A/N: This is a companion piece to my Padma Patil story (chapter 20), but can be read alone. Let me know what you think, okay?

The Other Side

Why not? She is hot. Maybe a Gryffindor, maybe with detest for him written clearly over her face, disgust at herself for doing this. So what? He is disgusted with her too, that Gryffindor slut. But he doesn't care.

He doesn't care about Pansy. He has barely spoken to her all year, despite her concern, her anger, her tears. She should've got the message by now. If not, she might as well find out about this. The thought gives him some sort of pleasure, the picture of her devastation. It's her worst nightmare, to lose him to a Gryffindor. Especially Granger or Patil. She's always hated the two of them the most. Being neither bright nor having any looks to speak of herself, Pansy hates those who do.

Patil is not bad to look at. He wouldn't have admitted that in his third or even sixth year, when he was too full of principles and ideas. But where the hell has that taken him? Principles are good for nothing, he has learned that. His father had principles, once. Just fucking look at him now, and you'll see where principles get you.

So, Draco can admit that Patil is hot, and he can push her against this wall, and almost enjoy the fact that he is making her scowl waver as he enters her. Because why the hell not? He doesn't have principles, or a bloody girlfriend.

(What he has is starting to look pathetically like nothing when even Crabbe doesn't have any respect left for him. But he doesn't care. He's stopped caring. It's as dangerous and pointless as having principles.)


Parvati's not sure how it happens. It's to do with too many gulps of Firewhiskey, a worse beaten-up Seamus than ever before, a report about the deaths of the people he was supposedly travelling with, and a distant Lavender and Padma who didn't take the time to see her today (it's understandable, really, that they need breaks sometimes – this war is theirs too, but still), and way too many months of feeling like this. Like she's the only one who doesn't have someone to kiss to make her forget or even smile. Like she's not herself, trapped in the body of someone who cries all the damn time, who's not sure of anything any more and who has realized, too late, just how much she needs the person that she might never see again. Like there's nothing she can do to fix it – her world, her friends, Dean, herself.

She isn't drunk when Malfoy finds her. She's sober, but the pent up frustration inside of her is too much and when he looks at her with something like pity and then, the sympathy quickly wiped away, offers her the bottle – she takes it, and gulps down the liquid, feeling it burn her throat. He raises his eyebrows and she glares at him, daring him to comment on her red eyes. He doesn't.

She's not supposed to be here, but she is beyond caring. Let them beat her. She'd welcome the distraction. It's not like before, when she was a kid who feared pain because she had never really experienced it. Now, she has, more times than she has cared to count. What the hell does one more time matter?

He takes the bottle back, throwing back his head, drinking. She watches him, noticing for the first time, that he has grown quite attractive. She has never paid attention to this before, too blinded by her hate for his sneering lips and drawling voice. She realizes that, like this, with that dull expression, there is an eye-catching bad boy complex to him that is quite thrilling. Even if he's not plain handsome, like Terry, or charming, like Michael, or everything she's ever wanted, like Dean – he's irresistible. In that moment, he is, when his eyes turn to her, and shine with something like desperation, like need for something to make him forget.

She wants to forget too.

She takes the bottle back, swallows about a quarter of it, and then turns to him. They still haven't exchanged a word. He looks at her. She pushes him against the wall, thrusting her lips hard against his. He responds, hungrily. She revels in the sensation of being wanted.

As he disregards her shirt, she doesn't stop to think. She knows, really, that it's not supposed to be like this. But she's seventeen and all she's had are a couple of kisses from the Beauxbatons bloke and a couple of snogs with Eddie Carmichael by the end of fifth year, after finding out that Dean had actually made things official with Ginny. That's it. Seven years at boarding school, and she still has basically no experience whatsoever. All because of her stupid fancying of this one stupid boy who hasn't ever even paid her any attention. And now, she in all probability will never see him again. In all probability, he is already dead, just like the people he was travelling with. So why shouldn't she let Malfoy be her first? What the hell does it matter? (Answer: it doesn't make one fucking difference.)

It doesn't work. As she closes her eyes, she sees Dean's, kind and gentle, feels his hands, instead of Malfoy's smaller, rougher. When it's over, his name is on her lips, quiet, but the twitch of pity in Malfoy's eyes tells her that he heard.

The next second, his grey gaze is cold again, empty, as he with more force than necessary releases her wrists, slamming them hard against the wall.

Before he leaves, he turns, expressionlessly offering her the bottle one last time. She drains it, choking. He doesn't react, or help, as she coughs, tears streaming down her face (maybe that's not all because of the Firewhiskey). The moment her breathing calms down and he's made sure that she isn't about to cough herself to death, the door is shut behind him.