A/N: The last day of Hogwarts Draco and Pansy talk in an empty corridor. This is my very fun, long, rambling session. So it is not interesting. And the characters aren't just right, but I still like it and enjoyed writing it. I aimed for melancholy but I don't think I succeeded. Nevertheless though. Lotta fragments in this fic, and many sentences begin with 'And' but as said before, my grammar's awful. So there. *blows raspberry*
Disclaimer: All characters and settings (ect. ect) belong to JK Rowling.
*
"I can't believe it," she says, "our last day."
And he chuckles, a low chuckle. Because it was just so stereotypical that it almost came across as clever.
"I know," he says with a nod. "I'm happy it's over."
"As am I," she says as the wind whips her ebony hair making it appear wavy. "As am I."
"You'll miss it, won't you?" He asks, as he looks up at the clear sky. The cloud overhead reminds him of acid pops with an overload of acid powder.
"No," she says shortly and he knows she does not mean it.
"Well..." he says "...I think the good thing is that we don't need to work."
"Oh it'll be fun," she says, her voice covered in sarcasm, "hanging around the manor doing nothing at all. Getting money from the people I hate and going to balls and such."
"Don't pity yourself," he says shortly. "You think it isn't like that for me as well?"
She scowls. He was supposed to take pity on her, and he never had before. He never played into it.
"It isn't my bloody fault I'm a Parkinson. I just want to you know-" she waves her hands about, terribly inarticulate "-whatever."
"Yeah," he says with a smirk in her direction. She smirks back and sits down, her back against the wall.
He sits down beside her, close, but never too close. Then as an afterthought he adds, "you wanna work?"
The young lady smiles slightly and her scarlet eyes bore into his diamond ones. "I don't know what I want, Nolan."
"I do," he says hoarsely. "I know what I want."
"People should know what they want," she says dully. "I don't want to live with them--" them referring to her parents, obviously.
"Buck up, love," he says and his voice softens slightly. "You can always come live with me."
"No," she shakes her head, "no, I don't think I can."'
And he doesn't ask questions.
"'member this used to always be our snogging spot?" She asks, out of the blue. He smiles wanly.
"How could I forget?"
"You could," she says, almost bitterly. "Bet you snogged loads of girls up here. Nothing new, right?"
"Nah," he says, "this was our spot."
"It wasn't classy," she smiles. "I shudder to think how horribly undignified it was," and she remains her stiff upper lip as she coughs.
"It didn't have to be classy," he says.
"It was supposed to be," she says. "You were supposed to kiss me, long and well. Really well. Not like 'I've got to go to Potion's now.' And your breath wasn't supposed to smell like rum, and smoke wasn't supposed to be on your velvet robe. You sort of--" and she pauses, thinking for the words "--soiled the fairytale for me..."
He would've looked guilty--but since this was basically impossible--he did not.
"Oh Cee," he says, annoyed. "Oh Cee."
"You already said that."
"For emphasis," he smiles. "Let's face it, neither of us is 'fairytale' material," and his voice is not one of pity or compassion. Rather 'this is the way it goes.'
"I've got a tiara," she says, "and you have expensive dress robes."
His brittle laugh rings throughout the distance and she giggles.
"You're so childish, Cee," he says.
"But who can blame me?" She says with a wry smile. "You've babied me my whole life."
And her voice is tinted with sarcasm.
"I don't think I've ever babied you," he says sincerely. "You are such an equal to me, Cee..."
"That means a lot," she says tugging on a stray strand of hair, "...coming from you."
He smirks slightly and adjusts his green and silver tie, retying it. "Last day," he says.
"Last day," she repeats.
And any who would have seen them would've insisted that it would've been the best time for him to reach out for her hand. And he didn't.
"Scared?" He asks.
"Do I have reason to be?" She says shortly, and doesn't wait for the response, "no. No, I don't have reason to be."
"I...I think you do," he says with a nod. "Really."
"The world, Nolan. I have come to learn is that it's quite tough. But that's always what the weak says," her voice is condescending, like an adult talking to children.
He doesn't respond.
"We're silly people, you and I," she gestures. "We aren't weak."
"Why is that silly?" He asks.
"Nolan," she says impatiently, "it's rare to find a strong person these days."
He simply smiles and nods lacking conviction. "You'll be good...Cee," he says.
"What's that supposed to mean?" She asks, and even though she's never been articulate she's always been good at cross-examining.
"You'll make it," he affirms.
And part of her is happy, and part of her is disappointed. Just 'make it' no one wanted to 'just make it.'
"Right," she says. "Right."
"It's stunning out here, isn't it?" He asks, conversationally.
"Sure is," she says with a glare at the sky. "Remember that time we got caught in the rain?"
"I'll always remember the time we got caught in the rain," he says. "We were outside, on the Quidditch Pitch. And I was trying to teach you how to fly, and you were so bloody awful at it and I was getting so frustrated with you--"
"--and we still continued," she interjects.
"Yeah, we just couldn't end it like that. And you even had MY broom, I mean, it's the best broom in all of wizarding England," says he. "So the rain began to pour and we kept at it until you got it. Then we had t to run inside the Great Hall."
"--and you carried me," she laughs. "You carried me in the rain as you ran."
"Yes," he says. "Yes."
"And I didn't want you to either. I wanted to run by myself, I was perfectly able, you know. But you insisted on carrying me in your arms."
"Yeah Cee," he says nonchalantly, "some things are like that."
"Look at that cloud," she points above to the ceiling that is charmed to take the appearance of the outside. "It looks just like an acid pop that was manufactured wrong. You know the kind that have too much acid powder in them."
"It does!"
She takes out a silky purse from behind her back and undoes the button, taking out two acid pops. "Here," she hands him one, "I asked for the special kind we always have."
"You're amazing," he says, accepted it gratefully.
"I know," she says as she licks on hers.
She crosses her ankles and his legs remain stiff.
She would like to say that she is ready and excited and that she is perfectly capable of taking care of herself...but she isn't. She would like to say that she loves him like she loves her very own owl. But she can't. She would like to say that she thinks him the strongest person in ages, and that she knows he'll be a star. In reality she is the same eleven-year-old girl who is tired and weary and SO exhausted. In reality she still likes to believe that he is her Prince with lovely eyes and smutty jokes.
And maybe, in reality, he is.
There are many things rushing through his head. Many things he'd just love to tell her, because he feels she needs to hear them. Many unspoken words. He'd quite like to tell her that she is stellar and lovely. And he'd like to tell her that she has made a large mark in his existence and forever and a day he will not forget her. And he may try. There's another thing he'd like to tell her...she hasn't changed much.
They always tell you that people change and people die and some live on for ages. But the thing is, neither Draco nor Pansy had changed much. They were very much so still children. Children with bright eyes and dull hopes and dreams. Children that loved saying 'no' to their parents and loved falling asleep on textbooks. Children that claimed to know so much about everything and really did not. And they were children who often bit the hands that fed them and denied responsibility and revolted against authority. They were materialistic and vain, rude and uncompromising. And you could call them this, or you could just call them Pansy and Draco.
He looked at her. And she still had gold stars in her scarlet eyes and her charcoal colored hair still got in her eyes often. The young girl still fit into a short cloak that was made in France. The velvet was wearing out and a small hole, from jumping over a tall fence remained. He remembered that hole. She probably did as well. Her shoes were black with green bows, girly green bows. Pretty green. But they were scuffed, and her Mummy and Daddy hated that, and she did not care. She never did, either. Her fingernails were long and french-manicured; they were the only pretty thing about her, really. And a jade bow held up her messy uncombed hair. She could never be seen as beautiful, for she was not. But she was often 'cute' even if she did deny it. She'd much rather be 'sexy' or something of the sort.
And she gazed back at him. His sugary blond hair still wavered into his eyes, the color of pencil lead. His cheeks were reddened from the heat in the empty corridor. A long cloak with serpent clasp hung loosely to his body. He was Draco Malfoy. On the bottom of one of his boots was carved her name, in slow messy cursive. It read 'Pansy' and she had done that just a few years ago. He hated her for that. And to this day he still didn't like her much. She had no right. But perhaps she did. His tie was askew, it never seemed to stay tied and in the center. Often she'd tie it for him, because he took to letting it hang tiredly around his neck. And it just couldn't be like that. His book-bag was beside him, embossed was the Slytherin logo and the book-bag was light with a few chocolate frogs and History of Magic homework inside.
They remember odd times when life was confusing and twisted. And it still is, really. She remembers times of crying on his shoulder, and he remembers just patting her back and saying: "Hush, Cee. Hush." And she doesn't remember hushing. He remembers telling her about his Father, and she remembers listening vaguely. And trying to hold his hand, and he removed his too. He didn't need any sympathy, well, not really. Many a time they remember being lonely together. Skipping class and exploring the corridors. Hiding from the teachers. Going off the Pitch. Smoking nonchalantly in Moaning Myrtle's lavatory, no one went in there, anyway. They often went to parties, Slytherin parties usually. And they'd dance like there was no tomorrow. And for all they knew, there might not be. Her feet hurt afterwards, for the stilettos were uncomfortable. So he carried her back to her dormitory and tucked her in. And sometimes he slept on the floor for he was worried about her. And he was never sure why. She remembers waking up with him on the floor and she remembers rolling her eyes too. And then yelling at him about 'morals' and 'what will our parents think?' They probably would've been appalled. And morals were already down the tube. But no one figured it out. Except for Blaisé but he was sworn to secrecy. Twice.
Slytherins, to most standards were immoral and awful. And they were, actually. And Pansy and Draco always got such a 'kick' out of knowing this that they did not bother to deny it. And it always amused her how much he wasn't immoral and awful, but what lengths he would go to at times. When you don't have to be nice it's absolutely amazing how awful you can be. By nature, she was no sweetheart. Her cheeks were not usually red and she had no freckles, and she did not look nor play the part. Ever. And she was as much as an Evil Princess as one can be.
He walked her to every class, here and there. And it was a brisk, quick walk. And they never had time to talk during these walks, not enough time. Had to make it to class. On time. Secretly she always wondered why he walked her to class. At times she'd chalk it up to Blaisé and how frightening he was. And at times, there was nothing to 'chalk it up' to. He was often late, after walking her to class. And his classmates always laughed. And he always laughed as well. Because even though it was his doing, it still was awfully silly. And this started their first year.
Back to the present both were sitting apart from each other not talking much. Here and there. They didn't have scrapbooks or memory books, and so she often talked to him in whispered voices. About what things were like, and what things were not like.
"Would you lose your respect for me if I told you I was scared?" She asks, concerned.
"Yes," he says, with no doubt.
And she laughs a quick, sharp laugh and he too laughs. But it is not a 'haha' laugh.
"I respect you," he begins with a glance towards her direction. "You're awfully stupid. But you know what you're doing and what you have to do. You get the job done, Pansy. You get it done and you do it well. And I think you've got absolutely no morals and I think you're a very trashy person. I think, many times you're gutless and pitiful. But nonetheless, you're about as tough as a little girl like yourself can get."
She knows he is not kidding.
And is not offended.
"I respect you too," she says, for the sentiment. "You've no sense of right from wrong and you've no sense of what to say to a lady and what not to. But you're very intelligent, and you know what you want. And not only do you know what you want you get what you want. Oh, you get it in awful ways, but it's no matter, really. I respect you because you're just about the most heartless person I have ever met."
He smirks, respectfully.
And this is a compliment in their world. It's about the biggest compliment you could ever give a person. And they nod at the exact same time and go back to looking at the cracks on the walls and the hidden messages that they hold.
"And I do mean what I say," she adds.
"As I mean what I say," he says.
And she SO knew that.
"You would've killed Blaisé," she says out of the blue, "if I hadn't been there."
"You shouldn't have been there," he reminds her.
"Look, what he said to me--" and her voice grows slightly hoarse "--I get it all the time."
"It's not okay, Pansy. And it's especially not okay when I'm around."
She smiles at his words. "You were beating his bloody guts out!"
"Good ridden too," he adds, helpfully.
"You could have been expelled," she said.
"You could have been hurt," he says.
"Oh it's no matter," she says, "I can take it. You think I haven't ever been hurt before?"
"You've been hurt loads of times," he says, "and that only makes it worse. I have to protect you, Cee. Because if I don't you're just no one in a morbid world. You're no one and you'll die lonely in a sordid flat."
"That's a bit dramatic, don't you think?" She says.
"I think it's perfectly plausible," he says. "Although I do find it hard to believe that you could ever be just a no one."
"So do I," she whispers, "so do I. But without you...without you I think I could be a no one. Easily."
"You have to promise me," he says, "if I die in this war that's coming up you will go on."
"Go on?" She asks, even though she knows what he means.
"That you will live life normally and not think of me often."
"I couldn't," she says, appalled at the very suggestion.
"Yes you could," he says, his voice stiff. "You could very well go on and live well and do the 'fairytale' thing, Cee. But I'd like you to wear the charm bracelet I got you back in our third year, for a very long time."
He looks at her wrist and there the bracelet is. Gold.
"Don't say it!" She yells. "Don't ever talk about being dead. Ever. Ever!" And she appears like a child.
"It'll happen," he says, "I just hope it's me before you."
"Don't say it," she says sternly, "you remind of Potter."
He pinches her nose and she laughs. "Well, maybe not just like Potter," she adds. "But don't you die on me."
"And if I do...?"
"I'll kill you!!" She says, exasperated.
"I'll already be dead," he informs her.
"Technicalities," she smiles as she stretches out her legs and continues sucking on the very old acid pop. The sugar and acid powder making her tongue an off green shade. "You promised you'll always be here for me," she says pointedly with a small pout.
"And so I will be," he says surely.
"Oh don't tell me you believe in all that 'Heaven' rot," she laughs. "When you're dead you're dead and that's it."
"I don't have to believe in Heaven," he says, "I just have to believe in you and I."
And it was a terribly romantic moment, even if she'd never admit it. And it would've been the absolute perfect time for him to kiss her, wildly and passionately. And both of their lips tasted of acid pop...the best taste ever. But it did not happen.
They just gazed into each other's eyes, not very lovingly. She is dazzled by the pretty colors in his eyes, and he loathes how her eyes remind him of Gryffindor. But they're still quite pretty.
"So you think we'll do great things?" She asks.
"We'll do things," he smiles, "but I'll never promise that they'll be good."
"Heh," she says in a sinister-tone.
"Heh," he mimics softly.
"And these things," she begins, "they're sinister aren't they?"
"But of course, love," he says in an overly exaggerated British accent.
"Good," she says solidly, "I can't imagine them being otherwise."
"Neither can I," says he.
"What about we do something sinister right about now?" He says with a quirky smile.
"Snogging?" She laughs. "Again?"
"Although that would be enjoyable," he says agreeably, "I was more thinking along the lines of making our mark at Hogwarts."
"We've already made it," she laughs, "loads of times. And we cemented that mark again and again and again--"
"You're babbling," he informs her. "Anyway, shall we go?"
"We shall go," she says as he stands up. He grabs her hand and helps her up. Their hands quickly linked together and then quickly go unlinked.
And their eyes are sparkling like no one's business, and she's pouting. She isn't ready to leave Hogwarts. And he looks stony and scared, and he'd never say so.
It's the perfect time for them to hug each other.
To put their arms around each other for a long embrace.
And so they do.
She puts her arms around his neck, and he puts his around her waist, her head rests on his shoulder. And it's just like old-time slow dancing, just like in their first year. But it's more marvelous this time because even though they don't wish to say it, they're older now.
Way older.
But not much different. Not much at all.
And so we leave you here. Right in the midst of the long, gentle hug. And they are lost and captured in this moment, and they are forever and always. They are everlasting and never-ending. And neither believes in Heaven, either. And neither believes in second changes or forgiveness or mercy. But that is all well.
She giggles into his shoulder and whispers something that sounds awfully sinister and sweet in his ear. And not even you can hear it, for it is special. Special, rare and a mystery.
It is a mystery never to be fully cracked.
For it is the mystery of Pansy and Draco.
They walk back down the empty corridor, hands to their sides and smiles on their faces. Just slight smiles though. Their lips are not touching and neither are their hands. Their shoulders are not together and he is not carrying her.
And they are together.
And honestly, did you ever think otherwise?
*
La Fin
Disclaimer: All characters and settings (ect. ect) belong to JK Rowling.
*
"I can't believe it," she says, "our last day."
And he chuckles, a low chuckle. Because it was just so stereotypical that it almost came across as clever.
"I know," he says with a nod. "I'm happy it's over."
"As am I," she says as the wind whips her ebony hair making it appear wavy. "As am I."
"You'll miss it, won't you?" He asks, as he looks up at the clear sky. The cloud overhead reminds him of acid pops with an overload of acid powder.
"No," she says shortly and he knows she does not mean it.
"Well..." he says "...I think the good thing is that we don't need to work."
"Oh it'll be fun," she says, her voice covered in sarcasm, "hanging around the manor doing nothing at all. Getting money from the people I hate and going to balls and such."
"Don't pity yourself," he says shortly. "You think it isn't like that for me as well?"
She scowls. He was supposed to take pity on her, and he never had before. He never played into it.
"It isn't my bloody fault I'm a Parkinson. I just want to you know-" she waves her hands about, terribly inarticulate "-whatever."
"Yeah," he says with a smirk in her direction. She smirks back and sits down, her back against the wall.
He sits down beside her, close, but never too close. Then as an afterthought he adds, "you wanna work?"
The young lady smiles slightly and her scarlet eyes bore into his diamond ones. "I don't know what I want, Nolan."
"I do," he says hoarsely. "I know what I want."
"People should know what they want," she says dully. "I don't want to live with them--" them referring to her parents, obviously.
"Buck up, love," he says and his voice softens slightly. "You can always come live with me."
"No," she shakes her head, "no, I don't think I can."'
And he doesn't ask questions.
"'member this used to always be our snogging spot?" She asks, out of the blue. He smiles wanly.
"How could I forget?"
"You could," she says, almost bitterly. "Bet you snogged loads of girls up here. Nothing new, right?"
"Nah," he says, "this was our spot."
"It wasn't classy," she smiles. "I shudder to think how horribly undignified it was," and she remains her stiff upper lip as she coughs.
"It didn't have to be classy," he says.
"It was supposed to be," she says. "You were supposed to kiss me, long and well. Really well. Not like 'I've got to go to Potion's now.' And your breath wasn't supposed to smell like rum, and smoke wasn't supposed to be on your velvet robe. You sort of--" and she pauses, thinking for the words "--soiled the fairytale for me..."
He would've looked guilty--but since this was basically impossible--he did not.
"Oh Cee," he says, annoyed. "Oh Cee."
"You already said that."
"For emphasis," he smiles. "Let's face it, neither of us is 'fairytale' material," and his voice is not one of pity or compassion. Rather 'this is the way it goes.'
"I've got a tiara," she says, "and you have expensive dress robes."
His brittle laugh rings throughout the distance and she giggles.
"You're so childish, Cee," he says.
"But who can blame me?" She says with a wry smile. "You've babied me my whole life."
And her voice is tinted with sarcasm.
"I don't think I've ever babied you," he says sincerely. "You are such an equal to me, Cee..."
"That means a lot," she says tugging on a stray strand of hair, "...coming from you."
He smirks slightly and adjusts his green and silver tie, retying it. "Last day," he says.
"Last day," she repeats.
And any who would have seen them would've insisted that it would've been the best time for him to reach out for her hand. And he didn't.
"Scared?" He asks.
"Do I have reason to be?" She says shortly, and doesn't wait for the response, "no. No, I don't have reason to be."
"I...I think you do," he says with a nod. "Really."
"The world, Nolan. I have come to learn is that it's quite tough. But that's always what the weak says," her voice is condescending, like an adult talking to children.
He doesn't respond.
"We're silly people, you and I," she gestures. "We aren't weak."
"Why is that silly?" He asks.
"Nolan," she says impatiently, "it's rare to find a strong person these days."
He simply smiles and nods lacking conviction. "You'll be good...Cee," he says.
"What's that supposed to mean?" She asks, and even though she's never been articulate she's always been good at cross-examining.
"You'll make it," he affirms.
And part of her is happy, and part of her is disappointed. Just 'make it' no one wanted to 'just make it.'
"Right," she says. "Right."
"It's stunning out here, isn't it?" He asks, conversationally.
"Sure is," she says with a glare at the sky. "Remember that time we got caught in the rain?"
"I'll always remember the time we got caught in the rain," he says. "We were outside, on the Quidditch Pitch. And I was trying to teach you how to fly, and you were so bloody awful at it and I was getting so frustrated with you--"
"--and we still continued," she interjects.
"Yeah, we just couldn't end it like that. And you even had MY broom, I mean, it's the best broom in all of wizarding England," says he. "So the rain began to pour and we kept at it until you got it. Then we had t to run inside the Great Hall."
"--and you carried me," she laughs. "You carried me in the rain as you ran."
"Yes," he says. "Yes."
"And I didn't want you to either. I wanted to run by myself, I was perfectly able, you know. But you insisted on carrying me in your arms."
"Yeah Cee," he says nonchalantly, "some things are like that."
"Look at that cloud," she points above to the ceiling that is charmed to take the appearance of the outside. "It looks just like an acid pop that was manufactured wrong. You know the kind that have too much acid powder in them."
"It does!"
She takes out a silky purse from behind her back and undoes the button, taking out two acid pops. "Here," she hands him one, "I asked for the special kind we always have."
"You're amazing," he says, accepted it gratefully.
"I know," she says as she licks on hers.
She crosses her ankles and his legs remain stiff.
She would like to say that she is ready and excited and that she is perfectly capable of taking care of herself...but she isn't. She would like to say that she loves him like she loves her very own owl. But she can't. She would like to say that she thinks him the strongest person in ages, and that she knows he'll be a star. In reality she is the same eleven-year-old girl who is tired and weary and SO exhausted. In reality she still likes to believe that he is her Prince with lovely eyes and smutty jokes.
And maybe, in reality, he is.
There are many things rushing through his head. Many things he'd just love to tell her, because he feels she needs to hear them. Many unspoken words. He'd quite like to tell her that she is stellar and lovely. And he'd like to tell her that she has made a large mark in his existence and forever and a day he will not forget her. And he may try. There's another thing he'd like to tell her...she hasn't changed much.
They always tell you that people change and people die and some live on for ages. But the thing is, neither Draco nor Pansy had changed much. They were very much so still children. Children with bright eyes and dull hopes and dreams. Children that loved saying 'no' to their parents and loved falling asleep on textbooks. Children that claimed to know so much about everything and really did not. And they were children who often bit the hands that fed them and denied responsibility and revolted against authority. They were materialistic and vain, rude and uncompromising. And you could call them this, or you could just call them Pansy and Draco.
He looked at her. And she still had gold stars in her scarlet eyes and her charcoal colored hair still got in her eyes often. The young girl still fit into a short cloak that was made in France. The velvet was wearing out and a small hole, from jumping over a tall fence remained. He remembered that hole. She probably did as well. Her shoes were black with green bows, girly green bows. Pretty green. But they were scuffed, and her Mummy and Daddy hated that, and she did not care. She never did, either. Her fingernails were long and french-manicured; they were the only pretty thing about her, really. And a jade bow held up her messy uncombed hair. She could never be seen as beautiful, for she was not. But she was often 'cute' even if she did deny it. She'd much rather be 'sexy' or something of the sort.
And she gazed back at him. His sugary blond hair still wavered into his eyes, the color of pencil lead. His cheeks were reddened from the heat in the empty corridor. A long cloak with serpent clasp hung loosely to his body. He was Draco Malfoy. On the bottom of one of his boots was carved her name, in slow messy cursive. It read 'Pansy' and she had done that just a few years ago. He hated her for that. And to this day he still didn't like her much. She had no right. But perhaps she did. His tie was askew, it never seemed to stay tied and in the center. Often she'd tie it for him, because he took to letting it hang tiredly around his neck. And it just couldn't be like that. His book-bag was beside him, embossed was the Slytherin logo and the book-bag was light with a few chocolate frogs and History of Magic homework inside.
They remember odd times when life was confusing and twisted. And it still is, really. She remembers times of crying on his shoulder, and he remembers just patting her back and saying: "Hush, Cee. Hush." And she doesn't remember hushing. He remembers telling her about his Father, and she remembers listening vaguely. And trying to hold his hand, and he removed his too. He didn't need any sympathy, well, not really. Many a time they remember being lonely together. Skipping class and exploring the corridors. Hiding from the teachers. Going off the Pitch. Smoking nonchalantly in Moaning Myrtle's lavatory, no one went in there, anyway. They often went to parties, Slytherin parties usually. And they'd dance like there was no tomorrow. And for all they knew, there might not be. Her feet hurt afterwards, for the stilettos were uncomfortable. So he carried her back to her dormitory and tucked her in. And sometimes he slept on the floor for he was worried about her. And he was never sure why. She remembers waking up with him on the floor and she remembers rolling her eyes too. And then yelling at him about 'morals' and 'what will our parents think?' They probably would've been appalled. And morals were already down the tube. But no one figured it out. Except for Blaisé but he was sworn to secrecy. Twice.
Slytherins, to most standards were immoral and awful. And they were, actually. And Pansy and Draco always got such a 'kick' out of knowing this that they did not bother to deny it. And it always amused her how much he wasn't immoral and awful, but what lengths he would go to at times. When you don't have to be nice it's absolutely amazing how awful you can be. By nature, she was no sweetheart. Her cheeks were not usually red and she had no freckles, and she did not look nor play the part. Ever. And she was as much as an Evil Princess as one can be.
He walked her to every class, here and there. And it was a brisk, quick walk. And they never had time to talk during these walks, not enough time. Had to make it to class. On time. Secretly she always wondered why he walked her to class. At times she'd chalk it up to Blaisé and how frightening he was. And at times, there was nothing to 'chalk it up' to. He was often late, after walking her to class. And his classmates always laughed. And he always laughed as well. Because even though it was his doing, it still was awfully silly. And this started their first year.
Back to the present both were sitting apart from each other not talking much. Here and there. They didn't have scrapbooks or memory books, and so she often talked to him in whispered voices. About what things were like, and what things were not like.
"Would you lose your respect for me if I told you I was scared?" She asks, concerned.
"Yes," he says, with no doubt.
And she laughs a quick, sharp laugh and he too laughs. But it is not a 'haha' laugh.
"I respect you," he begins with a glance towards her direction. "You're awfully stupid. But you know what you're doing and what you have to do. You get the job done, Pansy. You get it done and you do it well. And I think you've got absolutely no morals and I think you're a very trashy person. I think, many times you're gutless and pitiful. But nonetheless, you're about as tough as a little girl like yourself can get."
She knows he is not kidding.
And is not offended.
"I respect you too," she says, for the sentiment. "You've no sense of right from wrong and you've no sense of what to say to a lady and what not to. But you're very intelligent, and you know what you want. And not only do you know what you want you get what you want. Oh, you get it in awful ways, but it's no matter, really. I respect you because you're just about the most heartless person I have ever met."
He smirks, respectfully.
And this is a compliment in their world. It's about the biggest compliment you could ever give a person. And they nod at the exact same time and go back to looking at the cracks on the walls and the hidden messages that they hold.
"And I do mean what I say," she adds.
"As I mean what I say," he says.
And she SO knew that.
"You would've killed Blaisé," she says out of the blue, "if I hadn't been there."
"You shouldn't have been there," he reminds her.
"Look, what he said to me--" and her voice grows slightly hoarse "--I get it all the time."
"It's not okay, Pansy. And it's especially not okay when I'm around."
She smiles at his words. "You were beating his bloody guts out!"
"Good ridden too," he adds, helpfully.
"You could have been expelled," she said.
"You could have been hurt," he says.
"Oh it's no matter," she says, "I can take it. You think I haven't ever been hurt before?"
"You've been hurt loads of times," he says, "and that only makes it worse. I have to protect you, Cee. Because if I don't you're just no one in a morbid world. You're no one and you'll die lonely in a sordid flat."
"That's a bit dramatic, don't you think?" She says.
"I think it's perfectly plausible," he says. "Although I do find it hard to believe that you could ever be just a no one."
"So do I," she whispers, "so do I. But without you...without you I think I could be a no one. Easily."
"You have to promise me," he says, "if I die in this war that's coming up you will go on."
"Go on?" She asks, even though she knows what he means.
"That you will live life normally and not think of me often."
"I couldn't," she says, appalled at the very suggestion.
"Yes you could," he says, his voice stiff. "You could very well go on and live well and do the 'fairytale' thing, Cee. But I'd like you to wear the charm bracelet I got you back in our third year, for a very long time."
He looks at her wrist and there the bracelet is. Gold.
"Don't say it!" She yells. "Don't ever talk about being dead. Ever. Ever!" And she appears like a child.
"It'll happen," he says, "I just hope it's me before you."
"Don't say it," she says sternly, "you remind of Potter."
He pinches her nose and she laughs. "Well, maybe not just like Potter," she adds. "But don't you die on me."
"And if I do...?"
"I'll kill you!!" She says, exasperated.
"I'll already be dead," he informs her.
"Technicalities," she smiles as she stretches out her legs and continues sucking on the very old acid pop. The sugar and acid powder making her tongue an off green shade. "You promised you'll always be here for me," she says pointedly with a small pout.
"And so I will be," he says surely.
"Oh don't tell me you believe in all that 'Heaven' rot," she laughs. "When you're dead you're dead and that's it."
"I don't have to believe in Heaven," he says, "I just have to believe in you and I."
And it was a terribly romantic moment, even if she'd never admit it. And it would've been the absolute perfect time for him to kiss her, wildly and passionately. And both of their lips tasted of acid pop...the best taste ever. But it did not happen.
They just gazed into each other's eyes, not very lovingly. She is dazzled by the pretty colors in his eyes, and he loathes how her eyes remind him of Gryffindor. But they're still quite pretty.
"So you think we'll do great things?" She asks.
"We'll do things," he smiles, "but I'll never promise that they'll be good."
"Heh," she says in a sinister-tone.
"Heh," he mimics softly.
"And these things," she begins, "they're sinister aren't they?"
"But of course, love," he says in an overly exaggerated British accent.
"Good," she says solidly, "I can't imagine them being otherwise."
"Neither can I," says he.
"What about we do something sinister right about now?" He says with a quirky smile.
"Snogging?" She laughs. "Again?"
"Although that would be enjoyable," he says agreeably, "I was more thinking along the lines of making our mark at Hogwarts."
"We've already made it," she laughs, "loads of times. And we cemented that mark again and again and again--"
"You're babbling," he informs her. "Anyway, shall we go?"
"We shall go," she says as he stands up. He grabs her hand and helps her up. Their hands quickly linked together and then quickly go unlinked.
And their eyes are sparkling like no one's business, and she's pouting. She isn't ready to leave Hogwarts. And he looks stony and scared, and he'd never say so.
It's the perfect time for them to hug each other.
To put their arms around each other for a long embrace.
And so they do.
She puts her arms around his neck, and he puts his around her waist, her head rests on his shoulder. And it's just like old-time slow dancing, just like in their first year. But it's more marvelous this time because even though they don't wish to say it, they're older now.
Way older.
But not much different. Not much at all.
And so we leave you here. Right in the midst of the long, gentle hug. And they are lost and captured in this moment, and they are forever and always. They are everlasting and never-ending. And neither believes in Heaven, either. And neither believes in second changes or forgiveness or mercy. But that is all well.
She giggles into his shoulder and whispers something that sounds awfully sinister and sweet in his ear. And not even you can hear it, for it is special. Special, rare and a mystery.
It is a mystery never to be fully cracked.
For it is the mystery of Pansy and Draco.
They walk back down the empty corridor, hands to their sides and smiles on their faces. Just slight smiles though. Their lips are not touching and neither are their hands. Their shoulders are not together and he is not carrying her.
And they are together.
And honestly, did you ever think otherwise?
*
La Fin