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doctor_javaFandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Hermione/Pansy, Hermione/Romilda
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 6.078
Summary: Hermione's life gets complicated when a woman from the not so distant past comes back into her life.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to me, that's all J.K. What you see here is simply derivative, non-commercial fanfiction.
Author's Note: Post Hogwarts. There be no canon compliance here. Happy reading.
Previous Chapters: One
Hermione has never liked Floo travel. Like flying on a broomstick, navigating the network is an alarmingly physical mode of transportation that leaves her feeling out of control, her vulnerabilities exposed. The snapping winds that tear at one's clothes, the ash that invariably coats one's mouth and nostrils, and the nearly violent expulsion from the fireplace at one's destination combine to make Floo travel one of the most stressful and undignified things she's ever experienced. Not to mention the roiling nausea that usually follows. For a Healer wanting to project competence and professionalism, it has the potential to create a horrifyingly demeaning first impression. But for a woman coming face to face with a former lover, a woman meeting said former lover's parents for the first time, it's the opening scene of a nightmare.
One that hopefully won't feature projectile vomit.
A hank of hair has managed to invade her mouth and she's trying to spit it out when the stop comes, jolting her forward and sending her staggering from the fireplace into a cavernous room, her arms extended and flailing, ready to brace herself against a fall or furniture, whichever she encounters first. For a moment she's completely disoriented, blinded as star bursts of light created by magical flames flare at the center of her vision, turning the world into a white haze. Later, she'll realize she's in a library, the collection stacking the walls from floor to ceiling the largest she has ever seen in a private residence, and her fingers will twitch with the urge to touch. But when her eyes finally adjust to the dense shadows penetrated only by the weakest flickers of candlelight, after she's sure she won't sprawl face first across the floor, the only thing she's aware of is the woman stretched across the chaise lounge not an arm's length away. Her lean body long and relaxed, her face turned expectantly in Hermione's direction.
Hermione straightens slowly, arms dropping to her sides only after she consciously wills them to do so. Her mouth is uncomfortably dry and she can't bring herself to blink. The only sound she can hear is the rush of blood in her ears.
It's the first time they've been face to face in months. Since Hermione left Pansy in her own bed, sheets twisted and damp and pulled haphazardly to her waist in negligent modesty. Her gaze that night had been an unrelenting heat, and Hermione had sworn she felt the singe of it between her shoulder blades.
Tonight is very different.
During all the times Hermione's imagined this moment, had waking nightmares about it, there's always been a calculated dismissal in Pansy's stare. Variations of indifference or rage meant to convey how much Pansy did not miss her and would never want her back. Once, on a night that found Hermione slumped against her couch, an empty bottle of wine tipped over beside her, she'd dared to picture tears, a mutual admittance of wrongs followed by reconciliation. But her better sense returned in the morning, arm in arm with sobriety, and she had banished the vision from her mind, along with anything stronger than butterbeer from her pantry.
But now that it's happened, now that she's looking into eyes she's always found so expressive – far more revealing than the face so often sculpted by sly amusement – there's nothing there. No recognition, no disdain, no anger, and certainly no sign of any softer emotions. Only a hint of perplexed curiosity.
It's like a blow to the gut. She deflates as the nervous energy that's been crackling through her body drains down her limbs and out the bottoms of her feet and the tips of her fingers. The raw defiance she was expecting – counting on – to carry her through his meeting does not come, held in stasis by the lack of everything from Pansy. Instead she's flooded by disappointment, like she'd actually expected Pansy to recognize her somehow and this is further proof that whatever connection Hermione believed existed between them was an illusion.
It's irrational and ridiculous and Hermione tells herself this is a reprieve.
"Hello," she says, when she's gathered herself enough to realize she's been staring at Pansy long enough to mark the moment as odd. She forces her gaze to the elderly couple in the room, able to recognize them as Pansy's parents even if she hadn't been well acquainted with the moving photographs in Pansy's home. The ones in which, by turns, Homer and Evelyn Parkinson glared at her and sent their daughter outraged stares every time Hermione embraced Pansy in their presence. Though she hadn't looked close enough to note it then, preferring not to witness their disapproval up close, Pansy shares her father's build and eyes, and owns a perfect replica of her mother's nose. "I'm Healer -"
"Granger." A detested voice interrupts, stealing Hermione's breath as it sends a bolt of adrenaline through her potent enough to tunnel her vision. She turns slowly, catching sight of Draco Malfoy as he rises from a chair beside the fireplace, materializing from a mist in the air as far as she is concerned. The shock of his presence – especially when she should have expected it – is a bitter blow. A physical reminder of the place she was never able to occupy in Pansy's life because it was already taken.
"I should have known they'd send you." Malfoy's mouth puckers unattractively with distaste as he extends a hand. It takes all of Hermione's self-control not to slap it away. "After all, we did ask for the best. She's Muggle-born," he says, addressing the Parkinsons, as if they don't know who she is simply because of her association with Harry. "But don't worry, she's quite capable."
Hermione takes his ironically offered hand in a firm grip and returns his taunting gaze, picking up where they left off at Hogwarts. Only this time she doesn't know if she's staring at the sneer of a childhood rival, a jealous lover, or both. She never asked Pansy if Malfoy knew about them, preferring to speak of Pansy's fiancé as little as possible, and truthfully she'd rather not know the source of his current contempt. The thought of Pansy telling him about her and the thought of her not telling him anything at all are both equally painful to contemplate.
"So." Pansy strolls into their conversation, bringing with her the scent of tuberose perfume. It was the scent Pansy always wore on the nights they spent at Muggle pubs, when they danced and drank for hours in places no one would recognize them and Pansy didn't have to worry about gossips reporting back to her parents. And, if Hermione's honest, she didn't have to worry about those same gossips spreading word far enough that it got back to Harry and Ron. "Do we know it each other? My dear fiancé," she pauses for a grin, "certainly seems to know you."
Hermione watches Malfoy, but his disdainful expression gives nothing away. After a slight pause, she says, "We went to school together. We were in the same year."
"Lovely. Are we friends, then?"
"Not really," she says, over Malfoy's choked laughter. She steps away from the two, desperate for space, for air that doesn't reek of something she's lost, and starts digging through her travel pack with clumsy hands. If she can just keep her distance, stay professional, everything will be okay. She adds in an airy voice, "But we knew each other well enough, and I'll take excellent care of you."
"Not that I doubt your intentions, Miss Granger," Mrs. Parkinson speaks for the first time, firm with authority and demanding Hermione's full attention, "or Draco's confidence in your abilities, but I must say that sending you to treat our daughter seems a questionable decision on your supervisor's part." The smile she levels at Hermione is tight, her gaze unnervingly direct. "We are aware, of course, of your history with Pansy. Our daughter's health is paramount, and regardless of whether you are the best in your field, I question whether you are capable of providing...unbiased care."
For a heartbeat Hermione thinks Mrs. Parkinson knows about them, then she realizes the other woman is only referring to their years at Hogwarts, when they'd stood on opposite sides during the battle with Voldemort. Relief follows, but it can't soothe the sting from the rebuke. It feels too much like the kind of disapproval she would have endured if the Parkinsons ever had learned she was their daughter's lover. "I'm a professional," she says, the bite in her tone too sharp for the insult. "I don't tailor my care based on whether I agree with a patient's politics."
There's an uncomfortable silence and Hermione waits for the Parkinsons to dismiss her outright. She almost hopes they do. But after Mrs. Parkinson and her husband exchange a glance, she gives a stiff nod.
"We'll take that as a promise."
Just like that the confrontation is over, and Hermione can get on with the business of taking care of Pansy and fleeing the premises as quickly as possible. "Right," she says, brisk. "It's late, so why don't we get started." She pulls out her quill and a bit of parchment and settles on a chair without asking permission to sit. She spares a look for Pansy, who has returned to the chaise lounge and is now regarding her with open interest. When she notices Hermione's stare, one side of her mouth lifts in a conspiratorial smile, like she knows they share a secret. Hermione turns quickly away and clears her throat. "Can someone tell me the circumstances surrounding Miss Parkinson's memory loss?"
"Ask him." Mr. Parkinson stabs a thin finger in Malfoy's direction. His voice is a booming echo, at odds with his delicate, whip-like frame. Like the roar of a lion from a gazelle. "He's the one that hit her with the Forgetfulness Charm."
Hermione makes a note that Pansy was hit with a Memory Charm, then turns to Malfoy, one eyebrow raised. "Malfoy?"
"She asked me to do it." Malfoy looks at the Parkinsons, the picture of a sheepishly apologetic future son-in-law who knows he did wrong, but also knows he'll be forgiven without too much fuss. It's disgusting, and Hermione wonders how thoroughly the Parkinsons have been duped. If they truly believe he is good for their daughter, or if they're simply like Pansy: bound as if by blood to an archaic sense of duty. One that allows them to dictate their only child's future in the name of artificial obligation.
Based on the pronounced curl of Mrs. Parkinson's lip, and Mr. Parkinson's flat stare, Hermione guesses the latter. The waste of it all, the readiness with which this family binds itself to a man who inspires poorly concealed scorn is beyond comprehension.
"And why's that?" she says to Malfoy, speaking to her parchment, unable to look at anyone. Afraid they will see her contempt, her impotent rage. Both made all the more meaningless, more out of place, because she is the one who walked away, the one who conceded to Malfoy. "Why did she want you to modify her memory?"
Malfoy shrugs, his gaze somehow expectant. "Why does anyone? She wanted to forget, Granger."
"I need you to be more specific." Hermione makes a few scratches with her quill, gibberish written just to make her look busy. She can feel the grip on her temper slipping, the urge to speak her mind writhing like a snake in her hand. "Can I assume you were attempting to modify a single memory? A recent one and were simply...unable to control your magic?"
Malfoy laughs, but the sound has a grated edge that Hermione knows is meant to cut. "You can assume anything you want, but you'd be wrong in this case. Shock, that. It was actually a string of memories, dating back almost two years ago. She made a mistake, you see. It disgusted her, really, what she'd done, and she wanted all memory of it gone. I was just giving her what she wanted." Malfoy smirks and looks at Pansy who simply shakes her head. "A bit more complicated than a one off event, I'd say."
His meaning is unmistakable. Delivered with glee and a taunting smile, it's made more vicious because the truth of it is just between them. He knows everything – or enough – and had tried to wipe her memory from Pansy's mind at her own request. After everything, Pansy had wanted to forget her. Her gaze cuts toward Pansy before she can stop it, and she hates that Malfoy sees it.
"Certainly too complicated for you," she grinds out, professionalism bursting completely, unable to quell the urge to lash out. To somehow protect herself. She has to bite her lip to keep from saying more, strangle her notes not to reach for her wand. Slowly, she takes a deep breath, ignoring Malfoy's hum of satisfaction, the Parkinson's disapproving glares.
"Did you cast the spell with your own wand?" she manages after only a few awkward moments.
"Yes."
"And did you notice anything odd? Sparking? Strong vibrations or other unusual movements?" Her questions come straight from the text books she's memorized, sounding nearly mechanical. So much of her concentration is focused on keeping control, she barely registers the answers.
"No."
Hermione holds out a hand. "May I see your wand?"
Apparently content with the blood he's already drawn, Malfoy is suddenly agreeable. He gives her his wand without protest, waits silently while Hermione examines it, runs her fingers along the smooth wood, checking for irregularities in shape or unexplained warmth. When she's satisfied it at least looks normal, she hands it back to Malfoy.
"Have you used it since the incident?"
"Several times."
"Any problems?"
His smile is smarmy little boy pleased. "None."
She makes a few more notes, then sets her materials aside and turns to Pansy. It's difficult, but she manages to meet the other woman's eyes, manages not to congratulate her on staging what must be the most thorough rejection known to humankind. Instead she produces a smile and gestures for her to approach, bracing herself in the time it takes for Pansy to reach her.
"And how are you feeling right now, Miss Parkinson?" she says, when Pansy stops in front of her. She should have started with the physical examination, asking Pansy these questions, but her focus has been shattered from the start. It's worse now. "Any headache or nausea?" She checks for fever, placing a reluctant hand on Pansy's forehead, pressing harder than she needs to to disguise its trembling.
"Not at all."
Hermione's hand returns to her side, where she balls it into a fist. "And you don't have any memory of your life before tonight?"
"No."
"Follow my finger please. Just with your eyes, don't move your head." Pansy's eyes follow the movements of her finger perfectly until they return to Hermione's. Like her mother's a few moments ago, Pansy's stare is searching. It's obvious to them all now that something is bothering her and Pansy's curiosity is palpable. The desire to flee is overwhelming. "And do you remember who I am? I introduced myself when I arrived and -"
"Healer Granger. We went to school together, and we are definitely not friends." Pansy's smile is smugly proud, a little teasing. It is the same one she always wore when she managed to make Hermione do something out of character. Usually in public.
Hermione turns abruptly to Pansy's parents. "Right," she says, before swallowing hard. "The wand appears normal and Miss Parkinson appears to be in good health otherwise. I'm going to treat her with the Retention Draught. It's the strongest potion in our arsenal, and our best chance at recovering her memories."
"Isn't there some spell you can cast that will do the job immediately?"
Hermione shakes her head at Mr. Parkinson, and once again roots around in her travel bag, removing everything she'll need to make the potion. "Miss Parkinson's brain has just suffered a severe shock. To bring all her memories back at once would put it under more stress than it can safely handle. The draught is a gradual process that usually takes anywhere from a few hours to a few days."
"But her memories will come back? That's guaranteed?"
"There's no such thing as routine memory modification, so nothing is ever guaranteed. But the full return of Miss Parkinson's memory is the most likely result," Hermione says, finally able to find some strength to focus solely on her role as Healer. It helps that Malfoy has returned to his chair and has been silent for more than thirty seconds.
"How soon will we know?"
"It varies by patient. As I said, it could take a few hours, it could be several days. A batch of the draught lasts two days, and after two batches we'll have a good idea of what Miss Parkinson's recovery will be like."
"What happens after the second batch?" For the first time since she entered the room, Malfoy looks genuinely concerned.
"Studies have shown that after the second batch, effectiveness is essentially non-existent. So -"
"So if I don't recover anything by the time the second batch runs out, then what? Too bad, but so long?"
"Then it's a tougher road," Hermione says, worried even as she says it that part of her will be relieved if Pansy doesn't get her memory back. It's a horrible thought, one that should have her removing herself from the position of Pansy's Healer, but she can't help but think it would be easier that way. Not for Pansy, but certainly for her. The prospect of Pansy remembering how much she wanted to forget her seems worse than the actual forgetting. Hermione shakes her head, physically trying to remove the thought from her mind. "We'll have to switch to other, less proven methods after that. It's more unpredictable, and recovery becomes as much about luck as it is treatment."
A somber silence coats the room so Hermione forces a reassuring, "But there's no sense worrying about it until we have to. The odds are in our favor."
"How soon can she start taking the potion?" says Mr. Parkinson.
"You'll take two doses a day, and I recommend you take the first one tomorrow at sunrise." Hermione addresses Pansy. Thankfully she sounds calmer, finally completely composed. Only the shaking of her legs remains – a hangover from the emotional assault she's endured – and she's sure no one notices. "You'll take the other at sunset, and follow that schedule for two days. I'll make you the first batch before I leave."
"What happens when that one runs out? Will you send the other one here?"
"Actually, I'd like to pop in and reevaluate you tomorrow night after you've had the first two doses." The prospect is painful but necessary. "We'll take it from there. Everything is day by day with this degree of memory loss."
Pansy nods, then plops onto the desk, settling beside Hermione's travel-sized cauldron. "Let's get started, shall we?
Hermione's smile is pained. "Let's."
Hermione doesn't go home after leaving the Parkinson's. Her mind is too active, darting in too many directions, her body oddly energized. She needs an outlet, so, after Flooing back to St. Mungo's and dropping her bag on the floor of her office, she walks.
She has no idea what time it is, or where she should go, so she becomes a wandering cliché, walking wherever her feet take her while her mind broods. The thoughts it entertains are not pleasant.
She'd been waiting. Or hoping or expecting or some equally foolish thing. There's no denying it now. Whether it was subconsciously, or passively, or buried in denial – hope had existed. Right until the moment Malfoy flung back the curtain, revealing the reality she'd refused to believe existed.
It was never going to happen. And despite her resolve, her raised chin and the daily, self-deluding mantras about how over everything she was, she'd wanted it, she'd wanted Pansy back.
But Pansy didn't want her. Probably never really had, and for all Hermione knows she'd cried with relief when Hermione finally broke things off. Threw herself a liberation party. Maybe even had a celebratory orgy. All while Hermione played the part of delusional fool to perfection. Rarely going out, bouncing between her flat and her office because those would be the easiest places for Pansy to find her when she finally came around. As if Pansy only needed to realize what she'd lost, that Hermione was something she could actually miss.
It was conceit and fantasy at their commingled finest.
Hermione laughs, the sound appropriately thick with bitterness.
She's still chuckling a moment later, wiping at her face, when she is literally shaken from her depression by a hard shoulder connecting with her own. Stunned, she stumbles sideways, nearly twisting an ankle when she trips off the curb.
"Watch it," a male voice, slurred but intelligible, spits in her direction. "You could bust a man's head open walking around like that."
"Sorry," Hermione says, rubbing at her foot, too preoccupied to point out that he was the lumbering menace, not her.
The man, barely taller than she is, shrugs and starts to walk away, but seems to reconsider. When he turns back it's with an appraiser's eye that zeroes in on her chest and wanders no further.
"It's alright," he says, and with his smooth-cheeked face now illuminated by a street lamp, Hermione realizes he's at least a decade younger than she is. Probably fresh out of Hogwarts. He takes an unsteady step toward her and grabs her shoulder, pretending he's not using her to hold himself up. "I don't mind knocking shoulders with a pretty lass like you, if you know what I mean."
He winks. Or tries to, but can't seem to get his eye open again. Hermione, shifting into Healer mode, grabs his arms at the elbows and slowly lowers him to the ground. He lands with a thump that makes her grimace.
"You got any friends here?" she says, brushing a limp strand of hair from his mouth and trying in vain to meet his eyes. "Anyone to take care of you?"
On cue, another young man appears on the sidewalk, looking just as depressingly young. "Oi! Wallace!" He casts a wary look at Hermione before grabbing Wallace's shoulder and giving it a tug. "What are you doing out here? The party's inside."
"I think Wallace here has had enough." Hermione smiles to soften the hint of an order. "Probably best to get him home."
But the nameless one isn't having it, and he rolls his eyes. "Are you his grandmother, then?" he says, and puts his hands beneath Wallace's armpits, lifting him to his feet. "He's fine. You look like you could use a good night's sleep, though. Maybe a few of them, yeah?"
Hermione rears back, speechless. She's never been an acclaimed beauty, but no one's ever accused her of being a haggard crone, either. She opens her mouth to give him a what for, but as her eyes dip reflexively to her clothes, she takes in the ash-covered skirt, the wrinkled blazer and stained blouse. And no doubt her hair looks like it's been lived in after traveling through the Network twice. She lifts a hand to it, fingering a clump of escaped curls, and instinctively takes a step back, self-consciously seeking the shadow. In a surge of dread, she wonders if she looked this horrific at the Parkinson's.
"Hey, don't insult her." Wallace comes to her defense, drunkenly valiant. "I was just introducing myself. We were going to get to know each other better."
"Blimey, maybe you are completely pissed." The man drags Wallace away, holding him up as he stumbles, dismissing Hermione without another glance. "Back inside with you now."
The urge to run after the man and tell him off is strong, but Hermione decides to let the final insult pass, knowing any protest would be wasted breath. And probably only create more ammunition. Instead she watches the two men – boys, really – disappear into the closest pub, convinced she must be up for some sort of award. Surely not every woman gets so degraded on the same day a former loves goes to such lengths to forget everything about her.
Or maybe, Hermione thinks, smiling ruefully, that's the way it always happens.
Not one to be done in by the words of a pimple-faced child, Hermione welcomes the sudden confidence - the distraction - manufactured by indignation. She pulls out her wand and does a quick spell to freshen her appearance, and even if it isn't a total fix, at least she won't look like some roughed up chimney sweep.
Clothes and hair seen to, she finally takes note of her surroundings, not very surprised to find herself in the heart of downtown's drinking district, with a new pub for every staggering step one can muster. All with their own specials. It's fortuitous, and too coincidental to think it was anything but planned, even subconsciously. After a night like this, she's certainly earned a trip to the pub. A drink or three or four would go a long way to deadening her mind. Maybe even help her find a little diversion. As if she doesn't already have a specific source of diversion in mind. A way to prove she's not completely unattractive – Pansy and Wallace's cheeky friend notwithstanding.
She enters The Pitch, conveniently located just across the street, still not admitting to herself that she left her office with the sole intent of finding Romilda and asking if the night's offer still stood. It takes scanning the patrons' faces, searching for those dark eyes and being disappointed when she doesn't find them to admit the truth. Not that she's completely certain what she'd have done with Romilda if she found her. Probably something she'd regret in the morning.
Or not, she amends, remembering all the months she's wasted.
Quarry absent, Hermione lingers near the entrance, debating whether to go home or carry on. Deciding she's no more likely to find sleep than she was a half hour ago, she makes a line for the bar and settles in for the night. She lifts a hand to the barkeep, a portly man with thick whiskers and a face that suggests he's heard every story there is to be told, and waits while he moseys over to her, lobbing a harmless jab at each patron he passes.
"What will you have, love?"
Hermione leans against the bar. "Something strong."
The barkeep nods, not asking for more specific instructions, and Hermione supposes he gets the request a lot. Probably has a go-to drink for every pathetic sod who wanders through his door late at night, looking beaten by life. All the more so for the scent of desperate nonchalance that hangs about them. He certainly returns quick enough, like he's had the drink waiting, and the smile on his face is appropriately sympathetic. He even lingers just long enough to see if Hermione wants to talk about her troubles before shuffling off to the next customer. In this case, a young woman who looks like she's having the night of her life, loudly ordering firewhiskey for the whole pub before a friend clamps a hand over her mouth.
Hermione smiles a little, and tries to remember the last time she was that happy. The memory doesn't come quickly, so she decides it doesn't bear thinking about anyway. She looks at herself in the mirror behind the bar – still a little rough around the edges, but definitely appropriate for public viewing – and raises a glass to her reflection. To letting go, she thinks, not giving a bloody damn how trite it sounds.
It was her girlfriend's fault. All of it. Her name was Samantha Reginald, she was eleven years older than Hermione, a solicitor for the Ministry, and everyone called her Reggie. They met at a hospital fundraiser, both waiting for their respective acquaintances to arrive and willing to speak with anyone just to avoid standing alone. Over the course of an hour, and two glasses of champagne each, they discovered they had everything in common, right down to their favorite passages in Hogwarts: A History. It felt like fate and before Reggie went to join her friends, Hermione, tipsy and bold, asked to meet for coffee the next afternoon. Reggie accepted.
The fateful invitation was extended four months later. They were out to dinner, and already time spent together was becoming an obligation, a series of inexplicable silences made more bewildering because they were both eager talkers. So, with yet another conversation devolving into silent nods and awkwardly obvious glances toward the wall clock, Reggie invited Hermione to her book club's monthly meeting. Hermione, always looking for another reason to talk about books, jumped at it.
Until the moment of her acceptance, she and Pansy had lived in completely separate social spheres, and done so quite happily. Hermione hadn't thought of Pansy in years, had even managed to push the fact of her existence from her mind. For Pansy, she later learned, it was much the same. Their reintroduction three nights later caused a shock, but it was a familiar one, like suddenly recalling a childhood nightmare that had long since stopped and, for a time, faded away completely. Now its terror was remembered, but the effects were dulled.
They were never friends, of course. Not that they would admit. Not until after they started shagging. But over time they became acquaintances, increasingly civil, grown immune to the old contempt through forced and repeated exposure. It wasn't acceptance, Hermione often told herself, just indifference. It was an important distinction.
But things changed. Reggie left her for a man. Pansy broke up with Malfoy. Their group numbers dwindled, stabilized, then dwindled again. Pansy got back together with Malfoy, and Hermione decided it was a good idea to be single for a while. And through it all, the buffer between them thinned, the things keeping them separate wearing away until they could not help but come to know one another. It happened so gradually, Hermione never experienced the slightest alarm. Not until later.
Admitting she was attracted to Pansy physically was the easy part. Easy being relative. Through the course of a year, and the lifetime that played out during their time at Hogwarts, Pansy's appearance went through a transformation. She started as pug-nosed rival, then was ugly inside and out for years until she was simply pug-nosed again. Eventually her face became just her own, something common and benign, but that phase lasted just long enough to mark the distinction between it and striking. Until her every expression captivated Hermione.
But that was simply an matter of biology, an autonomic response easily ignored or directed elsewhere. Far more acceptable than the creeping appreciation for the sharpness of Pansy's mind, her wit and dry humor. Unfortunately, Hermione didn't notice herself seeking out Pansy's company just for the sake of it until too much damage had been done. By the time she knew what was happening, want of the physical and appreciation of the intangible had coalesced into a desire for the whole, manifesting in bursts of pleasure at Pansy's smile, stray thoughts of what she would think about this or that, a longing for her touch.
The problem - the betrayal - identified, Hermione fought actively against it. She sought distraction in other women, and when that failed she spent even more time with Pansy, banking on the contempt that was supposed to come with familiarity. Many nights were spent reminding herself of every vile thing Pansy had done to her and her friends.
But the case was hopeless, and eventually Hermione admitted the only thing stopping her from making a disastrous decision was Pansy's complete disinterest. She clung to it gratefully.
Until Pansy kissed her.
It was after a book club meeting and they were the last two to leave; Hermione because she'd dropped her satchel of books and Pansy because she'd been waiting for just this moment. There was nothing of Pansy in that first kiss, at least nothing Hermione recognized. The woman was confidence personified, doing whatever she wanted and Hermione doubted she'd ever suffered a regret or a second thought in her life. Those were for people who thought they had to earn things to be worthy of them: an education, a promotion, a fortune, someone's love. Pansy lived differently. She knew success was simply a matter of grabbing at opportunity and not letting go. The quickest, strongest hands won, and doubt was a waste of time.
But her first kiss was timid. A hesitant approach followed by a wary retreat and watchful eyes. As if, for the first time in her life, Pansy wasn't sure she wanted what she could so obviously have.
So Hermione said nothing and did nothing. And after a careful silence, Pansy became her usual self, offering thoughts and opinions in her typically self-assured manner.
Hermione thought that was the end of it, and couldn't decide whether to be relieved or devastated. But there was little time to consider, because the next time they were alone Pansy kissed her again. This time there was no doubt in her touch. She gripped Hermione's arms and pulled her close and Apparated them both to her London flat. She did not believe in things like caution or going slow. Hermione returned every touch and only registered the bed pressing against the back of her thighs a moment before Pansy pushed her onto it.
She and Malfoy had an understanding. That was how Pansy put it that first morning after, when Hermione lay sick with guilt and euphoria. Malfoy, she said, had more mistresses than Pansy did pairs of shoes, and that wasn't counting the steady flow of one night stands he neglected to mention. Pansy was pickier, more circumspect. Once, two years before, she'd given in to the urge for a bit of rough and spent a week with a Muggle construction worker, holed up at an inn that smelled of mothballs and had stains on the walls. He was between jobs, and she had no set obligations, so they slept every day until noon, then woke and drank their breakfast and fucked until dark, when they'd break for sandwiches and cigarettes and wine. Re-energized, they'd fuck again until they passed out, usually just before day break. After Pansy had her fill – he was quite good and very enthusiastic – she simply left. That was the last time Pansy shagged anyone. She and Malfoy hadn't shared a bed in six years.
"What do you get out of it?" Hermione asked once. They were in bed, naked and slick with sweat but wrapped around each other anyway. Pansy's head was resting against her shoulder, and her dark curls tickled Hermione's chin. "Staying with Malfoy, I mean."
"Prestige," Pansy said after a moment, so softly Hermione almost didn't hear her. She rolled her head until her lips brushed Hermione's chest, and when she spoke again it was into Hermione's skin. "My parents' approval, of course. And a biological heir of suitable lineage to inherit the family fortune."
It was said without inflection, like Pansy had no feelings about it one way or the other. Like Hermione, who had been sleeping with her for more than half a year, spending nearly all her free time with Pansy, would have no feelings about it, either.
But why should she? It wasn't like they had put a name to what was between them. Hermione wasn't sure there was anything to name on Pansy's side. And she'd never asked, for once preferring ignorance to enlightenment.
That was the beginning of the end. The first time Pansy's presence, her touch, brought more pain than pleasure. The first time she knew things wouldn't last.
Three weeks later it was Hermione who left.
What are you doing?
I need to clear my head.
It was nearly two in the morning, and she hadn't planned it, but Pansy's presence had become suffocating, the ease of her sleep too agitating for Hermione to stand. She was still pulling on her shirt as she walked out the door, struggling for breath, her skin clammy. Her heart had been pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears.
She never came back, and Pansy never tried to contact her. It was a clean break, or so she told herself. But she wondered if Pansy thought of her. If she would tell their story to the next person who warmed her bed.
Hermione wakes to a hand shaking her shoulder.
"How did it go?"
The disembodied voice floats to her through a fading dream and she opens her eyes, searching for its source. A blurred shape looms above her, its edges softened and smeared in the dark windowless office, and she blinks until the lines sharpen, taking on the form of Healer Dane.
"How did it go?" Hermione repeats slowly. Her tongue feels thick and clumsy and her mouth tastes like a dirty sock. She rubs at her eyes with one fist and wonders why Dane is in her bedroom.
"The Parkinsons," Dane says, and it all comes back: Pansy, the drinks, sleeping in her office. Hermione turns her face into the cushion to hide a grimace. "How was the consultation?"
Hermione takes a moment to answer, ignoring the urgency in Dane's voice to gather the thoughts and impressions left scattered by last night's drinking binge. She sits up carefully, struggling not to look obviously hung over in front of her supervisor, not sure she manages it. Briefly, she considers implying that she spent the night in her office after a long night of research, but discards the idea almost immediately. If Dane suspects the truth, Hermione doesn't want to make things worse by lying so transparently. She clears her throat and just says, "Looks like a typical case."
"It's resolved then?"
"Well," Hermione hedges, wishing she were more awake. She glances at the clock, surprised to see it's after nine o'clock. She doesn't want to think about how many people wandered by her office this morning and saw her passed out like a drunkard. "It was a complete wipe. She won't get everything back overnight, but I don't foresee any difficulties."
"A complete wipe? They didn't mention that last night." Dane taps one fingernail against her front teeth, a rare display of uncertainty. "Why didn't you bring Miss Parkinson in for observation?"
Annoyance sparks and the lingering fog in Hermione's brain burns away. She won't be taken to task for not following hospital regulations when seeing Pansy in her home was bending rules in the first place. Not by the woman who issued the order. "I thought we were being discreet," she says, voice tight.
"Well, of course -"
"I'm making regular house calls. If she doesn't respond to treatment, I'll escalate accordingly." Hermione moves to stand beside her open door, walking gingerly to keep from jostling her aching head. "Now if you wouldn't mind, I had a late night and would like to freshen up."
Dane doesn't protest, doesn't even give her a dirty look, sign enough that she's preoccupied. Hermione closes the door behind her, then goes about the task of tidying her office. She turns the couch back into a chair, stores her traveling kit in its proper place, and stacks the papers she left strewn about in last night's daze and does her best not to think.
When that's done she sits and hopes for distraction. She'd even be grateful another William Wilkins type case at this point, a wife botching the Forgetfulness Charm after her husband walks in on his parents shagging on the kitchen table. Anything to get her mind off Pansy, her pounding headache, her life.
What a difference twenty-four hours makes.
Continued in Part III