Summary: Based off of this: a superhero story where the villain and the superhero are roommates and they keep making excuses to each other about why they are out all the time and they stitch each other up after battles but neither has any idea that the other is their nemesis and they keep on having to lie to each other why they are covered in scratches and bruises. (Modern-Day Alternate Universe Drabble Series)
Thought since I usually draw SU art, I’d draw some Pug Davis art for a change. I pretty much read it cover to cover the night I got home with my own copy. It was so riveting I just couldn’t put it down.
People could be very unforgiving. Memories, hasty. Colours, divisive.
She’d worn green. Of course she had. She’d also pointed out the stupidity of it all. The maths had been quite simple: one life versus three hundred, maybe more. Pure unbridled logic that had made everyone turn and look at her aghast.
(She’d also been scared, but fear isn’t something she’s allowed herself the luxury of feeling any time in the past fourteen years.)
She’d gone on the run, like the rest of them - all of them clad in green.
Funny, isn’t it, how they forgave them all so quickly? Draco, sitting in the lap of luxury, still playing at being a gentleman of leisure. Blaise with a cushy job in the Medici Bank, Venice. Theodore, Adrian and Daphne with a bloody island of their own - and there were the rumours, of Theodore ending his exile and returning to England. Millicent and Corvus - all right, Corvus was an honorary Slytherin - happily mingling in the German Ministry.
But Pansy - yes, that was her name, wasn’t it? She can’t quite remember now - poor little Pansy, had had none of their luck. The eternal struggle of a friendless girl, with no men to save her. Boys could sulk around, play the role of martyr: persecuted and heroically struggling in the face of difficulty. Girls with boys so artfully posed too, escaped the dread axe. But Draco was selfish and so she’d run. Albania. Bulgaria. Romania. Ukraine. Now Russia.
Well, not entirely friendless. Andrei Vakhashivili had been most interested.
(Never mind the age difference. Girls like her, pug-faced bitches, had no time to think about age differences. Not that age mattered when one was deathless.)
She wore green. She was a survivor.
And here she was, preparing to lose her soul one last time; blood in her veins running blue and heart turned to ice.
Because even if she’d wanted to return, she couldn’t. Past the point of no return, as cliched as that sounded. She was no longer part of their world; but maybe, just maybe, she could find her place here, with liars and thieves and murderers. People who’d forgotten themselves and consequently, unquestioningly take care of their own.
What could a girl do except find a place to belong, a people to call her own, who’d come for her when she called?
She allows herself precisely five minutes of mourning - for Draco, for Blaise, for Crabbe and Goyle, for mum and papa (still vainly hoping that one day their little girl would return), for the unnamed dead, for home, for innocence - for a now unnamed pug-faced girl.
Then, she forces herself to forget, forever.
She is a Winter’s child and the Winter is all she knows.