Chapter Text
There was nothing outside the window but clouds. They stretched out for ages, dark and stormy and utterly beautiful, hiding the horizon until a flash of lightning illuminated a shadowed mountain peak. It was Pansy’s favorite view: when the floating palatial structure of Beauxbatons Academy disappeared into a curtain of vapor above the Alps. When the glare of sun on snow dimmed, and she felt the anonymity of her surroundings taking flight; there could be anything beyond those clouds.
It seemed fitting that her last morning at Beauxbatons had dawned so beautifully grey.
A knock sounded on Pansy’s door, and she turned away from her contemplations to open it with a flourish at her wrist. A figure, tall and statuesque, ducked through the doorway.
“My dear, you are not packed?” Madame Maxime clucked, placing a sturdy kiss on each of Pansy’s cheeks.
“Nearly.” She gestured to her bulging trunk. Just making some last-minute wardrobe decisions. How much tartan is too much for Scotland?”
The headmistress tilted her great nose into the air and gave an indignant sniff. “All of it.”
“Agreed.” Pansy swept her wand over her trunk, and a bundle of plaid tumbled out. She directed it into neatly folded piles before levitating the garments back into her bureau. It barely made a dent in the dangle of robes and shoes spilling onto the floor.
From the corner, Maxime had enlarged one of the armchairs to better suit her frame and now perched delicately as she could on the edge of a pale pink cushion. “Come,” she said, patting the adjoining seat, “sit with me.”
A gleaming silver teapot shimmered into existence os Pansy settled herself on the chair. She’d yet to discover where the food came from; there weren’t any house elves at Beauxbatons. It was a different sort of magic that sustained the school rather than that of Hogwarts. An immense web of charms and wards that kept the fairytale-like palace hovering in a concealing sea of clouds as the wind carried them from Monaco to Slovenia above the summit of the Alps, completely unplottable.
Maxime handed her a steaming cup. “You are ready for this? For the Exchange?”
“Now that my closet is tartan-free, I am.”
“That is not what I meant, mon petale.”
Pansy bit back a sigh and placed her teacup back on the table with more force than necessary.
The Exchange was the British Ministry of Magic’s new plan to foster international magic relations. Instead of the disastrous and deadly TriWizard Tournament, the Exchange merely consisted of a trade of students and staff between the magical schools. In the letter she’d received last month from the Ministry informing her of the program, there had been phrases like “reestablished camaraderie” and “burgeoning friendships amongst young witches and wizards from all corners of the world.” Pansy was surprised that the line, “Look, our school and government are now free of fanatics and criminals!” had not made an appearance.
Predictably, not many schools had volunteered to participate in the inaugural Exchange. Maxime had agreed immediately, largely in part to her connection to Hogwarts and the staff during the war. Ilvermorny was the only other institution to sign on, mostly for the media spectacle of the thing more than any sharing of magical knowledge. Despite the Ministry’s relative silence on the details, the American press had gone rabid over the announcement of the Exchange, pumping out increasingly salacious articles speculating what terrible dark wizarding drama the Hogwarts students would bring with them and which professors would be chosen. Just that morning, she’d had to banish a copy of Mage Mag, one of her students had brought to breakfast because the bloody thing would not stop calling out headlines in the most vapid, uninspiring voice imaginable. “Hots for Herbology! Turn to page twelve to find out why we’re so totally crushing on a wizard with a green thumb.”
“It’s been a long time since you’ve been home,” Madame Maxime prompted now.
“Difficult to do when you don’t have a home to return to. The other witch remained unfazed by Pansy’s bluntness.
“I know your father was... killed before the final battle, but surely your mother—”
“Has never seen me as anything other than a pretty prize.”
Her words sliced with a dull force. The pair stared at each other in stubborn silence. It was not the first time Maxime had attempted to glean her secrets. After all, why would Pansy Parkinson, the perfect only daughter of a prominent pureblood family, head bitch of Slytherin House and once slated to become the next Lady Malfoy, give it all up to become Charms Madame of Beauxbatons Academy so far from her native Britain?
Because my father was a coward and a Death Eater, struck down by his Dark Lord’s followers for fleeing at the last minute instead of attacking a castle full of children. Because my mother would sell me to the highest bidder to hold on to a life that no longer exists. Because my magic, my very existence, relies on my being tucked safely within the walls of a school, and Hogwarts would never welcome me back. Not after all I’ve done.
Maxime was too polite to pry, so she had never asked directly what had led the young witch to choose this life, but Pansy knew it bothered her to have a Charms Madame with so many secrets.
She tried a different tactic. “You’ve been with us for—what, three years now?”
Pansy nodded. “This is my fourth year of teaching, yes.”
“In that entire time, I have never known you to travel. You spend every holiday, every break, here.”
She crossed her arms indignantly over her chest. “I apparate to town whenever we’re close enough to make the jump. How else would I keep my closet so well stocked? I was in Zermatt just last week. It was lovely.” It was not. The alpine town had been overrun with Muggles in odd trousers with too many pockets and, oddly, a witch-themed bar.
“But you came right back here, did you not? You did not stay out the evening at a little chateau with a new acquaintance?” Maxime’s words were far from teasing, bordering on exasperated pleading.
Pansy bristled under the headmistress’s accusations. “Is that why you signed me up for the Exchange? Because I don’t fall into bed with every wizard from here to Vienna?”
The absurdity of the morning sent the room spinning slightly off-kilter as the storm clouds pressed in tight at the windows. Ozone and barely-concealed magic filled the room. She stood abruptly and strode to her trunk. “I am not a bargaining chip.” She punched down into her mess of clothes as punctuation, willing everything to fit. The conversation had veered too close to her last argument with her mother nearly a decade ago. “I have worked too hard to give it all up for some man with antiquated expectations. My students deserve my full attention to get them ready for the demands of the world beyond these walls, for the opportunities that await them. I cannot be distracted. You cannot make me—”
Her voice had risen to a frantic volume by the time she felt a comforting hand on her shoulder.
“Mon petale,” Madame Maxime said in a gentle tone. She turned Pansy to face her. “It is because of your dedication to the students that I enrolled you in the Exchange. You see more potential in them than anyone else. It is a gift to be celebrated and shared. That is why I put your name forward. You are a talented teacher, Madame Parkinson.”
Throat filled with emotion, Pansy tried to sniff past the praise. She was not built for gratitude. Yes, well, it’s a shame I won’t be sent to Ilvermorny. Those Americans need all the fashion help they can get.”
“Of course,” the headmistress chuckled. “Now, shall we sort out your trunk? You will not want to be late.”
***
Pansy was late, but fashionably so. How incredibly gauche it would have been to be on time, or, Merlin forbid, early. She’d made the flying carriage circle the Black Lake for nearly ten minutes in order to properly time their landing in the courtyard. Only Mr. Filch had been present for their arrival, standing beside a mountain of luggage that no doubt belonged to the Ilvermorny delegation. “Students are to be on time to meals,” he’d spat at her while pushing a particularly degraded-looking broom through a puddle of sick on the flagstones; long-distance portkey travel had clearly not agreed with the Americans.
She lined her students up behind the austere doors to the Great Hall and waited for the perfect moment to make their debut. It had been decided that the Exchange would be limited to Fourth Year students. Fifth and seventh years were generally consumed with O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s; the first three years were still too early in their studies to be considered a meaningful trade; and sixth years were sometimes too randy to not take the “international relations” mission literally. Still, her gaggle of fourteen-year-olds were not without their own dramatics. They were terrible gossips for one; an awkward encounter or an innocent misunderstanding at breakfast was bound to be solidified into torrid fact by noon once the fourth years got a hold of it. For another, the social dynamics of the Exchange had kept them all in a state of near hysteria for weeks now. The latest issue of Mage Mag had resurfaced in the carriage and had sent the girls in particular into a fit before Pansy had confiscated it. The magazine now resided, silenced and creased, in the pocket of her robes. She’d need to study it later to see what all the fuss was about.
“Madame Parkinson, I’m hungry,” whinged Claudine Clauson from the back of the queue. Claudine was a tall young witch with straw-like hair and dimpled cheeks that gave her an air of false innocence. She had a tendency to bend magic to her will, often with less-than-desirable results, albeit impressive. “Will we be joining the feast at all in the next century?”
Pansy bit back a smile at the girl’s cheek. “Let’s see, shall we?” She pressed her to the center of the doors and peered out into the Great Hall beyond.
Headmistress McGonagall commanded the dais at the front of the cavernous room, her thick Scottish brogue floating across the four massive tables filled with students. At the far end of the Gryffindor table, robes of blue and cranberry popped out amidst the sea of black—the Ilvermorny Exchange students. Pansy turned her attention to the Head Table, her row of new colleagues on brilliant display.
Over seven years had passed since her time at Hogwarts, so she was unsurprised to not recognize a fair number of the professors. Flitwick was, of course, absent, taking up Pansy’s post at Beauxbatons, as well as Slughorn. The old head of Slytherin had retired, permanently this time, following the Battle of Hogwarts. She’d spent her eighth year suffering through N.E.W.T.-level potions under the unfortunate direction of the meekest Potions Master she’d ever witnessed, with a weak chin and even weaker classroom disposition. He clearly didn't last long after that because she didn't see him in residence at the table. A lithe wizard with sharp features and a dueling leathers beneath his robes occupied the far-right seat—clearly the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor—while a bundle of vibrant silks beneath a pillbox hat occupied the chair next to Hagrid at the left end of the table. Professors Vector and Sinistra took their usual seats, looking identical to Pansy’s memory, despite the years that had passed.
Three chairs remained empty: McGonagall’s central seat and two clustered next to the pile of fabric. Who else was missing? Sprout? She didn’t see the Herbology professor’s comfortable shape in the crowd. Perhaps the old bird had also retired.
“Our friends from Beauxbatons Academy have no doubt been delayed.” McGonagall’s voice pulled Pansy’s attention back to the center as the headmistress lifted her arms in a dramatic fashion above her head. “So, let the feast—”
With a flourish of magic, Pansy threw open the doors to the Great Hall just as the tables filled with glittering trays of food. She stepped lightly out of sight, and her students filtered in single file. At the threshold, she cast a modified bubblehead charm on each one. The spell encased their entire bodies in a gossamer orb, and they were lifted half a meter off the ground. Using their wands as guides, they glided alongside tables to awed silence. All the while, they sang:
Oh, Beauxbatons, our home of grace,
Where magic flows in every space!
From mirrored halls to Alpine air,
We learn the charms that banish care.
With wands alight and spirits bold,
A story in our hearts unfolds.
Oh, magic bright, a silver gleam,
Reflected in the mountain stream.
We rise above on wings of light,
With knowledge clear and purpose right.
In every spell, a dancer's art,
We place our grace within the heart!
The wind may howl, the storm may press,
But beauty is our true finesse.
A flick, a touch, a whisper soft,
We send our spells on high aloft.
For wisdom sought and lessons learned,
Our inner light has brightly burned.
Oh, magic bright, a silver gleam,
Reflected in the mountain stream.
We rise above on wings of light,
With knowledge clear and purpose right.
In every spell, a dancer's art,
We place our grace within the heart!
Though far we fly, we shall return,
The lessons of our youth we earn.
In elegance and power's sway,
Beauxbatons guides us on our way!
Pansy let a smug smile play out upon her lips from her spot behind the now closed doors. It really was a remarkable spell—one of her favorites that she’d developed. She’d gotten the idea from a Muggle film she’d seen a few years prior. It had been a bizarre experience of too-bright colors and confusing storyline—she certainly wasn’t about to be melted by a bucket of water—but the image of a benevolent witch in cotton candy taffeta floating down in a bubble had stuck with her. It was the kind of magic she liked best: taking the charms others took for granted and manipulating them into something unexpected. She was a conductor pulling the strings of magical theory, unraveling it for her students to discover.
Pride, warm and slightly foreign, filled her chest as she watched the Beauxbatons fourth years. Even Claudine, who zoomed higher and faster than the rest, spinning wildly as she tried unsuccessfully to nab a mince pie from the Ravenclaw table, couldn’t be described as anything less than an accomplished witch.
When the final chorus ended, the students halted in a line across the front of the dias. Their bubbles burst in an audible pop, and they sank into deep bows and curtsies. Thunderous applause rippled through the crowd, and Pansy leaned back from the doors.
Good. With everyone occupied with the feast and now the fantastical arrival of the Beauxbatons students, surely no one would notice her slipping through the staff entrance at the back of the hall. It was a bit cowardly, certainly, to sneak about. But the castle already knew of all her crimes, and she imagined its stones carved with her mistakes. The curses she’d thrown at the behest of those in power, the people she’d trodden upon in pursuit of favor. A pointed finger and her own shrill voice in her ear: “But he’s there! Potter’s there! Someone grab him!” Wizarding society, in Pansy’s expert opinion, had a long and thorny memory. Anything she could do to delay what was coming next—the accusations and the threats—she’d do it. She’d sneak and tread softly and cower behind the wonderful spectacle her students had made, imploring the Fates—or, better yet, the Daily Prophet—to give her a gods-forsaken break, at least for tonight.
Backing away, she contemplated her route to the rear of the Great Hall. At one point in her career as a student, due to her involvement in the Inquisitorial Squad and later her duties as Head Girl in Seventh Year, she’d known nearly every corridor, alcove, and secret passage the castle had to offer.
“Pansy Parkinson?” A voice, low and questioning, stopped her in her tracks. She spun. A tall wizard stood not ten paces away, his face a mask of bewilderment. Unruly sandy hair framed his face and curled around his ears. His shirt sleeves were rucked up over his elbows, revealing sculpted forearms. Over top, his robes were creased and dull green. Around his neck was a camera.
Sweet Salazar, the Prophet was already here. She cursed the Fates silently, then let out a dramatic sigh. “Alright, let’s get this over with.”
She marched forward with all the grace of a stampeding centaur. He took an involuntary step back as she planted herself before him, hands defiantly at her hips and head tipped back to meet his startled gaze.
“Yes, it’s true: Pansy Parkinson has returned to Hogwarts. Quick, grab your pitchforks and torches. The bitch is back.” She carved her mouth into a slim smile, all sharp teeth and caged outrage. “Any questions?”
“I, um… What are you doing here?” He blinked at her owlishly. This close, she could make out the faint tan and freckles that dusted his skin, his eyes like honeyed wheat.
“Merlin, why’d they send you?” I suppose I should be grateful it’s not Skeeter; otherwise the front page would be about how I have a tattoo of the Dark Lord on my arse.”
He choked. “Wait, wha—”
“Shut up. Are you not going to take any notes?” She rolled her eyes as he continued to do little else but stare at her. “Fine, I won’t tell you how to do your job, though somebody clearly should. I hope you have a good memory.”
Hands clenched tightly over her heart, Pansy turned on her most doe-eyed expression. Her words dripped sanguine from her mouth to puddle at their feet. “I’m beyond honored to be representing Beauxbatons Academy during the inaugural Exchange program. My return to Hogwarts marks an era of new beginnings.” She squeezed out a tear for good measure.
It was the kind of statement she’d been born and raised to make: inellegant truth draped in silk to dull the sharp edges. Her presence in Britain, at the scene of what many believed to be her greatest crime, was bound to be met with a surge of thinly veiled outrage.
“The Exchange?” The man’s face had transformed from blank confusion to open shock, thick eyebrows disappearing beneath the shaggy hair at his forehead. “You’re one of the professors?”
His question sent the air rushing out of her nose in an irritated huff. She knew the Ministry had been very quiet about the details of the Exchange, which had been to her benefit if nothing else, but she’d figured at least the Prophet would have been privy to more.
Pansy crossed her arms defensively across her chest. “No need to act so surprised. Now, are you going to take my picture or not?”
“Your picture?”
Did the idiot only ever ask asinine questions?
“Yes. Pho-to-graph. With the cam-er-a.” She gesticulated wildly at the device still hanging uselessly around his neck. She was being more than a little unkind now, completely at odds with the image she so desperately wanted—needed—to portray going into the Exchange. Look, everyone: the girl who wanted to hand over the Chosen One can be trusted with your children. “Just make sure you get my good side.”
The man brought the camera up and lazily hit the shutter button; the flash cast deep shadows over his frown. She’d be lucky if that shot captured anything more than her fringe.
“Lovely.” A sour grimace twisted at her lips. “Well, if that’s all done, I really ought to get to the feast before the only seat left is next to whatever daisy pusher they got to replace Sprout. I don’t normally enjoy dirt in my pumpkin juice.” With a sharp turn of her heel, Pansy made to brush past him to resume her search for the staff entrance.
A strong arm slipped through hers and dragged her off balance. His grin—smirk, really—was practically wolfish as he pulled her toward the Great Hall. “Aren’t you going the wrong way, Miss Parkinson?”
“Oh, no, I just need to— Thank you, but—” she stumbled over her feet and words in turn as she tugged against him futilely. What is happening? Gone was the feckless journalist from before; now, the man’s eyes overflowed with mirth as she tried to match his long strides. It was like being tied to the Hogwarts Express: she was helpless to do anything else but follow. Though undoubtedly strong, his grip on her wasn’t bruising or cruel. If she could just think, she knew she could have easily found a way to break off and cast a jelly-legs jinx for good measure. But they were already at the entrance.
He flung open the doors with his free hand, the rows of students falling near silent as he dragged her down the center aisle. Pansy fought the panicked expression on her face as best as she could. If she couldn’t keep her return from becoming a public spectacle, she could at least control how she looked in that moment: cool, collected, and without a hint of guilt for actions long in the past.
The man stopped abruptly in the middle of the room, and she plowed straight into his broad back.
“Sorry we’re late, Headmistress.” His voice echoed in the cavernous space. “Miss Parkinson and I lost track of time becoming… reacquainted with each other.”
Frenzied whispers rose from the tables around them.
“Is that—”
“Did you hear—”
“Sweet Salazar, he’s so fucking fit.”
Pansy’s face burned. How dare he insinuate such a thing? She was a professor, an authority figure at this school. Not some tawdry bimbo that couldn’t keep her knickers on.
“May I have your attention?” McGonagall stood from her seat behind the Head Table. “Please join me in welcoming Madame Pansy Parkinson of Beauxbatons Academy, your charms professor for the duration of the Exchange, and Hogwarts’ new Herbologist, Professor Neville Longbottom.”
Polite applause swept through the Great Hall, but Pansy barely heard it over the blood rushing quickly to her head. She whipped her gaze up to meet the hazel eyes of the man at her arm.
“Longbottom,” she hissed.
A dimple pleated his chin as he grinned down at her. “Hiya, Pansy.”