Setting: Canon, post-war AU; not epilogue compliant
Word Count: 1,712
Notes: Pansy Parkinson character study [minor Cormac McLaggen x Pansy Parkinson + implied future Harry Potter x Pansy Parkinson + background Draco Malfoy x Hermione Granger]
Pansy’s life doesn’t exactly end after the war, no.
But it doesn’t really begin, either.
People hate her, of course.
They call her a coward like they think it might hurt her feelings, and they send her thousands of letters—words extra scathing, slurs extra derogatory—like they think she’s actually capable of succumbing to an emotion as selfless as shame.
She gives the Prophet their exclusive after half a year has gone by, Rita Skeeter and her acid-green quill perched on the butter-knife edge of a violet jacquard sofa in the sitting room, not unlike a cobra poised and waiting to strike—and it’s nostalgia and it’s reminiscence and it’s a sour, semisweet moment of perfect, perfect clarity; because why should Pansy have to apologize to anyone, to everyone, for very simply not wanting to die?
Harry Potter and his pride of loyal lions hadn’t fought that war for her.
They hadn’t saved her from the rampage, from the carnage, and they hadn’t helped her when all she knew how to do was scream, scream, scream. They hadn’t arrested those Death Eaters or counted their corpses or held their unicorn-pure wands up in triumph, in victory, for a girl with shaking hands and a Slytherin-green tie. They hadn’t won for her. They never would.
She’d owed them nothing, then.
She owes them nothing, now.