Bathwater

The Weasel King

"Crabbe's dead," Draco said as if she needed the reminder, as if it had not happened just a few weeks back. "Goyle's going to have to make it on his own."

"He shouldn't have to."

"Crabbe didn't have to start that fire, but he did. Now this is the consequence."

"This life is the consequence," Pansy corrected, that laugh echoing around the marbled corridor. Despite the cold humor she was clinging to, Draco saw her eyes glisten over at the weight her sentence actually packed. "In our ideal life, I wouldn't be marrying Weasley, would I?"

Draco did not want to dive into the complexity of the things left unsaid, so he gifted her a smirk of his own. "In a perfect world, you actually do marry Weaselbee because it is absolutely hysterical for the rest of us." 

Pansy gave his right shoulder a shove before lacing her arm through his, pulling him in the direction they were originally taking before they intercepted Goyle. "As if it's not horrifying enough that I'm to wed that redheaded twat, but I think there's something seriously wrong with him."

"Hasn't there always been?"

"True," she huffed, "but it's something else. I expected him to fly off his broom at this shitty, fucked up engagement—as I've done, but if Moaning Myrtle starts accusing me of destroying her lavatory, you tell everyone I am not the type to vandalize school property—but he hasn't said a thing."

"Are you worried?"

Pansy laughed again, louder (phonier) this time. "I don't give a damn about Potter's sidekick, but if he's defective, I want a new one. The Ministry is not pawning off this broken Weasley on me when there are a thousand working ones living at the Burrow."

"Ask him about it. After all, communication is key for healthy marriages," Draco told her with a snort. "At least, that's what it says in the textbook the Ministry provided us."

"Reading it already? Salazar, Draco, you and the mudblood are actually made for one another—"

The rest of Pansy's sentence was interrupted by an abrupt, raspy yelp that fell out past her red lips when Draco shoved her against the corridor wall. His white-knuckled fists pressed against each of her shoulders, pinning her in place. 

"Don't you ever," he hissed, inching closer to her, practically pressing his nose to hers so she could see the fury churning the molten metal in his eyes, "say that word in my presence again, do you understand me?"

"Yes, I understand," Pansy conceded immediately, flinching when his fingers started to dig their nails into her. "For fuck sakes, I get it. I'm sorry. Get off me now."

"You want to talk about Crabbe?" Draco said through his teeth, still not reeling his body back, "You want to talk about all the fucking people that we lost that aren't here, then say that word again—it'll remind you that they used it, that they were wrong, and that they died because of it. Do you want to join them, too?"

Pansy snaked her hand between them, smacking her palm against his chest in an attempt to push him back. "Are you threatening me, Malfoy?"

In the glisten that was back in Pansy's eyes, Draco saw his own reflection. He saw the fire in his silver glare that he often saw in his nightmares. It was what finally made him put distance between them.

"I'm trying to save you," he told her, slow and indifferent, his fury and regret disappearing into the cold mask even Pansy could not decipher. "We are about to marry two of the most coveted war heroes. Think about what that means for people like you and me."