Fic: Foundations
Title: Foundations
Rating: PG 13
Pairing: Harry/Pansy
Summary: She needed reassurance she wasn’t suffering alone and sometimes she thought that maybe he did too.
Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me.
She watches him all the time but he never knows. She watches as he comes back each year after a long summer thin as a bone and she doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
She’s no longer so perfectly certain where her position lies in this hopelessly, complicated war.
There was a time when she believed in the words her parents had diligently drilled into her head as a little girl. There was a time when she would have died for the so-called cause. She would have died for what she believed in, what she thought was right. She still will but now she might be fighting on the other side.
She can’t pinpoint the exact moment when everything began to change - probably because there wasn’t one. It was a gradual process. Like every morning when she opened her eyes, she saw a little bit more. She was a bit more in tune to everything that was happening around her.
She may not be able to identify the precise moment she changed but she knows exactly when her mind was made up. She could pin it down to the last second.
It happened a month ago.
She woke up to hear the soft pitter-patter of raindrops and she sat up in her bed watching silently as they slid down the window in uneven, intricate patterns. She detested the rain. Not because it was dirty or because it messed up her hair but because it reminded her of childhood evenings, long ago locked up in a dingy mansion listening to her parents arguing. She remembers sitting by the window hands covering her ears trying to block out the sound and watching wistfully, longing for the freedom that the outdoors could offer her.
She got a letter at breakfast. It was from her parents full of harsh words. Telling her to pull her grades up and to act more like a young lady among other criticisms. Do this, do that. She could never impress them. She’d learnt that from a young age. Never any congratulations or praise. Never even a silent ‘make me proud.’
She was fed up and just a quick glance around the hall at all the smiling, happy faces further stabbed her in the heart. With a mumbled goodbye at her fellow housemates, she high tailed it out of the hall.
Where to go? She needed a place to cry. A place out of the way of everyone where she could have a full out breakdown. All her jumbled thoughts and feelings had created a chaotic chasm of tangled up signals. It hurt just to breathe. It hurt to cope.
She made her way through the winding corridors absentmindedly. Every now and then, she’d stop, figure out where she was and then carry on dawdling. It was so peaceful, so relaxing she almost forgot who she was and of all the expectations centred on her.
Her foot was wet. She gazed at the floor, which was adorned in a multitude of puddles. Moaning Myrtles bathroom. She smiled. Although not the ideal hangout, it was perfect if you wanted peace and quiet.
She didn’t notice him to begin with. He was hidden from view, his body curled up in a tight ball. His chin tucked above his knees. His head was turned to the side, watching her warily.
She stared back, slightly gob smacked. Her thoughts of sneering out some snide comment or telling him to ‘bugger off, this is a girls bathroom’, quickly evaporated once she took in his red eyes, sore from crying and his painfully defeated posture.
Instead, in a fit of compassion, understanding, she slid her back down the wall and sat beside him. Their knees touched. The hem of their robes intertwined on the floor in a muddle of green, black and red. She paused for a moment, drinking him in. His hair was in its usual mess, a striking contrast with the cool, white of the bathroom walls. His glasses, big, round and ugly had slipped halfway down his nose and on his forehead, a striking red scar set in a jagged line.
She felt her gaze meet his. Startling green eyes gazed at her in a mixture of confusion and appreciation and before she knew it, she grasped his hand in hers, interlinking their fingers and holding on so tight until she thought she might break. He didn’t complain, didn’t say anything, but she felt him reciprocating, holding on for dear life.
It was this simple act of comfort that drew her to the other side, to his side. They never spoke. Never had to. They just held a silent understanding of the world. Nothing's perfect. Not even the facade they had to hold on to each day. Sometimes it just took too much to pretend that everything was all right. She needed reassurance she wasn’t suffering alone and sometimes she thought that maybe he did too.
She still watches him at meal times. He seems so much more relaxed these days like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders. Then again, maybe that’s what she, like everyone else is supposed to see. She’s the only one who’s seen him crack, seen him break down into heart wrenching sobs, the only one that truly understands. The thought makes her selfishly happy. He is hers in the same way that she is his. They belong together in such a deliciously twisted way that no one else can ever, will ever be able to comprehend it. Don’t mistake - it’s not love - never can be but in some respect it’s so much more than that.
‘He has looked into my eyes and seen my soul and I have looked into his heart and seen the crumbling foundations.’
Rating: PG 13
Pairing: Harry/Pansy
Summary: She needed reassurance she wasn’t suffering alone and sometimes she thought that maybe he did too.
Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me.
She watches him all the time but he never knows. She watches as he comes back each year after a long summer thin as a bone and she doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
She’s no longer so perfectly certain where her position lies in this hopelessly, complicated war.
There was a time when she believed in the words her parents had diligently drilled into her head as a little girl. There was a time when she would have died for the so-called cause. She would have died for what she believed in, what she thought was right. She still will but now she might be fighting on the other side.
She can’t pinpoint the exact moment when everything began to change - probably because there wasn’t one. It was a gradual process. Like every morning when she opened her eyes, she saw a little bit more. She was a bit more in tune to everything that was happening around her.
She may not be able to identify the precise moment she changed but she knows exactly when her mind was made up. She could pin it down to the last second.
It happened a month ago.
She woke up to hear the soft pitter-patter of raindrops and she sat up in her bed watching silently as they slid down the window in uneven, intricate patterns. She detested the rain. Not because it was dirty or because it messed up her hair but because it reminded her of childhood evenings, long ago locked up in a dingy mansion listening to her parents arguing. She remembers sitting by the window hands covering her ears trying to block out the sound and watching wistfully, longing for the freedom that the outdoors could offer her.
She got a letter at breakfast. It was from her parents full of harsh words. Telling her to pull her grades up and to act more like a young lady among other criticisms. Do this, do that. She could never impress them. She’d learnt that from a young age. Never any congratulations or praise. Never even a silent ‘make me proud.’
She was fed up and just a quick glance around the hall at all the smiling, happy faces further stabbed her in the heart. With a mumbled goodbye at her fellow housemates, she high tailed it out of the hall.
Where to go? She needed a place to cry. A place out of the way of everyone where she could have a full out breakdown. All her jumbled thoughts and feelings had created a chaotic chasm of tangled up signals. It hurt just to breathe. It hurt to cope.
She made her way through the winding corridors absentmindedly. Every now and then, she’d stop, figure out where she was and then carry on dawdling. It was so peaceful, so relaxing she almost forgot who she was and of all the expectations centred on her.
Her foot was wet. She gazed at the floor, which was adorned in a multitude of puddles. Moaning Myrtles bathroom. She smiled. Although not the ideal hangout, it was perfect if you wanted peace and quiet.
She didn’t notice him to begin with. He was hidden from view, his body curled up in a tight ball. His chin tucked above his knees. His head was turned to the side, watching her warily.
She stared back, slightly gob smacked. Her thoughts of sneering out some snide comment or telling him to ‘bugger off, this is a girls bathroom’, quickly evaporated once she took in his red eyes, sore from crying and his painfully defeated posture.
Instead, in a fit of compassion, understanding, she slid her back down the wall and sat beside him. Their knees touched. The hem of their robes intertwined on the floor in a muddle of green, black and red. She paused for a moment, drinking him in. His hair was in its usual mess, a striking contrast with the cool, white of the bathroom walls. His glasses, big, round and ugly had slipped halfway down his nose and on his forehead, a striking red scar set in a jagged line.
She felt her gaze meet his. Startling green eyes gazed at her in a mixture of confusion and appreciation and before she knew it, she grasped his hand in hers, interlinking their fingers and holding on so tight until she thought she might break. He didn’t complain, didn’t say anything, but she felt him reciprocating, holding on for dear life.
It was this simple act of comfort that drew her to the other side, to his side. They never spoke. Never had to. They just held a silent understanding of the world. Nothing's perfect. Not even the facade they had to hold on to each day. Sometimes it just took too much to pretend that everything was all right. She needed reassurance she wasn’t suffering alone and sometimes she thought that maybe he did too.
She still watches him at meal times. He seems so much more relaxed these days like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders. Then again, maybe that’s what she, like everyone else is supposed to see. She’s the only one who’s seen him crack, seen him break down into heart wrenching sobs, the only one that truly understands. The thought makes her selfishly happy. He is hers in the same way that she is his. They belong together in such a deliciously twisted way that no one else can ever, will ever be able to comprehend it. Don’t mistake - it’s not love - never can be but in some respect it’s so much more than that.
‘He has looked into my eyes and seen my soul and I have looked into his heart and seen the crumbling foundations.’