Black Widow

The day of Narcissa Malfoy's funeral is a cold, dreary Sunday in February; one of those days when the mists that always hover over the river Vltava in late winter rise to wrap the thousand spires of the Golden City in a blanket of clammy, suffocating sadness.

On the day of Narcissa Malfoy's funeral, Pansy Malfoy watches her husband smile and nod and shake a hundred hands and say a hundred meaningless phrases while his eyes are blank and his face a bluish white over the deep black velvet of his mourning robes.

On the day of Narcissa Malfoy's funeral, Pansy consoles two sobbing little boys who are far too young to understand what death means and will not remember the pale, haughty woman who never laughed.

Still, it takes her sons a long time to fall asleep that evening, and she sits with them until she hears the click of the front door which tells her that Draco is finally home. She finds him at the desk in his study, going over a parchment that she supposes is his mother's will.

He looks up when she sits on the armrest of his chair like she used to when they were both children. There are dark smudges under his eyes, but he does his best to smile at her. "I'm sorry I'm this late, but there was a lot of paperwork to go through. Did you put the boys to bed?"

Pansy nods. "They were quite upset, but they're asleep now. How are you?"

He looks away. "I'm fine." Before she can call him on the obvious lie, he picks up a small box from the desk and hands it to her. "It says in Mother's will that she wanted you to have this."

"Me?" Pansy is a bit surprised; she and Narcissa Malfoy have never been very close. "What is it?"

Draco shrugs. "Some kind of necklace she was fond of. Most of the family heirlooms are still back in her vault at Gringotts, but this one she took with her, and her will states explicitly that it's to go to you."

When Pansy opens the lid, she finds a thin silver chain with a round pendant, and a piece of parchment covered with her mother-in-law's elegant handwriting.

Dear Pansy,

My husband gave this to me on our wedding day; it seems only fitting that it should go to my son's wife after my death. According to Lucius, the pendant was originally a locket, but it has been sealed shut with a spell I have never been able to remove. It is one of the few personal things which I was able to take with me when we left Britain. You are young and will build a new life for yourself and your family here, but I still hope you will come to treasure this as a small remnant of your lost home and a reminder of everything you left behind.

Narcissa Malfoy

Pansy has to swallow a lump in her throat before she trusts herself to speak. "She just never got over it, did she?"

Draco shakes his head. "I believe she refused to even try. After losing Father, her home, and the world she knew, she just... stopped. She did everything she could to make sure we'd get our feet on the ground here, but once she was certain we'd be able to go on without her, she decided it was enough."

"Do you think she killed herself?" The question sounds harsh even in Pansy's ears, but Draco doesn't seem to mind.

"No. I think she simply decided to stop living."

Unable to come up with a suitable answer, Pansy reaches into the box and takes out the necklace to inspect it more closely. There's an intricate pattern of flowers and leaves engraved on the pendant; the candlelight reflected by the intertwining lines makes them look as if they were moving.

"It's lovely."

Draco smiles at this - a real smile this time; he seems pleased that Pansy appreciates his mother's last gift to her. In an attempt to keep that smile on his face, she opens the clasp on the silver chain and, after a moment of fiddling, manages to close it at the back of her neck. The pendant rests right below the hollow of her throat; it's surprisingly heavy and feels strangely warm against her skin.

She doesn't give it a second thought, though. On the day of Narcissa Malfoy's funeral, Pansy has more important things to worry about.

+++

After they've gone to bed and extinguished the lights, Draco turns into Pansy's embrace at last and lets her hold him while his shoulders shake with suppressed sobs. She strokes his hair and whispers silly little endearments into his ear, just as she did with Alexander and Lucien a few hours earlier, until he calms down and finally falls asleep in her arms.

Sometimes it seems like you have three sons instead of two.

The thought comes out of nowhere. Surprised by herself, she ponders it for a moment. Yes, Draco is used to leaning on her whenever there's trouble, but he's always willing to give her the support she needs, too, and if he's needed her more than she's needed him the last few years, it's only because they've been much harder for him than they've been for Pansy. She and her parents moved from Britain to the continent of their own free will just before things began to get ugly back home. Pansy was able to finish her education at Beauxbatons before her parents took her to Prague where her father had got an offer for a very promising position in the amber trade business. Draco had been forced to flee the country with nothing but the clothes on his back; when his mother followed him half a year later, she brought little more with her than the news of his father's death. It was Pansy who pestered her reluctant father into giving Draco a job with his company, but he's won the position he's holding there now through his own stubborn determination to prove his worth and to spare his mother the humiliation of living on other people's charity. No, Pansy really doesn't think she's mothering him; she's always been happy to take care of him when the need arose, but that's because he's been her best friend for as long as she can remember.

Yet marriage is supposed to be much more than just friendship and taking care of each other, isn't it?

Pansy shakes her head in bewilderment, wondering what's the matter with her. These are not her words; her father said something like that when they were discussing her plan to marry Draco and stay in Prague with him instead of moving to Krakow with her parents. She didn't blame her father for not being thrilled about the idea. He'd grown rather fond of Draco, but the disgraced, exiled son of a dead Death Eater was not what any man would have considered a smart match for his only daughter, even if the candidate in question happened to be the last heir to one of the oldest wizarding families in Britain. Besides, Draco had always been honest with her about the fact that his sexual preferences ran more towards men than women. Thankfully, Pansy's father did not feel the need to mention this, but it was clear enough that it troubled him somewhat.

Pansy grins and remembers the talk she had with her mother on that subject - a talk she's very glad her father will never know about. 'If you're really willing to marry him, such a small detail shouldn't deter you,' her mother said then. 'At least you'll always be the only woman in his bed, which is more than most wives can say about themselves. Almost every husband is bound to find his enjoyment elsewhere sooner or later anyway, and besides, dear, let's face it, sex is a lot less important for women than it is for men. You know him well enough - if you think you'll be happy with him, then for God's sake, marry him and let me deal with your father.'

Her father never fails to ask her if she's happy whenever her parents come to visit now, and Pansy's 'yes' has always been honest. She has two healthy sons, her family holds a respectable position within the wizarding community of Prague; Draco, who took over Mr Parkinson's position when the Parkinsons moved to Poland, is doing well in his job, and he and Pansy are getting along fine.

Pansy smiles fondly when she recalls announcing her second pregnancy to Draco four years ago. He looked as relieved as she felt then, glad that those terribly awkward encounters between the sheets were over and that they would both be spared the embarrassment of further conjugal activities. Her husband turned back into her best friend on that day, and ever since then, Pansy has been very content with the life she's leading. She's made it clear that she has no objections to Draco's affairs, and in return, he's extremely discreet about them, taking great care to come home to their bed each night wherever he's been before, and she's never heard as much as a whisper about his trysts from anyone else. She knows he wouldn't mind if she did the same, but so far, she's never been tempted to. She guesses her mother was right: fitting erotic adventures into the comfortable schedule of her life just doesn't seem worth the hassle.

Her musings finally seem to have silenced the nagging voice at the back of her brain. Feeling extremely tired all of a sudden, Pansy snuggles closer to Draco and is asleep only moments later.

+++

It's still dark when she wakes up, and she can hear the bell from the nearby St George's Basilica chime four o'clock. Her right arm has gone to sleep because Draco is lying on it; she reckons it must be what woke her. She extricates herself with some difficulty and flexes her fingers, wincing at the sensation of pins and needles when circulation returns. She's wide awake now. The fog seems to have lifted outside because the room is eerily lit by the light of a full moon.

Pansy gets up, wraps herself in her bathrobe and walks over to the window. The fog is indeed gone; she can see the silvery sheen of moonlight on the roofs below her. She loves this view. Their house is located at the highest point of Prague's wizarding quarter that covers the north-eastern slope of the steep castle hill right behind the famous Golden Lane, where thousands of clueless Muggle tourists wander around each day without ever knowing how close they are to another world that is safely hidden behind concealment spells and Muggle-repelling charms, unplottable and undetectable to anyone without magical abilities.

It's sickening how we have to hide from these miserable creatures as if we were afraid of them!

Now Pansy is getting worried. These are definitely not her thoughts; on the contrary, the isolationistic tendencies of Bohemian wizardry have always seemed much more sensible to her than those dangerous dalliances with all things Muggle that the British Ministry tolerates. The wizards and witches here in Prague, who have lived right among the Muggles for centuries, have never been in any doubt that Muggles are indeed to be feared and avoided at all costs. They call them jiní, Others, and are careful to keep the two worlds separated. Centuries of segregation have made sure that there are no more magical children born to Muggle parents; the Czech language has not developed its own equivalent to the insult Mudblood because there is no one to use it on. It's mostly for that reason that there's little sympathy for Lord Voldemort's goals among the wizarding community here. While no-one in Prague cares about the power struggles among British wizards, the Dark Lord's attacks against Muggles are considered a madman's suicidal tampering with the affairs of those who must be kept unaware of the existence of magic, and Pansy can't help agreeing.

So if she's not thinking these things, who is talking inside her head? Almost without conscious effort, she empties her thoughts like Draco taught her in all those Occlumency lessons he gave her. As she feels her mental shields strengthening, Pansy's uneasiness abates. She is well used to protecting her mind ever since she became Secret Keeper for the Fidelius Charm that keeps Draco safe from the Dark Lord's revenge. Still, she's toying nervously with Narcissa's necklace without being aware of it; she only notices it when the clasp comes open and the pendant slips through her fingers, falling to the hard wooden floor with a silvery clang.

Pansy quickly turns around to check if the sound has woken her husband, but he's fast asleep. Relieved, she kneels down to look for the pendant, but she can't spot it in the darkness. Cursing under her breath, Pansy gets her wand and casts a weak Lumos. The pendant is right at her feet, glittering in the soft light; at first she thinks that it's somehow broken in two, but when she picks it up, she realizes that it has opened.

Curious, she holds it close to the glowing tip of her wand to inspect it. Lucius Malfoy was right, it is indeed a locket, although Pansy can't fathom why it would come open like this when even a skilful witch like Narcissa could not break the Sealing Charm around it. Inside is a tiny, black-and-white picture of a young, dark-haired man with classical features and piercing eyes. It's a Muggle photograph and therefore not moving, but it seems to Pansy that those eyes are looking straight at her. She feels a strange sensation of warmth wash over her body, but it's gone so quickly that she's convinced she must have imagined it.

With some hesitation, she closes the locket, determined to take a closer look at it during the day. She feels too restless to go back to bed now, and after a moment's deliberation, she decides to go for a walk. Draco is still sleeping when she slips out of the door; the locket is once more resting heavily right below the hollow of her throat, and Pansy unconsciously keeps her hand on it as she makes her way to her dressing room.

+++

Pansy loves these early winter mornings when there's no sign of the first weak light of dawn yet and she has the streets to herself. She's wrapped in her warmest cloak; now that the fog has lifted, it is bitterly cold, and her breath forms little white clouds in the chilly air as soon as she leaves the house. A few minutes later, she's stepping through the wizarding quarter's secret gate into the Golden Lane.

This place is always swarming with Muggles during the day, even at this time of year, but at five in the morning, there's not a living soul in sight. Pansy doesn't meet anyone as she walks along the tiny, colourful houses and heads for the looming gothic bulk of St Vitus' Cathedral. She's not afraid to wander the dark streets; she's hid by a slight Glamour Charm that will make Muggles overlook her unless she bumps directly into them, and her wand is in her sleeve for any other kind of eventuality. She doesn't expect trouble, though. She's enjoyed her morning walks for years now, and no-one has ever bothered her.

A few minutes later, Pansy passes the cathedral. She often lingers here to admire the lace-like stonework when the weather is warmer, but today she keeps walking swiftly. A few more steps, and she's out of the castle area and makes her way down the south side of the hill, following the narrow, cobbled street that leads to the river. This is one of her favourite parts of the city - the Malá strana, the Lesser Side, nestled on the left bank of the Vltava, younger than the Old Town right opposite on the eastern bank and less burdened with historical importance than the Hradčany, the castle hill right above it. She doesn't know much about the history of the Muggle settlement in Prague, but she's heard that all those parts were independent cities once and merged into one when they kept growing. She finds it easy to believe; the differences between them are obvious even today.

She doesn't meet anyone when she walks through the Malá strana; at this hour, even the most obstinate pub-crawlers have finally gone home, and it's far too early for tourists yet. Still, a few Muggles who have to get to work early are likely to appear on the streets soon, so she's on her guard. It once seems to her that a hand brushed her arm, but when she turns around, she doesn't see anyone, therefore she reckons she must have imagined it.

Then she's down by the river, right in front of the huge watchtower that marks the way up to the Charles Bridge, the oldest and most famous bridge of Prague which connects the Lesser Side with the Old Town. Pansy hesitates for a moment. She could just wander around among the small, pretty houses of the Malá strana for a while and then go back home, but now she's in the mood for a longer walk. The sky is beginning to turn a bluish grey with the first light of dawn, and she can see the early morning mists swirl above the dark water when she steps on the bridge.

On the other side of the river, the city is slowly waking up; she spots the lights of a few cars, but it will still be another hour at least until the streets are getting busier. Here on the Charles Bridge, which is only for pedestrians, there's still no-one but her. She knows that it's bedlam here in summer, when tourists are packed so tightly on the bridge they can hardly walk. She's never seen it, though - ever since her parents moved to Prague with her, they've spent the sweltering summer months in a small house in the Tatra mountains in Slovakia. Her parents gave the house to her as a wedding gift, and she's well aware that her husband looks forward to the weeks they spend there every year almost more than the two little boys do. It's green and quiet, there are no Muggles anywhere in the vicinity, and Draco can get out his broom and go flying, which is completely impossible here in the city. Last summer, Alexander finally managed to pester his father into taking him along for a ride, and Pansy doesn't think she'll ever forget her eldest son's beaming face or Draco's equally enthusiastic grin when they came back. He promised Lucien he'd take him along too next year, and ever since, the boy has been asking at least once a week how long it is till summer.

Pansy sighs softly as she walks on. Their summer resort is lovely, but she's always happy to return to Prague. She knows that Draco doesn't share her love for the Golden City; deep inside, she believes it has little to do with the place itself, but with the fact that he is still thinking of Britain when he says "home" and can't bring himself to accept that his wife and children feel at home somewhere else. Pansy knows there will be no going back to Britain for her husband if the Dark Lord should win the ongoing war - with Voldemort victorious, Draco would have to spend the rest of his life in hiding, but if the other side wins, she has no doubt that he will move heaven and earth to be able to return one day. There's no way she'd ever admit this to anyone, but she'd be hard-pressed to say which alternative she'd prefer.

Why does it all have to be about what he wants, anyway? It's you he has to thank for his new life here, and it wouldn't hurt if he showed you some gratitude.

Pansy stops dead, right in the middle of the bridge. This time, she's sure she felt a hand brush her shoulder. There's no-one in sight, but Pansy is no fool; there are plenty of ways for a wizard or witch to make themselves invisible. She cautiously lets her wand slip out of her sleeve as she asks boldly, "Who are you?"

There's another touch, and Pansy startles violently. This isn't just a little pressure through the thick layers of clothing. She feels a hand on her skin, warm and firm, cupping her shoulder and then softly sliding down her arm. Gentle fingers linger on the inside of her elbow for a moment before they disappear.

There's no need to be frightened, pretty little flower.

It seems to her that she's hearing the low, deep voice inside her head - there's no sound; the words are simply there. Pansy does her best to sound arrogant when she replies, "I'm most certainly not frightened. I demand to know who you are!"

Someone is chuckling in her head, and suddenly there are warm fingers sliding over her skin, travelling down from her shoulder. Pansy freezes when she feels them brush against her breast. For a moment, revulsion flares up inside her as if a spider were crawling over her body underneath her clothes. She wants to move, to bat away the invisible hand, but she finds that she can't. The fingers are still there, cupping her breast and gently kneading the soft flesh; a thumb moves up to her nipple, stroking and teasing until it hardens under the caress.

Then, as suddenly as it appeared, the hand is gone, and Pansy realizes she can move again. She's shaking like a leaf in the wind; knees buckling, she leans heavily on the bridge's stone rail and draws a deep, shaking breath. Her heart is racing, and her whole body seems to tingle with a sensation she can't identify.

Before she can regain her composure, she's being touched once more. There's a hand on each of her breasts now, and she can't help gasping when the caresses begin again. No one has ever touched her like this, firm and sure and demanding, and Pansy doesn't even realize at first that she's leaning into the touch, desperate to increase the friction that is sending waves of heat through her body. She's sure she can feel warm breath on the back of her neck, but when she turns her head and tries to look over her shoulder, there's no-one there, and just like that, the tantalizing touch is gone.

Feeling oddly bereft, Pansy tries to catch her breath while she waits for the pounding of her heart to slow down. She has no idea what just happened, but her whole body seems to ache for something she has never known she missed. She tells herself she should be shocked and alarmed, but she's neither; somehow she's absolutely certain that whoever was with her a moment ago means her no harm.

Only when she's beginning to shiver in the cold morning air does Pansy realize how long she has been standing here on the bridge. It has grown late. She had planned to walk as far as to the Old Town Square or even the old Jewish quarter of Josefov, but there will be too many Muggles in the streets by now, and she needs to return home. Pansy shakes her head and tries to concentrate, but it takes her a while until she's focused enough to Disapparate.

+++

The day passes in a strange kind of blur. Pansy mechanically goes through her chores, but her heart isn't in it and her mind keeps wandering back to the feeling of those hands on her skin. Whenever she catches herself at it, she tries in vain to rein in the thoughts that cause her heartbeat to quicken and her cheeks to burn.

She's deathly tired by the time Draco comes home in the evening, and she excuses herself with a headache right after dinner; she feels unable to put up with his tirades about work tonight. By the time she crawls under the bed covers, she's so exhausted that her head is swimming. Pansy wraps her arms around the pillow, buries her head in its softness and is fast asleep as soon as she's closed her eyes.

She's woken in the middle of the night by a light touch on her shoulder. Confused, she thinks at first that Draco is trying to wake her and buries her head deeper in the pillow, but then she registers the familiar sound of slow, even breathing which indicates that her husband is sleeping peacefully next to her.

Suddenly wide awake, Pansy feels her heartbeat speed up and goose bumps spread over her skin. She's still in the position she went to sleep in: on her stomach, both arms hugging her pillow and her face half-hidden in it. She wants to turn around, to reach for her wand and cast Lumos to find out who - what touched her, but before she can move, the touch is back.

She clearly remembers wearing a nightgown when she went to bed, but now there's nothing between her skin and the warm, firm touch of two hands that are gently mapping her body, sliding over her shoulders and down her back, brushing the sides of her breasts, lingering for a moment on her hips before one of them wriggles itself between her body and the mattress. Pansy freezes when it dips between her legs and deft, clever fingers start stroking and teasing, sending a shiver of involuntary pleasure through her. The other hand has wandered up again to cup her breast, and Pansy can't help the soft moan that's half-muffled by the pillow her face is pressed into.

There's an answering sound, a low, amused chuckle that once more seems to originate from inside her brain. Well, well. Aren't you eager for this, little flower?

Pansy's attempted answer turns into a gasp as she's suddenly trapped under the weight of a body on top of her. Hot, smooth skin is pressed against her back, and she moans again as she feels a mouth on the side of her neck. Warm breath brushes her skin when the soft touch of lips and tongue wanders down her throat, occasionally interrupted by the sharp nip of teeth. She's shivering all over now. Her entire body seems to burn as if her nerve endings were on fire, and she bites her lower lip to keep herself from crying out.

Don't worry about waking your husband - he won't hear you. He never made you feel like this, did he?

He - there can be no doubt that it's a he who's with her - is sliding up her body, his hardness nudging the soft flesh between her thighs. The touch sends a jolt of desperate desire through her, and Pansy abandons every attempt at rational thought and gives herself up to pure sensation. She doesn't struggle when he pushes her legs apart to settle between them, when the fingers that have been caressing her slide lower still; she wants this, wants him, whoever he is, wants him to fill her, take her like she's never wanted anything in her life.

So much unfulfilled desire, little flower, so much passion you didn't even know you had. Do you realize now how little pleasure your life has offered you so far?

While his words still resound in her mind, he pushes into her with a single, quick stroke that sends a sharp spike of pain through her, but it's not the pain that makes Pansy cry out and buck up under him. He thrusts again, harder this time; Pansy tries to move with him as much as his weight on her allows her to, and she suddenly remembers Blaise's clumsy touches and Gérard's jerky, hesitant prodding inside her. And then, of course, those painfully uncomfortable nights in this very bed...

The voice in her head sounds amused as if he were watching the memories that are flashing through her mind. Two fumbling schoolboys and a shirt-lifter. How could a woman like you ever waste herself so utterly?

He's increasing his speed, his hand on her stroking in rhythm with the movements of his hips, and Pansy's body tightens and clenches as she presses against him. She has never managed to come through anyone's touches but her own, but now wave after wave of spasms is rolling over her until she thinks her heart is about to burst out of her chest and she's dizzy from gasping for breath. She feels him grow taut against her, and his teeth scrape over the back of her neck as he thrusts one last time and then stills. It's eerily quiet suddenly. All Pansy can hear is the sound of her own panting breath and Draco's gentle snores which seem so utterly ridiculous right now that she almost laughs out loud. She hears him laugh softly in her head, and it's the last thing she remembers before everything turns black.

+++

The first thing she sees when she wakes up again is her husband's face smiling down at her. "Good morning, sleepyhead. Have you finally realized that five o'clock isn't such a good time for getting up?"

Pansy blinks, belatedly realizing it's broad daylight already. "How late is it?"

"Just before eight, I have to leave in half an hour. If you still want to have breakfast with me and the boys, you'd better get up now."

Pansy jumps out of bed - and sits down again quickly when her head starts to swim. Draco gives her a strange look, his expression concerned. "Are you all right?"

She shakes her head to clear it, and the lace on the sleeve of her nightgown brushes her cheek when she raises her hand to push a strand of hair out of her face. Pansy stares at it in astonishment. The memories of yesterday night are suddenly fresh and vivid in her mind, and she nearly laughs when she realizes how foolish she has been. She has been dreaming, nothing else. Who knows what kind of stupid hallucination she had on the bridge, but clearly, her mind was dealing with it by presenting her with the first wet dream she's ever had. She feels herself blush with embarrassment at her own gullibility, and she quickly stands up again and notices with satisfaction that the dizziness is gone.

"I'm fine." She gives Draco a reassuring smile and reaches for her bathrobe. "I'll be downstairs in ten minutes."

She actually manages it in seven minutes because Zdenka's outraged yell "Alexandře, pojd' sem!" makes her dash out of her dressing room to witness her eldest son sliding down the wooden banisters with the nanny scurrying after him. Pansy picks up a grinning Lucien who's perching at the top of the stairs and gives the flustered girl a reassuring smile on her way down. "It's all right, Zdenka, I'll deal with him. Alexander, what did we tell you about the staircase?"

"No running or sliding, Mum," the boy replies without a sign of remorse, and Pansy has to bite back a smile because he reminds her so much of his father at age five in moments like these.

"We don't just expect you to know the rules, but to stick to them as well. No pudding for you tonight, and now come on, your Dad is waiting for us."

Draco is already sitting at the breakfast table. He must have heard the commotion in the hall, but he doesn't ask. Pansy is well aware that he's always glad to let her discipline the boys, and she secretly suspects he'd spoil them rotten if it weren't for her. Usually, she finds it rather endearing, but today she feels a swift stab of irritation at his habit of letting her deal with all the unpleasant aspects of parenthood. The two boys, fine-tuned to their mother's moods like all small children, seem to notice this and are at their best behaviour for once. Therefore, breakfast passes without further incident.

"You haven't forgotten about the dinner party at Vaclav's tonight?" Draco glances at the clock on the wall and puts down his cup. "He's invited pretty much all his important business partners, and I can't very well go a mere two days after the funeral, so it's up to you to charm the living daylights out of them."

"Count on me," Pansy grins; it's moments like these she enjoys most in her marriage, the times when they're working as a team in which each partner can rely on the other. "Six o'clock, isn't it?"

Draco nods as he gets up. "Don't flirt too much, do you hear me?"

"Just as much as necessary, as always." Pansy tilts her head to let him kiss her goodbye; he gives her a quick peck on the cheek, ruffles the boys' hair on his way out and is gone.

+++

Pansy takes a lot of time to choose her attire for the evening that day. She rarely has to attend a formal gathering on her own, and she wants to make sure it goes well. She has a hard time picking a dress; she usually prefers bright colours, but it might seem a bit frivolous such a short time after her mother-in-law's passing, so she finally settles for a velvet dress robe in a dark emerald green - Slytherin green, she thinks with a wistful smile - that's figure-hugging enough to bring out her curves without showing too much cleavage. After all, she doesn't want anyone to think she's planning to take advantage of a night out without her husband.

She ponders wearing the emerald necklace that her parents gave her last Christmas, but the silver of the locket that she hasn't taken off yet goes perfectly with the green of her robes, completing the Slytherin colours theme, and she decides to keep it for the evening. It's not as precious at the emerald collier, but Pansy prefers stylish understatement to a plebeian display of wealth anyway.

She struggles with her hair for a while until she finally manages to charm it into an elaborate knot. Inspecting the result critically, she leans closer to the mirror on her dressing table - and freezes in shock.

At the nape of her neck, right underneath the hairline, a reddish mark is clearly visible on the pale skin.

A bite mark.

She didn't dream last night.

+++

Once the initial shock has worn off, Pansy pulls herself together, trying to get her racing thoughts in order. So it was not a dream, but whatever it was, now is not the time to let herself be distracted. Actually, Pansy is profusely grateful that she has duties to attend to and doesn't have the time to think about the events of the previous night. She has a lot of practice with focusing on the task at hand, and when she's finally standing outside her host's gate, she has managed to calm down considerably. Mysterious erotic encounters will have to wait; she's here to talk business.

A maid - hardly any wizarding family in Prague has house elves - curtsies as she opens the door. "Dobrý večer, paní Malfoyová. Pojd'te dál, prosím!"

Pansy doesn't remember the girl, but she's pleased that she has been recognized. Achieving a respected position within the closely-knit wizarding community of Prague has not been easy for her and Draco, and she's proud of the fact that they managed it in a rather short time. Even with the help they had from Pansy's parents, they wouldn't be where they are today without the enormous effort they've invested in their goal. While Draco slowly worked his way up in her father's trade company, Pansy made social calls, invited guests to their house and taught herself to become the perfect hostess, charmed - as Draco put it - the living daylights out of his business partners and befriended their wives, particularly seeking the company of those who had children of the same age as her sons to make sure that the boys would grow up to be a part of this society from the very beginning.

Pansy greets her host with her most enchanting smile and concentrates hard on the ensuing small talk. She takes great pride in the fact that everyone praises her almost flawless Czech, and she doesn't want to slip up on such an important occasion. Her grasp of the language is the result of several years of very intense training; she grins to herself for a moment when she remembers all those nights she and Draco spent studying grammar and twisting their tongues around the impossibly difficult Czech pronunciation. It often felt as if they were back at Hogwarts and going over their homework together, and Pansy still gets some smug satisfaction out of the fact that her accent is a lot less noticeable than Draco's these days. His Czech is fine enough, but in private, he keeps saying that he just can't get over the notion that a proper language should use vowels every now and then. Pansy has made sure that their sons won't ever have these problems - thanks to Zdenka, a Squib girl whom Pansy hired as nanny right after Alexander's birth, they're perfectly bilingual.

The evening goes well enough. Pansy has always enjoyed this game of saying just the right thing to the right person, of being just friendly enough without ever being too friendly, of seeking out those who are of importance without snubbing those who are not, but might be one day. She enjoys it, but it's exhausting too, and she finally escapes into a quiet niche next to a window to relax for a moment before returning into the thick of the party. With a sigh of relief, she leans her head against the cool glass and closes her eyes.

Bored already? Perhaps you should look for more interesting company.

Pansy's eyes snap open at the sound of the voice in her head. She didn't hear anyone approaching, but she's not alone in the niche anymore: leaning against the windowsill in a relaxed, almost careless position is a tall, slender young man who seems strangely familiar to her. He has dark hair and a narrow face with regular, classical features, and for a moment, Pansy is reminded of a Greek statue come to life. His dark eyes are looking straight at her, a glint of amusement in their depths, and suddenly she realizes where she has seen his face before. Her hand flies to the locket on her throat; she tries to speak, but all she manages to say is, "You..."

He steps closer; he's smiling now, and he raises his hand to run his fingers over the spot on her neck where she found his mark earlier that day. I see you charmed away the evidence of our encounter last night. Did you enjoy it so little that you tried to forget it?

Pansy's heart is hammering against her ribs, but she's determined to appear calm. "Who are you?"

His fingers trail from her neck to her face, caressing her cheek before brushing lightly over her mouth, leaving a trail of burning heat in their wake. Does it really matter? I'm here, and the reason I'm here is that you want me near you.

Pansy opens her mouth to protest, but his fingers are back on her lips, silencing her. There's no need to deny it, my flower; I can see in your eyes how much you want me, just like you wanted me last night. Aren't you sick of throwing your life away for someone who will never appreciate the woman you are?

Before she even realizes what's going on, his hands are on her waist, lifting her onto the windowsill. Another step closer, and she's trapped between his body and the window; he pulls her hips towards him as he nudges her knees apart to step between them. Pansy feels the hardness pressed against her, and she can't bite back a strangled moan. Still, she has enough of her wits left to protest, "Stop - what if someone..."

She hears him laugh softly in her mind. He lets one hand wander up to cup her breast, and his lips are on her neck when he answers, Look around, little flower. Do you see anyone noticing us? Trust me a little and allow yourself to enjoy this.

Pansy peers over his shoulder into the room and spots the tell-tale flicker of a Disillusionment Charm, shielding them from the other guests' view. She has neither seen him use a wand nor heard him speak the incantation, and it dawns on her that she's dealing with someone who's much more powerful than she first realized. She reckons that she should be frightened, but she's strangely thrilled instead; she can almost feel the raw power emanating from him, dangerous and yet more erotic than anything she ever imagined. She closes her eyes and gives in to his caresses, her hands clenched around his neck, moving with him as he grinds his hips against her in a slow, lazy pace. Heat is pooling in her groin, and just when she thinks she can't take it anymore, he lets go of her and takes a step back.

Pansy is trembling, and she feels her cheeks burn, but he seems perfectly calm. He's looking at her with that sardonic little smile again, and his voice sounds amused.

This is not the place, little flower. Why don't you go back home? I'll be waiting for you.

A heartbeat later, he is gone.

It takes Pansy a while until she feels collected enough to return to the other guests. She barely manages to rein in her impatience when she makes her excuses to her host, feigning a sudden headache. She knows she's in no state to Apparate - shaken as she is, she might end up splinching herself, but the idea of wasting another quarter of an hour walking home seems unbearable.

As soon as the maid has closed the door behind her, Pansy takes a deep breath, focuses as much as she can, and Disapparates.

+++

He's sitting on the bed when she enters the bedroom. His posture is utterly relaxed, his back against the headboard, arms resting lightly on his knees. There's a smug little smile on his face, and his eyes are glittering in the light of a single candle on the nightstand. He's wearing nothing but a pair of black trousers, and Pansy is again reminded of a Greek statue come to life when she looks at his broad shoulders and smooth chest. In the flickering candlelight, the tableau before her is one of almost unearthly beauty, and for a moment she stands motionless, drinking in the sight of him.

One lazy movement of his hand, and her robe is sliding from her shoulders, the fabric flowing down her body like water until she stands naked before him. It's the most powerful display of wandless magic she has ever seen, and she doesn't know if it's fear or excitement that sends a shiver down her spine. His dark eyes rake over her, but she realizes to her own surprise that she feels neither uncomfortable nor self-conscious.

Do you have any idea how beautiful you are, my flower?

His voice in her head is soft, almost tender; a moment later he's next to her, his movements flowing and graceful like a cat's. He lifts her up, and Pansy revels in the feeling of his skin on hers as he carries her to the bed.

She wonders if he's finally going to kiss her now, but he doesn't. Instead, he moves down her body to caress her breasts, kneading the soft flesh and teasing her nipples with lips, tongue and teeth until Pansy cries out under the tantalizing touches. She feels him smile against her skin, and he's sliding further down, planting a trail of soft kisses on her stomach while his hands stroke the inside of her thighs. She can't take it any more; it's too much and not enough at the same time. She reaches for him and entangles her hands in his hair to push him even lower. He laughs softly once again, and then, finally, she feels his mouth on the little nub of flesh, sucking and licking while his fingers push into her.

This is what you've been longing for without ever knowing it, isn't it, my blushing little flower? Three men have had you, and you've still been a virgin at heart until now.

Pansy hardly notices his words; she's lost in the feeling of what he's doing to her. She feels her body clench around his fingers when he quickens his pace, her back arching up from the bed as she comes with a groan. She desperately wants him to keep going, but suddenly there's nothing but the coolness of air on her damp skin, and she realizes with a sinking feeling that he's gone.

A moment later, she hears steps in the corridor. It takes a second for rational thought to kick in, and she barely manages to dive under the covers before the door opens and Draco's Lumos bathes the room in sudden brightness.

The shock has cleared her head, and she remembers just in time to pull the blanket up high enough so that he doesn't notice her bare shoulders; he knows that she never sleeps naked. She blinks at him, trying her best to appear as if he's just woken her.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't think you'd be home yet." Draco quickly dims the light emanating from his wand. "Did I wake you up?"

"I just went to bed. I came home early because I have a splitting headache." Pansy tries very hard to keep the anger out of her voice. Couldn't he have stayed with his flavour of the week for just a little bit longer? There's no doubt as to where he's been; his hair is damp, and Draco always takes a shower when he comes back into their bed after spending the evening in someone else's, making sure she'll never smell his lovers on him - as if she'd care about that.

"That's too bad. How did the evening go?"

Well enough. Your wife was very efficiently sucking up to a bunch of morons to help your miserable career along while you were playing the bereft son by amusing yourself with some Muggle fairy you picked up in a bar!

Pansy bites her lip to keep herself from saying out loud what just went through her head. Instead, she replies curtly, "It went all right. Can we discuss this tomorrow? I don't feel very well."

"Of course." Draco leans over to kiss her on the cheek, and it takes all of Pansy's willpower not to recoil from his touch. Even through the minty aroma of toothpaste, she can smell the alcohol on his breath. From the look of him, he's barely tipsy, but she's suddenly disgusted as if he were roaring drunk. She's silently glad when he mutters "Nox" and starts snoring only a few seconds later.

She rolls over to be as far away from Draco as possible and ponders if she should get up to fetch her nightgown when she feels an arm around her waist. Her heart skips a beat, and she reaches for his hand, warm and solid as if he hadn't vanished into thin air only minutes ago.

You didn't think I'd leave just like that? The night is far from over, my flower, and we're certainly not going to let your excuse for a husband take it away from us.

Both his arms are around her now, pushing her up until she's on top of him. He's finally as naked as she is; Pansy remembers the feeling of him inside her last night, and suddenly she wishes she could see him, could drink in the beauty of his gorgeous body without any clothes in the way.

He chuckles quietly, and the candle on the nightstand is lit. The rational part of Pansy's brain warns her that she should be worried by him reading her thoughts so easily, but she doesn't care. Instead she sits back to let her eyes wander over him. He remains completely relaxed under her scrutiny, his arms comfortably crossed behind his head, an eyebrow quirked in amusement.

I take it you like what you see?

Pansy finally has the nerve to smile back; she has never felt so free of any inhibitions in her life, so alive and vibrating with anticipation. "Oh yes."

Come here.

He reaches for her and pulls her towards him until she's straddling him, perched over his hips, and she wants nothing more than to sink down onto him, to bury him inside her as deep as he'll go.

That's exactly what I want you to do. What are you waiting for?

Pansy risks a sideward glance at her sleeping husband. "But if..."

He's not going to come between us. Not now, not ever. I can promise you that.

His hands are on her waist, pulling her down, and Pansy gasps as he enters her. His hips are thrusting up, establishing a rhythm; she follows his lead and forgets everything else as she rides him. He takes her hand and guides it down, urging her to touch herself, to stroke in time with his movements. Pansy throws back her head and clenches her thighs around him when he comes with a hard jerk of his hips; only now does she notice that she's covered in sweat and shaking all over.

He sits up and catches her before she falls over on top of him. Then all she feels are his arms around her, his lips on her neck, and his voice, low as a whisper, is back in her head, filling her thoughts until nothing else matters anymore.

This is just the beginning, my flower. I'll be around you like your shadow from now on, and you'll never be alone again - if you tell me that you want me to stay with you.

Pansy doesn't think for a second; there's really only one possible answer to that. "Oh yes, I want you to stay."

+++

Days are slipping past and adding up to weeks, but Pansy is barely aware of the time passing as she goes through her daily life without really caring about anything that's going on around her. She's cautious not to let anyone notice that her mind is miles away while she cares for her children, supervises the household and fulfils her social obligations, but she never feels truly alive except when he's with her, and her body aches for his touches whenever she has to get by without him for more than a few hours.

He comes and goes as he pleases. Sometimes he will turn up three times a day or stay with her for the whole night, then leave her alone and longing for days on end or tease her with unexpected, invisible touches like the first time she felt his hands on her on the Charles Bridge. It's driving her crazy, and she has been forced to use the headache excuse more and more often when she feels his touches in company - she can barely keep herself from running from the room to lock herself away somewhere where she can be alone with him on these occasions.

He promised he'd always be with her, but Pansy soon finds out that he likes to make her wait and crave and ache for him. Sometimes, when her body is on fire from his teasing and she just can't stand the hollow feeling inside her anymore, she cautiously lowers the shields around her mind to reach out for him, searching and probing until she finally hears the familiar, amused voice in her head, Aren't you impatient, my flower? I've kept you waiting; let me make it up to you.

And he does. Pansy quickly learns how right he was about her being a virgin at heart as he takes her through experiences she never thought possible. He always knows exactly what she wants, and once he decides to stop teasing her, he always makes sure to give her just that. One night he'll make slow, tender love to her until she feels like her body is melting into him under his gentle caresses; the next day he'll catch her alone in her dressing room and bend her over the table, leaving her bruised and sore for days, but tingling with excitement all over her body. There are mornings when he joins her in the shower, languidly running his hands over her soap-slicked body and worshipping her with his eyes, his touches, his voice in her mind that tells her how beautiful she is. There are other times when he shows up during her early morning walk and drags her into an empty side street to shove her up her against a wall like a Knockturn Alley whore, his voice whispering obscenities that nearly make her jump out of her skin with arousal.

But whether he teases her until she weeps with frustration or makes her come until she almost blacks out, it's always about her feelings, her desires - he seems quite indifferent to her touches, and not once does he ask her for anything. She's secretly glad that he never expects her to go down on him; that one time Blaise coaxed her into giving it a try and she threw up all over him is still etched into her memory, and it's not an experience she cares to repeat. Still, this... selflessness seems quite out of character for the man he appears to be, and she sometimes wonders what's in it for him apart from the fact that he can make her life heaven or hell at his whim.

It's very obvious that he enjoys the power he has over her, though, and occasionally she's surprised herself that she's not overly bothered by this. Draco is beginning to become suspicious that something is amiss; he keeps pestering her about her frequent headaches and her refusal to see a healer, and she's not fully capable to hide the mood swings that he puts her through from her husband. More than once, she can barely keep herself from snapping at Draco for no apparent reason, and in moments like these, she realizes that things can't go on like this forever. Such moments never last long, though - any disquieting thoughts about the future dissolve into nothing when she finally feels the familiar hands on her again.

+++

"Severus just sent another message."

Draco indicates a pile of ash on the floor. He seems excited and lively for the first time since his mother's death; it's moments like this that remind Pansy how firmly he is still attached to his former home country and everything that's going on there. A while ago, Snape came up with a method to charm letters so that they can only be read by the addressee and burst into flames as soon as they've been read. Since then, he has been sending short notes every few months, and Draco keeps looking forward to them like a child waiting for Christmas to come.

Pansy couldn't care less right now, though. He has been torturing her with soft, invisible touches for more than a day, and although she can constantly feel his presence on the fringes or her mind, she has neither heard his voice nor seen him during all this time. She's tired and cranky, and she hopes that whatever Draco wants to tell her won't take too long.

"The Dark Lord has found out about the Order destroying his Horcruxes. Do you know what a Horcrux is?"

Pansy's throat is suddenly bone-dry. Unable to speak, she just shakes her head.

"It's an object which contains a piece of a person's soul; it can be used to keep your soul alive even if your body is killed. It seems that the Dark Lord created several of them and hid them, but the Order found out and destroyed most of them over the years, and now Potter" - even after all this time, Draco has enough resentment left for his childhood enemy to spit out the name as if it were an insult - "has managed to get his hands on the last but one. There's only one more Horcrux left for them to find before they can risk attacking the Dark Lord, but now he knows what they're doing and is moving heaven and earth to get to it before someone else does. Severus thinks that one way or the other, the outcome of the war will be decided within the next few weeks."

Pansy feels a black cloud of fury that is not her own rise inside her. She wants to shout out to Draco to be quiet, to stop telling her things she must not know about before it is too late, but she seems petrified. She can feel him inside her mind, greedily listening to Draco who keeps talking about Snape's letter, oblivious to the fact that he has probably just sealed his mentor's fate.

The locket is burning against her skin as she realizes with horrible clarity what kind of deadly treasure Narcissa unwittingly passed on to her. She can't speak, but someone is doing it for her when she hears her own voice excusing herself with another headache; she can't move, but her feet are carrying her to the bedroom seemingly on their own accord. The door falls shut behind her, and when she turns around, he's there.

His hands are everywhere, peeling her out of her clothes within seconds. She feels the soft satin of the covers under her back without knowing how she got there when his weight pins her to the bed, his body hard and hot against her own. Her mind is reeling, but her body responds to his touch just as eagerly as it has always done. Despite the sickening feeling of shock and horror in the small part of her brain she still has control over, her legs spread underneath him, her back arching and fingernails clawing at his shoulders as he pushes into her. His thrusts are fast and vicious, and Pansy hears herself cry out, the last remains of coherent thought slipping away from her under the onslaught of sensation. She comes quickly, her muscles spasming and clenching, but it's not enough, and she tries to press up against him, wanting more, needing him still closer, still deeper inside her. Instead, his hands are suddenly on her shoulders, brutally holding her down while he slows his movements to short, shallow strokes, mere jerks of his hips that leave her whimpering in frustration.

Look at me, my little flower.

His voice in her mind is cool and controlled, as if they were having a conversation at a dinner party instead of lying on a bed together, naked limbs entangled. Pansy opens her eyes and looks into his face. There's a smug little smile in the corner of his mouth, and once more she is reminded of the fact that those lips, which have been all over her body, have never kissed her. His eyes are glittering like ice, but for a moment, she is sure there's a spark of red in their depths.

"So this - this is who you are." Her voice sounds strange in her own ears, hoarse and breathless; his smile widens as he replies.

What does it matter? You have no reason to be afraid of me.

His tone of voice changes, softening to a low, sensual purr that sends a shiver down her spine. This is a mere shadow of who I really am, just the pale memory of someone I was before I came into the fullness of my power. Can you even begin to imagine, pretty little flower, what it would be like to be with me instead of this phantom trapped inside a piece of silver?

Every gruesome description Draco has ever given her of his one encounter with the Dark Lord is suddenly flashing through Pansy's mind and fading just as quickly when his mouth brushes her forehead.

Don't fall for the lies of a traitorous coward who was never able to grasp my true nature. You're stronger than he is, worthy of knowing me as I really am. He's trying to keep you away from me, locked up in this miserable existence you're sharing with him, so that you'll never know the life I can offer you.

Once more, his lips are on her brow, their soft touch burning white-hot on Pansy's sweat-covered skin. He's all that stands between you and my real self, my flower. The day of reckoning is quickly approaching, and you will soon have to make your choice. What is the life of a traitor in exchange for everything that is waiting for you at my side?

Something twists inside Pansy's brain as she starts to realize what he has just asked of her; she pulls herself together, desperately trying to focus. "But he - my children..."

I would never make them pay for the sins of their father. You're mine, and those of your blood will always be safe because of that. I am asking for so little and offering so much; are you really going to reject me?

He's finally speeding up his movements again, and Pansy surrenders. Arms flung apart and legs spread wide, she lets go, lets him take her, own her; her heartbeat is pounding in her ears as waves of pleasure unlike anything she has ever known wash over her. She tries to empty her thoughts, brushing all those questions and worries and fears aside, until she's focused on nothing but the feeling of his skin on hers, his body tensing against her as he's approaching completion. She has never watched him climax before, but now she keeps her eyes open when he comes with a shudder that reverberates through her own body, sending her over the edge right after him. Even now, his face is as unreadable as ever, but Pansy doesn't care; she wants to etch this moment into her memory to treasure it until the end of her life.

She doesn't move when he slips out of her. She has never felt so utterly spent before, and she wants nothing but to remain as she is, close to him, his eyes on her, his hand smoothing sweaty strands of hair from her forehead.

She knows that it can't be like that, though; there will be no avoiding the question she's been dreading now, and Pansy does her best to muster up all the courage she possesses. "What do you want from me?"

He doesn't stop playing with her hair when he answers. Ah, but you know it, don't you? Two things, two tiny things, my flower: the first one is the secret that protects your traitorous husband.

Pansy hesitates, if only for a fraction of a second. "But you... you've looked into my mind already..."

You're a Secret Keeper. Your secret cannot be taken, but must be given willingly. You can't tell me in person, because it's not really me who's here with you. All I ask for is two words written in your own hand, and it will be done.

"But how... I mean, where - "

You're strong and brave; you will not shy away from speaking my name, will you? Tell it to your owl, and it will find me.

"You said you were asking for two things..."

The second one is the necklace you're wearing.

Pansy's heart skips a beat, and her hand flies to her throat as if to make sure that the reassuring weight of the locket is still there. "But then... then you will be gone from me!"

Not for long. Once I have back what it rightfully mine, none of my enemies will be able to stand in my way any longer. Then I will come for you, and no-one will be able to take you away from me again. Can you bear to lose me for a little while?

Tears are burning Pansy's eyes as she imagines an endless succession of drab days and cold, empty nights, but she blinks them away. She's a Slytherin; she has always known that everything in life comes with a price. "I can."

At this, he finally smiles at her, a brilliant, almost boyish smile that lights up his face and makes him look incredibly young; it's utterly impossible for her to see the most powerful Dark Wizard who ever lived in him right now. Without thinking, Pansy reaches for him, wrapping both hands around his neck and pulling him close.

She half expects him to push her away, but he doesn't. His lips are warm and soft as his mouth opens under hers, and Pansy loses herself in the kiss she has been denied for so long. There's a metallic taste on her tongue that reminds her of iron and blood, but she's past caring. She's falling and floating at the same time, and deep in her heart, she knows that whatever is to come, this moment will stay with her throughout everything she'll have to face.

+++

She didn't expect it to be this hard.

It's half past four in the morning; Pansy is sitting at the desk in Draco's study, a quill in her right hand and the locket clutched in her left. She's been staring at the blank piece of parchment in front of her for at least an hour now, but so far, she hasn't been able to write the words that will change her life.

Making her choice was surprisingly easy; it seems to her that she pretty much knew what to do ever since she understood what her options were. Remembering the past few weeks, there wasn't even much of a choice to begin with. She knows what she wants, so she really doesn't understand why it should be so difficult to see it through.

Is it nerves? She doesn't feel nervous, but given the scale of what's at stake, it's quite plausible that she's getting cold feet. A guilty conscience? Pansy gives a derisive snort; she's not heartless, but she certainly isn't going to let any lingering sentimentality get into the way of her goal. There's a reason she was put in Slytherin; she's perfectly capable of using any means to achieve her ends when the need arises. Does she doubt that she will get what she is bargaining for? She considers this for a moment and finds that against the odds, she really doesn't. Slytherins don't trust easily, but in this case, she feels certain that her loyalty will be rewarded. She knows the risks she's taking, and she's certainly not underestimating them, but somehow, she doesn't doubt that things will turn out the way she wants them to. Her mental shields are up, so she's sure he's not tampering with her feelings. Actually, he's left her alone ever since asking her to choose, and this is giving her confidence in her decision.

And yet - she can't bring herself to do it.

Finally, Pansy puts the quill aside with a sigh. The locket still clutched tightly in her hand, she leaves the study and quietly slips into the nursery.

The two little boys are fast asleep; Alexander is curled into a ball around his favourite teddy bear, and Lucien is on his stomach, face half-hidden behind a veil of fine, light-brown hair. Pansy watches them for a moment, and her uneasiness abates. Careful not to wake either of them, she pulls Alexander's blanket up over his shoulders and brushes Lucien's hair aside, silently promising her sons that she will always keep them safe. There are huge changes ahead, but she'll make sure they're for the better, no matter how difficult things may be for all of them for a while.

Fate has named the price, and she's willing to pay it.

Back in the study, she reaches for the quill and writes the short message without further consideration. She slides the parchment and the locket into an envelope and seals it with Snape's privacy spell so that that no-one can open the letter but the one it's intended for. She smiles for a moment when she tries to imagine what he's going to say upon learning that the key to his victory reached him safely thanks to an invention of the despised traitor.

The owl hoots softly at her when she lets it out of the cage and ties the letter to its leg. Pansy softly strokes the bird's feathers before carrying it over to the window. The owl gives her an expectant look when she opens the shutters; Pansy takes a deep breath and whispers the words she never thought she'd say.

For a moment, it seems to her that the owl is giving her an incredulous stare, but it's probably just her imagination. The bird spreads its wings and takes flight, and Pansy watches until it disappears. Then she closes the window and returns to the bedroom.

Draco doesn't wake up when she shrugs out of her bathrobe and slides under the covers. His white-blond hair is shining like ice in the pale moonlight, and for a fraction of a second, Pansy feels a pang of regret. She suppresses it with practised ease. There is no way to stop what she has set in motion; therefore it's no use fretting over it now that the dice are rolling.

Careful not to wake her husband, she leans over him and brushes a feathery kiss on his forehead. Then she stretches out next to him and gratefully leans into the warmth that radiates from his body. She hasn't realized until now how cold she is.

Closing her eyes, Pansy inhales Draco's familiar scent and enjoys the feeling of peace that is finally settling over her. In her mind, she pictures a dark-haired young man looking up from an old book he's been reading when an unfamiliar owl is tapping against his window. She imagines his face as he reaches for the letter that will turn the tide, and just for a moment, she allows herself to revel in the power that comes from knowing he will owe his final victory to her.

With a slight smile, Pansy snuggles closer to Draco and tries to hold on to that thought as she drifts off to sleep.

+++

Potter,

I have reason to believe you will be interested in the enclosed item.

Sincerely yours,

Pansy Malfoy

FIN