Chapter Text
Pansy Parkinson knew three things prior to hitting the club that night:
- She was in a horrendous mood that afternoon.
- She wanted to yell at her mother for sending that awful new marriage proposal to Theodore Nott of all people.
- The only way to make all that go away was to bury herself. Either in work or in someone’s thighs; that was still up for discussion.
The third thing she knew was fuelling her need to evade... And the debate on what to bury herself in was settled as fast as she glanced at the dance floor and the bar, finding a pair of nice… “eyes” that seemed to capture the light around them and pull her like a magnet. It did help that those eyes were glued to a beautiful face, with pink and full lips and a smoking hot body.
Pansy smirked. Thighs it was, then.
She glided through the dance floor, letting her nerves get soaked in the humming of the bass and the rapid blinking lights that were surely designed to look like everything was slowing down all around the club.
How dare her mother propose Theo? Like she’d agree to marry that sorry excuse of a man. He was a handsome bloke, but not quite up Pansy’s alley in mind and soul. And body, mind you. She was a force to be reckoned with and enjoyed the banter and shoving people around, but… She needed a challenge for a partner, not a pushover.
The Parkinsons were growing restless upon seeing their only daughter refuse to get married and settle down, but Pansy was tired of being treated like a breeding human. Why all the fuss about a new era for the Wizarding World, if everyone expected her to be a mother, stop pursuing her career and aspire to be the best cook in her household? She’d rather choke herself to death than fulfil that old view system.
The Howler that arrived that afternoon at her potions store left no questions unanswered about her parents’ views and opinions, but she was done with their expectations. Fuck them. There were also a couple of letters she decided to ignore; there would be time the next day to check them. That night, she was hunting for other things, not for approval or work.
“Martini. Shaken, not stirred," she said to the waitress behind the bar as she reached it, carefully playing with her raven hair and discreetly checking if the mesmerising stranger to her left was paying any attention at all. It was all a game. A game she excelled at.
“Are you perchance James Bond, sweetheart? I’ve only seen him asking for that drink,” said that hotshot target. Pansy had no idea who that bloke was. James what? Bah, who cared? Shame that the beautiful body of that stranger at the bar belonged to a Muggle, because then using magic was out of the question. She’d have to either shag her silently in the loo or take her back to her place and delay the feeling of her mouth on her skin. Which, in turn, made the chase more… thrilling. She turned to face her, careful to show exactly how much the light reflected on her little sparkling dress that covered close to nothing.
“I’m whomever you want me to be tonight if you play your cards right,” answered Pansy with a knowing smirk, noticing the hunger in her companion’s eyes as they slowly swept unapologetically her whole body.
“My, my… You do seem to have his confidence,” pointed the girl. She was sipping from a bloody-looking glass that stained her lips a crimson tone. Pansy wanted to taste that flavour, but regained her composure in time by drinking a couple of sips of her martini. It tasted bitter, but with a sweet aftertaste. Much like the night, it seemed.
“I’m nothing if not confident, sweetheart,” bit Pansy back. If things were headed the way they were supposed to, words wouldn’t be the only thing her teeth would sink into that night.
“That makes two of us. Care to check which one of us wears it better? Lucy’s the name, by the way," she stated, arching an eyebrow while biting her lip.
Pansy was getting lucky that night. She so was, and she knew. But she loved the game as much as the aftermath.
“You want to compete with me, Lucy? Seems to be a poor use of our time, mind you,” purred Pansy.
“What would you rather do, oh mysterious stranger?” said Lucy, playing with a strand of curly brown hair in her long fingers. She looked cute, but Pansy knew better. That smart mouth was not only proof that Lucy was not some doe-eyed, oblivious girl who knew nothing. She knew. But she pretended not to, to lure everyone in.
“Isn’t it obvious?” asked Pansy, leaning in until her lips were close to Lucy’s ear, grazing its shell with every whisper. Pansy felt the subtle tremble in the girl’s body as her mouth lowered to that beautiful throat. Great, let her feel how lured in she was. “I’d rather scream your name, little Luce. Care to lend a hand to poor little me in that endeavour?”
“That depends,” answered Lucy through ragged breath as Pansy kissed her jaw. She tasted like honey and felt like glass. And all Pansy could think of was how those stained-bloody lips would move against hers and how far down her body she would allow them to explore. “How much do you need to walk tomorrow?”
Pansy smiled before biting that neck and hearing Lucy’s low moan. Thank goodness she could Apparate to work the next day, because that night she was determined to achieve jelly legs, unholy screams and an unknown threshold of pain and pleasure.
Pansy would feel the print of Lucy’s door on her back the next morning; she was sure of that much. And she couldn’t care less.
The Muggle was pressing her hard against it, grabbing both of Pansy’s wrists above her head and sneakily slipping her knee between the witch’s thighs.
Merlin’s beard, that was fucking hot.
Lucy was ravishing her neck with kisses, carefully biting and sucking on her skin, and Pansy was trying to regain some sort of control. How could she let that girl take on the leading role?
“Gosh, little Luce,” she said, attempting not to moan as the words left her mouth. And failing miserably when the girl pushed a little up her knee.
“What, gorgeous? Intending to still prove you’re more confident?” she purred against her jaw.
Enough. Did she cheat using wordless magic to free one of her hands from the vicious grip Lucy had? Yes, she did. Would she do it again? Absolutely.
Pansy grabbed the girl’s chin and smashed their lips together, hard. Circe, did Lucy’s mouth taste good. Like lime and spice. And Vodka. And oblivion of that awful afternoon as soon as the witch bit hard on that swollen lower lip.
“God, I want you naked now, gorgeous. If that little and lovely dress stays in my mouth’s way one more second, I’ll rip it to threads,” moaned Lucy between those soul-consuming kisses. The witch traced her lower lip with her tongue before biting it again and giving it a tug that made the Muggle whimper.
“Careful now, little Luce. Don’t threaten me with a good time,” warned Pansy with a smirk as her hand tangled in the girl’s hair and pulled, bearing her throat to the witch’s torture of licks and kisses.
“You’re such a brat, sweetheart,” replied the girl, tracing Pansy’s hip with her hand and lifting the hem of her dress to her waist. “Tell me, would you rather be fucked against the door or on my bed? Which one seems more suitable?”
“Why pick, little Luce?” answered Pansy as her lips found Lucy’s collarbone and sucked it, extracting the most divine moan up to date on that night.
“Both it is, then,” she weakly replied before her fingers moved between Pansy’s legs, finding her mark. “Black lace underwear? My, my, someone was planning to get shagged today…”
“Says the girl wearing no bra and no knickers,” whispered Pansy as she turned them around and pushed Lucy against the door.
“How do you know I…?” inquired the girl, confused.
“I didn’t. But thanks for the… Ah. Confirmation,” purred Pansy before her hand unbuckled Lucy’s shorts and started moving just beneath her. “It makes my life much, much easier.”
It was unfathomable. She, a fucking pure-blood, fucking a fucking Muggle. And fucking her so on purpose that she couldn’t erase that smile from her face. If only the Sacred Twenty-Eight knew that she’d rather do a girl who knew nothing of magic than one of the respectable gentlemen of the pure-blood families.
Lucy’s fingers started moving again against her, this time not stopping at the lace, but moving it aside and burying themselves in her.
Circe, it felt like heaven.
Pansy pressed Lucy harder against that damn door, sucking her collarbone again. One of her hands grabbed and squeezed gently the girl’s breast, marvelling at the sight of it. The nipple perked up beneath that silky, tight blouse, while her other fingers were rather occupied between Lucy’s legs, making her scream and moan and whimper.
Pansy groaned on her skin as Lucy’s pace became faster and steadier, rubbing all the right points. This was just against the door. This girl had no business making her squirm like she was just doing, becoming undone under her touch. Hell, the witch was all over her, and Lucy still could move and extract sounds that Pansy thought she could control—wrongly.
Oh, for fuck’s sake, little Luce. Just come for me so I can shag you on your fucking bed over and over, until dawn makes me regret going out tonight and fucking you until you cannot move again, Pansy thought. Lucy did not comply, as she kept stroking again and again, faster and deeper.
Pansy looked up. The girl, hot and bothered, smirked at her. The fucking nerve, I’ll—she thought, but was cut short.
“Come on, gorgeous. That’s all you’ve got?” asked the Muggle.
“Cheeky little Lu—”
Lucy flicked her wrist. And Pansy saw the stars.
Her legs could barely support her body the next morning when she changed that sign on her store’s door from closed to open using a simple flick of the wrist, pointing her wand at it.
Pansy smiled.
Last night had had a lot of flickers, a lot of things, and a lot of screams.
It was just what she needed, although her body was still rocky from the sleepless night and the sheer energy spent on that girl’s flat.
As soon as her first employee walked through the door, she went to her office. There were still loads of things to do: check the amounts of ingredients left to craft new potions, make sure the numbers matched, distribute the bonuses for the lot that worked for her, answer that damn Howler with a “No, thanks, mother” written in perfect italic calligraphy and read both the post and the Daily Prophet, with a steamy mug of coffee and maybe even a cigarette to pair it up.
After the night she had, a single smoke felt justified, even though she’d promised to stop that far-fetched addiction for a pure-blood. Another way to defy her dear family.
There was a lot of work to be done and not a lot of time to do it. August’s ending was at her door, and students would start to come in like every year before leaving for school. Maybe for ingredients, or cauldrons, or recipes. Maybe some of them would just like to glance at the fallen-from-grace pure-blood, the one and only Pansy Parkinson. The girl who had dared to suggest giving up Harry Potter to the Dark Lord to save the skin of everyone in that damn castle, who faced a tiring trial, who atoned for her crimes with tears, hard work and sweat. Or the one who could build up from nothing the most successful potions store in England, achieving the hardest and rarest elixirs and brewing the deadliest concoctions.
She was nothing if not resourceful.
And yet, every time a wizard spared her a glance, she felt a pang in her chest at the way their eyes hardened and their lips thinned, pressed together in that ‘I hate you’ narrow line.
An owl flew across her office, dropping the paper on her lap and biting her fingers with affection. Pansy smiled as she threw a gummy to her.
“You’re way too spoiled for your own good, Daisy,” she murmured, shuffling the owl’s feathers with care.
She scanned the front page of the Daily Prophet. Utter crap. There, in capital letters, was written:
Rita Skeeter is to make a comeback with a story for the readers. A scoop no one saw coming, yet everyone pines for: Read tomorrow’s paper to find out about the big secret that no one at the Ministry of Magic wants you to know.
Bullshit. It would probably be some dumb story about the Dumbledores again, or maybe Skeeter had grown rather tired of that way and decided to focus more on Newt Scamander.
Pansy didn’t give a flying fuck.
She absentmindedly read the letters she’d received yesterday, previous to being so well-fucked that she didn’t care.
Maybe she’d see little Luce again. That girl knew how to make her sing… for a Muggle. Time would tell; if she needed to blow some steam, she knew where the girl lived.
One of the letters grabbed her attention: it proudly displayed the Hogwarts logo, along with her address.
That was strange.
So, of course, Pansy opened it carefully and started reading.
Minerva McGonagall
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Scottish Highlands
United Kingdom
Pansy Parkinson
Owner of Cauldron of Snakes
99C Diagon Alley
London
9th of August 2008
Dear Ms Parkinson,
I am sorry to disturb you with such haste, but the situation requires me to do so. I was astounded when I learned of your mastery over potions—you shone always brighter in my class than in my colleague's one, Severus. This came to me as a surprise, but warmed my heart seeing that you could pursue a path for yourself after everything we all went through, and forged a successful career out of hard work, intelligence and ambition.
These, and not the bad-tongue and ill-mannered comments regarding your house, are the true qualities of a Slytherin, if I may say so.
I’m writing not just as a way to congratulate you on your hard-earned success, which was long due on my part, and I ask that you forgive your old Professor for not doing it sooner, but to, regrettably, ask a favour of you.
After stepping up in Severus’s absence after the war, Horace Slughorn is abruptly retiring for private reasons, some of which affect his capability as a teacher and his health, both of which seemed to hold age at bay altogether.
I am, then, in dire need to find a replacement both for the subject he was so attached to, Potions, as well as a new Head of House for Slytherin.
Since, per different circumstances and politics, there’s not a single Slytherin teacher left on Hogwarts grounds, I am tasked with finding a suitable replacement for our dear Professor.
Since I believe you’d be a suitable match for the role, I am therefore asking that you consider this job offer on my part, remarking that it is just a favour, and should you accept and then not wish to continue the next year, I’ll find a new replacement for the noble House of Slytherin.
I understand that this may come as a shock, but the Snakes need someone of their own to lead them, someone to understand and respect their values, but someone who has learnt from the past and ushers them not to repeat the same mistakes.
I believe you, Ms Parkinson, are that person, so I ask you to consider joining us at your former school.
But alas, one can only hope you find in your heart that this is the right call for you and your future.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Headmistress of Hogwarts School
of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Her fingers crumpled the paper with every sentence Pansy read, grabbing the letter harder and harder as her eyes devoured every word in her old Professor’s handwriting.
“Daisy, what do I do?” she whispered, closing her eyes and letting her head fall back.
She had a life in Diagon Alley.
Despite the awful glances, despite her family’s pressure into marriage, despite the yearning in her heart for more.
She had money and power; a thriving career, a security net. She had her friends—Malfoy, Greengrass, Zabini—all cocooned in their perfect bubbles, distant and unshaken by her presence.
Hell, Pansy even had sex whenever she wanted to, and with gorgeous women that fawned over her obvious striking beauty, which she surely could not do if she were under McGonagall’s discerning eye at Hogwarts. Can you imagine hitting The Three Broomsticks, looking for a nice time? No thanks, no one there deserves that treatment from the shunned Slytherin Princess. Or worse yet, picture getting somehow lucky with someone worth-worshipping, and having to watch that Professor’s hawk eyes the next morning, knowing she knows. Because she’ll know. Hard pass, she thought.
So, in short, she had everything little Pansy dreamt of and thought impossible, locked up for half a year in that dreadful place. A shiver went up her spine when she remembered Azkaban and the dementors patrolling its hallways, leaving behind shells of people and not a soul in their wake.
She shook her head, gripping tightly the edges of the table until her knuckles turned white and the sensation subsided a bit.
Pansy dried the drops of sweat on her brow with her sleeve and took a couple of deep breaths.
She was not in Azkaban. She was in her office, surrounded by money, influence, power and independence.
So, she had all life could’ve offered her. She earned it, fought cleanly for it. Survived, accomplished, conquered, proved them wrong. She rose on top.
And yet.
And yet.
She was not needed. Anywhere. Not by her clients, or her one-night stands, or even her close friends.
Draco and Astoria were closed to the world, raising two-year-old Scorpius Malfoy out of the public eye and the sneering comments of people. They didn’t have time to check up on her, or meet, or go out for a wild night.
Daphne was never around, always travelling the world and discovering new cultures, never growing roots anywhere. Whenever she came back to London, however, hell unleashed and both Pansy and Daphne shared their stories of mutual conquests, better looking trysts and new and juicy gossip going around. Those were the good times.
Blaise had, for some reason, moved in with Narcissa Malfoy. They both lived in her vineyard, on the south coast of France. Whatever was going on between those two, Pansy didn’t know—nor wanted to, as Draco so elegantly put into words whenever she asked.
At the end of the day, only Daisy depended on her. And Pansy was always surrounded by people, but the more time she stood tall at the helm of her business, the more alone she felt.
Maybe she needed a change.
She thought of it: she could go to Hogwarts and try to rewrite history. She could try to erase altogether the animadversion in every glance, every sneered comment.
Pansy could try to matter in a different way, to reshape the legacy of her house.
She could delegate her responsibilities in the shop to her employees, praying for them not to mess the business up.
And, if push came to shove and Hogwarts was really not her call, she could always come back to Diagon Alley.
Yeah, maybe that would be good.
A way to mend the world that she unintentionally helped to break.
A Slytherin way to fix. The Pansy way.