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Hogwarts was dark and cold. A Slytherin haven at last. Run by snakes, for snakes.
Pansy was cold, the shadows beneath her eyes were dark. She was being followed.
In Potter’s absence, the youngest Weasley had taken on the rather monotonous task of stalking Draco, Pansy was sure of it.
What compelled little Weaslette Pansy did not know. It was a shame, really, someone who ought to have been a leader, warped by loyalty, star-struck and stuck being Wonderboy's shite shadow.
Pleased and primed to spit insults that were far too witty for Draco, in his fit of pique, to simply ignore, Pansy whipped around, smirk ready on her dark-painted lips, ready to fight with fire, hoping to catch some warmth -
But Ginny was gone.
Flickered out of existence, a trick in the candlelight - perhaps her paranoia, reflecting back off of the whispering walls… Perhaps it had been wishful thinking.
The Carrows had brought their own brand of cruelty to the school, it was not one Pansy admired, though she dared not voice her complaints, as students moved around her with a practised wariness, their friendships and loyalties tested by the acrid smoke of suspicion, running deep through the stones of Hogwarts..
Pansy turned back around, fingers stretched against the stiff chill, and continued with Draco on patrol as she always did.
With Harry gone, with the Dark Lord living in his home, with the weight of a mark, Draco was quiet. The characteristic whine was absent, the tales of victory against the Gryfindors, the childish rivalries that had entertained new first years for as long as Pansy and Draco had been at this school. Pansy sagged under the weight of his silence.
Draco stood atop a table in his first year, spitting in fury at Dumbledore's backstabbing thievery at the end-of-year feast while Pansy sat painting her nails, calling them all fools for even believing a snake had been allowed to win.
Then in the second year, their audience had begun to gather and form. Pansy’s role had become clear, to sit, uninterested in the sermon, her lack of amusement stirring Draco on, riling him up, until he was at his peak performance.
By third year, Draco’s days standing loftily on furniture were over, instead, he lounged across their sofa bemoaning the loss of the quidditch cup at the hands of the headmaster's favourites. And Pansy sat, perched prettily on the arm of their sofa, winding Draco up with her indifference, with her disdain for the brutish sport, played by brutes, and evidently won by them.
They had been a duo to be reckoned with.
Her feet fell in time down the flagstoned corridor but Draco, her Draco , was forever out of step, unsure, unfeeling, dull. Hogwarts was dark, and cold, and quiet, and boring.
Amidst that gloom, there was that spark . Flint flashing in damp debris, and then, there was light. Life. Heat.
A rivalry.
Brought on in no small part by the sides on which they stood,
the boys who relied on them,
those they had to defend,
And that at the very least was not boring.
It began innocuously enough.
Pansy sat in the great hall, moving her breakfast around her plate, much in the way she herself had been moving around the castle, ineffectually and glaring at the Weasley girl. The ginger who had the gall, the ignorant indignance, to be complaining about the lack of Quidditch.
Pansy made herself loud and clear above the silence of the stoic Slytherin table as she turned to Draco -
“Oh when will she learn to shut up and grow up,” Pansy slid her gaze to Ginny, who met her glare directly, “we’ve slightly more important things to do than chase a ball around on a broom.”
Weaslette snarled, her lips curling over sharp, white teeth -
“It’s a lot more than that. It takes skill, strategy, and a bit of bravery. Not anything you’d understand, of course.”
Giiny’s words whipped and stung pleasantly at Pansy’s chest, leaving welting heat in their wake. Pansy ran her sharp gaze up Ginny’s body until she drew red and smirked, tongue darting over her lip to catch a taste -
“Oh, please,” Pansy had retorted. And amongst it all, there was a bet. A delightfully stupid bet. The terms of which were Gryffindor simple, Pansy must beat Ginny in a one-on-one Quidditch match. The indignity drew out Pansy’s pout.
“If I win you, little traitor, you will stop fucking following me.”
“I don't fucking follow you, you conceited cow. But when I win,” Ginny stared at her, long and deliberate, leaning in until Pansy could feel her breath in short hot puffs against her ear, “you admit that you Slytherins are in over your head, and you ask - no, beg - me for some fucking help.”
Pansy burned with roaring ire so searing it sealed her lips against repose. Her only release was the scowl that smouldered at Ginny’s back as she walked away, leaving a draft in her place. And so, the bet was on. The silly childish bet, in a time when nothing was silly, and they could not be children.
And she was fucking shite at Quidditch.
***
Ginny met Pansy at the edge of the pitch, her broom in hand and a confident smile on her face. Pansy, dressed in an undersized, borrowed, Quidditch uniform that held her in all the right ways, looked on, jaw set.
She had hoped this would be a quiet affair, but their houses needed this, as the numbers in the crowd showed.
“Ready to lose, Parkinson?”
Pansy, trying to ignore the jibes, raised her nose as if everyone was beneath her.
“Let’s just get this over with, Weasley.” She would have to be a fool, be foolish, in front of her peers. Pansy did not know how to be a fool. She was the orchestrator, of course, but Draco was her jester.
The match started with a burst. Ginny, graceful and agile, moved effortlessly through the air. Pansy, on the other hand, sat with her grip on the broom awkward and unsure, as she tried to follow the path of the ball. For the first few minutes, it was clear that Ginny had the upper hand, scoring effortlessly as she danced around Pansy. For the latter few minutes, it was made absolutely clear who the winner was and everything between was a terrible embarrassing blur.
The blow of a whistle came a cry of mercy, and finally Pansy was back on the ground, combing her shaking hand, through her tousled hair, and glaring at Ginny who seemed to glide down to the ground, perfectly dishevelled. Perfectly improper.
“So, ready to say it?”
Pansy knew she couldn't, Ginny knew she couldn't, and so she said, “fuck you, Weasley,” to a smile warm and waiting.
“Rematch then.”
Pansy flushed, wishing she had more robe to hide behind, as if this day could get any more exposing -
“What?”
“Those are my terms, say it or play again.” Her red hair jumped and twisted in the low sun, glowing, as inviting as settled coals.
“Rematch then.” Again, Pansy was stunned, again, Pansy had agreed to something, on someone else’s terms.
Ginny turned to address her crowd, “Today, I take pity on the snake that thought it could best a lion. Let’s see how she fares next week.”
Pansy lifted her chin against the blood in her cheeks, stood her ground for propriety’s sake, watched their audience cheer and boo, Ginny was pushing her luck, a little too brave, burning too bright, Pansy hated that her clenched palms were warm and so she was sticking her tongue out before she knew it, pulling faces at the Gryffindors, and it felt good, as they pulled faces back. She flipped Ginny off and walked away.
It felt good to be a fool. Just this once, just a little.
Against all odds, a spark in the dampness. A spark in the darkness. A foolish spark chased and cherished, dancing across stone in search of tinder.
***
Her hope that the crowd would dwindle, that interest would dissipate, in the week that followed, was of course in vain.
If anything, there were more of them. Vulturous voyeurs, the lot of them.
The pitch was awash with the low winter sun, the icy breeze promising a challenging game, forcing Pansy into an uncropped jumper. The Gryffindors were again in high spirits, eager to see their Chaser put the Slytherin in her place.
The Slytherins, meanwhile, were amused, their support of Pansy mingled with mockery, it felt right, she felt right. Until Ginny approached.
Then she felt awkward. Her mouth dry. Her cheeks painted pink.
Why she was nervous to be beaten again, she did not know. There would surely be no surprises.
And yet, Ginny was up in the air. The match had begun.
Pansy refused to fumble, refused to rush. Her broom rose slow and steady.
Despite the animosity, because of the animosity, Pansy found herself fascinated by Ginny's focus and fight. She found herself watching on dumbly, as Ginny sped around her, scored around her, until, broken from her stupor she heard,
“Go get her, Pansy!”
Her eyes met Draco’s, he winked a maddingly knowing wink. The maudlin bastard felt now was the appropriate time to recall his personality. Scoffing her annoyance, she set off after Ginny.
And lost.
Ginny discarded her broom on approach, Pansy stood waiting.
“Ready to say it?”
There was something almost tired in the way Ginny asked, something almost tired in Ginny, it unsettled Pansy once again. Pansy’s little ember was sputtering. Ginny would not tire of her so easily. She fanned her eyelashes and blew her a kiss,“maybe next week.”
Ginny’s smile is weak, but, windswept and out of breath, it reaches her eyes, “rematch then?”
“Yeah, rematch.”
***
Draco had made her a badge.
When he had found time to, she didn’t know.
In a way that only he could, the badge in her hand held the perfect blend of arrogance, rivalry, and support.
She could have kissed him, was halfway off her broom to hug him, when the image of a perfect Pansy on a broom, burst into a puff of glitter, replaced with the words ‘better luck next time.’
She met his eyes in an indignant challenge,
And lost.
Her fellow Slytherins showered her in sparks of glitter as soon as her feet touched the ground.
It caught the light, it made her light.
Ginny approached, her face streaked with sweat and a fierce, unreadable expression.
“Stop losing,” Ginny said, her tone sharp.
Pansy raised her nose to glower down it, the effect of course ruined by her wind torn appearance.
“It’s not like I’m losing on purpose, Weasley.”
“No, but you’re getting used to it. Don’t get used to losing. Don’t play pretty for the boys, stop being boring . Out there, you need to get dirty, get mean, get even. Fuck being prim and proper and get the job done, Parkinson. I thought that was what you were good at?”
Pansy, usually so confident in her anger, found herself struggling to maintain her composure, her eyes narrowed, “Why do you care?”
“Because it's Quidditch. I care about Quidditch.”
Because I need something to fight for.
Because things are so dark here, and Quidditch makes me feel alive. Pansy brought her to life.
Pansy hesitated, then sighed. “Fine. I’ll care about Quidditch too.” It felt like a promise. It felt like a promise she didn’t know how to keep.
It felt light. Lighter than glitter and laughter. It felt heavy. Heavier than masks and marks.
***
Afterwards, Pansy simmered, Pansy seethed.
They had both been entertaining. They had both been - what had they both been doing.
But to say that she did anything for the boys. And coming from Ginny of all people.
And so she went to her boys,
“You will teach me how to play Quidditch.”
And so they did.
She felt Ginny watching.
Knew Ginny was watching. A gathering of Slytherins, gathered at night, Ginny would be watching.
The pitch was cold and dark. Pansy knew this to be a fact. She had shivered and waited for her eyes to adjust as they snuck off to the Quidditch grounds. And yet.
It was getting under her skin.
What it was she did not know.
But it felt light. It felt bright.
(Fiery red freckle kissed rosy lips a defiant chin. Watching on.)
As Draco weaved around her.
As Theo bludgeoned towards her.
(As she watched on)
Pansy managed to duck and weave and stay in the air.
(It's so dark here, but don’t you feel alive)
***
And then, Pansy wins.
The Slytherins erupt in cheers. They bounce and gurgle against the silencing charm placed over their makeshift pitch, it makes her ears ring. Drifting down, she blinks the world into focus. Ginny is waiting.
Neither of them are smiling.
“So,” Pansy says through the thickness in her throat, the tightness in her chest, “we’re done.”
“We don’t have to be.” Fiery red freckle kissed rosy lips a defiant chin, it defied from within. Her stubborn, nosy, sparking wild-fire.
Channelling a current, a current that reminded Pansy that she was alive, forced Pansy into living, forced Pansy to choke out in a breath of something windswept whiplashed, the pop of a log as it collapses into flames, home safe -
“I’m ready to say it.”