“Good morning, Mother,” I say as I come into the dining room Christmas Eve morning. On one end of the long table sits my mother, a woman with a hard face and elegant dark hair that is always in place. On the other end sits my father, a tall man with cold green eyes and a perfectly tailored brown mustache. As I move to greet him with a good morning kiss on the cheek, I pass my three siblings who sit around the table. Eleanor and Elisabeth sit together, conversing secretly as ten-year-olds do, and occasionally glance up at me from across their plates. Oliver sulks on the opposite side, oblivious to the fact that his older sister walks behind him. Ever since I have come home for the holidays, he has been sulking, and while I try to discover why, Mother simply dismisses it as a Case of the Four-Year-Old Sulks.

A brief nod is all I receive from my father this morning, which is hardly an acknowledgement to my presence. I see him immersed in the Daily Prophet, his brow tightly knit, and know that this can not mean good news for the Dark Lord’s cause. Father holds the title for the only person ever to deny the offer to become a Death Eater and survive, although he supports the general idea, simply because “would prefer to continue the Parkinson line in a world of Mudbloods and those who no longer uphold the proper traditions of our kind.” The Dark Lord permitted him to live, and not become a Death Eater, as long as he produced a male heir. Henceforth, the twins were born, and then Oliver. Ever since then we have given money to both the Ministry and the Dark Lord.

But I know that despite the normal hustle and bustle of the manor and my family, today will be quiet and subdued, at least around my parents. Tonight is our annual Christmas Eve Ball, and while I have attended since I was ten, Eleanor and Elizabeth will attend tonight for the very first time. Although this normally would be a very joyous time for my mother, seeing as she has one daughter close to marrying age and two to begin Hogwarts in the fall, it is not. Narcissa Malfoy, my mother’s closest friend, was killed this past June after her son, Draco Malfoy, failed to kill Dumbledore. Surprisingly, that is also the reason why my father is upset. Draco was my boyfriend for six years, until this June when he disappeared. Now Father must find another suitable husband for me, and soon, so I can begin producing more Parkinsons.

And yet, this is why I am miserable, as well. For the very first year I will not be on Draco’s arm for the entire ball. We will not escape the manor at ten thirty and roam the ample rose gardens, which stay alive thanks to Warming Charms. For the first time since I was ten, we will not run to the center of the garden, sit at the feet of my rose counterpart, and speak sweet nothings to one another until we are fetched by an angry parent. No, for the first time this year, I have been without Draco by my side.

I stare at my porridge, my eyes filling with tears and Oliver fiddles with his spoon next to me. “Oliver, Parkinsons do not play with their food,” my mother reprimands over a cup of tea. “Pansy, go fetch the post,” she orders, a little less kindly. Instantly I am aware that she can see my tears, and is sending me away to stop them, as usually Nilser, one of our House Elves, brings the post in.

Once I have gracefully left the quiet dinning room, I run to the front hall, where all of our post owls are redirected to via wards around the manor. Every morning, Nilser waits in the hall, collecting the post and making sure that Father gets his paper as soon as he is awake. Today is no different, as I enter to find Nilser standing on the polished marble floor holding a variety of envelopes.

Upon seeing me, Nilser’s leathery ears twitch and he drops to a low bow. “Miss Pansy!” he squeaks, holding out a letter. “This just came for Miss! The eagle owl delivered it!” My heart flips over multiple times as I snatch the letter and immediately run to my room without another thought to the post. The eagle owl is only Draco’s, and Nilser knows to keep even the presence of such a letter hidden from my parents.

I lock the door to my room with multiple charms and wards before I throw myself into the nearest chair. My hands are shaking; I cannot control them. At last I open the parchment and read Draco’s message. It is short, yet sweet, like all of his previous letters.

My Flower,

Our yearly tradition
Shall not go undone.
Without you I have fallen
And am broken.

Your Dragon

This message may be cryptic, but I know what it means. Tonight I will see my Draco again. Tonight we will be reunited.

* * *

“Pansy, dear, where are you off to?” scolds my mother as I escape the hustle and bustle of the ball for the rose garden.

I turn quickly, only long enough to answer my overbearing mother, and say, “The rose garden, Mother. I’ll be back in only a few minutes,” I promise.

Waving me off, she turns back to the ballroom of the Parkinson Manor and I know that she won’t remember me until tomorrow. By then, the hangover that will come with ten flutes of champagne will have receded, Eleanor, Elizabeth, and Oliver will have bombarded her with requests for gifts, and my yearly escapade into the rose garden will be forgotten. I can already hear her questioning me over topics such as my dance partners, my manners, what I thought of Mrs. So-and-so’s dress, and my opinion on how Miss So-and-so is behaving in proper society nowadays. Personally, I’d much rather just drink my tea, and reflect on the rose garden.

Thinking about tomorrow, I hardly notice that I’ve already made my way to Virgin Way, the stretch of topiary where every Parkinson daughter who does not marry is remembered as a formation of roses. Although I normally stop and admire them, tonight is not a night where I will do so.

I keep on walking, albeit a little more hurriedly to the end of Virgin Way where I know is the center of the garden. As the eldest Parkinson child, although compared to my twin ten-year-old sisters and toddler of a brother I am hardly a child, there is a formation of roses in my likeness in the very center of the garden. While I grow, it grows with me, and I see tonight a young woman of eighteen in the center of the garden.

She is not alone. At her feet kneels Draco, and it would appear that he is praying to her. “You have no right to come here,” I state, although the tremor in my voice reveals my emotion and happiness at seeing Draco again.

At the sound of my voice his bowed head shoots up, and I see that being on the run has caused him to lose large amounts of weight. He moves towards me, stumbling on his feet as he struggles to get to me, and I run to him. Holding Draco in my arms is like feeling my soul become whole. Whimpering in my arms, Draco’s broken body seems to relax and I hope I am soothing both his mind and soul, if not his body.

After what must be ten minutes, Draco looks up at me, and I can see where the tears ran down his dirt covered face. I can see Draco dig deep inside himself for the energy to tell me something. At long last, he manages to whisper, “You’ve always had some kind of hold over me, Pansy. It’s like I’m under the Imperius, but better, because I want to be.”

I can feel my eyes fill with tears as I choke out, “Like love, Draco?”

With one last breath, Draco whispers, “Yeah. I think I love you,” before collapsing in my arms.

The tears pour down my face as I whisper back, “I think I love you, too, Draco.”