Gold Digger: Like a Hooker... Just Smarter
So I have a bit of free time on my hands, and I've decided to dabble with a heartbreaking (but possibly veeeery racy) HarryPansy story that I started this summer. It has a lot of potential. I mean, I actually think it could be good, and I'm looking for opinions.
Anyone want to help?
A blurb:
Now, sitting in her chair, in the room she remodeled, all he can think about is the golden roses stitched on the fabric covering the chair-fabric she only picked out because the voluptuous roses resembled those painted on a vase that had belonged to her late mother. His eyes are fixed upon the spot where the broken vase lays; the jagged white pieces are a stark contrast with the dark stain of the ancient wood floor. He thinks that they look like puzzle pieces, tattered scraps of nothingness that have the possibility to come together to form a picture, something whole and beautiful. The broken glass is a dangerous puzzle, sharp and jaded and demanding the blood of whoever dares to sort out the pieces. He knows because he’s tried to sort it out so many times before, when the vase wasn’t broken and Pansy was still in his arms. His fingers aren’t bleeding but his heart gushes with the spilt liquid of his failed attempts, causing the muscle to beat at a slow, sluggish pace that makes it difficult for Harry to breath.
He has sat here for hours, staring at the broken pieces as he waits for the vase to come together on its own and show him everything he ever wanted to know about his girl. It will not, and he feels he will die like this, his heart eventually slowing to a halt as he waits.
There is a bottle of Chardonnay beside him, a fruit and cheese tray lying half-eaten next to the uncorked bottle and two depressingly empty glasses. They were once full, he tells himself, picking up a bottle in an attempt to poor himself a serving. He spies the imprint of her lipstick marring the translucent glass, the rosy pink color barely visible in the near darkness of the room. It’s an almost haunting reminder of her presences, still pervading the room much as it would if she were only in the kitchen or another room. Pansy has been at Grimmauld Place long enough for her very soul to seep into the wood foundations of the olden home, the vivacity of a soul too big for this world filling the house and his head until it is all that is there. There is nothing in Harry Potter’s head but Pansy, and he wonders how it became this way, how he can feel as if his heart is refusing to beat because the girl he’d told himself was only good for a fuck is gone.
The vase has been shattered, broken into too may pieces to Reparo back together. He realizes that Pansy has always been like this: broken, beautiful, and something he could never touch with his hands. She has never been just a fuck. He has known this for a long time, despite what he tells himself. Broken as she is, for the past two years, Pansy Parkinson has been as vital to his wellbeing as air. Pansy is his soul. He knows this.
She isn’t coming back.