#pansy.

March flowers: Narcissus and pansies

retired army general. widower. father of two. a year or so ago moved from their old home to a new city to be closer to his daughter and her twins and help her out. having lost his wife when his kids were 12 and 10, he had to learn how to be an involved parent and now he's learning how to be a good grandpa.

pansy parkinson

(regular verse) early thirties. trying to figure out her life all over again. has been bouncing in opposite directions since the end of high-school. came from a rich family of overachievers that was tangled into a massive corruption case. changing states and life altogether didn't help her one bit. being suddenly broke and hated by complete strangers made pans realize that life had a lot of greys and many layers she hadn't seen before.

lives with a few roommtes, managed to get odd jobs in retail and eventually climb to manage the shop herself. had gotten into an ivi league college but couldn't afford it and due to her family record, couldn't land a scholarship. she is street smart, cunning and a planner. eventually she realized she had an ability to help people finding their best version of themselves, what worked for them and what didn't and that turned into a very profitable personal shopper business. some time after that she studied coaching and added at to her services -- still thinking of going to uni to become a therapist.

pansy.

age: twenty-two gender & pronouns: cis woman, she/her concentration: transfiguration faceclaim: natasha liu bordizzo status: closed

you were born to be cruel. it was written across your skin with invisible ink. you heard your parents’ voices in your nightmares, your mother shouting she’s not my daughter. it was easier to let anger sharpen your tongue than to rise above it. you grew ravenous, insatiable; like engravings into the flesh, your arrogance bled blue. in the middle of fifth year, you watched your mother’s shadow disappear in the flames as she threw the ash, as your brother left without saying goodbye. you let your rage, cold as ice, consume you. it took you years to make it useful.

connections.

blaise: if it weren’t for blaise, you might have become wrath itself. whenever you needed, they were there— when your mother left, when your brother left, when your father fell into sickness, blaise held your hand and braved the tragedy with you. you shielded them from draco’s unfounded indignation, they protected you from your own uncontrolled power. something broke in you after draco’s resignation into the malfoy name, and blaise was the same. as they grew wiser, you grew quieter. in your seventh year, you two watched the carrows’ injustices grow bigger and bigger until you started covering for the younger students, wearing your names as shields. if it weren’t for blaise, you might have rot into the ground that birthed you. instead, you tore your pain into shreds with your teeth, and they held on. ( and now, do you break their heart? do you whisper neville and draco’s secrets into their ear, and tear the ground open with your words? )

luna: you remember their curious gaze, the silver of their hair. the moment of shock that silenced you in your place as blaise’s shouts filled the air on their own; you had to shake yourself and rush the first year hufflepuffs down the stairs into the safety of the dungeon. they never questioned you after, even as you grew closer and closer. their knowing eyes would follow you, yes, but they were not villainous, nor were they accusatory. yet luna became somewhat of a friend, as you spent more time together— you would bring them pudding from the kitchen if blaise dragged you in the middle of the night for a snack, and they would show you charms outside of the curriculum. you’re pleasantly surprised to see them here, and that you’re closer than you were in eighth year. you hope they never approach you with the difficult questions.

draco: kill him

pansy: what? no!