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Aug. 8th, 2010 07:16 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pansy_parkinson posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
hogwashWho: Pansy Parkinson & Draco Malfoy.
What: An informal meeting of the Death Eaters' Junior League...? No, just kidding.
Where: Diagon Alley.
When: Pansy's lunch break.
Rating: We'll try to keep it PG-13.
Diagon Alley seemed to be flourishing, on this lovely August day. Certainly she'd been the recipient of a couple of nasty murmurs and glances, which diminished the beauty somewhat--but overall, the place seemed to be in full blossom, with patrons unafraid to venture from their own doorsteps. She didn't quite know what to make of it, even now. Perhaps the darkness clung more closely to some, affected some at a much deeper level. She nursed a frosty, delightful concoction of a drink, beneath the colorful umbrella, on the patio of an adorable little eatery. The gaily decorated Alley and its bustling patrons lifted her spirits, in small but measurable amounts. Her entire attitude was retiring, yes, but the snub nose was still fixed firmly in the air, as though to serve an icy chill to any who'd recognize her and condescend her merely for the sake of who and what she was--or used to be.
She hadn't been there terribly long, as was evident from the drink on the table before her. Within its flippantly carved and decorated glass enclosure, the beverage was icy cold and the frosty top had only diminished in proportion to the amount she'd thus far consumed. She'd placed it on the table and encircled it, loosely, with her hands, contemplating the taste--pomegranate, her favorite flavor, mixed with some sort of berry she couldn't name offhand. Those who saw her may have recognized the name tag affixed to her robes, just atop the heart (ostensibly) beating within: besides the obligatory "Pansy," it bore the crest and the name of Twilfit and Tattings, one of the premier clothiers in Diagon Alley. It was well-known that her dearly departed parents' assets and holdings had all been seized by the Ministry; still, there was something to be said, something a little Breakfast at Tiffany's (yes, she'd seen it), about the poor little Parkinson girl's fall from grace, from a pampered pureblood prima donna to just another shopgirl.
Merlin help anyone who remarked upon it, though.
What: An informal meeting of the Death Eaters' Junior League...? No, just kidding.
Where: Diagon Alley.
When: Pansy's lunch break.
Rating: We'll try to keep it PG-13.
Diagon Alley seemed to be flourishing, on this lovely August day. Certainly she'd been the recipient of a couple of nasty murmurs and glances, which diminished the beauty somewhat--but overall, the place seemed to be in full blossom, with patrons unafraid to venture from their own doorsteps. She didn't quite know what to make of it, even now. Perhaps the darkness clung more closely to some, affected some at a much deeper level. She nursed a frosty, delightful concoction of a drink, beneath the colorful umbrella, on the patio of an adorable little eatery. The gaily decorated Alley and its bustling patrons lifted her spirits, in small but measurable amounts. Her entire attitude was retiring, yes, but the snub nose was still fixed firmly in the air, as though to serve an icy chill to any who'd recognize her and condescend her merely for the sake of who and what she was--or used to be.
She hadn't been there terribly long, as was evident from the drink on the table before her. Within its flippantly carved and decorated glass enclosure, the beverage was icy cold and the frosty top had only diminished in proportion to the amount she'd thus far consumed. She'd placed it on the table and encircled it, loosely, with her hands, contemplating the taste--pomegranate, her favorite flavor, mixed with some sort of berry she couldn't name offhand. Those who saw her may have recognized the name tag affixed to her robes, just atop the heart (ostensibly) beating within: besides the obligatory "Pansy," it bore the crest and the name of Twilfit and Tattings, one of the premier clothiers in Diagon Alley. It was well-known that her dearly departed parents' assets and holdings had all been seized by the Ministry; still, there was something to be said, something a little Breakfast at Tiffany's (yes, she'd seen it), about the poor little Parkinson girl's fall from grace, from a pampered pureblood prima donna to just another shopgirl.
Merlin help anyone who remarked upon it, though.
