Disclaimer: I own nothing to do with the Harry Potter series. All rights belong to Ms. J. K. Rowling.

Enough

Pansy Parkinson was bad; she was evil. Hated by many, yet loved by none. Where was the balance? Shouldn't God keep the world from tipping so far in one direction, keep it from being so oppressive, even towards those who deserved it? Maybe she was too far gone, past the point of no return. Maybe the rules didn't matter anymore, maybe she was past justice, past universal balance.

A sob worked its way up her throat.

What were you supposed to do when you reached that point? What could you do when you there was no one to count on? Not even God. For her entire life, Pansy Parkinson had been expendable. She was never enough of anything, never enough for anyone.

Pansy was never poised enough to be the perfect pureblood daughter, she could never get anything right, and her parents resented her. Resented her for failing to be what they wanted her to be.

She was never smart enough to be successful. She could never be a curse breaker like she'd always dreamed of because she could hardly pass Charms. It took all of her effort to simply achieve an Acceptable, and that was never enough. Pansy had always dreamed of being smart and powerful, of being able to take what she wanted, to be whomever she pleased. She never could.

She was never pretty enough either. Stupid, pug faced Pansy Parkinson. None of the boys were ever interested; none of them paid her any attention. They were all drawn to the girls with curvy figures and pretty faces. Pansy was not one of those girls, yet she craved the attention she had been deprived of for so long. She became addicted as soon as she found a way to procure it again. When she gave her body away, when she offered herself up freely, she could feel loved. In the few minutes it took for hormone driven boys to find their release, Pansy could pretend that they cared. She could pretend that they wouldn't just leave her lying there on the bed, that they wouldn't just call her another foul name the next time they saw her. That was her one saving grace; she could always pretend.

The pale, shaky hand, spotted with age, pressed itself against the delicately lined mouth to stifle another sob.

She had never been brave enough. Never loyal enough. Her friends gave themselves wholeheartedly to the cause; serving Voldemort with wholehearted passion. Not Pansy. She had been too scared; too afraid to give up her safety net, too scared to fall and never get back up again. In the end, it had worked in her favour. The light side won, and Pansy was free to live her life in the new world, unlike many of her peers. Most of them would kill to be in her position; roaming the world, feeling the wind in her hair, the ground beneath her feet. She knew she was lucky, oh yes, she reminded herself of that every day. But no matter how many times she attempted to convince herself otherwise, she couldn't help but be jealous; envious even of those rotting away in Azkaban. At least they knew who they were. They knew what they believed in, or at least they thought they did. Even if it were all a sweet deception, Pansy would take that any day, she would lie to herself for the rest of her life if it would take away the empty void. If it could fill it with something tangible and real.

Her wrinkled lids closed delicately over her washed-out hazel eyes, attempting to hold back the moisture that threatened to spill over their edges.

Why did she have to be so bad? So wrong? Why couldn't she be strong and good? Why was she the way she was? For years she had been content with believing that it was all other people's fault. It was her parent's fault for not bringing her up correctly, or God's fault for neglecting her, for not showering her with the loving care that she needed. But no, God had already forsaken her, already deserted her, she knew that now. It was all clear now, lying on her back in that small, itchy hospital bed.

No one knows what it's like. It's impossible to know unless you've experienced it, lived it, and not many people have. Where was her purpose in life? What had she accomplished? What did she have to be proud of? Nothing. Her worst nightmare had come true; she was an old woman, lying on her deathbed, and what could she stake claim to? Nothing. It wasn't enough; any of it. She had tried, oh, how she had tried. But what was the point in trying if it all went to waste? Her life was not a fairy tale, and there was no happy ending for Pansy Parkinson. Yes, she had outlived most of her classmates and friends, but she would far prefer to have died for something she believed in than to waste away in to an old, disfigured corpse. That was exactly what she had done, that was exactly what she was; everything that she had hoped never to be. Her last thoughts would be of her own inadequacy, her own failures.

She had been a fool to think for even a second that she was worth anything. She should have seen, seen where her decisions and inclinations were leading her. Everyone else had. All that effort; wasted. Pansy could lie to herself, or attempt to at least, but after years of experience, she knew that it would do no good. It simply wasn't enough. It never had been, and it was never going to be.

A single crystalline tear sluiced gracefully down her cheek.

FIN

A/N This short angsty little thing was just something I wrote on the fly to vent a bit. If you have a moment, please review and give me your opinion. Please tell me if you enjoyed it, constructive criticism is welcomed.

Thanks,

Darkness