A Treasure Found

One day, she thought, smiling politely over the rim of the delicate bone china cup, one day I'll strangle you, preferably with a strand of your oh-so-perfect blonde hair.

"Quite contrasting, aren't they," her vis-à-vis had said, and she'd almost snorted. As if she couldn't see for herself the difference between the finely-sculpted boy and her sturdy daughter; as if she didn't knew that it was her inheritance that made Pansy not exactly swan-like.

Mrs Parkinson inhaled the refreshing scent of the strong black tea, contemplating taking a third sandwich, while she racked her brain for yet another superficial topic to chat about. Narcissa Malfoy smiled back at her, and Mrs Parkinson wondered yet again if the woman's smiles ever reached her clear, cool eyes.

To tell the truth, she wasn't exactly uncomfortable at the Manor, and she was well aware of how much her husband enjoyed riding around the Malfoys' fabulous hunting grounds with Lucius (they'd actually been out for more than six hours on that wonderful March day); but it was mainly for Pansy's sake that she willingly endured all the snide remarks that were delivered with such grace and suavity.

Dwaco had been Pansy's third word, after Mummy and iddledy (which she repeated over and again with such pride and confidence that they never had the heart to tell her that it wasn't, strictly speaking, a word); and Dwaco remained the only one who was allowed to pull her pigtails, or to call her bad names when she accidentally destroyed the sand castle they had been conjuring together on the chilly, windswept beach of the Parkinson summer estate in Northumbria. That had earned him a handful of sand in his mouth, granted, yet Mrs Parkinson would never forget the aghast look on her daughter's face when she told her that the Malfoys were spending the rest of the summer in France, and that no, she wouldn't see Draco again before mid-September (which, to a then three-years-old toddler, of course equalled eternity).

Her husband had taken to laughing at her when she worried about Draco's commanding attitude towards her daughter, saying that if so, Pansy should learn to stand up to him, and that a certain affinity for mastery and manipulation simply ran in the Malfoy family - "which has served them very well of late, after all".

And, as she watched the two of them disappear behind the low bushes that surrounded the Manor's pond, she had to admit that they were a peculiar-looking couple; Pansy with her chubby face and stumpy legs, her dark and bristly hair, and Draco all bones and angles, and with light grey eyes peeping from under a silvery fringe way too shrewdly for a boy his age.

But Pansy is so much more loveable, she longed to shout at Narcissa, knowing very well that those perfectly trimmed eyebrows would be raised for her uttering such a stupidity, that 'loveable' would never be considered an essential quality, not even one to take into account at all (and that Mrs Goyle might've contradicted last weekend, pointing accusingly at Pansy's clenched fists and her dimwit son's nose, from which blood was gushing only seconds after he'd laughed at Draco's failed attempts at lifting his new broom).

Mrs Parkinson stifled a sigh and abandoned herself to unrestrained gossiping again. Narcissa Malfoy might have a sharp and merciless tongue to boot, but Merlin was she up to date with the latest scandals!

Relaxing against the back of her chair, she listened (and added) to the chatter of her hostess, her amusing anecdotes and condescending (yet still delightful) mockery, her biting critiques. She nodded sagely at Narcissa's caustic remarks on the Ministry, sensing the veiled bitterness behind it, and joined in on her worries about that old fool up in the North they'd have to entrust their children to within a few years. House-elves scurried to and fro, providing them with a never-ending supply of treats and tea, and Mrs Parkinson felt somewhat at ease, hoping that Pansy was enjoying herself.

After an hour or so, the two children came strolling over from the secret castle they'd been busy conjuring behind the bushes for the better part of the winter (so secret that, of course, neither she nor Narcissa officially knew about it); Draco with his usual possessive gait, Pansy a few steps behind him, her head hanging. Mrs Parkinson's heart twitched painfully.

"I am hungry, Mum," Draco said, stepping up to the table and already reaching for the tray of biscuits, a deceptively angelic smile on his pale face.

"If you're hungry, my dear, you'd probably better have one of those," sighed Narcissa, pointing at a plate of cucumber and ham sandwiches. Draco shot his mother a disdainful look while stuffing jam-covered biscuits into his mouth.

"Pansy," Narcissa went on, surprise in her voice. "Don't you want some, too?" She offered her a tray of scones, smiling. "Aren't these your favourite ones?"

Pansy nodded hesitatingly, lifting her huge and slightly red-rimmed eyes to the beautiful face. Narcissa's eyebrows rose, and Mrs Parkinson felt herself tense up. But before Narcissa could comment on Pansy's unusually quiet behaviour, her son gave his playmate an impatient shove.

"You're no fun today," he complained past his mouthful. Receiving a stern look from his mother, he swallowed and turned his full attention to Pansy who seemed to be shrinking back into her pink dress.

"You're a sissy," Draco said, his father's sneer already fully in place on the five-year-old's face. "I don't approve of that."

Narcissa's hand stopped mid-air, the cup hovering over the saucer. "Draco," she said, calm yet rebuking.

"She is," Draco replied, his voice rising a notch. A frown marred his forehead, heralding a tantrum to come.

Mrs Parkinson's throat clenched at the sight of her daughter's eyes, which were brimming with tears. She opened her mouth to come to her aid but quickly shut it again when she saw Pansy square her shoulders.

"I am no sissy," Pansy said, hiccupping yet her chin raised. "Take it back!" She took a step towards Draco and stared at him, unblinking. "Take it back, I said!" she hissed, her voice low and determined.

The little boy eyed her. "Okay, I do," he replied. "But I don't want you to be a crybaby," he added sternly. "I don't like that, and I don't make friends with crybabies." He pressed his lips together and stubbornly waited for her to react; and had it not been for Pansy's grief, Mrs Parkinson would've had to smile at the tension crackling between the two of them.

She anxiously watched her daughter work her lower lip and tug at a tendril that had escaped the ponytail, then nod earnestly. "I won't be, I promise." Pansy clasped her hands in front of her belly, and Mrs Parkinson's heart filled with pride as she realised that Pansy was fighting the urge to suck her thumb. There was nothing squeamish about her daughter, after all.

Draco beamed and, grabbing a few scones from the plate, dragged Pansy off towards the pond again. "Come on!"

Pansy fell into step with him. "Shall we finish the -ouch!"

"Sssshhhh," Draco whispered, peeping back over his shoulder. "What's wrong with you today? You know they shouldn't know about-" Another glance sneaked back, and he bent over to whisper in Pansy's ear.

"My son," Narcissa chuckled, shaking her head in approving amusement "He knows what he wants."

And gets it the moment he utters, no, thinks his wish, Mrs Parkinson scoffed to herself, blatantly ignoring all the occasions on which Pansy had wrapped both her and her husband around her finger in no time.

"But I have to admit-," Narcissa went on, and Mrs Parkinson cringed inwardly. Not today, she thought, don't you dare comment on my honey's stumpy feet or her puffy eyes, not today-

"-that Pansy does seem a bit downcast today," Narcissa continued, taking a delicate sip from her cup and snatching a cucumber sandwich with picky fingers. "She's such a- lively girl, usually," and Mrs Parkinson could hear her substitute 'lively' with 'boisterous' in her mind.

Mrs Parkinson gritted her teeth, steeling herself against the sneer to come. "Our old cat died yesterday."

"Oh dear," Narcissa said and poured herself some more tea. Stirring two spoonfuls of sugar into it, she cocked her head. "How utterly terrible for the little darling. Now, what do you think - shall I have the rhododendrons over there replaced? Lucius said his great-great-grandmother planted them, and he won't hear of it, but they don't bloom any longer, no matter how often we have them charmed."

Mrs Parkinson drew in a sharp breath. Narcissa was already chatting on, conjuring examples of plants she'd thought about - aren't these roses just spectacular? - and after a few minutes, Mrs Parkinson felt her tension abate a bit; she'd even stopped turning around to look for Pansy every other second.

Yet, their reposeful conversation was not to last long.

"Mummy, Mummy" Pansy cried, her voice shrill with excitement, and Narcissa Malfoy's face twitched briefly. Yet Mrs Parkinson paid no heed, all she saw was her little daughter rushing towards her, her feet nearly tripping over the roots of a tall willow tree, a bundle in her arms.

"Look, Mummy," she squealed, her face alight with joy and happiness, and all but thrust a wrapped-up blanket into Mrs Parkinson's arms. Low sounds emanated from it, and slowly, a bronze-coloured baby Kneazle appeared from under the creases, its muzzle screwed up in a plaintive mewl.

"Ooohhh," Pansy cooed, her eyes glued to the tiny face, her index finger caressing the creature's nose. A pink tongue darted from the muzzle and flicked across Pansy's finger, causing her to squeak again and fidget with excitement.

"Honey, what-"

"Draco says I can keep it! Oh, Mummy, Mummy, please!" Pansy bobbed up and down, her ponytail bouncing. "I love it so much already, and I will not ask for anything else, never again!"

Mrs Parkinson shifted uneasily in her chair. "Sweetheart, I-" She turned to Narcissa who was watching the scene with an unreadable expression on her face. "I didn't know you had a Kneazle."

"Lucius brought it back from France two weeks ago," Narcissa said. "It's an Egyptian Mau, very rare. I-" she cast a glance at her son and then pursed her lips, a tenderness in her eyes so briefly that Mrs Parkinson was sure she'd imagined it. "I'd better have Prissy fetch the care and feeding instructions, then? This breed is of high maintenance."

"Draco," Mrs Parkinson said tentatively, torn between her daughter's happiness and doing the appropriate thing. "You don't - do you really want to give your pet away? Pansy, darling, surely you wouldn't want-"

Her voice faltered, trailing off. Pansy curled a lock around her finger, sucking in her lower lip, her face a display of inner conflict. "No-oh," she mumbled hesitatingly, but suddenly, her head popped up. She stared Draco straight in the eye, appalled. "Of course, I won't take it if-"

"Sure you can have it." Draco said, shrugging indifferently. A sly gleam sneaked into his eyes. "If it's gone, father will eventually buy me the Crup I've been wanting all along, won't he, Mum? Kneazles are for girls," he added with a contemptuous glance at Pansy and impatiently watched her fuss over the tiny creature for a few moments more.

"Isn't it adorable?" Pansy whispered, awe-struck. Draco waggled his eyebrows and briefly tickled the kitten's ears himself with a bored expression before demanding Pansy's undivided attention back.

"I want to show you my new broom case," he said, his tone banning all opposition. "Come!"

Pansy nodded, and, overwhelmed by her emotions, flung her arms around Draco and placed a wet and smacking kiss onto his cheek, causing Draco to go rigid with manly indignation. "Eeeewww!"

Narcissa laughed, and Mrs Parkinson had to fight down the urge to run her hand across her undoubtedly moist eyes.

****

"What a cunning boy," her husband yawned, boxing his pillow into shape and grabbing his wand to end Lumos. "Always in pursuit of his own edge, always an eye to his own interests!" He tipped a kiss onto Mrs Parkinson's pug nose. "He'll come out on top any time, no doubt, just like his father. Yet- don't you think we should insist on paying for the kitten?"

Mrs Parkinson mm-hmmed absentmindedly, knowing that her husband would go on mulling over Lucius' demonstrative generosity. Lucius had laughed and almost impatiently declined their offer to compensate him for the Kneazle and the heaps of food and care products they'd been supplied with; then, he'd ruffled his son's hair in a rare gesture of affection, promising to take him to the Magical Menagerie first thing tomorrow morning. Draco had nodded, satisfied.

It'd left her husband with a feeling of unease, but it wasn't what caused her to turn around restlessly for several hours.

When they'd left late in the evening, a still smiling Pansy fast asleep in her father's arms, she'd for no reason turned back again, and thus only she had seen, from the corner of her eyes, a little blond boy in his hide-out, angrily wiping away the tears that were streaming down his cheeks, and clutching a Kneazle's blanket to his chest.

"A faithful friend is a sturdy shelter; he who finds one finds a treasure." Sirach 6:14