It's a curious thing to hate your parents when you look so much like them. Correction: not hate. For Pansy it's more like an active, ever present resentment. The constant disruption of her thoughts. She doesn't know whether to hug her mother or burn their house down.
Pansy has her mother's hair, jet black and flat, her dead green eyes, her sharp pointed features. They have the same voice, starchy and rough. Like anything that comes out of their mouth has an edge to it. Sometimes she calls out someone else and shocks herself with the similarities they have, as if her mother is talking through her. It unnerves her. It calms her too.
From her father, she figures she got her silly stubbornness. The inability to bend according to need, the idea that change perhaps means losing something visceral. And as fate would have it, she is trying to do just that. She is trying to come out of the comfortable shell she had been cocooned in for twenty long years. She wishes her mother could see that. That it hurts her as well.
"I've decided to use this quarter as an extension of our library," her mother tells her as they visit her old room. "I don't see us needing it any longer."
"Alright." Pansy brushes her hand against the soft green wall. "Your wish."
Cynthia narrows her eyes. She always looks the same to Pansy; same hair, same sets of elegant robes, same disappointment. "I am right, then? You aren't coming back home?"
The room looks bigger without all her things. With nothing to reflect on, the light from the open window brightens the whole room like a sun. Pansy decides she will sift through her stuff to find out if there's anything she needs. "I don't know," she answers honestly.
Her mother sighs. It's a coarse and disappointed sound. When she speaks again after several moments, the disdain is laced with her words.
"I have some jewelry to give you. Your grandmother finally decided to divide her will."
Pansy nods silently. She wants to tell her she is sorry for being so stubborn. That she does want to live with her, but doesn't know how to balance between her own expectations and hers.
But then Cynthia switches to her business tone, lifeless, "You should try to look your best tonight. So many people are coming. Your eyes are your best feature. I have a set of earrings that would match them. And do add glamor charm on your nose. It does not look comely."
Pansy wants to tell her, I hate you . She wants to say, I love you. Then, softly, I just want you to believe in me.
The great ball room is lit with soft yellow light, shining on elegantly dressed people. Pansy has known most of them since she could remember, some of them know her for even longer, and it's sort of lovely, blending in. Her dear-bought silk robe doesn't look out of place, her name doesn't feel like something people tend to avoid. When Daphne catches her eyes from the far side of the room and sends an elated smile, Pansy realizes she misses this too. This familiarity.
She stands alone at the bar without a drink in her hand. Since the beginning of the evening, she has had five people inquiring on just where she disappears to, two people wondered what on earth she is doing with her time, and three of her classmates asked her why wasn't she calling them for their usual meet up (and later sex). She smiled politely and told them all that she is just going through a conjuncture.
Truth is, she tried to sleep around for a while, even after taking up the full-time apprenticeship at Mungo's, but even that lost its luster. Not after Potter with his wildfire eyes that looked and looked at her, peeking and peeling at the dusty corner of her mind. Intimacy, that's what they shared… At least to her it was intimacy. And it left a haunting mark on her. Meaningless sex didn't even come close, it made her feel emptier, shallower. So she resorted to doubling her shift at the Mungo's more often than not, living permanently at the muggle apartment where no one she knew could find her, and hoping that it would turn out just fine.
A year later, she's still trying.
She isn't sure if it's better or worse that he's a permanent blot of ink in her daily schedule. If she is compartmentalizing what she feels for him or enhancing them.
So here it goes: they meet. again and again. and against her better judgement, against the soundness of her mind, she begins to expect it. Then wait for it. The moment he gets on the train and his eye instantly find hers because she's always there, on the same seat, at the same tunnel, at the same conjuncture of her mind.
"Your mother said you were looking for me," a familiar, drawling voice says from behind, snapping her from her thoughts. She smiles to herself before turning back to the sharp, polished features of Draco Malfoy. In a modish dark green robe and a general look of disdain, he belongs here too.
"She was absolutely lying. I was in fact, actively trying to not look for you."
"That explains why you're at the bar . " He smirks and turns to the waiter and snaps his fingers. "Whiskey sour."
Pansy narrows her eyes. "I thought you stopped drinking."
"Parkinson, there are nights man needs his sanity, and others when he needs -" he plucks the cup from the counter and sighs dramatically "- this. "
"And where's your sanity tonight?"
"Working. As usual." Draco takes a sip as he eyes her up and down. "You look lovely, Pansy."
Again, the smile comes involuntarily. It's a silly, pointless thing, but she did put a lot of thoughts behind her appearance. Especially today. Especially in front of these people.
"I look the part, then?"
"Which part is it?"
"The fresh faced debutante looking for a rich husband."
"Oh yeah, definitely. In fact -" He looks around at the cluster of people, his grey eyes bright with mischief. "I think I heard this new fish asking about you. Henry Thornton. Owns a Quidditch team. Pureblood passing, a distant branch of the Sacreds. He's sixty and a widower. At this age I can't swear on his virility but I'm sure you can find ways."
Pansy scoffs. "Gosh darn, I think you just found my soulmate."
He has a quiet, beating laugh that vibrates from his chest, not making much of a deal. But his eyes crinkle as he laughs with her, and Pansy sees his swavy, unbothered mask fall as he relaxes for the first time this evening. He orders another drink and offers that one to Pansy.
"You need to loosen up as well," he says.
She wants to tell him about Potter. How he is on his way to integrate himself into her routine. How she is expecting him to. That they held hands once, and that she wants to do it again.
But what she says is, "How's Granger?"
Draco smiles, a rare thing to behold. Rarer still is the softness of his voice. "Granger's good… Granger's overworked, neurotic - and breathtakingly perfect." Pansy looks with wide eyes as his cheeks flush. "I wanted to bring her here tonight, but she said that she didn't want to steal the spotlight from all the homeless werewolves we're helping."
"Understandable." Pansy looks around. Everyone here looks elegant and shiny and like they belong here. And no one gives a shit about the werewolves. "I doubt anyone from Wiltshire would be able to talk about anything else if you and Granger walk into a room together."
He doesn't seem to appreciate the airy humor. "You don't think she's-?"
To lie or not to lie. She looks at his hopeful face, tinged with fear and compromises. "Probably."
She does think Hermione Granger's doubting their relationship. It's longevity. It's uselessness, even. The idea of former death eater Draco Malfoy with Hermione Granger neé war heroine seems too much like a bad romance novel. Something with a dreadful title - Taming the devil or Dark Desires or something similar. Who wouldn't think twice?
"Hmm." He flexes his wrists before straightening up his collar. As he looks ahead, her eyes fall on the ugly blot of the Dark Mark peeking through his cuffs.
Pansy lets the silence sink as they watch the people around them. She sees her mother at the far side of the room, talking to Ursula Burke. She doesn't look at them, but Pansy's sure her mother has seen them. She can almost make out a fleeting smile as Draco taps Pansy on the shoulder to inquire about her drink.
"Where's Blaise?" she asks. She's been meaning to meet this renegade friend of hers, and ask some questions.
"Haven't the slightest idea." He downs another glass. "Why do I feel like everyone's watching us?"
"They are."
She can't help but feel as if there was always a tension against their parents - a sort of us against them playing behind their usual gatherings. Pansy, Draco, Blaise, Daphne were all children of a long line of people who lived a certain way, believed certain philosophies. And they all benefited from this. But now, it seems like there is a turn of the century, after the war their lives are all rotating backwards. Their views don't match with demand for this new rubble, and Pansy knows that with time, money and power will find their way. Because most of the upper rich class didn't support Voldemort, per say, they supported a philosophy that agreed upon their enhancement. And with time there will be others. Not another mass murderer, but certainly, something of that old brotherhood will form again.
But therein lies the problem, now that the veil of superiority has been wrenched away from their children's faces before they were fully immersed, it's hard to put it back on. To see the blood and turn away from the cut. As to their parents, they see that the children are enjoying their lifestyle but not being faithful to it. They see a change, a disturbance, not the usual trust the kids used to have, not the obedience to status quo, and it bothers them. So there are extra sets of rules, invisible ones, rules like plastic threads, barely there, but there. They are extra careful. Watchful.
"Probably looking out for us," she finds herself elucidating. "I mean - after Theo-"
"Yes, of course," he shakes his head in distaste.
"Don't want us all to turn into Theo, do we?"
There is no right answer to this question. Theodore Nott blasted his ear off after he got too drunk on absinthe and tried to remove his Mark. Pansy mentally slaps herself for bringing it up.
But luckily, her friend moves on quickly, almost too quickly. Onto another unpopular subject. "So, how's your job?"
She sighs. "It's steady."
"They still haven't -?"
"No."
"You know I know people who -"
" No."
"No as in you don't know or -"
"I don't need your help."
"Then at least move to some other place. Where they don't -"
"Know my last name?"
He huffs. "Where they don't care ."
"I'm happy where I am."
"Pansy, this is ridiculous. With the effort you give in this place you can do so much better if you just stop being so stubborn."
She rolls her eyes. " Merlin . I already heard an earful from my mother. And now you too? I swear to god if anyone else asks me about my jo-"
"Our favourite healer!" Blaise Zabini's boisterous voice booms too close to her ear. She's been so busy reprimanding Draco that she hadn't heard him creeping.
Draco sniggers and she closes her eyes in resignation. Blaise throws his arm around her shoulder and sweeps her closer, smelling distinctly of something floral with a hint of metal beneath. Pansy guesses what it is and an involuntary sigh leaves her lips.
"How's the Mungo's magical misfortune treating you?"
Draco laughs. "Careful, mate."
Blaise leaves a sloppy kiss on her cheek, laughing as well. "I'm just concerned. If she needs, I know people who -"
"Ugh. Shut up, Blaise." She pushes him slightly. He doesn't budge. "All that's happened this afternoon is that I'm being told the same thing in three different ways."
"Then you should know we're all right," Draco quips.
"I mean, it wouldn't be unfair to anyone else."
"Just tweaking the gods to your favour -" Draco shrugs. "So that the odds are balanced in that dreary, dreary place."
"We're people who have access to special privileges. It's not our fault to utilize them," Blaise adds.
Pansy doesn't reply. She can afford privileges. But it just seems such a double-crossing thing to wish for. Life amongst her peers feels a certain way. It's a soap bubble from the outside world. Bright and holographic. But beyond the bubble, things are so embarrassingly different. When she is at Mungo's she is painfully reminded of her own entitlement, and the audacity of it. How it doesn't make her better, but still does. She doesn't want to mix these things, these special privileges and her dull workplace. She already feels out of place among her co-workers. She would feel downright atrocious if Draco or Blaise had someone call for her.
Her friends pick up on her silence and move on to the next topic. Pansy is there, but not there, she laughs on the moments that require attention and nods when someone asks for her consent on some unimportant opinion.
When Draco excuses himself to talk to one of his colleagues from the ministry, Blaise steels himself in front of her to catch her off guard.
He snaps his fingers. Pansy blinks in surprise.
"What?" he asks.
"You tell me."
" What?"
"Why are you making eyes at me?"
Her cheeks go red. She can almost swear she's radiating heat. "I wasn't." She shouldn't ask him that. It's a horrible idea because this guy is almost as tenacious as a leech. And he would poke her and prod her for answers about something that doesn't even exist.
"You're doing it again."
Fuck. There it goes.
"Why didn't you tell me you sold drugs to Potter?"
To his credit, the idiot looks genuinely baffled. "What? Potter? Umm why - why would I tell you?"
She purses her lips, her cheeks, she imagines are the color of ripe strawberries.
His eyes widen. "Because of - that? But you told me it was a one time thing."
In truth, she did tell him that. But then again, she thought they knew each other better than that.
"It was a one time thing."
"Then why do you care?"
She huffs. "Fuck you. Just tell me, please?"
He taps his fingers on the counter, eyeing her up and down. "You owe me an explanation about all this, Pandora."
The audacity. "I don't owe you anything! You weren't even supposed to know. You were snooping around and -"
"I wasn't snooping around!" He chuckles. "I was passing your room when I saw Mr. Golden Boy getting out of it. So I asked him what he was doing -"
"You knew what he was doing," Pansy internally cringes as she gave him the perfect ground to land his stupid humor on.
"Yeah. You. " He laughs again as if it was such an intelligent comeback. "But you should've seen his face, Pans. I don't even think you could make him that red."
She did make him red. She made him flushed and desperate and -
"What did you give him?"
He narrows his eyes. "Simple hallucinogens. Nothing fancy. And anyway, after a few times his friend Weasley came and told me off. I told him to tell his friend off. It would've gone out of hand if Granger hadn't stepped in." He shrugs. "Anyway, nothing much."
"Nothing much?" Pansy rolls her eyes. "I wonder what will be important enough for you to notice, you dolt."
"I would've mentioned, maybe, probably, if you were easier to find. This is the first time I've seen you in months. Harry Potter is not the stuff I want to talk about right now."
Pansy purses her lips. She doesn't want to agree that he has a point, but he does have a point. And she isn't owed any explanation, she has no right to anything. She and Potter are merely acquaintances as of now. But that didn't stop the uncomfortable knot of air in her chest from tightening when he held her hand the previous night.
She had temporary blisters in her hands from handling Shrivelfigs. She felt her cheeks catch fire as he swooped in her hands in his warm ones, his eyes widening.
"It's nothing," she said quickly, before he asked. "It'll go away in about an hour."
He ran his fingers outlining the ugly splotches. "How's the pain?"
"Minimum. I applied an ointment."
He pursed his lips, his fingers ghosted momentarily over hers before he completely let go. "Be careful," he said hoarsely.
Her hands suddenly felt heavy, with a blister that had nothing to do with poisons. "Of course."
The next day when they met he plucked her hand without any sort of warning, tracing his fingers across the then fading spots. Pansy could swear she felt his hand blistering hot, felt him seeping into her when she returned his soft pressure. Some sort of a silent agreement was made, and he held onto her hands for long, too long, until she felt his fingers spasm in her palm.
He coughed awkwardly before pulling away. "It happens from time to time."
Pansy swallowed a dry breath. "Alright."
He seemed as if he was on the verge of saying something, but he never did. He just looked at her, cheeks flushed, eyes with a soft chaos.
" Pansy ." Blaise snaps his fingers again.
She narrows her eyes. "Stop doing that."
"Answer this one thing then. Are you seeing him again?"
"Not again. " She sighs. "And seeing as in I see him. We… travel together. Sometimes."
"Travel? Like you floo together? Or travel in broomsticks?"
"No. Like, muggle transport. Train."
Pansy hates her own staggering voice, hates the childish, awkward explanation that comes from it. She cringes at her lack of articulation of whatever it is that she and Potter do, and sees all of her confusion reflected back on her friend's muddy, brown eyes. When he finally speaks, nonplussed, it is almost as if she hears herself.
"Pansy, darling. What?"
She cannot answer. And therein lies the trouble, it makes her even more defensive. Pansy counts from three to one, and then straightens her shoulder and says her final word on this topic for good, "It means I do what I want and you've already heard much more than you need to know. And if you breathe a word of this to Draco or my mother I will personally castrate you. OK?"
He rolls his eyes. "You don't need to go visceral on me. I'm just looking out for you."
"Look out with a distance. And don't tell Draco."
Because the only thing worse than having sex with Potter and being deeply, intimately moved is Draco Malfoy making fun of it, which Pansy didn't put past him when she first admitted it to Blaise.
Now it might be different, considering a certain curly haired Gryffindor. But still.
Blaise still looks unsure.
"Look, if something else happens, which it won't, you will be the first person to know. Alright?"
Blaise contemplates this sorely, she can tell from his discomfort and resignation when he finally shakes his head.
"I don't care if you sleep with him, Pandora. I just don't like this look in your eyes."
Pansy dreads his answer even as she asks, "Like what?"
"Like something's at stake for you."
Pansy lied awake in the darkened room, staring at her hand.
It was not as if they hadn't held hands. They had. Even a year ago, he was all about touching. That was one of the parts that stayed. How he always seemed to flex his hands around hers. Like he had to hold onto them.
Pansy wondered, for a moment, if anyone ever dared, she was so used to being the fearful, unapproachable bitch. It wasn't that she had never held hands with anybody, she did. But it was always like a decision, a well-thought out, planned step showcasing moving forward in a relationship. She couldn't hold hands with just about anybody, and he had to have at least checked out six points off of her mother's meticulously curated list. She wondered how many boxes Harry Potter clicked in. Probably all of them, he was the Chosen One after all. But still, the unexpectedness of it was undeniable.
His hands were warm.
There are things about the Chosen One Pansy always assumed but never figured she would have the chance to verify. One of them was that he has a carefully constructed public persona, the million galleons smile he has on when he is out with other people. That and the glamor charm he puts on to hide his true tired face. Pansy now wonders if she will know him enough to call out his bluff. One day.
He has a blundering mess of issues, none of them show when he is talking to people though. Pansy had watched him dutifully flirting with the nurses, and noticed the sly tone he never seems to have with her. She wonders if she should feel jealous of how easily he manipulates people. But she has to admit. She likes the look of it. Even though she knows it's fake, even though she knows that he is mentally counting down sheeps as he compliments the young miss Shelly on her earrings. His eyes shine with mischief and loveable, forgivable recklessness. His laugh has a winning ring to it, and no wonder everyone loves him.
One night he tells her how he does it.
"It just comes naturally."
Pansy snorts.
"Swear to god," he said, chuckling at her. "I don't know exactly when I started doing this, but I open my mouth and hear absolute, utter horseshit come out of it. It's a coping mechanism. When you talk so much, you don't have to think at all."
"Really?"
"Of course. You should try it. Works every time."
" Something was certainly working this morning. I saw Shelly Reynolds swoon."
He leans back to his seat and smirks at her. "Were you jealous?"
Pansy scoffs. "Of course not."
He smiles, his eyes softer now, "I wish you had been."
Pansy can't help being baffled at his audacity. His soft confidence. She can't help the warmth spreading over her neck either. He is thinner than she remembered him, his cheeks hollow and sunken, his skin pale. And even now he looks beautiful. Like a haunted painting, like a demented forest, with his green eyes and the restlessness that has settled there.
She can't help replying, "Try harder the next time."
It's all good when they joke and smile, but sooner or later the shame creeps in. Her own pitiful regrets. The one that screams in her mind - But he's there! Somebody grab him!
She tried to say, multiple times, that she is sorry, that she was a horrible person, that she fears that she still is, but all that comes out of her mouth when they meet is, "How was your day?" and he smiles and she thinks, Shit . He tells her about his day. She tells him about hers. They have the same temperament, it seems. The same humor. It's something she realized from staying away from her family, that she doesn't like not smiling, that being nasty takes effort, and that it did drain her in some god-awful way. That she makes hurtful comments that doesn't even evolve into its full meaning until she spits it out, then it's just cold and irrelevant, and irreversible.
She is finding out that she likes jabs that's a little too self-conscious. She likes to laugh. And, Merlin help her, she likes Harry Potter.