Looking at Me Funny

Ah, God—that I should suffer
Because of the way a little finger moved.

Draco could never be honest with himself and so he claimed he had always noticed Pansy. She had been a constant presence in his life, another one of those wet, weeping girls who had trailed around him as a child. Not pretty, not like Tracey and Daphne, who had blonde tresses to rival Draco's own, but arresting. Dark hair, dark eyes and a nose that was a little squashed.

If he was honest – and he never was – he might have said that he first noticed Pansy one day in fifth year, for Draco's life was defined by Hogwart's years. And, yes, he first noticed Pansy in fifth year, in a Herbology class of all things. She had rolled up the sleeves of her white school shirt, all the way up past her elbows. In this time of rising darkness and irrational fear, eyes that were not from Slytherin House turned to stare at the pale white of Pansy's inner arm but Pansy's skin was unmarked, innocent.

Draco suddenly thought, no, he realised, that Pansy's skin was probably like that, all over her body.

Like. Everywhere.

My heart has left its dwelling place
And can return no more.

There have always been plans. The Parkinsons and Malfoys have always marched side by side, their families entwined by more than just blood. There is honour there, respect, and power. But the Parkinson ultimate deference to the Malfoys seals the deal.

And so Draco has always known he could tread on Pansy, should he so wish. She could be picked up and cast off depending upon his mood, so her rebellion in sixth year comes as a surprise.

No, Draco. There are three brothers to carry on the fine Dark tradition in our family, she says, her bare arms covered by shirt and jumper and robe. You cannot recruit me.

In sixteen years, Draco has been refused twice. Once by Harry Potter, once by Pansy Parkinson. The first still rankles, the second is a heavy blow.

Parkinsons always stand by Malfoys, he says, following her to the door of the girls' dormitory. She is wearing long black socks today, pulled up above her knees where the hem of her skirt brushes them. These are Muggle socks. With e-l-a-s-t-i-c and they are an abomination.

She sniffs and holds out her hands for the books he is carrying. Parkinsons stand behind Malfoys. Don't think I don't know how the game is played.

But one day we woke to disgrace; our house
a coldness of rooms, each nursing
a thickening cyst of dust and gloom.

Draco's thoughts turn to murder in the night. He has not slept, really, since his father's arrest. He scrawls plans on parchment, his quill scratching noisily in the damp quiet of the dormitory. In the morning, he reads them over and sees them with the clarity the light of day brings. They burn in the fireplace.

He seethes. Potter's fault. And stares. How dare he? There is not enough time in the day for Draco to accomplish everything he needs to. He wants Potter to burn.

You must miss him terribly, Draco, Pansy says, her eyes filled with pity. Her hand lingers too long on his and then she stands, taking something with her as she leaves.

Sometimes he does not think of murder or revenge or humiliation. He thinks of dark hair and dark eyes and knows he does not have time for this.

I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

There have never been other girls. Oh, there have been girls. The simpering, weeping ones of his past. The ones he pushed into puddles and jinxed. Claire Hissop, whose hair he cut off with the Malfoy ritual knife. He has not had time for those girls, not when there are Gryffindors to vanquish and reputations to uphold.

Merlin, no wonder you're such an uptight git, Nott surmised, sick of Draco's vitriolic sleep-mumbling. You need a shag. Go find a Hufflepuff.

A Hufflepuff. Draco is revolted. He retreats to the common room, where the girls are, and sits in a corner glaring at them. None of them are Pansy and he waits a suitably uninterested time before asking where she is.

Off with Zabini. Where else? The girls snicker, as one. Snogging behind the Quidditch shed.

Draco's thoughts turn to murder.

O, beware, my lord of jealousy;
It is the green-ey'd monster which doth mock
The meat it feeds on.

Draco knows more than people assume. He is good at Potions, but better at Transfigurations. If it hadn't been for Longbottom, he would have been brilliant at Herbology. He knows he will never again be friends with Zabini, whose panicked assurances that 'it' was nothing do not help his case.

Pansy is inscrutable. Or perhaps just confused. I really don't see what the problem is. Just yesterday you were pulling my hair. Or was he dipping it in ink?

There are ink marks on her fingers, fingers that Draco wants to hold, wants to put in his mouth, wants to put in Other Places.

He is breathless in her presence. (He is a Malfoy.) Her bare knees send him into a frustrated thought pattern of other mysterious female parts. (He is confused as hell.)

Snape bundles him into a roomful of cauldrons. Hormones, he mutters. Always the same. Clean, boy, if you know how.

A something found and lost in the first kiss
A lover ever poured through lips of mine.

Draco is a man possessed. Torn between stalking Pansy and stalking Potter, he ends up getting thoroughly lost in Hogwarts itself. More often than not he ends up in front of Dumbledore's office. The old coot.

He kicks a statue and breaks a toe and ends up in the infirmary, trying not to cry in front of Pomfrey who has never offered him a bit of comfort his entire schooling career. Fighting again? she asks him, sounding irritated. She pulls off his shoe and peels his sock from his foot. She tut-tuts at the swollen mess. Perhaps not. No sign of Miss Parkinson, yet, hmm?

Hot prickles behind his eyes. Oh, he can't bear it when things don't go his way. Draco sniffs. She won't come.

But of course, she does. She perches on the bed beside him, strokes his hand and gives him a look of withering female knowledge. Silly boy. What, or whom, did you kick?

Paracelsus. Draco is torn between embarrassment and delight; Pansy is still holding his hand. She sends his hormones into a further flurry of excitement when she rests her head on his shoulder. He was looking at me funny.

That feeling, the one inside, which is sort of warm and glowy, might just be happiness. But Draco isn't really a judge of such things.