The Nature of Suffering

One

So then love walked up to like
And said, I know that you don't like me much
Let's go for a ride
— Tori Amos, "Cooling"

—

It's a fall like any other, though the weather is chillier than she prefers. That certain something is in the air, and as she sweeps the front steps of Twilfit & Tattings, preparing for the rush of Saturday shoppers—mostly mothers relieved of their rambunctious children—she inhales deeply. There it is: a faint apple-cinnamon spice, from the bakery a couple of doors down. It is mixed with wood smoke, the grimy smell of wet cobblestones, and that certain indefinable tingle. The first of September is a good time of year, even when one takes the unpredictable weather into account.

Somewhere nearby, she thinks, the Hogwarts Express will pull into the station at Kings Cross. Children will wake, probably the first time they have awoken so early all summer; trunks will be double-checked; last-minute plans and contingencies will be made. Then, an interminable train ride later, the school term will commence, in the happiest place and time of those children's lives.

In the Parkinson household, the morning of September first had a strictly delineated routine; nothing was left to chance. She woke early, bathed, and ate breakfast with her father, while the house elves checked her luggage, slipped tiny, immaculately-wrapped confections into her cloak, and made brave attempts at catching her cat, Mnemosyne. After breakfast, clad in her plush, quilted bathrobe, she made her way upstairs, dressing in the stiff, clean components of her uniform. The roomy town car, with an extra spell or two for comfort, cleanliness, and speed, left promptly at ten.

She was not sorry to see the back of it.

Now, though, her mind is several miles away, and the broom glides with uneven strokes across the front steps. As senior shopgirl, she really has no business doing the menial tasks. Her place is behind the register, or helping Mr Twilfit with bigger decisions than how to position the mannequin that greets and bids goodbye to the patrons. However, Anna, the newest hire, is late, doubtless sleeping off a night of carousing with her latest fling, and the steps must be swept. She could have charmed the broom, of course, but that Hogwarts scent in the air has softened her mind, it seems.

The morning dawdles, bathed in uncertain light from an overcast sky. She is anxious, but dares not let it show, as she wraps purchases with tissue paper and places them in embossed packages, hands mostly steady as she exchanges galleons for knuts and sickles, fills out charge account sheets, to be taken to Gringotts, later. Business is picking up, these days. The Daily Prophet is running a larger ad for Twilfit & Tattings, this week, in the hopes that the shop will draw wealthy patrons who need ensembles for the next big Ministry to-do. She does not dare think back to Those Days, when she had barely been hired, when business (and commission, therefore; a shopgirl's bread and butter) had been terrible, when no one's mind had been on luxuries. But she is glad, nonetheless. Business is booming, and in a direct correlation, people are forgetting. Good, for both.

Her grandfather's portrait used to tell her that the days after the Second World War, just after Grindelwald's defeat, were just the same: everyone tiptoed, unsure of the footing, unsure just what form the new world order was going to take, certain, even so, that it would never be the same. But, as his portrait had predicted, and as she came to see, things changed: that new generation, drunk on victory, had launched itself painfully, with the sound of old chains ripping, into that new world order. Celebrities were made (Dumbledore for his generation, Harry Potter and co. for hers), and galleons were plentiful, and the newly emancipated generation stopped at nothing as it sought pleasures of every kind in the postwar era.

Sometimes, she likes nothing more than to scoff at her luck of the draw. Today, though, it isn't necessary. It is rubbed in her face, over and over, until she is raw, until she is forced to retreat into the storage room and sit on a throne of boxes full of wrapping paper and mannequin parts, head in hands, rubbing her temples until they stop pounding.

First, Hermione Granger-Weasley, clearly on her lunch break and looking harassed. Pansy, who is not entirely unconnected, knows that the Weasley wife is the one behind the Ministry event, and she is expected to give a speech on the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures' new policies toward fairness and equality for sentient non-humans. It is expected to have the backing of all the Important People, but Pansy also knows that most of the attendees who aren't politicos or bureaucrats are going because it's Potter's first post-divorce social appearance.

How things have changed! Weasley wears a tweed suit, in honour of the autumnal shift, though Pansy would have waited until October, at least. The robes that she wears atop the suit are skimming and elegant, and thank goodness, because she still has a few pounds of baby weight to lose, Pansy thinks nastily. Her hair is a little messy, and she wears the comfortably harassed expression Pansy has come to recognise as the New Mother look. Micromanager, she scoffs quietly to herself, and sends a subordinate to tend to the former Gryffindor. She watches from the relative safety of the other side of the shop, mostly obscured by a display of cravats and a tall decorative plant that hums a soft melody, and Hermione Granger-Weasley pays her no mind.

Luckily, she isn't expected to tend to customers, unless it's one of the Very Important Patrons that Mr Twilfit courts. From a discreet distance, she watches as Weasley vacillates between a deep, midnight blue set of dress robes, with a little bit of frill and flair at the cuffs, neckline, and hem, every bit of which will complement her hair and skin tone in a stunning way, and a more sedate set of grey robes, which emphasize dignity at the expense of youth and beauty. Weasley goes for the grey, which doesn't surprise Pansy, and she thins her lips at the shopgirl, Marina, a young, vapid witch of Italian extraction. The silly girl isn't aware, or doesn't seem to care, that no matter how bothersome the patrons are, what they wear makes a statement on the shop, and the ability of the shopgirls to match the witch or wizard with flattering attire.

Some petty part of herself overwhelms her good judgment, and permits Hermione Granger-Weasley to exit the shop, a parcel with the grey robes and matching accessories tucked beneath her arm.

Afterward, Ginny Potter, who, she has heard, clings like a limpet to that surname. She is tall and willowy and toned, too like her brothers in the face for Pansy's comfort, too full of herself by half, and Pansy can't stand the sight of the arrogant tilt of her head, as she saunters in and catches sight of Pansy. Pansy's lips curl into a grimace of a smile, and she turns away before she has the opportunity to say something ugly.

Not very well done, her mother's voice gently admonishes.

Ginny Potter, mother of Harry Potter's precious three brats, picks a set of dress robes just the colour of her ex-husband's eyes, and sashays from the door with all the grace of the Quidditch player she used to be.

It goes from bad to worse when Astoria Malfoy enters, however, and beelines for Pansy, who has been dawdling over the cravat display. "Pansy!" she beams, her bright-lipped mouth sweet as a fresh-picked summer strawberry, neon against the white of her skin, comfortable in contrast to her dark curls. Pansy believes Astoria always looks just a little too perfect, a little too manicured, a little too close to an anxiety attack, and not for the first time, she is overwhelmingly glad she is not Mrs Malfoy. As it happens, her only title in that department is Mr Malfoy's mistress, but wild hippogriffs won't pull that information from her, and she smiles the smile of the long-suffering.

"I'm so glad you're working today," Astoria says, with that bubbling enthusiasm that is simultaneously infectious and annoying as all hell. She pauses, and manages to restrain herself, and adds solicitously, "But you're invaluable to Mr Twilfit, he told me so, himself, and so it's no wonder you're here as much as you are." Besides needing gold to feed myself, Pansy adds wordlessly, eyes darting for an escape, but she comes up with nothing.

"Welcome, Mrs Malfoy," she returns, not without a warning tone; she is on Mr Twilfit's time, after all, and can't afford to be chummy with the Very Important Patrons. Astoria's face falters. Pansy feels as though she has kicked a kitten down a flight of stairs, but plows on, determined to suffer no more. Gryffindors everywhere would be proud, she is certain. "It's so wonderful to see you. If you like, I'll just fetch Mr Twilfit."

"No." Astoria is all fluttering haste; the tall pile of curls that drapes over her shoulders, which casts a dignified shadow on her smooth brow, is at odds with all that frenetic energy. She is tall, and tiny, and only a few months delivered of a healthy, blond baby boy. Life is unfair, and it echoes inside Pansy's head as an old adage, words to live by, advice to take, rather than a petulant statement she'd have made many years ago.

"No, I want you to help me," she says brightly, and Pansy thinks, right over a cliff, and leads her to the latest display of dress robes, made for late summer and early autumn. The colours are predictable: deep reds and violent purples and that particular black hue that sometimes passes for blue. "I know Draco's planning to wear something in dark blue, and I don't want to be matchy-matchy, so many couples do that, but we need something to show unity, after all, since Scorpius has just been born, and I just... Oh, this is the one!" she cries, and lovingly brushes her knuckles over a startling cerulean set. "Blue," she prattles, "but not the blue Draco's wearing, I think it'll do just fine..."

Just fine, Pansy thinks acidly. In her heyday, she never would have deigned to set foot in Twilfit & Tattings, though she knows Mrs Malfoy the elder still graces the shop with her patronage, upon occasion, when it is beneficial for the Malfoy matriarch to be seen shopping among the rabble. (With those Malfoys, everything is politics.) Pansy's mother had barely been convinced to give patronage to Madam Malkin's shop, in order to purchase her daughter's school robes. The late Mrs Parkinson, who had attended Beauxbatons, would rather have died than shown her face in a clothing emporium which touted ready-to-wear styles that needed only a few restitching spells to size them properly. Paris was the place to shop, in Pansy's youth, and she recalls the floral sachets which accompanied every velvet-wrapped package, the servers in their old-fashioned coattails who brought champagne and hors d'œuvres to all the patrons, the sleek dark cap of her mother's bobbed hair, her father's good-natured grumble as he examined the bill…

Surely Astoria knows, or guesses, Pansy's opinion on her dress, her deportment, her attempts to woo her distant, distracted husband back to her side. Surely Astoria knows that Draco is not a faithful husband, that he is, in fact, scheduled to meet Pansy at her flat, a social visit which will very likely begin with a vigorous fuck, and only end on a round of gossip and bittersweet reminiscence. Surely, surely, Astoria is not so ignorant that she misses all the signs; Pansy knows very well how careless Draco can be, especially with other people's emotions, but Astoria is not, as the Muggles say, picking up what all the signs are putting down.

Or, perhaps Astoria does know, and is far too clever to ever say anything, cross her heart and hope to die.

—

Pansy tries not to scream, because she has neighbours who have already complained, a few times already. Instead, her teeth clamp onto his shoulder, and from the way he howls, he isn't sure whether to keep going, or to lift his hand and deliver a stinging slap to her cheek, in retribution. As it is, he compromises, slapping her across the hip so hard she feels the welts raise.

She knows for certain that, if he loved her, being this close would kill them both.

They are getting sloppy, she knows. Remembers the heady first days: him, newly married, and her, practically homeless. Staying at Malfoy Manor, before Lucius and Narcissa had retired to Calais for most of the year, returning fairly regularly for visits, subjecting themselves to prying eyes and ruthless speculation. Oddly tense lunches and teas, wherein Pansy held her breath, wished she could blurt it out to Lucius and Narcissa—"Take me with you, I have no parents, you're the closest I've got." The wary way Narcissa's eyes shifted between Draco and Pansy and Astoria, the exaggerated chivalry of Lucius, as he pulled the chair out for Pansy and Astoria, careful not to differentiate between the two.

The gazebo in the Malfoy gardens, all those years ago. Her robes bunched up at her hips, her panties around one ankle. Then, later, in the cavernous bathroom of the guest bedroom Pansy had occupied, suds on her breasts, water droplets beading his pale eyelashes. Careful, quiet, taking their sweet time. It felt like Hogwarts, where she and Draco had studied physical love with more fervour than they'd ever genuinely devoted to each other.

She'd needed him, depended upon him, measured the quality of the universe by the blinding whiteness of his smile, but she reckons everyone is allowed one person over whom they've made fools of themselves.

Now, ye gods, she does her best to delay the inevitable, just to spite him. Focuses on the wilting roses in the corner, resolves to put a dash of murtlap essence into the vase; cheap as it comes, it's good for perking up dead flowers, when one doesn't have the sickles to spare for replacements. Thinks about the shop, the wart on the neck of the girl who served sundaes at Florean Fortescue's, owned now by Flavius, the former proprietor's nephew.

But Draco knows her, knows that vacant expression behind the flushed cheeks, knows what she's doing. It isn't the first time she's tried this trick. He reaches between them, and ruthlessly exploits the one place he knows she can't resist, and watches, heaving chest and triumphant gaze, as she comes back to him. She protests, "Draco—Draco—Draco," and he chuckles, and she laughs with him, can't help it, a drowning, crazy gasp of laughter.

Her legs are flexing, her toes are curling, she's going to have a terrible cramp in her foot, but all she can think of is his hand between her legs, and the staccato rhythm as his hips bruise her, and he's closer, too, isn't he? Usually, she's already had an orgasm, and by this point, she's lazily moving against him, teasing him to his own climax, but tonight is different. She peeks from beneath her trembling eyelids, sees his eyes focused on a spot near her shoulder, his teeth clenched.

It isn't one of those orgasms which flings her into the sky, after a mind-blowing ascent. It isn't spiritual, doesn't fill her heart to bursting. Rather, it drags her through the gutter, and leaves her a trembling mess, mascara running down her cheeks, teeth chattering, for several minutes afterward.

And Draco, who can't stand mess, is up as soon as his prick's gone soft, padding on bare feet toward her shower, shoulder seeping just a little blood from the bite mark. The prat will probably use two towels, too.