AUTHOR'S NOTE: So, I was getting bored to death in my class, at college, yesterday, and penned down this entire thing at the back of my notebook. Honestly, typing it out was so boring, that I almost didn't.
Heh.
Okay. This is a non-magical Alternate Universe with a typical back-story that isn't much difficult to understand. Teddy and Victoire play an important role. And, Hermione Granger―eh, Malfoy, actually―too.
I love Pansy, and I love her with one Ronald Weasley!
Duress
Ron is waiting in that awfully long queue outside of Hermione's favorite bookshop, the one – the only one – that has been selling off her favorite author's newest release, and he is in the middle of reconsidering his gift choice for his best friend – however much obvious may it seem for a bookworm like her – when an obnoxiously over-zealous screech catches his attention. He cranes his neck, looking past the mob with difficulty, and snorts, in derision, at the sight.
A petite girl with black, pixie-cropped hair that is dyed a brilliant, vibrant shade of aqua around the edges, and a bright yellow crop top with pale green shorts and pink-esque – fuschia? – sneakers, has her arms wrapped around a boy who is a head taller than her – with a considerably less hipster dressing sense – and yet has idiotically dyed his entire head pink – or, fuschia? – and is, timidly, leaning away from her grip, and looks quite young, quite uncomfortable, quite familiar―
Ron gasps. "Teddy?"
Apparently, the fiasco Ron created by telling his niece about her boyfriend's indiscretion has been a stupid move.
That hipster woman is, actually, the fashion designer – Pansy Parkinson, uncle; it isn't that difficult to memorize! – that Victoire's been taking apprentice with, since last summer, and is a good friend of Teddy, as well.
Ron doesn't buy the latter declaration; she – Pansy Parkinson – isn't just a friend.
"Honestly, uncle!" Victoire snorts around a roll of her inexperienced, sixteen years old eyes. "I know Pansy. She's a good person. Stop fretting over a friendly hug."
Ron sighs, shaking his head in the wake of the blonde's descent.
Something about that woman irks him really bad. He cannot explain, but he can feel. And, anyway, Victoire's just a kid. She obviously doesn't understand these things.
Ron almost spits his coffee out when Victoire's mentor – Pansy Parkinson – enters the coffee shop he'd been enjoying the break from Fred and George's shop at. And then, he almost chokes on the hurried swallow when she twists in place to look right at him, and the spaghetti straps of her black crop top – which seems to be the blackest part of her all-black ensemble – jiggle, and one of them glides off a shoulder, by her jerky movements. Her bright fuschia – what the fuck? – lips curl into a snarl and she stalks up to his table with remarkable ease in the pencil hell of her Jimmy Choos and the unbelievably tight-fitted pants she's wearing.
"Are you Ronald Bilius Weasley, mister?" she asks in a sweet voice that is a stark contrast to her viciously wicked expressions as she braces her hands atop his table.
His mind short-circuiting for unfathomable reasons, Ron jerks his head in a single nod.
She hisses a breath out, her eyes sliding shut, and a hand comes up to pinch the bridge of her nose. Then she drags the chair opposite him and perches on it. "Look, Bilius," she says, then, and Ron chokes on his next inhale; wide open eyes watering as he holds back a coughing fit―what the actual fuck? "I need you to stop with all the filth you've been making up – and reporting to your family – about me and Edward. He's Victoire's boyfriend; practically a kid, okay?"
Though she is patronizing him―which still feels highly annoying, despite Hermione's never-ending habit of doing the same―Ron takes a moment to admit his shock at the fact that this harpy-alike woman is capable of talking in softer tones, too.
"I'm thirty-five, yeah, and he's like―what? I don't know – sixteen? Seventeen? Half my age, in any case." She frowns, her blunt, black painted nails tapping against the table as she concentrates on something with a vacant look in her eyes. "Edward is quite in love with Vic," she mumbles, thoughtfully, and Ron wonders if she's dealing with unrequited love. "But she's too young to fully understand the gravity of it. And, so," she says on an exhale, looking up, suddenly, with sharp, blue eyes that aren't quite unlike his, "I've been holding him back from putting down the weight of his strong feelings – and the expectations that it would entail – on her. Victoire is a lovely girl. I don't want any unwanted stress marring the beauty of her person."
Ron gives her another jerky nod, holding his body rigid, because―
Well, he doesn't know, why, actually.
"I'll. . . see you around?" she murmurs, squinting at him, then shrugs and forwards him her hand. "Pansy Parkinson."
Of course he knows that.
And, in hindsight, it really is easy to remember – it's poetic in a sick way, after all; because of the alliteration, probably, but because of the n and the s, too, maybe―
Ron coughs, blinking at the hand before placing his own, slightly sweaty, slightly larger one against it. "Yeah, you'd. . .yes. See me around, I mean," he hoarsely supplies.
Her – Pansy Parkinson's – forehead puckers, lips slant and eyebrow tweaks, but she's up and rushing away before Ron can bat an eyelid.
Ron is sniffing his Punch glass, trying to determine whether little James and Teddy have managed to spike the Bowl at Hermione's birthday, this year, too – they've been, since past three – when he notices a silhouette hurriedly rushing past the curtains that are hung around the Ballroom of the Malfoy Manor. He squints at the shadow dropping on the curtains, trying to―
"Ron!"
He twists in place to face a grinning, glowing, very pregnant Hermione Malfoy. "Hey, birthday girl," he wishes before leaning down to press a kiss against her forehead.
Just as he is straightening, he spots Teddy skidding by the Punch table and slipping past the curtains to join―
He gasps. He should've recognized the shadow of that chaotic hair, Jesus Christ―
"Ron?" Hermione places a hand on his shoulder. Before he can explain – or, the very least, distract her from finding out – she's already looking over her shoulder, to where the two silhouettes are embracing.
And―
And―
To Ron's horror, she smiles.
"Never knew Pansy had it in her," Hermione muses, shaking her head, fondly.
What?
He actually sputters.
"Ron. . ." Hermione trails off, heaving a deep sigh of something that seems distinctly like exasperation. "You don't know, do you?"
Ron blinks. "Don't know what?"
And then he listens, flabbergasted, as Hermione tells him how Pansy Parkinson is Draco Malfoy's childhood best friend, and, consequently, has known Edward Remus Lupin since his birthday, and so, has been an almost guardian to Hermione's – after marriage, I became his aunt, too, don't you see? – dearest nephew.
Ron's head, simply saying, swivels.
Pansy Parkinson is a guardian to Teddy.
Ron leaves the party early.
"Bilius!"
Ron winces. He is still wallowing in guilt. He would be better off without humiliation.
He feigns surprise as Pansy Parkinson walks into his line of sight. "P. . . Pansy?"
"Hey!" She is wearing a blue denim jacket over a neon orange tank top with pale pink pants and – fluorescent green flip-flops?
Ron looks away, ears burning as he realises he's checked her out.
Uh.
Fuck.
"So. . . Fancy meeting you here, eh?" she hedges, looking, uncomfortably, around the supermarket.
Ron feels like fleeing. "Yeah, well," he mumbles, turning away from her as he picks up a can of sardines, and tries to recall if he got his broken Wi-Fi repaired, last week; he sucks at cooking without a DIY YouTube video playing out before him. "I was just. . . picking food. You?" Ugh, how silly is this?
"Um, just. . . toiletry," she answers with a vague gesture towards her shopping basket.
He nods, clearing his throat as he catches her eye. She seems expectant. Is she expectant? He wonders what she can possibly be expecting out of him. She says nothing, though, and walks alongside him, down the aisle between the shelves of canned fish food, and he suffocates from the awkward silence.
"So. . . I've learnt that you've been―ah, asking about me?" She sounds amused, and he immediately decides that silence really is gold.
Especially the awkward kind.
On second thoughts, he wants to murder one Hermione Malfoy.
"I, uh. . ." His cheeks are heating up and his hands are sweating and he doesn't know why the fuck is he feeling nervous! It isn't as if he has been actually obsessing over her! "It wasn't―"
"Bilius," she cuts with an eye roll. "Wanna grab coffee, with me, after this?"
He swallows as he examines her again. Well, her face, this time. She looks decidedly okay when she smiles. Alright, maybe, more than okay. "Um. . ." He feels himself flushing further when her smile turns toothy. He clears his throat. "And, uh. . . M―my name's Ronald."
She blinks, cocking her head to a side. "I know." She smirks. "Bilius."
THE END
Thoughts?
The next It's Not Over chapter is gonna be up sooner than I'd expected; but, probably, later than you all had. Drop by at my tumblr if you need to lash out my poor soul. i-heart-hogwarts be my handle.
Aishwarya!