Es normal que esto falle, a mi me gusta la calle, a ti te gusta el detalle. ¡Joder! no quiero rallarte. Yo tengo esto, lo otro y poco más y me sobra pa’ darte. También tengo un cerebro cascado y un gatillo atascado y así ni me aburro ni me enfado. Vengo salido del abismo, entiende que me cueste volver a creer en mi mismo…
I HATE YOU SO MUCH FOR THIS except no i don’t lmao this is the au dreams are made of b l e s s
theyre sixteen and it’s early december and a faint ripple of excitement is sweeping through their small new england town because the girls’ school has invited the boys’ school over for a winter dance at the end of the month and that means–
pansy’s not entirely sure what that means, not really, because all she knows about boys is that they smell like cigarettes and they never call when they say they will and they don’t seem to get in nearly as much trouble for breaking curfew as they should. and she’s watched leather jacket clad bad boys on television, with tight jeans and scruff on their chins, and she’d grown up with fourth-generation malfoys and notts and goyles, with their sailboats and their tie pins and their cut crystal decanters of whiskey, and she’s seen other boys, obviously; seen the boys around town, in their sweater vests and their school ties, seen them loitering outside the diner and slipping food coloring into the ice cream at fortescue’s and calling out lewd, frankly insulting things as her and daphne cross the street.
and then there’s harry potter–leftover war orphan, impossibly rich, borderline infamous.
pansy knows all about him.
she tells herself, though, as she slides on a flouncy pink crinoline dress, curls her hair and applies her lipstick and draws a single sparkly snowflake on the apple of her cheek–she tells herself that harry potter is an anomaly. nothing like the other, doubtless better boys who will be coming for the dance.
because harry potter is messy and awkward and mean. he wears rumpled slacks and iron-singed shirts and he slurps his milkshakes and uses his forearm as a napkin and his hair is barely combed and his glasses are always taped together and pansy has never, not once, felt as small or as silly or as insignificant as she has the one and only time they’d met. harry potter is a scoundrel, and she doesn’t care how handsome he is. she won’t be giving him any more of her attention.
he trudges into the gymnasium that night–festively decorated with enormous velvet bows and glistening strings of lights and dozens of paper-mache snowmen–and he stuffs his hands into his pockets and he glances around like he’s waiting to be tortured and when his gaze finally lands on pansy, he freezes. she thinks, a little viciously, that the expression on his face would be comical if it weren’t for the acute sense of dread suddenly pooling in her stomach.
he approaches her slowly. warily. of course he does.
“parkinson,” he greets her stiffly, brilliant green eyes raking over her body from top to bottom; from the peek-a-boo cutouts at her shoulders, to the nipped in curve of her waist, to the graceful swish of her dress around her knees. he bites his lip. she raises her chin.
“potter,” she replies, just as stiffly.
“i…didn’t realize you went here,” he says, clearing his throat. “uh. lived here. whatever.”
“i didn’t realize you did, either,” she lies.
he looks at her doubtfully. “can i, uh, get you a drink?”
she offers him a falsely saccharine smile. “no, thank you.”
his jaw tightens, almost imperceptibly. “a cookie, then. they’re shaped like christmas trees.”
“oh, i really shouldn’t,” she drawls.
he rocks back on his heels. “why not?”
she releases an exaggeratedly wistful sigh. “well, see, over the summer, someone was kind enough to point out to me that my only redeeming quality as a person was how i looked in a skirt, so–”
“maybe he was just reacting to the horrible things you’d just said about one of his closest friends,” potter interrupts through visibly gritted teeth.
“and maybe i wasn’t aware this friend was even his friend,” pansy retorts, tossing her hair.
potter’s nostrils flare. “maybe that actually makes it worse.”
a blush, stinging and fierce, creeps up the back of her neck. “maybe i was just trying to get his attention,” she snaps.
“and maybe you already had it!” he snaps right back.
and pansy gasps, eyes going wide and heart skipping a beat and hand fluttering up to her mouth; and potter blinks, and then groans, and then grimaces, tone resigned and vaguely bemused as he mutters–