Draco & Pansy
(Megara)
Pansy watched Draco sleep for a long moment before turning on the lights (he didn't even stir) and beginning to hastily scribble a note for him and the baby.
He was more man than boy now, she thought, and laughed – obviously, he was as overage as she was – his features were well-drawn and aristocratic. His eyelids fluttered as his chest fell and rose evenly; Draco sighed in his sleep. His long, elegant hands were curled in fists as he slept on his right side, his blond hair (usually so well-combed) rumpled by sleep.
She wouldn't pretend; she would miss him. She'd miss him very much, and even the baby, probably – but there were things to be done. She was too young for this life; eighteen was far too young for raising a child, especially after the war. Pansy had never been good with problems; all her life, she had been taught to run from them.
So she was doing something good from running, then. She was disassociating herself from her illegitimate child... right?
(But why, why did it feel as if she were doing something God-awful?)
Pansy shook that last, dark thought from her mind, reaching out to touch Draco's cheek, rough against the skin of her hand. She laughed grimly; it was hard to think that this was definitely the last time she would touch him. Draco Malfoy, she had learned long ago, didn't do second chances.
She sighed and slipped into her slippers, walking towards the cradle in the corner of the bedroom. She curled her fingers around the railing and took a long look at Megara, her daughter, her child; her child who would never know her mother, never know why, exactly, she did what she did.
Oh, Pansy thought as she dressed, but never mind.
Draco would badmouth her to the child, anyways.
(And it was entirely her fault.)