Who: Pansy Parkinson and Draco Malfoy
What: Playing catch-up.
Where: by the Great Lake
When: May 18, 1998
Rating: PG-13. It's Pansy and Draco!
Status: Complete



Pansy was, admittedly, a bit on edge. What with the end of the year banging down her figurative door, a real world loomed in front of her. It was a panic-inducing realisation. For years, she'd been raised to believe she was capable of nothing more than marrying well, dressing nicely for fancy parties, and raising the family's heirs. It had taken a while for her to understand that she was allowed her own dreams and could set expectations for herself; she began having thoughts of traveling the world, representing witches and wizards from her country in others. Ideas began to take shape and form and develop. Draco being undeniably hers only wrapped up the pretty package she'd created for herself with a large, flourishing bow.

Then she'd discovered the truth behind her father's business and had wanted to get as far away from his expectations as possible. All Draco's bragging about being in with the Dark Lord turned her stomach ill. As angry and disappointed as she'd been when he'd started to pull away from her, she still pulled herself away, refusing to speak to him one on one and never being seen holding hands or cuddling him in public, until finally it was too late for them.

But all of that was over. She had a future to face, now. With or without him. With or without her father's support. It wouldn't be the illustrious Ministry career she'd once fancied. It couldn't be, not with the Parkinson name as dirtied as many were, even if not quite as low on the pole as the Malfoys, or even the Notts. Just because her father hadn't been marked, didn't mean the Ministry wasn't aware of the goings on in the Parkinson patriarch's office. She'd no longer be able to work in the world that had once fascinated her.

It was heart-wrenching and causing her a great deal of stress. Pansy knew what she needed, and that was some time alone. Time away from Tracey and her pathetic crush on a boy who was obviously still hooked on a mudblood. She needed time away from Millicent and her ability to ruin the Slytherin name in one swoop. She definitely needed to get away from Vince and Greg's empty desks, and that spot in the common room where they'd always stood, hunting first years to torment.

But there was really no reason time alone was required to be spent alone.

She slipped him the note in Flitwick's class, charming it to smell like her as she casually dropped it on his desk on her way back from the rubbish bin.

The lake. Half four. You know where.

She signed it with merely a winking smiley face, and sat back down, hoping she hadn't come across as too forward. But the snug denims and brown suede top she changed into after classes would take care of that if the note hadn't. Pansy's weakness was muggle fashon, and the way the outfit fit her proved why she loved it so. She slid her feet into her shoes before dashing out to the Great Lake, ducking a few branches and climbing carefully over the large rock before she got to the spot she'd always considered theirs. It was secluded, but not so much that she was too close to the bloody forest. Perfect for spending an afternoon snogging the boy--no, the man she was falling for all over again.

The man in question was feeling less like a man and more like a child. Draco had received the note from her with something like relief, as it had not contained yet another scolding. Apparently, Severus was quite serious about owing an apology to Granger, even if Draco had felt it quite sufficed to not comment to her most recent entry and start another war, much as he was in the mood for one. His mood had taken a perverse shift lately, one that provoked and prodded and inflamed old wounds just because it could. Draco was well aware that this was a result of his impending release into the so called "real world," a world he felt less a part of than ever.

The war had done much to ruin the Malfoy name, and so Draco would graduate with little hope beyond what MacMillan's father had offered. His own dreams - fanciful at best and half-complete at worst - were denied forever. Perhaps that was for the best, though, as those dreams had belonged to the child that had once impulsively told Pansy they'd live forever, because he wouldn't allow either of them to die. His will had been indomitable; was still, in ways. It hadn't let him die when he'd wanted to during the war and it wasn't letting him do so now. Instead, it was making him act out in ways that were not terribly subtle, but effective, nonetheless.

Though he did come when her note beckoned. Why, he could not say. Perhaps for a moment of normality, if they could even pretend to be normal anymore. Draco only knew that despite, or mayhap because of, marital whisperings made at the cradle by scheming mothers eager to see their lines continued and their children happily married off, Pansy had been a part of his life for the better part of his eighteen years. He had tried pushing her away and found that that, too, had eaten at what was left of his sanity. He had done it for her sake and his own, because the Draco of sixth year had been one twisted by hate and desperation, and he'd feared taking that out on her, physically, emotionally. More importantly, he'd feared Pansy would put two and two together and demand that if he didn't go to Snape, she would, and that would have cost him everything. Pansy would not have seen him as selfless. She would have feared for him, and rightly so.

She might also have hit him for his stupidity, Draco reflected, and that might have been the wake up call he'd needed. But the past was past, and now there was only the warmth of a summery afternoon as he made his way to their meeting place by the lake. When he saw her standing there, he surveyed the muggle attire she wore with grim amusement. "Been waiting long?" he drawled; his own attire was somewhat more wizard in that the style was a modified, late nineteenth century blend of overshirt and neatly tailored trousers. He did not wear laced linen shirts as Lucius did, but chose a softer cashmere for the winters, and the finest of blended cottons for the summer. He had just switched to a grey cotton now, the color light enough to match his eyes.

"Only a few minutes," she replied, surrendering her usual saucy, sassy tone for something softer, and more genuine. Because despite the fact that she could be a bitch and he was a total arse most of the time, she couldn't make herself treat him like any other guy. Growing up it was understood that Pansy was Draco's and Draco was Pansy's. Very few other boys had even tried to come between that, though in her angrier moments Pansy could be found holding the ones that did over Draco's head. Losing him had hurt, and badly, but it had also given her a sense of freedom.

One she found she didn't actually like very much. Being on her own was one thing. Being on her own because the person she'd been with was a notorious criminal was another.

"Always did like that shirt," she said a moment later, admiring the way it hung on him. He'd done plenty of filling out over the years, aside from the year before when he'd started to look almost sick. Now that she knew the reason why, it was easier to let it go, but it didn't stop the reminder. In order to quelch it, she took an almost hesitant step forward, tracing one finger lightly over the collar.

Draco had fairly few color options when it came to wardrobe; there was green, gray, and black, and sometimes a very dark blue. He wasn't like her, in that sense. Clothes were picked carefully by his mother, and over time he'd come to recognize the few pieces which would be duplicated over and over again throughout the years as timeless essentials. This shirt was one of them. He'd started regaining weight at Hogwarts this past year, putting back what he'd taken away, and it, like much of his other clothing, was finally starting to fit again. And he did not mind in the least that Pansy was different, that she thought more about the effect of clothing and its uses. His mother was the same, in that regard. But Pansy ...

Her touch was a familiar one, even if it left a bittersweet taste in his mouth. Draco did not stop her, merely watched as she approached, the carefully trim lines of her figure as familiar to him as the taste of his favourite chocolates. He had been a party to that body for so long that even now he knew the placement and number of freckles across her back (twelve), and the number of imperfections she always claimed (two), along with her reasons why. And he would change nothing about her, down to the pouty tilt of her mouth and the high arch of her feet. Physically, they made a beautiful couple and he had never had to doubt that.

Emotionally, however, they were a volatile mix, and Draco had never enjoyed the fact that there were others who could claim to have at least snogged Pansy. Lucius Malfoy had passed a rather wide jealous streak down to his son, and Draco had always fought back viciously when he felt he'd been slighted in favour of someone else.

He took her hand, after a moment, using the connection to pull her into him. The afternoon sun was warm, but Pansy, as always, was warmer, the heat to balance out the natural cool of his skin. "Why thank you. I would say the same but --" Draco turned her in a slow circle, both admiring and admonishing. "I never did enjoy the sight of you in these. Always too many other people staring."

"They can't look?" she asked teasingly, looking up at him with bright eyes. Of course she knew of his jealous temper. She had one to match. It made them a formidable pair when it came to taunting others, but it had also caused for some rocky moments between them. The truth was, she'd never really wanted to snog anyone else. Sure, she found other boys attractive. But perhaps it was the fact that their mothers had planned their wedding before they were even eating solid foods, or perhaps it was because she truly did love him in that way she'd always heard was possible. But Pansy's head and heart told her that she'd never be happy lying in the arms of anyone else. She was convinced that no other man would ever brush her hair out of her face as tenderly, or kiss her as sweetly, or whisper things in her ear that no one else should ever hear, and hopefully never would.

Self-consciously, she took a step back from him, adjusting the hem of the shirt and making sure it rested classically at the hips of her pants. Pride may have been a sin, but Pansy was raised to believe it was more than allowed. "You don't like it." Not that it mattered. She loved him, but she loved her wardrobe as well. He'd learn to adjust. Her parents had. And if he didn't, well, he would just have to let that temper rage yet again, as she really did know boys who admired her in that very outfit.

Rage it would, and feverishly. Draco had precious little to argue about these days if he wasn't provoking Granger to the limits of her discomfort or discussing sex with Hannah Abbott of all people. In fact, targeting the male population might actually be a good thing; for one, it would certainly be a far more fair fight. "No, I don't, but you do," he returned, not having to guess at that. "And nothing short of tearing it to pieces so that you can't wear it would actually get you to not wear it."

Despite herself, a small smile crossed Pansy's face. "Mmm, I'd just go buy a different one," she reasoned with him, tilting her head up to face him. "And tearing it really sounds like a lot of effort, why can't you just burn it like normal people?"

Draco traced a hand down to her hip, fingering the line between waistband and shirt as she had with his collar. "I could burn it, but tearing it would satisfy me more. The effort would be worth it."

For said effort, he received a satisfied smirk. The touch itself didn't surprise her. On the contrary, two years ago at about that time, they'd have already been gripping onto each other in desperation, gasping for breath and touching whatever they could reach. This? This was different. He was gentle, and she was almost afraid, and it was a combination she wasn't used to.

She hadn't gotten him alone this way since their journal exchange where he'd confessed to still loving her and she'd called him an idiot for letting anything stand in the way of that. And while she still felt that way, it was still new and intriguing to be with him again, at the spot where she'd first blunderingly kissed him third year, after that bloody hippogriff had nearly torn him apart.

Still. It was Draco. Despite his history, despite the things he'd done and seen and said, she trusted him. Pansy knew, with no doubts, that if anyone in her life cared about her it was him. "You didn't mention I'd have to still be wearing it at the time," she teased, catching his eyes with a glimmer of mischief in her own. "That's a rather important detail, Mr. Malfoy. I'd almost be willing to sacrifice my fall line for that."

The arch of his brow was copied from his father, except with Draco it usually meant mischievous amusement, rather than disapproval. And that was the last he thought of Lucius Malfoy before tugging her forward by one of her belt loops. Draco had, since the night he'd shaken Granger, taken to physically holding himself back when it came to touching other people. But Pansy radiated a familiar heat, one that he could sink his teeth into if he wished. So long as there wasn't a bruise, she'd never complained before.

He didn't choose to be that. Not at that moment. Instead, he just inhaled against her hair, pressing his hand against her hip and feeling the familiar weight of rightness sink deep into him. There was no fear from her, nor should there have been. Not at that moment, but the next might surprise them both. "Would you? Since I am not at liberty to spend my trust fund in replacing it, you know."

Her breath caught slightly, not from the sudden movement but from the words he'd just spoken. No, the being tugged around by him she was used to. It was something she'd long ago scolded him for, but had come to appreciate as his way of possessing her. Pansy wasn't stupid, no matter what the likes of Granger and Potter and the entire Weasel family thought. She knew the Malfoys were often a greedy and selfish family. It was why they'd fit so well with the Parkinsons, equally as materialistic and just as insatiable when it came to owning the best and being the best. That was the reason she allowed Draco those moments of rapaciousness. It meant he'd chosen the best, and he'd chosen to be with her.

But his words brought forth the not so gentle reminder that neither of them were what they once were. Not poor. Not exactly, at least not just yet. They were still a long way and many taxes from resulting to the Weasleys' methods of buying secondhand goods and wearing each other's clothing. But where Draco had once been able to spoil her completely rotten, and had, they could no longer be quite so free and open where money was concerned. "Well..." she began, reaching up to touch his cheek lightly before shifting her hand to thread it in his hair. He'd need a cut soon, unless he was planning to match his father. Which she certainly hoped he wasn't, at least not yet. "It is the fall line, you know. It's spring now, and summer just after. I'll have plenty of time to work out a new one." With what, she wasn't entirely sure yet. But there were careers out there for her. There had to be.

The day Draco was reduced to the circumstances of a Weasley would be a very short one, because he would commit hara kiri first. He was not interested in spending the rest of his life poor, which was why he had finally caved and accepted working for MacMillan's company. Though if things were where they ought to have been, he would never have had to. "So you have a year to find a new line. Good to know." He hadn't flinched at the touch of her hand; threading it through his hair had been a Pansy gesture since third year and that very first kiss. He took the initiative to kiss her now, slanting his mouth over hers in a motion that lacked desperation but held only the barest sense of gentility. It was Draco, after all, and Draco could only give so much gentleness.

The fact that he'd taken their randomly nonsensical conversation and turned it into a rather brilliant kiss wasn't lost on her. Pansy not only accepted it but leaned into it, allowing her mouth to get reacquainted with his. In some ways, things felt entirely different than it used to, because they were older if not wiser, physically different, and had learned quite a bit since then. But yet, it was like coming home. She'd been kissing him frequently since third year, and stopping that had set her world into a tailspin. But now it felt normal again as she wound her arms tenderly around his neck, exploring familiar curves and dips and valleys. She had no urge to pull back, not then. Not when she finally had him this way, the way she'd wanted. In fact, she took the initiative to press a little more firmly against him. Not enough to be truly seductive, but definitely enough to hint of what could be.


Draco let her; the touch of her body against his was one that he had not felt in quite some time. Had it been sixth year, or too close to last summer, he might have drawn back. Someone else’s body warmth against his own would have been too much, and yet not enough, because it seemed he had spent the last two years perpetually cold. Except this was Pansy, and her warmth was a homecoming. She wasn’t wrong in feeling that; he felt it too. It was something that even if they did not spend the rest of their lives together he would feel, because her body had been the first he’d known. It had changed, filling out as she got older, but it was still the same, like a blurred image of something he’d known intimately. He could still trace his way over her and find the same arc to her hips, the same hollow at her belly. He had wanted to feel richness in her once more, the luxury of silk-smooth skin against his, as delicate and soft as Pansy ever got, and feeling it now just made hunger rise, pressing him until he shaped her beneath his hands. Draco broke the line of chastity they were still treading by coercing her to open her mouth, using his tongue to assail hers; the gesture itself might have broken the line, as it mimicked the rough pace of a memory of his. She’d been beneath him against the grass, his hand shoving at the length of her school skirt until the wool had given way, allowing him access to yielding thighs, and the heat between …



He wasn't the only one with that memory, and Pansy released a soft sound from the back of her throat, somewhere between a sigh and a moan. It was at once needy and longing and she was hopeful that this was a sign that things were going to be normal again, or at least back on track for them. Slowly, even teasingly, her leg slipped to the side a bit until it was just slightly curled around his, her foot moving along the length of his calf. And yet, Pansy needed more. Not physically. She knew he wanted her physically. He always had, even when he'd fumbled his way under her pristine blouse for the first time. No, what she needed went far beyond any bodily need. She broke the kiss, looking up at him with inquiring eyes. "Did you mean what you said?" she asked, her voice filled with several emotions, none of which she could define, since Pansy wasn't exactly one to speak her feelings. Not true ones. Overemotional, incredibly dramatic ones, sure. "In the journal. When we were talking...about this. Did you mean it?"

Draco was never terribly certain of his own emotions. They were tricky, mutable things that seemed to flare up when he wanted them most to lie still. Except with Pansy; he knew he loved her, in the same sense that he knew the mansion was his home, no matter what had been done to it. The desecration of having Voldemort living there had only, in the end, made his ties to it stronger. It was the place where he belonged, for better or worse, and so was she.



In most cases, anyway. Perhaps she was simply linked to his past, the person he had wanted to be, and for that reason alone, for the Draco she remembered, he loved her. He wasn’t willing to look into it too deeply. He just knew the feeling was familiar and safe and there, and that was what he wanted. “Of course,” he told her, unquestioning. “Every bit of it. Always.”



The fact that he said so quickly, without missing a beat, made her smile widely. It was all she needed to pull him close once again, letting her tongue tangle with his and allowing her hands to trace the lines of his chest through that incredibly soft shirt of his. It was exactly as she'd wanted it, and it almost seemed impossible. Something was going to go wrong. It had to. Pansy Parkinson was never this lucky. Something always came along and snatched what mattered the most to her.



As if to prevent that from happening, she whispered against his lips, her words nearly pleading. "I love you," she told him, closing her eyes and touching her forehead to his. "I love you. Please, Draco...don't leave me again. Not like that." Had he cheated on her, or called her fat, or simply dumped her for someone else, that she might have been able to handle. She could've hated him then, and put the much-deserved blame on him. But that? Being practically a slave to the cruelest person to ever exist? Having to live with the fate that he'd put on him and being driven away from her arms, rather than leaving them voluntarily? That she couldn't deal with.

He wasn't going to make the promise. Draco had no idea what the future would hold. He could only tighten his hold on her, closing his eyes. "All right, love. Don't worry, Pans. I'm not going anywhere." But there was no I promise. It wouldn't be terribly Slytherin of him, and for the first time in a long time, Slytherin and honesty were in the same sentence, much less the same sentiment.

She'd settle for that. She didn't need 'I promise' nearly as much as she needed 'I love you'. That was what she wanted. Needed. "We'll figure it out," she said as soothingly as she could manage. "Where to go from here. We'll be working soon, after all, right? And be real adults and all." At that, she gave a little laugh, nestling herself into his arms and rubbing her cheek against his shirt. "Now that we know we don't necessarily have to go and get married right out of school and all." Which, she'd decided at fourteen, was just a bit ridiculous, no matter how much she might have cared about Draco. "We've got time now, Draco." Time they hadn't had before.

The idea of marriage did still repulse him. It was not that Draco didn't expect to get married; of course he did. From the time he was born he had been raised with the knowledge that it would someday be his responsibility to choose a wife and produce an heir. But from fifth year on, he hadn't wanted it. He was fifteen at the time, for Salazar's sake! He didn't bloody want it. Fortunately, the concept no longer fit in with his immediate plans, and she seemed aware of it, much to his relief. "Time," he returned, almost to himself. It was also something of an alien concept. Absently, he lifted his hand and cupped the back of her head, feeling the silk-smooth strands of her hair.

She breathed a soft sigh at his light touch, just grateful to finally have him there, doing so. "I missed this. You do know that, don't you?"

"I know." He'd missed it, too. Draco just wasn't very good at admitting it. Instead, he shifted, leaning his head against hers, blond strands against dark once more.