The first time she witnessed it, she had been two years old. All she remembered was giggling quietly to herself at the beauty of it; a flash of colored lights that shimmered radiantly before her eyes, filling her with an inner sense of joy.
So young... so innocent..
The second time was when she was five. She had been sitting outside her father's study, swinging her little legs back and forth, humming gently to herself. She remembered the old oak door had been slightly ajar and that something was whining pathetically behind it. She remembered those same twinkling lights that had always warmed her heart. Her father strode out and with a smile had taken her hand. Looking back now, she remembered that the whining had ceased.
Why didn't I see?
The third time it happened, she had been nine. She had been gloomy, pouting as her father told her to stay behind, with a rotten mudblood-lover to keep her company. She had been horrid to the girl, but the girl deserved it -- after all, she did fraternize with those filthy folk. She remembered leaving the girl behind, crying because she had hit her hard. She had gone looking for her father, but when she found him, she remembered the horror that had filled her. With wide eyes and a pounding heart, the screams etched themselves into her memory forever. She was shaken when they flooed home and her father had eyed her with a cold curiosity.
Even then, they manipulated me...
The fourth time he had purposely let her see him. She was eleven at that point. By that time she had learned to mask her emotions and put forth a facade that served to stereotype her as a snotty Slytherin. She was perfectly content with the world's outlook on her, but when it came to her father she cared all too much. She was cold and calculating with him, refusing to show him even the slightest weakness in her. But each time she witnessed his acts, she had grown weaker inside, her humanity dwindling away. He had been once again in his study, his door intentionally left wide open. He was torturing a young man with pleasant eyes, whose shrill screams pierced the icy silence of their manor. She had watched quietly from the door, refraining from intervening.
I shan't give in...
"Either come in or leave, but don't just dawdle around the door, girl."
"I'm sorry, sir," she had replied in a monotonous voice. Her father had given a terse nod, his hazel eyes penetrating what felt like her soul. She returned his eerie gaze, mouth straight. A battle waged between them, a battle between father and daughter, between dark and light, between night and day. The young man's screams had echoed perpetually, even after his body lay still and dormant.
I'm not willing to die for my beliefs though...
She had not wanted to show him any weakness; she had not wanted to back down from his challenge. She would defeat him, she would show him the err of his ways... But as she had stared into his eyes, her resolve started to chip away. She had slowly become a speck of nothing before him, an insignificant child that could never fare against him. Fear had chilled her veins and her hands had grown clammy until finally, she looked down.
I'm not a strong person..
Her downfall was quick and sure, but known only to herself. Maskless, she had crumbled to one of the most dangerous Death Eaters of her time, and by the time she had secured her mask back in place, she had become a mindless follower of a belief she once questioned. She was no longer an individual, but a slave. Slave to a cause she had faintly understood in the first place.
The fifth time it happened, she was the one holding the wand. She was smiling a chilling smile that did not reach her eyes; her inquisitive, doe-brown eyes filled with malice, filled with loathing. The screams filled her with such utter joy, and the lights -- the beautiful lights that had dazzled her as a child -- they shined all around her. Her gleaming black hair shined with reds and greens and golds, a sparkling show of luminary light.
The fifth time it happened, Pansy Parkinson laughed maniacally, her wand aimed at her father.
I'm not a luminary.
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Author's Note: Sorry.. Well, it's incredibly short. But it was meant to be short. I should give credit. The idea for this came from two different challenges. Sadly, I'm not sure it fits much with the qualifications of either. A thank you goes to Mrs. Radcliffe, for her 'Make Me Cry' challenge (the toddler/baby thing gave me the idea for this to start out when she's young). Alas, I don't think this is a tear-jerking story though. Another thank you goes out to Black Kitty for her 'Love the Character You Hate Most' challenge. I don't 'hate' Pansy, but I was never quite fond of her. I always wanted to write something for her though, so this was quite lovely to do. Um.. anyways.. I don't think this completely fits under the requirements of that challenge either. Hehe.. And in case the ending is confusing... A 'luminary', while also pertaining to light, is also in some sorts like an important person who is an inspiration to others.