(no subject)
Date:Saturday 4th March
Time:Early Afternoon
Character(s) Involved: Pansy Parkinson
Complete or Incomplete: Complete
Rating: PG13
How the flat had got in such a state Pansy had no idea. She hadn't left it in at least a month, and no-one had been to visit her. She'd had nothing to do in fact, except to keep it spotlessly clean, so it was beyond comprehension that there should be clothes draped over every piece of furniture, dirty plates on every surface and a thick layer of dust.
Today would have been another day of pushing things to one side, and ignoring the mess, had it not been for the fact that there were no clothes in Pansy's wardrobe. Not even dirty ones. After spending the morning lounging around in a dressing gown and eating cereal from the box, she decided enough was enough and began gathering her scattered robes.
With an enormous mountain of clothes on her bed, and a wardrobe about half the size, it seemed clear that a sort-out was in order, and with the aid of a dining chair, Pansy was soon pulling old shoe boxes and hat boxes down from the top shelf of the wardrobe. Ordinarily she couldn't even reach up here, and most of the boxes contained things that were years old. Photographs from school of herself with the Slytherin girls; one or two of Draco with his arm around her (Pansy stroked an index finger over the platinum blond hair in the photo); old friendship bracelets and birthday cards.
Pansy smiled and slipped the lid back on, pushing that first box to the back of the shelf and picking up another. As she slid the second box forwards, she dislodged something behind and it fell with a thump onto the floor in front of her. She recognised it immediately, though she had forgotten ever throwing it up there in a burst of anger and grief. Her journal from the Ministry.
Pansy climbed down and picked it up slowly. The leather cover felt familiar against her fingers and she hugged it to her chest as she made her way through to the living room and sat down at her desk. Without really knowing why (what had been the point of shutting herself away in her flat if not to avoid talking to anyone outside it?) she flipped open the pages and scanned down the page of entries.
Her heart stopped in her chest. Over? The war was... over?
The journal fell out of her hands and hit the desk with a bang. Pansy didn't notice it. One arm around her middle, she flipped to the relevant pages and began reading.
It had been days apparently. Days and days. And now the Ministry was doing something but Pansy had no idea what, because part of the self-isolation had been cancelling her subscription to the Daily Prophet. There had probably been some half-baked idea of it being more difficult to find her if she cut off all contact with the outside world. Hell, she barely even did magic any more.
No mention of Draco that she could find. That was a blow but her chin came up perceptibly when she found the journal of someone called Raithen Cain. Pansy had never heard of her before in her life, but in all the half-written sentences and private entries, here was someone who seemed to know what was going on. Quickly she loaded her quill with ink; too much, and some spashed onto the page but she didn't care, hurriedly rubbing the side of her hand over the mark to remove any excess. Swiftly she scrawled a note to this woman, whoever she was. There wasn't any time to be polite, the note was terse and to the point. What had happened? What was happening? Where was the best place to head for news?
While she was waiting for a response, she retrieved her wand from her bedside cabinet and cast quick cleaning spells over the nearest set of robes. Throwing them on she grabbed the journal and a Self-Inking Quill and prepared to Disapparate. She'd go to London; there was bound to be something going on Diagon Alley and at the very least she could grab a newspaper.
As a last minute thought struck her, Pansy grabbed a small framed photograph of Draco, one of the last ones she had of him, and shoved it into her bag. She scraped back her hair into a haphazard ponytail, checked the journal again, almost howled in exasperation, and Disapparated.
Time:Early Afternoon
Character(s) Involved: Pansy Parkinson
Complete or Incomplete: Complete
Rating: PG13
How the flat had got in such a state Pansy had no idea. She hadn't left it in at least a month, and no-one had been to visit her. She'd had nothing to do in fact, except to keep it spotlessly clean, so it was beyond comprehension that there should be clothes draped over every piece of furniture, dirty plates on every surface and a thick layer of dust.
Today would have been another day of pushing things to one side, and ignoring the mess, had it not been for the fact that there were no clothes in Pansy's wardrobe. Not even dirty ones. After spending the morning lounging around in a dressing gown and eating cereal from the box, she decided enough was enough and began gathering her scattered robes.
With an enormous mountain of clothes on her bed, and a wardrobe about half the size, it seemed clear that a sort-out was in order, and with the aid of a dining chair, Pansy was soon pulling old shoe boxes and hat boxes down from the top shelf of the wardrobe. Ordinarily she couldn't even reach up here, and most of the boxes contained things that were years old. Photographs from school of herself with the Slytherin girls; one or two of Draco with his arm around her (Pansy stroked an index finger over the platinum blond hair in the photo); old friendship bracelets and birthday cards.
Pansy smiled and slipped the lid back on, pushing that first box to the back of the shelf and picking up another. As she slid the second box forwards, she dislodged something behind and it fell with a thump onto the floor in front of her. She recognised it immediately, though she had forgotten ever throwing it up there in a burst of anger and grief. Her journal from the Ministry.
Pansy climbed down and picked it up slowly. The leather cover felt familiar against her fingers and she hugged it to her chest as she made her way through to the living room and sat down at her desk. Without really knowing why (what had been the point of shutting herself away in her flat if not to avoid talking to anyone outside it?) she flipped open the pages and scanned down the page of entries.
Her heart stopped in her chest. Over? The war was... over?
The journal fell out of her hands and hit the desk with a bang. Pansy didn't notice it. One arm around her middle, she flipped to the relevant pages and began reading.
It had been days apparently. Days and days. And now the Ministry was doing something but Pansy had no idea what, because part of the self-isolation had been cancelling her subscription to the Daily Prophet. There had probably been some half-baked idea of it being more difficult to find her if she cut off all contact with the outside world. Hell, she barely even did magic any more.
No mention of Draco that she could find. That was a blow but her chin came up perceptibly when she found the journal of someone called Raithen Cain. Pansy had never heard of her before in her life, but in all the half-written sentences and private entries, here was someone who seemed to know what was going on. Quickly she loaded her quill with ink; too much, and some spashed onto the page but she didn't care, hurriedly rubbing the side of her hand over the mark to remove any excess. Swiftly she scrawled a note to this woman, whoever she was. There wasn't any time to be polite, the note was terse and to the point. What had happened? What was happening? Where was the best place to head for news?
While she was waiting for a response, she retrieved her wand from her bedside cabinet and cast quick cleaning spells over the nearest set of robes. Throwing them on she grabbed the journal and a Self-Inking Quill and prepared to Disapparate. She'd go to London; there was bound to be something going on Diagon Alley and at the very least she could grab a newspaper.
As a last minute thought struck her, Pansy grabbed a small framed photograph of Draco, one of the last ones she had of him, and shoved it into her bag. She scraped back her hair into a haphazard ponytail, checked the journal again, almost howled in exasperation, and Disapparated.