Disclaimer: Don't own it.
A/N: Thanks for the reviews so far, glad to know I haven't quite yet lost my touch at this. Now on with the series.
Mrs. Parkinson is pouring herself a cup of tea when her dark-haired child—she notes with disapproval—runs into the parlor in a huff, the hem of her dress slightly worn. She says nothing until Pansy comes round to the table and plops herself down. "You ran in here and soiled your dress, again. What have I told you about that?"
"Sorry," Pansy says quickly. "History with Professor Jenkins took forever, and then one of the elves mentioned you're having raspberry scones today for tea."
"And would you have visited me anyway if there were not any raspberry scones?" her mother asks pointedly.
"Yes," she replies smoothly.
"Good answer."
"I know," Pansy says, giggling.
The corners of her mother's mouth tighten. "Don't be impertinent."
"I wasn't."
"Pansy."
The single word effectively silences any response the daughter could have made, and she nods slowly, the smirk on her face now replaced by a carefully blank expression. Mrs. Parkinson also nods and adjusts the cloth napkin on her lap. The two are seated at the table like this for several minutes before Pansy begins fidgeting in her chair. Her mother frowns.
"Dear, do sit up straight. I won't have you slumped over the table like that."
Scowling, Pansy sits up. Her mother then adds, "Stop scowling, it's very unbecoming."
"And what if I want to be unbecoming?" she retorts. Having a mother can be so very troublesome.
Her mother sighs delicately and waves over one of the elves. "Don't be silly, dear, of course you don't want to." The elf sets a small plate of scones on the table, and Pansy immediately begins to lean over when her mother freezes her with a glare.
"Really now, how many times have I told you? You do not take one unless offered. And even then, always—politely—refuse the first two offers."
"But I'm at home right now," Pansy whines, "and I'm tired of lessons."
Mrs. Parkinson makes an exasperated noise. "Go on then, eat away. Let your manners degenerate into some sort of wild animal—I'm sure young Malfoy will adore such a wife."
Pansy pauses at "Malfoy" and is quiet for a moment. After giving the matter considerable thought, she reluctantly sets her (uneaten) scone on her plate and takes a sip of tea instead. Her mother nods. "Good girl."
Pansy scowls again. "Then I don't want to marry him if I can't eat what I want."
"My, how very fickle you are! And here you were not several days ago telling me how excited you were when you learned of the engagement—which, I must remind you, was not meant to be revealed until you were older."
"Draco told me, I didn't go snooping about for it," she insists, "And my husband should let me eat whatever I want, whenever I want."
Teacup at her lips, Mrs. Parkinson merely raises a well-plucked eyebrow. "Mm-hmm."
"You don't believe me, do you? Well, it doesn't matter. I'm going to do whatever I want, and he won't stop me."
Her mother sets the cup down, dabs at her mouth with the napkin, and looks at Pansy. "Of course."