Edenic

The Wild Haired Girl//Pansmione College AU- Part 2

@slytheringirlsgang event: Slytherdor Ships

A/N: It’s literally taken me so long to finish this because I write like one sentence a day with all the studying and stress I have going on at the moment! I don’t know whether to keep uploading these here or to stick to AO3, so let me know whether you want to keep seeing these on Tumblr! 

Also callout @fortesques I love u so much

Part I

It’s raining heavily when Pansy sees her for the second time.

Her head is still pounding from the alcohol that slid down her throat so easily at 3 am, with chants of encouragement from her friends. 

Millicent and Draco didn’t seem to be aware that their encouragement wasn’t actually necessary; the taste of menthol tainted vodka sticking to her throat is the only thing that almost erases the memory of the sweet scent of jasmine that still lingers in her nose before she drifts to sleep at night. 

It’s a very cloudy day, but the sun is still too fucking bright, making her squint behind her sunglasses as she takes a sip of her Americano, the taste of gin that she’d carelessly chucked in from her flask burning at the sides of her cheeks.

“Fuck.”

The rain starts suddenly, pouring down and drenching her within seconds, hair sticking to her face and her sunglasses now covered in droplets that now completely obstructed her vision. 

“Fuck,” she mutters again, pushing her sunglasses to the top of her head and rushing towards the nearest possible roof. The fucking cherry on top though, is stepping into a massive puddle and feeling the muddy water soak through her brand new white Adidas trainers and find its way inside her socks. 

Finally sheltered under the roof of a nearby bookstore, she whips out her phone, swiping past the drunken group photo that graces her lockscreen and dialing the first number in her call log; the same number that permanently held the spot. 

“Malfoy, bring me an umbrella.”

The voice on the other end of the phone is that of a hungover 20 year old man that had clearly just woken up.

“Good morning Draco, how are you today? Would you maybe consider being so kind as to bring me an umbrella?” the irritation and sarcasm in the voice of her best friend causes her to roll her eyes and sigh in frustration. 

“I’m drenched." 

"I’m asleep." 

"You’re an ass, that’s what you are.”

“Goodnight, Parkinson.”

“Draco–” she groans at the dull sound of an ended call. 

A frigid wind causes her to shiver and, with another groan, she opens the door to the bookstore, immediately colliding with a bent over figure and feeling the heat of her coffee trickle down her front. 

Keep reading

The Wild Haired Girl//Pansmione College AU

Request: Pansmione college au!!!!!!!!!!!!!

A/N: Here you go @pansyparquinson, hope I did it justice and you don’t divorce me u dick. This is only a part one/preview, which is why it’s so short. I will be posting this as a multiple parts fic on AO3 so if you want to be notified about that, let me know! You can find my AO3 here if you’re interested! xoxo

Leaves falling to the ground become an every day occurrence this time of year, as does the strong scent of freshly brewed coffee that fills Pansy’s every sense as she enters the small coffee shop, discovered only a few days back on a rushed trip to the library.

The soft ding of the bell that dangles above the door makes the hint of a smile flicker on her face, clearly worn by nights spent awake by the light of her laptop. She walks towards the counter, trying to ignore how heavy her head felt on her shoulders. The smiling face of the familiar barista greets her, as it has for the past week, and she mumbles a greeting, surprised by the hoarseness of her own voice.

“Skinny caramel latte, please.”

With a friendly nod, the barista writes her already familiar name on the paper cup. Why he’d remembered her name so quickly, she doesn’t really know. Maybe it was because it was an odd one, and maybe he’d developed a crush. Before she ingested her daily dose of caffeine, Pansy didn’t really care.

“Hermione Granger?” a question mark practically floated through the air at the end of the name, the puzzled boy clearly wondering whether he’d pronounced right. Or whether he’d spelled it right, perhaps.

Before she knows it, the familiar scent of coffee is almost erased by the sweet scent of jasmine, almost pouring out of a wild haired girl that has somehow appeared right by her side. The stranger comes closer and closer, with seemingly no intention of stopping, and for a moment, Pansy thinks she’s going to kiss her, her heartbeat suddenly racing past the speed of her suddenly jumbled thoughts.

“Excuse me,” the girl utters with a smile, grabbing the cup that, apparently, had been right behind Pansy the entire time.

“Oh,” she stutters back, “Sorry.”

She’d never admit it, but in that moment, Pansy almost felt her heart break a little, the anticipation of the stranger’s smiling lips still stuck in the back of her head. 

♫She Used To Be Mine- Sara Bareilles// The Story of Pansy Parkinson

When she is born, her father feels a sting of disappointment in his ashen heart. He holds her for mere seconds before handing her back to her mother and walking out of the room, wondering why the heavens have mutinied against him and given him a daughter instead of a son.

He calls her ‘son’ until she is 7 and her hair has grown far past her shoulders, making his pretenses impossible and filling his heart with hatred, his cold words building a wall against the virtuous girl that is his child. She finds friends among worn pages of leather bound books and the dim light that sneaks in through her bedroom window.

When she turns 11, her name loops on a Hogwarts envelope and pride tugs at her velvet heart as her innocent eyes widen at the shapes carved into red wax. She runs through a brick wall and adrenaline fills her pure veins, she rushes towards a train without saying goodbye to her hateful parents and she feels free. She grins heartily as she wraps the silver and green fabric around her neck for the very first time, and, unknowingly, she becomes hard-faced and does whatever it takes to feel the warmth of acceptance that she’s read about off dusty pages in the middle of the night. 

When she is 12, she feels the corruption corrode her heart. She becomes torn stitches and pocketed sins, hidden tears and impossible decisions. Her reflection is unfamiliar in the golden edged mirror, her good heart at battle with her crumbling mind, her dark hair framing her tear stained, pale face as she wonders if she’ll ever feel as powerful as her friends do, and if she’ll ever be as brave as her enemies are. 

When she is 13, her best friend is hurt and for mere moments, as she sees blood drip to the floor, she is terrified she may lose the only home she’s ever had. She sits by his side for hours on end, falling asleep at his bedside. Her grip is tight on his feigned friendship, her knuckles whitening, her mind desperate for its sanctuary, all too aware of the fact that the affection she bears is only half returned. She becomes a crack on a vinyl record and the sad descent of an auburn leaf in Autumn.

When she is 14, she wears harsh words on her cloak and laughs at things she doesn’t find funny with people she calls friends simply because of the silver and green that graces their necks. She looks at the beautiful Gryffindor girl and feels jealousy burning her pale skin, so mean words slip from her lips, hiding the wish she makes to be more like her every time she sees a shooting star. She wears pink frills to the Yule Ball and grips a blonde boy’s arm as she lists all the places she would rather be in her stained glass mind. She hates with her mind and loves with her heart, covertly and completely.

When she is 15, she wears a prefect badge and obeys orders as she was taught by her loveless parents, she snickers at people’s misery and whispers venomous secrets, miserably watching them as they spread like wildfire, her heart screaming out soundlessly. She mocks a man she admires, a man whose heart has the purity she wishes was familiar to her stained heart. She goes against the people she wishes she could fight by, and admires their courage from afar, wishing for the courage they have to become hers.

When she is 16, she wonders at the lack of feeling while she strokes pale blonde hair off her best friend’s forehead and listens to him brag about ambiguous plans for the future, yet she is still by his bedside, holding his pale hand and hating herself for letting him trap her with broken promises of solidarity, their sharp edges tearing at the soft velour of her heart. She finds her comfort in nicotine seeping through her veins and still burning ashes scattered on the floor.

When she is 17, she is terrified and death surrounds her and she finds herself willing to sacrifice someone else’s love for her own, disgusted at her own exclamation as it escapes her lips. She becomes the epitome of regret and open wounds, the wilting petals of a crimson rose and the sound of shattering glass as she runs from the ruins of the ended battle, runs without ever turning back.

When Pansy Parkinson is 20 years old, she places her regrets and miserable actions on an emerald float and pushes them out into the black sea, standing strong as she decides her life will become the purity she has observed her whole life among the people she so freely mocked. She has stopped drowning and swam out, not victorious, but alive, and now she is powerful, and permanent words lie inked on her wrist:

’'There’s a reason the Queen is the most powerful piece on the chessboard, and  a reason why you win by killing the King.“