Fic: "Underground," 2/11
Title: Underground
Author: acidpop25
Rating: PG-13 this chapter
Warning(s): None.
Pairing(s): Theodore/Tracey
Summary: In a wizarding world where homosexuality is not only abhorred, but illegal, not everything is quite as it seems. Set in 6th year.
A/N: Since she's the one who lodged this idea in my head, this fic is dedicated to sandra_lanimil. Wench. ♥
II. (I remember) I remember when I lost my mind.
It has gotten late, and Daphne is quiet as she creeps into the dormitory, trying not to wake any of the other girls, especially not Pansy Lightest-Sleeper-On-The-Face-Of-The-Planet Parkinson.
Success. Daphne sheds her school clothes in favour of the oversized muggle t-shirt she likes to sleep in. It horrifies both Pansy and her family; naturally, that only makes Daphne even more inordinately fond of it. It’s fairly nondescript, really, sage-green cotton with a silhouette of a bird on the front, and the fabric is worn soft.
Daphne crawls into her bed and snuggles in under the covers, then glances to either side of her. Pansy is presumably still sleeping, or Daphne would have heard the indignant shrieks already (a truly affronted Pansy reached a register only krups could hear); in the bed on the other side, Tracey, too, is sleeping soundly. She must have been tired when she went to bed, too tired to bother with tugging the curtains shut; Daphne hopes, rather guiltily, that Tracey hadn’t been waiting up for her. As her eyes adjust to the gloom, Daphne can make out her best friend’s sleeping form; Tracey has made a kind of nest of her blankets and the pile of pillows she keeps on her bed, and she is lying on her side, curled in a loose ball. Her hair is sleep-mussed, her lashes casting dark shadows on her cheeks, and her lips are slightly parted. Inhale, exhale, slow and deep and even. Tracey looks relaxed in sleep in a way she never quite does when she’s awake.
Daphne blinks and shakes her head slightly, then reaches over and tugs her curtains sharply shut, surrounding herself in green.
It takes her a long time to fall asleep.
“Theo, wake up.”
Theodore’s eyes snap open, though it takes a moment for him to focus; Blaise is leaning over him, and by the light, it is either very late or very early. “Blaise, what-“
“You were dreaming,” Blaise informs him, and it is only then that Theodore realises he is shaking, very slightly, and that the covers are all tangled around him. He winces inwardly.
“My apologies for waking you.” He does not quite meet Blaise’s eyes. Blaise watches the other boy intently for a long, stretched moment; Theodore looks paler than usual, his skin a shocking bloodless white in the darkened room, and the shadows fall heavy and sharp along the hard angles of his face, pool in his eyes. Theodore is curiously ethereal, unsettlingly beautiful, and Blaise can scarce resist the impulse to find out how he tastes. Like fear and ice and raw sugar, Blaise imagines, and something else darker and complicated, something without an easy name.
Theodore finally looks up, and their eyes lock in the darkness; after a long moment, Theodore looks away, and the faintest hint of colour is staining his skin along his high, sharp cheekbones.
Interesting.
“Goodnight, Theo,” Blaise says, and retreats back to his own bed once more. Theodore watches him go.
“Goodnight,” he whispers, too soft to be heard, and shuts the curtains again, with a heavy silencing charm this time, and all is still but for the hard pounding of his pulse, the racing beat of his heart. From the nightmare, Theodore thinks, and shuts his eyes tightly against the feeling, though he knows he will not sleep. Not now.
“You look dead on your feet.”
Theodore casts her a scathing glance. “Thank you ever so, and it is lovely to see you, too, Daphne.”
“Good grief, lighten up,” Daphne says, falling into step with him. “What, is Trace not putting out?”
“Daphne.”
Daphne cocks her head. “No, seriously. I could talk to her.”
Theodore makes a pained noise. “Trace is in no way, shape, or form connected to my current mood.”
“So she is putting out, then?”
“Merlin, Greengrass, what part of me looking dead on my feet invited a probing conversation about my sex life?”
“Well, Trace never talks about it, and I figured, maybe you’d have your guard down and actually spill something.”
Theodore glares. “You figured wrong.”
“You’re really no fun at all when you come over all misanthropic and antisocial like this.”
“In other words, always.”
“Well, when you put it like that.” She cocks her head at him. “So what’s wrong, then?”
Theodore shrugs slightly and glances away, kicking a pebble out of his path. “I don’t wish to discuss it.”
Daphne lets out a huff of breath, half exasperated and half distressed. “You never do.”
“And yet, you persist in asking.”
Daphne frowns a bit and looks away. “I’m sorry. I just want to help.” She doesn’t quite hide the hurt that creeps into her voice; perhaps she is not trying to. Theodore winces. “Daphne, it’s not-“ He breaks off and sighs, raking his fingers through his curls. “It’s not like that. I’m just no good at all at talking; it’s no fault of yours.”
She relaxes a bit. “Right, you’re just as moody as a girl with permanent PMS.”
“Daphne?”
“Yes, Theo?”
“Stop talking.”
“Would you two bloody well get a room, already?” Pansy snaps, scowling at Tracey and Theodore.
Tracey makes an irate noise and pulls away from Theodore a bit, though she remains caught firmly in his arms. “Not like you and Draco bother,” she retorts.
“The lady has a point,” Theodore murmurs. Pansy scowls, but she knows better than to argue with Theodore- that’s a battle no one but Tracey ever wins.
“I’m full of good points,” Tracey hums, and nips lightly at Theodore’s bottom lip. “Aren’t I, Theo?”
“Very,” he agrees; his fingers have threaded into her hair at some point, carding through it absently, and Tracey makes a low, contented sound and leans into the touch. Pansy rolls her eyes at them and returns to what looks to be a fairly hellish essay, and Tracey and Theodore exchange small, secretive little smiles.
Blaise watches all of this in silence.
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Author: acidpop25
Rating: PG-13 this chapter
Warning(s): None.
Pairing(s): Theodore/Tracey
Summary: In a wizarding world where homosexuality is not only abhorred, but illegal, not everything is quite as it seems. Set in 6th year.
A/N: Since she's the one who lodged this idea in my head, this fic is dedicated to sandra_lanimil. Wench. ♥
II. (I remember) I remember when I lost my mind.
It has gotten late, and Daphne is quiet as she creeps into the dormitory, trying not to wake any of the other girls, especially not Pansy Lightest-Sleeper-On-The-Face-Of-The-Planet Parkinson.
Success. Daphne sheds her school clothes in favour of the oversized muggle t-shirt she likes to sleep in. It horrifies both Pansy and her family; naturally, that only makes Daphne even more inordinately fond of it. It’s fairly nondescript, really, sage-green cotton with a silhouette of a bird on the front, and the fabric is worn soft.
Daphne crawls into her bed and snuggles in under the covers, then glances to either side of her. Pansy is presumably still sleeping, or Daphne would have heard the indignant shrieks already (a truly affronted Pansy reached a register only krups could hear); in the bed on the other side, Tracey, too, is sleeping soundly. She must have been tired when she went to bed, too tired to bother with tugging the curtains shut; Daphne hopes, rather guiltily, that Tracey hadn’t been waiting up for her. As her eyes adjust to the gloom, Daphne can make out her best friend’s sleeping form; Tracey has made a kind of nest of her blankets and the pile of pillows she keeps on her bed, and she is lying on her side, curled in a loose ball. Her hair is sleep-mussed, her lashes casting dark shadows on her cheeks, and her lips are slightly parted. Inhale, exhale, slow and deep and even. Tracey looks relaxed in sleep in a way she never quite does when she’s awake.
Daphne blinks and shakes her head slightly, then reaches over and tugs her curtains sharply shut, surrounding herself in green.
It takes her a long time to fall asleep.
“Theo, wake up.”
Theodore’s eyes snap open, though it takes a moment for him to focus; Blaise is leaning over him, and by the light, it is either very late or very early. “Blaise, what-“
“You were dreaming,” Blaise informs him, and it is only then that Theodore realises he is shaking, very slightly, and that the covers are all tangled around him. He winces inwardly.
“My apologies for waking you.” He does not quite meet Blaise’s eyes. Blaise watches the other boy intently for a long, stretched moment; Theodore looks paler than usual, his skin a shocking bloodless white in the darkened room, and the shadows fall heavy and sharp along the hard angles of his face, pool in his eyes. Theodore is curiously ethereal, unsettlingly beautiful, and Blaise can scarce resist the impulse to find out how he tastes. Like fear and ice and raw sugar, Blaise imagines, and something else darker and complicated, something without an easy name.
Theodore finally looks up, and their eyes lock in the darkness; after a long moment, Theodore looks away, and the faintest hint of colour is staining his skin along his high, sharp cheekbones.
Interesting.
“Goodnight, Theo,” Blaise says, and retreats back to his own bed once more. Theodore watches him go.
“Goodnight,” he whispers, too soft to be heard, and shuts the curtains again, with a heavy silencing charm this time, and all is still but for the hard pounding of his pulse, the racing beat of his heart. From the nightmare, Theodore thinks, and shuts his eyes tightly against the feeling, though he knows he will not sleep. Not now.
“You look dead on your feet.”
Theodore casts her a scathing glance. “Thank you ever so, and it is lovely to see you, too, Daphne.”
“Good grief, lighten up,” Daphne says, falling into step with him. “What, is Trace not putting out?”
“Daphne.”
Daphne cocks her head. “No, seriously. I could talk to her.”
Theodore makes a pained noise. “Trace is in no way, shape, or form connected to my current mood.”
“So she is putting out, then?”
“Merlin, Greengrass, what part of me looking dead on my feet invited a probing conversation about my sex life?”
“Well, Trace never talks about it, and I figured, maybe you’d have your guard down and actually spill something.”
Theodore glares. “You figured wrong.”
“You’re really no fun at all when you come over all misanthropic and antisocial like this.”
“In other words, always.”
“Well, when you put it like that.” She cocks her head at him. “So what’s wrong, then?”
Theodore shrugs slightly and glances away, kicking a pebble out of his path. “I don’t wish to discuss it.”
Daphne lets out a huff of breath, half exasperated and half distressed. “You never do.”
“And yet, you persist in asking.”
Daphne frowns a bit and looks away. “I’m sorry. I just want to help.” She doesn’t quite hide the hurt that creeps into her voice; perhaps she is not trying to. Theodore winces. “Daphne, it’s not-“ He breaks off and sighs, raking his fingers through his curls. “It’s not like that. I’m just no good at all at talking; it’s no fault of yours.”
She relaxes a bit. “Right, you’re just as moody as a girl with permanent PMS.”
“Daphne?”
“Yes, Theo?”
“Stop talking.”
“Would you two bloody well get a room, already?” Pansy snaps, scowling at Tracey and Theodore.
Tracey makes an irate noise and pulls away from Theodore a bit, though she remains caught firmly in his arms. “Not like you and Draco bother,” she retorts.
“The lady has a point,” Theodore murmurs. Pansy scowls, but she knows better than to argue with Theodore- that’s a battle no one but Tracey ever wins.
“I’m full of good points,” Tracey hums, and nips lightly at Theodore’s bottom lip. “Aren’t I, Theo?”
“Very,” he agrees; his fingers have threaded into her hair at some point, carding through it absently, and Tracey makes a low, contented sound and leans into the touch. Pansy rolls her eyes at them and returns to what looks to be a fairly hellish essay, and Tracey and Theodore exchange small, secretive little smiles.
Blaise watches all of this in silence.
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