thunderstorm @pnsyprkn - Tumblr Blog

offireandseeds:

he’d forgotten how cold the slytherins could be. well, not entirely, draco’s frost-bitten gaze still sometimes cool on their sun-warmed skin, but the icy hostility that had accompanied dismissive gaze and sharp words that still stung whenever he thought back over them -

‘ i know, ’ he says instead, tries to fix the words together that are spinning around in his head, make sense of the panic thats replacing his ribs with daggers. pansy is being cold to him, someone he’d not truly met, hadn’t had any real memories with - either negative or positive - until traces of their help in seventh year, gentle indifference and kindness from then on. it’s a side he’d never really had cause to see before, had never asked to be directed his way.

but her gaze had met his and perhaps it was one heart against the other, but if ginny found out — if blaise found out, he knows is draco’s concern, no matter that they’d sort of been dating since they’d met in new zealand, had made it official between the two of them before even coming back in august — what was a lie of omission against doing something you know will only hurt everyone around you?

(( at least that’s what he tells himself, because any lie, no matter the flavour, has always tasted like ash and dead in his mouth, soil that could never hope to grow anything ))

‘ i don’t, this isn’t - ’ he starts, closes his eyes, tries again when he doesn’t have to look directly at her. ‘ and i don’t want you to talk about it. to anyone. ’ perhaps that’s what it was, an unspoken agreement, and now he’s aired it and now its an agreement coming unraveled.

‘ draco can’t - i can’t - please don’t tell anyone else? ’

in a moment of open vulnerability, neville paints the picture of fresh affection— the concern in their posture alone speaks of accountability, a certain type of forward momentum that will not cease until they have taken the promise right out of pansy’s throat, sharp and bloody. pansy is furious— it burns at her fingertips, the threat of fiendfyre. in this moment alone, she wants draco to know. that he, once again, selfishly, has put her in a situation where the compromise is her best friend’s heart.

the trace of a headache has started to thrum at her temples, and pansy feels like a child again; keeping secrets and making pinky promises, letting herself become steel armor again. stainless steel may not rust, but at each hit the armor bends, breaks, becomes molded. a scream is trapped in her eyes, but she takes a deep breath instead. she thinks of winter, of the hearth, of the lake frozen over.

“i do not owe you a promise.” her voice is thunder; contained, with the expectation of lightning. she signs her words carefully, spitefully, never breaking eye contact. “i don’t know what draco has or hasn’t told you about me. i am tired of him. exhausted. i have been pulling his weight since i met him.” it is not obvious to the untrained eye— people had thought she was in love with him, as if fear could be recognized as love.

a pause catches at her tongue, fills the space between her and neville in tension. she looks at him, thinks of the double-edged sword that is draco malfoy. do they know him, she wonders, like i do? does anyone? neville’s attachment reminds her of blaise’s own, an open wound. how looking at draco felt like looking at a funhouse mirror.

“no promises.” pansy says. it is a verdict. “not after what he did to blaise, and not after what you did to ginny.”

#thread ✂︎ ━━ the moon makes a traveler hunger for something bitter.#ft. neville ✂︎ ━━ there's no trusting the tongue.#OOF

clytemnesrta

antigone (sophocles / trans. anne carson)

#lmao #character ✂︎ ━━ endlessness runs in you.

gincvra:

ginny smiles in spite of herself, her head bows forward in defeat to the unwanted grin pansy finds in her, and coaxes out. “you say that like anyone but you actually read those pamphlets,” she teases.

a sardonic laugh leaves her before she can swallow it, her eyes open to find the back of neville’s head. “neville taught me how to waltz. sort of. so maybe we’re bound to be as well. besides, it… it can’t be that bad,” she mutters. how much more could she disappoint neville? she anticipates the shared awkwardness, she only hopes that awkwardness is all that is shared between them. “and if it is, you are cordially invited to get shit-faced with me in the garden right after. maybe even teach me how to dance properly while you’re at it.”

her head finds its resting place on pansy’s shoulder, as her eyes follow the fingers trawling along her forearm. her forearm flexes under the tickling touches. “besides, i don’t know why you’re dreading tonight. isn’t this what you were trained to do? make small talk, play nice, and prance? i can just imagine little pantheia and little blaise learning how to waltz. so proud to show everyone at the next big societal ass-kissing party,” she jibes, as she tries to hide her smirk, all too wide and all too pleased with herself, in pansy’s shoulder.

“if the five of you learnt how to read instructions, my eighth year would have been much easier.” pansy states with an accusatory tone, glancing towards where the rest of their group are. “and i wouldn’t have to feel like a tour guide dragging you and blaise to the right classrooms all the time.”

much of ginny’s relationship with neville before they drifted apart doesn’t make sense to pansy— rather, she has difficulty understanding the foundation of it. she is friends with blaise because they grew together under the same poisonous roof, because he knows how deeply her bones can ache at the memory of a fireplace that never quite burnt right. “the yule ball.” the memory comes to her in blurry photographs. “your optimism is, as always, admirable,” pansy muses, “but i might have to decline the offer. networking requires a sober mind, and all.” she motions her hand dismissively, scrunching her nose at the thought of the night.

“oh, i absolutely love pretending to be interested in the made up stories of middle-aged men who think their magic out-powers mine. it is such a delight, ginevra.” just a jest, really— not at all rising to ginny’s clear act of war, “in fact, why don’t you join me tonight? we can impress scholars with outdated ideas with our combined intellectual prowess.” pansy smiles despite herself— ginny’s hair smells like peaches, her body emanates an unusually welcome warmth. “you’ll be able to see the charm in action.”

#thread ✂︎ ━━ the moon makes a traveler hunger for something bitter.#ft. ginny ✂︎ ━━ howling colossal intimacies.#i LOVE them. i said it #this reply is a lil trash but .... here u go

time: 3:15am location: apprentice common room status: @lionhcrtd

the exhaustion settles in pansy’s bones much later. she lets the ambient sound of a party that appears to be endless play in the background as she leans against one of the open windows, champagne in hand, lost in thought. she used to be better at this -- charming, entertaining, socializing -- and she’s still distastefully good at it -- but the toll comes earlier than expected; it bites away at her tendons and joints. she wants to take her earrings off; she wants to step out of these godawful heels, she wants quiet. wants the soft hum of the wind in her ear rather than forced laughter and broken vases.

the common room has been kind enough to locate itself in a position that oversees the lake. pansy watches the moonlight shine across the ominous water and thinks about how she’s not as good at mermish as she should be, how she needs to read more on lycanthropy, how she has barely written to her father since she got here. she remembers as her hands trembled, the first night -- holding on to blaise as she entered through the gates -- as she was reminded of her departure, to find an antidote to a poisoned family history.

she watches the flicker of a tail that emerges from the water, and presses the glass on her lips. september nears with its cold, cold nights; as daylight becomes a commodity, the hearth a home-- she wonders if this winter will be colder than the others.

she wonders, she wonders, then feeds herself the words that would never leave her mouth, thinking of the distance-- between her and ginny, between her and her father, between blaise and draco, between ginny and neville -- between her and her brother, her and her mother’s fate, locked and forgotten in azkaban. she takes a gulp-- rather downs the rest of her drink, feeling still the blurriness of insobriety-- and is about to go back to where the champagne bottles are stored, thinking of taking a bottle for her own, when blaise appears. almost magically, he has a bottle in his hand, a smile plastered across his face, and something akin to sorrow in his eyes.

( he never really lost the sorrow. none of it softened, none of it melted. it stayed, all over him, like a layer of cloth, like a knife wound. )

“were you reading my mind?” she asks, and her words are a little bit slurred, a little bit bitter. “i would’ve noticed if you were practicing your legilimency on me. i’m not that easy to crack.” and the extensive training in occlumency helps, too.

#thread ✂︎ ━━ the moon makes a traveler hunger for something bitter.#ft. blaise ✂︎ ━━ hot blue moonlight down the steep sky.#LMAO LOOK AT HOW LONG THIS GOT. IM SORRY

time: 9:15pm location: the middle courtyard status: @unevenlitany

they were made for this. for catching hints in conversation, knowing the right questions to ask, copying body language. they were designed by their names to make their bones fit in people shaped boxes; in tall champagne glasses and tight dresses. once they turn the charm on, it’s game over. you put one malfoy and one parkinson in a courtyard full of impressionable, high-status scholars – you put them there together. the game was over before it started.

pansy remembers how when they were younger – when her mother started dabbling in the socializing of the death eater kind – they would make a competition out of this. i bet you can’t make herbert burke invite the flints to their grandson’s birthday party, and you could never make gareth greengrass talk more than three minutes about his job. neville, ginny, luna, even blaise – they weren’t carefully crafted to charm. to pull in, gather information, grow connections. make an impression that lasts a lifetime.

pansy leaves a group of charm scholars – french ones, who must know her mother, but they don’t say so. the immediate french that is spoken to her is a dead giveaway – smiling politely as she does, and it doesn’t even take a toll on her, not yet ( she will be feeling the effects of the pretense in the upcoming days; shortened temper, a constant headache ) and approaches a lonesome draco, a glass of the finest veela champagne in her hand.

it’s a familiar picture, the two of them. dressed to impress, snark passed from gritted teeth. when the alcohol starts flowing, they get sloppy; but tonight, pansy won’t allow her judgement to be clouded, at least not until much later. she looks around the courtyard, and cannot catch a sight of neville or luna, and only has an estimate of where ginny and blaise may be. she turns to draco instead, arms crossed against the cocktail table as she leans into it.

“you’ve lost your form, malfoy.” she’s not feeling particularly forgiving, tonight. neville’s concern remains on her like a layer of sweat. “perhaps you need a pep talk, like the ones mummy used to give?” she’s not looking at him, but she knows her words bite, that they claw at injured skin. “you must be a good boy, draco.” her best narcissa black impression is, unexpectedly, close to reality– “why don’t you sing a song for the lovely crowd.”

#ft. draco ✂︎ ━━ where does unbelief begin?#thread ✂︎ ━━ the moon makes a traveler hunger for something bitter.#this was too brutal i had to nerf it

time: 9:41am location: the great hall status: @luncslovegood

the great hall is so empty.

pansy remembers coming back for eighth year, when the shock had been bigger. the slytherin table half-empty. the castle full of lost souls. she listens to the chattering of her friends and the faculty, sips at her pumpkin juice. their voices echo, and pansy is once again brought back to that night, as the sorting hat sang a tragedy. in the echoing pansy hears the children crying because they were sorted in slytherin. the looks they would get, draped in green and silver. the way her breath would catch at her throat, locking her words inside her mouth, no key.

“professor hicks released you from their intellectual claws, have they?” pansy asks, as luna approaches her. sometimes, it is unbearable to look luna in the eye. there is four years of unspoken history in their gaze, and it makes pansy shudder to the core. it is cowardly of her, to run from a moment of vulnerability. but it’s the only way she knows. she isn’t known for her bravery.

she pours luna a glass of pumpkin juice, watching from the hufflepuff table, as professors devarajah and bartholomew start arguing about whatever it is they do. “i am under the impression that there is some unresolved tension between those two,” she says, as she offers the glass to luna from where she’s sitting. she thinks of neville’s guilty shoulders, the pinkish tint on their skin. she asks, with a raised eyebrow, and the signature aloof tone: “i heard ginny talking about getting ready with you and blaise. will supervision be necessary?”

#ft. luna ✂︎ ━━ caught between the tongue and the taste.#thread ✂︎ ━━ the moon makes a traveler hunger for something bitter.

time: 6:30pm location: faculty lounge status: @gincvra

“dreadfully boring,” pansy says, as she lets her body fall next to ginny’s, trying not to get her clothes creased. “we have to perform a waltz, be pleasant, hold proper conversation over dinner, and not get absolutely shit-faced while doing so? why didn’t they put that in the orientation pamphlets?” they’re sitting on the floor, backs against a surprisingly comfortable couch as blaise, neville, draco and luna make conversation in the background. the sun necklace burns a hole in her pocket, but instead, she turns to ginny.

“i’m assuming you’re not particularly pleased with your... waltz partner?” she takes a quick look at neville, thinks of their conversation mere hours ago. “i’d offer to trade but i think neville’s still scared of me, and nobody wants to talk to mcgonagall about changes in the itinerary today.” she presses her fingers against ginny’s forearm, tracing random symbols on her skin. “plus, blaise wouldn’t have it. if you learn how to waltz with someone, you’re bound to be partners for life.”

#ft. ginny ✂︎ ━━ howling colossal intimacies.#yooo hope this is good !!!

offireandseeds·:

e : the welcome party / t : 4pm & after the potions orientation / l : just outside the potions classroom / p : @pnsyprkn

pansy - pansy pansy .. pansy. the lead in his stomach was growing heavier and thicker with every passing day, every passing hour, since she had seen him shuffle out of draco’s room, shirt half-buttoned and hair undeniably mussed.

neville looks at the weight, looks at pansy, looks at draco, and the inside of his lip starts bleeding from where he’s chewed on it for too long, and he looks at blaise, then back at pansy. ( he thinks the weight is guilt but doesn’t know how he can break it up and swallow it, not sure how large it’s allowed to grow, it should be growing )

it had been a few days already since they’d accidentally made eye contact as he’d passed through the common room, and he knew that she knew in an instant, recognition and understanding flitting through her eyes, because how could she not? but it had been a few days and still no-one knew, but did this mean she’d never tell blaise?

it’s a secret, because it has to be, because draco wants it to be, and neville can’t push, not here, not with that half-feral look in his eyes, a look neville tries his hardest to not inflame, soothing comfort for healing for now instead.

it’d break blaise’s heart, and perhaps that’s reason enough.

so pansy can’t tell blaise, but she won’t know not to unless neville asks her. it takes the remainder of the potion’s orientations for him to come to that decision, and the rest for him to drum up the confidence.

he swallows his anxiety and let’s it stir up acid in his stomach, but he taps pansy on the shoulder as they all exist the classroom, motions draco to go ahead and steps into a side corridor. he shoves his hands into his pockets, head tucked down as he takes a breath, then squares his shoulders and gives pansy a tight smile.

pansy hates being watched.

she could feel prying eyes on her when she was five, her mother’s gaze burning instructions in her posture. every time someone stares at her, she feels like she’s done something wrong-- even if she knows she hasn’t. she hasn’t done anything wrong, apart from being at the wrong place at the wrong time.

neville’s gaze tastes like vitriol. it stretches all across her skin, paints her in grime. puts an anvil in her hands, says you can never drop this. if you do, the floor shatters. pansy’s familiar with brittle ground; she knows how to stride across ice with the weight of the world on her shoulders. but it feels flimsy, like this. when the floor is her best friend’s heart.

pansy can keep a secret -- her entire life was built on lies and mysteries. she knows the value of puzzle pieces of information, and how they can change an entire narrative when put together. she is not my daughter, her mother had said. neville had stopped in their tracks, in an instance of confrontation. pansy knows why she’s being watched, and she resents them -- draco and neville, the both of them -- for it.

it will break blaise’s heart either way. secret or public, it won’t matter. pansy doesn’t want the blame on her shoulders. she doesn’t want to be an accomplice to a crime that might tear all of them apart. neville touches her shoulder, and it burns a spot right through cloth, skin, flesh, blood. she hadn’t thought it’d be so public, neville’s attempt at keeping draco together, coming apart at the seams. she raises an eyebrow. “i know what this is about. i don’t want to talk about it.”

#ft. neville ✂︎ ━━ there's no trusting the tongue.#thread ✂︎ ━━ the moon makes a traveler hunger for something bitter.#lmao here we fckn go!!!#i live for gifs so im just gonna add them everywhere

@luncslovegood said: ♫

— ♫ for a band au

they almost miss their flight. luna’s looking at strange perfumery and pansy’s browsing combat boots so they lose track of time. they’ve been traveling just the two of them for ages that they forget that sometimes, they need simple reminders like-- shit, pansy’s saying, our flight is in ten minutes. you wouldn’t expect schiphol airport to be big enough to make them into an airport chase scene, but they’re out of breath when they reach their gate.

their tour started back in good old scotland, to cover the entire island -- then to france, belgium, and netherlands. in an hour and a half, they will reach berlin, and go straight to the concert hall. the silence comes easy to them, in planes. luna shuts their eyes and listens to podcasts and pansy browses through magazines she’s collected at airports, learning one language after the other.

they’ve gotten much bigger in the last year -- from a small, self-releasing indie-electronic duo to being featured in official spotify playlists, record deals from three different countries, and a full european tour. they still don’t have a manager, not really --your girlfriend doesn’t count, luna says, she’s your best friend, too! pansy argues-- and they do most of their booking and merchandise on their own.

yet, as pansy approaches her electronic keyboard in the purple-blue light of the hall, as the crowd starts clapping and shouting their names, as luna says, gute nacht, berlin in that whispery, sultry tone she does sometimes, and pansy follows with, we’re lunar eclipse, it feels bigger than the combination of them two.

before she starts singing, luna looks at pansy, winks, and the music overtakes them.

#ft. luna ✂︎ ━━ caught between the tongue and the taste.#meme ✂︎ ━━ like a piece of torn silk in the heat of the blue.#eyooo

gincvra

⤕ ginny & pansy.

you cannot look at the sun, but there is nothing to stop you from staring at the moon.

#ft. ginny ✂︎ ━━ howling colossal intimacies.#IM 🥺

@gincvra said: ♆

— ♆ for a mythology au

they say when the sun and the moon meet the world shivers in darkness. the seas rise in celebration, like they are pulled by the moon for a fleeting instance of touch. the sun becomes full, they say, bathed in shadow. the worshippers of the sun goddess and the followers of the moon goddess meet in temples built in their image so they can dance the rhythm written at the very beginning of time.

they say when the sun goddess presses her palm against the moon goddess’, the world stays still in anticipation. sunflowers reach for the moon, the push and pull of water slows. the sun takes the first step in bridging the gap. they say the moon burns, fire collecting in the crevices, but the goddess of the moon is lured into the touch, every single time. the moon bleeds rocks as the goddess presses kisses all across the sun, they say, but the sight is worth it.

the sun and the moon live separated, one following the other, always out of reach. the sky becomes their enemy as it stretches out the distance between them. they like winter best, they say, as the day melts into the night, as the sun passes by the moon, so close, but just out of reach to touch. they say the moon basks in the light of the sun all night, just so she can remember what it was like to be loved.

it is a dance, they say. it is brutal, but so is every love.

#meme ✂︎ ━━ like a piece of torn silk in the heat of the blue.#ft. ginny ✂︎ ━━ howling colossal intimacies.#:)))))

@unevenlitany said: ♫

— ♫ for a band au

there is a thrumming that disregards separations of brick, wood, stone. it reaches inside pansy’s body, pulls at her heartstrings. there is a crowd in the small concert hall waiting for them, chanting their names. the sound travels despite the heavy bass of the song that’s playing to fill the time. pansy’s grinning in spite of herself-- the excitement of a show settles, always, deep in her bones hours before it begins.

next to her is theodore, picking at his guitar strings. draco takes his ceremonial shot of tequila, shaking his body at the burn of it. blaise is drumming his fingers on his thighs, and pansy knows their time is up when the crowd starts screaming. she says, let’s go, boys, and picks up her drumsticks, turning one between her fingers. the lights are low, as they walk to the stage.

theo goes first, as he always does. blaise follows with his bass. pansy climbs the stairs to the platform where her drums reside, waving at the crowd. when draco comes, sauntering, the crowd goes wild. he speaks into the microphone, welcome to the party of your lives. theo starts playing the riff of their first song on the setlist, pansy and blaise join after. we’re draco and the snakes! the drums kick in, draco starts singing, and the thrumming comes back.

#ft. draco ✂︎ ━━ where does unbelief begin?#meme ✂︎ ━━ like a piece of torn silk in the heat of the blue.#alcohol tw

@lionhcrtd said: ⌛

— ⌛ for a reincarnation/past lives au

wherever they go, whenever it is, they find each other.

they first meet at the battlefield. they are kin, perhaps not of the same blood, but the same breath. there is magic in the way their swords slice, family in the way they raise their shields for each other. she dies in his arms in the midst of a war, and he weeps over her body, enraged. he is royalty, next. she comes from a distant land as the sister of his betrothed, daughter of a merchant. she works her father’s business instead of being offered pretty dresses and shiny rings like girls her age are. they train at dawn, bloodied knuckles and bruised knees. he dies from old age, her by his side.

only once they are born of the same blood. to a village that speaks in hushed tones, with winter in their bones. they tell stories of wolves that come at night, legends of women with white hair that suckle on children’s blood. he is taken to battle for a king they have never seen, and doesn’t come back. they are pirates, once. she is captain, he is first mate. they laugh in cruel melodies and drink ale until dawn breaks, fighting british soldiers in deep waters. they collect lost souls, like theirs. make a home out in the sea instead of the dry land. a cannon rips their ship into two.

they meet as sculptors. as bounty hunters. as scholars, politicians, scientists.

“i’m blaise,” he says. he is small, so is she. he is familiar like a puzzle piece. “my name is pantheia.” her voice is strong, like it always has been. “but you can call me pansy.”

#tw death #ft. blaise ✂︎ ━━ hot blue moonlight down the steep sky.#meme ✂︎ ━━ like a piece of torn silk in the heat of the blue.#reincarnation aus... im dead

@offireandseeds said: ♞

— ♞ for a tattoo parlor au

there is a stillness to the shop. it’s familiar, and tastes like winter. pansy lets her wand do its job, as the sound of rain fills the room— she can hear the buzzing of neville’s spell from next door, and huffs out a small laugh. parkinson & longbottom. partners in ink. they’re booked for the entire month; news of talent travels quick in youthful magical spaces. not everyone can get a moving tattoo completely right.

in half an hour, a satisfied terry boot leaves with his small, wandering salamander tattoo. pansy has an hour until her next client, which translates into tea duty. designs of various magical creatures, symbols and wand movements are painted all over their walls, various doodles are trapped in small frames and add to the homely feeling of the place. pansy smiles tightly as the water starts to boil, and pours it into their cups with a flick of her wrist.

neville’s room is a lot more welcoming than hers, which is not unexpected. the smell of daisies fill the air as flickers of red light appear out of their wand, marking skin. pansy puts neville’s cup where it usually is, watching him work as she sips at her tea. there’s a storm coming, she signs, nodding towards the window. neville turns to look, then smiles at her. we can floo out of this place. let me work in peace.

pansy laughs as she leaves them be, closing the door behind her. it’s not big, it’s not luxurious, it’s definitely not the best it could be, but it’s home. it smells like the rain.

#meme ✂︎ ━━ like a piece of torn silk in the heat of the blue.#ft. neville ✂︎ ━━ there's no trusting the tongue.