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Once upon a time, Pansy Parkinson was a cruel, impulsive, and quite frankly overdramatic teenage girl. (After all, ‘But he’s there! Potter’s there! Someone grab him!’ were not exactly the words of a calm, collected individual). And while she had grown up, lost the mean streak, and toned down the overdramatics (well, mostly), she had never really gotten rid of the impulsivity.
It was this fact that Harry was contemplating, as he stood in the middle of a St Mungo’s waiting room, at exactly 3:10 pm on a warm August afternoon—meaning, exactly 10 minutes past when the appointment was supposed to have started.
“Mr. Potter,” the receptionist, a short blonde woman, said severely, “let me remind you that we do not tolerate lateness. If you are late to your appointment, then the Healer would have to be late for their next appointment, which would cause a domino effect for all the….”
A sign directly above the desk read, LATENESS PAST 15 MINUTES WILL NOT BE ACCEPTED. NO EXCEPTIONS! The ‘No Exceptions’ portion had been underlined twice, in two different colors of ink.
“…and then the—“
“—yes, yes, I understand,” Harry interrupted. “We know about the late policy.”
The receptionist eyed him. “I hope you do.”
People in the Wizarding World generally fell into three categories, when it came the whole ‘Savior of the Wizarding World’ thing. The first was those who acted like Colin Creevey had at first, and fawned and gushed and generally made things uncomfortable for everyone. The second, and largest category, were those who were perhaps overly friendly and familiar, but after fifteen minutes or so, generally went back to being their normal selves. The final category was those who disliked celebrities on principle, and went out of their way to make it clear that he was not going to get any special treatment.
This receptionist, of course, belonged to that last category.
Not for the first time, Harry wished that she didn’t. It wasn’t that he wanted any of special treatment—more that he wished that she didn’t act like he and Pansy were the biggest idiots she had ever had the displeasure of meeting. (Though perhaps to be slightly more fair to the woman, they had been late to every single appointment they’d ever had here.)
Turning away, he found his mobile—magically enhanced phones were one of the many things that had changed, after the war.
Pansy picked up on the third ring. “Harry!” she said, breathlessly, “I was just going to call—“
“—because you’re almost here?” Harry said, hopefully.
An ominous silence. “Almost where?”
Harry almost groaned. “The appointment. At the clinic.”
“Oh, the appointment. Right. Of course. I remembered that.”
He closed his eyes briefly. “You forgot, didn’t you?”
“Well, you’re there, right?” Pansy asked, not quite answering. “So you can just…you can just…“
“Pansy. It’s a prenatal appointment. It’s for you. What the fuck am I going to do?”
“Well, just tell them—tell them that I’ll be there soon! And that I’m sorry.”
Harry eyed the receptionist, who was certainly not going to take ‘soon’ as an excuse. “What does ‘soon’ mean? Where are you?”
“Well, you remember how I had my interview with Georgina Hornbeam today, right?”
“Right,” Harry said. Of course he remembered The Interview. In fact, it was impossible to forget: Pansy had been preparing for it for weeks, ever since she had beaten out three other reporters to get it. Georgina Hornbeam was a famous, reclusive Dragonologist—even Charlie Weasley had been impressed, when he had heard about The Interview.
“Well, the interview went very well,” Pansy said, sounding like a cat that got the cream.
“That’s great,” he said faintly, already fearing the end of this sentence.
“All the preparation really paid off,” she continued, smugly. “And that idea that Charlie gave me, about asking about positive versus negative feedback training strategies—it was great. She really liked that question. I have to send him a thank-you note or—“
“Pansy,” Harry said, reaching the end of his patience. “Where are you?”
A beat. “I’m on Skye.”
“I’m sorry. I think I just hallucinated. Did you just say that you’re in Scotland?!”
“Well, yes—that’s where the dragon reserve is, you know. And because the interview went so well, she said at the end that I should just come along with her and see for myself and—“
How was it possible, Harry thought, with a hint of insanity, that a person who once was so afraid of physical danger that she tried to give him up to Voldemort was now waltzing around in a dragon reserve like it was nothing?
“—and obviously I just had to say yes, it’s such a good opportunity to get more details for the article, readers love that kind of stuff—“
Wait, he did remember. When they had first started dating, ages ago, she had asked how it was possible to not be afraid of things, and he had given a very earnest speech about ‘the only thing to fear is fear itself’, etc, etc.
He really should have thought that one through a little more.
“—like the way that they set-up the enclosures, that’s something that I never would—“
There was an enormous crashing sound in the background
“What was that?” Harry asked, anxiety spiking.
“Oh, nothing,” Pansy said, blithely. “I mean—“ someone else, muffled, in the background, “—she says that they’re fight—“
“—they’re fighting?”
Really, Harry thought, shouldn’t there be some sort of rule against women who were 30 weeks pregnant being on dragon reserves? Or maybe a law? He should talk to Hermione.
“—play fighting!” she said, over another crashing sound. “Like, you know—like crups.”
Scratch that. Hermione would get that look on her face and start saying things like ‘pregnant women aren’t invalids, Harry’ and ‘you can’t try to pass a law just because you can’t communicate with your wife’.
Of course he respected her autonomy. He just wished that her ‘autonomy’ might somehow confine her to a 5 kilometer radius around the offices of the Daily Prophet and their house. At least for the next 10 weeks.
“Pansy—“ Harry started, “do you really think that this is safe—“
“—Of course it’s safe!” Pansy said, like it was Opposite Day and she was the Gryffindor and he was the Slytherin and she hadn’t once accused him of being a ‘thrill-seeker with reckless tendencies’. “Don’t worry, Harry. There’s nothing to worry about.” She lowered her voice. “I mean, just think—we met them in the future! And Lily was fine. I was fine. So really—nothing to worry about.”
Harry almost groaned. He should have known.
After the getting over the strangeness, years ago, Pansy had taken to the idea of the future with a certainty that he did not quite share. Intellectually, time-travel being a loop and all, he understood that it was going to happen. But emotionally, he found it difficult to just trust that it would—it felt like jinxing things. Probably something to do with his unfortunate childhood that he should contemplate later.
She had also started referring to the baby as ‘Lily’ very, very early. (“You know we don’t have to name her ‘Lily’,” he had said, once; “Of course she’s Lily!” she had said, supremely offended, “How can you even say that?”)
“I just—I still don’t think that’s a reason to act like you’re invincible—“
“Of course I don’t think I’m invincible! I’m just saying you shouldn’t worry, that’s all.”
“Right,” he said, doing exactly the opposite.
“I’ll be there soon. Well. Soon-ish. I do have to make several floo connections. But I’ll be there—anywaybyeloveyou—!”
“—love you,“ he said, reflexively, but the air was already dead.
After a moment to contemplate the life choices that had led him to this moment, he moved back to the desk. The receptionist, who had certainly been trying to eavesdrop, eyed him. “So,” she asked, severely, “will your wife be joining us soon?”
“No,” Harry said, admitting his own defeat, “she won’t.”