Chapter 1
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'You have a beautiful daughter, Lady Parkinson.'
'What? My mind screamed in confusion. I blinked, lifting the black veil before my eyes, and before them was an obnoxious image of a woman's face; her horse-like long face grim and disagreeable, her ice blue eyes were distant and frigid, her glance was filled with dismay and hostility as if I was the most appalling thing she had ever seen. Needless to say, it was the friendliest and the most welcoming sight I have ever seen in my life. Before I could help it, an unfamiliar, thin wailing sound was ripped out of my throat as I tried to take in a deep breath. It horrified me that I was unable to stop the infant-like noise I was making or the endless streams of tears (which had not been out of my eyes for the past 15 years) flooding down my face. Then I came to a horrid realization.
I was an infant.
A woman trapped in the body of a baby.
I squirmed in the arms of someone I supposed was a nurse lifting me up, when I attempted to slap my face for a check of reality, I was terrified to find them immobilized by an invisible, but forceful and firm grip. And they bathed me in warm water, cleansing me of blood and excretions, I lost it when they dipped my head into the water, which suddenly turned into raw and intense cold water. I screamed, struggling against the invisible bonds that was binding my limbs as I recall the glacial water that froze my past eternally after my futile struggles for survival.
When they eventually saw fit to end my torture, I was sent back to the arms of the dark-haired woman who apparently was still not fond of me, standing next to us was a willowy, lanky man, whose black eyes held nothing but disdain and disappointment when he looked at me. They were talking to each other, in mere low mumbles that even with the sharpened auditory senses of an infant, I was not able to make out most of the words they said. But I did catch a few words like 'heir', 'pureblood', and they called me 'Pansy'.
Lady Parkinson.
Pansy.
Pansy Parkinson, like the Pansy Parkinson in Harry Potter, who was known for obsessing with Draco Malfoy.
The rational part of me cried in vehement protest of coming into this illogical and unscientific conclusion, but no other reasons would explain the invisible bonds that held me in place when they were bathing me. Naturally, I did all I could as an infant who could not even make a coherent phrase: wailing on top of my lungs, until the unpleasant man, my father, shut me up with a lazy wave of a thin log - his wand, by turning my cries inaudible even to my own ears. I was both fascinated and terrified by this real, genuine display of magic. As any other Harry Potter fan, I have had this wild childhood dream of being a part of the Harry Potter world, but now I was scared, scared of the abhorrent things that they would do to me if they discovered the muggle soul being hosted by the body of a pureblood, the muggle soul who knew too much.
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