Categories > Books > Harry Potter > Dead Man Walking

Murderous Conversationalist

by Loise 0 reviews

A typical Hogwarts detention.

Category: Harry Potter - Rating: PG-13 - Genres: Angst, Drama, Romance - Characters: Harry, Pansy - Warnings: [!!] - Published: 2006-04-20 - Updated: 2006-04-21 - 2042 words


"Well isn't this predictable." She muttered sourly, poking a piece of parchment with a rather ruffled quill. Purplish ink was splattered as she paid no attention to the state of the table. Harry had just walked in, not noticing Parkinson in her corner seat until she had spoke.

Harry glared at her then sat down a row behind her. "It isn't like I want to be here, Parkinson. And what d'you mean, predictable?"

She smiled carefully, looking down her nose slightly but didn't answer. McGonagall stared at the both of them, a frown covering her already stern visage. "Your behaviour was an act of disrespect to this school and all that it stands for Miss Parkinson. I do not wish to hear any words for you this night." Harry smiled, wondering what she had done. "And you Mr Potter!" He flinched and sunk into his chair. "Are not acting accordingly to your age. I am disappointed in the both of you."

Her lips pursed as Harry looked rebellious and not at all shameful and Parkinson continued to play with her quills and parchment. They were a pair, she thought tiredly, a pair of idiots.

"Tonight your punishment to clean out the Charms Classroom. It seems there was an unfortunate accident with the canaries," she sighed, "Professor Flitwick has asked me for this and instead of doing even more dreadful work, I have given the task to you two." Her intent eyes roved over the two of them, "However do not take this at leniency. I expect for the both of you to bring the class room to it's former state of cleanliness." She paused, "Follow me, now."

They both reluctantly stood up and followed the Head of Gryffindor to the Charms class room. When she unlocked the door, they both stared in shock and horror what the room had become.

"The feathers..." Harry whispered, almost in fright, instantly and instinctively backing away.

"Oh Merlin, the yellow, the little beaks and oh, oh! The sheer - "

"Miss Parkinson! Please refrain from speaking in that manner, poking fun will only do you harm. Wands, Mr Potter, Miss Parkinson." She held out her hand and both Hogwarts students gave over their wands with little grace. "Good, get to work." She waves her wand and cleaning instruments appeared in the doorway of the Charms class room. "Any loud noises and I will be checking on the two of you." She left the two of them standing in the frame of the door.

"This is plainly silly and thoughtless, I mean, really! I am a Parkinson and I deserve..." She rambled on some more but Harry wasn't listening. He realized that it was probably just more Slytherin high and mighty attitude and hot air.

Picking up a scrubbing brush, he turned and shoved it in her hands. She trailed off into silence for a moment regarded him with wide eyes all the while holding the brush in her hands awkwardly.

"What! Why are you - " she started speaking again, a frown crossing her face.

"Parkinson, get to work, would you? I'm certainly not going to clean up this catastrophe all by myself. I will do half and you do the other half. That's fair."

"Hmm," a vapid look formed on her face, "But what if I break a nail Potter? What then?" She cried out, throwing a hand to her face and tilting her head back.

"Then magic it back. You can do that, can't you?"

Sighing melodramatically and rolling her eyes, she replied, "I suppose I will have to." Then she dropped to her knees and starting gingerly wiping away various stains.

Looking at all the mess and feathers, Harry started picking it all up. It wasn't until he dropped it into a bucket that he realized that his hand was bleeding.

"Ow..." Harry said, wiping the blood away with other finger. Strange. There seemed to be no wounds under all the blood. Harry felt a chill run down his spine.

"I... see." Pansy said, startling Potter from his concentration on his hands. "It's like Umbridge, and her quill... Some moron must have spelling the canaries into producing the feathers." She carefully picked one up, but still a small trail of blood ran down her finger. "It loses a bit of the fear when it's bright yellow."

"You... erm, got a detention with her then? I wouldn't think that she would do that to you, your family and you being a Slytherin."

"I didn't. But don't make any presumptions of my family, until you meet them." She stared at Harry, her attention drawn away from the feather, "I watched it happen to some people and I saw what happened afterwards to a few others."

"I didn't realize any Slytherins got detentions with Umbridge. I thought you were all slimy scumbags sucking up to that pink freak." Harry said.

She frowned but all she murmured cryptically was, "Not exactly a Slytherin." Before handing him some gloves. "You should use these. I didn't notice them until now."

"Thanks," Harry made sure that their fingers wouldn't touch when he grasped the touch. The gloves were reasonably new, but smelt terrible and were stained in purple and green. Harry put them on, but with hesitation.

"You know, I don't have cooties." She smiled and looked at him, rather condescendingly. "You do realize that you should have grown out of that many years ago?"

He grunts her, and then places his hand awkwardly over hers. "There. I can do it, I'm not twelve any more." Thank you puberty, for making me sound my age at least, Harry thinks.

Pansy looks surprised for a moment. Then, starting to speak to him again, "You have changed since then. Since you rescued the little Weasely and..." She looks away.

Frowning, he stares at the back of her dark head. "What do you know about that?" He sounds too curious and eager for her to answer, he realizes afterwards, she would just smirk to spite him.

"Draco told me," she says softly, "His father was furious. You had lost him... something precious. I'm not sure what, Draco never told me. And his elf." She adds afterwards.

Surprised that she actually spoke of something useful, Harry answers back, "I thought Malfoy," his tongue twists on the name of his school enemy, "Was the Heir for a while."

Looking up at him, stunned, she laughs. But it comes off nervous and edgy. "Oh. That's just plain silly. Malfoy has an exulted family line," she sounds proud for him, "But even he doesn't have Slytherin blood." She tilts her head to the side and giggles, "I think a relative of his married a Hufflepuff descendant, but... I'm not sure."

The thought of Draco as a Hufflepuff forces Harry to laugh. "Hufflepuff? Really?" She nods. "When did that happen?" He sniggers again, thinking of telling Ron.

Smiling brightly, she says, "In the sixteenth century I think..." She trails off at the expression on his face. "What's wrong?" She pulls her hand away from his and leans against a table.

"You know his pedigree four centuries back? That's so," his mouth turns in disgust. "Weird." His looks at her, watching the angry twitch of her brows.

"Because," she says slowly, "Draco and I are going to get married one day. Probably the summer after seventh year. I've known for years..."

"Married? But you're not even of age? How can you think of knowing, how can you know for years?" Harry is aghast at what she has said.

Shrugging, she says quietly, "It's just what is going to happen. Don't be alarmed, there is at least one Gryffindor who is promised. It's," she pauses, still speaking softly, "Common among the old pureblood families."

"You don't mind that your parents are signing your life away in marriage to some foul mouthed pointy ferret!" Harry snaps at her, still alarmed.

"Draco isn't as bad as you think, Potter," she whispers hotly, "You don't know what we have been through. You have lived this idealized world of the Weasley's, haven't you? Wizards were very close to accepting His rule," her mouth twists, "Very close. Look at the people you know and trust, do you really believe that they always tell you the truth? Or merely a truth?"

"There's not a difference. You're wrong! Very wrong!"

"Hmph. Maybe. Maybe." Her tone clearly implied that she didn't believe so.

"Yeah, well, you know what Parkinson? You're stuck up and spoiled. Concerned only with your own self and image and no one else. If every person died, you would happy, wouldn't you?" He stops. "No, because then you would have no one to toy with, no one to play with and hurt their feelings. No one to feel awful. No one at all."

She stares at him for a moment as he glares at her in anger and frustration. "I... " She stops speaking and looks down. A pang of distress at his words hits Harry's heart, before he strikes it away.

"What is it? Can think of anything to say?" He smirks. Figures. All bark and not bite. She talks big, but she doesn't have any heart.

"I hate you. I hate you. For all you stand for and all of your ignorance! You think you know everything! You're the one who is," she gulps and seems to be choking back tears, "Wrong!"

"If you seem to know everything then why don't you tell me? If you're right then why don't you prove it? Parkinson," he says in the deathly quiet, "If it all true then why - "

"What is going on here?" A voice snaps above them. "Mr Potter? Miss Parkinson? What are you doing?" She surveys the room with a harsh and critical eye, "I don't see much difference." The two Hogwarts students look up at their Transfiguration teacher in surprise. They hadn't heard her, too intent on proving their own point.

"Professor..." he says, before trailing off, realizing that there is nothing he can think of. Words have escaped him.

The stern teacher given them a withering look. Harry quakes under the glare. Parkinson, is staring down, he can't see her expression, whatever that may be.

"Get back to work, you two, or your punishment shall be doubled," her eyes narrow as Parkinson lets out a small giggle, "Is there something you find amusing, Miss Parkinson?" She asks scathingly.

"No Professor," Pansy says, quietly and demure. Then leaving the room, she cast one last suspicious glance at the two teenagers before the door clicked behind her.

"I'm confused about you Potter." He looks up at her, noticing that she is now swinging her legs off the table where she is sitting. "I don't know why you even try, being the Boy Who Lived. But you do..."

"You're a very confusing person, Parkinson, I should be the one who is confused." He mumbles, not looking at her. "And what d'you mean, being - "

"Hmm, oh, I don't think so... If you try and are smart enough."

"Look, about Malfoy," Harry mutters quickly, thinking of the pale boy, "Is he - "

"It's none of your business, Potter." She harshly bites out, "What Draco is doing is simply none of your concern. It's like," she waves her hand around, "You always get what you want. All the teachers love you, so much! Except Snape... But that's for granted. He's always hated you." She smiles.

Harry has so many questions to ask her, but knows at the moment that she is a blank wall and he will only get criticisms if he opens his mouth and asks. He hates her, for refusing to see what he knows is right. For what she says and what she believes. It's polar opposite with what he thinks and knows it true. Can't she see that? Or is she just that blinded?

"We'd better get back to work," Harry says, looking at his hand, still slightly crusted with small traces of blood but otherwise perfectly fine, it stings though. He clenches it and speaks again, "I don't want to be here all night."

With you, is left unspoken but they both hear it.

He never did find out what was so predictable, he never had the chance.
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