A one-shot for the 34 stories, 106 reviews challenge on the HPFC forum.
Round Four: Blaise/Pansy.
Title comes from the Florence and the Machine song.
He noticed her, out the corner of his eye.
He was the quiet type, dark and silent and oddly charismatic with his off-hand smirk and inherited beauty. He mostly remained inconspicuous but people noticed him, all the same. She was the very contrary of him. She was a smallish, arrogant chatterbox of a girl with pure blood and a plain face but shining eyes and a commanding voice. She drew attention, in no time making herself a leader of the Slytherin girls of her year. He found it amusing, but not that interesting.
He had better things to be pondering.
Early as hell, she struck him as Malfoy's girl.
They were only thirteen. The age of first blossoms indeed, but no one else was quite that sure. Timid glances were thrown here and there, hands brushed hands, potions were messed up in class and sudden fits of giggles possessed the inexperienced little females. It was quite endearing, in fact. But she would have none of that. Oh, she became awkward and her voice too high and too sweet, she smiled till her jaw ached and tried her first bits of make-up, and in that she was only any schoolgirl with a crush, but Zabini saw that there was more to it. The glint in her eye wasn't unsure, it wasn't insecure and scarcely ever wandered. It shone radiant for Draco Malfoy, and if the latter still appeared either oblivious or naively smug, Zabini knew better. He had eye and experience for strong women, even in the making, and to him their dynamic was crystal clear – closer, closer, closer.
Little Pansy was out to get her prince, and she wouldn't take no for an answer.
(not that anyone would have said no to her)
He pondered Parkinson and that unexplainable appeal of hers.
The girl wasn't pretty – or not that much. She had a turned-up nose, too-small eyes, a pouting mouth and little to no feminine curves. She laughed too loud and talked too fast, and a mind he sensed as keen was made to look blank by her relentless taste for chatter and gossip. She was a pain to be around, most of the time.
There was Daphne, cool and collected princess of a girl, delicately pure and flawlessly beautiful. There was Tracey, clever and pretty, with a lovely body and always something interesting to say. And there was Pansy – loud, talkative, skinny and restless. What made the difference then? What was it that made Parkinson stand out of the crowd, get the power in the group and the right to stay around their precious little blond prince?
It wasn't complicated, he realized. She got what she wanted. Strength of will – passion. People Parkinson liked she knew how to draw closer – and so the more indecisive spirits, out of fascination or mere curiosity, were pulled forward to the steely glint of her eye and the unfaltering determination in her voice. The girls followed her around like meek little sheep, even the smartest ones in the lot knew it was more fun, more restful and a lot safer to be in Pansy Parkinson's good books – the boys mocked her, but grudgingly accepted her, more or less respected her – and Draco Malfoy, arrogant spoiled little prince who had never had the chance to get a mind of his own, couldn't resist the force with which she wanted him. She wasn't bad-looking, he'd known her for a while, she was snarky and fun and trouble, pure-blooded enough, and they had things in common – she made sure they did.
It ended up just like she had always wanted. Girlfriend.
(little Pansy was in control)
The thing was, their life would be no bright, sweet fairytale.
He watched her pace the common room, a tense little bubble of brittle feelings and frustrations, restless to the extreme. He just sat there watching her. There was the low noise of conversation here and there, people huddled in groups, chattering girls and smugly casual boys. The complex little circles of society that made the Slytherin universe were never to cease, even in the velvet quietness of a winter evening, when the warmth of the fire could almost let them forget they were snakes buried into the depths of the castle, where it was chilly and they should never ever put their guard down. But it was party-time for the Slug club, many of their house were off to be seen among the famous people the pitiful old man would certainly have invited, and many others indeed had probably gone to bed early, hanging around the common room like any other night too harsh a wound for their haughty little pride, too obvious a reminder that they just weren't good enough – to be invited. Zabini had been invited, and he had had the dark pleasure to decline – plans, or so he had said, the excuse didn't matter much anyway. Here were his plans, reclining in this armchair watching Pansy Parkinson like a hawk, until she shot at him:
"What are you doing here anyway?"
He raised a wry, mocking eyebrow.
"Why Pansy, I'm just sitting. Here, in my common room, where it's warm. Did you expect anything special?"
"Oh please," she scoffed. "Why aren't you out there at this fancy party?"
"The fancy party you weren't invited in?" He paused, "Well, I decided not to go. You know, Parkinson, those kind of things actually get old, depending on who is throwing them. And Slughorn, well, I think you get my drift."
"I'm not in his class," she muttered, "but Draco doesn't like him, all right..."
"But if Draco doesn't like him, it's all settled them," he breathed, "why are you even questioning that?"
She glared at him. He smiled his slow secretive smile, and half-closed his eyes, tilting his head backwards. She scoffed loudly.
"Very unladylike, you know," he noted. She did it again.
"I'm not a bloody lady." He heard her start pacing again. "Where the hell is Draco?"
"Hanging around the party trying to sneak his way in?" He yawned. "Plotting secret dark stuff somewhere in a corner? Committing murder? Snogging a pretty one in a broomcloset?"
"Shut up!" she yelled shrilly, and there was a short moment of tense silence in the common room, before everybody started talking again, as though nothing had happened at all. It had happened. He knew they were watching out the corner of their eye and she knew it too. Nothing was meaningless and nothing went unnoticed in the Slytherin common room. Ever. But he only wondered which one of his hypotheses had caused such a beautifully messy reaction.
She walked towards him, slow steps taken one by one, determination in her wide dark eyes. He opened his fully again and stared up at her, a predatory smirk curling the edge of his mouth. She leaned forward, pressing her hands into the arms of his chair, trapping him down only because he let her. She stared into his very pupils, seeing the twisted reflection of her tiny face there, not seeing him, not really. She spoke in a whisper.
"You don't know the first thing about me, Blaise Zabini."
And she kissed him, tasting of chocolate and something faintly more bitter, fierce and passionate against his lips as she devoured them for everyone to see. Faintly amused, he pulled her into his lap, and their teeth clashed together, his arm snaking around her waist, closer closer closer until she suddenly broke the embrace, panting slightly as she straightened up, stood and messily tried to rearrange her skirt, poor lost little girl.
"I'm going to bed," she whispered, "night."
He watched her go, thin little thing rushing up the stairs. Pitiful but cute.
She smelled of girly perfume and vanilla, nothing close to a woman. He kissed the skin of her neck raw, felt her nails dig into his shoulders and her body squirm against his as she fought him, herself and lots of other people too, people he just didn't give a damn about, let's face it. Pansy under bedsheets was restless and rest-depriving, always squirming or dreaming or kicking or whispering or... She was tiring, as always, and he didn't know why he put up with her. She was no good, but she was interesting in some ways if you looked really hard, and she couldn't stand it all and yet couldn't resist it either, which wasn't boring to witness. Right then she pushed him off her and yet coiled her legs around his and looked away from his face. He laughed real quietly and she immediately gave him her full attention, frowning in a way that was trying to be angry and hateful.
"Stop it," she whispered, "stop it, stop it, stop it."
"What should I stop, dearest?" he spoke, his tone soft and mocking.
"Acting like you bloody own me," she spat, punching his chest in a way that was too feeble not to automatically induce pity, and he caught her tiny fist and squeezed it, pushing her wrist back, slightly painfully but not too much.
"I don't, Parkinson," he told her. "I don't need to put any meaning at all in this. You're doing all the job already, you're the one who can't stop thinking nonsense."
She glared at him. "I'll be going now," she huffed and yet she did not move at all. He resisted the urge to scoff at her. You didn't get much more like a little girl.
"Get over it, Parkinson. I'm the one touching you, and not Malfoy. Sorry you screwed up your own plans."
"I didn't have any plans," she automatically murmured, not really speaking to him. Her eyes had got a funny faraway look now, and she twisted a bit, her hair fanning around her face. He played with her fist that had relaxed into an open hand, coiling and uncoiling his fingers around hers.
"I know you didn't, dear," he spoke low, his tongue brushing the words carefully as though they were a secret. "You're way too mindless for that, let's face it. You have goals, but you don't have plans – reckless as they come. Tsk."
She swatted his hand with her free one. "And you, Blaise Zabini, are always here at the very right moment to take advantage of other people's flaws," she whispered.
"Not exactly, Parkinson," he disagreed. "I don't take advantage of anything. I merely use flaws for fun. That's a lot more noble, I think, it gives things perspective... and an actual use in the grand scheme of things, a use that's not just about people walking all over each other. You know, everything can look sort of interesting and pretty if you tilt your head the right way instead of thinking power, power, power, weakness all the time."
"Yes, instead you think confusion and hurt, and how to enjoy 're a fucked-up freak, you know that," she told him. She sounded so small and helpless in her rejection, or perhaps her loneliness, or perhaps her misery, that he laughed and kissed the tense line of her lips.
"I know, Parkinson, I know. Makes things all the more interesting, doesn't it? Besides, I guess that's why you're with me... Must be a nice change, someone who actually pays attention."
She did not reply, at least not with words.
Heaviness had settled over the castle, a dark, chilling atmosphere, and although every single Slytherin had hated or at least despised the Headmaster on principle, it didn't make things easier in the slightest for them, in fact it was quite the contrary. They did not dare talk. They scarcely dared breathe. A curse had fallen upon Slytherin House, and they all felt it keenly. Blaise Zabini strode through the corridors and into the common room with his head held high, annoyance bubbling into his chest. He saw her nearly at once, huddled as she was in an armchair in the farthest corner of the room, curled up like a child with her head in her knees, sobbing. He crossed the room, seething ferociously, and fell into a swift crouching position next to her, hissing under his breath:
"Holy shit, Parkinson, are you aware that you're bawling for the wrong person for the whole house to see?"
She sniffed and glanced up, panting slightly.
"Go away," she muttered. He poked her leg sharply, and then, as she made to hide her face again, grabbed her chin and forced her to look at him.
"Do you enjoy making a spectacle of yourself? Can you tell that you're being dangerously stupid and it gives you a twisted kind of thrill, or has your sorry excuse for a brain leapt down from the Astronomy Tower as well?"
"I told you, go away!" she screamed shrilly, "you're not helping! Nothing can help! And I don't care!" She folded on herself tightly, sniffing and hiccupping, patheticness embodied. He groaned in disbelieving wrath.
"Damn it, Parkinson," he growled. "To any Dumbledore-lover you look like a sorry little bitch who should have her eyes scratched out to teach her who does and who does not deserve crying for, and to any clever and self-respecting pure-blooded witch or wizard you look... let's see, just the very same. Learn to put up façades! Malfoy isn't dead, nor is he in prison. You're only crying because you lost your shiny little blonde prince, and I despise you for it."
In a flash of movement she was out of her seat and crashing into him, pounding his chest with her hard little fists, a mess of cries and tears and wilderness, and he acted on a reflex and shoved her backwards. She crashed onto the floor, shaking and whining madly, and he whirled on his heel and marched away, fuming. He didn't care anymore if everybody saw her shriek her distress away and her reputation fell to ashes. Why in the world should he have cared to begin with, anyhow.
"See... it turned out all right, for him."
Pansy did not bother to turn and face him. She traced the leather cover of a book carefully with one slim finger, and he resented the fact that being in a library at the moment, he could not shout at her to look his way. He patted her shoulder instead, and she flinched away from the touch. He wanted to strike her, hit her across the face for that, for ignoring him and wallowing in her pathetic little despair, wasting her youth away. You have no more will. You have no more strength. You have nothing left. He wanted to say those things to her. You are a stupid wreck of a girl. You are a tasteless, colourless shadow. I despise you, Pansy Parkinson.
"Didn't anyone ever teach you that it's not polite to ignore people?"
She half-turned, throwing him an angry glance.
"You're not too polite either, Zabini. Mind your own business."
"I never quite did that."
She smiled. She didn't want to, didn't want to look at him, he knew that, she didn't want to be around him, and yet he could force her. He wanted to. He would not be ignored and especially not by a silly, brainless child. She would listen to him, even if he had to physically shake her.
"I want you to listen to me."
"And I obviously want the very contrary," she stated, turning around at long last, "Not that you would care about what I want."
"Of course I care about what you want... I only wouldn't dream of indulging it," he breathed. "You always want what's stupid, what you won't get... and what you'd be better off not getting."
"Just listen to yourself..."
"Tell me, how is it going with dear Draco? Because he did come back, didn't he? He's still studying in this school and walking these same corridors and sleeping in this same common room, see, he could have been standing just where you stand a few minutes ago... could be standing in a corner right now..." He watched her inhale slowly, relishing her distress. "He's still more or less hanging with the same dumb friends, liking and hating the same classes, reading the same books close to the fireplace... What's your place in all of that, tell me, Pansy? Are you the girl he's kissing? Are you the girl she's talking to? Are you even the one he can glance up for?"
"Shut up..." she muttered, twisting her fingers nervously.
"Did you ever truly believe Draco Malfoy would marry you?" he asked. "I'll tell you something, even in different times he wouldn't have. Let alone now... he's got other things to deal with, doesn't he? He's screwed up way enough himself to bother with an infatuated girlfriend, am I right?"
"Shut up!" It sounded almost like begging this time, her little face contorting with anger and pain.
"So who will marry you, now?" he taunted, shaking his head at her. "Now that you've wasted your time and your poor little heart on someone you don't belong with? You're a pureblood, aren't you Pansy? Haven't mummy and daddy started nagging for you to get engaged yet?"
She faltered, staring into his eyes with clouded, confused ones, a cornered animal. Not resisting anymore, is she? he thought with gut-deep, savage satisfaction. His voice was echoing as her very one could have, the voice of reason, however weak Pansy Parkinson's reason might be, a taunting, never-ceasing whisper in her ear, telling her of everything that had gone and would still be going wrong, everything she had failed... Her fault.
"Marry me yourself, then," she whispered, holding his gaze with a glazed look, "if you're so adamant that I'm doing everything wrong on my own."
It shouldn't have been such a surprise, but her words felt like cold water being poured down his neck, a punch in the chest and a deadly chill all at the same time, a fleeing moment in which his breath was entirely lost – before he came to his senses again. His reflex reaction was to laugh.
"Me?" he panted, "You and me? Oh, Pansy." He shook his head, disbelieving, the crazy idea echoing into his very bones like an unpleasant fantasy. "What are you thinking? I wouldn't... I don't... do you really think I care?"
(He did.)
"I'm just telling you the truth, Parkinson, because I like the truth, whereas I really... dislike... stupidity. Don't expect me to fix your life, I really couldn't be bothered," he managed.
She scoffed lightly, seemingly incensed by this. For the first time, her eyes didn't look helpless or unsure – they looked angry.
"If I get you right, I'm good enough to be shagged, but not enough to be married?" she hissed icily.
"Precisely," he shot back. "Malfoy would agree with me. So would any slightly rational man. But not to worry, Parkinson, you're not exactly alone in that case."
Her lip curled and convulsed in hurt and wrath, and he turned swiftly around and left her behind, expecting a slap, would he have stayed. He wouldn't have minded that. Funny, that he would be the one willing to escape her now.
Well, it had happened, hadn't it?
He couldn't say he hadn't been expecting it. He had told her that no rational man would ever be willing to woo and wed her, indeed, but Blaise Zabini knew for sure that there were crazy or stupid men around, even in pure-blooded society, there was plenty to choose from, even. The invitation hadn't come entirely unexpected either. A last gesture of defiance, reckless as Pansy herself was – predictable. His mother had wanted to go. She had taunted him and teased him until he shouted at her, unnerved beyond words to realize that her beauty taken aside, she actually had quite a couple of things in common with Parkinson. The observation called for most interesting prospects regarding the future of his used-to-be schoolmate and lover's marriage, and he groaned. Damn those women, and damn Parkinson. Damn Mrs Montague, actually. The name and the notion alike were still pretty laughable to him. He had not attended the wedding. But he was sitting there with a glass of vodka and a bottle, staring at his watch. He could have stood up and Apparated right now and then, popping in unexpected to find them at the very end of the ceremony, causing a fresh wave of gossip, and taunted her. Yes, it would be to taunt her, nothing more. Of course. Obviously.
He drained a glass. Three years out of school – three – full – years. Would she have changed? Of course. Longer hair, perhaps, to look just a little bit more adult. Wouldn't fool him. The dress, chaste or revealing? Probably chaste, her family would have taken care of that. Malfoy would have been invited, of course, and he was likely to come. Astoria as well, which would make Pansy scowl, but she wouldn't have a choice but to accept things as they were. Certainly not Lucius and Narcissa. That could have been funny – Pansy actually probably had it in her to invite them just to spite Draco, but they wouldn't have come, anyhow. Who besides – their old friends, the Notts, Theodore and Daphne, probably not Crabbe and Goyle, a few friends of the groom's. Plenty of old men and ladies.
She would be too hot in her dress, under the veil, she would be itchy and complain and grit her teeth. She would walk up the aisle trying hard to believe that she was a princess, and get there only not to see blond hair. Or dark skin, now that he came to think of it. She would say "I do," her voice strong and full of resolve. She would throw her bouquet high, trying to aim as far away from Astoria as she could without it being quite the opposite way, and one of the bridesmaids would be hit in the head... She would kiss her husband just a minute too long for it to be proper... (No, not long enough actually, and there would be whispers. Yes, he liked it better that way, definitely.) The party would be long and she'd try to turn it into decadence once all the elderly had left and her family along with them, but it was likely to fail. Montague would tow her away. Montague would take her to a bedroom and relieve her of the too-heavy, unbearable dress...
His glass crashed to the floor.
(Together, they would have been a failure. A disaster. A hurricane.)