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[...swung back and forth a few times before falling off and shattering against the floor...]
I wrote this post-war Pansy-centric Harry Potter fic for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
contrelamontre until I realized, "Wait, this fic has no boylove at all..."
To hell with boylove and time limits for this week. Here's a story. It's my second HP fic where it calls for me to go into the details of the Muggle airplane. I associate this fic with Madonna's song 'Mer Girl'.
Transit
Harry Potter. Pansy Parkinson, Theodore Nott; if you want to see something, you'll see it. PG.
"Pansy is running away to the other side of the world."
Pansy is running away to the other side of the world. There may be nothing here for her there, but there was nothing back home either. With military defeat came ideological defeat, and Voldemort, his cause, and his followers had been quickly demonized. The victors were quick to rewrite history as they see fit.
The Death Eaters who weren't killed are lying low or in exile, and only a small handful - unsure and reluctantly afraid - dare to attempt to wriggle their way back into respectable society, into becoming respectable society once more.
The Parkinsons, however, are part of a proud lineage. (It's up to debate whether the Parkinson pride is a character flaw or an admirable trait; Pansy doesn't particularly care, she just knows she doesn't want to live in a place where everyone thinks she no longer has the right to hold her head up high.) She's the only living Parkinson, now with nothing to uphold and represent except herself. That's still no excuse to let them cow her just because they've stamped out her way of life.
Pansy had the exquisite horror of exploring a burnt out shell that used to be her house, touching burnt and blackened splinters, kicking bits of china and cabinet as she made her way through the house. Wallpaper had been ripped off in strips, hanging off the corridors like flayed skin. Things that were kept upstairs were strewn around the downstairs floor, like the rags of silk and velvet that were once her mother's clothes. Pansy explored with only a Lumos spell for light; the rioters had unlatched the fairy lamps, releasing the fairies into the world. Did they think they were doing the fairies a favor? Those bints had probably become so used to being pampered by house elves that it was a joke thinking of them surviving by themselves. Pansy was sure that at least a few of them had been eaten by eagles or cats, or were lost or ate the wrong berries. She peeked inside the dining room, which had once been lit by the glow of a dozen fairies, who sang softly and sweetly through the meals. It was dark now. Pansy tapped the tiny door of a fairy light fastened to the wall by the doorway; it swung back and forth a few times before falling off and shattering against the floor.
What they didn't desecrate, they looted. In one of the drawing rooms, which once served as a mini-museum for the odd trinkets Mr Parkinson brought back from overseas, was now empty save for overturned furniture and a scrawled message on the wall: IT ENDS TONIGHT. Pansy stood for a long time before the words, just taking it in. Such boors.
The portraits of her father's ancestors used to hang on the drawing room's east wall, but now were all ripped to shreds, and silent. Out of the corner of her eyes Pansy saw the rumpled portrait of her Great-Uncle Matthieu, flickering in and out of animation, gaze at her surreptitiously, and ignored him. They never did have anything much to say to each other. She used to have wonderful talks with her Great Great Grandmother Rosalita, however, but all Pansy could find of her was a small bit of canvas with only her cracked, distinct smile on it. Pansy put this in her pocket.
Something caught her eye. Her father's opium pipe from Guangzhou, lying in two pieces on the ground. It had been decorated with a serpentine dragon that wrapped around and around the pipe, and its eyes would glow and its body would writhe whenever the pipe was used. Pansy picked up the pieces and inspected them. Maybe there was a way that she could fix them? She put them in her pocket with her great great grandmother's smile, left the drawing room, and didn't look back.
Retreat, recover, restart. That is her plan, and obeisance to the enemy is certainly not a necessary step.
Pansy sighs and closes her eyes. There's no room in her head for the past right now. Not that it particularly matters, sitting on an airplane, eight hours until touchdown -- but what else can she think about? She has no future for the time being, and her present consisted of a cramped window seat and a woman sleeping next to her snoring in a low, rhythmic buzz. The past keeps encroaching from the edges of her mental space -- drops of blood dropped into a bucket, color spreading like spiderweb lace and dissipating, dissipating, until the bucket is cloudy with it.
Ping.
Passengers are to fasten their seatbelts, says a disembodied voice. Turbulence up ahead.
And the thought running through Pansy's mind right now is, We're going to die. The same thought she thought every time the plane shook, every time she (thought she) heard worrying, incongruent sounds from the - what is it called? - the engine.
I'm going to die.
"Think of it as flying on a really large broom," Theodore Nott had suggested.
But this was not at all like a broom. On a broom, at least she was in control. At least she would go fast, windburn on her face and ice on her fingers. This airplane feels like it's moving unbearably slowly, despite the box hanging from the ceiling a few seats above her displaying that this vessel is, in fact, travelling at 570 miles an hour. She's entrusting her fate to Muggles here, and only because it's the safest way to run. Pansy had laughed the first time he explained to her what an airplane was. It was such an absurd idea to begin with, and add to that the fact this stayed up in the air without magic, well...
I'm going to die.
It's a fear kept under control by how tightly she clenched her jaw, how white her knuckles become as she clutches the armrest. Theodore told her that this Muggle contraption was a trustworthy enough mode of transportation, that the chances of the airplane falling out of the sky and killing its passengers is millions to one, that if you paid extra then you can have a bigger seat and better food.
"If you want to wait a few months," said Theodore, "then that will give time for our people to establish contact and make plans. You can floo then, but not now. The wound's still fresh, everyone's still bemoaning their own fate." He smiled a little. "Not surprising, wouldn't you say? It's the cowards who survived. The ones that died were the ones who believed and fought. The survivors, fond of nursing then prolonging their wounds, will take a long time gathering themselves."
"I survived," said Pansy. "Are you saying that I'm a coward?"
He looked at her with blank green eyes. "Well, you're running away, aren't you?"
"You survived."
"I'm not trying to elevate myself above you," said Theodore. "I'm just stating facts."
Pansy opened her mouth to protest, but the starkness of Theodore's gaze disarmed her. He looked at her like he knew that deep inside she was a frightened, sniveling, little girl, he knew that she wanted grand illusions in place around her again. That even if the sniveling girl didn't really exist, he made it exist with his conviction, and Pansy felt her own conviction slipping away. Theodore looked inside of her and find her empty.
"You have to learn to accept," he said, "then you have to learn to move on."
Pansy gathered whatever was left of the Parkinson fortune, ventured into the Muggle village near her manor and bought herself some Muggle clothes. The saleslady, a woman of about sixty whose large clumphing boots would alert everyone to her exuberant presence, helped her out with the selection, taking the confused and petrified look on Pansy's face and her nervous stuttering as a sign that she was a tourist who had never set foot in an English haberdasherie before. Not too far off the mark, really. Pansy played along, putting on a vaguely East European accent and smiling often.
She bought food. She bought a bag. With Theodore's reluctant help, she made her way to London and Heathrow Airport with a plane ticket and fake passport in hand. After security checks - what seemed to her like gross and unnecessary breaches of privacy - she was on the airplane. (Theodore's goodbye had been strange. Pansy had not expected even so much as a handshake, or even a smile, but Theodore had leaned over and kissed her quickly on the forehead, and lightly brushed her bangs from her face. The unexpectedness of the skin-to-skin contact made it more intense than it was. "Contact me if you find yourself in need," he had said. Pansy nodded amiably, discombobulated, and walked away. After a few steps she looked back, but Theodore was gone.)
The destination on her ticket stub is a place she had only heard of on maps. Whenever she tried to envision it, she saw only dream images, half-formed poems made of storybook pictures and archetypal ideals of the east. There would be bustling markets selling geese and brightly patterned cloths; children running around half-clothed, ducking in and out of their mothers' skirts and fish stalls as they played; temples adorned with virgins and sun-colored scarves, implying at powers too innocent to know their real worth; houses of love where the women are dark-eyed and lithe, where the men are tireless and insatiable... She imagined herself standing in the middle of a street as the sunlight burned into her skin and her eyes, blinding her, purification by fire, so hot it was...
Outside Pansy's window was nothing but white. She remembered a Muggle story she heard once, about winged creatures called angels who lived in clouds. Not that Pansy had seen any angels on the trip - or maybe they could turn themselves invisible, who knew? Maybe this airplane was flying so fast it was running into every last one of them, leaving a trail of carnage. Strange contraption, Pansy thought again, leaned her head back against her seat and fell asleep.
contrelamontre until I realized, "Wait, this fic has no boylove at all..." To hell with boylove and time limits for this week. Here's a story. It's my second HP fic where it calls for me to go into the details of the Muggle airplane. I associate this fic with Madonna's song 'Mer Girl'.
Transit
Harry Potter. Pansy Parkinson, Theodore Nott; if you want to see something, you'll see it. PG.
"Pansy is running away to the other side of the world."
Pansy is running away to the other side of the world. There may be nothing here for her there, but there was nothing back home either. With military defeat came ideological defeat, and Voldemort, his cause, and his followers had been quickly demonized. The victors were quick to rewrite history as they see fit.
The Death Eaters who weren't killed are lying low or in exile, and only a small handful - unsure and reluctantly afraid - dare to attempt to wriggle their way back into respectable society, into becoming respectable society once more.
The Parkinsons, however, are part of a proud lineage. (It's up to debate whether the Parkinson pride is a character flaw or an admirable trait; Pansy doesn't particularly care, she just knows she doesn't want to live in a place where everyone thinks she no longer has the right to hold her head up high.) She's the only living Parkinson, now with nothing to uphold and represent except herself. That's still no excuse to let them cow her just because they've stamped out her way of life.
Pansy had the exquisite horror of exploring a burnt out shell that used to be her house, touching burnt and blackened splinters, kicking bits of china and cabinet as she made her way through the house. Wallpaper had been ripped off in strips, hanging off the corridors like flayed skin. Things that were kept upstairs were strewn around the downstairs floor, like the rags of silk and velvet that were once her mother's clothes. Pansy explored with only a Lumos spell for light; the rioters had unlatched the fairy lamps, releasing the fairies into the world. Did they think they were doing the fairies a favor? Those bints had probably become so used to being pampered by house elves that it was a joke thinking of them surviving by themselves. Pansy was sure that at least a few of them had been eaten by eagles or cats, or were lost or ate the wrong berries. She peeked inside the dining room, which had once been lit by the glow of a dozen fairies, who sang softly and sweetly through the meals. It was dark now. Pansy tapped the tiny door of a fairy light fastened to the wall by the doorway; it swung back and forth a few times before falling off and shattering against the floor.
What they didn't desecrate, they looted. In one of the drawing rooms, which once served as a mini-museum for the odd trinkets Mr Parkinson brought back from overseas, was now empty save for overturned furniture and a scrawled message on the wall: IT ENDS TONIGHT. Pansy stood for a long time before the words, just taking it in. Such boors.
The portraits of her father's ancestors used to hang on the drawing room's east wall, but now were all ripped to shreds, and silent. Out of the corner of her eyes Pansy saw the rumpled portrait of her Great-Uncle Matthieu, flickering in and out of animation, gaze at her surreptitiously, and ignored him. They never did have anything much to say to each other. She used to have wonderful talks with her Great Great Grandmother Rosalita, however, but all Pansy could find of her was a small bit of canvas with only her cracked, distinct smile on it. Pansy put this in her pocket.
Something caught her eye. Her father's opium pipe from Guangzhou, lying in two pieces on the ground. It had been decorated with a serpentine dragon that wrapped around and around the pipe, and its eyes would glow and its body would writhe whenever the pipe was used. Pansy picked up the pieces and inspected them. Maybe there was a way that she could fix them? She put them in her pocket with her great great grandmother's smile, left the drawing room, and didn't look back.
Retreat, recover, restart. That is her plan, and obeisance to the enemy is certainly not a necessary step.
Pansy sighs and closes her eyes. There's no room in her head for the past right now. Not that it particularly matters, sitting on an airplane, eight hours until touchdown -- but what else can she think about? She has no future for the time being, and her present consisted of a cramped window seat and a woman sleeping next to her snoring in a low, rhythmic buzz. The past keeps encroaching from the edges of her mental space -- drops of blood dropped into a bucket, color spreading like spiderweb lace and dissipating, dissipating, until the bucket is cloudy with it.
Ping.
Passengers are to fasten their seatbelts, says a disembodied voice. Turbulence up ahead.
And the thought running through Pansy's mind right now is, We're going to die. The same thought she thought every time the plane shook, every time she (thought she) heard worrying, incongruent sounds from the - what is it called? - the engine.
I'm going to die.
"Think of it as flying on a really large broom," Theodore Nott had suggested.
But this was not at all like a broom. On a broom, at least she was in control. At least she would go fast, windburn on her face and ice on her fingers. This airplane feels like it's moving unbearably slowly, despite the box hanging from the ceiling a few seats above her displaying that this vessel is, in fact, travelling at 570 miles an hour. She's entrusting her fate to Muggles here, and only because it's the safest way to run. Pansy had laughed the first time he explained to her what an airplane was. It was such an absurd idea to begin with, and add to that the fact this stayed up in the air without magic, well...
I'm going to die.
It's a fear kept under control by how tightly she clenched her jaw, how white her knuckles become as she clutches the armrest. Theodore told her that this Muggle contraption was a trustworthy enough mode of transportation, that the chances of the airplane falling out of the sky and killing its passengers is millions to one, that if you paid extra then you can have a bigger seat and better food.
"If you want to wait a few months," said Theodore, "then that will give time for our people to establish contact and make plans. You can floo then, but not now. The wound's still fresh, everyone's still bemoaning their own fate." He smiled a little. "Not surprising, wouldn't you say? It's the cowards who survived. The ones that died were the ones who believed and fought. The survivors, fond of nursing then prolonging their wounds, will take a long time gathering themselves."
"I survived," said Pansy. "Are you saying that I'm a coward?"
He looked at her with blank green eyes. "Well, you're running away, aren't you?"
"You survived."
"I'm not trying to elevate myself above you," said Theodore. "I'm just stating facts."
Pansy opened her mouth to protest, but the starkness of Theodore's gaze disarmed her. He looked at her like he knew that deep inside she was a frightened, sniveling, little girl, he knew that she wanted grand illusions in place around her again. That even if the sniveling girl didn't really exist, he made it exist with his conviction, and Pansy felt her own conviction slipping away. Theodore looked inside of her and find her empty.
"You have to learn to accept," he said, "then you have to learn to move on."
Pansy gathered whatever was left of the Parkinson fortune, ventured into the Muggle village near her manor and bought herself some Muggle clothes. The saleslady, a woman of about sixty whose large clumphing boots would alert everyone to her exuberant presence, helped her out with the selection, taking the confused and petrified look on Pansy's face and her nervous stuttering as a sign that she was a tourist who had never set foot in an English haberdasherie before. Not too far off the mark, really. Pansy played along, putting on a vaguely East European accent and smiling often.
She bought food. She bought a bag. With Theodore's reluctant help, she made her way to London and Heathrow Airport with a plane ticket and fake passport in hand. After security checks - what seemed to her like gross and unnecessary breaches of privacy - she was on the airplane. (Theodore's goodbye had been strange. Pansy had not expected even so much as a handshake, or even a smile, but Theodore had leaned over and kissed her quickly on the forehead, and lightly brushed her bangs from her face. The unexpectedness of the skin-to-skin contact made it more intense than it was. "Contact me if you find yourself in need," he had said. Pansy nodded amiably, discombobulated, and walked away. After a few steps she looked back, but Theodore was gone.)
The destination on her ticket stub is a place she had only heard of on maps. Whenever she tried to envision it, she saw only dream images, half-formed poems made of storybook pictures and archetypal ideals of the east. There would be bustling markets selling geese and brightly patterned cloths; children running around half-clothed, ducking in and out of their mothers' skirts and fish stalls as they played; temples adorned with virgins and sun-colored scarves, implying at powers too innocent to know their real worth; houses of love where the women are dark-eyed and lithe, where the men are tireless and insatiable... She imagined herself standing in the middle of a street as the sunlight burned into her skin and her eyes, blinding her, purification by fire, so hot it was...
Outside Pansy's window was nothing but white. She remembered a Muggle story she heard once, about winged creatures called angels who lived in clouds. Not that Pansy had seen any angels on the trip - or maybe they could turn themselves invisible, who knew? Maybe this airplane was flying so fast it was running into every last one of them, leaving a trail of carnage. Strange contraption, Pansy thought again, leaned her head back against her seat and fell asleep.