The sips of alcohol were downed as if it were oxygen, and you, Pansy, focus on the feeling of drinking too much Firewhiskey, how it doesn’t hurt anymore, just to give up for a while. You’re used to it.
(She tries to pretend she doesn't know that trying isn’t really an accomplishment.)
It’s only the start to another late night drinking in some Slytherin boy’s dorm, drinks sprawled on the floor and the bed covers under your fingers are damp from the drops of alcohol that were absentmindedly spilled by the only two people in the room.
Blaise sends you an inquiring look under layers of smugness and white teeth. You drink too much, Parkinson, he tells you as if he didn’t know already that for you drinking too much was just about the same as drinking nothing at all.
Trying to move from the floor to the mattress in irritation, your knees barely ache against the hard floor, and you think in the back of your mind that if it weren’t for the alcohol you should feel like you were being scratched by something sharp (it should hurt, but you’ve been drowning your ghosts in alcohol for a long time now, anyway).
You get up to leave early, sending Blaise a short goodbye, because you’ re try ing to give up drinking n ow , as you’ve told him. Instead, you drag yourself away, into hallways of some place where you shouldn’t be.
And maybe you're worn down by all the forsaking and giving up you’ve done just so that you could escape Draco's memories, hidden behind layers of loneliness. But that loneliness had nothing to do with currently being on your back against the wall of some hidden room, making out and having Harry Potter all to yourself for a few hours.
Because if you, Pansy, were to be alone, you wouldn’t do so in the company of someone who hadn’t given up and pretended he cared that much about everyone else.
With your head held high, in a manner that would make it seem unsuspecting to steal several looks across the room, the plate in front of you is almost empty. Purposefully uninterested, you get up from the bench, making it through the huge doors of the main hall.
It seems ridiculous to think that making a point of pretending not to spare Harry a quick glance on your way to the exit wasn’t because you wanted to say something to him, or that you weren't going to show up in the same room again, at the same time, for the same routine.
(Pansy Parkinson pretending she’s asleep to her roommates. Pansy Parkinson pretending she’s too sick of everything else whenever she’s standing outside the room with the silver doors. Pansy Parkinson pretending not to breathe too hard as she’s burying her face in the crook of Harry Potter's neck, too rough fingers digging and pulling into short, dark strands of hair, trying to get even more gasps out of him.)
Because running away from your everyday lives to have this wouldn’t ever change a thing. Except being together already does.