#pansysource

walking through the corridors of hogwarts, she could hear the whispers, and she could feel the stares, as she tried to walk around with her head as higher as he could.

the stigma all of them were carrying over their shoulders was the hardest to shake it off.

‘she was the one who threw harry under the bus’ she heard one gryffindor students whisper once, and pansy had to close her hands into fists so hard, until she felt her palms drawing blood.

of course, she was the one who accused the-boy-who-lived, the one who was ready to take harry potter to the hands of lord voldermort, of course, she was no hero, not like everyone else, and now she seemed to be the villain of a new fairy-tale.

thinking in absolutes seemed to be the way people thought the slytherin house worked, and pansy wondered why she kept looking at a world in greys. maybe, this story wasn’t all about heroes and villains, anyway.

and she pondered, if people understood, though. without taking the weight of the lives lost, without taking away everyone’s bravado, without belittling feelings and appropriating stories. pansy didn’t want to raise her voice above others, she just wanted to at least, make herself heard.

maybe she wanted to find some colour in the sea of grey, something beyond emerald green.

regret wasn’t a feeling she managed often, she liked to live with the idea that, if she had done something, even if it was bad, if it was a decision carried with determination during that time, then it was nothing to feel ashamed, or regretful about.

where people saw selfishness and cowardice, pansy only thought about survival and self-preservation, a world without voldemort didn’t mean much to her if she was dead, or if anyone close to her was. if the quickest, less painful way, was just to take harry to him, then that was it. pansy didn’t give it so much of a thought. why would she?

and she remembered so vividly, the burning feeling inside of her, everyone was quiet, and the room was so cold her fingertips felt icy and stiff. but there he was harry potter, and somehow, the fastest way for a nightmare to end. she just wanted to run, she just wanted to leave and take everyone along with her. no more deatheaters, and carrows, and cruciatus spells, no more lord voldemort, no more war. simply calling out harry’s name.

(little pansy knew, though, that real nightmare happened after the war was over: an endless parade of trials, deaths and azkaban sentences. a father she never spoke to dead, a mother who never acknowledged her disappeared.)