Disclaimer: As much as I'm trying to own the Slytherin Quidditch team, no one's signed the papers yet.
When she first started out over here, I looked at her and thought, "What a prissy, stuck-up little princess! She'll be trouble for sure!" And to be sure, she didn't do anything to dissuade this notion. After all, it's never been the case that any bird who goes to work for goblins in anything resembling pink dragonskin stiletto heels and big rose-coloured sunglasses warranted being taken seriously. She introduced herself as Pansy Parkinson, the new assistant jewel inspector, and it was anyone's guess why she went to work for Gringotts.
Of course, after the war, many who never had cause to work for a thing in their lives before started work out of necessity. Most, though, took some sort of Ministry drone position and made their little pittance and complained about the indignity. This Pansy didn't seem particularly different from that species, and Bletchley actually joked, the day that he saw her walk through the door, that she must have gotten lost without her Malfoy-shaped arm attachment.
He'd end up eating those words, but of course, no one could have seen that coming.
She was smarter than we'd all given her credit for, mind-- Ron had been quite decided on his opinion of this girl, a former classmate with whom he'd never had a very felicitous acquaintance. But she was certainly no less annoying. Bletchley balked against training her, which didn't surprise me (though several had thought that Slytherins would stick together by default). Sure, she was a pretty enough girl, if one liked that sort of bratty, blue-blood beauty, but even for a shrewd, cynical cursebreaker, Miles Bletchley had never been one to give a damn about outward beauty. And he'd always enjoyed his solitude too much to enjoy training ANYONE.
Of course, she had to aggravate the situation with kittenish tricks and batting those mocking slate-blue eyes, which affected him about as much as a mosquito bite might have affected a hippogriff. Of course, because she'd never been rebuffed before, that spurred the fine Miss Parkinson's ambition and pride to demand his notice. Increasingly short and impractical robes did not have the desired effect. Neither did otherworldly fragrances, biting insults, or even temper tantrums.
In the end, it was the fact that he couldn't care less about any of her more infantile (or even mildly sophisticated) antics that drove her to succeed.
Oh, after a while, it started becoming amusing, especially because she'd proven to be a bit better company than anyone would have guessed (at least so it seemed after the glorious scolding I'd witnessed that she'd given to Malfoy regarding a not-so-little matter of my own baby sister's happiness). Of course, when she'd befriended my wife, I HAD briefly thought that life as I knew it would come to a spectacularly volcanic end (two rich blonde women plotting together never bodes well for anyone in that direct path), but even then the adverse effects hadn't extended outside of little Juliette adoring "Auntie Pansy" and being taught how to apply lipstick at an alarmingly early age. And "Auntie Pansy" learning how to swear in French whilst glaring at the back of the oblivious man who trained her how to file in triplicate and avoid the pitfalls of cursed gemstones with the gruffness of an eccentric bachelor uncle.
And within the department, despite (or perhaps because of) her idiosyncrasies, Pansy Parkinson became rather like an odd quirky habit-- we couldn't do without her, even when we were infuriated by her. I even became friends with her, which of course horrified Ron to no end, and found myself telling her that Bletchley was foolish not to see what was under his haughty Slytherin nose, and that she could do better, but she refused to hear a word of it, saying that it was nothing to her. Which of course was a blatant lie, considering the fact that she had not given up wearing the tiny pink things or flirting outrageously at everyone else in his presence. I found myself rooting for her to succeed. If only for the fact that it must have been uncomfortable to walk through craggy underground caves in those shoes that she wore.
Of course, Bletchley gave no indication that he was at all interested in her, or any other woman for that matter. If it weren't for the fact that he was similarly indifferent to Eddie Carmichael or Bryce Summerby and his marked lack of interest in dapper clothing, one might have suspected him as flying on the other side of the Quidditch pitch. Of course, once in a great while, when Pansy'd spend too much time flirting with every other man in the room aside from him, he'd snap at her that she'd better get back to work and toy with others' feelings in some other place and time, but we all dismissed that as his typical cantankerousness. He truly hadn't impressed us as the jealous, possessive type.
And then it happened on one of those underground expeditions in which Alan Richardson had found a massive vault of treasure, and she was called upon to investigate in the absence of the head inspector. Of course, she must have known that vaults of treasures typically come loaded chockful of booby traps, but that hadn't stopped her from strutting on-site in utterly impractical open-toed high heels and a wispy little robe that offered absolutely no protection. Miles Bletchley took one look at her, sighed expressively, and curtly told her to come on, then.
She'd just stepped inside the cave when a crystal stalactite detached itself from the ceiling like a deadly falling knife. And then, in an instant, everything changed-- and before any of us could do a thing, he'd thrown her out of the way, an instant before the shard could puncture her skin, and she shrieked as she fell against one of the stalagmites, spells flying from her lips in quick and fluid succession (more efficiently than any of us could have expected), stopping the onslaught of more projectiles even as she dashed over to her fallen mentor's side. All of us averted out eyes for a moment as she tore a sheer sleeve off her robe and packed it against his shoulder, cursing and calling him a bloody idiot and it was ALL his fault that the first time she shed any clothing in front of him were in such circumstances as these.
And just before any of us could gather our wits enough to step forward and help him out, he quirked an eyebrow, propping himself into a half-sitting position, and smirked at her. "Is that a promise?"
"It's a fucking order, you bastard!" Pansy became rather unladylike in her language when she was agitated. "As though I HAVEN'T been trying to get your attention like a whore in Sensu Alley in the last four months! I'll be damned if that was all for naught! I was perfectly content to follow Malfoy's advice after the war and just count my blessings and seduce a stranger to make myself feel better until you made me FEEL something in my black little heart! Damn you to hell, anyway, Bletchley!"
And here Richardson would have interfered, but the curses upon the cave were momentarily disabled, and I stopped him-- I had a feeling that perhaps they were finally working their issues out. Surprising everyone (perhaps there was hope for him after all), Miles Bletchley pulled her towards him by the hand that wasn't pressing against his wound and kissed her as though her lips were a spring and he was dying of thirst, and for several moments, no one came up for air. And then I stepped in, because it seemed as though they were in considerable danger of just shedding all clothing and going at it right there in the cave with no regard for the fact that the deadly stalactites overhead were only temporarily disabled. Or, you know, the two other cursebreakers watching in horrified fascination at the cave entrance.
In any case, we carted him out to the field infirmary, where she insisted on remaining while the doctor poked and prodded and administered the typical round of nasty-smelling potions. The excursion was put off while she remained at the infirmary and crawled into his bed and slept with her face pillowed against his good shoulder every night.
And now, a year later, I must say that it all ended fairly well. She's to be promoted to head inspector tonight, and I'm quite happy for her. Pansy Parkinson had come a long way since her first day in the door, and she's earned our respect. I know from Bletchley's face that he has something that might even be more meaningful than the promotion, to give her later this evening. If it's what I think it is, she might very well not show up for work tomorrow morning.
Or she might just take advantage of her longer lunch hour in ways that would best not be contemplated. I still haven't recovered completely from the time that I discovered them in the loo. She'd merely sneered that he wasn't training her any more at that point in time and therefore they were violating no regulations.
Smart-arsed Slytherins. I was right after all about her being trouble.