Just Things
by sunny tuesday
Featuring Stories of Old by Depeche Mode.


He hears her, in some other room, brushing her hair and counting the strokes. Beauty has been her one focus, her one goal, and she had succeeded. It did not surprise him that his father wished him to marry her, but he knew he could not. It wouldn't work out. It never did. He loved Pansy in a different way than a wife. He loved Pansy. No. He loved a lot of things about Pansy. No. He did not love Pansy. He loved things about Pansy.

He could still hear her. Counting the strokes. And he imagined her counting his heartbeats.

But not forever. No. Never forever. Not after the other girl. The only girl.

Take a look at unselected cases
You'll find love has been wrecked
By both sides compromising
Amounting to a disastrous effect

He was wondering now how long a girl could brush her hair before it suited her. Apparently forever. No, not forever. Just a really long time. Because Pansy wasn't forever. And neither was the other girl, the only girl. The only girl for him, at least.

And she was lying six feet under, cold and very, very dead. For forever. Not a really long time. FOREVER.

You hear stories of old
Of princes bold
With riches untold
Happy souls
Casting it all aside
To take some bride
To have the girl of their dreams
At their side
But not me
I couldn't do that
Not me
I'm not like that

He had a photo of Pansy on his vanity glass. He sat there, before it, watching Pansy smile and wave, while picking flowers in the Malfoy Manor Gardens. She loved flowers. It was one of the things he loved about her. One of the things. But he didn't love her. He couldn't love her. He wouldn't even try.

He had tried once. To love someone.

He would not try again.

I couldn't sacrifice
Anything at all
To love

He could see her, the other girl, the only girl, in his arms in the Manor Gardens, in the middle of the night, when she had sneaked in to see him. She had not told anyone about him, and he had not told anyone about her.

But still, there was Pansy, counting her brush strokes as she attempted for her black, curly hair to lie flat. He loved the way she danced, very sensually, perfectly in tune with the music, her thin body against his. He loved the way she smiled, it lit up her whole face. He loved the way she used her hands, very graceful, like the true dancer that she was. He loved a lot of things about her. He loved things about her. But he didn't love Pansy. He didn't love her.

I really like you
I'm attracted to you
The way you move
The things you do
I'll probably burn in hell
For saying this
But I'm really in heaven
Whenever we kiss
But Oh no!
You won't change me
You can try
For an eternity

He could hear her as she stopped counting her brush strokes and sat the brush on the table and shuffled out of her room. He could see Pansy in his head; beautiful, her Isadora-Duncan-like scarves draped all over her thin, sensual body, walking across her room towards the door- no, not walking, dancing, no- floating. Flying. Gracefully. Like the dancer she was. She would wrap her thin, graceful, beautiful fingers around the doorknob and open the door in one fluid movement, and step into the hallway. He could hear her now, walking, no, floating, no- gliding towards his room, her beautiful black hair trailing like the night sky behind her. But an empty night sky. With no stars.

I wouldn't sacrifice
Anything at all
To love

The other girl, the only girl, had had messy, bushy, brown hair that she didn't concern herself with. The other girl had stubby fingers and was klutzy and moved as though she was filled with lead. The other girl was not as beautiful, or as sensual, or as perfect.

But he had loved the other girl, despite her faults. And look where they had ended up. He, with an empty heart, and she, with a tombstone at the age of twenty-one. Nobody knew. Nobody would ever know. It was obvious.

Take a look at unselected cases
You'll find love has been wrecked
By both sides compromising
Amounting to a disastrous effect

The other girl, the only girl, the one he had loved, had not been an empty night sky. She had been warm; coarse, but warm. She had sparkled with her eyes, not her smile that lacked perfection. She had been so different, so unlike Pansy, who had seemed the obvious match. Not her. Not Hermione. Not a Muggle-born without any money.

Not beautiful. Not perfect.

No, not perfect, but just right. Just right.

They had loved each other. But where had that gotten them? Alone.

Pansy's approaching his door now, he can hear her running her fingers along the tapestries on the walls as she walked- no, danced, no- floated, to his room, perfect. Empty.

She called to him, through her perfect lips, through the door. The door that would block them even when it wasn't there. Even when it wasn't closed. The door that would hide away the fact that he would never love Pansy. Just things about her. Just things. Only things. But not Pansy, never Pansy.

And he lets her inside his room, and kisses her and she kisses him back. He loves her kisses. But he doesn't love her. He will never love Pansy. Just Hermione. Just the other girl. The only girl. Never Pansy. Just things about Pansy. Just things.