Disclaimer: I own nothing, I make no money.
Author's Note: Set anywhere after book three.
One Day, One Day
"Pansy never thought she'd be waiting her whole life."
The first time Pansy Parkinson had laid eyes on Ronald Weasley she had wanted to ask what in the bleeding hell made his hair that color.
That was in first year. And considering they were both first years, couth was not yet required at that age, but seeing as she was a Slytherin and he a Gryffindor, there was distance required.
They were on the train to Hogwarts, and she had this giddy anxiety imagining her first steps on Hogwarts grounds. She and Draco were walking the hallway through the compartments when the flash of red caught her eye and she stopped to stare in mild fascination at what appeared to be the most bizarre color of hair she had ever seen. She was on the verge of calling out to the boy when Draco had suddenly grasped her arm (which had risen subconsciously to point at the head of hair) and forcibly yanked it back down to her side. She yelped and turned in surprise to find Draco glancing both ways down the walk, still gripping her arm tightly.
"Don't," he hissed under his breath, "talk to him."
Pansy cocked an eyebrow. "Why?"
Draco looked up from his scan of the walkway, aghast. "Because…" He seemed at a loss for words. "Because he's a Weasley."
Pansy narrowed her eyes at him. "What the heck are you talking about, Draco?"
"He's-" Draco looked around, and then ushered her quickly into the nearest empty compartment, setting his case atop the seat. He turned to her fully, as she closed the door behind her.
"We can't socialize with him."
Pansy just stared at him. "I have no idea what you're trying to say, Draco."
"I mean," Draco sighed. "Dad said the Weasleys were below other purebloods, like us. And that we shouldn't speak with them. It would lower our status. Besides," Draco plopped into the seat behind him, "We're going to be Slytherins."
Pansy rolled her eyes at that one, because she highly doubted Draco could honestly predict the future.
"And he'll probably be a Gryffindor. They're all dumb anyway."
Later that night, when Ron was sorted into Gryffindor, Draco had given Pansy a meaningful look, and then smirked with the satisfaction of being right. But Pansy hadn't cared about that. She had looked over to where Ron had sat himself down upon the bench of the Gryffindor table, and she wished she had said something earlier on the train, when there weren't lines crossed between them, and others watching.
So she told herself, that one day, she wouldn't care about others watching, and she would ask Ron about his hair.
In second year, Pansy Parkinson had wanted to ask Harry Potter how in the hell he could talk to bloody snakes.
She had mulled the question over in her mind a good hundred times or so before she decided she'd just up and ask him. She had a chance. Walking down the hall with Blaise Zabini, and seeing Harry and Hermione coming toward them from the opposite end of the corridor. With her books held tight to her chest, she took a deep breath and locked eyes with Harry. She had opened her mouth to speak when Blaise suddenly pinched her arm harshly, drawing out a strangled yelp of pain from Pansy that had Harry and Hermione turning their heads in question, with looks of apprehensive bewilderment at the strange sound.
Pansy shut her mouth quickly and quickened her pace around the corner where she stopped and turned to Blaise angrily. "What the hell was that?"
Blaise narrowed his eyes and pointed a finger toward her. "I saw you."
"What are you talking about?" She waved an arm hysterically. "You pinched me. That hurt."
"You were about to talk to Wonder Boy."
Pansy stopped. "You pinched me for that?"
Blaise crossed his arms. "What, and let you humiliate us by actually deeming to speak to the retard?"
Pansy hadn't even considered them in her musings to talk to Potter. "I was just going to ask him how he could speak Parseltongue." She lowered her voice.
Blaise was silent for a minute, staring at her with narrowed eyes, and then he leaned in closer toward her, speaking slowly, warningly. "We don't talk to him. Not in friendly conversation. Not you, not me, not any other Slytherin. You catching on, Parkinson?"
The use of her last name made her silence the reply itching in her throat. It made her feel distant, like an outsider. So she stayed silent as Blaise stared at her, and she stayed silent as they walked back to the common room, and she stayed silent as they all sat around the fire that night cracking jokes about the 'snake charmer'.
So she told herself, that one day, she wouldn't care about distance. And she'd ask Harry how he could talk to snakes.
In third year, Pansy Parkinson had wanted to ask Hermione Granger what it felt like to land the greatest face-plant she'd ever seen on the cheek of one Draco Malfoy.
Merlin knew she'd wanted to punch Draco herself a few times, where only the presence of witnesses kept her from throttling him. And it was because Granger was the one to finally do it that had kept her laughing hysterically, sprawled out on one of the Slytherin common room armchairs.
She was holding her gut, her eyes almost leaking tears as she laughed and guffawed loudly at the image of Draco's head flying back from that blow.
She raised her hand to imitate it, "Sha-BAM," and swiped it through the air like a slap, before breaking out into more fits of laughter.
Crabbe and Goyle were lounging on the sofa near her, and they looked at each other for a moment before turning back at Pansy with identical looks of incredulity. "Honestly, Pansy, it wasn't that funny," Goyle said.
Pansy opened her eyes and tried to quiet her giggling, her arms still around herself. "Oh come on, guys. You had front row tickets. Don't tell me you didn't find that hilarious to some extent."
Crabbe frowned. "No, I didn't, Pansy. And you wouldn't have either if you had seen Draco later."
Pansy cracked a lopsided smiled. "What, you mean the large red handprint on his cheek?" She bit her lip to stop the coming hysterics.
"No," Crabbe deadpanned. "I mean, how furious he was."
"Well, I would be, too, if I had just been smacked by Hermione Granger of all people. Seriously, I've got to ask her what that felt like." She smiled again.
Crabbe and Goyle were silent for a while, just staring at her, seeming to study her, and she was beginning to get a little freaked out by their quiet musings, especially since they were musing on her.
Suddenly, Goyle had leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, and Pansy had never seen him look so intimidating in the entire time she'd known him. It was unsettling.
"Don't get any ideas, Parkinson," he breathed out lowly.
She stiffened, and quieted quickly. She silently wondered why they all adopted her last name when trying to distance her.
Crabbe narrowed his eyes at her, calculating. "Things would be said if you were suddenly laughing with Hermione Granger about Draco being humiliated. And we don't like things said."
She was suddenly very aware of the distance once again placed between herself and those she had wanted to reach out to. But she understood the repercussions of crossing lines, so she hadn't mentioned it again, nor had she ever again said anything about actually fearing Crabbe and Goyle at that moment, the way they looked at her, the way their shoulders hunched in ready anticipation of pouncing.
So she told herself, that one day, when she wouldn't fear crossing lines, she would ask Hermione what it felt like to punch Draco Malfoy.
And that was how Pansy Parkinson spent her Hogwarts existence. Because she knew, probably better than anyone, the consequences for going against your own kind. And she knew that the worst of crimes were the subtle ones, the ones you thought weren't wrong or unimaginable at all, but seemed to say the most about your loyalties.
Pansy never asked Ron about his hair, or Harry about his Parseltongue, or Hermione's experience of sending Draco reeling. Because she told herself, always, that one day it would be done.
One day she would abandon all those ridiculous ties to people who hardly even knew her at all.
She thought herself resourceful, cunning, diligent. And most of all, she thought herself above petty house squabbles.
She never once thought herself to be a coward. That word didn't exist for Pansy, at least, not when she was in context. She simply felt that it wasn't time to break from the pack yet. They still needed to stick together. She thought she'd let it continue for as long as it needed, and then, when the reputation of herself and her peers wasn't at stake, she'd step out of those bounds.
But Pansy was never one to cross distances.
Because to her, it would come one day.
So she figured she'd sit, and she'd wait, and she'd stay silent, holding out for one day.
Thing is, Pansy Parkinson waited too long. And now, she'll never know what the other side of the line looks like. Because she was silent.
One day, one day, one too many days.