FIC: The Interview (HP gen)
Title: The Interview
Author: flyingcarpet, formerly r_becca
Fandom: HP
Characters: gen. Pansy Parkinson, Ginny Weasley, Arthur Weasley, Neville Longbottom, Dolores Umbridge.
Rating: PG
Length: ~3900 words
Summary: After the war, Pansy Parkinson did what she had to do to make amends. Six years later, she's still suffering the consequences.
Author's notes: for lyras, who gave me the following prompts: Finding your feet after the war, magical bribes, "she/he was never the same after that," career advice, Weasley saves the day again. I incorporated them to varying degrees of success. ♥ Thanks to silveronthetree for beta-reading.
Excerpted from the Quibbler, January 12, 1999:
"I made some mistakes," Parkinson admits, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. This is not an admission that she makes lightly or suddenly. It is, in fact, the reason that she called a meeting with this reporter today.
"I thought it didn't matter who was right, because the Dark Lord -- I mean, Voldemort -- would win, and being on the winning side was the only thing that would matter." She takes a sip of her tea, although it must be cold by this time (this reporter placed an ever-warming charm on her own teacup when it was served, but Miss Parkinson was understandably distracted), and gives a cynical smile. "Wrong on both counts," she says.
Pansy Parkinson is the human face of the Other Side, as most in the wizarding community now refer to supporters of He-Who-We-Can-Now-Call-Voldemort. Although it's difficult to consider that those supporters may be witches and wizards deserving of compassion and rehabilitation, the truth is often difficult. The witch who sits across from me today is not a monster or an unrepentant villainness. Like the rest of us, she is a person who has made mistakes, and she regrets them deeply.
In her fifth year at Hogwarts, Parkinson acted as a member of the Inquisitorial Squad organized by Dolores Umbridge to enforce the Ministry's often harsh Educational Decrees. "The Squad victimized other students," Parkinson says flatly. "Those who went on to fight Voldemort and even those who were just trying to get by. Umbridge was giving the orders, but I should've considered what I was doing before following along. She wasn't the --"
(continued on page 5)
-----
Six Years Later
Teeth chattering, Pansy kicked against the side of the stoop, trying to knock the accumulated ice and snow away from her boots, and succeeding only in stubbing her half-frozen toes. She unlocked the door using her wand and stepped inside, then carefully toed off her boots, leaving them next to the door.
She shot a glare toward the pile of slush that was slowly spreading across her hardwood floor as the ice began to melt. With all the widgets and gizmos she carried in stock, it was hard to believe she didn't have one to deal with dirty, icy boots. An idea began to form in her head, and she stood in the middle of her shop in her socks as she worked out the details.
Ten minutes later, Pansy was hunched over the counter, working on a sketch of her new boot-scraper, when the bell over the door jangled.
"Helloooo? Are you open, dearie?" a high-pitched voice asked, and Pansy gritted her teeth briefly before replying.
"Yes, indeed," Pansy said. Try checking the sign on the door if you're uncertain, she thought to herself. "And what can I do for you today, Madam Umbridge? Come to try our new self-warming chocolate?"
"Ah... no," Madam Umbridge replied with a false-sounding chuckle. "I have been reviewing your file, and I noticed that your paperwork does not seem to be quite... shall we say, up to snuff?"
Of course it's not, Pansy thought, Because I didn't pay your special paperwork expeditionary fee last week. And before that, it had been a charge to repaint the address numbers on the front of all the buildings, then a tax to support streetlamps on Diagon Alley, then a surcharge on overhanging eaves. At least twice a month, Dolores Umbridge knocked on the door of her shop with a 'helloooo' and a notice about some additional Ministry overcharge that Pansy had neglected to pay.
"That's surprising," Pansy said evenly, too sick of this charade to truly play along, "Since you reviewed the file quite thoroughly last week."
Madam Umbridge, who would probably never get sick of this game, gave a breathless giggle. "Oh, you know how it is. Things just seem to slip through the cracks."
"I'm sure," Pansy replied. "What seems to be the matter this time?"
-----
"Ginnykins!" Making his way along the narrow shoveled path from his workshed to the house, Arthur broke out in a smile when he saw his daughter appear with a sudden pop on the front porch. "What are you doing here?"
"Hi, Dad," she said, giving his cheek a quick kiss when he reached her side. "I just stopped by to tell Mum about a new talking plant I got from Neville."
"Mmm-hmmm," he said, nodding along. "Heard about those ginger biscuits she was baking, did you?"
Ginny flashed him a grin, looking so much like her mother at that age that it took his breath away a little bit. She didn't even pretend to be ashamed. "Yep," she said. "Any left?"
"Let's see what we can find, eh?" Arthur asked, rubbing his hands together. "Come in, come in." He pushed the door open with one hand and was about to step inside when Ginny stopped him.
"What's this, Dad?" she asked, looking down at a boxy little contraption sitting by the stoop.
"The newest thingummy from that shop on Diagon," Arthur said. "Your mother has been after me to stop tracking snow all over the carpets, so it seemed like perfect timing. See, you just put your shoe on here and--" He demonstrated, and a long-handled brush extended from the side of the box and began to clean the clumps of ice off the sides of his shoes. "And Bob's-your-uncle, no muss or fuss."
Ginny actually looked halfway interested, unlike most of her brothers did when he started talking about his doodads. "That's dead useful, it is."
"Shop's full of useful stuff," Arthur said, as he and Ginny stepped inside and began divesting themselves of cloaks and scarves. "You should go down there and see for yourself. Actually, I think you were at Hogwarts together with the owner -- Pansy Parkinson?"
Ginny's face twisted up into an expression of distaste, but then softened. "We were never exactly friends," she said, "though she wasn't so bad in seventh year, after that interview Luna did." Arthur wondered what that meant. He loved his daughter, but she could be so much more confusing than the boys sometimes.
"Well, she's got quite a cunning little shop," Arthur said. He ought to know, he tended to drop in at least two or three times a week on his lunch hour and talk with Miss Parkinson about the charmed objects and magical tools she carried. She was always willing to talk him about the silly ideas he came up with around the house, and if he could ever figure out his idea to make his alarm clock brew a cup of tea in the mornings, she'd even agreed to sell it for him.
"Last week when I was in there, she was telling me all about this red tape the Ministry is forcing on them nowadays," Arthur told her. Now where had Molly hidden those biscuits? He knew there were still quite a few left. Perhaps in the back of the cupboard?
"Red tape?" Ginny asked, as he rummaged about in the pantry.
"Hmm, yes," Arthur agreed. "I tell you what, I'm glad I'm retired if that's what the folks at the Ministry have to go through with every shop on the Alley. Extra charges for gutter maintenance and tarriffs on sign lettering and whatnot. Must be quite a burden. That Umbridge is in there nearly every week, according to Miss Parkinson."
"Umbridge?" Ginny's voice was suddenly sharp, and Arthur straightened up and looked at her, despite the fact that he still hadn't found Molly's biscuits. "She said that?"
"Ah, erm," Arthur suddenly realized that perhaps he hadn't been meant to repeat that story. If there had been some kind of trouble between her and Miss Parkinson, his daughter could be downright ruthless when she put her mind to it. "I probably misunderstood," he said. "I'm sure it was nothing."
"Right, nothing," Ginny repeated, sounding unconvinced.
-----
"I'm not doing an interview," Pansy said, leaning back against the wall behind her counter, arms crossed over her chest, "so you can just leave now, Weasley." Her hair was longer than it had been in school, cut into sleek black bangs that grazed her eyebrows, and she watched Ginny evenly.
"But if people just knew what she was doing, she'd never get away with it," Ginny insisted, brandishing her quill and notepad. "It's completely unfair the way she's targeting--"
"A newspaper article is not going to fix this," Pansy insisted. "An article is what caused this problem in the first place, and if you think--"
"That article was brilliant," Ginny insisted, cutting her off. "Brilliant. Umbridge deserved every word of that and more. She got what was coming to her when it was published, and if you're regretting it now, then you're dumber than I ever thought. This is just another--"
"Weasley." A little smile had appeared on Pansy's face despite Ginny's angry tirade, which was quite the opposite of what she'd meant to say. "Calm down, for Merlin's sake."
Ginny took a deep breath. "Sorry," she said, not feeling even the least bit apologetic. "She just makes me so--"
"I know," Pansy said. "Trust me, I know."
"Then why do you put up with it?" Ginny asked. "You have to deal with her."
"I was trying to wait her out. This is my problem, Weasley. Why are you even here?"
"This would make a great story." It was true, too. If she could write an article that captured all the angles of this, the Prophet's readers would go crazy for it. It had everything: revenge, corruption, redemption, and a plucky heroine. If Parkinson could be called a heroine, which Ginny privately thought was a bit of a stretch. But compared to Umbridge, anyone would look good. "Besides, my dad seems to like you, and now that I see this place, I understand why. He must be in here all the time."
Pansy laughed. "Yeah, he loves this stuff. He's always buying some ridiculous thing for your mum as a gift, and then she comes back the next day and returns it."
"That sounds about right." Ginny shook her head. "What a waste of your time."
"Oh, I charge a small restocking fee," Pansy said. "So it's not a total waste. I get the gadget back so I can sell it again. Your mum gets a token of affection from him and most of the purchase price in pocket money from me, and your dad gets to come in here all the time and play with the charmed stuff." She shrugged. "Everybody wins."
Part of Ginny felt she should be horrified by this situation, but all she could do was laugh. "What a Slytherin way to look at it."
"That's what I am," Pansy said, her voice serious again. "I do what I need to do. I always have." It wasn't an admission or an explanation, exactly, but it was close. It didn't matter. Ginny had always known that Luna's interview wasn't something Pansy did only out of the goodness of her heart; it had benefitted her. It hadn't won Pansy any friends, but after that she'd somehow seemed less of an enemy than she'd been before.
Ginny tapped her quill against her cheek in thought. "You're right," she said. The interview, all those years ago, had shown the world a different side of the war. Still, that didn't mean it was the right way to handle the current situation.
"Maybe what we need is a Slytherin strategy," Ginny said slowly.
"We?" Pansy repeated. "I'm not your charity project, you know."
"Hear me out before you turn me down, all right?" Ginny asked. "I grew up with six older brothers. I know something about revenge."
Pansy looked her over slowly. Finally she uncrossed her arms and leaned forward. "I'm listening," she said.
-----
"Wait, I'm not sure I -- you want to borrow my vocal flytraps for Pansy Parkinson?" Neville asked, looking down at Ginny's face in the fire.
"Yes," she said, offering no explanation. "Look, can you bring them over to her shop right now? Umbridge is probably going to drop in today and we need them set up before she gets here."
"All right," Neville said slowly. It didn't make any sense, but he didn't see the harm in it, and Ginny had done so many things for him over the years that he'd never be able to count them all. "I s'pose I owe you a favor anyway. But you'll explain everything after it's all over?"
"Of course." With that, Ginny's head disappeared from the flames.
Twenty minutes later, the back door of the shop opened before Neville could knock. He moved his wand slowly, floating the tray of plants inside to a small storeroom filled with neat shelves.
"You're the best, Neville," Ginny said, as she shut the door behind him.
"I won't be, if my vocal flytraps die from being out in the cold," he said briskly. "Here, help me get the protective charms off of them." She bent down at his side and pulled out her wand, murmuring "finite incantatem" over each clay pot. As the charms were released, the plants began to murmur quietly, humming and babbling to each other in soft voices.
"All right?" another female voice asked. Neville looked up to see Pansy standing in the doorway; behind her he could see the warm glow of the main shop.
"All right?" two of the plants repeated, in eerie synchronicity. Pansy's eyebrows disappeared beneath her hair.
Neville remembered what Pansy had been like at school, both before and after the battle and the interview and everything. He remembered the tip of her wand and the bitter twist of her words, and the way that later, she would sit by herself in a corner of the Slytherin table, even though she could have moved over and sat with Lisa Turpin in Ravenclaw. It was a strange kind of loyalty, but it was a lot more than he'd ever recognized in her before the battle.
"I reckon we're good, yeah." Neville nodded at her and after a moment Pansy nodded back. She seemed to realize that he was talking about more than just the plants.
Together, the three of them arranged the plants on a display table near the front of the shop. Pansy got out a small sign and some ribbon to decorate the table. Neville didn't really see the point of it, but once she was done, the plants seemed to blend in to the kitschy, cutesy feel of the rest of the shop.
"Nev, I think... some kind of a silencing charm?" Ginny asked. Neville looked at her, then back at the plants, and then back to her before he turned and carefully cast a muffling charm on the table, surrounding the plants so that their little voices would not be audible. The flytraps would repeat the same words for weeks, if they were said with enough emotion behind them. He was starting to get an inkling of what Ginny had in mind.
Once everything was set up, Pansy took her place behind the counter, and Neville and Ginny retreated into the storeroom, pulling a thin flowered curtain across the doorway behind them. He sat on the edge of a wooden crate and she leaned up against a bookshelf to wait.
Neville had no idea what he was waiting for, other than Professor-- no, Undersecretary-- no, Madam Umbridge. He sat in the semi-dark room, glancing around aimlessly. Ginny seemed as calm as she could be, given the circumstances; she was examining her fingernails, looking for some minute imperfection visible only to women. The shelves around them were labeled in neat handwriting with contents like teapot, self-heating and picture frame, dust-repelling. Through the thin fabric of the curtain, he could see the outline of Pansy inside the store, the gleaming magical knick-knacks on every surface.
After a short time, the front door opened with a gust of cold air and a jangling bell. "Helloooo?"
Neville raised his wand and held it at the ready. The flytraps in the corner of the shop flapped open and shut, but only a low buzzing noise made it through the muffling charm. Otherwise, the only sounds were the voices of Umbridge and Pansy. A few feet away, Ginny set a Quick-Quotes Quill above a notebook and let it go. As Umbridge began to speak, the quill danced across the page, recording her every word.
"Do you have your payment ready for the special assessment we discussed last week, dear?"
"No, I'm afraid I don't." Pansy's voice sounded calm and even; the only reason Neville knew that wasn't true was that her voice sounded so different now than it had before.
"Oh! Well, I'll be happy to wait while you make out the cheque."
"I won't be making out a cheque. I'm not giving you any more money."
"You... won't be paying your taxes any longer, dear? Do you really think that's wise?" Umbridge's voice was full of false concern, and Neville gritted his teeth. He remembered what detention had been like with this woman, how he'd bled and worn the marks for weeks after.
"I'll pay any taxes required by the Department of Taxation and presented by official notice. But I won't pay your fees and your assessments and your additional overcharges."
"What did you say?" Umbridge no longer sounded concerned and sugary-sweet. She sounded angry.
"I said, I'm not paying your bullshit charges any more. It's extortion, and I won't do it." Pansy was nearly shouting by the time she got to the last word.
"Now you listen here, you little bitch," Umbridge said, sounding much more like the sadistic disciplinarian Neville remembered. "After what you said in that interview, you deserve to pay, and pay and pay and pay. Do you know what I went through, just because you wanted a little attention? Just because you wanted to see your name in print, have your fifteen minutes of fame, girl? You owe me, Pansy Parkinson. You owe me much more than a few piddly little fees here and there, and if you know what's good for you, you'll pay."
Neville looked up at Ginny. Her eyes were narrowed and her lips pressed in a thin line. She met his eyes briefly and a moment of understanding passed between them. Suddenly, Ginny's desire to help an unfriendly Slytherin made perfect sense.
Ginny nodded, her eyes flicking toward the store, and Neville nodded back. "Finite incantatem," he whispered, pointing his wand through the gap between the door frame and the edge of the curtain.
With that, the muffling charm on the table full of vocal flytraps lifted, and their chattering filled the store.
"You owe me, Pansy Parkinson," fifteen reedy little voices chanted in unison, before breaking off in separate chatter. "You'll pay," some of them said. "You owe me." "Listen here, you little bitch." "Fifteen minutes of fame." "Piddly little fees." "You deserve to pay."
"What in Merlin's name is that?" Professor Umbridge shouted, backing away from the counter.
"Just some new merchandise," Pansy said, sounding calm again. "Talking plants. A great addition to the home. They remember all kinds of useful things."
"You deserve to pay," the plants said. "Do you know what I went through?"
"What-- what?" Umbridge seemed to be in disbelief.
"Arthur Weasley just loves those things," Pansy said. "He ordered one as a gift for the Minister, you know." Neville was fairly confident that was a bald-faced lie, but he couldn't be sure.
"The -- the Minister?" Umbridge repeated angrily. She seemed to buy it, in any case.
"The Minister!" chimed several of the plants in happy unison. "You owe me, Pansy Parkinson."
"I-- I don't think we need to get the Minister involved," Umbridge said. "We can take care of this ourselves." Through the curtain Neville could see her raise her wand and point it in the direction of his plants. He rose quickly to his feet, but Ginny grabbed his arm and held him back.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Pansy said evenly. "They're carnivorous, you know." She pointed to the sign next to the display that identified them as vocal flytraps. Neville bit his lip to stop from laughing. It was true that the plants were carnivorous: they ate flies and small spiders, but nothing large. They couldn't even digest a pixie.
"You know, I've always supported small businesses," Umbridge said. "And this is quite a lovely shop, really wonderful examples of magical innovation."
"Really," Pansy repeated dryly.
"Yes, quite," Umbridge said quickly. "And if you need some, er, relief from the burden of your taxes, I'm sure that could be arranged."
"I'd like to see that in writing," Pansy said.
Behind the storeroom curtain, Neville felt a sharp thrill run through him at the sound of Dolores Umbridge backing down. He glanced over at Ginny and she grinned at him, waving her quill and notebook. "That can be arranged," she whispered.
-----
Printed in the Daily Prophet, February 8, 2005:
Tucked away in a secluded corner of Diagon Alley is an oft-overlooked store selling magical items for the home and enchanting gift objects. The proprietor, Pansy Parkinson, had this to say about the Ministry's efforts to improve the Alley's appearance for patrons and shopkeepers alike: "The Ministry has been incredibly active in their efforts to spruce up the Alley, and you can truly see the effects. They've made great strides in the repainting of address numbers."
Undersecretary Dolores Umbridge, who has spearheaded the project, commented, "I've always supported small businesses." Of Miss Parkinson's shop, she stated, "This is quite a lovely shop, really wonderful examples of magical innovation."
The Diagon Alley improvement project was a grassroots effort, according to its organizer. "I don't think we need to get the Minister involved," Umbridge says. "We can take care of this ourselves."
Thanks to her successes in the Diagon Alley rejuvenation efforts, the Minister announced yesterday that he would be promoting Umbridge to the post of Undersecretary for Magical Weights and Standards, a post in which she ought to be able to do a great deal of good regarding the dire problem of uneven cauldron bottoms. We at the Prophet wish her the best of luck in her new venture.
--G. Weasley, London
Author: flyingcarpet, formerly r_becca
Fandom: HP
Characters: gen. Pansy Parkinson, Ginny Weasley, Arthur Weasley, Neville Longbottom, Dolores Umbridge.
Rating: PG
Length: ~3900 words
Summary: After the war, Pansy Parkinson did what she had to do to make amends. Six years later, she's still suffering the consequences.
Author's notes: for lyras, who gave me the following prompts: Finding your feet after the war, magical bribes, "she/he was never the same after that," career advice, Weasley saves the day again. I incorporated them to varying degrees of success. ♥ Thanks to silveronthetree for beta-reading.
Excerpted from the Quibbler, January 12, 1999:
"I made some mistakes," Parkinson admits, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. This is not an admission that she makes lightly or suddenly. It is, in fact, the reason that she called a meeting with this reporter today.
"I thought it didn't matter who was right, because the Dark Lord -- I mean, Voldemort -- would win, and being on the winning side was the only thing that would matter." She takes a sip of her tea, although it must be cold by this time (this reporter placed an ever-warming charm on her own teacup when it was served, but Miss Parkinson was understandably distracted), and gives a cynical smile. "Wrong on both counts," she says.
Pansy Parkinson is the human face of the Other Side, as most in the wizarding community now refer to supporters of He-Who-We-Can-Now-Call-Voldemort. Although it's difficult to consider that those supporters may be witches and wizards deserving of compassion and rehabilitation, the truth is often difficult. The witch who sits across from me today is not a monster or an unrepentant villainness. Like the rest of us, she is a person who has made mistakes, and she regrets them deeply.
In her fifth year at Hogwarts, Parkinson acted as a member of the Inquisitorial Squad organized by Dolores Umbridge to enforce the Ministry's often harsh Educational Decrees. "The Squad victimized other students," Parkinson says flatly. "Those who went on to fight Voldemort and even those who were just trying to get by. Umbridge was giving the orders, but I should've considered what I was doing before following along. She wasn't the --"
(continued on page 5)
-----
Six Years Later
Teeth chattering, Pansy kicked against the side of the stoop, trying to knock the accumulated ice and snow away from her boots, and succeeding only in stubbing her half-frozen toes. She unlocked the door using her wand and stepped inside, then carefully toed off her boots, leaving them next to the door.
She shot a glare toward the pile of slush that was slowly spreading across her hardwood floor as the ice began to melt. With all the widgets and gizmos she carried in stock, it was hard to believe she didn't have one to deal with dirty, icy boots. An idea began to form in her head, and she stood in the middle of her shop in her socks as she worked out the details.
Ten minutes later, Pansy was hunched over the counter, working on a sketch of her new boot-scraper, when the bell over the door jangled.
"Helloooo? Are you open, dearie?" a high-pitched voice asked, and Pansy gritted her teeth briefly before replying.
"Yes, indeed," Pansy said. Try checking the sign on the door if you're uncertain, she thought to herself. "And what can I do for you today, Madam Umbridge? Come to try our new self-warming chocolate?"
"Ah... no," Madam Umbridge replied with a false-sounding chuckle. "I have been reviewing your file, and I noticed that your paperwork does not seem to be quite... shall we say, up to snuff?"
Of course it's not, Pansy thought, Because I didn't pay your special paperwork expeditionary fee last week. And before that, it had been a charge to repaint the address numbers on the front of all the buildings, then a tax to support streetlamps on Diagon Alley, then a surcharge on overhanging eaves. At least twice a month, Dolores Umbridge knocked on the door of her shop with a 'helloooo' and a notice about some additional Ministry overcharge that Pansy had neglected to pay.
"That's surprising," Pansy said evenly, too sick of this charade to truly play along, "Since you reviewed the file quite thoroughly last week."
Madam Umbridge, who would probably never get sick of this game, gave a breathless giggle. "Oh, you know how it is. Things just seem to slip through the cracks."
"I'm sure," Pansy replied. "What seems to be the matter this time?"
-----
"Ginnykins!" Making his way along the narrow shoveled path from his workshed to the house, Arthur broke out in a smile when he saw his daughter appear with a sudden pop on the front porch. "What are you doing here?"
"Hi, Dad," she said, giving his cheek a quick kiss when he reached her side. "I just stopped by to tell Mum about a new talking plant I got from Neville."
"Mmm-hmmm," he said, nodding along. "Heard about those ginger biscuits she was baking, did you?"
Ginny flashed him a grin, looking so much like her mother at that age that it took his breath away a little bit. She didn't even pretend to be ashamed. "Yep," she said. "Any left?"
"Let's see what we can find, eh?" Arthur asked, rubbing his hands together. "Come in, come in." He pushed the door open with one hand and was about to step inside when Ginny stopped him.
"What's this, Dad?" she asked, looking down at a boxy little contraption sitting by the stoop.
"The newest thingummy from that shop on Diagon," Arthur said. "Your mother has been after me to stop tracking snow all over the carpets, so it seemed like perfect timing. See, you just put your shoe on here and--" He demonstrated, and a long-handled brush extended from the side of the box and began to clean the clumps of ice off the sides of his shoes. "And Bob's-your-uncle, no muss or fuss."
Ginny actually looked halfway interested, unlike most of her brothers did when he started talking about his doodads. "That's dead useful, it is."
"Shop's full of useful stuff," Arthur said, as he and Ginny stepped inside and began divesting themselves of cloaks and scarves. "You should go down there and see for yourself. Actually, I think you were at Hogwarts together with the owner -- Pansy Parkinson?"
Ginny's face twisted up into an expression of distaste, but then softened. "We were never exactly friends," she said, "though she wasn't so bad in seventh year, after that interview Luna did." Arthur wondered what that meant. He loved his daughter, but she could be so much more confusing than the boys sometimes.
"Well, she's got quite a cunning little shop," Arthur said. He ought to know, he tended to drop in at least two or three times a week on his lunch hour and talk with Miss Parkinson about the charmed objects and magical tools she carried. She was always willing to talk him about the silly ideas he came up with around the house, and if he could ever figure out his idea to make his alarm clock brew a cup of tea in the mornings, she'd even agreed to sell it for him.
"Last week when I was in there, she was telling me all about this red tape the Ministry is forcing on them nowadays," Arthur told her. Now where had Molly hidden those biscuits? He knew there were still quite a few left. Perhaps in the back of the cupboard?
"Red tape?" Ginny asked, as he rummaged about in the pantry.
"Hmm, yes," Arthur agreed. "I tell you what, I'm glad I'm retired if that's what the folks at the Ministry have to go through with every shop on the Alley. Extra charges for gutter maintenance and tarriffs on sign lettering and whatnot. Must be quite a burden. That Umbridge is in there nearly every week, according to Miss Parkinson."
"Umbridge?" Ginny's voice was suddenly sharp, and Arthur straightened up and looked at her, despite the fact that he still hadn't found Molly's biscuits. "She said that?"
"Ah, erm," Arthur suddenly realized that perhaps he hadn't been meant to repeat that story. If there had been some kind of trouble between her and Miss Parkinson, his daughter could be downright ruthless when she put her mind to it. "I probably misunderstood," he said. "I'm sure it was nothing."
"Right, nothing," Ginny repeated, sounding unconvinced.
-----
"I'm not doing an interview," Pansy said, leaning back against the wall behind her counter, arms crossed over her chest, "so you can just leave now, Weasley." Her hair was longer than it had been in school, cut into sleek black bangs that grazed her eyebrows, and she watched Ginny evenly.
"But if people just knew what she was doing, she'd never get away with it," Ginny insisted, brandishing her quill and notepad. "It's completely unfair the way she's targeting--"
"A newspaper article is not going to fix this," Pansy insisted. "An article is what caused this problem in the first place, and if you think--"
"That article was brilliant," Ginny insisted, cutting her off. "Brilliant. Umbridge deserved every word of that and more. She got what was coming to her when it was published, and if you're regretting it now, then you're dumber than I ever thought. This is just another--"
"Weasley." A little smile had appeared on Pansy's face despite Ginny's angry tirade, which was quite the opposite of what she'd meant to say. "Calm down, for Merlin's sake."
Ginny took a deep breath. "Sorry," she said, not feeling even the least bit apologetic. "She just makes me so--"
"I know," Pansy said. "Trust me, I know."
"Then why do you put up with it?" Ginny asked. "You have to deal with her."
"I was trying to wait her out. This is my problem, Weasley. Why are you even here?"
"This would make a great story." It was true, too. If she could write an article that captured all the angles of this, the Prophet's readers would go crazy for it. It had everything: revenge, corruption, redemption, and a plucky heroine. If Parkinson could be called a heroine, which Ginny privately thought was a bit of a stretch. But compared to Umbridge, anyone would look good. "Besides, my dad seems to like you, and now that I see this place, I understand why. He must be in here all the time."
Pansy laughed. "Yeah, he loves this stuff. He's always buying some ridiculous thing for your mum as a gift, and then she comes back the next day and returns it."
"That sounds about right." Ginny shook her head. "What a waste of your time."
"Oh, I charge a small restocking fee," Pansy said. "So it's not a total waste. I get the gadget back so I can sell it again. Your mum gets a token of affection from him and most of the purchase price in pocket money from me, and your dad gets to come in here all the time and play with the charmed stuff." She shrugged. "Everybody wins."
Part of Ginny felt she should be horrified by this situation, but all she could do was laugh. "What a Slytherin way to look at it."
"That's what I am," Pansy said, her voice serious again. "I do what I need to do. I always have." It wasn't an admission or an explanation, exactly, but it was close. It didn't matter. Ginny had always known that Luna's interview wasn't something Pansy did only out of the goodness of her heart; it had benefitted her. It hadn't won Pansy any friends, but after that she'd somehow seemed less of an enemy than she'd been before.
Ginny tapped her quill against her cheek in thought. "You're right," she said. The interview, all those years ago, had shown the world a different side of the war. Still, that didn't mean it was the right way to handle the current situation.
"Maybe what we need is a Slytherin strategy," Ginny said slowly.
"We?" Pansy repeated. "I'm not your charity project, you know."
"Hear me out before you turn me down, all right?" Ginny asked. "I grew up with six older brothers. I know something about revenge."
Pansy looked her over slowly. Finally she uncrossed her arms and leaned forward. "I'm listening," she said.
-----
"Wait, I'm not sure I -- you want to borrow my vocal flytraps for Pansy Parkinson?" Neville asked, looking down at Ginny's face in the fire.
"Yes," she said, offering no explanation. "Look, can you bring them over to her shop right now? Umbridge is probably going to drop in today and we need them set up before she gets here."
"All right," Neville said slowly. It didn't make any sense, but he didn't see the harm in it, and Ginny had done so many things for him over the years that he'd never be able to count them all. "I s'pose I owe you a favor anyway. But you'll explain everything after it's all over?"
"Of course." With that, Ginny's head disappeared from the flames.
Twenty minutes later, the back door of the shop opened before Neville could knock. He moved his wand slowly, floating the tray of plants inside to a small storeroom filled with neat shelves.
"You're the best, Neville," Ginny said, as she shut the door behind him.
"I won't be, if my vocal flytraps die from being out in the cold," he said briskly. "Here, help me get the protective charms off of them." She bent down at his side and pulled out her wand, murmuring "finite incantatem" over each clay pot. As the charms were released, the plants began to murmur quietly, humming and babbling to each other in soft voices.
"All right?" another female voice asked. Neville looked up to see Pansy standing in the doorway; behind her he could see the warm glow of the main shop.
"All right?" two of the plants repeated, in eerie synchronicity. Pansy's eyebrows disappeared beneath her hair.
Neville remembered what Pansy had been like at school, both before and after the battle and the interview and everything. He remembered the tip of her wand and the bitter twist of her words, and the way that later, she would sit by herself in a corner of the Slytherin table, even though she could have moved over and sat with Lisa Turpin in Ravenclaw. It was a strange kind of loyalty, but it was a lot more than he'd ever recognized in her before the battle.
"I reckon we're good, yeah." Neville nodded at her and after a moment Pansy nodded back. She seemed to realize that he was talking about more than just the plants.
Together, the three of them arranged the plants on a display table near the front of the shop. Pansy got out a small sign and some ribbon to decorate the table. Neville didn't really see the point of it, but once she was done, the plants seemed to blend in to the kitschy, cutesy feel of the rest of the shop.
"Nev, I think... some kind of a silencing charm?" Ginny asked. Neville looked at her, then back at the plants, and then back to her before he turned and carefully cast a muffling charm on the table, surrounding the plants so that their little voices would not be audible. The flytraps would repeat the same words for weeks, if they were said with enough emotion behind them. He was starting to get an inkling of what Ginny had in mind.
Once everything was set up, Pansy took her place behind the counter, and Neville and Ginny retreated into the storeroom, pulling a thin flowered curtain across the doorway behind them. He sat on the edge of a wooden crate and she leaned up against a bookshelf to wait.
Neville had no idea what he was waiting for, other than Professor-- no, Undersecretary-- no, Madam Umbridge. He sat in the semi-dark room, glancing around aimlessly. Ginny seemed as calm as she could be, given the circumstances; she was examining her fingernails, looking for some minute imperfection visible only to women. The shelves around them were labeled in neat handwriting with contents like teapot, self-heating and picture frame, dust-repelling. Through the thin fabric of the curtain, he could see the outline of Pansy inside the store, the gleaming magical knick-knacks on every surface.
After a short time, the front door opened with a gust of cold air and a jangling bell. "Helloooo?"
Neville raised his wand and held it at the ready. The flytraps in the corner of the shop flapped open and shut, but only a low buzzing noise made it through the muffling charm. Otherwise, the only sounds were the voices of Umbridge and Pansy. A few feet away, Ginny set a Quick-Quotes Quill above a notebook and let it go. As Umbridge began to speak, the quill danced across the page, recording her every word.
"Do you have your payment ready for the special assessment we discussed last week, dear?"
"No, I'm afraid I don't." Pansy's voice sounded calm and even; the only reason Neville knew that wasn't true was that her voice sounded so different now than it had before.
"Oh! Well, I'll be happy to wait while you make out the cheque."
"I won't be making out a cheque. I'm not giving you any more money."
"You... won't be paying your taxes any longer, dear? Do you really think that's wise?" Umbridge's voice was full of false concern, and Neville gritted his teeth. He remembered what detention had been like with this woman, how he'd bled and worn the marks for weeks after.
"I'll pay any taxes required by the Department of Taxation and presented by official notice. But I won't pay your fees and your assessments and your additional overcharges."
"What did you say?" Umbridge no longer sounded concerned and sugary-sweet. She sounded angry.
"I said, I'm not paying your bullshit charges any more. It's extortion, and I won't do it." Pansy was nearly shouting by the time she got to the last word.
"Now you listen here, you little bitch," Umbridge said, sounding much more like the sadistic disciplinarian Neville remembered. "After what you said in that interview, you deserve to pay, and pay and pay and pay. Do you know what I went through, just because you wanted a little attention? Just because you wanted to see your name in print, have your fifteen minutes of fame, girl? You owe me, Pansy Parkinson. You owe me much more than a few piddly little fees here and there, and if you know what's good for you, you'll pay."
Neville looked up at Ginny. Her eyes were narrowed and her lips pressed in a thin line. She met his eyes briefly and a moment of understanding passed between them. Suddenly, Ginny's desire to help an unfriendly Slytherin made perfect sense.
Ginny nodded, her eyes flicking toward the store, and Neville nodded back. "Finite incantatem," he whispered, pointing his wand through the gap between the door frame and the edge of the curtain.
With that, the muffling charm on the table full of vocal flytraps lifted, and their chattering filled the store.
"You owe me, Pansy Parkinson," fifteen reedy little voices chanted in unison, before breaking off in separate chatter. "You'll pay," some of them said. "You owe me." "Listen here, you little bitch." "Fifteen minutes of fame." "Piddly little fees." "You deserve to pay."
"What in Merlin's name is that?" Professor Umbridge shouted, backing away from the counter.
"Just some new merchandise," Pansy said, sounding calm again. "Talking plants. A great addition to the home. They remember all kinds of useful things."
"You deserve to pay," the plants said. "Do you know what I went through?"
"What-- what?" Umbridge seemed to be in disbelief.
"Arthur Weasley just loves those things," Pansy said. "He ordered one as a gift for the Minister, you know." Neville was fairly confident that was a bald-faced lie, but he couldn't be sure.
"The -- the Minister?" Umbridge repeated angrily. She seemed to buy it, in any case.
"The Minister!" chimed several of the plants in happy unison. "You owe me, Pansy Parkinson."
"I-- I don't think we need to get the Minister involved," Umbridge said. "We can take care of this ourselves." Through the curtain Neville could see her raise her wand and point it in the direction of his plants. He rose quickly to his feet, but Ginny grabbed his arm and held him back.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Pansy said evenly. "They're carnivorous, you know." She pointed to the sign next to the display that identified them as vocal flytraps. Neville bit his lip to stop from laughing. It was true that the plants were carnivorous: they ate flies and small spiders, but nothing large. They couldn't even digest a pixie.
"You know, I've always supported small businesses," Umbridge said. "And this is quite a lovely shop, really wonderful examples of magical innovation."
"Really," Pansy repeated dryly.
"Yes, quite," Umbridge said quickly. "And if you need some, er, relief from the burden of your taxes, I'm sure that could be arranged."
"I'd like to see that in writing," Pansy said.
Behind the storeroom curtain, Neville felt a sharp thrill run through him at the sound of Dolores Umbridge backing down. He glanced over at Ginny and she grinned at him, waving her quill and notebook. "That can be arranged," she whispered.
-----
Printed in the Daily Prophet, February 8, 2005:
Tucked away in a secluded corner of Diagon Alley is an oft-overlooked store selling magical items for the home and enchanting gift objects. The proprietor, Pansy Parkinson, had this to say about the Ministry's efforts to improve the Alley's appearance for patrons and shopkeepers alike: "The Ministry has been incredibly active in their efforts to spruce up the Alley, and you can truly see the effects. They've made great strides in the repainting of address numbers."
Undersecretary Dolores Umbridge, who has spearheaded the project, commented, "I've always supported small businesses." Of Miss Parkinson's shop, she stated, "This is quite a lovely shop, really wonderful examples of magical innovation."
The Diagon Alley improvement project was a grassroots effort, according to its organizer. "I don't think we need to get the Minister involved," Umbridge says. "We can take care of this ourselves."
Thanks to her successes in the Diagon Alley rejuvenation efforts, the Minister announced yesterday that he would be promoting Umbridge to the post of Undersecretary for Magical Weights and Standards, a post in which she ought to be able to do a great deal of good regarding the dire problem of uneven cauldron bottoms. We at the Prophet wish her the best of luck in her new venture.
--G. Weasley, London