I swing my head around, meeting the normally warm, but this time (pathetically, not the first time... I'm an awful daughter, I think to myself) disappointed eyes of my mother. “Come with me,” she says, taking my arm and pulling us out of the memory. I get a final glance at Mummy holding baby me and laughing mutely at something Hermione said with tears on her face, before I’m back in the present.
Mummy’s hand is tight on my wrist. She pulls me down the stairs, muttering something along the lines of, “What am I going to do with you?” Until we’re finally with everyone else. We mingle right back into the crowds as if we were never gone.
Mummy’s hand comes loose and I slip away. She eyes me, and I give her an innocent smile and hurry over to sit by the window. Pulling a chair close to it, I prop my elbow up on the windowsill, resting my head in my hand, looking out at the street.
But – wait – what’s this?
There are two women talking shrilly to each other. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but one of them is Hermione, and the other is someone I don’t recognize. I glance behind me. Mummy is not looking at me anymore. I leave my seat, biting my lip, before reaching for the door. As I do, Hermione walks back in. I jump back a few feet, and she turns to me, forcing on a bright smile and saying, “Hello, Rose.”
As she walks away, I hurry outside, trying to get a better look at the other woman. As I slink closer towards her, she hears me behind her, and flings around, eyeing me. “What?”
“I – er—who are you?”
She is certainly not the prettiest of women, with a pug-like face and hair cut below her ears. Her hair is a dark, almost black color, with thick bangs. I don't recognize her, and she's not very pleasant looking, and I immediately wish I was back inside, under the watchful eyes of many nice adults. She narrows her eyes at me, taking a few steps closer, and stops suddenly, recognizing me. “You’re Rose.”
“Yeah. And who are you?”
A small, faint, almost smile took her face. She stepped forward, looking down at me, “You have his eyes.”
I blink at her, waiting for a moment before saying, “Did you know him?”
“Yes,” she whispers, looking at me in a kind of awe. She says the next sentence a little bitterly, “We were together long before your mother even looked at him like that.” I glance down at my party shoes.
…His old girlfriend.
I shoot my glance back up to her, eyes widening, “The man—at that store—he said--”
“Branxton,” whispers the woman.
"Have you tried Pansy?"
“Parkinson? Why?”
“She’s his old girlfriend."
I tilt my head to the side. “Are you Pansy?” I ask.
She nods her head slowly.
“You know where my father is!” I exclaim.
A look of horror crosses her face. I can’t decide whether she seems shocked to hear such an accusation or is scared that someone else knows. “No, I don’t,” she said suddenly, reaching into the pocket of her robes and pulling out something -- a handkerchief, I think, but she stuffs a handkerchief back in her pocket and there's still something in her hand. Will it hurt me? I don't care; my mind stopped thinking logically. She was one of my clues! One of my clues to my daddy!
“Tell me where he is!”
“You must’ve worked hard to figure out I know,” she whispered, her eyes wide. “Unless… Branxton told you. Aha. What else did he tell you?”
“It doesn’t matter!” I exclaim, my heart racing. “’Cause you know where he is – I don’t need any other hint, cause I have you--”
“You shouldn’t be snooping around in things that have nothing to do with you.”
“It has everything to do with me!” I exclaim, “It’s my daddy!”
That seems to hit her. There is quiet for a minute, and I get even more scared (or scareder, I can never remember which one it is), and then, she says quietly, “Lower your voice. It’s rude to yell."
“Please, Miss – please let me meet him. My Mummy--”
“Your mother,” she repeats, furrowing her brows in a kind of dislike. She fiddles with the thing she pulled out of her pocket earlier.
“She deserves to be with the man she loves, and you know where he is!”
There is a flash of something in her eyes, and she says, the bitter tone back in her voice, “So do I.”
“You – what?”
She glances down at the ground, letting out a small sigh, before biting her lip and looking back at me. “For future reference, you should be careful what you say. You never know who’s listening.”
I look around. “There’s no one here--”
“Hush, child. Here – have a Chocolate Frog Card, for your troubles. But I advise you stay away from me and stop looking for your father.” She hands me the card – that must be what she had been holding before (I don’t even glance at it) -- and turns and walks away.
“Wait!” I cry. “Please, don’t go!”
But she doesn’t listen. She looks back at me, something unreadable in her eyes, and then Apparates away.
I miserably shove the card into my dress pocket, hurry back inside the house and sit on the chair, and I fold my arms across my chest. She knows. I know she knows where he is, and I know that she can take me to my Daddy. She’s being selfish, because she’s jealous that he loves Mummy and not her. It’s not my fault that Daddy has good taste in women. From what I can tell, Pansy’s not very pretty, and not very nice. If I had a boyfriend who broke up with me and then had a little girl with another woman I’d tell the girl where he was, if I knew! Well, I think I would.
A few moments later, Mummy walks over.
“Honey, it’s time to go. What’s wrong?”
I don’t meet her eyes. “I’m tired, and I’m sick of this party.”
She smiles. “We’re going to go home now. Will you come at least say goodbye to the others?”
I shake my head, still looking away. She takes my wrist, waves to someone behind her, and in a second, we’re gone. Finally.
Mummy’s hand is tight on my wrist. She pulls me down the stairs, muttering something along the lines of, “What am I going to do with you?” Until we’re finally with everyone else. We mingle right back into the crowds as if we were never gone.
Mummy’s hand comes loose and I slip away. She eyes me, and I give her an innocent smile and hurry over to sit by the window. Pulling a chair close to it, I prop my elbow up on the windowsill, resting my head in my hand, looking out at the street.
But – wait – what’s this?
There are two women talking shrilly to each other. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but one of them is Hermione, and the other is someone I don’t recognize. I glance behind me. Mummy is not looking at me anymore. I leave my seat, biting my lip, before reaching for the door. As I do, Hermione walks back in. I jump back a few feet, and she turns to me, forcing on a bright smile and saying, “Hello, Rose.”
As she walks away, I hurry outside, trying to get a better look at the other woman. As I slink closer towards her, she hears me behind her, and flings around, eyeing me. “What?”
“I – er—who are you?”
She is certainly not the prettiest of women, with a pug-like face and hair cut below her ears. Her hair is a dark, almost black color, with thick bangs. I don't recognize her, and she's not very pleasant looking, and I immediately wish I was back inside, under the watchful eyes of many nice adults. She narrows her eyes at me, taking a few steps closer, and stops suddenly, recognizing me. “You’re Rose.”
“Yeah. And who are you?”
A small, faint, almost smile took her face. She stepped forward, looking down at me, “You have his eyes.”
I blink at her, waiting for a moment before saying, “Did you know him?”
“Yes,” she whispers, looking at me in a kind of awe. She says the next sentence a little bitterly, “We were together long before your mother even looked at him like that.” I glance down at my party shoes.
…His old girlfriend.
I shoot my glance back up to her, eyes widening, “The man—at that store—he said--”
“Branxton,” whispers the woman.
"Have you tried Pansy?"
“Parkinson? Why?”
“She’s his old girlfriend."
I tilt my head to the side. “Are you Pansy?” I ask.
She nods her head slowly.
“You know where my father is!” I exclaim.
A look of horror crosses her face. I can’t decide whether she seems shocked to hear such an accusation or is scared that someone else knows. “No, I don’t,” she said suddenly, reaching into the pocket of her robes and pulling out something -- a handkerchief, I think, but she stuffs a handkerchief back in her pocket and there's still something in her hand. Will it hurt me? I don't care; my mind stopped thinking logically. She was one of my clues! One of my clues to my daddy!
“Tell me where he is!”
“You must’ve worked hard to figure out I know,” she whispered, her eyes wide. “Unless… Branxton told you. Aha. What else did he tell you?”
“It doesn’t matter!” I exclaim, my heart racing. “’Cause you know where he is – I don’t need any other hint, cause I have you--”
“You shouldn’t be snooping around in things that have nothing to do with you.”
“It has everything to do with me!” I exclaim, “It’s my daddy!”
That seems to hit her. There is quiet for a minute, and I get even more scared (or scareder, I can never remember which one it is), and then, she says quietly, “Lower your voice. It’s rude to yell."
“Please, Miss – please let me meet him. My Mummy--”
“Your mother,” she repeats, furrowing her brows in a kind of dislike. She fiddles with the thing she pulled out of her pocket earlier.
“She deserves to be with the man she loves, and you know where he is!”
There is a flash of something in her eyes, and she says, the bitter tone back in her voice, “So do I.”
“You – what?”
She glances down at the ground, letting out a small sigh, before biting her lip and looking back at me. “For future reference, you should be careful what you say. You never know who’s listening.”
I look around. “There’s no one here--”
“Hush, child. Here – have a Chocolate Frog Card, for your troubles. But I advise you stay away from me and stop looking for your father.” She hands me the card – that must be what she had been holding before (I don’t even glance at it) -- and turns and walks away.
“Wait!” I cry. “Please, don’t go!”
But she doesn’t listen. She looks back at me, something unreadable in her eyes, and then Apparates away.
I miserably shove the card into my dress pocket, hurry back inside the house and sit on the chair, and I fold my arms across my chest. She knows. I know she knows where he is, and I know that she can take me to my Daddy. She’s being selfish, because she’s jealous that he loves Mummy and not her. It’s not my fault that Daddy has good taste in women. From what I can tell, Pansy’s not very pretty, and not very nice. If I had a boyfriend who broke up with me and then had a little girl with another woman I’d tell the girl where he was, if I knew! Well, I think I would.
A few moments later, Mummy walks over.
“Honey, it’s time to go. What’s wrong?”
I don’t meet her eyes. “I’m tired, and I’m sick of this party.”
She smiles. “We’re going to go home now. Will you come at least say goodbye to the others?”
I shake my head, still looking away. She takes my wrist, waves to someone behind her, and in a second, we’re gone. Finally.
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