Giving Notice

For all warnings and things like that, see previous chapters. As promised, a Slytherin chapter is here - this is Pansy Parkinson's POV on things, and how her Housemates react to it.

Pansy

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I wonder why. Really, I do.

Was it that he couldn't take the fame and adulation? He was, after all, a Gryffindor - any Slytherin worth their Sorting would have taken every advantage they could from such a sea of endless opportunity. But he chose not to. I suppose I can understand it a little - after all, there's a difference to being placed on a pedestal, and being placed in a high tower where no one could ever reach - where he could never reach anyone. Did he really hate the mindless adoration that much? ...No, it can't have just been that, surely.

Or was it something else entirely? Something that occured during that last big confrontation with the Dark Lord; the confrontation that nobody seems to know all the details of? Not the Malfoys, not Pettigrew, who's snivelling away in Azkaban - not even Dumbledore seems to know much about it. He doesn't have that dreadful annoying "I-know-what-you-don't-know" air about him this time - he's as confused as the rest of us.

What could have happened during that battle? Maybe he saw something he couldn't forget, heard something he couldn't bear remembering one second more?

Perhaps it was a curse? A slow-acting curse that everyone missed, something insidious that worked over several weeks...? Hmm. He certainly behaved strangely enough for a while. A lot of the teachers like Flitwick twittered on about 'post-traumatic stress' when they thought none of the students could hear. They talked about a lot when they thought we couldn't hear. A curse is a probability - perhaps some old, archaic form of Imperio?

I don't know. And in the end, that's my problem. I really don't know.

A clang from a few seats down. I looked up in time to see Draco rise from picking something off the floor, glaring at all who dared stare at him. He places a silver knife on the table and folds his arms across his chest, slouching down on the bench and waiting for the house elves to bring some fresh cutlery.

Well, really. I could have told him that stabbing at his plate like that, the knife would go sliding out of his control. I could have told him. But he wouldn't have listened, and I'd have only have interrupted his nice private sulk. I'm fond of Draco, but I'm well aware of his faults. Let Crabbe and Goyle get their heads snapped off when they ask questions. I'm not going to catch his wrath.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The Slytherin common room is really much more comfortable than it seems. I remember coming here on my first night and thinking that I'd never be comfortable, but actually it's quite nice. It just looks hard. And that's really Slytherin House - not what it seems, ever. For example, given our reputation, Slytherin is really awfully soft, perhaps too much so. I believe we should protect our own, but not too much. The younger ones are never going to learn if they're coddled and cosseted and allowed to be crybabies - Professor Snape knows that full well. But some of the older students insist on pandering to the young ones who have been tormented by the Big Bad Gryffindors for the terrible crime of being Sorted here. And when the young ones go to bed, the older ones stay up, find a nice spot in the common room and trade information far too freely.

Not that I'm complaining about that. Makes my life easier. I'm not like that Mudblood Granger, madly striving to make up for a lack of pureblood heritage by knowing everything - or trying to. One would almost think she was a Hufflepuff, with the amount of work she does - that she likes to do! I just sit back and think, and wait for confirmation of my thoughts to come to me. If that means gaining plain Passes, instead of High Distinctions, and catching people with their guard down - well, it's a trade that is worth it. A pass is still a pass, after all, and inside information can get you a lot of things. Especially in Slytherin.

And I get it. I've made sure of that, that people don't worry about speaking in front of me. Get up two hours early every morning, then spend that time in front of the mirror. You'll soon learn everything you like, even if you're as ugly as sin - or worse, poor Millie Bulstrode. Even Draco believes that shallow, silly Pansy couldn't possibly have an original thought in her carefully-primped head. After all, she's barely passing Ancient Runes by the skin of her teeth! So, because she's not academic, and likes to look good... why, of course she's stupid. And I'll let him believe that. Mother always taught me that it's useful if your husband doesn't know how clever you really are - and Draco would make a most handsome and useful husband. Plus, as I said, I quite like him, really.

Oddly enough, Crabbe and Goyle, who aren't exactly bright themselves, seem to be the only ones that have guessed that there's anything behind the makeup - except for Professor Snape, and Dumbledore. Maybe they see me using their tactics. It's the same in principle, but slightly different in application. Crabbe and Goyle really are thick - and they know it. And they play to it magnificently, making themselves seem even stupider. Draco's bodyguards. The brainless brawn. And they go along quite well with Draco most of the time - though I don't doubt that it's because he looks after them as much as they look after him. A strange, symbiotic friendship, but it works.

Speaking of which, I can see Crabbe and Goyle slowly working on their homework on one of the far desks - but no Draco in sight to help them. Odd, that. By the look on Goyle's face, he's doing the research essay for Charms. The joys of Latin translations, when he has enough trouble reading English. He can't help it if he's dyslexic. The fact that he's managed to make it this far is due mainly to the masses of tutoring given him by Professor Snape and by Draco. And usually Zabini, Millicent or I will look over his shoulder and help him if we happen to be around.

Like I said - Slytherin looks after its own.

Speaking of that...

"You're looking for the Virisunt charm, Goyle - begins with a V, not an F."

With a grunt that could be roughly translated as thanks, he flips the book to the correct section. Good thing that I know Goyle. He isn't being rude, he just can't afford to lose his concentration until he finishes writing down the carefully-constructed sentence in his head, or he'll lose the whole thing.

"Hey, Pansy," Crabbe manages a slightly more coherent greeting as he scribbles down his last lot of Care Of Magical Creatures homework. It isn't as though it's going to be marked or anything - Hagrid's blubbering enough for Weasley and anyone else besides, in no fit state to grade homework; but then again, Crabbe hates leaving things half-done.

"Crabbe, where's Draco?"

He looks up at me. "Out on the Quidditch pitch, I think. He had his broom and his flying gear - said he wanted to go out there alone." He shrugged. "Dunno if it was a good idea to let him, but he'd have busted our heads if we'd tried to follow him."

Goyle puts his quill down and studies me for a moment. I'm taken aback a little by the fierce single-minded concentration that still lingers in his eyes. If only people knew that Goyle puts as much sheer effort into his work as any Ravenclaw... "He's been out there well over an hour by now."

They don't have to say anything else, and they know it, so they go back to their work, knowing that I'll go to check on him for them. And damn them for knowing that I'm curious - and wary - enough about Draco's behaviour to actually go. Damn them for being right about me when even Perfect Potter was wrong.

~*~*~*~*~*~

It's dark out on the pitch, but not too dark yet, and the Snitch automatically gains a faint glow in darkness - how else would Quidditch matches continue if the Snitch wasn't caught before sunset? There's also just enough light from the castle, and from a few dim torches around the pitch itself, to watch a fiercely swooping figure on the field - especially if you slide into a sliver of shadow under one of the stands.

The Snitch flies loose from Draco's hand, and he waits for it to get far away from him before tearing mercilessly after it like a bat out of hell, following it despite all its dancing out of his hand at the last second, like a lone predator bearing down on a firefly.

I love watching him fly. He doesn't have quite the same talent Potter had for being a Seeker, but he shares the same love of the airborne chase - and it shows in his flight. Used to show in Potter's flight.

And now, it's conspicuously absent.

Time and time again, he catches the Snitch, only to let it go and try again. And again.

Then, after catching it one last time, he positively throws the golden ball away from him with a vengeance. Diving down to the ground in a passable Wronski Feint, he dismounts from the broom and flings it furiously down onto the grass. Hair mussed and face contorted, he screams to the sky, the enraged shout echoing all over the grounds.

"DAMN you, Potter! I wasn't FINISHED with you yet!"

~*~*~*~*~*~

It's no use tossing and turning, thinking about it any more tonight - no more information is likely to come to me in the dark silence, and without that information, it's doubtful any answers will. But all the same, I do wish I knew. But without knowing what went on inside his head...

I need inside information. And I'm never going to get it.

Poor Draco. He wasn't finished with Potter - but one way or the other, Potter was finished with all of us.

END.