A/N: Here is a second part to my "A Second Thought" series, focused on Pansy Parkinson. This fits right in between chapters 9 and 10 of my sixth year AU work based on HBP, Daphne Greengrass and the 6th Year From Hell, but you can enjoy this piece on its own, as a missing moment from canon.

Please feel free to check out my Daphne Greengrass story, and my other "A Second Thought" story focused on Draco Malfoy and Narcissa. And reviews are good. Reviews are l-o-v-e . . . I'd love to hear what your favorite or least favorite parts are. This has been checked only by myself while consuming loads of caffeine ;0)

I own nothing. Thanks to the reviewers who spotted a couple of typos. I hope I fixed them.

Pansy Parkinson: A Second Thought.

In the Slytherin common room one evening, during the second week of term . . .

It makes me laugh, just how much they don't know me.

It either makes me laugh, or makes me want to slap their faces right off and pull their ratty hair out by their roots. I'm not quite sure which one yet. I'll get back to you once I've figured it out.

Look, I know the other girls think I don't have any independent thoughts or a mind of my own. I know Davis doesn't care, though. It's not like she's using her brain for anything important.

In fact, I've managed to get her to see my way of things.

Ah, impressionable girls!

The same could be said for Bulstrode, although she's been giving me a nasty case of the stink-eye ever since we got back for term.

And then there's that slag Greengrass.

That bitch uses her brains, all right.

And I hate her for it!

One thing you must understand is that loyalty to our families, dedication to our friends, not to mention having infinite fucking patience in helping, or bloody doing, their schoolwork for them, and sworn allegiance to our house matters to us.

To all Slytherins.

Well, most Slytherins . . .

Greengrass doesn't count. Not anymore.

Let me take a break from Draco's Transfiguration essay that the idiot didn't do—

(No, no, Pansy. He's not an 'idiot'.)

Right. Draco does have a million things on his mind.

I'm not even being facetious.

(Remember, Pansy . . . practice what you preach.)

Loyalty. Dedication. Allegiance.

Allow me to reminisce about that day, in fourth year, when the Hufflepuff idiot Diggory came back from wherever, attached to Potter's hand, all dead and grey and opened-eyed lifelessness. I'll admit, Slytherin was probably the only house in all of Hogwarts that wasn't shedding a vast number of tears over the Dearly Departed Diggory. Sure, it was utterly shocking that a boy could die during a centuries-old tournament filled with pissed-off dragons, underwater demons, and an admittedly scary-looking maze . . .

But no one in our House was his 'bestest wittle buddy'. Not one of us could actually tell you what his favorite food was, what color his eyes were, what he liked to do, what things he disliked.

Draco likes roasted pork loin and pumpkin pasties. His eyes are grey. He likes to fly and play Quidditch, talk about his family, and discuss anything related to the inner-workings of Hogwarts and the Ministry of Magic. In his free time, he'll even participate in the occasional round of gossip in our common room.

His dislikes include all things concerning Potter, Weasel and their Mudblood bitch. He hates Headmaster "Gryffindors – are – the – greatest – and – all – Slytherins – can – rot – in – hell" Dumble-Arse himself.

Oh yes, and anyone insulting or abusing his family.

But wait! I'll add one more thing to Draco's list of 'likes'.

He 'likes' me. In fact, he makes a point of telling me he loves me frequently.

That's right. Draco Malfoy's capable of love.

So, when I considered it then, and when I look back at it now, the choice for me was just . . . so . . . hard.

Sarcasm. Feel it.

So I do what I do. I stand by my Draco. I stand by Slytherin House. I'll curse and swear at and hex the bollocks off of anyone — especially anyone associated with the taint named Harry Potter — should they persist in accusing Draco of any misdeeds, or accuse Draco's father of anything worse than owning a rather sinister-looking cane.

Now I look at him, sitting next to me, reading a book about . . . er, magical furniture.

Odd.

He's studying everything about cabinets that do all sorts of things: preserve food, enlarge to create tiny rooms where people can eat or sleep or study, even vanish objects or people altogether.

He sighs and rubs his eyes with his right hand, flinching slightly as he raises his arm.

The arm where it is.

I can see just a hint of black on his fair skin, poking from just under the cuff of his still-pressed shirt. Draco never allows it to be exposed . . . well, not to just anyone. Only to a select few.

Maybe there are others that he has to show it to in order to get something from them.

Whatever.

We don't talk about it, or at least, Draco never talks to me about it. He tells me I don't need to know about what he's been asked to do. That it's better this way.

I lean forward and my fingers run over his cheek. I can see the path my fingers take, because his face grows ever-slightly-more red as I touch him. Peeking from behind his own hand, he looks at me, and smiles.

I never feel more beautiful than when he looks at me. So, I keep stroking his cheek, pulling back some stray lock of hair that continues to fall in his eyes and I continue to feel beautiful because he's looking at me . . . he's looking at me . . .

Draco reaches for my hand — the one stroking his face — and brings it to his mouth. He presses my hand to his lips, and I can feel his warm breath tickling my skin. I want to close my eyes and just feel it, but I can't because I love him looking at me looking at him.

Goddess!

I love this bastard.

I am his, and he is mine, and I have made my choice.