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Chapter Seven
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“Zabini?”
“Yes! Blaise Zabini is after Ginny because he wants to resurrect Voldemort!”
“But Harry, Voldemort can’t be resurrected. You made sure of that.”
“I know that, you know that, but Zabini doesn’t know that!”
“Harry. I will have my team search for Zabini, because it’s possible that he’s after her, but he’s not trying to resurrect anyone.”
“Yes, he is! He either wants to bring Voldemort back to power, or wants to be the new Dark Lord himself.”
“Harry,” Hermione sighed exasperatedly. “Blaise Zabini was never a Death Eater. Why would he want –”
“That was probably a cover! He pretended to have nothing to do with Voldemort, because he was the one who actually worshipped him! Like Wormtail!”
Hermione didn’t know what to do when Harry was in his ‘I’m-onto-a-suspect-and-I’m-getting-all-these-brilliant-ideas-about-why-I’m-right-so-try-to-contradict-me’ mode. He had been like this when he suspected Draco Malfoy of being a Death Eater, and he had been right. Since then, there was no stopping him when he started homing in on a suspect. Hermione suspected that she had picked up her own extreme paranoid behavior from Harry.
“Okay, fine. But regardless of what Zabini’s up to, I think we should discuss how we’re going to work.”
“Work?”
“Yes, Harry: work. You know, that thing you do for a living?”
“What about it?”
“You can’t work until the beginning of next year, and I can’t work without you. By the time you come back to work, who knows what state Ginny will be in, and who knows how many more murders will have been committed!”
“Exactly my point! So I need to work. But how?”
“Volunteer to help Ron grade his students’ essays.”
“What?”
“We need Ron’s strategy. We need to know where this axe-murderer is going to strike next.”
Harry nodded. Ron may not exactly be happy with either of them at the moment, but a case this big needed the Trio. “Do you think it’s time to go on another illegal excursion under the old Invisibility Cloak?”
Hermione’s uncharacteristically mischievous grin was enough of an answer.
---
The soup was delicious, Ginny decided. Oliver’s Mum’s cooking was good enough to rival her own Mum’s.
Now, they were sitting on Oliver’s couch – closely, but not too closely, to each other – and watching replays of their last game against the Applebee Arrows. “There,” Oliver said, freezing the Tele-wiz and pointing at Ian O’Brien. “That was a brilliant move that threw the Arrows off, but they’re going to be expecting it next time. Instead of an actual barrel roll, I think we should feint it and score directly. Of course, this won’t work all the time…” Oliver jotted down some notes, then played the Tele-wiz again.
The last match with the Arrows had been successful, but that was when Joscelind Wadcock had been around. Ginny had also been playing, but the way things were going, she wouldn’t be playing again until the big Christmas Eve game – if her skills were up to par by then.
“And there’s the Bludger attack that knocked out the Arrows’ Seeker! Fleetwood – I’m not sure which one – said it was an accident, but they’ve been working on it, and have gotten it nearly perfected.”
Ginny liked the Fleetwood brothers, Matthew and Michael. They were a lot like Fred and George, seeing that they were twins, Beaters, and had a hilarious sense of humor.
“And there’s Wadcock and Weasley with their new passing maneuver. It worked brilliantly, it did. Weasley’s scoring technique is nothing short of fabulous! It has a certain finesse to it. And what a steal that was! It’s a shame our two best Chasers aren’t going to be playing for this game.”
Ginny found it endearing how when Oliver was absorbed with the replays, he started speaking about everyone in third person – including Ginny, who was sitting right next to him, and himself.
“Ugh,” he groaned. “That was a terrible miss for Wood. That man needs to work on his backflipping skills.”
After the replay was over, Oliver wrote down a few more ideas in his notebook, which was titled ‘Applebee Arrows’. The notebook was dedicated to everything about the Arrows – their strengths, weaknesses, players, Reserves, techniques, and anything else about them, including the fact that the Arrows’ Seeker was allergic to roses, so the Puddlemere fans should be encouraged to bring lots and lots of them to the game. Ginny thought that the notebook was fairly impressive, but Oliver had one for every team they’d ever played, and Ginny thought that was a bit too much. How was he ever going to find himself a girlfriend when he was so occupied with Quidditch that he didn’t even have time to notice the woman sitting next to him? Her hair was like a neon sign! How could he not notice a color that positively screamed, ‘Look at me! I’m two shades brighter than a Quaffle!’
“Ginny,” Oliver said suddenly. “Your hair is two shades brighter than a Quaffle.”
“Okay,” Ginny said, surprised.
Oliver sighed. “That wasn’t romantic at all, was it?”
“Romantic?” Ginny squeaked. Oliver was being romantic? Why? Romantic with her? Why? Ginny mentally cursed herself. She should have replied differently, more like ‘Okayyy’, with a seductive wink.
“You see, Ginny…” Oliver looked uncomfortable, and Ginny felt the same way. “Romance has never been my area of expertise. Sure, plenty of women like me, but I’ve never returned their feelings. But now, it’s different.”
“Different?” Ginny asked, her voice becoming squeakier.
“Yes. There’s this girl… She’s really bright and spirited, and excellent at Quidditch, and I’ve known her for a very long time. Of course, I’ve only thought of her as a friend, and sort of like a little sister…”
“Little sister?” Ginny repeated, in a very squeaky voice.
“Yeah. Except that lately, she keeps cropping up in my thoughts, and there’s nothing brotherly about them.” Oliver turned faintly pink.
Sweet Merlin, I feel the same way. Could Oliver…? Could he really? “I see,” she said, lowering her voice to a whisper before Oliver mistook her for a squeaky mouse.
“But you know me, Quidditch was my first love, and while learning Quidditch strategies, I never had the time to learn strategies on how to deal with women. And I was wondering if you could help me…”
“Help you?” Is this where I help you realize that you like me more than Quidditch?
“Yeah. How do you tell a woman, who considers you as nothing more than a friend, that you like her?”
You kiss her senseless and say, ‘Ginny, I love you.’ “Well,” Ginny began, trying to keep her heart from beating its way out of her ribcage. “You could start by taking her to a coffee shop.”
“Coffee shop. That seems safe enough. All right.” Oliver ran a nervous hand through his short brown hair. “Give me a few days. I need to – to plan this out. Unless you want to do the planning for me?”
“Er… It’s always better to have these kind of things come from your own heart.”
“My own heart. I see. And, er, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone about this. I don’t want the jealous women reporters writing all sorts of slander about this girl.”
Oliver was so thoughtful. Ginny thought she might melt. “No problem,” she managed to say.
“Thanks, Ginny,” said Oliver, his eyes shining unusually bright. “It’s getting late. You should go home, to the safety of your wards. Do you want to Floo, or should I walk you over?”
Walk me over? We won’t be walking over, because I’m about to faint and you’ll have to carry me, which will cause me to faint even more. “I’ll Floo. I really shouldn’t be walking about, even if it’s just across the street.”
“You’re right. Thanks for everything, Ginny. I’ll tell you when I get the, er, the date ready.” Oliver turned pinker, and looked so adorable that Ginny had to clasp her hands together behind her back to stop herself from pinching his cheeks. “Good night.”
“Good night,” Ginny choked out, and fled.
When Ginny burst out of her own fireplace, she collapsed onto her couch and squealed, long, loudly, and happily.
To Draco, the nervous wreck who had been considering calling the Missing Persons Department, it sounded like an anguished, painful scream. “Weasley!” he roared. “What happened? Who hurt you?”
He ran over to the couch and lifted Ginny into a sitting position. Whatever he was expecting from Ginny, it certainly wasn’t a giddy smile accompanied by dreamy eyes. Draco was truly alarmed. Somebody had hexed her brains out! Ginny had the same expression on her face that Pansy that once been caught with in her second year, when looking at Oliver Wood. “Weasley? What’s wrong?”
“Oliver!” she squealed, burying her face into a cushion and hugging it in a decidedly non-platonic way.
Draco couldn’t believe his ears. Ginny Weasley was not supposed to go all pudding-like for Oliver Wood. She was not supposed to be pulling a second-year Pansy on him! “What about him?” he snapped furiously.
“He asked me out on a date!”
A date? A date? He had been worrying about an axe-murderer attacking Ginny, when, for the whole time, she had been all safe and sound in the company of a good-for-nothing tree-man. “That’s great,” he said noncommittally, feigning indifference.
Ginny Weasley was getting a boyfriend, who wasn’t Harry Potter, thank Merlin, and that meant that he, Draco Malfoy, would get more time to himself while Ginny went out. Yes, he would have peace and quiet, and would have the entire flat all to himself, and there would be no Ginny Weasley around to bother him. And it was a good thing that she had a man to keep her occupied, because if there weren’t, she would come after his strikingly good looks, and Merlin knew that he did not want a freckle-faced tomboy Weasley falling in love with him. Certainly not. Nope. Never.
“Weasley,” Draco spat, “mauling that cushion in such a barbaric way will do nothing to help your shoulder heal. How thoughtless of you. Now, could you please remove yourself from that couch, so I could get some sleep?”
“Good night, Malfoy!” Ginny chirped, and practically skipped off to her room, leaving the poor cushion at Draco’s mercy.
---
When Harry and Hermione, under the old invisibility cloak, slipped into Ron’s quarters at Hogwarts, the last thing they expected to see was Ron flat against the wall, with Pansy Parkinson in front of him, waving two wands in front of his face.
When Harry and Hermione confirmed that it was indeed Pansy who they were seeing in Ron’s quarters, the last thing they expected to hear was Pansy screaming, “Nobody toys with my heart!” She looked mad enough to spit nails, and Ron was looking absolutely bewildered, not to mention quite a bit scared.
“Look, Parkinson –”
“Parkinson? Parkinson? Whatever happened to Pansy? It’s a pretty name, so why don’t you use it?” she demanded.
“Er, Pansy, look. Whatever we had between us, if we had anything between us, ended with your incarceration.”
Pansy looked outraged. Harry and Hermione gripped their wands just in case.
Azkaban had been good for Pansy. No longer was Azkaban guarded by Dementors; they had all been recruited into Voldemort’s army, and were all destroyed during the war. Azkaban was still cold, certainly, but nobody had to put up with the eerie cold of the Dementors that froze out all happiness. Azkaban were now guarded by human Aurors, who treated the prisoners like humans too – Hermione had made sure of this. After the war, she had protested outside Percy’s office until he passed the Granger Act of P.U.K.E.: The Prisoners’ Union for Keeping Equality.
However, Pansy was looking so much better now than the last time they had seen her that Harry was wondering just how well Azkaban treated its prisoners. Her hair was impeccably cut into a shiny, jet-black bob. Had Azkaban hired a hairdresser without his knowledge? She wasn’t stick-skinny, like normal prisoners were, but instead sported a healthy body that was toned in a way that required exercise – the kind that you couldn’t do in a prison cell. Was the Azkaban Gym going to become the latest diet trend?
Harry shot Hermione an inquisitive look, and was rewarded by an extremely guilty expression. “Perhaps I went too far?” she whispered, gesturing at Pansy’s perfect hair.
Harry would have rolled his eyes, but the scene before him was much too interesting to miss. Pansy was brandishing a collection of letters and screaming, “Our relationship began with my incarceration! Didn’t these letters mean anything to you?”
“Parkin – er, Pansy, I don’t know what you’re talking about! I never wrote them! I don’t remember ever corresponding with you after the war!”
“How can you say that? Just yesterday, you said you were happy that I was being freed! You said you loved me!”
“I never –”
“Is it because I’m ugly now? Is it because prison made me the hag I am today?”
“Actually, Park – Pansy, you look better now than you did before. You look healthier, and your face is much less pug-ish.”
“So you’re saying I look like a pug?” Pansy cried. “You only loved me through the letters because you didn’t have to see my face? How can you do this to me? You’re not my Ronniekins anymore!”
Ron looked appalled. “Ronniekins? Of course I’m not your Ronniekins! Only my brothers – wait,” Ron paused, comprehension dawning on his face. “Parkinson, what did these letters say? Did you get any sort of packages with them? Like, say, from Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes?”
“Oh, is that it?” Pansy huffed. “You sent me all these letters, telling me that you loved me, just so I would agree to testing out your brothers’ products on the other prisoners?”
Hermione could not hold back an angry gasp, but no one heard her except Harry.
Ron looked furious. “Parkinson. Listen to me. My brothers played a trick on you. And on me! A really dirty one, too. I knew they would get me back for telling Mum about that one experiment… Ooh, I’m going to have Hermione attack them for violating P.U.K.E., but they deserve it! Er, listen, Parkinson, I didn’t write these letters, Fred and George did. So go profess your love for them. Did you really think I would sign all my letters with the name Ronniekins?”
Pansy looked like she had been hit in the stomach with a Bludger. “Fred and George? Your stupid brothers toyed with my heart to test out a few silly products?” Pansy looked uncharacteristically broken, and Ron was suddenly looking very sorry for himself, and perhaps for Pansy too. “I see,” she said dully. “It appears that I’ve made a mistake. So you don’t love me. That’s okay, not many people do. I’m used to it,” she muttered, half to herself. She snatched up the letters and her cloak, and made for the door.
“Wait,” Ron called out. “I, er, I’m sorry for what my brothers did. I never – I never would have played with your feelings like that. And I’d still like to – to – oh hell, I’d like to thank you. For helping us in the war. I told the Wizengamot, you know, and that’s why they reduced your sentence from lifetime to seven years. None of my strategies would have worked without your information, so I’d really like to thank you.” Ron spoke to the floor, scratching the back of his head sheepishly.
“She helped us?” Harry whispered to Hermione.
“I didn’t know this,” Hermione snapped back, sounding very miffed.
Pansy’s expression seemed to soften. The fact that her face could soften was very startling to Harry. “And I’d like to thank you for sparing my life in the Third Battle.” She held up her chin a little bit higher. “I never thank people, so consider yourself special.” She gave Ron a small half-smirk, tossed him his wand, and left.
Before Ron had any time to collect his thoughts, Harry and Hermione threw off the cloak and bombarded him with questions.
“She helped us?”
“You saved her?”
“How did this happen?”
“And you said I was fraternizing with the enemy!”
“Why’d you save her?”
“You do realize that you were still going out with me at the time? So you kept this entire thing a secret from me? I was your girlfriend, and you just went about saving an enemy in distress, exchanging information with her? What else were you exchanging with her?”
“Hermione!” Harry and Ron exclaimed at the same time.
“Is this why you broke up with me? I saw it – that shy, soft look that you were just giving Parkinson. You used to save that look for me,” Hermione said, her voice wavering the tiniest bit.
“No, Hermione,” Ron defended. “I swear, there was nothing – nothing – between me and Pansy – I mean Parkinson.”
“I never did understand your excuse for breaking up with me. But our relationship really wasn’t the same after the war. Was it thrilling, working in secret with the enemy? After Parkinson, was I boring to you?”
“Hermione, this isn’t like you,” Harry said cautiously. “You – you guys broke up because of – of me…”
“Which was absolute rubbish for an excuse,” Hermione snapped. “The only thing I ever did with you was to do my job with my Auror partner. And Ron had to go make up something about the photo-developing room resembling the Hogwarts broom closet.”
“It did, you know. Except for the red light, and the lack of brooms, and all the photo-developing stuff,” said Harry, rather unhelpfully.
“That completely trashed my reputation! Did you know the impact of your false rumors, Ronald Weasley? Everyone looked at me like I was some sort of scarlet woman!”
“When they found out we were going to be married, it was all right,” Harry began consolingly, then stopped. “Wait a minute, here. Reputation?”
Hermione’s anger seemed to fizzle out a bit, as she cast Harry a wary glance. “Er, that is, Harry –”
“You married me to save your reputation?”
“…”
“Hermione,” Harry said, his voice dangerously low. “We almost had to cancel the wedding because you wouldn’t stop crying. I thought it was wedding-day nerves, since your Mum was crying with you, but the two of you were crying for different reasons. Am I right? I’m right, aren’t I?”
“No, Harry! Harry, I love you, and you know this!”
“Now you do,” Harry snapped. “How could you not? You were my first real family. I’ve given you everything I could. I loved you like no one else I’ve ever loved before. And all this time, your marriage to me was only by name. It was only to save your bloody reputation.”
“Harry!” Hermione cried, but it was too late. Harry turned and stormed out of the room, disappearing under his Invisibility Cloak.
---
Harry pulled off his Cloak and roughly shoved it into his pocket. He knew Hermione would probably look for him in the Three Broomsticks, so he went to the Hog’s Head instead.
The Hog’s Head was not the best of places. War-torn witches and wizards came here to wallow in their misery. Some had lost their entire families and their homes in the war. Others had been injured beyond repair. Even after seven years of peace, the horrors of the war never left the faces of the Hog’s Head visitors. That was why Harry avoided this place as much as possible. But this was a different circumstance.
He nodded politely at the people who gave him sad smiles, happy that he had won the war for the Light, but sad at what the war had given them – or rather, taken away from them. Harry sat at a dark corner of the pub and ordered a bottle of Firewhisky.
He was halfway through the bottle when someone joined him at his table. “Parkinson.”
“Potter,” Pansy replied. Her voice was still hostile, but had lost most of its venom – or maybe she was just drunk.
“What do you want?”
Pansy snorted. “What do I want? Ronald Weasley. Well, actually, the Ron who I thought I was in love with, but it turned out to be some joke.” She laughed bitterly, mostly at herself, wondering why she was admitting her broken heart to Harry Potter, of all people.
Harry was interested, despite himself. “I heard rumors that you and Ron were somehow involved during the war. I don’t think – er, er, Hermione is very happy with that.” ‘Hermione’ was, at the moment, a very difficult name for him to mention.
“She’s married to you now, isn’t she? The great Hermione Potter, Britain’s best Auror. She incarcerated my entire family, you know. They’re all in Azkaban for life. I was spared, by Ron. But I don’t think it really means anything anymore.”
“So you were involved?”
“No,” she replied shortly.
Harry, being an Auror, hated monosyllabic answers. “Care to elaborate?”
“After a few shots of Firewhisky.”
After a full bottle of Firewhisky, Harry finally got Pansy to tell her story. “What happened was that I was a stupid coward,” she said, trying not to slur her words. “After I became a Death Eater, I liked torturing Muggles, but I never did my actual duties until the Third Battle. I was having tea with my Mother and Bellatrix at the Lestrange Estate, when the Order attacked. Bellatrix made me fight.” Pansy paused for another swig of the golden-red liquid. “I ended up being cornered by Ron – no, Weasley. He’s just Weasley now. He disarmed me, and there I was, Death Eater duties be damned, on my knees, begging for my life.” She frowned heavily, and drank two shots of Firewhisky before continuing, “He said he would spare my life if I gave him Death Eater information. I gave him everything I knew, and amazingly, he kept his word. A Death Eater would have killed as soon as the information was given.”
Harry nodded grimly. He knew the story of Colin Creevey, who had been tortured for information. He only knew a little, so not much harm was done, but as soon as he stopped speaking, he was dead.
“Then, of course,” Pansy went on, “I, being the cunning Slytherin that I am, Disapparated before he could take me to Azkaban. Stupid noble Gryffindor, he didn’t even expect me to do such a thing,” she scoffed. “I fought again at the Fourth Battle, and the Fifth. Both times, I found Weasley, and fought with him. Or at least, I pretended to. I gave him more information. I don’t know why I did it, and I still don’t. But he formed his strategies around what I told him, and when Granger – no, she’s Potter now – arrested me after the Final Battle, it was that information that reduced my sentence.”
“That was it?”
“Pretty much. Then the letters started to come, about two years after my incarceration. At first, I was suspicious, but I was strangely happy, so I wrote back, and we continued this for five years.” Pansy stopped and started drinking directly out of the bottle. “Then it turns out to be a joke!” she cried. “His stupid brothers made it up so they could use me to test their products on the prisoners. I just came back from their shop. I destroyed half of it!” she declared proudly.
“I’m going to have to arrest you for that,” Harry said, half-amused and half-serious.
“Whatever,” Pansy said, waving a manicured hand.
Azkaban also has a nail shop? Harry thought disbelievingly. He would have to visit the place for himself, and see all the damages that P.U.K.E. had done.
“Well, I found out that their business was flourishing, thanks to me. And guess what else I found out?” Pansy was now slurring very heavily, and her hazel eyes were almost glazed over. “The person writing those letters back to me was their teenaged part-time worker!” she exclaimed, screwing up her face like a real pug. “The stupid little boy was writing sappy love letters to me as practice for when he found a girlfriend! He thought it was funny!” Pansy suddenly burst into tears, and Harry was flabbergasted.
“Er,” he began, entirely unsure of how to deal with bawling ex-enemies. “Parkinson? Parkinson?”
Pansy, apparently having drunk too much, collapsed sideways onto Harry’s chest. Looking down at her tear-streaked face, which was slightly pug-like, yet endearing in its own right, Harry thought the feeling he was getting was uncomfortably similar to what he had felt when Hermione sobbed into his chest after being dumped by Ron. What was it that he had for women who cried because of other men? There was Cho, who had cried because of Cedric, Ginny, who had cried because of Tom Riddle, Hermione, and now Pansy too? If this was Voldemort’s twisted way of getting revenge on him from the afterlife, he was going to pay dearly – as soon as Harry Potter became the Man-Who-Died-Because-His-Wife-Caught-Him-Looking-At-Another-Woman.
Speaking of his wife, hadn’t she just confessed that she married him only to save her reputation? This meant that until some recent time, when she learned to love him back, she had been pining for Ron. Harry believed himself to be a nice guy, but even the nicest guys did not like it when their wife was pining for another man – especially if that man was their best friend.
Harry decided that he had two choices: he could sit, drink, and brood, then go back to Hermione, or mysteriously disappear and have Hermione come to him. The second option sounded more appealing. Pansy was an interesting woman, but he was a married man, who, despite everything, still loved his wife. He would take Pansy home then wait for Hermione to come find him.
“Look, Parkinson, you need to go home – wait…” Harry’s brain sparked off another impulsive idea. If he mysteriously disappeared, and Pansy disappeared too, wouldn’t Hermione suspect that they were together? Then wouldn’t her jealousy of Pansy cause her to realize just how much she loved him? And Pansy really seemed to like Ron. If he could make friends with Pansy during their disappearance, he could set her up with Ron, and he would be happy with Hermione, while Ron would be happy with Pansy. It was a great plan, in theory.
Feeling a lot more cheerful, Harry grabbed Pansy around the waist and Disapparated with a pop.
---
Oliver had said that the coffee-shop date would be in the afternoon. Ginny wasn’t sure what his definition of ‘afternoon’ was, but her definition was definitely not seven o’clock in the evening.
Ginny was unhappily doing her shoulder exercises when there was a terrible explosion that knocked down her door. Her heart stopped for a moment, and she feared that the axe-murderer was back.
“Expelliarmus!” Draco roared, and snatched the thin wand out of the air. He was about to stun the intruder, when he changed his mind, and decided to stop and stare instead.
Ginny stared too, paused almost comically in mid-shoulder rotation.
A very haggard-looking Hermione traipsed in, and collapsed into the nearest kitchen chair. Her hair was bushier than ever – it could have been used as packing material for fragile objects. Her clothes were dirty, her face smudged with ash and soot, and she looked like she had run around all of England, twice.
“Hermione?” Ginny asked carefully. “What happened?”
“I – I ran around Eng – England. Twice!” she exclaimed, then started to sob.
“Hermione?” Ginny said in alarm.
“Always knew she was a nutter, that one,” muttered Draco.
Ginny sent him a death glare, then turned back to Hermione. “Hermione, what’s wrong?”
It was very hard to hear Hermione from between her sobs, but Ginny managed to pick up words like Ron, Pansy, jealous, mistake, Harry, confession, love, missing, three days.
“What?”
“Allow me to translate,” Draco said haughtily. “Potter here is so emotionally upset that she is positively broadcasting her thoughts loud and clear for any Legilimens to pick up. Apparently, your brother was in the company of Pansy Parkinson, and they were discussing their past relationship –”
“Relationship? My brother and who?”
“Pansy Parkinson,” Draco replied matter-of-factly. “And Potter here got jealous, and, interesting… What a love triangle, or should I say, parallelogram, this will be. Anyway, Potter got jealous and told the truth of why she became Mrs. Potter, and now the other Potter is furious, and he’s been missing for three days. I say, Potter,” Draco continued, turning to Hermione. “If you’re running around England looking for Potter, who’s looking for Zabini and other potential axe-murderers? That Philby kid can’t handle this on his own.”
“Philby?” Hermione asked, stopping in mid-sob to gape at Draco with wide eyes. “I sent him out on an assignment regarding Zabini. He said if he isn’t back within two days, I should be worried. It’s been three. He’s not back yet…”
---
To be continued…
---
Chapter Seven
---
“Zabini?”
“Yes! Blaise Zabini is after Ginny because he wants to resurrect Voldemort!”
“But Harry, Voldemort can’t be resurrected. You made sure of that.”
“I know that, you know that, but Zabini doesn’t know that!”
“Harry. I will have my team search for Zabini, because it’s possible that he’s after her, but he’s not trying to resurrect anyone.”
“Yes, he is! He either wants to bring Voldemort back to power, or wants to be the new Dark Lord himself.”
“Harry,” Hermione sighed exasperatedly. “Blaise Zabini was never a Death Eater. Why would he want –”
“That was probably a cover! He pretended to have nothing to do with Voldemort, because he was the one who actually worshipped him! Like Wormtail!”
Hermione didn’t know what to do when Harry was in his ‘I’m-onto-a-suspect-and-I’m-getting-all-these-brilliant-ideas-about-why-I’m-right-so-try-to-contradict-me’ mode. He had been like this when he suspected Draco Malfoy of being a Death Eater, and he had been right. Since then, there was no stopping him when he started homing in on a suspect. Hermione suspected that she had picked up her own extreme paranoid behavior from Harry.
“Okay, fine. But regardless of what Zabini’s up to, I think we should discuss how we’re going to work.”
“Work?”
“Yes, Harry: work. You know, that thing you do for a living?”
“What about it?”
“You can’t work until the beginning of next year, and I can’t work without you. By the time you come back to work, who knows what state Ginny will be in, and who knows how many more murders will have been committed!”
“Exactly my point! So I need to work. But how?”
“Volunteer to help Ron grade his students’ essays.”
“What?”
“We need Ron’s strategy. We need to know where this axe-murderer is going to strike next.”
Harry nodded. Ron may not exactly be happy with either of them at the moment, but a case this big needed the Trio. “Do you think it’s time to go on another illegal excursion under the old Invisibility Cloak?”
Hermione’s uncharacteristically mischievous grin was enough of an answer.
---
The soup was delicious, Ginny decided. Oliver’s Mum’s cooking was good enough to rival her own Mum’s.
Now, they were sitting on Oliver’s couch – closely, but not too closely, to each other – and watching replays of their last game against the Applebee Arrows. “There,” Oliver said, freezing the Tele-wiz and pointing at Ian O’Brien. “That was a brilliant move that threw the Arrows off, but they’re going to be expecting it next time. Instead of an actual barrel roll, I think we should feint it and score directly. Of course, this won’t work all the time…” Oliver jotted down some notes, then played the Tele-wiz again.
The last match with the Arrows had been successful, but that was when Joscelind Wadcock had been around. Ginny had also been playing, but the way things were going, she wouldn’t be playing again until the big Christmas Eve game – if her skills were up to par by then.
“And there’s the Bludger attack that knocked out the Arrows’ Seeker! Fleetwood – I’m not sure which one – said it was an accident, but they’ve been working on it, and have gotten it nearly perfected.”
Ginny liked the Fleetwood brothers, Matthew and Michael. They were a lot like Fred and George, seeing that they were twins, Beaters, and had a hilarious sense of humor.
“And there’s Wadcock and Weasley with their new passing maneuver. It worked brilliantly, it did. Weasley’s scoring technique is nothing short of fabulous! It has a certain finesse to it. And what a steal that was! It’s a shame our two best Chasers aren’t going to be playing for this game.”
Ginny found it endearing how when Oliver was absorbed with the replays, he started speaking about everyone in third person – including Ginny, who was sitting right next to him, and himself.
“Ugh,” he groaned. “That was a terrible miss for Wood. That man needs to work on his backflipping skills.”
After the replay was over, Oliver wrote down a few more ideas in his notebook, which was titled ‘Applebee Arrows’. The notebook was dedicated to everything about the Arrows – their strengths, weaknesses, players, Reserves, techniques, and anything else about them, including the fact that the Arrows’ Seeker was allergic to roses, so the Puddlemere fans should be encouraged to bring lots and lots of them to the game. Ginny thought that the notebook was fairly impressive, but Oliver had one for every team they’d ever played, and Ginny thought that was a bit too much. How was he ever going to find himself a girlfriend when he was so occupied with Quidditch that he didn’t even have time to notice the woman sitting next to him? Her hair was like a neon sign! How could he not notice a color that positively screamed, ‘Look at me! I’m two shades brighter than a Quaffle!’
“Ginny,” Oliver said suddenly. “Your hair is two shades brighter than a Quaffle.”
“Okay,” Ginny said, surprised.
Oliver sighed. “That wasn’t romantic at all, was it?”
“Romantic?” Ginny squeaked. Oliver was being romantic? Why? Romantic with her? Why? Ginny mentally cursed herself. She should have replied differently, more like ‘Okayyy’, with a seductive wink.
“You see, Ginny…” Oliver looked uncomfortable, and Ginny felt the same way. “Romance has never been my area of expertise. Sure, plenty of women like me, but I’ve never returned their feelings. But now, it’s different.”
“Different?” Ginny asked, her voice becoming squeakier.
“Yes. There’s this girl… She’s really bright and spirited, and excellent at Quidditch, and I’ve known her for a very long time. Of course, I’ve only thought of her as a friend, and sort of like a little sister…”
“Little sister?” Ginny repeated, in a very squeaky voice.
“Yeah. Except that lately, she keeps cropping up in my thoughts, and there’s nothing brotherly about them.” Oliver turned faintly pink.
Sweet Merlin, I feel the same way. Could Oliver…? Could he really? “I see,” she said, lowering her voice to a whisper before Oliver mistook her for a squeaky mouse.
“But you know me, Quidditch was my first love, and while learning Quidditch strategies, I never had the time to learn strategies on how to deal with women. And I was wondering if you could help me…”
“Help you?” Is this where I help you realize that you like me more than Quidditch?
“Yeah. How do you tell a woman, who considers you as nothing more than a friend, that you like her?”
You kiss her senseless and say, ‘Ginny, I love you.’ “Well,” Ginny began, trying to keep her heart from beating its way out of her ribcage. “You could start by taking her to a coffee shop.”
“Coffee shop. That seems safe enough. All right.” Oliver ran a nervous hand through his short brown hair. “Give me a few days. I need to – to plan this out. Unless you want to do the planning for me?”
“Er… It’s always better to have these kind of things come from your own heart.”
“My own heart. I see. And, er, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone about this. I don’t want the jealous women reporters writing all sorts of slander about this girl.”
Oliver was so thoughtful. Ginny thought she might melt. “No problem,” she managed to say.
“Thanks, Ginny,” said Oliver, his eyes shining unusually bright. “It’s getting late. You should go home, to the safety of your wards. Do you want to Floo, or should I walk you over?”
Walk me over? We won’t be walking over, because I’m about to faint and you’ll have to carry me, which will cause me to faint even more. “I’ll Floo. I really shouldn’t be walking about, even if it’s just across the street.”
“You’re right. Thanks for everything, Ginny. I’ll tell you when I get the, er, the date ready.” Oliver turned pinker, and looked so adorable that Ginny had to clasp her hands together behind her back to stop herself from pinching his cheeks. “Good night.”
“Good night,” Ginny choked out, and fled.
When Ginny burst out of her own fireplace, she collapsed onto her couch and squealed, long, loudly, and happily.
To Draco, the nervous wreck who had been considering calling the Missing Persons Department, it sounded like an anguished, painful scream. “Weasley!” he roared. “What happened? Who hurt you?”
He ran over to the couch and lifted Ginny into a sitting position. Whatever he was expecting from Ginny, it certainly wasn’t a giddy smile accompanied by dreamy eyes. Draco was truly alarmed. Somebody had hexed her brains out! Ginny had the same expression on her face that Pansy that once been caught with in her second year, when looking at Oliver Wood. “Weasley? What’s wrong?”
“Oliver!” she squealed, burying her face into a cushion and hugging it in a decidedly non-platonic way.
Draco couldn’t believe his ears. Ginny Weasley was not supposed to go all pudding-like for Oliver Wood. She was not supposed to be pulling a second-year Pansy on him! “What about him?” he snapped furiously.
“He asked me out on a date!”
A date? A date? He had been worrying about an axe-murderer attacking Ginny, when, for the whole time, she had been all safe and sound in the company of a good-for-nothing tree-man. “That’s great,” he said noncommittally, feigning indifference.
Ginny Weasley was getting a boyfriend, who wasn’t Harry Potter, thank Merlin, and that meant that he, Draco Malfoy, would get more time to himself while Ginny went out. Yes, he would have peace and quiet, and would have the entire flat all to himself, and there would be no Ginny Weasley around to bother him. And it was a good thing that she had a man to keep her occupied, because if there weren’t, she would come after his strikingly good looks, and Merlin knew that he did not want a freckle-faced tomboy Weasley falling in love with him. Certainly not. Nope. Never.
“Weasley,” Draco spat, “mauling that cushion in such a barbaric way will do nothing to help your shoulder heal. How thoughtless of you. Now, could you please remove yourself from that couch, so I could get some sleep?”
“Good night, Malfoy!” Ginny chirped, and practically skipped off to her room, leaving the poor cushion at Draco’s mercy.
---
When Harry and Hermione, under the old invisibility cloak, slipped into Ron’s quarters at Hogwarts, the last thing they expected to see was Ron flat against the wall, with Pansy Parkinson in front of him, waving two wands in front of his face.
When Harry and Hermione confirmed that it was indeed Pansy who they were seeing in Ron’s quarters, the last thing they expected to hear was Pansy screaming, “Nobody toys with my heart!” She looked mad enough to spit nails, and Ron was looking absolutely bewildered, not to mention quite a bit scared.
“Look, Parkinson –”
“Parkinson? Parkinson? Whatever happened to Pansy? It’s a pretty name, so why don’t you use it?” she demanded.
“Er, Pansy, look. Whatever we had between us, if we had anything between us, ended with your incarceration.”
Pansy looked outraged. Harry and Hermione gripped their wands just in case.
Azkaban had been good for Pansy. No longer was Azkaban guarded by Dementors; they had all been recruited into Voldemort’s army, and were all destroyed during the war. Azkaban was still cold, certainly, but nobody had to put up with the eerie cold of the Dementors that froze out all happiness. Azkaban were now guarded by human Aurors, who treated the prisoners like humans too – Hermione had made sure of this. After the war, she had protested outside Percy’s office until he passed the Granger Act of P.U.K.E.: The Prisoners’ Union for Keeping Equality.
However, Pansy was looking so much better now than the last time they had seen her that Harry was wondering just how well Azkaban treated its prisoners. Her hair was impeccably cut into a shiny, jet-black bob. Had Azkaban hired a hairdresser without his knowledge? She wasn’t stick-skinny, like normal prisoners were, but instead sported a healthy body that was toned in a way that required exercise – the kind that you couldn’t do in a prison cell. Was the Azkaban Gym going to become the latest diet trend?
Harry shot Hermione an inquisitive look, and was rewarded by an extremely guilty expression. “Perhaps I went too far?” she whispered, gesturing at Pansy’s perfect hair.
Harry would have rolled his eyes, but the scene before him was much too interesting to miss. Pansy was brandishing a collection of letters and screaming, “Our relationship began with my incarceration! Didn’t these letters mean anything to you?”
“Parkin – er, Pansy, I don’t know what you’re talking about! I never wrote them! I don’t remember ever corresponding with you after the war!”
“How can you say that? Just yesterday, you said you were happy that I was being freed! You said you loved me!”
“I never –”
“Is it because I’m ugly now? Is it because prison made me the hag I am today?”
“Actually, Park – Pansy, you look better now than you did before. You look healthier, and your face is much less pug-ish.”
“So you’re saying I look like a pug?” Pansy cried. “You only loved me through the letters because you didn’t have to see my face? How can you do this to me? You’re not my Ronniekins anymore!”
Ron looked appalled. “Ronniekins? Of course I’m not your Ronniekins! Only my brothers – wait,” Ron paused, comprehension dawning on his face. “Parkinson, what did these letters say? Did you get any sort of packages with them? Like, say, from Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes?”
“Oh, is that it?” Pansy huffed. “You sent me all these letters, telling me that you loved me, just so I would agree to testing out your brothers’ products on the other prisoners?”
Hermione could not hold back an angry gasp, but no one heard her except Harry.
Ron looked furious. “Parkinson. Listen to me. My brothers played a trick on you. And on me! A really dirty one, too. I knew they would get me back for telling Mum about that one experiment… Ooh, I’m going to have Hermione attack them for violating P.U.K.E., but they deserve it! Er, listen, Parkinson, I didn’t write these letters, Fred and George did. So go profess your love for them. Did you really think I would sign all my letters with the name Ronniekins?”
Pansy looked like she had been hit in the stomach with a Bludger. “Fred and George? Your stupid brothers toyed with my heart to test out a few silly products?” Pansy looked uncharacteristically broken, and Ron was suddenly looking very sorry for himself, and perhaps for Pansy too. “I see,” she said dully. “It appears that I’ve made a mistake. So you don’t love me. That’s okay, not many people do. I’m used to it,” she muttered, half to herself. She snatched up the letters and her cloak, and made for the door.
“Wait,” Ron called out. “I, er, I’m sorry for what my brothers did. I never – I never would have played with your feelings like that. And I’d still like to – to – oh hell, I’d like to thank you. For helping us in the war. I told the Wizengamot, you know, and that’s why they reduced your sentence from lifetime to seven years. None of my strategies would have worked without your information, so I’d really like to thank you.” Ron spoke to the floor, scratching the back of his head sheepishly.
“She helped us?” Harry whispered to Hermione.
“I didn’t know this,” Hermione snapped back, sounding very miffed.
Pansy’s expression seemed to soften. The fact that her face could soften was very startling to Harry. “And I’d like to thank you for sparing my life in the Third Battle.” She held up her chin a little bit higher. “I never thank people, so consider yourself special.” She gave Ron a small half-smirk, tossed him his wand, and left.
Before Ron had any time to collect his thoughts, Harry and Hermione threw off the cloak and bombarded him with questions.
“She helped us?”
“You saved her?”
“How did this happen?”
“And you said I was fraternizing with the enemy!”
“Why’d you save her?”
“You do realize that you were still going out with me at the time? So you kept this entire thing a secret from me? I was your girlfriend, and you just went about saving an enemy in distress, exchanging information with her? What else were you exchanging with her?”
“Hermione!” Harry and Ron exclaimed at the same time.
“Is this why you broke up with me? I saw it – that shy, soft look that you were just giving Parkinson. You used to save that look for me,” Hermione said, her voice wavering the tiniest bit.
“No, Hermione,” Ron defended. “I swear, there was nothing – nothing – between me and Pansy – I mean Parkinson.”
“I never did understand your excuse for breaking up with me. But our relationship really wasn’t the same after the war. Was it thrilling, working in secret with the enemy? After Parkinson, was I boring to you?”
“Hermione, this isn’t like you,” Harry said cautiously. “You – you guys broke up because of – of me…”
“Which was absolute rubbish for an excuse,” Hermione snapped. “The only thing I ever did with you was to do my job with my Auror partner. And Ron had to go make up something about the photo-developing room resembling the Hogwarts broom closet.”
“It did, you know. Except for the red light, and the lack of brooms, and all the photo-developing stuff,” said Harry, rather unhelpfully.
“That completely trashed my reputation! Did you know the impact of your false rumors, Ronald Weasley? Everyone looked at me like I was some sort of scarlet woman!”
“When they found out we were going to be married, it was all right,” Harry began consolingly, then stopped. “Wait a minute, here. Reputation?”
Hermione’s anger seemed to fizzle out a bit, as she cast Harry a wary glance. “Er, that is, Harry –”
“You married me to save your reputation?”
“…”
“Hermione,” Harry said, his voice dangerously low. “We almost had to cancel the wedding because you wouldn’t stop crying. I thought it was wedding-day nerves, since your Mum was crying with you, but the two of you were crying for different reasons. Am I right? I’m right, aren’t I?”
“No, Harry! Harry, I love you, and you know this!”
“Now you do,” Harry snapped. “How could you not? You were my first real family. I’ve given you everything I could. I loved you like no one else I’ve ever loved before. And all this time, your marriage to me was only by name. It was only to save your bloody reputation.”
“Harry!” Hermione cried, but it was too late. Harry turned and stormed out of the room, disappearing under his Invisibility Cloak.
---
Harry pulled off his Cloak and roughly shoved it into his pocket. He knew Hermione would probably look for him in the Three Broomsticks, so he went to the Hog’s Head instead.
The Hog’s Head was not the best of places. War-torn witches and wizards came here to wallow in their misery. Some had lost their entire families and their homes in the war. Others had been injured beyond repair. Even after seven years of peace, the horrors of the war never left the faces of the Hog’s Head visitors. That was why Harry avoided this place as much as possible. But this was a different circumstance.
He nodded politely at the people who gave him sad smiles, happy that he had won the war for the Light, but sad at what the war had given them – or rather, taken away from them. Harry sat at a dark corner of the pub and ordered a bottle of Firewhisky.
He was halfway through the bottle when someone joined him at his table. “Parkinson.”
“Potter,” Pansy replied. Her voice was still hostile, but had lost most of its venom – or maybe she was just drunk.
“What do you want?”
Pansy snorted. “What do I want? Ronald Weasley. Well, actually, the Ron who I thought I was in love with, but it turned out to be some joke.” She laughed bitterly, mostly at herself, wondering why she was admitting her broken heart to Harry Potter, of all people.
Harry was interested, despite himself. “I heard rumors that you and Ron were somehow involved during the war. I don’t think – er, er, Hermione is very happy with that.” ‘Hermione’ was, at the moment, a very difficult name for him to mention.
“She’s married to you now, isn’t she? The great Hermione Potter, Britain’s best Auror. She incarcerated my entire family, you know. They’re all in Azkaban for life. I was spared, by Ron. But I don’t think it really means anything anymore.”
“So you were involved?”
“No,” she replied shortly.
Harry, being an Auror, hated monosyllabic answers. “Care to elaborate?”
“After a few shots of Firewhisky.”
After a full bottle of Firewhisky, Harry finally got Pansy to tell her story. “What happened was that I was a stupid coward,” she said, trying not to slur her words. “After I became a Death Eater, I liked torturing Muggles, but I never did my actual duties until the Third Battle. I was having tea with my Mother and Bellatrix at the Lestrange Estate, when the Order attacked. Bellatrix made me fight.” Pansy paused for another swig of the golden-red liquid. “I ended up being cornered by Ron – no, Weasley. He’s just Weasley now. He disarmed me, and there I was, Death Eater duties be damned, on my knees, begging for my life.” She frowned heavily, and drank two shots of Firewhisky before continuing, “He said he would spare my life if I gave him Death Eater information. I gave him everything I knew, and amazingly, he kept his word. A Death Eater would have killed as soon as the information was given.”
Harry nodded grimly. He knew the story of Colin Creevey, who had been tortured for information. He only knew a little, so not much harm was done, but as soon as he stopped speaking, he was dead.
“Then, of course,” Pansy went on, “I, being the cunning Slytherin that I am, Disapparated before he could take me to Azkaban. Stupid noble Gryffindor, he didn’t even expect me to do such a thing,” she scoffed. “I fought again at the Fourth Battle, and the Fifth. Both times, I found Weasley, and fought with him. Or at least, I pretended to. I gave him more information. I don’t know why I did it, and I still don’t. But he formed his strategies around what I told him, and when Granger – no, she’s Potter now – arrested me after the Final Battle, it was that information that reduced my sentence.”
“That was it?”
“Pretty much. Then the letters started to come, about two years after my incarceration. At first, I was suspicious, but I was strangely happy, so I wrote back, and we continued this for five years.” Pansy stopped and started drinking directly out of the bottle. “Then it turns out to be a joke!” she cried. “His stupid brothers made it up so they could use me to test their products on the prisoners. I just came back from their shop. I destroyed half of it!” she declared proudly.
“I’m going to have to arrest you for that,” Harry said, half-amused and half-serious.
“Whatever,” Pansy said, waving a manicured hand.
Azkaban also has a nail shop? Harry thought disbelievingly. He would have to visit the place for himself, and see all the damages that P.U.K.E. had done.
“Well, I found out that their business was flourishing, thanks to me. And guess what else I found out?” Pansy was now slurring very heavily, and her hazel eyes were almost glazed over. “The person writing those letters back to me was their teenaged part-time worker!” she exclaimed, screwing up her face like a real pug. “The stupid little boy was writing sappy love letters to me as practice for when he found a girlfriend! He thought it was funny!” Pansy suddenly burst into tears, and Harry was flabbergasted.
“Er,” he began, entirely unsure of how to deal with bawling ex-enemies. “Parkinson? Parkinson?”
Pansy, apparently having drunk too much, collapsed sideways onto Harry’s chest. Looking down at her tear-streaked face, which was slightly pug-like, yet endearing in its own right, Harry thought the feeling he was getting was uncomfortably similar to what he had felt when Hermione sobbed into his chest after being dumped by Ron. What was it that he had for women who cried because of other men? There was Cho, who had cried because of Cedric, Ginny, who had cried because of Tom Riddle, Hermione, and now Pansy too? If this was Voldemort’s twisted way of getting revenge on him from the afterlife, he was going to pay dearly – as soon as Harry Potter became the Man-Who-Died-Because-His-Wife-Caught-Him-Looking-At-Another-Woman.
Speaking of his wife, hadn’t she just confessed that she married him only to save her reputation? This meant that until some recent time, when she learned to love him back, she had been pining for Ron. Harry believed himself to be a nice guy, but even the nicest guys did not like it when their wife was pining for another man – especially if that man was their best friend.
Harry decided that he had two choices: he could sit, drink, and brood, then go back to Hermione, or mysteriously disappear and have Hermione come to him. The second option sounded more appealing. Pansy was an interesting woman, but he was a married man, who, despite everything, still loved his wife. He would take Pansy home then wait for Hermione to come find him.
“Look, Parkinson, you need to go home – wait…” Harry’s brain sparked off another impulsive idea. If he mysteriously disappeared, and Pansy disappeared too, wouldn’t Hermione suspect that they were together? Then wouldn’t her jealousy of Pansy cause her to realize just how much she loved him? And Pansy really seemed to like Ron. If he could make friends with Pansy during their disappearance, he could set her up with Ron, and he would be happy with Hermione, while Ron would be happy with Pansy. It was a great plan, in theory.
Feeling a lot more cheerful, Harry grabbed Pansy around the waist and Disapparated with a pop.
---
Oliver had said that the coffee-shop date would be in the afternoon. Ginny wasn’t sure what his definition of ‘afternoon’ was, but her definition was definitely not seven o’clock in the evening.
Ginny was unhappily doing her shoulder exercises when there was a terrible explosion that knocked down her door. Her heart stopped for a moment, and she feared that the axe-murderer was back.
“Expelliarmus!” Draco roared, and snatched the thin wand out of the air. He was about to stun the intruder, when he changed his mind, and decided to stop and stare instead.
Ginny stared too, paused almost comically in mid-shoulder rotation.
A very haggard-looking Hermione traipsed in, and collapsed into the nearest kitchen chair. Her hair was bushier than ever – it could have been used as packing material for fragile objects. Her clothes were dirty, her face smudged with ash and soot, and she looked like she had run around all of England, twice.
“Hermione?” Ginny asked carefully. “What happened?”
“I – I ran around Eng – England. Twice!” she exclaimed, then started to sob.
“Hermione?” Ginny said in alarm.
“Always knew she was a nutter, that one,” muttered Draco.
Ginny sent him a death glare, then turned back to Hermione. “Hermione, what’s wrong?”
It was very hard to hear Hermione from between her sobs, but Ginny managed to pick up words like Ron, Pansy, jealous, mistake, Harry, confession, love, missing, three days.
“What?”
“Allow me to translate,” Draco said haughtily. “Potter here is so emotionally upset that she is positively broadcasting her thoughts loud and clear for any Legilimens to pick up. Apparently, your brother was in the company of Pansy Parkinson, and they were discussing their past relationship –”
“Relationship? My brother and who?”
“Pansy Parkinson,” Draco replied matter-of-factly. “And Potter here got jealous, and, interesting… What a love triangle, or should I say, parallelogram, this will be. Anyway, Potter got jealous and told the truth of why she became Mrs. Potter, and now the other Potter is furious, and he’s been missing for three days. I say, Potter,” Draco continued, turning to Hermione. “If you’re running around England looking for Potter, who’s looking for Zabini and other potential axe-murderers? That Philby kid can’t handle this on his own.”
“Philby?” Hermione asked, stopping in mid-sob to gape at Draco with wide eyes. “I sent him out on an assignment regarding Zabini. He said if he isn’t back within two days, I should be worried. It’s been three. He’s not back yet…”
---
To be continued…
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Author notes: A/N: This chapter hasn’t had much D/G interaction, but I promise that the next chapter will!
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