Huge thanks to my wonderful beta, Grace_Clarke for her astounding work!
Hope you enjoy Pansy's introduction, and our first glimpse into Draco's POV.
December 25th, 2002 - Early Evening
After Malfoy had left, Hermione stood there for a moment, her emotions still raw. The weight of her grief pressed down on her chest, threatening to suffocate her. She needed to be alone, away from the well-meaning but ultimately futile assurances of others. Neville had been walking down the hallway on the way to her parents' room as she left, but had let her leave with a gentle a smile and a quiet 'happy Christmas, Hermione,'when he saw the tears in her eyes.
With shaky steps, she retreated to her small flat. The Christmas lights twinkled in the window, casting a warm glow on the wooden floor. Crookshanks, her loyal and slightly cantankerous cat, greeted her with a disdainful look. His squashed face and bushy tail twitched as if to say, 'What took you so long?'
Hermione sank onto the couch, burying her face in her hands. The room felt too empty, too quiet. She missed her mum's laughter, the smell of freshly baked cookies, and the warmth of family gatherings. The realization hit her like a tidal wave: this would be her sixth Christmas without her parents.
Crookshanks jumped onto the couch, settling himself next to her. His purring was oddly comforting, a rhythmic vibration against her side. Hermione absentmindedly stroked his fur, feeling the softness of his ginger coat. He tilted his head, yellow eyes studying her as if assessing her emotional state.
"You know, Crookshanks," Hermione whispered, "Christmas is usually spent with family." Her voice cracked, and she wiped away fresh tears. "And I spent today with Malfoy, of all people."
Crookshanks nuzzled her hand, his sandpaper tongue rasping against her skin. Hermione leaned into his warmth, seeking solace in the simple presence of her feline companion. He didn't judge, didn't offer empty promises. He was just there, a silent witness to her pain.
"It wasn't all bad, boy," she said as she scratched under his chin. "Not completely."
She glanced at the Christmas tree in the corner. The ornaments sparkled, memories of happier times. Hermione reached for the small photo frame on the mantelpiece. It held a picture of her parents, smiling and carefree. She traced their faces with her fingertip, willing herself not to cry again.
"Malfoy thinks he can bring them back," she murmured to Crookshanks. "But it's impossible, isn't it? Surely it's impossible."
Crookshanks blinked at her, as if understanding every word. Hermione sighed. She knew Malfoy's promise was born out of desperation, a desperate hope that clung to her heart like a lifeline.
As the evening darkened and became that odd limbo between night and morning, Hermione curled up on the couch, Crookshanks nestled against her. She closed her eyes, allowing the tears to flow freely. Maybe, just maybe, she'd find a way to honor her parents' memory. Perhaps she'd bake their favorite cookies or light a candle in their honor.
But for now, in this quiet moment with her cat, Hermione allowed herself to grieve.
December 25th, 2002 - Evening
Draco Malfoy had not been back in Britain for long. For a while, the plan had been to stay away forever. Convincing his mother had been the most difficult part of leaving, and it was only because he had promised to continue his education, that she'd finally relented. He hadn't been so thrilled about that agreement, but he understood now that she'd been right.
After just six months of study and travel, he knew he'd found his calling. Maybe it hadn't been when he was younger, but after the War, after Azkaban, healing had become a path of redemption for Draco. He knew he couldn't make up for the wrongs he'd committed in his youth, but he could at least stop more harm from happening, and perhaps heal some that had already been inflicted.
It had taken him a long time to get used to the idea of an untreatable patient, or an unfixable ailment. It didn't sit right with him, the idea of just treating the symptoms, because the sickness was simply too much. Which was why he'd specialized in mind-healing, as experimenting with new treatments in that field were not just tolerated, but encouraged.
Minds were very delicate things, and magic did not mix well with such fragility. Not when the end result relied so much on the caster, on how gentle and subtle their spell-work was. Even more complex though, and possibly more important, was the mindset of the caster at the time of casting. The slightest doubt or deviation in intention had massive and widespread consequences.
The Janus Thickey Ward was full of such examples. Many of the residents were victims of Death Eaters - none of whom were ever renowned for their stability. The casting was often malicious and hungry, but random. It attacked different parts of the brain, at different times for different reasons. It had been difficult to find any sort of rhyme or reason to it when he'd first begun his rounds there, especially in the victims of his aunt or Dolohov.
He had twelve patients, yet, he only had a solid treatment plan for three of them. The others, he was still trialing, and was becoming increasingly despondent about that prospect, as time went on.
"Draco, darling, are you listening to me?"
His mother's dulcet, only-slightly-exasperated tones interrupted his train of thought. He shook his head and smiled distractedly, his attention brought back to the table and the Christmas dinner he was supposed to be sharing with his mother.
They had gotten rid of the grand dinner table that used to reside in the room, downsizing to a simple, live-edge oak table that seated only ten. Draco understood now that his definition of simple might have been a bit skewed, but he appreciated the coziness. It was nice not having to shout every mealtime in order to carry on conversation. He also appreciated the fact that his mother had done away with the traditional seating plan, finding it acceptable to sit across from each other over the width of the table, instead of at either end.
"I'm sorry, Mother, I've been a bit distracted," he apologised charmingly. "What were you saying?"
"I was saying that Pansy will be here shortly."
There was a smile in his mother's voice now, as bright as the one on her face. She was amused at him, and her fondness shone through her scolding. She was dressed as elegantly as he remembered, but far more understated. With his father rotting in Azkaban, his mother had finally been given freedom. She had started with muting the ostentatious Malfoy Manor furniture and decor, before swiftly brightening her wardrobe and simplifying her appearance. She still personified class and sophistication, but without any of the noise and obnoxiousness Lucius had forced on her. Gone were the gaudy necklaces, studded with diamonds and precious jewels along the entire length, locked in a cursed chest that took a drop of blood to open. She'd replaced them with a tasteful string of South Sea pearls, kept safe in a simple, carved mahogany box and guarded by a twirling ballerina. Instead of rich, deep robes of dark, intimidating colour, she chose to dress in lighter shades now, and had even started experimenting with Muggle fashion.
Today was no different. The first time Draco had seen his mother in pink, he thought he was having an aneurysm. Today it made him smile, knowing that if he'd dared call her outfit 'pink', he would have received a fifteen minute lecture on the difference between true pink, magenta and rose gold - which this outfit obviously is, Draco, darling. I truly believe you should be checked for colour-blindness, my love. I can't keep correcting such obvious mistakes without beginning to feel concerned.
"I didn't realise Pansy was back from Helsinki?" Draco replied, taking a bite of the admittedly delicious Christmas lamb.
"I saw her the other day in Diagon Alley. She's only just come back and…" his mother paused, delicately clearing her throat. "She's finding the transition home rather challenging, I believe."
"Did she say that?"
"Of course not, darling, she's far too proud for that," Narcissa waved a dismissive hand, before taking a careful sip of wine. "But Pansy has never been able to lie to me, as you know."
"No one is able to lie to you, Mother." He muttered.
"Thank you, darling. That's a lovely thing to say."
The Malfoy's shared a smirk over the table - something they'd always done, and probably always would.
"In any case, I invited her to come and join us this evening. I would imagine she'll be here by the time dessert is served."
Draco almost chuckled. "That sounds about right." He moved some potato salad around on his plate. "What makes you think she's having a hard time?"
Narcissa didn't reply straight away. She drew back from the table, wiping her mouth daintily with a napkin. She didn't look at him really, more gazed in his direction, as if she was watching a scene in her head.
"The first time I saw Pansy Parkinson leave Diagon Alley, she left with fourteen bags and a dozen custom orders besides. She had a smile on her face that reached the heavens, her chin held high, a swagger in her step. Ever the future pureblood Slytherin princess."
All of a sudden, Narcissa was looking directly at Draco, only now she looked furious and he had to flinch back. She blinked, and her look turned pained as she reached for his hand across the table. He held it as she continued, squeezing her fingers at the tone.
"Oh, my son, you should have seen it. The absolute nerve! Every shop had ordered her gone, and the poor girl was near tears!" She cried, sounding near tears herself. "Even Florean turned her away! She couldn't even eat an ice cream, Draco, it was absolutely abhorrent!"
"It's nothing more than I expected, to be honest, Aunt Cissa."
They both turned to the voice at the threshold. Draco almost didn't recognise her. The last time he'd seen Pansy, she'd been a teenager. No longer a child, but still a girl. That wasn't who he saw now. Pansy was a woman, all sharp corners and carefully crafted curves. Her hair was cut in diagonal lines across her forehead and shoulders, black and straight as glass. She wore a dark green set of robes, emerald skirt tight around her thighs, jade blouse loose around her chest and shoulders. Her shoes were still ridiculously spiky, but she no longer owned the room when she walked - the main reason Draco found her so different. Her posture was still perfectly straight, but it wasn't effortless anymore. Instead, Draco could tell, it took effort to keep her spine so rigidly vertical.
He could see the traces of glamour charms from here, around her eyes and mouth in particular - hiding shadows and wrinkles, he assumed. The bangs obscured the tension in her brow, perhaps, but even that hadn't been spared from an enchantment.
Pansy was putting on a front. Draco's emotions fluctuated wildly between anger and sadness as he looked at her. Magical society's rejection of her was not surprising per se, as Pansy had inferred, yet, still he was outraged on behalf of his friend, and heartbroken she'd been so utterly defeated by it all.
"Pansy, darling, how wonderful to see you! Merry Christmas!"
With all the aplomb necessary, Draco's mother rose from her chair and glided over to her guest. She took her forearm in both her delicate hands and led her to a seat.
"My dear, you look divine!" Narcissa declared, bending swiftly to place a kiss on Pansy's cheek before retaking her seat. "Is that another one of your designs?"
"Oh, no, Aunt Cissa," she dismissed with a sheepish laugh. "I don't really… design much, anymore."
Narcissa's gasp was only vaguely theatric. Draco's reaction was much more subtle - a quick, concerned glance, a quirk of his eyebrows, an irritated tightening of lips. Designing had been Pansy's dream since girlhood. She was always sketching, assembling, sampling, comparing.
Her state of mind must be much more dire than he initially anticipated, if she'd even stopped creating something that had been such an integral part of herself.
"It's nothing to be concerned with - I just find I haven't the time." She dismissed again, staring down at the table as if trying to decipher ancient runes.
"Hm…" Narcissa replied.
Pansy and Draco didn't say anything. They both knew that was the sound Narcissa made when she knew she was being lied to, but was in no rush to find out why. Cutlery made sounds on crockery as they all went back to their meal.
"So, when did you get back, Draco?" Pansy asked, sending him a smile that said quite clearly: please, let me pretend.
"In August," he allowed, smiling gently back. "It took a while to settle back in."
The look of reassurance and relief on Pansy's face was enough to make him livid.
"Your mother said you're working at St Mungo's now?"
"That's right, in the Janus Thickey Ward."
"The Janus…"
Pansy was shocked at that, obviously. Most people were when he made the distinction. It wasn't every healer who chose to work in that ward, and those who were happy with their placement and proud of their work in it were few and far between. Draco had grown up knowing the Janus Thickey Ward was full of undesirables and vagrants, those whose minds were too fragile for the gift of magic. He'd learnt differently since his tenure, but he knew that it would take a while for the rest of the world to catch up.
"I find it rewarding work. I can make a difference there."
Pansy looked away before he could be certain, but Draco could have sworn she teared up. Her voice crackled as she replied.
"I'm happy for you, Draco," she said. "It sounds like you've found what you needed."
"Pansy…"
"Dessert is served." Nordey chirruped from the doorway.
His mother made grateful noises and impressed gestures while the Malfoy elves served, but after the day he'd had stuffing his face with Weasley hors d'oeuvres, he found he wasn't nearly as delighted as his mother.
Then again, there were only six elves in their employ, when there used to be upwards of thirty. It made sense that the quality had diminished somewhat.
Nordey and his twin sister Volpey ran the household with iron fists as butler and housekeeper. The three brothers, Cooby, Janky and Hoddy were young but eager, often getting into mischief due to their overenthusiastic personalities. Then there was Teeky, a quiet, serious soul. She did her work studiously and said very little, but expected you to listen well when she did.
"In honor of our esteemed guest, and the long awaited reunification of the Malfoy family at Christmas-time," Volpey declared dramatically, Draco forced his eyes to remain unrolled. "We have prepared for you a last course fit only for royalty!"
The elves stepped back and stood in a line, awaiting the judgment of their employers. Knowing what was expected, Draco reached for a serving spoon first, taking a healthy portion of trifle and figgy pudding, pouring a generous serving of custard from a porcelain jug over the entire bowl. Pansy reached for her portion next, followed by Narcissa, as dictated by custom - the Master of the House ate first, followed by the guests, followed by the rest of the household.
"Darlings, once again, you have outdone yourselves!" Narcissa decreed, raising her dessert spoon aloft as if it were the Triwizard Cup.
As the rest of the elves bowed and retreated, Teeky crossed the room and stood directly in front of Draco. Her expressive, puppy-dog, brown eyes locked with his, and he saw the determination in her gaze.
"Master Draco has returned home - Teeky is pleased." She murmured.
Bending in his chair to her level, he responded with a voice his father would have caned him for using on a subordinate.
"I am pleased, as well, Teeky. But I've been here for a few months now, you know."
"Teeky knows Master Draco has been in Britain for many months, that is not what she speaks of," the tiny elf seemed irritated at the miscommunication. "Master Draco's home has always been here, in the halls of Malfoy Manor. In Wiltshire. Teeky knows Master Draco had to find himself, but his Lady Mother missed him so. Teeky fervently hopes that Master Draco intends to stay, for Teeky worries for her Mistress if he does not."
Draco smiled at Teeky, carefully straightening the collar of her uniform, before gently clapping a hand on her shoulder.
"Thank you for taking such excellent care of my mother in my absence, Teeky," he said genuinely. "And thank you also for your counsel."
The tiny maid smiled brightly, bowing her head in respect.
"May the season bless the Malfoys, and the lovely Miss Parkinson." Teeky intoned as she gracefully left the room.
"Thank you again, Narcissa, for inviting me," Pansy's voice was a bit brighter for the distraction. "It's always an adventure at the Malfoy table."
"We're only too happy to have you, my dear," The Malfoy matriarch responded smoothly. "Now, you must tell me more about your time in Helsinki."
Draco took a distracted sip of warm apple cider and ate a fork full of pudding. He made noises at appropriate intervals, and managed to respond to direct questions at times. As the conversation flowed inevitably onwards to its shallow, pureblood conclusion though, he began to zone out completely. The denial and dismissal of emotions and vulnerability was not healthy, but a cultural norm here. Pansy would probably benefit from some sessions with a mind healer. It was clear, however, that she was not in a place to even admit she felt any disappointment, regret or heartbreak at all, let alone sit down and talk about that with a stranger.
Unbidden, and, yet, not completely shocking to his system, the image of Granger swam before his mind's eye. She had always been more emotional than the people he knew and understood. Her passion and drive had always confused him - so close to the surface, so obnoxiously in your face. She cared so much, and was so obvious about it. The tears she'd shed in his presence, the lack of embarrassment on her part, was unlike anything he'd ever known.
It was heartbreaking and inspiring, all at once.
December 25th, 2002 - Late Evening
After they'd finished dining, his mother bid her farewells and retreated to bed, making Draco frown at her sudden exhaustion. She had waved him off dismissively, explaining it was just her age and all this excitement.
"I'm much too old to be staying up so late with the young people, my love," Narcissa had insisted, cradling his left cheek with her hand. "But please, stay and catch up with Pansy. You were always so close when you were small."
Pansy had found a particularly interesting bauble on the mantelpiece in the sitting room. She avoided his gaze like the absolute plague, the moment Narcissa had left the room. As Draco observed her movements, that same uncomfortable mix of emotions bubbled to the surface once more. He knew, however, that bursting out with indignant questions and concerned sympathy would only make Pansy withdraw further.
"So, what brought you back, Pansy?" He asked, moving swiftly to the drinks cart and pouring two tumblers of Ogden's Finest, his tone casual. "Not enough entertainment for you in Helsinki?"
"You can only do the Globus Mundi Broom Tour so many times," she responded just as casually, sending him a brief smirk over her shoulder. "What about you? Run out of rivers to paddle down?"
"I never paddled, Pansy."
"Sure, you didn't."
He let the dig go, handing Pansy her tumbler before reclining in an overstuffed wingback.
"It's been odd being back," he said, sipping his whiskey. "The wizarding world has a long memory."
"Not long enough."
The bauble she was playing with found the mantelpiece with a thud, and there was a definite snarl in Pansy's voice. She threw back her glass of alcohol with a practiced ease that made Draco raise a brow. Not looking at him, she marched over to the drink cart and refilled the tumbler - almost to the brim. She took a deep gulp and turned back to face him, moving swiftly to the opposite overstuffed wingback.
"Quit fishing, Draco," Pansy said, only she didn't sound angry - she didn't even sound annoyed - only tired. "Your mother was there whilst I embarrassed myself all across Diagon Alley. Ask me what you actually want to know, so I can just go home."
With that, her chin met her palm, elbow pointed on the arm of her chair. She took a long, slow sip from the glass in her hand and waited.
Draco leaned back in the wingback, the firelight casting shadows across the room. Pansy's words hung in the air, laden with history and unspoken truths. He studied her face - the sharp angles, the weariness etched into her features. The Pansy he remembered from Hogwarts was different, but then again, so was he.
"Diagon Alley," he mused, swirling the whiskey in his glass. "That must have been quite the spectacle."
Pansy's eyes flickered, and for a moment, he glimpsed vulnerability. "Embarrassing, more like. I was weeping like a child, so hard I stumbled over my own robes, knocked over a display of quills, and—" She paused, her fingers tracing the rim of her tumbler. "And I saw your mother. Narcissa Malfoy, standing there, all elegance and pity. She didn't say a word, just looked at me as if I were a particularly pathetic child."
Draco's chest tightened. "She can be... formidable. But you know she's always loved you."
Pansy scoffed. "But why did you come back, Draco? Why now?"
He hesitated, the memories flooding back—the aftermath of the war, the crumbling remnants of their world. "I needed to see it for myself. The changes, the scars. And perhaps..." He trailed off, unsure how to voice the ache that had driven him across continents.
"Perhaps what?" Pansy leaned forward, her eyes searching his.
"Closure," he admitted. "Answers. Maybe even redemption."
She studied him, her expression unreadable. "And what about us? The past? You said it yourself - The Wizarding World has a long memory. Just because we try to move on doesn't mean society will."
Draco's gaze dropped to the bauble on the mantelpiece—the delicate glass sphere that held secrets and regrets. "We were children then, Pansy. Caught up in a war we didn't fully understand. But now..."
"Now?" Her voice was a whisper.
He reached across the space between them, his fingers brushing hers. "Now, I want to know if there's something left to salvage. If we can find a way to heal."
Pansy's eyes held a mixture of pain and longing. "Healing isn't easy, Draco. Sometimes it's messy, and it hurts."
He nodded. "But it's worth it."
And in that quiet room, with the fire crackling and the weight of their shared history, Draco wondered if perhaps his friend might find the strength to be fragile.
Pansy took another sip of her whiskey, her gaze never leaving his. "Ask your questions, then. I'll answer."
"What happened in Diagon Alley, Pans?"
Her nails tapped on her glass, keeping time. Her jade eyes were faraway, sad verging on angry - so different from the girl he knew.
"What happens every time I step outside in this Merlin-forsaken country? The people let me know just how unworthy I am to breathe the same air as them."
Leaning back, Pansy lounged into her wingback. The black velvet made her pale face stand out all the more, bags even more prominent under her eyes. She looked tired. She looked decades older than her age. She looked sad.
She looked lonely.
"Every time?"
He hated himself for checking when she looked him dead in the eyes, completely dead-eyed - but then again, Pansy had always been dramatic when he knew her. She let the moment drag on for what felt like an eternity, before she put the tumbler to her lips, opened her mouth wide, and gulped down the rest of the whiskey.
"Every. Time." She confirmed, sounding stone-cold sober. "If you'll remember, Draco, I'm the bitch who tried to give the Chosen One up to the Dark Lord. Never mind that I was seventeen, never mind the fact he threatened to kill us all, never mind the fact I'd already watched him kill and torture my own fucking–" she cut herself off, and her hand covered her eyes as she leant forward on her knees again.
Draco heard her breathing, loud and choppy in the space. Her hands shook as she fought back her emotions, the glass finding her lips again. When she found it empty, she let out a snarl, striding over to the drink cart for a refill. Draco remained still, his face pinched in empathy. It was only when she'd taken another two calming sips and walked back, this time to sit on the footstool in front of Draco's chair, looking small and childlike, that Pansy spoke again.
"Never mind all that," her voice countered her dry face, her sadness audible as she spoke around a lump in her throat. "That one decision has haunted my every step, Draco. And it won't end. It doesn't matter what I do or how I speak or who I choose to associate with. The only thing that matters is that one choice I made when I was a child, terrified that I and everyone I knew would be murdered."
Draco leaned back in his chair, studying Pansy. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and the weight of her past seemed to press down on her fragile shoulders. They had been through so much together - their shared Pureblood childhood, Hogwarts, the war, and now this quiet room where memories hung like cobwebs.
"You're not alone," Draco said softly. "We all carry our burdens, Pans. Some are heavier than others."
Pansy scoffed, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. "You don't understand, Draco. You were always the golden boy - the one who could choose redemption. But me? I'm forever stained by that one choice."
Draco's gaze softened. "We were all children then. The Dark Lord's grip was suffocating. You did what you thought was necessary."
"But at what cost?" Pansy's voice cracked. "I betrayed my own kind. I betrayed–" Her eyes flickered toward the window, as if expecting a ghost from the past to materialize.
Draco reached across the space between them, covering her trembling hand with his. "Pans, we can't change the past. But we can choose our future."
She pulled away, her eyes defiant. "And what future is that? More loneliness? More judgment?"
"No," Draco said firmly. "A future where we both find redemption. Where we heal old wounds and build something new."
Pansy's laughter was bitter. "Redemption? Draco, we're not heroes. We're survivors. And survival comes at a price."
He leaned closer. "Maybe it's time we redefine that price. Maybe it's not about what we've done, but what we do now."
She studied him, her jade eyes searching. "And what if it's too late?"
"It's never too late," Draco vowed.
Pansy's gaze softened, and her shoulders relaxed. "You always were ever the optimist."
"Someone has to be."