Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, I don't own Harry Potter in any way, shape or form. No copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

It's not your blood, your pedigree, or your college degree. It's what you do with your life that counts.

Authors Note: Yes, yes. It's been awhile since I've written anything. I've been working on some one-shots, though a bout of writers block coupled with some serious groundation does have its effect on a person. Anyway, here's some confusing and off Draco/Pansy for you all. It was written at 3am, so the oddness is an unfortunate consequence.


Some things in this world you never lose. Some things you'll remember until the day you die, as you wither away to dust and ash, watching the world pass you by. This was common knowledge to two young people, two young people who should never have been presented with this harsh reality.

They say Slytherins are supposed to be stronger, mentally, than other children their age. And you know, they are probably right.

His name was Draco, and he was a lying, cheating little brat. There was not an ounce of honesty in the boy, and she accepted him that way. Rude, awfully annoying and completely self centered. But Pansy wouldn't have him any other way, in case he'd wish such a fate for her.

His blonde haired angel with the withered face and sweetest treats. They enjoyed eating sweets together, because it was their thing and they enjoined upon others a certain ignorance when it came to their spending time together.

She used to visit him at home when he was younger, and they'd hide in the gardens and watch his father leave in the ivory carriages to the Ministry. A person couldn't Apparate in or out of Malfoy Manor, and Lucius was far too cautious to allow a Floo Hub connection to be active. Whenever Lucius would return, it would be night and they'd miss seeing the strikingly beautiful carriages pulling up in front of the house.

Pansy always vowed she'd view them at least once at night, though she was young and tired. She'd sit by the large arch windows and watch carefully as Draco played with his figurines of broomsticks and famous Quidditch players.

"Do you think your Daddy will let us ride in the carriages one day?" she asked once, and he looked up at her in surprise.

"I doubt it. My father doesn't like me playing in the carriages. He's not like yours."

She'd merely frown and turn back to the windows, staring down at the dark grounds expecting Lucius to arrive at any moment. However, sleep always overcame her and she'd miss the arrival she so eagerly awaited. It didn't matter though, as she would wake and her father would arrive to return her home before he left for work. Pansy never did have time to reflect on anything until the moment came.

It was amusing being children, but amusement became confusion as they grew up. Being despised was one thing--being broken down individually was another. They were bitter inside, though neither of them knew it. Restrictions of the past which seemed trivial at times now seemed so commanding of them as they wished to discover new prospects.

But they were Slytherins, and above all things, Slytherins obey.

Pansy was weak inside and Draco knew it, though she acted like the world could crash and she'd still be standing there smiling. He used to watch her slink away into the shadows as the limelight was spouted upon the ungrateful Gryffindors, and he would sit outside her dormitory at times and listen to her loud sobs.

Truth be told, Pansy was an attention seeker. All she ever wanted was to be acknowledged. All the world wanted was for her to disappear.

So she let the world see her for what she really was--terrible and nasty. That was how she felt at least. Inadequate, lost and lonely. And Draco echoed her emotions, though she'd never know. There were things he kept to himself and even those who'd seen him at his worst would never see this side of him.

He took his anger out on those who had discouraged him , who torn down some part of him that he didn't believe existed. He didn't think he'd need acceptance. He didn't believe that his family's prestige could be ignored for such menial things as emotions and friendship. He could keep his friends and not have to sacrifice his pride, beliefs or time.

Malfoys don't fight for friendship.

Rather they torment those who throw away such an offer.

"You enjoy it, Draco, don't you?" she once asked as they sat together in the library, completing their Arithmacy homework.

"Enjoy what?" he questioned, not even looking up from his book.

"Enjoy hurting them."

So she pointed across the stacks at three young students who sat together. The two boys were snickering as they hastily flickered through the pages of some old volumes, and the girl by their side gave them both equally scrutinizing looks. Potter, Weasley and Granger. His most treasured tormentees. Though he would never admit it, Draco's life would be incomplete if he weren't able to belittle those somewhat close to his rank at the prestigious boarding school.

"I try to hurt them," he whispers. "I try, but they try not to take notice."

She awkwardly pats him on the shoulder and hands him an acid pop, before turning back to her homework.

"They're growing up, Draco."

"And we're not?" he asked in confusion.

"No... no, not really." She turned a page of the thick volume and squinted at it for a moment, before jotting something down onto her essay. "As much as it feels like we're getting older, we don't grow up. It's better this way, either way."

"Better? How so?"

She shrugged for a moment, avoiding his gaze. There was something unsettling about his eyes, which he didn't seem to notice. They had the uncanny ability to make you stop dead in your tracks and merely stare back while he mentally analyzed you.

"Well, do you want to grow up and become your father?" Her quill etched across her parchment once more as Draco frowned.

"Of course I do, Pansy," he muttered darkly. "Why wouldn't?"

She sighed and tucked a strange of honey-blonde hair behind her ear. It would be a battle not worth fighting, explaining such a topic to Draco. Boys who worship theirs fathers are hard to deal with, and one who, at times, seemed so adamant to follow in his footsteps was another.

"Do you want to grow up, Draco?" she repeated.

"Of course."

"And you want to become like your father?"


Abruptly, Pansy shot up from the table. With collected hast, she drew her books and quills together and threw them into her carry bag. Shocked, Draco stood up too, only to feel a hand on his chest push him back into his seat.

"Where are you going?" he demanded, and she merely threw the strap of her bag over her shoulder.

"Back to the common room," she mumbled.

"Pansy, what-"

"Forget it, Draco."

With that, she shuffled out of the library. It wasn't until later that night that he'd had the chance to speak to her about it, though she obviously felt she had better things to do than listen to young Master Malfoy beg for answers in his own discreet way.

"You don't get it, do you?" she asked, throwing down her book. He raised an eyebrow, but she ignored it. Growing up with him had prepared the young Slytherin for his little quirks.

"Get what, Parkinson!" he demanded. "What I don't get is anything! Not when you won't speak to me!"

"Maybe I don't want to speak to you," she mumbled in exhaustion. Draco blinked, caught between surprise and annoyance. Never had she said such words to him, let alone to his face.

"Is that the way you want it?" he hissed. "You want me hate you because, what? You're in a trashy mood?"

"No!" she howled, propping her elbow up on the table before her and resting her head in her palm. "Look, Draco, if you want to play the hurt victim here, then leave, because I shan't pay attention. If you really want to listen, then sit down."

A long pause followed, wherein Draco eyed Pansy curiously. She tried with all her might to resist the urge to squirm as he observed her with those alarmingly calm grey eyes. Eventually, he sat down and she sighed in relief.

"Explain," he murmured.

"It's not that simple."

"Make it that simple."



She peered at him in defeat. He quirked an eyebrow once more.

"Would you rather the world is right, and that they hate you for some real reason, other than some childish taunting?"

"What does my father have to do with any of this?" he asked, furrowing his brow in confusion. Behind him he could hear the noises of the common--Theodore Nott's loud game of Gobstones with a third year, Crabbe's incessant groaning having overeaten once more--but Draco attempted to drown them out.

Pansy placed her hand on his, trying to find the words to explain such a delicate answer. "You asked earlier why it's best we don't grow up. The answer is simple. If we do, we become like your father. Harsh, cruel, ignorant, and forever trapped alone within ourselves. I'd much rather be here with you, than have you off fulfilling some blood creed. I'd much rather you stayed a boy, than break my heart and became a man who could never love or be loved in return."

He couldn't accept her words, he couldn't. They had to be blasphemy. Yet they had been so gentle and calming. So truthful, in Pansy's own way. He wondered for a moment just when she'd become so observant, and just when she realized how the world worked. Just when had he missed such a revelation?

"You don't know what you're talking about," he insisted, shaking his head, attempting to convince himself of his own words.

"I do... and if you ever do truly grow up, and not become the man your father wants you to be, then you will too..."