watching, Pansy snatched six of the Galleons and stuffed them into her pocket. The remainder was a bit over the standard gratuity, so the waiter wouldn’t be likely to notice anything amiss.

Now, if only she knew what ‘same time next week’ was.

* * *

At first, Pansy had felt awkward for lying to her mother about who had really paid for the lodging. However, after seeing Astrid reading the complimentary copy of the Prophet and muttering about blood traitors and the state of things ‘these days’, it was, Pansy decided, for the best that the name Harry Potter didn’t enter the equation. She kept the Galleons a secret, using one per day to buy food and claiming the funds had come from working an odd job in Diagon Alley, which never came under question.

‘Next week’ still bothered Pansy in that she needed to know what it meant, but she didn’t want to appear thick by just asking Potter. However, this would not be necessary as, exactly one week later, an owl arrived on the last night their room was still rented bearing a letter. As it was early in the day and Astrid was still asleep, Pansy opened the unmarked missive.

Tangerine at eight.

It wasn’t signed, but Pansy suspected that the small, blockish print belonged to Potter. Now she understood. He wanted to repeat their initial outing. At this thought, something flipped inside Pansy’s belly; no one had shown this much interest in her since Draco had in fifth year, and that had not ended well for either of them. But then doubt replaced it, hot and acrid in the back of her throat like bile. There was a very good chance that he was setting her up for humiliation in some fashion. Though she had not been brave enough to broach the subject, there was still the small matter of her openly wanting to turn him over to the Dark Lord during the battle between them. He couldn’t have forgotten that, and any sane person would believe some sort of comeuppance was in order.

Yet he had not shown signs of that in any form. Though he hadn’t been jubilant or talkative during their last encounter, there had been a measured cordiality there, and he had treated her with the same respect that he would’ve afforded to anyone. Which in itself was weird, considering her status as an ‘anyone’ was long dead and gone.

She was going to go. It was, after all, only dinner with an overly-generous twat she knew in school. Hardly a date.

However, as Pansy Apparated to the front of the restaurant in the nicest thing she still owned and wearing her least-ragged cloak, the idea that it was more than likely a proper date sprang into her mind. It was not until she arrived at the reserved table and saw who awaited her that the thought was erased from her mind. It wasn’t Potter at all, but Arthur Weasley, the Director of Staffing for the Ministry of Magic.

“Ah, right on time, Miss Parkinson. Let’s get started, shall we?” He gestured toward the seat opposite him. “So, what type of position were you looking for at the Ministry?”

All Pansy could do was stare. He was there, giving her a . . . job interview. Mentally, she wanted to punch Potter for not telling her what this was about and not giving her time to prepare, but this opportunity was rare and worth its weight in gold if she could manage to sweet talk Weasley into hiring her. As nicely as she could, Pansy replied, “Well, I’m open to what is available. I have NEWTs in Potions, Transfiguration, and Charms, and OWLs in Defence Against the Dark Arts, Divination, and Astronomy. I’m sure there is something that would accommodate my skill set.”

Weasley perked up right away. “Potions, you say?” When Pansy nodded, he said, “We actually have an opening in the Department of Alchemical Studies. It’s entry level, and you’d mainly brew potions for Magical Law Enforcement’s use. But that’s where you learn the ropes of what the department actually does. It is also part of that department’s purpose to test new potions that are submitted for patent.”

Pansy knew exactly what sort of pay scale came with this job, and she wanted it vehemently. Not only was she qualified to do it, but it actually sounded interesting and had potential to be a prestigious, lucrative career. She would never have to scrimp and save for a place to sleep. It was all she could do to not bounce up and down in her seat in excitement.

“So,” Weasley asked, “are you interested?”

“Yes, that would be lovely,” she replied as evenly as possible. “Will I be interviewing with the head of that department?”

“Tomorrow, if you can. He’s been pressing to get someone in there, but you’re frankly the first one who’s had the qualifications to match the interest level.” Weasley smiled reassuringly at her.

Pansy’s heart floated like a cloud. She was halfway into employment, and that much closer to being able to live and eat like a normal person. She took back all of her annoyance toward Potter for not preparing her for this. The idea of thanking him even flitted into her mind before she squashed it. There was no need to get that carried away.

* * *

The job had been hers from the moment she walked through the door. Not only did the small, hunched man who was introduced as Bartholomew Hutchinson not care about the sad state of her clothing, he was either oblivious or equally uncaring about her social status. Instead, he asked her questions about Potions, such as the difference between chopping and dicing and how each differently affected the brews, all of which she had answered with ease. Snape might not have been the nicest bloke on the planet, but he had made sure that at least the students of his own house were well able to pass their Potions exams.

After an hour of such questions, Pansy had been sent to the Personnel Department, where a witch was waiting to register her as an employee, issue her a badge, and measure her for work robes. Forty-five minutes later, Pansy stepped into the Atrium feeling lighter than she had in ages. She had the rest of the day to take all of it in, and then her new life would start.

In a bubble of her own rumination, Pansy didn’t hear the footsteps behind her and nearly jumped in the air when a hand touched her shoulder. Spinning around, prepared to berate whoever had scared her half to death, she was stymied when she saw that it was Potter.

“I suppose this is an opportune time to thank you,” she said, far more levelly than she had thought herself capable.

Her comment was answered by a twitch of his lips. “I suppose I could also say let you know that you’re welcome.”

But one thing niggled at her brain that she couldn’t shake, and she needed to know what it was. “Why? Why would you do all this for me?”

“Because I needed to know.” When this cryptic answer was met with a raised brow and a frown, Potter elaborated. “I needed to know what sort of person you really were. For the longest time, I thought you were selfish and shallow and boring.”

Though Pansy wanted his words to hurt, they didn’t injure so much as ring true. She had been all of those things, and now that she had grown out of her adolescent princess attitude, she was slightly ashamed of her former behaviour. “I was,” she answered honestly.

“But not anymore,” he replied. “For a couple years, I’ve wondered if . . . what would’ve happened if everyone had actually given me over to Voldemort in the Great Hall that day.”

Pansy felt slightly ill at the thought of her darkest hour being thrown in her face. “Potter, I was —”

“Scared, I know,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s not what I mean. There are things you don’t know about what happened, but . . . but in the end, if I had gone to the forest when first asked, a lot of people mightn’t have died.”

Nodding, Pansy said quietly, “That’s why I . . .”

“Yeah.” Neither of them spoke for a while, as anything that could possibly be said would only ratchet up the discomfiture between them. At last, though, Potter continued. “I’ve looked into it since your father’s business started being boycotted by that group of students. A lot of the bile was directed toward you because of what you’d said, and it spiralled out of control until no one really knew why they hated you and your family other than for your pure-bloodedness, but they did just the same.”

All Pansy could do was gawk at Potter. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Was fate really so cruel as to punish a schoolgirl and her entire family for a moment of public cowardice? And, of all people, the intended victim of that cowardice was the one who took pity on her?

He must have seen her inner battle and decided to clarity. “Consider this your one ‘what if’. I wanted to give you a chance to start fresh and to get your life back. I owe it to you, and you deserve it.”

“How do you ‘owe’ me anything?” she asked, not entirely following his logic due to how utterly gobsmacked she was.

“I’m in debt for the rest of my life because of the battle,” he said quietly. “Imagine waking up every day, knowing that dozens of torn-apart lives are on your head.”

The sheer hurt in Potter’s voice made Pansy sick inside. A couple years ago, she would’ve wished it on him fully, but having been duly humbled and disillusioned as to her previous notions of right and wrong, the idea was disgusting to her. Possessed by something she didn’t even understand, she reached up and framed his face with her hands. “And what if you decided to do the sane thing and blame the Dark Lord for those people dying? What then?”

“Pansy, it’s not that easy. I —”

“It doesn’t work that way, Potter. If I was allowed to be scared enough to offer up a classmate for slaughter, you’re damned well allowed to be too scared to go through it.”

Neither of them spoke as her hands slid to her side. The silence crackled like an ember between them, but what Pansy really wanted to do was slap some sense into Potter. He was so ridiculously Gryffindor, turning himself into some stupid martyr when he was, in fact, just being a self-indulgent, overly-righteous prig. Finally, she mustered the courage to say what she had tossed about in her mind all week long. “So what now?”

Scowling in confusion, he asked, “What do you mean?”

Resisting the urge to whack him in the arm, Pansy said, “Well, I have a job now. Your work is done. What now? Are we, er, friends or something?”

“Maybe,” he said.

Pansy’s heart sank a bit. In this whole awkward situation, she had grown accustomed to his presence and even enjoyed talking to him. Hoping for a continued relationship of some sort had been a long shot, but it was too difficult not to hope. “Which means . . .?”

Shrugging, Potter said, “I really don’t know. I have no idea where you stand, and —”

A smile tugged at the corner of Pansy’s mouth. Cutting off his insecure babbling, she pressed her finger to his lips and said, “Same time next week. Tangerine. Eight o’clock. You’re buying again, Potter.”

Chortling at her boldness, Potter said, “You know, I have a name.”

“One step at a time. I have to make sure I like you first.”

“Oh, really?”

Smirking, Pansy rose on her tip-toes and whispered breathily in his ear, “Really.”

* * *

As Pansy polished off the last of the chocolate tangerine, decorative corsage firmly in place, she gazed across at her date — yes, date — and held up her glass.

“To second chances,” she declared.

“To ‘what if’,” Potter offered.

The glasses clinked together to seal the toast, and both drank. This was their third such encounter, and she still wasn’t absolutely sure what to make of whatever was between them. She didn’t doubt that the more positive press that was leaking into the media about her had something to do with Potter, whether by his direct intervention or simply by them being seen together. There had even been an article in Witch Weekly titled ‘Black-Hearted Bloom or Potter’s Flame Flower?’. That had not only made her giggle, but it had given Astrid no end of fits, one of her teenage pastimes.

In essence, Potter had done what he set out to do in turning back the clock. She was well off, or at least was going to be, was aligned with a powerful wizard of mammoth social status, and still managed to shock her mother frequently.

It was that which prompted her to do what neither of them had dared to do thus far. She leant across the table and caught his lips in hers. At first, he was caught off guard, but soon, he was teasing her bottom lip with his mouth as if they had done this a hundred times before. He tasted of citrus and chocolate and something secret, and Pansy wanted to devour it all for herself. That would give the gossip columnists something to write about.

And all because of an angry landlady, a cigarette, a tangerine, and a couple of ‘what if’s.