Work Text:
1998
‘Pansy Parkinson,’ the auror’s voice called out from behind the glass booth. She looked at Pansy with a blank face, as Pansy made her way across the waiting room into the interrogation room. Pansy thought that the auror’s eyes were neither unkind nor sympathetic, but rather just tired, and Pansy suddenly felt very tired as well.
Pansy’s shoes felt like they were weighed down with sand, and it seemed like the mere seconds it took to cross the room took ages. The lighting of the room felt unreal; in fact, all of this felt unreal, and it made Pansy feel nervous. She hoped that she didn’t look too nervous; that would be most objectionable. She had done nothing wrong.
Her hands grabbed at the doorknob, and it felt slippery. Fuck, were her hands sweaty? She quickly rubbed her palms against her dusty skirt and pushed the door open.
Inside the room were two older aurors, a man and a woman, seated in front of a scratched-up wooden table. The table had been varnished black, but the varnish had started fading away at the worn-down corners of the table, and on the surface where people would put their hands, folded, or slamming, or knocking. The man auror was tapping his quill against the the table, and the woman auror was examining her wand with a disinterested face. They didn’t seem to notice Pansy’s presence until she stepped into the room, and the heels of her shoes made a clicking sound on the stone floor.
The woman auror jerked her head up. ‘Parkinson!’ she exclaimed as she stood up rather stiffly, and wore the expression as if she had not expected to see Pansy, despite the fact that Pansy was called into their interrogation room. She gestured for Pansy to sit down on the chair across from the table.
Pansy supposed that she was just tired. Everything feels less immediate when you are tired.
‘I’m Auror Applebaum,’ the woman auror introduced herself as she took her seat again, ‘but you can call me Nancy.’
The man auror was leaning against the back of his chair, making no effort to stand up and greet Pansy (how boorish, she thought, but she supposed that he was just tired), but he stuck his hand out. ‘Foster,’ he declared simply. Pansy shook his hand dutifully and found it cold, like the marble banisters at Hogwarts.
Foster leaned forward and dipped his quill into the inkwell next to him, and took out a fresh roll of parchment from beneath the table. Pansy saw him write ‘Pansy Parkinson, interrogation notes’ neatly on top of the parchment. She felt her throat go dry, even though she had no reason to feel nervous.
It wasn’t as if she were in trouble. This was all routine. The aurors were interviewing all Hogwarts students present at the Battle of Hogwarts, and before Pansy, Millicent and Theo had already gone. Blaise would still be waiting to go.
Pansy sat down in the chair, crossed her legs at her ankles, and folded her hands demurely on her lap. Nancy leaned forward and began to address Pansy. ‘Miss Parkinson-’
‘Please, call me Pansy.’
‘Pansy, how old are you?’
‘Eighteen.’
‘You were a seventh year student at Hogwarts, yes?’
‘That is correct.’
‘Which house were you in?’
‘Slytherin.’
Pansy tried to keep her eyes fixed on Nancy, but they kept flickering back to Foster, who diligently noted everything that was being said.
‘Did you fight in the battle yesterday?’
‘No,’ Pansy admitted. No, she hid. After the Slytherins had been dismissed from school following … Pansy’s outburst, they had made their way to Hogsmeade. After they got outside of Hogwarts’ borders, pandemonium broke out. Fear seeped into their ribs like cold water and the group split like startled rabbits.
Pansy had run with Theo, Blaise, Millicent, Daphne, and Daphne’s younger sister, Astoria. Blaise broke them into Madame Puddifoot’s, in the hopes that hiding in such an … unexpected barricade would hide them from the searching eyes of the Death Eaters.
Death Eaters. Pansy’d be fucking lying if she didn’t admit that yes, she was scared. Fuck, of course she was scared! They had spent a year with Death Eaters. In their school . Lurking about where they ate, and slept. They knew what they were capable of. And they preferred not to think about that.
It felt like they were waiting for the apocalypse to come. Even though they had faith in Blaise’s plan, they were also well-acquainted with the thoroughness of the Death Eaters’ approach, and were aware that discovery could be imminent. There was no way to know or anticipate it. And it would certainly be the end for them - Slytherins who chose not to fight on the Dark Lord’s side? Cowards and traitors? They would not be merciful.
They didn’t talk to one another. Madame Puddifoot’s suddenly seemed much larger than it was when they visited on their Hogsmeade trips, and the pink interior no longer seemed lively and lovely - rather, the shadows of night hd turned it into a dusty shade that was suffocating in its uniformity. It felt like they were being boxed in, in pink. And the silence was choking them as they waited.
Ten minutes in, Astoria began arguing with Daphne and Millicent. Pansy didn’t care, she was too far gone by that time - what’s the point of engaging with reality when you could die? Blaise and Theo were silent as well, so Pansy wondered if they too were dissociating at the face of very possible doom.
Astoria wanted to fight. Millicent didn’t want her to run out of Madam Puddifoot’s and give their location away. Daphne agreed with Millicent, but it was obvious that the real reason was that she did not want to lose her sister. Her voice wavered ever so slightly around certain syllables, so Pansy could tell.
Eventually Astoria went, and took Daphne with her. Pansy didn’t know what happened to them. She just waited in Madame Puddifoot’s. Hiding.
‘I hid,’ Pansy told Nancy and Foster.
‘Yes, we found you in Madame Puddifoot’s,’ Foster said. ‘Together with Bulstrode, Nott, and Zabini.’
‘Yes.’ Pansy nodded. She unfolded her hands and found that they had become clammy again. She wiped them quickly on her skirt and folded them again.
Foster spoke to her again, not looking up from his parchment. ‘We’d been told that you offered to turn in Harry Potter to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, in exchange for Hogwarts to be spared.’ He called him that way, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, even though the Dark Lord had reportedly died. Old habits die hard, Pansy guessed.
‘I did.’ Pansy admitted.
‘Why?’ Nancy seemed genuinely perplexed. Pansy looked at her blandly.
‘I was scared.’ Pansy explained simply. ‘I didn’t want to die, and I knew that if we didn’t turn him in, the Dark Lord would kill us all.’
Of course she didn’t want to fucking die! She was only eighteen years old, for crying out loud. She was so young. They were all so, so young.
Everyone was aware of this fact when they talked about Potter. He’s only a child, they told her, and forgot that the she and the rest of them were also, children. They were the same age as Potter. But they were more afraid that he was.
Or so Pansy thought. Rather, it seemed like she was more afraid than they were. The moment she agreed to turn in Potter, appealing to her fellow students - surely, she wasn’t the only one who was afraid to fucking die ? - but they all turned against her. They all drew their wands, and pointed them at her, as if condemning her to die instead of Potter.
It was terrifying. Hundreds of wands, hostile faces, and malevolent thoughts. All directed towards her. When what she suggested may have saved their lives. Had they not considered that? Why were they all so willing to die for Potter? Why Potter? Why did Potter even have to fucking come back to Hogwarts -
‘Thank you,’ Foster concluded curtly. This is all we need to know at the moment. Since you weren’t at the site of the conflict, there isn’t much you could tell us about it. You may go home now, Pansy. We will owl you if we have more questions for you.’
Pansy unfolded herself and stepped out of the chair. ‘Thank you, Nancy and Foster. Best of luck,’ she said, without processing what was being said. She just wanted to be home. She just wanted to be home, and wash the dust of Madame Puddifoot’s off herself, and to sleep - to sleep ! - for so, so long, now that everything was over; she just-
She just wanted to be done with it all.
----
1999
Pansy had been getting hate mail for a year. Frankly, at this point, she’d become used to it.
It was always the same sort of drivel. How dare you try and sell the Chosen One to Voldemort! How could you say that you were trying to save us all? Voldemort would have killed us regardless whether you handed over Harry or not! That’s just what he does! Can’t you see that, you dumb bit-
Of course she can see! But would you have, would you fucking have, fucking put yourself in her shoes? She was eighteen, she was just about to die, would she think that far ahead to consider that Potter’s death might amount to nothing? Maybe, maybe Voldemort could have sto-
Merlin, it sounded like bullshit coming out her mouth anyway. She knew that her argument was weak. She knew that she made no sense. Voldemort would perhaps have spared her and other purebloods, but not the halfbloods, blood traitors, and muggleborns. They would all die.
Potter had a better chance to save them all.
But she wasn’t thinking. She just wanted to live, and if anyone was offering any sort of salvation, at whatever wretched price, she would fucking take it, she wanted to fucking live, to just get the fuck out of this fucking alive -
Of course, she’d been foolish. She’d believed what they always told her - obey and you shall be rewarded, resist and you shall be punished. Believe what you’re told and do what you’re asked. Push over others or be pushed over.
Pansy believed what they always told her and behaved the way they expected her to behave, because it was convenient for her to do so; and moreover, she admits, it benefitted her to do so. It benefitted her to bully other students - such as Longbottom, Patil, and Granger - at school, because it was easy to do so, and it made her feel good.
It made her feel powerful. Not that she wasn’t powerful before - after all, she was a pureblood witch from a well-off family, not like … the Weasleys - but the fact that she could misuse this privilege by herself, and not merely witness her parents doing it, felt good; and the fact that she had legitimate enough claim to this power to be able to get away with this sort of behaviour felt triumphant and … right.
Yet now it felt less right. Because, at the end, where did it get her? Nowhere. She’s stuck in her own house, surrounded by howlers on one side and opportunistic journalists on the other. Her parents rush in condemn her actions, voicing their disappointment to the fact that she would betray one of her own schoolmates, that she would be disloyal to the resistance - despite the fact that they themselves were too scared to actually take a side!
Pansy felt powerless right now; but more importantly, she also felt pointless. Even if she had power, it wouldn’t amount to anything. She wouldn’t have the power to turn back time and take back things. She wasn’t even sure she’d even take back things if she had the chance to re-do things. At the end everything would be still pointless. She would still betray the Wizarding community and turn in Potter. Because she didn’t want to die.
She felt like apologising to someone. Potter, for starters. Maybe Granger. But what would she be apologising for? She’d already concluded that she wouldn’t really do anything different, at the very end. It would all boil down to the same result. So if she, theoretically, apologised, would it even be sincere enough? There wasn’t a ‘I didn’t mean to’ clause, because she did mean it; there wasn’t an ‘if I would have known, I’d have’ argument, because she’d still have done the same thing. Even if she’d apologised, it wouldn’t progress their narrative any further.
Pansy Parkinson would still be stuck in the mire, the girl who bullied the Golden Trio and tried to hand Harry Potter into certain death. Even if she did apologise, she would be called a fake, and to an extent that would be true.
----
2000
‘Pansy Parkinson, is that you?’ asked a voice that was not-quite that of a stranger.
Pansy turned around and came face to face with the face she had hoped not to ever see again.
Brown skin, unruly black hair, and green eyes behind round glasses. Unmistakable.
‘Potter,’ said Pansy with a somewhat resigned air. Wizarding England was only so big. She was bound to bump into him someday.
Of course, it was just her luck that she should bump into him during her shift at Mr. Mulpepper’s Apothecary, whilst she was bottling flobberworm mucus.
‘How are you doing lately?’ She asked flatly. Mr. Mulpepper always told Pansy that she had to work more on her customer service voice.
‘Alright,’ Harry replied simply as he scratched the back of his head, then passed his eyes around the apothecary, probably hoping to look casual and nonchalant, and thwart his conversational partner off the trail of figuring out how he was really doing lately.
Luckily for Harry, Pansy wasn’t interested in how he was really doing lately. If she were, she’d reach for the nearest copy of The Daily Prophet.
‘How are you?’ Harry asked, his cadence a little too fast to be comfortable. Pansy deduced that he could either be uncomfortable with making small talk - which wouldn’t surprise her, considering how poorly he’s always fared during interviews - or he was uncomfortable talking to Pansy - which she didn’t blame him for; after all, she did try to hand him over to Voldemort.
‘I could be better,’ Pansy admitted. Of course, Pansy still got dirty looks in the streets, and still received the occasional angry letter. By now two years have passed, however, and people were beginning to get tired, even if they were still hateful.
It takes a long time for people to forget. Which is why it had been particularly difficult for Pansy to get a job. Not that Pansy needed a job; she could have lived off of her parents’ money, but life at home had become suffocating, and she wanted an out. So, against the wishes of her parents, she set out to find employment. The only person who actually offered her employment was Mr. Mulpepper, who had been a longtime supplier of goods to the Parkinson family and found Pansy’s O.W.L. scores in Potions enough for a basic position at the store.
‘Couldn’t we all,’ Harry meant to comment in a contemplative way, but the particular circumstances of the past made it sound a little bitter.
‘I would be better if I had not tried to turn you in and ran away afterwards,’ Pansy suggested. It was the closest thing to an apology that she could utter with complete conviction.
‘No. You could have died,’ Harry concluded, ‘You could have died like Colin, or Fred. Didn’t you want to live?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘You got what you wanted at the end.’
‘I’m not sorry for it. I don’t know how to be sorry for something like that.’
Surprisingly, Harry smiled at her. ‘I don’t expect you to. You shouldn’t be sorry about wanting to live.’
‘No,’ Pansy agreed. ‘But I made it difficult for you. And your friends. I could have not done that.’
Harry was silent. His eyes were still, but not stagnant.
‘You didn’t deserve what I did to you. For what it’s worth, I regret how I was as a child. I was being foolish.’
‘Children are foolish,’ Harry mused.
‘That doesn’t make them any less responsible,’ Pansy proposed.
‘We should talk about this. Perhaps we’d all feel better about it, and understand one another more.’
Pansy corked the last bottle of flobberworm mucus and put it on the shelf behind her. ‘Are you sure you want to talk to me ? Surely you could talk to Draco about it, I hear that you both work for the Ministry now.’
‘We should all talk about this together. When do you get off?’
It was the only direction towards which her narrative could progress.
----
2001
Pansy had just placed ordered her drink at the bar when Harry walked through the door of the pub with Ron, Hermione, and Draco. He waved to her and they went up to join her at the bar.
‘How’s old Mulpepper treating you?’ Ron asked instead of a proper greeting.
Pansy shrugged. ‘Not much better nor worse than usual. To be honest, I thought it would be different after the promotion, but it’s roughly the same.’
‘Shame,’ Ron shook his head, ‘Though at least you do get a raise.’
‘Cheers to that,’ Draco said, ‘As celebration for your pay raise, you ought to buy us all a round, Pans.’
‘Sod off Malfoy, pay for your own pint,’ Pansy moved away from the bar as soon as the bartender had poured her drink. She settled at their usual table in the far end of the pub.
Harry followed her to their table. She raised an eyebrow at him. ‘Designated apparator tonight?’
Harry laughed. ‘Unfortunately, yes.’
‘Unlucky you,’ Pansy said, and then took a mocking sip of her drink to rub it in.
‘It’s not fair that you have Nott.’
Pansy shrugged. ‘If you’re jealous, get your own non-alcohol-consuming friend.’
At this moment Theo and Blaise swaggered in. Blaise spotted them at their usual corner. ‘Oi, Pots and Pans!’ Harry waved at them enthusiastically and Pansy merely rolled her eyes. Blaise grinned and patted Theo on the back, then made his way to the bar to join the rest of their entourage whilst Theo made his way to the table.
‘Potter, Pansy, you won’t believe what I’ve gotten my hands on,’ Theo started excitedly as he took a seat next to Pansy. He rummaged in his briefcase until he produced a file. ‘I’ve found a blueprint of an old time turner model in the mechanical records part of the Museum of Magical Theory. From these, I could, theoretically, rebuild a time turner.’
‘Fascinating,’ Harry remarked, rubbing his chin. ‘That’s truly something incredible, Nott.’
‘Not that I’d ever use one, of course,’ Theo began, ‘But I suppose it would be a tool that perhaps the Ministry would be interested in having. Just in case.’
‘I could certainly send word of your discovery to Shacklebolt,’ Harry suggested.
Theo put away his file, and the rest of the group had made their way to the table, carrying their drinks. They all settled into their usual routine of checking in with each other, then shit talking one another, and then competing to see who had the most outrageous story of the week.
Eventually Theo brought up the time turner again, and the entire group discussed the relative merits of owning a time turner.
‘I, for one,’ Draco started, ‘Would try and beat those notions out of my younger self.’
‘No you wouldn’t,’ Blaise shook his head, ‘You’d probably be too scared of mucking up the future.’
Ron shrugged. ‘Maybe Voldy would have continued to exist, somehow. But like, lying low. Like what happened with Quirrell.’
‘That’s if I don’t die,’ Harry added. ‘But I had to die. Naturally.’
‘At some point,’ Ron agreed. ‘But if we stopped Malfoy letting Death Eaters into Hogwarts in the first place, you could have not died, right? And that could have ... fucked it up, actually.’
Blaise cut in, ‘I’m sure there are other ways Voldemort could kill Harry with, though.’
Harry pulled a face. ‘I’d rather not discuss those options.’
Hermione shook her head. ‘Let’s just not mess with the past.’
Pansy swirled her glass contemplatively. They’ve had this conversation many times already. Especially in their early congregations, when they were still working on figuring out how to apologise, or at least express a certain degree of meaningful regret.
They’ve made a little progress each time, but they had never been able to smooth over their past. Pansy doesn’t expect that they ever will. And she’s made her peace with that. Most of them had, except for Draco. But, well, he’s Draco.
Pansy drained the last of her drink and set her empty glass on the table. ‘I agree with Granger,’ she said, ‘Let’s not mess with it. The past’s fucked already. Let’s look towards the future.’
That’s the only way to not be stuck in the muck of the story. The only direction, is forward.
Blaise threw an arm around her. ‘Well said, Pans! Bravo!’
‘Shut the fuck up, Zabini, and get me another drink.’