(no subject)
Pansy remembered the first time she successfully rode a broom. She was young and the air was frigid, the night silent except
for the baying of creatures in the Dark Forest. Her bare thighs clung to the wood and she shivered as she rode higher, shivered so hard the broom shook.
It didn’t matter, though, that she was terrified. In that moment, nothing mattered but what she saw in her mind’s eye: Draco’s face, etched into proud lines, a smirk. She dreamed of the moment when he’d finally look at her.
She imagined he’d like her best.
She was wrong.