Chapter 1: "Shattered Reputations"

By: FemmeFlames

The great houses of England Wizardry have, for centuries, stood as a testament to the endurance of family names. But never before had there been a spectacle so grand, so whispered about, as that of the once-revered Parkinson estate. Fallen, as all knew, from the height of pureblood prestige to the very precipice of ruin, it was now a shadow of its former self, whispered about only in hushed tones, where pity and disdain mingled in equal measure. Yet, there stood Pansy Parkinson, a figure undeterred by the storm that had lashed her name and threatened to drown her in infamy.

Pansy had never been one to cower before adversity. Even as the doors of wizarding world closed upon her, and the once-welcoming cafes and shops now treated her as something to be brushed aside, she held her head high. For Pansy was, above all else, practical. Her black curls, though not as lustrous as they once had been, were arranged with the same care; her eyes, though hardened, retained that sharpness that had once been the source of whispered admiration among her peers. But now, it was not admiration she sought. It was survival, and for that, she would do anything.

If one were to observe her that morning, seated by the solitary window of the small flat instead of the Parkinson family's mansion—reduced now to little more than a forgotten relic—one might have thought her contemplative. She gazed not out into the street, but rather inward, as though each thought of hers formed the perfect piece in a grand puzzle. It was a puzzle that required meticulous planning, and Pansy was nothing if not methodical when her future was at stake.

For weeks now, she had deliberated, weighed her options, and discarded them one by one. Every potential avenue she had previously possessed had withered before her eyes. Her parents, those once formidable figures of the pureblood world, were locked away in the cold confines of Azkaban. What sympathy they might have commanded had evaporated like dew in the sunlight after the fall of Voldemort. No, there was no help to be found from them. Pansy had long since ceased to think of them as anything but obstacles in her path, for the weight of their crimes now rested squarely on her shoulders, as unfair and unjust as she found it.

But it was not Pansy's nature to dwell on misfortunes. She had inherited her mother's cunning and her father's pragmatism, traits that had served her well in the dangerous game of pureblood maneuvering. And if the wizarding world had turned its back on her, then she would turn to the only place left where purebloods still held power—Lady Malfoy.

Narcissa Malfoy, widow to the infamous Lucius and one of the few surviving pureblood women whose name remained unmarred, was Pansy's last hope. The Malfoys had, through Narcissa's cunning manipulation, remained on the fringes of respectable society, her final act of aiding Harry Potter cementing her as a figure of ambiguous loyalty. Society, so quick to condemn, had granted her a reprieve for her actions. And in this, Pansy saw an opportunity.

It was no small task to approach Narcissa Malfoy. The woman was known for her cold indifference and her unyielding pride. Her beauty had not faded in the years since the war; if anything, the icy veneer she had cultivated seemed only to enhance her ethereal presence. Where others softened with time, Narcissa had sharpened. She was like the winter frost on a windowpane—delicate to the eye, yet impenetrable and unyielding. Pansy had admired her once, in the days when Lucius still held court and the Malfoy name was spoken with both reverence and fear. But admiration was a luxury she could no longer afford.

Now, as Pansy prepared herself for what she knew would be her most calculated act yet, she allowed herself a single moment of reflection. How different her life might have been, had things not fallen as they had. The Parkinsons had once stood alongside the Malfoys in the grand hierarchy of the pureblood world. There had been a time when Pansy might have thought herself Narcissa's equal, when the thought of blackmailing Lady Malfoy would have been unthinkable. But that time had long since passed. Pride, Pansy knew, had no place in the world of survival.

And so, she had spent the past fortnight poring over the archives of her family's estate, sifting through papers and letters, until she had found what she needed—something Narcissa had gone to great lengths to conceal. A secret, buried beneath layers of Malfoy pride and carefully curated respectability. It was a small thing, perhaps, but Pansy had learned long ago that even the smallest thread could unravel the most intricately woven tapestry. And if Pansy knew anything about Lady Malfoy, it was that she valued her standing above all else, at least for her son's sake. To lose that, even for a moment, would be unthinkable to a woman like her.

The sound of the clock ticking softly in the corner drew Pansy from her thoughts. Time was not on her side. She would have to act soon, or risk losing what little advantage she had. Rising from her seat, she smoothed the front of her dress with hands that were far steadier than she felt. The cold air of the flat did little to calm her, but she welcomed the sharpness of it. It reminded her that she could not afford weakness now.

The walk up the path to Malfoy Manor was, as always, an exercise in restraint. Pansy knew the route well, though it had been years since she had last made the journey. The manor itself loomed in the distance as she approached past the apparition wards that still kept visitors back. The gates, ornate and forbidding, opened without hesitation as she drew nearer, and Pansy felt a shiver of apprehension crawl down her spine.

It was Narcissa's domain now. The great halls that had once echoed with Lucius's imperious commands were silent, as though the very house itself had gone into mourning for its fallen master. But Pansy did not mourn Lucius Malfoy. His death, in many ways, had made her task easier. Narcissa, alone and without the support of her husband, was far more vulnerable than she had ever been. Vulnerable, and dangerous.

As she reached the grand entrance, Pansy took a deep breath. She was not a fool. Narcissa Malfoy, for all her grace and beauty, was not a woman to be underestimated. Cold, calculating, and fiercely protective of what little remained of her family's legacy, she would not take kindly to being cornered. But Pansy had no intention of offering her any choice in the matter.

The great doors opened before she could knock, and there stood Narcissa, as poised and regal as ever. Her pale hair, perfectly coiled, framed a face that was as impassive as a marble statue. Her eyes, however, were as sharp as daggers, and they fixed on Pansy with a gaze that held neither warmth nor welcome.

"Miss Parkinson," Narcissa said, her voice smooth and controlled, though her lips barely moved. "I had not expected the pleasure of your company."

The words were polite, but the coldness behind them was unmistakable. Narcissa did not waste her breath on meaningless platitudes, and Pansy knew that every word was chosen with precision. To be in Lady Malfoy's presence was to understand the weight of centuries of pureblood tradition—a tradition that Narcissa carried with effortless grace, but with a sharpness that could cut like the edge of a blade.

Pansy offered a curt nod, her smile thin. "I doubt it will be a pleasure, Lady Malfoy. But I believe it is necessary."

Narcissa's eyebrow arched ever so slightly, a flicker of amusement—or perhaps disdain—passing across her features. "Necessary? Do enlighten me, Miss Parkinson."

Pansy stepped forward, her heart pounding in her chest, though her face betrayed nothing. She had rehearsed this moment a hundred times in her mind, and now, standing before the woman who held her fate in her hands, she could not afford to falter. With a steady voice, she spoke, the words falling from her lips with the cold precision of a well-aimed spell.

"I have something you might want to keep quiet, Lady Malfoy. Something from Lucius's past…"

Narcissa's expression did not change, but Pansy, ever attuned to the subtleties of power, noticed the faintest tightening at the corners of her lips. It was almost imperceptible, but Pansy knew she had struck a nerve. The mention of Lucius, that once formidable figure whose name still carried weight despite his disgrace, had done exactly as she intended.

"I see." Narcissa's tone was measured, a velvet glove concealing the iron within. She gestured delicately toward the grand drawing room, her movements fluid and deliberate. "Let us continue this conversation somewhere more appropriate. I would not wish the servants to overhear such… delicate matters."

Pansy followed, her pulse quickening as the cool air of the manor enveloped her. The drawing room was as she remembered it—opulent yet austere, every inch of it a testament to the Malfoy family's wealth and status. Dark wood, rich fabrics, and the gleam of silver accents reflected a lineage that prided itself on control and refinement. The very air seemed charged with the weight of unspoken histories, and as Pansy stepped inside, she couldn't help but feel as though the house itself was watching, waiting to see what she would do next.

Narcissa took her place by the marble fireplace, standing tall, her profile illuminated by the flickering flames. She did not sit, nor did she invite Pansy to do so. It was a silent power move, a reminder that Pansy stood in her home, on her terms.

"Well then, Miss Parkinson," Narcissa began, her eyes never leaving Pansy's face, "you've come here with a threat on your lips. Speak plainly, if you would."

Pansy met her gaze, unflinching. This was the moment that would determine everything. She could feel the weight of Narcissa's scrutiny, the calculating sharpness behind those cold blue eyes. For a fleeting moment, she felt small in comparison, like a mere child attempting to play in the world of adults. But she quickly pushed that thought aside. She was no child. She had learned the rules of this game long ago, and if anyone could maneuver through a web of lies and half-truths, it was her.

"There are letters, Lady Malfoy," Pansy said coolly, her voice betraying none of the anxiety that roiled within her. "Old correspondences from Lucius, written to certain associates. Their contents… shall we say, would not paint your late husband or your son in the most favorable light. I believe you would agree that the world has had enough reason to question the Malfoy name without such revelations adding fuel to the fire."

Narcissa's gaze remained fixed, but Pansy could see the wheels turning behind those eyes. The mention of Lucius's past was no idle threat, and Narcissa knew it. Her expression did not falter, but there was a subtle shift in her posture—an acknowledgment that Pansy's words were not empty.

"And you are in possession of these letters, I presume?" Narcissa's voice was as smooth as ever, but Pansy could sense the undercurrent of curiosity, perhaps even concern, beneath her composed exterior.

"I am," Pansy replied, taking a small step forward, her chin tilted upward in defiance. "They were left behind among the ruins of my family's estate, buried beneath years of dust and neglect. I doubt Lucius, or yourself for that matter, ever expected them to see the light of day."

Narcissa's lips curved ever so slightly, though it was not a smile. It was something far more dangerous—an acknowledgment of the game being played between them. "I wonder, Miss Parkinson," she said softly, "what could you possibly want in exchange for these letters? It would seem to me that you stand to gain little from such an arrangement, save for my silence."

Pansy's heart quickened, but she maintained her composure. Now came the delicate part. She had Narcissa's attention, but it would take more than a mere threat to bend the formidable Lady Malfoy to her will.

"I want what you have, Lady Malfoy," Pansy said, her voice firm. "Your status. Your influence. You are one of the few who survived this war with their reputation intact. I, on the other hand, have been left with nothing. Wizarding kind despises me. The Parkinson name is in ruins. But you, Narcissa—people still respect you. They still let you shop at their stores, eat at their establishment. And I intend to find the same for myself."

Narcissa's eyes narrowed, the calculating gleam intensifying. "And how, pray, do you propose to achieve that? By blackmailing me into your confidence?"

Pansy allowed herself a small, sharp smile. "Not quite. What I propose is that we forge an alliance. A… partnership, if you will. You and I—together. We present ourselves to society as something more than mere acquaintances. Let them believe what they will. You will vouch for me, and in return, I will ensure that those letters never see the light of day."

Narcissa's silence stretched for what felt like an eternity. She regarded Pansy with the same intensity one might reserve for a delicate piece of glassware—beautiful, but easily shattered. And yet, there was something in Pansy's proposal that intrigued her, that much was clear.

"And what," Narcissa said slowly, "do you imagine society would believe of such a partnership?"

Pansy's smile widened, though there was little warmth in it. "They will believe that we are together, of course. A romantic liaison, Lady Malfoy, as scandalous as it is credible. After all, why else would you, the esteemed widow of Lucius Malfoy, take pity on a disgraced girl like me?"

A flicker of something passed over Narcissa's face, though it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. For a moment, Pansy wondered if she had gone too far, if she had miscalculated. But Narcissa remained composed, her expression unreadable.

"You presume much, Miss Parkinson," Narcissa said, her voice soft, but laced with steel. "To suggest that I would sully my name by associating with you in such a manner…"

"Sully it?" Pansy interrupted, her eyes gleaming with determination. "No, Lady Malfoy. You would strengthen it. People will see you as merciful, as someone willing to extend a hand even to those who have been cast aside. And in doing so, you will ensure that I am indebted to you. I believe you would find that… useful."

Narcissa said nothing for a long moment, her gaze sweeping over Pansy with cold, calculating precision. Then, at last, she turned away, her back to the younger woman as she gazed into the flames of the fireplace. Pansy stood, waiting, her heart pounding in her chest as the silence stretched between them. She had played her hand, and now all that remained was to see if Narcissa would take the bait.

Finally, Narcissa spoke, her voice low and controlled. "And if I refuse?"

Pansy's smile faded, replaced by a look of cold determination. She had not come this far to be dismissed so easily. "You won't," she said quietly, her voice steady. "Because you know that I am right. You need me, just as much as I need you. And we both know that you cannot afford to let those letters fall into the wrong hands. It would cause no end of problems for not just yourself but your son as well. I'm not sure his ministerial career could handle such scandal."

Narcissa did not respond immediately, but Pansy could see the tension in her shoulders, the faint flicker of hesitation in her movements. She was considering it—seriously considering it. And that was all Pansy needed.

With slow, deliberate steps, Narcissa turned to face her once more, her eyes cold and piercing. "Very well, Miss Parkinson," she said, her voice as smooth as ice. "You have made your point. But know this—if you ever attempt to use this against me again, you will regret it. Do I make myself clear?"

Pansy nodded, her heart racing in her chest. "Perfectly clear, Lady Malfoy."

For a moment, they stood in silence, the weight of their new arrangement hanging heavy in the air. And then, with a single, graceful movement, Narcissa extended her hand.

"Let us see how well you play this game, Miss Parkinson."

Pansy took her hand, her grip firm, her smile sharp. "I intend to win, Lady Malfoy."

Get chapter a day early for FREE our blog https://fictioneers.thinkific.com/pages/blog