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dreaming-about-fanfictions · 4 years

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Choose Me Instead II Draco Malfoy x Reader II Chapter 5 of 27: You

Summary: Pretending to be in a relationship with Draco Malfoy to get back at your ex might have not been the smartest idea you ever had. Especially during your last year of Hogwarts where you should be focusing on exams and your future plans. However, you were just pretending. There was no way in hell you could actually catch feelings for someone like Malfoy. … Right?

CHAPTER 4

A/N: A chapter from a different perspective! I hope you all like it <3 And thank you so much for your support!! I love you all so muuuuuch!!!

Words: 2300 Pairing: Draco Malfoy x female!Reader, post-war Warnings: none

Draco Malfoy wasn’t easy to impress. Being bored quickly by other people was one reason why he never had many close friends – and yes, he knew how utterly arrogant that sounded. It was the truth however. He was friendly with most of the Slytherins but his mother always taught him “Quality over quantity” and he agreed. Draco went so far as to apply that mindset to his love life as well. Yes, before the sixth year of school, he used to like to flirt and he had dated the occasional Slytherin girl. He was also very aware of the fact that there had been quite a few girls with crushes on him. In some cases, he even reciprocated them, however, those feelings faded quickly.

So you couldn’t imagine how much it bothered Malfoy that he wasn’t able to stop thinking of you. Not even in his dreams did you leave him alone and so he kept on going back to that evening on the Quidditch field. Until today, it was entirely unclear to him why he told you all those things. He didn’t know anything about you yet speaking to you left him feeling … good, almost. After a year of trials and coming home to find his family and life in shambles, there was no one left to talk to. No one he wanted to talk to. To whom was he going to turn? His friends which were all coming from the same pureblood Death Eater families? Yes, of course, they understood – and also they didn’t. Not quite. Did you understand him? Probably not, he guessed. After all, you were a Gryffindor and fought on the right side of the war. The winning side. But talking to you felt different, almost easy. You grew up in another world than him and maybe that was the key to it all.

Obviously, Draco didn’t plan on repeating that evening. You were friends with the whole Potter and Weasley bunch. It made it even harder to trust you – how could he be sure you hadn’t already told your Gryffindor friends and were laughing about him behind his back? It was possible. A part of him didn’t want to believe this possibility and another part reminded him of all the times he was disappointed and got hurt by the people around him. It was probably for the best to stay away from you.

Yet he didn’t stop thinking of you. He saw you looking at him in the Great Hall during meals, watched you from walk away when you passed him in hallways and the library. Without noticing it, he always chose a place behind you in class. Draco didn’t understand the urge to be close to you. It was utterly ridiculous for Merlin’s sake. You were a Gryffindor; one of the good ones. He wasn’t. Not at all.

Maybe it was because of the kiss, he wondered at some point. Maybe you hexed him in this moment. Draco knew this theory was very far-fetched but it was the only logical explanation fin his mind. Why else would he keep thinking back to that moment in the storage room? He didn’t deny that you were witty and smart and very beautiful – he wasn’t blind after all – but so were lots of girls. What the hell was so special about you that you wouldn’t leave his thoughts?! It couldn’t be your taste in men as you obviously didn’t have any. At least there wasn’t a reasonable explanation for him for why someone like you would get with someone like the Weasel.

“Draco,” Blaise’s voice pulled him out of this thoughts. “You coming?”

Draco nodded. “Yeah, just a second.”

He got up from the table in their shared dorm, putting his notebook in the drawer of his nightstand. Two months since school started and he had almost filled in all of its pages. Draco started writing during the first trial of his parents last year. It kept him focused and helped him put his thoughts in order. It soon became a daily ritual which helped him stay grounded. Draco carried it around in his bag during the day, using it in between classes and meals. His friends caught him doing it a lot and he was sure they had already guessed what it was. He was glad when they didn’t say anything because in the end, Draco would have rather died before admitting that he was using a diary.

“You’re not wearing a costume!”, Astoria exclaimed when he joined the others in the common room. Pansy, Blaise, Theodore and the Greengrass sisters were already waiting for him.

There was a Halloween party happening in the Room of Requirements tonight and his friends had convinced him to go even though it meant more awkward conversations with Astoria.

“I thought we’re not doing muggle traditions. What are you supposed to be?”, he asked instead, taking in her revealing outfit.

She giggled. “I’m a healer. Or ‘nurse’ as the muggles call it.”

“Ah,” Draco made, thinking that she didn’t look like a healer at all. “I thought Halloween was supposed to be scary?”

Astoria rolled her eyes, before linking their arms with each other. “You’re no fun. Don’t you think I look pretty?”

“Astoria, you can wear a potato sack and still look absolutely stunning.”

That answer seemed to satisfy her and they started making their way towards the exit of the common room. Draco glanced at her from the side. She was, objectively speaking, the perfect match for a Malfoy. Coming from a well-respected and wealthy pureblood family combined with her intelligence and beauty, she was everything his parents could have wanted for him. Especially now.

You had told him what to do. It was such a simple solution to all of his impending problems. However, it had been the moment where Draco had realized that you grew up differently. Not a day went by where he didn’t receive a heartbreaking letter from his mother. He knew, she just wanted the best for him and she didn’t want to manipulate him; she was simply desperate. Desperate for the live they used to have – a husband at home, a son with a promising future, money and a respected place in society.

Draco had asked himself countless times what the marriage would truly mean. His family would have another chance. Together with Astorias family, his future was secured. A good job, maybe even in the ministry if he was lucky. Enough money to take care of his mother. Who knew, maybe his father would be out of Azkaban sooner? Draco marrying Astoria would lessen his families suffering, that was for sure. But did he want that? Did he want a simple and easy solution to make their past crimes … disappear? His family was far from innocent. They had committed horrible crimes in the name of the Dark Lord – and a part of him knew, they deserved everything they got in the end. Hell, he wouldn’t have been surprised if they sent his mother and him to Azkaban as well.

When thinking about the engagement, another thought popped into his head. Could he learn to love Astoria? Would he be happy with her? Maybe. Maybe not. Draco knew only one thing for sure – there was a reason why he kept resisting to the whole idea. Giving in felt like sacrificing another part of himself to something his family had burdened him with.

“And Astoria, I disagree,” Blaise once again disrupted his train of thought by joining in from the right. “Draco can quickly make his costume appear. Just roll up your sleeves, Dray, and the Gryffindors will shit their pants on the spot.”

The rest of the group snickered but Draco didn’t react. Instead he suppressed the urge to touch the mark on his left arm and shoved his hand deeper into the pocket of his pants.

***

The Room of Requirement was absolutely crowded.

The Slytherins were surprised by how many people had actually appeared. Almost everyone from the sixth and seventh grade was here, wearing mostly ridiculous costumes. Music roared from invisible speakers, students were dancing and talking loudly.

“I’m surprised that the teachers didn’t already break this up,” Blaise almost had to shout. “Or Filch.”

Draco shrugged. “I feel like they stopped caring this year.”

“Maybe they feel responsible for all those deaths,” Theo suggested.

“So to make up for all the trauma, they allow us to party?”, Blaise concluded with an amused undertone.

“It’s good for us though so stop talking and start drinking,” Pansy chirped and grabbed Draco and Theo by their arms, pulling them towards the table with a few questionable bottles.

When his friends started chatting about the usual Hogwarts gossip, Draco’s eyes started to wander. He was searching the crowd for someone. You. Were you here? Did you even like parties? Draco had no idea. You always looked quite social from what he witnessed.

And there you were – standing in a group of people, listening to Granger who was gesticulating wildly. You were holding a drink and laughing at whatever the other girl told you. Draco noticed from across the room how your eyes were gleaming, your face red from the alcohol. You looked so careless. He swallowed hard at the sight.

“He’s either staring at Weasley, the mudblood or Y/L/N,” Zabini said to the others in that moment. “Don’t know what’s worse.”

Draco needed a second to understand his friends were talking about him. “What did you just say?” He turned to them.

Zabini grinned widely at him. “I said, you’re staring at the Gryffindors again, Draco. It’s fucking weird. What’s your sudden obsession with them?”

Draco quickly glanced at the rest of his friends. Daphne, Theodore and Pansy watched the two of you with a smirk on their lips, maybe even suppressing a giggle. Astoria looked at Draco with a worried expression.

“No, what did you just say?”, Draco repeated his question, straightening up slightly. “What did you call Granger?”

Blaise snorted. “What?”

Draco just stared at him.

“I called her a mudblood,” Blaise gave a half shrug.

“Yeah, what the fuck, Blaise,” Draco spat out.

“Come on, Dray,” Theodore tried to intervene. “It’s no big deal.”

“It is!” He looked at him, visibly disgusted.

“What’s your problem, Draco?”, Blaise raised an eyebrow, shifting from one leg to another. “You called her a mudblood for years and now you suddenly have a problem with it? You’re acting so weird this year, seriously.”

Before Draco was able to reply, Astoria carefully placed her hand on his arm. It took all the strength he had, not to immediately shake her off. “Come on,” she said softly. “Let’s get you a new drink and calm down.” She pulled him a few steps away from the group.

Draco gritted his teeth, remembering what he had thought about not being able to talk to his old friends. They understood – and also they didn’t.

“Are you okay, Draco?” Astoria asked, still looking slightly alarmed.

Draco looked at her. Did she want to hear an honest answer? “Sure,” he finally said.

She didn’t buy it. “You’ve been acting strange for a while now.”

“I’m really not.”

“Draco,” she reached for his hand. “I know you.”

He sighed and rubbed his eyes with his free hand. “Can we … can we not talk about this now? Here? With all these people around us?”

“There’s always a reason not to talk so we might as well do it here,” she pressed on.

Draco could think of a thousand different things he’d rather do than talk to her right now. “I’m … I’m not acting strange. It’s just a lot. With my parents and all that.”

Her smile changed from worried to pity. “I understand.” Did she? “That’s why I think we should move on.”

What kind of weird reaction was this? “Move on?”, Draco frowned.

“With our engagement.”

“Right.”

Astoria squeezed his hand. “I don’t see why we can’t just make it official.”

Draco looked at her fingers as if he was searching for a ring that he had forgotten existed. “Because the whole thing isn’t official yet,” he slowly said.

The brunette let go of his hand. “It’s going to happen anyways. My parents won’t stop talking about it and I bet it’s no different for your mother.”

Draco just wanted to get out of this situation. He got dragged here and now it was just one big argument. Why couldn’t they have stuck to gossiping and partying? “Why during school though?”

He saw how Astoria stared at the ground for a moment. When she started speaking again, her voice had become a little colder. “You know, there are a lot of men who would jump at this opportunity. My family is well respected and yours is …”

Draco let out a short whistle. “Thanks, Astoria,”

Astoria was visibly uncomfortable and Draco wondered if she regretted what she had just said. “That’s not how I meant it and you know that, Dray. I just don’t understand why this takes you so long.”

Draco put his hands on hips, pushing his jacket back. “Excuse me if I’m wrong,” he started, “But I’m not exactly your first choice either, am I?”

The girl didn’t answer right away. When she did though, Draco wanted to laugh at the sheer absurdity. “It’s not about what I want. It’s about what my parents want. Pureblood marriages will happen less and less in the future so we will be a good union.”

“Right,” Draco mumbled with a sad smile. It’s all about the family.

Astoria cleared her throat. “Well, are there any reasons why we shouldn’t move on?”

“Yes, there are.”

This didn’t come from Draco or Astoria. Irritated by the sudden interruption, he turned around to see who had so rudely eavesdropped on the conversation.

You.

***

A/N: Even though I wrote this, I really felt for Draco in this chapter. His life (like so many other characters lives in HP) is so f****** up. Sorry but I can’t find a better word for it. Poor Draco. Anyways - I hope you liked it!! I’d love to hear what you think <3 I love reading your comments *-* (if you don’t comment or do anything, it’s fine, don’t worry, I just love to read your thoughts <3)

CHAPTER 6

“Choose Me Instead”-Masterlist HP-Masterlist

Tag List: @writerdee1701, @youareinllve, @sjmahoney, @detroitobsessed, @takura-rin, @jadam268, @wynterwind, @mina672, @renaissance-confiance, @harpoon999, @doitforthevine67, @rinasrights, @flowerpowerpixie, @gold-flowing, @starkssnarks, @bookcornerkins, @harpersmariano, @markedsweetly, @iraniq, @pointlesscoconut, @hvrcruxes, @pillowjj, @idkatee, @jungjxxhyun, @magicwithaknife, @graystherapy, @sophia-gwendolyn, @nxstalgicnxbxdy, @sunsetsofanemoia, @s4dthrills, @tommy-holland, @lordfxxker, @streetfighterrichie, @awaken-the-sirens, @destiels-assbutt13, @pockitparks, @just-addicted-to-bangtan, @cuddlykoala101, @zpandaqueen, @marvelpeters, @natsiboo, @jjjmaybank, @justmesadgirl, @books-and-tings

If you want to be added to my tag list, let me know <3

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amorremanet · 7 years

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“why would you romanticize Pansy Parkinson when [insert criticisms of Pansy that would be totally fair if they were not bashing her to lift up and deify Astoria, like that’s super feminist]”

—yeah, well, you’ll forgive me if I don’t take seriously the prescriptions of people who valorize Draco Malfoy for doing the absolute bare goddamn minimum to “redeem” himself (never mind erasing the fact that he was excited about being a Death Eater and only changed his tune when he turned out to be really bad at it), and ignore Marcus Flint’s entire canon personality in order to justify shipping him with Oliver Wood (when Flint was a smarmy bully, an easily-bought elitist, and a Blood Purist, at least in that he sure doesn’t object to Draco throwing around, “Mudblood,” like we’re supposed to hate Pansy for, in addition to not allowing girls on the Slytherin Quidditch team, though that is, in fairness, only explicit in the movies)

Like, if you want to hate Pansy, then fine, I can’t stop you and it’s fair enough to dislike her or any other character — but don’t act like your reasons for it are ideologically pure when you ignore all of the scant characterization that Flint got in order to have a white boy slash ship with Oliver (when, hey, Percy Weasley is right there, or Fred and/or George, or Harry, or Cedric, or Viktor……), and especially not when you erase all of Draco’s shitty actions and traits, including the fact that he was an actual Death Eater, and over-woobify him as though he’s NOT one of the biggest bullies and Blood Purists in the series

#i'm just saying: there's a word for this kind of gender-based double standard and it starts with an M #and it ends with 'isogyny'#that word also applies to having one of your reasons for loving astoria be 'she made draco get his shit together'#as though expecting a woman to help a man fix his shit instead of making him do it himself is anything BUT misogynistic as hell #i'm also saying: when cassie clare -the INVENTOR of Draco In Leather Pants- has better characterization of him than 98% of the fandom………#well that sure is special isn't it #anyway i need to go to my grandma's for the day but i've been sitting on this for a while so here we are #kassie liveblogs tumblr #wank for ts #opinions for ts #harry potter for ts

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niiqhtmare · 4 years

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i. overview

Species: Light Blooded Wytch

Full Name: First Name ( UTP ) du Plessis.

Birthday & Age: June 2nd, 1997 / 22

Skill: Telekinesis & Twin Telepathy

Level: Favoured Soul

Occupation: Socialite / Fashion Influencer / Exchange Student at Astoria University.

Neighborhood: UTP or Belmonte Estate, # bed(s) # bath(s) - lives with UTP.

Hometown: South Dakota, United States

Residency Status: Newcomer, UTP weeks

Sexual Orientation: UTP

ii. personality

+ poised, labyrinthine, charming, & trait.

- vainglorious, ruthless, reticent, & poisonous.

iii. about the species

wytches are humans with the power to affect natural or unnatural change by magical means. they connect themselves with divine forces in order to practice magic. with regular practice they can become highly skillful, dangerous if endeavors lead to malecium. there is a general curse to their existence; they tend to become addicted to supernatural forces and due to their constant use of magic, to misuse they will surely go down a path of becoming increasingly amoral towards human life as a result. the concept of wytches has existed across various cultures both primitive and advanced, throughout recorded history. their general misconception of their kind is primarily rooted in the mass carnage of the middle ages, against people, particularly women, who practiced any form of belief or healing that could be deemed anti-christian.

iv. the past

Pearls around her neck and her hand around yours, stroking or choking, Ariadne du Plessis was capable of much more than what she let on. She consisted of wild eyes, soft lips, and a look that dared you to get closer. It was the look of a siren; enchanting and distracting, ready to lure in the victim and into a deep grave when reality hit them a second too late. Ariadne was pink, but she had the potential to be TERRIFYING if she worked up enough effort to unearth her lethality. It slept beneath bright smiles and the highest of heels standing upon its grave. In truth, her untapped potential laid dormant in the cage beneath her chest and Ariadne fully intended to keep it that way. It bubbled up occasionally, peeking through the most in her fencing, and only mentioned if the current (often darker) company required it in rarer scenarios.

‹ rose garden; full of thorns.

Ariadne was beautiful. She knew it, and her parents had made a correct conjecture before she even graced the earth with her birth. It proved true, and she was given a lofty name to match. Philyra - a beautiful nymph chased after by a God. The blonde enjoyed being chased, but she wanted to be her own legend. Ariadne. It was bright, beautiful, and bubbled in the throat. Ariadne Atherton would write her own destiny along the way. As the product of a foreign affair, she was bred for them. Well-traveled, well connected, and eager to please – both herself and any potential lovers. She had plenty, but they had what she wanted - information. She liked to worm her way in and gather it piece by piece, in the heat of the moment, and then store it away. Ariadne was playing a dangerous game, sinking her teeth into both sides to stockpile secrets like weapons. A deeply shallow, vapid facade carefully hid it all away beneath a shell of pink glitter.

‹ a nightmare ; dressed like a daydream.

Happy is a complicated word for Ariadne, and the one that slips most easily in its spot is fun. Ariadne is fun; a bright hurricane of a girl. She is bright smiles and the exciting pop! of champagne corks. She is a bruise left on a long neck by soft lips, demurely hidden by scarves in winter. She’s a taunting pink lipstick print and daring, mischievous eyes. Ariadne is a glittering facade of many things, but true happiness is not one of them. She is happy enough, but she excels at being fun.

Anyone that signed their name as P. Graves was bound to leave an impact, but the usual choice was not a sparkling, midnight ink. The Graves are touted as a powerful family in both connections and skills, and Ariadne is no different. Her exceptional dueling prowess was encouraged from a young age. It flourished into a love of fencing, in which Ariadne is internationally ranked. She may or may not be known to enchant a suit of armor to spar with her when intoxicated.

‹ it’ll leave you breathless ; or with a nasty scar.

She had a creepy situation with a teacher/authority figure depending on verse when she was underage and it has left her scarred and a little guarded, and it’s a large reason why she has a glittery facade. Later stabbed him with a letter opener when she tried to extricate herself.

Here’s a small blurb about the teacher, but underage + age gap tw,

it wasn’t common knowledge how cupid’s arrow stabbed and splintered as it broke the skin and broke her heart. it wasn’t common knowledge how she clutched it to her chest while he clutched her to his. they didn’t know how much it bled when she plucked the arrow from her body, and how much it took to snap it over her knee. they didn’t know that deep splinters were still working their way to the surface, and how long she picked herself apart to find them and to find answers. she didn’t know that it was more than stolen glances in a room full of people and the thrill of first love. she hadn’t known it would lead to crying on the bathroom floor, feeling worthless as she applied another coat of lipstick for him to smear. feeling violated and alone, and how it hurt so goddamn much when he ripped her heart out when it all turned out to be a lie.

v. the current

a few months back she was giving the finishing touches to her makeup and turned to her mother with a smile plastered on her face. her mother was shining with pride for being invited to host the charity ball of the year. couture dress, designer jewellers. groomed to be the image of perfection. obviously, she needed to ruin her happiness and share the news. she was moving to south dakota. “absurd. your place is here in france, not among them.” calliope du plessis takes a deep breath before continuing, now the mask was slipping. “I knew that boy was a bad influence, he is just like his father. should have never allowed him to...” her sentence is interrupted when the mirror breaks and various glass shreds levitate in the air. like daggers hovering next to her. silence while her daughter places red lipstick. “do never speak of my brother like that.” hell could freeze over with her detached tone. “now smile, we have a role to play. don’t want to cause a scandal would we?” she adds closing her black louis vuitton clutch. the glass shreds explode into tiny pieces, returning to sand. as she was turning around to leave, a hand moves towards her forehead. “your son says hello, dearest mother.” while she might be a light blooded wytch, she is by no means good. that´s a burden she never had to carry.

vi. connections

✗ CHURCH OF EDEN - deeply ingrained in the history of france and the church of eden, her maternal grandfather was the former high priest. the young woman was expected to follow the path that was laid before her. many others of the family did, but she refused to be their perfect porcelain doll.a rebel at heart, she will do whatever she sees fit and may the heavens forbid who dares to stop her. never one to commit foolish acts, she will keep all the fame and fortune that the du plessis name allows. perhaps even start using the belmonte name as well when she arrives in america. in both sides of the ocean she is royalty and it´s time everyone becomes aware of that.

✗ LUCIUS BELMONTE - her mind is a temple of depravity and insatiability shared with her twin brother. half of a soul in each one. it’s as if the universe had to split such perversity in two or affect the balance. they have no secrets, it’s practically impossible given their twin telepathy. and experience shows that when their psychic connection is severed both suffer from it.while they feed their inside demons, they also serve as an anchor to each others sanity.their insanity would be an even bigger punishment for the world. lucius is actually the voice of reason, both amoral creatures she is more impetuous.there is a secret that they keep about their skills or rather what happens when they bound them together. but that is a story for a posterior date…

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tripstations · 5 years

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Review: Waldorf Astoria Bangkok | One Mile at a Time

On this trip I had a day and a half in Bangkok. I arrived at around 10AM, and my flight the next night was at around midnight. Bangkok is one of the best cities in the world when it comes to reasonably priced luxury hotels, so I was looking forward to checking out one of the city’s new luxury options, which opened in August 2018.

I reviewed the Park Hyatt Bangkok the last time I was in town, and this time decided to check out the Waldorf Astoria Bangkok.

Booking the Waldorf Astoria Bangkok

I booked my one night stay using an Amex Fine Hotels & Resorts rate, which cost about $320, and included complimentary breakfast, a room upgrade subject to availability, guaranteed 4PM check-out, and a $100 property credit. I thought that was a pretty good deal when you consider all that was included.

Getting to the Waldorf Astoria Bangkok & check-in

The drive from the airport to the hotel took about 45 minutes. The hotel is located in the same area of town as so many other hotels, including the St. Regis and Park Hyatt. It’s located in the Ratchaprasong area, in a 60-story mixed use building.

Like so many hotels in mixed use buildings, the lobby wasn’t on the ground floor. Rather there was a ground floor waiting area, along with bellmen and a concierge.

Waldorf Astoria Bangkok entrance

The hotel’s lobby is located on “UL,” which stands for “upper level.” This is located between floors 15 and 16, though oddly they don’t actually skip any floors to account for that. So I guess you could say the lobby is on floor 15.5 (which kind of drives me nuts).

The hotel has about 170 rooms, and is located on floors six through 16 of this building. It might seem undesirable to be on such low floors, but at least when you’re facing the direction of the park you have mostly unobstructed views.

As you’d expect, the hotel has two sets of elevators — one between the ground floor and the lobby, and the other between all the guest floors.

Waldorf Astoria Bangkok elevators

The lobby had quite a bit of seating, and was elegant and beautiful. It didn’t feel particularly Thai, though it did feel luxurious.

Waldorf Astoria Bangkok lobby

At the end of the lobby were three reception desks where you could sit down to be checked in. I was offered a welcome drink and a cold towel, and within a few minutes my check-in was processed.

Waldorf Astoria Bangkok welcome drink & cold towel

The friendly associate recapped all the Fine Hotels & Resorts amenities. Rather annoyingly, she informed me that the $100 property credit couldn’t be applied towards in-room dining, spa products, or minibar items. It’s not unusual that it can’t be applied towards spa products or minibar items, but not even in-room dining?! Odd.

She also informed me that I had been upgraded to a room with a view. I genuinely wasn’t sure if I had included my Hilton Honors number in the reservation, given that I’m a Diamond member, so I asked (usually they acknowledge your status and/or give you a further upgrade).

She said “yes,” and then pointed to where that was listed on the registration sheet, and it showed the word “Diamond” next to my name. There was no other recognition of the status or upgrade to a suite. I guess I should have brought laminated terms & conditions, right DCS?

I was escorted down to my room, located on the 14th floor.

Waldorf Astoria Bangkok elevators

What beautiful public areas, including the elevators and hallways.

Waldorf Astoria Bangkok elevators

Waldorf Astoria Bangkok hallway

Waldorf Astoria Bangkok king deluxe park view room

I was assigned room 1410, a king deluxe park view room.

Waldorf Astoria Bangkok room entrance

The room was cozy and well appointed. There was an extremely comfortable king size bed, then next to that was a loveseat, and opposite that was a circular dining table that could double as a desk.

Waldorf Astoria Bangkok king deluxe park view room

Waldorf Astoria Bangkok couch

Waldorf Astoria Bangkok desk

The room did have lovely, unobstructed views of the park.

Waldorf Astoria Bangkok view

Waiting on the desk was a welcome amenity, consisting of a note and some strawberry and custard tarts.

Waldorf Astoria Bangkok welcome amenity

Back near the entrance was the minibar, which was a beautiful setup.

Waldorf Astoria Bangkok in-room minibar

The hotel had cartons of water, which you almost never see. Along the same lines, they had either paper or metal straws in their F&B outlets, best I could tell.

Waldorf Astoria Bangkok bottled water

The bathroom spanned the whole length of the room. It featured double sinks, a soaking tub, a walk-in shower, a toilet in a separate room, and a closet.

Waldorf Astoria Bangkok bathroom

Waldorf Astoria Bangkok bathtub

Waldorf Astoria Bangkok shower

Waldorf Astoria Bangkok toilet

Toiletries were from Salvatore Ferragamo.

Waldorf Astoria Bangkok toiletries

Overall I thought the room was great — it was nicely appointed, comfortable, and in good condition. The wifi throughout the hotel was also fast and free.

Waldorf Astoria Bangkok gym, pool & spa

The gym, pool, and spa were all located on the 16th floor.

The outdoor pool (open daily from 6AM until 10PM) were beautiful and quite large, with great views over the city. I’m not sure I totally get the structure they decided to put in the middle of the pool. Was this solely to look good (because it’s quite large, and somewhat obstructs views), or what?

Waldorf Astoria Bangkok pool

Waldorf Astoria Bangkok pool view

The gym was open 24/7, and had a good selection of equipment.

Waldorf Astoria Bangkok gym

Then there was the spa, open daily from 10AM until 10PM. I ended up getting an hour-long massage here (which cost ~100USD), and was excellent.

Waldorf Astoria Bangkok spa

Waldorf Astoria Bangkok breakfast

Breakfast was served at the Brasserie, located just off the lobby, between 6:30AM and 11AM. The restaurant itself was beautiful — in addition to a bar by the entrance, the remainder of the restaurant wrapped around the exterior of the hotel.

Waldorf Astoria Bangkok Brasserie

Waldorf Astoria Bangkok breakfast buffet

Waldorf Astoria Bangkok breakfast restaurant

While the restaurant had a buffet breakfast, you could order some things off a menu, like fresh juice or smoothies, tea, and specialty coffee. Here’s that menu:

Bangkok has some of the most over-the-top and extravagant breakfast buffets in the world. In many ways I sort of hate them, because I get seriously indecisive and overeat.

So dare I say it, but I actually found this buffet to be rather modest by Bangkok standards? That’s ultimately not a bad thing, but there was no six foot chocolate fountain, no 12 flavors of ice cream, etc. Below are some pictures of the buffet.

Waldorf Astoria Bangkok breakfast buffet

My only disappointment with the buffet was the lack of fresh fruit. There were berries next to the yogurt, but there was no other fresh fruit that I saw, which I found puzzling. I must have been missing something? (Update: apparently I missed a section of the buffet, which had fresh fruit.)

Anyway, to drink I ordered a delicious cappuccino and a tropical smoothie.

Waldorf Astoria Bangkok breakfast drinks

Then I had some french toast, because why the hell not?

Waldorf Astoria Bangkok breakfast french toast

I also ordered an omelet.

Waldorf Astoria Bangkok breakfast omelet

Waldorf Astoria Bangkok Peacock Alley

I was on a pretty bad time schedule while in Bangkok (unsurprisingly), so while I didn’t sleep the whole night, I did take three naps during my ~30 hours at the hotel. So while I walked around a lot outside, I also had a meal in Peacock Alley, so that I could bring my laptop and work.

Peacock Alley is just off the lobby, and is intended to be more of a lobby lounge with all day drinks, afternoon tea, etc.

Waldorf Astoria Bangkok Peacock Alley

The Waldorf Astoria does deserve credit for their Diet Coke presentation. It’s just so undignified when the soda that doesn’t fit in the glass is left in the can!

Waldorf Astoria Bangkok Peacock Alley drink

I ended up having a Thai chicken wrap.

Waldorf Astoria Bangkok Peacock Alley snack

From the dessert menu I also ordered the coconut and Thai tea ice cream. I figured an order of two scoops wasn’t unreasonable, though they did serve them in separate bowls, which made me feel pretty bad about myself.

Waldorf Astoria Bangkok Peacock Alley ice cream

Waldorf Astoria Bangkok bottom line

I had a great stay at the Waldorf Astoria Bangkok — the rooms, public areas, service, and location were all very good.

The thing about Bangkok is that there are so many great luxury options, and I think they’re all in a fairly similar league.

Personally I think the Park Hyatt and Waldorf Astoria are almost identical quality-wise. Heck, the designs even reminded me of one another. As a matter of fact, in a few months I’m not sure I’ll be able to tell them apart in my memory.

So personally I’d gladly return to either hotel, depending on where I could get a better value, or where I needed elite nights in order to requalify for status.

So the Waldorf Astoria Bangkok is awesome, but so are a lot of hotels in Bangkok.

If you’ve stayed at the Waldorf Astoria Bangkok, what was your experience like? What’s your favorite luxury Bangkok hotel nowadays, given how many new hotels there are?

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thatslytherincat · 7 years

Text

PANSY(dirgewithoutmusic aoo)

Let’s talk about how Pansy Parkinson was a bully, how she sliced and cut with words, how she lied, cajoled, and taunted. She probably left some scars that never quite healed.

Now let’s talk about James Potter.

Let’s talk about James and his carefully rumpled hair and his cruel entertainments. Let’s talk about how McGonagall wept for him, how Hagrid bawled, how Lily loved him and Harry stood tall in his image.

No one wept for Pansy Parkinson.

Tell me about a Pansy who plucked the Inquisitor’s Squad badge off her chest with shaking fingers only in the cold comfort of her room or Draco’s, who leaned against him and whispered under the fire’s crackle, some nights, “What are we doing? Do you know what we’re doing?”

They both knew the answer to that question. Some nights Draco said, “Whatever we want,” or “What we have to,” and some nights he said, “Surviving.”

She listened to the shake in his voice and thought, with something like pride, and another something like grief, the boy’s learned how to lie.

“This isn’t what I thought heroics would look like,” she confided, one night, when she’d fled to Draco’s little single room because Millicent Bulstrode had been crying herself to sleep in hers.

“Who said we’re the heroes?” said Draco, but he let her curl up on the other half of his bed, a careful three inches between their crescent-moon spines.

Tell me about the Carrows calling them into their office, telling them about all the viscera they would come to love, the sick little noises, about how good they all were, such promise, even you, Millicent, stop sniveling.

Let’s talk about how Pansy and Draco grew up at different rates. One had a tattoo on his left forearm and the other had terror in her voice when she told her school to give up Harry Potter and save themselves. The ink beading Draco’s skin, that was terror too, plain and simple, grasping for anything that looked like safety.

They screamed at each other, over the years, across mahogany dining tables and sticky pub booths, over words and deeds, broken hearts and old tremors. He felt guilty when she felt vulnerable. He felt redeemable when she felt dirty.

How dare you? Do you remember what they did? Do you remember what we did? Do you?

They swapped words, insults and frequencies, him shrilling in their own defense and her rumbling their own guilt. They spat and screamed and brought each other coffee on cold mornings.

“I want you to have something warm to hold onto,” they didn’t say, as they bumped shoulders, sighed, and swallowed the bitter liquid down.

Warmth curled in their stomachs all day long. For the first few years, panic ran the edge of it, that warmth, because they were not supposed to be warm. Pansy let her fingers freeze some mornings, like a penance, though she wasn’t sure if it was for old deeds or for this morning, just this morning, taking a cup of coffee from Draco and loving the warmth.

You do not get to redeem forty year old stalkers on the grace of their undying obsessions and then leave young women out to rot.

Snape loved to oblivion, to delirium. He remade his Patronus in her image. Somehow, this saved him.

There is a difference between a bully and a Death Eater. There is a difference between a teenaged girl spitting words no crueler than her Head of House’s, and a professor–a teacher–an adult who terrorizes children who cannot escape him.

Snape never forgave Harry for his father’s sins. Severus saved his life, but only for his eyes–not for what Harry saw with them, or what he did, or said, or saved, or loved, but because of their color. For this, for this, Snape is redeemed.

Pansy Parkinson drifts on the page, wreathed in smug contempt.

Tell me about Pansy after the war, when the DA flocked to the Aurors and their own dreams, when her fellow Slytherins went scarce and silent. All her life the point of Pansy had been her sharp eye and crueller tongue. It was written into the very lines of her. She did not know what else she was good for, so she applied at the Daily Prophet.

Malfoy Sr. had a friend or three on the Prophet’s Board of Directors even now. Draco popped around, to odd jobs, old friends’ country homes. He stood so much more rigidly than he had known how to at Hogwarts, but Pansy could feel him shaking apart. When the Prophet called her back in for a second round of interviews, she found a strong-boned woman with a bright green quill waiting for her.

“You were one of my favorite interviewees during the Triwizard Tournament,” Ms. Skeeter said fondly. “So creative. I’m thrilled to see what you can accomplish from the other side of the reporter’s notebook.”

Pansy got hot drinks for writers and editors and trailed after Ms. Skeeter on assignments and interviews.

“It’s amazing what people miss when they don’t have their eyes open,” Ms. Skeeter said.

“Going through other people’s garbage isn’t exactly on the same level as open eyes,” Pansy pointed out.

Ms. Skeeter appreciated her creativity but she also liked the kind of places a name like Parkinson got you into. Pansy didn’t begrudge. She clung to the usefulness of her name, too, except when circumstances needed her to fling it away.

Pansy had fed Ms. Skeeter stories once, about Hermione Granger and Potter and Weasley. She had fed her lies and Ms. Skeeter had taken her clumsy thrusts, sharpened them, and tossed them out into the headlines.

Someone left a dead rat in a shoebox on Pansy’s desk and she remembered Granger being sent letters stuffed full of pus. Matted grey fur, right there, by her careful notes, trimmed quill, all the little ways she was trying to do this well, do this good.

Pansy took the shoebox and its contents out to the dumpster and then washed her hands in the break room sink. Ginny Weasley (Sports section reporting, intern, present article: professional Gobstones drama) came in to filch some stale bagels from the editors’ morning meeting leftovers. She blinked to see Pansy standing there, her shoulders shaking just slightly.

“I see you got a present this morning,” said Ginny. She critically assessed a poppy seed bagel and then selected a sesame one.

“Was it you?” Pansy said.

“No.” The DA’s general tore off a big bite, chewed, swallowed. “If it was me, I’d have signed it.”

Pansy was still washing her hands. She’d used cold water, because she had thought now I know how Granger felt and then felt sick. People had cursed Granger for petty lies (Pansy’s lies), and here people were hating Pansy for things she had actually done.

“Hey, you’re wasting water, Parkinson. Turn it off,” said Ginny. “They’re clean enough by now.”

James Potter was a bully, privileged, snotty, and simple. So was Sirius. They did not abuse Severus Snape for his future political affiliations. Severus was Snivellus, was greasy and weak and outcast, was easy, all the things they had been taught to hate.

So let’s give Pansy a family as black as Sirius’s. There is a long tradition of wayward children swallowed whole by dark things, who claw their way out. Let’s give her one as old as James’s, as rich, as arrogant, as privileged. Let’s give her not their excuses–there are never excuses–but let’s give her their reasons–there are always reasons.

This is not a request for sympathy. This is a far cry from forgiveness. But in this tall tale about change, about growth, about choice, let us give her a story.

Hermione wrote Marietta’s fears out across her pretty face, named her sneak when she should have spelt out child. She meant it to be permanent. She meant it to scar, because Hermione felt wounded and she wanted someone else to bleed.

Hermione Granger saved the world, but she left a lot more things in her wake than a blushing Ron and Draco Malfoy’s broken nose.

Hermione was not a bully. She was a hero. Marietta cried herself to sleep at night, sixteen and terrified for her mother, sixteen and terrified of a brave little girl with bushy hair and a knack for curses.

Peter Pettigrew betrayed his friends. He killed Cedric. But in the end, he repented and he had our pity.

Sirius Black hated Snivellus Snape until the day he toppled through a veil. Sirius, at sixteen, almost became a murderer using Remus’s unwilling teeth, but Sirius was a godfather, a best friend, brash and warm, and so he died beloved. He died mourned.

Draco opened a gaping hole into Hogwarts halls, sneered and spat and cowered, smashed a Petrified Harry’s nose in–but he was given sympathy, in the end. He was defeated and he was saved.

Luna’s father was willing to spend three lives to save Luna’s. He had their sympathy. Pansy offered up one boy for hundreds of souls. It was not brave, but we are not asking you to call her a hero. We are asking you to give her the dignity of considering her life worth living.

Harry went. Pansy offered up his life in trade, but Harry took the deal. This was what made him a hero. This was what made her terrified.

Let’s talk about how whenever Draco was injured, was scared, was lost, Pansy would rush to his side and offer aid. It was as thoughtlessly loyal as Hermione counting the stresses in Harry’s spine and heading to the library.

As the years went on, Pansy watched Draco circle, stumble, fall for Astoria Greengrass.

“Astoria is not your absolution,” she snapped, panicked for reasons she didn’t quite say. “You don’t get scrubbed clean by stuff like that. I don’t care how softly she holds your hand.”

“You think I don’t know that, Pansy? You don’t get scrubbed clean, but you can still build on this.”

They fought about it until Astoria took Pansy out to dinner one day, talked about eaves and awnings, talked about narcissus and belladonna. Pansy stopped worrying. Astoria would not allow anyone to treat her like absolution, not even Draco Malfoy.

She went with Draco when he knocked on the door of the family Tonks and asked his Aunt Andromeda if she’d care to take tea with him. He expected her to slam the door in his face. Pansy could see him bracing for it, the way his shoulders are carefully not hunched, his hands easy and open. Pansy held her breath for him, while Draco was busy pouring apologies and stubbornness onto the doormat.

Three months before he asked her to marry him Astoria took Draco to the parts of Hogwarts that had been corded off as unsafe, to false doors Alecto and Amycus had never found, to blind drops behind paintings.

Astoria had been a weepy little thing at Hogwarts. Pansy remembered her, two years younger than them, prone to crying fits and wet-eyed earnest apologies. Astoria knew all the words to say, to the Carrows, to the bullies. She made this into sympathy, rather than pity, or disgust.

Astoria knew all the words, and apparently that meant these ones too: the ones she tucked behind paintings and slipped to little Hufflepuffs, warnings and secrets and answers. Astoria never stepped foot in the Room of Requirement. She was not one of Dumbledore’s Army’s soldiers. She had no practice and no coin to call her to war. She was one of its spies and she carried that with her, all her life.

Astoria’s rambling townhouse was as scattered as the Weasley’s Burrow. She had spent her summers building false backs to closets with her father’s toolkit, wallpapering them over. She took Draco’s hand, walked him through, and showed him all its secrets.

When Scorpius Malfoy was born, pink and screaming, Pansy was in the waiting room, smirking at the whites of Draco’s eyes. She took pictures of his panic to coo over with Astoria, later.

She was the seventh person to hold little Scorpius, after his parents and each set of grandparents. The Greengrasses were only barely becoming comfortable with being in the same room as Narcissa and Lucius.

Pansy took the red, squinting blob, admiring his tuft of white blond hair and trying to find a way to tease Draco about it. She balanced him on her lap, her hands that had bits of ink rubbed off on them and his lack of fine motor control telling some kind of story here.

They took him back, soon enough, to nestle against an exhausted Astoria, to become the center of too many photographs. The nurse shooed them out, and as they went, Pansy gazed back over her shoulder at the sleeping, wrinkly creature, and thought,

You will understand.

You will not be stranded among cruelties and asked to swallow them whole, to vomit them back, to call them cunning.

Your conscience will never look like mine.

Let’s talk about how Pansy walked down Diagon Alley, about how people stared. She felt indignant about it the first year. She felt condemned the second. She walked down the street and felt attacked.

She told Ginny Weasley this, over stale biscotti left over from the editors’ meeting and a fresh pot of tea, and Ginny laughed, a brittle sound. She showed Pansy every scar she’d ever gotten, threw them out at her like old wounds weren’t vulnerabilities but plate armor.

I must not tell lies.

Pansy walked down the street and felt vilified, at twenty-four, felt like a villain. She felt like they had a right to stare and maybe they did.

For one whole year Pansy wore grey, only grey, skirted the edges of streets, shoulders huddled, and she didn’t notice until Astoria pointed it out, until Ginny bought her a bright green scarf for Christmas.

One day when she was twenty-seven, an interview to get to, a gala to crash quietly, she walked down the street and kept on walking. Pansy walked down the street, breathed in, put one foot in front of the other, got where she was going.

Snakes are cold-blooded. They become the temperature of their environment. They lay out on hot rocks and soak in the sun, swallow it whole. They don’t sweat it out like mammals, just brim and brim and brim.

You’ll find little knots of snakes sometimes, or even mounds, bodies slipping together, scales holding close, steaming in the cold air. They’re waking up, after winter, calling out.

“It’s tempting, to listen to hate,” Ginny said once. They weren’t friends yet, not quite yet, but this might have been the moment. A lot of people had tried to give Pansy advice over the years, “ex”-Death Eaters who thought she was as pansy as her name, or kindly do-gooders who wanted to reform her evil ways. This was not advice. This was not about Pansy. Ginny was telling a story.

“Bad people sometimes have kind voices,” said Ginny. “Sometimes they make you feel alone, shunned, like they’re the only people you can trust. You give them pieces of you, let them in–but you are still responsible for the things you do. But we were all children. We all thought the world was simpler than it was.”

Pansy started going out to drink with Parvati Patil, which wasn’t something she had ever expected. They had grown up together, her and the twins and all their pureblooded playmates, and then at eleven they had grabbed on to different colors and swaddled themselves in them. Ginny came out with them, too, some days, and Padma, whose sly wit was only improving with age.

“Why are you here?” Parvati asked her once, over a beer. People asked Pansy a lot, when they found her in Flourish and Blotts, or at work on the Prophet. Their eyes raked her, looking for green, for silver, for venom. Sometimes she’d smile back, let them see the danger.

“Because I’m not fifteen anymore,” said Pansy. “God, do you know what precious Potter Sr. got up to at school, the bully? But boys get to grow up to be men, you see, and us girls just grow up to be bitches.”

For Christmas, Ginny got Pansy a small children’s Muggle science textbook. She smirked when Pansy opened the package, but even by then Pansy knew Ginny did everything on purpose. Pansy wrapped it in brown paper and read it on lazy Saturdays. She wondered, reading it, if this was what it felt like to ten year old Muggleborns, the day a letter arrived by owl.

Pansy went out walking, alone. Draco didn’t comprehend such athletic endeavours. Ginny didn’t understand walking when you could fly.

But Pansy liked the way your thoughts could spread out into the quiet, the way the low hills rolled out and away from you, opening up under the grey sky. Her childhood had been full of such pointed noises.

She found little creeks in the wrinkles of hills, and let the freezing water run over her hands. The noise was endless, the splash and murmur of it, the way it kept rolling and rolling on.

Water is life and Slytherin sleeps sound beneath the lake. Water is life, and change, carving chasms in broad plains over centuries, slipping easily among a thousand smooth stones.

There is an Egyptian story about entering the afterlife. (Pansy read it in INTRO TO WORLD CULTURES, a little brightly illustrated Muggle textbook that Ginny got her for her birthday). They take out your heart and weigh it against a feather.

Pansy felt like she was standing, breathless, would always be standing, frozen, watching to see which way the scales tipped.

On long nights, cold nights, she stopped waiting. She was certain of the outcome at three in the morning. She stared up at the ceiling and listened to the lump of concrete in her chest beat.

Falling in love saved James Potter. It killed him, in the end, but it saved him first, and after, and always.

James loved Lily and it made him brave. Maybe Pansy fell in love, too, someday. Maybe it elevated her sharp tongue.

Maybe she fell in love like a bag of bricks. Maybe it was slow, three years of going out hiking alone in the hills on Saturday mornings, and running into, stumbling into, looking for, waiting for a girl with a ball cap and a purple backpack. They swapped packed lunches, sweated and cursed, grew close. One day the girl would take Pansy home to her parents, their kind smiles, their electric stove and television. Pansy’s tongue was swollen with a childhood of cruel words, but she swallowed, inhaled, said, “I’m so very pleased to meet you.”

We could give her a love story. We could call it salvation.

Or maybe there is no hiker. Or maybe that love falls apart–Pansy is kinder now, calmer, maybe, but they’ve grown in different ways, to different needs. They go on one last walk together, through old hills. They part slowly and they both cry all the way home. Pansy never looks at trees the same again.

James Potter was saved by a love, so let’s give Pansy a lover. Maybe she kissed Padma Patil in the coat room of her first art show, ran her fingers over the scars on the back of Padma’s hand, over the cracked lines of her palm, the old broken bones.

Maybe it was a journalism intern, a young man in the lifestyle department but thirsting for the front page. He turned articles on cute little artisan food festivals into pieces on the way half-troll children were subsisting on potatoes and rice three streets over. They sent him out to cover a play, an opera, a children’s choir concert and he wrote about the whispered conversations in box seats, how the pure still flocked together, sleeves tugged down over their wrists. When they sent him out to cover Hermione Granger’s love life and fashion tips, Pansy aborted a snort in the packed conference room. The editors didn’t know what they’d gotten into now, putting those two in a room together with a quill.

Maybe his fire kindled something in her, too. Maybe it tasted delicious on her tongue.

Maybe she never loved them, or maybe she loved all of them, knew them, listened to their breathing late at night. Maybe they taught her things, about holding precious things in your palms, about all the ways someone can catch your breath, about goodbyes.

We could give her a love story and call it salvation. She listened to their breathing, late at night. Maybe it helped her, those nights when her ribs were filled with concrete, to listen to their wheezes and snores. They made her remember that the heart is a muscle, clenching and clawing its way to life. They were alive and so was she. We could say they saved her life but we would be lying.

It wasn’t that they were breathing, that they were there–that matters, yes, but that’s not the point. That’s not the reason.

They breathed. She listened.

Love is a power. Love is an old magic in any universe, but it is not enough. She listened to their breathing. She listened to her own. Love is a power, but it does not save your soul. You do.

So let’s give her a love worth dying for, worth fighting for and lying for and repenting. Let’s give her a love worth living for, and let’s make it herself.

Let’s tell a story where no one saved her soul. She did not borrow the grace of a lover until her own goodness bloomed in her chest. She did not inhale the protagonists’ pity like it was any kind of gift. She was a godmother and she loved, she bought broomsticks and teased and comforted, but this is not what saved her.

A snake sheds her skin. This is not about deceit. A snake sheds her skin because she has grown too big for it. A snake sheds a skin because she is moving on.

Ms. Skeeter found scandals in people’s glances, their hands brushing, the whispers of the jealous. Pansy watched her nudge half-truths from some poor, bitter girl and felt nauseous. She took careful notes on her technique.

They went to parties, to stakeouts and picnics, the columnist and her shadow. Ms. Skeeter gathered things that were not quite lies and spun and spun and spun them until they were.

“Are you really going to do this?” Ginny asked, not seeming particularly interested in the answer, but then she never did. “Follow in her footsteps.”

“I’d be good at it, don’t you think?” Pansy asked, just as casual. It was a game in its way–who can seem to care less?

“Yes,” said Ginny.

They went to galas and cornered people cheerfully in cafes with Rita’s green quill and Pansy’s black one. Ms. Skeeter dug out jealousies and called them malice, found coincidence and turned it scandalous.

Pansy found half-truths and kept looking, found more, and put them together to make something whole.

Ms. Skeeter pulled juicy quotes from people’s lips and Pansy peeled away. She had been a young girl once, in a house where guests were allies first and friends second, where words meant many things, where things exchanged hands. The foundations of their very world were shaking now. In the aftermath, things were being torn down, built anew. Pansy wondered what was exchanging hands.

Ms. Skeeter looked for love affairs, delicious ones, tainted ones. Pansy looked for the way old Ministry men exchanged glances across rooms, the way the young ones eyed corner offices.

She lurked, snapped photos, wheedled information out of the cleaning staff using every trick Ms. Skeeter had ever pulled out of her hat, with every fluttered eyelash her mother had ever taught her.

She wrote them up with her quill sharpened to a knife point. When it hit the presses, she hoped they bled.

They started calling her a bulldog. It was an old name for little pug-faced Pansy Parkinson. She drank tea in the breakroom with Ginny and burned her hatemail.

When she sank her teeth into something she didn’t let go.

She tore apart Borgin and Burkes’ shady practices, set politicians out to roast, found sins and hung them up in alleys like stained sheets. It was vicious. It was true, every speck of it.

She had been cruel all her life. She would never be soft, but she could do this, be sharp, be hard, watch and wait and write, hold the world accountable to its foulest truths.

They should be afraid of her coming. She grinned at the thought, and there was nothing ugly in the expression.

The story here is this: a girl with a sharp tongue learns to sharpen it.

This is your life. This is your heart. Your hands will never be empty. Decide what to do with that.

Love is not enough. It does not make your hands clean. It just makes them warm.

Ginny got into screaming rows with her louder coworkers and smoking ones with the subtler. She would not hold her tongue for any grace, for the people with power or for the ones she loved.

Pansy had watched them write it, quills scratching paper scratching hands, over and over again in fifth year. I must not tell lies.

Them. She had watched them.

Ginny was a smug early riser, mocked Pansy’s elegant espresso while she poured hot milk and honey into her own chamomile. This is a story about growth perhaps more than it has ever been about forgiveness.

Pansy went home and heard things drop from her parents’ lips, tittered curses and polite, murmured slurs. She felt the acrid taste of each of them on her tongue. She swallowed them down and imagined them in Ginny’s wry drawl. She reached for memory and realized that she hadn’t heard Draco spit those syllables out in years.

Pansy would show up at Malfoy Manor some nights, with its opulent guest rooms and reclining couches, and end up curled up into a ball between Astoria and Draco. Sometimes you cannot sleep alone. Sometimes you cannot breathe alone.

Evaporation. Condensation. Precipitation. Water flies, it gathers, it falls.

Pansy turned her face up into the rain, looked up past the drops slamming her cheeks and into the depths above, the miles of falling water hurtling down at her head, screaming joy. She wanted to scream back, with grief and terror, pride and victory, with knowing.

You have been so many things. You will be so many things.

“The water that flooded the Bering Strait millennia ago is the same water that you water your lawn with, the water in the morning fog, the steam from your tea,” said the little textbook Ginny had given her. Pansy didn’t know what the Bering Strait was, but she knew this fear had lived in the back of so many people’s throats.

You have been. You will be.

Pansy washed her hands in cold water. She felt guilty, on bad days, for hot sips of tea. She was supposed to be cold. That was the point of her, a sharp edge, a chill down your spine. She was unkind. She couldn’t run away from that, the cruel barbs she’d spat out all her life. She was turning them other places now, useful ones, instead of easy targets, but this was still her life. Her core held no light.

But some days the young Malfoys sat on Pansy’s apartment carpet and Scorpius screamed and toppled, the little brat. She and Draco had had a fight yesterday, or maybe they’d have a fight tomorrow, shrieking things they couldn’t take back, but they were here, right now, and they would be back. This was the warmest she would ever be, but she knew, she knew, that this was not new.

In her first year, she had gotten an awful cold, and Draco had had Crabbe and Goyle sneak her chicken soup from the kitchens. She had been eleven, homesick and having nightmares every night that the lake might crash through the walls of the dormitory. She had cradled the steaming bowl in her hands and breathed deep.

A decade later, she was still breathing, watching Draco pretend aloofness, watching Astoria light up with glee at his upturned nose. Pansy had Ginny to smirk at in long meetings, Parvati and Padma and their two different types of hard edges, and she had work at her fingertips–something to dig her hands into, her life into; something that would steal her soul for the rest of her days.

She got ink on her cheek and she got chased out of businesses, Ministry buildings, parties that wanted to be discrete. She started getting manila envelopes dropped at her desk, at her front door, secrets and tip offs tucked inside. When rats showed up in shoeboxes on her doorstep she grinned, fed them to the alley cats, and sharpened her quill.

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