About Me

House: Hufflepuff

Ilvermorny House: Wampus

Wand: Laurel wood with Phoenix feather core, 10 ", Surprisingly swishy flexibility

Patronus: Deerhound

Sign: Gemini

Birthday: 12th June

Copied from Frangipaniprincess.com.

Pansy Parkinson is one of my favourite characters in Harry Potter. Yes, while this is partly FanFiction and my love of Scarley Byrne speaking, I honestly believe she deserves more respect than she currently gets. In a famous quote, JK Rowling said, “Let my girls be Hermione's, rather than Pansy Parkinsons”, indicating there is something horribly wrong with being Pansy. In the context of the quote, I do understand where she is coming from, but within the context of the entire series, I feel she is overly harsh on Pansy, therefore making 99% of those who read/watch it hate her on principle.

To begin with, she is constantly referred to as “pug-faced”, which is a horrible thing to call any eleven year old. We shouldn’t judge people based on their appearance, so to repeatedly have her called “pug-faced” as a negative is horrible.

To understand my support of Pansy, I think everyone needs to step back and take a look at what her life must be like. She’s grown up in a family of Death Eaters (or at least, supporters of the Dark Arts), and has spent her younger years in the company of people such as the Malfoys. She goes to Hogwarts, is sorted into Slytherin, and then by no fault of her own is surrounded by other children who have grown up in the same family situation as herself. She jumps into house loyalty, and yes while that involves being mean to Gryffindors, we can’t forget that our “wonderful” Gryffindors are rather horrible about the Slytherins too. She gets a crush on Draco Malfoy because he’s kind of the epitome of everything her family always supported, and he’s cute, and he’s there, and maybe for a while, they find love. In the series, this is portrayed as a negative, but how can anyone finding love be a bad thing? Why should we hate this poor girl just because from the perspective of the protagonist, her boyfriend is ‘evil’. He’s just as much of a misunderstood teenager as she is! They don’t deserve our hate. JK Rowling once said that Draco and Pansy didn’t end up together because she didn’t like either of them enough for that, which I think is a horrible reason. I love what JK has given us, but sometimes her decisions just anger me.

The other – and main reason – people have for hating Pansy is that in The Deathly Hallows she tries to convince McGonagall to send Harry to Voldemort. I want you to just imagine her situation for a second. She’s scared, so scared. People are dying everywhere, there’s the potential for more people to die, she’s sick of fighting, sick of evil, and then there’s a solution to everything right in front of her. This boy who has never been particularly nice to her or anyone else in her house, and if he just goes to Voldemort, they all get to live. It’s selfish, yes, but she’s tired and frightened and other people are thinking it and it just comes out. It doesn’t make her a bad person – it makes her human.

Pansy is just a misunderstood teenager, who, like so many other Slytherin characters, gets the wrong end of the stick because they were sorted Green, not Scarlett. She’s loyal and kind, and most likely lots of fun, but because we see her through Gryffindor tinted glasses, she’s portrayed as an evil bitch, which couldn’t be further from the truth. Yes, she makes mistakes, but don’t we all? We shouldn’t hold her circumstances against her.

I’m all for Pansy Parkinson appreciation, and I think more people should be too.

frangipani princess xoxo

Taken from Ink-Splotch.tumblr.com

ugly: in defence of Pansy Parkinson

“And who did [Draco] marry? It wasn’t Pansy right, or was it?”

JKR: “No! God, it wasn’t Pansy Parkinson. I loathe Pansy Parkinson. I don’t love Draco but I really dislike her. She’s every girl who ever teased me at school. She’s the Anti-Hermione. I loathe her.”

Let’s talk about how Pansy Parkinson was a bully, how she sliced and cut with words, how she lied, cajoled, and taunted. She probably left some scars that never quite healed.

Now let’s talk about James Potter.

Let’s talk about James and his carefully rumpled hair and his cruel entertainments. Let’s talk about how McGonagall wept for him, how Hagrid bawled, how Lily loved him and Harry stood tall in his image.

No one wept for Pansy Parkinson.

Tell me about a Pansy who plucked the Inquisitor’s Squad badge off her chest with shaking fingers only in the cold comfort of her room or Draco’s, who leaned against him and whispered under the fire’s crackle, some nights, “What are we doing? Do you know what we’re doing?”

They both knew the answer to that question. Some nights Draco said, “Whatever we want,” or “What we have to,” and some nights he said, “Surviving.”

She listened to the shake in his voice and thought, with something like pride, and another something like grief, the boy’s learned how to lie.

“This isn’t what I thought heroics would look like,” she confided, one night when she’d fled to Draco’s little single room because Millicent Bulstrode had been crying herself to sleep in hers.

“Who said we’re the heroes?” said Draco, but he let her curl up on the other half of his bed, a careful three inches between their crescent-moon spines.

Tell me about the Carrows calling them into their office, telling them about all the viscera they would come to love, the sick little noises, about how good they all were, such promise, even you, Millicent, stop snivelling.

Let’s talk about how Pansy and Draco grew up at different rates. One had a tattoo on his left forearm and the other had terror in her voice when she told her school to give up Harry Potter and save themselves. The ink beading Draco’s skin, that was terror too, plain and simple, grasping for anything that looked like safety.

They screamed at each other, over the years, across mahogany dining tables and sticky pub booths, over words and deeds, broken hearts and old tremors. He felt guilty when she felt vulnerable. He felt redeemable when she felt dirty.

How dare you? Do you remember what they did? Do you remember what we did? Do you?

They swapped words, insults and frequencies, him shrilling in their own defence and her rumbling their own guilt. They spat and screamed and brought each other coffee on cold mornings.

“I want you to have something warm to hold onto,” they didn’t say, as they bumped shoulders, sighed, and swallowed the bitter liquid down.

Warmth curled in their stomachs all day long. For the first few years, panic ran the edge of it, that warmth, because they were not supposed to be warm. Pansy let her fingers freeze some mornings, like a penance, though she wasn’t sure if it was for old deeds or for this morning, just this morning, taking a cup of coffee from Draco and loving the warmth.

You do not get to redeem forty-year-old stalkers on the grace of their undying obsessions and then leave young women out to rot.

Snape loved to oblivion, to delirium. He remade his Patronus in her image. Somehow, this saved him.

There is a difference between a bully and a Death Eater. There is a difference between a teenaged girl spitting words no crueller than her Head of House’s, and a professor–a teacher–an adult who terrorizes children who cannot escape him.

Snape never forgave Harry for his father’s sins. Severus saved his life, but only for his eyes–not for what Harry saw with them, or what he did, or said, or saved, or loved, but because of their colour. For this, for this, Snape is redeemed.

Pansy Parkinson drifts on the page, wreathed in smug contempt.