Chapter 2: The Pansy Parkinson Intervention
The spare room smelled of lemon polish and underlying damp, a valiant attempt by the house-elf, Tilly, to conquer years of neglect. Hermione’s trunks sat unpacked against the wall, a stark reminder of her fugitive status. For two days, she’d mapped the townhouse’s rhythms like a field researcher studying a volatile ecosystem.
Draco was a ghost of crisp cologne and murmured Floo calls, always just leaving a room as she entered. Blaise was a constant, smoldering presence in the drawing room, usually with Ginny tangled around him. Theo… Theo left half-finished cups of tea and puzzling snippets of conversation in his wake.It was survivable. It was, as Ginny had promised, a distraction from the hollow ache in her chest that used to be Cormac.
Tonight’s distraction, however, felt engineered.
The drawing room glowed, amber light from the wizard-made sconces catching in the swirls of Blaise’s cigar smoke. The air was thick with it, layered over the rich peat-smell of Draco’s whiskey. Theo’s laughter, bright and surprisingly melodic, rang from the deep velvet armchair where he was explaining the alchemical properties of owl feathers to a bemused-looking Ginny.
Hermione hovered near the bookshelf, a glass of surprisingly good red wine held like a shield. She’d come down because Ginny had insisted, because hiding in the spare room forever wasn’t a plan. She was wearing jeans and one of Cormac’s old jumpers, the wool scratchy and too large, a petty comfort she couldn’t yet forsake.
The Floo flared, and Pansy Parkinson stepped out, brushing emerald green ash from the shoulders of her impeccably tailored trousers. Her eyes, sharp as flint, found Hermione instantly.
“Granger,” she said, not as a greeting, but as an identification of a peculiar specimen. “Heard you were infesting the place.”
“Pansy,” Draco drawled from his perch by the chessboard. He was idly moving pieces, black and white, in a pattern only he understood. “Play nice.”
“I’m always nice.” Pansy accepted a cigarette from Blaise, leaning down for his lighter. She took a long drag, exhaling toward the ceiling.“So.McLaggen. Predictable, but still a gutter-level move, even for him.”
Theo’s laughter died. Ginny shot a warning look.Hermione felt every muscle in her neck tighten.“Yes,” she said, her voice flat.
Pansy studied her, the cigarette held loosely between two fingers.“You look like hell. And not in a fun, ‘I was out all night’ way. In a ‘I haven’t slept in a month and my soul is trying to crawl out my eyes’ way.”
“Cheers, Pansy,” Blaise muttered, but he was smiling.
“I’m fine,” Hermione lied.“You’re not.” Pansy took another drag. “You need to get laid.Not by a nice bloke. Not by someone who’ll bring you soup and read you poetry.You need someone who’ll make you forget your own name. Just for an hour.” Her gaze flickered, deliberate and slow, toward Draco, then back to Hermione. “Malfoy’s good for that.”
The room didn’t go silent.Theo snorted into his drink. Blaise chuckled, a low, smoky sound.But the air changed, became charged. Hermione’s face burned.She felt every thread of the borrowed jumper against her skin, suddenly suffocating.
Draco didn’t look up from his chessboard.A muscle feathered in his jaw.
“That’s…” Hermione began, her logical mind scrambling for a rebuttal that wouldn’t sound prim, that wouldn’t make her seem like the broken thing Pansy saw. “That’s none of your business.”
“Obviously,” Pansy shrugged, stubbing out her cigarette. “Just a thought.I’m off. Lydia Greengrass is trying to auction herself off to the highest bidder at the Octavian Club and it’s too much of a car crash to miss.”
She left as abruptly as she’d arrived, the green Floo flames swallowing her whole.An awkward quiet settled, broken by Theo clearing his throat.“Well. That was bracing.”
Ginny was glaring at the empty hearth. “She’s not wrong,” she said, finally, her voice uncharacteristically quiet.
“I’m not having this conversation,” Hermione stated, placing her wine glass down with a definitive click. She didn’t run, but her exit had the same frantic energy.
She made it to the shadowed hallway, the muted sounds of the drawing room a dull hum behind her. She pressed her palms against the cool wallpaper, focusing on the texture, on her breath, on anything but the brutal, humiliating echo of Pansy’s words.Make you forget your own name.
“She’s not wrong, you know.”
The voice came from the darkness near the staircase. Draco materialized from the shadows, having evidently left the drawing room by another door. He’d shed his jacket, his white shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, the top buttons undone.Hermione straightened, crossing her arms. “About which part? My dreadful appearance or your purported sexual prowess?”
“Both.” He said it simply, without vanity.He took a step closer.The hallway was narrow. She could smell the whiskey on him, clean and expensive, mixed with his cologne. “But she’s missing a crucial point.”
Hermione’s heart was a frantic drum against her ribs. “And what’s that?”
“I’m not a rebound shag, Granger.” His grey eyes held hers, no trace of his usual sardonic humor.They were flat, serious, dissecting. “I’m not a tool for your revenge, or a distraction from your pain. I don’t do pathetic, and right now, wrapped in another man’s sweater, you’re skating dangerously close.”
Anger, hot and bright, washed through her. It was better than the hurt, better than the humiliation.“You arrogant prat.”
“Probably.” Another step. The space between them charged, like the air before a storm. “When I have you,” he continued, his voice dropping to a low, intimate register that vibrated in the quiet hall, “I want you clear-eyed.I want you willing. I want you so far past him that you don’t even remember the color of his eyes when you’re looking at me.”
He reached out, not touching her, but his fingers brushed a loose curl that had escaped her pin-up. The gesture was shockingly gentle.It made her breath catch.“So get your head on straight, Granger. Stop hiding in libraries and old jumpers.” He leaned in, his lips close to her ear. “Then maybe we’ll talk.”
He pulled back, gave her one last, unreadable look, and turned, walking up the stairs with a quiet, measured tread.
Hermione stood frozen, the ghost of his breath still warm on her skin. The anger was still there, white-knuckled and furious. But underneath it, coiling low in her stomach, was something else entirely—a sharp, undeniable pull.She touched the curl he’d brushed. For the first time in weeks, the thought of Cormac’s eyes, a bland and forgettable blue, wouldn’t come. All she saw was steel grey, watching her in the dark.