Archive of Our Own

Pansy tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, then thinks better of it. No need for nervous tics or demure actions for the next few hours, at least. She can be herself. Or rather, the version of herself that will make her friends ask the fewest number of concerned questions. With a light shake of her head, her hair resumes its previous position. She pauses at the mantel and addresses the two children at her side. 

“No dessert before you’ve finished dinner, either of you. I don’t care what James and Remus have snuck from the pantry. And be gentle with Lyra, she’s just gotten over her fever. No rough-housing.”

“Yes Mummy,” echo the children before stepping through the Floo with her. 

The Granger-Malfoy household has far more noise contained within its walls than the second surname of that combination would have one believe. But when you add a smattering of happy children, their parents, and an abundance of good wine, it creates quite the joyous, raucous environment. 

Pansy bites back her envy as she pecks Draco and then Hermione on the cheek in greeting. She’ll be the only single parent today, once again. She chivvies her children off to play with the rest of the assembled brood and pastes a smile on her face for the other couples in attendance.

They’ve all learned long ago not to ask Pansy about the whereabouts of her husband.

Except Draco. But at least this time he corners her privately as she exits the washroom after his birthday dinner.

“You look miserable, what’s wrong?”

He’s always known her best.

“Please Draco. I don’t need to be told again today how awful I look.”

He has the decency to look apologetic for his accidental insult. 

“What’s he done now?”

“The usual. I’m looking wan, apparently. Less like the shiny young thing he married.”

“I swear, I’m going to—”

“You’ll do nothing.”

“You’re unhappy. Just leave him.”

Typical advice from someone as brash and selfish as Draco. 

“And leave my children without a father? Subject myself to scandal and ridicule? For what?”

“For yourself. Do you even do anything for you?”

“I tend to the children, their education pre-Hogwarts is so important.”

“Yes, and you’re wonderful and they’re wonderful, but you need something else in your life.”

She hates when he has a point. Pansy chalks it up to Hermione’s influence. Existing near such brilliance for all hours of the day has finally rubbed off on him.

“I suppose… well I’ve been looking to incorporate some form of creative arts into their education. They have such sweet voices, it’d be lovely to have them sing.”

“I can help with that,” says a third voice.

“Potter, how many times must I remind you that eavesdropping on me in my own home is not only tiresome, but generally considered rude?”

Harry continues as if he hasn’t heard. A general rule of thumb for communication between the two men. “I think I know just the person to help you Pansy.”

Ron likes the atmosphere in the Romanian camp instantly. He has Charlie’s letter clutched in his fist and a rucksack of clothes and nothing else. He’ll not need anything else, says the letter.

His accommodations consist of a simple tent in a circle of similar ones. The dragon tamers must always be at the ready to rush to the nearby enclosures, his brother explains.

Charlie is the sibling he has the least connection with, the least amount of memories. The taint of war does not linger in between them. Ron can be the younger kid brother meeting his older brothers’ workmates and nothing more. Not a war hero. Not Harry Potter’s sidekick. Not Hermione Granger’s recent ex-boyfriend. 

The first night, the group sits around a fire and Ron laps up the raucous tales from the other keepers. As they get deeper into their cups, the tales get taller, and Ron laughs louder and harder than he has since they lost Fred. 

Some time later, one of the Romanians—Ron can’t recall his name and he certainly can’t pronounce it—produces a guitar. Drinking songs follow. Muggle songs after that. And Ron never wants to leave. 

“You,” the man gestures at Ron. “You have hands. Nice, large hands. Sit here.”

Ron obliges and the man holds out the instrument. 

“You must play. You have correct hands for this.”

Ron shrugs and accepts it, letting the man position his fingers correctly over the strings. 

“You will be natural,” the man asserts. Ron almost puffs his chest out at this statement. Other than chess, he’s rarely been told he’s a natural at anything. 

“Basics,” grunts the man and then crouches in front of Ron to point and pluck at various strings. He corrects Ron’s posture, maneuvers his fingers for him. And the jovial conversation of the others, the light breeze, and the sweet perfume of the fire float all around, enveloping him in such a comforting blanket of peace that Ron relaxes. He sinks into the quiet instruction of this odd acquaintance with this stranger and the introduction to a sound he’s never appreciated in his life.

The strumming of his first successive chords makes his heart sing. 

“Good,” says the Romanian. “See? You build the callouses and practice. You will play well.”

Long after the camp is asleep and the fire has died, Ron remains with the guitar in hand. Testing, strumming, plucking. He wants this simple, beat-up instrument to spill all its secrets to him, to help keep unlocking that part of him that finally feels content.

He stays for a month. His mother sends Howlers. Harry and Hermione send worried letters. “We miss you, please come home.”

Ron’s fingers bleed. The Romanian is pleased with this development. “I will show you how to replace string. Then you are set. Can you sing?”

Another fire, another night of listening to that day’s tales of dragon wrangling, fang cleaning, and burn avoiding. 

Ron knows a few bawdy tavern songs. He knows a few Romanian folk songs too. His voice at first is quiet, hiding beneath the others’ more boisterous, confident tones. 

“Your singing,” says his guitar-wielding friend, “is rich. Not very melodic. But is good. You hear your life in it. You hear your pain. Is more true. People will like.”

And so with his newfound skill at memorising chords and mastering the right ministrations at plucking notes, the nights by the fire feature a guitar-playing, gently crooning Ron. 

He stays one more month before Charlie approaches him.

“You’re at peace here, I get it. But Ron… you’ve got to move on at some point.”

Ron moves on, just not the way Charlie or any of his other family or friends might have wanted. He stops home for a bit and stays long enough to congratulate Harry and Ginny on their engagement, then decides to leave again. He busks around Dublin for a time with his guitar. He receives frantic owls accusing him of “vanishing irresponsibly.”

He ignores them until he decides to return again. He stays long enough to see Hermione fall in the most unexpected way for Draco Malfoy, of all people. He congratulates Harry and Ginny on the birth of their son and then he’s off to Italy this time.

He’s more successful here. An English lad in faded jeans playing in dark clubs. Ron knows Muggle songs by this point, and the magical community eats it up. He’s paid all right for gigs, enough to rent a small room above a florist and to supplement his newfound love for wine. 

The gigs increase as does the wine consumption. He always performs sober, but the second he lays down the guitar, he opens a bottle of whatever’s nearest. When he plays, he forgets. He forgets he watched a brother die. He forgets the sounds of his friends being tortured. He forgets the sight of Voldemort’s horrifying face. 

But when the songs stop and the crowds leave, he’s got nothing left. So he drinks. 

He eventually tires of Italy. Home once again to congratulate Hermione and Malfoy on a daughter and Harry and Ginny on a second son. 

They still sent him letters. The children ask about you. Mum and Dad worry about you. 

But Ron can see how they’ve filled in the gaps he’s left. Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini are regulars at get-togethers. Ron hears the affection in her tone when Hermione mentions Pansy Parkinson and her children. 

He vanishes to Paris this time. The French have less tolerance for his stumbling through their language than the Italians did, but they pay a bit better for guitarists. They have better whisky too. 

He’s confident enough in his catalogue to branch out to Muggle clubs now. He revels in the cigarette smoke and the dimly lit rooms and the willing women turned on enough by his voice to accompany him back to his meager pied-a-terre for an evening, or just a few hours. 

The letters are more frantic this time. He’s not answered them and doesn’t want to answer. They don’t know which country Ron’s even in, they say. Doesn’t he care about his nieces and nephews? His parents? How can he be so selfish? When will this phase end? 

Ron likes being a wanderer. He likes the anonymity and the lack of expectations. He can play, drink, and fuck as he likes. 

Which eventually gets him into a spot of trouble. He fucks the wrong woman, who neglected to mention her very jealous boyfriend. Ron’s less careful with his wand these days, seeing no need for it in the Muggle world. Which is how he gets cornered in an alley by the aforementioned jealous boyfriend and two of his friends. 

They give him a black eye, cut lip, and bruised rib. Then they step on his fingers. Ron cradles his mangled hand back to his dingy rented room and heals everything in a few flicks of his wand and laughs off this brush with danger. 

The next time he stops home, Harry and Hermione stage an intervention. 

“We respect your need for space, but Ron, there are people here who love you.”

“We want you around. Please. Please Ron. You can play here. We just want to know you’re okay.”

He stays a little longer this time. He reacquaints himself with the younger generation who don’t quite remember him. He really hates to admit it, but Hermione and Malfoy made a beautiful child. 

Lyra Granger-Malfoy is secretly his favourite niece. She follows Ron around like a puppy when he visits. She peppers him with questions about music and his travels, sounding as inquisitive and bright as her mother yet as haughty as her father. 

“But did you really feed a Ukrainian Ironbelly by hand? They have metallic scales, you know, and they’re the largest breed of dragon. I read about them in a book on basic dragon-keeping that I got from Daddy. We have a whole section in our library at the manor.”

This pattern resumes for years. Ron checks in for most of the important family events then lets himself leave on a whim. He drifts to new places, in and out of clubs and cafes and the arms and beds of strangers. He at least replies to letters intermittently (Lyra gets a souvenir postcard from each new city, though.)

It’s still not enough for his family and friends. 

George invites him to work at the shop with him, a ploy to have Ron stick around longer. Everyone seems pleased and relieved when Ron finally accepts. He admittedly does miss everyone when he’s away, and falling into a routine with George brings an easy contentment. 

Though he misses playing and drinking and fucking. Opportunities for these activities in his current social circle are scarce. 

Everyone is paired off and married with children. These are very nice things, he’s sure, but Ron doesn’t know how long this monotony of stability will hold his attention. He avoids the gatherings with the large groups of families and couples, only showing up for get-togethers that consist of Harry and Gin or Hermione and Malfoy. He feels less like an outsider then. 

“You’re doing well at the shop, I hear,” Harry enthuses one night. It’s one of those rare evenings when it’s just the two of them and Ron can admit he has missed this connection with his best friend. 

“But I think you should get out more,” Harry finishes.

“I see you and your lot all the time,” counters Ron. 

“Have you ever considered doing lessons? For your guitar? I know you miss the gigs, so this could be something fun for you. And you’d meet people.”

“I’d meet old biddies who just want a silly hobby who’d pay me in mints. It’d drive me spare.”

“I know someone who’d like lessons. And she won’t pay you in mints.”

Pansy smooths down her robes for the tenth time. Sebastien fidgets in his seat and Amelia shoots him a disapproving look she’s mastered from Pansy herself. 

Of course her husband wants to interview the mysterious music teacher recommended by Potter before they can meet with Pansy and the children. She hears them in the study just down the hall. Probably coming to terms over a schedule and the obscene amount of gold he’ll offer the poor artist. 

Pansy stands to attention when she hears footsteps approaching. A house-elf announces the man as he enters, but Pansy does not need the introduction.

Ron Weasley is standing at the entrance to her lavishly decorated parlour in all his faded jean clad, scruffy ginger hair, lanky-framed glory. 

He’s got a guitar strapped to his back and a bemused expression on his face. Pansy has never found anything less amusing in her life and plans to immediately send Howlers to both Draco and Potter. 

“Get out,” she barks by way of greeting.

Ron merely raises an eyebrow.

“I’m here to teach you guitar. According to your husband.”

No, Pansy will not abide this. She will not be cruelly subjected to an idiot vagabond who will no doubt throw out insults about her “pug nose” or blame her for trying to turn Potter over to the Dark Lord. Pansy has endured enough indignity in her young life, and she’ll not suffer self-righteous scorn from the likes of Ron Weasley today or any other day.

“I don’t need to be mocked today so—”

The door to her husband’s study is not closed all the way. He’s on a Floo call with one of his poker-playing friends. The ones that send her leering grins and snide comments should they pass her on their way in and out of her home. Pansy can hear his carrying voice echo down the hall. Which means her children and Ron can hear it too.

“Guitar lessons, can you imagine? It’s awfully pathetic. Still, no amount of gold is too large to keep the bint and those damned brats busy.”

Pansy will not cry in front of Ron fucking Weasley. 

But Sebastien will. 

He bursts into noisy tears and before Pansy can attend to the situation, Ron has shut the door behind him and silenced the room. Amelia immediately envelops her little brother in a hug and Pansy simply watches as the boy she went to school with, the boy she often cruelly taunted for his lack of wealth, the boy now very much a grown man, crouches from his considerable height in front of her two children.

Pansy holds her breath as Ron taps Sebastien on a shoulder. The boy raises his head from his sister’s shoulder and looks curiously at this strange, red-haired grown-up. 

“Hey there little man. What’s your name?”

“Se—Sebastien Selwyn the second.”

“Nice to meet you. Can I call you Sebastien?”

The crying boy nods and sniffles. 

“I’m Mr. Weasley. Do you know what this is?”

Ron brings the guitar slung around his back to his front and holds it out for the boy to inspect.

“No.”

“This,” says Ron very seriously. “Is magic.”

“No it’s not!” cuts in Amelia. 

“Oh, but it is,” asserts Ron. 

“No, it’s a guitar!” insists her daughter.

Ron grins. “You’re very smart. And who are you?”

“I’m Amelia Selwyn… the first.”

“Okay then, Amelia. Yes, technically it’s a guitar, but watch this.”

He stands straight and hoists the guitar to its proper position. Pansy and the children watch, entranced, as his long, nimble fingers move effortlessly to create a soundscape of wonder. The tempo ebbs and flows and Ron grins all the while, the notes flying off the instrument at an in-human speed and Pansy wonders how a person could keep such knowledge in their head and then have the skill to execute it flawlessly. 

Ron strums and picks and plucks and the children’s eyes almost cross as they try and keep up with the speed of his playing. When he finishes the rapid display of his musical stylings, he grins down at them. 

“Wow!” enthuses Sebastien, tears and melancholy forgotten. “Can you teach me?”

“I’m meant to be teaching your mum,” says Ron. He turns to her and his boyish grin falters. 

Pansy hesitates, then decides she owes it to her children, to herself, to keep this bubble of happiness from bursting. For just a while longer.

“Shall today be our first lesson?”

Who was she to deny magic, after all?

Pansy does not cry often. Tears are useless in her world. They do not endear her to an unfeeling husband and they would only frighten her children. 

But each time Ron slings his guitar over his shoulder and leaves her home, Pansy calls for an elf to have the children bathed and readied for bed.

Then she buries her face in her hands and sobs. 

Never have Sebastien and Amelia known such kindness and dedicated attention from a male figure. At least, one who didn’t have to quickly divert his affection to a child of his own or a spouse. 

And they’ll never know this sweet, unwavering dedication from their own father. 

Each weekly lesson continues on in the same way. 

Ron arrives and the children shout trivial updates about their lives at him.

“I tied my shoe today, Mr. Weasley!”

“I plaited my own hair and Mummy let me add a flower, see?”

“Can we hear more Muggle music?”

“Do you know any songs about dragons?”

“Lyra says she knows more about dragons than you, Mr. Weasley, but I told her that’s not true.”

“Can we have a dragon story today?”

Ron pretends to think hard and sighs and checks his watch. “I suppose if you insist I can tell you about the time I played a song while sitting on the back of a Swedish Short-Snout. But you’d probably find it boring.”

Over their excited protests, Ron throws Pansy a wink. She blushes even as she rolls her eyes.

He dedicates a few minutes to grandiose tales that have the children gasping or laughing and Pansy stifles a giggle or two. She’s sure he’s made up half of them but the mirth he draws out of her little family is a debt she cannot repay. 

Then he begins the lesson. 

Selfishly, this is Pansy’s favourite part. 

They are well past the awkwardness of that first day of instruction when she wore robes with sleeves too long. Now they have a routine and he no longer has to remind her to keep her nails trimmed. 

Ron gives the children the song lyrics for the day and Amelia assumes the big sister role of quietly instructing her brother while Ron sits next to Pansy. He’s as careful with her as he is with the children. He exudes kindness in an effortless stream of genuine grins and sincere enthusiasm for even her most minute successes.

Ron has never once brought up their more contentious school days, unless it’s to jokingly refer to Slytherin traits and how that might make Pansy ill-suited to learning certain chords.  

His speaking voice is low and coaxing, not the brash bluntness she remembers from the halls and classrooms of Hogwarts. Maturity looks good on Ron Weasley. As do tight-legged, Muggle denims. 

“Remember your hand placement from last time?”

She nods and takes the guitar from him, positioning it delicately, but firmly across her lap. She has one hand on the neck and the other poised above the strings as she looks up to Ron for approval.

“Good,” he murmurs and Pansy knows what to expect next. Eagerly anticipates it even. 

“May I?”

He always asks before touching her.

Ron’s large hands take her fingers and move them to the appropriate strings. He quietly explains each note, makes sure she understands and remembers before continuing on to anything new. 

His hands are rough even as his touch is soft. Softer than she’s used to, not that she really knows these days, anyway. Once she’d delivered Sebastien, finally given her husband the male heir he’d required of her, he retreated to his own wing in the manor home, never to visit their marriage bed again.

Ron’s touches force Pansy to work very diligently on normal breathing. She should not inhale deeply to see if she can recognise his scent (something pine-like, woodsy), nor should she feign mishearing an instruction so he’ll touch his hand to hers again. 

“Very good Pansy,” he intones and his fingers trail away. Something flickers in his blue eyes when he sweeps his gaze down her body.

“I like your dress today,” he adds so only she can hear.

“Thank you.”

She wore a simple navy shift with capped sleeves. It’s nothing special, but the compliment from his lips indicating he noticed and appreciated her attire ignites a burning she hasn’t felt in years.

Ron marshals the children so they can help Pansy by singing a little song as she strums the chords she’s learned. 

He teaches her a few chords and simple melodies, and sparks such joy out of Amelia and Sebastien that Pansy feels her whole universe shrink to just the four walls of the parlour.

He’s stayed longer than he intended. But the wanderlust has yet to return to entice him away. 

Ron goes to the Selwyn residence once a week to teach Pansy Selwyn (nee Parkinson) how to play the guitar. Which should not be enough to hold his attention, but it does. And then some. 

It’s easily his favourite part of the week.

Pansy shakes his hand cordially after every lesson. Her delightful children do the same. They’re well-behaved young things and they constantly charm Ron with their eagerness to learn new songs or hear his “hobo stories.”

They wring genuine laughter out of both himself and their mother several times a lesson. He teaches them simple children’s songs his mum used to sing to him and Ginny and neither they nor Pansy object to the Muggle songs he adds to the repertoire. 

Ron tries desperately not to let his stares and fingers overstay their welcome on the very fetching woman he’s meant to be teaching. There is much more to Pansy than the pureblood housewife with idle hands he expected. She’s blossomed into a fiercely protective mother, but there’s an innocence about her. She’s a willing, curious pupil and keen to hone her amateur skills, and patient with Ron when he inevitably does something clumsy in her presence. Which occurs more often than he likes under her intense gaze framed by long, dark lashes.

He finishes the day’s lesson and packs up his music sheets and guitar per usual and turns to leave. The children bid him a cheery farewell, yet Pansy remains behind as their house-elf whisks them away. 

“Would you like to stay for a drink?”

“Sure.”

She pours him a generous glass of one of his favourite Italian wines and he joins her on a velvet, antique sofa. He keeps his distance by sitting at the opposite end, but even so, the room feels much smaller without the audience of her children. 

They sip their wine in the companionable quiet for a few minutes. She looks like she wants to ask him a thousand or so questions, but every time their eyes meet, she flushes and looks into her wine glass. 

“Why did you want guitar lessons?” Ron finally asks. He’s wondered about it for months. 

Her crystalline stare affixes to him, and her painted mouth parts in a perfect display of surprise at his question. 

“Draco encouraged me to try something new,” she says slowly and swirls the last sip of wine around her glass. “And the guitar is hardly a popular instrument amongst purebloods, so I thought the children might appreciate something a little different. But also,” she huffs out a self-conscious breath, and the glass of wine she’s consumed compels honesty from her. 

“I want to learn a love song.”

Ron grins, not in mockery, but in surprised delight. “Any particular one?”

She shakes her head with an embarrassed laugh. Ron watches as she allows herself to relax, tucks her knees under her legs on the couch and turns toward him with eyes of earnest blue, so stark and jewel-bright in a porcelain face framed by shining black hair.

“No, just… a love song. One full of happy things.”

Pansy turns towards him and rests her free arm along the back of the sofa. She traces a finger along the gilded frame until it’s inches from his shoulder.

“I want to hear you play,” she whispers, her voice touching him where her fingers do not.

The Silencing Charm on the room has worn off, and Ron hears the boisterous laughter of intoxicated gentlemen drift down the hall. Pansy’s husband schedules his regular poker game for the same time as their lessons each week. 

“Please,” she murmurs. “Let me hear you sing?”

She raises her wand and recasts the Silencing Charm, ensuring no other sound will exit or intrude. 

Ron is familiar with pretty women requesting he play and sing to them. They smile coquettishly, bat their lashes, and drag their nails along some part of his body as they issue their sultry question.

Not Pansy. Her plea is spoken from the soul. She needs someone to tell her of a lived experience. She needs to lose herself in something bigger, something abstract, as she cannot physically leave this gaudy cage. 

Ron knows this type of yearning, and he indulges her with one of his favourite lesser-known tunes.

“I come fresh from the street

Fast on my feet, kinda lean and lazy

Not much meat on my bones, and a whole lot alone

And more than a little bit crazy.”

She closes her eyes and tilts her head back to rest on the sofa. Ron watches her the entire time, but she does not move. Her only reactions are a small, contented smile and a rhythmic tapping of her fingers against her thigh. 

He finishes the song and lets silence reign as the echoes of the chords die away. 

Pansy finally looks at him. “Why did you leave England?”

Many people in his life have asked Ron this very same question. He always shrugs and says, “just needed a change of scenery I s’pose.”

It’s a lie for its lack of detail. But Pansy did not ask because she demanded an explanation or an excuse for his behavior. She’s interested in the truth for the sake of it being his truth.

“Everyone around me packed up and moved on from the war. And I helped them do it.” He unstraps the guitar and sets it aside. “I watched them all achieve their life’s purpose and find what they needed but I… I looked at my own life and saw nothing.”

He shrugs, unsure if he’s making sense, but Pansy seems enthralled. “Maybe I got tired of being asked to be a support all the time. Or maybe I just needed to sort out my own shit—er sorry, I mean stuff.”

“It’s all right to swear, the children aren’t here,” she says with a light laugh.

While the sound of her laugh is bright and musical, Ron’s ears tune in on the meaning in her words. They are indeed alone. 

She tilts her head to face him head on. “Do you think you’ll leave again?”

He wants to reply in the negative. Because every night alone in his bed his thoughts alternate back and forth between her face and how it would feel to escape to New York for a while.

He answers her honestly. Anything less is disrespectful. “I don’t know.”

She blinks and diverts her attention to a far wall. “The children would miss you.”

“I’d miss them.”

Another honest statement that contains a lie for not being the whole truth. 

Pansy stares back at him for a beat then stands abruptly and smooths down her dress. Their glasses are empty and the fire is almost out.

“Thank you for staying with me.”

He nods and stands, reluctant to exit this haze of what he identifies as a palpable connection with another person. 

She also seems hesitant to let the night end. Pansy approaches him slowly, and he stays absolutely still. She has to get up on her toes for her lips to graze his cheek. He doesn’t remember closing his eyes. But now they open to find she’s very real and right in front of him, biting her bottom lip and causing his face to redden to the tips of his ears. 

“Thank you for the drink,” he manages hoarsely. He steps back: out of her orbit, out of the warmth, out of a dream. “I’ll see you next week.”

When he’s trying to sleep, thoughts of New York do not enter his mind at all. 

Pansy now ends every lesson with the same question for Ron.

“Would you like to stay for a drink?”

He always agrees. She no longer needs to ask if he’ll play for her. The second she reinforces the sound barrier from the crude sounds of gambling men, he picks up the guitar.

Pansy hears the lyrics but does not comprehend them. They are just the words of some songwriter and they have no real meaning for her. 

She hears everything else in Ron’s voice. Pansy sinks into the aural web he weaves for her and hears so many things about this man. She hears a man who lost a brother. She hears a hero who still feels as if he lost. She hears a wanderer with no tether, an explorer who went off in search of something tangible in the winds, hills, streets, and clubs of foreign lands but can’t quite find his grip. 

A few tears leak and fall as Pansy also hears herself in his soothing lull of a melody.

She hears a girl who only wanted to please her parents. She hears a scared teen who made a terrible choice once. She hears a woman who thought she could right those wrongs by marrying a “suitable match.” She hears a mother who only wants her children to feel the love she never felt. She hears a lonely soul who does not know how to articulate her own pain.

“Why did you marry him?” Ron asks one night. He cocks his head towards the door and rests his forearms on his knees. He always rolls his sleeves up to play and Pansy’s mouth waters at the sight every time.

“My parents arranged the match. He wanted a young wife to give him a son and no one else would have me.”

“You don’t love him.”

Ron’s frankness with her is never cruel. 

“No. I tried. In the beginning I made an honest effort to be a pleasing spouse. But he was always upfront about my purpose in his world. I’ve since done my duty with Sebastien, and so now I’m a trophy to clutch his arm at certain galas. Nothing more.”

“But you want more.”

She pins him with a stare. “Not from him.”

It’s not the wine that emboldens her today. She’s barely touched her glass. No, today is about the culmination of sweeping, ghost-like caresses during lessons, of longing glances and burning stares that Pansy recalls later, alone in her large bed. She takes the fantasies further and pictures Ron’s larger frame caging her in, holding her fast to his chest and running eager hands through her hair, down her back, over her breasts, touching her anywhere and everywhere until she’s dizzy with bliss.

“How are your callouses doing?” he asks gruffly.

She lifts up her fingers and wiggles them in his direction. He takes hold of her wrist and her pulse jumps beneath his thumb. 

He glides his fingers along the pads of her own fingertips, and Pansy sucks in a sharp inhale. She worries the desperate and involuntary sound will startle him away, but Ron keeps his focus on her skin. On the skin he’s still brushing with his touch. He skates it along her arm now and up to her shoulder. It dances along her collarbone up to the curve of her jaw. 

Ron’s touch lands on her parted lips. She could cry from the contradictory sensations of relief and aching desire. She wants him to never stop this feather-light exploration but she also needs it to progress. It’s all so safely dangerous that she wants him to grab tighter and press harder and render her a pliant mess on this sofa. 

He has so many freckles on his face, his arms, everywhere. She wants the opportunity to see them all. 

Pansy’s skin only has a few beauty marks. A cluster on her forearm. One on the side of her neck, right where his touch stills as he moves it away from her panting mouth. She needs his touch on the other, hidden spots on her body. On the mark on her hip. The one just above the dip of her lower back. 

Wants and needs she’s ignored and kept locked away for so long have risen to the surface. She’s as still as his inanimate guitar, and she wants to be held the way he holds it: like it is the most precious thing in his universe, like it grounds him. Though he wrings music out of it, sometimes harsh noises, in his hands that instrument knows nothing but adoration. No matter where he goes, it remains his one constant.

But his hand drops away and his handsome features twist into a pained grimace. She sees the question written on his face. The ones her friends ask her point blank even when they know the answer. It will feel worse if he asks her. 

“I’ve never been brave,” she preemptively offers. 

“Are you afraid he’ll fight you for the children?”

“No. I’ve enough money in my own vaults. But I don’t want him to retaliate, to cut off Sebastien and Amelia. I don’t want them to hate their own father.”

“He’s not much of one, though.”

“Perhaps not.”

“He’s a right bastard, Pansy. Who couldn’t love those kids?”

She turns away and hears him get up. Guilt bubbles within her and she feels so inadequate she might choke. 

But he hasn’t gone to the door. He’s crouching in front of her with his large, supportive hands on her knees. “You’re such a good mum,” he murmurs. “Never doubt that.”

His scent is more than vaguely woodsy to her now. It smells of open air, of something fresh and natural, as if she’s wandered into a forest after a long hike and takes a brief pause in a clearing. She’s the only one around for miles, inhaling the solitude along with crisp leaves, mossy trees and rocks, and damp earth. 

Ron fills her lungs in a way oxygen never could. 

He squeezes her knees and then straightens and moves towards the door. He waits for her though. For the final part of their routine. 

It shouldn’t be possible, but the tension escalates every week. Each peck lasts a little longer. Inches closer to his mouth. She lingers near his face, but she always backs away when he inevitably swallows and rumbles, “Goodnight, Pansy.”

She knows there’s a line he will not cross. 

It only makes her want him more. 

One evening at dinner, Pansy’s husband berates their son for clanking his soup spoon against the bowl. 

He’s been more on edge lately, not doing as well in all his gambling pursuits. Pansy thanks every deity that her parents at least had the foresight and minor respect for her to leave her a trust in her own name. Her husband cannot touch her sizeable inheritance. 

Because she sees it then. The look of fear in her children’s eyes when they regard their father. When he bothers to be present at all. 

It is the complete opposite of how they look at Ron. They look up into his face so eagerly the second he enters the room. They save up stories and jokes for him. Sebastien perches on his knee and lists off dragon facts, and Ron never, not once, looks bored even if he has to hear the same five facts each time. Amelia is rather demanding and bossy when she wants Ron’s attention, but he’s never impatient with her and instead seems delighted she cares about his opinion of her recent sketches of house-elves.

Pansy’s children make her brave. 

Draco replies to her urgent owl with a few sentimental lines and then leaves the rest of the reply to his formidable wife. Hermione has sent her a dozen pages of impeccable legal advice. 

“You’ll be a laughingstock, Pansy.” 

This is her odious husband’s response to Pansy serving him with divorce papers. He’s signed them with a sneer and she knows she owes her friends for recommending the Malfoy family solicitor. Pansy’s husband is a callous, arrogant man, but even he recognises the power that name holds in wizarding society. 

“My representative will be in touch regarding the custody arrangement for the—”

“The guitar tutor, is it? You’re pining after Weasley?” he tosses at her with a leer. “How cliche darling. You’ve sunk awfully low for something rather futile I’m afraid.”

She tries not to give him the satisfaction of a reaction, but her hands tremble as she gathers her documents and turns away.

“He’s only showing up for the gold. Do you really think he’ll stick around for a divorcee and her two brats? You really think a young, single man wants to have you and those useless sprogs tying him down? The three of you are a passing fancy, nothing more. You can’t possibly believe he likes coming here.”

Pansy doesn’t dignify his terrible assertions with a response, all too aware he wants to see her crumble. 

He fires a parting shot. “Best of luck when this all hits the papers, my dear. You’re going to need it.”

She makes it outside the study on shaking legs and leans against a wall for support. I did this for me, she wants to scream. I did this for my children you worthless, soulless brute. You have no idea how happy, how free we’ll be without you.

“Mummy,” calls the voice of Amelia. Pansy jumps, and languishes in shame that her young daughter overheard that awful display of dysfunctional domesticity.

“That’s not true,” the girl declares.

“What’s not sweetheart?”

“What father said. About Mr. Weasley. He does like you. A lot, I think.”

Pansy doesn’t answer and scoops up her daughter and carries her to bed with her. Sebastien is already sound asleep, most likely placed here by a kind elf. 

“I like him too,” confesses Amelia sleepily. “I’d like it if he came over more. So would Seb, we talked about it.”

Pansy settles down next to her children. She’ll have to upend their lives in the morning, but for tonight, they can all sleep peacefully together and indulge in dreams of better tomorrows. 

Once they’re breathing deeply and evenly, Pansy calls for an elf to watch over them and apparates away.

A knock sounds on the door to his flat. He hopes it isn’t George or one of the others sent to talk him out of his plan.

It’s the last person Ron wants to see.

It’s the only person Ron wants to see.

Pansy is in his doorway with her impossibly wide eyes, plump lips, and overall air of heartwrenching temptation that Ron almost staggers.

“Hi,” she offers meekly. “I know it’s awfully late, but could I come in for a moment?”

He cannot deny her. Which is the whole problem. 

Which is why he has a port key scheduled for New York in the morning. It’s time to run again, to chase something new so he can forget about this vibrant woman and her charming children and how all three have captured his soul.

Ron’s always relied on his travels to give him a taste of something new. Until Pansy. 

She’s something new in a way that is not ephemeral. He feels found, like he has a safe harbor. Someone who knows what it’s like to have been overlooked. 

But Ron cannot have this overwhelming, gloriously painful attraction to this married woman.

She steps inside and he offers her tea. His fingers get bitten by the trick kettle and he swears loudly and vanishes it.  

“Ruddy prank. George doesn’t even egg the kids on anymore, they plant the things all by themselves these days, the sodding devils.” 

They share a laugh about the antics of the Potter children. 

“You’d think a kid named Remus Rubeus would be a gentle little soul but no,” Ron chortled. “That demon is worse than James.”

“He’s always sweet to me.”

“A womaniser already, I tell you.”

She smiles and tucks a lock of hair out of the way. “I wanted to speak with you about something rather—” Pansy casts her eyes around his modest flat, seeming nervous about finishing her request. Then her gaze lands on the open door of the bedroom. Ron’s suitcase is open on the bed, almost fully packed. His guitar is already in its case.

She inhales sharply, painfully; like a discordant note in a familiar song. 

“Where are you going?”

He cannot lie to her. “New York. I leave in the morning.”

“I see.” Her tone is icy now. “Were you planning on saying goodbye?”

“I was going to write you a letter.”

She stands swiftly and he does too. He aches to hold her, just once, but knows he’ll never recover from such an indulgence. No tears brim in her eyes but he sees the pain he’s caused all the same. Pansy strides to the door and pauses with her hand on the doorknob.

“If I asked you to stay, would you?”

“Pansy, it’s not that simple, I—”

“Am I enough for you to stay?” she demands as she whirls back around. 

“You and your children deserve better than a bloke who has no real direction. Fuck, Pansy,” he sighs and cards a hand through his hair. He hates himself for this. “Sure I make plenty of gold but I work in a shop and teach guitar. I’m hardly a good man for you or—”

“Answer my question.”

She’s more than enough. More than he deserves. So much more than anything Ron could hope to find in any of the far-flung places he’s visited. Falling for her has devastated him, blown apart any desire to be anywhere other than her exact location. 

He’ll run this time for noble reasons, he tells himself. 

So he says nothing aloud. 

“Goodbye Ron.”

The cottage on the edge of the grounds of Malfoy Manor is quiet today. Hermione and Draco took the children to visit the Potters, letting Pansy have some solitude in her temporary home. Her friends have given her this peaceful sanctuary for as long as she needs, but Pansy hopes to move on soon. She’ll not impose on their unending kindness for much longer. Newfound independence awaits. A chance for her and the children to make their own home somewhere.

They’ve lived there for a week now, the children as resilient as Pansy knew they’d be. They don’t ask questions about their father, but instead ask if they can plant things in the little garden or if Lyra can sleep over. 

They ask about Ron. Her answer of “I’m not sure when we’ll see him darlings,” drags itself out of her throat and she hates every word. 

There’s movement outside her window and she bolts upright to see a lean figure approaching. Before she can rethink her reaction, Pansy runs to the door and whips it open. 

Ron stops walking and opens and closes his mouth a few times. He seems at a loss for what to say or do. 

“I guess you know I stayed.”

He tries for an affable grin, but it falters immediately. Pansy lets the silence continue. 

“Hermione told me to give you some time, and you know, I would have—I wanted to—but I also... I wanted you to know that I didn’t leave. That I couldn’t leave.”

He steps closer. Pansy steps back. She’s not sure if she’s going to slam the door in his face or yank him in by his shirt. 

“Right, I was supposed to… to give you time. But Pansy I—”

Closer still. He’s at the threshold. 

“Anyway, Malfoy caved and told me you were here. I might have started a row between him and ‘Mione, so, no matter what happens here, at least I’ve got that.”

He tries to grin again. That youthful, charming, terribly loveable expression that makes her knees buckle.

She steps further back into the cottage, still unsure if this is a retreat or an invitation. He keeps pressing his luck and advances towards her, crossing into her sanctuary. 

He’s out of words and she’s out of her mind, possibly. 

“You haven’t even got that, you know,” she finally speaks.

“Got what?”

“Rowing is like foreplay for those two. You may have just ensured Granger pops out the next Malfoy descendant in nine months’ time.”

“I hate that you’re right.”

He laughs, uneasily, still not clear of his place in her world. 

Pansy licks her dry lips, and chooses bravery again. 

“But you have got me. If you want.”

Ron’s entire demeanor brightens.

“Gods yes, Pansy, I’m such a bloody idiot.”

“The biggest idiot alive.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“I need to hear that at least a dozen more times.”

Ron stops smiling. “Pansy, I’m so—”

“Not now you moron,” she huffs and throws her arms around his neck. 

Pansy tastes his lips this time. She’ll never settle for grazing his cheek again. 

He finally touches her in a way that doesn’t feel fleeting. His grip on her waist is a promise. His lips molding to hers like a vow. His hand supporting her jaw then gliding through her hair is an oath. 

He plays her body as masterfully as he does his guitar. He grinds into her with a thigh pressed between her legs and her back against a wall. She almost comes from just his ministrations to her breasts before he drags his fingers down her body and eases them inside her knickers. He brings her off with one hand while the other grips her chin so he can hold her gaze as she peaks.

Because he wants her to know he sees her. And he’ll stay.

She doesn’t give herself time to come down from the euphoric high and shucks her clothes. She wants him to make her feel that way again and again and again. Ron drags her to the bed and has her perch on the edge so he can kneel before her and use his tongue this time. 

She tugs gently on his hair to get his attention. His mouth stays put, stays right where she needs it, but his blue eyes flick up to hers. 

Because she wants him to know she sees him. And she’ll keep him. 

As much as she adores the jeans, she needs them off his body and she needs them off now. She eases back up to sitting, a difficult task when he’s just made her writhe desperately against his face and the muscles of her inner thighs quiver in a way she’s never known. She never wants this sensation to stop. 

Pansy helps him shed his clothes and she’s so distracted by his lips and his skin against hers that she’ll have to take stock of all his gorgeous freckles another day. 

She thought he’d be vocal, or she would. It’s a melody of shallow gasps and pants instead, a quiet harmony of their shared breaths when he enters her and moves slow and steady. 

He murmurs the sweetest things against her neck: her name, how good it feels to fuck her, how he never wants to let her go, how he’s sorry he thought he could.

He’s not singing, but it’s the best song she’s ever heard.

Pansy’s quite out of practice at the art of intimacy, so Ron’s rhythm is careful and patient as he thrusts, coaxing her to another climax as gently as he teaches her new chords. When he finds satisfaction too, hips stuttering jaggedly when he loses himself to pleasure she provides, Pansy envisions the rest of her life with moments like these.

He tucks her sated form against him and she feels safe enough to voice a fear.

“I’m not exactly an… easy situation.”

“Pansy,” he says wryly. “I don’t know if you’ve seen our mutual friend group, but I think you might be the least complicated of the lot.”

“I’ll be a divorcee soon.”

“I love that about you.”

“I’m a single mother.”

“You’re not single if I have something to say about it.”

“I’ve never… I don’t know,” she gulps a breath. “My children come first and I can’t⸺”

“I love them, too.”

“That’s good,” she whispers.

“I’ll teach Amelia to fly and Sebastien to play chess,” he tilts her chin up and kisses her softly. 

“And I’ll teach their mother to play a love song.”

FIN