It took several hours for Pansy to feel well enough to stand up on her own and head slowly towards her room. Blaise’s dark eyes followed her every move, as if expecting her to falter and fall. She didn’t blame him for that. How could she, when she had needed him to stay upright mere moments before?

“Did the article bring you here?” Pansy asked, her voice hoarse and quiet. Her eyes felt dry and itchy and she knew, was certain of it, that she looked quite ridiculous. Perhaps pathetic, even. “A dose of my misery to go with your morning coffee?”

“Not entirely,” Blaise replied, and followed the witch into her room. He watched the exhaustion and sadness etched on her face as she sat down on one of the beautifully crafted chairs by the large windows. Blaise pulled another chair closer and sat on it, hating the sight of tear stains on her cheeks. Not for what they were, but rather for what they told him: Pansy’s tears had never been cheap or quick to come.

“But you did read it.”

“I did.”

Pansy sighed heavily, her shoulders slumped. “I used to love it when the Daily Prophet would pick Potter apart. I’d still love it if it did the same for the Malfoys.”

“You said you wanted to make them pay,” Blaise reminded her, and the witch looked up at him. He didn’t smile, but neither did he offer any condolences. He knew better than to offer her empty platitudes that were more suitable for strangers. Instead, he said: “Wipe your tears, Parkinson. I found a potential place for that Witchroom of yours. Are you going to fall down on your arse every time someone hits a sore spot?”

The last thing Pansy wanted to do was to step outside into a world where everyone she could think of would be smirking at her and enjoying her loss, but she knew that there was only one correct answer for what Blaise had said. Courage came easier when doused with anger, she found, even if what the Daily Prophet had done was far worse than poking at a tender wound. And that was why, with a heavy heart and no small amount of apprehension, she took a deep breath and shook her head.

“We will go shortly,” she said, already thinking of what she would wear. Something elegant, but not particularly fun. Dark blue, perhaps. Suitable for the cloudy and slightly chilly weather. Neutral and plain enough for people to not… to not pay too much attention to her yet. “How big are the premises?”

“Quite big,” Blaise told her. “With a recreation room and a kitchen. You can also have one room renovated to be some sort of an infirmary. It needs a little bit of fixing in some parts but that won’t take longer than a week if we use a company to do the fixing.”

Pansy nodded, and hauled herself up from the chair. “Well then, I might as well start getting ready. Are we going to use the Floo?”

“We’ll apparate,” Blaise said, raising his voice so she could hear him despite moving away. “I heard my mother and a friend of hers discussing houses and the friend mentioned that she has a house in Malmesbury she wants to sell. So I asked to see it and she gave me the keys. The Floo has been disconnected though so we’ll need to apparate.”

“Have you ever been there? Malmesbury, I mean,” the witch asked, stepping into the bathroom to wash her face, but leaving the door ajar. “Is it in a good neighbourhood?”

“I’ve been there a few times. It’s a really cute town, very peaceful. It’s a good place for a shelter,” Blaise told her. “Not to mention that it’s completely muggle-free.”

“Good,” Pansy said, her voice muffled by the towel she was using to dry her face. She left the bathroom and sat by the vanity table. Pansy had heard and read plenty on what most men and even some women thought of make up. A waste of time and money, and who knew what else. To her, that had never been the case, as each layer represented a distance she could create that would keep her safe from the eyes of the others. Glaring came easier when she had her eyeliner perfected, and she trusted her smiles when she painted her lips red.

“You’ll need to hire a few people to get things running,” Blaise said. “I mean, a house-elf can do the cleaning and cooking, but you’ll need someone to actually manage the place. Not to mention a healer of some sort, and a few bodyguards wouldn’t go amiss – the place will need to provide protection for the women, right? Any plans on who you will employ?”

“I have a type in mind,” Pansy said, finishing her make up and shooting him a smile. “People who face discrimination in the job market. Old women who cannot find a job to replace the one they lost or young women who don’t have enough experience to be taken seriously.”

“Not men?”

“No. We can’t guess what kind of conditions the witches seeking shelter would come from. I hate to say this, darling, but more often than not the danger they’re escaping from comes in the form of a man.”

“But not all men–”

“I know,” Pansy cut in. “I know that not all men are like that. Believe me, that’s the first thing every man ever says in his defense. But enough men are and, honey, it’s one of those risks that women should have the right to choose whether they take or not.”

“Fair enough,” Blaise sighed, and the two fell into silence while the woman finished changing her clothes. By the time Pansy put on her hat and pulled on her cloak, she looked like the woman Blaise knew she liked to be: the strong, vicious daughter of John Parkinson.

***

“It’s beautiful,” Pansy said, taking in the sight of the house. It wasn’t ideal, exactly. It wouldn’t be able to house as many women as Pansy had initially wanted, but it was certainly beautiful and would work well enough for the first year at least. “Where’s the fireplace than can be connected to the Floo?”

“You’ll see it once we go inside,” Blaise said, grabbing her elbow and pulling her forward with him. “You know this will take a lot of money, right?”

“I know what I’m doing.”

“I know that you trust that it’s worth it, but I need you to remember that money is always bound to run out. Unless you get sponsors or donations.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Pansy promised dryly, and smiled once she stepped into the house itself. The polished wooden floors were mostly hidden by plush, clearly expensive carpets. The walls were light blue with golden flowers and the large windows allowed sunlight to sweep in generously. The rooms were big with high ceilings and the stairs were beautifully decorated with what looked like tiny flowers and butterflies etched into the bars. “Merlin, Blaise. I’m almost tempted to forget the shelter and buy this for myself.”

“Only almost?” Blaise asked.

“Yes, only almost,” Pansy replied, following him up to the second floor. “The Witchroom is just… means to an end. It will hopefully work in my favour. You said one of the rooms can be turned into an infirmary? How many rooms for residents, then? And oh, the stairs, we can change those flowers into protective runes and make it even better.”

“The place is not short on rooms,” Blaise said. “And some of those rooms are big enough to fit four beds comfortably, with plenty of space for other furniture. This isn’t a hotel, however, or a permanent residence for anyone. So I doubt that the rooms require much in the first place. But if you really want to embed protective runes into the building then we’ll need more time and more money.”

“That’s fine,” Pansy said. “If I’m going to get this done, I’ll get it done properly. What’s this area?” One of the doors had been open, showing her an indoors balcony that hovered above an empty space with floor and walls made of stone.

“She calls it the garage,” Blaise explained, following her. “You can access it better from the first floor, actually, but not from inside the house – it has its own separate door. Her husband used to collect muggle cars and this place can fit quite a few of them.”

“Hm.” Pansy eyed the place with a contemplative expression, before she nodded slowly. “I see.”

“If you have any specific plans, you better share them with whichever company you’ll use to renovate the rooms,” Blaise told her. “So, you like it?”

“I do,” Pansy said, and for the following few moments she simply walked from room to room, familiarizing herself with the premises. Blaise patiently waited for her to be done, and smiled at her obvious satisfaction. He didn’t need to ask her whether or not she would like to buy it – her answer was clear without saying.

“So, what next?” Blaise asked, following her outside. “Brunch?”

“Yes,” Pansy replied, refusing to think of the dreadful article about her father. “Perhaps a local restaurant? Do you know any?”

Blaise did. It wasn’t a restaurant, really, as much as a very well-stocked cafe with polished marble floors and walls made mostly of glass, water fountains and tall black pillars and artful paintings. Blaise and Pansy were led to a table for two next to an opened window, and after taking their order and lighting the candle, the waitress retreated with a promise to return soon.

“Lovely,” Pansy said, eyeing the cafe, and then the scenery outside. “Thank you. You… you’ve been…”

“Hey, it’s all right,” Blaise assured her, offering her a smile. “I know you’d do the same for me. In fact, you have. Many times. So don’t thank me for this.”

“If you insist,” Pansy replied, mustering up a smile despite the lack of… happiness that she was feeling. “So, I will need to select one of my house-elves to keep things running smoothly at the Witchroom. In addition I’ll need a manager, a healer… perhaps a counselor too? And bodyguards.”

“Those will be for the shelter, yes,” Blaise agreed. “But then for you – you will need a lawyer and a publicist, at the very least. You’ll be garnering a lot of attention the more you work on improving your reputation, and a publicist wouldn’t go amiss. And a lawyer for, well, everything. Just in case.”

“We can talk with Theo about finding a lawyer,” Pansy decided instantly. “Once the shelter is ready, I’ll need to make a public deal out of it. Make an event out of the opening. But who would come if I invited them?”

“Quite many,” Blaise told her. “Sure, they wouldn’t turn for much with your name on it, but this is the kind of a thing that will also boost up their images, so… Regardless, be careful about who you invite. Remember to include journalists.”

“You’re quite knowledgeable on these matters,” Pansy remarked. Blaise shrugged.

“You know that my mum is the sort to organize all kinds of events regularly, and I–,” the wizard was cut off by a small black owl that swept close to the slightly opened window and eyed the two of them for a few moments from the other side of the glass. Pansy rolled her eyes and pushed the window to open futher in order to allow the small bird in.

“It’s from the Hogwarts Board of Governors,” Blaise said, and Pansy’s felt an twinge of fear once again. What if they had made their decision after today’s article, and weren’t even going to allow her a meeting? “From Fittleworth, more specifically.”

“What does it say?” Pansy asked, just as the waitress returned with their orders. The time it took for her to set everything down properly seemed to last a lifetime, and Pansy had to restrain herself from snapping at the other witch to hurry up. Finally the woman left, and Blaise could finally respond.

“In two days,” he said. “Meeting at two in the afternoon. Here, it’s best if you keep his response since the location and time are there.”

“The whole board will be present,” Pansy said, reading through the brief message. She looked up at Blaise, unable to hold back a smile.

It wasn’t a remarkable victory yet, but it was certainly the beginning of one.

***

The following day found Pansy busy with paperwork. There was surprisingly much to do, even though renovating the shelter hadn’t even begun yet. It wouldn’t take long, however, and once everything was ready, Pansy wanted to have the staff already formed and prepared.

What kept distracting her, however, was the appointment she’d have with the school board of Hogwarts. They had granted her an audience, sure, but they were bound to come up with any counter-arguments to give them more credit and money, reminding her of who her father had been, and perhaps even of how she… had tried to hand Potter over to the Dark Lord.

‘I should have just kept quiet,’ the witch thought, resisting the urge to slap herself. ‘But really, how many times had everyone else wanted to get him into trouble? How come I’m the only one to suffer for it?’ Granted, none of the others had implied that they wanted him dead as much as Pansy had, but… ah, details!

Suddenly, a house-elf popped in, its ears twitching nervously. “Miss Pansy, Mistress and friends wants Miss Pansy to come to the lounge to enjoy tea with everyone.”

“Mother has guests?” Pansy yelped, alarmed. “No, don’t disappear, you wretched creature. Who’s everyone?”

“Lady Montague and Lady Flint,” the house-elf squeaked, and trembled at the sight of Pansy’s grimace. “Mistress is asking Miss Pansy to be there soon.”

“Yes, yes, fine,” Pansy huffed, dismissing the house-elf and slamming down the documents she had been holding. A meeting! With Lady Montague! Flint she could handle, the woman wasn’t worse than her son and Pansy had long ago learned how to deal with Marcus. Montague, on the other hand, swanned around feeling entitled to dictate other people’s lives and share her unwelcome advice with anyone she laid her claws on.

Stopping briefly by a mirror, Pansy made sure that she looked presentable, before continuing her way to where her mother and the two guests were. The moment she arrived, three pairs of eyes rose to appraise her with varying levels of disapproval.

“There you are,” her mother said. “Come here, dear. Have some tea.”

“Still no fiance,” Lady Montague said as soon as Pansy sat down, eyeing her hands. “No ring yet? How come?”

“Don’t be too picky, sweetheart,” Lady Flint hurried to add. “The times are tough and years go by so fast. Soon you’ll be too old for any man to want.”

“Oh, Carmen, she’s only twenty,” Pansy’s mother said, though it was clear that she agreed at least party with what the other woman had said. “There’s still some time, isn’t there?”

“I don’t know,” Lady Flint muttered, pursing her lips. Then she offered Pansy what was meant to be a consoling smile. “She’s very pretty, however. And no matter what these new-age Muggle lovers say, plenty of people are still aware enough to recognize the importance of blood purity.”

“Absolutely,” Lady Montague agreed. “Why, I heard that the Higgins heir looking for a-”

“He’s thirty-eight,” Pansy cut in, the smile on her face hardly anything more than a displeased twist of her lips. “And has a child already.” She didn’t like men, or children, let alone men with children.

“Oh, but young Frederick can be handed off to a nanny most of the time, you needn’t even see him aside from a few times a year,” Lady Montague said dismissively, and Pansy wondered if that’s what she had done with her own son. It would certainly explain a few things.

“But what about one of the two young gentlemen you spend so much time with,” Pansy’s mother said, and with horror Pansy realized that she meant Blaise and Theo. Perish the thought! Now, how to respond to that in a way that would demolish the idea firmly, and yet without embarrassing her mother?

“Oh, nonsense,” Lady Flint said, taking the decision out of Pansy’s hands. For once, the witch was glad about it. “We all know that young Zabini does not view women the way, ahem, well, how to say this…”

“He’s asexual, as he has declared many times,” Pansy helpfully supplied. “And Theo is very busy with creating a career for himself. I, also, will be looking for something productive to do with my time.”

“Yes, very wise,” Lady Montague said. “Perhaps you could host a Yule Ball this year–?”

“Absolutely not,” Pansy interrupted, and stood up, offering yet another of her humourless smiles. If all they had called her here for was to discuss marriage and potential husbands, then she wasn’t wiling to take any part in it. Especially not with so much else to do. “I’m truly sorry, but I really must take my leave. There’s so much for me to do, you all must understand. It was wonderful to see you today, ladies, and I’m looking forward to seeing you soon again.”

“You will, dear,” Lady Montague said, her words coming across much like a threat rather than a promise. “If only to help you realize that a woman in your situation cannot afford–”

“Not that there’s anything wrong with you, really,” Lady Flint hurried to add, perhaps finally cottoning in on how close Pansy was to pulling out her wand for some educational hexing. “But the times are tough, you must know that.”

“All we’re asking from you is to think about it,” Pansy’s mother added, aiming for a gentle tone but missing it by a mile. “We all want to see you happy, Pansy.”

“I can make my own happiness,” Pansy replied, doing her best to keep her tone in check. Alienating the few friends her mother still had because of her behaviour was something she knew she’d regret. “I really don’t need anyone to hand it to me.” She didn’t want to owe her happiness to anyone.

“Of course,” Lady Parkinson sighed. “But give it a thought anyway, all right? For my sake, if not for yourself.”

“Fine,” Pansy lied, and shook her head feeling utterly sick of the whole conversation and the rotten logic that kept inspiring it. “I’ll think about it.”

***

As always, the Ministry of Magic was crowded and noisy, and Pansy hated every step she had to take to get herself through the crowd and into one of the elevators. Very few of the people she could see dressed like purebloods, and she could only guess how many of them were simply trying to imitate the mudbloods in power. It made her sick, it really did. What happened to being proud of being a witch or a wizard? These days, in fear of being labeled as a Death Eater everyone was doing their best to be as muggle as they possibly could.

Knowing how easily anger showed on her face, Pansy closed her eyes and took a few calming breaths. She was a woman on a mission and this could bring her closer to her goal. If what she needed to do was to grin and bear it for the next hour or so, then by Circe she would do it.

The Hogwarts Board of Governors consisted of six wizards and six witches, and Pansy could only hope that none of them held a grudge against her for a reason or another. It was rare to see them all gathered at once, and Pansy felt a cold shiver down her spine when she stepped into the room where they all were waiting for her. It reminded her of a time not that long ago, when Aurors had questioned her under the guise of ensuring the safety of others. You try to hand over Potter to the Dark Lord once, and you’re marked for life, apparently. At least she has never tried to murder a Weasley, which was a lot more than what the Malfoys could say.

“Miss Parkinson,” said an elderly woman with a large red hat and thick-rimmed glasses. “Please, come in. And do close the door behind you.” Pansy did as told, feeling like the silly student she had once been. Somehow the woman reminded her of Professor McGonagall.

“I am Greta Pikes,” the woman continued. “You will address me as Chairman Pikes. We have great hopes in regards to your proposal, but for it to be a success and for the benefit of all stakeholders, we will need your honesty and full cooperation.”

“Absolutely, ma’am,” Pansy said, hoping that she sounded more confident than she felt. Thankfully she had plenty of practice in that.

“Now,” Chairman Pikes began, “Now, how about you start with telling us about this scholarship you’re planning on creating. Official name and purpose?”

“John Parkinson Scholarship for Orphans,” Pansy said, and the mention of her father’s name made her feel better. “The aim is to cover the educational expenses of the orphans attending Hogwarts. The current hand-me-downs that the school provides will not allow the children a socially equal footing with other students.”

“And the financing system?” Chairman Pikes asked, urging Pansy to continue. “We do not wish to waste resources on things that can be outsourced.”

“Rather simple,” the young witch replied. “The scholarship will be granted to every orphan starting their first year, without exceptions. From then on, however, only the children with certain level of academic success will be entitled to it. The vaults will be accessible to an account manager. Or rather, a scholarship manager.”

“And who would that be?”

“Anyone of your choosing. I will grant them full access to the vault.”

“And what is the weight of your influence in all proceedings?” Chairman Pikes’s eyes were narrowed, but she didn’t look particularly hostile or suspicious. Pansy took a moment to think, before responding.

“The extent of my influence would be very limited, technically. The scholarship is named by me and that name will not change. It will be sponsored by me and also officially granted by the Parkinson family. Any non-monetary profit will be credited to me. You, ladies and gentlemen, can freely determine which students can keep reaping the benefits of the scholarship after each student’s first year of education. I will not interfere with the criteria for the award recipients.”

“Are we to believe,” said an old man that Pansy vaguely recognized to be Thaddeus Rufford. “Are we to believe that you, Miss Parkinson, are doing this out of the goodness of your heart?”

“With all due respect,” Pansy replied, “my reasons are of little importance. What matters here are the children who, without my scholarship, may suffer social isolation due to the… stigma of being poor. Children are cruel after all.” She’d know. She had been a very cruel child herself.

“What’s the sum that you’ll be starting with?” Chairman Pikes asked, and Pansy relaxed, knowing that the deal was practically sealed now. The woman wouldn’t otherwise ask about the price at this point.

“Eight hundred with an annual administration,” the witch replied, refusing to smirk when a few members of the board didn’t manage to hide their surprise. “If there’s a need for more it can be arranged. I would need for that, of course, official explanations and the expense statements.”

Chairman Pikes turned to look at the others surrounding her, and with the exception of Rufford who eyed her as if he expected her to pull out a wand start hexing him, seemed quite satisfied with the agreement. Pikes pursed her lips before nodding slowly. “We have the right to renegotiate or terminate the contract at all times.”

“We both have that right,” Pansy replied quickly. “As long as we maintain a respectable level transparency and honesty.”

“Very well then,” Chairman Pikes murmured. “Who will take care of the press release?”

“I will,” Pansy assured her. “Eventually. I will make a brief statement.”

“There are some papers that need to be signed, of course,” Chairman Pikes said. “And an account manager needs to be assigned and Gringotts informed of the access permits. If you don’t mind sacrificing a little more of your time, Miss Parkinson, we could do that right away.”

“By all means,” Pansy said with a smile. “For this, I have all day.”

***

It was late when Pansy returned home. She was tired, but very satisfied. She had feared that they would reject the scolarship proposal based on the name tagged on to it, but no such a thing had happened. Well, it was easy to justify: muggleborns wouldn’t know the reputation of the Parkinson name, and even if they did, Pansy had no influence over what they would be taught. In addition, her providing a decent amount money meant that the school board didn’t need to spend as much of their own budget on poor students anymore.

If there was one thing Pansy knew how to count on and use to her advantage, it was the selfishness of others. Not necessarily greed, but simply selfishness. Because even saints had things they wanted to keep only for themselves.

She would need to send Blaise a token of her gratitude. He and Theo had done a lot for her, and would do much more, Pansy had no doubt of that. Blaise perhaps moreso than Theo could, simply because of Theo’s busy schedule. The poor man hadn’t had a break in a few days, and Pansy wondered how he was coping.

Perhaps she could drop by the Nott residence for a visit? If he was too busy to even speak with her, she could leave after making sure that he didn’t need anything. It was the least she could do, especially if she wanted to make use of his network of lawyers.

Decision made, Pansy turned on her heels and headed towards the fireplace again, heading towards Fairview Manor where Theo lived all by his lonesome. Pansy remembered Mrs. Nott’s funeral from nearly fifteen years ago, and Theo’s father’s imprisonment before they had even graduated from Hogwarts. It was only a matter of time before what had happened to her father, would happen to Theo’s.

It made her so angry, especially when she thought of Lucius Malfoy and his house arrest.

“Elf!” Pansy called sharply as soon as she stepped out of Fairview’s floo-connected fireplace. One of the Nott family’s bug-eyed, overly enthusiastic and freakishly affectionate house-elves appeared, and nearly threw itself at her feet in its delight.

“Miss Pansy,” it shrieked. “Miss Pansy has returned! Oh, Wibby is so happy!”

“Where is Theo,” Pansy asked, taking a step away from the creature. Theo wouldn’t appreacte her kicking it, she was certain of that. He had always been stupidly fond of the tiny creatures. “I’m here to see him.”

“Master Theodore is in his study,” the house-elf replied. “Wibby thinks Master Theodore works too hard.”

“I am not going to talk with you,” Pansy said, side-stepping the house-elf and continuing her way towards Theo’s study. Much to her irritation, rather than pop away to work on whatever it should have been working on, Wibby followed Pansy like a talkative shadow.

“Listen,” the witch finally hissed, turning to eye the creature with no small amount of disdain. “You. Go… make us tea or something to eat, if you must. But I don’t want to see you again.”

“Miss Pansy always says that,” Wibby sighed happily, its eyes fixed on Pansy. “But Wibby knows that Miss Pansy never punishes her house-elves.”

“I hate you,” Pansy snapped, fingers itching to take a hold of her wand and hex the creature, if only to prove it wrong. “Now begone.” She then promptly turned to open the door of the study, and found Theo already looking up from the books he was hunched over.

“Someone looks cheerful,” Theo said with a grin. His hair – which he was yet to be cut, evidently – was tucked into a small ponytail with a dark hairtie. The look suited him.

“One of your deranged house-elves followed me,” Pansy told him with a shudder, before taking off her hat and cloak and leaving them on a chair. “I hope I’m not intruding. Do you mind if I stay for a while?”

“By all means,” Theo replied. “How has your day been?”

“I had a meeting with the Hogwarts Board of Governors earlier today,” Pansy said, moving further into the room and towards a comfortable couch near Theo’s desk. She was careful to avoid knocking any of the towering piles of books that were practically everywhere. “Regarding the scholarship.”

“They accepted?”

“Yes, they did.”

Theo nodded and offered her a quick smile, his eyes returning to scan the pages in front of him. Pansy quietly sat down on the couch and for the next few moments, the two enjoyed the companionable silence. She found it strange how even silence could sound different just by having someone sharing it with her. Both kept quiet, enjoying the minutes as they passed, up until the house-elf Wibby returned with tea and sandwiches. Thankfully the creature itself didn’t say anything, but the way it eyed Pansy gleefully made the witch scowl.

“I really hate that wretched house-elf,” Pansy muttered, causing Theo to laugh.

“It adores you,” he revealed, leaving his books and moving to sit next to the witch by the couch. “I’m not sure why, to be honest.”

“If only the rest of the world found me as delightful,” Pansy sighed. “Oh well, that’ll change soon.”

“Is that what you’re aiming for?” Theo asked, his voice suddenly soft. “The scholarship, and… the Witchroom that Blaise gave me an update about. He mentioned that you’ll be looking for a lawyer and a publicist as well. Is this all for the sake of an image change?”

“Yes,” Pansy admitted readily. “I’m… All those people who decided that the I’m not worth their time… I’m going to prove them wrong.”

“By doing charities?”

“It’s a start.”

Theo put down his cup of tea and eyed her with a serious expression. “What are you planning, truly? What’s your endgame here?”

“Can I trust you to not reveal it to anyone else?” Pansy wanted to know. “Even more than that: can I trust you to have faith in me?”

“I always do,” Theo replied. “Have faith in you, that is. And if it’s secrecy that you want, I would help you cover a murder if it came to that. You know this.”

“Theo,” Pansy breathed, setting down her own cup of tea as well, before reaching to hold his hands between hers. “Theo, I want to become the Minister for Magic.”

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.

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.