'Now get this
London calling, yeah, I was there, too
An' you know what they said? Well, some of it was true!
London calling at the top of the dial
After all this, won't you give me a smile?'
~ London Calling sung by the Clash
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Flint. Malfoy. Parkinson.
And you never do forget your little friends as you grow up to be big and famous.
And you never quite forget the feeling of playing quidditch on the greens, burping 'till you puked, and spilling vodka on the cement. Eating warm toast on breezy mornings, swimming in the lake everyone swore was too cold for words. Growing old. Growing up.
And they go on with these lives, set for them in stone--or was it gold? And they grow old and get 'way from Hogwarts and they never quite manage to live in the countryside or make it big in quidditch like they swore. They never really grow up; they just put on the roles. Fancy clothing, long last names, big manors.
They resent the fakeness and love the benefits.
Two young men and one little girl.
Flint. Malfoy. Parkinson.
Flint was much older than the two others and graduated late in '95. Those were his little brother and sister. And he always told them gruffly and harshly: "You two will get married someday, do you know?" And they always grimaced and fell upon the floor laughing, and Malfoy had to catch her. Married? But they were so young then. And Flint was always silly and heartless. But he had this phrase--and he used it all the time, usually during supper when the Gryffindors would act out: "You know, children," he'd say, "you're good kids. And I quite like the both of you. And when I get out of this stupid place you let 'em know us three were tight, won't you?" The two young ones nodded solemnly and went back to buttered muffins and tomato soup. Flint watched them with a childish expression on his face.
And they were tight.
And they would let the world know.
There was a girlish glee that followed Parkinson wherever she went. A scent of vanilla and a nailpolish bottle of dark green "for the quidditch games" she always stated. There was a high-pitched voice and a: "But I do love you, Malfoy!" And a fake kiss upon the cheek. And she wasn't shallow, really, just misguided and just slightly over the top. And I'm sure the rum didn't help as she was obsessed by the ripe age of thirteen. Living had made her tough and they had made her tougher.
You had to be tough to hang with Flint and Malfoy, as they were both callous and awfully disappointing. And you also had to deal with that. Did they leave her in tears sometimes? Yes. Did they tough her up a bit? Yes. Were the generally good and caring to her? Of course. She was the love of their lives, without being the love of their lives. No one with any brains could put up with Parkinson for a lifetime.
And you had to remember Parkinson. Because she simply wouldn't allow you to forget her.
But Malfoy, Malfoy wanted people to forget him. He was silly that way. And Parkinson, for she was young 'way back when and it's all too easy to remember, always told him firmly: "I shall never forget you. And partly because when I grow up I'll say: 'Ha Malfoy! I still remember you!' And I win...and I win..." He grew up with a chip on his shoulder, and don't ask him why. Psychologists ponder about it, everyone does, but no one knows the true story. He was loved, not like you or I but like his own kind loved. And they lied sometimes, and told awful stories of dragons and they didn't hug or kiss or smile pleasantly. And they were one with their kind--and it was the way it was supposed to be.
But it still hurt sometimes. And she commiserated, not well, granted but well enough for one to get by on her frank comments. "I look at it like this, Malfoy. You'd be a fool to act as though this sort of thing can break you, you know. It can't break you, Malfoy. Not like other things can--not like having your heart broken." And he knew, although rather secretly she was speaking of the two of them and not totally noticing.
And she was so young, way back when.
Flint always had rum in his pumpkin juice. He affectionately named the concoction his: "All Hallow's Eve drink" and Malfoy called it "appalling" but drank it anyway, for the novelty and Parkinson called it "'pum 'rum" and drank it because that was the thing to do in the '90's. And they all drank it, and they always got silly after they had drank just enough to get them drunk and not enough to keep them sober. Parkinson's voice got higher and she collapsed in a chair near the fire and Flint carried her up to bed 'round morning-ish. He tucked her in and kissed her dark hair. "Night, little one." Then he went back down the stairs and partied with Malfoy until they both puked at least thrice times and both had started spilling secrets about their love lives.
And they were just like old friends near the end.
There were fights, sometimes. And Flint always had to watch his fist because Malfoy was still a child to him. And didn't you know you weren't supposed to start a fight with someone that much older? Parkinson stood by fearfully for she had seen combat before and she bit her bottom lip and whispered to herself: "Hush," she said to herself, "they can't really hurt each other."
And they did quite a bit. And Flint always felt bad afterward--and don't ask him why--he won't know and Malfoy always ended up having a bloody nose and a black eye. So she spoke to both quietly and kissed Malfoy's cheek and Flint's nose and commented: "Don't be careful with him Flint. He's much tougher than he looks. He only plays weak, really. And isn't it so much easier that way?" Flint nodded and glared over at the little Malfoy. "If it's anything to you, Parkinson, that kid's broken inside already."
"No," she whispered, "not broken...not yet. You'd be surprised, Flint. Dray and I--we're made of the same blood and we can go on so much longer than you expect. He's like bloody ice, Flint. And, and I am too. Malfoy knows pain, he doesn't know hurt, there's a difference."
"Right," Flint said walking over to Malfoy. "And you really think that's true? And for what it's worth, Parkinson, perhaps you're broken too."
And perhaps she was.
During the warm summer's they'd rarely owl each other. Flint got angry at how long it took Malfoy to owl him back and he got angry about how Parkinson's writing was barely legible. Malfoy insisted he was 'busy' and Parkinson said she'd be with a boy for the most part.
Malfoy always hated this. He had never trusted people with, Parkinson. And not because he liked her but because she was so very good at telling stories. "Oh Malfoy," she said, "he's just some guy from Durmstrang and if makes you feel much better than you know, you're okay, Malfoy, you're okay." Flint found Parkinson to be "childish" but laughed heartily and hit Malfoy on the shoulder: "Let our little girl have some fun." Malfoy peered down at the ground: "She'll get her bloody heart broken." Flint looked at Malfoy and glared: "And she'll get it put back together again. By you."
"And do you really think I'm any good at that?" He commented dully.
"Malfoy," Flint said quietly, "I may be slightly biased here but I think you're the best bloody thing for her."
Flint was much too old for Parkinson and realized this immediately. And so he found himself rooting for Malfoy to be with her. They could quite possibly murder each other, but he swore it'd work out. He swore that Parkinson would come 'round one day and find out that she was looking for love--in all the wrong places. She was already Malfoy's, really.
The boys taught her how to play quidditch and she was just so bad at it. She was scared of flying, she was scared of catching the quaffle she was scared of that--bludger was it? The boys were so passionate about flying and their eyes burned bright. And there she was. In her pink sweater and black shoes and she felt horridly in place.
"Guys," she said firmly "this isn't working."
"Parkinson," Flint said, "it will."
It never did.
She was so helpless and so not that at times they had no clue whether to rescue the poor girl or laugh at her attempts. They generally allowed her to fight things out for perhaps you have forgotten but Malfoy and Flint didn't get merits for free, you know. Parkinson would have to sit there and yell till she was blue in the face and that was the way it went. They watched her closely and made sure that the young men she often fought with did not truly hurt her.
"Flint," Malfoy said coldly, "let's go help her out. She's--she's crying--"
"Malfoy," Flint said sternly, "no."
"She's out there and she's hurting!"
"And do you see how great our little girl is doing? Do you see how much they've pushed her--how good she's doing? She's hanging in there, Malfoy. She doesn't need our help," Flint was so stubborn. He grabbed Malfoy's arm harshly as the young man tried to help her out.
"Those--"
"Hush it up, won't you?" Flint whispered watching Parkinson stand her ground. "I don't care what they are. They could be liars and thieves for all I care. Parkinson's not a little girl, Malfoy."
"They're killin' her!"
"Don't you see, Malfoy? Do you see how great she's doing? She's on her own, she knows we're here, she knows we're on her side, but she also knows we won't always be there to save her."
"But I will be," Malfoy commented quietly, "I will be."
"I know," Flint whispered back, "but there's always that off chance."
Flint was rather intelligent for someone who was kept back a whole year, he simply didn't care. His parents were the elites of society and he had no need for education or the system. He hated it. He hated Dumbledore. He hated Hogwarts and he wouldn't do any work for something he hated. And Malfoy always admired him for that--how lucky, to feel that strongly--to act that strongly. Finally, of course, his career at Hogwarts was finished in late '95 and the two people who had been with him watched quietly as he left on the carriages that fateful day.
"We've been lucky," she commented, "having an extra year with you, Flint."
He looked at her and smiled, "and you two be good, won't you?"
"Shall you miss us, Flint?"
"What's that, Parkinson?"
"Shall you miss us?"
He laughed as the man who drove the carriage barked at him. "Oh more than anything," Flint said, "perhaps more than the moon misses the stars. Malfoy--take good care of her, you hear?"
"Flint--" Malfoy said business-like "--you know it. Go off on now, they're waiting for you."
Roughly Flint hugged the girl to his chest and tears came from her scarlet eyes. "You're pretty when you cry, you know that?" He commented as he wiped the tears away from her eyes. She nodded and Flint shook Malfoy's hand tightly.
"Later," he said as he put a finger to Parkinson's lip, "so no tears yet, okay kid?"
"Later," the two said in unison.
Nothing was ever the same.
The two finished off Hogwarts and they were but alone, really. Parkinson and Malfoy got together somewhere around late sixth year and the relationship worked as much as one between Slytherins' could work. Flint didn't keep much in contact; he was busy with spy work for Voldemort and working for his Father's business. And how he hated the establishment! He was busy, and Malfoy could forgive him for that but not for making Parkinson cry.
"Miss him?" Parkinson asked one day.
"Hmmm."
"That wasn't an answer."
"I guess," Malfoy shrugged, "good guy. Not as great as you make him out to be though, no one bloody is, Parkinson."
"Don't talk about him like that."
"He was good to you, Parkinson and for that I commend him. But do you know how many girls he hurt here? Do you how many mudbloods he's killed?"
"Like you care," she said sharply. "You're one to talk."
Parkinson and Malfoy's relationship was broken up on a September eve one day in their seventh year. The time their lives were just about to start. Seventeen. She promised him one day it would work; he promised her one-day he wouldn't make her cry again. And so many promises were made that they have forgotten them by now
Flint would've been mighty disappointed at Malfoy for breaking her heart and at Parkinson for not realizing hers was already broken. He would've called them "immature" and "unseeing" and then he would've punched Malfoy and sat Parkinson next to him and talk to her quietly.
But there was no Flint and there was no comfort. Their seventh year was a confusion of love and hate. Rain, snow and warmth.
"I don't know you anymore," she commented one day in the Slytherin common room.
"Like I've changed," he said only half meaning it.
"But I mean, you--me--Flint--"
"--the past."
"Couldn't have been better, Malfoy. And couldn't we do that again?"
"Oh Parkinson you really aren't a cynic at heart, now are you? And didn't I always tell you no good thing could last forever?"
"You still love me," she said dryly, "and I won't give up until I figure out that you don't love me anymore. But for now, faith is a fact, Malfoy."
Early January.
Three young people made their way to an oak tree scattered with ashes and the wind whipped the girl's hair--pulled back in a fancy knot. She sat down on her knees and blew a kiss to the tree.
And they are such strangers now.
The two men looked at each other and then down at the little girl. They touched the tree gently and wiped their hands upon their pants.
Professor Snape--found out--a spy--the war--over.
They were here for him, and shouldn't have someone always have been there for him?
No words were spoken until the little girl piped up.
"Been a long time."
"Yes," the taller one said gravely, "and you two always were the best I ever knew."
"And you, Flint," Malfoy commented as his velvet cloak swirled around him.
"You and Parkinson--" he began.
"--didn't work out," Parkinson finished for him. "You know how that sort of thing goes."
"Hearts broken?" He inquired.
"Still breaking," she said quietly "haven't seen him in ages. But just bloody looking at him."
Malfoy glared at her and made a move to toss an arm around her shoulder but Flint grabbed his arm. "Malfoy?"
"Oh," Malfoy said as he raked a hand through his sugary white hair: "I'm doing well."
"That's so like you, isn't it?" Parkinson questioned nastily.
Flint eyed her and then Malfoy. "There's never been an end, has there?" He questioned.
"No," was the response in unison.
"Do you hate each other?"
"I loved him so much at one point in my life that I can't ever hate him," she commented.
Flint became quiet. They were all like empty souls now. And if life hadn't gotten them down they were younger than most surely it had now. Malfoy looked removed and exhausted and he sat down upon Parkinson near the tree they always hung out by as children.
The maple tree, they called it, even though it was really an oak tree. And once, Flint licked sap off of it and it was where Malfoy called Parkinson a "tart." Where Parkinson, in her third year, kissed Flint. Chocolate brown eyes meeting scarlet in a quick kiss as Malfoy looked on in. The place where they'd all lean against the tree and skip classes on Friday's. History of magic, only. And wasn't that such a boring class? It hid them from the rain.
Parkinson's hair became messy and Malfoy wordlessly offered her his cloak and she declined--Flint offered up his cloak and she declined once more and said: "And you two never did get that I actually grew up."
They smiled--although not pleasantly. "I'm nineteen," she commented.
"Still a baby," Flint grinned, "my baby," and he glared daggers at Malfoy. Malfoy looked like he would say something rude and bit his lip.
It was a gravesite, after all.
Neither had been married. Neither had a very stable job. Parkinson waitress-ed at the Three Broomsticks, Malfoy did office work for the Minister of Magic and as a "side job" worked avidly for Voldemort. Flint had become one of Voldemort's right-hand men and had climbed the ladder quickly. A real businessman that one. Neither had been particularly happy or had grown up quickly.
Parkinson still thought of what could have been with Malfoy. Malfoy still went partying on the weekends and quietly drank pumpkin juice and rum in his flat. Flint was still obsessed with power and blood. And nothing had changed much, really.
The girl never quite turned into a cynic, the boy never lost the chip on his shoulder and Flint's eyes never lost their spark. They were children still, just playing adult roles. Children just wishing for a better tomorrow without having to do the work of today.
Privileged children. Rich children. Elite children. The top of society at one point in their lives. Grew up in manors with white wine and fancy dress robes. The pinnacle of their lives was spent with each other—just being children. Hearts not quite broken yet.
They were on the top of the world.
And they were together.
Three children 'round a 'maple tree' ashes scattered among their bare knees and the girl's skirt became dusty. The boys looked at the tree and remembered fond spring days and copying homework in this very space just years ago. And wasn't it always much simpler back then?
And life had broken all three of them.
Flint. Malfoy. Parkinson.
And it had been so long ago...
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