"No, Draco," said Pansy firmly. "We're not putting V.I.P: Very Important Pureblood on the invitations."
"Too soon?"
"Too racist, you inbred moron."
Pouting, Draco collapsed on the fainting chair like an Edwardian lady taken by a fit of the vapors. His bird-like wrist fluttered to his forehead in distress.
"My humour is just too modern and cutting edge for you. I was the class clown, you know."
"You're just jealous you didn't come up with the theme of 'The Slytherin Survivors' Club.' And with Crabbe and Goyle as comedic contempories, I don't really think there was much competition for the title…"
"You're so cruel to me," Draco replied, slipping from his place and stalking round to the back of Pansy's chair. His grey eyes flashed, but there was a shadow of a smile in his sneer.
Pansy's back tensed, but she let her eyes stay down to demurely inspect the invitations. Ignoring Draco was one of her favorite pleasures. The invitations were written on crisp, black card with silver italics. Economically, she stamped the Malfoy waxed seals on each of the parchments, careful not to turn round as Draco's face got closer and closer to her neck.
"How can someone wearing a discombobulated sheep be so cruel?"
"It's a jumper, Draco," replied Pansy staying very still. She was intensely aware of his breath on her neck, and the way his nose just brushed her ear like so.
"Well, I don't like it," came the reply as a pair of lips murmured on her skin. He sharpened his words with a bite. "Take it off."
The weather was frosty outside, and the chill felt like it emanated within Malfoy Manor no matter how many layers they wore or fires they lit.
Pansy was looking forward to the party. A full house of old friends who would smile and laugh and be alive. The days of drinking in Draco's company and reveling in their tiny pocket of privacy were glorious but wearing Pansy thin. His moods were still grim, his views old-fashioned and she could see them falling into old habits; their old jokes being repeated, their old nerves being tested. With company they would shine and perform. Give them someone to show off for and they'd remember how lucky they were.
Occasionally Pansy was happy, or at least thought she was in a place where she could see happiness. Draco showed her his workshop where he took the knick-knacks from work to tinker with them further. Although he often became so engrossed in the project at hand that Pansy felt like she was intruding. Likewise when she was writing essays, or trying to explain the theory behind Dragon Fire, she could sense Draco's discontent. He tried to poorly feign interest which she found grating. It felt a touch like he was humouring a bizarre hobby rather than acknowledging that she was doing an academically challenging, occasionally death-defying, postgraduate degree.
Further, the fact that such conversation could not entertain Draco beyond five minutes astounded Pansy, who could wax lexically for hours on the topic of dragons and professors and academic scandal. This divergence between them created a strange uneasiness within her. She was only content when his touches promised his affection as his words and interests could not.
Charlie's letters were a godsend and a surprise. As were Luna's and Mona's and Millicent's. But Charlie's aversion to sending owls to those closest to him made the regular owls a pleasant shock. Every time his barn owl tapped at her window, she opened it gratefully.
"That one of your many lovers?" smirked Draco from the bed, as he reached across for coffee.
Pansy failed to rise to the joke, unusually, and lied. Her mind was elsewhere, being grateful that Charlie would have no idea that his owl found her in this place. Over morning coffee, as Draco read the newspaper and she guzzled ill-cooked eggs, she would respond to Charlie's letters (utterly ignoring Draco's complaints about the state of the Ministry, or legal trouble, or the sentient mold in the east wing, or any numerous dull issues that she tried and failed to care about).
My Mother is force-feeding me twelve meals a day. Perhaps she thinks if I have a heart attack I won't leave home?...
Twelve meals? Pathetic, Weasley. Let me know when she refuses to buy any more food because a family friend "looked at her daughter as if she had the waist-line of an orca whale." Then I'll be sympathetic. However, my services are always available for impromptu midnight-rescues if ever the need arises. By the way, thanks for the article recommendation, it'll be just the reference I need to make my essay implode the Professor's mind with the force of it's academic supremacy…
The need has arisen in the form of Aunt Gertrude and her virulent flatulence- Save me? Glad to hear it helped. Have you watched the Quiddich recently? Fiona Montgomery's goal was astounding…
Give me a time and a place and I'll blast you out of the domestic hell. Think my mind is eroding without the constant threat of draconic danger. How the hell have you survived the last dozen Christmases at home? It's been five minutes since a dragon tried to kill me and I absolutely miss it….
I am going to preserve that last message for all eternity. Pansy Parkinson misses dragons. I'll alert the Ministry and they'll have a front page article in the Prophet tomorrow.
The only recommendation I have is take lots of runs, acquire some dangerous siblings, take comfort in cake and…. And, well, read your letters, which (madly considering your lunatic personality) have kept me surprisingly sane. They're not quite as good as the real thing though.
Anyway, look forward to your next letter/imminent rescue.
Miss you, Charlie.
Pansy dropped the letter delicately on the table, not realizing that it landed in her porridge. Her pulse throbbed in her stomach and all her effort went towards not having any response what so ever. It was difficult- like the feeling of cold sweat and joy and dread and the world rocking all around you.
But mostly she felt anger.
Boys.
Boys were basically fucking buses. One comes along that you'd pegged all your hopes on, and then the next says something silly and confusing, like "Miss you."
Was it just politeness, or did those two little words mean an immense amount? A strange flutter lifted her stomach as she thought of Charlie and those two petulant syllables.
Pansy looked up, her stomach churning. Draco was having a bad day. Last night his mother had written, though about what Pansy was ignorant. Lilac shadows cradled his eyes, the hangover from a guilty, sleepless night. His toast was untouched, and even the coffee had been neglected.
Instead Draco's attention was wrapped up on the small, silver circle knelt in his palm. Muttering under his breath, he paused, frowned and carefully conducted intricate wrist movements with his wand.
"How's it going?" Pansy asked gently, tucking the letter away (in the back of her mind knowing she should burn it).
"Fine, fine," he replied, distantly. "Old spells are only complicated as they're so archaic - it's not actually out of any added complexity. The engagement ring should be ready and safe for you to wear for the party."
Draco then gave a little smile- not to Pansy, but to the ring. It lightened his heavy face.
She felt sick with guilt. A red headed boy sent her some silly words that momentarily made her feel like she'd been saved, when really the one who needed saving was right in front of her. There were a hundred, hundred things that she had done in her life that she was not proud of, and a thousand sins more that were committed by those who she loved. Charlie could never know them simply because he could never understand. Whereas… She was Draco. They shared sins and understanding. Her hands may be dark with wrongdoing, but Draco would hold them nonetheless.
"We'll look after each other, won't we, Draco?"
He looked uncomfortable for a second, brow wrinkled. Her emotion uneased him. A large promise. "Of course. Our demons play well together."
A day later a Christmas present arrived.
It was inexpertly wrapped in scarlet paper. A jolly envelope had scrawled "Don't open until 25th December" written tauntingly on it's surface.
Pansy opened it immediately.
Inside was a very large book, old and pleasantly dusty. The covers creaked and the words written on cream vellum were beautifully stylized. The front of the book bore a painting of a black haired woman, her dark tendrils billowing in an unfelt wind from beneath a fearsome helmet. Around the woman curved a dragon with red, orange and gold scales that undulated in the light. In the painting, the dragon's reptilian eyes blinked and it's nostrils flared with smoke. It was so large that it's body and scales disappeared to form the rest of the cover so it looked like the book was a living breathing beast.
The book was entitled "Dragon Tamer" and the woman looked a lot like Pansy, or at least how she hoped she looked.
The note accompanying it read:
I knew you wouldn't wait. Happy early Christmas.
-C
She laughed, loving him just a little bit more- not because of the material gift, but for the feeling that accompanied it. Her toes tightened with a secret joy that the present she sent him, bought unknowing that it would be exchanged for a brother, was already on it's way.
The Manor was ready.
After much cajoling she had forced both the house elf and Draco to lend a hand decorating. That is until she realized they both had terrible taste and would only do a passable job when under her dictator-esque supervision.
Black Christmas trees sparsely placed throughout the house glimmered with cold light and crystal adornments. Glass griffins and silver basilisks tastefully basked upon fireplaces and bannisters. There were a few grotesque Malfoy family heirlooms that Pansy had had to hide on taste alone. After all, having everything engraved with snakes stops being gothic and starts being creepy rather quickly, especially when it comes to baubles.
Hands reached for her hipbones, and Draco's bony face skimmed by her own. He didn't say anything, but there was something about his manner that seemed pleased. It must have been awhile since he had a true Christmas and a house filled with guests.
Pansy was satisfied with the result of her efforts- though it lacked the charm and warmth of her midnight feast for the wranglers. There was no fire and autumnal warmth here, only a majestic if cold beauty. It was the aesthetic she had always wanted yet she couldn't help but miss the boisterous laughter and tongues of orange bonfire rising to the night sky.
"Ready?" whispered Draco, nerves almost perfectly hidden.
"Of course," she replied, admiring their paired forms in the mirror. Draco a pale ghost, and she a shadow. The looked beautiful, weathly, proud and strong. Not happy. There were premature lines and shades on their face, one for every sorrow and lost loved one. Silently, they both counted the numbers of people who would not be there. The number was too large, and the house echoed with their absence. She shivered.
Pansy excused herself, muttering about one or two last adjustments. All a lie, she was perfectly ready. Her eyes were lacquered dark, her body laced in black, and her lips redder than blood. It was as close to perfect as she's ever imagined herself. The mirror-woman was the person she had always imagined with Draco; all cheekbones and cold humor. It wasn't enough. She felt like her body was frozen and no warmth could reach her. A weird immaturity had inherited her mind, and she could hear the cruel words of her youth once again usurping her mouth and poisoning her thoughts. They spent hours critiquing their friends, and wishing illness on others. It was not a happy place to be, but it was the only script she had with Draco.
She fled to her room, grabbing a cup of tea and Charlie's book. A last hour of comfort. She made a fort out of the curtains and knelt on the frosty window seat, losing her mind in a tale of ridiculous bravery and warrior princesses whose hearts and mouths were larger than their sense. It was a good book. Perhaps the best she had ever read. Each page she savoured.
A solemn knock broke her reverie. The party had begun.
It was almost Christmas, and all through the house, not a Slytherin was sober. Not even a mouse… by which Pansy had silently christened Malcolm Baddock, the sweet, nerdy child who she remembered had a liking for pumpkin pasties.
So many appeared at their door. Every one of them finding that a night with their old school mates was so much more preferable than spending an awkward silence or a violent argument with their families. They turned up elegant, clinking with bottles, exchanging welcome kisses as if the last time they had all been in the same room was not for a funeral, or Death Eater meeting, or to murder fellow school children. Something Slytherin was surprisingly good at was peace. On the surface there was forgiveness for those who ran and those who fought - no matter what side they were on. They all understood, you did what you had to in order to protect your own.
Pansy and Draco were on form. They laughed together, kissed, showed off the manor. They came together to joke and then dispersed, each loving the dilution of the other in this dark fashionable crowd of old friends.
"Pansy!" Cried Millicent, looming over to embrace her. "I hate to say it, but you look so well. Is it this new found wealth that suits you, or the break from dragons?"
"A bit of both, I think." She replied, eye distracted by the ominous gleam on her hand. Draco's emerald ring enclosed a finger on her right hand, she was not quite ready to out it on her wedding finger. Nor was she quite ready to trust it. Despite Draco's assertions that it was quite safe, she kept expecting it to petrify her limb or freeze her solid.
"We're so happy that you and Draco are together," congratulated Theo, a shy smile stealing over his face as he looked at Millicent.
"Furious that you're stealing our thunder," corrected Milly. "But thrilled. It was always going to end up this way wasn't it? All of us paired and bound. There's no Draco without Pansy, and no Pansy without Draco."
A dark glare stole across her face. She'd been without him for months, quite happily. She's survived Hogwarts with and without him. Was her identity not sure enough on it's own?
Luckily she was saved by a kiss on the cheek. She turned, and caught herself before her eyes brimmed with tears.
"Hello, my darling. You look as gorgeous and gothic as an avenging angel. And a fallen one, at that."
"Blaise," she cried, blindly leaping into his arms. "I didn't think you'd come?"
"For you, love, I'd go anywhere… with an open bar. Speaking of which…"
They removed themselves from the engaged pair and drifted through the dancing throng, who spilled champagne on fingertips and uneasy laughter from lips.
"With Draco. You. I don't know if I'm proud or ashamed."
"Not surprised by the sound of it. Or happy."
"I'm happy if you're happy. If you're displeased, I'm murderous. I'm just afraid that you're falling into old mistakes, so old that even our parents made them." Blaise said, stroking her hair in that comforting way of his. His deep brown eyes were as reassuring and sharp as always.
"I do love him-"
"Let's not get into that old debate about loving someone and being in love with someone. Also, you should be wiser than trusting something as fickle and blind as that." He pointed at her chest despairingly. "I love Firewhisky, but marrying it to my liver would probably be the death of me. Use that Slytherin brain, Parkinson."
"The one that says he's rich, well-bred, amusing, and so sinful that I could be as unpleasant as I like and still relatively have the high-ground in everything? You're right, that is a very different result." Pansy said sarcastically. "But please let's not talk about it. I feel the past decade of my life has been about Draco, and I'm getting a little sick of the taste of his name in my mouth. Tell me about you. Tell me everything. You've written no letters and I've missed you dreadfully."
Blaise's eyebrows rose in elegant surprise, yet Pansy simply could not be bothered to discern what that look meant. Blaise, all perfect bone structure and an all perfect knowledge of Pansy. It made his presence a comfort and an unraveling. He was the only one here who could see past her painted smile, but either out of a desire to humour her or revel in himself, he failed to press his point.
"Me? There's nothing that has happened to me that I've wanted to immortalize on paper. Writing it down would have made it too… real."
She touched the back of his hand, and topped up his drink. "Where have you been, darling?"
"Europe. East. For a time with my Mother, before that became too unbearable. Living a louche life and doing unwise things. Surviving, as we all have."
They observed the room. Everyone's eyes were too wide, the laughter too sharp. There was an edge that hadn't left them. They were meant to be predators, but a life of predation had led them to this. Sacrifices on the Savannah.
"We're safe now," Pansy whispered.
"It doesn't feel that way sometimes though, does it?" Blaire replied. "I still dream about the Carrows. Still fear that a piece of evidence will unearth itself and lead my family to Azkaban. I worry that an awry insult from one of the militant innocent will lead to a stray curse. Accidents do happen… or can be made to happen."
"It's getting better." Pansy tried to reassure. "People forgive. Don't run. Come back. Live a life here despite them."
"I'm not as strong as you are, love," Blaise said with a sad smile, casting his eye to their few surviving friends. Malcolm was a flirting menace, Millicent and Theodore drunk on their own love, Draco pompous and laughing. The little ones (not so little anymore, and now legally allowed to drink) were happy. The kids Pansy had terrorized and looked after as a Prefect had all grown up, despite the danger of their teenage years. They had all skipped into the house with a hug and a smile for her, brimming with news and jokes more grown than they were.
"They're all here, Pansy," Blaise repeated to her earnestly, "because of you. You got us through the Carrows, through Snape's flickering loyalty, through the war. It's a debt all of them can only repay you with loyalty."
"Don't be silly," she replied. She was happy to see them all there. Yet the shapes of those not present still haunted her. A forced smile came to her lips. "You've become so serious all of a sudden. What's the point of surviving if we have to dwell about it? Come on- have another drink and then kiss me so Draco gets jealous-"
Another knock at the door stole her from her friend. Passing old school contempories, drinking and laughing and forgetting, she wondered whether she should tell Blaise about Charlie.
What would she say? She has a strange red headed friend whose family would despise her, who liked dragons far more than was warrented, who was weird and earnest and kind, who sent her brilliant books and taught her to cook , and made faces at her while she wrote essays, and who missed her.
Like guilt summoning the devil, Draco came out of the ether all sharp suited and sweet-cologned. He took her hand and spun her round, wicked laugh in her ear, happiness a welcome stranger on his face.
"This is perfect," he whispered before disappearing off again.
Conflict echoed in her, the world brighter and darker once more. Perhaps not then. Perhaps Charlie should stay were he was- safe in the Burrow, locked in her silence.
She opened the door and saw a ghost.
Little Astoria Greengrass.