Draco pawed at the corner of the room that wasn't completely overtaken by his belongings. He had grown up with tidy habits, but there was no need to keep things in order when every day was the same. He even wore the same clothes each day after using a quick deodorizing charm.
A knock at his door. His mother stood in the slim opening of the doorway. "Yes?" he said curtly, expecting her to say something about the state of his room. He clutched at the two fistfuls of wrinkled clothes he had in his hands.
"You have a visitor," his mother said, her face not angry or tense but something else he couldn't name. Draco dropped the clothes back into the heap, straightening up.
"Who?"
His mother cleared her throat. "Pansy," she said expectantly.
"What?" His heart thudded even though it was just her. Just Pansy, for fuck's sake.
His mother looked as if she would leap out of her slippers from suppressed joy. "Are you and her—?"
He rolled his eyes. "I'm not carrying on some clandestine affair with Pansy, mother. I'm on house arrest with you. Remember?"
She pursed her lips in a manner almost identical to Draco's. "She was always very kind to our family. I don't see why you threw that away."
"She's the one who—nevermind, mother," he brushed past her, stopping by the mirror in his room to make sure none of his breakfast was stuck in his teeth. He ran a hand through his hair and bounded down the staircase.
He could see the back of Pansy, a low knot at the base of her neck. She was wearing a elegant black robes and a traveler's cloak. He could smell her jasmine perfume. She turned to him, an eyebrow arching as she surveyed him for the first time in well over a year.
He wasn't sure if they should hug or shake hands or clasp each other on the shoulders or whatever it was that he always saw the Hufflepuffs doing in the hallways, a tactile way of existing that he never understood.
She grinned, her small, straight teeth peering out of her lips. "Draco. It's good to see you."
He nodded. "Pansy. You look well."
"And you look," she struggled to find the words, "better than I expected," she said in her honest way. It was so typical of Pansy to say what was on her mind instead of sparing him the embarrassment.
He gestured to the sitting room. "I thought you were with Blaise in Italy."
"I was, for a while. He sends his regards."
There was a part of him that understood why Pansy hadn't contacted him. Normal teenagers who weren't on house arrest after fighting on the losing side in a war with the greatest Dark Lord in modern history also probably stayed away from their ex-girlfriends. But Blaise was his friend, a boy he had grown up with.
"No owls in Naples?" Draco said.
"You can ask Blaise yourself," Pansy said quietly. "He's moving to London soon."
"How wonderful. I'd ask if he needs a flatmate, but, well, you know," he lifted his wrist and tapped on his tracking bracelet, which glowed a bright green.
Pansy grimaced, averting her eyes. "I'm sorry about your father, Draco. I remember what it was like for you when he went to Azkaban."
"Alright, Pans," he sighed. "Is that what you wanted to talk about? Why you traveled all this way?"
"I wanted to see you," she said, looking offended. "It's a shame you're still trapped in here. They're monsters," she looked around the dark room. All the curtains were drawn, dust collecting in their folds. "With your grades, I always thought you'd go straight to working for the Minister for Magic. Meanwhile, Scarhead never even finished at Hogwarts but I hear he's running things now," she muttered. "You won't believe the rubbish time I had at customs. Some Ravenclaw dolt, which I thought was an oxymoron too—Perry Delaney, he was a seventh year when we were in fourth year—recognized me and remembered what house I was in. It took an hour just to convince him I wasn't a criminal," her nose wrinkled.
He closed his eyes briefly, only the scent of jasmine intruding on his senses. "Why are you here?" he said weakly.
Pansy looked around the empty room. "Come on, Draco," she whispered conspiratorially.
He lowered his voice. "What are we whispering about?"
"They're saying what your father did is the beginning of a rebellion." Pansy shifted forward to put a hand on his. He froze.
"Rebellion?" he repeated. Her hand felt hot on his. He had always liked the way Pansy carried herself, and it was easy to see why they had dated. They moved through the school together like a scavenging magpie and its shadow, alternating in their roles, never one without the other. At their worst, Slytherins were supposed to be cowards. At their best, they were survivors, and he had often wondered what it would be like if Pansy had been the Death Eater, not him.
It was a shame that people had underestimated her because she was a girl. Perhaps she wouldn't have succeeded in killing Dumbledore either, but she would have made it out with far more dignity left to her than what he had now. The Pansy he knew would have taken Dumbledore up on the offer of protection. She would have hidden herself away without looking back. The memory of wishing it was anyone else who had been tasked with killing his headmaster was a familiar one.
But also.
He couldn't remember the last time a girl had touched him. It would be easy, wouldn't it, to ask her if she wanted to go upstairs, put a silencing charm on the room, feel her soft hand sliding under—
"There are purebloods all over the country who are saying that the Ministry's next, then muggle London," she said all this without taking a breath. "I saw that mudblood bitch Granger in the Daily Prophet the other day in some simpering article about the 'next generation'. Her photograph in the paper and everything,'" she said in a mocking, singsong tone. "It's not right."
Draco felt a wilting jolt of shame. Hearing Granger's name made him feel exhausted suddenly. Of course Granger hadn't wanted his help. Who on earth would? He eyed Pansy warily. Maybe this kind of power trip she was taking him on would have worked a year ago, but he had seen how quickly the Malfoy name had turned to rot. Pansy wasn't stupid, she was simply living on a different plane of existence. Perhaps he would be, too, if their roles were reversed. He imagined it now. An Italian paradise. A beach with fine, soft sand. Warm water beating against the Italian shoreline. Wine by the barrelful, long nights flying his Nimbus over ancient cities. Open space that went on forever.
"Draco, when I heard what happened at Hogwarts, I felt like I had finally woken up after a terrible year. I knew you had something up your sleeve. I know you."
"Yes," he said quietly. "Better than anyone." If Pansy was his shadow—or, more likely, he hers—he should have known that neither a year nor the ocean could come between them.
"They can't change our minds so easily," Pansy smiled at him conspiratorially. "It'll take more than this," she gestured at his tracking bracelet, at the darkened room, "to topple the noblest families in our world."
So, he was evil. A Malfoy. No wonder his own mother had asked him if he had been involved in his father's attack. It made sense now.
He was a Death Eater. A Slytherin. A prisoner.
But better. Because Draco would be all those things and make it out alive if it was the last thing he did.
Pansy looked at him expectantly. There they were again. Yes indeed, a magpie and its shadow.
The thing about shadows is that they're hard to get rid of.
He could throw Pansy out or he could use this visit to his advantage. Cull the knowledge he needed from her like the burnt remnants left behind in a cauldron. Hand it over to the Ministry. Buy his freedom and escape. Be done with his parents for good.
So he was a turncoat. Just like Snape.
"Pansy. Tell me what you know."
