Chapter 21: The Interruption
His arm tightened around her, just once.
They dozed in the spreading pool of sunlight, a tangle of limbs and cashmere. Hermione’s mind, finally quieted, floated in a rare state of blank peace.
The peace was shattered by a loud crack from the living room.Hermione jolted upright, the throw slipping to her waist. Draco’s eyes snapped open, instantly alert, his hand reflexively closing around the wand on his nightstand.“Put that away, you paranoid bastard,” a familiar, clipped voice called out. “It’s just me. I brought coffee, since you’re clearly indisposed.”
Hermione’s blood ran cold.She knew that voice. Draco merely groaned, dropping his head back onto the pillow. “Pansy, I swear to Merlin, your timing is a form of dark magic.”
“And your silencing charms are apparently pathetic.” Footsteps echoed on the polished concrete floor, growing nearer.“I’ve been buzzing your floo for an hour. One assumes you’re dead, or finally done in by your own dramatic libido.”
Hermione scrambled, pulling the cashmere up to her chin just as Pansy Parkinson appeared in the bedroom doorway. She was a vision of severe elegance in a tailored slate-gray robe, her black bob perfectly sharp, a tray floating beside her.
She took them in: Draco’s bare chest, Hermione’s wild hair, the unmistakable atmosphere of spent passion.A perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched toward her hairline.
“Well, well, well,” Pansy drawled, setting the tray down on a dresser with a decisive click.“I see the dragon pox is contagious.And manifests in nudity. How peculiarly virulent.”
“Pansy,” Draco warned, his voice a low rumble.“What?” She folded her arms, a smirk playing on her lips. “I’m just observing the clinical symptoms.Excessive flush.Languid posture. Inability to form coherent sentences before noon. It’s textbook, really.”
Hermione wished the mountain would open up and swallow her whole.She couldn’t move. Pansy’s dark eyes flickered to her, and the smirk softened, just a fraction.“Relax, Granger. I’m not here to throw salt. I’m here because this one,” she jabbed a thumb at Draco, “has been ignoring my prototypes for the new velvet line. And because his Patronus this morning was absurdly cheerful. It was suspicious.”
“You sent a Patronus to Pansy?” Hermione hissed, turning to Draco.He had the decency to look slightly abashed. “It was a general broadcast.To close associates. To sell the plague narrative.”
“He sent a picture of a bleeding orange,” Pansy said flatly. “With the caption ‘contagion risk high, stand by.’ I deduced he’d either finally lost his mind or had successfully shagged you into oblivion. The evidence here supports the latter.”
A startled laugh escaped Hermione before she could stop it.It felt strange and light in her chest. She saw Draco’s mouth twitch, and something unclenched inside her.Pansy, sensing the shift, gestured to the tray. “Coffee’s there.I take mine black, but I assumed you’d need cream. And sugar.Lots of it, to recover from whatever he put you through.” She turned on her heel. “I’ll be in the living room, pretending I don’t know what that mark on his neck is from.You have five minutes.”
She left, her heels clicking a retreat. The silence she left behind was different, charged with a new, awkward energy.
“I’m going to die,” Hermione whispered, finally dropping her death grip on the blanket.
“She likes you,” Draco said, sitting up and reaching for the coffee.“She does not.”
“She brought you coffee. She’d have poisoned mine by now if she disapproved.” He handed her a steaming mug. His fingers brushed hers, warm and sure.“Come on. She’ll just come back in if we hide.”
Wrapped in the throw like a toga, Hermione followed him into the vast living room. Pansy was curled like a cat in a leather armchair, examining her perfectly manicured nails.
“Satisfied?” Draco grumbled, sinking onto the sofa and pulling Hermione down beside him.“Mildly. The view from here is certainly more interesting than my ledger books.” Pansy’s eyes, sharp and assessing, landed on Hermione.“So. Dragon pox.”
Hermione took a long sip of coffee.“It’s a terrible affliction. Very sudden.”
“I’ll bet.And does our dear healer have a prognosis for recovery? Or are you planning on convalescing here indefinitely?”
“Pansy,” Draco sighed, the word a full sentence.“What?I’m invested. This is the most entertainment I’ve had all week.” She leaned forward, her tone shifting from teasing to something more direct. “Honestly, Granger.It’s good to see him frazzled. He’s been unbearably composed since he stopped just staring out that window at your flat and actually did something about it.”
Hermione felt Draco go still beside her. She looked from Pansy’s knowing face to Draco’s carefully neutral one. The air between them, so hot and certain just moments before, now thrummed with a different kind of tension.“Right,” Pansy said, standing abruptly. “My work here is done. I’ve seen the evidence, delivered the caffeine, and thoroughly mortified you both.A perfect visit.” She strode toward the fireplace, grabbing a handful of powder.
She paused, looking back at them.“Do try to leave the bedroom occasionally.And, Draco? For god’s sake, change the sheets before the next round. I could smell the sin from the hallway.”
With a wink and a flash of green flame, she was gone. The silence she left was deeper, more profound. The lingering embarrassment faded, leaving the raw truth of Pansy’s words hanging in the sunlit air.
He’s been unbearably composed since he stopped just staring out that window at your flat.
Hermione placed her mug on the low table with a soft click.She didn’t look at him. She looked at the windows, at the flawless view of the distant peaks, and imagined it framing her own kitchen window across the city.
“How long?” she asked, her voice quiet.The question felt dangerous, a key turning in a lock.
Draco didn’t pretend to misunderstand. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his gaze fixed on the floor. The morning’s arrogance was gone, stripped away by a single comment from his oldest friend.“A while,” he said, the words measured. He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of uncharacteristic uncertainty.“It started as irritation. That bloody, orderly little life you had over there.The timed lights. The stack of books on the table that never got smaller.”
He finally looked at her, his grey eyes clear and unguarded. “Then it just became the view.”