The Nature of Suffering
Three
I'm not a stranger
No, I am yours
— Plumb, "Cut"
—
The air outside is mild, with a promise of rain for tomorrow. Cool as it has been, the temperature is likely to plummet during the Ministry party. She longs for the furs that are hers by right, the furs in her mother's abandoned closet at her father's empty manor. With no house elves to cast moth-repellant and anti-dust spells, no doubt they have fallen into a sorry state. She'll be glad for the cloak Mr Twilfit has permitted her to borrow, bless him.
The bathroom window, tiny and high, gapes onto the street. Carried in on an autumn breeze are snippets of conversation, the smells of crowded city living, the yowls of hungry strays. She lifts her leg from the bathwater, flexes her toes, submerges her foot again. Trails a hand through the toasty water, rests the other along the edge of the big, claw-footed brass tub. It is a good thing that Pansy has a taste for antiques, as the plumbing doesn't even self-heat.
A simple spell would reheat the bathwater, of course, but the cooling water reminds her that she has been in for too long. Water sloshes, just a bit, over the gently sloped rim, as she stands and reaches for a towel, thin and just on the acceptable side of ragged. She would not have clothed a house elf in such a piece of fabric, but it is big and serves her current need. She towels off and eyes herself critically in the mirror, which wisely stays silent.
Her dress is hanging in her bedroom, but she is not yet ready for it. To the bedroom she goes, regardless, eyeing the messy sheets. Succumbs to the temptation, and crawls onto the bed, pulling the duvet to her chin. There is something delightful about damp hair, bath-flushed skin, and an unmade bed that welcomes one with open arms. She closes her eyes, and succumbs to her imagination.
In front of everyone, he deigns to dance with the ex-heiress, the laughingstock of all washed-up former Slytherins. His wife watches from the sidelines, perhaps oblivious, perhaps not, but who cares? No one is looking at her, the upstart from a second-rate lineage. He whirls her around the ballroom floor, whispers that he'll help her reclaim her birthright. That he wants her, Pansy Parkinson, mewling infant son and opulently crass wife be damned. He parades her around the parquet floor like a strutting peacock. His wife leaves, her face a ruin of mascara-laden tears.
They are gorgeous together, her sleek darkness a compliment to his too-blonde radiance. Their heads, leaning together, black and platinum. Whispers swirl around the edges of the crowd like the cool autumn breeze that stirs the leaves outside.
A soft laugh, all breath and self-derision, brings her back to reality. She shakes her head, still chuckling, and rises from the bed. It does not do to dwell on dreams, she counsels herself sagely, as she slides onto the seat in front of her battered vanity.
She feels more like herself, a short time later, once all the creams and cosmetics and potions have been applied, once she's charmed her hair into an elegant pile atop her head, permitted a few wayward strands their freedom. Naked, still, she slides from her perch and slinks to the closet, where her dress robes hang in splendour against the starkness of her ordinary wardrobe. They drape elegantly, even on the padded silk hanger she filched from work, and she runs a reverent hand over the lacework.
Nothing matches the feeling of silk sliding over smooth flesh. The white organza bodice with matching silk skirt whispers against the silk georgette. She watches herself in the mirror, breath held, as she casts a charm to fasten the buttons at the back of her neck. The white underdress murmurs softly against her ankles, the black lace falls just so at her elbows, the neckline compliments her collarbones. Fastening Daphne's pearls in her ears and around her neck, sliding Daphne's gloves into place on her perfumed arms, she breathes a sigh of relief.
She will make it through this night, after all. She will prove, to Draco Malfoy and everyone else, that she can stand among them. That she matters.
—
They are a study in complementary contrasts, his pale head bent toward her dark, his gentle courtesy, her charming acceptance which seems to say, It is my due. They whirl around the ballroom, stand shoulder-to-shoulder, promenade around the periphery, make pleasantries. Beside him, she glimmers like a star: deep blue robes, diamonds in her ears, at her neck, around her wrists. A none-too-subtle diamond spray, tucked amidst her pleasantly tumbled curls.
People alternately find her exuberance alarming and endearing. Pansy observes these reactions from her corner of the crowded ballroom, leaning against a pillar to relieve the pressure of her shoes, which give her all the grace of an inebriated hippogriff. She huffs to herself. Leave it to Draco to flaunt his gallantry in front of the most important members of society, as his neglected mistress watches from the shadows.
Reluctantly she drags her eyes from the lustrous couple. Granger is still flushed from her speech, which had garnered a standing ovation only from guests who, of course, did not keep house elves. Her weasel husband is flushed from drink. He'd been running his big hands through his hair, a nervous tic, perhaps, all during his wife's speech, and she's clucking at him in a corner, smoothing his flaming haystack of hair with no-nonsense hands. She's speaking to him in low tones, and Pansy imagines she can see the fine stress lines around the former Gryffindor's eyes. After a second, Weasley responds with a crooked grin, murmurs something in return, and kisses her on the forehead. Her eyes close, and she leans against him.
Pansy looks away, so full of hatred that for a moment she can't breathe.
Elsewhere, Daphne whirls around the floor with the devastatingly attractive Adrian Pucey. They are a better matched set than Draco and Astoria, even: elegantly fitted robes, a boutonnière pinned to the front of his, the same colour as her eyes. Daphne knows how to do public relations. She gazes at Adrian through her lashes, gently rests her fingers against his bicep as they walk. The society page of the Daily Prophet and Witch Weekly will have nothing but praise for her hair, her jewellery, her dainty heeled slippers.
After a while, she releases Adrian with a kiss to the cheek, and he watches her with an amused tilt of the head as she manoeuvers through the crowd to Pansy. "What are you doing?" Daphne hisses through a smile, for the cameras' sake, Pansy is sure. "I didn't loan you my underthings so that you could lurk in the corner and mope about Draco."
"Gods above, I shouldn't have come," Pansy murmurs, more to herself than to Daphne, and snags a champagne flute from a floating tray which has been lingering nearby, tempting her with its wares. It drifts away, job done, and she drinks deeply.
"That makesh two of ush," rumbles a drink-roughened voice from the other side of the pillar. "Yer not lookin' in bad form tonight, Parkinshon. I wouldn't have recognished you, if it hadn't been for the noshe."
The voice is familiar, but it isn't until she sees Harry Potter leaning against the pillar, eyes heavy, holding a tumbler of something stronger than champagne, that she connects voice to body. Potter isn't himself, exactly—his years as an Auror have refined him, much as she's loath to admit it, and he's wearing robes that do him credit, much as she's loath to admit that, too—but she sees the scar on his brow, through his bramble of a fringe. Immediately she opens her mouth, something witty and acerbic, fueled by champagne, right on the tip of her tongue, but Daphne interjects.
"That's my cue," she says hastily. Leaning forward, she whispers into Pansy's ear, "Don't get into too much trouble. I wouldn't miss a row between you and Potter for the world, but really, we're not in school, anymore—"
"Oh, shove off," Pansy replies, not without some small trace of affection. Daphne obliges her, and she turns toward Potter, surprised at the way her lack of coordination has betrayed her. How many glasses of champagne has she had? Not nearly as many as Potter, from the looks of it.
"Lurking in the shadows, Scarhead? Not at all like you, but then again, the Great Hero is a divorcé—sets a bad example for all of us, doesn't it?" Pansy smiles, but reconsiders her victory, as Potter's expression doesn't change. No, that isn't nearly cutting enough, not for that supercilious little shite. "She's driven you to drinking, has she, the fairest weasel of them all? I've always heard that redheads are bad luck—let's take your dearly departed mother as an example—"
"Oh, please." Potter dismisses her jibes; doubtless the martyr has come up with better material with which to torture himself. She's at her weakest, right now, with Draco parading his comeback into society like the peacocks that strut around his estate, his glittering wife on his arm. She can, without self-remorse, admit to herself that causing anyone pain will lighten her burden; but causing Harry Potter pain is an opportunity too good to pass up. She resolves to try harder, but given his next return, it's difficult. "Surprished you could get an invita— an inv— an in-vi-tation," he pronounces carefully, "to thish shindig. Didn't think you were shtill relevant, Parkinshon."
She's silent for a moment. It cuts deeper than it should, but given its accuracy, she bears up under his wounding words quite well. "You'd know all about relevancy, wouldn't you, Potter? Playing Auror is the best you can come up with? Let's hope another Dark Lord comes along, then you'll really have something to do."
"You'd have fed me to him, that night," he mutters sulkily, and swallows a gulp of whatever it is he's drinking—whisky, from the smell of it. Pansy's lips curl in distaste, but she freezes as his eyes, behind their stupid round spectacles, lower to her mouth. Oh, now that's beyond the pale. Before he can slur another word, she shoves past him, through the French doors, into the garden. It's blissfully quiet, and cooler than the crowded ballroom. She takes in a lungful of air not saturated by perfumes and the scent of booze—but, speaking of which, he's followed her.
"I wasn't done with you, Parkinshon," he says, as though, by walking away, she's done him a great disservice.
"Christ," she mutters under her breath, and finishes her champagne. There's no convenient floating tray nearby, and so she holds the glass by its delicate stem, turning, wondering if she'd be able to nail him between the eyes at this distance. "Listen, Potter, I'm in no mood—"
"Moping after Draco doeshn't suit you," he says, approaching cautiously—he must've seen the speculative look in her eyes. He sees the almost immediate flair of temper, and backtracks, holding up one hand in a peaceable gesture. "Shay the word, and we'll go shomewhere elshe—this place ishn't doing either of ush any favorsh."
What has her life come to, Pansy bemoans silently, that Astoria Greengrass has the spotlight and she's stuck outside, badgered by a sodden drunk Harry Potter? "Please," she scoffs. "I'm not quite that desperate." She allows herself a moment to revel in his injured expression, and then pushes past him, bound for the door, aiming to collect her borrowed cloak and nurse her wounded pride at home, with a sympathetic Mnemosyne and a bottle of half-decent wine.
What she doesn't expect is the hand, callused and large and unlike any she's felt before, that wraps around her upper arm and turns her around, and the whisky-flavoured lips that open hers beneath them.