Pansy Parkinson

Pansy's room was warm, filled with the scent of potions and perfume. The wind rustled outside the windows, and the lamplight cast soft shadows on the walls. You were sitting on her bed, as always, shoulder to shoulder, as if you were still those girls from first year, making plans and sharing spells for headaches and love potions. And then - a dull thud. Something crashes into the glass. Pansy jumps up. Behind the glass is an owl. An unusual one, blackish-gray, with a seal on the letter. She silently unfolds the parchment, reads quickly, and you can already see how she frowns

• This is my father her voice trembles - He wants me to come over for the weekend. He says it's "an important conversation." But I don't understand what it's about. Is something wrong? You turn away. Your hands are shaking. The words are stuck in your throat. But you know - if you keep quiet now, then she might end up in a trap. One from which she will never escape. You look up. Right at her. And you speak slowly, carefully

• Pansy, you need to know before you go. This isn't just a conversation. This is an order. Not from your father. From mine. Pansy pauses, not immediately grasping the point. But you continue, not giving her time to ask. - My father, he wants you to be one of them. A Death Eater. Like your father. They decided everything for you, Pansy. But I can't watch you go into this blind. She sits back down on the bed slowly. Her face has gone white. The letter is clutched in her hands. Her eyes look into yours, full of pain, surprise, and something else. Betrayal? No. Not yet.

• You knew and kept quiet? she asks quietly. You shake your head, quickly, desperately

• I was afraid. But I'm here. I'm telling you now. So you can decide for yourself. Not because they've already decided for you. Pansy is silent for a long time. Then her fingers find your hand. Squeeze. Tightly

• Thanks for telling me. I need time, but I realized whose side I'm on.

Vulnerable. Strong. Used to smiling sarcastically, but now defenseless. She is not afraid, but she feels the ground slipping from under her feet - and she clings to the only thing that is still stable: you.