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Draco was nine when he’d fallen from his broom that Christmas morning. Pansy remembered it like it was yesterday – they’d all been gathered on the back terrace of Malfoy Manor watching as Draco showed off his new toy, doing twists and figure-eights that had his mum chewing on her nails. One moment, he’d been higher than the apple trees in the orchard, arms thrown up in victory as he came out of a particularly sharp dive, and the next, he was careening toward the ground at top speed.
Narcissa screamed. Theo grabbed Pansy’s arm while Blaise jumped over the railing. Lucius was gone, taken off in the direction of his son’s body as it plummeted to the snow.
Now, at twenty-nine, Draco was the same as he ever was – precocious, self-centered, always on the lookout for the next thing to get his heart racing the way it had when he fell.
“I’m indestructible, Pansy,” he said constantly. “It’ll take more than that to keep me down.”
And in his quest for thrills, hobbies and witches alike came and went on the endless parade that was Draco’s fast-paced and careless life. There was a career as an Auror that he’d dropped in favor of starting a magazine, which ended in a buyout by the Daily Prophet as he attempted to open a garden center with Longbottom. Astoria had given way to her sister, who left to make room for some French heiress, who lasted all of three days before being traded for the poor decision that was Susan Bones.
Only one managed to make repeat appearances until the pain of watching him fall outweighed the high of being there at his highest: Hermione Granger.
With Hermione, it always started the same: a happenstance meeting in a pub or on the street, leading to a kiss in the rain or on her front step. Draco would inevitably find himself on Pansy’s couch, smiling like a love-sick fool as he cleaned out her liquor cabinet and said, “It feels right this time, you know?”
Except, Pansy did know – she knew him better than anyone, and she also knew that it would only take a handful of weeks for the love of Draco’s life to become the reason he was headed on another trip abroad to find space to breathe. To find the next thing that would give him the same kind of rush that falling off his broom had all those years prior.
Because what started with a kiss would bleed seamlessly into afternoons spent in Hyde Park, eating on picnic blankets stained with the fact that Draco would always be on the lookout for a reason to run. There would always be a way out lined up in the back of Draco’s mind, gnawing away at his need for companionship until there was nothing left but the idea that he didn’t deserve anything good when he remembered all the bad he’d done.
No matter how many times he told Pansy it was right, or how many nights Hermione spent asking Pansy if he would ever change, Draco would always live up to his nickname: The Bolter.
And Pansy would sigh, pour them each a glass of whiskey, and tell them that, next time, things might be different. Even if she was the only one paying enough attention to remember that it was all in their heads.