"Kitty," the portrait supplies kindly, with a small smile. Her hands are clasped in front of her waist, the tight bodice of her dress looking horribly uncomfortable to be wearing forever. Hermione has a brief (if ill-timed) flash of sympathy.
"It's – it's lovely to meet you," Hermione stammers, completely thrown off the original conversation, and Kitty answers her next question before it can leave her lips.
"I do know who you are, dear. I didn't at first, but I can't imagine there have been two Hermiones in Amsterdam in the past two weeks in this very hotel. Strains credulity, wouldn't you agree?"
She would.
"Do they… do they know I'm here?" she asks quietly. She isn't sure how she feels about it. She'd evaded Septimus's portrait by the fireplace on purpose, grateful that she'd been able to.
"No, they don't. I haven't left my portrait since we've spoken, after all."
The gentle voice irritates her, and she knows that isn't fair. She should have put that together; obviously, that Catharina didn't have confirmation of her identity until only a moment ago. She's not thinking clearly.
"Now, may we speak honestly?"
Hermione isn't sure. She wanted the portrait to mind her own business even before she knew who it was. Now Hermione's told her that she's dying, even though it was when she was presumed to be a stranger. Well, she still is, but now she can tell everybody else.
The gossip chain of portraiture isn't a vulnerability she'd considered, and she curses herself. But what's done is done, after all, and keeping Kitty here keeps her from visiting Septimus.
Still a bit reluctant, she sits back on the sofa and crosses her legs. She finds that she can't make eye contact, though, her gaze continuing to skim over other things in the room she needs to repair. She's increasingly embarrassed about her tantrum and how she's been acting, on a larger scale of things.
"How long do you have, my dear?"
"A year or two," she whispers, not elaborating that if she stops her potions at the end of her inventory, it'll be a lot less than that. No need for that level of detail.
Kitty considers her for a long moment. "You know, I was eighteen when this portrait was made."
She does look lovely, but Hermione isn't sure what that has to do with her. She spies another torn throw pillow in the corner and prods her wand at it, white stuffing all askew.
"In our day, our life expectancy was shorter. Even with magic to assist with ailments, we were lucky to hit sixty. I know you're quite a long way from even that, and I don't mean to minimise your suffering. But we got far less time in a much more dangerous period of history."
Hermione feels herself begin to bristle again. She doesn't want a lecture.
She regrets coming here at all, and the combined feelings of desperation (to go somewhere, anywhere, right now) and hopelessness (but where, pray tell?) ricochet around her brain. Why can't she be she more clear-headed, more focussed? This matters. She's always prided herself on decisive problem-solving and it feels like she's simply bouncing from one ill-conceived idea to the next, hurting everybody in her wake.
"My Septimus swept me off my feet. Well; I call him Timi, but I don't suppose he mentioned that little nickname, did he?"
At that, Hermione can't hold in a smirk and finally looks up to find Kitty looking equally amused, hazel eyes sparkling. Timi and Kitty Malfoy. She gives her head a little shake.
"We both wanted to be here after our death. Timi rather enjoys heckling the tourists that pass through, but I prefer my view of the gardens. And we get to see each other, of course. We spent so much time here in Amsterdam because we wanted to live. We wanted to explore and experience and love each other. Either of us could have died at any time, as anyone could. We let it drive our passion rather than run from it."
"I'm not running from it," Hermione contests hotly.
Kitty favours her with patronising eye contact. "It's precisely what you're doing. You have a terminal illness; it doesn't mean you're forced to go through it alone. I sense you're quite close to fleeing now, and I implore you to wait. You've never spoken with anyone about this, have you?"
She has to concede she hasn't, and after having been called out on it so directly, she forces herself not to sprint from the room like her bum is on fire. "Not outside my Healers, no."
"I'm telling you things you don't want to hear, but you've isolated yourself. You've done it on purpose. No, don't argue - you've made choices."
So what if she has? Hermione fumes, back to staring at the purple throw pillow losing its stuffing in the corner and summons it. It's tremendously odd to be lectured by a teenager more than ten years younger than Hermione, even if she's simultaneously hundreds of years older.
Of course, Kitty is right and of course Hermione hates it. How long has it been since someone bossed her around, for a change? How long since she was forced to confront something she couldn't control – or pretend to be controlling?
"Your choices are yours to make, of course. But by fleeing, you've taken other choices away from those who love you."
Kitty has the grace to give Hermione a few minutes with this as the tears fall again, streaking down her cheeks.
"In the reverse position, would you not want the choice to stand by his side? Even if he only had a year to live?"
In Draco's place, she'd do anything, and she suspects Kitty knows it. She must also respect the outright way Draco's been brought into this. No sense pretending Kitty doesn't know all about them.
"Let him in, darling. Let him be here for you. Live every minute you have with the person you love. Denying yourself that is cruel to you and to him, and taking away any agency he has in the situation. He's a good boy. My Timi is quite fond of you both, and quite taken with you. I'm biased in my descendant's favour, of course, but he is a good boy."
"I know he is," Hermione whispers, desolate. Her vision is too blurry to see. "I love him."
"Have you told him?"
"…No. I didn't want it to be even harder for him when I die."
"Well, we've covered that now, haven't we? Let me go to Timi and tell him you're here. Let young Draco come and be with you now. Gift you both this time together."
She doesn't know what to do anymore. Kitty gives her a calm, quiet peace, leaving her to her thoughts. She's said her bit, Hermione supposes. Now Hermione can take it or leave it. Although if she does bolt again, she knows word will spread – again, since she's sure it already has after Ginny showed up at Harry's without warning – and she has no idea where else to go. She has no plan. She has nothing at all. She can keep ricocheting around from Floo to Floo, city to city, alone and on the run, but to what end?
Wiping her eyes, Hermione finally nods. It'll still take some time, she expects. Septimus wasn't even in his Amsterdam portrait and Catharina can't go outside the hotel – unless she also a portrait in the Manor, which Hermione has to figure she does. Either way, he'll have to get word to Draco somehow and Hermione thinks he'd rather pull his fingernails out than visit the Manor. It could be a while.
Allowing herself to think about Draco, Hermione does what he might do. She makes a list, considering some rudimentary facts.
If their places were reversed, she'd want to be here.
She'd be furious if he prevented her from it, and she should probably prepare herself for that reaction.
She's completely miserable without him, far more than she'd anticipated she would be.
Two years is sounding like a lot longer than it first had. She'd had so much fun right here for the extent of a long weekend. Two years could give her so, so many things, and all with Draco: if he'll still have her.
That makes her hesitate. What if he's so angry, he doesn't come? She couldn't blame him but now she's afraid, well and truly afraid. She'd ended it horribly, with no explanation whatsoever, and she's certain it broke his heart.
Considering this makes her chest feel a little tight. She knows it's no less than she'd deserve, after how she'd left him, but that doesn't relieve the tension creeping in like a cold fog.
Potter's infuriatingly friendly face looks up at Draco approaches and he can see the sadness in the other wizard's eyes.
"Thank you for doing so much here," he notes quietly, even though 'here' is still the after-hours Department of Mysteries with shattered automobile pieces scattered hither and yon. Draco knows what he means anyway, and this way of greeting has thrown off his rising anger.
"I'd like to help if I could," Potter continues, oblivious to Draco's mood – or change therein. "If you need anything: money or – or influence. I know that's stupid to say as if I could accomplish something you can't, but I have to offer."
The offer does resonate. Draco doesn't like to admit it, but having Potter's sway could prove helpful at some point. The wizard is the Chosen One, Order of Merlin, First Class top of his c.v., even all he does now is fuck about with an every-four-year Quidditch team in Finland. Draco hasn't encountered any friction up to now, anyhow, but if his father does decide to become difficult about things, it would be nice to have an ally.
"I -" he starts, then sticks out his hand with a fair touch of childish resentment. "I appreciate it."
They shake on it and Draco clears his throat. "I have to ask, though. I have to know. Why did she go to you?"
Potter does look uncomfortable at this, at least. "Honestly? I think I was the farthest away. I don't think it had anything to do with me, exactly. And she didn't show up for days after she disappeared, so she might have been trying to avoid it altogether. I'd like to ask her myself. I was happy to be there, of course, but I didn't get the impression that it was specifically about me."
"But she told you…" Draco trails off at Potter's astonished expression.
"No, she didn't. She didn't tell me anything." He takes off his silly, circular glasses to clean the lenses on his shirt, something Draco thinks might be a nervous tic. "She left her vault key behind, and Ginny and I took it upon ourselves to head right for Gringotts. From there it was easy to pop right into her lab, where we found all of you."
She hadn't told Potter. Draco feels like a weight has been lifted. No; Hermione hadn't trusted him with it, but she hadn't trusted anyone else, either.
Maybe there was nothing he could have done differently.
He still wants the opportunity to tell her. The ring box burns in his pocket, as if he could forget about it, and all he wants is the chance to show her that he doesn't care how much time she has – how much time they have. He wants to spend it with her.
"Speaking of Ginny," he says slyly, casting a look in the redhead's direction, "how do you feel about she and Zabini?"
It's probably wrong of him to throw this particular surprise into the mix. After all, Zabini has neither confirmed nor denied a thing, but Draco's noticed his odd absence of awkwardness around Weasley, lately. That can only mean he put the crush to rest or escalated it. One or the other. And given the general lack of angst around it all, Draco's willing to bet it's been going favourably.
Harry does dart an immediate glance to the side as if surveying the possible situation. He rubs his glasses again and puts them back on, squinting in that direction, like a disillusionment charm was just lifted. "Huh."
"Nothing else to say about it?" Draco's curious.
"Er, not – not really," Harry stammers. "Good for her. I've – I've met someone too. We haven't – I mean, we aren't – but – they're really great."
Draco's eyebrows go up, but he doesn't press. The room has slowly calmed, explosions tapering to a minimum, and no one was as angry as he was, anyway. Everybody's now settled into talking quietly. Pansy, Ginny, Blaise. Theo and Luna. Neville, on his own, having given Harry and Draco some space.
"The rest of you can stay, or go," he suggests, raising his voice, "but I'm going home long enough to change and shower, grab some food, and come back. I'll be back in the lab soon."
"I should go find Ron," Potter says heavily. He's picked up several folders, presumably feeling responsible for personal delivery.
Draco's hackles go up. "Don't bring him back here. Tell him what you like, but unless he's got a Healer mastery tucked away somewhere, he can't help, and I don't want him."
Potter's shoulder gives an awkward little half-shrug that Draco takes for assent, and Ginny steps up. "I'll go along. It's Sunday, and odds are he's at the Burrow. I'll take the folder for our parents, too."
Harry hands her one and they depart together, Zabini doing his best impression at being entirely unruffled by this. Draco shoulder-checks him as he walks by.
"He's seeing someone. Don't worry."
Zabini sneaks him a look and visibly relaxes. "How'd you find out?"
"He told me."
"No; how'd you find out about Ginny and me?"
"I was pretty sure already, but you just told me."
Zabini groans and covers his eyes briefly. "Can't believe I fell for that. How are you doing, Malfoy?"
"Better. A bit. Blowing things up helps."
"Usually does."
By the time Draco eats a meagre sort of snack from the pantry, showers, and changes to fresh clothes, half the crowd is now in his living room.
"We decided to let the lab hum along. Vasile and the others will do better with us out of the way for a bit," Theo announced, stretching his arms over his head. He keeps exchanging direct looks with Lovegood, Draco notices with amusement, and looking away. Lovegood doesn't look away, though, and she hardly ever blinks, her large blue eyes steady and observant.
Draco decides it's probably a good thing to let the Healers focus. Vasile has something to work with now and Stotch could bring up the Healers who use those sorts of glamours in the Janus Thickey Ward for other opinions or ideas. Slughorn and Stotch have been there since the beginning, or nearly so, and the three of them can hopefully concentrate and make some progress without the chaos in his living room.
Potter and Weasley are still gone, presumably at the Burrow, but everybody else is crammed into their flat.
Septimus is thrilled, and needs no introduction with his long, platinum locks and elaborate robes. "Have you found her yet, young Master Malfoy?"
He's forced to shake his head. Septimus raises a fist in the air, accompanying a battle cry that does seem rather dramatic, even the situation being what it is. Draco doesn't think his ancestor has any other way of expressing himself.
"Do not lose heart! What's being done?"
"To find her? Not enough." Draco racks his brain. Pansy seems to be brainstorming with Lovegood (while the latter continues to stare blatantly at Theo), Neville hovering nearby like an uncomfortable kind of tall, looming spectre. Blaise is trying to chat to Theo, whose attention keeps drawing back to Luna's uncomfortably direct eye contact.
Madness. He can't imagine how anything can get sorted like this, but he'll never turn down the help. Septimus is studying the various pairings and triads with open interest.
"How does all this work?" he gesticulates around the room. "Now is hardly the time, but once we find our Shakespearean queen, the fun can recommence. This is a small sort of Manor, so space will be tight, but I'm confident everybody can manage."
Promptly distracted, Pansy lets this interrupt her conversation. "Ah, what does he mean, exactly?"
Lovegood looks at the portrait, about to speak, and Draco cuts in before this can devolve into details of his ancestor's adventurous sexual proclivities – or miscellaneous sailing metaphors. Or anything else.
Exchanging a knowing look with Zabini, who's gotten several of his own earfuls from Septimus by this point, Draco changes the subject. "Will Weasley and Potter meet us back here?"
"At some point," Blaise confirms, and Draco realises Septimus is fixating on Theo, clearly undeterred.
"Nott boy!"
"Nott man," Theo corrects, cheeks turning a little pink under his curly brown hair. Luna scans him up and down without comment, concluding near his trousers.
"Now, now, I thought we covered the potentially confusing implications of that!"
"I prefer that to being referred to as prepubescent -" Theo starts, and Septimus suddenly looks over his shoulder in his own portrait.
Luna, whose blue eyes still haven't blinked that Draco has seen, stares.
Pansy blurts out, "Who is it, Mr Malfoy?"
"Who?" Blaise asks, baffled. "He's alone in there. We haven't any other living portraits here, and -"
But Draco's heart is beginning to race. Septimus disappears without warning, and now, Draco's certain. He's visiting the Hotel Estheréa; but why?
He tries to calm his nerves. Septimus has duties there, duties he seems to enjoy and has presumably been shirking to hang about here in London. He can feel Blaise and Theo watching him and he tries not to fidget.
The minutes stretch on. Pansy elbows Theo. "What was he on about?"
"Bit of a sexual deviant," Theo supplies, still pink, and Blaise valiantly jumps to Septimus's defence.
"He's not a deviant. He's just – free-spirited. Open."
"Alright, fine. He seems to prefer any and all spare time spent enjoying things that are socially taboo to discuss in public. Better?"
"Marginally. He enjoys adventurous sex and prefers when everybody else is having it, too. There."
"Ooh!" Pansy claps her hands in delight. "A Gryffindor!"
"I beg your pardon?" Blaise's eyebrows go up and Draco tries to let this back-and-forth distract him as he's forced to wait.
"Hermione and I had a whole conversation about how the boldness to shag anytime, anywhere, is distinctly 'Gryffindor.' Don't tell me you've made it to this age without noticing that the old pureblood contingent of Slytherins is too conservative for their own good."
Draco can't help notice how red she flushes, trying not to look at Longbottom – whose thick black eyebrows are practically meeting in the middle, forehead completely furrowed. He's certainly watching her. Gods, this feels almost like fifth year at Hogwarts, everybody a middling, spotty teenager vacillating wildly between hormones and humiliation. Maybe Septimus has it right, and everybody should just start to shag with abandon.
"I don't think anybody here is prudish," Theo scoffs, "and we're majority Slytherins. I think your stereotypes are outdated, Parks."
Several people begin debating this point, everybody talking over everybody else, and Draco's eyes drift back to the portrait. Where is he?
Pansy and Theo have begun a spirited exchange about the definition of 'prudish,' re: qualifications of. The room listens intently. Neville watches with his scrunched near-unibrow and finally Blaise cuts in, sounding annoyed.
"You're both describing the same sort of thing. Potato, potato."
"No one says potato," Draco says automatically, rolling his eyes. Septimus echoes him. The sudden, sharp pang of the memory overcomes the realisation that Septimus is back. The hush that falls over the room brings him back to his senses.
Septimus looks a tad uncomfortable, something that makes Draco's heart race worse than ever. He's never seen his great-grandfather even consider looking awkward, no matter the topic. Septimus surveys the room and clears his throat, finally settling on Draco.
"She's there in Amsterdam," he hedges. "She gave us permission to tell you. You can come. She's worried you won't."
Eyes fall on Draco, who doesn't pay them any mind. Of course he's going to go, but what to do about things here? He finds himself unexpectedly caught, indecisive. He wants to convince Hermione to come home, but what if he can't?
Blaise comes to his rescue, putting a hand on Draco's shoulder. "Go. I'll manage the lab. We'll head back there soon and check on progress. We can owl you – or tell Septimus here, so long as you're still in Amsterdam and he can find you there."
"Go get her," Pansy says, her eyes bright. "Bring her home."
Ginny Weasley knows she's always had a problem with instant gratification. She sees something she wants? She goes to get it. She has a question? She wants the answer, whether she likes what it is or doesn't. She has a problem? She wants to solve it then and there, with or without help. She'll do it herself if she must. Life's too short to whinge about things she can change or fix.
But she can't do this herself, and she knows it. She has to wait, and wait, and wait, and even then, the problem might never be fixed. A small consolation is that she's not the only one waiting.
She gnaws on her thumbnail, a childhood habit her mum would swat her for indulging in.
Upon arriving back at Blaise's flat, she and Harry had found a note left for them right outside the Floo. 'Back at the lab,' it read in hasty scrawl. 'Draco gone to get Hermione.'
That had been a gigantic relief, even if it posed another dozen or so questions about where Hermione had gone after leaving Harry's and how she'd been found.
A new voice had come from above the mantle, making Ginny nearly come out of her skin in fright. Although he was obviously a Malfoy, something which made Ginny instinctively want to avoid him, she was still about to question him for details when Harry's hand on her arm yanked her right back into the Floo.
And now they're here, back at the lab, lined against the wall in a single-file line with all the others that feels like her earliest days at Hogwarts. Glancing down the row of silent (non)students, most of their hands are clasped either in front of them or behind their back, shoulder blades pressing against the wall of the lab as if waiting for their turn in the loo between lessons.
They're all silent, observing the trio in the middle of the room.
Vasile, the dark-haired witch (the only witch, come to that), is busy directing the two wizards. One's in Healer robes and the other is unmistakably Horace Slughorn, someone Ginny never figured she'd see again.
Ginny was never great shakes at arithmancy, and if she's being honest, she's not even completely certain that's what Vasile is doing. She knows it involves a load of scrap parchment and scribbling, a whole three-dimensional mass of sketching in the air with her wand, and the other Healer's help. It seems as though she's got him casting and maintaining a certain sort of shield charm in the centre of the lab tables, which have all been scooted back to allow more space.
Luna's to her right and tugs her sleeve. Ginny leans down so the shorter witch can whisper in her ear.
"Quite remarkable. Don't you think so too, Ginny? She's intuitive."
"Is she? I don't know what she's doing."
"She's crafted something. Specific parameters. Watch Stotch as they test."
The rhyme makes Ginny grin, although the situation is universally a solemn one, but she does as instructed. Luna's holding the gigantic book she'd brought from the Department of Mysteries, cradling it in the crook of one arm while stroking the pages with her fingers. It seems almost absent, as if it's a self-soothing gesture, but her blue eyes narrow while she watches the proceedings.
Vasile releases one of the vials into the containment area and the purple mist it enclosed immediately begins seeping towards the humans at the perimeter. Vasile must notice a breach because she yelps at Slughorn, who lunges in to seal it with a wave of his wand.
The mist captured now, it tests its boundaries. It still gathers nearest the two wizards and witch surrounding it, but Ginny can see wispy purple tendrils reaching out and slithering up and down the clear walls of its new cage. Unable to help her curiosity, her feet bring her closer and closer. She gapes in awe.
A hand hauls her back and that's twice in the last two hours Ginny's been heaved almost off her feet by a wizard. That this occasion isn't accompanied by an off-balance Floo entry makes no difference to her. She graces Blaise with her worst death glare, something he absorbs so nonchalantly that Ginny must be losing her touch.
"Your nose was practically touching it. If you're into inhaling things for recreational effect, you only had to mention it. Nott and I have some less lethal potion options at the flat."
Ginny catches Harry's eye from across Blaise's left shoulder and feels her face heat precipitously. But Harry gives her a small chin lift with a crooked grin, pushing his glasses up his nose, and relief floods her.
Through their whole trip to the Burrow, Ginny had meant to talk to him about Blaise. It just hadn't come up. She'd thought it might be useful if they had to distract Ron, if he'd gone off on some wild tangent about how the Slytherins were all evil – as if they were all still at school fifteen years ago, dressing in their pre-ordained colours with mandated house segregation. But he hadn't.
He'd been just as stunned as the rest of them, without a doubt. Ginny had tried to head off a certain angle Ron tried to explore, an 'I wouldn't have cared, and if that's all it was all along, we could still be together!' Ginny had firmly shut this down, brokering no argument whatsoever after mentioning the increasingly wild and exploratory sex Hermione's been having with Draco.
Ginny thinks the mention of the broom-shagging, specifically, had ended that. Well, she'd dutifully detailed (Ginny is nothing if not helpful, as a friend or a little sister), it wasn't really broom-shagging so much as cockwarming, and – and then she'd almost lost it at the look on Ron's face. The two weren't well matched, and that's all there was to it. Ron's shoulders had slumped in defeat, silently acknowledging the truth before him, and she and Harry had handed him his folder and left him in peace.
Neither of them had read anything in it. Well, Ginny hadn't; maybe Harry had snuck a peek when she hadn't seen. But she doubted he did. They were all too personal, even if the words had been delivered after Hermione's death and not before.
Supplying the news to her mum and dad had been harder. Harry had been integral there, managing her mum with expert finesse and swearing to bring Hermione home. No one knew if this would be possible, of course, but Harry had a way of delivering the conversation that kept Mrs Weasley from going completely to pieces. Ginny's dad had helped, always the stronger of the two, and shook Harry's hand.
"Let us know if you need anything at all," he'd promised. "We'll do anything we can."
Which didn't appear to be much, Ginny must admit. There's nothing any of them can do, not really, save the trio in the middle of this lab. Meanwhile, they're hard at work and Ginny tries to take heart in it.
She'd meant what she said to Pansy downstairs in the Department of Mysteries' automobile-explosion-implosion-and-other-assorted-detonations room: she largely understood Hermione's innate impulse to handle things herself. It didn't mean she had to like it.
Yes, it hurt that Hermione hadn't told. But mostly it hurt that she felt she couldn't. Ginny knew she couldn't have actually helped solve this crisis, but she wishes she'd had the chance to at least hold Hermione's hand and be a point of support if she ever needed it. That Hermione didn't even think Ginny could do that is hurtful. Harry's silence during the Horcrux hunt had been to keep Ginny safe. This is entirely different.
But what's more important is fixing this curse. Draco's gone to fetch Hermione, but even if they return and Ginny can shout at her until she goes blue in the face, it won't do any good if they can't resolve the problem. If Hermione is, in fact, going to die, Ginny will charitably withhold the shouting.
She hopes she gets to shout.
Pansy watches with fascination as the purple curse drifts about, testing for weaknesses in its barricades. It seems to prefer Horace Slughorn, for whatever reason, who's horrified by the persistent attention. His wand tip wavers slightly, but he keeps his part of the containment steady. Stotch seems to have a good handle on the rest of it, forehead perspiring slightly. Vasile walks around it in a wide circle, murmuring to herself.
Luna wanders over to the Healer and Pansy admires her determination to cut in. She's content to observe from the sidelines.
"What are you doing? How does that work with the curse? What do you plan on?"
Vasile stops and looks about, as if just noticing she has a dedicated audience of six other people lined along the far wall.
"I was able to mimic the curse sample I took from Hermione. Now I want to break it back down again. But that's trickier, you know. It a similar theorem to brewing antidotes in potion-making." Vasile nods at Slughorn, who responds with an almost-panicky grimace, his eyes quickly returning to the curse behind the clear barrier.
"Golpalott's Third Law," Pansy hears Theo mutter from her left.
"The antidote for a blended poison – or, in this case, alchemised curse – will be equal to more than the sum of the antidotes for each separate component."
"How will you address that?" Theo asks, louder, and Vasile looks over.
"I've already sorted the modified Mind Flayer bit – I think, as well as the slowing charm to delay the onset. The issue I expect to run across is the glamour. Not knowing its full purpose makes crafting a counter-curse much more difficult."
With a deep inhalation, she squares her shoulders and raises her wand. The resulting incantation and movement is nothing Pansy's ever seen. Luna watches it avidly, stepping back only the slightest bit from Elena's outstretched arm.
The curse reacts at once, and Pansy doesn't know what she expected, but this isn't it. It's not a violent battle, per se. It's more of a grasping, a clutching at air, a desperation to not just hang on but pull further in. Tendrils snake to and fro, searching for purchase.
Vasile doesn't let up and it begins to shrink into itself, its purple hue becoming darker and more opaque as it consolidates. The Healer maintains her hold and the curse disappears with a loud POP that makes Pansy jump.
"Is that… is that it?" she nearly shrieks, running forward to look and stopping just short of shoving into the back of Luna. She bats blonde hairs out of her face, one stuck in her lipstick. "Did that work? Is it gone?"
"No," pants Slughorn, red-faced and sweaty. "See the shimmer?"
Squinting, Pansy does, in the right angle of light.
"It's the glamour," frowns Vasile. "I knew that was still going to be a problem. I'm treating it like its purpose was to mask the Mind Flayer, and maybe it was, but there must be something else. It's that something else that's keeping me from getting rid of it."
Sighing, she turns back to the containment. A wave of her wand shrinks it down and she traps the remaining glamour back in a vial.
"I'll recreate it and start again."
"That's how it started with she and I." Pansy startles slightly at the deeper voice, slightly muffled as Neville finishes swallowing a bite of muffin.
He nods towards Theo, where Luna is shadowing him so closely she must be brushing against his clothes. Pansy's been keeping an occasional eye on the two, amused at the interactions – or lack thereof. If anybody else stayed so persistently adjacent to Theo, he'd have engaged before now. It would have been joking and over-the-top, an exaggeration in the way of all Theo's physical reactions. But he seems oddly deferential to Luna, as if he doesn't know what to think of her.
Maybe it had been like that for Neville, too. Pansy's unsure how to respond to this, her heart rate rocketing. "Was that… endearing?"
Neville's strong jaw rolls slightly, watching the pair. "It was difficult to ignore, I can say that. She speaks exclusively in haiku. Have you noticed?"
Pansy has not. She's momentarily stymied. She can't remember her recent exchanges with Luna in enough detail to call him on it, and decides she'll just have to pay attention from here.
Either way, she stifles a small snort and decides to take the plunge like a Gryffindor. The flirtatious words are just on her lips – 'Should I do that, then?' – (as if she could possibly construct every cluster of sentences in haiku format on the spot and would have to be content following Neville around like a lost puppy instead) when he turns to her.
"Can I take you to dinner?"
They'd never done dinner, before.
They'd never done anything but shag in unexpected locales, often without warning; supply closets in secluded corners of the Ministry, getting ink all over them in both predictable and not-predictable body parts (Pansy had found some beneath her left armpit later that night, and more in her right ear); closed offices whose regular occupant(s) were woefully out of town; something Pansy will always mentally refer to as 'the Soap Incident'; one extremely memorable occasion on the Knight Bus, where Pansy had sat directly on Neville's erect dick the whole excruciatingly extended ride.
Neville had paid for them to circle the entirety of London, across every single regular stop and all the impromptu ones to boot; Pansy couldn't believe it. And he'd made her just sit there, for ages, their clothing hiding their shenanigans from view. The only movement either of them had experienced were the wild swayings and jostlings of the bus itself, Neville's solid hands holding Pansy's hips firmly in place as luggage bags and people alike were cast about like confetti.
These reminiscences have her somewhat glazed. Neville waves a hand in front of her eyes. "Oi. Parkinson."
She starts, flushing red. "Ah, yes. Yes, dinner. Good. Dinner, yes."
"That's a palindrome," Luna notes dreamily, drifting past. There's more but Pansy doesn't hear the rest – or whether it's seven more syllables, followed by another five. She's buzzing as if she's on a high.
There's still something bothering her about the glamour. Pansy racks her brain, finding it somehow both easier and harder to concentrate on the matter at hand now that Neville's asked her out properly.
Dinner request aside, Neville's back to eating something else. Pansy never noticed how much the man likes to eat until now. He's bitten off half an apple in one go while he watches the Healers work on the glamour.
What was it she'd said before? Something's nagging at her, deep in her mind. It had been right before Harry and Ginny had burst in with the folders and everybody had got all distracted. She'd been wondering if the glamour wasn't just to mask the curse but was doing something to Hermione all on its own.
She elbows Neville. "How do those work, again?"
He swallows laboriously and gestures with the remainder of the apple. "I don't know about that one, of course. Luna could probably tell us more about what was coming out of the Department of Mysteries."
"I understand, but this curse was made – or botched, I suppose – fifteen years ago. Current DoM work doesn't really apply anyway, I wouldn't think. But you see it in the Janus Thickey ward all the time. How does it work today?"
"They use it to soothe agitated patients. Depending on the patient's history and what they like, the Healers tailor it. One loves piano music, so they craft a quiet conservatory with a pianist playing something calming for him. He thinks he's watching and listening – and he is, in a way."
Pansy mulls this over. "That's short-term, though. Until he calms down?"
Neville nods. "One like that could be used for several hours, but I know what you're saying. I don't see longer term ones used much, but I've heard of terminally ill patients requesting one near the end, as they drift in and out of consciousness. It's a way for them to continue receiving Healing care at St Mungo's but they'll appear to be in the comfort of their home, for example."
"Amazing," Pansy murmurs, still feeling off-kilter about it. Or maybe it's just Neville.
"I've also seen it used for a patient, delirious right at the end, absolutely panicked to speak to his wife – but she'd passed away years ago. The Healer on the ward was able to craft an illusion that she was at his bedside to give him some peace in his last moments."
With this, Pansy considers the extensive possibilities. "Alright. What if the one here is meant to make Hermione think something specific?"
"Like what?" He crooks up one corner of his mouth. It brings his dimple out and her throat feels dry. Why does he have to be so cute? So cute and adorable and then so absolutely filthy... She clears her throat.
"I don't know… that the situation isn't what it is."
That's too generic and she knows it. That's exactly what the glamour does, exactly what Neville's described. And yet, it's still tugging at her.
Blaise has overheard and leans in. "Like what?"
"I don't know!" Pansy cries, frustrated.
"We already know it's causing organ damage," he points out and Pansy sees Ginny wince.
"Yes, but – I know that's not a glamour. Enough Healers agree it's causing real damage. But what if it's making her think something different?"
"I don't understand, Parks." Blaise shakes his head and Pansy wants to scream. She doesn't understand either, stamping her foot like a child.
"Healer Vasile's already shown it's not just to mask the curse. If it was, it would have disappeared with the last treatment she tested. It must be there for some other reason, so what could that be?"
Hermione sits. And sits. She thought her bum might have gone numb by now, sharp tingles shooting down her legs, but it hasn't. It's more patient than she is, it would seem.
She left the hotel room, trusting that the chain of communication would reach Draco – if he comes. She couldn't bear waiting in the room any longer. Kitty tried to be a good companion in the lull, and Hermione didn't want to seem ungrateful, but she's torn. Her deep desire to be alone is, she acknowledges, another manifestation of her fears. It's a twisting, a rationalisation, that if she chooses to be alone, she's not giving herself the chance to be disappointed instead.
In the end, it's out of Hermione's hands – at last. She could keep running, yes, but she won't. She's done.
In lieu of the room, she told Kitty she'd be outside, in the little garden. She's chosen a bench among the bright and colourful flowers her room overlooks, tulips on tulips. Red and yellow, bright and happy. She thinks there's a chance Kitty can even see her. At any rate, it's more pleasant to pass the time. It's hard to stay morose in this garden.
She's just as emotionally drained as she was before, but she's decided. If Draco comes, she's done running from the rest of it as well. Whatever time she has, she wants to spend with him. None of it is worth anything if she's alone. She wants to live every second with him, as much as she can get. Maybe that makes her selfish, but she doesn't care anymore.
She wants to live her life with him.