Omnia Mors Perimit

Once or twice a week, Draco met up with Pansy, at her place or in Malfoy Manor. He was intrigued by those meetings, as they didn't yield the wished result - instead of growing fonder of her, he was frequently unnerved, and as far from being terribly in love with her as in the previous five years. Or perhaps this was just love after all? Did occasional ennui belong to true affection in everyday life?

He didn't have to think much about this, the answer appeared to be rather easy. His parents weren't like that, they never argued, they were never tired of each other. He knew the way his dad would look at his mum, filled with pride and admiration. Draco could say for sure that he didn't see anything in his girlfriend to elicit pride or devotion. He supposed that even a hard strike on his skull wouldn't change much of his perception of Pansy.

Whose fault was that? Hers, definitely, for he knew how badly he was trying to get a crush on her. If she was only a little less insipid, a little more funny, less submissive, more sophisticated. He detested himself for the gross notion - if only she was a bit more like his mum.

Last Saturday, she had suddenly suggested that they should sleep with each other, and though puzzled by her bluntness, Draco had been far from declining. He was still sneering with their hypocrisy, for he could tell that she had lied as much as he had. He wouldn't have acknowledged for the world that he had never slept with another girl before that, although that lie was so feeble that not even Pansy could have bought it. Whom should he have shagged, eh? If it had been anyone in school, she would have been bound to hear of it. And that he hadn't touched some random muggle girl needn't be explained in the first place.

Pansy on the other hand had sworn to be a virgin still, that she had waited for him only. He didn't care much, but he would rather have eaten his own broom stick than trust her on that head. In the previous year, she had dated Warrington from the Quidditch team for some weeks - to make Draco jealous, as she frankly admitted - and Draco knew enough of Warrington to comprehend that this one didn't go out with a girl to be holding hands then. She was also too apt - that girl had exercised on the gear, no doubt about it.

However, the event in itself had been shockingly unremarkable. He didn't deceive himself - he hadn't been Casanova exactly, although Pansy had put up a great act, panting and writhing and swearing her undying love afterwards, and that she had never felt anything so awesome. Yeah, right. He had pretended just as much - as a matter of fact, he had imagined it to be far more exciting to have sex with a girl, but was tactful enough to claim the opposite.

So that was that. He came to suspect that he liked the idea of Pansy much more than the girl itself. When they were not together, he was looking forward to be with her, to embrace her, spend an afternoon in bed, eyes closed, silent, just holding each other, but it never was like this. Pansy either assaulted him, dragging off his clothes - he had a bandage around his left arm, claiming some serious Quidditch injury - and pressing him to have sex. Or she wouldn't stop wiggling her tongue, which was hard to endure. Her conversation was so boring, so utterly useless, revealing her to be every bit as dull as his mother thought her to be.

He could tell that she was already making plans for their future - she pictured herself to be the next Mrs Malfoy, and it wasn't his vanity suggesting this. Pansy wasn't exactly subtle. Sometimes, she pointed at some curtain in the Manor, suggesting that it might be replaced, or she described to him in painful detail what sort of jewellery she liked. Rings, naturally. He didn't know how to tell her that he was closer to propose to her room mate Millicent Bulstrode, than to herself. If he thought about a future with Pansy, he thought that a life in a monastery was way preferable to spend years on end in her company. He was aware that this wasn't the right approach to one's girlfriend, but he couldn't help himself feeling so nonetheless.

His mother, nervous and irritable these days, wouldn't have her son sleep at his girlfriend's place - they had a very heated discussion about that topic; Draco found she was being ridiculous and told her so, but had to give in after all. Neither would she allow Pansy to stay in Malfoy Manor, which didn't come as a surprise either. Almost every evening, Draco met with his aunt to practise the Dark Arts, and having a strict mother was a welcome pretext for concealing this from the ever so curious Pansy.

"Mum, I cannot believe what a fuss you're making about this!"

"Well, you better start believing it, my dear boy. Because you will stay here, where I can see you."

"What?!"

"You know what I mean, Draco."

"You don't trust me, do you?"

"I trust you to be inconsiderate. End of discussion, Draco, or I'll have a word with your aunt."

He knew that Aunt Bellatrix thought that he shouldn't be doing anything (if possible, stop sleeping even) but diligently studying the Dark Arts. He principally agreed, but thought that meeting up with Pansy every now and then didn't keep him from advancing with any serious matter. Rather the opposite, it distracted him from the gloomy thoughts that kept haunting him, despite all his fervour. From his dad in Azkaban, from his mum's filthy mood, from his aunt's frequent fits -

In this moment, there was a faint knocking on the door, and Bobby looked even more solemn than usual when entering the breakfast parlour now, wheezing, trembling, but holding a letter all the same. Somehow, Draco just knew what this letter meant, so did his mother, who gave him the first encouraging smile in a fortnight.

"Go on, Draco."

"Well, if it's really bad, I still have the comfort that dad's not here to get a fit, right?" he tried to joke, but his mum didn't find this any funny, judging her expression. She signalled once more that he should open the letter, and taking a deep breath, he broke the seal and stared at the parchment. It took him a few seconds to realise what he read there.

Ancient Runes O

Arithmancy O

Astronomy O

Care of Magical Creatures O

Charms O

Defence Against the Dark Arts O

Divination E

Herbology O

History of Magic O

Muggle Studies O

Potions O

Transfiguration O

He opened his mouth and shut it again, quietly passing the parchment on to his mother for confirmation. This one skimmed the letter, lowered it then and smiled impishly. "What have you done with my son, stranger?"

These were his OWL results - he could not believe this. Eleven 'Outstandings'? In his OWLs? And for the first time ever, his father was not here to - to... Well, congratulate his son, praise him, for once not curl his lips and say 'You can do better, can you?'

But his mum was still there, giving him her most radiant smile in a fortnight. "Well done, darling! Very well done indeed! Your father will be so proud with you! I am so proud with you!"

"I - I... Uh -"

"Speechless, mon bijoux? Ah!" She called for Bobby to bring them Champagne, poured two glasses and toasted. "To you, my darling! Come on, make a wish. I'll get you anything. You want a - what's the name - a Firebolt, right? You'll beat Potter easily when you've got a Firebolt as well!"

"Er -"

He was stunned - literally stunned. He had got eleven 'Outstandings'?! Okay, he had been aware that he hadn't done bad, but he had smashed that goblet in Charms - surely they must have deduced points for that - he looked at the parchment again, just to make sure. Potions had been a sure thing, he was excellent in Potions, and Arithmancy and Ancient Runes. But in Transfiguration, he hadn't been that good in his classes. He didn't like McGonagall, and she positively despised him. The same was true for Care of Magical Creatures. On the other hand, one couldn't do so bad in that subject anyway, it was far from complicated...

Pansy came over to the Manor, shortly after noon, and not quite as high-spirited as Draco was. She had only taken eight classes for her OWLs, got no 'Outstanding' at all and only three 'Exceeding Expectations' (Herbology, Astronomy, Care of Magical Creatures) and messed up utterly in Potions and Transfiguration. His mother smiled pitifully and said, "Well, it's a real shame then that they didn't test beautifying potions, isn't it, Miss Parkinson?"

Pansy nodded bashfully, but rallied herself and murmured, "But you have done so well, Draco. I knew it. Blimey, I don't want to know how Professor Snape will look when he hears about my Potions result..."

True. Pansy had only ever done well in Potions because Draco had helped her, mainly because he wanted to spare her the humiliation to be as bad as Potter and Weasel Bee. It turned out that he had done her no favour. She was delighted with his results though, and caressed his vanity by gushing how awfully clever he was. "I bet not even Granger's done better this time, Draco!"

"I wouldn't put it past her to have received nothing but 'O's'. You know what she's like."

"She's a cow," Pansy said forcefully. "What sort of person gets nothing but 'O's' in their exams, really?"

Draco smirked. "My mum, she's got only 'O's' in her time in school, my -" He bit his tongue; he had almost said 'my aunt told me', and Pansy mustn't know that he had talked to her. Instead he added quickly, "My father's told me."

"Oh! Oh, obviously I didn't mean - your mum's different, of course -"

He had believed that Aunt Bellatrix would be pleased as well, but she merely shrugged. "Who ever cares for OWL results. There are far more important things than that. Have you exercised the Thumbscrew Jinx?"

"Yes, I have." And they called for one of the house-elves, so Draco could show her. Nobby was squealing miserably after a few rounds, and thinking that he mustn't injure their cook, they exchanged him.

"The Thumbscrew Jinx," Aunt Bellatrix lectured, "isn't half as effective as the Cruciatus, naturally. But it's good to know it nonetheless, for victims who only need a little push to give you the required information. Besides, the Cruciatus can lead to unwanted side-effects - it's no use when the victim passes out and cannot talk at all, or breaks, and never talks sense again."

Draco squinted at Iggy, the gardening elf, who was so dead-pale that it looked like fainting as well, and thought that his aunt took some odd lines on the subject. He wanted to prove his point and said, "Iggy, when would be the right time to repot Snargaluffs?"

"Gnawuhmstarofeberyyeek -"

"Finite Incantatem! Come again?"

No use. Iggy had passed out cold. His mum would not be content.