Matching Socks(PG; Goyle/Parkinson)
Title: Matching Socks
Prompt: 33 - Hobbies at potterverse100
Claim: Gregory Goyle/Pansy Parkinson
Rating: PG
Word Count: 682
Author's Note: I've always seen Goyle as a 'Gregory' and I think that Pansy would feel the same. From now on, he'll be known as "Goyle" (his permanent name to 99.9 percent of the population) or "Gregory" to Pansy and his mother.
“What is your hobby, Goyle?” Pansy asked from across the room, her laughter the only thing in the room as the rest of the crowd grew suddenly quiet. “We’ve already figured out that Millicent likes pull the wings off of flies and Tracey collects screams. I want to know what it is that you want most in this world that you’ll work the hardest for.”
She wasn’t expecting him to actually answer her, turning away after giving him only a few seconds to think about her question. Crabbe wasn’t so thoughtful, though, and answered for his friend. “He likes to match his socks,” he said, sounding as if he was truly trying to be helpful.
“What?” Crabbe asked after Pritchard hit him on the back of the head. “He does.”
“And you are an idiot.” Pansy said it without the malice she reserved for Goyle. He seemed to get a special brand of her attitude, which was would have surprised anyone if they had looked closely. Millicent gained Pansy’s bitterness because she seemed to understand the girl in ways that no one else did. Tracey and Daphne both were on the same social standing and it would have been rude to ignore them… besides, they had nice clothes they weren’t averse to sharing for the proper compensation. The boys, on the other hand, were all singularly overlooked as a unit. All except Draco… and Gregory Goyle. The smarter boys didn’t care. They weren’t happy to be on the receiving end of Pansy’s idea of like and tended to gravitate to the other girls who would give them the respect they felt they were due.
All eyes turned back to Goyle as he muttered one word. Many of the girls were twittering behind their hands, rolling their eyes even as they shot their glances between the two at the center of the controversy so they didn’t miss anything.
“What did you say? I couldn’t hear you because you were mumbling. As usual! If you’re going to speak, you might as well shout so as to not take up anymore of our precious time.”
“He said ‘you,’” Crabbe offered, completely forgetting that he’d just be chastised for being helpful.
This time, Pansy took the time to get up from the couch and to walk over to Crabbe, hitting him herself. “Don’t talk to me again.”
When she turned to look at Goyle, there was no one to oversee the expression on her face except a portrait of Theopoles Wilkes, a dozing old man who didn’t seem to do anything but sleep and fart. “Tell me what you said.”
It wasn’t a habit of the Slytherin House to crowd around each other, vying for the best vantage point to reap the gossip mills that fueled some of the houses. They were of a sort that had been taught early on to listen carefully and never repeat what was said for fear of reparation. One-upmanship was at a premium in the dungeon. Because of this, no one heard what Goyle said to Pansy. Some believed he really had said what Crabbe still steadfastly claimed he did. Others figured he must have said something like ‘stew’, which they had that night for dinner, which left many of them to wonder if Master Goyle wasn’t a seer.
It was interesting to watch Pansy’s reaction, though. Daphne swore, later at dinner, that Pansy had still been white as she was when she’d finally turned away from the boy and walked to their suite of rooms. Pritchard wondered for days if he’s actually heard Pansy whisper something back to Goyle, but he was a smart boy and decided to forget the entire incident. It seemed wrong, he thought, for a Slytherin to have something as urbane as a hobby, anyway.
Goyle saw Pansy’s face and he had to force himself not to smile. The shock was being steadily overrun by a kind of awe that meant that she was being worn down. Slowly, but surely. “Thank you, Gregory.”
As a hobby, Pansy Parkinson was the best part of his day.
Prompt: 33 - Hobbies at potterverse100
Claim: Gregory Goyle/Pansy Parkinson
Rating: PG
Word Count: 682
Author's Note: I've always seen Goyle as a 'Gregory' and I think that Pansy would feel the same. From now on, he'll be known as "Goyle" (his permanent name to 99.9 percent of the population) or "Gregory" to Pansy and his mother.
“What is your hobby, Goyle?” Pansy asked from across the room, her laughter the only thing in the room as the rest of the crowd grew suddenly quiet. “We’ve already figured out that Millicent likes pull the wings off of flies and Tracey collects screams. I want to know what it is that you want most in this world that you’ll work the hardest for.”
She wasn’t expecting him to actually answer her, turning away after giving him only a few seconds to think about her question. Crabbe wasn’t so thoughtful, though, and answered for his friend. “He likes to match his socks,” he said, sounding as if he was truly trying to be helpful.
“What?” Crabbe asked after Pritchard hit him on the back of the head. “He does.”
“And you are an idiot.” Pansy said it without the malice she reserved for Goyle. He seemed to get a special brand of her attitude, which was would have surprised anyone if they had looked closely. Millicent gained Pansy’s bitterness because she seemed to understand the girl in ways that no one else did. Tracey and Daphne both were on the same social standing and it would have been rude to ignore them… besides, they had nice clothes they weren’t averse to sharing for the proper compensation. The boys, on the other hand, were all singularly overlooked as a unit. All except Draco… and Gregory Goyle. The smarter boys didn’t care. They weren’t happy to be on the receiving end of Pansy’s idea of like and tended to gravitate to the other girls who would give them the respect they felt they were due.
All eyes turned back to Goyle as he muttered one word. Many of the girls were twittering behind their hands, rolling their eyes even as they shot their glances between the two at the center of the controversy so they didn’t miss anything.
“What did you say? I couldn’t hear you because you were mumbling. As usual! If you’re going to speak, you might as well shout so as to not take up anymore of our precious time.”
“He said ‘you,’” Crabbe offered, completely forgetting that he’d just be chastised for being helpful.
This time, Pansy took the time to get up from the couch and to walk over to Crabbe, hitting him herself. “Don’t talk to me again.”
When she turned to look at Goyle, there was no one to oversee the expression on her face except a portrait of Theopoles Wilkes, a dozing old man who didn’t seem to do anything but sleep and fart. “Tell me what you said.”
It wasn’t a habit of the Slytherin House to crowd around each other, vying for the best vantage point to reap the gossip mills that fueled some of the houses. They were of a sort that had been taught early on to listen carefully and never repeat what was said for fear of reparation. One-upmanship was at a premium in the dungeon. Because of this, no one heard what Goyle said to Pansy. Some believed he really had said what Crabbe still steadfastly claimed he did. Others figured he must have said something like ‘stew’, which they had that night for dinner, which left many of them to wonder if Master Goyle wasn’t a seer.
It was interesting to watch Pansy’s reaction, though. Daphne swore, later at dinner, that Pansy had still been white as she was when she’d finally turned away from the boy and walked to their suite of rooms. Pritchard wondered for days if he’s actually heard Pansy whisper something back to Goyle, but he was a smart boy and decided to forget the entire incident. It seemed wrong, he thought, for a Slytherin to have something as urbane as a hobby, anyway.
Goyle saw Pansy’s face and he had to force himself not to smile. The shock was being steadily overrun by a kind of awe that meant that she was being worn down. Slowly, but surely. “Thank you, Gregory.”
As a hobby, Pansy Parkinson was the best part of his day.