"Your mother's fine, but I had to sedate her," Blaise said as he closed the door behind him and stepped into the corridor. "Your father asked about a trip to the pub later."
Hermione let out a shaky breath. "I knew she'd be confused when she woke up here. I had the conversation planned out but she panicked, and then I panicked... Thank you for stepping in."
She hadn't expected her mother's reaction to her new surroundings to be so severe. Despite Hermione's efforts to keep everything else as consistent as possible, Judy bristled at Blaise's presence and lashed out at her daughter. As tensions escalated, Blaise suggested Hermione step outside.
"It's my job, Hermione, it's no trouble. Now, as you know, I've read your notes, but if you've got the time I'd appreciate you filling in the gaps. I have about an hour before my next patient."
Hermione led Blaise to the kitchen where she poured them both tea — a blend Blaise made himself. He spoke at length about the research he'd done to unlock its calming properties, and her mind wandered, recalling her own late nights spent hunched over books, cauldrons, and her greenhouse worktop. She missed the privacy and familiarity of Cyclamen Cottage. Was it snowing there? Here snowflakes and ice coated the windows, although the one over the dining table made a marvellous attempt to shake them off.
Blaise opened his line of questioning, and she answered him with surgical precision, avoiding a painful recounting of the two years in Australia, her brief stint at the Ministry, and the past nine years at Cyclamen. She also skipped anything related to Malfoy, focusing solely on her parents' treatments. Now and then her eyes flickered to the Floo, anticipating Pansy's arrival at any moment. She wasn't looking forward to that reunion, mostly because Pansy's idea of peacemaking involved offering up her best friend's head on a silver platter.
The low timbre of Blaise's voice snapped her back to the present conversation.
"With your permission, I'll conduct new physical exams and run a few tests. Remember, nothing happens without your consent, Hermione. I have no doubt you've been accurate in your assessments, but my main concern is these potions you have them on. I'm unfamiliar."
The only worthwhile strides she'd made required the use of the old, dark spellwork she'd found within the book from the Riddle House, maintained with magically and physically demanding potions. The spells themselves terrified her so much she could no longer perform them. She'd felt her life force leaving her, pouring itself into her mother before she interrupted the process. Her Patronus, the playful otter, stretched outwards from her, the silvery cord that tethered it to her soul becoming so taut she thought it would snap from her body. Her wand had clattered to the floor right before both she and her mother fainted. Hermione remembered fighting to stay awake, fearing she might never wake back up.
"We could wean them off," she suggested, leaving her real question unsaid. Was it possible for her parents to stop taking the potions but retain the little progress she'd made?
"You brought about a week's worth, right? That's too fast of a taper. We'll have to brew more." Blaise muttered a few more notes to himself, his quill scratching across the parchment in front of him with frenetic movements.
Hermione neglected to mention that each time she brewed, it took a terrible toll on her. The blood loss alone made her dizzy and weak, not to mention the little parts of her soul she gave. But the searing pain of her sacrifice paled in comparison to the agony of the potion invading her body. Its fumes permeated all magical and Muggle forms of protection, leaving her brain buzzing and her vision cloudy. A powdery black film coated her cauldron, and it burned if touched by her bare hands. Even when the side effects lessened, and Hermione returned to feeling like herself, she couldn't shake the suspicion that there'd be a price to pay.
She thought back to her lessons with Professor Snape. Dark magic extracts a toll from the user, he'd said. But her gut warned her there might be something left behind by the dark magic, as well.
She opened her hands now, palms up. They almost looked normal in the forgiving artificial light. But if she held them up to the window, sunlight revealed the truth. Darkness ran through her veins, and it would be impossible to hide if she had to brew while she and her parents were under Malfoy's roof. Each time she prepared her experimental potions, the magic pooled underneath her skin, threatening to spill her secrets and her blood. The blistering burn on her arm from the ritual the other night was just one of many dark magic-related injuries she'd sustained over the years.
Just then, a lean leg ending in a pointy stiletto emerged from the fireplace. Blaise stood, but Hermione remained frozen in place as the rest of the woman came through. Pansy Parkinson, a little older than when they'd last met and much more statuesque, straightened her pencil skirt and offered a practised smile to both of them.
"Blaise," she dipped her chin in lieu of a longer greeting before turning her attention to Hermione. "Mrs. Malfoy, a pleasure. Please go ahead and finish whatever you're working on and I'll expect you and Draco in the sitting room in five minutes. We have a lot of work ahead of us."
"Good luck with that," Blaise said under his breath. Then he spoke so Pansy could hear. "We're all done here. She's all yours, Pansy."
"She was available on short notice. What do you want me to say?"
Pansy took her quill in two hands, testing the extent to which it would bend but not break. "Draco, you're not even trying."
Hermione had to agree.
An hour had passed and they were no closer to having a romantic — let alone believable — account of their courtship and marriage for the hungry press. Malfoy draped himself across the sofa as if he didn't have a care in the world. Hermione sat on the edge of her seat, wishing she was back in the classroom at Hogwarts, where she felt like she had all the answers.
"Pansy, maybe you could drill us on what questions we might be asked? I've come up with a few already." Hermione made a move for her bag when Pansy cleared her throat.
"No, maybe Draco has a point. Instead of what I want you to say, how about you both tell me what actually happened? Get it out of your systems."
This caught Malfoy's attention. "Theo didn't fill you in?"
"I know bits and pieces. But I don't have your wife's perspective. And let's face it, the public thinks they know why you'd fall for her. You simply need to act smitten. What they really want to know is why she would ever fall for you," Pansy brushed the quill across her upper lip, thinking. "So, Mrs. Malfoy, why don't you tell me how this came to be and we'll embellish from there?"
Hermione had never been one for improvisation. "Well, Malfoy came —"
"Draco," Pansy corrected sharply. "That's your first giveaway that this isn't real. You need to start calling him Draco."
"Draco," she tested. His name didn't roll off her tongue so much as clunk down it. "Draco came to my flat after I got back from Australia with my parents. I'd accepted a job with the Ministry, but the job wasn't enough money to live on. I didn't have vaults like Harry, and I wasn't talking to Ron so I couldn't ask him for help, not that his family had money but maybe I could've stayed at the Burrow… basically, I needed the money."
She left out the fact that the spotlight weighed on her for those few days right after her return. She'd been recognized everywhere she went, pestered for pictures or harassed about Ron's career, her friendship with Harry, and most annoyingly of all, her love life.
Hermione braved a glance at Malfoy through her lashes. He looked down at the floor, toeing the edge of the rug with his dragonhide boots. At first glance, he looked bored, but surprise flashed through her as she realised he was actually nervous. Was he worried she'd tell Pansy too much?
She pared down her words. "We came to terms rather quickly. Theo helped with the Unbreakable Vow and we wed that night."
Pansy's eyebrows shot up. "Unbreakable Vow? We'll leave that out, and the terms, of course. Those details won't play well, especially with the older demographic. And we'll come up with a story to cover up your absence from society."
Hermione nodded. "No one's seen me, so that should make it easier. It's truthful to say I've been doing research on a classified project." Pansy wrote that down.
"I'm not sure how to ask this question, but someone will," Pansy said, a gentleness infusing her voice. "Is this marriage one that, if you, say, greased the right palms, could be annulled?"
"It's perfectly legal," Hermione contributed.
"That's not what she's asking," Malfoy murmured, not looking up from his feet.
"I'm sorry to ask. It's not that I personally want to know. But I'm worried it'll come up."
"Fucking piranhas, all of them," he fixed his steely gaze on Pansy. "Granger and I performed the Malfoy binding ritual. It's a true marriage in every magically legal, traditionally Pureblood way. The only difference is I didn't hang the bedsheets from the balcony. Does that answer your question?"
Pansy went white, but Malfoy didn't look away from her. If anything he narrowed his eyes even further before he flicked them over to Hermione. If she wasn't mistaken, a question lay behind the look. Are you okay? Hermione gave a small nod.
Pansy cleared her throat. "Alright, while my team and I consider the best approach and weave the most flattering narrative for you both, you have homework."
She withdrew two pieces of parchment from her leather briefcase and handed one to each of them. Hermione immediately identified it as magically spelled parchment. Little sparks bit her hands as she read such questions as "What do you love most about your partner?" and "What is your partner's favourite food?"
"If this has any chance of being halfway believable, you need to talk and get comfortable with each other. If a reporter somehow breached the wards and appeared in this room right now, even if it was filled with Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder, they'd immediately know you aren't together. I don't think we can even consider bringing an intimacy coordinator in at this point —"
"An intimacy coordinator?" Hermione's stomach lurched.
"Unclench, Hermione," Pansy soothed, switching to her first name. "They'll help you with the physical part of this. When to hold hands, how to deliver small but significant touches, stage kisses, that sort of thing."
Stage kisses? Her head spun. This was too much, too fast. She stole a look at Malfoy. Hermione noticed his skin shone with a thin film of sweat, his face tinged green like he was going to vomit. Was he really as over his prejudices as he claimed?
"I want you to have a conversation tonight. This parchment should help you get talking. Get through as many of these as you can, and record the answers. If the answer is untrue, the parchment won't register it. That way you can use these answers in interviews and therefore present a united front but also have the truth on your side. So Hermione, let's say you ask Draco…" she paused, scanning the document. "Let's say you ask Draco what his favourite dessert is."
Hermione stared blankly back at the witch. Pansy gave her an exasperated look.
"Draco," Hermione began. His name didn't sound as misshapen this time as it passed her lips. "What is your favourite dessert?"
"Lemon tart," he replied curtly.
Pansy handed Hermione her quill. Hermione wrote the words lemon tart onto the parchment, but they faded from existence within seconds.
"Well, now you know that was false," Pansy sighed and went to rub her eyes, but stopped. "I worked too hard on this mascara to mess it up this early in the morning. When we reconvene, I expect to see some answers, alright? Draco, you can take your leave. Hermione and I have a few things to discuss." She dismissed him with a flutter of her fingers.
Malfoy stood in one smooth motion, his parchment scrunched in his fist. He bowed to both of them and made his exit, closing the door behind him.
Hermione folded her hands in her lap to keep herself from picking at her fingernails. Her heart rate accelerated as Pansy dug around for a compact mirror, which she groaned when she opened. Strange that she felt more nervous without Malfoy in the room.
"This is a lot to take in," Hermione ventured.
"Don't let him intimidate you. He thinks he's an acid pop, but he's more of a chocolate frog than anything," Pansy said matter-of-factly as she rearranged the contents of her briefcase. "He's got a soft middle, that man. But don't tell him I said so."
Draco Malfoy, a soft-hearted kind of man? Doubtful.
"It's just that I only arrived yesterday —"
Pansy quit her rummaging to interrupt. "Yes, but you weren't born yesterday. You can pull this off. You're both hard-headed, but chat tonight. I'll hold up my end, so don't worry about any of that. For now we've got to get you looking a little less grungy and a little more Golden Girl."
Hermione's hackles raised. There were a lot of things she didn't miss while she hid away from society, but aside from the expectation to be a certain breed of feminine, especially alongside Harry and Ron, she actually missed the ritual of getting ready. She was long overdue for a wardrobe refresh, since she only owned denims, old jumpers, trainers, and various smocks for gardening and potioneering. Pansy was probably just doing her job, but Hermione didn't appreciate the implication.
She put on her best Malfoy impression. "Just like the old days, hmm? Not fashionable enough for the rich Purebloods?"
"Come now, Hermione. I'm sure Draco's told you, but no one in our circle believes that rubbish anymore."
"Did you have a change of heart, or a change in societal status?"
The hit didn't land. "You'll find my heart much changed, I think. Also, I'm a wildly successful businesswoman with a loving wife waiting at home for me. I'm not here to stage a sleepover, spill my secrets, and give you skin care tips," she dipped back into her briefcase for a card. "Here. I've made you an appointment at Genevieve's. It's haute couture for the modern witch. Not that you ever paid attention to magical fashion trends, but only the very old-fashioned — and Theo, who never listens to me — wear dress robes these days. There's a list on the back of that card of everything you'll need for daytime, eveningwear, and the Solstice Ball. I recommend you stick to warm colours and neutrals, but I've got it on good authority that you positively glow in periwinkle."
Chastened, and a little bit flattered, Hermione murmured her thanks and took the card from Pansy's soft, manicured hand.
"I also recommend a haircut."
"Say no more, " Hermione said, reaching up and fingering one of her curls. "I'd like a trim, actually. And a trip to the nail salon would be nice, too," she looked again at Pansy's nails. "Truth be told, I've been using Muggle nail clippers for the past nine years and they're as awful as you think."
Pansy shot her a wide smile. "Perfect. Let me know if you'd like company. My Luna and I would love a day of pampering."
My Luna? "Luna Lovegood? Luna is your wife?"
"Of five years. We've no children, two businesses, and thousands of creatures roaming our backyard," she let out a breath. "Who am I kidding? It's an animal sanctuary and I'm just living in it. The other day she rescued a basket of crups who've made themselves at home in my powder room. This morning I went to reapply my lipstick and discovered the runt chewed through the leg of a hideous centuries-old vanity."
Hermione couldn't help herself. She laughed. Perhaps she could test the friendship waters with Pansy, considering she married her favourite Ravenclaw. "The little menace. I'm really happy for you, Pansy. About the marriage — and maybe also for the demise of the hideous vanity."
Pansy leaned towards her, as if they were accomplices and not recently reacquainted rivals. "She misses you, you know. We both hoped you might be at the wedding. I think the Potters and Weasleys hoped so, too."
The corners of her mouth twitched at the mention of her closest friends. "Weasleys? Last I heard from Ron, he was with Neville. They're still together?" She didn't expand further. It didn't burn anymore that Ron broke up with her. They'd been young, and during the war there hadn't been much time to explore their sexualities. Ron and Neville spent time together while she was away, and one thing led to another… It had been hard to read, but the more she thought about it, the more it made sense.
"You didn't know? They're married too. I thought it was sweet Neville took his last name. Apparently he's always wanted to belong to a big family. Luna and I aren't close with them, but in her line of work, she hears things."
"What does she do?"
"She runs The Quibbler. Ron's in the Auror department and Neville's an Unspeakable, so they've both been recent sources of information for her from within the Ministry."
"I always knew Neville was interested in men, but Ron really threw me for a loop," Hermione confessed with a half-smile.
"It's early, but it feels like we should be having a glass of wine with this conversation," Pansy laughed. Hermione adjusted herself in the chair and looked away. "Too much? I— I would like to be friends. You're married to one of my best friends, after all. He's been through a lot, more than you know, these past few years. And I'm married to one of your fellow Dumbledore's Army volunteers. Sweet Circe, that sounds ridiculous out loud."
Hermione gave a choked laugh. "Like when you have to tell someone you fought in a war."
A silence moved between the two women. Hermione worried she'd said the wrong thing.
"Exactly. Except some of us were on the wrong side," Pansy was the one looking away now. "I was on the wrong side, ready to hand over Potter. Do you know, Hermione — I thought it would save me. And now I've been to his house, spent time with his wife and children and I can't imagine it being any different."
Her chest tightened like someone took a wrench to her windpipe. Pansy Parkinson now spent more time with Harry and Ginny than she did. Sat on their couch, shared their table. She probably brought seasonally appropriate flowers and gifts. She was more godmother to James and Albus than Hermione.
Hermione's brown eyes met Pansy's darker ones before darting away. At their reintroduction, Hermione assumed the other woman was conniving and cruel, mentally static at eighteen. But Luna wouldn't be with someone like that, and Harry certainly wouldn't let his kids around anyone who would hurt them. She was forced to consider that there might be a friend sitting across from her. But she was rusty from years of solitude. Unsure of how to proceed, she decided to try humour.
"I admit that I forgave you a little as soon as I realised I wasn't getting a guerilla-style makeover," Hermione admitted. "Also, is that an illegal extension charm on that bag?"
They shared a conspiratorial laugh, neither looking at each other, but smiling all the same.
Draco leaned over the kitchen island, carefully examining the fruit bowl when Pansy emerged. His mood only continued to sour as he stewed. Someone had eaten the last green apple, Blaise whistled on his way out, and the loo had been occupied when he tried the door this morning. His home played host to more people in the past two days than in the past nine years, and the simple knowledge that he would never be truly alone for the foreseeable future brought on a massive headache.
He swirled his wand in time with his selection, an orange, as it unpeeled itself in one long coil. "How did it go? Is Mrs. Malfoy ready for the gossips and ghouls of London?"
"She'll do fine. And seriously, you've got to start calling her Hermione." She slid elegantly onto the stool next to him, spearing him with her stare.
He chose to ignore her and pop a wedge of orange into his mouth. "Still can't believe this is happening."
Pansy reached across him and plucked a plum from the fruit bowl. "What, that we're alive in our late twenties?"
"Hilarious. Would you like ten points for Slytherin?"
"You and I both know points for Slytherin were absolutely meaningless, particularly under Dumbledore. Maybe that's why Snape killed him?" Pansy paused, taking a juicy bite. Draco didn't laugh. "Your wife is actually pretty great, Draco. I like her."
"Of course you'd say that. You married Loony Lovegood. By choice, might I add."
"Hey, watch it. I love that Ravenclaw. Have you ever considered that the Gryffindor in there might be precisely what you need?"
Draco, without more orange to distract himself, began picking through the fruit bowl again. "I don't need anyone."
She slid off the stool as quickly as she'd slid onto it, rolling the pit of her plum towards him. "Have fun dealing with thousands of Howlers, then."
She wouldn't really leave him like this, would she? Her blunt bob bounced swiftly through the room, determination in her gait. When she opened the jar of Floo powder, he knew she was serious.
"Pans," Her childhood nickname was out of his mouth before he could force it back in. "Don't."
It was as much as he could muster.
Pansy didn't turn around. "I'm not hearing a 'please' in there."
So much for not begging.
"Please."
She looked at him and sighed, back at his side just as quickly as she'd left it. Moments later, he leaned his head on her shoulder. The ends of her hair tickled his ear, but he didn't move. As much as he and Pansy irritated each other, they'd always had each other's backs. When Pansy came out to her parents after the war, Draco stood in the cavernous foyer of Parkinson Manor, ear pressed to the door, ready to hex them to Siberia if needed.
"You know I love you. And I know this is difficult. All I'm saying is that you've both clearly been through some rough shit these past nine years. Your whole lives, really. I don't know exactly what happened to her but Draco — don't hurt her."
"Don't hurt her?" Pansy had gone soft. Maybe it was the nargles.
"She seems fragile. Less angry than I remember, and definitely more tired. We've all changed," Pansy picked up another plum, thought better of it, and placed it back in the bowl before finally pushing the entire thing away. "She'll help you Draco, if you'll let her. I think you need to tell her about why you asked her."
He knew what she meant, but acted as if he didn't. "I've told her. After my mother was murdered, my father was no longer the head of the Malfoy family, and therefore my inheritance was available to me if I could marry before he remarried. And I wanted to cut the bastard off. Granger was available — Theo saw her in the papers that day, freshly back from Australia. And that was that, really."
"Theo just so happened to see her, eh? Convenient," she let out a heavy sigh. Draco tried to read her expression, but her face quickly reconfigured itself into her signature look of aloof reproachfulness.
"It's what happened, more or less."
"Oh, what a flimsy web you weave," Pansy tutted. "If I didn't know any better I'd think you weren't a Slytherin, let alone a Malfoy. Hermione isn't going to buy that story when she finally thinks it over. And what if Theo or I slip up and tell her? Do you really want her to find out like that?"
Draco drew away from Pansy and towards the bar cart. She shot him a look. It was early in the day, but his pounding head told him it wouldn't hurt. "You and Theo would never slip up."
"Come on, Draco. Can't you say her name, after all these years? Don't you think she deserves to live on, in that way?"
"I didn't deserve her in the first place." Glass clinked against glass as he poured, not meeting his reflection in the mirror beneath the various bottles.
Pansy couldn't deny it. No one could deny it. His intended bride had been kind, and true, and he'd loved her as much as an idiot Pureblood boy could. She deserved so much better, in life and in death.
He squinted down at the amount of whisky in his glass, swirling it around for good measure. A little more wouldn't hurt.
"You didn't. And I didn't deserve her friendship. She opened my eyes. I wouldn't have Luna without her."
"I miss her. Especially when it's like this." Draco raised his glass and looked outside at the driving snow. Thinking of her only increased the hurt. His head throbbed, his heart ached, his eyes watered.
"Me too," Pansy said. "Do you still love her?"
He paused.
"Sometimes I forget what colour her eyes were. When I went to the vault for her ring, I wanted the stone to match her eyes. But now I can't remember if I brought back an aquamarine or a sapphire. I left it beside her, in the Manor," Draco took a long drink from his whisky glass. "I loved her, because she made me think and laugh and hope. And she loved my mother. But I don't think I loved her as I would a wife. I think I would've been a good husband, if we'd had the chance, but— " He couldn't finish.
Pansy held her arms open to him, and he crashed into her embrace. She took the whisky from him and stroked the back of his head.
"Shh, I've got you."
He couldn't hold back the torrential wave of grief.
"Astoria," he gasped into Pansy's black blazer. "Astoria, Astoria, Astoria."
