She's always been the excluded one. The one forgotten. The one alone. The one unwanted. But despite it all, she never cared. Never cared that she was unloved. Never cared that she was lonely. Why should she have cared? Had she ever been loved before in order to know what she was missing out on? Had she ever been wanted? Needed? Treasured?

No.

And Pansy Parkinson liked it that way.

She was one pug-faced, tough ass bitch, and she damn well liked it that way.

Oh, she had friends; if you call two-faced, back-stabbing bitches friends.

They all wanted something from her. They never wanted her.

And she didn't care. Of course, she didn't.

Her life was her own, and if she had to be alone to have some peace, then so be it.

One vital thing you have to know about Pansy Parkinson is, she doesn't care. She doesn't care about you, about herself, about anything or anyone.

At least she didn't up until she saw them.

It was so simple.

Hermione Granger was scared. And Ron Weasley grabbed her hand and squeezed it.

That was it. All it was, was a simple, reassuring squeeze.

But for some reason, her hand tingled when she saw it.

Her hand tingled and her chest felt tight.

Hours later, as Pansy sat alone in the Slytherin common room, she pondered her reaction and for some reason, wondered if she had ever had her hand squeezed like that.

She hadn't. Did she care?

No, no of course not. Why should she?

It didn't matter. Just a stupid squeeze.

But she couldn't help wondering. Wondering and searching.

Pansy watched them. Felt her eyes get drawn to the Gryffindors over and over again.

And over and over again, she saw other little things.

A private smile.

A quiet laugh.

A chaste kiss.

And over and over again she wondered. Wondered and in some deep part of her she refused to acknowledge, she yearned.

But she didn't care. No, no, she was Pansy Parkinson and she didn't need anyone. She didn't want anyone.

But she couldn't help watching them.

She saw them do a million other little, loving, and generally annoying things. She wondered back on her days of going out with Draco. Had he ever squeezed her hand? Had he ever kissed her without the intent of making a show for someone else? Had he ever done something, anything to her without an ulterior motive?

No.

But she didn't care.

Goddammit, she was Pansy fucking Parkinson and she needed no one.

But she watched them. It was an addiction. An obsession. And it was driving her mad.

Why did she care? Why couldn't she just forget about what she had seen?

Why did it matter?

And she found that the more she watched them, the more she found herself watching Ron Weasley.

Was it him? Was some secret part of her attracted to his gauche freckles?

Was that it?

Or was it the way he was so quietly attentive to Granger's needs?

Or was it his puppy-like loyalty?

Did she want that?

Loyalty? It was so foreign to her. She was loyal to no one and no one was loyal to her. That was the way things worked in her world.

Did she want to be a part of his?

Pansy, once so cold, once so controlled, was a wreck.

What did she want? What did she need? Did she have needs?

Who was she?

She didn't want to care. She wanted to go back and forget because caring hurt. Because wanting something she could never have was killing her.

She once passed by him in the hall.

"Parkinson." he had muttered coldly.

"Weasley." she had sneered.

They had paused and stared, and looking into his eyes, Pansy had wondered how it would have felt to have those blue eyes look at her with yearning and love instead of this cold loathing.

The expression in those eyes hadn't changed and he had moved on.

And she had ended up alone. Alone with the wants and needs she had never desired.