Author's Note: Yes, I know, it's been a month since I've updated, but I hope you guys haven't lost interest. Thank you for all of the reviews. I'm sorry if the story is moving a bit slowly but it should pick up soon. Indeed I do have a plot line, lol. (Oh, and the first two lines come from Rose Hawthorne Lathrop's poem "A Song Before Grief".)
'The bird is dead
That sang this morning though the summer rain!'
Funerals meant nothing to Pansy Parkinson. One lived until they could no longer outrun the dark angel, and then they died. It was a simple fact. No tradition or ancestor worship could change that, and it sure as hell didn't make a difference if there was a body in a box to grieve over.
Sure as Hell, Pansy thought, dragging behind the slow moving crowd. 'Sure as Hell' was not a phrase that applied to the empty husk in question, and somehow the words alone made her think twice about the irony of her situation.
She surveyed the students filtering past her into the number of visiting adults offering handshakes and awkward hugs. Moaning loud enough to put Myrtle in her place sounded before the group had even made it to their seats on the lawn. Pansy winced at the display of sorrow. She, herself, had felt such feelings over the past few days, but never had she let the public see them. Why should they cry, anyhow? Dumbledore was gone, but he was probably happier wherever he was, so why should they look so sad? It's themselves they're crying for. Pansy herself would openly admit that selfishness pulled her into almost every emotional declaration she had ever made in her short life, but she doubted that these mourners would do the same—no, they would say, 'silly girl, a great man has died'. They would most likely add that she should be ashamed for her coldness. She was.
The few stragglers pushed themselves by the young woman, taking their seats or greeting people or planning business luncheons. (And they say I have a heart of stone.) Pansy looked through the crowd for her target and found him near the back with his do-gooder friends. She smirked at the thought of him being kicked out of his reserved front seat by ministry officials who looked as if this were another meeting instead of a marker for death. Pansy watched the remaining seats fill but made no move to claim one. Instead she took a step back finding a tree to prop against, preferably where no one would take notice of her.
She surveyed the black clad audience carefully, her eyes going back to the boy-who-lived. She expected to see a look of pain or sadness on his face, but that was not the case. Potter looked distant, as if he were somewhere else. If she was not mistaken, he was wearing a small smile that was slowly turning into a full fledged grin. He quickly covered his upturned lips with one hand, trying to hide the enthused expression. Pansy heard a faint laugh that came and went in one breath. It took her a moment for her to realize it was her own.
Pansy wondered what the joke was, as did the youngest Weasley. Ginny, better known as Weaselette in the dungeons, leaned over to say something to Harry Potter and touched his hand ever so gently. The young couple shared a moment without words, basking in emotions and that single touch. It brought a bitter taste to Pansy's mouth. She and Potter were the same age, but she felt much older when she witnessed that moment of happiness. How could they feel any joy at a funeral? The answer was as simple as death. They were together. But, from the look in Potter's eye, that was only a swiftly fading dream. The little Weasley knew it. Pansy knew it too. She had seen that very look in Draco's eyes every time he had pressed is warm lips against hers. She had seen it when his eyes said goodbye.
Anger nibbled at Pansy as she watched the proceedings of the funeral. When blue flames licked the sky and left Earth with a white stone sarcophagus, it progressed into jealously. She would not have a beautiful funeral like this, and neither would Draco. No crowd of respectable folk would show their respects. Not even a blubbering half-giant would tend their bodies. If they were to die, they would probably have to make do with a distasteful muggle gravedigger. And, most certainly, there would be no white at their funeral. There would not even be white at their wedding. They were not innocent. They were not even respected enough to pretend virginity. No, they had gone too far, done to much, seen terrible and wonderful things. White was impossibly pure, and Pansy would be happy to make due with gray.
As for Harry-Perfect-Potter and that tease Ginny Weasley? As sagely as they may seem in duels, they were children in the area of sexual encounters (any form of Gryffindor snogging certainly did not count). That didn't matter, though. It wasn't their 'experiences' that made them so perfectly innocent. There were other factors which Pansy didn't feel like dwelling on.
Before she realized it, the funeral was over. She pushed herself off the tree, wiping a few bits of bark off of her robes, and walked forward. She needed to speak to Potter, as much as despised the thought. Pansy hated to admit it, but she was nervous. What would she ask? So, Potter, heard my good friend Draco said a few words before he fled—you know, when he was suppose to be committing a murder? So much for light bar talk. The Slytherin Princess swallowed, held her chin up, gathering strength and approached the boy wonder from behind. She opened her mouth to speak but before she could say a word, she was pushed aside by a stately looking wizard, the Minister.
Pansy snorted indignantly but neither Potter nor the Minister seemed to notice her. She turned on her heel, intent on being the first on the Hogwarts' Express. What did she need from Potter, anyhow? Did she really want to know if her lover had backed out of the murder of his own will? The answer was yes.
"But not today," she whispered.
End Notes: Sorry if that was boring filler (I was very tired when I wrote it). Anyhow, you'll get to hear from the famous Harry Potter soon enough. And there will be more about Pansy's past relationships to come, so stay tuned. LoL. Oh, and don't forget to tell me what you think—I love hearing feedback, whether or not it has to do with your aunt's awful tea cakes or the source of that wretched smell in your grandmother's closet.