The Pretty Girl

Summary: Pansy is jealous of Hermione.

Rating: PG-13/T

Pairing: PPxDM, DMxHG

I see you've given up smoking. I suppose you don't need it anymore, which isn't fair of you by the way. Don't misunderstand me, it would be an excellent thing, a happy occasion, you know what these do to our lungs and our teeth and our throats and our stomachs, but you could've told me first. I would gladly have given them up with you rather than let you leave me behind like this.

You've been avoiding me as well. Don't think I haven't noticed. You never talk to me any more, never write, and I'm left wandering after you like some sort of stalker trying to get your bloody attention and wrench five god damned words from you. It used to be that I couldn't get you to shut up. Not that I wanted to. I miss it. How can you not?

We used to lie on the floor of your dormitory while you'd lie to me, telling me all sorts of stupid things, making up grand plans pertaining to our grand escape from Britain, our living in South Africa far away from the Death Eaters in a neutral muggle hating lifestyle. Remember? You told me about you and your mother, how your father never lets either of you do anything, keeps you both under lock and key and constant supervision and how you love him anyway even though you hate it.

A million different stories, Draco: the one about your fifth birthday, when your father got you your first owl and you were so bloody happy about it and then you accidentally spilled grape juice on his new suit and he was so angry with you he killed your present to punish you. About how when you were six, you got angry and pushed your mother and she fell and broke her wrist. When you were nine, your mother took ill and they thought she was dying and she kept asking for Lucius, but he was out having an affair with some young blonde intern and you stayed with her until she got better and you hated him and swore you'd never ever grow up to be like him.

You swore it to me, Draco. That was your lie. You told me I'd never have to worry about anything, that you loved me, that you'd never leave me, and you know what? I never believed you. But you said it anyway and that should bloody count for something. Damn it, Malfoy, you made me love you. You found this wretched emotion in me and dragged it out kicking and screaming and you forced me to acknowledge it, forced me to feel it. I never wanted to. You know that, don't you? I knew it was bloody stupid from the start.

I wanted us to be friends. Good friends, like sister and brother almost. You were the one who wanted more.

And I told you everything too. Every single nasty, rotten little thing about me. I told you about how when I was six I was angry at my cousin, so I broke his broomstick into splinters. I told you that Eleanor's death is my fault. I saw her coughing that night, I saw her trying to breathe, and I was such a bloody stupid kid I didn't think anything of it and the next day… I've never told that to anyone but you. And you were the only one who ever understood how much that hurt me. You knew how spiteful I could be; how bitchy, tetchy, irritable, vindictive I was and I knew what a jerk you were. And lying on the floor in your dormitory we'd both be cynical and nihilistic, staring at your ceiling and thinking about nothing except how rotten we were and how damaged we felt.

We were supposed to make each other better. I've been trying to be better for you, don't you know that? I was never going to be a bloody altruistic optimist and you weren't either. That's simply not who we are, you know. But I was trying to change anyway. I wanted the both of us to feel better about ourselves together. And I thought we were doing so damned well.

We were so close. You could tell me anything—and you did, and I did the same. There was no judgment between us we just were who we were and we were that together. It was perfect, but only because we were so flawed. I thought you understood that. You always understood everything.

But what has it come to?

I think you're in love with that Gryffindor mudblood bitch. I wish I didn't know, but more than that I wish I didn't understand why. I can pretend I don't, almost, but we both know I'm not that stupid. It's because she's smart, like we are only motivated and unafraid of being so. It's because she's pretty in a sort of plain, demure way. It's because she never breaks the rules unless Voldemort is attacking the school. Because she's never thought about touching a cigarette in her life. Because she's an optimist. Because she's an idealist. Because she's a squeaky clean good girl. Almost an altruist. Because she's every bloody thing you wished I was that I'm not.

And you know what, Draco? It isn't fair. Life isn't fair, I know, that's one of the adages I live by. But this is too much. You avoid me, you—you look at me now as though I'm poison, as though I'm personally responsible for everything wrong with your life. Is that what she thinks? Is that what the both of you say when you talk about me? Do you complain about me, Draco? Do you tell her all the rotten little things that I've told you in good confidence, omitting the more negative aspects of your character? Or is that you've gone to her seeking some sort of vindication; wooing her innocence to save you from the torpid cesspool I'm apparently responsible for dragging you into?

Do the two of you spend long night sin the library, talking about everything. Do you tell her all the things you've told me? I'll bet she accepts you, like I did. I'll bet she loves you, like I did. I'll bet she's told you can do better, that you can deserve better, and that you're worth more, like I did. In fact, I'll bet the only difference is that she makes you believe it. Because she is better.

So what was I to you, Draco? What do you tell her I was to you? Did you only love me because you thought I was worse than you? Because that made you feel better? She'll never be able to understand you the way I do, because she's not like you. Maybe that's what you like so much about her. She's so completely different from the both of us. We… we were like two left hands, I suppose. Due sinistra, hmm? And I suppose she's your Right. Do you feel whole now? Does she complete you?

I'm prettier than she is, you know. I'm probably smarter than she is as well—it's just I don't feel the need to bloody show it off all the time. I'm more idealistic than she is too. You know that.

And that's what hurts the most. You're the only one who knows the worst things about me, Mr. Draco Malfoy, and you're also the only one who knows the best things about me. You know what I've wanted and wished for, for myself and the world and you know the only reason I don't believe in those things is that I know better. I'm realistic; I don't ignore the realities in life to go on dreaming, because everything ends in disillusionment. Everything ends. And that's what you hate about me, isn't it? That's what makes her so much better. She sees everything as a series of beginnings and I can't see things that way. It's all one huge bloody ending. Because it isn't whether you see the glass as half empty or half full that really counts, it's whether you see it as it is now or as it'll be two days from now. Half full, or completely empty. And you, you're such an idiot, you want those beginnings don't you? You want them so badly you're going to ignore the entire bloody world so you can have your happy beginnings with the mudblood bitch.

I don't hate her, though, and I can't blame her. This isn't her fault, it's yours. Yes, Malfoy, unlike you I know how to place blame properly and this time it's all on you. For lying to me. For making me feel like I was worth something and then turning around and treating me like shit just because you found someone more angelic than I am. For making me believe I could be better. For letting me believed you loved me and that you understood me and that I'd have this special thing, these feelings for the rest of my life. For breaking my fucking heart because I wasn't exactly Princess Di, you bastard.

But you know what the worst part is, Malfoy? The absolute worst part of this wreck?

I could've been your redemption if I'd known that was what you wanted.

That's what you did to me, really. You built me up halfway and kept me in that state by making me believe that you'd stop loving me if I ever got completely better and now… well, now look at us, you controlling dick.

So just… just fess up, Malfoy. We both know by now that you chucked me with your fags.

end notes: Wanted to write something short. A one shot. An angry rant in first person. Did so. Yay. Anyway, I wrote this because… of all those stories, where the flawed hero figure (Draco) has this evil girlfriend, who he eventually dumps for the happy, redemptive figure. Those started to annoy me, because usually the relationship "hero figure" was in previously gets shallow treatment. The evil girlfriend is a shrew, or stupid. So… here's one from the evil girlfriend's POV. I hope you liked it. Of course this is extremely one-sided, completely from Pansy's point of view… so Draco's reasons and actions are as presented by Pansy. Although she could be giving an accurate account. I don't know. That's what I like about first person it's so… incredibly subjective –insertsmileyfacehere-. Well I'm done being pretentious so... I'm going to go watch cartoons now.

Reviews are always loved and appreciated. Especially articulately negative ones ).