Pansy wonders if anyone would notice if she left. Weddings aren't particularly fun for her, and the fact that it's Draco's wedding stings more than she'll ever admit. She watches the way he looks at Astoria. He never smiled at Pansy that way, never held her hand or stole little kisses.

They hadn't actually dated. Not really. Not properly. Maybe Pansy is aware of that, aware of the fact that she had always been convenient. Her father had wanted her to marry him, and she thinks Lucius Malfoy had felt the same way. Then the war came, the family fell from grace, and Draco became his own person. Pansy doesn't know how Astoria factored into all of that, but here they are.

"Don't you just look thrilled to be here?"

Pansy shifts her gaze toward the voice. Marcus Flint stands a respectful distance from her, a hint of a smirk on his lips as he lifts his flute of champagne in a silent toast. He's cleaned up well since leaving Hogwarts. The days of looking like the bastard offspring of a wizard and troll seem to be far behind him. Pansy suspects he's probably had some work done, or, at the very least, takes potions regularly.

"Flint," she says stiffly.

He laughs. "Marcus. Call me Marcus."

"Marcus."

She doesn't know what to say. Truth be told, she hadn't planned to stay for the reception, and she's been waiting for the perfect moment to make her exit. The last thing she needs is to get caught up in nostalgic chatter. Really, she doesn't know why he's bothering with her. They hadn't been friends in school. He had been a few years ahead of her, just another boy who she happened to see in the common room or the corridors.

But now he's looking at her, and there's something in his gaze that makes her blush. Pansy hates him for it.

"I always thought it would be you and Draco," he says before taking a sip of champagne. "I'm glad I was wrong."

She lifts a brow, curiously, silently urging him to elaborate. At first he doesn't; he just keeps looking at her like he's trying to figure something out. Pansy doesn't understand that. It isn't like she's some complex puzzle to be solved.

"You look beautiful tonight," he adds.

Pansy really shouldn't care. Marcus Flint isn't her friend. She barely knows him at all. So why are the words of someone who is practically a stranger making her melt? It's ridiculous. No one has that right, least of all Marcus bloody Flint. And yet she finds herself smiling and blushing like a giddy schoolgirl, more delighted by his attention than she'll say.

"You don't look so bad yourself," she tells him.

Is she really doing this? Is she flirting with Marcus? It comes so naturally somehow.

"Do you want to dance?"

There aren't many people dancing. Those who are, seem to only be doing it for the sake of having something to do. Pansy has never been much of a dancer, but Marcus holds out his hand, and she can't resist. She takes it and allows him to lead her onto the floor.

His movements are surprisingly graceful. Maybe it has something to do with his years of playing Quidditch. Most players, except, perhaps, for some Beaters, tend to have a sort of gracefulness to them. He leads so naturally, and she finds herself following, smiling with each spin and dip.

"So beautiful," he says.

Her cheeks burn. "So you keep saying."

"You don't believe me?"

She scowls. It isn't like that. Pansy knows she's cute. Only an idiot wouldn't be able to see that. Still, others have always had harsh, rude words for her. Her nose looks like a pug. Her freckles are a little too close together to be adorable. Her hair is too short. No matter what she thinks about herself, it is far too rare to hear someone else say it.

"Of course I do," she snaps.

He grins, slowing their movements and pulling her a little closer. It's just a bit closer than she would usually be comfortable with, but she finds that she doesn't mind. The closeness makes her shiver despite the warm July heat.

"You're blushing!" he teases, grinning. "I never thought I would see Pansy Parkinson blush. Aren't you supposed to be a bit untouchable?"

She rolls her eyes. "Aren't you supposed to be a bit of an arse?"

With a smirk he leads again, guiding her away from the dance floor. "I am definitely still an arse," he assures her. "But sometimes I'm nice to the people I fancy."

"Oh, you fancy me?"

Of course he does. Why else would he be acting like this? Even so, she can't help but have her doubts. After the war, so many looked at her with disgust. She is marked by her mistakes, and the world seems reluctant to let her forget. Now, here's a man who looks at her like she's something special, like the stupid things she did at seventeen don't matter now.

"Don't let it go to your head."

She laughs. Merlin, she hadn't expected to actually find herself smiling tonight. Best case scenario, she had planned to make an appearance and leave. Nothing special. In, out, done. Worst case scenario… Well, she doesn't want to think about how she might have ruined Draco and Astoria's big day.

"Do you want to get out of here?" he asks. "I was thinking about stopping by this little bakery near my flat. They make an amazing brownie cheesecake, if you're interested."

"Are you asking me on a date?"

"Would you like it to be a date?"

Only an hour ago, she would have laughed at the idea of going on a date with Marcus Flint. Now, she thinks it will be the most perfect way to end her day. With a smile, she nods. "I would."

Life didn't go how she planned, but maybe, just maybe, it can be even better than she ever dreamed.