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Pansy sipped idly on her glass of Firewhiskey as McLaggen sat across from her yammering on and on about the Arrows’ old stadium and his plans to rejuvenate it. She was going to kill her cousin Adrian. It was just an investment opportunity, he said. Worth listening to, he said. Would it kill her to get out of the manor, he said. He wouldn’t be saying anything for a very long while after she was done hexing him and, frankly, McLaggen was going to be lucky if he survived this meeting. Especially if he called it a ‘working date’ one more time. She was considering whether or not she had the spite and resolve to wordlessly Vanish his mouth when she felt the waiter’s presence at her side and sighed in relief.
“I’ll have a bottle of Golden Ram, please. The whole bottle, just bring it straight here,” she requested, already imagining slamming the lovely amber coloured glass horn into McLaggen’s face. “And a g–” The words died quickly in her throat.
Harry Potter was standing next to her with the most peculiar look on his face and about two days worth of stubble on his chin. His hair was even wilder than normal and the cloying smell of too many cleaning charms wafted ever so slightly from his clothing.
“Potter?” she asked.
McLaggen bristled. “Potter, we’re in the middle of something. Why don’t you go–urk!”
Pansy fought the urge to snort as McLaggen’s gaudy cravat stuffed itself into his mouth. If she weren’t half worried about what Potter might do to her, she would thank him for that little show of spellwork.
“Park…Pansy, your wife is in St. Mungo’s and she’s been asking for you.”
Pansy nearly dropped her glass. Firstly, Potter had called her by her first name. Secondly, she didn’t have a wife at all or anyone from St. Mungo’s that should be asking for her. And thirdly, she now recognized the look on his face as a mix of bewilderment and utmost seriousness. It reminded her of the time when the Aurors came to the manor and informed her family that her least favourite uncle died when he drunkenly tried to shrink himself to the size of a cockroach so he could sneak back into the tavern he’d just been thrown out of. Well, anything to get out of this ‘work date’.
“Oh no,” she gasped for effect, “Can you take me to her?” She turned to McLaggen. “So sorry to cut our business discussion short, but my wife needs me.”
She thoroughly enjoyed the spasm on his face at the emphasis and stood gracefully, tucking her hand into the crook of Potter’s elbow. He froze for a moment and then held his arm properly, leading her out of the restaurant, whispers breaking out in their wake. Ah, what a delicious scandal. The Traitorress and the Man Who Conquered walking arm in arm out of the restaurant. As they stepped out into the Alley, she heard him whisper something and a spell fell over them, muffling the sound around them.
“Please tell me you have no idea what I’m talking about,” Potter asked, still leading her along, his voice a little strained.
“Absolutely none. Should I thank you for your exceptional and unexpected heroism in saving me from McLaggen or is something else going on?” She asked guardedly but curious.
“Hermione has been in Mungo’s for two going on three days and she thinks you’re her wife.”
“What?” Pansy asked incredulously, stopping in her tracks.
Potter turned to face her. He looked at his wit’s end.
“What in Morgana’s name happened? Is this a joke? Are you secretly taking me to be sacrificed to resurrect Dumbledore?” she demanded.
Potter grimaced and ran his hand through his hair anxiously. “It’s not a joke. She got back from her translating job in Spain about a week ago. Five days ago she started feeling a bit under the weather, which is normal when Hermione goes on work benders, but when she didn’t Floo like normal, Gin went to check on her and she was unconscious in the middle of the floor with the kettle screaming and hot to the touch–both the kettle and her forehead. We rushed her to St. Mungo’s.
“It seems that the last time I took Teddy over there, he made her a ‘special tea mix’ and she stored it with her others. She was so wiped out she accidentally grabbed it and used it when she made herself a cuppa. Her fever is broken, but she’s still weak and dehydrated, and well, completely out of it. She’s certain you’re her wife. Apparently, you were married about six months ago, and she’s very agitated that you’re not there because you two had a fight about her socks and she’s convinced you’re going to divorce her.”
Of all the things going through Pansy’s mind, only one thing came out. “A divorce over socks? Are they cursed? Did she try to smother me with one?”
Potter’s lips twitched and he started guiding her again, as if her asking that question was some sort of acquiescence. Which, she supposed it was.
“Well, they are horribly ugly,” he admitted, “But I think she might have mentioned missing your anniversary too? It was very slurred.”
“How dare she,” Pansy sniffed, “especially if she missed it due to ugly socks. She’s right to be worried about divorce.”
Potter snorted. “True, but maybe take it easy on her? She is ill.”
Pansy hummed thoughtfully. “I need pointers. What kind of sap is Granger’s wife?”
“What?”
“Obviously,” Pansy pointed out, “she has this version of me in her head. Do I suddenly have a fondness for muggle things? Have I grown soft? Am I friends with all sorts of Gryffindors now?”
“Oh.” Potter ran his fingers through his hair again. “Um, no, apparently you’re as sharp and haughty as you are now, except you’re in love with her.”
Pansy was completely flummoxed. “Oh.”
“I know, odd isn’t it?” Potter replied, equally confused.
Finally, they made it to the apparition point and with a pop they were gone.
As they began the trek through St. Mungo’s, Pansy’s thoughts raced. Just her, but in love. In love with Granger. The closest thing Pansy had experienced to being in love was her relationship with Draco and she was old enough now to realise that wasn’t true love at all. What did one do to someone they love? Gifting, of course. Sex, if both parties were into that kind of thing. Affection of some sort most definitely. Probably some form of toleration of quirks? Would wife Pansy complain about Granger’s socks while secretly thinking they were adorable? Or would she burn them each time Granger left a pair unattended? Then, perhaps, she’d leave a proper pair in their place. Something well-made and utterly soft against the skin. Hermione Granger didn’t seem the type to indulge in herself, which meant Pansy would have to indulge for her. Probably subtly, a small thing here or there–a pair of socks, a new set of higher quality quills, new tea blends, and new mug–until Hermione stopped complaining about the smaller gifts, and then they’d grow larger. A whole cloak. A set of Acromantula silk head wraps…
They stopped suddenly and Pansy startled, realising she’d spent the entire journey fantasising about what it would be like to be Granger’s wife. Wait, was she still Granger? Or would she have taken Pansy’s name?
“She’d better have taken my last name,” Pansy muttered with a scowl.
A feminine snort caused Pansy to actually take in her surroundings. They were standing outside a private room, Weaslette, no Potter now, standing in front of them with crossed arms. Pansy felt as if she was being judged and she felt her hackles begin to rise.
Finally, the redhead sighed and let her arms relax. “Parkinson. I imagine you two would have had a horrible row about names before your marriage.”
“Better than fighting over an ugly sock,” Pansy couldn’t help but snark.
“How is she, Gin?” Potter (Harry?) asked.
“Asking for Parkinson. Somehow, she Conjured a piece of charcoal and wrote all over her sheets while I was out talking to the healer. She said she was writing her wife,” her eyes flicked over to Pansy, “an apology letter, but somehow Arithmancy got mixed in, and now that set of sheets is Enchanted to smell like butter. They just got the new ones sorted out.”
Potter giggled, honest to Merlin giggled, until he caught himself and slammed his hand over his mouth.
“Why didn’t she use her wand?” Pansy frowned.
“Oh no, no no no,” Potter shook his head forcefully, “Drunken Hermione Granger is never ever ever allowed to hold onto her wand.”
“Parkinson,” Pansy corrected, now absolutely certain she would have done something to persuade Hermione to take her name.
Potter looked at her quizzically.
“Hermione Parkinson,” Pansy repeated, “can never ever ever hold onto her wand whilst drunk.”
Red Potter smirked. “Now you’re getting the hang of it. Though, what kind of wife shows up to her ailing partner’s bedside without flowers?”
Pansy straightened her spine and threw back her shoulders. “The one who was right during the argument and the one who ran out of a business meeting to come to her darling wife’s side after said wife’s blockheaded friends waited two whole days to tell her the love of her life was in the hospital. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
Potter’s wife actually smiled. Potter sighed in relief. “Please be nice to her. We’ll owe you one.”
Pansy paused, hand on the knob, and smiled wickedly at them. “Oh, Potter, I for one know how to take care of all of my wife’s needs,” she purred before opening the door and slipping inside. The last thing she heard, before the silencing ward went into effect, was Potter spluttering.
The room smelled faintly of butter. Morganna save the world if Gran–Park–Hermione could truly Conjure and Enchant things when she was higher than a hippogriff on a broomstick. Then again, she’d always been known for doing impossible things. The last Pansy had heard, she’d worked together with old Flitwick and created a charm to successfully treat those who were suffering from long term Dementor exposure. There were rumours she was working on a charm to actually kill Dementors and keep them from repopulating. It was a lofty, noble goal. Yet another reason that Pansy had no idea why the witch thought they were married. Pansy was rather confident in herself and her looks, but she couldn’t imagine why someone like that could conceivably be in love with her.
The soft rustle of fabric drew her gaze to the bed and she watched as Granger, Hermione, squirmed uncomfortably on the bed. Then she whimpered. Something stirred strangely in Pansy’s chest. She’d spent enough time throughout her life putting on an act, what was a little more playing pretend to ease someone’s distress? She took a deep breath and shifted into Hermione Parkinson’s wife.
She sauntered over to the bed, slipping off her outer robes and her shoes on the way, and carefully climbed into it. She laid on her side facing the other witch, her head propped in her hand and studied her. Hermione was far too pale with dark smudges under her eyes. It was no wonder Potter looked so unkempt, especially if this was her looking better. Pansy hesitated briefly before softly tracing the darkened skin. Hermione Parkinson’s wife had that right and Pansy imagined she did it quite often, probably to soothe herself that her idiot genius wife hadn’t studied herself to death. Honestly, she and Hermione were going to have words and she wasn’t going to play fair. In fact, Pansy found herself feeling quite cross. Wasn’t her wife supposed to live for her now that they were married instead of killing herself for everyone else?
Pansy huffed, soothing the pained wrinkle on Hermione’s forehead. “You’re a cruel wife, Hermione Parkinson.”
To her surprise, Hermione’s eyes fluttered open. They were slightly bloodshot and just a little bleary, but as soon as they focused on her face, they brightened.
“Pansy!” she croaked, “You came! Harry said…but you’re here and–”
Pansy quieted her with two fingers over her lips. They were dry and chapped. She Summoned a glass of water and a straw and held it to Hermione’s mouth. “Drink.”
Her tone brooked no argument and Hermione obeyed, drinking greedily. She did it so quickly and without hesitation, her warm eyes locked on Pansy’s face, that it made something twist in Pansy’s chest.
“You’re in trouble,” she murmured, while she had her quiet and captive. “Overextending yourself in Spain, not taking care of yourself once you returned, drinking baby werewolf tea…” Hermione grimaced. “...on top of missing our anniversary. I don’t share well, Hermione, and I would like you to explain exactly why you keep giving so many pieces of my wife to other people. Do you know what it does to me to see you like this?”
Hermione feebly pushed the cup away and clutched at Pansy’s robes. “I’m so sorry! I’m still not used to it!”
Pansy put the cup aside and frowned. Tears were gathering in Hermione’s eyes. Pansy stroked the backs of her fingers over her cheek, checking her temperature. “What, precisely, are you unused to?”
“That the only thing you require from me is to be selfish with myself, and with you. That you don’t care whether or not I’ve discovered a new formula, or answered all my owls. You care whether or not I’m enjoying myself or whether or not we’re enjoying each other. I’m still not used to that freedom,” Hermione explained. “When we met at Flint’s fundraiser, do you remember what you said to me?”
Pansy blinked, because they had met at Flint’s fundraiser not quite a year ago and they had exchanged words. Not many before Hermione’s escort, a Prewett, if she remembered correctly, had whisked her away. Granger had been dressed beautifully, and spent a lot of time working the crowd, but Pansy had recognized a stiffness to her shoulders, a measured quality to her laugh. Granger had been miserable and it had irritated Pansy to no end so Pansy had cornered her and they’d begun verbally sparring.
“I believe I said extreme selflessness was as disgusting as extreme selfishness. That it wasn’t noble to give up your own joy for other people, it was pitiful and cowardly, because it showed you were too afraid to take responsibility for your own happiness. It was far easier to say you gave up your joy for others than to admit you weren’t strong enough to fight for it for yourself.” Pansy pursed her lips. “I believe you countered by calling me a hedonistic bint.”
Hermione flushed, smiling guiltily. “I did. But really, it felt like you’d reached into my soul and pointed out the splinter that was causing me so much pain, a splinter I’d placed in there myself. Being with you, learning to love you and myself, being loved by you, they’ve taken so much of that pain away. I’m working on that splinter too, but it’s been there so long, and it was buried so deeply, sometimes I forget that I can move differently. And I’m so sorry.”
Pansy felt tears burning behind her eyes and pulled Hermione to her, tucking Hermione’s head under her chin, anything to hide from that painfully earnest gaze. Merlin, what was this? Why did it have to be so based in reality?
“You’re forgiven,” Pansy sniffed, “But in penance, I’m burning half your socks and replacing them and you can’t complain.”
Hermione chuckled and snuggled closer, pressed a soft kiss to Pansy’s throat. “But not the blue ones.”
Pansy snorted, imagining how ugly the blue ones must be. “Not the blue ones,” she agreed.
“You’ll stay with me?” Hermione asked, her voice small and drowsy.
“Of course,” Pansy huffed, “Someone has to make sure you don’t Enchant things in your sleep.”
She felt Hermione’s mouth stretch into a smile. “When I’m better,” she yawned, “Let me take you to my grandmere’s cottage in the Alps? No Floo, no owls, just the two of us for a week?”
“I’ll hold you to it.”
“Please do,” Hermione murmured before succumbing to sleep.
Pansy let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. Merlin and Morganna, this was not the easy little pretend game that she expected. She didn’t love Hermione Granger. She’d never once thought of her that way. At least, not until this evening. She didn’t love Hermione Granger, but she might be able to, and it seemed that Hermione might be able to love her. What a scandal that would be and hadn’t Pansy always loved scandals? Besides, Potter and Granger owed her after this, and Hermione had just promised her a week away in the Alps. Pansy smirked, settling into bed more comfortably. She was going to hold Hermione to that promise. Afterall, Adrian had been nagging her to get out of the house, and if she played her Gobstones right, she might get to see how ugly Hermione’s socks really were.