A/N: An unusual pairing, I know. I fully expect to get some flak for it, but I don't care. Written primarily for a friend.

Between the Lines

CHAPTER 1

PANSY was not exactly sure what she was expecting death to feel like, but she wondered why it wasn't more painful than it was. But then again, she was sure she was far away from any glorious Heaven. She seemed caught in a churning tide. Her muscles attempted to writhe in agony, but her aching bones refused to move and kept her pinned, lying in place, waiting for someone to come. For help, an Auror, a fellow seventh-year who had stayed behind as she did to fight in the attempted siege against the Dark Lord, to pluck her from the rubble.

But no help came to her. Then, just as quickly, the witch would succumb to a horrible nothingness.

Perhaps this was what Hell itself felt like. She could abide it better than the remorse she felt at Draco leaving her. She felt as though the darkness were closing in around her, pulling her under. She had already fought so hard.

A part of Pansy wanted nothing more than to let go, to fall back into the calming abyss of nothing, and let Death, that shrouded cloaked figure of the stories, whisk her away in his icy embrace like an old friend. These days, what did she have left but her own death to call her own? No mother and father to care for her that gave a shit about her enough to check on her. Draco had called it quits on their relationship, saying that he needed some time.

What was left, if not the memory of him and the time they'd spent together?

Without Draco, there was no reason to carry on. At this point, she did not care if the crumbling wall of what was left of the school's Courtyard took her life. A part of Pansy even hoped that it would.

So, she wallowed in her misery, alone in her eternal darkness as she lay trapped, buried beneath the rubble, along with Merlin only knowing how many other bodies. It was only Draco Malfoy's memory that would be Pansy Parkinson's comfort forever, and still, she considered herself fortunate enough.

She would never need to give up on the wizard again. She let out a content sigh, which escaped her barely cracked lips as a hoarse wheeze, and focused on the remembrance of Draco's sensation upon her skin, how he had kissed her, that Pansy could almost conjure the blond where she lay. For the few precious moments, her mind would let her, she could enjoy the young man and pretend that none of this had ever occurred.

That Draco had not betrayed everything she had thought they had stood for, that she had seen his true colors when he'd fled with his family, not wanting to partake in the fighting, leaving her alone to deal with the rogue giant smashing its club about on her own, and it had been Pansy who had suffered for it.

For a moment, she thought he spoke to her.

Do you remember the Black Lake, Pan?

Slowly, Pansy fluttered open her gaze to the whisperer. Draco was looking down at her, a phantasm of her feverish mind, she was sure. Why even now, she had to let Malfoy ghost her like this, she didn't know.

But she thought she was beginning to understand, as the young wizard's thin lips curled in a sneer.

She knew there were things left unsaid between them, considering how Draco had broken up with her without so much as a word, leaving her high and dry and wondering.

You know I do, she tried to answer in impossible telepathy, but lacked the strength to speak, as her tongue felt heavy in her mouth. And I don't remember the Lake that night, I remember you, Draco, is what she wanted to say, but she lacked strength.

Draco's silence reigned. She was sure, yes, she was sure that he was a false image and not here beside her.

It was right to leave the Lake that night, Draco. But…what wasn't right was when you left me.

She wanted a moment to linger with him, to enjoy the unexplainable peace that was now wallowing in her soul.

But even Merlin would not grant her that courtesy. She found herself surfacing from the darkness once more, her thoughts flooded with nothing but Draco. She wanted to just lay here, amidst the rubble and let the phantasm image of him that her mind had conjured enjoy him, savoring every sweet moment.

But it did not stop. She continued to move upward, until breaking free of the mire she was buried beneath began to hurt, worse than anything she'd felt before, ever. Her whole body was on fire. The worst part of all of this, however, was that she felt Draco leaving her, slipping through her arms. She wanted to scream, from both pain and heartache, and from fear. What in the hell did she have left then, if not even Draco's memory?

Suddenly, from nowhere, a light burned itself into her vision as her eyelids flickered open and shut, barely perceptively. It was dim, like a candle, yet agonizing to the young brunette witch nonetheless.

It very nearly blinded Pansy. Everything weighed down upon her. The air shocked her lungs as she gasped for the biting cool taste of the evening air around her. She'd risen from the brink, only to be slammed to the ground. The force and shock of it snapped her eyes wide open. The darkness that had shrouded her was gone.

Pansy stared up into the night sky littered with stars and nearly wanted to weep, thinking she would never see the sky again. Her chest heaved violently as her heart tried to find its rhythm. She tested her body, her muscles flexed but her bones would not move at all, and every feeble attempt sent an explosion of pain through her broken and shattered bones. Maybe even some of them were missing, it was hard to know at all.

Pansy shivered to think what fresh hell and torment awaited her now, and could only lay there motionless and in dread for her suffering to begin again all over. But then, she heard a familiar voice.

Weasley. The more serious of the two twins, she would know his stupid voice anywhere.

George, Pansy thought at first. No. No fucking way. Pansy's mind groped for understanding as her eyelids could no longer stand the strain of looking into the light anymore and sealed themselves shut. It couldn't be.

She wanted to scream. Had the Weasley twins died in the fighting as well? Surely both of them would have survived, she tried to tell herself. Though she had never cottoned onto either one of them, if anyone would have found a way to avert tragedy, it was the twins. Nothing ever stopped them.

Somehow, the pair of brothers had managed to overcome almost every obstacle thrown in their path, and thrive for it. A part of her envied them for that. The twins, alongside Potter, Pansy was loathed to admit this next part, had proven to be the fiercest Gryffindor lions of them all. Truly, the epitome of what it meant to belong to Professor McGonagall's prideful House.

She almost found humor in that for some sickening reason.

But…if Weasley still lived, then…what did that mean? Again, Pansy fought to open her eyes, though their torture was met by the burning harrowing pain of the light once more.

Her hoarse throat screamed against it, though the only kind of noise the now-former Slytherin student could make was a raspy sort of pitiful croaking. She tried to raise her arms in the hopes of shielding her face against the burning lighted tip of Weasley's wand that was now thrust into her face, she thought she recognized that wild flaming shock of fiery ginger hair, but her body still remained motionless despite Pansy's most valiant attempt.

She cursed herself in thinking this must be what Potter felt like when he'd had to play dead.

"That's it, Parkinson," George Weasley's voice cut through her haze again, barely reaching her ears, which were filled with a horribly fatigued ringing in her eardrums, the sound of her own blood pounding loudly. "Wake up. Stay awake. The Healer is on her way. Fight it." He called to her from someplace Pansy could not see.

Pansy heard Weasley again. Shit. That meant that he wasn't dead, which meant by extension, she wasn't dead. She was alive. The memories flooded back into her awareness whether she wanted to or not. Battling the giant of the Dark Lord's while the bricks that kept the columns of the Courtyard intact began to crumble.

Dragon fire, yet another Weasley causing mayhem, probably the work of Charlie, if she had to hazard a guess, burned the air and filled the sky and her lungs with smoke.

She was lucky not to have died from smoke inhalation, Pansy realized with a jolt. The pain and terror overtook her mind as she could see in crystal perfect clarity in her mind, the giant's club swinging right towards her, and how when she had looked around for Draco to help, the wizard had vanished, left her.

Oh, Merlin! Pansy's mind had screamed at her. He had left her. He had left her and now, she had nothing else left. Her heart sank lower than the depths from which she was plucked. She wanted nothing more than to curl up into a fetal position on the debris-covered and blood-soaked stone of what was left of the Courtyard, shrivel, and die.

But Merlin would not even grant her that courtesy. Her life had been spared, and she wished the giant would have killed her. Exhausted, Pansy could fight no more. She knew she must still be alive, but she did not wish to be.

She had let the greatest thing she had ever known walk away from her, the only wizard she had ever truly really loved. There was no purpose for her without Draco by her side. She let herself go.

She wanted to fall back into the darkness. As it surged towards her again a third time, this time, she sincerely hoped that it would engulf her, and the next time she opened her eyes, she would see Death, his bony hand outstretched and waiting to whisk her home. All she wished, for now, was to spend eternity with the memory of the one for whom she had given up everything, for Draco would surely never take her back now.

Not after she had seen for herself their lives going down separate paths. He would surely never look at her again with the same tenderness and affection Draco once had, she was sure.

That thought was almost more than she could bear. As sweet and precious sleep came to Pansy Parkinson once more, she dove for it, and let the tides take her in. Under the watchful and vigilant eye of none other than George Weasley, Pansy whispered the only name of the person who meant anything to her anymore.

"Draco," she sighed and then slept.

THE air was chilled as the breeze tousled George Weasley's ginger hair gently. The air around the stricken wizard carried the faint scent of rainfall and caused his nose to twitch. Good. He nodded to himself. Hopefully, the rain would wash away the unmistakable stench of copper and iron that clung in his nose, the smell of blood, of death.

Even here standing outside of St. Mungo's at this late hours as he was now, George could not shake the unease that burgeoned in his heart.

This wizarding institution was meant as a place of healing, but to him, it reeked of death and misfortune. George's lips held a thin line that only deepened by the second.

His mind was tormented by the one thought he did not have an answer to. Why? Why was Fred taken from him? He stood in silence in front of the doors to the institution that he knew he needed to grab, knowing that he would not feel right if he didn't at least check on her, but he could not bring himself to move.

It had been three weeks since he had brought Harry's classmate here for observation by the Healers and no change. She had not yet woken from her comatose-like state. He did not know why he felt compelled to come, having not visited her once since her admittance into the institution, but here he was. He stood in silence for what felt like hours, but the sun looked to have not risen any further.

His throbbing head fell into his calloused hands. He was working himself to death. Deep purple bags clung to the skin underneath his half-lidded eyes. A full night's rest at this point was foreign to him.

A heavy sigh escaped George's tired form. George noted that soon he would have to open up shop. As he was about to head inside St. Mungo's, not sure why his legs were moving as if by rote memory to the door to check on a witch whom he was not at all friends with, he looked back over his shoulder to glance over the bustling city of London for a moment, the Muggle Repellent Charms doing their jobs, and allowing him to observe undetected.

His mind was rushed by the recent memory of the castle being engulfed by fire as smoke swirled the darkening sky. George grimaced, tearing his terrified eyes away from the alarming image. His shaking hands found their way to the top of his pounding head. George breathed heavy, scattered breaths while his large, unblinking eyes looked to the ground. The alarmed man blinked rapidly, trying desperately to clear his mind of the horrid memory of Fred's death as the loss of his twin haunted him nightly.

Seeing the fire. The explosion. Fred's face, smiling as he died. He slid his hands down his face, clutching at his soft grey woolen sweater. He breathed in…out…in…out…but his exasperated lungs could simply not get in enough air. He had felt this way ever since they had left Fred to rest days after his death.

The flashing images of his twin's death had only gotten worse through the long months. George Weasley's tormented eyes were pierced by the rising sunlight. He knew he would have to leave soon to open up the shop, but a part of him wondered how on Merlin's green earth he could continue to carry on, with Fred gone.

He shook his head wildly to rid himself of those startling thoughts as he sluggishly walked towards the front doors. Maybe a distraction would help him forget these ugly memories, memories he did not want to dwell on just yet.

All these thoughts of his brother reminded him of an important detail.

He always brought a flower to Fred's grave, buried in their backyard. He made a quick mental note to stop by the florist shop in Diagon Alley later that morning, but first, he wanted to check on the witch whose life he had saved. He frowned, tugging on one of the sturdy handles, and disappeared into the darkness.

George was smart enough not to look back.

GEORGE grimaced as his footsteps echoed down the linoleum floor of the ward the short-haired blonde Welcome Witch Norah had directed him to, a real bitch of a witch if he was being honest with himself, but her husband, Ollie, was an Order member and was alright enough by him.

Ollie Brennan had been Tonks's partner alongside her in the Ministry of Magic, before her and Lupin's deaths. Temperamental bloke, Ollie was, but handsome enough and seemed to dote on his wife, though what he saw in her, he didn't want to fathom a guess as to what it was. George scowled and shook away thoughts of the Order members from his mind. The Order did not matter anymore, but his life now.

And now, well...he had never liked coming here. When he was younger, he had long since associated St. Mungo's Institute for Magical Maladies and Injuries with grief, considering he had watched his grandfather draw in his last breath here, and then their grandmother, a few years later after him. Though the place never exhibited an atmosphere of grief, far from it. The waiting room and front desk reception area was always teeming with witches and wizards who suffered from bizarre magical accidents, and the long journey up the stairs, if you didn't want to take the elevator, offered brief glimpses into forays of nameless and otherwise rare maladies, and the talking portraits were, well, for lack of a better word, strange. But none of these things lessened his dread for the place.

He frowned, his eyes making a quick scan of the otherwise deserted hallway until he spotted a lone Healer making their nightly rounds, breathing a sigh of relief.

"I need…excuse me!" he called out, spotting a Healer who was swiftly walking away from him, unable to take notice of George, tampering with his hope that he would be shown to whatever room Miss Parkinson was staying in. He sighed in disappointment and made to turn away, though the audible clacking sound of a familiar pair of heels sent a shudder of revulsion down his spine, and before he could turn on his heels to flee, George found himself face-to-face with none other than the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic. Dolores Umbridge.

George stiffened, every muscle in his body suddenly pulled taut and tense as he gnashed his teeth together.

The short stout hag clad entirely in pink attire with the made-up face that could not disguise her squashed, ugly, toad-like features no matter how much makeup she piled up stood in front of him, barely coming up to his chest.

If she at all recognized him, she made no visible show of it, though George thought he saw a flicker of distrust flick through her brown eyes as the edges of her mouth turned up in a simpering, honey-sweet smile, though it was obvious to the pair of them that it was false. George frowned and waited, tense.

"Mr. Weasley," Umbridge said in a voice adopted by confidence, with just a twinge of dislike seeping through the surface of her voice. "A…surprise to find you here, my dear boy. I would have thought, considering your…past history with poor Miss Parkinson, you would have been the last on her list of visitors, or would be if the poor child had any family members left that the Ministry could inform of the poor thing's survival. It's simply dreadful," she simpered, smiling at him in such a way that made George itch to pull his wand and vanish the smirk off her face. She did not sound at all sorry, and George feared the reason for Umbridge's visit.

His brows furrowed in angry confusion.

"She has no one? No family at all, Senior Undersecretary?" he asked, quietly and confused, unsure why the question was ripped from his lips just now, or that he had even asked it of the old hag until it was too late.

"None, dear. It's quite a tragedy, really. The girl's parents, slaughtered by You-Know-Who himself when they attempted to flee." Dolores Umbridge clucked her tongue like a mother hen, offering George a slight shake of her head that he knew too, by the expression on her lined face, that it was false. "If you are looking to visit with Miss Parkinson, Mr. Weasley, I'm afraid your visit will have to wait. There are…certain matters, that I must discuss with the witch alone, providing she wakens, though a Replenishing Potion should do the charm if her Healer can be summoned," she murmured thoughtfully. "I am afraid that it cannot wait any longer, dear boy. I've delayed long enough," Dolores retorted in her honey-sweet voice, careful to ensure that her voice remained as neutral as possible to avoid causing a scene.

George bristled but made no comment.

Umbridge continued. "The young woman inside," she paused to jerk a pink-painted nail over her shoulder towards the ward she stood in front of, effectively blocking George's path inside, "holds vital information that our Ministry needs in its campaign against those who sought to usurp the Ministry's power and watch it crumble under the Dark Lord's reign. Miss Parkinson, I believe, was acquainted with a Mr. Draco Malfoy. The Malfoy family has since gone missing. I would have them found. The patriarch was a convicted Death Eater, Mr. Weasley. The family needs to answer for justice for their crimes. The longer my questions go unanswered by Miss Parkinson inside, then the longer swift justice goes unserved. That woman holds the key to uncovering the answer behind the Malfoy family's crimes, and there are a few things that must be made quite clear to me." Dolores furrowed her dark brows into a frown as she stepped forward. She huffed in frustration and continued. "I will require no guard to sit with us, as I do not believe the young witch a threat at this current time, given the extensive scope of her…unfortunate injuries, therefore I doubt there will be much trouble from her."

George, for reasons he did not yet understand, had his hand curled instinctively around his wand.

Dolores found her gaze drifted towards it, and she did not bother hiding her disgust.

The thought of the Weasley boy taking an interest in a pure-blooded witch-like Pansy Parkinson, of all people his age, sent a shudder of revulsion down her spine, and the look of repulsion must have been evident on her features, for it was Miss Parkinson's assigned Healer, a witch named Nell Jones, who fixed the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic with an unusually firm, icy blue glower.

George, who had, by this point during their one-sided conversation, had no idea how to properly respond at all to this woman's claims, only nodded. He would be an idiot to place any real trust in Umbridge's honeyed words that were laced to the brim with cold animosity.

The Healer pinched the bridge of her nose and heaved a sigh.

"You may ask of Miss Parkinson your questions, Madame Undersecretary Umbridge," the Healer began courteously, though there was no mistaking the underlying hint of impatience that had seeped its way into the young witch's soft, quiet tones. "But you will conduct yourself, Madame Umbridge, in a civilized decorum and you will treat Miss Parkinson with respect. Mr. Weasley, you may visit with her afterward, if you would kindly wait outside until Madame Umbridge has finished," she added in a clipped, firm voice.

George opened his mouth to protest. As apathetic as he and Fred and Ginny had acted towards Malfoy's old flame, he would not wish her suffering Umbridge's company for too long.

Though after being on the receiving end of an unusually stern look from the Healer that was assigned to care for Pansy Parkinson, George heaved a tired sigh and reluctantly stepped back, though not before casting a mistrustful glower towards Dolores Jane Umbridge, hating the old hag and how she acted.

However, he had no chance to say anything before the Senior Undersecretary offered him a poisonous, honeyed, sweet smile and promptly closed the door in George's face. He frowned.

His last thought as he moved to stand respectfully on the other side of the hallway to wait until Dolores Umbridge was finished, was that he hoped to leave Pansy alone with the likes of a witch-like Umbridge wasn't a mistake.