Chapter One: Newspapers and Protagonists

A/N: Hi there! Welcome to another war story, a journal of sorts by Pansy Parkinson covering her life up until "she" writes this at twenty-four years old.

If you've read another of my stories "Lucifer's Curse" you may recognise my Pansy (probably not as there's only two chapters published so far but meh). This one and the other one are the same character, just in this one there is no new students, and obviously this is Pansy's story not Draco's.

If you're interested in betaing this story please send me a message, I'd really like someone to read through and check for tense in case I switch off of past tense, and also just someone to throw ideas at and discuss stuffs :)

Um... yeah. Enjoy :)

Disclaimer: The following story is based on the excellent works of J.K. Rowling, they are not mine. Not including the characters you don't recognise, which are mine.

Also: Being Australian, I may have a few spelling variations to what you may or may not be used to, just skim over them and try not to let them get to you. But let me know if you think there's something wrong :)

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The Quibbler

Monday the Twelfth of April, the year Two Thousand and Four.

Excerpt from page two. Author: Pansy Parkinson. Editor: Rolf Scamander.

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Hello. My name is Pansy Parkinson. I am 24 years old. Most of you reading this will think you know who I am. But you don't know who I am. I am here to tell you who I am.

A few years ago, after the war had finished, Mr. Harry Potter sold his story to the Quibbler. Some of you will have already forgotten, but back then the Quibbler was an underground news magazine full of silly stories and conspiracies, with the occasional true story hidden beneath. In those times, we turned to the Daily Prophet for real news.

In accordance with my childhood upbringing and family responsibilities, I never touched anything other than the Prophet, especially not the Quibbler. Therefore, I did not find out about his tell-all story until two days later, when the Prophet was given the Okay to print the events Potter had described, using only exact quotes from the Quibbler, with no other input or opinions, and full credit to be given to the Quibbler and Mr. Dean Thomas, the stories' writer.

Not a week after this public declaration of events, Mr. Ronald Weasley came out with his own version of events, linking in with Mr. Potter's and adding a bit more when the two parted ways at various points during their journey. He, too, first published with the Quibbler, although this time he used Mr. Neville Longbottom's help and wrote his own story. Once again, I found out two days later when it appeared in the Prophet.

It was at about that point when I realized I was missing a lot of current news, as the new Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt and many war heroes, not to mention the general wizarding public, no longer trusted or even read the Daily Prophet. I was one of a fairly small group of War-time, pureblood, mostly old, wizards and witches who still read it. As such, the Prophet itself became very biased and not a lot of real news reached my ears first hand. I decided to find a second source of information, and my hunt began in none other than Diagon Alley.

I came across many papers in my search, such as Witch Weekly (full of potion ointments, rubbish and mostly incorrect gossip regarding the who's who of the time), Ministry News (a somewhat interesting read, although contained very strictly-worded updates on international relations, changes in Laws, and so forth. I did subscribe, but it did not quench my thirst for knowledge) and the London Herald (a small newspaper business run in London which strove to be informative on real news, but due to a lack of funding was rarely the first source of news, nor did it have the best writers. In fact, so deep were their money problems that between June and September of 2003, they stopped using the potions and spells required of a magical newspaper. It was strange reading a Muggle-style newspaper, and whilst I did somewhat get used to it, I was glad when an anonymous beneficiary donated a generous sum of money, and they retook their original format, moving headlines, pictures and all).

By October of 2002, I had subscriptions for both Ministry News and the London Herald. They were delivered right to my door after an incident in August involving a curse cast in my direction at the Leaky Cauldron one morning. They were both very informative, but I couldn't help but feel like I was missing something.

In about a week before Halloween, I found myself back in Diagon Alley, requesting a private conversation with Florean Fortescue. Whilst I doubt he was ever a scholar, he is, after all, our local ice-cream vendor, and I found him to be a nice, patient man, with a willing ear to listen should the need arise.

I should point out that by this time, further 'war biographies' had been released, detailing the firsthand account of Miss Hermione Granger, Mr. Seamus Finnigan, the Quibbler writer Mr. Thomas, Mr. Neville Longbottom and his wife Mrs. Hannah Longbottom nee Abbott, Mr. William 'Bill' Weasley and his wife Mrs. Fleur Weasley nee Delacour, as well as his father Mr. Arthur Weasley, and even one from an old friend of mine, Mr. Draco Malfoy. There were many more already released, and yet-to-be released, but I fear this list of names has already begun to bore you, so I shall continue.

At 10 o'clock by the Grandfather Clock I keep in my study, I flooed to The Leaky Cauldron, and made my way to Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour. I was slightly nervous, having refrained from travelling to the small pub since the aforementioned 'incident', and had accordingly spelled my hair to a soft, auburn colour with a shoulder-length cut, and made myself about four inches shorter.

At the ice-creamery, I requested a word with Mr. Fortescue, and he obligingly led me upstairs to a private bar area that was empty at the time. You may have heard of it, as it holds very loud, late, parties every Thursday and Saturday night.

I spoke to him of my feelings regarding being left out of the current world, having few friends and contacts outside of my few remaining family, and he just smiled at me. We were sitting at a table, and he leaned forward and took both my hands in his.

"My dear," He said softly, "You are only as left out as you let yourself be. I haven't seen you here in such a long time, unless you have been using a wide variety of disguises like the one you currently hide behind."

I looked down shamefully as a tear rolled down my cheek, but he gave a cheeky laugh and wiped it away.

"I don't know what to do," I whispered, "Everyone hates me. I have no friends, and I never know when the stranger sitting next to me is a hate-filled muggleborn who wants to kill me."

"Not everyone hates you, my dear, for here I sit and here I listen."

"But –"

"If you are so good at these disguises, why not make an alias of yourself and integrate once again? I'll tell you what; there is a formal event in two days time. Right here in this room. Why don't you come along? I'm trying to get this room up and running, it's been sitting here gathering dust for centuries. Many of your Hogwarts acquaintances will be in attendance, for it is thanks to Harry that anyone is coming at all."

"Are you sure? They'll notice a stranger in their midst. Those kids were all so close and friendly with each other, surely they'll pick up on me there, even if I don't look like myself."

"A number of guests are arriving by my invitation, not Harry's. This is my invitation to you."

"Are you –?"

"I expect to see you at six o'clock sharp, and you can attend the dinner as well. Molly Weasley and her daughter were kind enough to offer their cooking skills to the night."

And that was it. There was no question; I was going to that dinner. I had a small break down when I arrived back at my home, but it was short and I moved on quickly. I found a nice floor-length, midnight blue dress with a few jewels in the bust, but otherwise plain enough to not scream "Pureblood Heiress".

My only real problem was my name. I was not going as Pansy Parkinson. I fabricated a simple enough back story: I was raised by my half-blood mother and muggle father in various towns across England. We moved around a lot, for my father was a suspicious man, and took my mother's warnings of "pureblood fanatics" very seriously. I was homeschooled, though I had met Dumbledore three times, when he came to visit us and see how my wizarding education was coming along, and if I had changed my mind and wanted to go to Hogwarts.

That was where my imagination halted. I could not, for the life of me; come up with a name that I thought was plain enough to not attract attention, but interesting enough to not be obviously fictional. Somehow, I came up with the thought of finding a Muggle bookshop, and picking up a book selected at random and stealing the protagonist's identity.

The book I found was entitled "The Secret Countess" and it jumped out at me from within the shelves and shelves of colour and pages. I did not like the name of the author enough to use it for myself, so turned to find a characters' name.

I read through the description on the back, but could not find a full name. I had to open the book. When I did, I found I immediately fell in love with the few short pages I read, and was overcome with a feeling of ownership over this book. Not being one who carries Muggle money, I ended up leaving a necklace I had in my possession. It was not a family heirloom, merely a trinket I once found in a market, but its value exceeded twenty galleons and so, hoping it would cover the cost of a book, I left it beside a Muggle contraption that the store-keeper used to hold his money whilst his back was turned.

From henceforth, my name was Anna Grazinsky. I shall give you a moment to absorb this information, as you may have come across myself hiding behind this name. It has taken me to many places outside of the thoughts I'd held when I first hid behind it.

I knew Grazinsky was not a good English surname, but I fabricated another story to protect it. My father and his family fled war-torn Russia when he was a boy, and met my mother whilst she was on a wizarding assignment to aid witches and wizards stuck in the crossfire that was Eastern Europe. They married soon after the ending of the war, and moved to England. My mother told my father about magic when I was six years old and she realised she would not be able to hide it from him any longer.

I grew up in the outskirts of London, though whilst studying for my NEWTs with the Ministry my parents drove to Manchester to visit some cousins of my father. They were both killed in a car accident. I have been on my own since then, and working as a waiter in a Muggle café to support myself. I do have an inheritance waiting for me in Gringotts, but until now wanted little to do with the magical community.

For the physical appearance of my new alias, I chose long, dark-brown hair, thick with seemingly natural waves. I didn't bother with changing my skin or height, on the off chance the disguise would be used frequently, which it has been, and height-altering spells and skin colour potions can be extremely time consuming.

The dinner itself, I shall not bore you with the details of, as it was described in several papers and on many more radio networks. I even found my disguise occupying a section of Witch Weekly, listed as number three on a top ten list of best dressed at the party. I shudder to think where I would have been were I still Pansy Parkinson, but enjoyed the mention nonetheless.

Through the course of the evening, I managed friendly though somewhat dull conversations with several other patrons. Most notably, Miss Granger herself. She was intrigued by my story and horrified by the ordeals and hardships my fictional father went through, and delightedly told me of how things like that would never be allowed to happen again.

I left the dinner, having thoroughly enjoyed myself, and surprisingly with a request of my presence for lunch tomorrow with Miss Granger and her soon-to-be sister-in-laws Mrs. Ginevra Potter nee Weasley and Mrs. Fleur Weasley nee Delacour. Miss Granger's wedding was to be in February, just under four months away, and she and her bridesmaids were going to lunch at a prospective reception venue. I was invited after Miss Granger accurately picked up on my lack of friends.

Florean saw me on my way out, though I had come to introduce myself to him prior to the arrival of most of the guests. He congratulated me on a nice evening out, and on securing a fragile group of friends.

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Please send thoughts to the Quibbler Office in Diagon Alley, all owl post to be directed through the third floor window.

All Howler's merit reply. Consider yourselves warned.

The views expressed throughout this article are the views of the author and not necessarily those of the Quibbler itself.

Pansy Parkinson's tell-all story will continue in next Monday's Quibbler.

Until then; don't forget to spell your teeth!

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A/N: Tada! Hope you liked it! Please let me know what you thought with a magical review!

Also (if you're curious) the book "The Secret Countess" is a real book by Eva Ibbotson, it's also published as "A Countess Below Stairs". I highly recommend it, you can google it to find out what it's all about.

Have a nice day / morning / evening / ungodlyhourofthenight :)