#parknson

Harley: You're right, it's just you, me, and the moon.

@parknson          ⤷           ‘ you’re my friend . that’s why i can’t kill you . ’

                   SHARP TONGUE, cunning mind.   standing on opposites sides of the war, blurred pasts that seem to fade like all the things he’s trying to let go of.   the prodigy he was born to be has long been shattered the moment he sought forgiveness on the other side of the war.  stone cold grey, they watch the knife tentatively in her hand.   pretty as the devil and twice as clever, history can’t save them now.   not when he’s turned his back on everything they were raised to accept.   breaking cycles are like destroying dams, it drowns the ones unable to make it out alive.  he wishes it could be different, could they be different, is it different -------------  a snake, pansy is no different.  it’s in their blood.   they’ll do what it takes to survive.   

Ssssssh! She’s meditating. Seated in the lotus pose (aptly named padmasana), Padma Patil is making the attempt to get her breathing, stress levels and blood pressure back to normal levels. It was either this or violently killing off all the characters people liked - the fan favorites - and that was something she could not yet do. Still, the peace and quiet she felt? Didn’t really feel all that peaceful and quiet. “---What do you want?”

He rounded on her, then, unable to fully leash the fury he’d felt when one smirking, half-dressed Draco Malfoy had earlier opened the door to Pansy’s flat to let him in. She’d rushed in wearing what appeared to be her fellow Slytherin’s missing shirt.

“I think I can suss out what’s happening here,” he ground out, “Contrary to what you Slytherins believe. Hermione’s not the only Gryffindor who’s got a working brain.” Then, before he made his way down the front stoop, Harry leaned in so his next infuriated words could only be heard by Pansy alone. 

“Either you want me, Parkinson, or you don’t. You can’t have us both.”

Draco sat at a cafè on the Cour du Commerce-Saint-André, a well-hidden gem of the 18th century, the perfect place for a war criminal on the run from Aurors led by the great git Potter himself. He sipped his tea watching the passerbys. His gaze caught on a familiar, fashionably dressed profile of a woman. She looked an awful lot like Parkinson, but that was an impossibility. Last he heard, she’d been taken away to Greece.

He shrugged off the apparition, thinking the sight of her was simply wishful thinking - for a time for more innocent than the one in which he now lived. 

@parknson​