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hp_goldenageTitle: Ever After
Author:![[archiveofourown.org profile]](https://p.dreamwidth.org/b164c54b26e4/-/archiveofourown.org/favicon.ico)
humanveil
Characters/Pairings: Pansy Parkinson/Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy.
Rating: G.
Word Count: 2,715.
Content/Warning(s): Coming out, referenced/implied off-screen homophobia.
Summary: You can only live a lie for so long. At the age of fifty-five, Pansy finally comes clean.
A/N: This ended up leaning more toward a gen work than originally anticipated, but I hope it resembles at least some of what the prompter was hoping for. Thank you to A. for the speedy beta; any remaining mistakes are my own.
Read at AO3 or below:
The first person Pansy ever tells is Draco.
They’re fourteen, almost fifteen. It’s an offhand comment at first—a harmless “she’s rather cute, isn’t she?”—but it’d turned into so much more.
Draco hadn’t shared her opinion, and in retrospect, Pansy thinks that should’ve been the first sign, both for him and for her. She remembers every detail of the exchange, has often played it out in her head late at night, when it was safe to think about it—to hope, to dream. She hadn’t quite understood the swirl of emotion at the time, but she’d grown to; had grown to understand it far, far too well. She’d buried it once she’d known what it was. Had been encouraged to bury it by everyone else, too. She’d thought it was the right thing to do—that it would make things easier, better.
She never imagined just how wrong she’d be.
Now, over forty years later, Draco is the first person she tells for a second time. It is no more elegant than the first, perhaps less so. She is drunk on wine and splayed across a fainting couch in one of Malfoy Manor’s many sittings rooms, her tongue loose with intoxication. The annual New Year’s celebration had ceased hours ago, the Manor empty save the few people Draco had allowed to stay. The others had scattered, had fallen into bed, most with company but some without. Only the two of them remain.
She’s not entirely sure why she says it, not sure what compels her to admit it. All she knows is that there’s been a hollow feeling in her chest since she was fifteen, since her mother had told her that she ought not to feel the way she does, that it’s not something a respectable pureblood should discuss. The hollowness had only ever grown; had expanded with every failed relationship, every secret hook up, every paid encounter. It weighs down on her chest now, the force like that of a looming threat, a void. It’s weaved its way into every part of her being, and if she doesn’t do something about it now, Pansy is sure it’ll swallow her whole.
The divorce had been the tipping point. Pansy can still envision signing the papers; can almost smell the parchment, the cackling fire. It’d been finalised just before Christmas, just after she’d stopped pretending to try. She’d let the relationship fizzle without ever giving a reason why, and now, among the calls of resolutions and goals and new year, new mes, Pansy supposes it is as good a time as any to finally come clean.
“I like women,” she says. It’s simple, to the point. Her voice is a near monotone, her face expressionless. Some part of her knows it’s a defence mechanism—hide the vulnerability, play it off as a joke if all doesn’t go well. There’s something to be said about old habits.
The words are followed by a tense moment of silence, a long minute where she can feel her heart in her throat. From where she lies, she can’t see Draco; only has view of the Manor’s high, intricate ceilings. She ignores the urge to turn around.
“I know,” comes Draco’s voice eventually.
Pansy’s head snaps to the side. Draco sits on the other end of the room, his robes draped over him almost like a blanket. A champagne flute is held in hand, the delicate glass filled almost to the brim with a thick, melted chocolate. There’s a platter of fruit hovering at his side, and Pansy watches as he plucks a strawberry from the plate, as he dips it into the sea of chocolate, brings it to his mouth.
“You know,” she repeats. It’s a bewildered statement, not a question, but Draco answers anyway.
“You’ve already told me.”
He says it with a shrug, the lift of his shoulder elegant, even now. Pansy sits up in her seat, adjusts herself to look at him properly. “Years ago,” she says. “We were children.”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t think you remembered.”
There’s a soft sigh, a quiet shuffle as Draco puts his glass down. “Even if you hadn’t,” he tells her, “you didn’t hide it very well.”
The words are a shock to Pansy. She’d thought she’d done just fine, that her preferences had been a well-kept secret, even from those closest to her. To discover the opposite sends a jolt of panic through her.
“You didn’t think to say anything?”
“What would you have me say?” Draco asks her. “‘Maybe the reason your marriage is failing is because you’re a raging lesbian?’” The words are sardonic, his expression shrewd. “I don’t think that would have went well.”
Pansy stares at him, her mouth parted slightly. She’s speechless for the first time in a long time; Draco’s words making her re-evaluate everything she’d thought she knew. Draco watches her, any traces of sarcasm slowly disappearing until his expression is serious once more.
“Look,” Draco says, sighs. The exhale breaks their prolonged silence, the sound followed by soft footsteps. Pansy isn’t surprised when he sits down beside her, his body close but not touching. “I thought you were waiting until you were ready.”
Pansy exhales softly, suddenly too aware of her own exhaustion. She had been waiting, in a way. Waiting until she was ready, waiting until she had to, until she couldn’t bear to hide it. Until she could get the words out without the fear, the little voice in the back of her head that told her she was faking, that she’d be fine, that she should be happy to have her husband. The voice isn’t here now, though. Now, there is only the euphoria that follows confession, the lightness of removing a weight from her shoulders, of having it be understood. Now, there is truth, certainty: the sensation both frightening and exhilarating.
She leans against the couch with a heavy sigh, lifts a hand to push the hair from her eyes. “It only took me fifty bloody years.”
Draco grins. “Took me thirty,” he reminds her. He reaches out, one hand curling around Pansy’s in a gentle hold. “At least you’re still pretty.”
Pansy snorts, the sound airy. Breathy. “The upside,” she jokes. Her fingers intertwine with Draco’s, squeeze lightly. “What do I do now?”
It’s soft, uncertain. Draco leans back, lets Pansy drop her head to his shoulder. There’s a moment of hesitation, and then: “How about a date?”
Pansy glances up at him, an eyebrow arched. “What,” she says. “Like dinner and a show?”
“Like a drink at the pub.”
“With who?”
“I know someone,” Draco tells her. His mouth twitches, a small, mischievous smirk working its way onto his face. “A colleague. She drives me mad. You’ll like her.”
“I haven’t been on a date in years,” Pansy says, though the idea isn’t unappealing. She trusts Draco to pick someone she’d like, or at least be able to tolerate for one night.
“I think you can manage one drink,” Draco says, and Pansy knows he’s already picturing it; can practically see the plan play out behind his eyes.
There’s very little protesting after that.
***
“No.”
The word slips from Pansy’s mouth the second she sees Hermione Granger walk through the door of the pub, as if the response is instinct. She doesn’t wait for Granger to walk to her table, doesn’t need her to introduce herself to know that she’s the person Draco had set her up with. It’s obvious; obvious enough that Pansy almost feels like an idiot for not figuring it out. Draco’s contact with Ministry officials is limited, but she’s heard him complain about Granger more times than she cares to count.
More than that, she’d been talking about Granger. Fourteen, almost fifteen, caught up in the chaos of the Yule Ball. She’s rather cute, isn’t she?
“I’m going to kill Draco,” is what she says once Granger is in earshot. It’s strained, muttered through her teeth. Her hand is curled around her bag, as if she’s ready to up and leave, to stop it before it starts. As if the word mistake is already sitting on the tip of her tongue.
“Malfoy said you might react that way,” Granger informs her. She’s smiling: big, bright, beautiful.
“Of course he did,” Pansy snaps. She exhales slowly, glances up at Granger. They haven’t seen each other in years, but not much has changed. Granger looks a little older, perhaps; a few more wisps of grey hair hidden amongst the chestnut, a few more lines etched on her face, but still the same. Still Granger.
There’s a beat of awkward, tension filled silence where Granger only stands there, like she’s waiting for an invitation to sit. Pansy doesn’t give her one, just lets her wait while the tension builds; until she’s itching with the urge to disappear.
“Well,” Pansy starts after a pause, “this was fun. I’d say let’s do it again, only I don’t think either of us want that.”
She stands from her seat, takes two steps toward the door when a hand darts out, curls around her wrist. Pansy looks down in surprise, drags her gaze from Granger’s grip of her arm to her face. Her eyebrow is arched, waiting for an explanation.
“At least stay for a drink,” Granger says. “We can manage that much, can’t we?”
Pansy hesitates. The hostility of their school days is over, but they’re still not friends. Not anywhere near it. There isn’t anything to talk about.
Granger looks as if she can read her thoughts, like she knows everything Pansy is thinking. A soft sigh escapes her lips when Pansy doesn’t respond. “You aren’t curious why Draco sent me?”
Pansy stares, like she’s gauging Granger’s sincerity. It takes a minute, but she eventually slips back into her seat, her posture tight with tension. Granger grins, like she’s proud of herself, and takes the one adjacent.
“Should I be?” Pansy asks. Her hands are curled around the stem of her wineglass, her dark nails matching the deep red of the liquid. She traces the surface, keeps her hands busy.
Granger shrugs lightly. “Maybe.”
She doesn’t add anything to it, just leaves it at that. Pansy sighs, her eyes rolling as if they were still fifteen and not fifty-five. “Go on, then,” she says. “I can tell you’re dying to get it out.”
There’s a spare glass, the bottle of wine sat in a bucket of ice. Granger pours herself a drink before speaking, and Pansy can’t help but notice her mouth when she takes a sip: glistening lips, stained a soft red. Tempting as a pink tongue peeks out to swipe at a drop of wine.
“I was just like you ten years ago,” Granger tells her. She’s trying to keep it light, Pansy can tell. Casual. “Newly divorced. Confused. Terrified.”
“I thought Gryffindors didn’t experience terror,” Pansy interrupts. She does it without thinking, the words sipping out before she can stop herself.
Granger sends her an even stare. “Everyone experiences fear,” she says. “It’s working through it that makes you brave.”
Pansy wants to roll her eyes, but she doesn’t. Just brings her glass to her mouth, takes a large gulp.
“I was questioning my sexuality,” Granger admits, and Pansy looks up in interest. It’s no longer a secret—Granger’s affairs with both men and woman have long since been plastered throughout the Prophet—but it is intriguing. “I went on some bad dates, made some regrettable choices. But I did make peace with myself.”
“And now Draco thinks you can help me do the same,” Pansy finishes. She sighs, rubs at her forehead to ease the budding headache.
Granger smiles softly. “Is it really so improbable?”
“I’m not a questioning thirteen-year-old,” Pansy says. “I’m a business women who knows what she wants—what I like. Making peace with myself isn’t the issue.”
“No,” Granger agrees. “It’s everything else, right? You’re worried how people will take it; wondering if you waited too long.” She tilts her head, a knowing look in her eye. “Scared you won’t know how to live on your own terms.”
Pansy swallows, doesn’t dare drop her gaze. As if looking away is an admission of failure. “And if I am?”
“It’s no surprise,” Granger says. “Our teenage years were spent fighting a war. There wasn’t a whole lot of time for self-discovery.”
“I knew before that.”
“It still stands.”
Silence falls over them. Granger stares at her, and Pansy can feel the burning intensity in her gaze, the full force of her attention. She stares like Pansy is the only one in the room, like the rest of the pub doesn’t exist at all. It’s both unnerving and thrilling, sends a jolt of something inexplicable through her; something new and exciting. Something she hasn’t felt in a long, long time.
“How did Draco get you to agree?” Pansy asks, because she wants to know. She knows it couldn’t have been easy, simple. Knows he must’ve promised Granger something in return. “I can’t imagine you jumped at the opportunity.”
Granger sends her a look, the expression something secretive, covert. Coy. “He promised me a date with a beautiful woman,” she says. And then: “I’m still hoping it’s you.”
Pansy blinks. The boldness is unexpected, though not unwanted. She likes bold, likes honesty. Mind tricks and flirtatious games aren’t half as fun when she’s on the receiving end, and to not have that now is refreshing. Intriguing. It makes her glad she stayed.
“Fine,” she says after a moment. It’s resigned, though it isn’t unkind. A small smirk tugs at her mouth, fights to morph into a grin. “Where do you want to start, family or profession?”
“How about favourite colour?” Granger suggests, and Pansy allows herself to relax, to fall into their ridiculous back and forth without the ball of nerves in the pit of her stomach. It’s easy once she gives in, once she stops trying to fight it. Easier than she ever imagined it would be.
It’s not until hours later—when Granger has turned into Hermione, when one drink had turned to two, to a late dinner shared together, when they walk side by side, arms intertwined and bodies close together—that Pansy realises how much she needed this: the reassurance, the support, the new perspective. It helps ease her mind, helps create a clearer picture of her future.
“I’m going to have to thank Draco,” she announces as they’re parting ways. She says it as if it’s the last thing she ever wants to do, and Hermione laughs: a soft giggle that is nothing at all what Pansy had expected, but something she’s already fond of.
“Poor you.”
“Yes, poor me,” Pansy says. “He gets off on being told he’s right, you know. We’ll be hearing about this for months.”
“I’m sure we’ll manage,” Hermione says. And then: “Months, hm? My presence extends that far into your future?”
“Perhaps,” Pansy says. She’s a little tipsy, the alcohol like a truth serum. “You’re not entirely horrible.”
“I’m honoured you find me tolerable,” Hermione grins. “Though I think you could use some work.”
Pansy laughs, quiet but genuine. A smile stays planted on her face as Hermione steps away from her, rattling off some warning about Apparation while drunk. Pansy hums but discards it; she’s far from drunk, has done it successfully before while in worse shape.
“You know how to contact me,” she responds.
Hermione nods, reaches up to tuck stray strands of hair behind her ear. Pansy’s eyes flutter under the touch, her lips parting slightly. There’s no explosive first kiss that follows, though there is the promise of something more. As she murmurs a goodbye, Hermione leans in, lets her lips graze Pansy’s cheek. It’s tender, tantalising. Makes Pansy feel like she’s young again, like it’s a first date at fifteen.
“You’ll hear from me,” Hermione promises.
Like that, her doubts dissipate. Here, now, standing under the night sky with Hermione in front of her, Pansy feels certain that things will work out, that there is some hope for her, that it’s true when people say it’s never too late to start.
And as she watches Hermione walk away, she thinks she’s in the right hands.
Author:
Characters/Pairings: Pansy Parkinson/Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy.
Rating: G.
Word Count: 2,715.
Content/Warning(s): Coming out, referenced/implied off-screen homophobia.
Summary: You can only live a lie for so long. At the age of fifty-five, Pansy finally comes clean.
A/N: This ended up leaning more toward a gen work than originally anticipated, but I hope it resembles at least some of what the prompter was hoping for. Thank you to A. for the speedy beta; any remaining mistakes are my own.
Read at AO3 or below:
The first person Pansy ever tells is Draco.
They’re fourteen, almost fifteen. It’s an offhand comment at first—a harmless “she’s rather cute, isn’t she?”—but it’d turned into so much more.
Draco hadn’t shared her opinion, and in retrospect, Pansy thinks that should’ve been the first sign, both for him and for her. She remembers every detail of the exchange, has often played it out in her head late at night, when it was safe to think about it—to hope, to dream. She hadn’t quite understood the swirl of emotion at the time, but she’d grown to; had grown to understand it far, far too well. She’d buried it once she’d known what it was. Had been encouraged to bury it by everyone else, too. She’d thought it was the right thing to do—that it would make things easier, better.
She never imagined just how wrong she’d be.
Now, over forty years later, Draco is the first person she tells for a second time. It is no more elegant than the first, perhaps less so. She is drunk on wine and splayed across a fainting couch in one of Malfoy Manor’s many sittings rooms, her tongue loose with intoxication. The annual New Year’s celebration had ceased hours ago, the Manor empty save the few people Draco had allowed to stay. The others had scattered, had fallen into bed, most with company but some without. Only the two of them remain.
She’s not entirely sure why she says it, not sure what compels her to admit it. All she knows is that there’s been a hollow feeling in her chest since she was fifteen, since her mother had told her that she ought not to feel the way she does, that it’s not something a respectable pureblood should discuss. The hollowness had only ever grown; had expanded with every failed relationship, every secret hook up, every paid encounter. It weighs down on her chest now, the force like that of a looming threat, a void. It’s weaved its way into every part of her being, and if she doesn’t do something about it now, Pansy is sure it’ll swallow her whole.
The divorce had been the tipping point. Pansy can still envision signing the papers; can almost smell the parchment, the cackling fire. It’d been finalised just before Christmas, just after she’d stopped pretending to try. She’d let the relationship fizzle without ever giving a reason why, and now, among the calls of resolutions and goals and new year, new mes, Pansy supposes it is as good a time as any to finally come clean.
“I like women,” she says. It’s simple, to the point. Her voice is a near monotone, her face expressionless. Some part of her knows it’s a defence mechanism—hide the vulnerability, play it off as a joke if all doesn’t go well. There’s something to be said about old habits.
The words are followed by a tense moment of silence, a long minute where she can feel her heart in her throat. From where she lies, she can’t see Draco; only has view of the Manor’s high, intricate ceilings. She ignores the urge to turn around.
“I know,” comes Draco’s voice eventually.
Pansy’s head snaps to the side. Draco sits on the other end of the room, his robes draped over him almost like a blanket. A champagne flute is held in hand, the delicate glass filled almost to the brim with a thick, melted chocolate. There’s a platter of fruit hovering at his side, and Pansy watches as he plucks a strawberry from the plate, as he dips it into the sea of chocolate, brings it to his mouth.
“You know,” she repeats. It’s a bewildered statement, not a question, but Draco answers anyway.
“You’ve already told me.”
He says it with a shrug, the lift of his shoulder elegant, even now. Pansy sits up in her seat, adjusts herself to look at him properly. “Years ago,” she says. “We were children.”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t think you remembered.”
There’s a soft sigh, a quiet shuffle as Draco puts his glass down. “Even if you hadn’t,” he tells her, “you didn’t hide it very well.”
The words are a shock to Pansy. She’d thought she’d done just fine, that her preferences had been a well-kept secret, even from those closest to her. To discover the opposite sends a jolt of panic through her.
“You didn’t think to say anything?”
“What would you have me say?” Draco asks her. “‘Maybe the reason your marriage is failing is because you’re a raging lesbian?’” The words are sardonic, his expression shrewd. “I don’t think that would have went well.”
Pansy stares at him, her mouth parted slightly. She’s speechless for the first time in a long time; Draco’s words making her re-evaluate everything she’d thought she knew. Draco watches her, any traces of sarcasm slowly disappearing until his expression is serious once more.
“Look,” Draco says, sighs. The exhale breaks their prolonged silence, the sound followed by soft footsteps. Pansy isn’t surprised when he sits down beside her, his body close but not touching. “I thought you were waiting until you were ready.”
Pansy exhales softly, suddenly too aware of her own exhaustion. She had been waiting, in a way. Waiting until she was ready, waiting until she had to, until she couldn’t bear to hide it. Until she could get the words out without the fear, the little voice in the back of her head that told her she was faking, that she’d be fine, that she should be happy to have her husband. The voice isn’t here now, though. Now, there is only the euphoria that follows confession, the lightness of removing a weight from her shoulders, of having it be understood. Now, there is truth, certainty: the sensation both frightening and exhilarating.
She leans against the couch with a heavy sigh, lifts a hand to push the hair from her eyes. “It only took me fifty bloody years.”
Draco grins. “Took me thirty,” he reminds her. He reaches out, one hand curling around Pansy’s in a gentle hold. “At least you’re still pretty.”
Pansy snorts, the sound airy. Breathy. “The upside,” she jokes. Her fingers intertwine with Draco’s, squeeze lightly. “What do I do now?”
It’s soft, uncertain. Draco leans back, lets Pansy drop her head to his shoulder. There’s a moment of hesitation, and then: “How about a date?”
Pansy glances up at him, an eyebrow arched. “What,” she says. “Like dinner and a show?”
“Like a drink at the pub.”
“With who?”
“I know someone,” Draco tells her. His mouth twitches, a small, mischievous smirk working its way onto his face. “A colleague. She drives me mad. You’ll like her.”
“I haven’t been on a date in years,” Pansy says, though the idea isn’t unappealing. She trusts Draco to pick someone she’d like, or at least be able to tolerate for one night.
“I think you can manage one drink,” Draco says, and Pansy knows he’s already picturing it; can practically see the plan play out behind his eyes.
There’s very little protesting after that.
***
“No.”
The word slips from Pansy’s mouth the second she sees Hermione Granger walk through the door of the pub, as if the response is instinct. She doesn’t wait for Granger to walk to her table, doesn’t need her to introduce herself to know that she’s the person Draco had set her up with. It’s obvious; obvious enough that Pansy almost feels like an idiot for not figuring it out. Draco’s contact with Ministry officials is limited, but she’s heard him complain about Granger more times than she cares to count.
More than that, she’d been talking about Granger. Fourteen, almost fifteen, caught up in the chaos of the Yule Ball. She’s rather cute, isn’t she?
“I’m going to kill Draco,” is what she says once Granger is in earshot. It’s strained, muttered through her teeth. Her hand is curled around her bag, as if she’s ready to up and leave, to stop it before it starts. As if the word mistake is already sitting on the tip of her tongue.
“Malfoy said you might react that way,” Granger informs her. She’s smiling: big, bright, beautiful.
“Of course he did,” Pansy snaps. She exhales slowly, glances up at Granger. They haven’t seen each other in years, but not much has changed. Granger looks a little older, perhaps; a few more wisps of grey hair hidden amongst the chestnut, a few more lines etched on her face, but still the same. Still Granger.
There’s a beat of awkward, tension filled silence where Granger only stands there, like she’s waiting for an invitation to sit. Pansy doesn’t give her one, just lets her wait while the tension builds; until she’s itching with the urge to disappear.
“Well,” Pansy starts after a pause, “this was fun. I’d say let’s do it again, only I don’t think either of us want that.”
She stands from her seat, takes two steps toward the door when a hand darts out, curls around her wrist. Pansy looks down in surprise, drags her gaze from Granger’s grip of her arm to her face. Her eyebrow is arched, waiting for an explanation.
“At least stay for a drink,” Granger says. “We can manage that much, can’t we?”
Pansy hesitates. The hostility of their school days is over, but they’re still not friends. Not anywhere near it. There isn’t anything to talk about.
Granger looks as if she can read her thoughts, like she knows everything Pansy is thinking. A soft sigh escapes her lips when Pansy doesn’t respond. “You aren’t curious why Draco sent me?”
Pansy stares, like she’s gauging Granger’s sincerity. It takes a minute, but she eventually slips back into her seat, her posture tight with tension. Granger grins, like she’s proud of herself, and takes the one adjacent.
“Should I be?” Pansy asks. Her hands are curled around the stem of her wineglass, her dark nails matching the deep red of the liquid. She traces the surface, keeps her hands busy.
Granger shrugs lightly. “Maybe.”
She doesn’t add anything to it, just leaves it at that. Pansy sighs, her eyes rolling as if they were still fifteen and not fifty-five. “Go on, then,” she says. “I can tell you’re dying to get it out.”
There’s a spare glass, the bottle of wine sat in a bucket of ice. Granger pours herself a drink before speaking, and Pansy can’t help but notice her mouth when she takes a sip: glistening lips, stained a soft red. Tempting as a pink tongue peeks out to swipe at a drop of wine.
“I was just like you ten years ago,” Granger tells her. She’s trying to keep it light, Pansy can tell. Casual. “Newly divorced. Confused. Terrified.”
“I thought Gryffindors didn’t experience terror,” Pansy interrupts. She does it without thinking, the words sipping out before she can stop herself.
Granger sends her an even stare. “Everyone experiences fear,” she says. “It’s working through it that makes you brave.”
Pansy wants to roll her eyes, but she doesn’t. Just brings her glass to her mouth, takes a large gulp.
“I was questioning my sexuality,” Granger admits, and Pansy looks up in interest. It’s no longer a secret—Granger’s affairs with both men and woman have long since been plastered throughout the Prophet—but it is intriguing. “I went on some bad dates, made some regrettable choices. But I did make peace with myself.”
“And now Draco thinks you can help me do the same,” Pansy finishes. She sighs, rubs at her forehead to ease the budding headache.
Granger smiles softly. “Is it really so improbable?”
“I’m not a questioning thirteen-year-old,” Pansy says. “I’m a business women who knows what she wants—what I like. Making peace with myself isn’t the issue.”
“No,” Granger agrees. “It’s everything else, right? You’re worried how people will take it; wondering if you waited too long.” She tilts her head, a knowing look in her eye. “Scared you won’t know how to live on your own terms.”
Pansy swallows, doesn’t dare drop her gaze. As if looking away is an admission of failure. “And if I am?”
“It’s no surprise,” Granger says. “Our teenage years were spent fighting a war. There wasn’t a whole lot of time for self-discovery.”
“I knew before that.”
“It still stands.”
Silence falls over them. Granger stares at her, and Pansy can feel the burning intensity in her gaze, the full force of her attention. She stares like Pansy is the only one in the room, like the rest of the pub doesn’t exist at all. It’s both unnerving and thrilling, sends a jolt of something inexplicable through her; something new and exciting. Something she hasn’t felt in a long, long time.
“How did Draco get you to agree?” Pansy asks, because she wants to know. She knows it couldn’t have been easy, simple. Knows he must’ve promised Granger something in return. “I can’t imagine you jumped at the opportunity.”
Granger sends her a look, the expression something secretive, covert. Coy. “He promised me a date with a beautiful woman,” she says. And then: “I’m still hoping it’s you.”
Pansy blinks. The boldness is unexpected, though not unwanted. She likes bold, likes honesty. Mind tricks and flirtatious games aren’t half as fun when she’s on the receiving end, and to not have that now is refreshing. Intriguing. It makes her glad she stayed.
“Fine,” she says after a moment. It’s resigned, though it isn’t unkind. A small smirk tugs at her mouth, fights to morph into a grin. “Where do you want to start, family or profession?”
“How about favourite colour?” Granger suggests, and Pansy allows herself to relax, to fall into their ridiculous back and forth without the ball of nerves in the pit of her stomach. It’s easy once she gives in, once she stops trying to fight it. Easier than she ever imagined it would be.
It’s not until hours later—when Granger has turned into Hermione, when one drink had turned to two, to a late dinner shared together, when they walk side by side, arms intertwined and bodies close together—that Pansy realises how much she needed this: the reassurance, the support, the new perspective. It helps ease her mind, helps create a clearer picture of her future.
“I’m going to have to thank Draco,” she announces as they’re parting ways. She says it as if it’s the last thing she ever wants to do, and Hermione laughs: a soft giggle that is nothing at all what Pansy had expected, but something she’s already fond of.
“Poor you.”
“Yes, poor me,” Pansy says. “He gets off on being told he’s right, you know. We’ll be hearing about this for months.”
“I’m sure we’ll manage,” Hermione says. And then: “Months, hm? My presence extends that far into your future?”
“Perhaps,” Pansy says. She’s a little tipsy, the alcohol like a truth serum. “You’re not entirely horrible.”
“I’m honoured you find me tolerable,” Hermione grins. “Though I think you could use some work.”
Pansy laughs, quiet but genuine. A smile stays planted on her face as Hermione steps away from her, rattling off some warning about Apparation while drunk. Pansy hums but discards it; she’s far from drunk, has done it successfully before while in worse shape.
“You know how to contact me,” she responds.
Hermione nods, reaches up to tuck stray strands of hair behind her ear. Pansy’s eyes flutter under the touch, her lips parting slightly. There’s no explosive first kiss that follows, though there is the promise of something more. As she murmurs a goodbye, Hermione leans in, lets her lips graze Pansy’s cheek. It’s tender, tantalising. Makes Pansy feel like she’s young again, like it’s a first date at fifteen.
“You’ll hear from me,” Hermione promises.
Like that, her doubts dissipate. Here, now, standing under the night sky with Hermione in front of her, Pansy feels certain that things will work out, that there is some hope for her, that it’s true when people say it’s never too late to start.
And as she watches Hermione walk away, she thinks she’s in the right hands.
no subject
Date: 2018-03-23 07:19 am (UTC)