Word Count: 488

It's snowing. Pansy can still remember a time when that would make her happy. She longs for that childlike joy. Instead, now, it's just another bleak winter day. The sky is grey, the chill from the wind bites all the way to her bones, her lungs ache with every inhale, and she wants nothing more than to return home, safe and warm by the fireplace with a cup of hot cocoa.

She can't. Not now. There's something she needs to do. Truth be told she doesn't want to. Not really. Not today. Maybe not ever.

The snow crunches beneath her boots as she steps through the cemetery gates. It's only been a week since they buried her father, and she still hasn't cried. She hasn't felt anything at all, and she wonders if she's a bad daughter for that.

Her grandmother says it's just grief manifesting in her own way. She says Pansy has to have a breakthrough. Pansy isn't so sure.

She stands in front of her father's grave. It's nice, nicer than the ones surrounding it. Even on his deathbed, he had insisted on proving that he's better than everyone else.

"You were wrong," she says softly. "You backed the wrong side."

She had too, of course. How could she not? Growing up, all she had ever heard was how great purebloods are, how Voldemort had the right idea, how Muggles and Muggleborns were filthy, dangerous things. She had believed him because that's what little girls do. They know their daddies would never lie or hurt them.

But he had been wrong, and she had been foolish. It took months after the battle for her to realize it. She still doesn't have it all figured out, but she thinks she's a step closer, and slow progress is better than no progress.

At the very least, she has done more than her father had. She is learning from his mistakes and her own, and she thinks she can manage to be better, to be the kind of person who deserves the second chance she's been giving.

"I think you tried your best," she says. "You didn't have anyone to tell you it was wrong."

But she does. And that's exactly why she's going to be better, to be something more. It has taken her so long, but she's learning. She's finally on the right path.

"I still love you," she says. "I'm still your baby girl. I promise."

She doesn't know what else to say. Her father had always been eloquent, and Pansy hadn't inherited that particular talent. All she can do is turn and walk away, adjusting her scarf to shield her face from the freezing gust of wind that blows fresh snowflakes against her exposed skin.

As the snow crunches with each step she takes, and feels a change. A weight has been lifted, and tears finally fall from her eyes.

Maybe she is healing.