hogwash | (no subject)

Who: 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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Merlin always leaned a little on the side of the Malfoys. The stealth of someone of such infamy was impressive; as everyone side-stepped him, he never had to alter his path in the least. It was as if his presence alone caused the pawns to instinctively moved out of place for the king. Well, perhaps not until father died--prince, in the least. He gathered a grin of the most sarcastic flavor, pleased and cocky, and took the seat across from her. He never let his eyes part from her, oh no; instead, he leaned forward just to draw nearer to her. There might have been a swish and flick of the eyes along the length of her, from eye-to-toe-to eye. "Ah, you have a nametag. Well, Miss Pansy, such a fine nametag! Plastic, even. I'm surprised it isn't littered with 'rhinestones.'" Oh yes, he was being an utter and entire bastard.

The laughter didn't escape, no. His composure held, and instead he brought business to the table, instead of mockery, and his voice dropped low as he drew nearer to her face. His hand raised and caught hold of her arm--softly, but firmly, dragging her closer to him. "Have you heard? Have you heard of my late aunt's husband? Surely you know the Lestrange family, yes? I've heard most interesting rumors. Have you heard nothing?"

If she hadn't had years of practice, first with encouraging Draco's hubris, and more recently with sidestepping it as neatly as possible, Pansy's temper would have gotten the better of her. As it was, her greeting smile was tight, and it certainly didn't reach her eyes. "I've heard nothing," she said promptly, in the manner of one studied in lies that few in the face of the one to whom they were being told. "I don't listen to ridiculous talk. 'The purebloods are angry; the purebloods are vengeful; the purebloods resent that their traditions are fading into the fog of the past.' It's best not to get mixed up in that nonsense, Draco. You can mock me all you like, and I'm certain you will."

She kept a serious face, around the fading, tight little smile, which was all to her credit; she didn't believe Draco would listen to her. Too much of Daddy's money, and Mummy's pampering, and not enough of the common sense and self-preservation instincts of either.

How expected. It would seem, in his experience, the ones that become burned beyond recognition are the first to stay at the end of an issue so that if one side goes under--they shall remain afloat. He didn't respond to her reason, "Coward." It was simply stated. He didn't think much of someone that gave in from their ideals once they lost. She still had her head, in his mind, and the monetary hold was only temporary so there was but one reason why she would say these things. "You're a sniveling coward." He released his hold on her and awaited the waiter's approach. "Wine. Something bitter, and something fine. Like my dear friend here." He smiled to himself and as the waiter made his leave the smile faded.

"Hang to the rear on all issues, Parkinson, and your parents will know you're a right coward even from where they stand." Once the wine was delivered, he'd drink heavily of it. "See? It's you? A glass, and I don't even feel a buzz. Perhaps your blood's been just as watered down with mud." His voice was low with the last remark and his eyes were cutting.

Bitter and fine? Coming from Draco, that was quite a compliment. She took the so-called compliment with a shrug, massaging the point of former contact.

"My parents are safe inside the family crypt. I can't say the same for myself." She leveled him with as much a glare as she could muster, which was not all that intimidating, considering that she'd been working in apparel retail since the early hours. Nerves frazzled; brain fried. What more could one expect?

"Say what you like, about my ambition, about my lineage. I'm only advising caution, which you need in abundance. Just be careful." The gaze turned searching, beseeching, even. She studied him, across the distance of the table, which might have been light years for all that it separated them. So close, and yet so far, far away. Now, she picked her words carefully. "Perhaps we'll continue this conversation, in more--detail--when we're back at the Manor, hm?" After all, the Alley was full of curious onlookers...

He paused for enough time to coil a proper smile across his lips. "Are you frightened, Pansy?" To emphasize the point, he leaned in a hair further and beneath the table a thumb would casually grace the curve of her knee with a challenging look, "Think they'll find you out beneath your fading tights and outdated skirt? I doubt it. So should you--these muggle-loving bastards could give a damn about taste and fashion--really, you're wasting your time. You should come home." With this, he accentuated the point by standing and fixing the coat to his shoulders properly accompanied by a smug smile. "I could put you to work with far less useful things and still earn your coin." He didn't bother saying goodbye, instead he tossed a few coins onto the table in front of her a bit loudly for about three times the worth of his drink to mark the point. And he left.