Chapter Text
Pansy’s been engaged to Draco Malfoy since she was four years old.
She remembers the day her mother dresses her up in a pale blue gown the exact shade of her eyes and gives her a very stern lecture about manners and good breeding that she solemnly nods along to before they floo to Malfoy Manor. A house elf greets them and takes them into the parlor, where there is a small, child-sized table littered with tiny cakes and porcelain cups with peaco*cks on them.
Pansy gasps in excitement but otherwise holds her tongue. She is obsessed with tea parties at this age. She hosts them weekly with an array of stuffed guests and plastic scones on a three-tiered silver tray in the drawing room at Carrahainn. Her fourth birthday was a tea party with Daphne Greengrass and Amira Shafiq. Mother didn’t tell her there would be a tea party.
Mother hugs a pale-haired lady who’s gotten up from the sofa and then says to Pansy in her most no-nonsense voice, “Pansy, you remember Lady Malfoy, don’t you?”
Pansy looks up at the woman. She is adorned in a knee-length pair of dress robes in dark green with pearl buttons. Her silver-blonde hair is pulled into a chignon, more pearls dripping from her neck, and there is a gentle smile on her face. She looks so elegant and perfect that Pansy turns to her mother and whispers rather loudly, “Is she a princess?”
The women both laugh, and Pansy wonders if she’s said something wrong. “I’m not, dear,” Lady Malfoy answers. She leans down to Pansy’s level and says, “But I think you look as pretty as a princess, too.”
“Thank you, Lady Malfoy,” says Pansy, dropping into a clumsy curtsy. “Are we going to have a tea party now?”
“Yes. But first, do you want to say hello to my husband, Lord Malfoy?”
A man appears beside her. They look similar, but he is all in black, making him look even paler. Anyone with Lord in front of their name is very important, so Pansy curtsies to him as well. This attempt is more successful. “Pleasure to meet you, Lord Malfoy,” she chirps.
“You as well, Miss Parkinson,” he returns. And then, to her mother, “Quite a well-mannered young one you have there, Aloisa.” His voice turns harsh as he barks, “Draco, up!”
Draco leaps up from the small tea table and stands stiff-backed beside his mother. Pansy meets his eyes, pleased to find that she is slightly taller than him now. She does remember the boy, a little. She can recall showing him her plushie collection and him wrinkling his pale little nose and asking why they were all pink. She told him it was because pink was the best color, obviously.
“Don’t just stand there,” Lucius gripes at his son. “Say hello to Pansy.”
“Hello, Pansy,” Draco says mechanically.
“Hello, Draco,” she replies. “Do you like tea parties?”
He makes a sour face. “Tea parties are for girls.”
“Draco,” says his mother, bending at the waist to place a hand on his back. “Why don’t you show Pansy to her seat?”
He hurries over to the little table and pulls out a plastic chair. She sits in it like she’s supposed to. Their mothers watch fondly. “Such a gentleman,” Mother remarks.
“He is, our Draco,” Lady Malfoy agrees.
What follows is three hours of a farce of a tea party with a very reluctant Draco while the adults talk about adult things. Pansy doesn’t catch much of it, except they keep saying the words ‘wonderful match’ over and over again. She, for her part, peppers Draco with questions about his favorite pastries and teas, to which she gets only sullen answers in between anxious glances at his father. She gossips a little about the Parkinson elves, which he doesn’t seem interested in. She finally resorts to asking him about Quidditch, and that at last makes his eyes light up.
“I’m going to play Chaser for Slytherin when I go to Hogwarts,” he informs her. “We’re going to win the Quidditch Cup every year.”
Pansy couldn’t care any less about Quidditch if she tried, but to be polite, she says, “Splendid.”
And then, of course, he does not stop talking about Quidditch, which apparently no one has told him is not an appropriate tea party topic. Pansy loses track of how many times she uses the word ‘splendid,’ which she has only just learned after hearing it in one of the fairy tales her mother reads to her before bed. She keeps sneaking looks at Mother to see if it’s time to go home yet. She would much rather have a tea party with her plushies than this sour little blonde boy.
At one point, she remembers, she is called away from the table to stand in front of Lord and Lady Malfoy while they walk around her in a circle. They make comments regarding whether she will become too tall and whether her hair will darken from its chestnut color when she’s older. She stands perfectly still and lets them look, then rejoins Draco at the table feeling a little uncomfortable, but she can’t say why.
At the end of the meeting, her mother shakes hands with the Malfoys. When Lucius barks Draco’s name a second time, he is up lightning quick out of his seat and kissing her hand with wet, chocolate-smeared lips. Their mothers coo, and after they leave the room, Pansy wipes her hand off on her dress.
When they get home, Mother leans down and places both hands on her shoulders. “You did very well, Pansy,” she says, which makes Pansy beam. “You’re going to save this family.”
Pansy’s nose wrinkles. “From what?” she asks.
“Ruin,” her mother answers. She closes her eyes briefly, sighing. “I never thought, after your father died…” She opens her eyes again and tries to smile. “But we’re going to be alright. They liked you. You must promise me something, my flower.”
“Yes, Mother?”
“Always be kind to the Malfoys, especially Draco,” her mother tells her. “Treat him with respect and be very, very careful not to displease him.”
Pansy tilts her head and says, “I promise, Mother. Can I invite Daphne over tomorrow?”
Mother smiles. “Anything you like, darling girl.”
And that is that.
Of course, her mother doesn’t tell her about the engagement in so many words until she gets older. Aloisa Parkinson has given her daughter several important Speeches throughout her young life, mostly about manners and a woman’s place in society and not getting too fat, but Pansy thinks of that moment as The Speech.
It’s really more of an argument.
“Pansy,” says Lady Parkinson, angrier than Pansy has ever seen her, “did you pull Draco’s hair or not?”
“He pulled mine first!” Pansy insists weakly, upset that Mother is upset.
“That doesn’t matter. You must never retaliate. We must always shows the Malfoys-”
“Deference and respect,” Pansy finishes, “I know. But he said I was going to get a Troll in Potions and so I said-”
Her mother cuts her off with a sharp, “Pansy!” which immediately silences her. Mother almost never uses her name. “You are going to marry that boy someday. He will not want a wife that engages in petty bickering and fights.”
“Marry him?” Pansy repeats, aghast. She is nine years old, and the thought is horrible. “Why would I marry Draco Malfoy? He’s a bore! All he ever talks about is himself and how his father is so important and I don’t even have a father-”
“It does not matter what he is like! This was decided long ago.” Her mother suddenly deflates. “I did what I had to do for this family, Pansy. You’ll see that, eventually.”
Pansy has never in his life seen her mother with such a weary look on her face. Lady Parkinson is always prim and proper, put together, not a hair out of place. She has instilled the same values in Pansy. Never let anyone see who you really are, what you really think. Be untouchable.
It is something Daphne says to her that finally gets her to understand.
“Honestly, Daphne,” Pansy complains over a cup of tea. It’s the summer before they go off to Hogwarts, and they still have tea parties sometimes, even though they’ve grown out of it. It’s a proper lady’s activity, after all, and their parents are content to believe they are behaving themselves. “You’re so lucky your family’s not into all this.”
Daphne scoffs. “What, making advantageous marriages? You think any of us can get out of being a prized cow sold off to the highest bidder?”
Pansy sets down her tea and asks, “Did you just call me a cow?”
“Women, cows.” Daphne shrugs. “What’s the difference? We won’t inherit anything. We only have power through our husbands. You should be grateful your mother secured you a good match when she did. Your family would have never-” She cuts herself off by taking a sip of tea.
“By all means, continue,” says Pansy coolly.
The shorter girl sighs, twirling a dark curl around her finger. “Look, it’s not my business.”
“Since when have you let that stop you?”
“Fair.” Daphne sniffs, looking a little uncomfortable. “It’s just, your family wasn’t in the most advantageous position and now you’re set up with a sizable dowry and-” Another shrug. “Who’s to say what would have happened if she hadn’t acted when she did?”
Pansy narrows her eyes and asks, “What do you know?”
“Just something I heard. That your mother was in a bad way after your father- That she was selling off Parkinson heirlooms.”
She takes that in, calculating. “That’s a fine accusation from a friend.”
“It’s just what I heard, and I’m only telling you in case you hear it elsewhere.” Daphne gives her a sympathetic look. “Pansy, your mother has done a lot for you. For your future. I’m just saying… it could’ve been worse.”
It gives Pansy something to think about, perhaps a new appreciation for her mother. Daphne always talks sense. Pansy knows how to be obedient but Daphne has always been smart, able to see what’s beneath the surface. She’s become Pansy’s confidante, and she doesn’t want that to change when they go to school.
“Promise you’ll get sorted into Slytherin with me,” Pansy begs, “and not go off and be some clever Ravenclaw and leave me behind.”
Daphne rolls her eyes. “Of course I’ll be in Slytherin.” She adopts a wicked smile. “But what makes you so sure you’re not going into Hufflepuff?”
Pansy picks up a cupcake and mimes throwing it at her, though she never would actually be so ill-mannered as to throw food. Well. If she did, it would probably be at Draco Malfoy, and he would deserve it.
She gets to the Hogwarts Express almost earlier than anyone else and takes an empty compartment to wait for the other pureblooded children. She’s heard from Draco that Harry Potter’s going to be in their year. The Parkinsons never openly supported the Dark Lord, though her parents were known to dabble in the Dark Arts. She’s read a few texts from the family library herself. Pansy doesn’t care for wars, and she’s glad she doesn’t have to fight in one, but she knows what side she’d be on.
It’s not long before a bushy-haired girl in strange clothing is sitting across from her with aplomb and asking if she can join Pansy, as if she hasn’t already.
Pansy takes in her frizzy brown hair and buck teeth. She tries to ignore the thudding of her heart in her ears, the racing thoughts of who is this, why are they talking to me, should I know them, have we met? Because what if she gets it wrong? What if she miscalculates?
In the end, she turns up her nose and says, “If you were good enough to sit in a compartment with me, I’d already know you. So in other words, no.”
The girl looks a little hurt but mostly surprised. “Well, I don’t know anyone,” she says, spreading her hands out over knobbly knees. “I’ve only just learned I’m a witch, you see. My parents are Muggles.”
Pansy flinches back, certainty hitting her like something physical. “Don’t ever speak to me, Mudblood,” she commands. “Get out.”
“What’s a Mudblood?”
“Are you hard of hearing?” Pansy snaps. She waves her hand. “Stop tainting my compartment with your Muggle filth.”
“Oh.” The girl adopts a curious look. “I did read Hogwarts, A History, naturally, so I know all about blood purity. You must be a pureblood. You do know, of course, that I’m just as much a witch as you are.”
Pansy hisses and says, “What do I have to do to get you to go away?”
The girl shrugs. “If it really means that much to you, I can go. I’m just saying, there’s no logical reason that a child born to a wizarding family is any better than a child born to a Muggle one. If you honestly think about it, you’ll find-”
“I am not talking to a Mudblood,” Pansy says to herself, hands on her temples. “There is no Mudblood in my compartment. If I tune it out, surely it’ll go away.”
The Mudblood sighs. “Some people just can’t be reasoned with,” she says, and leaves as if it is entirely her idea.
Pansy feels a headache coming on.
Thankfully, a familiar face arrives before long.
“Vince,” she greets him, “my unlikely hero. Could you please stand in the doorway and prevent anyone we don’t know from coming in?”
“Sure, Pansy,” says Vincent Crabbe, who Pansy usually finds boorish, but in this case is glad to see. He deposits his trunk, and his bulk does adequately prevent anyone else from bothering her until Daphne arrives.
“Vince,” she hears Daphne’s voice say from the doorway, “what are you doing?”
“Blocking the doorway for Pansy,” he says. “No one we don’t know gets in.”
“You do know me, though.”
“Oh. Right,” says Vince, and moves to let her through.
“Pans!” Daphne squeals, as if they didn’t see each other a week ago. Pansy gets up to hug her, and they sit back down together. “I thought we’d be late. Astoria took ages in the bathroom. I don’t even see why she had to come, but she insisted she see me off and Mum got all sentimental about it.”
“Never mind that,” says Pansy, gripping her hands. “Daph, I’m losing the plot.”
Daphne gives her an alarmed look. “What? Why?”
“What if I get sorted into Hufflepuff with a bunch of Mudbloods? My family will be ruined. Ruined!”
“Calm down.” Daphne squeezes her hands. “That was just a joke, Pans. You’re not getting Hufflepuff. You’re the least Hufflepuff person I know. You’re as pure as they come; you’re getting Slytherin.”
Pansy nods. “You’re right, of course. Of course.” She takes a few deep breaths and composes herself, then instantly feels embarrassed. “I’m sorry. It’s just, I’ve had all this time to sit and think-”
“How horrible,” says Daphne wryly.
Pansy laughs. Everything’s going to be fine.
Everyone else files in after. Pansy’s in a compartment full of- Well, not friends, but at least known quantities. She grew up around these people. She knows how to handle them. Hopefully they’ll all get sorted into Slytherin, where they belong, and she’ll be safe.
She doesn’t know why she feels unsafe suddenly. It isn’t like her to be anxious. It isn’t like her to show that she’s anxious, anyway. It just didn’t occur to her, somehow, that she'd have to meet new people all on her own. It’s not that this is the first time that’s happened. She used to have fits at parties if someone she didn’t know talked to her without her mother introducing them first. It’s just, if she doesn’t know how to react to someone, she blanks and starts to panic. Pansy needs someone to tell her what to think so she doesn’t get it wrong and upset her mother.
When Draco finally joins them, he looks more frazzled than usual. “Draco,” she says, offering her hand for him to kiss. The fact that he doesn’t take it clues her in that something has gone wrong. “Are you alright?”
Draco snaps out of whatever state he’s in to sneer. “Of course,” he says. “Why wouldn’t I be? Miss Parkinson.” He takes her hand, pressing a quick kiss to the back of it, and takes the seat across from her.
“That’s gross,” says Theodore Nott from her other side, nearer the window.
Pansy narrows her eyes at him. “Of course you wouldn’t know how to treat a lady, Nott, since the closest you’ve come to kissing one is shooting spitballs at the back of my head at the Samhain bonfire.”
Gregory Goyle snorts from across the compartment. “That was my idea.”
She turns her glare on him and says, “As brilliant as ever, Greg.”
“Thanks,” he says with a smile.
Pansy looks at Daphne, and both girls roll their eyes simultaneously.
They get to the castle before long. Everyone’s sorted into Slytherin, of course, but it takes forever to get to the P’s. Pansy doesn’t let her anxiety slip out this time, her face a mask among a sea of terrified eleven-year-olds.
When her name is called, Pansy strides forward and sits on the stool. The Sorting Hat is placed on her head, and a voice enters her mind.
Ah, another child of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, says the hat. I don’t suppose there’s any question of where to place you. Is there?
Slytherin, obviously, she replies.
Hmm, yes. But is that something you have decided for yourself, or has it been decided for you, like everything else?
Panic sets in. If you put me anywhere else, it’ll ruin me.
I’ll put exactly where you want to go, child. But be sure it is what you want.
Is the hat… offering her a choice? Pansy has always done what she’s told. She’s good at it. She doesn’t know what point the old piece of fabric is trying to prove. She just tells it, I’m sure.
If you say so, then it had better be, “SLYTHERIN!”
Relief floods her. She beams and breaks for the Slytherin table at a run, for once not caring how it looks. She sits in between Daphne and Draco and turns to him with a smile. But he’s not even looking at her. All his attention is on the sorting hat, and the next name that’s been called: Harry Potter. When the Chosen One is sorted into Gryffindor, Draco is visibly disappointed, and it stings a little that he cared more about Potter’s sorting than hers.
Pansy tries not to feel too put out. Sorting Slytherin is the first hurdle cleared. Now, the next: meeting her roommates.
Millicent Bulstrode she knows by name, at least, and they must’ve met already at some function or another. Pansy does recall a drunk Bulstrode uncle at the Malfoy’s annual New Years’ Gala the year before. Her family’s mostly pureblooded, save for a half-blood grandmother somewhere in the mix. It might not be a problem if Millicent was pretty, but she's not: too tall for her age, broad-shouldered, double chin. She'll never make a good match.
Pansy isn't sure what to make of Tracey Davis. She's quiet at the feast, and later, when they’re all excitedly exploring the common room and dorms, she takes a bed and shuts the curtains without a word.
Later, Pansy learns her parents were both Ravenclaws, one of them Muggleborn. It's a good thing Tracey doesn't show any interest in being her friend, because her mother would never allow it. She has to write to Mother and ask her about Millicent, who she receives the okay to associate with, as long as she doesn't pick up any uncouth behaviors.
First year is… challenging. Pansy writes to Mother a lot, even though the boys tease her about it. There are times coming across someone new where Pansy freezes and her breathing gets shallow, because she doesn't know them and therefore doesn't know whether they should be mocked or befriended. She ends up following cues from Draco more often than not, which is easy when he's so confident he's the most important person in every room he enters.
The one person she knows it is okay to mock is the bushy-haired Muggleborn from the train. Hermione Granger is an insipid little know-it-all, a Gryffindor and a Mudblood to boot, so Pansy takes any frustration or uncertainty she feels out of her. It feels good to have an outlet because even though Pansy knows she is pure and better than everyone else, she is also lacking in cleverness. Granger reminds her of that, when she's answering every question in class and picking up new spells faster than everyone else, and Pansy doesn't like to be reminded.
There are times Pansy is cruel to the little Mudblood, but she doesn't feel bad about it. Granger is worth less than her, Granger is nothing. Picking on Gryffindors is like picking on ants, stomping on them as they try to cross the pavement. They might run away or even cry, but it's not as if their feelings matter. She's just reminding them of their place, and if that hurts, well. It hurts to be an ant.
Throughout it all, Pansy remembers her promise to Mother. She does whatever she thinks Draco will like, though he seems to tolerate her at best. Pansy can't help feeling a little slighted—he is her betrothed after all—but there will be years yet to win him over. She praises his wit and charm, and if he never returns the compliment, maybe it just means she's not trying hard enough.
When she goes home for Yule, Pansy’s mother inquires how Draco is taking to her as if they have not been talking about it for months. “He doesn’t seem to really care whether I’m there or not,” Pansy admits, then snorts. “Not like with Harry Potter.”
“Hmm.” Mother taps her bottom lip. “Perhaps to be expected, at that age.” She takes Pansy’s hands in hers. “When you’re older, I’ll teach you a few tricks to catch his attention. Until then, continue as you are. You are doing very well, my flower.”
And so things do continue on as they are. Until fourth year, where it all goes wrong.
That summer, her mother and Lady Malfoy plan a shopping trip for the four of them for dress robes at a high-end boutique in Paris. This is not unusual in itself, but when Pansy asks her mother what the robes are for, she gets only a secretive smile in response.
Lady Malfoy and Mother walk ahead, whispering conspiratorially, while Draco and Pansy walk together behind them. “Do you know what all this is about?” she asks him.
Draco’s posture straightens. “Well, of course I know all about it. But if your mother hasn’t told you, then neither will I.”
“Fine, if it’s like that,” says Pansy, not particularly concerned. It doesn’t matter what they’re for; she always likes getting new robes. “Whatever it is, do you think they want us to go together?”
“Obviously,” Draco sighs.
Pansy pouts and says, “You could pretend to be excited.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because I’m excited,” she replies. She smiles to herself, not bothered by his bad attitude. “Do you think we’ll get to waltz?”
“You and your waltzes,” he grumbles. “Of course we’ll waltz. It’s the done thing.”
Pansy gives him a playful look. “Are you going to show off again?”
Draco finally smirks, at least, and that’s something. “I can’t help that the waltz is my best dance.”
“You do perform it rather well.”
“Rather well?” he repeats, pretending to be miffed.
She rolls her eyes and corrects, “Extremely well. And you know it, so stop fishing for compliments.”
He shrugs and goes back to smirking. Pleased that she’s put him in a slightly better mood, Pansy takes his arm and lets him lead her down the street. He goes along with it, for now, probably just because they’re in public. When they get to the boutique, Pansy stops dead in her tracks at the display in the window.
Draco, annoyed, halts with her. “What are you gaping at?” he asks.
There’s a dress in the window. The dress. She knows instantly, looking at it, that she needs it. It’s pink, of course, delicate frills hanging to calf-length. There are fabric roses over one shoulder, wrapping around the waist and trailing along a knee-high slit. This is a princess’ dress, and she will have it.
“Oh, Aloisa,” says Lady Malfoy, “I think your daughter’s been enchanted.”
Mother laughs. “Let’s look at all the dress robes before we make a decision, hmm?”
“I don’t need to look at all of them,” says Pansy. She lets go of Draco’s arm to inch closer to the glass. “I’ve already found the one.”
Draco scoffs. “Well, I’m certainly not wearing pink.”
Pansy insists that they try on the pink first. She could fall in love with herself looking at it in the mirror. Her mother combs her hair back and holds it up. “What do you think, Narcissa?”
“She looks darling. Truly a vision.”
Pansy is unable to stop looking at her reflection. She’s never thought of herself as terribly pretty, overall. Dressed right, she can be elegant and refined and everything she is supposed to be. But in the day-to-day? She can’t compete with beauty like Daphne’s, aquiline features and lips made for pouting. Her face isn’t the most symmetrical, her mouth’s too wide, her cheekbones aren’t the right shape. But like this… she is perfect. If she wears these robes, everything will go perfectly.
“Draco? What’s the verdict?”
He doesn’t answer, and that’s enough to get Pansy to break away from the mirror. She glances at him anxiously, wondering if he’ll approve. “You… look nice,” he says, his voice sounding a little strangled.
In this moment, with his wide grey eyes and slackened jaw, she could almost believe he likes her. At least, he likes what he sees. That might just be enough. “Thanks.” She beams. “Those are fetching on you.”
He snaps out of his stupor and gives his own reflection a cursory glance. “I’ll need to do better than this to match you,” he says, and Pansy’s heart feels so light she could float.
When they announce the Yule Ball at Hogwarts, she squeals with Daphne. Pansy’s been dancing since she was a child, and she’s rather good. She always liked ballet lessons, the cute outfits and the way the teacher used her as an example for proper form, but nothing beats ballroom. The flowing skirts, the clacking of heels. She’s just the right height for Draco this year, which is lucky, because her mother was worried she’d be too tall for proper shoes.
Pansy wonders how he’ll ask her, if there’ll be some fanfare or he’ll just pop the question. She feels giddy just thinking about it. In the end, he does it perfectly: a dozen pink roses at breakfast, so she has to carry them with her throughout all her classes that day. It seems like things are finally going the way they’re supposed to. Draco does seem especially obsessed with taunting Potter that year, but it’s not Potter he’s going to the Yule Ball with. It’s not Potter he’s going to waltz with in front of the entire school. Pansy has won this round, and Harry Potter of all people is not going to take that from her.
Except. He always has to, doesn’t he?
The night begins with high hopes. She’s getting ready with Daphne and Millicent and even Tracey, for once. It’s not as if they’ve accepted the girl as one of their own, but for one night? It couldn’t hurt to include her. So Pansy helps braid her blonde hair into a crown with a few delicate curls coming loose, and Daphne asks about her date, and they all work together with tailoring charms to fix Millicent’s robes into a more flattering shape than the one her mother picked out.
“Pansy,” says Daphne when she finally has her robes on, “Draco’s not going to be able to look away from you.”
She looks into the mirror, which agrees wholeheartedly with Daphne, and sighs. “Do you think he’ll kiss me?” she wonders.
Daphne appears over her shoulder with a wicked look and says, “If he doesn’t, I will.”
Pansy swats her on the arm, but she can’t stop smiling. She’s probably dreaming. Draco doesn’t like her like that; he won’t kiss her. Unless his father told him to. Would his father tell him to? They may be technically betrothed, but they’re not really together. Still. Perhaps he’ll be so overcome with her beauty that this is the night everything clicks into place.
The Slytherin girls all descend the staircase to the ballroom together, having mutually decided to make their dates wait a while. When Pansy finds Draco’s eyes, she doesn’t let them go until she’s sashayed up to him, frilled skirts swishing. She likes the feeling of his eyes on her, likes it so much she feels like she’s going to burst. She holds out her hand for him to kiss, and it’s funny because- he’s done this so many times by now, it’s just a thing they do, it’s not like he ever really means it. But this time his lips linger, and it feels like he does when he’s looking at her like that.
“Pansy,” he croaks. “You’re so beautiful tonight.”
She smirks. “Just tonight?”
“Especially tonight.” He offers her his arm. “When we waltz together, everyone’s going to want to be us.”
The opening waltz might be the best she’s ever danced, and she’s alight with energy when it concludes. They dance a couple more and then retire to a table where Blaise and Daphne sit together with glasses of punch.
“You looked great out there,” says Daphne, and Pansy smiles back. She turns to Draco to say something, but-
“Did you see Champion Potter trying to waltz?” Draco asks Blaise. He abruptly and clumsily twirls Pansy around so that she almost loses her balance
“A memory I shall cherish,” Blaise declares with a laugh.
Potter. Was he thinking of Potter while they danced? Draco lets her go and sits with Blaise. Pansy takes a seat next to Daphne, who notices that her face has fallen and squeezes her hand.
“I’ll never get that image out of my head,” Draco goes on. “I knew Potter would be a pathetic dancer, but that was something else.”
“You had an excellent waltz, of course,” Blaise schmoozes.
Draco preens. “Yes, of course, I’m in top form.”
Not a word about Pansy. His dance partner. His betrothed.
Pansy shakes herself and makes small talk with Daphne. Draco pulls her into a few more dances, and she still dances them perfectly, but the night’s lost its magic. After another waltz, he leads her to the side of the dance floor.
“Are you alright?” he asks, as quietly as possible with the music and the chatter. “You seem… distracted.”
She fakes a smile. “Of course. I just. Need some air, that’s all.”
“I’ll come with you,” he offers. It makes her heart beat faster, and a last bit of hope that hasn’t been crushed yet springs up.
They head off for the rose garden, which is littered with couples by this point. It’s beautiful and romantic and exactly where she’d want to be if she was really his date. But she’s not. He didn’t ask her to the ball because he wanted to. He’s just doing what he’s told.
Pansy’s not sure when she started liking Draco, or if she even does. Is it just that she wants him to like her? Why does she want that so badly? Why does she need to be wanted by this boy, who has never shown any interest in her, never given her the time of day? Why is it so important to her, if she doesn’t even like him?
It takes some time to find a secluded spot. When they finally do, he takes her hand and asks her, “What’s on your mind?”
Draco has never once asked her this, and she finds she doesn’t know what to say. “Would you have asked me if you didn’t have to?”
“What?”
“To the ball.” She threads her fingers in his. “Would you have asked me if your parents hadn’t told you to? Or would you rather have gone with somebody else?”
Draco blinks. “Who else would I go with?”
Pansy shrugs and says, “I don’t know. Daphne?”
“Blaise already asked her.”
“Millicent?” Pansy suggests.
He makes a face. “Millicent’s a toad. And a half blood.”
“So I’m just… the best available option?”
“Er…” He tilts his head like he’s trying to figure out what she means. “Yes? And you’re my betrothed.”
“But what if I weren’t?” She suddenly needs to know the answer to this question. “If you could ask anyone you wanted,” she continues desperately, squeezing his hand, “anyone at all, and it didn’t matter what your parents thought. Would you have asked me then?”
He looks down at their shoes. She holds her breath while she waits for his answer. Finally, he shrugs. “What does it matter?” he asks, looking back up. He pulls their fingers apart, and her heart breaks. “I’m here with you now. Aren’t you having a nice time?”
“All you can talk about is Harry Potter. All you ever talk about is Harry Potter.” Her breath is coming shallow now. She’s starting to feel it: the nerves, the panic that was washed away by the sheer joy of being here with him. Joy he doesn’t share.
“So… what are you saying?” Fury creeps into his voice, tightening the lines on his face. “You think I’d rather be here with Potter?” He scoffs. “I wouldn’t be caught dead dancing with Potter. He’s a sh*t dancer.”
“Yes,” says Pansy, feeling furious herself, “but you want to dance with him anyway.”
A dark look passes over him. He pulls her in by the elbow and hisses, “What are you accusing me of?”
“You’re obsessed with Potter,” she whispers. “You always have been.”
“So, what? That makes me bent?”
This is dangerous. Pansy doesn’t care. “Well, are you?” she challenges.
His eyes flash, and he raises a hand. Pansy prepares herself for a slap that doesn’t come. When he speaks, his voice is low and wavering with anger. “You should be very, very careful what you accuse the Malfoy heir of, Miss Parkinson. Your good standing in society is not as steady as you think it is.”
He lowers the hand. Pansy glares at him with tears in her eyes.
“I’m going to do you a favor,” says Draco, “and pretend this conversation never happened. If I hear a word of this again, I will do so much worse than hit you.” His threat made, he straightens his robes, and a cool mask slips into place. She can still see hints of his anger around the edges, though. “Now, you are going to take my arm, return to the ball, dance with me, and smile and laugh and pretend you are having the time of your life, because you are my date, and that is what is expected of you. Do you understand?”
Pansy swallows and nods. He leads her back into the ball, and she wills away the tears. Why did she think he was going to kiss her? Why did she want him to? Is she just as guilty in this as he is, of only doing this because it’s what their parents want? Is Pansy even capable of wanting anything for herself, or is she just a marionette on strings waiting for her limbs to be pulled in a specter of some bizarre dance?
It’s probably the worst night of her life, but Pansy does as she’s told and pretends she is having a great time. Daphne is the only one that can tell she’s laughing too loudly, that her painted smile’s as fake as they come. She shoots Pansy a couple worried glances but says nothing. When the Weird Sisters come on stage, they flail their arms together and sway with the crowd, and it’s almost loud enough to drown out Pansy’s thoughts.
Whatever Draco does or doesn’t do is inconsequential. He doesn’t mean a thing to her.
Later that night, when they're back in their dorm and Daphne asks her what happened with Draco, all Pansy says is, “He didn’t kiss me.”
There’s a question and real concern in Daphne’s eyes, but she only nods. When she leans in and kisses Pansy on the cheek, tears spring to Pansy’s eyes. “You deserve better,” Daphne whispers, “than some prick who doesn’t see your value. It might be what you get stuck with anyway, but always remember that it’s not what you deserve.”
Pansy sniffles. “What difference does it make?”
Daphne shrugs and replies, “Maybe it doesn’t make a difference to anyone else. But it’s important to me that you know that, because you’re important to me. And I won’t have my best friend thinking she’s worthless cause some stupid boy made her cry.”
The first tear falls, and Pansy says, “He is a stupid boy.”
“The stupidest,” Daphne agrees, and pulls her in for a hug that is far too tight.
After the Yule Ball, things are… stilted. Pansy’s mother writes her asking how it went, and she’s not sure what to say. She writes back:
Dearest Mother,
The Yule Ball was not what I expected. Draco was a perfect gentleman, of course. I’m just not sure we have a future together. I don’t see myself with him, Mother. Do you suppose I might find a better match elsewhere?
With love,
Pansy
The reply is swift. The morning Pansy gets it, she shoves it into her robes at breakfast and then runs all the way back to the dorm without a protesting Daphne to read it behind bed curtains spelled shut.
My flower,
You are doing such a wonderful job. This may not be what you want to hear, but it is very important that you continue as you are.
I know this may not make sense to you at this age, but marrying well is truly the best thing a woman can do for herself. You do not have to love Draco. You only have to respect him and honor him. The arrangement will continue as planned. Please try to make your peace with this. I understand it may be difficult. But there are things that are expected of us as women, and we must comply.
I know I don’t speak of this often, but things were very difficult for our family after your father’s accident. He left you the only Parkinson heir, and as such, there are duties you are expected to fulfill. If you do not, the consequences for us both will be harsh and swift. This world is not kind to unmarriageable women. Please remember all that I have taught you, and do not become one.
You are the most precious thing to me. All I have done is for your benefit. Please be strong, my love. Things will get better. Once you are married, you will be safe, and that is all a mother wants for her child.
Lean on your friends. Lean on me. We will support you, and you will get through this. All will be well if you do as you are told. And if you do not, it will be the end of us.
All my love,
Lady Aloisa Parkinson
Pansy cries. She is so certain that has already ruined everything. Draco is not speaking to her. The Malfoys will not overlook this. She has disappointed her mother.
For the rest of the holidays, Pansy mopes about the dungeons, inconsolable. At least she does not have to attend the New Years’ Gala at the Malfoys, since she did not travel home for the break. When they return to classes, Pansy is expecting Draco to keep avoiding her like the plague. But he sits next to her at breakfast that morning, and she stares open-mouthed at him for a moment before his pointed glare has her snapping her jaw shut.
“Good morning, Pansy,” he says, holding out his hand expectantly.
Baffled, she places her hand in his. He kisses her fingers and lets her go.
They don’t speak of the Yule Ball at all. It’s like nothing ever happened. It’s the best possible outcome Pansy could have expected. And she was not expecting it, not at all. She thought he would be angry, ignore her, write his parents and call off their engagement. But perhaps he really meant it, when he said he would forget the conversation?
Pansy is nervous all day that he’s suddenly going to round on her and tell her he never wants to speak to her again. When she gets back to the dorm after classes, all the pent-up energy comes out of her, and she screams into her pillow. Then she laughs wildly. Maybe everything is actually going to be fine.
It seems fine, on the surface. But Draco doesn’t mention Harry Potter nearly as much as he used to, and whenever anyone else does, he claims to be bored of talking about the unexpected second Hogwarts champion and changes the subject.
Everything is mostly normal, after that. Until the Dark Lord is reborn.
Pansy doesn’t know where her father’s sympathies truly lay before his death, and Mother has always refused to speak of the war. But it’s certain that he’s back, Draco all but confirms it, and Daphne and Pansy have a whispered conversation about it in Pansy’s bed after curfew one night.
“What about your grandparents?” Daphne asks.
“Nanny Parkinson lived with us for a while, before she died. She used to rave about all kinds of things, but I don’t remember anything about the Dark Lord in there. She did think Muggles were going to steal and eat me, though.” Daphne snorts, and a brief smile turns Pansy’s lips. “The rest of Mother’s family is still in Norway. Only see them in the summers, usually for Litha. They’re not all keyed into politics, and we’ve never spoken about it.”
Daphne nods. “Greengrasses are neutral all the way back. Never went Dark or Light. Always just sitting on the edge, waiting it out. Everyone knows Mum’s family has ties to two Dark Lords, though she’s neutral herself. I imagine they’ll try to keep us out of it, but… I guess it depends how desperate they are for recruits.”
“But you and Astoria are girls. He won’t go after you.”
“But you’re marrying Draco Malfoy.” Daphne gives her a worried look. “He might take a second look at you just for that. Would you…? I mean, if he did want you?”
Pansy thinks about it and decides, “It probably won’t be up to me, either way. Still, I’d rather not get caught up in all of it, considering how it went last time.”
Daphne bites her lips. “Do you think Potter and his ilk can win again?”
“Potter? Potter’s an idiot,” Pansy says with confidence. “Dumbledore’s who I’m worried about.”
“So you do want… the Dark Lord to be victorious?”
Pansy sighs. “I don’t know. Would it be a better world? Maybe. But it’s going to cost a lot of death to get there. I just hope the Malfoys make it through, either way.”
“I don’t,” says Daphne flatly.
Pansy gasps and shoves her. “Don’t say that about my betrothed!”
“Draco’s a prick.” Daphne holds her arms out to fend off further attacks. “He made you cry! Why do you care?”
“Lady Malfoy is really nice,” Pansy protests.
“Yeah, a really nice lady who raised a f*cking spoiled little blonde prick.”
Pansy moves to smack her, and Daphne leans back. So Pansy moves closer. Eventually Daphne leans too far and ends up falling off the bed with a squeal that wakes Tracey and Millicent. They both say their apologies, and the other girls, grumbling, go back to bed. Pansy and Daphne giggle to themselves, the serious nature of their conversation forgotten, and sleep in their respective beds.
When Pansy goes home for the summer, her mother won’t hear any talk about the Dark Lord. And it’s mostly the same at school the next year. It’s not until he appears at the Ministry that people start to talk like he’s really back. Arriving back on the platform after fifth year has ended, Mother wraps her up tight and doesn’t let go.
“Mother,” Pansy tries, but she still holds on. “Mother, you’re suffocating me.”
“My baby,” says Mother. “My flower.” She finally pulls away, smoothing Pansy’s hair down with tears in her eyes. “Let’s get you home.”
“Of course, Mother,” says Pansy, wondering what this is all about.
She gets her answer after they arrive home to Carrahainn, and Mother pulls her directly from the parlor all the way to the cellar and sets several wards on the door before she finally turns to Pansy. Pansy’s heart is beating hard, about to burst out of her chest if someone doesn’t tell her what is going on.
“Pansy,” says Mother, “we need to talk.”
“About what?” Pansy demands.
“The Dark Lord.”
Pansy sits herself on the floor in between crates of grains and jars of sauces, feeling like she is about to faint. “Okay,” she says shakily. “Okay, talk.”
Mother kneels down to her level. “What I say never leaves this room.”
“Fine.”
“Swear it.”
“I s-swear.” Dammit. Pansy swallows thickly. “I swear.”
“You know the Dark Lord has returned.”
For a moment, all Pansy wants to do is roll her eyes. “Mother, I told you that last year. The Malfoys knew! Didn’t you ever talk about it?”
Mother huffs and says, “Narcissa and I don’t talk about such things. It’s not for ladies to say what their husbands may or may not get up to.”
“Alright, so.” Pansy shrugs numbly. “What, am I to take the Mark?”
A horrified look crosses Mother’s face, and she pales several shades. “Never. You’re my girl, you will never. I am not signing us up for a war.”
Pansy lets out a shaky sigh of relief. “What about Draco? The Malfoys, Lucius Malfoy, he served him in the First-”
“Never speak of that!” Mother insists. “We will not cast aspersions on the Malfoy name.”
“But everyone knows already!” Pansy protests. “It’s all around school, he’s back, he’s going to Mark the students like he did last time-”
“Pansy!” Pansy flinches when Mother takes her by the shoulders. “We do not speak of this outside this room. I never want to hear the Dark Lord’s name in your mouth. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Mother,” says Pansy obediently.
“We do not talk about who is or is not serving him. We do not talk about the Mark. We do not talk about any of this, because it is not our business, and we are staying out of it.”
“Yes, okay, I’ll stay out of it.” Mother breathes a sigh of relief and lets her go. But Pansy has to ask, “But Mother, what about Draco? He doesn’t get to stay out of it.”
Mother stiffly stands from her position on the floor, dusting off her knees and regaining some of her composure. “That is not your concern. The wedding will continue on as planned, when you are old enough and when it is appropriate.”
“The wedding?” Pansy repeats. “Mother, the wedding? There’s a war on!”
“When it is appropriate,” Mother says again. She clears her throat and fixes her hair. “Life goes on through war, dear. And we made a promise. Parkinsons keep their promises. The only thing that has changed is that you are no longer permitted to visit Malfoy Manor.”
Pansy frowns. “Why not?”
“Don’t worry about that. You will see Draco at school, as you usually do. He will be busy this summer.”
Busy doing work for the Dark Lord, Pansy doesn’t say.
“Now.” Mother holds a hand out to her, once again the Mother Pansy remembers. “Up you get. Ladies do not sit on the floor.”
Pansy looks up at her mother, unable to comprehend this. “That’s all you’re going to say about it?”
“That is all either of us will ever say about it,” Mother corrects. She motions for Pansy to take her hand. “Up.”
With one last sigh, Pansy takes her mother’s hand. She’s not sure what to make of this thoroughly unhinged conversation, though she supposes she is glad they did talk about it. Mother has shut down every other attempt at conversation and probably will again. Pansy’s never seen Mother afraid before. It’s unsettling. Pansy has always known her mother as an unshakeable rock. She’s not sure she likes this Dark Lord business at all.
It’s a quiet summer. Daphne visits Carrahainn for two weeks, as she usually does, and the first time she tries to talk about the war Pansy silences her with a look. Daphne is smart. She’s not as bewildered as Pansy to find there are Things Ladies Do Not Talk About and that this apparently includes the rise of the Dark Lord and the overtaking of the Ministry. They are supposed to sit by and drink their tea and ignore that it is happening altogether.
So. That is what they do. Pansy takes hers with cream and a cube of sugar, thank you very much, and isn’t it beautiful weather we’re having?
Something happens to Draco that summer. Pansy has a good guess about some of it, but the rest is a mystery. On the train he brags about his family’s connection to the Dark Lord, and for whatever reason, he does it with his head in Pansy’s lap. He just sighs and lays down like that, like they’re really together and not just constantly pushed at one another by their parents. Pansy… is surprised by how much she likes him like this. Carding her fingers through his silver-blonde hair feels intimate in a way they’ve never been, even with the hand-kisses and a peck on the cheek on the platform at the end of fifth year. She doesn’t know why he’s letting her do it all of a sudden. It’s as if he just needs the comfort and knows she’ll give it.
Is that what she is to him? Comfort? Familiarity? Pansy can’t imagine what it’s like being ordered around by a dark wizard all the time, can’t imagine that the Dark Lord is nice to be around even if you’re on his side. She never wants to find out. But if this is what Draco needs, she can be this for him. She can be the girl he holds on to, a steady hand in the unsteady world that’s unfolding before them.
There are lot of little intimacies this year. He holds her hand when they walk to classes; when they study late in the common room, sometimes he lays his head on her shoulder. He asks her to Hogsmeade the week of Valentine’s Day, and she’s so surprised she gapes at him for a moment before hastily accepting.
She’s fretting over what to wear that morning, and Daphne is uncharacteristically ill-mannered about the whole thing. “What do you think of the navy blue?” asks Pansy, holding the robes up to her chest.
“Lovely,” says Daphne, not looking up from her textbook.
“You’re not even looking.”
“I’ve already seen them.”
Pansy makes a pained noise. “You’re right. Draco’s already seen me in all of these. I need something new. I’ll have to go to Diagon, do you think I can make it back in time? I’ll be a little late, sure, but-”
“Pansy,” says Daphne with a sigh. “What does it matter? You know Draco won’t give a sh*t what you wear either way.”
She turns to Daphne with a hurt look. The other girl’s jaw is set. “What do you mean? He liked my Yule Ball robes.”
“Yeah, and he was still a dick to you all night.” Daphne’s book snaps shut, and she sits up fully on her bed, gesticulating with her hands. “He’s always going to be a dick. Why do you care so much about impressing him?”
“He’s my betrothed,” says Pansy weakly.
Daphne gives her a very long, very dramatic eye roll. “Yes, his parents are forcing him to marry you. It doesn’t mean he likes you.”
Tears spring to Pansy’s eyes. “Why are you being so cruel?” she whispers.
“I’m just trying to inject a little reality into the situation,” says Daphne harshly. “Every time he so much as gives you a sideways glance you start mooning over him again. It’s an arranged marriage. You don’t have to like each other. So why are you so concerned about what he thinks of you?”
“I just…” Pansy lets the robes fall onto the bed. “I just want to be loved. Is that so wrong?”
A pained expression crosses Daphne’s face. In a flash, she’s up and wrapping her arms around Pansy. “You are loved,” she says into Pansy’s hair. “You don’t need some boy to love you. You are loved.”
Pansy cries in her best friend’s arms, not sure what the tears are for, exactly. Daphne rubs her back and whispers soothing words. Maybe she’s right. Maybe Pansy imagines she’s living in a fairy tale and Draco’s going to sweep her off her feet one day like she’s a real princess. Maybe it’s time to inject a little reality and stop pretending that Draco will ever feel anything for her.
She ends up in Slytherin green, and Draco’s all in black, looking like a dark prince. But he’s not her prince. Only princesses get princes, and Pansy is nothing more than a prized cow. She puts on a smile when he kisses her hand and lets him lead her down the path into Hogsmeade, feeling the sting of the wind and wishing she could go back to believing it’s not all a performance.
“Pansy? Are you listening?”
“Hmm?” Pansy pulls herself out of her thoughts. “I’m sorry, Draco. What was that?”
He stops walking, and since their hands are linked, she comes to a halt beside him. His eyes search hers, and uncomfortable with the scrutiny, she looks away. His long, pale fingers come up under her chin, gently tilting her face back up. And then he’s moving closer, and before she knows it, his lips are on hers.
Pansy has imagined her first kiss many times. She and Daphne used to spend hours talking about it, even partially acting it out with Daphne as the prince and Pansy as the princess. They’d pretend Daphne had rescued her from a tower guarded by a dragon and woken her up from a deep sleep with a kiss (on the forehead). Sometimes they’d be dancing, and Daphne would twirl her around and dip her, then tap their noses together and giggle. Pansy thought of how romantic it would be, to be well and truly kissed for the very first time.
She always imagined it would be with Draco. She just didn’t think it would catch her so much by surprise. She thought there’d be some lead-up to it: a romantic setting, a little flirting, he’d tell her how beautiful she was and how much he’d been wanting to kiss her all night. She didn’t imagine it would be halfway to Hogsmeade on a cold day in February, completely out of nowhere.
It’s over before she can really respond to it, and Pansy can feel how wide her eyes are when he pulls away. Draco tilts his head, observing her reaction silently.
“What was that for?” she breathes.
He lifts his shoulders slightly in a gentle shrug. “Just wanted to.”
“Why?” Pansy shakes her head, trying to clear it. “I mean… you’ve never kissed me before.”
“It’s past time, don’t you think? We’ve been betrothed since we were four. If I’m going to marry you, I want to know what kissing you is like.”
Pansy belatedly flushes a deep red. “What was it like?”
He smiles softly and says, “It was nice. I think I’ll do it again sometime. If that’s alright.”
All Pansy can do is nod mutely. He takes her hand again, and they finish their walk in silence. He leads her to Honeydukes, where he buys her chocolate, and then to The Three Broomsticks, where they sip on butterbeers with his arm around her shoulders. Pansy tries to remember what Daphne said. She tries to remember it isn’t real, none of it. But the way he’s looking at her… it feels real.
She finds herself staring at his lips when he talks, wondering what it would be like to kiss him properly. On some mad impulse, she surges forward when he’s in the middle of saying something, and their mouths crash together. He makes a surprised gasp, then pulls her in closer. It’s messy and a little awkward, but when he reaches out with his tongue and licks into her mouth, Pansy finds she doesn’t care at all. His taste is addictive. She doesn’t want to stop.
Eventually, she has to come up for air. When she pulls away his pupils are dilated, hair mussed from where she ran her fingers through it. Pansy takes several deep breaths, their heads still leaned in close, and Draco runs the back of his fingers over her cheek.
“What was that for?” he asks, echoing her words from earlier.
A giggle escapes her. “Just wanted to,” she replies.
Daphne was wrong. Draco likes her. He must! He kisses her like he does. And it’s wonderful, and they do it more, pecks in the common room and a couple of proper snogs behind the Quidditch stands now that he’s not playing anymore. Pansy likes kissing him, likes it so much she doesn’t even question it. Who cares what started it? Who cares why he’s doing it? It feels good, and he wants her, and the rest is inconsequential.
Daphne disapproves of the whole thing. She doesn’t say as much, but Pansy can tell by the way she sighs whenever Pansy brings it up, the fake way she smiles and nods along and says, ‘Hmm, fascinating.’ But Pansy doesn’t see what could possibly be wrong with it. They’re going to be married, after all, they might as well like each other.
The night the Death Eaters come into the castle, the Slytherin sixth-year girls stay huddled together in their dorm and stay out of it, as they’ve been told to do. Draco disappears, and there are mad rumors flying about, and Pansy doesn’t know what to believe. She wants to ask someone about it, but she’s not supposed to talk about it at all, and how’s she going to keep that up when the war’s in full swing?
Seventh year is… Well. Different. The castle’s different. Lessons are different. There are fewer students than there should be, and even if she’s mostly grown out of picking on Hermione Granger, she misses it now that she can’t. Potter and his two favorite lackeys are on the run, most likely. She would be if she were them. But she’s a pureblood without having any Death Eater ties, which as probably as safe as you can get in this war. Both sides leave her alone, for the most part.
She doesn’t do the same, of course. She follows Draco’s lead, as always, which means targeting any of Potter’s known associates that are left and generally giving them a miserable time of it. Daphne doesn’t speak to her much that year, except to say she doesn’t like this side of Pansy the war’s brought out. Pansy asks her what that means, but Daphne just gives her a pitying look and doesn’t answer. Whatever. Daphne’s just jealous she doesn’t have someone like Draco.
He doesn’t confide in her. It’s not as if she expects him to, really; they’re not close like that. They’re sort of dating, if you still count the stretches of time where doesn’t seem to want to talk to her or anyone at all. He’s a different person in public than he is in private, and Pansy starts to think of it as two different sides of him: the one the world sees, and the one she sees. In front of other people, he is as proud and cruel as ever, a ringleader befitting his title of Head Boy under the Death Eater regime. In private, he’s withdrawn. He seeks out her comfort occasionally, and she gives it. But there are times when they’re alone together and they just sit in silence with his head in her lap while she plays with his hair and she thinks: he’s sad. He’s maybe more than sad, depressed even.
Mental illness is one of those Things Ladies Do Not Talk About, so she doesn’t mention it to anyone, especially Draco. She’s just there for him when he needs it, quiet comfort in the ever-darkening world around them. She would say they’ve grown closer except that he always seems to keep her at an emotional distance. The only time he comes alive is when they kiss, really kiss, really deeply. Pansy starts to develop a theory.
When he comes back from Yule, Draco seems like he’s aged several years. The Sunday before they’re due back at class, Pansy decides to test her theory. She takes him to abandoned classroom and conjures a sofa. She instructs him to lay down, which he does without question, and climbs on top of him. She quietly unbuttons his shirt and splays a hand across his chest. It wakes him out of whatever stupor he’s in, his grey eyes wide and roving over her body.
Pansy leans her head down and lets her dark, pin-straight hair fall between them. “Do you want me?” she asks. “Here, like this?”
“We shouldn’t,” he says, but his eyes are dark with desire. “It’s not proper.”
She smirks and says, “I don’t care what’s proper.” She bends her head to trail hot kisses over his chest, sucking and biting. “We’re going to be married anyway,” she murmurs into his skin. “What’s the harm? I know the contraceptive spells. And I know how to keep a secret.”
When she reaches down and tweaks his nipple, his hips buck up beneath her. The contact makes her gasp. “Are you sure you want this?” he asks breathlessly. “With me?”
“I don’t want it with anyone but you,” she replies honestly, because it’s true. It’s only ever been him, in her dreams. In the quiet nights with a silencing charm over the curtains, when she touches herself, it’s Draco she’s thinking of. The way he’d feel inside her. Those long, pale fingers rubbing circles into her cl*t. His mouth, everywhere. She is rather obsessed with his mouth.
His hand grasps her hair and tugs her down, hard, against his lips. He’s not gentle with her. It’s like there’s something wild in him he needs to get out. He leaves bruises on her throat, and she digs her nails into his back. He sets a merciless pace, thrusts so hard and deep that she sees stars behind her eyes, and when she screams his name he growls like some animal.
He holds her after, which she’s not expecting. She’s sweaty, too-warm and utterly spent. He wanted me, she thinks. I made him come. It satisfies something deep within her, quiets every anxiety she’s ever had about him and about the act itself. He let her touch him, let her see him, and if she thought she was addicted before there’s no going back now. Now that she knows this is what it feels like, she’s going to want it all the time.
They find a rhythm, together. When Draco needs a release, he knows he can find it with her. She doesn’t fool herself into thinking it’s any more than that. They still barely speak. There are things he can’t say, things she can’t hear. But when he’s buried in her, when he’s holding her on his chest and she’s moving up and down with his breath, the mantra of it’s not real, it’s not real starts to sound hollow.
She doesn’t tell Daphne. She doesn’t want to hear what the other girl would think of it. As much as Pansy wants nothing more than to grab her best friend by the shoulders and say I told you so, I told you he wanted me, she knows it wouldn’t make a difference. Daphne doesn’t like Draco, for whatever reason, and she wouldn’t be happy to hear it. No matter how close they’ve gotten over the years, no matter how once upon a time Pansy thought she could go to Daphne with anything. She doesn’t tell her.
And then Potter’s there.
Pansy’s terrified. It’s all she can think about, the only thing she can feel. Draco’s not here, and it seems like there’s going to be an actual battle, and she’s scared for him and scared for herself and she just wants it all to stop. So when the Dark Lord offers to not fight at all if Potter just hands himself over, she doesn’t think twice. She yells for someone to grab him, only to find herself faced with the rest of Hogwarts defending the stupid boy. Fine. If they want to die for him, let them. Pansy’s not putting her life on the line for anyone.
In the end, she doesn’t know who she hopes will win. She’s not sure she likes the world the Dark Lord is creating, but if it means Draco will be safe, then he can have at it. Kill all the Muggles, she never liked them. Do away with the Muggleborns too, especially that Granger. She doesn’t care. As long as Draco’s safe. Just let Draco live through it.
She clings to Daphne while the battle rages on, the distance between them forgotten in the wake of their terror. When they finally get word that it’s over and Potter’s won, Potter’s defeated the Dark Lord again, Pansy cries. No one can tell her what happened to Draco. She goes home to Carrahainn, and she doesn’t learn of his fate until weeks later.
There’s to be a trial. But at least that means he’s alive.
Mother doesn’t want her to attend, but she’s called as a character witness, and there’s no choice. She’s his betrothed. Not speaking on his behalf would be damning. When she seems him there, chained up, the first time she’s seen him in months, the tears immediately spring to her eyes. She can hardly get through her testimony.
“Your name, please, for the record.”
“Pansy Parkinson.”
“Your relation to the accused?”
“I’m his…” She blinks, doesn’t let the tears fall. “Betrothed.”
There’s murmuring in the courtroom. The Acting Minister bangs his gavel.
“How long have you known him?”
She meets the eyes of the defender, but there’s no sympathy to be found there. Not an ounce of pity that her fiance is accused of murder and treason, among other things. “All my life,” she answers, swallowing hard.
“And what would you say of his character?”
Pansy looks at Draco, whose eyes are on the floor. He’s never looked so defeated. “Draco’s first loyalty is to his family. He never forgot where he came from. Some might call it arrogance, but I think… it’s important, to remember who came before us. Because it shapes who we are.”
He asks her question after question about Draco’s character, his motivations, what he was like at school. It doesn’t feel like even he’s on Draco’s side. She’s been coached how to answer, and she’s able to get through it all without shedding a tear. But this is the defense. When it’s time for the cross-examination, the prosecution tears into her.
“How long have you been engaged to the accused?”
“Since we were four,” Pansy answers.
“An arrangement set up by your parents, yes?”
“Yes.”
“So you had no choice in the matter.”
Pansy purses her lips and says, “No.”
“Are you familiar with a witch named Hermione Granger?”
Pansy winces. “Yes. We were classmates.”
“And what was the nature of your relationship with Ms. Granger?”
“I was… I teased her for being Muggleborn.”
“Why?”
She doesn’t know what to say to that. No one has ever asked her why. “I was taught that Muggleborns were less powerful than purebloods. A belief I no longer hold,” she adds quickly.
“What was your nickname for Ms. Granger?”
“Mudblood,” she whispers.
The prosecutor raises his eyebrows. “I’m sorry, Miss Parksinson, can you repeat that louder, please?”
“Mudblood,” she says clearly. More murmuring.
“Did the accused use this nickname as well?”
She was told not to lie, but she desperately wants to. She hesitates, but answers, “Yes.”
“Were you present at the Battle of Hogwarts?”
“Yes,” she replies shakily. She knows what they’re going to ask next.
“Did you hear the message Voldemort sent before the battle?”
She flinches at the use of the Dark Lord’s name. “Yes.”
“Recount it, to the best of your memory.”
“He wanted Harry Potter. He wanted us to give him Harry Potter.”
“And what was your reaction to this message?”
Pansy closes her eyes. That stupid thing she said is going to hurt Draco, now, and she can’t stop it. “I saw Potter in the hall, and I said…” She looks at Draco, but he doesn’t look up. “I said someone should grab him.”
“To hand over to Voldemort?”
“Yes.” This isn’t common knowledge. The courtroom explodes with it. Draco meets her eyes for a second, just a split second, and she sees betrayal there. “I’m sorry,” she croaks, but there’s no way he can hear her over the din. “I wasn’t thinking.”
“Order!” The Acting Minister bangs the gavel again. “Order! Miss Parkinson is not on trial here.”
“Maybe she should be!” someone shouts, Pansy doesn’t catch who.
Pansy wishes her mother were here. She wishes there was any comfort to be found in this courtroom, but there isn’t. Her testimony concludes, and she takes a seat in the stands. The next witness is called, who turns out to be none other than Harry Potter, testifying on behalf of the defense.
He spins a story Pansy has never heard, about Draco and Bellatrix Lestrange at Malfoy Manor. She wonders when this was. Maybe there’s hope, maybe they’ll listen to Potter. He’s their savior, after all. Just as the defense is about to wrap up, he adds something Pansy definitely didn’t ask him for.
“And just for the record…” He searches the courtroom for her, meets her eyes. “I don’t blame his fiance either. For what she said at the battle. She just wanted to protect the people she loves.”
I don’t love him, she wants to scream at Potter, because only a fool would love Draco Malfoy. She may be a fool, too, but she doesn’t love him. And she doesn’t cry when the verdict is delivered: seizure of Malfoy Manor, required to repeat seventh year, probation for four years after. Not Azkaban. Not the Kiss. The press doesn’t get a picture of her crying, it’s not run in the Prophet the next morning, and Daphne doesn’t appear at Carrahainn the next week with tears in her eyes and ‘sorry’s whispered into Pansy’s hair.
Pansy doesn’t love Draco Malfoy, but she does marry him a year later. They move into the Malfoys’ summer home, Swan Cove, and they try to move on. They try for a child, as if that will help matters. They have Daphne over every so often, but few other visitors. Nobody wants to talk to the people that lost the war.
Pansy counts herself lucky to have what she does. Lucky that Draco stayed out of Azkaban, lucky that their families haven’t been entirely ruined. It’s not much, but they make it work, and it’s livable.
Until Draco starts Auror training. Know who else is in Auror training? Harry f*cking Potter.
