sometimes there's no one to ride in and save you...
Title: White Knights
Pairing: Pansy/Snape
Rating: eh, it was supposed to be R, but it's more like PG-13 for implied non-con and darkness.
Summary: Sometimes when you're the chattel that's been bought and sold, there's no white knight to ride in and save you...
I wrote this fic awhile ago...I may finish it someday, but don't get your hopes up.
She says thank you for never even caring
I'll plan to see you all in hell
As she sits there saying those stupid words over again
Thank you for destroying me--"thank you", Lennon Murphy.
Her father sold her off to his enemy. As if she were a parcel of land, or a favorite hunting dog. Those, he couldn't bear to part with. That, she would never forgive him for--that his dogs were infinitely more precious than his youngest daughter, the only legacy he would leave on this earth. His debts were mounting, his manor house was rotting, and all he had left was his daughter and his good name. And so he sold her, to the highest bidder, an icy pureblood who needed some hearty, country-bred stock to clear up the bloodlines. The less she knew about it, the better.
*
When she first saw him coming down the lane, he looked like a smudged angel against the backdrop of a charcoal sky. The sun came out, and relentlessly stayed, one of those warm sunny days England rarely is privy to. In the dusty parlor they made small talk, while the house elf served them tea and crumpets, warm, with melted butter and marmalade. Her father never came. The conversation faltered, and died, and she made the usual excuses. Out hunting--probably lost track of time--I'll tell him you stopped in. That was when he grabbed her. At first there was pain, a brilliant black pain that throbbed in her temples, and then there was nothing. What she remembered was this--how bright the sun was as it snaked through the thick drapes and onto the carpet where she lay after he'd finished with her. She'd stare at the sun until she went blind.
Now you're mine, he vowed, touching her pale shoulder. The marks remained for days afterwards, keepsakes of her crucifixion. After that, there were no more times but it didn't matter, because he'd done what he came to do, and she sat in the parlor and ate her crumpets with marmalade and thought of nothing, because if she thought of anything besides, or anything but, she'd surely go mad.
*
The coming of winter saw Pansy in black--black stockings, black skirts, black pumps that made her calves look slim and her ankles less thick. The robes were inherited-voluminous and moth-eaten, with a distinct moldy aroma that no amount of laundering or spell casting could perforate.
The day passed by in a blur, and when it was all over with she was left sitting at her bedroom window, trying to remember the last time she wept.
All of the Slytherins sent lilies, and she found that their beauty was in the way they bloomed for a day and then died. Her father’s friends descended upon the house, ate all the food, and absconded with certain Dark household items that they swore would be put into safekeeping. The only thing she saved from prying spells and hands was the antique tea set her mother had left her, and what magical properties it had, she knew nothing. Later, after all the funerary rites had passed, she would uncover the things they had missed or simply overlooked-an antique hand mirror, a bespelled handkerchief, a broken music box.
* I think there's a scene missing here...
Draco, Vincent, Gregory and Millicent came just as the afternoon was beginning to fade, but no one answered the door. They picked the lock and entered forthwith, in that repulsively imposing way all the Slytherins have. If Pansy had been lucid, there would have been no need. They found her sitting in the parlor, surrounded by lily blossoms, the only color to her skin the lurid bruises upon her wrists.
"What happened?" Millicent was the first to speak. The air in the room was suffocating, the heat had combined with the stench of sweetness and decay, and beside Pansy a tray of sweetmeats lay, untouched. Despite continued babbling from Millicent, Pansy remained the way she was: staring ahead, concentrated firmly on the dense gray of the afternoon horizon, hands folded primly in her lap.
"Parkinson?" Crabbe and Goyle fumbled, venturing further into the dim, but she did not reply. Of the four of them, only Draco remained mute, crossing behind the tableau before him to caress a drooping flower with one slender fingertip. Suddenly, her neck snapped up and she blinked rapidly, as if awakening from a long and troubling dream.
...
Pairing: Pansy/Snape
Rating: eh, it was supposed to be R, but it's more like PG-13 for implied non-con and darkness.
Summary: Sometimes when you're the chattel that's been bought and sold, there's no white knight to ride in and save you...
I wrote this fic awhile ago...I may finish it someday, but don't get your hopes up.
She says thank you for never even caring
I'll plan to see you all in hell
As she sits there saying those stupid words over again
Thank you for destroying me--"thank you", Lennon Murphy.
Her father sold her off to his enemy. As if she were a parcel of land, or a favorite hunting dog. Those, he couldn't bear to part with. That, she would never forgive him for--that his dogs were infinitely more precious than his youngest daughter, the only legacy he would leave on this earth. His debts were mounting, his manor house was rotting, and all he had left was his daughter and his good name. And so he sold her, to the highest bidder, an icy pureblood who needed some hearty, country-bred stock to clear up the bloodlines. The less she knew about it, the better.
*
When she first saw him coming down the lane, he looked like a smudged angel against the backdrop of a charcoal sky. The sun came out, and relentlessly stayed, one of those warm sunny days England rarely is privy to. In the dusty parlor they made small talk, while the house elf served them tea and crumpets, warm, with melted butter and marmalade. Her father never came. The conversation faltered, and died, and she made the usual excuses. Out hunting--probably lost track of time--I'll tell him you stopped in. That was when he grabbed her. At first there was pain, a brilliant black pain that throbbed in her temples, and then there was nothing. What she remembered was this--how bright the sun was as it snaked through the thick drapes and onto the carpet where she lay after he'd finished with her. She'd stare at the sun until she went blind.
Now you're mine, he vowed, touching her pale shoulder. The marks remained for days afterwards, keepsakes of her crucifixion. After that, there were no more times but it didn't matter, because he'd done what he came to do, and she sat in the parlor and ate her crumpets with marmalade and thought of nothing, because if she thought of anything besides, or anything but, she'd surely go mad.
*
The coming of winter saw Pansy in black--black stockings, black skirts, black pumps that made her calves look slim and her ankles less thick. The robes were inherited-voluminous and moth-eaten, with a distinct moldy aroma that no amount of laundering or spell casting could perforate.
The day passed by in a blur, and when it was all over with she was left sitting at her bedroom window, trying to remember the last time she wept.
All of the Slytherins sent lilies, and she found that their beauty was in the way they bloomed for a day and then died. Her father’s friends descended upon the house, ate all the food, and absconded with certain Dark household items that they swore would be put into safekeeping. The only thing she saved from prying spells and hands was the antique tea set her mother had left her, and what magical properties it had, she knew nothing. Later, after all the funerary rites had passed, she would uncover the things they had missed or simply overlooked-an antique hand mirror, a bespelled handkerchief, a broken music box.
* I think there's a scene missing here...
Draco, Vincent, Gregory and Millicent came just as the afternoon was beginning to fade, but no one answered the door. They picked the lock and entered forthwith, in that repulsively imposing way all the Slytherins have. If Pansy had been lucid, there would have been no need. They found her sitting in the parlor, surrounded by lily blossoms, the only color to her skin the lurid bruises upon her wrists.
"What happened?" Millicent was the first to speak. The air in the room was suffocating, the heat had combined with the stench of sweetness and decay, and beside Pansy a tray of sweetmeats lay, untouched. Despite continued babbling from Millicent, Pansy remained the way she was: staring ahead, concentrated firmly on the dense gray of the afternoon horizon, hands folded primly in her lap.
"Parkinson?" Crabbe and Goyle fumbled, venturing further into the dim, but she did not reply. Of the four of them, only Draco remained mute, crossing behind the tableau before him to caress a drooping flower with one slender fingertip. Suddenly, her neck snapped up and she blinked rapidly, as if awakening from a long and troubling dream.
...