FIC (No challenge): Ugly
Title: Ugly
Summary: When Pansy suggests handing Harry Potter over to Voldemort, all she can think is that she just doesn’t want to die. She doesn’t want to see the color of her blood or feel her breath stolen away. She doesn’t want her body to lie broken on the floor with her eyes open and unseeing. She just wants to be safe and alive. Being free is secondary.
Bullies are made, not born.
Characters/Pairings: Pansy Parkinson, Poppy Pomfrey, Severus Snape, Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter, Hermione Granger unrequited PP/SS and unrequited PP/HG
Genre: Angst/Drama
Rating/Warnings: PG-13/emotional abuse
Word Count: 4,480
I. Blood
When Pansy is four, she accidentally cuts herself with a steak knife and cries. The blood running down her finger is scary. She immediately drops the knife to her plate where it clatters loudly but she can barely hear it through her cries. It takes forever for her mother to come and when her mother finally enters the dining room, she’s huffing and puffing.
“What now?” Pansy’s mother barks.
Still crying, Pansy holds up her bloodied hand.
Her mother rolls her eyes. “You couldn’t have just asked for the house-elf?” She roughly grabs Pansy’s hand and murmurs a quick healing spell and looks at the tablecloth. “There’s barely any blood and you still manage to get it all over the tablecloth?” she asked incredulously.
Pansy hugs her healed hand to her chest. She barely registers her mother’s irritation; all she can see is that the blood is gone. Just gone. It disappeared and everything was all better.
Her mother waves her wand at the tablecloth. “Scourgify,” she says. The bright red spots turn into a muddy brown. Her mother’s shoulders slump in defeat. “Now look what you did,” she says. She picks the knife off the plate and leaves the room.
Pansy sits in her spot watching the spots on the tablecloth. It’s an hour before Dara, the house-elf, comes to take her away from the table and leads her into her bedroom.
“What if the bleeding doesn’t stop?” Pansy asks Dara.
Dara has always taken liberties with Pansy and Pansy knows not to tell. So when she sees Dara’s big brown eyes glint with mischief, she knows that this is a secret. Even at four years old, Pansy loves secrets. Dara snaps her fingers and conjures a brightly colored muggle bandage. It’s in the brightest pink and purple that Pansy has ever seen. Dara explains that the muggles often appreciate things called ‘neon colors’ and often make ‘band-aids’ for children to stop the bleeding.
Pansy takes the bandage and sticks it on her stomach beneath her shirt. If she starts bleeding again, she’ll be prepared. And although she’s not supposed to, before she leaves, Dara gives her a tight hug that leaves Pansy misty-eyed.
Pansy wonders if muggles hug their kids after giving them bandages.
II. Winded
When Pansy is eight, her friend Draco comes over to play. They’re out in the courtyard on their toy broomsticks. It’s taking everything Pansy has got not to tell Draco that his grip on his broomstick is all wrong. Her mother insists that it is improper to inform a boy if they were doing something wrong, especially a Malfoy. She says that they’ll either learn eventually or continue looking like a fool.
So when Draco dares her to climb one of the biggest and burliest tree in the courtyard, she cannot refuse. He is a Malfoy, and she is a girl and a Parkinson at that. There are no great lineages from Parkinson. Their line is soiled by someone unmentionable.
Looking at the great big tree, she considers backing out regardless of all that was supposedly at stake. Surely, nothing is worse than a great big fall from that tree? Images of blood and broken bodies dance across her mind. She doesn’t like blood or injury. She never has. She tosses a glance at Draco only to see that he’s smirking.
“Can’t do it, Pansy?” he asks, snickering. “Muggles do it all the time.”
It’s an obvious insult against muggles but that’s not what makes Pansy reach for the first branch. As her hand curls around the rough bark, she thinks that muggles get to climb and play in trees all day. They don’t sit through stuffy etiquette lessons or learn the proper order of silverware. They don’t trace their history and lineage as if dead people mean more than the living. She pulls herself up and through the branches. She feels lithe and free.
There’s a glimpse of bright blue sky through the leaves. It’s the most beautiful thing. She suddenly realizes that she’s higher up than she’s ever been without a broom. Draco’s laugh comes from below her and she reaches for another branch to go even higher. But before her grip is secure, Draco suddenly flies up from beneath her and Pansy is startled. She loses her loose grip on the branch and teeters to the side, staying up for only a second before she falls out of the tree.
She tries to grab onto anything and her hands only brush leaves and then air before she falls and hits the ground. Winded, she can’t breathe and she stays still on the ground. She can hear Draco’s cries of “Pansy! PANSY!” clearer than ever before. Odd, how Draco had never seemed quite so shrill or fearful. He wasn’t supposed to sound like that. At least that’s what her mother always said. Men should never sound fearful, but she had admitted that there were dire enough situations in which men’s fear was warranted. From Draco’s frantic cries, it sounded as if it was warranted.
She didn’t want to die. She didn’t want to hurt. Did she hurt? She couldn’t breathe. How did one breathe again? It takes Draco a few moments before calling the house-elf and kneeling awkwardly at Pansy’s side. There’s a loud pop signaling that Dara was somewhere, but Pansy can’t move or see. She only sees Draco’s worried grey eyes.
Dara quickly checks Pansy over and gets her to focus on breathing. The house-elf reminds her that she needs to take deep breaths. Dara whispers comforting words and Pansy pretends that it’s her mother muttering them while holding her, and that Draco’s worried eyes are her mother’s worried eyes. She’s finally breathing and the air is so sweet. Dara smiles widely, baring all her teeth. “You just winded,” she says simply. “Scary. Very scary.”
Draco never apologizes for scaring her out of the tree and they both blame muggles for having terrible ideas and Pansy’s feeling of freedom in the tree is easily overshadowed by her fear of never being able to take a breath again.
Pansy decides that she’ll never climb a tree again. She likes her feet on the ground where it’s steady. And safe.
III. Mirrored
When Pansy is eleven, she dresses in her Hogwarts clothes for the first time. There’s a thrill of excitement as she pulls on her grey pleated skirt and buttons her white Oxford top. Her hands reach around her throat, searching for the tie that would be placed around her neck later that day. She then pulls on her white stockings and eagerly shoves each foot into her patented Mary-Janes as she tries to figure out which house she’ll be in.
When she’s finished, she stands in front of the mirror looking proud. This was her first step away from here and the first step towards her very own life. There’s heavy footsteps coming up from behind her and she sees her mother’s heeled shoes in the corner of the mirror. Pansy turns and looks uncertainly up at her mother’s frowning face.
“I’m ready,” Pansy says, trying to sound brave.
A snort and Pansy tries to turn her head back downward but her mother grips her chin and forces her head from side to side.
“Such an ugly girl,” she says, letting Pansy’s head drop. “Such a broad…horrid nose. You get that from your father,” she said with disgust.
Pansy’s face flushes in shame as she finds her tiny black shoes unbearably interesting. Her chin-length black hair falls in front of her face, protecting her in a curtain of black.
“Stop that. Everyone will see that you’re pathetic.”
Misery turns to anger. Can’t her mother see that she’s trying? Her clothes are perfect. She’s ready far before they even need to leave. Can’t her mother see that it’s okay to be a little nervous? Pansy tries, she really tries, to tilt her head up to her mother, to brave that harsh expression, but she last only moments, withering under her mother’s angry glare. Inside, she curses herself. Everyone knows that bravery is in tilted up chins and defiant eyes. It’s a skill she doesn’t have. It’s a skill she doesn’t think that she’ll ever have. She wants to sink into the ground, fade into the background and never be seen again. Bravery is not for her.
“Watch that you don’t get even pudgier from the meals,” her mother says right before she leaves the room.
It’s the only piece of advice Pansy will get before she leaves for her first of seven years at Hogwarts. Dara will be the one to take her to the platform. Dara will be the one with the teary good-bye and a secret hug. Dara will shine her shoes and tuck in her shirt. Dara will wipe away the one or two tears that will escape before she leaves the only home she has never known. Dara will make certain that the first person she meets on the Express is her good friend Draco. She won’t have to worry about not knowing anyone or looking like a fool. If she’s with a Malfoy, everything she does will seem acceptable.
So when Draco leaves the compartment to look for the famed Harry Potter, Pansy will lean back in her seat, secure in the knowledge that Draco is coming back and that she has someone to converse with. She doesn’t care if he comes back with or without Potter. So long as comes back.
When Draco comes back with an angry, rejected look in his grey eyes, Pansy fawns all over him, like Dara had done earlier. Although she doesn’t really know Potter, she decides he is a horrible person for not seeing how great Draco truly is. For the rest of the train ride, they bitterly discuss the new blight at Hogwarts, Harry Potter.
---
When Pansy hears her name called for her sorting, she momentarily freezes. This was it. This was her time. All eyes would be on her. Her stomach roils uncomfortably. But even as she winces uncomfortably, she realizes that she might be able to make something of this. All eyes on her, could be a good thing. It didn’t have to mean they were all angry eyes. She takes a slow step forward and holds her head up, even as her eyes watch her shoes taking a step towards the tall stool.
She clambers on the stool as a very stern looking witch puts the hat on her head. What if she didn’t belong? What if there was no place for people like her? She wants to be strong; it’s an almost angry realization. She wants people to think that she’s worth something. And survival is important; you’re not worth anything dead. Pansy intakes a sharp breath as her mind is suddenly filled with images of dead bodies.
Survival, eh? the hat asks inside her head. Pansy didn’t jump. She had known what to expect. Many of the times there were long discussions with the hat to decide where people were sorted. Pansy waited for the hat to begin a dialogue but it’s oddly silent. It’s a couple moments before the hat speaks the only other sentence Pansy will ever hear from it. There’s really no other place for you but…
The hat shouts “SLYTHERIN!” and Pansy walks to her new house table, her hand mindlessly stroking the collar of her shirt. As she sits down next to Draco, she thinks that the hat sounded almost disappointed. No matter. She was home. If Slytherin was really the only place for her, then she would make it the most wonderful home that she has ever had.
Draco points out their head of house to Pansy, breaking her out of her thoughts. As Pansy glimpses a sour looking man with a large nose and long black hair, Pansy thinks she feels a bit of kinship with him. She doesn’t know for certain, but she thinks that maybe he hides behind his hair like she does her. And when the man catches her staring at her, Pansy cannot look away. Instead, she strokes her nose and she thinks that the man’s irritable eyes soften for the moment. He gives her the tiniest nod and Pansy lifts her head and takes her elbows off the table.
She would do everything properly in his house. She would always follow his example.
IV. Voice
When she hears his voice, it consumes everything. All other sounds fade to the background as she listens to each uttered insult. Instead of watching his eyes (she’s not brave enough for that), she watches his mouth twist into one of his trademark sneers or one of his mocking smiles. When he berates Potter, she joins in with Draco.
During the first potions class she watches a Gryffindor raise her hand obsessively to the ceiling. It’s obvious that the girl wants to stand out. The girl’s rather ugly with her buckteeth and bushy frizzy hair. Pansy wonders for a moment if that’s how she looks. Her heart twists agonizingly for a minute and she watches Potter cheekily point out the girl.
But he doesn’t care about the girl. She’s too much of a show-off. Pansy learns how to mimic his sneer from behind the muggleborn. The fleeting image of Pansy leaning in close and wiping away the muggleborn tears is quickly quashed down. What exactly that was, she wasn’t sure. Besides, his voice is as beautiful as his face is ugly. There’s a beauty in the insults and Pansy is desperate to learn so she sits carelessly in class but paying just enough attention to pass the class and pick up the language.
V. Fear
When Draco accidentally explodes a cauldron, Pansy comes to the sudden realization that magic is dangerous. She knows that magic can heal cuts but she also knows that it’s not an infallible resource. It seems to come out of nowhere, the idea that everything is dangerous, that everything ordinary could instantly kill her. Every explosion becomes a possible burned body. Every miscast spell becomes a possible lack of air.
Spells choke her. Stairs give out beneath her. The sky drowns her. The trees trap her. The hoots of the owls pierce her ears. And yet everyone goes on as if nothing could ever happen to them. They talk so loud about everything and she hates it, but she has to press on and add her voice to the din. Unlike the rest of the miserable brats, her voice will matter.
When the bumbling idiot “defense” teacher screams about a troll in the dungeon at the Halloween feast creating panic, all Pansy can think is HA. Compared to all the dangers that stalk them every moment, a troll was just a more obvious cause of death.
After Halloween, Pansy feels that she has the perfect excuse to start getting calming draughts from Madame Pomfrey. Pomfrey takes one look at Pansy’s wringing hands and her teeth biting her lip before she hands over the potion and warns that calming draughts are only a short-term solution. As Pansy’s day passes in a dreamy haze, she thinks that she could easily get used to it. It’s as if nothing matters and all her problems will easily be fixed in moments. She relies on Draco for the insults. Standing by next to him seems good enough and his hair gel gives off a pleasing scent.
The potion wears off gradually and she doesn’t realize that it’s worn off until a few days later when suddenly the world seems sharp and clear. The mudblood’s voice grates on her ears. The stupid girl is always so happy as if she has the best of two worlds. Pansy knows it’s all a lie. Muggles are so breakable and unfixable. At least magic can fix some things.
Pansy struggles to get a schedule down so she can get as much as the calming draught as possible. It works well into May. When she walks into the Hospital Wing, Pomfrey comes bustling over quickly. The woman looks over her body for any physical ailments and when she sees none, her mouth twists in a sad frown.
Pansy stomach plummets but she puts on her best innocent face, hoping beyond hope that her tactic is working.
“I’m sorry, Miss Parkinson,” Pomfrey begins.
“Please,” Pansy begs. Her insides roil at the thought of begging. But she needs that calming draught. Finals were coming and she just couldn’t think. There was everything and there was nothing and it didn’t make sense anymore.
“This has been going on too long, Miss Parkinson. I’ve been talking to your Head of House and he’s also noted that you’ve been taking too much.”
At the mention of her Head of House, Pansy’s head perks up. A warmth spreads through her stomach and for a moment, everything feels right.
“He thinks you should talk to someone,” Pomfrey continues.
“To him?” Pansy asks hopefully.
Recognition dawns in Pomfrey’s eyes and Pansy narrows hers, wondering what Pomfrey knew that she didn’t.
“I’m sorry, but he’s not qualified enough.” Her voice sounds disappointed. Pansy doesn’t know why.
“Who, then?”
“We think perhaps a healer from St. Mungos, or if you’re inclined, I am qualified.”
Pansy’s eyes widen. The white walls of the Hospital Wing looms threateningly around her and the room she’s is getting smaller with every passing second. Her breathing quickens.
“Can I think about it?” she asks.
“You may,” Pomfrey adds with a small smile.
Pansy barely registers the smile as she leaves the Hospital Wing. All she can think of is OUT. OUT OUT OUT.
It’s a week of pointed glances and veiled hints from her Head of House before Pansy finally sees Pomfrey again. They schedule weekly sessions. The first day, Pansy sits with her arms crossed and an angry glare as Pomfrey tells her about her kids that have grown up. The second and third days Pansy only talks about her grades and homework. On the fifth day, Pomfrey tells Pansy that she can call her ‘Poppy’. Pansy smiles at the name. She loves the ‘P’s in the name.
On the six day Pansy says, “My mother hates me” before she breaks down in tears. Poppy lets her cry.
It’s not until the end of June when Pansy can’t keep everything to herself anymore. Potter nearly died. She doesn’t care about him of course. She cares that you could almost die in the school and get rewarded for it. When she hears about the three-headed-dog and whispers of You-Know-Who she runs to Poppy even though it’s not their session.
Poppy takes one look at her frazzled state of being and brings her into the room they use. “I don’t want to die,” Pansy confesses and for a moment she can breathe again. “I don’t want to die,” she repeats.
Poppy looks both sad and happy as she draws Pansy into a hug. While Pansy stiffens at the unexpected contact (there has to be rules against this), she eventually leans into it, relaxing against Poppy’s body. She was safe.
VII. Safe
Throughout her years at Hogwarts Pansy falls into a routine. She continues her sessions with Poppy, being sure that they’ll continue by only giving small important pieces here and there. Every now and then she forgets that she’s supposed to be stretching these out as long as possible and entire stories and memories spill from her lips. She talks about how much she hates Granger, how her mother never hugs her, how Dara used to tell her stories about muggles until she made her stop after that day in the tree, and how Draco’s hair smells so sweet but she doesn’t think she likes him that way.
Some days she can’t stop talking about her Head of House; she tells Poppy about when he praises her or when he’s obviously disappointed with her. She tells Poppy about his voice and how calming it is. “And,” she says one day in her fourth year, “I think he’s like me,” she says. “My mum says I’m ugly, but so is he and he’s wonderful.”
Pansy never stops following into her favorite professor’s footsteps. As he sharpens his insults, so does she. She copies his obvious distaste for muggles, mudbloods, and Harry Potter. In their dull brains, they think life is and should be perfect, but Pansy and Professor Snape know better.
Eventually Pansy lifts her head high and she looks down her nose at everyone. Especially the mudblood Granger.
“Do you like her?” Poppy asks Pansy during one of their session in her fifth year.
“I hate her,” Pansy answers as she quashes something that jumps in her stomach.
“Well yes, I know. But do you like her?”
Pansy sneers.
VIII. Ugly
The world is unsafe. Pansy doesn’t even bother to differentiate between the wizarding world and the muggle world; they’re both screwed. Hogwarts has never seemed so dark. Pansy tries to fall into place. She doesn’t dare try to fight a useless battle. She just doesn’t want to die. But it’s hard to fit in this dark world; she’s good at verbal insults, subtle manipulation, and embarrassment. She’s good at biting comments and maintaining disdain against mudbloods and muggles. This dark world is too much. It’s too blatant.
She thinks the Headmaster dislikes it as well, but she daren’t speak of it.
When her Headmaster leaves, crashing through the window, she’s torn. She wants to be wherever he is; he obviously knows how to be safe. He’s a favorite of the Dark Lord; he’ll be a survivor. She knows that she cannot follow, to be a favorite, she would have to take risks first.
The Dark Lord is coming. She can hear his voice pounding in her head. She feels sick. If they don’t hand Potter over; they’re all going to die. And Potter nearly dies every year. His time’s running out. So when Pansy suggests handing Harry Potter over to Voldemort, all she can think is that she just doesn’t want to die. She doesn’t want to see the color of her blood or feel her breath stolen away. She doesn’t want her body to lie broken on the floor with her eyes open and unseeing. She just wants to be safe and alive. Being free is secondary.
Apparently, the whole school is unafraid of death. She wonders what is wrong with them? They were all going to die. Even her fellow Slytherins don’t stand with her and the rest of the houses rise to Potter’s defense, their wands gripped tight in their hands. McGonagall sends their entire house to the dungeons much. Her house doesn’t blame her. Their looks of distaste are sent to McGonagall and to the cheering students. Later, she leaves the school with her house. A few head off to the Dark Lord, some end up going back with Slughorn, and a good portion leave entirely.
Pansy heads off to leave entirely. She wants to be as far from the fighting as possible. Win or lose, she’ll be safe. But she’s barely off before she hesitates. There’s a physical ache in her body. She can’t leave yet, she needs to see her Head of House for his advice. Poppy had stopped helping her this year, overwhelmed by the rest of the houses. Professor Snape would be able to tell her what to do.
It takes every ounce of her Slytherin cunning to make it undetected back to Hogwarts. It’s almost as if something else is guiding her body. It’s not too difficult to be undetected; she hears that the Dark Lord has killed Potter. She almost snorts when she hears that Potter supposedly tried to run away. Even she knows Potter is ridiculously brave and had the biggest death wish anyone had ever seen. Staying on the outskirts of Hogwarts, she finds her feet padding softly to the Shrieking Shack.
What she sees freezes her cold. Her breath catches in her throat. She doesn’t know how long she stares at the body. Her confident professor lied bloody and broken in front of her, like one of the dead bodies from her dreams. His eyes looked off far-away and his mouth was slightly open. His arms stretched away from his body as if they were reaching for something important.
Heart pounding in her throat, Pansy made her way closer. Unable to tear her gaze away, she’s hit with the sudden realization that he’s been killed by a large snake. The Dark Lord had a snake.
“No,” she says softly. “No.” He was a favorite. He was supposed to be safe.
For the first time, Pansy wanted the Dark Lord to lose. She’d befriend muggles and kiss Granger if it meant that he lost. The Dark Lord killed one of his most valuable and most loyal death eaters. He killed her other half. The world would never be safe with him in it.
Pansy slinks to her knees and cries. Time passes and she hears joyous shouts. She doesn’t hear Bellatrix’s mad screams or the Dark Lord’s victory speech and she realizes that the Dark Lord is gone. Hours pass and Pansy stays in the shack, unable to move from her post. Something’s keeping her there and she doesn’t want to leave her professor alone. He looked out for her the best he could. She would do the same.
When Potter turns up in the shack, Pansy sees him for the first time. His eyes are tired and red-rimmed; he doesn’t look the picture of the victorious hero. It is the strangest thing though; Potter doesn’t scorn her or her professor. He looks at the dead body with the utmost respect before looking at Pansy, a battle fighting in his eyes.
“He was loyal,” she says. “He was loyal and he still killed him.”
“He’s dead now,” Potter says. They both know who he means.
“You wouldn’t know,” she says, “but he was wonderful. And now, no one will know.”
Potter seemed to make his mind up about something. “I have something to show you,” he says.
“After,” Pansy replies. “After we take care of him.”
Potter nods.
They’re an unlikely pair but neither care; their attention focused on the ugly man between them.
IX. Twenty-Three
Pansy no longer has a wand. She snapped it in a fit of rage a few years ago. Since then, she’s been facing her fears. She lives in a small cottage on the outskirts of a muggle town and debating about trying to move into the center of town. She has a few muggle friends and has semi-awkward lunches with Hermione Granger every couple weeks. The lunches are getting less awkward and while Pansy knows that Hermione will never feel the same way, Pansy treasures them.
Professor Snape had a muggleborn friend too.
MAXED OUT at 149 points for Slytherin!
Summary: When Pansy suggests handing Harry Potter over to Voldemort, all she can think is that she just doesn’t want to die. She doesn’t want to see the color of her blood or feel her breath stolen away. She doesn’t want her body to lie broken on the floor with her eyes open and unseeing. She just wants to be safe and alive. Being free is secondary.
Bullies are made, not born.
Characters/Pairings: Pansy Parkinson, Poppy Pomfrey, Severus Snape, Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter, Hermione Granger unrequited PP/SS and unrequited PP/HG
Genre: Angst/Drama
Rating/Warnings: PG-13/emotional abuse
Word Count: 4,480
I. Blood
When Pansy is four, she accidentally cuts herself with a steak knife and cries. The blood running down her finger is scary. She immediately drops the knife to her plate where it clatters loudly but she can barely hear it through her cries. It takes forever for her mother to come and when her mother finally enters the dining room, she’s huffing and puffing.
“What now?” Pansy’s mother barks.
Still crying, Pansy holds up her bloodied hand.
Her mother rolls her eyes. “You couldn’t have just asked for the house-elf?” She roughly grabs Pansy’s hand and murmurs a quick healing spell and looks at the tablecloth. “There’s barely any blood and you still manage to get it all over the tablecloth?” she asked incredulously.
Pansy hugs her healed hand to her chest. She barely registers her mother’s irritation; all she can see is that the blood is gone. Just gone. It disappeared and everything was all better.
Her mother waves her wand at the tablecloth. “Scourgify,” she says. The bright red spots turn into a muddy brown. Her mother’s shoulders slump in defeat. “Now look what you did,” she says. She picks the knife off the plate and leaves the room.
Pansy sits in her spot watching the spots on the tablecloth. It’s an hour before Dara, the house-elf, comes to take her away from the table and leads her into her bedroom.
“What if the bleeding doesn’t stop?” Pansy asks Dara.
Dara has always taken liberties with Pansy and Pansy knows not to tell. So when she sees Dara’s big brown eyes glint with mischief, she knows that this is a secret. Even at four years old, Pansy loves secrets. Dara snaps her fingers and conjures a brightly colored muggle bandage. It’s in the brightest pink and purple that Pansy has ever seen. Dara explains that the muggles often appreciate things called ‘neon colors’ and often make ‘band-aids’ for children to stop the bleeding.
Pansy takes the bandage and sticks it on her stomach beneath her shirt. If she starts bleeding again, she’ll be prepared. And although she’s not supposed to, before she leaves, Dara gives her a tight hug that leaves Pansy misty-eyed.
Pansy wonders if muggles hug their kids after giving them bandages.
II. Winded
When Pansy is eight, her friend Draco comes over to play. They’re out in the courtyard on their toy broomsticks. It’s taking everything Pansy has got not to tell Draco that his grip on his broomstick is all wrong. Her mother insists that it is improper to inform a boy if they were doing something wrong, especially a Malfoy. She says that they’ll either learn eventually or continue looking like a fool.
So when Draco dares her to climb one of the biggest and burliest tree in the courtyard, she cannot refuse. He is a Malfoy, and she is a girl and a Parkinson at that. There are no great lineages from Parkinson. Their line is soiled by someone unmentionable.
Looking at the great big tree, she considers backing out regardless of all that was supposedly at stake. Surely, nothing is worse than a great big fall from that tree? Images of blood and broken bodies dance across her mind. She doesn’t like blood or injury. She never has. She tosses a glance at Draco only to see that he’s smirking.
“Can’t do it, Pansy?” he asks, snickering. “Muggles do it all the time.”
It’s an obvious insult against muggles but that’s not what makes Pansy reach for the first branch. As her hand curls around the rough bark, she thinks that muggles get to climb and play in trees all day. They don’t sit through stuffy etiquette lessons or learn the proper order of silverware. They don’t trace their history and lineage as if dead people mean more than the living. She pulls herself up and through the branches. She feels lithe and free.
There’s a glimpse of bright blue sky through the leaves. It’s the most beautiful thing. She suddenly realizes that she’s higher up than she’s ever been without a broom. Draco’s laugh comes from below her and she reaches for another branch to go even higher. But before her grip is secure, Draco suddenly flies up from beneath her and Pansy is startled. She loses her loose grip on the branch and teeters to the side, staying up for only a second before she falls out of the tree.
She tries to grab onto anything and her hands only brush leaves and then air before she falls and hits the ground. Winded, she can’t breathe and she stays still on the ground. She can hear Draco’s cries of “Pansy! PANSY!” clearer than ever before. Odd, how Draco had never seemed quite so shrill or fearful. He wasn’t supposed to sound like that. At least that’s what her mother always said. Men should never sound fearful, but she had admitted that there were dire enough situations in which men’s fear was warranted. From Draco’s frantic cries, it sounded as if it was warranted.
She didn’t want to die. She didn’t want to hurt. Did she hurt? She couldn’t breathe. How did one breathe again? It takes Draco a few moments before calling the house-elf and kneeling awkwardly at Pansy’s side. There’s a loud pop signaling that Dara was somewhere, but Pansy can’t move or see. She only sees Draco’s worried grey eyes.
Dara quickly checks Pansy over and gets her to focus on breathing. The house-elf reminds her that she needs to take deep breaths. Dara whispers comforting words and Pansy pretends that it’s her mother muttering them while holding her, and that Draco’s worried eyes are her mother’s worried eyes. She’s finally breathing and the air is so sweet. Dara smiles widely, baring all her teeth. “You just winded,” she says simply. “Scary. Very scary.”
Draco never apologizes for scaring her out of the tree and they both blame muggles for having terrible ideas and Pansy’s feeling of freedom in the tree is easily overshadowed by her fear of never being able to take a breath again.
Pansy decides that she’ll never climb a tree again. She likes her feet on the ground where it’s steady. And safe.
III. Mirrored
When Pansy is eleven, she dresses in her Hogwarts clothes for the first time. There’s a thrill of excitement as she pulls on her grey pleated skirt and buttons her white Oxford top. Her hands reach around her throat, searching for the tie that would be placed around her neck later that day. She then pulls on her white stockings and eagerly shoves each foot into her patented Mary-Janes as she tries to figure out which house she’ll be in.
When she’s finished, she stands in front of the mirror looking proud. This was her first step away from here and the first step towards her very own life. There’s heavy footsteps coming up from behind her and she sees her mother’s heeled shoes in the corner of the mirror. Pansy turns and looks uncertainly up at her mother’s frowning face.
“I’m ready,” Pansy says, trying to sound brave.
A snort and Pansy tries to turn her head back downward but her mother grips her chin and forces her head from side to side.
“Such an ugly girl,” she says, letting Pansy’s head drop. “Such a broad…horrid nose. You get that from your father,” she said with disgust.
Pansy’s face flushes in shame as she finds her tiny black shoes unbearably interesting. Her chin-length black hair falls in front of her face, protecting her in a curtain of black.
“Stop that. Everyone will see that you’re pathetic.”
Misery turns to anger. Can’t her mother see that she’s trying? Her clothes are perfect. She’s ready far before they even need to leave. Can’t her mother see that it’s okay to be a little nervous? Pansy tries, she really tries, to tilt her head up to her mother, to brave that harsh expression, but she last only moments, withering under her mother’s angry glare. Inside, she curses herself. Everyone knows that bravery is in tilted up chins and defiant eyes. It’s a skill she doesn’t have. It’s a skill she doesn’t think that she’ll ever have. She wants to sink into the ground, fade into the background and never be seen again. Bravery is not for her.
“Watch that you don’t get even pudgier from the meals,” her mother says right before she leaves the room.
It’s the only piece of advice Pansy will get before she leaves for her first of seven years at Hogwarts. Dara will be the one to take her to the platform. Dara will be the one with the teary good-bye and a secret hug. Dara will shine her shoes and tuck in her shirt. Dara will wipe away the one or two tears that will escape before she leaves the only home she has never known. Dara will make certain that the first person she meets on the Express is her good friend Draco. She won’t have to worry about not knowing anyone or looking like a fool. If she’s with a Malfoy, everything she does will seem acceptable.
So when Draco leaves the compartment to look for the famed Harry Potter, Pansy will lean back in her seat, secure in the knowledge that Draco is coming back and that she has someone to converse with. She doesn’t care if he comes back with or without Potter. So long as comes back.
When Draco comes back with an angry, rejected look in his grey eyes, Pansy fawns all over him, like Dara had done earlier. Although she doesn’t really know Potter, she decides he is a horrible person for not seeing how great Draco truly is. For the rest of the train ride, they bitterly discuss the new blight at Hogwarts, Harry Potter.
---
When Pansy hears her name called for her sorting, she momentarily freezes. This was it. This was her time. All eyes would be on her. Her stomach roils uncomfortably. But even as she winces uncomfortably, she realizes that she might be able to make something of this. All eyes on her, could be a good thing. It didn’t have to mean they were all angry eyes. She takes a slow step forward and holds her head up, even as her eyes watch her shoes taking a step towards the tall stool.
She clambers on the stool as a very stern looking witch puts the hat on her head. What if she didn’t belong? What if there was no place for people like her? She wants to be strong; it’s an almost angry realization. She wants people to think that she’s worth something. And survival is important; you’re not worth anything dead. Pansy intakes a sharp breath as her mind is suddenly filled with images of dead bodies.
Survival, eh? the hat asks inside her head. Pansy didn’t jump. She had known what to expect. Many of the times there were long discussions with the hat to decide where people were sorted. Pansy waited for the hat to begin a dialogue but it’s oddly silent. It’s a couple moments before the hat speaks the only other sentence Pansy will ever hear from it. There’s really no other place for you but…
The hat shouts “SLYTHERIN!” and Pansy walks to her new house table, her hand mindlessly stroking the collar of her shirt. As she sits down next to Draco, she thinks that the hat sounded almost disappointed. No matter. She was home. If Slytherin was really the only place for her, then she would make it the most wonderful home that she has ever had.
Draco points out their head of house to Pansy, breaking her out of her thoughts. As Pansy glimpses a sour looking man with a large nose and long black hair, Pansy thinks she feels a bit of kinship with him. She doesn’t know for certain, but she thinks that maybe he hides behind his hair like she does her. And when the man catches her staring at her, Pansy cannot look away. Instead, she strokes her nose and she thinks that the man’s irritable eyes soften for the moment. He gives her the tiniest nod and Pansy lifts her head and takes her elbows off the table.
She would do everything properly in his house. She would always follow his example.
IV. Voice
When she hears his voice, it consumes everything. All other sounds fade to the background as she listens to each uttered insult. Instead of watching his eyes (she’s not brave enough for that), she watches his mouth twist into one of his trademark sneers or one of his mocking smiles. When he berates Potter, she joins in with Draco.
During the first potions class she watches a Gryffindor raise her hand obsessively to the ceiling. It’s obvious that the girl wants to stand out. The girl’s rather ugly with her buckteeth and bushy frizzy hair. Pansy wonders for a moment if that’s how she looks. Her heart twists agonizingly for a minute and she watches Potter cheekily point out the girl.
But he doesn’t care about the girl. She’s too much of a show-off. Pansy learns how to mimic his sneer from behind the muggleborn. The fleeting image of Pansy leaning in close and wiping away the muggleborn tears is quickly quashed down. What exactly that was, she wasn’t sure. Besides, his voice is as beautiful as his face is ugly. There’s a beauty in the insults and Pansy is desperate to learn so she sits carelessly in class but paying just enough attention to pass the class and pick up the language.
V. Fear
When Draco accidentally explodes a cauldron, Pansy comes to the sudden realization that magic is dangerous. She knows that magic can heal cuts but she also knows that it’s not an infallible resource. It seems to come out of nowhere, the idea that everything is dangerous, that everything ordinary could instantly kill her. Every explosion becomes a possible burned body. Every miscast spell becomes a possible lack of air.
Spells choke her. Stairs give out beneath her. The sky drowns her. The trees trap her. The hoots of the owls pierce her ears. And yet everyone goes on as if nothing could ever happen to them. They talk so loud about everything and she hates it, but she has to press on and add her voice to the din. Unlike the rest of the miserable brats, her voice will matter.
When the bumbling idiot “defense” teacher screams about a troll in the dungeon at the Halloween feast creating panic, all Pansy can think is HA. Compared to all the dangers that stalk them every moment, a troll was just a more obvious cause of death.
After Halloween, Pansy feels that she has the perfect excuse to start getting calming draughts from Madame Pomfrey. Pomfrey takes one look at Pansy’s wringing hands and her teeth biting her lip before she hands over the potion and warns that calming draughts are only a short-term solution. As Pansy’s day passes in a dreamy haze, she thinks that she could easily get used to it. It’s as if nothing matters and all her problems will easily be fixed in moments. She relies on Draco for the insults. Standing by next to him seems good enough and his hair gel gives off a pleasing scent.
The potion wears off gradually and she doesn’t realize that it’s worn off until a few days later when suddenly the world seems sharp and clear. The mudblood’s voice grates on her ears. The stupid girl is always so happy as if she has the best of two worlds. Pansy knows it’s all a lie. Muggles are so breakable and unfixable. At least magic can fix some things.
Pansy struggles to get a schedule down so she can get as much as the calming draught as possible. It works well into May. When she walks into the Hospital Wing, Pomfrey comes bustling over quickly. The woman looks over her body for any physical ailments and when she sees none, her mouth twists in a sad frown.
Pansy stomach plummets but she puts on her best innocent face, hoping beyond hope that her tactic is working.
“I’m sorry, Miss Parkinson,” Pomfrey begins.
“Please,” Pansy begs. Her insides roil at the thought of begging. But she needs that calming draught. Finals were coming and she just couldn’t think. There was everything and there was nothing and it didn’t make sense anymore.
“This has been going on too long, Miss Parkinson. I’ve been talking to your Head of House and he’s also noted that you’ve been taking too much.”
At the mention of her Head of House, Pansy’s head perks up. A warmth spreads through her stomach and for a moment, everything feels right.
“He thinks you should talk to someone,” Pomfrey continues.
“To him?” Pansy asks hopefully.
Recognition dawns in Pomfrey’s eyes and Pansy narrows hers, wondering what Pomfrey knew that she didn’t.
“I’m sorry, but he’s not qualified enough.” Her voice sounds disappointed. Pansy doesn’t know why.
“Who, then?”
“We think perhaps a healer from St. Mungos, or if you’re inclined, I am qualified.”
Pansy’s eyes widen. The white walls of the Hospital Wing looms threateningly around her and the room she’s is getting smaller with every passing second. Her breathing quickens.
“Can I think about it?” she asks.
“You may,” Pomfrey adds with a small smile.
Pansy barely registers the smile as she leaves the Hospital Wing. All she can think of is OUT. OUT OUT OUT.
It’s a week of pointed glances and veiled hints from her Head of House before Pansy finally sees Pomfrey again. They schedule weekly sessions. The first day, Pansy sits with her arms crossed and an angry glare as Pomfrey tells her about her kids that have grown up. The second and third days Pansy only talks about her grades and homework. On the fifth day, Pomfrey tells Pansy that she can call her ‘Poppy’. Pansy smiles at the name. She loves the ‘P’s in the name.
On the six day Pansy says, “My mother hates me” before she breaks down in tears. Poppy lets her cry.
It’s not until the end of June when Pansy can’t keep everything to herself anymore. Potter nearly died. She doesn’t care about him of course. She cares that you could almost die in the school and get rewarded for it. When she hears about the three-headed-dog and whispers of You-Know-Who she runs to Poppy even though it’s not their session.
Poppy takes one look at her frazzled state of being and brings her into the room they use. “I don’t want to die,” Pansy confesses and for a moment she can breathe again. “I don’t want to die,” she repeats.
Poppy looks both sad and happy as she draws Pansy into a hug. While Pansy stiffens at the unexpected contact (there has to be rules against this), she eventually leans into it, relaxing against Poppy’s body. She was safe.
VII. Safe
Throughout her years at Hogwarts Pansy falls into a routine. She continues her sessions with Poppy, being sure that they’ll continue by only giving small important pieces here and there. Every now and then she forgets that she’s supposed to be stretching these out as long as possible and entire stories and memories spill from her lips. She talks about how much she hates Granger, how her mother never hugs her, how Dara used to tell her stories about muggles until she made her stop after that day in the tree, and how Draco’s hair smells so sweet but she doesn’t think she likes him that way.
Some days she can’t stop talking about her Head of House; she tells Poppy about when he praises her or when he’s obviously disappointed with her. She tells Poppy about his voice and how calming it is. “And,” she says one day in her fourth year, “I think he’s like me,” she says. “My mum says I’m ugly, but so is he and he’s wonderful.”
Pansy never stops following into her favorite professor’s footsteps. As he sharpens his insults, so does she. She copies his obvious distaste for muggles, mudbloods, and Harry Potter. In their dull brains, they think life is and should be perfect, but Pansy and Professor Snape know better.
Eventually Pansy lifts her head high and she looks down her nose at everyone. Especially the mudblood Granger.
“Do you like her?” Poppy asks Pansy during one of their session in her fifth year.
“I hate her,” Pansy answers as she quashes something that jumps in her stomach.
“Well yes, I know. But do you like her?”
Pansy sneers.
VIII. Ugly
The world is unsafe. Pansy doesn’t even bother to differentiate between the wizarding world and the muggle world; they’re both screwed. Hogwarts has never seemed so dark. Pansy tries to fall into place. She doesn’t dare try to fight a useless battle. She just doesn’t want to die. But it’s hard to fit in this dark world; she’s good at verbal insults, subtle manipulation, and embarrassment. She’s good at biting comments and maintaining disdain against mudbloods and muggles. This dark world is too much. It’s too blatant.
She thinks the Headmaster dislikes it as well, but she daren’t speak of it.
When her Headmaster leaves, crashing through the window, she’s torn. She wants to be wherever he is; he obviously knows how to be safe. He’s a favorite of the Dark Lord; he’ll be a survivor. She knows that she cannot follow, to be a favorite, she would have to take risks first.
The Dark Lord is coming. She can hear his voice pounding in her head. She feels sick. If they don’t hand Potter over; they’re all going to die. And Potter nearly dies every year. His time’s running out. So when Pansy suggests handing Harry Potter over to Voldemort, all she can think is that she just doesn’t want to die. She doesn’t want to see the color of her blood or feel her breath stolen away. She doesn’t want her body to lie broken on the floor with her eyes open and unseeing. She just wants to be safe and alive. Being free is secondary.
Apparently, the whole school is unafraid of death. She wonders what is wrong with them? They were all going to die. Even her fellow Slytherins don’t stand with her and the rest of the houses rise to Potter’s defense, their wands gripped tight in their hands. McGonagall sends their entire house to the dungeons much. Her house doesn’t blame her. Their looks of distaste are sent to McGonagall and to the cheering students. Later, she leaves the school with her house. A few head off to the Dark Lord, some end up going back with Slughorn, and a good portion leave entirely.
Pansy heads off to leave entirely. She wants to be as far from the fighting as possible. Win or lose, she’ll be safe. But she’s barely off before she hesitates. There’s a physical ache in her body. She can’t leave yet, she needs to see her Head of House for his advice. Poppy had stopped helping her this year, overwhelmed by the rest of the houses. Professor Snape would be able to tell her what to do.
It takes every ounce of her Slytherin cunning to make it undetected back to Hogwarts. It’s almost as if something else is guiding her body. It’s not too difficult to be undetected; she hears that the Dark Lord has killed Potter. She almost snorts when she hears that Potter supposedly tried to run away. Even she knows Potter is ridiculously brave and had the biggest death wish anyone had ever seen. Staying on the outskirts of Hogwarts, she finds her feet padding softly to the Shrieking Shack.
What she sees freezes her cold. Her breath catches in her throat. She doesn’t know how long she stares at the body. Her confident professor lied bloody and broken in front of her, like one of the dead bodies from her dreams. His eyes looked off far-away and his mouth was slightly open. His arms stretched away from his body as if they were reaching for something important.
Heart pounding in her throat, Pansy made her way closer. Unable to tear her gaze away, she’s hit with the sudden realization that he’s been killed by a large snake. The Dark Lord had a snake.
“No,” she says softly. “No.” He was a favorite. He was supposed to be safe.
For the first time, Pansy wanted the Dark Lord to lose. She’d befriend muggles and kiss Granger if it meant that he lost. The Dark Lord killed one of his most valuable and most loyal death eaters. He killed her other half. The world would never be safe with him in it.
Pansy slinks to her knees and cries. Time passes and she hears joyous shouts. She doesn’t hear Bellatrix’s mad screams or the Dark Lord’s victory speech and she realizes that the Dark Lord is gone. Hours pass and Pansy stays in the shack, unable to move from her post. Something’s keeping her there and she doesn’t want to leave her professor alone. He looked out for her the best he could. She would do the same.
When Potter turns up in the shack, Pansy sees him for the first time. His eyes are tired and red-rimmed; he doesn’t look the picture of the victorious hero. It is the strangest thing though; Potter doesn’t scorn her or her professor. He looks at the dead body with the utmost respect before looking at Pansy, a battle fighting in his eyes.
“He was loyal,” she says. “He was loyal and he still killed him.”
“He’s dead now,” Potter says. They both know who he means.
“You wouldn’t know,” she says, “but he was wonderful. And now, no one will know.”
Potter seemed to make his mind up about something. “I have something to show you,” he says.
“After,” Pansy replies. “After we take care of him.”
Potter nods.
They’re an unlikely pair but neither care; their attention focused on the ugly man between them.
IX. Twenty-Three
Pansy no longer has a wand. She snapped it in a fit of rage a few years ago. Since then, she’s been facing her fears. She lives in a small cottage on the outskirts of a muggle town and debating about trying to move into the center of town. She has a few muggle friends and has semi-awkward lunches with Hermione Granger every couple weeks. The lunches are getting less awkward and while Pansy knows that Hermione will never feel the same way, Pansy treasures them.
Professor Snape had a muggleborn friend too.
MAXED OUT at 149 points for Slytherin!