30
Title: Stalking Harry Potter 3/4
Author: Empath Apathique
Note: Thanks to all for the lovely reviews. Here is the third installment in Harry and Pansy's lunch debacle.
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Pansy and Potter were having an awkward moment.
Joy.
At present, Harry Potter was studiously ignoring her, his expression sullen and pouty as he dug into his cottage pie. He was eating very slowly—playing with his food, really—though his fork made the most obnoxious noise as it scraped against the china.
It was the most horrendous sound Pansy had ever heard in her life, and she flinched whenever she heard it, her shoulders hunching and fork going slack in her hand, and she had to restrain herself from snatching the utensil away from Potter and stabbing him to death with it.
Merlin's balls, Potter was such a bleeding baby.
The man absolutely could not deal with the truth. He'd stared at her in complete shock after her comment about his errant dating behavior, and Pansy was pretty sure he would've simply continued to stare at her in silence if Boobie Ruby hadn't come along to bring their meals.
He'd mumbled a polite thanks to the blonde when she'd set down his food, waving her off when she asked if he'd like something else in a completely un-Potter-like way. Boobie Ruby had noticed, and she'd turned and glared at Pansy as if to blame her for Potter's sudden change. And Pansy was to blame for it, however she hadn't been about to let a woman she referred to as 'Boobie Ruby' involve herself in their conflict. She'd glared right back at the blonde and shooed the woman away.
Nearly ten minutes had passed in silence. The sole tomato and mozzarella appetizer lay untouched between them.
While Pansy thought that Potter was behaving like a child and was of the mind to let him sit there and sulk for the entirety of the meal, watching him sullenly pick the carrots from his dish struck a cord in her somewhere. It was like watching a two-year-old tear up and cry after a reprimanding; one wanted to be firm, but the scene was just so bloody heartbreaking that one had to give in and cuddle the tot.
Only, Potter wasn't a tot, and watching him sulk wasn't exactly heartbreaking. However, it was annoying enough to kill her appetite, and she threw down her fork and glared at the man huffily, waiting for him to look at her. He didn't.
"Potter."
His fork scraped his plate.
"Potter."
He pushed aside his peas.
"Harry."
He glowered at her. "What?"
Pansy rolled her eyes. "Merlin, must you behave like such a child?"
"I don't know, Pansy," he quipped. "Is it exactly childish to show that you're hurt when someone has just trampled all over your feelings?"
"Trampled over your feelings?" she repeated. Merlin, did the man have a flair for melodrama. "I was stating a fact," she said.
"Facts hurt!"
"What would you like me to do about that? Pretend like it isn't true to spare your precious feelings?"
"I've never asked you to pretend, Pansy—"
"Oh, bollocks, Potter!" She paused, staring at him angrily. The conversation took a dramatic turn with a single word—'pretend'—and she couldn't stop the words that next left her lips. "Our whole bleeding relationship exists because you asked me to pretend. Pretend that there wasn't a war or Voldemort, or that I being held prisoner by a man who was out of his bloody mind." She glowered at him, leaning forward as she glared. "And I pretended for you, as if it was the only way that I could survive!"
"You don't think I was pretending too?"
"Of course you were. You were pretending you didn't have a girl waiting for you at home!"
He shook his head, and it was almost as if he were trying to shake her words away. "Why does it always come back to that?"
"Why shouldn't it? You have a girlfriend, Potter! You've always had a girlfriend!"
He looked down at his unfinished meal. "Things between Ginny and I were complicated then," he said.
"It's complicated, it's complicated," she repeated angrily. "You've said that already, Potter!"
He looked at her, confused. "What are you talking about?"
She rolled her eyes again, annoyed with his stupidity and memory and just everything. "When I asked you about the future Mrs. Potter before," she said, "you told me that things between you and sweet Ginny Weasley were complicated."
He blushed a furious shade of red, his cheeks rivaling the color of the tomato. "I wasn't talking about—"
She cut him off before he could continue. "Save it," she snapped. "It's always complicated!"
He shook his head. "You're not listening," he said.
"No, you're not." They were both silent for a moment. "Regardless of how 'complicated' things were between you and your girl during the war," she said lowly, "I certainly don't think you made the situation between you and carrot-top better by flying over to the manor and getting in a snog with me before you went back home to her."
His temper flared at the implication, and Potter glared at her once again. "I never left the manor and went to Ginny. Ever."
"And I'm to believe you?"
He looked at her insistently. "You have to."
"I don't take orders from you or anyone else," she said derisively.
The insistent look didn't leave his eyes. "I wouldn't do that to you, Pansy."
"And your words are empty, Harry Potter."
He looked down again. "You know how I feel about you," he said softly.
"Oh, piss off." She tried to continue with her feigned nonchalance, however the soft, anguished tone of his voice brought her back to the stolen moments they'd shared together during the war, a time she clung to in her dreams but was now so viciously bashing.
He'd sounded like this before, one night so very long ago. She hadn't expected him, as it'd been a Tuesday, and he'd made a point to never visit so close to her weekly tea with Lucius. However, this night he had, ignoring his usual behavior and flying right in through her open window. Instead of waking her, he'd sat in the chair beside her bed, and he had spent more than an hour staring down into her face as she'd slept. His hand on her skin had been what had awoken her from her sleep, and even though Pansy had been frightened at his unexpected presence in her room, her heart had welcomed him. They'd already kissed once, twice, and even though she'd told him never again, she could deny him nothing when he'd looked at her, green eyes shining with an unnatural pained light. His voice had been soft, sorrowful—just as it was now—and when he'd asked her to pretend, she hadn't needed any words to tell him that she would. She'd gone to him, only a thin gown covering her form as she stood before him. She'd stepped between his legs and had wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pulling him to her as he'd buried his face in her chest and cried.
She'd find out later that Neville Longbottom had died, jumping in front of Potter and taking the Killing Curse Voldemort had aimed at the distracted man's back. And Pansy had decided then and there that she'd never deny this man the comfort of her arms for the rest of her life.
But things were different now. They no longer had the stress of the war and the sorrow it brought to force them together. Even if things had been complicated between Potter and his girl when this thing with Pansy began, she knew for a fact that they weren't nearly as complicated now.
"Pansy."
She shook her head, keeping her eyes focused on the table.
Potter reached for her hand. Pansy slapped his away as soon as she felt the heat of his skin against hers, however he was insistent, and quickly snatched her hand and held it in his, his large fingers encasing her own.
"Pansy," he started.
"Piss off!" She lifted her eyes to stare into his, her blue irises reflecting anger off their glassy surfaces.
She didn't want to have anything to do with Harry Potter. And it was so heartbreaking, because he didn't need her to have anything to do with him anymore, either. He and Ginny Weasley had patched things up right fine, and the thought alone made Pansy's heart clench into an anguished little ball pain.
Pansy had learned of Potter and Ginny Weasley's reconciliation at the Order of Merlin ceremony—the even she'd viewed as her chance to tell Potter how she truly felt about him since he'd walked out of her room in St. Mungo's for the final time. She'd taken a trip to Paris for shoes and a dress—had gotten her hair styled in Milan by a Muggle who usually demanded his patrons make appointments six months in advance. But she had to look good, because she was going to tell Potter everything, and she could even swallow the bitterness at seeing Granger receive an award they both equally deserved.
She'd known it wouldn't be easy, as she was looking for Harry Potter and he'd just received another award and everyone had wanted to shake the bloody man's hand. The venue was large, and she'd found herself pushing through small crowds left and right. However, not twenty minutes after Pansy's search had begun, it had ended, and she'd stood in shocked silence as Draco Malfoy had stepped onto the stage—dragging his blushing girlfriend up there with him—as he'd dropped to one knee and had proposed to her right then and there.
It had been a touching display—if you were in to all that rubbish—and there'd been quite a few teary-eyed witches in the audience. But Pansy had far too much history with both Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger to feel anything towards their engagement but a tightening in her chest.
Daphne, who had miraculously appeared at her side after the proposal, had looked at Pansy's face and had started spouting off about the liver pâté and indigestion. She'd told Pansy to sit, go home and lie down. Pansy had grunted and told her annoyingly doting friend that she would sit, right after she gave her congratulations to the couple of the night. She'd sighed, momentarily forgetting her search for Potter as she'd made her way over to the newly engaged pair.
She hadn't wanted to congratulate them, not really. They'd been so happy at that moment—glowingly so—and Pansy had had a hard time quelling her jealousy. She had kind of wanted to tell them to take their happiness and shove it somewhere where she couldn't see its holy glow. All she could think of was how much time she'd spent with Granger over the past two years; Granger adored Draco, and she was pretty bloody sure she was every sodding thing his dreams were made of. And she'd been right; Draco had proposed, after all. But even though she and Hermione had become friends, Pansy hadn't exactly felt like walking over there and congratulating Granger for snagging a man who, once upon a time, had been intended for Pansy.
But Pansy's ties with both Granger and her groom-to-be went deep, Pansy having been in love with Draco for most of her life and ending up locked away with Hermione Granger for two years because of it. Even if she'd had the balls to skip out on the whole debacle, she'd probably receive a howler from Granger demanding to know where the hell she'd gone before the night was over. There would undoubtedly be a bit in there with Granger yelling that friends don't leave a party after a friend just got engaged, and Pansy liked to avoid Granger's rants as much as she could. Especially when said rant was about their friendship. Meh.
Unfortunately, it seemed as if the whole freaking party had surrounded the couple to wish them well. After ten whole minutes of waiting, all Pansy had been able to think was that it had better be some goddamn ring. If it wasn't, Pansy had been ready to ring Draco's neck for proposing when she'd been around, and making her stand in line to shake his bloody hand.
Indigestion, Daphne had said. Pansy had felt like barfing.
By the time she'd managed to get next to them, both Draco and Granger had been deeply entrenched in conversation with people she hadn't known. The fact had annoyed her, however Pansy had taken the opportunity to inspect Granger's ring. Gold band, moon-sized yellow diamond; it was a family heirloom, the first ring all Malfoy men gave their brides. Pansy had been able to tell that the ring was a little gaudy for Granger's taste, but Granger loved Draco, and she'd wear it for the sake of tradition.
She'd been struck by the thought that Draco's perception of tradition was a bit skewed. After all, he'd given the traditional ring to the non-traditional girl. Heck, Granger wasn't even non-traditional; Ginny Weasley would've been non-traditional. Granger was just wrong. But what did traditional really stand for these days, anyway? Wizarding Britain was tiny, and most pureblooded families already had an inbreeding problem; another generation of the mess and all their kids would be born squibs. No one wanted that. It was best to mix it up with a little Muggle blood, and who had better Muggle stuff than Hermione Granger? Yes, love had had something to do with Draco's decision as well, but Pansy hadn't wanted to think about that while she stood there, staring down at a gorgeous ring that she had really, really, really wanted to be hers. She hadn't wanted it anymore—she was kinda sorta over Draco, remember?—but she had wanted it, way back when during a time she hadn't wanted to remember but could anyway, and it had hurt to see the ring on her best friend's finger.
Granger had pulled herself out of the conversation when she'd noticed Pansy at her side, and as soon as she was telling her unknown companion that she'd be sure to contact her if she needed help with wedding preparations, Potter had suddenly appeared. He'd been dressed finely in expensive black dress robes that had complimented his form nicely, and Pansy's mouth had gone completely dry to see him so dressed-up up close. Not to mention the fact that she'd been searching the damn room to tell him just how much liked him—and three little words pretty much said it all. She'd found herself completely unable to speak.
Potter had been standing off to the side, facing Draco. It was a position that left him completely unaware of Pansy's presence. She'd planned to rectify that, a happy smile on her lips as she'd extended her hand to tap the man on his shoulder when a flash of red appeared at his side. Ginny Weasley had completely launched herself at Potter; she'd wrapped her arms around his waist, looking up at him and giggling as he'd said something that Pansy hadn't been able to hear. He'd wrapped his arms around her as well, his fingers playing in her glossy red curls as he'd resumed his conversation with Draco.
"Pansy…" Granger had said, and Pansy had looked at her, eyes wide with shock. It had been the first time she'd realized that Granger knew about she and Potter, had always known. Before Granger had been able to say anything else, Ginny Weasley had insinuated herself into their bubble as well, pulling the newly engaged woman into an unexpected hug and crooning, "Oh, 'Mione, you're so lucky!" to her longtime friend.
Pansy hadn't been able to take the shock of seeing Ginny Weasley attached to Potter's arm. She'd been two seconds away from telling the man that he was the cream in her coffee only to realize that she could never be the cream in his, because he already had something in his coffee: Ginny Weasley. Pansy had likened the broad to something icky like half-and-half—or skim—and had told herself that Potter was missing out, because Girl Weasley could never be something as decadent as her.
But it had hurt. Seeing Ginny Weasley on Potter's arm had hurt so badly she'd clutched at her chest to make the pain go away. Granger had been snatched away by fucking Ginny and there had been no one—not even Daphne—around to take note of Pansy's pain. She'd stood there, hand on her chest and cheeks ashen from shock for nearly a minute before she'd wrenched herself away from the situation and left the auditorium entirely. She'd stumbled down the front stairs in her heels, kicking them off when they'd become too much of a bother and continuing in her stockings.
The scene of Ginny Weasley launching herself against Potter's side and him welcoming her with open arms—literally—had replayed in Pansy's mind like a bad dream, and she'd found herself wondering why she'd been there, with him, and behaving as if nothing had changed at all.
Because things had to have changed, because Pansy had gotten involved and she fucking loved him and she'd been so sure that he'd loved her too; how could things be the same after that?
And yeah, she'd known that he'd had a girlfriend then. But it hadn't seemed like too pressing of an issue when she hadn't even been allowed to venture out doors, let alone see anyone besides Potter, Granger, and the madman who had locked her up. Ginny Weasley had merely been a bad thought back then. She hadn't existed in their world of letters and late night visits and ravishings against her bedroom wall. She hadn't existed in Malfoy Manor—their world—at all.
And Pansy had realized something very important then: Ginny Weasley may not have existed inside their world at Malfoy Manor; however, Pansy did not exist inside their world now. And their world—the Ginny-and-Potter-are-in-love world—had been the real world, leaving Pansy in some strange place she hadn't recognized, alone.
Draco's proposal and Pansy's realization about Ginny and Potter's relationship amounted to a major double whammy, and Pansy had gone straight home and climbed into bed, not even bothering to take off her party dress. She'd curled herself into a tight ball, pulled the covers over her head and tried to tell herself that none of this hurt at all.
She looked at him now, and she couldn't even find it within her to care that the stupid wanker could see that her eyes were full of tears. "You didn't have to do that to me," she said, her voice low and heavy with unshed tears.
"Pansy, I've done nothing to you!"
She let out a choked, sardonic laugh. "I suppose you didn't," she said. "You only ever promised me was to get me away from Lucius Malfoy. You've been done with me for awhile."
"No," he told her, shaking his head vehemently. "I'm not—"
"I saw you, you know," she said quickly, cutting him off before he could continue. "At the Order of Merlin ceremony. I saw you with your girlfriend." He was looking down at the table, almost guiltily, and Pansy smiled sadly to herself, feeling the first of her tears begin to fall.
"I've been following you," she said, forcing false cheer into her voice as she pushed her tears away. "I'd heard you were going to be in Diagon Alley today—from Granger—and I came."
A voice in her head yelled at her to stop, to shut her mouth and stop talking before she told him everything and left herself in a worse situation than she was already in. She'd already embarrassed herself enough with this whole debacle. She'd seen the way he'd looked after she'd told him she'd seen him and Girl Weasley together. She had no business telling him that she'd been following him as well. She was supposed to be done with this man, not digging herself deeper into a hole with him. At this rate, it'd be impossible to dig herself out of this; she'd never be able to have a normal relationship with a man again.
She looked down at their joined hands, then gently tugged on hers to pull away.
"Pansy—"
"Please," she said, her voice nearly breaking.
Startled, likely by the foreign emotions she was exhibiting, he released her.
Pansy brought her hand to her chest, wrapping the fingers of her other hand around it as if to cradle it. "I've been asking everyone about you, trying to find out what you're up to and where you've moved and—" A thought struck her then, and she stopped abruptly, raising her eyes to stare straight into his. "Why did you come see me?"
He seemed confused by the sudden shift, and could only mumble, "What?" in response.
His confusion grated on her already frayed nerves and she glared at him. "Two weeks ago—a Sunday." She leaned forward in her seat, a stubborn set to her lips. "Why did you come see me?"
He looked reluctant, torn, and she could tell he didn't want to answer her question.
"Why?" she asked again. "I know you were there, and I know you waited." He still didn't respond, and Pansy was struck with how utterly unfair it all was, for Potter to have all the answers. She was floundering, searching for answers he wouldn't give. She realized then that she might not like the answers he had to give, and Potter, ever the considerate fucking sweetheart, probably wanted to spare her fragile female heart.
And to hell with that. Pansy didn't need anyone deciding what she need or need not hear in an effort to protect her stupid heart. The bloody mess had already been trampled on after watching the display between Potter and his girlfriend at the awards ceremony; she doubted anything else could make it hurt worse than it already was.
She kept her eyes focused on her plate, unsure if she'd be able to stay calm if she looked into his face. "Stop bullshitting me," she said. "You had something to say to me. You wouldn't have taken the trouble of discovering that I was staying in Brighton if you hadn't. You came three times the week before—"
"And you weren't home!" he intruded, green eyes bright with anger. "I figured it wasn't meant to be if—"
"You figured nothing!" she shouted. "You came back that Sunday!"
His anger left as quickly as it came. "I had to tell you," he said softly. "I had to."
She could feel her anxiety begin to build, something desperate and afraid clawing at her gut. She recalled her previous thought, that she wouldn't like what he had to say at all, and a part of her wanted to get up and leave before he said anything. But was having a non-aching heart truly worth the piece of mind the truth would afford her? Could she honestly just leave and pretend that they'd never done this—that she'd never gotten so close to discovering exactly what she wanted to know—and had simply walked away?
Pansy Parkinson was many things, but a coward was not one of them. She utterly refused to follow the typical human route and clam up, covering her ears and blocking out his words because she was a pussy who couldn't handle the truth. A part of her—the same part of her that was telling her to run away—shouted that she was a pussy and she couldn't handle the truth, because the truth hurt and she was a girl and was going to cry.
Pansy didn't listen. Instead, she stepped closer to the edge. She looked down one last time, and then, no regrets whatsoever, she jumped.
"What did you want to say?"
Potter looked at her, and it was as if he was working with that voice in her head, because his eyes kept asking her if she really wanted to know. The same reluctance from before had returned; however, no one could ever accuse Potter of being a pussy, either, and he took a deep breath, looked her square in the eye, and answered her question. "I moved into the Burrow."
Something in her died.
Years later, when she wasn't quite so young and bitter and spent the mornings picking the gray out of her hair, she'd still remember this moment as the most agonizing experience of her life, the crushing pain ripping straight through her as it squeezed her broken little heart for all it was worth. The poor muscle couldn't take much more of this torment, and Pansy found herself with one hand pressed against her chest in an effort to stop the pain. She could feel its tortured beats against her palm and in her fingers and everywhere on her skin, the anguished thumps pounding in her ears as if it were someone incessantly banging on a door. Vaguely, she realized that her chest was heaving, that she was probably hyperventilating and should probably chill out, but she couldn't. He'd moved into the Burrow, with Ginny Weasley, and fuck that, the whole family still lived there. She lived there, and now he was living. With her.
And she should've listened to the bloody voice in her head, because it had been right—so fucking right. And now she so wished she didn't know. Morgana fucking Le Fay could call her a pussy for all she cared, because at least if she'd been a pussy she could've run away and not have heard the shit that had just left Potter's lips.
She realized then that he was talking, his lips moving rapidly as he undoubtedly attempted to explain when he'd moved in and how it had happened and why Pansy shouldn't be upset because Ginny Weasley was his fucking girlfriend.
She didn't know what he was really saying. She wasn't listening.
But Ginny Weasley was his girlfriend. And she'd been thinking it all day, but it was at that moment that it truly hit her, so hard she felt as if she could fall out her seat with the force of the realization. Ginny Weasley was his girlfriend. Ginny Weasley would always be his girlfriend. He'd never seen the possibility of a them at all.
And this shouldn't have hurt so badly, because she'd been thinking this shit all goddamn day. Hell, the reason why she spent ten minutes every morning for the past three months telling herself how much she didn't like Harry Potter had been because she'd realized this three months ago, at the awards ceremony. But somehow it was kind of different now, seeing him look her in the face and tell her that he'd moved into the Burrow and had probably asked Ginny's father for her hand, and sweet Merlin, he was going to marry the broad.
It was so easy to joke about it, to think about it in the nonchalant way she had for the past three months and it not really hit her, because it hadn't been in front of her face then and Pansy had the bad habit of ignoring things that weren't in her face. But now it was, and it fucking hurt, because Harry Potter was going to marry Ginny Weasley even though he'd spent the last years of the war sucking on Pansy's lips. Because she'd simply been something to do the entire time. Stress relief and all that. The warm and willing body Lucius had intended for Draco when he returned home. Only Potter hadn't taken it that far. Because he had morals and that redheaded slut at home to take care of his 'masculine proclivities' for him.
Pansy stood up then, wobbling a bit on her heels from the suddenness of the action. Potter stood too, his eyes wide and expressing something Pansy didn't have the inclination to decipher because it hurt too bad to think about what was held in those eyes. Because she used to think that they'd held some kind of emotion for her, and maybe they had, but Potter had moved in with Ginny Weasley, and everything she'd thought didn't mean a thing.
"I'm leaving," she said. Her voice was hoarse and low, and it wasn't until then that she realized tears were streaming down her cheeks.
She stepped around the table and Potter followed her, grabbing her arm and forcing her to look at him. "You're not listening to me, Pansy," he said forcefully. "Let me explain."
"You don't have to," she told him. "Let me go. I'm going."
He sighed, frustration emanating from his form. "Just listen," he said. "I moved into the Burrow two weeks ago, the last time I stopped by."
"You came to tell me, I know." She tried to wrench her arm away from him. "I'm done, Potter. Let me go."
"Not until you listen to me," he insisted.
She shook her head. "I don't need to."
"But you don't understand—"
"There's nothing for me to understand," she snapped. "You moved in with her. You came to tell me. We're done." She stared into his eyes, feeling something violent and angry stir within her. "You've got some nerve, Potter, coming to see me for that. I already knew we were done." She managed to pull away then, and she took a few steps away from him lest he try to grab for her again. "But it's okay, Harry," she said. "I was the stupid one. I believed that all the rubbish that transpired between us during the war would stand for something now." She gave a short, scathing laugh. "Silly me."
Pansy picked up her purse, clinging to it as she clung to the righteous anger rising inside of her, doing everything in her power to make sure she was angry and that she stayed angry. If she didn't, that agonizing pain would creep up on her again, and Pansy wanted to be alone with a decanter of Firewhiskey before so she could cry her eyes out in sweet drunken peace.
Potter ran a hand through his dark hair in frustration, making it even messier than it'd been before. "Why won't you listen to me, Pansy?"
"Because I don't have to," she said. "There is nothing you have to say to me that I want to listen to, and I refuse to stand here and allow you to waste anymore of my time."
"I can't believe you," he said, looking at her as if she was some alien creature he hadn't seen in all his life. "You accuse me of giving no value to what we have, and yet you're the one who walks away from me when I try to explain myself. You're the one that doesn't care about it!" he shouted.
"Stop speaking about it as if you do!"
"I do care," he argued. "Nothing has changed for me."
She looked at him, aghast. "You filthy tosser!" she exclaimed. "Do you think you can have your cake and eat it too?"
"What the bloody hell are talking about now?"
Her vibrant eyes narrowed into accusing little slits. "I will not be the warm and willing body for you to go to whenever you please, Potter," she told him. "Tell me, does your girl know you're such a cad?"
He threw his hands in the air in frustration. "What's wrong with you?" he shouted. "Why in Merlin's name won't you listen?"
"You're what's wrong with me," she said. "And you want to know something? I went to the awards ceremony only to see you. I'd let you walk out of my room at St. Mungo's without telling you how I felt, and I'd gone to the stupid ceremony to make things right." She could feel vestiges of that familiar pain scrape at her heart again, however Pansy remained firm, steady, continuing to stare into his eyes even when her own filled with tears. "I'd spent so long looking for you there, and when I saw you talking with Draco, I felt so lucky, because I knew that was my chance. I was only two seconds shy of tapping you on the arm and pulling you away when your girlfriend showed up and sank her claws into you and—" One, then two tears fell from her eyes. "And I knew. I mean, who wouldn't? What's the point of saying 'I love you' to a man who has another woman wrapped around him like that?"
"Pansy," he whispered, and she could've sworn his voice sounded as pained and broken as she felt.
She shook her head, blinking away her tears. "I'm sorry, Potter. I knew you and Ginny Weasley were hitting it off again and I still started following you, some godforsaken part of me that didn't get it expecting something from you that I knew deep down you'd never give. I'm sorry," she said. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry," he told her, his eyes a strange mix of relief and anxiety as reached for her again. "It's okay—"
"Don't touch me!" she shouted, knocking his hands away. "Don't talk to me. I'm leaving, and you're going to let me go."
"I can't," he said desperately.
She paused, and then said, "You don't have a choice."
She turned to leave, telling herself to keep going long enough for her to Apparate home before she broke down in tears. She managed to get out of the café before his large hand encased her shoulder and he pulled her back. And she kind of snapped then, because where did he get off, constantly pulling her back and dragging her through the ordeal of looking in his eyes and seeing everything she'd ever wanted but knew she couldn't have because he had a girlfriend looking back at her. She couldn't take looking in his eyes again. Merlin knew she was about to break down as it was, and she refused to dissolve into a sobbing ninny right there in public simply because he couldn't let go. Because to hell with what Harry Potter could do. He had Ginny Weasley hanging on him. It was his fault entirely.
With a fury previously unknown to her coursing through her veins, Pansy rounded on the man, hand raised in the air as she smacked him right across the face, his head snapping to the side with the unexpected force of the action. Her chest was heaving afterwards, and she could see the beginnings of a beautiful purple bruise beginning to blossom on his right cheek.
"Don't touch me," she said, jerking away from him. "Just—just don't."
He was still staring at her, stunned, and Pansy took the opportunity to get away from him, hurrying as fast as her feet would allow her without running. She didn't even bother to take notice of the shocked expression on Boobie Ruby's face; she watched Pansy run out the door before hurrying over to help Mr. Potter and inspect the damage that excitable hussy had done to him.
Pansy found herself rushing through the crowded streets, bumping into witches and wizards left and right as she attempted to put as much distances between her and Potter as possible. She hardly had a clue as to if he'd follow her or not, but Pansy didn't want to think about that. She didn't want to think, really, but it was impossible to leave one's brain in one place while one travelled to another and still remain conscious and alive. And no matter how much Pansy hated her life and herself at that very moment, depression hadn't crept in on her yet, and she had no urges to remove her brain and be dead. Or throw herself in front of the Hogwarts Express, which would be simpler and possibly less painful, and sweet Merlin, why the hell was she thinking about this?
When she realized she'd reached the main street, Pansy slowed her gait, her chest heaving with exertion from her speedy trek. She looked around, finding herself in front of the Apothecary, near The Leaky Cauldron. She wondered if she should leave then, head out of Diagon Alley and go home to have the good cry she'd promised herself. The thought of the empty house in Brighton left Pansy feeling cold, and she wondered if she should return to her family's ancestral home near York and spend some time with her father. It would undoubtedly be a way to escape the loneliness of her empty house, but she hardly felt in the mood to deal with her father's incessant attentions as he tried to make up for all the mistakes he'd made when she was a child.
The silly man seemed to think that he could make up for neglecting her as a tot by smothering her now, and while he was a dear man and truly did try, Pansy wasn't use to having her father spending so much time in her face. She usually saw the man once a week, spending Sunday afternoons with him and having a light supper before she returned home. He'd know something was wrong if she went there today, and the man absolutely wouldn't quit until she told him what was wrong. She'd most certainly gotten her stubbornness from her father, and Pansy had no urge to yell at the man and tell him to 'piss off,' because there was no way in hell that she was telling anyone of what had just transpired between she and Potter. She wished she didn't know herself.
She looked towards The Leaky Cauldron and sighed, turning around and heading down the main street of Diagon Alley for the second time that day. She remembered when she'd first arrived, excited energy burning just beneath her skin. She'd told herself that she was so excited because she was on the cusp of finally discovering what Potter was up to, but, of course, it had been a lie. She had been excited because she was finally going to see him after three months and hell, she was in love with him. It was cause for some excitement.
Pansy's steps halted and she looked down at the cobblestone beneath her feet.
She was in love with him.
Merlin.
It was the first time she'd allowed the thought to freely pass through her mind in months, and it left an odd sensation in her chest, as if a ball was being bounced through the hollow cavity and had given off a dull sound in its wake. It was almost painful, but not quite. It felt almost as if she was permanently stuck watching the singular lackluster moment in a phenomenal play: almost painful in its tedium despite knowing it would get better. Only, you were stuck there in that dull moment. And it was agony, because you knew it could get better, while also knowing that it wouldn't, because you were stuck.
That was what being in love with Potter was like.
Pansy began walking again, passing Quality Quidditch Supplies and the stationary shop as she continued on her way to nowhere. Only being in love with Potter could have such a botched metaphor to describe it, and she could feel that same pain from the café come at her again, eating at her fragile heart like acid and not even bothering to leave its bloody remains.
She thought about going home again, to that decanter of Firewhisky, a box of tissue, and that comfy easy chair in the sunroom, but strangely didn't find the thought comforting at all. Which wasn't odd, because hello, who found getting drunk and crying all by your lonesome to be comforting? She didn't want to be alone, and if she wasn't going home to see her father, she didn't have anywhere to go.
She could always go see Granger, though she knew the woman enjoyed spending her days cuddled up in front of the telly with Draco, and Pansy showing up red-faced and teary-eyed would surely throw a wrench into the routine. And even though she and Granger were friends and the woman would totally do the 'friend' thing and say it was okay and that Pansy could stay and cry and impose for as long as she liked, Pansy didn't feel right intruding on the engaged couple's bliss with her dejection. Besides, seeing two people that goddamn happy nearly twenty-four hours a day wouldn't be good for her in the state she was in; she'd be liable to go and throw herself under that train.
There was Daphne, of course, but Daphne was kind of weird and got far too excited when she had company. She'd start speaking very quickly, and Pansy likened her to the three little chipmunks she'd seen on the telly at Granger's place; she talked that fast. It was kind of annoying when you listened for too long, and Daphne never got it that sometimes she should shut up. Pansy figured it was safer that she stay away from Daphne's place, lest she throw her under that train and be sent to Azkaban for murder.
Pansy passed by Madam Malkin's, stopping when she spied the squat witch through the window, bustling around the shop with a wide smile on her lips as she helped a young customer. She was very unsuspecting, Madam Malkin; she was the kind of woman you didn't mind inviting over for Thursday tea or ask to help you pick out your drapes, and Pansy had thought her a decent witch before she'd escaped from Malfoy Manor. She wondered how a woman who seemed so normal and kind could turn into the vicious creature that Pansy had witnessed, nearly snarling at the girl that she wouldn't serve 'Voldemort's whore' and to leave her shop immediately before she reported her as trespassing.
Across from Madam Malkin's was Florean Fortescue's, another shop owned by a person who allowed their ignorance to feed their prejudiced views. Looking around the main street, she realized there were more shops unwilling to serve her than shops that were, and the thought made her heart clench again. She wasn't wanted in this city. There was no use staying in a place where the majority of the people hated her, and the one person she wanted with all her heart to be close to rejected her for another, stepping on the heart that she'd placed at his feet.
Pansy began walking again, her pace quicker than it'd been before. Her father was right; they needed a change of scenery. India may not exactly be to her tastes but she was sure she could convince her father to relocate the two of them to some place that was. To France or the States, or Australia even—anywhere that they could go to escape the unwarranted stigma attached to the Parkinson name and have an equal opportunity to go into public and do things without being judged.
She'd go, she told herself. She'd get away from England and Potter and the pain in her chest. Flourish & Blotts, Twilfit and Tattings, Magical Menagerie—none of these places welcomed her in their doors. She bumped into an older wizard, looking up at him to apologize for the indiscretion, when he gave her a nasty look and went about his way, muttering something rude beneath his breath that Pansy had been able to hear quite clearly.
She ducked into the next shop on the street, hardly realizing that she was barreling into Reza Boutique.
"Pansy?" a woman questioned, her voice thick with a French accent. Pansy looked up at the short woman, watching as Thérèse Brèton ambled from the back of the jewelry counter before wrapping her arms around her in a tight hug. "Pansy, my love!" she exclaimed. "It has been so long!"
Pansy hugged the woman back mechanically, looking around and finding herself in the high-end jewelry store at the far end of Diagon Alley, just beyond Ollivander's. Thérèse Brèton ran the store with her husband, Alphonse. The couple had emigrated to the UK from Cannes, France, when Pansy's mum and dad were still in school, and had been serving the upper echelon of England's wizarding aristocracy ever since. Her father had purchased her mother's engagement ring from this very shop, and Pansy herself had fond memories of the place. When her father could spare the time, he would bring her here to pick out new charms for her bracelets, and the Brètons would close shop and allow Pansy to choose at her leisure while she ate the provided cheese and meats as her father sipped on champagne. Pansy had received very little attention after her mother's death, causing her to regard the shopping trips with a reverence usually unknown to most children under ten.
Thérèse released her and Pansy looked down at the woman, marveling at the fact that, once upon the time, their roles had been reversed; Thérèse had been taller, patting Pansy on the head and pinching her cheeks as Pansy smiled, staring up into the kindly face of the woman she'd considered a beloved aunt. She hadn't been to the shop in years—since before her incarceration in Malfoy Manor—and she was struck by how at home she felt here. Thérèse smiled at her as she pulled her further into the shop, prattling on about something or another as Pansy looked around at the beautiful pieces on display in the counters. The Brètons were masters of their trade, and their jewelry was regarded as some of the best in the country.
The décor of the shop reflected the supreme quality the Brètons' jewelry was known for; the walls were painted a soft, cream color with expensive pieces of artwork displayed in ornate frames. The floors were mahogany, polished to gleaming perfection, and a large, gilded chandelier hung from the ceiling. A sumptuous display case stood at the far end of the store, displaying some of the Brètons finer works over the years along with other decorative pieces; an opulent clock face with glossy numbers and long curled hands was carved into the top. It read a quarter to.
The boutique was a sea of opulent glamour, and Pansy was reminded of how giddy the thought of being surrounded by the most precious of gemstones used to make her. She'd been young and silly then, and had thought that diamonds were what made the woman. As she'd gotten older, she'd thought that it was the man that made the woman. She'd grown beyond that too; however, even though she vehemently agreed that the man didn't make the woman, she certainly wished she had one. And not just anyone. She wanted Harry Potter.
Pansy felt her heart seize, and it was so unfair—so bloody unfair—that, after everything, she still wanted him, still loved him. She wished there was a button she could push to make her feelings go away. To turn off the stupid longing in her chest and make her feel blessedly numb to things like love and wanting someone who didn't want you. And if she didn't feel love then she wouldn't feel the pain. And Merlin knew that, above all else, she wanted the pain to go away.
"Pensée? Pensée?"
Hearing her name in Thérèse's native tongue snapped Pansy out of her introspection. She looked down at the woman, smiling in apology. "Je suis désolée, tante Thérèse. I'm distracted today."
Thérèse looked at her seriously. "Ma belle, I can tell! The look on your face—I had thought you saw a ghost when you rushed in. Are you running from something, Pensée?"
Pansy opened her mouth, a lie on the tip of her tongue. However, she'd known Thérèse for far to long to bother with a lie that the woman wouldn't believe, and she nodded at her instead. "Oui, tante," she answered honestly, the word 'aunt' slipping from her lips as easy as it had when she was a child. "Something."
"Nothing too frightening, I hope?"
Pansy shook her head. "Just a man," she said, all the while thinking that a man could be the most frightening thing of them all. After all, a man could break your heart.
Thérèse looked at her for a long moment, then smiled at her and said, "Well, mon chouchou, you needn't run here. Alphonse will protect you."
Pansy smiled. "Of course."
Thérèse soon had the boutique empty, ushering the patrons away regardless of if they were planning to make a purchase or simply browsing the display. There were quite a few who expressed their outrage at being treated so dismissively, but Thérèse hardly cared. She and her husband made jewelry for Muggle royalty; their work was so well-known and sought-after that they'd always have business, regardless if a few dismayed English wizards refused to enter the shop again.
"You didn't have to empty the shop for me, tante," Pansy told her. "I don't mean to take up too much of your time."
"Don't be silly, Pensée," she said. "It has been far too long. You will stay until we've properly conversed and caught up. It'll be just like old times!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands together in excitement. "I'll go get the cheese."
Pansy laughed.
"You stay right here, ma belle." She patted the cushion of a lush seat placed in front of a display case. "I will return in just a moment."
Pansy nodded, sitting daintily on the seat as she watched Thérèse hurry away. Something in her had lifted at seeing Thérèse. The woman had always made Pansy feel welcomed in her shop, and she was grateful beyond words that it hadn't changed with the passage of time. The Bretons had never been the type of people who easily bought into the gossip of the times, however the low opinion of her family had become so widespread that Pansy had begun to believe that everyone believed it—even people she'd considered as dear to her as family when she was a girl. She sighed, thinking about how things had changed. She could hear Thérèse shouting at her husband in French from the private office, and a smile lit her face once again. No matter how much some things changed, the Bretons would always be the same.
Pansy reclined in the chair, marveling at how comfortable it was. It was of French design, armless with beautiful floral patterns stitched into the cushions and gilded gold frame. She imagined that most jewelry stores didn't have chairs—and especially not any as extravagant as this—though Reza Boutique was known for having what you couldn't find anywhere else. There was an identical seat next to the one where she sat, and Pansy wondered at it for a moment before looking over into the display case and realizing she was sitting in front of the engagement rings. Mystery solved.
Pansy leaned forward in her seat, looking at the glimmering rings showcased in the counter, wondering how many men had brought their darling ladies here to bejewel their fingers in an expression of eternal love. She'd spent a lot of time staring over this counter when she was a child as well, pointing out the rings her fiancé would buy her with fingers greasy from meat and cheese. Thérèse would laugh good-naturedly throughout, proclaiming what fine choices Pansy made and how she had an eye just as refined as her mother, and was making the woman proud. Because of that, her mother would certainly send her a fine man, one who would bring her to Reza Boutique to pick out her ring. He'd make her the promises every girl wanted to hear—of a beautiful home, lavish gifts, and forever love. Pansy found herself feeling rather cheated, having tried her hand twice at this love rubbish and still coming up short.
She'd viewed Draco as her everything when she was a girl, but she'd later realized that she'd forced herself into loving him rather than finding herself there of her own free will. When she'd been old enough to realize what love and marriage truly was, her father had pointed her in Draco's direction and had said, 'get 'em.' Proverbially speaking, of course, but still; the decision to pursue the young man hadn't been her own.
The union of the Malfoy and Parkinson families would bring about a legendary joining of two of the biggest companies in wizarding Britain. It was good for business—not to mention pedigree; few families had lines as pure—and wealthy—as those of the Malfoys and the Parkinsons, and Pansy's father had been sure to explain to the young girl. Her sole duty in life had been to marry Draco and produce suitable—i.e. male—heirs, and Pansy had buried her claws into the task and gone at it for all she was worth. She'd wanted to be useful to her father, to receive more of the glowing attentions he gave her when she told him of something or another of no consequence in her and Draco's relationship. Draco didn't love her? So what? Not only had Pansy's father been pushing for the union, but Draco's had as well. Back then, Pansy had believed that Lucius Malfoy always got what he wanted and was sure that Draco would have her—whether he liked it or not. She'd simply figured that he'd realize sooner or later that things would go a lot smoother if he loved her, too.
But Draco hadn't been about to throw himself into an indifferent marriage with Pansy for the sake of tradition, and Pansy had found herself floundering, looking for something familiar to hold on to in a playing field that had become completely different than what she'd been used to. She'd stupidly held on to her aspirations of becoming the future Draco Abraxas Malfoy even after he'd dumped her, her 'extended stay' at Malfoy Manor coming about as a result. But being locked up had served its purpose: she'd been cured of the stupidity that had plagued her in her youth, and of the troubling obsession she'd had with marrying the young heir to the home. But, of course, Pansy had picked up an obsession with Harry Potter there as well. And it was fucked, because he was Harry Potter, and she certainly could do without throwing herself at his self-righteous feet, but Pansy was prone to fixations, and Potter just happened to be her latest one.
Her heart thumped noisily with pain, causing a heavy anguish to wash over her form like the tide, ebbing before coming back again, stronger than it'd been before.
She sniffled, feeling the familiar pressure behind her eyes as they began to fill with tears once again. It was time she got out of there, she thought. It'd been lovely seeing Thérèse again, but she needed to get home. She needed to sit herself in a corner and cry. She thought about her original plan of curling up in that comfy chair and crying her eyes out, but decided that Potter had been too big of a thing in her life to cheapen her mourning with such luxury. She'd sit in a corner, and when she got cold she'd have her house-elf bring her the ratty blanket she used to dragged around the house when she was a girl. It smelled of suntan potion and musk, and it'd suit her purposes just fine.
Pansy started to get up, adjusting the strap of her purse as she turned towards the door. The door to the office opened then, and Pansy turned to see Alphonse yelling something about cheese back at Thérèse.
"Oncle Alphonse," she said, hurriedly wiping her tears. "Bonjour."
Alphonse turned, exclaiming, "Pensée!" when he saw her. His accent even thicker than that of his wife, and it was familiar enough to bring a smile to the pained woman's lips. He let the swinging door close, grinning widely as he approached her. "It has been too long!"
"It has," she agreed. He placed a medium-sized velvet jewelry box on the glass counter and embraced her. He ruffled her bangs and kissed her forehead, and Pansy was hit with a wave of nostalgia yet again. "How have you been, oncle?"
"Well, ma bichette, well! Has Thérèse told you?"
Pansy's dark brows rose in question. "Told me what, oncle?"
"About my commission!"
"To hell with your commission, Alphonse!" Thérèse shouted from the other room. "Where is the cheese?"
He shouted back a curse that made Pansy's cheeks color, and she wondered if this was the fate of marriage, to become angry and bitter with one another in old age. She found that she wouldn't mind terribly so to be in Thérèse Brèton's shoes. Only if the opulent jewelry store was included, of course.
Thérèse cursed back at Alphonse quite colorfully, and Alphonse shook his head, muttering under his breath. "Forgive me, ma bichette. You know that woman brings out the worst in me."
Pansy smiled. "I'm sure."
"She goes on and on about the cheese. 'Alphonse,' she says. 'Pensée is here. Pensée is here. We must feed her cheese. Where is the cheese?' And I tell her that there is no cheese, because she fed it to that fat woman." He huffed indignantly. "The woman came and ate it all. The… the Madame Bulstrode." He looked at her conspiratorially. "Pensée, elle est laide comme les sept péchés capitaux."
He'd called Millicent's mother ugly as sin. Pansy, who'd always likened Beulah Bulstrode's appearance to that of a frightened bat, giggled in agreement.
He allowed her a moment to laugh before he spoke again. "Thérèse has told me that you are running from a man," he said conversationally. "I can see it in your eyes—they are red with tears."
Pansy sobered quickly, looking down at her hands to escape Alphonse's probing eyes. "It's not so bad, oncle," she said quietly.
"Nothing you can't handle, right?" He clasped her on the back and laughed. He was a very lighthearted man, prone to melodrama, though never taking anything beyond his jewelry too seriously. Pansy was grateful. "Now," he said, "let me tell you about my commission. Pensée, it is the most detailed work I have ever been asked to make. So beautiful, so intricate—a part of my very heart went into in its creation. It is magic itself!"
Pansy smiled at his dramatics, wondering if the piece was in the velvet box he'd placed on the counter when he'd hugged her. "I take it making it went well?"
"Of course!" he exclaimed. "I am Alphonse Brèton! Everything I make goes well."
Pansy nodded emphatically. "Of course."
"But listen, ma bichette," he said, serious once again. "No man is worth your tears. You are too good—too beautiful. Find a man who won't make you run from him and cry. Because no man is worth it, yes?" He nodded himself. "Except maybe the man who commissioned this piece. He is worth every woman's tears—tears because they cannot have him!" He laughed heartedly.
"May I see?" Pansy asked, smiling good-naturedly. Alphonse always made wonderful jewelry, and while she was used to his dramatics, she'd never seen him quite so proud of himself. The piece had to be something.
"Of course, ma bichette, of course! I used to show you everything, Pensée, remember? And you'd touch my diamonds with your oily hands and send Thérèse into hysterics!"
Pansy frowned. Thérèse had been known to spank her bottom when Pansy got something on the jewelry. It wasn't exactly a fond memory.
"But you are a big girl now, all grown up and crying about men." He smiled. "I am very old."
"Yes," Pansy said diplomatically, "but you are also very wise."
Alphonse laughed again, moving around the counter and picking up the box. "You are just like your mother—you appeal to my sensibilities." He sighed, then looked at the clock. "The man who had me make this was supposed to stop by at noon to pick this up, but he is a busy man and was held up, so you are very lucky, my Pensée, for you're not supposed to see this at all."
Alphonse opened the velvet case, revealing the glimmering bracelet within. Pansy was momentarily blinded by the shine the diamonds gave off, however she recognized it immediately. Seeing the telltale curved boarder and diamond-encrusted petals shaped into abstract crowns made her heart stop completely, and her hands shook as she reached out to touch the familiar piece.
Her bracelet. It was her bracelet.
Just then, the clock above the display case struck the hour, and Pansy looked up to see that it was three. Realizing the time caused something in her mind to click, and Pansy swallowed, feeling as if something had suddenly clogged her throat. The clock's chimes filled the shop as the front door opened. And, Merlin help her, but Harry Potter was standing right there.
Pansy's heart stopped.
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