ALL CHARACTERS PORTRAYED WITHIN THIS STORY ARE 18 YEARS OLD OR ABOVE.
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Summary: Wrong place, wrong time, they said. To Pansy it was just another case of her horrid luck. Now, as the prime witness in an investigation that could potentially put one of Magical Britain's most notorious crimelords behind bars for good, Pansy is forced into protective custody by the DMLE. It was fine, though. The trial was in three months, and in all honesty, she needed a vacation anyway. The only problem was the company. After all, having an Auror-mandated bodyguard was annoying enough on its own. It was even worse when that bodyguard was Harry Potter.
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Prologue
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Life was not a kind mistress to Pansy Parkinson.
Oh sure, there were those who would look upon her designer shoes and Maltese Dragon-hide handbags and scoff at the idea of her life being anything but luxurious. They would be right, of course, but yet they’d also be fools.
Designer shoes and dragon skin handbags were nice to have, but they were little more than distractions hiding the real cancer beneath. The real her.
For all one would have to do is look closer, and they would realise the designer heels on her feet were barely being held together by cheap stitching and hastily applied mending charms. They would see that the dragon-hide of her handbag glistened with a rubbery tint, the acrid dye used to mimic real Maltese dragon hide giving it an unnatural shine even in the dimmest of light.
Designer shoes and dragon skin handbags would be nice to have, if only Pansy could afford them.
Instead, she settled on the cheap knock-offs. Half-cobbled fakes that could be found in just about every shop along Knockturn Alley. And oh, how Pansy hated them.
The shoes chaffed and rubbed at her feet until her soles were raw and bubbled with blisters. The smell of the handbag made Pansy’s stomach churn. Even her clothes, an open-back satin dress and a sequined shawl, were already beginning to fray at the hem despite having just bought them the day prior.
One would not be mistaken to wonder why she wasted what little coin she had to her name on such cheap frivolities.
And her answer, of course, would be, what choice did she have?
Cheap as the garments may be, they were necessary if she wished to keep food on the table and a roof over her head.
No, life was not a kind mistress to Pansy Parkinson. In fact, Pansy was pretty sure the fucking bitch hated her.
Why else would she have to dress herself up like a glittery harlot every night just to earn a few fucking galleons?
That was the only question plaguing her mind as she listened to the greasy-haired troll across from her boast about all his supposed achievements. At least that’s what she thought he was ranting about. She stopped paying attention very early on as she did her best not to gag at the rotten smell spilling from his mouth. Gods, when was the last time he brushed his teeth? From the look of the rotten black masses in his mouth, Pansy doubted he even knew how to cast a teeth-cleaning charm, much less even owned a toothbrush.
“-those damn French frogs were so happy I saved their village that they even offered me up a Veela as my own personal plaything!” the oaf exclaimed with a wheezing laugh.
Pansy barely contained the urge to roll her eyes. The same could not be said for her mouth, however. “Is that so? Where is this Veela paramour of yours them, hm?” Though her words were biting, she ensured to speak them with the same purring tone that made most men believe she was flirting.
The idiots.
“I–Well I–Ahem–” the greasy troll stammered, caught off guard by her question after she had kept silent for so long. “Well I told ‘em to sod off! Everyone knows that French Veela are stuck-up bints anyway! She wasn’t nearly good enough for someone like me anyhow! That actually reminds me of the time I—”
This time, Pansy couldn’t suppress her groan as she was forced to hide her sound of misery in her drink, only to be met with nothing but half-melted ice and the remnants of her gin and tonic. Fucking perfect.
Pushing her empty glass away, Pansy forced her mind to wander as her ‘date’ launched into yet another long-winded fable where he was the hero.
This. This is what she’s forced to endure. After the war, the new Ministry tore through Voldemort’s supporters like a ravenous beast. Sanctions, fines, lawsuits. Those who weren’t thrown into Azkaban found every galleon, sickle, and knut torn away from them as reparations for the war. House Parkinson was no different. In a matter of months, her family went from one of the wealthiest in Magical Britain to little more than paupers scrounging for scraps.
Her mother had been smart. At the first sign of trouble, Alerie Parkinson had packed up her things and left for the continent, leaving nothing behind but a stack of signed divorce papers and a few galleons in Pansy’s name.
Her father, on the other hand, did the one thing he was good at: Fuck everything up.
Despite being pardoned on a technicality, within six months, Penrose Parkinson found himself in shackles and hauled away to Azkaban for the sale of illegal cursed objects. Pansy hadn’t bothered going to his trial. Her father certainly wouldn’t have gone to hers.
And so here she was, broke and living in a shithole flat that was covered in mould and dried blood from tenants past, while she spent every night dressing herself up like a pretty doll just so pathetic men could pretend a woman finally looked at them with anything other than disgust.
Morgana above, she was tired.
This was her fifth client of the day. Her feet were killing her, and the watered-down alcohol did little to sate the gnawing hunger in her stomach. Not for the first time, Pansy considered just going home and passing out in her bed. The four galleons the oaf was paying her were hardly worth it. Yet like always, thoughts of returning to her flat just to be met with the stack of late notices on the counter and her empty pantry reminded Pansy of just how badly she needed those four galleons.
It was fine. She’s made it through worse ‘dates’ after all. She only needed to keep this up for another hour, anyhow.
“—and that pink-haired auror bitch said I was ‘disturbing the peace’ of some shite. I don’t really remember, I was too busy staring at her tits! Snrk! She had a nice fucking set on her, too! Er—Not as nice as your rack though! Say, what’s your cup size anyway?”
‘Just. One. More. Hour,’ she thought through gritted teeth.
-
Thankfully, the hour passed without any hexes flying. Stepping out of the dingy pub, Pansy turned and slapped on her fakest smile.
“Tonight was wonderful, darling,” she lied with practised grace. “I do hope we’ll be seeing each other again soon.”
Without another word, Pansy held out her hand. The lumbering troll grunted, the smell of body odour making her want to gag as he dug out four small golden coin.
“You know,” he grunted, his pig-like features twisting into an ugly smile as he placed the coin in her hand. “We don’t need ta’ end the night here beautiful. What say we head back to my place and have a bit of fun?”
Pansy knew this was coming. Almost all her clients asked for more carnal services after a date with her. Without missing a beat, Pansy giggled and swiftly tucked away her earnings.
“As nice as that sounds, I fear I have other obligations to attend to tonight, my sweet,” she said breezily, already stepping back to take her leave.
The oaf, of course, didn’t take the hint.
“Aw, c’mon darlin’,” he smirked, stepping forward. “Just tell me how much it’ll cost to get you out of that dress.”
With her patience already running thin from a long day of stroking egos, Pansy couldn’t contain her true snark any longer.
“Far more than you can afford,” she snapped. “And even then, I make it a rule not to fuck trolls. Ta ta now!”
Without waiting for the oaf to respond, Pansy turned on her heel and walked away, slipping into the nearest alley just as she heard her date’s sputters of disbelief morph into offended rage. For a moment, she almost thought he would follow her. She had her wand out for that very outcome. It would not be the first time she had to put an overzealous customer in their place. Thankfully, his bravado was just as false as his tales of triumph as Pansy heard him stomp away with grunting grumbles.
The exhausted witch released a sigh of relief.
Thank the gods. She hardly needed to leave another client bloodied in an alley. Assaulting one’s customers was bad for business.
Turning once more, Pansy walked deeper into the alley. Her flat wasn’t too far from here, but just in case the troll changed his mind, she opted to take the longer route home, even if her feet screamed at her in protest.
As she walked, Pansy pulled out her meagre earnings for the day. After five clients, she was walking home with a tidy sum of 14 galleons and 9 sickles. One of her more profitable days, even if it was hardly enough to buy a week’s worth of groceries. Adding in her previous earnings from the week, Pansy did a few quick calculations in her head. After paying her rent, buying food, and paying down the late fees on two of her five Gringotts loans, she’d be left with 1 sickle and 8 knuts.
Despair coiled icily in her gut. She has worked herself to the bone all week and this would be all she had to show for it? Pansy wanted to laugh, to scream, cry, rage on and on about the unfairness of it all.
In the end, she could only sigh and tuck away her money once more. If only she’d have enough leftover to buy a bottle of wine so she could drown her sorrows. Maybe her next client won’t skip out on the drinks as this one had. A girl could only hope.
‘Maybe I should’ve just shagged the oaf. I would at least have had enough then for a bottle of cheap vodka,’ she thought with a snort.
Yeah. As if.
It wasn’t that she was above more risque services. From time to time, she would toe the line between being a pseudo-escort and an actual sex worker. She hasn’t fucked anyone, of course. Humble as her living conditions were, she still had some self-respect. Yet from time to time, if they had enough coin and didn’t positively repulse her, Pansy would indulge the occasional client’s carnal fantasy. Sometimes it would be nothing more than a quick flash of her naked tits. Other times, she’d allow a little light groping, but only over the clothes. The farthest she’s ever gone was when a client paid her fifty galleons to stand in an alleyway topless while he stroked himself to completion. Pansy had only agreed to that one because he wanted her to insult him while he did the deed, her cutting remarks seemingly arousing the perverted fool even further.
Still, she would not allow herself to sink lower than that. Just the thought of men like the lumbering troll from tonight rutting atop her was enough to make Pansy’s skin crawl. She felt like she needed a shower just to scrub away the disgust of that thought.
Distracted by a combination of her repulsive imagination and exhaustion, Pansy didn’t notice that the alleyway she was walking down was already occupied by three others. It was only when the sound of voices reached her ears that she finally paused.
“-pains me to do this Vincent, but you left me little choice.”
“Sir you have to believe me! I knew nothing of the raid! One minute we were conducting the deal and the next spells were flying! Please! I would never betray you!”
Two years of living in Knockturn Alley taught Pansy long ago that strangers were not friends, and the men ahead of her definitely sounded anything but friendly. Quietly as she could, Pansy ducked out of sight, the shadows of the alley and a stack of old rotted crates concealing her completely as she watched the exchange before her unfold.
“I believe you, Vincent, but that is hardly the issue. Hawthorne, what is the real issue at hand here?”
“Only three people knew of that deal with the goblins, sir. You, the Breaktooth Chieftain, and him.”
“Exactly. And while I hardly find the goblins trustworthy, especially ones who even Gringotts condemns, they are creatures of self-interest. Tipping off the aurors? Well, I can’t see how they could benefit from that. Can you Hawthorne?”
“No sir.”
“So you see, Vincent, if the goblins didn’t tip off the aurors, and I didn’t tip them off, that only leaves you as the remaining factor in this little equation of ours.”
“I would never—”
“As I said, I believe you, however while you may not have intentionally told them about the deal, I am told you have a small problem with keeping your mouth shut after a few drinks. That is a weakness that I cannot allow. Don’t you agree Hawthorne?”
“Yes sir.”
“Good. Do you have any final words Vin—”
The main voice suddenly paused, the man’s face twisting to the side, revealing milky white flesh and a set of piercing yellow eyes.
Pansy helps her breathe, her heart hammering against her ribcage as the man’s eyes swept over her hiding spot. Did they hear her? Had she been discovered? Yet just when it seemed like the sickly yellow eyes of the man were boring into her very soul, he suddenly turned back to his associate.
“Someone’s coming. Kill him quickly.”
Without another word, the pale wizard swept away, disappearing into the shadows of the alley. Pansy kept her breath held as the other figure pulled out his wand. The third man kneeling on the ground whimpered. She could see his body tremble in fear even from where she hid. Yet before the kneeling man could voice another plea for his life, two words split the air.
“Avada Kedavra.”
A flash of green, and the kneeling man trembled no more.“DMLE, hands in the air!”
The bright white light of a lumos maxima spell lit up the air, briefly blinding both Pansy and the other man. They both recovered at the same time, Pansy’s eyes meeting the scared face of the robed enforcer, his eyes boring right back into Pansy’s own.
Fuck.
Fuck.
He sees her. He fucking sees her after she just watched him kill someone, and now he’s going to kill her!
Yet before the other man could act, a red stunner suddenly slammed into the brick right next to his face. The scarred wizard stepped back, a silent growl on his lips as he kept his eyes locked onto Pansy, before he suddenly disappeared into a flash of black smoke.
“Fucking—He had a hidden portkey! Billings see if you can trace it! Dornes you send a patronus to the Chief. Tell her we have a verified use of the Killing Curse. And you! Stay where you are!”
Pansy swallowed thickly with her hands raised as a wand was levelled at her chest.
Something told her she wasn’t going to make it back home tonight after all.
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As hard to believe as it is, this wasn’t Pansy’s first time in a DMLE interrogation room. In fact, she’d be willing to bet money this was the very same interrogation room she’d been held after getting caught with a bag of pixie dust the summer before her sixth year. Her mother had been livid when she found out. Her father had hardly cared.
She wondered what they would think now.
Before she could find an answer, the heavy iron door to her left swung open and a purple-haired witch stepped inside.
“Well, fancy meeting you here Parkinson.”
Pansy sneered at the overtly cheerful woman. “Fuck you.”
The purple-haired witch tsked and took her seat. “I think you mean ‘Good evening Head Auror Tonks, how may I help you today?’ and then I would say ‘Well, you can start by telling me just what you were doing in that alley!’ and you would say “Of course! Anything to help the greatest Auror to ever live!’ How does that sound?”
“Like you think a bit too highly of yourself,” Pansy retorted.
“Pot meet kettle,” Tonks replied. “Let’s put the flirting away for now though.”
“That was you flirting? Fuck, that was pathetic. When’s the last time you got laid?” she sneered.
Tonks didn’t rise to the bait, however. “Cute. Let’s try this a different way. You tell me what happened in that alley, and I don’t have you charged as an accessory to murder!” the metamorph chirped in an overtly cheerful voice.
Pansy, however, wanted nothing more than to jump over the table and scratch out the smug woman’s multi-coloured eyes. That would hardly keep her out of prison, though.
“I didn’t kill anyone,” she finally said, her voice steely and cold. “I was just on my way home when I ran into the dead guy being held at wand point by two others. It wasn’t exactly a fucking situation I could just say ‘Excuse me!’ and slip right past, okay? It was either back away and risk being caught or hide. I chose to hide.”
The purple-haired auror nodded as she jotted down a few notes in a small notepad. “And the other two men? Did you know them at all?”
“Of course not! What? Do you think I was walking around in a back alley of Knockturn to make fucking friends?”
The metamorph looked at her, her multi-coloured eyes slipping down to stare pointedly at Pansy’s skin-tight dress and dipping neckline.
“Among other things.”
Pansy felt her cheeks heat up in a mixture of fury and shame. She slumped back into her chair and crossed her arms. “Up yours bitch.”
“I’ll pass. The other two, did you get a good look at them?”
Pansy shook her head. “The tall one more than the other. Bald. A black beard. He had scars all over his face as well.”
Tonks nodded along to her explanation. The metamorph pulled out a folder from beneath the table and slid it across. On the front was a picture of a man in Azkaban robes snarling at the camera.
“Tobias Hawthorne. Convicted back in ‘91 for six counts of assault and battery, three counts of possession of class five controlled potions, and one count of spreading Grindewald rhetoric. He has other convictions going all the way back to the early eighties that make some Death Eaters seem like upstanding citizens in comparison.” Tonks flipped open the file, revealing a long list of charges that proved she wasn't speaking lightly. “He was released shortly after the war due to a combination of good behaviour and overcrowding in Azkanban. It was no surprise, really, when a month later his parole wizard reported Hawthorne was nowhere to be found.”
“Well, doesn’t he sound delightful,” Pansy drawled. “Why are you telling me this?”
Tonks shrugged. “Just thought you should know what the guy who will be trying to murder you is capable of.”
A beat of silence passed.
“What?!”
Instead of answering, the purple-haired witch reached down and retrieved another file. This one of far smaller than the last, containing no more than a few papers at most. The picture on the front was no mugshot either. It was grainy, as if it was taken from far away. The man in the picture was facing the other way as well, with only part of the left side of his face visible.
And yet still Pansy recognised him. Not by his body or his face, but by the single yellow eye peering back towards the camera.
Her reaction must have been easily visible to Tonks as she leaned forward and tapped her fingers against the photo.
“Meet Alabaster Sarber. Businessman and not-so-secret crime lord of the Knockturn underbelly. There’s not a single drug dealer, smuggler, hit-wizard, or all-around lowlife scum out there that isn’t in his pocket one way or another.” Tonks explained. “In short, he’s one of the most dangerous men alive, and tonight you watched him orchestrate the death of one of your former classmates.”
Another file hit the table, this one only a single photo of a pale corpse upon an examination table.
“Vincent Crabbe unwittingly leaked the time and location of an important deal between Sarber and the Chieftain of the Breaktooths, a clan of goblin traitors. We had thought Sarber would be there himself, but it seems he knew better.” Tonks scoffed and crossed her arms. ”He’s a slippery bastard, and because of this, Vincent Crabbe now lies dead in an ice-box downstairs, and I’m left with you as my main witness.”
The metamorph sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose.
“Look, neither of us is in a particularly good situation right now. Up until now, we never had enough to actually pin Sarber to any of his crimes. Nothing that would stick anyhow. He’s not someone who leaves behind witnesses very often if you catch my drift,” she said with a pointed tap of her finger against the photo of Crabbe’s corpse. “At least not until you, that is. If you were to testify, we could finally put the bastard away for good.”
“And why would I do that?” Pansy snapped, slamming her hand against the table with a ‘bang’. “You just said this guy is one of the most dangerous men alive! Why would I willingly put myself on his radar by testifying against him?!”
“Because you’re already on his radar,” Tonks replied, her voice even and features set in a grim expression. “Hawthorne saw you earlier. That means Sarber knows you were there, and it won’t be long before he finds out exactly who you are and where you live. Even if you didn’t testify, you’d be dead by the end of the week. Like it or not, you have a target on your back now, Parkinson.”
“I—” Pansy began, the truth of Tonks’ words washing over her as she realised the true danger she was in. “Fuck! What am I supposed to do?!”Tonks reached forward, swiftly collecting each file and stowing it away.
“Agree to testify,” she said. “If you do, then we can place you into protective custody. The DMLE has safehouses everywhere, some that even the Minister himself doesn't know about. You’ll be kept at one with another auror acting as your personal security until the day of the trial.”
“Just one? Why not a whole fucking squad of Aurors if this guy is as dangerous as you say?” Pansy snapped.
Tonks shook her head. “Too many aurors will draw attention, and that would be the last thing we’d want. I assure you, the auror placed with you will be our very best. Hawthorne or any of Sarber’s other enforcers wouldn’t stand a chance.”
Pansy pressed her lips together in a thin line. It was probably her best chance at survival. She knew that, and yet part of her—the more vindictive side who silently raged about the unfairness of her life—that part felt it was not nearly good enough.
And if there was one thing that was certain about Pansy Parkinson, it was that she was always willing to be more than a bit vindictive.
“If I do this, then I want the Minister himself to personally exonerate me from all my family’s actions during the war. He needs to make it clear that it was because of me that the DMLE was able to throw Sarber into Azkaban,” she stated coldly, her eyes hard and unyielding against the kaleidoscope of colours swirling within the meatmorph’s own.
Tonks, however, didn't so much as blink. “Done. Anything else?”
Pansy tapped her chin in thought for a moment before perking up. “Since this bloke is some big crime boss, I assume there’s a reward of sorts for information leading to his arrest?”
“Not specifically, no. But we do have a standing 100 Galleon reward for any information of substance regarding standing investigations,” Tonks explained.
“Make it 500, and we have a deal.”
Tonks snorted and shook her head. “Sure, why not? You know, Parkinson, if you weren’t such a bitch I’d wager we’d have been friends at some point.”
“Fuck you.”
“Oh you’d love that, wouldn't you?”
Pansy scoffed and ignored the other woman’s bait. “Are we done here then? Can I go home?”
Tonks rolled her eyes and stood, waving for Pansy to do the same. “Not just yet. First I’ll take you to see your new babysitter. He’ll brief you on the rules of this little arraignment before escorting you back to your flat to collect any essentials. Clear?”
“Crystal,” Pansy huffed as she made to follow the older witch through the heavy iron door and into the halls of the DMLE. “Does this babysitter have a name? He'd better at least be as good as you say he is. I refuse to be saddled with some brain-dead rookie wanting to prove himself.”
Tonks chuckled and shook her head. “I wouldn’t worry about that if I were you, Parkinson,” the metamorph said as they approached one of the many office doors lining the hall. “After all, not every rookie can claim they killed the most powerful dark lord in the last millennia, now can they?”
Pansy furrowed her brow in confusion, just as a glimmer of light drew her gaze to the boorish wooden door. There, on the face of the worn wood, was a bronze nameplate etched with the name of someone Pansy had hoped to never see again.
“Oh you’ve got to be fucking kidding—”
The door swung open, and green eyes filled her vision.
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Author’s Note
After my last Update from yesterday, I started writing on the little prologue more so out of curiosity than anything. It shouldn’t come as a surprise that my comfort zones lie solely within any Hansy fic lol. I do, however, think this prompt was exactly what I needed to ‘stretch my legs’ so to speak. The prompt to me is malleable enough that I had about four or five different ideas for this prologue alone, not to mention the other 5-6 chapters I have planned.
One was having Pansy be a well-established Fashion Designer in Paris who witnessed said crime while in London for a runway show, her first time back in Magical Britain since the war 10 years prior. I thought this would be interesting due to the dynamics it could play with her character—her success allowing her to keep her sense of superiority over others, while serving to cover up her shame from the war and the conflicting emotions of her past still warring within her that led her to leave Magical Britain in the first place.
The other was similar; however, Pansy would be a recent divorcée instead, making her bitter attitude just a little heavier and also distrustful of love as a concept. I found this idea interesting because of the blatant denial it could play in her relationship with Harry as it slowly grew. Creating a sense of conflict within Pansy and playing on her sense of rash decisions.
The final was actually a switch-up. Instead of writing from Pansy’s point of view, the story would be from Harry’s. In this version, he would be fresh from his breakup with Ginny and an extreme workaholic, giving him a sense of isolation that he can’t help but subject himself to due to his perceived sense of worth being tied to always helping others first over himself. In this version, Pansy would be pretty similar to how she is in the books, albeit she’d be engaged to another man (no clue who, I was thinking perhaps a French nobleman or something). Parts of this characterisation will more than likely show up from Pansy’s point of view in this version.
In the end, I chose to go with this version of Pansy due to the wealth of potential it has for her character. With as down on her luck as she is, Pansy would naturally want to get out of the life she found herself in, yet because of who she is emotionally, any perceived offer of help would be seen as an insult. She would rationalise it as her not needing to be ‘saved’ by Harry, while at the same time knowing it’s really because she’s scared to get her hopes up, only for everything to be ripped from her once again.
I hope my long ramble was interesting enough to warrant it being drawn out so much lol.
Thanks for reading!