All characters from the Harry Potter universe belong to J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury
Publishing, Scholastic Inc., AOL/Time Warner and associated companies. No
offence, legal or otherwise, is intended by the online publication of this
story. Neither is profit. Make love, not lawsuits!
Notes: Scribbled in 23 minutes for Contrelamontre's 'Grocery List' challenge: a fic that includes 4 yellow things, 3 animals, 2 mind-altering substances and 1 pair of high heels. No copyright infringement intended by the publication of this story.
The yellow of Padma's ribbon. Untied in a spill of dark hair, tangling in Cho's
The yellow of Cedric's scarf. Still folded in the bottom of her trunk, although
no one knows she has it.
The yellow of Snitch, because it isn't gold in the swift windshine--merely
yellow, a dancing spot of yellow that glints like a little sun.
The yellow of the Hufflepuff tapestry, which she still flinches away from when
she walks into the Great Hall.
Only three tapestries are safe to look at now. Lion. Snake. Raven. Cho returns
to her dorm as soon as she can after dinner--to the dark, heavy drapes around
Padma's bed, to the shadows pooling around her feet.
Padma's mouth is sweet with hashish. She's one of the few Ravenclaws who
appreciates the 'disordering of all the senses', as she puts it. 'A Muggle
poet,' Padma murmurs into Cho's ear, reaching around to unclasp the hooks of
Cho's bra. 'French.'
Padma knows her subjects well. French: kissing, history, literature. Magic:
silencing charms, cloaking spells, a summons to the little bottle of oil by her
bed. Padma is warm, certain, knowledgeable--a slender shifting pillar around
which Cho winds herself for balance. Tell me. Teach me. Please. Padma's
heart has no place for grief--she is pragmatic, and any pain that she feels is
but the brief stinging of a thorn, to be quickly removed even before it can be
properly acknowledged. Padma's heart is yellow like the sun, like the Snitch, a
flutter of pulse and heat under Cho's mouth. Padma doesn't understand Cho's
sorrow, which is unreasonable and black and has no place in a Ravenclaw's heart,
surely. Padma doesn't understand why Cho doesn't discard bad memories in order
to make better ones--but Padma gives her better memories anyway, new maps from
nipple to mouth to thigh, new guides for Cho to follow with trembling hands. Cho
can't seem to stop trembling, stop crying, sometimes--even when she comes, and
she feels so stupid for that, so weak, but Padma gentles her down every time.
Cho doesn't ask Padma why she's doing this--if it's a pity fuck, but it probably
isn't, because Padma isn't one for pity, although she is one for compassion. Compassionate
fuck, then? Only Cho's so tired she can't even pull enough of herself together
for anger--not that Padma deserves it, because Padma honestly wants her, dark
eyes to dark eyes, dark hair to dark hair, dusky skin to ivory smooth, sweet to
bitter, cunt to mouth. It's all very... different. From --. Very. Soft curves
instead of hard shifting muscle, although Padma's tendons feel strong too, under
the shift of neck and shoulder. Thigh. And the rising's the same, the shaking--Cho
always shakes before orgasm, and she can see Padma's dark eyes make note of it,
with a heated little flick, as though this is yet another line in a book she's
been making notes in for a long time.
Padma doesn't understand grief. Maybe that's why her expression doesn't flicker
when she catches Cho kissing Harry--and it doesn't matter that Cho's crying, and
that Harry only looks confused--it doesn't, because Padma's expressionless all
through dinner, and all through the next day, and when Terry asks her out, and
she's still expressionless when she puts on her high heels, black winding
stripes around her ankles, and arches up to Terry's mouth for a kiss.
Padma doesn't understand grief--but when she stumbles back after hours and into
Cho's bed, a body slender and heavy and hot under layers of gauze and cotton,
she winds her fingers in Cho's hair so tightly it hurts, and her teeth bite
Cho's shoulders until they bruise. Her mouth tastes saltier than it should,
under the tang of firewhiskey--and when she hauls Cho's knee up to fuck and suck
and thrust, she's the one who's trembling, and Cho feels cleansed by it,
her poison bled into another heart--because Padma might not understand grief but
she does understand anger after all, and maybe, just maybe, that'll be
* FIN *
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