A Lean and Hungry Look (Part 4/6)
Chapter VII
There were times over the next several weeks when Hermione wished she still had possession of a time turner. She rose at dawn and sought her bed long after midnight. When she wasn’t completing assignments for her actual job she was buried in research. It wouldn’t have been quite so bad if Hermione had been willing to sacrifice her evenings in the Leaky Cauldron’s dinning room, but she’d been downstairs every night.
The list of rationalizations for her newly adopted, late-night behavior numbered many. Work. Work was not a duty she could shirk or opt out of, even if she had been the kind of person to coast, which she was not. Her Pansy research, or PR as she referred to in her head, was also something she was willing to give less than one hundred percent to. Which left her social time. Her friends helped keep her sane. Spending time with them, sharing meals allowed her a much needed break in the tension of her day. And if these evenings also brought with them a promise of seeing Pansy, well, all the better. Not that she took a personal pleasure in studying the other woman, of course not, but she was conducting research on the other woman. Research required observation.
And research sometimes required interviews. That rationalization had led to Hermione’s first visit to Pansy’s table. Like the last time, the pub had been relatively empty. Pansy had been sitting alone off in a corner. Instead of walking to one of the numerous unoccupied tables, Hermione had paused. She hadn’t taken the time to think of all the reasons why joining Pansy was a bad idea, she’d just walked over and sat. She imagined that the look that had flitted across Pansy’s face was very similar to the one that had adorned her own face.
“Hello,” Hermione had said with a mischievous smile.
“Um… hello.”
Hermione had given her dinner order to the young man who appeared at her elbow a moment later.
Pansy had raised an eyebrow, and commented in an almost bored tone, “Well make yourself comfortable Granger.”
“Why thank you Pansy. I do believe I will.” The silence had stretched for several seconds until both women broke into laughter. Not all that much conversation had occurred that evening, but the quiet hadn’t been uncomfortable. When Neville had wandered up to them an hour or so later, Pansy had excused herself and bid them good night.
From that night on, Hermione had made it a point to join Pansy several times a week. By some mutual silent agreement they didn’t speak of Hogwarts or their past animosity, staying on safe topics such as Pansy’s latest designs or Hermione’s work. And when their casual conversations faltered, neither rushed to fill the quiet.
The only thing that troubled Hermione about their interactions was Pansy’s consistent flight whenever one of her friends joined them. Not that she was ever rude. Pansy would very politely make some excuse and head upstairs. Hermione just didn’t understand it, especially when the person was Neville or Hannah. She knew the brunette actually liked Hannah, and even though Pansy had never said it out loud, she was fond of Neville. She could understand Ron, not that he’d ever tried to sit with them, or even Harry and Ginny to a point, but still it made no sense to Hermione.
Tonight had been one of their no conversation nights. Pansy was poured over her journal, and Hermione was reading up on legal precedents in preparation for a new piece of legislation. In reality, she’d been studying Pansy covertly.
Pansy’s hands fascinated Hermione. They were long and slender, delicate even. The charcoal stick she used flew over the page without seeming to even touch it, as if her designs were transported to paper by magic. Every so often, Pansy would pull back from the paper and swipe at an errant strand of hair, leaving a dark smudge along her cheek. It was adorable and distracting.
“You look exhausted.”
The non sequitur made Hermione look up fully. Pansy was still sketching, not looking at Hermione.
“I’m fine.” Hermione waved the comment away.
Pansy pursed her lips, but made no further comment. Hermione abandoned her book, leaning back in her chair, watching Pansy. Had she detected concern in Pansy’s voice? At this point Hermione was beginning to consider herself the greatest living expert on Pansy Parkinson, and what she knew could barely fill a thimble. Still, she was getting better at reading the other woman. Like now, Pansy’s hands had slowed and it appeared that she was focused on the journal, but the sudden tension in her arms and shoulders told Hermione that the woman was aware of her scrutiny.
And sure enough, a moment later Pansy’s hand stilled and she looked up. “What are you staring at Granger?”
Instead of answering, Hermione leaned forward and cupped Pansy’s cheek. Gently she ran her thumb over the streak of charcoal, smoothing over the soft skin there until the dark spot was just a memory.
Only Pansy’s eyes moved, going wide for just a second, while the rest of her body froze.
“You had some charcoal just there.” Hermione’s voice was soft as she finally pulled her hand away.
Pansy blinked several times then nodded.
Hermione felt a blush rising to her cheeks. She was the first took look away, pulling the abandoned book back into her lap and pretending to read. She’d just stroked Pansy’s cheek. Her fingers still tingled where she’d touched her. What the hell was she doing? For the first time the oppressive silence seemed to overwhelm their table, and it was no surprise when less than fifteen minutes later, Pansy gathered up her things and rose.
“Good night Granger,” her tone was slightly gruff, but when Hermione looked up Pansy’s eyes glittered with something she couldn’t identify. “Get some sleep. You look like hell.”
Hermione opened her mouth in outrage, but Pansy had already walked away. Hermione seethed for the briefest of minutes before something occurred to her. She’d disconcerted Pansy. Oh, the other woman was very good at acting cold and aloof, but when she over did like that she was compensating. Not quite sure why the idea made her so happy, Hermione grinned as she returned to her briefs.
***
Two inner office memos landed on Hermione’s desk with a whoosh of air. She picked one of them up distractedly, continuing to make notes with the other hand. She glanced at the parchment only to drop her quill and give it her full attention a second later. It was an official denial of her request for copies of Pansy’s muggle tax returns. She’d half expected a denial, that was not was surprised her. No, what had Hermione’s mind working was who had denied her request. It wasn’t from the Office of Muggle Relations, or even from Dawlish; the memo had come from Paddington Smythe, Healer-in-Charge, Spell Damage Ward, St. Mugo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies.
Hermione double and triple checked the seal and signature. She couldn’t fathom why the denial would have come from St. Mungo’s. She’d submitted the request to Muggle Relations. While Hermione was still trying to puzzle that out, she opened the second memo. It was a response from her friend Muriel at the International Magical Trading Standards Body. Muriel specifically worked in the Magical Patents office. Hermione had asked her to look up the patent number she’d found in Pansy’s dossier.
A light brown eyebrow crept upward on Hermione’s forehead. She’d known that Pansy was intelligent and clever, but what she read added a whole new dimension to the woman. Pansy had essentially worked a miracle, something the Wizarding world hadn’t seen in centuries. Something that Hermione wasn’t totally sure it had seen since, at least not that she was aware of. Pansy had somehow figured out how to weave magic into cloth.
The only other instance of this that Hermione knew of was Harry’s invisibility cloak. In all the research Hermione had done both during the war and after on the Peverell brothers she’d found no explanation, outside the legend, of how the cloak had been constructed. Pansy had taken the basic idea and adapted it to protection. She’d essentially harnessed a Shield Charm into a piece of clothing.
Hermione’s intellectual esteem for Pansy soared, but it was laced with confusion. Pansy had a goldmine on her hands, and she’d done nothing to cash in on it. It seemed so very un-Slytherin, but as Hermione was discovering Pansy rarely acted in the way Hermione expected.
As interesting as Pansy’s patent was, it didn’t reveal anything that would bring Hermione closer to discovering who was behind the assassination attempts. She looked once more at the memo from St. Mugo’s and heaved a sigh. She needed answers, and so far her research had only lead to more questions. It was time she went the one person who might be willing to give them to her.
***
Hermione exited the lift and negotiated her way through the cubical maze. There was only one real office in Auror Headquarters, and unsurprisingly even at this late hour light filtered out from its doorway. She knocked on the outside of the doorway and waited for John Dawlish to acknowledge her presence.
“Ms. Granger, what can I do for you this evening?” he asked without looking up.
“You could answer some questions for me,” Hermione stated, taking his greeting as permission to enter and sit.
Dawlish finally looked up. “I believe that Mr. Longbottom has already supplied you with whatever materials you might require. Against my better judgment I might add. Or did you possibly have a question relating to some matter other than Ms. Parkinson?”
Hermione glared at him.
“I thought not.”
“You could tell me why St. Mugo’s is involved with Pansy’s estate. Or why she’s not paying nearly enough taxes on her family’s textile mill. Or why she holds the patent on one of the most amazing advances in magical technology only to let it lavish unused.” Hermione stood and leaned over the Head Auror’s desk. “I’m trying to help her.”
“You think I don’t know that!” Dawlish returned hotly. “If I thought for a moment you had any ulterior motives you wouldn’t have received the information you have, despite your relationship with Longbottom.” He ran a hand through his grey hair. “What you must understand Ms. Granger is that I am not at liberty to discuss certain topics of which your questions relate.”
Hermione sat back in her chair with a disappointed thump. She was quick enough to read between the lines. Either Dawlish was handicapped by state secrets or he had sworn confidentiality to Pansy, or both.
Dawlish huffed at Hermione’s slouching figure. “The patent isn’t unused.”
Hermione sat up straighter.
“It hasn’t been publicized, but quantities of it have been produced and implemented throughout Britain. All have been donated by an unknown benefactor.” Dawlish emphasized the word unknown.
“That’s unbelievable,” Hermione spluttered. “She’d be the richest woman in the country if she sold it.”
“As I have told her countless times,” Dawlish drawled. “But I did convince her to claim the donations on her taxes, which is one of the reasons they seem exceedingly low.”
Hermione nodded. That at least made sense. Another thought struck her. “She was wearing some of the material when she was attacked at the Leaky Cauldron.”
“Yes, it’s what saved her.”
“You should convince her to supply the Aurors,” Hermione said half-jokingly.
Dawlish reached behind his chair and pulled out a charcoal colored cloak. He tossed it at her. Hermione immediately recognized it as the type of cloak all the Aurors wore. She’d seen Neville and Harry’s often enough. She ran the material through her hands. It felt like any normal cloak. “No one has any idea, my Aurors included, so I’d appreciate it if you kept this to yourself.”
“Of course.” Hermione was stunned. Pansy had outfitted the entire Auror department, had saved countless lives, and no one had the slightest inkling.
“Let the rest of it go Ms. Granger. It has nothing to do with what you’re looking for, and there are some things that Ms. Parkinson would rather die for than have revealed.” He leaned forward and took the cloak back from her. “The same things I would kill to protect.”
In that moment Hermione understood why Dawlish scared so many people. She believed him. He would kill to protect Pansy’s secrets. Unfortunately, Hermione wasn’t as convinced that he was correct in his assumption that St. Mugo’s and the Parkinson estate were not related to why someone was trying to kill Pansy. Everything seemed to point to the small town of Sudbury. For now, for Dawlish, she would at least pretend to let the subject rest.
Chapter VIII
Pansy had never been one for romantic gestures. No matter how sincere or well crafted they always seemed trite and forced. Perhaps it was the simple fact that she had never received such a gesture, or felt the need to do so for another, but whatever the reason, she found that she just couldn’t stomach them.
As such, she was appalled to feel her own heart speed up and a smile tug at her lips as Neville Longbottom dropped to one knee and oh so earnestly ask Hannah Abbott to marry him. He’d obviously made some preparations, as all of their friends stood around witnessing Hannah’s tearful and joyous acceptance. The pub patrons burst into applause, and although Pansy did not join in, she couldn’t keep the full-blown smile from her face.
Without really meaning to Pansy’s eyes searched the small crowd of well wishers, stopping at the warm brown ones meeting her gaze. Hermione was beaming through tears, and Pansy didn’t think she’d ever been more beautiful. They shared a long look, and Pansy couldn’t help but wish that for just a moment the other woman was standing next to her and not across a roomful of people.
Hermione was swept up in a hug from Neville, breaking their eye contact. Pansy looked down at the table. It was ridiculous how much she had come to appreciate the other woman’s presence. Ridiculous considering that up until two months ago she would have rather swallowed rusty nails than spend a minute in Granger’s company.
Now, it felt as if Pansy noticed everything about her. The way she furrowed her brow when she was puzzling out some bit of legal precedent, how she would run the end of her quill along her cheek when she was thinking, the sparkle in her eyes when she found something particularly amusing; all these things made up the picture of a woman she’d never thought enough of to get to know until recently. Pansy wondered what other quirks made up Hermione Granger, and if she’d get a chance to discover them.
She knew she should put an immediate halt to this line of thinking. Being attracted to Granger was one thing. Pansy had always been quite good at dismantling her conquests, at seeing them as little more than objects, there to fulfill a purpose. Enjoying the small things that made them unique, made them people, wasn’t something she’d ever experienced, and it was unsettling.
She looked up almost unwillingly. Neville had Hannah on his lap and was obviously telling a humorous story, as most of those surrounding them were in stitches. She scanned the crowd and frowned, not seeing Granger among the laughing faces.
A glass of champagne was set on the table before her, and Pansy’s head whipped around in surprise. A beaming Hermione stood next to her as if conjured by thought.
“Cheers,” Hermione said, holding her own glass of the bubbly liquid up.
That same traitorous smile came once again to Pansy’s lips, and she grudgingly lifted the glass to clink against the other woman’s. “Cheers.”
They both took a healthy drink, and looked to the happy couple.
“Tell them I said congratulations,” Pansy murmured, not wanting to keep Granger from her friends.
“Tell them yourself,” Hermione answered smartly, reaching down and clasping Pansy’s hand, hauling her to her feet.
Pansy felt rather divorced from her own body as Granger proceeded to lead her across the room, not releasing her hand for a moment. And suddenly she was in the thick of Aurors and Order members, of Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors, and Hannah was jumping off of Neville’s lap to throw her arms around her in a hug.
The motion did liberate her hand from Hermione’s grip, something she should have been grateful for but missed immediately. Neville shook her hand as she mumbled through congratulatory phrases.
She stepped away from the center of the group, feeling unsettled. Granger, of course had been pulled into a conversation in the thirty seconds she been speaking to Neville, and Pansy found herself alone on the periphery.
“What are you playing at?” The voice was harsh and slurred.
Pansy turned and met the disgusted eyes of Ron Weasley. She looked away, ignoring him.
“You may have them fooled, but people don’t change.” He stepped closer. “Once a snake, always a snake.”
“Obviously that must be true. After all you’re still as smart as the average ten year old.”
He loomed over her. “Stay away from her. Stay away from all of us!” He brushed past her, knocking her slightly into the wall.
Pansy curled her hands into fists, seething. The bastard was right. She didn’t belong with these people. She’d let herself get soft. She’d trusted, been lulled into living a life that wasn’t hers.
Without giving it another thought, Pansy turned and headed from the room. She refused to acknowledge the regret that wrapped around her chest. Safe in her rooms she allowed a brief moment of anger at herself, at Weasley, and at Hermione for causing the whole damn situation, as she flung one of the decorative across the room.
“Stupid,” she cursed herself.
A loud knock sounded on the door.
Merlin’s beard! Pansy thought, striding to the door and flinging it open, ready to give Weasley another piece of her mind. Only it wasn’t Ron standing before her. It was Hermione.
“Um, Hello,” the brunette said haltingly, obviously surprised by the violence in which the door had opened. “I don’t know what Ron said to you, but he’s a right bastard, and he’s in the minority.”
Pansy closed her eyes and ran a tired hand over her face.
“Are you all right Pansy?”
She could hear the concern in Granger’s voice, and it just made her more angry with herself. “I’m fine,” she bit off.
“You should come back down.” Hermione reached out and took Pansy’s hand.
“No!” Pansy wrenched her hand away.
Hermione’s brow furrowed, and she stepped all the way into the room, closing the door behind her. “What’s wrong? I know you could care less what Ron Weasley thinks of you.”
“Nothing’s wrong. Go back to your party.” Couldn’t the woman see that she didn’t fit? That she had no business down there!
“Why are you acting like this?” Hermione asked, taking a step closer.
“This is who I am Granger! I’m not a nice person! I am not some bloody pet project, some tragic figure you need to save!”
“What? I don’t think you’re a pet…”
“Oh yes you do. Let’s see if we can rehabilitate the Slytherin, make her fit for polite society.” Pansy was yelling now.
“Bollocks!” Hermione yelled back. “You are a good person, when you’re not being completely mental! Whether you want to admit it or not.”
“I am not mental!” Pansy stepped into Hermione’s personal space. “And I am not a good person!”
Before she could think better of it Pansy reached out and pulled Granger to her, capturing her lips in a kiss that might well have been good, but was in no way nice.