Overreaction
Title: Overreaction
Recipient: heartsignite
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Harry/Pansy
Prompt/Request: a heated argument, flying
Rating: PG
Word Count: 602
Summary: Parkinson was fast on a broom-freakishly fast, in fact, and scary.
Author's Notes: for the rarepair_shorts wishlist event. Beta'd by captainpookey.
Overreaction
Parkinson was fast on a broom-freakishly fast, in fact, and scary. Harry was faster, what with having a Firebolt and more flying experience over all, but that did not disguise the fact that she was starting to catch up.
Girly, probably-afraid-of-a-Quaffle Parkinson was fast.
Of course, Harry might have had to slow down a bit to avoid the things she was throwing at him with her wand-the burning piano had been a particularly disconcerting obstacle. But really, he hadn’t expected her to react so violently when he had insulted Malfoy after Quidditch practice-and it hadn’t been his fault, exactly, that Gryffindor and Slytherin had ended up booking the pitch on the same day. But honestly, how could anyone have imagined that she would snatch Malfoy’s broom right out of his unsuspecting hands, hop upon it with ease, and then charge at Harry-who had just barely escaped, thank-you-very-much-like a madwoman?
And now they were up, high above the pitch amidst the stormy clouds, and Harry was practically running for his life-it was not as though he could physically retaliate; she was still a girl, after all, even if she was Parkinson.
“Come back and face me, Potter!” she screeched. Harry allowed himself a glance back at her and grimaced; her hair was waving about wildly in the wind, and she held, at the present, an uncanny resemblance to Bellatrix Lestrange.
Cackling madly, she shot a very befuddled raccoon at his head. Instead of hitting its intended target, it sank its claws into the tail of Harry’s broom and hung on for dear life. Harry spared it an apologetic look, which it countered with a glare, as if to say it knew just whose fault it was that they were in this predicament.
This made Parkinson laugh even harder.
In fact, it even made her drop her wand.
“My-” She watched, dismayed, as it fell, twirling through the air, until it passed through a cloud and could be seen no longer.
Harry ignored it, and instead, uneasily regarded the brewing storm above them, which he had only just noticed. Frowning after a while, he circled back to where Parkinson was, her arms crossed stubbornly.
“What, you come back now, when I’m defenseless?” she pouted. “Some Gryffindor you are!”
She eyed him carefully, however, just in case he was that kind of Gryffindor.
“We ought to go back down,” he called out above the wind. He flew closer until their brooms were nearly side-by-side-though not quite, of course, just in case she decided to turn and run him through. “It’s dangerous up here.”
Parkinson scoffed. “You’re afraid of a little danger, now? Salazar’s socks, Potter, you really are patheti-”
Her insult was cut off by the loud clap of thunder that suddenly resounded throughout the sky.
Shrieking in fear, Parkinson flailed about until her arms were wrapped very firmly around Harry’s middle.
“Er…” he said, once the thunder quieted.
She did not seem to realize what she was doing for several minutes.
And then, giving a cry of disgust, she promptly slapped him across the face. “Don’t touch me!” she snarled.
Harry looked at her, rather dumbfounded.
She adjusted herself primly on her broom. “I’m going back down before I get killed,” she informed him, ignoring the fact that he had just suggested that very thing. “Feel free to stay up here.”
And with that, she pointed the nose of her broom downward and shot toward the ground.
Fast. Freakishly fast.
Parkinson, Harry decided as he exchanged a meaningful look with the raccoon, was utterly mental.
THE END
Recipient: heartsignite
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Harry/Pansy
Prompt/Request: a heated argument, flying
Rating: PG
Word Count: 602
Summary: Parkinson was fast on a broom-freakishly fast, in fact, and scary.
Author's Notes: for the rarepair_shorts wishlist event. Beta'd by captainpookey.
Overreaction
Parkinson was fast on a broom-freakishly fast, in fact, and scary. Harry was faster, what with having a Firebolt and more flying experience over all, but that did not disguise the fact that she was starting to catch up.
Girly, probably-afraid-of-a-Quaffle Parkinson was fast.
Of course, Harry might have had to slow down a bit to avoid the things she was throwing at him with her wand-the burning piano had been a particularly disconcerting obstacle. But really, he hadn’t expected her to react so violently when he had insulted Malfoy after Quidditch practice-and it hadn’t been his fault, exactly, that Gryffindor and Slytherin had ended up booking the pitch on the same day. But honestly, how could anyone have imagined that she would snatch Malfoy’s broom right out of his unsuspecting hands, hop upon it with ease, and then charge at Harry-who had just barely escaped, thank-you-very-much-like a madwoman?
And now they were up, high above the pitch amidst the stormy clouds, and Harry was practically running for his life-it was not as though he could physically retaliate; she was still a girl, after all, even if she was Parkinson.
“Come back and face me, Potter!” she screeched. Harry allowed himself a glance back at her and grimaced; her hair was waving about wildly in the wind, and she held, at the present, an uncanny resemblance to Bellatrix Lestrange.
Cackling madly, she shot a very befuddled raccoon at his head. Instead of hitting its intended target, it sank its claws into the tail of Harry’s broom and hung on for dear life. Harry spared it an apologetic look, which it countered with a glare, as if to say it knew just whose fault it was that they were in this predicament.
This made Parkinson laugh even harder.
In fact, it even made her drop her wand.
“My-” She watched, dismayed, as it fell, twirling through the air, until it passed through a cloud and could be seen no longer.
Harry ignored it, and instead, uneasily regarded the brewing storm above them, which he had only just noticed. Frowning after a while, he circled back to where Parkinson was, her arms crossed stubbornly.
“What, you come back now, when I’m defenseless?” she pouted. “Some Gryffindor you are!”
She eyed him carefully, however, just in case he was that kind of Gryffindor.
“We ought to go back down,” he called out above the wind. He flew closer until their brooms were nearly side-by-side-though not quite, of course, just in case she decided to turn and run him through. “It’s dangerous up here.”
Parkinson scoffed. “You’re afraid of a little danger, now? Salazar’s socks, Potter, you really are patheti-”
Her insult was cut off by the loud clap of thunder that suddenly resounded throughout the sky.
Shrieking in fear, Parkinson flailed about until her arms were wrapped very firmly around Harry’s middle.
“Er…” he said, once the thunder quieted.
She did not seem to realize what she was doing for several minutes.
And then, giving a cry of disgust, she promptly slapped him across the face. “Don’t touch me!” she snarled.
Harry looked at her, rather dumbfounded.
She adjusted herself primly on her broom. “I’m going back down before I get killed,” she informed him, ignoring the fact that he had just suggested that very thing. “Feel free to stay up here.”
And with that, she pointed the nose of her broom downward and shot toward the ground.
Fast. Freakishly fast.
Parkinson, Harry decided as he exchanged a meaningful look with the raccoon, was utterly mental.
THE END