Chapter 17:

Draco left Granger and ambled slowly toward the corridor he had so carefully avoided since his return to Hogwarts. As he passed under the balcony where Fred Weasley was known to haunt, he could hear the deceased twin arguing with an individual he recognized from Knockturn Alley: Ephebus Macnair. This Macnair's blood held the Mortilys anomaly—though Draco could detect even from this distance that the wizard's abilities were weak in comparison to his own. Minerva McGonagall stood next to the balding gentleman, looking only at him—she could not see their spectral guest.

The veil is thinning. He picked up his pace as he strode toward the Slytherin dungeons. If he didn't speak to Pansy now, he would never get the opportunity. Macnair was here to see to it that the spirits of the War's casualties crossed beyond the veil, finally. As he strode, nearly at a sprint, all he could think about was the day he had first asked Pansy if he could court her. He was fourteen and had already, as was customary in Pureblood families, spoken to her father over the summer and waited until Halloween to ask.

They'd taken a walk around the Black Lake, talking about things that seemed like such a big deal to fourteen-year-olds—the new robes her mother had given her as a birthday gift; the Yule Ball; the Triwizard Tournament; Harry Potter's appointment as the fourth contestant. In hindsight, everything they'd talked about was trivial and ridiculous given the fact that the Dark Lord was actively returning by that point. He'd brushed his lips to hers in a bashful first kiss.

That had been the start of a short relationship of only three and a half years. They'd loved each other in the way that only teenagers knew how—dramatically and quickly. They'd moved through milestones quickly, having sex for the first time right after the Yule Ball. They'd discussed marriage by fifteen. Then they'd discussed, in length, Draco's desire to join the Death Eater's ranks on his sixteenth birthday. She had been hesitant—her own father's status as a Death Eater in the inner circle was a source of constant worry for the young witch as it were. They'd plotted together on how to kill Dumbledore before mourning the loss of their sanity and childhoods when they realized Draco was in way over his head. The loss of innocence was pure agony for them both, the nightmares unrelenting as his participation in revels was required and he was tortured repeatedly. She had brewed countless potions to ease the after effects of the Cruciatus.

The vast majority of their relationship had been shrouded in Dark times and clouded by sadness, anxiety and fear. She'd stuck by his side through all of it and had expected that they would survive—together—and go on to marry and have the family they both wanted.

The dungeons became closer and he could hear the wailing from the furthest corridor. He had staunchly refused to go any further than the Potions classroom before tonight, relieved that she seemed to prefer haunting the place where she had died rather than the entirety of the castle. His throat burned, as though he had swallowed cotton, as he took a steadying breath. "Pansy?"

The wailing reverberated off of the dungeon walls and the raucous of approaching voices mixed and mingled with the sound of it. Draco quickly dipped into the far corridor and found Parkinson hovering in a sitting position in the window sill. "Pans?"

Her eyes—once an enchantingly dark shade of brown—were a strange shade of grey-blue that made a shiver run down his spine when she looked up at him. Along her arms, blood shined a brighter shade of silver. "You can see me?" she whispered, her cries being swallowed in her throat.

"Unless I've gone completely barmy now," he replied, giving her a half-smile he knew she used to find irresistable.

Pansy's brows knit in anger, her lips turning down in a frown of consternation. "You can fucking see me? And you haven't come to see me yet?"

She glided to where he stood, his hands in his pockets, and began attempting to hit him with what would have been painful swats, had her hand not gone right through him. Her touch felt like ice slithering under the surface of his skin and each swipe drew crackles of violet magic into the air between them. His magic was thrumming—or rather, the Mortilys anomaly in his blood was singing a vivacious melody at her touch. "Do you have any idea how fucking lonely it is down here? McGonagall had that man come in and banish us from the realm of the living. We can't interact with anyone—they don't even know we're here!" Pansy shrieked, and her voice held a distinctly watery quality, like a person who tried to speak underwater with a bubblehead charm.

Draco's brows rose at her fiestyness. "Merlin, Pans, I've missed you."

"So much you didn't come?" she retorted, rolling her eyes. "I thought, maybe, the weird thing with you and dead people had ended during the war."

Draco reached out to touch her, aching to feel her warm pulse beneath his palm. "I was frightened."

"Of what? Of me?" she asked, leaning in to where his hand came to rest mid air.

The violet sparks between his palm and her translucent neck burned hot as the July sun. With every second that passed, the grey pallor of her flesh faded, instead replaced with the peachy complexion he had memorized after so many hours, days, years falling in love with her. "Of having to say goodbye," he corrected her with a whisper.

Her eyes sparkled as they darkened. "I don't know if you heard me, Draco, but that man ruined everything. I'm stuck in this hell hole."

With a sad shake of his head, he lifted his other hand to brush her straight, fine hair behind her ear. "Ephebus Macnair is here. The veil has thinned enough that he can finally escort you beyond."

Pansy looked up at him, becoming more corporeal with every moment that passed. He could tell she was still spitting angry with him, but an underlying worry was keeping her from acting on it. "How long?"

Draco knew instinctively what she was asking. "He's arguing with Fred Weasley right now. But I didn't catch a glimpse of any of the others on my way here. It won't be long."

Pansy began to cry once more, clear tears washing away grime and dust from her rosy cheeks. Draco's heart ached painfully in his chest as he scooped up the solid form of his first love, wrapping his arms around her tightly. "Pans. I am so sorry I never came to visit. I was just so scared. You know I can't do this all alone—you were always the strong one. This fucking hurts."

He felt a chill on his neck and knew that she had brushed her lips across his the skin above his collar as she had always done. "Draco," her arms tightened around him and he knew she was hurting on his behalf more than for her own impending fate.

Tears refused to come to him—he had shed plenty for Pansy Parkinson in the months directly following the War. But just holding her, even in her ice cold and deathly state, was more distressing and heart wrenching than anything he had felt before. He felt her fingers run through the hair at the back of his head and he closed his eyes, burying his face into her stony shoulder. Her scent, something lightly floral he suspected was lily-of-the-valley, was regrettably absent, but when he closed his eyes he could almost catch a whiff.

Pansy began to pull away, her tears leaving a wet spot and hypothermic numbing in his shoulder. "So, Granger, huh?" she hiccuped as Draco wiped her eyes with his thumbs.

Guilt shot through him like a volt from a lightning strike, wrinkling his brow and setting his jaw. There was no point in lying—Pansy always knew when he was giving her anything less than the whole truth. "I know what you're going to say—"

Pansy put a single finger over his lips and he saw the violet hum of his magic envelope her hand. "You don't. You know what I would have said. Before I saw the way you were looking at her tonight."

"I never meant—"

Pansy smiled sadly, moving her finger from his lips to play at the hair over his ear, her other arm draped over his shoulder. "You need a haircut," she said offhandedly, sounding entirely too much like his mother before her lips pursed into a thin line. "I've heard things around the castle. I know they're all making nasty comments about you and to you. I know you feel the need to make amends." Her eyes cast downward as she played with the second button on his shirt. "I also know how you feel about her—how you've always felt."

Draco's heart was racing erratically as he thought back over the years. He had assumed he was being subtle all along but now he couldn't be so sure. Pansy always knew every little thing, even what went unspoken. He was foolish to think that his childhood crush on the swot would escape her knowledge. "I loved you—love you."

"I know you do, Draco," she murmured, lacing her fingers with his.

Ice water ran through his veins, beginning at his hands and traveling up his arms. He heard a sharp gasp and the clearing of a throat. "Mister Malfoy? Students aren't permitted to be here—it's after curfew!" Headmistress McGonagall's voice rang through the corridor.

Draco's heart stopped and he stood, frozen in place as he looked down at Pansy. Fuck. Fuck. "Why can't you assist me, instead of him?" Pansy questioned, glaring over to where McGonagall and Macnair were standing.

"You can see her, boy?" Macnair questioned, and Draco recalled the raspy, scratchy voice of this man's Death Eater cousin.

"Clearly," Draco drawled unenthusiastically, though his heart was shredding and tearing into a million pieces. "I can't, Pans. I'm not properly trained in assisting beyond the veil transcendence. You could end up in a place far worse than here should I try."

McGonagall's lips were parted as he looked at Draco, to what she would perceive as an empty space in front of him, and then to Macnair. "Andromeda once mentioned, before the first war, even, that the Black bloodline held the Ability. I...it never occured to me. You've lived all this time amongst the victims?"

"Andromeda wouldn't know anything," Draco deadpanned, looking toward the professor once more. "She assumed that my father's bloodline and magical core superseded my mother's. I heard Nymphadora tell Bellatrix as much. And yes, I've been forced to see the reminders of War, hear their voices every day for months now. But that's life, right?"

"Or death," Macnair quipped quietly. "Do you understand how rare you are? She's nearly completely corporeal now."

Draco rolled his eyes. This wizard was clearly far removed from any prior Mortilys in his bloodline—he hadn't even felt Draco's magical core trying to connect with his. Either that or he was every bit as stupid as his dearest cousin Walden had been. He hadn't been strong enough to escort the dead through the veil until it had thinned to a mere whisper, a wrinkle in the mortal continuum. "Incredibly," was all Draco replied.

"Did you know that the Ability strengthens when two Mortili work together?" Macnair questioned, completely ignoring the others in the corridor.

Draco looked down at where his hands still clasped Pansy's. "I know that if we waste our time talking, your opportunity to usher Parkinson here beyond the veil will falter until next All Hallow's Eve."

This supplication made Macnair jump to action once more. He glanced out of the window at the moon's positioning in the sky. "We need to hurry—Fred Weasley outright refused to go, so she's the last."

He pulled an ancient tome from under his arm, bound in dragon scales, and opened to a well-worn page. Looking up from under his lashes expectantly, he cleared his throat. Draco's constricted painfully, every drop of saliva having vacated. He was losing her all over again. Coming to see her had been a mistake—now he would have to mourn her death for a second time.

"It's okay, you know," her gentle voice broke his thoughts, pulling his attention to her one final time. "The thing with Granger."

The most peculiar feeling overtook him, like a coil being unsprung from deep in his belly. His entire being felt heavy laden and burdened with grief at the thought of losing her again. But there was a warmth, blossoming in his chest, a contradiction to the chill in his limbs. Hope? Resignation? Gratitude? This warring emotion was something strange and foreign to him. Pansy approved of Granger. This knowledge was nearly cathartic—he had trudged through life since May with an anchor tied around his neck, one that stung like guilt and bitterness.

"I love you, Pans," he whispered as she put her arms around his neck.

"Touching. Really," Macnair said impatiently. "But if you could, either help me or—" He made a shooing motion with his hand.

McGonagall was staring at him, seemingly still horrified for all that she had forced him to suffer through unwittingly. "Mister Malfoy, I'll walk you to the Wulfric common room— there's no reason to watch this," she stated, holding her arm out for him to step into.

Pansy stood on her tiptoes and pressed a kiss along his cheek and Draco closed his eyes at the peculiar sensation. "Quit being such a bloody Hufflepuff, getting all emotional," she teased, though her voice dropped to a whisper. "And quit being such a Slytherin—let go a little."

Draco nodded once, unable to speak as he stepped away from her and toward the Headmistress. Macnair grabbed his arm as he strode past, stopping Draco in his step. "I'll be in touch."

The young wizard simply nodded once and Pansy called from behind, "And tell Astoria that she looked sexy as hell tonight!"

He chuckled as McGonagall placed her hand on his back, looking over his shoulder briefly. Pansy raised her hand in a small wave as Macnair's wand began to emit a thick grey smoke that danced and twirled around Pansy's supernatural body.

"You really are rare, Mister Malfoy," McGonagall said next to him. "It never occured to me that you might carry the Ability."

"It wouldn't. Andromeda is so far removed from her Black heritage, it likely dimmed in her. And you have no reason to ever have spoken to my mother or crazy aunt about it," Draco dismissed her with a shrug.

Her mouth pressed into a thin line. "I feel terrible, even suggesting you return to school under such circumstances. The undue duress this may have caused you."

"I knew what would happen when I returned. Mostly, I try to ignore them all—none of them believe they can be seen," he told her, his thoughts scattered and his mind anywhere but on the present conversation. "And Macnair is weak—that's why he had to wait until tonight to properly escort them."

"A dying breed," McGonagall told him as they neared the tapestry of Merlin, sounding thoroughly distracted herself.

o-o-o

The following Monday, Draco put a silencing charm around the bathtub, curtain drawn to block out as much light as possible. There was only a dim light from the frosted window by the sink. He had his eyes closed as he replayed visions of Pansy's specter in his mind.

He didn't hear Granger's soft footsteps or the string of curse words that left her mouth when she stubbed her toe on the sink. He didn't hear when she pulled her hair up, the snapping of the hairband as it was fastened in place. The rustling of her towel as it fell about her ankles and the crinkling of the shower curtain were lost on him.

But he saw the light suddenly flooding the shower, dancing behind his eyelids before he had the chance to register that there was a shock of brightness. He saw her look of fascinated horror as she looked briefly at his body under the water. And he saw the look of sheer mortification as she abruptly realized she, too, was naked. "Oh, shit, Malfoy! I didn't know you were in here!"

She turned around, trying to retrieve her towel from the floor, her arms covering her front, not quite remembering her bare back or bottom. Draco looked for a millisecond before he realized what he was doing and covered his eyes with his hand. "For fuck's sake, Granger."

He pulled the shower curtain safely around him once more and opened his eyes. "Do you knock?" Not that I would have heard it through the silencing charm.

She used his own prior words against him. "Do you ever consider locking the door if you don't want guests?"

"I didn't expect you back for another couple of hours!" he hissed indignantly.

Draco stood and pulled the plug to drain the water, reaching out to retrieve his towel. He heard her go into her room and close the door, giving him a moment's privacy. Drying off, he rapped on her door. "Let me just shave and then you can have the bathroom," he called, all the while thinking that they really did need to come up with a schedule.

Granger stepped out of the room wearing a bathrobe, her arms crossed and her face aflame. "Professor Sprout let us go early! And I've been digging in the mud for almost two hours so I thought a shower before dinner was in order. I can wait."

With a jab of his thumb over his shoulder, he told her, "Obviously, I'm draining the water, so my bath is ruined."

"I didn't hear you in here," she tried to explain, her face turning even redder as she averted her eyes from his torso, exposed in the way his towel was hung low on his hips.

"I put a silencing charm on the tub. I didn't want to hear the distracting noises from outside the window. The damn birds never stop chirping," he said, his mood sour as he stepped to the sink and retrieved a comb from his toiletries bag, brushing his hair quickly to avoid it drying in a weird way.

Granger realized the error of his admission a second before he did, a challenging smirk spreading across her face as she sat on a bench by the window. "So you wouldn't have heard even if I did knock."

"First, you ruin my bath. Then, you try to pick a fight. I'm really not in the mood for your shit today, Granger. And why are you still sitting here? Surely, the sight of me shaving my face isn't going to be the highlight of your day," he said, grouchily lathering his face with a barber's brush and a shave potion he'd concocted himself that stopped bleeding immediately.

He could see her reflection in the mirror as he dragged the straight razor down his face, over his jaw and down his neck. She was watching him in a sort of fascination and he silently wondered if she was going mental. She'd likely seen Weasley and Potter shave their faces plenty.

"You shave your face with a straight razor?" she asked, her voice curious.

Rolling his eyes, he rinsed the cream from the blade to drag it once more over his face. "How else do you propose I shave?"

"I guess you wouldn't know of disposable blades…but still…you shave your face like a Victorian barber…" she giggled and he raised an eyebrow.

"I'm afraid I don't follow." Draco wrinkled his brow and stared at her reflection over his shoulder. "What's wrong with the way I shave my face?"

"Nothing. It's just…so old fashioned…" she was still smiling when she came over and lifted the tub of shave potion to her nose.

He tried to stymie the irritation that welled up at her touching his things and her teasing. He was in no mood for pleasantries, even as Pansy's voice echoed, It's okay you know. The thing with Granger. She inhaled the scent of his potion and closed her eyes for a moment. "Cedar?"

He sighed exaggeratedly. "The ground bark of a cedar tree, specifically the Eastern Red Cedar, when added to witch hazel, among other things, can stop bleeding. Should I nick myself, the potion would stop the bleeding immediately."

Granger just nodded and set the glass jar down on the edge of the sink. "Why weren't you in Ancient Runes or Herbology today?" she asked finally.

He could feel the tension and irritation growing inside of his chest. He would not discuss Pansy. Not today and not with her, regardless of the Slytherin's blessing. "Why can't you just mind your own business?"

Granger frowned and looked at the floor, biting her lip. He could tell his tone bothered her, but she refused to show him the extent. "I was just wondering. You weren't at breakfast or lunch…"

"What I do with my time is none of your business, Granger," he said through clenched teeth. "I really don't feel much like conversing today, so either stop talking or leave the room."

Her mouth snapped shut, blissful silence befalling the pair. Draco rinsed his face and dried it, then retrieved the pomade he wore in his hair. Granger sat back on the bench, but kept her mouth shut. She was picking at the belt of her robe, plucking a stray string off. His keen sense of perception told him that she wanted to say something. Finally, his routine was finished and he turned around. "Bathroom's all yours," he whispered quietly as he let himself out, and her lips turned downward.

Draco felt like shit. How was he supposed to tell her he didn't need a friend—he needed the soothing touch of a woman's soul caressing his own? All he wanted was to sit down and tell her every minute detail of his life, every thought that plagued him daily. But how could he open up about his tainted, Dark past to someone so pure, so innocent? It would do nothing but weigh her down and cause her unnecessary heartache on his behalf. His misery was enough for them both.

He tried to push Granger from his mind as he went about the rest of the day. Today was the day he was finally going to put his relationship with Pansy Parkinson to rest. He needed the closure of one final day of unbridled mourning. He jerked on a dark pair of jeans and his old quidditch jersey, putting his heavy wool cloak over top and wrapping a thick Slytherin scarf around that. He put on his noise cancelling earmuffs and snow boots and then headed outside.

It wasn't quite blowing snow yet, just light flurries in the dead and barren autumn. The leaves were falling faster than usual and the trees were empty and skeletal. He walked along the Black Lake, following the same path he and Pansy had followed four years prior. The last time in his life when he'd truly been happy.

The daylight was growing shorter and his stomach growled, his two pieces of toast long digested. But he had no desire to go to the Great Hall and eat with everyone else as they laughed and carried on. He looked out over the Black Lake and could see the old willow tree, under which he'd sat with Pansy and they'd shared their awkward first kiss. She'd turned pink and smiled widely, her cute upturned nose wrinkling in the way it always did when she was pleased. He'd smiled shyly back and held her hand in the innocent way fourteen year olds do—fingers not intertwined, just palm on palm.

Draco wished he could obtain a time turner, set it back to the moment his father prepared to go to the Department of Mysteries. He would burn down the Manor, rather than have his father get arrested. If his father had never been arrested, he would never have been approached by the Dark Lord. His life would still have been difficult, but he would have tried to run. He would have lived as a Muggle in New Zealand rather than stayed in England under the Dark Lord's influence. He would have brought Pansy with him. She'd be alive.

The what-ifs and what-could-have-beens plagued his mind constantly. What if he had never accepted the Mark? What if he had run, scared and sixteen? He could have avoided the nightmares, the bitter emptiness he felt at being truly alone in this world.

How could he expect to court Granger? Draco hated himself, how could he expect her not to hate him, what he was—a Death Eater? He'd willingly taken the Mark at sixteen. He'd tortured people, used Unforgiveables more times than he could count. He'd been in a relationship with only one female in his life, and even that was tainted and demolished by his Darkness.

Unable to bring himself to look too long in the mirror, he feared he would see the same sunken cheeks and dark circles that had marred his facial features for too many days and nights during the War. There were more days than not that he felt like he would suffocate under the memories of his past indiscretions. He was a virus, a plague that would spread nothing but unhappiness and misfortune and hatred. Hatred of himself, hatred of his past, hatred of the Dark Lord, hatred of the current fragile world in which they now lived.

Granger was so innocent, so pure, so compassionate. She had a beauty about her unlike any other witch he'd ever met. Sure, the sight of her naked body was burned into his brain, only having just seen it a few mere seconds an hour prior. But her beauty was so much more. She was equal parts confident and unsure, fiery, intelligent, witty and her personality was like honey—sweet and easy to overindulge in. Her laugh wasn't musical or dainty, like that of a sophisticated Pureblood woman—it was from the belly and her whole face lit up, her eyes crinkling. She was unafraid to go against him and she roused an anger within Draco that made him want to toss her down and have his way with her more than scream, yell or hex her.

Pansy had been what Draco needed in his youth, to help him get through such a Dark period—supportive, caring, fiercely loyal, cunning and equally fearful. But she was gone and he had no idea if Granger could be what he needed to help him through this dark period of his life—lighthearted, spirited, fierce, and loving. He couldn't quite understand why he wanted so desperately for it to be her. He barely knew her, as Astoria had so delicately reminded him at the Masquerade Ball. Theo had told him that she was just as broken as the rest of them. But her brokenness was of the normal variety, to be expected after a War. His was because he'd directly begun that War on the Astronomy Tower that night in sixth year.

Pansy's final moments on Earth were spent assuring him that he was free to court Granger, guilt-free. A weight had lifted last night, a small drop in the box when compared to the pressing indiscretions he had committed in his life but a freeing moment nonetheless.

Draco knew he needed to talk to Theo. Theo knew more about Granger than anyone else in this school, save perhaps Ginny Weasley— and he couldn't exactly walk up to the redheaded witch without being wary of getting his bits hexed off.

It was almost dark now, Draco had been out there for long enough, staring blankly into the inky depths of the lake, alternating between numbness and empty sadness. He stood and resigned himself to speaking with Theo in the morning. He needed to finish his night the way he'd started his day—in bed. The thought of doing anything remotely taxing made him want to scream in exhaustion.

When he entered the Head common room, he let out a sigh of relief. He could see light under Granger's door, but she had made herself mercifully scarce. He knew he'd have to apologize for his behavior that afternoon, but he didn't have the energy or the will to do it just then. When he entered his room he found a tray perched on his bed. On it, a plate of the dinner he'd missed, a goblet of pumpkin juice and a treacle tart. Beside it was a stack of notes from the day's classes and a slip of parchment was folded in the corner of the tray. He opened it and smiled to himself as he read.

D, Noticed you missed all of today's meals. Thought you might be hungry. When you're ready to talk, I'm ready to listen. I'm not giving up on you. –H

o-o-o

Curiously, Malfoy had missed all of the day's classes, so she'd made a copy of all of her notes and left them on his bed, along with a meal and a peace offering. He'd asked her not to give up on him and Hermione had promised him that she wouldn't—a promise she intended to keep. But Merlin, he was so difficult to get through to, his guard up at every moment. Clearly nagging him would get her nowhere, and so she decided to take an entirely new approach— kill him with kindness.

Hermione resigned herself to being understanding and compassionate at every chance she got. Perhaps she could draw him out from himself by simply extending a kindness toward him that he was unfamiliar with. There would be many more fights, probably some of a knock down-drag out variety, but a hope burned within her that they would be able to move past anger and become civil. He was lonely, that much was evident to her. What Draco Malfoy needed was a confidant, and Hermione believed she could be that witch, if she tried little by little.

Sitting at the Wulfric Common Room window, her Arithmancy work spread out on the table, she sat under the guise of studying. But her reasoning behind selecting this particular seat had nothing to do with schoolwork. The platinum blond wizard sat alongside the Black Lake for hours: staring out at the lake, glancing toward the quidditch pitch and the willow across the way. It was clear to her that he was reliving specific moments, of which she had no idea. His breath created a little cloud of condensation in front of him, mesmerizing her. The puffs came slow and steady, before he lowered one leg from his chest and spread it out in front of him, leaning back on his palms.

For reasons the witch didn't quite understand, she couldn't look away from him.

o-o-o

A/N: Yes. This is about Pansy. But not every romance is so cut and dry. Sometimes past relationships come back to haunt. Literally. Draco has depth, and in this case, that means getting over his past love. But I can assure you, the Dramione is about to kick up soon!

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