Affected Indifference

"Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live."

Gazing out at the sun-drenched hills and hollowed valleys beyond glass panes, a solemn girl looked to be in mourning. A curtain of dark hair swished passed her shoulders as she wrenched her gaze from the view to take in the small gold watch resting on the windowsill. She had been waiting by that window for quite some time, in anxious anticipation of the moment when the darkened clouds would absorb the sunlight and signal the end of that day.

She longed for it to be over, to let go, to no longer care.

Her Mother had always told her never to reveal all of her cards, that she should keep her secrets because that is what ladies did. No one was interested in a woman without secrets. She should never reveal her heart to a man before marriage, as they were fickle and liable to change of mind.

Pansy thought of it as affected indifference, and she was not sure she was capable of it. Not with him.

And that, she supposed, had been her grand mistake.

She had always been intrigued by him in some respect. Perhaps, it was his ability to always say what he intended, without ever fumbling for words. Or perhaps it was the fact that his hair, always sleek and always smooth, was so much more perfect than her own.

Or maybe it was the fact that even though she felt she knew him well, knew him better than others did, he would always give her cause to question herself, to question her thoughts of him. So much so that all that would be left in his wake were questions that she knew he would never answer.

Just as he had always intrigued her, he had always perplexed her. Boys his age were not supposed to be so layered, and yet he was. Of course, he was; Draco Malfoy would have considered it pedestrian to have his thoughts known by all.

He rarely gave her glimpses, pieces of him that she could tuck away for later perusal. But when he did she held them close, and she ensured she was always there to collect them. A little piece of him each time, for she feared she would never have the whole package. No one would.

She had been raised to believe that the proverbial world was her oyster; no expectation was too high, too high for her at least. She was an only daughter, descended from a long and pure bloodline.

And whilst Pansy was by no means beautiful, there was something rather striking in the arrangement of her features; in the clear blue of her eyes and the pearlescent complexion of her skin, which smoothed over the highly contoured cheekbones.

She was not unintelligent. In fact, she had always been a rather bright and precocious child, but she had learnt very early from her mother that it would not do for ladies of her stature to be overly opinionated. So she was rather restrained, even when she felt like speaking her mind she would hold back.

Perhaps Pansy Parkinson ought to have listened more to her Mother, perhaps those pearls of wisdom might have helped her, had she really listened. Her Mother had been married a very long time and if there was anyone who knew how to secure a good marriage it was her Mother.

Pansy had known Draco as a child, at Hogwarts and before. Even then, she had thought him a thing of beauty, well before he had properly grown into his features. He had always been unusual looking.

He was iridescent, he was ethereal. She recalled spending hours in the Slytherin common room feigning interest in Millicent's conversations when she had in fact been sneaking glances at him, draped on one of the couches with his eyes closed.

Her gaze would rake over the unblemished skin, taking note of the curved lips, the strong line of his jaw, the long and fair lashes that curled upon the hollows of his cheekbones. She would greedily absorb every detail so that even when he was not in the room she could see him vividly.

On more than one occasion, he had opened his eyes and stared intensely at her, the darkened grey of his iris burning through her. Of course she would glance away. She never could withstand the full onslaught of his gaze like that; it was like having a full beam of light directed at her in a darkened room.

She felt vulnerable and she felt exposed.

Perhaps that was why he did it. Perhaps he thrived on her discomfort, the way he did everyone else's. But she had never lingered on that possibility; she liked to think he thought differently of her. She liked to think so very many things.

Their relationship had always been a source of turmoil and confusion for Pansy, though she tried desperately to define it. There were times when he would sit terribly close to her, so that the hairs on his arm would tickle her own.

She always tried to act unfazed; some of what her mother had said sinking in because although she did want him, she wanted him permanently, not as a fleeting diversion. Other times he would touch her face or hair gently and gaze at her so introspectively that she could not begin to fathom his thoughts, and could only hope that they were aligned with hers.

But there were also times when he was distant, so far away from her that she felt he did not even see her, no matter her attempts to the contrary. He made her want to scream and cry when he did so. She never did understand why, she thought perhaps he had lost interest in her, that he sought other, prettier girls. But he never seemed to. At least to her knowledge.

The change had started whilst they were still at Hogwarts, in their sixth year. He had seemed to shut her out entirely. She had watched him flickering in and out of existence, as a shadow. Yet there had been little she could do.

On one night, her anguish had been so true that she had sought him out for her own comfort, not meaning to be the provider of his. She had crept into the boy's dormitory and slipped aside his bed hangings. He had been gazing, unseeingly at the ceiling of his bed and it had been a long and pregnant moment before he had turned to acknowledge her with one of his intent gazes.

Stripping her.

He had gestured with one hand for her to join him, and she had, against all of her better judgment. She had lain there in silence with him, listening to the puffs of sleep-induced air that whispered in the vast bedchambers. She had held him the entire night, held him until his shaking subsided and sleep had taken him.

He had been gone when she had awoken, well before the other boys in the room. Where he had gone, she was unsure. But she had felt cold at the loss. He never mentioned that night to her, but Pansy knew he remembered it. As had she.

The subsequent two years had changed him, irrevocably it would seem. War did that to a person, regardless of the side on which they fought. His walk no longer held the swagger that had so intrigued her, his inimitable smirk bore signs of weary cynicism rather than boyish arrogance. He was damaged goods, and she was but a moth to the flame.

He sought comfort in her then. The only comfort he knew how to seek, comfort of the flesh, and she of course succumbed, as he had known she would. She solaced him at night in ways her mother would have deemed unsuitable, improper.

She knew this to be true, and yet there was very little she could do but to yield. She never really knew whether it was her he wanted, or whether it was just a baser need that she fulfilled. Either way she delighted and anguished over it each time.

It was in those hidden hours, slicked with sweat and wrapped in sheets and one another, that she thought she finally understood him. Understood him better than anyone else, better than himself, perhaps.

And a small part of her feared that that might be the beginning of the ending. Pansy had never properly trusted her instincts, and that, she supposed, was exactly the problem.

Yet in those nights, in those mornings, in those afternoons she saw him, as she knew no one else ever would. For he would trust no one with his fragile heart, and each time she held him she prayed it would keep him with her, though she feared the truth in her mother's words. Perhaps, he knew too much of her already, knew what she had to give and knew all at once that it was too much, and yet not enough. Not for him.

He loved her, she knew, in his strange way. She had become a need of his, just as he had always been for her. Yet despite this, she knew that Draco hated the mere thought of relying on someone else for anything.

Had she paid due attention she might have realised these things. But how could she have? She had spent years thriving on the attention he gave her, on the beautiful misery of their situation.

Pansy had known something was wrong on that god-awful day when he had arrived at her parent's estate to see her. Draco never came to her. Not once, in all the years she had known him.

She had led him to her private wing, ignoring both the tension evident in his shoulders and the anxious pangs, which erupted, in her stomach - she hoped rather desperately that he was taking a step forward, instead of three back, as was his general inclination.

Pansy had felt so formal and polite as she gestured for him to sit down. He had, of course, declined and she had waited in the silence, taking note of his clenched jaw line. Always a tell tale sign of his discomfort, and never a good sign for her.

After a long pause, she had whispered in a decidedly croaky voice, 'Draco?'

He then turned his head and gazed at a space on the wall to her left.

'This... intrigue... between you and I has to stop, regrettably,' he hazarded a glance toward her blank expression. 'There is someone else and I... we're to be married.'

The silence had crashed around her ears, such an unearthly sound, perhaps made all the more so because of the sudden beat her heart had skipped and the oxygen her lungs refused to seek.

'Pansy...'

She only continued to stare at him.

'She is very suitable,' he said almost desperately, 'my mother approves.'

'Suitable?' She then spat, 'are you looking for a wife or a house elf?'

'Enough, Pansy' He had thundered, insisting on keeping control of the situation. It was as though he expected her to dutifully accept his decision. And yet it was so very clear he had come in the knowledge that she would not.

'No! Enough from you! Who do you think you are? Do you love her? Do you even know her?'

'Don't be ridic-'

'Ridiculous?' She had spoken the word in barely above a whisper. 'Draco, don't you see? Don't you understand?'

Looking down blindly at the open palms of her hands spread before her, she had begun to shake violently as the level of his weakness had settled heavily upon her, coating her with bitter disappointment.

She understood perfectly, then. This girl, whoever she was, was safe, was suitable. She would be un-intrusive, and Draco, he would be able to hide once more from the suffocating pressure of having to care about someone. He had been damaged by the War, by what he had endured - but this? This was too much.

'Pansy', a whisper of a touch was felt against her open palm, and for a moment she had thought it was her yearning that had caused her to imagine it, but glancing up she realised how desperately close he was to her. And yet so far removed from the person she knew, at times, he could be.

'You weak, damnable man, do not touch me.' She spoke with a conviction betrayed only by the slight break in her voice. Her legs had felt heavy beneath her, though she stood strong.

His expression had tightened as he stared his impenetrable stare.

'You don't hate me... and yet in this moment, I fear you wish I had died that day...' The words rolled off his tongue, lingering in the air with a sort of bitter stubbornness so indicative of him.

'Yes...'

She did not know the truth in her statement, or indeed if there was any. All she knew then, was that though he had survived, he had killed every part of her that lived for him, every piece of him that nestled itself within her heart.

He stood immeasurably still, a tick had clenched at his jaw as he absorbed her words, his eyes no longer able to shield his internal battle. She cared so very little for his pain, in that long silent moment.

'Just get out,' she whispered, desperately wishing he would heed her request.

He had not. He merely continued to gaze at her with an intensity that diminished all the other memories of him, staring so intently at her.

And then he stalked out of the room.

And Pansy collapsed to the floor, her legs no longer able to hold the weight that had fallen upon her.

She gazed out of the window bitterly as the dusky sky reigned over the vast hills surrounding the property, taking command over the sun, which had taunted her with its merriness for the entirety of the day.
Her eyes were dark and unfocused, but she wore none of the signs of her inner turmoil, her skin, though less vibrant than usual, showed no marks of tears.

She had cried enough tears in the past two months, there would be no more.

Not for him. Not for anyone.

She tried not to think of the day that was, and what it meant, and to whom. And in that moment she felt quite sure that the new Mrs Malfoy had heeded her own mother's advice about secrets and men.

Sighing heavily, Pansy looked away from the window and gazed around the room, not allowing herself to be caught by those memories.

Instead, she felt empty, void, and yet bitterly satisfied. It seemed she had finally learnt her mother's meaning.

Affected indifference. Only now, she did not have to try.