Dear Dad,

I made another new friend today. A witch, in fact! Her name is Pansy, and she's from London. She's a clothing designer who came to New York because she wasn't making much headway back home and wanted a fresher audience.

I met her in this dive bar I usually go to after a rough set on stage. She looked totally down in the dumps—like she'd just walked out of a gothic novel and straight into a bar that smelled like bad decisions and cheap whiskey.

At first, I thought she was just another tortured artist type, but then I saw her wand poking out from her sleeve. That's when I knew.

We got to talking. I told her that there's a whole niche scene here that would adore the kind of fashion she makes—dark, romantic, mysterious. I think she just needed someone to see her and believe in her for a second.

I've got a good feeling about her. I think she's going to do well here.

Your daughter,

Marcy

xxxxx

London, Spring 2010

Pansy Parkinson sat alone at a small wrought-iron patio table outside La Vie en Rosé, a painfully trendy bistro nestled between an apothecary-turned-vinyl-shop and a yoga studio that almost definitely doubled as a portal to somewhere else. The steady waft of eucalyptus and sage from its door hinted at either deep spiritual healing or a hex gone very wrong. A half-finished glass of rosé sat in front of her, sweating slightly in the noon sun. She swirled her finger around the condensation ring on the table, the cool water evaporating as quickly as her patience.

She checked her watch.

Twenty-six minutes late.

She sighed quietly. "Par for the course," she muttered, and took another sip of wine. Pansy had returned to London a year ago after several restless years abroad. She had hoped time and distance would soften the whispers—Death Eater's darling, pureblood princess, Slytherin's poison bloom. They hadn't. New York had offered escape, anonymity, and the illusion of reinvention. At least until reality set in. Designing clothes had always been her escape. But it turned out that talent wasn't enough. Not when your last name made magical investors skittish, and your aesthetic was considered "too niche" for the mainstream.

No one in the magical world cared that her seams were perfect or that she spelled her stitches with old magic. They wanted trend. They wanted novelty. And Pansy Parkinson had long since run out of novelty. It had all fallen apart—galleons vanishing into failed deals, her pride chipped away meeting by meeting, until she found herself drinking alone in some dark Brooklyn dive, the taste of defeat bitter in her mouth.

And then Marcy had walked in.

Wearing neon heels. A denim jacket covered in enamel pins. One of them read: Unmagical but Unbothered. She had dropped into the seat beside Pansy with the confidence of someone who hadn't been taught to shrink herself.

"Love your blouse," she'd said, like they were already friends. "It's giving 'evil heiress rebrand,' and I'm into it."

Pansy, caught somewhere between tipsy and shattered, had blinked at her. "I made it," she murmured. "But no one wants to buy my designs. Apparently, I lack… commercial whimsy."

Marcy's response had been immediate: "They wouldn't know whimsy if it hexed them in the face."

And just like that, something shifted. Pansy had spent her life walking in a world built on pedigree and posturing. Squibs had always been a whispered embarrassment, a stain families like hers scrubbed out of memory. Poor things. It would've been more merciful if they never existed at all. She'd never questioned it. Not because she believed in it, but because questioning the rules meant losing her place at the table.

Marcy? Marcy had flipped the table.

She was loud. Unapologetically muggle-like. Brilliant. And completely unconcerned with Pansy's bloodline or her baggage. The first time Marcy invited her to a squib meetup—some underground art cafe tucked between a vape shop and a vegan pizza place—Pansy had sat in stunned silence. Surrounded by people she had once been taught to look down on, pretend they didn't exist, she felt her world crack open. There were so many of them. Teachers. Designers. Bartenders. Coders. Parents. Politicians. People who had built entire lives—magical lives—without wands.

"You act like I'm an endangered species," Marcy had teased. "We're not rare. Just ignored."

For the first time in her life, Pansy had to ask herself: What else have I ignored? Who else have I underestimated because the world told me to?

That question haunted her in the best way.

It was Marcy who encouraged her to market her clothes to the muggle world. "You're not too niche. You're too ahead," she'd said once, sipping her iced latte with the confidence of someone who'd turned trauma into a punchline. Pansy had grumbled, resisted, then—finally—listened. She ditched the enchanted trims and focused on silhouette, on story, on stitching that whispered rather than shouted. She manipulated her contracts with just enough legal gray area and opened her first boutique in East Village. It was small. Unassuming.

And it worked.

Her designs became cult hits in niche circles—witchcore fashion, goth romanticism, vintage surrealism. Within a year, she was collaborating with indie brands, getting real momentum. Her name was no longer just infamous. It was in-demand. Witches began showing up in her clothes—at Ministry events, galas, weddings. Even a few purebloods, though they pretended not to know who she was.

She didn't care.

Let them whisper. Let them wonder.

She had built something real.

And Marcy? Marcy was now the voice of a generation, her face lighting up late-night talk shows and sold-out venues. Her stories were clever and often personable, her jokes a scalpel—cutting clean, drawing laughs from wounds no one else dared touch. They had supported each other through every hardship, heartbreak, and chaotic detour. They were each other's safe harbor in a world that too often demanded perfection or silence.

And now, here she was again, sitting outside a café waiting for her chronically late best friend, thinking about all the things she'd once believed and how wrong she'd been.

Pansy checked her watch again. Sighed. Was about to flag the waiter.

And then she heard it.

That familiar thump-thump-thump of boots on pavement, followed by the voice that could only belong to one woman: "Pans! I swear I thought it said left on Bleecker, but it was right! I had to climb over a construction site. I think I have cement in my bra."

Pansy turned to see Marcy—sweaty, disheveled, and unapologetically radiant—sprinting toward the table.

Pansy smiled, shaking her head. "You're twenty-eight minutes late."

Marcy dropped into the seat across from her, breathless. "It's the universe's fault. Time's a construct. Also, I brought you a cookie I found in the backseat of the cab."

Pansy's nose wrinkled at the offensive backed good of mysterious origins. She knew that Marcy was joking but she also knew better than to take a chance on it.

"You're impossible."

"And yet you adore me," Marcy said, grinning as she stole a sip from Pansy's wine glass. "Mmm. Expensive. I see you're celebrating."

"Opening day is in a week," Pansy said, leaning back with a quiet pride in her voice. "My very own boutique in Diagon Alley. Front window. Gold lettering. The whole lot."

"Look at you," Marcy said, beaming. "From crying in Brooklyn bars to fashion sorceress of the wizarding world."

"You're not allowed to say 'sorceress' anymore," Pansy muttered. "Apparently it sounds 'too American.' But yes. It's happening."

They paused to toast quietly—glass against glass, a shared smile, no need for words. After a moment, Marcy exhaled and looked out at the street. "It's been so long since I've been back. Everything looks different but somehow feels the same."

Pansy didn't push. She simply waited.

"I haven't been here since I was a kid," Marcy said softly. "Since we left. I don't even think I was allowed to say the word 'magic' out loud. My mum—she wanted it all gone. Out of sight, out of mind."

Pansy's expression softened. "She was ashamed?"

"She was afraid," Marcy said. "Of what people would say. What they'd think. Raising a squib—ugh, the scandal. My existence ruined her social standing here."

"She was a coward."

Marcy smirked, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Funny thing is, I spent so long trying to prove her wrong. That I wasn't a failure. That I could be more than the daughter without magic. I thought if I got big enough, loud enough, successful enough, it would... fix something."

"And has it?" Pansy asked, not unkindly.

Marcy was quiet. Then: "Not really. But it's mine. Every laugh, every late show appearance, every city on this tour... I built it. No wand. No bloodline. Just me and my dumb little jokes."

Pansy smiled, slow and proud. "And you've done it brilliantly."

Marcy looked at her, something tender sparking in her voice. "I don't think I'd have gotten this far without you or Imogen or the Sanna family."

"Oh please," Pansy said with a scoff. "You'd have terrorized your way to fame whether I was there or not."

"No," Marcy said softly. "You both made me feel like I wasn't alone in all of this."

Pansy glanced down at her glass, voice a little tighter. "You made me question everything I was raised to believe. You cracked my world open, Marcy. Made me see how narrow it was. How wrong I was."

Marcy gave her a crooked smile. "So we ruined each other."

"Or saved each other."

They smiled again, this time without hesitation. Marcy leaned forward, voice dropping to a whisper. "You know, I sometimes wonder if madness runs in my family. Or maybe it's just me. Whatever it is, I'm still grateful to have what I have right now."

Pansy reached across the table and held her hand. "You're always looking at the bright side of things. And it genuinely disgusts me.

Marcy barked out a sharp laugh. "That's why I need someone like you, Pans. I need a pessimist to keep me from floating too far into the clouds."

Pansy leaned back in her seat, smiling over the rim of her glass. "Somebody has to."

A beat passed. The world kept turning. Then Marcy asked, "Do you think I'll ever be allowed in? Into your world that pretends squibs like me don't exist?"

Pansy didn't hesitate. "When I have the power to change that—and I will—you'll be the first name on my list."

Marcy reached across the table and squeezed her hand. "Promise me you'll always keep a door open for weird little kids like me."

Pansy's eyes glinted. "No. I'll build them a goddamn runway."

Marcy was busy inspecting the dessert menu like it was a sacred scroll. "Why is everything either citrus-based or named something French and vaguely threatening?" she muttered. "'Tarte au citron'? That just sounds like a spell that would turn you into a goat."

Pansy smiled behind her wine glass. Moments like this—quiet, ridiculous, real—were the ones Pansy treasured most. She'd never say it aloud, not yet, maybe not ever. But this—this seat across from a squib who never gives up, watching her rant about custard textures and colonial pastry influence—felt like the safest she'd ever been in her life.

It hadn't always been like that.

When they met, Pansy had been drowning—still dressed in her own brand of elegance, of course, but floundering underneath. Her business wasn't moving, her name was tainted in all the circles that once mattered, and the magical world was still licking its wounds from a war that had fractured everything, including her. And then this strange, stubborn, loud squib had pulled up beside her at a bar, looked her up and down, and said, "It's giving 'evil heiress rebrand,' and I'm into it."

It had been the first compliment Pansy believed in years. And it hadn't come from a Pureblood, a Ministry insider, or someone with pedigree. It had come from someone the wizarding world didn't even consider. Saw as lesser. A person who shouldn't exist.

It was infuriating. And refreshing. And addictive.

She had expected Marcy to fade, like most things did. But she didn't. Marcy showed up. Over and over again. She was bold and bright and delivered coffee and called Pansy out on her bullshit in the same breath that she defended her tooth-and-nail. She never expected Pansy to apologize for her past when she told her friend about how horrible she once was growing up—she expected her to grow from it. And Pansy had. Slowly. Because of Marcy. She didn't even realize she was staring until Marcy raised an eyebrow.

"What?" Marcy asked, still clutching the menu. "Do I have something on my face, or are you just stunned by my raw, unfiltered charm?"

Pansy blinked. "Both."

Marcy raised a brow. "Both? Are you getting lost in your head again? Are you fantasizing about dominating the magical fashion industry? Or about a certain someone you've been hedging around for years since I've known you?" Marcy grinned.

Pansy snorted and then crossed her arms. "You're relentless for personal gossip."

"How can I not be? Since I've known you, all the women you've dated back in New York barely lasted more than a week. I think the longest was a month, maybe? Imogen and I have a running bet that you're still hung up over an ex here."

Pansy sighed and rolled her eyes again. "Fine. Yes, I'm still… 'hung up' about someone, but she doesn't know about my feelings. I'm sure she suspected back then, but I was too scared to make a move because we both come from families with certain traditional expectations of us both. You know, married off to another pureblood family and forced to give birth to heirs who will continue the awful and backwards thinking of pureblood supremacy."

"But you got out, Pans. Don't forget that you rebelled against them and have worked hard from the ground up. I'm proud of you, and so is Imogen and all of our friends back in New York."

Pansy felt a swell of emotion come over her which she quickly tamped down, wiping an errant tear away before it ruined her makeup. "Thank you."

"You deserve only good things, Pans." Marcy said as she then set the menu down. "Alright, time to get serious: Do I order the crème brûlée and risk reawakening my lactose intolerance, or play it safe with the 'seasonal fruit tart,' which sounds like a punishment?"

"You're sleeping at my flat," Pansy said dryly. "Order the tart."

Marcy groaned and flagged the waiter dramatically. "She's a monster, everyone. A monster in black silk and four inch heels!"

Once the order was placed and the waiter had disappeared inside, Marcy leaned back in her chair and stretched. "So. Diagon Alley, huh? You ready for it?"

Pansy hesitated. Then: "I think so."

Marcy gave her a knowing look. "But also… you're terrified."

"Obviously." Pansy swirled the last of her rosé. "It's not just a shop. It's my name. My reputation. It's me saying, 'I did this on my own.'"

Marcy licked her fork clean. "What, no recognition to the squib who found you crying in a dirty New York bar?"

Pansy studied her, the way her blue eyes sparkled with certainty—not magic, but something just as powerful. A kind of light you couldn't teach, only earn from a hard life. Despite the four-year age gap, it was Marcy who grounded her. It was Marcy who taught her what bravery looked like—not in duels, not in defiance, but in being seen, fully and unapologetically.

She adored her. Entirely.

"I was not crying. But your help is implied."

"You can deny it until you're blue in the face, but you were definitely crying."

"Fine," Pansy said, lips twitching. "I'm glad you're here. Opening day of my new shop wouldn't feel quite as special without you."

"You're getting all soft on me, Parkinson. I knew the rosé was cursed."

Pansy rolled her eyes, but her smile didn't fade. "Don't flatter yourself."

They'd fallen into easy conversation by now, the kind that didn't need a big introduction or dramatic pauses. Just the rhythm of familiarity. Marcy was halfway through her fruit tart, ranting about how she'd been cornered in a Tube station by a fan who quoted her entire "printer monologue" back to her. Word for word.

Pansy chuckled. "You always did have a talent for turning trauma into something consumable."

Marcy shrugged. "Better than turning it into a lifestyle."

Pansy gave a short nod, appreciating that Marcy never missed a beat. She could be sharp when she wanted, but it was never cruel. Just honest. And Pansy had spent most of her life surrounded by liars and flatterers. Honesty was refreshing. Pansy found herself watching Marcy—not in awe, but in quiet appreciation. Four years younger, no magic, and still more grounded than anyone she'd ever met in the wizarding world. It was Marcy's resilience that had cracked something open in her. That unflinching ability to take pain, rejection, and being underestimated, and turn it into something bright. Something funny. Something that mattered.

"I hope you know," Pansy said, casually picking at her napkin, "that I don't just keep you around because you say nice things about me."

Marcy looked up from her plate. "Really? I assumed it was the fringe benefit of my charm and undying loyalty."

Pansy smirked. "That too. But mostly, I think I just like being around someone who doesn't need magic to be powerful."

Marcy blinked, caught off guard for half a second before the humor kicked back in. "Okay, that was almost sentimental. Who are you and what have you done with the emotionally repressed witch I know and tolerate?"

Pansy scoffed. "Fine. I take it back."

"Nope. Too late. I'm keeping that. I'm framing it. Tattooing it on my ass."

They both laughed, and for a while, didn't need to say anything else. Eventually, Pansy glanced at the time and stood, smoothing her coat.

"Come on. Let's get you back to the flat before the rain comes again."

Marcy followed, gathering her things. "I appreciate you letting me crash at your place. My agency keeps booking me into hotels with carpets that feel like haunted blankets."

"Ugh! The barbarism." Pansy scoffed as they walked around the corner together and she held out her hand for Marcy to take. In an instant, she apparated them to her flat.

xxxxx

Dear Dad,

The last few years have been hectic—but the good kind of hectic. The kind that makes you grateful to be tired because it means you're moving.

I filmed my first TV special live in New York. It was surreal. The lights, the crowd, the laughter—it all felt bigger than me, and yet completely mine. I've been touring across the country, meeting people I never thought I'd even breathe the same air as. They may just be regular people… but they're listening. They're really listening.

And Pansy—remember her? Her fashion business is thriving. She's finally getting the recognition she deserves, even from the wizarding world. Watching her win has been one of the quiet joys of my life.

Imogen, too, is killing it. She was just accepted into a psychology fellowship. She's still chasing that dream of helping people like us—people caught in the in-between.

Sometimes, in the middle of all the noise, I pause and think: people are seeing me now. Not for what I wasn't, not for the magic I never had—but for what I am.

And yet... I still wish you were here.

I wish you were by my side, seeing all of it. I wish I could hear you say you're proud. I want to believe you would be.

More than anything, I want to share all of this—with you.

Your daughter,

Marcy