peskywhistpaw (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} peskywhistpaw) wrote,@ 2008-03-30 18:02:00 |
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Lonely Souls
Title: Lonely Souls
Recipient: phil_urich
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: George/Pansy
Prompt/Request: Pansy runs a cart at Quidditch matches
Rating: PG
Word Count: 779
Summary: George Weasley misses his ear sometimes, and he misses Fred all the time, and between the two, he really hasn’t got the time to realize that he’s missing something else.
Author's Notes: for the ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small}
rarepair_shorts wishlist event. Beta'd by captainpookey.
George Weasley misses his ear sometimes, and he misses Fred all the time, and between the two, he really hasn’t got the time to realize that he’s missing something else.
He’s therefore declared himself a lonely soul.
Lonely souls, he’s figured out, like going to Quidditch matches. They gather there—but never together—mixed in amongst the crowd, and with all the shouting and flailing about, it’s impossible to tell who’s there with whom—and who’s there with nobody at all. George finds it very appealing.
So he goes to every single Quidditch match he can find—doesn’t miss one. He can afford it, what with the joke shop being as successful as it is.
Over the months, he gets to know the people who sell the tickets, who run the carts and sell souvenirs, who clean up after the game’s been won.
And then one day, he notices someone new.
She’s got a small cart, out-of-the-way and almost tasteless-looking. As far as George can tell, it’s covered in flowers.
Uncertain as to why anyone would want flowers during a Quidditch match, he decides to investigate. So he puts on his as-good-as-award-winning smile and casually strides forward.
When he gets close, he realizes just who’s running the cart—and he thinks about turning right around and going back to his seat. But, he decides, what else is a lonely soul to do but badger the not-so-lonely ones? Because surely, by now, she and Malfoy have got a whole lovely, blonde-haired brood at home to keep them company.
She’s busy rearranging something on the other side of the cart, so she doesn’t see him approach. The flowers, as it turns out, aren’t actually real—don’t look much like flowers at all, now that he’s up close. They’re—well, he isn’t quite sure what they are.
“So, Parkinson,” George greets cheerfully.
She turns around quickly, her face lit up with hope—her wares apparently aren’t as popular as she’d like. The light quickly fades, however, when she realizes who’s just spoken to her; it’s replaced by a scowl.
“Oh, joy,” she spits, “a Weasley. The one-eared wonder, no less.”
“It’s lovely to see you, too.”
Pansy sneers. “Do you actually plan on buying something, or did you just come over for a chat?”
“Both, perhaps, if you’ll let me.” He flashes her a grin—not his Old Grin, but it’s surprisingly close. “And if you’ll tell me what, exactly, you’re selling.”
“You can’t figure it out for yourself?”
“Here’s your chance to enlighten me.”
Pansy’s shoulders slump. “Oh. Well. They’re lights.”
“And not very bright ones, at that,” George remarks, purposefully tactless.
“That’s because I haven’t turned them on.”
He snorts. “Well, that’s one way to sell them.”
Now that he knows what they are, he can see that they are flowers after all—or, at least, they’re supposed to look like them.
“I make them myself.”
“Didn’t reckon you’d have the patience for that.”
She glares at him.
“Why’re you selling lights, anyway?” he asks, somewhat curious.
“If it gets dark. Sometimes the matches run late.”
“Sometimes.” George knows for a fact that they hardly ever do, not when they start so early in the day.
“It’s something, at least.”
“What, has Malfoy managed to spend all of his inheritance already?”
She looks at him sharply. “What’s that got to do with me?”
“Aren’t you—?”
She shakes her head. “You don’t keep up with the times much, do you? He’s been married to Astoria Greengrass for ages now.”
George frowns. Greengrass? The name isn’t familiar.
He looks up again just in time to see her bite her lip, trying to stop it from quivering. And in a second, he’s made his decision.
“I declare you a lonely soul,” he tells her abruptly.
“A what?”
“Lonely soul. It’s when we’ve got nothing left.”
“’We’?”
“The one-eared wonder,” he reminds her.
Pansy flushes. “Well, I—”
“Nothing wrong with it,” he says. “Ah, yes, and I’ll have three of those light things, if you don’t mind.”
He fishes in his pocket for the correct amount, then presents it to her once he’s found it. She stares at him, flabbergasted.
“Sun’ll set soon. Might need ‘em.” George shrugs. It doesn’t matter that it’s just barely the middle of the afternoon.
Pansy gives him three lights, carefully wrapping each one before placing them in his hand, and waits for him to leave.
He doesn’t.
He’s just started to realize, after all, what else he’s been missing. And it’s a pity, he thinks, that all the lonely souls rarely ever think to get together more often—because maybe then, they might realize it, too.
