Not Quite Nostalgia

Not Quite Nostalgia

When Pansy was younger, her favorite day of the week was Wednesday. Because on Wednesday the Ice People-so named in regard to the absolute frigidity that pervaded the atmosphere near them, stemming not so much from their physical geography (pairs of frozen grey pools in smooth, frost-white tundra) as from the cool inflections in their voices and their rigid, proper movements-would come, the mummy and the daddy and the little boy would come. And while the grown-up Ice People went with Pansy's mummy and daddy to drink tea-which always puzzled that younger Pansy, surely hot tea would melt the Ice People like the proverbial snowball in hell-while they went to drink tea and discuss grown-up things, Pansy and the Ice Boy played in the garden. Pansy had always loved the garden-rife as it was with illusions of unicorns and trolls and centaurs and adventures begging to be had, and, cherished above all, peace (though, alas, it was as insubstantial and illusory as any of the exotic creatures)-and she grew to love it all the more for its ability to break the ice, so to speak. For during those many hours spent among crocuses and lilies and the odd cherry tree-her father had always had an odd affinity for plants of the mundane variety, of which Mother strongly disapproved-something came alive in the Ice Boy's face. She hadn't the right words to describe it-she had never been much in the way of words, really. Even now the closest she could come to describing that look was "passion," and the hopelessly inadequate term brings memories of Millicent's second-year crush on Professor Lockhart (and the corresponding, cringe-inducing poetry) much more readily than the ringing truth she felt in her bones, that she had seen in him-but it was something real, and that was enough.

Pansy often wondered what "enough" meant. Enough to make her fall in love with him? Enough to call her to the Dark Lord, enough to push her into believing in the Cause? Maybe then, at that age, it was. But now?

Sometimes they played chase, or house-maternal eyes no doubt watching and envisioning a monstrous, six-hundred-person-guest-list-including-the-Minister-and-half-the-Wizengamot wedding/social climber's heaven-or made wands out of sticks and dueled till their voices were hoarse from shouting fake spells-and screaming while writhing on the ground in the throes of imagined pain. She has to laugh, recalling their naiveté, because it precludes the bile rising in her throat. But the best time, the best time of all was when the Ice Boy held her arm and with one pale finger rubbed a circle of mud on it-she was never the type to flinch at a little dirt (at least, not before her mother whittled the habit into her soul with sharp words and blows), but even if she had been, the tension hovering in that moment would have stilled her-and his eyes gleamed liquid mercury, intense and flowing, as he softly spoke an epithet-or a prophecy? Her old conundrum, in a nutshell. How much of her destiny belongs to her? How much to that bestowed title? If she tries to grasp her own desires, to cut out the as-yet unapplied mark, will the noose so casually looped around her neck simply tighten?

"Death Eater."

Later on, Pansy and the Ice Boy-whose proper name was Draco Malfoy, which still made her snort when she pondered it. Not that a girl named Pansy (particularly one older than six) had any right to be snickering over amusing names, but honestly, Draco?-Pansy and Draco had to sit with the adults, and Pansy was forced into frilly robes with bows and lace instead of her sensible, comfortable, friendly frocks and jumpers-She still remembered her favorite, the navy blue knit with a silvery unicorn on the front, cantering in place. She and Draco entertained themselves by making faces across the table while the grown-ups droned on and on.

And not long after, Pansy is expected to make small talk with the Malfoys, politely, for a few awkward moments before the adults regain their monopoly on the conversation. And because she's too old to stick her tongue out at Draco-a concept that vexed her at the time because Draco always crossed his eyes in response, and she found it endlessly funny, but she couldn't fight her mother now, at fifteen; a six-year-old wouldn't stand a chance-she instead regards the Malfoys-The gods of her childhood. Everything depended on them, she was told. Her social status, a possible match (her mental response to that idea: Ew.), her position in His organization (she didn't have to ask who He was), and her survival in the currently and despicably Muggle-tolerant, Dark Lord-less world. Her future and livelihood, all depended on the House of Malfoy.

At Hogwarts it seemed the same. Everyone that mattered was in Slytherin, and Draco Malfoy was the heartof his house. There were people, mostly in other houses, that lived their lives differently, unfocused on the goal of a skull-shaped tattoo and a most likely loveless marriage. She wavered between envying them and hating them, but it never really mattered. The freedom Hogwarts offered was a mirage in its transience; outside its walls the real world waited.

And in her observations she notices that they seem passively interested as the discussion shifts topics. Their eyes are cool as they calmly offer opinions on fashions and someone called Cornelius Fudge and Quidditch teams and the success of her daddy's business. But on a few Wednesdays, every once in a while, the phrase "Dark Lord" rolls slowly off her daddy's tongue. And Mr. Malfoy's left hand tightens around his silver snakehead cane. -Draco recoiled, briefly, whenever he saw the gesture. Once, after an exhausting night of final exam preparation in the drafty Slytherin common room, he clutched the arm of a chair and whispered a confession that felt too familiar to her-and his other hand comes over to rub his forearm, and his eyes shine like Draco's did that one time, and his cheeks are tinged pink and his words tumble out, rather than gracefully slinking as usual.

Mrs. Malfoy reacts differently. When she hears "Dark Lord," her knuckles become as white as the china teacup in her hands, and her blue eyes become bluer and lock on Draco, and suddenly Pansy can see lines in her generally flawless forehead-a transformation that, even in memory, especially in memory, never ceased to surprise Pansy. The implied metaphor, that He ravaged all things good (Mrs. Malfoy, despite her obvious shortcomings, didn't strike Pansy as truly evil, and grey had no place in their polarized world), refused to leave her, even before she could conceive of questioning her all-important principles-and suddenly Pansy can see lines in Mrs. Malfoy's generally flawless forehead, and around her mouth. She doesn't speak at all.

When Draco hears "Dark Lord," he looks at his father, and the features of his young face contort themselves into Mr. Malfoy's expression, and Pansy wonders that if Draco weren't half his father's size, could you tell them apart?-And the answer is yes, because even though Draco is now within a few inches of Lucius's height, and their faces are still absurdly similar, and their expressions often match, Pansy believes them to be two entirely separate people.

The main distinction between father and son is that Lucius made his choice, and Draco hasn't yet. And she selfishly clings to that discrepancy, holds on to Draco's individuality, because no one else remembers and because sometimes he forgets, as well; and because she's lonely enough as it is.

When her father says "Dark Lord," his eyes get wider and blacker, and the bald patch on his head gets even shinier than usual and instead of rubbing his left forearm, he scratches and picks at it. And underneath the table his leg starts to jiggle up and down, but Pansy is the only one that can see it-Pansy saw many things, back when she was too young to understand them (she still shudders at the image of her mother's foot slipping beneath the hem of Mr. Malfoy's robes). Now she tries not to look so hard.

When her mother hears "Dark Lord," the corners of her mouth point up, and her eyes get intense, but unfocused, and her long, sharp, scarlet fingernails-they are still the same, years later, and Pansy still has to hide long, deep, scarlet scratches on her face-and her fingernails clink softly against her saucer.

When Pansy hears "Dark Lord," she can feel the words reverberate from the depths of her skull to the base of her spine in the most delightful shiver-Even now she shivers, but for a different reason.

Before, He was always an abstraction, a distant messiah that never rose again. And though she worshiped this Lord every Wednesday afternoon for years, He remained impersonal. Now he is restored, and her dilemma looms ever nearer, and an animal panic loiters closer still. The shivering is the least of it.And the electricity of her excitement shoots along her nerves.

This game they play is a lovely one, full of promise and intrigue. Pansy loved games-though she hasn't really played in a very long time-and Pansy loved Wednesdays.

In an hour she will board the Hogwarts express, and return home for the summer. In a week, she'll turn sixteen. And in a month, she and Draco and all of their closest friends will line up in a graveyard before a man with red eyes, and develop the unfortunate habit of left-forearm-clutching.

Ironically, this will happen on a Wednesday.