Pants Parkinson and the Opposites
For the hd_writers Drabble day prompt: opposite. Originally posted here.
[Spoiler (click to open)]
It’s the coward’s way, she knows, hiding in the garden near the edge of the property, wrapping herself in whatever shadows she can find, but under the circumstances, she thinks a bit of courage too much to ask of anyone in her position.
She can’t escape them forever and she isn’t trying to, but she needs a moment before she has to face any of them again.
Her family has been wretched her whole life, really. It’s too much to ask that they’d change now.
Somewhere back from inside the house, she’s sure her Earless is looking for her and probably his parents have popped off by now, left this disaster of a dinner party in search of better company, and if she’s lucky, she’ll only be hearing about this for the next six months or so and not forever like she still hears about Draco sometimes - that stupid night she’d thought maybe when they had her over for her birthday, they’d actually meant to wish her well. She’ll be kicking herself for agreeing for ages, because when have they ever meant a thing like that?
When she hears the bushes rustling behind her, in the direction of the house, she prays it’s her Earless come to sweep her off. She’s more than ready to leave now and she can’t face going back inside just yet, so if he’s come looking for her, all the better.
Only, it isn’t.
“Pansy?” she hears Arthur say, then a bright “Oh, there you are,” with mild surprise. “George said you might be out here in the garden.” He casts a look about him, sweetly baffled the way he gets. “Not much to see yet, but I reckon it’s pretty enough come summer.”
She swipes at her eyes, tries not to think what her bout of misery’s done to her face, and turns a bright, forced smile on him. It costs her to play happy but it always does here, probably always will. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Weasley. I’m terribly sorry you’ve had to sit through that, but I’m happy you could join us.”
Bright, forced smiles are the heart of the Parkinson way, every bit as crucial as the misery lurking underneath, the wandering eyes and the infidelities, the children they don’t want.
His face falls a little, turns soft and kind. “I doubt you’ll be saying as much tomorrow,” he muses. “And you have nothing to apologize for.”
She can’t help but blurt a snort. He’s just heard her father call her a whore - call her George’s whore, at that - and her mother’s been drunk and vile all day. It has to be obvious to him, has to be obvious to everybody sitting in that room, and while she and her Earless are used to them, Molly and Arthur aren’t.
Arthur makes a clucking sound that’s very like his wife’s and steps closer. For a moment, she thinks he means to hug her the way he sometimes hugs his daughter, the way his whole family’s casually tactile, but he doesn’t. Instead, he stops just short.
“That’s on them,” he says, sterner than she’s heard him. “I can’t imagine anybody…they’re old enough to decide for themselves how to behave. It’s hardly your doing if they choose to be terrible.”
She nods then, because what else can she do? “Thanks.”
He nods as well, then once again in resolve. “Have they always been like that?”
“No,” she says thoughtlessly. “They’re on best behaviour for company.”
She doesn’t realize how that sounds, what that tells him, until she catches his look. One shared glance later, they’re both on the verge of laughing, she thinks, the sort that comes when it’s laugh or cry.
“Well then, I suppose we should feel lucky. I’d hate to see them normally, if that’s them at their best.” He lowers his voice conspiratorially, ducks his head in close. Just now in his eyes, she can see the same hint of mischief she’s seen in his children, that urge for trouble she loves so much in George. “I don’t suppose it’s ever been food fights and jinxes, has it?”
She bites her lip and shakes her head. “More a running tally of all our faults, actually. I’m not serious enough and I’m going nowhere in life. Terrible disappointment for them, really.”
His eyes have gone sharp but his voice is so soft and his hand is, too, when he lays it on her shoulder. “Then they’re wrong,” he says simply. “You’re a good girl, Pansy Parkinson. Any father with sense would be proud to have you.”
“Except my own,” she muses, and Arthur’s hand firms on her shoulder.
“Your own is an idiot. Not worth the cost of his robes, that one.”
“Well, they are his second-best robes.”
“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, and then he is hugging her, dragging her in to get his arm around her properly, pulling her in to fit at his side. “Do you know why I’m out here, Pansy, and not back in there?”
“Honestly? I’d just assumed the unfortunate atmosphere had driven you out. Parkinson hospitality tends to do that.” She smiles weakly, only half means it as a joke.
He ignores her attempt at levity, save an arch look that quiets her. “I have a history of getting in scraps to protect my own,” he says, the weight of that history in the words. “And while I know you won’t marry our George ever - and with that lot as examples, I think I see why - so you won’t ever be officially a Mrs. Weasley, I’d like very much to consider you one.”
“A Mrs. Weasley?”
“One of mine.”
It’s big, is the thing. Big, and it means something, and it’s nothing Pansy’s ever even thought about, really. She’s had a shit family her whole life and she’s made herself a new one in George and her mates, but parents weren’t just ever going to happen for her, and she’d made her peace with it. And now there’s Arthur, offering anyway, and all she can think is how much it hurt to grow up with her own.
She hadn’t been born understanding the Parkinson way and it’s been long, painful work to learn to live with it. To live around it, really.
“Feel that sorry for me, do you?” she hears herself ask, and she wants to cringe because she’s sure he means well by it, but she can’t wrap her head around what he might mean. It’s enough to let her slip away, to end the hug he’s started, and it’s silly that she wants it back.
“On the contrary. I’m rather impressed. If I were living with George and had that lot to deal with, I can guarantee they’d have disowned me for the pranks by now.” He smiles, kind and honest, and only a little troubled, and she finds herself honestly smiling back.
“I don’t need a father, Mr. Weasley,” she starts, and he makes the clucking sound again.
“Nonsense,” he says, very much the slightly bemused man she’s known since George first brought her home to meet them. “A girl always needs a father, even when she’s all grown up and out on her own. It’s only poor luck you’ve been saddled with that lot, and it’s bloody miraculous you’ve turned out as you have.” Then his face draws serious again. “You’re nothing like them, are you? But you are so very much like our George. I wouldn’t have anyone speak like that about Fleur or Hermione or Oliver, and I’ll not have anyone speak that way about you.”
She feels so young then, fragile and uncertain, and it’s all she can do to keep the wibble from her lips. “If you make me cry before I have to go back in there,” she threatens, heatless and fond, and he blurts a laugh in delight and hugs her again.
“No need,” he promises. “I’ll go collect Molly and send your George out.” He glances back at the house, mutters something about her probably being finished yelling by now, and finds another bright smile for her when he looks back. “Back in a tick.”
It’s one more tight squeeze before he’s off, and Pansy stays in her garden, not quite sure what’s happened but desperately sure it’s been a good thing. She’ll tell George, of course, as soon as they’re home, ask what he thinks his father meant by it, and she’ll make her apologies to Molly as soon as she can, because the whole night really has been horrible, Arthur Weasley notwithstanding.
Pansy’s never had a father who could really be proud of her, who could accept her just as she is, and she’s never really expected one. Arthur Weasley’s never her dad and she never calls him that anyway, but he’s close enough to count.
She’s always sorry later that she’s missed the scene in Parkinson Manor that night, because she’s heard wonderful things about Molly’s yelling and George swears her own mother fainted under the weight of Molly’s look - “No one takes that look well, no one,” he says, and she thinks it far more likely her mother blacked out, but she leaves him his victory - but she can’t regret heading outside, having her moment with Arthur.
~ back ~ next ~
[Spoiler (click to open)]
It’s the coward’s way, she knows, hiding in the garden near the edge of the property, wrapping herself in whatever shadows she can find, but under the circumstances, she thinks a bit of courage too much to ask of anyone in her position.
She can’t escape them forever and she isn’t trying to, but she needs a moment before she has to face any of them again.
Her family has been wretched her whole life, really. It’s too much to ask that they’d change now.
Somewhere back from inside the house, she’s sure her Earless is looking for her and probably his parents have popped off by now, left this disaster of a dinner party in search of better company, and if she’s lucky, she’ll only be hearing about this for the next six months or so and not forever like she still hears about Draco sometimes - that stupid night she’d thought maybe when they had her over for her birthday, they’d actually meant to wish her well. She’ll be kicking herself for agreeing for ages, because when have they ever meant a thing like that?
When she hears the bushes rustling behind her, in the direction of the house, she prays it’s her Earless come to sweep her off. She’s more than ready to leave now and she can’t face going back inside just yet, so if he’s come looking for her, all the better.
Only, it isn’t.
“Pansy?” she hears Arthur say, then a bright “Oh, there you are,” with mild surprise. “George said you might be out here in the garden.” He casts a look about him, sweetly baffled the way he gets. “Not much to see yet, but I reckon it’s pretty enough come summer.”
She swipes at her eyes, tries not to think what her bout of misery’s done to her face, and turns a bright, forced smile on him. It costs her to play happy but it always does here, probably always will. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Weasley. I’m terribly sorry you’ve had to sit through that, but I’m happy you could join us.”
Bright, forced smiles are the heart of the Parkinson way, every bit as crucial as the misery lurking underneath, the wandering eyes and the infidelities, the children they don’t want.
His face falls a little, turns soft and kind. “I doubt you’ll be saying as much tomorrow,” he muses. “And you have nothing to apologize for.”
She can’t help but blurt a snort. He’s just heard her father call her a whore - call her George’s whore, at that - and her mother’s been drunk and vile all day. It has to be obvious to him, has to be obvious to everybody sitting in that room, and while she and her Earless are used to them, Molly and Arthur aren’t.
Arthur makes a clucking sound that’s very like his wife’s and steps closer. For a moment, she thinks he means to hug her the way he sometimes hugs his daughter, the way his whole family’s casually tactile, but he doesn’t. Instead, he stops just short.
“That’s on them,” he says, sterner than she’s heard him. “I can’t imagine anybody…they’re old enough to decide for themselves how to behave. It’s hardly your doing if they choose to be terrible.”
She nods then, because what else can she do? “Thanks.”
He nods as well, then once again in resolve. “Have they always been like that?”
“No,” she says thoughtlessly. “They’re on best behaviour for company.”
She doesn’t realize how that sounds, what that tells him, until she catches his look. One shared glance later, they’re both on the verge of laughing, she thinks, the sort that comes when it’s laugh or cry.
“Well then, I suppose we should feel lucky. I’d hate to see them normally, if that’s them at their best.” He lowers his voice conspiratorially, ducks his head in close. Just now in his eyes, she can see the same hint of mischief she’s seen in his children, that urge for trouble she loves so much in George. “I don’t suppose it’s ever been food fights and jinxes, has it?”
She bites her lip and shakes her head. “More a running tally of all our faults, actually. I’m not serious enough and I’m going nowhere in life. Terrible disappointment for them, really.”
His eyes have gone sharp but his voice is so soft and his hand is, too, when he lays it on her shoulder. “Then they’re wrong,” he says simply. “You’re a good girl, Pansy Parkinson. Any father with sense would be proud to have you.”
“Except my own,” she muses, and Arthur’s hand firms on her shoulder.
“Your own is an idiot. Not worth the cost of his robes, that one.”
“Well, they are his second-best robes.”
“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, and then he is hugging her, dragging her in to get his arm around her properly, pulling her in to fit at his side. “Do you know why I’m out here, Pansy, and not back in there?”
“Honestly? I’d just assumed the unfortunate atmosphere had driven you out. Parkinson hospitality tends to do that.” She smiles weakly, only half means it as a joke.
He ignores her attempt at levity, save an arch look that quiets her. “I have a history of getting in scraps to protect my own,” he says, the weight of that history in the words. “And while I know you won’t marry our George ever - and with that lot as examples, I think I see why - so you won’t ever be officially a Mrs. Weasley, I’d like very much to consider you one.”
“A Mrs. Weasley?”
“One of mine.”
It’s big, is the thing. Big, and it means something, and it’s nothing Pansy’s ever even thought about, really. She’s had a shit family her whole life and she’s made herself a new one in George and her mates, but parents weren’t just ever going to happen for her, and she’d made her peace with it. And now there’s Arthur, offering anyway, and all she can think is how much it hurt to grow up with her own.
She hadn’t been born understanding the Parkinson way and it’s been long, painful work to learn to live with it. To live around it, really.
“Feel that sorry for me, do you?” she hears herself ask, and she wants to cringe because she’s sure he means well by it, but she can’t wrap her head around what he might mean. It’s enough to let her slip away, to end the hug he’s started, and it’s silly that she wants it back.
“On the contrary. I’m rather impressed. If I were living with George and had that lot to deal with, I can guarantee they’d have disowned me for the pranks by now.” He smiles, kind and honest, and only a little troubled, and she finds herself honestly smiling back.
“I don’t need a father, Mr. Weasley,” she starts, and he makes the clucking sound again.
“Nonsense,” he says, very much the slightly bemused man she’s known since George first brought her home to meet them. “A girl always needs a father, even when she’s all grown up and out on her own. It’s only poor luck you’ve been saddled with that lot, and it’s bloody miraculous you’ve turned out as you have.” Then his face draws serious again. “You’re nothing like them, are you? But you are so very much like our George. I wouldn’t have anyone speak like that about Fleur or Hermione or Oliver, and I’ll not have anyone speak that way about you.”
She feels so young then, fragile and uncertain, and it’s all she can do to keep the wibble from her lips. “If you make me cry before I have to go back in there,” she threatens, heatless and fond, and he blurts a laugh in delight and hugs her again.
“No need,” he promises. “I’ll go collect Molly and send your George out.” He glances back at the house, mutters something about her probably being finished yelling by now, and finds another bright smile for her when he looks back. “Back in a tick.”
It’s one more tight squeeze before he’s off, and Pansy stays in her garden, not quite sure what’s happened but desperately sure it’s been a good thing. She’ll tell George, of course, as soon as they’re home, ask what he thinks his father meant by it, and she’ll make her apologies to Molly as soon as she can, because the whole night really has been horrible, Arthur Weasley notwithstanding.
Pansy’s never had a father who could really be proud of her, who could accept her just as she is, and she’s never really expected one. Arthur Weasley’s never her dad and she never calls him that anyway, but he’s close enough to count.
She’s always sorry later that she’s missed the scene in Parkinson Manor that night, because she’s heard wonderful things about Molly’s yelling and George swears her own mother fainted under the weight of Molly’s look - “No one takes that look well, no one,” he says, and she thinks it far more likely her mother blacked out, but she leaves him his victory - but she can’t regret heading outside, having her moment with Arthur.
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