DISCLAIMER: JKR created these characters. We just try and give the extras some personality.

It started at Pella. Or so she thought.

Pansy Parkinson always dreamt of having the world at her feet. Yet, she wasn't able to find successful models that she could adapt to her own brilliance among her folk.

The Dark Lord, curse his non-existing heart, could not tell a lying servant from a unicorn foal – it proved to be his doom; as for the Golden Boy of her age – she didn't even want to start listing everything that was wrong with that excuse of a hero.

Pretty eyes, though; shehadto give them that.

So – to her own surprise – she turned her research to the great conquerors of the Muggle world for inspiration – although, if she was being honest with herself, it was just a good way to add stops to the trip she had planned to take around the world and hadn't gotten around to.

Thus was the reasoning that brought her to the sunny Pella, home of the Muggle known as Alexander, the Great. Watching ancient architecture was something she never got to share with her classmates, not even those that knew her a little better. The structures were remarkable, really; how Muggles actually dealt with the absence of spells in their lives! It was… magic without magic, if that made any sense.

Moving always a few steps away from the detestable crowds of tourists, she couldn't help, however, being attracted by the heated argument between a guide and some of the people snapping those boring, still pictures of a statue not far from where Pansy was.

It was supposed to be a depiction of Alexander and his horse, Bucephalus. Alexander held in his hand Nike, the goddess of victory (Muggles believed the silliest things, really). The infuriated guide, however, wanted to know who had been theinsolent, misguided soul that replaced Nike with a golden replica of a full cocktail glass.

A simple prank, Pansy thought. A little Transfiguration and she could get the statue back to the original shape, provided she had a picture of the original and a distraction for the Muggles.

Then realization hit her.

Alexander. A glass of Alexander. OH. Oh, that's clever!

The guide didn't seem to agree the prank merited a giggle, but Parkinson thought twice before hexing her – with teeth like that, the woman was cursed enough.

Though, as she walked away, it got her thinking about the person that taught her about Alexanders in the first place.

I wonder what she's up to, these days.

It ended at London. Sort of.

Pansy Parkinson looked across the street, contemplating what would have been one of the city's many brick ghosts, if not for the many signs of recent restoration. Muggles and their blissful ignorance never ceased to amaze her, walking by as if the charming, quiet building wasn't even there.

She wondered, crossing the street, what the spell placed over it was meant to display.

A wooden sign had been haphazardly placed over the hand carved doors, its blankness revealing nothing of what waited inside. She held her hand up, inches from the door, contemplating what she was about to do.

She wouldn't expect me to knock.

Putting on a confident smile, she twisted the doorknob.

The immediate notion was of space – so much space, and yet she could barely remember having felt more at home or cozy in her life. There was a counter, glass holders and shelves stocked with just about every kind of libation ever produced, but instead of walking into a pub, she felt like walking into the living room of a good friend, the outside immediately forgotten; the luxurious, comfortable couches, the lit hearth and its mantelpiece sporting House shields, random photographs and memorabilia from school (she noticed, satisfied, that the Slytherin ones were more pronounced), the books dividing shelf space with assorted bottles and the radio that could have belonged to her grandparent, crooning songs from days gone by.

"You and your blues," she said to no one in particular, shaking her head. "Always with yourblues."

"You can blame that on me, really," an unfamiliar voice called from behind the counter, "I'm a bit obsessed with Joanna Connor. Well, a bit's an understatement."

Parkinson took a step back, not feeling the immediate need to reach for her wand. The voice, it turned out, belonged to a woman about her age and height, Latin features, dark hair and a smile that would have made the Dark Lord rethink his loveless life choices.

"And you are?" Pansy inquired.

"Marie," she smiled even more, wiping her hands with the apron covering her from just below the neck to knees. "You must be Pansy. I'd shake your hand, but I'm in the middle of a mess here, so go right on up. She's expecting you."

Marie indicated the short spiral staircase in the back of the room, leading to a mezzanine. Pansy allowed what nervousness for the upcoming encounter was left to hit her as she moved closed to the stairs –her steps felt too loud.

However, she reached the upper floor, saw the familiar face and smile that always managed to calm her down at Hogwarts, and knew that apprehension did not belong anywhere between them.

Well, maybe a little wouldn't hurt.

"You cut your hair," she remarked. "It looks good on you, Greengrass."

"And you let yours grow. Weren't we over the whole last name debacle,Parkinson?"

Right you are. Pansy smiled back. "It's good to see you, Daph."

"Likewise." Daphne moved away from the desk she had been magically placing here and there for the perfect spot and indicated the couch. "Was it difficult to find me?"

"I can still read instructions, Daphne," Pansy quipped, holding up the letter she received a week earlier. "The place looks absolutely fantastic."

"Doesn't it?" Daphne rested her head back. "I can't call it a business – handling the Greengrass legacy," she finger-quoted the word, "fulfills that role well enough. No, this is something of a personal oasis. I'll let a select few know of it, and they'll be able to come and go as they please."

Pansy crossed her hands over her chest. "You honour me, madame! I have no words!"

"Oh, enough."

"I feel I must compliment you on the advertising across the globe, though. Impressive stuff," Pansy said, gauging the reaction of her words.

"Hm? I'm not sure I follow."

There it was. Daphne's trademark I-know-something-you-don't- grin. Except this time, Pansy knew.

"I'll admit that, until your letter arrived, I only had suspicions. How does the saying go, though? Once is an anomaly; twice is a coincidence; thrice is a pattern?"

"Are we still talking about these alleged advertisementsyou think you saw or about our broom closet experiments at school?"

"Tease."

"I believe the correct term is provocateur," Daphne corrected her, a smile almost innocent to show for.

It was fun while it lasted, Pansy admitted to herself in silence, smiling a half smile. She wasn't about to let Daphne change the subject.

"Come on, Daph, admit it."

"Admit? To what, my dear?"

"The Alexander statue?"

"Oh, I've heard of it! Terrible, terrible desecration of such a pretty statue, wasn't it? Wait, were you there?"

Such an actress! "What of the mink wearing a fedora that followed me around for a whole day when I was visiting Arran?"

"I'm not particularly fond of minks, but even I admit that sounds adorable. Did you care to bring me a picture?"

"Daph…"

"I'm still waiting for you to make your point, Pansy."

Pansy reached for her wand, tapped the small purse she had with her twice, and pulled a small joke card from it.

"I suppose you wouldn't happen to know anything about this, then?"

It was a bottle of absinthe talking to a bottle of cognac. They were standing left and right to a stunned witch on the ground, each bottle saying "That's not myfault!"

Daphne's mirth could no longer be contained.

"Well, I thought it was clever!" she said, eyes sparkling. With a much softer tone, she went to say "So you remembered."

"The drinks every witch should have a taste of while they're still young," Pansy recited her friend's words with too much aristocracy to her voice. "Alexander, Undercover Mink and Earthquake. You've missed a few of them, though – if I recall correctly, you had elected six as the indispensable ones."

"No, dearest. You missed them. I had clues for all six spread around; the Ramos Fizz one was bloody clever, too," she lamented.

"You're not serious."

"When am I anything but? Do you at least remember the last two, or are all remnants of our friendship forgotten?"

"Always the drama queen."

"I thought I was the ice princess."

"I'm not sure your school fans ever decided which suited you best," Pansy mused, lifting a petulant finger in the air. "Also, the last two were the Jaguar Milkyou had when you were in Brazil and the Nicolaschka your friend from Durmstrang taught you how to make."

"Touché."

That conversation was making her thirsty. And slightly uncomfortable - it was stirring close to the point where she knew she had to ask:

"Were you - following me?"

Daphne smiled kindly. "No. No, I wasn't. But when I heard one of my best friends decided to travel around the world alone without so much as an invitation to tag along, I thought best to leave her subtle reminders of how she's missed back home."

"Through judicious application of alcohol-related visual riddles?"

"How else am I to put up with you?" Daphne asked, her laughter filling the small space between them.

Pansy aimed her wand without a hint of menace at Daphne's heart.

"Easy there. It was the first thing that came to mind, really. I was so busy making sure this place came to life these past few months that, whenever I heard of your whereabouts, there wasn't much time to cook up anything clever."

"It was all clever enough. I'm just sorry I missed the other three – I'm, well, sorry for a lot of things. Leaving without a word, of course. But it was something I needed to do alone. The war, Draco, my family -"

"You don't have to explain yourself. Well, you do, but – you don't." They let silence keep them company; Slytherin complicity never needed much space to work with.

"So, are we just going todiscussdrinks at your exclusive pub? I understood from your letter that my presence meant a grand opening."

"Not a chance. I still need to think of a name to put on the blank sign outside."

"And here I was thinking you were going for a minimalistic approach."

"Ha. Ha."

"How about Pick Your Poison?"

"Oh, it's so clever! Because I'm a Slytherin! No."

"The Teachers' Lounge?"

"Where did that come from?"

"The less you know, the better. Slithering Sips?"

"No."

"Slips, then."

"For the love of Salazar, stop." Daphne rested her head back against the couch. "I just might let Naya decide it; with all the help she's been giving me, the place is as much hers as it's mine at this point."

"Who's Naya?" Pansy asked suspiciously.

"You spoke to me when you walked in," said the girl with the apron, moving swiftly away from the stairs, bringing them two cocktail glasses. "Naya Marie, sort-of-the-landlady ofThe Teachers' Lounge." She winked at Pansy. "I rather like it."

Daphne hid a groan behind her drink. Of course they'd get along.

AN:Of the prompts I was given, I went with:

Pansy keeps getting letters from someone. She ignores them at first, and then figures out they're clues to a puzzle. Who the hell would send her a puzzle?

I only served it with a twist. *crickets*

Also, the correct order of drinks that Pansy was supposed to get the clues from was Jaguar Milk, Alexander, Undercover Mink, Ramos Fizz, Earthquake and Nicolaschka. Why is that important, you ask? Could it be one last riddle? I don't know. Ask Daphne.

I hope you have a Merry Christmas, lightblue-Nymphadora.