[unusually long] Author's Notes and Disclaimer: Excuse the horrible working title, please. I also haven't decided if I should break it up into teeny chapters or leave it an enormous one-shot. This is incomplete, the latest victim of writer's block, but it is long enough that I think it's worth uploading onto ff.net for the time being. I don't own anyone in it, much to my chagrin; Pansy, her family, Draco and his, and all their friends and enemies are property of one JK Rowling, and she's very nicely consented to allow us fic writers to use them while she's slaving away to provide more canon. Opening quote is "Pretty Girl" by Sugarcult; it always, always reminds me of Pansy and Draco. Feedback is welcome, but I'm not going to beg. Nyah.
"She's beautiful as usual with bruises on her ego and
Her killer instincts tell her to be aware of evil men."
If they think I don't know that he doesn't love me, they really are as stupid as he says they are. I hear what they say about me. "Poor Pansy," they mutter behind my back. Poor Pansy doesn't see the faces he makes when her head's turned, poor Pansy doesn't hear the coldness in his tone when he talks to her, poor Pansy doesn't feel him pull away when she gets too near. Well, I don't need their pity. Of course I notice those things. Of course it hurts my feelings sometimes. But he is with me, so their murmurs be damned. Draco likes me well enough to keep me in his company, and his occasional callousness is easily enough overlooked so long as it's followed with a kind word or candid smile, as inevitably happens.
My mother says it's a price worth paying to be in league with a Malfoy, that being in their favor more than compensates for their attitude. I take my mother's advice very seriously; after all, she came from practically nothing and married very well. I at least have more going for me when she did when she was young and of proper age to be wed. Her family, though among the oldest and purest lines still remaining in the country, were left practically destitute after an unfortunate run-in with the Ministry of Magic in the early forties.
Many people are familiar with the now legendary tale of Dumbledore defeating Grindelwald that decade. What most do not know is that my great-uncle Johann was Grindelwald's right-hand man when the Dark wizard was at the height of his power. Once defeated, Uncle Johann became the unwilling recipient of all Grindelwald's possessions, including but certainly not limited to his vast collection of illegal poisons, maps and diagrams of top-secret Ministry properties, an assortment of devices that have long since been banned from ownership by common witches and wizards, and, most regrettably and to his family's ever-lasting shame, the Dark wizard's Collection. Yes, my great-uncle was the lucky recipient of the infamous collection of eyes Grindelwald hand-plucked from his victims' faces just before he killed them. It is rumored in the family that it was that bestowment in particular which drove Uncle Johann mad. His widow, my great-aunt Emilie, used to speak of how he'd wake in the dead of night, screaming that "they" were watching him.
Apparently, the vision of so many soulless eyes staring at him from their jars never ceased its torment of my dear old uncle, who eventually let slip to an undercover Auror in a local pub one evening that he'd do anything to be rid of the lot. The Ministry raided the house next morning, uncovering all of his dirty little secrets, including some which to this day remain unexplained. In his trial, he confessed to having been the one to gauge out the eyes for Grindelwald, and he was sent to Azkaban for the rest of his living days. The trial was hugely popular in its day; official court documents record an eighty-year verdict, but as he was already nearing his one-hundredth birthday, they may as well have sentenced the old man to death. His conviction devastated my mother's family, and all social prestige was ruined in the aftermath.
Individual hope was not lost, however, as my mother and her parents moved away from London shortly after the trial and managed to escape most of the public scorn surrounding their name. After a reasonable period they were able to work their way back into certain respectable families' favor and regain some of the status they once knew. The Malfoys, for instance, whose son Lucius attended Hogwarts with my mother, welcomed them back entirely (not least of all due to their notoriety and past acquaintances with such powerful Dark wizards, I'm sure). My mother's family, however, while in somewhat decent social standing, still struggled financially, and it was to my mother's great benefit that Lucius Malfoy, two years her senior and to whom she'd taken quite a liking, was a close acquaintance of Elliot Parkinson, who in turn had taken a liking to her.
Looking at my father these days, I can appreciate that he must have been handsome in his youth; Mum has actually told me as much, and old photos attest to his charm. While my mother fawned over Lucius, Elliot doted on her, buying her sweets and expensive gifts until she at last realized his affection toward her. She's told me of their courtship when I've gone to her despairing over my and Draco's latest drama. She and my father were not the perfect match; he would sometimes catch her ogling Lucius and terrible arguments would ensue, or she would spend hours helping him with coursework without so much as a thank-you, or they would be on non-speaking terms for a week because of something as silly as a spilled butterbeer or a bad joke taken too personally. But it never lasted; eventually he would kiss her in apology and the harmony between them would return.
I've never needed rescuing the way my mother did. My father was indeed her knight in shining armour, whisking her off to his townhouse in London after graduation from Hogwarts, and when they were married, Lucius Malfoy was one of his groomsmen (with his new wife, Narcissa, sitting obediently in the second row of seats, keeping a sharp eye on my mother and smiling loftily at the other guests). It has never been imperative for me to marry exceedingly well, though at the same time, there has never been a real question as to whether or not I would. For as long as I can remember, my mother has encouraged me in my pursuit of Draco, and I've been glad to oblige. When we were children, my mother and his would schedule park visits on the same days, and while the women would sit serenely under the broad-leafed trees, Draco and I would be left to our own devices. The most popular game in those days was Hide and Seek, and oh the thrill of being found by that boy! I can't begin to explain the delight in knowing that, while I ducked behind a tree, somewhere Draco Malfoy was actively pursuing me. The triumph on his face and the glee at having found me sent a jolt of pleasure through me every single time. He's never lost the thrill of the hunt; these days, the Gryffindors are his targets, and I won't deny the jealousy that sometimes bubbles within me at seeing that same victorious smile on his face after quarrels with them.
Of course, sometimes he does lose, and if any aspect of his personality is more dangerous than his pride, it is his temper. Once, Hermione Granger slapped him for saying something about the gamekeeper-turned-professor, Hagrid. That evening was awful; he was unusually quiet, and when I went to talk with him, he pushed be away so aggressively that I fell backwards into a table, knocking over all sorts of things. I was so embarrassed that I almost cried, and he didn't apologize at all. Goyle told Millicent what had happened earlier that day to make Draco so mean, and she recounted it to me as I lay in bed that night, feeling completely dejected and wondering what I could have done to offend him so greatly. The next day he held my hand on the way to Potions, and I knew he'd forgiven me for interrupting his silence the previous night.
There have been similar occasions. I positively dread Quidditch matches between Slytherin and Gryffindor because the every time Potter beats him, Draco becomes sullen and snappish. He almost hit me in our second year because I said something stupid after the match; I can't even remember now what it was, but for the first time in my life, I was really afraid of him. In fact, if Crabbe and Goyle hadn't intervened, I do not doubt that he would have followed through. Because his friends did block me from him, however, he had time to realize what he was doing, and he looked nearly as terrified as I'd felt. He did apologize for that, and naturally I accepted. I do sometimes wonder what he would have done if Crabbe and Goyle hadn't been around. Rather, I know he probably would have hit me, but what would have happened after that? Would he have apologized, or would he have pretended to have done nothing wrong? Surely he knew the mere thought of hitting a girl was wrong or he wouldn't have bought me that lovely necklace next time we went into Hogsmeade together. But I know his father is a supporter of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and that frightens me because I also know Draco is expected to follow in his father's footsteps, and it is no real secret that the Dark Lord's supporters are indiscriminate in choosing their victims. Sometimes I can't help but think Draco capable of the same objectivity, even when it comes to beating his own girlfriend.
He will of course join the Dark Lord when we leave Hogwarts. The thought turns my stomach, but there's really nothing anyone can do to change his mind. His father is, as the public now very well knows, a Death Eater. There has never been a question as to whether or not Draco will join ranks when he comes of age. I can't imagine that Mr. Malfoy has ever sat Draco down and told him half of what he knows, but Draco seems to be frighteningly well-informed nevertheless. He's told me in great detail how the Dark Mark works, proper protocol when in You-Know-Who's presence, and has even divulged to me his father's role in You-Know-Who's inner circle. I don't think he really wants to be a Death Eater, but his mind is set. Even his mother seems to think it's alright, and he values her advice and opinion with unusual devotion. Once, in our fourth year, I tried to talk to him about it, about possibly refusing to join them, but that turned out to be a bad idea, to put it delicately. He told me I was being stupid and that he could only ever hope to be half the man his father is, told me that I should be glad that he's taking the smarter route, told me that if I knew what was good for me, I'd drop it and let him live his own damn life. Then he didn't speak to me for two weeks.
Our first kiss was at the Yule Ball that same year. The entire evening was lovely and almost perfect. He was extraordinarily handsome in his dress robes – a vision I've taken to bed with me many a night since, when I feel fit to burst at having to say goodnight to him and make my way to the girls' dormitory alone. Even watching Potter clumsily dance his way through the opening waltz was more bearable, being on Draco's strong and slender arm. I felt a little sorry for Crabbe and Goyle because they hadn't had the nerve to ask anyone to accompany them, but Vincent assured me they were much better off not having to keep a girl entertained all night. Draco and I danced to a few of the slow songs, but he wouldn't try at any of the faster ones because he didn't fancy breaking a sweat in his heavy velvet robes. This suited me well enough; I much preferred the slower ones anyway, resting my head against his shoulder, feeling him breathing on my ear. He told me I looked beautiful when we met earlier that night in the common room, and he held my hand loosely until we reached the entrance hall, whereupon he fixed my arm in his with rigid formality. Let it never be said that Draco Malfoy is ignorant in proper courting etiquette.
The evening carried on as uneventfully as can be said of a Yule Ball, and at half past ten Draco decided he was absolutely bored with the Ball, pointedly asking me to accompany him on a walk. I could hardly breathe as he led me outside into the cold Christmas night; he noticed my shivering and put his arm around my waist as we walked. I didn't bother telling him I wasn't shaking from the chill, but from the excitement at finally – finally! – being on the brink of fulfilling years and years of daydreams about him. When we finally stopped, far from the rose gardens full of fairy lights and kissing couples, Draco removed his arm and walked forward a few more paces. He stood with his back to me for a moment before turning. He smiled, and I thought I could die right then and there.
"You can't see the stars from the garden," he said, raising his eyes to the black sky and then returning them to look at me. He retraced his steps back toward me. His breath made tiny clouds as he spoke. "I'm named after a constellation, you know."
I shook my head because I hadn't known, but he didn't seem to notice my ignorance.
"You're named after a flower, like my mother," he continued matter-of-factly. I thought it strange that he was mentioning his mother in this wonderful moment, but rather than ask questions, I let him carry on.
"She says we could be perfect together," he told me.
And I had asked him, "What do you think about that?"
And he'd taken my hands in his because I had been fidgeting with them and he said, "I don't believe in perfection." I felt like crying. He spoke rather monotonously now, but his steely eyes were bright and seemed to be burning from within.
"What do you believe in, Draco?" I could not understand what he was getting at with all this talking. I was desperate to understand him, especially now that we were so close to . . . something.
His eyes bore into mine, like he was trying to penetrate my very soul with his stare. I willed him to answer me truthfully, wanted him to see my confusion and honest curiosity; I was desperate for him. I felt my knees ready to give way and felt certain that if he didn't speak again soon, I would either faint or scream. Maybe both.
"I believe in power," he said at last. My heart fell to my feet, but I hoped he hadn't noticed. He bit his lower lip, apparently searching for words to clarify his declaration.
"Look," he said, gathering both my hands in one of his, "there's power here," and he pressed them to his chest. "There's power here," he continued, running one of his long fingers along my hairline and jaw. I smiled, relieved and in awe of his charm. "And here," he said more quietly still, slipping his free hand to the back of my neck and pulling my face closer to his.
"I don't know about perfection, but we could definitely be powerful together," he murmured. It sounded like a business proposition, but the softened expression on his face was not, for once, that of a scheming, egotistical Slytherin. His pale skin glowed in the moonlight, his eyes shone brightly, and his lips curled into a smile.
I felt silly because I couldn't think of anything to say, but then – finally – he bowed his head and kissed me. It was as breathtaking as I'd always imagined it would be. He tasted faintly of peppermint. It was the perfect ending to the best Christmas I'd ever had in my life.
Our mothers were ecstatic.