Pansy,

Would you like to come to France for tea tomorrow at 2pm?

I'll take care of everything.

Draco

To say that Pansy had been on tenterhooks since receiving this letter was an understatement.

She had rewritten her reply a dozen times before sending it and had practically jumped for joy once Wynn had left with it.

She still couldn't believe it. She was overexcited. It was the first time in almost two months that she'd felt this good, this happy. Draco had agreed to talk to her again, to see her again! She intended to take advantage of their time together to make amends, to act in earnest and make him understand just how she blamed herself.

She didn't know if Hermione had contacted Harry, but she was optimistic. Maybe they would finally listen to them, forgive them. Things would be better between them, everything would work out and they would be happy. Yes, it couldn't be any other way.

She had promised herself not to hope, not to expect forgiveness or believe that they could move on. Nevertheless, as she watched Wynn's wings disappear over the horizon, Pansy couldn't help believing that everything would be better from now on. She couldn't see it any other way. Because if he had contacted her, it was because he wanted to reconnect, wasn't it?

She beat herself up about it. She hated herself for ruining everything, for being the reason for all of this. She had seen so much anger, so much disgust in Draco's eyes that it had been enough to haunt her for weeks. The very idea that he might be angry with her made her nauseous. His opinion, his pride in her, meant so much. He was her best friend.

She had reduced her missions for her foundation, relagating everything to her assistant, a childhood friend who worked in accounting. A real gem.

But Pansy ate little, slept little and her health had deteriorated. She didn't feel like making any effort any more, and was content to dwell on all her mistakes, berating herself for not foreseeing the situation. She deserved her condition, she was sure of it. She was in the same situation as her friends and it was for the best.

She barely spoke, only addressing her husband when it became crucial. She was distracted, losing concentration too quickly because of the many negative thoughts that invaded her mind. Blaise no longer touched her, not that she wanted him to.

It had been weeks and she was far from over it.

Nevertheless, she had to admit that she had done a lot of thinking in those weeks. She had taken a step back from the situation, difficult though it was. She realised her mistakes, realised just how wrong she had been.

She hadn't talked to anyone about it, not even her husband. He had withdrawn after New Year's Eve and hadn't wanted to broach the subject once. He was content to support her when she was unwell, and she would support him when he was standing in front of the Wizengamot.

In a way, this had driven them apart. He spent less time at home and she no longer dared ask him for anything, afraid an argument would break out. He was present when she was at her weakest and wonderfully looked after her, but those were the only moments that brought them together.

Blaise blamed himself and she blamed herself. It was as if they were ashamed, as if they didn't want to admit their weaknesses to each other. He didn't share his feelings, he didn't admit his wrongs. And she didn't dare to talk about it, for fear that he would lose his temper.

She thought it was ridiculous, and yet she hadn't done anything to change it. She was content to think about it by herself. That was enough.

She wanted to make amends, at all costs, that was what came to light after all the reflexion. She wanted to make Draco understand that she'd never wanted to use Hermione, that she was sorry she'd let her think so. She wanted to apologise to Hermione for not seeing any of this, for believing that everything was fine, that everything was better.

She hated herself for not understanding any of the obvious signs indicating that Hermione had continued to go downhill after Dracos arrival. Maybe Pansy hadn't wanted to see it. She hated herself for that.

As it were, Pansy was lost. Lost between her desire to be forgiven and her desire to bury herself alive because she was so ashamed. She blamed herself so much that she would have preferred them to hate her. She clung to them as if they were going to solve all her problems, when deep down she wanted them to shout at her that it was all her fault and that she was right to feel as she did.

She had been torturing herself for weeks, and the more she passed in front of that window, the more Pansy thought that she should have refused. She had no right to their forgiveness, or to any kind of relationship. She didn't deserve it. None of them deserved it.

Draco and Hermione had been far too good, far too fair. Everyone had played them. Everyone had ruined everything, they'd all been far too selfish.

Pansy would have to suffer their wrath and, deep down, she hoped she would. She was both afraid of being in front of Draco, but also anxious for him to make her understand everything she had missed. It would determine so much between them. It would be crucial.

oOo

Blaise had decided to stay in his office for the night. Again.

He'd spent the morning dealing with one of his wife's crying fits and he'd had enough. He was exhausted, lost. Pansy was becoming another burden on his already busy day.

He loved her with all his heart, there was no doubt about it. She was his wife, the love of his youth and life, and he cared for her more than anything else in the world. However, it was becoming increasingly difficult for them to live together. He felt as if they were dancing the waltz of their lives to different rhythms.

Pansy was constantly on edge, spending her days in their bed or on the sofa and refusing to do anything else. She cried a lot, as if she was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. When he stayed with her, sometimes she fell asleep in his arms after a long bout of sobbing. It was heavy, tiring.

So Blaise would pretend to have a lot of work to do—which wasn't entirely untrue—and spend the night in his office. Maybe he did it too often, maybe he should go home. But it was too difficult and far too tempting to stay here in the quiet.

It was past eight o'clock, and night had been slowly creeping into his office. Blaise had lit several candles on his desk so that he could work and was bent over the Stan Rocade file.

He had met with Rocade's father earlier in the day, who had once again urged him to do his best to free his son. He had offered him a considerable sum of money in hope that Blaise would concentrate solely on Stan, but he, the uncorrupt lawyer he was, had refused. Money wouldn't change anything and Blaise wasn't dishonest. The man was already spending a lot of money to free his son, there was no point in impoverishing him any further.

His office door opened as he was drafting a new letter to the Wizengamot, requesting an appeal hearing for the prisoner Rocade. He looked up as Hannah Abbot closed the door. He smiled tiredly.

"I take it you're spending the night again," she said as she approached.

She had put on her cape and bonnet, ready to go home.

"Thomas Rocade came by earlier," he explained, resuming his letter.

She raised an eyebrow and walked around his desk to take a look at what he was writing.

"You keep telling me every month that it's a lost cause."

"Because it is," he replied, dipping the tip of his pen into the ink. "But his father is desperate, he's on the verge of tears every time he comes to see me."

"You give him hope, Blaise. He deserves to know better."

He sighed. He knew that she was right, he had made that promise to himself before every meeting with Thomas, and he held true, right up to the moment Thomas gave him that tearful look he couldn't resist.

Blaise put down his pen and ran a hand over his face. He was at his wit's end. He dreamt of his bed, but was already imagining having to wait for his wife to fall asleep or endure yet another argument about what time he was coming home.

Then he felt Hannah's hand on his shoulder as she crouched down beside him.

"You should go home and rest, Blaise," she whispered.

He didn't move.

"I can't, I–"

He fell silent. He felt weak like this, it wasn't him. He'd never shown himself to be so vulnerable.

"Blaise, you're overworked. You've been killing yourself over this case for months, you deserve a break."

"There are people counting on me."

"Look at me."

He complied and turned his head towards her. Hannah was watching him with implacable seriousness. She hadn't let go of his shoulder. Blaise shivered.

"They'll wait. You're at the end of your tether, you'll end up cracking and none of your clients will be there to scrape you off the ground. They'll wait. You–"

He was having trouble listening to her. His thoughts had turned into a jumble in his skull. He couldn't take it any more.

As she spoke, he fixed his gaze on her mouth, on her lips that moved to the rhythm of her words. Why was she being so nice to him? He felt understood. He could even confide in her.

"Hannah," he said suddenly.

She fell silent and he could see the confusion on her face. Then, on impulse, he leaned towards her and pressed his lips to hers.

He felt her freeze against him for a second, before she pulled away, her face in shock. He felt all his blood leave his body as she stood up, babbling incomprehensible words.

"Wait, I–"

She had left his office before he could finish his sentence.

Blaise fell back against the back of his chair, staring at the door.

And in a blink of an eye he just ruined everything.

oOo

The day was calm, peaceful and perfectly ordinary. Quite the opposite from what was taking place within Draco's mind, which seemed to have been shaken by a storm of negative thoughts and apprehensions.

He had slept very little and woken up with a raging headache. Wynn had kept pecking at him when he had tried to stroke her, then he had slipped in the bath when he got up. To make matters worse, he ruined the pancakes he'd wanted to make for breakfast. Hermione had ended up suggesting that they settle for bread, butter and jam, much to his annoyance.

This day had started terribly and it wasn't getting any better.

Draco had been pacing in circles in the kitchen since he finished his breakfast. He'd made a whole bunch of little financiers and scones to go with the tea he'd be having with Pansy and was now waiting for her to show up.

Time stretched. Very long. Too long. He counted the seconds on the clock above the hanger.

He had rearranged the tea set a dozen times on the kitchen island and even added four or five more jars of jam. Perhaps Pansy would prefer strawberry, or orange, or apricot. He wanted to be sure that everything would be perfect.

Because everything had to be perfect, right?

He had rehearsed the little speech he would give her so many times that he knew it like the back of his hand. He had even recited it to Hermione, who had promised him that it was perfect.

She had been the one who motivated him to contact Pansy. They had talked about the situation so often that he had grown tired of it. Hermione had given him her point of view and explained everything that had happened since Draco's arrival in France. She had even tried to diminish her feelings, to convince him that everything was better now and that she didn't blame them any more, but he had been clear.

They couldn't afford to forgive their friends again without consequences. They had to regain their fighting spirit, their humanity. They had to show them that they would no longer accept any of this. Because if they didn't, they would only be opening the door to similar situations. What would happen next time?

He understood Hermione, of course. He himself sometimes found it hard to choose between his anger and his desire to see his friends again. He felt that the hurt had passed, that things had calmed down and that missing them outweighed everything else. Until Hermione reminded him that they'd been unfair to Draco, that they hadn't treated him like a human, but like something to be saved.

Every time she told him that, he couldn't help but tell her that the reverse was true and that she too had to make up her mind. He was touched to see that they helped each other on this point. Neither of them gave the other a chance to make a mistake.

That was what had made him decide to contact Pansy. He wanted to talk to her for real. He'd read each one of her letters and he wanted to know if she was capable of being a better friend, if she'd learned from her mistakes and if she was in a place to start up their friendship again. He wanted to make things right, he wanted to understand.

Hermione had reminded him that he was under no obligation to forgive her or even to contact her, that he was doing it for him and no one else. Something he tended to forget. And each time, Draco had smiled at her and reminded her that it was the same for her and Harry.

She hadn't contacted him, and she hadn't answered his letters. She wasn't ready, she said.

Draco didn't know if she ever would be. He had seen so much sadness in her eyes when she spoke of him that he had preferred not to rub salt in the wound by urging her to imitate him.

Pansy would be here any minute now. The clock showed two o'clock and everything was ready. The water was in the kettle and he had put on his best shirt.

Soon, the portkey apparition sounded outside. He was reassured that she hadn't arrived directly in the living room. Draco inhaled feverishly, closed his eyes for half a second to give himself courage and left the kitchen towards the front door.

A strange sensation ran through his body as he placed his hand on the handle. He felt at home. He was opening the door to a guest, like the master of the house he had come to be.

He wondered if Hermione saw him that way.

Pansy was wearing a long grey winter skirt with large checks, which fell just above her ankles. Underneath, she had put on white tights which she had covered with a pair of black moccasins. She tucked a brown woollen jumper into the skirt at waist height, with a white shirt collar protruding from it, and covered it all with a long, straight, belted cream coat. She wore a pearl necklace, a small black leather handbag, a blue and white scarf around her head and a pair of sunglasses that were useless on this rainy day.

"Draco."

"Pansy."

He pretended to not notice the trembling of her hands as she passed him and entered. He pretended not to hear her feverish breathing as she discreetly tried to exhale. He pretended not to see the quick glances she gave him as she undid her scarf and took off her coat. He pretended not to notice the thinness of her face and her sunken cheeks.

It was better this way, easier.

She followed him into the kitchen and sat down in a high chair in front of the still-warm feast he had prepared. He realised then that perhaps he had prepared too much. It was always like that, he couldn't get the quantities right.

He served them tea without a word, his head down and his thoughts focused on his actions. It was much easier to think of nothing else, wasn't it?

When they were seated opposite each other, their eyes fixed on the steam rising from their cups, a tense silence settled in. Long. Heavy. Painful.

Draco had a lot to say to her, but it all seemed to disappear from his mind as he watched her through his pale eyelashes. She hadn't looked at him once. She was clutching her fingers around her mug so tightly that her knuckles had turned white. He had never seen her so nervous, given how careful she was about her posture and expressions. So he just stared at his hands in turn.

"I'm sorry," she eventually blurted out.

Draco's tea had gone cold in the meantime. He hadn't taken a single sip, unable to swallow anything.

"I know."

"Have you read my letters?" she asked hopefully.

He nodded and looked up at her. She was looking at him at last. Her face was contorted with worry and fear, yet her eyes were full of hope. A striking contrast.

Pansy's eyes filled with tears and she immediately lowered her head to hide them.

"If you only knew how much I hate myself," she admitted in a whisper. "I feel like I've failed at the only mission I set for myself."

"Which is?

"Taking care of you."

Draco swallowed hard and stood up suddenly to clear his untouched cup of tea. He needed to do something, to move.

"Why?"

"Because you're my best friend."

"And that's enough for you to give up your whole life to just do this?" he asked in an involuntarily dry tone.

He heard her shift in her chair. He turned on the cold water tap and rinsed his cup. His throat was tight with emotion. Anger, incomprehension, sadness.

"Yes, because it's right, because it's what I should have done years ago. I should have been there for you and helped you to–helped you to–"

She didn't finish her sentence, and he was grateful for that.

"I never blamed you," he said, grabbing a sponge to clean his cup.

He could have just rinsed it, but he felt the need to keep his hands busy. He turned on the hot water tap.

"Draco, I–"

She took a long breath before continuing.

"I want to make amends, I want to apologise. I should never have done all this, I should never have thought it was what you wanted. I thought it was the right thing to do, that you'd get better and Granger would too. I was so focused on you that I didn't think she wouldn't want any of this. I was blindsided because I was afraid of losing you."

She sniffed with a mirthless laugh.

"In the end, I managed to do just the opposite."

He closed his eyes and put the cup down in the sink. The water continued to run over his fingers, but he didn't care.

"She had become my friend and I ruined everything."

He was unable to contradict her. Even though Hermione seemed ready to forgive them all, Draco knew that it took more than that, that it wasn't enough. He didn't want her to forgive them, he didn't want her to suffer any more. Hermione sometimes found it hard to hold a grudge against those closest to her, to be objective in order to preserve herself. She was far too focused on others.

"I'll do everything I can to make it up to you, Draco. I won't be absent like Blaise or like Harry, I–"

He found it strange that she spoke of her husband in this way. Why did she remain neutral about Blaise's inactivity? Why did she sweep it under the carpet as if it wasn't a problem?

"I want to do something for you."

"You've already done a lot."

He was almost angry at himself for answering like that. Almost.

He thought back to Hermione's state at New Year's Eve dinner, the way she had withdrawn and passively let the evening pass. He remembered the way their friends had been so ignorant towards her. His anger surged and he closed his eyes to keep it from boiling over. He had to control his emotions, as he had done so well for so many years.

"Draco, I–"

Her voice was shaky, almost sobbing. A surge of guilt gripped Draco's heart. He'd never seen Pansy like this.

"I'm so sorry. I'll apologise to Hermione when she agrees to see me, I swear! I won't meddle in your lives anymore, I'll respect your–your privacy and I won't come over if you don't want me to!"

Draco suddenly turned off the tap and faced her.

Her eyes were brimming with tears and her nose was red. She immediately looked away, stood up and turned her back to him. He could feel her shame. Ashamed of her behaviour, ashamed of her tears, ashamed of having to grovel like this to be forgiven.

It gripped Draco's heart a little tighter. He suddenly felt bad. He felt as if he was holding her life in his hands, that her well-being depended on him, on his decision. He felt he was going too far. She was his friend, she meant a lot to him. He didn't want to hurt her. It was as if everything depended on his judgement.

Was this how she had felt in the months following his release from Azkaban? Had she felt powerful, superior to him? Was that why she had acted the way she had, without caring what was going on around them?

He swallowed. He hated that feeling. He couldn't stand the hold he had over her.

He remembered his years at Hogwarts, when he had enjoyed being able to control other people's reputations, their insignificant little lives and their ordinary schooling. He had enjoyed this dominant role and this position of authority.

But he had lived, he had seen and he had suffered. He had lived through those years of suffering and submission. He had seen the damage caused by such megalomania, such power over others. He had suffered the unhealthy, dangerous aspect of such power.

He knew where it began, when it degenerated. And he was afraid of it. Anything that reminded him of those years of suffering did not deserve to see the light of day.

He clenched his fist and sighed.

"Swear it to me," he breathed as he rounded the kitchen island to face Pansy.

He wanted to see it in her eyes, he wanted to check that she would do her best.

Pansy nodded slowly, as if struggling to take in what was happening.

Draco raised a hand and held out his pinky to her. She looked at him confused, then her eyes widened. An amused smile spread across their lips as she crossed her finger with his.

"I swear, Draco."

He was transported back fifteen years, when they had just entered Hogwarts and nothing was more important than friendship.

"Swear to me that you'll always be my best friend," Draco said.

Pansy smiled at him with all her teeth, her eyes still sparkling with innocence.

"I swear, Draco!"

He smiled and let go of her hand, without taking his eyes off her. She had kept her first promise and he knew she would keep her second.