She woke up cold, gooseflesh raised where his hand had been, on that tiny spot of soft land between her breasts and above her stomach.
He was gone. Part of Pansy remembered him leaving, even though she was probably asleep at the time. That part of her said that he had left hours ago. Why, then, could she feel the warmth of his face on the pillows?
She pushed herself up, sliding off of the bed slowly, walking to the window. Dawn's sun was weak, gray as the sky, but that would not stop the goblins from opening the bank. The sooner she had her money and could leave, the better. Gathering her bag and slipping on her shoes, she gave the room a final look. On the end of the bed was a hooded cloak, draped where her feet had been moments earlier. She snatched it up with a smirk, looping it around her neck.
"Thanks, Dragon," she said, walking out the door.
Diagon Alley was quiet, uncommonly so. Pansy could remember shopping with her parents only a year ago when this time of morning would have had the cobblestone covered in little old witches gathering their ingredients for a few sunrise brews. But that was no longer the case. Between the Dark Lord and those fools as the Ministry, most of the common folk were opting to stay within their homes, only coming out in broad daylight when the chances of running into trouble were minimal. As she had suspected, though, the goblins were as busy as ever, even with only a few patrons to serve.
The cart ride to her vault was short, thankfully. (It wasn't morning sickness that left her green as she stumbled out.) The goblin with her unlocked the entryway and stepped back.
"I want all of it bagged," she stated.
A Parkinson would not lift a finger to help, and, since she didn't think it best to draw attention to herself, she simply stepped back and let the little creature waddle along. The goblin handed her a hefty sack, and she opened her bag, lowering the coins inside. It fit perfectly. She gave herself a mental pat on the back before climbing back into the cart.
Her exit would have to be fast, especially with goblins wishing her a good day by her real name. Also, more customers and shop owners had arrived in the alley. Hiding her face under her hood, she stepped out onto the walk, slipping past a group of elderly wizards discussing Quidditch. She was almost halfway past the shops when she looked up and noticed a few familiar faces. They were in Slytherin, some of her younger housemates. While most of them would not recognize her, at least one of the young witches had been to one of her parent's parties and spoken to her in the past.
Panicking, Pansy slipped into the closest shop, stopping at the entrance to glance through the curtains at the group. She held the fabric down as they passed. Problem was, they didn't pass. They stopped directly across from the shop, chatting amongst themselves.
"Damn it," Pansy hissed.
"Can I help you, Miss?"
Pansy turned, finding herself face to face with a short, round woman. It took her a moment to recognize the witch as Madam Malkin. Pansy herself went to her mother's favorite shop, Jenkin's, for new robes, but Draco had mentioned this place before and had taken her to pick up his formals here.
"Miss?"
For once, Pansy Parkinson was speechless. She looked out the corner of her eye—the Slytherins were still right outside.
Madam Malkin gave her a worried frown. "I'll be back to you in a moment, when you've made up your mind, deary."
Before the shop-lady could walk away, though, a young, red-headed witch stepped out from the back room. "Madam, is there any way we could lower the hem a bit more. . . and possible the bust line."
Pansy rolled her eyes. It was Weaselette, of course. Those muggle-loving freaks are here. Could my day get any worse?
"Ginerva Weasley! Your bust is fine as is! It's a wedding, not a bachelorette party," bellowed a voice from the other room. A moment later Molly Weasley appeared at her daughter's side, hands at her hips.
Ginny looked as if she was about to make a rather rude comment about bachelorette parties when she spotted Pansy and, obviously, recognized her face beneath the hood. "Hello, Parkinson," the young Weasley greeted in a less than friendly tone.
"You and the other Weasels enjoying your summer?" Pansy snapped.
"Yes, indeed. Are you and your ferret enjoying the holiday?" Ginny retorted.
Pansy's spite fell, and the other young witch must have noticed the foolishness of her words because she pressed her lips together, looking away. So, this is how it will be now—mention of Draco's taboo amongst the do-gooders, too.
Molly Weasley stepped in front of her daughter. "Madam Malkin, I suppose Ginny's formal could use some tweaking."
Malkin nodded, leading Ginny away into the back fitting room. Molly remained behind, staring at the young witch before her. Pansy defensively crossed her arms, sneering at the woman in disapproval.
"What?"
Molly stepped up, seemingly glancing out the curtain that Pansy was studying with so much interest. "There are several people looking for you, Miss Parkinson. I wouldn't have recognized you myself, except your parents have been sending out photographs of you to all the Ministry workers. They're offering quite the reward for your safe return."
Pansy rolled her eyes. "Looking to turn me in? You could probably use a few extra knuts."
"Merlin knows," Molly replied, ignoring the girl's sarcasm. "What their bulletin didn't mention was your situation. Do your parents even know that you're pregnant?"
Her mouth opened and closed as Pansy looked for the right words. She glanced over at the woman in confusion. "How did you know?"
"Oh, you've done a good enough job of hiding it." The older witch shrugged. "However, when one's had as many buns in the oven as I have. . . One becomes intuitive in such matters."
Pansy was quiet a moment. Finally she glanced over. "No one else knows. I'd prefer to keep it that way, unless you really are planning to turn me in to my parents."
"Oh, I'm not one for gossip." Molly smirked. "Not in this case, at least. But, tell me, who's the father?"
"None of your damned business," Pansy shot.
"That's what I thought."
Molly smiled sadly. "You'll have questions, eventually. And, if you're not planning on asking your mother for help, I might be available." She dug into her purse, pulling out a folded card. "If you need to talk, all you have to do is tap this with your wand. It will work for you and only you."
Pansy took the card, opening it. It was a wedding invitation for one Bill Weasley and Fleur Delacour scheduled for the following Saturday. Across the center the words "Pansy Parkinson" suddenly appeared in lavender script.
"No, thank you. I have better things to do," Pansy said, attempting to hand the card back.
"You keep it, dear," Molly said, walking back toward the fitting rooms. "It's yours now. You may decide to use it yet."
When Hell freezes over! Pansy bit her tongue and pocketed the invitation. Like I would ever ask a weasel for help.