Pansy

Pansy

 
“Pansy, don’t you think you’ve had enough cookies for one night?”
 
“But mother, this is my first!”
 
“First in the last minute!”
 
“Now Tiffany, be nice! Just because your sister has a problem, doesn’t mean…”
 
Doesn’t mean… doesn’t mean what, exactly, mother?
 
Ah, yes, I know what it doesn’t mean: it doesn’t mean that I should be loved any less. It means that I should be bursting with confidence as I show the world that my grades are, in fact, the best of my housemates, whether or not they have the brains to comprehend it. That if I do, I’ll be acknowledged to a greater extent than, “that hag, Pansy, who’s smearing herself over Draco Malfoy like butter on toast.” That it’s what’s inside that counts.
 
Well, let me tell you something, mother: you’re too late. You’re words of comfort: they’re just too late.
 
And would you like to know why they’re too late, exactly, mother?
 
Ah, yes, I’m sure you do: but there is no need. There is no need to lodge into a discussion about how those subtle put-downs of yours were purely bouts of kidding around; about how I merely “have big bones.” Good Merlin, Mother-- big bones?
 
Let’s not even begin the conversation in which you explain that your glares of irritation- you know, the ones you thought I was too thick to notice- were just your way of demonstrating sympathy and courtesy towards your favorite daughter; the pride of your existence. I was never your favorite, and if it were up to you I wouldn’t even be your daughter. You’d trade me in at the nearest goblin market for some nice, dainty little doll of a child who’s got the wink of a nymph and the twirl of a ballerina: one that you really could show your sympathy and courtesy towards.
 
Oh, this is it: here’s the kicker. Let’s not dispute that I’m to fling myself at the infamous Draco Malfoy, with the largest mansion in Britain and an ego twice that size, because he’s the only one striking enough for me. And that, oh, guess what?
 
IT DOESN’T MATTER THAT I’M FAT.
 
Because, as previously stated, there is no need. You see; you had your chance. The opportunity to articulate only positive words into the ear of your eldest daughter is long gone. You’ve already become worse than your mother ever was. Your heiress is to be one with a lower self-esteem than even your socialite self: something, it seems, that only your half-sister, Martha Higgs, managed. Then again, everything turned out to be fine and dandy for her: why can’t it be so for me, as well?
 
Wait-- yes, that’s right: Martha Higgs was pretty.
 
No matter, I can make myself pretty. I can stop giving in to the temptation of the Every Flavor Beans; I can give all of my chocolate frogs away to Crabbe and Goyle: I’m sure they wouldn’t mind taking custody. They may even put in a few good words for me with the Malfoys, when they stop chewing.
 
I can show you that I really am, in all honesty, a better Quidditch player than that goon, Cedric Diggory.
 
Before you know it I’ll be half even Tiffany’s weight.
 
No, I won’t do it for you, no matter how much you think you deserve the dedication. I’m not playing dress up to make you happy, and getting you the golden coffin you’ve always dreamed of isn’t topping my list of priorities at the moment.
 
But I will fling myself at Draco Malfoy. I will lead him on, lure him to me, make him lust for me so badly he can taste it. Then I’ll do once more as you’ve demonstrated in your life of bad examples. I’ll hurt him like you hurt father: I’ll leave him like there’s no tomorrow. And there won’t be, because once I get that fatal kiss…
 
It will, indeed, be fatal: but not for him.
 
I think you can figure the rest.