Better Be Slytherin
XVI
Snogging Lessons
Mr Parkinson was a Ministry official, a good man, according to himself, and would never join someone who killed for a belief. The Parkinson family were Pureblood, part of the 'Sacred Twenty-Eight', a string of old families with the purest ancestry in Wizarding Britain, something that always had made Pansy, as well as her parents, feel superior, and they agreed somewhat with the Dark Lord's cause. Unlike Pansy, her father was a very fair and cold-headed man. He may be stern, but he looked down on Death Eaters.
"It's not the proper Pureblood way," he always snorted at Pansy when she wanted an explanation.
She had to admit she did not really understand whather father meant, because from what she had heard from Draco, the Dark Lord did all the right things.
That was why her father found it both interesting and irritating that his daughter (most probably on account of her slight fascination of the Malfoy boy) was turning more and more sold on Voldemort's beliefs.
Graham Parkinson was Head of Magical Law Enforcement Patrol, part of the larger Department of Magical Law Enforcement, where he administered the Hit Wizards (and was in fact a retired Hit Wizard himself). His work nowadays consisted mostly of paperwork – supervising, documenting and conducting assignments and reports. He worked closely with the Department of International Magical Cooperation, and now and then he was assigned work trips with the International Magical Office of Law, British Seats – whenever his cases expanded from out of Great Britain. In those scenarios, he would leave his grand home in Basildon, Essex, just outside London and travel by Portkey to far and near countries, often accompanied by Libatius Bletchley, father of one Bletchley Jr who was an acquantaince at school of Pansy's. A very prudential and shrewd man – to Mr Parkinson's liking. They shared the same views but were sure to stay clear of the Dark Lord and his followers.
Not like that Lucius Malfoy, and his lot, Graham Parkinson snorted to himself in disdain. The Malfoys were a high-born family, indeed, but so were the Parkinsons, and Graham – having attended Hogwarts a year above Lucius, had always looked down on the latter's smugness, and from the day he heard that that utter ponce had procreated a son just a couple of months before his own wife had given birth to a daughter – he had made up his mind. He, his family, and his daughter would not have anything to do with the Malfoys, which was why he had not bothered to introduce the children before Hogwarts – and had chosen other companions for Pansy to play with during her childhood. The Greengrasses (also one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight) he had found very suitable, which was why the two families had always spent Christmas and summer holidays together. Graham found Daphne to be, however somewhat dim, fine company for his daughter.
He had not been able to supervise that when his daughter had gone to Hogwarts, however, which was the reason for their current dispute.
For weeks now, since the holidays had begun, really, Pansy had spent time with the Malfoy boy. And not just a little. This was the first time it had become an issue for Mr Parkinson – he knew that they had familiarised with each other as soon as they began their first year, and that they had been classmates and friends for the five years that followed, but he had barely noticed it. Pansy had still spent her summers with Daphne and Astoria Greengrass, and that Tracey Davis, and not bothered with the Malfoy boy. He knew they attended the Yule Ball together a year and a half earlier, but the summer after that, still no word of him. Until now. He calculated that something must have changed during their fifth school-year together, because since her arrival home from school a couple of weeks earlier, the Malfoy boy had been over almost every other day – and the rest, Pansy had been visiting Malfoy manor.
Graham had, naturally, shaken the boy's hand, on the first of these evenings, with a firm, long grip, while Pansy was holding onto his arm, next to him. Malfoy Jr had crooked his lips in an attempt at a confident smirk, but Graham saw nothing more than an intimidated little boy.
Then they had run off to play Exploding Snap in the parlor, while the Elf brought them tea. And the next day they were round the manor again, and then Pansy would come home in time for bed, like she was told by her mother. Next he would find them in the sitting room, together on an armchair, her in his lap, him with an arm around her, reading the Daily Prophet. Next day she would be at the manor again, playing Quidditch with him and his friends, or going for a swim down the river bank.
After two weeks of this constantly, you could imagine Mr Parkinson and his wife's irritation when, having barely seen their daughter after she had come home from holidays, she was announcing she was going out to a party. With Draco Malfoy.
"Well, it's not just him who'll be there!" Pansy was snarkily commenting, snapping Graham back to the actual moment. He was propped up in one of the large armchairs in front of the fireplace in the parlor, the copy of The Daily Prophet still in his hands, which he had been reading when Pansy had come downstairs with her cloak on and asked where the Floo-Powder was.
He had now, for the past five minutes listened to his wife and daughter discussing the latter's evening plans. The mild warmth of the still glowing fire in the somewhat obscure room made him sleepy.
"It's already eight o'clock, Pansy!"
"That's early, mum," his daughter replied, rolling her eyes at her mother. "It's a party," she emphasised. "Nobody'll even be there before ten."
Perpetua Parkinson scoffed. "That does not sound about right."
"Daphne'll be there, and Trace, and all the girls," Pansy whinged, seemingly running out of patience. "Can I leave now?"
"And Malfoy. Isn't that right?" Mrs Parkinson said in a chilly tone, ignoring her daughter's wish.
Pansy frowned and then rolled her eyes and let out a tired grunt. "This is not even about him, why I'm going!"
"Is it not? Because you've been out with that boy every single day since you came home."
Pansy snorted. "I have not. Well... not every day." Her face turned sour. "But what's that to you?"
She turned to her father for help instead. "Father! Tell her!"
He sighed, and was about to speak, when his wife did. "We do not want to be associated with those sorts of people. Nor should you."
The answer did not seem to satisfy their rather demanding daughter. She just shook her head at her mother, frowning. "I won't stop seeing Draco, if that's what you're saying."
Perpetua shot a glance at him. "Graham?"
He gave a mutter and turned to them. He fixed Pansy with a stern look. "He's a Death Eater, Pansy!"
"No, he's not!" Pansy replied dramatically. "Not yet, anyway, and—"
"Precisely – not yet."
"So, what?" countered Pansy defiantly. Graham raised his eyebrows. "So what if he'll be a Death Eater. What's it to you?"
Her confident face-expression wavered when he raised his voice. "We don't associate with Death Eaters!" he said, disgusted. His wife gave an agreeing nod.
"It doesn't matter if he's a Death Eater, father," Pansy said hastily, not as confident anymore. "Have you seen how he treats me? He's good to me, charming and polite and well brought-up and funny, he's everything you'd want."
"He's a Death Eater," Graham spat. "There's always been something about that boy, I told you that..." He cast a glance on his wife, who nodded.
Pansy gasped. "Are you daft?! There's nothing wrong with him!"
"Pansy," Mr Parkinson said sternly, reprimanding her.
"No!" she shouted. "You two will not decide who I can hang out with! There's nothing wrong with what they stand for—"
"That's not the issue," he interrupted her, snorting. "The issue is that they kill for that bellef. It's sick. It's weak, hanging after Him. A Half-Blood.. It's not the proper Pureblood way."
"And you're to decide that?" Pansy retorted, upsettedly, her anger now directly pointed at him and not her mother.
Graham rolled his eyes, irritated. "I've got more to say on the matter than that blasted Lucius Malfoy, I'll say that. I'm Head of a vast department in the Ministry – who the bloody hell is he? Inheritated everything he is and owns, hasn't he..."
"So this is only because you don't like Draco's father!" Pansy accused.
"End of discussion, Pansy, the boy's no good."
"Argh!" Pansy gave out a loud angry moan and turned on her heel and left the room, smashing the door behind her.
Always the child, Mr Parkinson thought and began chuckling to himself. His wife fixed him with a look.
"All right, all right, go and tell her she can go to her ruddy party," he said, half-amused, half-irritated. "If it's so important..."
"Draco."
He groaned inwardly. He heard his mother's voice from the sitting room as he was walking down the stairs. He did not have the time for her anxious whinging. "Yes, mum?" he said as she entered the hall to frown upon him.
"Where are you going?" she said, noticing his cloak. He was tired of her resumption of treating him as if he was twelve. He hated being controlled – he was adult enough to come and go as he pleased.
"Out. Over to Bletchley's," he muttered.
"What for? And Draco, have you even thought of your task these past few days?"
"I've got an entire year!" he groaned, exasperated. "I don't have to start right away. I've got time!"
Her expression suddenly softened and she seemed to shrink as tears formed in her eyes. "Mum..." he sighed, a slight sense of guilt creeping up on him. But she never stopped bothering him!
"He wanted it done as soon as possible," his mother said and kept her voice strong. He had expected her to start pleading and crying – she continually surprised him of how strong she was. "Your time is definitely not unlimited. The faster you begin, the faster you can earn our family's forgiveness and we can be safe again." With her last statement, though, he heard the desperation in her voice.
Yet, he rolled his eyes and only mumbled, "Fine. But I'm leaving now."
She looked after him helplessly.
"I've probably never danced... at least not since I can remember," snorted Theodore Nott.
"Come on, you don't think you're supposed to waltz around, like some pompous twat, do you?" sniggered Zabini with a sense of irritation. Theodore looked annoyed, clenching his jaw.
"Well, no, but—"
"Just jump up and down, mate," said Miles Bletchley. "And rub up against the birds," he added with a smirk. Pucey, Yulley and Warrington all laughed. Draco quickly let out a laugh as well.
They were all at Bletchley's who always threw legendary 'piss-ups' where almost everyone in Slytherin house in their fifth year or above was invited; the atmosphere was light and cheerful, there were Fire Whiskey and Butterbeer everywhere, The Hobgoblins were playing on the WWN – Draco had lowered several Butterbeers and even a few glasses of the horrible, burning Fire Whiskey and he was feeling relaxed and cheerful, his cheeks warm and his vision a little fogged.
"Hi, boys." Pansy was there with her cheeky smile and thinly dressed body, fanning herself with her hand, obviously warm from dancing. It was unusual seeing her like that – she was usually in her school robes. Draco smirked.
"Look at you in your little skirt and your little—" he began, and trailed off not knowing how to continue. Pansy smiled contently and tossed her hair back, and Draco waved her to him. "C'mere..."
He tugged her skirt and laughed, "I can see right bloody in there, Pans." He felt like teasing her. "Sod off," she said, slapping away his hand, but she was trying to hide her smile. He pulled her down towards him where he was sitting in the sofa and she threw herself down next to him, squeezing in between him and Theodore.
"So where are your friends?" he asked, and sipped his Fire Whiskey.
"Dunno," she said, sipping her drink, "Off dancing I think."
"Ohh," he mocked, "They left you... loner."
"Shut it!" she laughed, slapping his arm. "I didn't want to dance anymore."
"I know, you wanted to find me," he teased. "Right?"
Pansy only gave her shrill laugh.
They boys had all ignored them; they wanted to give the two space so Draco could flirt in private – but now Yulley exclaimed: "Oh, look at her," pointing towards Pansy, "all squeezed up against Malfoy, she probably can't even breath! Nott, move off!"
Bletchley grinned and said, "Oi, it's fine, she's hot for him anyway, aren't you, Pans?"
Draco grinned. Pansy actually turned slightly red in the face, and hastily retorted: "Yeah right, Miles, just like you're wet for Warrington, yeah?"
They boys laughed boisterously and Yulley said, "Nice one, girlie."
"Oi, lads! Listen to this," laughed Graham Montague, captain of Slytherin's Quidditch team and another strong personality in their house, who just joined them. "Puce!" he continued, nodding towards Adrian Pucey who they all found slightly daft. "If a girl asks you to join her in the loo and you say 'no, I don't need to pee' does that not make you well bloody stupid, eh?"
The boys all erupted in laughter.
"He did that?" sniggered Vaisey. Graham nodded, a complacent smirk on his features.
"Come off it, you lot, it's not fucking funny!" came the frustrated and slightly whingy retort of Adrian Pucey himself. It only made the boys laugh more.
"Pucey, you mad bugger," laughed Graham heartedly. "Though, you should have this: I'm impressed she did want to get off with you in the first place, so there's that."
The others sniggered while Adrian adapted a slightly happier face-expression, not catching the insult.
"Don't know how he does it," Graham added, turned to the others in the sofas, his back to Pucey who was now focused on a conversation with Timothy Morcott and Darius Berrow. "He's ugly as a stick but he's a Quidditch 'star', which I suppose is what does it."
Draco nodded, fully agreeing with the accusation; Pucey's eyes were on each sides of his face and he always had that confused expression – he was definitely a little slow. He was skinny and gangly and had greyish brown hair that always fell into his eyes – it was not complimenting. He and Theodore had a bit in common looks-wise, Draco figured and began smirking.
And while the other boys began discussing OWL results, Draco swallowed the last of his Fire Whiskey with a sway and turned to Pansy. He felt like snogging tonight.
As Draco continued drinking and trying to get it on with Pansy, Graham Montague and Miles Bletchley – known competitors - were having a dispute over some girl they had both tried to flirt with, both of them arguing they had been there first. After a while they settled their differences somehow and began high-fiving and chugging Fire Whiskey, which made Miles extremely plastered, which then resulted in yet another argument between the two (this time about to whom a specific bottle of Butterbeer belonged).
He continued chatting to Pansy, perhaps flirting a little – mainly teasing her, trying to make himself feel superior, to the point where he finally was not sure if he was flirting of being condescending.
Then he decided to be a bit more flattering, or at least slightly less taunting. After all, they were "only friends" still, and had not kissed since their short period of a "relationship" that spring. The long stretch of time without any physical contact made Draco even more eager tonight. Well, that, and perhaps the amount of Fire Whiskey in his system.
They had been hanging out almost every day since fifth year ended and summer holidays had begun – spent time together as friends, but he had always sensed that there was something more. Long glances, tension in the air, a lot of hugging – not to mention how neither could stop smirking at the other. Yet, they remained "only friends".
It was at times like this – with alcohol in their systems – that their mutual attraction and lust for each other were more difficult to suppress, and came out naturally. He would've guessed that they were quite the example of their age, concerning hormones and whatnot. He knew Pansy enjoyed snogging him, but then she also enjoyed (if not more) being at parties with her girlfriends, and not even give Draco a look. He himself had his mission on his mind, which was why he was perfectly fine with the occasional attention Pansy gave him. It did however irritate him when she was not paying him any attention at all. Luckily that was not the case at the moment. She was chatting on about something Daphne had said about Millicent Bulstrode.
He took a big gulp of his Butterbeer, and turned to her. "Wanna snog?" he said, interrupting her.
She frowned, wrinkling her nose: "Don't just ask that," she said, rolling her eyes.
He rolled his eyes right back. "Well, do you?"
She paused for a moment, and then giggled: "Yeah, all right."
Pansy groaned inwardly. Why was she always so horny?
She knew Draco wanted her, which was getting slightly annoying. She could not even go to a party and enjoy herself without him constantly ogling at her from across the room, and touch her every chance he got.
She knew she was immature – well, she was only fifteen still, what did he expect? They had tried being boyfriend and girlfriend earlier in the year, but ended up having silly arguments. She did not even know if she fancied him – she loved flirting with him, and she loved his attention. And snogging was never boring. She had not kissed anyone since Draco, earlier in the spring. She supposed she was becoming sexually frustrated. And the attraction was certainly there – and she enjoyed spending time as friends.
What did "fancy" mean anyway?
Friendship with attraction – was that a thing?
Graham Montague had joined the Inquisitorial Squad that spring. He had been easily persuaded when Draco had come to the common room to tell them all about Umbridge's new clique. He had felt strangely proud wearing that large "I"-badge. But on his first ever morning as a member, when trying to take House points from the Weasley twins, they had shoved him into a large wooden dresser, before he had been able to finish speaking. While trapped inside the cabinet he had been able to occasionally hear what was happening at Hogwarts – random bits of conversation between students, breaking of objects, and miss-said spells – while he had also been able to hear the bitter mumblings of what he presumed must have been that shop owner in Knockturn Alley, and word-exchanging between him and his mysterious customers.
It was hell being stuck in there, really! Lucky he had just managed to Apparate out after a day in there, managing not to splinch himself or get in trouble with the Ministry for Apparating without a licence –and he had ended up inside a toilet on the fourt floor.
He was retelling all of this to his House mates, adding how disoriented and confused he had been for weeks afterwards (spending almost a month in the hospital wing), and still could feel a hint of the effects lingering sometimes – and they were all bent over laughing.
Everyone but Draco Malfoy, who had by the story reached the conclusion that there was a connection between the cabinet at Hogwarts and the cabinet at Borgin and Burkes.
Meaning he had his way of letting the Death Eaters in school during the fastly approaching educational year. Meaning he had found the answer to how he was going to perform his mission.
Draco could hardly sit still any longer, he was too excited.
