Pairing: Pansy/everybody, kind of but not really.
Disclaimer: JKR owns. I only play. You do not sue.
Length: 516 words.
Summary: Pansy fights, but there's no need.
Concrit: Always welcome and appreciated.
You have dreams of a life like your mother's, with stately manor houses and columns, definitely columns. They're made of the lightest marble and they gleam in the sun. You see a smaller house on a deserted stretch of beach, too, and you can practically hear the seagulls cawing into the salty air. You will walk down the beach barefoot and feel the sand shifting between your toes. You will watch that beautiful dark-skinned body curving into the waves when they crash ashore. When she comes out of the water, she will taste like seashells.
There is a gazebo on the grounds and it's off-white even in the greyest rain. You close your eyes and try to picture lovers standing there under the stars, a fair-haired young man and a dark-haired young woman in a bonnet, her fringe pretty against porcelain skin. Instead, all you can see is an image of two women, their dark hair dancing in the wind behind their backs. Their hands are linked and they're looking into each other's eyes until you're not sure where one ends and the other begins. Perhaps you long for a true friend.
Draco's hand feels wrong on your back when you dance. His hand around yours is cold and dry, like he is just as unaffected by your closeness as you are by his. This sends a small lightning bolt of panic into your neck; you lean closer to him in hopes that it will be okay. It won't be okay, though, because you wonder what Granger is saying to that Krum fellow. Most of all you wonder if her hands are as dry as yours.
That night, Daphne is excited and breathless. She kisses you -- with tongue -- and pulls back to ask if that's all right, if she's a good kisser, because Theodore seemed to have enjoyed himself but she just can't tell--
Daphne cries afterwards but you remind her that it was her fault.
After that, things become a lot easier. The Inquisitorial Squad that forms in fifth year is useful in more ways than that fat toad Umbridge will ever realise. You have your pick of frightened fourth-years now. It's not quite what you want but it'll do for now, because Draco simply won't and you think maybe he may be just as queer as you. Millicent disapproves, of course, but Millicent disapproves of everything.
When you see your mother holding hands with Mrs Malfoy, you think it's a fine gesture of friendship. In these trying times, poor Mrs Malfoy needs all the support she can get, what with her husband in prison. Mrs Malfoy's hair is just like Draco's and you wonder if it's as soft to the touch.
Then your mother leans forward and kisses Mrs Malfoy, in an entirely familiar way, as though they have been together always. Your world is shattered and rebuilt again, small pieces fitting into a new mosaic where there is plenty of room for a gazebo and walks on the beach, and a life like your mother's.
Draco's in for a surprise.