furiosity: (draco)
not your typical annihilatrix ([personal profile] furiosity) wrote2005-11-30 09:29 pm
Entry tags:

Fic: Quickdraw [Draco/Pansy, Draco/Blaise; PG-13]

Title: Quickdraw
Author: [personal profile] furiosity
Rating: PG-13
Character or pairing: Draco/Pansy, Draco/Blaise.
Rough word count: 2600 words
Warnings: Emotional abuse, suggested alcoholism.
Note: Written for [livejournal.com profile] wizard_trauma (topic: Draco has premature ejaculation disorder. How does this affect his relationships?) and originally posted here. Thanks to my betas, [livejournal.com profile] foreword and [livejournal.com profile] therealw! Also thanks to [livejournal.com profile] goneril for letting me flail. ♥


If someone told you that Pansy Parkinson was a virgin until her wedding night, would you believe them?

Probably not, given the somewhat dubious reputation of Slytherin house as the place that turns out the most evil wizards per capita than any other Hogwarts house. Of course, evil and promiscuity go hand in hand, right? Wrong.

As it happens, Slytherin girls are not easy, nor do they fail to be discriminating when it comes to pursuits of a sexual nature. A lot of these girls come from ancient wizarding families, which subscribe to rather old-fashioned standards of morality. In fact, it wouldn't be surprising to any Slytherin to hear that Pansy Parkinson got married untouched.

The Slytherin boys, on the other hand, were rarely subject to the same restrictions as the girls. As a result, the boys sought out girls from other houses (because they had far too much respect for the Slytherin girls and house tradition). In the case of the really hard-nosed, no-other-house-is-good-enough Slytherin boys, they simply sought out each other. This wasn't something that ever got brought up at dinner tables, you understand.

So when Pansy Parkinson married Draco Malfoy, she had absolutely no idea what to expect from the wedding night. Not that she knew nothing about sex, mind -- she knew enough. In first year, she'd found out that flying was well and good in theory, but the practice bit was much trickier. In fact, sex seemed even simpler in theory than flying, but Pansy was considerably apprehensive. According to Daphne Greengrass, who'd married Theodore Nott three months before Pansy and Draco's wedding, it didn't hurt much. According to Millicent Bulstrode, who'd married Vincent Crabbe two years ago, it hurt like a motherfucker. Then again, Millicent was a half-blood.

In actuality, Pansy hadn't had time to decide if it hurt or not, because it was all over in less than two minutes. Draco rolled right off her and fell asleep, leaving her to clean up the mess and wonder if Daphne's glowing accounts of her and Theodore's lovemaking were nothing but tall tales.

The fact was, Pansy liked being married to Draco. She liked being Mrs Malfoy, having breakfast together, helping her mother-in-law tend the magnolia trees in the mornings. What she didn't like was that the only way she could ever enjoy sex was while helping herself, so to speak. It was extremely vexing to watch Daphne and Theodore make googly eyes at each other during their traditional Friday get-togethers. Pansy had absolutely no reason to make googly eyes at Draco, because in the six months of their marriage, the nightly routine never varied.

The most upsetting thing of all was perhaps that Draco seemed thoroughly clueless about Pansy's predicament. One morning, Pansy woke up and decided that she was going to change things.

When she came downstairs, Draco was sitting at the breakfast table and frowning at the Daily Prophet, as he was wont to do. He gave Pansy his usual not-quite-smirk and went back to frowning, but she yanked the newspaper out of his hands and put it aside.

"We need to talk," she said, as matter-of-factly as she could.

Draco blinked at her. "We do?"

"Yes," said Pansy, pulling the scone plate towards herself. "We really do."

"What about?"

"About our sex life. Or my lack of a sex life, incidentally."

Draco blinked faster. "How do you mean?"

"My dear husband," drawled Pansy, "are you aware that women are capable of enjoying sex as much as men are, if not more?"

She was rewarded by a very sullen-sounding silence.

"As it happens," continued Pansy, pouring herself some orange juice, "I am very much not enjoying our nightly adventures."

"You're not?"

Pansy wasn't sure if she should be offended or amused. She pushed the orange juice aside and pursed her lips. "Are you telling me that it hasn't even occurred to you that your... performance isn't exactly spectacular?"

Draco shook his head, looking a bit too innocent.

"You and Blaise didn't have this problem, did you?" demanded Pansy, getting angry. The bastard knew very well what she was talking about, he was just hoping to weasel his way out of the situation by pretending to be clueless.

Draco's expression darkened immediately. "Don't. Talk. To me. About. Him."

Pansy couldn't blame him for being angry -- after all, Blaise had run off with Harry Potter, of all people. However, Draco was married to her now, and damned if he wasn't going to be answerable. "You didn't, did you?" she went on, as though he hadn't spoken.

"I'm warning you, Pansy--"

"And I'm warning you!" she exclaimed, finally losing her temper altogether. "You'd better do something about your little problem!"

"Or what? What are you going to do?" Draco bit out, his grey eyes flashing dangerously. He opened his mouth to say something else but seemed to think better of it. Instead, he threw down his napkin and stormed out of the dining room.

Pansy stared at the scones, suddenly finding her appetite gone. It was time for drastic measures. It was a neat little trick she'd learned from her father years ago: when all else fails, ask your mother.


"Pansy says that your son isn't fulfilling his duty as a husband," said Rebecca Parkinson. The coffee cup seemed positively dainty in her massive hands.

Narcissa Malfoy put down her embroidery and sighed. "He hasn't been himself since they'd had the row three weeks ago. He's even snapped at me, imagine! Twice." She shook her head. "It's times like this that I miss Lucius the most. He'd have known what to do."


"It's none of your business, Mother!" Draco's face was pink with indignation, just like when he'd been ten and Narcissa had suggested that his broomstick grip wasn't right.

"Draco, you have to--"

"I don't have to do anything! This is between Pansy and myself, no one else."

Narcissa stared after him, a sinking feeling in her chest telling her that if Draco kept this up, he'd lose his wife, and what a scandal that would be.


When Draco snuck into the room not long before dawn, Pansy turned around and glared at him (though the effect was probably ruined by the fact that it was pitch-dark). "Are we just going to avoid each other forever?"

"I'm not avoiding you."

Pansy sat up just as Draco climbed underneath the blanket. "Yes, you are. You haven't taken your meals with us in two months; you're always eating elsewhere. You're never home, and you don't talk to me or your mother--"

"My mother was out of line, as were you. How could you? How could you go and tell your mother about-- things?"

"Well, you weren't talking to me about it! Would you rather I'd gone to Daphne for advice? Or perhaps Millicent?"

"I would rather you kept your fat mouth shut," Draco hissed. "What goes on in this bedroom is none of anyone's business."

"You selfish--"

"How is that news? You married me knowing this, Pansy. Don't start trying to change me just because--"

"Just because you're a shit husband? I'd never have dreamed that it would be this terrible!" Pansy was trying to avoid crying, but it wasn't working. She turned around and tried her best to keep from sobbing openly.

Secretly, she kept hoping for a comforting hand on her shoulder, a whispered apology -- anything.

It never came.


During the next traditional Friday get-together, Pansy knew exactly why Daphne made such googly eyes at Theodore.


It was easier with the girls he bought, much easier. He didn't have to worry about pleasing them. Let Pansy go off and marry that ape of a Flint -- thinks he's hot stuff just because he's got a Quidditch contract -- she'd never be happy with anyone else. Never.


"Draco, I think it's time you saw a Healer," said Narcissa one morning. She peered at him cautiously; he looked withdrawn and paler than usual, his eyes puffy and red-rimmed.

"For what?"

"For your little problem. You know."

"I don't have a problem," Draco said, throwing down the butter knife. "Pansy's the one who had the problem, not me."


"Just leave me alone!"

Narcissa watched him go with a heavy heart. She finished her breakfast and walked upstairs to Lucius's old study, where she found some parchment, an inkpot and quill.


Dear Blaise,

Your mother told me you'd be up in London next month -- do you think you could stop by and see Draco? I know you two used to be very close, and he seems in need of a friend right now.

Kind regards,
Narcissa Malfoy


Blaise walked through the ornate archway and approached the Malfoy manor with no small amount of trepidation. It had been two years since he'd last seen Draco, and much longer still since he'd last set foot in this house. Narcissa Malfoy stood next to a blooming magnolia tree, clutching a light white scarf to her neck.

"Mrs Malfoy," said Blaise, stopping in front of her and inclining his head slightly.

"So glad you could come," she said. She looked tired and alone; Blaise wondered how she managed it, by herself with -- well, with Draco.

"He hasn't taken the divorce well, has he?"

Narcissa shook her head, her lips pursed. "No. Oh, it's been terrible, and he's refused to talk to anyone. I'm hoping you'll be able to--" she trailed off, casting down her eyes.

Uncomfortable heat prickled up Blaise's neck. Did she know about the two of them...?

Narcissa looked up at him again. "I think he just needs someone like him, a peer to tell him that it'll be all right, that there'll be other girls..."

She didn't know, then. Blaise relaxed and allowed a small smile. "I'll do my best, Mrs. Malfoy."

"He's just gone out for a walk in the orchard," she said, nodding towards a neat alley of magnolia trees. Their scent reminded Blaise of a spice sold at the corner shop across from his and Harry's house. Being reminded of Harry helped with the uneasy twisting in his gut; Blaise was better off without Draco -- that wasn't even a question. He nodded slightly to himself and started down the path.

Draco was sitting on an old tree stump at the edge of a clearing, just before a turn in the otherwise straight pathway. He was sitting with his back to Blaise, gazing up at the sky, a blade of grass stuck between his lips.

Blaise stopped a few feet away from him and coughed. "Uh, hi."

Draco turned around, his eyes wide. "What are you doing here?" he asked, around the blade of grass, so it sounded especially disdainful.

Blaise rolled his eyes. Stupid prat wanted to pretend to play it cool, that was fine with him. He cocked his head to one side. "I was in town visiting my mother. Thought I'd stop by, for old times' sake."

"My mother put you up to this, didn't she? Fucking interfering--"

"She didn't put me up to anything," said Blaise, frowning. "I wanted to see you."

Draco turned away. "Should've thought of that when you left me."

"I don't mean it like that," said Blaise, the twisting feeling in his stomach returning with a vengeance. It was vintage Draco, really -- the prat assumed that Blaise had come back to him. "I'm still with Harry, and--"

"Why the fuck are you here, then?" Draco's voice was strained. "Did my mother seriously put you up to--"

"Like I said, she didn't put me up to anything. I--"

"Why did you really leave? It can't have been Potter, he's -- he's common..."

Blaise sighed. "In less than a year's time, you managed to fuck up a marriage, Draco. And you're asking me why I left you?"

"Shut up! Pansy cheated on me, not the other way around."

Blaise stared at him. "She did?"

Draco whipped around and spit out the blade of grass. "Yeah, she did. So take your sermonising and shove it."

"But that makes no sense," muttered Blaise, more to himself than to Draco. "Pansy has always carried a torch for you..."

"Guess the torch wasn't very bright," said Draco, turning away again.

Blaise walked around the tree stump and faced Draco. "Did she tell you why?"

Draco glanced up at him gloomily. "Apparently, the sex wasn't good, or some rot."

Blaise raised an eyebrow. "Well, well, well."

"Don't fucking 'well well well' me!" snapped Draco, rising swiftly and brushing off the back of his robes. "This is all your fault, you know." His upper lip was quivering and his eyes were narrowed. "Had you not nanced off with Potter, we could've--"

"Done nothing," said Blaise, folding his arms across his chest. "What could we have done? Got married? Don't make me laugh. You're just not cut out for relationships, Draco, face it. You're self-centred, you're irrationally jealous, and you're hardly bearable outside the bedroom--"

"Fuck you," spat Draco. "Wish you'd've stayed gone."

He stomped off with the air of a man who tended to stomp off a lot -- his movements seemed almost practised. Blaise stared after him, deciding that this had definitely been a bad idea. Let Draco dig his own damned grave.


The Firewhisky burned his throat less and less with each day, and the pleasant haze it afforded was far more agreeable than the buzzing, nagging thoughts about the past, the future, Pansy, Blaise, his mother...

Draco set the tumbler glass down swiftly, banging it against the table's hard wood. He squinted at the still, silent portrait of his father on the wall opposite and poured himself more Firewhisky.

"Your good health," he slurred to the portrait, raising the glass in a mocking toast.

"Really, Draco, that's a bit crude, don't you think?" came his mother's voice from the doorway.

He turned to her. "What do you want?"

"I want you to stop being rude to your mother, for one," she said, the steely notes she usually reserved for house-elves unmistakable in her voice.

Something sick and dark burned in Draco's gut -- guilt and shame and longing for something he could never have. He drained the Firewhisky and set the glass down, then looked up to face his mother.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "Sometimes I think I'd have been better off dying in Azkaban--"

"Stop," said Narcissa, crossing the distance between them and pulling out an empty chair. "Don't ever say that. You just need to find a nice girl who will be patient with you--"

Draco snorted. "I don't need a nice girl, Mother. I don't like nice girls. Matter of fact, I don't like girls, do you understand?"

He looked away to avoid seeing her face, the shock he knew would be there. He thought it would be easier to bear if he didn't have to look at it. The silence weighed heavily in the dining room, until the grandfather clock chimed six times.

"Well, then," -- Narcissa's voice sounded hollow, like she was speaking from inside the grandfather clock -- "then you'll just need to find a nice boy."

Draco looked up at her, his eyes widening. Her face was pale, her lips thin and white, but she looked determined. They stared at each other for a long time, not needing to speak -- this must have been difficult enough for her to accept in the first place, Draco knew that she wouldn't be able to say much more.

It wasn't so bad, though.

Just having her in his corner made all the difference in the world.


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