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i.
Pansy is in her fifth year—winter holidays, freshly fifteen—when she meets Draco’s aunt for the very first time. She had seen plenty of Narcissa, so when Mother tells her that Madame Lestrange is expecting her presence at the Lestrange Manor on the first day of the next week, Pansy is expecting someone along the likes of Madame Malloy. Prim and proper, icy-cold, carefully contained like whirlwinds and tsunamis trapped in thin, transparent potions vials.
Instead, what she gets is a wildfire roaming free, burning everything in its vicinity, warning others to stay away.
(Pansy doesn’t have the luxury of heeding the warnings.)
What she gets is a woman with teeth so sharp and eyes so onyx-black, with lips so burgundy, so crimson, that for a second, Pansy is foolish enough to think of a woman as the most beautiful vampire she had ever seen. And although Bellatrix Lestrange is not and has never been a vampire, it does not mean that Pansy Parkinson is not her prey.
Pansy is wearing her best robes when she is presented to Madame Lestrange for the very first time—a sacrificial lamb ready for the slaughter. That Thursday at the end of December—mere days away from Christmas now, not that they celebrate anymore—is unusually cold, and Pansy shivers under layers and layers of black fabrics covering her too-pale body. Madame Lestrange coos at her thin, shaky form, comes up from behind and runs her shimmering-with-magic fingers down Pansy’s spine.
“I like you,” Madame Lestrange whispers, delighted. Her voice has a touch of Azkaban-born madness in it, yet her appearance is nothing like what Pansy could’ve imagined. She looks, somehow, even younger than Narcissa, but her beauty has the kind of artificial quality about it that can only speak of the strongest of darkest magics. Pansy feels its pull, the way it seemingly seeps into her as Madame Lestrange fixes the lacy collar around Pansy’s throat with her free hand.
“You’re the Parkinson girl, aren’t you? Draco’s betrothed?” The question comes out somewhat absent, as if Madame Lestrange knows exactly who Pansy is and is completely uninterested in the answer, as if it’s of no consequence. Pansy still gives it—always starved for approval, willing to offer everything up for the taking.
“Yes, Madame.” She bows her head when Madame Lestrange suddenly materializes right in front of her in wisps of coal-colored smoke tinged with threads of Slytherin silver.
Pansy is not stupid at all—she knows it’s not just Draco’s aunt she is here to meet. She is all too aware that, in front of her, stands the Dark Lord’s lieutenant, his right hand, his most faithful servant. She and Draco know, faintly, about the Dark lord’s plans of invading Hogwarts from within, and although there was a distinct possibility of being forced to contribute, Pansy never thought she would be considered—vulnerable, alone—like she is now. Somehow, she always assumed the job would fall to Draco to make up for his father’s failures.
But as Madame Lestrange lifts her chin up in a gesture too gentle for a madwoman and a murderer, Pansy knows—the task will be hers. As Madame Lestrange tilts her head slightly to the left and smiles—all hunger and desperate desire for war that Pansy feels echoing in her long-empty chest—Pansy knows, instinctively, that whatever task she is presented with will definitely ruin her.
(She doesn’t know, yet, that Bellatrix Lestrange will ruin her more than any murder she could possibly commit.)
ii.
What follows is extensive training, a semester-two-three-four off Hogwarts, a faked illness that only a select few know can be attributed to Madame Lestrange’s interest in her. Pansy moves into the guest room of the Lestrange Manor next to Bellatrix’s own bedroom and becomes the apprentice of the darkest witch to ever grace the face of the Wizarding Britain.
Pansy learns elemental magic within a few months and bends fire to her will to keep Madame Lestrange warm whenever she desires. Pansy learns to brew the Draught of Sanity of a special midnight-blue color and Pansy’s own sanity sprinkled into it like confetti to quieten the rage inside Madame Lestrange’s mind. Pansy learns to address Madame Lestrange as Mistress and answer to pet.
Pansy knows, instinctively, that she is more special than other girls her age—while they are stuck studying for OWLs, Pansy learns the kinds of magic they could never even dream of and attends coveted Death Eaters’ meetings even the Malfoys are not allowed to be present at anymore. She always stays by Madame Lestrange’s side, her Dark Mark proudly on display next to the initials of the eldest daughter of the House of Black.
(“It’s the highest honor you could ever be offered in the Dark Lord’s regime,” Mother tells her, looking at Pansy as if she is finally proud, and Pansy drinks it in eagerly, traces the messy letters carved into her skin months before and smiles.)
Pansy is sixteen when they need to bring Draco and Daphne on board, along with Theo and Blaise, and although last year Pansy would have rejoiced at not having to navigate this new world alone, she suddenly finds herself wary and bored of them. In the evenings, she sneaks into Madame Lestrange’s bedroom and sits at the foot of her bed as they gossip about Daphne’s failures at potions and Theo’s lack of talent for Cruciatus. Bellatrix is especially cruel in her remarks—both in the makeshift classroom and inside the safety of her private quarters where only Pansy is allowed—but Pansy revels in it, for it contrasts so beautifully with the tenderness and care Madame Lestrange shows to her.
Pansy enjoys when Bellatrix separates her from the people Pansy used to call her best friends for a decade. Madame Lestrange has Pansy demonstrate her advanced skills with Unforgivable Curses, compliments her every three minutes like clockwork, has her stay after yet another class on elemental magic to warm up Bellatrix’s perpetually cold hands. But, most importantly, Bellatrix allows Pansy the privilege of settling in her lap and absent-mindedly twirling one of Bellatrix’s wild black curls, all the while she crashes their lips together and sinks into Pansy’s mind with practiced ease.
The feeling of Bellatrix’s presence in her mind is the perfect mix between the Calming Draughts she cannot sleep without and the exhilaration from the Cruicatus she casts every single day. Madame Lestrange always makes a home in Pansy’s mind as she chips away at the edges of her consciousness and steals bits and pieces of Pansy’s treasured-hunted sanity, and Pansy melts into her too-tight embrace, into the kisses that taste of hunger for peace of mind.
Pansy gives, and gives, and gives. Madame Lestrange takes eagerly.
iii.
By the time the Battle of Hogwarts comes around, Pansy has no sanity left to give. And when Madame Lestrange dies, Pansy—whose mind has been entwined with hers for years now—dies along with her.
As she sinks into the familiar neon sea of Avada-green, Pansy’s last thought is of kisses that taste like Calming Draught and the sparkling-red flashes of Cruciatus.