Characters: Draco, Pansy, and a small Blaise cameo
Where: Slytherin Common Room
When: Immediately after the Toga Party (yes, this is a bit late in coming)
Rating: PG-13 at most?
Notes: Oh my god, this log became insanely long. Be warned.


That was nice, Pansy thought to herself contentedly as she placed a gentle hand on her escort's shoulder and observed for the umpteenth time that evening just how lovely she and Draco looked together. While pink was arguably her favorite color, she had opted for a silk toga (a material not exactly historically accurate for the Romans, but flattering and expensive nonetheless) of a deep violet color that contrasted nicely with Draco's gray. Regal they looked, indeed. However, it was only a few moments before she was not so much admiring the pleasantness of their complementary ensembles but more so admiring the success of the event she had so painstakingly (minus the pain) organized. Her Housemates had helped, of course, and Proudfoot had been a deciding factor in Slytherin's victory, but it was nearly all Pansy's doing.

She cast a satisfied gaze upon the bustling Great Hall, a queen surveying her vast toga'd kingdom, and decided she was supremely pleased with herself. Aside from a slight mishap involving two hotheaded sixth-years who she pretended not to recognize as they flung fists at each other, the party itself had flowed smoothly. The decorations looked fabulous, (not a statue, garland, nor column out of place), the attendees seemed to be enjoying themselves though the night was finally drawing to a close, and even Pansy was having a mighty fine time. Between giggling with Daphne about Professor Proudfoot's bewildering request and chastising Millicent for not cleaning up nicer for Blaise, she snuck in a dance or two with Draco.

Yes, it was nice.

"Ready to go?" she chirped - not that, of course, Draco's answer would be of much importance. Whether he wanted to or not, they were leaving. Pansy refused to be one of those pathetic little second-years that lingered about these sorts of functions, hoping for one last bittersweet dance with the object of their affections. How tacky.

Finally. Draco had agreed to go to the party simply because there was nothing better to do in this pathetic old castle, and he was hardly going to lay around the dormitory with no one for company. Surprisingly, the event itself hadn't been as tedious as he'd expected - he'd had a brief respite from dancing when Pansy had gone off to giggle in a corner with Daphne, or whatever it was that girls did, and had used that time quite wisely.

...after all, nothing was more productive than tripping unaware Gryffindors, and their subsequent embarrassment never failed to amuse. He smirked slightly at the memory of the bumbling fifth year who'd spilled his drink all over his equally foolish date, and mentally congratulated himself on a job well done.

But now, the evening was finally drawing to a close - a fact Draco was hardly upset about. His toga was uncomfortable, the music was grating, and there was only so much sulking he could do. Nodding once to show his acquiescence, he took Pansy by the arm and steered her across the threshold and towards the dungeons. They’d been loitering near the doorway for the last ten minutes, and Draco was getting rather tired of the pointless discussion regarding the decorations.

“Too much dancing,” Draco proclaimed suddenly, simply to break the silence.

Pansy nearly snorted at his remark. Too much dancing? On the contrary! Draco had spent the bulk of the evening sitting on his bored, unenthusiastic posterior end and even during the rare moments where he was on his feet, he hardly seemed to be interested in spinning and twirling her about, much to her dismay. At one point, she feared he might abandon her mid-turn to harass yet another innocuous younger student.

"Why, I beg to differ," she sniffed in feigned displeasure as they began making their way down a shadowy corridor. "Dance is an art form as well as a means of socializing. There is no such thing as 'too much.' Besides, your rhythmic capabilities are really nothing to be ashamed of," she informed him in a playful tone that coordinated with the mischievous smile tugging at her lips. "My toes are fine, I suppose. A nice, long soak is all they need, and perhaps then I will regain feeling in them." Her words, dripping with coy sarcasm, echoed upon the walls. Under no circumstances would she ever admit it to him or anybody else, but Draco was not a complete dunce when it came to dancing. In fact, he was surprisingly agile. Not enough dancing was more like it.

“My rhythmic capabilities are flawless - two years of lessons, and your own may have a chance of reaching the same impeccable standard.” He smiled slightly (albeit smugly) to show that he was, in fact, joking. Compared to many of the other girls, Pansy’s own ability was decidedly better. “In any case, if a foot rub is all you need, Crabbe is still free. He had no date to the party, shocking though that may be - the oaf’ll be glad to do whatever it is that you want as long as you have a spare bit of cake.”

They were at last nearing the stone stairs that led to the dungeons; although he’d never admit it, Draco’s own feet ached from dancing and, perhaps more significantly, from standing (and sulking) in a corner of the room. A second year that Draco vaguely recognised as belonging to Slytherin house raised his eyebrows suggestively a he passed by, and it was all that he could do not to hit the idiot with the strongest tripping hex that he knew.

When a look of horror suddenly crossed the boy's freckled face, his eyes widening to bug-like proportions and his chin trembling, Pansy was ninety-nine point nine percent confident she knew just what - or rather, who - had provoked such a reaction from an otherwise harmless-looking bystander. Clearing her throat authoritatively, she nudged her date's upper arm with as much force as she could muster. There would be no more injuries, visits to Madam Pomfrey, or other similarly humiliating fates met by any more younger students. Tempted though she was to pinch Draco or shove him as punishment for a whole evening consisting of terrorizing others, a subtle warning seemed effective enough as the scrawny little boy scampered away.

"Enough, Draco!" she hissed angrily as soon as the boy was out of earshot. Immediately withdrawing her arm from its initially comfortable position in the crook of Draco's elbow, she splayed her fingers across her hips and scowled. "While I also find an inkling of pleasure in tormenting the numerous imbeciles that infest this castle," she declared in not a shrilly, but an astonishingly uncharacteristic huffy manner, "there is a line between what is acceptable and what is not!" Truthfully, she had just tired of spending the entirety of the toga party watching on coolly as Draco fixed his attention on far less deserving people than Pansy herself, but she would never confess to that.

Furrowing his eyebrows in annoyance - hadn’t she seen the smirky little git’s expression? - Draco sulkily rubbed his arm where Pansy’s elbow had hit. “Don’t lecture me,” he snapped, stepping away from her and folding his arms. Draco had never taken well to admonishment, not from his mother, not from his father, and he certainly wasn’t going to be taking it from Pansy.

Despite all that had happened, he was still Draco Brencis Malfoy. He had followers, he had power (or so he liked to believe), and he prided himself on knowing exactly what was acceptable - and exactly how to cross that line.

Fire had to be fought with fire, and Pansy replied with equal acerbity, though she refrained from calling him any lewd names. "I am not lecturing you! I am merely informing you of what kind of behavior is unappreciated on such a wonderful evening, an evening where we ought to be celebrating the honor and glory of Slytherin House. I would prefer that you not ruin one of my sole nights of freedom by averting your interest to some insignificant urchin wandering the hallway!"

Indeed, had there not been a toga party that evening, Pansy would have been, unquestionably, in the trophy room polishing the silver by hand, or worse, emptying fetid bedpans in the infirmary. Ever since that unfortunate incident with Weasley and his nose, the few hours after dinner and before curfew that she most often spent in the company of Draco, Daphne, and Blaise were now replaced by doing the bidding of one Argus Filch. She was not a third of the way into her six weeks of detention with Filch, greasy, yellow-toothed, sickeningly filthy man he was, and already it had begun to affect her temperament with professors, strangers, and Housemates alike - even her closest friend.

Yet who could blame the girl? Crawling plaintively into bed every night with sore knees, scraped knuckles, and a severely bruised ego would take a toll on anyone.

Deciding that he’d had enough of this argument - for Merlin’s sake, they were in the middle of the bloody hallway - Draco once again grasped Pansy’s arm, pulling her towards the entrance to the Common Room. He was tired, he wanted the night to be over, and he did not have the energy to deal with any more of Pansy’s melodramatics.

“At least you have the satisfaction of knowing you one-upped the weaselly git,” he said at last, attempting to gloss over whatever hostility there was. Pansy could almost always be swayed by the odd compliment, indirect though this particular one was.

She had exhausted far too much energy dancing and laughing and sipping punch to pry his fingers away, and perhaps it was confusion at the backhanded compliment or astonishment at Draco's unexpected action, but Pansy seemed to be curiously vacant for a moment or two, lips ever so slightly parted, wordless, as her bared shoulders rested themselves obediently against damp stone walls.

"Would you rather antagonize an unsuspecting child than share a simple conversation with me?" Rather than assume a fiery, scathing tone resembling the one she had just berated him with earlier, she sounded calmer, more sedated, though her eyebrows were still furrowed. "I suppose that's all I've been asking for tonight," she said. Pansy was not angry with him, no. She had not been angry with him at any point during the evening.

Choosing to ignore Pansy’s plaintive tone, Draco raised his eyebrows skeptically. “All I did was glare at the smug idiot, Pansy. Not my fault if he’s terrified of me, most of the younger years are.” He smirked in satisfaction at the truth of it all - Draco rather liked to believe that he had power over the lower years, unthinking minion types that they were.

Stepping into the hole that led to the Common Room, Draco reached out to help Pansy in. “No one’s here,” he commented casually, surveying the empty sofas and the dwindling fire. The room was deserted, everyone either still at the party, or already asleep.

"And?" she inquired as she lent one hand obediently to him and with the other lifted the hem of her precious silk toga daintily, hoping Draco would reveal whatever intricate plan he had in a timely manner so she could offer her services (or deny him, depending on the absurdity of his proposal) and retire to the girls' dormitory. She couldn't imagine what use a barren common room would be to either of them. Would they conjure up an obscenely nude sculpture to greet their Housemates? Would they ornament the dungeons with Capper's undergarments?

Elementary shenanigans, however, were the farthest things from Pansy's mind at that particular moment in time. She was much more concerned with how eerie this all looked. Truth be told, the dungeons appeared even more sinister then than she was typically accustomed to, furniture enshrouded in darkness and distorted shadows being cast every which way. The dark could have a chilling effect on Pansy, something rooted from her childhood, but she prayed Draco did not sense her apprehension.

“Nothing,” he muttered awkwardly. “What idiot decided it’d be a fine idea to let the fire die? Honestly, do they expect me to start it up again? That’s house-elf work, this is ridiculous.” He walked briskly over to the cold fireplace, jabbing at it rather violently with his wand until a bright flame at last sprang up.

Falling into the sofa nearest where he was standing, he turned to look at Pansy. “I suppose you’re tired?” He wasn’t altogether looking forward to returning to an empty dormitory - he’d seen Theodore and Blaise by the doorway, still, and Crabbe and Goyle were quite likely devouring whatever food remained at the buffet table. “Sit down, why don’t you?”

So she did, quietly, about an arm's length away from where Draco was situated, her legs neatly crossed and hands folded. She was about to object to him performing what was, as he claimed, the tedious labor of a house-elf, but the fireplace instantaneously roared back to life, and she had no reason to be opposed to the growing warmth in the room.

The silence persisted for some seconds longer, a sort of unease hanging in the air, before Pansy turned towards Draco with what appeared to be a wholly genuine smile and asked, "It was worth it, wasn't it? The toga party, I mean?" She suspected he wasn't much one for draping himself in a curtain and waltzing in the Great Hall wearing a pair of sandals, but at the very least he could please her with assurances of how fantastic the decorations looked and how agreeable her presence was.

Deciding that his placement on the sofa simply wasn’t suitable, Draco sprawled sideways, leaning his head on Pansy’s lap and letting his legs hang lazily off the side. There. Much better. He was usually forced to scare off the few students who were foolish enough to think they could claim the best seats before he could lie down in such a space-wasting manner; he was thus rather enjoying the present emptiness of the Common Room.

“I suppose,” he said noncommittally, after having gotten himself properly situated. “After all, we won the competition - did you see how upset Patil was? I thought she’d never stop whinging. Pathetic, really, they should’ve all known that Slytherin can’t be defeated. As if anyone in their right mind would trust a Gryffindor with decorations.”

It was a familiar position, one Pansy had grown accustomed to after countless summers spent picnicking and cloud gazing in the Malfoys' vast expanse of flower gardens, although it had been quite some time since the two were blessed with such privacy and quietude at Hogwarts. She needed neither instruction nor invitation; her fingers began to run themselves through the infamously blond hair that she treasured nearly as much as her own. Whereas anyone else would cringe or possibly even become sick at the thought of touching Draco Malfoy's head, much less a head infused generously with Sleekeazy's, it was second nature for her.

"That's a brave statement for you to make," she remarked wryly as her pinky finger brushed lightly against his forehead, "seeing as you made little to no contribution to our plans. Determining that balloons were not appropriate for Roman-themed festivities was hardly of help.”

“On the contrary. Capper seemed rather set on using purple balloons. Nothing but my own words could have swayed her,” he retorted smugly. “In any case, we won - and winning made the occasion worth it.” If Draco thought about it, truly, he supposed Pansy’s company had also aided in the night being as entertaining as it was. After all, Goyle was hardly capable of carrying on an actual conversation, and Blaise had been off hating life or whatever it was that he’d claimed to have been doing.

“I’m going to hex whoever decides to walk through that door,” Draco said, gesturing at the Common Room entrance. “Disrupting the peace, they’ll deserve it.”

Pansy stiffened at the very notion of that terrible Sarah Capper fraternizing with her dearest, most darling friend, but with one hand she continued to drag her nails through his hair with the slightest amount of pressure, just the way Draco liked it. With the other she laced their fingers together, in hopes of allaying him. "No more hexes," she sighed. "No one is coming."

She hesitantly withdrew her hand from his, for fear her touch might somehow be unwelcome or unexpected, and a lull passed before Pansy felt compelled to speak again. "You know, this is the most peace I've had in a long, long while. What with locating and recovering ancient sculptures of scantily clad men and waiting on that awful Filch hand and foot, opportunities for relaxation and leisurely conversation have been few and far between," she lamented before managing to look down at Draco with a thin smile.

Later she would credit the sudden deluge of memories to a vague sort of glint in Draco's eyes, but whatever the cause, it left her with the strangest feeling. She thought of that evening in sixth year when Draco kissed her and left without another word, that evening when Hogwarts was overrun by Death Eaters as well as Aurors, that evening when Albus Dumbledore was murdered and she didn't see or hear from Draco until some dozen days later. She thought of when she sprinted, breathless, from one wing of the castle to the next simply to keep up a childish round of hide-and-go-seek with the boy who always insisted on playing tag. She thought of the day when the legendary Draco Malfoy went missing, the dungeons were inescapable, and she nearly abandoned her Prefect duties. She thought of Ronald Weasley calling Draco names, of her boot disfiguring his family's trademark freckles and bad hair, and then Pansy didn't know quite what to think anymore.

The sight of Draco focusing his attention on silly little second-years as opposed to fetching drinks for her and asking for the honor of a dance was enough to elicit an emotion faintly reminiscent of envy. It was no wonder something as trivial as their close proximity could cloud her judgment. Before she realized what she was doing, Pansy cradled Draco's neck carefully, lowered her face toward his, and in one bold sweep, brushed her lips against the corner of his mouth.

Although he certainly hadn't been expecting Pansy to make the first move, or any move for that matter, Draco instinctively leaned up to deepen the kiss. He wasn't thinking particularly clearly - the room was deserted, they were alone, and it was, after all, just Pansy. Memories of that night in sixth year flashed by, the seemingly random kiss, and the implications which had never quite been resolved.

Footsteps sounded near the entrance. Millicent had gone on before him practically fifteen minutes ago, but having to help break up the fight between Harper and Bradley delayed Blaise's exit from the Great Hall. As he stepped into the Common Room, he breathed a long sigh of relief - all was quiet and there was no one and nothing to bother him, he thought, surveying the empty room.

The almost empty room.

When he spotted Malfoy necking with Pansy, Blaise couldn't help but pull a face of surprise at first, not so much in shock at the fact that he'd caught them in the middle of it but more irritation that there was someone else around spoiling his solitude. Finally they'd gotten their act together, but Blaise didn't particularly care to stand around like some sort of drooling, gawping, idiotic spectator, so with a quick moment to regain his poker face and a slight clearing of his throat, he proceeded past them towards the dormitories as quickly as he could. If they were going to go any further, he'd have to Obliviate himself if he saw it.

Pansy, on the other hand, was not of the opinion her current position was something worth Obliviating. In fact, it was rather pleasant until out of the corner of her eye, a familiar figure emerged from the shadows. The next few seconds were a blur. She looked up, frozen in disbelief when she saw they had been intruded upon, and her jaw dropped when she realized said intruder was none other than Blaise. Blaise! How perfectly embarrassing! How utterly mortifying! What was she to say? Apologize to Blaise for having inconvenienced him? Make him swear he'd never tell a soul? This, however, was not the proper time to be mulling things over - act first, think later, she commanded herself!

Horrified, Pansy began squirming her way out from underneath Draco with a sour look on her face. Luck was not on her side that evening. The gods were mocking her. The planets were aligned for complete disaster. She was the queen of gossip, not a victim, and if word leaked about her and Draco's late-night tryst, the rumor mill would just be ablaze at breakfast the following morning. Though Blaise had just about disappeared into the boys' dormitory and was certainly now out of earshot, she shrieked after him in desperation, limbs still quite entangled with Draco's, "It's not what you think!"

It wasn't!