Remus Lupin and Andromeda Tonks


Her mother insists that she attends the funeral. Pansy protests, of course. She says that Hermione Granger might hex her on sight. She says that no one will want a Parkinson there, least of all her. She says that even if the press do appear, they'll be too distracted by their precious war heroes to notice her. But Pansy is quickly silenced by a sharp look. Her mother makes it very clear. The Parkinson family chose the wrong side. And now, apparently, it's Pansy's responsibility to restore the family name.

The path to redemption apparently begins with public appearances. And at the moment, funerals are all the rage. It's with a well-practised look of solemnity that Pansy steps into the graveyard at Godric's Hollow. She hovers near the back, pulling at the hem of her black dress that all of a sudden feels too short for the occasion. She casts a quick glance over the crowd and, as expected, doesn't see any friendly faces. In fact, the few people that even notice she's there seem decidedly unfriendly, frowning when they recognise her before turning to whisper to their friends.

"Parkinson." Ron Weasley narrows his eyes at her as he approaches. She thinks that he, laughably, looks ready for a fight. As if he's ready to throw hands. As if he's waiting for her to raise her wand first. "Didn't expect to see you here."

"Andromeda Tonks was a member of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black," Pansy responds, her mouth dry. It feels like an explanation. It feels like an apology. "It's expected that her funeral is well-attended."

It's exactly what her mother told her to say. And although she's practised them—sat in front of the mirror and chanted them like a child—the words still feel foreign on her tongue. It also feels ridiculous. After all, none of the other Sacred families are there. They, she supposes, have already accepted their fall from grace.

"Right." He sounds unconvinced. "I see."

"And…" For reasons she can't explain, she keeps talking. It floods out of her uncontrollably. "I really liked Professor Lupin. He was funny, wasn't he? When he introduced us to boggarts… Reckon he taught us more than any of our other Defence professors combined."

She's surprised to find that she's not lying.

Ron's face twists, and Pansy finds herself unable to read his expression. It's not sympathy—not quite—and it's certainly not pity. But for the first time, he is looking at her with something less than total disgust.

"Yeah. Shame he kept missing classes," Ron says slowly. "Cos he was a werewolf and all."

He's testing her, she realises. He's trying to elicit some kind of reaction from her. But if he's expecting her cheeks to pink or for hands to shake, she doesn't offer it to him. Instead, she forces what she hopes looks like a sympathetic smile and not a grimace. It's hard, masking her natural disdain, but her mother has trained her to be an excellent actress.

"Well, we all have our burdens to bear," she says, matter-of-fact.

Once upon a time, she might have said that his surname—his family's blood-traitor status—was his burden. Now she knows that it's her last name that's the burden. It's her father's crimes that she'll pay for. It's a thought that's occupied her ever since the Battle ended. It makes her cheeks warm and her eyes burn, so she turns her back to Ron before he can see her tears begin to well.

In the background, she can hear Professor McGonagall invite Harry Potter to share some words about Professor Lupin. His voice fades in her mind as she returns her focus to the hem of her skirt. She'll have to magic it longer for the next funeral, she determines. At least that will be one less thing to feel awkward about.


Colin Creevey


Colin Creevey's parents choose to host their son's funeral at a Muggle church. Muggles mix unknowingly with wizards and witches, all grieving a life lost too young. It seems as though all of Hogwarts—or, at least, all that's left of Hogwarts—has turned up for the occasion. Pansy can hear the adults marveling at how many friends little Colin must have had.

When Colin's parents thank her for coming, she says, "Of course. He was such a sweet boy."

She doesn't tell them that she'd never spoken to him. That, truthfully, she'd barely even looked at him. That even if she had, she would've mocked him for trailing after Harry Potter like a lost puppy. That she might have laughed at his camera and tangled it above him, just out of reach. She doesn't tell them that half the people at this funeral would've been right beside her, cackling away.

She's barely had time to scan the crowd when she's stopped in her tracks by Ronald Weasley, looming over her with his fists clenched at his sides. Looking up at him, she wonders if he's grown. She can't remember him ever making her feel this small before.

"Why are you here?"

"Why are you here?" Pansy retorts.

She belongs here. All of Hogwarts belongs here, mourning the loss of the Battle's youngest victim. But the moment she'd entered the room, she'd felt a swarm of eyes on her. She'd heard the snide whispers. Still, she knows she has just as much right to be here as anyone else. She scans the crowd quickly and refrains from scoffing. As if Hannah Abbott ever cared for the boy. As if Su Li ever spoke to him. As if anyone here really knew him at all.

"Why am I here?" Ron snaps. He's being too loud—too rash—for a funeral. "I was his friend!"

"Potter was his friend," Pansy replies simply. "If you can call hero worship friendship, that is. Face it, Weasley. Neither of us really knew him at all."

It's satisfying, watching his face turn beet red. All of a sudden, he's not the war hero she sees splashed over the front page of the papers. He's the same Ronald Weasley she's always known—bumbling and awkward and quick to anger. It's a comforting thought. Sure, her world has changed. But some things really do stay the same.

"Ronald." Hermione Granger places a hand on his shoulder, and Pansy can see the tension in his body immediately fade away. She keeps her voice low and says, "This isn't the time or place."

Pansy blinks when she realises that Granger isn't talking to Ron. She's talking to her. Scolding her, even. Pansy scoffs as she watches them walk away. She wants to call out, to make them turn back and face her. She doesn't know what she'd say, but she'd say something.

She wonders if someone better than her would think of apologising.

It's Daphne who swoops in to save her. Next to Pansy, Daphne's bright eyes and golden waves look like sunshine. Instinctively, Pansy straightens, trying to make herself look taller. All of a sudden, she's all too aware of her flat hair and dry skin. It's only been a couple of weeks since Pansy's world shifted, but she's already let herself go. Daphne doesn't seem to notice. Instead, she easily loops her fingers through Pansy's and begins to pull her away.

"There's a group of us over here."

Us. The outsiders. A splash of green in this sea of mourners. Her friends, she thinks. Then Pansy stops in her tracks. She almost trips over her heels when Daphne continues walking.

"Pansy." Daphne looks curiously at her. She tugs at her hand and, when Pansy releases it, frowns. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah." She thinks she might be sick. "No. Maybe I should go home."

"Pansy…" Daphne's smile falters. "You know you have to be seen here. We all do."

She isn't sure if 'we' means all of Hogwarts or just all of Slytherin. Still, she's gratified to hear someone else admit that they're all just putting on a show. That at least she's not the only one playing to the crowds. She pastes on a wide smile, slots her hand back into Daphne's, and lets her whisk her away.


Lucius Malfoy


The sentencing of Lucius Malfoy may as well be a funeral. His face is sullen when he takes the stand and confesses to his guilt. Pansy hadn't known that a man could confess to so many crimes. She hadn't known that so many crimes even existed.

Pansy watches from the viewing seats above, her mother by her side. Her mother leans over, reminds her to sit straight. And so, Pansy rolls back her shoulders and keeps her chin high. When he's sentenced to years—Pansy doesn't hear how many—in Azkaban, she pales. She goes to turn her head, to search for Draco's pale face in the crowd, but her mother digs her nails into Pansy's thigh. She's not supposed to look empathetic, she remembers. She's supposed to distance herself from the Malfoys.

It's a reminder she promptly forgets when, after the trial, she peels herself from her mother's side and looks frantically for a flash of blond hair. She can't help but let out a relieved breath when she sees Narcissa Malfoy standing in the crowd, one hand on Draco's shoulder and the other waving away unwanted attention. There's not a tear in sight, but a close eye can see Narcissa's bottom lip trembling with each word.

The older woman flashes her a half-smile when she pushes her way through the crowd. A camera flashes, and Pansy winces. Her mother will be horrified if the picture is printed, but that's a problem for later. For now, she can only earnestly give Narcissa her sympathies.

"Thank you for coming, dear." Narcissa cups Pansy's hands in her own. "We're so grateful for your support."

"Of course." She turns to Draco, desperate to catch his eye. "Draco, I—"

He turns away from her. He might as well have slapped her. At least that would have been less painful, not to mention less embarrassing. Her cheeks flame. Another camera flashes. Before she has the chance to say another word, the Malfoys are swept up by a flood of reporters. Pansy is left all alone. She supposes it's a feeling she'll have to get used to.

When she manages to pull her gaze from the point of her heels, she sees Ron Weasley. He's right in front of her. Although he's trying his best not to make eye contact, there's no room for polite denial. Pansy swallows the lump in her throat and looks pointedly at him.

"Celebrating, are you?"

Ron's eyes snap up to meet hers. This time, she's testing him. When he doesn't reply, she searches his face for a reason why. It's only then that she sees it. The redness in his eyes. The circles under them. The way his cheeks have sunken into his face. He's tired.

Pansy's hand automatically goes to her own face. She wonders if her concealer has faded—if her eyes look as bad as his. She silently reprimands herself for being so self-absorbed. She's read the stories, hasn't she? She's sleeping better than he is. If even half the tales she's heard are true, there's no way he's catching a single wink. All of the worries that keep her up at night all of a sudden feel insignificant.

"I'm sorry." The words tumble out of her before she can stop them. "I don't know why I said that."

Granger seems to appear from thin air. And even though she should be used to their little duo by now, it still makes Pansy jump. Granger winds her fingers around Ron's pale wrist and, glaring at Pansy, pulls him away from her. Pansy watches as Ron's arm falls easily to Granger's waist—how quickly the two melt into one. It looks so intimate that Pansy instinctively turns away. But not before she catches a glance of his face. His mouth is hanging slightly open, as if he had been about to say something.

She might've run after them had it not been for her mother's own timely appearance.

"Was that Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger?" Her mother, lips pursed, sounds contemplative. "I usually wouldn't approve, but in this day and age… yes, being seen with those two could be very advantageous. Well done, Pansy."

She doesn't have the energy to explain that it wasn't what it looked like. Besides, word will soon get around that she was comforting the Malfoys. Perhaps the thought of Pansy cosying up with the good guys will mollify her mother for a while.


Lavender Brown


As always, Pansy stands at the back of the room. But this time, the eyes that settle on her are welcoming. Padma Patil weaves through the crowd and hooks an arm through hers. Peeled to Padma's side, Pansy pushes forward. This time, she stands near the front. Her mother will be pleased—she might actually get photographed. The papers might paint her as a mourner—someone to feel sorry for. Her classmates certainly don't see her that way. Even when her eyes are screwed shut, she can still hear the whispers. They follow her, mocking.

"Don't listen to them," Padma says quietly. "You were her friend. You have just as much right to be here than any of them."

It's a beautiful ceremony. Pansy finds herself blinking several times to stop herself from crying. Padma, next to her, is definitely crying but being quiet about it. Parvati is on the other side of her sister. Her cries are piercing.

It's only after the service, when people have dispersed and headed straight towards the tea and biscuits that Lavender's parents have laid out, that she spots them. The Trio—she refuses to call them Golden, even if it's just in her head—stands huddled together in the corner of the room. From the look on Harry's face, he's just found out that the tea is spiked with Lavender's poison of choice—vodka. The cheap kind that burns in the back of your throat, no matter much orange juice or Sprite you add. But while his expression is no doubt entertaining, Pansy can't take her eyes off Ron and Hermione. There's distance between them, but their hands are intertwined. Even from a distance, Pansy can see that Ron's thumb is rubbing slow circles on the back of Hermione's hand.

"Didn't Lavender date him?" Pansy hisses. "It's not exactly polite, is it? To flaunt your new relationship at a funeral?"

Padma stares at her with wide eyes. Truthfully, Pansy can't believe the words she's saying either. Why is she saying these things? She's at a funeral, for fuck's sake. People can hold hands—can find comfort in each other—at a funeral. Her head begins to throb. Maybe she's been to so many funerals recently that she's forgotten how to act. Is that possible? To forget years of taught decorum in just a few days?

"I suppose it would be impolite," Padma responds. She's speaking slowly, as if she doesn't think Pansy could comprehend a quicker pace. "But I don't think they're dating. Hermione was dating his brother, wasn't she?" She lowers her voice. "You know, the one who died?"

Pansy's eyes go wide.

"Besides," Padma continues, "I think Lav was pretty much over Ron. You knew that better than anyone."

Her point is punctuated by a wailing noise which Pansy quickly identifies as belonging to one Anthony Goldstein. Pansy vaguely remembers catching him with Lavender in a hidden alcove during her Inquisitor days. It was only once, and she'd sent them on their way with a gentle warning. She'd never come across them again, so she'd assumed nothing had come of it.

Anthony cries out again, and she feels a sudden pang of sympathy for him. But Padma only rolls her eyes.

"I didn't think it was that serious," Pansy says, feeling guilty.

She wonders when she stopped knowing about the boys in Lavender's life. She knows, deep down, that it was when she started dating Ron. Pansy hadn't approved, and the friendship between the two girls hadn't been the same since. All of a sudden, she wonders if those whispers are right. Maybe she shouldn't be here.

"It wasn't. I think he just likes the attention." Padma shrugs. She gives Pansy a soft smile. "Seems right, doesn't it? A little gossip at Lavender's funeral?"

Funeral. The reminder makes her want to retch.


Fred Weasley


She knows she shouldn't be at this one, but her mother had insisted.

"You were talking to his brother, weren't you?" Pansy's mother had said. When Pansy had refused to answer, she continued, "For god's sake. This is the Weasley family. It's very important—"

"You hate the Weasley family."

"—that you go." Her mother had narrowed her eyes. "And don't speak back to me, Pansy. You're going to the funeral. Fix your hair. Try to get photographed. Squeeze out a tear. Do you understand?"

And so, she stands at the corner of the cemetery, hiding behind the largest tree she could find. She figures she'll sneak out once the reporters start taking photos. She'll slip into the background to please her mother, then hightail it out of there before anyone can see. It feels intrusive, hovering like this in the shadows. But it would be worse, she thinks, standing unwanted in the crowd. It feels more respectful this way. Or, at the very least, it feels safer. She's pretty sure she'd be hexed on sight if she stepped into view. She doesn't think she'd blame them.

She waits patiently as the Weasley family, one by one, steps up to say some words. She notices that none of them make it through their first sentence without choking. Granger barely makes it through one word.

It feels like the ceremony goes on forever. Apparently, lots of people have lots to say about the late Fred Weasley. Lots of people cry over Fred Weasley.

It's selfish, but she can't help but wonder what it would be like if she were in the casket instead. She can't picture her mother crying over anything, let alone her. She knows her father wouldn't cry. He'd probably celebrate with a tipple of scotch.

She's pulled from her thoughts by a Weasley—one of the older ones that she doesn't recognise—thanking everyone for their time. It's the moment she's been waiting for. With the formalities out of the way, any pretence of respect falls to the wayside. As the mourners make their way out of the cemetery, reporters descend upon them. Pansy slips into the crowd, making sure to keep the cameras' line of sight.

Then he sees her. His blue eyes bore into her. He's so shocked that he lets go of Granger's hand.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, though she's sure he won't hear her. "I had to."

She doesn't give him the chance to respond. She runs. Later, it occurs to her that that's the second time she's apologised to him. She wonders if she'll spend the rest of her life apologising.


Vincent Crabbe


Her mother doesn't want her to attend this one. This time, it's Pansy who insists. She says that Vincent was her friend. That she has to be there. It takes an hour or so, but her mother finally relents under the condition that Pansy doesn't get photographed. Pansy doesn't tell her that no one will be there to report on Vincent's funeral anyway. He's a villain in the story. He's like her. And she knows that no one cares about her.

It's a far smaller funeral than the others she's been to recently, but she blends in easily. During the ceremony, she lets herself cry. She cries so loudly that she can feel eyes on her. This time, the whispers say, "They really were good friends, weren't they?" and "Oh, this must be hard for her". Everyone feels sorry for her. The thought only makes her cry harder.

She flits between the Greengrasses, the Goyles and the Zabinis with ease. She notes, with no surprise but ample disappointment, that the Malfoys have chosen not to make an appearance. She's caught up in a conversation with Adrian Pucey when she suddenly becomes distracted. The hairs on the back of neck are standing up and a chill runs up her spine. She's being watched.

It's easy enough to spot him. There's nothing but empty space around him. And with bright red hair and a suit that doesn't quite fit, he sticks out like a sore thumb.

Ronald Weasley is at Vincent's funeral, and he's staring straight at her.

He approaches her with none of the bravado from before. She supposes it's because this time, he's the one out of place. She's the one who belongs. She places a gentle hand on Adrian's arm and excuses herself.

"I'm sorry for your—"

"Let's not," she interrupts. She flexes her hand, trying to stop herself from reaching for her wand. "You don't need to pretend."

He doesn't need to pretend like she's been pretending. It goes unsaid, but she knows he understands. She's admitting she's guilty—that she's been playing a part this whole time. He takes a deep breath, and Pansy waits patiently for him to make his next move.

"Things are different now," Ron says slowly. "Hermione says we all need to make amends. That the Wizarding World needs us to heal."

"Does she?" Pansy says dryly. "Well, I guess Hermione's always right, isn't she?"

"That's what they say." He thrusts his hands deep into pockets. "Anyway, she said something about cooperation and friendship and... um, some other things. I can't remember."

"Is that why you're here?" Pansy stares blankly at him. She's not sure what she'd expected, but this isn't it. "You came to a funeral to tell me that? A bit disrespectful, don't you think? For fuck's sake, his family is here!"

"You went to a funeral just to be seen, didn't you?" he snaps. When she recoils, he quickly regathers himself. It's in that moment that she realises that he's annoyed. Just the thought of talking to her angers him. "I came here to offer—"

"What could you possibly offer me?"

"—a truce," he finishes with gritted teeth. "It's not like we have to be friends. But you—all of you—need to be seen with us, don't you? And Hermione seems to think we need to look..."

"United." Isn't that what her mother's always said? That they need to look they're on the right side? But Pansy still doesn't understand. "Yeah. But why is that good for you?"

"Because being divided is what got us here in the first place."

It sounds practised. It sounds forced. It also sounds too good to be true.

Pansy agrees without argument.


Pansy Parkinson


Pansy Parkinson dies a slow death.

At first, it's much the same as it was with her mother. She has simply traded one master for another. When the Trio calls, she comes. She attends the memorials. She publicly denounces Death Eater activity. She is seen with Hermione Granger. They might not be friends in private, but they are in public. Because if Pansy Parkinson can be seen with a Muggleborn—sometimes she still has to mentally correct herself—then surely anyone can. It's difficult, making nice with people she's despised her whole life. But it's necessary.

She convinces the others to tag along too. The Greengrasses throw a ball where Harry and Ginny are the first to dance. The Puceys host a pick-up Quidditch match for old Hogwarts students on their estate. The Zabinis give very generously to a new charity that is set up in the name of helping werewolves achieve equality.

It's not all in good faith, but Hermione assures her that the very appearance of unity is the first step.

At the very least, her mother is happy. Happy enough to let her move out. Happy enough to stop owling her with suggestions of places to be seen and people to speak to. Happy enough to let Pansy live her own life, now that she's earnt it.

Eventually they stop inviting her to things. They no longer need to. She just turns up.

She drinks shots at the Leaky Cauldron when Dean Thomas turns twenty-one. She tells Harry to buy a ring made with Goblin gold when he proposes to Ginny. She's in the stands when Ginny debuts with the Harpies. Pansy isn't brave enough to call it friendship, but sometimes it sure feels like it.

It's been three years since the Battle of Hogwarts, and Pansy Parkinson feels reborn.

"Come over for dinner some time," Ron says off-handedly one day over lunch at the Hog's Head. "Mum would love to have you."

Pansy freezes. She wonders if she's misheard him. "Your mum's invited me for dinner?"

"Kinda."

Hermione elbows Ron in the side, making him spill his beer. "Ron's inviting you to dinner. He's just not doing a very good job of it."

"Hermione, for fuck's—"

"Ronald!"

"I'll come to dinner," Pansy says quickly. Hermione and Ron look over at her, surprised but smiling. "Thanks."

Hermione and Ron continue to bicker. Pansy watches on, amused. Some things really don't change. This, she knows, is friendship. And, catching the flush on Ron's neck, she wonders if it might be more.