Stare super antiguas vias…
She let the paintbrush glide lazily across the canvas, filling in the soft gray of the background. It was hard to believe that this was her life, an ever-narrowing path that strove bleakly and uselessly into the future. Pansy Parkinson, in all her short existence, had not discovered anything of value. Not in her fine home, magical education, her so-called friends. Not even here, in her little flat, where Pansy had finally etched out a little corner for herself, finally created some sham of meaning. Here, in her place, only her thoughts could haunt her. She wished she were beautiful. It was a waking dream that consumed Pansy's life, a malicious being that destroyed her slowly, indefinitely. Things would have been different for Pansy if she had been beautiful, of that she was sure.
"You have stopped painting." The voice was imperious and cold.
"Yes, Mr. Malfoy. I was merely thinking."
In front of her, in the makeshift studio, stood Draco Malfoy, now owner of Malfoy Manor and ruler of the Malfoy estate. At his side was his seven-year-old son, looking remarkably like Draco had at the same age, when Pansy had first met him. Pansy returned her attention to the magical portrait she was painting of the pair. She had a business now, there was no use drowning in the past.
"About what? My time is precious."
Both were dressed in traditional dress robes of elegant and classy black trimmed with dark green and silver. Once a Slytherin, always a Slytherin.
"The background, sir." Pansy gazed impassively at the couple in front of her with a painter's eye. Draco had never been considered handsome, his face was too pinched, had too many extreme angles. He had since grown into his Malfoy features and achieved the strange ephemeral beauty of the family he had lacked as a child. Regardless of age, however, he was the still the same porcelain-fair boy with shockingly light hair and cold metallic eyes. Eternally a Malfoy. In Pansy's life, things never seemed to change.
His son had Draco's face and his arrogant demeanor but his mother's ice blue eyes. Draco, of course, had married a distant cousin at the behest of his family honor. He had always been one for honor, in a convoluted, self-serving sort of way.
"I am finished with your son. You may send him out; I presume he will not wish to stand here any longer."
Draco nodded at his son, who ran out to meet his mother in the corridor. Pansy selected a light paint, and began the man's face. As she painted, she imagined it was her hands, not her eyes, running over him. They traced his jaw line, smoothed the fiery white veins in his hair. She could have painted him just as well with her eyes closed, imagining, she knew him so well. It was no large secret that Pansy had been madly in love with the Malfoy heir long years ago.
When she was finished, the portrait was a work of true art, filled with every scrap of her passion, every ounce of her remaining feelings. She wanted so desperately to let them go, but in her own pride she could never accomplish it. Pansy had her own ambitions, after all. She turned to her subject, and in a moment of inspiration, wrote Stet fortuna dormus across the bottom of the portrait.
May the fortune of the house endure.
Draco, sensing that she was done, strode over and looked over her shoulder. Pansy knew that she was being ignored, and transfiguring her paintbrush back into her wand, got up to leave the man with his own image. It was always the same with him; it did not matter she hadn't seen him for ten years.
"You paint very well." His hand grabbed her wrist, and Pansy fought the urge to shrink away. She could barely abide to be this close to him, the angel of her youth, the man who had shredded all her dreams. It was bitter irony he asked her to paint his portrait, fate at its most injurious. "But what do you mean by this quote?"
"Exactly what it says," she said, turning to face him at last, hating her dark eyes for their inevitable betrayal. If only she had been beautiful. If only she had been any other girl except herself. "May your fortune endure forever."
Draco smirked, and Pansy wondered if he understood what she really meant. She understood why he had done all those things, why he would never look at a girl like her. She was an insult to the fortune of his house. She thought, maybe, that he did understand. Draco had always been smarter than he seemed.
"Indeed." He drew her a bit closer to him, and eyes locked, their faces were only a few inches apart. Pansy's face was a mask, and so was his, though they each searched the other's face, for some sort of sign. A glimmer of feeling.
Pansy felt his pulse racing through his hand encircling her wrist, but his eyes were as silver and impassive as ever.
~~~
He could read the passion in her painting; he could see the catch in her breath at his closeness.
After a few moments, he leaned in and kissed her on the cheek, regretting everything. There were many other fine painters in London, but he had been drawn here. As his lips touched her cheek, he stepped in even closer, feeling the contact across the length of his body. He dropped her hand and turned toward the door all to soon.
"Thank you, Miss Parkinson."
~~~
She watched him go, understanding it was the last time she would ever see him. Some things never changed.