The Right by Parks and Fiction Chapter 2 a Week Pansy gave
herself exactly one week to gather as much information as
she could. It was as easy as stopping by
Granger's with her favorite wine and bringing up wedding details.
The more she talked florals and seating charts and wizarding
wedding traditions, the larger Granger sips became.
Then a comment or two about wedding attendants which Granger
immediately turned into reminiscing about the good old
days at school rather than pluck up the courage to tell her that
Wieselt was going to be her maid of honour over Pansy.
Honestly, for an Order of Merlin First class witch responsible
for defeating the Dark Lord, she could be quite the coward.
But it was how she knew Neville Longbottom was single in one of
the off again stages of his relationship with Hannah Abbott,
the irritating little Hufflepuff that had been in their year.
It was how she knew Neville hardly drank but always spent
his Thursday evenings at the Three Broomsticks.
Something to do with Gryffindor and Slytherin third years having
double Herbology together on Thursday afternoons.
She supposed if there was ever a reason to drink, that would be
it. It was Longbottom who couldn't
read subtlety if it followed him around flashing one of those
Potter stinks badges Draco made fourth year, so she needed to be
obvious. Yet it wouldn't help her if he
dropped dead of a heart attack either, so she needed to find
the right mix of conservative and provocative.
The design was rather inspired, if she did say so herself, a
high neckline skimming just beneath her collar bones and
exposing the tops of her shoulders in a teasing hint.
It snugly clung to her curves before dropping into the full
skirt. She kept short, almost too short
for the breezy night in Hogsmeade, but with her 5 inch
heels, her legs went on for miles.
Years spent strutting up and down man of stairs in five inch
heels did wonders for one's muscle tone.
The Three Broomsticks was busy for a Thursday night, but there
were a number of open stools at the bar, including two next to
the blonde figure in rumpled, poorly fitting robes that had a
streak of something on the back. She surpassed A shudder.
She had endured worse, would endure worse, if tonight didn't
go her way. She timed her entrance
perfectly, reaching the bar just as Longbottom lifted his glass
for a drink. Pretending her heel gave out,
she twisted as she fell, landing exactly in his lap.
With surprising dexterity, Longbottom managed to save his
drink from spilling a drop. Damn it, on to Plan B.
Feigning an embarrassed laugh, she used his shoulders to steady
herself, bringing herself even closer.
Oh, Longbottom, she said. You'll have to forgive me new
shoes. Despite her gesture, he didn't
glance down the length of her legs like she intended.
He merely gripped her by the waist, set her back on her feet,
and let go as soon as he could. No worries.
His full attention went back to whatever text was spread out in
front of him. Let me buy you a drink, make up
for it. She caught the bartender's eye
and signalled for two of whatever he was having.
Just the one, Hank Longbottom said.
He glanced at her. I already have one, and like I
said, don't worry about it. He went back to his reading.
Sweet Salazar, she knew he was oblivious, but this?
How was she supposed to work with this?
The bartender handed her a glass, and she took a tentative
sip. Fire whiskey, Actually a good
vintage. She made a pleased sound.
I appreciate a man who enjoys a decent fire whiskey.
His head twitched just enough to let her know he had heard her,
but he otherwise didn't turn from his book.
She inhaled through the frustration.
Dropping her voice. She leaned forward.
Tell me what's so fascinating over there.
He paused for a moment, then finally turned to face her.
The latest edition of magical plants of Eastern to Argentina.
Finally, they were getting somewhere.
She flashed him a coy smile. And what makes this edition so
special? His eyebrows knit and his lips
quirked. I don't remember you having a
particularly strong interest in Herbology, Pansy.
Settling into her stool, she crossed her legs and sipped her
drink. In school?
No, but spend enough time with Hermione Grainger and you
develop an appreciation for information of any and all
subject matter. The slight quirk to his lips
turned into a false smirk. There was something different
about him tonight. Maybe she'd just spent too long
thinking of him as the chubby little boy with a toad carrying
around a remember all. Sure, he could still stand to
lose a stone, and his wardrobe was as remedial as a squib in
7th year Defence Against the Dark Arts, but underneath that,
when the fook had Neville Longbottom gotten handsome, this
she could work with. Looking up at him through her
eyelashes, she gave him a small smile.
Have you ever been? His eyebrows rose in question.
She nodded to the book. Argentina.
No, he said, not yet. I've always wanted to visit, she
said. Of course, having a guide who
understands the local flora and fauna.
She let her voice trail off suggestibly.
There was almost something patronising in his smirk.
Even a fat little crybaby. She blinked.
First year Gryffindor and Slytherin, first flying lesson,
He said. Ah, fell and broke my arm.
He sat back in his stool. You were singing a much
different tune third year when Draco got scratched by Buckbeak.
Interestingly enough, if there was a crybaby with no pain
tolerance, it was Draco Malfoy. If Grainger were here, she'd be
the first to agree, but if fawning over Draco for all of
third year made him see how much he needed her, she would have
tried to get Flitwick fired for giving Draco a paper cut.
She shot Longbottom what she hoped was something between a
coy and an apologetic smile. Do we really need to rehash each
and every little thing we said to each other during our school
days? Surely we're past that.
I have a full day of teaching tomorrow and rare specimens to
maintain. So no, there isn't time to go
over each and every comment you've made to bully me and my
friends. Did he have to be so pathetic
about this? If Hermione Granger could
forgive Draco Malfoy, surely Neville Longbottom could get
over the one or two mean comments she'd made per day for
seven years straight. She took a step of her drink
that ended up much closer to a large swallow.
Listen, Pansy, you were pretty drunk last night, so maybe you
thought you were being subtle. But I saw the way you looked at
my ring. It took everything in her to
continue to hold his gaze and not look down at his hand.
And what way was that? Like you realise that there's at
least one member left of the Sacred 28 who wasn't in Azkaban
gay or recently engaged to Hermione Granger?
Her four sips of fire whiskey threatened to come back up.
But I'll tell you right now, whatever Sacred 28 pure blood
supremacy bullshit this is about, I have no interest in it
and no interest in dating you. She downed to the last of her
fire whiskey and laughed. It sounded hoarse and broken,
but hopefully Longbottom couldn't tell.
You flatter yourself a Longbottom, She said.
I was just stopping in for a drink and trying to make up for
tripping on you if you took anything from that.
She laughed again. His patronising smirk didn't
shift in the slightest. Thank Merlin no one was close
enough to witness this. Neville Longbottom rejecting
her. If Cousin Ivan wasn't the death
of her, this would do it. I'll let you get back to your
little pamphlet on Peru before you get too delusional.
She rose with a smirk. Good luck with those rare
specimens. Despite the mocking of her tone,
the parting blow fell flat. Longbottom had the upper hand,
and he knew it. She was so sick to her stomach,
the apparition back home nearly made her vomit.
She took a long, painful moment to steady herself.
That was it, it was over. Her last chance just chased her
out of the Three Broomsticks in shame.
She gripped the back of one of her chairs so tight her knuckles
turned white. The dark, oppressive parlour
loomed around her, an echo to her despair.
It needed to be redone. The entire manner needed to be
redone. Honestly, there were days she
thought Theo had the right of it, burning his ancestral home
to the ground. The only entertaining areas of
Parkinson House still had the rare and expensive furniture,
tapestries, rugs and art one would expect from a sacred 28
family Manor. Outside those rooms, the truth
of the Parkinson family fortunes was revealed.
No tapestries to ward off the chill.
Threadbare rugs, moth eaten bed curtains, empty walls.
Keeping up appearances was expensive.
Goblins loved to gossip so there was a certain amount of gold
their accounts could never dip beneath.
Pounds of galleons their family would never touch, despite the
desperate need for them leaving her alone in a cold, dark,
haunted mausoleum of a manner empty and devoid of colour or.
Life. Pretty dress.
She whirled around, wandered the ready not as empty as she would
like. Cousin Ivan was in the corner of
the room by the small bar cart, Tumblr in hand.
Her skin crawled as his gaze slowly flicked over her with a
leering grin. You will bear that when.
Petro arrives for you. She straightened.
I am not marrying your friend. His grin spread.
Oh, you have found someone else then.
He asked. Who fits the?
Requirements. Her body flashed hot, then cold.
Ivan laughed, the sound cold and cruel.
Petro will enjoy. You.
I think Petro would enjoy nothing if he were dead, Which
was an empty thought and she knew it.
He comes next week. Her heart thundered in her
chest. My birthday.
Isn't until the. End of May, she had time.
She still had time. I know when your birthday is.
He said. It will make for a lovely
wedding day. Then Petra takes you and I.
I keep all of this. She was the last Parkinson.
Everything from the manner to the last Canut in Gringotts
belonged to her. Even Ivan, her closest pure
blood male relative, was only allowed a set monthly allowance
as her guardian. The moment she married,
everything transferred to her husband.
Ivan had made no secret of the fact that his recently widowed
friend, having just lost his fourth wife, had made a deal.
Pansy and half her gold for Petro.
Ivan kept the rest. Petro would take her to
Bulgaria, where she'd spend the next six years.
Well, she tried not to think about that part.
Six years at most. Considering none of his other
wives had survived past the age of 30, she was under no
delusions. Wife #5 would be any different.
Petrol. He will like your fire.
Laughing again, Ivan left, carrying the crystal Tumblr with
him. She waited until she couldn't
hear his footsteps anymore, long lost to his half of the Manor.
With a shriek of rage, she grabbed the crystal decanter and
hurled it at the fireplace. It struck the stones, exploding
into a shower of liquor that sent the flames soaring.
In a matter of seconds, it had burnt out, the flames, as quiet
as they had been when she'd first arrived.
Falling to her knees, the first pricks of tears came to her
eyes. Fuck Neville Longbottom, fuck
Draco Malfoy, fuck her father, fuck every pure blood wizard
who'd ever decided they knew best for the women in their
lives and stripped away any autonomy over their life.
She'd had one last chance and his patronising smirk had just
chased her out of the Three Broomsticks in what would
forever be the most humiliating moment of her life.