As far as funerals went, John Parkinson’s was not a grand affair.
Pansy stood stiffly next to her sobbing mother, watching her father being buried. Blaise and Theo were standing behind her, dressed in black from head to toe, feeling her sorrow and respecting it like few did anymore. Scattered around them were the handful of people who still considered the Parkinson name important enough to warrant sympathy and solidarity at the passing of the family patriarch. A few bored journalists were banished behind the fence of the graveyard, too far to hear anything but close enough to get a few pictures.
Pansy hated it all. Hated the journalists, hated the people who showed up and the people who didn’t.
After all was said and done, the final words whispered into the wind and few wilting roses thrown into the grave to be buried with the body, many guests began drifting away, eager to leave. Pansy couldn’t blame them, not when her mother had been among the first to leave, huddling in her thick shawl and barely standing under hear heartbreak.
Pansy remained where she was, her back to the people and eyes on the fresh grave. It wasn’t until someone came to stand right behind her that she finally turned. Cassius Bulstrode’s face was a sorry one, and his red-rimmed eyes kept drifting between Pansy’s face and her father’s grave. The man didn’t manage to say a word, yet the hand he clapped on her shoulder before walking away gave Pansy enough strength to stand straight and keep her eyes dry.
“I am so sorry for your loss,” a woman’s voice said, and Lady Montague appeared, smiling thinly at her. Lady Montague’s gaunt face was pale and her skin was nearly grey, her freckles standing out in ways Pansy herself would never have allowed.
“Thank you,” the younger witch said. “I appreciate your… support.”
“Times have been tough for many of the sacred families,” Lady Montague continued. “How old are you, my dear?”
“Twenty,” Pansy replied. “I’m twenty.”
“A good age,” Lady Montague said softly, tucking a few strands of thin, dirty blond hair behind her ear and readjusting the small hat she had on her head. “Despite the hardships, there are quite a few decent men who… would not be averse to a marriage with the Parkinson family.”
“Indeed,” Pansy said sharply, and from the corner of her eye she could see both Theo and Blaise turn to look at her and Lady Montague. “ They would, wouldn’t they? Marry the Parkinson family. Except they would discard that name like yesterday’s paper, wouldn’t they?”
“Goodness, of course not,” Lady Montague hurried to say, her expression both disapproving and alarmed. “I simply heard that now with the young Malfoy… gone from… gone to… now with his attentions directed somewhere else…” The rest of Lady Montague’s sentence disappeared somewhere among her embarrassment and confusion, and she turned abruptly to look elsewhere as if to gather courage. After a few moments of silence, she turned to face Pansy again, this time with a new smile.
“I heard that Lord McLaggen’s son, for example, has offered marriage,” the woman finally said, and Pansy nodded.
“Offered marriage with the words of a man devoted to charity,” Pansy said. “I will not marry a man who thinks that tying myself to him is my salvation from a fate worse than death. Goodness, no.”
“But surely you’re misunderstanding some things,” Lady Montague argued. “Why say no to every single one of the good men who wish to marry you and offer you a better life?”
“Marry me?” Pansy said, and shook her head, glad that her mother was nowhere near to hear. “You mean marry the fortune, discard the name and tolerate the woman.”
“You are so negative,” Lady Montague sighed, shaking her head and pursing her lips. Pansy shrugged, knowing that she would perhaps come to regret her behaviour, but not caring enough to change it now.
“It is my father’s funeral,” she simply said. Her words had their impact, causing the older witch to cower momentarily, an ashamed expression appearing on her face before melting away quickly. She tugged at her gloves and pulled her cloak tighter around her.
“Take it from a woman who thought she could succeed on her own,” Lady Montague said, and Pansy wondered for a moment what the woman had ever done to be able to claim such a thing. “There isn’t a single industry in our society that allows women to flourish without sacrifices. If you foolishly go down that road, you risk to lose far more than you can afford. Your fortune will not last forever, your beauty will fade with time. What will you have left in fifty years?”
Pansy swallowed, narrowing her eyes at the witch and ignoring the twinge of fear and apprehension that suddenly curled in her heart. “With all due respect, you will not frighten me into marriage, Lady Montague.”
“No,” Lady Montague agreed, sighing heavily, as if she had any right for disappointment. “I won’t. But do remember that pride will not turn cotton into silk or marble into bread. Take your chances when you still can.”
“I assure you, ma’am,” Pansy replied, feeling a fire ignite in her heart. “I will not be wasting my chances. But I will also not give up before doing my best – and worst – to succeed. I will not settle for any man, and I will not have a man settle for me.”
“Suit yourself,” Lady Montague sid. “And break the news to your poor mother gently. Merlin knows she has had plenty of reasons for grief as of late.”
“Your advice on how to handle my life is greatly appreciated,” Pansy said, smiling sweetly and not meaning a word. “I will keep your words close to my heart and cherish them forever.”
If for no other reason than to always remind her of why failure was not an option.
***
The night after the funeral found Pansy, Blaise and Theo in one of the terraces of the Parkinson residence, drinking their way through numerous bottles of Firewhisky and barely tasting any of the small salty treats the house-elves had prepared and set on the table.
“I thought he’d always be there,” Pansy said, her bare feet tapping an uneven tune against the cold wooden floor. She didn’t think she was nearly drunk enough, which was slightly upsetting. “I thought… I thought that despite Azkaban, if the Dark Lord didn’t manage to kill him, he’d outlive his sentence. And then he’d come home and everything would get better and I’ll be happy again and mum would stop crying.”
“Well, that’s now out of the window. What are you going to do next?” Theo asked, and the woman shrugged, before leaning forward to pour herself another glass of firewhisky. Times like these she hated her high tolerance for alcohol, but in the end had no one else but herself to blame: ever since the war, making some days more bearable was a tough task without a drink to help.
“I want to rebuild it all,” she replied after a few moments of contemplation. The memory of Lady Montague’s words made Pansy want to break something, but the urge remained inside her, twisting and eating itself right under her heart. “The name, the image, the fortune. I want to… I want to… I want.”
“How’d you do that?” Blaise asked, lighting up a cigarette and adding the taste of smoke to the whiskey. “Not saying that you can’t, just asking… how?”
“Charities first,” Theo said suddenly, pushing himself to sit up. He clenched his eyes shut for a moment, feeling dizzy, while reaching towards the bottles and grabbing the closest one. Ignoring the glass he had used to drink from earlier, he leaned heavily against the table and cuddled the bottle to his chest. “Right? That’s the classic way.”
“I went a few days ago – after I had a lunch date with you, Theo – to Gringotts. I’m going to start funding a scholarship for orphans attending Hogwarts.” Pansy yawned then, and blamed the tears in her eyes on that. “John Parkinson Scholarship is what I’m calling it.”
“I love that,” Blaise slurred, smiling around the cigarette. “Orphans. Education. People will love that too. You need a publicist to make sure everyone knows about this, though. There’s no point in helping them if nobody knows about it, you know?”
“I need to speak to the school board first,” Pansy sighed, but didn’t disagree. “I suppose I should be glad that there are no Malfoys in that committee anymore.”
“Preach it,” Theo said. “Can’t believe ‘em, honestly. The tosser didn’t even turn up for the funeral. John did a better job at teaching him manners than Lucius ever. Did he at least send a card or anything?”
“Of course not,” Pansy said, almost managing to laugh at the absurdity of it. “It’s unfashionable to consort with us, you see. Death Eaters. Unlike the poor Malfoys, we weren’t under imperius, now were we? No, if Draco wants to keep whatever public standing he has left, he will stay away from anyone who can bring him down.”
“I saw Bulstrode there, though. The… what’s his name? Her dad. But not… not Millicent herself.”
“Cassius. And no, Millicent wasn’t there. I haven’t heard from her for months. I reckon she’s afraid that Ginny Weasley will never want to be her friend if she keeps me around.” Pansy hated how much that hurt. Hated it as much as she hated herself for every second she spent on helping Millicent with her homework an make up back in their Hogwarts days.
“And that’s why you want to soar,” Blaise said, pushing himself to sit up and crawled to lean his head against Pansy’s knee. “You’ll show them all, won’t you? Show them what they’re missing. You’ll be the only snake in the sky.”
“A dragon,” Theo supplied, running his fingers through his hair, messing the carefully arranged curls into a mess Pansy knew the man would hate in the morning. He still hadn’t gotten his hair cut. “Snakes in the sky are dragons.”
“Yes, dragon. And… and the scholarship is a good idea. Great idea. My uncle – well, his current mistress – knows people from the school board of Hogwarts, I’ll get you an audience.”
“Scholarships alone won’t do much, though,” Theo said. “But knowing you, you’ve already got that one figured out, eh? What else are you going to do?”
“The Witchroom,” Pansy said, her hand resting on Blaise’s head, enjoying the warmth of his body against her leg. “It’s going to be this… shelter. Shelter for women. All kinds of women. They can go there and sleep and hide and no one can drag them out of there against their own will. I’ll have strong wards built and it will be… it will be safe. Come hell or high water, it willbe safe.”
“I suppose there’s a need for that,” Blaise sighed quietly, and yawned. “It’s cold here.” He put out his cigarette and chucked it towards the table. “You’d need a specialist for the wards, right? And a list of things the wards are supposed to protect the women from. That’s going to be expensive.”
“I can afford it,” Pansy said quietly, settling deeper into her chair. “The ministry only helps the mudbloods they consider important, and for some reason that’s always men. Have you noticed?”
“No,” Blaise admitted, “but I don’t go to the ministry much.” He yawned again, feeling oddly content with the world.
“Merlin, I’m sleepy,” Theo muttered, and slumped back on the floor, curling around the bottle that he was still holding. “D’you mind if take a nap here?”
“We should go inside,” Pansy said, but didn’t move. She looked at the night sky, taking in the different shades of dark blue and the numerous twinkling stars. It was a sky her dad would never see again.
She had shared her half-assed plans with the two friends she still had left, and they had more confidence in her than she had in herself most of the time. Blaise had been right, though – without a publicist to help her show the world what she was doing, everything would be in vain.
The next sip of the firewhisky tasted like tears and fear. Pansy imagined the tabloids, the nasty things the Daily Prophet would say: things they had said about the Malfoys when they attempted charities, things they will say about her family now that the Parkinsons had very little power left.
She’d handle it. She would.
***
Pansy had woken up with a headache, sore muscles and a bad taste in her mouth. A few spells were enough to make her feel better, and after a hot shower and brushing her teeth twice Pansy felt ready to face the world again. She woke Blaise and Theo up, sending each one home with a house-elf to make sure that they would be all right, before going to see how her mother was doing.
Mrs. Parkinson was bedridden and in no mood for breakfast despite Pansy’s insistence. The younger witch ended up eating breakfast on her own next to her mother’s bed, offering slices of toast to her every few minutes. When Pansy was finished and her mother kept declining the food, the younger witch had a house-elf clean up the dishes and disappear.
The two remaining Parkinsons sat quietly in the room, and Pansy wished that she’d know how to offer the comfort her mother so obviously needed. It didn’t take long before the walls felt like they were closing in, and Pansy was overwhelmed by the urgent need to leave. Her mother’s tear-stained face was exhausted and her voice was shaky when she told Pansy to close the door behind her and not allow any visitors to see her. Visitors. What a laugh.
‘As if there are visitors coming,’ Pansy thought, heading towards her father’s office. During his stay in Azkaban, the room had been a place where Pansy went to find comfort from all the memories she had shared with him. All the spells he had taught her, the political movements he had explained to her and the adventures he had loved to share. Maybe some day she would find that comfort again, but now there was only sadness sweeping into her from every shadowed corner.
The room John Parkinson had used as a home office was big, but made small by the things that filled it. Bookshelves that hit the ceiling, thick carpets on the floor, numerous photographs, empty paintings and hollow mirrors on the walls. Old maps and books covered most of the chairs, a handful of quills were lying on his desk and a dried bottle of ink was on the floor. The house-elves had been forbidden from entering this room, and Pansy herself had never bothered to move anything. The most she did was spell the dust away and open the windows every once in a while.
The young witch sat down on the couch, its familiar red leather worn in places but nearly untouched in others. Before the war Pansy had often come to practice her silly charms and spells here, while her father had quietly done his paperwork with a pair of glasses balancing on his nose. That would never happen again.
Strangely, it wasn’t the photographs that made her cry in the end. It wasn’t the books she remembered him reading or even the pair of glasses that were folded on top of a book. It wasn’t even any of the bookmarks that he would never move again, the books he would never finish or the reports he’d never read.
It was, stupidly enough, a pair of boots by the fireplace. An old pair of brown leather boots with visible signs of use, worn thin and with one broken buckle. A pair of boots he had used to death, and yet Pansy couldn’t remember a day she had seen him wearing them.
How much had she missed?
Pansy wasn’t sure for how long she had been sitting there, quietly trying to stop her tears from falling, when a house-elf popped in. The tiny creature eyed her with wide-eyed wonder, customary to its species. “Miss Pansy,” it said, inching closer. “Mikki tells Miss Pansy that there is a visitor in the foyer.”
“Who?” Merciful Merlin, who had bothered to turn up? It couldn’t be Blaise or Theo – even if one of them was conscious and feeling well enough to travel, they would have simply barged in without waiting to be announced by a house-elf. Pansy hoped it wasn’t Lady Montague again.
“Lady Malfoy,” the house-elf squeaked, and Pansy wanted nothing more than to scream and turn the woman away. Even Montague would have been the lesser of two evils. Pansy knew, however, that she could do nothing else but graciously meet the woman and somehow come across as the kind of a witch who allowed herself to be neither pitied nor mocked. It didn’t matter how much she cried, or how much it hurt, she knew better than to show her weaknesses to people.
“Show her to the lounge and have tea and crumpets ready,” Pansy ordered, standing up. In a way she was happy that her mother didn’t want to be the one to welcome visitors – Pansy could only imagine the humiliation should Mrs. Malfoy be the one to see the sorry state of her mother. “I will be there shortly.”
Luckily she didn’t need more than a few minutes to change into one of her finer black robes. The silver ornament that kept her hair up matched finely the foxhunt in the hem of the robes, the silver stitching dancing with every step she took. The Parkinson ring was heavy on her finger and despite being surrounded by everything that she held dear, Pansy felt vulnerable and weak.
She found her guest in the lounge, sitting on one of the chairs with an air of effortless elegance. Narcissa Malfoy hadn’t touched the crumpets or the tea, and Pansy felt strangely insulted as she tucked away the information to share it later with Blaise and Theo. The older witch’s smile was barely a faint impression of one, and her eyes held no sympathy or kindness. Pansy had known that Mrs. Malfoy had never particularly liked her, and she didn’t expect anything from the older witch.
“I am truly sorry for your loss,” Mrs. Malfoy said evenly. “Though you seem to be coping well. How is your mother?”
“Struck down with grief,” Pansy replied, knowing that words did little to paint the image of her mother now. Unsure of what else to say, she asked: “Would you like some tea?”
“No thank you,” Mrs. Malfoy said, her eyes glancing towards the finely decorated tea cups before. “I had meant to attend the funeral yesterday, but dear Astoria needed to be refitted for a gown. You must understand.”
“Of course,” Pansy breathed, rage bubbling under her skin. Anger made her stronger, bolder, and so she smiled and said: “Funerals happen every day, don’t they? But how often can a lady have her gown refitted? I assure you, Mrs. Malfoy, I understand.”
Mrs Malfoy’s expression shifted minutely, before she sighed and mustered up a smile. “You seem different, my dear. The shock must have taken its toll on you,” she said as if she hadn’t told Pansy how well she seemed to be coping just moments before.
“It’s funny, in a way,” Pansy said, feeling somehow liberated by her anger. “Some, death puts to sleep. And some, it wakes up. You could say that I’m awake now.” For better or for worse.
“I suppose better late than never,” Mrs. Malfoy chuckled, and oh, how Pansy wanted to hex her. Had the woman truly come to mock her? Ah, no, the witch had always known how to play her cards. Perhaps she had come just for the chance to mention Astoria to her?
That was… very likely.
“How have you been,” Pansy asked, smiling sweetly. “Quite well, I imagine. Not all of us have had the… great luck of not suffering the consequences of terrible actions.” Mrs. Malfoy’s smile dried up and disappeared, and Pansy knew then that there was a woman who would never wish her any good. Not that she ever had.
“I do believe we all paid for our mistakes,” she said sharply, and Pansy remained seated while the other witch stood up. “I feel like I have outstayed my welcome. Farewell, Miss Parkinson.”
“Goodbye, Mrs. Malfoy,” Pansy said, wondering if this was a battle she had won or lost. Either way, if nothing else, Mrs. Malfoy’s visit had made Pansy all the more determined to succeed.
***
“I hate interviewing politicians,” Lavender Brown groaned, sitting down on her chair and setting her camera on the table. “Merlin, I can’t wait for my internship to be over so I can get myself into Witch Weekly instead. The Daily Prophet is not my environment, let me tell you.”
“It’s not like you’re doing the interview anyway,” Candice Clearwater said, checking her teeth with a small mirror with a half-eaten granola bar on the table next to her. “Chief Tubbs thinks women can’t get straight answers without flashing some cleavage for every hello and goodbye, and often not even then. Who did you get stuck with this time? Thomson?”
“Briggs,” Lavender said with a grimace, happy that the journalist in question was nowhere near. “We were supposed to ask Hank Burton – he’s the guy who’s been preaching against Minister Kingsley pretty often lately – some questions and Merlin, Candice, at first he just stared at me and then turned to Briggs and said: ‘I see you’re travelling with some handfuls here’.”
“He’s a pig,” Candice said promptly. “Worst of all, he’s the kind of pig who thinks he’s funny and doesn’t understand why you don’t laugh with him at his shitty, sexist jokes. Briggs is a suck up, though. I bet he laughed.”
“He sure did! Seriously, I have to write proper articles based on his shitty notes, and whenever he does actually write something, I’m the one who has to proof read it! Would a little bit of respect really hurt him?”
“Knowing Briggs, respecting women doesn’t even cross his mind,” Candice said. “Then again, I don’t think he respects men either. It’s like… he’d be just as much of an asshole towards men if he wasn’t so scared. He’s a coward who thinks that women are weaker than him, and that’s why he doesn’t bother hiding his attitude.” Lavender nodded, eager to reply, when a few of their coworkers arrived, chatting loudly and laughing at something.
“Hi Lav, hi Candy,” Adam, one of the photographers, said cheerfully. “Guess where we were?”
“Parkinson’s funeral,” his friend said, clearly excited. “Someone’s going to write a sweet article about it. Death Eater scum. Would you believe it, girls, there were less than fifteen people in attendance?”
“It was hilarious,” someone else said, and though Lavender remembered vividly what had happened during the war, she couldn’t quite find it in herself to consider someone else’s funeral hilarious.
“His daughter was there,” Adam said, sitting on a chair not far away from Candice and Lavender. “Pretty thing, she is. Though rumour has it that she’s one mean bitch, eh? Did either one of you know her at Hogwarts?”
“I heard of her when I was in Hogwarts, but we weren’t class mates or anything,” Candice said with a shrug. “She was a few years below me and in a different House. Heard some girls calling her Pug-face Pansy, though. ”
“Pug-face Pansy!” Adam repeated, and laughed loudly. “That’s so funny! I wonder if that can be put into the article for tomorrow. She can read it with her morning coffee.”
“I don’t think it is,” Candice said sharply. “Funny, I mean. I don’t think it’s funny at all. I can’t say anything about her personality because I never knew her, and I barely remember what she looked like, but if you honestly dare to make fun of how a girl looks, Adam, then I will fucking hate you for it.”
“Hey, come on,” the photographer instantly protested. “It’s all in good spirit! Parkinson himself was a Death Eater and probably the rest of his family were too. Anyway, Lav, did you ever know her?”
Lavender remembered Pansy quite well, and remembered the moment the Slytherin girl had wanted to hand Harry over to Voldemort. In a way Lavender knew that Pansy had been just as scared as everyone else, but it didn’t make her think of Pansy in a better light. The other girl had been a mean bully for most of her time at Hogwarts, and even though Lavender had never been a target of hers, she couldn’t just forget what she had seen happen to many others.
“A little bit,” Lavender finally admitted, feeling reluctant to speak. “We were in the same year, but different Houses. We never interacted, though.” Secretly Lavender had always admired Pansy’s seemingly endless supply of fashionable bags and shoes and coats, and had the other girl not been so mean, Lavender would have loved to get to know her better.
“Anyway, Adam, just focus on your work,” Candice said impatiently. “And be careful with what you write, if Parkinson decides to sue any of you for deframation–”
“Oh come on, like that’d actually fly.”
“Would be a laugh if it did.”
“Could we just focus on work, now,” Lavender suddenly said, feeling anxious to stop talking about Pansy Parkinson. “We’ve got a lot to do. I have a whole article to write. You guys too. Let’s just get to work and move on.” Merlin knew she didn’t fancy the thought of staying at the office until midnight again.
***
Pansy hadn’t expected the a new day to bring her any kind of miracles or lucky coincidences. She would have been perfectly happy with drafting her plans in peace and trying to forget Mrs. Malfoy’s visit from the day before. Her hopes were dashed, however, when a copy of the Daily Prophet arrived just before breakfast.
‘Death Eats a Death Eater: John Paul Parkinson dies in Azkaban – see page 5 for more details!’ It was a title that some would doubtlessly find witty and funny, but it left Pansy breathless with helpless anger and frustration. She imagined, in that instance, the thousands of hands that would pick the Daily Prophet and remember her when they saw the article. Millicent would perhaps make fun of her, if Weasley was nearby. Draco wouldn’t comment at all.
Breakfast forgotten, Pansy turned the pages of the paper until she saw the article itself, and the first few lines were enough to make her want to throw up. Her mother would not get her hands on today’s paper. The article would kill her on the spot, draining whatever strength she had left.
“…and the unusually humble funeral was attended by a handful of people who wished to ensure that the man was well and truly dead and buried…”
Pansy had never hated the Daily Prophet as much as she did right then. The article was quite brief, but it was more than enough make the Parkinson name once again the target of ridicule and mockery. Each word was like a lungful of nails that made Pansy bleed on the inside. The young witch closed her eyes for a few long moments, trying to make sense of what she was feeling, find in herself the restraint to not send a howler for the terrible, terrible article.
She would show them. She would remember the names of each bastard who had dared to look down on her family, and she would make them sorry for everything they did.
Pansy stood up, clutching the paper tightly in her hands and shaking with barely contained rage. Her lips were pressed into a tight, grim line as she left the dining hall, food and hunger both forgotten in the wake of what had happened. Her steps were quick and heavy as she made her way through the corridors towards one of the carefully decorated guest rooms, knowing that without asking the house-elves, no one would come looking for her there.
She closed the door of the room behind her, pulled out her wand and dropped the Daily Prophet onto the floor. Her bright blue eyes stared at the article for a few seconds, this time not reading it, but focusing solely on the tiny picture the Daily Prophet photographer had taken. Pansy let out a short, horrible, unamused laugh.
The first curse hit a chair, making it explode all over the place. The second hit a mirror that shrieked and tried to curse her in return. Pansy didn’t listen to it, didn’t want to hear anything but the sound of her own anger as it crushed everything around her. She had never in her life vented so throughly, and doubted that she ever would. But good Circe, it felt good. Each hex and curse made her feel better, each scream made her feel lighter.
She continued until her voice faded and instead of light, she felt hollow. She continued until she had nothing else in her, until exhaustion swept back into her and burrowed deep into her bones – deeper than even the rage she had been wallowing in for days. She kept going until what had been a strong shield of determination last night became a thin layer of breakable, fragile glass that neither hid nor protected anything.
And then, once all energy had left her, Pansy stood silently for a few moments, surrounded by destruction and misery. After a few long moments her wand fell from her slack hand, hitting the wooden floor and rolling a few feet away and under the remains of what used to be a lovely coffee table.
Pansy took in a deep, shuddering breath as her legs gave up and she fell down on her knees, the thin layers of her dress doing nothing to protect her from the impact. A strange pain in her chest was making breathing difficult, and the world became blurry. Before she even realized, she was crying. Her sobs were loud, pained gasps, and grew into a wail as she buried her face into her hands.
The door was pushed open behind her, making a creaking sound, but Pansy didn’t turn to see who had found her after all. Soon someone knelt beside her and pulled her into a hug, whispering words of comfort into her ears and petting her hair softly.
“I want to kill them,” Pansy hissed tearfully, her voice thick with emotion as her nails dug into the soft fabric of Blaise’s jacket. “I want to… I need to hurt them.”
“You will,” Blaise whispered, wiping her tears away with a handkerchief so expensive he wouldn’t have used it for any other purpose. “You will, Pansy. We will. I’ve already got a few guys ready to make life difficult for the people who wrote that article. It’ll be all right. Everything will be all right.”
Pansy tucked her head under Blaise’s chin, pressing her body against his, seeking comfort from a good friend who had stuck by her side for years, and apparently was planning on doing so in the future as well. One day she’d pay all her dues, in good and bad, and she would thank Blaise and Theo for everything.
The time of planning and waiting was over. No more hesitation, no more fear.
Not anymore.
marlowfication 