Hello, so this chapter is a long time coming. Thank you so much for your lovely, thoughtful comments - and your patience! Safe to say, I found this chapter a challenge to write. Some... familiar characters are involved and it felt like a juggling act balancing their views with our tempestuous Pansy. Hope you like it. (Oh, and has anyone read Fangirl/Carry On?! You should. They're great.)
Hermione wondered whether this was the worst conceivable Christmas.
Technically, it should have been the Christmas of seventh year; grieving over Ron and feeling incapable to help Harry's true grief over his parents; thinking still over her own, who would not be thinking of her. Those sorrows felt even more unconquerable than the search and destruction of the Horcruxes.
Yes, that was a Christmas of misery. This was one of fury.
Hermione man-handled the boys into Ron's tiny childhood room, fuming to the very tips of her hair. As if sensing her outrage, the family ghoul (affectionately named - by Ginny - Bernard) started a cantankerous orchestra of bangs and wailing from the attic above them. Ginny slipped in behind the three and shut the door, leaving them claustrophobic and overly warm in such a small space. Hermione's mind was whizzing so fast she forgot to complain about the mess in Ron's room – he didn't even live here any more, how could it be in such a state?
"Blimey, watch it Hermione!" Ron yelped as he hit his head on his slanted orange ceiling.
"What are we going to do? Pansy's helping your Mum make stuffing!" In her excitement Hermione landed too much emphasis on the end of her sentence, making it sound much more like she had a problem with Christmas accouterments than slithery Slytherin… bitches.
Yes, that was the word Hermione was going to use, at least in the privacy of her own mind. It was accurate.
"It's difficult. There's the risk that she's poisoning all our food, but there's the greater risk that Mum will be insulted if we pass up any of it," Ginny replied. As always, she exuded a calm confidence. Nothing about her brilliant smile and striking looks would have hinted at anything vaguely anxious. Except, Hermione spied, that her fingers were playing with her hair a touch nervously. "I really don't know which option scares me more."
"Do you think Charlie knows who she is?" asked Ron.
"Must do," said Harry running a habitual hand through his own tangled mop. Hermione was never sure if he were trying to neaten or disrupt his hair further with this motion.
"No, no – he can't. If he knew anything… surely she wouldn't be here?" Hermione muttered.
Pansy was just a school bully. Her presence shouldn't have the power to make her feel eleven and awkward and unloved. It was a fathomless anger. She should not fear this awful, clumpy, sneering girl, but she was with the family and friends that she loved, and no one was behaving the way she wanted them to. Except Ron. His confused anger was a comfort, it felt like he was expressing himself for her. Harry seemed confused but unbothered. He'd weathered bigger things and the Weasley house would be nothing but a haven to him.
Fleur was treating her like a comrade in arms in a way she never had with Hermione, who really had never been an outsider to the Weasleys. Perversely, Mrs Weasley seemed to absolutely adore the traitor in their midst. They chatted about traditional Wizarding Christmases and inane celebrity gossip – topics that Hermione, despite half her life spent as a witch, still felt on the periphery of. It was like Pansy was circumnavigating the overly polite phase that Hermione thought it was her duty to follow. Pansy cracked jokes. Not that they were funny. They were sharp and barbed, often pointed at Charlie whose smile grew bigger every time she needled him.
"Would she be here if Charlie knew?" Hermione repeated the question, staring directly at Harry.
His green eyes were oddly obscured behind his glasses. Always she'd been able to tell if he wasn't quite sharing everything with them, and ever since he'd joined up with the Aurors she got that feeling of evasiveness more and more. Not that Harry was ever really very good at keeping things from Ron and herself. Even now he had definitely broken the Official Secrecy Act more than once and picked their brains on tricky cases.
But this new secrecy was uncomfortable for her in a way she didn't find with Ron. He came back to their cottage in Shropshire too exhausted and grouchy to want to share the day, and unbothered by Harry's distance. "I wouldn't worry, Hermione. If it was serious, he'd tell us –not that he really should. It's probably just more bureaucratic nonsense. Do you know how much paperwork I had to fill out over Magnacious Grove's rogue kettle? Thirteen pages! Would have been more efficient to leave it at the Muggle property – they probably wouldn't have been too bothered that their tea was turning into tequila."
Ginny tended to roll her eyes whenever she broached the subject of Harry's elusiveness, and make not unkind (though quite acerbic) comments that she'd just have to learn to be on the outside of somethings. Well, Hermione already felt on the outside. Being uninformed was a new, unpleasant experience.
Ron snorted. "I think you're forgetting that this is the man who helped three eleven year olds smuggle a dragon out of Hogwarts, no questions asked, with a response of 'Another dragon? GREAT!' I'm fond of him, but Charlie's a utter madman."
Ginny looked at the three of them with doleful affection. "One day I'm going to stop being surprised when you lot come out with stuff like that. You know how you always go on about trouble finding you – it's an absolute lie, right? You're just as thrill-seeking as Charlie is. I bet you'd have found Hogwarts dead dull without the constant threat of…. Everything."
Hermione drew herself up, indignant. "Well, that's not really relevant right now, Ginny. Maybe you could say something to Charlie?"
"Why? I don't see what good it would do," she replied, an odd glance going between Harry and herself.
"Well," Hermione picked her words carefully. God, she hated that Harry and Ron were in separate Auror divisions – divided for the first time in their lives. If they had been partnered together at least she'd have some insight. Something was going on, and Ron never held up under questioning.
This whole Pansy business was not helping her irritation. It felt like hot pepper under her skin.
"It would probably come better from you if you mentioned that Pansy was…. Um, with a certain crowd at Hogwarts… and tried to offer Harry to Tom Riddle?"
AND was generally awful and made Hermione's childhood a living hell? Something along those lines?
"I don't think that's wise," Ginny replied. "If I say that, he'll end up admitting he's not Harry's greatest fan. I'm not sure how to handle those words from my favourite brother. I think we should… roll with it. "
"He's WHAT-" spluttered the boys - Harry vaguely surprised that Ron wouldn't be anyone's favorite, and Ron indignant on Harry's behalf.
"I just don't like it," said Ron bluntly. "I'm going to talk some sense into Charlie."
Ginny laughed, auburn hair coming out of her knot. "Yes, because when has that worked with Charlie. You're not exactly a fountain of wisdom yourself, Ron."
"So you're happy with this development? Our brother is dating Draco's succubus and Harry's Judas? And you're happy with that?"
There was a short silence, interrupted by a short snort from Harry.
"Has Hermione been reading the Muggle Encyclopedia to you again, mate?"
Ron's ear went pink. "No. Not since… you said that you're not actually meant to read it from A-Z. Mr Granger is very knowledgeable on Muggle myths and religions. It's very interesting stuff."
"Just call him 'Roger,'" mumbled Hermione. Her mind was too busy unpicking her emotions. Perhaps if she kept plucking, kept taking out the irrational strands all that would be left would be a single thread – like Theseus in the Minotaur maze. A single path to show her the way out of this situation. She was a first year Law student. She helped save the wizarding world. She was widely, and affectionately, known as the brightest witch of her age. She could deal with Pansy Parkinson.
"It's odd that you don't call him Roger," she added distractedly.
"I'd much rather call him 'sir'. At least until he likes me. Plus you call my Mum Mrs Weasley."
"Yeah, well…" Hermione didn't really want to get into an argument about parents and likeability. Especially when she'd just seen Pansy and Mrs Weasley laughing uproariously together. How did they get to be on such good terms in such a short about of time?
The answer felt beyond her, obscured. Friendship was always easier for Pansy. Even though she was Draco's lapdog, ultimately unpleasant and probably evil, people seem to gather to her. She got on well with her whole house (why else had she even been made prefect?) and had some select friendships in Ravenclaw. Hermione couldn't even befriend her roommates of six years. Merlin, even Luna liked her – though the working of Luna's mind was always a challenge and anomaly.
Not that Hermione was friendless. Ron and Harry liked her. The Weasley's liked her. Ginny had set herself up as her best friend, or vice versa, she was never sure. Yet all these felt like hard won battles, as if it was only time smoothing out her harsh edges and giving people space to see something acceptable rather than the bushy haired, annoying know-it-all who always had to be right.
Pansy always had to be liked. Or not liked. You couldn't be ambivalent about Pansy, and often you seemed to have no choice. She decided whether you were on good terms or bad and there was no changing it.
Hermione had an awful flash back to school. To the hundred, may be thousands, of unpleasantly snide comments that pug-faced girl had said to her. Weirdo. Ugly. Buck-tooth. Mudblood. Hermione had never been quiet, but she'd never been able to say words that matched the hurt. All she could ever do was blink away bitter tears.
She'd never told Ron or Harry. Inevitably they would have done something noble and stupid. She didn't need them to defend her honour. As they became older, the comments had lessened but the stakes had become higher. The fear of Voldemort should have trumped the fear of Pansy and her cronies. It should have. However, it felt impossible to disentangle the Slytherins, Voldemort and hatred of Muggleborns. She knew their prejudice, where their precious loyalty lay and she knew that just as Pansy had tried to give up Harry, it would have taken her less than a heartbeat to serve up Hermione. They would have killed her in a second. Anything to get rid of her dirty, Muggle blood.
"May be if Charlie-"
There was a knock at the door - speak of the devil, that very madman poked his head around the door.
"Alright, you lot?" It wasn't clear whether Charlie found anything shifty about the four holding a secret meeting in Ron's thimble-sized room. If anything, his blazing smile widen further. "Hope I'm not interrupting - Percy's just arrived with Audrey and is already spouting about Fireplace regulations. You best come down to provide a distraction before George chokes him with tinsel."
Pansy was strongly considering escape.
She must be completey orphaned from her senses. She was lost in a den of Weasleys (plus a Potter and Lovegood and an increasingly grouchy Granger).
Perhaps she was actually sitting in sixth form charms having been knocked out by a rogue Confundus Charm? Maybe she was sitting in Malfoy Manor having been severely poisoned by… Merlin, any of them? Had she taken some Fairy Dust and was on some horrific trip?
What on earth was going on.
It was also becoming increasingly and grotesquely apparent to her that she was hung over, which she felt was a personal character weakness.
She didn't get hangovers. She got painkillers. However, asking Mrs Weasley whether she'd mind brewing a cup of Madam Fitzgerald's The Morning After The Disaster Before was a much more embarrassing prospect that excessively complimenting (and therefore taste testing) all of Mrs Weasley's cooking. Nothing like a side of gammon, slice of very alcoholic cake and some mystery herb from Luna to set yourself up for a morning of terror. It was like the early days in Romania waiting for Charlie to bring up some horrific topic like school or houses or murder that she'd have to somehow avoid.
Totalitarian states and genocide aren't seasonal topics that fill people with Christmas joy, so why worry! She thought entirely hysterically. Surely no one will bring it up!
One thing she had assumed was the calming presence of Charlie. For some odd, illogical reason, she thought he'd be a normal human being and help smooth conversation and show her off to best effect– turns out, not so much. The Weasley boys seemed to have a bit of a "fend for yourself" mentally when it came to their significant others interacting with family. Fleur, Hermione and Percy's insipid other half who Pansy hadn't quite built the energy to talk to yet, all had a slight look of fight or flight like Mrs Weasely was going to interrogate them at any second.
In Ron, this expressed itself in pure ignorance. He didn't really seem to care what Mrs Weasley and Hermione said to one another. Bill, even after a few years of marriage, was so enamored by Fleur that she could accuse his family of being wooden spoons and he wouldn't notice. Ginny was perfectly aware Harry was the favourite, so why bother doing anything?
Charlie, that bastard, was devilish.
Polite and charming with Luna and anyone looking mildly awkward, he did not quite take this approach with Pansy. In fact he seemed to find great fun trying to dump her in it. Mostly with terrible snake puns.
"Pansy gets so cold. She's practically cold-blooded." He noted while building the fire and getting an portion of Hermione's brutalizing glare.
"Can I Slither-in?" Charlie said straight faced, in front of his Father, sneaking next to her on the couch.
"What does a snake sing at Christmas?" Charlie bellowed with glee cracking open one of the decorative crackers on the mantelpiece. "Sssssssilver bells."
Pansy and the heroic trio looked at him like he was bonkers.
"Guess he does know," said Harry in an undertone to Hermione, whose silent fury risked curdling the eggnog.
With difficulty, Pansy tried to concurrently express a general, mellow pleasantness and a more specific, vivid annoyance towards Charlie who grinned at her as he brandished the cracker, innocent and oh so pleased with himself. An utter madman. Out of sheer hysteria she laughed, which was probably the first time someone had had that reaction to a Christmas cracker joke.
It had been too long since she had seen him like this, and he'd never been this… bold and brilliant and easy. It was like looking into the sun.
There was also another issue, beyond his terrible, cringe-worthy and frankly dangerous jokes. For the past few months in Romania, Pansy had been doing her upmost not to actually look at Charlie. There was the issue with Mona, that smidge of a time where he found her company a bit problematic and his grotesque Gryffindor… everything, so avoiding direct eye contact seemed like the best route.
Now she couldn't stop looking at him. It felt, despite the masses of people crowded around them, that they had a little pocket of privacy. The secrets they had shared hours ago seemed to link them, even more so than their deep affection. She felt she was drinking him in, and the looks he gave her were happy… and hungry.
She wanted to bury herself in him, she wanted-
"Mince pie… Parkinson," Ron offered gruffly, strictly under the eye of Mrs Weasley. There seemed to be some unspoken reproving going on regarding Ron's sullenness.
"No thank you, Ronald," she replied, verses of Weasley is our King swimming behind her eyes. "Excuse me."
She just wanted. And this was not the time to want.
Not that Charlie agreed with this.
Pansy took a brief reprieve to the bathroom so she could remember how to breathe and have a delayed hyperventilating fit. Exiting into the small corridor, Charlie walked jovially towards her. In fact, really, he walked through her, politely herding her to the outdoors, where he caught her up against the wall with his arms and his lips and a hello.
"You're the worst."
Charlie hummed, pleased, into her mouth and neck, his face so warm and seeking. His hand worked under her jumper, leg dividing hers, teeth marking skin-
"I thought nice Gryffindor boys didn't do this sort of thing," she pulled towards him, the scrap of black dress and holey Weasley jumper providing poor protection from the cold.
He pulled back, smiled, and said something so filthy Pansy almost gasped – a sound that she usually refused to do on principal.
By this point, Charlie had guided her leg over his hip (Pansy's own behaviour could really only be described as lascivious – Charlie had gone way beyond that point). At her words his wicked smile shifted to something else – a look of wide-eyed, comedic innocence.
"Oh, you're quite right. After all we do have a gentleman's agreement on this don't we? Best get back. Plus, it would be sacrosanct to miss Christmas Quidditch."
And he all but dropped her in the snow, leaving her pink with annoyance and very well distracted.
The winter sky met the white ground in a muted line. This blank horizon looked back at her in askance. The temptation to fly off was getting greater and greater. Her skin itched with the awareness of this situation, how their hatred rolled off them. The Quidditch pitch was a few miles from the Burrow, and most of the cohort apparated there. In spite of the cold and gusts of freezing air, Pansy suggested to Charlie and Luna that they fly.
"You really don't mind flying over?" Charlie asked.
Charlie hated apparating. He'd never told her, but she always noticed he'd prefer to take a broom or walk than experience the less than pleasant burst of pressure before appearing in a different place.
"Of course not," she replied. "Plus, it will all give them time to discuss this dramatic new development, and whether they should arrest me on the grounds of Ruining Christmas."
Charlie frowned. "Is that really a good idea?"
No, no, it absolutely was not. If she was allowed to use her Slytherin scheming, she'd do everything she could to avoid them having a chance to discuss her and what to do, until she'd pelted them with civility and niceness and convinced them that she won't kidnap Harry and deliver him to the hands of the inevitable next Dark Lord.
"So Luna, what's the likelihood that Hermione will use that clever brain of hers to do away with me before Christmas lunch?"
Luna's eye's peeked out of the top of a voluminous yellow scarf. "Oh, I would think low. Hermione's really nice."
Pansy managed not to release a grunt of dissent. Yes, very nice. The girl who set Snape on fire during a Quidditch match in first year. The girl who at age 14 had frightened that Rita Skeeter lady so much she refused to do another interview with Pansy. The girl who permanently scared Marietta's face for revealing to Umbridge the existence of their little club. Yes, so lovely. Really charming. A complete delight.
Hermione Granger was the most terrifying, ruthless witch Pansy had ever encountered.
Pansy was very aware that she was using the waifish girl as the human equivalent of Hadrian's wall, much in the same way she looked after Luna in Romania. She didn't really mind if it made her look weak. She was more than aware at how quickly those three could draw their wands.
"If you're worried about it, maybe you should apologize?" suggested Luna. Charlie had flown ahead a bit, partly out of enthusiasm to get to the game and partly to give them privacy.
"Apologise for what exactly, Luna?" Pansy narrowed her eyes, readying her diatribe on innocence and generalizations.
"Well, you did offer Harry to Voldemort."
"Yes, fair enough. It wasn't a popular move, but I wanted to stop a lot of my friends dying-"
"You have in the past used the M-word to describe Hermione."
"You mean… militaristic? Mawking? Middling? Mauve?"
"You wrote 87 verses of Weasley is Our King."
"How is that as bad as the other two things? That was a masterpiece that turned against it's owner. You're making me very uncomfortable, Luna."
"You're making yourself uncomfortable by hiding every time one of them comes into the room. You put on a really odd laugh like you're infected with Splegg-legged Gutmushes."
"You made that up. Both bits." Pansy sighed, the rusty Quidditch goals came into view glinting copper in the sunlight. "What's our dear leader, Professor Scamander, doing this Christmas? And please tell me we're not to expect Longbottom today as well. I think I can only cope with five people being repulsed by my presence at any one time."
If Luna blushed, she hid it well. "Scamander is in the field with his Father. They should be in Australia by now. He wrote me a very interesting letter about the beetles there. You really should read it… And no, I don't expect to see Neville today. Ron rather put his foot in it by admitting that the moment Neville found out I was coming, he rescinded his RSVP."
"Coward."
"No, Pansy. He's just trying to make it easier for both of us. He's still a very good friend. And you need to stop changing the subject before I ask you what happened at Draco's. It's in your power to make things, if not better, easier. You hnow, you could probably do it without pointing a wand at anyone."
"That happened onc – okay, more than once… You are right. From the murderous looks they're giving me, I'm really rather spoiling their Christmas. And I do feel awful that I've thrown myself at Charlie's hospitality."
Luna laughed, prettily. "I don't think he much minds. He told me he hadn't been so excited about Christmas since he was eight and received Georgetta the Knitted Dragon."
The teams were awkwardly decided once they arrived, and Pansy was uncomfortably aware of the physical aptitude of the Weasley family. Working with the dragons had built up some muscles but the core strength needed for flight was insane. It was more like swimming than any other sport. You seemed to use all your muscles at once, clenching and bending and pulling yourself through the air. Dismounting at the end of the game was always a painfully embarrassing. On the plus side, at least Quidditch involved minimal conversation and was a marvelous distraction.
Charlie flew into view before her, gently careening through the air with ease. He didn't quite have the elegance of Potter on the broom, though there was something oddly aerodynamic about him. It was like he was part-bluster, part-boy. The devil may care way he behaved in the air – gravity was nothing to fear; it was a friend that filled your stomach with sickening glee as you rushed towards the ground. His smile made everything stop.
He was being an absolute child.
There was one thing that Pansy played by the rules by, and that was flying. Her sense of self-preservation always kicked in making her absolutely aware that the only thing standing between her and death was a cleaning implement. It wasn't that she didn't like flying, it was more that she was going to following the instruction of her flying tutor to the letter. Hands at 12 and 6, wand arm first, back at a careful 45 degrees, heels down.
Charlie buffeted her shoulder with his boot and completed a sickening and slow barrel roll around her, at which point he grabbed her foot to give it a shake.
"Are you alright, Pans?"
"I'm perfectly alright, you lunatic."
He continued to gently nudge her in the air like a drunk moth flirting with a flame.
"I think that counts as a foul," Pansy said crossly, having had enough of being bumped in the air and dodged downwards, though not cross enough that her smile disappeared.
"We haven't started playing Quidditch yet."
Pansy growled at him, emotions frayed, before changing her bared teeth to an uncomfortable grin as Ron glared at her. Oh gosh, do stop looking like you're about to threaten Charlie. Once Ron had finally flown off to sulkily guard the battered goals, she gave Charlie a stubborn kick in the back.
"Stop this or I'll might forget what's a bludger and what's a Charlie Weasley."
Like most Wizarding families, Christmas Quidditch was a hallowed tradition. Team Alliance had Charlie (Seeker), Pansy (Beater, naturally), Bill and Fleur (Chasers/Keepers), and Luna (probably a Keeper… if she stopped studying the gnomes lurking at the bottom of the rusted goal posts. On the other side, the Rebellion, Harry had taken his natural position as Captain and Seeker (which Pansy found odd, seeing as Ginny was now playing professionally), George (her equivalent, and equally horrified, Beater), then with sub-team Grumpy Ron, Hermione and Ginny as Chasers/Keepers. It was wordlessly decided all the Chasers would be Keepers on the mutual knowledge that, despite their titanic talents elsewhere, it was unlikely that Luna would concentrate enough to catch the Quaffle and Hermione would concentrate too much to catch it. A team of one chaser made a pretty poor game.
Pansy tried not to smile at Hermione's discomfort on the broom, thinking really she should be expressing sympathy. This was very, very, very difficult seeing as Hermione was her academic superior in most things, except Care of Magical Creatures, Divination, and that latter part of second year where she spent most of the time petrified in the hospital wing. Pansy had rocked that year, despite living in abject terror.
Pansy wasn't too bothered with these thoughts - it wasn't like she was a natural altruist, only an endeavoring one. She was her own, problematic favorite.
Bill and Fleur were, inevitably, brilliant players. Pansy was intensely aware of trying to purposely wrap up her jealousy whenever she looked a Fleur. She was so angular and elegant and purposeful, and reminded her quite stunningly of Daphne. That thought was an odd punch to the gut, but it made smiling and laughing with Fleur easier ("Ma chere, it is so good to see Charlie wiz such a elegant woman. I do wonder about those wranglers, so").
Charlie's competitiveness had undergone a polite rebrand. Without any words of unpleasantness, Pansy could tell he was leaning into the wind a little harder, trying to make his nimble Cleansweep keep up with the impressiveness of the Firebolt. As always, he looked relaxed, which Pansy could now see as a sign of tension. Perhaps it was a habit from working with the dragons. If you're in a dangerous situation, the trick was to stay calm, at least on the surface. His heart was on the snitch.
The match was heated. In twenty minutes, Ginny had scored twenty points and even Ron had dodged passed Fleur to score a surprising goal. However, Fleur was a past Triwizard champion and furiously competitive, and managed to score a consecutive two goals, one by flying straight threw Ron and the other when someone accidentally passed the ball to Hermione.
George smacked a bludger into Bill's direction causing him to roll off course and drop the Quaffle into Ginny's waiting grip.
"Careful there, old man, can't let your wife do all the work," laughed George.
Pansy had up until then been doing a pretty second-rate job. She felt that smacking a bludger toward any of the opposing team would come across a bit vindictive and murder-y, even though it was technically how you played the game. Also, she felt anchored to Luna who was flying three foot off the ground and watching the gnomes interact at the foot of the goal posts. Abandoning her while a rogue bludger flew about felt dangerous and idiotic.
However, at this vaguely sexist comment Pansy felt marginally justified in whacking the bludger toward George's head. The Weasley dodged, dropping in the air and releasing a very satisfying shriek. Sadly, this was not the most tactical of moves and Ron scored yet another goal.
The game became more frenzied, and Pansy felt herself become gradually more involved. George was safe game to hit the bludger toward, especially as he seemed rather compromised at doing the same thing back to her. Ginny was also okay to aim for purely because there was no way Pansy would end up hitting her. At one point, Pansy considered lobbing the thing at Ron to see if he's face would convey anything other than 'confused and betrayed' but decided to miss on purpose because she did not want to give him the satisfaction.
Forty-Twenty
Forty-Forty
Sixty-Forty
Sixty-Fifty
And then Harry dove-
He dodged from the top of the pitch, and streaked past Hermione almost toppling her off her broom. Pansy's heart was in her throat as she saw Charlie almost fall in an attempt to catch up with him. He had been facing the opposite direction and upon hearing everyone's cheer had pulled his broom straight up, turning himself 180 degrees and pelted toward Harry upside-down, his back to the ground.
With sickening excitement Pansy watched them race to an unseen speck in the grass. George raised his arm and aimed the bludger toward them both, causing them to effortlessly disperse and dodge, before collecting together. Charlie was still upside-down on his broom trying to reduce any unnecessary movement that might slow his path. The looked like stars, an impossible, inevitable, deadly path before them.
They were now parallel to the ground, and then, with a flurry they disappeared into the snow.
And
all
was
silent
Slowly the teams crept towards the still snow. Air clasped in their throats and lungs, unmoving.
A victorious hand burst from the ground, holding the golden snitch tight, and a caught breath was released by all.
A black head of hair followed it. Pansy rolled her eyes. Obviously.
"Well done, Harry!" yelled Bill, landing next to him and helping him off the ground. "I can't remember when I saw such as close race to the snitch. Probably the Austria-France game in '89."
Harry laughed. "There was a second where I thought I might lose an arm. Charlie really gave me a run for my money… Charlie?"
There was an eruption of snow, and a bright red head finally appeared. A deep rich laugh echoed from his mountainous shoulders as he spat snow out his mouth and shook his wet hair like a dog. Harry offered him a hand up, which Charlie accepted without pause.
Before letting go of his grasp, Charlie brought him into a hug, thumping Harry's shoulder.
"Well played. I don't think anyone's ever beaten me in a race like that before. No wonder I'm now Wood's second favourite Seeker."
"Third favourite," added Ginny, lightly leaping off her broom. "Good game, though. Pansy's got quite an arm on her."
Pansy looked at her, shocked, before realizing this comment was a reward for Charlie's kindness to Harry. Ginny gave her an even look.
Harry looked exceptionally pleased at this comment, as he did about all minor kindnesses. It reminded Pansy's about her first impression of the Boy Who Lived all those years ago – he looked starved, so hungry for love and food, so ready to leap into battle for anyone who would show it to him.
"A silly game," muttered Fleur. "In France we play… I don't know the word. Croquet, but with flying horses. It is much more elegant than this balls nonsense."
Ginny barely suppressed an annoyed groan before declaring it was time for Christmas lunch, and if anyone delayed her further she would have now qualms about Bat Bogeying them to Boxing Day.
"Making new friends?" Pansy whispered to Charlie as they fell behind the others. He put a large arm over her, tucking her into the corner of him.
"Have to bury the hatchet at some point," he admitted, blue eyes roaming her face. "And it was honestly the best race I've ever had. I even elbowed him pretty severely in the stomach and he still beat me to the snitch."
"Charlie, sometimes I can't quite work out whether you're mad or concussed."
"Most likely a bit of both. I was dropped on the head a lot as a child."
"That's a very Slytherin tactic you employed."
"Hmm, well, it was only a matter of time before you truly corrupted me. And in my defense… he is the Chosen one."
Behind them, Harry and Ron packed up the Quidditch equipment and made a strident effort to walk past Charlie and Pansy as quickly as possible. In those few uncomfortable moments of parallel walking, Pansy made a decision.
She shrugged herself from Charlie, and called to Harry, who looked beyond surprised that she were speaking directly to him.
"Hello. Just before we go back… Pot – Harry, sorry about that awkward situation where I suggested we gave you up to old psychotic demon-face. No hard feelings."
Ron's mouth dropped and looked in danger of dislocating itself.
"Er, sure. Thanks, Pansy." Harry said, blinking uncomfortably.
"It's just that everyone was in danger and there was a lot of murder going on. I was pretty in favor of stopping it. Less in favor of you at the time, but in hindsight I do realize that you lot probably had the moral high ground. Relatively. Though really, in a way I was cutting to the chase because you did end up giving yourself up. Less people might have died if you went along that first-"
"Do we need to talk about what apologies are, Pansy?" Charlie said in a stage whisper behind her.
"This isn't an apology, Charlie. I said I'm sorry it was awkward… Okay, it is an apology. I'm just not very… well practiced at them. While we're at it, do you need to apologize or admit anything? Any bad thoughts or unpopular opinions-"
"I think I hear Mum," Charlie interrupted before fireman's lifting Pansy out of there.
Ron and Harry looked at them uncomprehendingly.
"So odd. They're just… so odd."
Pansy let out a quiet breath. All seemed to be okay.
They'd got to two o'clock, all squashed in the Weasley kitchen prepared for the Christmas meal. Her stomach was practically singing for the glazed turkey and the wealth of vegetables. Everything felt bathed in a warm, buttery glow.
The day hadn't even gone that bad. There had been no harsh words – nothing beyond the painfully hard looks Granger shot her, and she'd even told Harry she was kind of sorry about that one awkward situation. So they were probably going to be best mates now.
(No, not even Pansy was convinced by that. Though it would drive Draco hilariously up the wall if it were true).
She did worry that Hermione was trying to make her head explode with wandless magic – but she was getting on so well with Mrs Wealsey and Fleur that it would probably be too rude. The general atmosphere between her and the three was a chilled silence as they all tried their best to forget the other was there. They just weren't going to talk – which Pansy was more than happy with. Not addressing her years as a raging cunt and that one awkward time on the Inquisitional Squad… and the giving up Harry thing, was more than fine with Pansy. Manouvering round the elephant in the room made it feel reassuringly like a Parkinson Christmas. All they needed was for her brother to become secretly sloshed, her father to retire to bed early and for Talitha and herself to fall out. Loudly.
Pansy imagined what they might be doing at Malfoy Manor at this point. They'd probably all still be asleep, easing into their hangovers for a Christmas of foul and expensive spirits (both alcoholic and emotional). Those with families would have returned home, leaving the stragglers.
Would it have been a pleasant Christmas? Possibly… Their love and loyalty is true. Pansy was not sure how long the joy would have been drawn out. She would have been aware of Draco's marital cage, and they would all repugnantly joke about why they were there. It might have been more wake than Christmas.
Still her heart longed for them. She was not sure whether a Christmas there would have been better than here, she was not sure whether her disappearance was a treachery. Yet there was no denying how her stomach leapt when Charlie smiled at her, and there was something old, stoking in her watching this family be a family. Ignoring the fact that a fair number of them refused to speak or even look at her.
"Mum, there's an owl at the window," said George with his mouth full of turkey.
Mrs Weasley tutted, muttering something about how it's a terrible interruption before realizing the post was for Pansy, and utterly insisting she open it.
"Go on, love, it might be your family."
The first letter was from Draco and was written in his over the top script on a napkin. This was most likely Malfoy's idea of an insult. An ironic and expensive insult when the napkins in Malfoy manor were as creamy and soft as ermine.
Pansy held the cloth in her hand, as her eyes rolled and stomach dropped.
Parkinson,
What the actual fuck.
I've no idea where this blasted owl will end up, but I want you to come back immediately. I don't want to entertain these people by myself, Pansy. Lucien Bole's vomited in the Venetian urn and Blaise keeps glaring at me with a victorious hatred that suggests he's urinated in my shoes.
Accusing you of selfishness is pointless as you're just as selfish as I am. You're mine, just as I'm yours. Even if we don't continue with this matrimonial nonsense, I don't want you to spend Christmas alone, addled with gin, ruining you last few good years before your face resembles your soul.
Even if we live together in sin, or just as friends (because you're my friend Pansy, my best friend, and I don't through that nomenclature round lightly), come back?
Merry Christmas, you traitorous heathen.
Mine, always,
DLM
She would deal with that clusterfuck later. Her feelings were all boxed up like gifts, waiting to be dealt with - the Draco box, the Talitha box, the brother box, the miscellaneous guilt box. She would come to them in time.
The next parchment was from Millicent.
Merry Christmas, my darling! I hope you're alright. Blaise says you are (in fact his phrase was "better than she's been for the past decade"), and Draco seems to be throwing a right tizz. Theo's of the opinion that Draco deserves whatever has happened to elicit your disappearance. However, I do feel a touch robbed of you on Christmas. I bet you'd be a right dictator. I bet they'd be enforced and organized fun, and eggnog that we simply had to love on pain of death.
Instead, Draco's on the whiskey, Blaise is on the boys and Theo and I are…. Well, perhaps Christmas is pretty much as it would have been.
As your best friend, I do feel I need to tell you that whatever the state Draco and yourself are in, his current behaviour with Astoria Greengrass is disgusting. Basically, he's throwing a right strop over you but keeps showing off. He even insinuated how expensive the drapes were. Astoria is irritated and repulsed by him – but only in such a way that you would be if you were in any way interested in someone.
The child has only been here a day, whereas you've been here since the beginning. I'm not doing anything more than being absolutely lovely to her (for Daphne's memory), but if you wanted to stride in and do something about it you have complete right to.
I do hope you're alright. Have the best of Christmases wherever you are.
My love, Millie
I shall, Pansy thought smugly, warmed by her friend and feeling oddly superior at her Draco-Astoria prediction. There was a slight quake in her soul, part guilt and part knowledge of her tricky position in The Burrow. She put that feeling in another box.
The next envelope was bright, festive red.
"Wait," Luna said, as her fingers tore at the sealed lip. "That looks like a Howle-"
Pansy's life dissolved in front of her in a scream of threats and nightmares.