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Pain. Throbbing aches in both of my knees, shooting stabs of fire in my bicep like a knife has been planted there and absolutely will not leave. The bed shifts and I feel a familiar hand take mine, large fingers closing around my own as I shake. I keep my eyes closed but a couple fat tears leak down my cheeks.
“Pans?” At my side, George shifts in the bed. It feels like he has rolled over to look at me, but I think I would really rather die than turn my head. “You’re hurting.” He isn’t asking.
I sniff and tightly purse my lips, trying to narrow down the fire until it is in a small corner of my mind, boxed in and deprived of air. “Mm fine,” I whisper. Idiot. Of course I’m not fine. Why would I even say that?
His tongue clicks disapprovingly and he moves again.
“
Merlin, stop moving the bed or I will murder you!
” I yelp in pain, overloaded once more. Everything is stupid, bloody red. The mattress beneath me is a ship on a tumultuous ocean and I just wish I could jump overboard… ew, poetry.
“I’m so sorry, love,” George whispers as his side of the bed bounces up with the loss of his weight. I crack my teary eyes open and watch him as he picks his wand up off the side table and kneels next to me. I turn my head slowly and- Merlin, I can’t help smiling at his freckled face. His pained expression cracks into a little grin and he begins to pet my hair.
I sigh and lean into his touch, and the tears in my eyes begin falling again. “God, I’m pathetic.” My voice comes out in a laugh that cracks into a sob. I don’t really mean it. I know my pain is real, that crying is okay, or whatever. But pathetic feels like the only way to describe this sorry situation.
“You really are,” George’s voice holds a smile but I know it’s as tearful as my own. “Absolutely lame.” I snort, but quickly curl back into myself with a wince.
“Ugh, don’t make me laugh you bloody prat.”
I peek at him to see my idiot of a husband sticking his tongue out at me, which only makes me giggle more. “No, I’m serious!” I whine, grabbing for his wrist. “I swear every laugh is like a little Crucio!”
I can tell he’s trying to sober up his expression, but I think he’s just happy to see me laugh. The pain isn’t so bad, really, if it makes him smile again.
George gently pulls his hand from my grip and holds his wand aloft, pointing it at me and beginning to murmur pain relieving spells he invented himself. Nothing else does the trick. “Tell me where it hurts,” he breathes between spells.
“Everywhere, nowhere…” I close my eyes and let my thoughts pass around my body. “Knees and arms, mostly.” I’ve never been the introspective sort, but the Muggle Healer we went to a few months ago suggested this pseudo magic they call “mindfulness”-- and call them hokey, but it’s worked better than any wizarding bullshit we’ve experimented with these past three years.
Obviously, I was not always this ball of emotions. I used to be stronger… Better. Sure, I didn’t fight in the war a few years ago, but I didn’t do nothing, either. I protected those who weren’t strong enough to protect themselves. I defended the littlest of snakes as they were unfairly persecuted after the war ended. I worked my ass off at some Granger Foundation nonprofits, I held my friends up when their worlds and families crumbled around them. When did I become the one in need of support?
George’s incantations trail off but he continues to pet my hair the way I like, murmuring sweet nothings to me like I’m dying. Oh right. Shit.
_____
“I never thought I’d see you here, Pansy. I’m so glad you are, though.” Granger smiles at me and it feels like the most condescending thing I’ve ever seen.
“Shocking, I know. Even Slytherins have hearts,” I flash her my signature FakeASF smile.
Her pinched face sours and she crosses her arms all swot-like. “Pansy, for Merlin’s sake, we’re sisters-in-law, can’t you just be decent for once?”
Ah, yes. Not Granger, Granger-Weasley. So very like her to hold on to her maiden name for dear life. “Oh, God, don’t remind me!” I clutch at my chest and earn the pleasure of seeing her roll her eyes.
“I try to offer an olive branch and what do I get?” She mutters, walking off to boss someone around. I brush my hair behind my ear and turn back to the small table where kids are colouring. I take a seat in the too-small chair beside a tiny blonde boy and lean forward.
“Ooh, is that a dragon, Scorp?” Draco’s little doppelganger gives me a smile and nods. He growls like the dragon in his drawing and I can’t help but laugh. “Roar!” I growl back at him and poke him in the side.
“Scorpius!” I look up at the sound of my childhood friend’s voice and hop out of my chair as quickly as the littlest Malfoy does. He races over to his dad, the dragon quite forgotten. I scoop it up to bring over for them, casting a little nonverbal on it as I cross the room, enchanting the scribbles to move around and breathe crayon fire.
Draco, dressed as spiffily as always, scoops the toddler up into his arms and smiles warmly at me, making my heart flutter like we’re eleven again. It doesn’t matter that I’m crazy happy with a certain Weasley; Draco always makes my stomach flip. Always will, I think.
He reaches out his child-free arm and gives me a side hug that I happily return. We weren’t always touchy-feely, but the war made us a little more clingy. “Hey, Pans.”
“Hey, Drake. How are you?” I ask, handing the moving dragon to Scorpius. He giggles and buries his face in Draco’s neck.
“I’m good. Therapist even said I’m ‘thriving’,” he waggles his blonde brows. I look over at the clinic doors that lead to the therapy offices. I go monthly, but I know Draco comes every week, like clockwork.
“As you should be, the war was, like, six years ago. Really, you should just be over it, you drama queen.”
I’m rewarded with a snort and I watch him adjust Scorpius on his hip. “You and Weasley are still coming over tonight, yeah? Astoria will murder me if I got the day wrong.”
I toss my short hair and smile charmingly. “We’ll be there with fanfare. You only celebrate your five-year anniversary once.” I wink at him. As he walks away, I can’t quash the flame in my belly- it’s a warm feeling of so much love for the little Malfoy family. I blink away sudden tears and laugh at my silly mushiness. Since when have I been sentimental?
George meets me outside the Granger Foundation Mental Health Clinic when I leave a couple hours later, a big stupid smile on his face.
This gives me immediate pause. “There’s something on my face, isn’t there?” I conjure my compact to check my reflection.
“Must something be wrong for me to smile at my wife?” He asks, stepping forward and wrapping his over-long arms around my waist.
I giggle uncharacteristically and can’t look away from his teasing brown eyes. How has this fool made me a different person? “I don’t think I will ever get used to you calling me that,” I retort.
“Good,” he whispers, catching my lips with his own. My toes curl pleasantly and I find my fingers tangling in his obnoxiously red hair.
I think I’m quite happy to stand here forever with him when a loud crack beside us makes the both of us jump apart like teenagers caught after hours. My face is burning and it’s delightful.
We look at the newcomer and my stomach plummets. A woman with wild eyes is looking back at me, dirty hair a tangled mess and wand directed right at my face. George and I reach for our wands but we are too late to do a bloody thing as she screams “Death Eater scum! Crucio Aeternalis! ”
_____
I wake up from a blessed nap and miss the warm and steady presence I’m used to having at my bedside.
My pain is a reasonable 6/10 (joy) and I sit myself up, taking in my room. The house-elves are on top of it, with fresh fruit on my little table, a book and the Quibbler beside it, and fresh clothes set out at the end of the bed. The moment my feet leave the mattress and brush the soft carpet, two elves appear to help me change. George was the one to help me with these menial tasks early on in the curse, but it was humiliating. If he’s going to see me naked, I’d like to look sexy for him, not like his crippled and useless grandmother.
I am grateful for the fresh silk pyjamas that are gentle against my burning skin. I know that George and the elves charm them to be soothing but it only lasts a few hours. Still.
“What time is it?” I breathe out through the ache in my arms and sit back onto the bed, knees ready to give out.
“5pm, miss.” The older elf—I knew her name once, I know I did—answers.
I chew on my lip and slowly undertake the ordeal of getting comfortable again. In the minute I’ve been up, the sheets have been changed and the pillows fluffed. Another elf helps me get situated, talking to me about something that I don’t care to hear- maybe Hermy… No, Horny- what? No, it must be something else.
Happy (nope, not that either) offers me a smile and I can’t stand how sad he looks.
“Thank you,” I say to the elves with the last scraps of my dignity. “I’d like the curtains open, please.”
They open the curtains to reveal Malfoy Manor’s best view: Narcissa’s award-winning gardens right at my window and the large Quidditch green in the distance. I used to enjoy watching Draco, George, and a mismatch of other Weasleys, Slytherins, and Potters play but now it feels more isolating than anything else.
“Thank you,” I say again. They leave with matching pops.
I read my book, a fluffy thing with no substance, for an hour. Ten minutes in, my head started hurting and the words began to float, but it feels pathetic to admit I can’t read anymore, so I flip pages as if I can. I manage to eat a couple raspberries too, but it all comes back up into the rubbish bin.
The door opens silently—no creaking for a proper Malfoy door—and I scowl as I see Draco walk in. “Go away,” I tell him. It takes such effort that I feel as if I’ve yelled, but it’s hardly above a whisper.
He shuts the door with a click and comes to sit on the edge of my bed. Well, his bed, I guess. Everything here is his.
“George is at the Burrow,” he tells me. Where there would have been contempt back in school, Draco now talks fondly of the Weasley clan. We’ve both changed so much.
My head is throbbing and I’d really prefer not to talk, though. Being awake for so long is exhausting and sleep sounds like a wonderful idea. “Okay.”
Draco raises a brow and tilts his head. “Can I expect you at dinner?” He asks.
An unexpected pressure builds behind my eyes and I glare at him. “No,” I say curtly. ‘No’ today and ‘no’ the last hundred times he’s asked. I don’t know why he keeps asking.
Draco nods, unsurprised. “Pain today?”
I think of this morning. It was nearly a 10 before George tried to soothe it. It’s not so bad, but it’s hardly the blissful 6 of an hour ago either. “8,” I answer. Yes, I’m being petulant, but the short answers also minimise the aching in my jaw.
He folds his hands in his lap and watches me in a way only he does, like he is reading my thoughts. “You’ve been awake for 8 hours this week,” he tells me, voice quiet. “Lucid for less.”
“Yes, Dreamless Sleep-“ I grimace and slip down a little on the bed. The fire in my back remains. “Works well,” I finish.
“Not as well as it used to,” he argues. And he is not wrong. “You dream now.”
“Nosy.”
“It won’t work forever, Pans. You need…” Draco looks small on the bed. I’m sure I look smaller. “You need to tell George.”
An ache blooms in my chest quite apart from the curse. Draco pulls a bag from his robes and sets it on the floor by his feet.
My eyes lock on the bag, then back at him. I never thought he’d be so quick, but then Draco’s always been efficient.
“Is-“
“Secobarbital,” he confirms. “Enough. But Merlin, Pans, talk to George. He needs to know.” For the third time in my life, I see tears glisten in my best friend’s eyes.
I think of the brown eyes that only just beat his out as my favourite. “I don’t want to see him hurting.” I clear my throat and can taste blood.
Draco stares at me dumbfounded. “He’s hurting already, Pansy. He started hurting the moment you were cursed and he’s never stopped.” For a moment, I don’t think he’s only talking about my husband. He sighs and takes my hand. It hurts, but the comfort of his touch is worth it. “Don’t be proud, Pans.”
I scoff, too tired to reach up and wipe away the tears flowing down my cheeks. “I’ve never been proud,” I retort, but there is no fire in my brittle voice.
Our eyes meet and I can’t hold it in. I try to squeeze Draco’s hand but it’s the smallest of movements.
“I’m scared, Drake,” I sob. It is me, Pansy Weasley, Sobbing Mess.
My best friend pulls me from my nest into his arms and we cry together. I don’t know how long it is, but my head screams that it’s too much. Draco’s arms around me are solid, warm, home. In his grip I realise how very broken I am. My wrist is barely half his own.
“I love you, Pansy. I love you. I love you,” Draco murmurs into my hair. I want to cry, I know . I knew he loved me when he was there at my wedding. I knew he loved me when he welcomed me into his home as the noble house of Parkinson disowned me. I knew he loved me when he helped me plan my leave. And I know he loves me as I cry uselessly in his arms and receive my grief back, tear for tear.
“I know,” I breathe, but that will never be enough. It will have to be enough.
_____
George comes home late. I consider keeping it all from him when he traipses in, face glowing. But like Draco said, that’s not fair. That is not love.
At my expression, he sobers and comes to sit where Draco was. “Love,” he breathes. His familiar hands cover mine and he looks at me like he knows me better than I know myself.
“Your family?” I ask. My voice is thick with sleep and exhaustion. I hate it.
“They are great,” he tells me truthfully. “Really great. Gin is pregnant again.”
“Potter can’t keep off her,” I joke with tearful eyes.
He studies me with a serious expression that I never would have associated with The George Weasley before the war. “So… it’s time?”
Time? Time for what? He can’t know-?
“You don’t think I didn’t know, did you Pans?” He quirks a sad smile and moves closer to me on the bed until I can lean on him with his arm wrapped around me.
“Well- Did Draco-?” Hurt bubbles in my aching chest, but George shakes his head.
“I know you.” He says. Simple as that. As if he was telling me how to spell ‘Knut’.
For the third time today, I’m bloody crying. And again, it bloody hurts.
“I didn’t want to hurt you,” I whisper, leaning further into him. Perhaps if I get close enough he can absorb me into himself and none of this has to happen at all.
George is quiet for a time and I’m not sure he plans to say any more when I hear him open his mouth again.
“Pansy,” he starts. “When I married you, I told you that everything I do would be for you. I meant it. With this curse- nothing changed. Not for me. I am for you.”
“But what will you do without me?” I am teasing, but a big part of me really wonders. After the war, after Fred, I helped George stay together. Not to be proud, of course, but I don’t know where he would be without me.
“Why Love, are you getting sentimental on me?” He buries his face in my hair, though I’m sure it’s foul smelling and greasy. He breathes in deeply, once, twice. “You don’t need my permission- Hell, you’ve never needed anyone's permission in your life- but Pans… you have my permission to die.”
My face feels like a crumpled, snotty mess. “What a cowardly thing if I give up.”
He snorts against my hair. Gross. Endearing. “I think it’s brave,” he counters.
“Fighting with a dying woman is a bad show,” I mumble. I feel sleepy, which is unfair. I’d like to be very awake, to be fully here in this moment. With him.
George summons the bag Draco brought in and sets in gingerly in my lap.
“Do you want to do it now?” He asks me. He is not pushing me, and for that I am grateful.
I spend the last of my energy lifting the little glass syringe from the bag. It is cold and very Muggle, but a fitting reaper for me, I think. My hands shake but it’s not fear anymore, just exhaustion.
I let it sit in my lap and curl into George. “One last nap together first, yeah?”
My sleep is not a peaceful one. Women with gnarled hair and wicked curses for children of Death Eaters leer at me around corners. I walk down alleys and find people dead. Draco, George, Scorpius. Death looks like peace, to me, but in my dreams she is a rampaging villain, dark and evil. As she comes to collect me, chasing me through Knockturn Alley, I trip and am jolted awake.
“George!” Someone screams in the silent, dark room. It is me. George rocks me in his arms, cradling me gently and brushing my sweat soaked hair with his fingers. I feel foolishly naked before his gaze, but he is all warmth and kindness, and sun. His lips press against my clammy forehead. “Dream,” I whisper into his chest, unable to come up with anything better. “Horrible.”
His chest rumbles and it is the comforting purr of a cat against my cheek. I rest there awake for a long moment, but it can’t be forever. I’m ready.
I tilt back my head and look up at my husband. In his eyes I find strength and courage. I hope that in mine he finds the same. “I love you,” I whisper.
He leans down and kisses me with a gentle touch that is unique to us- never have I been a gentle, docile lover. And yet, here George makes it easy. We don’t need more than that. He’s never needed more than I am able to give. He pulls away with aching slowness and presses his forehead to mine. It hurts, but I won’t tell him to stop.
“I love you, my Heart.” My husband lifts his head and presses a kiss to my forehead. “I love you, my Soul.” George Weasley lifts each of my frail hands and kisses each fingertip in turn. “I love you, my Pansy.” The surprise love of my life kisses me on the nose and I can’t help a weak giggle. I watch him as he lifts the syringe of Muggle relief in a solid, steady hand and he looks in my eyes with a settled gentleness, a peace I can't understand.
And yet, I feel it, too. I smile and nod, and he pushes the cool metal needle into the crook of my arm. “Thank you,” I say, more honestly than I have ever said anything before. He presses down the plunger, and a chill fills my blood, starting in my arm and travelling quickly through my whole self.
No more pain. No more hurt. No more uselessness, no more tired, no more dragging my family down. Three years of dying, but no more. Lady Death comes to our bed and sets a hand on my forehead, next to my husband’s. All I can do is smile.