Recipe For Disaster (2/3)
Title: Recipe For Disaster
Gift for:
pokeystar
Pairing: Harry/Pansy with a side pairing of Draco/Hermione
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: some language
Word Count: 4423
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of JK Rowling. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
A/N: First, I would like to say thanks topokeystar for giving me this prompt, even if it did drive me a tad be insane…more than usual. Thanks to floorcoaster for betaing this for me, two times. You rock! Thanks to cardigankate for cracking the whip and reminding me - even when I didn’t want to remember - that I had to get this done. And thanks to thebigdisaster for being my head cheerleader! I made the most changes to this chapter :)
Chapter Two: An Accident Waiting To Happen
Thursday evening
Pansy looked at her reflection in the mirror and held the robes against her body. She tilted her head to the side, imagining herself in them. They would do just nicely. However, her excitement at the find went cold when she looked at the price tag.
While the robes were perfect, the price was not.
“Seventy-five Galleons? For dress robes?” she whispered in frustration.
Beautiful they may be, but inside her budget, they most certainly were not.
“Is this the point where I come in and say that those robes would look good on you?” Hermione asked from the chair next to the mirror. She lowered the book on motherhood that had been previously covering her face.
Why, exactly, had she brought Granger along? She was the worst person to shop with, especially now that she was pregnant. Pansy paused for a moment. Oh right, they were … somewhat friendly. Truth be told, Pansy liked her. She was bossy, nosy, and constantly tried to read her, but at least she cared enough to try. Granger was the closest thing to a friend that she had, and Pansy had asked her to come almost on instinct.
But that was her secret.
“You just missed that moment, Granger.”
“Malfo—oh sod it,” she shook her head and dog-eared the page that she’d be reading. “How can I expect you to stop calling me Granger when my own husband doesn’t?” After dropping the book into her beaded bag, Hermione crossed her ankles and absently rested her hand on her baby bump that had grown just in the last few days.
“Some habits never die.” Pansy shrugged.
Hermione snorted. “Now, about those robes ….”
Pansy held them back to her body. “These?”
“Yes, those. Are you going to get them so we can finally go to Florean’s for some ice-cream to satisfy my insane and, not to mention, hormonal craving?” she asked with a hopeful smile.
Pansy looked at the dress one last time before she put it back on the rack. “No.”
Her smile faded. “Wha—no! What was wrong with this one? It’s perfect!”
“The price isn’t,” she frowned. Granger opened her mouth, but was cut off with a crisp, “Don’t start.”
Money was a forbidden topic. Discussions about it, and Draco and Hermione’s attempt at giving it to her, had always led to brutal arguments where they would go weeks without speaking. She didn’t need any charity, and the sooner they understood that, the better. But Granger was a fiercely stubborn witch. At that moment, her lips were pursed, and she looked ready to say something.
Pansy narrowed her eyes.
The staring contest was on.
However, to her utmost surprise, after only a minute Hermione looked away, pulled her book out, and went back to reading. Pansy didn’t bother to inwardly rejoice in her victory. There was no time.
She had to go on the hunt again.
“What about the yellow one?” Hermione suggested, pointing at the robes on the rack behind her.
Pansy frowned at the dress robes in question. It probably would look nice on her, if it wasn’t for the horrible colour. “Yellow makes me look like I died and forgot to lie down.”
Hermione’s laughter suddenly rang out in the mildly crowded store, and all eyes were on them. But that wasn’t too much of a surprise. People had been watching them since they’d walked into Madam Malkin’s over half an hour ago. When she calmed down, Hermione used her thumb to dab a tear from her eye. She smiled at Pansy, whose cheeks were flushed from chuckling at her own words. “How about pink robes? I remember you wore pink robes to the Yule Ball—”
“Because my mother made me!” she exclaimed. “I hate pink, but I hated that dress more. I looked like an over-aged fairy princess.” Hermione started laughing again, but Pansy continued, still hot over the memory of the hideous dress. “It was a fluffy catastrophe, and because they were taking pictures, I had to pretend that I actually liked that horrid thing. The first thing I did when I returned to my dorm was burn it. Daphne helped.”
“Well, what colours do you look good in?” she asked once she finished laughing.
“Silver, black, green—”
Hermione cut her off, “Don’t even think about wearing House colours.”
Pansy frowned because she’d been considering it. “Why not?”
“We’re not at Hogwarts anymore. Try … mixing it up a bit. You said you look nice in black, what about adding another colour to it. Like a red—”
“So I can look like a checker board?”
“—or white?”
“Oh, so I can upgrade to looking like a chess board?”
“Now you’re just being difficult.”
Pansy ignored her and went back to searching.
She was about to deem the shopping trip a failure when she saw it—the perfect dress robes. And it wasn’t long before Pansy was walking out of Madam Malkin’s as a satisfied customer with a relieved and smirking Hermione at her side. The dress, which fit her like a well-made leather glove, was still outside her price range, but not horribly so.
She would manage. She always had.
Sunset was underway as they made the walk to Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour, and people were watching them. Hermione had always done a good job of ignoring the whispers, and Pansy had done an even better job pretending to ignore them. The media had always done a lot of speculating about Pansy’s friendship with Hermione, and on some level, it deeply bothered her. Some said that she was just another lost cause that Hermione had taken interest in. Others said that her “tyrannical husband” had forced her to be friendly with Pansy, his secret lover. That was actually the closest they had gotten to the truth, minus the secret lover bit.
Merlin no. Pansy shuddered at the thought.
Draco had reintroduced them, albeit reluctantly, but it had been Hermione’s idea to bury the past. Pansy had agreed because—outside of Draco—she had lost all of her friends after the war. She was secretly in dire need of at least one.
Granger had already started her sundae when Pansy sat down with hers. They ate their sundaes, sat in silence, ignored the curious glances, and watched as dusk settled on the city. It was only then that the witch sitting opposite her decided to speak. “So where are you two having dinner?”
“Actually, Potter’s cooking.”
Hermione nearly choked on her ice-cream. “Harry’s cooking?” she asked incredulously.
Pansy narrowed her eyes. “Yes … is that a problem?”
“No.” She dipped her spoon back into her ice-cream and chuckled. “It’s just that … Harry can’t cook.”
“I didn’t think he could.” The way he stammered about while making plans had told her that something was up. She figured that the reason Potter had suggested cooking was either because he didn’t want to attract any attention or because he didn’t want to be seen in public with her. It was hard to determine the truth, so she tried not to think about—
Pansy caught two witches sitting a couple of tables down staring at them and shot them such fierce glares that they both looked away immediately, feigning shame. She then turned back to Hermione, whose shoulders were shaking with mirth. Leaning back in her chair, she hotly asked, “What’s so bloody funny, Granger?”
“They’re always going to stare.”
“That doesn’t mean that I have to like it.” Pansy fussed. “Besides, that’s easy for you to say. They’re not staring because of you, but because you’re having ice cream with public enemy number one in the wizarding world.”
Hermione helped herself to another spoonful of ice-cream. “I never pegged you as the type that cared about the opinions of others.”
“I don’t,” she replied tightly.
“Could’ve fooled me.” She smirked slightly, but her tone became serious quick. “It’s okay to care, you know. No one likes to be hated.”
Pansy really hated how accurate Hermione’s observations were. Instead of voicing her annoyance or even the truth, she said nothing.
They sat in silence until Granger started prodding—again. “So, are you excited about the date?”
That was a rather personal question, and Pansy didn’t know what to feel about it. She liked the dynamics of their somewhat-friendship, because while Hermione always asked probing questions, she never required that Pansy directly express her feelings. And this question made her distinctly uncomfortable. “Potter nearly choked to death after I said yes.”
Hermione’s eyes were wide. “Choked?”
“Yes, choked,” she repeated, rolling her eyes at the memory. “It was … odd. I don’t think he expected me to say yes, and he was drinking water … ergo choking.”
The witch shook her head. “That blockhead.”
“Look, it’s fine. I’m not expecting anything special. It’s just going to be another date.”
“I don’t remember you ever dating anyone before.”
It wasn’t that she hadn’t been in a relationship, because Pansy had—plenty of them—but Granger didn’t know that. She had never shared that particular part of her life with her. “I’m a private person.”
“That’s an understatement,” she said with a smile and a shake of her bushy head. “It’s been four years since Draco reintroduced us, and I know next to nothing about you.”
Pansy waved her off flippantly. “It’s not like we’re best friends, Granger.”
And all of a sudden, things were awkward.
Hermione took to staring in her ice-cream as if it was the key to finding out all the universe’s secrets, and all she could do was stare at the sky. Seconds passed, then minutes. Silence. Yes, too awkward for Pansy’s liking. She hated those moments where all she could do was wonder if she’d done or said something wrong, and this was one of them. So, she said the first thing that came to mind. “I, well, there are days when I’m completely jealous of you.”
That did the trick. Hermione’s eyes met hers, then narrowed slightly. “Jealous of me?”
Buggering hell. Now she had to continue, and there was no time to think of a decent lie. “You—you just seem to have it all together. You’re married, you have a great career, and now you’re having a baby. Your life is perfect.”
Hermione laughed. “I can’t complain. But Draco and I, our lives aren’t as perfect as you may think. We have a mountain of obstacles in front of us, and they may always be there.” Pansy could see a bit of sadness in her eyes as she spoke. “My parents are still wary of him, his parents barely tolerate my presence, and my friends don’t exactly like him. It’s frustrating, but we knew what we were getting into from the start. He,” she rubbed her stomach affectionately, “may change things for us, he may bring everyone together, but he may not. We try not to worry about it.”
“Don’t you regret anything?” It was out of her mouth before she could snatch it back.
She smiled. “I—we took a chance, and things may not be perfect, but it’s paid off tenfold. We’re happy. What’s there to regret?”
Pansy said nothing.
“You know …” Granger adjusted in her chair. “It’s not bad to take a chance on something—or someone.”
It wasn’t about her taking the chance; it was all about if that someone wanted to take a chance on her.
Pansy frowned.
Hermione misunderstood the frown and shook her frizzy head lightly. “You could be happy, Pansy.”
“Like you?” she deadpanned.
“Like me.” Hermione smiled, again.
“Well, I’m glad someone is.” Pansy crinkled her nose.
No, she wasn’t supposed to say that. Not aloud, at least.
She’d accepted that she wasn’t a happy person, but she wasn’t miserable either. If anything, she was just stuck. Yes, that was a good way to put it. She was stuck in her job and in her life, but she wasn’t going to stress about it, or even feel bad for herself. And she sure as hell didn’t want Granger to pity her, but it was too late. Pity practically radiated off her.
Pansy sighed to herself before looking across the table. “I didn’t mean that. I’m not unhappy.”
“Then what are you?”
Merlin, the witch was so damn nosy! It flustered Pansy to no end, and she couldn’t have that. “I’m—I’m just okay. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“No, there isn’t, but you have to want something more than just okay, don’t you? There has to be a part of you that wants something—someone—at the very least. You have to have a heart’s wish, something that you want more than anything.”
“Heart’s wish? What are we, ten again?” Pansy chided with a small smile.
Hermione rolled her eyes and ate another spoonful of ice-cream.
Pansy had no intention of divulging her inner-most feelings to Granger, almost-friend or not. That’s how people got hurt. But, Hermione had a point. There was something she wanted more than anything, something she secretly wished for, and something she would kill for just to have a taste. Pansy struggled to put it into actual words, but she wanted—wanted to be wanted, appreciated, and taken seriously. She wanted to be considered, not as a last resort, but as an actual choice. Her cheeks burned. “I’m a practical person, Granger.”
“And I’m not?”
Another good point. Bugger. “It’s—it’s not likely to happen.”
“You never know. Harry could—”
“Oh, please. I know that you,” she pointed at Hermione, who decided at that moment to look surprised, “had something to do with him asking me out on this date. There's just no way Potter would do that without outside influence … from you. We’ve worked in the same department for six years, and we’ve barely had two conversations.”
Hermione opened her mouth, ready to argue, but snapped it shut and shrugged innocently. “I might’ve suggested it.”
“Might’ve?” she deadpanned.
She took a breath. “Okay, I did, but still … just give him a chance. I think that you two would be good for each other. ” When she didn’t look convinced, Hermione let out a sigh of exasperation. “Okay, let’s make a deal. You stay one hour. If it doesn’t work, I won’t say anything else about your dating life. I’ll leave you alone.”
It was tempting. “One hour?”
“Yes, just one, but you have to act as you would on any other date.” She snapped her finger as if she had suddenly remembered something. “Oh! And don’t even think about cheating. No tricks of any kind. You have to be on your best behaviour.” She already had that maternal tone down to a science.
Play fair? Pansy quirked a brow. “And if I cheat, how will you know?”
“Oh, I’ll know,” she flashed a smirk that was identical to her husband’s. “Believe me, I’ll know ….”
ooo
“Pansy ‘Pug-faced’ Parkinson!” Ron dissolved into his sixteenth fit of laughter.
Harry groaned, removed his glasses, and pinched the bridge of his nose.
This was not what he’d had in mind when he’d black-listed Hermione, gone to Ron for help, and ignored the nagging voice in his head—which sounded oddly like Snape—that repeatedly called him an idiot. Maybe the voice had a point. Ron—the sound of him guffawing made Harry’s grimace deepen—hadn’t been much help. It was hard to believe that he would ever be much help, anyway. After all, he hadn’t stopped laughing, snorting, and yelling ‘Pansy “Pug-faced” Parkinson’ since Harry had broken the news.
Ron slapped his knee and wiped his brow as if laughing like a hyena had tired him out. “I can’t believe this!”
Harry started to say something, but ended up shrugging it off. At least he was saying something new.
“Do you remember those hideously frilly robes that she wore to the Yule Ball?”
“Erm, yeah,” Harry lied.
The first real memory that he had of Pansy was when she had tried to hand him to Voldemort. It had taken Harry a long time—okay, years—and hearing her terrified testimony at her trial to finally let go of his anger.
“She was a walking candy floss disaster!”
Harry said nothing, thinking it would be a best not to remind Ron of his own dress robe debacle. He’d always had a problem with not being able to take what he dished out, and Harry never had like the shade of puce that Ron’s face always turned when someone—anyone—brought up his Fourth Year fashion disaster.
“I’d be shocked if Pug-Face doesn’t show up to your house wearing something just as hideous.”
Harry rubbed his temples in an attempt to alleviate his growing headache. “Ron. Insulting her isn’t helping the situation.”
This was the time Ron him to step up, to be his best friend, and give him some bloody advice—advice that didn’t include him changing his name, covering his scar, and fleeing the country.
“Fine, fine.” Ron sobered up, thought for a moment, and suggested with a shrug. “Just cancel on her.”
Was that really the best he had?
Idiot.
Harry wished that the Snape-voice would just shut the hell up. He also wished that his best friend would come up with a better idea than ‘just cancel on her’ too, but it didn’t look like either was going to happen. “What kind of sense does that make? I’m,” he patted his chest, “the one who asked her out.”
“Yeah, and who’s fault is that? Hermione’s. I don’t know why you even listened to her. She’s gone bloody mad ever since Malfoy decided to get her preggo.”
Decided? He distinctly remembered Hermione saying that it was her idea to start trying to have children, but didn’t correct Ron because it would only start an argument. Hermione had married evil incarnate as far as Ron was concerned, but he didn’t dare tell her that to her face. Her temper was, as always, a force to be reckoned with.
“Never mind that.” Harry checked his old wristwatch. “I have less than twenty-four hours before this dinner with Pansy Parkinson, and I need help.”
Ron stared at him blankly. “You’re serious about keeping this date?”
He shrugged. “It would be rude to—”
“Since when do you care about being rude to Pu—” Harry glared. “Parkinson,” Ron recovered quickly and moved on, “of all people? Just because she and Hermione have gotten chummy over the years doesn’t mean that you’re obligated to eat with her. And what are the chances that Hermione even knows about the date? You could just cancel and she would—”
“That’s just it, Hermione already knows,” Harry whined.
“You don’t know that.”
“In case you’ve forgotten, Hermione knows everything!” Harry put his glasses back on. “When you sent the hoard of strippers to Malfoy’s stag party because you thought Hermione would forgo the wedding and kill him, she knew and—”
Ron held his hand up to stop him mid-sentence. “Do not remind me about the bloody canaries.”
“Exactly! And if I back out now, what she’ll do to me will be infinitely worse!”
“Worse?” Ron gulped, paling just a bit.
“Yes!”
“So what are you going to do, mate?”
Oh buggering hell. Harry pinched the bridge of his nose again before he exclaimed, “That’s why I came to you in the first place!”
Idiot.
“You could’ve come and talked to me before listening to Hermione, Harry! I know a few witches that will suit your taste, if you know what I mean.” Harry nearly cringed when Ron did that little elbow nudge thing and that low laugh. He always did that when inferring about things that were too crude to say.
“Erm,” he stammered awkwardly. “Well, I—”
There was a reason. A good one. But it was one he couldn’t share with his best friend ….
Ron was allergic to romantic commitment. Really. And it didn’t make sense, given the fact that he’d been raised in an amazing family. But sometimes, it didn’t matter how someone was raised. Sometimes they ended up taking a different path from the rest of their family.
So, girlfriends had come, girlfriend had gone, and none of them had made it past a few months. In fact, Ron had been through so many girlfriends that by the time Harry learned the name of one, he had already broken up with her and moved on to another. There was even a waiting list to date the famous Quidditch player, and it was full of witches—and a few wizards—who were desperate to change him for the better.
Change Ron?
Not bloody likely.
Hermione had said it best the night that they’d broken up.
“The easiest way to get rid of Ron is to ask him to stick around!”
Harry could never ask Ron to find him a date, not when their priorities were so … different.
“I just, well, I thought—”
Ron waved his still-stammering best friend off. “Never mind that. Let’s get on with this. We apparently don’t have a lot of time.” He wasn’t kidding. “So, what kind of date is this?”
Green eyes narrowed in confusion. There were types? “Erm, well, I told her I would make her dinner.”
Ron sounded as if he were having a heart attack. “You did, what?! You set the bar too high for yourself! She’s going to want—no expect—all these things from you. And you’re going to have to do more and more until, wham!” Ron clapped his hands together to mimic the sound of thunder and disaster. “You’re going to be discussing moving in together after a week—oh, or buying her a private island for your first month anniversary!”
“Okay, now you’re just being dramatic.”
“No! I’m not!” he argued adamantly. “Harry, you just committed the ultimate man-sin!”
There were sins? “It’s just dinner!”
“No! It’s never just dinner!”
“Ron—”
“Don’t you see? It’s commitment! You just dug your own grave, mate!”
“Unlike you, Ron, I’m not anti-commitment.” Outside of his short relationship with Cho during his Fifth Year in Hogwarts, he’d dated a grand total of three witches. Ginny, to everyone’s surprise, wasn’t the first.
The funny thing about war was that it was completely unpredictable, and its aftermath, was even more so.
Harry had been so sure that he and Ginny would find each other once it was all over. They would date, marry, and have children together, but it just didn’t happen that way. He’d spent the first three and a half months after the war gathering Death Eaters who had absconded after the final battle. And when it was time for them to return to the newly renovated Hogwarts, he and Ron had decided to stay and help rebuild the Ministry.
Ron frowned. “Am not.”
“And now you’re in denial. Lovely.”
“It doesn’t matter. I have more experience in this area, Harry. You dated Luna for thirteen months, ‘nuff said.”
Ron loved to mention that at every opportunity, but the fact was that Luna was there at the point in his life when he just needed to be with someone who didn’t expect the world from him, someone who made him feel normal and comfortable.
Luna had been just what he’d needed.
It was months after the war, months after Ginny had decided that she wasn’t ready for anything serious until she finished Hogwarts, and months after he’d become the wizarding world’s poster boy for change and reformation. Luna had been there, and stood by his side while he searched for—and later found—his place in the post-Voldemort world and, most importantly, his identity.
“You always bring that up, and I always tell you I don’t regret it.”
His best friend rolled his eyes then prodded, “And Ginny?”
“No, I don’t regret dating her, either.”
He and Ginny had started dating two years after he and Luna had parted ways. They had only lasted for two years. In all honestly, things were good between them, but Ginny was looking to settle down—and fast. The idea of settling down did appealed to him, but he wasn’t ready for that at the age of twenty-three. And after months of fighting, Harry had finally decided that he wasn’t going to let Ginny rush him down the aisle.
She was engaged to Dean Thomas nine months later … and married a year after.
“Yeah, right.”
Harry rolled his eyes. No one ever believed him when he said that he wasn’t angry, just like no one ever believed him when he said that he wasn’t holding a torch for her, either. “Don’t believe me, I really don’t care.”
Ron rolled his eyes and they sat in silence for just a few moments.
“Okay, I’ve been meaning to tell you something for a while now, Harry.”
Uh-oh. This couldn’t be good.
“Mate,” he clapped his hand on his shoulder, “I know you’re one for all that … commitment stuff, but what you need to do is to stop looking for Miss. Right, and start looking for Miss. Right Now.”
“And how exactly is that going to help me with—?”
“Don’t you get what I’m saying? Since you can’t cancel this date with Pu—Parkinson, she could be your Miss. Right Now!”
Harry balked. “Ron!”
“Just hear me out! You’re completely clueless when it comes to witches—” When Harry opened his mouth to argue, his best friend cut him off. “Well, it’s true. You’ve dated three witches in ten years. And offering to cook on your first date with Pansy Parkinson, of all people, shows your inexperience. But, since I’m your best friend, I’m going to help you out. And judging from all the wizards that Pansy has been with, she would be perfect to help you out, too.”
He wasn’t following. “Help me with …?”
“Experience!” Ron exclaimed. “Since you obviously can’t even consider dating her seriously, she would be perfect to, I don’t know, date as practice until someone better comes along. Then you’ll have all the practice you need to know what you’re doing with the next witch. It’s perfectly logical.”
Harry scrunched his nose. “That sounds pretty—”
“Brilliant? I know.” Ron smiled, proud of himself.
He was going for crooked. “Uhh—”
“Just try. I’ll teach you everything I know about women, oh, and I’ll find one of mum’s casserole recipes for you to make. They’re killer.” Ron slapped his shoulder again. “What’s the worst that can happen?”
Idiot.
Onward to part 3
Gift for:
pokeystarPairing: Harry/Pansy with a side pairing of Draco/Hermione
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: some language
Word Count: 4423
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of JK Rowling. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
A/N: First, I would like to say thanks to
pokeystar for giving me this prompt, even if it did drive me a tad be insane…more than usual. Thanks to floorcoaster for betaing this for me, two times. You rock! Thanks to cardigankate for cracking the whip and reminding me - even when I didn’t want to remember - that I had to get this done. And thanks to thebigdisaster for being my head cheerleader! I made the most changes to this chapter :)Pansy looked at her reflection in the mirror and held the robes against her body. She tilted her head to the side, imagining herself in them. They would do just nicely. However, her excitement at the find went cold when she looked at the price tag.
While the robes were perfect, the price was not.
“Seventy-five Galleons? For dress robes?” she whispered in frustration.
Beautiful they may be, but inside her budget, they most certainly were not.
“Is this the point where I come in and say that those robes would look good on you?” Hermione asked from the chair next to the mirror. She lowered the book on motherhood that had been previously covering her face.
Why, exactly, had she brought Granger along? She was the worst person to shop with, especially now that she was pregnant. Pansy paused for a moment. Oh right, they were … somewhat friendly. Truth be told, Pansy liked her. She was bossy, nosy, and constantly tried to read her, but at least she cared enough to try. Granger was the closest thing to a friend that she had, and Pansy had asked her to come almost on instinct.
But that was her secret.
“You just missed that moment, Granger.”
“Malfo—oh sod it,” she shook her head and dog-eared the page that she’d be reading. “How can I expect you to stop calling me Granger when my own husband doesn’t?” After dropping the book into her beaded bag, Hermione crossed her ankles and absently rested her hand on her baby bump that had grown just in the last few days.
“Some habits never die.” Pansy shrugged.
Hermione snorted. “Now, about those robes ….”
Pansy held them back to her body. “These?”
“Yes, those. Are you going to get them so we can finally go to Florean’s for some ice-cream to satisfy my insane and, not to mention, hormonal craving?” she asked with a hopeful smile.
Pansy looked at the dress one last time before she put it back on the rack. “No.”
Her smile faded. “Wha—no! What was wrong with this one? It’s perfect!”
“The price isn’t,” she frowned. Granger opened her mouth, but was cut off with a crisp, “Don’t start.”
Money was a forbidden topic. Discussions about it, and Draco and Hermione’s attempt at giving it to her, had always led to brutal arguments where they would go weeks without speaking. She didn’t need any charity, and the sooner they understood that, the better. But Granger was a fiercely stubborn witch. At that moment, her lips were pursed, and she looked ready to say something.
Pansy narrowed her eyes.
The staring contest was on.
However, to her utmost surprise, after only a minute Hermione looked away, pulled her book out, and went back to reading. Pansy didn’t bother to inwardly rejoice in her victory. There was no time.
She had to go on the hunt again.
“What about the yellow one?” Hermione suggested, pointing at the robes on the rack behind her.
Pansy frowned at the dress robes in question. It probably would look nice on her, if it wasn’t for the horrible colour. “Yellow makes me look like I died and forgot to lie down.”
Hermione’s laughter suddenly rang out in the mildly crowded store, and all eyes were on them. But that wasn’t too much of a surprise. People had been watching them since they’d walked into Madam Malkin’s over half an hour ago. When she calmed down, Hermione used her thumb to dab a tear from her eye. She smiled at Pansy, whose cheeks were flushed from chuckling at her own words. “How about pink robes? I remember you wore pink robes to the Yule Ball—”
“Because my mother made me!” she exclaimed. “I hate pink, but I hated that dress more. I looked like an over-aged fairy princess.” Hermione started laughing again, but Pansy continued, still hot over the memory of the hideous dress. “It was a fluffy catastrophe, and because they were taking pictures, I had to pretend that I actually liked that horrid thing. The first thing I did when I returned to my dorm was burn it. Daphne helped.”
“Well, what colours do you look good in?” she asked once she finished laughing.
“Silver, black, green—”
Hermione cut her off, “Don’t even think about wearing House colours.”
Pansy frowned because she’d been considering it. “Why not?”
“We’re not at Hogwarts anymore. Try … mixing it up a bit. You said you look nice in black, what about adding another colour to it. Like a red—”
“So I can look like a checker board?”
“—or white?”
“Oh, so I can upgrade to looking like a chess board?”
“Now you’re just being difficult.”
Pansy ignored her and went back to searching.
She was about to deem the shopping trip a failure when she saw it—the perfect dress robes. And it wasn’t long before Pansy was walking out of Madam Malkin’s as a satisfied customer with a relieved and smirking Hermione at her side. The dress, which fit her like a well-made leather glove, was still outside her price range, but not horribly so.
She would manage. She always had.
Sunset was underway as they made the walk to Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour, and people were watching them. Hermione had always done a good job of ignoring the whispers, and Pansy had done an even better job pretending to ignore them. The media had always done a lot of speculating about Pansy’s friendship with Hermione, and on some level, it deeply bothered her. Some said that she was just another lost cause that Hermione had taken interest in. Others said that her “tyrannical husband” had forced her to be friendly with Pansy, his secret lover. That was actually the closest they had gotten to the truth, minus the secret lover bit.
Merlin no. Pansy shuddered at the thought.
Draco had reintroduced them, albeit reluctantly, but it had been Hermione’s idea to bury the past. Pansy had agreed because—outside of Draco—she had lost all of her friends after the war. She was secretly in dire need of at least one.
Granger had already started her sundae when Pansy sat down with hers. They ate their sundaes, sat in silence, ignored the curious glances, and watched as dusk settled on the city. It was only then that the witch sitting opposite her decided to speak. “So where are you two having dinner?”
“Actually, Potter’s cooking.”
Hermione nearly choked on her ice-cream. “Harry’s cooking?” she asked incredulously.
Pansy narrowed her eyes. “Yes … is that a problem?”
“No.” She dipped her spoon back into her ice-cream and chuckled. “It’s just that … Harry can’t cook.”
“I didn’t think he could.” The way he stammered about while making plans had told her that something was up. She figured that the reason Potter had suggested cooking was either because he didn’t want to attract any attention or because he didn’t want to be seen in public with her. It was hard to determine the truth, so she tried not to think about—
Pansy caught two witches sitting a couple of tables down staring at them and shot them such fierce glares that they both looked away immediately, feigning shame. She then turned back to Hermione, whose shoulders were shaking with mirth. Leaning back in her chair, she hotly asked, “What’s so bloody funny, Granger?”
“They’re always going to stare.”
“That doesn’t mean that I have to like it.” Pansy fussed. “Besides, that’s easy for you to say. They’re not staring because of you, but because you’re having ice cream with public enemy number one in the wizarding world.”
Hermione helped herself to another spoonful of ice-cream. “I never pegged you as the type that cared about the opinions of others.”
“I don’t,” she replied tightly.
“Could’ve fooled me.” She smirked slightly, but her tone became serious quick. “It’s okay to care, you know. No one likes to be hated.”
Pansy really hated how accurate Hermione’s observations were. Instead of voicing her annoyance or even the truth, she said nothing.
They sat in silence until Granger started prodding—again. “So, are you excited about the date?”
That was a rather personal question, and Pansy didn’t know what to feel about it. She liked the dynamics of their somewhat-friendship, because while Hermione always asked probing questions, she never required that Pansy directly express her feelings. And this question made her distinctly uncomfortable. “Potter nearly choked to death after I said yes.”
Hermione’s eyes were wide. “Choked?”
“Yes, choked,” she repeated, rolling her eyes at the memory. “It was … odd. I don’t think he expected me to say yes, and he was drinking water … ergo choking.”
The witch shook her head. “That blockhead.”
“Look, it’s fine. I’m not expecting anything special. It’s just going to be another date.”
“I don’t remember you ever dating anyone before.”
It wasn’t that she hadn’t been in a relationship, because Pansy had—plenty of them—but Granger didn’t know that. She had never shared that particular part of her life with her. “I’m a private person.”
“That’s an understatement,” she said with a smile and a shake of her bushy head. “It’s been four years since Draco reintroduced us, and I know next to nothing about you.”
Pansy waved her off flippantly. “It’s not like we’re best friends, Granger.”
And all of a sudden, things were awkward.
Hermione took to staring in her ice-cream as if it was the key to finding out all the universe’s secrets, and all she could do was stare at the sky. Seconds passed, then minutes. Silence. Yes, too awkward for Pansy’s liking. She hated those moments where all she could do was wonder if she’d done or said something wrong, and this was one of them. So, she said the first thing that came to mind. “I, well, there are days when I’m completely jealous of you.”
That did the trick. Hermione’s eyes met hers, then narrowed slightly. “Jealous of me?”
Buggering hell. Now she had to continue, and there was no time to think of a decent lie. “You—you just seem to have it all together. You’re married, you have a great career, and now you’re having a baby. Your life is perfect.”
Hermione laughed. “I can’t complain. But Draco and I, our lives aren’t as perfect as you may think. We have a mountain of obstacles in front of us, and they may always be there.” Pansy could see a bit of sadness in her eyes as she spoke. “My parents are still wary of him, his parents barely tolerate my presence, and my friends don’t exactly like him. It’s frustrating, but we knew what we were getting into from the start. He,” she rubbed her stomach affectionately, “may change things for us, he may bring everyone together, but he may not. We try not to worry about it.”
“Don’t you regret anything?” It was out of her mouth before she could snatch it back.
She smiled. “I—we took a chance, and things may not be perfect, but it’s paid off tenfold. We’re happy. What’s there to regret?”
Pansy said nothing.
“You know …” Granger adjusted in her chair. “It’s not bad to take a chance on something—or someone.”
It wasn’t about her taking the chance; it was all about if that someone wanted to take a chance on her.
Pansy frowned.
Hermione misunderstood the frown and shook her frizzy head lightly. “You could be happy, Pansy.”
“Like you?” she deadpanned.
“Like me.” Hermione smiled, again.
“Well, I’m glad someone is.” Pansy crinkled her nose.
No, she wasn’t supposed to say that. Not aloud, at least.
She’d accepted that she wasn’t a happy person, but she wasn’t miserable either. If anything, she was just stuck. Yes, that was a good way to put it. She was stuck in her job and in her life, but she wasn’t going to stress about it, or even feel bad for herself. And she sure as hell didn’t want Granger to pity her, but it was too late. Pity practically radiated off her.
Pansy sighed to herself before looking across the table. “I didn’t mean that. I’m not unhappy.”
“Then what are you?”
Merlin, the witch was so damn nosy! It flustered Pansy to no end, and she couldn’t have that. “I’m—I’m just okay. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“No, there isn’t, but you have to want something more than just okay, don’t you? There has to be a part of you that wants something—someone—at the very least. You have to have a heart’s wish, something that you want more than anything.”
“Heart’s wish? What are we, ten again?” Pansy chided with a small smile.
Hermione rolled her eyes and ate another spoonful of ice-cream.
Pansy had no intention of divulging her inner-most feelings to Granger, almost-friend or not. That’s how people got hurt. But, Hermione had a point. There was something she wanted more than anything, something she secretly wished for, and something she would kill for just to have a taste. Pansy struggled to put it into actual words, but she wanted—wanted to be wanted, appreciated, and taken seriously. She wanted to be considered, not as a last resort, but as an actual choice. Her cheeks burned. “I’m a practical person, Granger.”
“And I’m not?”
Another good point. Bugger. “It’s—it’s not likely to happen.”
“You never know. Harry could—”
“Oh, please. I know that you,” she pointed at Hermione, who decided at that moment to look surprised, “had something to do with him asking me out on this date. There's just no way Potter would do that without outside influence … from you. We’ve worked in the same department for six years, and we’ve barely had two conversations.”
Hermione opened her mouth, ready to argue, but snapped it shut and shrugged innocently. “I might’ve suggested it.”
“Might’ve?” she deadpanned.
She took a breath. “Okay, I did, but still … just give him a chance. I think that you two would be good for each other. ” When she didn’t look convinced, Hermione let out a sigh of exasperation. “Okay, let’s make a deal. You stay one hour. If it doesn’t work, I won’t say anything else about your dating life. I’ll leave you alone.”
It was tempting. “One hour?”
“Yes, just one, but you have to act as you would on any other date.” She snapped her finger as if she had suddenly remembered something. “Oh! And don’t even think about cheating. No tricks of any kind. You have to be on your best behaviour.” She already had that maternal tone down to a science.
Play fair? Pansy quirked a brow. “And if I cheat, how will you know?”
“Oh, I’ll know,” she flashed a smirk that was identical to her husband’s. “Believe me, I’ll know ….”
“Pansy ‘Pug-faced’ Parkinson!” Ron dissolved into his sixteenth fit of laughter.
Harry groaned, removed his glasses, and pinched the bridge of his nose.
This was not what he’d had in mind when he’d black-listed Hermione, gone to Ron for help, and ignored the nagging voice in his head—which sounded oddly like Snape—that repeatedly called him an idiot. Maybe the voice had a point. Ron—the sound of him guffawing made Harry’s grimace deepen—hadn’t been much help. It was hard to believe that he would ever be much help, anyway. After all, he hadn’t stopped laughing, snorting, and yelling ‘Pansy “Pug-faced” Parkinson’ since Harry had broken the news.
Ron slapped his knee and wiped his brow as if laughing like a hyena had tired him out. “I can’t believe this!”
Harry started to say something, but ended up shrugging it off. At least he was saying something new.
“Do you remember those hideously frilly robes that she wore to the Yule Ball?”
“Erm, yeah,” Harry lied.
The first real memory that he had of Pansy was when she had tried to hand him to Voldemort. It had taken Harry a long time—okay, years—and hearing her terrified testimony at her trial to finally let go of his anger.
“She was a walking candy floss disaster!”
Harry said nothing, thinking it would be a best not to remind Ron of his own dress robe debacle. He’d always had a problem with not being able to take what he dished out, and Harry never had like the shade of puce that Ron’s face always turned when someone—anyone—brought up his Fourth Year fashion disaster.
“I’d be shocked if Pug-Face doesn’t show up to your house wearing something just as hideous.”
Harry rubbed his temples in an attempt to alleviate his growing headache. “Ron. Insulting her isn’t helping the situation.”
This was the time Ron him to step up, to be his best friend, and give him some bloody advice—advice that didn’t include him changing his name, covering his scar, and fleeing the country.
“Fine, fine.” Ron sobered up, thought for a moment, and suggested with a shrug. “Just cancel on her.”
Was that really the best he had?
Idiot.
Harry wished that the Snape-voice would just shut the hell up. He also wished that his best friend would come up with a better idea than ‘just cancel on her’ too, but it didn’t look like either was going to happen. “What kind of sense does that make? I’m,” he patted his chest, “the one who asked her out.”
“Yeah, and who’s fault is that? Hermione’s. I don’t know why you even listened to her. She’s gone bloody mad ever since Malfoy decided to get her preggo.”
Decided? He distinctly remembered Hermione saying that it was her idea to start trying to have children, but didn’t correct Ron because it would only start an argument. Hermione had married evil incarnate as far as Ron was concerned, but he didn’t dare tell her that to her face. Her temper was, as always, a force to be reckoned with.
“Never mind that.” Harry checked his old wristwatch. “I have less than twenty-four hours before this dinner with Pansy Parkinson, and I need help.”
Ron stared at him blankly. “You’re serious about keeping this date?”
He shrugged. “It would be rude to—”
“Since when do you care about being rude to Pu—” Harry glared. “Parkinson,” Ron recovered quickly and moved on, “of all people? Just because she and Hermione have gotten chummy over the years doesn’t mean that you’re obligated to eat with her. And what are the chances that Hermione even knows about the date? You could just cancel and she would—”
“That’s just it, Hermione already knows,” Harry whined.
“You don’t know that.”
“In case you’ve forgotten, Hermione knows everything!” Harry put his glasses back on. “When you sent the hoard of strippers to Malfoy’s stag party because you thought Hermione would forgo the wedding and kill him, she knew and—”
Ron held his hand up to stop him mid-sentence. “Do not remind me about the bloody canaries.”
“Exactly! And if I back out now, what she’ll do to me will be infinitely worse!”
“Worse?” Ron gulped, paling just a bit.
“Yes!”
“So what are you going to do, mate?”
Oh buggering hell. Harry pinched the bridge of his nose again before he exclaimed, “That’s why I came to you in the first place!”
Idiot.
“You could’ve come and talked to me before listening to Hermione, Harry! I know a few witches that will suit your taste, if you know what I mean.” Harry nearly cringed when Ron did that little elbow nudge thing and that low laugh. He always did that when inferring about things that were too crude to say.
“Erm,” he stammered awkwardly. “Well, I—”
There was a reason. A good one. But it was one he couldn’t share with his best friend ….
Ron was allergic to romantic commitment. Really. And it didn’t make sense, given the fact that he’d been raised in an amazing family. But sometimes, it didn’t matter how someone was raised. Sometimes they ended up taking a different path from the rest of their family.
So, girlfriends had come, girlfriend had gone, and none of them had made it past a few months. In fact, Ron had been through so many girlfriends that by the time Harry learned the name of one, he had already broken up with her and moved on to another. There was even a waiting list to date the famous Quidditch player, and it was full of witches—and a few wizards—who were desperate to change him for the better.
Change Ron?
Not bloody likely.
Hermione had said it best the night that they’d broken up.
“The easiest way to get rid of Ron is to ask him to stick around!”
Harry could never ask Ron to find him a date, not when their priorities were so … different.
“I just, well, I thought—”
Ron waved his still-stammering best friend off. “Never mind that. Let’s get on with this. We apparently don’t have a lot of time.” He wasn’t kidding. “So, what kind of date is this?”
Green eyes narrowed in confusion. There were types? “Erm, well, I told her I would make her dinner.”
Ron sounded as if he were having a heart attack. “You did, what?! You set the bar too high for yourself! She’s going to want—no expect—all these things from you. And you’re going to have to do more and more until, wham!” Ron clapped his hands together to mimic the sound of thunder and disaster. “You’re going to be discussing moving in together after a week—oh, or buying her a private island for your first month anniversary!”
“Okay, now you’re just being dramatic.”
“No! I’m not!” he argued adamantly. “Harry, you just committed the ultimate man-sin!”
There were sins? “It’s just dinner!”
“No! It’s never just dinner!”
“Ron—”
“Don’t you see? It’s commitment! You just dug your own grave, mate!”
“Unlike you, Ron, I’m not anti-commitment.” Outside of his short relationship with Cho during his Fifth Year in Hogwarts, he’d dated a grand total of three witches. Ginny, to everyone’s surprise, wasn’t the first.
The funny thing about war was that it was completely unpredictable, and its aftermath, was even more so.
Harry had been so sure that he and Ginny would find each other once it was all over. They would date, marry, and have children together, but it just didn’t happen that way. He’d spent the first three and a half months after the war gathering Death Eaters who had absconded after the final battle. And when it was time for them to return to the newly renovated Hogwarts, he and Ron had decided to stay and help rebuild the Ministry.
Ron frowned. “Am not.”
“And now you’re in denial. Lovely.”
“It doesn’t matter. I have more experience in this area, Harry. You dated Luna for thirteen months, ‘nuff said.”
Ron loved to mention that at every opportunity, but the fact was that Luna was there at the point in his life when he just needed to be with someone who didn’t expect the world from him, someone who made him feel normal and comfortable.
Luna had been just what he’d needed.
It was months after the war, months after Ginny had decided that she wasn’t ready for anything serious until she finished Hogwarts, and months after he’d become the wizarding world’s poster boy for change and reformation. Luna had been there, and stood by his side while he searched for—and later found—his place in the post-Voldemort world and, most importantly, his identity.
“You always bring that up, and I always tell you I don’t regret it.”
His best friend rolled his eyes then prodded, “And Ginny?”
“No, I don’t regret dating her, either.”
He and Ginny had started dating two years after he and Luna had parted ways. They had only lasted for two years. In all honestly, things were good between them, but Ginny was looking to settle down—and fast. The idea of settling down did appealed to him, but he wasn’t ready for that at the age of twenty-three. And after months of fighting, Harry had finally decided that he wasn’t going to let Ginny rush him down the aisle.
She was engaged to Dean Thomas nine months later … and married a year after.
“Yeah, right.”
Harry rolled his eyes. No one ever believed him when he said that he wasn’t angry, just like no one ever believed him when he said that he wasn’t holding a torch for her, either. “Don’t believe me, I really don’t care.”
Ron rolled his eyes and they sat in silence for just a few moments.
“Okay, I’ve been meaning to tell you something for a while now, Harry.”
Uh-oh. This couldn’t be good.
“Mate,” he clapped his hand on his shoulder, “I know you’re one for all that … commitment stuff, but what you need to do is to stop looking for Miss. Right, and start looking for Miss. Right Now.”
“And how exactly is that going to help me with—?”
“Don’t you get what I’m saying? Since you can’t cancel this date with Pu—Parkinson, she could be your Miss. Right Now!”
Harry balked. “Ron!”
“Just hear me out! You’re completely clueless when it comes to witches—” When Harry opened his mouth to argue, his best friend cut him off. “Well, it’s true. You’ve dated three witches in ten years. And offering to cook on your first date with Pansy Parkinson, of all people, shows your inexperience. But, since I’m your best friend, I’m going to help you out. And judging from all the wizards that Pansy has been with, she would be perfect to help you out, too.”
He wasn’t following. “Help me with …?”
“Experience!” Ron exclaimed. “Since you obviously can’t even consider dating her seriously, she would be perfect to, I don’t know, date as practice until someone better comes along. Then you’ll have all the practice you need to know what you’re doing with the next witch. It’s perfectly logical.”
Harry scrunched his nose. “That sounds pretty—”
“Brilliant? I know.” Ron smiled, proud of himself.
He was going for crooked. “Uhh—”
“Just try. I’ll teach you everything I know about women, oh, and I’ll find one of mum’s casserole recipes for you to make. They’re killer.” Ron slapped his shoulder again. “What’s the worst that can happen?”
Idiot.
Onward to part 3
