April
By Oscura
Warning - femmeslash, mention of character death (both OotP death, and AU main character). Disclaimer - Not my characters, no profit is being made by me. JK Rowling owns everything.
You've always hated crying. Even when you were a child (and some people think you still are, but you know that's not true), you were calm and mature, with a profound aversion to the feeling of hot, sticky tears on your face; your nose streaming mucus; red blotches running over your pale skin, a rash, hideous. Every child cries sometimes, but you always felt terribly ashamed and tried to do it in private, in silence, as far as possible from pitying eyes and the gentle antiseptic-smelling hands of your mother, cold on your face.
And it wasn't a habit you lost. Your instinct is still to hide away and get it over with somewhere where nobody can see or know: people (Lavender) have called you cold, and you've wondered about it yourself (you're well-read, in the holidays it's not just spells but philosophy, literature, psychology - so you've had to ask: is something wrong with me?) should you be a little more free with your emotions? A little less separate from the others, more comfortable?
You do the right thing, of course. You don't mind helping, and even though the others laugh at you sometimes you still, with some parts of you, care about things like the House Cup, responsibility, and homework; and yet you hate, really hate people like Neville, for being so helpless and lost, and needing you so much (to introduce an appropriate cliché, it makes your skin crawl. And to qualify it: you feel all trembly, sweaty and shivery with disgust, when you see someone crying or being sick. To over-analyse: loss of control frightens you.)
Fastidious - that's one way of putting it. A word you like (certainly better than "neurotic frigid dyke". Although it was only Ron who had said that, and you had to make excuses for boys. You are pretty certain he's in love with you, and you two have always insulted each other. Only occasionally does the game cut a little too close to what you don't want to think about.)
Things are very easy for Lavender, you think. Everyone in her family (you stayed once, for two weeks, in those awful holidays before sixth year, when being with Harry for an hour bleached all the love out of you and left you limp and hopeless. But of course you still visited him, when you could) was loud and emotional, Lavender cried at least every two days and started laughing again within seconds. They all shouted at each other all the time and hugged extravagantly.
You thought about your pale, still house, and your pale, still parents with their delicate, intricate work. Which took them unnaturally deep inside people, where blood and decay would daily taint their hands. It wouldn't surprise you if they'd only had sex once (you - a mistake? Tried it once and didn't like it? Presumably, they got enough orifices on the job.) You envied Lavender so much that you wanted to hit her or pinch her, which made kissing a violent and difficult business. But very exciting. (And you tried not to think about Sirius's haunted dark eyes and trembling hand pouring coffee in the morning, Ginny's hot nutty smell and glittering green eyes, Ginny kissing a Ravenclaw boy and looking over to his table during meals, when you tried to talk to her. None of "your things" seemed to interest her quite as much now) But by the end of two weeks you longed for the peace and plain, pale blue walls of your bedroom. Which was rather confusing, so you relegated it to the very back of your mind and left it there; a skill you'd always had.
Unfortunately, Lavender hates it when you cry. Her expansiveness over emotions and tears doesn't extend to you - she's so used to you being poised and chilly and intellectual. it frightens her, you suppose. So today, you're in the greenhouse and it's very early in the morning, the sky is the faintest pink, and the air smells of April. And all night you were going through some more of Harry's things (and you tell yourself to stop, right there, because Harry not being here is something you won't even think about for a second.) But today, your control systems are on the blink, and so you're crying in the greenhouse and you don't want Lavender to find you.
Warning - femmeslash, mention of character death (both OotP death, and AU main character). Disclaimer - Not my characters, no profit is being made by me. JK Rowling owns everything.
You've always hated crying. Even when you were a child (and some people think you still are, but you know that's not true), you were calm and mature, with a profound aversion to the feeling of hot, sticky tears on your face; your nose streaming mucus; red blotches running over your pale skin, a rash, hideous. Every child cries sometimes, but you always felt terribly ashamed and tried to do it in private, in silence, as far as possible from pitying eyes and the gentle antiseptic-smelling hands of your mother, cold on your face.
And it wasn't a habit you lost. Your instinct is still to hide away and get it over with somewhere where nobody can see or know: people (Lavender) have called you cold, and you've wondered about it yourself (you're well-read, in the holidays it's not just spells but philosophy, literature, psychology - so you've had to ask: is something wrong with me?) should you be a little more free with your emotions? A little less separate from the others, more comfortable?
You do the right thing, of course. You don't mind helping, and even though the others laugh at you sometimes you still, with some parts of you, care about things like the House Cup, responsibility, and homework; and yet you hate, really hate people like Neville, for being so helpless and lost, and needing you so much (to introduce an appropriate cliché, it makes your skin crawl. And to qualify it: you feel all trembly, sweaty and shivery with disgust, when you see someone crying or being sick. To over-analyse: loss of control frightens you.)
Fastidious - that's one way of putting it. A word you like (certainly better than "neurotic frigid dyke". Although it was only Ron who had said that, and you had to make excuses for boys. You are pretty certain he's in love with you, and you two have always insulted each other. Only occasionally does the game cut a little too close to what you don't want to think about.)
Things are very easy for Lavender, you think. Everyone in her family (you stayed once, for two weeks, in those awful holidays before sixth year, when being with Harry for an hour bleached all the love out of you and left you limp and hopeless. But of course you still visited him, when you could) was loud and emotional, Lavender cried at least every two days and started laughing again within seconds. They all shouted at each other all the time and hugged extravagantly.
You thought about your pale, still house, and your pale, still parents with their delicate, intricate work. Which took them unnaturally deep inside people, where blood and decay would daily taint their hands. It wouldn't surprise you if they'd only had sex once (you - a mistake? Tried it once and didn't like it? Presumably, they got enough orifices on the job.) You envied Lavender so much that you wanted to hit her or pinch her, which made kissing a violent and difficult business. But very exciting. (And you tried not to think about Sirius's haunted dark eyes and trembling hand pouring coffee in the morning, Ginny's hot nutty smell and glittering green eyes, Ginny kissing a Ravenclaw boy and looking over to his table during meals, when you tried to talk to her. None of "your things" seemed to interest her quite as much now) But by the end of two weeks you longed for the peace and plain, pale blue walls of your bedroom. Which was rather confusing, so you relegated it to the very back of your mind and left it there; a skill you'd always had.
Unfortunately, Lavender hates it when you cry. Her expansiveness over emotions and tears doesn't extend to you - she's so used to you being poised and chilly and intellectual. it frightens her, you suppose. So today, you're in the greenhouse and it's very early in the morning, the sky is the faintest pink, and the air smells of April. And all night you were going through some more of Harry's things (and you tell yourself to stop, right there, because Harry not being here is something you won't even think about for a second.) But today, your control systems are on the blink, and so you're crying in the greenhouse and you don't want Lavender to find you.