A/N: Written for The Houses Competition forum run by MoonlightForgotten
Category: Themed: Escape
Prompt: Hairbrush
House: Hufflepuff
Word Count: 889. Enjoy all c:
The sound of hair being brushed echoed in the wide room belonging to Pansy Parkinson. Her slender, long legs poised under the legs of her vanity mirror. One hand held her long, dark hair while the other maintained the repetitive nature of brush strokes. The expression on her face was not one of happiness, instead it was painted with the emotions of sorrow.
She did everything in her power to continue the legacy of the Parkinson name. She married the man of her presumed dreams, she worked on the flaws pointed out on her body, and she never allowed anyone to see her tears. Of course, in Hogwarts, she was known as the 'Pug-faced Crybaby,' something that Pansy paid for aggressively.
The strength of the slap echoed throughout the corridor, "Don't you dare ruin the name that's been paved for us through our ancestors!" Lady Parkinson snapped at her daughter. Pansy was on her knees, staring at her mother with wide, fearful eyes. She caressed her cheek softly as the tears threatened to fall from her eyes. Lady Parkinson bent down to grip Pansy's chin painfully, which was evident from the whimper that passed through Pansy's lips.
"Dry those tears quickly. There is no room for weaklings in the Zabini line, so you will stop crying if you know what's good for you." Lady Parkinson straightened her posture and briskly walked away while keeping her gracefullness intact. Pansy watched her mother walk away; and when she was no longer in sight, Pansy bawled her eyes out.
Pansy stopped brushing her hair and placed the brush down temporarily. Her fingertips brushed lightly against the cheek that she could not call her own as it did not bear the scars that turned her cold.
After a soft sigh, Pansy grabbed her hairbrush and started her brushing ministrations over again. She admired the softness and thickness of it, only stopping once more at the memory of its origin.
"Goodness sake! Who in their right mind would allow their child to parade around with hair like this!?" the beautician in the magical salon asked as she examined Pansy's neat bob.
Lady Parkinson snorted, "Children must be forgiven for they know not of their mistakes until they're pointed out," she replied simply, "now fix this atrocity that she thinks is cute. I want my daughter to be envied and look respectable, not like some tart."
Pansy listened silently, opting that silence was the best answer in this case. Her mother would punish her otherwise, and she had no doubt that it would be painful. Instead, Pansy allowed the beautician to change the one thing that Pansy tried to claim as her own.
Pansy's fist clenched against the top of the vanity mirror near her brush while she looked at her reflection in disdain. This was not the woman she had wanted to be, yet it was the woman she was supposed to be. For five years, Pansy lived this life that her mother wanted, and she wanted to live for herself. Soon, Pansy will be able to do just that.
A figure appeared behind Pansy in her mirror and kissed her shoulder, "Are you alright, mio amore?"
Pansy gave a rehearsed smile and tilted her head to her husband, giving him a quick kiss on the chin, "Everything's fine, Blaise," she answered.
Blaise arched a brow with an amused expression on his face, "If that's the case, I'd love for you to finish brushing that hair of yours and come have dinner."
"I'll be there soon," she replied with a soft smile. Blaise placed a hand on her shoulder, gave her a gentle squeeze, and left the room. Once Blaise was gone, Pansy looked back into the mirror.
She did love Blaise, truly she did; but was it real or her mother's creation? Pansy did not want that woman dictating things in her life any more. Grabbing the hairbrush, Pansy looking in the mirror one final time before swinging it towards the glass, shattering what she thought was the remnants of her mother's reflection into miniscule pieces.
Grabbing a piece of glass, Pansy placed it on the corner of her cheek and trailed it down her jaw, satisfied at the feeling of the flesh cutting. Blaise must have heard the glass shattering because he had burst into the room to find Pansy sitting in the middle of the room with a scratch on her face, a handful of hair in one hand and bloody glass in her other hand. Blaise rushed to his wife, who turned to him in tears.
"Pansy, what happened?" he asked her, "What happened?!"
Pansy stared at Blaise, or what she assumed to be Blaise through her blurry vision, and cracked a smile. "I'm free," she whispered softly before laughing in his arms, "I'm free!"
Blaise buried her head in his chest as she cried, petting her hair softly. He didn't understand what was wrong with her or what had made her cry. However, he could tell from the hands clutching his shirt that he would be informed later.
And he would. Blaise would understand that his wife didn't feel the need to remain in the clutches of her mother; that she would no longer be that perfect daughter that Lady Parkinson craved. May her mother turn in her grave.