Scent

The Forbidden Fruit

(we always long to what we can't have)

Pansy sits in the front row at his wedding, close enough that his musky scent wafts past her nose, but far enough away that her hands cannot penetrate the barrier that has formed between them, brutally forcing them apart. He smells like a man, like sweaty bed sheets resting taut against pulsating muscles and moist skin, and like Firewhiskey; the scent is so fierce and demanding that the repugnant taste of liquor seems to be creating a trail of fire in her throat.

She's aching to scream "screw you Draco, screw you," but she can't, because she is Pansy Parkinson, friend of the groom, not Pansy Parkinson, jealous cow, buried deep under the sands of regret and unreciprocated love. It's his big day, and fuck, it's unfair and it aches and she's being controlled, tasting the forbidden fruit and preparing to fight before being yanked back into submission by the invisible hands that claw at her body and saturate her heart and weigh her down.

"You may kiss the bride."

Draco and Astoria's lips smash and tears fall – glistening raindrops that caress Astoria's silken skin and Pansy is oblivious to it all. It's not life that's the bitch, not in this case anyway, because it's Astoria Greengrass.

--

Draco stumbles up to her later, when she's drifting around; floating amongst the sea of people as though she actually gives a shit about this wedding. His breath is heavy on her face as she nibbles gently on a watercress sandwich; he's damn drunk, putrid alcohol flowing through his veins and his breath like rivers winding towards her heart. Pansy's fingers tighten as she fights her urge to stroke his face, to feel the coarse strands of platinum blonde under her fingers as she did so many years ago, before … that … that thing invaded his life and destroyed her.

"I love you Pansy," he mumbles, with shaking hands and slurred words that stumble into each other. Her heart stops. There's one final, deafening thud, and then it falls to the pits of her stomach, lifeless.

"Piss off Draco, you're drunk." Pansy doesn't even know where the words are coming from, but he's wobbling and his breathing is laboured and fuck, is she really that worthless? Every syllable snaps inside her like elastic, pushing out regret and hatred and despair. "You never loved me, you love her. What am I Draco? Am I just the pug faced girl who stroked your hair when you talked about Him and listened to you when you were scared? Screw you Draco, screw you. I don't care what you think anymore."

She turns; the heel of her shoe grating the cold marble floor; it's the exact texture of Draco's face, and she imagines it's his head under her foot, and she has absolutely no idea where this rage is coming from but it feels so damn wonderful.

Words cross lips and whispers filter through the air as she storms out, and he staggers after her, hands clinging to the bottle of Firewhiskey. For a minute, Pansy feels sorry for Astoria Greengrass, because no-one wants their wedding marred by drunk husbands and shouting guests, but it's only fleeting, because she can smell Draco again, that same manly smell that has tortured her all day.

She supposes he's always smelt like this, but why, oh God why, did she have to realise it now, right when he's slipping through her fingers, an ice-cube in the heat of the sun, trickling away from her. It's everything she's ever wanted, for him to love her, and yet he's drunk and Pansy knows it will mean nothing after Draco takes tomorrow's anti-hangover potion and –

- and yet she still turns back towards him, she still wants him, she still imagines his lips on her and their bodies matching together like the last two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, having found their final place.

--

"You smell beautiful," Pansy whispers, "like everything I've ever wanted. He's the forbidden fruit all right, but who really cares, she's doing this and she's leaning and it's wonderful and damn he smells even better from less than an inch away and he's stumbling again and pushing away and those stupid bloody invisible hands are yanking at her again.

"Pansy, what do you think you're doing?"

There's no need for a response, everything is obvious. Astoria has won the prize; she gets to sink her teeth into the fruit, and Pansy gets to walk away, having won nothing and having lost her pride. And why, oh why, did she have to pick today to discover such a luscious scent?

Why did she have to pick today to realise she loved him? And why did he have to smell so damn good?