The impeccably dressed traitor and his shadowy companion strode arm and arm in a land that looked built for them. The monolithic garden shined ethereal and ghostly under the gaze of the moon, the trees rising up with black skeletal hands to obscure the imposing silhouette of Malfoy Manor.

Pansy felt strangely serene in the cold. Draco's sharp smile turned to her every now and then, infinitely relieved that his house was not quite empty during these wintry days.

"Draco!" Pansy suddenly exclaimed, noting that his gaze had grown melancholy. "I had no idea you could do a Patronus."

Her long arm was enveloped in an elegant coat that was so dark it looked like it drunk colour from the world. It pointed at a regal, albino peacock.

"Very droll," Draco replied.

After a flying visit home, where she had deigned to air kiss her Mother goodbye and implored her to take Pellinore's Christmas presents (no doubt, gifts that she would take credit for), Pansy packed a bag and apparated to Malfoy Manor. It was a place where she had spent many a pleasant, if terrified visit. The Malfoys always gave the impression that they were constantly testing you for acceptability, and that no matter how inadvertently (or otherwise) rude they were to you, your manners had to remain unimpeachable. Pansy being a wealthy Slytherin who in her teenage years did have a tendency to simper, was classed as a socially acceptable companion but by no means an equal. Her parents were ambiguous as to their Dark Lord sympathies and for all their social climbing and ambition, had little to offer in terms of politics and power. Edgar Parkinson was a good man to know if you were in legal difficulty and could afford the fee, but was not from the Old Blood. Nor was he particularly intriguing at parties. His wife, of the old pureblood stock, was wonderful in terms of connections and showing everyone a good time… yet was not known to be exactly respectable or trustworthy.

This left Pansy in an interesting position, and often caused her to wonder whether her parents were actually quite wise in terms of their chosen social niche. Pansy was a suitable person to know. Not a main player, nor a grunt. She would never be at the center of political secrets, but she was there. A spider sitting on the best place in a web.

In the midst of the little hedge maze, as a topiary cat pounced along the frozen flower beds, Pansy strangled a laugh. She bet Weasley never thought of himself in such a fashion when relating to his friends. For him it was probably as simple as "Hmm, these people seem nice." How wonderfully straightforward.

"You alright there, Parkinson?" questioned Draco imperiously, looking offended not to be included on the joke and worried that it was about him.

There was slight colour on his pallid cheeks and his frame looked less skeletal- almost bordering on healthy- so unlike the consumptive figure she'd left on the train platform. The work Pansy had organized for him, tinkering with magical gadgets in a Diagon Alley emporioum, seemed to suit him very well though he complained about it endlessly. Apparently the people were bores, the work either trivial or impossible, the clientele frankly common… yet it sounded like the staff found his eccentric ways, faultless manners and skill endearing. Silently, Pansy congratulated herself on a job well done. At least this friend allowed himself to be manipulated into happiness unlike that uncompromising red head.

"Nothing. I had hoped that you were joking about the sentient topiary… But alas..."

"That topiary cost more than your town house."

"How embarrassing for you."

They shared a cold smile, and Pansy looped her arm through his. In the past, he flipped between being graciously gentlemanly with these gestures and scorning them. Relief flooded through her as he accepted her arm.

While they walked along the path, ice crunching beneath their feet like the bones of their enemies, Draco leant across and placed a fleeting kiss on her head. For a moment, it reminded her of the kiss Charlie had placed on her brow as they talked on that mountain, fire and smoke and darkness billowing around them.

"I've missed you, Parkinson," he admitted, grey eyes looking gently into her own.

Annoyance and pleasure warmed her. He had said these things in the past, of course. Sometimes to get something, always when they were alone. She never knew if they were lies or just useful truths. Ambiguity hardened her stomach.

"Obviously," she answered, defenses up.

Pansy was not silly enough to admit to feelings that could hurt her later. Yet she was aware that the smile on her lips betrayed her, and that no amount of withdrawn responding was going to protect her from Draco.

Charlie marched around the Burrow. He had (without magic) cut firewood, cleaned the gutters, de-gnomed the garden, forced his father to accompany him on a seven mile walk to say hello to the nearest neighbours, cleaned all the washing and was now frantically wandering around the garden looking for something, anything, to do.

"Charlie Weasley!" called his Mother.

"Yes, Mum?" he hollered back, contemplating whether the ivy on the house needed trimming or whether he should go and cut down a second Christmas tree.

"Get inside, you'll catch your death of cold. You've done more than enough busy bodying today. Come in and have a cuppa."

He trudged in solemnly, meeting Molly's strict gaze at the doorway. She gave him a peck on the cheek, bustling him into the warmth where she plied him with blankets and mince pies. Charlie had repeatedly told her that after braving the icy temperatures of the Romanian mountains, he found the stuffy warmth of home more than bearable.

"You're such a love to all the odd jobs. With his business, I bet George has completely forgotten how to properly de-gnome a garden. Apparently, he's hired a house elf to do all that. Not that I've seen too much of him recently… at least not this week. I was speaking to Ron the other day when he popped in with Hermione, he said he thought George was seeing a girl."

Charlie bet George would be thanking Ron for that favour later. Probably with his fists. He sipped his tea nonchalantly, trying not to look at the Weasley family clock. Occasionally some of the dials would flick from Work to Travelling to Home. One dial remained still, stuck on Mortal Peril as it would forever. Charlie could not conceive how his parents could live in such unchanging domesticity with that reminder forever on their wall. Fred was always his ghost. He needed no reminder.

"On that topic, is there anyone in your life, Charlie?" his Mother enquired, without even attempting subtlety. "You know I wouldn't ask, but you seem a bit changed from last time. Lighter."

He smiled. For once he was strangely comforted by his Mother's nosiness. If he had Pansy's sharp mind, he was sure he could come up with some witty line about being an eternal bachelor… instead he shrugged.

"No, but we've got a nice group up in Romania at the moment. Luna's there of course, and Professor Scamander… there's a girl called Pansy who took a bit of time to come round to the whole dragon idea, but she loves it now. Practically the first one up to feed the Longhorns in the morning…"

Molly's eyes twinkled knowingly as Charlie told tale after tale of the last few months. He edited slightly, noting when his dragon-related anecdotes made her pale with worry.

At the end of the day, he thrust himself onto his old, patchwork quilt. The room felt very empty and very small without Bill sharing it with him. Molly and Arthur had headed to bed early, and Charlie had done the same. The silence of the house was unbearable without the raucous noise of his siblings or the nattering of wranglers. Staring off, he wondered what Pansy was doing and whether he should have pressed his case about Christmas. The arm he had embraced her with on that cold morning felt empty without her.

There was a lovely nostalgia about returning to the Burrow. But at the same time he found it paralyzing. There was little to do, little to exert himself with. By lunch he knew he would be brain dead with boredom. His siblings and their ever growing list of other halves would not be there for a few days. What he wouldn't give for a challenging conversation with Pansy, or one of her off-colour jokes. He'd even settle for an argument with the way things were going.

In the oppressive dark he thought of her, hoping she was okay, not even daring to wish she were thinking of him.

Pansy contemplated the dresses before her. To her surprise, all the perpetual eating in Romania had done little to her figure due to the continuous movement and exertion. She had never been self-conscious about her figure, not really. It definitely was more… present that some of the stick-thin girls in her year. Her not-so-dear Mama had always made reference to her "big bones"- just another thing that her mother was pleased and disappointed with. However, Pansy was happy with how she looked. Part of it was a natural Parkinson arrogance that assumed that they were the best-looking thing in the room even if they resembled the tail-end of a Thestral. She did not have the classic beauty of Daphne Greengrass, or the impossible looks of Fleur Delacour. Far from it. She was attractive by choice. Her style –ever since those unfortunate days of pink, frilly dress robes- was faultless. And no man in a moment of recklessness had ever told her to put her clothes back on. She fooled everyone into thinking she was attractive with sheer confidence and pigheadedness to the contrary.

She selected a black dress with delicate lace that was almost suggestive in it's conservatism. A bracelet thick with diamonds adorned her wrist, and two emeralds glinted from her ears. She let her hair fall thick and curling in a natural look that had taken an hour to master. All in all, it worked. For a brief moment Pansy missed the easy sweaters and leather boots she would throw on in Romania with half a care to how one looked… until she caught sight of herself in an antique mirror and realized how unconquerably arresting her reflection was. In fact, Pansy could almost convince herself that she suited the intimidating Malfoy Manor with it's gaping fireplaces, tall, thin windows and endless labyrinth of corridors.

She could not imagine being a child growing up here. Although she adored castles (they aided the regal fantasies she entertained), the Manor was something else. It was built to show off and intimidate. Stone snakes slunk over bannisters, wrapped around table legs and were found even on doorknobs. Shadows were unnaturally long in the dim light, and the place was so big it was possible to imagine that you were entirely alone in the endless corridors of silence and painted, moving eyes.

The thought chilled Pansy as the quiet of the house echoed around her. It would be terrible to grow up here. It would be terrible to perpetuate in the quiet when the only thing to contemplate was your past sins and the ghosts of old friends. Heart beating unnaturally, she forced herself to walk calmly down the stairs. Seeing Draco would help. He seemed so at ease in this place, like a coat he could shrug on. She knew it was not entirely the case. It was his Father's house still, and that thought haunted him with all the disappointment and hatred that it connoted.

She decided not to take the main staircase. Tripping on the high steps was less of a likelihood and more of an inevitability. Also, she detested the terribly still paintings on the wall. Pansy was used to paintings moving, flitting from frame to frame to have a gossip or game of cards. The paintings in Draco's house could move, but they much preferred to stay in their own domain, and stare imposingly down at you from up high- much like the current Malfoys. There was a back stairway than was built in a dizzying spiral down the side of the building and led to an alcove right next to the study. From past experience, Pansy knew she could creep round the corner and not be instantly within sight.

Her legs, used to hill walking and striding imperiously on, powered down the stairs before her ears could catch up with her mind. Voices came from the study, and it took Pansy a moment to recognize her own name.

"… We have often discussed the topic of your marriage, Draco," came the voice of Narcissa. Her distinctive tone was unmistakable, vowels rounded and as clear as cut glass.

"Yes, Mother," replied Draco. Pansy could not quite tell whether his voice was uncertain. Her own heart hesitated.

"Our family…" Narcissa was not one to stumble on her words, yet it seemed like she was having trouble deciding which sentence to go down. "Your Father and I married for love."

Pansy leant forward, hardly daring to breath. She should not be listening to this conversation, yet every fiber of her being knew she was not going to leave. In the crack of light from the study door, she saw Draco's back stiffen. His Mother stood before him behind the desk, looking like a Queen or mafia don. Unlike the way her own Mother gazed at her, there was affection in Narcissa's eye when she looked upon Draco. It was the only warm part of her frozen exterior. Pansy had always admired that about Narcissa Malfoy, and had always wanted to emulate it- the cold, hard respectability. It was so different to her own Mother's careless laughs and inconsiderate manner. Pansy was well aware that Narcissa looked down on her, and disliked the shallow association of her Mother and the past rumors of a dalliance with Lucius, but even so she could not help but respect her.

"Our families believed it to be a good match. Similar wealth, breeding, ambitions, respectability… but we did also love each other."

"I'm not sure that did much good."

Pansy felt her hand smother her lips. A gasp had almost escaped. Draco adored Narcissa. Even though his tone was submissive, his words were practically outright rebellion. This was the boy who idolized his parents. Every decision of theirs, no matter how stupid or dangerous, was followed by him to the letter.

"Admittedly, life did not quite work out how we had planned," Narcissa granted, a ghost of an emotion entering her eye. "In the past, we had advised you about your marriage prospects. I would like to re-address a previous judgment. About Pansy."

Draco flinched, but the back of his head revealed no secrets. Pansy's own mind was a mess. She could not even work out what she was thinking.

"She has a suitable background, although her breeding is somewhat in question. However in this climate… she may even be a wise choice in how the Malfoys are perceived."

"I'm so glad." Draco's voice was cold.

"Forgive me, dear one. This is a difficult thing for me to address. The girl has impressed me. In her loyalty to you, in the way she has aided in finding you work. There has been a change in you that I believe it is down to this woman, and for that I am ever in her debt. Beyond the banalities of affection, she also impresses me in her scope. She comes from an ambitious family. In this new age, we may need a bit of new thinking."

Narcissa placed a small, black box before her son. On the impossibly large desk, it looked like a black hole usurping all thought and feeling into what it meant.

"So I'm giving you Ethel Lestrange's wedding ring."

"Ethel Lestrange's cursed wedding ring."

His Mother crossed the desk and approached her son. They turned so that their profiles stood stark, each a mirror of the other.

"Rumor has it you're good at fiddling with that sort of thing," Narcissa replied, raising an amused, imperious brow. She kissed him on the cheek. "You are sure you won't spend Christmas with your Father and I?"

"No, Mother," he replied, looking shaken. "Never."

"I love you, Draco. The ring is yours to do with as you wish. Have a good Christmas."

Pansy knew she had to move. Narcissa was not going to leave before bidding goodbye to her guest, but she could hardly appear from around the corner. She collected herself… and had a foolish but genius idea.

She apparated at the other end of the corridor. The pop of her returning to existence announced her arrival in a polite, cursory manner. Taking a breath, she casually strolled down the thick carpet. Her typical way to manage her terror of Malfoy Manor was to pretend that she was its owner… but that felt to close to heart at this moment. Inelegantly, she poked her head round the corner, noting that Draco had stuffed the ring in his pocket.

"Mrs Malfoy, you look lovely this evening," Pansy noted. Narcissa, naturally, let this compliment wave over her as if someone had just noted that she was breathing. "Draco, you seem as per usual."

"Did you just apparate down here?" Draco asked, his typical sneer slipping to his lips.

"Manners, Draco," said Narcissa.

"Quite right, Mother. Pansy, good evening. You look quite enchanting… Did idleness overcome you and cause you to skip the mere yards it would have taken to walk here?"

"Oh Draco, how adorable. You're trying to insult people the way I do. Mimicry is the height of flattery, but not if you continue to do it quite so badly."

"I think you've met your match, Draco," said Narcissa smoothly. As adept liars none of them made any sign that this was an unusual comment. Draco raised an eyebrow, and Pansy forced an overly enthused smile as if this was the height of praise. "Anyway, I'll bid you goodbye, Pansy. It was lovely seeing you… and I'll pass your respects on to you Mother if I see her."

Narcissa then pecked Pansy on the cheek- a display of affection far above and beyond she had ever displayed before, and strode off without another word.

"So…" began Draco, louche and leaning against the desk. The clean lines of his clothes highlighted his waist and broad shoulders, lengthening him. Pansy was a sucker for good tailoring. "A week of unsupervised debauchery lays before us. Shall we start with the gin?"

"Please."

Dinner was interesting. Though the new house elf over did the meat and boiled the vegetables beyond recognition. Draco and Pansy were abjectly ignoring this culinary disaster. Instead they were both concentrating on being light, almost shallow, in their conversation and drinking so much that they were almost incomprehensible by the end of the starter.

Occasionally, Pansy would stare round the large dining room with its countless windows and inconveniently high ceiling, and thought "This could be mine. Everything the light touches… or doesn't touch. Even the shadowy, scary bits. Mine."

It was a fantasy of her youth. The potential for this to be a possibility made her slightly queasy, and down her red wine even faster.

Red wine. Red hair. Weasley.

Idiot. Why think of that?

Merlin, she was drunk.

The ruby liquid warmed in her hand. It was almost antique, it's bottle covered in dust and cobwebs. It tasted thick and heavy, but not quite as sweet as the cheap mulled wine she had drunk on the mountaintop. The honeyed taste that went with loud music, laughing friends, forehead kisses, and that surreal morning where she had woken stiff and warm next to a body she did not expect. Nothing had happened that night, but what had transpired felt more uncomfortably intimate than sex or kissing or bared skin.

"Pansy," Draco's voice was loud. His eyes were blurred and close to hers. "You're ignoring me-"

"I should ignore you. Idiot."

"…I was about to say that your glass is empty, and that is a problem which I will put all my effort into solving."

"An idiot-genius. An id-enius. Gen-iot."

They wandered down to the wine cellar- a place of Pansy's dreams. Lines and lines of emerald bottles. Descriptions beyond imagination and occasionally pronunciation. She had flicked off her shoes, slipping merrily down the steps, and without thinking took Malfoy's hand in her own. Touching had always been easy for her. His thin, pianist fingers felt so smooth in her own. Hands that had done little but wield a wand, steer a broom and fiddle with gadgets. The bones of his knuckles brushed her skin. They took two bottles each, each probably worth a small fortune in galleons, and giggled their way to the kitchen.

"Where's that house elf?" Draco demanded. "I'm starving!"

"I can cook," Pansy boasted, taking a saber casually from the walls and using it expertly to uncork the wine bottle.

"Yeah, and in his part time Blaise Zabini plays for the Holyhead Harpies dressed as his doppelganger Blair Zabriani." Draco took the bottle from Pansy and drank straight from it. "Though, knowing Blaise…"

"Sit down, you lush," Pansy commanded, a strong hand pushing him down upon a chair from which he promptly slid onto the floor.

She emerged victorious from the pantry holding a sling of sausages aloft. "Ye of little faith, watch as I create a meal fit for kings."

A fraught time later (the ministry should really put laws in place about wand work while inebriated), and they were both munching on delicious, burnt sausage sandwiches.

"I want to be disgusted that you demeaned yourself to cook these," slurred Draco from the floor. "But mostly I'm just thankful. Oh, food. You've never disappointed me. You've never put outrageously high expectations on my shoulders. You've never asked me to murder a well-loved public figure."

"Stop putting so much pressure on the sausage sandwich. And you should really be thanking" Weasley. Stop it, drunk brain. Stop your mad circles back to him. But don't think about Draco and that ring either. That way lies madness. Think about sausage sandwiches. Yum. Not quite as good as Charlie's. How did he manage to get them so- Goddammit. "Me. You should really be thanking me."

"I just did," muttered Draco, his face inelegantly sliding down the table leg. "Attention-grabbing wench."

"Snotty inbred."

"Pug-nosed social climber."

"Dark Lord minion."

Draco's eyes lost their fuzzy look, widened and stared at her. Pansy met his gaze right back. He said the P-word. All bets were off… however the unspeakableness of what she had just said reigned upon them. Her heart beat counted time loudly in her chest.

The silence cracked with laughter.

It could have been tiredness and wine. It could have been that some things are too terrible and too big that there is no choice but to cackle. It was terrible. It was a terrible thing to laugh at. And for some reason that kept them laughing until their eyes watered and they were both slumped on the kitchen floor clutching their stomachs in a most undignified, and un-Slytherin manner.

"You're a horrible person," managed Draco eventually.

"Um, you're the Dark Lord's ex-minion. I remained neutral."

"Oh, forgive me. You're obviously the moral compass the Wizarding World has been missing. By Merlin, Pansy, that was not an okay thing to tease about."

He looked seriously into her eye, trying to convey hurt and betrayal…. And they keeled over in an encore of giggles. In a move that was not as subtle as he thought, Draco slipped his arm around Pansy. Intuitively she curled around him, nestled in the crook of his body, a place she had always thought of as hers. A sickening twist moved in her stomach as she thought of how the wranglers and Luna would have perceived this. Not well. Not well at all. In an awful way, this unforgiveable mirth felt almost okay just to see Draco laugh.

"I've missed you, Pans," Draco said, for the second time that day.

She could not get away from him this time. His breath was on her cheek, and his fingers played gently with her hair. It was just the pair of them, reveling in their own dreadfulness, drunk and happy on the kitchen floor. There was no way she could not say it.

"I've missed you too, Draco. Although I shouldn't have."

He looked troubled and traced the line of her cheekbone, frowning. His thumb briefly kissed her lip before dropping to her chin. They leant into each other, lips inevitably meeting. Two forces drawn together. Draco's lips moved as they always had, knowing her inside and out. She responded in turn, their kiss deep and careful. They broke apart. Too unsure to smile, too affected to speak.

From his pocket he took out the tiny, black box. The clasp was a small snake's head which he flicked open easily with his fingers. Inside was an emerald so dark it looked almost ebony. Like Pansy, it wasn't beautiful but striking. The stone nestled in a clutch of smaller diamonds on a silver band she knew would fit on her finger.

"Your Mother deemed me acceptable," Pansy whispered, voice colourless. She was unable to look at Draco. Whether this was a dream or a nightmare she wasn't sure.

"Yes, I thought she would have engineered it for you to overhear that conversation. Don't put it on by the way, not right now."

"I haven't said yes."

"And I haven't asked. I'm warning you. That ring will chop your finger off."

"How romantic."

"It's the Malfoy way," he replied sardonically. "I'm a little bit suspect to do as my parents ask nowadays. It's why when I took a job, at your suggestion not theirs. Ironically, they've decided now is the time to give me something that I've always wanted. Approval to do what I want."

The whole world stilled for Pansy. Draco had the ability to hurt and please her in a way no one else could. She felt like she was balancing on a knife-edge, not sure what she wanted to hear.

"This is not a proposal. It's a proposal to propose. We fit, Pansy. We fit perfectly. We know more about each other than anyone else could or would be allowed to know. You mean something to me… I want whatever future is possible to be with you. I don't know whether I want to take over the world or rot away in this place licking my wounds. But I want it to be with you. I want to see what a future with you is like. Together, we could be great."

He meant powerful, she knew. She felt dizzy. The wine and her past ran her thoughts mad. It would have been such a simple answer at one point. Draco was her greatest desire and greatest foible. Yet there was something so very different now. Draco had betrayed her again and again, and she had forgiven him each time. She could not forgive on Luna and Weasley's behalf. The pain he had caused them was her pain now. These were thoughts she could not verbalize, a part of her felt they would turn to ash or ridicule on her tongue.

The feelings she now held for Luna and Charlie were locked strong in her chest- a Slytherin is loyal above all- as were the feelings she held for Draco. His place in her heart was much deeper, and darker, and so inextricably linked with her past and herself that she had no idea what to do or where to run. There was no answer. There was just Draco looking at her with a need she felt obliged to answer.

So she kissed him and whispered "I'm already great. I'll take your proposal under advisement, you lunatic."

"Our demons would play well together," he added, smiling like a sickle moon.

Pansy breathed in his scent, unsure if it were happiness or dread playing with her heartbeat. "That's what worries me."