Perfect

A/N: This is a short story/one-shot (formerly part of my now deleted "The Ones Who Love Us" collection) for the ship S. S. Snitch & B**ch, or Draco/Pansy. It is OOC, just so you know! Also, the character representations presented in this story are not necessarily in agreement with the authors views of the said characters. (Haha, I know that makes almost no sense. Just screwing with ya'll!)

WARNING: This chapter includes themes of self-harm and eating disorders. If you might be triggered by this, then please, be careful!

No! No, this cannot be happening!

I turn in front of the mirror, despair flooding me. My dress is too tight. I tried to compact myself as much as possible, but even those painful efforts couldn't alter the undeniable fact: I'm too fat to fit into my Yule Ball gown. With a soft moan, I jerk the black dress over my head and toss it to my bed. I don't know what I'm going to do! There're only three weeks to the ball and if I can't fit into my dress by then…

I sit heavily on the edge of my bed, and without meaning to, burst into uncontrollable sobs.

"Hey, is something wrong, Pansy?" Daphne Greengrass peers over the edge of her Witch Weekly issue with a look of vague concern.

I wipe my eyes, burying my face in my hands and trying to form the words that I know I should say. "Yeah—yeah…. No! Everything is wrong! I- I'm just s-so fat!"

Daphne snorts in slight derision, scanning me with her evaluating, dark green eyes. "No. You're really not—you're much thinner than I am, and I'd say that I'm in pretty great shape. Come on, Pans. It can't be that bad!"

I shake my head dolefully. "It is! Mother s-sent me t-this dress… and she'll be s-so disappointed if I don't wear it t-to the ball! I was supposed to reach my weight goal by now… but I failed!"

"Well, how much to you weigh?" Daphne turns back to Witch Weekly with a slight hum of detached interest.

"One hundred and two." I say quietly, loathing the obscene numbers with all my heart. It's just not right—I should have been slim enough by now. Is there something wrong with me? What if I'll never get thin, and be forced to live my life looking like this? I'm so ugly! Questions and thoughts bombard my brain, and Daphne's response is of no help.

"Good Lord." She sits up very suddenly on her bed, her magazine forgotten. "Pansy, for a fourteen year-old girl, I'm not sure if that's healthy."

"What are you talking about?" I snap, suddenly feeling cornered and accused. "It's better than however much you weigh." I instantly regret my words, knowing that they might have hurt my roommate and friend. "I- I'm-"

"It's fine. Forget about it." Daphne rises to her feet and stomps over to the dormitory window, staring out into the murky green waters of the Lake with her back turned on me. "Well, if you feel like you might need to work out a good diet, you could try going to Madam Pomfrey. She could help you figure something out—you know, the right balance to keep you healthy. My little sister Astoria has a very weak stomach and a lot of allergies, and she went to Pomfrey. It made all the difference, it really did!"

"No. It's none of her business! It's none of yours either, for that matter." I turn away, running my hands over my rib-cage and waist, feeling every horrible bulge of fat and every hideous dimple in my padded flesh. Daphne is quiet for a few minutes, and it only takes that moment of silence to break my resolve for the second time. I'm well practiced at suppression. I don't tell people how I feel. But lately I've been rather… tired. It must be nothing more than lack of sleep. As the tears begin to stream down my cheeks, I spin back around to face her. Her magazine lies on the bed beside her as she watches me, concern in her eyes. "Everyone hates me—everyone thinks I'm ugly. Pug-nosed and fat, they used to say! So fat—such a cow. Everyone is always saying 'don't be a cow, Parkinson'. I am, too! I'm just a big, fat, berk!"

Daphne rolls her eyes as I burst into a flood of sobs, teasing a stray strand of her hair back into place. "Don't say that, Pansy. You're not—but I do think that you might need some help. Why don't you just talk to someone? Would you do that… for me?"

I stare up at her, lips pursed in anger and exhaustion. "No."

"You don't want breakfast, Pansy?"

Draco Malfoy looks questioningly at me as I push the platter of bacon which he's trying to pass me aside. "No, I'm on a diet. I'll eat later—don't worry about it." He narrows his cold grey eyes, but sets the plate down without comment. I drum my fingers on the table, wishing that I could leave but fearing the hundreds of eyes that will undoubtedly fall on me if I do. My robes feel even heavier than ever today, the rough wool seems to rub layers of my flesh from my very body as my bones grate against the material.

"So… Daphne was talking to me yesterday." Draco says offhandedly, staring up at the cloudy grey ceiling with sudden interest. I don't respond. I should have known that that cow would go telling the whole school about my weight! Now everyone will know just how much of a disgusting failure I am. "She said that you have the prettiest dress for the ball, but no date."

"Is that all?" I whisper.

"Yeah. That's it. You know, I don't have a date either, and I was thinking that maybe we could go together. Would you be alright with that?"

I shake my head slowly. "I'm not going. My dress—it didn't fit…"

Draco stares at me, his head cocked slightly. "Hey, let's take a walk, okay?"

I raise my eyebrows, but follow him from the Great Hall into the dark passages of the castle just the same. We continue in silence for several moments, before I make a motion for his hand. I don't know why I do it—I just had a sudden craving for the warmth of another's body to flow through mine. It's been colder this year than last. Draco jerks his hand from mine quickly, holding it against his chest as he breathes thickly, his face turned away. The sleeve of his thick robe slips down the slightest, revealing his alabaster wrist. It's marked with pink and white scars; long angry slashes across his smooth skin. "I don't really feel comfortable…" He begins, but I shake my head.

"Did you do that to yourself?"

Draco turns his nose up, sneering. "Of course not. It's from that stupid wound the bloody Hippogriff left me last year."

"That was on the other arm." I say quietly, stopping dead in the hall and pointing accusingly at him. "What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing's wrong with me! I wanted to talk about you, Pansy. I'm worried about you! You look like a skeleton—and as your friend, I simply can't leave you be without trying to help. I care deeply about you, you should understand that." He yells. Several students pause to stare at us, and he seizes me by the sleeve of my robe, tugging me down the hall and through the nearest door into an empty classroom.

"I- I… just look at me." I whisper, gesturing to my body in disgust. "I'll never be good enough. No for me, not for you, not for my mother. If I can't fit into the clothes that she buys me, then I'm a disgrace to the Parkinson family. No Parkinson will ever be fat."

"And no Malfoy will ever get the kind of grades that his father demands of him." Draco shakes his head, laughing scathingly. "We'll never be good enough for them, Pansy!" He lets his cloak drop to the ground, lifting his scarred arms. "Never."

I turn away, bitterness seeping through my trembling frame. It's true—we never will fulfill the expectations put upon us by our parents. It hurts to starve… but it takes the pain away from the memories of my mother's cold, disappointed eyes. It burns my stomach and bones, but at least I feel an odd sense of victory. I'd never admit that I have a problem. I'd never tell a soul of the secret sense of self-fulfillment that I get from sticking my bony fingers down my throat before bending over the welcoming toilet bowl.

"But the thing is…" Draco's arm comes to a rest on my shoulder, so heavy that my knees nearly buckle. "We don't need to. You're good enough for me, Pansy. I love you—can't you see? You're beautiful, and it hurts me to know that you're struggling." He walks slowly to one of the dust covered desks, and sits wearily. I watch him as he runs his fingers over his wrists with a sour smile. "I did this a long time ago. I regret it. These marks won't go away, Pansy, but yours can! Self-destruction isn't the answer. It may be relief at first, but you'll just end up more hurt and empty than ever."

I stumble to my knees, the tears beginning to flow once again. "Why are you talking to me like this?" I choke. We never speak of these things. Slytherins are deeper than anyone would ever guess, and we like to keep that to ourselves. Daphne and Astoria never mention the hand-shaped bruises on their torsos. I only know because I've seen them shower. Tracy Davis hides the locket with the photo of her alcoholic father far beneath her layers of clothes. I only saw it once. Millie Bullstrode only tells her diary about her several attempted suicides. I stole the black book and read it. I haven't told her I'm sorry, though I am. Draco doesn't talk about the cold steel against his skin, breaking through layers of tension and fear. I only know because I love him. And I don't mention how it feels to hate oneself. He only understands because he loves me.

"Tell me that you'll go to the ball with me, Pansy?" He settles beside me, wrapping my shivering frame in warm arms. "Listen, talk to me about the dress that your mother got you."

I smile inwardly. It's a beautiful gown, and Draco understands that I love those kinds of things. "It's long—to the floor. The neck is low, and it's so tight. It's black satin, and sleeker than your Nimbus 2001." I almost laugh through my tears. I can picture myself in the dress. My short black hair above the tight black fabric. Light enough not to weigh me down, showing off every curve and delicate angle. But too small… too small for someone like me.

"That sounds really pretty, Pansy." Draco buries his face in my hair, hugging me against his heart. "But you don't really like black, do you? What's your favorite color?"

"Pink." I whisper. Mother doesn't like pink. She says that it's too childish, too silly and soft. I love that.

"Then wear a pink dress. Wear it for yourself, and not for anyone else. I don't care if you come to the Ball in a potato sack painted magenta, I just want you to dress in the first thing that brings you joy." He smiles down at me, and I look up with a frown.

"I don't own anything-" I begin, but he presses a single white finger against my lips.

"That's fine. Ask Astoria. You're about the same size, and she has lots of ball gowns, I'm sure." And then, he's kissing me. Kissing me like I've never kissed a soul before—tender but passionate. He doesn't even seem to mind my tears as they streak his cheeks when our faces rub. At this moment, as our lips lock, I know that it doesn't matter what anyone thinks of me. I feel free, I feel worthy, and above all, I feel loved.