Warning: Rated for sexuality and mentions of Death Eater activities which aren't very nice.
(Title encouraged by the painting Puberty by Evard Munch.)
"Here, here, now. Don't cry. You raised your hand for the assignment." -Tori Amos
puberty
..
Draco Malfoy slumps back, feigning interest in the grumbling banter between Crabbe and Goyle. They were exchanging Quidditch statistics, and normally Draco would be attempting to show off his extensive knowledge of local teams. Today he is too busy acting as though he is bored and thinking of nothing. Yet, Draco Malfoy is never really thinking of nothing. His head is filled with calculations, information, analyses and questions. He voices only a third of these things aloud and is embarrassed at his own voice sometimes. It's too loud, too loud, everything is too loud. Before this year, things seemed simpler, and maybe it was all just easier to handle back then? But now, enough has developed for Draco to find himself in a spiral of emotions and erections and nasty thoughts, and although those close to him admire his composure, he's feeling very revealed.
His gray eyes burn into the back of Ginny Weasley's head, serpent tongue held still between his teeth. Pansy laughs loudly at something Blaise said and squeezes Draco's shoulder. He puts his hand in her lap to bide time, lazily flicks her inner thigh with his thumb and pointer finger. Ginny is arguing with the Gryffindor boys. Her soft, dark auburn hair is pulled into a loose ponytail and she leans over the table, wagging her finger in her brother's face. Her hair begins to move back and forth right then. It reminds Malfoy of twisted red snakes or crimson roses or red thin blood pouring out of a crystal vase. Gorgeous. Pansy leans into Draco's ear and nuzzles against him, apparently sensing his wandering thoughts. He tears his eyes off Ginny, and knows he will think of her later that evening. He knows it will embarrass him afterward but that it is coming anyway and he absolutely dreads that post-masturbatory guilt. He hates lying there winded and sweaty staring up at his black canopy wishing he hadn't just gotten off on something completely disgusting and traitorous. That's happened a lot lately. Slowly, Ginny stretches her arms up and stands, and Draco has to stick his tongue down Pansy's throat to divert his own attention.
Little Ginny Weasley was only fourteen, Draco knew this because the bumbling Ron Weasely kept repeating that in Transfigurations—She's only fourteen, to Dean Thomas, to the ever hopeful Longbottom, to any male who would dare look into his eyes, She's only fourteen. Ron obviously did not like that his baby sister had sprouted curves over the summer. But Draco didn't care, just as he didn't care about anything much anymore. What was fourteen? Just another number.
One, being the number of times Ron had warned Draco to steer clear of his sister, and two being the two perky breasts that she had, three whole hours Draco had stared at her in study hall imagining four fingers deep inside that place between her legs, that girl place.
(That new place Draco loved so dearly, loved so much it frightened him and kept him awake at night and made him falter. Made him forget his family.)
Only numbers, after all, and Draco Malfoy knew a great deal about numbers.
He'd briefly seen those five corpses Father made disappear, and then heard the lengthy, shouting arguments that week in the manor that woke him at six and seven in the morning.
He'd isolated himself then. He didn't want to hear what it was about. He just hoped it was over. He felt like he'd walked nearly eight miles through the backyard labyrinth and when nine in the evening crept around, Draco could still envision those ten eyes open wide and staring, mouths gaping holes, hearts silent. And then it was Happy, birthday, dear Draco, and dinner out and shopping for his own presents as usual. The normalcy was decieving.
And a few weeks later, on the eleventh of July was Pansy's summer jubilee and she pulled him to her side all evening, introducing him to twelve of her closest relatives. For the first time in his life, Draco was sensitive to the fact that Pansy's mother and father stood close together and laughed at each other's jabs. Master Parkinson clasped Draco's hand in his own and called him "my boy". It made Draco's throat swell up.
Draco watched Pansy bending over to adjust her dragon hide heels and remembered when they were only thirteen years old and she asked him to play with her, play play, only because Mother had gone shopping in Knockturn and left Pansy and Draco unattended at the manor and she was "bored". He was astonished by Pansy's confidence but eager, and they practiced kissing until Lucius arrived home from work, oblivious to the nature of their playtime. They emerged to listen to Lucius' loud bantering about the Ministry and they caught eyes and giggled together because they felt like they were suddenly in on a big secret. Lucius shot them semi-amused looks as only adults can, and did not ask any questions.
(But then at age fourteen, the Yule Ball, sticky and sweaty, and awakened, Draco had noticed Pansy's new hair style and her cleavage busting out of her pale pink dress robes but his vision also spanned past her. All night, he felt like the world was a painting and he was an art critic.
His gaze fell upon Chang, strong, boxy, athletic shoulders and small breasts and ink black hair charmed into a silky style. He watched hungrily at how suave and simple Cedric Diggory made it look to lead her around on the dance floor. Until now, he'd never thought he could learn something from an overly nice, boring duffer like Diggory but now he was a student, a hungry beggar waiting with his hands out for bread. It was as though a fire had started inside him, as though his entire life had just begun. The last three years at Hogwarts now seemed boring and juvenile. He tried to focus on Pansy during dinner but there were so many things that kept distracting him. The Patil twins glittered like stars, danced like snowflakes that Draco wanted to catch on his tongue.
The worst was anytime when Granger appeared because suddenly she was a completely different creature. Gone was the frizzy, manic hair and her teeth had been fixed. She looked mature. She looked beautiful. Pansy had gripped his arm and asked what he was thinking about. He filed away those words he'd never say. He tried to dance with her like Diggory and Cho were doing but he couldn't do it as well so he pretended to think the ball was stupid and uninteresting and instead pulled her hand and took her out into the hallway and snogged her, much to her delight. He felt brave, and bad, and like he could have been a much better Tri-Wizard competitor than Potter. He could have slayed a dragon with this confidence.)
That was then. It all seemed so crisp and new and simple, like the parchment Mother had given him as a back-to-school gift. That was then, and this is now.
And Draco's thoughts wandered back to the summertime, that sticky summer of sinning when Pansy had paraded him around, gripping his hand enthusiastically and offering him food.
If Pansy's jubilee had occurred even several weeks before that time, Draco would have felt very small at age fifteen, but after seeing those bodies in the back of Malfoy Manor he feels like an adult (he feels like Lucius) and when Pansy grips his hand hard he yanks her up into the empty music room and presses her hand to his crotch, at first it's to teach her a lesson, like don't touch me when I don't ask to be touched but she keeps it there until the place beneath her rose-colored nails swells and Pansy whispers, "You're right where I've always wanted you, Draco love, right here beside me."
And by some act of courage, he replies, "You mean, inside you?" He doesn't know where this came from. It seems like a leftover piece of that dragon-slaying confidence last winter.
Pansy gives a little shriek, exciting him and they fumble, and kiss and he quickly slips his hand beneath her skirts.
"Not here," she tuts and he hides his humilation ( feels weak at the thought of how much he wants to do this). She grabs his hand, pulls it to her side, and directs him up a flight of stairs. She pauses to kiss him on every step, and he's surprised that, unlike his fantasies, he doesn't feel very in control. But if this is going to be it, he'll take what he can get. They reach her bedroom and she lights several candles. When he looks around he realizes that her room looks much cleaner than normal, as though she was expecting him.
Suddenly, the room feels slightly off kilter. Draco tries to look suave like Diggory, posing against Pansy's bookshelf.
But Cedric Diggory's dead, he recalls. This thought makes him lose balance slightly, and he hopes Pansy doesn't notice. "So, do you want to do this or not?" he demands. Pansy gives him an all-knowing stare.
"We've got to," she says, surprising him. "There isn't much time. My father says that your father might be on the bad side of the Dark Lord. He heard your father ran from the dark mark. Unless your father makes it right, you could be in big trouble. Wouldn't it be tragic if you died?" She says this like it's hot gossip.
Draco wants to slap Pansy right then, but refrains. He hates her because she's right. It would be tragic, and his father very well might be in trouble but until now Draco had babyishly assumed Lucius could get out of it easily and he hates Pansy for scaring him. Hates her for knowing more than him. He hates her because of how her body looks in that dress, hates that she gave him a hard-on on the way to her room.
"My father's already made it right," Draco says boldly, and as soon as he says it, he hopes it's true. Hopes that's what the bodies were about. "And I'm not going to die." He tugs on the hem of his trousers, and he makes sure he sounds like he means it. "And my family is too important to the Dark Lord. You'll see." He raises his eyebrows like he knows what he's talking about. But he doesn't, so he continues talking. "Besides, my father was on his side the entire time. And the Dark Lord knows it! And what does your father know anyway?!"
"Don't be upset, Draco," Pansy purrs, slipping her hands behind his back. "But even if you don't die..." Pansy kisses his neck, and he gazes upward, uttering a soft moan. He tries desperately to block out all thoughts. But. She sounds like she doesn't care. He preferred her fawning over him in third year, playing in the snow with him in first year, devising plots to enrage Granger, squealing in his favor at every Quidditch match. But it would be immature of him to admit any of that so he shoves her backward on the bed and says a silent prayer that he can figure out what he's doing. And interestingly, he does. His mind keeps revisiting those words, "wouldn't it be tragic if you died?", and he holds her arms down and tries to drown out all the noise.
They snog, but this time they are not giggling about it. Loud violin music plays downstairs. Draco keeps checking the door, suddenly aware that Pansy's parents could burst in any second. She bucks her hips against his groin and he wonders if Harry Potter has ever done this with a girl. He wants to shut his mind off. It's all too loud, it's all going too fast.
The minutes speed by as Draco experiments on Pansy's neck, breathing into her ear and rubs his head down her torso, opens the clasps on her bodice. He kisses her black hair, and she takes his black dress shirt off and licks his nipple, making his heartbeat speed up. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen minutes, and he's worked her clothing off all the way and is tentatively stroking that girl place between her legs and he's happy to see Pansy is shuddering. She still has a shred of fear in her after all. Her squirming, her panting, it makes him feel much more confident, and so he sticks fingers in her next. When he realizes he likes how it feels, he slams them in deeper. Her toes curl behind him and he can feel that she's getting slicker. She moans louder and nods, cupping his trousers and then un-fastening the buttons and pulling them down. His arm is tired, and so he hesitates for a moment.
"Come on, Draco," she says urgently and to shut her up he focuses hard, lunges forward and bites her neck with his eyes closed. He can feel the wetness of her against his bare leg. She gives a giggling squeal and when her moans turn into yelps he enters her right then, breathing hot and heavy. Pansy's pained squeaks turn into breathless moans. She wraps her legs around his back. It's slow at first and he keeps slipping out of her. When they can get it in, it feels better than anything. Take that, Potter! is what goes through his head, and he wonders if he's mental, thinking of Potter at a time like this. When they finally strike a good rhythm, he counts sixteen thrusts before coming into her, gritting his teeth and gripping her sheets. After it's all done, it's even more awkward. Draco is spent and his head is swimming. He has no idea what to say but this has never mattered much to Pansy, who has enough to say for everybody.
"Finally," she smiles, "I always knew it'd be you. I can't wait to owl the girls."
He winces, but hides this with an important smirk. He thinks about asking her exactly what her father knows about the Dark Lord, and how he knows it, and if Lucius is going to be okay, if there's anything Draco can do. He wants to ask if she really thinks he's going to die, and wants to know if she's ready for classes yet or if like him, she's dreading start of term. He wants to know if she fancies him, and knows he should probably tell her he's not certain how much he really fancies her, or anyone for that matter. But the only thing he can get out is, "So can we do that again sometime?"
Pansy nods happily and wraps her arms around his shoulders, kisses his chest. "Mine," she says.
He decides it's time to go home right then. Partly because he wants to make certain his family hasn't been blown to pieces, a little bit because he's tired and would rather sleep in his own bed, and mostly because he is nobody's.
And time flew. It was already October seventeenth, and Draco was seated next to Pansy and pretending to be mindless and adoring while lusting over a girl he knows for a fact fraternizes with Mudbloods and has a Muggle-loving father. It's not that he doesn't want to be with Pansy- this new sort of relationship they've struck up has made them both very popular in Slytherin- but he is growing tired of her clinging and snappy comments. And being physical with Pansy has made him notice other girls, even if he despises them.
(Especially if he despises them.)
She had begun to ask what his plans were for every evening. She was his fellow Prefect, and constantly wanted to patrol the hallways with him while clutching his hand in a death grip. She'd become his study partner, and wanted to test out spells and potions with him. She had pouted when he complimented Astoria's new hairstyle and asked why he hadn't noticed her new earrings. Draco was growing tired. After all, Draco had important things to think about now, like what his father had been up to, or who was going to be killed or maimed next and whether he'd care, or if the Dark Lord would like him if they were to meet and if he even wanted the Dark Lord to be back in power.
He has decided his mind is playing tricks on him and that is why he is obsessing over girls like Ginny Weasley, and Granger. He has also decided that if he ever wants to stop obsessing, he will.
He uses the numbers to fill up space, to divert his attention. He is counting the times he and Parkinson have had sex. He is also counting the people he can trust, and the seconds to the impending war. He is counting on his parents to keep him safe. He is counting wins and losses, in Quidditch games and in power struggles, in arguments with Potter and Weasley, in give and take with Parkinson. For now, Pansy has many, many more points than he does. He can see in her sharp aqua gaze that she knows it, too.
All at once, Draco Malfoy feels the burden of adulthood, that hot sticky mess, but he doesn't feel ready for it. He actually misses being a child but he can't exactly put a finger on why.
He sees red hair out of the corner of his eye, and, with pain in his stomach, he watches Ginny Weasley exit the Great Hall while kissing Pansy's neck.
"What on earth are you looking at?" she suddenly asks him, meeting his eyes with an incredulous expression.
"The time," he lies at once, pretending to gaze at the clock across the Ravenclaw table. "It's nearly Potions." He pauses, and kisses her once more.
Pansy stares at him still, not blinking. "What do you care what time it is?" she challenges. He supposes this is what he deserves for always pretending like things as trivial as classes and punctuality don't trouble him when in fact everything troubles him.
Draco shrugs. "I just wanted to make certain we had enough time left. There are still a few things I want to do," he says simply, and although he made up the bit about watching the clock just now, this is very true.
Pansy accepts this answer, and she invites herself along with him to the library to return a few books but even then Draco feels like he could do more. And he is trying to decide if there's enough time to do everything- to kiss every girl he wants to, to discover what all of them like in the dark, to hurl every imaginable insult at Potter, to impress Umbridge, to score amazingly on the OWLS, to win Quidditch cup, to honor his family, to be a better wizard than anyone else, to be just like Lucius- and at two o'clock that afternoon comes the very sad and abrupt realization that there may not be time at all to finish much of anything.
Draco hangs near Pansy's side, and he does a fair job doing all of the things he already knows exactly how to do. He wears a bored expression and stares straight ahead, thinking of absolutely nothing.
-fin-