Pansy is not much over 18 years old when, in the Great Hall, she discovers the feeling of having the eyes of every single one of her schoolmates on her as she knowingly throws away her pride in favour of desperation.
It fails spectacularly, of course it does. Having guessed what would happen doesn’t make it any easier to see unfold, though. Watching Lavender jump to her feet as a part of the hive of child soldiers, witnessing the shock on her face transform to disappointment and then anger, feels like a Crucio concentrated on the heart.
Yes, Pansy knows how her words come across to almost everyone. She wishes she could pretend not to be so entirely alone in the almost.
***
Someone’s had the idiotic idea of introducing expired Veritaserum to a game of truth or dare.
Well, adding the potion into the mix is probably less idiotic than the notion of playing a drinking game in the first place when there’s a war happening upstairs. But they’re all pretending that the battle doesn’t affect them. Blaise pretends Draco is in their dorm with Vince and Greg. Theo pretends his father is in Azkaban. If the first years pretend they’re not on the brink of tears any harder they’ll snap their own necks.
So they play a stupid game, and no one mentions the web of prison-grade wards woven into the common room entrance, and appearances hold like a fragile Protego.
But the game is still idiotic, and when Daphne’s calculating gaze turns on Pansy, she regrets not having put an end to it earlier.
“Who’s the most inconvenient person you’ve snogged?”
Daphne’s wearing the whispers of her ugliest smirk, and Pansy wonders how long she’s known. She hates her with all her might. Unfortunately it isn’t strong enough to counter the Imperius-like effect of the expired potion.
She’d like to be able to say that she’s prepared for the reaction of her housemates.
***
Pansy’s in the middle of pretending that the shadows on the ceiling are cracks and that she feels horribly suffocated because the lake is about to come crashing down on her, when Millicent comes in. She kicks out her shoes, flops down next to Pansy, and hoists her legs against the headboard.
“How’s the game?” asks Pansy, pretending she doesn’t care.
“Dull,” says Millicent, then snorts. “No one wants to say anything that might out them as straight now.”
Pansy feels rotten and triumphant. “Good.”
“So,” Millie starts briskly after a silence. “Brown.”
“Mmm.”
“Why her?” she asks, and sounds indifferent enough for Pansy to consider her words, to notice the effects of the dangerously potent truth serum starting to slip away.
Because she’s gorgeous, thinks Pansy. Because she believes in divination and astrology and thinks centaurs are hot. Because she takes all the relationship tests in Witch Weekly seriously. Because she’s jealous and intense and hasn’t grown a field of thorns around her heart.
“The way she giggles makes me want to strangle myself,” says Pansy past the lump in her throat. The cracks in the ceiling drip water on her cheeks.
“Oh, Pans,“ says Millicent, and grips Pansy’s hand too hard to be gentle. “You can’t fall for her.”
Pansy holds her breath, because the ceiling is surely going to collapse.
***
Pansy is not much more over 18 years old when, in the Great Hall, she discovers the feeling of having the eyes of every single one of her housemates on her as whatever remained of her pride and composure soaks into the neckline of her robe.
She pretends it covers the pain.