Chapter 6: The Abyss

Pansy had always known how to hide. It was a skill she had honed over years of keeping up appearances, of maintaining the perfect facade that her parents had demanded of her. But hiding from Potter had been different. When their eyes met in Knockturn Alley, it was as though a bucket of ice-cold water had been poured over her head, drenching her in a reality she wasn't prepared to face. The instinctive reaction had been to slip back into the old habits—snooty, prideful, dismissive—but even that felt hollow now.

The second Potter took a step toward her, she didn't wait. She gripped her wand tightly, the only thing she had left that felt like hers, and disapparated without a second thought. The world spun around her, and when she reappeared, she found herself standing in the middle of an empty field, far from the narrow alleys and dark corners she had come to know so well. The silence was deafening, pressing in on her from all sides as she stood there, lost and alone.

She didn't have anywhere else to go.

Pansy collapsed onto the grass, the soft blades brushing against her skin, a stark contrast to the harsh realities she had been forced to endure. This field was empty, barren—much like her life had become. Once, she had known exactly where she was going. She was supposed to marry a pureblood, rise high in society, and live the life she had always been promised. But all of that was gone, ripped away from her, leaving nothing but the cold, empty shell of what once was.

The only thing she had left was her magic. The Ministry of Magic, in its newfound leniency after the war, hadn't stripped her of it. It was all she had to survive. She conjured a makeshift tent, something small and insignificant, but it gave her a place to sleep, a place to hide from the world that had cast her aside. But even within those flimsy walls, she knew she wasn't safe. The rogue Death Eaters, remnants of a shattered cause, were still out there. They were always out there, watching, waiting.

Pansy shuddered at the thought, pulling her cloak tighter around her as if it could shield her from the memories that threatened to overwhelm her. She had been abused—physically, mentally, sexually—so many times that she had lost count. Her father had told her it was her duty, that she was there to keep his comrades happy, to do whatever they wanted. And even after the Dark Lord fell, it didn't stop. The men who had once fought alongside her father continued to take what they wanted, seeing her as nothing more than a toy to be used and discarded.

They weren't strong enough to rebuild an army, but they were strong enough to hurt her, to break her down piece by piece. She knew they would come again. They always did. The laughter bubbled up from her throat, harsh and brittle, as she thought about how far she had fallen. She had been the pride of the Parkinson family, and now she was nothing more than a tool, used in the most degrading ways imaginable.

There was no dignity left in her life. She was taken from every angle, every hole, with no regard for who she was or what she had once been. Sometimes they paid her, a sick mockery of what her life had become, and other times they simply left her there, battered and bruised. The only mercy they ever showed was when they allowed her to cry into a pillow, muffling the sounds of her despair. They always fed her, though, as if keeping her alive was some twisted form of kindness. But they never gave her clean clothes. The tattered rags she wore were a constant reminder of what she had lost, of the fancy robes and dresses that were now nothing but distant memories.

She had tried to end it all, more than once. She had taken her wand, pointed it at herself, and tried to cast the spell that would end her misery. But she couldn't do it. She couldn't bring herself to take that final step, to sever the last connection she had to the world. She had tried drowning herself, too, letting the water pull her under until her lungs screamed for air. But again, she had failed, her body betraying her as it fought to survive.

But today was different. Seeing Potter, seeing the look in his eyes when he recognized her, had shattered something inside her. The final, fragile thread that had been holding her together snapped, and she knew she couldn't keep going like this. She needed to end it, once and for all.

She found a sharp piece of metal, half-buried in the dirt, and picked it up, the weight of it heavy in her hand. She stared at it for a long time, turning it over, feeling the cold, unforgiving edge against her skin. It would be easy, she told herself. Just a quick slice, and it would all be over. No more pain, no more humiliation, no more of this life that wasn't a life at all.

Pansy held the metal to her wrist, her heart pounding in her chest as she prepared to do it. But before she could make the cut, she heard the sound of someone apparating behind her. The noise jolted her out of her thoughts, and she dropped the metal, the clatter of it hitting the ground sounding like a death knell.

She knew what was coming. It was always the same. She could spread her legs, get on her knees, or raise her ass in the air. It didn't matter. They would take what they wanted, and she would let them. She wouldn't go hungry tonight, at least. She wouldn't have to worry about finding food tomorrow.

Pansy closed her eyes, trying to block out the thoughts that were swirling in her mind, trying to prepare herself for what was about to happen. This was her life now, and there was no escape from it.

There was no escape at all.