Pansy Parkinson was entirely too media savvy for her own good. Or Harry's good, at any rate.

Peanuts

Harry hid under his invisibility cloak, slowly creeping closer to the object of his desires, the goal of his dreams.

There, on the grassy ground leading up to the black lake, Pansy Parkinson was kneeling in one of the blue summer dresses she'd recently started to favour over her usual, green robes.

Now or never.

Harry broke into a run. Today... Today was the day. He was the Boy-Who-Lived! He had faced the dark lord several times. He had defeated a basilisk, escaped a werewolf, and was starring in the Triwizard Tournament. No-one would stop him now!

He kicked, and moments later, found himself lying flat on his back.

Pansy was balancing the transfigured football she'd been holding on the tip of her finger, and beamed down at Harry's invisible form. "You should really consider Hufflepuff, Potter. Black and yellow suits you so much better."

"What I don't get," Hermione said in between glaring angrily at the Slytherin table, "is how she knows about this. Isn't she a pureblood?"

"One of the Muggle-born Slytherins told Pansy that she reminded her of a TV character she knew. Pansy has been modelling herself after that character ever since," Lavender said. Apparently, Gryffindor's chief source of gossip wasn't particularly bothered by quaint things like house boundaries.

"I-" Hermione sighed. "Okay, whatever."

"There are Muggle-born Slytherins?" Ron asked between bites, looking confused. So did Harry.

"Of course. If they think they're better than their parents and friends from Muggle school because they have magic, and know how to cast a hex before their first class, the Hat puts them there," Lavender elaborated. "Like Sally, or Millicent's mum. Though Mrs Bulstrode keeps cursing everyone who mentions her parents, so she's now an honorary Pureblood."

"So they're still gits," Ron said.

Lavender shrugged. "Well, they're Slytherins."

"But playing piano would be so romantic!" Pansy exclaimed, one hand resting on Draco's lap.

"You do it, then," Draco said, trying to dislodge Pansy's hand from said lap while remaining civil and wondering where his two bodyguards had disappeared to. Sure, they were always there when he came to blows with Potter, but their ability to not be around when the real threats approached was... remarkable.

"I bet you'd play it wonderfully. Your hands are already so soft and aristocratic, almost feminine-"

Draco spotted Theodore smirking out of the corner of his eye. Which was annoying, but not really worth running afoul of whatever disciplinary magic Nott Snr used on and probably taught his son.

The rest of the Slytherin Quidditch team openly pointing and laughing at him on the other hand, that stung.

"-and it's such an intellectual exercise, not like our magical creatures class. It'd be perfect for us."

Dinner was only half-over, but Draco knew that Pansy would never pass on her desserts.

An opportunity to escape. He took it.

Theodore was still smirking when he shot him a look just as he left the great hall, but it was the image of Montague mimicking Draco's 'Sensitive Hands' to the raucous laughter of the upper years that stuck with him.

A/N: It's entirely possible that you've never pictured Pansy Parkinson as Lucy van Pelt. The big question is – why not?