Nothing belongs to me.
XXXVIII: Home
Rain fell fast and beat hard against her head like Bludgers, not that she would know anything about it.
She didn't care that she was running through the freezing downpour. Not at this instant, that is, anyway. She didn't care that she had chosen to run instead of Floo-ing or Apparating. She needed to know, to be sure. They were just rumors…right?
Her destination in mind grew out of the darkness, thrown into the light of a great fork of lightning that split the sky. It was a charming manor, nowhere as big as it could have been.
Slipping a little, she reached the front door. The knocker was deliberately forgotten, and the young woman used her fists to announce her presence.
"Draco, Draco!" Her poundings were barely heard over the thunder and howling wind.
"Draco, let me in!" she screamed in anger, at the cold, at the rain, and at Draco, for not opening this door-.
She lost her footing and almost fell as the said door opened to reveal an equally angry (and shirtless) young man. Over his shoulder, she could see the light of a warm fire.
"Well," he greeted her, "I'd love to welcome you graciously into my home, but it's three in the effing morning, Pansy. Whatever it is, it can wait."
"No, this can't wait!" She pushed past Draco.
"Rude."
Pansy launched herself into an armchair by the roaring fire. She turned to Draco, who settled into the seat opposite her.
"Is it true?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Draco ran a hand through his already tousled hair. "Is what true?"
"What everyone's saying!" Pansy hissed. "About you and the Weasley girl – " She broke off, another voice floating over the sounds of the flames.
"Draco? Who are you talking to?"
Pansy stared over the top of Draco's chair.
Standing in the doorway was a girl, wearing nothing but a shirt, Draco's shirt. Her dark red hair fell around her face and neck like a shroud.
Draco didn't answer her question or Pansy's for that matter – he didn't have to.