Pansy found Daphne and Blaise where they stood in the back of the ballroom, looking exactly like a couple of young parents who hadn't been out of bed past midnight in over a year. Draped in a flawlessly fitted off-the-shoulder cream crepe gown, Daphne's head lay on Blaise's tuxedoed shoulder.
"Greengrass" Pansy snapped at her best and oldest friend. "Are you actually asleep? Merlin, I knew the party was miserable but I didn't think it was that bad."
Daphne jerked her head up and blinked prettily, opening her mouth to deny it. Blaise surveyed the guests behind her as she spoke.
"Oh don't bother," Pansy held in a laugh, sneaking a grin at them knowing the rest of the guests could only see her back. "I would do the same. All the decent people will be leaving within the next half hour- you may as well lead the charge."
Pansy watched as Blaise's eyes tracked something behind her. "Too late for that" he mumbled to himself. Daphne hit his arm in reprimand.
Pansy braced herself, but even prepared, the sight of Draco, leather weekender in hand and headed towards the floo, hit her in the gut. And if Blaise had noticed…he wouldn't be the only one.
Thoughtless. Stupid. Selfish.
"Right." Pansy gathered herself and plastered on her best hostess smile. "You two should head home to your babies."
She leaned in to hug Daphne, whose expression was both relieved and unsure. "Are you sure you're okay?"
"Darling," Pansy's tone held a hint of warning, "have I ever not been okay?"
"Not once in your life." Daphne loyally assured her.
"Exactly. There's no reason to start now." Pansy's voice had grown increasingly tense and high-pitched.
"I certainly can't think of one" Blaise quipped, receiving Pansy's glare in response. He quickly hooked his arm around his wife and steered her towards the floo.
An hour later, Pansy was confident that those guests who remained- a handful of young people still spinning around the dance floor, with a few new (or temporary) couples hidden in shadowy corners, and a dozen or so men her parents' age still debating current legislative nonsense in the smoking room- had no intention to cut their fun off any time soon and were all plastered enough to be unlikely to remember tomorrow.
Deeming it safe enough to do so, in that no one remaining seemed to have any interest in spending time with her, Pansy made herself a plate of a few remaining hors devours, the first thing she'd eat today, and wrapped her palm around the neck of a good bottle of gin.
Armed with a warming charm and the numbness the liquor provided, she walked outside, finding her favorite bench in the twinkling gardens she so loved.
Sure, she had never gotten her own hands dirty in the acres of trees and bushes and blooming flowers that the Malfoy estate was covered in, but she oversaw those who did, and with the strictest instructions. The lawns and gardens were immaculate if she did say so herself, without appearing unnaturally symmetrical or overly organized.
Plopping herself on the bench near the garden rose bushes that left her mostly hidden from the many terraces, she took a long swig of the gin and dug into the finger foods.
The champagne that had already filled her stomach mixed with the gin, making her feel floaty and strange, and more than a little sorry for herself. Conjuring a cigarette, she closed her eyes and let the many sensations flood her body.
Pansy heard the steps first and assumed it was partygoers getting fresh air. She grabbed her wand and vanished her plate, quickly disappearing the cigarette and transforming the bottle of gin into a proper cocktail glass.
The way the clouds covered the moon, she couldn't tell who approached until he turned onto the path directly in front of her.
Neville Longbottom, of all people, was lingering near her dahlias and magical English snapping lotuses, fingering the leaves carefully. He seemed to not realize she was behind him.
She rattled the ice in her glass, quietly alerting him to her presence. The tall man turned quickly, his right hand pulling his wand out of his coat with impressive speed.
Pansy gave him a flat look and tilted her head, considering him. He had been all over the Daily Prophet a few years ago. While receiving the Order of Merlin for his thirty seconds of sword-wielding, it had been discovered that the clumsy, useless lump had grown into someone objectively and shockingly handsome. His once chubby figure had stretched tall and broadened in the shoulders, thinning his chin and uncovering hidden cheekbones and a strong jaw.
Tonight he was a dressed up and rather awkward-looking version of all of the photos in the paper that she had briefly admired and then thoroughly mocked.
"It wouldn't do to curse a woman in her own home, would it, Longbottom? Even you aren't so classless."
Neville shoved the wand into his pocket. "Er. Sorry. Didn't see you there."
"You were too busy getting intimate with my flowers."
The clouds moved, and the flush on his neck was barely visible and painfully endearing in the moonlight. "Your herbologist is very good. Many of these flowers are impossible to bloom in the winter."
"Mm." Pansy took a sip of her gin. "It's called money. Makes nearly anything possible."
He gestured to her bare arms and legs. "Aren't you, um, cold out here?"
She shook her head, tilting her neck back as the liquor rushed to her head. "Not at all. Just a little bit of rage, Longbottom, will always keep you warm."
"Ah." He shuffled awkwardly where he stood directly in front of her, looking down at his feet. "I had heard a rumor but-"
Pansy cut him off with a harsh glare.
Draco may not have slept with her yet, but he was certainly being indiscreet.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean… I'm sure it isn't true." Neville rambled, his shoulders shrinking away all of the tall confidence he had walked with a moment ago.
"Don't be an idiot. Of course, it's true. Read the papers in a week, you'll see."
"Oh." He almost looked more disappointed than she had been. Such unnecessary emotion. What did Draco see in these Gryffindors?
"Don't you dare pity me." She pulled out her wand, ignoring his slight flinch as she charmed her glass to fill and took a deep drink.
The liquor warmed her veins, clouding her concentration and lowering her guard. She thought out loud, half forgetting that she had an audience. "He always wanted her, you know. I'm not blind. It was third year, maybe fourth? Suddenly he worshipped her. He set her up on a great pedestal and made it impossible to climb. And I just…I need to know, I think, is it too much to ask? For the rest of us, us mortals, to be…
"Worshipped?" his voice was soft and overly intimate, making her lips part in a silent gasp.
Neville took a half step closer to her, something unseeable stopping him short, but the intention wasn't lost on her. You, she thought with the sort of clarity only champagne brought, you know how to worship a woman. She took a luxuriating, pensive sip from her glass, eyeing him.
"Have you ever worshipped someone, Longbottom?"
Even in the limited light emitted from the twinkling garden, she could see his adam's apple dip as he gulped.
"I bet you have. You look like you'd know how."
He wiped his palms against his trousers, avoiding her eyes, but he didn't stop her. He didn't leave.
"I bet you take your time, don't you?" She looked him up and down. "Yes. Yes, I can see your head between her legs, just grateful to be there. I bet you love a girl on top, am I right? Just staring up at her." She scoffed. "I bet you've fucked Granger. The Goddess. Bet she got sloshed on a single glass of wine and let you adore her, just for one night. Well. You didn't do it well enough, hate to break it to you." She poured the remainder of her glass down her throat in a single, practiced swallow.
"No." He said, his voice quiet but firm.
"No?" Pansy questioned drily, eager to pick and pull at him until she felt better about herself, until she felt powerful again. "No, you don't know how to properly fuck a woman?"
"No, I never slept with Hermione."
She rolled her eyes with exaggerated disgust. "Please don't tell me you're a virgin still - at nearly thirty, even you can't possibly-"
"No." He cut her off. His tone was sharp but lacked the edge of cruelty. As if to prove his point, he dragged his eyes down her body, lingering on her bared legs and chest.
Pansy repressed a shiver at the force of it.
"Fascinating" she drawled, standing up without her usual grace, her left ankle bending to the will of the tall shoe it was strapped to.
Still too far away to do so, Neville made as if to catch her. She smirked at him and stepped closer, hips swaying, drawing his gaze. "You want me, don't you, little war hero?" He took a step backward- a weak denial. "You do. You want me and you hate yourself for it."
As she stepped slowly closer to him, she inhaled an earthy, clean, overwhelmingly male scent, and glimpsed drunkenly at his eyes, the light brown reflecting her own dark features. He held his ground, but his lips were pressed together in a hard line.
Pansy stopped when she could have reached out and pulled him to her if only she would dig her long fingernails into his plain dress robes; she didn't. She held his eyes, unyielding, merciless. A reckless, silent challenge. Wordless permission in the way her body bent towards his. Take me. A foreign voice in her head whispered. If you want me. Right now. Tonight only. I'm yours.
His voice was not cruel. It was nearly fearful, almost shaking with doubt. "No." He said again, this time with a finality that hit her in the chest and almost made her want to cry. She wasn't even sure what he was denying. Her? Wanting her? Hating himself for hating her? It was a lie either way.
But with a last look in her eyes, he was walking away, leaving her cold and alone in gardens that were no longer hers.
...
July 2009
Ironically, or perhaps inevitably, it was Hermione Granger who brought the job to Pansy's attention. Draco tried to pretend it was him, but everyone involved knew better. It wasn't as though Minerva McGonnagal kept personal correspondence with the wizarding world's most famous reformed Death Eater.
"Slughorn's retiring." Draco told Pansy over one of their monthly "divorced but staying friends and discussing many necessary legal matters" lunches.
Pansy scoffed. "Finally. Ridiculous old man."
Draco grinned. "So McGonagall needs a new Potions Master- and a new head of house."
Pansy gave him her most scornful look. "Oh yeah, and she asked you, did she? Personally?"
Draco blanched, having the good sense to look down at his lunch.
Pansy rolled her eyes at his newfound sensitivity. "Why can't Sinistra take over head?" delaying his answer. "She died a few years ago, remember?"
"Fuck, that's right."
Draco's eyes bulged at Pansy's cursing in the understated yet classy and therefore ridiculously expensive lunch cafe.
"Oh spare me, Draco. I'm not Lady Malfoy anymore, and I'm embracing my little freedoms." Pansy stabbed at her salad determinedly, flashing a smug grin at her ex-husband.
He smiled, a flash of that old boyish smile that she had loved for so many years.
"That's why I'm telling you Pans." He pointed his fork at her accusingly. "I know you're bored out of your wits sitting in that glamorous flat with no one to boss around." He smirked (he was so good at it) at her.
"You forget," Pansy responded haughtily, "I have Stewart now."
He grimaced. "I can't believe you got a dog."
"Well, I no longer live with a spoiled man-child who has to be the most beloved thing in every room."
"You mean, who is deathly allergic?"
Pansy shrugged. "Potato, potato"
Draco laughed but resumed his offensive cutlery pointing. "I think you should do it."
"Do what?" Pansy had lost the thread.
"Be Potions Master."
If Pansy had been a very different kind of woman, she might have done a spit take. She was not, and would never be, that kind of woman.
"Absolutely not."
"You're qualified- you got your NEWT, and you've been brewing everything for our house and our friends for the last seven years. You'll be good at it, especially the telling people what to do part. And, worst of all, you'll have fun."
"I didn't like children when I was one, Draco, why on earth would I choose to spend my time with them now?"
This was the problem with staying friends with your ex-husband, Pansy had quickly discovered. He was the person that knew her best. He knew, as they sat down for lunch, what she wanted. He knew what to say, what desert she secretly would like exactly two bites of,
"Just consider it." he said, and dropped the topic, knowing full well that it was far more likely to happen if she was left alone to overthink it.
...
September 1996
"Potter's cheating, he has to be. He's always been shite at potions and at least Snape didn't fall for his little hero act. Slughorn is a sycophant. My father said he always has been a sucker…"
Pansy tuned out the whining she had been hearing for nearly a month as she carefully counted the counter-clockwise circles she stirred. At least, she thought to herself, it was a new version of the usual Potter rant.
"Are you listening, Pans?"
"Of course, baby. I'm sure he's cheating off of Granger again."
"Mm." Draco grunted his agreement.
"You need to distract yourself," she said as she carefully diced the extremely delicate Asian tadpoles. "Is the team coming together?"
That had him going for a good six minutes while she maneuvered the NEWT-level potion to a phase where she could freeze it and give it to Draco with a few final steps to complete in class. Checking Slughorn's lesson plans for next week, which she had swiped and copied with a quick spell, she confirmed that the potion was right and that he would have time to replace what he could accomplish himself with the guaranteed- correct version before Slughorn even considered checking on their progress.
Draco had grown quiet.
"At least it's taking your mind off of things, babe. I just don't want you to be too stressed."
"Fuck, Pansy." His platinum hair flipped charmingly as he looked around anxiously. "Shut up in public, would you?"
She repressed a flinch at his sudden snap. Draco had never hurt her- not once- but his anger and paranoia was so bad since he took the mark that she didn't know how to help him.
As she tested the potion's stage with a copper indicator, he rose from the chair he had been slouched in while she worked.
She felt herself melt a little as his arms wrapped around her middle, squeezing her small waist with admiration. His breath was hot against her ear. "Have I told you how helpful you've been?" She felt his hand travel down the flare of her hips, tucking under her the band of her uniform skirt and pulling her shirtails out, giving himself the access she was in no position to deny.
His hand was chilly against the soft skin of her stomach that had been leaned close to the boiling cauldron for an hour, and she shivered, feeling the grin that stretched across his cheeks against her neck. His fingers slowly traced patterns along her taut skin, coaxing her closer, until her bum was pressed against his hard on, making her gasp with practiced femininity. "You're so good at helping me de-stress, baby."
Pansy turned around in his arms, kissing Draco deeply, nibbling at his lower lip the way he liked, relishing the feel of his hands under her shirt, squeezing and gripping and making her his. "You know I'd do anything for you," she whispered into his hair as he started what would almost certainly be a hickey below her collarbone, "I'm yours, Draco Malfoy."
...
The next morning, Pansy awoke at 5 for her morning run and found it difficult to get out of bed. There was nothing, she realized, for her to do afterward. The house was clean- of course it was, the maid came twice a week and no one was dirtying it anyway- Daphne was busy with her newborn twins, and Pansy was caught up on her correspondence, had read the newest popular literature, and even visited her mother earlier this week- she had been that bored.
Pansy looked down at the medium-sized poodle mix that lay at her feet, his tail beginning to wag as he realized she was awake. "What do you think, then, Stewie?"
The dog in question arose, excitedly prancing up the bed and collapsing again next to her chest, offering no answer or advice. Absentmindedly petting his soft curls, she did as Draco asked, out of habit if nothing else, and considered his suggestion.
Pansy wrote to the Headmistress that afternoon, offering her candidacy with as much humility as her not-insignificant ego would allow. She included a caveat- Stewart- and noted her appreciation if he could be allowed to live with her in any offered staff quarters. She shuddered to think what those quarters might look like, but she knew enough charms to make any space suit her needs.
Having house elves was an appealing thought- that was one thing missing from her life, having suffered what should have been the first sign of catastrophe when Draco decided they ought to (forcefully) free all of theirs. She could certainly appreciate no longer cooking every meal she couldn't talk herself out of skipping. And the lake, she thought with surprising longing. Running along the cobblestones of Diagon Alley had been no replacement for the Malfoy gardens, but even they hadn't been quite the same as the grounds she had known so well.
And children…Draco had wanted to wait, and why wouldn't they, when they had married so young? And even as their friends began to pop out little ones, she refused to be the one to bring up the topic in the Malfoy mansion. Yet as particular as she was about things children tended to dismiss as important- hygiene, for example, or manners- she secretly loved reading to Daphne's little monsters, and even Millie's son who would no doubt be a half-illiterate brute like his mother and father before him enjoyed the puzzles they did together when Millie came over for tea. No, as long as she was able to discipline as she saw fit, the children would be fine.
As for Head of Slytherin…well, she'd be the first woman to hold the position in five hundred years. The portrait of Elizabeth Burke hung in her mind's eye- maybe she'd move the racist old genius into her office for inspiration.
Pansy imagined spending her days brewing, concocting, and correcting. She pictured being the one the Headmistress and staff went to for help when they were in need of a potion too complex for them to brew. She did not doubt her own skills. Potions were simply a matter of control, of timing, of paying attention to the details and caring about them. She could smell the dungeon, the fresh mildewy dampness she had never minded, the warm metallic smells of cauldrons, the overwhelming ingredients cabinet she had once spent a particularly enthusiastic afternoon in with Draco during fifth year.
It could be worse, she thought, rubbing Stewart's ears, and at least it would be something different.