A Story of No Consequence
Background Check
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If you forget about the emotional abusive, hateful, neglectful childhood Harry suffered at the hands of the Dursleys, then you could say he had a good childhood. Yes, it started with Voldemort pointing a wand at his forehead, but forget that. Just a moment, mind you, because it's rather important in the long run.
Think about it for just a moment. For eleven years of his life, he didn't have to worry about ducking curses, secret Orders, bad politics, or saving the fucking world.
Think about it.
Pansy Parkinson, on the other hand, was quite aware of her future. Her mother had failed to bring a healthy boy into the world, just three dead ones, and so everyone was riding their hopes upon Pansy's shoulders. She'd marry a nice boy, make their fortune even larger, and make the Parkinson name great by proxy.
When she's five years old, she has chubby cheeks and too big eyes and stumpy legs that aren't at all good for running but are good for tripping down stairs, scrapping knees, and ruining dresses.
You're five years old and you know you won't be saving the world. Five years old and Slytherin self-preservation and cool calculation has already been pounded into your brain. You could be the poster child for growing up too fast if you were just a little prettier. But, of course, that title goes to perfect, cherubic Draco Malfoy.
Stupid smug bastard.
The first time Pansy met Draco, she poured a glass of milk over his head and called him a ghost. Her mother almost fainted, her father turned a peculiar shade of green, and little Draco laughed so hard he peed his pants. After Lucius was done railing his son for being a little nitwit, that never happened again, he clapped his hands together and declared it a perfect match. Narcissa, as was her want, sneered.
Six years old and Pansy would never be good enough for her supposed future mama-in-law. Not that anyone particularly cared. After all, Narcissa's mama couldn't bring any healthy boys into the world either.
Wives aren't nearly as important as uteri. But you need a wife to get a uterus so the story goes.
You see, Phillip Parkinson was many things, but Death Eater was not one of them. During top secret, gentlemen-only, rich rich meetings, he brayed as loudly as the next man about maintaining blood purity. Really, he only cared about was marrying his daughter to someone semi-intelligent and with more money than he had. In public, he was neutral and mysterious, known only for his money and the stigma attached to the Parkinson name. This is how you keep from dying.
Slytherin Ideology 101.
Boring background, I know, and it doesn't even tell you why Pansy gave her cat such a horrid name. But, just so you know, it was Pansy's mother who filled her head with vile thoughts about blood traitors and mudbloods and cleaning up the filth before they could encroach any further. She put her daughter on the twelve-step plan to becoming a Malfoy.
And then the war came again. No one listened to Harry Potter for a long time. No one important anyway. Just a handful of people who were either too weak or too good to do anything useful. No one really started listening until people started dying.
Dark Marks had to be burned into the fucking sky before people started taking notice. From there it plays like a bad Cold War rerun. Duck and cover does shit again Avada Kedavra. Crucio. Imperio. Duck, cover, and get screwed up the ass.
No one sat up and paid attention until Dumbledore died. And then, everyone suddenly wanted Harry Potter in their pocket. Not just the Minister, everyone. Better than a wand. Lifetime guaranteed warranty on your own personal salvation.
Fuck Jesus, St. Potter is the key to Heaven on Earth.
While Draco is off hiding, Pansy is trying to find him. She does not do this because Narcissa is worried. Nor does Pansy care that her mother needs her supposed future son-in-law to plan the most wonderful wedding of the century. Pansy is searching because they are friends. She'd been too busy sulking over the debacle with Umbridge, worrying about the war, and growing into her face to realize that Draco was crying in the girls' loo.
What a lot of good she was as a friend.
Because of this, Pansy sends the Order every scrap of information she hears at pompous pre-celebratory parties. They don't trust her, of course, because she's the whore, the loud mouth Slytherin bitch, Draco's supposed fiancée. And Pansy doesn't give a damn.
Voldemort twisted everything beautiful about her way of life and made it evil. He wanted to kill her best friend, her only true friend, because his father was an idiot and a failure.
Pansy has to find Draco because Snape failed to protect him and she was blind to all the secret planning. Don't misunderstand, she's not a saint. Not like Potter, Granger, Weasley. There is something personal at stake. If this wasn't her life on the line, she would have wiped her hands clean a long, long time ago.
This poor little rich girl doesn't leave her life of luxury until the last possible moment. Until her mother lies gutted like a trout, bleeding thoughtlessly on the pure white carpet. Her father is still breathing, trying to crawl to his wife with a limbless torso. Raped and bleeding, forced to watch as his house burns down around him. It's like the Old Testament God's back in action. Fuck covenants and crucifixes; you hung my son up to dry. Only, it's not God, it's Lucius Malfoy who's out of prison and looking for someone to blame. Unfortunately, for Phillip, Voldemort is out of the question.
By this time, Pansy is long gone. Theodore Nott, that little reedy runt, told her the information for her virginity. Of course, this is the exchange that truly marks her as a whore, but, by now, it really doesn't matter. He won't let her save her parents, Very thoughtful because there was obviously nothing that she could do. So he fucks her into the mattress at the same time her mother's stomach is being split open.
Magically mind you. Not the fucking, but the gutting. She can't cry because he's too ignorant to know that he just tore into her hymen, blinded by the same common misperception that Draco has slid into her too many times to count.
He's so surprised she's so damn tight that he tells her everything she wants to know and more. When Pansy leaves, too disoriented to remember a simple scourgify, she goes straight for the nearest apparition point.
Knickers still sticky with blood and semen, she writes to the Order one last time. When I come back, I'm bringing Draco with me. It's as bloody simple as that.
While her childhood home burns up her parents, her house elves, her clothes, and her memories, Pansy is grabbing onto a rusty soup can on a one-way ticket to Nepal. All she can think of while the bile rises up in her throat is that she hopes Theo doesn't die.
Not because he was good in bed, she wouldn't know, but that he's an all right boy who's just a little confused. She almost feels bad for obliviating him. But, not so bad that, if given a chance, she wouldn't do it again.
After all, her virginity was her last ditch hope. Not for marrying, of course, because her substantial dowry is safe in Gringotts. No one, smart anyway, turns away an ungodly sum of money, even if they think you've been used by half of Hogwarts. Virginity is important because if Voldemort wins, pure blood will become sacred. Pansy's blood is as pure as the driven snow, no matter how badly her parents fucked up, no one kills perfect pureblood virgin bride material.
Her father fucked up worse than Satan trying to get a one up on God. The Ministry seized his funds, a futile gesture considering he wasn't funneling money to the Death Eaters. The stupid paper tigers then refused to give it back until he formally rejected the Death Eaters.
This said, Phillip Parkinson wasn't an idiot. He knew that a few years of gentile poverty, until his daughter came into her trust, was worth it if it meant he wouldn't die.
Smart thinking. Slytherin thinking. Keep your wife from being split open like a fish on the carpet that probably costs more than the Burrow thinking.
Speaking up against Voldemort sets a bad precedent. The Ministry thought, foolishly, that if one pureblood stepped up, other would follow. Unfortunately, Public Enemy Number One, Premire Snake Snogger, thought so too. And he very well couldn't have his loyal following, his fan club, turn on him.
Phillip knew this, Pansy knew this, hell, the fucking toad probably knew this. Pansy's mother, however, was too stupid for her own good.
Like I said, wives are only useful for their uteri. After that, there's nothing left but vapid self importance and an ugly half sneer.
The thing is, Elizabeth Parkinson wanted to be Narcissa Malfoy. She wanted the blonde hair, the cool self-importance, the brave husband who would fight for her racist ideology, and the perfect son.
Overall, Elizabeth Parkinson was a fucking idiot. She pleaded with her husband to do whatever it took to get that money back. However else was she going to keep up with the Malfoys?
He agrees because she's never going to fucking shut up until he goes along with it. Bitchy uteri aren't nearly as endearing after they're shriveled up and past their prime.
Funny story, Phillip almost laughed when his wife's entrails spilled onto the carpet. Not even Imperio makes you feel that giddy. In some dark corner of his mind, he decided the stupid bitch deserved it. The rest of his thoughts were focused worriedly on Pansy, even while Nott Sr. pulled off his limbs with a spell that felt like a billion little nettles.
Worried about his daughter who was letting Theodore Nott pound out the last bit of innocence she had left.
Deep breath. Hold it. Now, just imagine this. All of Pansy's owls to the Order are scanned for hexes and curses. They are then carefully read, dismissed, and stuffed into their own personal file.
Chronologically. Even when dealing with Pansy "Untrustworthy Waste of Space" Parkinson, Hermione Granger is extremely efficient.
Her efficiency isn't under fire when Harry find the scraps of parchment. "Did you ever think to tell anyone? Did you ever think to take the warnings seriously when every single one came true?"
"She's a Slytherin and a bigot" is the most worn out phrase when they're finally finished with their explosive argument. Fireworks not included. Later, years later, Harry wants to remind Hermione of this mantra when he catches Draco fucking her from behind while she's leaning over the kitchen table.
But, sometimes, he's more Lily's son that James' so he let's the words die as quickly as they formed.
Pansy's very last owl posted on the wall outside the kitchen steels them for the inevitable. Pansy will bring Draco back and she will make the Order shelter their sorry pureblood asses until the war is over.
Hermione feels so badly about dead bodies, burned houses, and smug self-righteousness that she bravely declares it's the least they can do.
Ron, thoughtful as always, kicks her out of bed for sympathizing with the enemy. She tells him to go to hell for overreacting. Harry thinks this is just a repeat of the same old argument. Harry think it's a phase. Maybe, he thinks later, if Ron wasn't such a stupid ass, he wouldn't have had to walk in on Draco and Hermione.
Harry, not Ron.
God help us if Ron ever walked in on Draco and Hermione.
With Ron and Hermione, Harry would have blushed and stammered his way out of the door without incident. With Draco, however, Hermione giggles and asks him to join them. He refuses, politely, and Draco won't let up about it for two damn months.
He has nightmares about his pale white ass for almost three months.
Harry, not Draco. Draco's ass, not Harry's.
None of this matters in Nepal. All that matters is that Pansy finds Snape half dead in a pile of refuse. He spits blood and puss when he talks; his body is eaten up by magic, bacteria, and maggots.
Pansy doesn't fucking care. By now, our little princess is too tired and travel worn to care. She grabs a fist full of hair from his greasy, decaying head. When he proudly declares that he is the only one who can see Draco, Pansy yanks the fist full out. Polyjuice take such a long time and she doesn't want to make any mistakes.
Snape is a decaying pile of disgust when she finally finds Draco huddled in the back of an abandoned factory. They break the enchantment just before the potion wears off and she had to find him all over again.
They return to London just before all hell breaks loose. Moody spots them and tells Kingsley who tells Arthur who tells Ron who finally tells Harry in a fit of red, irrational rage.
When Pansy arrives at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, she barrels through the doors like a demon moose. On fire. Draco thinks it's funny and laughs so hard his makeshift stitches bust open.
Pansy thinks, "I gave up my virginity for that." Hermione says, "Oh Merlin, this is the shittiest healing I've ever seen." Pansy glares because, obviously, it's not her best work but she'd like to see Granger do better between side alongs and trying not to set off Voldemort's alarms. Draco rattles off something outrageously sexual even though he currently couldn't get a hard on to save his miserable life. Ron ends up covered in exploding blisters after Pansy deflects a curse intended for her favorite former ferret.
And Harry just hopes it's the beginning of the end because he's forbidden from alcohol until it's all over and he needs a really stiff drink.