Introducing... another Slytherin.

And another long chapter! I must have been inspired. Possibly because I really, really like writing about this character even though I never really liked them in the novels.

Enjoy. And thank you for reading, favoriting, following, reviewing.

All I Wanted Was to Survive

Draco had meant it when he had told Potter to keep his wand. The bastard had left it behind deliberately, and they both knew it. He had thought of trying to return it, but he wasn't going to force something that belonged to him on the Boy-Who-Lived. So for a few days he had tried to ignore it, scowling every time his gaze accidentally fell on it. It hadn't moved from its place beside the door; the house-elves knew better than to touch a wizard's wand. And then Draco had picked it up, thinking he would put it away somewhere he wouldn't see it every time he went for a walk on his own grounds. A sudden rush of warmth and familiarity had travelled up his arm, and he had decided to keep it. It wasn't really a decision, more like a concession.

So now he had his wand, and Goyle's besides. Goyle's he kept on top of a chest of drawers in his bedroom, a constant reminder of the Battle, the Fiendfyre, and the two friends he had lost that day. Crabbe had died and Goyle would be locked up for years and years – maybe forever. He felt a pang of guilt, even though he knew it was one of the few things that wasn't his fault. Since Azkaban, rational thoughts evaded him easily and he had to keep himself from sinking into darkness. The main thing that kept him anchored to the real world was that his parents were slowly spiralling down into that darkness, and he was doing everything he could to drag them out of it and keep them here with him.

"Stay with me," he kept repeating, over and over again. "Please, stay with me."

It wasn't that they had gone mad, exactly, but something about them was changed. Gone was their ever-present control. Cracks had fissured the façade they had been hiding behind, and now Draco could see everything. The fear, the pain, the regret. It scared him, seeing his parents like this. They were like entirely different people. He could feel them slowly sliding away from him, his father drawing heavily from his anger and his mother giving in to her sorrow. What did they do with Bella's body? How can she be dead? Where is my sister? What have we done, Draco? Draco, it's so hard to go on... Some days he almost wanted to let them go. Something told him it would be the kindest thing to do. But a bigger part of him screamed that he couldn't, wouldn't survive alone. So he kept pulling them back from that place they retreated to. At the worst of Lucius' anger, Draco could find the words to bring him back. When his mother was so far away she seemed to almost disappear, he knew how to make her real again.

Sometimes.

Hopefully, he could do it this time.

"My sister, my family... my sister..."

"Ssh," Draco said, kneeling beside his mother who was curled up in an armchair. "Ssh, mother, it's all right."

He reached out to touch her arm lightly, increasing the pressure when she didn't react. Tears streaked down Narcissa's face. Across the room, Lucius sat in a high-backed chair, watching on impassively. Draco suppressed the wave of anger that threatened to wash over him. He knew it wasn't his father's fault, not any more than it was Narcissa's.

"Bella is happy where she is," he said soothingly, trying to ignore the weight of his father's cool stare. "It's a lovely place, where she's always wanted to be. She's with your parents now."

His mother looked up at him, her lashes wet. She looked for all the world like a child.

"Really?"

"Really," he confirmed, and leaned in to kiss her on the cheek. "They want you to be happy, too." He stood up, brushing the dust off the front of his robes. "Do you want to read anything, mother?"

She didn't reply, but he left the drawing room for the library anyway, figuring a book would take his mind off things for a while. When he came back with a thick, leather-bound book under his arm, his mother was sitting up in the chair, holding herself very still, staring into space. His heart clenched painfully. He hated it when she was like this. It was as though the Dementors had taken her soul...

She turned to smile at him, a cool smile that failed to reach her eyes. "Draco," she said.

Relief flooded through him and he returned her smile. She was back, for a while. Her composure was back.

"You've got a visitor. The gate just warned us while you were away. She'll be here in a few seconds."

She? Draco thought as he went to the door.

He opened it and waited at the top of the steps, squinting down the drive at the green-robed figure slowly making its way up to the manor. As the silhouette drew closer, he saw it was a young woman with glossy black hair, an even, quick stride, and an easy sway to her hips. Pansy. Of course. Who else could it have been?

He looked at her, wanting to feel something. Affection. Disdain. Something. But nothing came, and Draco only felt cold inside.

She didn't wait to be invited in. She had never needed to. Instead, she brushed past him as she walked in and made her way to the drawing room. He closed the door behind her, then leaned against the wall and watched her intently as she walked away from him. She hadn't changed much over the last few weeks – since the Battle –, but the air around her simmered with fury and her step was fast and determined. He didn't think he had ever seen Pansy be truly angry, or at least not with that anger directed at him. He followed her silently, wondering what this was going to be about. Dread pooled in his stomach. He thought he knew exactly what had made Pansy so angry.

Pansy rang the bell beside the door, calling on the house-elf, and seated herself at a chair around the table as though it were her house and Draco was the guest. That was when Draco realised the extent of her fury. Pansy had always been comfortable at his house, but she would never have pushed the limits of propriety like this before. He said nothing as she ordered Dippy about, asking for a Firewhiskey. By this point, anyone else would have been thrown out, but not Pansy. He owed her that, at least.

"Would you like something?" Pansy offered, almost as an afterthought. As though she could offer him something that belonged to him.

"No," he said tightly.

She shrugged and sent the house-elf on its way.

"So," Pansy said, her tone flat and unfriendly. "How have you been?"

"Well enough. What about you?"

She ignored the question and went straight to the point. "You would, wouldn't you? You got off scot-free."

He'd guessed right, then. That had been what she'd come about.

"Hardly 'scot-free'," he said, even though he knew he was fighting a lost battle. "We had to –"

"Pay a fine, I know," she cut in. "It was all over the papers. You know, when my family was put on trial, we didn't make the headlines."

Her tone was conversational, but her eyes told the real story. He could see blame and confusion there.

"Pansy, it's not –"

"Your mother I could understand," she said. "She's different. I always thought she was just scared, like me. But your father... how could they let him go, Draco? Why does you father get away with the things he's done?"

"I don't know."

He tried to sound convincing, even though he knew that with her, it was a lost cause. She was stubborn as hell. But she didn't cut in, because her Firewhiskey had appeared. She downed it in one gulp.

"It wasn't something we planned," he went on. "I thought we would go back to Azkaban after the trial..." His voice trailed off.

Pansy's expression darkened. "They locked you up right after the Battle, didn't they?"

"Yeah."

"Me, too." She looked down at the table, turning the small, now empty glass over in her hand. "My entire family."

"I'm sorry."

He really was sorry. He had gone through the same thing, the exact same suffering. It was one of the most cruel things he had ever witnessed. Throwing a family into a cell together and watching them go crazy one by one as the ones who clung to sanity saw their loved ones fade away. He didn't know whose idea that had been, but if he ever found out, Draco knew it would almost be a pleasure to kill the guy. Painfully.

Pansy's voice was quiet and strained. "It was... awful. I thought I would go mad. I never knew I'd been so happy until they took it away. And watching my mother..."

Her fingers tightened around her glass until her knuckles went white and Draco thought she would break it.

"I think that was the worst thing anyone has ever done to me."

Draco reached out and silently pried her fingers from the glass, setting it down on the table. She let him cover her hand with his and lace their fingers together, almost like the old times.

"I never..." She seemed to choke on her words. "Draco..."

"I've missed you," he said softly. "And I'm so sorry."

He had liked her, at a time that seemed so far away now. Honestly liked her. She was affectionate and caring and gentle with him, and that had been just what he needed, just what he craved. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he had believed they would eventually end up marrying each other. They had never spoken about it, but Draco had never been able to imagine it any other way. There were worse fates than marrying a friend, and Pansy was the closest thing to a female friend Draco had. She was pure-blooded and a good match, too; her features were even and not entirely unattractive despite the flatness of her face and nose, and Draco had always been fond of her sleek black hair.

Obviously, it wasn't going to happen now.

"Do you remember," Pansy said slowly, "the first time we kissed?"

He did.

"It was in fifth year. It wasn't anything special, but it was special to me. We were in the Common room. You had just learnt that Potter was banned from Quidditch. I expected you to be ecstatic about that, but you looked sort of... let down, as though it wasn't worth fighting if he wasn't your opponent."

That had been exactly how he had felt.

"We were talking, well, I'm not even sure about what. I was trying to get your spirits up, to get you to smile at me. I said something about Ginny Weasley, who was going to play as his replacement, something about the guys finding her pretty..."

"And I said, 'I've seen much prettier.'"

"Yeah." Pansy was quiet for a moment. "It wasn't what you said. I knew you would never agree, anyway, because she was a blood traitor. It was how you said it. You looked at me, and you smiled, and I thought you meant me. So I kissed you."

"I did mean you."

She gave a short laugh. "Of course you did."

Two years ago, or three, Draco may have said something at this moment, something to assure her that she was attractive. Because she was, in her own way; or at least she could be. Her flat, slightly turned-up nose gave her face character and pride; it suited her, because Pansy was tough and arrogant. But now, Draco had nothing to say, no false pretense of romance to maintain – and he doubted Pansy was that concerned about such things as appearances anymore.

"It was always me doing the kissing." Pansy looked down at their intertwined hands. "I was always the one initiating things. But you didn't mind, did you? You liked it. You didn't want to have to chase after a girl. So I... I chased after you."

"You didn't have to chase very far," he said. "I was right there."

"Yeah." A very small smile tugged the corners of her lips upward. "You were, weren't you? It was always so easy with us. I always expected to fall for you. When I did, it wasn't even a surprise. Not to me, and certainly not to you. Was it?"

"No," he admitted. "It wasn't."

"I always thought... not something silly like we were meant to be, but... I thought we would logically end up together." She gave a harsh, self-mocking laugh. "And it didn't even bother me. I kind of liked the thought."

And maybe Draco had, as well. Pansy had been a pillar in an ever-changing world, the one person who he'd thought would always care for him. His parents had been too involved in the war for him to be able to fully trust them, though Salazar knew they loved him. Pansy had been his age, and pure-blood, and in love with him.

He hadn't thought it would hurt so much when that ceased to be true.

"Voldemort, Voldemort, Voldemort, Voldemort, Voldemortvoldemortvoldem –"

"Will you stop it already?" Harry hissed.

"Sorry, mate," Ron said.

He'd been chanting the name underneath his breath for the past minute and a half, as though it could give him some sort of protection against the nerves that were failing him. The frightened, almost ritualistic chant was giving Harry cold sweats; he couldn't listen to Voldemort's name being invoked that way without reacting. The problem was that Ron was nervous, and five minutes ago he'd had a moment of sheer brilliance that had prompted him to say that having faced Voldemort together, they could surely do this. Harry hoped that way of thinking wasn't going to become a habit.

He couldn't fully blame Ron, though. Walking into the Ministry with his Department-issued robes was as awkward as Harry had imagined it would be. He simply couldn't do inconspicuous. It had been in the papers today – not front-page, mercifully, but still there for anyone who cared to look – that today would be his first day in Auror training, and Hermione had warned him people would be staring. Ron, tall and red-headed beside him, wasn't helping matters.

It also didn't help that their trainee robes were maroon, a colour that clashed vibrantly with Ron's hair and had him scowling darkly at anyone who so much as glanced their way. The scowl was obviously not intimidating enough, because Harry could feel a the weight of two dozen gazes resting on his forehead. He struggled against the urge to flatten his hair over his scar. Maybe he would let his hair grow out longer. And get rid of the glasses. And never go out in public again.

Harry kept his head down as they walked over to the lift, which was unfortunately half-full. The four occupants glanced at them uninterestedly, then down at their watches with considerably more interest. Then they all did a double-take, their eyes widening. Harry turned around so his back was to them, facing the closing doors of the lift. He looked to Ron for moral support, but Ron was beginning to look a bit green in the face, which really didn't look good with his robes.

The Auror Office, where they'd been told to report, was on the second floor, which mercifully meant that they didn't have to remain long in the lift and were among the first to rush out. Inside the Department of Magical Law Enforcement – a mouthful that Ron had already taken to shortening to DMLE –, employees seemed considerably busier, hardly even looking up at Harry and Ron as they passed. Harry felt immediately more comfortable, even though a tendril of nervousness was coiling in his belly. Arthur Weasley had given them the instructions to find the Auror Office, so they didn't have to ask for directions. The Office was conspicuously void of any Aurors; instead, a small dozen people around Harry's age were standing in a half-circle, sizing each other up and occasionally looking at their watches. From the tired, pinched faces, Harry surmised they had woken up early and had been waiting for a while.

"Blimey," Ron said, shock toning down the green of his face, "Harry, look, that's Neville."

And it was, and Neville gave them a small wave when he saw them. He looked, quite incredibly, less out of place than Ron; though he was undeniably nervous, he handled it well. Harry was glad to see him if it meant he would have another friend in the Ministry, but he wondered why Neville had chosen to apply. This was the last place he would have expected to find him.

"Harry, Ron!" Neville said with a lopsided grin as they approached, Ron clapping him on the back. "I was wondering when you'd arrive. 'Course I knew you'd be here, everyone knew. How have you been?"

"Fine," Ron said, and almost sounded like he believed it, as though seeing Neville so relaxed had brought his pride rearing in to tone down the anxiety. "But what are you doing here? Didn't you want to go back to Hogwarts? I thought you'd end up doing something with plants or whatever."

Neville shrugged. "I never gave any thought to being an Auror before they sent the offer. It just seemed... right. I can't see myself going back to plants after having seen what I did. Or maybe I just wanted to see whether I could do it." He smiled wryly, a look Harry was not used to seeing on Neville. "My gran is thrilled, of course. Did you know Seamus will be here, too? He tried to trick Dean into accepting – even tried to send an owl in his place – but Dean caught him and Charmed his hair green for a week. Irish colours and all, but Seamus was furious –"

"That's a Slytherin colour," Ron objected, wrinkling his nose.

"I think that's what Dean was aiming for. He's going back to Hogwarts, did you know? Seamus said no way was he going back. He really wanted Dean to join Auror training, but that didn't work out."

Harry remembered Dean had been on the run the previous year, and how Seamus had run over to hug him when he'd seen him on the night of the Final Battle. Before that, he'd hardly ever seen the two best friends apart. A strange ache coiled in the bit of his stomach as he was reminded that Hermione, too, would be returning to Hogwarts.

"Seamus is going to be great to have around," Ron said enthusiastically. "We have Potions classes, don't we? I bet he'll blow up the Ministry his first week here."

Neville gave a laugh that wasn't quite as hearty as it could have been. "I bet I'm paired up with him," he said, sounding nervous for the first time. "We'll definitely make something explode –"

"The instructor won't be anything like Snape," Harry said, trying to be comforting. "I'm sure it'll be fine."

"Snape," Ron repeated, a mixture of scorn and amazement in his tone. "That book of his, though... The git was a better teacher than you thought, wasn't he, though?"

And a better man, thought Harry, but he only shrugged. He wasn't sure how he felt about the dead Potions master. The Pensieve memories had added a new dimension to his personality, but they couldn't eclipse the way Snape had acted all these years. And that he had been in love with Harry's mother... Harry definitely didn't know how he felt about that.

The hairs stood up on the back of his neck and Harry turned around in time to see Kingsley Shacklebolt walk in through the door, dressed in red and flanked by a half-dozen Ministry employees whose dark grey robes and fluid grace made them look like shadows, or spectres. They didn't look anything like Mad-Eye or Tonks, but Harry knew they were Aurors. He heard Ron swallow nervously beside him.

"Good morning," Kingsley said, his eyes travelling over the trainees. His gaze landed for a second on Harry, but did not linger.

The trainees murmured a collective greeting in response. A few inclined their heads, while others looked unsure as to how they were supposed to address a Minister.

"I'm Kingsley Shacklebolt. The Auror Office is a part of the largest and, some might say, most important department in the Ministry. If you successfully pass Auror training – and I am convinced that everyone present has the skill and the determination to succeed – then as Aurors you'll be seeing a lot of me. I expect you to report to me if something seems important. I'm busy, but my office door is always open for Aurors." He nodded to one of the men beside him. "Auror Robards will tell you more about what your training will consist in."

Robards stepped forward. There was silver thread worked into his robes at the shoulders and around his wrists, setting him apart from the others. He was easily the oldest in the group, and a good deal older than Kingsley, with close-cropped white hair and a heavily lined face.

"I'm the Head of the Auror Office," he said, his voice as rough as sandpaper. "That means I'm the one who will supervise your years of training. The one who will hear your instructors' reports. The one who chooses who you'll be partnered with." His thin lips stretched out into a smile. "The one who gets to decide whether you pass training or not."

"The one who sounds almost as full of himself as Percy," Ron muttered.

He seemed to have got past his nerves, and was looking at Robards with an interesting mixture of disgust and grudging respect. Robards' eyes narrowed and he turned his head in their direction, but before he could say anything the door slammed open behind them and Seamus Finnegan rushed in, his face flushed and his breath coming in short, heaving bursts. Harry and the rest of the room turned to stare, and someone laughed.

The bruises on his face were long gone. That was the first thing Harry noticed, and was glad to notice. Beyond that, he was still Seamus – sandy-haired and self-confident, though maybe a little leaner than Harry remembered.

"Mr Finnegan," Kingsley said with a small, furtive smile. "Glad you could join us."

Seamus gave him a wide grin. "Sorry I'm late, Minister. I'm afraid I slept in."

One of the Aurors beside Robards gave an inelegant snort. The only woman in the group raised her eyebrows and focused her attention on the newcomer; Harry got the distinct feeling that she had singled Seamus out for something. Considering she looked like a greyhound, all lean muscles and sharp teeth, he doubted it would be anything good.

Seamus' eyes met his, and the smile slid off his face as they locked gazes. They had never been best friends, but they had shared a dorm for years at Hogwarts. They had had their fair share of bad moments since fourth year – the Triwizard, Seamus doubting that Voldemort had returned, small disagreements about the Quidditch team – and their exchanges had sometimes been downright poisonous. On the other hand, he had fought in the Battle and had been on Harry's side since the end of fifth year. He'd apologised, but their friendship was still awkward at best and he obviously wasn't sure how to act.

Harry offered him a tight smile, and Seamus' eyes lit up as he strode over to them and took a place by Neville's side. He turned his face to Robards, but he kept glancing at Harry out of the corner of his eye. Harry didn't mind, because there was no worship or curiosity in his eyes, only uncertainty. Something personal.

Besides, he was looking right back.

"Well," Robards said smoothly over the tittering of the trainees, who immediately fell silent. "Now that we've established that you're all little better than schoolchildren, I'll proceed to explain how the immaturity will be beaten out of you. There is no room for slackers on the field. There is no room for irresponsible little children. We need Aurors who can obey without question, react quickly, and fight well. You may find yourself in life-threatening situations –"

"Right, because that would be a first for all of us here," Seamus said, and again a ripple of muted laughter ran through the class.

Harry felt a surge of appreciation for Seamus.

"– and should that happen," Robards went on, looking supremely unruffled (although the woman beside him gave Seamus another one of her looks), "we need to know you won't panic. We need people we can trust. When you're an Auror, you're not just responsible for your own life." This was said with a hard look directed at Seamus. "You're responsible for other people's as well. Your partners'. You have to be able to work with any Auror, and work well. Fighting between yourselves, outside of duelling lessons, is not tolerated. Neither is sabotage. From this moment on, each and every one of you is part of a team. If one of you fails, he had better have a damn good reason – because if he doesn't, then you all fail right alongside him. Everyone makes it or no one makes it."

"That's not very fair," said a boy with glasses and a deep frown.

"Everyone or no one," Robards repeated. "You could be partnered with anyone on the field. Anyone who has the qualities required to be an Auror. You're going to learn to set individualism aside. Your pride has no place here. Shelve it away along with your rivalries. Play to your strengths and help each other with your weak points so as to homogenise the group. No one gets left behind."

"What about getting ahead?" asked the same boy.

He had been a Ravenclaw, Harry recalled vaguely. Richard something, but he couldn't remember how old he was.

Robards smiled, but it wasn't kind. "I'd like to see you try."

The boy smiled back just as unpleasantly and looked as though his life's ambition had become to prove Robards wrong.

"Because we want you to be aware of each other's strengths and weaknesses, you'll be partnered with someone different every two weeks for the first few months, after which you will be assigned a permanent partner. That is to say, the person you'll be working with during classes. You may be assigned other people for field exercises. That is my decision to make.

"Marks are collective for you and your partner. This is non-negotiable, so I suggest you learn not to hate each other as quickly as you can."

Robards waited a few beats, but not out of hesitation. It was more like he wanted to give the words time to sink in.

"Training will consist of five main classes, as well as one to three optional classes. You'll be asked to choose these at the end of the week. They aim to complete your training and accentuate your strengths, resulting in a solid yet multi-talented team. Choose wisely. They will be presented to you later today." He nodded at one of the men beside him. "This is Auror Dreandel."

Dreandel was a heavyset man with a spine so straight it hurt to look at. He allowed his gaze to wander over each of the trainees in turn.

"Dreandel teaches Potions and Poisons, a class which requires much precision and dedication."

"I doubt that any of you will have the talent required to brew a flawless poison," Dreandel said in a voice that was clear and loud in the utter silence of the room. "It used to be Auror training was more selective. Though I will pick out and encourage those with any aptitude, I will devote most of my efforts to having you be able to recognise various potions."

Kingsley's eyes narrowed briefly as Dreandel spoke, but in the next instant his expression cleared, and Harry couldn't be sure he'd really seen it.

"Wandless and Wordless lessons will be taught by Auror Gentley," Robards said next.

As he spoke the names of the instructors, they stepped forward and bowed their heads. Harry tried to memorise their faces and names. Gentley, a man with salt and pepper hair and sunken cheeks, nodded his head as silently as the class he taught, clearly not having anything to add.

"Defense and Offense classes will be supervised by Aurors Wickley and Haff."

Wickley and Haff looked like two birds of prey. They both had long dark hair tied back from their faces, sharp, angular features, and deep-set scowls.

"Lessons in Concealment and Disguise, as well as Stealth and Tracking will be given by Auror Sylwen."

Sylwen was the one who kept giving Seamus hard looks. She was a tall, bony witch with gliterring black eyes that rested heavily on Harry as she stepped forward, as though doubting that Harry could ever be stealthy. Or unrecognisable.

To be fair, Harry privately agreed.

He tuned out Robards' voice as he went on explaining, because he was already wondering what the hell he was doing here. The cold Ministry hallways, the looks people kept shooting at him, the unfriendliness of this whole thing – how was it supposed to compare to the familiarity of Hogwarts?

Ron fidgeted nervously beside him, but at least he wasn't muttering Voldemort's name over and over again.

"Did you ever think we would marry, Draco?"

His fingers curled into a loose fist. "Yes," he said cautiously. "I did."

"So did I. I just kind of lived with that feeling. A certainty. I never really imagined it otherwise, and I was content with it." Pansy was silent for a moment. "You were my best friend."

That stung, because if there were two words Draco had never associated with anyone, those two words were best friend. He hadn't considered himself close enough to anyone to consider them a best friend; but, he thought musingly, if he had had a best friend all these years, then the only person it could have been was Pansy, because Pansy he could share things with on a more intellectual, emotional level than with either Goyle or – or Crabbe. And Pansy had fawned over him and loved him no matter what he did or how he treated her, and in the end he'd treated her better than anyone else, just for that. He'd also treated her worse than anyone else.

"I still am your friend. I always will be, Pansy."

She shook her head; her short, sleek black hair moved only slightly. The rejection hurt.

"Do you hate me?"

She let out a small puff of air. "Only because I was in love with you, once."

Draco closed his eyes for a brief moment, remembering all that once was, all that could have been. Maybe they would have married, had pure-blood children, and then grown old and become sick of each other and made each other's lives hell. Maybe he would have been a cheater, maybe Pansy would have watched and known but always stood by him. Or maybe he would have fallen in love with her, too. Maybe they would have been happy.

"At Hogwarts, I remember... all the little things that made me fall for you. You're not a very likeable person, Draco. But I noticed things, and I couldn't stop thinking about them, and I liked you. I remember the way you would kick everyone out of your dorm when you were studying. I always came up just to watch you, and you let me. I remember you being cruel to me, and then apologising. I remember telling you you needed a cut when your hair started to hang in front of your eyes, but I think I actually liked it that way." She reached out with one hand, the one that wasn't in Draco's, and lightly skimmed his hair with it. "You've let yourself go, but... It suits you long."

"No, it needs a cut."

"Maybe just a little bit. It was long enough to frame your jaw in fourth year, when – do you remember the Yule Ball?"

Draco laughed lightly. "Of course I do. I was tactless."

"Who are you going with?"

"You, of course," Draco had said, genuinely surprised by the question. "Who else?" Then he'd realised his mistake. "Unless you already have a date..."

Pansy had jutted her chin out. "Someone asked me already."

"Oh."

"But I said no," she had said.

"Oh."

"I was hoping you would ask."

"I didn't think."

"I think you were pretty sweet, actually," Pansy said.

"Why did you assume we would go together?"

"Because..." Draco had hesitated. "Because I can't think of anyone else I would want to go with."

"You never loved me, did you?"

"It was true, what I told you," he said. "There was no one else I would have gone with if you hadn't been there."

"I was convenient."

"No," he said. "You weren't just 'convenient.' We were... friends."

"Friends," Pansy echoed. "Yes, we were." She inspected her nails, trimmed short and neat. "What about after the Yule Ball? Do you remember that?"

Draco swallowed. "Yes."

"Draco, I love you."

"You never did say it back."

He brought her fingers to his lips, pressing a soft kiss there, putting all the silent apology he could into the gesture. Her eyelids lowered; her voice was little more than a whisper when she spoke.

"I could tell, you know. I always knew exactly what you felt."

A ring glinted on her finger, bulky and manly, too harsh for her slender hand. She caught his gaze and pulled her hand away, the moment broken; she leaned back in her chair, closed off from him.

"It was my father's. He's not really going to need it anymore, is he? He gave it to me after his trial."

Impulsively, Draco slid one of his rings off, a similarly heavy, thick band of platinum with the family crest engraved on it. A Malfoy's ring, given to him for his seventeenth – as though it were a meaningful present, as though the Malfoy name still meant anything. He slid it across the table towards Pansy.

"I'm not going to need this anymore, either."

She stared at it, and then her gaze flickered upwards to meet his, heavy with reproach. "You can't just give this away."

"I don't want it."

Those were the wrong words; Pansy's eyes flashed.

"I'm not a– don't give it to me just to get rid of it. Don't give it to me, unless it means something."

"It means... It means that the Draco Malfoy who would have worn that ring and been proud of it is gone. The Draco Malfoy you knew and, maybe, loved, is gone. That's what it means. That's why I want you to have it. To remember... a friend." All that once was, and all that could have been.

She held his gaze for a moment longer, and then her hand snaked out and her fingers closed around the ring. "Then I'll take it."

"Thank you."

She eyed him oddly. "I'd say you're welcome, but I'm not sure I'm doing you a favour. You would never have given this to me if... if things were still the way they used to be. It's strange, isn't it? How much our lives have changed in just one year. Just one night," she corrected. "Just one night, and everything changed."

The night of the Final Battle. Draco felt his gut clench and struggled to keep his features impassive.

"It all changed," she said again. "For both of us. Except one of us made it through, and the other..."

"We're both here," he said. "We've both made it through."

"That's what you think. My father is in Azkaban, Draco."

"I know." There didn't seem to be anything else to say.

"I should... I could... They put me on trial, too," she said. Tears filled her eyes, but she wouldn't let a single one spill over. She looked away, her jaw set. "I thought I was going to... I thought they would..."

"But they didn't. They didn't, Pansy."

"No," she said, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "They didn't. Because I didn't do anything, did I? I only wanted to survive, even if it was at Potter's expense. All I wanted was to survive. But I never actually broke the law. You did, though."

He set his jaw. "Pansy –"

"You did," Pansy said. "I saw you. You did awful things, Draco, and they didn't even..." Her voice broke. "What about your father? Why is my father in Azkaban while yours is free?

"Why did Potter save you?"

He knew she meant the trials, but his mind immediately jumped to something else. He kept having dreams – no, nightmares. Were they still nightmares if they ended well? Were they even dreams if they were true?

He would be in the Room of Requirement, surrounded by flames and heat and fear, holding on for dear life. And, Salazar, Draco would hate fire forever; he was afraid, he knew he was going to die – and then there was Potter's face, his mouth falling open as he spotted Draco, cheeks flushed from the heat, eyes darting left and right in indecision. Draco stared at him, almost wanting to laugh at the fucking irony of it all – of course Potter would be there to watch him die – and he didn't understand that look in Potter's eyes and fuck, there was no way he was going to die while staring at Potter's eyes. He tore his gaze away, looking down instead, down at the fire that threatened to leap up and devour him, and his eyes snapped up again, meeting Potter's desperately – yes, Potter was that much of a hero and yes, he was that good a flyer, he had to be...

Sometimes he woke up then, breathless, covered in sweat, his heart still pounding. Other times he woke later, when in the dream (because by that point it wasn't a nightmare anymore) his arms were around Potter, his torso pressed to his Saviour's back. He wasn't sure which ending scared him more.

Pansy stood from her chair and leaned forward across the table. "Draco, look at me."

He raised his head to meet her eyes; he knew her next question before she spoke.

"Why did you save him?"

And he looked at her, and he knew the answer, but he couldn't voice it aloud. He could hardly stand to think it.

So, what did you think about Pansy? What I love about her is that she can be anything. We know so little about her - that she's a bit of a bully, and she adores Draco. And she can just be so complex if you want her to be...

In the next chapter, titled Stars, Draco and Harry meet again - because that's what we really want to see. Have a sneak peek - I promise it's coming soon:

Potter didn't offer a thank you. He didn't say anything, just stared at Draco, and Draco knew that there was only one thing he wanted to say: Why?