Crying Slytherins
I don't cry. I'm a Slytherin, that's why. Or at least that's what I convinced myself every time I felt the urge to start bawling like some baby. The idea itself sickened me and I thought anyone who still cried past the age of three was a useless waste of air. Even after Draco manhandled me, because he can he says with that stupid drawl of his, and I'm curled up on my bed, drapes closed tightly, I did not cry. When I started making cuts on my wrists with the knife I had stolen from the Great Hall, I did not cry. As I watched my blood seep slowly down, like a red snake, I just stare at it. Prats. Why would anyone cry over pain? A quick healing charm and it was gone, save for the blood that managed to escape.
The one thing I hated more than people who cried, were Gryffindors. They always received the most attention from the headmaster. Bravery was their trait, but I thought it should be attention seekers. Always something big happened around them, drawing attention from all, even Slytherins. Stupid twits. I wish I could jinx the lot so they could all be slugs, then throw salt on them. Which is something I should point out. Slytherins valued trait is ambition, but I knew for a fact it was our wickedness that got us here. We did anything to succeed, even crushing our family and friends if the need arose. What do Slytherins need with silly emotions?
One night, in my seventh year, I was walking along the corridors, fulfilling my duties as Head Girl. I had already caught several Hufflepuff fourth years playing with Exploding Snaps in an empty classroom and was feeling mighty grand, having made them all cry. Weaklings. As I walked down a no longer used section of the third floor, keeping an eye out for the occasional smartass second year who thought they could go anywhere after hours and never get caught, I heard something. Crying. It was muffled, coming from behind the door of a normally sealed off classroom. Supposedly, someone had tried to make their own dungbombs in there eight years ago, but it had gone wrong. It was rumored the room could never smell 'clean' again. So I pressed my robe's sleeve against my nose and pushed the door open. It was dark inside, but I could make out the shapes of several desks and chairs. A startled sob came from directly ahead of me, somewhere near the windows.
I cast lumos and made my way to where I had heard the sob, now silent; someone attempting to hold their breath. They hadn't bothered to move and as I approached, the light from my wand illuminated bushy hair. "Granger?" I sneered, my sleeve still over my nose, but she didn't move. I couldn't see her face as she had hid it behind her knees and arms. "Go away," She said, her voice muffled. I didn't move. This seemed too good a chance to pass up.
"What's the matter, Granger? Lost a book?" I smirked, feeling as if tonight was my lucky night. "Or did that idiot Weasley, finally try to feel you up? Which would be surprising since I didn't think he could tell his arse from his face." My shrieking laughter momentarily filled the silent room.
"Leave me along, Parkinson!" She was shaking now, but I was not going to let up. I enjoyed seeing her suffer. For a brief moment, I wished I had been the one who made her cry in the first place.
"Come now. I'm surprised you do anything aside from read. Is this perhaps something you learned in a book? Are you trying to see if you could drown yourself in tears?"
She caught me off guard. One second I was shrieking with laughter, the next my head slammed into the stone floor, my wand slipping out of my hand and rolling away still lit. The room did not smell to my surprise, just the faint odor of dust and mold. Hermione Granger sat on top of my legs, she had tackled me to the ground, and I could see her face now, covered mostly in shadows. Her face was red and wet, but her eyes, they took me by surprise, they weren't angry as I expected. No, they were sad yet smiling as they watched me. My head was swimming in pain though, so I wondered if I was imagining it.
"You prat! What the hell is wrong with you? Are you trying to do me in? Get off of me!"
She didn't move, only smirked despite the tears that still streamed down her face.
"Don't you ever want to be alone so you can cry away all your frustrations and fears?" Granger finally said, her eyes never leaving mine.
"I am a Slytherin, I don't cry." The words that I always chanted in my head, spilled out into the air and I realized for the first time how ridiculous they were.
Granger shook her head, obviously they were ridiculous to her as well. "Surely, you must cry. Even the toughest person cries at some point."
No, I thought bitterly. Those who don't know pure emotions cry, but I didn't say that. "Only fools waste their time with tears."
She smiled and pointed her wand at my chest; my heart.
"Do you want to know why I was crying?" I didn't answer. I didn't care. The wand poked me and I nodded reluctantly. "I have spent the last four years, in love with someone, who, undoubtedly, couldn't give a rat's arse about me. Do you know how crushing that is?" Again, I didn't answer. I couldn't because I honestly didn't know. No one loved me, so in turn, I learned never to love anyone.
"Of course, you wouldn't. I guess if Slytherins do not cry, then I suppose they do not love either." Her voice was dangerous and she poked me harder with her wand.
"Why are you telling me this? Do you think I actually care?" I snapped. Suddenly, I wanted to hit her, but she had her wand pointed at me and her eyes gleamed dangerously; I did not dare.
Despite the tears in her eyes, she laughed. A small laugh, forced, but it was a laugh nonetheless. She moved her wand until it was directly under my chin before bending over. Her lips were very close to mine and I could feel a tear slip from her chin onto me. I shuddered. Close contact with someone wasn't really my favorite thing. I felt suffocated.
"Why, you ask?" Granger dug her wand into my chin, forcing my face up, and kissed me hard. This was going too far, but I still did not dare react with her wand so close to me. Instead, I spit in her face. Surprise contorted on her features before I felt her free hand make contact with my cheek. My face snapped to the right and I kept my face turned like that, despite the wand that was poised below my chin. She was crying again. "Do you know why now, Parkinson? Could you even begin to comprehend why I would bother wasting my breath on you?" Granger was almost hysterical.
Things started to click into place in my head. Things I refused to believe but were steadily making sense. My face turned toward her, quickly splattered with her tears, and stared wide eyed at her. There was no way she could possibly be speaking about... No. Before I could open mouth, she slapped me again but forced my face to look at her again, and planted another hard desperate kiss on my now grimacing lips. There was no doubt in my mind now. Either she had completely gone off her rocker or she was speaking about me.
So I had made her cry in the first place. The feeling was not one of triumph. My stomach turned slightly in regret for some reason.
"I didn't know...," I heard myself whisper when her mouth moved away.
"You wouldn't, would you? I wish I could have been attracted to anyone other then you, even Malfoy would have been better. But...," Her voice quivered. "It was you I wanted. No matter what I did. I gave myself to Ron, hoping maybe a bloke could change this horrible thing in my heart, but he couldn't do it. I only disappointed him and myself. I love you so much, Pansy. I hate myself for it."
Granger put her wand down, letting it slide out of her hand and clatter to the stone floor that I was beginning to feel I knew a little too intimately by now. She buried her face into the crook of my neck, sobbing loudly into my robe's collar, wetting -- staining -- it with tears and saliva. I was too stunned to move. A childhood memory, which had long been forgotten, emerged in my mind. I was eight and my mum was crying loudly as she held me. My father had left her for someone else. She was torn and frantic, so unlike her normally stoic appearance; and I was crying with her, desperate to comfort her, but completely unable to. I hated my father after that. I hated myself as well after that. I could not give her the comfort she needed. She took to drinking afterwards and my mother was never the same. It was then that I had promised never to cry again. I thought if I hadn't cried, if I had been stronger, she would be okay. However, she never recovered and was found dead by a house elf when I was eleven, a bottle of firewhiskey in hand.
History seemed to be repeating itself, as if though someone was giving me another chance to save someone who loved me. Redeem my past failure. Hesitantly, I wrapped my arms around Granger and she seemed to sob louder. I felt like that eight year old child again -- trapped and confused. In time, she stopped crying and I lifted her face, with effort owing to my position, from my shoulder. Her brown eyes were scared, that was clear as day. I could see the way her lip trembled, not from crying but from fear. She thinks I hate her. Hate her because she's crying; because she's a fool. To this day, I do not know what possessed me, but I brought her face close to mine and met her lips halfway. I had closed my eyes but I knew she was staring at me as wide eyed as I had been earlier.
"I can't promise you anything, Hermione, but I'll give it a shot." Even I was surprised when those words floated out of my mouth.
I never seen anyone as happy as Granger was at that moment. She kissed me again, apologized and finally allowed me to get up. As I picked up my wand, I wondered if this was right, siding with the enemy. I never fancied myself a lesbian either. When I turned around, my wand's tip, which still glowed, caught the smile on her face, I knew it didn't matter. My mother had died because I was weak. Hermione was happy because I was strong. I do not think I ever felt anymore delighted about something good I had done. I wiped her tears off my face, gave her a small smile, and exited the classroom.
My name is Pansy Parkinson. I am a proud Slytherin, wicked to the bone. And I use to believe crying was for dolts, now I know better. I do cry. I do not cut myself anymore. Gryffindors are still nuisances, but I do not care. Slytherins are human too, they cry same as anyone. Crying Slytherins can be heard late at night if you listen hard enough. They are the ones who talk big around others, but cry themselves silently to sleep. I am a crying Slytherin, but I only cry when Hermione is not by side at night.