date & time: january 15th, 01:34
location: slytherin common room
status: @pcrkinscns / ( send ↺ for my muse to lie to yours. )
she’s covered in snow, which is melting on her skin faster than she’d like, and everything hurts. tracey knows she shouldn’t fly out in the dark, especially when the weather is like this – but she still feels the high of the height, the rush of the wind, the freezing cold. the cold is never kind, never forgiving, never considerate. the cold does not look at her in pity, so she welcomes it every time it ambushes her. her mother hated whenever she and her father went out flying during winter breaks – she didn’t like the cold, ever – but philip would always make sure they’d land safely before sunset, before anything bad could happen to them. tracey likes the persistence of danger, and she’s good enough at flying that nothing really bad happens to her – a couple of bruises here and there, nothing a quick spell can fix. well – until.
the weather is particularly insistent on not allowing her to fly high, tonight – but she pushes, anyway. she pushes and pushes and thinks of nothing at all. but the wind pushes back, and next thing she knows, she’s flying downwards with no control of her broom at all – the landing is not smooth, and the sharp pain in her ribs indicate that something is at least injured. it is well after midnight – she hasn’t been caught just yet, but if she limps her way over to the hospital wing, she might as well announce that she’s breaking curfew, every other night. she used to know these things – who would be patrolling at what hour – but she no longer cares. to hell with it. let the carrows take her, she doesn’t have anything to stop her from putting up a fight anymore, does she?
she makes her way to the common room, as quietly as she can. she leaves a trail of wet patches behind her, limping only slightly. a quick mutter of the password later, tracey feels the ironic warmth of the dungeons surround her – she walks a couple of steps, before seeing pansy, and falling flat on her face. she will later deny any connection of the two events, but right now, she can only think of the pain in her sides – correction, everywhere. she shouts, almost: “fuck!” and then gets up, inelegantly, leaning against the wall to her left. “i’m! fine! merlin’s sake,” and turns towards pansy, smiling as best she can – “i was just out – for a walk. air. you know. gets claustrophobic down here.”
Wrapped in nothing but a robe, a barefooted Pansy Parkinson tiptoes across the common room, feet curling at the cold. You’d think, seven years later, she’d be used to it - the near-permanent chill in their common room. Deep in the dungeons, enclosed by a lake - a hearty warmth never was on the agenda for Slytherin. But that isn’t the only cold that penetrates them.
The days might grow longer, but her relationship with Tracey has yet to fully thaw.
It’s been too long now. It’s almost at the point of ridiculousness, the two of them.
Arching a quizzical eyebrow at Tracey’s appearance and then...her spectacular fall, amusement triumphs over pride. Giggling, Pansy clasps a hand over her lips. It isn’t right to laugh at her. But as far as she can tell, the girl isn’t dead. So she will.
“What’s up with the peg leg?” Mellowed out, Pansy begins to forget the quasi-argument between them. Perhaps there’s a little less ice in the world after all. “Or is this the part where you lull me into a patient-nurse roleplay? Because it’s a little too kinky, even for me.” Eventually, she figures she should probably make sure Tracey’s ok.
“Risking detention? How very bold.”
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