Chapter 4Notes:A ton of plot happens here, but that does mean that this is the longest chapter yet :)
If you're still here, know that I appreciate you and every click, kudo, and comment on this story makes my day. I'm so excited to keep writing :)
Chapter TextSpring has finally arrived at Hogwarts.
Sunlight streams through the trees and softly washes over the rolling green hills, dotted with daffodils, honeysuckles, and bluebells. They fill the air with a sweetness that blends into the heavy, wet smell of the damp earth in which they've been planted. Birds dart to and fro, high up in the treetops, singing their praises of springtime to the students lounging below on the grass. Everything is fresh and alive, and the stark, grey winter days seem like a lifetime ago.
Daphne and Pansy have carved out their own spot on the sloping lawn leading down to the Forbidden Forest. It's finally the weekend, and they're determined to make the most of the change in the weather. Pansy can hear the water from the Black Lake lapping languidly in the distance, and there's a low hum as a bumblebee passes by on its way to a nearby flower. Dappled sunshine warms her pale, bare shoulders as the softly swaying branches of a tree cast long, lazy shadows on the ground. The gentle spring breeze feels soft on her skin, and the gossamer clouds hang in the sky like spun-sugar. It's as close to a perfect day as Pansy can imagine, made even more perfect by the conversation she's currently having with her parchment pal.
"I thought we'd never see blue skies again," Daphne says. She's stretched out on the grass beside Pansy, lying on top of her discarded robe. With her eyes closed and her face tilted toward the sky, she looks a bit like Felix when he basks in the sunlight. "Sometimes I wish Hogwarts was in Capri. Or maybe Ibiza. Anywhere but bloody Scotland. Can you imagine coming out of class and boom—there's the beach, right at your feet?"
Pansy makes a vague noise of assent, but doesn't look up from her parchment.
"I suppose I could've gone to Beauxbatons, even if mum says it's a school for the buxom and the brainless. Did you know she calls it Beauxbosoms?" Daphne says with a small snort. "Though I've always thought that their uniforms would wash me out. Do you think blue silk does me any favors?"
Pansy hums noncommittally, her quill scratching across the parchment.
"I suppose it wouldn't matter. I'd have a tan if I lived in the south of France, wouldn't I?" Daphne asks.
Pansy doesn't even bother making any noises this time, so thoroughly lost in the sentence she's busy crafting.
"Sod the uniform. I'll just wander around completely nude."
At this, Pansy looks up from her parchment with bewilderment. "What? Why are you nude?" she asks Daphne, glancing down at her like she might have stripped while Pansy was distracted.
"I'm not nude," Daphne says, sitting up, exasperation on her face. "But I am trying to get your attention. Which seems to be an impossible task now that he's in the picture," she says, waving a hand toward the parchment Pansy's been bent over for the past ten minutes.
Pansy sighs and puts down her quill. "I'm sorry," she says with an apologetic wince. "I just meant to write one sentence, but it seems to have snowballed a bit. I suppose I've been rather shit company today."
Daphne scoffs. "Today? Oh, no, darling. You've been rather shit company ever since this bloody parchment experiment started. A whole month you've had your nose stuck in that thing! All the while I feel like a circus monkey, pitifully banging on my cymbals, begging for a scrap of attention. Honestly!" Daphne says, flopping back down on the grass and crossing her arms over herself. "I'd understand it if you were at least shagging, but all you do is send saccharine novels back and forth. And I know the men at this school," she says, propping herself up on her elbows to give Pansy a sharp look. "Not one of them has anything to say that's worth listening to."
Pansy snorts, then rubs the corner of her parchment between her fingers with a soft smile. "Well, then, I suppose I found the anomaly."
Daphne makes a gagging noise. "Happiness is a revolting look on you," she says, lying back down on the grass. "All I can say is with the amount of effort you're putting into these letters, he'd better be the anomaly. Which by the way," Daphne says, sitting up rapidly again. "How is it that Draco still doesn't know about your little affair?"
Pansy flushes at the implication. "It's not an affair," she says, running a hand over the manicured lawn and refusing to make eye contact with Daphne.
"Oh, please. An emotional affair is still an affair. I should know, my parents have been having them with other people since I was in the cradle. Along with actual affairs, mind you, so I know what I'm talking about. And the amount of time you spend with Draco versus the amount of time you spend dry humping that bloody parchment is ridiculous," Daphne says, waving a hand when Pansy splutters inelegantly at the accusation. "You're still no closer to finding out who he is?" she asks, eyeing Pansy closely.
Pansy shrugs, watching as a ladybug climbs up a blade of grass beside her. "Not really. I have a few clues, but nothing concrete."
Pansy's lying. She knows her parchment pal better than she knows anyone at Hogwarts. Minus the big, important details, of course. But over the past month or so, she's come to realize that those things don't matter at all. So she doesn't know her parchment pal's name, house, or year.
She knows more important things.
She's spent the better part of the last month hoarding facts, clutching each one to her bosom, like a niffler with treasure. And now, she feels like she possesses an abundance of wealth, all on her favorite subject. For instance, she knows that her dear friend loves strawberry peanut butter ice cream, loathes knitting, is afraid of flying, and prefers autumn to all other seasons. She knows they broke their wrist when they were seven in a heroic, but misguided attempt to save a cat stuck up a tree. She knows their first kiss occurred during the Yule Ball, was altogether unremarkable, and ever since, they've been waiting for the right person to come along.
(Pansy is particularly fond of fact.)
But it's more than just the small facts she's collected—she knows that her friend is passionate and empathetic, guided by a strong moral code and a devotion to help others. She also know that for all their strength, they still worry about not being good enough, or smart enough. There's a constant current of self-doubt that runs through their messages, and Pansy finds that ludicrous. She's certain that she's never met anybody kinder or smarter in her life, and she's told her parchment pal as much on multiple occasions. Once, she went as far as writing, "you're ten times smarter than the self-appointed "cleverest witch at Hogwarts," Hermione Granger," but her parchment hadn't let her send the message. Apparently, using a name had triggered the parchment's concealment charms, and the words had shined red at her until she had begrudgingly changed them to something far less belligerent.
But the information hoarding is certainly not a one-way street—Pansy has confided more to her parchment pal than she's ever confided to anyone before. She's told them more about memories with her aunt that she had long ago buried. She's told them about her parents and the all around lack of love that was a staple of the Parkinson household. She's told them about the pressure she feels to be the perfect child, and the fear that comes with the thought of disappointing her parents. She's told them how she's learned to put on a strong facade so no one can ever tell when she's close to breaking.
And while it's obvious that her parchment pal is concerned by Pansy's home life, they've never asked anything to make Pansy feel uneasy, or worse, like she's about to give away her identity and all that she's said will be leaked back to her parents. But her deep seated paranoia aside, she feels remarkably safe with them. Safer than she's ever felt in her life.
Safe enough that she's working up the nerve to tell her parchment pal her biggest secret.
"How is that possible?" Daphne asks, startling Pansy from her thoughts. "I know the professors were thorough, but there are workarounds to at least some of the parchment's charms. You haven't done the color trick yet?"
Pansy shakes her head. The color trick was discovered a few days into the experiment, when a student realized they could ask pick one—red, blue, green, or yellow and figure out what house their pal was in. It's how Daphne knows she has a Gryffindor, and Draco knows he has a Ravenclaw.
"No. Why would I? There's no way that works anymore," Pansy says with a small shrug. Which is true; she's certain the professors had fixed that particular issue and most of the other little flaws in the experiment that had popped up during the past month. But she's still skirting around the truth. Because she had broached the color question with her parchment pal. But in the end, they had decided they liked the secrecy provided by the parchment far too much and had mutually decided not to reveal their favorite color. Pansy knows Daphne wouldn't understand why, so she decides to stay silent.
"Well, you must know something that can help us identify him!" Daphne says, crossing her legs beneath her and leaning back on her hands. "You're not even the tiniestbit interested in figuring it out?"
Pansy shrugs again. Because she is interested—she's desperate to know who this person is. But after a month of conversations, she almost certain that her parchment pal is a woman, and she's starting to get nervous. Flirtation has been a staple of their messages from the beginning, and while Pansy normally delights in the coy, teasing remarks, lately, they've been making her gut churn. Because while she's fairly sure that she's speaking to a woman, she's deeply concerned that her parchment pal hasn't come to the same realization. And if they think they've been talking to a man for the past month, then…
…Pansy doesn't want to think about that.
But she's cautiously optimistic—she's made a few vague references to a part of herself that people are quick to judge, or would choose to be cruel about, and while she's never elaborated, her parchment pal had seemed to understand. She had replied with both empathy, and tales of a similar struggle. Ever since then, Pansy has been hopeful that she's talking to someone like her.
"Of course I'm interested," she says, stretching her legs out and wiggling her bare toes against the cool grass. "But I don't need to know. I'm enjoying things the way they are now."
Daphne shakes her head and tsks. "Leave it to you to somehow bring back Victorian-era courting techniques. Letter-writing. Meanwhile, while you're busy pretending to be Beedle the Bard, Draco can barely get you to say a word to him. Tracey told me he's been moping around for weeks now."
Pansy raises an eyebrow at the source of information. "Oh? I didn't realize Tracey and Draco were spending so much time together."
"Poor thing has been in love him since first year," Daphne says with a shrug. "It's why she's been so tetchy with you. She's dead jealous."
Pansy snorts. "Please, Tracey has been tetchy since birth. She probably chastised the nurse who delivered her for their rubbish technique. But good for Draco. He needs friends outside of Crabbe and Goyle. Merlin knows what he sees in those two."
Daphne eyes Pansy curiously. "So you're not worried?"
"About what?"
"Draco…and Tracey…" Daphne says, trailing off with an expectant look.
"Oh. No. Should I be?" Pansy asks with a puzzled frown.
"Pans, you've barely acknowledged Draco in weeks! And I'm sure he's noticed your preoccupation with your parchment. Honestly, you'd have to be blind not to notice. If you don't start showing him some affection soon, he'll find what he's looking for in Tracey's bed. Is that what you want?"
Pansy's taken aback by Daphne's blunt delivery. "Obviously not," Pansy says, sounding a bit stung. "But since when are you Draco's biggest supporter? I thought you wanted me to be happy," she says quietly, her eyes inadvertently falling to her parchment before looking back up at Daphne.
Daphne's eyes soften and she puts a hand on Pansy's knee. "Don't be daft. You know I do," she says, her voice sincere. "More than anything. Which is why I'm genuinely asking you…is that what you want? To have an excuse to wash your hands of the whole situation? After all, if Draco falls into bed with Tracey, no one could blame you for wanting nothing more to do with him."
Pansy shakes her head. "No, that's not what I want," she says, but she can hear how weak her voice sounds. It's getting harder and harder to pretend to be invested in her relationship with Draco, and the only thing keeping her from ending it is the fear of how her parents will react. It's strong enough that she's almost certain in a few years time, she'll be Mrs. Draco Malfoy. The thought makes her involuntarily shiver.
"Then what do you want? Because from where I'm standing, it's clear you've never had feelings for him," Daphne says, holding up a finger before Pansy can mount a weak defense against the accusation. "Don't try to convince me otherwise. I've known you far too long and I can see through your shit. I've kept quiet up until now, but I can't anymore. We both know this was arranged by your parents, and we both know you've been miserable. But then this bloke comes along…" Daphne says, gesturing at the parchment. "I haven't seen you this happy since…" she trails off, then gives a small, incredulous laugh. "I've never seen you this happy. And as nauseating as it is, it makes me happy, too. So maybe it's time to take all of that into consideration and do the right thing," she says, her voice gentle. "Maybe it's time to talk to Draco."
"Talk to me about what?"
Pansy and Daphne both jump, then turn around to face Draco. He's striding down the hill toward them, his robes slung over his shoulder.
"Merlin, Draco! Give us a warning next time," Daphne says, her hand to her heart. "I'm not spending the one day of decent weather we have all year in the Hospital Wing because you decided to give me a bloody heart attack."
"Sorry," Draco says. He spreads his robe on the ground next to Pansy and sits down on it, then leans toward her to give her a kiss. She turns her head swiftly, and his lips brush her cheek. A sharp, frustrated exhalation puffs against her skin, so she pats his knee and gives him a smile that she hopes isn't strained in an attempt to placate him. He returns it with a tight one of his own.
"What are you doing here?" Pansy asks. "I thought you had an extra Quidditch practice?"
"We did. Still do, actually, just been pushed by an hour. Turns out Hufflepuff booked the field before us. Merlin knows, they need more practice than we do, so…" Draco shrugs, then looks between Daphne and Pansy. "What were you talking about? Just now. I heard my name?"
Pansy looks to Daphne, panicked. She's not ready to have this conversation now, no matter how much she desperately wants to end this facade. She needs more time to plan things out and to figure out what to tell her parents. Daphne must see the fear in her eyes, because she sighs, turns to Draco with serious eyes, and says, "Tracey. We've noticed you've been spending more time with her."
"Oh," Draco says, frowning slightly as he unlaces his shoes and sets them aside. "I suppose so. Is that a problem?"
"It is when she's practically in love with you," Daphne says.
Draco scoffs as he peels off one sock. "She's not in love with me."
"She is."
"She isn't! We're mates."
"You're blind," Daphne says. "She's mad about you and everyone knows it. And when Pansy sees you enabling it, well…what's she to think? Honestly, Draco, you should know better."
Draco shakes his head incredulously, his second sock forgotten in his hand as he stares at Daphne. "I'm not enabling anything. I'm just—"
"Oh, so you spend all your free time talking to Tracey, because…?" Daphne trails off, her eyebrow raised.
"Because we're mates. I talk to Crabbe, too. Want to accuse me of having a secret fling with him?" Draco asks, finally tossing his second sock away and stretching his legs out. "And for the record, I want to talk to Pansy! And I would talk to Pansy if she…" Draco turns to face Pansy, "if you were ever bloody around! But you're either in class, or studying, or taking a very convenient girl's dayon the one day I ask you to go to Hogsmeade. Merlin knows why, you two live in the same damn room," Draco grumbles.
Pansy opens her mouth to reply, but Daphne beats her to it.
"There's no need to get upset just because Pansy has a life and you don't. Honestly, it's positively medieval to assume a woman will always be there to serve your every need. Is that what you want, Draco? Someone who's always at your beck and call? Who will drop all of her interests and needs because you want to go to Hogsmeade?" Daphne shakes her head. "And here I was thinking you were different than the rest of them. But if that's what you want, then you might as well be with Tracey, because Pansy is far too independent to put up with that kind of shit," Daphne finishes smoothly, and Pansy looks at her with wonder. How this woman is able to spin anything, she'll never know. But she's extremely grateful for it.
Before Draco can answer, Daphne says, "But if that's notwhat you want, then you best start acting like it and treat Pansy right. She might be busy from time to time, but that doesn't mean you get to have it off with Tracey, understood?"
"No!" Draco says. There's a flush on his pale cheeks and his normally perfect hair is out of place from where he's run his hand through it in frustration. "No, it's not bloody understood, because nothing has happened with Tracey!"
Daphne shrugs. "Whatever you say," she says cooly, with a pointed look to Pansy. Then her face clears and she claps her hands together. "There! Now that you've discussed the matter with Draco, we can get back to the topic at hand—would blue silk wash me out?"
"Don't be ridiculous, you'd look amazing," Pansy says without missing a beat. She forces herself to settle against Draco's front, leaning back into his uncomfortably muscular frame. It's not that she wants to, but she has a feeling it might help soothe him after the unwarranted lambasting he's just received. Plus, it wouldn't hurt her to at least try to look invested in their farce of a relationship. "Draco, tell Daphne she'd look gorgeous in blue silk," she says, tapping his knee.
"I have no idea what's just happened," Draco says from behind her. "I feel like I just faced the Wizengamot. And for a crime I didn't even have the pleasure of committing."
Daphne tsks. "Oh, don't be dramatic, it doesn't suit you. And anyway, we've moved on, darling. If you're going to stay here, then you'd best have an opinion on me in blue silk."
"Must I?" Draco mutters, irritation creeping into his voice.
"Wasn't your Yule Ball gown blue silk?" Pansy asks, ignoring Draco.
"Don't remind me," Daphne says. "It was, and I matched with Granger. Maybe that's why I'm so put off by the idea of blue silk," she adds, tilting her head thoughtfully.
"Why? Because Granger looked better than you?" Draco asks.
"Excuse me?"
Daphne looks aghast, and Pansy gives Draco's knee an admonishing swat.
Draco shrugs from behind her. "I may hate her, but I have eyes," he says, simply.
Pansy almost hums in absentminded agreement, but manages to catch herself just in time. Because as much as she hates to admit it, Draco has a point. Hermione had cleaned up well that night. And Pansy may despise her (Merlin, does she despise her), but she can't deny that Granger has a certain…appeal. One that doesn't do anything for her, obviously, but she can see why someone might be interested. If one was able to see past her abhorrent personality, of course.
"Disgusting," Daphne says. "I've never been so insulted in all my life. If you weren't with Pansy, I'd assume you had no taste, whatsoever. No, she didn't look better than me," Daphne says, raising her chin proudly. "Nor will she ever. But anyway, we don't bring Granger up. Pansy doesn't need to be reminded of her on one of the few days she doesn't have to see her."
"Sorry," Draco says. "It seems like things are better between the two of you though," he adds, running his fingertips lightly back and forth over Pansy's thigh, making her grit her teeth. "At the very least, you haven't been tossed into detention again."
"A small miracle," Daphne says with a laugh, leaning back on her arms and tilting her face to the sun. Then, she inhales sharply and looks at Draco. "Oh! I've been meaning to ask you…you and your family went to Greece last year? We're planning a trip for this summer, and I need recommendations. Athens and Mykonos."
"Ah. How long are you there? We spent a week in Athens, and…"
Pansy settles more fully against Draco and tunes out their conversation. Instead, she lets her mind wander back to the past month with Hermione. They havemanaged to avoid any more detentions (which Pansy would call a large miracle), and they rarely snap at each other anymore. Instead, an icy silence has descended upon their table and when they need to communicate, it's always in harsh, clipped whispers. It's bad enough that other tables glance their way with concern multiple times during a class period, and even Snape has eyed their table from time to time with something close to unease. Pansy can't count the number of times she's felt Weasley's glare or Potter's gaze on the side of her face, and she feels she should be sainted for the restraint she's shown in not hexing them both into next week. But all in all, Pansy's glad for the silence. Certainly because she hates every insipid, scornful word that comes out of Granger's mouth, but also because she can still remember what Granger had said a little over a month ago.
No one can help the blood they're born with.
The very same words her aunt had whispered to her, time after time, all those years ago. Hearing them again had sent Pansy into a tailspin that night, and she had only managed to fight her way out of it thanks to her parchment pal and promises of Paris. But the damage had been done—between Hermione's speech and Pansy opening up about her aunt after years and years of repression, she's found herself thinking about that bloody saying more often than she'd like to admit.
No one can help the blood they're born with.
They're the words that were responsible for her aunt's death. She knows that. She knows it's a dangerous, poisonous sentiment, she knows her aunt had brought immeasurable shame and scandal upon the family, and she knows that her father had taken the action he deemed necessary at the time to protect them from danger.
Or at least, she used to know that. She had always trusted her father implicitly, and she knew that if he had made the decision he did that night, something must have been horribly wrong with her aunt. More than that, she knew that she herself must have been wrong for having loved her. But the more Pansy lets herself remember, the more doubt seeps into her mind, clouding her thoughts until she isn't sure what she believes.
And she's been remembering a lot.
Now that she's not actively repressing them, the details of that awful night are coming into focus. Specifically, her father, coming to speak to her after the fact. There had been no tears; she figures now it had been shock overwhelming her system, but at the time, she had let herself believe it was strength. She can remember her father standing beside her bed, towering over her as she trembled uncontrollably in her flimsy nightgown. The candle in her room had thrown shadows on the sharp lines of his face and made his normally handsome features look grotesque and sunken. Fear had overwhelmed her, and she had wondered if he was going to turn his wand on her next and make her scream, the way her aunt had.
Do you understand why I had to do what I did, Pansy?
She had nodded, still trembling.
Your aunt was a sick woman. We couldn't let her go on like that. Do you understand?
Another nod. She had focused on her father's low, soothing voice, letting it drown out the echoes of piercing screams replaying in her head.
I am sorry you had to bear witness to it. But since you did, let this be a lesson for you. Now you know what happens when you're sick. You've seen the consequences.
There had been a long pause while Pansy continued to shake, all the while hoping her father wouldn't see it as a sign of weakness.
You spent time with your aunt. You must have discussed certain things. Certain values. Tell me, did she ever discuss blood purity with you?
Pansy had hesitated, uncertain of which answer would spare her the wrath of her father's wand. Finally, she had nodded.
Ah. I thought as much. Poisoning my daughter's mind…
He had clenched his jaw and exhaled heavily, and Pansy knew she had picked the wrong answer. Her whole body had tensed as she waited for her father to calmly turn his wand on her. Perhaps he would be kind, she remembers thinking. Perhaps he'd skip the torture and go right to the Killing Curse.
Instead, he had sat down on the side of her bed. Flecks of still-wet blood stood out against his white collar, shining dark in the candlelight. The dark shadows under his eyes had given him an awful, ghoulish appearance and Pansy had recoiled away from him, pressing herself as far back into her pillows as she could, but he hadn't seemed to notice. After a long moment, he had turned to her and regarded her, almost mildly.
Do you believe it? What she told you? Her…unique views?
Pansy had shaken her head no as quickly as she could, certain that this time, she had picked the right answer. Her father had continued to gaze at her, then he had nodded.
Are you familiar with the term "blood traitor," Pansy?
She had nodded yes.
Good. Your aunt was a blood traitor. She wanted to ruin our entire family. Everything we've ever worked for. And all because she thinks Mudbloods are like us. Because she would put the well-being of Mudblood filth over that of her own blood.
Her father had put his hand on Pansy's shoulder, and she had frozen at his touch.
She never loved you, Pansy. If she had, she never would have entertained such dangerous views. She never would have put your safety or your future in jeopardy. And yet, she did. Does that sound like the actions of a woman who cared about you? No. I'm sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, but she was using you. Trying to spread her toxic rhetoric to you before you knew any better. You were simply a tool to her. An empty vessel to poison. She never cared for you. She never loved you. Do you understand?
Pansy had slowly nodded. Her lower lip had trembled as she desperately fought off the tears threatening to fall.
Good girl. Don't cry over her. She wouldn't have spared a thought for you. She never loved you. She was damaged. Deeply, deeply damaged. But now you know. You know better than to listen to her lies, and you know what becomes of those who tell such lies. Pure-blood supremacy is not to be questioned, Pansy. It simply is. And always will be. Do you understand?
Another nod.
Good.
He had watched her for a few, long moments, then he stood from her bed and walked toward the door. When he reached the door frame, he had turned back.
…Will you be you alright?
He had said it almost as an afterthought. Pansy had managed to nod again.
Good girl. A Parkinson never shows weakness.
The door had clicked shut behind him, leaving Pansy locked in a room that still smelled faintly of blood. As her father's footsteps faded into the distance, Pansy found herself gasping and choking for breath, as if she'd been holding it the entire time. Her heart was pounding like it did when she ran races against imaginary friends in her garden, and she had wondered if there was a chance it would simply run out of its allotted beats, right then and there. She'd use them all up in one fell swoop and in the morning, her mum would find her, stiff and cold. Like her aunt.
Sleep hadn't been in the cards that night. Each time she tried, she saw wide green eyes staring back at her, pleading for help. The one time she had managed to fall into a fitful sleep, she woke feeling violently ill and gasping for breath, with her father's cold gaze lingering in her mind. Rather than attempt to sleep again and risk replaying the nightmare, she had stayed awake all night, thinking about what her father had said. Her father didn't lie. Her father loved her. And if Pansy's aunt had been a threat to the family, he must have done the right thing. She had simply been too young and too far under her aunt's spell to see how sick she really was. And while she didn't quite understand the finer points of blood purity, she knew now to never question it.
She had laid there, staring at her ceiling until the early morning light illuminated her walls in soft pinks and oranges, repeating the things her father had said over and over until she believed them. Until she was sure she would never do anything that would tarnish the family name.
And she never had. But now, all these years later, she's racked with doubt, and she doesn't know what to do about it. The nightmare that's plagued her dreams since she was a child occurs almost every night, and she's horribly used to waking in the middle of a panic attack, cold sweat covering her body and ghosts of long-ago screams lingering in her mind. She still tells herself that her father didn't lie, that he had simply been forced to make a horrible decision, mostly because it makes her physically ill to think about the alternative—that her father had murdered her aunt in cold blood. That everything she's built her life on is a lie.
But the more she thinks about it, the more she knows one thing for certain: her aunt wasn't ill. Aunt Bea had been wonderful and warm and full of life and laughter. She was the sole source of brightness in Pansy's childhood, and despite her father's best attempts to make her believe otherwise, she still believed her aunt had loved her. Perhaps she had been using her, but that didn't make everything else a lie. And perhaps her aunt's views hadn't matched with those of her parents, but…did that make them wrong? After all, they're the same views every professor at Hogwarts holds, and they can't all be mad, can they?
Which of course would mean that Pansy's father had lied to her, and that he was…
"Pans?"
Pansy looks up, startled from her current train of thought to find Daphne staring at her.
"Are you alright? You look rather pale," Daphne says with a concerned frown.
Pansy manages a nod. "Need I remind you we live in Scotland? We're all rather pale," she says, trying to keep her voice light. She shifts away from Draco's hold, which suddenly feels overwhelming and stifling, and says, "I'm perfectly fine. Just lost in a daydream. I'm afraid I tuned out somewhere around Greece, though. Did I miss anything?"
"Nothing important," Daphne says, scrutinizing Pansy's face closely. Pansy meets Daphne's eye and schools her expression into something she hopes is neutral. She has a feeling Daphne can see right through her, but mercifully, she doesn't press the issue. Instead, she sighs and says, "but honestly, Greece can't come fast enough. I can't believe I have to wait two more months." She turns over onto her stomach and props her head up on her hands. "What about you? Going anywhere special for the summer holidays?"
"Paris, I think," Pansy says, grateful for a distraction from her current train of thought, and even more grateful to turn her mind back to her favorite subject. She knows the conversation with her parchment pal had been an extravagant, romantic dream, but she's still allowed herself a private fantasy where it all comes true. The two of them, actually together in Paris. They still mention it from time to time, and it's one of the only things that brings Pansy peace when she feels like she might combust. She clings to the hope of making the fantasy a reality like a life preserver.
"Paris? I thought your family was there two summers ago," Draco says with a puzzled frown. "Why would you go back?"
Pansy shrugs. "Oh, I don't know. We haven't really planned anything. I was just thinking aloud. It's lovely there."
Daphne hums in agreement, watching as Pansy's eyes stray to her parchment with a small, knowing smile. "I suppose it is. With the right person, of course," she adds, giving Pansy a meaningful glance.
"Ah," Draco says, clocking the look between the two of them with knowing eyes. He smirks like he's just discovered something huge. "I understand now. If you wanted to go to Paris together, all you had to do was ask," he says, giving Pansy a wink.
Pansy forces herself to smile back at him, but the thought of Draco, inserting himself into her Paris fantasy makes her feel queasy. Which to be fair, seems to be how she feels most days. Between her fraudulent relationship, memories of her aunt, questions about blood status, and working with Hermione every week, she's starting to feel like these might be the longest two months of her life.
Daphne catches Pansy's eye, grimaces, and mouths sorry.
"Maybe someday," Pansy says with a shrug as she pats Draco's knee. "And whenever I go to Paris next, I'll nick an Beauxbatons' uniform for you," she says to Daphne. "See if you can actually pull off blue silk."
Daphne grins. "Well, I hope you get to Paris soon, then. Mostly for my sake, of course." Her eyes soften and she adds, "but a little for yours."
Pansy smiles down at her parchment.
She hopes so, too.
***
Pansy's curled up on the massive leather sofa, facing the fireplace in the Slytherin common room. Felix is asleep beside her, and she's absentmindedly petting him as she waits for a message from her parchment pal to arrive.
It's late enough that most students have retreated to bed, exhausted by another full day of sunshine and fresh air. They've been lucky enough to have an entire week of beautiful weather, and Daphne has insisted they spend every free moment they have soaking in the sunshine. But despite the extra activity, Pansy's still wide awake. She's always been something of a night owl, preferring the stillness that comes with the cover of darkness to the hustle and bustle of the day. Her peaceful, solitary nights provide her with a much needed sanctuary from the world, so much so that she had always been a bit cross when someone else had the audacity to be awake at the same time. But that, like so many other things, had changed in the past month. Nowadays, Pansy finds herself pulling her parchment out of her bag eagerly and penning her customary nightly message to her dear friend as soon as the common room is empty. They're the only person she wants to share her sanctuary with.
She tries not to think too hard about what that might mean
(She knows what it means.)
She glances down at tonight's message, shining in gold ink.
Did you enjoy the weather today? I did. Though I'm sure I would have enjoyed it more if I was with you.
It's only a tiny bit flirty, but that seems to be how they do things. Pansy usually gets the ball rolling, and by the time they're both ready to go to bed, their messages are…well, they're flirtatious enough that they've made Pansy grin like a fool on multiple occasions. They're at the point in their relationship now where she feels like her parchment pal is decidedly more than a friend. Had they had done this the real way, had they had been just two strangers to lock eyes in a crowded room, she has no doubt they'd officially be together by now. But things are a little less clear over parchment, and as much as she thinks her parchment pal feels the same way, she doesn't know how to broach the subject.
And of course, there's also the slightly more pressing matter of her still undisclosed sexuality, which has been weighing on her mind heavily for the past few days. So heavily that tonight, Pansy hadn't been as eager to reach for her parchment. Because tonight, she's finally decided to reveal her biggest secret to her dear friend. It's the first time she's decided to tell this to anyone, but as terrified as she is, she doesn't want to continue flirting with someone who may be horribly straight.
And to be frank, she's tired of hiding. Her pal had recently revealed herself to be a woman, and ever since then, Pansy has been going out of her way to disguise her own gender. To be fair, she hasn't been doing it for very long—it was only two nights ago that her pal had divulged her struggle with painful monthlies, and quite frankly, Pansy was surprised the parchment hadn't managed to censor it. But because it was a recent revelation, she feels slightly more comfortable knowing that she hasn't been purposefully duping her pal for an entire month. After all, they'd both been evasive about specific, identifiable details, and she had told herself that as long as her pal hadn't confided anything about their gender, then she shouldn't have to either. Turnabout was fair play, after all.
But now that she knows, the responsibility to be honest lies squarely on Pansy's shoulders and Pansy's shoulders alone. And while she's worried her confession might alienate her pal, she knows she has to be brave. The last thing she wants is to be cruel, or purposefully deceptive, and it's completely unfair to her parchment pal to continue on like this. Pansy hasn't even been sending her normal messages over the past two days, too afraid to cross a boundary. She's been more reserved, and she has a feeling her pal is starting to notice. So tonight, she'll tell the truth and hope for the best. And if things go poorly and she needs to shut it down and abandon the dream of Paris, then she'll do it. As much as it pains her, she'll do it.
She glances down to find a silver message waiting for her.
I did, but as always, I found my thoughts turning to you. Wondering what you were doing. Wondering if you were one of the people near me, enjoying the sunshine. Wondering if every laugh I heard belonged to you. I wonder what your laugh sounds like often, did you know? You have a curious way of being able to occupy my every thought. I'd find it quite distracting if I didn't like it so much. But I had to force myself to stop thinking about you because I was being terrible company to the people I was actually with.
Pansy smiles at that, and picks up her quill. She's going to tell the truth, but she allows herself just one more message before she shatters the illusion.
You too? I've been told on more than one occasion that I'm far too attached to a piece of parchment. But I think that anyone would be attached to a piece of parchment if you were on the other end of it. I can't imagine anyone not liking you. …Well, that's not entirely true. You may have at least one uphill battle ahead of you—my best mate is terribly cross with you for constantly stealing my attention away. I'm not sure you'll ever be able to make up for such an awful first impression.
She sends the message and gazes at the flickering fire, trying to soothe her nerves. Her leg bounces restlessly and she checks her parchment at least fifteen times before she finally finds a new message waiting for her.
It seems we both have uphill battles ahead of us. My best mates are exactly the same, which is why I didn't want to say anything about you in the first place. But they're nothing if not persistent. And now that they know about you, they're nothing if not a complete pain in my backside. Did I tell you, they wanted to spend the summer holidays together? They had a whole plan in place, but I told them I was already booked for Paris. With you. I've never seen them more aghast! They're positively convinced that you're secretly mad, and just waiting to sink your gnarled claws into me. But they've always worried about me too much. It's like they think I can't handle myself.
Pansy bites her bottom lip as she reads the message, trying to pick out any part she can reply to with a breezy and casual, "very interesting, also, did you know I'm a gay woman?" She feels a knot in her chest release a bit when she realizes she still safe, and she can draw out the inevitable just a bit longer.
I can understand their concern, but at the end of the day, we're both Hogwarts students. It's not like you're conversing with someone in Azkaban. Do you mind if I ask why they're so protective? From what I know of you, you seem to be the most competent person I've ever met (…figuratively speaking, of course), but this isn't the first reference you've made to them worrying about you.
She sends the message and sits back. She knows she's stalling, but to be fair, she does want to know the answer to her question. If her parchment pal has horrid friends, she'd like to know sooner rather than later so she can put on a good front when she eventually meets them.
If she eventually meets them.
The next message comes after a few minutes, and Pansy leans forward, scratching Felix behind the ears as she reads.
Oh, they mean well. But I suppose I've always had an easier time making friends with blokes, and it seems to be their natural instinct to want to take care of me. Which is sometimes sweet, but usually, completely maddening. Is that just a bloke thing I don't know about? Perhaps you can fill me in. But don't worry—I've put my foot down and told them they aren't allowed to interfere anymore with this, and that I know what I'm doing. To be perfectly honest, I may have threatened a well-placed Langlock the next time they decide to voice their opinion on you.
And there it is. Her parchment pal has given her the opening she needs:
Is that just a bloke thing I don't know about? Perhaps you can fill me in.
It's not the first time she's read something like this, something that seems to be carefully designed to fish for information in a casual manner, but it's the first time she's faced with the prospect of answering honestly. In the past, she'd have either ignored it completely, or said something innocuous and misleading, like, "I'm afraid I don't know if all blokes are like that, but I'm sorry yours are," and she wouldn't feel bad because her parchment pal would have done the same. They had both made an art form of skirting the real answers in favor of something more coy. But she can't do that now.
Not anymore.
It's time to be brave. Because anything else would be weakness. And Pansy Parkinson does not give into weakness.
She picks up her quill, places it on her parchment, then hesitates. Her heart is in her throat and she feels like she might be sick. She puts the quill down with a shaky hand and takes a deep breath, trying to ground herself. "I'm doing the right thing, aren't I?" she asks Felix. He continues to quietly snore, and Pansy sighs, running her hands through her bobbed hair. She knows there's a fairly good chance she'll lose her parchment pal forever. She knows it's completely mad to hope they'll still feel the same way after this. And it'd be easier to just not. To just go on with the charade until the end of the experiment. To play dumb when all is revealed and pretend she hadn't picked up on the clues and thought she was talking to a man, too. To use a fake laugh and a fake smile and all the other fake things Pansy's accumulated over the years she's spent in hiding.
It would be easier.
But it wouldn't be right. And she also knows she won't be able to live with herself until she tells the truth.
She picks up her quill again and nods firmly.
"This is right. She needs to know. She needs to know all of it," she finally murmurs. She takes a deep breath and says, "wish me luck, Felix."
She puts her quill on the parchment and starts to write.
Before you jinx your friends, I have to tell you something. I'm afraid in my quest to disguise my identity from you, I haven't been entirely honest. And while at first, it didn't seem to be that important, now I feel like I'm being purposefully deceptive and it's not fair to you. Not fair at all. Because our messages to each other…they're not just friendly, are they? I don't know. Perhaps they are, and I'm reading it all wrong. But if I'm reading it correctly, then it's only fair I tell you something.
Two nights ago, you told me about your monthlies. And while I had had my suspicions on your gender up until that point, that of course, solidified it. But it also made me realize something—in all our messages, I had never given you any clues to my gender. I suppose it didn't matter at first, not when we were both trying to hide as much about our identities as we could. And to be fair, at the time we were simply two strangers, developing a friendship. But we're not strangers anymore, are we, Robin? And this…this doesn't feel like any friendship I've ever known. It's so much more. You are so much more.
Which is why I need to be honest with you, so long as the parchment will let me. Because the last thing I ever want to do is hurt you, and I know that if I don't tell you this, I'm running that risk. Of making you feel like you can't trust me, or worse, that I've been using you. I never want you to feel that way, which is why I'm telling you now what I should have told you two nights ago but was too afraid to—I can't tell you if it's a bloke thing, because I've no idea. What I do know about is monthlies. Because I get them, too.
I'm sorry, Robin. I think there's part of me that assumed you suspected. But I don't know why I didn't just tell you straight away, two nights ago. Fear, I suppose. Worry that if I had it wrong, if you hadn't suspected, you wouldn't want to talk to me anymore, or that you'd think I had been purposefully leading you on. I promise, the thought didn't even cross my mind. But I'll understand if you need to change the cadence of these messages, and I'll be happy to do so. Just say the word. What I hope more than anything, though, is that you can find it within your big, wonderful heart to understand what I've told you. You're the first person I've ever told any of this to.
…Not that I get my monthlies. I just realized how absurd that sounds. People do know that. But to put it in a way that won't alert the parchment censors, this is the first time I've ever told anyone that I'm more than comfortable with the idea of sending flirtatious messages to women. I've mentioned in the past that there are parts about me that no one understands, but I was vague before. Now you know what I was alluding to.
I'll understand if you need time to think about what I've said. By all means, take all the time you need. But I hope you can understand. More than anything, I don't want to lose my dear friend over this. Regardless of what we end up being to each other in the long run, I like talking to you more than I like talking to anyone. And all I know is that I want you in my life. Whether that's as friends or perhaps something else, I don't care. I just want you in my life.
Pansy drops her quill like it's scalding and sits back, her heart thumping erratically in her chest. She feels slightly dizzy—she's just come out for the first time ever. It makes her want to giggle hysterically and also dive into the couch cushions and never resurface. Perhaps that's what she'll do…to generations of future Slytherins, she can be known as the mad lesbian who lives in the couch.
That does make her giggle, and before she knows it, she's laughing somewhat hysterically. All the feelings she's kept bottled up for years seem to pour out of her in that moment, and she feels wild and untethered. But once the giggles have run their course, she glances back at her message, still waiting to be sent on her parchment.
She picks up her wand and looks it over. With one tap, she'll have officially come out for the first time in her life. And she'll have revealed to her parchment pal that she's genuinely interested in her. Her wand hovers over the parchment as she thinks through all the repercussions—her parchment pal abandoning her; everyone in her year somehow finding out; her parents disowning her, or worse…
"Sod it," Pansy mutters. She taps the message and watches as the ink sinks into the parchment. She stares at the words, shining in gold, and is suddenly seized by a mad urge to chuck the parchment into the fireplace and watch it burn to ashes. She'll never have to know how her parchment pal reacts if she can't actually read the parchment.
Pansy fights off the urge and stares at the parchment for a few long moments. Then, she stands up so abruptly that Felix opens his eyes, surprised by the sudden movement.
"Sorry. Sorry, I just…" Pansy trails off as she paces around the room, biting nervously on her bottom lip and hoping she won't have to stagger down to the Hospital Wing for an emergency Calming Draught. She's never been so anxious in her entire life, and she feels like if she doesn't move, she might explode.
She glances at the parchment as she paces past the couch, but there's no reply. So she continues to pace, once, twice, three times around the room. Each time she makes a full lap, she checks the parchment, and each time, it remains blank. On what must be her hundredth pass, she sits down heavily on the couch and stares at the paper, willing an answer to come through. She doesn't particularly care what the answer is anymore, she just needs some acknowledgment that her parchment pal has seen her message. The waiting is making her mad.
With each passing minute, the anxiety churning in Pansy's gut seems to double, but she's trying very hard to convince herself that there's no reason to panic. It had taken her a while to compose her message. There's a very good chance her parchment pal might be fast asleep on the other end of the page, completely oblivious to the fact that Pansy just bared her soul to her. So if she doesn't get a reply tonight, well…it's not the end of the world. Right?
Or maybe, she's horrified. Maybe she's ripped her parchment in two and has vowed to never reply to you again. Maybe she thinks you're sick.
Pansy inhales sharply as the thought enters her mind. "No. She's not like that," she murmurs out loud, trying to convince herself.
How do you know? If she thought she was talking to a man, then why wouldn't she be disgusted? She'd have every right to be.
Pansy shakes her head. She won't fall down this rabbit hole. And anyway, she knows her parchment pal. She knows what's in her heart, and she knows that even if she doesn't feel the same way about her, she won't abandon her.
She curls up on the couch, her head resting near the parchment, Felix near her feet. The cracked leather cools her flushed cheeks as she stares at the parchment, willing a message to come through.
The space beneath her message stays maddeningly blank.
Eventually, the adrenaline that had been thrumming through her system vanishes completely, replaced with a heavy, leaden feeling. It's getting harder and harder to convince herself that her parchment pal had simply fallen asleep without seeing the message. Ever since that first night, they've always exchanged goodnights, even if one of them is in the middle of a reply. Had her parchment pal had been on the brink of sleep, she would have let Pansy know. But she didn't. She had been waiting for a reply, so she must have seen what Pansy wrote. And while Pansy can't be sure of the time, she's certain an hour has passed. Probably more. So the only explanation that remains is that Pansy had scared off her parchment pal. Perhaps for good.
She squeezes her eyes shut, forcing the traitorous tears to remain at bay.
She will not cry over this.
A Parkinson does not show weakness.
Instead, she pinches the bridge of her nose and exhales slowly. There's no reason to borrow trouble—there are other things that could be causing the delay. Perhaps she's just taking her time to think of an appropriate reply. After all, Pansy had dumped quite a bit of personal information on her pal all at once. And she has a sneaking suspicion that she had been right in thinking her pal was convinced she was talking to a man. Add that confusion to the pile, and it's not surprising that Pansy's still waiting for a reply.
Pansy sighs and sits up. She can be patient. Besides, she was the one who had told her pal to take all the time she needed to process her message. A decision she regrets now, but it's only fair that she be understanding. She gathers her things in her bag and slings it over her shoulder, then bends to scoop up Felix. He blinks sleepily at her and starts purring, and she drops a kiss on his silky head.
"It'll all be okay. She'll understand," Pansy murmurs as she starts toward her bed, all the while ignoring the vague sense of dread that's settled in her chest.
***
Two days have passed, and Pansy hasn't heard a word from her parchment pal.
She's sent two short follow-up messages over the weekend, both of which have gone unanswered. And now they seem to be mocking her every time she glances at her parchment with a stupid flicker of hope that there might be a reply waiting for her.
I know I said you could take all the time you need, and you still can, but…could you let me know if I've botched it all? I'm afraid I'm not as patient as I'd hoped to be. To be frank, I'm an anxious mess.
I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Robin. I truly never meant to hurt you. Please say something. Anything.
I miss you.
The messages make her cringe now. She sounds desperate and pathetic and weak.
She's managed to cycle through every emotion in the past two days—denial, guilt, apathy, depression, guilt again, more depression. And now, much to the frustration of everyone in her life, she's finally settled on anger. Because anger is safe. Anger doesn't make Pansy feel guilty or sad or stupid. Anger makes her feel righteous and justified.
And that's exactly how she feels right now, seated at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall for breakfast. She's hasn't touched her food, and she's barely aware of the Monday morning commotion around her. The clatter of plates and hum of conversation fades into the background as she loses herself in thoughts, all of them bitter. Because to be frank, she doesn't know why any of this had caught her off guard. Why on earth had she thought her parchment pal would be any different? All that talk of empathy and wanting to be the one person to understand. It was all bullshit in the end. A fresh wave of anger seeps into Pansy's veins. Anger at her parchment pal, yes, but mostly, anger at herself. Because Pansy knows how the world works. She knows that empathy and compassion are for fools, and that the world is cruel, full of unfeeling people and unfettered hatred. The world doesn't celebrate differences, and it never will. No matter what trite bullshit her parchment pal had spewed, or what pretty, poisonous lies her aunt had whispered in her ear.
More than anything though, Pansy's furious that she had let herself be tricked again. She had let herself believe in the lovely words her parchment pal wrote. She had let herself believe that the world would be understanding of someone like her, that her parchment pal would be understanding. Merlin, she had even begun to doubt her father and everything she's been taught to believe.
"Would you stop that?"
Pansy looks up, torn from her thoughts to find Daphne, Draco, Millicent, and Theo staring at her. She glances down at her hand where she's been restlessly and loudly tapping the handle of a spoon against the wooden table.
"It's doing my head in. And I know you're stuck in whatever this broody bullshit phase is, but can you not take it out on the rest of us?" Daphne asks, glaring at Pansy.
Pansy drops the spoon with a clatter. "I'm not being broody," she says, aware of the edge in her voice.
Draco snorts quietly beside her and Daphne rolls her eyes. "Please. Over the past two days, you've somehow managed to make Millie look cheerful. No offense, Millie," Daphne adds. Millicent just shrugs and continues slicing a sausage. "It's fine that you won't tell us what's crawled up your arse and died. That's your prerogative. But could you try not being completely insufferable in the process?"
Pansy glares at Daphne. "Nothing crawled up my arse," she mutters, picking up a fork and stabbing at a sausage. "And I'm not being insufferable. And if you have something to add to this conversation," Pansy says, her head snapping around to Draco who has snorted again, "then by all means say it, rather than snorting beside me like a bloody pig."
Draco lifts his hands in an attempt to placate her and says, "sorry, it's just…she's not wrong. You've been a bit…" he trails off.
"Bitchy," Theo says.
"Bloody impossible," Daphne mutters.
"A right cow," Millicent says around a mouthful of sausage.
"Touchy," Draco says, glaring at the rest of them. "You've been a bit touchy over the past few days. And that's okay," he adds quickly, facing Pansy again with annoyingly earnest eyes. "But we've all noticed. And if something happened, you can tell us. Maybe we could help?" he asks.
Pansy thinks about her parchment pal. Thinks about how she put everything on the line, only to be treated to cold, oppressive silence. Thinks about how she almost had thought she was falling…
She scowls, and before her mind can complete thattraitorous thought, says, "nothing happened. I'm fine. Or at least I would be if you lot would sod off and stop sticking your noses where they don't belong." She stabs at the same sausage again, hoping they listen to her for once and stop prying.
"Pansy…" Draco starts, but Daphne cuts him off.
"Of course they belong there, you daft prick," she says, sounding completely exasperated. "We care about you."
Pansy grits her teeth at that. It reminds her far too much of someone else who said they cared and would always be there to listen. Her grip tightens around her fork. "Well, don't," she says, her voice low and angry. "I don't need you to care. I don't need any of you to do anything for me, okay?" Pansy says, pushing her sausage around her plate and trying desperately to maintain some kind of composure. But the more they push, the closer she is to snapping. "Just piss off. The lot of you."
"Gladly," Theo mutters around his goblet, and Millicent nods in agreement. But Draco and Daphne exchange a look, and Pansy knows they're not done with her.
She feels her temper flare. She's had to put up with enough of their ridiculous tantrums over the years and she always knows when to pry and when to leave well enough alone. But the one time she needs them to return the favor, they decide to tag-team her instead in some pathetic attempt to get her to talk.
It won't work.
Draco puts a hand on Pansy's knee under the table, and she freezes in place. She has half a mind to take the knife from his place setting and forcibly remove it from her leg.
If she happens to forcibly remove it from his arm at the same time, well…so be it.
"Pans," Draco says, in what Pansy thinks is a poor attempt to be soothing. "We just want to help."
"And I've already told you, I don't need your help," Pansy mutters tersely, shifting her leg away from Draco's hand and ignoring how his body slumps in disappointment beside her.
"Oh, I'd beg to differ. You said you don't want us sticking our noses where they don't belong," Daphne says, raising her voice obnoxiously in what Pansy assumes is supposed to be an impression of her. "Which means there's something you're keeping from us. And you should know by now that you can't keep secrets from me, so…" she trails off and looks at Pansy with a raised eyebrow.
Pansy digs her nails into her palm in a last ditch effort to maintain her composure. "My only secret is how I've managed to stay friends with a group of pushy, obtrusive bellends for so long."
"Pans…"
Pansy slams her fork down. "Would you just drop it?" she asks, glaring at Daphne. "I've said I'm fine. And Merlin knows none of you are known for your intelligence, but I should think you'd be able to rub together the three brain cells you have between the lot of you and realize that you're coming dangerously close to overstepping your bounds."
Daphne sighs heavily, then shrugs. "Fine. If she doesn't want to talk about it, then we won't make her."
"She's right here," Pansy says, stabbing at the same, long-suffering sausage that she has no intention of eating.
"Well, if she wants to act like a child, then we'll discuss her like she's a child," Daphne says cooly, reaching for a piece of toast from an overflowing, silver platter. "Which honestly seems fitting, considering how completely incapable you are of handling your own emotions," she adds.
Pansy looks up at her swiftly. "Excuse me?"
"This is what you do," Daphne says with a shrug, buttering her toast. "Something bothers you and instead of being rational, you have a meltdown. You shut down and you lash out, just like a child. Whereas if you'd just talk about it…"
"Oh, that's rich," Pansy says, cutting Daphne off.
"What is?" Daphne asks, pausing her buttering to look at Pansy.
"You, lecturing me about how to handle emotions? In what universe do you have the nerve to talk to me about that?"
Daphne frowns and lowers her knife. "I know more about it than you do. All you know how to do is shut down. The moment things become hard, you shut down completely. Because that's what the Parkinsons do, isn't it? Merlin forbid anyone think the bloody Parkinsons might be weak. Or worse, human."
Pansy's eyes flash dangerously. "I'd rather shut down than become a wretched, blubbering fool. The way you acted after Blaise fucked Lisa Turpin was pathetic," Pansy hisses, feeling her control slowly slip away. She's been pushed too far, and all the anger that's been pooling in her system seems to come to a point. It's probably painted all over her face, too—Theo and Millicent have stopped eating and are watching them with trepidation, and she can feel Draco's leg, bouncing restlessly beside her.
"It's called having emotions," Daphne says, glaring at her. "And perhaps if you tried it, perhaps if you opened yourself up for one fucking second," Daphne hisses, "rather than this bullshit stoicism routine you always pull, you wouldn't spend all your free time with a cat and a piece of bloody parchment. Talk about pathetic! And you know what?" Daphne says, pointing at Pansy with her knife. "I almost feel sorry for whoever's on the other end of your parchment, getting saddled with a stubborn, sodding Parkinson."
Pansy's entire body stills at the mention of her parchment pal. She's vaguely aware of Draco saying something beside her, something that sounds like I don't think that's entirely fair, but it's hard to hear over the rushing of blood in her ears. Saddled with a Parkinson echoes in her head, mocking her. Her fist clenches at her side as she thinks of her blank parchment and of the humiliating rejection she had been dealt over the weekend, and she feels a fresh wave of fury flow through her, lighting her nerves on fire. She's done trying to keep herself under control. The only thing Pansy wants to do now is make someone hurt as much as she does.
"And what, you think it's more commendable to spend your free time fucking anything with a pulse? Because that's what the Greengrasses do, isn't it?" Pansy whispers, her voice dangerously low as she spits Daphne's words back at her. Her whole body is coiled tight with rage and she can't stop the cruelty as it spills from her lips. "They fuck anything that moves, completely oblivious to the fact that their entire family is a fucking laughingstock. But at least you're continuing the family tradition," Pansy says, feeling a little thrill run through her when she sees Daphne's eyes widen with hurt. She's completely out of control, but she can't seem to stop herself. "Maybe instead of worrying about me, you should sort out your own family first. Maybe deal with the fact that your parents are fucking somebody different every night, your mother is an alcoholic, your father hasn't spent a night at home in years, and neither of them give a shit about you or your sister. Which makes you so fucking desperate for an ounce of attention that you'll spread your legs for anyone who gives you the time of day."
Daphne draws in a sharp breath, and Pansy immediately knows she's gone too far. Theo and Millicent are both staring at her with wide eyes, Draco's gaze is trained on his plate, and Daphne's cheeks are flushed with hurt and anger. All at once, the overwhelming fury seems to drain from Pansy's system, leaving her numb and hollow. All she wants to do is turn back time and take back what she's said.
"Daphne, I…"
Daphne's eyes snap to Pansy and Pansy immediately shrinks back. "No. Fuck you, Pansy," she hisses, standing up. "Fuck you. If this is how you treat the people you claim to care about…" she trails off and shakes her head. "You want to act like a bitch? Fine. Then I'll treat you like one." Daphne grabs her goblet with a shaky hand and before Pansy can react, she's covered in lukewarm coffee. Pansy dimly hears the gasps and laughter from around the Great Hall as she watches Daphne stalk away from the table without a backwards glance.
She sits there, completely still, coffee dripping down her face. Daphne's hurt eyes flash through her mind, and she feels completely mortified by her own behavior. She has half a mind to go after Daphne immediately, sopping wet and all, but she has a feeling she'd be hexed on sight. And she'd certainly deserve it. Because while this isn't the first time that they've argued, there are certain things that they've both tacitly agreed to never bring up during their fights, no matter how upset they get. And Pansy had just broken that trust in a truly spectacular manner.
Maybe she'll hex herself, just to save Daphne the effort.
Everyone will love that, Pansy thinks, bitterly. She's painfully aware that the entire Great Hall is watching her to see how she'll react to the indignation of having a drink tossed in her face. Steeling herself, she chances a glance around the room. Almost every eye is on her, and most people are laughing. With her chin held high, she scans over the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables, defiantly meeting each and every gaze, before finally coming to rest on the Gryffindor table. Apart from winning the House Cup, she's not sure she's ever seen them look so bloody delighted. Finnigan and Thomas are grinning smugly at her, girl-Weasley is sporting an insufferable smirk, Potter and Weasley are both still laughing, and Granger is…
Pansy frowns. Hermione seems curiously detached from the entire situation. It's almost as if she hasn't noticed anything had happened at all. She has her quill out and she's frowning at a piece of parchment in front of her, like it's a problem she can't quite solve.
Before Pansy can put anymore thought into what assignment could possibly be more interesting to Hermione than watching her nemesis finally get her well-deserved comeuppance, she feels a small whoosh from next to her. Coffee stops dripping down her face, and her robes and hair are immediately dry.
"Thank you," Pansy murmurs quietly to Draco, who puts his wand away and gives her a curt nod, but doesn't look up from his plate. She can tell he's upset by what she said—they all are. Everyone likes Daphne. She wears her heart on her sleeve and she's maddeningly easy to love. And even if Pansy hadn't been the biggest twat in the world, there would still be no question whose side they'd all take. Pansy glances around the table to see if she can find a sympathetic gaze, but no one at the Slytherin table will make eye contact with her. She takes a shaky breath and releases it slowly, nodding to herself. The entire room is against her, and she feels worse than she had when she sat down.
"I think I'll sit outside for a bit," Pansy says quietly, standing up. She doesn't want to stay here in this oppressive silence, surrounded by people who think she's a complete bitch (which, to be fair, she is). No one makes a move to stop her as she collects her things and quickly makes her way out of the Great Hall, ignoring the mocking laughter and cruel whispers that follow her. Once she's through the halls and safely outside, she slumps against a stone wall and tilts her head back, forcing the tears to remain where they are. She doesn't have long before she's to be in Potions, and she doesn't fancy showing up with red-rimmed eyes.
She takes a few deep breaths of the cool, early morning air, forcing herself to stay calm as she comes up with a plan. She'll apologize to Daphne, first chance she gets. She'll make her understand. Even if she has to stun her into listening. Even if she has to get on bended knee.
Even if she has to tell Daphne the truth.
The thought sits heavily in Pansy's stomach. She knows it's the right thing to do, but it still makes her anxiety spike. But it couldn't possibly go worse than it had with her parchment pal, could it?
Pansy snorts humorlessly at the thought, then rubs her exhausted eyes. She's not sure if one step really counts as a plan, but it's a start, and a start is all she needs.
After a few more deep breaths, she pushes off from the wall and heads toward the dungeons. And as she walks, she finds some solace in the knowledge that no matter what happens, there's no way this bloody day could possibly get any worse.
***
There's a jovial atmosphere in the Potions classroom when Pansy arrives. Snape's desk at the front of the classroom is empty and most students are chatting amongst themselves, taking advantage of the extra free time before class starts. Pansy hesitates by the door, uncertain of where she should go. Normally she'd make a beeline to Daphne, but she knows she won't have cooled off in such a short time. She doesn't want to try and explain herself to Draco, the thought of making small talk with Millicent or Tracey exhausts her to her very core, and she's rather climb into a cauldron and boil herself alive than spend any time with Crabbe and Goyle.
Pansy glances toward her table and raises an eyebrow when she sees that Hermione is already there. Normally, she'd take advantage of the extra time before class starts to avoid Pansy and prattle at Potter and Weasley about house-elves, or whatever nauseating new cause she's championing that particular week. But today she's bent over the table, using her Potions book to shield whatever she's writing and studiously ignoring the chatter around her. Pansy supposes she's still working on the assignment that had taken all of her focus during breakfast and finds it within herself to roll her eyes.
Try-hard, know-it-all git.
She glances around the room one more time, then sighs and starts toward their table, deciding that somehow, against all odds, Granger is her best option. Before she can get to her seat though, Neville walks by and trips over Hermione's bag, haphazardly discarded on the floor. It's placed as if Hermione dropped it while distracted, and if Neville hadn't managed to stumble over it, Pansy's sure Snape would have. It's honestly the better of the two options, although Hermione might disagree. Because somehow in the process, Neville had managed to lurch forward and spill an entire vial of flobberworm mucus over Hermione's robes.
Hermione immediately yelps in surprise and stands up so quickly, she knocks her chair over. Pansy grins broadly at the spectacle, and without thinking, glances toward Daphne to exchange a look with her. She catches Daphne's eye, but instead of rolling her eyes and mouthing serves her right like she normally would, Daphne's smile vanishes, her eyes turn cold, and she swiftly turns away. The smile fades from Pansy's face and her heart sinks. Slowly, she continues trudging toward her table, watching as Hermione makes her way toward the sinks, Neville trailing behind her, apologizing profusely.
Once she finally arrives at her seat, Pansy drops her bag on the floor.
"Alright, Parkinson? Almost didn't recognize you dry," Ron says from two tables away with a smirk. He looks all together too pleased with himself, and Pansy can't live with that.
"Oh, I should think you'd be very familiar with girls being dry in your presence," Pansy says lightly, pulling out her chair and taking a seat.
Ron's face turns bright red, and Pansy spares him a sickeningly sweet smile. He seems to be searching for a comeback, but when nothing comes to him, he simply glares and says, "fuck you, Parkinson," before turning away from her.
Pansy freezes for a moment, then her shoulders slump. "Yes, that does seem to be the consensus today," she murmurs at the now familiar words.
Once she's satisfied that no one else is going to try goading her, she glances toward Hermione's half of the table. There's some flobberworm mucus near her things, and she idly wonders if she could get away with pushing Hermione's Potions book into one of the thick, sticky spots. Or better yet, whatever assignment Hermione had been toiling over. Let her hand in her precious paper covered in flobberworm secretions. Maybe it'd knock down her final grade a few points and deflate her ludicrously swollen ego.
Pansy looks toward the sinks to make sure Hermione is still busy, and she is. She's drying her hands, listening to Neville with a tight smile on her face. Perfect. She has all the time she needs.
She stretches her arms out and yawns, trying not to call any attention to her actions. Inch by inch, she moves her fingertips toward Hermione's Potions book, and once she has a grip on it, she tugs it closer. Smoothly, she flips the cover of the book open so she can get a better look at the parchment Hermione's hiding underneath. She raises an eyebrow when she catches a flash of silver and gold, but before she can look any closer, she's stopped in her tracks by a stern voice.
"What do you think you're doing?"
Pansy glances up to find Hermione, glaring down at her.
"Your things were dangerously close to flobberworm mucus," Pansy says with a shrug. "I was simply making sure they stayed clean."
Hermione rolls her eyes. "You must think I was born yesterday," she mutters, bustling past Pansy to pick up her chair from the floor and take her seat. She whisks the parchment into her bag, leaving just her Potions book open on the table.
"That would explain your atrocious social skills and inability to say thank you when someone takes the extra effort to look out for your belongings," Pansy says, idly studying her fingernails. She's slightly upset that her plan was thwarted, but she's hopeful she'll get a second chance near the end of class.
"Oh, please. I'm not stupid and you're not altruistic. It doesn't do either of us any good to pretend otherwise," Hermione says, vanishing the excess flobberworm mucus from the table with a flick of her wrist. "I don't know what your end game was, but let me be clear—touch my things again, and I'll hex you."
Pansy hums in appreciation and lifts an eyebrow. "Threatening bodily harm so early in the morning, are we? I thought that was my thing."
Hermione doesn't bother replying, so Pansy decides to needle her, just a tiny bit more.
"Come now, what's the matter, Granger? Afraid I'd get a glimpse at your charmed parchment?"
Hermione bristles, and Pansy lets a slow smile spread across her face. Good. She's not the only one having issues with the bloody assignment. But at least now, she can have some fun with it at Hermione's expense.
"Oh, you are afraid. Why? Think I'll see that you've written hundreds of desperate messages to someone who wants nothing to do with you in return?"
Pansy's painfully aware that she's largely describing her own situation, but for the moment, she doesn't care. It almost feels good to talk about it like it's an abstract concept, and not something that's been torturing her for the past few days.
Hermione stares straight ahead and refuses to answer, so Pansy props her chin in her hands and says, "that's it, isn't it? You've managed to become completely besotted with your parchment pal, and they've just informed you that they'd rather have a conversation with a banshee than with you. Merlin, Granger," she says, pulling a face. "That's tragic."
Hermione's cheeks are flushed and her posture is rigid. "Fuck off, Parkinson," she whispers, and Pansy's eyes flash with surprise. She's used to all sorts of barbs and insults from Hermione, but very rarely does she resort to foul language. Pansy must have touched a nerve.
"There's no need for such language," Pansy says with a holier than thou air. For the first time all morning, she feels a bit like herself again, and she's relishing it. "Just because you fancy your parchment pal—"
"I said fuck off, Parkinson!" Hermione says, turning to her with red cheeks and furious eyes.
Eyes that remind Pansy of Daphne's.
The brief cheerfulness fades away at the reminder of her shame, and Pansy shrugs, pulling out her Potions book and dropping it on the table with a thud. "Fine. There's no need to be so touchy. And by all means, don't let me stop you from writing your bloody love letters," she says, her voice clipped. "I couldn't read it if I tried, nor would I want to," she adds.
Hermione seems to consider this for a moment, and after a brief hesitation, she reaches into her bag for her parchment. But before she can pull it out, Snape sweeps into the dungeon and tells them to open their books to page 474. Hermione's shoulders slump momentarily, then she flips through her book and glances absently at the potion they're to brew. Pansy raises another eyebrow at that—Hermione is almost always obnoxiously excited over brewing new potions, but today, she doesn't seem remotely interested in the fact they're brewing Veritaserum for the first time.