Dear Dad,

I'm kicking off my international tour in London! I haven't been back since… well, since I never got my Hogwarts letter. You know the one.

But it's okay. I'm okay. Actually—I'm doing really great.

Pansy's graciously putting up with me this week before I head off to the next stop on tour. She says I'm cluttering her flat with chaos and snacks, but I know she loves it. It's a big week for her too—she's opening her first boutique in Diagon Alley. Can you believe it? From sketchbooks and tears to full storefront and press. Her brand's expanding fast, and she invited me to the grand opening later this week.

I'm excited. And nervous.

I haven't set foot in Diagon Alley since I was little. Since you and Mum took me for sweets and supplies I never got to use. I wonder if that old ice cream shop is still there. The one with the spinning stools and enchanted toppings? You always let me try every flavor until I got a brain freeze.

I'll also be meeting some of Pansy's old friends from her Hogwarts days. I don't know if she's told them I'm a squib yet. That'll be… interesting.

But no matter how it goes, I'll be there. Standing on my own two feet. Not because I belong in their world—but because I carved out my own.

Love you,

Marcy

xxxxx

The night air was cool and alive with the buzz of city life. Neon signs flickered in the distance, car horns echoed faintly through narrow streets, and laughter spilled from every corner of the West End. Pansy Parkinson strode confidently ahead, her coat billowing behind her like a cloak of intention. Marcy trailed slightly behind, heels clicking, still riding the high from her set that she had been working on lately that had been more than well-received. Pansy wanted to kick Marcy's first day back in London by take her to a local club that was known to attract mostly muggleborns and half-blood witches and wizards in muggle London.

"I'm serious," Pansy said, glancing over her shoulder. "My sides hurt. I thought I was going to choke when you went on that tangent about wand envy."

Marcy smirked, adjusting her jacket. "I'm glad it worked out. I've been working on that one for awhile. Imogen's uncle Bobby gave me the idea years ago after a family picnic incident."

Pansy let out a laugh that actually startled a nearby pigeon.

"So these friends of yours that we're meeting. Do they know I'm a squib?" Marcy asks.

"Of course not, it's none of their business." Pansy said airily. "Besides, it's your choice to come out to them about it or not. I personally want to see how long it will take for them to catch on that you don't have magic."

"You're a little evil."

Pansy's blood red lips quirked up into a wickedly please smirk. "Well, I wouldn't be me if I didn't seek out my own personal amusement. Besides, they're all from prestigious pureblood families, all from the Sacred Twenty-eight. Is it wrong that I'd love to see the looks on their faces when they figure it out or you telling them the truth?"

Marcy's face pinched into a slight grimace. "A little, but I then again, I don't know these people…I guess I'll just see how things go?"

Pansy's smirk softened into a smile before it faded from her face completely. "I'm sorry, Marcy. I'm being selfish again." she said quietly. "It's just…" she let's out a long sigh as they stopped walking. "I'm not ashamed that my best friend is a squib, and even though I know my friends and I have all changed since the war ended, I just…I don't really know if they have held onto those old prejudices or not. I just don't want you to get hurt."

Marcy takes her hand and gives it a firm squeeze. "I'll be fine, Pansy. It's just a nice dinner with your friends. Don't worry about me, I'm a big girl. I can tie my own shoes without magic, after all."

Pansy lets out a snort and hugs Marcy before they continue down the sidewalk. They rounded a corner and came upon a discreet, unmarked door framed by two elegant sconces. There was no visible signage—just a glint of silver lettering that shimmered once before fading. The door creaked open seemingly of its own accord.

Marcy arched a brow. "So… secret wizard supper club?"

"Something like that," Pansy said smoothly. "Reservations only. Old families, newer money, Ministry types. That sort of place."

"Am I even allowed to breathe the air in here?" Marcy muttered as they stepped inside.

Pansy threw her a look. "You're with me."

Inside, the lighting was low and golden, the kind that made everything feel a little more expensive. Chandeliers hovered like enchanted stars above white-linen tables. Crystal glassware glinted. Soft string music played from nowhere and everywhere all at once.

A host in deep emerald robes greeted them with a bow. "Miss Parkinson. Your table is ready."

He didn't even glance at Marcy as anything other than her guest. No question. No hesitation. And somehow, that rattled Marcy more than if he had asked. The interior of the restaurant had clearly been enchanted to appear larger than the outside appearance had led on. Floating candles cast a warm, flickering glow over every polished surface, and menus hovered at each table, adjusting themselves with the flick of a wand. The hum of quiet magical conversation filled the air—refined, hushed, unmistakably upper-class wizarding society. Marcy followed close behind Pansy, keeping her expression composed as she took in the softly shifting walls, the smell of wild thyme and firewhiskey, and the way nothing in this space required electricity. She may not have had a wand, but she could still recognize when she was in a different world.

Pansy gave a smug smile as they sat. "Are you impressed? I didn't have to bribe anyone for our entry."

Marcy snorted. "Well, to be fair, you do pull of the 'stab me in a marble foyer' look tonight."

They reached a private booth where two elegantly dressed women were already seated. Both had the kind of polished beauty that hinted at old family portraits and summer homes in the country. One wore emerald silk and an expression as sharp as her cheekbones—clearly Daphne. The other, younger and softer in manner, smiled with warm curiosity—Astoria.

"Marcy," Pansy said smoothly, gesturing between them as she slid into the booth, "these are the Greengrass sisters. Daphne, who I suffered through school with, and Astoria, who has slightly better manners."

"Lovely to meet you both," Marcy said, offering a hand with a polite smile.

Astoria offered a shy smile, and even Daphne gave a courteous nod before gesturing for them to sit. Marcy pulled her hand back, suddenly feeling awkward and outclassed as she and Pansy joined them.

"We were wondering what you've been up to, Pansy," Daphne said, leaning in. "You disappear for years and suddenly we hear whispers about you dressing half of New York's magical underworld. Is it true you've gone full fashion house now?"

"I'm building an empire," Pansy said with a smirk. "Mostly women's couture, bespoke pieces, a bit of ready-to-wear. It started in New York—"

"She's being modest," Marcy cut in with a grin, picking up her drink. "She broke into a market no one thought she could touch and is now sending velvet robes to Paris, enchanted blouses to Salem, and yes—yes, she does dress the occasional riff raff of New York. Very on-brand."

Daphne's lips twitched. "I suppose it would be. And here I thought you'd be running some charm consultancy."

"Please. I barely charmed my NEWTs," Pansy deadpanned. "Besides, designing clothes means I can hex rude clients in the hemming and no one's the wiser."

Astoria laughed, clearly enjoying herself. "And what about you, Marcy? What do you do?"

Marcy paused, fidgeting with her napkin in her lap, then smiled like she was about to let them in on a small secret. "I'm a stand-up comedian."

Astoria blinked. "Oh! Like… you tell jokes on a stage?"

"Basically," Marcy said. "I make people laugh for a living. In clubs, theaters—anywhere they'll hand me a mic and some money."

Daphne tilted her head, intrigued. "That doesn't seem like something I've ever seen here."

"Not surprised," Marcy said. "It's not exactly a booming art form in the UK wizarding world. The American side's a bit more flexible, more open to integrating… unconventional entertainment."

Astoria raised an eyebrow. "And that works? With magical crowds?"

"It can," Marcy said, careful not to overplay her hand. "But let's just say I've had to adjust my material a bit depending on who's listening."

"She's being humble," Pansy said, reaching for her wine. "I've seen her silence a room and have it in stitches five minutes later. Magic or no magic."

Something about the way Pansy said it made Daphne look at Marcy more closely, like she was trying to puzzle something out. But she didn't press. Instead, she said, "Well. I'd certainly be curious to see it. Wizarding Britain could use a sense of humor."

"I'm working on that," Marcy said.

The table shared a laugh, and Pansy allowed herself to lean back slightly, pleased that so far the Greengrass sisters were being cordial towards Marcy. So far, no sign of judgment. No bloodline questions. Just curiosity.

A waiter appeared, wordlessly placing menus down before vanishing as quickly as he arrived. Pansy reached for the wine list, then waved it away and said to the air, "A bottle of the Château Blanc, please. 1991."

"You're such a snob," Marcy said fondly.

"Quality isn't snobbery, it's survival," Pansy replied, folding her hands elegantly. "You'll thank me when it doesn't taste like ash and regret."

Astoria smiled over the rim of her water goblet. "You two are clearly well acquainted. How did you meet?"

"We met in New York," Pansy said, her voice a little warmer than usual. "In a dive bar that smelled like mold and spilled gin. Marcy insulted my blouse, and I knew immediately we'd be friends."

"I complimented your blouse," Marcy cut in. "I said it looked like something a wicked heiress would wear after her fourth divorce. That's a compliment in my world."

"That's how she flirts," Pansy told the table, deadpan.

Astoria let out a soft laugh while Daphne raised an eyebrow, amused. "So is that your world, then? Dive bars and… wicked heiresses?"

"Sometimes," Marcy said, keeping her tone light. "Other times it's dressing rooms in the backs of comedy clubs, awkward green rooms in radio studios, and fifteen minutes on stage hoping no one hexes me off the stage."

The Greengrass sisters blinked.

"You're joking," Daphne said slowly.

"She never jokes about jokes," Pansy chimed in.

Marcy shrugged her shoulders nonchalantly. "I'm a stand-up comedian. That's part of the job."

Astoria leaned in with interest. "And people just… sit and listen to you tell jokes?"

"Well, what I do is I build up the scene for the audience to picture. My material often consists of actual events in my life that I found funny and share it." Marcy said. "The hope is that the audience finds it funny as well. Otherwise, I'm just some lady with a microphone having an existential crisis in front of a crowd."

A few chuckles traveled around the table. Daphne glanced at Pansy again, a flicker of surprise passing over her expression. "This is quite the departure from your usual crowd, Pans."

Pansy could recognize the hint of a slight within Daphne's comment but kept up her mask. "Yes, well," she said airily, "turns out the real world doesn't revolve around tea gossip and pedigree charts. Marcy taught me that."

"I don't believe in pedigree," Astoria said softly. "It's just another excuse to keep the circle small."

Pansy tilted her head, surprised—but not displeased. "Didn't expect that from you," she murmured.

Astoria gave her a look. "People change. The war changed most of us. But I never truly believed in blood purity and I certainly never condoned the cruelty that came with it."

Daphne said nothing at first, but her tone, when she spoke, was measured rather than cold. "Adaptation's necessary. Especially in business. We've seen what happens when people cling too tightly to tradition. But drastic change do not happen overnight."

Marcy kept her mouth shut. She'd learned to read subtext long ago—and that exchange was more loaded than it appeared. It was ironic, in a way, to hear two complete strangers, whom she knows to be pureblood witches, do not agree with old traditions and stereotypes. Yet, at the same time, have revealed that they are still strapped within that cage. Glancing over at Pansy, it was clear that it was not lost of her either.

Just then, the bottle of wine arrived, floating in midair with a glass for each guest. The waiter poured with expert precision before vanishing again into the soft murmur of the restaurant. The wine had taken the edge off the initial formality of the meal. Their plates arrived—roasted quail over charmed root vegetables for Pansy and Daphne, while Marcy stared at her steaming dish with curious suspicion until Pansy assured her it wasn't moving anymore.

"Ha ha." Marcy said sarcastically.

"You should've seen some of the stuff on the Hogwarts menu. Terrifying." Pansy teased before taking a sip of her wine.

Marcy laughed lightly, relaxing further. "See, now I feel robbed. I had to eat cafeteria pizza and undercooked spaghetti while you were all summoning pastries and dodging homicidal meat pies."

Astoria leaned in slightly, her interest clearly piqued. "You said you grew up in the States?"

"Yeah. My mum and I moved to New York when I was twelve. It was a bit of a culture shock at first, but it's home now."

Astoria nodded, intrigued. "Do you miss it? England?"

"Sometimes," Marcy said. "There are a few memories that stuck with me. Some good, some less so. But New York made me who I am. It also doesn't hurt that it has helped me with a lot of my stand-up material."

"Pansy never struck me as someone who'd be into stand-up," Daphne remarked, her gaze flicking to the witch beside her.

"I wasn't," Pansy said smoothly. "Until I saw Marcy take down an entire heckling crowd with three sentences and a smirk. It was… educational."

That earned a laugh from Astoria.

Marcy's hand curled around her wine glass. So far, so good. No questions about schooling, no probing about family. But still, she knew better than to let her guard down.

"So, what brought you and Pansy together?" Astoria asked curiously.

Marcy exchanged a glance with Pansy, who gave her a subtle nod—permission to share, but only as much as she wanted. "We met by chance," Marcy said. "Right place, right time. We were both a little lost, and I made an offhand comment about her outfit. The rest is history."

"She insulted me," Pansy clarified.

"I did not. I said you looked like an evil heiress." Marcy replied.

That drew an actual chuckle from Daphne, which surprised Marcy more than anything.

"I take it that means you like fashion?" Astoria asked.

"I love it if I can afford it." Marcy said. "But I can't sew to save my life, so I just hype Pansy up instead. She's the one building an empire."

Pansy gave a small shrug, pretending to be modest. "Not to mention you once had shoddy taste in clothes until I came along."

"No I didn't." Marcy said with mock offense.

"Oh, please. Rainbow stockings and ratty jumpers belong in the bin." Pansy said.

"Is that what happened to them?" Marcy asked and Pansy merely glanced at her sideways.

Marcy took a slow sip of wine as the evening progressed. Still, no one had asked the question. No mention of bloodlines. No sideways glances. But she could feel Daphne watching her carefully, as if trying to work out a puzzle she wasn't sure she wanted the answer to.

So far, Marcy thought, they're polite. Curious. But not cruel.

She could handle polite. She could handle curiosity.

Cruelty? That she knew how to shut down with a single line and a smile. But they're Pansy's friends, so she will act accordingly. Marcy glanced at Daphne, who had barely reacted. She was polite, attentive enough to appear engaged, but there was a distance to her—something cool and unreadable beneath the surface. She hadn't asked a single question about Marcy's work, or her life, and had offered only the occasional wry observation when prompted. Pansy didn't seem to notice—or maybe she did, and was doing a masterful job pretending otherwise.

Marcy wasn't sure why, but something about the way Daphne avoided looking directly at Pansy when she laughed, or the way Pansy's voice always changed slightly when answering one of Daphne's rare comments—it tugged at a memory. One of the nights they shared cheap tequila and confessions back in New York. Pansy had mentioned someone then. A girl she had loved once but wouldn't name.

Was it Daphne?

The thought made Marcy study them more closely. Daphne and Pansy had the ease of shared history—but something strained sat between them, like a thread pulled too tight. Pansy's posture was perfect, her words smooth, but her eyes flicked to Daphne more often than anyone else at the table. And Daphne? She never once looked too long at Pansy.

Oof. Yeah. Definitely unresolved something.

"Do you ever use your real life in your comedy?" Astoria asked, dragging Marcy gently back into the moment.

"All the time," she said. "Sometimes people laugh harder when they realize you're just telling the truth. Unfiltered honesty's funnier than any punchline most days."

"Sounds terrifying," Astoria said.

"It is," Marcy agreed. "But so is wearing heels for more than four hours, and I do that too."

Another laugh. Even Daphne smirked at that.

As the plates cleared and dessert menus floated toward them, Pansy leaned over to Marcy and murmured, "You're holding your own."

Marcy whispered back, "Thanks. Though I'm 80% sure your tall, broody friend hates me."

Pansy rolled her eyes. "Daphne is just…reserved. Old blood upbringing and all."

The evening had settled into a pleasant hum. Their plates had been cleared, the wine bottle nearly emptied, and the flickering candlelight seemed softer now, as if aware that the spell of civility was drawing to a close.

"Thank you for dinner," Astoria said brightly, rising from her seat as the others followed. "I'm absolutely stealing that line about cafeteria spaghetti, Marcy."

Marcy grinned. "Please do. Just credit me when it ends up in your memoir."

Astoria laughed, looping her arm through Marcy's. "Come on, I saw a mirror in the lobby that practically begs to be admired. Let's grab our coats."

Marcy offered a quick glance to Pansy—You good?—and Pansy gave a faint nod in return. As the two women strolled off toward the front, their voices low and warm, Pansy and Daphne lingered behind. For a moment, neither spoke. The air between them was familiar, but brittle—like parchment left too long in the sun. Daphne adjusted one of her sleeves, then looked at Pansy, her expression unreadable.

"It was good to see you again," she said, her voice clipped but not cold. "I'm… glad your business is beginning to flourish."

Pansy tilted her head slightly. "That almost sounded sincere."

A flicker of something passed over Daphne's face—annoyance? Regret? It vanished too quickly to name. "I meant it," Daphne said, though her voice lacked weight. "It suits you. All of it."

Pansy studied her. The perfect lines of Daphne's evening robes, the impeccable way her light brown hair curled at the ends—not a strand out of place. She was still playing the role, just like always. Composed. Controlled. Acceptable.

Even now.

"Thank you," Pansy said after a beat. "I suppose we've both turned into what we were raised to be. One way or another."

There was no real accusation in her tone, but the words landed anyway.

Daphne looked away for a moment, lips pressed thin. "I do what's expected of me," she said quietly. "It's easier that way."

"Is it?" Pansy asked, gentler now.

Daphne straightened her posture like armor sliding into place. "We should go."

"Of course."

Daphne turned to leave, but hesitated, then added, without looking back, "She's… different. That friend of yours."

"She is," Pansy agreed.

"She seems… free."

Pansy didn't reply right away. "Sometimes I think she is," she said finally. "Other times I think she's just really good at pretending."

Daphne gave a barely perceptible nod, and then, like a shadow folding itself away, she stepped into the dim corridor. Pansy remained still for a long moment, hands curled loosely at her sides. She could already hear Marcy's voice, warm and casual, asking if she was alright. She would say yes. But the ache that lingered as Daphne disappeared was old and familiar, and it reminded her exactly why she had left all this behind in the first place.

They said their farewells outside of the building, the Greengrass' leaving one way while Pansy and Marcy head the other towards an aparation point. A moment passed in comfortable silence before Marcy gently bumped her shoulder against Pansy's.

"Tonight had been interesting." Marcy said softly, "But I can tell something is eating at you."

"It's nothing, really. Did you at least have a decent time?" Pansy asked.

"I did. I've never eaten in a place like that," she said quietly.

Pansy tilted her head. "Like what—magical?"

Marcy shrugged noncommittedly. "Well, no, I mean, my parents would take me out with them sometimes when I was little. But…sometimes I feel like I have squib written on my forehead when I'm around that type of crowd."

That type.

It rang in her ears like an old melody—familiar, unwelcome, painfully honest. Of course Marcy would feel that way, even if she hid it behind dry wit and perfect comedic timing.

"It's like I'm a walking reminder of what happens when magic skips a generation," Marcy continued, her voice quieter now. "I know it's silly. It's not like it's obvious unless someone asks me to cast a spell. But still. I guess… I guess a part of me still feels insecure. Like there's this little voice inside my head that says, 'You'll never be enough in their eyes.'"

Pansy didn't speak right away. She never rushed these moments with Marcy. Instead, she stopped walking altogether, turning to face her fully beneath the amber glow of a streetlamp.

"You're not silly," she said gently. "You're real. And I'd take real over polished hypocrisy any day." Pansy stepped closer, her eyes fierce and sincere. "Being part of that world…" Pansy gestured vaguely in the direction Daphne and Astoria had gone. "It's a sham. All of it. I didn't realize how blind I was by those short-sighted beliefs until I met you. You opened my world, Marcy. You helped me see everything differently. You showed me how small my life used to be, and how wide it could become."

Marcy didn't say anything at first, just looked down at their shoes—hers scuffed from city streets, Pansy's pristine and obviously bespoke. Then she smiled. Not a grin. A small, sincere smile with dimples peeking through, and blue eyes shining in the lamplight.

"I'm glad," she murmured. "Because you've done the same for me."

Pansy raised an eyebrow.

"I mean, you did literally put magic back in my life," Marcy teased. "Also, you got me drunk on thousand-galleon wine, so… you're kind of stuck with me now."

A laugh broke out between them, and the weight in the air shifted, softened. They reached the Apparition point at the end of the alley, where the boundary shimmered faintly with protective enchantments.

"Hold on," Pansy said, offering her arm.

Marcy looped hers through it without hesitation. "I swear, if I vomit again, I'm blaming the wine."

"I'll aim for a gentler landing," Pansy said with a smirk. "But I make no promises."

With a crack, they vanished into the night, leaving behind a world they didn't quite belong to—and stepping into the one they were building for themselves, one day at a time.

xxxxx

Dear Dad,

Being back in London has been… interesting. I'm not really sure how to describe this feeling I've been carrying around. Maybe it's because I've changed? Or maybe it's just the clarity that comes with age—seeing the world more clearly, or at least seeing people more clearly.

Anyway, I met some of Pansy's friends tonight. Daphne and Astoria. They're sisters. Both lovely, in that very polished, old-money kind of way. You can tell they grew up in a world of silk gloves and neatly folded expectations. They were genuinely surprised by what I do for a living—and confused by it. I guess not everyone finds the idea of standing in front of a room full of strangers, begging them to laugh, to be particularly glamorous.

I suppose the upper class really does live in a world of their own.

But what stood out more than anything tonight was the undercurrent between Pansy and Daphne. They danced around each other all evening—like people who once knew each other by heart, but now can't quite find the rhythm again. There's history there. The kind that lingers in the way Pansy's voice softened when she spoke to Daphne… and the way Daphne avoided meeting her eyes.

I think Pansy still cares about her. A lot. Maybe too much to admit. And I think she's scared of stepping over some invisible line neither of them have dared cross in years.

I hope she finds the courage to face it while we're here. To either mend what was broken, or let go of what never truly belonged to her.

Tell me, did you and Mum ever have a gap in your relationship? Time you lost? Words you didn't say?

And if you did—how did you make up for it?

And if we get the chance, Dad… how will you and I make up for all this time?

Always your daughter,

Marcy