Stay
Hermione’s hand shook as she brought the cup of black tea to her mouth. She was back in the city, in a coffee shop in Notting Hill that she had gotten breakfast at only a few days earlier.
She sipped the bitter liquid, letting the tang of tea leaves linger on her tongue. It helped her to focus on something, helped to soothe her nerves.
It was a weekday and the cafe was busy that morning, bustling with people coming in for takeaway coffee and a pastry for the road. Hermione watched the morning crowd from her table near the entrance, letting her eyes glaze over the stream of people, her mind drifting.
She snapped to attention when a familiar crop of black hair came across her vision.
“Fuck ,” she muttered underneath her breath, then tried her best to blend into the coffee shop background. She opened the book that she had brought with her and buried her face in it, hoping to go unnoticed.
To no avail. It seemed that her talent for becoming invisible was restricted to Godric’s Hollow classrooms and corridors.
“Granger?” Pansy called out from the line of people waiting to order, pushing her sunglasses back on her head and raising one immaculate eyebrow as she spotted Hermione’s hunched over figure.
Hermione heaved a sigh, cursing to herself, then lifted her head from her book and feigned surprise. “Oh! Hi Pansy.”
The girl, dressed in a black miniskirt, knee high boots, and a white t-shirt, strutted over to where Hermione was sitting. Hermione noted how weird it was to see her out of uniform.
Pansy crossed her arms and leaned on one hip, looking over Hermione. “Fancy seeing you here,” she said, her voice coated in irony. “What are you-” she started to say, then froze, her eyes widening as she got a better look at Hermione’s face.
“What,” she said slowly, “is that?”
Hermione hastily flipped her hair over her shoulder, trying to cover the left side of her face with her frizzy mane. She shrugged nonchalantly. “I, uh, tripped.”
Pansy’s eyes narrowed on Hermione’s cheekbone and the angry red welt that Hermione had tried and failed to cover up with makeup that morning.
“Okay, Granger,” she nodded, the way that someone does when they don’t believe a word of what you’re saying. “I was pretty honest with you, that time when you found me in the bathroom.”
Hermione pursed her lips, annoyed. She hadn’t expected to run into anyone that morning, had not prepared any plausible stories as to how she could have possibly attained the injury without revealing the truth.
They stared at each other, at a stalemate. The sounds of the coffee machine and the barista calling out orders filled the silence between them.
“Okay!” Pansy finally exclaimed. She dumped her heavy leather bag on the table and slumped down into the chair opposite Hermione, crossing one bare thigh over the other.
“Pansy, seriously–”
“What coffee do you drink? Actually nevermind, I’ll get both some tea,” she said, brushing off Hermione’s frustrated protests. Pansy turned around and signalled the waitstaff.
Hermione put her head in her hands and groaned internally while Pansy ordered a pot of Jasmine tea. She was dying for some alone time, some time to compose herself. And instead–
“I’m not going anywhere,” said Pansy, turning back around to face Hermione. She crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair. “Not until you tell me how you got that bruise on your face.”
“I told you,” said Hermione, enunciating her words. “I. Tripped.”
“No. You didn’t,” Pansy threw back, imitating Hermione’s tone. “You look awful, Granger, no offence.” She leaned forward confidentially. “Tell me what’s going on.”
Hermione stayed silent.
“It’ll help you feel better,” Pansy’s voice was low and sombre, her dark eyes wide and serious, all the irony and showmanship erased from her features. “I promise.”
Hermione heard the echo of her own words, said to Pansy all those weeks ago. For the first time Hermione appreciated the effort that it must have taken the girl to open up to her, a complete stranger, and the effort that she was making to repay the kindness now.
Hermione sighed and rubbed her eyes, making herself see stars so that she wouldn’t have to face the tenacious girl. “You’re forcing my hand here.”
“You’re familiar with that game, Granger.”
Hermione almost laughed.
“I-” she started, but then immediately clamped up. She sighed then tried again. “I don’t really…like coming home.” She toyed with her empty teacup. “It’s complicated.”
“Someone at home did this to you?” Pansy asked, incredulous.
“Not on purpose. It was an accident. But still, I…it’s weird,” she finished lamely. Pansy levelled her shrewd eyes on Hermione, chewing on her thoughts. Hermione fidgeted in her seat and gratefully jumped up when the pot of Jasmine tea arrived. She busied herself with pouring the cups, feeling as though she had just ripped open her chest and laid it bare for Pansy to examine.
“Did you get your paparazzi thing sorted out?” Hermione asked when she could no longer stand the glare of the interrogation light.
“Somewhat,” Pansy brushed her off. “But don’t worry about me, Granger.” She thought for a second longer. “You can stay with me, if you’d like. Our apartment is in-between tenants at the moment, so I’ve got the whole place to myself, for the break.”
“I’m alright, thank you. I’m staying at the Old Oak Inn”
“You’re staying where? Didn’t that place burn down a few years ago? That place is a dump, you cannot possibly-”
“Pansy,” Hermione said, a note of finality in her tone.
Pansy bit her cheek, mulling it over.
“Fine.”
~
When Hermione came down to the reception area the next morning to book her room for a few more days, the old lady handed her an envelope.
“What’s this?” Hermione asked, more to herself than to the woman. She knew by now that she’d be hard-pressed to get a word out from her.
She weighed the envelope in her hand – thick paper, with a crest on the right corner. She ripped it open.
Inside was a handwritten note, written on the same luxurious stationery as the envelope.
The room has been paid for for two weeks. Take it or leave it, it’s there for you to use.
She dug into the envelope and pulled out a hotel key.
No name or return address or anything to mark the sender, but she knew that hand, that delicate, aristocratic cursive. She had seen its owner take notes in that same script countless times in class; had been admiring it on the night of the last Astronomy lesson.
Malfoy.