Disclaimer: I don't Harry Potter, or anything that may, in some distant way, be related. All characters are copyright the fabulous J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury Publishing and, I'm sorry to say, I don't own them.
Summary: Obscure, post-HBP drabble focusing on Pansy. Essentially DP. Rated for minute sexual innuendo.
A/N – As I all of the sudden had a craving to look at Pansy's thoughts and behaviour after dear old Draco runs off with Snapey, this came to be. Considering it was sporadic, I really do like the way it turned out. Sad, short… Lauren liked this, and so I dedicate it to her.
Maybe a Draco companion piece is needed…
Enjoy!
Started: Study; 10.28.05
Finished: Psychology; 10.29.05
She
Sometimes she's sad. Sometimes she likes to put her lips on the boys' skin and feel the stretch of unspoiled sanctity. Sometimes this little act feels holy and it makes her shiver in the dark.
The boys don't ask what's wrong and it makes her smile.
Sometimes she misses him. Most of the time she doesn't but sometimes when the sun rises and spills blood across her bed she remembers and her heart races and she bites her lip while she waits for the moment to pass. But then the blood on her lip reminds her all over again. She tries to sleep through sunrise in the downstairs armchair with the heavy drapes pulled tight, shut tight. Or else she sleeps with candles lit and the flames flicker and dance and skew the shadows on the sheets. She knows there's nothing hiding and harsh light proves her hypothesis.
But still she misses him. Sometimes.
And when it rains she's alive. She laughs and catches the rain in bell jars and lies in the mud in her underwear. Then she raises her arms above her head and her sister doesn't scold anymore because everyone knows it doesn't last. The sun comes up again and Pansy runs by with streaky, dirt-caked legs.
She cries over the boys' skin and remembers until morning when she wishes she could forget…
His legs twined among the sheets. His head buried beneath her pillow. His eyes, and how they peeked out of the darkness. His eyes, and how she memorized their meanings. His eyes.
And how the light reassured their presence.
And she saw the truth, but only in the dark. She saw his words, and she softly caught the sacrosanct haze in her child-fingers: You don't love me, do you? he would ask, as if the idea itself was fermented impossibility.
And she said no, and she let the words go.
But they were still floating, around and around as she ran her fingers over his cheek and his chest. The wondering and the thought and the only word she should have said, and in the dark they were reminders of her stupidity. They still played on her island bed, and he still fell asleep with his hands in her hair. And during night he still curled into himself and held his marked arm to his chest. And during morning she found his eyes.
So the sun would continue to rise while she would continue to hide. The boys would enter and the boys would leave: the boys would distract her with their unstained skin and their saintly kisses and their hesitant hands.
And sometimes she's sad and sometimes she laughs; sometimes she cries, and sometimes she forgets.
But she always saves him sunlight and searches for his eyes.