Simply a bit of fun that didn't stop pestering me until it was written.
Disclaimer: I gain nothing but satisfaction and maybe a few reviews. All recognisable words, characters and ideas belong to their respective owners.
"vitalise"
heaven's all around us if you're looking
but how can you see it if you cry
( cootamundra wattle ; john williamson )
- Pansy P./Aidan L. -
Pansy Parkinson cannot tie shoelaces; she's never needed to learn. Even as an adult she wears buckles or zips, and if laces are absolutely required then a house elf performs the duty. She can organise a ball worthy of royalty, memorise a guest list and even embroider passably well, but she cannot, for the life of her, tie a simple shoelace.
It hasn't been a good day. Pansy is cold, lost, and being threatened with an ominous headache by the space above her left eye.
How she ended up in Kenmare in the first place is something of a mystery, but finding herself with undone laces in the middle of a thoroughfare pushes her over the edge of rationality and into the unkind region of hysteria.
Thus, she does the sensible thing and bursts into tears.
She's always thrown a spectacular tantrum (Draco still bears the scars from when she bit him at the tender age of two and a half for taking her favourite pink and green fwooper toy without asking), and in true Pansy style she collapses to the floor with eyes downcast and her dress robes spreading around her like an emerald crescent moon as she sobs, hands fisted tightly in the fabric.
Most of the people ignore the scene she's making, or pretend to, but it only serves to wrench out more tears because it isn't fair and she doesn't know how to fix it.
"Oh, shut yer caterwaulin', witch," a lilting Irish voice urges plaintively. "You're interruptin' Christmas shoppin'."
She looks up through watery eyes and her snub nose sniffs daintily: the man is lithely built, with dark hair and a neatly trimmed beard that surrounds a handsome mouth. She recognises him immediately and his identity almost shocks the tears right out of her. Aidan Lynch is the starting Seeker for the Irish National Team, star of the Kenmare Kestrels and serial ex-husband; he's a darling of the media. He's just divorced his sixth wife, a strawberry-blonde thing with rather more breast than brains, and has somewhat matronly withdrawn from the public eye of late.
It's something of a surprise to see him squatting beside her, a wry expression on his face as he offers her his hand. She takes it automatically, too stunned to refuse, and lets him pull her up.
"Now," he says, "I don't know who ye are, why yer bawlin' or why in Merlin's name I'm doing this, but let's get you inside for a minute. Ye look positively knackered and it's feckin' cold out here."
He brings her to a bright red door that leads up to the second and third floors and a lovely two storey apartment that must cost a fortune despite being above a shopfront. The furniture in it is strangely warm, most of it wooden, and she feels, oddly enough, like she could be in a ski lodge somewhere in the Swiss Alps, or perhaps in a chalet in France. It doesn't broadcast 'Kenmare, Northern Ireland' at all; nor does it indicate a professional Quidditch player lives there – there's a distinct lack of paraphernalia.
"Aidan," the sportsman introduces himself. "Aidan Lynch."
"So I realised," Pansy mumbles before returning the favour rather more clearly: "I'm Pansy."
He smiles at her and busies himself in the kitchen with the teapot. Pansy numbly watches him brew; her brain hasn't quite caught up with recent happenings and she sits quietly until he deposits a mug of peppercorn tea before her and joins her at the table.
"Care to talk about what had ye on yer knees?" he asks, hooking his ankles around the legs of the chair in a comfortable manner.
"Not particularly," she deflects, staring at her tea with tear-tired eyes.
"Fair enough." He indicates her untouched tea with a point of his finger. "Eh, that's not poison, ye know."
"Wouldn't matter anyway," she informs him loftily. "One can't poison a body that's constantly pumping antidotes through its blood."
"Why on earth would ye need to be using antidotes?" he demands, astounded. "Ye can't be more'n twenty-two."
"And?" she asks icily before retracting it with a heavy sigh. "No, I'm sorry, that was rude. I'm not very popular within certain circles," she hastens to explain, hands curling around her mug. "Not that they'd ever resort to poison, the blasted golden wands. But still, it doesn't hurt to be prepared. They haven't influence over everybody."
"Nay," Lynch agrees, intrigued by this bitter, black haired girl – with a past full of skeletons, he's sure.
She sips her tea in silence and looks around at the furnishings to stop herself from staring at the Quidditch player.
"Yer a curious one, I'll give ye that," he adds after a moment, scratching at his beard. "But how about telling what had ye in tears?"
"What if I offer the reason for the antidotes instead?"
He grins, all conciliation, and she continues.
"Recent unpleasantness aside, I've never been a fan of Potter's; Slytherin and Gryffindor, you see," she explains. "We were the same year, and I spent my seventh at Hogwarts while he was off gallivanting with Bushy and the Weasel." She cocks her head to the side, adopting a look of profound distaste. "I suppose I should stop calling them names now that they're proclaimed heroes of the Wizarding world, but changing habits is so tedious," she sighs. "Anyway, as the battle dawned, the Dark Lord magnified his voice and asked for Potter. All others would go free, if only Potter were delivered to him."
She stares at the tabletop.
"I saw him there, amidst the students, and offered him for sacrifice. Sadly, nobody agreed with me." She grimaces; an ugly look on her, Lynch can't help but think. "So I spent the remainder of the battle in the cellars in Hogsmeade with the younger students," she confesses drily. "A hostile, unenviable experience, I'll freely admit."
"Well," Lynch says, "yer full of surprises."
She hums resentfully.
"You know, it wasn't all fun and games for the Slytherins that year," she feels compelled to add as he finishes off his tea. "People assume that we had no fear at all, no trouble – it wasn't like that."
He doesn't say anything, just lets her continue. Quite astutely he guesses that she hasn't spoken of her seventh year to anybody and he can already see the changes as she unburdens herself.
"The other houses had the support of each other, while we were left alone to fester with our own conflicts. Some of the younger students wanted to join Longbottom and his student army, but they couldn't approach them without all manner of nastiness occurring – from both sides of the fence! Most of the younger ones cried themselves to sleep at night, and the older ones were caught in the middle of everything, not knowing who to talk to, who to trust. Year-mates could barely trust one another, you see, and if seventh years couldn't manage it, how could first years? I mean, we had seven years of mutual understanding, but they'd barely gotten to know each other's names."
She sniffs gently.
"Two of my housemates fought for Potter in the end. I couldn't understand it. They went against their families – against their friends."
A pause.
"Nott was disowned on the battlefield, but his father died there anyway so it came to nothing since a verbal renouncement isn't binding… but still," she trails off. "We were all torn apart that year and nobody seems to care. Nobody ever does care what becomes of the Slytherins. Only old Sluggy was at all concerned." As if a little light bulb has switched on, she suddenly recollects with whom she is speaking and the casual companionship fails instantly.
"Oh, I'm sorry! You didn't want to hear any of that, I'm sure," she apologises, but Lynch interrupts before she can finish.
"Not to worry, my girl," he waives her apology away. "Yer better for havin' it all out in the open."
They fall into a not-quite-comfortable silence, on Pansy's behalf at least, but she only maintains it for a brief moment.
"Still," she murmurs softly as the painfully acute embarrassment washes over her while she contextualises the past half hour (she has burst into tears in public, cried all over an international Quidditch star, disgorged to him her admittedly objectionable history, and fervently bemoaned the lot of Slytherins in the late war and its aftermath). "I'll let myself out now." She hesitates before adding sincerely, "Thank you, though, Aidan – really."
Lynch smiles crookedly at her as he banishes the empty mugs to the sink; she stands hurriedly, grabs her bag, and as she walks towards the door Lynch suddenly realises something.
"Eh! Yer boot laces are undone," he calls out.
She freezes with one hand already on the doorknob.
For a moment nothing happens but then she closes the door firmly and turns, leaving her hands behind her back as she leans against the wood, her eyes downcast. Fashionable dress robes that hang short in the front and long elsewhere reveal a set of unblemished, porcelain legs.
Lynch swallows.
"Are they?" she asks in a voice that somehow manages both childish innocence and feminine wile. She makes no effort to do them herself. Lynch accepts the challenge in her eyes and stalks forward. When he reaches her he drops down, deftly tying each into a neat bow.
"Cheers," she murmurs as he rises. She turns slowly, making to exit, but Lynch is having none of it. He grasps her wrist gently to halt her movement. He looks at her in askance, ever-conscious of the trouble an error of judgement here could cause him, but closes the space between them immediately when nothing but willingness shows in her eyes.
Pansy Parkinson-Lynch still cannot tie shoelaces. She can organise balls and host the Wizarding ton but tying shoelaces remains below her level of attention; between her husband and their house elves it is a skill she can, and does, gladly go without.
End.
She totally just wanted him to do up her shoelaces. Anything else was a welcome bonus.
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