Harry Potter Fic: Thanks for the Memories (4b/4)
Title: Thanks for the Memories (4b.4)
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Hermione/Pansy, Hermione/Romilda
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 10.729
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: Here be the end. I hope you have enjoyed. Even if it's just a little bit. Thank you for reading!
Previous Chapters: One | Two | Three | Four A
~*~*~*~
Hermione hasn't spoken to Romilda since they slept together. And even though she's only been back from holiday five hours, hasn't left her office except to speak with Dane and Parker, she's already heard rumors about the specialist on the second floor. Wilbur something or other. The same man she saw Romilda walking with last week.
The consensus among the staff - though Hermione will by no means seek out other sources to confirm this supposition - is that Romilda, a woman of incessant sexual cravings and accustomed to the swift capitulation of her targets, lost interest in the cerebral Memory Charm specialist when she took her unexpected holiday. Hermione's allure, which was surely intellectually based - no one could imagine her as a lover of great passion - wasn't potent enough keep Romilda's interest and she moved on to someone apt to succumb to her charms within the length of time it took to pour a drink.
Most would consider such a slight against their appeal deeply unflattering, but Hermione thinks the greater insult belongs to Romilda, whose libido is apparently too needful to suffer even a seven day delay of gratification. So she's grateful, really, that the hospital's most dedicated gossips think she's probably crap in bed. It's better than them knowing Romilda slept with her and discarded her in favor of someone new the very next day. She has no desire to know what speculation would arise from that bit of knowledge.
Privately, in the far back of her mind, she can admit it stings a little bit. More because of embarrassment than a sense of betrayal. She'd enjoyed the physical release she achieved with Romilda, despite having no intention of repeating it. She thought Romilda enjoyed herself too, though she did not stay long enough to ask. Now she doubts her perception, and it makes her self-conscious, makes her wonder if perhaps she really is crap in bed. It doesn't particularly bother her if she misjudged her experience with Romilda, but the fear she'd been a sub-par lover for Pansy is enough to make her writhe in psychological agony.
No matter the truth beneath the perception, it's an awkward situation that will likely remain so for quite a while. Given the choice, Hermione would prefer to avoid Romilda for the time being. If she had to put a number on it, she'd like to be another two or three lovers removed before their former level of friendship is reestablished. She thinks Romilda would say the same, which is why she's shocked to see her standing inside the door of her office.
"Romilda." She straightens, carefully arranging her expression into subdued, but still pleased, surprise. "How are you?"
Romilda doesn't answer right away. She hovers, examining Hermione's expression, her hands behind her back and her chin sheepishly dipped. It's the look of a penitent, and Hermione finds that this, more than anything, gets her dander up. She doesn't want Romilda's pity, doesn't want the other woman to think what happened between them hurt her in any way. But she doesn't jump to her own defense by making excuses, knowing that speaking first will only strengthen Romilda's suspicions. Whatever those suspicions may be.
Eventually a smile works its way across Romilda's face, small and shy and completely uncharacteristic. When she moves fully into Hermione's office it's with careful steps, like she's afraid a wrong move will provoke an attack.
"I'm well." She sits on the chair across from Hermione but she doesn't look comfortable, her body unnaturally rigid. "How are you? Did you enjoy your holiday?"
"Yes. Very refreshing." It's only a little fib.
"Rather unexpected though."
"I'm sorry?"
"It's just you never mentioned it." Romilda is looking at her lap, fingers picking at her skirt. She hasn't looked Hermione directly in the eye once. "You just sort of...disappeared."
With that, the pieces of a puzzle snap into place. For the first time, Hermione considers how her departure could have looked from Romilda's point of view. Leaving Romilda with only a cursory goodbye and disappearing for a week without a word. Suddenly, the pursuit of Wilbur looks less like slightly callous indifference and more like a self-esteem boost.
Hermione feels like a heel.
"I'm sorry." Hermione makes an awkward gesture. "I needed to get away. You mentioned it yourself. I'd been working too much and things were getting overwhelming. I was just...frustrated with work. And confused," she adds, though the words are meant only for herself.
"That's funny. I'm confused, too."
"Pardon?"
"Well, you left without a word." Romilda's substituted uncertainty for exasperation. "Still friends, right?"
"Of course."
"And you're not upset with me?"
"Merlin, no. Of course not. Are you upset with me?"
Romilda's response is a while in coming, and Hermione knows she deserves to squirm.
"My leaving had nothing to do with what happened between us." Hermione moves to sit on the chair beside Romilda's, eager to soothe the other woman's upset. She thinks about putting a hand on Romilda's arm, or maybe her knee, but decides it is probably better not to touch for the time being. "It was pure coincidence in timing. I'm sorry if I upset you."
It's not the most elegant apology she's ever given - not the most inelegant, either - but it's sincere and Romilda must sense that because eventually she nods, her expression clearing.
"You have seem distracted lately."
"I was. Still am, really."
"You might want to think twice before you do something like that again, though, yeah? It was a bit thoughtless."
"Yes. Yes, of course." Hermione does not think about how she did the exact same thing to Pansy. She refuses to entertain the thought Pansy might have been hurt by her actions.
"I forgive you, then." As easy as that.
"So we're still friends, then?"
"Of course." Romilda sports a sly smile. "Maybe friends with a standing invitation to -"
"No," Hermione interrupts, even though she knows - is mostly certain - Romilda is joking. "Last week was very enjoyable, but I went down that road before, with a friend, and things got...complicated. I don't want that to happen to us."
Hermione's surprised when Romilda looks disappointed. But it lasts only a moment, her world obviously isn't shattered, and she won't be crying herself to sleep tonight. "I understand," she says. "For the record, I found our time together very enjoyable as well."
The blush is unavoidable. "Thank you," she says, ego restored and her mood instantly brighter. She's about to tease Romilda on her newest paramour when Romilda reaches for the parchment on Hermione's desk. Before Hermione can tell her to put it back, she's got it spread across her lap.
"Parkinson still hasn't gotten her memory back?" She scans the notes, though how much she understands Hermione has no idea. After a few minutes she shrugs and hands them back to Hermione. "Tough break."
"Maybe."
"What do you mean?"
Hermione hesitates, not sure how much she should say. If what she suspects is true, then a crime has been committed and she doesn't want her suspicions flying freely around the hospital where they might crawl into interested ears. Even worse if she's wrong, and her words somehow get back to the Parkinsons, she and the hospital would no doubt find themselves in a nasty situation very quickly.
But she needs to talk with someone, to speak her thoughts aloud and give them shape.
"This is just between you and me," she says, and watches Romilda's curiosity become something determined. She nods once.
"Something isn't right." Hermione lifts her notes. "You see, Pansy wasn't addled."
"What do you mean?"
"That first night." Hermione looks down at her initial report, until she finds the paragraph describing what she observed after being summoned to the Parkinson estate. Her eyes flick over the words, searching for the ones that, after years of doing this job, are rote, not so much observations as reflexes. But they aren't there. "Pansy wasn't suffering from any notable confusion. I didn't...mark it at the time, but -" Hermione presses a hand to her forehead and closes her eyes. She'd be so thrown by seeing Pansy, so discomposed to be in the other woman's presence and in her home, that she hadn't noticed Pansy's relative lucidity. It was a massive oversight on her part, and one that had disturbing implications.
"Complete memory loss is a catastrophic event," she says, looking back at Romilda whose mouth is turned down with confusion. "Lockhart was one of the more extreme cases, but anyone whose entire memory has been erased by a Memory Charm will always, always exhibit some confusion in the first few days following modification. But Pansy was articulate, followed conversation without trouble, and had no noticeable problem with her short-term memory."
Hermione tosses her notes on the table and slumps in her chair.
"So what does that mean?"
"It means I was lied to. But I have no idea why."
Thankfully, Pansy is the only person in the room. Prone on the single bed, blankets pulled up to her waist with a book open on her lap and her hands laced over her chest, she looks like an exhausted child. The innocence in her face, coupled with Hermione's suspicions, arouses an unwanted tenderness she does her best to squash.
But it doesn't retreat easily, so Hermione sits at Pansy's bedside, unwilling to wake her until it does.
When she's sure she can speak to Pansy without succumbing to sentimentality, Hermione places a hand on her shoulder and gives it a shake. Hermione knows it's too light a touch, even before Pansy grumbles and rolls away, sending her book and one of her pillows to the floor. Resigned, she shakes Pansy with more strength, says her name over and over, getting louder with each repetition until Pansy wakes.
Pansy rouses slowly, decadently, Hermione always used to think, stretching and blinking until her eyes finally open wide. She stares at Hermione for a long moment, before taking a deep breath through her nose and finally seeming to come to herself.
"Do my eyes deceive me?" she says, voice hoarse. "Or has my wayward Healer returned?"
"Hello, Miss Parkinson."
Pansy hums, and slowly sits up, propping herself on the two pillows she's managed to keep on her bed. "Always so formal," she says.
"I'm sorry to wake you, but I needed to speak with you."
"And it couldn't wait until morning?"
"No." Hermione walks around the bed and retrieves Pansy's pillow. When she hands it to Pansy the other woman smiles and places it behind her back, taking a moment to arrange it and Hermione thinks Pansy is so particular about its placement because she knows Hermione needs a moment to compose her thoughts.
"How have you been feeling?" she says, when Pansy is looking at her again.
"Terrible. But better now, after seeing a familiar face." She smiles at her own joke.
"I'm sorry. Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?"
"You tried already. It didn't work."
"I'm sorry."
"You've already said that."
Hermione looks up, but Pansy is still smiling, her words delivered without bite. They stare at each other a moment, Pansy's expression open, almost affectionate, and Hermione wonders if she is being an idiot. If she's concocted this conspiracy because she's that desperate to deny the truth.
But her observations are solid, examined in hindsight though they may be. Pansy's demeanor was peculiar, and she has to trust in that.
"You said." Hermione stops, steps closer to Pansy and lowers her voice. "Do you remember saying you had a...a reaction to me? To Draco?"
Pansy hesitates, but Hermione thinks it's only because she isn't sure what Hermione is getting at. "I do."
"And do you recall, were those instantaneous feelings or did they develop during the day you were taking the potion?"
"Oh, instantaneous."
Hermione nods, her mind working furiously, heart beating just a little bit faster. "Did any other people or places have that resonance with you?"
"Hogwarts." Pansy answers without having to think about it. "The separation of students into, houses, I believe. Something about that, about rivalries or something, seemed familiar."
"Okay." Hermione is nearly breathless. "Anything else?"
"No."
"And have those feelings become any clearer? With your taking of the potion, I mean?"
"I remain as frustrated as ever." Pansy's expression is shrewd. "Have you thought of something else?"
"Maybe." Hermione doesn't want to get Pansy's hopes up. She doesn't want to get her own hopes up. But, even more, she doesn't want to tip Malfoy or the Parkinsons off. "I might have a new treatment in mind. If you're agreeable. You won't get your memories back, but you could get those sensations of familiarity you've mentioned."
"Truth be told, I don't particularly enjoy those sensations."
Hermione smiles. "Oh, you might be surprised."
In another life, Hermione would have been a professor at Hogwarts. Such a revelation would not surprise her friends. In fact, they're flabbergasted she isn't one in the this life. But Hermione's always found teaching more frustrating than rewarding, herself unable to impart her knowledge in a way other could understand. The few times she tried tutoring her fellow classmates at Hogwarts, they complained she spoke over their heads, that they left her sessions more confused than when they came to them. It was a disaster. And for a girl who loved knowledge and loved to share it, it was disheartening to discover she couldn't adequately articulate herself to those whose understanding was less comprehensive than her own. But it taught her a valuable lesson: she was not meant to be a teacher. And since graduating Hogwarts, she hasn't tried to give a lesson of any sort.
Until today. Standing before the Parkinsons and Malfoy, and flanked by Healer Dane.
She thinks, resting her elbow on the rolling table topped with the notes from Pansy's file and a beaker full of a deep purple liquid, that she may have strayed a bit too far toward the dramatic. It's possible a more direct approach would be more appropriate. It will certainly yield the same results. But she knows it would not be as satisfying.
She wants to watch Malfoy squirm. She wants to see realization filter through the room and into everyone in it as she exposes him to Pansy, reveals him to the man and woman who, despite every appearance of distaste for his person, desire him for their son-in-law simply because of who his parents are. Few things could be more cathartic.
The problem, of course, is that she's not entirely certain she's correct. She thinks she is, would even stake her career on it if asked, but there is always the chance she's let her bias, her need to find a different scenario than the one she's be given, influence her deductions. Considering the accusation she's about to level, and that her direct supervisor is on hand, it would be better to be sure. Better still to have given Pansy the antidote in secret and wait for all the facts to reveal themselves before saying anything.
But as has been the case since the beginning, she doesn't think clearly when it comes to Pansy. The voice of caution inside her head, the one that should be telling her to exercise prudence, is silent.
"What is this, then?" Mrs. Parkinson stands beside her daughter, hovering almost protectively, irritation grooving deep lines on either side of her mouth. "We've already been informed you can do nothing more for us. We'd prefer to leave without delay."
"Or were you just planning to tell us, again, how incompetent you all are?" Malfoy smirks at her from his position by the door. He's propped himself against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, and he's the picture of monied indifference.
Hermione hopes to change that.
"Actually, we may have had a bit of a breakthrough in Miss Parkinson's case." She smiles encouragingly at Pansy who, far from her normal guarded expression, seems outwardly hopeful.
"Discovered a new antidote to the Memory Charm have you?"
"Of course not." Hermione's smiles through her impatience, her excitement. She takes a steadying breath, trying to temper her anticipation with reality. Even if she's right, even if Pansy didn't ask Malfoy to erase her memories, it doesn't change their past. The reasons their time together ended will still be an issue, and Pansy doesn't want her anyway.
"What is that you've got there?" Mr. Parkinson points a boney finger at the beaker, which has now begun to emit golden smoke and spark. "That doesn't look like the Retention Draught, or whatever it was. And it smells like offal. Is my daughter supposed to drink that?"
"Yes."
Malfoy pushes away from the wall, the movement uncharacteristically hasty. "This is ridiculous. Homer. Evelyn." He waves a hand toward Hermione, simultaneously dismissive and exasperated. "They've already told us they can't do anymore. This is obviously an attempt stay in your good graces and earn a bit more of your coin while they're at it. I never imagined you'd sink this low, Granger."
A throat clears, and everyone in the room turns to look at Pansy. "I know you only have my best interests at heart, dear, but this is my life we're talking about and, frankly, your constant appealing to my parents to make decisions for me, while I'm in the room no less, is a little off putting." She nods at Hermione. "Please, I'd like to hear what you have to say."
"Alright. I was going back over Miss Parkinson's case last night, when something occurred to me. Now, as far as we know, there are a finite number of ways to counteract a Memory Charm. Some spells are more successful than others, and even the most tried and true method can fail depending upon the case. The reasons for that vary. Cases can be complicated by an abnormality in the wand doing the casting, or a charm can react badly when the person hit with it is already experiencing the effects another spell."
"Haven't we gone over this? My wand is perfectly functional, and Pansy hadn't taken potions or anything else."
"That you know of." Hermione ignores Malfoy's snort and turns her attention back to the Parkinsons. "My point is that magic is a living thing that can be affected by the conditions in which it is created. It's also fluid. There are advances and setbacks in its creation, it can be made more powerful or less useful, its effects more refined or broad, with every magical advance. Over time, even the most standard spell can become less practical, its function made obsolete or its use relegated to quaint practice by new discoveries. You would be amazed by the number of spells that have been lost to us, made irrelevant because what is new often comes hand in hand with convenience."
"Healer Granger." Mr. Parkinson takes a step toward her, his body rigid with impatience. "My daughter said she'd like to hear what you had to say, I doubt she had a history lesson in mind. If you wouldn't mind speeding this along."
Hermione nods, only a little sympathetic to her audience's distress.
"I wouldn't be telling you any of this if I didn't think it would help you understand what I'm trying to do. Now, Memory Charms are universally considered one of the great magical discoveries. Or, they were. But they've been the standard for more than seven centuries and recently we've come to take their existence for granted. But, before Memory Charms were popularized, memory modification was much more labor intensive, requiring a potion that took more than a month to fully brew because of the technique needed to harvest its ingredients. And more problematic than that were its effects. As least as far as the person being forced to take the potion was concerned."
At the back of the room, Malfoy is fidgeting. It's only a finger tapping rapidly against his leg, and, given the circumstances, it could be taken as impatience, but Hermione's also marked that he's begun to creep toward the door. She's almost certain he's gone pale. Though with his complexion it is hard to tell.
She grabs the beaker and uses the moment to nod at Dane, who wraps a hand around her wand.
"You see, there was no ability to target specific memories, instead every memory a person possessed was hidden from their conscious mind. The only upside between it and Memory Charms is it's less harsh on the mind, but considering how rarely Memory Charms go bad, the positives were negligible and the potion fell out of use. Most people don't even know it exists."
In a calculated gesture, Hermione's gaze slides to Malfoy.
It's the moment enlightenment dawns, spurred on by Malfoy's break for the door. He'd positioned himself behind the Parkinsons and it would be a tricky proposition not to hit either of them with a stray spell, but in his haste, Malfoy slips on the tiled floor and falls to his knees. It's just enough for Dane to get a clear shot.
"Petrificus Totalus."
Malfoy's body jerks into rigidness, arms and legs snapping together before he totters and crashes to the floor. Mrs. Parkinson, standing closest to Malfoy, screeches and jumps behind her husband, staring at Dane like she might release another spell.
Summoned by the noise, the two Auror's Hermione had stationed outside the door hustle into the room, their wands drawn. When they see Malfoy they drop as one and lift him upright, balancing him between them.
"You were right then?" One of the Auror's, Wesley Hermione thinks his name is, jerks his chin toward the bed to indicate Pansy. "Unauthorized memory modification?"
"I think so," Hermione says, "but there's only one way to know for sure."
She approaches Pansy's beside, carrying the potion. It's still bubbling, emitting its noxious smell, indicating its potency. "It is my belief Malfoy dosed you with the Forgetting Potion, for what reason I have no idea, but with the knowledge that this," she lifts the beaker, "is the only antidote. Since we believed you to have been hit with a Memory Charm, and considering the Forgetting Potion's relative obsolescence, we were unlikely to discover the truth and your memory would have been gone forever."
Hermione hands Pansy the beaker, striving to keep her voice controlled. "But if I'm right, this will change that. Sorry about the odor, but it's supposed to smell that way."
"How soon will we know?" Pansy says, hopeful. A little fearful.
"Immediately. It will be like a curtain coming up, all your memories revealed at once." She looks at the Parkinsons, who are staring at her with twin expressions of wonder. "Or so I've read. Now stay seated and maybe even lean back a bit. We don't want you getting light headed and falling over."
The room is unnaturally quiet as Pansy closes her eyes and drains the potion. Everyone moves in, even the Aurors with Malfoy still bracketed between them, and Hermione feels a unrelenting confidence sweep over her.
This is going to work.
When Pansy finishes the potion she slumps back against the bed, lifting one hand to her head, breath coming out harsh between clenched teeth. Her mother grabs the beaker and sets it safely to the side, stepping even closer and putting a hand over Pansy's.
After what feels like an age, Pansy opens her eyes.
She looks directly at Hermione. "Looks like you were right again."
Mrs. Parkinson grabs Pansy by both shoulders, effectively stealing Pansy's gaze away. "You remember?"
Pansy smiles. "I do."
The celebration is short and subdued. Mrs. Parkinson hugs Pansy and her father awkwardly pats her shoulder. Dane shakes Hermione's hand so hard Hermione's afraid she's going to pull her shoulder from its socket and says something about a wage increase. But Hermione knows better than to take it seriously. Then the Aurors step in, reminding everyone that there is still some serious business to attend to.
"So you're saying this man," Wesley points at Malfoy's grimacing face, "gave you a potion that altered your memories? That you took it without knowledge of what you were ingesting?"
"He said he had a new cocktail he wanted me to try." Pansy shrugs. "I'd already had a few and wasn't averse to trying something new. That," she smiles, "is the last thing I remember forgetting. And, no, I had no idea he was giving me a potion and not an alcoholic beverage."
"Well, looks like this one's coming with us." Wesley taps Malfoy's head and casts a levitation charm. "Think we can bring him in like this?"
The other Auror, Hermione never got his name, shrugs. "Fine by me."
"We'll be in touch," Wesley says to the Parkinsons. "Get your statements and all that. Would tomorrow work for you all?"
"Of course." This comes from Pansy. "The sooner the better."
Wesley smiles. "I'll send you an owl."
The hospital keeps Pansy for another twenty-four hours. It's not strictly necessary, but she's a high priority patient and, considering the near debacle of her diagnosis, Dane wants to go the extra distance.
Hermione spends those twenty-four hours debating whether she should pop in for a visit. Technically she is Pansy's primary Healer, but her condition was monitored personally by Dane, and she can't forget the way Pansy avoided looking at her after that initial moment. In the end she decides to make a clean break of it and let Pansy walk without seeing her.
It's now been two hours since Pansy was scheduled to be released, and Hermione is sitting in the cafeteria, staring at an empty plate, wallowing in regret.
In front of her a throat clears and looks up. Expecting to see Romilda, she nearly falls out of her chair when she encounters Pansy's steady gaze.
"Hello."
Hermione mouth falls open but she's momentarily speechless so no words emerge. She looks around, feeling nearly frantic, searching for Pansy's parents or Dane or anyone else, because she has no idea what Pansy wants or how to act and the presence of another person would guide her. But they're completely alone, Hermione's habit of solitary dining working against her.
"Hello," she says finally, sure that, at least, is safe. "Haven't you been discharged yet?"
"I was. This morning, actually. But I decided I wanted to thank you personally, and since you didn't stop in I had to come find you. You're difficult to track down."
"I am busy."
"And why wouldn't you be? But you're not now. Unless you don't even take a break while you're eating." Her eyes drop to the files spread across the table at Hermione's side.
Hermione doesn't know what to say. It's impossible. They haven't spoken to each other in months and, yes, she just helped Pansy and perhaps a thank you would be appropriate, but it's not strictly necessary since this is Hermione's job after all, and she gets paid to do it. She doesn't know how to process a Pansy who has just taken a seat across from her and is wanting to have a conversation while her own mouth is so dry she's afraid she's going to choke on her tongue.
"There's always someone who needs help."
"I'm well aware." Pansy takes a deep breath and breaks eye contact to stare around the hospital mess hall. Her gaze bounces left and right and it's as obvious a display of nervousness as Pansy gives anyone. "Thank you," she says, after a moment. "I'm sure there's no need to tell you just how grateful I am for your assistance. For figuring out what happened. How did you, by the way? Realize what potion he'd used?"
"Your symptoms." Hermione clears her throat. "In the book, the Forgetting Charm is described like a curtain coming down. In some places the curtain is worn through, so to speak, and a person will experience vague impressions of memories, or imperfect memories. You mentioned with me, and Draco and Hogwarts. And anyway, there aren't many ways to alter a person's memory and when I started to think Malfoy might have lied, it wasn't hard to guess which other technique he used."
"Well, thank you again."
Hermione nods. "You're welcome." She hesitates just a beat, then asks because she can't help herself. "Did he say - do you know why he did it?"
For a moment Pansy looks cornered, and Hermione thinks she's going to change the subject or just get up and leave. But then she looks at Hermione and gives one of her empty smiles.
"Money," she says, and laughs. "What other reason is there? His family is broke." Pansy shakes her head. "But mine isn't and we had a disagreement when I told him I wanted to keep it that way. He thought I'd be more agreeable to his ideas if I was a bit more dependent."
"That's despicable."
"On that we agree." Pansy is back to looking around the mess hall and Hermione knows she is about to leave. She's torn between wanting to see Pansy's back as she walks away and trying to make her stay. Even if it's just a few more minutes.
"What's next?" she says, the desire to keep Pansy with her winning out. She regrets the impulse as soon as she gives in to it, knowing she's indulging a weakness.
"I'm going on holiday. To the family home in Barbados. I need some time to recover."
Hermione forces a smile and nods, a deeper sadness than before infiltrating her bones. She's been to the family's home in Barbados. Lain on its white beaches, slept on its silken sheets until noon, and, in essence, had, what she believed at the time, to be the best week of her life. It had started as a mere getaway, a chance for them to enjoy each other without the constraints and obligations of daily life and Hermione had spent the first three days wondering when the guilt would hit. But it never did, and it was there, ensconced in a beautiful villa, protected from the real world and with only each other for company, that Hermione realized a life with Pansy was something she could want. Something that could make her happy.
"Of course." Hermione stacks her silverware on her plate and begins to gather her papers. When she's done, she looks at Pansy. They stare at each other a moment, and Hermione only allows herself to think how beautiful she is, how much she's missed her, for a moment. Then she pushes the thoughts to the back of her mind and gets to her feet. Pansy stays seated, looking up at her.
"I'm glad you're back," Hermione says, ashamed that she'd once thought it would be easier for her if Pansy never remembered anything. It would have been a shame, a tragedy, and she's deeply grateful she went back for a second look at Pansy's case. That she didn't settle for the easy out by accepting Malfoy's tale. "Please accept my best."
She tucks her work into body, gives Pansy a final smile, and walks away.
"I'll be alone." Pansy's words follow her across the cafeteria. They're barely audible above the chatter of the room's other occupants, the clatter of silverware, the whooshing of memos sweeping through the air. But Hermione hears them as clearly as if they were whispered against her ear. She turns around against her will, surprised to find Pansy only and arm's length away.
"I'd like to see you. You could visit if you have the time. I'm sure you remember how to get there." Her face is without expression, her gaze watchful. "You left rather abruptly." Hermione's heart starts to pound, her body shaking with adrenaline at the first mention of their past. "I thought we could discuss your unilateral decision. If you'd like."
Then Pansy is gone. Her exit, as usual, a hundred times more dramatic than Hermione could ever manage. And Hermione can only stare after her, her mind a clutter of thoughts, moving so quickly she can't examine any of them.
Pansy wanted to speak with her. But what did she want? And could Hermione afford to care?
Hermione finds Pansy alone on a private strip of beach, facing the ocean. She's lounging on an Adirondack chair, feet buried in white sand, and her face, its top half consumed by a pair of black sunglasses, is tipped toward the sun. She's wearing a white bikini top, bright and tantalizing against bronzed skin, and a jade green sarong sits low on her hips, its part strategically placed to reveal a teasing glimpse of leg. An uncharacteristic peace hangs about her, her body so relaxed Hermione would think she was asleep except that the fingers of her right hand brush lightly the glass perched on the chair's armrest.
She thinks about turning back. She came all this way, determined to clear the air, but now she's here and she doesn't think she wants to hear what Pansy has to say after all. Pansy hasn't noticed her, and would never be the wiser. She wouldn't have to hear that Pansy wanted to resume their physical relationship now that Draco was gone. Or listen to post-mortem on why their parting was for the best but that Pansy still wanted to be friends. Their friendship, after all, had been genuine. At least, Hermione had thought so.
But Pansy's pull is undeniable. Her power over Hermione a fact of life. And she set her trap with care, dangled her lure and drew Hermione to her after a delay that was only a token resistance.
Conceding to the inevitable, Hermione completes the walk until she is standing in Pansy's sun. She stares down at her and waits, not sure whether Pansy sees her or not, it's impossible to see behind her glasses. When she grows too impatient she clears her throat to speak, but Pansy beats her to it.
"Hermione." Pansy's smile is small, like she's not sure she's happy to see Hermione. Or maybe she's just apathetic. She makes a vague gesture with her hand, indicating the chair beside her, but Hermione ignores the invitation to sit. It's entirely possible she won't be here long enough to make the effort to get comfortable worthwhile. And walking away from someone for the last time is much more impressive when one doesn't have to struggle to one's feet to do it.
"Hello, Pansy. You're looking well. Quite tan already."
It's a stupid thing to say, Hermione thinks. Mundane, pointless. But she dreads getting to the point. Is protective of the small, tenacious hope her pessimism hasn't managed to snuff out even after days of trying.
Pansy lifts an arm, studying the smooth skin critically. "Magically created," she says after a moment. "The sun does awful things to the skin, isn't that what your Muggle magazines say? I'm in no rush to age myself."
"You've read a Muggle magazine?"
Pansy shrugs, face turning toward the water. "You have them on your coffee table. Or, you used to. I'd read them when you were in the shower."
Hermione doesn't know what to say to that, afraid to acknowledge the implied intimacy. But once again she doesn't have to speak, because Pansy seems unwilling to let them stew in silence.
"I didn't expect to see you after so long."
Pansy is looking at her hands, rubbing one thumb back and forth across the knuckles.
"It's just been a week."
"Only a week?" Pansy makes a sound in the back of her throat. "It seemed longer. Should I be grateful, do you think? I just spent a week in a gorgeous bit of paradise and each day has felt like an eternity. Everyone should be so lucky, shouldn't they?"
"I wouldn't mind."
It's the wrong thing to say because Pansy's mouth tightens into a thin line and her hands tighten into fists. Hermione can see the muscle work as her jaw clenches.
"Why did you ask me here, Pansy?" Hermione decides to go on the offensive. "What did you want to talk about?"
Pansy scoffs and takes a drink of the caramel liquid in her glass. "I'm not sure it matters," she says, face still averted. "Since you're acting like you'd rather be back home. Would you?" she accuses. "Do you actually want to be here or are you just humoring me?"
"I wouldn't travel to Barbados just to humor you." Hermione sits on the chair beside Pansy's, afraid now that walking away will be too easy, too tempting, with her temper starting to burn. "I think the real question is, what do you want from me? What were you hoping to accomplish when you invited me?"
It is not the real question, not what she wants to ask or probably should ask. But Hermione finds, even now, she's not secure enough to demand to know whether Pansy can be with her openly. For a woman who prides herself on saying exactly what she means, Pansy has the uncanny ability to make her hedge her words. She supposes that's indication enough of whether she should be here, but then again, Hermione's ever been one to go where common sense suggests she shouldn't.
Pansy removes her glasses, solely, Hermione thinks, so she can see her roll her eyes. "I invited you here so we could talk."
"About what?" Hermione presses.
"Don't be ridiculous, you know bloody well what."
"Do I?"
"You left me, Hermione."
It's actually happening. They are talking openly and hopefully honestly and Hermione doesn't know whether to be grateful or afraid.
"You were engaged to Malfoy."
"Without a word," Pansy continues over Hermione's interruption. "You walked out of my bedroom and out of my life and acted like I didn't exist. Like I meant nothing."
"You didn't speak to me, either."
"Oh, is that what you were waiting for? For me to come begging? If I'd made a fool out of myself would you have felt better?"
"No." Hermione's denial is adamant, though secretly she's not so sure. "I never wanted you to beg. And it wouldn't have mattered if you had, you'd still have been engaged to Malfoy."
"I was always engaged to Malfoy. It didn't matter to you before."
Pansy is only sort of right. At the beginning it hadn't mattered. She'd been too caught up in denying her feelings, worrying she was betraying her friends, and enjoying the sex to think further than their next assignation. Only after the first heady rush of feelings had passed, when the relationship had gone on long enough to be established, did she begin to think of them in terms of the future. It was only then Pansy's relationship with Malfoy began to eat at her.
But she'd never said anything. Pansy had thought everything was fine.
Her disappearing act must have blind-sided her.
"And now you're not." She can't bring herself to admit she was a coward, so she goes back on the attack. Because, whether their relationship meant something to Pansy or not, she still planned to marry Malfoy. "So what? Did you expect us to pick up again? Carry on until you find another pure-blood wizard your parents approve of?"
Surprisingly, Pansy meets Hermione's re-energized ire with an assured calm.
"I don't want to fight with you. I've learned my lesson. I love my parents, but I'm not going to live my life just to please them." Pansy brushes a tentative hand across Hermione's knee. "That's what I wanted to talk about. There isn't going to be any pure-blood wizard, Hermione. I want you. If you'll have me."
Hermione closes her eyes, rocked by a wave of emotion that leaves her feeling lightheaded and nauseated.
"You want to be with me?" she says, eyes still closed. "You want to tell our families and our friends?"
"Yes."
"I don't really know what to say. I mean, you and me, we won't be easy." Hermione hears the words like they're spoken by a different person, and maybe she's trying to talk them both out of this after all.
"No." Pansy reaches across the distance between them and takes Hermione's chin in her hand, forcing Hermione to face her. "We will be easy, we've always been. All we have to do is talk to each other. It's your friends and my family that will be a problem. If we let them."
Hermione laughs. What else can she do when Pansy talks of ostracism and disinheritance like they mean nothing? "Those are not insignificant obstacles."
"If your friends are as wonderful as you think they are, they'll get over it. I'm the only child of a man obsessed with bloodlines, he'll get over it. Eventually. We just have to be willing to deal with the fallout for a few months or years. Maybe be a little bit miserable from time to time."
"And what if my friends aren't that wonderful?" Hermione doesn't want to believe that, but not so long ago Pansy did try to turn Harry over to Voldemort. If they can't look past that, not even for her sake, Hermione won't blame them. Her own guilt had been piercing. There were days, early on, Hermione was certain Pansy had hit her with a Love Potion. How else could she fall so easily into the arms of a woman who would have seen her best friend murdered? What but magical manipulation could make Pansy, a girl she abhorred, the most important person in her life in a matter of months? "What if bloodlines aren't strong enough to overcome your father's hatred of Muggle-borns?"
It was a possibility. Even a likelihood. And it would be hard to take, no matter how Pansy tried to dismiss it. Hermione wouldn't be able to bear it if Pansy regretted her choice to be with her. Better to back out now and live on daydreams of what might have been.
"Then we'll live in a gutter and only have each other for company. But that doesn't change the essential question, the one you conveniently haven't answered. Do you want to be here? Because, the way I see it, they can accept us or they can get trampled by a stampede of Hippogriffs."
"Pansy. This is a serious."
Pansy's grip tightens. "I've never been more serious. Now it's your turn. Do you want to be with me? Do you think we're worth a try?"
There are reasons enough for recrimination between them: Hermione left Pansy without explanation, Pansy didn't leave Malfoy soon enough, neither of them spoke of their feelings when they should have done. But Hermione is tired of blaming Pansy, tired of worrying about whether they should have feelings for each other. Maybe it shouldn't be, maybe her priorities are skewed, but in the end, the answer is easy.
"Yes."
The relief that comes with that breathlessly murmured word is overwhelming.
Pansy is beside her before Hermione can register the movement, one arm wrapping around Hermione's waist with possessive strength. "I broke it off. That's why he did it. I told him I couldn't live like that anymore and he'd have to find another heiress to support him, " Hermione fails to suppress a shiver as Pansy's lips brush against her ear, the edge of her jaw, "because it wasn't going to be me."
"And you were going to come to me?"
Pansy's hold tightens, her face pressing so hard against Hermione's it would be painful if Hermione didn't crave the contact. "Of course I was. Stop asking ridiculous questions."
Hermione huffs out a quiet laugh then turns in Pansy's arms and finally kisses her.
When Hermione finally pulls back, separating herself from Pansy reluctantly, she's certain it's because she has something to say. Maybe it is another warning that everything isn't going to be roses, or maybe she wants to tell Pansy how much she's missed her or how happy she is. But when she opens her eyes it's to a smile so wide and genuine, a face so expressive of joy, that her thoughts disappear and the only thing Hermione can do is pull Pansy close and kiss her again.
The end.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Hermione/Pansy, Hermione/Romilda
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 10.729
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: Here be the end. I hope you have enjoyed. Even if it's just a little bit. Thank you for reading!
Previous Chapters: One | Two | Three | Four A
~*~*~*~
Hermione hasn't spoken to Romilda since they slept together. And even though she's only been back from holiday five hours, hasn't left her office except to speak with Dane and Parker, she's already heard rumors about the specialist on the second floor. Wilbur something or other. The same man she saw Romilda walking with last week.
The consensus among the staff - though Hermione will by no means seek out other sources to confirm this supposition - is that Romilda, a woman of incessant sexual cravings and accustomed to the swift capitulation of her targets, lost interest in the cerebral Memory Charm specialist when she took her unexpected holiday. Hermione's allure, which was surely intellectually based - no one could imagine her as a lover of great passion - wasn't potent enough keep Romilda's interest and she moved on to someone apt to succumb to her charms within the length of time it took to pour a drink.
Most would consider such a slight against their appeal deeply unflattering, but Hermione thinks the greater insult belongs to Romilda, whose libido is apparently too needful to suffer even a seven day delay of gratification. So she's grateful, really, that the hospital's most dedicated gossips think she's probably crap in bed. It's better than them knowing Romilda slept with her and discarded her in favor of someone new the very next day. She has no desire to know what speculation would arise from that bit of knowledge.
Privately, in the far back of her mind, she can admit it stings a little bit. More because of embarrassment than a sense of betrayal. She'd enjoyed the physical release she achieved with Romilda, despite having no intention of repeating it. She thought Romilda enjoyed herself too, though she did not stay long enough to ask. Now she doubts her perception, and it makes her self-conscious, makes her wonder if perhaps she really is crap in bed. It doesn't particularly bother her if she misjudged her experience with Romilda, but the fear she'd been a sub-par lover for Pansy is enough to make her writhe in psychological agony.
No matter the truth beneath the perception, it's an awkward situation that will likely remain so for quite a while. Given the choice, Hermione would prefer to avoid Romilda for the time being. If she had to put a number on it, she'd like to be another two or three lovers removed before their former level of friendship is reestablished. She thinks Romilda would say the same, which is why she's shocked to see her standing inside the door of her office.
"Romilda." She straightens, carefully arranging her expression into subdued, but still pleased, surprise. "How are you?"
Romilda doesn't answer right away. She hovers, examining Hermione's expression, her hands behind her back and her chin sheepishly dipped. It's the look of a penitent, and Hermione finds that this, more than anything, gets her dander up. She doesn't want Romilda's pity, doesn't want the other woman to think what happened between them hurt her in any way. But she doesn't jump to her own defense by making excuses, knowing that speaking first will only strengthen Romilda's suspicions. Whatever those suspicions may be.
Eventually a smile works its way across Romilda's face, small and shy and completely uncharacteristic. When she moves fully into Hermione's office it's with careful steps, like she's afraid a wrong move will provoke an attack.
"I'm well." She sits on the chair across from Hermione but she doesn't look comfortable, her body unnaturally rigid. "How are you? Did you enjoy your holiday?"
"Yes. Very refreshing." It's only a little fib.
"Rather unexpected though."
"I'm sorry?"
"It's just you never mentioned it." Romilda is looking at her lap, fingers picking at her skirt. She hasn't looked Hermione directly in the eye once. "You just sort of...disappeared."
With that, the pieces of a puzzle snap into place. For the first time, Hermione considers how her departure could have looked from Romilda's point of view. Leaving Romilda with only a cursory goodbye and disappearing for a week without a word. Suddenly, the pursuit of Wilbur looks less like slightly callous indifference and more like a self-esteem boost.
Hermione feels like a heel.
"I'm sorry." Hermione makes an awkward gesture. "I needed to get away. You mentioned it yourself. I'd been working too much and things were getting overwhelming. I was just...frustrated with work. And confused," she adds, though the words are meant only for herself.
"That's funny. I'm confused, too."
"Pardon?"
"Well, you left without a word." Romilda's substituted uncertainty for exasperation. "Still friends, right?"
"Of course."
"And you're not upset with me?"
"Merlin, no. Of course not. Are you upset with me?"
Romilda's response is a while in coming, and Hermione knows she deserves to squirm.
"My leaving had nothing to do with what happened between us." Hermione moves to sit on the chair beside Romilda's, eager to soothe the other woman's upset. She thinks about putting a hand on Romilda's arm, or maybe her knee, but decides it is probably better not to touch for the time being. "It was pure coincidence in timing. I'm sorry if I upset you."
It's not the most elegant apology she's ever given - not the most inelegant, either - but it's sincere and Romilda must sense that because eventually she nods, her expression clearing.
"You have seem distracted lately."
"I was. Still am, really."
"You might want to think twice before you do something like that again, though, yeah? It was a bit thoughtless."
"Yes. Yes, of course." Hermione does not think about how she did the exact same thing to Pansy. She refuses to entertain the thought Pansy might have been hurt by her actions.
"I forgive you, then." As easy as that.
"So we're still friends, then?"
"Of course." Romilda sports a sly smile. "Maybe friends with a standing invitation to -"
"No," Hermione interrupts, even though she knows - is mostly certain - Romilda is joking. "Last week was very enjoyable, but I went down that road before, with a friend, and things got...complicated. I don't want that to happen to us."
Hermione's surprised when Romilda looks disappointed. But it lasts only a moment, her world obviously isn't shattered, and she won't be crying herself to sleep tonight. "I understand," she says. "For the record, I found our time together very enjoyable as well."
The blush is unavoidable. "Thank you," she says, ego restored and her mood instantly brighter. She's about to tease Romilda on her newest paramour when Romilda reaches for the parchment on Hermione's desk. Before Hermione can tell her to put it back, she's got it spread across her lap.
"Parkinson still hasn't gotten her memory back?" She scans the notes, though how much she understands Hermione has no idea. After a few minutes she shrugs and hands them back to Hermione. "Tough break."
"Maybe."
"What do you mean?"
Hermione hesitates, not sure how much she should say. If what she suspects is true, then a crime has been committed and she doesn't want her suspicions flying freely around the hospital where they might crawl into interested ears. Even worse if she's wrong, and her words somehow get back to the Parkinsons, she and the hospital would no doubt find themselves in a nasty situation very quickly.
But she needs to talk with someone, to speak her thoughts aloud and give them shape.
"This is just between you and me," she says, and watches Romilda's curiosity become something determined. She nods once.
"Something isn't right." Hermione lifts her notes. "You see, Pansy wasn't addled."
"What do you mean?"
"That first night." Hermione looks down at her initial report, until she finds the paragraph describing what she observed after being summoned to the Parkinson estate. Her eyes flick over the words, searching for the ones that, after years of doing this job, are rote, not so much observations as reflexes. But they aren't there. "Pansy wasn't suffering from any notable confusion. I didn't...mark it at the time, but -" Hermione presses a hand to her forehead and closes her eyes. She'd be so thrown by seeing Pansy, so discomposed to be in the other woman's presence and in her home, that she hadn't noticed Pansy's relative lucidity. It was a massive oversight on her part, and one that had disturbing implications.
"Complete memory loss is a catastrophic event," she says, looking back at Romilda whose mouth is turned down with confusion. "Lockhart was one of the more extreme cases, but anyone whose entire memory has been erased by a Memory Charm will always, always exhibit some confusion in the first few days following modification. But Pansy was articulate, followed conversation without trouble, and had no noticeable problem with her short-term memory."
Hermione tosses her notes on the table and slumps in her chair.
"So what does that mean?"
"It means I was lied to. But I have no idea why."
Thankfully, Pansy is the only person in the room. Prone on the single bed, blankets pulled up to her waist with a book open on her lap and her hands laced over her chest, she looks like an exhausted child. The innocence in her face, coupled with Hermione's suspicions, arouses an unwanted tenderness she does her best to squash.
But it doesn't retreat easily, so Hermione sits at Pansy's bedside, unwilling to wake her until it does.
When she's sure she can speak to Pansy without succumbing to sentimentality, Hermione places a hand on her shoulder and gives it a shake. Hermione knows it's too light a touch, even before Pansy grumbles and rolls away, sending her book and one of her pillows to the floor. Resigned, she shakes Pansy with more strength, says her name over and over, getting louder with each repetition until Pansy wakes.
Pansy rouses slowly, decadently, Hermione always used to think, stretching and blinking until her eyes finally open wide. She stares at Hermione for a long moment, before taking a deep breath through her nose and finally seeming to come to herself.
"Do my eyes deceive me?" she says, voice hoarse. "Or has my wayward Healer returned?"
"Hello, Miss Parkinson."
Pansy hums, and slowly sits up, propping herself on the two pillows she's managed to keep on her bed. "Always so formal," she says.
"I'm sorry to wake you, but I needed to speak with you."
"And it couldn't wait until morning?"
"No." Hermione walks around the bed and retrieves Pansy's pillow. When she hands it to Pansy the other woman smiles and places it behind her back, taking a moment to arrange it and Hermione thinks Pansy is so particular about its placement because she knows Hermione needs a moment to compose her thoughts.
"How have you been feeling?" she says, when Pansy is looking at her again.
"Terrible. But better now, after seeing a familiar face." She smiles at her own joke.
"I'm sorry. Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?"
"You tried already. It didn't work."
"I'm sorry."
"You've already said that."
Hermione looks up, but Pansy is still smiling, her words delivered without bite. They stare at each other a moment, Pansy's expression open, almost affectionate, and Hermione wonders if she is being an idiot. If she's concocted this conspiracy because she's that desperate to deny the truth.
But her observations are solid, examined in hindsight though they may be. Pansy's demeanor was peculiar, and she has to trust in that.
"You said." Hermione stops, steps closer to Pansy and lowers her voice. "Do you remember saying you had a...a reaction to me? To Draco?"
Pansy hesitates, but Hermione thinks it's only because she isn't sure what Hermione is getting at. "I do."
"And do you recall, were those instantaneous feelings or did they develop during the day you were taking the potion?"
"Oh, instantaneous."
Hermione nods, her mind working furiously, heart beating just a little bit faster. "Did any other people or places have that resonance with you?"
"Hogwarts." Pansy answers without having to think about it. "The separation of students into, houses, I believe. Something about that, about rivalries or something, seemed familiar."
"Okay." Hermione is nearly breathless. "Anything else?"
"No."
"And have those feelings become any clearer? With your taking of the potion, I mean?"
"I remain as frustrated as ever." Pansy's expression is shrewd. "Have you thought of something else?"
"Maybe." Hermione doesn't want to get Pansy's hopes up. She doesn't want to get her own hopes up. But, even more, she doesn't want to tip Malfoy or the Parkinsons off. "I might have a new treatment in mind. If you're agreeable. You won't get your memories back, but you could get those sensations of familiarity you've mentioned."
"Truth be told, I don't particularly enjoy those sensations."
Hermione smiles. "Oh, you might be surprised."
In another life, Hermione would have been a professor at Hogwarts. Such a revelation would not surprise her friends. In fact, they're flabbergasted she isn't one in the this life. But Hermione's always found teaching more frustrating than rewarding, herself unable to impart her knowledge in a way other could understand. The few times she tried tutoring her fellow classmates at Hogwarts, they complained she spoke over their heads, that they left her sessions more confused than when they came to them. It was a disaster. And for a girl who loved knowledge and loved to share it, it was disheartening to discover she couldn't adequately articulate herself to those whose understanding was less comprehensive than her own. But it taught her a valuable lesson: she was not meant to be a teacher. And since graduating Hogwarts, she hasn't tried to give a lesson of any sort.
Until today. Standing before the Parkinsons and Malfoy, and flanked by Healer Dane.
She thinks, resting her elbow on the rolling table topped with the notes from Pansy's file and a beaker full of a deep purple liquid, that she may have strayed a bit too far toward the dramatic. It's possible a more direct approach would be more appropriate. It will certainly yield the same results. But she knows it would not be as satisfying.
She wants to watch Malfoy squirm. She wants to see realization filter through the room and into everyone in it as she exposes him to Pansy, reveals him to the man and woman who, despite every appearance of distaste for his person, desire him for their son-in-law simply because of who his parents are. Few things could be more cathartic.
The problem, of course, is that she's not entirely certain she's correct. She thinks she is, would even stake her career on it if asked, but there is always the chance she's let her bias, her need to find a different scenario than the one she's be given, influence her deductions. Considering the accusation she's about to level, and that her direct supervisor is on hand, it would be better to be sure. Better still to have given Pansy the antidote in secret and wait for all the facts to reveal themselves before saying anything.
But as has been the case since the beginning, she doesn't think clearly when it comes to Pansy. The voice of caution inside her head, the one that should be telling her to exercise prudence, is silent.
"What is this, then?" Mrs. Parkinson stands beside her daughter, hovering almost protectively, irritation grooving deep lines on either side of her mouth. "We've already been informed you can do nothing more for us. We'd prefer to leave without delay."
"Or were you just planning to tell us, again, how incompetent you all are?" Malfoy smirks at her from his position by the door. He's propped himself against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, and he's the picture of monied indifference.
Hermione hopes to change that.
"Actually, we may have had a bit of a breakthrough in Miss Parkinson's case." She smiles encouragingly at Pansy who, far from her normal guarded expression, seems outwardly hopeful.
"Discovered a new antidote to the Memory Charm have you?"
"Of course not." Hermione's smiles through her impatience, her excitement. She takes a steadying breath, trying to temper her anticipation with reality. Even if she's right, even if Pansy didn't ask Malfoy to erase her memories, it doesn't change their past. The reasons their time together ended will still be an issue, and Pansy doesn't want her anyway.
"What is that you've got there?" Mr. Parkinson points a boney finger at the beaker, which has now begun to emit golden smoke and spark. "That doesn't look like the Retention Draught, or whatever it was. And it smells like offal. Is my daughter supposed to drink that?"
"Yes."
Malfoy pushes away from the wall, the movement uncharacteristically hasty. "This is ridiculous. Homer. Evelyn." He waves a hand toward Hermione, simultaneously dismissive and exasperated. "They've already told us they can't do anymore. This is obviously an attempt stay in your good graces and earn a bit more of your coin while they're at it. I never imagined you'd sink this low, Granger."
A throat clears, and everyone in the room turns to look at Pansy. "I know you only have my best interests at heart, dear, but this is my life we're talking about and, frankly, your constant appealing to my parents to make decisions for me, while I'm in the room no less, is a little off putting." She nods at Hermione. "Please, I'd like to hear what you have to say."
"Alright. I was going back over Miss Parkinson's case last night, when something occurred to me. Now, as far as we know, there are a finite number of ways to counteract a Memory Charm. Some spells are more successful than others, and even the most tried and true method can fail depending upon the case. The reasons for that vary. Cases can be complicated by an abnormality in the wand doing the casting, or a charm can react badly when the person hit with it is already experiencing the effects another spell."
"Haven't we gone over this? My wand is perfectly functional, and Pansy hadn't taken potions or anything else."
"That you know of." Hermione ignores Malfoy's snort and turns her attention back to the Parkinsons. "My point is that magic is a living thing that can be affected by the conditions in which it is created. It's also fluid. There are advances and setbacks in its creation, it can be made more powerful or less useful, its effects more refined or broad, with every magical advance. Over time, even the most standard spell can become less practical, its function made obsolete or its use relegated to quaint practice by new discoveries. You would be amazed by the number of spells that have been lost to us, made irrelevant because what is new often comes hand in hand with convenience."
"Healer Granger." Mr. Parkinson takes a step toward her, his body rigid with impatience. "My daughter said she'd like to hear what you had to say, I doubt she had a history lesson in mind. If you wouldn't mind speeding this along."
Hermione nods, only a little sympathetic to her audience's distress.
"I wouldn't be telling you any of this if I didn't think it would help you understand what I'm trying to do. Now, Memory Charms are universally considered one of the great magical discoveries. Or, they were. But they've been the standard for more than seven centuries and recently we've come to take their existence for granted. But, before Memory Charms were popularized, memory modification was much more labor intensive, requiring a potion that took more than a month to fully brew because of the technique needed to harvest its ingredients. And more problematic than that were its effects. As least as far as the person being forced to take the potion was concerned."
At the back of the room, Malfoy is fidgeting. It's only a finger tapping rapidly against his leg, and, given the circumstances, it could be taken as impatience, but Hermione's also marked that he's begun to creep toward the door. She's almost certain he's gone pale. Though with his complexion it is hard to tell.
She grabs the beaker and uses the moment to nod at Dane, who wraps a hand around her wand.
"You see, there was no ability to target specific memories, instead every memory a person possessed was hidden from their conscious mind. The only upside between it and Memory Charms is it's less harsh on the mind, but considering how rarely Memory Charms go bad, the positives were negligible and the potion fell out of use. Most people don't even know it exists."
In a calculated gesture, Hermione's gaze slides to Malfoy.
It's the moment enlightenment dawns, spurred on by Malfoy's break for the door. He'd positioned himself behind the Parkinsons and it would be a tricky proposition not to hit either of them with a stray spell, but in his haste, Malfoy slips on the tiled floor and falls to his knees. It's just enough for Dane to get a clear shot.
"Petrificus Totalus."
Malfoy's body jerks into rigidness, arms and legs snapping together before he totters and crashes to the floor. Mrs. Parkinson, standing closest to Malfoy, screeches and jumps behind her husband, staring at Dane like she might release another spell.
Summoned by the noise, the two Auror's Hermione had stationed outside the door hustle into the room, their wands drawn. When they see Malfoy they drop as one and lift him upright, balancing him between them.
"You were right then?" One of the Auror's, Wesley Hermione thinks his name is, jerks his chin toward the bed to indicate Pansy. "Unauthorized memory modification?"
"I think so," Hermione says, "but there's only one way to know for sure."
She approaches Pansy's beside, carrying the potion. It's still bubbling, emitting its noxious smell, indicating its potency. "It is my belief Malfoy dosed you with the Forgetting Potion, for what reason I have no idea, but with the knowledge that this," she lifts the beaker, "is the only antidote. Since we believed you to have been hit with a Memory Charm, and considering the Forgetting Potion's relative obsolescence, we were unlikely to discover the truth and your memory would have been gone forever."
Hermione hands Pansy the beaker, striving to keep her voice controlled. "But if I'm right, this will change that. Sorry about the odor, but it's supposed to smell that way."
"How soon will we know?" Pansy says, hopeful. A little fearful.
"Immediately. It will be like a curtain coming up, all your memories revealed at once." She looks at the Parkinsons, who are staring at her with twin expressions of wonder. "Or so I've read. Now stay seated and maybe even lean back a bit. We don't want you getting light headed and falling over."
The room is unnaturally quiet as Pansy closes her eyes and drains the potion. Everyone moves in, even the Aurors with Malfoy still bracketed between them, and Hermione feels a unrelenting confidence sweep over her.
This is going to work.
When Pansy finishes the potion she slumps back against the bed, lifting one hand to her head, breath coming out harsh between clenched teeth. Her mother grabs the beaker and sets it safely to the side, stepping even closer and putting a hand over Pansy's.
After what feels like an age, Pansy opens her eyes.
She looks directly at Hermione. "Looks like you were right again."
Mrs. Parkinson grabs Pansy by both shoulders, effectively stealing Pansy's gaze away. "You remember?"
Pansy smiles. "I do."
The celebration is short and subdued. Mrs. Parkinson hugs Pansy and her father awkwardly pats her shoulder. Dane shakes Hermione's hand so hard Hermione's afraid she's going to pull her shoulder from its socket and says something about a wage increase. But Hermione knows better than to take it seriously. Then the Aurors step in, reminding everyone that there is still some serious business to attend to.
"So you're saying this man," Wesley points at Malfoy's grimacing face, "gave you a potion that altered your memories? That you took it without knowledge of what you were ingesting?"
"He said he had a new cocktail he wanted me to try." Pansy shrugs. "I'd already had a few and wasn't averse to trying something new. That," she smiles, "is the last thing I remember forgetting. And, no, I had no idea he was giving me a potion and not an alcoholic beverage."
"Well, looks like this one's coming with us." Wesley taps Malfoy's head and casts a levitation charm. "Think we can bring him in like this?"
The other Auror, Hermione never got his name, shrugs. "Fine by me."
"We'll be in touch," Wesley says to the Parkinsons. "Get your statements and all that. Would tomorrow work for you all?"
"Of course." This comes from Pansy. "The sooner the better."
Wesley smiles. "I'll send you an owl."
The hospital keeps Pansy for another twenty-four hours. It's not strictly necessary, but she's a high priority patient and, considering the near debacle of her diagnosis, Dane wants to go the extra distance.
Hermione spends those twenty-four hours debating whether she should pop in for a visit. Technically she is Pansy's primary Healer, but her condition was monitored personally by Dane, and she can't forget the way Pansy avoided looking at her after that initial moment. In the end she decides to make a clean break of it and let Pansy walk without seeing her.
It's now been two hours since Pansy was scheduled to be released, and Hermione is sitting in the cafeteria, staring at an empty plate, wallowing in regret.
In front of her a throat clears and looks up. Expecting to see Romilda, she nearly falls out of her chair when she encounters Pansy's steady gaze.
"Hello."
Hermione mouth falls open but she's momentarily speechless so no words emerge. She looks around, feeling nearly frantic, searching for Pansy's parents or Dane or anyone else, because she has no idea what Pansy wants or how to act and the presence of another person would guide her. But they're completely alone, Hermione's habit of solitary dining working against her.
"Hello," she says finally, sure that, at least, is safe. "Haven't you been discharged yet?"
"I was. This morning, actually. But I decided I wanted to thank you personally, and since you didn't stop in I had to come find you. You're difficult to track down."
"I am busy."
"And why wouldn't you be? But you're not now. Unless you don't even take a break while you're eating." Her eyes drop to the files spread across the table at Hermione's side.
Hermione doesn't know what to say. It's impossible. They haven't spoken to each other in months and, yes, she just helped Pansy and perhaps a thank you would be appropriate, but it's not strictly necessary since this is Hermione's job after all, and she gets paid to do it. She doesn't know how to process a Pansy who has just taken a seat across from her and is wanting to have a conversation while her own mouth is so dry she's afraid she's going to choke on her tongue.
"There's always someone who needs help."
"I'm well aware." Pansy takes a deep breath and breaks eye contact to stare around the hospital mess hall. Her gaze bounces left and right and it's as obvious a display of nervousness as Pansy gives anyone. "Thank you," she says, after a moment. "I'm sure there's no need to tell you just how grateful I am for your assistance. For figuring out what happened. How did you, by the way? Realize what potion he'd used?"
"Your symptoms." Hermione clears her throat. "In the book, the Forgetting Charm is described like a curtain coming down. In some places the curtain is worn through, so to speak, and a person will experience vague impressions of memories, or imperfect memories. You mentioned with me, and Draco and Hogwarts. And anyway, there aren't many ways to alter a person's memory and when I started to think Malfoy might have lied, it wasn't hard to guess which other technique he used."
"Well, thank you again."
Hermione nods. "You're welcome." She hesitates just a beat, then asks because she can't help herself. "Did he say - do you know why he did it?"
For a moment Pansy looks cornered, and Hermione thinks she's going to change the subject or just get up and leave. But then she looks at Hermione and gives one of her empty smiles.
"Money," she says, and laughs. "What other reason is there? His family is broke." Pansy shakes her head. "But mine isn't and we had a disagreement when I told him I wanted to keep it that way. He thought I'd be more agreeable to his ideas if I was a bit more dependent."
"That's despicable."
"On that we agree." Pansy is back to looking around the mess hall and Hermione knows she is about to leave. She's torn between wanting to see Pansy's back as she walks away and trying to make her stay. Even if it's just a few more minutes.
"What's next?" she says, the desire to keep Pansy with her winning out. She regrets the impulse as soon as she gives in to it, knowing she's indulging a weakness.
"I'm going on holiday. To the family home in Barbados. I need some time to recover."
Hermione forces a smile and nods, a deeper sadness than before infiltrating her bones. She's been to the family's home in Barbados. Lain on its white beaches, slept on its silken sheets until noon, and, in essence, had, what she believed at the time, to be the best week of her life. It had started as a mere getaway, a chance for them to enjoy each other without the constraints and obligations of daily life and Hermione had spent the first three days wondering when the guilt would hit. But it never did, and it was there, ensconced in a beautiful villa, protected from the real world and with only each other for company, that Hermione realized a life with Pansy was something she could want. Something that could make her happy.
"Of course." Hermione stacks her silverware on her plate and begins to gather her papers. When she's done, she looks at Pansy. They stare at each other a moment, and Hermione only allows herself to think how beautiful she is, how much she's missed her, for a moment. Then she pushes the thoughts to the back of her mind and gets to her feet. Pansy stays seated, looking up at her.
"I'm glad you're back," Hermione says, ashamed that she'd once thought it would be easier for her if Pansy never remembered anything. It would have been a shame, a tragedy, and she's deeply grateful she went back for a second look at Pansy's case. That she didn't settle for the easy out by accepting Malfoy's tale. "Please accept my best."
She tucks her work into body, gives Pansy a final smile, and walks away.
"I'll be alone." Pansy's words follow her across the cafeteria. They're barely audible above the chatter of the room's other occupants, the clatter of silverware, the whooshing of memos sweeping through the air. But Hermione hears them as clearly as if they were whispered against her ear. She turns around against her will, surprised to find Pansy only and arm's length away.
"I'd like to see you. You could visit if you have the time. I'm sure you remember how to get there." Her face is without expression, her gaze watchful. "You left rather abruptly." Hermione's heart starts to pound, her body shaking with adrenaline at the first mention of their past. "I thought we could discuss your unilateral decision. If you'd like."
Then Pansy is gone. Her exit, as usual, a hundred times more dramatic than Hermione could ever manage. And Hermione can only stare after her, her mind a clutter of thoughts, moving so quickly she can't examine any of them.
Pansy wanted to speak with her. But what did she want? And could Hermione afford to care?
Hermione finds Pansy alone on a private strip of beach, facing the ocean. She's lounging on an Adirondack chair, feet buried in white sand, and her face, its top half consumed by a pair of black sunglasses, is tipped toward the sun. She's wearing a white bikini top, bright and tantalizing against bronzed skin, and a jade green sarong sits low on her hips, its part strategically placed to reveal a teasing glimpse of leg. An uncharacteristic peace hangs about her, her body so relaxed Hermione would think she was asleep except that the fingers of her right hand brush lightly the glass perched on the chair's armrest.
She thinks about turning back. She came all this way, determined to clear the air, but now she's here and she doesn't think she wants to hear what Pansy has to say after all. Pansy hasn't noticed her, and would never be the wiser. She wouldn't have to hear that Pansy wanted to resume their physical relationship now that Draco was gone. Or listen to post-mortem on why their parting was for the best but that Pansy still wanted to be friends. Their friendship, after all, had been genuine. At least, Hermione had thought so.
But Pansy's pull is undeniable. Her power over Hermione a fact of life. And she set her trap with care, dangled her lure and drew Hermione to her after a delay that was only a token resistance.
Conceding to the inevitable, Hermione completes the walk until she is standing in Pansy's sun. She stares down at her and waits, not sure whether Pansy sees her or not, it's impossible to see behind her glasses. When she grows too impatient she clears her throat to speak, but Pansy beats her to it.
"Hermione." Pansy's smile is small, like she's not sure she's happy to see Hermione. Or maybe she's just apathetic. She makes a vague gesture with her hand, indicating the chair beside her, but Hermione ignores the invitation to sit. It's entirely possible she won't be here long enough to make the effort to get comfortable worthwhile. And walking away from someone for the last time is much more impressive when one doesn't have to struggle to one's feet to do it.
"Hello, Pansy. You're looking well. Quite tan already."
It's a stupid thing to say, Hermione thinks. Mundane, pointless. But she dreads getting to the point. Is protective of the small, tenacious hope her pessimism hasn't managed to snuff out even after days of trying.
Pansy lifts an arm, studying the smooth skin critically. "Magically created," she says after a moment. "The sun does awful things to the skin, isn't that what your Muggle magazines say? I'm in no rush to age myself."
"You've read a Muggle magazine?"
Pansy shrugs, face turning toward the water. "You have them on your coffee table. Or, you used to. I'd read them when you were in the shower."
Hermione doesn't know what to say to that, afraid to acknowledge the implied intimacy. But once again she doesn't have to speak, because Pansy seems unwilling to let them stew in silence.
"I didn't expect to see you after so long."
Pansy is looking at her hands, rubbing one thumb back and forth across the knuckles.
"It's just been a week."
"Only a week?" Pansy makes a sound in the back of her throat. "It seemed longer. Should I be grateful, do you think? I just spent a week in a gorgeous bit of paradise and each day has felt like an eternity. Everyone should be so lucky, shouldn't they?"
"I wouldn't mind."
It's the wrong thing to say because Pansy's mouth tightens into a thin line and her hands tighten into fists. Hermione can see the muscle work as her jaw clenches.
"Why did you ask me here, Pansy?" Hermione decides to go on the offensive. "What did you want to talk about?"
Pansy scoffs and takes a drink of the caramel liquid in her glass. "I'm not sure it matters," she says, face still averted. "Since you're acting like you'd rather be back home. Would you?" she accuses. "Do you actually want to be here or are you just humoring me?"
"I wouldn't travel to Barbados just to humor you." Hermione sits on the chair beside Pansy's, afraid now that walking away will be too easy, too tempting, with her temper starting to burn. "I think the real question is, what do you want from me? What were you hoping to accomplish when you invited me?"
It is not the real question, not what she wants to ask or probably should ask. But Hermione finds, even now, she's not secure enough to demand to know whether Pansy can be with her openly. For a woman who prides herself on saying exactly what she means, Pansy has the uncanny ability to make her hedge her words. She supposes that's indication enough of whether she should be here, but then again, Hermione's ever been one to go where common sense suggests she shouldn't.
Pansy removes her glasses, solely, Hermione thinks, so she can see her roll her eyes. "I invited you here so we could talk."
"About what?" Hermione presses.
"Don't be ridiculous, you know bloody well what."
"Do I?"
"You left me, Hermione."
It's actually happening. They are talking openly and hopefully honestly and Hermione doesn't know whether to be grateful or afraid.
"You were engaged to Malfoy."
"Without a word," Pansy continues over Hermione's interruption. "You walked out of my bedroom and out of my life and acted like I didn't exist. Like I meant nothing."
"You didn't speak to me, either."
"Oh, is that what you were waiting for? For me to come begging? If I'd made a fool out of myself would you have felt better?"
"No." Hermione's denial is adamant, though secretly she's not so sure. "I never wanted you to beg. And it wouldn't have mattered if you had, you'd still have been engaged to Malfoy."
"I was always engaged to Malfoy. It didn't matter to you before."
Pansy is only sort of right. At the beginning it hadn't mattered. She'd been too caught up in denying her feelings, worrying she was betraying her friends, and enjoying the sex to think further than their next assignation. Only after the first heady rush of feelings had passed, when the relationship had gone on long enough to be established, did she begin to think of them in terms of the future. It was only then Pansy's relationship with Malfoy began to eat at her.
But she'd never said anything. Pansy had thought everything was fine.
Her disappearing act must have blind-sided her.
"And now you're not." She can't bring herself to admit she was a coward, so she goes back on the attack. Because, whether their relationship meant something to Pansy or not, she still planned to marry Malfoy. "So what? Did you expect us to pick up again? Carry on until you find another pure-blood wizard your parents approve of?"
Surprisingly, Pansy meets Hermione's re-energized ire with an assured calm.
"I don't want to fight with you. I've learned my lesson. I love my parents, but I'm not going to live my life just to please them." Pansy brushes a tentative hand across Hermione's knee. "That's what I wanted to talk about. There isn't going to be any pure-blood wizard, Hermione. I want you. If you'll have me."
Hermione closes her eyes, rocked by a wave of emotion that leaves her feeling lightheaded and nauseated.
"You want to be with me?" she says, eyes still closed. "You want to tell our families and our friends?"
"Yes."
"I don't really know what to say. I mean, you and me, we won't be easy." Hermione hears the words like they're spoken by a different person, and maybe she's trying to talk them both out of this after all.
"No." Pansy reaches across the distance between them and takes Hermione's chin in her hand, forcing Hermione to face her. "We will be easy, we've always been. All we have to do is talk to each other. It's your friends and my family that will be a problem. If we let them."
Hermione laughs. What else can she do when Pansy talks of ostracism and disinheritance like they mean nothing? "Those are not insignificant obstacles."
"If your friends are as wonderful as you think they are, they'll get over it. I'm the only child of a man obsessed with bloodlines, he'll get over it. Eventually. We just have to be willing to deal with the fallout for a few months or years. Maybe be a little bit miserable from time to time."
"And what if my friends aren't that wonderful?" Hermione doesn't want to believe that, but not so long ago Pansy did try to turn Harry over to Voldemort. If they can't look past that, not even for her sake, Hermione won't blame them. Her own guilt had been piercing. There were days, early on, Hermione was certain Pansy had hit her with a Love Potion. How else could she fall so easily into the arms of a woman who would have seen her best friend murdered? What but magical manipulation could make Pansy, a girl she abhorred, the most important person in her life in a matter of months? "What if bloodlines aren't strong enough to overcome your father's hatred of Muggle-borns?"
It was a possibility. Even a likelihood. And it would be hard to take, no matter how Pansy tried to dismiss it. Hermione wouldn't be able to bear it if Pansy regretted her choice to be with her. Better to back out now and live on daydreams of what might have been.
"Then we'll live in a gutter and only have each other for company. But that doesn't change the essential question, the one you conveniently haven't answered. Do you want to be here? Because, the way I see it, they can accept us or they can get trampled by a stampede of Hippogriffs."
"Pansy. This is a serious."
Pansy's grip tightens. "I've never been more serious. Now it's your turn. Do you want to be with me? Do you think we're worth a try?"
There are reasons enough for recrimination between them: Hermione left Pansy without explanation, Pansy didn't leave Malfoy soon enough, neither of them spoke of their feelings when they should have done. But Hermione is tired of blaming Pansy, tired of worrying about whether they should have feelings for each other. Maybe it shouldn't be, maybe her priorities are skewed, but in the end, the answer is easy.
"Yes."
The relief that comes with that breathlessly murmured word is overwhelming.
Pansy is beside her before Hermione can register the movement, one arm wrapping around Hermione's waist with possessive strength. "I broke it off. That's why he did it. I told him I couldn't live like that anymore and he'd have to find another heiress to support him, " Hermione fails to suppress a shiver as Pansy's lips brush against her ear, the edge of her jaw, "because it wasn't going to be me."
"And you were going to come to me?"
Pansy's hold tightens, her face pressing so hard against Hermione's it would be painful if Hermione didn't crave the contact. "Of course I was. Stop asking ridiculous questions."
Hermione huffs out a quiet laugh then turns in Pansy's arms and finally kisses her.
When Hermione finally pulls back, separating herself from Pansy reluctantly, she's certain it's because she has something to say. Maybe it is another warning that everything isn't going to be roses, or maybe she wants to tell Pansy how much she's missed her or how happy she is. But when she opens her eyes it's to a smile so wide and genuine, a face so expressive of joy, that her thoughts disappear and the only thing Hermione can do is pull Pansy close and kiss her again.
The end.