Feelings and Other Atrocities

Leaning against the mantle in Pansy's Inverness home, Draco crosses one ankle over the other, creating a clean, crisp, inviting line with his frame. She doesn't bother to acknowledge his presence; she's too occupied with preparing her standard post-dinner drink - a Golden Wand.



He waits until she has replaced the last stopper in its rightful decanter before speaking. "Hello, Pansy."



"Draco," she says with a nod, tilting her head back and gazing lazily up at him. "Have I kept you waiting too long?" Her nails, long and lacquered pink and perfect, tap against the side of her glass as she raises it to him in greeting. He smiles, and she drinks. "Mmmm."



"Good, is it?" He likes the way her lips purse just a fraction when she makes that 'mmmm' sound, and he pushes off the mantle to meet her.



"Yes." There is amusement in her voice, and she turns as he walks round her. "Very good."



"I'm not good," Draco murmurs, stepping behind her, pressing his chest against her back. "I'm not bad, either." Winding a few fingers in her hair, he places his other hand on her belly, holding her to him. Draco inhales the scent of her hair, his nose brushing against her ear.



"Mmmm. What are you, then?" she asks slyly, and the ice in her glass clinks together.



"Positively wicked," he breathes, tracing the sensitive shell of her ear with his tongue before tugging on the lobe with his teeth, sucking it into his mouth.



"Draco..."



"Hmm?"



"As pleasant as this may be, I do intend on having my drink." Her hand, small and warm, pats the one he has against her belly.



"Of course." Though he is reluctant to let go of her so soon, Draco opens his arms. She turns in them, pressing a kiss to his cheek before stepping back.



"It's good to see you." Sitting delicately in a wingback chair, she crosses her legs and gestures for him to sit in the adjacent seat. "It's been, what now? Two months?"



Though her tone is anything but impolite, Draco knows he is being chastised, as well he should be. Of all his former housemates, Pansy is the only one with whom he's kept up.



Bulstrode, Nott, and Goyle are dead. Pucey and Flint are in Azkaban. Greengrass and Higgs are nothing but for shells of their former selves; they'd been sentenced to the Kiss after their crimes in the War came to light. Crabbe's whereabouts are unknown; and Zabini, Warrington, Davis, and Montague want nothing to do with him. Of those who are still alive, only Vince means anything to him. If Draco had the means, he would hire someone to seek him out. But Draco does not have the means, so he never thinks on that notion for more than a moment or two.



The lot of them can go hang, save for Pansy. She has always been the one to understand him best of all, and though he is loath to admit dependence on anyone, Draco depends on her. Not just for getting him off or never hesitating to come when he owls in the middle of the night for a random shag, but for strength and stability and brutal honesty. Pansy sees right through him and doesn't mind his transparency, and he does the same for her in kind.



"One and a half, but who's counting?" Draco smiles a thin smile, one she returns automatically.



"Certainly not me," Pansy says, snuggling back into her chair. She takes a slow sip, one delicate brow arching as she looks on him. Expectantly.



Fine. "I'm a terrible friend." Draco holds his hands out to his sides. 'What would you expect otherwise?' is the unspoken sentiment.



"You are," Pansy nods. As her head falls back, the glass tipping to her lips, Draco watches with keen interest while her slender throat works the drink along. Pansy's skin is flawless, a hint of glow beneath its surface, and his fingers long to touch. It has been some time, and the memory of it crackles through veins and nerves to every last bit of him. "But I won't hold that against you....unless you ask it of me." She winks.



Draco groans, not bothering to disguise the matter as he adjusts the front of his trousers. "Pansy."



Holding up her glass, she swirls the contents. The soft amber light from the chandelier overhead glints off the glass. "I've not finished."



With any other woman, Draco would not think twice about whisking the drink out of her hand and pinning her against the wall, but Pansy is unlike other women. She would hex a bollock off without breaking a sweat or blinking if he were to hurry her along before she was ready for things other than what was occupying her at the present. Sighing with exasperation, he drums his fingers on an armrest. Possibly he should engage her in polite conversation. It has been a month and a half and, while he is not keen on filling Pansy in on the ins-and-outs of his daily life, he is well aware Pansy loves to indulge in the spotlight.



"Tell me what you've been doing," he implores, quite proud of himself for addressing the question to her face rather than her tits, which are quite magnificent in the robes she has on at the present.



"Anthony Goldstein."



Well, well. "I asked what, not whom." He shakes his head. "A Ravenclaw, if I recall correctly." Pansy nods. "At least it isn't a Gryffindor."



"Now, Draco. I'd think you've learnt to appreciate them since you've been in close quarters with one for some time," she says lightly, smirking at him over the rim of her glass.



"I appreciate Gryffindors when they leave."



"Oh ho, trouble in paradise? Your little cupboard a bit too cozy?" Pansy laughs, and Draco bristles. He is in no mood for teasing about his crap job.



"Leave off," he says warningly.



"So there is trouble in paradise," she cries triumphantly, hoisting her glass as though she's the toast of the bloody century. Draco scowls, and Pansy laughs, lowering her glass and looking on him with what he figures to be fondness. Calculated fondness, at that. "Really, Draco. You let Weasley get to you too easily. He says the tiniest thing; you fly off the broom handle. And then you dwell on it for days and days!" Scooting forward in her seat, her knees bump against his. "If I didn't know any better, I'd accuse you of fancying him," she says in what Draco knows is her 'I'm a completely innocent angel' voice, and he's not buying it.



"As if I'd waste my time on that when I can have anyone I choose," he says slowly, sliding a hand up her thigh. His mouth twists with disgust for the brief moment he allows himself to think on the possibility of himself with Weasley. The moment gone, he focuses on Pansy; his fingers dip below her skirt and move higher still, brushing over the baby-soft skin of her inner thigh. "I choose you, Pansy."



"Don't."



His hand freezes. "Pardon?"



"Not this time," Pansy says quietly, gently removing his hand from under her skirt.



Draco wants to laugh; this is mad. Pansy has never refused him before. Ever. "Because of the Ravenclaw?" he asks lightly, teasingly. Her mouth sets in a thin line in response, and Draco feels as though he's been punched in the stomach. "You're having me on."



"I'm not."



Feeling pinned by her gaze, Draco looks away, staring at the intricate carving on the mantle.



"I've something quite good with Goldstein, or at least I think so thus far, and I just...he's special, Draco. And besides, you've had more than your fair share of pulls lately as it is."



God, the way she's going on about her fellow makes him want to vomit. "I get a lot of pulls because I can," he says, shrugging to add what he hopes is a nonchalant air to the statement.



"I don't think that's it at all," she says with a shrewd look in her eyes, and Draco's entire frame tenses. Pansy either doesn't take notice to this or doesn't care (he suspects it is the latter), and continues. "Ever since the Wizengamot pardoned you...hell, ever since the War ended, you've been...you've been insatiable. Dissatisfied. You've been lost."



"Pansy," Draco grounds out, " I advise you to stop right now." Hands clenching into fists, he stands, unable to look in her direction.



"I'm only saying this because I–"



He can't take this one moment longer. Exploding, he pivots wildly toward her, seeing red. "For once in your life, Pansy, mind your own damned business. I'm not your job. I'm not some curse you've to break."



He has to get out of here. Anywhere will do. Anywhere with a drink.



Immediately everything begins to turn black and Draco feels the familiar sensations of Apparation - the pressure on every bit of his body, the difficulty breathing, his eardrums aching. And then it's over as quickly as it began, and he is now standing before a bar with a cloudy mirror over it. Patrons mingle behind him, and one elderly wizard sidles up to the bar next to him, hailing the barkeep. Draco groans when he sees just who the barkeep is and just where he's Apparated, but it's too late to get away; she's already spotted him.



Never taking her eyes off Draco, Madam Rosmerta deposits mulled mead in front of the wizard standing next to Draco. "There you go, Adelroth." The old man tosses a few sickles on the bar, thanking her, and shuffles away to a table. "Last one for the night. Eight's your limit," she calls after him, gaze still fixed on Draco. He stares down at her defiantly, silently daring her to brandish a wand or dump a mug of Firewhisky over his head.



"You have some nerve showing your face in my pub," she says, her voice sharp.



Not in the mood for this at all, Draco scowls and turns around, surveying the pub. There is a fair amount of business; most of the tables are occupied, and patrons bustle back and forth visiting tables or heading to the bar for a refill. Flames crackle in the fireplace, and he can just hear the crackles and pops above the din of myriad conversations.



"Have the decency to look at me when I'm speaking to you. You owe me that much."



Perhaps he does. He had used her, turning her against old friends and patrons alike to suit his own needs once. Merlin, it seemed like a lifetime ago, and he felt a vague sense of guilt as he began to turn toward her.



"–ly, Mum would love for you to come round for Bill and Fleur's anniversary! 'M not taking the mickey out of you!"



"Are you sure, Ron? She's been terribly cold ever since things between us have been finalised, and I wouldn't want to impose...."



Shit. Of all the pubs in all the world, he has to Apparate into the one with Weaselby and the former Weaselbyette? Weaseletteby? Whatever.



"If I didn't know any better, I'd accuse you of fancying him."



Pansy's earlier words come to mind, and the already-thin tether Draco has on his emotions snaps.



He doesn't fancy Weasley, he doesn't have a problem being 'lost', and he doesn't have to stand for a lowly (if attractive and something of a stiffener) ale wench talking down to him. No matter if he is deserving of her wrath or not.



Whirling around, Draco makes a show out of looking at Madam Rosmerta and meeting her eyes. "Is this better?" he sneers, hand thrusting in an inner pocket of his robes. His fingers curl around the familiar leather hilt, and they positively itch for some action. What he wouldn't give to be able to hex her sparkly shoes and big-breasted self into oblivion. It would be a bit of a shame, as undoubtedly he'd be removing wank material from the lives of ninety percent of her patrons and even Draco can admit she is quite fit, but such things must happen from time to time.



"Not really, as you're still–"



"There you are, Malfoy!"



Draco's shoulders stiffen; it can't be.



"Hello, Harry," Rosmerta murmurs, her demeanor softening. It wouldn't be good for business for her patrons to witness her behaving crass, now would it?



"Potter, I don't–"



"–know if you'll be able to forgive my sorry arse for being so late," Harry interrupts. "I know, and I'm sorry."



Circe, but Potter's rescuing him from the ale wench's clutches? How noble, Gryffindor, and annoying of him. And unwanted.



"Don't–"



"Thanks for keeping him company for me, Madam Rosmerta. C'mon, Malfoy."



Before Draco can so much as protest, Potter has clapped a hand on his shoulder and has dragged him across the pub, practically shoving him at Weasley's table.



"What did you do that for?" Draco seethes, shooting Potter the nastiest look in his extensive repertoire. "I didn't ask for your help, Perfect Potter, so piss off."



As expected, Granger pipes up immediately, coming to Potter's defence. "Would you rather he left you to be hexed in front of fifty or so witches and wizards?"



"Why, Granger, I'm honoured. To think, you're addressing me in person when your own ex-husband merits only a Howler from your barrister instead of actual, meaningful conversation."



"You sent him a Howler?" Potter asks, looking from Granger to Weasley and then to Draco for confirmation.



"She did," Draco says smugly, and Granger mottles red.



"No, she had her barrister send me a Howler," Weasley mumbles into his pint, and Potter snorts.



"My mistake," Draco says smoothly.



Granger huffs. "Honestly, you deserved it, Ron! If you had filled out the paperwork properly when I'd asked, none of this would have happened!"



"Excuse me for needing some time to, I dunno, deal with– deal with–" Weasley sputters, and Draco almost feels sorry for him. Almost.



"Your divorce," Draco supplies helpfully.



"Yeah," he says hollowly, and then an awkward silence, heavy and thick, settles in. Potter pulls up a chair to sit between his friends and nurses a pint; Granger stirs her tea in an irritating fashion; Weasley moves his mug round the tabletop in small circles, spreading the condensation rings out; and Draco takes in the scene before him. Perfect Potter, the Hero, the Saviour of the Wizarding World and All That Rot. Damned Potter, still sticking his conk where it isn't wanted, even today. Another minute or two and he would have had the better of her! Then there is Granger, with her hair still looking like a flock of birds had nested in it. She was still as irritatingly snotty and as much a know-it-all as ever, and Draco has to give credit to Weasley for being intelligent enough to divorce her before she sucked out his soul just so she could analyse it and compose a sixteen-foot essay on the Properties and Peculiarities of the Human Soul or some equally inane tripe. Lastly, there is Weasley. The bane of his bloody existence. The mud in his eye (undoubtedly Granger had rubbed off on him). The tear in his butterbeer. No, strike the last bit; it makes it seem like Draco might be sensitive, and that cannot be further from the truth. He would rather die by his own hand than be known as someone with feelings or other atrocities.



"Malfoy," Weasley says suddenly, breaking the silence, "aren't you supposed to be finishing up some paperwork? There was at least three hours' worth of work in that pile alone, and I know you'd things in your in tray."



Draco has officially Had Enough of today, and he's had more than enough of Weasley and his Office Head theatrics. "Get fucked, Weasel," Draco says for the second time today, but this time Weasley doesn't look elsewhere.



Eyes flashing, Weasley stands up so fast that his chair topples over. He's bellowing words that are too vulgar to repeat in polite society and making utterly beastly sounds, and Draco narrowly misses getting a punch to the jaw. The punch likely would have landed had Potter not moved lightning-fast to wrap his arms around Weasley, holding him back.



"Let me go, Harry!" Ron grunts. Granger steps between them, Draco would like to make her eat her hair.



"Leave off, Potter. Stand aside, Granger. Let Weasley at me; the very least I can do for his troubles is give him a black eye. I seem to remember it improved your appearance once, Granger, and Merlin knows your ex-Weasel needs a tonne of work in that respect."



"LET ME GO," Weasley roars. Perhaps the effect would have been more menacing had a Paramount Post Owl (identifiable by the blue ribbon with the Ministry seal in silver on its leg) not zoomed in and dropped an envelope on Weasley's head. The envelope bounces off harmlessly, landing on the table. Potter loosens his hold and Weasley snatches the post up. Leaning around Granger's big head, Draco notes the post is addressed to both Weasley and himself.



"What is it?" he asks cautiously, his ire not forgotten.



"We've to report to the Ministry straightaway," Weasley says shortly, yanking the cloak off his chair and fastening it about his neck.



Reaching across the table, Draco takes up Weasley's tankard to finish his pint. Slamming it back down, he wipes his mouth, resisting the strong urge to pull a face. The stuff is vile. "Go on by yourself, Weaselby. And don't–" He holds up a hand. "–natter on about how I'll be tossed. I couldn't give a shrivelfig about it."



"You need the money," Potter says quietly, and Draco squares his shoulders, blocking out Potter's presence as best he can.



"You'll be binned," Granger adds, and damn her, she's right. So is Potter.



"We're to go to Iran," Weasley says, carrying on as though Draco hadn't just insisted he wasn't going.



"Iran?" It is hot in Iran. Hot and dry. His skin would suffer.



"We've a lead - a good one - on another batch of illegally imported flying carpets, and we're to infiltrate and blend in during our investigation." Ron gives him a pointed look. "This is important. There could be promotions involved."



Draco hates working for the Ministry, but he hasn't any other options. And a promotion is a promotion, even if it may come at the risk of developing dry skin.



Wait. Weasley said 'blend in', which is really code for 'dress like the natives'.



Tunics are terribly unbecoming.



If possible, Draco's day just got even worse.