Better Be Slytherin
XXIX
Love Is a Laserquest
Don't worry I'm sure that you're still breaking hearts
With the efficiency that only youth can harness
And do you still think love is a laserquest
Or do you take it all more seriously?
I've tried to ask you this in some daydreams that I've had
But you're always busy being make-believe
And do you look into the mirror to remind yourself you're there
Or has someone's goodnight kisses got that covered?
When I'm not being honest I pretend that you were just some lover
Now I can't think of there without thinking of you
I doubt that comes as a surprise
And I can't think of anything to dream about
I can't find anywhere to hide
And when I'm hanging on by the rings around my eyes
And I convince myself I need another
For a minute it gets easier to pretend that you were just some lover
Arctic Monkeys
The shrill sound of Pansy's laughter was ringing in his ears. He'd heard it too much today already, in Potions shrieking with laughter at something Malfoy had whispered to her; in the Great Hall at lunch giggling loudly with her gang of girlfriends; sniggering behind Goyle's back in the dungeons; and now he heard it even more clearly, from the sofas just a few metres away in the common room, while he was actually trying to read.
He decided there really was not another person on earth, or at least in England, more annoying than Pansy Parkinson. Only her name was annoying. Pansy Parkinson. Bouncy. The way she said it, in her shrilly east-London dialect. Ugh.
He was occupying one of the worn-out, dark-green armchairs in the lively common room, reading, naturally. The large, dark-backed book felt comfortable in his lap, making him safe. The velvet of the hard armchair was making him feel nauseous whenever his arms rubbed up against it, however. The common room was dark, the dim green lights hanging low, creating a claustrophobic, caged feeling. His housemates were having a "party", and this on top of everything made him feel choked. He was warm, his palms sweaty even. He wiped his hand over his face, his jaw clenched and mouth twitchy (he couldn't stop it). There was sweat on his upper lip as well, he noticed. Bleeding hell. His housemates gave him a headache. How he had even tried to read up in the common room instead of going down to the dormitory beat him, especially with the likes of Montague and Bletchley around him.
Pansy was on the other side of the Quidditch team, in the sofa, by the fireplace. Laughing. He shuddered, his mouth twitching, his nostrils flaring. He couldn't stop his face moving. He unwillingly let out a grunt and sent Montague and the lot a glare for the hell of it. They were talking too loudly. Malfoy was with her, making her laugh. That was enough to despise him as well. That was right, wasn't it – Malfoy could only flirt with Pansy under the influence of a Butterbeer or mead or two. It was pathetic and immature.
And no, Theodore was not bitter. He had gotten out easily. What he'd ever been thinking the past couple of months was another issue, and not one his mind often lingered on. He had gotten out easily, indeed.
Pansy had Malfoy wrapped around her finger and it was obvious for everyone except for Malfoy himself apparently, given the way he swaggered around the dungeons thinking it was the other way around. Clearly, he had no clue. Theodore was lucky it was not him.
"Get me another, please, will you?" he heard Pansy titter at Malfoy.
"What am I, your House-Elf?" he heard Draco retort in a snarl, but out of the corner of his eyes, Theodore clearly saw how Draco got up anyway, to fetch Pansy another Butterbeer. Tosser.
The Slytherin Quidditch team (Theodore couldn't even be bothered to call them by names, they were all the same anyway, weren't they) were talking about "shagging birds". He found it pathetic how they tried to brag to each other about things he mostly assumed hadn't even been near happening. Crabbe and Goyle sat by not saying anything, he observed. He knew that the only action they ever got was with their right hand over those dirty Playwizard magazines. He wrinkled his nose.
Why was every single one of his housemates such knobheads?
Especially Pansy. It wasn't only the laughing. It was the immaturity as well. If Malfoy hadn't immediately rose and gotten her ruddy Butterbeer, she would've sulked until she got what she wanted. Like a child. Malfoy was the same – two people that immature should never even be near each other. But they didn't know any better, did they – Malfoy wasn't really as clever as he made himself out to be, in Theodore's opinion.
He didn't know what Malfoy saw in her. He could imagine Pansy finding the two of them absolutely perfect together – being Prefects together, writing Weasley is Our King together, joining the Inquisitorial Squad together, bullying together… He supposed they saw themselves as leaders of the Slytherins in their year – counterparts.
It was wrong.
Malfoy was possessive over her – Pansy reckoned he was only "protective" – which was bollocks since she knew very well he was, indeed, possessive, but she didn't mind it. It angered Theodore just as much every time he thought about it.
It was wrong, indeed. They were too similar. Pansy was too high maintance – dramatic, attention-craving, and easily bored – and Draco was too selfish to give her what she wanted. An unbiased and neutral observation told him that this way he himself would be perfect for Pansy. To even her out a little bit. She would be loud while he would be quiet, and he would be clever while she was ignorant. But that was not at all what he wanted.
She was attention-craving, shrieky, loud, cheeky, manipulative, a bully, a gossip; she enjoyed making fellow students' lives miserable; she read Witch Weekly; had the same nasty sense of humour as Malfoy; she wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed either – was she – and her favourite colour was pink. She was everything he utterly despised.
Not to mention the laugh.
Not knowing what he had done, Theodore had rose from the armchair, his book sliding down onto the floor, as he took a step ahead towards Pansy to tell her all of this.
Malfoy reached her before he did, though. He had returned with her Butterbeer and placed a kiss on her lips, sending her a smirk which made her giggle with a smug look on her face. Theodore sat down again. Malfoy would always get there first, wouldn't he?
But Malfoy was absolutely nothing without his father's influence and his fat vault at Gringott's. One of those factors were already falling apart quite badly if he'd heard right.
He sat down again and hastily picked up his book and hid behind it. However, he could not concentrate. Montague and the rest were still talking.
"The only way he'd lure anyone in is by spiking their pumpkin juice, isn't it," Miles Bletchley laughed about horse-teethed Adrian Pucey, to appreciative guffaws from the other boys.
Theodore wondered whether they spoke about him in a similar manner when he was not around. That thought, among other things, made another wave of nausea come over him.
