She was a fancy lady, she sure was. Sat down on the other end of the boat and told him to row all the way to that blasted island, and had the Ferryman not been in such need for money, he would have said no. No ma’am, not even for your fancy fur coat or feathered hat. He nearly said no, anyway, even after she dropped the few sweet golden coins onto his palm. He nearly told her that a place such as that island was no place for pretty young Pureblood girls with delicate features and dragonhide boots.
He didn’t. He couldn’t.
The look in her pale blue eyes left no space for smiles and sweetness, and the Ferryman knew that it was either golden coins or a bloody throat, and so he picked the Galleons and started rowing.
“Awful weather, eh?” he hollered over the sound of the rain and waves. “Pity they don’t get those portkeys working. They used to work, you know. But after the second war they cut funds and called it a security measure. Ha! Security measure!”
The woman didn’t respond, and unlike many of the other people the Ferryman had taken to the island, she didn’t look worried when the boat was rocked by the strong waves. Her eyes were fixed on the island they were heading towards with an unsettling intensity.
“The place is full of Death Eaters now,” the Ferryman said. “Worst of the lot, I tell you. Some got the Kiss but too many weren’t captured until well after the Dementors had left. Pity, I say. I really hope they’ve got more than second rate Aurors guarding the cells these days. Wouldn’t want any of those bastards to escape, eh?”
A familiar ache made itself known in his arms as he rowed against the heavy waves, and to distract himself, the man continued: “I know it’s been two years since Harry Potter got rid of You-Know-Who for good. Let me tell you, though, two years isn’t enough time for anyone to forget the tragedies that happened.”
At this, the woman’s expression changed – barely, but just enough to make him feel like being quiet was a rather viable option. So he fell silent, and alternated between looking at the island and looking at the strange woman he was taking there.
She was dressed in black, from head to toe, and while the Ferryman didn’t enjoy commenting on how women looked – no sir, he wouldn’t go down that road – this particular lady looked downright sickly. Her robes were heavy, made of obviously expensive material, and the insignia of a Pureblood family was carved into the golden buttons of her cloak. Dark brown dragonhide boots spoke of little use, customary to women who preferred apparating to walking long distances.
Her hands were gloved, and her black hat’s feathers were large and shiny and didn’t move an inch despite the wind and rain that should have beaten the feathers down and away. Her dark hair was tied into a bun with a few pearls decorating it. It occurred to him then that perhaps he could have asked for a higher fee than the one he tended to ask most travelers for.
“What takes you there?” the Ferryman couldn’t resist asking. “It’s not a place for decent folk.”
“How much longer until we arrive?” the woman then said in response, her voice cutting through the wind like a curse. She clearly had no intention of answering his question, which wasn’t unusual. For some reason most people who wanted to cross the water weren’t in a chatty mood.
“A few minutes still,” the Ferryman replied. “There’s a port hidden between the bigger rocks. I’ll be waiting there for you to finish before we go back. I’ll wait for an hour before I return – nightfall, you see. These waters are restless once the sun sets, and no sane sailor would take to them after dark.”
“I doubt it will take that long,” the woman said. “So you needn’t worry.”
“Oh, I always worry when I go there,” the Ferryman admitted. “What if one of them managed to escape his or her cell, came down to the port and decided to grab a boat and flee? What if they saw me? Wandless they might be, but I’ve heard tales, ma’am. I’ve heard tales of what they can do without a wand.”
He was shaking his head as he navigated the small boat expertly between the rocks that were half-hidden by the dark waters. “You-Know-Who taught them things no decent witch or wizard would do.”
“Rubbish,” the woman said. “People tell tall tales to keep fear alive. If they were so powerful, I assure you that they wouldn’t have been caught and locked up here.”
“Yeah, but isn’t that a worrisome thing? What if all the strong ones are still out there, just waiting for the day to strike back?”
“I truly do not believe so.”
“Well, Minister Kingsley has everything under control,” the Ferryman said. “He’s a good wizard, that one. Used to be an Auror, and let me tell you, when it comes to hunting down Dark wizards and keeping everyone safe, it’s the Aurors who make the best ministers. What’s even more telling, though, is that he has Potter’s full support.”
“Telling, indeed,” the woman drawled. They had finally arrived at the port, and the Ferryman saw three other boats waiting for their owners side by side. Well, at least he’d have some company while waiting for the lady to return, as the owners were surely waiting nearby, even if out of sight.
“Here we are,” he said, and hopped from the boat to the wharf to tie the ropes into their hooks and posts. By the time he turned to help the lady off the boat, he found her standing on the wharf as well, eyeing him with a cold look on her face. She was taller than he had realized, and with no other people in sight, she looked a tad more dangerous too.
“I will return in an hour, as agreed,” she said. “Be here.”
And, well, there was only one thing he could say to that. “Yes ma’am!”
***
The walls and floors made of never-warming stone and the unbending iron bars were but a small detail of a horrifying big picture. Even without the Dementors, Azkaban was by far worse than any other prison. Pansy’s steel-studded heels clacked loudly as she walked, waking some of the inmates she passed by.
“A guard will stay nearby at all times,” the auror rushing beside her said. “No privacy spells allowed, either. And you’ll not be allowed to draw your wand, so if there’s anything you need, you must ask the guard to– Ah, here we are. In through that door, please. Hello, Mr. Parkinson.”
The room was small and windowless, illuminated only by four candles floating near the center. A table was in the middle, with two chairs on both sides of it. Pansy barely registered her guide leaving, closing the door behind him, while a guard stood next to the closed door.
“Pansy,” said the man sitting on one of the chairs. His hair, once dark and thick was now nothing but a mess of grey unkempt curls that hadn’t been cut for ages. It didn’t hide the map of scars and wrinkles that covered his face, or his mauled ears. His eyes, however, were the familiar pale blue that she remembered not only from the mirror, but from the man he had once been.
Merlin, her father looked like a man well past his century.
“I received your letter,” Pansy said quietly, and reached across the table to hold his hands between hers. She had taken off the black gloves and a ring with their family insignia sparkled dimly in the candlelight. Mr. Parkinson eyed the ring for a few silent moments, before he smiled tiredly at her.
“You look ill,” he said, and Pansy nearly laughed at the hypocrisy.
“I’m sure that’s not what you called me here for,” she simply said. “Besides, I have no right to complain. I’m alive. No one bothers me, not even when I go outside.”
“People don’t seek you out either, do they? Your mother… she writes to me, you see. I’ve received quite a few letters from her and she is very worried about you,” Mr. Parkinson sighed quietly, and shook his head with a pained expression. “I… Pansy… I am…”
“Don’t apologize,” Pansy said quickly, hating the thought of seeing her father’s spirit so broken. She had liked it better when he had been loud and arrogant and brash, throwing money and parties and laughing often. That man didn’t exist anymore, and Pansy doubted that he’d ever exist again. “We all made mistakes. You weren’t the only one.”
“But you shouldn’t have to live with mine,” Mr. Parkinson said, tears of regret filling his eyes. Pansy looked away, for a moment, pretending to not see the man’s grief. Shame was what she felt then. Shame and disgust. “The mistakes I made, don’t let them hold you back, Pansy. You’re not the kind of a girl who sits at home and reads books for fun.”
“I’m not,” Pansy agreed. “But you’d be surprised by how few people actually would attend a ball if I threw one.”
“Did you try?”
“Once. It was a humiliating experience.”
“Then you have to start from nothing,” Mr. Parkinson told her. “It is my fault, and I wish I could be the one to fix the things that I’ve ruined. But my shame is not yours, and you can make the Parkinson name into something you can be proud of again. If there’s something you want, don’t tell yourself that you don’t deserve to have it just because I was stuck in the wrong side of the war. Distance yourself from what I did. Renounce me if you need to.”
“There isn’t much I can do, though,” Pansy admitted, letting go of her father’s hands and leaning back on her chair. “Out of the friends I used to have, only Blaise and Theo visit anymore. Even Millicent would much rather keep asking Weasley out for coffee – and get turned down – than drop by for brunch with me.”
“Bulstrode? She always drifted with the currents, didn’t she? An unfortunate family trait, I’m afraid.”
Pansy shrugged in response, not saying anything. Mr. Parkinson sighed heavily, and the two spent a few moments in silence. Finally, he said: “Your mother always underestimated you. Everyone did.”
“Of course they did,” Pansy snapped, scowling angrily. “It’s not like I was allowed to be ambitious in anything that didn’t involve marriage.”
“Despite that, you did well in your studies,” her father replied calmly. “I was always proud of your grades from school. I thought that whatever you’d want to do after Hogwarts, you’d be able to achieve it. I don’t want you stop yourself from aiming for the things you want, just because you think the world is against you.”
“The world is against me!”
“You are a woman,” Mr. Parkinson said, reaching to gently take hold of her hands. “You are a woman, and I know how women are treated in our society. I had a mother and a sister, I have a wife and a daughter. And I am not blind, Pansy. No matter what you do, the world will be against you. Because there are men – and yes, women too – who think that women are too irrational for important positions and too weak to get anything done.”
“There have been women in high positions before.”
“Significantly less than men, though. And if you think of Umbridge or MacMillan or even Amelia Bones, they faced their share of hardships in getting their positions, and paid dearly for them in the end.”
Pansy scowled, hearing the truth in her father’s words, but not knowing how to respond to it. In the end she simply sighed and shook her head. “What I really want is far too… unbelievable.”
“Unbelievable for someone else,” Mr. Parkinson said. “But I believe in you. I will always believe in you.”
The witch closed her eyes, took a deep breath and then stood up. She pulled on her hat again, allowing it to cover part of her face with its shadow, and offered her father a shaky smile. “The hour is almost over. I’ll… I’ll visit you again.”
“Don’t,” Mr. Parkinson told her, returning her smile with one of his own. He looked at her face, as if to memorize it for good. “If you must tell me something, send someone else or write me a letter. But distance yourself from me. Do yourself that favour.”
Pansy didn’t say goodbye before leaving, but the sentiment was repeated in the echo of her footsteps as she left her father behind.
***
The way back home did not help Pansy clear her thoughts. All she could focus on in the end was a nasty feeling under her heart, a cold feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach and a headache that made her fingers itch to undo the bun and throw the heavy hat away.
She didn’t, not even when she entered her home and a house-elf stood in front of her, ready to take away her cloak and shoes and help her in every way it could. The fireplace’s iron gates closed with a small click, and she stepped further into the round, carpeted room.
“Master Blaise is waiting,” it told her, making Pansy sigh heavily and continue her way to where she knew she’d find one of the two friends she still had. The corridors were long and dark and a part of her wanted to sit down in one of the shadowed corners and cry until a miracle would come and make everything better.
She never did.
Pansy entered one of the lounges and saw Blaise slouching on a chair, staring through the baroque framed windows into the garden outside. Dressed in a dark grey suit – Pansy recognized the Mark Tarot design of it – and a black tie that matched his eyes, Blaise was a beautiful sight to behold. Unlike her and Theo, Blaise hadn’t suffered from the aftermath of the war. The Zabinis had wisely stayed out of the way most of the time, and the little things they did to dodge the Dark Lord’s wrath weren’t criminal enough to be paid attention to. Not when there had been so much else that needed that attention.
“I was surprised to hear you went out,” Blaise said, noticing her and sitting up properly. “You look pretty.”
“Don’t I always,” Pansy replied, sitting down on a chair across of him, and calling for a house-elf to bring them tea and something suitable to snack on.
“You also look tired,” Blaise continued. “Did something happen? Where did you go?”
“Azkaban,” Pansy said, reaching for a fresh cup of tea. “I was visiting my father.” She then closed her eyes and sighed, allowing the heat of the cup warm her hands. Growing up, she thought her father was invincible and that the Parkinson name would always shield her and carry her forward. How things had changed.
Despite all the hardships, the social isolation and loneliness, Pansy was proud of being a Parkinson. No matter the success of others, she would rather die with a pure blood than live as anything less than that. She did, however, readily admit her mistake: she should have hidden her opinions better, and held her thoughts closer to her heart.
“It’s a disgrace that he’s kept there, when Lucius Malfoy got away with house arrest,” Blaise sneered. “Draco’s been seen with Daphne’s little sister, did you hear? Never mind seven years of friendship, I suppose!”
“No,” Pansy replied. “Who’d tell me if not you? Theo has no time for any fun news, unfortunately. That law program he got accepted into keeps him busy.”
“Good for him, though. He lost everything, didn’t he? No family left, only a little bit of money and a house he cannot afford renovating. Puts everything else into perspective, doesn’t it? Well, at least he’s got nobody telling him to get married.”
“Oh, don’t talk to me about marriage,” Pansy said with a grimace. What used to be a childhood dream had long ago turned into a nightmare she didn’t want to endure. “My mother has been bringing that up to me quite often lately.” Mrs. Parkinson had even gone as far as to suggest that getting married was Pansy’s only shot for happiness.
“I heard you’ve gotten a few proposals, though,” Blaise said, leaning forward to grab a handful of almonds. “None of them pleased you?”
“Good Circe, no,” Pansy replied. “McLaggen was one of them, did I ever tell you? He turned up half an hour late and gave no excuses. He first told me that he’s doing me a favour, then said that I’m quite acceptable looking and thirdly expressed surprise when I mentioned the other proposals that I received. After I turned him down, he told me that I’m actually not that pretty and he was simply offering to marry me out of the goodness of his heart.”
“Classic Cormac,” Blaise groaned. “The guy’s delusional. What about the others?”
“I don’t want to spend the rest of my life with a man, Blaise,” Pansy sighed, and added honey to her second cupful of tea. “Especially a man who thinks of me as nothing but a charity case and considers the Parkinson name a burden.”
“What are you going to do, then?”
“I don’t know.”
“Pansy,” Blaise sighed, and moved from his chair to kneel in front of Pansy. He set her cup of tea onto the table and turned to her with a humourless smile. “Pansy, this cannot go on.”
“I don’t–”
“You do know what I mean,” the man said. “You’re wasting away inside this place, as if its walls are all the sights you need to see. I know you’ve never been into sports or books, but you used to love eating out and spending hours going from shop to shop, buying the things that catch your eye. By keeping yourself here, hidden from everyone as if you’ve committed a crime–”
“Well, I did try to give Potter up to the Dark Lord.”
“Draco did worse! His mother certainly was neck deep in that business, and somehow she–”
“Well, what will you have me do then, Blaise?” Pansy snapped. “Do you think I’m enjoying this? Abandoned and ignored by the people who used to be my whole world?”
“Then come up with something,” Blaise told her. “Come up with a plan, or a project. Anything. What will you be doing tomorrow, for example?”
“Theo will come here for some tea,” Pansy said, and her friend leaned back while still holding her hands.
“Well then,” Blaise said. “Meet him outside instead. Enjoy your tea somewhere else. Somewhere public. Give it a try, Pansy. I know that soon enough you’ll figure out what you want to do with yourself. And that won’t be remotely like sitting in your room and ordering clothes through owlpost.”
***
“I was surprised when you told me to meet you here,” Theodore Nott said after sending the waitress away. His face was pale with signs of fatigue, but his amber eyes were alert and bright, bringing a smile to Pansy’s lips. “Not that I’m complaining, I enjoy your company whether it’s here or elsewhere. How have you been?”
“I’ve been well,” Pansy replied, taking in the sight of her friend. Theo’s thick brown hair curled around his ears and his fringe nearly reached his eyes, and Pansy couldn’t resist the temptation to reach her hand and tug at one of the soft curls. “You need a haircut, Theo. Are they keeping you too busy for booking an appointment, darling?”
“I’ll get one soon,” the man said dismissively. “Although they do keep me quite busy. In a good way, mostly. I wish the electives at Hogwarts had been the kind of subjects that would have helped us prepare for work. I can’t believe we didn’t have any classes on law. I had to start studying everything from scratch!”
“I suppose it’s safe to say that we both agree that the Hogwarts curriculum has plenty of points that could be improved. What are you aiming for, in the end? Divorce lawyer? The world will never lack married couples hoping to part ways while getting as much money as they can.”
“Corporate, I was thinking. Or governmental law,” Theo said. “It’s where the money and the influential friends are. Merlin knows you and I aren’t spoiled by the world right now and we need to use the opportunities that come our way.”
“Tell me about it,” Pansy sighed. The two fell silent when the waitress returned, setting down their orders before excusing herself once again. Theo pulled his lunch closer and dug in, while Pansy idly eyed the truffle she had ordered to go with her cup of tea.
Her attention was then briefly distracted by a couple that had taken seat nearby. An elderly man with a dark blue suit and golden cufflinks was talking to a woman whose smile was little more than an unhappy twist of painted lips. On their table was a discarded copy of today’s paper, and only when the man pushed the paper off the table, did Pansy see Potter’s face on the cover.
“What is he in the paper for?” Pansy asked, and Theo looked up from his food with a curious expression. “Potter,” Pansy elaborated. “Has he done anything stupid lately?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Theo replied. “But I guess they’re just speculating once again if Potter is planning on becoming a Minister for Magic or a Dark Lord. Because the man can’t possibly want to be just an auror.”
“The elections aren’t for months, and they’re already starting the speculations? It must be boring, working for the Daily Prophet. Speculations for front page news – I don’t even know what to say!”
“Well, the elections are pretty much a formality, I think. Everyone knows that Kingsley’s going to win. Unless a miracle happens and Potter decides to go for it.”
“To be fair, Kingsley has been doing an adequate job in the office,” Pansy allowed, and was startled when the unhappy woman from the table she had been watching moments before stood up, and stormed out. The man she had been sitting with stumbled up a moment later, threw a few galleons onto the table and ran after her. Theo sniggered.
“He said she’s not like any other woman in his life,” he explained to Pansy. “I suppose she didn’t take that as a compliment.”
“Why should she?” Pansy asked with an amused huff. “Darling, how come men cannot praise a woman without insulting another?”
“I don’t know,” Theo replied. “Was that an insult, though? Anyway, I only compliment you and my mother’s gravestone after all. You, because you’d hex me if I didn’t, and my mother because, well, you know.”
“I do,” Pansy said, and a short laugh bubbled from deep within her heart, catching her by surprise. “Merlin, I suppose Blaise was right to suggest holding the meeting outside. I feel… I feel pretty happy.”
“Fresh air and my company, there is no better combination,” Theo told her with a grin, before casting a quick tempus to see the time. “Ten minutes until I have to go again. There’s a case that I’m supposed to take a look at before I attend the trial this evening.”
“You’re really enjoying your work,” Pansy said. “I’m glad.”
“I hate to preach,” Theo replied, lowering his voice and leaning closer. “I really do, and I don’t want to come across as patronizing or anything of the sort. But Pansy, you should look for something to do too. You’ve got so much to give, and if you keep limiting yourself to casual dates with me and Blaise… it’d be such a waste, is what I’m saying.”
“I’ve been hearing that a lot lately,” Pansy sighed. “But what would I do, Theo? Where would I start?”
“You can start with charities,” Theo suggested. “Restore your family’s reputation. Donate some money and pretend to care about the plight of mudbloods. In no time you’ll be–”
“I’ll be running once again in the same circles that spat me out while keeping the Malfoys,” Pansy hissed, scowling. Theo shrugged, and finished his drink before eyeing her truffle speculatively.
“Would it be bad?” the man asked. “Are you going to eat that truffle, by the way?”
“No, you can have it,” Pansy replied, pushing the small plate away from her and towards him. “Charities. Fine. I’ll think about it.” An idea was already taking shape at the back of her mind, and the possibilities were suddenly numerous.
“Good, think about it,” Theo said, finishing the small truffle with one mouthful. He then wiped his hands, stood up and bent down to give Pansy a kiss on her cheek. “Keep me up to date on any projects you start.”
“Will do,” Pansy promised, standing up as well. “I think I’ll drop by Gringotts first, then. Just to see how much I can spend on other people without feeling it.”
And that, above all, would determine her next step.
***
Pansy had never liked Gringotts.
It wasn’t just the goblins that bothered her. Granted, the mere sight of them made her sneer and she didn’t trust those creatures to not stab her in the back if they could, and had there been a safer bank for her to keep the Parkinson fortune at, she would have readily transferred everything she owned into it. But no, the goblins were not the only reason for her dislike towards Gringotts.
Their system was unnecessarily complicated, the customer service appalling and the whole bank with its hidden vaults and carts that had – allegedly – one speed only simply never made sense to her. Despite all that, Pansy knew better than to show her disdain openly to the wretched little creatures. Certainly, they weren’t the kind to approve of smiles but sneering at them was bound to go down badly.
Pansy entered the goblin-made bank, the steel-studded heels of her boots making a clacking sound against the polished floors as she headed towards one of the available goblins. The creature spent a few seconds pretending not to see her, before it raised its nasty eyes and looked at her with a grimace on its face.
“Pansy Parkinson,” the witch said. “I’m here to discuss my assets with an account manager.” She was still quite unsure of what she was about to do, but knew that if she now decided to not do this and go back, she’d never get around to doing it again.
The creature peered at her silently for a few moments, before sighing as if doing his job was an outrageous thing to ask. A moment later a small box appeared in front of Pansy, and with a roll of her eyes she touched it with the tip of her wand, proving her identity. The sneer on the goblin’s face remained intact as it signalled for another of its kind to come.
“Follow Irongrip,” the creature told her. “He will take you to one of the negotiation rooms. All contracts signed within these premises are valid and can be modified only with the full approval of all parties involved.”
Pansy contemplated thanking the goblin, but in the end saw no reason to do so. Instead she turned to follow the other one – Irongrip, was it? – through one of the doors and into a corridor made of marble and gilded statues. They walkes past numerous doors, all identical, before finally the goblin stopped at one, unlocked it and entered the room.
“Step in, please,” it said, and Pansy obeyed. The room was surprisingly bright despite being underground. Large windows were spelled on the white walls to show an illusion of a beach, a small palm tree was in one corner and a desk made of light wood was in the middle of the room with two chairs at both sides of it.
Despite all the differences, it reminded Pansy of Azkaban. That dark, dready room she had met her father in.
The goblin sat on the other side of the table, and eyed her with open disdain. “Well?” it finally said sharply. “I assume you have matters to discuss?”
“I do,” Pansy replied, resisting the temptation to pull out her wand and hex the creature for its rudeness. “I wish to open two sub-vaults.”
“Category?”
“Charity.”
At this, the goblin made a sound that Pansy barely recognized to be a chuckle. “Didn’t know a Parkinson had any desire to make the world a better place for anyone.”
“You don’t know us Parkinsons at all, goblin,” Pansy replied with insincere sweetness, and continued, knowing exactly what to say to irritate the other even more. “A human account manager will be assigned to take care of both vaults later.”
“If you insist. Access level?”
“I do. Third. I will later submit the names of the witches and wizards who have an access to the vaults.”
Pansy watched silently as the creature used a quill made of bone and feathers to write into its strangely thick parchment, before the goblin looked up again with a grimace on its face. “Specification for each vault or a title you wish for it to carry?”
“The first one is John Parkinson Scholarship for Orphans,” Pansy said. A charity that carried her father’s name and helped children get an education was bound to work miracles on the way people saw her. Especially orphans. With any luck, all she’d need to do would simply consist of giving access to a handler from the School Board and never worry about it again.
“And the other?”
“The Witchroom,” Pansy said after a moment of contemplation. As soon as she said the name, its purpose also became clear to her. “Yes, that’s what it will me called. The Witchroom.”
“And what is this… Witchroom?”
“That’s not the sort of information you need to know, is it?” Pansy said haughtily. On some level she knew that she’d need to learn how to hide her disdain for others better, but oh, how she hated goblins! She could tolerate mudbloods on a good day, she truly could, but goblins were just too much. “You’ll find me intolerant of prying.”
“The world has found you intolerant of many things,” the goblin replied with a mocking tone to its words. “How much do you wish to deposit into each account?”
“Ten thousand galleons into the Witchroom vault,” Pansy said. “And eight hundred into the scholarship vault. Hogwarts education is quite cheap and eight hundred will easily cover the school-related expenses of a few orphans for the first three years at least. If the money is in danger of running out, I will simply add to it.”
“The accounts will be set up and the necessary information and additional paperwork and requirements will be sent to you during the next week,” the goblin said, and the disgustingly thick – and soft, like skin – parchment was pushed in front of Pansy. The witch quickly read through what was written, before signing it with her name and adding the Parkinson Seal next to it.
“Good,” she said, pleased to be done. “This is a good start.”
***
It hadn’t been a long day, not really. Still, Pansy was tired and felt very accomplished by the time she returned home. Her mind was full of ideas and she was looking forward to being busy with a new project. Blaise had been right: spending her time doing nothing, drifting from one day to another and barely registering the hours that went by, wasn’t the kind of life she wanted to live.
Now she had a purpose again. The beginning of a quest that would make her move forward and use all the potential she knew she had.
Pansy didn’t resist the temptation of a smile when it tugged at her lips, and she glided through the familiar corridors to where her room was with more confidence than she had had in a while. She’d need to arrange a meeting with the school board of Hogwarts, but with some help from Theo it shouldn’t be a problem.
In a way that would be her first performance. She didn’t know for sure whowere in the school board now – Lucius Malfoy had been there once, but had been kicked out after the war. It was, however, safe to assume that they were Light witches and wizards who wouldn’t be delighted by the Parkinson name. No, she needed to convince them that she was thinking of the orphans rather than her own reputation.
For a change, she felt more than proud. She felt powerful. Perhaps it was the illusion of turning a new page and starting a chapter that differed from the ones before it.
With a flick of her wand, soft music began to play as Pansy entered her quarters and moved towards the dressing room where she kept her robes and gowns and clothes of all sorts and shapes. If she were to leave tomorrow again, perhaps to have a drink with Blaise in Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade, she could do with wearing blue robes. Or perhaps even red. For now she’d leave the green and grey aside and avoid reminding people of the House she was in.
She was about to start playing a game with the world, and she wasn’t about to let anything akin to useless Slytherin pride hinder her.
Pansy had barely finished changing into a more comfortable set of robes – something soft and simple, suitable for enjoying a lazy evening at home – when a house-elf popped into her room.
“What is it?” Pansy asked, her eyes still fixed on the large mirror floating in front of her, admiring her own reflection and tilting her head to get a better angle.
“Mistress wants Miss Pansy to meet her in the lounge,” the house-elf squeaked, and Pansy sighed heavily. Lately all her mother could speak to her about was marriage, not accepting Pansy’s reluctance to accept any of the condescending proposals she had received.
“Is it urgent?” she asked, and the house-elf nodded.
“Miss Pansy shouldn’t make Mistress wait,” the tiny creature said, and with a barely suppressed groan, Pansy stood up. Shoving her feet into a soft pair of slippers, the young woman made her way towards the lounge, preparing herself for yet another lecture on how saying no to rich and young purebloods was unwise. Because, as far as Pansy’s mother was concerned, girls didn’t need ambitions beyond marriage.
“Hello,” Pansy said, regretting the lightness of the greeting the moment she saw her mother’s red rimmed eyes. Dread washed over Pansy in an instant, leaving her cold as different possibilities occurred to her one after another. “What’s going on?”
“I received a message from Azkaban,” Mrs. Parkinson said, barely managing to push out a word after another. Her hands were shaking and the tissue she was holding was dark and wet with her tears. A black envelope was on the table, an a simple piece of parchment was lying on the floor. “Oh, Pansy.”
It was a strange, frightening feeling. To realize something yet try to reject it with all her might, as if denial would make it any less true. Pansy sat down next to her mother, looking for words to say but finding none.
“Your father… he… he passed away,” Mrs. Parkinson finally said, bursting out into tears right after. Her loud, heavy sobbing shook her whole body while Pansy sat silently, trying to wrap her mind around what she had just heard.
“I saw him yesterday,” she said, knowing that no argument could bring him back. “I… I saw him yesterday, and he didn’t…” He had looked ill, but not enough so to make Pansy worry for his life. He hadn’t even said goodbye, only told her to distance herself from him. She hadn’t… she had been so cold, and he had just… how…
Mrs. Parkinson took in a deep, shuddering breath, and then seemed to collapse into herself. Her sobs were quiet now, yet shook her body with their force. Pansy couldn’t muster up a single tear to join her in her sorrow. No, all Pansy could do was sit still, as if doing nothing would make everything easier to bear in the end.
If he had been home, perhaps he would have lived. If he had been well fed and properly clothed, with an access to healers. If he had been… if he had been lucky enough to avoid being locked up after the Dark Lord fell. It was maddening, how people like the Malfoys – Lucius Malfoy, of all wizards and witches! – had managed to stay out of Azkaban, but others who had done far less for the Dark Lord were left to suffer and die early.
Here she was: Pansy Parkinson. Alone with a grieving mother in a house with countless hallways and empty rooms. Her vaults full of money and nothing but uncertain projects to spend it all on. A mountain of rejected proposals and only two friends from a childhood of riches and happiness.
The witch closed her eyes for a long moment and took a deep breath, swallowing tears and misery and tucking it all into a small corner of her heart. Her hands were steady when they picked up the discarded piece of parchment, and she knew that now more than ever, she’d need to be strong.
And that… that was something she could do. Come what may.
marlowfication 