A Gift For the Comm: Awake, (Harry/Pansy)
Author: maraudersaffair
Recipient: The Community
Tile: Awake
Pairing: Pansy/Harry
Rating: T
Word Count: 1600
Summary: Pansy struggles after the war. Harry wants to go with her to Hogsmeade.
Author’s Notes:
I
The morning after the Final Battle Pansy stumbled down to the Slytherin common room. She was covered in dust and blood, her torn socks sliding off her heels in her shoes, her robes shredded at the ends. When she found her bed, she huddled under the covers, making herself as small as possible. Her breath smelled like old tea, her fingernails cracked, stinging, like she’d clawed her way to morning. Grit itched her scalp, her cheeks, but she did nothing to clean herself up. She didn’t deserve a bath. She deserved to be sprawled out in the Great Hall with her throat cut.
II
Pansy did not choose to return to Hogwarts for her eighth year. Her parents chose for her.
She’d spent the summer in bed, and now, standing on the bustling platform, blinking against the weak sunlight, she wondered if she’d died after all. Perhaps this was the afterlife, and it was just taking her soul a long time to figure out the next destination.
She turned. There he was. Everybody gaped at him, and he had the gall to pretend not to notice. She didn’t want to gape like everybody else, but she had never been a strong person. Look at me, she whispered, and then felt terribly stupid.
She climbed on the train and found a seat open next to the window. Draco and Blaise would be around somewhere. She’d find them later.
The train rolled from the station. As it picked up speed, she pressed her face to the glass, watching as the tracks hurled below them. She imagined throwing herself from the window. Maybe if she timed it right, she’d jump when the train hit a curve and land in the middle of the tracks with only a second to spare before the roaring beast bowled over her.
III
Back at Hogwarts she dreamed of the Carrows Crucioing students who whispered in class. She dreamed of the Dark Lord prowling the corridors, using children as puppets to murder and maim, while Dumbledore and Snape watched silently.
Mostly she dreamed of him. She found herself in the Great Hall, pointing her finger into his beautiful face, yelling, “There he is! Let’s kill him!” Sometimes he’d laugh at her. Sometimes he’d draw his wand. Always she woke up ashamed.
Then one day in Potions he spoke to her.
“You’ve got the wrong seeds there.” He reached above her head. She smelled his cologne. “You want some Tallum, not Tillyworm.” He dropped the bottle into her hand.
“Thank you,” she said, unable to look at him. Before she would’ve sneered at him, maybe whispered Potter Stinks under her breath to see if it still riled him up. But now her thoughts slipped away, like a necklace snapping from her neck, all the beads escaping her fumbling hands.
When she figured out what to say next, he’d gone back to his cauldron.
IV
Her dreams changed after that. She still dreamed of him, but they were rarely in the Great Hall. They were in the prefects’ bathroom, the Quidditch locker rooms, her childhood bed. He was above her, inside her, grunting through his pleasure. She was never herself. She was Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger, Cho Chang. She was beautiful and tall, and everything he would ever want. She lured him into dark alcoves with a heated look, a lick across her pouty mouth, a shake of her short, short skirt.
In daytime she skipped baths. She wore the same robes over and over. She wore her pointed hat to hide the tangles in her hair.
When she did bathe, she stood under the falling water with her fingers in her ears, desperate to escape the silence. The tiled walls closed in on her, her lungs unable to hold breath. She thought: I’m dead, I’m dead. She was a ghost. She was invisible. The tide was at her nose and she was sinking fast.
V
“One always needs help when attempting the impossible,” Professor Slughorn said, and paired them off for their Potions exam.
Pansy was paired with him. She stared into their cauldron, wringing her hands. He would have to speak first.
“I’m still pants at Potions,” he said, a smile in his voice. “I really have no idea what I’m doing in this class.”
She wanted to shower him in compliments, reassurances. She wanted to make him laugh. Instead she said, “Everyone expects you to do well.”
“I know,” he said, and sighed. “I’ll fetch the ingredients.”
They worked in silence until he nicked his finger cutting up some Ashwinder Egg. He cursed and fumbled for his wand.
“Let me,” she said quietly. She examined his finger. She wanted to lick away the blood. She gently healed the cut, his gaze like a heat on her face. She was sweating under a spotlight.
“Thank you,” he said.
VI
Pansy looked into the mirror more after that. She combed her hair. She remembered to bathe. It wasn’t for him. It was for the girl in the mirror. There was hope in her eyes now, her mouth softened up, color dotting her cheeks. She was awake.
VII
Their potion progressed well, largely thanks to Pansy. She watched the way he chopped ingredients, how he stirred with his wand. He was careless, distracted. She rolled her eyes and smiled a little.
“You gotta do better, Potter,” she said.
“I’m trying, Parkinson,” he muttered, frowning into their cauldron.
Potter and Parkinson. She liked the sound of it.
“Your stirring needs to be more precise. Pick a direction and show the potion that you mean business.” She covered his hand with hers, swiftly stirring the potion clockwise.
He’d tensed next to her. He moved a bit closer and she sensed he wanted to say something.
“Yes?” she said, smirking.
“There’s a Hogsmeade visit coming up.” He hesitated. “Would you like to go with me?”
“What about Ginny Weasley?”
“What about her?”
She scoffed. “Forget about it.” She tried to turn away but he touched her arm.
“We’re over,” he said. “I’m sorry . . . I’m not very good at this. I didn’t realize what you were asking.”
“You’re not good at what, exactly?” Her heart raced. She straightened her back.
“Err . . . asking girls out?” He laughed weakly.
She narrowed her eyes. “Are you a moron?”
“What? Why?” His gaze searched her face.
“I can’t go to Hogsmeade with you!” She glanced in Draco’s direction. “What will people think?”
“Oh.” His voice grew icy. “I understand now.”
They finished up the class in awkward silence. She didn’t look at him, but his hostility made her burn up. She was sweating under her robes, her upper lip salty.
When Professor Slughorn dismissed them, Pansy grabbed his arm. “Wait.”
He frowned at her. “What?”
She swallowed. “Okay. I will go with you.”
He pulled his arm away. “Forget about it.” He left the classroom.
Draco caught her gaze. Yikes, he mouthed, and laughed. She flushed.
VIII
That night she was asleep in bed when she opened her eyes and laughed: Harry Potter asked me out. She rolled over and pressed her face to her pillow. She failed to muffle her hysterical laughter, and Millie sent a stinging hex her way.
“Fuck off, Parks,” Millie said sleepily.
No, Pansy thought, struggling for breath. She stumbled from bed and went to the common room. The fire was low in the hearth, the green lake pressing against the windows. She fell into one of the chairs, still shaking with laughter.
“What’s funny?”
She startled. Potter’s head floated over the sofa. She blinked. She was hallucinating.
He glanced down. “Oh, sorry.” He pulled his famous cloak from his shoulders, revealing the rest of his body. He grinned at her almost shyly.
“How did you get in here?” she asked.
“I have my ways.” He shrugged.
Her eyes narrowed. “I’m sure some first year let you in.”
“Maybe.” He glanced down at his hands. “I just wanted to see what it looked like.”
Something in her chest deflated. She did her best to control her expression.
Somehow, he must’ve sensed her disappointment. He took a deep breath and mumbled, “I was a prat today. I just . . . wanted you to know that.” He watched her closely, waiting for her to bite back.
“Oh,” she said softly. His vulnerability stunned her.
“I was a prat about the Hogsmeade thing.”
“Yes, I got it. I’m not an idiot.”
“I do want to go with you.” He rubbed the back of his neck. His face had taken on color, and she was astonished, utterly astonished.
She scowled. She didn’t want to show him how much he affected her. She didn’t want to even admit it to herself.
“Yes, let’s go together, but don’t be surprised if it upsets some people,” she said.
He laughed. “I don’t care what people think.”
“You don’t have to.” She stood. “I’m going back to bed now. Are you just going to stay here?”
“Yes.” He was smiling widely, and his eyes, his eyes-
She turned and ventured back to her bed. She was shaking a little. Under the covers, she fell quickly asleep. She dreamed she was on a train. She was going somewhere warm. Bright sunlight filled the cabin; she was alone but she had purpose, confidence, direction. She had made it to shore and the sand was hot against her shoulders.
Recipient: The Community
Tile: Awake
Pairing: Pansy/Harry
Rating: T
Word Count: 1600
Summary: Pansy struggles after the war. Harry wants to go with her to Hogsmeade.
Author’s Notes:
I
The morning after the Final Battle Pansy stumbled down to the Slytherin common room. She was covered in dust and blood, her torn socks sliding off her heels in her shoes, her robes shredded at the ends. When she found her bed, she huddled under the covers, making herself as small as possible. Her breath smelled like old tea, her fingernails cracked, stinging, like she’d clawed her way to morning. Grit itched her scalp, her cheeks, but she did nothing to clean herself up. She didn’t deserve a bath. She deserved to be sprawled out in the Great Hall with her throat cut.
II
Pansy did not choose to return to Hogwarts for her eighth year. Her parents chose for her.
She’d spent the summer in bed, and now, standing on the bustling platform, blinking against the weak sunlight, she wondered if she’d died after all. Perhaps this was the afterlife, and it was just taking her soul a long time to figure out the next destination.
She turned. There he was. Everybody gaped at him, and he had the gall to pretend not to notice. She didn’t want to gape like everybody else, but she had never been a strong person. Look at me, she whispered, and then felt terribly stupid.
She climbed on the train and found a seat open next to the window. Draco and Blaise would be around somewhere. She’d find them later.
The train rolled from the station. As it picked up speed, she pressed her face to the glass, watching as the tracks hurled below them. She imagined throwing herself from the window. Maybe if she timed it right, she’d jump when the train hit a curve and land in the middle of the tracks with only a second to spare before the roaring beast bowled over her.
III
Back at Hogwarts she dreamed of the Carrows Crucioing students who whispered in class. She dreamed of the Dark Lord prowling the corridors, using children as puppets to murder and maim, while Dumbledore and Snape watched silently.
Mostly she dreamed of him. She found herself in the Great Hall, pointing her finger into his beautiful face, yelling, “There he is! Let’s kill him!” Sometimes he’d laugh at her. Sometimes he’d draw his wand. Always she woke up ashamed.
Then one day in Potions he spoke to her.
“You’ve got the wrong seeds there.” He reached above her head. She smelled his cologne. “You want some Tallum, not Tillyworm.” He dropped the bottle into her hand.
“Thank you,” she said, unable to look at him. Before she would’ve sneered at him, maybe whispered Potter Stinks under her breath to see if it still riled him up. But now her thoughts slipped away, like a necklace snapping from her neck, all the beads escaping her fumbling hands.
When she figured out what to say next, he’d gone back to his cauldron.
IV
Her dreams changed after that. She still dreamed of him, but they were rarely in the Great Hall. They were in the prefects’ bathroom, the Quidditch locker rooms, her childhood bed. He was above her, inside her, grunting through his pleasure. She was never herself. She was Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger, Cho Chang. She was beautiful and tall, and everything he would ever want. She lured him into dark alcoves with a heated look, a lick across her pouty mouth, a shake of her short, short skirt.
In daytime she skipped baths. She wore the same robes over and over. She wore her pointed hat to hide the tangles in her hair.
When she did bathe, she stood under the falling water with her fingers in her ears, desperate to escape the silence. The tiled walls closed in on her, her lungs unable to hold breath. She thought: I’m dead, I’m dead. She was a ghost. She was invisible. The tide was at her nose and she was sinking fast.
V
“One always needs help when attempting the impossible,” Professor Slughorn said, and paired them off for their Potions exam.
Pansy was paired with him. She stared into their cauldron, wringing her hands. He would have to speak first.
“I’m still pants at Potions,” he said, a smile in his voice. “I really have no idea what I’m doing in this class.”
She wanted to shower him in compliments, reassurances. She wanted to make him laugh. Instead she said, “Everyone expects you to do well.”
“I know,” he said, and sighed. “I’ll fetch the ingredients.”
They worked in silence until he nicked his finger cutting up some Ashwinder Egg. He cursed and fumbled for his wand.
“Let me,” she said quietly. She examined his finger. She wanted to lick away the blood. She gently healed the cut, his gaze like a heat on her face. She was sweating under a spotlight.
“Thank you,” he said.
VI
Pansy looked into the mirror more after that. She combed her hair. She remembered to bathe. It wasn’t for him. It was for the girl in the mirror. There was hope in her eyes now, her mouth softened up, color dotting her cheeks. She was awake.
VII
Their potion progressed well, largely thanks to Pansy. She watched the way he chopped ingredients, how he stirred with his wand. He was careless, distracted. She rolled her eyes and smiled a little.
“You gotta do better, Potter,” she said.
“I’m trying, Parkinson,” he muttered, frowning into their cauldron.
Potter and Parkinson. She liked the sound of it.
“Your stirring needs to be more precise. Pick a direction and show the potion that you mean business.” She covered his hand with hers, swiftly stirring the potion clockwise.
He’d tensed next to her. He moved a bit closer and she sensed he wanted to say something.
“Yes?” she said, smirking.
“There’s a Hogsmeade visit coming up.” He hesitated. “Would you like to go with me?”
“What about Ginny Weasley?”
“What about her?”
She scoffed. “Forget about it.” She tried to turn away but he touched her arm.
“We’re over,” he said. “I’m sorry . . . I’m not very good at this. I didn’t realize what you were asking.”
“You’re not good at what, exactly?” Her heart raced. She straightened her back.
“Err . . . asking girls out?” He laughed weakly.
She narrowed her eyes. “Are you a moron?”
“What? Why?” His gaze searched her face.
“I can’t go to Hogsmeade with you!” She glanced in Draco’s direction. “What will people think?”
“Oh.” His voice grew icy. “I understand now.”
They finished up the class in awkward silence. She didn’t look at him, but his hostility made her burn up. She was sweating under her robes, her upper lip salty.
When Professor Slughorn dismissed them, Pansy grabbed his arm. “Wait.”
He frowned at her. “What?”
She swallowed. “Okay. I will go with you.”
He pulled his arm away. “Forget about it.” He left the classroom.
Draco caught her gaze. Yikes, he mouthed, and laughed. She flushed.
VIII
That night she was asleep in bed when she opened her eyes and laughed: Harry Potter asked me out. She rolled over and pressed her face to her pillow. She failed to muffle her hysterical laughter, and Millie sent a stinging hex her way.
“Fuck off, Parks,” Millie said sleepily.
No, Pansy thought, struggling for breath. She stumbled from bed and went to the common room. The fire was low in the hearth, the green lake pressing against the windows. She fell into one of the chairs, still shaking with laughter.
“What’s funny?”
She startled. Potter’s head floated over the sofa. She blinked. She was hallucinating.
He glanced down. “Oh, sorry.” He pulled his famous cloak from his shoulders, revealing the rest of his body. He grinned at her almost shyly.
“How did you get in here?” she asked.
“I have my ways.” He shrugged.
Her eyes narrowed. “I’m sure some first year let you in.”
“Maybe.” He glanced down at his hands. “I just wanted to see what it looked like.”
Something in her chest deflated. She did her best to control her expression.
Somehow, he must’ve sensed her disappointment. He took a deep breath and mumbled, “I was a prat today. I just . . . wanted you to know that.” He watched her closely, waiting for her to bite back.
“Oh,” she said softly. His vulnerability stunned her.
“I was a prat about the Hogsmeade thing.”
“Yes, I got it. I’m not an idiot.”
“I do want to go with you.” He rubbed the back of his neck. His face had taken on color, and she was astonished, utterly astonished.
She scowled. She didn’t want to show him how much he affected her. She didn’t want to even admit it to herself.
“Yes, let’s go together, but don’t be surprised if it upsets some people,” she said.
He laughed. “I don’t care what people think.”
“You don’t have to.” She stood. “I’m going back to bed now. Are you just going to stay here?”
“Yes.” He was smiling widely, and his eyes, his eyes-
She turned and ventured back to her bed. She was shaking a little. Under the covers, she fell quickly asleep. She dreamed she was on a train. She was going somewhere warm. Bright sunlight filled the cabin; she was alone but she had purpose, confidence, direction. She had made it to shore and the sand was hot against her shoulders.