Fic for purelush
Author: fiery_flamingo
Recipient: purelush
Title: Love Like Lies
Pairing: Seamus/Pansy
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~1200
Summary: After the Second War, Pansy Parkinson has to get creative to make a few galleons. Too bad Seamus Finnigan always seems to be getting in the bloody way.
Author's Notes: I want to thank my lovely for being awesome and a great cheerleader, you're to bee's knees, hun. This was definitely not what I was expecting to write when I got my assignment but the idea wouldn't leave me be. So, I hope you like it, purelush! Enjoy!
In history books, great men and women are often reduced to a single phrase--a slogan that defines them to the reader. No matter what else that person may have said or done otherwise, those words burn brightest on the page.
Queen Elizabeth said, "My body is that of a frail woman, but I have the heat of a man."
Marie Antoinette allegedly declared, "Let them eat cake."
And in the history books, Pansy Parkinson's words are recorded for all succeeding generations to know: "But he's there! Potter's there. Someone grab him!"
~*~
After the war, they took everything that wasn't nailed down. The Ministry gleefully gutted Parkinson Manor, eager to punish someone, anyone, for the war.
Besides, someone needed to pay for all those damages. Why not a Death Eater and his turncoat daughter? It seemed a simple enough answer.
So, while the Daily Prophet rained down accusations of abuse of power at the Ministry, they remained mysteriously silent on the matter of the Parkinson estate.
It took three months for Pansy to realize that they just didn't care.
~*~
Her luck was abysmal that night.
What had first looked to be a promising mark had turned into a bankrupt poseur the more drinks he imbibed, making her entire evening a waste. Pansy cared about only one penniless millionaire, and it certainly wasn't someone who thought paisley was proper evening attire.
Still, it wouldn't be a complete loss; her drinks would be paid for.
"Those are some surprisingly light fingers on such a beautiful woman," a lilted voice declared from her right after she'd extracted herself from the unwanted situation and settled further down the bar.
"Excuse me?" Pansy turned on her stool to give the intruder the full force of her glare.
"That wallet doesn't exactly match yer dress." The sandy-haired Irishman gestured at her black low-cut dress with his drink and quirked at an eyebrow, a knowing glint in his eye.
Pansy sniffed at the man, annoyed to have been caught and called on it so blatantly. "He dropped it, I was just going to catch him to return it."
"Pity you watched him Disapparate then, innnit? I guess you'll just have to give it to the barman for safe-keeping."
"I suppose I shall," Pansy lied.
The Irishman--he looked rather familiar didn't he?--remained, waiting.
"You mean now?" she asked in disbelief.
He shrugged and grinned. "No time like the present, yeah? Else you'll just be carrying it around with ye, clashing with yer dress, and what if ye forgot? You'd be in quite the pickle then."
And so she gave the wallet to the bloody bartender. She'd rather be out of a few galleons than have that man watching her the rest of the evening.
Truly, her luck was wretched.
~*~
It was the easiest thing in the world for Pansy Parkinson to lie.
The basics she learned at her mother's knee. Say yes when you want to say no. Answer right rather than left. Always maintain eye contact. Never admit the lie.
She practiced for seven years in that den of snakes, Slytherin House. Everybody knew but nobody questioned; they were too busy learning the same trade. She refined her pretty little lies until they slipped off her tongue without a moment's thought.
She perfected the skill after the war, turning half-truths on their sides and creating the deepest, sincerest feeling of love in men she'd rather see rot. But with that affection came gold and silver, rubies and diamonds. She took it all, what she snidely called her inheritance, and then like a ghost, she left.
Now, she wouldn't tell the truth even by mistake.
~*~
In the winter of 2000, Pansy went into a bar. She didn't have any particular reason, she convinced herself--just boredom and an urge to relieve men of their sense and cash. It wasn't that the Manor was too large and too cold with no one but the house-elves to keep her company.
She refused to dwell on the Christmas memories from the year before. Her wandering through empty corridors, morose and drunk on her father's forty year old scotch.
If no one else saw, then it never happened, she told herself. The memories fade into grey and Pansy's universe reformed without anyone knowing the difference.
She settled on a stool of the Leaky Cauldron and watched the parade of humanity, looking for that perfect mark.
So, when a sandy-haired libertine brushed against her under the pretense of a drunken stumble and words began to flow like water from his mouth, a mixture of nonsense, charm, and balls, she recognizes the lies he deals so brashly.
And then she recognized him, the Irishman that made her return the wallet, and when he doesn't know her she thought that this might be the best Christmas gift she had ever received.
Then she set herself on making him fall in love with her.
~*~
In his life, Ron Weasley had become accustomed to odd sights. Being a friend to Harry Potter and an Auror instilled a certain jaded sense of the world around you.
Watching Pansy Parkinson and Seamus Finnegan flirt at the bar, however, was a situation his mind was not entirely comfortable with accepting, no matter how many pints he'd had.
He shouldn't have told Seamus who she was, he supposed. At the time he'd thought it'd be the best way to warn his mate off. Unfortunately it seemed to have had the rather opposite effect.
Bloody Irish were all mad, anyway, Ron groused. Seamus probably thought of Pansy as a form of extreme dating.
~*~
She didn't steal anything from him. In the morning, when he woke up, he was surprised to find his wallet and manhood all in the places he left them.
But there was a note in his jacket pocket.
'You owe me, Seamus', it read.
~*~
After that night, he started turning up wherever she was, somehow. She tried to act like it bothers her. Or maybe she tried to act like it didn't. Seamus--and how could it not have been that fool-hearted Gryffindor?--made her confused.
Her best new trick to make a man believe that this could be love was to imagine he's Seamus.
~*~
Seamus knew that he struggled with his emotions. He was quick to laugh, quick to fight. Forgiveness followed accusations as quickly as rain. He lived for the extremes of emotion. Anything in between wasn't worth it.
Pansy didn't believe extremes, she believed in control. She'd been polished smooth and made cold as ice by a world that once exalted her and now wanted nothing more than to grind her to dust. She saw emotion as weakness, something to exploit to her own ends.
Sometimes, Seamus wondered just how many sweet words it would take to chip off that mask, to melt the ice around her heart.
(He's said 2246 so far and there's not even a scratch.)
~*~
"Do you love me?" he asked in the middle of the night. They were in another bar--their entire existence revolved around pubs and bars--and Pansy had grown tired of looking for the right to walk through the door, so she spoke to Seamus.
"Not even in the least," she replied smoothly, letting the words drop like smooth stones because she never told the truth. "I only love a man with money in his pockets."
"Of course, what was I thinking?" he replied, that knowing look in his eye again.
Recipient: purelush
Title: Love Like Lies
Pairing: Seamus/Pansy
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~1200
Summary: After the Second War, Pansy Parkinson has to get creative to make a few galleons. Too bad Seamus Finnigan always seems to be getting in the bloody way.
Author's Notes: I want to thank my lovely for being awesome and a great cheerleader, you're to bee's knees, hun. This was definitely not what I was expecting to write when I got my assignment but the idea wouldn't leave me be. So, I hope you like it, purelush! Enjoy!
In history books, great men and women are often reduced to a single phrase--a slogan that defines them to the reader. No matter what else that person may have said or done otherwise, those words burn brightest on the page.
Queen Elizabeth said, "My body is that of a frail woman, but I have the heat of a man."
Marie Antoinette allegedly declared, "Let them eat cake."
And in the history books, Pansy Parkinson's words are recorded for all succeeding generations to know: "But he's there! Potter's there. Someone grab him!"
~*~
After the war, they took everything that wasn't nailed down. The Ministry gleefully gutted Parkinson Manor, eager to punish someone, anyone, for the war.
Besides, someone needed to pay for all those damages. Why not a Death Eater and his turncoat daughter? It seemed a simple enough answer.
So, while the Daily Prophet rained down accusations of abuse of power at the Ministry, they remained mysteriously silent on the matter of the Parkinson estate.
It took three months for Pansy to realize that they just didn't care.
~*~
Her luck was abysmal that night.
What had first looked to be a promising mark had turned into a bankrupt poseur the more drinks he imbibed, making her entire evening a waste. Pansy cared about only one penniless millionaire, and it certainly wasn't someone who thought paisley was proper evening attire.
Still, it wouldn't be a complete loss; her drinks would be paid for.
"Those are some surprisingly light fingers on such a beautiful woman," a lilted voice declared from her right after she'd extracted herself from the unwanted situation and settled further down the bar.
"Excuse me?" Pansy turned on her stool to give the intruder the full force of her glare.
"That wallet doesn't exactly match yer dress." The sandy-haired Irishman gestured at her black low-cut dress with his drink and quirked at an eyebrow, a knowing glint in his eye.
Pansy sniffed at the man, annoyed to have been caught and called on it so blatantly. "He dropped it, I was just going to catch him to return it."
"Pity you watched him Disapparate then, innnit? I guess you'll just have to give it to the barman for safe-keeping."
"I suppose I shall," Pansy lied.
The Irishman--he looked rather familiar didn't he?--remained, waiting.
"You mean now?" she asked in disbelief.
He shrugged and grinned. "No time like the present, yeah? Else you'll just be carrying it around with ye, clashing with yer dress, and what if ye forgot? You'd be in quite the pickle then."
And so she gave the wallet to the bloody bartender. She'd rather be out of a few galleons than have that man watching her the rest of the evening.
Truly, her luck was wretched.
~*~
It was the easiest thing in the world for Pansy Parkinson to lie.
The basics she learned at her mother's knee. Say yes when you want to say no. Answer right rather than left. Always maintain eye contact. Never admit the lie.
She practiced for seven years in that den of snakes, Slytherin House. Everybody knew but nobody questioned; they were too busy learning the same trade. She refined her pretty little lies until they slipped off her tongue without a moment's thought.
She perfected the skill after the war, turning half-truths on their sides and creating the deepest, sincerest feeling of love in men she'd rather see rot. But with that affection came gold and silver, rubies and diamonds. She took it all, what she snidely called her inheritance, and then like a ghost, she left.
Now, she wouldn't tell the truth even by mistake.
~*~
In the winter of 2000, Pansy went into a bar. She didn't have any particular reason, she convinced herself--just boredom and an urge to relieve men of their sense and cash. It wasn't that the Manor was too large and too cold with no one but the house-elves to keep her company.
She refused to dwell on the Christmas memories from the year before. Her wandering through empty corridors, morose and drunk on her father's forty year old scotch.
If no one else saw, then it never happened, she told herself. The memories fade into grey and Pansy's universe reformed without anyone knowing the difference.
She settled on a stool of the Leaky Cauldron and watched the parade of humanity, looking for that perfect mark.
So, when a sandy-haired libertine brushed against her under the pretense of a drunken stumble and words began to flow like water from his mouth, a mixture of nonsense, charm, and balls, she recognizes the lies he deals so brashly.
And then she recognized him, the Irishman that made her return the wallet, and when he doesn't know her she thought that this might be the best Christmas gift she had ever received.
Then she set herself on making him fall in love with her.
~*~
In his life, Ron Weasley had become accustomed to odd sights. Being a friend to Harry Potter and an Auror instilled a certain jaded sense of the world around you.
Watching Pansy Parkinson and Seamus Finnegan flirt at the bar, however, was a situation his mind was not entirely comfortable with accepting, no matter how many pints he'd had.
He shouldn't have told Seamus who she was, he supposed. At the time he'd thought it'd be the best way to warn his mate off. Unfortunately it seemed to have had the rather opposite effect.
Bloody Irish were all mad, anyway, Ron groused. Seamus probably thought of Pansy as a form of extreme dating.
~*~
She didn't steal anything from him. In the morning, when he woke up, he was surprised to find his wallet and manhood all in the places he left them.
But there was a note in his jacket pocket.
'You owe me, Seamus', it read.
~*~
After that night, he started turning up wherever she was, somehow. She tried to act like it bothers her. Or maybe she tried to act like it didn't. Seamus--and how could it not have been that fool-hearted Gryffindor?--made her confused.
Her best new trick to make a man believe that this could be love was to imagine he's Seamus.
~*~
Seamus knew that he struggled with his emotions. He was quick to laugh, quick to fight. Forgiveness followed accusations as quickly as rain. He lived for the extremes of emotion. Anything in between wasn't worth it.
Pansy didn't believe extremes, she believed in control. She'd been polished smooth and made cold as ice by a world that once exalted her and now wanted nothing more than to grind her to dust. She saw emotion as weakness, something to exploit to her own ends.
Sometimes, Seamus wondered just how many sweet words it would take to chip off that mask, to melt the ice around her heart.
(He's said 2246 so far and there's not even a scratch.)
~*~
"Do you love me?" he asked in the middle of the night. They were in another bar--their entire existence revolved around pubs and bars--and Pansy had grown tired of looking for the right to walk through the door, so she spoke to Seamus.
"Not even in the least," she replied smoothly, letting the words drop like smooth stones because she never told the truth. "I only love a man with money in his pockets."
"Of course, what was I thinking?" he replied, that knowing look in his eye again.