The darkness presses as smothering velvet around the figure lying like marble upon the green and silver silk. She finds peace in her sweet suffocation, a smile gracing her lips as she revels in her self-inflicted isolation.
She lounges on the couch usually reserved for Draco, secure in her domination. Pansy Parkinson; from summer to winter; flawless ice queen. They fear her sudden metamorphosis, and she knows it absolutely. The new sardonic curl of her lips is in place as she lazily examines her flawless nails, as if her bewitched housemates were staring with lust, the devil's ecstasy pills.
None dare dethrone her, for they all know where he is.
Eve resides in the days of her life. She suckles a damson apple, throwing her head back as the sweet juices run over her chin.
Ms Parkinson sweeps through the hallways. She alone in the castle knows all its secrets, the battlefield within its walls. Potter glances at her, confusion lurking in his death-coloured eyes, before dipping his head and scuttling away.
Midnight passes. She places a kiss upon the forehead of each of her sleeping roommates before dousing their sheets with a liquid rainbow.
He is absent again. But this time his couch is empty. The chamber door is open. Pansy stands at the portal, eyes never leaving the naked skin, the entwined bodies, the melding of the flesh. No pain stirs within her heart. The light left long ago.
There was a demure package upon her pillow, on every pillow. The slither of string and soft rustle of paper disproportionate to the storm within. As one the Slytherins wince and clasp their forearms. The countdown begins.
Twenty-four hours
She stands in front of the floor length mirror. Millicent and Daphne watch as she adjusts the flawless ebony robes which ripple about her frame. Perfection incarnate she glides from the room, her fellows trotting in her wake.
Sixteen HoursFeatures are frozen; anticipation, nerves, brutal hunger. Actions are caught in a loop. Save one, all are watching the clocks. The heart of Slytherin territory is the macabre waiting room for Beelzebub's legions. She leans against the stone wall, shrouded in shadow, cold seeping through her satin costume. None see that her face is of marble, not alabaster.
Two HoursShe stands over his bed, head bowed as if in prayer. She knows it will rot with the rest of the castle. Pansy removes a silken pouch from where it had lain against her heart. She scatters the poppy seeds it bears across the sheets that had been gifted with her purest blood.
One HourThe touch of his, Draco's, invisibility cloak caresses her mortal flesh with forgotten memories. The puzzled looks directed at the opening door were testimony to her passing. As the wall began to close she allowed the fabric to slip from her face. A shining light glittered momentarily in her palm and the scent of sulphur purged her nostrils before she tossed the match through the only exit.
ResolutionShe watched from the shadows of the forbidden forest as the faceless hunters closed in upon the sleeping castle. Doom was here.
But the next generation was dead.
