They fell into bed together faster than either expected.
After pulling their wine-infused bodies up the stone stairway, it felt strangely inevitable that both ended up in Draco's room. Neither wanted to be alone, and neither wanted the other to ruminate in private on what had passed. Pansy dropped jewel after jewel carelessly on the floor while Draco loosened the neck of his dress robes.
Exhausted, and with the common Parkinson manner of making herself at home anywhere, she did not wait for permission but stretched herself cat-like across the four-poster bed. Draco watched with heavy eyes before joining her on top of the covers, slipping an arm around her form. She curled into him, placing a kiss on his cheek and resting her head on the hard, uncomfortable rise of his chest. Draco shifted so that his forehead rested against her own.
As quickly as they had fallen there, did they drift as swiftly into sleep.
Pansy woke in the harsh winter light. Beside her, Draco slept like the dead, his breath shallow and whispery. They had drifted apart in the night; she curled away from him, and his arm swept across his body, closing around himself. As she watched the stillness of his enviously long eyelashes she felt a secret, sudden thrill.
Last night, Draco had asked to marry her.
The realization went through her like limb-shuddering, nausea-inducing lightening. All she had ever wanted was sleeping next to her and was enclosed around her in the walls of Malfoy Manor.
As ever, joy was brief.
All Pansy wanted was to wrap herself in this fantasy, and throw herself whole heartedly into living the life of Pansy Malfoy. Yet she could not even bring herself to slip under Draco's arm or wake him with a kiss and snide joke- though she desperately desired to. A wall had been built inside her long ago. A wall that she constantly contemplated taking down or building higher.
For every brick laid, there had been a disappointment. For cruelties against her, often Pansy felt less angry at the perpetrator and more angry at herself for feeling the hurt. A Parkinson should be above anyone causing them pain. Callousness at another's hand is purely a punishment for caring excessively. And yet she cared. Constantly, and far too much. Look at how easily a bunch of Gryffindors and dragon wranglers crept into her heart, and with equal ease how Draco had shattered it again and again.
For all the love she felt for him, Pansy saw Draco as he was. His selfishness, his weakness, his ignorance. The pity was, she forgave him all this. Draco was interesting, fiercely loyal, unfathomably clever (as well as being quite idiotic). He was a product of his parents, but made her laugh like no other could. Even now the thought of him doing a perfectly re-enacted Potter-esque faint across the dining hall table brought a smile to her lips.
It was always a war within her- to be hard and cold, or red-blooded and loving. Neither came easily.
Impatience grew within. She needed so many answers. As nice as the warmth of the bed was (along with the surprising lack of hangover), questions burned inside her ribcage. She wanted to slip a hand up his chest. She wanted him to repeat those words. She wanted as she had always wanted, him.
However, you do not live a life of a Slytherin and one of Draco's closest confidents without garnering natural suspicions.
For a moment she prepared to wait for him to wake, as she had waited for him all along… But was that not the issue? She was forever at his whim, forever in the dark. This embarrassing recognition caused her to shudder and rise from the bed. Parkinson's don't wait, they demand. If she wanted answers, Pansy would find them herself.
The bedroom door closed behind her, and she made her way barefoot, quiet and quizzical, down the corridors that may one day be her own.
Eventually consciousness disturbed him, and Draco's once relaxed face took on it's slight scowl. Sneering lips upturned settling on their typical snide angle, and he turned toward where he believed Pansy to be. Finding her gone, he felt indignant. Such rudeness really was not acceptable in a houseguest, but this was Pansy, and Draco recognized that as much as she tried to be the elegant ice queen, a crudeness subsisted in her.
She was not in the kitchen, the pantry, nor the reading room. The library was empty, as was the drawing room. The second drawing room and the portrait gallery stank of spilt alcohol, but they too were empty.
Coldness swept through the hall and Draco sniffed his nose disdainfully. A cold seemed to be coming on, which far from improved his mood. Neither did the reminders that the Manor was wearing away. Room after room was filled with furniture hidden under protective sheets, turning the opulent quarters he had known in his youth into phantoms. Occasionally there were gaps on the walls where old portraits had been sold for a quick galleon. Shame churned at the sight of these reminders. Centuries of Malfoy wealth, good breeding and pride dashed. All because he had failed to live up to his parent's hopes and kill a frail old man. Guilt dug an elbow into his stomach. Logically he could see this was not the issue. His parents had bet on the wrong, psychopathic horse and this was the result. He regretted, though too late, the actions they had taken… but more than anything he regretted his failure.
It was silly to ruminate. He had spent days locked in his room gasping over the guilt. The enormity of his sins was too great. A man should not live, nor be allowed to live, with such failure in moral and expectation. Soft words from his mother, and hard words from Pansy had drawn him out. The slow realization that if they could forgive him, then perhaps he could still have a use. Perhaps it could be done to exist in such a fashion. Narcissa still loved him despite failing the family, and Pansy still loved him even though she knew the truth. Draco could decide to be the beast, not fear it.
Moral failure seemed inevitable, and he was not quite sure what he could do to bleach their blackened name. But if he could rebuild the Malfoy empire and make their family matter once again… then at least one of his worries would be addressed. With Pansy and the comfort that she knew his failings, yet still accepted him, perhaps it was possible to endure and to succeed?
The last room he reached was his father's study. Burns of broken hexes had charred the corner of the door. Draco raised an eyebrow. Naturally, Parkinson would have no respect for boundaries, arson or security spells.
Inside amongst the forest of mahogany furniture she sat, hair awry, brow lowered, knees caught up in the black lace of her dress. Legal papers, which had previously been hidden in a spell-protect draw, lay before her. Draco knew every word and figure on those flimsy pieces of parchment. Bills and bank statements. More black marks against the family name. Controlled anger lit inside him.
"Why do you want to marry me, Draco?"
"Good morning, Pansy. How did you sleep? I slept fantastically, thank you for asking, though it was like cooping up with a giant snoring cat. I should perhaps note that waking to see the protective charms on the study disarmed (by what seems to be the work of a rhino with a wand) has not exactly brightened my day-"
He stopped himself as he saw how her dark, angry gaze did not change.
The row of papers lay between them like a line in the sand. Cross if you dare.
In truth it was not like that. Not quite. Pansy wanted Draco to dare. She wanted him to move towards her, to prove his own want. She had learnt long ago that her forwardness and ease were not beloved qualities. A kiss or touch from her could be greeted with scorn or willing reciprocity from him. His heedless, unpredictable disdain had long taught her to wait for him to make the move. She hated her passivity only less than she hated his contempt.
Draco, hair in elegant disorder, crossed the line without a thought. Whether it was his upbringing, or the way Pansy had learned to leave any initiation to him, Draco never had any qualms as to what he thought he was entitled to. He never thought a kiss would go unwanted. He never worried about inciting her derision.
He leaned over her, gliding his body over hers. A bony hand met her cheek, as a quizzical eye looked into her own.
"All I said last night was true. We'd be strong. We'd understand each other. We'd be happy… as much as either of us could be. Our families would benefit from the union. Your background would somewhat un-sully the Malfoy name, and my name would add to your breeding."
He did not lie, which she was glad of. He rolled off the advantages- monetary, influence… She would have suspected him if he had not. They were things she desired, but as always she desired more.
"Money, you say?" interrupted Pansy, looking at the treasure trove of legal papers before. "You haven't a sickle."
If Draco was one to blush from anger or embarrassment, he would have. Yet he accepted that as his future wife, Pansy had a right to know.
"The fortune is still there. It's just frozen while the court proceedings continue. The prosecution really lacks a foot to stand on, and are just being difficult- I did not mean to mislead you in that way…"
"The money doesn't matter, Draco," replied Pansy, trying not to enjoy the warmth of his hand on her cheek.
"Money always matters-"
"No. I'm wealthy enough in my own right. And… the logic is sound." Her voice sounded flat. "Our families would both benefit from the union. But that isn't the issue."
"What is?" replied Draco, sincerely confused, grey eyes blinking.
"Do you love me?"
Her cheeks heated just saying the words. It felt stupid. She felt stupid needing those reassurances. There were actions that proved love, whereas love proved nothing. People were so changing that affection could not be relied upon. And what was that ridiculous feeling? Broken into it's constituent parts love was attraction, loyalty, support… and those are things she would not doubt in their alliance.
The line of his lips grew hard, and his eyes serious. "Yes," he replied. "I think so. There's no one else I would trust as my wife, and I trust you Pansy beyond anything."
Pansy could not quite smile, though she felt happy. An I-think-I-love-you was more than he had ever hoped from Draco. She would not have believed him if it had been a pure, straightforward yes. They were people with labyrinths inside them, and sometimes love got lost.
And then Draco asked a question which Pansy would never have expected.
"Do… do you love me?"
Those words felt foreign in her ears, just as they had sounded bizarre on Draco's tongue. The off-kilter vulnerability that was so un-Draco won her over more than any diamonds or poetry could.
Instead of answering, she broke her own rule and kissed him. Taken aback, Draco flinched back initially… but slowly leaned into her, kissing with lips and teeth and tongue.
And just like that, Pansy broke like a promise and felt her world burn around her.
Charlie stood in the center of Weasley Wizard Wheezes. By some strange feat, it was evem madder than usual. Panicked looking shop assistants flitted back and forth as the onslaught of shouty Christmas shoppers fought tooth and nail to reach the merchandise. Buzzing Whoppers flew in the air, fizzing with sparks and glitter, and Yarping Snaggletooths (the new pet of the moment) barked and growled from underfoot. Teens clutched at love potions, and parents suspiciously regarded the wares requested by their offspring for Christmas.
"No, Jeffery, I am most certainly not getting you a Houdini Handtrap," tutted a particularly stressed looking mother as she gathered five pairs of "Float Away Shoes" and three hiccupping teacups.
Charlie felt incredibly uncomfortable in the bright, busy crowd though on the outside he looked his typical laid back self and was having a much better time of it than everyone else. There's something about being built like a particularly muscular brick that makes people thing twice about elbowing you on their way to the sweet counter.
A Snaggletooth the shade of a blood orange ran into Charlie's ankle, instantly concussing itself on impact. It looked up innocently, it's bizarre azure eyes fixing Charlie with an appraising gaze. The creature looked like a ridiculous pocket-sized wolf pup in desperate need of orthodontic treatment. It's siblings yapped in containers in the corner of the room, their blinding neon shades with black speckles attracting child after child to coo at them. How this one escaped, Charlie couldn't fathom. The impetuous beast growled at him, and noting Charlie's failure to cower decided to be best friends. It wagged it's tail and let out a distinctive purr.
Charlie gathered the pup in his arms, not quite considering how easily it had charmed to him. Animals had always got attached to him, even the scaly, man-eating ones.
The shop assistants were dressed in offensively florescent robes and had the desperate smiles and manic hair of Hermione during exam week. None of them were George. In fact George was nowhere to be seen amongst the mayhem, which even to Charlie's naïve business acumen seemed rather worrying….
With the Snaggletooth clasped firmly in hand, Charlie dodged to the aubergine-coloured door at the back of the shop where Fred and George's laboratory was hidden.
For two people who caused such constant mess, chaos and destruction, Fred and George tended to keep a very tidy, almost Percy-like workspace. The view beyond the aubergine door was not one of carefully arranged papers and prototypes that Charlie' was used to. Instead dust lay heavy on the clutter giving it a look of gray-haired antiquity. Blueprints were torn up and hidden under strange contraptions, and in some cases diagrams were written on walls, napkins desks. A sweet, sickly smell filled the air that Charlie suspected was emanating from the pile of rotting Pucking Pastelles by the door. At first glance, it appeared the dark, dank room was empty.
"Georgie?" Charlie called out, an unsettling clench in his stomach causing him to use the childhood nickname. He put the Snaggletooth on the ground. The small beast immediately started to investigate the rotting gunk with glee.
A pile of paper dismantled with a cry of "Charlie!" and George appeared, pale but well, with the shadows of frustration on his face. On the desk before him lay a mysterious object, which had been disemboweled of its clockwork interior. The mechanism had the telltale scorch signs of an irritated wizard jabbing it with his wand.
Relief filled Charlie to see his brother seemingly well, if a bit dusty. He subdued the desire to ask him how he was. It was a stupid question, and one Charlie hated hearing himself.
"So… I like what you've done with the place," Charlie said instead, admiring the potion formula on the wall that had degraded into an exceedingly rude picture.
"Thanks," replied George jovially, giving the mechanism a foul look for good measure. "I always thought mold really made a place say 'home'. What brings you this way, oh wayward brother of mine? Wait let me guess… is it to check up on me for Mother? If so, you can tell her I'm alive. Still only missing the one body part."
"Good to know- but that's not why I'm here… well, partly." If anything, Charlie was here to calm his own worries about that. "Mostly, I'm here to avoid her fussing… and to get your advice on a Christmas gift. For a girl."
"A Hippogriff leg? The still beating heart of a man? I dunno. You're the dragon expert."
"No. A real, human girl."
"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that," replied George, flicking one of the cogs on the desk with his forefinger. "I was just going to sign my name on Mum's gifts to Hermione and Fleur. I'm sure she won't mind you doing the same."
"Er… no. It's a girl who probably won't become an in-law. It- well- she's a friend?"
George paused. There was a tightness to his face that never used to be there. But then, for a second, it went.
"A friend?" Charlie could hear the question mark ringing out. "A lady-friend? You have a lady-friend that is biologically a human? Like…. She doesn't even breathe fire a little bit? Or have horns?"
"That is what I'm saying-"
"Not even the smallest hint of a tail?"
"No, George."
"You've seen her tail area? This is a romantic, lady friend?"
"NO! Yes! Maybe? I have no idea…" Charlie let out a groan.
A devilish look came over George's face, all sharp and light. "And out of everyone you thought I would be the best one to help you out… and not, like, mock you incessantly?"
"The mocking was inevitable. But you'd be the best person. Ginny's out of town, Percy would suggest I buy her a year's supply of quills (and Ron may suggest the same, thinking about it), Bill is dealing with a far larger income and ego than I am… You'd be perfect. Despite the inevitable mocking."
"That warms the cockles of my heart. Well, I don't know how great the advice I can give will honestly be… especially as this piece of junk was meant to be a Christmas gift."
George beckoned him over, and turned the object over. Now right-side up, Charlie could see that the invention was a small Quidditich pitch, with delicately wrought players held in the air by thin towers of copper. By the looks of it, it was a Gryffindor vs Ravenclaw game with two red headed beaters and one serious-looking Oliver Wood as goalie.
"All muggle clockwork. It's meant to be of one of our first matches, bloody complicated stuff though. I thought it would be a nice gift for Angelina," George's voice caught. Charlie ignored it.
Often with Charlie people assumed he was out of touch, and did not notice the subtleties of human emotion. If anything, it was the opposite. Charlie just understood that sometimes people would rather you treat them as strong, or be unaware of their feelings. An intelligent ignorance almost. "She's been very… kind recently. And her family is muggle-born, so I thought this might be a nice gift,"
"See," said Charlie, smiling expansively a placing a kind hand on George's shoulder. "I knew you'd be the perfect person to come to…"