Chapter Text
Art by lumosatnight
AXIS
It wasn’t the sound of her departing steps that beckoned Astoria forward. It wasn’t Pansy’s expression, scared and desperate as it was. What started in her naval and moved higher toward her heart, there was a tug. An invisible hand. Some bit of metaphoric rope wrapped its way around Astoria’s waist and led her up the North Tower. She followed her feet, or they followed her heart, circling the stairs until she found herself at Pansy’s side.
Pansy had wedged herself onto the sill of an open window. With her back against one wall and her feet pushed into another, she stared out at the dark grounds below. She was framed by stone, and Astoria found it fitting. The image of Pansy Parkinson encased in rock, it was a visual echo of the tug that led her there.
Astoria’s chest, her limbs and heart were at ease. Light in their load. Sure as the stone Pansy was encapsulated by, Astoria was where she was supposed to be. The tug was satiated. The pull had been followed. Fulfilled. It wasn’t good. It wasn’t bad. It existed beyond rationalisation. It was there, fluid in its movement. A pulse. A lifeform. A reason.
Astoria’s entire body responded to the tranquillity draped over the moment. She was content to watch. She noted how Pansy’s hair fell just above her chin, how each dark strand caught the moonlight, how her tanned skin contrasted with the grey rock. Astoria watched her brown eyes flicker with unspoken thoughts. Her thin lips quirked. Her hands tensed and relaxed, tensed and relaxed.
Pansy was still in her uniform despite the late hour. The skirt slid down her lap while her thighs hugged her waist. Astoria watched Pansy’s hand go for her pockets. She procured a single cigarette and her wand.
She froze.
Turning away from the window, the breeze lifting the ends of her hair from her face, Pansy’s eyes first looked down at the objects in her hand. They then lifted.
Brown met green in the stillness between, and Astoria’s heart responded. Stronger. Heavier. Louder in its beats than the seconds before. It was as if gravity, once lost, had now returned.
But Pansy’s expression was unreadable, carefully blank. Her lips pursed, her eyes held impassively wide. If there were thoughts to be read behind brown eyes, Astoria couldn’t find them. And yet she was content to wait for whenever they might arrive.
She offered Pansy a tiny nod, and Pansy lifted the cigarette between them. She returned the gesture, chin sharper in its descent. Eyes lower, with a slight contemplative wrinkle between her brow. Pansy held her stare all while Astoria plucked the cigarette from her fingers and slowly lifted it to her lips.
Pansy raised her wand, and Astoria leaned forward.
“Incendio,” Pansy whispered.
It was the only word spoken aloud that evening, but the spell birthed more than fire. Incendio gave life to the stone, to security. The warmth had started small like a pebble but it now expanded outward, transcending space and time. Astoria was held in place, weighted by rock, blanketed by heat, hugged by a thought.
Nothing needed to make sense.
There was no rush of questions or need for answers. Astoria was comfortable in the silence, enjoying the undisturbed moment of watching, gathering, and learning. They were two people in orbit, two women on a shared axis. In her mind’s eye, there was a greater picture forming.
There was the beginning, where they stood, a middle and an end. There were hundreds of parts, of moments scattered in the ether. They didn’t need to be examined. They’d come to fit together when they were ready. Astoria knew it, as sure as Incendio made fire and as the stone surrounding them.
This was the start of a slow inward spiral, a painting coming together, and what she’d find at the centre would be more than worth the wait.
She wondered how Pansy took her tea. Did she, like Astoria, bring the water to a roaring boil? Did she lack the same patience and cut short the wait? Was risking a scalded tongue half the fun for her?
Did she prefer sugar to honey?
Cream or nothing at all?
What type of biscuits did she favour on the side?
Despite the certainty Astoria felt the night prior, a world of questions and curiosities came to light.
She’d spent the first hours of her morning grappling with that curiosity. As she sipped her own tea, watching students enter and depart the Great Hall, Astoria decided that a little inquisitiveness was only natural. To like someone, even in the most uncomplicated of ways, meant getting to know them.
And Astoria was so very eager to get to know her.
But like the rotating parts and pieces she pictured in her mind, the many facets of Pansy Parkinson would slowly come together, too. Her favourite colours, foods, music and songs. How she felt about returning to Hogwarts for an eighth year. Her family and friends. Her dreams and wishes. Given time, Astoria would learn it all. If she remained patient and steadfast, she would be rewarded.
As if her thoughts had taken shape, Pansy arrived at the Great Hall during that exact moment. A weight lifted. Calm returned.
She was in uniform; her blazer was rumpled. Her dark hair was half-charmed, and her usual makeup remained to be seen. There was a bruised tint beneath her eyes, but it wasn’t so noticeable that it distracted from her beauty. And Pansy was so pretty. Astoria wondered why she hadn’t noticed how pretty she was before.
“I once was blind but now I see.”
The meaning behind a favourite Muggle song finally made sense.
With her shoulders drawn back, Pansy strode toward the Slytherin table. Her reaction was subtle, but Astoria could sense how Pansy felt her stare. It was in her avoidance, in the way her fists remained tight at her side. It was in the distance Pansy kept between them, as she chose the furthest empty seat away from her to sit down in.
Instead of fixing a plate, Pansy conjured a copy of the morning Prophet and hid herself behind its open pages. Any unassuming person would think Pansy was deeply interested in Skeeter’s latest gossip trail. Astoria, however, knew Pansy’s thoughts travelled far from those worn pages. She knew because hers had, too.
“She must be in some sort of mood.” Daphne pulled Astoria from her musings as she sat beside her.
Astoria hummed. “A mood?”
“If she’s choosing to sit down there instead of over here with us… Yeah, I’d say Parkinson's in a mood.”
Astoria didn’t respond, but she, too, was in a mood. She was warm and excited, curious and calm. The sudden shift in the way things were opened a door to endless possibilities, and they’d taken over her mind.
“Where did you disappear to last night?” Her voice demanded Astoria’s attention again.
“Last night?”
Daphne snorted. “Merlin, you’re out of it—Last night. You were meant to meet me before bed, remember?”
Astoria’s brow lowered and pinched. “Was I? I’m sorry… Maybe I am a little out of it.”
First a shrug, then Daphne bit into her toast. “No worries. I figured you’d tell me if something were wrong.”
No, nothing was wrong, per se. Different and weird, definitely, but it was also hers, and that made it a bit exciting. This wasn’t something handed down to the youngest sister. This wasn't a blood malediction; the curse passed between generations. This wasn’t war or preemptive planning for her bright future as a Pureblooded housewife. This was happening to Astoria. It belonged to Astoria, and it felt nice to, for once, have something that was wholly hers.
“Of course,” she finally responded to Daphne, her voice rising slightly higher than she’d intended.
Her voice also had the surprising effect of pulling Pansy away from her copy of the Prophet. Her head turned from behind the pages, and she met her stare despite the many metres separating them.
A calmness. Grounding. Astoria was met with peace, and her shoulders began to lower.
She offered Pansy a small, uncomplicated smile. It went unreturned as Pansy returned to hiding behind the Prophet once more.
“See, I told you,” said Daphne. “A mood.”
Astoria had become well-versed in navigating the pull. She knew when to ignore it and when to respond. She was learning more about the scattered pieces between them every day. Every week brought new challenges; Astoria took them in stride. With each passing month, she felt closer to Pansy, even when Pansy appeared to be drawing further and further away.
It was curious, this feeling of completion. Astoria once worked hard for all the answers; now she’d opened herself up to being content with the way things were in the here and now. Good grades came more easily. Her relationships thrived. It was simple, loving Pansy from afar. Because that’s what this was—it was love, and it made everything better.
She was in love with Pansy Parkinson, and it wasn’t scary. It was exciting, and raw, and new. It wasn’t so easy to hide, but she was trying. If she pretended in public, like Pansy, that there was nothing between them, Astoria was safe from divulging too much. If she allowed herself the quiet moments alone to daydream and wonder, this thing would have time to take root and grow.
However, Daphne was another matter entirely.
Astoria loved her sister, but Daphne was a determined sort of witch and very observant. She sensed every disturbance, tolerated every curiosity. With each fielded question, Astoria felt a particular tired weakness grow.
But she had to hold on. There was always the risk that unravelling the truth could frighten off her and Pansy’s wayward parts. She’d scatter their unsettled pieces to the wind, and they’d never return.
She’d lost sleep over just that thought a time or two.
Astoria knew, most desperately, that she and Pansy needed to come together on their own. She couldn’t force it or coax it. She travelled on a turbulent path, headed dead-North without fault or deterrence. She was steady on, but Astoria wished more than anything that a reward was coming soon.
Yet, instead of reward, Astoria found herself facing off against a late-Spring storm. Rain and wind threatened the careful walls she’d crafted around them.
The storm arrived the weekend before final exams. It marked the end of one thing and welcomed the beginning of something else. A sudden drop in temperature set the perfect backdrop for impending departures. With its gale force winds and torrential downpours, the storm had most students hunkered down inside, making the most of their last days together.
“Most students” did not appear to include Pansy Parkinson, who Astoria discovered had fled their common room at some point during the night.
A sudden urge awoke her—the pull that demanded her full attention. She was called from her bed during the earliest hours, just before sunrise, when the world was quiet and calm.
She pulled on her many layers. Beneath her longest skirt, Astoria wore her thickest tights. She pulled her winter coat from storage; it seemed she’d returned it to her trunk too soon. She finished with her hat and scarf, dressed for warmth at a quickened pace. Her resemblance to a marshmallow was irrelevant, but still, the sight of herself in the mirror made her laugh.
It was a short walk from the common rooms to the dungeon’s service tunnels. Amongst the shadows, she followed the narrow stone walls to a grated door. Beyond the bars, there was darkness, the hour still too late to be early. She waited, listening for any reason she shouldn’t continue. When none came, Astoria revealed her wand.
The “Appare Vestigium” cut through the silence with an unintended sharpness that made her flinch. A modified unlocking charm had left the door unlocked for her. Whether that was planned or a coincidence… she didn’t know.
With the door open at her back, it was easier to see the world beyond the dungeons. Candlelight gave way to rocky shores beneath the castle’s viaduct. And there, held in darkness at the lake’s edge, was Pansy Parkinson.
“It’s becoming increasingly more difficult to ignore you,” she greeted at a deadpan, not turning to face her.
There was a flood of many feelings all at once. Surprise. Relief. Excitement. Confusion. She welcomed them all and stepped beneath the bridge.
“The door charm stuck,” Astoria replied.
“Of course it did,” Pansy muttered, keeping her back to Astoria as she pulled the blanket higher around her shoulders.
Astoria’s steps were slow and tentative as she crossed the uneven surface. She debated between giving Pansy space and sitting beside her. She did what came naturally. Astoria sat at Pansy’s side, leaving a gap between them, room to breathe, space for words they might finally share.
Astoria had done well not to push or pry, but the words were on her tongue. This time, she didn’t want to fight them. She didn’t have to. Amongst the stillness of the early morning hours, there was the unspoken permission to speak.
A rush of air escaped her lips. A gasp? A breath? “Hi,” she managed, then laughed at herself.
Pansy’s head shook, a smirk pulling at her lips. She rotated over the rocks to face her. “Hello.”
Astoria smiled, and it felt so good to smile, to surrender to the unbridled contentment that their closeness brought her. “You’re awake.”
“I am,” Pansy replied.
“I meant that more as a question—why are you awake?” she reiterated.
Pansy shrugged, refacing the lake. “I’m awake more often than not these days.”
“Any particular reason or…” Her words faded out. She held her breath.
“You’re up early.”
“And you stay up late.”
A short noise reverberated in Pansy’s throat, like a whine, like defeat. “What’s happening to us?”
“I don’t know,” Astoria admitted.
For the first time in their shared history, Pansy turned to her with wide eyes. In the first light of day, Pansy paled. She’d never been anything before but strong, prim, and proper. In her vanity, there was assurance and strength. But never fear.
And this, Astoria knew without any doubt, was fear.
“You’re not scared?” The question pulled from her tongue on a sudden breath.
Behind pursed lips, Astoria shook her head. “No,” she said before quickly adding, “but it’s alright if you are.”
“How are you not afraid? How are you living this the same as me, and not afraid of what’s happening to us? I didn’t mean—I didn’t think—”
“It’s nice,” Astoria cut her off. “–sitting here with you.”
Fear gave way to something else. A sort of exasperated expression knitted Pansy’s brow. “What?” she asked, breathless and evidently confused.
“This was all I wanted, really—to sit next to you. To talk. It’s nice.”
“You’re mad, Greengrass.” The words were harsh, but her tone held no venom.
“Maybe,” she said, shoulders tucking beneath her ears. “But I don’t think we need all the answers yet. We can talk, get to know each other.”
“I’ve known you since you were three.”
Astoria smiled softly and leaned against her hand. “What’s my favourite food?”
“Something edible.”
“Colour?”
“Anything but brown.”
“Movie?”
“Movie?” Pansy straightened, alert in her expression.
Astoria’s smile widened. She nodded once. “Movie.”
“I didn’t take you for the rebellious sort,” Pansy mused.
“That’s because we don’t really know each other, do we?” Astoria watched her behind an arched brow. Conflict faded. Pansy surrendered to Astoria’s words.
“No, I guess we don’t,” she admitted, and Astoria then offered her hand in the space between them.
“I’m Astoria Greengrass.”
“Pansy Parkinson,” she replied, but didn’t move.
Pansy stared at Astoria’s fingers. She contemplated them in silence, thoughts whirling behind her eyes as she bit her lip.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” she whispered.
Pansy snorted. “You might.”
Leaning in, Astoria brought herself closer. “I think you can handle it.”
Pansy sucked in a breath before lifting her hand. “I don’t know about that,” she said, and their fingers fit nicely together.
There was no fanfare, no fireworks. Pansy’s touch was free from electric current and anything else that might've suggested there was something strange going on between them. Still, her hand was surprisingly warm. The weight of it against her own was grounding, soothing. Astoria resisted the urge to curl her fingers around Pansy’s and hold her there.
Another moment passed before she pulled away. Pansy cleared her throat, burying her hand in her lap.
“What will you do when you leave school?” Astoria asked, offering a distraction from Pansy’s discomfort.
“I hadn’t thought about it. You?”
Astoria sucked in a short breath through her nose. Her lips pinched. “I’ve been promised to Draco Malfoy,” she said.
“Oh,” Pansy’s eyes widened. Her brow flexed; once again, there were a dozen thoughts etched in lines across Pansy’s face. They were all there for Astoria to read, if only she understood the language.
“I think I’ll go to London instead.”
Astoria would have missed it if it hadn’t been for her intense staring. Weight released from Pansy's shoulders, and her chest rose with a long breath.
“London?”
Astoria shrugged. “For now. While I pursue a mastery. Maybe longer if I like it.”
“A mastery in… healing?” Pansy guessed, and Astoria laughed.
“Soul magic.”
Pansy’s eyes circled the ceiling. “How inspired.”
Astoria grinned. “I thought so.” There was a beat—a pause. Astoria weighed the risk of her following words. “You could—come with me…”
“To look for a mastery?”
“To London."
Pansy gave a nod, slow at first and then more assured. “I’ll think about it.”
Pansy Parkinson had done many wicked things but she’d never been outwardly cruel—at least not to Astoria. She reminded herself of that even as anger and jealousy seeped in.
She was quite a few steps ahead of Pansy, having come to terms with their unusual situation. Where there was frustration, Astoria found patience. And where there was pain, she chose love.
Seeing how stunning Pansy looked that evening also helped to quell the hurt. She'd wore a tight black dress, her heels, and her short dark hair was pulled back with a silver clip. Astoria’s eyes had followed her around the room. Try as Pansy might, she couldn’t hide. All of Astoria’s senses honed in on her.
They’d each travelled to London, hoping to find something different. Astoria sought a future unencumbered by her family, while Pansy sought peace. Neither had found themselves successful in the search as of yet, but Astoria knew they had time.
That evening, Pansy had moved through their home as if time were limited. Like she'd been trying to outrun it. Her feet fell into a stagger as she hastily dressed, yanking clothes from her luggage. It was a one-bedroom flat and smaller than their dorm rooms. Privacy was limited but they were getting by. Or so Astoria believed.
“I’m heading out,” Pansy had announced.
Her green eyes grew wide. “I could come with you…”
Pansy bid farewell with no more than a shrug and a, “Suit yourself.”
The door had slammed shut when she left. There hadn’t been more than a second to enjoy the dark makeup accentuating Pansy's eyes. right then and there, Astoria made the quick and easy decision to follow her wherever she was going. And as the creeping thought surfaced, a vulnerable moment wishing to be the one chased, Astoria let it pass. Wishing and wanting achieved nothing. The faster things ramped up out of her control, the more she felt they were headed in the right direction. Into the centre of something. A place to land.
A certainty.
But then there was the unfortunate now: the heavy bass had taken some getting used to, as had the lighting—the strobe effects and glaring neons. Still, Astoria had to admit. something was alluring in the way green and pink hues danced over Pansy’s olive skin. And the flash of light in her brown eyes, like a glint Astoria could catch from across the room. The way her body moved to the music—magnetic, captivating. She looked alive. Emboldened.
Like Pansy, Astoria had been classically trained in waltz and ballet. But this music was different. The Muggle clothes were different. She didn’t know how to dance without a melody or how to move in denim so tight it threatened to cut off circulation to her legs. And the shoes... she'd opted for something more practical, but the narrow heels Pansy glided across the floor in were baffling.
Pansy didn’t seem to struggle the way Astoria did in the Muggle world. This had been her idea from the start—and somehow, it was Pansy who looked more at home in the packed nightclub than she ever had at Hogwarts during eighth year.
Champagne in hand, Pansy moved through the crowd with ease. She had the unsuspecting woman by the wrist and was pulling her into the beat. And though a tendril of jealousy had taken root in Astoria’s chest, it was overwhelmed by the joy of watching Pansy finally let go.
The expectations her family had placed on her.
Their disappointment when she walked away.
The realisation she’d stood on the wrong side for too long.
Astoria watched the weight fall from Pansy’s shoulders. Even with that too-serious expression, she looked freer here, like the anonymity of the Muggle world gave her permission to breathe.
But jealousy returned. Frustration. Pansy had been all too willing to fall into the arms of a stranger. She'd surrendered easily to the atmosphere. But never to Astoria. Never Astoria.
She shoved the hurt aside.
“May I buy you a drink?”
Astoria’s focus snapped back. She'd been momentarily save from the jealousy by a stranger of her very own. A tall man with broad shoulders stood before her, his hand extended. His posture was respectful; he left enough space between them, but his touch to the small of her back was assertive as he guided her toward the bar.
“What would you recommend?” she asked, offering a polite smile.
His return smile was bright, confident. “Let’s start you off with a Pimm’s Cup. It’s sweet—I think you’ll like it.”
She didn’t resist as he ushered her onto a stool. He ordered wordlessly, with a few smooth gestures to the bartender. Astoria was impressed.
When the drinks arrived, he slid hers in front of her with a gentleman’s grace. She smiled in thanks, fingers just brushing the glass—
She was yanked from her seat.
Pansy’s grip on her arm was tight enough to bruise. She pulled Astoria several paces away before letting go.
“Are you daft, Greengrass?”
The fury was plain: her cheeks flushed, brows drawn low, fists clenched at her sides.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You don’t just accept drinks from strangers—have you lost all sense of self-preservation?”
“I—”
“This is why I didn’t want you to come,” Pansy snapped, voice rising. “I have to watch you, make sure you don’t get yourself killed—or worse.”
“Or worse?” Astoria blinked. “You didn’t want me to come?” The words stung more than she expected.
Pansy rolled her eyes, arms folding tight across her chest. “Thought that much was obvious…”
Who had more power to unravel her than Pansy Parkinson? Who could reduce her so quickly, so completely?
Astoria felt her shoulders curl inward. Her chest tightened.
“Fuck,” Pansy muttered, dragging a hand down her face. “Look—that’s not what I meant,” she shouted over the rising bass. “I just wanted a minute. You’re always there!”
Astoria turned her head, trying to mask the hurt rising in her throat. “It’s fine. I—I understand.”
“No, you don’t.” Pansy groaned and grabbed her hand, hauling her onto the dance floor. One arm wrapped around her waist, the other dropped over her shoulder. Pansy wedged a knee between her thighs, pulling her in. Astoria held her breath, skin buzzing at the closeness.
“You’re everywhere,” Pansy murmured, lips brushing her ear. “I can’t escape you. I can’t go back to being alone and in control. It’s never quiet.”
Astoria’s hands settled on Pansy’s hips. “I know what you mean.”
She watched Pansy surrender to it—the moment, the closeness. Her grip tightened.
“You’re here now,” she said. “Dance with me, Greengrass.”
Astoria grinned—a wide, aching thing.
“Love to.”
She didn't know what she did wrong, and yet Astoria was certain she must've done something.
There'd been a look of determination plastered across Pansy's face before it shifted. The lines creasing her forehead and the subtle sneer creeping in were beginning to win out.
"What? Nothing to say?" Pansy demanded.
Astoria took a subconscious step back, her legs bumping into the edge of the couch.
"How is it that you always have something to say, but when I want to talk—silence."
Never before had anyone spoken to her in such a hostile tone. Astoria was sure of it.
"You're upset," she said.
Gods, it was stupid. The wrong words—but the only ones she could find. Especially with Pansy staring at her as if she hated her.
"Nothing gets past you, Greengrass," Pansy said, eyes circling the ceiling before settling into a glare. "Where did this come from?"
Beneath a raised fist, a golden locket dangled from its chain.
Astoria blinked; her brow pinched. "Draco Malfoy, but it's not—"
"Not what I think?" Pansy dropped her hand and stepped toward her. "It's his mother's locket, no? For his betrothed?"
"Yes, but—"
"So, you're betrothed, then?"
"No! Would you—"
"How can you stand there and lie to my face?" Pansy's voice rose to a yell. Her cheeks burned. "I dated Draco Malfoy for years! He wouldn't give that to anyone without the promise of a lifetime."
Astoria's head shook. Her hands raised in surrender. "You're getting all worked up over nothing, Pans. If you'd let me explain—"
"Nothing?" Pansy snorted. "You are mine! Do you know what happens to me if you go off and get married to someone else? What's worse than being saddled with someone is to know that your fate is in their hands! You'd destroy me! You've already destroyed me."
Her mind was spinning. Astoria couldn't keep up. "You're not—you feel saddled with me?"
"Of course I do!" Pansy dropped the locket at her feet before tearing her hands through her hair. "Every waking hour—and how could you not feel the same? Of all the people you could be stuck with for all eternity, you get me. I'm not even nice! I don't even like..." Her brown eyes grew impossibly wide as her voice fizzled out.
The pain was instant. It was a pain so inflated, Astoria thought her heart might burst. "You don't even like me..." The words were mostly whispered to herself, but she knew Pansy would still hear her.
Astoria reeled in a deep breath. She stood straight, staring Pansy down.
"I have the locket because Draco's decided to flee the country," she said, "Narcissa had it charmed. He'd rather she find me than him."
Astoria first recognised surprise in the tilt of Pansy's brow. She then saw the guilt in the pull of her shoulders. Then, the unbridled rage returned.
"Playing along so Draco's dear mum thinks you're still an option—how pathetic..." Pansy turned away, hugging herself with her arms.
"If caring about people makes me pathetic, then so be it," Astoria replied.
Pansy said nothing, her thoughts obviously mulling over as she chewed her bottom lip.
She was so transparent. Or maybe she was only transparent to Astoria. But Astoria could see all of Pansy all the time. Every thought. Each emotion that took over. Her sadness. Her regret.
"I'm never going to be good at this, you know?" Pansy finally spoke. Her eyes were trained on the floor. "I'm never not going to be angry and mean and cold and—"
"I've never asked for you to be anything more than you are," said Astoria.
Pansy stiffened. Her gaze returned. "Then you're an idiot. Because who else could be happy being treated this way?"
Astoria wasn't sure she had a response, and that was good because Pansy had swiftly walked away, returning to the bedroom. The door slammed behind her.
Blinking, Astoria dropped down onto the sofa. Was she happy being treated this way? Was she content to be hated by Pansy?
Of course not, but she knew all the things Pansy couldn't say aloud. She felt her thoughts. Astoria knew the truth.
Astoria did have to wonder, however, if it was her own truth that kept Pansy as good at resisting this as she was?
It was meant to be just a night away. That’s what Astoria told herself.
When she left for her mastery hours, Pansy had still been there, curled up on the too-small twin bed they kept in the living room. A blanket half-pulled over her shoulder, and her hair tangled in a way that made Astoria’s chest tighten. Messy. Human. Vulnerable.
But when she returned, the bed was empty. That alone wasn’t alarming. What struck her—what knocked the breath from her lungs like a sudden wind—was that somewhere between her departure and return, all of Pansy's things had vanished with her.
And with that discovery, panic didn't crash in all at once. It came like a trickle. A quiet, steady drip of dread beneath her ribs, soaking into her bones.
She wondered how she hadn't noticed earlier. The distance. Perhaps because the void between them had grown every day since the fight.
Astoria moved without realising it—her feet circling the flat in slow, widening loops, like she could catch the echo of Pansy's departure if she followed the spiral just right.
She could feel it. That tether. That unmistakable pull humming beneath her skin, stretching out toward the world—toward her. Pansy was safe. That much she knew. If she followed the bond, she'd find her. But she'd also find walls—find Pansy with her arms crossed and her jaw set, angry and guarded and utterly furious that Astoria had come at all.
Everything in her whispered: Go.
But she stayed.
She kept walking, orbiting the quiet apartment, taking inventory of every absence.
Here, an empty stretch of wall where Pansy’s framed photo of her mother had hung.
There, the missing weight of books from the crooked shelf—Shakespeare, mostly. Pansy had been in a phase, though Astoria never quite understood the appeal. Tragedies masquerading as poetry. Overrated, in her opinion.
The spiral tightened. Her steps slowed. Her breath caught.
Pansy had left, but not quietly. She’d taken herself with her—completely.
Shoes: gone. Dozens of them, collected like trophies from Muggle boutiques. Her love for red-lacquer bordered on obsessive.
Mugs: the pink chipped one she always used for tea—missing.
Pansy’s ire still echoed faintly in the walls, but even that felt like a loss.
And gods, Astoria hadn’t realised how much space she’d taken up. How much colour she brought into their little corner of the world. How fully she'd rooted herself here, turning this flat into a home. Hers. Theirs.
Astoria stopped in the centre of the room. The eye of the spiral.
She inhaled sharply. Then exhaled slower than she meant to, like her chest ached with the weight of it. The loss. The hurt. The absence shaped like Pansy.
She let it hit her. Let it swallow her.
There was no use pretending the ache would pass. Not with them. Not with...soulmates.
Not until she was with Pansy again.
She wouldn't run. She'd let Pansy return home. When Pansy was ready, Astoria would be there waiting for her.
The knock at the door came sometime after midnight. Astoria yawned, pulling her robe over her shoulders and securing it around her waist. As she opened the door with one hand, she rubbed at her eyes with the other.
She froze halfway through both actions. She imagined she looked pretty ridiculous, jaw nearly hitting her knees, hand still shielding her eyes.
"Did it not occur to you to use the door scope, or are you just hoping to be the next corpse in one of those murder shows you obsess over?"
Pansy was there. Right there. And perhaps if Astoria hadn’t been nearly unconscious after downing half a bottle of wine, she might have felt each moment when the ache between them subsided.
Astoria righted herself, letting her hands fall. "Come back to yell at me, have you?"
Pansy shrugged. Her bag landed at her feet. "Not, really."
For the first time since this all began, Astoria didn’t want to be patient. She didn’t want to be calm. She wanted to yell, beat her hands against Pansy’s chest, and swear.
How dare she leave her like that? How dare Pansy treat her this way! She deserved more. She deserved better!
Pansy surged forward and caught Astoria’s lips with hers. Hands tangled in the gentle curves of her long brown hair. Nails raked over Astoria’s scalp.
This. She deserved this.
She extended her own hand, reaching and catching Pansy’s shirt between her fingers. Astoria dragged her forward and kicked the door closed behind them.
Nerves scattered between her hips. Her head felt light, like it might fill with air and float away. She panted against Pansy’s lips, overwhelmed by the sheer weight of relief and want, but unwilling to stop.
And it didn't appear that Pansy was willing to stop either.
Pansy's hands fell to Astoria's hips. They moved between the break in her robe. She was searching for something as she deftly fought through every layer of fabric. As she forced the robe to the floor and ripped Astoria's camisole overhead, Astoria held her breath. Then Pansy's hand found skin.
Fingers pulled at her hips. They worked across her stomach, around to her back. A thumb brushed the sensitive peak at her chest. A second charted the gentle curve of her breast.
Astoria was reduced to waiting. Waiting to see where Pansy would touch her next. She couldn't think, couldn't see. She was dizzy by way of Pansy's fingers alone.
But her vision swiftly returned when Pansy pulled away. A strangled "no" caught in Astoria's mouth. Pansy wouldn't have heard it, not over the sob that startled them both.
"I'm sorry—fuck, I'm so sorry."
Astoria moved up to her again. Their hips notched together as she took Pansy's face in her hands. "It's alright..."
"It's not... I left you."
A laugh broke past Astoria's lips. She wasn't even sure why. "You did."
"Why did I leave?"
Astoria shrugged. She soothed a hand down Pansy's neck, settling on her shoulder. "You were scared."
"I'm so tired of being scared."
Astoria found herself smiling, though the conversation hardly called for it. "Then don't be."
"Easy for you to say," Pansy deadpanned despite the tears.
Astoria leaned close. Her lips found Pansy's neck, her jaw, the soft skin of her ear. "Are you so scared I should stop?"
Pansy shook her head as Astoria reached out with her tongue to taste her skin. "Don't fucking stop."
A hand caught the back of Astoria's head. Finger's threaded through her hair, and Pansy raised onto her toes. Astoria located her lips again, and Pansy walked her backwards toward the bedroom.
"Get on the bed," Pansy commanded, closing a second door behind them.
Astoria did as was asked. She pushed back onto the bed until her bottom reached the pillows.
"Lose the pyjamas," Pansy continued.
There was something raw in Pansy's tone that Astoria hadn't heard before. Something desperate and warm. She could see the same warmth in her dark eyes and in the tremble of her hands, which were clenched into fists at her waist.
Astoria eased the silk fabric down her legs, slow as breath, the final thread in the delicate spiral between them. Her pyjamas pooled at her ankles like a soft surrender—bright, weightless, waiting. If Pansy stepped forward now, if she crossed that last circle of space, the pattern would close. And that would be it. No more distance. No more denial. Just them, at the centre of the bed. Of the world.
Pansy was still in her jeans and laced blouse when she crawled onto the mattress, though she had managed to kick off her trainers at the foot of the bed.
She placed a hand against Astoria's shoulder and directed her onto her back. She then kissed her lips, her jaw. She worked her way down Astoria's neck and across her chest. Her tongue drew languid circles over her stomach until finally Pansy kneeled between her legs.
Hands to her thighs, Pansy used her thumbs to trace the soft dip where Astoria's legs met her hips. She met her eyes, brown irises dark with desire—short dark hair which had been tangled and tugged at by Astoria's deft fingers.
Astoria watched as Pansy bowed where she kneeled. She felt each push and pull of her fingers, of her tongue as Pansy worshipped her.
Astoria thought she might be witnessing Pansy's surrender. The proverbial white flag raised in the shape and curl of her tongue, in the curve of her lips against her inner thigh, in the brush of her nose against her waist.
"I didn't know it could be like that," Pansy spoke into the darkness hours later as they met in a mutual embrace.
"I did." Astoria's whisper crossed the little space between them.
She heard Pansy swallow, felt her stiffen. "And if I forget again?"
Astoria kissed her jaw. "I'll remind you."
Their flat was bigger now. Not just in square footage, but in the quiet, settled sense of space it offered—the kind that breathes. It had two bedrooms, and not because either of them needed a separate place to sleep.
That second room became something else entirely: a studio, a study, a guest room, a threshold. It was where Astoria could dig into texts without distraction, where Pansy could sketch by the light that spilled in from the wide windows. It was where their friends—Daphne, Draco, others—could stay for a night or a week, slipping easily into the rhythm of the couple’s calm, sunlit life in Kingston. That second bedroom was never spare. It was always becoming something.
There was something poetic, perhaps even ironic about the whole thing. After years of spinning through uncertainty, grasping for solid ground, the clearest symbol that they had made it was this: more room. More air. More light.
The second bedroom stood as a kind of testament. A quiet declaration that they had survived the ache of becoming. That they had withstood the noise of the world and chosen something quieter, something of their own design. The walls, still largely white, were not empty but full of potential. They no longer needed to prove themselves to anyone—not even to each other.
They had built a space that gave back to them, that cradled them. A space large enough to hold silence without it becoming absence. Large enough to hold both the past and a future.
In that stillness, there was finally room to look around. To appreciate what had been made, not just the furniture or the natural light, but the life itself. The thing they had spun into being with all their hope and hurt.
The flat was not just a home. It was a tapestry: painstakingly woven, thread by thread, until the pattern revealed itself. It was the centre and the edge. An ending, maybe. A beginning, certainly.
Or not an ending at all.
Perhaps this was only the start of another story—one moving backwards, to where it all began.