discord

Disclaimer: I own nothing, got it?

Rating: PG-13, for mental disorder & blood purity propaganda.

Word Count: 2500

Summary: Pansy Parkinson was not an exact replica of what her parents had always longed for in a daughter, nor was she their endorsement for having made a respectable, consummated marriage. Whether others wanted to believe it or not, she had reasons for the way she looked at the world as she did. She wasn't anyone's little brainwashed, porcelain wind-up doll.

Note: This story is currently featured at Mugglenet Fan Fiction.

Pansy Parkinson was a girl with many, she believed, admirable traits. She believed she was beautiful, although she’d heard whispers of other students describing her as ‘pug-faced.’ She believed in a purified race of wizards, whose blood was not tarnished by miscreants bore from non-magical loins or whose blood was muddled with both pureblood and Muggle blood. She believed that those who had faith in Dumbledore’s idea of equality were idiots. She was confident. She was opinionated. She had reasons for the way she thought. She was not an exact replica of what her parents had always longed for in a daughter. She was not their endorsement for having made a respectable, consummated marriage. She was not their little brainwashed, porcelain wind-up doll.

Sitting cross-legged on her bed, uncaringly flipping through the latest issue of Witch Weekly, Pansy came upon a page with a gorgeous witch. Pansy thought the woman looked absolutely flawless with her flowing tresses, her non-painted up face, and lightly curved body. There were ways to tell a person’s heritage, and Pansy had no doubt in her mind that this woman was pureblood, though maybe not of English blood. As she proceeded to run her finger down the article, she read that the woman’s family had migrated to England just before she was born. And not only was the woman beautiful, she was brainy. She had just received a Third Class, Order of Merlin for her work in Potions.

Closing the magazine, she tossed it aside onto her bedside table and exhaustedly lied down on her mattress. Although confident, there were times when Pansy’s insecurities reared their ugly heads and bombarded her with their taunts. ‘You’re ugly!’ she’d hear them say. ‘Draco doesn’t care for you the way he cares for what you do; friends with benefits is all it is. There’s no love there. He. Does. Not. Care. For. You. You’re his slag!’ From there, her hair would sway in and out of her vision as she shook her head from the poisonous thoughts.

‘I’m not ugly,’ she’d respond, keeping it in her conscious as a mantra. ‘I’m not ugly. Draco may not care for me, but I’ll be damned if he ever considers calling me ugly.’

She always felt insecurity was a shameful, Muggle emotion, and preferred to keep it buried. Her father lived with the dreaded insecurity: It was a sickness. As a child, it was not uncommon for her to wander into the hallway toward the kitchen to get a glass of water and her father to be sitting in his study, in his comfortable, overstuffed chair, wringing his hands and berating himself. Her mother had once commented to her that her father had developed a disorder in which he would see a distorted version of himself in mirrors and anything that could give off a reflection, or something or other. To this day she didn’t fully understand it, but Mediwizards had been stumped as to what was causing it, and her father had to seek outside help, the help of Muggle doctors – she recalled named Psyche-at-risks - who knew better than medically trained wizards.

A young girl, eight years old, walked into the sunlit kitchen of her home. Short as she was, she had to stand on her tiptoes to reach the cupboard for a glass and lifted the faucet handle and filled it [the glass] with water. Greedily drinking half the glass and refilling it, feeling somewhat refreshed after spending the afternoon with her mother in the back garden making pottery, she traveled down the dark hallway to her bedroom, but stopped when she heard low mumblings from the room across from hers.

Curiously, she pushed the heavy door open a tad to look in, and saw her father at his desk, hunched over a piece of parchment and scribbling quite vigorously, tears streamlining his sharp features. In front of him was a broken, rectangular mirror; one you’d probably see in the entrance hall to check your make-up or straighten your tie before leaving your home.

Little Pansy Parkinson gently wriggled her then chubby body into the room through a small opening in the door and quietly came up beside her father’s hunched form. She watched him for a long time, making smooth, lumpy, and then curved lines, shading in here and there. For a while, she watched him, turning her head to one side, not comprehending what her father might have been drawing. The only thing she could describe it to be was a grotesque monster, with overly large eyes, lopsided shoulders, and a large, beaklike nose to match.

“Father, is that a monster your drawing?” she had questioned, not able to quench her curiosity by staring any longer.

With a manic look in his eyes, her father had turned to her and lifted the picture to show her. “No, honey. It’s me,” he replied shortly.

Stunned, the small girl had taken the picture out of her father’s hands, almost offended that he had drawn such a nasty picture. “No Father, it’s not. You’re not ugly, Father,” she almost pleaded with him as he vigorously shook his head to disagree.

At this point, a woman with straight black hair and a round face entered. “There you are, I was wondering where you went off to Pansy,” her mother said, placing her hands on her daughter’s shoulders.

Pansy looked up, tears beginning to form in her light eyes. “I’m sorry, Mum, but Father is showing me a drawing. He says it’s him, but it surely can’t be!” she testily said. “It’s ugly. Father is not.” The girl had attempted to reason, but her mother’s expression had left her perplexed.

“It is me! I’m grotesque! Look at my shoulders,” the man said, placing either of his hands on either shoulder, “they are not broad and straight across! My eyes, they are too large for my face!” He ranted on for minutes on flaws that Pansy could not see; things she could not even fathom. He had begun to yell and rave, to which her mother had gently pushed her daughter out the room and closed the door. Pansy sat there pouting with her arms crossed until her mother came out of the study.

“What is wrong with Father?” the girl demanded, her chubby cheeks red with anger at not knowing what was going on. “He’s not ugly,” she reiterated once more.

“If only it were that simple,” her mother said more to herself than her daughter. She led her dark-haired daughter to her bedroom and sat her down on the bed.

Before Vera began to speak to her daughter, she went over to her dresser and crouched down to take a box from underneath it. Pansy watched tentatively, her curiosity once again full to the brim, enthralled, yet suspicious of her mother and father’s behavior.

“What’s in the box?” she asked without preamble, jumping down from the bed and coming to her mother’s side.

“Sit back down and I’ll show you,” Vera told her distinctly, having wanted her to remain where she had seated her. “This is important, and as you’re a big girl now, I think you are old enough to know what’s ailing your father.” The woman came and sat next to her young daughter, lifting the lid of the box to reveal many notes and drawings.

One drawing in particular caught Pansy’s light green eyes, and before her mother could stop her, she reached for the ripped parchment and studied it. She read the name ‘Simon’ at the bottom of the page and a date and stared at the drawing. Her father had once again drawn himself as a nasty, monstrous beast. He had written comments by each of his disfigurements. By his hair he had written ‘receding hairline’; by his shoulders there was a scribble of ‘too bony and lopsided’; and next to a darkened spot on his arm he’d noted ‘unnatural blemishes’.

“How old was Father when he drew this?” she inquired quietly, not able to take her vision away from the picture.

“Well,” her mother drew out, pointing toward the date at the bottom, “Take that number and subtract it from the current year, and you’ll have your father’s age when he drew that.” Her daughter was good with numbers, and Vera felt any opportunity to enhance her intelligence was a good one to take, no matter the subject.

“Twenty-two?” she answered, unsure.

Her mother nodded, kissing the girl’s forehead. “Good job. Your father drew that when he was twenty-two years old. A year before you came into our lives, Petal.” Pansy smiled at her mother’s pet name for her, and begged for her to go on. “This will be difficult for you to understand, but your father, well, he hasn’t been well for a long time.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Your father suffers from an illness,” she started, noticing that her daughter’s eyes had widened considerably, “an illness that we ourselves cannot see. This illness, well, not even Mediwizards can cure it.”

“Why? I thought Mediwizards were supposed to be smart?” she eagerly questioned.

“They are smart, dear,” her mother hastily interjected, “but there are some things that even they have not figured out how to fix magically. Unfortunately, your father’s condition is one of them.”

“So how can Father be fixed if those idiots don’t even know what’s the matter with him?” Pansy was becoming angry that trained Wizards couldn’t help her father.

Vera rubbed her daughter’s back and pulled the girl to her side. “Unfortunately, the Wizarding World is behind on disorders involving the mind.”

“Do you mean to say that Father’s mental?” Pansy quickly figured, not at all happy that her Father was considered mad.

“Well, in a sense, yes, he is.” Vera’s heart ached at having to tell her daughter that her father was, indeed, mental, but it was by far time that she knew. “But we’ve recently found help for him, and though it will take some time, he will get better.” She wiped a stray tear that had begun its path along her cheek.

Pansy removed herself from her mother’s embrace and jumped down off the bed and stood in front of her mother, placing her small, chubby hands on her hips. “So who’s going to help Father?”

Vera still had difficulty fathoming that the people who would cure her Simon would be Muggles and that fact alone had left a deep wound on her and her husband’s pride. Other women she had spoken with had all said that she was mad for even considering to have Simon checked by some Muggle healer – or doctor as they were called in the Muggle world, but she had vehemently responded that she loved her husband. If it meant that she had to associate with blood that was beneath her, she would be damned if she’d let anyone try and stop her.

Inhaling deeply, she exhaled and explained, “The healers at St. Mungo’s suggested that we seek out a Muggle Psychiatrist,” she worked slowly on pronouncing ‘psychiatrist’ correctly, “and said that they do wonderful work, helping to cure mentally ill patients, like your father.” She paused momentarily, needing to compose herself.

Pansy stared at her mother like she had grown another head. “Father’s getting help from Muggles?” she said with utter distaste.

“As much as we may not like that idea, Petal, your father really needs their help. Sometimes, for those we care for deeply,” her mother sucked in a breath, trying her hardest to stay strong and not show how scared she was for Pansy’s father, “we have to let go of our prejudices and swallow our pride, and let it be.” She took her daughter’s hand, squeezing it lightly, hoping to see a light of understanding in her eyes. “The man I spoke with, the Psychiatrist, though he may be a Mud – Muggle,” she corrected herself, “he seems like a respectable man, and eager to help cure your father.” Her mother watched for any sign of understanding, and then asked, “Do you love your father, Petal?”

“Of course,” she answered without hesitation, appalled that her mother would ask such a question.

“Then forget all those nasty things your father and I taught you about Muggles. Forget that they’re beneath us, and believe that they can help us,” Vera pleaded to her young daughter, dark lines of make-up lining her round face as fat teardrops made their way down her cheeks.

Pansy Parkinson slowly nodded; her eyes large with fear, but watering with hope.

Though her mother had never specifically mentioned her father’s disorder, she had done some independent research of her own and discovered her father suffered from Body Dysmorphic Disorder (BDD). It was a disorder in which those afflicted saw disturbed body images of themselves, images so hideous that they felt that could not interact with normal people, because they feared ridicule from their peers. A very teeny percentage of the population suffered from it, and even lesser men than women.

Pansy had never felt so dirty in her life than when she had learned her father, in principle, was sick with insecurity. At least, that’s how she thought of it.

The entire ordeal had left a sore spot with her, but as her father was gradually healing of the mental discord, with the help of behavioral therapy and verbal sessions with the Psychiatrist - not Psyche-at-risk, as she had later found out - she learned to appreciate things most purebloods could not.

As much as she disliked the idea, Muggles were the reason her father seemed essentially normal now. He went out in public more often, many times to be seen kissing her mother gently on the cheek or smiling, although she believed it resembled more of a grimace. Her mother was so grateful for the Psychiatrist’s help; she long forgot of blood purity and enjoyed the occasional tea with his wife and children, and often sent a bottle of wine and a basket of sweets to them for the Christmas holiday.

Pansy continued to reminisce on the memory. Though she still believed that the pureblood heritage should proceed to be superior, she could appreciate Muggles for what they did and their non-magical culture, unlike her peers. Yes, she made jokes about Hermione Granger and her bushy hair, but one word she had never described the girl was ‘ugly’. Her father’s hardship had taught her to never to dwell on a person’s physical flaws, and though she ridiculed Granger, she had never gone as far as to defame the girl as ugly.

Pansy was not a pretty girl, nor the clone of her parents DNA. She was not their advertisement for having made a perfect, pureblood marriage. She was their result of a marriage of love and understanding, one of sacrifice. She was their stubborn-headed, pug-faced daughter, and she believed that beauty, though wonderful, was not something external, nor found deep within. It was just something that caused more discord amongst those who cared for it too much, and it was not something that she wished for to rein her life.

Return