Fic Post: sinking toward a deeper blue
Title: sinking toward a deeper blue
Pairing: Justin Finch-Fletchley/Pansy Parkinson
Prompt: some people stay
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2628
Summary: If she is the only Slytherin member of the graduating class of 1998 able to show her face today, then so be it. She won’t let them keep her away.
Author's Notes: 10/13. Title is from The Weepies, “Living in Twilight.”
Pansy tries not to let herself think about the last time she was at Hogwarts; the smoke and the screaming, the red light sparking across her vision from the Stunner that hit her in the chest. How she hid in the thick of it when she finally came to, the stone plinth from one of the suits of armor in the Great Hall cracked straight down the middle, but still somehow tall enough to hide her from the volley of curses overhead; the radiant light cracking the stained-glass windows, cutting through the enchantments on the ceiling. Pansy crawled behind the pedestal and pulled her knees to her chest as she tried to hold herself together, adrenaline spiking painfully through her system against the sluggish remnants of the curse that knocked her flat. Her father was out there, somewhere, mixed in with the mob of Death Eaters who had crashed through the castle; she wondered if he’d been the one to hit her with the spell. She hid her face in the crook of her elbow, hyperventilating. She could have stayed in Hogsmeade, that was the desperate thought running through her mind while she hid, she could have waited in safety with the younger students when one of the Weasleys came and called for reinforcements, she could have run from the castle and kept on running, run until it hurt, until no one knew her name -
But she didn’t. She stayed. She caught her breath and steeled her nerves and against all better judgment, forced herself back into the fray.
Blaise had asked her, once, why she didn’t leave when the war was over. “You could have gone anywhere,” he said to her, the two of them walking through Kensington Gardens on a rare afternoon she had off from the Cauldron. “Isn’t your mother still in Calais? You could have followed her and finished up at Beauxbâtons, or found yourself a pub in Knockturn, since you want to trap yourself behind a bar counter so badly. You can’t deny you would have been treated better if you’d plied your trade down there, Pug.”
They had stopped for a moment by the steps of the Albert Memorial, a nearby tree providing some much-needed shade. Muggles milled around them, admiring the monument, enjoying the day. The breeze pushed her hair into her face as she told him, “I deserve to be here just as much as they do. I fought, just like the rest of them. I shouldn’t have to slink off into the shadows and hide just because I -”
“Because you what?” he teased, knocking his shoulder into hers, “Because you wanted to hand off their precious Potter over to You-Know-Who?”
Pansy frowned. “Stop that,” she said, “You were there. He - he put his voice into people’s minds. I don’t want to think about what else he could do.”
Blaise, for his credit, had let the conversation go.
Arriving at the memorial, Pansy does not know what she expected. Their numbers have shrunk since last May: Draco can hardly show his face around polite society without someone throwing rotten fruit, and Tracey is still laid up in St. Mungo’s, her entire right side charred black and useless from the curse that hit her in the battle. Blaise deferred the courtesy ticket the Ministry organizers had sent to him, and Millicent, when Pansy sent an owl asking if she planned on showing, just sent back a postcard from Boston that said, Don’t hate me.
As if she could. Pansy, in her mourning black, sitting alone in the third-to-last row of white chairs, squares her shoulders and twists the fraying edges of the entry ticket clutched tight in her fist. If she is the only Slytherin member of the graduating class of 1998 able to show her face today, then so be it. She won’t let them keep her away.
The Ministry has made a grand production out of honoring their righteous dead; it is here, on the sprawling green lawn that was once a battlefield, where the survivors and their families will sit in the bright May sunshine and listen to the honors being bestowed, the names of the fallen read. The War Memorial will be unveiled today, too, currently hidden under a broad canvas sheet across from Dumbledore’s tomb. The whole thing is going to be broadcast on every wireless station, written up in every newspaper and magazine; Pansy watched the workers in the Alley all last week, setting up the sonorums for the MagiCasts so that even those who didn’t fight, who didn’t lose someone that night, could come and listen and mourn. If she had a better sense of self-preservation, she might have heard the ceremony from there, instead.
For all that Pansy is alone, though, there are still people she knows scattered throughout the crowd: Amaryllis and her husband are sitting with their daughters near the front; Marcus Flint is in his dress greens along the far aisle, standing with the other new Auror recruits; down at the opposite end of Pansy’s row, sitting between her parents, Astoria Greengrass catches Pansy’s eye and waves. Pansy nods her head but does not wave back; she does not want to bring any more attention to herself than she absolutely has to. Hannah rode in with her on the train, but she’s sitting with the rest of the DA in the first two rows, Susan Bones on one side and a Ravenclaw boy on the other. A stab of jealousy spikes through her as she watches Susan lean over the velvet rope behind her row of chairs to say something to Justin, who is sitting next to Penelope with the rest of the general audience, but for the life of her, Pansy can’t tell what this feeling is for. Is it the fact that Susan is allowed to publicly mourn the friends she lost, allowed to grieve their absence? Is it that Susan is being honored by the world around them for her part in the battle? Is it that Susan, harsh, bitter Susan, is able to talk to Justin without drawing the ire of everyone around her? Maybe it’s everything, all of it, every awful part all at once.
Minister Shacklebolt takes the stage, and his arrival pulls Pansy out of her thoughts; the low murmur running through the crowd falls to anticipative silence as he approaches the podium, as Hogwarts staff and Ministry members fill in the chairs on the dais behind him, then Granger and Weasley, Harry Potter himself. Shacklebolt taps his wand to his throat and his amplified voice is deep and somber as he speaks to them of honor and victory, of survival and loss. His speech is short and to the point, respectful, meditative, surprisingly kind, and at the end he motions for Potter to stand. Potter joins him at the front of the stage, and the two of them point their wands at the statue to raise the sheet and reveal the obelisk to the audience. It is beautiful in its simplicity: clean white marble with no ostentatious design or scrollwork, just panels at each side where the names of the fighters and of the fallen have been engraved.
When the applause subsides, Shacklebolt leads them all in the reading of names. A solemn bell rings with the recitation of each one from Shacklebolt’s list, the responding echo of the crowd rippling through her like a wave. Daphne Greengrass, Theodore Nott. Pansy blinks back tears when she says their names, choking on the words. There are no eulogies - not for the Slytherins, not for anyone. There are too many victims, and there isn’t enough time.
But there should be, she thinks, and she looks over to Astoria, tears streaming down her face, and thinks of her sister, thinks of loud, opinionated Daphne, harmonizing with Pansy in the stands during Quidditch matches, chewing on the ends of her hair as she focused on her chessboard pieces. She thinks of snotty, clever Theo, his nose perpetually in a book, a hex permanently up his sleeve, tossing elaborate paper airplanes at Crabbe and Goyle from across the Common Room. His mother is years dead, his father killed in the battle, and there is no one here but her to mourn for him. Pansy covers her mouth with her hands as she finally gives in and cries, trying to block the sound. Her friends were more than collateral damage, more than names carved into a monument. They deserve better. They all deserve better.
There is a moment of silence before the ceremony ends, and with another echoing ring of the bell the service is over. The noise that fills the space around her feels worse, almost, than the respectful quiet; Pansy dabs at her eyes with the sleeve of her cardigan and stays in her seat as the rest of the crowd rises and moves, seeking out their friends, their families, shuffling toward the path leading up to the castle for the post-service luncheon. Pansy considers what staying would mean: sitting in a far-flung corner for a painful hour of missing Daphne with Astoria and her parents, or maybe just hiding in one of the trophy rooms off the Great Hall until the whole affair was over. Hannah might take pity on her if she does that, she reasons, and draw her in to sit at her table with the other Hufflepuff DA vets; Pansy debates it for a moment, wondering how purple Susan Bones’ face would get if she was stuck sitting next to Pansy for the duration, if making that kind of scene would be even worth the trouble.
Probably not, she thinks, looking around the emptying rows of chairs to see if she can spot the Greengrasses. The audience has left, but Pansy is not the only one who has stayed behind: Justin Finch-Fletchley is across the lawn in front of the Memorial, staring at the names engraved with a strange expression that from this distance, Pansy can’t decipher. He is standing so still that there is a moment where it feels like everything around him has gone blurry, like he is the only thing that is actually in focus, and before she can stop herself Pansy is up and walking, crossing the grass until they are side by side. Justin says nothing at her approach; his expression is carefully blank, like he is looking at a train schedule, or an advertisement, not a list of all their fallen schoolmates.
Pansy has thought about what she would say to Justin in the months since: how much she missed him when they weren’t talking, how much his kindness meant. All the little speeches she drew up late at night in her room over the Cauldron feel weak and fraudulent, now, right when she’s faced with the reality of seeing him. Pansy opens her mouth and shuts it again, the words falling sour on her tongue, but if there was ever a day to be brave, it’s this one.
It takes a moment, but she manages: “I thought I might have seen you up there, today,” she says by way of greeting, gesturing vaguely toward the stage.
Justin only shrugs. “Shacklebolt wanted to keep it small,” he says, “And he didn’t want to take away time from everyone else today. Besides, Penny’s the better speaker. I’m still not used to being in front of crowds.” Pansy raises an eyebrow at that, and Justin adds, “It’s… I don’t know, just - all the people, the noise -” he breaks off abruptly, running a hand through his hair.
“It’s a lot,” she supplies, and he nods in agreement.
“What would I even say? The war’s over, and everyone is trying their best to move on. No one wants to hear about eating rats and losing your mind right now, not when they’re here to remember how their best friend caught a hex and bled out on the castle steps.”
Pansy swallows hard and Justin turns to look at her. “Was it -” she falters, “Was it really like that?”
Justin’s voice is impassive. “Worse.” He fits his hands into the pockets of his fine jacket and looks back to the Memorial. “It was worse.”
Pansy wants to reach out for him, but she can’t seem to will her arms to work; can’t lift her own hands from where they rest, trembling and useless, at her sides.
“Susan asked me to sit with them inside,” Justin says after a beat, “With her and Hannah and Ernie and all the other Hufflepuff DA. I was one of them, she said. I should be proud I survived, and I should take today as the means to move on. And I love her - God help me, she is my best friend, but the minute she said that all I wanted to do was strangle her.”
Some things are hard to process, she thinks, remembering Penelope’s words, wondering where she is. Likely up at the castle with her husband and his family, staring into a cup of weak tea and listening to them talk about the brother he lost. The thought makes Pansy want to cry again; how awful it is, that they have gone through hell and lived, but are still not free from the pain. How awful it is, that they feel like they can’t even grieve what was taken from them, not when others count their loss as higher. How awful, that she understands exactly what it feels like.
“Everything feels all, just - all rattled, you know? Just wrong. She wants me to move past it, and Susan doesn’t… she doesn’t get that none of this is over for me. I lived, I came back, but it’s not finished. She doesn’t want… she wants me to be what I was, and I’m not. I’m not the person she knew anymore.”
Justin slumps forward then, falling like he’s just been hit with the full weight of realization. He catches himself on the obelisk, one hand splayed out over the cold marble as he covers his mouth with the other. His shoulders shake but he makes no noise, and Pansy wraps her arms around him on pure instinct, drawing him in without thinking, her forehead falling against his shoulder. Justin lets out a sharp inhale like he’s forgotten how to breathe; he goes still in her grasp, awkward and unsure, like he doesn’t know what to do with his own limbs, but Pansy holds on. Pansy does not let him go. Something seems to break within him, and Justin settles slowly into the gesture, moving so that he can meet her comfortably in the embrace.
“I’m sorry,” she says, her cheek against his shirt, her voice cracking with emotion, the small apology barely enough to express what she’s feeling.
Justin says nothing; he squeezes her elbow when they finally part, hand trailing down her forearm to her wrist, a thin smile on his mouth that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. Pansy’s breath is caught in her throat as lifts her gaze to his, her heart pounding so hard in her chest that she’s sure everyone up at the castle can hear. Pansy reaches out and takes his hand in hers, lacing her fingers through his, holding it tight.
“I’m sorry,” she says again, stronger now, heat rising in her cheeks. Justin studies her, his expression still hard to read, but Pansy doesn’t shy away. Neither of them speaks; Justin tugs her forward by the hand and curves his arm around her waist, holding her steady, keeping her close. He tilts his head against hers, and they stay like that in front of the Memorial. They stay like that for a long time.