Pansy poked the hissing sausages with the end of her wand and casually contemplated speeding up the whole cooking process with a well-aimed fireball. So she may end up with a meal consisting purely of carbon, but that would be a low price to pay to get out of the icy climate of the kitchen. Outside the wind bellowed, and she silently cursed the wranglers for abandoning her in the empty kitchen with him.
Caesar, Toothpick, Mona and she had come in cold and cheery, yelling for hot food and warm drinks. They had had a good day with the Longhorns, and D'Artagan had shown Pansy especial favour by biting everyone except her. Feeling rather proud that she had won the affections (or at least not won another enemy) in the teacup-sized dragon, she proclaimed that she'd cook lunch for everyone.
As soon as they'd entered the kitchen, Caesar and Toothpick upon seeing that it was solely inhabited by Charlie I'll-make-you-so-guilty-you-vomit-oh-and-I'm-horrifically-poor-and-ginger Weasley made their excuses and abandoned her to his chilly reception.
Mona did not leave, though neither did she ease the palpable awkwardness in the air. Things between Pansy and her had thawed slightly, though Mona barely hid her eye rolls at 60% of the things she said and Pansy occasionally felt the childish need to pull her perfect hair. Mostly she managed to overcome this desire. Mostly.
Mona too was being pointedly silent towards Charlie. Though this had nothing to do with the fact she was a Slytherin whose best friends were involved in the murder and persecution of muggles, and everything to do with the fact Pansy had strictly instructed her to.
"So… I just don't talk to him?" the conversation had repeated for the forty-second time.
"Yep," muttered Pansy as she shoveled frozen dung from Holding Cave 3. She wondered whether a face full of manure would help the message sink in.
"I don't see how this will work. He doesn't strike me as a boy who likes to play games."
"True. You have to be patient, grasshopper." Patience Pansy, she reminded herself as well, word this tactfully. "And you're right. Charlie is not a gaming man. He's honest, and straightforward, and very, very dim. At the moment, you are a barrage of loveliness and insipient giggles. To make him sit up and take notice, you've got to be different. At least from a little while. Throw him a curve ball, have a little pout, be furiously silent at him like the wind!"
Well done, she congratulated herself as Mona nodded almost in comprehension, you are the epitome of tact. Perhaps I'll become a diplomat? Or con people out of money using only my words and devastating good looks?
"Also," Pansy added as an honest after thought. "It's quite nice to have a break from that shrill talking thing you do when he's around."
A piece of frozen dung hit her on the back of the head.
What she would give for a frozen dung fight now. Instead Mona cut vegetables next to her in inimitable silence, frowning slightly as if she were trying to calculate the square root of 9438503943.22. She could almost feel the weight of Charlie not looking at her as he inhaled his food as fast as possible. The world felt strangely skewed when it was filled with his silence. Such a large presence turned into a vacuum.
He must not be very happy, a stray thought drifted into Pansy's mind. She almost laughed. Who here was truly happy?
There was a quiet tapping at the window, followed by the shush and cold blast of air as it was opened.
"Post," said Charlie gruffly. "For you."
She turned. There was no smile on his face, but there was something in his expression that made the shame in Pansy's stomach churn. Perhaps it was the fact his ocean-blue eyes were finally meeting her own, or the strange look of askance written across him. On the table a large Eagle Owl was finishing off his toad in the hole.
With an annoyed shrug he proffered the rolls of parchment toward her. She made sure her face was expressionless. She may feel culpable but she was never going to let him know it. Without movement or thanks, she accioed the letters from his grasp.
She elbowed Mona to take over the cooking as she perched herself on the counter to examine her hall. Three letters, pretty good. Sadly none from Luna, whose whimsical correspondence she had become rather used to. Her lyrical sentences were not only entertaining (usually inadvertently), but it was nice to know that someone else was panicking over essays and deadlines. Not that Luna ever seemed to panic, but Pansy assumed that "troubles with knitting patterns and formulaic ethnographies written by slugs" was akin to worry. It was also nice to hear from someone who was sincerely… nice. Whenever she complained to Draco about the course, he always informed her that she risked becoming an academic bore before chronicling his life as a gentleman of leisure (i.e. laziness).
She first opened the envelope of rich velum parchment that was adorned in faultless gothic hand. It was addressed in peacock-blue ink with the words "Pansy; ie Traitorous Hag-Wench of the Morn." She smiled. Her favorite morally ambiguous friend had received her little gift.
Draco's spidery calligraphy spelt out fond insults, and accusations of her 'meddling.' As expected, he did not seem to entirely appreciate her application of an internship to Minerva's Interesting Inventions and Cantakerous Clockwork Creations (referred to in polite circles just as The Emporium) on his behalf.
At the end of the note he had angrily written (you could tell he was angry by the extra swirls he added to his consonants in 'fuck you'):
There are so many things wrong with this. Firstly, the fact you expect me to take up a TRADE. The Malfoys haven't been officially employed in over two centuries (yes, I know Malificar Malfory was Minister of Magic a mere six decades ago and Melliflori Malfoy set up that successful soap/narcotics business, but being a personae of power isn't really a job now is it? For Malfoys it's a way of life). Secondly, such an idiotic past time is likely to get in the way of the business of running my estate. I have lawyers to talk to, galleons to count and magical topiary to prune. Also, Mother could not be without my company, and she'd be worried that I'd pick something up from the common folk, like disease, foul-language, an accent or poverty.
Right, I've got to go survey my estate and persuade the new house elf to enter a game of jousting. And you imply my life isn't fulfilling.
Hope a dragon doesn't eat you, because after this I'd rather like to give it a chance.
Regards and Crucio to Your Nethers,
Draco
PS. Lastly, I don't see why you'd even bother doing this. The altitude has obviously driven you quite mad. What on earth do you think would possess me to do this degrading work?
Muffling a giggle, she turned the parchment over and wrote a quick note:
"Curiosity, my young rantipole, curiosity and the need for distraction. Also, like it or not you have a talent for fiddling with thingamajigs and magical whatchamacallits [flattery and shame would be the best way to persuade him, she had decided. Also it would be healthy for him to cease his moping, get some sunlight and actually interact with people who weren't relations or servants]. Being an inventor is really rather a gentleman's hobby (do note you're not actually going to be paid for this role. You are after all an amateur, whose only experience is tinkering with evil wardrobes/wormholes and de-cursing medieval heirlooms/muggle torture devices). Believe me, you'll enjoy it far more than moping around your little kingdom, harassing the help and chasing after walking hedges in the shape of giraffes (I do hope you were joking about the topiary, but from what I hear via the grapevine it sounds like a horrific possibility. Draco dear, you are far too young to be considered 'eccentric' and just the right age to be labeled 'pitiful.') It's healthy for one to have talents for which one excels. Harry Potter surpasses most at quidditch and world-saving [a low blow, but necessary], Hagrid at spelling the three letter words on his shopping lists. What do you currently have? Even less. So get out the house and do something.
Ditto (though it sounds a bit kinky),
Pans
PS. I understand that you'll be sulking for a long time after this letter, so I'll take the opportunity to thank myself now for such a considerate plan in entering you into the world of work. A feat leading you to a life of happiness, fulfillment, and inspiring you to deify me and begin 'The Cult of Pansy Parkinson: hero, leader, hand model.'"
The second letter was from Scamander. Results for the literature review and pilot research study. Pansy, swiftly coming down from her saintly moment of pride, began to tremble. The research paper she had been reasonably happy with; it was clear, concise, the data made sense. But the review was fuelled on little but coffee, exhaustion and insanity. She was reasonably sure that what was written down on the parchment was not an analysis of dragon husbandry with hypotheses relating to strengthening Longhorn genes, but instead a chronicle of one woman's descent into madness.
The night before she owled the essay off, she had woken up just before dawn, absolutely frantic. She had dreamt that she had replaced the whole reference list with a slew of foul language and drawings of hippogriffs in bizarre domestic scenarios. So vivid was the dream and acute her sleep-deprivation, that she felt the need to re-read every word as the sun came up.
Flipping over the pages of purple marking, she reached the grade.
Distinction, it read in bold, bright letters next to a little complimentary paragraph. She quelled an excitably shriek that rose in her throat, yet she knew her pleasure shone through. In the corner of her eye, she saw Charlie angle his head toward her in curiosity.
Never had she felt so happy and reassured that she could do research. The pain and the panic were worth it, because apparently she was a freaking GENIUS. The feeling was almost as good as Fire Whisky kisses, being a dragon's favourite, and coming second to Hermione Granger in a Transfiguration exam.
The feeling lasted all of five seconds, as she turned to the research paper to find that it was very much, definitely not a Distinction. In fact it was about as far as you could get from a distinction without causing Pansy to throw herself at the mercy of the Ironbelly. In shouty, red letters the words "WRONG," "IRRELEVENT," and "Fine, but this doesn't exactly add anything new to the field…" were strewn across the pages.
Adieu, academic reassurance. Adieu, flighty feeling of self-worth. Adieu, Professor Scamander who has an awful lot of explaining to do…
The confusion was enough to keep her numb as she opened her last letter.
"What is that stench?" coughed Mona as the sausages began to take on a healthy burnt look.
Pansy sniffed the dusty-pink envelope. "Expensive, but vile rose perfume and the overwhelming scent of bourbon. Must be a letter from my Mother."
It was by far the worst letter she received that day.
Pansy picked a direction, and marched out across the stormy terrain. The wind helped whip the tears from her face, and the sound filled her ears so she couldn't hear her own pathetic sobs. A small sardonic part of her recalled that she had never cried quite so often as she had in the last few months. It was the problem with not sharing a dorm with Slytherins- people were more likely to comfort than ridicule you. Led to weakness, embarrassment, and ugly, gasping sobs.
The wind buffeted her with blunt elbows, and the clouds scowled until they were almost bruised purple. Wetness touched her face in icy spears.
"Wonderful. Pathetic fucking fallacy!" she screamed at the rain. She screwed her eyes tight shut.
If this had been fiction- some one, anyone, even Charlie, would have read the letter left on the kitchen counter and run out to follow her into the raging weather. They would have wrapped her in a spare coat, and held her, and asked if she was okay. And because in this day-dream she was a normal person, she would have told them and they would have sympathized… and maybe, impossibly, solved it for her.
But instead the letter was crumpled in her hand, and would have been incomprehensible to anyone who read it anyway. She had left the hut with a casual mention that she was no longer hungry, grabbing nothing but her Slytherin scarf in a strange moment of solidarity, and a flask of Firewhisky that she had hidden in the bookcase.
They'd be no romantic figures cutting aesthetic shapes on the horizon for her. No heart to hearts, or warm embraces from boys in blue jumpers. Just her, and the burn in her legs from fighting the hills, the fire on her lips from the whisky, and the impossible loss that smothered her like a second skin.
She opened her eyes expecting to see unforgiving spears of water, but instead saw snow.
It fell in tempestuous tufts, veiling the ground. Utterly ignorant to her, and utterly perfect. She stood motionless, hoping madly that it would freeze her too. If it froze her heart and numbed her feelings, perhaps she would be able to perpetuate. Perhaps she could be normal, live a life, if only it wasn't for this guilt. For a second, the snow and daydream were a pleasant distraction.
She pulled her green hat further down over her ears and treacherous eyes, glaring at the indomitable mountains and swirling shapes in the air. Far away, a dragon's roar echoed through the mountains. She recognized it as the call of the black dragon from her first day here, the one they named Maleficent. She guessed it was two, maybe three mountains away. Whether it was numbness or adjustment, she felt no fear when she heard it's call again.
"Me too, Mal, me too." She whispered to the wind.
Pansy wet her lips with the Fire Whisky, and the sadness drowned her. At a slower pace she continued up the mountain path and dwelled on her dark thoughts.
Her Mother's words felt burnt onto her mind. 'Dear Pansy, I'll never forgive you for what you did to your brother. Because of you he rots in Azkaban. Neither he nor I especially feel like spending Christmas with the reason our family is torn asunder, so I've gained permission for myself to spend the holidays with him. I'm sure you'll sort something out. A bowl of arsenic perhaps. Toodles, Talitha xxx."
…Well, it didn't say that exactly. But it may as well have.
Pansy knew she was responsible, and though her Mother did not say it plainly in the letter, the subtext was obvious. The last remaining members of her family were divided because of her mere existence. No wonder they both hated her.
Pellinore Parkinson, Mother's favourite, School Rebel, Death Eater, was perhaps the kindest of the Parkinson family, and the least ambitious. He always used to joke that the Sorting Hat had spent a full hour deciding whether to place him in Slytherin or create a new house for slackers of his caliber. He had Edgar Parkinson's patience, Talitha's dark, delicate looks which translated so dashingly, and lacked Perseus' cool distain. He was Pansy's favourite, and the one whom she had hurt the most.
Most meeting the Parkinsons would assume that Perseus merely took after his father. He had the tall Parkinson frame, and the quiet reserve that Pansy, Pellinore and their Mother lacked. With them it was always witticisms, boisterous shouting, and loud debates over the dinner table. But Perseus was different. His silence was not shyness, it was rage. Unlike Pell, he was a true believer even before Voldemort's rise. He believed every word of that mad man's manifesto: death to the Mudbloods, Muggles and lower races. He felt sullied by the name Parkinson, known for their social climbing, new money and impure blood. For a while he had adopted their maternal name, Tremain, before Pansy and Pell had teased him mercilessly and he learnt of his Mother's debaucheries. His unpopularity and early death meant that few even remembered his existence, let alone questioned the circumstances surrounding his demise.
The family never truly knew either, but they had their well-guarded suspicions. The timing of his initial disappearance aligned with the rise of Tom Riddle. There was no clue left in his room, and he departed without a word. Months later his body was found in a forest just off Surrey. No Dark Mark showed on his skin, not that there needed to be.
After Pell joined the Death Eaters, Pansy brokered the question to him. Her query was nothing more than detached curiosity. There was no love lost between her and Perseus. Pellinore was the only brother she needed.
Usually Pellinore would not let her ask such questions, but he did this once. His hands shook as he smoked, and he let out a laugh that was more filled with hysteria than comedy.
"I found out on the first day. Crabbe took me aside and told me. I won't tell you of the gory details, sweet P, it turns my stomach even now. Our dear Perseus was one of the first who found the Dark Lord, alongside Crouch Junior and that pathetic creature they call Wormtail. Merlin, I shouldn't be repeating their names to you… Forget them. You're in enough danger as it is." She remembered the delicate bones in his wrists. How they held the cigarette and trembled, yet looked so elegant like the bones of a bird. A year before he had been a young rake, nothing but ribs and half-hearted rebellion. Too well-dressed to care about much. They had never kept secrets back then, but that year every word exchanged had felt like the most precious treasure and most fearful danger.
"They called that bastard a hero," his long eyelashes had fluttered with bewilderment. "Not that the circumstances surrounding his demise sounded particularly heroic. Too many exposed intestines for that nonsense. Though the fool had volunteered. Mad zealot… DTM, my dear, DTM."
Don't Tell Mother. It had been their constant refrain. Don't tell Mother I'm burning the frilly nighties she bought me. Don't Tell Mother about the Howler from Flitwick. Don't Tell Mother that I've stolen the Mongolian Moonshine, and I'll let you share it.
When Edgar Parkinson, their elderly, distant but loving Father, had passed away in Pansy's second year, it had been Pell who kept Pansy sane all those Christmases. It had been him, who being male and witty and beautiful would always be Talitha's favourite, that batted away Talitha's constant aggravations and insults directed at her. They would sneak Butterbeer and giggle about Pell's disastrous attempts to seduce the Head Boy. One year he enchanted all the Christmas decoration to pair up and waltz down the corridors. She had never laughed so hard as when the baubles challenged the tinsel to a dance off.
And now… now she wouldn't even have her Mother to exasperate her. When her Mother had mentioned getting clearance to visit Azkaban, Pansy had foolishly believed it was for them both. How idiotic of her to assume Talitha would have a selfless thought in her life, let alone over this. How idiotic of her to assume Pell would want to see her…
She had collected gifts for him. Elegant black jumpers, books by his favourite authors, merchandise from the Holyhead Harpies. His favourite cigarettes that smelt of candle smoke and cloves. Perhaps Talitha could be persuaded to pass them on.
And here she'd been worrying about some silly boy who didn't like her. The largest tragedies always come from within families. She should have remembered that.
In the distance, a gleam of orange caught her eye. Beneath her the bright white land led down to the lake where she had been uncouthly dropped on her first day. Beyond it's waters the mountains rose, indomitable and hidden by low cloud and mist. The whirl of snow blinded her and she could not make out the shape, though it moved fast and true round the mountain base. Without thinking she apparated closer, and closer again.
It was a train.
A train of burnt orange travelling on tracks that were not there a day ago. It was slowing down, she was sure of it.
With a pop she apparated for a third time and came to a train stop located almost in the middle of nowhere. As if in a dream, the train gave a tooting cry and entered the station in a jolly chug of steam and snow.
The door opened, and down stepped a twiggy man. He wore a lumpy purple scarf and an irritatingly academic expression. As he stepped aside, a girl with a dreamy expression drifted passed him. She wore a yellow summer dress, utterly oblivious to the weather though it fell in turbulent clusters around them. The girl gave a cry, though Pansy missed what she said, and ran toward Pansy embracing her like an old friend.
In Luna's hug, Pansy thawed and melted like ice and tears.
