FIC: Room on the Third Floor [Ron/Pansy - NC-17]
Author: Anonymous
Title: Room on the Third Floor
Characters/Pairings: Pansy Parkinson / Ron Weasley
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Minor character death
Word Count: 8,077
Prompt: #37: (Ron/Pansy) "Why not me? I see you. They don't. And they never will." (submitted by seraphimerising)
Notes: Thanks to my beta’s saintgilbert & d_andru
*~*
October, 7
This was without a doubt the stupidest thing she had ever done. Pansy was not a girl who did unintelligent things; she prided herself on her street smarts and her uncanny ability to read people. This, however, was just plain dumb - absolutely ridiculous, positively outrageous, and yet here she was.
She was willingly following Ronald. Bloody. Weasley.
Ronald. Fucking. Weasley.
What in the hell was she thinking?
He led her deep into the backstreets of Diagon Alley. The narrow lanes were cracked and crumbling underfoot and the majority of the residences stood abandoned; windows dirty, gardens unattended, front doors blown off their hinges. Pansy crossed her arms over her chest to ward off the icy chill of dark magic that loitered in the air.
Ron led her into a building seemingly at random and they ascended the rickety stairs to the third floor. The interior of the building was covered with graffiti. Pansy tried not to see the heavy political messages scrawled all over the walls as she followed Ron to the very end of the hallway. He pushed open the last door on the right and stepped inside.
Pansy followed dubiously over the threshold and looked around. It was a decent sized room with large windows, but despite the floor to ceiling glass, barely any light managed to penetrate the dirt and grime. The room was sparsely furnished; it held a table with two chairs, a dilapidated looking double bed, and what appeared to be a small ensuite bath.
Ron strolled across the room and slid into one of the chairs at the table. Once he was settled Pansy crossed the room slowly, heels clicking against the wooden floor. She shoved one of the windows open and glanced down into the street below before crossing back. She continued to pace back and forth several times before finally looking up, features determined.
“So, when is your precious Order getting here?”
Ron raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
Pansy waved a hand around the room. “I’m here, alone, in a darkened building in the middle of nowhere. No one knows where I am, except you. I know this is a set up, you’ve been following me for weeks; I’m not stupid, so when are they coming? What do you have in store for me, huh? Are you going to torture me for information? Kill me? Or, maybe you’re just going to sit there like an arrogant asshole, inwardly laughing at how fucking stupid I am to trust you.”
He had sat silently throughout her tirade, but once her voice faded into silence he stood and crossed the room towards her.
Pansy stood her ground, fighting the urge to either run or pull out her wand and curse him into oblivion. The second option had merit, but he stopped several feet from her and shoved his hands into his pockets.
“The Order isn’t coming.”
“Then what do you want?” Pansy demanded. “Why are you following me? I don’t know anything, Weasley. I’m just trying to stay alive and off the radar. Meanwhile you’re popping up everywhere! I’m sick of looking over my shoulder just waiting for you to hex me.”
Ron rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “Don’t be dramatic. I got you once with a trip jinx.”
Pansy clenched her teeth and forced out, “What do you want, Weasley?”
“You.”
Pansy choked. Of all the things he could have said, that was the one thing she never expected to spill from a Weasley’s mouth. “Excuse me?”
“Oh deflate your ego, Parkinson,” Ron scoffed, “I’m not after sex.”
“Then what exactly are you after?”
“Sanity.”
Pansy blinked and opened her mouth to request some sort of clarification, but he Apparated before she could say another word.
October, 16
He sat directly across the table, blue eyes tired and rimmed with shadows. His ginger hair was almost glowing in the sunlight that flickered between the streaks of dirt on the windows. Pansy’s lip curled every time the vibrant strands caught her eye. They just seemed to remind her again and again where she was and who she was with.
This whole situation was so incredibly awkward. What in the hell had she been thinking meeting on neutral ground with him again? They had never said a kind word to each other in their lives. What in Merlin’s name had Weasley been expecting? Polite small talk about the weather? A casual conversation about their lives? Pansy raked a hand through her long dark hair; this whole situation was a really ridiculous and an awful idea.
It was odd. They didn’t speak, just sat quietly ignoring each other.
Well, Ron was ignoring Pansy.
Pansy was staring.
She had been staring since she sat down, vaguely intrigued by the fact that Ron continued to sit there, cool, calm, and collected underneath her gaze. His self-assurance was maddening. Pansy couldn’t remember Ron ever being this self-assured at Hogwarts, but war had a way of changing people. It wasn’t that much of a stretch to accept that it could change a Weasley too.
Then again, once a Weasley, always a Weasley.
He was curious to look at. Now that she was taking the time to really look, Pansy could see that the Weasel had nice features - his pale skin (although freckled) was clear and soft, his bone structure was strong, his nose was long, and he had ridiculously long eyelashes. For some reason it all came together into something that wasn’t quite right. Pansy couldn’t put her finger on what exactly it was that ruined the symmetry.
In the seven years she had known Ron Weasley she had never once thought him beautiful. In fact, she had never really paid much attention to his looks at all. Now that she was sitting in close proximity, she had to admit, there was something there. She just wasn’t too sure what that something was.
Bored with her perusal, Pansy sighed and shifted in her seat. The sudden movement brought Ron’s eyes to her and he proceeded to survey her quietly, a small frown creased between his eyebrows.
The silence continued and Pansy fought the urge to shift under his stare. Hell, if he hadn’t moved then she certainly wasn’t going to. She lifted her chin and met his eyes stubbornly, watching as his eyes roved over her face in a mixture of confusion and curiosity. Without taking his eyes off her he murmured, “So?”
Pansy almost flinched as his voice broke the silence.
“Don’t start getting any weird ideas that I like you or anything, Parkinson,” Ron continued, once the silence began to feel uncomfortable. “Just because I’m cracking up doesn’t mean I can’t turn you over to the Order.”
Pansy lifted an eyebrow and smirked. “I’d like to see you try.” She examined her nails lazily. “But don’t worry, I get it. The war is doing your head in, you need someone a little bit more neutral in your life, blah blah blah.”
“You’re anything but neutral.”
“I mean in your personal life, Weasley,” Pansy supplied as if he was stupid. “You are you. Harry’s best friend, Hermione’s boyfriend, member of the Order. You were fighting this war the second you stepped foot in Hogwarts. All that definition has got to be driving you a little bit mental.”
Ron frowned. “How are you any different? You fit into a neat little box just as well as I do.”
“No, I don’t.” Pansy countered easily. “If I did then you wouldn’t be here.”
It was true, maybe a year ago Pansy would have fit neatly into the “Death Eater, Draco Malfoy’s girlfriend, all around Mudblood hater” box, but times had changed and now all Pansy wanted was to fade into the shadows - away from the fear, the pain, the responsibility.
It wasn’t surprising that Ron had found her when he was looking for the exact same thing.
Pansy tore her gaze away to look out the window. The afternoon sun was dipping behind the building next door. The sight was oddly depressing. When this war had first begun, Pansy had spent one too many darkened hours patrolling Diagon Alley once it was brought under Death Eater control. After several weeks, Pansy didn’t know what was worse; the nights filled with duels and bloodshed or the nights spent sitting, and endlessly waiting for something to happen. In retrospect, Pansy knew with absolute certainty that the uneventful nights were the worst. At least when she was fighting, she could pretend she was making a difference. It didn’t matter how many aches and pains she had the next day, at least she was doing something beneficial to help the fight.
It all seemed like a waste of time now.
Rubbing her face wearily, Pansy turned her attention back to Ron. He was reclined back in his chair, balancing on its two rear legs, arms crossed over his chest and his eyes were focused on the corner of the room, unseeing. He was clearly as distracted by his own thoughts as she was. Pansy stared down at the table between them, tracing her eyes over the cracks and dints it had acquired over the years.
She wondered briefly how much damage her exterior would have if she Transfigured herself into a table. The thought was not a pleasant one. She lifted her eyes to Ron and had no doubt that his exterior would be pristine. He was one of those strange human beings that seemed to stroll around without taking any damage to himself.
As she trailed her eyes over his form she knew that wasn’t true; he had a small cut on his left check, a large circle that looked like a burn on his neck, and bruises all over the skin of his right forearm that were suddenly revealed when he pushed the sleeve of his maroon jumper up to his elbow. Distantly, Pansy noticed he wore a series of black bands and leather bracelets on both wrists.
“If you Transfigured yourself into a table,” Pansy mused quietly, “how many cracks and dints do you think you’d have?”
She didn’t know what possessed her to ask. As she lifted her eyes to meet his she felt like the biggest idiot in the history of the world for asking. She didn’t know why he was here with her, but it clearly wasn’t to be asked deeply revealing metaphorical questions. Pansy looked away, hoping he would forget what she had just asked.
Minutes later, Pansy assumed he had indeed forgotten the question, but finally he replied quietly, “Not many. But…” he trailed off with a shake of his head. He lowered his chair back onto four legs and pushed it back, scraping it loudly against the floorboards. Then, without another word, he stood, grabbed his coat and left the room, leaving Pansy staring after him.
December, 12
Their meetings were completely random.
Sometimes she would see him every day, other times he would disappear for weeks on end. But he always got a message to her eventually. The messages arrived by owl and never contained anything except a ten digit number. Pansy had stared at the first one for a couple of minutes before she finally realised that it was the six digits of a date and four digits of a time. It wasn’t the smartest form of communication, but a time and date meant nothing without a place, and only Pansy and Ron knew about the apartment on the third floor.
Pansy had no idea where Ron went when he wasn’t in London, but he was clearly always on the move. His notes were usually written on scraps that looked as though he had just picked them up spontaneously at the time old receipts, torn sections of newspapers, old food packets, or crumpled, battered, bits of paper that looked as though they had been traveling in Ron’s pocket since first year. However they always contained the same thing - a time and a date.
Nothing more and nothing less.
Sometimes Ron turned up, sometimes he didn’t. The times that he didn’t were never mentioned. Pansy wasn’t stupid, she knew he was busy. They both were. Sometimes Pansy wondered how they managed to meet up at all, but they did. The two of them met in the ugly room, in that ugly building, in the now derelict and graffiti covered Diagon Alley.
Pansy didn’t know why she was willingly meeting with him on a regular basis. She supposed it had something to do with the fact that he hadn’t handed her over to the Order yet. Or maybe it was because they hadn’t quite figured out the whole ‘conversation’ thing yet. Most of the time they just ended up sniping at each other before one of them would storm off in a huff. Other times they sat and ignored each other for a couple of hours.
They weren’t friends. Hell, they were barely even acquaintances.
Pansy didn’t know what they were.
December, 28
Pansy observed the can in her hand and shook it vigorously before pulling off the cap. Taking aim against the wall, she sprayed out a straight black line and stepped back, smirking.
Vandalism was oddly therapeutic.
Of course, she was only vandalising the room on the third floor, so it didn’t technically count as public desecration. As far as Pansy was concerned, this still made her a class one delinquent. Besides, she could only look at all the messages and drawings throughout the building for so long before she wanted to make her own mark. She did that now, painting out a big black skull and crossbones, like a pirate.
“What in the world are you doing?”
Pansy glanced over her shoulder as Ron stepped over the threshold, he was looking at her half-completed crossbones with a bemused expression.
Pansy tossed him a can. “Vandalising. It’s therapeutic.”
Ron uncapped his can and shut the door, writing a big bold ‘FUCK’ across the back of it.
“Well that’s cheerful,” Pansy remarked happily.
January, 24
The electricity was out.
Pansy didn’t dare illuminate her wand as she crept through Diagon Alley towards the apartment. Instead she walked carefully, knowing exactly where to place her feet to best avoid all the cracks and crumbling pave stones.
The apartment block was dark. Pansy pushed open the door to the foyer and quickly ascended the three floors, entering through the familiar door, right at the end of the hallway.
Ron was already there. He lay stretched out along the bed, feet dangling off the edge of the mattress. He had managed to locate some candles and the soft light cast flickering shadows across the room that only served to emphasise Ron’s ‘FUCK’ on the back of the door.
There was more paint on the walls now. They were primarily covered by Pansy’s drawings that had slowly but surely began to improve as she made her way around the room. The rest of the room had been attacked with orange spray paint. Somewhere along the way, Ron had discovered that Pansy appreciated the Chudley Cannons, so he had spray painted an entire wall pumpkin orange.
It was the most disgusting thing Pansy had ever seen.
“When did the power go out?” Pansy asked, closing the door with a soft click and unwinding the royal blue scarf from around her neck.
“About an hour ago,” Ron replied, tucking a hand behind his head and watching her walk across the room towards him. “I don’t think its ever coming back on.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Pansy murmured, slipping her coat off her shoulders.
“No,” Ron agreed, his warm eyes fixed on her movements, “it doesn’t.”
January, 31
It wasn’t often that they saw each other outside the flat on the third floor.
“What are you doing here?”
Pansy whipped her head around so fast she could feel her neck pop, and a loud gasp flew from her mouth before she could stop it. When her eyes found Ron she almost had a heart attack. “Fucking hell!” she gasped out in a loud whisper. “You scared the shit out of me.”
“What are you doing here?” Ron repeated.
“Um...” Pansy looked around herself desperately. “Well... I... uh...” For the first time in her life, Pansy found herself completely and utterly tongue tied. She was knee deep in trash in one of the roughest parts of Knockturn Alley. How could she even begin to explain something like that?
Ron watched her silently before raising an eyebrow. “Are you stalking me?” His tone incredibly matter of fact as though he already suspected this was the truth.
“What? Why would I stalk you? I see you too much as it is.” Pansy huffed and stood with all the confidence she could muster, tossing her hair back over her shoulders. “I could ask you the same question though.” She traced her eyes over Ron’s form and wrinkled her nose. “You look like shit. If you insist on following me then I suggest you spend some time in front of the mirror beforehand.”
“Are you always so blunt?”
“Yes.”
February, 24
They never bothered to clean the windows. Pansy watched them become dirtier and dirtier, as weeks turned into months, until finally one day Ron painted over them with dark purple paint.
“The walls are orange, the windows are purple. This is the most hideous room I’ve ever seen,” Pansy remarked bluntly as she walked in one late afternoon in February.
“I like it,” Ron admitted. He was sprawled out on his back on the floor and didn’t appear to be moving anytime soon.
Pansy lifted an eyebrow. “What are you doing on the floor, Weasley?”
“Everything makes sense on the floor.” He paused and added as an afterthought, “And my back hurts. I need something hard and flat.”
Pansy stretched out beside him, letting their shoulders brush as they stared up at the ceiling.
“You know what I think it is?” Ron’s voice was soft. “When I was a kid I used to sit on the floor all the time. That’s why things feel simpler down here, because they were simple back then.”
Pansy turned her head and looked at him. “Are you cracking up a bit, Weasley?”
“I don’t even know anymore. How do you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Act so unconcerned by this whole war. It just doesn’t seem to touch you.”
“I’m a good actress.” Pansy replied. “Look, the way I see it, we could all die tomorrow. What’s the use in worrying about something that is basically inevitable? Shit happens whether we like it or not.”
Ron looked at her, “Do you really believe that?”
Pansy shrugged, her shoulder blades digging painfully into the floor now. “It could just be my own personal opinion. In any war, there are players, I just don’t happen to be one of them. As far as this war goes, I’m inconsequential. I’m barely even on the radar. This whole thing is governed by someone and something much larger than I am.”
“Voldemort?”
Pansy flinched. “Don’t say that name.”
“Why not? He’s your Master isn’t he?”
“Don’t be an idiot, Ron. I have the Mark; do you really think he doesn’t know I’m here with you? Whenever you speak his name like that, it just draws his attention.” Pansy pushed herself off the hard floor. “Look, there are things you don’t understand. Things that I’d never tell you. Just- don’t say the name again, okay?”
Ron paused and stood. “He knows I’m here?”
Pansy looked at him as if he were crazy. “He knows everything, Weasley. You think you and your precious Order have any hope of defeating him? He has powers that you could only ever dream of.”
March, 12
She had found the bottle of Firewhisky in her parent’s basement and was already well on her way to intoxication when Ron arrived.
“Weasley!” Pansy smirked. “Come have a drink, my ginger haired-friend!”
Ron paused, slowly shedding his coat and scarf. “Are you drunk?”
Pansy lifted the bottle with a flourish and peered blearily at the level line. “Not nearly drunk enough.” She held the bottle out to Ron. “C’mon, you look like you need it.”
Ron lifted an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”
“It means you look like shit, again. What are you getting up to with Potter and his merry band of men?” Pansy took a swig from the bottle when Ron didn’t take it from her. “You should tell that girlfriend of yours to look after you.”
Ron slumped into the chair across from her and rubbed his hands wearily over his face. “Leave Harry and Hermione out of this. I don’t want to talk about them.”
“Then what do you want to talk about?” Pansy held out the bottle again and this time Ron took it. He took a deep swallow and grimaced before taking another.
“I don’t know. Not you, not me, not this war, or the Order, or the Death Eaters.” Ron took another swallow. “Where does that leave us?”
“Nowhere,” Pansy replied, vaguely amused, “in case you hadn’t noticed, we have nothing in common.”
“That’s not true.” Ron extended the bottle out to her. “We have this room in common.”
Pansy traced her finger along the rim of the bottle. “You never did tell me what the fuck you’re doing here.”
Ron sighed, pushing his hair out of his eyes. It had gotten longer over the months and swept across his forehead and into his eyes. “I don’t know, I just needed a way out. All anyone ever talks about is the war and You-Know-Who and tactics and plans, and its just- suffocating. You’re just my way of-I don’t know-rebelling, I guess.”
“Do they know you’re here?”
“Of course not.”
Pansy rested her chin in her hand, liking the feel of the Firewhisky warming her stomach and making her head just a little bit fuzzy. She took another swallow from the bottle and pushed it back across the table. She knew she should stop drinking, or she’d be regret it in the morning.
“So is it working?” Pansy grinned. “Do you feel rebellious with me, Weasley?”
Ron dropped his eyes to the table. “Honestly? I kind of feel-” he paused for a moment, “safe.”
Pansy just laughed at him.
March, 14
“So what’s your deal? Have you just gone AWOL or something?”
Pansy shook her head. She was balanced on the headboard of the bed, standing on tip-toes and painting the ceiling bright red. “No, that would be impossible. I have You-Know-Who’s very own calling card on my arm.”
“Then, what happened?” Ron asked from his position at the table across the room, “You’re always talking about being in the shadows.”
“Out of sight, out of mind,” Pansy murmured, sloshing paint messily across the old, cracked plaster. “Look, I was never in You-Know-Who’s inner circle. I was never that important, and when Draco and I broke up I just kept drifting further and further into the background. It was just natural. I kind of realised that if I kept my head down and my mouth shut, I could get away with just about anything.
“Don’t get me wrong, I’m still technically on You-Know-Who’s payroll. I don’t have much choice about that. There are some fights that are based in sheer numbers. That’s when someone like me gets summoned.” Pansy jumped off the headboard and landed bouncing against the mattress. “When it comes down to it, I’m an eighteen-year-old girl. I’m not really worth much in You-Know-Who’s eyes. I have no real power.”
Ron lifted an eyebrow. “Don’t you think you’re underestimating yourself a bit? I’ve seen you in class.”
Pansy waved a hand. “I don’t mean magical power. I mean political power, financial power; the stuff that really matters in this war. I don’t come from a rich family, Weasley. My parents may be pureblood, but that doesn’t mean they have the same power that the Malfoys do.”
March, 24
“I didn’t know you could paint.”
Ron stepped back and admired his handiwork. “Neither did I.”
The floor to ceiling windows, which had once been painted in a deep plum purple were now painted to represent night sky. Pansy shut the door behind her and crossed the room to stand next to Ron.
It wasn’t completely lifelike, but it was beautiful. Five pointed stars peeked out from behind purple swirls, shooting stars danced around a moon which was no more than a big white circle. The once boring room looked magical. It also looked like a couple of six year olds had gone nuts, but Pansy loved it. The red roof, the orange walls, the angry black words and messages, and now this dreamscape. Pansy made a mental note to paint the floor green.
“I like it,” Pansy admitted.
April, 6
He was late. She shouldn’t have been surprised. Weasley was never exactly punctual, that is, when he bothered to show up at all, but something was different this time. When he did finally walk through the door, Pansy recognised immediately that something was wrong.
Pansy frowned. “What’s the matter with you?”
He let out a long deep sigh and turned around, reaching down to the hem of his shirt and pulling it off in a slow jerky movement. Pansy stared in surprise when his back was revealed. Crossing the expanse of his shoulder blades were thick red welts and cuts, as though he had been whipped. However that was unlikely. Torture like that hadn’t been carried out since the Dark Ages and even then it was uncommon amongst witches and wizards who saw that type of act as barbaric.
“Who did this to you?” Pansy demanded.
Ron didn’t reply, just tossed his shirt aside with a grimace. He walked slowly over to the bed and sat down on the edge resting his elbows on his knees and brushing his hair back from his forehead, “I’m really not in the sharing, caring mood today. Maybe tomorrow we’ll hold hands and tell each other our deepest darkest secrets.” His voice was thick with sarcasm.
Pansy crossed her arms over her chest. “Look, I know we’re not exactly the best of friends or-” she trailed off and huffed, “whatever it is that we’re doing here. Let me heal those for you.”
“You can’t,” Ron answered simply. “They can’t be healed with magic because they’re magically inflicted.” He lay down on the bed on his stomach with a grimace and let out a small breath once his body was horizontal. “They’ll have to heal on their own.”
The marks looked vivid and angry against his white skin as he lay there on the bed. They were also fresh, some were still bleeding in places.
Ron jumped when the a wet cloth suddenly touched his back. “What are you doing?” he asked, flinching away from Pansy’s hands.
“Shut up and lie still,” Pansy ordered firmly, “I already feel ridiculous for doing this; don’t make it any worse.”
“Then why are you doing it?” he asked.
Pansy had no idea.
April, 19
“Things have been quiet.”
“Is that your round about way of fishing for information, Weasley?”
“No, I’m just saying- things are quiet.”
April, 22
“What happened with you and Malfoy?”
Pansy looked up at Ron from her crouched position on the floor. He sat on the table top, out of the way of the green paint she had all over her hands and splattered up her forearms. “Is that your way of asking if I’m single, Weasley?”
“No.” He flushed lightly, embarrassed by her assumption. “I’m just making conversation.”
She sloshed a dollop of paint across the floor and began smoothing it out. “Draco Malfoy,” Pansy murmured thoughtfully. She sat back on her heels and shrugged, “Nothing really happened with Draco. We just grew up. I woke up one day and realised we weren’t little kids anymore.”
“That’s it?”
“Pretty much.”
“Do you miss him?”
That was a loaded question. “I don’t know. Its complicated, with Draco it always is. Do I miss the way things were at Hogwarts? Of course I do, but things changed when the war started. People changed. Circumstances changed. End of story.”
“Are you with someone else now?”
Pansy smirked. “Don’t worry, Weasley.” She winked. “You’re the only man in my life.”
April, 23
“I’ve been summoned.”
Ron paused, replying very carefully, “Me too.”
April, 25
“No!” Pansy screamed, her voice cutting through the battle and echoing into the night.
Eyes wide with astonishment and mouth wide with shock she watched as the green light hit Millicent in the middle of her chest, sending her flying shortly through the air before she crumpled in a motionless heap. It took a second for Pansy to comprehend what had happened and a couple more for the shock to leave her system and for red hot anger to take its place.
The fury was uncontrollable; it rushed through her veins and into her muscles like liquid fire and before she fully comprehended what she was doing, she had hit the caster with an Avada Kedavra of her own and was racing back into battle without even really seeing where she was going.
Everything was a blur then. A blur of spells, green light, blood, sweat and the everlasting anger that consumed her.
When Pansy finally came back to her senses she was kneeling beside Millicent’s body. She didn’t cry, couldn’t cry; the tears she knew she should shed would not come. She felt nothing. Staring numbly down at Millicent’s body, stupid petty worries filled her head. She was concerned that there was blood in Millicent’s hair, that there was a cut on her right cheek, that her socks didn’t match and that her wand was nowhere to be seen. Pansy looked around, where was Millicent’s wand?
Lost in her quest for her friend’s wand, she didn’t hear the screams when Daphne found Millicent’s body, or the sobs as someone else broke down against her neck. None of it mattered, it was of crucial importance that she find Millicent’s wand.
~
Lying the wand on Millicent’s sternum was like opening the flood gates. All the emotion that had been numbed broke free and overwhelmed her. The guilt and the misery clawed at her insides and suffocated her body until she could barely get a breath into her lungs. Maybe she didn’t deserve to breathe, maybe she should just fall to the ground like her body wanted and never get up.
There was nothing worse than the horrific feeling of failure. Pansy sank to her knees and dropped her head into her hands. Kneeling on the cool wet ground, drenched to the bone and freezing cold, there was nothing she could do but breathe. One slow agonising breath after the other.
Pansy remained in that position for a long time, feeling the rain trickle down the back of her neck and trace cool paths along her spine. Her breath pressed out from between her fingers in short gasps and turned to fog as soon as it struck the cool night air.
Dropping her hands, Pansy lifted her face to the sky and fought the urge to scream all the frustration from her body. She needed to scream or cry or just do something to release the tension that had her body shaking. Or maybe it was the cold that had her shaking.
Abruptly, a strong hand clamped down onto her shoulder and before Pansy could even fully process what was happening, her body was being sucked from the present and she was Apparating to an unknown destination, flying through time and space until she slammed into a green wooden floor.
Pansy cried out as she struck the floor with enough force to jar her entire body. Cursing she rolled onto her back and stared up at the blood red ceiling. Fuck.
“It wasn’t your fault.”
That was Ron’s voice. Pansy clutched at her shoulder and swallowed past the lump in her throat. She wouldn’t cry, not here, not now and especially not in present company. Instead she was going to lay here long enough for her rain drenched clothes to saturate the rotting wood and then Apparate the hell out, as soon as her mind was coherent enough to process the incantation.
“Pansy,” Ron breathed softly.
She ignored him, desperately hoping that he would take the silence as a sign to get out. She should have known better; all it did was frustrate him.
“Fucking hell!” he cursed. “You can at least thank me for getting you the hell out of there. Do you even know what that cost me?”
Angry. So angry. But not at herself, at the war. It had a way of poisoning everything, tearing the whole world down and every good thing with it.
A hand shook her shoulder.
It was enough. Pansy leapt to her feet so fast that Ron stepped back in surprise. “What do you want from me?” she demanded. “If you hadn’t noticed, Weasley, I just watched my best friend die. So forgive me if I’m not in the fucking mood to chat!”
He was silent, watching as she paced back and forth across the room, feet squelching in her boots and cloak hanging wetly around her shoulders.
For Pansy it was all too much. All the pressure was rising in her body; so much pressure from the battle tonight and from every other battle since the start of the war. It was the late nights, the sneaking around, the lies, the injuries, the worry, the desperation and how every single little thing came back to this - loss. It left her stomach empty and her mind blank, and her entire being heavy with regret and guilt.
Pansy picked up one of the chairs and flung it against the wall where the rotting wood cracked and shattered into two pieces.
The worst thing, the absolute worst thing of all, was the knowledge that no matter how far she ran and how well she hid, this war would always find her. It would sink its claws in and drag her to the finish line. Maybe it wasn’t just Weasley who was stuck fighting a war he never knew he signed up for. Maybe it was all of them.
The damage wasn’t enough. She picked up the other chair and shattered it, and then started in on the pieces until her arm was aching from the movement and she was sobbing without even realising. Then there were arms, strong warm arms, and she was crying into a chest she never expected to receive comfort from, and it was beautiful because it was just as messy as everything else in the world.
It was one of the few moments in Pansy’s life where her mind just shut down. It had only happened once before - at the start of the war, when she received the Dark Mark. Her mind was always so turned on, ticking and ticking and worrying and worrying. It was such a relief to not have to think about anything, if only just for a little while. Maybe that was why so many people committed suicide, they were just so sick and tired of living inside their minds.
“I wish it had been me,” Pansy whispered as images of Millicent in her final moments swirled through her newly resurrected mind.
Ron’s hands gripped a little tighter. “You don’t mean that. Listen, I know that this isn’t going to make you feel any better and you’ll probably hate me for saying it, but you did everything you could.”
Pansy paused. “You’re right, that didn’t make me feel any better.” As an afterthought, she added, “You’re really shit at this comforting thing.”
June, 6
“Do ever think about how you got here?”
Ron looked over curiously. “Here in general or here in this room?”
“Here in this room. I mean, think about it.” Pansy sat up and crossed her legs underneath her. “How many time did our paths have to cross to get to this very place?”
Ron tucked his hand under his head and got comfortable. “Actually, I don’t remember our paths crossing very much at all.”
“I’m not talking about literal paths, Weasley. I’m talking about life paths. I mean, you’re born, I’m born, both in the same year, both to wizarding families. We’re both accepted into Hogwarts. You’re sorted into Gryffindor and I’m sorted into Slytherin; so we were enemies from day one.”
“Are you going somewhere with this, Parkinson?”
“Well, if you’d shut up and let me finish.”
Ron rolled his eyes and waved a hand for her to continue.
“So then the war happens, right? You’re fighting with Potter and I’m fighting with Draco, because these are the people we aligned ourselves with at school, right? But then, I start drifting and you start cracking up and all the ingredients are right there,” Pansy paused dramatically and then finished with a flourish, “for this.”
Ron looked doubtful. “I highly doubt fate spent eighteen years cooking this up.”
Pansy rolled her eyes and flopped back down on the bed next to him. “It doesn’t have to be about fate. It doesn’t have to be about anything profound. It just... Is what it is, you know?”
“We’ve been meeting in this room for almost six months,” Ron murmured softly, “I think it’s a little more than a passing fancy.”
Pansy peeked at him, amused, “Are you saying we could be friends, Weasley?”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
June, 16
He had her left wrist in his hand and he was examining her Dark Mark with an impassive expression.
Pansy wondered if he would be stupid enough to ask her about it. To ask her anything about the Death Eaters when the whole basis of this relationship was an unspoken agreement to keep their respective mouths shut.
He wasn’t.
June, 29
The roof was leaking.
Pansy stared up at the red ceiling and tried not to notice the scratchy material of the generic bedspread underneath her skin.
“The ceiling looks like its crying blood,” Pansy murmured softly.
“That’s morbid.”
“I kind of like it.”
“That’s even more morbid.” Ron rolled onto his side and neither of them really noticed that the movement brought him flush against Pansy’s side.
“I need a cigarette,” he breathed against her shoulder.
“You don’t smoke.”
“I know, but this war might make me take up the habit.”
July, 8
Whilst Diagon Alley was deserted, London was not. In one of her more “open-minded” moments, Pansy tracked down some Muggle money and started purchasing take-away on her way to the apartment. Which was why late one afternoon, they were both sprawled out across the green floorboards; Ron eating noodles straight from the box and Pansy painting the floor with little pink flowers.
“Should I keep these?” Ron asked, holding up the two little chopsticks.
“No.”
“Why not?”
Pansy finished up the field of flowers and shook her head. “Because, if we leave the sticks here, then the sticks will turn into a fork, and a fork will turn into a knife, and the cutlery will turn into toiletries and toiletries will turn into clothes. Then, before you know it, I’ll start getting comfortable and never want to leave here.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Putting down roots like that...” Pansy sighed. “Even if it is just little things. It makes it even harder to leave this place. I like it here.”
“You could stay.”
“Here? Why?
Ron shrugged and placed aside his empty take away container. “I don’t know. At least I wouldn’t have to owl you anymore.”
Pansy blinked, stared, and then blinked again before replying icily, “I’m not your house-wife, Weasley.”
“What?” Ron looked bewildered. “I never said you were.”
“Then don’t insinuate that I’ll be here at your beck and call whenever you want me to be.”
Ron gaped. “Parkinson, in case you hadn’t noticed, we’re not having sex. You’re not at my beck and call for anything except bickering.”
Pansy stood abruptly, knocking her paints over and storming towards the door.
Ron beat her to it, slamming the door closed with the flat of his hand as she pulled it open.
“Fuck off, Weasley.”
“What the hell is wrong with you? What are you so mad about?”
“I’m mad about everything! I’m mad at you; I’m mad at this war. I’m mad about the fact that I’m here and that I see you more than I see anyone else. I mean, how messed up is that? That at the end of the day, I hang out with a Weasley more than I hang out with my parents and friends? Have you ever stopped to realise that we’re having secret meetings? I’m like a really shitty mistress that you don’t even sleep with. Does this whole entire situation not strike you as-”
“Are you saying you want to sleep with me, Parkinson?” Ron cut in.
“What? No!”
“Well you seem to be pretty focused on the sex thing.”
Pansy couldn’t believe his daring. She took a threatening step towards him. “Weasley, listen to me, and listen good. I would never sleep with you. Ever. The very idea is enough to make me want to throw myself off the nearest building and hope for a quick and painful death. If this was the end of the world and the continuance of the human race depended on us, I still wouldn’t sleep with you!” She broke off, chest heaving.
Ron’s eyes traced over her face and for a couple of long moments, there was complete and utter silence between them. Then, without any warning, Ron grabbed Pansy’s shoulders, pulled her towards him and crashed their lips together with a hard kiss that left her stunned motionless.
What the hell?
Pansy put her hands on his chest and tried to push him away, but he turned his head slightly, his tongue brushing her lower lip.
Pansy might have been angry but she appreciated a good kiss as much as the next person and it seemed a shame to interrupt the Weasel when he was on a roll.
“Are you mental?” Pansy whispered, too breathless to speak loudly when he finally pulled away.
“No.”
His answer was too quick, too pat, and too unsatisfying. “Then you better have a damn good reason for-”
He covered her mouth with his again, his lips hard and hungry. The horny fool inside her returned the effort, with interest.
July, 19
Almost as soon as the door closed he had her pinned against it, lifting her chin so he could devour her mouth. Pansy gave back as good as she got, holding his head with one hand while the other slipped down to his hips and pulled him closer.
She arched her back, trying to get as close to him as possible, crying out her satisfaction when he lifted her off the floor and wrapped her legs around his waist.
Pansy ground herself against him, groaning as his teeth bit into her neck, setting off shocks all down her spine. He shuddered against her, muttering under his breath. Then, his hands were between them, ripping the buttons off her shirt in his haste to get it off her. It only took him a few seconds to dispose of her bra as well.
She arched her back further, putting her voluptuous breasts on greater display. Loving the almost crazed look in his eye when he looked down at them for a long minute before lowering his head and taking one nipple into his mouth. He sucked hard, setting off an undeniable response as her hips moved against his.
August, 7
“I think this whole thing is coming to a head.”
Pansy ignored him, focused instead on ridding her slice of pizza of mushrooms. Finally she licked her fingers and clarified. “The war?”
“Yeah. It feels different.” Ron picked up a slice from the box and took a large bite. They both ignored the crumbs that fell onto the sheets. “Like there’s more magic in the air or something. It all feels... like this war’s coming to the end. You know?”
Pansy looked at him doubtfully. “I think that could be your wishful thinking. Or-” She took a bite. “You’re just projecting yourself into the fight.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, that we haven’t left this bed in three days.” Pansy smirked. “Shouldn’t you be off somewhere? Saving the world or something?”
Ron frowned.
Pansy smiled softly. “You don’t have to make explanations for being here. So you’re here and not there. Who cares. Everybody needs time-out sometimes.”
“I’m not supposed to want time-out.”
“But you do. End of story.”
August, 28
“Keep your eyes closed.”
Pansy felt a soft damp kiss on her nipple. She caught her breath and made a small sound of wanting.
He kissed the other and touched it with the tip of his tongue. She couldn’t tell if he was kneeling or bending to her until she felt his hands on her waist steadying her. Kneeling on the bed then. He circled her nipple with tiny laps then increased his licks to long sweeping caresses until he was curling his tongue around it and then kept sucking it in.
If he hadn’t been holding her, Pansy was pretty sure she would have jerked right off the bed. She’d never felt such intensity from having her breasts sucked before. Pleasure, sure, but not this. This made her feel as if all her senses centred at the tip of her nipple, now held in his mouth between his teeth as he delivered a nip that made her shudder. He suckled and drew hard and, before she had time to draw a breath, had moved to the other nipple.
August, 30
“Does she know?”
“Who?”
“Granger.”
“No.”
“Doesn’t she ask where you are?”
“Nope.”
Pansy turned her head on the pillow and looked at him doubtfully. “How do you explain your long absences then?”
“I don’t. I don’t think she even notices I’m gone.”
“How is that possible?”
Ron looked at her and smiled. “Are you saying you miss me when I’m gone, Parkinson?”
“I’m saying that you don’t exactly fade into the background. You’re too tall and gangly. And all that ginger hair? It isn’t exactly inconspicuous.”
“Ah see, but where I am, I’m only one of many gingers.”
“Yeah, but she isn’t sleeping with them,” Pansy cried, aghast. She paused, “She’s not, is she?”
Ron smirked and kissed her shoulder. “No.”
“All I’m saying is that if my boyfriend was off sleeping with some random girl, then I’d want to be noticing that tiny little fact.”
September, 22
“You could stay here you know. You don’t have to go back.”
Ron shovelled a spoonful of rice into his mouth. “That’s a bit dramatic.”
“No it isn’t. You look like shit. You always look like shit, nowadays.”
“You’re so nice to me, Pansy,” Ron murmured sarcastically.
Pansy sighed, walking across the room and straddling his lap. She draped her arms around his neck. “This war is going to kill you,” she murmured, her voice suddenly very serious.
Ron looked at her, reaching up to brush her dark hair away from her face. “No, it’s not. I’ll be fine.”
She pressed her forehead to his, twining her fingers in the hairs at the nape of his neck. “When this is all over, will you come back here?”
“To this apartment?”
“To me.” Pansy clarified seriously.
Ron hesitated.
“Why not me?” Pansy whispered, “I see you. They don’t and they never will.”
-- END --
Title: Room on the Third Floor
Characters/Pairings: Pansy Parkinson / Ron Weasley
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Minor character death
Word Count: 8,077
Prompt: #37: (Ron/Pansy) "Why not me? I see you. They don't. And they never will." (submitted by seraphimerising)
Notes: Thanks to my beta’s saintgilbert & d_andru
*~*
October, 7
This was without a doubt the stupidest thing she had ever done. Pansy was not a girl who did unintelligent things; she prided herself on her street smarts and her uncanny ability to read people. This, however, was just plain dumb - absolutely ridiculous, positively outrageous, and yet here she was.
She was willingly following Ronald. Bloody. Weasley.
Ronald. Fucking. Weasley.
What in the hell was she thinking?
He led her deep into the backstreets of Diagon Alley. The narrow lanes were cracked and crumbling underfoot and the majority of the residences stood abandoned; windows dirty, gardens unattended, front doors blown off their hinges. Pansy crossed her arms over her chest to ward off the icy chill of dark magic that loitered in the air.
Ron led her into a building seemingly at random and they ascended the rickety stairs to the third floor. The interior of the building was covered with graffiti. Pansy tried not to see the heavy political messages scrawled all over the walls as she followed Ron to the very end of the hallway. He pushed open the last door on the right and stepped inside.
Pansy followed dubiously over the threshold and looked around. It was a decent sized room with large windows, but despite the floor to ceiling glass, barely any light managed to penetrate the dirt and grime. The room was sparsely furnished; it held a table with two chairs, a dilapidated looking double bed, and what appeared to be a small ensuite bath.
Ron strolled across the room and slid into one of the chairs at the table. Once he was settled Pansy crossed the room slowly, heels clicking against the wooden floor. She shoved one of the windows open and glanced down into the street below before crossing back. She continued to pace back and forth several times before finally looking up, features determined.
“So, when is your precious Order getting here?”
Ron raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
Pansy waved a hand around the room. “I’m here, alone, in a darkened building in the middle of nowhere. No one knows where I am, except you. I know this is a set up, you’ve been following me for weeks; I’m not stupid, so when are they coming? What do you have in store for me, huh? Are you going to torture me for information? Kill me? Or, maybe you’re just going to sit there like an arrogant asshole, inwardly laughing at how fucking stupid I am to trust you.”
He had sat silently throughout her tirade, but once her voice faded into silence he stood and crossed the room towards her.
Pansy stood her ground, fighting the urge to either run or pull out her wand and curse him into oblivion. The second option had merit, but he stopped several feet from her and shoved his hands into his pockets.
“The Order isn’t coming.”
“Then what do you want?” Pansy demanded. “Why are you following me? I don’t know anything, Weasley. I’m just trying to stay alive and off the radar. Meanwhile you’re popping up everywhere! I’m sick of looking over my shoulder just waiting for you to hex me.”
Ron rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “Don’t be dramatic. I got you once with a trip jinx.”
Pansy clenched her teeth and forced out, “What do you want, Weasley?”
“You.”
Pansy choked. Of all the things he could have said, that was the one thing she never expected to spill from a Weasley’s mouth. “Excuse me?”
“Oh deflate your ego, Parkinson,” Ron scoffed, “I’m not after sex.”
“Then what exactly are you after?”
“Sanity.”
Pansy blinked and opened her mouth to request some sort of clarification, but he Apparated before she could say another word.
October, 16
He sat directly across the table, blue eyes tired and rimmed with shadows. His ginger hair was almost glowing in the sunlight that flickered between the streaks of dirt on the windows. Pansy’s lip curled every time the vibrant strands caught her eye. They just seemed to remind her again and again where she was and who she was with.
This whole situation was so incredibly awkward. What in the hell had she been thinking meeting on neutral ground with him again? They had never said a kind word to each other in their lives. What in Merlin’s name had Weasley been expecting? Polite small talk about the weather? A casual conversation about their lives? Pansy raked a hand through her long dark hair; this whole situation was a really ridiculous and an awful idea.
It was odd. They didn’t speak, just sat quietly ignoring each other.
Well, Ron was ignoring Pansy.
Pansy was staring.
She had been staring since she sat down, vaguely intrigued by the fact that Ron continued to sit there, cool, calm, and collected underneath her gaze. His self-assurance was maddening. Pansy couldn’t remember Ron ever being this self-assured at Hogwarts, but war had a way of changing people. It wasn’t that much of a stretch to accept that it could change a Weasley too.
Then again, once a Weasley, always a Weasley.
He was curious to look at. Now that she was taking the time to really look, Pansy could see that the Weasel had nice features - his pale skin (although freckled) was clear and soft, his bone structure was strong, his nose was long, and he had ridiculously long eyelashes. For some reason it all came together into something that wasn’t quite right. Pansy couldn’t put her finger on what exactly it was that ruined the symmetry.
In the seven years she had known Ron Weasley she had never once thought him beautiful. In fact, she had never really paid much attention to his looks at all. Now that she was sitting in close proximity, she had to admit, there was something there. She just wasn’t too sure what that something was.
Bored with her perusal, Pansy sighed and shifted in her seat. The sudden movement brought Ron’s eyes to her and he proceeded to survey her quietly, a small frown creased between his eyebrows.
The silence continued and Pansy fought the urge to shift under his stare. Hell, if he hadn’t moved then she certainly wasn’t going to. She lifted her chin and met his eyes stubbornly, watching as his eyes roved over her face in a mixture of confusion and curiosity. Without taking his eyes off her he murmured, “So?”
Pansy almost flinched as his voice broke the silence.
“Don’t start getting any weird ideas that I like you or anything, Parkinson,” Ron continued, once the silence began to feel uncomfortable. “Just because I’m cracking up doesn’t mean I can’t turn you over to the Order.”
Pansy lifted an eyebrow and smirked. “I’d like to see you try.” She examined her nails lazily. “But don’t worry, I get it. The war is doing your head in, you need someone a little bit more neutral in your life, blah blah blah.”
“You’re anything but neutral.”
“I mean in your personal life, Weasley,” Pansy supplied as if he was stupid. “You are you. Harry’s best friend, Hermione’s boyfriend, member of the Order. You were fighting this war the second you stepped foot in Hogwarts. All that definition has got to be driving you a little bit mental.”
Ron frowned. “How are you any different? You fit into a neat little box just as well as I do.”
“No, I don’t.” Pansy countered easily. “If I did then you wouldn’t be here.”
It was true, maybe a year ago Pansy would have fit neatly into the “Death Eater, Draco Malfoy’s girlfriend, all around Mudblood hater” box, but times had changed and now all Pansy wanted was to fade into the shadows - away from the fear, the pain, the responsibility.
It wasn’t surprising that Ron had found her when he was looking for the exact same thing.
Pansy tore her gaze away to look out the window. The afternoon sun was dipping behind the building next door. The sight was oddly depressing. When this war had first begun, Pansy had spent one too many darkened hours patrolling Diagon Alley once it was brought under Death Eater control. After several weeks, Pansy didn’t know what was worse; the nights filled with duels and bloodshed or the nights spent sitting, and endlessly waiting for something to happen. In retrospect, Pansy knew with absolute certainty that the uneventful nights were the worst. At least when she was fighting, she could pretend she was making a difference. It didn’t matter how many aches and pains she had the next day, at least she was doing something beneficial to help the fight.
It all seemed like a waste of time now.
Rubbing her face wearily, Pansy turned her attention back to Ron. He was reclined back in his chair, balancing on its two rear legs, arms crossed over his chest and his eyes were focused on the corner of the room, unseeing. He was clearly as distracted by his own thoughts as she was. Pansy stared down at the table between them, tracing her eyes over the cracks and dints it had acquired over the years.
She wondered briefly how much damage her exterior would have if she Transfigured herself into a table. The thought was not a pleasant one. She lifted her eyes to Ron and had no doubt that his exterior would be pristine. He was one of those strange human beings that seemed to stroll around without taking any damage to himself.
As she trailed her eyes over his form she knew that wasn’t true; he had a small cut on his left check, a large circle that looked like a burn on his neck, and bruises all over the skin of his right forearm that were suddenly revealed when he pushed the sleeve of his maroon jumper up to his elbow. Distantly, Pansy noticed he wore a series of black bands and leather bracelets on both wrists.
“If you Transfigured yourself into a table,” Pansy mused quietly, “how many cracks and dints do you think you’d have?”
She didn’t know what possessed her to ask. As she lifted her eyes to meet his she felt like the biggest idiot in the history of the world for asking. She didn’t know why he was here with her, but it clearly wasn’t to be asked deeply revealing metaphorical questions. Pansy looked away, hoping he would forget what she had just asked.
Minutes later, Pansy assumed he had indeed forgotten the question, but finally he replied quietly, “Not many. But…” he trailed off with a shake of his head. He lowered his chair back onto four legs and pushed it back, scraping it loudly against the floorboards. Then, without another word, he stood, grabbed his coat and left the room, leaving Pansy staring after him.
December, 12
Their meetings were completely random.
Sometimes she would see him every day, other times he would disappear for weeks on end. But he always got a message to her eventually. The messages arrived by owl and never contained anything except a ten digit number. Pansy had stared at the first one for a couple of minutes before she finally realised that it was the six digits of a date and four digits of a time. It wasn’t the smartest form of communication, but a time and date meant nothing without a place, and only Pansy and Ron knew about the apartment on the third floor.
Pansy had no idea where Ron went when he wasn’t in London, but he was clearly always on the move. His notes were usually written on scraps that looked as though he had just picked them up spontaneously at the time old receipts, torn sections of newspapers, old food packets, or crumpled, battered, bits of paper that looked as though they had been traveling in Ron’s pocket since first year. However they always contained the same thing - a time and a date.
Nothing more and nothing less.
Sometimes Ron turned up, sometimes he didn’t. The times that he didn’t were never mentioned. Pansy wasn’t stupid, she knew he was busy. They both were. Sometimes Pansy wondered how they managed to meet up at all, but they did. The two of them met in the ugly room, in that ugly building, in the now derelict and graffiti covered Diagon Alley.
Pansy didn’t know why she was willingly meeting with him on a regular basis. She supposed it had something to do with the fact that he hadn’t handed her over to the Order yet. Or maybe it was because they hadn’t quite figured out the whole ‘conversation’ thing yet. Most of the time they just ended up sniping at each other before one of them would storm off in a huff. Other times they sat and ignored each other for a couple of hours.
They weren’t friends. Hell, they were barely even acquaintances.
Pansy didn’t know what they were.
December, 28
Pansy observed the can in her hand and shook it vigorously before pulling off the cap. Taking aim against the wall, she sprayed out a straight black line and stepped back, smirking.
Vandalism was oddly therapeutic.
Of course, she was only vandalising the room on the third floor, so it didn’t technically count as public desecration. As far as Pansy was concerned, this still made her a class one delinquent. Besides, she could only look at all the messages and drawings throughout the building for so long before she wanted to make her own mark. She did that now, painting out a big black skull and crossbones, like a pirate.
“What in the world are you doing?”
Pansy glanced over her shoulder as Ron stepped over the threshold, he was looking at her half-completed crossbones with a bemused expression.
Pansy tossed him a can. “Vandalising. It’s therapeutic.”
Ron uncapped his can and shut the door, writing a big bold ‘FUCK’ across the back of it.
“Well that’s cheerful,” Pansy remarked happily.
January, 24
The electricity was out.
Pansy didn’t dare illuminate her wand as she crept through Diagon Alley towards the apartment. Instead she walked carefully, knowing exactly where to place her feet to best avoid all the cracks and crumbling pave stones.
The apartment block was dark. Pansy pushed open the door to the foyer and quickly ascended the three floors, entering through the familiar door, right at the end of the hallway.
Ron was already there. He lay stretched out along the bed, feet dangling off the edge of the mattress. He had managed to locate some candles and the soft light cast flickering shadows across the room that only served to emphasise Ron’s ‘FUCK’ on the back of the door.
There was more paint on the walls now. They were primarily covered by Pansy’s drawings that had slowly but surely began to improve as she made her way around the room. The rest of the room had been attacked with orange spray paint. Somewhere along the way, Ron had discovered that Pansy appreciated the Chudley Cannons, so he had spray painted an entire wall pumpkin orange.
It was the most disgusting thing Pansy had ever seen.
“When did the power go out?” Pansy asked, closing the door with a soft click and unwinding the royal blue scarf from around her neck.
“About an hour ago,” Ron replied, tucking a hand behind his head and watching her walk across the room towards him. “I don’t think its ever coming back on.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Pansy murmured, slipping her coat off her shoulders.
“No,” Ron agreed, his warm eyes fixed on her movements, “it doesn’t.”
January, 31
It wasn’t often that they saw each other outside the flat on the third floor.
“What are you doing here?”
Pansy whipped her head around so fast she could feel her neck pop, and a loud gasp flew from her mouth before she could stop it. When her eyes found Ron she almost had a heart attack. “Fucking hell!” she gasped out in a loud whisper. “You scared the shit out of me.”
“What are you doing here?” Ron repeated.
“Um...” Pansy looked around herself desperately. “Well... I... uh...” For the first time in her life, Pansy found herself completely and utterly tongue tied. She was knee deep in trash in one of the roughest parts of Knockturn Alley. How could she even begin to explain something like that?
Ron watched her silently before raising an eyebrow. “Are you stalking me?” His tone incredibly matter of fact as though he already suspected this was the truth.
“What? Why would I stalk you? I see you too much as it is.” Pansy huffed and stood with all the confidence she could muster, tossing her hair back over her shoulders. “I could ask you the same question though.” She traced her eyes over Ron’s form and wrinkled her nose. “You look like shit. If you insist on following me then I suggest you spend some time in front of the mirror beforehand.”
“Are you always so blunt?”
“Yes.”
February, 24
They never bothered to clean the windows. Pansy watched them become dirtier and dirtier, as weeks turned into months, until finally one day Ron painted over them with dark purple paint.
“The walls are orange, the windows are purple. This is the most hideous room I’ve ever seen,” Pansy remarked bluntly as she walked in one late afternoon in February.
“I like it,” Ron admitted. He was sprawled out on his back on the floor and didn’t appear to be moving anytime soon.
Pansy lifted an eyebrow. “What are you doing on the floor, Weasley?”
“Everything makes sense on the floor.” He paused and added as an afterthought, “And my back hurts. I need something hard and flat.”
Pansy stretched out beside him, letting their shoulders brush as they stared up at the ceiling.
“You know what I think it is?” Ron’s voice was soft. “When I was a kid I used to sit on the floor all the time. That’s why things feel simpler down here, because they were simple back then.”
Pansy turned her head and looked at him. “Are you cracking up a bit, Weasley?”
“I don’t even know anymore. How do you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Act so unconcerned by this whole war. It just doesn’t seem to touch you.”
“I’m a good actress.” Pansy replied. “Look, the way I see it, we could all die tomorrow. What’s the use in worrying about something that is basically inevitable? Shit happens whether we like it or not.”
Ron looked at her, “Do you really believe that?”
Pansy shrugged, her shoulder blades digging painfully into the floor now. “It could just be my own personal opinion. In any war, there are players, I just don’t happen to be one of them. As far as this war goes, I’m inconsequential. I’m barely even on the radar. This whole thing is governed by someone and something much larger than I am.”
“Voldemort?”
Pansy flinched. “Don’t say that name.”
“Why not? He’s your Master isn’t he?”
“Don’t be an idiot, Ron. I have the Mark; do you really think he doesn’t know I’m here with you? Whenever you speak his name like that, it just draws his attention.” Pansy pushed herself off the hard floor. “Look, there are things you don’t understand. Things that I’d never tell you. Just- don’t say the name again, okay?”
Ron paused and stood. “He knows I’m here?”
Pansy looked at him as if he were crazy. “He knows everything, Weasley. You think you and your precious Order have any hope of defeating him? He has powers that you could only ever dream of.”
March, 12
She had found the bottle of Firewhisky in her parent’s basement and was already well on her way to intoxication when Ron arrived.
“Weasley!” Pansy smirked. “Come have a drink, my ginger haired-friend!”
Ron paused, slowly shedding his coat and scarf. “Are you drunk?”
Pansy lifted the bottle with a flourish and peered blearily at the level line. “Not nearly drunk enough.” She held the bottle out to Ron. “C’mon, you look like you need it.”
Ron lifted an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”
“It means you look like shit, again. What are you getting up to with Potter and his merry band of men?” Pansy took a swig from the bottle when Ron didn’t take it from her. “You should tell that girlfriend of yours to look after you.”
Ron slumped into the chair across from her and rubbed his hands wearily over his face. “Leave Harry and Hermione out of this. I don’t want to talk about them.”
“Then what do you want to talk about?” Pansy held out the bottle again and this time Ron took it. He took a deep swallow and grimaced before taking another.
“I don’t know. Not you, not me, not this war, or the Order, or the Death Eaters.” Ron took another swallow. “Where does that leave us?”
“Nowhere,” Pansy replied, vaguely amused, “in case you hadn’t noticed, we have nothing in common.”
“That’s not true.” Ron extended the bottle out to her. “We have this room in common.”
Pansy traced her finger along the rim of the bottle. “You never did tell me what the fuck you’re doing here.”
Ron sighed, pushing his hair out of his eyes. It had gotten longer over the months and swept across his forehead and into his eyes. “I don’t know, I just needed a way out. All anyone ever talks about is the war and You-Know-Who and tactics and plans, and its just- suffocating. You’re just my way of-I don’t know-rebelling, I guess.”
“Do they know you’re here?”
“Of course not.”
Pansy rested her chin in her hand, liking the feel of the Firewhisky warming her stomach and making her head just a little bit fuzzy. She took another swallow from the bottle and pushed it back across the table. She knew she should stop drinking, or she’d be regret it in the morning.
“So is it working?” Pansy grinned. “Do you feel rebellious with me, Weasley?”
Ron dropped his eyes to the table. “Honestly? I kind of feel-” he paused for a moment, “safe.”
Pansy just laughed at him.
March, 14
“So what’s your deal? Have you just gone AWOL or something?”
Pansy shook her head. She was balanced on the headboard of the bed, standing on tip-toes and painting the ceiling bright red. “No, that would be impossible. I have You-Know-Who’s very own calling card on my arm.”
“Then, what happened?” Ron asked from his position at the table across the room, “You’re always talking about being in the shadows.”
“Out of sight, out of mind,” Pansy murmured, sloshing paint messily across the old, cracked plaster. “Look, I was never in You-Know-Who’s inner circle. I was never that important, and when Draco and I broke up I just kept drifting further and further into the background. It was just natural. I kind of realised that if I kept my head down and my mouth shut, I could get away with just about anything.
“Don’t get me wrong, I’m still technically on You-Know-Who’s payroll. I don’t have much choice about that. There are some fights that are based in sheer numbers. That’s when someone like me gets summoned.” Pansy jumped off the headboard and landed bouncing against the mattress. “When it comes down to it, I’m an eighteen-year-old girl. I’m not really worth much in You-Know-Who’s eyes. I have no real power.”
Ron lifted an eyebrow. “Don’t you think you’re underestimating yourself a bit? I’ve seen you in class.”
Pansy waved a hand. “I don’t mean magical power. I mean political power, financial power; the stuff that really matters in this war. I don’t come from a rich family, Weasley. My parents may be pureblood, but that doesn’t mean they have the same power that the Malfoys do.”
March, 24
“I didn’t know you could paint.”
Ron stepped back and admired his handiwork. “Neither did I.”
The floor to ceiling windows, which had once been painted in a deep plum purple were now painted to represent night sky. Pansy shut the door behind her and crossed the room to stand next to Ron.
It wasn’t completely lifelike, but it was beautiful. Five pointed stars peeked out from behind purple swirls, shooting stars danced around a moon which was no more than a big white circle. The once boring room looked magical. It also looked like a couple of six year olds had gone nuts, but Pansy loved it. The red roof, the orange walls, the angry black words and messages, and now this dreamscape. Pansy made a mental note to paint the floor green.
“I like it,” Pansy admitted.
April, 6
He was late. She shouldn’t have been surprised. Weasley was never exactly punctual, that is, when he bothered to show up at all, but something was different this time. When he did finally walk through the door, Pansy recognised immediately that something was wrong.
Pansy frowned. “What’s the matter with you?”
He let out a long deep sigh and turned around, reaching down to the hem of his shirt and pulling it off in a slow jerky movement. Pansy stared in surprise when his back was revealed. Crossing the expanse of his shoulder blades were thick red welts and cuts, as though he had been whipped. However that was unlikely. Torture like that hadn’t been carried out since the Dark Ages and even then it was uncommon amongst witches and wizards who saw that type of act as barbaric.
“Who did this to you?” Pansy demanded.
Ron didn’t reply, just tossed his shirt aside with a grimace. He walked slowly over to the bed and sat down on the edge resting his elbows on his knees and brushing his hair back from his forehead, “I’m really not in the sharing, caring mood today. Maybe tomorrow we’ll hold hands and tell each other our deepest darkest secrets.” His voice was thick with sarcasm.
Pansy crossed her arms over her chest. “Look, I know we’re not exactly the best of friends or-” she trailed off and huffed, “whatever it is that we’re doing here. Let me heal those for you.”
“You can’t,” Ron answered simply. “They can’t be healed with magic because they’re magically inflicted.” He lay down on the bed on his stomach with a grimace and let out a small breath once his body was horizontal. “They’ll have to heal on their own.”
The marks looked vivid and angry against his white skin as he lay there on the bed. They were also fresh, some were still bleeding in places.
Ron jumped when the a wet cloth suddenly touched his back. “What are you doing?” he asked, flinching away from Pansy’s hands.
“Shut up and lie still,” Pansy ordered firmly, “I already feel ridiculous for doing this; don’t make it any worse.”
“Then why are you doing it?” he asked.
Pansy had no idea.
April, 19
“Things have been quiet.”
“Is that your round about way of fishing for information, Weasley?”
“No, I’m just saying- things are quiet.”
April, 22
“What happened with you and Malfoy?”
Pansy looked up at Ron from her crouched position on the floor. He sat on the table top, out of the way of the green paint she had all over her hands and splattered up her forearms. “Is that your way of asking if I’m single, Weasley?”
“No.” He flushed lightly, embarrassed by her assumption. “I’m just making conversation.”
She sloshed a dollop of paint across the floor and began smoothing it out. “Draco Malfoy,” Pansy murmured thoughtfully. She sat back on her heels and shrugged, “Nothing really happened with Draco. We just grew up. I woke up one day and realised we weren’t little kids anymore.”
“That’s it?”
“Pretty much.”
“Do you miss him?”
That was a loaded question. “I don’t know. Its complicated, with Draco it always is. Do I miss the way things were at Hogwarts? Of course I do, but things changed when the war started. People changed. Circumstances changed. End of story.”
“Are you with someone else now?”
Pansy smirked. “Don’t worry, Weasley.” She winked. “You’re the only man in my life.”
April, 23
“I’ve been summoned.”
Ron paused, replying very carefully, “Me too.”
April, 25
“No!” Pansy screamed, her voice cutting through the battle and echoing into the night.
Eyes wide with astonishment and mouth wide with shock she watched as the green light hit Millicent in the middle of her chest, sending her flying shortly through the air before she crumpled in a motionless heap. It took a second for Pansy to comprehend what had happened and a couple more for the shock to leave her system and for red hot anger to take its place.
The fury was uncontrollable; it rushed through her veins and into her muscles like liquid fire and before she fully comprehended what she was doing, she had hit the caster with an Avada Kedavra of her own and was racing back into battle without even really seeing where she was going.
Everything was a blur then. A blur of spells, green light, blood, sweat and the everlasting anger that consumed her.
When Pansy finally came back to her senses she was kneeling beside Millicent’s body. She didn’t cry, couldn’t cry; the tears she knew she should shed would not come. She felt nothing. Staring numbly down at Millicent’s body, stupid petty worries filled her head. She was concerned that there was blood in Millicent’s hair, that there was a cut on her right cheek, that her socks didn’t match and that her wand was nowhere to be seen. Pansy looked around, where was Millicent’s wand?
Lost in her quest for her friend’s wand, she didn’t hear the screams when Daphne found Millicent’s body, or the sobs as someone else broke down against her neck. None of it mattered, it was of crucial importance that she find Millicent’s wand.
~
Lying the wand on Millicent’s sternum was like opening the flood gates. All the emotion that had been numbed broke free and overwhelmed her. The guilt and the misery clawed at her insides and suffocated her body until she could barely get a breath into her lungs. Maybe she didn’t deserve to breathe, maybe she should just fall to the ground like her body wanted and never get up.
There was nothing worse than the horrific feeling of failure. Pansy sank to her knees and dropped her head into her hands. Kneeling on the cool wet ground, drenched to the bone and freezing cold, there was nothing she could do but breathe. One slow agonising breath after the other.
Pansy remained in that position for a long time, feeling the rain trickle down the back of her neck and trace cool paths along her spine. Her breath pressed out from between her fingers in short gasps and turned to fog as soon as it struck the cool night air.
Dropping her hands, Pansy lifted her face to the sky and fought the urge to scream all the frustration from her body. She needed to scream or cry or just do something to release the tension that had her body shaking. Or maybe it was the cold that had her shaking.
Abruptly, a strong hand clamped down onto her shoulder and before Pansy could even fully process what was happening, her body was being sucked from the present and she was Apparating to an unknown destination, flying through time and space until she slammed into a green wooden floor.
Pansy cried out as she struck the floor with enough force to jar her entire body. Cursing she rolled onto her back and stared up at the blood red ceiling. Fuck.
“It wasn’t your fault.”
That was Ron’s voice. Pansy clutched at her shoulder and swallowed past the lump in her throat. She wouldn’t cry, not here, not now and especially not in present company. Instead she was going to lay here long enough for her rain drenched clothes to saturate the rotting wood and then Apparate the hell out, as soon as her mind was coherent enough to process the incantation.
“Pansy,” Ron breathed softly.
She ignored him, desperately hoping that he would take the silence as a sign to get out. She should have known better; all it did was frustrate him.
“Fucking hell!” he cursed. “You can at least thank me for getting you the hell out of there. Do you even know what that cost me?”
Angry. So angry. But not at herself, at the war. It had a way of poisoning everything, tearing the whole world down and every good thing with it.
A hand shook her shoulder.
It was enough. Pansy leapt to her feet so fast that Ron stepped back in surprise. “What do you want from me?” she demanded. “If you hadn’t noticed, Weasley, I just watched my best friend die. So forgive me if I’m not in the fucking mood to chat!”
He was silent, watching as she paced back and forth across the room, feet squelching in her boots and cloak hanging wetly around her shoulders.
For Pansy it was all too much. All the pressure was rising in her body; so much pressure from the battle tonight and from every other battle since the start of the war. It was the late nights, the sneaking around, the lies, the injuries, the worry, the desperation and how every single little thing came back to this - loss. It left her stomach empty and her mind blank, and her entire being heavy with regret and guilt.
Pansy picked up one of the chairs and flung it against the wall where the rotting wood cracked and shattered into two pieces.
The worst thing, the absolute worst thing of all, was the knowledge that no matter how far she ran and how well she hid, this war would always find her. It would sink its claws in and drag her to the finish line. Maybe it wasn’t just Weasley who was stuck fighting a war he never knew he signed up for. Maybe it was all of them.
The damage wasn’t enough. She picked up the other chair and shattered it, and then started in on the pieces until her arm was aching from the movement and she was sobbing without even realising. Then there were arms, strong warm arms, and she was crying into a chest she never expected to receive comfort from, and it was beautiful because it was just as messy as everything else in the world.
It was one of the few moments in Pansy’s life where her mind just shut down. It had only happened once before - at the start of the war, when she received the Dark Mark. Her mind was always so turned on, ticking and ticking and worrying and worrying. It was such a relief to not have to think about anything, if only just for a little while. Maybe that was why so many people committed suicide, they were just so sick and tired of living inside their minds.
“I wish it had been me,” Pansy whispered as images of Millicent in her final moments swirled through her newly resurrected mind.
Ron’s hands gripped a little tighter. “You don’t mean that. Listen, I know that this isn’t going to make you feel any better and you’ll probably hate me for saying it, but you did everything you could.”
Pansy paused. “You’re right, that didn’t make me feel any better.” As an afterthought, she added, “You’re really shit at this comforting thing.”
June, 6
“Do ever think about how you got here?”
Ron looked over curiously. “Here in general or here in this room?”
“Here in this room. I mean, think about it.” Pansy sat up and crossed her legs underneath her. “How many time did our paths have to cross to get to this very place?”
Ron tucked his hand under his head and got comfortable. “Actually, I don’t remember our paths crossing very much at all.”
“I’m not talking about literal paths, Weasley. I’m talking about life paths. I mean, you’re born, I’m born, both in the same year, both to wizarding families. We’re both accepted into Hogwarts. You’re sorted into Gryffindor and I’m sorted into Slytherin; so we were enemies from day one.”
“Are you going somewhere with this, Parkinson?”
“Well, if you’d shut up and let me finish.”
Ron rolled his eyes and waved a hand for her to continue.
“So then the war happens, right? You’re fighting with Potter and I’m fighting with Draco, because these are the people we aligned ourselves with at school, right? But then, I start drifting and you start cracking up and all the ingredients are right there,” Pansy paused dramatically and then finished with a flourish, “for this.”
Ron looked doubtful. “I highly doubt fate spent eighteen years cooking this up.”
Pansy rolled her eyes and flopped back down on the bed next to him. “It doesn’t have to be about fate. It doesn’t have to be about anything profound. It just... Is what it is, you know?”
“We’ve been meeting in this room for almost six months,” Ron murmured softly, “I think it’s a little more than a passing fancy.”
Pansy peeked at him, amused, “Are you saying we could be friends, Weasley?”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
June, 16
He had her left wrist in his hand and he was examining her Dark Mark with an impassive expression.
Pansy wondered if he would be stupid enough to ask her about it. To ask her anything about the Death Eaters when the whole basis of this relationship was an unspoken agreement to keep their respective mouths shut.
He wasn’t.
June, 29
The roof was leaking.
Pansy stared up at the red ceiling and tried not to notice the scratchy material of the generic bedspread underneath her skin.
“The ceiling looks like its crying blood,” Pansy murmured softly.
“That’s morbid.”
“I kind of like it.”
“That’s even more morbid.” Ron rolled onto his side and neither of them really noticed that the movement brought him flush against Pansy’s side.
“I need a cigarette,” he breathed against her shoulder.
“You don’t smoke.”
“I know, but this war might make me take up the habit.”
July, 8
Whilst Diagon Alley was deserted, London was not. In one of her more “open-minded” moments, Pansy tracked down some Muggle money and started purchasing take-away on her way to the apartment. Which was why late one afternoon, they were both sprawled out across the green floorboards; Ron eating noodles straight from the box and Pansy painting the floor with little pink flowers.
“Should I keep these?” Ron asked, holding up the two little chopsticks.
“No.”
“Why not?”
Pansy finished up the field of flowers and shook her head. “Because, if we leave the sticks here, then the sticks will turn into a fork, and a fork will turn into a knife, and the cutlery will turn into toiletries and toiletries will turn into clothes. Then, before you know it, I’ll start getting comfortable and never want to leave here.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Putting down roots like that...” Pansy sighed. “Even if it is just little things. It makes it even harder to leave this place. I like it here.”
“You could stay.”
“Here? Why?
Ron shrugged and placed aside his empty take away container. “I don’t know. At least I wouldn’t have to owl you anymore.”
Pansy blinked, stared, and then blinked again before replying icily, “I’m not your house-wife, Weasley.”
“What?” Ron looked bewildered. “I never said you were.”
“Then don’t insinuate that I’ll be here at your beck and call whenever you want me to be.”
Ron gaped. “Parkinson, in case you hadn’t noticed, we’re not having sex. You’re not at my beck and call for anything except bickering.”
Pansy stood abruptly, knocking her paints over and storming towards the door.
Ron beat her to it, slamming the door closed with the flat of his hand as she pulled it open.
“Fuck off, Weasley.”
“What the hell is wrong with you? What are you so mad about?”
“I’m mad about everything! I’m mad at you; I’m mad at this war. I’m mad about the fact that I’m here and that I see you more than I see anyone else. I mean, how messed up is that? That at the end of the day, I hang out with a Weasley more than I hang out with my parents and friends? Have you ever stopped to realise that we’re having secret meetings? I’m like a really shitty mistress that you don’t even sleep with. Does this whole entire situation not strike you as-”
“Are you saying you want to sleep with me, Parkinson?” Ron cut in.
“What? No!”
“Well you seem to be pretty focused on the sex thing.”
Pansy couldn’t believe his daring. She took a threatening step towards him. “Weasley, listen to me, and listen good. I would never sleep with you. Ever. The very idea is enough to make me want to throw myself off the nearest building and hope for a quick and painful death. If this was the end of the world and the continuance of the human race depended on us, I still wouldn’t sleep with you!” She broke off, chest heaving.
Ron’s eyes traced over her face and for a couple of long moments, there was complete and utter silence between them. Then, without any warning, Ron grabbed Pansy’s shoulders, pulled her towards him and crashed their lips together with a hard kiss that left her stunned motionless.
What the hell?
Pansy put her hands on his chest and tried to push him away, but he turned his head slightly, his tongue brushing her lower lip.
Pansy might have been angry but she appreciated a good kiss as much as the next person and it seemed a shame to interrupt the Weasel when he was on a roll.
“Are you mental?” Pansy whispered, too breathless to speak loudly when he finally pulled away.
“No.”
His answer was too quick, too pat, and too unsatisfying. “Then you better have a damn good reason for-”
He covered her mouth with his again, his lips hard and hungry. The horny fool inside her returned the effort, with interest.
July, 19
Almost as soon as the door closed he had her pinned against it, lifting her chin so he could devour her mouth. Pansy gave back as good as she got, holding his head with one hand while the other slipped down to his hips and pulled him closer.
She arched her back, trying to get as close to him as possible, crying out her satisfaction when he lifted her off the floor and wrapped her legs around his waist.
Pansy ground herself against him, groaning as his teeth bit into her neck, setting off shocks all down her spine. He shuddered against her, muttering under his breath. Then, his hands were between them, ripping the buttons off her shirt in his haste to get it off her. It only took him a few seconds to dispose of her bra as well.
She arched her back further, putting her voluptuous breasts on greater display. Loving the almost crazed look in his eye when he looked down at them for a long minute before lowering his head and taking one nipple into his mouth. He sucked hard, setting off an undeniable response as her hips moved against his.
August, 7
“I think this whole thing is coming to a head.”
Pansy ignored him, focused instead on ridding her slice of pizza of mushrooms. Finally she licked her fingers and clarified. “The war?”
“Yeah. It feels different.” Ron picked up a slice from the box and took a large bite. They both ignored the crumbs that fell onto the sheets. “Like there’s more magic in the air or something. It all feels... like this war’s coming to the end. You know?”
Pansy looked at him doubtfully. “I think that could be your wishful thinking. Or-” She took a bite. “You’re just projecting yourself into the fight.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, that we haven’t left this bed in three days.” Pansy smirked. “Shouldn’t you be off somewhere? Saving the world or something?”
Ron frowned.
Pansy smiled softly. “You don’t have to make explanations for being here. So you’re here and not there. Who cares. Everybody needs time-out sometimes.”
“I’m not supposed to want time-out.”
“But you do. End of story.”
August, 28
“Keep your eyes closed.”
Pansy felt a soft damp kiss on her nipple. She caught her breath and made a small sound of wanting.
He kissed the other and touched it with the tip of his tongue. She couldn’t tell if he was kneeling or bending to her until she felt his hands on her waist steadying her. Kneeling on the bed then. He circled her nipple with tiny laps then increased his licks to long sweeping caresses until he was curling his tongue around it and then kept sucking it in.
If he hadn’t been holding her, Pansy was pretty sure she would have jerked right off the bed. She’d never felt such intensity from having her breasts sucked before. Pleasure, sure, but not this. This made her feel as if all her senses centred at the tip of her nipple, now held in his mouth between his teeth as he delivered a nip that made her shudder. He suckled and drew hard and, before she had time to draw a breath, had moved to the other nipple.
August, 30
“Does she know?”
“Who?”
“Granger.”
“No.”
“Doesn’t she ask where you are?”
“Nope.”
Pansy turned her head on the pillow and looked at him doubtfully. “How do you explain your long absences then?”
“I don’t. I don’t think she even notices I’m gone.”
“How is that possible?”
Ron looked at her and smiled. “Are you saying you miss me when I’m gone, Parkinson?”
“I’m saying that you don’t exactly fade into the background. You’re too tall and gangly. And all that ginger hair? It isn’t exactly inconspicuous.”
“Ah see, but where I am, I’m only one of many gingers.”
“Yeah, but she isn’t sleeping with them,” Pansy cried, aghast. She paused, “She’s not, is she?”
Ron smirked and kissed her shoulder. “No.”
“All I’m saying is that if my boyfriend was off sleeping with some random girl, then I’d want to be noticing that tiny little fact.”
September, 22
“You could stay here you know. You don’t have to go back.”
Ron shovelled a spoonful of rice into his mouth. “That’s a bit dramatic.”
“No it isn’t. You look like shit. You always look like shit, nowadays.”
“You’re so nice to me, Pansy,” Ron murmured sarcastically.
Pansy sighed, walking across the room and straddling his lap. She draped her arms around his neck. “This war is going to kill you,” she murmured, her voice suddenly very serious.
Ron looked at her, reaching up to brush her dark hair away from her face. “No, it’s not. I’ll be fine.”
She pressed her forehead to his, twining her fingers in the hairs at the nape of his neck. “When this is all over, will you come back here?”
“To this apartment?”
“To me.” Pansy clarified seriously.
Ron hesitated.
“Why not me?” Pansy whispered, “I see you. They don’t and they never will.”
-- END --