Hurt

“ Oh, these little Earthquakes—doesn't take much to rip us into pieces .”—Tori Amos

Pansy Parkinson stood outside the audience chamber, her hands clenched into fists, breathing heavily as she leaned against the cold, rough stone of the wall.

She was absolutely livid .

He wouldn't let her be a Death Eater because her talents were needed elsewhere ?

Moving down the hallway away from the doorway leading into his chamber, she found an unused hallway and started screeching, pounding her small hands onto the stone until they started bleeding. “It's because I'm too young!” She shrieked her outrage as she continued to strike the stones with fisted hands.

“It's because I'm a woman !” Pansy preferred to throw things, but there was nothing at present for her to break, so she gave into a rare moment of physical violence and pounded the stones with vehemence.

“It's because I'm not a sycophant like some people I could name!”

Strike, strike, strike. Each shout was accompanied by a blow to the immovable stone fortress at which she ineffectually battered in her rage.

“It's because—”

“It's because you're acting like a brat,” a voice drawled, tinged with a bit of a Northern Scottish brogue.

Swirling around in a furious motion of sleek dark hair and robes, she confronted the intruder with a narrow-eyed scowl. Leaning casually against the wall was Walden Macnair.

“What's wrong with you, lass? Young Malfoy's marriage got you in a snit?” His mouth quirked up as he stood there, watching her as he leaned against the wall with deceptive lazy grace.

Walden Macnair had been freed from Azkaban along with Lucius Malfoy and had returned to Voldemort's service. The only remnant of his time in the infamous prison was the slight deadened quality of his eyes and the scar on his face from the wand injury he'd suffered years ago in the Department of Mysteries battle. He'd had his eye healed, but he'd left the scar. It gave him a fearsome appearance—and he was already enough of a presence to make anyone nervous.

This included Pansy, even though she'd known him since she was a young girl. He'd been friends with her father, though he was slightly younger, and she remembered he gave her a pretty necklace once at her birthday party. Obviously, his presence had merely been a front for some Death Eater meeting. Her mother had tried to take the necklace away, but Pansy had refused and cried.

She remembered how she'd been so concerned with material things then. Her father had heard them arguing, and yelled at her mother for trying to take the necklace. The next morning, her mother had a bruise on her face that she quickly concealed with a healing charm and Pansy had never worn the necklace again.

She had irrationally hated Walden Macnair from that moment on, blaming him for what had happened. Plus, she couldn't say she found his choice of “respectable” careers—an animal executioner —all that endearing. She happened to like animals.

More than most people, in fact.

And of course, he'd have to bring up Draco.

“Look,” she hissed, “Malfoy and I have been friends for years. There's nothing between us but friendship, and I don't care that he's marrying that Greengrass girl. I don't! I'm happy that he's settling down.” She'd said it so many times, she almost believed it.

Macnair laughed. “Sure you are, lass,” he said, and she scowled at him harder, voice escaping in a low hiss.

“Stop calling me lass.” Pansy was aware she was taking her anger out on Macnair—anger at once again not being quite good enough.

“ It's not that I don't like you, Pansy.” Draco's face was earnest as he held her hands. “I think you're top quality, old girl. But you know as well as I do that we'd kill each other if we married. You're better off with some bloke who doesn't think of you like his sister !”

Pansy growled, actually growled , at the memory of that conversation. She'd done nothing, of course, merely smiled at him in her simpering way as her heart broke and her childhood dream of being Pansy Malfoy, Draco's wife, crumbled into dust. She had seen her hopes of living in a manor with parents who did not scream and hit each other, who actually looked with something close to affection at each other across the table instead of fear and hatred disappear in the space of four sentences.

Oh, Draco's parents might be stiff and formal, but Pansy knew love when she saw it. She wanted that future so badly—the lovely home, the happy family. It might have sounded strange to anyone else, but to her, the Malfoys were everything she wanted. Pureblood respectability, a fortune, the right loyalties, a handsome husband, and she would have been happy.

When that dream had been taken from her, she had cried once and only once before turning to a new dream, focusing on new goals. It had been hard—she'd been dreaming of marrying Draco since she was twelve—but she'd done it.

She wanted to be his, since she couldn't have Draco.

Oh, she'd known she wasn't really in love with Malfoy, but Pansy didn't really mind that too much. She believed a good marriage could be based on status, power, mutual acceptance and friendship. Strangely, it was Draco who was in love, though he'd never admit it. Just like his father. He'd always been just like his father, and because Lucius was nothing like Pansy's own father, that had been fine with her.

She transferred all that ambition to the Dark Lord, because in his ranks she would be family. She would be protected, and the next time her father hit her, perhaps Lucius Malfoy would Imperio him to jump off the roof, or Bellatrix Lestrange would Crucio him until his eyes bled. Perhaps she would learn how to channel her hate and make her father writhe on the floor when he dared to blacken her eye.

But now Voldemort had rejected her, too, and she was left with nothing.

Nothing but the chilly, amused eyes of Walden Macnair as he watched her from half-lowered lids. “So tell me, Miss Parkinson , what troubles you?”

She found herself breathing faster, angered that he addressed her so casually. I cannot have respect from anyone, and it is all because of that bastard that raised me.

Pushing away from the wall, she stalked towards him and said in a low voice, “I asked to join the Dark Lord. I wanted to be a Death Eater. He refused. Said my talents would best serve the Cause in other ways.” Pansy sneered slightly at this, trembling as she remembered the Dark Lord's words.

Once again, I'm not good enough. Millicent is a Death Eater, why can't I be? She stared up at Macnair, wondering why she was telling him this.

He laughed at her. “Oh, girl,” he said, walking towards her, until they stood as close to each other as possible without actually touching. “You don't want to be a Death Eater because of the Cause ,” he sneered. His eyes looked frightening as he stared down at her, but Pansy refused to back down.

“Oh? I suppose you're an expert on me, are you?” She crossed her arms over her chest and glared, eyes narrowed.

He moved forward until her back was pressed against the wall; Pansy winced at the sudden violence, realizing it was incredibly stupid to bait Macnair. He had quite the temper, as she recalled.

“I know your father, Pansy,” he sneered. “I know why you don't want go home, why you never wanted to during holidays at school. I know why you spend most of your time here, why you wanted to marry Draco. You hate your father, and you think Voldemort allow his death if you swear your service.”

She stared at him, so completely taken aback that she was unable to form a rebuttal. Because it's true. Because at night you dream of torture and death, but it isn't Muggles you want to kill, is it, Pansy?

She thought of her mother, broken and bloody at the foot of the stairs, of her father standing coldly triumphant at the top. He'd looked at her, pointed his finger, and said that she best take note of what happened to girls who think to question their superiors.

Trembling, she stared up at him. “Did you know he killed my mother?” Her voice was broken, full of tears she refused to shed in front of him.

Macnair had her pressed against a wall but was still not touching her—his hands were braced next to her head. “Aye,” he growled, “I knew.”

Rage overtook her. “You were his friend ,” she choked out. “How could you be friends with a man who did that to his wife?”

Macnair laughed harshly. “I'm a killer, Pansy. It's what I am.” He shrugged. “No sense making it pretty by giving me a Mark and a fancy title. I'm a killer, plain and simple.”

She scowled. “What does that have to do with my father?”

“Death doesn't outrage me like it does you. Sometimes the innocent die.” He smirked at her, his uncaring attitude infuriating her even further.

“Damn you! She was my mother !” Pansy shrieked, hitting his chest with her hands just as she'd hit against the wall earlier.

He leaned down to whisper in her ear, voice dark. “They're all someone's mother, Pansy. Or father, or brother, or son.”

She made a sound between a growl and a sob, and hit him harder. “I want him to suffer,” she whispered, hands clutching his shirt. “Is that so bad?”

He moved in until his tall, lean body was pressed against hers. She started when she felt his hard erection against her, and his hands expertly captured hers and he pushed them against the wall with bruising strength.

“No,” he said, nipping her ear.

It hurt, but something dangerous was flowing through her body and it wasn't just anger, although there was plenty of that. She struggled against him, bucking her hips.

“What the hell are you doing?” Her voice was slightly breathy, and she refused to give any thought to the fact that she might like what he was doing.

“I'm going to fuck you,” he said, matter-of-fact. He pulled back and smirked down at her. “Don't tell me you don't want me to.”

She laughed. “Cocky bastard,” she said, so furious she could barely see straight, “I'm shaking in anger and you think I want a fuck in the hallway?”

“Yes,” he said, and he bit her neck. She shrieked in pain, struggling against him harder. His tongue laved the hurt as he pressed closer. “You want it because you're furious. You want to hurt someone? Hurt me. I like it.”

He spoke these words against her neck, sending shivers down her spine. “No,” she said, but she tilted her head to the side to give him better access. “I don't like you,” she said, voice quiet even as she pushed herself against him in a way that couldn't be mistaken for an attempt to escape.

“I don't really like you either, lass. But I like your anger…” He kissed her, and she found she was opening her mouth for his kiss, which was more biting than actual kissing. “You need to hurt someone to get all this anger out, Pansy,” he said, pressing his hard erection into her. “I'm volunteering.”

The idea was laughable. I do not need to fuck Walden Macnair against a wall to calm down.

Then why was she wet, why was she moaning as he rubbed himself against her?

“I'm going to let go of your hands now,” he said, voice almost hypnotic. “Go ahead and hit me if you want.” He removed his punishing hold and she dropped her arms, intent on pushing him away. Instead, she drew her nails down his face and moaned as he closed his eyes in pleasure.

Before she knew what was happening, his hands were furiously tearing at her clothing until she was wearing nothing but her pink knickers and a white cotton bra. “Pretty, pretty,” he mocked her, smirking. He didn't bother removing her bra, merely shoved it up and pulled at her nipples with his long, cruel fingers.

“Mmm, I can't imagine why Malfoy didn't want this. Or did you give it to him, pretty Pansy? Did you let him finger your nipples, your cunt? Did he fuck you knowing he wasn't going to marry you after?”

At his cold, callous words, she felt as if he'd slapped her. She hooked her nails into his neck and pulled his face down to hers. “Shut up, Macnair. It doesn't matter anymore,” she hissed before she nipped his lip, hard.

His fingers played at her breasts and then his mouth followed. He was rough, biting her nipples and the valley between her breasts. She would have bruises, but she didn't care. This was horrifying and dark and animalistic and so, so wrong and she wanted it, wanted him .

He dropped to his knees before her and continued biting at her; she watched her white skin turn purple and sucked in her breath as she saw the perfect circle of teeth imprinted on her flesh. “Harder,” she moaned, hands digging into his shoulders and leaving bloody half-moon marks with her nails.

He laughed huskily. “I knew you wanted it,” he said, fingers delving into her knickers to touch where she was, indeed, wet and aching. His fingers slid inside her briefly, and rubbed her wetness over her clit before he pulled them out and licked his fingers.

“I don't want you . I want to cause pain, and I want to hurt. There's a difference.” Her hands tangled in his hair, pulling.

He rose up to his full height in a lithe movement she hadn't thought him capable of, and she tore at his shirt. When he shrugged it off, her eyes went to his Dark Mark, and she traced her fingers over it.

His fingers curled around her other hand and dragged it down to his straining erection. “You like that?” he growled, eyes narrowed.

She looked up at him with a challenging look on her face. “Depends on if you can do anything with it that satisfies me,” she sneered, licking her lips and tilting her chin challengingly.

His face was flushed and together they were battling with the fastenings of his trousers. “Going to fuck you hard, Pansy,” he gasped out, as her fingers curled around his length. She gave two pulls on his flesh and curled her leg around his waist.

He made easy work of her knickers by tearing them off, before he stepped up to her. “You want this, girl?” He growled at her, rubbing his erection between her slick folds, teasing her clit with his thick length.

“Yes,” she moaned, hands in his hair as she thrust inside of her. “Make it hurt,” she panted, scratching him, deep and slow along the rigid muscles of his back.

He grunted and grabbed both her legs, hooking them around his waist. Pushing her back against the wall, she was momentarily disoriented at the feel of him holding her up, of her back scraping against the wall.

“Scratch me harder,” he hissed, and she complied. She knew she broke the skin and he groaned, moaning, “yes, yes,” as he shoved into her.

He was rough with her, and it was exactly what she wanted. Her body felt bruised, sore, and the pleasure was absolutely incredible. Sounds spilled out of her lips that should have horrified her, but didn't. “Fuck me harder, god, yes…” Her head thrashed back and forth against the wall.

“I knew you'd like it. You do, don't you? Like me fucking you against the wall?” His voice was that lovely, dark growl and his hands were bruising as he kept her legs around him.

She didn't answer, because she was coming, hard and long on his cock. She leaned up and bit his neck, which tasted of sweat and some indescribable essence that was just him, clawing at him like a wildcat, mewling in her pleasure.

He hissed in satisfaction and drove into her one last time, and she felt the hot rush as he came inside of her. She liked the way he groaned and ground himself against her, moving his hips in a circle as he pushed her against the wall.

They clung to each other for a moment before he pulled back; her legs were shaking and she had to brace herself against the wall so she wouldn't fall. Quietly she began to dress, and when she turned around to look for her skirt, he spoke in a quiet voice, “The wall did not give you those marks.”

She winced, remembering the evidence of her father's last “punishment” that had yet to fade. “No,” she said quietly, pulling her skirt on after deciding her knickers were forever ruined. “It didn't.”

He stepped forward and traced them with his fingers. Compared to his earlier roughness, the gentleness was a sharp contrast. “Why did he do this?”

“Because he's a monster,” she said quietly, before she shook her head. Pulling her clothes on, she whirled to face him. “I don't want to ever talk about this again,” she muttered, unable to meet his eyes, face flushed.

“Whatever you want, lass,” he said, the odd note of gentleness in his voice disappearing until he sounded as he always did; coolly amused, disinterested.

Once she was dressed, she looked back at him only once as she stalked from the hallway. “It's what I want,” she said, eyes clear. She walked down the hallway and then turned around, finding he was still watching her with his cool, blue eyes.

She wanted to say thank you , because she did actually feel better. Instead, she inclined her head to him in a purely aristocratic gesture of gratitude, and left him there in the darkness.

*****

When they brought her the news, they'd expected her to cry.

“We're not sure what happened, Pansy,” Narcissa said, concerned.

Pansy was staring into the mirror as she fixed her hair, and said nothing.

“He was found at the bottom of the stairs; Lucius said they figured he might have had a fall,” Narcissa continued.

Pansy nodded, wanting the other woman to leave, wanting to absorb this knowledge in peace.

“Did he—did he suffer?” Her voice was quiet, broken, the tears held in her throat for the moment when she could shed them in peace. After all, it was not proper to shed tears of joy in front of the woman who brought you news of your father's death.

“He—they say he was badly beaten,” Narcissa said slowly, hands moving soothing on Pansy's back. “I—I'm afraid someone had hurt him quite badly.”

Pansy smiled and met Narcissa's eyes in the mirror. “Thank you,” she said, tears spilling over finally as she laughed. “Thank you.” Propriety be damned.

That night, she passed Walden Macnair as he sat at a table with Antonin Dolohov, drinking whiskey. As she passed by, her eyes met Macnair's and she paused for a moment. He raised his glass to her, nodding slightly, just as she had done in the hallway several days ago.

She understood his unspoken message and mouthed thank you before turning her back on him and walking to her seat. Never had her step felt so light, carefree.