Pansy inspects herself in the mirror: Muggle jeans that seem obscenely tight—she can see the shape of her legs, every inch of them. Sure, she's worn dress robes with tights, but she's not supposed to put a skirt over these jeans; it's not done. They look faded and old, but they're supposed to. Blouse… blouse. It's billowy and loose and light, and she likes it better than the jeans; it feels less shabby. But she likes the way the jeans hug her, that she does like.
Whether or not she likes them, she's wearing them. Her parents have made clear it doesn't matter whether she likes the clothes one bit.
"You're sure this is what they wear," Pansy says to her mother, as her mother turns Pansy by her shoulders to face her instead of the mirror and surveys her critically. "What if this is the thing they wear to run errands?"
She's seen Muggles walking around in these clothes before, when she slowed her walk down to the nearest Apparition, peeking, or when she went with Draco to go Muggle shopping for Theo, who had taken a certain sort of fondness for Muggle things after the war. She'd even tried to Transfigure something like this to try on when she'd seen Hermione Granger walking around in jeans. Merlin.
But was this date clothing?
"I'm sure," her mother assures her, squeezing her shoulders. "Get on over there. And must you wear that lipstick?"
"I must." Pansy knows her mother would've picked something more muted, a more natural-looking color, but the brilliantly red lipstick is kind of her Thing. She wants to meet Hermione Granger on their first "date" as herself, or as much herself as she can be. "Goodbye, Mother." She lifts her wand and spares her mother a smirk. "Don't wait up too late for me."
"Reservation under Parkinson," Pansy says to the waiter. Thankfully, Muggle restaurants work the same way as Wizarding ones do, more or less. All she has to do is follow the waiter, and when she gets to the table, she can follow Granger's cues.
Granger, upon seeing Pansy, sticks her hand up into the air, just like she used to do in class with insufferable consistency. "Parki—Pansy!"
Granger is as average-looking as Pansy remembers from the last time they saw each other, at a Ministry fundraiser a month ago.
Pansy was there because her family was co-organizing it with the Malfoys, just throwing money at the whole thing. They'd made satisfying headlines for their collective donations to both the Ministry and to the fundraiser organizing, millions of Galleons all told.
And Granger was there, of course. As Minister for Magic.
Whenever Pansy sees her, even after all these years, the first thing that strikes her is that when Granger got her teeth un-grown a little more than they had been overgrown, way back in school, it really had worked wonders for her face.
The second thing she always thinks, always, is that it hasn't done enough: Granger's hair still spills in these wide, wild curls in a way that makes it look like she's just been "electrocuted" in one of those Muggle cartoons Theo watches. It's even worse today because Granger has decided to leave her hair down. She has medium-brown skin, just light enough for a sparse scattering of freckles over her cheeks to be visible—sparse enough that they look more awkward than cute.
And the third thing that always happens when Pansy sees Granger is her eyes fall to Granger's tits.
And Pansy stops thinking.
To make matters worse, Granger's got on a tight top and tight jeans, showing exactly the size and shape of her sizable tits, and her proportionally sizable stomach, hips, thighs… And a jean jacket over.
Pansy thought jean… material… fabric… was supposed to go on your legs, but she's not complaining.
"Your face is at odds with the rest of you," Pansy announces, sitting down across the table, trying not to awkwardly pull the white tablecloth as she sits. She can feel a Muffling spell enveloping her as she settles in. "And Parkinson is fine."
Granger shrugs. "It'll be Parkinson-Granger, soon. I might as well start saying your name."
"Parkinson will still work after we're married," Pansy says. "Your face is shockingly average, except for the hair. Your body, on the other hand: shockingly fuckable."
To her credit, Granger blinks once, hard, and then her eyes narrow and her mouth turns up, just the tiniest bit. Pansy recognizes this look from the newspapers: Hermione Granger, one third of the Golden Trio, ready to do battle.
She runs a hand through her hair, and her whole hand disappears into it, as if she's stuck her hand into a pile of hay, wrist deep, adopting an unaffected expression. "I think it catches eyes."
Pansy scoffs. "That it does."
"Getting people's attention is half of the job. Maybe more." Granger doesn't even respond to Pansy's comment about her body, except to say, "Do your parents really want us to fuck? I can't imagine them even using the word fuck to describe sex."
While Pansy can talk about sex with shameless vulgarity, Granger seems to have mastered the art of talking about sex with shameless detachment. That's a level Pansy hasn't reached yet, and it makes her blood hot, her fingers clench around her glass of ice water.
Granger's eyes catch the movement. "Don't shatter the glass," she says, and she looks like she's trying to maintain her unaffected air, but is enjoying herself too much to manage it. "We can't Reparo here."
Pansy ignores that comment, because she can't think of anything sharp enough to say in return. They're ignoring bait right and left. "Did you order? I don't see a menu."
There's a basket of steaming, soft-looking bread in the middle of the table and rosemary olive oil in a pretty white dish, their utensils, and their waters. That's it.
Granger raises her eyebrows. "It's a set course dinner."
"Ah." Pansy glances around. "That makes sense. My parents must've chosen a place where I had to do the absolute least. Although it appears neither of us are dressed right."
"Rather." Granger doesn't seem bothered to be dressed differently than the Muggles—men in crisp shirts and ties, women in simple, elegant dresses. Pansy gets the feeling they're underdressed. "We're both too casual," she says, confirming Pansy's suspicions. "But my closet's mostly Wizarding robes now."
Pansy feels strangely comforted that Granger doesn't seem to care they're underdressed. "Underdressing for an important event or location can be a blunder, or a power move, depending on who you are," she says. "I think if they knew you were Minister for Magic, it would be a power move. They do not. So my money is on blunder."
"We're not here for them—" Their waiter is headed their way, and Granger cancels the Mufflatio without even looking behind her. Pansy doesn't give her the satisfaction of asking how she knew he was coming; Granger probably read it off of her face. "Hello, thank you, thank you…"
Pansy eyes the food being placed in front of them: little skewers of olives, cheese, and salami, small slices of bread with mozzarella and roasted tomatoes. "Italian food," she says, when the waiter departs. Impulsively, she says, "Do you know, I've never spent time in Muggle society? Not once?"
Granger looks amused, picking up one of the skewers. She eats like… well, like a normal person. Like someone who hasn't been taught to eat nicely. "From the way you're looking at everything, I could've guessed. Muggle Italian food, I feel I should mention, is no different than Wizarding Italian food."
Pansy picks up a skewer and begins eating the way she's been taught—delicately, neat as can be, even when olive oil runs down her fingers. "Firewhiskey?"
"Save for the explicitly magical cuisine," Granger amends, looking slightly pleased. Pansy suspects she enjoys being challenged. She is Minister for Magic, after all. That requires a thick skin—the thickest skin. "It seems as if your parents didn't brief you very thoroughly on what's going on."
Pansy huffs. "I don't think my parents care about anything but me marrying a Mudb—" Granger's eyes flash dangerously, her smile gone in a moment. "Muggleborn wizard, a Muggleborn wizard—fuck, Granger, I swear I don't—it's hard when my parents still use that word—" Granger gives her a nod small and curt, and Pansy feels herself relax a little; if she can mess up that badly and Granger still lets her keep going, this might have a real chance of working. "They just want me to marry the Muggleborn Minister for Magic and look like I'm charmed by Muggle culture."
"You look…" Granger's eyes trace Pansy slowly. Pansy raises an eyebrow, fixing her face into a disinterested expression. "You look Muggle. As opposed to, say, a wizard cluelessly interested in Muggles."
Pansy doesn't show her relief. Not because she necessarily wants to look Muggle, but… well, it would make her feel like a complete fool to find out she was wearing everything all wrong, Muggle or Wizard or anything else. "I don't suppose my parents told you any more than they told me," she asks. Granger speaks as if she knows what's "going on," but it could be a force of habit, carried over from her occupation.
Granger turns her empty little skewer, not much larger than a toothpick, in between her fingers thoughtfully. She's getting grease all over her fingertips. "Here's what I know," she says in a businesslike tone. "Your parents want you to marry a Muggleborn of high status for increased societal influence—"
"I wouldn't say want. They want me to marry a nice, rich Pureblood man and have his Pureblooded babies." Pansy gives a careless shrug. "They've just recognised the better move, however distasteful—"
"Alright," Granger interrupts sharply, "What I know is that they have you dressing Muggle and eating Muggle, and I'm the best choice."
"Of the ones left," Pansy says cheerfully. "If your Weasley had snatched you up right after the War like we all thought he would, you wouldn't be looking for a spouse now, would you?"
Granger blinks.
The waiter comes, gives them each a shiny white bowl filled with thick, hot tomato soup. Granger thanks him, but doesn't stop looking at Pansy as if trying to Legilimens her through the whole thing.
"Alright," she says again, when the waiter has left. Her eyes are pretty narrowed; they strike a heat in Pansy that has no place in a romantically lit, fancy Italian restaurant. "Tell me what you know."
Pansy stirs her soup mindlessly to stall. There's a little sprig of parsley on the top, and it looks quite pretty.
The truth is that she hardly knows anything. She knows that it was always supposed to be Draco, even though Draco only liked boys and Pansy only liked girls, but they'd had a pact: they'd get married, have affairs, never go public with their sexualities.
Then Draco cocked it up—quite literally—with Potter.
Pansy's parents had scoffed, at first, until suddenly the whole world fell in love with Draco and subsequently with the Malfoys, and then her parents began demanding she find a similar match.
"My parents kept bugging me about getting married," Pansy tells Granger. "With all the nagging skill of the worst passive aggressive people you've ever met. Even worse than you." Granger eats her soup like a normal person, unfazed. "So I just—told them to go to town. So they went to town."
"Hmm," Granger agrees absently. She slips the spoon out of her mouth, clean, and then seems to realize Pansy's done. "What, is that all you know?"
Pansy gives it a minute, taking down some more soup with more grace than Granger. "I know what you know, Granger. Make the press think we're going hot and heavy and Muggle. Wedding in two months. Pureblood events so I can show you off to our competitors, as one might say, for the Pureblood throne."
Granger smiles faintly at this one, a fond sort of look that strikes Pansy right in the chest. "I think Draco may have clinched that one already."
Draco, Pansy thinks. Hermione Granger is on first-name basis with Draco and Pansy hasn't heard about it? More importantly than Draco being friends with Hermione Granger, Draco is friends with the Minister for Magic. That's the more important part.
And Pansy hasn't heard of it.
"In any case," Granger is saying, pointing her spoon at Pansy's face in the most business-like way you can point a spoon. "If that's all your parents told you, they haven't told you everything."
"Haven't told me anything," Pansy corrects.
"What you've listed so far is not nothing," Granger counters, but before Pansy can speak again, Granger's already barrelling forward. "We go to Pureblood events so that, in a way, I can show off you."
Pansy stops delicately spooning tomato soup into her mouth. "What do you need with them? The common people are, well… they're a big majority."
"The common people." Granger's full lips turn up. "Yeah, well, Muggleborns seem to have low amounts of Wizarding money at their disposal."
A surprised laugh startles out of Pansy. "Okay, Granger. Grinding that Pureblood for tips…"
"You're gross," Granger says, point-blank. Pansy's gut flips at her tone. "Sex is usually a traditional thing, after a wedding. Consummate the marriage, isn't it? Outdated, but then…"
But then it's the Parkinsons, one of the snobbish families still tied hands and feet to their traditions. "How are they going to tell if we fuck?" Pansy has been too distracted to properly ration the soup in her bowl so she finishes at the same time as Granger. Granger still has some left; Pansy's bowl is empty. "Just tell them we did."
Granger looks relieved.
Pansy wants to pin her somewhere and show her that she should be disappointed, not relieved.
"Is there anything else I should know?" Pansy demands, quelling that thought before it can morph into full-scale imagination. She has imagined it. When she was in much more private places. "As it seems my parents gave you the information and me the orders."
Granger taps her spoon against her bowl in what appears to be another thoughtful movement, and Pansy wants to sigh out loud. That's not done either; what has the world come to that their Minister for Magic taps her spoon loudly against her bowl to help her think?
"No," Granger says finally, "that's all I've got." She says it as if it's a flaw in her plan, as if she should definitely have more. As a woman who obviously wants to know everything about everything all the time, Pansy wouldn't be surprised if she was genuinely disturbed about the lack of information and structure provided by her parents.
"Alright." Pansy lets the waiter clear their soup bowls and bring in the salad. Then she leans forward. "Do you snore? Because I might have to call this off."
Granger makes a face, and Pansy has successfully drawn the dinner conversation away from their impending marriage that they both seem to feel lukewarm about towards a familiar bicker that almost feels as if she's arguing with Draco or Blaise or Theo—someone she knows, someone she can bounce off of.
She thinks to herself after dinner, snapping at her mother's questions and looking herself over in the mirror at home—flushed cheeks and still-perfect hair, magicked non-smudge make-up predictably non-smudged… jeans and blouse. How easy it was to fall into a rhythm with Granger, as if she was already a steady in Pansy's life.
"How's the wife?" her father asks, nose buried in the Prophet, reading up on more Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter, the golden couple with a new adopted baby news.
"Could live with her," Pansy says.
And from tonight, she could even believe it was true.
The next time they see each other, it's in Granger's house.
Granger's house is all narrow staircases and sharp corners, everything has its place and only half of the things are in their places. Granger seems to have projects all over the house, all research. Law books, accompanied with several legal documents, open on the couch; Fundamental Laws of Magic theory books, accompanied with food items on the kitchen counter; History of Magical government, accompanied by moving portraits of deceased government officials on the table.
Knowing what she knows about Granger, though, Pansy suspects they're not abandoned projects, but rather, simultaneous ones. Granger has full intention, capability, and drive to complete all of her little research projects; she does not abandon.
"Sit," Granger orders.
Pansy has on dress robes, because she didn't want to attempt putting together a Muggle outfit without help, and they look better with her legs crossed, so she puts an arm on the back of the couch and drapes her feet over the arm of the couch, her legs crossed. "Yes, Mistress."
Teacups clatter. "Pansy," Granger's voice comes, sounding both peeved and amused.
Pansy laughs, glad to have the upperhand for just a moment, and shockingly, frighteningly unworried about losing it directly after. "Tea, no sugar no milk, Mistress. Why does it smell like something's burning?"
"Coffee." Granger sits herself across from Pansy on the armchair, perfectly serious-but-casual, her wild mane of hair billowing around her shoulders. She's wearing Muggle clothing, still, and it's tight around the top again. "My kitchen always smells like coffee. I hope that's not a problem."
"There are charms for that," Pansy says mildly, but she doesn't dislike the smell, it's just very strong. "There are also charms to keep you awake."
"Those spells feel bad."
"You sound like a child."
"A brilliant insult." Granger smiles at her, a real, actual smile, and Pansy's thoughts freeze in her head.
"Hermione, darling, am I here to learn the smells of your kitchen?"
A bad change of subject: Granger, reoriented towards the objective of today—whatever that is—straightens. "Well. We know what your parents want from this and what I want from this, practically. Now we have to establish what we want from this." Granger's look pins Pansy in place, but Pansy juts out her chin and pretends like she's not tightening her crossed legs. "What does our marriage mean?"
"Means we're married," Pansy says reflexively. And then—Merlin's tits—Granger reaches into her bag and pulls out a sheaf of paper, clearly covered in neat, tight scrawl. "What's that, the marriage contract?"
Granger pulls out a quill next, and an ink bottle, setting them down on the table.
"List of questions I wanted to ask you," Granger answers, dipping her quill and spreading out the paper briskly, as if this is a business meeting and not a date. Or basically a date. An arranged date. "Ready?"
"What kind of list…" Pansy starts, but Granger turns that sharp look of hers on her again, and she gives in. "Go ahead. This is deeply romantic."
"One: are we a real couple?"
Pansy blinks. Why had it not occurred to her before that she could do the same thing with Granger as she was planning to do with Draco—namely, fake it? Possibly she's not completely absolutely against marrying Granger, is why. You have to settle at some point, and at thirty-five, Pansy's running out of options, and Granger is really not a bad settle.
"Are we?" she non-answers after too long of a pause.
"Up to you," Granger answers easily. She says it so blankly that Pansy just accepts it for a moment, and then—
"Are you saying—Salazar, Granger, do you mean you'd actually marry me?"
"Gotta marry someone," Granger answers. "Working on marital law right now, but it'll take some time—for now, it's really quite profitable to be married."
"Huh," says Pansy. She's aware, in the back of her mind, that Hermione Granger has out-Slytherin-ed her this one time. "We could just be married on paper."
"Sure," Granger agrees. "If you like."
"What the fuck, Granger?"
Granger looks up. Her eyes are sparkling with laughter, and Pansy wants to pop. She feels like she's going to explode.
"Are you laughing? While we are discussing the rest of our lives?"
"I don't think it's that big of a deal?" Granger looks at her, completely earnest. "If we fall in love with someone else, we cross that bridge when we get there. Otherwise, we'll be living together and have to wear rings."
Pansy puts all of her willpower into restraining her utter surprise—she won't give Granger the satisfaction of knowing she's just singlehandedly ripped a hole in the way the world works. You don't just… think those things. Marriage is marriage. "Marriage is so much more than that," she says. She sounds like her parents.
"Only if you make it more." Granger seems to hesitate for a minute. It's the first time in months Pansy has seen Granger hesitate (although to be fair, she only saw Granger about three times a month before the whole arranged marriage business). "Besides, it'll be nice to have someone in the house."
"I was right," Pansy declares, "the Minister for Magic is searching for a spouse because she is lonely as fuck."
Granger frowns. "And why are you so willing to go through with this on your parents' demands if you believe in… sentimental marriage?"
"Oh, Granger, you know, I…" But Pansy's got nothing on the tip of her tongue to fill the rest of the sentence. Why is she? "Like to keep my secrets," she finishes lamely, realizing there's no way she'll come up with something better to say.
It bothers her for the next few weeks, that question.
Why is she? Why is she?
She asks it as she attends a Pureblood gathering with Hermione, Hermione's spine straight as a rod and her feet clumsier than Pansy could've imagined anyone could be as Pansy takes her arm and guides her into the few dances at the end of the night. Hermione's manners are as polite as anything, but her knowledge of etiquette is abysmal.
Her smile stuns the whole room, but her hair refuses to be tamed.
Hermione works late, late, late and when they start spending nights together—in separate beds, of course, Pansy finds out she gets up early, early, early. That she can't so much as form a sentence before coffee.
That she works herself to the bone.
She thinks, why am I marrying this mess of a badass? This badass of a mess?
She can't figure it out.
She'd always had a crawling, gross feeling in her stomach about marrying Draco, even though she knew they both weren't really going to be married. She couldn't stomach the idea of tying herself, even loosely, even with a rope she could slip right off, to someone she knew she'd never enjoy the way you were supposed to enjoy your spouse.
But she doesn't get that feeling with Hermione Granger.
It's baffling.
Over those weeks, they go over the rest of the list, because Hermione won't let it rest.
Will Pansy please always do her best to keep the rich families' favor? For the Ministry, please.
Will Hermione always speak well of Pansy to the press when asked? For the Draco-Potter effect, please.
When Pansy calls it the Draco-Potter effect, Hermione laughs a bright laugh, rubbing at the bags under her eyes, putting her feet in Pansy's lap. "Mmm, yeah. Draco and Harry were really the turning point for the Malfoys, but I don't think people dislike you and the rest of the Parkinsons as much as they once disliked the Malfoys. You're halfway there."
It's evening, and they're both tired. That's the only reason Pansy lets Hermione's feet stay in her lap—she's too tired to argue over it. Their weight is almost pleasant against Pansy's thighs, a physical reminder that she's not alone. Literal human contact. Hermione's calves are warm and wide and brown, and Pansy swallows hard, resisting the urge to touch.
"Your socks are white," she observes, instead of starting an argument. "How do they still look clean?"
Hermione yawns. It's something soft. It's not like they're this sweet, domestic married couple already (not that this implies they will ever be), but they've spent nights together, days together, in the public eye and out of it, and seeing each other when there isn't much left in the tank has become something of a normal.
It seems that when Hermione gets home, after completing her massive tasklist for the day, she almost shuts down completely. She's got an edge to her, but she's dead tired, she slumps, she does deeply informal things she wouldn't do if it was the middle of the day, like put her feet in people's laps and yawn with her head dropping back.
It's like there are two Hermiones, and Pansy gets to see both of them.
It's good that she doesn't do it all the time.
Pansy wouldn't be able to handle it.
When Hermione yawns like that, her mass of hair spills off of her shoulders, falling over the arm of the couch, swaying gently. It's so abundant. Pansy has learned, over the weeks, that it's very, very soft, smoother than she'd imagined, looking at it (and wow, did she look at it), and now every time Hermione moves like that, she wants to comb her fingers through it, pull on it, braid it, keep a lock of it under her pillow like one of Potter's stalkers.
"Charms," Hermione says through her yawn, her eyelashes fluttering. She's got long, dark eyelashes that curl up, and Pansy is dead jealous; hers always take mascara to be perceptible. "Next question—" She raises her head with what looks like some difficulty. "Fifty-seven: Where will we go for the honeymoon?"
Pansy perks up. She hadn't even thought about the honeymoon—if she's honest, she's thought about little more than Hermione and why in Merlin's name she's come to have a sort of… affectionate stance towards the whole idea of marrying her. All the official things (twenty-five: No house elves, that's not actually a question, thirty-two: Hermione hires people to do chores and grocery shopping because she doesn't have time to do those things herself, is that okay?) are boring and, frankly, feel irrelevant. Pansy doesn't particularly care, unless they have an effect on her ability to live her life.
But a honeymoon, that should be fun.
"Do you know if my parents have anything in mind?" she asks. She glances up at Hermione and finds Hermione's brown eyes sparkling, her mouth lifting up. "What?"
Hermione shakes her head. "It's like that question shot caffeine straight into your bloodstream," she says, laughing softly. "If they do, they haven't told me, but I can ask. Or you can ask."
Hermione is still the one who communicates more with Pansy's parents, mostly because Pansy is her parents' pawn and everything between them becomes orders, while when Hermione's saying the same damn things to her parents, it's more like bargaining.
Pansy doesn't mind. She doesn't particularly enjoy her parents anyway.
"No," Pansy says.
"Maybe it's a conversation you want to be there for," Hermione pushes. She's watching Pansy with about as sharp of a gaze as she has at her disposal as Second Hermione, Hermione At Home. Pansy still hasn't actually told Hermione why she's always sending Hermione to fight her corner rather than fighting her own corner. "You look like you have some ideas."
"I don't." Pansy does. "I'm just more interested in the details of all the fun we'll be having on distant shores than in what earthquake-proof substance you want the foundation of our house to be built on."
Hermione's forehead wrinkles. "I never asked…" She seems to realize Pansy's joking. When she crashes, she really crashes. "Oh, yeah. We'll have some fun… on distant shores. But, I mean, I will have to bring my work with me…"
A couple months ago, Pansy would've been completely fine with this. Whatever! Let Hermione work herself to the bone while Pansy gets a pretty tan on the beach. But now she feels very acutely that this is not correct. "Come on, Hermione. Kick back, relax, let Millicent take your place for a couple weeks."
Millicent is Hermione's right-hand-woman, and, beside the approximately three times a month Pansy interacted with Hermione, Millicent used to be Pansy's number one source of Hermione Granger news.
"Minister. Can't just take a week off."
When Hermione's not talking in full sentences, it's bedtime.
Even if it's only ten.
"Go to bed," Pansy says, pushing Hermione's feet off of her lap and getting up. She loops her arm around Hermione's back, under her arms, ignoring Hermione's noise of protest. "You're going to fall asleep right here and wake up with your body cursing you if we wait any longer."
So she hauls Hermione to bed.
She doesn't change Hermione into one of her soft nightgowns. She's actually never seen Hermione undressed before. In a Muggle T-shirt with no bra, yes. In a Muggle T-shirt with no bra and no trousers pants, yes. But it was a big T-shirt. And it was absolutely catastrophic to Pansy's sanity; she'd had to make up a reason to sleep at her own place for a couple nights, and took full advantage of being alone in bed. When she rejoined Hermione, she realized it wasn't completely out of her system.
So Pansy's not exactly eager to get Hermione out of her clothes again. Or, rather, she's far too eager to get Hermione out of her clothes again. She just dumps Hermione on the bed, pulls the covers carefully up to Hermione's chin and gathers Hermione's hair up into a loose bun at the top of her head the way Hermione likes, so it doesn't get tangled (lost cause). And if she takes a little longer with Hermione's hair than is completely necessary, Hermione doesn't say anything, so Pansy doesn't either.
"Nice of you," Hermione mumbles. "Thank you. 'M tired. Long day. D'you know I was up at four, morning?"
"Merlin's fucking tits, go to sleep." Pansy pulls off her dress and unhooks her bra, looking through Hermione's wardrobe, where Pansy has started storing a few of her own things. Her nightgowns hang beside Hermione's, thinnier, lacier. She's caught Hermione looking at her with something akin to hunger in her eyes when she wears them, so she left her plainer ones at home, and loses no opportunities to change in front of Hermione.
Sure enough, when she turns, Hermione looks a little bit more awake, her lips parted, propped up on her elbow. When Pansy looks back, she arranges her face in a what are you doing/are you coming to bed? expression, but it's a bit delayed, and Pansy catches the tail end of her previous expression—a sort of stunned wanting that makes Pansy feel like she's going to die if they don't do something in this bed sometime soon.
But she's felt like she's going to die if they don't do something in this bed soon for kind of a long time; she's learned how to manage.
She slips beneath the covers and turns her back to Hermione, pretending not to realize her arse is brushing Hermione's thighs. "'Night."
Hermione lets out a soft noise and presses her forehead briefly to Pansy's shoulder. "Where do you want to go for the honeymoon?"
Pansy's shoulder blade is on fire. "Go to sleep you workaholic. The list will be there tomorrow morning."
"I won't be," Hermione mumbles. Pansy can feel her breath brushing her skin, sending warm tingles through her so acutely she almost wants to squirm away. "I have to go to work."
"Merlin's sake."
"You know, at the rate… of the checklist, we're not… on track for the wedding."
Pansy shuffles through the words, trying to figure out what Hermione's complete sentence is meant to be. At the rate they're going through the checklist… They're on question fifty-seven, and it's been about a month and a week of the two months they had before the planned wedding. They're not almost done? "How long is that checklist?"
"Hmmm…."
"Oh my god." Pansy's not sure when she picked up oh my god, but Hermione says it when she's surprised quite often, and somewhere in there, Pansy sort of… just adopted it into her vocabulary. "You need to sleep."
"I know how long," Hermione says.
"How long?"
"...Hundred an'..." Hermione doesn't finish that sentence. After a moment, her breathing evens out.
"Oh my god," Pansy mutters again, to herself. She gives it five long minutes before she rolls over to look at Hermione, accidentally brushing her warm, smooth skin under the blankets. Merlin's tits, this whole thing is driving her mad.
Hermione's asleep, alright—she sleeps with her mouth a little bit open, and sometimes, when she's really, really tired, she drools. Pansy has a suspicion she's going to be drooling tonight.
There are kind of… Three Hermiones, maybe. Four.
The Hermione that is directed towards the public: patient, efficient, authoritative.
The Hermione Pansy met in the Ministry events, at the run-ins in Hogsmeade, in their first date at the Italian Muggle restaurant: clever, collected, compelling.
The Hermione Pansy knows from late-night conversations, from watching Hermione step through the door, let her hair down and her shoulders slump: sweet, caring, quiet.
And Hermione in sleep: her face blank of expression, absent of her constant fight to be doing something, whether that be convincing someone of something, gathering information, maintaining a social conversation. All of it's stripped away, the locks of hair too short to be tied up curling around her face, her body completely relaxed.
It's kind of sad, Pansy thinks, that Hermione's sleeping self, her most peaceful, free self is so different from all of her other awake forms that it's like a whole new person. She should have somewhere, something, someone that makes her feel that relaxed when she's awake.
Me, she thinks, eyes tracing those sparse freckles over Hermione's cheeks. She was wrong; they are kind of cute, maybe. I should do that. That's what partners do.
More than that, she wants to. Merlin, she wants to dedicate herself to finding that, creating that feeling for Hermione. And not because she's totally gone for Hermione, which is what Millicent says, but just because… well… someone's gotta do it. It's not fair for Hermione to work so hard and not have anywhere to truly fall back on, and someone's going to have to fix that.
Might as well be Pansy.
So Hermione gets up and goes to work before Pansy even wakes up, and while Hermione's gone, Pansy pays Harry Potter a visit.
"Where do you think Hermione wants to go on a honeymoon?" she asks.
Harry Potter blinks at her, and then sighs ruefully. "Probably somewhere with a good work environment," he says. "Where she can sit out on the balcony and work without interruption."
"Yes, but no." Pansy serves herself some tea. Puts her feet up on Draco's favorite couch. "Where is she most likely to relax. She's working herself to the bone, Potter, and like hell am I going to let her keep doing it."
Harry Potter doubletakes, and eyes Pansy with renewed interest. He looks at Pansy as if suddenly he's figured out something about her that Pansy herself doesn't know. "Well…" he begins, and that's how Pansy spends the afternoons for the rest of the week: talking to Harry Potter about how to make her… fiance(?) let go for one second. And then figuring out how to make it work. And mostly, checking again and again that it's a good idea, right? That Hermione is not going to lose her shit.
"Mostly sure Hermione is not going to lose her shit," Potter promises, which is not really a good promise. When Hermione loses her shit… let it just be said that it is not worth the risk.
Probably.
But if Pansy can get Hermione to just… to just chill out for a couple days, maybe that's worth any risk.
It's a confusing thing, weighing pissed Hermione against happy Hermione. They're both enormous forces.
"Give me a percentage," Pansy demands, and immediately feels like Hermione's stuck herself irrevocably into Pansy's brain. She's saying oh my god and Jesus Christ and how will the logistics work all the time, and now and give me a percentage?
Potter laughs, loud and fond. "You've been spending some time with her," he says. "Like, seventy to ninety percent."
"That's a big fucking range," Pansy says, but in the end, she decides, what the fuck, if she can get Hermione to lay back and maybe smile contentedly, it will be worth it. Everyone but Hermione has a contented smile, because Hermione's carrying too much to be contented, and Pansy swears on her entire fortune—and therefore on her ability to not have to work for the rest of her life, that she will get a contented smile out of Hermione if it takes her fifty years.
"Seventy-four," Hermione says, smoothing down the now very worn paper. "How Muggle/non-Muggle will we be living. Seventy-four A: do your parents care if we live Muggle or do they only need us to appear welcoming to Muggle culture outside the home, Seventy-four B: Do you have any preferences about how Muggle we'll be living, Seventy-four C: Will we have Muggle appliances like a television and a telephone, because too much magic will muck up their signal."
"I don't care, ask my parents, I don't care, sure, if you want them," Pansy says, not waiting for Hermione to write the answers down. Hermione's a very quick writer, and somehow manages to be neat at the same time.
"Alright, if you're sure."
Pansy leans her elbows on the wooden table between them; they're in a Muggle cafe, pretending they don't notice the Prophet reporter the next table over, who's been tailing them since their announcement this morning of their upcoming wedding date. "Can we go back to fifty-seven?"
Hermione doesn't even have to check the list. "Honeymoon location? Are you finally done thinking about it?"
"I was thinking…" Pansy flicks up a charm, and everyone who was looking their way suddenly finds they're no longer interested, even the reporter.
Hermione raises an eyebrow at Pansy. Pansy probably should've brought it up at a different time, at home when they weren't in public, just in case Hermione does lose her shit.
"I've been thinking," she says again. "You say your parents moved to Australia and stayed there? Even after you restored their memories?"
Hermione freezes. "My parents?" she says, and she almost sounds like Hermione At Home, soft and a little more lost than she usually is. "Australia?"
Pansy stirs her tea. She can't speak, she's so nervous. Her heart's in her throat and it feels like it's going to choke her to death before Hermione even answers. "I thought you might like to see them. I can hardly imagine… with so few breaks as Minister, there isn't much time for you to pop over and say hello."
Hermione's expression is too conflicted, too complicated, for Pansy to get a good read. Her eyebrows are drawn together, her fingers yanking on her curly hair the way she does when she's so deep in her thoughts, so distracted, she's not thinking of acting in a publicly acceptable way at all. "I… I thought you wanted to have fun on the honeymoon? Beaches and so forth?"
Pansy went on about beaches one time, after Hermione brought up fifty-seven yet again, seemingly bothered by the skipped question. It's kind of sweet, though, that Hermione remembers.
And then, of course, there's also that other unanswered question: Number one. One.
The one that haunts Pansy day in and day out.
One: are we a real couple?
Pansy has plenty of opportunity here for a quick-witted remark, one that makes Hermione's eyes light and her mouth curve into a sharp smile, but what ends up coming out is, "Hermione Granger, if I can get you to put down the quill and enjoy yourself, that's going to be more fun for me than you can imagine."
It's surprisingly close to the way Pansy actually feels. Fun is not the right word. Fun is… fun. Hermione Granger enjoying herself is the fucking holy grail. Hermione Granger being happy is every single one of Pansy's emotional needs.
But Hermione bites her lip. "I'll… consider it," she says.
So Pansy goes to her parents herself, and she argues the case so relentlessly that they eventually capitulate.
"We didn't care where you went because we expected you'd go somewhere significant," her mother says with a ridiculous mournful air, as if Pansy's an evil saleswoman who's trapped her with the small print.
"It is significant," Pansy says. "It is, you have to let us—you have to."
When Hermione gets home that day, a letter in her hand from Pansy's parents, she throws her arms around Pansy and squeezes her tight. "I know you hate talking to your parents," she says, her voice strangely emotional. It turns something inside of Pansy, like a plant reaching for the sun. "I feel so… you're so… thank you for doing this for me."
Her words sound like something she'd say to a politician who's helping her campaign. Her voice sounds like that politician has just bought her a library full of limited edition magical theory books.
She looks like she wants to say more, but she just pushes Pansy's black hair behind her ears and smiles some more.
Five days later, a week before the wedding, Pansy Parkinson is on Harry Potter's doorstep.
"She said yes," Pansy blurts out, the moment the door opens. It turns out to be Draco, who has followed the Get-Granger-to-Chill saga second-hand.
"Congratulations," Draco says. He's wearing Harry's sweats.
The desire to wear Hermione's baggy clothes shows up out of nowhere: Pansy can imagine herself in Hermione's billowy nightgowns and her jean jacket and her stupid Muggle T-shirts she wears around the house with no bra.
Pansy would look absolutely terrible wearing them. She wants to wear them.
"Potter would've cheered harder," Pansy says.
"You're cheering hard enough." Draco smirks at her, as if he, too, knows something about Pansy that Pansy herself doesn't know. Does everybody? "The way you're grinning you'd think you just fucked her silly rather than gotten her to stay with her parents for a couple days."
"Draco," says Pansy. Millicent and Draco have been carrying on with this… this Pansy Parkinson-Granger thing for a while now. This married couple thing. As if they're really the same kind of married couple other married couples are: the in love kind.
"I don't know," Draco drawls, still smirking. "If you're convinced it's only lust, I don't see why you're so happy she's going to be staying with her parents."
Pansy groans, trying to peer around Draco to see if Potter's in. "You don't understand—getting Hermione happy is just—it's just important. Not to me, it's just inherently important. Ask your husband! He would've celebrated more."
"Harry loves Hermione," Draco says.
And the thing is… that's kind of true.
That haunts Pansy, along with Number One.
Harry loves Hermione.
But it's not Harry loves Hermione, Harry wants Hermione to be happy, Pansy wants to make Hermione happy, therefore…
There's no therefore.
Probably.
But Pansy's still thinking about it when they go down the isle, when they say I do to a bunch of vows that are definitely romantic if you're getting married for romantic reasons and otherwise feel a little bit like lying.
She's thinking about it when she lifts Hermione's veil and kisses her for what's literally the very first time they've ever kissed.
Mostly she's thinking about how the wedding means fuck all to her, because she's not sure if it's real. She's thinking that maybe if she didn't—well… care might be the right word?—care for Hermione the way she does, maybe she'd be pretty fucking happy with the wedding because it's beautiful, and it's getting them so much press, and her parents are finally happy with her, and there are zero mishaps the whole way down. Isn't that a triumph?
But she mostly feels like she's gotten another thing done off of the checklist of things, and if this isn't real, then she'd like to go back to curling up with Hermione in bed and tracing her sparse freckles without touching when Hermione's asleep and finally relaxed.
One: are we a real couple?
Hermione's parents look very much like her: her father with slightly buck-teeth, and faint freckles, her mother with brown skin and tight curls and a clever spark about her.
The beginning days are Hermione and Pansy acquainting—or reacquainting—themselves with Hermione's parents, but after a bit, it really becomes Pansy visiting as Hermione spends time with her parents. They go to places in the little Australian town that charmed the Grangers into staying after they got their memories back as Pansy stays home and watches the television raptly. They cook Hermione's favorite childhood meals to Hermione's teary-eyed appreciation and Pansy experiments with the microwave.
After the second day, Pansy and Hermione go to bed and Hermione runs a hand down Pansy's bare arm, her swallow audible. Her brown eyes are awake, even though it's past midnight—the wonders of not overworking!—and they're so tender it takes Pansy's heart a couple seconds to figure out how to beat correctly again. "Thank you," she says quietly, her voice rough. She hesitates for a moment, and then kisses Pansy gently, sweetly on the mouth.
It's not a fiery kiss, the way Pansy's always daydreamed about—hands, teeth, tongue, thighs slotted together—but it shakes Pansy to the core anyway. It's long enough for Pansy to close her eyes, kiss back, put her hand on Hermione's hip.
It's short enough that when Hermione pulls away, it feels abrupt.
"Pansy," she says, her eyes sweeping up from Pansy's lips to her eyes, as if trying to decode Pansy's expression. Pansy imagines her face is some combination of shock and longing. "Er. Goodnight."
Hermione rolls over. Her curling hair brushes Pansy's face.
Pansy doesn't bring it up in the morning, and Hermione doesn't either, and they're both awkward while they're changing for the first time in a month and a half, which sets Pansy on edge more than she thinks it really could.
Still, Pansy couldn't imagine a better honeymoon.
For the first time in the entire two months (and, kind of, twenty years) Pansy has watched Hermione, Hermione seems younger, not older than she is.
It's working, she owls Harry, she looks so happy I could die.
Hermione has someone to take care of her.
I want to take care of her, Pansy thinks. And then she thinks, wow, holy fuck, this is bad.
This is Harry loves Hermione and one: are we a real couple? and why am I marrying this mess of a badass?
Draco's probably reading she looks so happy I could die and laughing his head off, knowing that he was right. It wasn't supposed to be a romantic sentence, it was just true, the shocking difference a little bit of comfort can bring to Hermione—but, admittedly, that might be a romantic sentiment.
Pansy stays in her room—the guest room, which she shares with Hermione—sitting on the bed, which she shares with Hermione, for the rest of the day as Hermione's parents drag her around to introduce her to their Australian friends as their stunningly successful daughter who does a job that actually they can't talk about, but it's good.
She should've known sooner, Pansy. She should've known when she stayed up to watch Hermione sleep, or when Hermione pulled out the list, or when she fucking walked into an arranged marriage with Hermione Granger and didn't even feel a pit in her stomach.
"Pansy." Hermione Granger is standing in all of her happy, lovable glory in the doorway, her hair down to her waist in out-of-control curls. She's Asleep-but-Awake Hermione Granger—completely at ease, and conscious at the same time.
Fuck, Pansy thinks, I'm married to someone I'm in love with.
This is bad.
Hermione's brow is furrowed; she's worried for Pansy. Pansy hates the way she likes it so much, being worried after by Hermione Granger. Hermione Granger has all of Wizarding Britain to be worried about, all the laws and the committees and the fundraising, and then, aside from Wizarding Britain, Hermione is also worried about Pansy the individual.
Hermione gestures to the clock hesitantly. She's not very good at emotions, Pansy has observed. It's her one weak spot. She always seems at such a loss. (In all fairness, it appears Pansy hasn't been very good at emotions either. "You missed dinner."
"Oh." Pansy wonders if she looks like a mess. Hermione's looking at her like she might. "I'm not very hungry."
"Oh," says Hermione. And then she shifts on her feet some more. "Okay. Yeah." She steps carefully over to sit beside Pansy on the bed. "Er—is something… wrong? Is everything okay? I know this honeymoon isn't really a honeymoon—"
"It was my idea," Pansy interrupts.
"Tomorrow my mom wants to go through some of our old photo albums," Hermione says, a fond, soft note in her voice. She has that note when she's talking to Pansy sometimes, and it always makes Pansy's heart flutter. "You should join us. Make fun of my buck teeth."
Pansy frowns. "I shouldn't have made fun of your teeth."
"Gee, Pansy Parkinson, you made fun of my teeth twenty-five years ago, you'd better be sorry." Hermione smiles gently. "Come on, it'll be fun. I had buck teeth and you have a pug nose."
"Oh, thanks. Very mature."
"I like your pug nose! It's part of you!" Hermione's cheeks are dark, her eyes bright. "I just was trying to say I don't care."
Pansy rolls her eyes. "Easy for you to say, your buck teeth are gone."
"Oh, come on!" Hermione nudges Pansy with her shoulder. She's got on another one of those T-shirts, thankfully this time, with a bra. She raises her eyebrows, gives Pansy a clever smile. "You're beautiful."
"Fuck," says Pansy. Her humor disappears as quickly as it came.
Hermione's lips press together, her sharp eyes searching Pansy's face. "Pansy… what's bothering you? Really, what is it?"
"What's bothering me?" Pansy echoes. She's aware of how unhappy she sounds. "Hermione. One."
"One…?"
Pansy groans, patting pointlessly over the pockets of Hermione's jeans. "One, number one, where's your stupid paper?"
Comprehension dawns on Hermione's face, and her mouth falls open a little bit. "One," she says, as if she's just discovered it, as if this is a new thing she hasn't even been thinking about. "One, fuck—" She looks at Pansy, her gaze suddenly, shockingly, breathtakingly hopeful. "Oh, Pansy…"
And then Hermione's eyes are fluttering shut, and her hands are on either side of Pansy's face, and her kiss stays gentle for exactly five seconds.
Pansy is gasping things as they fall into her mind: Hermione, and Hermione, and Hermione, and fuck, and Hermione again.
They're already in bed.
"This can be a sentimental marriage," Hermione says, her wild hair down her back and over her shoulder, the only thing between Pansy's skin and her own. "I just didn't think… I should've thought, when you chose this for our honeymoon."
"Yes, you should've," Pansy says. I should've thought. "I think you're going to have to find a way to make it up to me."
Hermione's eyes spark, hot. "Come and see my baby pictures."
"God, what a terrible time to say that," Pansy groans. She slides her hands down Hermione's thighs, looking up at her. "Try again."
Hermione does.