I cannot believe I agreed to this trip as a family to "patch things up." How could I be so stupid as to think that things had changed – that things would be better than they have been? Draco warned me and I told him he was wrong and not to worry because this would be different. Things were supposed to be different and they were supposed to be different. I guess that's what I get for hoping isn't it? Before I get into the nitty-gritty details of this family trip and the happenings that occurred while on it, I feel that I should explain my childhood a bit – explain why this trip was so important to me and why I was so full of hope. I'm Pansy Elizabeth Marie Parkinson. This is my side of the story. The proper one.

I can clearly remember my first two memories of my parents. Even though they are seen through my three-year old eyes, it's as though I just experienced it yesterday. My first memory is of my father.

I was three years old and it was Christmas morning. I'd been griping about Christmas all week and about how excited I was, because I was positive that I would finally get a pony to make that Malfoy boy jealous of me for once. I went to bed extremely early on Christmas Eve, not objecting when Father said it was lights out for his Pansybeth. Christmas morning, I was awoken by something very large plopping down on my mattress, sending me up into the air and startling me awake. When I landed back on the bed and rubbed my eyes, I looked up to see my father sitting on it, a huge smile on his face.

"Morning, Pansybeth! It's Christmas, and I'm thinking there is a special gift for you under the tree!" he exclaimed.

I remember clapping my hands and lunging into his arms, begging him to take me downstairs to see this oh so special gift that promised to be under the tree. He laughed and hugged me, taking me downstairs. I loved when my father laughed at me or with me growing up. Daddy had a special laugh, my laugh. Only when he would laugh at me or laugh with me would his eyes sparkle like hidden gems, glistening with moisture as his wrinkled face folded into a smile. I loved that laugh…even now, thinking back on it, I love that laugh.

Upon reaching the foot of the stairs, Daddy set me down and patted my three-year old baby bum, "Alright, Pansybeth! Go get 'em!"

I screamed excitedly and ran to the large sitting room occupied by the tree. The room smelled strongly of pine and cinnamon. I looked around excitedly, spinning a few times before setting my eyes on what I desired most. Sure enough, right next to the fireplace was a beautiful white pony with a long white mane and tail, nibbling on the branches of our extravagant tree.

"Oh, Da!" I screamed, "I wanna name her, can I? I wanna name her…Shellybean!"

Daddy ran in after me and scooped me up, sitting me on the Shellybean the Pony's back and kissing the top of my head, "You can name her whatever you like, Pansy. Shellybean sounds lovely."

Then he told me he'd take me out after breakfast to ride the pony in the yard. That's my first memory of my parents. Well, of my father, really. My second memory is of my mother specifically, also on that same Christmas morning.

Shortly after discovering Shellybean, my father took me into the kitchen and sat me down on the counter, telling me that as it was Christmas, so the house-elves could make me absolutely anything my heart desired to eat.

"SHELLYBEANS AND PANCAKES!" I screamed, "SHELLYBEANS AND PANCAKES!" (I couldn't pronounce 'jellybeans' when I was young).

My father shushed me gently, telling me that mother was still sleeping and therefore I must be quiet, but it was too late. I still recall hearing the footsteps pounding down the stairs, then coming towards the kitchen. I didn't realize at the time, but something in my stomach told me to run or hide or something, because even then, I knew I should not cross my mother.

She walked into the kitchen, a hint of fury in her eyes. Still in her pajamas, she walked towards me, stopping when my father stepped between us.

"Aldridge, move. The screaming thing awoke me as you led her to that filthy horse, no doubt, and then yelled yet again as you brought her in here, and I intend to ensure she shall not do so again," she sounded so innocent – not a hint of what was to come lurking in her eyes.

Thing. That's all I ever was to my mother: just some 'thing' she had to deal with that was forced unwillingly upon her.

"Nicolette, she's just a child. It's Christmas. Surely you can understand."

"I assure you I intend to do nothing harmful to her. She's my baby girl. I just need to talk with her."

My father stepped aside and allowed her to walk to me. I don't think I will ever forgive him for doing so. Gripping my upper arm, she jerked me down off of the counter and got right up to my face.

"Listen here you little brat. When I am sleeping, you are to be quiet. You are to keep your squeaky little pug-face shut, do you understand?"

All I could do was nod.

Using her free hand, she smacked at my cheek before shoving me roughly towards the door, "When I address you, you say 'Yes, Mother' you little snot! Now go to your room!"

I looked to my father, lip trembling. She screamed at me that my father wouldn't help me, as he was not permitted to do so. I scrambled up off the floor and ran upstairs to my room, closing the door behind me and hiding under my bed as I cried. Listening to them argue downstairs.

That would also be the first time I remember being physically hurt by one of my parents. From there, though, the memories seem to get worse. It's typical, I suppose, that my very first memory would be a good one, followed by nothing but bad ones or just-okay ones. Typical of me, at least. I could explain my most vivid memories in pages upon pages, but I'll give you a chronicled list and small summaries instead.