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Pansy Parkinson

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[26 Mar 2005|08:40pm]
[ mood | crappy ]

The sun finally decided to make a brief appearance today, and so I offered to teach Daphne how to fly (for the second time), with abysmal results, of course.

The last time that I attempted to teach Daphne to fly, we were eleven, just before our first year at Hogwarts. She knew that all of the first years had to take at least one flying course as a general requirement, and thusly came to me for help. To put it in the simplest of terms, it was an abomination. I handed her my brand new racing broom that my mum had recently acquired for me, and after climbing on, she promptly fell off, and onto me. We both ended up on the ground, until I pushed her off me to make sure my broom had not been scratched due to her utter, utter clumsiness.

I eventually convinced her to keeping trying. Apparently, a failing grade can be quite the proper motivation. Anyway, no sooner had I gotten her on the broom when she took off down the hill at an alarming speed. I don't even know how it happened. She hardly moved at all! I had to run to keep up with her.

She ended up in the top branches of the largest tree at my family estate, and I was forced to walk all the way back to Parkinson Place to find an obliging house-elf that was willing to cease it's cleaning duties, and help get her down from such an incredible height. Upon my return, she became all indignant on me, wailing on about how I didn’t assist her, and how I had just left her for death and such. It was all very messy and we ended up not speaking for days, until Daphne admitted that she was no good at flying and that she’d much rather watch me, instead.

Of course, I was willing to forgive and forget and not dwell in the past. This time, I convinced her to get up a few feet off the ground with the promise that I would be there should take another fall. When the broom continued its ascent, she panicked and jumped off. It's become clear to me that Daphne has absolutely no respect for any of my possessions.

She then became cross with me (again), claiming that I lied when I said I would catch her if she fell. First of all, she didn’t fall. She jumped off. Second of all, what I meant when I said I would be there was that I would be present to go fetch a house-elf, should she cause bodily harm to herself. I certainly didn’t mean that I would catch her. What would be the purpose? We would both likely end up on the ground (again), after all. That’s hardly a smart thing to do. I was thinking ahead. Eventually she ended up telling me to just fly by myself, so that she could sit in the shade and watch my expertise. Who am I not to indulge?

The difference between flying alone and flying with company is rather astounding, I've discovered. For instance, any time I made a particularly impressive dive or turn, Daphne would clap and cheer. So, naturally, she was clapping and cheering nonstop the entire time. Even on my Nimbus 2001, I manage to triumph. I don't understand why I never made the house team. I could have done just as well as Cho Chang!

Afterwards, Daphne informed me that she would never attempt flying again, and that it would be pointless for me to convince her otherwise. And although she will never experience the splendor of flying, at least she gets the privilege of watching the wonder that is me. That more than makes up for it, I imagine. I suppose this just goes to show you that not everyone can be blessed with the same grace, stamina, and skill that I have. A pity, really.

Come to think of it, I suspect there’s still a broom floating about outside.

Private Message to Justin Finch-Fletchley.Collapse )

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[18 Jan 2005|08:42pm]
[ mood | exanimate ]

Seven months and two days before my impending nuptials are to be concluded, and still can't seem to decide what type of butter biscuit selection ought to be available at the reception. The wedding planner and I are severely behind schedule, and even with Mrs. Greengrass' assistance, we can't seem to sort everything out in a sensible manner. Holy matrimony... oh, it's such a nuisance. I sincerely cannot be bothered with attending to the smaller details (e.g. who'll be invited, and who'll be restrained from the premises) - I just haven't the spare time! Our class is almost finished with our schooling, and - as I'm certain you will all concur - we're positively up to our bums in exam preparation.

Mother's already begun to inquire after the names of her hypothetical grandchildren, and I really haven't the slightest clue what to tell her. While I realise that raising a family is a fairly large part of  what might be considered a successful marriage, I have to wonder about the consequence this whole "pregnancy" ordeal might have upon my hips. Frankly, I'm not ready to give them up. If I wanted to distend my body into the abominably large size of a standard African hippopotamus, I would simply use the "engorgio" charm and spare myself the colossal inconvenience of mothering an infant.

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[14 Nov 2004|04:52pm]
[ mood | cranky ]

Having recently mutated into the male form, I've once again begun to seriously reconsider my presence at this particular academic establishment. While the actual content of Hogwarts' tutorials and seminars are adequate (if not satisfactory), the behaviour exhibited by a good portion of this schools attendee's (with few exceptions) is simply deplorable. In addition this this, I find the WFA food handling regulations to be unobserved, and overlooked in this castles kitchens. I believe the House-Elves must've opened fresh boxes of salt-biscuit crackers, this morning, for breakfast. The manufacturers are always putting cheaply produced prizes (mainly intended to pacify small children, I suppose) in the bottom of the containers, and today, there was a “Grow Your Own Warts Kit” on my plate, next to the clementine salad. That’s not very sanitary, now is it? Clearly a decision to relocate is in my best of interests.

I've written to Igor Karkaroff, the Headmaster of Durmstrang, and (with my Mother and Fathers acquiescence, of course) have inquired after a mid-term transfer.

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[18 Sep 2004|12:08am]
[ mood | gloomy ]

Well. I've just returned from fishing out a superlatively large, freshly birthed consignment of clammy kittens, from custodial closet number six hundred sixty-six, in the dungeons; alongside my, evidently, favourite "adolescent hyena in heat," Benedict Dunstan.

Now, I little know how these abominable infant felines managed to go, seemingly unspotted, for a good long two days, but I'm quite certain each and every one of us will shortly be finding out; as the owner of "Snowball" ought to be soon suspecting that their beloved pet has permanently run off - without so much as a goodbye kiss - and will, most likely, inquire with the staff, after their precious little brutes welfare. I've alerted several members of the faculty of this joyous occasions, and I expect, if all goes as planned, a small gathering of close family friends, and immediate relatives, will all be invited to attend a quiet, diminutive Bar Mitzvah, on the apposite date. It is, of course, only once in a millennium a student (or, anyone, for that matter) has the opportunity to witness a cat's "coming of age," and the corresponding celebration.

I scornfully regret the day I acknowledged this bleeding school's damned "request," and became a Prefect. Duty is supposed to abruptly cease in seventh year; not continue into oblivion, without a sign of idyllic termination. Sod it. And, sod it, again. I've mucked my hands for the last time, in Hogwart's good name of "contractual obligation," and I now have the unavoidable urge to do something remarkably irresponsible. Pucey?

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[18 Aug 2004|11:34pm]
[ mood | cynical ]

In one last ill-fated attempt to revive the jovial summer holidays from their unbearably catatonic condition, I've accepted a profoundly enticing invitation from Adrian Pucey, and will, therefore, be joining him, as well as his extended family, in a two week tour of the French Rivera, and the Parisian countryside. I believe Ben is, additionally, joining us? I shared Adrian's gratifying company, yesterday around sundown, over a mug of lemon-lime fizzy-mist, at the Three Broomsticks, and the two of us have since become better acquainted. Outside the bounds of the tutoring and lodging restrictions, often found at academies, such as Hogwarts; adolescent witches and wizards really are, essentially, acutely different than the guise they emit, while under the watchful eye of their profusely pestering Professors.

Browsing the entries on my 'friends list', I couldn't help but be sickened by abundant common denominator of the two 'magically' reappearing words 'Weird Sisters'; vehemently littering the lettering of your tedious updates. Madness. The Weird Sisters barely even deserve the label of 'musical artists'; but after it was decided by the officials operating the Wizards Wireless, that Hextina Haguilera merited award as "Singing Extraordinaire", I've remained shocked at nothing denoted as 'harmony' by today's pop culture. I favour the methodical classic sounds of David Boogie, or Wands n'Roses.

I must now supervise the house-elves, as they begin to pack my belongings, for the previously mentioned vacation I shall be partaking in, tomorrow morning. I shouldn't want to stall the portkey. Au revoir.

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[09 Aug 2004|01:36am]
[ mood | discontent ]

Oh, leave it to a muggle.

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[01 Aug 2004|06:51pm]
[ mood | cranky ]

Private Message to Benedict Dunstan.Collapse )

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[30 Jul 2004|08:14pm]
[ mood | embarrassed ]

Of all the many occasions Benedict has stayed, for short periods of time always lasting under that of an hour, at my family's residency; today's visitation will forever stand out, among them.

At precisely five o'clock this evening, Ben dropped in for a "quick call", on his way to "you know, that area over there, where they have those things." The harmless little dear was sweet and considerate enough to bring along a round of Butterbeer and, of course, conversation, with him. As any proper hostess would, I lead Ben into the billiard room, where the two of us sat, and set to drinking the aforementioned beverage.

But it's curious, isn't it? Curious, that half way through the first pint we shared, I began to find my speech slurred (like that of a babbling infant), my judgment impaired (like that of one under the 'confundus' charm), and my hands unsteady (like that of a smitten schoolgirl's). A scandal indeed. I've really never been intoxicated before, but it indubitably doesn't take a Mediwizard to recognize the signs. After a great deal of squinting, and one engorgement spell (for the label, obviously), I was able to successfully establish, with substantial evidence, that the butterbeer Ben and I were consuming, was indeed of the 'hard' variety. Imagine poor Benny's utter shock and outrage. I suppose he's aboard the Knight Bus, at this very moment, wondering where it all went wrong.

Therefore, I must publicly commend Mister Dunstan on his furtive, wily, underhanded attempts, but encourage him to, perhaps next time, find a more imprudent target.

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[26 Jul 2004|08:40pm]
[ mood | envious ]


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[24 Jul 2004|08:18pm]
[ mood | complacent ]

With a squawk-squawk here. And, a squawk-squawk there. Here a squawk. There a squawk. Everywhere a squawk-squawk.

Well. It's absolutely nothing but endless quarrelling, behind the gates of Parkinson Place, as of late. If it isn't the groundskeeper and the chef, it's the house-elves and the portraits. If it isn't my very-married Mother and her nineteen year old lover (the stable groomsman), it's my very-married Father and his seventeen year old concubine (the chambermaid). Even more surprising still? The entire lot of them manage to find residency within one hundred feet of each other, yet somehow maintain to remain blissfully unaware of their surrounding adulterous conditions. Could this be magic? How quaint, wouldn't you say? My goodness, it's difficult raising parents these days. What is a girl to do? Suicide, perhaps? Oh, summer holiday, why art thou so cruel? Woe to me, indeed.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to lurk darkly in the dungeons of my own mind. I've been looking to invent up a master-scheme for effortless world domination, and the like. I am Pansy, hear me roar.

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