Janus, Gift for: elle_rouge
Title: Janus
Author:
Pairing: Hermione/Pansy
Rating: G
Disclaimer: The characters within this fiction do not belong to me, and no profit is being made in their use.
Summary: Set after the epilogue, Pansy has a problem resulting from her husband’s death. Can Hermione, newly single, assist with it? Can Pansy help Hermione sort a few things out in her mind?
Recipient: elle_rouge
A/N: I’m sorry it’s not a lengthy character study for you, but it was a pinch-hit, after all. I hope you like it and find it believeable anyway.
Hermione was surprised to walk into the restaurant, discreetly, expensively Muggle, and find Pansy Parkinson waiting for her in the booth at the back. Her face radiated the smooth indifference that Hermione had always associated with her in the years of their infrequent meetings - not even her children, off to Hogwarts for the first time, rated a different expression - but as Hermione looked, she could see something was off. She hefted her briefcase, wondering once more if a career change to freelance investigator and consultant had really been the right idea, and headed towards the table.
Pansy inclined her head in a greeting. “Granger. I am so pleased you could make it. Sit down.”
“Thank you,” replied Hermione, unsure what she should call Pansy, and surprised that Pansy had used her maiden name. Most people in the wizarding world couldn’t let go of calling her Weasley. She shut that train of thought down, and concentrated on Pansy.
“I have heard that you have a genius for investigation,” Pansy said. “I have a problem, and believe you may be the only one who can solve it.”
Hermione blinked in surprise at the compliment. “Thank you,” she said again. “If we decide that this case and I suit, I will do my best for you.”
Pansy smiled then, a thin little quirk of the lips. They ordered, and she sat back in her chair, watching as Hermione pulled out a notebook and ballpoint pen. She seemed completely comfortable in the Muggle restaurant, and Hermione wondered what surprises Pansy had in store for her. Hermione looked up expectantly, and Pansy began her tale.
“As you may know,” she began, “I am the sole heir to the Parkinson estate. While not as extensive as the Malfoy estate, it is more than enough to support me, and will be passed on, in time, to my daughter, Mimosa. She finishes school this year.”
“Is that the arrangement you had with Malfoy?” interpolates Hermione.
“Yes, it is in the wedding agreement. You could say that my problems start with Draco’s death last year.”
“Indeed?”
Pansy leaned forward slightly over the table. “This is why I have come to you. There has been a claim on my inheritance. The inheritance I seek to leave for my daughter. Most wizards are patriarchal old bastards at heart, and I’ll get little sympathy from them. But I will not hand over a knut of my daughter’s money to this shark.”
Hermione got a look that Ron, if he could have seen it, would have had no hesitation in labelling as a ‘S.P.E.W look’. Hermione pushed away the recollection, not without a pang, and concentrated on Pansy’s words. Thinking about Ron was not a good idea. A cause to focus on was. She took copious notes as Pansy outlined her situation.
>>>>
Hermione knocked at the main door at The Beeches. Having expected Pansy’s house to be along the lines of Malfoy Manor, she had been pleasantly surprised by the long, low, Georgian manor, and, as an elf ushered her in, was even more surprised by its comfortable furniture and bright colours. Pansy waited for her in the library, wearing robes of a relaxed cut and bright colour that Hermione would never had associated with her, and ordered the elf to bring refreshment.
“No lectures on the use of elves?” she asked, turning to Hermione, smiling openly.
“Not today,” said Hermione, amazed at the change in Pansy as much as by the joke. For the first time in memory, her face held some expression other than malice or proud indifference, and her comment was devoid of the barbs Hermione associated with her.
“Since you have agreed to take on my case, I feel much better about my prospects. I know a woman in your position will do all she can to help me.” Pansy could hardly have missed the pain flicker over Hermione’s face. “It takes a while to get used to, doesn’t it?” she asked, voice openly sympathetic.
“At least Malfoy died outright, and you didn’t have to see him or hear about him, or get sympathetic looks from witches who haven’t lost their man to someone else,” she replied, voice acid.
“No,” said Pansy, calmly. “But, had Draco left me, it would have been for another wizard, so I am a little familiar with your particular brand of rage and chagrin.”
“That explains a lot,” murmured Hermione.
“Doesn’t it?” replied Pansy. “Particularly regarding your ex-husband.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” admitted Hermione.
Pansy waved an elegant hand. “He was dying to get Ron Weasley into bed all through school, though he would never have admitted it.” She laughed. “Do you remember seeing me, oh, it would have been when Scorpius was about four, maybe, and we were trying to conceive Mimosa? Draco had me charm my hair red for a while, and I’m sure it was prompted by memories of Ron Weasley. I should send him a thank you card for getting my daughter conceived.”
Hermione shook her head. “No, I don’t remember,” she said. “But the card would be amusing.”
“I’m sure he would appreciate it,” said Pansy. “I looked perfectly dreadful.” she smoothed back her dark hair, very faintly streaked with grey, and smiled. “But I got my daughter, and that’s the main thing.” Hermione looked at the hair flowing over Pansy’s shoulders and thought of her own hair bunched up in an untidy knot. She wondered if changing the colour would have helped. She wondered, absurdly, if Pansy’s hair was as smooth as it looked.
The elf re-appeared with a tray, and the conversation broke off. Hermione had a feeling that the relaxed Pansy did not emerge very often, and was intrigued by a glimpse of her. She hoped that the investigation would throw up more insights. This Pansy was not malicious, or threatening.
“By the way,” said Pansy, handing over a plate with scones and jam, “if you’re going to be working here, you can call me Pansy. Mrs Malfoy is my outside name, and I prefer to keep it away from here. I’m sure you understand the need to keep different parts of your life separate, or you don’t end up with anything left for yourself.”
“Very well,” Hermione replied. “It seems you have been keeping more separate than most.”
“There are very fixed ideas about how a Slytherin should behave. Now that I am older and independent, they do not affect me so much.”
Hermione thought about this, as she sipped her tea. Certainly, she had more freedom to be herself now, to be bookish, and passionate about causes. To read as much as she wanted. She realised that she had just as much of a public face as Pansy had, though perhaps the gap between public and private was not so big.
>>>>
Three weeks of investigation passed quickly. Hermione had uncovered several interesting facts, but nothing to conclusively confirm or deny that this claimant, one Cyril Grant, was really the great-grandson of a Squib eldest son and therefore the legitimate heir. She raked a hand through her hair. They would be meeting him and his lawyer tomorrow, and Hermione wanted to have something to blow the claim clean out of the water, before it went to the wizengamot. A few strands of hair came out on her hand, and she picked them off.
Staring at them, crinkling crazily across her palm with just a few grey ones mixed in, Hermione had a brainwave. She leapt from her chair, intent on finding Pansy, and walked straight in to the woman in question. Pansy’s hands on her arms steadied her, and Hermione found herself looking into Pansy’s eyes. A little jolt shot through her. She’d felt this jolt before, whenever Pansy was around, but ignored it, as always.
“I have an idea,” she said instead. “Have you ever heard of DNA?”
>>>>
For the first time, Hermione saw Pansy’s ‘home face’ in public. Her face blazed in triumph as Cyril Grant was proved to be an imposter, and his claim on the Parkinson estate was struck down. Pansy enveloped Hermione in a hug before letting her go and smiling again in triumph as Grant slunk from the room.
“Thank you,” she said, warmly. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to go and write to Mimosa with the good news immediately.”
“Of course,” replied Hermione, gathering her parchments and quills together, trying to ignore the odd sense of loss that would come from not seeing Pansy every day anymore. She looked down at the desk, trying to tell herself that it was merely the sudden drop in adrenaline that was causing her to feel sad.
A slim hand covered hers. “Perhaps you’d care to meet me for dinner,” Pansy said, quietly.
Hermione looked up, meeting Pansy’s eyes and seeing the quiet invitation there, feeling that little jolt in her stomach. “I’d love to,” she said.
Author:
Pairing: Hermione/Pansy
Rating: G
Disclaimer: The characters within this fiction do not belong to me, and no profit is being made in their use.
Summary: Set after the epilogue, Pansy has a problem resulting from her husband’s death. Can Hermione, newly single, assist with it? Can Pansy help Hermione sort a few things out in her mind?
Recipient: elle_rouge
A/N: I’m sorry it’s not a lengthy character study for you, but it was a pinch-hit, after all. I hope you like it and find it believeable anyway.
Hermione was surprised to walk into the restaurant, discreetly, expensively Muggle, and find Pansy Parkinson waiting for her in the booth at the back. Her face radiated the smooth indifference that Hermione had always associated with her in the years of their infrequent meetings - not even her children, off to Hogwarts for the first time, rated a different expression - but as Hermione looked, she could see something was off. She hefted her briefcase, wondering once more if a career change to freelance investigator and consultant had really been the right idea, and headed towards the table.
Pansy inclined her head in a greeting. “Granger. I am so pleased you could make it. Sit down.”
“Thank you,” replied Hermione, unsure what she should call Pansy, and surprised that Pansy had used her maiden name. Most people in the wizarding world couldn’t let go of calling her Weasley. She shut that train of thought down, and concentrated on Pansy.
“I have heard that you have a genius for investigation,” Pansy said. “I have a problem, and believe you may be the only one who can solve it.”
Hermione blinked in surprise at the compliment. “Thank you,” she said again. “If we decide that this case and I suit, I will do my best for you.”
Pansy smiled then, a thin little quirk of the lips. They ordered, and she sat back in her chair, watching as Hermione pulled out a notebook and ballpoint pen. She seemed completely comfortable in the Muggle restaurant, and Hermione wondered what surprises Pansy had in store for her. Hermione looked up expectantly, and Pansy began her tale.
“As you may know,” she began, “I am the sole heir to the Parkinson estate. While not as extensive as the Malfoy estate, it is more than enough to support me, and will be passed on, in time, to my daughter, Mimosa. She finishes school this year.”
“Is that the arrangement you had with Malfoy?” interpolates Hermione.
“Yes, it is in the wedding agreement. You could say that my problems start with Draco’s death last year.”
“Indeed?”
Pansy leaned forward slightly over the table. “This is why I have come to you. There has been a claim on my inheritance. The inheritance I seek to leave for my daughter. Most wizards are patriarchal old bastards at heart, and I’ll get little sympathy from them. But I will not hand over a knut of my daughter’s money to this shark.”
Hermione got a look that Ron, if he could have seen it, would have had no hesitation in labelling as a ‘S.P.E.W look’. Hermione pushed away the recollection, not without a pang, and concentrated on Pansy’s words. Thinking about Ron was not a good idea. A cause to focus on was. She took copious notes as Pansy outlined her situation.
>>>>
Hermione knocked at the main door at The Beeches. Having expected Pansy’s house to be along the lines of Malfoy Manor, she had been pleasantly surprised by the long, low, Georgian manor, and, as an elf ushered her in, was even more surprised by its comfortable furniture and bright colours. Pansy waited for her in the library, wearing robes of a relaxed cut and bright colour that Hermione would never had associated with her, and ordered the elf to bring refreshment.
“No lectures on the use of elves?” she asked, turning to Hermione, smiling openly.
“Not today,” said Hermione, amazed at the change in Pansy as much as by the joke. For the first time in memory, her face held some expression other than malice or proud indifference, and her comment was devoid of the barbs Hermione associated with her.
“Since you have agreed to take on my case, I feel much better about my prospects. I know a woman in your position will do all she can to help me.” Pansy could hardly have missed the pain flicker over Hermione’s face. “It takes a while to get used to, doesn’t it?” she asked, voice openly sympathetic.
“At least Malfoy died outright, and you didn’t have to see him or hear about him, or get sympathetic looks from witches who haven’t lost their man to someone else,” she replied, voice acid.
“No,” said Pansy, calmly. “But, had Draco left me, it would have been for another wizard, so I am a little familiar with your particular brand of rage and chagrin.”
“That explains a lot,” murmured Hermione.
“Doesn’t it?” replied Pansy. “Particularly regarding your ex-husband.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” admitted Hermione.
Pansy waved an elegant hand. “He was dying to get Ron Weasley into bed all through school, though he would never have admitted it.” She laughed. “Do you remember seeing me, oh, it would have been when Scorpius was about four, maybe, and we were trying to conceive Mimosa? Draco had me charm my hair red for a while, and I’m sure it was prompted by memories of Ron Weasley. I should send him a thank you card for getting my daughter conceived.”
Hermione shook her head. “No, I don’t remember,” she said. “But the card would be amusing.”
“I’m sure he would appreciate it,” said Pansy. “I looked perfectly dreadful.” she smoothed back her dark hair, very faintly streaked with grey, and smiled. “But I got my daughter, and that’s the main thing.” Hermione looked at the hair flowing over Pansy’s shoulders and thought of her own hair bunched up in an untidy knot. She wondered if changing the colour would have helped. She wondered, absurdly, if Pansy’s hair was as smooth as it looked.
The elf re-appeared with a tray, and the conversation broke off. Hermione had a feeling that the relaxed Pansy did not emerge very often, and was intrigued by a glimpse of her. She hoped that the investigation would throw up more insights. This Pansy was not malicious, or threatening.
“By the way,” said Pansy, handing over a plate with scones and jam, “if you’re going to be working here, you can call me Pansy. Mrs Malfoy is my outside name, and I prefer to keep it away from here. I’m sure you understand the need to keep different parts of your life separate, or you don’t end up with anything left for yourself.”
“Very well,” Hermione replied. “It seems you have been keeping more separate than most.”
“There are very fixed ideas about how a Slytherin should behave. Now that I am older and independent, they do not affect me so much.”
Hermione thought about this, as she sipped her tea. Certainly, she had more freedom to be herself now, to be bookish, and passionate about causes. To read as much as she wanted. She realised that she had just as much of a public face as Pansy had, though perhaps the gap between public and private was not so big.
>>>>
Three weeks of investigation passed quickly. Hermione had uncovered several interesting facts, but nothing to conclusively confirm or deny that this claimant, one Cyril Grant, was really the great-grandson of a Squib eldest son and therefore the legitimate heir. She raked a hand through her hair. They would be meeting him and his lawyer tomorrow, and Hermione wanted to have something to blow the claim clean out of the water, before it went to the wizengamot. A few strands of hair came out on her hand, and she picked them off.
Staring at them, crinkling crazily across her palm with just a few grey ones mixed in, Hermione had a brainwave. She leapt from her chair, intent on finding Pansy, and walked straight in to the woman in question. Pansy’s hands on her arms steadied her, and Hermione found herself looking into Pansy’s eyes. A little jolt shot through her. She’d felt this jolt before, whenever Pansy was around, but ignored it, as always.
“I have an idea,” she said instead. “Have you ever heard of DNA?”
>>>>
For the first time, Hermione saw Pansy’s ‘home face’ in public. Her face blazed in triumph as Cyril Grant was proved to be an imposter, and his claim on the Parkinson estate was struck down. Pansy enveloped Hermione in a hug before letting her go and smiling again in triumph as Grant slunk from the room.
“Thank you,” she said, warmly. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to go and write to Mimosa with the good news immediately.”
“Of course,” replied Hermione, gathering her parchments and quills together, trying to ignore the odd sense of loss that would come from not seeing Pansy every day anymore. She looked down at the desk, trying to tell herself that it was merely the sudden drop in adrenaline that was causing her to feel sad.
A slim hand covered hers. “Perhaps you’d care to meet me for dinner,” Pansy said, quietly.
Hermione looked up, meeting Pansy’s eyes and seeing the quiet invitation there, feeling that little jolt in her stomach. “I’d love to,” she said.