Work Text:
“You can’t be serious,” Hermione blurted, and regretted it immediately when she saw the disappointment on the minister’s face. She admired Minister Shacklebolt immensely – he was clever, and just, and very sensible (usually), and he was extremely handsome (a pity that Minister Shacklebolt was a) her boss, b) far too old for her, and c) a man) – but she had to admit that this was a terrible idea.
The minister had started his tenure with the founding of a mental health programme, of which Hermione fully approved. He had staffed it with qualified and in-the-know muggles, of which Hermione approved even more. St Mungo’s had objected to the “muggle healers” taking the lead on the programme, but Harry’s very large and very public donations to both the Janus Thickey Ward and the new Ministry Mental Health Programme had quieted them, and six years on the MMHP was recruiting as many wixen as muggles.
Next had been the monthly team building exercises, which Hermione had enjoyed far more than she ought solely because she was not required to participate. Other departments endured enforced weekends away or sports days, but the minister’s office had been delightfully exempt. As Minister Shacklebolt’s Senior Undersecretary, Hermione had cheerfully signed the orders for hideous team t-shirts and quidditch equipment, remaining smugly above it all.
After the team building, Minister Shacklebolt had begun work on a series of employee break rooms, then a large and rather opulent employee cafeteria. Both of these, in Hermione’s opinion, had been harmless.
Then had come the compulsory quarterly “mingles”.
Hermione was not exempt from the “mingles” (and yes, the inverted commas absolutely were necessary, thank you, Ron). No matter how she had pleaded, Minister Shacklebolt had remained unmoved.
The summer “mingle” had been excruciating. Wixen from all departments converged on a nice pub by a beach in Devon, taking it over for a day and thoroughly traumatising the nice couple who ran it. Hermione had spent the whole time hiding in a shady corner from Cormac McLaggen, who still hadn’t got the hint, even after nine years of refusals and her very public coming out. And the kick in the nuts. Hermione had been tired of subtlety.
The autumn “mingle” had been no better. They’d taken over one of the Hogwarts dungeons with Headmistress McGonagall’s permission (“for a bit of nostalgia, Minerva, you know how it is,” Shacklebolt had cajoled), and they were supposed to have had a few drinks and a scavenger hunt in the lower levels of the castle while the students remained oblivious and elsewhere. After Hermione had had to burst into the Great Hall to corral fifteen highly inebriated Department of Mysteries employees who had decided to use the hall’s ceiling for (very loud, very rude) cloud-watching in the middle of lunch, the whole thing had devolved into some kind of horrendous drunken mess. Ministry workers had been banned from Hogwarts. Again.
And now this.
Minister Shacklebolt frowned a little, but thankfully did not have Hermione immediately fired for insubordination. “I’m completely serious, Ms Granger.” His eyebrows even managed to look a little bit disappointed in her. Hermione cringed on the inside. “Parkinson is an extremely talented events planner, by all reports, and has volunteered to assist you in arranging the Ministry Holiday Gala. She’ll be up at about eleven-thirty to discuss things – I believe she had a training exercise to attend this morning.”
Pansy Parkinson.
Pansy Parkinson.
Ugh.
Hermione smoothed her expression, which had naturally fallen into a scowl at the thought of her arch enemy, and nodded. “Yes, sir.” There was no point in arguing. The minister had clearly gone completely ‘round the twist.
Hermione returned to her desk to brood over her inevitable demise by sarcasm. Pansy Parkinson had been a thorn in her side since Hogwarts. The girl – woman now, Hermione grudgingly conceded – had disappeared for a year or so after the Battle of Hogwarts, and then had reappeared to retake her NEWTs when Hermione had just been starting in International Magical Co-Operation. Not that Hermione had noticed. Much. And then Parkinson had had the audacity to apply to become an Auror. An Auror! Pansy Parkinson! Hermione had been astounded when Harry had told her.
“Well, obviously you can’t hire her,” Hermione had said, after a moment’s stunned silence.
“Er,” said Harry, running his hand through his hair the way he did when he was deeply uncomfortable.
“Does she even have the requisite marks?”
“Er,” said Harry again, wincing.
Hermione folded her arms and glared at him. “You do remember that she tried to give you up to Voldemort, right, Harry?”
Harry snorted. “Yeah, actually, we talked about that when her application came in. Pansy explained; we’re good now.”
“You’re… good now.” Hermione gaped. “With Pansy Parkinson. Pansy “oh-I-hate-everyone-who-isn’t-rich-and-pureblood-and-beautiful” Parkinson.”
“Er,” said Harry.
And now Pansy Parkinson, who was apparently an events planner on the side, because ugh, was going to be helping her plan the office Christmas party. Today. Soon.
Hermione self-consciously tugged at a stray braid, and tucked it back into place in her bun. As half past eleven approached, she ran her tongue across her teeth, checking for stray bits of food. Should she go and brush her teeth? She fidgeted in her seat and smoothed her sensible blouse, wondering if maybe she should have worn something a little less… staid. It was too late now, she supposed. Maybe next time?
Next time?
The lift doors opened abruptly, making Hermione jump. She had planned to pretend not to notice when Parkinson arrived, to gain the upper hand in what would inevitably turn out to be the worst meeting ever, but she found herself looking up immediately at the sound of footsteps.
“Auror Parkinson,” she said, coolly, hoping to cover her embarrassment. “Please, take a seat.”
Parkinson looked around at the empty space in front of Hermione’s desk and the small sofa in the opposite corner of the office, a little smirk on her face. She was still slightly pink and wearing her uniform – she’d obviously come straight from whatever training exercise she’d been on that morning. Hermione’s face flamed as Parkinson flounced over to the corner and spread out, long legs stretching the length of the tiny sofa. “Fancy office, Granger. It’s going to be a bitch to yell the plans across the room at you but I’m sure we’ll manage.”
Hermione just barely resisted the urge to thump her head on the very inviting hard surface of her desk. “I’m sure we can work comfortably separately and share our ideas later,” she said, in as professional a tone as she could manage when positive that her cheeks were darker than a plum.
Parkinson sat up with a raised brow, and crossed her legs pointedly. Even in heavy Aurors’ boots, she managed to make it look elegant. “There’s room for two over here,” she said, with a lazy gesture that seemed to imply she was queen of all she surveyed.
This is my office, Hermione wanted to say. “Of course, Auror Parkinson,” was all that made its way out of her mouth, however, and she reluctantly moved over to the sofa with the list she’d already started. She sat awkwardly on the far end and tried not to think about how close Parkinson’s incredibly practically clad knees were to her own.
It was still odd to see Parkinson in red, even after all these years. The Aurors’ uniform had been modified when Harry had taken charge of the department but they’d kept the trademark robes. Underneath, recruits and veterans alike wore sturdy black shirts and muggle cargo trousers with what Hermione (whose job required her to look professional, intimidating, and feminine – read: if she wasn’t showing some leg the old lechers on the Wizengamot looked right through her and made Minister Shacklebolt’s life far more difficult) thought must be a very satisfying number of pockets. Parkinson still kept her hair in the sharp bob she’d favoured back at Hogwarts, but Hermione thought it suited her much better now. She had completed her look with a slash of dangerous red lipstick, which Hermione was definitely not noticing, stop it –
“I started with some decoration ideas.” She thrust the parchment at Parkinson abruptly.
Parkinson took the list with what seemed like exaggerated care, dark eyes flashing as she skimmed it. Then Hermione watched in horror as Parkinson raised an eyebrow, screwed the parchment into a ball, and launched it across the office and neatly into Hermione’s waste paper basket.
“I –! Parkinson!” Hermione shrieked. She wasn’t impressed at Parkinson’s aim. Not even slightly.
Parkinson chuckled, red lips curving into that damned smirk again. “Calm your tits, Granger,” she drawled. “We need a theme before we get hung up on décor.”
Hermione blinked. “A… theme?”
“Of course. Every good party has a theme. I’m sure you and I can figure something out if we put our heads together.” Parkinson sat forward on the sofa, looking… surprisingly non-combative.
Hermione did not think about putting her head near Parkinson’s. At all. “…Okay,” she squeaked, looking at Parkinson’s boots and despising herself entirely for the darkening of her cheeks. “What did you have in mind?”
Clearly, Parkinson had already thought about this, and the minister obviously thought they should work together. Hermione took a breath, held it, and released it, counting the way her ministry therapist had taught her. Parkinson was here to do her job. So was Hermione. There was no reason Hermione couldn’t ‘calm her tits’ (and, honestly, what had Parkinson been doing these last few years to come out with that phrase?) and have a productive meeting. Hermione summoned a clipboard, a quill, and a fresh piece of parchment with a silent handwave – one of the few pieces of wandless magic she could do almost by instinct – and rested the clipboard on her legs, poised to take notes.
After a moment, Hermione realised that Parkinson hadn’t started talking. She looked up to find Parkinson sitting very still, dark eyes fixed on her hands and red lips parted as though she had forgotten what she was about to say. “Er… are you alright?”
Parkinson’s lips quirked in what might almost have been a genuine smile. “Oh, I’m fabulous,” she said, leaning forward to tap the clipboard authoritatively. She had painted her nails the same red as her lipstick and Auror robes. “Nondenominational,” she said. “We’ve had an influx of Muslim, Christian, and Jewish employees since the Equality Act was introduced, and we don’t want to alienate anyone with a Christmas theme.”
Hermione nodded, feeling oddly off-balance at Parkinson’s consideration for others’ beliefs, and wrote ‘Nondenominational’ in her fanciest handwriting at the top of the page. Parkinson smirked like she knew Hermione had just done that to impress her. “What else?” Hermione asked, determined not to spend the entire meeting blushing.
“Snow,” said Parkinson, firmly. “Lots and lots of snow.”
“Is snow a theme?”
Parkinson grinned. She had a shockingly pretty smile. “Nope. But I love snow, and I’m in charge – I mean, we’re in charge of organising this whole thing, so snow I shall have.”
Hermione rolled her eyes, a smile tugging unwillingly at the corner of her mouth. ‘Snow’ she wrote, and underlined it with a challenging look at Parkinson. Parkinson grinned again. “Alright,” said Hermione, letting her shoulders relax a little. “What else?”
“It wasn’t so bad in the end,” Hermione told Harry later, over dinner. “She was sort of… nice. It was strange.”
Harry rolled his eyes. “Pansy’s nice, in her own way. You just haven’t talked to her enough.”
“I haven’t talked to her at all since Hogwarts, Harry.”
Harry blinked, and choked a little on his mashed potato. “Y- you haven’t?”
Hermione sighed. “No, I hadn’t. Until today. And… she’s changed.”
“She’s… pretty much the same as she always was, Hermione,” Harry said slowly. “We just didn’t know her back then.”
“Well, forgive me for not wanting to get to know someone who tried to hand you over to Voldemort!” Hermione scowled, hating how her voice got shrill when she was upset.
Harry groaned. “It wasn’t like that Hermione,” he said, holding up a placating hand. “I told you ages ago that we’d talked about it.”
“Yes, and you didn’t tell us anything else! What am I supposed to think of her if I don’t know why she did it? It’s all very well for you, working with her every day and knowing all her secrets but I don’t, and I haven’t spoken to her in eight years and she’s all… ugh, competent and Auror-y now and –” she broke off, hand to her mouth in shock.
Harry was grinning. “Hermione has a cru-ush,” he sang, delightedly.
Hermione scowled, and stabbed at her peas. “Do not,” she grumbled.
Hermione’s meetings with Pansy Parkinson became the highlight of her week. There was something deeply fulfilling to Hermione about making lists and exchanging ideas and mutually bemoaning the need to make everything as bland as possible so as not to set Minister Shacklebolt off on another “everyone is welcome at the new ministry” lecture (honestly, as though anyone would care if there was a Christmas tree, or a yule log, or a little Krishna statue).
They would sit together on Hermione’s tiny office sofa, to which she had sensibly added a low coffee table, and Parkinson would use it to put her feet up while she reeled off lists of suppliers for decorations, for servers, for equipment, for charms experts, all apparently from memory. Hermione would write it all down, and wonder why she was part of this process when it was clear that Pansy Parkinson didn’t need her help.
Their meetings would run into lunch hours, where they’d visit the ministry cafeteria together and Pansy would make her laugh with work stories about Harry. Once the planning had been completed and everything was out of their hands (Pansy’s hands, really, even if Hermione’s signature was on all the forms), Pansy started turning up in the afternoons, bringing her paperwork, and they’d work quietly side by side at Hermione’s desk until it was time to go home.
They didn’t even talk about the holiday party those times. Hermione wondered if she should bring it up, but one look at the challenging little smirk Pansy always wore when Hermione thought about doing so quelled any wish to break the détente. She wasn’t sure she’d like the answer, so it seemed safer not to ask.
They talked about other things instead. Hermione’s research into technomagic with Ron and George. Pansy’s annoying Auror partner. How much they both hated Professor Snape and thought Harry was bonkers for insisting his portrait was hung with the other Heads of Hogwarts in McGonagall’s office.
“It’s not like he has to be there with it all day, listening to it spew bitterness everywhere all the time,” Pansy grumbled at her latest incident report. “It’s not fair on McGonagall, she doesn’t deserve that level of poison.”
Hermione gaped. “…You hate McGonagall,” she said, after a moment.
Pansy blinked and looked up from her parchment, clearly surprised. “What? No I don’t – she’s the one who helped me with… everything,” she waved a hand, as though that explained what on earth ‘everything’ was, “after the whole… you know.”
Hermione did know. She folded her lips on a question and asked something else instead. “McGonagall helped you?”
“So much,” Pansy said, shrugging. “I couldn’t have got my NEWTs without her.”
“…I suppose I can see why you wouldn’t want her being harassed by Professor Snape’s portrait all day, then,” she said eventually.
Pansy chuckled, tension in every line of her body. “I can’t believe you still call him ‘Professor’,” she said.
Hermione liked to think of herself as a kind person, so she allowed the subject change. “I might not have liked him, but he was a brilliant man,” she defended.
“Brilliant and a twat,” said Pansy, under her breath. Her shoulders relaxed a little as she returned to her incident report, and Hermione didn’t bring up the end of the war again.
The thing was, Hermione liked Pansy. She was pretty, and clever, and a complete smartarse. She looked incredible in Aurors’ robes. She had memorised all sorts of information, and would grace Hermione with little factoids that spurred her on to read her reference books again to find out more. Hermione hadn’t touched her Encyclopaedia Magica for years, and now she was reading a little every night. It was… lovely. And she looked at Hermione, sometimes.
Hermione was fairly sure she wasn’t imagining it. Pansy looked at her hands, when Hermione did the little wandless magic she knew (and alright, yes, Hermione was showing off, so sue her), and her braids when Hermione wore them long and started tugging on them in agitation every time they disagreed (often). More than that, though, Pansy always watched her face. Even when it looked like she wasn’t paying attention, Pansy was… attuned to her. And that was distressingly lovely.
So, Hermione really liked Pansy.
And there were only three days until the Ministry Holiday Gala. Minister Shacklebolt had taken a look at Hermione’s calendar several months ago and bargained with her that she did not have to take any days off she didn’t wish to as long as she took a full holiday from tomorrow until after Christmas, so Hermione would not have another opportunity to… well…
The Ministry Holiday Gala was in three days, and Hermione didn’t have a date.
She didn’t need a date, of course. Hermione Granger was a strong, independent witch who was perfectly capable of attending a party on her own. But…
But screw your courage to the sticking-place, and we’ll not fail, Hermione told herself, as the day drew to an end and Pansy began packing up her work to go. She tried not to think about the fact that Macbeth was a tragedy.
Pansy was already in the lift with the doors closing when Hermione finally unstuck her tongue from the roof of her mouth. “Um, Pansy?”
Pansy stuck her hand between the doors, bouncing them open again. “Ow,” she said, reproachfully. “This had better be good, Granger.”
“Um. I… hope so? Um. Would you – would you like to attend the Ministry Gala with me? As – as my date?” Hermione could feel her cheeks burning and fought the urge to tug at a stray braid.
Pansy’s hand fell from the lift doors in shock. She gaped at Hermione for a moment, apparently too surprised to speak.
Hermione began to babble. “It’s fine if you don’t want to – I know I’ve sort of sprung this on you and I don’t even know if you like women and I –”
“I do!” Pansy interrupted, eyes wide. Her expression was unusually open. “I, er, do like women.”
Hermione felt a smile start to spread across her face.
“I… sort of already have a date, though,” Pansy added, looking strangely remorseful.
Hermione’s smile froze and became brittle, but it didn’t fall. She wouldn’t let it. “Oh!” she said, with forced cheer. “Oh, well then, never mind.” She thanked all the gods in creation when the lift door began to close again on Pansy’s frozen form, and turned away to tidy her desk.
“It’s not – Hermione, I –”
Pansy couldn’t seem to make up her mind how to let her down gently, so Hermione did it for her. “It’s fine, Pansy, I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable,” she said, looking up in time to see the lift doors closing on an oddly still Pansy Parkinson. “Have a good holiday!”
Hermione waved with determined (though perhaps slightly manic) casualness, and slumped into her chair as the lift left. “Well,” she said to her empty in-tray. “Well.”
Hermione allowed herself a single day to self-flagellate over making a fool of herself and then went shopping. She was not usually a shopping kind of person, but she was determined not to attend the ministry gala looking like she was a damsel suffering a broken heart.
Ginny was incredibly helpful, even if she did grumble about being dragged out of Harry’s bed before eleven o’clock on a Thursday.
(“Honestly, how do you two stay up so late – no, don’t tell me! Ginny! Noooooo!”)
It was deeply embarrassing to have to confess to Ginny that she had a crush on Pansy Parkinson. It was even more embarrassing to admit that she needed to look so hot that Pansy would regret turning her down. Ginny had cackled on and off for an hour, in between dresses.
In the end, they decided on a loose, bold yellow dress that Ginny insisted worked wonderfully with her skin tone and had a delightfully floaty skirt that made Hermione feel like a princess. “It’s not very wintery, though,” she said, doubtfully.
“Oh, who cares?” Ginny scoffed. “No one, that’s who.”
Hermione very maturely responded by sticking out her tongue, and Ginny laughed.
“You should do your hair all natural,” Ginny said, when they were heading back to Harry’s.
“Like back at school?” Hermione rolled her eyes. “I looked a fright.”
“You didn’t know how to take care of it back then, or where to go,” Ginny argued. “It’d look great with that dress.”
“I’ll think about it,” Hermione said.
And she did. She’d had her braids since she was twenty, and she’d walked into a black hair studio quite by chance. Her parents had tried their best, but they’d had no connections in the black community and the internet hadn’t been an option back then. The wixen world had charms and potions, but nothing that was really designed for people with hair like Hermione’s. She had just resigned herself to frizzy hair for her whole life. Stumbling into a place where her hair type was normal, where they had products specifically designed to help her, and knew how to take care of her hair… it had been revelatory. Hermione had kept her hair braided ever since (barring monthly appointments). It made her feel neat, and controlled, and powerful.
Ginny always knew what looked good, though…
After hanging the yellow dress carefully in her wardrobe, Hermione made an emergency appointment at her hairdresser for the day of the gala.
Hermione arrived early, of course. Not painfully early, she assured Ron later, just… before everyone else. The gala was being held in a muggle conference centre that Pansy had just known about the way she knew all sorts of things one wouldn’t expect a pureblood witch to know. They’d decided on a muggle theme for the party – partly in an effort to reign in the majority of the Drunk in Charge write-ups the on-duty Aurors would be obligated to hand out to anyone using their wand inappropriately, and partly because Pansy had thought it was funny to insist a wixen party décor company come up with something entirely muggle. She’d very solemnly told the pompous lead planner that the integrity of the theme was extremely important, and that all decorations had to be a) non-magical and b) set up non-magically.
Hermione stood in a corner to watch the caterers set up the buffet tables by magic and the decorators eye the conjured tablecloths and ever-lit candles with affronted envy as they used blu-tack to attach crudely cut paper snowflakes to the windows. It was soothing, watching the room come together.
Later, once the obvious signs of magic from the caterers had been hidden (“No, Barnaby, the candle flames cannot have a morphing charm on them.”), the DJ Pansy had suggested arrived. Hermione greeted him politely, and just as politely retreated to her corner as soon as the first tinny notes of ‘Wonderful Christmastime’ sounded. The music was going to be appalling, and Hermione just knew this was Pansy’s idea of a joke. What happened to nondenominational?
Minister Shacklebolt was the first to arrive after Hermione, of course. He was gracious to the DJ, who had no idea who he was and humoured him, and the catering staff, who did and fell over themselves to get him a glass of champagne. Hermione hovered with the minister for a while as others trickled in, until she spotted Harry and Ron enter in matching muggle suits.
Harry looked mostly comfortable, if a little stiff. Ron, however, kept tugging at his suit jacket and looking confused that it didn’t sweep behind him when he walked. “My arse feels exposed,” he muttered, when he kissed her cheek in greeting.
Hermione rolled her eyes. “It’s no different to when you wear jeans, Ron, which you do every day.”
“Still,” he said, tugging on the bottom of the jacket again. “You look nice, by the way. Very… fierce.”
Hermione touched her hair a little self-consciously. She did look fierce tonight. She’d gone for bright, bold makeup to compliment the sunny yellow of her dress and the soft halo of her hair. Her shoes were comfortable low heels that allowed her to move around whilst still maintaining the crack of authority when she walked with purpose. As she always did. “Thanks, Ron. Your suit’s lovely.”
Ron shrugged. “Ginny,” he said, in explanation. “Said if she wasn’t going to be able to come she wanted to make sure Harry’s date matched him alright.”
“And she did wonderfully,” Hermione said supportively. “Where is Harry, anyway?”
“Oh… somewhere.” Ron waved a hand towards the growing crowd unhelpfully. “He had to go shake some hands.”
“Honestly,” Hermione huffed. “He works here, you’d think they’d all be used to him by now.”
“But Hermione, he’s the Choooooosen Oooooone.” Ron waved his arms dramatically and Hermione couldn’t help but laugh.
They hovered at the edge of the dance floor for a while as the party got started, people bobbing awkwardly to ‘Last Christmas’ and wearing muggle clothing that ranged from ‘acceptable holiday party wear’ to ‘has this person even seen a muggle in their life? wear’. Ron’s dad was very enthusiastically flashing the light-up nose on his ugly Rudolph jumper at anyone who would stand still for long enough.
“So, you and Parkinson, huh?”
“She turned me down,” Hermione sighed, grabbing a glass of bubbly to nurse. “I thought – but. I suppose not.”
“I dunno, Hermione.” Ron was looking across the dance floor at something, and Hermione surreptitiously followed his gaze. “She looks pretty into you.”
Pansy was definitely staring, her dark eyes oddly luminous in the harsh muggle lighting. She was wearing dark blue lipstick to match her dark blue dress.
I’ve never seen her in blue before. Hermione cleared her throat, which was suddenly very dry, as Pansy started towards her. “Ron, could you…?” She downed her champagne.
Ron, hero that he was, exchanged her empty glass for a full one without comment, and greeted Pansy with a genial smile. “Hey, Parkinson, how are things?”
Pansy returned Ron’s smile with a wink. Her eyes were lined in silver. “Excruciatingly awkward, thank you, Weasley.” She took Hermione’s arm and began to tug her away. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all, Parkinson.” Ron grinned, ignored Hermione’s wounded look, and wandered off to rescue Harry from a gaggle of giggling DMAC employees.
“Pansy –”
“Come on, Granger, I want to introduce you to my date.”
“Oh, I – er…” Hermione followed the pull on her arm mostly because she was determined not to make a scene. Pansy was dragging her towards one of the side tables, where someone was sitting with their head bent over a large book.
A very small someone in a very pink dress.
The girl – who couldn’t have been more than nine or ten years old – had long dark hair, with a single box braid springing from her right temple. When she looked up from her book, her eyes were large and black and sly, just like Pansy’s. She beamed at Pansy. “You found her!”
Hermione felt like the wind had been knocked out of her. Oh.
For once, Pansy was the one who seemed nervous. “I did. Peony, meet Hermione Granger. Hermione, this is my little sister Peony.”
Peony Parkinson set aside her book (Ancient Runes Made Easy, the textbook they’d used in her third year, Hermione noted absently) and stood primly in front of Hermione. Her dress really was a violent shade of pink. “It’s very nice to meet you, Madam Granger,” said Peony, offering her hand enthusiastically. “I’m Peony Parkinson.”
Hermione caught the quirk of Pansy’s lip from the corner of her eye and decided not to comment on the new title. She shook Peony’s hand. “A pleasure to meet you, too, Miss Parkinson,” she said. Then, realising the silence could become very awkward if she didn’t continue the conversation, she lied, “I like your dress.”
“Thanks!” said Peony, brightly. “You’re just as pretty as Pansy said! I wanted to get braids to be like you but Pansy said it was app- ap-”
“Appropriative,” Pansy offered, smiling.
“Yes, that!” said Peony. “So I just got one for testing and I’m glad now because you don’t have any!”
Hermione was a little taken aback, but she said, “Well, your hair is very nice the way it is.”
“So’s yours!” Peony said cheerfully. “Do you know lots of Runes? Will you teach me? I’m going to be an adventurer like you and Mr Weasley and – Harry!” she broke off with a shriek.
Harry approached with an easy smile that made Hermione feel like a bumbling idiot. He gathered the little girl up and bore her off to the dance floor (the DJ was now playing Slade for the fifth time, and Hermione prayed for mercy), leaving Hermione and Pansy alone.
“Thank goodness for Harry,” Pansy muttered. “God, I’ve been dreading that all evening.”
“Introducing your sister to people?”
“Introducing you to Peony Parkinson: Hermione Granger’s biggest fan.” Pansy sighed. “She blackmailed me three weeks ago. Said it was all she wanted for Christmas. Ugh, what a rotter.”
Hermione covered her mouth to hide her smile. “She seemed fine. Perfectly happy to run off with Harry at a moment’s notice.”
“That’s because Harry lets her wear his Auror badge. Trust me, if it weren’t for that badge you’d be here answering Runes questions all night.” Pansy shrugged.
Hermione saw Harry twirl Peony to the sound of Noddy Holder yelling “It’s Chriiiiiiiiiiiistmaaaaaaaaaaaaas!” and, sure enough, Harry’s Auror badge was pinned to Peony’s hideous dress.
Before the silence could get awkward, Pansy said, abruptly, “Peony’s a squib. I’m all she’s got. I didn’t tell you about her because I don’t tell people I fancy that I have a kid sister at home.” Pansy shrugged again, a wry twist to her lips. “It tends to kill any interest dead.”
Hermione swallowed. Well. That explained a lot. “She’s why you tried to give Harry up at the Battle of Hogwarts?”
“That, and I was an idiot,” Pansy said wryly. “My parents were dead, Peony was in the care of a house elf in the Hogwarts kitchens, and Harry was standing between me and our freedom.” She shrugged. “Well, Voldemort was, but he did a damned good job of spinning it otherwise.”
Feeling rather Gryffindor for the first time that night, Hermione reached out and took Pansy’s hand, gently running her thumb over delicate fingers. Pansy had even matched her nail polish to her dark blue colour scheme. She looked like a slice of night sky, all sparkle and velvet. “I… don’t date,” Hermione said, quietly. “And I’m not good with children.”
Pansy stiffened almost imperceptibly. “It’s alright, Hermione, you don’t have to let me down easy.” She tried to slide her hand out of Hermione’s, but Hermione tightened her grip.
“No, I mean –” Hermione took a deep breath. She looked Pansy straight in the eyes. “I don’t date and I’m not good with children. But I’d like to… try. With you. If you’d like.”
Pansy’s smile was tentative and lovely, spreading across her face like the slightest hint of dawn. “Peony will be ecstatic. You’re her hero.”
Hermione continued to hold Pansy’s hand. “I’d like to live up to that,” she said.
The DJ put on ‘Happy Xmas (War is Over)’ and Pansy groaned even as Peony’s shriek of delight pierced the air. “I’m going to kill Greg,” she muttered. “My one veto, and he ignored it.” She glared across the room at the DJ.
Wait… Greg? Hermione squinted at the DJ. “Goyle is the DJ? Gregory Goyle?” She felt a little ashamed for not recognising him.
Pansy smirked as she made a rude gesture in Goyle’s direction. “Mm hmm. He got into it a couple of years ago. Makes a fortune on muggle kids’ parties. I got a discount.”
Hermione laughed as the song changed mid-lyric to ‘Jingle Bell Rock’ and Goyle-the-DJ hid behind a nearby potted plant. “Want to dance?”
“Nah, I’m terrible. Want to read Peony’s book and point out all the mistakes?” Pansy shoved Ancient Runes Made Easy across the table towards her.
Hermione smiled, tugging Pansy closer so that they could both heckle the text. “Happy Christmas to me.”