Pansy pressed against him, the warmth of his hard chest soaking into her. The lips she had been staring at for months now finally - finally - pushed against hers, Neville's tongue sweeping into her mouth without hesitation. The desperate staring they had both been so guilty of, the jealousy and insecurity, it all dissolved under his fingers as they wandered up her waist, slipping under her blouse and clinging to her ribs just to pull her closer. She lost herself under his kiss and became a floating thing in the ether.
Pansy jerked awake, shaken from the dream that had been playing on repeat for weeks.
It was official: Pansy Parkinson had lost control of her attraction to Neville Longbottom.
…
Pansy Parkinson was always in control.
Around age 13, when friends (ahem, Daphne Greengrass) began to lose their baby fat and grow tall and curvy, her mother pointed out the pudge that was not disappearing from her arms or middle- just as the boys in her house (ahem, Blaise fucking Zabini) started to point out that her chest had stayed relatively flat. So the most expensive and convincing push-up bras were bought. Her skirts were hemmed half an inch shorter to show off her one redeeming feature, her long legs. She bribed the house elves to provide diet options at the Slytherin table, flavorless salmon, broccoli, spinach, and chicken breasts which she drowned in lemon juice, a bowl of slices appearing wherever she sat.
Beginning her fifth year, early every morning she donned a Slytherin house jumper and ran three miles past the greenhouse and around the lake. She assured that she arrived back at the castle looking fetchingly windblown- never sweaty or frizzy despite the overwhelming humidity. Pansy worked hard. Her mother told her that Draco Malfoy- and the Malfoy fortune- was hers- if she earned it. She was responsible for keeping him happy, attracted, and satisfied. Every day.
She did everything at the right time, in the right way. She lost her virginity to Draco Malfoy at exactly 16. Not too early (Tracey Davis had fallen "in love" and into bed with the obviously gay and overcompensating Theo Nott) but early enough to evade the dreaded moniker, "prude." She wore the right underwear and made the right sounds. She ignored him when his eyes wandered to the Gryffindor table.
When everyone started drinking, she learned all about wine and liquor. She read- Granger wasn't the only one capable of it- about cocktails and made sure she could mix them well. She developed an admirable tolerance, delicately walking the line between loose and in control at every sloppy Slytherin party.
By the time they all came of age, she preferred a martini with a twist and religiously stuck to her 1200 calories a day. She wore designer, not that half the witches in Hogwarts even knew magical designers, and her nails, hair, and skin glowed with a healthful perfection that bordered on inappropriate when there was a war going on outside. It wasn't luck, or genetics, or money (although that certainly helped). It was an exacting and self-inflicted control that made Pansy Parkinson who she was.
So when Draco Malfoy, fresh out of his six-month stint in Azkaban, came to her with an heirloom diamond and asked for her hand, for her help recovering both his life and his family name, she knew she had succeeded in her goal.
…
October 2008
"Hello, darling." Pansy walked into the restaurant two minutes past the time they had set for dinner and walked up to her husband, kissing him on the cheek with full faith in her smudge-proof lipstick and, prompting her husband to pull out her chair, tucking her into it with a comforting formality before seating himself.
"Pansy." Draco began, his voice tense and shaky. "I need to talk to you about-"
The waiter interrupted, delivering their drinks and reading the specials. Pansy had never cared less about scallops or risotto. Draco ordered for them both as she resisted the urge to run.
Desperate to take control of the conversation, Pansy began before Draco could resume his ominous speech. "We should begin planning the new year's party, don't you think?" She fidgeted with the napkin in her lap, folding the over-washed cotton into smaller and smaller triangles. "I know it's early, but guests really do expect invitations six weeks in advance at the least nowadays."
Draco nodded, distracted by his unseemly decision to chug his glass of wine. Pansy coughed politely, chiding him in the secret language of the wealthy pureblood. "Draco. Is something wrong?" Every inch of Pansy's skin was alert. Nothing was wrong. Nothing could be wrong. She was holding it all together with pure force of will- their marriage, the Malfoy name, herself. She felt made of glass, she thought, vulnerable to the smallest crack shattering everything she was and had built.
Finishing his wine, surely a waste of a 20 galleon glass, Draco reached for Pansy's hand. "You're my best friend."
"Obviously, Draco, don't be dull."
Draco shook his head, that one rebellious and charming lock of his platinum hair falling into his eyes, making Pansy's hands itch to fix it. He stared at the table. Coward. His voice was hard, quiet, and afraid. He sounded sixteen again and terrified. "I can't be married to you anymore, Pans."
Pansy pulled her hand away, her mind suddenly blank. She waited for him to explain, waited for rage, an emotion she was well acquainted with, to take over. Gripping her napkin with both hands, wondering if she accidentally tore the fabric and how she would explain that to the five-star restaurant.
His eyes were pleading now, the steel gray she had grown so comfortable with pale and watery and pathetic. "I'm so sorry. I hope you know- it's not our life. It's not you." He was fidgeting now, his tongue unfurling cliches she was sure she would never have to hear. "You've been so perfect- the perfect Lady Malfoy, you know that." Pansy hid a mean scoff with a sip of her martini, the light lemon flavor comforting her.
He wanted her to push back, to be irrational, unreasonable, and angry. She could see, in the shape of his mouth, that he wanted her to speak. She could refuse him that, at least. Let him falter his way through.
"It's- the problem is, I-"
Pansy was pretty sure she could finish the rest of the sentence. She could fill in the rest of the evening, most likely. She half-listened, gracefully gesturing to the young, attractive bartender for another for both of them.
He was in love with Hermione Granger. Obviously. Their collaboration at work in the Department of Magical Law had brought them together and healed their past, no doubt. Pansy could clearly imagine the tawdry, pathetic sex they had surely had on some ugly ministry desk, thinking their love was so uniquely forbidden and pre-destined.
She interrupted whatever pitiful tirade he was continuing to ask the only question that mattered: "Have you fucked her?"
She watched his eyes with a frightening intensity, knowing how they widened slightly and how his eyebrows would come together just slightly if he lied. Draco stared at her, even his pupils pale and weak. "No," he shook his head gently, with a terrible pity in the softness of his voice. "Not yet…no, no of course not."
Not for the first time, flashes ran through her mind: Draco's hand lingering on Granger's thigh under an ugly table in a beige conference room, her small unmanicured hand on his cheek as they narrowly avoided kissing for the hundredth time; the wild relief that even a taste of his touch on her calves or her hand pressed against the front of his trousers would have given them; all the tension and overpowering desire that Pansy had never given him. The images were painfully familiar- the terrible waiting for this inevitability had lived in her unguarded moments for years.
Pansy imagined that Granger wore plain underwear and put that insane hair of hers up into an uncontrolled bun while she focused during meetings. Draco probably loved that about her, she thought, how undone she could be, how different from Pansy she was in her vulnerability, her willingness to look a complete mess. Pansy wondered if they had had some sort of overly dramatic scene confessing their feelings. It had rained a few weeks ago- she could picture it, Granger the bedraggled, tearful heroine, Draco comforting her with the same tight, strong hug Pancy knew so well.
A burning anger started in her chest. She wanted to vomit, to run, to weep. She wanted to scream. She waited for her body to rebel against her self-control, to explode with some - any - kind of reaction. Pansy was too well trained, it seemed. Even now, when it was beyond appropriate- it was expected, really. Her lips fell into a hard line, pressed tight as if she could pinch them enough to make herself tear up.
The waiter brought their second drinks, and Pansy focused on the man across from her again. He was still talking, growing more emotional by the minute. Unlike her. Well, clearly she would have to be the grown-up for them both- as always.
Setting her cocktail aside, she reached for Draco's hand, his signet ring rubbing against her diamond wedding bands. His pale face was open, and she searched it, finding regret and fear and something like relief. "It's alright."
And it would be. Pansy was sure of it. It always had been, and it would be now. She had always, always, held everything together, and why would this be any different? She swallowed the fire in her sternum, pushing it all down.
"I'm going to take care of you, Pans." He released her hand, sitting up, finding something like his dignity again thank merlin.
She laughed- a cool, sad ringing bell. "Of course, you will." She took a sip of her drink, demonstrating to him the polite way to fall apart in public before remembering that was no longer her responsibility.
"I don't want to lose you in my life."
She glared at that, letting her voice cut into cruelty for the first time. "Don't you?"
Draco shook his head sadly. She resisted the desire to roll her eyes, sighing quietly instead. This was exhausting.
"Okay." She nodded, not comforting, but granting him a little assurance. She found it easy to do so, to her own surprise. "You won't, then. We'll stay friends. I'm not coming to any bloody wedding-"
He sputtered, attempting to deny what she was sure he intended. She wondered vaguely if he had already picked out a plain little ring- nothing with the stain of the Malfoy legacy on it, surely, nothing ostentatious. Pansy just raised a single brow, silencing him. "And frankly, I don't really care to be her friend. But-" Pansy felt her heart sink a little, knowing she was speaking honestly and wishing, once more, that anger had come instead, that this had been less easy to accept, less predictable. "You've always been my idiot, Draco Malfoy, and I can't see changing that anytime soon." She took another drink, finding her glass nearly empty once more. "Frankly, I imagine we'll have enough change to deal with."
That night, Pansy and Draco Malfoy got properly drunk and slept together for the last time. Neither of them asked for it, and neither felt it was wrong. It was honest, maybe some of the most honest sex they had ever had. There were no excessive moans or desperate kisses. They said goodbye to each other's bodies as they would, over the next few weeks, their belongings and scents and little habits. When she woke, in their giant, luxurious four-poster bed, he was gone.
...
December 31, 2008
Pansy smoothed the bodice of the silver-so-pale-it-was-nearly-white gown, turning to check her silhouette in her reflection. The dress shimmered as she moved, the off-the-shoulder neckline highlighting her long neck, her bare legs visible and muscular under a sheer tulle skirt that had a slit all the way up to her hip. Pansy had worn black to the Malfoy's Annual Black & White New Years Eve Ball every year since it had been hers to plan. The hostess, she believed, should both blend into the background and be spotted easily at any time. A delicate balance that she had dismissed this year- her last year as the Lady Malfoy. This year, she had decided, she would remind her public how much more than a hostess she was.
No. Tonight, mere weeks before she and Draco announced their divorce, she was a fucking spectacle. Draco's ring shone on her left hand, the last time she would wear it before a jeweler would melt it down and redesign the diamonds and emeralds into something unrecognizable.
Floating into the ballroom and foyer, Pansy checked that the staff was dressed appropriately and prepared. The champagne was perfectly chilled. The decor was classic and tasteful without verging towards antiquated. The floo was open, and Draco's office was stocked with liquor and cigars. The tall glass doors opened to charmed-warm terraces that overlooked the magically lit gardens below, peacocks strolling amongst the marble and greenery.
She scoffed at the idea of Hermione Granger, who had once shocked the wizarding world by merely looking passable for a ball, managing to pull off anything like this.
For Pansy, the planning had been a relief. While Draco had worked out a (more than) fair divorce settlement with the Malfoy lawyers who had many times tried to convince him to be less generous to his soon-to-be ex-wife, she had poured herself into the event.
Narcissa, who had spent years under house arrest in one of their many chateaus in France, had nonetheless managed to control the guest list from afar until she had passed two years ago. Last year, at the urging of the now annoyingly liberal Theo Nott and hyper-conscious of social trends Daphne Greengrass, the Malfoys had opened the ball to include all veterans of the second wizarding war. Few had attended, perhaps post-traumatically paranoid of it being a trap.
Which was fair. Pansy flattered herself that she would excel at planning such occasions should she ever have the need to do so.
This year, the affirmative responses had exploded. It seemed that half of their Hogwarts class was attending, though Pansy had confirmed with Draco that Granger would not be among them. She absolutely would not have them making eyes at each other for everyone to see and whisper about. No Granger had, apparently, meant no Weasley or Potter, to her and Draco's great relief.
"You'll realize the idiots will be permanent fixtures in your life, now, don't you? They probably have little Golden Trio sleepovers." Pansy had tormented her husband upon receiving the declined invitations, to his great distress.
Draco had begun sleeping in one of the guest bedrooms…when he did stay at the Manor. Pansy glanced down the hall towards his suite, wondering if he was there, if he was getting dressed yet, if she needed to push him along to be timely - if that was even her job anymore.
Only an hour later, a dressed and falsely, perfectly cheerful Draco was greeting guests as they entered through the floo in the foyer, a growing and increasingly celebratory crowd pouring into the ballroom where she expertly managed the energy and pace of the party.
By 11pm, the majority of the expected guests had arrived, including the Minister and her cabinet, as well as no less than eight major quidditch stars. Pansy counted at least twenty people who might have pointed a wand at her without hesitation had the war gone on any longer, currently eating her hors d'oeuvres and drinking her carefully selected champagne.
Pansy was drinking quite a bit of it herself, actually, privately both celebrating and mourning her successful final duty as Draco's wife.
She was dancing with Blaise, who could always be counted on as a reliable dance partner who provided the ideal amount of outfit appreciation from a (mostly) straight male, when Draco cut in with a graceful tap to Blaise's shoulder.
Draco took her waist in his sure hand, warm through the thin fabric, and guided her through the next steps without missing a beat. "Did I tell you that you look beautiful tonight?"
Pansy carefully blushed, smiling for the public surrounding them. "Mm." She responded coldly. "Thank you for wearing what I laid out." A little reminder- you asked to be free of me, just wait to see all the little things you will lose. "You read over the toast?" She nodded towards the magically enlarged clock on the wall behind the small stage at the front of the room. "We should go up in a few."
Draco nodded with an uninterested assurance. "Of course. You really do think of everything."
"Yes, well. Do try not to fuck it up."
He wasn't looking at her, spinning them around the floor with practiced precision. "You won't be stuck with me much longer, I promise. Everything is all worked out."
She nodded stiffly. As if that was what she had wanted- to be rid of him. "Yes, well, I'm sure she is getting tired of being patient. Do thank her for that kindness." Her voice was sharp, low enough that no one could hear, a polite grin on her lips.
"Pans" he warned as if Granger was nearby and she was the one doing the harm in this situation.
Her wand buzzed in her dress pocket- the alarm she had set. "That's five til- let's go." Reliable at least in his manners, Draco guided her gracefully towards and up the small stairs of the short stage. He held his wand to his throat, amplifying it to reach across the room. The orchestra gently lowered their sound.
The speech was nonsense, as it usually was. What a year, blah blah blah, with brighter things in our future. A special note about the anniversary of the war and thanking the veterans (the victors, she had been tempted to specify, as most of the other veterans were spending their holiday in prison). "This wonderful occasion is credited entirely to the genius of my beautiful wife" Draco adlibbed to great applause. Pansy resisted the urge to roll her eyes.
In a few weeks, she would no longer be the thinnest, happiest, richest witch in England. She'd be no one's beautiful wife. She'd be the Death Eaters daughter that the reformed Draco Malfoy had wisely left for the golden girl of the wizarding world. Pansy lifted her glass in unison with the crowd, who toasted to the new year and all the fullness it promised as the clock chimed.
Privately, she toasted to the blankness that lie ahead of her, sipped her champagne, and kissed her husband on the lips for the last time.