A/N: So here is my new chapter. I hope you enjoy!
Read, review, enjoy.
~~~
I stood on a pedestal, barley clad in thin underwear and a bra. This didn't bother me in the slightest, I was proud of my body. What did bother me was that my stylist was trying to tell me that going blonde would lighten my complexion. I wanted terribly to tell him to shove a Filibuster's Firework up a place not accessible to the naked eye. There were many at school (if that unsophisticated pile of stones could be labeled as such) that assumed I dyed my hair from blonde to my multihued chestnut. Why, I can't imagine, but no, I didn't. All of my hair was blissfully natural and I intended to keep it that way.
"All right, but you'll never get the chance to show off that fantastic skin with so much hair."
"I'll live." I sniffed, pertly.
"Well, I suppose you'll want to avoid bright colors. Those dark eyes need to be accentuated, so I'll show you what to do with the charcoal I brought. Well, I didn't think you were going to go for it, and half of me was hoping you wouldn't so I could give you this." Max Vedicci went over to his small packing case, and unfurled an strapless, black satin sundress. It was short and the edging was done in pink. It was perfect.
"I hope you're the same size, but you always keep fantastic care of your body, so I wasn't worried. I just thought of you one morning and this came to me." He stroked the satin and admired his own handy work, as any artisan secretly does.
"It's beautiful Max. But pink?"
"Trust me on this." He handed it to me. "Well, put it on."
I stepped into it and pulled it up. It eased up my thighs and when Max zipped the back. I knew it fit perfectly.
"Ah, just as I suspected. Perfect cut and shape. Your heritage does wonders for you. You're lucky. I believe you know Milliecent Bulstrode?" He chattered lightly while pulling a massive make-up case out of the bottomless bag he had brought. He pulled out a charcoal stick and his wand. "I was forced to turn down a regular set-up with her after a consultation. I just don't know what to do with her. She wasn't kind enough to have your parentage. If Narcissa Malfoy had married Mathew Bulstrode like that massive ring said she would, Millicent would have been much more beautiful. She gets her looks from her mother, and you know what that means."
"Wait," I batted his hand away from my eye. "Narcissa was going to marry Mr. Bulstrode?"
"She had the rock and everything. You could see your reflection in that ring from the other side of a room. If you'd care to see it, it's now resting on Maggie Bulstrode's fat knuckle, resized of course." He, seemingly done with my eyes turned to my nails.
"What brought on the change in feelings?"
He stopped filing for a moment. "Who knows. One day everyone's calling me for dress robes to wear at the wedding and the next they're changing their orders for the Malfoy wedding. A little more than nine months later and people are fighting to buy little Draco a present."
He started to elongate my nails.
"Right from Bulstrode to Malfoy? Just like that?"
"Oh, I'm sure they'll be a time when you'll be chasing diamonds. With my wardrobe it'll be soon. I hear you've got the young Mr. Malfoy himself on your leash."
"Hardly."
"You're on his?" He asked, truly perplexed. He knew was not one to be toyed with and if there was any toying to be done, I would be doing it.
"Never. We've just, grown apart, that's all." I wasn't going to explain to him that Draco had lost his soul and I truly did love him. All he would do was spread it around to everyone in apperating distance.
"Really? There are rumors out there that you two will be the next 'it' couple. Someone even said he's asked for the Malfoy engagement ring."
I gulped, trying to ease my dry throat. "It would be news to me."
~~~
Soon after, Max left; presumably to spread gossip about the happenings at Hogwarts and my relationship with Draco. He is a fantastic stylist, but he really is pathetic. If he really wanted something juicy, he should have just waited and had tea with me.
I was lazily stretched out on my couch, reading, being the epitome of 'all dressed up and nowhere to go'. The cavernous walls of books in my library were busy readjusting themselves by alphabetic order after my mother received a large order of books. Another misconception about the Slytherin line is that we buy our proffesors; if it were that easy we would have won the house cup every year over those damn dirty Gryffindors. No, we actually read and study, bastards. I also happen to enjoy reading. So the well-lighted room, covered with couches and over-stuffed chairs, smelling faintly of aged paper and spilled potion was one of my favorite spots, like a sanctuary for me.
I was just sitting, and it felt like I was waiting for something to happen. That's why I was still in my outfit and why I hadn't washed off my make-up or turned my nails back into their natural state as I usually did. If something was going to happen, that something, or someone, was going to find me gorgeous and elegant, such as a Parkinson should always be.
I felt an unnerving shiver up my spine and my eyes went out of focus for a moment. Lightheadedness claimed my mind. I dropped my book and tried to stand, groping for something to steady myself with. On watery legs I attempted to balance myself on my couch's arm. The smell of strong black magic filled my senses and this did nothing to comfort my dizziness. I was fighting something, I could feel it. Finally I felt a snap and the world came back into focus.
It felt as if nothing had happened, but I knew something was wrong. The smell of black magic was still around me. Then I saw it, one full black rose fell to the ground. I walked slowly to it and the feeling of misused magic became stronger. When I held it in my hand it felt insubstantial, unreal almost. I turned it over in my hand and with a gust of perfumed air I looked up to see thousands of black roses fall from the ceiling.
Of course any normal woman would be awed by such an act, but knowing this was just a magic trick, I wondered where the magician was. Soon the barrage stopped and before me a strip of parchment floated down. I snatched it out of the air.
"The love of a rose is only skin deep,
the love of a Pansy is a soulful one."
~Faveo Maligo
I was very much inclined to rip it to shreds, for I felt insulted. This man thought I could be beguiled by cheap parlor tricks and clunky play on words. Soon the object took my lack of sighing to heart and burst into warm tickling flames.
I looked up from it only to be confronted with another black rose. The magician himself held this one, though I was doubting. It wasn't likely that this handsome seventeen year old could conger all this himself. You may be wondering how I knew this boy was seventeen, I'll tell you. He's my mother's second cousin's, aunt's great grandnephew. You see he's barley related to us yet still finds that occasional visits are a must. He stopped visiting when I was nine, soon after the talks subsided about Draco and myself. He should have stayed away.
"Do you do that every time you come into a room, or is it reserved for occasions when you're especially unwelcome?"
"Such unkind words still sound like music from your lips, dear Pansy."
"Allez à l'enfer." I snarled as he tucked the rose into my hair.
"In French it only sounds more enchanting."
"Consider yourself lucky I don't have my wand, Faveo." I smack his hand away and took the rose out of my hair. The moment the rose came into my view I saw it do something very odd indeed, the rose turned red in my hands. I threw it at him.
"For what to I owe this malice?" He asked, truly confused. As if he didn't know?
I went to leave, but then decided not to. I turned to face him. "For what do you not deserve this attack? But my favorite reason is the letters Faveo, the letters." With that I sailed across the room, and slammed the door as though if I hurt the door enough it would translate into some sort of pain in Faveo. If he thought I would forget what he told me, he was sorely mistaken. A part of Parkinson pride is never forgetting once crossed. And the way Faveo had crossed me I will never forget.
~~~
I stood on a pedestal, barley clad in thin underwear and a bra. This didn't bother me in the slightest, I was proud of my body. What did bother me was that my stylist was trying to tell me that going blonde would lighten my complexion. I wanted terribly to tell him to shove a Filibuster's Firework up a place not accessible to the naked eye. There were many at school (if that unsophisticated pile of stones could be labeled as such) that assumed I dyed my hair from blonde to my multihued chestnut. Why, I can't imagine, but no, I didn't. All of my hair was blissfully natural and I intended to keep it that way.
"All right, but you'll never get the chance to show off that fantastic skin with so much hair."
"I'll live." I sniffed, pertly.
"Well, I suppose you'll want to avoid bright colors. Those dark eyes need to be accentuated, so I'll show you what to do with the charcoal I brought. Well, I didn't think you were going to go for it, and half of me was hoping you wouldn't so I could give you this." Max Vedicci went over to his small packing case, and unfurled an strapless, black satin sundress. It was short and the edging was done in pink. It was perfect.
"I hope you're the same size, but you always keep fantastic care of your body, so I wasn't worried. I just thought of you one morning and this came to me." He stroked the satin and admired his own handy work, as any artisan secretly does.
"It's beautiful Max. But pink?"
"Trust me on this." He handed it to me. "Well, put it on."
I stepped into it and pulled it up. It eased up my thighs and when Max zipped the back. I knew it fit perfectly.
"Ah, just as I suspected. Perfect cut and shape. Your heritage does wonders for you. You're lucky. I believe you know Milliecent Bulstrode?" He chattered lightly while pulling a massive make-up case out of the bottomless bag he had brought. He pulled out a charcoal stick and his wand. "I was forced to turn down a regular set-up with her after a consultation. I just don't know what to do with her. She wasn't kind enough to have your parentage. If Narcissa Malfoy had married Mathew Bulstrode like that massive ring said she would, Millicent would have been much more beautiful. She gets her looks from her mother, and you know what that means."
"Wait," I batted his hand away from my eye. "Narcissa was going to marry Mr. Bulstrode?"
"She had the rock and everything. You could see your reflection in that ring from the other side of a room. If you'd care to see it, it's now resting on Maggie Bulstrode's fat knuckle, resized of course." He, seemingly done with my eyes turned to my nails.
"What brought on the change in feelings?"
He stopped filing for a moment. "Who knows. One day everyone's calling me for dress robes to wear at the wedding and the next they're changing their orders for the Malfoy wedding. A little more than nine months later and people are fighting to buy little Draco a present."
He started to elongate my nails.
"Right from Bulstrode to Malfoy? Just like that?"
"Oh, I'm sure they'll be a time when you'll be chasing diamonds. With my wardrobe it'll be soon. I hear you've got the young Mr. Malfoy himself on your leash."
"Hardly."
"You're on his?" He asked, truly perplexed. He knew was not one to be toyed with and if there was any toying to be done, I would be doing it.
"Never. We've just, grown apart, that's all." I wasn't going to explain to him that Draco had lost his soul and I truly did love him. All he would do was spread it around to everyone in apperating distance.
"Really? There are rumors out there that you two will be the next 'it' couple. Someone even said he's asked for the Malfoy engagement ring."
I gulped, trying to ease my dry throat. "It would be news to me."
~~~
Soon after, Max left; presumably to spread gossip about the happenings at Hogwarts and my relationship with Draco. He is a fantastic stylist, but he really is pathetic. If he really wanted something juicy, he should have just waited and had tea with me.
I was lazily stretched out on my couch, reading, being the epitome of 'all dressed up and nowhere to go'. The cavernous walls of books in my library were busy readjusting themselves by alphabetic order after my mother received a large order of books. Another misconception about the Slytherin line is that we buy our proffesors; if it were that easy we would have won the house cup every year over those damn dirty Gryffindors. No, we actually read and study, bastards. I also happen to enjoy reading. So the well-lighted room, covered with couches and over-stuffed chairs, smelling faintly of aged paper and spilled potion was one of my favorite spots, like a sanctuary for me.
I was just sitting, and it felt like I was waiting for something to happen. That's why I was still in my outfit and why I hadn't washed off my make-up or turned my nails back into their natural state as I usually did. If something was going to happen, that something, or someone, was going to find me gorgeous and elegant, such as a Parkinson should always be.
I felt an unnerving shiver up my spine and my eyes went out of focus for a moment. Lightheadedness claimed my mind. I dropped my book and tried to stand, groping for something to steady myself with. On watery legs I attempted to balance myself on my couch's arm. The smell of strong black magic filled my senses and this did nothing to comfort my dizziness. I was fighting something, I could feel it. Finally I felt a snap and the world came back into focus.
It felt as if nothing had happened, but I knew something was wrong. The smell of black magic was still around me. Then I saw it, one full black rose fell to the ground. I walked slowly to it and the feeling of misused magic became stronger. When I held it in my hand it felt insubstantial, unreal almost. I turned it over in my hand and with a gust of perfumed air I looked up to see thousands of black roses fall from the ceiling.
Of course any normal woman would be awed by such an act, but knowing this was just a magic trick, I wondered where the magician was. Soon the barrage stopped and before me a strip of parchment floated down. I snatched it out of the air.
"The love of a rose is only skin deep,
the love of a Pansy is a soulful one."
~Faveo Maligo
I was very much inclined to rip it to shreds, for I felt insulted. This man thought I could be beguiled by cheap parlor tricks and clunky play on words. Soon the object took my lack of sighing to heart and burst into warm tickling flames.
I looked up from it only to be confronted with another black rose. The magician himself held this one, though I was doubting. It wasn't likely that this handsome seventeen year old could conger all this himself. You may be wondering how I knew this boy was seventeen, I'll tell you. He's my mother's second cousin's, aunt's great grandnephew. You see he's barley related to us yet still finds that occasional visits are a must. He stopped visiting when I was nine, soon after the talks subsided about Draco and myself. He should have stayed away.
"Do you do that every time you come into a room, or is it reserved for occasions when you're especially unwelcome?"
"Such unkind words still sound like music from your lips, dear Pansy."
"Allez à l'enfer." I snarled as he tucked the rose into my hair.
"In French it only sounds more enchanting."
"Consider yourself lucky I don't have my wand, Faveo." I smack his hand away and took the rose out of my hair. The moment the rose came into my view I saw it do something very odd indeed, the rose turned red in my hands. I threw it at him.
"For what to I owe this malice?" He asked, truly confused. As if he didn't know?
I went to leave, but then decided not to. I turned to face him. "For what do you not deserve this attack? But my favorite reason is the letters Faveo, the letters." With that I sailed across the room, and slammed the door as though if I hurt the door enough it would translate into some sort of pain in Faveo. If he thought I would forget what he told me, he was sorely mistaken. A part of Parkinson pride is never forgetting once crossed. And the way Faveo had crossed me I will never forget.