The Rules of the House

In Which Pansy Bemoans Her Fate

Pansy Parkinson scowled. Life just wasn't fair sometimes. She'd pleaded with her mother, sending her owl after owl about the horrendous social mistake she was making, and reminding her that she, Pansy, would have to live with the consequences of her mother's folly. Undeterred, her mother had already left Pansy's father, packed her bags, and moved in with a new boyfriend by time Pansy stepped down from the Hogwarts Express at the end of her fifth year. Pansy, it seemed, was also required to live with her mother in this new boyfriend's house - apparently her mother had lost the custody battle.

She had no delusions that either of her parents had really wanted her - the only appeal she held in her father's eyes was that she was his heir. And now that her mother had moved out, Pansy supposed it wouldn't be too long before her father started procreating with his latest pureblooded lady friend and produced the son he'd always wanted. Her mother was vapid and shallow; more concerned about social standing and etiquette than her teenage daughter's life.

That's what made this whole ordeal surreal - her mother relied on the good opinions of women like Narcissa Malfoy and Matilda Avery. She would never have willingly surrendered her lovely house, and her standing in the pureblood circles, merely because her father had committed adultery. Parkinsons were far too sensible to give up important things, like monetary wealth, for a ridiculous reason like marriage difficulties. Most pureblooded families didn't marry for love anyway. It was a preposterous, fairy tale notion of blood traitors who wanted to excuse their marriages to Muggles and mudbloods.

Love her foot.

"Pansy! Darling, it's lovely to see you. How was your term? Hmm?"

Pansy's mother, Malvina Parkinson nee Dolohov, stood on the train platform in all her glory. Her face was smooth and pale, courtesy of subtle beauty spells intended to disguise age. Her eyes were crystal blue, and her hair was a long, silky black. Her robes were simple, stylish, and silk. Always a bit airy and vague, Malvina was, as Muggles say, a few French fries short of a Happy Meal.

Pansy, unfortunately, did not inherit much from her mother. Her face could only described as "like a pug's"; her nose was always turned up; her eyes were an ugly mixture of green and brown; and her hair, while the same color as her mother's, was coarse and frizzy, and had to be kept very short.

Pansy plunked her trunk and owl cage unceremoniously on the cart her mother had thoughtfully provided (usually this task was left to one of her father's many house elves) and scowled again. "Well, then, where is he?" she demanded. If she was going to be forced to live with this man, she should size him up as soon as possible. Slytherins always know their enemies better than they know their friends. Well, allies

"I'm afraid he won't be able to join us until this evening," her mother replied vaguely. She seemed to be glancing around for something, or someone.

"What are you looking for, if he's not coming?" Pansy snapped, her anger getting the better of her.

"The people we're travel... Oh! There they are!" Her mother took off suddenly, and Pansy, mumbling under her breath about flaky mothers who give up home and house elves for passion, attempted to steer her heavy cart around the people on the platform.

"Mother," Pansy started, panting as she managed to catch up, "who exactly..." she trailed off. Her mother was standing there, chatting with blood traitors and mudbloods.

"Ah, Pansy." Her mother turned to face her, completely oblivious to the face Pansy was making - something between a look of horror, loathing, and disgust, which didn't mix well with her already ungenerous features. "What on earth have you been doing? You're all flushed and sweaty. Really, it's not very ladylike to sweat, dear."

Pansy's sweaty face turned an even darker shade of red (if such a thing were possible) as she heard the Weasel, Potty, and the Mudblood snickering.

"I wouldn't be sweaty, Mother, if you hadn't lost every ounce of the common sense that once resided in your head!" By the end of her sentence, Pansy was yelling rather loudly (and unattractively), and her hair, which she had attempted to tame with a new spell, was beginning to frizz. "Women from the Noble House of Parkinson do not drag their own luggage around train platforms! We have house elves!" She threw her nose into the air dramatically.

"Dear, please control yourself." Her mother looked at Weasel's mother with something like... an apology? "Pansy's always very excited when she gets home from school."

The snickers grew louder.

Pansy whirled around, fuming as she tried to get herself under control. Her mother was right: ladies do not sweat or yell in public. And Slytherins never lose their cool in the presence of drivel like Gryffindors. She had to stop. But what on earth was her mother doing, standing with them? She straightened her hair, and wiped her face off on a silk handkerchief, which had once been lovely and embroidered in green and silver with a delicate 'PP,' but was now disconcertingly soggy. Physical activity of any kind was not Pansy's forte.

With a semblance of her Slytherin grace (if one can define grace as "slumped over and scowling"), Pansy turned around to face her mother and them again. But before she could say anything scathingly cold and brilliantly cutting, her mother called, "Come along, dear!"

The Weasels, who were accompanied by Potter, Granger, and several people who appeared to be old DADA teachers - was that really Mad-Eye Moody? - had started off toward the barrier, and her mother was walking cozily along with them. With a grunt, Pansy got her cart into motion again. It was bad enough that her mother seemed to have joined ranks with the enemy; she didn't need to be left behind in the process.

~*~

Once they were all packed into the car - Pansy's mother in the front seat beside a woman with violently purple hair, who was driving, and Pansy herself squished against the side door by the Weaselette - Pansy began to question her mother again. With a swift elbow into the side of the girl beside her, Pansy shifted herself more comfortably.

Weasley, probably sporting a large bruise under her ribs, crawled onto Potter's lap and away from the vicious girl. Pansy smirked.

"Mother, where exactly are we going?"

"Well, dear, I can't tell you exactly..."

Pansy rolled her eyes. How typical of her mother to forget where the house was.

"Wait a second-"

Fabulous, a comment from the sludge.

"Yes, dear?" Malvina turned her blue gaze to Granger, whose ugly brown eyes were popping out of her head. Very unattractive.

"You- you and Pansy aren't living at... at..."

"For heaven's sake, spit it out, Granger!" Pansy snarled, more than slightly worried. If Granger was without words, things had to be bad. Very bad.

"We're living at the house with you, dear, yes." Mrs. Parkinson seemed oblivious to the gasps of horror and disbelief coming from the back seat. "Isn't that wonderful, Pansy? You'll be able to play with your friends all summer."

Pansy whipped out her wand. "I knew it! You're polyjuiced, aren't you? You're here to kidnap me from my real family to support your fiendish, twisted goals, aren't you? What have you done with my real mother?"

Malvina, apparently used to having a wand in her face, laughed in a tinkly way. "No, no, dearest, it's me. What on earth are you on about?"

"My real mother would never, ever say that Harry Potter and the Weasels were my friends."

"Well, dear, I know you haven't gotten along in the past, but I hope that you'll learn to renounce your prejudiced ways once you live with them. I have!" She twirled a ring around her finger; a ring that was not the wedding ring she'd received from Pansy's father.

"Mother... what has gotten into you?" Pansy's voice was a little choked up (from the air in the car. Filthy, Potter and Weasel-breathed air. Certainly not because she was crying. Slytherins don't cry. They don't have feelings outside of greed, snarkiness, and general superiority). A small tear trickled down her cheek anyway. Unfortunately, crying was not an attractive look for Pansy.

Mrs. Parkinson clapped her hands in glee. "I'm in love, dear girl, I'm in love!"

"Who is he? Who is this wonderful man who has ruined every decent, pureblooded thought in your head?" The tears were coming faster and faster. Pansy was forced to pull out her handkerchief again.

"Kingsley, dear. Kingsley Shacklebolt."

"The- the Auror?"

The rest of the trip passed in shocked (and in one case, disgusted) silence.

~*~