Harry Potter Fic: Thanks for the Memories (3/4)
Title: Thanks for the Memories (3.4)
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Hermione/Pansy, Hermione/Romilda
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 7.558
Summary: Hermione's life gets complicated when a woman from the not so distant past comes back into her life.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to me, that's all J.K. What you see here is simply derivative, non-commercial fanfiction.
Author's Note: Post Hogwarts. There be no canon compliance here. Apologies for another lengthy delay. It seems the more I have pre-written for a chapter the longer it takes me to finish it. I don't think it's supposed to work that way. I borrowed a line from one of my favorite TV shows for this chapter. Give yourself a pat on the back if you recognize it. It comes quick, though, blink and you might miss it. Happy reading.
Previous Chapters: One | Two
~*~*~*~
“You ever think your flat was a waste of money?”
Hermione, whose mind had been tangled in thoughts of the night before, jerks upright, trades staring blankly at a breakfast plate covered by unappetizing blandness for blinking dazedly at the large, too-wide smile of Romilda. She's waiting for a response, but for the life of her, Hermione has no idea what she just said, so she offers a tired smile and a murmured, “Morning Romilda,” and hopes that's good enough.
It must be, because Romilda says, “Morning,” then settles across from her, covering her lap with a napkin and reaching for silverware. She looks good for a woman who spent the before night at a pub, her complexion pink and refreshed, her eyes without the bags that Hermione's carry. She looks like a woman without cares, like someone whose sleep is never disturbed by anything, and Hermione feels a presumptuous envy. Between Harry, Voldemort, her parents, school, work research, and now Pansy, Hermione's sleep has always been more disturbed than not. She supposes she should be used to it by now.
“Do you spend any time at your own flat?” Romilda continues, reaching for the eggs and sparing Hermione a teasing glance. “I know for a fact you've taken breakfast, lunch, and supper here for the last three days at least. It can't be healthy, can it? Spending all that time amongst the scores of ill. I mean -” She breaks off, face becoming stricken as she studies Hermione's face, the no doubt clear signs of fatigue and wear. Rumpled is the kindest adjective Hermione can think of to describe how she probably looks. “I mean, Merlin, you haven't been displaced have you? Oh, Hermione, I feel like a perfect arse. If you need a place to stay -”
“I haven't been displaced,” Hermione says, the confirmation of just how rumpled she looks makes her chuckle weakly. “Just working a lot is all.”
“Thank goodness.” Romilda brightens and goes back to piling her plate with food. “Speaking of, word is you've taken a position as a private Healer.”
Hermione's hand tightens reflexively around her fork. “Sorry?”
“You know.” Romilda leans close, lowers her voice. “For the Parkinson family.”
“How did you -”
“I heard a rumor down on first floor. Now, normally I leave that lot to their spider bites, but since I know for a fact Dane paid you a nocturnal visit I figured there might be some truth to it. Don't worry,” she says when Hermione pinches the bridge of her nose, “I didn't say a word.”
“So much for privacy and discretion. We may as well have called a press conference.”
“A what?”
“Sorry, Muggle reference.” Hermione pushes her plate away, faint appetite disappearing completely. She's only been awake a half hour and already she's two for two, both people she's spoken to having alluded to Pansy. Typical, really. “Well, that certainly didn't stay a secret for long. Hopefully the Parkinsons don't get wind of it.”
Romilda waves a hand, bits of toast clinging to her fingers. “Like I said, first floor. They could have a picture of the Minister dancing around in his knickers and no one would care.”
“I think I'm relieved.” Hermione tries not to get a mental image. ”So, how was your night?” she says, needing to direct the conversation elsewhere.
Romilda takes a moment to answer, maybe surprised Hermione referenced the previous evening, maybe just to gather her thoughts after the change of subject. She shrugs with affected carelessness. “It was alright,” she says, hesitating again before one side of her mouth curls into a small smile, before she looks at Hermione in a way that's assessing, exploring. “It would have been far more enjoyable had you managed to make it out.”
And there it is. Proof that despite last night's casual brush off, Hermione is still in Romilda's sights. That her regard wasn't merely the product of whim brought on by the late hour and no other options. It's refreshing, and a bright bit of distraction after what happened with Pansy.
Hermione waits a beat, unused to coquetry, then tries, “You think so, do you?”
Romilda's widening eyes are almost comical, and it's gratifying in a completely shallow way to know she inspires that kind of excitement. “Oh, I know so,” she says, recovering quickly. The innuendo is thick. “I think you do, too.”
There's a practiced quality to Romilda's flirtation, like an actress who hasn't learned her lines well enough to make them sound completely natural. Some might be put off by it, and in other circumstances Hermione probably would be, but it's exactly Romilda's poorly disguised intentions, their obvious lack of depth, that makes them reassuring. Her studied looks, the occasionally stilted tone and repressed excitement, are like a flashing sign, declaring her agenda from three Quidditch pitches away. There is no need decipher any hidden messages, no chance for misinterpretation, and suddenly uncomplicated is very appealing.
Hermione knows she's standing at a threshold. Yesterday she'd been content to back away, secure in the determination that stepping across it would be a very bad idea. Shagging just for shagging's sake was all well and good, just not for her. But that was something she believed before she discovered how cheaply her last relationship was valued, how willingly she'd shared her body with someone who ultimately viewed it as just that. The answer, perhaps, isn't to go out and jump into bed with the first person who propositions her, but maybe it is.
“I did actually,” she says, cautious, still not quite committed. “I stopped by The Pitch after I finished up.”
“You did?”
“It was late.” Hermione shrugs, like her attempt to meet up with Romilda was of no import, like she's not trying to keep herself in the game long enough to decide which way she wants to go. “You were gone by then.”
“I only stayed an hour. I didn't think you were coming, so there wasn't a reason to stay.”
Romilda is eager, but Hermione only smiles, content to leave the conversation at that. Romilda isn't going anywhere, not for a while yet. Long enough for Hermione to get her head on straight, make sure she's not reacting only out of hurt. She looks down at her plate, drums her fingers on the table, and lets herself feel the weight of Romilda's thoughtful gaze.
On the horizon, a flashing sign creeps closer, growing larger, brighter.
~*~*~*~
The fastest twenty hours of Hermione's life precede her standing outside the Parkinson's front door, wet and miserable from a persistent rain, and staring at a cast iron door knocker: a fierce goblin with a ring caught in its snarling mouth. Appropriate doesn't begin to cover it.
She has not contacted the family since she left, and has no idea what she'll encounter when she enters the home. The ideal scenario involves finding Pansy with her memory fully recovered, giving her a quick once over, and declaring a medical all-clear before escaping. Of course, that scenario also involves looking into Pansy's eyes when they both know she tried to erase Hermione from her memories, which will hardly be pleasant. She wonders what the etiquette is for such a situation. Do they ignore it? Does Pansy apologize? Or maybe she should offer to alter Pansy's memory for a small fee, results professionally guaranteed.
The thought elicits a dark chuckle.
She waits for the worst of her nerves to calm before knocking, when it no longer feels like her heart is trying to break through her sternum. Belatedly, she thinks of her appearance, remembering how bedraggled she was last time, and casts a spell to dry the most sopping of her clothes, then checks her hair with a hand that only shakes a little. The door opens almost the moment she tucks her last curl away, revealing an elderly house-elf, female, with a narrow face, a severe mouth, and a pair of electric yellow eyes. She's wearing a hunter green pillowcase with silver stitching, and the material looks like silk. She nods at Hermione, an obviously grudging gesture, and steps to the side to allow her entry.
“Mistress is in the front study,” she says, voice surprisingly low for a house-elf. She doesn't look Hermione in the eyes, and Hermione doesn't know if that's training or simple contempt for her Muggle heritage. “Follow me. But wipe your feet first,” she snaps before Hermione can cross the threshold.
Hermione does as she's told, being very thorough, then enters a corridor paved by limestone tiles and walls that match the color of the house-elf's pillowcase. Massive brass candelabras hang from the ceiling, casting a disconcertingly warm and buttery light over the paintings and magical relics that line the hall a precise intervals. The Parkinsons are considered excessively proud of their heritage even by pure-blood standards, their private collection of artifacts one of the most extensive in Great Britain, and Hermione has to resist the urge to ogle the calculated display of family wealth.
Once, Hermione asked Pansy if she could see the collection, rumored to include Rowena Ravenclaw's wand, but the other woman's eventual denial was padded by so much evasion that Hermione never made the request again. Later, she'd asked Pansy if she was afraid the manor would fall down around their ears if a Muggle-born was allowed admittance. Pansy had laughed, but Hermione never considered it much of a joke. One of the many hints she should have taken more to heart, she supposes, keeping her eyes straight ahead.
The memory is still sour when Hermione enters the front study, peering once again into a room that has more in common with a dark cave than a living space. Pansy is there as promised, standing beside a fireplace with a snapping flame and paging through a book. It's such a familiar pose that Hermione feels a surge of longing that's less unexpected than it should be, and she suppresses it viciously.
Pansy only looks up after the house-elf announces her, and Hermione does a quick search of her face, alert for any sign of recognition. But the expression that greets her is neutral, that of a woman seeing her Healer and nothing more.
Hermione doesn't have time to process her reaction to that because when she looks away to take stock of herself, her eyes immediately find Malfoy. He is staring at her, draped across the couch, shoe-clad feet braced on the cushions. He doesn't stand to greet her, just sniffs and wiggles into a more comfortable position, reminding her that, Healer or no, she is no one. Not to him, certainly not to Pansy. His entitlement - this is already his home - maintains its bruising assault on her emotions.
“Hello.” She glances around the room in search of Pansy's parents - more to ignore Malfoy than because she wants to see them - surprised to find they aren't there. She'd expected them to be nearly attached, watching her every move, ready to imagine any and every slight. But either they trust her more than she gave them credit for, or they've decided Malfoy is sentinel enough for their daughter's protection.
“They're at a soiree,” Pansy says, reading her mind. “Draco was invited, but sacrificed a night out to stay home and watch over me.” Pansy closes the book she's been reading, then takes a lazy stroll toward the center of the room. She is no athlete, but she possesses an undeniable grace, a confidence in her body and its every movement that draws the eye. Not long ago Hermione would have spent happy hours just watching her, whether she was walking around a room, charming an acquaintance, or just throwing her head back to laugh. She'd still probably do it if given the chance, and she hates herself for it. “Isn't he a dear?”
Hermione thinks Malfoy will bristle at Pansy's sarcasm, but he barely blinks, obviously used to it. A part of her gloats: she never spoke to me that way, never dismissed me so cavalierly. As if it means something. But the sense of superiority, reflexive and without basis in reality, is deservedly short-lived.
“How are you feeling?” she says, blunt, to the point, disgusted with herself. Her only purpose here is to be Pansy's Healer, not be tormented by thoughts of what if , or compare her relationship with Pansy to Malfoy's. She is a professional, and she needs to embrace that role to exclusion of all else. “You've taken two doses of the medication now, have any memories returned?”
“Not a one.” Pansy settles onto the couch beside Malfoy, pushes his feet off the cushion with a brusqueness devoid of affection, and leans back. “My parents are very concerned.” She lifts her hands, palms up, and looks around the room, as if to add, “as you can see.”
“It's not unexpected.” It's not ideal either, she thinks, but doesn't say. She retrieves a chair and places it in front of Pansy before sitting down. “I know it's disappointing for you, but at this stage it isn't cause for alarm.”
“When should we be alarmed?” Malfoy's head rolls lazily on its pillow until he's looking at Hermione fully. His bored, nearly careless tone belies the open hostility on his face, the near hatred that burns toward her. “At what time will the great Healer Granger give us permission to be worried? Please, tell me when I have the right to care that my fiancee can't remember who she is.”
Hermione looks away, fighting for composure against the urge to return his venom. She'd forgotten, of course she had, that beneath the “understanding,” the childish squabbles and the mutual resignation, Malfoy and Pansy have a real relationship. One that's foundation goes back more than two decades. Pansy once likened them to a pair who'd been ship-wrecked on an island and forced to rely on one another to survive. They weren't friends, precisely, but their presence in each other's lives had become intrinsic.
She'd hated the analogy then, and seeing it reflected in Malfoy's eyes makes it even less palatable.
“I only meant that you shouldn't lose hope. We're still early in the process.” Hermione is pleased with her steady, calm response, wants it to rankle Malfoy that she doesn't react to him berating her in front of Pansy.
“Forgive me if I'm not relieved.”
Pansy chuckles, breaking the tense atmosphere.
“He's only this unpleasant with you, you know. I've asked him why, but he refuses to tell me anything. I don't suppose you'd be willing to reveal the big secret?” Pansy looks expectant, but Hermione only stares back. She will never have this conversation with Pansy, not if she can help it. “No?” Pansy sighs dramatically before her head tilts and she considers Hermione for a long moment. “I'm a little surprised, since you strike me as the kind of woman who likes to speak her mind. But continue being mysterious if you both enjoy it so much, I'm sure I'll catch you out eventually.”
Hermione wishes it wasn't completely unprofessional to hope not.
“Have you had any headaches?” she redirects. “Nausea? Any dreams that feel like memories?”
“Back to business so quickly? I'm disappointed. I'd thought we could chat. I'm a little isolated here.” She glances at Malfoy. “Well, apart from Draco and my parents. I thought it might be nice to talk to someone else from my past. Maybe you could spark something.”
“I doubt it.” Hermione clears her throat and tries not to be visibly uncomfortable. “Malfoy and your parents have likely spent more time with you than anyone, and this is the house you grew up in, making it the best, most familiar setting you could be in.” She clears her throat again. “However, you're right, getting out of the house, visiting places you've been and interacting with others is a good idea. Evidence for the helpfulness of that sort of thing is purely anecdotal, of course, but I believe in its benefits.”
“Except when it comes to talking with you, apparently.”
Bollocks. “We were barely acquaintances.”
“I thought we knew each other 'well enough?'”
Pansy's lips barely move, but it's unmistakably a smile and too knowing for Hermione's comfort. It's a uniquely Pansy expression, and it's disturbing how...Pansy-like she is. Normally, after someone loses their memory, they become a softer, hazier version of themselves. Like an ink drawing that's been re-worked in water colors. So much of what they encounter is a new discovery, so much is uncertain, their personality becomes innocent and child-like almost by default. Even malleable in some ways. But Pansy's essence is still distinctly present, her sharpest edges still keen.
“Meaning that we shared some classes at school but never really talked. That's well enough in my eyes.”
Pansy dips her chin. “My mistake. But to answer your questions: no. No headaches, no nausea, and no dreams.”
Hermione makes her notes, does a quick physical examination of Pansy, and nearly rockets to her feet.
“You have another day of the draught left, so take it in the same schedule you did today. I'll pop in again tomorrow and see if there's any progress and brew the second batch if it's necessary. Is the same time tomorrow evening acceptable?”
Malfoy, who'd become a silent lump, rouses. “Perhaps you'll be able to conjure some results tomorrow. Her parents are very anxious to see some. Any, really.”
“Do you have a problem with the level of care I've provided, Miss Parkinson?” Hermione gathers her materials, stores them with deliberate care. An internal debate rages fast and hot, and she says before she can stop herself, “Would you like to make a formal request for a new Healer?”
She doesn't know how she wants Pansy to answer that.
“Oh, I don't think that's necessary, do you? I've quite enjoyed your level of care, Healer Granger.” The smile is back, accompanied by playful wink, though Hermione doesn't know if it's meant to tease her or Malfoy. “Same time tomorrow works for me.”
Hermione resists looking at Malfoy, ignores the emotions Pansy's words stir. “Then tomorrow it is,” she says.
~*~*~*~
Dane is waiting in Hermione's office when she arrives the next morning, just after ten o'clock. She's sitting at Hermione's desk, leaning back, legs crossed at the ankles and feet resting on a stack of Hermione's research papers. She doesn't look particularly upset, and she doesn't say anything, just looks pointedly at her watch.
Hermione resists apologizing to her superior for having a bit of a lie-in this morning. With the kind of hours she works, she deserves one every once in a while. It's the kind of entitled attitude Dane hates in her underlings, but if she wants an explanation she'll have to use her words and ask for one.
Hermione goes about removing her jacket and storing it without even a nod of acknowledgment, then finds a seat on one of her extra chairs while she searches her satchel for the notes from last night. She's re-reading them when Dane seems to realize she is in one of her less obliging moods. The other woman's feet drop to the floor, smacking hard.
“I heard from the Parkinsons this morning,” she says, and Hermione makes a sound in the back of her throat, continues to study her notes. “They're less than pleased with their daughter's progress. Or lack thereof, I should say.”
It takes Hermione a moment to realize the crunching sound she hears is from the crumpled notes in her hand. She takes a deep breath, then tries to flatten the page.
“It's only been a day. She's still on her first round of treatment.”
“I told them that. They also expressed concern about your...history with their daughter. A history you apparently didn't deem important enough to inform me of when I assigned you to this case.”
Dane sniffs, wipes at her nose while Hermione tries not to choke on her rage.
“Is my professionalism being called in to question?”
That Dane doesn't answer right away makes Hermione more livid than the Parkinson's insinuation. “No,” she says eventually. “Not at all. But I do want to remind you how critical this case is.”
“My past with Miss Parkinson is exactly that. It has no bearing on the course of treatment and I informed the Parkinsons of that when they asked me directly.” Hermione stops to take a needed breath, nearly gulping air in her agitation. Her entire body feels hot. “I am doing the best I can,” she adds, quieter, hating that she even has to say it.
“I know you are.” Dane pushes slowly to her feet, emits a pained groan when a knee cracks. She limps toward Hermione and puts a hand on her shoulder, the gesture of comfort disconcerting coming from the gruff woman. “You are the best I have, but that doesn't mean you're the best for every situation. If for whatever reason you'd like to be taken off the case, tell me now.”
Hermione snorts. She should wash her hands of this, should tell Dane to turn Pansy's care over to someone else and be done with it. She doesn't need this kind of stress, and it isn't worth her peace of mind.
But she won't. Because she doesn't trust anyone else. Because, for just this moment, Pansy wants her and Hermione won't walk away from her this time. Not until she has to.
“I'm fine.”
Dane nods, smiles like she knew that is what Hermione would say, then gives her shoulder a hard squeeze and walks out of the office.
~*~*~*~
It's family day at the Burrow. The late lunch is over and everyone's migrated from the dining room to a digesting location of their choice. Hermione is in the back yard with the boys and Ginny. Lavender is in the kitchen chatting with Mrs. Weasley, Mr. Weasley is in his shed doing he only knows what, and the children are scattered around the grounds, more than likely running from their twin uncles.
They've been sitting for an hour, and most in the backyard are enjoying their second drink, though Hermione's is safely alcohol free. She still doesn't trust herself in an altered state, even less now that she's being exposed to Pansy regularly. Inebriated lamentations of lost love are not something she does well, and she doesn't want to give herself the chance to perform one.
That and the evening's appoint with Pansy is still looming, and she'd prefer to be sober.
“I've never seen her so depressed.” Ron speaks in a stage whisper, one hand covering his mouth like that will keep Hermione from hearing him. He spares a glance in her direction, then shakes his head sadly, lips pressed together in a sympathetic line.
“Ron.” Harry gives him a repressive look.
“But it's true. Look at that face.” Ron stares at her, upper lip rising like a curtain, his nose bunching like he's smelled something foul. Like he doesn't know, or doesn't care, that Hermione is staring directly back at him, and can see every contortion of his face. “It's pathetic. I mean, I'm getting depressed by association over here.”
Hermione lifts her glass of water to him in a mock toast. “Thank you, Ron. You flatterer.”
He goes on like she hasn't spoken. “She's obviously lonely. I mean, wouldn't you be? Single for, what? A couple years now, ain't it? She needs a woman.”
Hermione groans and rolls her eyes at Ginny, who looks like she is going to laugh. The traitor.
“I do not.”
“Of course you do.”
“No, I don't”
“Don't tell me you need a man, I won't believe it.”
“Of course not.”
Ron nods, almost apologetic. “That's right. Ruined her, I did. Once you've had the best there's no point in carrying on. Hermione knows that better than anyone.” He points a finger in her direction, quietly triumphant. “Brightest witch of our age, right there.”
It doesn't matter how long they've been friends, Hermione thinks, Ron will never cease to amaze her. “All we did is kiss,” she says, very aware of the disturbed look on Ginny's face.
“That's all it took.”
“Someone get him a water,” Ginny says, looking back toward the kitchen but making no move to actually get up and get it herself.
“He can have mine.” Hermione holds her glass out to Ron but he waves it away.
“Hang on, I'm trying to make a point here.”
Ginny sighs. “Settle in boys and girls, there's no stopping him now.”
“No, I mean it. I think Hermione needs to put herself out there again. She needs a date and,” Ron taps his chest, “I know the perfect girl.”
A chorus of groans follow the announcement. The first - and last - time Ron set Hermione up with a woman had been one of the more humiliating moments of Hermione's life. Sally, as it turned out, was straight, but Ron had had a 'feeling.' After sharing a confusing and increasingly awkward drink - in which Sally believed she was being interviewed for a landscaping job at Hermione's home, and Hermione thought she was on a date - Hermione apologized for her friend and fled. She didn't speak to Ron for a month.
“Honestly, she's a nice girl, reads all kinds of books. Her father's a Muggle, and, yeah, she's only twenty years old, but she's very mature for her age. And she was Gryffindor.”
“Please tell me you haven't already approached her about this.”
“Of course not, but I managed to show her your picture and she was very complimentary.”
Hermione chuckles. Leave it to Ron, she thinks. Somehow, without knowing anything, he's managed to strike in the same vicinity as the heart of the matter. She needs to take action, stop waiting and hoping things will turn out for the best on their own. That tactic's blown up in her face already: when she passively waited for Pansy to seek her out instead of demanding answers and honesty. She has to move forward. But not, she vows, into the arms of a twenty year old. Or, she amends, with anyone Ron thinks will be good for her.
“No.”
“Oh, come on -”
“No, Ron. Work is very stressful right now and I can't imagine putting in the effort to cultivate a relationship right now.”
“Cul- cultivate a relationship?” Ron echoes, blinking. He looks at his drink, blinks a few more times, then turns back to her. “Blimey, Hermione, you make it sound like a job. Relationships are supposed to be fun. For the most part.” Ron wrenches around to look toward the house, most likely making sure his wife is still inside. “And they're supposed to make you happy, also for the most part. With an attitude like that, I'm not surprised you've been single for -” He starts counting on his fingers.
“Ron.” He stops counting, mumbling the numbers under his breath, and looks at her hopefully. “I really appreciate the thought, but I just can't right now. Maybe when things calm down at work you can set that date up, okay? But not until then.”
“But Rosabella might not be single by then.”
“Then we'll find someone else.” Hermione smiles, trying to soothe Ron's tipsy distress. After a moment he nods and gradually the talk around them moves on, for which Hermione is grateful. Well tread topics surface, like family vacations, and birthday parties, and what the children need for Hogwarts this year. Things that comprise a family life.
Hermione's contribution is negligible, but she's not bothered. Her mind is distracted and drifting elsewhere, trying to peer ahead into the next stage of her life. What comes after a woman without a memory.
~*~*~*~
She is alone. A woman and her cauldron.
The still nameless house-elf had escorted her to the front study when she arrived at the Parkinson's, then left her in a room that was empty and dark even by Parkinson standards. Though before she slammed the door, she deigned to tell Hermione the Parkinsons were visiting friends and the young mistress would be back shortly.
That was nearly forty minutes ago. Ten minutes ago Hermione lit some candles and began brewing another batch of the Retention Draught because she couldn't sit still and her arches were starting to ache from the pacing. If Pansy doesn't need it, Hermione will just throw it out. And maybe charge the Parkinsons for it anyway, just for wasting her time. But only if Dane lets her get away with it.
She's humming to herself, a song from childhood she can't remember the words to, when the door to the study opens and then softly closes. Hermione, who has her back to it, doesn't see who enters and doesn't bother to stop what she's doing to look. She's not in the mood to be solicitous. The question of who is answered quickly enough anyway, when there's a soft chuckle, then an amused, “Alone at last.”
Pansy's voice is laden with quiet intimacy, and for a moment Hermione is certain she remembers and has come to torment her. But she says nothing more, and Hermione forces herself to take a deep, calming breath, waiting for her nerves to bring themselves back under control. In front of her, the heating liquid bubbles and pops, sending puffs of green smoke into the air at staggered, unpredictable intervals. Her eyes follow the sparkling haze they release into the air, she watches it form and dissipate and form again, over and over, all while stirring the brew in lazy, counter-clockwise circles. She doesn't turn around.
“How are you feeling today?” she says after a while, when her heart has unstuck itself from her throat.
Pansy laughs. “There's no getting a rise out of you, is there?” she says, her voice moving closer. “I'm the same. Absolutely no change. Is that still normal?”
“It's not typical.” Hermione hesitates, torn between cautious optimism and undiluted truth. “But I'm not overly concerned, yet.”
“Yet.” Pansy parrots. “So you're a little concerned.”
“Yes.” Hermione sighs. “I would have liked to see some progress by now, but it doesn't always happen that way.”
Pansy makes a sound of understanding, but doesn't say more. She lingers out of Hermione's line of sight, and Hermione tries not to wonder what she's doing. Tries not to enjoy being alone with her, the sole focus of her attention. She looks at her watch. The potion will be ready in another three minutes and the time can't pass quickly enough.
“You know, it's odd,” Pansy says, apropos of nothing.
“What's odd?”
“Being with you.” When Hermione doesn't respond, Pansy continues in a musing way, as if these thoughts have only just occurred to her. “Most of my memory is a total void, except you. When I look at you it's like -” Pansy's slow words grind to a halt, and Hermione chances a glance. Pansy's gaze has a distant quality, one finger is tapping against her pursed lips. “It's like when you're trying to remember a word and it's on the tip of your tongue, but you just can't get it.”
“Considering your condition, I'd expect you spend most of the day with that feeling.”
It's an unkind thing to say; inappropriate, too, since Pansy is her patient and entitled to - if not deserving of - her compassion as well as her care. She hates speaking so thoughtlessly, and hates that she feels so off kilter around Pansy, torn between punishing her, or ignoring her, or just wanting to pull her close and tell her everything will be alright.
“You don't like me,” Pansy says, as if delighted by the discovery. “I knew all that anger couldn't be meant for just Draco.”
“We didn't get along at school,” Hermione says, knowing silence would only encourage Pansy to dig further.
“Is that all? How boring.” Pansy walks until she is standing next to Hermione. In a deceptively casual move, she leans against the desk and crosses her arms, lets her elbow graze against Hermione's arm. Her gaze is searching, and Hermione can feel it flickering across her face, her hands, everywhere it can reach, but she doesn't meet it. “The tension that radiates off you is so...delicious,” she muses after a moment, “I thought for sure it was something more exciting than a difference of opinion between school girls.”
“The stakes associated with those different opinions were rather higher than you're imagining, I'm sure.”
“I assume you're referring to the so-called Dark Lord? That sounds vaguely more intriguing than a fight over some smooth-faced boy,” Pansy's voice dips, “but not nearly as intriguing as I was hoping.”
Hermione feels herself flush at the suggestiveness in Pansy's tone, and she ducks her head, hoping to hide the blush she knows is darkening her cheeks. But Pansy is too observant.
“Oh, yes,” Pansy says on a throaty laugh that Hermione used to hear - used to crave - regularly. “It's definitely more than that.”
The silence that follows is broken only by the bubbling potion. Expectation feels thick in the air, but Hermione refuses to - she can't - give Pansy the satisfaction of responding. She stirs with more determination, fighting the agitation stiffening her limbs and giving her away.
“Aren't you going to tell me?”
“It's best forgotten.”
“Were we lovers?”
Heat spreads through Hermione's body and her head snaps up before she can control it. She catches the flash of triumph on Pansy's face before she can look away.
“I'm definitely close to the mark.” She reaches out and brackets Hermione's chin in her fingers, gently turns Hermione to face her. Hermione thinks about resisting, but only hardens her expression, fights not to reveal a thing. “Were you in love with me?”
The teasing tone is gone, replaced by a soft curiosity. Somehow it makes the question more painful. Hermione grabs Pansy's wrist and pulls it away.
“You're lovely, you know,” Pansy says, as she lets her hand be guided from Hermione's face. She looks almost wistful. “There's a fierceness to you. It's unbelievably attractive.”
It's too much. After everything Pansy's put her through, Hermione can't stand here and take this. “You're an engaged woman,” she says, dropping Pansy's hand and extinguishing the flame beneath the cauldron. She reaches for her vials and knows it's too much to ask that Pansy not mark the shaking of her hands. “I can't imagine Malfoy would appreciate your observations.”
Pansy frowns at Hermione's tone. “Ah, yes, dear Draco.” She rolls her eyes. “How easy it is to forget about him when I'm with you. He's another one who inspires a frustratingly vague emotion whenever I'm with him.”
“Love, perhaps?”
Pansy hums softly. “Whenever he opens his mouth I can't decide if I should roll my eyes or just slap him. That doesn't sound like love, does it? Though perhaps those urges come part and parcel with pending matrimony. I should ask my parents. Now the urges you inspire are much more fun. Shall I tell you about them?”
“I wish you wouldn't.”
“They would shock you, I think.”
“I don't doubt it. I'm also sure I wouldn't enjoy a bit of it.”
Pansy takes the stoppered potion from Hermione, deliberately brushing their fingers. “It's a good thing honesty isn't one of Gryffindor's sacred traits, otherwise you'd have to return your badge.”
Hermione cleans her cauldron with a wave of her wand, looks about for her travel bag. “Remembered those, have you?”
“I've been debriefed. My parents are very good Slytherins, apparently.”
The wry amusement breaks Hermione's control just enough. “You're exactly the same aren't you?” Hermione presses a hand against her eyes, grimaces. “Even without a memory, with an entirely clean slate, you're cutting and superior and full of misplaced confidence.”
Pansy face blanks with surprise for just a moment at Hermione's loss of composure, but she recovers quickly, says in that sly voice of hers, “Misplaced? Oh, I doubt it.”
Hermione laughs through a rush of unwanted, humiliating tears. “It's just who you are, isn't it?” she says, and the sudden longing to touch Pansy, to have this abrasive woman be a part of her life, feels as fresh as it did the first time she recognized the emotion for what it was.
“You tell me.” Pansy takes a step forward and it looks like she is going to reach out and touch Hermione, but the door opens and she aborts the gesture, turning to look as Malfoy glides in, impeccably dressed in evening attire, his hair fashionably tousled. His steps falter when he sees Hermione, but he covers his surprise with a small, insincere smile. Hermione doesn't miss the way Pansy's mouth twists with disdain.
“Granger. I didn't realize you were here.“ He turns his back to her and walks to the liquor cabinet. “Would either of you care for a drink?”
“A gin and tonic for me, dear,” Pansy says, sharp with impatience.
“I was just leaving.” Hermione ignores Pansy's disapproving frown. She gathers her things and nearly trips toward the door she is moving so quickly.
“How sad.” Malfoy turns to smile at her. When he takes in her agitation, it becomes gloating. “This is the second batch,” he nods toward the vial in Pansy's hand. “We're running out of time.”
Hermione grits her teeth, one hand on the door knob and desperate to get away, she can't help but defend herself. “It's not out yet.”
“We need Pansy whole, Granger.”
“That's Healer Granger,” she bites out, “and I'm working on it.”
Malfoy's eyes narrow, and the step he takes in Hermione's direction is menacing. “I'd suggest working harder.”
“Do you ever get tired of listening to yourself speak?” Pansy muses, speaking before Hermione can fly across the room and bloody Malfoy's nose with her fist. They share a glance, but Hermione looks away immediately, refusing to get drawn anymore deeply into the argument. She's pushing open the door when Pansy says, “Merlin knows I do.”
Malfoy's cheeks actually redden at the rebuke, but Hermione doesn't stay to enjoy it.
~*~*~*~
“Would you like something to drink?”
“Whatever you're having will be fine,” Hermione says, too shocked at being in Romilda's flat to think properly. Knowing what she has come her to do too distracting to allow her to concentrate on anything more complicated than breathing.
She'd run into the other woman leaving the hospital. Fresh off the scene at Pansy's, the confusing emotions still buffeting her, it had seemed destined. Here was the chance to truly start distancing herself from Pansy, replacing the echoes of her touch with another woman's. It might not be healthy, but it was a start, and when Romilda invited her back to hers, the expectation unmistakable, Hermione didn't let herself think twice.
Now here she was. Heart pounding in her chest, wondering just how she was going to make it through this.
“Here you are.” Romilda hands her a drink, something dark with ice, and her smile is ridiculously pleased. Hermione sips at the liquid distractedly, not tasting a thing. Her hand starts to shake, and she's afraid she'll drop the glass, so she sets it on a coaster on the coffee table.
Romilda must take that as some sort of signal, because before Hermione can straighten in her seat, she's kissing her. It's a kiss without introduction, just Romilda's hand on her face and her tongue invading Hermione's still uncertain mouth. She either doesn't mark or doesn't care about Hermione's hesitance, pressing forward with a single-minded purpose that would impress Hermione under difference circumstances. Or in a different lover.
Deciding the die has been cast, Hermione slowly lifts a hand, bringing it to the back of Romilda's head. She lets her fingers slip through the other woman's hair, catching on thick strands before tightening her grip. Romilda seems to like that, and she surges into Hermione with a groan, mouth opening wide like she wants to swallow every bit of her. Hermione grabs at her waist, afraid she is going to topple over, but Romilda only swings her leg over Hermione's thighs, straddling her.
Hands begin to roam, lips and tongues become more dedicated, and Hermione hasn't been this aroused in months. The feel of Romilda's steadily rocking hips alone are enough to send her thoughts toward the darkened bedroom down the hall. But she feels no match to the desperate passion on the other woman's face, has no true answer to Romilda's increasingly frenzied touches. Her arousal is detached, a natural product of physical stimulation that has less to do with the woman on her lap than it probably right.
There should be guilt. Shame. She's never used anyone like this and she doesn't think it should be this easy. But the blinders are off for both of them, and there's comfort in that. Hermione doesn't know what she represents to Romilda, and she doesn't care to know. It's enough that Romilda takes pleasure in her body. And she doubts Romilda is conflicted by similar thoughts, doubts she would care if she knew Hermione only wanted her because of how easy it will be to walk away from her. Because of everything she isn't.
Hermione recognizes her thoughts are skirting too close to Pansy. No matter how little this encounter means, she won't cheapen it by thinking of another woman and she forces Pansy from her mind. It's difficult, but it helps that Romilda's curves are so different from Pansy's slender frame, that she doesn't know exactly how Hermione likes to be touched, and that her shampoo is a different scent. It helps that she never lets up, barely lets Hermione take a breath, much less hesitate. And it helps when she grabs Hermione's hand and guides it between her legs, to a damp heat that warms her fingers.
~*~*~*~
She wakes up to Romilda lying beside her, head propped up, a satisfied smile curling her mouth. “You passed out on me,” she says, free hand reaching out to tangle gently in Hermione's curls. “And I was just getting to the good part.”
Hermione thinks about the orgasm that ricocheted through her body not an hour before, the way she arched her back and keened, and chuckles ruefully. “I don't think you're giving yourself enough credit.”
“I was just getting started.” Romilda leans in, lips and tongue brushing lazily along Hermione cheek, her jaw. Hermione's stomach dips and she can't stop the reflexive cant of her hips, or the low, wanting moan that slips between her clenched teeth. Romilda laughs softly in her ear. “This is what happens when you spend too much time at work. You're exhausted, Hermione. Worn out.” Romilda's hand covers her breast and gives a light squeeze. “But not too worn out, I hope.”
Hermione rolls until Romilda is pinned beneath her, her dark eyes wide, nostrils flared with excitement.
“We'll just see who wears out first.”
~*~*~*~
It's almost noon by the time Hermione leaves Romilda's flat, last night's blazer rolled and tucked beneath her arm, her cheeks pink from lingering echoes of pleasure and burgeoning embarrassment. She can't regret the orgasms - they were fantastic - but anyone who looks out the window and sees the wild state of her hair will know what she has been up to; anyone who passes her on the street will recognize the guilty look in her eyes. And anyone at the hospital who cares to follow such things - and there are more than enough - will know Romilda succeeded in bedding her when the woman inevitably turns her attention to her next conquest.
So much for keeping her personal life private.
Hermione steps into an alley, presses her back against the brick facade and closes her eyes. She takes a long, slow breath.
It wasn't worth it, she thinks. She'd suspected that before, but she hadn't known it. Now she does. She won't regret something she walked into with her eyes wide open, but she wants more, isn't built for these kinds of encounters: Thanks. It was fun. Bygones.
Another difference between her and Pansy, she thinks, then wonders if the thought is unfair. An eight month affair is hardly comparable to a one night stand, no matter how badly it ends. In their case, with barely a whimper.
Hermione's eyes pop open and she stares, not really seeing anything. After a bit she chuckles, realizing she's a wiser woman today than she was yesterday. Knows herself a little bit better, and all it took was a one-night stand. Despite everything, it feels good.
To be continued.
Trivia Answer: The line comes from Friends, The One with Ross's Tan. If you haven't seen the episode, I recommend the bloopers with Courteney Cox, Lisa Kudrow, and Jennifer Coolidge. I don't think I would have been able to keep a straight face, either.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Hermione/Pansy, Hermione/Romilda
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 7.558
Summary: Hermione's life gets complicated when a woman from the not so distant past comes back into her life.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to me, that's all J.K. What you see here is simply derivative, non-commercial fanfiction.
Author's Note: Post Hogwarts. There be no canon compliance here. Apologies for another lengthy delay. It seems the more I have pre-written for a chapter the longer it takes me to finish it. I don't think it's supposed to work that way. I borrowed a line from one of my favorite TV shows for this chapter. Give yourself a pat on the back if you recognize it. It comes quick, though, blink and you might miss it. Happy reading.
Previous Chapters: One | Two
~*~*~*~
“You ever think your flat was a waste of money?”
Hermione, whose mind had been tangled in thoughts of the night before, jerks upright, trades staring blankly at a breakfast plate covered by unappetizing blandness for blinking dazedly at the large, too-wide smile of Romilda. She's waiting for a response, but for the life of her, Hermione has no idea what she just said, so she offers a tired smile and a murmured, “Morning Romilda,” and hopes that's good enough.
It must be, because Romilda says, “Morning,” then settles across from her, covering her lap with a napkin and reaching for silverware. She looks good for a woman who spent the before night at a pub, her complexion pink and refreshed, her eyes without the bags that Hermione's carry. She looks like a woman without cares, like someone whose sleep is never disturbed by anything, and Hermione feels a presumptuous envy. Between Harry, Voldemort, her parents, school, work research, and now Pansy, Hermione's sleep has always been more disturbed than not. She supposes she should be used to it by now.
“Do you spend any time at your own flat?” Romilda continues, reaching for the eggs and sparing Hermione a teasing glance. “I know for a fact you've taken breakfast, lunch, and supper here for the last three days at least. It can't be healthy, can it? Spending all that time amongst the scores of ill. I mean -” She breaks off, face becoming stricken as she studies Hermione's face, the no doubt clear signs of fatigue and wear. Rumpled is the kindest adjective Hermione can think of to describe how she probably looks. “I mean, Merlin, you haven't been displaced have you? Oh, Hermione, I feel like a perfect arse. If you need a place to stay -”
“I haven't been displaced,” Hermione says, the confirmation of just how rumpled she looks makes her chuckle weakly. “Just working a lot is all.”
“Thank goodness.” Romilda brightens and goes back to piling her plate with food. “Speaking of, word is you've taken a position as a private Healer.”
Hermione's hand tightens reflexively around her fork. “Sorry?”
“You know.” Romilda leans close, lowers her voice. “For the Parkinson family.”
“How did you -”
“I heard a rumor down on first floor. Now, normally I leave that lot to their spider bites, but since I know for a fact Dane paid you a nocturnal visit I figured there might be some truth to it. Don't worry,” she says when Hermione pinches the bridge of her nose, “I didn't say a word.”
“So much for privacy and discretion. We may as well have called a press conference.”
“A what?”
“Sorry, Muggle reference.” Hermione pushes her plate away, faint appetite disappearing completely. She's only been awake a half hour and already she's two for two, both people she's spoken to having alluded to Pansy. Typical, really. “Well, that certainly didn't stay a secret for long. Hopefully the Parkinsons don't get wind of it.”
Romilda waves a hand, bits of toast clinging to her fingers. “Like I said, first floor. They could have a picture of the Minister dancing around in his knickers and no one would care.”
“I think I'm relieved.” Hermione tries not to get a mental image. ”So, how was your night?” she says, needing to direct the conversation elsewhere.
Romilda takes a moment to answer, maybe surprised Hermione referenced the previous evening, maybe just to gather her thoughts after the change of subject. She shrugs with affected carelessness. “It was alright,” she says, hesitating again before one side of her mouth curls into a small smile, before she looks at Hermione in a way that's assessing, exploring. “It would have been far more enjoyable had you managed to make it out.”
And there it is. Proof that despite last night's casual brush off, Hermione is still in Romilda's sights. That her regard wasn't merely the product of whim brought on by the late hour and no other options. It's refreshing, and a bright bit of distraction after what happened with Pansy.
Hermione waits a beat, unused to coquetry, then tries, “You think so, do you?”
Romilda's widening eyes are almost comical, and it's gratifying in a completely shallow way to know she inspires that kind of excitement. “Oh, I know so,” she says, recovering quickly. The innuendo is thick. “I think you do, too.”
There's a practiced quality to Romilda's flirtation, like an actress who hasn't learned her lines well enough to make them sound completely natural. Some might be put off by it, and in other circumstances Hermione probably would be, but it's exactly Romilda's poorly disguised intentions, their obvious lack of depth, that makes them reassuring. Her studied looks, the occasionally stilted tone and repressed excitement, are like a flashing sign, declaring her agenda from three Quidditch pitches away. There is no need decipher any hidden messages, no chance for misinterpretation, and suddenly uncomplicated is very appealing.
Hermione knows she's standing at a threshold. Yesterday she'd been content to back away, secure in the determination that stepping across it would be a very bad idea. Shagging just for shagging's sake was all well and good, just not for her. But that was something she believed before she discovered how cheaply her last relationship was valued, how willingly she'd shared her body with someone who ultimately viewed it as just that. The answer, perhaps, isn't to go out and jump into bed with the first person who propositions her, but maybe it is.
“I did actually,” she says, cautious, still not quite committed. “I stopped by The Pitch after I finished up.”
“You did?”
“It was late.” Hermione shrugs, like her attempt to meet up with Romilda was of no import, like she's not trying to keep herself in the game long enough to decide which way she wants to go. “You were gone by then.”
“I only stayed an hour. I didn't think you were coming, so there wasn't a reason to stay.”
Romilda is eager, but Hermione only smiles, content to leave the conversation at that. Romilda isn't going anywhere, not for a while yet. Long enough for Hermione to get her head on straight, make sure she's not reacting only out of hurt. She looks down at her plate, drums her fingers on the table, and lets herself feel the weight of Romilda's thoughtful gaze.
On the horizon, a flashing sign creeps closer, growing larger, brighter.
~*~*~*~
The fastest twenty hours of Hermione's life precede her standing outside the Parkinson's front door, wet and miserable from a persistent rain, and staring at a cast iron door knocker: a fierce goblin with a ring caught in its snarling mouth. Appropriate doesn't begin to cover it.
She has not contacted the family since she left, and has no idea what she'll encounter when she enters the home. The ideal scenario involves finding Pansy with her memory fully recovered, giving her a quick once over, and declaring a medical all-clear before escaping. Of course, that scenario also involves looking into Pansy's eyes when they both know she tried to erase Hermione from her memories, which will hardly be pleasant. She wonders what the etiquette is for such a situation. Do they ignore it? Does Pansy apologize? Or maybe she should offer to alter Pansy's memory for a small fee, results professionally guaranteed.
The thought elicits a dark chuckle.
She waits for the worst of her nerves to calm before knocking, when it no longer feels like her heart is trying to break through her sternum. Belatedly, she thinks of her appearance, remembering how bedraggled she was last time, and casts a spell to dry the most sopping of her clothes, then checks her hair with a hand that only shakes a little. The door opens almost the moment she tucks her last curl away, revealing an elderly house-elf, female, with a narrow face, a severe mouth, and a pair of electric yellow eyes. She's wearing a hunter green pillowcase with silver stitching, and the material looks like silk. She nods at Hermione, an obviously grudging gesture, and steps to the side to allow her entry.
“Mistress is in the front study,” she says, voice surprisingly low for a house-elf. She doesn't look Hermione in the eyes, and Hermione doesn't know if that's training or simple contempt for her Muggle heritage. “Follow me. But wipe your feet first,” she snaps before Hermione can cross the threshold.
Hermione does as she's told, being very thorough, then enters a corridor paved by limestone tiles and walls that match the color of the house-elf's pillowcase. Massive brass candelabras hang from the ceiling, casting a disconcertingly warm and buttery light over the paintings and magical relics that line the hall a precise intervals. The Parkinsons are considered excessively proud of their heritage even by pure-blood standards, their private collection of artifacts one of the most extensive in Great Britain, and Hermione has to resist the urge to ogle the calculated display of family wealth.
Once, Hermione asked Pansy if she could see the collection, rumored to include Rowena Ravenclaw's wand, but the other woman's eventual denial was padded by so much evasion that Hermione never made the request again. Later, she'd asked Pansy if she was afraid the manor would fall down around their ears if a Muggle-born was allowed admittance. Pansy had laughed, but Hermione never considered it much of a joke. One of the many hints she should have taken more to heart, she supposes, keeping her eyes straight ahead.
The memory is still sour when Hermione enters the front study, peering once again into a room that has more in common with a dark cave than a living space. Pansy is there as promised, standing beside a fireplace with a snapping flame and paging through a book. It's such a familiar pose that Hermione feels a surge of longing that's less unexpected than it should be, and she suppresses it viciously.
Pansy only looks up after the house-elf announces her, and Hermione does a quick search of her face, alert for any sign of recognition. But the expression that greets her is neutral, that of a woman seeing her Healer and nothing more.
Hermione doesn't have time to process her reaction to that because when she looks away to take stock of herself, her eyes immediately find Malfoy. He is staring at her, draped across the couch, shoe-clad feet braced on the cushions. He doesn't stand to greet her, just sniffs and wiggles into a more comfortable position, reminding her that, Healer or no, she is no one. Not to him, certainly not to Pansy. His entitlement - this is already his home - maintains its bruising assault on her emotions.
“Hello.” She glances around the room in search of Pansy's parents - more to ignore Malfoy than because she wants to see them - surprised to find they aren't there. She'd expected them to be nearly attached, watching her every move, ready to imagine any and every slight. But either they trust her more than she gave them credit for, or they've decided Malfoy is sentinel enough for their daughter's protection.
“They're at a soiree,” Pansy says, reading her mind. “Draco was invited, but sacrificed a night out to stay home and watch over me.” Pansy closes the book she's been reading, then takes a lazy stroll toward the center of the room. She is no athlete, but she possesses an undeniable grace, a confidence in her body and its every movement that draws the eye. Not long ago Hermione would have spent happy hours just watching her, whether she was walking around a room, charming an acquaintance, or just throwing her head back to laugh. She'd still probably do it if given the chance, and she hates herself for it. “Isn't he a dear?”
Hermione thinks Malfoy will bristle at Pansy's sarcasm, but he barely blinks, obviously used to it. A part of her gloats: she never spoke to me that way, never dismissed me so cavalierly. As if it means something. But the sense of superiority, reflexive and without basis in reality, is deservedly short-lived.
“How are you feeling?” she says, blunt, to the point, disgusted with herself. Her only purpose here is to be Pansy's Healer, not be tormented by thoughts of what if , or compare her relationship with Pansy to Malfoy's. She is a professional, and she needs to embrace that role to exclusion of all else. “You've taken two doses of the medication now, have any memories returned?”
“Not a one.” Pansy settles onto the couch beside Malfoy, pushes his feet off the cushion with a brusqueness devoid of affection, and leans back. “My parents are very concerned.” She lifts her hands, palms up, and looks around the room, as if to add, “as you can see.”
“It's not unexpected.” It's not ideal either, she thinks, but doesn't say. She retrieves a chair and places it in front of Pansy before sitting down. “I know it's disappointing for you, but at this stage it isn't cause for alarm.”
“When should we be alarmed?” Malfoy's head rolls lazily on its pillow until he's looking at Hermione fully. His bored, nearly careless tone belies the open hostility on his face, the near hatred that burns toward her. “At what time will the great Healer Granger give us permission to be worried? Please, tell me when I have the right to care that my fiancee can't remember who she is.”
Hermione looks away, fighting for composure against the urge to return his venom. She'd forgotten, of course she had, that beneath the “understanding,” the childish squabbles and the mutual resignation, Malfoy and Pansy have a real relationship. One that's foundation goes back more than two decades. Pansy once likened them to a pair who'd been ship-wrecked on an island and forced to rely on one another to survive. They weren't friends, precisely, but their presence in each other's lives had become intrinsic.
She'd hated the analogy then, and seeing it reflected in Malfoy's eyes makes it even less palatable.
“I only meant that you shouldn't lose hope. We're still early in the process.” Hermione is pleased with her steady, calm response, wants it to rankle Malfoy that she doesn't react to him berating her in front of Pansy.
“Forgive me if I'm not relieved.”
Pansy chuckles, breaking the tense atmosphere.
“He's only this unpleasant with you, you know. I've asked him why, but he refuses to tell me anything. I don't suppose you'd be willing to reveal the big secret?” Pansy looks expectant, but Hermione only stares back. She will never have this conversation with Pansy, not if she can help it. “No?” Pansy sighs dramatically before her head tilts and she considers Hermione for a long moment. “I'm a little surprised, since you strike me as the kind of woman who likes to speak her mind. But continue being mysterious if you both enjoy it so much, I'm sure I'll catch you out eventually.”
Hermione wishes it wasn't completely unprofessional to hope not.
“Have you had any headaches?” she redirects. “Nausea? Any dreams that feel like memories?”
“Back to business so quickly? I'm disappointed. I'd thought we could chat. I'm a little isolated here.” She glances at Malfoy. “Well, apart from Draco and my parents. I thought it might be nice to talk to someone else from my past. Maybe you could spark something.”
“I doubt it.” Hermione clears her throat and tries not to be visibly uncomfortable. “Malfoy and your parents have likely spent more time with you than anyone, and this is the house you grew up in, making it the best, most familiar setting you could be in.” She clears her throat again. “However, you're right, getting out of the house, visiting places you've been and interacting with others is a good idea. Evidence for the helpfulness of that sort of thing is purely anecdotal, of course, but I believe in its benefits.”
“Except when it comes to talking with you, apparently.”
Bollocks. “We were barely acquaintances.”
“I thought we knew each other 'well enough?'”
Pansy's lips barely move, but it's unmistakably a smile and too knowing for Hermione's comfort. It's a uniquely Pansy expression, and it's disturbing how...Pansy-like she is. Normally, after someone loses their memory, they become a softer, hazier version of themselves. Like an ink drawing that's been re-worked in water colors. So much of what they encounter is a new discovery, so much is uncertain, their personality becomes innocent and child-like almost by default. Even malleable in some ways. But Pansy's essence is still distinctly present, her sharpest edges still keen.
“Meaning that we shared some classes at school but never really talked. That's well enough in my eyes.”
Pansy dips her chin. “My mistake. But to answer your questions: no. No headaches, no nausea, and no dreams.”
Hermione makes her notes, does a quick physical examination of Pansy, and nearly rockets to her feet.
“You have another day of the draught left, so take it in the same schedule you did today. I'll pop in again tomorrow and see if there's any progress and brew the second batch if it's necessary. Is the same time tomorrow evening acceptable?”
Malfoy, who'd become a silent lump, rouses. “Perhaps you'll be able to conjure some results tomorrow. Her parents are very anxious to see some. Any, really.”
“Do you have a problem with the level of care I've provided, Miss Parkinson?” Hermione gathers her materials, stores them with deliberate care. An internal debate rages fast and hot, and she says before she can stop herself, “Would you like to make a formal request for a new Healer?”
She doesn't know how she wants Pansy to answer that.
“Oh, I don't think that's necessary, do you? I've quite enjoyed your level of care, Healer Granger.” The smile is back, accompanied by playful wink, though Hermione doesn't know if it's meant to tease her or Malfoy. “Same time tomorrow works for me.”
Hermione resists looking at Malfoy, ignores the emotions Pansy's words stir. “Then tomorrow it is,” she says.
~*~*~*~
Dane is waiting in Hermione's office when she arrives the next morning, just after ten o'clock. She's sitting at Hermione's desk, leaning back, legs crossed at the ankles and feet resting on a stack of Hermione's research papers. She doesn't look particularly upset, and she doesn't say anything, just looks pointedly at her watch.
Hermione resists apologizing to her superior for having a bit of a lie-in this morning. With the kind of hours she works, she deserves one every once in a while. It's the kind of entitled attitude Dane hates in her underlings, but if she wants an explanation she'll have to use her words and ask for one.
Hermione goes about removing her jacket and storing it without even a nod of acknowledgment, then finds a seat on one of her extra chairs while she searches her satchel for the notes from last night. She's re-reading them when Dane seems to realize she is in one of her less obliging moods. The other woman's feet drop to the floor, smacking hard.
“I heard from the Parkinsons this morning,” she says, and Hermione makes a sound in the back of her throat, continues to study her notes. “They're less than pleased with their daughter's progress. Or lack thereof, I should say.”
It takes Hermione a moment to realize the crunching sound she hears is from the crumpled notes in her hand. She takes a deep breath, then tries to flatten the page.
“It's only been a day. She's still on her first round of treatment.”
“I told them that. They also expressed concern about your...history with their daughter. A history you apparently didn't deem important enough to inform me of when I assigned you to this case.”
Dane sniffs, wipes at her nose while Hermione tries not to choke on her rage.
“Is my professionalism being called in to question?”
That Dane doesn't answer right away makes Hermione more livid than the Parkinson's insinuation. “No,” she says eventually. “Not at all. But I do want to remind you how critical this case is.”
“My past with Miss Parkinson is exactly that. It has no bearing on the course of treatment and I informed the Parkinsons of that when they asked me directly.” Hermione stops to take a needed breath, nearly gulping air in her agitation. Her entire body feels hot. “I am doing the best I can,” she adds, quieter, hating that she even has to say it.
“I know you are.” Dane pushes slowly to her feet, emits a pained groan when a knee cracks. She limps toward Hermione and puts a hand on her shoulder, the gesture of comfort disconcerting coming from the gruff woman. “You are the best I have, but that doesn't mean you're the best for every situation. If for whatever reason you'd like to be taken off the case, tell me now.”
Hermione snorts. She should wash her hands of this, should tell Dane to turn Pansy's care over to someone else and be done with it. She doesn't need this kind of stress, and it isn't worth her peace of mind.
But she won't. Because she doesn't trust anyone else. Because, for just this moment, Pansy wants her and Hermione won't walk away from her this time. Not until she has to.
“I'm fine.”
Dane nods, smiles like she knew that is what Hermione would say, then gives her shoulder a hard squeeze and walks out of the office.
~*~*~*~
It's family day at the Burrow. The late lunch is over and everyone's migrated from the dining room to a digesting location of their choice. Hermione is in the back yard with the boys and Ginny. Lavender is in the kitchen chatting with Mrs. Weasley, Mr. Weasley is in his shed doing he only knows what, and the children are scattered around the grounds, more than likely running from their twin uncles.
They've been sitting for an hour, and most in the backyard are enjoying their second drink, though Hermione's is safely alcohol free. She still doesn't trust herself in an altered state, even less now that she's being exposed to Pansy regularly. Inebriated lamentations of lost love are not something she does well, and she doesn't want to give herself the chance to perform one.
That and the evening's appoint with Pansy is still looming, and she'd prefer to be sober.
“I've never seen her so depressed.” Ron speaks in a stage whisper, one hand covering his mouth like that will keep Hermione from hearing him. He spares a glance in her direction, then shakes his head sadly, lips pressed together in a sympathetic line.
“Ron.” Harry gives him a repressive look.
“But it's true. Look at that face.” Ron stares at her, upper lip rising like a curtain, his nose bunching like he's smelled something foul. Like he doesn't know, or doesn't care, that Hermione is staring directly back at him, and can see every contortion of his face. “It's pathetic. I mean, I'm getting depressed by association over here.”
Hermione lifts her glass of water to him in a mock toast. “Thank you, Ron. You flatterer.”
He goes on like she hasn't spoken. “She's obviously lonely. I mean, wouldn't you be? Single for, what? A couple years now, ain't it? She needs a woman.”
Hermione groans and rolls her eyes at Ginny, who looks like she is going to laugh. The traitor.
“I do not.”
“Of course you do.”
“No, I don't”
“Don't tell me you need a man, I won't believe it.”
“Of course not.”
Ron nods, almost apologetic. “That's right. Ruined her, I did. Once you've had the best there's no point in carrying on. Hermione knows that better than anyone.” He points a finger in her direction, quietly triumphant. “Brightest witch of our age, right there.”
It doesn't matter how long they've been friends, Hermione thinks, Ron will never cease to amaze her. “All we did is kiss,” she says, very aware of the disturbed look on Ginny's face.
“That's all it took.”
“Someone get him a water,” Ginny says, looking back toward the kitchen but making no move to actually get up and get it herself.
“He can have mine.” Hermione holds her glass out to Ron but he waves it away.
“Hang on, I'm trying to make a point here.”
Ginny sighs. “Settle in boys and girls, there's no stopping him now.”
“No, I mean it. I think Hermione needs to put herself out there again. She needs a date and,” Ron taps his chest, “I know the perfect girl.”
A chorus of groans follow the announcement. The first - and last - time Ron set Hermione up with a woman had been one of the more humiliating moments of Hermione's life. Sally, as it turned out, was straight, but Ron had had a 'feeling.' After sharing a confusing and increasingly awkward drink - in which Sally believed she was being interviewed for a landscaping job at Hermione's home, and Hermione thought she was on a date - Hermione apologized for her friend and fled. She didn't speak to Ron for a month.
“Honestly, she's a nice girl, reads all kinds of books. Her father's a Muggle, and, yeah, she's only twenty years old, but she's very mature for her age. And she was Gryffindor.”
“Please tell me you haven't already approached her about this.”
“Of course not, but I managed to show her your picture and she was very complimentary.”
Hermione chuckles. Leave it to Ron, she thinks. Somehow, without knowing anything, he's managed to strike in the same vicinity as the heart of the matter. She needs to take action, stop waiting and hoping things will turn out for the best on their own. That tactic's blown up in her face already: when she passively waited for Pansy to seek her out instead of demanding answers and honesty. She has to move forward. But not, she vows, into the arms of a twenty year old. Or, she amends, with anyone Ron thinks will be good for her.
“No.”
“Oh, come on -”
“No, Ron. Work is very stressful right now and I can't imagine putting in the effort to cultivate a relationship right now.”
“Cul- cultivate a relationship?” Ron echoes, blinking. He looks at his drink, blinks a few more times, then turns back to her. “Blimey, Hermione, you make it sound like a job. Relationships are supposed to be fun. For the most part.” Ron wrenches around to look toward the house, most likely making sure his wife is still inside. “And they're supposed to make you happy, also for the most part. With an attitude like that, I'm not surprised you've been single for -” He starts counting on his fingers.
“Ron.” He stops counting, mumbling the numbers under his breath, and looks at her hopefully. “I really appreciate the thought, but I just can't right now. Maybe when things calm down at work you can set that date up, okay? But not until then.”
“But Rosabella might not be single by then.”
“Then we'll find someone else.” Hermione smiles, trying to soothe Ron's tipsy distress. After a moment he nods and gradually the talk around them moves on, for which Hermione is grateful. Well tread topics surface, like family vacations, and birthday parties, and what the children need for Hogwarts this year. Things that comprise a family life.
Hermione's contribution is negligible, but she's not bothered. Her mind is distracted and drifting elsewhere, trying to peer ahead into the next stage of her life. What comes after a woman without a memory.
~*~*~*~
She is alone. A woman and her cauldron.
The still nameless house-elf had escorted her to the front study when she arrived at the Parkinson's, then left her in a room that was empty and dark even by Parkinson standards. Though before she slammed the door, she deigned to tell Hermione the Parkinsons were visiting friends and the young mistress would be back shortly.
That was nearly forty minutes ago. Ten minutes ago Hermione lit some candles and began brewing another batch of the Retention Draught because she couldn't sit still and her arches were starting to ache from the pacing. If Pansy doesn't need it, Hermione will just throw it out. And maybe charge the Parkinsons for it anyway, just for wasting her time. But only if Dane lets her get away with it.
She's humming to herself, a song from childhood she can't remember the words to, when the door to the study opens and then softly closes. Hermione, who has her back to it, doesn't see who enters and doesn't bother to stop what she's doing to look. She's not in the mood to be solicitous. The question of who is answered quickly enough anyway, when there's a soft chuckle, then an amused, “Alone at last.”
Pansy's voice is laden with quiet intimacy, and for a moment Hermione is certain she remembers and has come to torment her. But she says nothing more, and Hermione forces herself to take a deep, calming breath, waiting for her nerves to bring themselves back under control. In front of her, the heating liquid bubbles and pops, sending puffs of green smoke into the air at staggered, unpredictable intervals. Her eyes follow the sparkling haze they release into the air, she watches it form and dissipate and form again, over and over, all while stirring the brew in lazy, counter-clockwise circles. She doesn't turn around.
“How are you feeling today?” she says after a while, when her heart has unstuck itself from her throat.
Pansy laughs. “There's no getting a rise out of you, is there?” she says, her voice moving closer. “I'm the same. Absolutely no change. Is that still normal?”
“It's not typical.” Hermione hesitates, torn between cautious optimism and undiluted truth. “But I'm not overly concerned, yet.”
“Yet.” Pansy parrots. “So you're a little concerned.”
“Yes.” Hermione sighs. “I would have liked to see some progress by now, but it doesn't always happen that way.”
Pansy makes a sound of understanding, but doesn't say more. She lingers out of Hermione's line of sight, and Hermione tries not to wonder what she's doing. Tries not to enjoy being alone with her, the sole focus of her attention. She looks at her watch. The potion will be ready in another three minutes and the time can't pass quickly enough.
“You know, it's odd,” Pansy says, apropos of nothing.
“What's odd?”
“Being with you.” When Hermione doesn't respond, Pansy continues in a musing way, as if these thoughts have only just occurred to her. “Most of my memory is a total void, except you. When I look at you it's like -” Pansy's slow words grind to a halt, and Hermione chances a glance. Pansy's gaze has a distant quality, one finger is tapping against her pursed lips. “It's like when you're trying to remember a word and it's on the tip of your tongue, but you just can't get it.”
“Considering your condition, I'd expect you spend most of the day with that feeling.”
It's an unkind thing to say; inappropriate, too, since Pansy is her patient and entitled to - if not deserving of - her compassion as well as her care. She hates speaking so thoughtlessly, and hates that she feels so off kilter around Pansy, torn between punishing her, or ignoring her, or just wanting to pull her close and tell her everything will be alright.
“You don't like me,” Pansy says, as if delighted by the discovery. “I knew all that anger couldn't be meant for just Draco.”
“We didn't get along at school,” Hermione says, knowing silence would only encourage Pansy to dig further.
“Is that all? How boring.” Pansy walks until she is standing next to Hermione. In a deceptively casual move, she leans against the desk and crosses her arms, lets her elbow graze against Hermione's arm. Her gaze is searching, and Hermione can feel it flickering across her face, her hands, everywhere it can reach, but she doesn't meet it. “The tension that radiates off you is so...delicious,” she muses after a moment, “I thought for sure it was something more exciting than a difference of opinion between school girls.”
“The stakes associated with those different opinions were rather higher than you're imagining, I'm sure.”
“I assume you're referring to the so-called Dark Lord? That sounds vaguely more intriguing than a fight over some smooth-faced boy,” Pansy's voice dips, “but not nearly as intriguing as I was hoping.”
Hermione feels herself flush at the suggestiveness in Pansy's tone, and she ducks her head, hoping to hide the blush she knows is darkening her cheeks. But Pansy is too observant.
“Oh, yes,” Pansy says on a throaty laugh that Hermione used to hear - used to crave - regularly. “It's definitely more than that.”
The silence that follows is broken only by the bubbling potion. Expectation feels thick in the air, but Hermione refuses to - she can't - give Pansy the satisfaction of responding. She stirs with more determination, fighting the agitation stiffening her limbs and giving her away.
“Aren't you going to tell me?”
“It's best forgotten.”
“Were we lovers?”
Heat spreads through Hermione's body and her head snaps up before she can control it. She catches the flash of triumph on Pansy's face before she can look away.
“I'm definitely close to the mark.” She reaches out and brackets Hermione's chin in her fingers, gently turns Hermione to face her. Hermione thinks about resisting, but only hardens her expression, fights not to reveal a thing. “Were you in love with me?”
The teasing tone is gone, replaced by a soft curiosity. Somehow it makes the question more painful. Hermione grabs Pansy's wrist and pulls it away.
“You're lovely, you know,” Pansy says, as she lets her hand be guided from Hermione's face. She looks almost wistful. “There's a fierceness to you. It's unbelievably attractive.”
It's too much. After everything Pansy's put her through, Hermione can't stand here and take this. “You're an engaged woman,” she says, dropping Pansy's hand and extinguishing the flame beneath the cauldron. She reaches for her vials and knows it's too much to ask that Pansy not mark the shaking of her hands. “I can't imagine Malfoy would appreciate your observations.”
Pansy frowns at Hermione's tone. “Ah, yes, dear Draco.” She rolls her eyes. “How easy it is to forget about him when I'm with you. He's another one who inspires a frustratingly vague emotion whenever I'm with him.”
“Love, perhaps?”
Pansy hums softly. “Whenever he opens his mouth I can't decide if I should roll my eyes or just slap him. That doesn't sound like love, does it? Though perhaps those urges come part and parcel with pending matrimony. I should ask my parents. Now the urges you inspire are much more fun. Shall I tell you about them?”
“I wish you wouldn't.”
“They would shock you, I think.”
“I don't doubt it. I'm also sure I wouldn't enjoy a bit of it.”
Pansy takes the stoppered potion from Hermione, deliberately brushing their fingers. “It's a good thing honesty isn't one of Gryffindor's sacred traits, otherwise you'd have to return your badge.”
Hermione cleans her cauldron with a wave of her wand, looks about for her travel bag. “Remembered those, have you?”
“I've been debriefed. My parents are very good Slytherins, apparently.”
The wry amusement breaks Hermione's control just enough. “You're exactly the same aren't you?” Hermione presses a hand against her eyes, grimaces. “Even without a memory, with an entirely clean slate, you're cutting and superior and full of misplaced confidence.”
Pansy face blanks with surprise for just a moment at Hermione's loss of composure, but she recovers quickly, says in that sly voice of hers, “Misplaced? Oh, I doubt it.”
Hermione laughs through a rush of unwanted, humiliating tears. “It's just who you are, isn't it?” she says, and the sudden longing to touch Pansy, to have this abrasive woman be a part of her life, feels as fresh as it did the first time she recognized the emotion for what it was.
“You tell me.” Pansy takes a step forward and it looks like she is going to reach out and touch Hermione, but the door opens and she aborts the gesture, turning to look as Malfoy glides in, impeccably dressed in evening attire, his hair fashionably tousled. His steps falter when he sees Hermione, but he covers his surprise with a small, insincere smile. Hermione doesn't miss the way Pansy's mouth twists with disdain.
“Granger. I didn't realize you were here.“ He turns his back to her and walks to the liquor cabinet. “Would either of you care for a drink?”
“A gin and tonic for me, dear,” Pansy says, sharp with impatience.
“I was just leaving.” Hermione ignores Pansy's disapproving frown. She gathers her things and nearly trips toward the door she is moving so quickly.
“How sad.” Malfoy turns to smile at her. When he takes in her agitation, it becomes gloating. “This is the second batch,” he nods toward the vial in Pansy's hand. “We're running out of time.”
Hermione grits her teeth, one hand on the door knob and desperate to get away, she can't help but defend herself. “It's not out yet.”
“We need Pansy whole, Granger.”
“That's Healer Granger,” she bites out, “and I'm working on it.”
Malfoy's eyes narrow, and the step he takes in Hermione's direction is menacing. “I'd suggest working harder.”
“Do you ever get tired of listening to yourself speak?” Pansy muses, speaking before Hermione can fly across the room and bloody Malfoy's nose with her fist. They share a glance, but Hermione looks away immediately, refusing to get drawn anymore deeply into the argument. She's pushing open the door when Pansy says, “Merlin knows I do.”
Malfoy's cheeks actually redden at the rebuke, but Hermione doesn't stay to enjoy it.
~*~*~*~
“Would you like something to drink?”
“Whatever you're having will be fine,” Hermione says, too shocked at being in Romilda's flat to think properly. Knowing what she has come her to do too distracting to allow her to concentrate on anything more complicated than breathing.
She'd run into the other woman leaving the hospital. Fresh off the scene at Pansy's, the confusing emotions still buffeting her, it had seemed destined. Here was the chance to truly start distancing herself from Pansy, replacing the echoes of her touch with another woman's. It might not be healthy, but it was a start, and when Romilda invited her back to hers, the expectation unmistakable, Hermione didn't let herself think twice.
Now here she was. Heart pounding in her chest, wondering just how she was going to make it through this.
“Here you are.” Romilda hands her a drink, something dark with ice, and her smile is ridiculously pleased. Hermione sips at the liquid distractedly, not tasting a thing. Her hand starts to shake, and she's afraid she'll drop the glass, so she sets it on a coaster on the coffee table.
Romilda must take that as some sort of signal, because before Hermione can straighten in her seat, she's kissing her. It's a kiss without introduction, just Romilda's hand on her face and her tongue invading Hermione's still uncertain mouth. She either doesn't mark or doesn't care about Hermione's hesitance, pressing forward with a single-minded purpose that would impress Hermione under difference circumstances. Or in a different lover.
Deciding the die has been cast, Hermione slowly lifts a hand, bringing it to the back of Romilda's head. She lets her fingers slip through the other woman's hair, catching on thick strands before tightening her grip. Romilda seems to like that, and she surges into Hermione with a groan, mouth opening wide like she wants to swallow every bit of her. Hermione grabs at her waist, afraid she is going to topple over, but Romilda only swings her leg over Hermione's thighs, straddling her.
Hands begin to roam, lips and tongues become more dedicated, and Hermione hasn't been this aroused in months. The feel of Romilda's steadily rocking hips alone are enough to send her thoughts toward the darkened bedroom down the hall. But she feels no match to the desperate passion on the other woman's face, has no true answer to Romilda's increasingly frenzied touches. Her arousal is detached, a natural product of physical stimulation that has less to do with the woman on her lap than it probably right.
There should be guilt. Shame. She's never used anyone like this and she doesn't think it should be this easy. But the blinders are off for both of them, and there's comfort in that. Hermione doesn't know what she represents to Romilda, and she doesn't care to know. It's enough that Romilda takes pleasure in her body. And she doubts Romilda is conflicted by similar thoughts, doubts she would care if she knew Hermione only wanted her because of how easy it will be to walk away from her. Because of everything she isn't.
Hermione recognizes her thoughts are skirting too close to Pansy. No matter how little this encounter means, she won't cheapen it by thinking of another woman and she forces Pansy from her mind. It's difficult, but it helps that Romilda's curves are so different from Pansy's slender frame, that she doesn't know exactly how Hermione likes to be touched, and that her shampoo is a different scent. It helps that she never lets up, barely lets Hermione take a breath, much less hesitate. And it helps when she grabs Hermione's hand and guides it between her legs, to a damp heat that warms her fingers.
~*~*~*~
She wakes up to Romilda lying beside her, head propped up, a satisfied smile curling her mouth. “You passed out on me,” she says, free hand reaching out to tangle gently in Hermione's curls. “And I was just getting to the good part.”
Hermione thinks about the orgasm that ricocheted through her body not an hour before, the way she arched her back and keened, and chuckles ruefully. “I don't think you're giving yourself enough credit.”
“I was just getting started.” Romilda leans in, lips and tongue brushing lazily along Hermione cheek, her jaw. Hermione's stomach dips and she can't stop the reflexive cant of her hips, or the low, wanting moan that slips between her clenched teeth. Romilda laughs softly in her ear. “This is what happens when you spend too much time at work. You're exhausted, Hermione. Worn out.” Romilda's hand covers her breast and gives a light squeeze. “But not too worn out, I hope.”
Hermione rolls until Romilda is pinned beneath her, her dark eyes wide, nostrils flared with excitement.
“We'll just see who wears out first.”
~*~*~*~
It's almost noon by the time Hermione leaves Romilda's flat, last night's blazer rolled and tucked beneath her arm, her cheeks pink from lingering echoes of pleasure and burgeoning embarrassment. She can't regret the orgasms - they were fantastic - but anyone who looks out the window and sees the wild state of her hair will know what she has been up to; anyone who passes her on the street will recognize the guilty look in her eyes. And anyone at the hospital who cares to follow such things - and there are more than enough - will know Romilda succeeded in bedding her when the woman inevitably turns her attention to her next conquest.
So much for keeping her personal life private.
Hermione steps into an alley, presses her back against the brick facade and closes her eyes. She takes a long, slow breath.
It wasn't worth it, she thinks. She'd suspected that before, but she hadn't known it. Now she does. She won't regret something she walked into with her eyes wide open, but she wants more, isn't built for these kinds of encounters: Thanks. It was fun. Bygones.
Another difference between her and Pansy, she thinks, then wonders if the thought is unfair. An eight month affair is hardly comparable to a one night stand, no matter how badly it ends. In their case, with barely a whimper.
Hermione's eyes pop open and she stares, not really seeing anything. After a bit she chuckles, realizing she's a wiser woman today than she was yesterday. Knows herself a little bit better, and all it took was a one-night stand. Despite everything, it feels good.
To be continued.
Trivia Answer: The line comes from Friends, The One with Ross's Tan. If you haven't seen the episode, I recommend the bloopers with Courteney Cox, Lisa Kudrow, and Jennifer Coolidge. I don't think I would have been able to keep a straight face, either.