This is going to be a 4 parter, with a twist at the end.
It was definitely a man's world. Pansy Parkinson knew that better than most, as a woman trying to make it in said man's world, in a dominating man's profession.
The city was cold in the middle of winter. The river dividing uptown and downtown had frozen over mid November and had remained so stubbornly. It just meant that the dark haired woman held her thick coat closer to her slim frame as she rushed to her office with a coffee clutched in her hand. Her breaths, visible in the frigid weather, misted continuously around her clinging like smoke. Her olive green eyes were jaded to the life of a struggling adult. Her sensible heals hit the pavement hard on the gray streets until she got to the building that housed her office.
She was having a bad day. It had started when she had woken up in somebody else's bedroom (no change there) after 3 hours of inebriated sleep. She'd sat up, chucking her feet out of the covers to rest on the cold floor and rubbed the sleep from her tired, dry, red eyes. Her gaze had lingered momentarily on the long blonde hair splayed over the pillow, to the bare shoulder blades, down the nude back, to the cute dimples at the base... She'd stood, her body immediately becoming taut with goosebumps, her nipples standing so hard they were painful.
She'd dressed, not caring if she woke the woman she was leaving. She didn't wake her, but she wouldn't have cared if she had. She'd made it back to her apartment, and shouted at the shower for only spitting out ice cold water for all of two seconds before a grinding knocking sound came from deep within the pipes. No more water came after that, seemingly frozen in them stupid, idiotic, bastard-ing pipes... or so she had shouted at them.
Still growling in frustration she had walked back into her room and simply chucked clean clothing on her dirty body. She'd decided it didn't matter if she still smelt like last night's sex, wine and smoke, because it wasn't as though she was going to have any customers anyway. She'd pondered absentmindedly, becoming a high end escort. Simply because she could take home the best of them, as she had proved night after night whilst trying to hide from her dismal existence.
It was whilst trying to ram her leg into her pants that she had caught her foot in last nights' discarded underwear and somehow ended up on her back staring at her nicotine stained ceiling, wondering if it was truly worth going to work. By the feel of it, she would more than likely be struck down the moment she stepped out of her apartment building.
Surprisingly enough, she made it all the way to her office building, before a man unceremoniously barged into her, knocking her coffee all down her front, and then griping at her as if it was her fault he hadn't been watching where he was walking.
"Bastard," She'd growled at him when he was a good 5 foot away from her and she was just heading through the secure lock door.
She managed to get all the way into her office without incident, for which she was thankful. Shaking her now frosty coat off of her slender shoulders, she threw it at the coat rack... missing it. The coat landed in a pile on the floor, but she neither noticed nor cared. She crossed the one foot of hard wood and 3 foot of green rug to her desk, before flopping down in the seat and hitting her head against the desk top. She was so bored of mundane life that she would have considered jumping through the window, but she doubted it would do anything but hurt a bit, she was only on the 2nd floor.
She was halfway through doing something really important (re-stacking the folders she had been playing with aaaaalllllll day), just after diner, (the remnants were still on her desk in a greasy wrapper) when her door opened. Her door never opened. The frosted glass that proclaimed "Ms Parkinson, private eye" hadn't had a shadow other than her own cross in a good few weeks. So when the door opened, and in stepped a young woman with brown ringlets, she was so shocked she just stared... and stared some more.
"Hello," The young woman's voice was soft and articulated, and Pansy found her ears prick, waiting for more of that beautiful sound.
"Hi, can I help you? Are you lost?" Our raven haired private eye asked her. In all honesty, she thought that maybe the young woman was looking for Mr Zabini, the photographer upstairs; or maybe Mr Malfoy, the Psychiatrist across the hall.
"I was hoping so... the help that is... I don't believe I'm lost." The woman closed the door softly behind herself, and crossed the space to the desk in three steps. She gently lowered herself into the seat in front of the desk, eyeing the abandoned meal momentarily, before her bright brown eyes lifted to Pansy's olive green, inquisitive orbs. Pansy grabbed the greasy wrapper, throwing it in the trash can, before placing her elbows on the desk, her chin on her hands, and leaning forward. It was a sign of interest, showing the new comer that she was all ears and interested in whatever it was she had to say.
"I seem to be having issues with my husband. I don't want to believe he's doing anything wrong but... a woman knows when something isn't right," That soft voice sounded as though she knew exactly what she was talking about. It couldn't be merely women's intuition that made her so sure, but Pansy remained quiet, allowing her to go on. "I would like you to find out what he's doing for me. I just... There's something in my gut telling me I can't trust him anymore."
"Well, Mrs..."
"Weasley," The young woman fills in, and that bad feeling in Pansy's stomach told her, her bad day was going to get longer.
"Mrs Weasley, If you feel like you can't trust him now, then is there really a relationship there for you anymore? Without trust its... well it's not a relationship."
"I just need to know. Do you want the job or not Ms Parkinson? I am sure there are plenty of other detectives out there that could do this for me?"
"Then why come here?" There is silence throughout the room as Mrs Weasley looks out through the window into the dismal day. She avoids the woman in front of her, not letting their eyes meet. Pansy remains silent, resiliently watching the smart young woman that was intruding on Pansy's quiet time... oh yeah, she was supposed to be working, and she did need a client to pay the bills... but she knew of the Weasleys. She knew of this woman, the genius researcher and political journalist. She knew of her husband... everyone knew of that ginger haired womanising oaf that played goal keeper for some up there football team. She didn't need the headache this could potentially cause her.
"You're a woman..." Pansy had almost forgotten that she was waiting for a reply, she had become distracted by those brown eyes that looked so sad as they gazed out of the cold window.
"What does that have to do with the price of bacon?"
"I just..."
"You thought that because I'm a woman I would feel sorry for you? Take pity on you and find out if your oaf of a husband is cheating on you, in some sort of sisterly comradeship?" Pansy's left eyebrow rose when those brown eyes shot to hers with fire burning in them. It was actually quite the intimidating glare, but Pansy wouldn't let it be known. "I will take on your case. I'll get you so much proof of whatever it is he's actually doing there'll be no denying it. If he isn't doing anything, Mrs Weasley, I suggest you go see Mr Malfoy across the hall and work on those trust issues."
