Where Miles had found the old codger of an accountant, Pansy wasn’t sure. She’d been assured he was the best though, and she would only have the best.

It was as it should be; Parkinsons always had the best - something her father had forgotten. Therefore it’d only been natural for her to fire every retainer he’d had on the books following his death near the end of the war. She’d taken Miles as legal counsel and he had general oversight on the estate and all the accounts, but else wise, Pansy hadn’t ever delved into the details of her inheritance.

For the longest time it hadn’t been important. She was ridiculously wealthy and despite the fines the Ministry felt the ‘victimized wizarding society’ was due because of her father’s crimes, she always would be. Her family had earned, swindled and cheated their way into a fortune that she would have to exert a considerable amount of will to even dent, and that was saying something.

If Pansy knew one thing, it was how to spend money.

But given her own ill-advised venture into business, a trade in service, it’d seemed somehow more important to know what it was she owned and had power over. It was true that Choyer hadn’t been what she was looking for as far as distractions went, but she’d gotten a taste for it – for running things, for business. She’d found that she was good at it, even – a surprise given her only acknowledged talents prior to managing the spa were shopping and sex.

"Wait, what did you just say?" she queried, disbelief tinting her voice as she really focused her attention on the white-haired accountant.

"About the publishing company you own, Miss Parkinson? A ..." Gordon Peasgood adjusted his spectacles as he peered at the old, yellow parchment. "Obscurus Publishing?"

"No, before that," she said, waving her hand dismissively, dark eyes keen on him as he rustled the papers.

"The Quidditch investment?" he queried, bushy brows twitching as his eyes flicked over the list.

"Yes, what was the percentage you named?" She'd almost missed it as he'd been reading her the family's investments and why it'd caught her attention, she wasn't yet sure. Perhaps because she hadn't even known her family had partial ownership of any of the Quidditch teams. Her parents had never been fond of the sport, nor had her grandparents from what she could remember of them.

White brows knit together as he squinted at the fine print. "You've a 35% investment share in the Holyhead Harpies, Miss Parkinson. It looks as if an Abraxas Parkinson made the purchase in 1753."

Well, that's why she'd not known about it then. "Thank you. Do continue," she said, tone slightly dismissive.

Apparently used to such airs in his clients, the old accountant twitched the parchments around again and began reading her investments aloud once more.

Pansy wasn't paying nearly as close attention though. A 35% investment share in the oldest Quidditch team in Britain was not only entirely surprising, but completely unprecedented. She knew many of the old families had retained their investments, but many more had liquidated their sports holdings to pursue other, potentially more lucrative ventures.

"Do you know who currently has the majority holdings for the Harpies?" she asked, interrupting him again.

Gordon adjusted his spectacles when he looked up at her, again, not surprised even a little bit at the interruption. "Generally I don't keep track of the stock exchange, Miss Parkinson, but in this case I can assist you."

He pulled his glasses off and began to methodically clean them. "A Mr. Patrick Davis Sr. and Mr. Patrick Davis Jr. are the owners of the team. I also handle the Davis accounts," he said amiably, peering at his glasses a long moment before settling them back upon his nose.

A Mr. Patrick Davis Jr. Pansy happened to know such a gentleman. He was a regular of every society event of any importance and she knew for fact that they both had an ungodly love of shoes. They'd even purged Italy of most of its leather one weekend on a footwear shopping binge.

Pansy hadn't ever known he was part owner of the Harpies though. He'd never mentioned anything more than his father's disappointment in him, and even that with cheery disregard.

It'd been years since she'd spent time with him, however. At least a decade her senior, a talented lover, and someone she'd given up when she'd withdrawn from society and trying to be something she obviously never would be and no longer cared to try to be. At least not in the way that was expected of her.

Perhaps it was time to pay Mr. Patrick Davis Jr. a call.

She was likely a bit mad for entertaining the idea currently percolating, but the more she turned it over, the more Pansy liked it.

"You've been most helpful," she said then, finally dipping her head again to indicate to the accountant he might continue. "Do carry on."

"Very good, Miss Parkinson," he said, adjusting his spectacles once more before his voice filled the room again.


SUMMARY: Pansy meets with an accountant to be briefed on her family's investments, and after finding out she's a very large share in the Harpies, hatches a mad plan.