With perfect timing, my laptop Sidney has gone pretty much on the blink: I can get about fifteen minutes out of him before he decides to shut down. Then if I give him eight hours or so, I can get another fifteen minutes.
A short story and creative commentary that make up 50% of my Creative Writing module mark have to be in on Thursday. Had I finished editing? Had I fuck.
I am completely broke until tomorrow, when yay cash! So it will be Monday before I can even take Sidney to the computer place to get him looked at. I hope to God he gets less sensitive, or that it’s something the guy can take care of in ten minutes, laughing heartily at how silly I was not to realise.
Okay, ranting over! Am going to post this. Mostly because I was going to finally
finish and post somebody’s birthday fic over last night and today, and I’m bitter I couldn’t. I’m pretty proud of this, though.Title:
Pansy is sent to Azkaban for treason.Warnings:
The boys and girls belong to JKR, even though I’m often much nicer to them than she is.Author’s Notes:
This was written for this week’s sortinghatdrabs
; the pairing was Harry/Pansy, and the prompt was for what it’s worth
. I won Mod’s Choice for the first time! *\o/*
Pansy flinched. The tiny movement made the chains clink, and made Harry’s stomach drop.
He’d never liked Pansy Parkinson. But she hadn’t done
anything, not really. And it took its own kind of nerve, to stand up in Hogwarts’ Great Hall, surrounded by people who thought he was a saviour, and say they should hand him over.
Now she’d been convicted of treason – the all-purpose charge for colluders. She’d spend her young adulthood behind bars.
She had grey eyes, and black hair, and a scornful look. She reminded him of Sirius.
The newly human guards led her out. Harry leapt up, and pushed through the crowd of journalists wanting a quote. The corridor was empty but for Pansy and her escort.
She turned, and he saw the half-frantic light in her face fade when she realised it was him.
“For what it’s worth... I am sorry.” The scornful way she looked at him made it feel like a lie.
At last she nodded, her red mouth pursed. “I’m not.”
Harry had half-forgotten Pansy Parkinson. When he first saw her standing in the Ministry atrium he did a double-take, trying to work out if it was really her.
She was wearing a thick fur coat. It went only to her waist, with sleeves to her elbows, and exposed how thin she was now. She was curling her lipsticked mouth at the receptionist.
There was something glorious about Pansy, the hollow cheeks and shadowed eyes and too-thin wrists; it was in the way she made all of it, from the shorn hair to the slightly brittle walk that characterised anyone whose joints had spent six years in Azkaban, look natural. Look more than natural: look magnificent.
As if she’d put it all on, just part of the dark glamour that surrounded her, closer to her skin than the fur coat.
He was walking towards her before he knew what he was doing. “Pansy.”
She turned, and black, soundless rage filled her eyes. “Potter. You do not have permission to call me by my given name.”
“I’m – sorry.”
“I’m not,” she half-hissed. “I’m not
. You know what, Potter? I’d do it again.”
“Erm – ”
“I keep getting told about rehabilitation. Help to become a better person. Perhaps I don’t need
that help.” Her eyes were spitting fire, her neck taut with anger, and Harry had no idea what to do. “I made the decision that the lives of two hundred children mattered more than pretending you could win. I was not in possession of all the facts, and – who could’ve known you’d win? And if you hadn’t, who would have said I was wrong?”
Her voice was controlled, but the words spilled out like she’d been waiting seven years to say them.
Harry didn’t say you’re beautiful when you’re angry
, but he wanted to.