Chapter Text

Chapter 1

The train ride back to Hogwarts had never felt so quiet. Even the rhythmic clatter of the wheels against the tracks seemed muffled, as though the train itself understood the solemnity of its passengers. Hermione sat alone in a compartment, her copy of Hogwarts: A History unopened on her lap. For once, the familiar words weren’t enough to distract her from the weight in her chest. Harry and Ron were already knee-deep in Auror training, and Ginny’s new duties as Head Girl had her flitting between compartments, ensuring order. Luna, meanwhile, had taken her role as Ravenclaw Prefect to heart, leaving Hermione to her thoughts. She couldn’t begrudge them—it suited them both—but their absence left her feeling lonelier than she’d expected.

And, of course, there was the small matter of the Prophet’s morning headline: “Hermione Granger: The Unsung Heroine of the Golden Trio?” It was the latest in a long line of dreadful puff pieces about the war from the Wizarding World’s Broadsheet of Choice. For weeks after the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry Potter had dominated the front pages of every newspaper and magazine the world over. But since her friend had no desire whatsoever to give interviews or write columns for the press, they had moved on to articles about his friends and allies.

Hermione had been asked four times this week alone to give an interview—about Harry, about her role in Voldemort's defeat, about Hogwarts, about her thoughts on the new Minister for Magic. She’d always known Harry hated the attention he got, but recently she’d gained an even deeper sympathy for her famous friend.

The train pulled into Hogsmeade Station, and as Hermione stepped off, the chaos she had been bracing for greeted her immediately. A swarm of photographers stood just beyond the magical barrier that separated Hogwarts grounds from the rest of the village, their cameras flashing incessantly. Hermione barely had time to register them before Ginny appeared at her side, her badge gleaming as brightly as her determined expression.

“Bloody animals,” Ginny muttered, grabbing the handle of her trunk and glaring at the photographers. “Just keep walking.”

“Right,” Hermione said, gripping her own trunk tighter and keeping her head down as the shouts began.

“Hermione! How does it feel to be back at Hogwarts?”
“Ginny! Any truth to the rumours that you and Harry Potter are officially a couple?”
“Miss Granger, what do you think of the new curriculum changes after the war?”

The questions kept coming, but Hermione and Ginny pushed through them without comment. By the time they reached the waiting carriages, Hermione felt the weight of the stares pressing down on her like a physical force. She climbed into one of the carriages with Ginny, grateful for the barrier of the Thestrals between them and the frenzy.

“I wish they’d stop,” Hermione sighed, sinking into the seat as the carriage began its journey up to the castle.

Ginny nodded her agreement. “The second I step outside of the wards at the Burrow, it’s like a feeding frenzy.” Her voice held an edge of exhaustion, but her tone quickly brightened. “But hey, it could be worse. At least they’re not allowed in here.”

“Thank Merlin for that,” Hermione muttered. The thought of photographers roaming the castle halls made her shudder.

The castle came into view, and Hermione felt her breath catch. It was still Hogwarts, still the place that had shaped her life in countless ways, but the scars of the battle were everywhere. Sections of the walls were covered in scaffolding, enchanted tools floating in mid-air as they worked to restore the damage. The sight was both comforting and jarring—a reminder of resilience, but also of how much had been lost.

Hermione and Ginny entered the Great Hall together, the familiar hum of student chatter mingling with the rustling of robes and the clinking of goblets. The enchanted ceiling reflected a crisp, clear night sky, and the tables were arranged as they always had been, though the student body was noticeably smaller.

They took their seats at the Gryffindor table, where a few younger students were already whispering and pointing. Hermione could feel their eyes on her, but she focused on the Sorting Hat perched on its stool. The Sorting Ceremony was about to begin, and she welcomed the distraction.

“Do you think they'll ever pack it in?” Ginny asked quietly, nodding toward the distant flashes of cameras that could still be seen from the windows of the Great Hall.

“Maybe they'll get sick of us by Christmas,” Hermione replied, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I can't imagine what it’s like for the boys going into the Ministry every day.”

Ginny let out a dry laugh. "Harry threatened to curse a journalist who followed him into the bathroom last week. I’d love to have seen the guy’s face when Harry drew his wand and backed him into a cubicle."

Hermione couldn’t suppress a grin. “That sounds exactly like Harry.”

“It was brilliant,” Ginny said fondly. “Though I’m pretty sure Kingsley gave him an earful for it. Told him the Auror trainees were supposed to maintain some level of decorum.”

“Harry, Ron, Neville, and decorum,” Hermione murmured with a smile. “There’s a combination.”

The Sorting began, and Hermione allowed herself to get lost in the familiar rhythm of names and houses being called. She applauded politely as each new Gryffindor joined the table, but one particularly nervous-looking first-year caught her attention. The boy stumbled slightly as he sat a few places down, his eyes darting around the room before landing on her. He froze, his mouth falling open.

“Are you…?” he began, his whisper far too loud for a whisper. “Are you Hermione Granger?”

A ripple of laughter spread down the table, but Hermione smiled warmly. “I am.”

“My mum says you’re brilliant,” the boy blurted, his cheeks turning crimson as the older students chuckled.

Ginny leaned closer, her smirk playful. “Well, she’s not wrong.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but a laugh bubbled up despite herself. For a moment, the weight in her chest lifted, replaced by a fleeting but welcome sense of normalcy.

When the Sorting ended and the last of the applause died down, Headmistress McGonagall rose to her feet. The room fell silent almost instantly, every eye fixed on her commanding presence.

“This year marks a unique chapter in Hogwarts’ history,” she began, her voice steady and resolute. “We gather here today not just to continue our education but to rebuild what was lost. The scars of war are still fresh, but Hogwarts endures—as do we. It is my hope that this castle will remain what it has always been: a place of learning, growth, and unity.”

She paused, her gaze sweeping over the room. “For the first time, we welcome returning students who have already completed—or attempted to complete—their seventh year. These Eighth Years, as they shall be known, will reside in a shared dormitory and common room, a measure intended to foster cooperation and understanding among the houses.”

Hermione felt the weight of the room’s attention shift toward her and the other returning students. Whispers rippled through the hall, curiosity and skepticism mingling.

“The dormitory is located near the Astronomy Tower,” McGonagall continued. “I expect those of you returning to set an example for the rest of the school. Together, we shall rebuild.” Her sharp gaze lingered on Hermione for a moment before moving on. “Let the feast begin.”

With a wave of her hand, the tables filled with food, and the Hall erupted into conversation. Hermione felt the familiar tug of hunger, but as she reached for a plate, her mind lingered on McGonagall’s words. Together, we shall rebuild. It sounded so simple, yet the weight of it pressed heavily on her shoulders.

The warmth of the Great Hall lingered as Hermione and Ginny walked together through the familiar corridors of Hogwarts, the echoes of chatter and laughter fading as the castle settled into the night. The journey to Gryffindor Tower was one Hermione could have done blindfolded, but tonight it felt different. The castle walls, still scarred in places, seemed to hum with an energy that was both comforting and solemn.

Ginny glanced sideways at Hermione as they ascended a moving staircase. “How are you feeling about all this?” she asked, her voice low.

“All this?” Hermione repeated, arching an eyebrow.

“Being back here,” Ginny clarified. “Without Harry and Ron, I mean.”

Hermione hesitated, running her fingers along the cool stone railing. “It’s strange,” she admitted. “Part of me feels… lighter, knowing we’re not fighting for survival anymore. But it’s also—”

“Empty?” Ginny offered.

Hermione nodded, her expression softening. “Yes. Empty.”

They turned a corner, and the Fat Lady’s portrait came into view, her gilded frame catching the dim light of the corridor. The portrait swung open without a word as Ginny whispered the password, and the two girls stepped into the Gryffindor common room. The space was as warm and inviting as ever, the fire crackling in the hearth and the chairs clustered together in small, familiar groups. Several younger students were already settling in, their voices hushed as they stole glances at Hermione and Ginny.

“Well,” Ginny said, turning to face her. “This is where we part ways, isn’t it?”

“It seems that way,” Hermione replied, her lips curving into a wry smile. “I’m sure you’ll manage without me.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Ginny teased. “Who’s going to help me rewrite my Charms essays at two in the morning?”

“I’m sure Luna will be thrilled to help if you can get her down from Ravenclaw tower,” Hermione shot back, grinning.

Ginny laughed, but her tone softened as she reached out to squeeze Hermione’s hand. “Seriously, though. If you need anything, just find me, okay? I’ll keep you updated with our passwords so you can come and go as you like.”

“I will,” Hermione promised.

They lingered for a moment longer before Hermione turned and made her way back into the corridor, her footsteps echoing softly as she followed the path toward the Astronomy Tower. She felt the weight of the castle settle around her—its long history, its resilience, and the memories it held. By the time she reached the door to the 8th Year Dorm, her chest was tight with anticipation.

The door was unmarked save for a simple brass plaque that read, Eighth Year Dormitory. Hermione pushed it open to reveal a circular common room unlike anything she had seen at Hogwarts. The space was expansive, with tall, arched windows offering a breathtaking view of the Black Lake. Furniture in neutral tones was scattered in small clusters, blending the styles of all four houses. Shelves lined the walls, filled with books, games, and enchanted trinkets that glimmered faintly in the soft, golden light of floating candles.

Hermione’s gaze swept the room, landing briefly on the other 8th Years who were already settling in. She caught sight of Dean Thomas laughing with Ernie Macmillan and Padma Patil, their voices blending into the low hum of conversation. Daphne Greengrass sat by the window, her arms crossed and her expression unreadable. Hermione noted with mild relief that most seemed preoccupied with their own unpacking.

Hermione approached the staircase at the back of the circular common room, where doors branched off into individual sleeping quarters. Each door bore two sets of initials rather than house crests, and Hermione scanned them carefully until she found hers: H.G. and P.P.

Her stomach dropped.

“Of course,” she muttered under her breath. “Of all people…”

She opened the door cautiously, bracing herself for whatever waited on the other side. The room was empty save for two beds, two desks, and two wardrobes. The space was surprisingly cozy, with warm lighting and thick rugs giving it an intimate feel, but Hermione barely noticed as she set her trunk down at the foot of the bed closest to the window. She began unpacking with brisk, precise movements, hoping to focus her mind and ignore the tightness in her chest.

The door swung open behind her with a creak, and Hermione turned to see Pansy Parkinson stride in, her heels clicking against the hardwood floor. The other girl stopped in her tracks when she saw Hermione, her dark eyes narrowing in clear disdain.

“You’ve got to be joking,” Pansy said, her voice sharp and cutting.

Hermione straightened, refusing to flinch under Pansy’s glare. “Trust me, the feeling’s mutual.”

Pansy snorted and dropped her trunk onto the other bed with an audible thud. “Honestly, Granger, I thought you’d at least have enough pull to get a room to yourself. Or are you too busy giving interviews to care where they’re shoving the rest of us?”

Hermione’s jaw tightened as she turned back to her unpacking. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, don’t play coy,” Pansy sneered, tossing a set of robes into her wardrobe with deliberate force. “Half the Wizarding World is outside the castle gates trying to catch a glimpse of the Hermione Granger. What’s it like being Saint Potter’s second-in-command? Must be exhausting, all those owls begging for exclusive interviews.”

Hermione pressed her lips into a thin line, determined not to take the bait.

When her silence stretched too long for Pansy’s liking, the other girl’s sneer deepened. “And how’s dear Weasley? Or is he off being Harry’s shadow, too? I suppose you’ve been too busy basking in the spotlight to notice.”

Hermione spun around, her eyes blazing. “You don’t know the first thing about me or Ron. So, if you think—”

“Oh, spare me the Gryffindor indignation,” Pansy interrupted, her tone mocking. “It’s not like anyone expected a real love story out of the two of you. Just another chapter in the ‘Golden Trio’ fairy tale, isn’t it? Conveniently timed for the cameras.”

Hermione took a deep breath, forcing herself to steady her voice. “Is this what you came back for, Parkinson? To make petty comments and stir up trouble? Because if it is, I’m not interested.”

Pansy raised an eyebrow, her smirk returning. “Oh, I’m very interested, Granger. This year’s going to be… enlightening.”

Without another word, she turned back to her trunk, leaving Hermione standing there, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. Forcing herself to calm down, Hermione returned to her unpacking, her movements stiff with barely contained frustration.

It was going to be a long year.

Hermione turned back to her trunk, determined to ignore the smug expression Pansy wore like a badge of honour. She focused on unpacking, her hands moving with brisk precision as she arranged her books on the desk. The silence between them was thick and heavy, broken only by the occasional clatter of belongings.

“So,” Pansy began, her voice cutting through the quiet like a blade, “you didn’t deny it.”

Hermione froze mid-motion. “Deny what?” she asked, keeping her tone even.

Pansy perched on the edge of her bed, crossing her legs as she inspected her nails. “That all those reporters are here for you. That they’re desperate to hang on your every word. Or maybe you’re just saving the good stuff for an exclusive?”

Hermione exhaled sharply through her nose and continued arranging her books. “I have no interest in talking to them.”

“Hmm. Strange, isn’t it?” Pansy continued; her tone laced with mock curiosity. “The Hermione Granger I remember always had something to say. About everything.”

Hermione’s grip on her books tightened, but she refused to rise to the bait.

“And then there’s Weasley,” Pansy added casually, tossing a pair of green silk robes into her wardrobe. “I suppose it makes sense. You were both just… there. Convenient. Not everyone can find a Chosen One to cling to, after all.”

Hermione slammed a book onto the desk, the sound echoing in the small room. She turned to face Pansy, her brown eyes flashing with barely contained anger. “If you’re trying to rile me up, Parkinson, you’ll have to try harder. I’m not interested in playing whatever game this is.”

“Oh, I think you’re very interested,” Pansy said, standing and walking toward her with slow, deliberate steps. She stopped just short of Hermione’s desk, tilting her head as though sizing her up. “But fine, I’ll make it easy for you. You stay out of my way, and I’ll stay out of yours.”

Hermione crossed her arms. “That’s fine by me.”

Pansy smiled—a sharp, humourless thing. “Good. Because the last thing I need is your sanctimonious Gryffindor act ruining my year.”

“Likewise,” Hermione shot back, her voice low but steady.

For a moment, the two of them stood there, the air between them crackling with tension. Then, with a dramatic sigh, Pansy turned on her heel and resumed unpacking, muttering something under her breath that Hermione chose not to decipher.

Hermione sat down on the edge of her bed, willing herself to take deep, calming breaths. Her heart pounded against her ribcage, not from fear, but from sheer frustration. She had known sharing a space with the Slytherins would be a challenge, but this was already worse than she’d imagined.

Across the room, Pansy was humming softly as she arranged her vanity, the sound as infuriating as the woman herself. Hermione forced herself to look away, her focus landing instead on the window. The view of the Black Lake, dark and still in the moonlight, did little to soothe her frayed nerves.

“It’s going to be a long year,” Hermione muttered to herself again, the words almost a prayer.

After unpacking her belongings, Hermione couldn’t stand to be in the room any longer—not with Pansy’s sharp comments still echoing in her mind. She stepped out into the circular common room, grateful to find a familiar face in Dean Thomas. He was seated near the fireplace with Ernie Macmillan and Padma Patil, his easy smile dimmed slightly as they spoke in hushed tones. Spotting Hermione, he waved her over.

“Hermione! Come join us,” he called, gesturing to an empty seat.

She hesitated, her nerves still frayed from her encounter with Pansy, but the warmth in Dean’s expression was hard to refuse. She crossed the room and sank into the chair beside him, offering a small smile.

“First night not going as planned?” Dean asked, raising an eyebrow.

“You could say that,” Hermione replied, sighing. “I’m sharing a room with bloody Pansy Parkinson.”

Dean let out a low whistle. “Ouch. That’s… unfortunate.”

“That’s one word for it,” Hermione muttered. “What about you?”

Dean grimaced, leaning back in his chair. “I’ve got Blaise Zabini. Didn’t say much, but the way he looked at my West Ham poster, you’d think I’d hung up a bloody Troll Rights campaign.”

Padma snorted softly, tucking her legs beneath her. “At least you’re not stuck with Daphne Greengrass. She spent the last hour rearranging her half of the room because, and I quote, ‘the energy flow is off.’”

Ernie chuckled. “She might have a point. You Ravenclaws always were a bit unbalanced.”

“Oh, and you’re perfectly centred, are you?” Padma shot back, her tone light but sharp.

The group chuckled, and Hermione felt some of the tension in her chest begin to ease. The shared grumbling over roommates, while trivial, was oddly comforting.

“She didn’t waste any time, you know,” Hermione said after a moment, her voice quieter. “Pansy, I mean. She went straight for the jugular—reporters, Ron, you name it.”

Dean frowned. “Still playing the same game, then?”

“Apparently,” Hermione replied, the frustration clear in her tone.

“Maybe it’s all she knows,” Dean said, his expression thoughtful. “You know, Slytherin self-preservation and all that.”

“Or she’s just a spiteful cow,” Padma offered dryly. 

Hermione gave a weak smile, but Dean’s words lingered in her mind.

The next morning, Hermione sat at the Gryffindor table, absently stirring her tea as Ginny slid into the seat across from her. The Great Hall was buzzing with activity, students chatting excitedly as they prepared for the first day of classes. Ginny set her plate down and leaned forward, her Head Girl badge catching the morning light.

“Alright,” Ginny said, grinning. “Spill. What’s the infamous 8th Year Dorm like?”

Hermione set her spoon down with a sigh. “I’m sharing a room with bloody Pansy Parkinson.”

Ginny froze, her fork halfway to her mouth. “You’re joking.”

“I wish I were,” Hermione muttered, taking a sip of her tea.

Ginny blinked, then let out a low whistle. “How are you still standing?”

“She’s trying her hardest to make me lose my mind, believe me,” Hermione replied, recounting the previous night’s exchange. By the time she finished, Ginny was shaking her head.

“Merlin. I thought my dorm mates were bad. One of them snores like a hippogriff, but at least she’s not Pansy Parkinson.”

Hermione managed a wry smile. “It’s going to be a long year.”

The crisp morning air was thick with anticipation as the students gathered around Hagrid, who stood proudly beside an enormous, reinforced cage. The low hum of chatter stilled as he began his usual enthusiastic introduction.

“Right then!” Hagrid boomed, his grin stretching beneath his tangled beard. “Today, I’ve got a real treat for yeh lot. All the way from North America—never thought I’d see one in the flesh myself—a Thunderbird! Very sensitive creatures, so don't go upsetting him. They can sense danger, and summon huge rainstorms as they fly. The Americans also use their tail feathers as wand cores, though I'm told Ollivander isn't keen on the idea. Anyway, lets meet Elvis!”

He threw back the heavy tarp and unlatched the cage door, revealing a majestic creature with glimmering golden and blue plumage that seemed to shimmer as if catching light from another world. Its intelligent eyes swept the group, and a low rumble, like distant thunder, emanated from its chest. The air around the cage grew heavy, electric, as though the atmosphere itself acknowledged the Thunderbird’s power.

Hermione’s breath hitched. “A Thunderbird,” she murmured, her voice laced with awe. “They’re incredibly rare. I can’t believe he managed this.”

Ginny glanced sideways at her. “Rare or not, I bet it’s really dangerous. Hagrid does love a bit of danger.”

“Dangerously beautiful,” Luna said dreamily. “Look at how its feathers glow. It’s as if it’s carrying a storm within.”

“Lovely,” Pansy Parkinson drawled from the edge of the group. “Just what we need—another of Hagrid’s ‘harmless’ creatures. Wonder how long it’ll take before it starts trying to kill us.”

Hermione turned sharply. “Thunderbirds aren’t aggressive unless provoked.”

“Oh, really?” Pansy arched a brow, her lips curling into a smirk. “Then I suppose it’s a perfect match for you. Isn’t that what you’re good at, Granger? Provoking things?”

Ginny shot her a warning look. “Back off, Parkinson.”

But Pansy was just getting started. She strolled closer, her tone laced with mock curiosity. “Tell me, Hermione, do you ever get tired of being such a know-it-all? Or do you just live for the sound of your own voice?”

Hermione clenched her fists, her heart pounding. “Maybe if you paid attention instead of making snide comments, you’d actually learn something.”

“Oh, I’m learning plenty,” Pansy said sweetly, her eyes glinting with malice. “Like how easy it is to get under your skin. What’s the matter? Ron not around to defend you? Or are you too busy playing teacher’s pet to notice he’s moved on?”

“Shut up, Pansy,” Hermione snapped, her voice trembling with anger.

The Thunderbird let out a sharp cry, its wings spreading wide as the air around it grew heavier. The rumble in its chest deepened, resonating through the clearing.

“Pansy, stop,” Ginny hissed, glancing nervously at the agitated creature. “You’re upsetting it.”

“Oh, please,” Pansy scoffed. “It’s a bird, not a bloody seer.”

As if in response, the Thunderbird flared its wings and let out an ear-splitting screech. The sky above them darkened unnaturally fast, and a sudden gust of wind swept through the clearing, sending leaves and twigs spiralling through the air.

“Everyone, back!” Hagrid bellowed; his voice nearly drowned out by the rising storm. “Stay calm!”

But calm was the last thing on anyone’s mind. The Thunderbird took flight, its massive wings creating a powerful downdraft that knocked several students off their feet. Lightning crackled across the sky, and rain began to fall in sheets, turning the ground into a muddy mess.

“Run for cover!” someone shouted, and the students scattered, their shrieks mixing with the roar of the wind.

Hermione shielded her face from the rain as she stood her ground, her wand in hand. “Hagrid! What do we do?”

Hagrid, wrestling with the cage to keep it from toppling over, shouted, “We need ter get it back down! It’s panicked!”

“Brilliant,” Ginny muttered as she ran to Hermione’s side, her wand drawn. “What now?”

“Try to calm it!” Hermione shouted over the storm, her hair whipping around her face. She raised her wand, sending a stream of sparks into the air to catch the Thunderbird’s attention. “It’s not dangerous—it’s scared!”

Luna, soaked but calm as ever, stepped forward and began singing softly, her voice carrying strangely through the chaos. The Thunderbird’s flight slowed, its movements faltering as it circled overhead.

Hermione seized the moment, casting a powerful charm to create a glowing barrier in the sky. The Thunderbird hesitated; its sharp eyes fixed on the shimmering light.

“Keep it steady!” Hagrid yelled, moving to stand beside them. “Yer doin’ great!”

The storm began to subside, the wind dying down as the Thunderbird hovered, its screeches softening into low, rumbling chirps. Finally, with a graceful descent, it landed in the clearing, its feathers slick with rain but its stance calm.

Hermione let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, her shoulders sagging with relief. “It’s okay,” she said softly, stepping closer to the Thunderbird. “You’re safe here, just ignore that silly girl.”

The creature regarded her with an almost curious tilt of its head before folding its wings and letting out a quiet chirp.

“Well done, Hermione,” Luna said, her serene smile unshaken by the chaos.

“Yeah,” Ginny added, though her glare quickly shifted to Pansy, who stood drenched and fuming nearby. “Unlike some people.”

“What?” Pansy said, tossing her wet hair back. “It’s not my fault the stupid bird can’t take a joke.”

Hermione turned; her eyes blazing. “Your constant needling nearly got people hurt, Pansy. Why don’t you try thinking about someone other than yourself for once?”

“Oh, spare me the lecture,” Pansy shot back, though her voice lacked its usual bite. She turned on her heel and stalked off, muttering something Hermione couldn’t hear.

“Unbelievable,” Ginny muttered, shaking her head. “How do you put up with her?”

“I don’t,” Hermione said tightly, her gaze lingering on the retreating figure. “But I’ll figure it out.”

The rain had slowed to a drizzle by the time Hagrid dismissed them, his booming voice filled with equal parts pride and apology. “Sorry ’bout the commotion, everyone! But yeh handled yerselves well—really well! Thunderbirds are tricky beasts, an’ yeh all did great.”

Hermione, Ginny, and Luna lingered behind as the other students trudged back toward the castle, muddy and damp. Hagrid bent down to secure Elvis the Thunderbird back into his reinforced cage, humming to the creature softly as it settled with a ruffle of its feathers.

“I’ll catch up with you later,” Hermione said to Ginny and Luna, her gaze fixed on Hagrid. “I want to make sure everything’s alright.”

“Don’t be too long,” Ginny said, brushing a strand of wet hair out of her face. “You’ve still got to change before Transfiguration.”

Luna gave the Thunderbird one last admiring look. “I hope it has a good rest. Poor thing—it must be exhausted after all that.”

Hermione nodded absently as her friends walked away, then turned to Hagrid. “That was… intense.”

“Ah, they’re grand creatures,” Hagrid said, his voice softening as he closed the cage door. “But sensitive, yeh know? I shouldn’t’ve brought it out with the group feelin’ so on edge.”

“It’s not your fault,” Hermione said quickly. “Pansy was the one who kept pushing and stirring things up. She completely ignored your instructions.”

Hagrid chuckled, shaking his head. “Yeh know, Hermione, sometimes it’s the ones makin’ the most noise that need the most help. Pansy’s not a bad kid. She’s just… complicated.”

“That’s one word for it,” Hermione muttered. She couldn’t help the flare of frustration rising in her chest. “All she ever does is antagonize people. It’s like she enjoys being cruel.”

“Maybe,” Hagrid said thoughtfully, leaning against the cage. “Or maybe she’s just tryin’ ter figure out where she fits in. War changes people, Hermione. Some more than others. It must be hard realizing you were on the wrong side.”

Hermione frowned, her thoughts swirling. She wanted to argue, to point out that everyone else was trying to move forward while Pansy seemed determined to drag them back. But Hagrid’s words lingered, nudging at something in the back of her mind.

“Anyway,” Hagrid said, clapping her on the shoulder and causing her feet to sink into the mud. “Don’t let her get ter yeh. Yeh’ve got a good heart, Hermione, and a good head on yeh shoulders. You concentrate on getting yer exams passed, and try’n have a year without getting into too much trouble. Should be a bit easier without having to look after Harry and Ron.”

“Thanks, Hagrid,” Hermione said, offering a small smile. “And thank you for trusting us with the Thunderbird. It was incredible.”

Hagrid’s grin returned, brightening his face. “That it was. Now go on—get yerself warmed up.”

Hermione nodded and turned to leave, her boots squelching in the damp grass as she made her way back to the castle. She barely noticed the chill seeping through her robes; her thoughts were too preoccupied with Hagrid’s words and the lingering tension from the lesson.

Back in the 8th Year common room, the mood was subdued. Most students had cleaned up and settled into their own spaces, their voices low as they recounted the chaos of the morning. Hermione dropped onto one of the sofas by the fire, her damp hair clinging to her face as she pulled off her boots.

Dean Thomas appeared, holding two steaming mugs of tea. “Figured you could use this,” he said, handing one to her.

“Thanks,” Hermione said gratefully, wrapping her hands around the mug. The warmth seeped into her fingers, chasing away the chill.

“Crazy lesson,” Dean said, sitting beside her. “Leave it to Hagrid to bring in something that can summon a thunderstorm.”

“It wasn’t the Thunderbird’s fault,” Hermione said quickly. “It was—”

“Pansy?” Dean finished, smirking. “Yeah, I figured. She’s got a knack for riling people up.”

“She’s impossible,” Hermione muttered, blowing on her tea. “Every time I try to ignore her, she finds a new way to provoke me.”

Dean leaned back, his expression thoughtful. “You know, I always thought there was more to her than meets the eye. Not saying she’s a saint or anything, but people like her… they usually have a reason for being the way they are.”

“Maybe,” Hermione said, though her tone was skeptical. “But that doesn’t excuse her behaviour.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Dean agreed. “But it might help you deal with her. If you figure out what makes her tick, you’ll have the upper hand.”

Hermione sighed, her shoulders slumping. “I don’t want an upper hand. I just want her to leave me alone.”

Dean chuckled softly. “Good luck with that.”

By the time Hermione returned to her dormitory, the castle was shrouded in quiet. The day had felt impossibly long, each class dragging as Pansy’s presence grated on her nerves. From Potions to Defence Against the Dark Arts, the Slytherin had found endless ways to needle her—smirking whenever Hermione raised her hand, muttering under her breath, and occasionally making loud, pointed comments just within earshot.

Hermione dropped her bag heavily by the desk, her shoulders aching from the weight of both her books and the simmering frustration she’d carried all day. She wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and shut out the world.

Unfortunately, her roommate had other plans.

“Well, look who finally decided to grace us with her presence,” Pansy drawled, lounging on her bed with her legs crossed. She was polishing her wand, her movements slow and deliberate. “Rough day, Granger? You look positively ragged.”

“Leave me alone, Pansy,” Hermione said, her voice flat as she rummaged through her trunk. She grabbed her Transfiguration textbook, determined to focus on something—anything—other than her insufferable roommate.

“Touchy, touchy,” Pansy said with a mock sigh. “I was just trying to make conversation. It’s not my fault you’re so… sensitive.”

Hermione slammed her book onto the desk, turning to face her. “Do you ever get tired of this? Of constantly provoking people just for the sake of it?”

Pansy smirked, tilting her head. “Oh, but where’s the fun in being agreeable? Someone has to keep things interesting.”

“Interesting?” Hermione repeated, her voice rising. “You’ve spent the entire day trying to make my life miserable. What is your problem?”

Pansy set her wand down, her smirk softening into something colder. “My problem,” she said lightly, “is that you’re exactly who everyone thinks you are. Hermione Granger—the perfect, untouchable Gryffindor. Always right, always adored. Honestly, it’s nauseating.”

Hermione stared at her, anger bubbling beneath her exhaustion. “And you’re exactly who I thought you were,” she snapped. “Bitter, petty, and completely incapable of letting go of the past.”

For a moment, something flickered in Pansy’s eyes—an emotion Hermione couldn’t quite place. But it was gone as quickly as it had come, replaced by her usual mask of indifference.

“Well,” Pansy said, shrugging. “We can’t all be saints, can we?”

Hermione shook her head, turning back to her desk. “Unbelievable.”

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the scratch of Hermione’s quill as she pretended to focus on her notes. Pansy, meanwhile, resumed polishing her wand, humming softly to herself in a way that was maddeningly self-satisfied.

As the minutes stretched on, Hermione felt her initial anger ebb into something quieter but no less intense. She thought of Hagrid’s words earlier that day: Sometimes it’s the ones making the most noise that need the most help. Was there any truth to that when it came to Pansy? Or was she simply cruel for the sake of it?

It didn’t matter tonight, Hermione decided. Her head throbbed, her patience was gone, and she needed sleep more than answers. With a flick of her wand, she extinguished the lights and climbed into bed, tugging the covers up to her chin.

Across the room, Pansy’s voice broke the darkness. “Sweet dreams, Granger.”

Hermione exhaled sharply, biting back a retort. She squeezed her eyes shut, her thoughts a jumbled mess as the events of the day replayed in her mind. Sharing a room with Pansy Parkinson was going to be more challenging than she’d ever imagined.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2

Pansy Parkinson sat cross-legged on her bed, idly twirling her wand between her fingers as the faint murmur of voices drifted in from the common room. The soft hum of conversation was a reminder of her isolation—a sound she once would have been at the centre of, back when being a Slytherin still meant something. Now, even among her own housemates, she was an outsider.

She caught her reflection in the mirror across the room. Perfectly styled hair, sharp cheekbones, and eyes that could cut through glass if she wanted them to. A face she had once thought invincible. Now it felt like a mask—one she’d worn so long she wasn’t sure what lay beneath it anymore.

Her gaze shifted to Hermione Granger’s side of the room, tidy and precise, every book and quill meticulously arranged. It was insufferable, really, how perfect Granger managed to be, even in the chaos of their shared dormitory. Not a strand of bushy hair out of place, not a single step faltering.

And yet, Pansy couldn’t stop thinking about the moment in Hagrid’s class, when Granger’s composure had finally cracked. It had been almost satisfying—almost—watching her lose her temper, even if it had meant a storm breaking loose. The Thunderbird had been magnificent, its raw power a mirror to the tension simmering beneath the surface of their uneasy truce. Granger had recovered, of course, playing the hero as always, but for a fleeting moment, Pansy had seen something real in her. Something messy.

Pansy let out a soft scoff, tossing her wand onto her pillow. Rooming with Granger. Of all the people in Hogwarts. She’d almost laughed when she’d seen their initials on the door. The irony was so painfully obvious that it felt like a joke, one the universe had designed solely to punish her. Because that’s what this year was, wasn’t it? A punishment.

She lay back on the bed, staring out the window to the night sky outside. The stars blurred as her thoughts spiralled.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. She was supposed to be back in Slytherin, surrounded by her friends, rebuilding what little remained of their house’s dignity after the war. But none of that had happened. The Slytherin common room had been as cold as ever, the glances from her former allies colder still. Even Daphne, her closest confidante, had barely spoken a word to her since the train ride.

And why should they? She’d made her choice, hadn’t she? Backed the wrong side in a war that had left no room for neutrality. She’d thought her pragmatic instincts would keep her safe, but now, the whispers that followed her down the corridors made it clear she was anything but.

Traitor. Coward. Death Eater in training.

The accusations came from all sides, even her own. Slytherin had no place for failure, and the rest of the school? They didn’t need reasons to hate her. The war had handed them plenty.

Her fingers drummed against the blanket, the rhythmic motion grounding her. She didn’t need their approval, she told herself. She didn’t need anyone. She was still Pansy Parkinson. Sharp. Clever. Untouchable.

And yet…

Her thoughts strayed again to Hermione, her tireless righteousness, her infuriating composure. Sharing a room with her was unbearable, yes, but there was something else, too—something she couldn’t quite name. An itch she couldn’t scratch. It wasn’t just annoyance; it was curiosity. How could someone so insufferable be so... unbreakable?

A sharp knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts.

“Pansy, you in there?” Daphne’s voice was muffled but unmistakable.

Pansy sat up quickly, smoothing her robes. “Come in.”

The door creaked open, and Daphne stepped inside, her arms crossed. She looked as composed as ever, her blonde hair falling in soft waves over her shoulders, but her expression was unreadable.

“You missed dinner,” Daphne said, her tone neutral.

“Wasn’t hungry,” Pansy replied, keeping her voice light.

Daphne studied her for a moment before sighing. “You can’t keep isolating yourself. It’s not... practical.”

Pansy raised an eyebrow. “Since when have you cared about me being practical?”

“Since the rest of the house started whispering about you.” Daphne’s voice was sharp, but there was an edge of concern beneath it. “If you’re going to survive this year, you need allies.”

“Like you?” Pansy asked, her smirk returning. “Funny, I don’t recall you rushing to my side when everyone else turned their backs.”

Daphne’s jaw tightened. “I’m trying, Pansy. Don’t make it harder than it has to be.”

Pansy opened her mouth to respond, but the words caught in her throat. For once, she didn’t have a snide remark ready. Daphne’s gaze softened slightly, but she said nothing more. With a small shake of her head, she turned and left, leaving Pansy alone once again.

The room felt colder now, the silence pressing in around her. Pansy leaned back against the pillows, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She didn’t need anyone, she reminded herself. Not Daphne. Not Slytherin. Certainly not Hermione bloody Granger.

But the thought didn’t sit as comfortably as it once had.

Pansy paced the length of the room, her thoughts churning like a storm cloud. It wasn’t just the Gryffindors or the Ravenclaws who whispered when she passed anymore—it was her own housemates, the people who had once flanked her like a personal entourage. Daphne, Blaise, Theodore… even Millicent avoided her now, their gazes darting away whenever hers lingered too long.

They didn’t say it outright, of course. Slytherins were too clever for that. But their silence was louder than any accusation, their careful avoidance a statement in itself. They were all trying to rebuild what was left of their reputations, clawing back some semblance of dignity in a school that now belonged to Harry Potter’s loyalists. And Pansy? She was a liability.

Her mind flashed back to that moment in the Great Hall, the Dark Lord’s voice booming as he demanded Harry Potter be handed over. She could still feel the weight of the eyes on her as she’d stood and spoken. “But he’s there! Potter’s there! Someone grab him!” It had seemed logical in the moment, a desperate gamble to end the nightmare they were all living. But now, with the clarity of hindsight, she could see it for what it was.

A mistake. A colossal, irreversible mistake.

The Slytherins had never been united in their loyalties during the war—far from it. Some had silently supported the Dark Lord out of familial duty, while others had kept their heads down, trying to weather the storm without choosing sides. But when the final battle had come, they’d all faced the same choice: stay or leave. Most had fled, their absence sparing them the taint of open allegiance to the Dark Lord.

But Pansy? She hadn’t just fled. She’d spoken, loudly and publicly, and that had made all the difference. In the eyes of the school, she wasn’t just a Slytherin. She was a traitor, a coward, a symbol of everything they’d fought against.

Even the Slytherins couldn’t afford to stand by her now. They were pariahs too, ostracized by the rest of the school, but at least they had the chance to quietly rebuild. Associating with her, the girl who had tried to give up the Chosen One, was a risk none of them were willing to take.

Pansy stopped pacing, her gaze drifting to the window. The night outside was clear and still, a sharp contrast to the chaos inside her head. She rested her forehead against the cool glass, her breath fogging the surface.

She wanted to hate them for it. For their cowardice, their hypocrisy. But a small, bitter part of her understood. It was survival, plain and simple. The same instinct that had driven her to speak up in the Great Hall was now driving them to leave her behind. And in a way, she couldn’t blame them.

But understanding didn’t make it easier.

Her gaze shifted to Hermione’s side of the room, perfectly neat and orderly as always. If Granger had been in her shoes, she wouldn’t have spoken up that day. Pansy was sure of it. Granger would have stood her ground, righteous and resolute, because that was who she was. Always brave, always perfect.

And maybe that’s why it was so infuriating to share a room with her. Because every time Pansy looked at Hermione, she saw the version of herself she’d never been able to become. Strong. Principled. Respected.

“Ugh,” Pansy muttered aloud, pushing away from the window. She didn’t need this. She didn’t need them. Any of them.

But as she climbed into bed and pulled the covers over her head, the truth gnawed at her, sharp and unrelenting. She didn’t need them, maybe. But she didn’t want to be alone either.

The first rays of morning sunlight crept through the curtains, spilling across the floor in soft, golden streaks. Pansy stirred, the familiar ache of another sleepless night weighing on her. She lay still for a moment, her eyes tracing the patterns of light on the ceiling as fragments of last night’s thoughts crowded her mind.

The silence of the room was broken by the faint rustle of movement. Pansy glanced sideways to see Hermione already awake, perched at her desk with her nose buried in a book. Of course she was.

Pansy propped herself up on one elbow, her voice cutting through the quiet like a blade. “You know, Granger, it’s positively unsettling how early you wake up. What’s the rush? Got a world to save before breakfast?”

Hermione didn’t look up, but Pansy could see the way her shoulders tensed. “Good morning to you too, Pansy,” she said evenly, her tone betraying none of the irritation Pansy knew she must feel.

“Good morning?” Pansy repeated, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. “Well, aren’t we chipper? Guess it’s easy when half the castle worships the ground you walk on.”

Hermione sighed, closing her book with deliberate calm. “If you’re trying to get a rise out of me, you’re wasting your time. I have better things to do than entertain your tantrums.”

Pansy smirked, though the retort stung more than she’d admit. “Oh, don’t flatter yourself. I’m just making conversation. It’s not my fault you’re such an easy target.”

“I’m the one who’s easy?” Hermione shot back, her brown eyes flashing as she stood. “You’re the one who can’t seem to get through a single morning without hurling insults like it’s a competitive sport.”

Pansy’s smirk faltered for half a second, but she quickly recovered, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. “Well, someone has to keep you grounded, don’t they? Can’t have you floating off on that pedestal of yours.”

Hermione stared at her for a long moment, and for a brief, disconcerting second, Pansy thought she saw something close to pity in her expression. “You know,” Hermione said quietly, “it must be exhausting.”

“What?” Pansy asked, her smirk tightening into a defensive sneer. “Being right all the time?”

“No,” Hermione replied, her voice soft but firm. “Being so angry at the world that you can’t see past your own bitterness.”

Pansy froze, the words landing with more weight than she expected. For a moment, she felt exposed, her carefully constructed armour threatening to crack. But then she remembered who she was, and more importantly, who Hermione was, and the familiar surge of defiance took hold.

“Spare me the psychoanalysis, Granger,” Pansy said, her tone sharper than she intended. “You’re not as clever as you think you are.”

Hermione didn’t respond. She simply grabbed her bag and headed for the door, her footsteps brisk and purposeful. As the door swung shut behind her, Pansy let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

Her gaze drifted back to the now-empty side of the room, and for a brief, unguarded moment, she let the mask slip. Hermione’s words lingered, cutting through the din of her usual self-assurances. It wasn’t true, Pansy told herself. She wasn’t angry at the world. She wasn’t bitter. She was just… realistic. Pragmatic.

And yet, as she sat there in the stillness, the gnawing feeling in her chest refused to be ignored.

Pansy remained seated on the edge of her bed, the sound of the door clicking shut echoing in the quiet room. She stared down at her hands, the faint tremble in her fingers betraying the calm she worked so hard to project. Hermione’s parting words played on a loop in her mind, soft but cutting in a way that left no room for rebuttal.

“Being so angry at the world that you can’t see past your own bitterness.”

What did Granger know about anger? About bitterness? She didn’t know what it was like to have the world turn its back on you, to be left with nothing but whispers and glares from people who were supposed to have your back. Granger didn’t know the first thing about survival, not like Pansy did.

And yet… there had been something in Hermione’s voice—something almost genuine. That was the part that infuriated Pansy the most. For all her faults, Hermione wasn’t cruel. She wasn’t the kind of person to say something just to hurt someone. Which meant she believed it.

Pansy shook her head sharply, shoving the thought away. She didn’t have time for this—not today, not ever.

With a determined sigh, she stood and crossed to the wardrobe, yanking out her robes and tossing them onto the bed. The day wasn’t going to wait for her, and she wasn’t about to let Hermione bloody Granger occupy any more of her thoughts.

Pansy made her way down to breakfast, the rhythmic clack of her shoes against the stone floors steadying her nerves. The Great Hall was already bustling, the low hum of conversation punctuated by clinking cutlery and the occasional burst of laughter. She scanned the Slytherin table as she approached, her sharp eyes quickly picking out familiar faces.

Daphne sat near the end of the table, her posture as poised as ever, but she didn’t look up as Pansy slid into the seat opposite her. Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott were further down, their heads bent together in quiet conversation. No one acknowledged her arrival.

Pansy reached for the tea, pouring herself a cup with deliberate slowness. The silence at her end of the table was oppressive, and for a moment, she considered leaving altogether. But then Daphne spoke, her voice low and measured.

“You’re late.”

Pansy glanced up, arching an eyebrow. “And you care because…?”

Daphne sighed, setting her fork down with a soft clink. “Because people are watching, Pansy. They always are.”

Pansy’s jaw tightened. “Let them watch. What does it matter?”

“It matters because some of us are trying to move forward,” Daphne said, her tone sharper now. “And you make that harder every time you—”

“Every time I what?” Pansy cut in, her voice rising slightly. “Every time I exist? Is that it, Daphne? Should I just disappear and make things easier for you?”

Daphne’s expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes—sympathy, maybe, or frustration. “No one’s asking you to disappear,” she said evenly. “But you don’t make it easy for people to stand by you, Pansy.”

Pansy’s chest tightened, but she masked it with a smirk. “Good thing I don’t need anyone to stand by me, then.”

Daphne didn’t respond, and the silence between them stretched uncomfortably. Pansy sipped her tea, the bitterness of it matching her mood perfectly.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of monotony and tension. Classes felt endless, each one dragging more than the last. Pansy’s attention drifted during Potions, though she still managed to perfect her Draught of Peace with practiced ease. It was one of the few things she had left—her sharp mind, her ability to excel where others faltered. Even Professor Slughorn had grudgingly acknowledged her skill, though the praise rang hollow in the absence of Snape’s usual favouritism.

By the time the day’s lessons ended, Pansy was more than ready to retreat to the 8th Year dormitory. She climbed the staircase slowly, her thoughts heavy as she pushed open the door to the circular common room. The space was quiet, most of the other students scattered across the castle.

But Hermione was there, seated by the fire with her books spread out around her. She looked up as Pansy entered, her expression unreadable. Pansy hesitated in the doorway, her gaze flickering from the firelight to Hermione, who seemed entirely at ease amidst the chaos of her open books and parchment. The Gryffindor didn’t look up right away, her quill moving with practiced precision as she scribbled something in the margins of a textbook.

“Busy day?” Hermione asked lightly, her tone more neutral than Pansy expected.

Pansy stepped into the room, her heels clicking against the stone floor. “Not as busy as yours, I’m sure,” she said, letting a smirk creep into her voice. “Saving the world must be exhausting.”

Hermione finally glanced up, her expression calm but watchful. “It has its moments,” she replied simply, turning back to her work.

Pansy frowned slightly, thrown by the lack of a proper reaction. She crossed the room and dropped onto one of the sofas, draping herself across it with deliberate nonchalance. “Really, Granger,” she drawled, “you should learn to take a break. All that heroism is going to give you premature wrinkles.”

Hermione didn’t rise to the bait, her quill continuing its steady movements. “I appreciate the concern, Pansy,” she said without looking up, “but I think I’ll survive.”

“Pity,” Pansy muttered under her breath, though she knew Hermione heard her. She leaned back against the cushions, watching the other girl out of the corner of her eye.

There was a part of Pansy that wanted to keep pushing, to needle and provoke until Hermione finally snapped. But another part of her—the part she didn’t like to acknowledge—felt... uneasy. She couldn’t explain it, but something about the Gryffindor’s composure made her words feel hollow, like she was swinging a sword against a stone wall.

“You know,” Hermione said suddenly, breaking the silence, “if you spent half as much energy on your studies as you do trying to irritate me, you might actually accomplish something.”

Pansy blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “Excuse me?”

Hermione set her quill down and looked directly at her, her green eyes steady. “You’re clearly intelligent,” she said matter-of-factly. “But instead of using it, you waste your time making snide comments and playing petty games. It’s not just irritating, Pansy—it’s sad.”

The words landed like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, Pansy couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Hermione’s tone wasn’t cruel or mocking; it was almost... disappointed. And that made it worse.

She straightened, her smirk hardening into a sneer. “Oh, spare me the lecture, Granger. I don’t need life advice from someone who spends her evenings buried in books.”

“No, you don’t,” Hermione agreed, her gaze unwavering. “But maybe you should.”

Pansy’s chest tightened, a flicker of something—anger, shame, resentment—sparking in her. She stood abruptly, smoothing her robes with sharp, deliberate movements. “I don’t have time for this,” she said coolly. “Enjoy your little study session, Granger.”

Without waiting for a response, she turned and swept out of the room, her footsteps echoing down the corridor. But even as she put distance between herself and the common room, Hermione’s words lingered, chasing her like an unwanted shadow. Time for some air, she thought to herself.

The night air outside the Astronomy Tower was crisp and biting, carrying with it the faint smell of rain from the storm earlier in the day. Pansy leaned against the cold stone balustrade, her hands gripping the edge tightly as she stared out at the sprawling grounds below. The Black Lake was still, a mirror reflecting the crescent moon, and the Forbidden Forest loomed in the distance, dark and impenetrable.

This spot had been her refuge once, back when being a Slytherin meant security and power, back when she had her place firmly carved out at the top of the hierarchy. She had stood here before, surrounded by Daphne and Millicent and the others, laughing as they planned their next escapade or critiqued their classmates with razor-sharp precision.

Now, she stood alone.

The tower was empty save for the occasional hoot of an owl or the rustle of the wind. It was better this way, Pansy thought. Here, in the quiet, she didn’t have to deal with the stares, the whispers, or Hermione bloody Granger and her self-righteous observations.

She let out a shaky breath, her fingers loosening slightly on the stone. She’d come here to think, though her thoughts were as turbulent as ever. Every interaction, every word, seemed to cut deeper than it should. Daphne’s guarded comments at breakfast, Blaise’s carefully polite indifference, even Granger’s unexpected insight—it all gnawed at her in a way she couldn’t shake.

“You waste your time making snide comments and playing petty games. It’s not just irritating, Pansy—it’s sad.”

The words replayed in her mind, sharper than any insult. Sad. Pansy scoffed, shaking her head. She wasn’t sad. She was smart. She was strong. She was…

Her thoughts faltered, and for a moment, the mask slipped. She let herself feel the weight of everything she’d been carrying—the guilt, the anger, the crushing loneliness. It pressed against her chest, threatening to crack the facade she’d worked so hard to maintain.

But then the sound of footsteps on the stairs jolted her out of her reverie. She straightened quickly, her expression hardening as the intruder came into view.

The footsteps grew louder, echoing against the stone walls of the staircase. Pansy turned, her eyes narrowing as a figure emerged into the moonlight. For a moment, she thought she was imagining it—the last person she expected to see here, at this hour.

“Daphne,” Pansy said, her voice sharp with surprise and something close to suspicion. “What are you doing here?”

Daphne Greengrass stepped fully onto the tower; her arms crossed as she leaned casually against the archway. Her blonde hair glinted silver in the moonlight, and her expression was calm, almost unreadable.

“I could ask you the same question,” Daphne replied, her tone light but edged with curiosity. “Couldn’t sleep?”

Pansy shrugged, turning back to the balustrade. “Something like that.”

The silence stretched between them, heavy and fraught with unspoken words. Pansy didn’t look at her, keeping her gaze fixed on the lake, but she could feel Daphne’s eyes on her, studying her in that infuriatingly perceptive way she always had.

“You used to love this spot,” Daphne said after a moment, her voice softer now. “Back when we’d sneak up here to talk about... well, everything.”

Pansy scoffed, though the sound lacked its usual bite. “That was a long time ago.”

“Not that long,” Daphne countered. She took a step closer, her footsteps careful, deliberate. “You know, people are still trying to figure things out, Pansy. It’s not just you.”

Pansy’s grip on the stone tightened. “Is that what you came up here to tell me? That I’m not the only one trying to piece my life back together?”

“No,” Daphne said quietly. “I came up here because I wanted to see how you were. But you’re not exactly making it easy.”

Pansy let out a bitter laugh, finally turning to face her. “Why would you care, Daphne? You’ve made it perfectly clear where you stand. With Blaise, Theo, and all the others, rebuilding your little circle while I’m left to rot.”

“That’s not fair,” Daphne said sharply, her calm exterior cracking. “You know it’s not.”

“Isn’t it?” Pansy shot back, her voice rising. “You’ve barely spoken to me since the train. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

Daphne’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t look away. “And what would you have me say, Pansy? What do you want me to do? You stood up in front of the entire school and handed Harry Potter to the Dark Lord on a silver platter. Do you have any idea how that makes the rest of us look? How it affects all of us?”

Pansy’s chest tightened, the words hitting her like a slap. She forced herself to hold Daphne’s gaze, though the effort made her stomach churn. “I didn’t—” She broke off, swallowing hard. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Then what was it like?” Daphne demanded, stepping closer now, her voice low but fierce. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you made a choice. And now, we’re all paying for it. They rule the roost now, Potter and his friends, his allies. If you’d at least tried to seem ambiguous that night we might have been given the benefit of the doubt, but instead we are all firmly outside of the circle. We have no status anymore, no influence.”

Pansy’s nails dug into her palms as she struggled to keep her voice steady. “I made a mistake, alright? I thought—” She stopped, her breath hitching. “I thought it would end everything. That it would stop the war, the killing, the… madness. I wasn’t trying to—”

Her voice cracked, and she turned away, biting her lip hard to keep the tears at bay. She hated this—hated how easily Daphne could unravel her defences, how quickly she could cut through the facade Pansy showed the rest of the world.

Daphne was silent for a long moment. When she finally spoke, her voice was softer, almost hesitant. “I didn’t come up here to fight with you. I just… I miss you, Pansy. But I don’t know how to fix this.”

Pansy closed her eyes, the admission cutting deeper than any argument. For a moment, she let herself consider the possibility—that things could be fixed, that the walls between her and her housemates weren’t as impenetrable as they seemed. But then she thought of the whispers, the glares, the crushing weight of her mistakes, and the hope flickered out as quickly as it had come.

“I don’t think you can,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

Daphne didn’t respond right away, and when she did, her tone was quiet but resolute. “Maybe not. But I’m not going to stop trying.”

The words lingered in the air as Daphne turned and made her way back down the stairs, leaving Pansy alone once more. She stayed where she was, the cold wind biting at her skin, her mind a tangle of conflicting emotions.

She wanted to believe Daphne. She wanted to believe that things could be different. But the weight of everything she’d done, everything she’d said, pressed down on her like a stone.

And as she gazed out at the dark expanse of the Black Lake, she couldn’t help but wonder if some things were too broken to be repaired.

The wind whipped against her face as Pansy stood motionless, her hands gripping the stone balustrade. Daphne’s words echoed in her mind, cutting deeper than she wanted to admit. You stood up in front of the entire school and handed Harry Potter to the Dark Lord on a silver platter.

It wasn’t untrue. That was the worst part.

Pansy could still see it clearly—the Great Hall, packed with frightened students and teachers, You-Know-Who’s voice booming from nowhere and everywhere. The air had been electric with fear, and every heartbeat felt like a countdown to the end. She had looked around, seen the trembling faces, and thought: If we just give him Potter, it will be over. This will end.

In hindsight, it was laughable. Giving You-Know-Who what he wanted wouldn’t have ended anything. It would have emboldened him, cemented his victory. But in that moment, she hadn’t been thinking about victories or legacies. She’d been thinking about survival. About herself. About not wanting to die in a war she hadn’t chosen.

And she had spoken. Loudly. Publicly. Irrevocably.

Even now, months later, the memory made her stomach turn. She had replayed it a thousand times, trying to convince herself she had no other choice, that anyone in her position would have done the same. But no matter how many justifications she conjured, the shame lingered, clinging to her like a second skin. Nobody else, even in Slytherin, had dared suggest – at least not as publicly as Pansy - that Potter should be handed over. The rest of her house had been far shrewder, waiting on the outcome of the battle before picking a side.

The world had moved on since then, but Pansy hadn’t. She couldn’t. The whispers followed her wherever she went, the weight of her own actions dragging her down with every step. And no amount of cleverness or charm could change the fact that, in what turned out to be the most important moment of her life, she had made the wrong choice.

A sharp gust of wind pulled her back to the present, and she realized her hands were trembling. She took a deep breath, forcing herself to let go of the railing. Dwelling on it wouldn’t change anything. The past was done. All she could do now was survive.

But as she made her way back to the dormitory, the heavy ache in her chest refused to fade.

The dormitory was quiet when Pansy returned, the gentle breeze outside windows the only sound. The fire in the common room had burned low, casting faint shadows that danced across the walls. She slipped into the room she shared with Hermione, her movements careful as she shut the door behind her.

Hermione was already asleep, her breathing slow and steady. She lay on her back, one arm draped over the side of the bed, her fingers curled slightly. Pansy frowned, her gaze snagging on something unusual—the faint glint of ink against Hermione’s pale skin.

Curiosity prickled at her. Granger? With a tattoo? The idea was absurd, almost laughable. But the thought of prim, perfect Hermione Granger doing something so rebellious was too tempting to ignore.

Quiet as a shadow, Pansy crept closer, her head tilting as she tried to make out the markings. The firelight flickered, throwing the lines into sharper relief, and her smirk froze mid-formation.

It wasn’t a tattoo.

The word carved into Hermione’s arm was jagged and cruel, the edges uneven as though written by a hand that delighted in causing pain. Mudblood. The word burned into Pansy’s mind like a brand, a sickening reminder of the world she’d been raised in.

Her breath caught in her throat. She stared at the scar, at the way it marred the otherwise unblemished skin, and felt an unfamiliar weight settle in her chest. She had used that word before, spat it like venom in hallways and classrooms, laughing with her friends as if it were nothing. But this… this was something else. This was permanent. Ugly. Violent.

The idea that someone had done this to Hermione—physically carved the word into her skin—made Pansy’s stomach twist. But what made it worse was knowing that she, too, had been complicit in the same kind of hatred. She hadn’t held the knife, but she’d wielded the word with just as much malice.

Her gaze flicked to Hermione’s face, peaceful in sleep, her brow furrowed slightly as though caught in a dream. Pansy stepped back, her heart pounding against her ribs. She suddenly felt too big for the room, like the walls were closing in on her.

She turned away, retreating to her side of the room. As she sank onto her bed, the image of Hermione’s scarred arm burned behind her eyelids. She tried to push it away, to bury it beneath layers of pride and defiance, but it lingered, heavy and unrelenting.

For the first time in a long while, Pansy felt something she couldn’t quite name. Shame. Regret. Disgust—not just at the world she’d come from, but at herself.

She lay down, staring at the canopy above her, and for the first time in years, Pansy Parkinson felt like the villain of the story. What sort of hell had Hermione been put through when she got that scar? Pansy tossed and turned for hours thinking about it, the first light of dawn had broken as she finally drifted off for a couple of hours before classes, sure that she would not be at her best for potions with Professor Slughorn.

The dungeon was as hot and stifling as ever, even as Winter began to approach, the air thick with the sharp tang of spilled ingredients and burnt cauldron bottoms. She slid into her seat near the middle of the room, her gaze sweeping across the other students as they trickled in. It didn’t take long for her eyes to find Hermione and Ginny, who were chatting quietly as they took their usual spot at the front.

Pansy leaned back in her chair, her smirk forming almost automatically. Of course, Granger would sit front and centre, eager to absorb every word like the insufferable know-it-all she was.

Professor Slughorn entered moments later, his jovial demeanour doing little to brighten the oppressive atmosphere of the dungeon. “Good morning, class!” he called, clapping his hands together. “Today, we’ll be brewing the Befuddlement Draught, a potion requiring precision and cooperation. You’ll need to work in pairs.”

The class began shifting in their seats, murmurs rippling as students exchanged glances. Pansy straightened slightly, her smirk widening when she saw Ginny and Hermione exchange a knowing look, clearly intending to partner up.

“Now, now,” Slughorn continued, raising a hand to quell the noise. “I’ve taken the liberty of assigning your pairs today. It’s important to expand your horizons, yes? Learn to work with someone new.”

Hermione frowned slightly, her hand twitching as though she were considering raising it to object. Ginny leaned over and muttered something, and Hermione sighed, settling back into her chair.

Slughorn began reading off names, and Pansy’s smirk slipped when she heard her own. “Parkinson and Granger,” he announced, oblivious to the tension that instantly filled the room.

Ginny’s eyes narrowed, and she opened her mouth to protest, but Slughorn cut her off with a cheerful wave of his hand. “Miss Weasley, you’ll be working with Mr. Corner today. I’m sure you’ll manage just fine.”

Pansy glanced at Hermione, whose jaw was tight as she gathered her things and moved to the seat beside her. “Lucky me,” Pansy murmured as Hermione sat down, her voice low enough that only Hermione could hear.

“Let’s just get this over with,” Hermione replied curtly, not bothering to look at her.

Pansy leaned back in her chair, watching with faint amusement as Hermione meticulously laid out their ingredients. “You know,” she said casually, “you could save yourself the trouble. This isn’t a bloody OWL exam.”

Hermione ignored her, her focus on carefully measuring out powdered billywig stings. “If you spent half as much time paying attention to the instructions as you do running your mouth, you might actually contribute something useful.”

Pansy raised an eyebrow, her smirk sharpening. “Careful, Granger. That temper of yours is showing. Wouldn’t want to chip that perfect little veneer.”

Hermione slammed the vial of billywig stings onto the table with more force than necessary, the glass rattling against the wood. “Do you ever stop talking?” she snapped.

“Only when I’m entertained,” Pansy replied smoothly, her gaze flicking to the bubbling cauldron between them. “And you, Granger, are far from entertaining.”

Hermione let out a sharp breath, clearly fighting to maintain her composure. “Fine,” she said tightly. “If you won’t help, at least stay out of my way.”

“Gladly.” Pansy leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms as she watched Hermione work. The Gryffindor’s movements were precise, almost mechanical, but there was a tension in her shoulders that hadn’t been there before.

The room buzzed with activity as other pairs worked on their potions, the faint clinking of glass and murmured instructions filling the air. Pansy’s eyes wandered lazily across the dungeon, but her attention snapped back to Hermione when the other girl’s hand faltered, nearly knocking over a vial of stewed horned slugs.

“Careful, Granger,” Pansy said, her tone mockingly sweet. “Wouldn’t want to ruin your perfect record.”

Hermione glared at her; her brown eyes burning intensely. “If you’re not going to help, Parkinson, the least you could do is keep quiet.”

“Oh, but where’s the fun in that?” Pansy replied, her smirk widening.

Hermione didn’t respond, her attention returning to the potion as she added the billywig stings with a steady hand. The cauldron hissed, a faint plume of smoke rising as the mixture turned a vivid shade of green.

“Stir counterclockwise, Parkinson,” Hermione instructed curtly, holding out the stirrer without looking at her. “Five times.”

Pansy took the stirrer, her smirk never faltering. “Counterclockwise. Got it.”

She plunged the stirrer into the potion and gave it an exaggerated swirl—clockwise.

Hermione’s head snapped up. “What are you doing? I said counterclockwise!”

“Relax, Granger,” Pansy said, feigning innocence. “It’s not like it’s going to explode.”

The words had barely left her mouth when the potion began to bubble violently, the green hue shifting to a dangerous shade of orange. Hermione’s eyes widened, and she lunged forward to grab the stirrer, but it was too late.

The cauldron erupted with a loud pop, sending a thick plume of orange smoke into the air. Shouts and coughs echoed across the dungeon as students scrambled to move away. Pansy stumbled back, waving a hand in front of her face as the smoke enveloped her.

When it finally cleared, Pansy glanced down at herself and grimaced. Her robes were splattered with sticky orange goo, the smell of burnt ingredients making her stomach turn. Across the table, Hermione was in a similar state, her hair frizzed and her expression livid.

“What did I just say?” Hermione hissed, her voice low and furious.

Pansy opened her mouth to reply, but before she could, Professor Slughorn appeared, his round face red with exasperation. “Miss Granger! Miss Parkinson! What is the meaning of this?”

“It was an accident,” Hermione said quickly, though her glare at Pansy suggested otherwise.

“An accident,” Slughorn repeated, his eyes narrowing. “Well, it’s an expensive accident. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to procure billywig stings these days? You are not First Years anymore girls, I wouldn’t expect such mistakes from my NEWT students.”

Hermione flushed, her gaze dropping to the floor. Pansy, however, simply crossed her arms and met Slughorn’s gaze with defiant indifference.

“Clean this up,” Slughorn said, waving his wand to banish the worst of the mess. “And see me after class. Both of you.”

He turned and walked away, muttering under his breath about wasted ingredients and careless students.

Hermione turned to Pansy, her expression a mix of anger and disbelief. “Are you proud of yourself?”

“Not particularly,” Pansy said, brushing a glob of orange goo off her sleeve. “But you have to admit, it was entertaining.”

Hermione let out a sharp breath, clearly at the end of her patience. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re predictable,” Pansy shot back, her smirk returning. “Looks like we both have our faults.”

Hermione didn’t respond, turning back to the cauldron with a frustrated shake of her head. Pansy watched her for a moment, a flicker of something almost like regret tugging at the edges of her thoughts. But she pushed it aside, focusing instead on the smirk she wore like armour.

It was going to be a long year.

The classroom was eerily quiet after the other students had filed out, leaving only Hermione, Pansy, and Professor Slughorn standing amidst the lingering smell of burnt potion. Slughorn waved his wand lazily, clearing the last of the mess as he settled heavily into his chair.

“Well,” he began, his voice a mix of disappointment and weariness, “that was certainly… memorable girls, and it’s earned you both my first detention in years.”

Pansy crossed her arms, leaning back against the table with an air of practiced indifference. Hermione, on the other hand, stood ramrod straight, her expression a mix of anger and mortification.

“Professor,” Hermione started, her voice tight, “if you could just let me explain—”

Slughorn raised a hand, cutting her off. “Oh, Miss Granger, there’s no need. I’ve been teaching long enough to see exactly what’s happening here.”

Hermione frowned, her mouth opening as if to protest, but Slughorn pressed on. “The two of you,” he said, gesturing between them, “have been at each other’s throats since term began. I had hoped that pairing you up might encourage some… reconciliation. A little house unity, yes?”

Pansy snorted, earning her a sharp look from Slughorn.

“But it seems,” he continued, his tone growing sterner, “that my little experiment has only made things worse. And the other professors have noticed too. Your bickering has been the talk of the staffroom, you know.”

“Professor,” Hermione said, her frustration bubbling to the surface, “with all due respect, our differences are too great to simply ‘reconcile.’ It’s not fair to try and force me to get along with someone who—”

“Someone who what, Granger?” Pansy cut in, her voice sharp. “Say it.”

Hermione turned to her; her eyes blazing. “Who tried to hand Harry over to Voldemort!” The words echoed in the quiet dungeon, heavy and damning. Professor Slughorn made an awkward, high-pitched noise at the mention of the Dark Lord’s name.

For once, Pansy didn’t respond. Her smirk faltered, her expression slipping into something unreadable. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, as the weight of Hermione’s accusation hung in the air.

Slughorn sighed, leaning forward and steepling his fingers. “Yes,” he said quietly, his voice unusually serious. “Miss Parkinson’s actions during the battle were… unfortunate. But this is exactly why I believe this is necessary. Hogwarts is a place for second chances, for growth and understanding.”

Hermione’s jaw tightened, her gaze snapping back to Slughorn. “And you think detention will fix this? That pairing us up again will magically erase what she did?”

“I think,” Slughorn said, his tone firm, “that it’s an opportunity. The war is over, Miss Granger. We must look forward, not back. I’m sure Miss Parkinson has many regrets about her previous year at this school and I would think she would welcome an opportunity to begin correcting them.”

Hermione let out a sharp breath, her hands curling into fists at her sides. “That’s easy for you to say. You weren’t the one she wanted to sacrifice.”

Slughorn’s gaze softened, but his resolve didn’t waver. “This is about more than the two of you. It’s about what Hogwarts stands for—what it must stand for, if we’re to move on.”

Hermione looked away; her lips pressed into a thin line. Pansy remained silent; her usual bravado stripped away as she stared at the floor.

“Detention, tonight at eight o’clock sharp.” Slughorn repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Together. I trust you’ll both use the time wisely.”

Without waiting for a response, he stood and began gathering his things, signalling the end of the conversation. Hermione turned sharply on her heel and stalked out of the classroom, her footsteps echoing loudly against the stone floor.

Pansy lingered for a moment longer, her gaze still fixed on the floor. For once, she had no clever remark, no cutting retort. Hermione’s words played on a loop in her mind, their weight pressing against her chest like a stone, and she could think of little else until their detention that evening.

The air in the ruined corridor was cold and heavy with the smell of dust and damp stone. Hermione stood in the centre of the rubble, surveying the damage with her wand in hand. Pansy leaned against a crumbling pillar, her arms crossed and her expression one of barely concealed boredom.

“This,” Pansy drawled, “is a waste of time.” Repairing damaged sections of the castle was not what she thought Slughorn would have in mind for their detention. Weren’t there fully qualified wizards who specialised in repairing and maintaining magical buildings? I guess we are free labour Pansy thought to herself.

Hermione sighed deeply, not bothering to look at her. “If you actually helped, it might go faster.”

“Right,” Pansy replied, her smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. “Because your enthusiasm for rubble-clearing is so infectious.”

Before Hermione could retort, Professor Flitwick appeared from behind a partially repaired archway, his small frame dwarfed by the towering debris. “Ah, there you are,” he chirped, clapping his hands together. “This section’s been particularly tricky, so your magic will be put to good use. Remember, stabilization charms first, then repair.”

“Understood, Professor,” Hermione said with a firm nod.

Pansy rolled her eyes but gave a half-hearted shrug. “Can’t wait.”

Flitwick beamed, clearly unfazed by her sarcasm. “Good! I’ll leave you to it, then. Call if you need assistance.”

As Flitwick disappeared down the corridor, Hermione turned to Pansy, her expression expectant. “Are you going to help, or are you just going to stand there?”

Pansy pushed off the pillar, twirling her wand between her fingers. “Fine,” she said, her tone begrudging. “But don’t expect me to enjoy it.”

They worked in strained silence, Hermione casting precise stabilization spells on the unstable walls while Pansy muttered incantations that half-heartedly shifted debris. The occasional clatter of falling stone broke the quiet, but neither of them spoke.

“Careful,” Hermione said at one point, glancing over her shoulder as Pansy moved a jagged piece of rubble with a flick of her wand. “If you’re not exact, the whole section could collapse.”

“Oh, thank you, Granger,” Pansy shot back, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “I’d never have guessed.”

Hermione sighed but didn’t respond, focusing instead on repairing a particularly damaged archway. Pansy watched her for a moment, her smirk fading slightly. Despite herself, she couldn’t help but admire the other girl’s determination.

But then the sound of cracking stone filled the air, sharp and sudden. Pansy’s head snapped up, her heart leaping as she saw a large chunk of masonry teetering precariously above Hermione.

“Granger, move!” Pansy shouted, her wand already snapping upward.

The stone fell, but Pansy’s shield charm flared to life just in time, catching the debris mid-air. The force of the impact sent her stumbling back, but she held firm, her jaw clenched as she lowered the chunk of stone carefully to the ground.

Hermione spun around, her eyes wide. “You—” she began, her voice catching. “You saved me.”

Pansy straightened, brushing dust off her robes with deliberate nonchalance. “Don’t read too much into it,” she said coolly. “I didn’t fancy facing all the suspicion and accusations for your untimely demise. As you pointed out to Professor Slughorn, I’ve already tried to give up Potter to the Dark Lord.”

Hermione stared at her, her expression mixed with gratitude and discomfort. “You did. Still,” she said softly, “thank you.”

Pansy opened her mouth to reply, but the words caught in her throat. Instead, she shrugged, forcing her smirk back into place. “Don’t mention it. Really.”

Hermione hesitated for a moment longer before turning back to her work, though her movements were slower, more thoughtful. Pansy watched her out of the corner of her eye, the familiar ache of conflicting emotions tightening in her chest.

She had done something good—something right. And she hated how much it unsettled her.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3

Hermione stormed into the Great Hall; her robe still speckled with orange potion residue. Ginny was already at the Gryffindor table, poking listlessly at a plate of mashed potatoes. The moment she spotted Hermione, her expression sharpened.

“Finally!” Ginny exclaimed, setting her fork down with a clatter. “What in Merlin’s name happened after Slughorn pulled you two aside? I’ve been dying to hear how you managed not to hex Parkinson into next week.”

Hermione dropped onto the bench with a frustrated huff, grabbing a goblet of pumpkin juice and downing half of it in one go. “Oh, believe me, Ginny,” she muttered, setting the goblet down with a sharp clink. “I was close.”

“I could tell,” Ginny said with a smirk. “Your face was the same shade as the potion.”

Hermione shot her a glare, but Ginny raised her hands defensively. “Hey, I’m on your side! Slughorn pairing you up with her was absolutely mental.”

“You don’t say,” Hermione muttered, rubbing her temples. “He said it was for house unity. Apparently, we need to ‘set an example.’”

Ginny groaned loudly, drawing a few amused glances from nearby students. “Unity? With Parkinson? That’s like expecting a Hungarian Horntail to play nice with a Blast-Ended Skrewt!”

Hermione snorted despite herself. “Am I the Horntail or the Skrewt? Anyway, Slughorn seems to think otherwise. And now, thanks to her deliberately stirring the wrong way, we’ve both got detention.”

Ginny’s eyes widened. “Detention? With her? What did you do to deserve that?”

“Exist,” Hermione replied dryly. “Apparently, Slughorn hoped pairing us up would make us get along. Now he’s doubling down and making us serve detention together.”

Ginny slapped her hand against the table, startling a passing first-year. “Unbelievable. That’s just unbelievable! She nearly got us all killed, Hermione. And now you’re the one being punished?”

Hermione hesitated, lowering her voice as she leaned closer. “I said it, Ginny. In front of Slughorn. That she tried to hand Harry over to Voldemort.”

Ginny’s jaw dropped, but then a wicked grin spread across her face. “Good. About time someone said it.”

Hermione frowned. “I thought I’d feel better, but…” She trailed off, her fingers tracing patterns on the wooden table. “She didn’t deny it. She didn’t even argue. She just stood there.”

Ginny’s smile faded. “What do you mean?”

“I mean she looked… defeated,” Hermione said softly. “Like she already knew it was true and couldn’t fight it.”

Ginny crossed her arms, her brow furrowing. “So what? We’re supposed to feel sorry for her now? Because she feels bad about the awful things she’s done?”

“No,” Hermione said quickly. “I don’t feel sorry for her. But it made me think… maybe she’s not as impenetrable as she wants everyone to believe.”

Ginny leaned back, her expression skeptical. “Hermione, people like her don’t change. They act sorry when it suits them, but deep down, they’re the same.”

“I don’t know,” Hermione said, shaking her head. “Maybe you’re right. But if she is trying to change, doesn’t she deserve the chance?”

Ginny stared at her for a long moment before sighing and picking up her fork again. “I don’t know how you do it, Hermione. I’d have hexed her ages ago.”

Hermione smiled faintly. “Believe me, it’s crossed my mind.”

The two girls sat in companionable silence for a moment, the clatter and chatter of the Great Hall filling the space around them. But even as Hermione reached for a slice of bread, her thoughts remained on Pansy, on the way her smirk had faltered when Hermione spoke the truth aloud. Perhaps something had finally clicked inside the girl, some shred of morality had started shining through. Still, Hermione doubted their upcoming detention would reveal any new sides to Pansy Parkinson.

Hermione’s breath came in short, sharp bursts as she stared at the stone chunk resting harmlessly on the ground, glowing faintly from Pansy’s shield charm. The weight of what had just happened pressed against her chest, making it hard to think, let alone speak.

Pansy stood a few feet away, her wand still raised, her usual smirk nowhere to be found. For a moment, neither of them moved, the silence broken only by the faint hum of magic dissipating into the air.

“You…” Hermione’s voice faltered as she turned to face Pansy fully. “You saved me.”

Pansy lowered her wand slowly, her expression carefully neutral. “Don’t read too much into it,” she said coolly. “I didn’t fancy facing all the suspicion and accusations for your untimely demise. As you pointed out to Professor Slughorn, I’ve already tried to give up Potter to the Dark Lord.”

Hermione blinked, processing the bluntness of the remark. “You did. Still,” she said softly, “thank you.”

Pansy shrugged, brushing dust off her robes with deliberate nonchalance. “Don’t mention it. Really.”

Hermione hesitated, then nodded slightly, her gaze lingering on Pansy for a moment longer before she turned back to her work. Her mind buzzed with questions she wasn’t ready to confront, the image of the shield charm still vivid in her mind.

The silence stretched between them, heavy but no longer suffocating, as they worked side by side. For the first time, Hermione found herself wondering if there was more to Pansy than she’d thought—and if she’d ever know what it was.

The walk back to the dormitory was eerily quiet, the soft click of Hermione’s shoes on the stone floor the only sound breaking the stillness. Pansy walked a few paces ahead, her usual swagger absent. Hermione’s thoughts swirled like a storm; her eyes fixed on Pansy’s back as they ascended the stairs.

She wanted to say something. Thank you again, maybe. Or even just acknowledge what had happened. But the words caught in her throat, tangled with everything else she didn’t know how to feel. Gratitude. Confusion. Resentment.

They reached the door to the 8th Year Dormitory, the brass plaque gleaming faintly in the dim torchlight. Pansy pushed it open without a word, stepping inside and heading straight for their shared room. Hermione lingered in the doorway for a moment, her fingers brushing against the cool wood as she tried to steady herself.

By the time she entered their room, Pansy was already rummaging through her wardrobe, her movements quick and clipped. Hermione set her bag down at the foot of her bed, the silence between them stretching thin and taut.

“Good night,” Hermione said finally, her voice quiet but steady.

Pansy didn’t turn around. “Good night,” she replied, her tone flat.

Hermione hesitated, her gaze lingering on Pansy’s rigid posture before she climbed into bed. She lay staring at the ceiling, the events of the day replaying in her mind. The moment the stone had fallen, the flash of Pansy’s shield charm, the way she’d brushed it off afterward as if it meant nothing.

But it did mean something. It had to.

Hermione turned onto her side, pulling the blanket up to her chin. She couldn’t make sense of Pansy—not yet. But as she drifted toward sleep, one thought stood out among the chaos: for all her sharp words and cutting remarks, Pansy Parkinson had saved her life, and no amount of sarcasm could erase that.

The Great Hall buzzed with morning activity as students gathered for breakfast, their voices mingling with the clatter of silverware and the rustling of parchment. Hermione sat at the Gryffindor table, her plate of toast and scrambled eggs untouched. Ginny slid into the seat across from her, already halfway through a steaming mug of tea.

“So,” Ginny began, setting her cup down and leaning forward. “What happened during detention? And don’t you dare say ‘nothing.’ You’re too quiet for it to have been uneventful.”

Hermione sighed, absently stirring her tea. “It was… something,” she admitted, her voice low. “We were repairing a section of the castle. This huge chunk of stone broke loose and fell, almost landed right on my head, would’ve killed me. Pansy stopped it with a shield charm.”

Ginny’s eyes widened. “Really? Are you alright? And… Parkinson…”

“She saved me,” Hermione said, her tone carefully measured. “And then, of course, she made some flippant remark about not wanting to deal with suspicions and accusations about my untimely demise.”

Ginny snorted. “Typical.”

“I know,” Hermione said, shaking her head. “But it doesn’t change the fact that she saved me. She didn’t have to, but she did.”

Ginny leaned back, crossing her arms as she studied Hermione’s expression. “And how do you feel about that?”

“I don’t know,” Hermione admitted, frowning slightly. “Confused. Grateful. Frustrated, because she brushed it off like it didn’t matter.”

“Of course she did,” Ginny said, rolling her eyes. “She’s Pansy Parkinson. She probably thinks admitting she did something decent would make her combust.”

Hermione smiled faintly but didn’t reply. Her gaze drifted toward the enchanted ceiling; her thoughts tangled with the events of the previous night.

Their conversation was interrupted by a sudden flurry of owls descending into the hall, their wings flapping as they dropped letters and packages onto tables. A handsome eagle owl landed gracefully in front of Ginny, while a tawny owl swooped down to Hermione’s plate, its beak clamped around a thick envelope.

“From Harry,” Ginny said, a smile breaking across her face as she took the letter from the eagle owl. “And… Neville?”

Hermione’s heart lifted slightly as she opened her own envelope, recognizing Ron’s messy scrawl on the parchment inside. “They must have written together.”

Ginny grinned as she unfolded her letter, her eyes scanning the lines quickly. “He’s alright. Says Auror training is brutal but that Harry’s keeping him sane.”

Hermione nodded, her own smile growing as she read Ron’s letter.

Hey, Hermione,
Auror training is no joke. They’ve got us up at dawn running drills before we even touch a wand. Harry’s handling it well, though—I think he actually likes the punishment. Neville says hi, by the way. He’s doing great with the Herbology side of things, of course. Robards has been brilliant so far, though he definitely expects a lot from us. How’s Hogwarts? Hope you’re surviving without me there to annoy you.
Write back soon.
Ron.

Hermione chuckled softly, folding the letter neatly and tucking it into her bag.

“What did he say?” Ginny asked, her eyes sparkling.

“Pretty much what you’d expect,” Hermione replied. “Training is hard, Neville’s thriving, and Harry’s a glutton for punishment.”

Ginny laughed. “That sounds about right.” She glanced at her own letter again, her smile softening. “Harry says he misses me. And that he threatened to hex an instructor who gave Neville grief over something minor.”

“That sounds about right too,” Hermione said with a grin.

The tawny owl hooted softly, nudging a second letter toward Hermione. She picked it up, recognizing Neville’s tidy handwriting.

Hi Hermione,
Hope things at Hogwarts aren’t too strange. Training’s been intense, but I’m learning a lot. Harry’s a natural, of course, and Ron keeps us all laughing even when we’re knackered. I miss the greenhouse, though. Everything here is so rigid—it makes me appreciate the chaos of school. Let me know how you’re getting on. Kingsley says keeping in touch with the world outside the Auror Academy is essential, so I’m taking his advice. I hope you’re doing alright.
Neville.

Hermione smiled, her chest warming at Neville’s thoughtfulness. She glanced at Ginny, who was tucking her own letter away, her expression brighter than it had been all week.

“Feels good to hear from them, doesn’t it?” Ginny said.

“It does,” Hermione agreed, slipping Neville’s letter into her bag beside Ron’s. For the first time since the term had started, she felt a little less cut off from her friends.

Hermione sat at her desk in the 8th Year Dormitory, her quill scratching softly against the parchment. The letter to Ron had been harder to write than she’d expected, her thoughts twisting and turning as she tried to put her feelings into words.

Dear Ron,

I hope training isn’t wearing you down too much, though I’m sure you and Harry are finding ways to make it more entertaining than gruelling. I can just picture you two now, laughing at something ridiculous while this Robards guy tries to keep a straight face. Neville wrote as well—he seems to be settling in better than I’d expected, but I suppose he has come a long way from the nervous boy who started Hogwarts all those years ago.

Hogwarts feels… different. I’m sure you can imagine why. Without you and Harry here, everything feels quieter, smaller somehow. Classes are the same in some ways, but the dorms are new. I’m in the new 8th Year Dormitory, which means sharing space with students from other houses. It’s… challenging, to say the least.

I miss you. It’s strange not having you here, making sarcastic comments in class or stealing bites of my toast at breakfast. The first Hogsmeade weekend is coming up soon, and I was thinking—maybe you could come? Just for the day. It would be nice to see you, to catch up properly. Let me know if you can make it.

Take care of yourself, Ron. And make sure Harry does the same.

Love,
Hermione

She read the letter twice before folding it neatly and sealing it with her wand. The words felt earnest, though she couldn’t shake the nagging doubt that something was missing. Pushing the thought aside, she tucked the letter into her bag and made her way to the Owlery.

The cold morning air greeted her as she stepped into the open chamber, the flurry of wings and soft hoots creating a familiar symphony. As she secured her letter to a barn owl, the sound of footsteps on the spiral staircase drew her attention.

She turned to see Pansy Parkinson stepping into the room, a folded piece of parchment in hand. Pansy’s usual smirk was absent, her expression unreadable as she approached one of the owls perched near the far wall.

“Parkinson,” Hermione said cautiously, the tension between them still fresh after the events of the previous night.

“Granger,” Pansy replied without looking at her, her tone clipped. She tied her letter to the leg of a sleek black owl, her movements quick and precise.

Hermione hesitated, her curiosity getting the better of her. “Who are you writing to?”

Pansy turned her head slightly, her eyes narrowing. “My parents. Not that it’s any of your business.”

Hermione blinked, surprised by the admission. “Your parents? But aren’t they—”

“In Azkaban,” Pansy finished flatly. “Yes, they are. That doesn’t mean I don’t write to them.”

There was an edge to her voice, a sharpness that warned Hermione not to push further. Still, she couldn’t help but wonder what kind of relationship Pansy had with her parents—parents who had supported Voldemort and landed themselves in prison as a result.

Pansy turned back to the owl, giving it a gentle nudge. “Go on,” she murmured, watching as it took flight. She lingered for a moment, her gaze fixed on the window as if lost in thought.

Hermione considered saying something—anything—but before she could, Pansy spun on her heel and strode toward the staircase.

“See you around, Granger,” Pansy said, her voice cool and detached.

Hermione watched her go, her mind racing with questions. The Pansy Parkinson she thought she knew didn’t match the girl she’d seen last night, or the one who had just written to her imprisoned parents. The pieces didn’t fit, and it left Hermione with an unsettling sense of curiosity she couldn’t quite shake.

The 8th Year Common Room was unusually quiet that evening, the soft glow of floating candles casting long shadows across the room. Hermione sat curled up in one of the armchairs near the window, her Arithmancy textbook open on her lap but largely ignored. Around her, small groups of students were scattered about, some chatting quietly, others immersed in their own studies.

The sudden creak of the main door opening drew everyone’s attention. Professor McGonagall stepped into the room, her presence commanding immediate silence. Her sharp gaze swept the room, and the students quickly straightened, some hastily setting aside their books and parchments.

“Good evening,” McGonagall said, her voice steady but carrying an undercurrent of gravity. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“No, Professor,” Hermione said, standing instinctively. Several others followed her lead, their curiosity evident.

McGonagall inclined her head slightly. “Thank you. I’ve come to ask for your assistance with something important.”

The room was completely still as she continued. “As you know, the castle is still in the process of being repaired. One of the corridors near the Great Hall suffered significant damage during the battle, and it has been decided that it will house a memorial for those who lost their lives defending the school.”

A murmur rippled through the room, subdued and sombre.

McGonagall raised a hand, quieting them. “This memorial will not simply be a tribute to those we lost. It will be a reminder of what was fought for—and what must never be forgotten. I believe it is only fitting that those of you who lived through that day and have chosen to return to Hogwarts take part in its design and creation.”

Hermione’s chest tightened at the weight of McGonagall’s words. She glanced around the room, seeing a mix of emotions on her classmates’ faces. Some looked uneasy, others thoughtful.

“Professor,” Ernie Macmillan spoke up, his voice tentative, “do you already have an idea for what the memorial should look like?”

McGonagall shook her head. “That is for you to decide. Each of you experienced the battle differently, and it is your collective perspective that I wish to see reflected in this memorial. Consider it an opportunity to contribute to the castle’s rebuilding in a way that honours its history and its future.”

Padma Patil raised her hand. “Will we have guidance?”

“Of course,” McGonagall replied. “Professor Flitwick has kindly offered his expertise in enchantments, and Professors Sprout and Hagrid will aid with sourcing materials. However, the vision and the execution will be yours.”

Hermione’s mind was already racing with ideas, though the weight of the task made her heart ache. This wasn’t just about creating something beautiful—it was about confronting the pain and loss that had touched all of their lives.

“Do we have a deadline, Professor?” Hermione asked, her voice steady despite the tightness in her throat.

McGonagall nodded. “I would like to see the memorial completed by Christmas if possible.”

The room fell silent again as the weight of the responsibility settled over them. Hermione looked at her classmates, noting the quiet resolve in some faces and the uncertainty in others.

“Very well,” McGonagall said, her voice softer now. “I will leave you to discuss how you wish to proceed. If you require anything, do not hesitate to ask.”

With that, she turned and left the room, her robes sweeping behind her. For a long moment after McGonagall’s departure, the room remained silent. Hermione could feel the weight of the task pressing down on them all, the enormity of what it meant. Around her, some of the students exchanged uncertain glances, while others avoided eye contact altogether.

“Well,” Dean said finally, breaking the silence, “if we’re going to do this, we need to start somewhere.”

A few murmurs of agreement rippled through the room, but it was hesitant, subdued. Hermione glanced around, her gaze catching on Daphne Greengrass, who sat stiffly by the window, her arms crossed. Blaise Zabini lounged nearby, his expression unreadable. Neither of them said a word.

“It should be Hermione,” Padma said suddenly, her voice clear in the quiet. “To lead the project, I mean. She’s the obvious choice.”

Hermione blinked, taken aback. “Me?”

“Of course, you,” Ernie chimed in. “You’re the best at organizing, and… well, you were right there in the middle of it all with Harry and Ron. You understand what this means better than anyone.”

A wave of agreement swept through the room, though Hermione couldn’t help but notice the pointed lack of response from the Slytherin students. Daphne’s lips tightened, but she said nothing. Blaise merely raised an eyebrow, leaning back against the arm of a sofa.

Hermione hesitated, her gaze flitting between the supportive faces of her classmates and the guarded expressions of the Slytherins. “If… if everyone agrees,” she said carefully, “I’ll do it. But this has to be a group effort. It’s not about me—it’s about all of us.”

There were nods and murmurs of assent, but the atmosphere remained tense. Dean shifted in his seat, glancing toward the Slytherins. “Look,” he said, his tone hesitant but firm, “I think it’s fair to ask… should everyone be involved in this? I mean, no offense, but some people didn’t exactly… participate during the battle.”

The tension in the room ratcheted up instantly. Daphne’s head snapped up, her eyes narrowing. “Are you suggesting we’re not worthy to help? We’re in Slytherin so we’re obviously Death Eaters?” she asked, her voice cold.

Dean held up his hands. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just saying—there were people who fought and people who didn’t. Maybe those who didn’t shouldn’t—”

“Shouldn’t what?” Blaise interrupted; his tone smooth but cutting. “Be allowed to honour the dead? Pay respects? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Enough,” Hermione said sharply, her voice slicing through the tension. “This isn’t about who did or didn’t fight. The memorial is for everyone who was affected by the battle—including those who weren’t directly involved.”

Dean looked like he wanted to argue, but he clamped his mouth shut, his jaw tight. Daphne and Blaise exchanged a glance, their expressions unreadable, before Daphne leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms again.

“This is going to be a roaring success,” Padma muttered, earning a quiet chuckle from Ernie.

After a few more minutes of strained discussion, it was agreed that Hermione would take charge of organizing the project. The rest of the details, however, remained frustratingly vague. By the time the group dispersed for the night, Hermione’s mind was already buzzing with ideas and challenges.

Later that evening, Hermione returned to the room to find Pansy sitting cross-legged on her bed, staring blankly at the magazine in her lap. The usual air of superiority was missing, replaced by something far more subdued. Hermione hesitated in the doorway before speaking.

“You missed an announcement,” she said, setting her bag down and shrugging off her robes.

Pansy barely glanced up, but the superior smirk was making a return, “What kind of announcement? Weasley ask you to marry him? Bit soon don’t you think?”

“Professor McGonagall wants the 8th years to design and create a memorial for the battle,” Hermione explained, brushing aside Pansy’s jibe. “It’ll be in one of the repaired corridors near the Great Hall.”

Pansy stiffened slightly, her gaze lowering to the magazine. For a moment, she said nothing, her fingers fidgeting absentmindedly with the edge of the page.

“A memorial,” she repeated quietly. “How… fitting.”

Hermione tilted her head, studying Pansy’s unusually subdued demeanour. “She wants everyone to be involved,” she added. “That includes you.”

Pansy let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. “Of course it does. That sounds exactly like something McGonagall would say.”

“You don’t want to participate?” Hermione asked, her tone cautious.

Pansy’s laugh faded, replaced by a hollow expression. “Do you really think anyone wants me near a memorial wall, Granger?” she asked, her voice sharp but laced with something that sounded almost like regret. “Half the school still looks at me like I’m about to curse them. And they’re not wrong.”

“Maybe that’s exactly why you should be involved,” Hermione countered, stepping closer. “Show that you do care about what happened.”

Pansy’s head snapped up, her eyes narrowing. “Easy for you to say,” she snapped. “You didn’t stand up in the Great Hall and suggest handing Potter over to the Dark Lord. I might as well have painted a big red target on my back.”

Hermione’s lips pressed into a thin line, the memory of that moment flickering through her mind. “You were scared,” she said softly. “We all were.”

Pansy scoffed, but there was no heat in it. “Being scared doesn’t excuse what I did. I wasn’t thinking about anyone else—just myself. And now McGonagall wants me to help build a memorial for people braver than I could ever hope to be.” She shook her head, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. “I don’t deserve that.”

Hermione hesitated, unsure how to respond. She hadn’t expected Pansy to admit to such feelings, and the rawness of her words caught her off guard. “It’s not about deserving,” she said finally. “It’s about honouring their sacrifice and learning from it. Maybe being part of this is exactly what you need.”

Pansy didn’t reply immediately. Instead, she turned her gaze back to the magazine, though it was clear her focus was elsewhere. “I’ll think about it,” she said at last, her tone flat.

Hermione lingered for a moment longer before retreating to her own bed. As she settled in, she couldn’t help but glance at Pansy, whose expression remained guarded and distant. There was more to her than Hermione had realized—more than even Pansy seemed willing to admit, and for the first time, Hermione wondered if there was a way to bridge the gap between them. One thing Hermione was sure of as she crawled beneath her covers that night, is that getting through to Pansy Parkinson would be a slow affair. Why bother anyway? Hermione thought to herself, what difference did it make if Pansy Parkinson became less of a bitch? It’s not like we’re going to end up best friends after all that she’s done. With confusion about Pansy swirling around her mind, Hermione struggled to drift off, which was not in her best interests. Quidditch Try-outs were tomorrow, and Hermione had resolved to show Ginny the same support she had Harry and Ron.

The crisp autumn air carried the sharp scent of freshly cut grass as Hermione made her way to the Quidditch pitch. The castle grounds were alive with activity, students darting in every direction, but the largest crowd by far was heading toward the pitch. It seemed half the school was determined to catch a glimpse of Ginny Weasley’s Gryffindor try-outs.

Hermione climbed the stands, finding a seat high enough to offer a good view of the chaos below. The scene was every bit as chaotic as she’d expected. Hundreds of students crowded the pitch, many clutching brooms, some clearly too new to the sport to have any business trying out. Others didn’t even bother with the pretence of joining the team, holding up banners proclaiming their admiration for Ginny—or more specifically, for ‘Harry Potter’s girlfriend.’

Ginny stood in the centre of the pitch, her hands on her hips, her whistle clutched in her fist. Her red hair blazed like fire in the sunlight, her expression a mixture of determination and barely concealed exasperation.

“Alright, listen up!” Ginny shouted, her voice amplified by the Sonorus charm she’d cast on herself. “If you’re not a Gryffindor, you’re not trying out for this team. And if you don’t know how to hold a broom, or you can’t get off the ground, you’re not trying out for this team. Clear?”

A murmur rippled through the crowd, but few seemed inclined to leave. One Hufflepuff, broom in hand, raised his voice. “But we heard you’re the best flyer in school! We wanted to see you in action!”

Ginny pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering something Hermione couldn’t hear. Then she raised the whistle to her lips and blew, the shrill sound cutting through the chatter.

“Gryffindors only!” she barked, pointing toward the sidelines. “If you’re not in Gryffindor, get off the pitch!”

The crowd hesitated, a few sheepishly edging away, but most remained rooted in place. Ginny’s frustration was palpable, her sharp gaze scanning the sea of faces as if daring them to argue.

From her perch in the stands, Hermione couldn’t help but chuckle. Watching Ginny try to wrangle the chaos was oddly entertaining, though she made a mental note to offer her friend a calming draught later.

Her amusement, however, was short-lived. As her gaze wandered across the grounds, she caught sight of a lone figure sitting near the edge of the Black Lake. Pansy Parkinson. Her dark hair was uncharacteristically loose, her arms wrapped around her knees as she stared out over the water.

Hermione frowned, her amusement fading. Pansy looked smaller somehow, the usual sharpness of her posture absent. She was still, almost unnaturally so, as if the world around her had ceased to exist.

Hermione’s first instinct was to ignore her. It wasn’t as if Pansy had earned her sympathy—not after years of cruel remarks and thinly veiled disdain. But something about the way she sat there, so isolated and vulnerable, tugged at Hermione’s conscience.

She looked back toward the pitch. Ginny was blowing her whistle again, her fiery temper in full swing as she tried to organize the remaining Gryffindors into some semblance of order. Hermione doubted she’d notice if her friend slipped away.

Making up her mind, Hermione stood and descended the stands, weaving through the milling crowd until she reached the path leading to the lake. The closer she got, the clearer Pansy’s figure became. Her robes were neatly arranged, her face turned toward the water, but there was an air of heaviness about her that made Hermione hesitate.

When she was close enough to be heard, Hermione cleared her throat gently. “Parkinson?”

Pansy didn’t turn immediately, her shoulders stiffening slightly. When she finally glanced over her shoulder, her expression was unreadable. “Granger,” she said, her voice flat.

Hermione hesitated, unsure of what to say now that she was here. “What are you doing out here?” she asked at last.

“Enjoying the peace and quiet,” Pansy replied, her tone dry. “At least until now.”

Hermione ignored the jab, stepping closer. “You looked… alone,” she said carefully. “I thought I’d see if you were alright.”

Pansy let out a soft laugh, though there was no humour in it. “How very noble of you. Always the Gryffindor.”

“It’s not about that,” Hermione said, sitting down a few feet away. “I just thought you might want some company.”

Pansy turned her gaze back to the lake, her expression softening almost imperceptibly. For a long moment, neither of them spoke, the gentle lapping of the water filling the silence.

“I don’t need your pity, Granger,” Pansy said finally, her voice quiet.

“It’s not pity,” Hermione replied, her tone firm but kind. “Maybe I just understand what it feels like to be alone.”

Pansy didn’t respond, her gaze fixed on the water. Hermione stayed where she was, letting the silence stretch between them. She didn’t know what she was hoping to accomplish by sitting there, but something told her this moment—however small—mattered. The silence stretched, heavy but not entirely uncomfortable. Pansy hadn’t told her to leave, which Hermione took as permission to stay—for now.

“You come out here often?” Hermione asked, her tone light but curious.

Pansy snorted softly. “Not exactly. But it seemed like the best place to avoid the circus on the pitch.”

Hermione smiled faintly. “Ginny’s try-outs. I don’t blame you. It’s chaos over there.”

“Chaos?” Pansy repeated, raising an eyebrow. “That’s putting it mildly. Half the school flocking to hero-worship Harry Potter’s girlfriend. Honestly, it’s embarrassing.”

“She’s more than just Harry’s girlfriend,” Hermione said, a touch defensive. “Ginny’s a brilliant flyer and an excellent captain. She deserves the attention.”

Pansy shrugged, her gaze fixed on the lake. “If you say so.”

Hermione watched her for a moment, studying the way Pansy’s fingers fidgeted with the hem of her robe. It was subtle, but there—a sign that the cool, detached facade wasn’t as impenetrable as it seemed.

“You know,” Hermione said carefully, “it’s alright to feel… out of place. After everything that’s happened, I think we all do, in some way.”

Pansy let out a low, humourless laugh. “How insightful. Did you learn that from one of your precious books?”

Hermione bit back a sigh, trying to keep her frustration in check. “I’m serious, Parkinson. You don’t have to pretend everything’s fine when it isn’t.”

Pansy finally turned to look at her, her dark eyes narrowing. “And why would you care, Granger? Feeling charitable today?”

“It’s not about charity,” Hermione said firmly. “It’s about being human. And despite what you might think, I’m not here to gloat or lecture you. I just… I thought you might want someone to talk to.”

Pansy’s lips twisted into a smirk, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “And I’m sure you think I should be ever so grateful for your magnanimous offer.”

Hermione shook her head, refusing to rise to the bait. “You don’t have to be grateful. You just have to be honest.”

Pansy’s expression faltered for a split second, the mask slipping just enough for Hermione to catch a glimpse of something raw underneath. But then it was gone, replaced by the same sharp-edged sarcasm.

“Well, since you’re so desperate to know,” Pansy drawled, “I came out here to enjoy the view. Not to bare my soul to Saint Hermione Granger.”

Hermione frowned, leaning back slightly. “You’re exhausting, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told,” Pansy replied with a mockingly sweet smile.

Despite herself, Hermione felt a small laugh bubble up. “You really don’t make this easy.”

“Why should I?” Pansy shot back, arching an eyebrow. “You’re the one who decided to play the hero and come over here.”

Hermione exhaled, glancing back toward the pitch where Ginny’s voice still carried faintly over the din. “Maybe I should have stayed and watched Ginny yell at the other students.”

“Probably,” Pansy said, her tone light but pointed. “I’m sure that’s far more entertaining than sitting with me.”

Hermione looked at her again, her gaze softer now. “You’re wrong about that.”

Pansy didn’t respond, her smirk fading as she turned her eyes back to the lake. The silence settled between them once more, but this time it felt different—less charged, more thoughtful.

Hermione stayed for a little while longer, unsure if she was waiting for Pansy to speak or simply offering her presence. When she finally stood to leave, she gave Pansy a small nod.

“See you around, Pansy,” she said, her voice gentle.

Pansy didn’t look at her, but her reply was quiet, almost inaudible. “Of course you will, I share a room with you.”

As Hermione walked back toward the castle, she couldn’t help but feel like something had shifted. It wasn’t much—just a sliver of understanding—but it was enough to keep her wondering.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4

Pansy woke to the sound of muffled footsteps and distant chatter filtering through the corridors outside the dormitory. Morning sunlight slipped through the curtains, cutting thin slants of light across her bed. She lay still for a moment, the warmth of the blankets tempting her to linger.

But the memory of Hermione’s words from the night before dragged her back into reality.

“Professor McGonagall wants the 8th years to design and create a memorial for the battle.”

Pansy had barely slept, her mind circling back to that announcement over and over. The idea of participating in something so symbolic made her stomach twist. A memorial wasn’t for people like her. It was for the brave, the selfless, people she’d never pretended to be. She’d made her choices, and she’d live with them, but standing alongside the others as if she belonged with them? That was laughable.

Rolling out of bed, Pansy dressed quickly, her movements sharp and precise. Across the room, Hermione’s side was empty, her bed made with irritating neatness. Pansy supposed Granger was probably already off somewhere organizing her latest crusade. She sighed and ran a hand through her hair, willing herself to block out thoughts of her insufferable roommate.

The 8th Year Common Room was its usual mix of subdued conversation and hushed whispers when she arrived. A few students glanced her way, their eyes flickering with the usual blend of wariness and disdain. She ignored them, moving to one of the tall windows overlooking the grounds.

The sight of the Black Lake caught her attention. Its dark waters were still, reflecting the pale morning sky, and for a brief moment, the tranquillity of it all drew her in. She wrapped her arms around herself, letting out a slow breath.

“Pansy.”

Pansy turned to find Blaise Zabini leaning casually against the nearest sofa, his expression unreadable. His dark eyes glinted with faint amusement, though his posture was deceptively relaxed.

“What do you want, Blaise?” Pansy asked, her voice sharp.

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” Blaise replied smoothly, straightening. “You’ve been skulking around like a ghost all week. Not like you to keep such a low profile.”

Pansy rolled her eyes, turning back to the window. “Maybe I’m just tired of your company.”

“Doubtful,” Blaise said, crossing his arms. “So, heard about this memorial?”

Her shoulders stiffened. “Granger was prattling on about it for ages last night, keeping me awake.”

“You don’t seem particularly thrilled about the idea.” Blaise said.

“I don’t care about it,” Pansy said flatly, though her voice lacked conviction.

Blaise raised an eyebrow. “Really? Because you look like you’ve been brooding over it all night.”

Pansy scowled, spinning to face him. “What’s your point, Blaise?”

“My point,” Blaise said, his tone infuriatingly calm, “is that maybe you should stop pretending you don’t care about anything. It’s not like anyone’s buying it.”

Pansy’s hands clenched into fists at her sides. “What do you know about it? You didn’t stand in the Great Hall and tell everyone to give Potter to the Dark Lord. No one’s questioning whether you deserve to be here.”

Blaise’s smirk faded, replaced by a rare seriousness. “You think you’re the only one carrying guilt around? News flash, Pansy—none of us are clean. But if you keep isolating yourself, you’re just giving them more reason to keep you on the outside.”

Pansy’s jaw tightened, her pulse pounding in her ears. She didn’t have an answer for that—at least, not one she was willing to say out loud. Without another word, she brushed past Blaise and left the common room, her robes billowing behind her.

Pansy’s aimless wandering eventually brought her to the castle’s upper floors, where sunlight streamed through the tall, arched windows. The warmth of the light did little to ease the cold knot in her chest. Her footsteps echoed against the stone floor, a steady reminder of the empty space around her.

Her thoughts refused to quiet. No matter how much she tried to focus on anything else, Hermione Granger’s voice seemed to follow her. The way she’d looked by the Black Lake yesterday—so determined, so sure of herself. The way she’d spoken about the memorial, as though it were some kind of noble crusade. The way she’d insisted, so maddeningly earnestly, that Pansy should be involved.

Pansy stopped in front of one of the windows, pressing her palms against the cool stone sill. She leaned forward, letting the fresh air from the enchanted panes wash over her face.

Why does she care?

It wasn’t the first time Pansy had asked herself that question, and it likely wouldn’t be the last. Hermione’s persistence, her irritating willingness to reach out, was unlike anything Pansy had experienced. Most people gave up on her quickly, but not Granger. Granger had looked at her with something that felt dangerously close to compassion.

And Pansy hated it.

It wasn’t just because it made her feel exposed—though it did. It was because it forced her to see herself the way Granger might see her: a coward, a failure, a person who had stood on the wrong side of history.

Pansy squeezed her eyes shut, gripping the sill until her knuckles turned white. She didn’t deserve Hermione’s concern. She didn’t deserve to sit in the same room as the people who had fought and suffered and lost for a cause they actually believed in rather than just parroting the beliefs of their elders.

She’s probably writing a letter right now, Pansy thought bitterly. Planning the memorial, organizing the world, saving everyone while I… what? Stand around and brood?

The thought annoyed her even more than usual, and she pushed off from the windowsill, resuming her brisk pace down the corridor. But no matter where she went or what she tried to distract herself with, Granger was always there—in the corners of her mind, in the gaps between her thoughts.

When she finally returned to the 8th Year Dormitory late in the afternoon, the common room was quiet, most of the students out enjoying the crisp weekend weather. Pansy sank into one of the armchairs by the fire, staring into the flames. Her mind churned with fragments of memories, arguments, and the infuriating persistence of a certain Gryffindor.

Later, as evening fell and the common room began to fill again, Pansy found herself watching Hermione without meaning to. Granger was seated at a table, surrounded by a pile of books and parchment, her quill moving steadily as she scribbled notes.

Of course she’s working, Pansy thought, rolling her eyes. She probably doesn’t know how to do anything else.

But despite her disdain, Pansy’s gaze lingered. There was something about the way Granger moved—efficient, precise, with an energy that seemed unshakable. It was almost admirable, though Pansy would rather hex herself than admit it.

Her lip curled as she noticed Granger pause, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. The small, unguarded gesture caught Pansy off guard, and she looked away quickly, her pulse quickening for reasons she didn’t want to examine.

Get a grip, Parkinson.

She shifted in her seat, pretending to focus on the magazine in her lap. But no matter how hard she tried, her eyes kept drifting back to the girl across the room—the girl who, despite everything, seemed to have lodged herself firmly in Pansy’s thoughts.

The dormitory was quiet, save for the soft rustle of fabric and the occasional creak of floorboards. Pansy sat on the edge of her bed, her arms crossed as she pretended to skim through a magazine she had no real interest in. Across the room, Hermione was moving about with her usual efficiency, gathering her things as she prepared for bed.

Pansy’s eyes drifted to her roommate despite herself. Hermione’s hair, always wild and untamed, seemed softer in the dim light, catching the golden glow of the enchanted lamps. She moved with a purpose, folding her robes neatly and setting them aside before pulling her hair back into a loose braid.

Pansy’s gaze lingered longer than it should have, her thoughts starting to veer in an unsettling direction. She scowled, her fingers tightening on the edge of the magazine.

What is wrong with me?

She forced her eyes back to the page, determined not to think about the curve of Hermione’s neck as she tied the braid, or the way her expression softened in these quiet, unguarded moments. But it was no use. Her thoughts churned, slipping past her defences despite her best efforts.

It wasn’t admiration, Pansy told herself. It was… curiosity. Granger was so different in these moments—so unlike the tireless, know-it-all Gryffindor who had spent the day trying to fix everything and everyone. There was something strangely disarming about seeing her like this, stripped of her usual sharpness.

Pansy hated it.

Her stomach twisted with frustration, and she slammed the magazine shut with a sharp snap. Hermione glanced over, her brow furrowing slightly.

“Are you alright?” Hermione asked, her voice even but cautious.

Pansy bristled, the question breaking the fragile veneer of her composure. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Hermione shrugged, her expression unreadable. “No reason. You just seem… tense.”

“Tense?” Pansy repeated, her tone sharper than she intended. “You’re imagining things, Granger.”

Hermione gave her a long look but said nothing more, turning back to her routine. Pansy watched as she carefully tucked herself into bed, reaching for a book she’d left on the nightstand. The sight of her so calm, so unbothered, only fuelled the storm inside Pansy’s chest.

“I don’t know how you do it,” Pansy muttered before she could stop herself.

Hermione paused, looking up. “Do what?”

“Act like everything’s fine,” Pansy said, her words spilling out in a rush. “Like you’re perfectly at ease, even when the whole world’s watching.”

Hermione frowned, closing her book. “You think I’m at ease?” she asked, her tone incredulous. “Pansy, I’ve spent the last few months feeling like I’m being pulled in a hundred different directions at once. The only reason I look calm is because I have to be. What other choice is there?”

Pansy blinked, caught off guard by the honesty in Hermione’s voice. She hadn’t expected her to admit to anything less than total confidence, and it left her momentarily speechless.

“Well,” Pansy said after a moment, her voice carefully detached, “you hide it well.”

Hermione studied her for a beat longer, then gave a small nod. “Goodnight, Pansy,” she said, her tone soft but firm.

“Goodnight,” Pansy mumbled, turning away as Hermione extinguished her bedside lamp. She stared at the magazine in her lap, the words blurring as her thoughts spiralled.

She couldn’t let this happen—whatever this was. She couldn’t afford to let her guard down around Granger, to let her see the cracks beneath the surface. Pansy had spent too long building her walls, too long perfecting the mask that kept the world at bay.

But the more she tried to push the thoughts away, the more they lingered, circling like a storm she couldn’t escape.

The soft sound of Hermione’s breathing filled the room, steady and calm. The dormitory was cloaked in darkness now, but the faint glow of the enchanted window cast pale shadows across the walls. Pansy lay on her back, staring at the canopy of her bed, her arms crossed tightly over her chest.

She couldn’t sleep. Not with the thoughts swirling in her mind, each one more unwelcome than the last.

It’s just curiosity, she told herself again. That’s all it is. There’s nothing unusual about noticing things. People notice things about each other all the time.

But the rationalization felt hollow. The truth, sharp and unrelenting, whispered at the edges of her mind: she wasn’t just noticing Hermione Granger. She was watching her, analysing her, thinking about her far more than she should.

It was maddening.

The image of Hermione braiding her hair surfaced again, unbidden. The delicate curve of her neck, the way her fingers moved deftly through the strands, the faint furrow of concentration in her brow—it was all seared into Pansy’s mind, and no amount of frustration could scrub it away.

She let out a quiet groan, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes as if she could physically block out the thoughts. This is ridiculous. She’s Hermione Granger. Gryffindor princess. A walking lecture in morality and virtue, and she’s bloody infuriating.

But the memory of Hermione’s voice earlier that night—soft, genuine, vulnerable—refused to be ignored.

“You think I’m at ease? Pansy, I’ve spent the last few months feeling like I’m being pulled in a hundred different directions at once.”

The honesty of those words had struck a chord Pansy hadn’t been prepared for. She’d expected Granger to brush her off, to come back with some self-righteous remark about perseverance or bravery. But instead, she’d admitted to the very thing Pansy thought was impossible: doubt.

It made her… human. And that was dangerous.

Pansy turned onto her side, glaring at the faint outline of Hermione’s sleeping form across the room. The way her arm rested against the blanket, the rise and fall of her breathing—it was all too much. Too distracting. Too real.

She clenched her fists, biting the inside of her cheek to ground herself. Stop it, Parkinson. This isn’t you. You don’t get flustered over Gryffindors, least of all Granger.

But no matter how hard she tried, the thoughts kept returning. The sharp edges of Hermione’s wit, the fire in her eyes when she was angry, the softness in her voice when she spoke from the heart. Pansy hated that she’d noticed these things, hated that she couldn’t un-notice them.

This has to stop.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat up, running a hand through her hair. The cool air of the room bit at her skin, but it wasn’t enough to clear her mind. She considered getting up, going for a walk, but that felt like admitting defeat.

Instead, she closed her eyes and forced herself to take slow, measured breaths. She focused on the sound of the wind against the windows, the distant murmur of the castle settling into the night. Slowly, her racing thoughts began to calm, though the unease in her chest remained.

It’s nothing, she told herself firmly. Just a fleeting distraction. It’ll pass.

But deep down, Pansy wasn’t sure she believed that.

The next morning dawned crisp and bright, the kind of autumn day that made the castle grounds glow with golden light. Breakfast in the Great Hall was a noisy affair, students chattering excitedly about weekend plans and the prospect of another Hogsmeade visit on the horizon.

Pansy sat at the end of the Slytherin table, picking at a piece of toast and pretending not to notice the pointed lack of conversation directed her way. She’d grown used to it—the whispers, the stolen glances, the way conversations shifted when she entered a room. It didn’t bother her as much as it used to. Or so she told herself.

Hermione, of course, was in the middle of it all. She sat at the Gryffindor table, flanked by Dean Thomas and Padma Patil, who were deep in discussion about the upcoming memorial project. Hermione listened intently, her head tilted slightly as she tapped her quill against a parchment filled with notes. Her hair caught the light in a way that made it seem brighter, softer, and Pansy quickly looked away, scowling at her plate.

Focus, she thought irritably. Granger is not your problem.

The problem, however, came soon enough.

Their first lesson of the day was Herbology, an outdoor session set in the sun-drenched greenhouse looking out across the grounds. Professor Sprout had arranged for the students to work in pairs on the delicate task of repotting Venomous Tentacula, whose writhing vines snapped and coiled with dangerous enthusiasm.

“Now, remember,” Sprout called, bustling between the rows of students, “you’ll need to be gentle but firm! If you hesitate, they’ll sense it and react accordingly.”

Pansy stood at her worktable, glancing warily at the pot of writhing vines in front of her. She didn’t mind Herbology in theory, but Tentaculas were another matter entirely. The idea of those barbed vines snapping at her wrists was enough to set her teeth on edge.

“Parkinson,” Sprout said suddenly, her voice cheerful but brisk, “you’ll be working with Granger today. She has a steady hand for this sort of thing.”

Pansy stiffened, her gaze snapping toward Hermione, who was already approaching the table with a pair of thick dragonhide gloves and an expression of faint amusement.

“Great,” Pansy muttered under her breath. Of course it had to be Granger.

Hermione set her gloves down and offered a polite nod. “Let’s just get this done,” she said, pulling on the gloves and examining the writhing Tentacula with practiced precision. “If we work quickly, it shouldn’t be too bad.”

Pansy pulled on her own gloves with far less enthusiasm. “Just try not to get me killed,” she said dryly.

Hermione didn’t dignify the comment with a response. Instead, she carefully gripped one of the Tentacula’s main stems, holding it steady as Pansy reached for the pot. But as the vine thrashed violently, Hermione’s hand slipped, the vines breaking free and sending her stumbling sideways—straight into Pansy.

“Careful!” Pansy snapped, her voice sharper than she intended as Hermione collided with her. She caught Hermione instinctively, her hands gripping the other girl’s waist to steady her.

Hermione glanced up, her cheeks flushed from the effort. “Sorry,” she said breathlessly, her brown eyes wide. “It moved faster than I expected.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. Pansy’s hands lingered on Hermione’s waist, the warmth of her skin faintly noticeable even through the gloves. The proximity was suffocating, and Pansy’s heart hammered painfully in her chest which was heaving as though it would never draw breath again. Hermione’s hair, slightly mussed from the struggle, was close enough to brush against Pansy’s cheek.

“Are you going to let go?” Hermione asked, her tone clipped but not unkind.

Firmly back in reality, Pansy jerked her hands away as if burned, taking a step back. “Don’t blame me for your clumsiness,” she snapped, her voice more defensive than she’d intended.

Hermione frowned but didn’t rise to the bait. “Let’s just focus, shall we?” she said, turning back to the Tentacula.

Pansy nodded stiffly, her jaw tight as she forced herself to concentrate on the task. But her mind refused to cooperate, replaying the moment over and over—the warmth of Hermione’s waist beneath her hands, the way her green eyes had held Pansy’s gaze for just a second too long.

By the time they finished the repotting, Pansy’s nerves were frayed. She muttered a terse “thank you” to Sprout as they cleaned up, avoiding Hermione’s gaze as they returned their equipment.

Back in the castle, Pansy couldn’t shake the feeling of Hermione’s proximity, the scent of her hair, the way she’d felt so solid and real in her grasp. It was infuriating.

Why can’t I stop thinking about her? she thought, her nails biting into her palms. She’s Granger. Just Granger.

But deep down, she knew it wasn’t that simple.

Pansy stalked through the castle corridors, her expression carefully blank, though inside, her thoughts churned like a raging storm. She didn’t know where she was going—only that she needed to move, to shake the feeling that had settled in her chest like a weight.

Her gloves were still in her hand, the dragonhide cool and pliable against her fingers. She clenched them tighter, her mind replaying the scene in the greenhouse with cruel persistence. The warmth of Hermione’s waist, the way her eyes had widened in surprise, the faint scent of cinnamon that clung to her robes—it was maddening.

Why am I even thinking about this? she scolded herself, her pace quickening. It was nothing. Just a stupid accident.

But the more she tried to dismiss it, the more her mind clung to the details. The way Hermione had steadied herself, her breath quick but controlled. The way she hadn’t flinched or pulled away from Pansy’s touch, even as her expression had shifted to something unreadable.

Pansy reached an empty corridor and stopped abruptly, leaning against the cool stone wall. She closed her eyes, willing her racing thoughts to slow. But the silence only amplified the memories, and she felt the heat rise in her cheeks.

“Get a grip,” she muttered under her breath. “It’s Granger. She’s nothing to you.”

The words felt hollow, even as she repeated them in her mind. She didn’t understand why Hermione had this effect on her—why her presence seemed to unsettle something deep within. It wasn’t just the physical closeness in the greenhouse. It was everything. The way Hermione spoke with conviction, the way she carried herself with a quiet strength, the way she looked at Pansy with something that felt dangerously close to understanding.

She’s infuriating, Pansy thought bitterly, though the anger was aimed more at herself than at Hermione.

She forced herself to breathe deeply, drawing in the cool, musty air of the corridor. Her fingers loosened their grip on the gloves, and she let them fall to her side.

Focus, she told herself. You’ve handled worse than this. Just… avoid her.

The thought brought a fleeting sense of relief. If she kept her distance, maybe this nagging fixation would fade. She’d ignore Hermione, keep their interactions to a minimum, and bury whatever ridiculous feelings were starting to stir.

Pansy pushed off the wall and straightened her robes, her expression hardening. She wasn’t the type to let anyone get under her skin—least of all Hermione Granger.

The rest of the day passed in a haze of forced normalcy. Pansy attended her lessons, answered questions when called upon, and avoided conversation as much as possible. But every so often, her gaze would wander—to the Gryffindor table during lunch, to Hermione’s desk in Charms, to the spot she’d claimed in the library later that afternoon.

It was infuriating. No matter how hard she tried to focus on anything else, her thoughts always seemed to circle back to Hermione.

By the time dinner rolled around, Pansy was exhausted. She barely touched her food, muttering a vague excuse to Blaise and retreating to the 8th Year Dormitory as soon as she could. The common room was blissfully quiet, most of the others still lingering in the Great Hall.

Pansy sank into an armchair by the fire, letting her head fall back against the cushion. The flames danced in the hearth, their soft crackle filling the silence. For the first time all day, she allowed herself to relax—or tried to.

Her thoughts betrayed her again, dragging her back to the greenhouse, to the feel of Hermione’s hand brushing against hers as they worked. She groaned softly, covering her face with her hands.

This has to stop, she thought desperately. It’s just… nerves. Stress. That’s all it is.

But even as she tried to convince herself, the truth lurked at the edges of her mind, undeniable and terrifying.

She’s getting to me.

And no matter how much Pansy tried to fight it, she couldn’t shake the feeling that Hermione Granger was becoming far more than just an annoyance.

The dormitory was quiet again, the warm glow of the enchanted lamps casting soft shadows across the room. Pansy sat on her bed, feigning interest in a book she’d grabbed from the common room. The words blurred together on the page, her focus slipping with every passing second.

Hermione was at her desk, as usual, her quill scratching steadily against parchment. The meticulous rhythm of her movements should have been soothing, but for Pansy, it only added to the restlessness churning inside her.

She kept sneaking glances, her gaze darting to Hermione like a moth to a flame. It wasn’t intentional—at least, that’s what she told herself—but it was impossible to ignore the way Hermione moved with such quiet purpose. The way her hair, slightly frizzed from the day’s humidity, framed her face. The way she bit her lip in concentration as she worked.

Get a hold of yourself, Pansy thought, dragging her eyes back to the book. But the words on the page held no meaning, and her traitorous gaze wandered again.

When Hermione finally put down her quill and began to gather her things, Pansy’s pulse quickened. She watched out of the corner of her eye as Hermione folded her notes and placed them in her bag with careful precision. Then she moved to her wardrobe, pulling out a fresh set of clothes for the night.

Pansy swallowed hard, her book forgotten in her lap as Hermione slipped off her outer robe. She wasn’t doing anything out of the ordinary—just unbuttoning her shirt and replacing it with a loose-fitting top—but the simple, unassuming act made Pansy’s chest tighten.

She looked away sharply, her cheeks burning. What are you doing? Stop staring, you idiot.

But her resolve crumbled as Hermione turned toward the mirror, tying her hair back into a braid. The soft lamplight caught the angles of her face, highlighting the curve of her jaw, the slope of her neck. Pansy’s breath hitched, her grip on the book tightening as her heart thudded painfully in her chest.

She tried to tear her eyes away, to focus on anything else, but the pull was too strong. It wasn’t just the way Hermione looked—it was the way she carried herself, so unaware of the effect she had. It was maddening.

When Hermione turned back toward her bed, Pansy quickly dropped her gaze, pretending to be engrossed in her book. But the effort was futile; her mind was already racing, her thoughts tangled and chaotic.

“Goodnight, Pansy,” Hermione said softly, pulling the covers over herself.

“Goodnight,” Pansy mumbled, not trusting herself to look up. She kept her eyes firmly on the page, waiting until Hermione’s breathing evened out before finally setting the book aside.

She leaned back against the headboard, staring at the ceiling as the room fell into silence. Her heart was still racing, her thoughts an incoherent mess of denial and something she didn’t dare name.

It’s nothing, she told herself again. Just a stupid distraction. It doesn’t mean anything.

But the truth, as much as she tried to bury it, gnawed at the edges of her mind.

Hermione Granger wasn’t just getting under her skin.

She was staying there.

The next day passed in a blur of classes, forced civility, and an undercurrent of tension that Pansy couldn’t shake. By the time the sun set, she was drained—not from any physical effort, but from the sheer exhaustion of keeping up her facade.

The 8th Year Dormitory was quieter than usual that evening. Most of the students had scattered to the common rooms of their respective houses or the library, leaving the circular space empty save for a few flickering candles. Pansy had taken refuge in a corner by the window, her legs tucked beneath her as she pretended to read. But her thoughts were elsewhere—circling endlessly around a certain Gryffindor.

Hermione entered the room quietly, her arms full of books as always. She paused when she saw Pansy, her brow furrowing slightly. “I didn’t think anyone else would be in here tonight.”

“Lucky me,” Pansy said dryly, not looking up from her book.

Hermione hesitated, then crossed the room to take a seat in one of the armchairs near the fire. She set her books down with a soft thud and leaned back, exhaling as though the day had been just as long for her.

They sat in silence for a while, the only sound the crackling of the flames. Pansy tried to focus on the words in front of her, but her gaze kept flickering to Hermione. The firelight played across her features, softening the sharp lines of her face. She looked… tired, in a way Pansy hadn’t seen before.

Without thinking, Pansy spoke. “Do you ever regret coming back?”

Hermione looked up, startled by the question. “What?”

“Coming back to Hogwarts,” Pansy clarified, her tone uncharacteristically subdued. “Do you ever regret it?”

Hermione studied her for a moment, then shook her head. “No. It’s hard, yes, but I feel like it’s where I’m supposed to be. Like I have something left to do here.”

Pansy snorted softly. “Of course you’d say that.”

“And you?” Hermione asked, her tone cautious. “Do you regret coming back?”

Pansy hesitated, her fingers tightening on the edge of her book. She wanted to brush the question off, to deflect with some biting remark, but the weight of Hermione’s gaze made it difficult.

“Yes,” she admitted quietly. “Sometimes.”

Hermione didn’t look surprised. “Because of how people treat you?”

“Because of everything,” Pansy said, her voice sharper than she intended. “Because no matter what I do, I’ll always be the girl who stood up in the Great Hall and told everyone to hand over Potter. Because I’ll never be more than that.”

Hermione leaned forward slightly, her expression softening. “You don’t have to let that define you.”

Pansy laughed bitterly. “Spoken like someone who’s never made a mistake they can’t take back.”

“That’s not true,” Hermione said, her voice firm but quiet. “I’ve made plenty of mistakes, Pansy. Big ones. Some that I’ll never stop regretting.”

Pansy blinked, caught off guard by the admission. She opened her mouth to ask what Hermione meant but stopped herself. Instead, she looked down at her hands, her voice dropping. “It’s not just about the mistakes. It’s about who I am. Who people think I am.”

“Then change their minds,” Hermione said simply.

Pansy looked up, her lips curling into a smirk. “You make it sound so easy.”

“It’s not,” Hermione admitted. “But it’s possible. I believe that.”

The sincerity in her voice made Pansy’s chest tighten. For a moment, she didn’t know what to say. She could feel the words rising in her throat, words she didn’t want to say, words she didn’t even fully understand.

“I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” Pansy muttered, her gaze dropping again. “I don’t even like you.”

Hermione smiled faintly, and to Pansy’s irritation, it wasn’t mocking or condescending. It was understanding. “That’s alright,” Hermione said. “You don’t have to like me. But maybe talking to someone helps.”

Pansy scoffed, leaning back against the window. “Don’t get used to it, Granger.”

“I won’t,” Hermione replied, her tone light but thoughtful. “Goodnight, Pansy.”

“Goodnight,” Pansy murmured, the word slipping out before she could think better of it.

As Hermione gathered her things and left the room, Pansy leaned her head back against the cool glass of the window. Her chest felt tight, her thoughts tangled in a way she couldn’t untangle.

For once, she didn’t know whether she hated Hermione Granger more for her self-righteousness—or for the fact that she might be right.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5

“She’s staring again,” Ginny said, stabbing her knife into a slice of toast with far more force than necessary.

Hermione didn’t bother looking up from her cup of tea. “Are you sure it’s not just you staring at her?”

“No,” Ginny replied matter-of-factly, her voice dripping with exasperation. “She’s definitely staring at you. It’s creepy. What if she’s planning to do you in?”

Hermione sighed, setting her mug down with a soft clink. She’d been hearing this theory from Ginny for the better part of a week now. At first, she’d dismissed it, brushing off her friend’s observations as overactive imagination or residual post-war suspicion. But Ginny, true to form, had taken Hermione’s dismissal as a challenge and had doubled down on her insistence that Pansy Parkinson was staring at her with unnerving regularity.

“She’s had plenty of opportunity to do it and hasn’t,” Hermione said, taking a bite of her cereal. “I do share a room with her, remember?”

Ginny made a face. “Does she sit at the edge of your bed and watch you sleep?”

Hermione snorted into her bowl, nearly choking on her spoonful of cereal. “No.”

“Well, that’s something,” Ginny replied, her tone deliberately casual as she buttered another piece of toast. “Although…”

“Although what?” Hermione asked, narrowing her eyes.

Ginny raised an eyebrow, her smirk growing sly. “Does she act weird? Say anything strange?”

“Define ‘weird,’” Hermione replied, rolling her eyes. “She’s Pansy Parkinson. I don’t think there’s a day she doesn’t act weird.”

“Well, I mean,” Ginny said, pausing for dramatic effect, “does she seem, I don’t know… fascinated by you?”

Hermione frowned, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her face. “Fascinated? No. Why would she be—oh.” She froze mid-sentence, her spoon halfway to her mouth.

Ginny leaned forward, clearly intrigued. “What?”

Hermione hesitated, debating whether to answer. Finally, she sighed. “She does… sometimes seem fascinated when I braid my hair at night.”

Ginny’s eyebrows shot up, and a wicked grin spread across her face. “Fascinated, huh? Well, maybe she doesn’t want to do you in.”

Hermione blinked. “Meaning?”

“Maybe Parkinson just wants to do you,” Ginny said, her smirk widening into an outright grin as Hermione choked on her cereal, coughing and spluttering as she tried to regain her composure.

“Ginny!” Hermione hissed, scandalized. She grabbed her napkin, dabbing at her mouth as her cheeks flushed a deep pink.

Ginny cackled, clearly enjoying herself. “What? It would explain the staring.”

“It explains nothing!” Hermione shot back, her voice rising slightly. She glanced nervously around the Great Hall, hoping no one had overheard. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“Oh, come on,” Ginny said, still grinning. “You can’t tell me you haven’t noticed how she looks at you.”

“I haven’t!” Hermione insisted, though her voice lacked its usual conviction. She could feel her cheeks heating even more, and she hated how easily Ginny could rile her up.

Ginny gave her a knowing look, leaning back in her chair with a satisfied smirk. “Alright, if you say so. But you might want to pay attention. You never know what you’ll notice.”

Hermione glared at her, but Ginny only winked before returning to her breakfast, clearly pleased with herself. Hermione, meanwhile, couldn’t shake the words from her mind.

Fascinated? She’s ridiculous… isn’t she?

Hermione’s eyes flickered toward the 8th Year table at the far end of the hall. Pansy was seated there, her posture relaxed as she picked at her breakfast, seemingly indifferent to everything around her. But as if sensing Hermione’s gaze, Pansy’s eyes lifted, locking onto hers for the briefest moment.

Hermione quickly looked away, her pulse skipping as she buried herself in her tea. Ginny’s laughter echoed faintly in her ears.

Hermione was saved from Ginny’s teasing by the fluttering arrival of the morning post. A hundred or so owls swooped into the Great Hall, their wings filling the air with soft whooshes and the occasional indignant hoot. Hermione tilted her head upward, scanning the flock as a small, tawny owl spiralled toward her table, a letter clutched tightly in its beak.

“Thank Merlin,” Hermione muttered under her breath, relieved for the distraction.

The owl landed neatly in front of her, dropping the letter beside her cereal before letting out a proud hoot. Hermione offered it a small piece of toast in thanks, which it accepted graciously before flying off again. She recognized the neat, slightly slanted handwriting on the envelope at once—Ron’s.

Across the table, Ginny was distracted by the arrival of her own letter. A larger barn owl landed in front of her, its feathers a deep, glossy brown. Ginny unfolded the letter eagerly, her eyes scanning the page with a mixture of curiosity and delight.

Hermione tore open Ron’s letter, her heart giving a faint flutter as she unfolded the parchment. She began to read:

Dear Hermione,

Training is intense, but I’m getting the hang of it. Kingsley reckons I’ve got good instincts for an Auror—not sure I believe him, but it’s nice to hear. Harry’s already top of the class, obviously. He never turns it off, does he?

The flat we’ve got near Diagon Alley isn’t bad. It’s a bit small, and Harry’s got this habit of leaving his dirty socks everywhere, but it’s nice to have a place to ourselves. You should come by sometime—maybe I can sneak you away during a future Hogsmeade weekend?

I hope Hogwarts isn’t driving you too crazy. Ginny’s probably keeping you sane, though I’m guessing she’s also roped you into about a dozen crazy schemes by now. Let me know how it’s going. Write soon.

Yours, Ron.

Hermione felt a small smile tug at her lips as she folded the letter. There was something reassuring about Ron’s words—his casual, familiar tone, his willingness to tease himself. It grounded her in a way that few things did these days.

“Well?” Ginny asked, leaning forward with a grin. “What did he say?”

“He’s enjoying having a flat near Diagon Alley,” Hermione said, slipping the letter into her bag. “And apparently Harry’s already top of their class.”

Ginny laughed, shaking her head. “Of course he is. I’d be more shocked if he wasn’t.”

“What about your letter?” Hermione asked, nodding toward the parchment in Ginny’s hand.

Ginny’s grin widened. “Mum wrote. She wants me to make sure you’re eating properly and not overworking yourself.”

Hermione rolled her eyes fondly. “That sounds like her.”

Ginny’s teasing smirk softened slightly as she folded her letter. “You should have a little bit of time alone, you know. With Ron. It’ll be good for you.”

Hermione nodded, though a flicker of uncertainty lingered in her chest. She pushed the thought aside, resolving to write her reply after breakfast.

As the rest of the post filtered in, Hermione glanced once more toward the Slytherin table. Pansy was still there, twirling her fork idly in her hand, her expression unreadable. Hermione quickly turned back to her tea, pretending she hadn’t noticed. But Ginny’s earlier words echoed faintly in her mind, leaving her with an unsettling mixture of curiosity and confusion.

Back in the 8th Year common room, Hermione sat cross-legged on one of the plush armchairs near the fireplace, absently stirring her tea. The room was quiet, with only a few students scattered around—most off enjoying their Saturday afternoon elsewhere in the castle.

Ginny, sprawled in a chair across from her with her broom propped against the armrest, was mid-rant about the chaotic Quidditch practice the day before. Her voice rose and fell with exasperation as she recounted the endless stream of wrongdoings by her new teammates.

“It was a disaster,” Ginny groaned, throwing her hands in the air for emphasis. “One of the new Chasers nearly knocked me off my broom, and a third year actually tried to duel Demelza mid-air. A duel, Hermione. During practice! Our new Seeker isn’t a patch on Harry at all either.”

Hermione smiled faintly, though her thoughts were elsewhere. Ginny’s words barely registered, her mind circling back to the owlery, to Pansy’s voice, to the frustration and vulnerability hidden beneath her sharp exterior.

“Are you even listening?” Ginny asked, snapping her fingers in front of Hermione’s face.

Hermione blinked, startled out of her reverie. “Sorry,” she said quickly. “I got distracted.”

Ginny rolled her eyes but didn’t press the issue. “Fine. I’m done ranting anyway. Just don’t come crying to me when Gryffindor loses because half the team can’t hold a broom straight.”

Hermione smiled faintly but didn’t reply. Her gaze drifted to the window, where the late afternoon light cast long shadows across the room. Her tea sat untouched on the table beside her, the steam curling lazily into the air.

“You’re thinking about her again, aren’t you?” Ginny’s voice cut through the silence, sharp and accusing.

“Who?” Hermione turned to her, frowning. “What are you talking about?”

Ginny raised an eyebrow, leaning forward with a knowing smirk. “Pansy Parkinson. I’ve seen the way she looks at you. Told you, she wants to either do you in or do you, maybe both.”

Hermione felt her cheeks heat, and she quickly shook her head. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Oh, come on,” Ginny said, her grin widening. “She’s been staring at you all week. And you’re not exactly ignoring her anymore, are you?”

“I’m not… I mean…” Hermione faltered, her words tangling as she searched for a rebuttal. “She’s just… difficult to avoid and gets more curious each time I hear her speak. That’s all.”

“Right,” Ginny drawled, leaning back in her chair. “Because sharing a dorm and some classes with someone means you have to spend every waking moment thinking about them.”

“I’m not thinking about her,” Hermione insisted, though her tone was unconvincing even to her own ears.

Ginny studied her for a moment, her smirk softening into something more curious. “Whatever you say.”

Hermione glared at her, but Ginny only shrugged, clearly satisfied with the conversation. As Ginny shifted the topic to another dramatic retelling of the practice, Hermione tried to focus, but her thoughts kept drifting back to the owlery, to Pansy’s voice, and to the question she hadn’t dared to ask herself.

Why does she keep doing this to me?

Later that evening, Hermione found herself back in the dormitory, sitting at her desk with a quill in her hand. She wasn’t writing a letter this time—she wasn’t even sure what she was doing. Her thoughts were too scattered, too restless to focus.

Across the room, Pansy was sitting on her bed, flipping idly through a book. She looked as though she couldn’t care less about anything, her posture relaxed and her expression bored. But Hermione noticed the way her fingers tapped against the edge of the book, the subtle tension in her jaw.

Without thinking, Hermione spoke. “Do you ever think about what comes next?”

Pansy glanced up, clearly startled by the question. “What?”

Hermione hesitated, but the words came anyway. “After this. After Hogwarts. Do you ever think about what you want to do?”

Pansy frowned, closing her book with a soft thud. “Why are you asking me that?”

“Because I think about it all the time,” Hermione admitted. “And I don’t have an answer.”

Pansy’s frown deepened, her gaze searching Hermione’s face. For a moment, it seemed as though she might respond. But then she shook her head, her expression hardening. “I don’t have time to think about that,” she said curtly. “I’m too busy trying to survive today.”

Hermione opened her mouth to reply, but Pansy had already turned away, her focus back on her book. The conversation was over, but the weight of it lingered in the room, pressing down on them both.

As Hermione prepared for bed, her thoughts refused to settle. Pansy’s words had left a mark, not because of what she’d said, but because of what she hadn’t. There was something beneath the surface, something Hermione couldn’t quite reach—but she couldn’t stop trying.

The next day dawned bright and crisp, the morning light streaming through the tall windows of the castle. Hermione had spent the early hours in the library, losing herself in research for the memorial project. By the time she appeared, her arms laden with books, the castle was alive with the sounds of students moving between their weekend activities.

She was on her way back to the 8th Year Dormitory when she rounded a corner and nearly collided with someone coming from the opposite direction. The stack of books in her arms teetered precariously before falling in a dramatic cascade to the floor.

“Watch where you’re going, Granger,” came Pansy’s unmistakable drawl.

Hermione sighed, kneeling to gather the fallen books. “Maybe if you didn’t walk like you owned the place, Parkinson, you wouldn’t bump into people.”

Pansy crouched down opposite her, picking up one of the books with a smirk. “Advanced Magical Theory? Really, Granger? Haven’t you read this one a hundred times already?”

“It happens to be relevant,” Hermione replied, snatching the book from her hands. “Not that you’d understand.”

“Oh, please.” Pansy picked up another book and flipped it open lazily. “You think you’re the only one with a functioning brain? I’ll have you know I was top of the class in Astronomy.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “And yet, somehow, you’ve spent the last week tormenting me instead of using that brain of yours for anything remotely productive.”

Pansy’s smirk widened. “Maybe tormenting you is productive. Keeps my mind sharp.”

“Or maybe you’re just bored,” Hermione shot back, clutching her books tightly to her chest as she stood. “You do seem to have a lot of free time on your hands.”

Pansy stood as well, brushing imaginary dust from her robes. “What can I say? Watching you try to save the world one project at a time is endlessly entertaining.”

Hermione rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop the faint smile that tugged at her lips. “If you’re so fascinated, why don’t you help?”

Pansy feigned a look of horror, clutching a hand to her chest. “Me? Help with your noble Gryffindor cause? I’d rather die.”

“Suit yourself,” Hermione said, adjusting her grip on the books. “But don’t blame me when you’re bored out of your mind.”

As she turned to leave, Pansy fell into step beside her, her smirk still firmly in place. “You know, Granger, you’re not half as insufferable as you used to be.”

Hermione glanced at her, both amused and wary. “Was that supposed to be a compliment?”

“Take it however you like,” Pansy replied breezily. “I’ll admit, though, it’s kind of fun getting under your skin.”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself,” Hermione said dryly. “But maybe you should find a hobby. Something that doesn’t involve irritating me.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Pansy retorted, her dark eyes gleaming with mischief.

For a moment, Hermione didn’t reply. She couldn’t quite place it, but something about Pansy’s tone was different—lighter, almost playful. The usual edge of malice was gone, replaced by a teasing energy that left Hermione feeling slightly off-kilter.

As they reached the entrance to the dormitory, Pansy paused, leaning casually against the wall. “Well, Granger, as much as I’d love to continue this riveting conversation, I have better things to do.”

“Like what?” Hermione asked, her tone skeptical.

Pansy smirked. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Before Hermione could respond, Pansy pushed open the door and disappeared inside, her laughter trailing behind her. Hermione stood there for a moment, staring after her with a mixture of confusion and amusement.

Shaking her head, Hermione adjusted her grip on the books and followed. She wasn’t sure what had just happened, but for the first time in weeks, she felt… lighter. As irritating as Pansy could be, there was something strangely refreshing about their banter—something that made Hermione’s thoughts feel a little less heavy.

Maybe Ginny was right, Hermione thought as she climbed the stairs to her room. Maybe Pansy just needs a hobby. Or maybe… I do.

That evening, Hermione found herself back in the 8th Year common room, her usual stack of books spread out on the low table in front of her. She had tried to lose herself in her reading, but her concentration wavered. Her mind kept drifting back to her earlier encounter with Pansy, the playful lilt in her voice, the sharp glint in her dark eyes.

Why can’t I stop thinking about her? Hermione thought, frowning at the page in front of her. She had read the same sentence three times and still couldn’t recall what it said.

“Don’t hurt yourself, Granger.”

Hermione looked up, startled, to find Pansy standing on the other side of the table, holding a mug of tea. Her smirk was firmly in place, but her voice held less bite than usual. Pansy set the mug down on the table and slid into the chair opposite Hermione.

“Didn’t realize this was a public library,” Hermione muttered, closing her book.

“It’s a common room,” Pansy pointed out, leaning back in her chair. “Besides, you Gryffindors have been hogging all the good spots.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Pretty sure this is the first time you’ve even set foot in here all week.”

Pansy shrugged, taking a sip of her tea. “What can I say? Your dedication is inspiring. Thought I’d soak up some of your intellectual brilliance.”

“Flattery doesn’t suit you,” Hermione said, though her lips twitched in amusement.

“Who said I was flattering you?” Pansy shot back, her smirk widening.

Hermione shook her head, turning her attention back to her book. But she couldn’t focus. Pansy’s presence was a distraction she hadn’t anticipated. She could feel the other girl watching her, the weight of her gaze as tangible as the mug in her hands.

“Do you ever take a break?” Pansy asked after a moment.

“From what?” Hermione replied without looking up.

“From saving the world,” Pansy said, gesturing to the stack of books. “Or at least pretending you can.”

Hermione sighed, setting her book down. “What do you want, Pansy?”

Pansy tilted her head, her expression thoughtful. “I’m just curious. You’re always so busy, so focused. Don’t you ever get tired?”

Hermione hesitated. The question was unexpected, almost sincere. “Of course I do,” she admitted. “But there’s too much to do to waste time.”

“Spoken like a true Gryffindor,” Pansy said, though her tone lacked its usual sharpness. “Always so noble. So self-sacrificing.”

“And what about you?” Hermione countered, her curiosity getting the better of her. “What do you do with your time, Pansy? Besides lurking in doorways and making snide comments?”

Pansy’s smirk faltered, just for a moment, before she recovered. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Hermione studied her, noting the tension in her posture, the way her fingers curled around the edge of the mug. There was something guarded about her, something Hermione couldn’t quite decipher. And yet, there was a flicker of vulnerability beneath the surface, a crack in the armour Pansy wore so well.

“I would,” Hermione said softly, surprising herself with the honesty in her voice.

Pansy’s eyes widened slightly, but she quickly masked it with a scoff. “Careful, Granger. People might think you’re actually interested.”

Hermione flushed, her heart skipping at the implication. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Too late,” Pansy said, her smirk returning. But her gaze lingered on Hermione a moment longer, as though she were trying to solve a puzzle she didn’t want to admit existed.

The tension between them crackled like static, neither of them willing to break it. Finally, Pansy stood, brushing imaginary dust from her robes.

“Good talk, Granger,” she said lightly, turning toward the dormitory stairs. “Try not to save the world all in one night.”

Hermione watched her go, her chest tight with an unfamiliar mix of emotions. Confusion, irritation, curiosity—and something else she couldn’t quite name.

As the dormitory door closed behind Pansy, Hermione leaned back in her chair, staring at the empty space where she had been sitting. She pressed her fingers to her temples, trying to make sense of the thoughts swirling in her mind.

What is wrong with me?

The question hung unanswered as Hermione returned to her book, though the words on the page refused to hold her attention.

The dormitory was quiet, the only sounds the faint rustle of the wind outside and the soft ticking of the enchanted clock on the wall. Hermione had been lying in bed for hours, staring at the canopy above her, her mind refusing to settle. She was just considering casting a charm to drown out the noise of her thoughts when Pansy’s voice broke the silence.

“Can’t sleep either?”

Hermione turned her head, startled to find Pansy sitting up in her own bed, her silhouette outlined by the faint glow of moonlight streaming through the window.

“No,” Hermione admitted after a moment, sitting up as well. “Too much on my mind.”

Pansy hummed in acknowledgment, her posture uncharacteristically relaxed. “Welcome to the club.”

Hermione hesitated, then swung her legs over the side of the bed. “Do you always stay up like this?”

“Only when I can’t stand the silence,” Pansy replied, her voice quieter now, almost thoughtful. “It’s easier to pretend things aren’t so bad when the world is loud.”

Hermione studied her, the usual sharpness in Pansy’s tone replaced by something softer, more reflective. “You don’t strike me as someone who likes silence.”

Pansy let out a dry laugh, leaning back against the headboard. “I grew up in a house where silence meant trouble. It was either my father barking orders or my mother trying to smooth things over. If it was quiet, it usually meant something worse was coming.”

Hermione frowned, caught off guard by the admission. “I didn’t know.”

“Why would you?” Pansy said with a shrug, though her expression betrayed a flicker of vulnerability. “It’s not like I ever talked about it.”

Hermione hesitated, then asked, “Was it… bad? Growing up, I mean?”

Pansy’s gaze drifted to the window, her jaw tightening slightly. “It wasn’t great. My father’s a fanatic—a proper pure-blood supremacist. He didn’t just believe in it; he lived it. Every meal, every conversation, it was drilled into us. And my mother… she just went along with it. Did whatever he said. Never once stood up to him.”

Hermione’s chest tightened. “That must have been awful.”

“It was normal,” Pansy said, her tone bitter. “Or at least it was until I got to Hogwarts and realized there were people who didn’t live like that. People who didn’t care about blood status or family names. At first, I thought they were pathetic—weak. But now…”

“Now?” Hermione prompted gently.

Pansy hesitated, her fingers twisting in the hem of her blanket. “Now I don’t know what to think. Everything I was taught—everything I believed—it feels… hollow. Like it doesn’t fit anymore.”

Hermione’s heart ached at the quiet uncertainty in Pansy’s voice. She had always assumed Pansy’s beliefs were born out of arrogance, but hearing her now, it was clear they were the product of something far more complex—and far more painful.

“People can change,” Hermione said softly. “You’re not defined by where you come from or what you were taught.”

Pansy’s eyes flicked to hers, searching her face. “You really believe that?”

“Yes,” Hermione said firmly. “I have to.”

The room fell silent again, the weight of their conversation settling around them. For the first time, Hermione felt like she was seeing the real Pansy Parkinson—not the sharp-tongued bully or the pure-blood princess, but a girl trying to make sense of a world she no longer understood.

“Thanks,” Pansy said after a moment, her voice barely audible.

“For what?”

“For not throwing it in my face,” Pansy said, her smirk faint but genuine. “You could’ve. Merlin knows I’ve given you plenty of reasons.”

Hermione offered a small smile. “I’m not interested in fighting you, Pansy.”

“Well, that makes one of us,” Pansy quipped, though her tone was light. “Goodnight, Granger.”

“Goodnight, Parkinson.”

Hermione lay awake long after Pansy’s breathing had evened out, her mind swirling with thoughts she couldn’t quite untangle. She replayed their conversation, the vulnerability in Pansy’s voice, the honesty in her words. It was a side of Pansy she had never expected to see—a side that made her… curious.

And then there was the physical aspect, one Hermione hadn’t noticed before—or hadn’t let herself notice. The curve of Pansy’s lips when she smirked, the way her dark eyes glinted in the moonlight, the quiet confidence in her movements. It was distracting, disarming, and wholly unexpected.

Stop it, Hermione scolded herself, rolling onto her side. She’s just… complicated. That’s all.

But even as she tried to convince herself, the thought lingered, insistent and unsettling.

Why can’t I stop thinking about her?

Hermione closed her eyes, willing sleep to come, but the image of Pansy—smirking, vulnerable, and entirely too fascinating—refused to leave her mind.

The morning sun hung low in the sky as Hermione made her way toward Hogsmeade, her boots crunching over the frost-laden path. The excitement of the other students was palpable, their voices bright as they streamed ahead in groups, already talking about plans to visit Honeydukes or Zonko’s. Hermione, however, felt more subdued. Her hands gripped the strap of her bag tightly, her nerves winding tighter with every step.

She spotted Ron before he saw her, standing near the village square and shifting from foot to foot to keep warm. His red hair stood out starkly against the dull grey of his cloak, and a puff of breath escaped his lips in the cold air as he scanned the crowd. When his eyes landed on her, his face lit up with a familiar grin.

“Hermione!” he called, waving her over.

“Hi, Ron,” she said, smiling despite herself as he pulled her into a hug. He held her tightly for a moment, and she couldn’t help but notice how different he felt now—stronger, more grounded, but still so distinctly Ron.

“You look great,” he said, stepping back to look at her. “How’ve you been?”

“Good,” she replied, though it wasn’t entirely true. She couldn’t bring herself to burden him with the complexities of her thoughts—not today. “How about you? How’s training?”

“Brilliant,” Ron said, his grin widening. “Well, mostly brilliant. Harry keeps showing the rest of us up, of course, but what else is new?”

Hermione laughed, and for a moment, it felt like old times. But as they started walking through the village, the first flash of a camera snapped her back to reality.

“Over here, Miss Granger!”

“Hermione, how does it feel to see Ron again?”

“Ron, are you here to rekindle your romance with Hermione Granger?”

The questions came rapid-fire, accompanied by the click of enchanted quills and the bright glare of camera flashes. Hermione tightened her grip on Ron’s arm, trying to shield her face from the onslaught.

“Unbelievable,” Ron muttered, his expression darkening. “Haven’t they got anything better to do?”

“Clearly not,” Hermione said through gritted teeth. She was grateful when Ron steered her into The Three Broomsticks, the warmth and noise of the pub providing an immediate barrier against the chaos outside.

They found a small table near the back, where Madam Rosmerta brought them two steaming mugs of Butterbeer. Hermione wrapped her hands around her mug, letting the warmth seep into her fingers as Ron launched into a story about one of his Auror training sessions.

“You should’ve seen it,” he said, grinning. “Harry had to chase a simulated Death Eater through this maze of illusions. Kingsley set it up to trip him up, but he spotted the trap in about five seconds. I’m pretty sure even the instructors were impressed.”

“That sounds like Harry,” Hermione said with a smile. “Always one step ahead, at least at knowing when somethings out of place.”

“Yeah, well, don’t tell him I said so,” Ron said, winking. “His head’s big enough as it is.”

The conversation flowed easily for a while, Ron’s humour and familiarity putting Hermione at ease. But as the Butterbeer dwindled and the noise of the pub grew louder, she felt the tension creeping back in. Ron was trying so hard to make her laugh, to bridge the gap between them, but the truth was unavoidable: something was missing.

It was a relief when the door to the pub swung open, and Ginny, Harry, and Neville walked in, their faces lighting up as they spotted the pair.

“There you are!” Ginny said, sliding into the seat beside Hermione. “We’ve been looking all over for you.”

“Nice to see you too,” Ron quipped, but his smile widened as Harry and Neville pulled up chairs. The group quickly fell into an easy camaraderie, their laughter filling the space.

After a while, Harry leaned in, his grin mischievous. “Alright, who’s up for a game?”

Ginny groaned, already rolling her eyes. “Oh no. Not this again.”

“What game?” Hermione asked, suspicious.

“The Invisible Reporter,” Harry said, pulling out his wand. “One of us casts a Disillusionment Charm and blends in with the reporters. The goal is to ask the most ridiculous questions you can think of without getting caught. The rest of us have to answer—no matter what—or you’re buying the drinks. If the invisible one gets caught, they’re buying.”

Neville snorted. “Harry’s terrible at it, by the way. He always gets caught.”

“Only because I go for the gold,” Harry shot back, already casting the charm on himself. His form shimmered and disappeared, leaving only a faint ripple in the air.

The group stepped outside into the crisp afternoon, the reporters still milling about like vultures. Harry’s disembodied voice rang out suddenly, high-pitched and theatrical:
“Hermione, is it true you’ve been teaching your cat to read?”

Ron burst out laughing, but Hermione crossed her arms, playing along. “Of course not. He already knows how.”

The reporters exchanged confused glances as Neville strolled forward, pretending to look thoughtful. “Mr Longbottom,” came Harry’s voice again, “rumour has it you’re moving in with a young witch named Tracey Davis and starting a business selling convection ovens. Any truth to that?”

Hermione bit back a laugh at the confused reporters, most of whom had no clue what a convection oven was. “No,” Neville replied in an irritated tone, “I keep telling everyone, its rubber ducks we are selling and rubber ducks only. We’re going to be the largest distributor of rubber ducks in Knockturn Alley.”

Ginny groaned. “This is absurd.”

“That’s the point,” Neville said, as Harry’s voice echoed from behind the gaggle of flustered and confused reporters.

“Mr Weasley, is it true you’ve enchanted the Ministry toilets to sing the Chudley Cannons song every time someone flushes?”

“Only the ones in the Department of Mysteries,” Ron replied matter-of-factly. “And it’s not every time someone flushes, it’s at six and a half minutes past the hour.”

The game continued, each question more ridiculous than the last. Hermione couldn’t remember the last time she had laughed so much, even as Harry’s luck finally ran out when one of the reporters accidentally tripped over his invisible foot. Harry quickly dropped the charm, grinning sheepishly as the others roared with laughter.

“Well,” Ginny said, smirking as Harry helped the flustered reporter back to their feet, “you’re definitely buying the drinks.”

“Fine by me,” Harry said, brushing snow off his cloak as the group headed towards the Hogs Head for a final round of drinks. “Totally worth it.”

“You know there’s going to be a scandalous article in Witch Weekly about your Hungarian Horntail tattoo now?”

“Yes,” Harry smirked, “and they will probably send some junior reporter to the Department of Mysteries to check the toilets at six and a half minutes past the hour, and that reporter will be there all day looking for them as there aren’t any toilets in the Department of Mysteries.”

The group broke into peals of laughter that only died down when they entered the Hog’s Head. The Hog’s Head was exactly as Hermione remembered—dimly lit, thick with the faint smell of goats, and covered in a layer of grime that no cleaning charm could hope to penetrate. Sawdust coated the floor, and the low hum of conversation from the few other patrons barely covered the creak of the warped floorboards as the group entered.

Aberforth Dumbledore, as cantankerous as ever, barely glanced up from the tankards he was wiping down. His sharp blue eyes darted toward them, narrowing when he spotted Harry.

“You better not be bringing bloody reporters into my pub, Potter,” he grumbled.

“Of course not,” Harry replied, unfastening his cloak with a dramatic flourish. “They wouldn’t dream of setting foot in here. Why do you think we came?”

Aberforth snorted, clearly unimpressed, but he reached for five glasses all the same. “Just keep your lot out of trouble.”

Ginny leaned toward Hermione, her voice low. “I think that’s the nicest greeting Harry’s ever gotten from him.”

“Progress,” Hermione murmured back, her lips twitching into a small smile.

The group settled at a table near the corner, where the light was faintest, but the warmth from the fireplace reached just enough to thaw their fingers. Harry and Ron took the seats facing the door, their years of vigilance still an unspoken habit, while Ginny, Neville, and Hermione arranged themselves around the rest of the table.

Aberforth arrived a moment later, slapping down their drinks with practiced disinterest. “Don’t let the goats hear any of your nonsense. They’ve got more sense than half the patrons that come through here.”

“Thank you, Aberforth,” Harry said with a grin. “Always a pleasure.”

Aberforth gave him a look that could have soured milk before stomping back to the bar.

Neville took a long sip of his drink, leaning back in his chair with a sigh. “You know, for all his charm, Aberforth makes a damn fine Butterbeer.”

“It’s probably half goat milk,” Ginny said, wrinkling her nose.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Ron quipped, nudging her with his elbow.

Hermione listened to the back-and-forth with half an ear, her gaze flickering toward Harry, who had gone quiet beside her. His eyes were fixed on the fireplace, the flames reflecting faintly in his glasses.

“You alright?” she asked softly.

He turned to her, startled, but then smiled faintly. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

“About what?”

He hesitated, swirling his drink in its glass. “Everything. The reporters, the Auror training, the whole ‘Chosen One’ nonsense. Sometimes I wonder if it’ll ever stop.”

Hermione reached out, resting her hand lightly on his. “It will. You’ve done enough, Harry. More than enough.”

He gave her a grateful smile, but there was something wistful in his expression. “What about you? How are things with you and Ron?”

Hermione hesitated, her fingers tightening around her glass. “They’re… fine.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Fine?”

Hermione sighed, her shoulders sagging slightly. “It’s just… complicated. We care about each other, but it’s hard to keep up a romantic relationship over letters.”

Harry studied her for a moment, then glanced toward Ginny, who was animatedly teasing Neville about his attempt to bluff the reporters earlier. “I know it is. You know how you feel about each other though. I’m sure you can make it work, and if not, I’ll still be here for you, and so will he.”

Hermione smiled faintly, but her thoughts lingered on the conversation. She appreciated Harry’s reassurances, but they didn’t fully quiet the unease that had taken root in her chest. Before she could dwell too much, Harry leaned closer, his voice lowering.

“And how’s life with Parkinson?” he asked, his tone casual but curious.

Hermione blinked, startled by the shift in topic. “It’s… challenging. She’s sharp and frustrating, but there’s more to her than I expected. I think she wants to change, but she doesn’t know how.”

Harry tilted his head, considering this. “Do you think she deserves the chance?”

“I don’t know,” Hermione admitted. “But I want to believe she does. I want to help her, Harry, but I don’t know if I can.”

Harry leaned back, his expression thoughtful. “People can change, Hermione. Sometimes it just takes someone to believe in them.”

“She doesn’t make it easy,” Hermione said, her lips curving into a wry smile. “But I think she’s struggling a lot more than she lets show. She said something the other night—that she’ll always be the girl who tried to hand you over to Voldemort. I think it haunts her, Harry. Truly.”

Harry’s brows furrowed, his hand absently tracing the rim of his glass. “If she regrets it that much… maybe it does. It’s hard to live with guilt like that.”

“It is,” Hermione agreed quietly. “I see it in her. She tries to cover it up with sarcasm and bravado, but it slips through sometimes.”

Harry nodded slowly, his gaze thoughtful. “If you think it would help, I could talk to her. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve never been keen on her, but if it helps your life at school out… besides, she’s not exactly the first person who’s tried to hand me over to Voldemort.”

Hermione looked at him, surprised. “You’d do that?”

“Why not?” he said simply. “Maybe hearing it from me will give her some perspective. Or maybe she’ll try and hex me. Either way, it’s worth a shot.”

Hermione laughed despite herself, the tension in her chest easing slightly. “Thank you, Harry.”

He smiled warmly, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “What are friends for?”

Chapter Text

Chapter 6

The streets of Hogsmeade had grown quieter as the afternoon stretched on, the earlier chaos of chattering students giving way to a more subdued hum of activity. Most of the students had returned to the castle now, and soon the bells would ring to summon any stragglers back to the gates. Pansy walked with her head down, her hands buried deep in the pockets of her cloak. The cobblestones beneath her feet felt uneven, and every scrape of a boot or murmur of conversation made her glance over her shoulder.

She hated feeling like this—like a trapped animal waiting for the next attack. It had been months since the Battle of Hogwarts, but the weight of her own words still echoed in her mind: “But he’s there! Potter’s there! Someone grab him!” At the time, it had felt like the only way to end the nightmare, to stop the war from swallowing them whole. But now, every time she passed a Gryffindor or even caught sight of the staff table in the Great Hall, she was reminded of what she’d done.

Paranoid, she thought bitterly. That’s what I’ve become.

She turned down a quieter lane, the stone walls of the shops rising on either side of her like a cage. The sharp wind bit at her cheeks, but she welcomed the sting—it was a distraction, at least. But when she heard footsteps behind her, her heart began to race.

She quickened her pace, glancing over her shoulder. There was no one there. Still, the feeling of being watched clung to her, like icy fingers trailing down her spine. Her hand drifted toward her wand pocket as she rounded a corner into an even narrower alley.

“Relax, Parkinson,” came a voice from behind her, calm but unmistakable. “It’s just me.”

She froze, her pulse pounding in her ears as she turned to see Harry Potter standing a few feet away. His hands were tucked into his cloak, his expression unreadable in the dim light. He wasn’t holding his wand, but Pansy didn’t let go of hers.

“What do you want, Potter?” she demanded, her voice sharp to mask the way her heart hammered against her ribs.

“To talk,” he replied simply. “Mind if I join you?”

She snorted, her hand still brushing her wand. “Since when do you ask for permission? Don’t you have some reporters to impress or Gryffindor fan club to appease?”

Harry didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he leaned casually against the wall, studying her with an intensity that made her skin crawl. “Hermione’s been worried about you.”

Pansy’s stomach twisted. “Oh, so that’s why you’re here. You’re playing the protective best friend, making sure poor, innocent Granger doesn’t have to deal with the evil Slytherin all on her own.”

Harry shrugged. “If I thought you were dangerous, I wouldn’t be here alone.”

His words stung more than she wanted to admit, but she refused to let it show. “And what’s your plan, exactly? Lecture me until I see the error of my ways?”

“No,” he said, his tone serious now. “Far too late for that. I just want to know why.”

“Why what?”

“Why you did it,” he said, his green eyes locking onto hers. “Why you tried to hand me over to Voldemort.”

Pansy flinched at the name, her throat tightened, the memory crashing over her like a wave. She turned away, staring down the alley as if the answer were written in the shadows. “What does it matter? It didn’t happen.”

“It matters to me,” Harry said, his voice low but firm. “And it matters to Hermione.”

The mention of Hermione made her chest tighten, though she couldn’t quite say why. She let out a bitter laugh. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

Pansy hesitated, her nails digging into her palms. She could feel his gaze on her, waiting, unyielding. Finally, she let out a shaky breath.

“I panicked,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “I thought if someone grabbed you, if they gave you to... him… it would end. All of it. The war, the madness, the fear. I just wanted it to stop.”

Harry didn’t respond right away, and the silence stretched between them like a taut string. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer than she expected.

“You thought sacrificing me would fix everything. That Voldemort would head off into a quiet retirement? Or maybe he’d kill all the Muggleborns first and then you’d have your weird, racist utopia?”

“I didn’t think at all,” she snapped, her anger flaring. “I was scared, alright? Everyone was. How many times has he spoken inside your head?”

“A lot,” Harry said quietly, his face morphing into an expression that was almost sympathetic. “I was scared too, but I didn’t throw anyone else under the bus to save myself.”

The words hit her like a slap, and she whirled on him, her eyes blazing. “Don’t you dare stand there and act like you’re better than me! You don’t know what it was like!”

“I don’t,” he said, surprising her. “At least not from your perspective. But I do know what it’s like to make decisions you can’t take back. And I know what it’s like to regret them.”

Pansy stared at him, her chest heaving. His calm, steady gaze made her want to scream, to lash out, to do something to shatter that infuriating composure. But instead, she found herself deflating, the fight draining out of her like air from a punctured balloon.

“I’m not looking for your forgiveness,” she muttered, turning away again. “I don’t need it.”

“I’m not here to forgive you,” Harry said. “I’m here because Hermione thinks you can be better. And for some reason, I think she’s right.”

She stiffened, her fingers curling into fists. “Why do you care what I do?”

“I don’t,” he said, his tone light but pointed. “But she does.”

Her jaw clenched, a sharp retort forming on her tongue, but it never came. Harry stepped back, his voice softening as he added, “I think you want to be better too. You just don’t know how. Maybe start by not pushing everyone away.”

Before she could respond, he turned and walked away, heading back into a dingy pub at the end of the village, leaving her standing alone in the alley. The silence rushed back in, heavier than before, as her thoughts churned like a storm.

She hated him for coming, hated him for saying the things she couldn’t admit to herself. But more than anything, she hated the small, traitorous part of her that wanted to believe him.

Pansy lingered in the alley long after Harry had gone, the echoes of their conversation swirling around her like the cold wind that tugged at her cloak. Her fingers curled tightly around the fabric, her nails digging into her palms. She wasn’t cold—she was burning. Burning with frustration, with fury, with shame.

She kicked at a loose stone on the cobblestones, sending it skittering across the alley. Who did Harry Potter think he was, marching into her life like that, spouting forgiveness and hope as though those things were simple? As though she deserved them?

Hermione Granger put him up to this, she thought bitterly as she stepped out of the alley and onto the main street of Hogsmeade. The afternoon light had faded into a muted grey, and the streets were nearly empty now, save for a few shopkeepers closing up for the day.

It wasn’t hard to see Granger’s fingerprints all over this. Who else would be so stubbornly invested in fixing something—or someone—so obviously broken? Granger always had to fix things. She was incapable of leaving well enough alone.

Pansy scoffed aloud as she turned toward the path back to the castle. The snow crunched under her boots, but her mind was elsewhere, replaying every word Potter had said.

Hermione thinks you can be better.

The words rang in her head, each repetition more grating than the last. What did Granger see in her that made her think she was worth saving? Worth helping? It wasn’t pity—Pansy could recognize pity a mile away. No, this was something worse. Granger actually believed in her.

Her teeth clenched, the muscles in her jaw aching as she quickened her pace. It was infuriating. Infuriating because she couldn’t understand it, couldn’t explain it, couldn’t stop thinking about it.

And it wasn’t just the conversation with Potter—it was everything. The way Granger had looked at her during their late-night conversations, her expression equal parts wary and curious. The way she’d spoken to her after McGonagall’s announcement about the memorial, calm and direct but without condescension. The way she’d stared at her in Potions, that flash of fire in her eyes when their sniping had reached a fever pitch.

Granger was everywhere, in every thought, in every moment. Pansy hated it.

By the time she reached the castle gates, the first snowflakes of the evening had begun to fall, dusting her cloak and catching in her hair. The sight of Hogwarts rising before her, its windows glowing warmly against the cold night, usually brought her some measure of comfort. But tonight, it only reminded her of what waited inside.

Granger.

Pansy let out a frustrated growl, her breath puffing into the air like smoke. She didn’t want to think about her anymore. She didn’t want to picture those brown eyes narrowing in exasperation or that infuriatingly perfect braid falling over one shoulder as she got ready for bed. She didn’t want to wonder what Granger was doing right now, if she was sitting in the common room with a book or fussing over her essays.

She hated this. Hated the way Granger occupied her thoughts, twisting them into knots she couldn’t untangle. Hated the way she could still hear Potter’s voice in her head, calm and steady, reminding her that Granger thought she could be better.

“Bloody Gryffindors,” Pansy muttered under her breath as she trudged up the stone steps and into the castle.

The warmth of the entrance hall hit her like a wave, but it did little to thaw the icy knot in her chest. She kept her head down as she made her way through the corridors, ignoring the few students she passed. She could feel their eyes on her, could hear the whispers that followed in her wake.

By the time she reached the door to the 8^th Year dormitory, her nerves were frayed, and her patience was non-existent. She pushed the door open and stepped inside, her boots clicking against the polished floor as she crossed the common room.

The fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows on the walls. The space was empty, save for the faint hum of conversation drifting from one of the other rooms. Pansy headed straight for her dorm, her fingers fumbling with the clasp of her cloak as she walked.

The door creaked open, revealing the familiar sight of their shared space. Granger wasn’t there, but her presence lingered in the neatly made bed, the carefully stacked books, the faint scent of parchment and ink.

Pansy sighed heavily, tossing her cloak onto her bed and sinking onto the mattress. She buried her face in her hands, her thoughts a chaotic jumble of anger, confusion, and something she couldn’t quite name.

What’s happening to me?

She wanted to blame Potter for stirring this up, for forcing her to confront things she’d spent months trying to bury. But deep down, she knew the real problem wasn’t him. It was her.

And it was Hermione bloody Granger.

The silence of the dorm was suffocating. Pansy sat there for a few minutes, staring at the neatly made bed across the room as though it were mocking her. Every tidy corner of the sheets, every perfectly aligned book on Granger’s desk, seemed to scream control.

Of course, everything in her life is so bloody perfect, Pansy thought bitterly, dragging her hands through her hair. Of course she has everything together, while I’m stuck here, unravelling.

She stood abruptly, pacing the small space as her mind raced. She couldn’t sit here and let her thoughts spiral any further. She needed noise, distraction, something to drown out the voice in her head whispering Granger’s name over and over again.

Dinner. The Great Hall would be crowded by now, filled with the usual noise and chaos of students catching up on the day. It wasn’t exactly her idea of a reprieve, but it was better than sitting here and letting her thoughts consume her.

With a sharp exhale, Pansy grabbed her cloak and swept out of the dorm, her boots clicking against the stone floors as she made her way toward the Hall. The corridors were mostly empty, save for a few stragglers hurrying to their own meals. A group of younger students froze as she passed, their whispers following her like shadows.

She ignored them, keeping her gaze fixed straight ahead. By the time she reached the doors to the Great Hall, the hum of conversation was already spilling out into the corridor. Pansy hesitated for a moment, steeling herself before pushing the doors open.

The sight was familiar—long tables filled with students, platters of food glimmering under the warm light of floating candles. She scanned the room quickly, her eyes instinctively landing on the Gryffindor table.

There she was, of course, sitting beside Ginny Weasley, her head bent close in conversation. Granger’s hands moved animatedly as she spoke, her face lit with a mixture of exasperation and amusement. Weasley threw her head back in laughter, drawing the attention of several nearby students.

Pansy clenched her fists at her sides. Perfect little Gryffindor. Surrounded by friends, adored by everyone. Always so bloody righteous.

She tore her gaze away and headed for the Slytherin table, her steps brisk and purposeful. She slid into an empty seat near the end of the table, ignoring the curious glances from the other students.

“Pansy,” came a drawling voice from across the table.

She glanced up to see Blaise Zabini leaning back in his chair, his dark eyes studying her with lazy curiosity. He twirled a goblet of pumpkin juice between his fingers, his expression as smooth and unreadable as ever.

“You look like you’re about to hex someone,” Blaise remarked, raising an eyebrow.

“Maybe I am,” she muttered, reaching for a plate of roasted vegetables.

“Let me guess.” He smirked, glancing toward the Gryffindor table. “Granger again?”

Pansy shot him a sharp look, her cheeks flushing despite herself. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, come off it,” Blaise said, his tone amused. “You’ve been staring at her like a lovesick puppy since term started.”

“I have not,” she snapped, her voice low but venomous.

Blaise’s smirk widened. “Right. Of course not. Just a casual obsession, then?”

“Drop it, Zabini,” she warned, her grip tightening on her fork.

Blaise chuckled, taking a sip from his goblet. “Fine, fine. But you might want to do something about that frustration before it eats you alive.”

Pansy glared at him, her stomach twisting with a mix of anger and embarrassment. She hated how easily he could read her, how quickly he’d picked up on the thing she’d barely admitted to herself.

She glanced back toward the Gryffindor table, her gaze narrowing as she watched Granger laugh at something Weasley said. Her hair gleamed in the candlelight, the loose curls brushing her shoulders as she leaned forward to pour herself a glass of water.

Pansy’s jaw tightened. She needed a distraction, something to pull her mind away from Granger and the infuriating knot of emotions she couldn’t untangle. She turned her attention back to the Slytherin table, her gaze sweeping over the familiar faces.

Blaise was still watching her, his smirk now tinged with something more calculating. Beside him, Daphne Greengrass was chatting animatedly with Theodore Nott, her pale hair catching the light as she gestured with one hand. Across from them, a sixth-year boy whose name Pansy couldn’t remember was slicing into a roast chicken with single-minded focus.

Her gaze landed on a figure a few seats down— Harper, a Quidditch player who’d taken over Draco’s role as Seeker. His dark eyes were fixed on his plate, his broad shoulders hunched slightly as he ate in silence.

Pansy tilted her head, considering. Harper wasn’t exactly charming, but he was attractive in a rough, brooding sort of way. And more importantly, he was uncomplicated.

She smirked, leaning back in her chair as a plan began to form in her mind. If she couldn’t stop thinking about Hermione Granger, maybe it was time to remind herself that there were other, far more fun ways to occupy her mind.

“Harper,” she called, her voice light and playful.

He looked up, his brow furrowing slightly as he met her gaze.

“Pass the gravy, would you?” she asked, her tone sickly sweet but edged with something more.

Harper hesitated for a moment, then reached for the gravy boat and slid it across the table toward her.

“Thanks,” Pansy said, her lips curving into a smile as she held his gaze a moment longer than necessary.

Blaise chuckled softly beside her, rolling his eyes, but Pansy ignored him, her attention focused solely on Harper.

Let’s see how well this works, she thought, pushing the Gryffindor out of her mind with sheer force of will.

Dinner in the Great Hall had been an exercise in endurance. Pansy had spent most of it in silence, pointedly ignoring the chatter around her. Her eyes, however, had betrayed her, flicking occasionally toward the Gryffindor table, where Hermione Granger was engaged in yet another animated conversation with Ginny Weasley.

The sight of Granger’s laughter only sharpened the knot of frustration in Pansy’s chest. By the time dessert appeared, she’d had enough. Pansy pushed her plate aside and rose gracefully, her cloak sweeping behind her as she made her way toward the doors.

Harper was leaving too, his strides purposeful as he slipped through the crowd. Pansy smirked to herself, quickening her pace until she was close enough to reach out and grab his arm.

“Harper,” she said, her voice smooth and teasing. “I hear you’re the best Seeker Slytherin’s had in years.”

Harper stopped, his brow furrowing slightly as he looked at her. “So they say.”

Pansy tilted her head, letting her smirk widen. “How about a private demonstration? Just to prove the rumours aren’t exaggerated.”

Harper blinked, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “A private demonstration?”

“Don’t look so scandalized,” Pansy said, rolling her eyes in mock exasperation. “I’m talking about Quidditch, Harper. Show me what makes you so great.”

Harper chuckled softly, his expression shifting to one of mild amusement. “And why do you care?”

“Maybe I’ve decided it’s time to take an interest in the sport,” she replied, her tone light but calculated. “Or maybe I’m just bored and thought you could be entertaining.”

“Right,” Harper said, shaking his head but unable to hide the small smile tugging at his lips. “Entertaining. Sure.”

He stepped forward, continuing down the hall, and Pansy fell into step beside him. “Come on, Harper,” she pressed. “You don’t mind a little attention, do you?”

“From you?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “It depends. What’s your angle?”

“No angle,” she said, though her tone didn’t quite match her words. “Can’t a girl show some interest without being accused of ulterior motives?”

Harper glanced at her, his gaze skeptical but curious. “With you, Parkinson? I’m not so sure.”

Pansy smirked, satisfied that she’d at least piqued his curiosity. “Maybe I’ll surprise you.”

When they entered the Slytherin Common Room, the green-tinged light cast long shadows over the familiar dark leather furniture and stone walls. A few students looked up as they walked in, and it didn’t take long for Pansy to spot Daphne Greengrass and Blaise Zabini near the fireplace.

“Well, well,” Blaise drawled, leaning back in his chair with a lazy smile. “Parkinson returns. And with company, no less.”

Daphne raised an eyebrow, her pale blue eyes flicking between Pansy and Harper. “This is new. Should we be taking bets on how long this lasts?”

“Mind your own business,” Pansy said smoothly, shrugging off her cloak and draping it over her arm. She turned to Harper, gesturing toward an empty table. “Shall we?”

Harper hesitated for a moment, glancing toward Blaise and Daphne before following her to the table. Blaise’s soft chuckle echoed behind them, but Pansy ignored it, focusing instead on Harper as they sat down.

“So,” she began, resting her chin in her hand as she studied him. “What’s your secret? How do you plan to take down Weasley this year?”

Harper tilted his head, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “Why are you so interested in my plans?”

“Can’t I be curious?” she asked, her tone innocently sweet. “After all, we can’t have Gryffindor walking all over us again, can we?”

Harper chuckled softly, leaning back in his chair. “You don’t strike me as the Quidditch type.”

“Maybe not,” she admitted, her smirk widening. “But I do appreciate a well-executed plan. And I’m willing to bet you’re the type to think three moves ahead.”

Harper shrugged, his expression modest but confident. “I do what I can.”

Their conversation continued, Harper gradually relaxing as Pansy’s questions became less pointed and more playful. She leaned forward slightly, letting her gaze linger a moment longer than necessary, and Harper, to his credit, seemed to hold his own against her calculated charm.

Across the room, Blaise and Daphne exchanged knowing looks, their quiet laughter lost in the hum of the common room.

For Pansy, it wasn’t perfect. Harper was a decent distraction—his calm demeanour and subtle humour kept her entertained—but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t quite keep her thoughts from drifting back to a certain Gryffindor. It was infuriating, and as Harper leaned closer to explain some finer point of Quidditch strategy, Pansy found herself forcing a smile, determined to push the intrusive thoughts aside.

If nothing else, she thought grimly, at least Harper didn’t make her feel like she was losing her mind.

The air in the Slytherin common room had grown stifling. The low hum of conversations and the crackle of the fire seemed too loud, pressing in on Pansy from all sides. She sat perched on the arm of a leather chair, listening to Harper drone on about formations and tactics. He wasn’t particularly clever, but he was uncomplicated. Predictable.

Exactly what she needed.

Her fingers drummed against her knee as she debated. It was reckless, yes. But reckless was better than drowning in her thoughts. Anything was better than the infernal chaos in her head.

Standing abruptly, Pansy snapped Harper straight to attention. She leaned down, her voice low and honeyed. “Walk me back to the dorm?”

Out the corner of her eye Pansy saw Daphne arch an eyebrow, clearly catching the underlying tone, but Pansy ignored her. Harper hesitated, his dark eyes scanning her face for a moment before he stood.

“Sure,” he said simply.

Perfect.

She led him out of the common room, deliberately brushing against him as they walked. The corridors were dimly lit, the soft flicker of torches casting dancing shadows on the stone walls. The castle felt quieter now, with most students tucked away in their dormitories. It was almost too quiet, each step echoing loudly in the silence.

Pansy slowed her pace as they reached a side corridor, her lips curving into a sly smile. “You know,” she said, her voice dropping slightly, “it’s such a long way to the dorm. Maybe we should take a little detour. Find somewhere… quieter.”

Harper raised an eyebrow, his expression cautious. “A detour?”

“Don’t act so innocent,” she teased, stepping closer. Her fingers trailed lightly along his arm, a deliberate touch designed to disarm. “Unless, of course, you’re afraid of a little privacy.”

He hesitated, his jaw tightening slightly before he nodded. “Lead the way.”

She smirked, tugging him down a narrower corridor and stopping in front of an empty classroom. Pushing the door open, she stepped inside, the faint light from the corridor casting long shadows on the desks and walls.

Harper followed, closing the door behind him. The silence in the room was heavy, broken only by the soft rustle of their cloaks. Pansy turned to face him, her hands resting lightly on his shoulders as she leaned in.

“Let’s see how good a Seeker you really are,” she murmured, her voice low and suggestive. She lifted the golden pendant of her necklace to his eyes before letting it drop down the front of her robes. He could not possibly miss the suggestion.

Harper stared at her as if he’d won a million galleons in the lottery, his jaw on the floor, his eyes as wide as dinnerplates. She would have to be the initiator. The first touch of his lips against hers was tentative, almost hesitant, but Pansy pulled him in closer, deepening the kiss with deliberate intent. Her hands slid up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer as her movements grew bolder.

It was mechanical at first—a means to an end, a way to drown out the incessant noise in her head. She kissed him harder, her fingers tightening against his shoulders as she willed herself to lose control, to lose herself in him.

But something was wrong.

The taste was wrong. The feel of his hands on her waist was wrong. The way he kissed her back, hesitant and clumsy, was wrong.

She pulled back slightly, her breath hitching as she stared at him. But as her eyes met his, her mind betrayed her. His face blurred and shifted, the sharp angles softening, dark eyes replaced by piercing brown ones.

No.

Her heart pounded in her chest as she shook her head, her eyes squeezing shut. She kissed him again, harder, faster, desperate to banish the image. But the harder she tried, the stronger it grew.

It wasn’t Harper she was kissing anymore. It was Granger.

Get a grip Pansy! She shouted inside her head. Back in the real world, Harper was becoming bolder. Clearly he didn’t have a meddlesome Muggleborn invading his every waking thought. His hands were wandering with gay abandon, ruffling her robes and messing up her hair. If he carried on this way she’d be as frizzy as Granger. Merlin! Get into the moment! She pulled Harper even closer, his hands now inching gingerly upwards to where he desperately wanted them to be. Pansy sped things up for him, only to be rewarded with a fairly rough squeeze.

Does he not realize they’re attached to me? Pansy thought bitterly. She ignored it, pressing on, running her hands across his broad back, cupping his face in one hand. This wasn’t so hard Pansy told herself, finally sinking into the moment. Harper wasn’t the best kisser in the world, but he would do.

She closed her eyes and let her senses take over, the panic was gone. She threaded her fingers into Harpers hair, no thoughts at all of Hermione Granger and how it might feel if she was in Harpers place. Wild curls brushing against her fingers, a faint scent of cinnamon filling her senses. The kiss was no longer hesitant—it was fiery, charged with the kind of tension that had been building between them for weeks.

Weeks? Pansy had only spoken to Harper for the first time that evening at dinner. Oh no.

Pansy’s chest tightened, her breaths coming in short, shallow bursts as she broke away abruptly. She staggered back, her hands trembling at her sides as she stared at Harper.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his brow furrowing in confusion.

“Nothing,” she snapped, her voice sharp and biting. “Just… nothing.”

“You don’t look like it’s nothing,” he said, his tone wary.

“Forget it,” she said, brushing past him toward the door. Her hand gripped the handle tightly, but she couldn’t bring herself to turn it. Her mind was spinning, her body frozen as the realization crashed over her like a tidal wave.

It wasn’t Harper she wanted. It could never be Harper.

The truth was suffocating, pressing down on her with unbearable weight. She clenched her jaw, willing herself to keep it together, to push it down where it couldn’t reach her.

“I should go,” she muttered, her voice barely audible.

Harper didn’t respond immediately, his confusion evident in the silence that stretched between them. Finally, he shrugged. “Whatever you say, Parkinson.”

He left without another word, the door clicking shut behind him. Pansy remained where she was, her back against the wall, her breaths shallow and uneven. She pressed a hand to her chest, as though she could steady the chaos raging inside her. Bile was rising into her throat, and she had to swallow hard to force it back down.

Granger.

The name echoed in her mind, each repetition driving the truth deeper into her consciousness. Her hands curled into fists at her sides, her nails digging into her palms as she fought to keep herself from unravelling completely.

How had it come to this? How had she let this happen?

She shoved away from the wall, her movements stiff and mechanical as she exited the classroom and made her way back to the dorm. Her steps were brisk, purposeful, as though she could outrun the thoughts chasing her.

But no matter how far she walked, she couldn’t escape the image burned into her mind—Hermione Granger’s face, her lips, her eyes, the maddening, infuriating, intoxicating pull of her presence.

Pansy’s chest ached with the weight of it, a feeling she couldn’t name and didn’t want to face.

When she finally burst into the 8th Year Common Room, well past curfew, she didn’t even notice Daphne until she spoke up.

"Pansy," Daphne’s voice cut through the silence, low but insistent.

Pansy froze, her hand still clutching the doorframe as she turned to see Daphne leaning against one of the armchairs by the fireplace. Her pale hair caught the flickering light, but her expression was unreadable—neither smug nor curious, just… steady.

"Daphne," Pansy said tightly, already bristling. "I’m not in the mood."

"I can see that," Daphne replied, pushing off the chair and taking a step closer. "You’ve got that look again. The one where you’re pretending nothing’s wrong while looking like you’re ready to hex someone."

Pansy rolled her eyes, pulling her cloak tighter around herself as though it could shield her from Daphne’s scrutiny. "Brilliant observation. Are you hoping for a gold star?"

Daphne ignored the barb, her gaze unwavering. "You’ve been off all term, Pansy. And tonight? Merlin, you look like you’ve seen a bloody Dementor. What’s going on with you?"

Pansy let out a sharp laugh, though it was devoid of humour. "Nothing’s going on, Daphne. I just had a thoroughly underwhelming evening, if you must know."

"With Harper?" Daphne arched an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "Please. That boy couldn’t underwhelm his way out of a paper bag. This isn’t about him, and you know it."

"Why don’t you tell me what it’s about then, since you’re so bloody insightful?" Pansy snapped, her temper flaring.

Daphne crossed her arms, her voice cooling. "I don’t need to tell you, Pansy. I think you already know. You’re just too stubborn—or scared—to admit it."

Pansy’s jaw tightened, the words cutting deeper than she wanted to admit. "You don’t know what you’re talking about."

"Don’t I?" Daphne asked softly, taking another step closer. "You’ve barely spoken to anyone in Slytherin since term started. You’re avoiding the common room like it’s cursed, and when you’re not snapping at everyone, you’re staring off into space like you’re trying to escape your own skin. You’re not yourself, Pansy. And whatever’s eating at you, it’s going to win if you keep this up."

Pansy’s chest tightened, the weight of Daphne’s words pressing down on her like a stone. She wanted to lash out, to shove Daphne away with a cutting remark, but the truth in her friend’s eyes made the words stick in her throat.

"I don’t need your concern, Daphne," she said finally, her voice sharp and brittle. "Or your pity."

Daphne’s expression softened, but her voice remained steady. "It’s not pity, Pansy. It’s worry. And if you won’t talk to me, then at least talk to someone. Because this? Whatever this is? It’s not you."

"Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think you do," Pansy retorted, the venom in her tone masking the tremor beneath.

Daphne flinched slightly, but she didn’t back down. "Fine," she said quietly. "Push me away if that’s what you want. But don’t pretend you’re fine, Pansy. It’s insulting—to me and to yourself."

With that, Daphne turned and walked toward the staircase leading to her dormitory, leaving Pansy standing alone in the middle of the common room. The silence rushed in again, heavier than before, as the fire crackled softly in the hearth.

Pansy’s hands curled into fists at her sides, her nails digging into her palms as she fought to steady her breathing. The knot in her chest grew tighter, and for a moment, she thought she might scream just to release the pressure.

Instead, she turned back toward the door leading to her own dormitory. The thought of entering the room and facing Hermione—even sleeping, even unconscious—made her stomach churn. She hesitated, her hand hovering over the handle as her mind raced.

What if she woke up? What if she looked at Pansy and saw the truth written all over her face? The thought was unbearable.

Coward, she thought bitterly, but even that wasn’t enough to push her inside. She turned abruptly, her cloak sweeping behind her as she strode toward the exit. The castle was vast, and there were plenty of places to lose herself. Anywhere was better than here.

Anywhere but there.

The dungeons felt colder than usual, the air thick with damp and the faintly acrid scent of ingredients lingering in the corners. Pansy dragged her feet as she entered the classroom, her stomach twisting. She’d avoided Hermione all day, and the reprieve had been almost blissful. But as she slid into her seat, she knew the dungeons would be her undoing. Potions was Slughorn’s favourite opportunity for forced collaboration. How could she have forgotten?

“Ah, Miss Granger! Miss Parkinson! Excellent,” Slughorn’s booming voice made Pansy cringe. “Such sharp minds—ideal for today’s lesson! Pair up, pair up!”

Pansy’s nails dug into her palms as Hermione’s bag landed beside her with a thud. Without so much as a glance, Hermione opened her textbook, flipping briskly to the page Slughorn indicated. “Let’s get started.”

The parchment-thin civility between them grated on Pansy, who slouched in her seat, masking her unease with indifference. “Lucky me,” she drawled. “Granger, queen of teamwork.”

Hermione’s eyes didn’t leave her book. “Just follow the instructions, Parkinson.”

Slughorn’s voice floated over the noise of shuffling cauldrons and bustling students. “Now, today we tackle a very special potion: Amortentia! You’ve seen this potion in my classes before of course, but now it’s time to try your hand at brewing it.”

Pansy’s blood froze. Her stomach churned as Slughorn launched into an explanation about its properties, its spiralling steam, and its intoxicating effects.

“This is going to be good,” Blaise murmured from the table next to hers, smirking as his gaze flicked between Pansy and Hermione.

“The potion smells different to everyone,” Slughorn continued, oblivious to the tension building at Pansy’s workstation. “According to what, or indeed who, the person likes. A fascinating reflection of attraction, wouldn’t you say?”

Pansy clenched her jaw. Perfect. She could already feel the trap closing in around her.

“Ready?” Hermione asked briskly, pulling out her neatly labelled vials. “We’ll need Ashwinder eggs, powdered moonstone—”

Pansy held up a hand, interrupting. “I know how to read.”

“Then you’ll have no trouble keeping up,” Hermione snapped.

The first few steps of the brewing process passed in a tense silence, broken only by the scrape of knives on roots and the measured bubbling of the cauldron. Pansy forced herself to focus on the movements—slice, stir, measure. Anything to keep her mind from spiralling.

But as the potion began to take shape, its pearlescent sheen growing stronger with each stir, her dread deepened. The spirals of steam started to rise, curling like fingers beckoning her closer.

“Watch your stirring,” Hermione said sharply. “It’s too slow. Do you want it to curdle?”

Pansy’s hand froze mid-motion. “Merlin forbid we tarnish your perfect record,” she muttered.

Hermione’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn’t respond. Instead, she took over the stirring and then leaned forward, inhaling the potion’s steam. Her eyes fluttered shut for a moment, and when she opened them, there was a faint flush on her cheeks and an expression that hinted at... surprise?

“What?” Pansy asked, her voice laced with mockery. “Smelled something thrilling, did you? Library books and house-elf liberation pamphlets?”

Hermione ignored her, jotting something in her notebook.

“Your turn,” Hermione said curtly, stepping back.

Pansy hesitated, her heart pounding as she leaned over the cauldron. The first scent hit her immediately—lavender, warm and soothing. Then parchment, crisp and clean. And finally, cinnamon, sweet and sharp, the scent she had come to associate with Hermione Granger.

She jerked back, her stomach lurching as though the ground had tilted beneath her. No. No, no, no. This couldn’t be happening.

“Well?” Hermione pressed. “What did you smell?”

“None of your bloody business,” Pansy snapped, shoving her chair back. The scrape of wood against stone was loud in the suddenly quiet room.

Pansy stormed out of the classroom the moment Slughorn dismissed them, her mind spinning. She had almost made it to the stairs when Hermione’s voice called after her.

“Pansy!”

Pansy stopped, her fists clenched at her sides, but she didn’t turn around.

“What is wrong with you?” Hermione demanded, her footsteps echoing in the empty corridor as she caught up. “You didn’t even try in class. Again.”

Pansy spun around, her eyes blazing. “Oh, I’m sorry, Granger. Was my performance not up to your impeccable standards?”

“This isn’t about standards,” Hermione shot back. “It’s about effort. You’re capable of so much more, but all you do is sneer and undermine—”

“Capable?” Pansy’s laugh was sharp and bitter. “Of what? Being a model student like you? Earning your approval? Get over yourself.”

“This isn’t about me!” Hermione’s voice rose. “It’s about you refusing to take responsibility for anything—”

“Responsibility?” Pansy’s temper snapped. “Like you and your little hero squad? Meddling where you don’t belong?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb,” Pansy spat. “You sent Potter after me, didn’t you? Couldn’t help yourself, could you? Always have to fix things.”

“I didn’t send Harry to do anything, he’s a grown man quite capable of making his own decisions. I told him you’d expressed regret about what you did before the battle.”

“Of course I regret it,” Pansy spat, “I wish I’d told them to take you instead!”

“Now you’re just being childish,” Hermione said dismissively. “You don’t want to be like this, I know you don’t.”

“You don’t know a damn thing about me, and for good reason. I long for the day we graduate, and I don’t have to share a room with a nosey, bookish, insufferable, whiny, filthy, Mudblood!”

The word echoed in the corridor, sharp and cutting. For a moment, the silence that followed was suffocating. Several pairs of eyes that Pansy hadn’t realised were bearing witness to their fight were locked onto her, unable to react, unable to look away.

Hermione’s face went pale, her eyes wide with shock. Instinctively she clamped a hand over her left forearm, scratching slightly at where Pansy knew the ugly scar with the ugly word she’d just shouted across the corridor was carved into Hermione’s skin. Then, slowly, her expression hardened into something cold and unreadable.

“Don’t,” she said quietly, her voice trembling with controlled fury. “Don’t you ever call me that again.”

Pansy’s chest heaved, the weight of what she’d said crashing down on her. She opened her mouth to respond, but the words wouldn’t come. Bile rose up in her throat, and her cheeks suddenly gained an immense heat.

“Forget it,” Hermione said, stepping back. “You’re not worth it.”

She turned and walked away, her footsteps fading into the distance.

Pansy stood frozen, her heart pounding and her breath shallow. The word hung in the air, mocking her, a cruel reminder of everything she had tried—and failed—to leave behind.

The door to the 8th Year Common Room slammed behind Pansy as she stumbled in, her chest heaving like she’d run the length of the castle. The room was dim, lit only by the flickering fire, and for a moment she thought she might be alone. But then she heard a sharp voice cut across the room.

“Have you completely lost the plot Pansy?”

Pansy froze for a second, her stomach twisting. “Leave me alone Daphne, I’m really not in the mood for another lecture right now.”

“I don’t care what kind of mood you’re in,” Daphne said, rising from her seat and cutting across Pansy’s path, “I thought I’d gotten the point across but obviously not. You can’t go around acting like a nutter towards all of Harry Potter’s inner circle.”

“I’m not acting like a nutter-” Daphne cut her off with a loud snort.

“Don’t play dumb and insult my intelligence Pansy. Half the castle already knows what happened. You and Granger screaming at each other in the dungeons? You calling her a—”

“Don’t say it,” Pansy snapped, her voice cracking.

Daphne arched an eyebrow, her tone cool and cutting. “Why not? You said it loud enough for the entire corridor to hear. Figured you’d want to own it.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Didn’t mean to?” Daphne interrupted, her voice becoming sharper. “What were you thinking, Pansy? No, scratch that—were you even thinking? Or have you just decided to torch whatever shred of dignity you have left?”

“I know I screwed up,” Pansy spat, her hands curling into fists. “You don’t need to lecture me.”

“Oh, I think I do,” Daphne said, stepping closer, her voice growing sharper. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Granger might not say anything, but do you think the rest of the school will just let this slide? You’re already on thin ice, Pansy. Now, you’ve gone and set it on fire. You literally won’t be able to walk the halls without one eye looking over your shoulder. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Weasley girl marches in here now and kills you on the spot!”

Pansy flinched, the weight of Daphne’s words pressing down on her chest like a vice. “It’s not like I planned it,” she muttered.

“Oh well that makes it all better,” Daphne snapped sarcastically. “That word—Merlin, Pansy, you know what it means. You know what it does, why it can’t be just casually thrown around. I can’t help you out of this one, and Draco isn’t here to bully people out of your way anymore. Do me a favour and don’t drag me down with you.”

Pansy stood frozen, Daphne’s words hanging in the air like a noose tightening around her neck. Every muscle in her body screamed at her to fight back, to snap something biting and cruel in response. But no words came.

“I didn’t ask for your help,” she muttered finally, her voice trembling with suppressed anger.

“Good,” Daphne shot back, folding her arms. “Because you’re bloody beyond it at this point.”

Pansy turned her head sharply, glaring at Daphne. “I don’t need you to spell out every mistake I’ve made, alright? I know. I know I screwed up. I know I said something unforgivable. Merlin, you think I don’t feel like complete rubbish about it?”

Daphne’s expression softened for a fraction of a second before hardening again. “Then why do you keep doing this? Pansy, it’s like you want to destroy every chance you have left. Granger didn’t deserve that, and you know it.”

“I know!” Pansy barked, her voice cracking again. She dragged her hands through her hair, pulling at the strands in frustration. “I know, alright? But I panicked. She cornered me, and I... I just...”

“You just what?” Daphne asked, stepping closer, her tone cold but less biting. “You lashed out because she got too close? Because she’s spent too much time in your head?”

The words hit too close to home, and Pansy’s cheeks burned as she turned away, refusing to meet Daphne’s eyes.

“That’s what I thought,” Daphne said, her voice quieter now. “Look, you’re my friend—Merlin knows why—but if you keep this up, you’re going to be completely alone. And don’t think for a second that Blaise or I can shield you from the fallout. You called Granger a—”

“Stop,” Pansy said through gritted teeth, her hands clenching at her sides. “I don’t need to hear it again.”

“No, you need to feel it,” Daphne said sharply. “You need to understand that you’ve made yourself a target, and not just from the Gryffindors. Do you really think the rest of the Slytherins are going to stick their necks out for you when they’re already hanging by a thread themselves?”

Pansy sank into a nearby armchair, her head in her hands. She couldn’t argue with Daphne, no matter how much she wanted to. The truth of it was like a dagger twisting in her chest, and the weight of her own shame was unbearable.

“Fix it,” Daphne said after a long pause, her tone firm but not unkind. “I don’t care how but fix it. Apologize, grovel, do whatever it takes. Because if you don’t, Pansy... you’re done. Here, outside, everywhere. You’ll be done.”

Pansy didn’t respond, her throat tight as she stared at the fire. The flickering flames blurred in her vision, and she blinked rapidly, refusing to let the tears fall.

“Think about it,” Daphne said finally, turning toward the stairs. She stopped at the bottom step and glanced back, her expression unreadable. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re a completely lost cause. Yet.”

She disappeared up the staircase, leaving Pansy alone in the common room. The silence was deafening, broken only by the crackling of the fire and the faint murmurs of students in the dorms above.

Pansy sat there for what felt like hours, her mind replaying the scene in the dungeons over and over again. The way Hermione’s face had paled, the way her voice had trembled with barely controlled fury. The way her own chest had tightened with a strange, unbearable ache when she’d seen the pain in Granger’s eyes.

She couldn’t go to bed. Not tonight. The thought of facing Hermione, of seeing that hurt and anger up close, was too much to bear. She grabbed her cloak and slipped out of the common room, the cool dungeon air hitting her like a slap.

Her feet carried her aimlessly through the castle, her thoughts a storm she couldn’t escape. She didn’t know where she was going, but she knew one thing for certain.

She had to find a way to fix this.

The corridor was quiet, save for the faint drip of water echoing from somewhere deep in the castle. Pansy moved quickly, her footsteps sharp against the stone floor. She wanted to get away—away from the whispers, the stares, the echoes of her own cruel words reverberating in her head.

She rounded a corner, her breath catching in her throat when she saw a figure leaning casually against the wall up ahead, her head buried in a strange piece of parchment. A flash of fiery red hair and an unmistakable Gryffindor tie. Ginny Weasley.

Pansy hesitated for a fraction of a second, but it was too late. Ginny’s head snapped up as if she had been waiting for her to arrive, her brown eyes locking onto Pansy with a look so fierce it stopped her cold.

“Weasley,” Pansy muttered, forcing a smirk onto her face even as her palms began to sweat. “Shouldn’t you be off playing Quidditch or fawning over Potter?”

Ginny pushed off the wall and took a slow, deliberate step forward. “Oh, don’t worry about Harry. I’m sure he’ll want to know the details later,” she said, her voice deceptively light. “But right now, I’m much more interested in you.”

Pansy tried to summon a retort, something sharp and cutting, but before she could open her mouth, Ginny’s wand was out. It moved so fast Pansy barely had time to register it before the tip was inches from her face. A faint crackle of heat and energy radiated from it, and Pansy instinctively stepped back, her breath hitching.

“Call her that again,” Ginny said, her voice low and deadly, “and I swear to Merlin, Parkinson, you’ll never walk out of this place.”

Pansy forced herself to stand tall, though her knees threatened to buckle beneath her. “You think you can scare me, Weasley?” she said, but her voice wavered, betraying her.

Ginny stepped closer, her wand unwavering. “I don’t think, Parkinson. I know. You don’t know the first thing about me, do you? You don’t know what I’ve seen, what I’ve done while you were running away to save your own skin. But let me put it in simple terms for you—I’ve fought people a hell of a lot scarier than you, and I’ve won.”

Pansy’s mouth went dry. She could feel the heat of Ginny’s wand, could see the fire in her eyes, and for the first time, her false bravado failed her.

Ginny tilted her head, her voice softening but losing none of its edge. “You don’t even know how lucky you are, do you? Lucky that Hermione told me not to touch you. Told me to leave you alone. All term she’s protected you from people like me.”

Pansy’s stomach twisted. “Granger… told you that?”

“She did,” Ginny said, her eyes narrowing. “Because she’s a better person than you’ll ever be, and I listen to her, for now. But don’t think for one second that means you’re safe. If you ever hurt her again—if you so much as look at her the wrong way—I won’t care what she says. Half of Gryffindor wants to curse you in the hallways, Hermione stopped that on day one. There were whole gangs of them queuing up to have a pop at you tonight, they only calmed down when I threatened them off, said I had special plans for you. The next time I see Hermione Granger in tears because of something you’ve said or done, you’re fair game, and you best hope I don’t get to you first.”

The heat from the wand grew stronger, the faint scent of singed fabric curling into Pansy’s nose. Her throat tightened, but she forced a smirk onto her face, desperate to salvage some shred of dignity. “I’m not afraid of you, Weasley.”

Ginny let out a sharp laugh, devoid of humour. “No? Then why are your hands shaking?”

Pansy glanced down before she could stop herself. Her fists were clenched at her sides, trembling ever so slightly. She snapped her gaze back up, her cheeks burning, but Ginny had already noticed. A satisfied smirk played across her lips, though the fire in her eyes hadn’t dimmed.

“Stay well away from her,” Ginny said, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “You don’t deserve to be in the same room as her, let alone share her air. I don’t care if you have to spend the rest of the year sleeping in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom, if you upset Hermione like that again I will properly mess you up. Do you understand me?”

Pansy didn’t respond. She couldn’t. Her throat felt like it had closed up, and for once, her sharp tongue had nothing to offer.

“I said, do you understand me?” Ginny repeated, jabbing her wand roughly into Pansy’s neck and pushing her hard against the wall. The tip of Ginny’s wand burned against Pansy’s skin, and she felt dazed as the back of her head collided with the rough stone of the castle walls.

“Yes,” Pansy managed to choke out through held back tears, her voice barely audible.

Ginny held her gaze for a moment longer, then stepped back, lowering her wand but not putting it away. “Good,” she said simply. Without another word, she turned and strode down the corridor, her steps confident and unhurried.

Pansy remained frozen in place, her chest heaving and her mind reeling. The air in the corridor felt impossibly heavy, and the burn of humiliation prickled at the back of her neck. She’d never felt so small, so exposed.

As she turned to make her way back to the dorm, her legs shaking beneath her, one thought rang loud and clear in her mind.

She’s right. Pansy had spurned every opportunity Hermione had given her with petty insults and drama she’d concocted just to try and break Grangers’ composure. The result? The whole school definitely hated her now, and Ginny Weasley would make good on her threats, Pansy had no doubt.

Chapter Text

Chapter 7

The dream came first, as it always did.

Hermione was back in Malfoy Manor, the dim light of the drawing room casting cruel shadows across the pale, sneering faces of her captors. The ropes bit into her wrists, binding her to the chair, and Bellatrix Lestrange loomed over her, wand in hand, eyes glittering with unhinged delight.

“No!” Hermione’s voice was raw and desperate, but it only seemed to amuse Bellatrix more. The witch’s laugh echoed in the vast room, sharp and cruel, sending shivers down Hermione’s spine.

“Let’s see how much that filthy little Mudblood knows,” Bellatrix hissed, the word dripping with malice. Then came the searing pain—hot, sharp, and all-consuming—as the tip of the knife pressed into her arm, carving the word into her skin letter by agonizing letter. She screamed, her voice breaking as the pain overwhelmed her.

The word stood out in her mind, bright and blood-red, as though it were still fresh.

Mudblood.

Hermione woke with a start, her chest heaving, the remnants of the dream clinging to her like cobwebs. Her left arm burned, the scar itching beneath the fabric of her sleeve. She sat up in bed, clutching her arm to her chest, her eyes darting around the room as she tried to ground herself.

You’re not there anymore. You’re safe.

But was she? The word had haunted her in the months since the war ended, an ugly reminder of what she had endured. She had tried to tell herself that it was just a word, just Bellatrix’s way of trying to break her spirit, a schoolyard insult she had brushed off many times before. But now, every time she saw it in the mirror, every time she caught herself scratching at it absentmindedly, it felt like so much more.

Now it wasn’t just Bellatrix’s voice that echoed in her mind.

She’s a filthy, insufferable Mudblood.

Pansy’s voice rang through her memory, fresh and biting. Hermione closed her eyes, willing the tears to stay at bay. She hadn’t cried that day, not in front of Pansy. She wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. But now, alone in the dark, the weight of it all was suffocating.

It was just an insult. That’s what she told herself before. She could brush it off, could push through it like she always had. But now, it wasn’t just an insult. Now, the word was a scar, a brand burned into her skin and her memory. It was Bellatrix’s laughter and the smell of blood and the metallic taste of fear on her tongue.

Hermione tugged her sleeve down over her wrist, her hand trembling. She didn’t want to look at it. She didn’t want to be reminded. But the scar was always there, even when she couldn’t see it.

The common room was quiet when Hermione descended the stairs, the early morning light filtering through the high windows. She hoped for solitude, but to her surprise, someone was already there.

Ginny.

The redhead was perched on the edge of a sofa, her wand twirling absently in her fingers. She looked up as Hermione entered, her sharp gaze softening when she saw the expression on her friend’s face.

“Hey,” Ginny said gently. “I thought I’d stay here for a bit, in case you needed me. Couldn’t sleep?”

Hermione shook her head, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as she sank into the chair opposite Ginny. She didn’t trust herself to speak, her throat still raw from the dream.

Ginny leaned forward, her brow furrowed with concern. “Was it...?” she trailed off, but Hermione knew what she meant.

“Yes,” Hermione admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “It was worse this time. Because of what she said.”

Ginny’s grip on her wand tightened, her jaw clenching. “I should’ve hexed her. I threatened her well enough, she nearly wet her knickers, but I think a hex would’ve done her the world of good.”

“Ginny, no,” Hermione said quickly, her voice trembling. “I don’t want this to turn into something bigger. It’s bad enough as it is.”

“She had no right,” Ginny said fiercely. “After everything—after what Bellatrix did to you—how dare she?”

Hermione looked away, her eyes brimming with tears. “I don’t think she even understands what she said. Not really. She doesn’t know about Bellatrix, she just knows it’s a slur she can use to upset people like me.”

Ginny snorted. “Then maybe she needs someone to spell it out for her.”

“No.” Hermione shook her head. “That won’t fix anything. She’s already... I don’t know, broken in her own way.”

Ginny’s eyes softened, but the fire in them didn’t dim completely. “You’re too kind, Hermione. You always are.”

Hermione offered a weak smile, though her heart still felt heavy. The scar on her arm itched, a dull throb that refused to be ignored. She rubbed at it absently, the motion automatic, but Ginny’s eyes caught the movement.

“You should talk to someone about this,” Ginny said quietly. “McGonagall, maybe. Or Harry.”

Hermione shook her head again. “I’ll be fine. I just need time.”

Ginny didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t push the matter. Instead, she reached across the small table between them, her hand resting lightly on Hermione’s.

“You’re stronger than you should have ever needed to be, Hermione,” Ginny said softly. “But you don’t have to carry this all alone.”

Hermione swallowed hard, her fingers curling around Ginny’s for a moment before pulling away. She wasn’t sure if she believed her, but the words were a small comfort, nonetheless.

For now, it would have to be enough.

The Great Hall was bustling with the usual morning chatter when Hermione entered with Ginny by her side. Despite the warmth of the sunlight streaming through the enchanted ceiling, a heaviness lingered over Hermione, though Ginny’s presence provided some comfort.

“You really should eat something,” Ginny said, nudging her toward the Gryffindor table.

“I will,” Hermione said distractedly, her eyes scanning the room instinctively. She wasn’t entirely sure what—or who—she was looking for until her gaze landed on the empty seat at the Slytherin table.

Ginny followed her line of sight and snorted. “Surely you aren’t looking for Parkinson, are you? Don’t worry, I doubt she’ll show her face today.”

Hermione frowned but didn’t respond, instead reaching for a piece of toast. Across the table, Luna Lovegood appeared, as if summoned by Hermione’s want of a distraction. Luna slid into the seat opposite Hermione and Ginny, her dreamy smile as serene as ever.

“Good morning,” Luna said brightly, as if there were no such thing as a bad one. “You seem a bit put out, Hermione. Are you okay?”

Hermione hesitated, unsure how to explain. Ginny, however, had no such reservations.

“She’s wondering where Parkinson’s slithered off to,” Ginny said, pouring herself a cup of pumpkin juice.

Luna tilted her head, her silver radish earrings swaying. “Pansy Parkinson? I imagine she’s avoiding everyone today. I would, if I were her.”

Hermione sighed. “It’s not that—I mean, maybe it is. I don’t know. She’s been acting strange lately, but I thought she’d at least show up for breakfast.”

“She’s probably hiding under a rock,” Ginny muttered, her tone dismissive. “Where she belongs.”

“Ginny,” Hermione said softly, her brow furrowing.

“What? You’re seriously worrying about her now? After everything she’s said? After what she called you?”

“It’s not that I’m worried,” Hermione insisted, though the words felt hollow. “It’s just... unusual. She’s been showing up, even when she’s in a mood. But now she’s just gone?”

Luna hummed thoughtfully, her gaze drifting to the enchanted ceiling. “Maybe she’s embarrassed. Or maybe she’s having a crisis of identity.”

Ginny snorted. “Or maybe she’s plotting her next line of insults. Honestly, Hermione, I don’t understand why you care.”

Hermione set her toast down, the bite she’d taken sitting heavy in her stomach. “I don’t care. I just...” She trailed off, unable to articulate the knot of emotions swirling in her chest.

Ginny softened slightly, reaching across the table to touch Hermione’s hand. “Look, if she wants to sulk in her dungeon, let her. You’ve got bigger things to worry about than Pansy Parkinson’s feelings.”

Hermione nodded, but Luna spoke again, her tone calm but pointed. “You do care a lot about people, Hermione. Even when they don’t want or deserve it.”

Hermione felt her cheeks warm at the compliment, though it didn’t make her feel any better. “I just don’t want this to spiral into something worse,” she said quietly.

Ginny rolled her eyes but didn’t argue further. Instead, she leaned back in her seat, her sharp gaze flicking toward the doors of the Great Hall. “Well, if she does decide to show up, I’ll make sure to give her a warm welcome.”

Luna’s lips curved into a faint smile. “Perhaps a warm welcome is exactly what she needs to change her attitude.”

Ginny snorted. “Sure, Luna. You can try being her new friend, let me know how it goes.”

Hermione couldn’t help but smile faintly at the exchange, though her thoughts remained heavy. As the bell rang, signalling the start of the first class, she followed Ginny and Luna out of the Great Hall, her mind still lingering on the empty seat at the Slytherin table.

By the time Hermione reached Transfiguration, she was certain something was amiss. Pansy’s absence wasn’t just limited to breakfast—her seat in the classroom remained conspicuously empty as well.

Professor McGonagall, always keenly observant, paused for a moment as her eyes flicked to the vacant desk. Her expression tightened, but she said nothing, choosing instead to sweep her gaze across the rest of the class. She resumed her lecture on advanced human transfiguration, her tone brisk as usual, though Hermione noticed a flicker of irritation in the professor’s voice.

Hermione settled into her seat, carefully arranging her parchment and quill. The soft scratching of her quill filled the silence as she jotted down notes, but her focus was scattered. Despite her best efforts to concentrate on the intricacies of human-to-animal transfiguration, her attention kept drifting to the empty seat on the Slytherin side of the room.

Every now and then, her eyes darted toward the desk, as though expecting Pansy to saunter in late, her face painted with that familiar smirk. But the desk remained empty, its polished surface gleaming in the sunlight streaming through the high windows.

“She’s probably skiving off,” Ginny whispered beside her, leaning closer. Her voice was low, meant only for Hermione’s ears. “Wouldn’t be the first time a Slytherin’s avoided their responsibilities. Who cares?”

Hermione didn’t reply immediately, her grip tightening on her quill.

“Honestly,” Ginny continued, “if she doesn’t want to show up, that’s her problem. She’ll fall behind and have no one to blame but herself.”

“She’s not like that,” Hermione said softly, almost without thinking.

Ginny blinked, raising an eyebrow. “Really? And how would you know? All Pansy Parkinson lives for is to make people’s lives miserable, including yours. In fact, especially yours.”

Hermione’s quill hovered over the parchment, her stomach twisting. “She’s been... different, lately.”

Ginny snorted, her skepticism evident. “Different how? Because from where I’m sitting, she’s the same vindictive cow she’s always been. Or did you forget about yesterday?”

Hermione flinched at the reminder, the memory of Pansy’s harsh words cutting through her like a blade. “I haven’t forgotten,” she murmured. “I just... I don’t think she’s as awful as she wants everyone to believe.”

Ginny rolled her eyes, leaning back in her chair. “You’re too forgiving, Hermione. Always trying to see the best in people, even when they don’t deserve it, and Pansy Parkinson does not deserve it.”

Hermione didn’t respond, her gaze drifting back to the empty desk. She couldn’t explain the unease settling over her, but it lingered like a shadow.

The rest of the lesson passed in a blur. Hermione dutifully took notes, but the words barely registered. Her mind kept circling back to Pansy—her absence, her strange behaviour over the past few weeks, the argument that still lingered like a bitter taste in Hermione’s mouth.

When the bell finally rang, Hermione gathered her things with mechanical precision. Ginny was already chatting animatedly with Dean Thomas as they left the classroom, but Hermione lingered, her gaze once again drawn to the empty desk.

Professor McGonagall, who was tidying her own desk at the front of the room, glanced up. Her sharp eyes caught Hermione’s hesitation.

“Miss Granger,” McGonagall said, her voice brisk but not unkind. “Is something the matter?”

Hermione hesitated, her books clutched to her chest. “No, Professor. I was just... thinking.”

McGonagall’s eyes narrowed slightly, as though she were weighing Hermione’s words. “If this is about Miss Parkinson’s absence, I assure you, it will be addressed.”

Hermione’s cheeks flushed. “It’s not that. I mean... maybe it is. I’m just... worried.”

McGonagall’s expression softened, though her tone remained firm. “Miss Granger, your compassion is admirable, but I suggest you focus on your own studies. Miss Parkinson’s poor choices are her own. I would also remind you that you can make a complaint to any of the staff should you have issues with another student. If half of the rumours that have reached my office are true I would be outraged.”

“Yes, Professor,” Hermione said quietly, though the knot in her chest remained. “Pansy and I have our issues, but I’d like to try and resolve things ourselves first.” Professor McGonagall’s eyes narrowed as she studied Hermione for a moment, before nodding and returning to her work.

As she left the classroom, her thoughts continued to churn. She couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Pansy Parkinson might have been many things—insufferable, sharp-tongued, infuriating—but she wasn’t a complete coward. Skipping class without reason wasn’t like her.

Hermione bit her lip as she made her way down the corridor, her mind racing with possibilities. Where was Pansy? And why did it bother her so much?

After classes ended for the day, Hermione found herself back in the 8^th Year Common Room, settling into an armchair near the fire. Ginny had gone off to the Quidditch pitch for practice, and Luna had disappeared into one of her curious wanderings, leaving Hermione alone with her thoughts.

The absence of Pansy weighed heavier than she wanted to admit. It wasn’t concern—not exactly. But something about the situation felt unfinished, like a thread left dangling from a tapestry. She hadn’t seen the girl since their argument; Pansy hadn’t even slept in her own bed.

She opened her Transfiguration textbook, trying to force herself to focus on the words. But as the fire crackled softly beside her, her mind drifted again. Where was Pansy? And why couldn’t she stop thinking about her?

She snapped her book shut in frustration. This was no use at all. She thundered up the stairs to her dorm and threw her textbook onto her desk. All of Pansy’s things were still scattered haphazardly across her side of the room, so she would at least need to come back eventually for a change of clothes or to grab one of those god-awful magazines she read every night.

Hermione's fingers tapped restlessly against the edge of her desk, the faint sound punctuating the silence of the dorm. Her gaze flickered back to Pansy’s side of the room, to the haphazard mess that felt so incongruous with the sharp-tongued girl she knew. Ginny’s words from earlier lingered in her mind: She nearly wet her knickers.

Could Pansy really be that shaken? Hermione frowned. It didn’t add up. Pansy had always thrived on attention, relishing in her role as Slytherin’s resident instigator. She’d certainly never shied away from conflict with Hermione before. Why disappear now?

Hermione stood abruptly, the legs of her chair scraping against the floor. She crossed the room to Pansy’s desk, her hand hesitating above the open Witch Weekly. It felt wrong to snoop, but curiosity gnawed at her. With a soft sigh, she flipped the magazine shut, revealing a battered quill and an empty inkwell beneath it. A crumpled piece of parchment peeked out from under the pile.

She didn’t touch it. Whatever Pansy was dealing with, it wasn’t Hermione’s place to dig through her belongings. Still, the sight of the disarrayed desk only deepened the knot of unease in her chest.

“She’s not like this,” Hermione muttered aloud, though the statement sounded absurd even to her own ears. Wasn’t this exactly what Pansy was like? Chaotic. Sharp. Contradictory. Yet, there had been something in her expression during their argument—a flicker of vulnerability beneath the fury. Hermione had seen it, even if Pansy would never admit it. That brief moment of raw emotion had stuck with her, as if it had carved out a space in her thoughts and refused to leave.

Hermione paced to the window, gazing out over the chilly, autumnal grounds. The evening light was fading, and the castle glowed softly against the darkening sky. Somewhere out there, Pansy was hiding—or worse, stewing in whatever storm had been brewing inside her since the beginning of term.

The sound of the door creaking open was so faint that Hermione almost didn’t hear it. She was seated cross-legged on her bed, a Transfiguration textbook open in front of her, though she hadn’t read a word in over an hour. Her head snapped up at the sound, her heart skipping a beat.

The light in the dorm was dim, the evening shadows long against the walls, and for a moment, she thought she’d imagined it. But then she saw the figure slipping inside, moving with deliberate quietness, as if trying not to be noticed.

Pansy.

Hermione froze, her breath caught in her throat. Pansy’s hair was slightly mussed, her robes crumpled as if she’d been sleeping in them. Her movements were cautious, her shoulders hunched as though she expected someone to leap out at her. She didn’t see Hermione at first, her focus entirely on her bed.

Pansy reached for her bag, which was slumped against the side of her desk, and began rummaging through it. The tension in her body was palpable, her movements jerky and uncoordinated.

“Pansy.”

The word was quiet but firm, and Pansy froze mid-motion, her head snapping up to meet Hermione’s gaze. Her eyes widened and her mouth gaped, her expression horror-struck, like a deer in the headlights of a speeding car. Her eyes darted frantically towards the door, as if planning to run.

“You look bloody awful.” Hermione followed up. Pansy’s eyes returned to Hermione and her whole body slackened, her defences finally defeated.

“I haven’t slept since…” Pansy shifted uncomfortably. “I’m truly sorry I used that word.”

“Why? It’s never bothered you before.”

“That was before…” Pansy stared at the floor, unable to meet Hermione’s gaze. There was something bothering her, but she was ashamed to admit it, Hermione could tell. “It’s carved into your arm, that word. You keep it hidden at all times, except when you sleep. I came back late one night, your arm was hanging off the bed, at first… I thought it was a tattoo, so I decided to have a closer look. I thought it might be good gossip, Gryffindors prim and proper princess with a secret tattoo.”

Hermione instinctively scratched the sleeve on her left arm, taking a deep breath as she processed the information. Pansy Parkinson knew.

“I suppose you find it funny.” Pansy shook her head rapidly, tears forming in the corners of her eyes. “No? So why use it, knowing what you know? Why, every time I think we’re about to turn a corner, do you turn round and hurl another insult at me?”

“Because I wanted to hurt you!” Pansy shouted, tears rolling freely down her cheeks, “and I knew that it would.”

“Why Pansy?”

“Is it not obvious Granger? I hate you!”  

The silence that followed Pansy’s outburst was deafening. The words hung in the air, sharp and jagged, slicing through whatever fragile truce they might have had. Hermione sat frozen on her bed, her breath caught in her throat as she stared at the girl standing in the middle of their dormitory, tears streaking her face.

Pansy wiped at her eyes furiously, as if trying to erase the evidence of her vulnerability. Her shoulders heaved with the effort of containing herself, but her eyes blazed with a raw, unfiltered emotion that Hermione couldn’t quite place.

“You hate me?” Hermione finally said, her voice quieter than she intended. “That’s why you keep doing this? Hurling petty insults, storming off after every conversation, disappearing for days? Because you just hate me? Plain and simple as that?”

“Yes!” Pansy snapped, but the word rang hollow, her voice breaking at the end. She turned away, pacing the room with restless energy, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. “I hate the way you’re so bloody perfect all the time! I hate the way you always know the right thing to say to people, the right thing to do. I hate the way you walk into a room, and everyone looks at you like you’re some kind of saint.”

“That just sounds like plain old bitterness and jealousy Pansy. I’m a bit disappointed to be honest.”

“Oh, piss off! Spare me another condescending lecture on morality.”

“Fine!” Hermione snapped back, rising from her bed. She wouldn’t just let Pansy walk all over her. “Anything else you’d like to get off your chest while you’re in the moment?”

“Plenty!” Pansy snarled, stalking back and forth between their two beds. “I hate your infuriating neatness! Your perfectly made bed!” As she said it, she grabbed the covers off of Hermione’s bed and threw them in a heap on the floor. “I hate your stupidly organised desk with all your books lined up by subject, and your quills all stored in their little jar!” The jar in question was then launched at the back wall and smashed into tiny fragments, whilst the books were strewn haphazardly across the room. “I hate the fact that everything has to be proper!”

Hermione stood stunned, her jaw tightening as she watched the chaos unfold. Her pulse quickened as Pansy’s tirade continued, the room transforming into a battleground littered with fragments of Hermione’s carefully constructed world.

“You’re acting like a child!” Hermione snapped, stepping forward as Pansy reached for her vanity. “Throwing a tantrum because—because what? Because you can’t deal with the fact that someone else actually has their life together?”

“Together?” Pansy whirled around, her eyes wild. “You think you have it together, don’t you? All your little plans, your perfect marks, your golden trio! But you’re not perfect, Granger! You’re insufferable! You think you’re better than everyone else!”

“I don’t think I’m better than anyone!” Hermione shouted back, her fists clenched at her sides. “And you’re right, I’m not perfect, but at least I’m not tearing apart someone else’s things because I can’t handle my own problems!”

Pansy let out a bitter laugh, her voice dripping with venom. “You want to talk about problems? Fine. Let’s talk about how you can’t stop meddling in everyone else’s lives. You sent Potter to talk to me, didn’t you? Thought you could fix me, didn’t you? That’s what you do, isn’t it? You fix things. You fix people. Because you can’t stand the idea that not everyone wants to be like you.”

Hermione felt the words hit like a slap, but she refused to back down. “I didn’t send Harry. He went on his own because he thought you needed someone to talk to. Because despite everything, he believes people can change. But clearly, you’re determined to prove him wrong!”

“Oh, don’t act so noble!” Pansy spat. “You knew exactly what you were doing. You’re always so bloody self-righteous, thinking you can save everyone. Newsflash, Granger—you can’t save me!”

“Maybe I don’t want to!” Hermione fired back, her voice trembling with fury. “Maybe I’m done trying to help someone who’s so hell-bent on pushing everyone away!”

“Good!” Pansy shouted. “Because I hate you, Granger! I hate your smugness, your judgment, your... your stupid braid you put in your hair every night before you go to sleep!”

Hermione blinked, momentarily thrown. “My hair?” She said reaching absentmindedly for the place she normally started off her braid.

“Yes, your hair!” Pansy barked, though the fire in her eyes flickered. “And your stupid laugh when Weasley tells you a joke at dinner. And the way you chew on your quill when you’re thinking. And the way you always have to have the last word! And how you smell like cinnamon! And how you go all doe-eyed whenever someone mentions the library!”

For a fleeting moment, Hermione had the strangest urge to sniff herself. Cinnamon? She felt heat rising in her cheeks and let out a short giggle.

“Don’t you dare laugh at me Hermione Granger!”

Hermione clamped her mouth shut, but the giggle had already escaped, and the sight of Pansy Parkinson standing amidst the chaos of their dormitory, her face flushed with fury and her fists clenched like a petulant child, was almost too much.

“Cinnamon?” Hermione repeated aloud, her voice trembling with barely suppressed laughter. “You’re ranting about how much you hate me, destroying my things, and you’re really bothered by... cinnamon?”

“Yes I am!” Pansy snapped, her rage spiralling once more. She had drawn her wand now, and for the first time Hermione felt a twinge of panic. Her own wand was somewhere in the duvet Pansy had thrown across the floor. “I hate it! I hate you!”

“Then do something about it! Hermione replied defiantly. “Now is the best opportunity you’ll ever get. I’m alone, wandless, vulnerable. Go on Parkinson, do something!”

It felt as though the air had left the room, the crackling fire providing the only sound, its flames casting dancing shadows on the walls. Pansy’s wand clattered to the floor. The sound seemed distant, almost unimportant, as Hermione stared at her in confusion.

Then, in one swift motion, Pansy closed the space between them, her hands gripping Hermione’s arms tightly. Before Hermione could protest or pull away, Pansy leaned in, and their lips collided.

The kiss was anything but gentle. It was raw, frantic, and charged with an emotion Hermione couldn’t immediately name. Pansy’s lips were surprisingly soft but insistent, moving against Hermione’s with a desperation that seemed to demand something—what exactly, Hermione wasn’t sure. She was too stunned to react at first, her mind reeling, every thought short-circuiting as the reality of what was happening sank in.

Pansy tasted faintly of mint, and beneath that, something sharper, like the tang of citrus. Her hands, trembling slightly, slid from Hermione’s arms to her waist, pulling her closer. The heat of her touch burned through the fabric of Hermione’s jumper, sending a shiver up her spine. It was overwhelming—her senses flooded with Pansy’s scent, her closeness, the way her fingers dug into her sides as though she might slip away at any moment.

Hermione’s hands hovered in the air, unsure of where to go, what to do. But as Pansy’s fingers tangled in her hair, tugging gently, something inside Hermione shifted. The intensity of the kiss pulled her under like a rip current, and before she could stop herself, she was kissing her back.

It wasn’t conscious, this response—just an instinct, an urge to ground herself in the moment. Her hands found their way to Pansy’s shoulders, then her back, pulling her closer even as her mind pleaded and screamed at her to stop. Pansy’s lips parted slightly against hers, and Hermione’s breath caught at the sensation. The kiss deepened, slower now but no less intense, as if both of them were testing the edges of something they didn’t fully understand.

Pansy’s hands wandered, sliding up Hermione’s back, her touch both hesitant and possessive. When one hand found its way to Hermione’s hair again, gripping it lightly, Hermione let out a soft gasp. The sound seemed to snap Pansy back to reality.

She broke away abruptly, her chest heaving as she stared at Hermione, her wide eyes filled with terror. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound was their ragged breathing and the faint crackle of the fire.

Hermione lifted a hand to her lips, which still tingled from the kiss. Her heart was racing, her mind a whirlwind of confusion and unspoken questions.

“I—I didn’t mean—” Pansy stammered, stepping back, her hands flying up to her face as if she could erase what had just happened. “I didn’t—this wasn’t— No! No, no, no!”

“Pan­—” but before Hermione could even finish saying her name Pansy Parkinson had bolted from the room, leaving her wand behind. Hermione’s mind was reeling, her heart hammering in her chest. What the hell just happened? What the bloody hell just happened? Her hands began to tremble, and her breathing quickened as she paced back and forth through the wreckage of the room. Before she could process it any further the door flew open with an almighty bang.

“HERMIONE!” Ginny shouted at the top of her lungs, “Oh thank goodness. Are you alright? Are you hurt?”

The sound of Ginny’s voice made Hermione jump, her hand flying to her chest as if to steady her pounding heart. She turned to see her friend standing in the doorway, her wand drawn and her eyes blazing with panic and fury.

“Ginny?” Hermione managed, her voice trembling.

Ginny stormed into the room, her gaze sweeping over the wreckage—the scattered books, the broken quill jar, the bedclothes strewn across the floor. Her expression darkened as she spotted the state of the room.

“What happened here?” she demanded, her voice sharp with concern. “I was worried when you didn’t come down for dinner, and when I came up here to find you Parkinson practically flattened me on her way out the door. She looked terrified, she was sprinting flat out. I thought she might have done something to you, and well…” Ginny gestured around the room. “Oh, I’m going to get her! I’m going to enjoy it too!”

“No!” Hermione said, suddenly coming back to the present and grabbing her friend by the arm, “Ginny no!”

“No,” Ginny replied trying to wrench herself free, “I told you I wouldn’t let her get away with it again!”

“It’s not­— it’s a lot more complicated than it seems. Ginny please!”

“Look at the state of the place! It’s not complicated!”

“Ginny she’s scared! It’s­— how she must be feeling­— especially because it’s me­— and I mean, she shouldn’t have destroyed my stuff, but­—”

“Hermione you sound like a proper nutter,” Ginny said with a mixture of anger and pity, she grabbed Hermione by the shoulders and shook her gently, “deep breath, and explain.”

“What you’ve been saying about her all term, you were right.”

“What? That Parkinson wants to do you in?” Ginny rolled her eyes, “Duh! Can you not see the state of your bedroom?”

“No, its… the other thing…”

“Other­—” Ginny’s initial confusion disappeared, and she clasped a hand over her mouth, her eyes as wide as dinnerplates. She gazed around the room again as if trying to find the words, “All of this drama and wreckage, all of it, is because Pansy Parkinson… Pansy Parkinson mind you, wants to­— well­— to do you.” Hermione bit her lip, her cheeks burning. She didn’t respond to Ginny, but that seemed to be a response in itself. “Just so I’m sure I’m getting this right… you’re telling me that Pansy bloody Parkinson—Miss ‘I hate everything about Hermione Granger and everything she stands for’—has a thing for you? And this,” she gestured wildly at the room, “is her way of showing it?”

“She kissed me,” Hermione let slip, her voice barely audible. Ginny’s eyes widened again, her face twisting between amusement and horror.

“Pansy Parkinson kissed you?” Ginny’s voice cracked with disbelief as she tried—unsuccessfully—to suppress a laugh. “Wait—before or after she destroyed your room? Because I know some girls like it rough, but bloody hell!”

“Ginny!” Hermione snapped, her cheeks burning. “This isn’t funny.”

Ginny pressed a hand to her mouth, though her shoulders still shook with suppressed giggles. “It’s a little funny, Hermione. I mean—Merlin, Parkinson of all people?”

Hermione ran a hand through her hair, pacing across the mess of her room. “It’s not funny! She kissed me, then panicked and bolted. And now I’m left to deal with—” She gestured vaguely at the wreckage around her. “—this.”

Ginny’s laughter finally faded, her brows knitting together as she studied Hermione more closely. “Wait, hold on a second.” Her voice took on a sharper edge. “What do you mean, you’re ‘left to deal with it’? How did you react?”

Hermione hesitated, her fingers tightening around the edge of her sleeve. “I… I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Ginny repeated, incredulous. “Hermione, my brother is your boyfriend—or something like it. You do know that, right?”

“I know!” Hermione said quickly, guilt twisting in her chest. “I know, Ginny, and that’s what makes this so—so confusing.”

Ginny’s arms folded across her chest, her gaze narrowing. “Confusing? Hermione, this is Parkinson we’re talking about! You’ve spent the better part of seven years hating her guts. What’s so confusing about shutting her down and setting her straight?”

Hermione winced at the harshness of Ginny’s words, though she knew they weren’t entirely wrong. “It’s not that simple,” she admitted quietly. “I didn’t expect it, and I didn’t… I didn’t exactly react.”

Ginny blinked. “Didn’t react? As in, you didn’t hex her into next week?”

Hermione shook her head, her face hot with shame. “No. I just… froze.”

Ginny stared at her for a long moment, processing this. When she spoke again, her tone was softer but edged with warning. “Hermione… what’s going on here? And don’t tell me nothing, because clearly something is. Did you—” She paused, hesitating. “Did you like it?”

Hermione’s heart stuttered in her chest. “No— I don’t know,” she admitted, her voice barely a whisper. “Everything happened so fast, and then she was gone. I haven’t even had time to think. It’s all a bit much to take in at the moment.”

Ginny exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over her face. “Well, you better think about it, Hermione. Because Ron’s out there working his arse off for this relationship to work, and you owe it to him to be honest. If you’re confused, you need to sort it out. But you can’t just—” She gestured helplessly toward the room. “—sit here in a wrecked dormitory, torn up over a girl who’s been tormenting you since first year.”

Hermione sank onto the edge of her bed, the weight of Ginny’s words settling heavily in her chest. “I don’t want to hurt Ron,” she said softly. “I care about him. I really do. I love him, you know that, right?”

Ginny’s expression softened, but her tone remained firm. “Then figure out what you want. If it’s Ron, then you need to focus on him and put Parkinson behind you. But if it’s… not—” She broke off, as if she couldn’t even fathom the thought. “—then you need to be honest with yourself and with him. No one deserves to be strung along, Hermione.”

Hermione looked down at her hands, her fingers trembling slightly. She hated this—hated how messy everything had become. She’d always prided herself on knowing what was right, on being the sensible one. But now everything felt tangled and uncertain.

“And Parkinson?” Hermione asked quietly. “What do I do about her?”

Ginny scoffed, though her voice held less venom than before. “Parkinson’s a bloody mess. Let her stew for a bit; maybe it’ll knock some sense into her. If she’s got feelings for you, she needs to figure herself out and learn to act like a normal person before dragging you into any more nonsense.”

Hermione nodded numbly, though her mind was far from settled. Ginny’s words echoed in her head—figure out what you want.

But how was she supposed to do that when everything she thought she knew about herself, about Pansy, about everything, had just been turned on its head?

“This is mental,” Hermione sighed, falling backwards onto her bed, “Why couldn’t I have just shared a dorm with you?”

“It’s bold of you to assume that I’m not madly in love with you too,” Ginny smirked wickedly. Hermione scowled, which only spurred the redhead on further. “Come here and give me a big kiss!” Ginny jumped on top of Hermione, showering her cheeks with loud, obnoxious kisses as Hermione squirmed beneath her trying desperately to get away.

“Get off!” Hermione groaned, finally pushing the stronger girl off of her, “Help me find my wand so I can clear this mess.” Ginny laughed, and bent down, picking up a handsome willow wand from the floor and passing it to Hermione. It felt warm to the touch, and Hermione wondered if it would perform magic for her as well as it would for Pansy. “This is Parkinsons, she dropped it before… you know…”

“Blimey,” Ginny rolled her eyes, “are you sure all you did was kiss?”

“Very sure.” Replied Hermione flatly, deciding to try and use Pansy’s wand to straighten out the room a bit. Her books arranged themselves neatly back onto her desk, and her duvet flopped onto her bed. She found her wand as she made her bed, it appeared, falling out of one of the folds of her blankets. “Got it!” Hermione said triumphantly and had the room back to normal with a couple of swishes of the vine and dragon heartstring instrument she had used since she was eleven. It was she thought smugly, a much better wand than Pansy’s.

“Well, at least the room’s taken care of,” Ginny sighed, hands on her hips. “I suppose one of us should give Parkinson her wand back. I know you’ve told people not to hex her, but all the same, it’s no good her running around the castle without it.”

“Where would we even find her?” Hermione muttered, though her voice betrayed a flicker of reluctance.

“Oh, that shouldn’t be too hard.” Ginny’s tone was smug as she reached into her bag and pulled out a very familiar piece of parchment.

The Marauder’s Map.

“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good,” Ginny said, tapping her wand to the parchment. As ink spread like veins across the page, Hermione felt an unmistakable pang of jealousy. Of course, Harry had trusted Ginny with the map. Girlfriend privileges, Hermione supposed, though she couldn’t help but wonder what she would do with it right now.

Ginny’s finger traced the lines of the map, hunting. “Where are you, you slippery little—aha! There.” She jabbed her finger at the Astronomy Tower, where the name Pansy Parkinson appeared in neat, black script. “She didn’t go far at all.”

Hermione exhaled shakily, her brows furrowing. “Right… Well—”

“I’ll go,” Ginny interrupted firmly, plucking Pansy’s wand from Hermione’s desk. Her tone brooked no argument.

“Ginny—”

“No,” Ginny cut her off, holding up a hand. “Don’t protest. I promise I won’t even threaten her this time.”

Hermione gave her a sceptical look. “You? Not threaten her? You said that last time and look how it ended up.”

Ginny grinned wickedly. “I said I wouldn’t hex her last time. That’s different.” She sobered quickly, stepping toward the door with purpose. “You, however, are going to go down to the kitchens, apologise to the elves for missing dinner, and ask if you can have a plate of leftovers. You need to eat, Hermione, because you look terrible.”

Hermione crossed her arms, her indignation flaring. “I’m not giving the house-elves extra work, Ginny! They already do too much—”

“They like it,” Ginny groaned, rolling her eyes skyward. “And I’m not arguing about this with you. I’m telling you what you’re going to do.” She stepped into the doorway, already half-turned toward the hall. “Now go. Find some food. I’ll handle Parkinson.”

“Handle her how, exactly?” Hermione called after her, but Ginny was already gone, leaving the door swinging shut behind her.

Hermione let out a long, weary sigh, her gaze drifting back to the room. Pansy’s absence still felt like a storm cloud hovering in her mind, dark and heavy. And now Ginny had gone after her.

This can’t end well, she thought miserably, dragging herself upright and reaching for her cloak.

Chapter Text

Chapter 8

The Astronomy Tower was silent except for the occasional whistling of the wind through the cracks in the ancient stone. Pansy sat on the ledge beneath one of the wide, arched windows, her knees drawn to her chest, her arms wrapped tightly around them as though she could hold herself together by sheer force of will. The cold seeped through her robes, biting at her skin, but she welcomed it. She deserved the discomfort.

Deserved far worse, probably.

She let her head fall back against the wall, staring up at the darkening sky, dotted faintly with stars. The events of the past hour replayed mercilessly in her mind, refusing to leave her in peace. Hermione’s face—her shock, her anger, and the way her hand had flown to her forearm like a reflex—burned in Pansy’s thoughts.

“I hate you, Granger!”

The words had been a lie, or half a lie. Pansy wasn’t even sure anymore. Hate had always been easier to name than whatever this was—this sickening swirl of emotions that tugged at her chest and made her head pound. Hate didn’t twist itself into knots at the taste of cinnamon on her lips. Hate didn’t haunt her thoughts the way Hermione bloody Granger did.

She groaned, squeezing her eyes shut as if she could block it all out. “What’s wrong with me?” she muttered under her breath.

But there was no answer. Just the wind, howling faintly through the stones.

Pansy had run. Of course she had. Bolted like a coward the moment Hermione’s stunned expression cut through her anger. How could she explain it? How could she even begin to apologise?

“Why do you always ruin everything?” she whispered to herself bitterly.

The click of a door echoed faintly across the tower. Pansy froze. She lifted her head, turning toward the sound, but the shadows near the entrance hid the figure from view. Her pulse quickened, her hand instinctively reaching for the wand—

Her wand.

Her heart dropped like lead into her stomach. She’d left it. Left it on the floor of the dormitory like an absolute idiot. She didn’t even have a way to defend herself.

She slid off the ledge, her movements cautious as she pressed herself against the cool stone wall, half-hidden by shadow. Whoever it was, they wouldn’t find her here. Not unless they were—

“Weasley.”

The name escaped her lips before she could stop herself. Ginny Weasley stood at the top of the stairs, her red hair practically glowing against the dim backdrop of the tower. She looked every inch the war hero she was—confident, dangerous.

“Thought I’d find you here,” Ginny said, her voice cool but edged with unmistakable irritation. “You’re not exactly subtle when you’re wallowing. Highest room, tallest tower, very cliché Parkinson.”

Pansy scowled, forcing herself to stand straighter even though her legs felt like lead. “Come to – what was it – properly mess me up?” She asked, trying to sound a lot braver than she felt.

Ginny didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she stepped closer, holding out Pansy’s wand. “You left this.”

Pansy stared at it for a long moment before reaching out to take it, her hand brushing briefly against Ginny’s. The contact sent a strange chill up her arm—more fear than anything else.

“You didn’t have to—”

“Oh, spare me the false gratitude,” Ginny cut her off sharply, dropping her arm back to her side. “I didn’t do it for you.”

Pansy’s fingers curled around the wand, the familiar warmth settling in her palm. “Then why are you here?”

Ginny tilted her head, studying Pansy with an intensity that made her squirm. “Because Hermione made me promise not to hex you into next week, and right now, I’m seriously regretting agreeing to that. But I’m not the only out there who might hex you so you should at least have your wand to hand.”

Pansy snorted, but there was no real humour behind it. “Big words, Weasley.”

“I mean it,” Ginny said, stepping closer, her voice low and dangerous. “You’re lucky she’s got more kindness in her little finger than most people do in their entire bodies. After what you said—after what you did—you don’t deserve it.”

Pansy flinched, the words hitting harder than she wanted to admit. “I didn’t—”

“Don’t lie,” Ginny snapped. “You don’t get to stand here and pretend you’re innocent. You’re a coward, Parkinson. You’re too scared to admit to yourself what’s actually going on inside your head, so you lash out. You tear other people down because it’s easier than dealing with yourself.”

“Shut up,” Pansy growled, her grip on her wand tightening.

“No,” Ginny said fiercely, her brown eyes blazing. “Not until you hear this: whatever game you’re playing with Hermione, it stops now. She doesn’t deserve this—your insults, your tantrums, or whatever this mess in your head is.”

Pansy’s throat burned as she swallowed, the weight of Ginny’s words pressing down on her chest. “I never—”

“You kissed her,” Ginny said bluntly, cutting her off.

Pansy paled, her face draining of colour. “She—she told you?”

“She didn’t really have to, it was quite easy to get to the bottom of it. You’ve been acting like a lunatic stalker for weeks, and now her room looks like a troll ran through it, and she’s sat babbling incoherent nonsense. I’ve been saying for a couple of weeks now that you either wanted to do her in or do her and nobody believed me.” Ginny crossed her arms, her expression hard. “So let me be crystal clear: if you do anything to hurt Hermione again, I won’t hold back. I don’t care what promises I made to her. You’ll regret it.”

Pansy opened her mouth to respond, to spit back some clever retort, but nothing came. Her throat felt tight, her words strangled.

Ginny shook her head, exhaling sharply. “Sort yourself out, Parkinson. And leave her alone until you do.”

With that, she turned on her heel, her footsteps echoing as she descended the stairs, leaving Pansy alone in the darkening tower.

The wind whipped through the open window, cold against Pansy’s skin, but she barely felt it. Ginny’s words rang in her ears, sharp and unforgiving, but worst of all... true.

Sort yourself out.

Pansy sank back onto the ledge, her wand clutched tightly in her trembling hand. She closed her eyes, but all she could see was Hermione—her wide, stunned gaze, the way her lips had felt—soft and warm—against her own.

“I’m such an idiot,” Pansy whispered to herself, her voice cracking.

For the first time in years, Pansy Parkinson didn’t have the faintest idea what to do next.

The morning light filtered through the gaps in the parapet, but Pansy didn’t need to see the sun to know it was there. The warmth of it would right now be spilling across the edge of the bed she wasn’t in. She’d been awake for hours—or rather, she hadn’t slept at all.

Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Granger. The kiss. The look on her face afterward—shock, confusion, and something else Pansy didn’t want to think about. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. What mattered was that she couldn’t face Hermione.

Not today.

Throwing on the cloak she’d used as a blanket and running a hand through her messy hair, Pansy slipped out of the tower while the rest of the castle was still quiet. She avoided the Great Hall entirely, her stomach churning at the thought of facing Ginny Weasley—or worse, Hermione herself.

Instead, she wandered the empty corridors, letting the silence wrap around her like a shield. The usual confidence in her stride was gone, replaced by something more tentative. Her shoes tapped lightly against the stone, echoing faintly in the vast halls.

“Coward,” she muttered under her breath.

She knew it was true. Pansy Parkinson didn’t run away. She didn’t hide. She didn’t avoid confrontations. And yet here she was, ducking behind statues whenever she heard footsteps, her heart pounding at the mere thought of being seen.

The morning passed in a blur of empty classrooms and quiet corridors. She spent most of her time tucked into the farthest corner of the library, far away from anyone who might recognize her. She didn’t touch the books on the shelves, didn’t even bother pretending to study. Her mind was too loud, too chaotic.

“What were you thinking?” she whispered to herself, her voice barely audible.

But she hadn’t been thinking. That was the problem. The kiss had been impulsive, reckless, and it had left her feeling more exposed than she ever thought possible. She’d spent years building up her armour, crafting her sharp tongue and icy demeanour to keep people at a distance. And in one moment, she’d let it all crumble.

By lunchtime, the hunger gnawing at her stomach forced her out of the library. She ducked into the kitchens instead of the Great Hall, muttering a quick “Thank you” to the house-elves as they handed her a plate of sandwiches. She ate standing up in a quiet alcove, the food tasting like ash in her mouth.

The afternoon brought more wandering, more avoiding. She caught glimpses of Hermione once or twice—on the grounds with Ginny and Luna, heading into the Transfiguration classroom—but each time, Pansy turned on her heel and fled in the opposite direction.

Her heart raced every time she saw Hermione’s curls, every time she heard her laugh drifting down the hall. It was maddening.

She ended up in the owlery as the sun began to set, the air cool and heavy with the scent of hay and feathers. The distant hoots of owls provided a strange sort of comfort as Pansy leaned against the wall, staring out over the rolling hills beyond the castle.

“Get a grip,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “She doesn’t care. She probably hates you.”

The thought was both a relief and a knife to the chest.

The sound of footsteps on the stone stairs made her stiffen. She pressed herself against the wall, her wand slipping into her hand on instinct. But the steps didn’t come closer. Whoever it was had stopped just outside the owlery.

Pansy held her breath, waiting for them to leave.

The footsteps resumed, softer this time, retreating back down the stairs. She let out a shaky exhale, her grip on her wand relaxing.

She stayed in the owlery until the stars began to appear, the chill in the air growing sharper. She didn’t know where else to go, didn’t know how to face the inevitable.

All she knew was that tomorrow, she’d have to do it all over again. Her body was already a mess from the severe lack of sleep, though, and she knew she couldn’t keep this up indefinitely.

The dim light of the castle felt heavier than usual as Pansy left the Owlery, her steps dragging over the cold stone floor. Her limbs felt leaden, every muscle aching from days without proper rest, and her thoughts swirled in chaotic circles she couldn’t control. All she wanted was to find another quiet corner to collapse in, just for an hour, just long enough to stop feeling like she was unravelling.

But the castle was alive in the silence. Every creak of the walls, every echo of her steps felt like a reminder that she didn’t belong anywhere. The Astronomy Tower wasn’t safe anymore. The Owlery wasn’t either. Even now, she could feel the weight of Ginny’s words in her chest: Sort yourself out.

“Easier said than done,” she muttered, her voice swallowed by the empty corridor. She turned down another passage, aimless but determined to avoid the dormitory. She couldn’t face Hermione. Not again. Not after everything.

The faint sound of footsteps behind her brought her to a halt. Pansy stiffened, her hand gripping her wand as she glanced back over her shoulder. At first, she thought she was imagining it—the flicker of movement, the soft scrape of a sole against stone. But then it came again, closer this time.

She turned sharply, her voice brittle. “Who’s there?”

From the shadows emerged Hermione Granger, her expression unreadable but her presence unmistakable. Her wand was in her hand, though it wasn’t raised, and she stepped into the dim light with purpose, her gaze fixed on Pansy.

Pansy’s heart dropped to her stomach. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered, her voice barely audible.

Hermione didn’t flinch. She came to a stop a few feet away, crossing her arms over her chest. “You’re not easy to track down, you know.”

“What do you want, Granger?” Pansy’s voice was sharp, but the exhaustion in it dulled the edges. “Come to lecture me again? Or maybe hex me this time? I wouldn’t blame you.”

“Neither,” Hermione said, her tone even. “I want to talk.”

“Of course you do.” Pansy rolled her eyes and turned away, her steps quickening as she tried to put distance between them. But Hermione’s voice cut through the air like a whip.

“Don’t walk away from me, Pansy.”

The use of her first name stopped her cold. She turned back, her eyes narrowing. “Why? So you can tell me how pathetic I am? Don’t waste your breath, I know.”

“I wasn’t planning to,” Hermione replied, her voice calm but firm. “I’m worried about you.”

Pansy laughed, the sound harsh and humourless. “Worried about me? Don’t insult me, Granger.”

“It’s not an insult,” Hermione said, stepping closer. “I’ve been watching you—for days now. You haven’t eaten, you haven’t slept, and you’re avoiding everyone, including your own housemates. You’re not okay, and it’s not just about what happened in the dorm, or after Potions.”

“How observant of you,” Pansy snapped, though her voice lacked its usual venom. “So, what now? Are you going to save me, too? Add me to your collection of lost causes?”

Hermione’s brow furrowed, her expression softening. “You’re not a lost cause, Pansy. But you are running yourself into the ground, and it’s only going to get worse if you keep hiding.”

“I’m not hiding,” Pansy lied, her voice tight.

“You’ve barely been back to the dorm in days,” Hermione said, her tone growing sharper. “You’ve been camping out in the cold, avoiding meals, skipping classes. And for what? To prove something? To punish yourself?”

“Why do you care?” Pansy snapped, her voice rising. “Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

“Because I know what it feels like!” Hermione’s voice broke through the tension like a hammer on glass. The words hung in the air, raw and unfiltered, and for the first time, Pansy saw something vulnerable in Hermione’s expression—something she couldn’t quite place.

“You know what it feels like to be hated?” Pansy scoffed, but the bitterness in her tone wavered. “To be the villain in everyone’s story? To have nowhere to go?”

“You know I do,” Hermione said softly, her right hand reaching instinctively for the scar just above her left wrist.

“I—,” Pansy took a deep breath. She couldn’t formulate a response. Of course Granger knew what it was like to be hated, she’d spent most of the past twelve months being hunted. Pansy had seen her face on plenty of wanted posters around Hogsmeade and Diagon Alley, but she’d never once taken a moment to think about what it would be like to be the person in the posters.

“Please come back to the dorm and get a decent night’s sleep,” Hermione pleaded, “I know it’s… a lot at the minute, but you’re not doing yourself any favours right now, and we’ve got a whole year ahead of us, you can’t avoid me forever.”

Pansy’s throat tightened as Hermione’s words settled between them, soft yet weighted. The plea wasn’t laced with pity or superiority, but genuine concern, and it made Pansy’s stomach churn. She hated this—hated feeling exposed, vulnerable, and worst of all, cared for.

“I’m not avoiding you,” Pansy muttered, her voice unconvincing even to her own ears. She couldn’t look Hermione in the eye, instead focusing on a loose thread in the hem of her robes.

“You are,” Hermione said, her voice gentle but firm. “And I understand why. But this—” she gestured vaguely to Pansy’s dishevelled state, her pale face, and the dark circles under her eyes— “isn’t helping either of us.”

Pansy felt her fingers twitch around her wand, a nervous habit she couldn’t seem to shake. “Why do you even care, Granger?” she snapped, her voice brittle. “You should hate me. I’ve given you plenty of reasons.”

Hermione sighed, her shoulders sinking slightly. “I don’t hate you, Pansy. Believe me, it would be easier if I did. But I can’t. Because I know that there’s more to you than the insults and the walls you put up.”

Pansy snorted, though it lacked any real venom. “Is that so? And what exactly do you think you see in me?”

Hermione hesitated, her gaze steady but contemplative. “I see someone who’s scared,” she said finally. “Someone who’s trying so hard to push everyone away that she’s forgotten how to let anyone in.”

The words hit Pansy like a punch to the gut. Her carefully constructed facade cracked just a little more, and she found herself unable to meet Hermione’s eyes. “You don’t know me,” she said weakly.

“I’d like to,” Hermione replied simply.

Pansy’s chest tightened, and for a moment, she felt like the walls of the corridor were closing in on her. She wanted to run, to escape this conversation and the way it was peeling back the layers she’d spent years building. But there was something in Hermione’s voice—something unrelenting yet kind—that rooted her in place.

“You’re relentless, you know that?” Pansy said, attempting a smirk, though it came off more as a grimace.

“So I’ve been told,” Hermione replied with the faintest hint of a smile.

Pansy let out a shaky breath, her hands dropping to her sides. “Fine,” she muttered. “I’ll come back. But only because I’m sick of sleeping on cold stone floors—not because of your little pep talk.”

“Whatever reason gets you there,” Hermione said, stepping aside to give Pansy room to move. “I’ll walk with you.”

“Don’t push your luck,” Pansy grumbled, though her steps fell in line with Hermione’s as they began the quiet journey back to the dorm.

The silence between them was thick, but it wasn’t as suffocating as it had been before. And for the first time in days, Pansy allowed herself to believe—just for a moment—that maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t entirely alone in this mess.

Pansy had to admit, she did feel better after she’d peeled off her dirty robes and taken a shower. She now at least physically resembled the normal Pansy Parkinson, and the hot water had dulled the ache in her bones. When she re-entered the room she shared with Hermione, the bookish girl was sat on her bed in her pyjamas, her hair in that damn braid which Pansy was sure had started all of this mess in the first place. She held out a large square of chocolate to Pansy.

“It’s Honeydukes,” Hermione said, shaking it at her. Normally Pansy would refuse, but her relationship with Granger was strained enough as it was, and the chocolate did smell divine. She bit into a corner of the chocolate and felt as though a soft warmth was spreading through her. “Better?” Pansy nodded. They sat quietly for a while, each waiting for the other to break the ice. Finally, unable to bear it, Pansy spoke, her voice slightly hoarse.

“I’m… sorry for… what I’ve put you through the past few days.”

Hermione took a thoughtful pause before responding. “It’s been… a bit of an emotional rollercoaster I’ll admit. I’ve been through worse and came out okay though.”

“What’s a… what did you say? A rollercoaster?” Hermione looked at her for a moment as though she’d just asked her what a teacup was before letting out a slight giggle.

“Muggles ride them, they’re kind of like trains, but they go really fast, and they go up and down, and round, and sometimes loop-the-loop. A bit like the carts at Gringotts actually.”

“And this is how Muggles get to the bank to access their money?” This time Granger laughed at her properly and Pansy felt the anger rising back up from the pit of her stomach.

“No, Muggle banks aren’t anything like Gringotts. People ride rollercoasters for fun, Muggles have these theme parks, big places full of rollercoasters and other rides. Families go there for a day out, or for a couple of weeks in places like Disney World.”

“Disney World?” Pansy asked.

“It’s a huge theme park in America. Disney is a big company that makes films based on Muggle children’s stories.”

“So, Muggles go to the States to ride these upside-down trains for fun?”

“Yes,” Hermione replied as though this wasn’t at all weird. “That’s where the expression a bit of an emotional rollercoaster comes from; my emotions have been up, down, and all around.”

“I see,” Pansy replied, and then let an awkward silence settle over them for a couple of minutes.

Pansy toyed with the corner of the chocolate square in her hand, avoiding Hermione’s gaze as the silence stretched between them. The warmth from the shower still clung to her skin, but it did little to ease the knots in her stomach. Finally, she took another bite of the chocolate and muttered, “I suppose I owe you more than just an apology.”

Hermione glanced up from her book, her fingers lightly tracing the edge of the page. “You don’t owe me anything, Pansy,” she said softly. “But it might help—if you want to talk.”

Pansy frowned, her fingers tightening around the wrapper of the chocolate. “Talk about what? How much of a lunatic I’ve been? How I managed to destroy both your room and any shred of dignity I had left?”

Hermione shook her head, her braid shifting slightly over her shoulder. “No, not that. I meant about why. About what’s been going on in your head.”

Pansy let out a hollow laugh, leaning back against her bedframe. “If I could explain it, I might not feel like I’m losing my mind.”

Hermione set her book aside and folded her hands in her lap, her gaze steady but kind. “You’re not losing your mind.”

“You don’t know that,” Pansy muttered, her voice barely above a whisper.

Hermione leaned forward slightly. “I know that whatever you’re dealing with, it doesn’t have to feel like the end of the world. You don’t have to force yourself to be alone, you’re allowed to be friendly to people.”

Pansy’s lips twitched into a faint, humourless smile. “And here I thought Gryffindors didn’t do subtle.”

Hermione smiled back, though there was a hint of sadness in her expression. “We’re full of surprises.”

Pansy stared down at her hands, her nails biting into the edges of the chocolate wrapper. “I don’t know how to make this better, Granger. I’ve been… awful to you.”

“You’ve been… challenging,” Hermione admitted, her tone even, “but I’ve seen worse. And I’m still here, aren’t I?”

Pansy pondered this for a while, before asking a question she felt she had no real rights to. “What was it like when you were… I guess, on the run?”

Hermione blinked at Pansy’s question, clearly not expecting it. She hesitated, her fingers brushing over the spine of the book she’d set aside, as though grounding herself. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, careful, as though she was choosing each word with precision.

“It was... hard,” Hermione admitted. “It felt like being trapped in a constant state of fear. Every day, every hour, we didn’t know if we’d make it to the next. There were times when it felt like the whole world was against us, like there wasn’t a single safe place left to go. We ran out of food a lot, we were really cut off from the Magical World for a while. We worried about our friends, and we heard about a lot of deaths on the radio. Dumbledore gave us a job to do, but he didn’t really explain… it sucked, it really, really sucked.” Hermione said the last part quietly, as though she was admitting a secret. It seemed to have lifted a weight from her shoulders though.

Pansy leaned back against the bedpost, her arms crossing over her chest. She’d asked the question on impulse, not really expecting Hermione to answer, but now that she had, Pansy found herself unable to look away, unable to stop probing further. “And you just… kept going?”

Hermione’s lips quirked into a faint, bitter smile. “What choice did we have? It wasn’t about bravery or heroics—it was survival. Harry needed me. Ron needed me. And there were moments I wasn’t sure I could keep going, but I couldn’t let them down.”

Pansy frowned, her fingers picking at a loose thread on her sleeve. “That sounds... awful.”

“It was,” Hermione said simply. “But it also taught me a lot about myself—about what I can endure, what I’m capable of and it made me appreciate the things I have now, even the small things.”

“What did your parents think?” Immediately Pansy knew she had asked the wrong thing. Hermione’s body language stiffened, and her expression became one of sheer panic, her breathing quickened.

“I don’t want to talk about my parents.”

“Ok!” Pansy said quickly, reaching out a comforting hand and then immediately withdrawing it, “I’m sorry Hermione.” The girl relaxed again, but her eyes remained teary, and she gazed at something far away.

“What was it like for you, growing up?” Hermione asked eventually.

Pansy blinked, caught off guard by the question. For a moment, she considered brushing it off with a snide comment or a sarcastic quip, but something in Hermione’s tear-brimmed eyes stopped her. There was no malice in the question, no judgment—just genuine curiosity.

“Well,” Pansy began hesitantly, her fingers still worrying at the loose thread on her sleeve, “it wasn’t exactly... terrible. At least, not in the way you’d expect.”

Hermione tilted her head, her interest clear despite the lingering tension in her frame.

“My parents are... ambitious,” Pansy said carefully. “Everything in my life growing up revolved around appearances. How we looked, who we knew, what people thought of us. There were expectations. Always expectations. Being a Parkinson meant being perfect. Or at least looking perfect. We’re new money compared to the Malfoy’s and Greengrass’s, and my parents were obsessed with proving that they belong in those circles.”

“Sounds exhausting,” Hermione murmured, her tone softer now.

“It was.” Pansy let out a bitter laugh. “But it was normal to me. That’s just how it was. I didn’t know there was any other way to live.”

Hermione nodded slowly, her eyes thoughtful. “And what did you want?”

Pansy hesitated, the question catching her off guard. “Want?”

“Yes,” Hermione said gently. “What did you want? Beyond the expectations, the appearances. What did you want for yourself?”

Pansy stared at her hands, her mind racing. It was a question she’d never really let herself think about, let alone answer. “I don’t know,” she admitted after a long pause. “I guess... there wasn’t much room for me to want anything in my parents plans for me.”

“What were their plans?”

“Marry Draco, give him a son, raise him with traditional Pure-Blood values, keep up appearances, look after the family finances with Dad until he signed his mines over to Draco. That’s all out the window now of course.”

“Sounds like you can finally focus on what you want.”

“Hah!” Pansy let out the first genuine piece of snarky laughter for days. “As soon as my father gets out of Azkaban he’ll have me married off to some old Pure-Blood man and expect me to pop out a couple of children.”

“Why don’t you just tell him to do one?”

Pansy’s head snapped up, her eyes wide in disbelief. “Tell him to do one?” she echoed, her voice tinged with incredulity. “You don’t know my father, Granger. He’s not exactly the kind of man who takes no for an answer.”

Hermione shrugged, her expression calm but firm. “Then make him listen. You’re not a child anymore, Pansy. You have a say in your life, whether he likes it or not.”

Pansy laughed again, but this time it was bitter, lacking the sharp wit that usually accompanied her sarcasm. “You make it sound so simple. Just stand up to him, right? Tell the man who’s spent his entire life controlling mine that I’m not interested in playing his little games anymore. I’m sure that’ll go down brilliantly.”

“It’s not simple,” Hermione acknowledged, her tone softening. “But it’s possible and judging by… recent events… you don’t want to be married off to some man just because he’s a Pure-Blood.”

Pansy’s cheeks burned, flushing a darker crimson than a Gryffindor tie. “Can we not talk about it?”

“Why?” Hermione rolled her eyes, “would saying it out loud make it real? Do you not think we’re a little way past that stage Pansy?”

Pansy’s jaw tightened, her arms folding defensively across her chest as she avoided Hermione’s gaze. “I said I don’t want to talk about it,” she repeated firmly, though her voice wavered slightly.

Hermione raised an eyebrow, her expression equal parts exasperation and curiosity. “Oh, come on, Pansy. You’re the one who started smashing up my side of the room and shouting about cinnamon and braids. You don’t get to just sweep this under the rug now.”

Pansy’s blush deepened, and she shot Hermione a glare that lacked its usual bite. “I hate you, do you know that?”

“So you’ve told me,” Hermione replied, unperturbed. “But that doesn’t change the fact that avoiding this isn’t going to make it go away.”

Pansy threw her hands up in frustration. “Fine! Do you want me to say it? I don’t want to be married off to some well-chosen Pure-Blood man because I’m not sure I’m interested in men at all.” Her cheeks burned again. What the hell was she saying? Girls don’t like other girls!

“I guess it makes it doubly difficult for you to be attracted to a Mudblood then? Really goes against your upbringing.”

“Don’t use that word!” Pansy snapped, a feeling of deep shame rising in her throat.

“Why? You used it.” Replied Hermione.

Pansy winced at Hermione’s calm retort, the words landing with a weight she hadn’t expected. She couldn’t bring herself to meet Hermione’s eyes, the shame coiling tighter around her chest. “I know I used it,” she muttered. “And I’ve regretted it every second since.”

“Then why did you say it?” Hermione asked, her tone less accusatory now, more curious, like she was genuinely trying to understand. “Why go there, Pansy? You knew it would hurt.”

“Because I’m an idiot,” Pansy admitted bitterly, her nails digging into her palms. “Because I panicked, alright? You were standing there, so perfect and self-righteous, and it made me feel so... so small. I wanted to lash out, and I went for the one thing I knew would cut the deepest.”

Hermione studied her, silent for a long moment. “And does it make you feel better? Hurting me?”

“No,” Pansy whispered, her voice barely audible. “It made me feel worse. It always does.”

Hermione sighed, leaning back slightly as she considered Pansy’s words. “Then why keep doing it? Why not just… stop?”

Pansy laughed, though the sound was hollow and bitter. “Do you think I haven’t tried? Do you think I don’t lie awake every night wondering why I’m like this? Why I can’t just be normal?”

“Normal is overrated,” Hermione said simply. “And, for the record, you don’t have to figure this all out right now. But you do have to stop tearing me down because you can’t sort through your own feelings.”

Pansy finally looked up, meeting Hermione’s gaze. The Gryffindor’s expression was steady but not unkind, her brown eyes warm despite the hard truths she’d laid bare.

“I don’t hate you,” Pansy admitted, the words slipping out before she could stop them. Her voice cracked slightly, betraying the vulnerability she’d tried so hard to hide. “I thought I did, but I don’t. I hate… this. Whatever this is. I hate feeling like I’m losing control.”

“Is it really so awful that you might fancy a girl? A Mudblood too?”

“I told you to stop!”

“I won’t,” Hermione said defiantly. “I’m sick of being afraid too. I hear that word every night in my dreams, and I don’t want to let it have any more power over me! I don’t care if it makes you uncomfortable. You can be ashamed of using the word all you like, but at least you don’t have to carry it around on your skin!” Saying it out loud finally broke the bookish girl and she burst into tears, her hands trying to hide her face. Instinctively, Pansy crossed over to Hermione’s bed and wrapped her arms around Hermione, trying to ignore the feelings that arose from being so close.

Pansy’s movements were awkward, hesitant, as though she didn’t quite know what to do with her hands. Still, she pulled Hermione close, the weight of the other girl’s sobs pressing against her chest. Hermione clung to her, her face buried in Pansy’s shoulder, and for a moment, the dormitory was filled only with the sound of her quiet crying and the crackle of the fire in the hearth.

Pansy’s throat tightened. She’d never been good at comfort, never been the one anyone turned to when they were falling apart. And yet here she was, holding Hermione Granger in her arms, unsure if she was doing more harm than good.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, the words barely audible over Hermione’s sobs. “I didn’t mean to make it worse. I—” She hesitated, searching for the right words. “I wish I could take it all back. Everything I said. That word. All of it.”

Hermione didn’t respond, but her fingers tightened slightly on Pansy’s robes, a small, instinctive gesture that made Pansy’s heart ache. She could feel Hermione’s tears soaking into her shoulder, the warmth of her breath against her neck. It was... intimate in a way Pansy wasn’t prepared for, and she didn’t know how to handle the flood of emotions it brought with it.

“I don’t hate you,” Pansy repeated, her voice softer now, almost a whisper. “. I just don’t know what else to do. You—” She swallowed hard, her words catching in her throat. “You’re everything I’ve been brought up to hate, everything people like me despise, but it’s really difficult. You make me feel things I don’t understand and that terrifies me. Every time I learn more about you, every time I’m forced to spend an hour sat next to you, my whole worldview gets ripped to shreds and I realise that I’m the villain, not you.”

Hermione’s sobs gradually quieted, her breath hitching as she pulled back slightly to look at Pansy. Her eyes were red, her cheeks damp, but there was something piercing in her gaze—a mixture of confusion, vulnerability, and something else Pansy couldn’t quite identify. “I’ve met the real villains Pansy Parkinson, and you are not like them at all.”

Pansy felt her breath hitch at Hermione’s words, spoken with a quiet intensity that cut through her like a blade. She wanted to argue, to push back, to deny it outright—but the look in Hermione’s eyes held her still. That unshakable Gryffindor conviction, so familiar yet so foreign when directed at her, left Pansy speechless.

“You don’t know that,” Pansy finally muttered, her voice barely audible. Her gaze dropped to the floor, her hands still resting on Hermione’s arms. “You don’t know the things I’ve thought, the things I’ve said... done.”

With a shaky hand, Hermione pulled back the left sleeve of her pyjamas, her breathing was shallow, but her gaze could have burned a hole in Pansy. In the light of dorm, Pansy could make out every detail of the wicked scar. The edges of each letter were jagged and messy. Whoever had done this had wanted to inflict considerable pain. “Have you ever done something like this?”

Pansy shook her head, bile rising in her throat.

“Bellatrix Lestrange tortured me in Malfoy Manor. The Cruciatus Curse wasn’t having the desired effect I guess… so she decided to do it the Muggle way. It’s a little ironic really.”

“Draco… never said.” Pansy said weakly. How on earth did Hermione end up in Draco’s house with his absolute nutter of an aunt? Looking at the scar on Hermione’s arm made her feel sick. Knowing that it was carved onto the other girl in her ex-boyfriends’ house made it worse, and knowing who had done it filled Pansy’s mind with terrible images. Pansy had only met Bellatrix Lestrange once. She’d heard plenty of stories about her from parents and family friends about how talented she was, how she was one of the Dark Lord’s favourite allies. When she had been at Draco’s for dinner, Bellatrix had been there, and her excitement to meet the witch had quickly been snuffed out. Talented she may have been, but Pansy had spent the entire dinner in fearful silence as she’d watched and listened to the ramblings of a women whom it seemed that only Pansy could tell was a raving lunatic who might snap at any given moment.

“Of course he never said.” Hermione snapped, bringing Pansy back to the present. “Bloody coward. He wouldn’t give Harry over to Voldemort,” Pansy winced, not only at the name, but at the fact she’d tried to do exactly that, “I’d hit Harry with a stinging hex when I knew we were going to be captured you see, so they asked Draco to identify him, but he wouldn’t. I thought… well I thought he might finally have seen the light, but then, during the Battle of Hogwarts, he was back to his usual, trying to capture Harry. He brought Crabbe and Goyle with him, Crabbe tried to kill me, then he set the bloody Room of Requirement on fire and killed himself. Idiot.”

Pansy felt another jolt in her stomach. Crabbe had been more Draco’s friend than hers but being that they moved in the same circles she had known him fairly well, and he’d always been kind to her. The story of his death that Pansy had been told before his funeral didn’t match what Hermione had just said in the slightest, and yet Pansy couldn’t find it within herself to doubt the girl who was still wrapped up in her arms. She hasn’t asked you to let go yet, a quiet voice said in the back of her head. Pansy wanted to let go of Hermione right then, but her arms wouldn’t obey her, instead, she wrapped Granger tighter into her embrace.

“Draco’s even more messed up than I am,” Pansy admitted. “I don’t think he wanted to do half the stuff he did, but a bit like me, he couldn’t help himself.”

“Have you seen him… since, you know..?”

“At Crabbe’s funeral.” Pansy felt the girl shift uncomfortably. The end of their embrace was near at hand. “We didn’t have much to say to one another. He spends a lot of time at their holiday cottage on the South coast, away from the Manor. He doesn’t see much of his Father either. As for Crabbe, they told the rest of us he was fighting bravely and got caught in the crossfire. The reverend didn’t say which side he fought on of course, but we all knew. I assumed he’d caught a stray curse or something.”

“Fiendfyre,” Hermione said bluntly, “it nearly got all six of us.”

“I’m glad it didn’t,” Pansy replied, giving the girl a gentle squeeze, “truly.”

Hermione tilted her head back slightly, her hair brushing Pansy’s shoulder as she let out a deep, weary sigh. “It’s strange,” she said quietly, her voice softer now, “to think about how close we all were to not making it. Sometimes it doesn’t feel real, you know? Like it was all some terrible dream.”

Pansy nodded slowly, her chin brushing the top of Hermione’s head. She still couldn’t quite believe the words coming out of her own mouth, couldn’t reconcile the way her arms tightened protectively around the girl she’d once despised. “It feels real now,” she said after a moment, her voice trembling slightly. “Too real. I used to think that it was all a big game, a game I was destined to win. Why should I care if some random Muggles get it? I’m a pureblood, one of the sacred families, I’d be the ruling elite in the new utopian society. Yet, with each day that passes I’m so glad that your lot won, even if it makes me a total outcast.”

Hermione shifted slightly in Pansy’s arms, her head tilting up to meet her gaze. Her expression was a mixture of exhaustion and surprise, as though she hadn’t expected the raw honesty in Pansy’s words. “Do you really mean that?” she asked softly.

Pansy swallowed hard, her throat tight. “I do,” she said, her voice barely audible. “I’m still… struggling with it. It’s the opposite of what I’ve been taught, what my parents drilled into me about bloodlines and power. That doesn’t just disappear overnight. But when I saw… when I started to understand what that ‘utopia’ actually looked like, it was—Merlin, it was horrific. And now, seeing you, knowing what you went through…” Her voice cracked, and she looked away, her fingers clenching into fists. “I hate myself, and I hate that I was ever a part of it.”

Hermione studied her for a long moment, her brow furrowed in thought. “You didn’t cast the spells,” she said carefully. “You didn’t hold the wand.”

“No,” Pansy admitted, her voice shaking. “But I stood there. I let it happen. I cheered when people like you were dragged through the mud, sometimes I dragged you through you the mud. I used that horrible word on a daily basis. I—I gave them every reason to believe I’d stand with them when it mattered most.”

Hermione’s hand reached up instinctively to rub her scarred forearm, her expression pained. “But you didn’t stand with them,” she said softly. “When it came down to it, you didn’t join them.”

Pansy let out a hollow laugh, shaking her head. “Only because I was a coward. I wanted to save my own skin, not because I’d had some grand epiphany. Don’t give me credit I don’t deserve. I still stood up and tried to hand Potter over.”

Hermione’s eyes darkened, and she sat up slightly, pulling back just enough to look directly at Pansy. “Yes, you did,” she said bluntly, her voice steady but sharp. “You made a mistake, a bad one. But that doesn’t define everything about you unless you let it.”

“I think I’ve made more than one bad mistake.”

“At least you’ve started being honest about it,” replied Hermione, “That’s the hard part.” Pansy sat silently, her arms still around Hermione, shame bubbling in the pit of her stomach. Why don’t you start being honest about how you feel about Granger? The voice in head asked.

Pansy swallowed hard, her throat tightening at the intrusive thought. Why didn’t she? Why couldn’t she? The question lingered, heavy and unrelenting, as she stared at Hermione, her arms still loosely wrapped around the girl who had every reason to push her away.

“Honesty isn’t exactly my strong suit,” Pansy muttered, her voice low, almost a growl. She looked down at her hands, as if the answers might somehow be written there, but all she saw were trembling fingers clutching the edges of Hermione’s pyjama top like a lifeline.

“Well,” Hermione said softly, her tone lighter, almost teasing, “you’ve been managing so far tonight. Might as well keep going.”

Pansy let out a dry laugh, though it sounded more like a sigh. “You say that like it’s easy. Like I haven’t spent my whole life pretending, lying, bottling up everything I actually think or feel.”

Hermione tilted her head, her gaze steady and searching. “You don’t have to pretend with me,” she said. “Actually, you can’t pretend with me. Not anymore.”

Pansy’s heart thudded painfully against her ribs as Hermione’s words settled between them. There was no teasing in her tone now, no lightness to hide behind. The raw sincerity in her voice left Pansy feeling stripped bare, as if every layer of armour she’d so carefully constructed over the years had been peeled away.

“I…” Pansy started, but the words caught in her throat. Her hands fidgeted nervously in her lap, her fingers curling and uncurling. “I don’t even know where to start. Even I’m confused about my… feelings.” The last word had almost brought Pansy to the point of vomiting. “One minute I sincerely hate you, and the next I… don’t.”

Hermione snorted with laughter, bending double in Pansy’s arms. This caused Pansy to finally let her go, and she pursed her lips into a pout and folded her arms whilst Granger continued laughing at her. “Well,” Hermione said through tears, although this time they were tears of laughter, “that’s one way to describe that kiss!” Pansy groaned and threw herself backwards onto Granger’s bed, her face buried in her hands.

Hermione’s laughter continued to echo softly through the room, the sound surprisingly light given everything they’d just shared. Pansy, meanwhile, lay sprawled on the bed like a defeated duellist, her face still hidden behind her hands.

“Are you done?” Pansy muttered, her voice muffled by her palms. “Or do you want to keep humiliating me for a bit longer?”

Hermione wiped at her eyes, her laughter tapering off as she caught her breath. “I’m sorry,” she said, though the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her sincerity. “It’s just—you were so dramatic about it. ‘One minute I hate you, and the next I… don’t.’” She mimicked Pansy’s voice, adding an exaggerated flair to her tone.

Pansy groaned louder, her hands dragging down her face as she peeked up at Hermione through her fingers. “I’m glad my emotional turmoil is so entertaining for you,” she said dryly.

“It’s not that,” Hermione said quickly, sitting back against her own pillows. “It’s just... I don’t know. It’s a relief, I guess. Hearing you say it like that, admitting you’re confused—it makes this whole thing feel a little less impossible.”

Pansy rolled onto her side, propping her head up on her hand as she regarded Hermione with a wary expression. “What’s impossible about it?” she asked. “You’re Hermione Granger. You’re supposed to have all the answers.”

“No answers, just theories.”

“Oh?”

“I don’t know everything about how you were brought up, but I’d wager that a girl liking other girls is a massive no?”

“It is,” Pansy said seriously, “families have cast out sons and daughters in the past, sometimes worse.”

“And I know for a fact that falling for a Mud- a Muggleborn,” Hermione corrected herself at Pansy’s expression, “is a definite way to get your name blasted off the family tree.”

“Right,” Pansy replied.

“So, it’s no wonder you’re a bit tetchy. You seem to have developed feelings for the most famous Muggleborn in Britain at the moment, who’s dating the most famous blood traitor in Britain,” Pansy’s chest tightened. She’d forgotten all about Ron. Merlin what happens when he finds out?

“Who says that I’ve developed feelings?” Pansy said defensively, earning a pitying look from Hermione, “No, really. What if Weasley’s right? What if it’s all just lust?”

“So, you’re lusting after me?” Hermione said, her cheeks turning pink.

Pansy’s mouth opened, then shut, and she groaned, throwing herself flat onto Hermione’s bed as though that might make her disappear entirely. “I don’t know!” she exclaimed, her voice muffled by the quilt. “Why do you have to make everything sound so... so real?”

Hermione’s blush deepened, but she refused to look away. “Well, it is real, isn’t it? Whether it’s feelings or... something else. You’re still here, talking to me, instead of hiding out on top of the Astronomy Tower.”

Pansy rolled onto her side, glaring at Hermione with as much dignity as she could muster while sprawled on the other girl’s bed. “You really know how to kill the mood, don’t you, Granger?”

Hermione smirked, though the blush on her cheeks betrayed her composure. “What mood, Parkinson? You’re the one who stormed in here throwing a tantrum about braids and cinnamon.”

Pansy groaned again, covering her face with her hands. “Merlin, just kill me now.”

“Why?” Hermione asked, her voice gentler now. “Because you’re embarrassed? Because you might actually have to admit to yourself that you—”

“Don’t say it!” Pansy cut in, sitting up so quickly that the room spun for a moment. Her hands flew up as if to physically stop Hermione from finishing her sentence.

“—care about me?” Hermione finished firmly, crossing her arms over her chest. “There, I said it. What are you going to do about it?” Pansy’s cheeks burned. The last time Granger had told her to do something about it Pansy had snogged the face off her and then hidden in the Astronomy Tower. It’s that bloody braid Pansy thought gazing at the offending hair. It was driving her nuts. Pansy closed her eyes, as though not being able to see Granger would drive the thoughts from her mind. The pair lay side by side for a while in silence. Pansy listened to the sound of Hermione breathing softly. She could feel warmth radiating from the girl. They had just admitted an awful lot to each other, Pansy thought. She was emotionally spent.

“Do Muggles really go around on upside down trains, or were you taking the piss?”

Hermione blinked at the sudden shift in conversation, caught off guard by Pansy’s question. “You mean rollercoasters?” she asked, her tone laced with mild amusement. “No, I wasn’t taking the piss. Muggles really do ride them. For fun.”

Pansy turned her head slightly, side-eyeing Hermione with a mixture of disbelief and incredulity. “You’re telling me they willingly strap themselves into these contraptions, knowing they might flip upside down or plummet at terrifying speeds?”

“Yes,” Hermione replied, her lips twitching into a smile. “It’s exhilarating. They’re designed to be safe, though I suppose the thrill comes from the illusion of danger.”

“Mental.” Pansy scoffed, stifling a yawn. Her eyelids were growing heavy. She should move really, but she felt comfortable and warm. The fire crackled slowly, and the sounds of Hermione’s soft breathing relaxed Pansy in ways she couldn’t quite fathom. Her head sank deeper into the pillow and her eyes closed, blotting out all of the light. She really should move.

Pansy found herself standing in the middle of a loud, chaotic space filled with bright lights and strange mechanical sounds. She glanced around, utterly bewildered. Stalls with bright banners advertised sugary confections and stuffed animals, and the air smelled of something sickly sweet—candy floss? She wasn’t entirely sure what candy floss was.

Ahead of her stood the most bizarre contraption she’d ever seen. A train of sorts, but the carriages were open and brightly coloured, and the tracks twisted and turned in impossible loops. A massive sign overhead flashed in bold, neon letters: The Emotional Rollercoaster.

“What the bloody hell is this?” Pansy muttered to herself, taking a hesitant step closer.

A small figure appeared out of nowhere, tugging on her sleeve. She turned to see Hermione, grinning mischievously. Except... it wasn’t exactly Hermione. This version of her wore Muggle trousers and a bright yellow shirt that read Keep Your Arms Inside the Ride. Her braid was loose, her curls bouncing wildly as she moved.

“Come on, Pansy,” Dream Hermione said, grabbing her hand and dragging her toward the contraption. “You said you wanted to see what all the fuss was about!”

“I never said—” Pansy started, but her protest was cut short as she was pulled into one of the carriages.

The safety bar snapped down over her lap, and Pansy’s heart began to race. “Wait! I don’t think I’m ready for—”

Too late. The carriage lurched forward, the tracks clicking ominously as they began to ascend a steep incline. Pansy gripped the bar tightly, her knuckles white. “This is insane! People actually enjoy this?”

Hermione, seated beside her, laughed, her face lit up with excitement. “Relax! It’s just a ride. You’ll love it!”

The carriage reached the peak of the incline, teetering for a moment that felt like an eternity. Pansy’s breath caught in her throat as she looked down at the dizzying drop below. “I’m going to die,” she muttered.

And then they plunged.

The wind whipped past her face, her stomach dropping as the carriage hurtled down the track. Loops, twists, and sharp turns blurred together, and Pansy found herself screaming—not in fear, but in something dangerously close to exhilaration. Hermione’s laughter rang out beside her, and Pansy couldn’t help but glance at her, her curls wild and her smile radiant.

When the ride finally came to a stop, Pansy was breathless, her heart pounding. She turned to Hermione, who looked entirely too smug. She gave Pansy a wide grin and leaned forward, a mischievous glint in her eyes. Their lips touched, far too briefly for Pansy’s liking, even though that was ridiculous because Pansy hated Hermione, didn’t she? Pansy felt Hermione’s hand pulling her out of the crazy upside-down train and back to the noisy pavilion that smelled of candy floss.

“See?” Dream Hermione said, her eyes twinkling. “Told you it’d be worth it.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 9

Hermione stirred, blinking against the soft morning light streaming through the dormitory window. For a moment, she felt a strange warmth pressed against her side, a solid weight that didn’t quite make sense. She turned her head slowly and froze.

Pansy Parkinson.

Fast asleep, her dark hair spilling messily across Hermione’s pillow, her face oddly peaceful in a way Hermione had never seen before. It took Hermione a moment to piece together the events of the night before—the emotional revelations, the comfort they’d shared, and the questions about rollercoasters?

Merlin help her, Pansy was in her bed.

Hermione’s heart kicked into overdrive, and she gently shifted, trying not to wake the other girl. But as she moved, Pansy stirred, her eyelids fluttering before they snapped open. Their gazes locked, and for a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, as if the awkwardness of the situation weren’t already overwhelming, Pansy’s eyes darted around, taking in her surroundings. “Oh, bloody hell,” she muttered, sitting up quickly and smoothing her hair. “Well, this is mortifying.”

Hermione sat up too, clutching the edge of her blanket as if it might shield her from the sheer awkwardness of the moment. “You’re telling me,” she muttered, her cheeks burning. “What are you even doing here? I thought you went back to your own bed.”

Pansy raised an eyebrow, a flicker of her usual haughty demeanour returning. “Clearly, I didn’t,” she said, crossing her arms. Pansy’s eyes narrowed as she caught Hermione’s expression. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. It’s not as if I planned this. You’re the one who wouldn’t stop prattling on about Muggle trains or whatever. You were exhausting.”

Hermione blinked. “Rollercoasters,” she corrected automatically, her embarrassment quickly giving way to irritation. “And for the record, you were the one who kept asking questions about them.”

“Oh, well, excuse me for trying to understand your bizarre Muggle nonsense,” Pansy shot back, though there was a faint flush creeping up her neck. “Next time I’ll be sure to keep my ignorance to myself.”

Hermione bit back a laugh, deciding to let the jab slide. She stretched, the morning light catching her hair as she glanced over at Pansy. “You know,” she said lightly, “for someone who’s always so keen to criticize me, you seem awfully comfortable here.”

Pansy’s glare sharpened, but her cheeks darkened further. “Don’t push your luck, Granger.”

The tension between them was palpable but different—less volatile, more uncertain. Hermione couldn’t decide if the lingering awkwardness was a good thing or a disaster waiting to happen.

“Well,” Hermione said, breaking the silence. “If you’re done trying to reclaim your dignity, perhaps we could try being civil today? We’ve already crossed several awkward bridges.” Pansy groaned in response. Hermione glanced at Pansy, who was still sprawled across her bed like she owned it, one arm flung over her face as though the weight of her existence was too much to bear.

“You do realize you’re in my bed, right?” Hermione said, crossing her arms.

Pansy let out an exaggerated sigh and peeked at her through half-lidded eyes. “Yes, thank you for the reminder, Granger. I’m acutely aware of the circumstances.”

“Well, if it’s so mortifying, maybe you should leave,” Hermione suggested, trying to sound stern but failing to hide the twitch at the corner of her lips.

“Leave? After the emotional rollercoaster you dragged me on last night?” Pansy snorted, sitting up and running a hand through her tangled hair. “I might need a Healer just to recover.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “I seem to recall you being the one to start smashing up my room and launching into dramatic speeches about cinnamon and braids.”

Pansy groaned, flopping back onto the bed. “Merlin’s sake, are you ever going to let that go?”

“Not a chance,” Hermione said with a smirk, finally relaxing a little. She picked up a pillow and threw it lightly at Pansy’s head. “Now get up. We’re going to be late for breakfast.”

Pansy caught the pillow with a scowl, but the corners of her mouth betrayed the faintest hint of a smile. “You’re awfully bossy for someone who begged me to come back to the dorm last night.”

“I did not beg!” Hermione sputtered, her cheeks flushing. “You were in a state, and I was being compassionate.”

Pansy sat up properly this time, her smirk fully formed. “Compassionate, huh? Is that what you call cuddling me all night?”

Hermione’s mouth fell open, her face burning. “We did not cuddle!”

“Fine,” Pansy said with a shrug, standing and stretching. “You held me, I held you—it’s all semantics, really.”

Hermione gave her an incredulous look. “Semantics? You’re impossible.”

“Thank you,” Pansy replied, smirking as she made a dramatic show of smoothing out her hair. “I try.”

Hermione sighed and grabbed her dressing gown from the back of her chair, wrapping it tightly around herself. With a flick of her wand, she levitated Pansy’s crumpled robes from the floor and sent them sailing directly into the Slytherin girl’s arms.

“Get dressed,” Hermione said firmly. “I’m not letting you use my bed as a retreat every time you’re overwhelmed.”

Pansy caught the robes effortlessly, her smirk deepening as she examined them. “We’ll see,” she said airily, clearly enjoying how flustered Hermione had become.

Hermione turned her attention to tidying the rest of the room. Pansy’s bed sat neatly across the room, untouched since the night before, its perfectly smooth duvet starkly contrasting the mess of clothes she’d left strewn across her desk chair. Hermione couldn’t help but glance at it, a further twinge of exasperation bubbling to the surface.

“Your bed’s right there, you know,” she said, nodding toward it. “Not even five feet away. You could’ve just gone there.”

Pansy shrugged as she began pulling on her robes. “What can I say? Your bed’s more comfortable. Plus, it smells like cinnamon.”

Hermione froze mid-motion, her cheeks flushing a deep pink. “Shut up Parkinson.”

Pansy laughed softly, pulling her robe into place, and sitting down on her own bed. “Oh, relax, Granger. If it makes you feel better, I won’t make a habit of it... unless, of course, you find it comforting. Then, who am I to deny you?”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed, and she pointed her wand at Pansy, though there was no real menace in her gesture. “Don’t push your luck.”

Pansy raised her hands in mock surrender, her smirk never faltering. “I’d never dream of it.”

Hermione turned back to her desk, muttering as she adjusted the books she’d stacked there. I will not tell Ginny about this. I will not tell anyone about this, she repeated to herself. What the hell is happening to me in this cursed dorm?

Hermione hurriedly gathered her things, her mind racing as she tried to suppress the growing unease bubbling within her. Sharing a dorm with Pansy Parkinson had proven to be more challenging—and confusing—than she’d ever anticipated. She could still feel the heat of Pansy’s smirk lingering in the air, a reminder of the unexpected vulnerability they’d shared the night before.

“I’ll see you downstairs,” Hermione muttered, more to herself than to Pansy, as she slung her bag over her shoulder and made for the door. She didn’t wait for a reply, though she could practically feel Pansy’s amused gaze following her.

As soon as she stepped into the hallway, Hermione let out a deep breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. What the hell is happening to me in this cursed dorm? she thought again, the question gnawing at her as she made her way down the staircase.

Ginny and Luna were waiting in their usual spot when Hermione reached the Great Hall to cram in a bite of toast before Care of Magical Creatures. “How’d it go with the wicked witch?” Ginny asked as Hermione took her seat.

“Fine,” Hermione replied, hoping her tone wasn’t betraying her, “We talked through some stuff, set some boundaries.”

“Well, I hope it worked,” Ginny said, “We’ve got the Thunderbird again this morning.”

Hermione froze mid-bite, her toast hovering inches from her mouth. “The Thunderbird?” she echoed, her voice tinged with dread. Memories of the chaotic Care of Magical Creatures lesson flashed through her mind—Pansy’s sharp tongue, the panicked creature, the near catastrophe.

“Yes, the Thunderbird,” Ginny replied, her tone making it clear she wasn’t thrilled either. She grabbed an apple from the table, her expression dark. “Hagrid said something about a follow-up lesson to teach us how to handle him properly. You know, after last time.”

Hermione sighed, her appetite fading. She could already imagine the disaster waiting to unfold. Pansy’s snarky comments, combined with a highly reactive creature, was a recipe for trouble. She glanced at Luna, who was serenely buttering a scone as though the impending chaos didn’t concern her in the slightest.

“Thunderbirds are fascinating creatures,” Luna said dreamily, as though she’d read Hermione’s thoughts. “But I’m not sure I want to get caught in a storm again.”

“Maybe we’ll get lucky, and Parkinson will skive off class again. Or we could all wait in Hagrid’s hut while Elvis does his thing and fries her with a bolt of lightning.”

“Ginny!” Hermione hissed.

“Oh, come on Hermione! If you’d just let me hex her one time…”

“We’ve been over this,” Hermione groaned, “It’s not worth you getting into bother with Professor McGonagall over some schoolyard arguments.” Ginny bit her lip, clearly keen to say more, but thankfully keeping Hermione’s secrets. Wait till she finds out you slept with each other, Hermione thought, feeling heat rush to her cheeks. Ginny will not be finding that out, Hermione firmly told the voice in her head, and we did not sleep with each other, we just slept… together.

Hermione pressed her fingers to her temples, willing her thoughts to settle. She could already feel the storm brewing—not from the Thunderbird but from the tension crackling in the air between her and Ginny. Thankfully, Luna, with her uncanny ability to diffuse conversations with her peculiar insights, spoke up.

“Thunderbirds rarely target individuals unless provoked,” she said, her voice as calm as ever. “Though Pansy does have a talent for provocation.”

Hermione shot Luna a look that was somewhere between exasperated and grateful. “We’re not provoking anyone today, alright? Let’s just get through this lesson in one piece.”

Ginny shrugged, taking a bite of her apple. “I’ll behave,” she said, though her tone made it clear she wasn’t promising much. “But if Parkinson starts something, don’t expect me to play nice.”

Hermione groaned, pushing herself to her feet. “Let’s just go before Hagrid comes looking for us.”

As they made their way to the paddock, Hermione found herself falling into step beside Luna, whose serene demeanour was a balm to her frazzled nerves. Ginny walked a few paces ahead, her wand twirling absently in her fingers. The sight made Hermione uneasy, but she kept her concerns to herself.

When they arrived, the Thunderbird was already out, its enormous wings half-spread as it watched the gathering students with a keen, almost regal gaze. Pansy was there, standing a little apart from the others, her arms folded tightly across her chest. She didn’t look at anyone, but Hermione could feel the weight of her presence, a gravity she couldn’t quite explain.

Ginny followed Hermione’s gaze and let out a quiet snort. “Speak of the devil.”

“Don’t,” Hermione warned, her voice low. “Just leave her be.”

Ginny arched an eyebrow but said nothing, though her eyes lingered on Pansy for a moment longer before she turned her attention to Hagrid, who was calling the class to order.

“Right, everyone!” Hagrid bellowed, beaming at them as if their last Thunderbird lesson hadn’t nearly ended in catastrophe. “Today, we’re gonna practice approachin’ Elvis here safely. Remember, Thunderbirds are sensitive creatures. Keep calm, move slow, and show respect, yeah? Let’s come up in groups of two or three, and don’t be pulling out any of his feathers!.”

Ginny muttered something under her breath, and Hermione shot her a sharp look. “I mean it,” she whispered. “No funny business.”

“Relax, Hermione,” Ginny said, flashing her an innocent smile. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

But as the lesson began, Hermione couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that Ginny wasn’t the only one she needed to keep an eye on. Pansy had taken a step closer to the paddock, her expression unreadable as she watched Elvis. Hermione’s stomach tightened. Whatever happened next, she had a sinking feeling it wasn’t going to be smooth sailing.

The students formed hesitant groups, each eyeing Elvis warily as the Thunderbird ruffled its feathers and gave a low, rumbling call that seemed to shake the ground beneath them. Hagrid stood at the edge of the paddock, gesturing for the first group to step forward.

Hermione clutched her wand tightly, her eyes darting between Ginny and Pansy. Ginny had grouped herself with Luna and Dean, her posture relaxed but her eyes sharp. Pansy, on the other hand, had been paired—more by circumstance than choice—with a pair of nervous-looking Hufflepuffs.

“Right, you three,” Hagrid called, waving them forward. “Just like I showed ya! Nice an’ slow.”

Hermione watched as Pansy approached Elvis, her movements cautious but confident. She couldn’t help but notice the faint tension in Pansy’s shoulders, the way her hand hovered near her wand despite Hagrid’s insistence that spells weren’t necessary. The Thunderbird eyed them with a sharp, almost calculating gaze, its talons digging into the earth as it shifted its weight.

“Keep yer hands visible, now,” Hagrid called. “He don’t like sudden movements!”

The Hufflepuffs nodded vigorously, their hands trembling slightly as they followed Pansy’s lead. Pansy, to her credit, managed to maintain a calm facade, though Hermione could see the faintest flicker of unease in her eyes.

“Elvis is just curious,” Hagrid said, his voice booming with encouragement. “Go on, let him get a good look at ya.”

As the group stepped closer, Elvis extended his neck, his beak glinting in the sunlight as he sniffed the air around them. One of the Hufflepuffs let out a small squeak, and Elvis’s feathers rippled in response, the air around him crackling faintly.

“Easy, now,” Hagrid said quickly, stepping closer. “He’s jus’ tryin’ to figure ya out.”

Pansy shot a sharp look at her trembling companions. “Would you stop shaking? You’re going to set him off.”

Hermione sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. Of course, Pansy’s idea of reassurance was thinly veiled criticism. But before she could intervene, Ginny’s voice cut through the air.

“Careful, Parkinson,” Ginny called, her tone laced with sarcasm. “Wouldn’t want you to end up singed. Though, come to think of it, a lightning bolt might do wonders for your personality.”

Pansy stiffened, her jaw tightening as she turned her head slightly toward Ginny. “Why don’t you come and try it, Weasley? Or has the big Gryffindor hero lost her nerve?”

“Enough!” Hermione hissed, stepping forward before the exchange could escalate. “Both of you, stop it.”

But the tension had already unsettled Elvis. The Thunderbird let out a sharp cry, its feathers sparking with electricity, wind rapidly picking up as he spread his wings. The Hufflepuffs stumbled back, their fear palpable, and Pansy’s wand was in her hand in an instant.

“Pansy, don’t!” Hermione shouted, her voice cutting through the chaos.

For a moment, Pansy hesitated, her wand raised as she stared at the magnificent creature before her. Then, slowly, she lowered it, her expression hardening as she took a deliberate step back.

Hagrid quickly intervened, stepping between the students and Elvis. “Alright, alright,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “That’s enough fer now. Everyone take a step back an’ give him some space.”

The students retreated, the air heavy with tension. Hermione shot Pansy a sharp look, her frustration evident, but before she could say anything, Pansy turned on her heel and walked away, her movements brisk and uncharacteristically subdued.

Ginny snorted, crossing her arms. “Well, that went about as well as expected.”

“Ginny,” Hermione said sharply, her tone a warning. But Ginny merely shrugged, her expression unapologetic.

Hermione glanced toward the edge of the paddock, where Pansy had stopped, her back turned to the rest of the class. Much as Ginny would think her stupid, Hermione felt like she was finally making some progress with Pansy, and she didn’t want that progress to be ruined by the first class of the day.

Once Elvis had calmed down, Hagrid let the students approach him again. Warily, Dean and Padma approached the Thunderbird, who regarded them imperiously from his perch. Dean tossed Elvis a couple of fish from a bucket Hagrid had provided, and this soothed the magnificent bird further. Soon, a carousel of students was approaching the thunderbird to feed him a fish and give him a nervous pat on the beak. Hermione was keen to finally study the bird up close, but she kept glancing towards Pansy whose back remained turned to the class.

Making her decision, she strode purposefully towards the dark-haired girl. Pansy let out a sigh as she approached.

“Can’t help yourself Granger, can you?”

“I could say the same about you, but then we’d just stand here and argue about it. Come on,” Hermione replied, jerking her head towards the Thunderbird.

“I’m not getting fried by that bloody storm pigeon.”

“Well, you will if you call him that again.”

“Then maybe it’s better I stay back here.” Hermione could tell Pansy had tried to respond with her usual snarky tone, but her armour had cracked a little.

“And then how will you get a passing grade for this class? Why don’t you just stop cutting everyone off all the time?”

“Why can’t you just leave it?”

“Because I can see it eating away at you, because I have to live with you for the rest of the year, and because I don’t want a repeat of the other night.” Pansy’s cheeks flushed at Hermione’s words, but she was still prepared for another snide response.

“Really? Which part? Just so I know not to do it again.”

“Would you like me to shout out which part for the whole class to hear?” Hermione whispered. Pansy scowled, but dropped the act, and stomped past Hermione towards the Thunderbird. “Steady on,” Hermione whispered, “try and approach him a bit calmer than last time.”

“Difficult to stay calm with you whispering into my ear.”

“I can’t imagine why you’d get flustered being close to me,” Hermione whispered again, this time a lot closer to Pansy, “I thought you rather liked it?” Where the hell did that come from? She thought, mentally chastising herself.

Pansy froze mid-step, her back stiffening as Hermione’s words hung in the air. Slowly, she turned her head, her expression a mix of disbelief and indignation. “Granger,” she hissed through gritted teeth, “are you actually teasing me right now?”

Hermione bit her lip, her face betraying a flicker of surprise at her own audacity. “I—well—maybe,” she stammered, her blush deepening. She quickly averted her gaze, pretending to straighten her robes. “It’s not my fault you’ve made it so easy recently.”

Pansy stared at her for a long moment, her dark eyes narrowing as though she were trying to decide whether to snap back or simply combust on the spot. Finally, she let out an exasperated huff and turned back toward the paddock. “Unbelievable,” she muttered under her breath.

As they reached the paddock, Elvis’s piercing gaze shifted to them, his feathers shimmering faintly with electricity. Pansy hesitated, her hand twitching at her side. Hermione stepped closer, lowering her voice to a more supportive tone. “Just keep your movements steady. Hold out a fish and let him come to you. He won’t hurt you if you’re calm.”

Pansy glanced at the bucket of fish, wrinkling her nose. “This is disgusting.”

“Yes, well, welcome to Care of Magical Creatures,” Hermione replied, her tone tinged with dry amusement. “You’ll survive.”

Grumbling, Pansy grabbed a fish and held it out, her arm stiff and awkward. Elvis tilted his head, his sharp eyes studying her as though he could sense her hesitation. Hermione stepped a fraction closer, her hand lightly brushing Pansy’s arm. “Relax,” she murmured. “He can feel it when you’re tense.”

Pansy shot her a look but didn’t pull away. Taking a deep breath, she extended the fish again, this time with a bit more composure. Elvis’s beak snapped up the offering with surprising grace, and he let out a low, melodic trill before nudging his head slightly forward.

“Go on,” Hermione encouraged softly. “You can pet him.”

Pansy blinked, clearly unsure whether to believe her. But when Elvis didn’t move away, she cautiously reached out, her fingers brushing against the Thunderbird’s feathers. A soft crackle of static tickled her fingertips, and Pansy’s breath hitched.

“There,” Hermione said with a small smile. “See? Not so bad.”

Pansy stepped back, her expression unreadable as she rubbed her fingers together. “Well, at least he didn’t fry me,” she said lightly, though her voice carried a hint of something more—relief, maybe even pride.

Hermione smiled, folding her arms as she watched Elvis settle back onto his perch. “I knew you could do it.”

“Don’t start with the whole ‘I believe in you’ speech,” Pansy warned, though the edge in her tone had softened.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Hermione replied, though the glint in her eyes suggested otherwise. “But maybe now you’ll stop calling him a storm pigeon.”

“Don’t push your luck, Granger.”

Hermione laughed softly as they turned back toward the group, the tension between them easing ever so slightly. For all her snark and bravado, Pansy Parkinson had faced the Thunderbird—and herself—in a way that even she couldn’t entirely deny. It wasn’t much, but it was a step forward, and for now, Hermione was willing to take that.

The warmth of the moment didn’t last. By the time the class had ended, the subtle shift in Pansy’s demeanour had been eclipsed by the storm brewing in Ginny’s sharp gaze. Hermione barely had time to exchange her final notes with Hagrid before Ginny grabbed her by the arm and steered her toward the path back to the castle.

“What’s gotten into you?” Ginny demanded, her tone low but scathing. She kept her grip firm, as if to stop Hermione from bolting.

“What are you talking about?” Hermione asked, feigning ignorance, though she could already feel the heat rising to her cheeks.

Ginny shot her a look that could have melted ice. “Oh, don’t play dumb, Hermione. You were practically mooning over Parkinson the entire lesson.”

“I was not!” Hermione protested, wrenching her arm free. She crossed her arms defensively, glaring at her friend. “I was trying to keep the situation under control, unlike some people.”

Ginny stopped in her tracks, spinning to face Hermione. “Control? Is that what you call it? Because it looked to me like you were fawning over her while she did her usual snarky routine.”

“That’s not fair,” Hermione said, her voice tight. “She actually listened this time, Ginny. She tried.”

“Right. And the fact that you haven’t been able to stop glancing at her since this morning has nothing to do with it?”

“I’m just trying to help her adjust!” Hermione snapped, her cheeks burning. “It’s not like I want her to fail or get herself expelled. She’s already—”

“She’s already what? A mess? A disaster? A complete and total liability?” Ginny’s voice was rising now, her frustration palpable. “You think she’s your responsibility, Hermione? She’s not. And whatever weird thing you’ve got going on with her, it’s messing with your head.”

Hermione opened her mouth to argue, but Ginny cut her off.

“You’ve barely talked about Ron lately,” Ginny continued, her voice quieter now but no less cutting. “You’re keeping things from me, aren’t you? About her. About you. What is going on, Hermione?”

Hermione froze, the words sticking in her throat. She didn’t know how to explain the whirlwind of emotions she’d been wrestling with, the tension between her and Pansy that seemed to shift and change with every interaction. And she certainly didn’t want to admit that she didn’t have all the answers.

“It’s not what you think,” she said finally, her voice softer, pleading.

Ginny’s gaze softened, but only slightly. “Then what is it? Because whatever it is, Hermione, it’s not just you it’s affecting. People notice. I notice.”

Hermione sighed, running a hand through her hair. “It’s... complicated. I do have to live with her Ginny.”

Ginny studied her for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, with a small shake of her head, she turned and started walking again. “It’s Pansy Parkinson, Hermione. Pansy Parkinson who wrecked your bedroom and then kissed you. Pansy Parkinson who tried to hand your best friend over to Voldemort. Pansy Parkinson who fed that Rita Skeeter all those lies about you. Slytherin’s Queen Bitch for seven years, remember her? There shouldn’t be anything complicated about it.”

Hermione flinched at Ginny's words, each accusation landing like a blow. She quickened her pace to keep up with her friend, her heart hammering in her chest. “I know who she is, Ginny. Believe me, I know better than anyone.”

“Then why are you doing this?” Ginny stopped again, rounding on Hermione with a look of exasperation. “Why are you letting her get so close? Why do you even care what happens to her?”

“Because people can change,” Hermione said firmly, though the tremor in her voice betrayed her own uncertainty. “Because if we don’t give people the chance to be better, then what’s the point of everything we fought for?”

Ginny’s eyes narrowed. “That’s very noble of you, Hermione. But are you sure you’re doing this because you believe she can change? Or because you’ve already started making excuses for her?”

“I’m not making excuses!” Hermione shot back, her frustration bubbling to the surface. “She’s trying, Ginny. And whether you like it or not, I see something in her—something that makes me think she’s worth the effort.”

Ginny let out a hollow laugh, shaking her head. “Merlin, Hermione. She wrecked your room, kissed you without warning, and has spent most of her life making yours miserable. And now you’re standing here defending her? It doesn’t make sense.”

“It doesn’t have to make sense to you!” Hermione snapped, surprising even herself with the force of her response. “I don’t expect you to understand, but I do expect you to trust me.”

Ginny’s expression softened, but the tension between them didn’t dissipate. “I do trust you, Hermione,” she said quietly. “But I don’t trust her, and I don’t want to see you get hurt because you think you can fix her.”

Hermione swallowed hard, her throat tight. “I’m not trying to fix her. I’m just... I’m trying to understand her.”

Ginny sighed, her shoulders slumping. “Fine. Just don’t forget who she is—or who she was and don’t forget who you are in all of this.”

Without waiting for a response, Ginny turned and strode ahead, leaving Hermione standing alone on the front lawn, her thoughts swirling like a storm.

Who was she in all of this? And what exactly was she doing with Pansy Parkinson? The questions lingered, unanswered, as she finally followed Ginny back to the castle.

Arithmancy was normally one of Hermione’s favourite classes. She liked that it was logical when most wizards didn’t possess an ounce of logic. She liked using numbers, working sums and equations to find a satisfactory answer. It reminded her that even though she was a witch, and a very decent one at that, there was still a little Muggle girl inside of her that knew nothing of magic but still had the present-day Hermione’s passion for learning. Today though, Hermione couldn’t focus on Arithmancy.

Hermione tapped her quill absently against her parchment, her eyes scanning the same equation for what felt like the hundredth time. Normally, she’d have worked out the solution within minutes, her mind eagerly diving into the patterns and possibilities Arithmancy offered. Today, however, her thoughts were as jumbled as the numbers on the page.

She sighed, her frustration growing. The numbers didn’t make sense, didn’t add up. As for logic, it had gone right out the window when Pansy Parkinson had kissed her.

Hermione’s quill slipped from her fingers and rolled onto the desk as her mind wandered. She had replayed the moment in her head more times than she cared to admit. The anger, the desperation, the sudden, undeniable pull that had brought their lips together—it all swirled in her thoughts like an unsolvable puzzle. What unsettled her the most, though, wasn’t the kiss itself. It was the fact that she didn’t know how she felt about it.

“Miss Granger?” Professor Vector’s voice broke through her haze, sharp and questioning. Hermione blinked, her head snapping up to see the professor’s raised eyebrow. “Is there something particularly fascinating about the ceiling today, or would you care to share your thoughts on this equation?”

Heat rushed to Hermione’s cheeks as the rest of the class turned to look at her. “I—I’m sorry, Professor,” she stammered, straightening in her seat. “I’m just... distracted.”

Professor Vector’s gaze softened slightly, though her tone remained brisk. “Well, focus your distractions elsewhere for the time being. I’d like to see your solution before the end of class.”

Hermione sighed, forcing herself to refocus on the numbers before her. For once, though, the logical, orderly world of Arithmancy didn’t feel like a refuge. It felt like a cruel reminder that not everything in life could be broken down into neat equations and satisfying answers.

Some things—like Pansy Parkinson, and the tangled mess of emotions that came with her—simply refused to be solved.

Hermione let out another quiet sigh, her quill scratching half-heartedly at the parchment as she attempted to refocus on the problem in front of her. But her mind was already leaping ahead to the awkward dinner that awaited her in the Great Hall.

Her conversations with Ginny had grown increasingly tense, each one a skirmish in the unspoken war over Pansy Parkinson. Hermione couldn’t blame her for being angry or concerned—it made sense. Ginny saw Pansy as nothing but a threat, a living reminder of everything Hermione had suffered at the hands of Voldemort’s supporters, and from Ginny’s perspective, Hermione’s continued interactions with her must look like some bizarre form of self-sabotage.

Hermione rubbed her temples, the weight of the day pressing heavily on her. She hated the rift forming between her and Ginny, but what was she supposed to say? That Pansy wasn’t the same person they remembered from school? That the snarky, defensive exterior hid someone much more complicated, someone who was trying—however clumsily—to make sense of her place in a world that had shifted beneath her feet?

She barely understood it herself.

“Miss Granger?” Professor Vector’s voice startled her again, pulling her from her thoughts. “Are you quite sure you’re feeling well today?”

“I’m fine, Professor,” Hermione said quickly, trying to ignore the murmurs from her classmates. She cast a sideways glance at Padma, who raised an eyebrow but said nothing. “Just... preoccupied.”

Professor Vector gave her a long, measuring look before nodding. “See that you regain your focus, then. You’re capable of better.”

Hermione nodded, ducking her head to avoid the stares of her peers. She heard a faint snicker from the side of the classroom and didn’t have to look up to know who it was. Daphne Greengrass, of course. The only Slytherin to take Arithmancy, and Pansy’s closest confident. Even when she wasn’t physically present, Pansy managed to find a way under Hermione’s skin. She could imagine the dark-haired girl sitting next to her right now, smirking with that superior, smug little face she wore like a mask. Focus on your work, Hermione told herself.

Pansy’s smirk lingered in Hermione’s mind as she turned back to her notes, willing herself to concentrate. But the tangled mess of her thoughts refused to untangle, and her anxiety about dinner crept back in.

Hermione wasn’t ready for another argument, but she knew one was inevitable. Ginny wouldn’t let this go—and truthfully, Hermione wasn’t sure she wanted her to. At least it proved Ginny cared, even if her concern felt like judgment most of the time.

By the time the class ended, Hermione had scribbled out a half-hearted solution to the problem and packed up her things with far less precision than usual. The next logical step would be to head back to the dorm and steel herself for whatever dinner would bring. But logic wasn’t her refuge today, and as she walked out of the classroom, her feet carried her in an entirely different direction.

Toward the library.

The library was quieter than usual, the faint rustle of pages turning and the occasional whispered conversation the only sounds that reached Hermione’s ears. She moved automatically toward her usual corner, a secluded table by the large windows that cast a soft, ever-shifting light over the room.

Setting her bag down, she pulled out her Arithmancy notes with a sigh. It was a comforting ritual—finding her spot, laying out her materials in a neat, precise order—but today it felt hollow. The numbers still didn’t make sense, and her mind refused to focus on the formulas that usually calmed her.

Hermione stared at the parchment in front of her, her quill poised above it but unmoving. Her thoughts churned relentlessly, pulling her back to Pansy and Ginny and the impossible knot she’d tied herself into. She wasn’t sure what was more exhausting; trying to untangle it or pretending it didn’t exist.

Conceding that her Arithmancy homework would have to wait, Hermione pulled out a book she had been reading in every free moment she’d allowed herself: Restoration of the Mind: Advanced Theories in Memory Recollection and Cognitive Reconstruction. The title gleamed faintly on the well-worn spine, its gilded letters a testament to the countless hours she’d spent pouring over its dense and technical pages. Yet, despite all the hours she’d spent buried in this, and countless other books, she still hadn’t found the answers she was looking for.

“Planning on how to save the world next?” A familiar voiced drawled from a behind a bookshelf. Hermione snapped the book shut and stowed it into her bag. As much as she was enjoying making progress with her, Pansy Parkinson wasn’t who she needed to see right now. “No need to stop on my account.”

“I won’t get much done with you skulking around in the background.”

“I do not skulk!” Pansy said, scandalized, “I flounce, tiptoe, or lurk seductively.”

“Really? Which one was that?”

Pansy stepped out from behind the bookshelf, her smirk firmly in place as she leaned casually against the edge of the table. “That, Granger, was lurking seductively. You’d know if you weren’t so busy trying to burn a hole through that book with your eyes.”

“I think it needs more work.” Hermione said dryly, “It was better than your last attempt though, so points for that.” Pansy’s cheeks flushed pink, and her smirk turned into a scowl.

“I thought we weren’t mentioning that again.”

“No, you would like me to never mention it again, there’s a difference.”

“So, I went a bit nuts for a couple of days, is it really a big deal?”

“It is,” replied Hermione, “But I’m not keen to go over it again today, I’ve enough going on.”

Pansy tilted her head, narrowing her eyes as she studied Hermione. “You mean like the personal book you just shoved into your bag as if I wouldn’t notice?” Her voice carried its usual mocking tone, but there was a faint edge of curiosity beneath it.

Hermione sighed, straightening her posture. “It’s nothing that concerns you, Parkinson.”

“Of course not,” Pansy replied, her tone dripping with faux sweetness. “Because I’d clearly have no interest in whatever deep, dark secrets keep you buried in the library instead of gallivanting around the castle with Weasley and her merry band of followers.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, though she couldn’t quite stifle the faint twitch of her lips. “It’s called studying, Pansy. Something you might consider trying instead of lurking seductively.”

“Ah, back to that again.” Pansy crossed her arms, a hint of a pout forming. “Fine, Granger, keep your precious secrets. But if you’re hiding something this fiercely, it must be good.”

Hermione hesitated, her hand resting protectively on the strap of her bag. “It’s not good,” she said finally, her voice quieter. “It’s complicated. And I don’t have the energy to explain it to you right now.”

Pansy arched an eyebrow, her scowl easing into something closer to genuine interest. “Complicated, huh? Well, if anyone’s got the brainpower to unravel a mess like that, it’s you.”

The unexpected compliment caught Hermione off guard, and she blinked at Pansy, unsure how to respond. “I—thank you?”

“Don’t get used to it,” Pansy said quickly, her cheeks tinged pink again. She shifted her weight, glancing toward the exit. “Anyway, I’ll leave you to your brooding. Wouldn’t want to disrupt your… complicatedness.”

“Very considerate of you,” Hermione deadpanned, though her tone was lighter now.

Pansy flashed a quick, almost shy smirk before turning to leave. As she disappeared around the corner, Hermione let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. For all her infuriating quirks, Pansy Parkinson had a way of keeping Hermione on her toes—and, annoyingly, of making her feel slightly less alone in the chaos of her own thoughts.

You came here to get Pansy out of your thoughts, Hermione said to herself. In all fairness, it was pretty hard to do that when Pansy showed up in the library. Ginny’s words from earlier resurfaced once more; You’ve barely talked about Ron lately. The truth was, she’d barely spoken to Ron lately.

Hermione stared down at her parchment, her quill poised uselessly above it. The numbers and symbols of Arithmancy blurred together, meaningless in the face of her jumbled thoughts. Ginny’s words echoed in her mind, a relentless reminder of the person she was supposed to be thinking about.

Ron.

Her boyfriend. Her... what, exactly? The boy who had stood by her side through war and chaos. The boy who had made her laugh even when the world was falling apart. The boy who had kissed her so passionately in the midst of battle that, for one fleeting moment, she had believed everything might be okay.

But now?

Now, they barely spoke. When they did, the letters felt stilted, forced. She knew Ron was trying—he always did—but every time he reached out, she found herself pulling away. She didn’t know why. Or maybe she did, and the thought of confronting it terrified her.

It’s Pansy Parkinson, Ginny’s voice hissed in her head. Hermione shook her head fiercely. No. It wasn’t just Pansy. It couldn’t be.

Her mind wandered unbidden to the kiss. Not Ron’s kiss, but Pansy’s. Hermione’s cheeks burned at the memory, her fingers tightening around the quill. She’d tried to justify it to herself a hundred different ways: it was an accident, a fluke, an explosion of tension that didn’t mean anything.

But it had meant something.

Hermione groaned softly, burying her face in her hands. The library’s quiet hum seemed to mock her, as if even the books were judging her inability to make sense of her own emotions.

“I’m such a mess,” she muttered under her breath.

The truth she didn’t want to admit—not to Ginny, not to herself—was that Ron felt like a memory these days. A warm, comforting memory, but a memory, nonetheless. And Pansy... Pansy felt like something new. Something infuriating and unpredictable and maddeningly real.

That, Hermione realized with a sinking feeling, was what scared her the most. Maybe she just needed to get out of the castle for a bit, spend another Hogsmeade weekend with the boys if they could make it up. Christmas was still many weeks away, but Hermione also presumed that the Golden Trio as the media had taken to calling them would spend it together somewhere.

What would Pansy be doing for Christmas? Hermione wondered. You aren’t supposed to care what Pansy Parkinson is doing for Christmas, or for any other day of the year, she reminded herself. Deciding that her blank parchment should at least be used for something, she began crafting a letter to Ron.

Ron,

How are things in London? It’s still a bit tense here rooming with Parkinson, but we’re making some progress I guess. We’re at least not openly hostile towards each other in class nowadays. I still really miss having you and Harry around. Ginny and Luna are great company, but it isn’t the same, you know?

Do you think you and Harry could make it up for another Hogsmeade weekend? Perhaps I could Floo from the Hog’s Head and come and visit you in London? I’m sure Aberforth won’t rat us out to Professor McGonagall.

What are your plans for Christmas this year? I don’t want to go home without my parents there…

I hope you’re doing well, and I look forward to your reply.

Love,

Hermione.

Hermione set down her quill, rereading the letter carefully. It felt a little false, but it would do. She folded it neatly and slipped it into an envelope, resolving to send it off with one of the school owls later. At least reaching out to Ron felt productive, like she was taking a small step toward fixing whatever had been fraying between them.

But as she sat back and gazed out the library window, her thoughts betrayed her once again. She pictured Pansy, her sharp wit, and unexpected moments of vulnerability, and wondered—not for the first time—what lay beneath all of that bravado.

Stop it, she scolded herself. She had enough to sort out without adding Pansy Parkinson to the mix.

Still, the question lingered, stubborn and unshakable. What would Pansy be doing for Christmas? The thought of her returning to a cold, oppressive manor, alone, her parents in adjoining cells in Azkaban, tugged at Hermione’s heart in a way she didn’t want to acknowledge.

“You’re a masochist, Hermione Granger,” she muttered under her breath, gathering her books and parchment.

She headed toward the Owlery, clutching Ron’s letter like a lifeline. The fresh air would help, she told herself. It had to. Anything to keep her thoughts grounded in the present and away from the tangled mess her feelings had become.

Chapter Text

Chapter 10

The Great Hall was alive with flickering candlelight and the first signs of Halloween festivity. Floating pumpkins carved with intricate designs bobbed gently above the tables, their toothy grins casting playful shadows on the enchanted ceiling. Bats flitted overhead in choreographed swoops, and a faint, ghostly breeze rustled through the air, adding a chill to the otherwise warm room.

Pansy Parkinson sat at the far end of the Slytherin table, pushing her mashed potatoes around her plate with the tip of her fork. The chatter of her housemates buzzed around her, but none of it registered. Her mind was elsewhere—back in the library, back in Hermione Granger’s infuriating presence, and back to Daphne Greengrass, who had just plopped herself down beside her.

“You’ve been awfully quiet lately,” Daphne remarked, her tone light but probing. “Uncharacteristically so. No screaming matches in the corridors, no gossip, nothing. I told you to smooth things over with Granger, but I’m stunned you actually seemed to have managed it. How?”

Pansy’s grip tightened on her fork, her eyes narrowing as she turned to glare at Daphne. “If by ‘smooth things over,’ you mean she’s stopped actively hexing me with her eyes, then sure. Let’s call that progress.”

Daphne’s smirk widened, clearly unimpressed by Pansy’s deflection. “Oh, don’t downplay it. People are noticing, you know. Whispers all over the table. Granger doesn’t look at you like she wants to set you on fire anymore. It’s almost like… she tolerates you. Maybe even likes you.”

Pansy sighed heavily and dropped her fork onto her plate. “What exactly are you getting at, Daphne? I made a mess of things but I’m trying to sort it. Isn’t that what you wanted?.”

Daphne leaned in conspiratorially, her voice low enough to be drowned out by the chatter around them. “I’m just putting the idea out there that this could be useful. If Granger’s warming up to you, it wouldn’t hurt to... capitalize on it. She’s Potter’s right-hand girl. You know what that kind of connection could do for us.”

“Us?” replied Pansy, “Does this mean I’m part of you and Blaise’s little gang again? Oh goody!”

Daphne rolled her eyes, flicking a piece of imaginary lint off her sleeve. “Oh, don’t be dramatic, Pansy. You’ve always been part of ‘our little gang,’ as you so charmingly put it. You just needed a reminder of where your priorities should be.”

“And my priorities should be what, exactly?” Pansy said, her voice laced with sarcasm. “Winning Gryffindor’s golden girl over so you lot can ride my coattails to redemption after leaving me in the cold for weeks? Forgive me if I don’t leap at the opportunity.”

Daphne’s smirk didn’t falter. “Think of it less as redemption and more as… damage control. You’ve got to admit, it’s not a bad idea. A little goodwill from Granger could go a long way.”

Pansy scoffed, crossing her arms. “Goodwill from Granger? You make it sound like she’s handing out sweets.”

“Maybe she is,” Daphne quipped, nodding toward the floating pumpkins above them. “But seriously, Pansy. If you’re making progress with her, why not use it? Merlin knows we need something to tip the scales back in our favour.”

“First of all,” Pansy said sharply, “Granger isn’t a pawn to use in your game of societal chess, and second, what makes you think I have any sway over her? She’s as stubborn as they come. Trust me, I would know.”

Daphne arched an eyebrow. “And yet, here we are, with people noticing that she doesn’t hate you anymore. Rumour has it you are even working closely together in class, and not one argument since your… unfortunate outburst. If that’s not sway, I don’t know what is.”

Pansy opened her mouth to retort, but the words died in her throat. She hated how easily Daphne’s words got under her skin, how they made her question the very thing she was trying to make sense of herself. “I’m not doing it,” she said finally, her tone firm. “If you want Granger’s goodwill so badly, go grovel at her feet yourself.”

Daphne tilted her head, studying Pansy with an expression that was equal parts amusement and curiosity. “Touchy, aren’t we? Could it be that you don’t want to risk ruining this little… connection of yours?”

“Drop it, Daphne,” Pansy snapped, her voice low and warning. “Whatever you think is going on, it’s not like that.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s not,” Daphne said sweetly, rising from the bench with a flick of her long, blonde hair. “But you might want to figure out what it is, Pansy. Before someone else does.”

Pansy watched her walk away, her jaw tight and her fists clenched under the table. Around her, the Great Hall buzzed with laughter and chatter, oblivious to the storm brewing in her chest. She hated that Daphne had a point, even if she would never admit it out loud.

As her gaze wandered to the Gryffindor table and landed, unbidden, on Hermione Granger, Pansy felt a surge of frustration. At Daphne, at the tangled mess she’d found herself in—and, most of all, at herself.

By the time she returned to the 8^th Year Common Room, there was already a small party in full swing. Dean Thomas had taken to smuggling in a couple of bottles of Firewhiskey on Friday nights, and each week his crowd had gotten a little bigger. Padma Patil was a regular at his side; she liked him, and he was a bit oblivious. The pompous but otherwise fairly affable Ernie Macmillan sat on an adjacent sofa next to… Blaise. Cleverly played, Pansy thought. Blaise enjoyed the company of the old Dumbledore’s Army crowd about as much as he liked eating Hippogriff testicles, but clearly he was trying to play the same game as Daphne.

Pansy ignored him for the time-being and padded her way up to her room. She was still feeling a bit put out that Daphne had asked her to… Pansy wasn’t sure exactly what, but she wasn’t about to send Hermione off into the clutches of Daphne Greengrass. Pansy liked Daphne, she had done for a long time, but she was well-versed in Daphne’s tendencies to pick up and put down people when it was convenient to her.

Pansy made her way up the stairs, her heels clicking softly on the stone. The noise from the common room faded as she climbed, but the thoughts swirling in her head were anything but quiet. Daphne’s suggestion—or whatever that veiled command had been—still lingered like an unpleasant aftertaste. She hated how easily Daphne manoeuvred people into doing her bidding, always with that polished smile and the promise of shared gain.

But this wasn’t a game Pansy wanted to play. Not with Granger. Not now.

Reaching her room, she pushed the door open and stepped inside, letting out a low sigh as she leaned against the closed door. The familiar sight of Granger’s immaculately kept bed and perfectly organized trunk greeted her, a sharp contrast to the chaos in her head. She crossed the room, kicked off her shoes, and sank onto the edge of her bed, her fingers brushing against the green and silver comforter.

Daphne’s words replayed in her mind, her tone deceptively casual. “If Granger’s warming up to you, it wouldn’t hurt to capitalize on it.”

As if Granger was some pawn to be moved across a chessboard. As if Pansy hadn’t already complicated her life enough by trying—and failing—to keep her distance from her infuriating roommate.

“I don’t owe her anything,” Pansy muttered under her breath, though the words felt hollow.

She didn’t owe Daphne anything either, but she’d always had a knack for staying on her good side. It had been easier to navigate Slytherin politics that way, to keep herself safe and relevant. But now, for the first time in years, she wasn’t sure she wanted to keep playing the game. At least, not by Daphne’s rules.

The thought of handing Hermione over to Daphne’s schemes left a sour taste in her mouth. Hermione was… different. Unpredictable, yes, and maddeningly stubborn, but different. Daphne’s charm and subtle manipulation wouldn’t work on someone like her—not for long, anyway. But for some reason, Pansy couldn’t bear the thought of watching Daphne try.

“What the hell is wrong with me?” Pansy whispered, rubbing her temples. She felt a pang of something she couldn’t name, a tightness in her chest that wouldn’t ease no matter how hard she tried to shake it.

The sound of laughter drifted faintly from the common room below, a reminder of the party still in full swing. Blaise was probably down there, enduring Macmillan’s endless stories with the same bored patience he reserved for tedious Ministry functions. Pansy briefly considered going back down, but the thought of sitting among those faces, pretending to care, made her stomach twist.

Instead, she stood and crossed the room to her desk, pulling out a small, leather-bound notebook. It was an old habit, one she hadn’t indulged in for months, but tonight, it felt like the only way to quiet her thoughts.

Flipping open the notebook, she picked up a quill and began to write. The words came slowly at first, disjointed and hesitant, but soon they spilled onto the page in a torrent of frustration, confusion, and something dangerously close to vulnerability.

She wrote about Daphne, about Blaise, about the party downstairs. But most of all, she wrote about Hermione. About the way her hair looked when she put it into that bloody braid, the way the colour rose in her cheeks when Pansy managed to make her flustered, and the way she had held onto Pansy—really held onto her—on that impossible night.

Pansy stared at the words on the page, her chest tightening as the truth stared back at her in black ink. She slammed the notebook shut, shoving it back into her desk drawer as though hiding it could erase what she’d just written.

But the words were still there, etched into her mind, and for the first time, Pansy Parkinson couldn’t pretend she didn’t care.

Pansy leaned back in her chair, staring at the desk drawer as though it might burst open and reveal her secrets to the world. The flickering candlelight cast shadows across the room, but none of them were as dark as the tangled mess of emotions she was trying to shove aside.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Hermione Granger was supposed to be an annoying do-gooder with a penchant for rule-following and sanctimonious speeches—not someone who occupied her thoughts so thoroughly it was becoming impossible to think about anything else.

Pansy ran a hand through her hair, letting out a frustrated sigh. She needed to pull herself together, but every time she tried to rationalize her feelings, they only seemed to grow more unruly. The way Hermione had looked at her earlier, the way she had whispered that teasing remark near the paddock, had sent a thrill coursing through her that she couldn’t explain and definitely didn’t want to acknowledge.

Now Daphne’s voice was in her head, pushing her to use Hermione for her own benefit. It had been so easy in the past to follow Daphne’s lead, to play the game and come out on top. But this wasn’t just a game anymore, and Hermione wasn’t just a piece on the board. Hermione Granger was special. The thought felt shameful to Pansy. She couldn’t allow herself to develop feelings for a girl, especially a Muggle-born girl. If and when Pansy’s parents got out of Azkaban, and if they found out, Pansy would be disowned, Hermione would be in danger, and Pansy wouldn’t allow Hermione to be in danger.

She needed to get out of this room, away from her thoughts and the suffocating weight of her own admission. Maybe if she went back to the common room, she could drown it all out with meaningless chatter and Firewhiskey-fuelled laughter.

Or maybe Blaise would smirk knowingly at her from across the room, and she’d feel the same suffocating knot of frustration all over again.

With a groan, Pansy stood and paced the length of her room. She glanced at the clock on her bedside table. It was too late to go wandering the castle aimlessly, and the idea of spending another night sleeping on a cold stone floor, tucked away in some broom cupboard made her stomach churn.

She was saved – if only briefly – from her thoughts by a sharp knock on the door. “Pansy are you up here brooding?” Daphne called from the other side of the door.

“I’m not brooding.” Pansy lied. The door clicked open, and Daphne entered uninvited.

“No, you’re pacing. Come downstairs and have a drink.”

“I’m really not interested, and neither are they. I am Pansy Parkinson, public enemy number one, remember?”

“Yes, well, you won’t change it hiding up here whilst everyone else is having fun. I mean, I had to force myself at first,” Daphne said, rolling her eyes dramatically, “But that Dean Thomas isn’t actually too bad for a Muggle-born.”

“Well, you can let me know how your pursuit of him goes tomorrow.”

“Oh, I’m not pursuing him,” Daphne replied, scandalized, “I just mean he’s at least got a bit of personality.”

“Right.”

“Oh, Pansy stop wallowing!” Daphne snapped. “Granger’s down there too.” Her eyebrows raised ever so slightly, and her voice had become softer. “I’m sure she’d be pleased to see you.”

“Well now I’m even less interested.”

Daphne rolled her eyes, stepping further into the room and folding her arms. “You’re exhausting, you know that? Sulking in here like some tragic heroine in one of those awful Muggle romance novels.”

“I’m not sulking,” Pansy snapped, throwing herself dramatically onto her bed. “I’m brooding. There’s a difference.”

“I thought you said you weren’t brooding,” Daphne teased, grasping the doorknob, and making her way back out of the room, “I’ll see you downstairs.”

“No, you won’t,” Pansy called after her.

Daphne paused in the doorway, turning just enough to cast Pansy a knowing smirk. “We’ll see,” she said lightly, her tone dripping with infuriating confidence. Then, with a swish of her robes, she was gone, leaving the door slightly ajar.

Pansy scowled at the empty space where Daphne had stood, resisting the urge to throw a pillow at the door. It would only give Daphne the satisfaction of knowing she’d gotten under her skin—again.

She lay back on her bed, staring at the ceiling as her mind churned. Why did Daphne have to mention Granger? It was bad enough that Hermione had been occupying her thoughts all evening without Daphne bringing her up like some kind of challenge.

Her gaze drifted toward the open door. She could hear the faint hum of chatter from the common room, the occasional burst of laughter. The idea of facing all those people—and potentially Hermione—made her stomach twist, but the alternative was stewing up here alone with her thoughts.

Pansy groaned and rolled onto her side, burying her face in her pillow. Why couldn’t she just stay detached? Why couldn’t she keep Hermione Granger in the neat, tidy box of people she loathed? It would make everything so much simpler.

But no. Hermione had to go and be clever and brave and infuriatingly kind, and now, thanks to Daphne’s meddling, Pansy couldn’t shake the image of her sitting downstairs, perhaps laughing at some joke, her cheeks flushed from the warmth of the fire and the company.

“Fine,” Pansy muttered to herself, sitting up and running a hand through her hair. “I’ll go, but not for her.”

She tugged on her robes and made her way to the door, hesitating for just a moment before stepping out into the hallway. The sound of laughter grew louder as she approached the common room, and her pulse quickened despite herself.

Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself. It’s just a party. Just people. Just... Granger.

And with that thought, Pansy squared her shoulders and walked into the room.

It was a mistake. Pansy knew that the moment she walked into the crowded common room. The air was thick with laughter and the tangy-sweet smell of Firewhiskey, but all of it felt distant as Ginny Weasley’s eyes locked onto hers, brimming with barely concealed disdain. The redhead leaned back in her seat like a coiled spring, poised to pounce at the slightest provocation. Beside her, Luna Lovegood sipped delicately from a goblet of something brightly coloured, her serene expression a sharp contrast to Ginny’s tension.

Hermione sat beside Luna, dressed in comfortable Muggle clothes—a soft jumper and faded jeans. The sight of her made Pansy’s stomach twist in a way she didn’t care to analyse. It was unfair, really, how effortlessly Granger could pull off that casual, carefree look. Pansy was still in her crisp uniform, and Daphne, seated nearby, had gone for her usual flair, donning a set of midnight blue robes that shimmered subtly under the flickering light. They were probably from some exclusive Parisian boutique, of course. Trust Daphne to dress like she was attending a gala instead of a casual dorm party.

Pansy’s eyes flicked over the room, noting the source of the raucous laughter at its centre. Dean Thomas, clearly the mastermind behind the revelry, was leading a drinking game involving enchanted cards that glowed and pulsed as they flipped through the air. The rules seemed deliberately nonsensical—something about choosing partners or shouting out absurd magical incantations—but it didn’t matter. The real point was the drinks, which were flowing freely from the assortment of bottles scattered across the tables.

“Parkinson,” Ginny drawled, her voice cutting through the noise as Pansy made her way toward Daphne. “Didn’t think this would be your scene.”

Pansy hesitated for half a beat, forcing herself not to flinch under Ginny’s glare. “It’s not,” she replied smoothly, tilting her chin up. “But Daphne insisted, and I’d hate to disappoint.”

Daphne smirked, raising her goblet in mock salute as Pansy took the seat beside her. “Oh, don’t pin this on me. I just knew you’d be bored moping upstairs.”

Luna glanced between them, her head tilted slightly as though trying to read something in the air. “Do you like drinking games, Pansy?” she asked, her tone genuinely curious. “They’re quite good for breaking the ice.”

Ginny snorted. “Parkinson’s more likely to freeze the ice solid.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Pansy quipped, grabbing an unoccupied goblet, and pouring herself a splash of Firewhiskey. She ignored Ginny’s glare as she leaned back in her chair, the fiery liquid burning its way down her throat. “What’s the game?”

Dean, overhearing the question, grinned broadly. “This should be right up your street. Muggles call the game arrogance.” The crowd of students murmured conspiratorially at Dean’s thinly veiled insult. Pansy felt a tinge of colour in her cheeks but was determined not to rise to the bait. “When it’s your turn, you draw a card from the deck. Each card has a rule attached to it, and if you draw it, you must follow the rule.”

“And if I don’t follow the rule?

Dean grinned wickedly, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “If you don’t follow the rule, you drink twice. Simple as that.”

“And if the rule is something absurd?” Pansy asked, arching an eyebrow, her fingers lightly tapping the rim of her goblet.

“Well,” Dean replied, spreading his hands, “that’s where your arrogance comes into play. Do you think you can handle it? You follow the rule. If not, you pass, but you still drink twice for being a coward.”

The murmurs around the room grew louder, a mixture of laughter and groans as a few students shared stories of previous humiliations in the game. Ginny leaned back, smirking. “This ought to be good.”

“Fine,” Pansy said, lifting her chin defiantly. “I’ll play. Let’s see what passes for entertainment in your little clique.”

Dean dealt the first card, which landed in front of Ernie Macmillan. The Hufflepuff read it aloud, his ears turning pink. “Sing the Hogwarts anthem. If you refuse, down your drink.”

Laughter erupted as Ernie groaned but stood, clearing his throat. His half-hearted rendition of the anthem was met with cheers and playful boos, and by the time he sat down, his cheeks were as red as the Gryffindor banners.

Next, the card went to Padma Patil, who had to share an embarrassing childhood story. She blushed but recounted an incident involving a Vanishing Spell gone wrong during a family dinner.

The game continued, and when it was Pansy’s turn, all eyes turned to her. Dean slid a card across the table, his smirk still firmly in place. “Your turn, Parkinson.”

Pansy picked up the card, her expression unreadable as she read it aloud. “Ask someone here to be your partner for the next three rounds. If they refuse, you both drink.”

The room went silent, all eyes darting between Pansy and the other students. Pansy’s gaze flicked to Daphne, who raised an eyebrow but made no move to volunteer. Ginny’s smirk widened her eyes flicking between Pansy and Hermione.

“Weasley.” The redhead’s neck practically snapped with how quick she turned and locked eyes with Pansy, glaring as though she wanted to burn a hole straight through her. The crowd of students murmured excitedly, and Pansy knew that Ginny Weasley’s pride would not permit her to refuse. Without saying a word, she nodded, still glaring at Pansy.

The tension in the room was palpable as Ginny scooted her chair closer to Pansy’s, her movements stiff with indignation. “You’ve got some nerve, Parkinson,” she muttered under her breath, just loud enough for Pansy to hear.

Pansy leaned back in her chair, her expression calm but with a glint of mischief in her eyes. “You looked bored, Weasley. I thought I’d help liven up your evening.”

Ginny’s glare could have set the enchanted pumpkins ablaze, but she said nothing further, her jaw clenched tight.

Dean, clearly loving the drama, slid the next card toward Daphne with a flourish. “Your turn, Greengrass.”

Daphne picked up the card with an elegant flick of her wrist, her smirk widening as she read it aloud. “Find the person to your left and sit on their lap for one round. Refuse, and you both drink.”

A ripple of laughter ran through the group as Daphne arched an eyebrow at Blaise, who sat to her left. He rolled his eyes but nodded, gesturing for her to take a seat. With a dramatic flourish, Daphne plopped down onto his lap, her movements exaggerated for the audience. Blaise sighed, sipping his drink with practiced indifference, though the corners of his mouth twitched in amusement.

“Charming,” Pansy muttered, rolling her eyes as the game moved on.

The next card landed in front of Seamus, who had to mimic a professor of the group’s choice. After some deliberation, the group chose Professor Trelawney, prompting a hilariously over-the-top impression that left everyone in stitches.

Finally, it was Ginny’s turn. Dean slid the card across to her, and she snatched it up, glancing at Pansy with narrowed eyes before reading it aloud. “Whisper a secret to your partner. If you refuse, down your drink.”

The room went silent again, anticipation hanging thick in the air. Ginny’s grip on the card tightened, her knuckles white as she stared at Pansy.

Pansy tilted her head, her smirk firmly in place. “Well, Weasley? Got a secret worth sharing?”

Ginny’s nostrils flared, but she leaned in, her voice barely above a whisper as she spoke into Pansy’s ear. “I think you’re up to something awful with Hermione, and I’m going to find out what it is and rake you over the coals. Mark my words, whatever scheme you and your little snake pals are cooking up, it’s going to end far worse for you than it is for her.”

Pansy’s expression didn’t falter, but inside, her stomach twisted. She met Ginny’s glare with a measured look, keeping her tone light. “Is that your secret? I was expecting something juicier.”

Ginny leaned back in her chair, her lips pressed into a thin smile. “Your turn, Parkinson.”

Dean slid another card Pansy’s way, the eyes of the group locked on her as she picked it up. She read it aloud, her voice steady. “Choose someone to dare you to do something. Refuse, and you drink twice.”

The room erupted with murmurs, and Ginny’s grin turned predatory. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”

Pansy raised an eyebrow, her fingers tapping idly against her goblet as she met Ginny’s predatory grin with a calm, if not slightly amused, expression. “Go on, Weasley,” she drawled. “Let’s see what that Gryffindor bravery translates to when it comes to dares.”

Ginny leaned forward, her eyes gleaming with mischief as she considered her options. The room had grown quieter, the group’s attention now firmly focused on the brewing tension between the two girls.

“All right, Parkinson,” Ginny said finally, her voice low and deliberate. “I dare you to kiss someone in this room. Your choice.”

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd, followed by a mixture of laughter and scandalized whispers. Pansy’s smirk faltered for the briefest of moments before she recovered, her expression shifting to one of amused defiance.

“Is that the best you’ve got, Weasley?” Pansy asked, her voice dripping with nonchalance. “How terribly predictable.”

“Go on, then,” Ginny shot back, leaning back in her chair with a smirk. “Unless you’d rather be a coward and drink.” Pansy eyed the girl with what she hoped was a look of petty loathing before turning and planting a kiss on a slightly stunned Daphne, who giggled and wiped her lips.

The room buzzed with laughter and playful jeers as Daphne, ever the showwoman, dramatically fanned herself. “I swear, Pansy, if you weren’t so melodramatic, you might just sweep me off my feet,” she teased, her eyes sparkling with amusement.

Pansy smirked, tilting her head. “Careful, Daphne. Keep talking like that, and people might start to think we’re more than just friends.”

Daphne rolled her eyes but played along, placing a hand over her chest in mock swoon. “Oh, the scandal!”

The laughter around the room grew louder, with even Dean shaking his head in bemusement. Only Ginny remained stony-faced, her narrowed eyes flicking between Pansy and Hermione, who was conspicuously quiet, her gaze fixed on the table as she fiddled with her goblet.

Another point to me, Pansy thought smugly, settling back into her chair. She could feel Ginny’s glare burning a hole in her, but she refused to give her the satisfaction of looking her way.

Dean slid the next card across the table to Padma, who eagerly took it, her cheeks pink from a mix of laughter and Firewhiskey. The game moved on, the focus shifting away from Pansy for the moment, though she could still feel the tension in the air. Daphne stood up, finally allowed to leave Blaise’s lap, much to his disappointment.

Daphne let out an exaggerated sigh of relief as she stood, smoothing her robes and casting Blaise a teasing glance. “Don’t look so heartbroken, Blaise,” she said with a smirk. “You’ll survive without me.”

Blaise raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. “I thought you and Pansy were an item now anyway?”

The group laughed, and Dean grinned as he slid the next card toward Luna, whose dreamy demeanour hadn’t wavered all evening. She picked up the card with delicate fingers, tilting her head as she read it aloud.

“Perform a spell of the group’s choosing, but you must do it blindfolded. If you refuse, drink twice.”

The students erupted into a mix of laughter and excited suggestions, ranging from harmless levitation charms to more complex Transfiguration spells. Luna merely smiled, unbothered by the commotion. “I suppose that sounds fair,” she said serenely.

Padma, sitting beside her, produced a scarf from her bag and tied it gently around Luna’s eyes. The group finally settled on a simple Accio, deciding it was less likely to end in catastrophe. Luna waved her wand with practiced ease and summoned Dean’s goblet from across the table, catching it neatly in her hand despite the blindfold.

The crowd cheered, and Dean clapped her on the back as he reclaimed his goblet. “You’re too good at that, Luna.”

Luna untied the scarf, her dreamy smile never faltering. “I’ve always been good at catching things.”

The game moved to Blaise, who rolled his eyes at the card he drew. “Take a drink every time someone says the word ‘Hogwarts’ until your next turn.” His resigned sigh drew more laughter, and the word Hogwarts was suddenly on everyone’s lips.

As the game continued, Pansy found herself leaning back, observing rather than participating. The buzz of conversation and laughter filled the room, but her thoughts kept circling back to Hermione, who had been uncharacteristically quiet since the start of the game. She caught a glimpse of Hermione smiling faintly at Luna’s antics, but the expression didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Your turn, Parkinson,” Dean called, sliding another card her way and breaking her reverie. Pansy picked it up, scanning the words quickly before reading aloud.

“Swap an item of clothing with someone in the room. Refuse, and drink three times.”

The room erupted in catcalls and whistles, and Pansy groaned inwardly, her eyes instinctively flicking to Daphne, who was already grinning like a cat with cream. “Oh no,” Pansy muttered. “Don’t even think about it.”

“Oh, I’m thinking about it,” Daphne replied, her tone saccharine as she began loosening the clasp of her shimmering robes. “You’d look so good in blue Pansy.”

“What about Ginny?” Ernie reminded everyone, “They’re still partners?”

The room collectively turned to Ginny, who froze mid-sip of her drink, her eyes narrowing dangerously as she set the goblet down with deliberate care. “Absolutely not,” she said firmly, her tone brooking no argument.

“Rules are rules, Weasley,” Dean said with a grin, clearly enjoying the chaos. “Pansy has to swap with someone, and you’re her partner.”

Ginny glared at him, then at Pansy, who was doing her best to look unimpressed by the whole ordeal. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” Ginny muttered, pulling out her Gryffindor scarf and throwing it across the table. “Here. Swap this and call it done.”

The room groaned in disappointment, though a few people chuckled as Pansy caught the scarf mid-air, examining it with mock disdain. “How generous,” she drawled, untying the green and silver tie from around her neck and tossing it back to Ginny. “I suppose this counts.”

Ginny snatched the tie, her expression sour as she looped it loosely around her neck. “Don’t get too attached to it,” she snapped, earning a round of laughter from the table.

Pansy smirked, wrapping the red and gold scarf dramatically around her own neck. “I think it suits me, actually,” she said, flicking one end over her shoulder with exaggerated flair.

“You wish,” Ginny muttered, though her lips twitched as if fighting a smile.

The game moved on, the attention shifting to the next unlucky participant, but the tension between Pansy and Ginny lingered in the air. Hermione, who had been silent through the exchange, watched the interaction with a faintly amused expression, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of something else—concern? Curiosity? Pansy couldn’t quite tell, but she felt the weight of Hermione’s gaze and found herself fiddling with the scarf absentmindedly.

It’s just a stupid game, Pansy told herself, though her chest tightened when she caught Ginny’s glowering glance once more. One more round she told herself, you can survive one more round with her.

“Hermione!” Dean said, tossing her a card.

Hermione caught the card with a practiced ease, her expression composed but her eyes flicking toward Pansy for the briefest of moments. She read the card aloud, her voice steady despite the growing buzz of anticipation in the room.

"Truth or dare. Choose one, and the person to your right will give you the challenge. Refuse, and drink four times."

The room erupted in cheers and jeers, everyone leaning forward eagerly. To Hermione’s right sat Luna, who smiled serenely, seemingly unfazed by the pressure.

Hermione sighed, setting the card down on the table. “Truth,” she said finally, her tone firm, though the faintest hint of a blush crept up her cheeks.

Luna tilted her head, her expression thoughtful. “What’s one thing you’ve done recently that surprised even yourself?” she asked, her voice lilting and curious.

The chatter in the room quieted slightly, the question hanging in the air. Hermione’s gaze flicked to Pansy involuntarily, her lips pressing together as if she were trying to stop herself from speaking.

“Well?” Ginny prompted, her tone sharper than necessary.

Hermione took a deep breath, her fingers tracing idle patterns on the edge of her goblet. “I... extended an olive branch to someone I never thought I’d get along with,” she said, her voice measured, though her eyes darted briefly to Pansy.

The room was silent for a beat before Blaise chuckled softly. “That’s the dullest answer I’ve ever heard.”

Padma snickered, and Dean shrugged. “It counts,” he said, dealing the next card. But the ripple of laughter and resumed conversation didn’t mask the tension that lingered between Hermione and Pansy, who sat rigidly in her chair, the scarf around her neck suddenly feeling far too tight. Hermione picked up her goblet and took a long sip, avoiding Pansy’s eyes. But Pansy could feel the weight of her unspoken words as clearly as if they’d been shouted across the room.

The cards inched closer to Ginny, each turn feeling longer than the last. Pansy sipped from her goblet to distract herself, but the burning sensation in her throat did little to dull the buzzing tension. Across the table, Hermione seemed intent on studying her drink, her fingers absently tapping the side of the goblet.

Finally, the card landed in front of Ginny, and Dean slid it over with an exaggerated flourish. “Your move, Weasley.”

Ginny picked up the card, her eyes scanning it quickly. A slow, wicked grin spread across her face as she read aloud, “Challenge someone to a duel. Loser downs their drink.”

The room erupted in cheers and laughter, several students immediately suggesting their picks for a dramatic showdown. Ginny’s eyes, however, locked directly onto Pansy and glared at her savagely.

“Parkinson,” Ginny said, her voice dripping with challenge.

Pansy raised an eyebrow, leaning back in her chair with practiced ease. “You sure about that, Weasley? You might not like the outcome.”

Ginny leaned forward, her grin sharpening. “Oh, I think I’ll manage.”

The crowd grew louder, the students eagerly clearing space between the furniture for an impromptu duel. Blaise smirked from his corner, clearly enjoying the unfolding spectacle, while Daphne sipped her drink with a look of mild amusement.

Hermione’s voice cut through the noise. “This is ridiculous,” she said sharply, standing up. “We’re not actually doing this, are we?”

Ginny’s gaze flicked to Hermione, her grin faltering slightly. “It’s just part of the game, Hermione. Don’t worry, I’ll go easy on her.”

Pansy smirked, rising slowly to her feet. “Oh, please don’t. I’d hate to think you weren’t giving it your all.”

The room erupted in a mixture of laughter and gasps, and Dean stepped forward, clearly relishing his role as unofficial referee. “Alright, alright, keep it clean. No Unforgivable Curses, obviously, or anything really nasty, or anything we’ll have to explain to Madame Pomfrey or McGonagall. First to disarm wins.”

Pansy rolled her eyes but drew her wand, her stance relaxed. Ginny mirrored her movements, her jaw tight as they faced each other. Hermione crossed her arms, her frustration evident as she muttered something under her breath about Gryffindor bravado.

Dean raised his hand dramatically. “On my count. Three... two... one... duel!”

The wands moved almost simultaneously, sparks flying in a flash of light as spells collided mid-air. The room buzzed with energy, the line between playful rivalry and genuine tension blurring with each flick of a wand. Pansy’s smirk deepened as she blocked Ginny’s second spell with ease.

“You’ll have to do better than that, Weasley,” she taunted, her voice smooth and infuriatingly calm.

Ginny’s face reddened, her grip on her wand tightening. “Oh, I plan to,” she shot back, firing off another spell that narrowly missed Pansy’s shoulder.

Pansy retaliated with a swift disarming spell, but Ginny countered, their wands crackling with energy. Around them, the students cheered and jeered, the atmosphere electric.

Hermione, however, stood apart from the crowd, her arms still crossed, and her expression torn between exasperation and something else—something that Pansy couldn’t quite place but made her heart race, nonetheless. She sent another Expelliarmus Ginny’s way, but the Gryffindor was too quick for her. For what seemed like an hour they ducked and weaved, becoming increasingly desperate in the quest for the others wand. Pansy was an adequate duellist, but she was finding Weasley an incredibly difficult challenge.

The crowd cheered and booed as the two girls duelled, sending the cards flying across the room, and charging the atmosphere around them with electricity. Pansy briefly searched out Hermione, whose eyes darted between the pair of them with a worried expression. In that brief moment, Pansy hesitated at the look on Granger’s face, and the next moment her wand was spinning out of her hand. Ginny Weasley plucked it out of the air with savage triumph plastered across her face. Cheers rang out across the room as Pansy’s shoulders slumped in defeat.

“Now drink.” Ginny commanded, her wand trained on Pansy. Sighing deeply, Pansy grabbed her goblet and raised it towards Weasley before throwing it back and draining its contents. The Firewhiskey burned in her throat, and she was left wishing desperately she’d mixed it with something to dilute it. Hermione, at least, seemed to have relaxed considerably now that the duel was over, and to her credit, Ginny handed Pansy her wand back without fuss.

“Fun though that was,” Daphne said, smoothing out her robes as she took a seat, “Could we perhaps try a game that doesn’t involve duelling next?” The students laughed and many nodded their agreement.

“What about Never Have I Ever?” Ernie Macmillan piped up, drawing a few groans from those who knew the game. Pansy wasn’t a fan of the way he was eyeing up Daphne as he explained the rules. It was a simple enough game, each person would take a turn stating Never have I ever, before stating something they hadn’t done, and those who had, drank. It was exactly the type of game that would turn dirty in a hurry and Pansy was half mortified, half intrigued.

 “Brilliant idea!” Dean said with a grin, clearly keen to keep the party rolling. “We’ll keep it tame to start with, yeah?”

“Until someone gets too many drinks in them,” Daphne muttered, smirking as she leaned back in her chair. “This should be good.”

Pansy, still nursing the burn of her last drink, crossed her arms. “Fine. But I reserve the right to veto anything absurdly personal.”

“Goodness, I wonder what absurdly personal things Pansy Parkinson doesn’t want us to know,” Ginny said, her grin almost predatory. Pansy shot her a foul glare but said nothing, knowing any protest would only make her look weak, and raise questions she did not want to answer.

The group settled into a rough circle, the room buzzing with anticipation. Dean took the lead, naturally. He held up his goblet and declared, “Never have I ever... fallen off my broom.”

A ripple of laughter went through the group as several people, including Ginny and Ernie, took long sips from their goblets. Pansy remained still, her smirk firmly in place. Of course she hadn’t fallen off her broom—she’d always been too cautious for that sort of thing.

Next, it was Padma’s turn. “Never have I ever... used magic outside of school before my O.W.L.s,” she said, her tone playful but with a knowing edge.

Half the group drank, including Hermione, who looked vaguely sheepish. Pansy raised an eyebrow, intrigued. Hermione caught her eye and shrugged. “It was for a good reason,” she said defensively.

“Oh, I’m sure,” Pansy replied, her smirk widening. “Probably saving elves or bailing Potter and Weasley out of some mess they made.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but there was a faint smile tugging at her lips.

As the game went on, the questions became increasingly bold, as Pansy had predicted. Blaise, ever the smooth operator, threw out a sly “Never have I ever kissed someone from another house,” which prompted a cascade of drinks from nearly everyone, including a flustered Ernie and a laughing Ginny.

Pansy stayed quiet, her goblet untouched. She wasn’t about to reveal her secrets—not yet.

When it was Ginny’s turn, she looked directly at Pansy, her grin turning mischievous. “Never have I ever... kissed someone in this room.”

The group erupted in gasps and laughter, all eyes darting between the players. Pansy felt her stomach drop, her smirk faltering for the briefest moment. She didn’t reach for her goblet, and neither did Ginny, but Hermione’s cheeks turned an alarming shade of red as she looked down at her lap.

Pansy recovered quickly, raising an eyebrow. “Subtle, Weasley.”

Ginny leaned back, her smirk widening. “Just keeping it interesting.”

Pansy’s heart raced, but she forced herself to stay composed. This was a game, she reminded herself, and games were about strategy. If she was going to survive the night, she’d need to play it carefully.

Hermione, on the other hand, looked as though she might bolt from the room at any moment. Thankfully, Daphne was fairly quick on the uptake. She clinked glasses with Pansy, and the pair took a deep swig of their drinks. Dean, Ginny, Blaise, Ernie, Padma, Hermione, and a Ravenclaw boy that Pansy thought was called Michael all drank.

The room erupted into murmurs and suppressed laughter as goblets clinked and drinks were swallowed. Ginny’s smirk deepened, her gaze flicking between the players as if gauging the fallout. Hermione, still avoiding eye contact, took the smallest possible sip from her goblet, her cheeks now practically glowing.

“Well,” Daphne said, setting her goblet down with a theatrical sigh, “at least I’m in good company. Who knew this room was so full of romantics?”

“Romantics,” Blaise echoed dryly, swirling his drink. “That’s one way to put it.”

Dean grinned, clearly enjoying the spectacle. “Alright, alright, next round. Let’s keep it rolling. Blaise, you’re up.”

Blaise took his time, his expression cool and calculating as he considered his options. “Never have I ever... been caught sneaking into the Restricted Section of the library.”

The response was immediate. Hermione’s goblet was halfway to her lips before she froze, realizing she’d given herself away. Her sheepish expression was met with a ripple of laughter, including a low chuckle from Pansy.

“Granger,” Pansy said, her tone teasing, “breaking the rules? I’m shocked.”

Hermione finally looked up, her blush deepening. “It was for research,” she said defensively, though the corners of her mouth twitched in what might have been a smile. “Some of us prioritize our education.”

“And some of us,” Pansy countered, leaning back with a smirk, “know how to have a little fun.”

“Oh, I think Hermione knows how to have fun,” Ginny cut in, her tone sharp. Her eyes locked on Pansy with a pointed look, and the undercurrent of her words was clear: tread carefully.

The group shifted uneasily, sensing the tension between the two. Daphne, ever the diplomat, raised her goblet with a dazzling smile. “Let’s not get bogged down in debates. Who’s next?”

“You are,” said Dean. The crowd hushed immediately, waiting on Daphne to give them a juicy question. Pansy rolled her eyes, Daphne smirked, clearly revelling in the attention. She leaned forward, letting the suspense build as her fingers tapped rhythmically against her goblet. “Alright,” she said finally, her voice silky and teasing, “Never have I ever... fantasized about someone I shouldn’t have.”

A collective gasp rippled through the group, followed by scattered laughter and groans. Several students exchanged wide-eyed glances, and a few shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

“Oh, come on,” Daphne said, her grin widening as she lifted her goblet. “Don’t pretend you’re all saints. We’re among friends, aren’t we?”

Pansy’s goblet froze halfway to her lips. She glanced around the room, noting the mix of amusement and awkwardness on everyone’s faces. Ginny was glaring at Daphne, her cheeks pink. Dean and Padma had both raised their glasses, and even Blaise, usually unreadable, took a measured sip.

Pansy hesitated, her thoughts racing. She could feel Hermione’s presence across the room, could almost sense her reaction without needing to look. Slowly, deliberately, Pansy lifted her goblet and drank, keeping her expression neutral despite the heat rising in her cheeks.

The group erupted into a mix of laughter and teasing shouts. Ginny muttered something under her breath, taking a sip as well, her eyes darting between Hermione and Pansy.

“Well, well,” Daphne said, raising an eyebrow at Pansy. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

“I’m full of surprises,” Pansy replied coolly, setting her goblet down with a faint clink. She caught Hermione’s eye for the briefest moment, and her heart skipped a beat at the look of startled curiosity she found there.

“Your turn, Parkinson,” Dean said. But Pansy barely registered it. Her thoughts were elsewhere, caught up in the implications of the night’s revelations and the unspoken tension that lingered between her and a certain Gryffindor across the room. Crap, what do I say? Something clever, something safe, she thought. But every potential statement that crossed her mind felt either too revealing or painfully dull.

“Alright,” she said finally, her voice steadier than she expected. She glanced around the room, her gaze lingering on Ginny’s challenging smirk, Daphne’s expectant grin, and, of course, Hermione’s wide, curious eyes. “Never have I ever... skipped a class intentionally.”

The room erupted in laughter, a mixture of relief and amusement at the comparatively tame question. A few students immediately raised their goblets and drank—Dean, Padma, Blaise, and even Ernie, who muttered something about an overdue Herbology essay.

“Oh, come on, Parkinson,” Ginny groaned, rolling her eyes. “That’s the best you could come up with? Not exactly scandalous.”

“Not everything has to be scandalous, Weasley,” Pansy retorted smoothly, her confidence returning with each passing second. “Some of us have layers.”

“Layers of what? Pretension?” Ginny shot back, prompting a round of laughter.

Pansy ignored her, her attention drifting back to Hermione, who had hesitated before lifting her goblet and taking a small sip. It was a subtle action, but it sent Pansy’s thoughts spiralling again. What had Hermione Granger skipped a class for? And why did she care?

Things were beginning to take a real dive by the time Pansy excused herself, her head fuzzy and her dry throat in dire need of some fluids that didn’t contain any alcohol. Ernie’s line of questioning had begun to get more and more seedy, clearly trying to weed out some naughty details from Daphne, who would happily lead him a merry dance for her own twisted amusement. Daphne thrived on being desired by people whose affections she wouldn’t return. Blaise had clearly exhausted his patience for the crowd of Dumbledore’s favourites too, as he departed the room at the same time Pansy had.

She filled herself a glass of water and searched her bedside cabinet for an anti-nausea potion. She might need it later and it would be a good idea to have it at hand. She changed swiftly into her pyjamas and laid back on her bed, thinking about the events of the evening. She was mad at herself for losing the duel to Weasley, even more-so because she’d lost by letting herself get distracted by Hermione. Again.

Pansy sighed, staring up at the ceiling as the flickering light of the candles played across the stone walls. The taste of Firewhiskey still lingered faintly in her mouth, and she sipped her water, willing the haze in her mind to dissipate. It wasn’t just the alcohol clouding her thoughts, though. It was everything—Daphne’s meddling, Ginny’s sharp glares, the stupid game, and most of all, Hermione.

She groaned, pressing her palms against her face. Get it together, Parkinson, she thought. But it wasn’t that simple. Every time she thought she had a handle on her emotions, Hermione managed to disarm her—sometimes with a look, sometimes with a word, and sometimes without doing anything at all.

Her mind replayed the way Hermione had hesitated during the game, the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes before she took that sip. It wasn’t just the action; it was the meaning behind it. Hermione wasn’t perfect, wasn’t untouchable. She had secrets, vulnerabilities—just like everyone else. Just like Pansy.

And that kiss with Daphne. Pansy scowled at the memory. It had been calculated, a move to get under Ginny’s skin, but the moment Daphne had turned it into a spectacle, it had felt cheap and hollow. Not that it mattered. Hermione hadn’t reacted at all—no hint of jealousy, no flicker of anything beyond mild amusement. That should’ve been a relief, but instead, it twisted in Pansy’s chest like a blade.

She rolled onto her side, her gaze drifting to her desk drawer where she’d hastily shoved her notebook a few hours earlier. For a moment, she considered pulling it out, scribbling down the tangled mess of thoughts swirling in her head. But no—she couldn’t bear to see the truth staring back at her in black ink again.

The door banged open, granting Pansy a temporary reprieve from her thoughts as jumped out her skin, scrabbling for her wand. Hermione stumbled in. Clearly, she had been a lot more drunk than she looked downstairs, or she had drank a lot more since Pansy left.

“Hermione?” Pansy blurted, lowering her wand as her heart thudded against her ribs. Hermione was leaning heavily against the doorframe, her cheeks flushed and her usually composed demeanour entirely absent. “Merlin’s sake, Granger, are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

Hermione blinked at her, swaying slightly. “Sorry,” she slurred, her voice soft and a little too loud all at once. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

Pansy set her wand down on the nightstand and crossed her arms, taking in the dishevelled state of her dorm mate. “What are you doing up here? Shouldn’t you be downstairs with your... fans?”

Hermione frowned, the expression making her look more confused than annoyed. “Needed to get away,” she mumbled, stumbling towards Pansy. “Too loud... too much.”

“Can’t say I disagree. Is that hopeless boy still trying to get into Daphne’s knickers?” Hermione nodded.

“She won’t let him though,” Hermione slurred, “she’s too clever for that. Does she enjoy playing with boys?”

“She does,” Pansy smirked, “She knows exactly how desirable she is, and she enjoys running rings around them, seeing how they react. Only Blaise sees through her games, that’s why they’re friends.”

“You don’t like playing with boys.” Hermione said accusingly, her legs looking wobbly beneath her.

“Not recently,” Pansy admitted.

“You,” she said, pointing a finger at Pansy with great difficulty, “like playing with me.”

Pansy froze, Hermione’s words hanging heavy in the air between them. Her gaze darted from the finger Hermione was weakly pointing at her to the slightly glassy but unmistakably serious look in her eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Pansy asked, her voice carefully neutral.

Hermione swayed slightly, leaning against the bedpost for support. “You like... making me flustered,” she said, her words slow but pointed. “You like it when I don’t know what to say.”

That’s it! Pansy thought with a mix of embarrassment and triumph, a smirk creeping across her face. Granger had cracked the code for her. She’s absolutely right! “I hate that you’re always so composed,” Pansy admitted, “I like to get under your skin, to make you… react.”

Hermione blinked, clearly caught off guard by Pansy’s honesty. Her lips parted as if to respond, but no words came out. Instead, she leaned more heavily against the bedpost, her brows knitting together in a way that made Pansy’s smirk falter.

“And why does that matter to you?” Hermione asked finally, her voice quieter but still insistent. “Why do you care if I... react?”

Pansy hesitated, her smirk fading entirely. She could feel the weight of Hermione’s gaze, searching, probing, as though trying to pry the truth out of her. “I don’t know,” Pansy admitted, the words slipping out before she could stop them. “It just... does. I – I can’t help myself.”

“I’m good at making you react too,” Hermione said groggily. She clearly hadn’t meant to say that thought aloud, but her drunken brain had betrayed her. A fact clearly written across her face. She dropped herself onto Pansy’s bed, causing Pansy to shrink backwards as though she could blend into the headboard. Her heart was pounding in her chest. “See?”

Pansy stared at Hermione, her throat dry as the other girl sprawled across her bed with an infuriatingly unintentional confidence. The heat rising in Pansy’s face was impossible to ignore, and she hated how easily Hermione could turn the tables without even trying.

“See what?” Pansy said, her voice sharper than she intended. She crossed her arms tightly, as if that might shield her from whatever was happening in this room.

Hermione propped herself up on one elbow, her eyes half-lidded but her smirk oddly perceptive. “You’re reacting,” she said softly, her words slurring slightly. “You always do. Even when you’re pretending not to care, you do.”

Pansy’s jaw clenched. “You’re insufferable,” she snapped, though the edge in her voice wavered. “You’re drunk, Granger. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Hermione laughed softly, the sound low and unexpected. “Maybe,” she said, crawling towards Pansy, who was now trapped against the headboard with nowhere to run. “But you just admitted you like it when I react. Maybe I like it when you react too.”

Pansy pressed herself further into the headboard, willing herself to melt through it, her heart hammering in her chest as Hermione inched closer, her movements slow and deliberate. The hazy look in Hermione’s eyes was both disarming and unsettling, and Pansy hated how much power the girl seemed to have over her in this moment.

“You’re imagining things,” Pansy said, her voice barely above a whisper. Her usual sharpness was absent, replaced by a tremor that betrayed her nerves. “Go back to your bed, Granger.”

But Hermione didn’t stop. She paused just inches away, her head tilting slightly as she studied Pansy with an intensity that made her breath catch. “You’re doing it again,” Hermione said softly, her voice almost teasing. “Reacting.”

“I’m not,” Pansy said quickly, though the flush creeping up her neck told a different story.

Hermione’s lips curved into a small, knowing smile. “Liar.”

Pansy’s resolve crumbled under Hermione’s gaze, and she hated how exposed she felt, like Hermione could see straight through the layers of sarcasm and indifference she’d so carefully built around herself. “You’re drunk,” Pansy said again, her voice firmer this time, though it still lacked conviction. “You don’t mean any of this.”

“Maybe,” Hermione murmured, her voice barely audible as she leaned in just a fraction closer. “But you’re not drunk, Pansy. At least, not as drunk as me. What’s your excuse?”

Pansy’s breath hitched, and for a moment, time seemed to freeze. She could feel the warmth radiating from Hermione, could hear the faint hitch in her breathing, and she was acutely aware of how close they were.

“I – I don’t have one,” Pansy admitted finally, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

Hermione’s eyes softened, and for a brief moment, it felt like the world had shrunk to just the two of them. Pansy’s mouth fell open of its own accord, her eyes terrified to look into Grangers, but unable to look anywhere else. She couldn’t breathe, she could barely think. Her heart raced, hammering against her chest so hard that she felt it might burst out.

The space between them disappeared as if drawn together by an invisible force. Hermione’s hand moved tentatively, brushing against Pansy’s cheek, her touch light and hesitant. Pansy shivered, her breath catching as she felt the warmth of Hermione’s palm against her skin.

Then it happened.

Hermione closed the gap completely, her lips capturing Pansy’s in a kiss that was soft at first, exploratory, before deepening into something fervent and urgent. Pansy’s mind blanked as she responded instinctively, her hand slipping to Hermione’s waist, pulling her closer. The kiss was electric, a rush of emotions crashing over her like a tidal wave—desire, confusion, exhilaration, and fear, all tangled together.

For a moment, nothing else existed. The world outside the four walls of their dorm faded away, leaving only the sensation of Hermione’s lips against hers, the faint taste of Firewhiskey lingering, and the intoxicating heat radiating between them. Pansy hooked her legs around Hermione, rolling her onto her side, and losing herself completely in the moment. Hermione was running her hand through Pansy’s hair. She liked that. She really liked kissing Hermione Granger. Pansy began to let her hands wander, through Granger’s hair, around her neck, and then towards places she hadn’t even dared think about in her dizziest daydreams.

But then reality came crashing back.

Pansy’s eyes flew open, her heart pounding for an entirely different reason now. Hermione was drunk—unsteady, vulnerable, and clearly not in her right mind. This wasn’t right. Not like this.

“Stop,” Pansy said suddenly, breaking the kiss and pulling back as if she’d been burned. Her breathing was ragged, and she could see the confusion flicker across Hermione’s face, her brows furrowing as she tried to process what had just happened.

“Pansy?” Hermione’s voice was barely above a whisper, her tone soft and questioning.

“You’re drunk, Granger,” Pansy said, her voice trembling despite her best efforts to sound firm. “This… whatever this is… it can’t happen. Not like this.”

Hermione blinked, her gaze clouded and unfocused. “But I—”

“No,” Pansy interrupted, her heart aching at the hurt she could see in Hermione’s expression. “You don’t mean it. Not really. Not right now.”

Hermione frowned, her shoulders slumping as exhaustion began to catch up with her. “I do mean it,” she mumbled, though her words were slurred and heavy with sleep.

Pansy sighed, running a hand through her hair. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow,” she said gently, pushing Hermione off of her and into a more comfortable position on the bed. “When you’re sober.”

Hermione didn’t protest, her eyelids drooping as she struggled against the pull of sleep. Pansy pulled the blanket over her, brushing a stray curl from her face, her own emotions swirling in a storm she couldn’t contain. Hermione reached out and grasped Pansy’s hand before rolling onto her side and pulling Pansy’s arm with her. Pansy shuffled closer and wrapped the other girl into an embrace.

“You’re a good person Pansy,” Hermione yawned, “you should stop trying so hard not to be.” Pansy gave Hermione’s hand a squeeze and smiled to herself, but didn’t respond. Hermione would have a huge change of heart when she woke up tomorrow. It would probably hurt, but in amongst the confusion and the pain, Pansy would have something real to cling to. Hermione Granger just jumped into my bed and kissed me. She initiated this, not me. She’s just as confused as I am. Perhaps, Pansy thought, she could permit herself to have feelings for Hermione Granger after all.

Chapter Text

Chapter 11

Hermione woke slowly, her head pounding and her mouth dry as parchment. The room was dim, the morning light filtering weakly through the curtains, and something was... off. This wasn’t her bed. Her sheets weren’t this soft, and her pillow didn’t smell faintly of lavender and expensive perfume.

Her heart sank as her memories started to piece themselves together. The drinking, the duel, more drinking, Dean forcing them all to do shots after Ernie’s stupid games, and then… She didn’t want to look, but she forced herself to glance to the side.

Pansy Parkinson.

Asleep. Peaceful. Horrifyingly close.

Hermione stiffened, becoming painfully aware of the arm draped across her waist. Her heart pounded in her chest as more flashes of the night before came rushing back: the Firewhiskey, the reckless words, and then—the kiss.

Oh, Merlin.

She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the memories to go away, but they only became sharper. She remembered leaning in, her drunken mind emboldened by something she didn’t fully understand. She remembered Pansy’s lips on hers, the way it had felt—soft, electric, and utterly wrong in every way that mattered.

Except it hadn’t felt wrong at the time. It had felt… inevitable.

Hermione bit her lip, her cheeks flaming as she carefully tried to lift Pansy’s arm. Her movement stirred the other girl, who murmured something unintelligible. Hermione stayed frighteningly still, Pansy’s arm hovering tentatively in her grasp. The other girl let out a groan, and shuffled closer to Hermione, her arm ripped from Hermione’s grasp and tightened around her waist once more.

“I know we have to argue about it,” Pansy whispered, “but can we just leave it for an hour or two? My head hurts, but otherwise I’m comfy, and you’re warm, and I want to live this moment for a little longer before we go back to reality.”

“Okay,” Hermione whispered back before she could even think about what she was saying. Her heart hammered in her chest, her mind racing.

The word hung in the air like an unspoken truce. Okay. Simple, quiet, and impossibly loaded. Hermione couldn’t believe she’d said it, couldn’t believe she’d agreed to Pansy Parkinson’s audacious request. Yet, here she was—lying in Pansy’s bed, with Pansy’s arm draped across her waist, her body betraying her mind’s frantic insistence to leave right now.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Pansy shifted slightly, her arm tightening around Hermione’s waist in a way that was entirely too casual, as though this was something they did all the time. Hermione’s breath hitched, her heart thudding loud enough that she was sure Pansy could hear it.

What am I doing? Hermione’s thoughts screamed at her. She should be angry, defensive, pulling away. Instead, she lay perfectly still, her body frozen but her mind in overdrive. She couldn’t even look at Pansy, couldn’t risk meeting her gaze.

But Pansy didn’t say anything else. She just lay there, her breathing steady, her presence unexpectedly soothing in a way that only made Hermione’s panic worse. Comfort wasn’t supposed to feel like this. Not with Pansy Parkinson.

Hermione swallowed hard, her throat dry. She should leave, she knew that. She should slip out of bed, escape to her own space, and pretend this never happened. But her body refused to move, her legs felt heavy, rooted in place by something she couldn’t quite name.

“Why aren’t you horrible?” Hermione blurted out before she could stop herself.

Pansy let out a breathy laugh, though there was no malice in it. “Give me time. I’ve only just woken up.”

Hermione turned her head slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of Pansy’s face. Her hair was a mess, her eyes still heavy with sleep, but there was a softness there that caught Hermione off guard. It wasn’t the smug smirk or the practiced indifference she’d come to expect. It was something real, something raw.

“You don’t have to stay,” Pansy murmured, colour rising into her cheeks under Hermione’s gaze. Her voice was quiet, almost hesitant. “I just… don’t want to fight right now.”

“I don’t want to fight with you anymore either, but… this…” Hermione lay back onto the pillow, unable to find the words.

Pansy shifted slightly, propping herself up on one elbow. Her dark eyes searched Hermione’s face, her expression uncharacteristically open. “I know,” she said softly, her voice laced with something Hermione couldn’t quite place—understanding? Sadness? “It’s confusing. It’s a mess. Believe me, I get it.”

Hermione clenched her jaw, turning her gaze to the ceiling. “It shouldn’t be. You and I... we’re supposed to be opposites. We’re supposed to hate each other. We’ve hated each other for years. I’m supposed to hate being in this room with you, not…” she gestured at the tiny distance between them.

“Supposed to,” Pansy echoed, her tone light but edged with bitterness. “Nothing in the last twelve months at least has gone as it’s supposed to.”

Hermione didn’t respond. The truth in Pansy’s words settled heavily in the air between them, undeniable and unwelcome. She wanted to argue, to deflect, to regain some semblance of control over a situation that felt entirely out of her hands. But she couldn’t. Not when Pansy was looking at her like that, her walls down for once, her usual sharpness replaced by something softer.

“You kissed me,” Pansy said suddenly, breaking the silence. Her voice was matter of fact, but her cheeks flushed deeper, betraying her composure. “Last night. You kissed me first, not the other way around, and I kissed you back, and I don’t think you hated it.”

“But,” Hermione’s cheeks turned the same colour of scarlet as her school robes, and her eyes widened with fear, “I was drunk, and I’m not… I have a boyfriend!” She exclaimed, as though she was reminding herself as much as Pansy.

Pansy flinched slightly at Hermione’s outburst but quickly masked it with a cool expression, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of hurt. She leaned back, giving Hermione space, and folded her arms. “I’m aware,” she said evenly, her tone sharper now. “Weasley. Hard to forget. Especially with his sister staring holes into me wherever I go.”

Ginny, Hermione thought, mortified. She’ll hex me if she finds out what I was doing last night.

Hermione’s stomach churned at the thought of Ginny’s reaction. The redhead already hated Pansy with a fiery intensity, and if she ever found out…

“She doesn’t trust you,” Hermione said quietly, avoiding Pansy’s gaze.

Pansy gave a dry laugh, the sound brittle and sharp. “That’s the understatement of the year. Ginny Weasley would cheerfully feed me to that bloody storm pigeon if she thought she could get away with it.”

“She just... cares about me,” Hermione said, though the words felt hollow. “She doesn’t want to see me get hurt.”

Pansy turned back to face Hermione, arching an eyebrow. “And what exactly does she think I’m going to do to you, Granger? Hand you to the Death Eaters? Drag you down to the dungeons for some nefarious Slytherin plot?”

Hermione flinched at Pansy’s mocking tone but didn’t respond. She didn’t know what to say. Ginny wasn’t entirely wrong to be suspicious, but the idea of Pansy being a danger to her now felt... absurd. Confusing, but not dangerous.

“Look,” Pansy said after a moment, her voice softening. “I get it. I’m not exactly high up on the list of trustworthy people around here. But I’m not trying to hurt you, Hermione. I couldn’t even if I wanted to.” Her gaze dropped to the floor, as if admitting the words out loud cost her something.

Hermione’s heart twisted at the vulnerability in Pansy’s voice. “I know,” she said softly. “It’s just... complicated.”

Pansy let out a humourless laugh, running a hand through her hair. “Yeah, well, complicated seems to be our specialty, doesn’t it?”

Hermione didn’t answer, the weight of the truth in Pansy’s words settling between them. Ginny’s disapproval, Ron’s absence, her own confused feelings—it was all one tangled, impossible knot.

“You should go,” Pansy said finally, her voice low and defeated. “Before Weasley comes looking for you and starts another duel.”

Hermione nodded, though she didn’t move. Her eyes lingered on Pansy for a moment longer, taking in the tired slump of her shoulders and the way she avoided Hermione’s gaze. “Pansy...”

“Don’t,” Pansy said quickly, her tone clipped. “Just—go. Please.”

Hermione hesitated, then slid off the bed and grabbed her shoes, her heart heavy as she made her way to the door. She paused, glancing back one last time, but Pansy had already turned away, staring out the window as though she couldn’t bear to watch her leave.

“I’m sorry,” Hermione whispered, though she wasn’t sure if Pansy even heard her. Then she slipped out the door, her head spinning and her chest aching with a confusing mix of regret and relief.

Breakfast felt like a highly conspicuous affair. As Hermione entered the Great Hall, she was acutely aware that she was still in her clothes from the night before. Her hair was a mess, and she reeked faintly of Firewhiskey and… Pansy’s expensive perfume. Heat rose in her cheeks, and with the smell of freshly cooked bacon hitting her nostrils, she felt like she might be sick.

“You look like shit,” Ginny said cheerfully, sliding over to make room for her at the Gryffindor table.

“Good morning to you, too,” Hermione muttered, sinking into the seat, and reaching for a slice of toast she had no intention of eating.

Ginny smirked, handing her a goblet of pumpkin juice. “You’re welcome. Thought you might need this.”

Hermione took it gratefully, the cool liquid soothing her parched throat. “You’re the worst Ginny Weasley,” she mumbled.

“Well, excuse me for trying to help my best mate survive her first proper hangover,” Ginny said, her voice brimming with amusement. “I told you to pace yourself.”

Hermione glared at her. “You’re the one who convinced me to do the shots Dean was handing out.”

Ginny shrugged unapologetically. “I didn’t force you. I just suggested it. Strongly.”

Hermione groaned, burying her face in her hands. “I feel like I’ve been hit by the Knight Bus.”

“You look like it too,” Ginny quipped, earning herself a half-hearted swat from Hermione. “Oh, lighten up. You’re not the only one suffering.” She gestured to Seamus a few seats down, who was clutching his head and groaning dramatically. “See? Solidarity.”

Hermione couldn’t help but smile faintly at that, though her thoughts remained distracted. The events of the night before were a jumbled mess in her mind, and every time she tried to focus on the present, fragments of her conversation with Pansy crept back in.

Ginny seemed content to chatter on, blissfully unaware of Hermione’s inner turmoil. “So, what’s the plan for today? Hide in the library? Sleep it off? Or are you going to let me drag you to the Quidditch pitch?”

“Library,” Hermione said automatically, though her usual enthusiasm for studying felt oddly hollow.

Ginny grinned. “Shocking. Well, at least try to act like you’re alive. You’re making us look bad.”

Hermione rolled her eyes but said nothing, focusing instead on nibbling at her toast. Ginny’s teasing felt like a welcome distraction, even if it couldn’t quite drown out the whirlwind of thoughts swirling in her mind.

“Surely you aren’t going through with Quidditch practice today?”

“Ah, a bit of fresh air will help, besides, it’s only me on the team who was out drinking last night, and I need to set a good example.”

“My hero,” Hermione said, rolling her eyes. Ginny clasped her hand over her heart dramatically.

“Well, we’ve got to keep up our winning streak, especially with the match against Slytherin coming up. Oh,” Ginny leaned forward conspiratorially, her voice dropping to a whisper, “have you heard the rumours about your girlfriend and that Seeker, what’s his name? Harper!”

“My girl –” Hermione caught herself before she word-vomited her thoughts across the table, “Behave.”

“Right, sorry. We’re still not mentioning, you know –” Hermione shook her head vigorously, “Well, I needled it out of that Daphne Greengrass last night, after Ernie went down in flames trying to ask her out,” Hermione giggled. Poor boy. “Silly boy trying to play with snakes. Anyway, apparently Parkinson took a very keen interest in him one night at dinner, and then he walked her back to your dorm, but they made a little stop along the way.”  

“Right,” Hermione said, hoping her tone was neutral.

“Apparently, things were going far better than he’d dreamed of, if you catch my meaning, but then she suddenly freaked out like the maniac we know she is and bolted from the room.”

“Really?”

Ginny nodded, clearly enjoying the drama. “Oh, yes. According to Greengrass, Harper was so shocked he didn’t even leave the hallway for a full five minutes. Just stood there like a Confunded Hippogriff.” She snickered into her goblet, clearly relishing the gossip. “Classic Parkinson, though, isn’t it? Start something, make a scene, and then leave everyone else to clean up the mess.”

“Classic Parkinson,” Hermione echoed, though her voice was distant. Her mind raced, piecing together the timeline, and wondering if this little tidbit had any bearing on the tangled emotions she’d witnessed firsthand. The idea of Pansy with Harper left a bitter taste in her mouth that she didn’t want to examine too closely.

Ginny, oblivious to Hermione’s internal turmoil, continued. “Honestly, what a circus act. The Slytherins are probably thrilled to have her out of their dorm most of the time. Although…” She leaned forward again, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “It does make me wonder why she’s suddenly all over you, though.”

Hermione nearly choked on her toast. “She’s not all over me,” she said quickly, her cheeks flaming.

“Oh, come on, Hermione,” Ginny said, rolling her eyes. “You’ve been spending a lot of time together lately. You’re practically attached at the hip in class.”

“She’s my roommate,” Hermione said, exasperation creeping into her tone. “I see her because I have to, not because I want to.”

Ginny raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Mmhmm, and that’s why you looked like a House-Elf caught with stolen socks when I mentioned her just now.”

Hermione groaned, dropping her head into her hands. “You’re seeing things that aren’t there Ginny.”

“And you’re avoiding the subject,” Ginny said brightly, popping a piece of bacon into her mouth. “But fine, I’ll let it go. For now.”

Hermione lifted her head cautiously, eyeing Ginny as if she might pounce with another probing remark. But Ginny only smirked, clearly satisfied she’d rattled her friend.

“Good luck in the library,” Ginny said, standing and stretching. “And don’t forget to shower. You smell like a perfume counter that caught fire.”

Hermione threw a napkin at her as Ginny strode off, laughing, and turned back to her breakfast. But her appetite was gone, replaced by a knot of confusion and irritation that no amount of pumpkin juice could wash away. She had just conceded to herself that she would, at best, get an hour of research done in the library before she would pack it in and crawl back into bed – her own bed this time – and sleep it all off, before the only thing that could make her feel worse at this exact moment arrived at the table.

Hermione’s heart sank as the owl landed gracefully in front of her, its sharp eyes fixed on her as it extended its leg. The unmistakable handwriting on the envelope tied to the bird’s leg made her stomach churn. Of course, this would arrive now, when her head was pounding, her thoughts were already a mess, and she was wearing yesterday’s clothes.

She hesitated, staring at the owl as though ignoring it might make the letter disappear. But the owl, apparently unimpressed with her internal conflict, gave an impatient hoot and fluffed its feathers.

“Fine,” she muttered under her breath, untying the letter with trembling fingers. As soon as it was free, the owl took off, leaving her alone with the weight of whatever Ron had written.

Hermione stared at the envelope for a moment, her mind racing. She hadn’t thought much about Ron lately, she realized with a pang of guilt. Or rather, she hadn’t let herself think about him, but last night’s antics had finally brought him to the forefront of her mind.

You kissed Pansy Parkinson, her thoughts reminded her cruelly.

Shaking her head, Hermione forced herself to break the seal on the envelope. She unfolded the letter carefully, her eyes scanning the words, each one tightening the knot in her chest.

Dear Hermione,
It’s good to hear from you. Things here have been a bit hectic, but nothing we can’t handle. Harry and Neville are still trying to prove they can outwork anyone, but honestly, I think they’re just driving Robards mad. He keeps muttering about balance and pacing yourself—two things Harry has never been good at. I’ve been trying to keep them both in check, but you can imagine how well that’s going.

I miss Hogwarts more than I thought I would. Don’t get me wrong—the work here is important, and I’m glad we’re doing it, but it’s not the same. The dorms, the Quidditch matches, even McGonagall’s lectures—I’d trade a dozen late-night stakeouts for one more lazy afternoon in the common room with you and Harry.

I’m glad to hear things with Parkinson are… well, manageable, at least. You’re braver than I am putting up with her every day. Don’t let her get under your skin, alright? She’s not worth the trouble.

I can’t wait for the next Hogsmeade weekend. It’ll be good to catch up properly, just the two of us. Maybe we can even sneak away for a bit. What do you think? London for a day? We can grab lunch, wander around Muggle London, and just forget about everything else for a while. Let me know.

Take care of yourself, Hermione. I know you’re juggling a lot right now, but try to make some time for you, too. You deserve it.

Love,
Ron.

P.S. I’m not sure about Christmas yet, Kingsley talked about having the trainee’s cover some of the juniors patrol routes, but nothing’s set in stone.

Hermione folded the letter slowly, her hands trembling slightly as she stared down at it. A knot of guilt twisted in her chest, tight and unrelenting. Ron’s words were warm and kind, exactly the sort of thing she should have wanted to hear. Yet, as she thought about his suggestion of a day in London, her heart sank further.

How could she look him in the eye after last night? How could she pretend that everything was fine when her thoughts were consumed by the soft press of Pansy Parkinson’s lips and the unexpected surge of emotion that had followed?

You kissed her. You kissed Pansy Parkinson, her mind whispered again, and no amount of reasoning could drown it out.

She shoved the letter into her bag and stood abruptly, drawing a few curious glances from nearby students. Ignoring them, she slung the bag over her shoulder and made her way out of the Great Hall, her footsteps echoing against the stone floor. She needed a refuge, a quiet place where she could try and smother the guilt and confusion that was brewing inside of her. She needed the Hogwarts Library.

Hermione strode purposefully through the castle corridors, her mind a storm of emotions she couldn’t quite name. The letter from Ron weighed heavily in her bag, as though the parchment itself carried all the complications of their relationship. Guilt gnawed at her, sharp and unrelenting, but it wasn’t the only thing—beneath it was something far more disconcerting: the lingering memory of Pansy’s lips on hers and the undeniable pull she felt every time their paths crossed.

The library was quiet, as it always was in the early hours, the familiar scent of parchment and ink greeting her like an old friend. She moved toward her usual spot near the Restricted Section, tucked away from prying eyes. Dropping her bag onto the table with a heavy thud, she sank into a chair and leaned forward, burying her face in her hands.

What was wrong with her? Everything should have been simple. Ron’s letter had been warm and thoughtful, and his suggestion for their day in London was something she should have been excited about. And yet, all she could think about was Pansy—Pansy and her sharp tongue, her soft smile, the way she’d looked at Hermione this morning with something almost… tender.

Hermione groaned softly, her thoughts spiralling. She had spent years fighting with Pansy Parkinson, trading insults and hexes, drawing lines between them that felt immutable. But now, those lines were blurred, and Hermione didn’t know how to feel about it. Every interaction with Pansy was a minefield, and yet she couldn’t seem to stay away.

She pulled out a thick tome at random, determined to distract herself with something—anything—but the words on the page refused to stick. Her mind kept drifting back to the Great Hall, to the way Ginny had teased her, to the flicker of something unspoken in Pansy’s eyes when they had stood by the lake.

“You’re hopeless,” she muttered under her breath, shutting the book with a frustrated snap.

“I wouldn’t have thought you’d be the type to sit muttering to yourself,” an unfamiliar voice spoke quietly from behind her. Hermione spun around, her heart leaping into her throat. Standing a few feet away, partially obscured by a tall shelf, was Daphne Greengrass. The Slytherin girl regarded her with a calm, almost bored expression, but there was a flicker of curiosity in her pale blue eyes.

“What do you want?” Hermione asked sharply, her fingers tightening around the edge of the table.

Daphne raised an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth twitching upward. “Relax, Granger. I’m not here to duel you.” She took a step closer, her hands tucked neatly into the pockets of her tailored robes. “You were muttering loud enough to carry halfway across the library. I got curious.”

Hermione flushed, torn between embarrassment and irritation. “It’s nothing,” she said briskly, turning back to her book. “I’m just trying to study.”

“For what? An existential crisis?” Daphne asked, her tone dry as she slid into the chair opposite Hermione without invitation. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. “You look like you’ve got the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

Hermione bristled, glaring at her. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t,” Daphne said lightly, shrugging one shoulder. “But it’s rare to see the great Hermione Granger looking so… dishevelled. I couldn’t resist.”

“Well, you’ve had your laugh,” Hermione snapped, closing her book with a thud. “You can go now.”

Daphne didn’t move. Instead, she tilted her head, studying Hermione with an intensity that made her skin prickle. “You’re really bad at hiding it, you know,” she said after a moment.

“Hiding what?” Hermione shot back, her voice sharp.

Daphne smirked, tapping her fingers idly against the table. “Whatever it is that’s got you so tied up in knots. I’m not blind, Granger. You’ve been a mess since term started.”

“That’s none of your business,” Hermione said through gritted teeth.

“True,” Daphne admitted, her smirk softening into something almost sympathetic. “But it’s Pansy, isn’t it?”

Hermione froze, her breath catching in her throat. “What?” she managed, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Pansy Parkinson, I’m convinced you know of her.”

“Of course I know of her, we share a bloody room!” Hermione hissed, frustration creeping in.

“Yes, well, she’s been acting all out of sorts too. So, are you two fighting or fucking?”

Hermione’s mouth fell open, her cheeks flaming as she sputtered, “Excuse me?!”

Daphne leaned back in her chair, utterly unbothered by Hermione’s outrage. “Oh, don’t look so scandalized, Granger. It’s a valid question. You two have been giving everyone whiplash with your little... whatever it is.”

“There is no whatever it is,” Hermione snapped, her voice rising despite her best efforts to stay composed. She glanced around the library, but thankfully, the nearby tables were empty. “And that’s none of your business either!”

Daphne shrugged, her smirk firmly in place. “Maybe not, but you’re not exactly subtle. Half the dorm has noticed how tense things are between you two. If I’ve noticed, then trust me, others have too.”

Hermione glared at her, heat prickling at the back of her neck. “You’re imagining things.”

“Oh, I doubt that.” Daphne tapped a finger against the table, her gaze steady and unnervingly perceptive. “Pansy’s been avoiding everyone lately, snapping at anyone who so much as breathes funny, and the way she stormed into our common room the other night? Merlin, you’d think someone had hexed her favourite shoes. She’s been... different.”

“Different how?” Hermione blurted out before she could stop herself, instantly regretting the slip.

Daphne’s smirk grew wider, as if she’d been waiting for Hermione to ask. “Touchy. Distracted. Actually caring about how she looks before she leaves the dorm, which, trust me, is not normal for Pansy. Normally, she’d just throw on a uniform and pretend she’s above the rest of us, but now? She’s trying.”

Hermione’s stomach twisted. She didn’t know why it mattered—why it felt like Daphne was peeling back layers Hermione had no right to see—but it did. “I don’t see what that has to do with me.”

Daphne gave her a long, measured look. “Don’t you?”

“I’m not...” Hermione trailed off, her words faltering as her pulse hammered in her ears. She didn’t even know what she was trying to deny anymore.

“Well,” Daphne said breezily, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “If it makes you feel any better, I think she’s just as confused as you are, and knowing Pansy, she’ll probably ruin it before she figures out what she really wants.”

“There’s nothing for her to ruin,” Hermione said firmly, clutching her bag like it was a lifeline. “You’re living in a land of make-believe nonsense.”

“Am I?” Daphne’s gaze softened, losing some of its sharpness. “I don’t think I am. But fine, Granger. Keep pretending this is nothing. Let me know how that works out for you.”

With that, Daphne stood, smoothing her robes with practiced elegance. She turned and strode away without another word, leaving Hermione frozen in place, her mind a whirlwind of denial, indignation, and something dangerously close to curiosity.

As the sound of Daphne’s footsteps faded, Hermione slumped back into her chair, staring blankly at the book in front of her. She should have been angry—should have dismissed Daphne’s remarks as nonsense—but she couldn’t. Because deep down, a part of her knew there was truth in those words and that terrified her more than anything.

Hermione set her bag down on the desk in the 8th Year common room, her quill poised above a fresh sheet of parchment. The room was blissfully quiet, the few other students either out on the grounds or still lingering in the Great Hall. It was the perfect opportunity to write back to Ron—to reassure him that she was just as excited about their plans as he was, even if her heart was a tangled mess of emotions.

She stared at the blank parchment, her thoughts spinning. What could she say? What should she say? Every time she thought of Ron, guilt twisted in her chest, but alongside it was fear—fear of facing him, of sitting across from him in London and pretending that nothing had changed. Pretending she hadn’t kissed Pansy Parkinson.

You kissed her. You kissed Pansy Parkinson, her thoughts reminded her cruelly.

Shaking her head, Hermione dipped her quill into the inkpot and began to write.

Dear Ron,
It was so good to get your letter. I’ve missed hearing from you—it feels like ages, even though it’s only been a few days. I can picture you now, sitting in that messy office with Harry, both of you probably rolling your eyes at Robards’s lectures. Honestly, it’s nice to know some things never change.

Hogwarts has been… busy. Classes are as challenging as ever, and McGonagall is keeping us all on our toes. Sharing a room with Parkinson has been interesting, to say the least. But I’m managing. You know me—I always do.

I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to seeing you at the next Hogsmeade weekend. The thought of sneaking away to London for the day sounds perfect. Lunch in Muggle London? A stroll through the city? It’s exactly what I need right now—a bit of normalcy, a chance to catch up properly.

You’re right; it’s not the same without you and Harry here. I miss our late nights in the common room, arguing about homework or just talking about anything and everything. It’s strange, being back without you. Sometimes it feels like there’s a piece of the puzzle missing.

I’ll write again soon to confirm the details for Hogsmeade. Until then, take care of yourself, Ron, and don’t let Harry work you into the ground.

Love,
Hermione.

She sat back, her hand trembling slightly as she set the quill down. The words on the page were neat and composed, every sentence carefully crafted to convey enthusiasm and affection. But as she read over the letter, all she could feel was the hollowness beneath it.

Was this really how she felt? Or was it just what she thought Ron wanted to hear? The thought made her stomach churn.

Hermione folded the letter with practiced precision, slipping it into an envelope and sealing it with a flick of her wand. She would send it later, after classes. For now, it sat on the desk, a tangible reminder of the truth she was too afraid to face.

As she stared at it, a part of her couldn’t help but wonder what Pansy would say if she saw it. Probably something biting and sarcastic, Hermione thought bitterly. But beneath that, Hermione knew there would be something else—something Pansy would never admit out loud, and that thought unsettled her more than anything.

With a sigh, she pushed the letter aside and reached for her books, hoping to lose herself in the comfort of routine. But no matter how hard she tried, her thoughts kept drifting back to Ron—and to Pansy, and the impossible question: What was she going to do? As she reluctantly made her way up to her room, she knew that she wasn’t the only girl in need of answers.

Hermione set her bag down by her bed, the silence in the room broken only by the faint rustle of pages turning. Pansy was lounging on her bed, one leg crossed over the other, flipping through a glossy Witch Weekly as if she didn’t have a care in the world. Her hair was immaculate, as always, and Hermione couldn’t help but feel slightly annoyed by how composed she looked. Until recently, Pansy had been the anxious mess and Hermione had been the one holding it together. She didn’t like this reverse in their dynamic.

“Come for another cuddling session Granger?” Pansy said, her lips forming her trademark smirk.

“Shut up,” Hermione replied wearily, “I’m not in the mood.”

“Well, I quite like the shoe being on the other foot for a change.”

“Glad you are enjoying yourself,” Hermione spat.

“So, are we going to dance around this for longer or do you want to get it over with and talk about it?”

“There’s not much to talk about, is there?” Replied Hermione, “I had too much to drink and did a stupid thing.”

“Sure,” Pansy said, her hurt voice betraying her, “and when it happens next time?”

Hermione froze, the biting reply she had been preparing dying on her tongue. Her eyes darted to Pansy, whose smirk had slipped just enough to reveal the vulnerability beneath it. It wasn’t like Pansy to let her guard down, even for a moment, and it threw Hermione off balance.

“There won’t be a next time,” Hermione said stiffly, forcing herself to meet Pansy’s gaze. “It was a mistake.” Hermione could see the hurt that she had caused in the other girls eyes, and it made her insides squirm uncomfortably.

“When I kissed you it was a mistake too,” Pansy replied, a hint of defiance in her voice, “but these mistakes seem to keep on happening between us.” Hermione’s breath caught in her throat, her chest tightening as Pansy’s words hung heavy in the air. The defiance in Pansy’s tone was undercut by something softer, something Hermione hadn’t been prepared to hear. It made her stomach churn and her thoughts spin.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Hermione said finally, her voice quieter now. She hated the uncertainty she felt, the way Pansy seemed to pull the rug out from under her every time they spoke. “I haven’t been acting like myself, and I have a lot of things to sort out, but this… thing between us isn’t one of them. I have a lovely boyfriend in London who I’ve been neglecting, and I feel terrible about… well, about betraying him.”

“I’m not saying this whole thing isn’t a giant mess,” said Pansy quietly, “I feel bad for Weasley too, but I’m trying to be honest, and brave, like you usually are. I don’t know what my feelings for you are yet, sometimes I still hate you, but mostly I like making you flustered. I like making your cheeks turn red, and making you lose your composure, and… well, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like kissing you.”

Hermione’s breath hitched at Pansy’s admission, her mind reeling as she tried to process what she’d just heard. The blunt honesty of Pansy’s words struck her harder than she cared to admit, and for a moment, she was at a complete loss for how to respond.

“Pansy…” she began, her voice unsteady, but the other girl held up a hand to stop her.

“No, let me finish,” Pansy said, her tone firmer now, though her gaze was still wary. “I’m not saying I have it all figured out. Hell, I’m just as confused as you are. But I’m not going to stand here and pretend it didn’t happen, or that it didn’t mean anything. That’s not who I want to be anymore.”

Hermione blinked, stunned by the vulnerability in Pansy’s voice. This wasn’t the girl she remembered from years of petty insults and hexes. This was someone else entirely—someone raw and unguarded, and it made Hermione’s chest tighten.

“I’m not asking you to make some grand declaration,” Pansy continued, her eyes searching Hermione’s face. “I’m not asking you to pick me over Weasley or whatever else is going on in your life. But I do want us to be on the same page from now on.”

Hermione’s stomach twisted at Pansy’s words, the sincerity in her voice catching her completely off guard. She wasn’t used to this side of Pansy—honest, unguarded, and almost… hopeful. It was disarming in a way Hermione hadn’t anticipated, and it left her scrambling for a response.

“The same page,” Hermione repeated slowly, her voice uncertain. “What do you mean?”

Pansy sighed, crossing her arms as she leaned against the bedpost. “I mean, if this—whatever this is—happens again, I don’t want it to feel like something we’re both pretending didn’t exist the next morning. I can’t do that, Granger. Not anymore. I know I’m one to talk, what with destroying your stuff and all, but—”

“Yes lets avoid that happening again,” Hermione interjected, and some of the tension that had been building between them cracked. Hermione let out a soft giggle at Pansy’s scowling face, and despite her best attempts, Pansy soon joined in her laughter.

“I’m really sorry about that,” said Pansy, “I’m not the best at handling my… feelings. You didn’t deserve to have all your stuff flung around the room.”

“I suppose you didn’t deserve drunk me clambering all over you in the middle of the night.” Hermione replied sheepishly.

“I’ll get over it.”

“And if… if it turns out that all of this was just a few moments of madness between us—”

“Then I’ll get over that too,” said Pansy softly, “but it will be harder.”

Hermione’s chest tightened at Pansy’s words, the quiet vulnerability in her tone making it impossible to look away. There was no smirk, no biting remark to shield herself this time—just honesty, raw and unfiltered, and it left Hermione feeling utterly exposed.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Hermione said, her voice trembling. “I’m so afraid that’s what I’ll end up doing.”

“Well, that makes two of us,” Pansy replied, leaning back against the bedpost, and crossing her arms. She gave Hermione a small, sad smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You’re not the only one who’s terrified, you know. This—whatever this is—it’s a mess. But for some reason, I can’t seem to stay away from you, and believe me, I’ve tried.”

Hermione knew exactly what she meant. Every day Ginny had warned her off of Pansy Parkinson, and every day, sometimes every hour, Hermione’s thoughts wandered back to the girl stood in front of her. Pansy occupied more of her thoughts than anyone, and truth be told, it was becoming as familiar as it was exhausting. A line had to be drawn somewhere. “Okay, some rules then.”

“Oh great, another Hermione Granger lecture incoming.”

“No more kissing, from either of us.”

“That’s a shit rule.” Pansy scowled.

“No more fighting in class,” Hermione continued unperturbed, “my work has suffered enough, especially in potions. If Slughorn insists on pairing us up all the time, I want your best efforts.”

“Fair enough.” Pansy raised an eyebrow, her scowl softening slightly. “Anything else on your list of ironclad rules, Professor Granger?”

Hermione ignored the sarcasm, determined to set boundaries even if her heart felt like it was rebelling against her brain. “Yes. We keep this—whatever this is—out of the dormitory. I can’t sleep properly as it is without you adding to my stress.”

Pansy smirked, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Oh, so now I’m responsible for your sleepless nights? That’s a compliment if I’ve ever heard one.”

Hermione’s cheeks flushed, and she frowned. “You know what I mean.”

Pansy stepped away from the bedpost and crossed the room slowly, her expression unreadable. “Alright,” she said, her tone soft but laced with challenge. “No kissing. No fighting. No messing up your precious sleep schedule. Anything else, Granger?”

Hermione hesitated, her resolve faltering slightly as Pansy stopped just a step too close. Her heart raced, but she forced herself to stand her ground. “That’s it,” she said firmly, though her voice wavered. “We need… boundaries.”

Pansy tilted her head, studying her with a sharpness that made Hermione’s pulse quicken. “Boundaries,” she echoed, her lips quirking into a faint smile. “Sure. We can play by your rules.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “I’m serious.”

“So am I,” Pansy said, her voice dropping just enough to send a shiver down Hermione’s spine. “I’ll follow your rules, Granger. No kissing. No fighting. I’ll even be a model potions partner if it makes you happy.”

“Good,” Hermione said, though the look in Pansy’s eyes made her feel anything but victorious.

“Now for my rules,” said Pansy with her trademark smirk plastered across her face. Hermione made to reply but Pansy cut her off, “Oh, this is a two-way street you know. I can’t have you making all the decisions.”

Hermione folded her arms, her brows knitting together. “Alright, Pansy,” she said, her voice clipped, “what are your rules then?”

“Rule number one,” Pansy began, her tone turning playful but her gaze sharp. “No more guilty little monologues about Weasley. If you feel bad, go write him another letter. I don’t want to be dragged into your moral crises. He’s not my boyfriend.”

Hermione opened her mouth to argue, but Pansy raised an eyebrow, daring her to try. She sighed instead, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Fine.” Hermione replied in a clipped tone.

“Number two,” Pansy continued, “Weasley’s sister is just dying to have a pop at me and it’s tearing your friendship apart. Stop protecting me from her and her fan club.”

“Pansy she will absolutely flatten you,” Hermione said matter-of-factly. She didn’t like to imagine the things Ginny would do to Pansy, but it was difficult not to as Ginny had spent so much time describing in acute detail the hexes and curses she would bestow upon the Slytherin girl.

“So be it,” Pansy replied, “we’re still in school, it’s not like she can just off me in the corridor. The sooner she gets it out of her system the better.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Hermione said. She certainly wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of Ginny, and she was confident that she could outdo the redhead in a duel. Pansy could not. “You should learn the counter for the Bat-Bogey Hex, it’s her favourite.”  

“Thanks for the tip,” replied Pansy, “and number three, no more braiding your hair.” Pansy’s smirk was so wide it practically stretched from ear-to-ear like a cartoon villain.

Hermione blinked, taken aback. “What?” she asked, her voice laced with confusion.

“No more braiding your hair,” Pansy repeated, leaning against the bedpost with a self-satisfied smirk.

Hermione’s mouth opened and closed as she struggled to process the sheer audacity of the comment. “That is the most ridiculous rule I’ve ever heard. I have to braid my hair, you’ve seen how it gets otherwise.”

“Nope, the whole thing falls apart if you keep braiding your hair every night.”

Hermione scowled, her arms crossing tighter over her chest. “My hair has absolutely nothing to do with this.”

“It’s everything to do with it,” Pansy smirked, stepping uncomfortably close and leaning in to whisper in Hermione’s ear, “You see Granger, every time I watch you braid your hair before bed I’m overcome with this strong desire to pull it.”

Hermione recoiled across the room like a spring, nearly toppling onto her bed. Pansy let out a laugh that was beyond evil, and Hermione felt the heat rising in her face. “If you cant keep it in your pants over my braid then we have serious problems.”

Pansy laughed harder, doubling over as Hermione’s mortified response echoed in the room. “Oh, Granger, you’re too easy,” she said, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “I’m just being honest. Isn’t that what you Gryffindors are all about?”

Hermione glared at her, feeling the heat creeping all the way up to her ears. “Honesty doesn’t mean saying every ridiculous thing that pops into your head, Pansy.”

Pansy straightened, her smirk never wavering. “Ridiculous? Maybe. But you can’t deny it got a reaction out of you.”

“That’s because you have the sense of humour of a twelve-year-old boy,” Hermione shot back, still trying to calm the furious blush that refused to leave her cheeks.

“Please, give me some credit,” Pansy replied, leaning casually against the bedpost. “A twelve-year-old boy wouldn’t have half my charm.”

“Charm?” Hermione repeated incredulously. “Is that what you’re calling this?”

“Call it what you want,” Pansy said, shrugging nonchalantly. “But you’re still standing there, arguing with me, instead of storming out of the room. So clearly, I’ve got something going for me.”

Hermione groaned, throwing her hands in the air. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, here we are,” Pansy said, grinning. She crossed her arms, tilting her head as she regarded Hermione. “So, are you going to keep braiding your hair and tempting me, or are you finally going to admit I have a point?”

“You don’t have a point!” Hermione snapped, though her voice cracked slightly, betraying her exasperation.

“Denial, denial,” Pansy said in a sing-song voice, her grin only widening. “It’s adorable, really.”

Hermione turned on her heel, flopping onto her bed and grabbing the nearest book, determined to ignore the maddening Slytherin in the room. “I’m done with this conversation.”

“Suit yourself,” Pansy said lightly, moving back to her own bed. “But you might want to reconsider my rules, Granger. They could save us both a lot of trouble.”

Hermione didn’t respond, burying her face in her book even though the words on the page swam in front of her eyes. She could still hear Pansy chuckling softly to herself, and it was all Hermione could do not to hurl a pillow in her direction.

This was going to be a long year.

Chapter Text

 Chapter 12

Despite occasionally teasing her to try and get a reaction – because she could not help herself – Pansy had stuck to all of Granger’s rules, and as a result she had had the best week at Hogwarts since returning. She had breezed through most of her classes, McGonagall had cancelled the last of her detentions for skipping class, the storm pigeon actually seemed to like her, and it turned out that she and Hermione made an effective team during potions when they weren’t sniping at each other. Slughorn had remarked as much during their last class of the day, calling their Thunderbrew a ‘triumph worthy of an Outstanding from any N.E.W.T examiner.’

Yet, even as Pansy basked in the praise, she couldn’t ignore the tiny flicker of disappointment that had sparked in her chest. It wasn’t the potion that had been on her mind as Slughorn handed out compliments—it was the way Hermione had smiled, genuinely pleased, and then immediately turned to clean up their station as though nothing had changed.

No bickering, no awkward tension, no lingering glances. Just efficient teamwork and Hermione’s maddening determination to act like everything was perfectly normal. Pansy hated it.

The problem, of course, was that she didn’t actually hate it. If she were being honest with herself—a skill she was begrudgingly trying to practice these days—she’d enjoyed the truce. She liked proving to herself — and Hermione — that she wasn’t just some petty, snarky disaster. She liked the rhythm they’d found, the way Hermione occasionally shot her a rare, approving smile when they worked well together.

But it wasn’t enough. Not when every little gesture, every brush of Hermione’s hand against hers as they reached for the same ingredient, set Pansy’s nerves on fire. Not when she caught herself glancing at Hermione’s side of the dorm in the mornings, half-hoping for some sign that the Gryffindor might want to talk—to really talk—about what was happening between them.

The truth was, she missed the sparks. The fighting. The bickering. Even the damn tension. Without it, she felt unmoored, like she was waiting for something to happen but had no idea what it was supposed to be. Worse still was that Pansy could no longer deny a simple, mortifying truth to herself that she had tried to snuff out since she smelled cinnamon rising in steamy tendrils from the cauldron full of Amortentia; she fancied the pants off Hermione Granger.

Pansy groaned audibly, dropping her head into her hands as the admission reverberated through her mind. Fancy the pants off Hermione Granger. She couldn’t believe she’d just thought those words, let alone admitted them to herself. If there were a spell to Obliviate her own brain, she’d be casting it right now.

It was one thing to toy with the idea of messing with Granger for fun, to poke and prod at her until she got that indignant, flushed expression that Pansy secretly found far too endearing. But to acknowledge that she liked Hermione Granger? That she was harbouring actual, bona-fide feelings for the Gryffindor golden girl? That was a whole new level of unacceptable, and yet, there it was, glaring at her in the privacy of her own thoughts like a Howler she couldn’t ignore.

Pansy sighed, leaning back against the plush green cushions of the Slytherin common room sofa. The flickering firelight danced across the walls, casting long shadows that only seemed to mirror her inner turmoil. She fancied Hermione Granger. She liked the way Hermione’s brow furrowed when she was deep in thought, the way her fingers twitched when she was excited about a new idea, the way she chewed on the end of her quill when she was lost in concentration.

Worst of all, she liked how Hermione had kissed her—how soft and tentative it had been, even if it had been fuelled by Firewhiskey and a moment of madness. And she liked how, for just a second, it had felt like everything that was wrong with the world didn’t matter.

“Merlin, I’m pathetic,” Pansy muttered to herself, running a hand through her hair.

She had spent years priding herself on being untouchable, unbothered, and above it all. She was Pansy Parkinson, for crying out loud. She didn’t pine after Gryffindors, much less the most maddeningly brilliant and annoyingly self-righteous one of them all.

Yet, here she was, staring into the fire and thinking about how much she wanted Hermione to smile at her again—not the polite smiles she’d been doling out all week, but the real ones, the ones that lit up her entire face and made Pansy feel like she’d done something worthwhile for once.

The thought made her stomach twist uncomfortably, and she pushed herself to her feet, pacing the length of the common room like a caged animal. She couldn’t sit still, couldn’t think straight, couldn’t do anything but replay every interaction with Hermione over the past week and try to make sense of it all. She had promised the Gryffindor that she would stick to their new rules, but truthfully she wanted to break every one of them. The problems facing her were numerous though; Hermione had a boyfriend, Pansy had infamously tried to hand Hermione’s best friend to the Dark Lord thus alienating herself from everyone, Hermione’s closest friend at school would probably be happier if Pansy were dead, and if Pansy’s father found out then Pansy would end up dead. It made absolutely no sense for Pansy to pursue Hermione Granger. Perhaps that was why Pansy’s mind conjured up so many fantasies of a clandestine affair with the bushy haired girl.

Merlin, I’m becoming a character in one of Daphne’s awful romance novels, Pansy thought to herself. She could practically hear Daphne’s teasing voice in her head: “Oh, Pansy, darling, forbidden love is the best kind. So tragic, so thrilling!” Pansy rolled her eyes at the thought, but the corner of her mouth twitched upward despite herself. Deciding that she’d done enough brooding in the Slytherin Common Room all by herself, Pansy trekked her way back to the 8^th Year Common Room where another of Dean Thomas’s little gatherings were taking place. Pansy couldn’t help but notice Daphne’s increased presence at these little parties and had begun to wonder if this was still part of her game of social chess or whether she actually liked being there.

Pansy had hoped to bypass the whole thing and head to bed, but Daphne locked eyes with her from her chair in the corner and waggled a finger at her, beckoning her to come and sit down. Rolling her eyes, Pansy braced herself, hoping that whatever piece she was about to become on Daphne’s social chessboard would be taken out of play quickly.

“You seem to be getting quite fond of these little get-togethers, Daphne. I thought they’d be a bit common for your taste?” Pansy said, sliding into the seat across from her with a dramatic sigh.

Daphne smirked, swirling the wine in her goblet as if she were at a high-society soirée instead of a chaotic eighth-year party. “Oh, they are,” she replied airily. “But you know me, Pansy—I do so enjoy people-watching, and this crowd is a veritable gold-mine of gossip and information.”

“Really? You think Ernie Macmillan is a veritable gold-mine?”

“No,” Daphne conceded, “He’s a bit of a pest with a wandering eye problem, but the others...” Daphne’s smirk deepened as she leaned in conspiratorially, lowering her voice. “The others are fascinating. Dean Thomas, for example—so charming, so full of himself, but completely oblivious to the Patil girl drooling over him. Oh, and did you know Hannah Abbott’s been sneaking out to meet a certain Ravenclaw Prefect? Scandalous!”

“I almost feel bad that this is how you spend your evenings Daphne, agonising over the love lives of the old, what was it they called themselves? Oh, Dumbledore’s Army!”

“Come now Pansy, you know I’m far shrewder than that.”

“Ah of course, you’re their agony aunt, their confidante. Their glamorous friend who gives out little nuggets of wisdom in exchange for… well, I don’t know what.”

“Access, Pansy, access.”

Pansy raised an eyebrow, leaning back in her chair with a bemused expression. “Access to what, exactly? The inner workings of the DA’s not-so-secret club? Or maybe the thrilling drama of Gryffindor’s tangled love lives?”

Daphne’s smirk didn’t waver. “To them, darling. To their trust, their vulnerabilities, their weaknesses.” She took a deliberate sip of her wine, her eyes gleaming with something sharp and calculating. “The war might be over, but the social chessboard hasn’t disappeared. It’s just changed its rules. I’ve told you before, it’s Potter and his lot that are going to shape the country’s future for the next ten years at least. The networking we do in this final year at school lays the pathway for us to get ahead of the game when we graduate.”

Pansy raised an eyebrow, leaning forward slightly. “So that’s your game? Networking? You think rubbing elbows with Potter’s friends is going to guarantee you a spot at the Ministry or some cushy job at Gringotts?”

“Oh, Pansy you know I’d never do anything so awful as work for a living. It’s influence I’m garnering. When poor Dean Thomas is struggling to get his little art studio off the ground, wouldn’t it be helpful if it were widely known that a few of his paintings were snapped up by the Greengrass estate? If Loony Lovegood discovers the Cack-Handed Snorfalump or whatever it is, you can be sure that a Greengrass ship sailed her expedition up to Sweden.”

“And in return for your generosity you’d hope for certain little favours and freebies,” replied Pansy, rolling her eyes, “Some tax breaks for dear Papa perhaps? You and Slughorn should get married.”

Daphne let out a delighted laugh, raising her goblet in a mock toast. “Oh, don’t be absurd, Pansy. I’d never marry a man with such dreadful taste in waistcoats. No, I’m still undecided on that front, but bravo to you, very bold choice.”

“Meaning?”

“Well, aren’t you and Granger in each other’s knickers every night?”

“Daphne!” Pansy snapped, a little louder than intended, drawing several pairs of eyes. Daphne smirked triumphantly as though she had just told Pansy the most delicious gossip, and the crowd of onlookers returned to their drinks, whispering conspiratorially amongst themselves. “We most certainly are not!” Pansy hissed under her breath. Daphne giggled, the smirk still plastered across her face.

“So, there is something going on,” she whispered, unable to keep the triumph out of her voice, “you should have seen the colour Granger’s face went when I asked if the two of you were fighting or fucking.”

“Why the bloody hell would you ask her that?”

Daphne’s smirk widened, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Oh, come now, Pansy. Don’t act so shocked. The signs are there for those who can pick up on them. Namely Blaise and I, and the Weasley girl. She’s surprisingly perceptive. I think I might even like her.”

Pansy’s jaw tightened, her grip on the arm of her chair so fierce her knuckles turned white. “You’ve been talking to Ginny Weasley about me and Granger?”

Daphne let out a tinkling laugh, sipping her wine as though they were discussing the weather. “Talking? No, darling, don’t be dramatic. Observing, exchanging a few words here and there. She’s sharp, that one, funny too. I see why Potter likes her. Tell you what though, she hates your guts. Probably something to do with you bonking her brothers girlfriend.”

“Daphne, I won’t keep repeating myself; there is nothing romantic, nor physical happening between Granger and I.”

“For now, perhaps,” Daphne replied with a superior smirk, “but I have my theories.”

“Oh?”

Daphne’s smirk widened, her eyes gleaming with mischief. She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand as if she were about to share the juiciest secret in the castle. “Oh, yes. Would you like to hear them?”

Pansy sighed, already regretting engaging in the conversation but unable to stop herself. “Go on, enlighten me.”

“Well,” Daphne began, swirling her wine dramatically, “the way I see it, you and Granger are like two opposing forces—fire and ice, light and dark, brains and brawn. It’s all very tragic romance meets star-crossed lovers. You fight because you’re trying to resist the inevitable pull toward each other. It’s classic tension.”

Pansy scoffed, crossing her arms. “You’ve been reading too many novels again.”

“Maybe,” Daphne admitted with a shrug, “but I know what I see, and what I see is two people who can’t decide whether they want to hex each other or snog each other senseless.”

Pansy felt her cheeks heat, and she quickly looked away, fixing her gaze on a particularly unremarkable corner of the room. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Am I?” Daphne countered, tilting her head. “Then why are you blushing, hmm? Why do you look like I’ve just hit a nerve? I think that perhaps you have snogged each other senseless, and this latest truce between you and Granger is the calm before the next storm. I’m still flipping back and forth on who I think initiated and who received the snogging, but these are minor details.”

Pansy’s glare could have melted glass, but Daphne, as always, was completely unfazed. “You’re delusional,” Pansy said sharply. “There’s no storm, no snogging, and no truce. Granger and I are just… tolerating each other.”

Daphne’s smirk only widened, and she leaned back in her chair with a theatrical sigh. “Oh, Pansy, denial is such a tiresome game. But if it helps you sleep at night, by all means, keep telling yourself that. Meanwhile, I’ll just be here, enjoying the front-row seat to whatever it is you two are doing. More worrisome though; how are you going to hide this from your parents? They’re not going to be in Azkaban for long.”

Pansy froze, her blood running cold at Daphne’s words. The air seemed to thicken around her, and for a moment, she couldn’t breathe. “What did you just say?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Daphne tilted her head, her smirk softening slightly, though her eyes remained sharp. “You heard me. Your parents, Pansy. They’re not going to stay locked up forever. You know how this works—enough money and influence, and they’ll be back in society before you can say Ministry corruption, and when they are, do you really think they’ll tolerate you…” She waved a hand vaguely. “... fraternizing with the likes of Hermione Granger?”

Pansy’s jaw tightened, her fists clenching at her sides. “There’s nothing to tolerate because there’s nothing going on, we are roommates,” she said, her voice low and dangerous.

“Sure, keep saying that,” Daphne said lightly, taking another sip of her wine. “But you and I both know that isn’t the point. Your parents don’t care about facts or logic. All they’ll see is a Gryffindor Mudblood and their daughter getting a little too cozy.”

Pansy’s stomach churned at the slur, but she forced herself to keep her composure. “They’re not here, Daphne. They don’t get to control my life anymore.”

“Oh, Pansy,” Daphne said with a soft laugh, setting her goblet down on the table. “You know it’s not that simple. Even from Azkaban, they cast a long shadow. And when they’re out—because they will get out—what then? What’s your plan?”

“I’ll deal with it when it happens,” Pansy snapped, though the knot in her chest tightened at the thought.

Daphne’s gaze softened, and for a moment, she almost looked… concerned. “I’m not trying to scare you, Pansy,” she said quietly. “I’m just reminding you to think ahead. You’re playing a dangerous game, and if you’re not careful, you’re going to get hurt.”

Pansy looked away, her throat tightening. She hated how Daphne always managed to cut through her defences, how she could see the fears Pansy tried so hard to bury. “I don’t need your advice,” she said, her voice shaky but firm. “I can handle myself.”

“I know you can,” Daphne replied, her tone gentle now. “But don’t forget, Pansy—you don’t have to do it alone. If things get… complicated, you know where to find me. You are my friend, and I want you to stay safe.”

Pansy glanced at her, surprised by the sincerity in her voice. For a moment, she considered saying something—anything—but the words caught in her throat. Instead, she turned on her heel, her footsteps echoing as she left the room without another word.

As she made her way back to the dormitory, her thoughts raced, Daphne’s words playing on a loop in her mind. She hated the idea of her parents, of their inevitable return, of the expectations and chains they would bring with them. But most of all, she hated the gnawing fear that Daphne might be right. That no matter how far she ran, she would never truly be free of them—or their wrath if they didn’t get their way.

Granger was already sat in bed with a book when Pansy walked into the dorm. She gave a curt nod before throwing her robes over her head and jumping into the shower, hoping the hot water might wash away her thoughts and fears. The shower did little to help. The hot water pounded against Pansy’s skin, but it couldn’t drown out the thoughts swirling in her mind. Daphne’s words echoed relentlessly, filling her head with doubts and fears she didn’t want to confront. She scrubbed her arms harder than necessary, as if she could scrub away the weight of it all—the expectations, the guilt, the impossible situation with Hermione.

Hermione.

Pansy leaned her forehead against the cool tile, letting out a shaky breath. Why did everything always come back to her? The Gryffindor was a walking contradiction, infuriating and captivating in equal measure. Every conversation, every argument, every glance seemed to pull Pansy further into a web she couldn’t untangle herself from, and now thanks to Daphne’s meddling, the stakes felt higher than ever.

She stayed under the water longer than she needed to, trying to find clarity in the steam and silence. But eventually, there was no excuse left to linger. Wrapping herself in a towel, Pansy stepped out of the bathroom, her hair still damp, and her thoughts just as muddled as before.

Hermione glanced up from her book as Pansy entered the room, her eyes briefly flicking over her before returning to the page. The faint crease in her brow suggested she’d been reading the same line over and over, her focus elsewhere.

“Riveting book, Granger?” Pansy asked, more out of habit than genuine interest.

Hermione blinked, startled, and quickly closed the book. “It’s fine,” she said, her tone clipped. “What about you? Long shower.”

Pansy shrugged, crossing to her bed, and sitting on the edge. “Needed to clear my head.”

Hermione’s lips pressed into a thin line, and she hesitated for a moment before speaking. “Is everything alright?”

The question caught Pansy off guard. She looked up, meeting Hermione’s gaze, and for a moment, she considered brushing it off, offering some snarky reply to deflect. But there was something in Hermione’s eyes—concern, curiosity—that made her pause.

“Daphne might have figured out about… us.”

“Great,” Hermione said dully, “she did ask me… something rather personal in the library.”

“Whether we were fighting or fucking?” Pansy could tell she'd struck a nerve immediately.

“Yes!” Hermione’s eyes widened to the size of dinnerplates, “How did – oh, she asked you the same thing?”

“Among other things.”

“Pansy what have you told her?” Hermione asked, rising from her bed, her tone accusatory.

“I told her that there is nothing romantic, nor physical going on between us. If you want to start pointing fingers, start with Weasley. She’s the only other person who knows that I kissed you, and she’s been gossiping with Daphne.”

Pansy watched as Hermione’s face flushed a deep crimson, her lips parting in a mixture of shock and indignation. “Ginny wouldn’t—she wouldn’t do that!” Hermione said, though her voice wavered slightly, betraying her uncertainty.

Pansy raised an eyebrow, leaning back against the bedpost with her arms crossed. “Wouldn’t she? Weasley’s been threatening to do me in all term. She hates me, Granger, and she’s not exactly subtle about it. I’m not saying it’s undeserved hate, but I don’t think she’s above this.”

“That doesn’t mean she’d betray my trust,” Hermione shot back, though her tone sounded more like she was convincing herself than Pansy.

“Believe what you want,” Pansy said with a shrug, though her stomach twisted uncomfortably at the thought. She didn’t particularly like the idea of Ginny Weasley spreading rumours either, especially not ones involving her and Hermione. “But Daphne’s got her claws in somewhere. She’s not pulling this out of thin air.”

Hermione sat back down on her bed with a heavy sigh, running a hand through her hair. “This is a disaster.”

“Tell me about it,” Pansy muttered, rubbing her temple. “I’ve spent the last hour fending off Daphne’s ridiculous theories and trying not to strangle her. She’s convinced there’s some grand romance brewing between us.”

“Well, we’ll need to throw them all off the scent. Shouldn’t be too hard, most people still think we’re just playing nice to avoid more detentions. I’m sure we can start acting a bit catty again.”

“Granger I’m not playing games. I won’t stage arguments with you to ease your paranoia.” Pansy said bluntly. “There’s every chance we’ll just get into a real argument and end up back at square one.”

“Oh alright!” Hermione snapped irritably. “Come to think of it, I’m going on a date with Ron tomorrow anyway, so you can be sure that will end up in the bloody Prophet the next day!”

“Oh,” Pansy said, trying to mask the hurt in her voice, “is Weasley whisking you off to Madam Puddifoot’s?” She could scarcely imagine Hermione Granger setting foot in the frilly, pink confines of Hogsmeade’s tackiest tearoom, much less Weasley.

“Actually, we’re going to sneak off to London,” Hermione said, a blush creeping up her neck.

“Breaking the rules about visiting Hogsmeade? Naughty, naughty.” Pansy teased. Her mind filled with images of Ron, stupid and lanky, with his bright red hair, and his too-loud voice, and his awful table manners whisking Hermione around the streets of London arm in arm. It made Pansy’s blood boil. Get a grip Pansy, she thought to herself, Granger isn’t yours to get jealous over. Pansy forced a smirk to her lips, even as the sharp sting of jealousy twisted in her chest. “Well, Granger, don’t forget to bring me back a souvenir. Perhaps one of those tacky snow globes with Tower Bridge inside?”

“I’m surprised you even know what a snow-globe is,” Hermione replied.

“I’m not completely ignorant of Muggles you know. There are plenty Half-Blood’s in Slytherin that talk about that… football nonsense, and whether Robbie Wilson will ever reunite with the rest of Take This.”

“Take That,” Hermione giggled.

“Excuse me?”

“The band, they’re called Take That, and its Robbie Williams, not Wilson. Still, I am surprised. I thought nobody would dare talk about football or boybands in the Slytherin Common Room, even in Gryffindor people think Dean is weird for supporting West Ham instead of the Tutshill Tornadoes.”

“We’re not all Death Eaters,” Pansy said, though her voice trailed off at the end of her sentence, “Well, they’re not all Death Eaters. Slytherin isn’t the big evil house that everyone thinks it is, people just toe the line to make life easier around the likes of… well, me.”

“Are you sure you aren’t one of the ones toeing the line Pansy?”

“Oh no,” Pansy shook her head, “I’ve changed my views a lot recently, but I was as much a blood supremacist as my parents for a good six years at this school. I stuck with all my wealthy and influential Pure-Blood friends and dished out plenty of vitriol to any Muggle-Born or Blood-Traitor I laid eyes on. You were always my favourite though.”

Hermione giggled again. A genuine smile flashed across her lips. It made Pansy’s heart flutter with a mix of attraction – Merlin help me! Pansy thought – and sadness that for the entire time she’d known her, Pansy had given her best efforts to making the beautiful girl in front of her miserable.

“Am I still your favourite?” Hermione asked in a mischievous voice. Suddenly it felt as though the air had been sucked from the room, and Grangers cheeks turned a dark red.

“You are,” Pansy admitted, her voice barely audible despite the fact you could hear a pin drop in the room. The room fell into a strange, tentative silence. Pansy felt the weight of Hermione’s gaze on her but refused to meet it, afraid of what she might see there—and what it might stir in her. Instead, she stood abruptly, brushing invisible dust from her pyjamas.

“I should get some sleep,” Pansy said, her voice tight. “Busy day tomorrow and all that.”

Hermione nodded, her expression unreadable. “Right. Goodnight, Pansy.”

“Goodnight, Granger,” Pansy replied, slipping into her bed, and drawing the curtains around it before she could second-guess herself.

As she lay staring up at the canopy of her bed, Pansy’s mind raced with the events of the evening. She couldn’t shake the image of Hermione’s blush, the way her voice softened when she asked if she was still Pansy’s favourite. It was maddening, how easily Hermione could undo her with a single look or a simple question. Pansy tossed and turned for what felt like hours before sleep mercifully claimed her and gave her a brief reprieve from her jealous thoughts of Hermione Granger and her stupid boyfriend and their stupid date in London.

The crisp autumn air bit at Pansy’s cheeks as she strolled down the bustling streets of Hogsmeade, her breath forming little clouds in front of her. She had come alone, preferring the solitude to the company of her housemates, most of whom would have only served to irritate her further, though she had promised Daphne that they would catch up later in the afternoon.

The village was alive with activity—students darting in and out of shops, chattering excitedly about new sweets or broom accessories. Pansy wandered aimlessly, her thoughts far away as she passed by Honeydukes and the Three Broomsticks. She caught a brief glimpse of a gaggle of reporters flashing their cameras at a tall redhead and a girl with bushy hair. Her chest tightened, jealousy sparking before she could squash it down. This is ridiculous, Pansy thought to herself. She had no claim over Hermione Granger. None. Yet, the idea of Hermione with Weasley—laughing with him, holding his hand—made her blood boil.

Trying to shake the unwelcome thoughts, Pansy ducked into Tomes and Scrolls, the quiet of the bookstore a welcome reprieve from the chaos outside. She browsed the shelves absently, running her fingers over the spines of ancient tomes and pretending not to notice the way her mind kept drifting back to the girl she couldn’t seem to stop thinking about.

“Pull yourself together, Parkinson,” she muttered under her breath, flipping open a book without even glancing at the title. “This is getting pathetic.”

But no matter how hard she tried, Hermione’s voice, her smile, her damnable blush, lingered at the edges of Pansy’s thoughts, refusing to be ignored. She thumbed distractedly through a few novels, images of Hermione walking arm-in-arm with Weasley swimming in the front of her mind. She was about to admit defeat and turn back towards the castle when she heard a suspicious whispering voice from the other side of the bookcase.

“No sign of Potter anywhere, he mustn’t have gotten the day off to come and visit his little bint.”

“I’m telling you Travers, this is better for us.” Pansy’s blood froze. Travers was a foreman in one of her father’s moonstone mines. He was also one of the highest-ranking Death Eaters still on the run. She had seen his face on plenty of wanted posters both in Hogsmeade and Diagon Alley.

“Don’t tell me you are afraid of Harry Potter, Selwyn?”

“Of course I bloody am,” the other man, Selwyn, hissed, “didn’t you hear about how it happened up at the school? He killed the Dark Lord with a bloody Expelliarmus!”

“How can we be sure Selwyn? Didn’t a remarkably similar thing occur when he was a baby? The Dark Lord returned to us eventually, he will surely do it again. Think how we will be rewarded upon his return if we’ve taken care of this… problem for him.”

“I’m not totally convinced,” Selwyn replied, “but in any case, it’ll be much easier to pick off the Golden Trio one at a time, I’m telling you.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps you are right. We’ll do Longbottom and the Weasley girl too for good measure.”

“Well, she’s the easiest one to find, centre of attention everywhere she goes.” Pansy’s grip tightened on the spine of the book she was holding, her nails digging into the leather cover. Her heart pounded in her chest as she strained to hear more, her mind racing through the implications of what she’d just overheard. Travers and Selwyn, two of her father’s old associates, were here in Hogsmeade, planning to target Hermione, Ron, Neville, and Ginny.

Pansy slid the book back onto the shelf, careful not to make a sound. She stepped lightly along the aisle, positioning herself to peer through a gap in the books. Travers was tall and wiry, his sharp features twisted into an expression of disdain. Selwyn looked more cautious, his eyes darting nervously around the shop.

“We need to move quickly,” Travers muttered. “The longer we linger, the more likely someone will recognize us. We’ll start with the redhead. She’s bound to be easier to corner.”

Pansy’s breath hitched, and her mind raced. Ginny was easy to spot, her fiery hair always making her stand out in a crowd. If she were anywhere in the village, she wouldn’t be hard to find, especially with the ever-present crowd of photographers that followed any of Harry Potter’s inner circle around. With any luck, Hermione was already safely in London with Weasley.

The two men turned and began to move toward the shop's exit, their whispers fading as they stepped out onto the cobbled street. Pansy hesitated for a split second, weighing her options. She could alert someone—run to McGonagall or one of the Aurors stationed at the village—but by the time she explained the situation, it might already be too late for Ginny.

No. If she wanted to stop them, she had to act now.

Steeling herself, Pansy slipped out of the shop, keeping a safe distance as she tailed the two Death Eaters. Her heart pounded in her chest as she moved through the crowd, ducking behind stalls and slipping into alleyways to avoid being seen. Travers and Selwyn moved with purpose, their heads swivelling as they scanned the streets for any sign of their target.

Pansy’s mind reeled. She didn’t like Ginny Weasley—in fact, the girl had made her life at Hogwarts hell since the war ended—but the thought of standing by while these two hunted her down was unthinkable, and Hermione... Hermione would never forgive her if something happened to Ginny and Pansy could have stopped it.

The men paused at the edge of a square where several students had gathered near Honeydukes. Pansy ducked behind a stack of barrels, her breath coming in shallow gasps as she peered out to watch them. Travers leaned in close to Selwyn, muttering something Pansy couldn’t hear. Selwyn nodded and the two split up, each heading in a different direction.

Damn it, Pansy thought, her heart sinking. She couldn’t follow them both.

Her eyes darted around the square, searching desperately for any sign of Ginny Weasley. Where would she be? The Three Broomsticks? Zonko’s? The Quidditch shop? Ginny was Head Girl; maybe she was patrolling, keeping an eye on the younger students.

Travers headed toward the Quidditch shop, his strides purposeful. Selwyn veered off toward the Three Broomsticks. Pansy bit her lip, her instincts screaming that Travers was the greater threat. She slipped out from behind the barrels and followed him, her heart pounding as she wove through the crowd.

Her eyes scanned every corner of the square, her chest tightening with each passing second. If Ginny was here, she wasn’t in the immediate vicinity. Travers seemed to realize this too, muttering under his breath as he slowed his pace and scanned the crowd.

Then, out of the corner of her eye, Pansy caught a flash of red hair near a stall selling cauldron cakes. Her stomach dropped. Ginny was there, laughing with a group of younger students, completely unaware of the danger closing in on her.

Pansy’s grip tightened on her wand, hidden beneath her cloak. She had to act quickly. Moving with purpose, she crossed the square, keeping Travers in her peripheral vision. She reached Ginny just as Travers turned his head in their direction, his eyes narrowing.

“Weasley,” Pansy said sharply, grabbing the girl’s arm. Ginny spun around, her eyes widening in surprise.

“Parkinson! What the hell are you—” Ginny began, but before she could finish her sentence; the whole world seemed to explode. Pansy found herself flying through the air, still gripping tightly to Ginny Weasley’s arm. She landed hard on the cobblestones, her breath knocked out of her as pain shot through her ribs. Ginny landed beside her with a thud, and did not move. Pansy’s heart hammered in her chest, adrenaline surging through her veins and forcing her to move. The younger students scattered in all directions, the stall from which they were buying their cauldron cakes was now a burning ruin, blanketing the street in smoke.

Ginny stirred softly on the ground, her eyes fluttering weakly. Thank Merlin Pansy thought. Knowing that Ginny was still clinging to life seemed to kick Pansy into action, she quickly drew her wand and cast several shield charms around them. She could vaguely make out the looming figure of Travers approaching through the smoke, but she had no idea where Selwyn was. He wouldn’t be far though, and so the girls needed to move. Pansy bent down and grabbed Weasley around the middle, trying desperately to haul her into an upright position.

“Weasley we need to move, they’re trying to kill you!” Pansy pleaded, but the younger girl was almost completely out of it, and it was all Pansy could do to keep a hold of her. A spell crackled off of one of Pansy’s shield charms, almost shattering it in one hit. Panicking, Pansy dragged Weasley as fast and as far as she could. Pansy gritted her teeth, her muscles straining as she half-dragged, half-carried Ginny toward the nearest alley. Her heart pounded in her ears, drowning out the chaos of screams and shouts around her. Another spell ricocheted off her shield, sending sparks flying in all directions. Travers was closing in, and Pansy’s mind raced to figure out their next move.

“Come on, Weasley,” Pansy muttered, her voice shaking. “I can’t do this on my own.”

Ginny groaned softly, her eyelids fluttering open just enough for her to register the panic in Pansy’s voice. “What… what’s happening?” she slurred, her eyes were glazed over and unfocused.

“Death Eaters, that’s what’s happening,” Pansy snapped, glancing over her shoulder. Travers was almost through the smoke now, his wand raised. “And if you don’t wake up properly, they’re going to kill us both!”

“Travers, down here, behind Bingle’s!” Shit thought Pansy as she turned to see Selwyn approaching from behind the Three Broomsticks, we’re done for if we don’t get out of here right now.

“Weasley, listen to me!” she hissed, “Pansy Parkinson lives at Foxglove Grange, on the outskirts of Harrogate, North Yorkshire. Stupefy!” Selwyn looked as shocked as Pansy felt when her stunning spell hit him square in the chest and sent him toppling to the ground. The sound of heavy footsteps soon snapped Pansy back to reality though as Travers came running towards them, wand scything through the air.

“Avada –” A loud crack echoed through the air as Pansy and Ginny disappeared, never to hear if Travers completed his curse.

The two girls collapsed onto Pansy’s bed, the thick queen-sized mattress mercifully cushioning some of the blow. Pansy staggered to her feet, gasping for air. Ginny was still in a state of semi-consciousness, and bleeding heavily from a cut above her eye, but Pansy had managed to apparate both of them to her family home in Yorkshire without getting either of them splinched. What now? Pansy thought, frantically searching for an answer. “Kibley!” She called out. The Parkinson House Elf appeared in an instant with a soft pop.

The diminutive house-elf, clad in a perfectly tailored tea towel adorned with the Parkinson family crest, blinked up at her with wide, alarmed eyes. “Mistress Pansy, what has happened? Why is there—” Kibley’s gaze flickered to Ginny, unconscious and bleeding on the bed, and he let out a startled squeak.

“No questions, Kibley,” Pansy snapped, her voice sharp but trembling. “Weasley is injured, and I need you to fetch the first aid kit. Now.”

Kibley gave a hasty bow, disappearing with another soft pop. Pansy turned back to Ginny, her hands hovering awkwardly as she tried to decide what to do. Blood from the cut above Ginny’s eye trickled down her temple, staining the crisp white sheets beneath her. Pansy cursed under her breath, grabbing a silk handkerchief from her bedside table and pressing it gently to the wound.

Ginny groaned, her head lolling to the side. “Parkinson… where are we?” she mumbled, her voice weak but gaining clarity.

“My home,” Pansy replied, her tone clipped as she worked to staunch the bleeding. “Foxglove Grange, in North Yorkshire. Don’t try to move.”

Ginny’s eyes fluttered open, squinting against the light of the ornate chandelier overhead. She let out a faint, disbelieving laugh. “You… you apparated us?”

“Yes, and I didn’t splinch us, so maybe thank me later,” Pansy shot back, her irritation masking her lingering panic. “Now stop talking and let me handle this.”

Another pop signalled Kibley’s return, the house-elf holding a polished wooden box nearly as big as himself. He set it down on the bed with a bow, his ears twitching nervously. “Kibley has brought the first aid kit, Mistress Pansy.”

“Good,” Pansy said briskly, flipping open the box. Inside were neatly arranged potions, bandages, and vials of various healing salves. She pulled out a small bottle labelled Essence of Dittany and a clean cloth. “Kibley, go and make tea please. Lots of tea.”

“Yes, Mistress,” Kibley squeaked, vanishing once again.

Pansy turned her attention back to Ginny, whose gaze had sharpened slightly. “Stay still,” she instructed, carefully dabbing the cloth with a few drops of the Dittany. The faint sizzle of the potion working its magic made Ginny wince, but the bleeding stopped almost immediately, the wound knitting itself closed. Deciding she needed Ginny alert and awake in quick time, she pulled a small vial of bright green liquid from the first aid box. Ginny, still woozy, eyed her suspiciously. “Down this,” Pansy instructed, uncorking the bottle and pressing it into Ginny’s hands. “It’s Wiggenweld Potion, I’m not trying to poison you.”

Unenthusiastically, Ginny drained the contents of the vial and grimaced at the sharp taste. Her eyes swam back into focus. “Thanks,” Ginny muttered grudgingly, her voice steadier now.

“Don’t mention it,” Pansy replied, her hands still shaking as she packed the remaining supplies back into the kit. “You need to get a message to Potter right away. Travers and Selwyn are in Hogsmeade. They tried to kill you, they want Potter, Weasley, Granger, and Longbottom too. We apparated from just outside Bingle and Blatch.”

Ginny nodded and pulled out her wand and, rather strangely, a Galleon. She quickly passed her wand over the gold coin and then cast a Patronus charm, repeating what Pansy had just told her and sending a rather beautiful horse galloping out of Pansy’s bedroom window.

“What’s with the coin?” Pansy asked, curiosity getting the better of her.

“Hermione’s Galleons,” Ginny replied, “it’s how the DA used to schedule our meetings. A few people still carry them in case we need to get a message out.” She held up the coin to Pansy, showing her along the edge where Gringotts usually stamped the serial number of the coin. Pansy took the coin and read the message Ginny had written.

DTH EATS IN HGSMDE!

“That’s genius,” Pansy said, her heart filling with admiration for Hermione’s spell work. Unfortunately, Ginny had used the coin as a distraction and when Pansy looked up, Ginny’s wand was inches from her nose.

“Now, tell me how you knew there were Death Eaters in Hogsmeade and how you knew they would come after me.”

“I was in Tomes and Scrolls, I overheard whispers from behind the bookshelf I was browsing. Travers worked for my father, I recognized him fairly quickly. I don’t know Selwyn, but his name was mentioned. Travers was pissed that Harry Potter hadn’t shown up, Selwyn suggested it would be easier to pick off the Golden Trio one at a time, Travers agreed and decided you and Longbottom should get it too.”

“But Ron and Hermione aren’t in Hogsmeade,” Ginny said, her eyes narrowing.

“I know,” Pansy replied, “they’ve snuck off to London. Granger told me last night. So, with Potter, Weasley, and Granger out, it just left you and Longbottom. I didn’t know if he would be in the village today or not, and you are much easier to spot. I was trying to warn you when I found you and then Travers blew up half the bloody street.”

“Seems a little convenient to me Parkinson.”

“Well, I think its decidedly inconvenient seeing as I nearly got killed saving your ungrateful ass,” the tip of Ginny’s wand glowed red, but before any curses were cast, Kibley returned, groaning under the weight of a lavish tea tray. Seeing a wand pointed in Pansy’s face he set the tray down with a clatter and leapt through the air onto Ginny.

“You will not harm Mistress Parkinson in her own home!” he cried, pounding his little fists into any part of Ginny he could reach. Pansy let this go on for a few seconds before ordering the elf to stop. Ginny looked murderously at Pansy, then at Kibley, then at Pansy again.

“Kibley, enough!” Pansy barked, pulling the house-elf back by the scruff of his tea towel. “I appreciate the enthusiasm, but Weasley is a guest—even if she’s being an absolutely terrible one. You may leave us, and you will not speak to another living soul about what happened here today.”

The house-elf scowled but obeyed, bowing stiffly before vanishing with a pop. Ginny straightened, her face still flushed with anger, though her wand remained lowered.

“A guest?” Ginny scoffed, brushing herself off. “You dragged me here, Parkinson.”

“And saved your life in the process,” Pansy snapped. “I didn’t have to stick my neck out for you, but I did. So maybe show a little gratitude instead of hexing me.”

Ginny’s lips pressed into a thin line. She couldn’t argue with that, no matter how much she wanted to. “Fine,” she said grudgingly, tucking her wand back into her pocket. “But I still don’t trust you.”

“Trust me?” Pansy snorted, pouring herself a cup of tea with exaggerated calm. “I don’t trust you either, Weasley. But believe me, I’ve got bigger things to worry about than your opinion of me.”

Ginny crossed her arms, glaring at Pansy as she took a slow sip of tea. “You still haven’t explained why you helped me.”

Pansy set her cup down with a sharp clink. “Because I’m not a Death Eater, Weasley and believe it or not, I don’t want to see you or anyone else picked off by what’s left of them. Do you think I’m thrilled about risking my life for you? I promise you I’m not, but I overheard them plotting, and I couldn’t just walk away.”

Ginny studied her for a long moment, her expression softening slightly. “You’re serious.”

“Yes,” Pansy said flatly. “Merlin, Weasley, do you think I’d drag you here and patch you up just for fun? Use your head.”

Ginny let out a reluctant sigh, dropping into a nearby chair. “Alright. You’ve made your point.”

“Good,” Pansy said, though her tone lacked its usual sharpness. “Now drink your tea. You look like you’re about to pass out again.”

Ginny eyed the teapot suspiciously before pouring herself a cup. “This doesn’t mean I like you.”

“Trust me, the feeling’s mutual,” Pansy replied, though there was no malice in her tone. “But we’ve got bigger problems.”

Ginny took a tentative sip of tea, her brow furrowing. “Travers and Selwyn.”

Pansy nodded, her expression grim. “They won’t stop with you. If they’ve gone this far, they’ll keep pushing until someone stops them. I managed to stun Selwyn, but Travers can Rennervate him quickly enough.”

“Then it’s a good job we warned Harry,” Ginny said, setting her cup down. “He’ll know what to do.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Pansy said, leaning back against the bedpost. “But in the meantime, you’re staying here. If they’re still out there, you’re not going anywhere until we’re sure it’s safe.”

Ginny opened her mouth to argue but closed it again. She looked around the room, admiring, or perhaps looking disdainfully at the opulent surroundings. “So, this is Parkinson Manor?”

“Foxglove Grange,” Pansy corrected, rolling her eyes.

“Oh well that makes you sound like much less of a toff,” Ginny said sharply, “really in touch with the common folk.”

“Oh, I’m sorry for having more than two Galleons to rub together,” Pansy snapped, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Shall I apologise for my diamond jewellery and silk nightgown while I’m at it? Maybe you can knit me a Weasley jumper to help me blend in amongst the common folk.”

Ginny’s cheeks flushed, and her eyes narrowed dangerously. “You might be rolling in gold, Parkinson, but it clearly hasn’t bought you an ounce of class.”

“And you’ve got so much class, slinging hexes around and assuming the worst of someone who just saved your life,” Pansy shot back. “Very sophisticated of you.”

Ginny stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. “You’re impossible.”

“Funny,” Pansy said, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “I was just about to say the same about you.”

The tension between them crackled like static, neither girl willing to back down. For a moment, it seemed like another shouting match was inevitable, but their impending argument was halted when a silver stag burst through the window.

Hogsmeade is secure, the stag spoke in Harry Potter’s voice, Selwyn arrested, Travers on the run, extra guards in place. All students accounted for with the exception of Pansy Parkinson, there’s a team searching for her now. Your Mum demands us all at the Burrow. See you soon.

Ginny’s face lit up at the sound of Harry’s voice and for the moment, the tension between them was diffused. “Parkinson, is your big fancy mansion connected to the Floo network?”

“Of course it is, in the drawing room on the East wing…” Pansy stopped mid-sentence, sensing a mocking coming. “This way.” She said pointedly, ushering Ginny out of her bedroom and down a grand marble staircase towards the smaller of Foxglove’s drawing rooms. The room hadn’t been touched in months, but Kibley had kept everything in good order, and the little golden box in which the Floo Powder was kept was filled to the brim.

“Merlin even your Floo Powder is poncy,” Ginny said, crouching into the fireplace and turning to look back at Pansy, “well get in then.”

“You’re taking me with you?”

“Well, you are missing,” replied Ginny, “technically I’m finding you for the Aurors. Unless of course my home isn’t up to your standards, in which case, you can stay missing for all I care.”

“Oh, you’re my hero, honestly.” Pansy said sarcastically, stepping into the fireplace. Ginny lit a small fire beneath their feet, grasped Pansy’s arm, and threw a handful of Floo Powder down.

“The Burrow!”

The world spun in a swirl of green flames, and Pansy had to squeeze her eyes shut to keep from getting dizzy. Floo travel was efficient, but she’d never quite gotten used to the disorienting sensation of tumbling through fireplaces. Moments later, they were spat out into a cozy, cluttered room that smelled faintly of wood smoke and baked goods.

The Burrow.

Pansy brushed soot off her robes, her eyes adjusting to the warm, golden glow of the Weasley family’s home. It was exactly as she’d imagined it—mismatched furniture, books stacked haphazardly on every available shelf with titles like Enchantment in Baking and Charm Your Own Cheese. The entire house seemed to sag to one side, undoubtedly being held up by magic. Pots and pans scrubbed themselves clean in the large kitchen sink, and a pair of knitting needles floated above an armchair, clicking away as they knitted a large blanket. Pansy could smell freshly made soup simmering away on the stove and hear birds chirping in the trees outside. The entire place had an air of chaos that somehow felt inviting. It was nothing like Foxglove Grange, but for a fleeting moment, she envied the comfort and love that seemed to permeate the place.

Ginny had immediately flung herself into the arms of the waiting Harry Potter, who had lifted the girl into the air, relief washing over his face. He set her down gently and regarded her for a moment, “I’m so glad you’re safe,” he said wearily, “and I guess we can call off the search for Parkinson now too.” He added, glancing in Pansy’s direction. Pansy bristled slightly under Harry’s gaze, brushing a stray strand of hair out of her face.

“No need to sound so disappointed, Potter,” she said dryly.

“I’ll be honest,” said Ginny in a defeated sort of voice, “I wouldn’t be standing here if not for Parkinson. Travers and Selwyn blew up half the street, knocked me out. Parkinson apparated us out of Hogsmeade and patched me up so I could get a message to you.”

“Then I’m glad you were there,” Potter said, placing a hand on Pansy’s shoulder, “thank you.” Being thanked by the saviour of the world made Pansy’s insides twist uncomfortably. A few short months ago Pansy was willing to give the man in front of her over to the Dark Lord, now she was stood in his girlfriend’s kitchen having apparated her, semi-conscious, across half the length of Britain, to escape the Dark Lord’s followers.

Pansy barely resisted the urge to shrug off Potter’s hand, but the weight of his gratitude sat awkwardly between them. She wasn’t used to this. She wasn’t used to any of this. The world had flipped upside down since the war, and somehow she kept finding herself in places she never would have imagined—like the bloody Burrow, surrounded by people who should have been her enemies but were now looking at her like she’d done something good. Thankfully, the awkward tension was broken by the arrival of a woman she presumed must be Weasley’s mother.

“Oh, thank goodness!” she cried, launching herself at Ginny and practically knocking Harry out of the way, “I saw your hand on the clock go to Mortal Peril and I was so frightened, I thought something must be happening up at the castle, then I got a Patronus from Harry saying there was Death Eaters in Hogsmeade!”

“I’m fine Mum,” Ginny groaned, suffocating under the hug from her mother.

“Oh, and you dear,” Mrs Weasley turned her attention to Pansy, crushing her with a hug of her own and then checking the cuts and abrasions on Pansy’s face and arms, “you’ve been in the wars too it seems. Not to worry, we’ll get you patched up.”

“Oh, don’t worry about me,” Pansy breathed. She’d just been fussed over more in the last ten seconds than she had in her entire life previously, and she felt as though she might spontaneously combust right there in the heart of the Burrow.

“Nonsense,” Mrs Weasley snapped, summoning a small tub of paste from the mantlepiece and dabbing it on Pansy’s cuts and bruises. A cool, tingling sensation ran down Pansy’s arms, and her skin began to quickly return to its original and unblemished state. “Now, I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Molly, I’m Ginny’s mother.”

“Pansy Parkinson,” Pansy supplied. Molly instantly became tense, and recognition flashed across the older woman’s eyes. Her lips tightened into a thin smile.

“It’s lovely to meet you Pansy,” Mrs Weasley responded, though her caring, motherly tone had been replaced with one of forced politeness.

“And you,” Pansy replied, “Thank you for welcoming me into your home.” The tension was back in the air again, and Pansy felt like any moment now she would be swiftly told that she wasn’t welcome in the Weasley family home at all.

“It was thanks to Pansy I made it out safely Mum,” Ginny supplied, though again her tone conveyed that this was something she regretted having to admit to again, “I got knocked out by the two Death Eaters. Pansy apparated us to her home and patched me up so I could send word to Harry.”

“Well, it seems I owe you a great debt Pansy,” Mrs Weasley said softly, “thank you for saving my daughter.”

“She would have done the same for me,” Pansy said, but the words felt hollow. Would she? Pansy wondered. A few weeks ago, Pansy certainly wouldn’t have risked her life to save Ginny Weasley, but Gryffindors all seem to have a saving people thing. Would Ginny have spared Pansy? The Floo roared into life once again, mercifully offering a reprieve from any further discussion. Ron, Hermione, and George – or was it Fred? – stepped out into the rapidly crowding kitchen. Ron locked eyes with Pansy and shot her a murderous look, Hermione on the other hand looked as bewildered at seeing Pansy Parkinson in the Burrow as Pansy felt being there.

“What’s she doing here?” Ron spat.

“Pansy saved your sisters life this afternoon whilst you were off gallivanting round London instead of Hogsmeade,” said Mrs Weasley pointedly. Ron turned an ugly shade of red and looked quizzically between Ginny and Mrs Weasley. Ginny rolled her eyes and launched into another reluctant retelling of their afternoon whilst Mrs Weasley made them all wash up for dinner, insisting that everyone would be staying as she began summoning pots and pans, and directing knives to begin chopping vegetables.

Dinner at the Burrow was unlike anything Pansy had ever experienced. The Parkinson family dined in near silence, the only sounds the clinking of cutlery against fine China and the occasional murmur of polite conversation. Here, the kitchen was a whirlwind of noise and motion—laughter, bickering, and the smell of roasting chicken and fresh bread filling the air.

Pansy found herself squeezed between George - definitely George. She’d finally figured that out when she spotted an Order of Merlin, First Class, displayed above the fireplace with the inscription Awarded Posthumously to Fred Weasley for outstanding bravery during the Battle of Hogwarts on May 2^nd, 1998 - and Hermione, who was still giving her occasional puzzled glances, like she couldn’t quite believe Pansy was actually there.

Ron had spent the entire meal avoiding her gaze, which suited Pansy just fine. Ginny, for her part, mostly ignored her too, aside from the occasional muttered remark. The only ones who seemed comfortable with her presence were Harry, who was too exhausted to care, and Mrs. Weasley, who had decided that since Pansy had saved her daughter’s life, she was at least entitled to a decent meal.

Dinner passed in a strange haze of awkwardness and warmth, a contradiction that Pansy wasn’t sure she could reconcile. It was an odd thing, being welcomed—however begrudgingly—into the home of people she had spent years mocking and antagonizing. She didn’t belong here, and yet, she found herself drawn in by the chaotic, easy familiarity that the Weasleys shared, their loud, messy, unrestrained affection.

The conversation moved around her, flowing effortlessly from topic to topic. Harry asked about Hogsmeade, George cracked a joke at Ron’s expense, Ginny and Hermione exchanged knowing glances that Pansy didn’t quite understand. It was normal, natural. The kind of thing she had never experienced at the Parkinson dining table, where conversations were measured and deliberate, every word carefully chosen to avoid scandal or offense.

Hermione—who had been suspiciously silent up until now—cleared her throat. “How did you know where to find Ginny?” she asked, looking at Pansy with that sharp, analytical gaze of hers.

“I didn’t really,” Pansy replied, setting down her knife and fork, “I tailed the two Death Eaters from Tomes and Scrolls until they split up, and I spotted her just before Travers did.”

“Pity we didn’t get him too,” Harry said sourly, “he must’ve fled right after you escaped, didn’t bother scooping up his mate. By the time we arrived the students had all been sent back to Hogsmeade and the local patrol was mopping up the village. We found Selwyn lying in a heap down one of the back alleys and hauled him off to the Ministry.”

“Do you think he recognised me?” Pansy said, panic creeping into her voice.

“If he did, he didn’t tell us. He said he’d seen Ginny being dragged up the street by some girl and then took a stunner to the chest. Of course, he denies being there to kill anyone, and that he was ever willingly a Death Eater. The usual bollocks.”

“Why does it matter?” George interrupted, “afraid your old pals will come after you if they find out you helped a Weasley? Perish the thought.”

“George!” Mrs Weasley admonished. Pansy waved her off before she could build up a head of steam.

“He’s right,” Pansy sighed, “Travers isn’t the only Death Eater on a first-name basis with my father. I don’t want any of you to get hurt, but I don’t want to become a target either, and if word reaches my father about this…” Silence echoed across the room for what felt like an eternity, broken only the gentle scraping of cutlery on China. Pansy didn’t finish her sentence, but she didn’t have to. The weight of it was clear enough. If her father found out she had helped a Weasley—saved one, even—there would be consequences. Severe ones.

Mrs. Weasley was the first to break the silence. “Well, you’re under my roof for now,” she said firmly, reaching for the serving dish and dishing more potatoes onto Pansy’s plate as if that alone would solve everything. “And as long as you’re here, you’re safe.”

Pansy wasn’t sure how to respond to that. No one had ever really promised her safety before, at least not without a price.

Hermione, who had been watching her closely, spoke next. “We won’t let anything happen to you.” The certainty in her voice made Pansy’s stomach twist uncomfortably. As if Hermione Granger had the power to promise such a thing.

“That’s sweet, Granger,” she said, forcing her usual smirk back into place. “But I can take care of myself.”

Ron scoffed loudly. “Yeah, clearly.”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “Tell that to your sister. She’d be splattered all over the cobbles if I hadn’t stepped in.”

“Alright, that’s enough,” Mrs. Weasley snapped, shooting Ron a warning glare, “all this snipping at each other isn’t helping anyone. Pansy, if you ever are in danger you can come straight here.”

“Thank you Mrs Weasley, but I couldn’t possibly bring any more trouble to your doorstep,” Pansy replied, drawing a trio of snorts from Ginny, Ron, and George.

“Hah,” George laughed, “Mum’s been running our house like a refugee shelter since Fred, Ron, and I broke Harry out of his Aunt and Uncle’s house in his 2^nd year.” Mrs Weasley lips tightened into a thin smile, while Harry sat looking sheepish.

“I wonder if Dad’s car still runs about in the Forbidden Forest,” Ron said, shovelling a potato into his mouth as he did so. Merlin, Pansy thought, how can Hermione stand him?

“It’s probably been destroyed by now,” Hermione replied, “between Grawp, the Centaurs, the Acromantula’s.”

“Yes, and none too soon,” said Mrs Weasley through gritted teeth. Clearly there was a backstory Pansy wasn’t privy to about this car. Before she could ask about it, the Floo glowed a bright green, filling the room with light and noise, and making most at the table jump. A tall, thin man with glasses and the remnants of a head of the same shocking red hair possessed by the other Weasley’s stepped out and brushed soot from his threadbare robes.

“Evening Weasley’s,” he called across the table cheerily.

“Evening,” the group chorused back, including Harry and Hermione. Ginny’s father leant down to give his wife a kiss, and then rounded on Ginny, wrapping her into a tight hug, and whispering in her ear.

“I’ve saved you a plate on the stove dear,” Mrs Weasley said, “Oh, and Arthur this is Pansy Parkinson, she saved our daughter from those Death Eaters this afternoon and stunned Selwyn for Harry to scoop up afterwards.”

Pansy produced a weak smile and offered her hand, which was shook enthusiastically by Arthur Weasley. “I can’t thank you enough Pansy, and well done on stunning Selwyn, that’s no easy feat. The Ministry’s finished tidying up the mess in Hogsmeade, the merchant from the stall is in a bad way in St. Mungo’s, but otherwise nobody else was caught in the crossfire.”

“Will the merchant be ok?”

“Could go either way unfortunately, he caught the worst of the blasting curse. Now, I’ve had a word with Professor McGonagall, and I reckon you’ve got time for pudding, and then she’ll really be wanting you girls back at the castle.”

Mrs. Weasley gave a brisk nod and flicked her wand, sending dishes floating toward the sink while a treacle tart settled itself neatly in the centre of the table. “Right then, eat up,” she instructed. “Arthur, sit down before you wear yourself out, dear.”

Pansy barely heard her. Her stomach twisted uncomfortably at the thought of the merchant—just some ordinary wizard trying to sell sweets to schoolchildren—now fighting for his life because she hadn’t been fast enough. Her fingers curled in her lap, pressing into the fabric of her robes.

Arthur must have noticed her expression because he gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “You did very well, Pansy. You saved my daughter and apparated her hundreds of miles to safety, and that’s no small thing.”

She forced herself to nod, but she didn’t quite believe it.

Ginny, meanwhile, had already dug into her dessert, as though their entire day hadn’t been completely derailed by an assassination attempt. Pansy stared at her for a moment before reluctantly picking up her fork. She had no appetite, but McGonagall wanted them back soon, and she wasn’t going to let herself be the only one sitting at the table looking miserable.

The conversation around them picked up again—Arthur discussing the Auror response with Harry, George cracking a joke about opening a Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes branch inside the Ministry just to “liven the place up”—and for the first time all evening, Pansy let herself settle, just a little. It was bizarre, this warmth, this ease. She didn’t belong here, and yet, for a fleeting moment, she felt like she did.

When pudding was finished, Mrs. Weasley clapped her hands together. “Right, no more dawdling. You three, get your cloaks. I expect Hogwarts wants you back.” Ginny rolled her eyes but didn’t argue, getting to her feet. Pansy followed suit, ignoring Ron’s lingering glare and Hermione’s unreadable expression as she too made herself ready to leave.

“Thank you for dinner, Mrs. Weasley,” Pansy said, feeling the need to be polite.

Mrs. Weasley studied her for a moment, then nodded. “Anytime, dear.”

Throwing her cloak around her shoulders, Pansy uttered a weak goodbye to everyone and then grabbed a handful of green Floor Powder and threw it into the fireplace, and just like that, Pansy Parkinson had somehow survived a night in the Burrow.

Chapter Text

Chapter 13

The moment Hermione and Ron stepped out of the Three Broomsticks, they were met with the telltale pop of a camera flashing in their direction.

“Oi, Hermione! Ron! Over here!”

A reporter surged forward, quill poised, but Ron grabbed Hermione’s hand and yanked her toward the shadowed side of the pub. “Not today,” he muttered under his breath, weaving through the bust crowd of students enjoying Hogsmeade.

Hermione ducked her head, pulling up her scarf to obscure her face. She hated this. The constant scrutiny, the invasive questions. It was always the same: How does it feel to be back at Hogwarts? How does it feel to be a hero? How does it feel to be Harry Potter’s best friend? As if she was some extension of his legacy rather than a person in her own right.

The crisp autumn air nipped at Hermione’s cheeks as she pulled her cloak tighter around her, keeping her head down. The narrow passageway behind the Hog’s Head was quiet save for the occasional gust of wind rustling through the leaves. Ron was already a few paces ahead, glancing back at her impatiently.

“Come on,” he muttered, checking over his shoulder for the third time in the last minute. “I swear, if any of those bloody reporters catch wind of this, we’ll have Skeeter writing about what we ordered for lunch tomorrow.”

Hermione exhaled sharply but didn’t argue. The thought of another headline about her—or worse, about them—made her skin crawl. She was still reeling from the last Daily Prophet article that had speculated, in nauseating detail, whether she and Ron were simply on again, off again post-war.

“I’m coming,” she said, stepping up beside him.

Aberforth had been begrudgingly accommodating when Ron had asked for discreet use of the Floo network. He hadn’t asked any questions, just jerked his head toward the fireplace and told them to “be quick about it.”

“You ready?” Ron asked, holding out the pouch of Floo powder.

Hermione hesitated for half a second, then reached forward and grabbed a handful. “The Leaky Cauldron,” she said clearly, tossing the powder into the flames and stepping into the emerald glow. The familiar tug of Floo travel yanked her forward, the world spinning in a blur of green light before she tumbled out into a dimly lit corner of the Leaky Cauldron.

She barely had time to steady herself before Ron stumbled out after her, brushing soot from his jumper. “Well,” he said, flashing her a grin, “we made it. No reporters after us.”

Hermione forced a smile in return. “Where to first?” she asked, though she already knew the answer.

“Lunch,” Ron said, reaching for her hand. “I know a great little spot near Charing Cross. Decent food, no weird stares. Harry and I love Muggle London.”

She let him take her hand, let him lead her through the passage into Muggle London. She tried to tell herself this was what she wanted—a normal day, just the two of them, away from prying eyes. Away from her.

And yet, as they stepped into the bustling London streets, weaving between Muggles who had no idea who they were, Hermione couldn't shake the nagging feeling that this wasn't quite right. That something was missing. That someone else had taken up too much space in her thoughts.

They wandered through the streets hand in hand like a normal couple for the first time ever, no camera flashes blinding them, no stupid questions, and even with Pansy Parkinson tugging at the corners of her mind, Hermione quite enjoyed the freedom she felt from the magical world.

As they strolled through the heart of London, Hermione focused on the feeling of Ron’s warm fingers laced through hers. She wanted to revel in the anonymity, in the simple pleasure of walking down a street where no one knew who they were. Here, they weren’t war heroes or The Golden Trio—they were just two young people enjoying a day out.

Ron led them toward a small café nestled between a bookshop and a flower stall, its windows fogged from the warmth inside. It was charming, quaint, the kind of place Hermione might have picked herself had she been in the mood for something romantic.

But as she sat across from Ron, watching him scan the menu with a faintly furrowed brow, she felt a strange sort of detachment settle over her.

“This place is great,” Ron said, setting down the menu. “Harry and I found it by accident one day—best chips I’ve ever had.”

Hermione smiled, but it felt forced. “It’s nice,” she agreed, glancing down at her own menu.

The conversation was easy enough—Ron filled the silence with talk of his training, of the latest chaos he and Harry had gotten themselves into at work, of George’s new experimental Wheezes that had sent Lee Jordan into St. Mungo’s for three hours. Hermione listened, nodded, even laughed in the right places, but it all felt... hollow.

She wanted to enjoy this. She wanted to feel the way she used to around Ron—to be swept up in the comfort of familiarity, in the safety of a relationship that had been years in the making.

But all she could think about was how none of it set her heart racing. How none of it made her ache the way one smirk from Pansy Parkinson did. Hermione took a sip of her tea, the warmth doing little to dispel the cold knot in her stomach. This is ridiculous, she scolded herself. You’re here with Ron. Focus on Ron.

And she tried.

She let him brush his knee against hers beneath the table. Let him hold her hand again as they wandered aimlessly through the streets after their meal, pausing by a bakery where he bought them both pastries and grinned when she got a bit of icing on her nose.

It was easy. Simple. Everything a relationship should be. So why did it feel like she was forcing it?

Ron nudged her playfully as they walked past a red double-decker bus. “You alright? You’ve been a bit quiet.”

Hermione snapped out of her thoughts, forcing another smile. “Just thinking,” she said, squeezing his hand in reassurance.

“About what?”

About how I kissed Pansy Parkinson Hermione thought. About how I can’t stop thinking about her. About how I don’t think this—us—is working anymore because I betrayed you and kissed Pansy Parkinson. Because I want to kiss Pansy Parkinson again, you know, just to make sure that kissing Pansy Parkinson was a terrible idea. Oh, and did I mention that I kissed Pansy Parkinson? Yes, that Pansy Parkinson. I know she tried to hand over your best mate to Voldemort, and that she’s spent seven years being a horrible bitch, but she tastes like mint and citrus, and she smells like lavender and really, really expensive perfume. How do I know? Oh, because I kissed Pansy Parkinson and then I slept in her bed!

“Just... school stuff,” she lied. “McGonagall’s been on at me about the memorial project.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “Of course she has. That woman needs to learn how to let people breathe.”

Hermione hummed in agreement, thankful for the change in topic. She wasn’t ready to untangle the mess in her head just yet. She just needed to try a little harder. To remind herself why she had fought so hard for this in the first place.

And so, when Ron pulled her into a side street and grinned mischievously, saying, “Fancy seeing my flat? We’ve got it all sorted now, even got a telly,” she nodded.

“Yes,” she said, letting him Apparate them away. “I’d like that.”

Maybe if she just kept trying, the spark she was looking for would finally appear.

The flat was small but comfortable, tucked away in a quiet corner of London where no one would think to look for two young war heroes trying to figure out what life after Voldemort was supposed to be. The moment they stepped inside, Hermione was struck by how lived in it felt. A pair of trainers were haphazardly kicked under the coffee table, a few empty takeaway containers littered the kitchen counter, and the couch had a well-worn dip in the middle, evidence of many long nights spent lounging in front of the television.

“Not bad, right?” Ron said, tossing his wand onto the counter and grinning. “It’s a bit messy—Harry’s worse than me, believe it or not—but it’s home.”

Hermione smiled politely, walking further into the space. It wasn’t bad. It was actually quite nice. But something about it felt... incomplete.

She toed off her shoes and wandered toward the bookshelves, scanning the familiar titles—Quidditch Through the Ages, Defensive Magic for the Practical Wizard, and a few old Hogwarts textbooks that had clearly been shoved onto the shelf with little care. She reached for one of the books, running her fingers over the spine, but Ron’s arms looped around her waist before she could pull it out.

“Oi,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the side of her neck, “you’re thinking again.”

Hermione let out a breathy laugh, tilting her head slightly. “I always think, Ron.”

“Yeah, but not about me,” he teased, nudging her playfully. He turned her around in his arms, his smile softening. “We finally get some time alone, no reporters, no Auror training, no school... just us.”

She swallowed. “I know.”

He leaned down, kissing her slowly, his hands sliding up to cup her face. Hermione let herself melt into it, let herself pretend—for just a moment—that this was everything she wanted. That this was enough. That the unfamiliar pull in her chest was simply the result of lingering nerves, not the ghost of someone else’s lips, someone else’s hands, someone else’s smirk teasing at the edges of her mind.

Ron’s fingers tangled in her hair, tugging gently, and Hermione responded on instinct, deepening the kiss, forcing herself to feel something. This was right. This was what she was supposed to want. So why did it feel so wrong? She shut her eyes tighter, willing the doubts away. She loved Ron. She wanted this. She just had to let herself.

She broke the kiss and looked up at Ron with a smile. “I miss you a lot Hermione,” Ron said seriously, his eyes locked on hers.

“I know,” she replied, laying her head on his chest. “I miss both of you terribly up at Hogwarts. I hate all the Golden Trio nonsense in the papers, but…”

“That’s who we are,” Ron said, finishing the thought for her. Hermione nodded.

“So, are you going to show me your room?” Ron grinned triumphantly, and Hermione thought he might actually be floating a few inches off the ground.

“Come on,” he said, leading her through the hallway to a room overlooking the canal at the back of the building.

Ron’s room was exactly what Hermione expected—lived-in, cluttered, but distinctly his. A mix of Gryffindor memorabilia, Quidditch posters, and a few half-folded bits of Auror paperwork scattered across his desk. There was a small bookshelf with a handful of books, most of them gifts from her over the years, their spines still stiff from lack of use. To Hermione’s surprise, Ron’s bed was made very neatly. It felt… comfortable. Familiar in a way that should have reassured her.

Instead, Hermione felt something else—something heavier.

She let Ron tug her forward, his excitement evident in the way he turned to her, hands lingering on her waist. “Told you it wasn’t bad, right?” he said, a little breathless.

Hermione hummed in response, reaching out to trace her fingers over the edge of his bookshelf. “No, it’s nice. It suits you.”

Ron grinned, stepping closer. “And now you’re here too.”

Hermione forced a smile. “Yes.”

He dipped his head, brushing his lips against hers again, more confident this time, less hesitant. She let herself sink into it, let herself push away the nagging thoughts creeping into her mind—the ones that whispered that this wasn’t what she wanted, that this wasn’t who she wanted.

She let him lead her backward until the backs of her knees hit the mattress, let him kiss her deeply as his fingers slid into her hair, let herself pretend that this was enough. That she could make it enough.

Maybe if she tried harder. Maybe if she let herself forget everything outside this room.

Maybe if she could erase the memory of another girl’s smirk, another girl’s sharp words, another girl’s lips pressing against hers in the heat of an argument. Maybe then, it would work.

Afterward, Hermione lay with her head on Ron’s chest, staring blankly at the ceiling. His arm was draped over her, his breathing deep and steady. He was already half-asleep, content, relaxed in a way that she wasn’t.

Her thoughts were racing, her stomach twisting with something she couldn’t quite name.

This was supposed to feel different.

She wanted it to feel different.

But as she lay there, tracing absent patterns against the sheets, all she could think about was the quiet hum of Pansy Parkinson’s laughter, the way she leaned in too close, the way she made Hermione’s pulse race for entirely different reasons.

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut.

Enough.

She was overthinking, as always. This was what she had wanted for years. This was what was supposed to happen. She just needed time.

But then—before she could talk herself down, before she could force her mind back into place—a soft silvery glow filled the room.

She sat up abruptly, the hair on the back of her neck standing on end.

A Patronus. A stag.

Her breath caught as Harry’s voice filled the space.

Death Eaters attacked Hogsmeade, seems Ginny was their target, but she escaped and alerted me. Selwyn arrested, Travers still on the run, extra guards in place. All students accounted for with the exception of Pansy Parkinson, we are searching for her now. Your Mum demands us all at the Burrow.

“Bugger,” Ron swore, leaping from the bed and pulling on his clothes, “this must’ve happened not long after we left. Hogsmeade is meant to have a round-the-clock patrol. Robards is gonna go nuts.”

Hermione barely heard him. Her mind was stuck on a single sentence.

"All students accounted for with the exception of Pansy Parkinson."

She swung her legs off the bed, barely registering the cool air against her skin as she grabbed for her clothes. Her heart was hammering in her chest, an unfamiliar panic curling in her stomach. Pansy was missing.

Pansy was missing.

She yanked on her jumper, her fingers trembling as she fumbled with the hem. It didn't make sense—where could Pansy have gone? Had she been taken? Had she fought back? Had she—

No. Stop. Stop.

She forced herself to breathe, forced herself to focus on what she knew. Ginny had been the target. That meant Ginny had been the one to sound the alarm.

That meant—

“Hermione?” Ron’s voice snapped her out of her thoughts. He was already dressed, his Auror training kicking in, his expression set in grim determination. “You alright?”

She nodded too quickly. “Yes. Yes, I just—Ginny, I need to know she’s okay.”

That much was true.

Ron ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “We’ll find out soon. Harry didn’t sound too worried for her. Come on, let’s go, we’ll Floo to the Burrow from the Leaky Cauldron.”

He took her hand, guiding her out of the room, but Hermione barely registered the warmth of his fingers against hers.

Because in the back of her mind, another thought had taken root.

Where the hell are you, Pansy?

It’s fine, she told herself. Ginny’s safe. Everyone else is accounted for. Pansy probably ran off somewhere and will turn up, sneering and making cutting remarks as usual.

But as she stepped into the fireplace beside Ron, gripping his hand as the green flames roared around them, she couldn’t shake the nagging thought in the back of her mind.

What if she didn’t run? What if something had happened to her?

And why did the idea of Pansy Parkinson actually being in danger make Hermione feel like she couldn’t breathe?

They arrived in the Burrow’s kitchen with a whirl of green flames, stumbling slightly on the uneven floor. The scent of fresh bread and something rich and savoury filled the air, but Hermione barely noticed. The room was already packed—Harry, Ginny, George, and Mrs. Weasley clustered near the table, talking in hushed voices. Ginny turned at the sound of their arrival, her face unreadable.

“What’s she doing here?” Ron spat. Hermione was bewildered. Shouldn’t Ron be glad Ginny was ok? It was only when she stepped out into the room properly did she realise he wasn’t talking about Ginny.

She was sitting stiffly in a chair furthest from the fireplace, her black work robes smudged with soot and a faint streak of dried blood on her temple. She looked utterly out of place in the Burrow’s warm, homely kitchen, like a glass ornament that had somehow ended up in a box of mismatched trinkets.

“Pansy saved your sisters life this afternoon whilst you were off gallivanting round London instead of Hogsmeade,” said Mrs Weasley pointedly.

Ron’s ears turned red, whether from embarrassment or anger, Hermione couldn’t tell. His mouth opened and closed a few times, but no words came out.

Pansy, for her part, didn’t look remotely interested in the argument about to unfold. She sat back in her chair, arms crossed, the very picture of practised, detached boredom, as though she hadn’t just risked her life to save Ginny Weasley.

“Well,” George said, breaking the silence with an exaggerated whistle. “Didn’t have this on my bingo card for today.”

Ginny shot him a glare, but her attention quickly returned to Hermione, her expression unreadable. Hermione, however, couldn’t focus on anything other than the girl sitting at the far end of the room.

She was alive. She was here. And for reasons Hermione couldn’t begin to fathom, the tight, anxious knot that had been sitting in her stomach since she’d heard Harry’s message finally began to ease.

“Are you alright?” Hermione found herself asking, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

Pansy’s gaze flicked to her, her expression unreadable. For a moment, she didn’t answer. Then, with the faintest smirk, she said, “Touched by your concern, Granger.”

Hermione scowled before she could stop herself, heat rising in her cheeks. This was the problem with Pansy—she could go from being a reckless, selfless hero to an absolute menace in the span of five seconds.

“I’m sure I’ll live,” Pansy added, her voice saccharine. “I know how devastated you would have been if something had happened to me.”

Hermione’s mouth snapped shut. The worst part was, Pansy wasn’t wrong. She would have been devastated and that was something Hermione wasn’t ready to confront.

Ron, still bristling, ignored Pansy entirely and turned to Ginny instead. “You should’ve told me first.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Ginny said, folding her arms. “Did you want me to send a Patronus while I was unconscious? Besides, I knew Harry was in the Ministry today, he’d get the real Aurors there quicker.”

“Alright, enough,” Mrs. Weasley interjected, looking exhausted. “The important thing is that Ginny is safe. Now, all of you go and get cleaned up for dinner, especially you two,” she continued pointing to Pansy and Ginny, “I don’t want blood dripping into the potatoes.” For a split-second Hermione saw Pansy’s façade falter. She wasn’t used to being in an environment like this.

Pansy hesitated, her expression shifting ever so slightly—so quick that Hermione might have missed it if she weren’t watching so closely. It wasn’t the usual sneer or well-placed smirk; it was something more fragile, something that made Hermione’s chest tighten inexplicably.

Then, just as quickly, Pansy masked it, rolling her eyes. “Well, we wouldn’t want that,” she drawled, rising from her chair with a deliberate stretch. “Come on then, Weasley, let’s go scrub off the evidence of our near demise. We wouldn’t want to offend the dinner table.”

Ginny made a scoffing noise but didn’t argue, pushing herself up from the chair with a slight wince. Hermione noticed Pansy flick a glance at her, barely perceptible, but still. Concern. Hidden beneath layers of sarcasm and bravado, but there, nonetheless.

She wasn’t sure why that observation unsettled her.

With Ginny and Pansy disappearing up the stairs, the tension in the room eased somewhat. Hermione exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, but it did little to quiet the storm inside her head.

As Hermione stepped into the fireplace and swapped the familiar sights and sounds of the Burrow for the familiar sights and sounds of Hogwarts, she surmised that this had been the strangest dinner at the Weasley’s she had ever been a part of. Pansy was clearly out of her comfort zone in a warm and loving environment, something that Hermione almost found endearing, if not a little sad. Despite their reluctance, the Weasley’s had been very welcoming to Pansy too. She wondered if there was a chance that bridges could be built between them after all. For now, though, any thoughts of that would have to wait.

She stumbled slightly as she stepped out of the Floo in McGonagall’s office, brushing stray soot from her robes. The familiar scent of parchment and polished wood filled the air, and the soft glow of candlelight flickered against the stone walls. The portraits of past headmasters and headmistresses eyed them curiously, though most pretended to be asleep. Dumbledore’s portrait twinkled at her over his half-moon spectacles, but Hermione barely had time to acknowledge it before McGonagall’s sharp voice cut through the quiet.

“Sit.” Hermione sat stiffly in a chair opposite Professor McGonagall’s desk awaiting the punishment she was about to receive with a mixture of shame and anxiety. The fireplace roared to life once again and Ginny stepped out with a grin on her face, a grin that was swiftly wiped off when she saw Professor McGonagall’s expression. She hurriedly took a seat next to Hermione without waiting for instructions to do so.

“Miss Weasley, it is nice to see you in such good spirits after your ordeal. You will be excused from any disciplinary action on account of the circumstances of your jaunt across the country today. I am well informed that you had little control over what happened to you,” the Headmistress said. “But in the future, Miss Weasley, I expect you to report to me should anything of this nature occur again. Am I clear?”

“Yes Professor,” Ginny replied evenly.

“Good, you may go. See Madame Pomfrey if you need, otherwise straight to bed.” Ginny nodded, smiled weakly at Hermione, and then excused herself from the room.

“As for you Miss Granger, you were neither attacked nor kidnapped, and yet, you returned from the Burrow instead of Hogsmeade, where you were supposed to be.”

Hermione swallowed. “Professor, I—”

“You snuck off to London in the middle of a school-sanctioned visit,” McGonagall interrupted, her lips pressed into a thin line. “Without permission. Without informing any of the staff. Do you have any idea how reckless that was?”

Hermione flinched. She had expected a reprimand, but the weight of McGonagall’s disappointment stung far worse than the detention she knew was coming.

“You may be a war hero, and a talented witch, and you may well be eighteen years old, but you are also a student at this school. As such, you are bound by its rules, and you operate under the constraints of my authority.” Hermione almost wilted under the weight of the intense shame she felt. She could barely look Professor McGonagall in the eye. “Fifty points will be taken from Gryffindor, and you will attend detention with Professor Flitwick every evening for the next two weeks. As a result of today’s events, future Hogsmeade visits are temporarily suspended for all students, but should they resume before Christmas you will not be permitted to leave the school grounds.”

“I understand Professor,” Hermione replied, trying to hold back tears.

McGonagall studied her for a long moment, her sharp eyes softening just slightly. “I do not give out these punishments lightly, Miss Granger,” she said, her tone losing some of its earlier severity. “I expect better from you. You have been through trials and tribulations far beyond that of your peers, but that does not give you license to flaunt the rules at your leisure.”

Hermione swallowed around the lump in her throat, nodding. “I understand, Professor. I—I’m sorry.”

McGonagall exhaled, adjusting her spectacles. “You will do well to learn from this.” Then, after another pause, she added, “See that you get some rest tonight. I expect to see significant progress on the memorial project soon.”

“Yes, Professor.”

McGonagall gave her a final nod before gesturing toward the door. “You are dismissed.”

Hermione rose from her chair, her legs feeling oddly weak as she moved toward the exit. She trudged through the corridors towards the eighth-year dorms with her feet feeling like lead weights. By the time Hermione reached the entrance to her room, exhaustion had fully settled into her bones. The evening had been relentless, filled with guilt, frustration, and a growing sense of unease she couldn’t quite shake. All she wanted now was to crawl into bed and lose herself in sleep, to forget about Death Eaters and punishments and—Merlin help her—Pansy Parkinson.

You can’t forget about someone when they are right on the other side of the door though, and when Hermione entered their room, Pansy was sat at her dresser running a brush through her hair.

“Did you get the works from McGonagall then or did she let her golden girl off?”

“Detention, banned from Hogsmeade, fifty points from Gryffindor.”

“Oh well, I’m sure you’ll save the day again soon and win them all back just in time for Gryffindor to win the House Cup. Isn’t that how it usually goes?” Hermione didn’t respond, tears welling up in her eyes once again. Pansy rose from her chair and placed a gentle hand on Hermione’s arm. “Oh, come on Granger! So, you miss out on a few Hogsmeade weekends and serve a few detentions. That’s not the end of the world is it? Besides, even if it were, you’d just save the world again anyway.”

Hermione forced herself to look up into Pansy’s eyes and found them full of genuine sympathy and concern. I’m being ridiculous, she thought, Pansy probably thinks I’m cracking up. Before she had really considered what she was doing, she stepped forward and wrapped Pansy into a tight hug. The girl stiffened instinctively but relaxed into the hug and wrapped her arms around Hermione in turn, pulling her close, and running a comforting hand through her hair.

Hermione inhaled the smell of Pansy’s expensive perfume deeply, unable to get enough of it, despite the fact she shouldn’t want to be anywhere near her. It was heady, intoxicating, and proof that Pansy Parkinson was alive, and safe, and real. Hermione felt the tension in her body begin to unwind just slightly as Pansy’s fingers traced soothing circles against her back. She wasn’t sure why she had done it—why she had closed the space between them, why she had needed this—but Merlin, she was getting tired of pretending she didn’t. “I was really worried about you.” Hermione admitted.

“Well, I was really worried about me for a moment too, but I made it out fine, and I even dragged Weasley with me so maybe she’ll get off my back for a bit.”

Hermione let out a quiet, breathy laugh against Pansy’s shoulder, though she wasn’t sure if it was out of relief or sheer exhaustion. “I wouldn’t count on that,” she murmured. “Ginny will just hate being in your debt.”

Hermione felt Pansy’s hand move gently through her hair again, slow, and absent, like she didn’t even realize she was doing it. It was soothing—too soothing. And when Pansy shifted slightly, Hermione suddenly became acutely aware of how close they were. Her breath caught as she realized that if she tilted her head just a fraction, her nose would brush against Pansy’s jaw, and from there she could tilt her head upwards and...

This was dangerous. This was foolish. This was Pansy Parkinson. This was what Hermione had explicitly made rules against, and yet, she didn’t pull away.

Pansy, for her part, didn’t seem in any rush to move either. The silence between them stretched, charged and fragile, like a held breath. Hermione swallowed hard, suddenly too aware of the warmth of Pansy’s body against hers, of the way her fingers had stilled in Hermione’s hair.

“You were really worried, weren’t you?” Pansy asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Hermione felt her heart lurch violently in her chest. She should say something dismissive, something sharp to cut through whatever was building between them. But all she could manage was a weak, “Yes.”

Pansy exhaled, the corner of her mouth quirking slightly. “Well, don’t get used to it, Granger. I don’t plan on making a habit of getting myself nearly killed.”

Hermione finally forced herself to pull away, though it took far more effort than it should have. The room felt colder without Pansy’s arms around her, and she immediately hated herself for thinking that.

“Good,” she said, clearing her throat as she stepped back, needing to put some distance between them. “Because I don’t think I could—” She cut herself off, shaking her head. “Never mind.”

Pansy watched her, her expression unreadable. Then, with a slow smirk, she said, “Go to bed, Granger.”

Hermione nodded stiffly, turning away, but as she climbed into her bed and pulled the covers up, her mind was still racing.

She had been worried about Pansy. Terrified, actually. More than she had any right to be, and if the way Pansy had held her just now meant anything… Pansy might have been just as terrified, too.

The following morning was not Hermione’s greatest day at Hogwarts ever. She wasn’t really fussed about winning the House Cup compared to when she was in her first year, but she wasn’t immune to the shame brought about by the whispers at breakfast because Gryffindor had suddenly lost fifty points from their hourglass, and it turned out that all of them had been taken away because of Hermione Granger. Much worse though, was the front-page article of the Daily Prophet.

DEATH IN HOGSMEADE!

By Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent

The village of Hogsmeade was shaken yesterday by a brazen attack reportedly led by fugitive Death Eaters Travers and Selwyn, writes Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent for The Daily Prophet. The attack—believed to be targeting members of Harry Potter’s inner circle—left an entire street in ruins, with several students injured and one local merchant dead from injuries sustained in the chaos.

The victim, whose name has yet to be released by the Ministry, owned and operated a small bakery stall in the heart of the village. According to witnesses, he was caught up in the initial attack when a powerful Blasting Curse ripped through the street, sending students and bystanders scrambling for cover. Despite efforts from emergency responders and St. Mungo’s Mediwizards, he succumbed to his injuries late last night.

Where Was the Chosen One?

Surprisingly, Harry Potter was not present in Hogsmeade at the time of the attack despite assumptions that he was a prime target. The Daily Prophet has received conflicting reports regarding his whereabouts, but sources close to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement suggest Potter was in fact inside the Auror Office at the Ministry of Magic on the day of the attack and was the first Auror – despite still being a trainee – to attend the scene and make an arrest. Predictably, Mr Potter was unavailable for comment.

The Target: Ginny Weasley?

Several sources claim the primary target of the attack was Ginny Weasley, only daughter of Ministry Official Arthur Weasley, and long-rumoured fiancée of Potter himself. Weasley was seen collapsing in the aftermath of the explosion, gravely injured, before an unknown individual spirited her away, taking out one of the attackers in the process. Miss Weasley’s current whereabouts remain unconfirmed, though sources within St. Mungo’s suggest she may have been smuggled into the hospital, where she is allegedly under round-the-clock guard. Harry Potter’s well-wishers will no doubt hope for Miss Weasley’s speedy recovery.

An Inside Job?

A more curious—and perhaps more sinister—development has emerged from reports at the scene. Pansy Parkinson, heiress to the Parkinson Mining Company fortune, and infamous sympathizer of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, was the only individual unaccounted for following the attack.

Parkinson, a known associate of many former Death Eaters, was confirmed to have signed out of Hogwarts for the Hogsmeade visit but did not return with the other students. Witnesses claim she was last seen in the village yet vanished entirely after the explosion.

A further connection raises eyebrows—Travers, one of the attack’s ringleaders, was a former employee of the Parkinson Mining Company. Could it be that Pansy Parkinson has used this connection to join the remnants of the Dark Lord’s followers?

Ministry officials have not confirmed whether Parkinson is a person of interest in the investigation, but speculation is already rife. Some believe that Parkinson, whose parents remain in Azkaban under charges of providing substantial funding for You-Know-Who’s regime, has provided intelligence on Potter’s associates.

Was Pansy Parkinson responsible for Ginny Weasley’s disappearance? Did she act alone—or was she merely following orders?

Dark Forces on the rise?

Meanwhile, many in the wizarding world are once again questioning whether the post-war peace is truly as stable as the Ministry would like us to believe. The attack raises serious concerns about security at Hogwarts and Hogsmeade, particularly as certain Death Eaters remain at large.

Minister for Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt has assured the public that a full investigation is underway and that additional security measures will be implemented to prevent future attacks. However, sceptics argue that this is not enough—and that the resurgence of Death Eater activity could signal darker times ahead.

Continued on Page 5

Hermione threw the paper down in disgust. Trust Rita Skeeter to try and whip up a panic and create several false narratives sure to grab public attention. A man had died, and he was but a cliff note in Skeeter’s work of fiction.

She had expected some kind of report on the attack—it had been a brazen assault in broad daylight, after all—but the sheer amount of misinformation in the article made her stomach turn. She could already hear the whispers in the Great Hall, the way people would be looking at Pansy.

Or worse, how Pansy would pretend she didn’t care, when Hermione knew full well that she did.

Her appetite gone, Hermione pushed her plate away and stole a glance towards the Slytherin table. Pansy was sitting with Daphne and Blaise, as usual, but even from across the room, Hermione could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands were clenched around the Prophet.

Blaise leaned in, speaking lowly to her, his expression unreadable. Daphne, on the other hand, looked distinctly amused, likely enjoying the spectacle of it all.

Pansy said something back, too quiet for Hermione to hear, before carelessly tossing the newspaper onto the table, as if it didn’t bother her. As if she wasn’t the centre of today’s scandal.

Hermione wasn’t fooled.

“Unbelievable,” Ginny muttered beside her, shaking her head. “The Prophet’s turning this into a big conspiracy now? And what’s this rubbish about me being Harry’s fiancée?”

“Well, of course they are,” Hermione snapped, her fingers tightening around her spoon. “They never let the truth get in the way of a good story. Oh, and I suppose it would be more tragic if Harry’s fiancée died at the hands of the Death Eaters when he wasn’t there to protect her. Girlfriend just doesn’t tug at heartstrings the same way.”

Ginny rolled her eyes exhaled sharply, rubbing her temples. “People are going to believe it, though. Not just the fiancée nonsense, but all of it, especially her little exposé on Parkinson.”

Hermione grimaced. She knew exactly how quickly public perception could turn. During their fifth year Ron and Hermione were among the small few who supported Harry and Dumbledore in spreading the news that Voldemort was indeed back. The Daily Prophet responded with several slander articles targeting Harry and the late Headmaster, making Harry’s public life exceedingly difficult. Skeeter herself had done a number on Hermione four years ago, making her out to be a gold digger, if not worse.

Now, with an article like this, she was sure to stir up trouble again. Pansy was already an outcast. This would only make it worse.

Ginny must have seen the way Hermione’s gaze kept flickering toward the Slytherin table, because she nudged her with her elbow. “You’re worried about her,” she observed.

“No,” Hermione said automatically, then hesitated. “I mean—” She sighed. “She doesn’t deserve this.”

“She saved my life,” Ginny said after a moment, her voice quiet. “I don’t like her, but she did, and I know what wonders Skeeter’s articles can do for a person. What can we do about it?”

“I could threaten to expose Rita Skeeter as an Animagus, it worked before, but I wouldn’t put it past her to have snuck into the records office and sorted that out.”

“Even if she hasn’t,” replied Ginny, “You can only use that one so many times before she does.”

“What if we’re just seen being friendly with her?”

“Oh Merlin Hermione, you aren’t trying to rope me into your fixing Pansy Parkinson crusade are you? I’d rather stand up at the front of the entire school and campaign for spew.”

“S.P.E.W,” Hermione corrected, “and you of all people should be a bit more friendly to Pansy after she saved your life, no?” Ginny didn’t respond right away but simply glared darkly at Hermione.

“I think,” Ginny said in a low voice so that only Hermione could hear, “that time Parkinson kissed you has messed up your brain Hermione. You spend a lot of time mooning over someone you used to hate, it’s worrying. You aren’t, you know, secretly going at it with her up in that eighth-year dorm?”

“Ginny!”

“Well, it would explain your fixation.”

“I don’t have a fixation,” Hermione lied, “and that theory doesn’t really hold up when I got in trouble for sneaking off to do exactly that with your brother yesterday, does it?”

“Ew!” Ginny exclaimed, spitting out her pumpkin juice. “Thanks for that image.”

“Any time. Now come on, we’ve got Hagrid’s class to get to.”

Ginny wiped her mouth with the back of her sleeve, still grimacing. “You’re actually making me miss the days when I thought you and Harry had some secret romance brewing.”

Hermione groaned, grabbing her bag. “Oh, don’t start with that nonsense again.”

Ginny smirked. “Fine, fine. Let’s go before Hagrid lets some giant beasts maul us as a practical demonstration.”

They left the Great Hall together, Hermione’s mind still buzzing with everything that had happened. The Prophet article, Pansy’s unreadable expression, Ginny’s pointed remarks—everything was stacking up, pressing against her like a weight she wasn’t ready to acknowledge.

Ginny elbowed her as they walked. “You know she won’t appreciate you going all ‘Hermione Granger, Defender of the Oppressed’ on her, right?”

“I’m not—” Hermione huffed. “I just don’t think she deserves to have her name dragged through the mud for something she didn’t do.”

Ginny gave her a knowing look but didn’t push further. “Right, well, let’s see if you still have the energy to fight Pansy Parkinson’s battles after an hour of wrangling whatever monstrosity Hagrid’s got lined up for us.”

Hermione bit her lip, trying to shake off the last of her lingering thoughts as they made their way toward the grounds. But even as they stepped into the crisp morning air, the conversation stuck with her.

She wasn’t fixated on Pansy Parkinson. She wasn’t. Was she?

Chapter Text

Chapter 14

Pansy Parkinson had learned long ago that the best way to handle whispers was to pretend she didn’t hear them. She entered the Great Hall with her head high, shoulders back, and her usual air of effortless confidence. But she wasn’t stupid. She could feel the weight of their stares, the quick, sharp glances as she passed, the barely muted murmurs behind hands and newspapers.

This time, it wasn’t just the Gryffindors watching her like a hawk. It wasn’t just the usual distrustful glares from Hufflepuffs or wary glances from Ravenclaws. No, today even some of her own housemates hesitated before making room for her at the Slytherin table.

Which meant the Prophet had done its job.

Daphne Greengrass looked perfectly at ease as she sat stirring her tea, but there was something knowing in the way she smirked up at Pansy and pushed the paper toward her. “Have you seen this morning’s entertainment?”

Pansy ignored her at first, taking her time pouring herself a cup of coffee. She’d play it cool, act unbothered. That was how you survived in a place like this. Show them nothing, and they’d eventually get bored. She took a careful sip, then lazily reached for the paper. The headline confirmed her suspicions.

Death in Hogsmeade.

Her eyes skimmed over the article, reading fast. Travers and Selwyn. A coordinated attack on Harry Potter’s inner circle. Ginny Weasley, tragic fiancée, smuggled away to safety by an unknown individual. And then, of course, her own name—bold, damning, tied neatly into the mess.

Pansy forced her expression to remain blank.

It was worse than she expected. The Prophet hadn’t accused her outright, but they didn’t need to. The insinuation was clear: where did Pansy Parkinson disappear to during the attack? How convenient that she, the daughter of known Death Eater financiers, was unaccounted for while one of her father’s former associates wreaked havoc on Hogsmeade.

Daphne watched her with mild interest. “Well?” she prompted. “Nothing to say?”

Pansy folded the paper and placed it neatly on the table. “Oh, please,” she drawled. “It’s Skeeter. She wouldn’t know a fact if it hexed her in the face.”

Daphne gave a soft hum, tapping her nails against her teacup. “Your parents are going to love this.”

Pansy’s grip on her coffee tightened.

Daphne, perceptive as ever, smirked. “Oh, right,” she said lightly. “They don’t get the Prophet in Azkaban, do they? There’s no way this might reach them.”

Pansy exhaled slowly through her nose. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t,” Daphne said smoothly. “But the rest of the school does. This,” she gestured to the paper, “has everyone asking questions. You should be prepared for that.”

Pansy didn’t answer. Instead, she let her gaze flick up, scanning the Great Hall.

The whispers weren’t subtle. Some were open stares, some were sideways glances over breakfast plates. At the Ravenclaw table, Anthony Goldstein and Padma Patil were deep in conversation, casting occasional looks in her direction. Even some Slytherins—Merlin, Theodore Nott of all people—were whispering behind their hands.

Across the hall, Pansy’s gaze caught on the Gryffindor table.

Hermione Granger sat beside Ginny Weasley, both of them frowning at a copy of the Prophet, their heads tilted toward each other in hushed conversation. Granger’s fingers were tight around her spoon, and Ginny looked particularly furious, muttering something under her breath.

Pansy didn’t know what she had expected, but it certainly wasn’t that.

She had been prepared for Granger’s usual self-righteous and pitying stares, for Weasley’s obvious distaste. But something about their expressions made her stomach turn in a way she didn’t like.

“They’re talking about you, too,” Daphne murmured.

Pansy tore her gaze away. “Obviously.”

Daphne studied her for a moment, then shrugged. “Well, I hope you’ve got a plan, Pansy. This mess isn’t going to clear itself up.”

Pansy didn’t dignify that with a response. She merely picked up her coffee again, taking a slow sip as if none of it mattered. It was fine. It had to be fine. Because if she let herself think about how quickly public perception could turn, how easily the narrative had shifted, how much worse things could get—she might just go mad.

“Can you at least tell me what happened?”

“Maybe,” Pansy replied, “Later on. I have lessons first, and so do you.”

“Pansy-”

“Later.” Pansy cut her off with a tone of finality. She needed to talk to Granger and Weasley first, and she wasn’t looking forward to that one bit.

The morning mist still clung stubbornly to the damp grass, curling low over the paddock where Hagrid’s students had gathered. A familiar bite of autumn lingered in the air, crisp against Pansy’s skin as she stood a little apart from the others, arms folded tightly across her chest. The grounds felt too open today—too exposed. The whispers had followed her all morning.

It wasn’t just the usual murmuring she’d grown used to over the years, the hushed gossip that came with being Pansy Parkinson, Slytherin’s Queen Bitch. No—this was something new. Something harsher. Rita Skeeter had done her job well.

She could feel the eyes on her, some lingering too long, some darting away the second she met them. Even from across the paddock, she caught the occasional glance cast her way—the unmistakable flicker of curiosity, suspicion.

She clenched her jaw, keeping her expression neutral. The old instincts kicked in, as automatic as breathing. Shoulders back, chin high, face unreadable. You are unbothered. You are in control.

She was neither, of course. She hadn’t been in control for quite some time now and, as if things couldn’t get any stranger, standing next to her—close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed—was Ginny Weasley. Pansy flicked a sidelong glance at her. Weasley, for her part, seemed entirely unbothered, her hands shoved into her robes, her eyes fixed on the Thunderbird’s enclosure.

“You look awfully chipper for someone who’s apparently dying in St. Mungo’s,” Pansy muttered.

“Oh, I’m just putting on a brave face for all my adoring fans,” Ginny replied, “I doubt I’ll last the week.”

“Right after you got engaged too. Tragic. I assume Potter is suitably devastated?”

“Inconsolable.”

“Good, I’ll be sure to let all my scary Death Eater friends know.” Pansy said, pushing the envelope a bit.

“I’m sure they’ll be really pleased. I’m a pretty big feather in their cap I would imagine.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far,” replied Pansy, “You’re not in the Golden Trio, they’re the real headliners. The big names, you know?”

Ginny hummed, her lips twitching at the corners. “I suppose you’re right. I’ll just have to settle for being Harry’s tragic fiancée instead.”

“Rita Skeeter really did you a favour with that one,” Pansy drawled. “Next, she’ll be writing about how you heroically clung to life just long enough for Potter to sob over your hospital bed before dramatically proposing.”

Ginny snorted. “Well, that explains why I don’t have a ring yet. He must be waiting to see if I pull through.”

“Well, it would save him a lot of money if you snuffed it before he had to go and buy one.” Ginny smirked, but held back any laugh that might have appeared. The two girls had exhausted their forced banter, but Ginny still did not move from Pansy’s side, a fact not lost on the crowd of students watching them uneasily.

The air around the paddock felt heavy, thick with something unspoken. Pansy had been keeping track of every glance, every sideways whisper, every moment someone’s attention lingered too long before flicking away. Hogwarts had always thrived on gossip, but today, it felt different. More dangerous.

She focused on the steady presence of Ginny beside her. It was absurd, really—this unspoken truce. Just a few days ago, Weasley would have rather hexed her than stood beside her like this. But something had changed since Hogsmeade. Pansy wasn’t sure what to do with it.

"I'm going to handle Skeeter's nonsense," Ginny said quietly, "and I'm going to try and do it without putting you in danger from... you know who from. You're not everything I thought you were Pansy Parkinson, but I still don't trust you around Hermione."

Before Pansy could respond, Hagrid cleared his throat, his massive presence looming over the students as he addressed them. “Right, listen up! This’ll be our last lesson with Elvis ‘fore he heads back ter Arizona. So yeh best show ‘im some proper respect.”

There were a few murmurs of disappointment among the students, but Pansy barely reacted. She turned her attention to the Thunderbird, its powerful frame shimmering under the early morning light. Ginny was already reaching into a bucket for strips of fish, holding them out for the creature to snap up with precise movements.

Pansy hesitated, then mirrored her actions, holding out a piece of fish. The Thunderbird watched her for a moment, its bright, intelligent eyes unblinking before it took the offering with an elegant snap of its beak.

Just as she was about to straighten, a curse ripped through the air.

It happened too fast for Pansy to react. A sharp, crackling whoosh of magic zipped past her shoulder, missing her by inches. She spun on instinct, heart hammering, hand flying to her wand—

But she wasn’t the only one who reacted.

A piercing cry tore through the paddock, splitting the air like a thunderclap. The Thunderbird, sensing the attack before anyone else, reared back in a frenzy, wings spreading wide, the sheer force of its movement sending a gust of charged air through the class.

The students gasped, some staggering back, shielding their faces as the bird let out another furious screech.

Pansy spun wildly, eyes darting across the sea of students, but no wands were raised—whoever had cast the curse had already hidden their hand.

And then—chaos.

The Thunderbird let out a deafening screech, its massive wings unfurling fully as it launched into the air with a powerful thrust. The sheer force sent a shockwave through the paddock, knocking several students off their feet. The sky darkened almost instantly, storm clouds rolling in as though summoned by the creature’s rage. Within seconds, the first bolt of lightning cracked through the sky, illuminating the horrified faces of the gathered students.

A sudden gust of wind howled through the paddock, tearing at cloaks and sending straw and loose debris flying. The rain followed in an instant, a torrential downpour so fierce it blurred vision and soaked them to the bone in moments. Thunder rumbled overhead, the ground trembling with each furious boom.

Pansy staggered back, shielding her face from the driving rain. The students were in full panic now, some scrambling for cover, others frozen in shock. Ginny, however, held her ground, wand clenched in her hand, her face twisted in fury.

"Who did that?!" she bellowed over the storm, her fiery hair whipping around her face. "Coward! Show yourself! Get out here and deal with what you've caused!"

Another bolt of lightning split the sky, this one striking alarmingly close to the paddock’s edge. The air hummed with raw electricity, the magic thick enough to taste.

Pansy barely had time to think. The storm raged around her, and she knew without a doubt that the Thunderbird had fully given in to its instincts now. It wasn’t just reacting—it was hunting. Searching for whoever had dared to strike first.

Lightning forked across the sky, illuminating the horror on the faces of the students. The wind was howling now, so strong that Pansy had to plant her feet firmly to avoid being thrown off balance. Her sodden robes clung to her, heavy with rain. The storm was unnatural, pure magical fury given form.

Another bolt of lightning streaked down, this time striking closer, making several students scream and dive for cover. Pansy felt her heart hammer against her ribs, her breath coming fast. The Thunderbird had never lashed out like this before—it had trusted them and now it felt betrayed.

Her fingers curled around her wand, though she knew spells wouldn’t be the answer. Magic had started this. More magic wouldn’t end it.

The Thunderbird screeched again, an ear-splitting sound that sent another wave of force through the paddock. A particularly vicious gust of wind sent a group of Hufflepuff students sprawling. Pansy’s hair whipped wildly around her face, water dripping from her lashes as she forced herself to stand her ground.

She could feel it—the Thunderbird’s fury was directed at all of them, but beneath it, there was something else. A test. A challenge, and for some unfathomable reason, it felt like the creature was staring right at her.

Pansy inhaled sharply, stepping forward before she could stop herself. The Thunderbird’s head twitched, its feathers still crackling with energy. Another pulse of lightning rippled through the storm clouds above, but the bird did not strike.

Hagrid’s booming voice finally cut through the mayhem. "Inside! All of yeh! Now!" He was shoving students towards his hut on the edge of the forest, trying to break through their panic, but the storm wasn’t letting up.

A particularly violent gust of wind sent several students tumbling, and the rain lashed against them like a living thing, its force unrelenting. Pansy barely managed to stay on her feet, every muscle in her body taut as she watched the Thunderbird circle above them, its golden eyes still trained on the crowd. It wasn’t just rage—it was calculation.

Another crack of thunder split the sky, so loud and so close that Pansy felt it reverberate through her bones. Lightning struck the paddock fence, splintering wood in all directions. Students screamed. Someone tripped behind her. Pansy turned instinctively, her wand drawn even though she had no idea what spell would be useful against a rampaging Thunderbird and a raging storm.

Ginny was still refusing to back down, her stance defiant despite the chaos. "Enough!" she roared into the wind, her voice barely audible over the storm. "You’ve made your point!"

The Thunderbird didn’t seem to care. Its wings beat harder, sending another blast of wind through the paddock. The rain came down even harder, an almost impenetrable curtain, and the world narrowed into little more than movement and sound.

Pansy swore under her breath. This was madness. Hagrid was still calling for them to retreat, but something about the Thunderbird’s gaze held her rooted in place. Her pulse was a relentless hammering in her ears. Then, as if sensing her hesitation, the Thunderbird dived.

It was fast—too fast. One moment it was circling, the next it was plummeting toward the paddock, its talons outstretched, its entire form crackling with uncontained power. The air around it hummed, the magic so dense it was suffocating. For the first time that morning, Pansy felt a flicker of fear.

Hagrid was moving, shoving students towards safety, but Pansy couldn't look away. The Thunderbird was nearly upon them, its wings stretched wide, the storm twisting and bending around its form and then—at the last possible moment—it pulled up.

The downdraft knocked her flat. She landed hard, breath stolen from her lungs as mud and rain splattered across her robes. All around her, students were doing the same; scrambling, shielding their heads, crying out in fear. Ginny had barely kept her footing, her hair plastered to her face, her eyes wild.

The Thunderbird ascended once more, another sharp cry ripping through the sky, but something was different now. The anger had not faded, but the energy around it had shifted. It was still watching them, still judging them, but it had not attacked. It could have. It should have.

Pansy pushed herself up on her hands and knees, coughing up bits of mud and grass, her eyes squinting against the rain. Her vision swam, but she forced herself to her feet. The Thunderbird had tested them. It had chosen to hold back—at least, for now.

Hagrid’s voice boomed again. "That’s enough! All of yeh, inside!" This time, there was no argument. The students fled, pushing and shoving through the storm, desperate for shelter.

Pansy didn’t move immediately. Her eyes were still locked on the Thunderbird, still hovering, its storm still raging, but something about it made her hesitate.

Then she felt a firm grip on her wrist, yanking her backwards with surprising force. "What the hell are you doing?" Hermione hissed, her voice sharp and breathless. Pansy barely had time to react before Hermione tugged her again, trying to drag her toward the others retreating toward Hagrid’s hut.

"Let go, Granger!" Pansy snapped, wrenching her arm free. She turned to glare at Hermione, rain running down both their faces, but Hermione only stared at her in frustration, her curls plastered to her forehead.

"Are you insane? You can’t just stand there like—like some kind of storm-worshipping lunatic! That bird could kill you!"

Pansy scoffed, ignoring the way her heart was still pounding. "Oh, please. The Thunderbird isn’t going to strike me without reason. Unlike your lot."

Hermione’s eyes flashed. "Pansy you are part of my lot." Her voice wavered between anger and exasperation, but there was something else beneath it—something that almost sounded like worry. "Whoever cast that spell is cowering in Hagrid's Hut from the raging Thunderbird orbiting our heads ready to hit us with lightning. You can’t fix this by just standing here and trying to stare it down!"

Pansy faltered, just for a moment. It was rare to hear Hermione say her first name like that—like she wasn’t just another problem to be solved. Like she meant it. A distant roll of thunder reminded them both that the Thunderbird was still there, circling high above, watching. Judging. Waiting.

Pansy swallowed, forcing herself to look away from Hermione’s gaze. "Fine. But if you ever grab me like that again-"

Hermione rolled her eyes and stepped closer to Pansy. "I won't take lectures from you on grabbing people inappropriately during an argument. Now move."

With one final glance at the Thunderbird, Pansy turned and followed Hermione back toward the shelter of Hagrid’s hut. In one great, final crack of thunder, Elvis the Thunderbird wheeled away, vanishing into the clouds above.

The storm did not stop immediately, but its fury lessened. The rain softened, the winds eased, and though lightning still flickered in the distance, the worst had passed. Students began to murmur amongst themselves, hushed voices filled with uncertainty and fear.

Pansy exhaled, finally allowing herself to move. She turned to Ginny, who was watching her with an unreadable expression. "We need to find out who did that," Pansy muttered, voice hoarse.

Ginny nodded once, slow, and deliberate. "Yeah. We do."

As soon as the last of the students were inside, dripping wet and shivering from the storm, Hagrid slammed the door shut behind them with enough force to rattle the windows. His usual warm expression was gone, replaced with a thunderous glare that rivalled the storm outside.

"What in Merlin’s name were yeh thinkin’?!" he bellowed, his massive hands planted firmly on his hips. "Attackin’ one of yer own classmates, an’ in the middle of me lesson, no less!" His voice boomed, rattling the windows. Pansy hadn't seen Hagrid look so furious before, and it was quite alarming, "Elvis is gone! Disappeared he has! Probably terrified. I 'ope you lot are right proud of yourself!" The group of students shuffled nervously as Hagrid towered over them imposingly. "Why would anyone go and mess about like that eh?" 

"Didn't you read the papers this morning Hagrid?" Pansy said, her voice sounding a lot tinier than she'd hoped. 

"I never do, the ruddy Prophet hasn't printed anything true in about five years. That Rita Skeeter's only interested in tearing down decent people." Pansy couldn't help but smirk. 

"Well, I'll give you the condensed version. Ginny's currently lying dead in St. Mungo's after getting attacked in Hogsmeade yesterday, and I masterminded the whole thing because the Death Eater who killed her used to work for my dad." 

"Do yeh honestly think Professor McGonagall would let anyone dangerous walk freely around this school?" Hagrid continued, his voice filled with disappointment. "She gave Pansy Parkinson a second chance, just like the rest of yeh got. A clean slate. An’ this is how yeh repay her?"

His keen eyes swept over the gathered students, lingering on a few who wouldn’t even look up from the floor. "Whoever cast that curse, yeh better step forward now." His voice dropped, low and full of warning. "Cause I swear on me life, if I find out later who did it, yeh’ll wish yeh’d owned up here an’ now."

Silence. The only sound was the distant rumble of thunder and the rain still pelting the hut’s roof.

Hagrid exhaled, shaking his head. "Fine. If none of yeh’ve got the spine to admit it, then the whole lot of yeh’ll be servin’ detention. Every single one of yeh." His tone left no room for argument. "Except for Pansy an’ Ginny, since they were both right next to Elvis when it happened."

A ripple of discontent ran through the students, but no one dared speak up. Pansy, however, wasn’t done. She stepped forward, tilting her chin up defiantly. "If any of you have a problem with me, at least have the decency to curse me to my face," she said coolly, her voice cutting through the tension like a knife. "Not like a coward hiding in the crowd."

A few students shifted uncomfortably, while others narrowed their eyes, but no one answered.

Hagrid let the silence stretch a moment longer before grunting, "That’s settled, then. Detention starts tomorrow night. An’ yeh can thank whatever snake-hearted coward among yeh for it. Now get outta me house."

Pansy was wet and cold by the time she trudged up the hill and into the castle, her boots squelching with each miserable step. Her robes were drenched, her hair plastered to her face, and she could already feel the damp seeping into her bones. Under normal circumstances, she would have been furious—complaining, sneering, making a dramatic fuss about the whole ordeal.

But she wasn’t. Instead, there was a spring in her step, a warmth curling in her chest that not even the freezing rain could dampen.

Pansy, you are part of my lot.

Hermione had said it in the heat of the moment, but Pansy couldn’t stop turning the words over in her mind, letting them settle into place like a particularly satisfying puzzle piece. Her lot. It was ridiculous how much she liked the sound of that.

She bit back a smirk as she walked, her fingers tightening around the damp sleeves of her robes. Hermione Granger—self-righteous, insufferable, brilliant Hermione—had claimed her. Not in the dramatic, grand way Pansy might have once imagined someone laying their claim to her, but in a casual, almost exasperated way. As if it were obvious. As if it had always been obvious, and Merlin, wasn’t that just the best thing she’d heard in years?

She wasn’t deluded enough to believe Hermione had meant it that way—Granger wasn’t quite there yet—but it was something. A start, and if Pansy Parkinson was anything, she was an opportunist. She’d take this moment, this little win, and tuck it away for safekeeping. Because if Hermione Granger wanted her to be part of her lot, then who was Pansy to argue?

Only Daphne Greengrass could bring Pansy down from her cloud, and unfortunately, she nearly walked straight into her as she rounded the next corner. Pansy barely had time to register the familiar figure before Daphne stopped short, looking her up and down with a slow, assessing stare.

“Pansy—” She exhaled sharply, her gaze narrowing. “What happened to you?”

Pansy sighed, flicking some water from her sleeve. “It rained.”

Daphne didn’t react to the deflection. Her arms folded, her weight shifting onto one foot, and when she spoke again, her tone was even. “You look like you’ve been through hell.”

Pansy smirked. “Bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

Daphne didn’t return it. “No. Not really.”

Something about the way she said it made Pansy pause. Daphne wasn’t exasperated, wasn’t scolding her like she usually would when Pansy was being difficult. She was watching her. Studying her the way she always did when she knew there was something Pansy wasn’t saying.

Pansy exhaled through her nose, rolling her shoulders back. “It was just Care of Magical Creatures,” she said, keeping her voice light. “Nothing worth getting worked up over. How many of Hagrid’s classes have I nearly died in over the years?”

Daphne hummed. “Except, of course, that this time a Thunderbird nearly electrocuted half the class and somehow, you and Weasley were in the centre of it.” She paused. “Again.”

Pansy’s fingers twitched at her sides. She knows. How does she always know?

Daphne tilted her head slightly. “You’re keeping things from me.” It wasn’t an accusation—just a statement of fact.

Pansy forced an easy smile. “You say that like I never keep things from you.”

Daphne didn’t return it. “This isn’t like before.”

That, more than anything, made Pansy falter. She swallowed, shifting her weight. “Daphne—”

“I know things have changed,” Daphne cut in smoothly, unreadable as ever. “I know you and Granger have some… understanding now.” A slight furrow appeared between her brows. “I encouraged it, didn’t I?”

Pansy said nothing.

“But I think you’re in deeper than you realize,” Daphne continued. “Or maybe deeper than you want to admit.”

Pansy scoffed, more out of habit than anything. “Oh, don’t be dramatic.”

Daphne’s expression didn’t change. “I’m not. But you are.”

That was the thing about Daphne —she never pushed exactly, never demanded answers outright. But she would lay them in front of you, forcing you to acknowledge them. Pansy inhaled slowly, then looked her friend square in the eye. “I’m fine.”

Daphne held her gaze for a moment longer, and for the first time, Pansy wasn’t sure if she believed her. Then, finally, Daphne exhaled, the sharpness easing from her expression. “Just… don’t get reckless.”

Pansy arched a brow. “You’re worried about me?”

Daphne scoffed lightly. “Hardly. If you go and get yourself killed by gallivanting around with one third of the Golden Trio, I’ll have to find someone else to sit with at lunch.”

Pansy smirked, the tension breaking just slightly. “Tragic.”

Daphne didn’t respond, only shook her head, and stepped aside, letting Pansy pass. But even as Pansy walked away, she could still feel her watching.

The dormitory was blissfully warm, a stark contrast to the damp chill that clung stubbornly to Pansy’s skin. She exhaled slowly as she shut the door behind her, rolling her shoulders, feeling the weight of the past hour settle over her like an old, ill-fitting cloak. She’d never been one for theatrics, but she swore she could still feel the lingering electricity of the storm buzzing faintly under her skin, a restless, unseen thing. She needed to peel these wet clothes off.

The moment she reached the centre of the room, she wasted no time shrugging off her sodden robes, letting the heavy fabric pool onto the floor in an unceremonious heap. A shiver ran down her spine as the air hit her damp skin, but she barely noticed. Her fingers were already working at the buttons of her blouse, movements deft and precise as she freed herself from the cling of wet fabric, rolling her stiff shoulders as she let it slide down her arms and fall to the floor.

She hadn’t even reached her skirt before the door swung open behind her.

“Oh—!”

The sound that left Hermione Granger’s mouth was not a word, but something caught between a gasp and a strangled breath, the sharp inhale of someone who had walked straight into something they had not prepared for. Pansy turned her head just enough to glance over her shoulder, and there, standing frozen in the doorway, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, was Granger.

Pansy blinked. For a moment, Hermione didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t even seem to breathe. Her brown eyes—normally sharp, always too full of opinion for Pansy’s liking—were locked onto her, and then, just for a second, they flickered lower, passing appraisingly over Pansy’s body.

Ah.

The moment passed quickly, so quickly that if Pansy hadn’t been watching closely, she might have missed it. The tiniest movement of her gaze downward. The flash of realization before she forcibly snapped her attention back up, her entire face flushing scarlet with horror at herself. Pansy’s lips curled, ever so slightly. The realization slid down Pansy’s spine like honey, slow and sweet, pooling somewhere dangerously close to satisfaction. Hermione had looked. Hermione had been flustered.

“Granger,” she said, her voice silk-smooth, “you’re staring. See something you like?”

Hermione flinched.

“No—I—!” She jerked her gaze toward the floor so violently that Pansy wondered if she’d given herself whiplash. “I wasn’t—I just—why are you—? Put some clothes on!”

Pansy bit back a smirk, tilting her head ever so slightly. This was new. Hermione Granger, speechless, flushed red from the tips of her ears to the base of her throat, tripping over her own words like she’d just walked into an unspeakable horror, when in reality, she’d just walked in on Pansy Parkinson getting changed out of her wet robes. Hermione Granger, flustered by the sight of her. How fascinating.

Pansy arched an elegant brow. “Merlin, Granger, I knew you were a prude, but surely you’ve seen a half-naked girl before.”

Hermione made a choked sound, one that might have been a response if it weren’t so comically strangled and turned her back so fast she nearly slammed into the door. “I—I wasn’t looking! I just—warn me next time you decide to—!” She made a wild, frustrated gesture behind her, unable to even say the words.

Pansy chuckled. Oh, she was going to enjoy this. She stretched languidly, taking her time as she turned away, as if she had all the time in the world, as if she was entirely unbothered—because she was. But Hermione wasn’t, and Pansy? She liked that just a little too much.

“Next time I decide to get changed in my own room? You’re acting like I hexed you,” Pansy drawled as she reached for a fresh blouse, tugging it over her shoulders at an unhurried pace. “It’s just skin, Granger. No need to panic. All the exciting parts are still hidden away from your wandering eyes.”

“I am not panicking,” Hermione hissed, still very purposefully facing the door, though her hands had curled into fists at her sides. “And my eyes aren’t… wandering.”

Pansy finished buttoning her blouse, amused at how utterly unconvincing that was. She took a step forward, watching the way Hermione’s shoulders tensed just slightly. “If you say so,” Pansy whispered in what she hoped was a sultry voice. She placed her hands gently on Hermione’s shoulders, and the Gryffindor girl went completely rigid. This was a big risk, Pansy knew that, but she couldn’t help herself. “Would you like some help getting your wet robes off Granger?”

Hermione gasped, drawing in breath sharply. Her cheeks went redder still, and she refused to turn her head and look at Pansy. She let the silence stretch, watching the rise and fall of Hermione’s breath, the way her shoulders were pulled so taut they might snap. She didn’t need to say anything—Hermione’s reaction was saying it all.

Then, slowly, deliberately, she stepped back, giving Hermione the space she so clearly desperately needed. Hermione exhaled hard, as if she’d been holding her breath the entire time. Her hands fluttered at her sides, restless, like she was still trying to process the interaction.

Pansy tilted her head. “Shame. I thought you might want the help.”

Hermione recoiled so violently at the suggestion that she nearly tripped over the edge of the rug, her hands coming up as if to physically ward off the very idea of it.

“I—no! Absolutely not!” she sputtered, eyes wide with something bordering on horror. “That is—that is never happening—ever.”

Pansy smirked, watching her flounder, watching her grasp for composure like a drowning woman reaching for driftwood. “Relax, Granger,” she said smoothly, turning away to retrieve her wand from the nightstand. “It was only a suggestion.”

“It was a terrible suggestion.”

Pansy chuckled, glancing at her over her shoulder. “Was it? You seem very flustered for someone who supposedly finds the idea so appalling.”

Hermione let out a strangled noise, pressing her fingers to her temples as if this entire conversation was giving her a headache. “New rule,” she declared abruptly, voice still slightly unsteady.

Pansy arched a brow. “Oh?”

“From now on,” Hermione said, squaring her shoulders, doing her best to channel some authority despite the way her face was still pink, “we always change in the bathroom. Always.”

Pansy couldn’t help it—she laughed. A sharp, delighted sound that made Hermione bristle even further. “You’re actually making a rule about this?”

“Yes,” Hermione snapped, clearly desperate to regain control. “Non-negotiable.”

Pansy smirked, crossing her arms. “Afraid you won’t be able to help yourself, Granger?”

Hermione made a choked sound, turned so fast that she nearly knocked over the chair beside her, and stormed toward the door.

“This conversation is over,” she declared, voice far too high to be taken seriously.

Pansy grinned. “For now.”

The door slammed behind Hermione, and Pansy exhaled, stretching lazily, letting the thrill of the moment settle in her chest. This is going to be so much fun Pansy thought to herself, if only I’d worn one of my fancy bras, that would’ve really got Hermione worked up. Making a mental note that when she next planned on breaking Hermione Granger’s latest rule she’d be sure to wear something far more scandalous.

Pansy practically skipped down to Charms class in her fresh robes, each step impossibly light, as though her shoes barely touched the stone floor beneath her. The remnants of the storm—both literal and figurative—had faded entirely, replaced by something infinitely more satisfying. Hermione Granger had openly claimed her as part of her lot, had blushed scarlet at the mere sight of her changing, and now stood a few steps ahead, dripping a trail of rainwater onto the ancient stone.

Unable to resist, Pansy lengthened her stride, leaning in just close enough to murmur teasingly into Hermione's ear. "I didn't think I'd fluster you so badly you'd forget how to perform a simple drying charm," she whispered, voice dripping honeyed satisfaction.

Hermione stiffened immediately, her posture turning rigid. A telltale flush crept steadily up from her neck to the tips of her ears, betraying her embarrassment despite her silence. Pansy smirked, withdrawing slightly and allowing her gaze to linger appreciatively on the soaked robes still clinging to Hermione's frame.

Before she could press the advantage any further, however, a quiet voice intruded smoothly from her left.

"Well, you certainly seem pleased with yourself."

Pansy nearly jumped, turning sharply to find Daphne Greengrass leaning against the wall near the classroom door, arms crossed elegantly, a perfectly arched brow lifted in amusement. Her expression, however, quickly sobered into something more cautious as her eyes flickered meaningfully toward Hermione, who had hurriedly stepped away to slip inside the classroom.

"Daphne," Pansy replied smoothly, quickly recomposing herself. "I'm always pleased with myself."

"Indeed," Daphne drawled softly, stepping closer and lowering her voice as other students filed past, taking their seats ahead of them. "Especially when you've got Granger dripping puddles all over the castle and blushing like a first year. You’re like a cat playing with its food."

Pansy shrugged lightly, feigning nonchalance even as she felt the subtle tension return to her shoulders. Daphne was her closest friend—one who knew her far better than anyone else—but she wasn't quite ready to explain her recent developments with Hermione. Not yet.

"It's just a bit of harmless fun," Pansy offered breezily, meeting Daphne's knowing gaze with practiced ease. "No need to make something more out of it."

Daphne hesitated, briefly searching Pansy's expression, her lips pressing into a thoughtful line. "I'm not judging you," she said gently, eyes carefully neutral. "But you seem to have been in a lot of danger recently Pansy, and I’m worried about you.”

"Don’t be so dramatic, Daphne," Pansy said, rolling her eyes, flicking her wand lazily toward her textbook as though utterly unbothered. "I hardly think a little storm and a wayward hex qualifies as a lot of danger."

Daphne exhaled sharply. "Funny. I thought nearly getting killed in Hogsmeade counted as a lot of danger."

Pansy stiffened, just slightly. Not enough for anyone else to notice, but Daphne had always been sharper than most.

"Everyone knows the Prophet got half the story wrong," Daphne continued, flipping open her textbook with an air of forced nonchalance. "But I was supposed to meet you that afternoon, and instead I spent the rest of the day wondering if you were dead. Then I find out from the Daily bloody Prophet that you either saved Weasley or tried to lure her to her death. Then, you and Weasley are apparently the best of chums this morning until a bloody bird nearly fries half the year, and despite this I catch you trying to get into Granger’s knickers." She gave Pansy a pointed look. "So, forgive me if I’d really like to know what the hell actually happened."

Pansy exhaled sharply through her nose, flicking her wand at her feather without actually bothering to cast the charm. The damn thing just sat there, unmoving, much like Daphne’s unwavering stare drilling into the side of her head.

"You're so dramatic, Daphne," Pansy murmured, tilting her head as if bored. "Honestly, I expected you to be more impressed. The Daily bloody Prophet says I’m either a noble heroine or a conniving villain. I’d have thought you’d appreciate the duality."

Daphne did not look impressed. "Pansy."

Pansy rolled her eyes, tapping her wand against her desk as she debated just how much to say.

"Fine," she said, voice low and clipped. "Weasley was the target. Some absolute dregs of society came after her, and somehow I ended up in the middle of it. Which, you’ll be pleased to know, was not part of my plan."

Daphne arched a brow. "And what, exactly, was your plan?"

"To drink elf-made wine, make passive-aggressive comments about the Halloween decorations, and endure your presence for an hour or two," Pansy replied dryly. "But instead, I got blown up and ended up saving a Weasley. A real red-letter day for me."

Daphne watched her carefully. "So, you did save her."

Pansy sighed, running a hand through her hair. “Yes, and she was ever so grateful. Jammed a wand in my face and started threatening to do me in, at least until Kibley—” Damn. Pansy hadn’t meant to let that little detail slip, and Daphne seized upon it immediately.

"Kibley!" Daphne hissed, her eyes widening sharply. Pansy could practically see the pieces slotting together in Daphne’s sharp mind. "You took Weasley to Foxglove? That's where you disappeared to? Merlin, Pansy!"

"Keep your voice down," Pansy murmured, calmly sending her feather drifting lazily through the air, pretending complete disinterest in the subject. "It's not a big deal."

"Not a big deal?" Daphne’s whisper was fierce, incredulous. "Foxglove Grange is your home. What if your parents find out?"

"They won't," Pansy replied coolly. "I told Kibley not to tell another living soul. Problem solved."

Daphne hesitated, clearly uncomfortable. "Look, I know Kibley wouldn't ever intentionally betray you, but if your parents suspect anything—if they get even the slightest inkling that something happened—they'll find a way around your order. You know how resourceful they are."

Pansy faltered briefly, tightening her grip on her wand. Daphne was right; her parents had ways—creative, cruel ways—of getting exactly what they wanted. She'd given Kibley a perfect, ironclad instruction, but even house-elf obedience had its loopholes. Pansy knew that too well.

"They won't suspect," she replied stiffly. "They have no reason to."

Daphne leaned closer, lowering her voice further. "And what if Weasley slips? What if someone else finds out and it gets back to your parents? You're risking everything, Pansy."

Pansy lifted her chin stubbornly. "Weasley won't talk, when is she ever going to meet my parents?"

Daphne's eyes narrowed sceptically. "And you're certain of that?"

Pansy didn't hesitate this time. "Yes," she said simply. "I'm certain."

Daphne drew in a long breath, exhaling slowly as she considered. "I hope you're right," she murmured. "Because if your parents find out, you know as well as I do that there'll be hell to pay. If you’re going to run around helping Mudbloods and Blood Traitors alike you can’t be caught Pansy."

Pansy said nothing more, eyes fixed stubbornly on her feather, unwilling to concede the point further. But beneath her composed exterior, unease was beginning to coil tight in her stomach. Because Daphne was right—if her parents found out about Foxglove and Ginny, it wouldn't matter how well she'd commanded Kibley. They'd find a way to get the truth, and when they did, she'd pay dearly for it.

“Why did you take her there anyway?” asked Daphne.

“Because she was unconscious, bleeding really badly, and Travers was about kill both of us. It was the first place I thought of that I might manage to get us too. Of course I’ve never taken anyone side-along before, but I didn’t have much time to think about that.”

“You disapparated?” Daphne’s eyes had gone wide again. “Pansy that’s… quite impressive actually. That must be at least three-hundred and fifty miles! You didn’t splinch?” Pansy shook her head.

“The threat of imminent death does wonders for ones abilities.” Pansy chimed sarcastically. “I patched her up a bit and got her to send word to the Chosen One. Then she jammed her wand in my face and start accusing me of being part of the setup.”

“What a bitch!”

“My sentiments exactly.” Pansy smirked, “But Kibley knocked her down a peg, and to be fair, she did stick up for me today in class.”

“What happened in class? I could hardly miss the biggest lightning storm anyone’s ever seen, but what set that thing off?”

“Some idiot tried to curse me in the back while I was feeding the pigeon and missed. Dunno who. Hagrid went absolutely mental, I was more scared of him to be honest. Oh, and the bird is gone. Vanished into a storm cloud.”

“Oh, I hope he’s safe. There’s a really bad poaching gang about at the minute.” Daphne said, “Who cursed you?”

“Dunno,” Pansy said truthfully. “Whoever did won’t own up to it.”

Daphne frowned, her fingers drumming lightly against the edge of her desk as she processed this. "So, someone just took a shot at you in broad daylight, with half the class watching, and no one saw who did it?"

Pansy flicked her wand at the feather again, watching it spin lazily. "Apparently not. Either they're exceptionally lucky, or half the school suddenly developed selective blindness."

"Unbelievable," Daphne muttered, shaking her head. "And Hagrid? You said he lost it?"

Pansy let out a short laugh. "Oh, completely. He was shoving students toward his hut, yelling about how McGonagall wouldn’t let a dangerous student walk free in her school and demanding the attacker own up. When they didn’t, he put the entire class in detention—except for me and Weasley, obviously."

Daphne blinked. "The entire class?"

Pansy smirked. "All of them."

“Even Granger?” Pansy rolled her eyes.

“Yes, even Granger.”

“Seems unfair if you ask me, she’s hardly to going to curse her girlfriend.” This time Pansy rolled her eyes so dramatically they almost went all the way into the back of her head.

“Oh, please,” Pansy drawled, flicking her wand with unnecessary flourish and making her feather soar a little too aggressively into the air. “One flustered moment in the corridor and now you’re writing our wedding invitations. Get a grip.”

Daphne smirked, leaning back in her chair. “It’s not just one moment, though, is it?”

Pansy gave her a flat look.

“I mean, let’s review,” Daphne continued, tapping a finger against her desk as though listing off academic points. “She lets you get away with murder in Potions despite the fact that Granger lets nothing get in the way of academic success, and apparently you are joined at the hip in Care of Magical Creatures. You both moon at each other across the Great Hall during meals,” Daphne waved off Pansy’s latest round of eye rolls and pressed on, “and you two were very tense at Dean’s little gathering in the common room. Now I catch you whispering sweet nothings into Grangers ear in the middle of the corridors for anyone to see.”

Pansy let out an exaggerated sigh. “Yes, Daphne, you’ve cracked the case. I’m secretly madly in love with Hermione Granger and have been plotting to elope with her since first year. Congratulations.”

“Oh no,” Daphne shook her head, “your panting after Granger is a recent development. If I had to make a guess –”

“Nobody is forcing you,” Pansy interjected.

“If I had to make a guess,” Daphne continued, completely ignoring her, “I’d say the flashpoint was when you went walkabout for a couple of days and skipped all those classes. So, was that when you snogged Granger, or did that come later?”

Pansy stiffened, only for a fraction of a second—but that was just long enough for Daphne, who clamped a hand over her mouth, presumably to stop herself from screaming out loud.

“So that was it.” She whispered, her voice giddy.

Pansy scoffed, flicking her wand too hard and sending her feather floating sideways. “You’re delusional.”

Daphne ignored her. “And now, you’re grinning whenever she flusters. You’re deliberately winding her up. You’re practically purring whenever she reacts.” She leaned in slightly, eyes gleaming. “So, be honest, Pansy—was it good?”

Pansy said nothing, but it was impossible to hide the colour rapidly rising in her cheeks.

Daphne grinned, practically bouncing in her seat. “Oh, it was, wasn’t it?”

Pansy took a deep, slow breath, willing herself to remain composed. She didn’t have to give Daphne anything. She didn’t have to react. She could just ignore her. But unfortunately, Daphne knew her too well. So instead, Pansy lifted her chin and smirked, forcing herself into indifference. “I’d rather snog Filch.”

Daphne laughed. “Pansy, please, you’re halfway in love with her already.”

Pansy flicked her wand again, this time with precision, and sent her feather smacking Daphne directly in the face. Daphne howled with laughter, swatting it away.

Pansy huffed, muttering, “You are the absolute worst.”

“And you,” Daphne said smugly, “are absolutely gone for her.”

Pansy refused to dignify that with an answer. Instead, she turned back to her notes, pretending to study the page in front of her, but the words blurred together, meaningless. Her heart was beating too fast, her cheeks still warm, and she hated the way her skin prickled with the undeniable truth of it. Because the most infuriating thing? Daphne wasn't entirely wrong, and that realization was starting to feel dangerous.

Chapter Text

Chapter 15

Hermione Granger was furious. Her robes still felt damp, clinging uncomfortably to her skin despite the best drying charm she could muster. It was a small irritation, but it was enough to set her teeth on edge as she marched toward the Great Hall for lunch, fists clenched, jaw tight, mind spinning in relentless circles.

Pansy. Bloody. Parkinson.

Fresh off of saving Ginny Weasley’s life from a pair of old Death Eaters, the insufferable girl had apparently decided that standing beneath a rampaging Thunderbird, gazing up at it like some reckless fool, was a perfectly reasonable way to spend her morning. Then—then—there had been the dormitory debacle.

Hermione had not meant to walk in on her. She had simply gone back to do exactly what Pansy had done; change into fresh robes before heading to Charms. It was nothing. It should have been nothing.

Except it wasn’t.

Because Pansy had been standing there, bare-backed, skin deceptively soft-looking, her spine curving slightly as she rolled her shoulders. Her hair had still been damp from the rain, a few stray strands sticking to the back of her neck, and her legs—Merlin, her legs. Hermione had never really noticed them before, but now the shape of them was stuck in her head—long, toned, her thighs smooth as silk. She had stood there completely unbothered by the fact that Hermione had just walked in on her half-dressed.

And the worst part? The part that truly sent a surge of horror through Hermione’s chest? She had stared. Not just glanced—stared.

Just for a second. Just long enough to take in too much, long enough to let something in her stomach tighten in a way that made her breath catch, and Pansy had seen. She had noticed, because of course she had, and she had smirked, lips curling with a kind of satisfaction that made Hermione want to hex her and flee the room at the same time.

The realization was humiliating. Because it wasn’t just Pansy Parkinson standing there in her underwear—it was Pansy Parkinson looking like that. It was Pansy Parkinson watching her reaction and enjoying it.

Hermione clenched her fists, forcing the memory away, but it would not leave her. It had no right to be burned into her mind the way it was, no right to be distracting her now. She forced her legs to move faster, furious with herself, furious with Pansy, furious with whatever part of her brain had decided that this was a thought worth holding onto.

It had meant nothing. Absolutely nothing, and if Parkinson thought for even a second that she was going to use this against her, to wind her up, to make this into a game— Hermione set her jaw. That wasn’t going to happen.

Sighing, Hermione dropped her bag onto the Gryffindor table and sank into her seat. She barely glanced at the spread of food before her, appetite nowhere to be found.

“What’s got your wand in a knot?” Ginny asked, watching as Hermione stabbed absently at a potato with her fork.

“I’m just in a bad mood,” Hermione muttered. “It’s one thing after another. I sneak out once with Ron, and while I’m gone my friend nearly gets killed. I try to have a normal morning, and I end up drenched, exhausted, and stuck with double detention tomorrow because of some curse-happy prat.”

Ginny took a slow sip of pumpkin juice, eyes glinting over the rim of her goblet. “Sorry my near-death experiences have been inconvenient for you.”

Hermione shot her a look. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

Ginny smirked but let it drop. “I get it, though. It feels like every time things almost settle, something else happens.” She reached for a roll, tearing off a piece. “I thought we were all dead for a second there. We’re lucky Elvis just... disappeared.”

Hermione frowned. “Hagrid’s going to be in big trouble, isn’t he?”

“Probably,” Ginny admitted. “Thunderbirds are rare. I doubt whoever lent him that one is going to care why it vanished, just that it did. There’s been a big rise in poachers lately too, so I hope it doesn’t run afoul of them.”

Hermione sighed, rubbing her temples. Dean, who had been half-listening from across the table, glanced up. "Hermione, not to add to your plate, but we’re still meeting after dinner about the memorial, yeah?"

Hermione blinked, momentarily thrown off. The memorial project. Right.

She had barely thought about it since their initial discussions, despite how determined she had been at the start. Between Pansy, the disaster in Hogsmeade, the mess the Daily Prophet had made of things, and now this morning’s storm, she had let it slip further and further down her ever-growing list of things to deal with.

But it mattered. It had to be done right.

"Yes," she said, straightening her shoulders. "We need to start making actual decisions if we want to get something approved."

Dean nodded, seemingly satisfied, and turned back to his plate.

Hermione did the same, though her appetite was entirely absent.

They had so much to sort out. The names to be included or left out, the design, who would build it and how—none of it had been finalized. She had let herself become distracted, but she wouldn’t anymore. Because if they were going to build something meaningful, something that truly honoured those who had fought to defend the school, then it couldn’t be rushed.

Her thoughts still scattered, Hermione gathered her things, said goodbye to Ginny, and headed off to Arithmancy in the hopes that the class would finally give her focus.

As Hermione settled into her usual seat in the Arithmancy classroom, she exhaled slowly, trying to shake off the weight pressing down on her shoulders. Numbers. Logic. Patterns. That was what she needed right now—something concrete, something that followed rules. Unlike the chaos of her thoughts, unlike the erratic pull of emotions she didn’t want to name.

Professor Vector strode into the room with her usual crisp efficiency, flicking her wand to fill the board with equations before turning to the class. “Today, we’ll be working through the properties of magical constants and their applications in spellcasting efficiency. Turn to page 214 in Numerical Foundations of Magic.”

Hermione automatically flipped to the correct page, but her mind was already drawing connections, always looking for the deeper meaning. Magical constants. Fixed values. Things that remained unchanging no matter the variables placed around them.

She wished she had something like that—something solid, immovable, unaffected by the shifting landscape of her life. But everything was changing, wasn’t it?

Ron. The school. The way she had felt when she saw Pansy Parkinson half-undressed in their dormitory. The way the image had refused to leave her mind, lurking at the edges of her focus like an unsolved equation. She pushed that thought away.

Instead, she copied down Vector’s notes, filling her parchment with careful, measured strokes. The principle was simple—certain numbers held significance in magic because they were unchangeable. The laws of Arithmancy dictated their permanence, their reliability.

Hermione envied that. Her world had always been one of absolutes: right and wrong, fact and fiction. But now? Now, things weren’t so clear-cut.

Pansy Parkinson had saved Ginny’s life. Pansy Parkinson had stood next to her this morning in the storm, unwilling to run, unwilling to back down. Pansy Parkinson had looked beautiful with her hair damp and curling against her shoulders, her skin flushed from the cold, her lips curled into something too amused, too knowing—

Hermione gritted her teeth and pressed her quill harder against the parchment.

She needed constants. She needed something to ground herself before everything spiralled further out of her control.

Vector’s voice cut through her thoughts. “Many of you may struggle with understanding why constants are so important, but consider this: magic, like life, is unpredictable. Without fixed points, without certainty, chaos would rule entirely.”

The words struck something deep in Hermione’s chest.

Wasn’t that the real problem? That she had lost too many of her constants? That the things she had always relied upon—her relationship with Ron, her sense of purpose, her understanding of the world—were slipping between her fingers?

She stared down at her parchment, her quill hovering above an unfinished equation. What was her constant now? Hermione’s quill hovered uselessly above her parchment, unmoving. The numbers on the board, the equations she would normally absorb without effort, felt meaningless against the weight pressing into her chest.

Ron isn’t my constant.

The thought settled in, heavy and immovable, and it hurt.

Her hands curled into fists against the desk as she tried to breathe through the ache rising in her throat. This wasn’t supposed to happen. She had fought for them. She had wanted them to work. Ron had been her best friend first—before the war, before the chaos, before she had ever considered what it meant to be more than that, and now she was going to break his heart.

She swallowed hard, her vision blurring slightly before she forced herself to blink. The weight of it—the sheer cruelty of it—was unbearable. Because Ron deserved love. Deserved happiness, and he deserved to be with someone who didn’t have to convince herself to feel the way she was supposed to.

But she had spent so long telling herself that this was what she wanted. That Ron had always been there, that their feelings had meant something, that after everything, it was right for them to be together.

Then why didn’t it feel that way? It wasn’t that she didn’t love Ron. She did. But it wasn’t enough and knowing that—truly accepting it—felt like carving something vital out of herself.

Her stomach twisted as she imagined it, imagined his face when she told him. He would be confused, then hurt, then—Merlin—angry. He was emotional, quick to fire, and she knew him well enough to know that he wouldn’t take this lightly.

He’s going to hate me.

The thought made her feel sick, and worst of all, he was going to ask why.

She wouldn’t be able to tell him. Not really. Because she didn’t understand it fully, not yet. Because she had no idea what she felt, only that the things she was supposed to feel with Ron weren’t there and the things she wasn’t supposed to feel, the things creeping in uninvited, had had everything to do with dark hair and smug smirks and teasing words that lingered too long in her mind.

Hermione exhaled, gripping her quill tightly, trying to steady herself. She had to do this. She had to stop pretending. But Merlin, it was going to hurt.

The Eighth-Year common room hummed with low conversation as students filed in—summoned not by any formal decree, but by Hermione’s quiet insistence over dinner that tonight, we start this properly. It was well past curfew, but the house-elves had delivered tea anyway—lukewarm now, untouched.

Scrolls and spare parchment littered the long table where the group had gathered, the faint scrawls of abandoned ideas stretching across the pages like ghostly footprints. None of them had meant to ignore the memorial. But time had passed, and nobody had wanted to be the first to wade back into the ache of it all.

The fire in the hearth cast flickering shadows over tired faces. The air held the weight of postponed grief.

“We don’t have time to keep dithering,” Hermione said, drawing their attention as she stood. “The corridor has already been assigned. Materials are available. The Professors are willing to help. But we can’t build anything if we don’t agree on what we’re building.”

She glanced around the table. Dean and Seamus sat elbow-to-elbow, both fidgeting with quills. Padma had her arms folded tightly, her expression drawn. Luna sat cross-legged on an ottoman, absentmindedly twirling her quill, gaze distant but alert. Daphne and Blaise watched from the far end, expressions guarded, as if daring anyone to question their presence. Pansy sat near the fire, legs crossed, face unreadable in the glow.

“We owe it to them to get this right,” Hermione said, her voice softening. “No more delays.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Dean leaned forward and tapped his sketchpad.

“We could enchant the walls,” he offered. “Let them respond to whoever walks by. The names could light up—shimmer softly, maybe.”

“What about a wall that changes depending on who’s standing in front of it?” Ernie added. “Shows the people you knew. Brings back memories.”

“I like that,” said Seamus. “And you could have music. Not a song or anything—just a hum. A kind of... ambient spell. Quiet and respectful.”

Blaise scoffed under his breath. “So, a haunted corridor and a concert?”

Daphne elbowed him, but didn’t disagree.

“Well, what about portraits?” Ernie pressed. “Like the Founders. Maybe not talking ones, but just... scenes. The people who died. Their stories.”

“I think that would feel... heavy,” Luna said gently. “And maybe a little too alive.”

“We could do carvings,” Padma offered. “The story of the battle told through runes. Something ancient. Something sacred.”

Blaise leaned back, arms folded. “Why not go all in? A statue that tells the tale. People can come and listen like they’re at a museum exhibit.”

That was what did it.

“You want to narrate the battle like it was some bloody school trip?” Ginny’s voice cut clean through the room.

Silence fell. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes damp, and her knuckles white around the handle of her mug. A few people looked away. She didn’t.

“I don’t want a wall that glows,” she said, her voice steady now, quieter. “Or statues that talk. Or tapestries that smile back at you.”

Dean blinked. “Then... what do you want?”

Ginny hesitated. Her fingers toyed with the lip of her cup, the way someone might worry a scab. “I want it to feel empty,” she said. “I want to walk through that corridor and feel what we lost. I want it to stop people in their tracks.”

No one interrupted. She exhaled slowly.

“George still runs the shop. He laughs. He makes jokes. He gets up every morning and keeps going. Ron’s neck-deep in Auror training. Charlie went back to Romania. Bill returned to Gringotts. Dad and Percy are back at the Ministry. I came back here.”

“My mum… cried herself to sleep every night until she couldn’t anymore, until there weren’t any tears left. Then she got up and carried on, just like the rest of us. We all go about our lives like nothing’s changed, except it has. It’s never going to be normal again.”

“The house, the shop, the school… there’s a little less magic around, because my brother is gone.”

“To most people, Fred Weasley is a name on a headstone in Ottery St Catchpole. To me, he’s the part that’s missing. He’s the laugh that doesn’t come at the end of my jokes, the shoulder I don’t get to cry on when I’m upset, the empty seat at the table when everyone comes home for dinner.”

Hermione’s throat tightened. The room was very still. Ginny’s words weren’t just being heard—they were settling, like dust on polished stone. A silence that wasn’t awkward, but reverent. Hermione wanted to reach out, to place a hand on her friend’s shoulder, but like everyone else, Ginny’s words had her rooted to the spot.

“Everything in this castle screams magic,” Ginny finished, her voice hoarse now. “Maybe what we need to do… is create a space in this loud, chaotic, magical place that doesn’t feel magical at all.”

Luna, quiet until now, nodded. “Maybe that’s what we’ve been doing wrong. Trying to make it beautiful. But maybe it’s supposed to be true.”

The room held stillness again—this time softer, gentler, the way a blanket settles across a bed. No one rushed to speak. The earlier eagerness had drained away, replaced by something quieter, more reverent.

Hermione felt something shift in her chest. Not a realisation—she’d known what Ginny had said, known it for months—but a truth finally finding its voice. Her heart thudded unevenly as she stood, walked to the far wall, and pinned a single sheet of parchment to the empty notice board. She uncapped her ink bottle, dipped her quill, and wrote one word at the top.

Names.

Then, carefully, she wrote the first.

Fred Weasley.

Her hand hovered over the parchment for a moment, fingers smudged faintly with ink, the shape of the name pulling the breath from her lungs. She thought of Molly’s trembling hands. Of George’s empty laugh. Of Ron’s stubborn, brittle silence. Of Ginny, still staring into the fire, her tea gone cold beside her.

She didn’t turn to look at anyone. She simply placed the quill down beside the parchment and sat back down.

Dean was the first to follow. He stood, hesitated, then added Colin Creevey beneath Fred’s name. His hand trembled slightly as he wrote. He didn’t speak, but when he sat back down beside Seamus, his eyes were glistening.

Next was Padma. Then Ernie. Luna.

One by one, names began to form. Remus Lupin. Nymphadora Tonks. Lavender Brown. Sophie Roper. Roger Malone. Megan Jones.

When Pansy crossed the room, she didn’t pick up the quill right away. She stood in front of the parchment, gaze flicking across the list that was beginning to take shape. Hermione couldn’t read her expression.

Then, Pansy turned and returned to her place by the fire without writing a name. Instead, she pulled a fresh piece of parchment and began sketching something else—long lines, archways, lanterns. Her brow furrowed in thought.

Hermione watched her from across the room, intrigued by the intent in her movements. Pansy wasn’t just doodling. There was structure in her strokes. Purpose. She angled the parchment slightly toward the firelight and kept going, adding shading to the edges of the stonework, faint lines that mimicked the uneven surface of the damaged corridor.

Dean noticed too. He stood slowly and crossed the room.

“What’s that?” he asked.

Pansy barely looked up. “Just an idea. The corridor as it is—no embellishments. Lanterns low to the floor. Names carved into the stone. Nothing enchanted. Nothing performative.”

Dean nodded, reaching for a pencil from his back pocket. “Mind if I…?” He gestured to the blank margin of the parchment. Pansy passed it over without a word.

Hermione watched quietly from her place by the fireplace, momentarily grateful to slip out of the spotlight as Dean knelt beside Pansy, pencil in hand. Her gaze drifted between them, noticing how natural Pansy looked in this quiet, creative state. There was a gentleness to her now, a softness Hermione rarely saw. The determined edge that normally sharpened every gesture had receded, replaced by a subtle confidence in her careful movements.

Pansy leaned forward slightly, her expression thoughtful, and Hermione's breath caught. It was a small movement, insignificant really, but it brought back with startling clarity the image she'd tried unsuccessfully to push away; Pansy standing in their dormitory, damp skin glowing softly in the muted daylight, her legs impossibly long, impossibly smooth and toned. Hermione’s cheeks warmed slightly, and she quickly averted her gaze, staring down at her own hands, clenched tightly in her lap.

But the image lingered stubbornly, along with a persistent awareness that was becoming harder and harder to ignore. Hermione knew she needed to break things off with Ron, knew that this fascination with Pansy Parkinson had grown beyond reason or logic. It was absurd, distracting, and yet…

She stole another glance, this time focusing on the graceful way Pansy’s fingers held the pencil, precise yet gentle as she added shading to the stones. Her dark hair had slipped forward, and Pansy brushed it back absently, revealing the delicate curve of her neck. Hermione swallowed hard, annoyed at herself for noticing such tiny, distracting details in a moment so important. She silently scolded herself, dragging her attention back to the names already scribbled onto parchment.

This memorial mattered more than any misguided attraction. She owed it to Fred, to Lavender, to all of them, to keep her focus. Hermione took a steadying breath, grateful when Pansy finally set down the pencil and lifted the parchment, showing it to Dean, who nodded appreciatively. Together, they turned toward the waiting group.

"We think we have something," Dean announced, stepping back slightly, letting Pansy hold up the drawing.

Hermione let out a quiet breath of relief, grateful for the distraction—and perhaps more grateful that no one else could see the flush still lingering on her cheeks. The parchment was held aloft for the room to see, and Hermione leaned forward instinctively, drawn in by the compelling simplicity of Pansy and Dean's sketch. Even as an incomplete first draft, it captured something powerful, something true to their shared grief.

The design was stark yet quietly beautiful, stripped of unnecessary decoration and enchantment. Hermione’s eyes traced the clean lines of the corridor walls, rendered in careful charcoal strokes, unembellished and sober. Deep, graceful archways rose to a ceiling that appeared gently sloped—giving the impression of solemn humility rather than grandeur. Hermione could almost feel the stillness of the space just looking at it.

Names—fewer than there should be—had been sketched lightly along one side. They were simple letters, almost understated, yet Hermione felt their weight as if they’d been carved directly into her heart. Small, low-set lanterns were drawn at intervals, their tiny flames sketched as faint smudges of orange and gold, positioned in a way that each name would always remain softly illuminated.

What struck Hermione most deeply was what the corridor didn’t have. There was no performative grief, no grandeur. Instead, the quiet honesty of the design forced her to acknowledge the lingering emptiness left behind by their losses. She knew, even in this rough, unfinished form, walking through the completed memorial would be quietly devastating, which was exactly as it should be.

Around her, the others were similarly quiet, taking in the design with expressions that ranged from thoughtful silence to gentle awe. Even Blaise Zabini, usually cynical, was looking carefully at the parchment, a faint, appreciative nod indicating that he too felt the solemn gravity of the idea.

Ginny was the first to break the silence, her voice low and slightly thick. “It’s perfect,” she said softly, nodding once at Dean and then surprisingly, more emphatically at Pansy. “You’ve got it exactly right.”

Dean gave a quiet sigh of relief, looking both pleased and humbled. Beside him, Pansy’s reaction was more guarded, a quiet nod in response, but Hermione could see the faintest flicker of pride behind her carefully composed expression.

“Yes,” Luna said thoughtfully, tilting her head as she considered the sketch, “it’s as though the walls themselves are mourning. Stripped bare of anything that makes it feel like Hogwarts.”

“Exactly,” Hermione agreed, almost relieved that someone had found words for the way she felt. “It says everything it needs to without needing to say anything at all.”

There was a murmur of agreement around the room, quiet but unanimous.

Dean turned slightly, addressing the group. “Obviously, it’s still rough. And we don’t have all the names yet.”

Padma nodded thoughtfully. “Then maybe it’s time we decide exactly whose names belong there.”

Hermione straightened slightly, steeling herself as the conversation moved toward the difficult questions—the names that would test their resolve and unity the most. Yet despite the heaviness of what was coming, she felt oddly hopeful. For the first time since McGonagall had given them this task, she felt certain they could do this properly.

Her eyes drifted briefly back to Pansy, who was carefully setting the parchment down again, dark eyes unreadable once more. Hermione knew she’d need to address her feelings soon—but for now, for tonight, she could simply focus on the importance of this moment and the quiet brilliance of what Pansy and Dean had created.

“I presume we’re leaving out Crabbe,” Blaise said, and as he did, a dark cloud settled over the room.

Hermione’s stomach twisted uncomfortably at the mention. Vincent Crabbe’s name felt like a sharp intrusion into the delicate peace they’d managed to build. It was inevitable that this discussion would arise—she’d known that from the moment McGonagall tasked them with creating this memorial—but the quiet unease on the faces around her suggested no one was eager to confront it directly.

The fire crackled softly in the silence that followed. Blaise looked unfazed, his expression carefully blank, but Daphne shifted beside him, her jaw tightening. Ernie and Dean exchanged uncertain glances, neither eager to speak first.

Hermione considered speaking up herself, if only to keep the silence from stretching any further, but before she could, Pansy straightened in her chair, the movement so sudden it drew everyone’s attention.

“Crabbe was a cruel idiot who made his choice,” Pansy said bluntly, her voice sharp and unflinching. “He chose to follow the Dark Lord to the hilt, he chose to attack Potter and his friends, and in the end, his own dark magic killed him.” She paused, glancing around as though daring someone to disagree. “Putting his name on that wall would be an insult to everyone else who died fighting against what he stood for.”

A ripple of surprise spread through the room, marked by raised eyebrows and exchanged looks. It was clear no one had expected Pansy Parkinson, of all people, to speak so harshly about one of her former housemates.

“Crabbe didn’t fight to defend Hogwarts,” Ginny agreed firmly. “He fought to destroy it. He doesn’t deserve to share a space with my brother.”

Hermione felt a wave of quiet relief at the clarity with which Ginny and Pansy had both spoken, though it was strange to find herself and Pansy in agreement about something so sensitive.

Blaise gave a faint nod. “I’m not arguing,” he said quietly. “But we need to acknowledge that others on the outside will ask why he isn’t included.”

“They can ask,” Ginny retorted sharply, “and we’ll tell them exactly why.”

Another silence fell, and Hermione saw Padma look down at the parchment in front of her, clearly uncomfortable. This wasn’t easy for any of them, and Hermione knew there was another name, equally controversial, waiting to be voiced.

Almost as if sensing this, Luna’s soft voice broke the tension gently. “Then what about Professor Snape?”

If possible, the room grew even quieter.

Harry had not revealed all of the details of Snape’s memories publicly, but he had shouted enough about them to Voldemort in their final confrontation that most people understood the essentials. Snape had been working alongside Dumbledore all along, playing a dangerous and exhausting game, instrumental in Lord Voldemort’s eventual downfall. Yet, Hermione’s stomach tightened with conflict. Could that single revelation truly excuse a lifetime of cruelty, bitterness, and deliberate humiliation?

She remembered vividly the cutting remarks, the harsh punishments, the open disdain Snape had shown so many of his students—Harry and Neville most of all. Hermione was not naïve enough to believe heroism could erase years of malice, no matter how significant or brave Snape’s final sacrifices had been. Yet, the thought of not including him left her feeling deeply unsettled.

Dean broke the silence first, carefully clearing his throat. “He saved Harry’s life,” he pointed out hesitantly, “and he did what Dumbledore asked—even at the cost of his own life.”

Ginny shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “He made Harry’s life miserable every day for six years. Neville’s too. And plenty of others. He was…cruel.”

“But he was brave,” Padma added quietly. “You can be cruel and brave. He died alone, working for our side.”

Hermione considered this quietly, knowing Padma had pinpointed the uncomfortable truth at the core of Snape’s complicated legacy. He had been brave, incredibly so, but his motives—were they truly noble, or had they simply been driven by guilt and grief for Lily Potter? Could a memorial dedicated to sacrifice and courage truly omit his name, or would its inclusion diminish the pain he’d inflicted?

She glanced around the room again, seeing the conflict mirrored in every face. There was no easy answer, no decision that could possibly please everyone. Yet someone needed to speak, and so Hermione, gathering her thoughts carefully, cleared her throat.

“Perhaps for now, we’ll put him down as a maybe. I’d like to get Harry, Ron, and Neville’s thoughts on it. Professor McGonagall’s too.” There were some collective groans and sighs from the group, but nobody raised any real protests.

“I have another maybe,” Ginny said, once again drawing all eyes in the room to her. “Cedric Diggory.”

At Cedric’s name, the mood of the room shifted again, becoming softer, quieter, tinged with sadness rather than tension. Cedric had died years earlier, yet his death was still a wound not fully healed. Hermione remembered that terrible night vividly—the fear, the confusion, and the grief of discovering Cedric had died at Voldemort’s hand. It had been, in hindsight, the moment the Wizarding world should have been forced to confront that Voldemort had returned. Her anger at Fudge and the Ministry over their handling of Cedric’s death was something that would never subside.

“Cedric wasn’t here when Hogwarts was attacked,” Ernie said slowly, though without hostility. “He died years before the Battle.”

“But he was the first,” Ginny said firmly, her gaze steady. “The very first casualty of a war that most people refused to believe had started. His death was the start of all this—the moment everything changed.”

“Ginny’s right,” Luna spoke softly, her eyes thoughtful and solemn. “Cedric deserves to be remembered somewhere.”

“Somewhere, yes,” Dean added cautiously, “but does he belong in this corridor? Wouldn’t it be better to honour him elsewhere?”

Ginny seemed to consider this carefully, her expression thoughtful but not confrontational. “Maybe,” she said after a pause. “I suppose I just want people to remember that Cedric’s death mattered too.”

Hermione nodded gently. “Maybe that’s another conversation we need to have with Professor McGonagall,” she suggested. “Cedric’s death absolutely deserves recognition—but we should discuss if this particular memorial is the right place.”

Ginny nodded slowly, clearly satisfied for now.

The room gradually settled back into quiet contemplation, minds and hearts exhausted by the heaviness of the decisions they'd faced. Hermione glanced down at her parchment, eyes lingering on the unfinished list of names, feeling the weight of responsibility—and the overwhelming task still ahead.

“We should have something written above the entrance to the corridor,” Daphne Greengrass supplied, “a short inscription to let future generations of students know who these people are.”

Her voice was quiet but carried an authority that drew attention. Hermione met her eyes, nodding slowly as the suggestion settled around the room. It was a good idea—something that had somehow not occurred to any of them until now. They had focused so intently on the names, on who to include and who to omit, that they hadn't thought about how to encapsulate their message clearly and simply.

Dean tapped his pencil thoughtfully against his parchment. “Something straightforward, maybe? Just stating what happened?”

“It should feel timeless,” Padma added, “not overly sentimental.”

“Maybe something about sacrifice,” Seamus suggested quietly. “They all gave their lives to protect the school. We could acknowledge that.”

Luna tilted her head thoughtfully, eyes distant yet somehow sharply present. “Or perhaps about hope—how their bravery allowed us to live and learn here again.”

Pansy, who had been quiet since her earlier remarks, lifted her head and spoke, her voice steady and clear. “Maybe it doesn’t have to be complicated. Something simple, something that acknowledges the reality of the battle without glossing over it.”

Ginny nodded slowly, seeming to agree, eyes fixed thoughtfully on the floor. Hermione could see her friend carefully turning over ideas, searching for words.  Hermione considered the suggestions quietly, each one echoing in her thoughts, yet none seemed entirely right. Then, softly, almost instinctively, she spoke.

“What about something like… ‘Here are named the brave who stood for Hogwarts on the night it stood alone.’”

The words lingered quietly in the air, simple yet profound. She glanced up carefully, unsure of how they would be received.

Ginny’s gaze lifted, eyes bright and earnest. “That’s perfect.”

Dean immediately began sketching again, replacing the previous inscription with Hermione’s words. The parchment was tilted toward them so they could all see, and Hermione felt a quiet, collective sigh move through the group, as if everyone sensed the rightness of the phrase.

Pansy’s expression softened, a rare moment of vulnerability as she stared thoughtfully at the sketch. Daphne offered a silent, approving nod, and even Blaise appeared contemplative rather than indifferent.

“Yes,” Luna said softly, smiling slightly. “That’s exactly what it was.”

Hermione let out a slow, relieved breath. For once, the group was unified, and despite the heavy burden of the task ahead, the memorial felt suddenly, truly achievable.

The common room slowly emptied out, conversations dwindling into murmured goodnights and quiet footsteps. Hermione took a moment to tidy the scattered parchments, placing Pansy and Dean’s sketch carefully on top of the pile, her fingertips tracing lightly over the rough lines. The lantern-lit corridor stared back at her from the parchment, stark and beautiful in its simplicity. This was right, she thought, swallowing hard against the swell of emotion. It felt honest, true—like they’d captured a small piece of what they’d lost.

She climbed the stairs slowly, exhaustion settling into her bones as she reached their dormitory door, pushing it open with a sigh of relief. The room was blissfully warm, bathed in the gentle glow of the lamp beside Pansy’s bed. Pansy herself stood near her dresser, hair loose around her shoulders, her uniform already discarded in favour of a silky, loose-fitting negligée that drew Hermione’s gaze like a magnet. Pansy glanced up as Hermione entered, her eyes briefly warm before a familiar, teasing smirk settled into place.

“You’re not staring again are you Granger?” Pansy asked, her eyes full of mischief.

Hermione felt heat rise instantly to her cheeks, betraying her before she'd even had the chance to muster a denial. She forced her gaze away from Pansy, busying herself with her satchel, fingers fumbling uselessly with the clasps. She knew perfectly well that the dark-haired girl was enjoying every second of her discomfort.

"Hardly," Hermione muttered unconvincingly, turning her back pointedly and dropping her bag beside her bed. She reached for her own nightclothes, desperately trying to steady her erratic heartbeat. "Though you could try being a little more decent, you know."

Pansy laughed softly, the sound rich with amusement and something else Hermione couldn’t quite place. "Why? Afraid you won't be able to resist looking?"

Hermione scowled, though Pansy couldn't see it. She began changing quickly, cheeks flushed hotter than ever as she pulled on a loose-fitting top, grateful for the temporary cover it provided. "You’re impossible," she replied.

She was nearly finished when she heard footsteps approaching from behind—soft, deliberate steps that sent a shiver down her spine. Hermione froze, heart hammering, as Pansy stopped just close enough that Hermione could sense her warmth.

“You know Granger, I thought there was a new rule about only changing in the bathroom, and you’ve gone and broken it.”

Hermione felt her heart stumble wildly against her ribs, heat racing up her neck as Pansy's words wrapped around her like silk. She swallowed thickly, willing her voice steady before responding, though she couldn’t bring herself to turn around.

"That rule was for you," she countered weakly, her voice betraying far more breathlessness than she’d intended. "Since you apparently can't be trusted."

Pansy chuckled, low and quiet, the sound skittering pleasantly down Hermione's spine. She leaned in ever so slightly, her breath ghosting warm across Hermione's shoulder, stirring the fine hairs at the nape of her neck. "Oh, I see. Rules only apply when you make them apply, then?"

Hermione forced herself to take a steadying breath. The scent of Pansy's perfume was suddenly everywhere, soft and intoxicating, mingling with the warmth radiating from her closeness. It took every ounce of willpower Hermione possessed to stop herself from leaning back, bridging that small, dangerous gap between them.

"I trust myself," Hermione managed at last, though her voice was little more than a whisper.

Pansy hummed, thoughtful, teasing. "That seems awfully unfair to me Granger. I don’t think rule breaking should go unpunished."

“You want to…” Hermione caught herself before she said the words punish me.

Hermione’s breath stalled completely, caught halfway between her lungs and her lips. She knew the flush in her cheeks was betraying her, knew the glint of triumph in Pansy’s eyes meant the other girl had noticed exactly what Hermione had been about to say.

Pansy’s lips curved slowly into a smirk, her gaze darkening with something that made Hermione’s stomach twist pleasantly.

“Finish that thought, Granger,” Pansy murmured softly, voice dropping even lower, laced with unmistakable intent. “What exactly is it you think I want?”

Hermione’s pulse thundered in her ears, her heart hammering so violently she was sure Pansy could hear it. Her chest heaved, desperately trying to get oxygen to her brain and wake her from Pansy’s spell. She opened her mouth to respond, to say anything at all, but found that every coherent thought had deserted her entirely. For the first time, perhaps in her entire life, Hermione Granger was utterly speechless.

“You—” Hermione started weakly, her voice trembling, “Oh, shut up Parkinson!” She finally managed, though it didn’t even sound convincing to herself, let alone Pansy, who smirked villainously just inches from Hermione’s ear.

“So bossy,” she replied.

“I am not bossy!” Stop giving her what she wants, Hermione chastised herself.

Pansy laughed softly, the sound dangerously appealing, making Hermione's heart skitter and trip beneath her ribs. She leaned in just slightly, lips brushing Hermione's ear in a ghostly, feather-light touch.

"Oh, but you are," she purred quietly, the teasing lilt in her voice unbearably tempting. "And you know what, Granger? I don’t like it. I like being the one in charge."

A tremor passed through Hermione’s core, warmth rushing through her veins. She tried desperately to cling to her resolve, her fists clenched tightly at her sides, nails digging sharply into her palms as if the pain could ground her. This was getting well out of hand, yet she did nothing to stop it, and she did nothing to stop it when Pansy’s fingers wound into her braid and pulled her backwards. The miniscule gap between them had closed. Hermione was acutely aware of Pansy’s chest pressed into her back, separated only by two thin pieces of fabric.

“I couldn’t help but notice you enjoying watching me sketch earlier.” Pansy continued huskily.

Hermione’s breath stuttered, caught in her chest like a fluttering bird trapped in a cage. Her pulse raced beneath her skin, roaring so loudly in her ears she could scarcely hear her own thoughts. The sensation of Pansy pressed against her back, firm and warm, sent a thrill surging through her body—a traitorous pleasure she was unable, unwilling, to fight.

"I wasn't—" she began breathlessly, but her words faltered as Pansy’s grip tightened just enough to tilt Hermione’s head back, exposing her throat in a gesture of subtle yet undeniable dominance.

Pansy’s voice was velvet and fire in Hermione’s ear. "Don’t lie to me, Hermione," she murmured. The rare use of Hermione’s first name sent a fresh shiver through her body. "I saw you. You liked seeing me focused, didn’t you? Watching my fingers, imagining what else they might be good at…"

Hermione bit her lip, eyes fluttering closed, a strangled gasp slipping unbidden from her mouth. She should stop this, should pull away, should tell Pansy Parkinson exactly what she thought of her smug arrogance—but instead she found herself leaning back further, melting helplessly into Pansy’s touch.

"You’re wrong," Hermione tried weakly, voice unconvincing even to her own ears.

Pansy chuckled again, softly, triumphantly. "Am I?" she whispered, tracing one finger slowly down the line of Hermione’s jaw, feather-light but commanding, teasing Hermione’s senses until she shivered. "You want me to believe you’d prefer to be in charge?"

Hermione’s cheeks flushed, a defiant spark igniting somewhere deep inside her chest. She turned her head just slightly, meeting Pansy’s gaze from beneath half-lidded eyes. "Maybe I would," she whispered breathlessly.

For a heartbeat, surprise flashed across Pansy’s expression, swiftly replaced by a fierce, delighted gleam. "We’ll see," she murmured, her grip on Hermione’s hair loosening slowly, deliberately, allowing the tension of the moment to linger. Hermione nearly groaned in frustration when Pansy finally stepped away, the loss of contact leaving her body aching in ways she was loath to admit.

Pansy’s lips curled into a slow, pleased smirk as she retreated gracefully toward her bed, clearly satisfied she’d won this round. "Sleep tight, Granger," she purred, slipping beneath her covers with an effortless grace. "If you can."

Hermione exhaled shakily, climbing quickly into her own bed, pulling the blankets tightly around her as though they could shield her from her own reckless desires. As she lay there, breathing heavily, she knew she was in far too deep—but somehow, couldn’t bring herself to care.

The dream began as it did every night. Hermione was bound tightly to a chair, conjured ropes cutting deeply into her wrists, pinning her until her fingertips tingled painfully from lack of circulation. Her breath came in desperate gasps, ragged and raw, as she raised her chin defiantly, staring into the face of Bellatrix Lestrange. The witch’s dark eyes glittered with manic glee, her wand twisted cruelly between skeletal fingers.

“Crucio!”

The curse struck Hermione like white-hot iron plunged into her veins. It wasn’t simply pain—it was agony personified. Every nerve-ending in her body exploded into unbearable fire, her limbs seized and trembled violently, twisting and contorting against the ropes. Her throat tore itself raw with the force of her screams, yet Bellatrix’s laughter rang louder still, cruel and mocking. Hermione couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, could only endure as the spell tore at her again and again.

When at last the spell ceased, Hermione slumped forward, her entire body shaking uncontrollably. She tried to pull breath into her battered lungs, her vision swimming dangerously at the edges. Bellatrix approached her, seizing a handful of Hermione’s hair and jerking her head up sharply.

“You lying little Mudblood,” Bellatrix hissed venomously. Her breath was rancid, her face inches from Hermione’s, eyes wild and inhuman. “What were you doing in my vault?”

“We…we didn’t,” Hermione gasped, her voice hoarse and broken. “Please…we didn’t…”

Bellatrix screamed, incandescent with fury, flinging Hermione from the chair with a violent wave of her wand. Hermione’s body crashed heavily onto the marble floor, pain radiating sharply through her ribs, the breath punched from her chest. She coughed weakly, tasting copper as blood flooded her mouth.

“Liar!” Bellatrix shrieked, eyes crazed, her chest heaving rapidly. She stood over Hermione, withdrawing a gleaming silver blade from her robes, the point aimed with deliberate menace at Hermione’s trembling arm. “If your filthy tongue won’t tell the truth, then maybe your dirty blood will!”

Hermione whimpered, eyes wide, heart hammering desperately as the cold tip of the blade touched her skin, pressing painfully—

“Stupefy!”

A streak of red struck the dark-haired creature of nightmares in the chest, throwing her across the room. Hermione gasped, struggling desperately to turn her head and see who had saved her from the clutches of Bellatrix Lestrange.

There, standing in the doorway, wand still raised and fury blazing in her eyes, was Pansy Parkinson.

“Crazy bitch!” She exclaimed, kicking Bellatrix aside with her long, toned legs. “You don’t get to haunt Granger’s dreams anymore! I’m taking over!”

Hermione’s heart pounded as Pansy quickly closed the distance between them, dropping to her knees at Hermione’s side. Warm hands brushed Hermione’s face gently, guiding her chin upward until their eyes met. Concern softened the sharp edges of Pansy’s expression, something infinitely tender shining through the fierce mask she'd worn moments before.

“You’re here,” Hermione whispered in disbelief, still trembling, still unsure if she dared trust this dream—this wonderful reprieve from the usual nightmare.

“Of course I’m here,” Pansy said quietly, her fingers ghosting gently across Hermione’s wrists, releasing the conjured ropes with practiced ease. Her touch was impossibly comforting, drawing warmth and hope into places Hermione thought could never be reached again. “Come on, let’s get out of this madhouse.”

The moment she said it Hermione felt the dream shifting around her until she was in the familiar setting of their dorm room. The pain of Bellatrix’s torture had faded away, and her left arm was completely unblemished. Pansy was – Hermione let out a noise like a strangled animal – Pansy was not wearing very much. Pansy was hardly wearing anything at all. Her robe lay discarded on the floor, revealing a few patches of green silk that were, well, revealing.

Hermione’s pulse quickened as she took in the scene unfolding around her. Their dormitory was bathed in the golden glow of candlelight, casting long, flickering shadows that danced intimately across Pansy's porcelain skin. Pansy stood before her, a smirk pulling at the corner of her lips, eyes gleaming with a wicked intent that Hermione had seen flashes of, but never fully indulged in.

"Better?" Pansy asked softly, her voice silkily suggestive, stepping closer, the sway of her hips effortlessly capturing Hermione’s attention.

Hermione swallowed thickly, her throat suddenly dry, heart racing in a mix of anticipation and nervous excitement. "Much," she managed, her voice barely audible.

Pansy’s fingers reached out, lightly tracing along Hermione’s jawline, tilting her head upward with exquisite gentleness, her eyes dark and commanding. "Good," she purred. "Because now, you’re mine."

Hermione’s breath hitched as Pansy slowly closed the distance between them, the soft press of her body against Hermione's a tantalizing blend of warmth and silk. Hermione’s mind blurred, rational thought dissolving under the spell of Pansy’s intoxicating presence. She felt Pansy’s fingers thread through her hair again, this time possessively, guiding her back gently until she felt the soft mattress beneath her.

"I told you," Pansy murmured, eyes glinting with pleasure as she hovered over Hermione, her lips brushing teasingly against Hermione’s neck. "I like being the one in charge."

Hermione shivered deliciously beneath her, her hands trembling as they tentatively found their way to Pansy’s waist, fingertips skimming over soft, enticing curves. The confidence in Pansy’s movements, the way she took control effortlessly, had Hermione utterly at her mercy, lost to sensation and need. Hermione’s breathing grew shallow, eyelids fluttering closed as Pansy’s mouth traced a heated path from her throat to the sensitive hollow below her ear.

"Tell me you want this," Pansy whispered huskily, the command unmistakable in her tone, yet softened by something deeper, almost pleading.

"I—I want you," Hermione admitted breathlessly, her words a surrender as much as they were a confession.

Pansy’s eyes darkened with triumphant desire. "Good girl," she whispered approvingly, capturing Hermione’s lips fiercely, swallowing the gasp of surprise and delight that escaped her.

Hermione melted beneath the kiss, her fingers tightening against Pansy’s waist, pulling her even closer as their bodies aligned perfectly, pressing together with an intensity that left them both breathless. Hermione’s heart raced frantically, each touch, each caress pushing her closer and closer to the edge of what she had secretly longed for.

As Pansy’s hands roamed, her touch grew increasingly bold, sending Hermione’s senses spiralling toward blissful oblivion. Hermione arched helplessly against her, gasping into Pansy’s mouth, overwhelmed by a delicious ache that built steadily within her.

Just as the sensations threatened to overwhelm her entirely, the dormitory began to blur around Hermione, reality shifting and rippling as her awareness surged forward, pulling her from the seductive embrace of her dream—

Hermione woke with a startled gasp, breathless and flushed, her body tingling with the phantom sensations of Pansy’s touch. She stared wide-eyed at the dark ceiling above her, pulse racing, heart still pounding desperately in her chest.

She pressed trembling fingers to her lips, the vividness of the dream lingering stubbornly, every detail branded into her memory.

Oh, Merlin. She was in trouble. Deep, irrevocable trouble—and she’d never wanted anything more. Furthermore, she knew without a shadow of a doubt that she would never, ever dream of Bellatrix Lestrange again. Hermione lay quietly in the dark, her heartbeat slowly calming, a tentative smile ghosting across her lips. The nightmare that had haunted her for months had lost its power, replaced by something—or rather, someone—far more captivating. Closing her eyes, she allowed herself the luxury of replaying the dream’s vivid sensations: the warmth of Pansy’s touch, the silkiness of her voice, the thrilling confidence of her control. As sleep claimed her again, Hermione knew with absolute certainty that while she might have escaped Bellatrix’s torment, she was now utterly and willingly ensnared by Pansy Parkinson—and the thought filled her with a sweet, forbidden anticipation.

Chapter Text

Chapter 16

“I’ve got it!” Daphne announced, dropping onto the bench beside Pansy with a dramatic flair that sent a ripple through the silverware. Pansy barely caught her pumpkin juice before it toppled.

“Daphne,” she said flatly, narrowing her eyes.

Ever since Daphne had pried the truth out of her—that yes, she had indeed snogged Hermione Granger, and no, she didn’t want to talk about it—her oldest friend had transformed into something between a matchmaker and an overexcited dog who'd discovered a room full of bones. She’d suggested elopement in Venice, a magical sailing expedition through the Mediterranean, and provided a horrifying book titled How to Please a Witch in the Bedroom that Pansy had promptly incinerated.

“No, listen,” Daphne pressed, ignoring the warning tone in Pansy’s voice as she clasped her hands in delight. “Sicily.”

Pansy blinked. “What about Sicily?”

“We could disappear there for the summer! Uncle Eldon has a villa with a private orchard and absolutely no Floo connections, and —he’s very progressive. He won’t ask questions. You and Granger could... get to know each other in peace.”

“I don’t need a hideaway,” Pansy drawled, reaching for her goblet. “Nor do I need your uncle’s bloody orchard.”

“Oh, come on,” Daphne leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiring whisper. “She’s insufferable, but she's also sort of... lovely, in a terrifyingly clever, bossy kind of way. I’m trying to be supportive.”

“You’re trying to orchestrate an international… lesbian scandal,” Pansy muttered. “And for the last time, nothing is happening.”

Daphne arched a sculpted brow. “Pansy. I saw the way you looked at her after the memorial meeting. That was hardly nothing. I know when you’re lying. You purse your lips like you’re trying not to bite someone.”

Pansy gave a very deliberate, very disdainful purse of her lips.

“Exactly like that,” Daphne said smugly.

Pansy sighed and pushed her plate away. “Even if I wanted to—which I don’t—I still have parents. Horrible ones. Who would curse me into oblivion if they found out. Running off to southern Italy isn’t going to fix that.”

For once, Daphne fell silent. Her gaze softened, and she tapped her nails against the table in thought.

“I know you’re scared,” she said eventually, voice quieter. “I would be too, if my mother thought Mudblood was a perfectly reasonable word to use at the breakfast table. But she doesn’t, and yours... well, yours isn’t here. You are.”

Pansy glanced away.

“And besides,” Daphne continued breezily, tone lifting again, “you’re doing an appallingly poor job at hiding how completely gone you are for her. I give it another week before you either snog her again or combust from sheer tension.”

“I’m not gone for anyone,” Pansy muttered.

Daphne grinned. “Liar.”

Pansy stewed, miserably nursing her pumpkin juice, watching it swirl with an intensity that suggested it had personally offended her. She hated when Daphne got like this—gleeful, meddling, full of grand ideas and absurd schemes like she was orchestrating a Pureblood wedding rather than trying to navigate Pansy’s emotional minefield. Worse still, she was often right, and Pansy loathed being predictable.

Especially now.

The truth was, she was in a mess. A catastrophically complicated, emotionally perilous mess, and it had a name. Hermione Granger. Bloody Granger, with her maddening logic and relentless sense of justice, who’d wormed her way under Pansy’s skin and now lived there rent-free like she owned the place.

Pansy groaned internally. Her gaze slid across the Great Hall toward the Gryffindor table before she caught herself and looked away.

The dormitory. Last night. What the hell had she been thinking?

It had all started out so simple—harmless fun. Something to take the edge off of what had been a pretty heavy evening. Throw on a skimpy nightdress, watch Granger get a bit flustered, go to bed happy. But then Granger had walked in. The look on her face—wide-eyed, scandalised, flustered beyond belief—it had been too perfect. Too easy. One little tease, and she was pink to the ears. A second? Practically short-circuiting.

So, yes, the nightdress had been strategic. A trap, set and sprung.

But the rest? The fingers in her braid, the whisper in her ear, the deliberate press of her chest against Granger’s back? Utter lunacy.

She couldn’t even pretend she hadn’t enjoyed it. That was the most mortifying part. She’d liked how Hermione froze under her touch, how she gasped, how she tried to rally some of that righteous indignation and utterly failed. That look in her eyes—a mix of disbelief and something dangerously close to want—had lodged itself into Pansy’s brain and refused to budge.

“Anyway, when you’re done daydreaming about getting into Granger’s knickers–”

“Daphne!”

“–you might want to consider how you’re going to go about it.”

“I’m not going to go about it.” Pansy said firmly.

Daphne snorted, entirely unmoved by the force of Pansy’s tone. She twirled a piece of her perfectly curled hair around one manicured finger, looking far too pleased with herself.

“Oh, come off it. You’re already trying to go about it, darling. You’ve practically got hearts floating around your head.”

Pansy fixed her with a dead-eyed stare. “If you don’t stop talking, I’m going to charm that ridiculous hair of yours into a bird’s nest.”

“I’m just saying,” Daphne went on breezily, undeterred, “maybe it’s time for a strategy. You can’t keep snogging her in broom cupboards and then pretending you’re not planning the colour scheme of your wedding.”

“There is no wedding,” Pansy hissed. “There isn’t even a relationship, or any snogging. We’re not even—whatever it is you think we are, and she’s still dating the ginger one.”

Daphne shrugged. “Minor details.”

Pansy made a noise of frustrated disbelief. “A long-term boyfriend who was part of the Golden Bloody Trio is not a minor detail.”

“Fine,” Daphne said, picking up a grape and popping it into her mouth, “but you might want to keep your cool when the break-up happens.”

Pansy blinked. “What?”

“Oh, come on,” Daphne said, chewing elegantly. “She’s been weird with him for weeks. He’s not even here, and she still acts like she’s trying to come up with an excuse not to owl him. You think I don’t notice things?”

Pansy’s stomach twisted. A part of her thrilled at the thought—at the idea that maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t the only one feeling something complicated. But another part of her shut down at once. This was dangerous territory, and Pansy didn’t do hope. Not anymore.

“Doesn’t matter,” she said, quieter this time. “Even if she did, even if she wanted to… it’s not like I can do anything about it.”

Daphne didn’t speak for a moment. She just looked at her, the teasing gone now, replaced with something softer. Something far more dangerous.

“Maybe not yet,” she said gently. “But Pansy… you really think you’re going to be able to stay away?”

Pansy didn’t answer. Because she already knew the truth. She couldn’t.

“Now, seduction is a powerful tool, but its only half the battle. If you want to keep Granger long term you’re going to have to make a bit more effort than just snogging her in the dorm.”

Pansy groaned and let her forehead thunk against the table. “Merlin, Daphne. I’m not trying to keep her. I’m not even trying to get her. I was just…” She paused, groping for the right words. “…being reckless.”

Daphne raised a perfectly groomed brow. “Reckless?” she echoed, leaning in like a vulture scenting something dead. “Since when does Pansy Parkinson do reckless? No, that wasn’t reckless. That was yearning. Possibly pining. Definitely lusting.”

Pansy lifted her head just far enough to glare. “Don’t you have anything better to do than psychoanalyse me over breakfast?”

“No,” Daphne said with a little grin. “Not when you’re this much fun.”

Pansy scowled and stabbed a piece of toast with unnecessary force. “It’s not like I have a chance anyway. Even if she does break up with the Weasel, she’s still Hermione Granger. I’ve spent the better part of eight years making her life miserable.”

“And now you’ve started making her life interesting,” Daphne replied. “Big difference.”

Pansy said nothing to that. Mostly because she wasn’t sure it wasn’t true.

Daphne turned to survey the Great Hall, her voice suddenly more thoughtful. “Look, I’m not saying you need to buy her flowers and carve your initials into a tree. But you’re not exactly the most… emotionally accessible person in the world. You want her to believe you’re not just a passing whim, you’ll have to let her see the real you. Not the mask. Not the snark. Just… you.”

Pansy stared at her, something unpleasant stirring in her chest. “And what if she doesn’t like what she sees?”

Daphne smiled faintly. “Then she’s a bloody fool and doesn’t deserve you.”

That quiet moment stretched between them. Pansy hated how it made her feel. Vulnerable. Raw. Hopeful.

She glanced across the hall, eyes searching for a bushy head of hair—half dreading, half aching for the chance to see her. Hermione Granger. The impossible girl with a spine of steel and eyes that made her forget to breathe.

“Merlin’s saggy left bollock!” Daphne hit Pansy with a sigh and an eyeroll of her own, “Will you stop mooning for five seconds?”

“I wasn’t–”

“Give over! I’ve seen Mooncalves that don’t have eyes as wide as you. But if you can bear to tear your eyes away from your beloved for a few minutes you may graciously receive another pearl of my famed wisdom.”

Pansy groaned, burying her face briefly in her hands. "Go on then, let’s hear it. Your pearls of wisdom always fill me with such confidence."

Daphne tossed her hair dramatically, entirely unfazed. "Mock all you want, but this one’s actually useful. If you're genuinely serious about Granger—and don’t even pretend you’re not—you need to start learning about her…people."

Pansy lifted her head sharply, brows knitted together in confusion. "Her… people? What are you on about?"

Daphne gave her an exasperated look. "You know, Granger’s lot. Muggles."

Pansy blinked. Then blinked again, incredulous. "You're joking."

"I wish," Daphne said, grimacing slightly as though the mere thought of Muggle culture was an unfortunate inconvenience she’d rather not acknowledge. "But unfortunately, I'm not. She's Muggle-born, Pansy. That means when she finally leaves Hogwarts, she'll likely spend half her time in that world, visiting her family, going to their strange shops, eating in their peculiar restaurants. Do you honestly think she's going to want to keep a girlfriend who recoils every time she's dragged into a shop without house-elves to carry all her bags?"

Pansy shuddered visibly at the very thought, then let out a dramatic sigh. "I’m not that bad."

"Darling, you once asked me if Muggles cooked their food over open fires or if they’d advanced to stoves yet," Daphne said dryly. "You really are."

"Well, how am I supposed to know what Muggles do?" Pansy protested, trying to suppress the blush rising in her cheeks. "And what does it matter, anyway? Granger knows I’m not a Muggle expert. That’s not why she…" She faltered, then swallowed hard. "She wouldn't expect it from me."

Daphne leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to something more earnest. "No, she wouldn't. But just imagine how she'd react if you showed her you were willing to try. It’d certainly get her attention, wouldn’t it? Imagine the look on her face."

Pansy paused, grudgingly considering Daphne's point. Hermione did have that terribly earnest streak. She could almost picture it already: Hermione’s eyes lighting up with surprise, the corners of her mouth lifting in that irresistible little smile of hers, gratitude, and disbelief and—Pansy swallowed—maybe even a little admiration. That was almost worth enduring Muggle nonsense.

She scowled at Daphne, though it lacked real venom. "Fine. Say you're right. Where would I even start?"

Daphne shrugged. "I haven’t the faintest idea, honestly. Perhaps by asking her about her parents or something. Or, Merlin forbid, reading a book on the subject. I'm sure there’s one somewhere in this massive castle purposely built for education."

"Right," Pansy muttered, her voice dry. "I'll just pop down to the library and ask Madam Pince for a copy of How Not to Insult Muggles and Win Over Your Gryffindor Crush. I'm sure she keeps that right next to Witch Weekly."

Daphne laughed, delighted. "See? You're hilarious. Granger doesn’t stand a chance." Pansy shook her head, but the reluctant smile on her lips betrayed her. Maybe, just maybe, Daphne had a point after all.

The Hogwarts library was unusually quiet that afternoon. Pale beams of autumn sunlight streamed through the high windows, scattering dust motes across ancient wooden tables and polished marble floors. Hidden deep within a far corner, where few students ever ventured, Pansy Parkinson stood awkwardly before the shelves labelled simply 'Muggle Literature.'

She glanced nervously over her shoulder again—certainly not her first paranoid check—to make sure that absolutely no one was observing her disgraceful curiosity. Assured of her solitude, she turned back, staring helplessly at the odd assortment of books, magazines, and Muggle textbooks with titles that meant absolutely nothing to her.

There were thick books with names like Pride and Prejudice and Great Expectations. Next to them, a pile of glossy magazines showed smiling Muggle women in garish clothing that looked thoroughly impractical. Her eyes skimmed the titles: Vogue, Cosmopolitan, Woman's Weekly. Even more baffling was the shelf below, stacked with textbooks bearing mind-numbing names like Mathematics GCSE Revision Guide and Introduction to Biology.

Pansy’s lip curled slightly in distaste. Granger actually read things like this for fun?

She reached out cautiously, pulling down a book at random. Sense and Sensibility—whatever that was supposed to mean. Pansy flipped through its pages quickly, frowning at the dense lines of print. No moving pictures, no magical diagrams, just endless paragraphs of conversation and narrative. This was clearly a book for Daphne, not her.

With a sigh, she shoved the book back into place and picked up a magazine instead. The front cover was brightly coloured and adorned with an alarming headline—"Ten Ways to Spice Up Your Love Life!"—alongside a photo of an impossibly cheerful-looking woman. Pansy grimaced, imagining Daphne’s delight if she caught her looking at something so embarrassing.

She flicked through the pages, increasingly bewildered. Adverts for beauty products with bizarre promises "anti-aging retinol cream!" filled half the pages, interspersed with nonsensical articles like "My Husband Left Me for a Hairdresser" and "How to Keep Your Man Interested!". Honestly, was this the state of Muggle romance? She snapped the magazine shut, glancing around self-consciously, heart hammering as if she'd been caught doing something thoroughly indecent.

Pansy glanced furtively around once more, ensuring the distant librarian was thoroughly distracted before turning back to the bizarre collection in front of her. Resigned to the absurdity of her own curiosity, she reached hesitantly toward a thick, heavy-looking book simply titled Marvels of Engineering.

Settling herself cautiously at the nearest table, she opened the cover and began leafing through pages filled with neat diagrams, photographs, and paragraphs of small print describing inexplicable contraptions. She had of course seen cars in London plenty of times, but these seemed cumbersome and slow compared to apparating or even using the Floo Network. Muggle trains were a bizarre looking contraption too. She’d never really stopped to look at them properly as she passed through King’s Cross on the way to Platform 9 ¾. They were long and box-shaped, with tiny wheels, and no chimney to let the steam out. She stopped on a page showing a picture of one of these odd, boxy contraptions and read.

The Class 43 High Speed Locomotive uses a Paxman Valenta 12RP200L diesel engine  outputting 2,250 horsepower to propel its rake of seven or eight coaches to a top speed of 125 mph. Designed and built in Crewe Works in 1975 by British Rail Engineering Limited, the Class 43 was well received by the public and soon became the locomotive of choice for the British mainline services.

Pansy’s eyes glazed over. Developing an encyclopaedic knowledge of Muggle trains was hardly going to impress Hermione. She flipped past the diagrams of trains and the painfully dull statistics about horsepower and engine classes. Pages of beige nothingness, really. At least steam engines had character—these Muggle things just looked like a giant wand box on wheels. The next section, however, gave her pause.

Aeroplanes.

Massive hunks of metal that somehow flew through the air. There was a photograph of one soaring above the clouds, accompanied by an overly enthusiastic caption about cruising altitude and pressurised cabins. Pansy stared at it with deep suspicion. Flying without magic? No wings, no broom, no enchantments? Absolutely not.

She read on, mostly out of spite now. Engines, lift, drag, thrust, words strung together as if they meant something. The diagrams made little sense, all arrows, and cross-sections of enormous metal wings. Then came the bit about space travel, and that was when she reached her limit.

“Landing on the Moon,” she muttered, incredulous. She stared down at a grainy photograph of a man in a bulbous white suit, standing on a dusty expanse that looked suspiciously like someone’s poorly landscaped back garden. The caption identified him as Buzz Aldrin, which sounded like a made-up name if she'd ever heard one.

She glanced at the source of the image. Photograph by Neil Armstrong, who can be seen reflected in Aldrin’s visor.

“Oh, come off it,” she said aloud, slamming the book shut with a firm thud. “They did not go to the Moon.”

Still mildly affronted, she shoved the volume aside and reached for another—this one thinner, glossier, and altogether more colourful. The pages felt cheap beneath her fingers, but the imagery was bold and almost absurd: grinning families, neon lights, and looming structures made of metal, colour, and chaos. There were photographs of people being flung around in open carts on rails, their hair flying, mouths frozen in what could only be screams. Below, neat text invited the reader to experience the thrill of gravity-defying rides.

She frowned at the photo of one particularly ridiculous contraption: a twisting loop of track disappearing into the clouds, full of people with their arms in the air as if that would somehow save them. This… felt familiar.

Pansy leaned in, tilting the page. She didn’t know the term, but she recognised the idea. She remembered it from Granger’s half-explained ramblings after Pansy had kissed her —rollercoasters, wasn’t it? One of those strange Muggle things she’d laughed at, then secretly wondered about later.

Her mouth curled, equal parts disdain and something like intrigue. Muggles really were demented. She snapped the booklet closed, tucked it under her arm, and made a mental note—purely academic, of course—to ask Granger how often Muggles actually threw themselves around in death machines for fun.

Pansy didn’t particularly care for Quidditch, but apparently that didn’t matter.

“You’re coming,” Daphne had announced, looping her arm through Pansy’s without waiting for a response. “I refuse to sit through hours of freezing wind and screaming Gryffindors alone.”

And so, Pansy found herself bundled in her green-trimmed cloak, trudging toward the pitch with Daphne chatting animatedly at her side—mostly about how Blaise had once bet against their own team and was still insisting it was a strategic move.

By the time they reached the stands, the crowd had already gathered, a loud, shifting sea of students in house colours. The sky was a hard, unforgiving blue, and the wind whipped at the hem of Pansy’s cloak as she settled on a bench midway up the Slytherin section.

She tugged her gloves tighter, trying not to scowl too openly as Daphne launched into yet another theory about the outcome of the match—this one involving bribed Beaters, charmed Bludgers, and a suspicious-looking fifth year who may or may not have sabotaged Gryffindor’s brooms.

Pansy tuned her out.

Her gaze had already swept across the stadium once, looking instinctively for a certain head of brown hair. And there she was—down near the front of the Gryffindor stand, bundled up in a red-and-gold scarf far too oversized for her small frame, sitting next to none other than Ronald Weasley.

Pansy’s stomach gave a small, unpleasant twist.

Ron’s arm hovered behind Hermione—not quite resting on her, not quite withdrawn. It was the kind of almost-touch that spoke of habit, of old comfort, but not of closeness. From a distance, it might have looked normal. Familiar. But Pansy saw the distance in it.

Hermione didn’t lean back. Didn’t smile. She was talking, sure—nodding now and then at whatever Weasley was saying—but she looked distracted, fingers curling and uncurling in her lap, eyes flicking toward the sky even before the players were airborne.

“She looks miserable,” Daphne murmured, not bothering to hide the observation.

Pansy blinked and looked away, only then realising she’d been watching Hermione instead of the pitch. She busied herself adjusting her scarf.

“I didn’t say anything,” she muttered.

“You didn’t need to.” Daphne’s tone was maddeningly neutral.

Below them, the match finally got underway. Blurs of red and green streaked across the pitch, cheers rising from either side of the stands. But Pansy wasn’t really watching. Not properly. Hermione wasn’t even looking at the players. Her attention kept drifting—out toward the edge of the pitch, down toward the grass. Anywhere but at Ron.

There was something about the way she held herself. Composed, poised, yet... absent. Pansy could practically feel the tension from all the way across the pitch, and she knew—just knew—that whatever was left between Granger and Weasley was running on borrowed time. She swallowed thickly and looked away again, hating the way something in her chest tugged with the knowledge. Not quite hope. But close. Daphne, mercifully, said nothing more. Not yet.

The wind picked up as the players twisted and soared above the pitch, robes fluttering sharply against their bodies. Pansy adjusted her position on the cold bench, silently cursing Daphne's insistence that they sit so prominently in the stands. She would have much preferred to watch from the back, tucked safely away from curious eyes. But Daphne enjoyed being visible, thriving in the middle of social whirlwinds, even if that meant enduring possibly hours of biting autumn chill.

Another cheer roared through the crowd as Gryffindor's Seeker narrowly avoided a Bludger, spinning away with a triumphant flourish. Daphne groaned theatrically, shaking her head. Pansy didn't bother feigning disappointment. She simply folded her arms across her chest and pretended to watch the match, all the while keenly aware of the figure sitting stiffly among the Gryffindors.

The uncomfortable tug in Pansy's stomach twisted a bit tighter as her gaze inevitably drifted back to Hermione. She seemed to sit apart even from the friends around her, and the boyfriend hanging off her shoulder, solitary despite the crowded stands. The oversized scarf practically swallowed her, but it was the rigidity of her posture that gave away the unease beneath her carefully maintained composure. Pansy knew it was foolish—utterly foolish—to be invested in the internal struggles of Hermione Granger, of all people. But logic wasn't winning any battles today.

A sudden sharp crack echoed across the pitch, pulling her attention skyward. The Slytherin Beater had delivered a particularly vicious hit, sending the Bludger hurtling towards the Gryffindor Chasers. Ginny Weasley swerved instinctively, her red hair streaming like a flame behind her, face set in a determined grimace as she reached to intercept the Quaffle. But this time her quick reflexes weren't enough.

The Bludger connected with brutal precision, striking Ginny squarely in the side. A collective intake of breath echoed from both sides of the stadium as the Gryffindor Chaser wavered dangerously, spiralling downward in a stomach-churning dive. At the last possible second, Ginny regained just enough control to break her fall, sprawling heavily onto the grass below.

Before she could stop herself, Pansy was on her feet, a triumphant cry escaping her lips as she pumped her fist into the air. "Yes! That’s more like it!"

Her voice rang loudly, unexpectedly cutting through the hushed stadium and drawing startled, uncertain glances from students nearby. Pansy felt the heat rising in her cheeks as those around her stared openly, surprise mingling with discomfort at her enthusiastic reaction. Beside her, Daphne groaned quietly, dropping her head momentarily into her gloved hands.

"Really, Pansy?" Daphne muttered under her breath, her expression pained as she reluctantly stood up and joined Pansy, her applause faint and forced. Slowly, buoyed by Pansy’s enthusiasm, the Slytherin stand found their voice and erupted into cheers, their earlier reticence forgotten as they roared their approval.

"What?" Pansy said defensively, though her voice faltered slightly as the rush of adrenaline faded, replaced by a gnawing discomfort. She tried to maintain an air of indifference but couldn't quite shake off the unease as her gaze drifted involuntarily towards the Gryffindor stands. Her stomach clenched uncomfortably at the sight of Hermione’s narrowed eyes, which blazed with unmistakable disapproval and hurt.

Madame Hooch’s whistle blew sharply, pulling everyone’s attention back to the pitch. Ginny pushed herself off the grass slowly, clearly favouring her side, and remounted her broom gingerly. The referee gestured to the Slytherin hoops, awarding a penalty to Gryffindor—a decision that was met with an immediate chorus of boos and jeers from the Slytherin supporters.

Pansy felt Daphne nudge her lightly, drawing her back to the moment. "Next time, perhaps try celebrating a bit less," Daphne said dryly, a faint, humourless smile playing on her lips. "At least while your Gryffindor girlfriend is watching."

Pansy scowled at her, pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders as a gust of biting wind blew across the stands. "She’s not my Gryffindor girlfriend," she snapped, but the words sounded unconvincing, even to her own ears.

As play resumed and the stands erupted once more into a cacophony of cheers and shouts, Pansy settled uneasily back onto the bench, feeling Hermione’s distant gaze burning into the side of her face like an accusation she couldn't quite ignore.

Two hours later, Pansy and Daphne were slowly winding their way back toward the castle, feeling thoroughly defeated and chilled to the bone. Gryffindor had secured a decisive victory, due in no small part to Ginny Weasley's relentless determination. Despite the brutal Bludger strike she'd sustained, Ginny had returned to the air with an unyielding vengeance, scoring goal after goal with a ruthless efficiency that quickly left the Slytherin team floundering.

Pansy wrapped her cloak tighter around her shoulders, trying to block out the biting wind that whipped mercilessly across the grounds. Beside her, Daphne was silent, her usual lively chatter reduced to an occasional, disgruntled sigh as they trudged up the sloping path toward the castle's welcoming lights. Overhead, the sky had grown pale and bleak, darkening swiftly as heavy clouds rolled in from the mountains, threatening rain.

Harper had provided some consolation for Slytherin by finally spotting the elusive Snitch, executing a flawless dive that restored a modicum of pride to their house. However, the damage had long since been done. By the time Harper's fingers closed around the tiny, golden ball, Gryffindor had already amassed an unassailable two-hundred-point lead, turning Harper’s catch into little more than a token effort. It stung, though Pansy wouldn't admit aloud that she'd allowed herself to hope for anything more.

"Well, that was thoroughly depressing," Daphne muttered sourly, breaking the silence as they neared the castle gates. Her usually pristine appearance was slightly dishevelled, blonde hair windswept, and robes dusted with flecks of mud from the stands.

Pansy nodded in grudging agreement. "Watching Weasley score again and again wasn't exactly my ideal afternoon, no."

Daphne shot her a sidelong glance, a smirk playing faintly at the corners of her lips. "You seemed happy enough when she took a tumble, though."

Pansy scoffed, pushing away a strand of dark hair that had blown into her eyes. "She’s been far too up herself recently. Besides, she clearly wasn’t hurt that badly, considering the number of goals she scored after."

"I suppose," Daphne replied, though she still looked slightly amused, “but I thought you two were best friends forever and ever now?” Pansy rolled her eyes They climbed the last stretch of path in silence, the castle gates looming large ahead. Warm, golden light spilled from the tall windows, casting welcoming patches of brightness across the rapidly darkening grounds. Despite their bitter loss, Pansy felt a strange comfort at the sight.

They passed through the heavy oak doors and into the entrance hall, warmth enveloping them immediately. The hall was busy, students chattering noisily as they dispersed from the match. Scarlet and gold scarves dominated the room, the occasional flash of green stark against the sea of Gryffindor pride.

Across the hall, Pansy glimpsed Hermione standing near one of the arches leading to the staircases. Her heart gave an involuntary flutter, an irritating but unavoidable reaction she'd learned to expect by now. Hermione’s scarf was knotted tightly around her neck, cheeks flushed from the cold, eyes distant and distracted. She was speaking quietly with Ron, whose animated gestures contrasted sharply with her stillness. Even from this distance, Pansy could sense the tension between them.

Daphne followed her gaze and sighed exaggeratedly, nudging Pansy gently with her elbow. "Merlin, will you stop torturing yourself? You might as well hang a sign around your neck."

"I don’t know what you’re talking about," Pansy lied, dragging her gaze away with effort. She busied herself removing her gloves, suddenly intent on avoiding Daphne’s knowing look.

Daphne just smiled knowingly, clearly unconvinced. "Of course you don't."

Before Pansy could respond, movement across the hall caught her attention again. Hermione had stepped back from Ron, shaking her head gently, lips forming words too soft for Pansy to hear. Ron’s face fell, confusion and hurt flickering briefly across his features before settling into resignation. Hermione turned abruptly away, her shoulders stiff, face resolute.

Pansy’s stomach twisted sharply. She recognised that look on Hermione’s face—it was one she'd seen in her own mirror far too often. Determination mingled with regret. A decision made, however painful.

"What do you think that’s about?" Daphne asked softly, clearly having followed her gaze again. Her voice held a note of genuine curiosity this time, any teasing temporarily shelved.

"I don’t know," Pansy murmured honestly. She didn't, but hope fluttered in her chest all the same—soft, tentative, and maddeningly persistent. Hermione had finally made a decision about something; Pansy just didn’t know yet if she’d dare to hope it was the decision she'd been waiting for.

She watched as Hermione walked away, shoulders drawn tight, disappearing swiftly up the staircase without glancing back. Ron stood frozen for a moment, a complicated blend of hurt and understanding playing openly across his face, before he turned and pushed roughly through the doors toward the grounds, clearly needing air.

Pansy realised she'd been holding her breath. She exhaled slowly, relief mixing uneasily with guilt. She didn't relish seeing Hermione unhappy—never that—but the unmistakable crack in the relationship she’d once envied felt like a weight lifting from her chest.

“Well, whatever it is,” Daphne remarked quietly, breaking into her thoughts, “it doesn't look like it's ending happily ever after.”

“No,” Pansy said softly, her voice barely audible over the hum of conversation echoing through the hall. “I suppose not.”

“Come on,” Daphne said gently, looping her arm through Pansy’s and pulling her toward the stairs, her expression turning reassuringly bright again. “You can agonise over it later. Right now, we both need a warm fire, comfortable chairs, and maybe something stronger than pumpkin juice.”

Pansy allowed herself to be led away, though her mind lingered stubbornly behind, replaying that brief, pivotal moment again and again. She felt as if she stood on the edge of something enormous, something wonderful and terrifying all at once. Hermione Granger had finally made a choice—and for better or worse, nothing would be the same again.

Pansy was curled sideways on her bed, back propped against a stack of pillows, legs folded beneath the soft sweep of her blankets. The dormitory was dim and peaceful, lit only by the gentle flicker of her wand-tip and the faint glow of the lamp on Hermione’s desk across the room. Outside, the wind still howled faintly through the castle’s eaves, the last echoes of the storm that had swept in with the Quidditch match, but inside the room was a haven of quiet warmth. For once, she was alone, and she had no plans to squander the privacy.

Balanced across her lap was a slim Muggle book—more of a guide, really, filled with glossy pictures and cheerful, exclamation-point-laden descriptions. Theme Parks and Attractions of Europe: 1995 Edition. She’d found it by accident, tucked between a Muggle geography book and a wrinkled, dog-eared travel magazine that smelled faintly of mildew and ink. At first glance it had looked ridiculous—bright colours, cartoonish fonts, and happy, squealing children mid-splash on water slides. But something about it had intrigued her. The idea that entire places could exist just for joy. For screaming, for sweets, for absurd little rides that flipped you upside down and called it fun.

She traced a finger slowly along one of the pages, eyes narrowed in quiet suspicion at a looping steel contraption filled with Muggles who appeared to be clinging on for dear life as they were flung down a vertical track. The caption beneath claimed it was the tallest rollercoaster in Europe. Pansy wasn’t sure if she was horrified or impressed. Possibly both.

Some of the water parks looked nicer—cleaner. Pale blue pools, neatly tiled, surrounded by rows of plastic chairs and umbrella-shaded tables to hide from the midday heat. One had artificial waves, another had twisting slides that ended in sudden plunges. It looked… ridiculous. Chaotic. Loud. She couldn’t imagine a place like that existing without magic to hold it all together. Yet, the images were clear, colourful, and strangely compelling.

She turned the page again, eyes falling on an image of a candy-coloured castle framed by golden firework bursts and smiling children in ridiculous mouse-shaped hats. Pansy stared at it, baffled. The castle looked fake—too pristine. It reminded her of the sugar-spun palaces on top of wedding cakes, all hollow illusion, and no substance. The children looked positively deranged, grinning wide beneath plastic ears, caught mid-laugh or mid-scream in a sea of balloons and pastel.

The caption read something nauseating: A place where dreams come true!

Pansy snorted. “Not my dreams,” she muttered, flipping the page with a touch more force than necessary.

Yet, her eyes lingered a second longer than they should have.

There was something disarming about it all, something oddly... earnest. That castle wasn’t trying to be real—it was a fantasy. An entire place built to escape from reality. No wonder Muggles liked it so much. Maybe, just maybe, she understood a fraction of it. The appeal of slipping away from the weight of your own name, your own family, your own past. Even just for a day. Even if it was in a place full of lunatics wearing mouse ears.

She sighed, closing the book carefully and resting it on her stomach. The firelight flickered lazily across the dormitory walls. She had no idea why she was wasting her time with this. It wasn’t as though she and Granger were about to go skipping off to one of these Muggle madhouses anytime soon, and even if they did, what would she wear? What would she do?

She was still frowning at the ceiling when the door creaked open, quiet but unmistakable. Hermione slipped into the room cautiously. She looked smaller than Pansy had ever seen her, and her eyes were red and puffy. She had been crying.

“Granger. Are you alright? What’s happened?”

Hermione didn’t answer at first. She stood just inside the doorway, frozen in place, as though she hadn’t quite meant to enter. Her hands trembled where they gripped the edge of her cloak, and her shoulders were hunched in that familiar, guarded way Pansy recognised from tense staff meetings or moments when Granger thought no one was watching.

“I broke up with Ron,” she said quietly.

The words weren’t dramatic, not loud, or defiant. They just hung there, heavy, and honest. Her voice had the raw edge of someone who’d held herself together just long enough to get to a safe place—and now wasn’t sure how to stop falling apart.

Pansy blinked, sitting up straighter against her pillows. Her hands, which moments ago had been resting on a glossy page featuring a rollercoaster shaped like a dragon, now curled into fists beneath the blanket.

Hermione finally moved, shrugging off her cloak with jerky, tired movements before crossing the room and dropping onto her bed. Not her usual careful, composed descent—but a graceless, weighty slump, like someone exhausted in every sense of the word. She didn’t look at Pansy.

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that,” Pansy lied. She’d never been less sorry to hear anything in her entire life. Hermione Granger is single! The words practically flashed across her mind like the bright neon bulbs she’d seen in her book, and her heart fluttered triumphantly in her chest. Keep cool, just like Daphne said. “Did he take it badly?”

Hermione shook her head. “No. He was really sweet, like he always is, but I – he looked completely devasted.” At this, a fresh wave of tears ran down Hermione’s checks.

Pansy shifted without thinking, reaching instinctively for the box of tissues perched haphazardly on her bedside table. She offered one out wordlessly, watching Hermione’s hands fumble to accept it. Her fingers brushed Pansy’s in the exchange—barely a whisper of contact, but enough to make the Slytherin’s stomach flip in a way she absolutely refused to dwell on.

“Well,” Pansy said gently, “that’s to be expected. He’s been in love with you since third year.”

Hermione let out a soft, broken laugh—just a single breath through her nose, more bitter than amused. She dabbed at her cheeks, but more tears followed, and she gave up trying to catch them all.

“I just feel awful,” she admitted. “Like I’m breaking something that we built together. Like I’ve let everyone down. Ron. His family. Harry…”

Pansy felt a pang at the last name—not jealousy, not quite, but something tangled and sharp. “You haven’t let anyone down,” she said firmly. “Relationships start and end all the time, for lots of different reasons. So, maybe it didn’t work out with Weasley. That’s okay. The fact that you’re in bits over it just shows that you do care.”

Hermione let out a shaky breath and took a seat next to Pansy on the bed. She smoothed Pansy’s duvet with the flat of her palm, as if trying to iron out the folds in her own tangled thoughts.

“I do care,” she said softly. “That’s what makes this so awful. Ron is… he’s been such a constant. Even when we fought, he was always there. And now I’ve—” She broke off, shaking her head. “I don’t know who I am without him.”

Pansy tilted her head slightly, watching her. There was something painful in that admission, something that struck a little too close to home. She’d always prided herself on not needing anyone. She'd never had a Ron, never had that kind of constant. Not really.

“Well,” Pansy said, her voice low, “maybe now’s the time to figure it out.”

Hermione looked up at her, eyes shining but thoughtful now, and for a moment neither of them moved. Then, with a careful exhale, Hermione leaned back against the pillows, drawing her knees up under the blanket.

“I hate that I hurt him,” Hermione whispered.

“I know,” Pansy replied, her voice quieter still. “But you didn’t do anything wrong. Your feelings… weren’t what you thought they were, and you let him know. A tough thing to do I bet, but the right thing, for both of you.”

A silence stretched between them, soft and charged.

“You can stay here tonight,” Pansy said after a moment. “If you want.”

Hermione hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah,” she breathed. “Yeah, I think I do.”

“I’ll sneak us some drinks and snacks. Tea, or wine?”

“You can’t get wine at Hogwarts.”

Pansy gave a sly little smile, already rising from her bed and crossing the room. “You can’t get wine, Granger. I, on the other hand, have access to Daphne, and all that she can provide.”

Hermione managed a soft laugh, and the sound settled something inside Pansy. It wasn’t the confident, lecture-ready laugh she’d heard Hermione toss around in classrooms, or even the sharp, exasperated one she reserved for Pansy’s worst remarks. This one was quieter. Worn at the edges. Honest.

“I’m not going to ask,” Hermione said, her voice still hoarse, but calmer now.

“Good,” Pansy called over her shoulder. “Because I’m not going to tell you.”

By the time she returned, the mood had shifted. Not light, exactly—but warmer. The blanket had been pulled up to Hermione’s chest, and her face was less tense now, lips parted in a soft yawn she didn’t bother to hide. Pansy set down two mugs on the nightstand with a faint clink of China and slid back beneath her own covers, propped up just enough to sip.

“Wine,” Hermione said, surprised, lifting her cup to sniff it. “I stand corrected.”

“You do,” Pansy replied, “Plus, a basket of sandwiches and cakes from the kitchen, and some coconut ice I bought before my Hogsmeade trip turned sour.”

Pansy watched Hermione’s face carefully as she took in the small feast laid out before her. Despite the tear-stained cheeks and red-rimmed eyes, there was something softer now, a hint of quiet curiosity as she picked up a piece of coconut ice and examined it thoughtfully. Pansy felt an odd tug in her chest at the sight—so achingly gentle, so unexpectedly vulnerable—that she had to quickly glance away, sipping her wine as if that could conceal the sudden racing of her pulse.

"Coconut ice?" Hermione asked softly, the faintest smile tugging at her lips. "That's surprisingly sweet from you, I thought you’d be an Acid Pop girl."

Pansy shrugged, "No, I’m sour enough."

Hermione gave a faint laugh—softer this time, unguarded. Pansy’s stomach flipped pleasantly, warmth spreading through her chest as the sound echoed in the quiet room. It was dangerously easy to let herself bask in the intimacy of this moment, in the delicate peace she'd somehow created. Hermione’s quiet, grateful expression felt entirely too precious, too fragile to disturb with their usual snark.

"Thank you," Hermione murmured after a quiet pause, her voice sincere and gentle. Her eyes met Pansy’s briefly, searching, before lowering to her mug again. "You didn’t have to do this."

Pansy shifted slightly, adjusting the blanket to hide the sudden flush in her cheeks. "Well, someone had to," she said dryly, unable to keep a hint of warmth from softening her tone. "You were about to flood the dormitory, and I’m not a great swimmer.”

A comfortable silence sat over the room as the two girls tucked into the mini feast Pansy had sourced. The quiet crackle of the fire filled the spaces between their cautious bites and sips, creating a soothing backdrop to their unspoken thoughts. Occasionally, Pansy would glance at Hermione out of the corner of her eye, noting how the candlelight illuminated her softened features. There was something disarmingly beautiful about Hermione in moments like these, when her usual air of confident certainty was replaced by quiet vulnerability. Her eyes, normally sharp and determined, now held an uncertain warmth that stirred something deep within Pansy’s chest.

Hermione seemed to relax incrementally with every bite, her tense shoulders slowly dropping, her breathing easing into a steadier rhythm. Her fingers occasionally brushed stray curls back from her face, an absent-minded gesture that Pansy had come to adore far more than was sensible. It was maddening, really, how these tiny details could feel so utterly captivating. She found herself watching Hermione's lips as she tasted the wine, following the careful movements as she tilted her head thoughtfully, savouring the sweetness. Pansy swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry, forcing herself to look away before her stare became obvious.

When Hermione finally set her mug aside, leaning back against her pillow with a small sigh of contentment, Pansy felt a surprising rush of pride and satisfaction. She had done that—had coaxed away the tearful shadows and replaced them with a gentle calm. It was new, this warmth in her chest, this strange sense of accomplishment that came not from sharp words or clever retorts, but from quiet kindness and patience.

“Feeling better?” Pansy asked quietly, careful to keep her tone neutral.

Hermione gave a slow nod, a small, genuine smile gracing her lips. “A bit,” she replied softly, “Thanks for getting me wine.”

“I’ll send you the bill,” Pansy smirked, “Daphne has extremely expensive taste.”

Hermione snorted. “Are all the Slytherin’s ridiculously wealthy?”

“No,” Pansy shook her head, “Most are fairly normal. Blaise’s Mum has a decent chunk of money, my parents run a moonstone mining company. They are pretty well-off. The Greengrass’s and the Malfoy’s though…” Pansy let out a low whistle, as if words alone could not possibly convey the magnitude of Draco, Daphne, and Astoria’s inheritance.

“What do they do?”

“The Malfoys own lots of land, and at one point in time Fudge was basically their puppet minister, so you can be sure they somehow walked away with a nice chunk of change from that. Lander Greengrass owns every ship, wagon, wheelbarrow, and paper bag used to transport anything, anywhere in and out Magical Britain. His brother Eldon curates art pieces, dark artifacts, and ancient treasures for rich old crones to add to their private collections.”

“Like Borgin and Burke’s?”

Pansy drew a sharp breath, “I don’t think he would thank you for that comparison. He considers himself far more upmarket.”

“I see,” Hermione replied, “So, are you going to run the family mines when you leave Hogwarts, or are you far more upmarket?”

“You’re very curious this evening Granger. Are you trying to suss out the evil Pureblood elite?”

“I’m not the only one learning things,” Hermione bit back, colour rising slightly in her cheeks.

“Oh?”

“Theme Parks and Attractions of Europe: 1995 Edition,” She read proudly from the front page, producing the book from beneath the covers.

Pansy’s heart lurched painfully against her ribs, panic jolting through her like a lightning bolt. She felt the heat rush into her cheeks, embarrassment warring with the desperate urge to snatch the ridiculous book away and hurl it into the fire. But Hermione was watching her with such delight—eyes sparkling mischievously, lips curled into an infuriatingly knowing smile—that Pansy found herself utterly immobilized, caught between humiliation and fascination.

“You were snooping through my things?” she asked weakly, hoping to sound scandalised rather than terrified. “That’s not very noble of you, Granger.”

Hermione’s smile widened, far too pleased with herself. “It was lying right there, Pansy. Really, you’re losing your touch.”

Pansy crossed her arms, leaning back against her pillows, feigning indifference even as her pulse fluttered nervously in her throat. “For your information, I was merely curious. Purely academic research.”

“Academic?” Hermione echoed, flipping open the book with exaggerated care. “What could possibly be academic about rollercoasters and candy floss?”

Pansy rolled her eyes, earning another amused glance from Hermione. “If you must know, I was expanding my cultural horizons.”

“Really,” Hermione drawled, eyes dancing with amusement as she flipped through a few pages. “And were you planning on riding a rollercoaster anytime soon?”

“I might,” Pansy replied stubbornly, her chin lifting defiantly despite the colour that still lingered on her cheeks. “If only to prove to you that I’m not completely incapable of surviving a day in your ridiculous Muggle world.”

Hermione laughed softly, the sound like sunlight filtering through clouds. Pansy hated and loved how effortlessly it unravelled her defences. “Is that a promise?”

Pansy faltered, startled by the gentle teasing note in Hermione’s voice. For a moment she hesitated, her heart beating a touch too fast as she considered the reckless honesty of her reply.

“Perhaps,” she admitted finally, meeting Hermione’s gaze with as much courage as she could muster. “I suppose you’ll just have to wait and see.”

Hermione’s smile softened, eyes warm and thoughtful as she turned another page. “Then I suppose I will. Have you picked a park?”

Pansy shifted slightly under her blankets, suddenly far too aware of the warmth spreading up her neck, turning her cheeks a maddening shade of pink. Hermione’s question hung delicately in the air, filled with playful curiosity, but beneath it lay something deeper—something dangerously close to anticipation. Pansy forced herself to meet Hermione’s eyes, those impossibly bright, clever eyes that somehow always saw right through her.

“Not exactly,” she admitted carefully, attempting nonchalance but suspecting she was failing spectacularly. “I haven’t narrowed down which brand of madness I’d prefer to endure yet.”

Hermione laughed again, softly, fondly, her fingertips tracing the glossy edges of the magazine pages. The firelight caught in the stray curls escaping her plait, illuminating each unruly strand in a way that made Pansy’s breath catch.

“Well, I’d be happy to help you decide,” Hermione offered gently. “I’m quite well-versed in Muggle entertainment, after all.”

Pansy arched a brow, grateful for the return of her sarcasm, even if it felt slightly forced. “Naturally, you would excel at something so tedious.”

“Careful,” Hermione teased lightly, “or I’ll choose the scariest one I can find and hold you to your promise.”

Pansy huffed, but her lips betrayed her, curling involuntarily into a reluctant smile. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, I absolutely would,” Hermione replied mischievously, eyes sparkling once again as she closed the magazine with a decisive snap. “So, consider yourself warned.”

Pansy shook her head, feigning annoyance, but her pulse betrayed her, racing beneath her carefully composed expression. “Fine,” she said loftily, tilting her chin upward as she reached for her wine again. “But when I inevitably regret this, Granger, it will be entirely your fault.”

Hermione’s smile widened knowingly, soft, and somehow reassuring. “I think you’ll survive, Pansy.”

And despite herself, as she settled deeper into her bed and sipped her wine, Pansy couldn’t quite stop the flicker of excitement that sparked to life in her chest.

Chapter Text

Chapter 17

Hermione woke that morning with a heavy heart and a bad headache. Perhaps the wine had been a mistake. However, the girl laid peacefully next to her seemed to have a knack for causing her to make mistakes.

Why am I in Pansy Parkinson’s bed again? She thought groggily, watching the rise and fall of the blanket over Pansy’s sleeping form. I’m supposed to have stopped this carry on with her.

The thought wasn’t as sharp as it might’ve been a week ago. The guilt, the disbelief—those had begun to dull, worn smooth by repetition. She’d spent too many nights convincing herself it didn’t mean anything. That they were just two girls sharing the fallout of a terrible war and a miserable eighth year. Two sworn enemies who had learned to get along without sniping at each other. Two girls who had seen each other at their worst and, inexplicably, hadn’t turned away.

But now... Now Ron was gone.

Hermione turned her face into the pillow, trying to muffle the sharp ache tugging behind her ribs. Yesterday still felt raw—like a wound she hadn't yet dared to examine closely. She’d pulled Ron aside after the Quidditch match, her voice trembling with exhaustion and quiet determination, and finally told him the truth.

She’d expected an explosion—yelling, accusations, anger she’d prepared herself to weather. Instead, Ron had just stood there, confusion and hurt clouding his features, his brow furrowed as though trying to solve a puzzle whose answer kept slipping just out of reach.

“I don’t understand,” he’d said slowly, eyes searching her face. “We’ve always managed to make things work before.”

“I know,” she’d whispered, throat aching, heart cracking as she spoke. “But everything’s different now. We’re different. It’s not your fault, and it’s not mine, but we can’t keep pretending we’re happy when—when we’re not. I can’t keep pretending.”

Ron had blinked at her, his expression shifting slowly from confusion to quiet acceptance. Not anger, not resentment—just a deep, aching sadness.

“Is there… someone else?” he’d asked, his voice so soft, so careful, as if afraid of the answer but determined to know anyway.

She’d paused, heart racing. She hadn’t allowed herself to think of Pansy—not even for a second. Not then. This wasn’t about someone else; it was about them. She shook her head slowly, her words trembling with sincerity.

“No. It’s just me. Us. Things have changed so much, and we’re not who we were anymore. I need time—to fix things with my parents, to sort myself out, to understand who I am now, because I'm not sure I even know anymore.”

He’d nodded slowly, swallowing hard as if each word cost him dearly.

“All right, Hermione,” he'd said quietly, his voice strained yet strangely steady. “I won’t pretend I understand it, but if this is what you need, then… okay.”

She’d stared at him, stunned into silence by his maturity. By his kindness. She’d expected fire and fury, not this quiet, heartbroken acceptance. Tears had filled her eyes then, sharp and sudden, blurring his face until all she saw was a smudged outline of the boy who’d once been her best friend.

“I’m so sorry, Ron,” she whispered, voice breaking. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

Ron had managed a small, sad smile, reaching out gently, his fingertips brushing hers in a tentative farewell.

“I know. I never wanted to hurt you, either. I just—I want you to be happy, Hermione. Even if it’s not with me.”

And that—that had nearly broken her in two.

She’d cried after that. Not because Ron had reacted badly—because he hadn’t. She cried precisely because he’d understood, because he’d given her kindness when she hadn’t expected it, forgiveness she felt she hadn’t earned.

Lying there now, staring at the ceiling, the weight of it still pressed against her chest. She hadn’t regretted ending things; it was the right choice, she knew it deep in her bones. But she regretted the hurt she’d caused. Ron had shown her a kindness she’d underestimated, a maturity she’d not known he possessed, and it made her ache even more.

Beside her, Pansy shifted slightly, her breathing gentle and even, her arm brushing Hermione’s under the covers. Hermione didn’t move, didn’t dare disturb the fragile peace between them.

Because this—this wasn’t about Ron, or Pansy, not entirely.

But lying here, in the quiet stillness of the dormitory, Hermione wondered if maybe—for the first time in a long time—she was finally, truly, being honest with herself.

A sharp tapping at the window gave her a blissful reprieve from her own thoughts. A handsome brown owl perched on the windowsill, tapping it’s beak insistently on the glass.

She slipped quietly from the bed, careful not to wake Pansy, whose dark hair had spilled messily over the pillow. Her brows were relaxed in sleep, unguarded in a way Hermione rarely saw. She hesitated for a moment, watching her—then forced herself to turn away.

The window was cold against her fingertips as she unlatched it, letting in a gust of crisp morning air. The owl stepped in immediately, efficient and no-nonsense, holding out its leg with the unmistakable air of a messenger used to important deliveries.

Hermione untied the letter, murmured her thanks, and the owl took off again in a flurry of feathers and wind. She shut the window quickly and returned to her bed—her bed this time—curling beneath the blankets as she unfolded the parchment.

The handwriting was instantly familiar. Slanted, slightly messy, but steady.

Hi Hermione,

Ron told me you two broke things off. I’m sorry to hear that. He didn’t say much, just that you were honest, and that it hurt a bit. I think he understands, even if it’s hard right now. We’re keeping him distracted so he doesn’t start moping too much. I know this must have been a hard decision for you and I hope you’re doing okay.

I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately. Hogwarts must be quite different this year—and lonely, maybe, without us in your hair. I hope you're not trying to fill every spare moment with studying, and projects, and meetings. You’re allowed to stop. You’re allowed to be a bit selfish now and then.

Take walks. Read something pointless. Sit outside. Or don’t. Just… whatever makes you feel like yourself again. That’s what matters. We’ve gone through so much in the past few years, and I don’t know about you, but I’m finding it difficult to adjust to the peace and quiet.

I’ll try to visit soon, maybe drag Neville with me too.. We’ll bring snacks and terrible jokes, like old times. Until then, owl me whenever. I’m always around for you.

You’re not alone, Hermione. Not now. Not ever.

Love,

Harry.

Hermione read the last line again, tracing her finger absently beneath the words as if they might vanish if she didn’t. You’re not alone, Hermione. Not now. Not ever.

A lump formed in her throat, sharp and sudden. She blinked quickly, but the tears welled up anyway—just a few, nothing dramatic, but enough to blur the parchment. She set the letter down carefully on the bedside table, wiping at her cheeks with the edge of her sleeve.

How had she let herself forget?

Through all the chaos—Pansy’s smirks, Daphne’s jabs, Ginny’s suspicion, and the relentless noise of unfinished business and unspoken feelings—she’d somehow managed to lose sight of the one person who had always been there. Harry. A forever constant. The boy who had faced dragons, Death Eaters, and heartbreak with her, and who, without needing details, knew just what to say.

A soft rustling beside her broke the quiet. Pansy shifted beneath the covers, brow furrowed slightly as she stirred from sleep. Her eyes opened slowly, dark lashes blinking against the pale morning light that crept through the window. She squinted up at Hermione, her voice low and rough with sleep.

“Morning, Granger. How are you feeling?”

Hermione let out a long, slow sigh, pressing the heel of her palm briefly to her forehead. Where did she even begin?

She felt hollow. That was the simplest word for it—though even that didn’t cover it. There was sadness, of course, and guilt, sharp-edged and impossible to ignore. A dull ache of loneliness curled up beside her chest, wrapping around her ribs like ivy. But there was something else too—something harder to name. A bittersweet comfort in waking here, in this room, beside this particular girl.

She’d missed Harry more than she’d allowed herself to admit. His letter had pulled something loose in her, reminded her of all the things that once made her feel grounded and sure of herself, and Ron… sweet, kind Ron. His face when she’d ended it had been seared into her mind, and the guilt of it had lingered like smoke in her lungs.

Then there was Pansy.

She hadn’t meant for things to get so tangled, and yet here they were—tangled. There had been wine. There had been kindness. There had been a dream far too vivid to be ignored, and worse, it wasn’t just the dream itself that haunted her. It was the memory of Pansy’s fingers brushing against her skin, the warmth of her smirk, the low, biting humour that made Hermione laugh when she was trying to cry.

All of it sat like a knot in her chest. A tight, dizzying knot of everything.

“I don’t think I know enough adjectives to describe it,” she muttered at last, staring at the ceiling. “Sad. Confused. Guilty. Tired. Happy to hear from Harry. Missing Harry. Broken over Ron. Grateful for wine. And—”

Her words faltered. She didn’t finish the sentence. Because how on earth did you say Also, Pansy, I had this wildly inappropriate sex dream about you the other night and now I can’t look at you without blushing furiously? Is it normal to have sex dreams about people you share a room with? Do you have sex dreams about me? Hermione wasn’t sure she wanted to examine any of those questions today.

“—and?” Pansy prompted again, her voice still low with sleep but laced with curiosity. One brow arched, waiting.

Hermione looked over, caught the flicker of mischief already forming in Pansy’s expression, and groaned internally. She hated that look—that smug, knowing tilt of her mouth, like she already had the whole story and was simply waiting for Hermione to admit it. She looked like the cat that caught the canary, and the worst part? Hermione was the canary.

“Overwhelmed,” Hermione muttered instead. “I wish I could stay in bed all day and hide from the world.”

Pansy stretched luxuriously beside her, arms over her head, the covers shifting just enough to reveal a sliver of skin at her collarbone—completely casual and completely unfair. “It’s Saturday, Granger,” she said, her tone light and coaxing. “You can stay in bed all day and hide from the world.”

Hermione blinked at her, almost startled by the simplicity of it. As if it were that easy. As if hiding out with Pansy Parkinson in bed for the day wouldn’t create even more chaos inside her head.

Still, the idea had its appeal.

“Tempting,” she muttered, eyes flicking briefly down to where Pansy’s fingers toyed lazily with the blanket’s edge. “Dangerously tempting.”

Pansy turned her head on the pillow, smiling faintly. “That’s the point. Plus, we still have lots of leftovers from last night’s picnic.”

Hermione let out a tired laugh, curling back against the pillow. “Hmm, it is very tempting, but not exactly a productive use of the day.”

Pansy yawned, stretching beneath the covers like a smug, well-fed Kneazle. “Screw being productive, do it. Stay. I’ll even let you borrow one of my scandalously impractical silk dressing gowns. Complete the look of a woman who’s gone over the edge.”

Hermione gave her a sidelong glance. “You have more than one?”

“I have five,” Pansy replied airily. “I like options.”

A comfortable silence settled between them. Hermione felt herself relax into it, just a little. No pressure. No expectations. Just warm covers, the scent of tea lingering in the air, and the girl across the room who had inexplicably become the one person capable of coaxing a smile out of her even on the worst mornings. Five of those bloody things, Hermione thought to herself, I wouldn’t be caught dead in one. Though... for half a second — a traitorous, ridiculous second — she wondered what Pansy might say if she did.

Across the room, Pansy shifted lazily beneath the covers, propping herself up on one elbow, watching her with that annoyingly perceptive expression — all heavy-lidded eyes and faint amusement like she could pluck thoughts straight out of Hermione's head if she felt like it.

“What?” Hermione asked warily.

Pansy smiled, slow and self-satisfied. “Nothing. Just enjoying the view.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed. “I’m wearing pyjamas.”

“Mm, I never said that you were the view,” Pansy hummed, clearly undeterred. “Still, it’s an improvement from watching you skulk around in Weasley’s old jumpers.”

Hermione flushed immediately — scandalised more by how casual Pansy sounded than by the implication itself.

“You’re impossible,” she muttered.

“I do try.”

Another silence stretched between them — but it was the easy kind this time. The rare kind that didn’t make Hermione’s skin itch or her mind scramble for an escape route. Then — because Pansy Parkinson never could leave well enough alone — she added, “For the record... you'd absolutely look better in silk.”

Hermione groaned into the pillow. “Go back to sleep, Pansy.” But her heart — traitorous, ridiculous thing that it was — was hammering away all the same.

The wind had picked up since the morning, tugging at the hem of Hermione’s cloak as she paced along the edge of the Black Lake. The water rippled darkly beneath a slate-grey sky, and bare branches creaked overhead, skeletal against the clouds. She’d come here to breathe—to think—to get away from the common room where her friends’ eyes were too kind, too knowing.

She barely heard the footsteps until it was too late.

“There you are,” Ginny snapped, voice cutting like a blade.

Hermione stiffened but didn’t turn. “I’m not in the mood.”

“That’s too bad,” Ginny snarled. “Because I am.”

Hermione finally turned around—and froze. Ginny’s face was flushed with fury, her eyes wild. She looked half-ready to hex something—or someone—and Hermione’s name was clearly written at the top of that list.

“Tell me it wasn’t because of Parkinson.”

“It wasn’t because of Pansy, no.”

“Oh of course, its Pansy now, I forgot.”

Ginny’s voice was bitter enough to curdle the air between them. She took another step forward, fists clenched at her sides, the wind whipping her hair around her face like a flame caught in a storm.

Hermione drew a breath, slow and measured, her heart pounding in her chest. “I ended things with Ron because it wasn’t working. Because I wasn’t being honest with myself—or with him. But that has nothing to do with Pansy Parkinson.”

Ginny let out a harsh laugh, the sound devoid of humour. “You really expect me to believe that?” Her eyes narrowed, sharp and glinting. “You expect me to believe it’s a coincidence that the moment you and Parkinson start acting all cosy, you suddenly decide Ron’s not right for you anymore?”

Hermione’s jaw tensed. “It wasn’t sudden.”

“Wasn’t it?” Ginny hissed. “Because it sure as hell looked that way from where I was sitting. He came all the way up here to support me and you broke his heart in the stands while she sat there watching like a smug little bitch.”

Hermione’s temper flared. “Do you think I wanted to hurt him? Do you think I enjoyed it?”

“No,” Ginny said coldly. “I think you enjoyed whatever’s been happening behind his back.”

The words struck like a slap. Hermione’s wand hand twitched reflexively, and she saw, with a jolt, that Ginny’s had already moved to her own wand. They stared at each other, the wind howling louder now, as though the very world was bracing itself for what might come next.

Hermione’s voice, when it came, was quieter, unsure of itself, but no less sharp. “Nothing happened behind Ron’s back. Nothing. I would never do that to him. You know me.”

Ginny’s expression twisted. “I thought I did.”

“I told him the truth,” Hermione said, taking a small step forward, her voice tightening. “That I wasn’t happy. That I couldn’t pretend anymore. It was the hardest thing I’ve had to do in a long time—but it was the right thing. For both of us.”

Ginny’s lips parted, but for a heartbeat she didn’t speak. Then her voice returned, low and dangerous. “But you didn’t tell him everything, did you? You didn’t tell him that you’ve been sneaking around with the girl who tried to hand Harry over to Voldemort. You didn’t tell him you’ve been fawning over a bloody Death Eater's brood mare like she hung the stars.”

Hermione’s wand was in her hand now, half-raised, without her even realising it. “You don’t get to say that! You don’t get to talk about her like she’s an evil—”

“She is! You’re rewriting history to suit whatever fantasy you’re living in,” Ginny spat, matching her with a flick of her wand. Hermione easily swatted away the hex. “You think I don’t see it? The late nights, the way you look at her all the time. You’re not even denying it.”

Hermione’s chest heaved. “Because there’s nothing to deny!” she shouted, though the lie burned her tongue. “She saved your life Ginny, how can you go on hating her?”

“One good deed doesn’t undo a lifetime of abuse Hermione!” Ginny jabbed her wand towards her, and an angry jet of red light crackled against Hermione’s hastily conjured shield charm.

“I won’t fight you,” Hermione said softly.

“Don’t speak to me like you pity me. I'm not offering you a choice. You think you’ll just sweep me aside that easily?”

“I won’t fight you,” Hermione said again, more firmly now—but her wand was raised all the same.

“Then defend yourself,” Ginny spat, and sent a jet of blazing orange light straight at her chest.

Hermione spun sideways, the spell searing past her and blowing a chunk out of a nearby tree trunk. Before she could speak, another curse came—faster, sharper. She blocked it with a shouted Protego, but the force behind it made her stumble back, boots sliding through the mud at the lake’s edge.

“You’re being ridiculous!” she shouted, whipping her wand to summon a low blast of wind meant to knock Ginny off balance. But Ginny held firm, her hair whipping around her face as she retaliated with a Blasting Curse that Hermione barely deflected in time. The impact sent her skidding behind a boulder, shoulder slamming hard into the stone.

“I trusted you!” Ginny screamed, voice cracking. “I stood up for you when she was giving you nothing but abuse! You’re supposed to be better than her! You were meant to rid the school of people like her! You weren’t meant to go and fall in love with the bitch!”

“She saved your life!” Hermione’s voice echoed back, hoarse, and angry, and tired. “You don’t know her! You don’t know her story!”

“Oh, I know enough! I know things about the Parkinson’s that would make your insides squirm!”

Another spell lit the air like lightning. Hermione ducked low, rolled across the cold ground, robes soaked and clinging to her. She came up on one knee, breath ragged, flicking her wand toward the water.

A rush of water exploded from the surface of the lake, catching Ginny full in the chest. The younger girl staggered back, coughing, but retaliated instantly with a crackling net of magical energy that Hermione only just avoided by diving behind a low embankment.

Mud streaked her arms. Her hair clung to her face. Her heart thundered in her ears.

Enough.

Hermione surged to her feet, magic flaring in her limbs like heat. Her next spell wasn’t shouted. It flew, quick and precise: vines erupting from the earth to snatch at Ginny’s feet. Ginny shouted in frustration, severing them with a slicing curse, but Hermione was already moving—looping behind her, wand crackling.

She cast silently, sending a flurry of sparks from the trees above. Bark exploded around Ginny, who ducked and rolled, looking more winded now, more unsure. Her boots slid in the mud as she tried to regroup.

Ginny’s boots slipped again as she tried to pivot, and for the first time in the fight, Hermione saw something flicker behind her eyes—doubt. Not fear, not yet, but doubt. Ginny’s breathing was ragged, her stance faltering as she flung another hex that Hermione countered with practiced ease.

‘I told you, I don’t want to fight you, but if you insist-” Hermione’s latest try at reasoning was cut off by an attempt at the Bat-Bogey Hex.

Hermione deflected the spell with a sharp flick, her shield charm crackling in the cold air. She could feel her patience fracturing, not from fatigue, but from the sheer, relentless pressure of Ginny’s rage. Her hair clung to her damp cheeks, her chest rising and falling as she stared across the churned-up earth between them.

“If you insist,” she repeated bitterly.

Ginny went for her wand again, but Hermione was already moving. With a precise, silent incantation, the ground beneath Ginny's feet buckled, the mud thickening just long enough to suck at her boots and knock her off balance. Ginny landed hard on one knee, teeth gritted against the sting of impact.

Hermione didn’t wait. A series of rapid-fire jinxes left her wand in quick succession—stinging spells, distraction charms, enough to disarm without doing lasting harm. Ginny blocked two, dodged one, but the fourth clipped her shoulder and sent her spinning, off-kilter.

“You’re going to break something,” Hermione snapped, advancing, “and then what? We go to the Hospital Wing and pretend this happened by some accident?”

“You’re the only pretender here!” Ginny shouted, voice cracking, eyes blazing with renewed fury.

A stray gust of wind tossed leaves and water into the air as another hex burst from her wand, catching Hermione square in the ribs with enough force to knock her backwards. She hit the ground with a thud, vision swimming for a second—but she rolled, recovered, wand pointed before she’d even caught her breath.

She’d had enough.

She stood tall, raising her wand and summoning every ounce of her control. The spell she used next was elegant, a spiralling chain of magic that whipped around Ginny’s ankles and dragged her down before she could counter. Her wand flew from her grip this time, landing somewhere behind her in the mud.

Hermione strode across the gap between them, breathing hard. She reached Ginny in three strides and pointed her wand directly between her friend’s eyes. Ginny stared up at her, soaked, heaving, her pride in tatters. But it wasn’t defiance in her eyes anymore. Just pain. Raw, open, and ugly.

“Stop,” she said, low and firm, not shouting anymore. “Just stop, Ginny. What do you want from me?”

“I want you to say it’s not because of her, and make it sound believable,” she said, barely a whisper.

Hermione didn’t speak. The silence was louder than a scream. Ginny turned her face away. Hermione lowered her wand, and the magical bindings slipped away. She sank down to her knees and laid a hand on Ginny's shoulder. Ginny didn't turn to look at her, but she didn't throw off the hand either.

They sat there in the cold and the muck, hearts pounding, breaths clouding the air between them. Two girls shattered and silent beside the lake, with nothing left to throw but the truth neither one of them was quite ready to hold.

“I thought we'd be celebrating,” Ginny said, finally breaking the silence that hung between them, “I never even got the chance to tell you the good news.”

Hermione blinked, her hand still resting on Ginny’s shoulder. The words felt strange, ill-timed, almost surreal after everything they’d just flung at each other. “What news?” she asked cautiously, her voice rough from spellwork and shouting.

Ginny gave a hollow little laugh and finally turned to look at her, though her eyes were rimmed red and her cheeks streaked with mud. “There were a bunch of scouts watching the match. The Tutshill Tornadoes invited me to their winter training camp. I'm off to Spain for Christmas.”

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat, her fingers curling slightly against the fabric of Ginny’s cloak. Spain. The word barely registered at first. It felt too bright, too far away from the muddy shore they were crouched on, too full of promise after everything that had just broken open between them.

“That’s…” she began, faltering as she searched for the right shape of the word. “Ginny, that’s amazing.”

Ginny gave a small shrug, but her mouth twitched at the corner—something faintly proud flickering through the exhaustion in her face. “Yeah. It is.” Her voice wasn’t defiant now, only tired. “Playing professionally has always been my dream, but I always thought it was just a dream and nothing more. This could be a big first step.”

Hermione offered a tired smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes but was genuine all the same. “You’ll be brilliant. They’d be mad not to keep you after the camp.”

Ginny looked down, brushing some of the damp grass off her sleeve, her fingers trembling faintly. “I wanted to tell you yesterday. After the match. Thought maybe we’d go to the kitchens, sneak some food, and drink to the future.” She let out a dry, rueful breath. “Instead, I got this.”

Hermione’s guilt twisted sharply in her chest. “I’m sorry, but in fairness, you cast first. I was never trying to hurt your brother. I love him, just... not the way I thought I should.”

“I know.” Ginny glanced sideways at her, the edge of her voice softening. “Just… promise me something?”

Hermione nodded slowly.

“Don’t let her mess you up.” Ginny’s gaze lingered on her, guarded but not cruel. “If this really isn’t about Parkinson, fine. But if it is, just… be careful. You’ve already been through enough, and her family, and their friends, are really dangerous people Hermione.”

Hermione didn’t respond. Not with words. The weight of everything hung too heavy in her throat. But she gave a nod—small, solemn, unsure.

They sat there in silence a moment longer, not quite reconciled, but no longer at war. The wind pulled at their cloaks, the lake lapping gently nearby.

Finally, Ginny pushed herself gingerly to her feet, brushing off her knees and groaning in pain. “I’ve got rounds,” she muttered, glancing off toward the castle.

“Ginny—” Hermione began, unsure what she meant to say.

But Ginny just shook her head, already walking away. “See you around, Hermione.” Then she was gone, a dark red dot against a grey sky.

Hermione stepped into the dormitory, soaked through and shivering, trailing flecks of mud across the stone floor. Her hair was a wind-tangled mess, her robes clung damply to her legs, and her limbs ached from the cold—and something far heavier.

Pansy looked up from her bed, her eyes narrowing the moment they landed on her. “Did you go for a walk through a tornado?”

Hermione didn’t answer. She shut the door behind her more forcefully than necessary and made for the foot of her bed, tugging at the fastenings of her cloak with trembling fingers.

“That was a rhetorical question,” Pansy continued, sitting up straighter now, a crease forming between her brows. “Merlin’s sake, Granger. What happened?”

“Nothing,” Hermione muttered.

Pansy was already moving. She crossed the room in a few efficient strides, plucked Hermione’s cloak from her shoulders before she could argue, and wrinkled her nose as she shook it out. “You smell like lake water and bad decisions.”

Hermione didn’t have the energy to snap back. She sat down heavily on the edge of her bed, tugging off her boots with stiff hands. Her socks squelched.

Pansy returned from the bathroom with a warm towel and dropped it in Hermione’s lap. “Here. You look like a drowned Kneazle.”

Hermione blinked at the towel for a second before muttering, “Thanks,” and rubbing it through her curls, trying to ignore the sting in her eyes.

There was a pause. She could feel Pansy watching her.

“You’re not hurt,” Pansy said, not as a question but an observation. “But you look like you could be.”

“I’m fine,” Hermione replied, far too quickly.

Another pause.

“I’m an excellent liar too,” Pansy said lightly, settling herself back onto her bed but keeping her eyes on Hermione. “But I do it with sexy hair and a well-practiced pout.”

Hermione let out a breath—half sigh, half something like a laugh—and dropped the towel beside her. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like that.”

“Ah,” Pansy said. “So, we’ve graduated from nothing happened to it wasn’t supposed to happen. Progress.”

Hermione hesitated, picking at a loose thread in the hem of her jumper. She didn’t want to talk. She didn’t want to relive it. But the fight was still echoing in her mind—Ginny’s spells, the things they’d said—and suddenly the silence between her and Pansy felt safer than the truth had with anyone else.

“It was… bad,” she admitted at last. “I got into an argument with Ginny that turned into a duel.”

“She kicked your arse by the looks of it.”

“I won.” Hermione replied with a tiny hint of hurt pride, “though I don't really feel like much of a winner right now.”

Pansy considered her for a moment, head tilted slightly as her gaze travelled carefully over Hermione’s muddied robes and the exhaustion etched clearly into her face. Her usual teasing edge softened, replaced by something gentler—something quiet and understanding that rarely surfaced, but was all the more powerful for it.

“Well, winning clearly isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, is it?” Pansy said, voice gentler than Hermione had ever heard it. She shifted on the bed, crossing her legs beneath her. “Is Weasley still breathing, at least?”

Hermione nodded slowly, wrapping her arms tighter around herself. “She’s… fine. Physically. But it was brutal.”

Pansy’s eyes narrowed, considering carefully. “She didn’t take the breakup well, I take it.”

“No, she didn’t,” Hermione whispered, suddenly grateful to finally say it out loud. “She thinks I’ve betrayed Ron. Betrayed her. Betrayed all of them. I—I don’t know how to fix it.”

“I get sticking up for your brother, but duelling over a breakup seems like a bit of an overreaction, even for Weasley.”

Hermione gave a small, humourless laugh. “You weren’t there,” she said, brushing a bit of grit from the sleeve of her jumper. “It was like… like I’d stabbed her in the back. She thinks it’s all about you. That I left Ron for you.”

Pansy blinked. “Well, I’m flattered. Even if it’s complete rubbish.”

Hermione flushed. “It is rubbish. I told her as much. But—she’s not wrong that… things are complicated.”

Pansy didn’t pounce on the admission like Hermione feared she might. She just nodded once, slowly. “Yeah. I imagine they are.”

Hermione glanced at her, surprised by the measured response. “That’s all you’ve got?”

Pansy shrugged, the faintest smirk returning to her lips. “I’m trying out this thing called restraint. Don’t get used to it.”

That tugged a reluctant smile from Hermione. The edge of her shame and anxiety softened—not gone, but manageable. She let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding and leaned back against the headboard, finally letting her shoulders drop.

“Granger,” said Pansy softly, colour rising in her cheeks, “You didn't break up with Weasley because of me, did you?”

Hermione gave no reply but shook her head ever so slightly.

The room was quiet again, save for the occasional pop of the fire and the whisper of wind at the windows. Hermione rested her chin on her knees, fingers absently worrying at the cuff of her jumper. Across from her, Pansy lounged back against the headboard, legs stretched beneath the covers, one hand clutching the spine of her book.

Hermione broke the silence first, her voice low. “Ginny got invited to the Tutshill Tornadoes’ winter training camp.”

Pansy blinked, lifting her head. “Seriously?”

Hermione nodded. “There were scouts at the match, apparently. They want her in Spain over Christmas.”

There was a pause, and then to Hermione’s surprise, Pansy gave a small, genuine nod of approval. “She is bloody good, though if you ever tell her I said that I'll make that duel you just had look like a gentle walk by the lake.”

Hermione gave a tired huff of agreement, her eyes fixed on the flame flickering in the hearth. “Yeah. She is.”

“Well,” Pansy added after a beat, voice lighter, “at least you won’t have to sit next to her at Christmas dinner.”

Hermione laughed before she could stop herself—a quiet, grateful sound. “That’s one way to look at it.”

The smile Pansy gave her in return wasn’t smug for once. Just soft. Thoughtful. She tilted her head, studying Hermione in the firelight. “So, no Burrow this year?”

Hermione shook her head, suddenly too tired to pretend. “No. I don’t think I’m welcome there right now. Not really.”

“Will you go home?” Hermione shook her head.

“Hogwarts it is.”

“Well, at least I'll have some company.”

“You're staying here too?” Pansy nodded.

“The rules of Societal Chess dictate that I'm to be shunned from Pureblood society a while longer, or until my parents return to good standing, and I’ve decided its slightly better than rattling around a big empty manor. Unless you're planning to whisk me off somewhere romantic seeing as you totally broke up with Weasley for me?”

Hermione let out a sharp breath that was half a laugh, half an incredulous sigh. “You’re unbelievable.”

Pansy gave a lazy smile, head tilting back against the headboard. “I’ve been called worse.”

“I didn’t break up with Ron because of you,” Hermione said, more out of instinct than certainty. The words felt automatic now. Practiced. But the warmth in her cheeks and the flutter in her stomach betrayed her.

“Of course not,” Pansy said, tone maddeningly agreeable. “You just happened to end things right after our little… chat the other night. Total coincidence, I’m sure.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes, but there was no real venom behind it. “Don’t get smug.”

“Oh, I passed smug about three weeks ago. We’re well into insufferable now.” Pansy stretched luxuriously beneath the blanket, limbs moving like a cat in the sun. “But honestly, if we’re both stuck here for Christmas, we might as well do something with it.”

Hermione blinked. “Like what?”

Pansy shrugged, almost too casually. “I don’t know. Something different. Something neither of us would normally do. Merlin knows I need a break from this castle, and you—well, I think you’re in danger of combusting if you don’t take a step away from all your responsibility, and fame, and friends that duel you over your angelic roommate.”

Hermione opened her mouth to argue, then closed it again. Pansy wasn’t wrong, except for the angelic part.

“Let me think about it,” she said at last, quieter now.

Pansy gave her a sidelong glance, one brow lifted. “Just don’t think too hard. It’s not a contract, Granger. It’s an escape.”

Hermione didn’t answer, but she didn’t need to. The faint tug of a smile at the corner of her mouth was answer enough.

Later that night, long after Pansy had drifted off to sleep, Hermione sat curled by the dormitory window, her knees drawn to her chest beneath one of the extra blankets from the end of Pansy’s bed. The castle was hushed in the way only Hogwarts could be—alive with ancient, invisible things, yet still and watchful under the weight of winter. Beyond the glass, the grounds were dark, the lake a smear of ink beneath the starlight.

Harry’s letter lay folded in her lap, the parchment softened by repeated handling. She traced one of the creases absently with her thumb, rereading the words in her mind even though she knew them by heart. You’re not alone, Hermione. Not now. Not ever.

The lump returned to her throat, smaller than before, but still there.

She let her gaze wander toward the nightstand where Pansy’s magazine still lay, its garish cover half-obscured beneath an empty teacup. Slowly, as if not quite sure why, Hermione reached for it. She flipped through the pages in silence—flashes of spinning teacups, neon lights, and painted faces grinning wildly up at her. She paused on a two-page spread of a castle lit by fireworks, the reflection of colour caught in a body of water below.

She didn’t smile. Not quite.

But she didn’t look away, either.

For the first time in what felt like forever, she wasn’t thinking about what she had to do. Or who she was supposed to be. Just… what if.

She closed the magazine gently, placed it back on the nightstand, and climbed beneath her covers. She heard Pansy shift slightly in her sleep, but the other girl didn’t wake.

Hermione lay in the dark, eyes scanning the faint outline of the canopy above her, and exhaled slowly, still retracing Harry's letter in her mind. You’re allowed to stop. You’re allowed to be a bit selfish now and then.

She must have drifted off sometime between counting the flickers of the lanternlight and tracing the shape of Harry’s letter over and over in her mind. Because one moment she was lying still, blanketed in quiet, and the next—

She was standing in the corridor outside the Gryffindor common room.

Except the portrait hole was gone, replaced by a blank stretch of stone wall, pulsing faintly with shifting candlelight. The hall stretched endlessly in both directions. Cold, echoing, empty.

Footsteps echoed behind her.

Hermione turned.

Ron was there, standing several feet away, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He looked like he had during their worst arguments—tight in the jaw, eyes stormy, like he was holding back something sharp.

“The Gryffindor Common Room,” she said, her voice sounding timid and afraid, “it’s gone.”

“Because you don’t belong there anymore,” Ron replied, a disgusted look on his face. “You don’t belong with us.”

 She opened her mouth to protest, but no sound came. Ron’s eyes were flat, unblinking. “You didn’t just walk away from me, Hermione. You walked away from all of us. From everything we went through.”

“That’s not fair,” she whispered.

He stepped back, disappearing into the flickering dark, and suddenly others were there, looming out of the shifting shadows like memories made flesh.

Harry stood behind her, silent and heavy-eyed. “She tried to hand me over to Voldemort, Hermione. She wanted me dead.”

“She- she didn’t. Harry she didn’t! She was afraid!”

“Afraid of what?,” Ginny asked as she emerged from the shadows. “I thought she liked being a racist, snobby, pug-faced little skank.”

Hermione flinched like she’d been slapped. The word rang in her ears, too loud, too real.

“She’s not like that anymore,” she said desperately, voice cracking. “She’s trying—you don’t know what she’s been through.”

“She didn’t fight,” Luna hissed in a voice that was nothing like the dreamy, sing-song tone that Hermione associated with her. “She didn’t bleed with us. She just watched from the sidelines and waited to see who won.”

Hermione shook her head, breath quickening. “That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” Neville asked quietly, appearing beside Luna. “Would you have forgiven Draco?”

“She isn’t him!” Hermione cried, the floor beneath her suddenly uncertain. The corridor twisted again, walls rippling like heat haze. The air smelled faintly of smoke.

“She is everything we fought against,” Ginny said, stepping closer. Her face was hard, her eyes bright with something bitter and furious. “And you love it.”

Hermione took a step back. “No—”

“You do,” Ginny said, triumphant now. “You like her cruelty. Her secrets. Her stupid hair, and her hands running all over you, and the way she looks at you when she thinks no one’s watching. You don’t want her to change. You just want her to choose you. You want to be Pansy Parkinson’s little pet Mudblood.”

“I don’t—” Hermione’s voice broke. She couldn’t find footing. Couldn’t breathe. “Stop it.”

“You’re just like her,” Ginny whispered. “You lied to me. To all of us. You lied and you liked it.”

Hermione’s knees gave out. She stumbled, landing hard, and the room shattered.

She was on her back now, staring up at the ceiling of her dorm room. Her pulse thrummed. A shadow leaned over her.

Not Ginny. Not Harry. Not Ron.

Pansy. Her posture was casual, almost bored. One eyebrow lifted in wry amusement.

“They’re not wrong,” she said calmly. “You did lie.”

Hermione tried to speak, but her throat had closed around the words. Pansy tilted her head slightly, studying Hermione with detached curiosity. “But that's not the part bothering you, is it? You've lied before, haven't you?”

Hermione swallowed, trying to push herself upright. The floor felt soft and uncertain beneath her palms, like silk instead of stone. She couldn’t look away from Pansy's eyes—dark, knowing, glittering faintly in the dim light.

“I'm not a liar,” Hermione whispered, though her voice shook with something uncomfortably close to doubt.

“Aren't you?” Pansy’s voice was low, almost gentle, like she was explaining a difficult spell. “You told Weasley it wasn't about me. You told Ginny you weren’t hiding anything. You even told yourself you didn’t want this.”

“I didn't—” Hermione began again, but Pansy was suddenly beside her, impossibly close, her fingers tracing the line of Hermione's jaw in a gesture that felt at once comforting and possessive.

“You're lying right now,” she murmured softly. Her thumb brushed Hermione’s bottom lip, feather-light. “You've been lying ever since that night you stumbled in drunk and threw yourself at me.”

Hermione's breath hitched sharply. She closed her eyes, unable—or unwilling—to pull away.

“Tell me you haven't thought about it,” Pansy continued, voice silky now, her mouth just inches away. “Tell me you haven't imagined how my mouth would taste on yours. How my hands would feel on your skin.”

Hermione shook her head, a faint sound of protest slipping from her lips. But it was a weak denial—thin and fragile—and they both knew it.

Pansy leaned closer, her mouth brushing Hermione’s ear. Her breath was warm, sending shivers down Hermione’s spine.

“You've thought about it constantly,” she whispered, low and dangerous. “In class. At meals. Late at night, when you think I'm asleep and can’t hear how ragged your breathing gets. You want me, Granger. And you hate yourself for it.”

Hermione tried to form a reply, but the words melted away the moment Pansy’s lips grazed her throat—soft at first, then firmer, open-mouthed kisses trailing down her neck, igniting nerves she hadn't known existed.

She gasped softly, gripping helplessly at Pansy's shoulders, holding on as the other girl’s mouth moved slowly upward again, pausing at the corner of her lips. Pansy’s fingers skimmed her ribs. Hermione arched instinctively, shivering.

“I have dreams about you too,” Pansy said, her mouth brushing the edge of Hermione’s jaw. “Do you want to know what I do to you in mine?”

Hermione moaned, soft and helpless. Her hands clutched at the hem of a shirt that wasn’t hers. Her breath hitched.

“You’re the one who made this real,” Pansy said. “You’re the one who kissed me back.”

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. Her hands fisted helplessly in the unfamiliar fabric of Pansy’s shirt—soft cotton, impossibly real. Her hips tilted upward of their own accord, seeking pressure, contact, anything. Every nerve in her body felt raw and electric, like she’d been scraped open from the inside. Pansy dragged her mouth across Hermione’s cheek, then down again, grazing her collarbone with her teeth. “In my dreams,” she murmured against her skin, “you beg.”

Hermione trembled, her breath shattering into fragments.

She wanted to speak—something clever, something cutting—but all that came out was a soft, stuttering moan as Pansy’s teeth scraped lightly along the delicate line of her collarbone.

“Pansy—” she gasped, unsure if it was a plea or a warning.

Pansy didn’t stop. Her lips moved lower, slower now, deliberately cruel in their gentleness. One hand slid up Hermione’s side beneath the rumpled fabric of her shirt, fingertips gliding over skin so sensitised it felt like lightning.

“You beg in all the right ways,” Pansy whispered. “Even when you don’t say it aloud. The way your thighs press together. The way you bite your lip when you look at me. Every little tell—you’re always asking.”

Hermione clutched at her, her legs falling open with a kind of helpless, instinctive surrender. Her hips lifted again, searching blindly for friction, her body utterly disconnected from the frantic, looping protests inside her head.

“I’m not like this,” she whispered. “I’m not—”

“Yes, you are,” Pansy said, voice honey-slick and unforgiving. “You’re exactly like this. You want to be wanted, and not in the sweet, lovey-dovey way that Weasley wants you. You want me to ruin you.”

Hermione whimpered.

She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t think. Pansy’s mouth was back on hers now—hot and devouring—and Hermione kissed her like she’d drown without it, like the air between them was poison and only Pansy could pull the breath from her lungs and make it sweet.

Hands tangled in hair. A body settled between her thighs.

Fabric slid. Skin met skin. Pansy was everywhere—mouth, hands, heat—and Hermione gave herself over to it completely, every inch of her trembling, aching, wanting.

“Say it,” Pansy murmured, tongue tracing the shell of Hermione’s ear.

“No,” Hermione breathed.

“Say you want me.”

“I—” Hermione broke, shuddering, face turned to the pillow, her voice nothing but a muffled confession. “I want you.”

Pansy laughed—low, satisfied, like she’d known it all along.

Then her hand moved lower.

Hermione’s whole body arched.

There was heat, white-hot and searing, spiralling out from where Pansy touched her, slow and possessive. Every part of her was taut and open, her pulse racing toward some distant, crashing point she couldn’t control, couldn’t even name—

She cried out— and woke.

Her body jerked, heart slamming hard against her ribcage, the sheets tangled around her legs.

She was alone.

The room was dark, heavy with silence. Cold sweat clung to her skin, and her nightshirt was twisted at the hem. The air felt thick and humid, her breath still coming in unsteady gulps.

Across the dormitory, Pansy lay curled in her own bed, completely still.

Hermione didn’t move. Couldn’t. The dream had vanished, but its imprint remained—on her skin, in her limbs, between her thighs.

She stared at the ceiling, fists clenched in the blankets, her mind caught somewhere between humiliation, shame, and raw, disbelieving need.

Ginny’s voice still rang in her ears like a curse.

You just want her to choose you. You want to be Pansy Parkinson’s little pet Mudblood.

Harry’s disappointment, Ron’s hurt — all of it tangled in her chest like a snare. She could still feel the shame of those imaginary betrayals like they’d actually happened. Like they’d seen everything.

Maybe, deep down, part of her believed they would say those things. That they already thought them.

Yet still—still she’d begged. She’d arched into Pansy’s touch and asked for more, gasping like she needed it to survive.

The time had finally come, no more pretending. No more denial.

She had just begged for Pansy Parkinson in her sleep, and worst of all—she’d meant every word.

Chapter Text

Chapter 18

November had stripped the grounds bare, leaving only skeletal trees and patches of half-frozen mud where once the lawns had been soft and green. Even the castle itself seemed colder, the stone walls leeching the warmth out of every room not guarded by a roaring fire. Most students had retreated early to their dormitories, huddled in thick jumpers and scarves, complaining about frostbitten fingers and unfinished essays.

Pansy felt it too—the slow creep of winter, the sense of the year winding down—but restlessness gnawed at her ribs worse than the cold ever could.

She didn't want to sit in the common room staring at the fire. She didn't want to listen to Blaise and Dean arguing over wizard chess. She certainly didn't want to hole herself up in the library pretending to revise. She wanted... something else. Something she couldn't quite name.

Instead, she found herself in the Great Hall, half-heartedly pushing food around her plate while the ceiling above mirrored the brooding grey sky outside.

Across from her, Daphne chattered animatedly about Christmas plans: the parties her father would host, the dresses she had already ordered, the invitations she planned to ignore. Pansy let the noise wash over her until Daphne, sensing her inattention, shifted tactics.

"...I’m telling you, you should just ask her," Daphne said, stabbing a fork at an invisible point in the air for emphasis. "It’s not like you’re going to get a better opportunity, is it?"

Pansy scowled at her drink. "We’re spending Christmas at Hogwarts together. Isn’t that enough quality time for you?"

"No," Daphne said breezily. "She's already duelled Weasley over you, and when you suggested getting out of the castle she hardly sounded against it, did she?. Face it, Pansy, you’re practically her holiday plans already."

Pansy stiffened, her fingers tightening around her glass. "That wasn’t—" she began, then clamped her mouth shut. Trying to explain the messy, tangled thing that had happened by the lake seemed laughably impossible.

Daphne just arched a perfectly manicured brow at her. "You want to see yourself, you know. Stomping around like a lovesick puppy."

Pansy bristled, but the barb slid under her skin too easily. She hated that Daphne wasn’t entirely wrong. Teasing Hermione was one thing. Watching her fire up and blush and huff and roll her eyes was fun. But asking her to leave the castle—to step into the Muggle world with her, to trust her enough to share something outside Hogwarts—that felt... serious. Dangerous, even.

"I’m not asking her," Pansy muttered. "It’s stupid."

"It’s Christmas," Daphne said with a shrug. "Everyone’s allowed to be a little stupid at Christmas. Besides, the worst she can do is say no."

Pansy snorted and pushed her plate away, appetite gone. Across the hall, she caught a glimpse of Hermione bent over a thick book, her hair tumbling down one shoulder, her brow furrowed in fierce concentration. Something warm and stupid curled in Pansy's chest.

Daphne followed her gaze and smirked. "You’re thinking about it."

"Am not."

"You are."

Pansy didn’t bother denying it again. She just dragged her gaze back to the table, stared at the puddle of pumpkin juice reflecting the Great Hall’s floating candles, and tried very hard not to imagine what it would be like—Hermione Granger, outside of school, laughing over some ridiculous Muggle attraction, spending a whole day together without house badges, without history, without the weight of the war between them.

It was a reckless, impossible idea, and yet, for the first time in a very long time, Pansy wanted reckless. She wanted impossible. Maybe Daphne was right. Maybe Christmas was the perfect excuse.

Later that evening, after the common room had emptied and the castle had settled into that peculiar winter hush, Pansy sat on the edge of her bed, still in her uniform but barefoot, twisting the hem of her skirt between her fingers.

The dormitory was warm enough—the fire in the grate glowed low and steady—but Pansy couldn’t seem to shake the restless chill inside her. She had her book open on her lap, the glossy Theme Parks and Attractions of Europe: 1995 Edition, but the words blurred uselessly together. She wasn’t reading. She was stalling.

Hermione was here, tucked into her bed across the room, legs drawn up beneath the covers, scribbling in one of her endless scrolls of parchment. Her hair was loose and messy, falling around her shoulders in a way that made Pansy's stomach twist unpleasantly.

Just ask her.

Pansy picked at a loose thread on her sleeve instead. What was the worst that could happen? Hermione would laugh? Roll her eyes? Say no? All entirely survivable outcomes.

But what if she says yes?

That thought was somehow more terrifying. Pansy’s mouth was dry. She wished she had something better to say—something casual, clever, effortless. But the right words had been elusive all evening, skittering away from her like smoke.

Finally, after what felt like a century of staring at the same line of text without taking in a single word, Pansy cleared her throat.

Hermione looked up immediately, quill poised mid-air. "You alright?"

"Fine," Pansy said, a little too quickly. She grimaced. Smooth, Pansy. Really smooth.

Hermione tilted her head slightly, concern creasing her brow. "You’re fidgety."

Pansy wanted to snap something back—some biting, familiar retort—but found she didn’t have the energy to pretend. Not with her. Not tonight.

"I was just thinking," Pansy said carefully, pretending to brush something off her knee. "About Christmas."

Hermione smiled faintly, setting her quill aside. "It’ll be quiet. Just a few of us staying this year."

"Yeah." Pansy hesitated, twisting the thread tighter around her finger. "Quiet’s... good."

Hermione leaned back against the headboard, watching her with that steady, thoughtful look that always made Pansy feel like a specimen under a microscope. But she didn’t seem impatient, only curious.

"Granger," Pansy said abruptly, hating how brittle her voice sounded. "You’re not... doing anything for Christmas, right? No grand plans?"

Hermione shook her head slowly. "No, I told you the other night. Staying here. Why?"

Pansy’s heart thudded painfully. She gritted her teeth and pushed on, voice sharp to cover her nerves. "Well, I just thought... maybe you shouldn’t."

Hermione blinked. "Shouldn’t?"

"You know," Pansy said with a forced, airy shrug, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Stay here. We could... go somewhere. Just for a few days. Get out of this draughty tower. You could show me some of the Muggle nonsense you’re always banging on about."

Hermione stared at her. Long enough that Pansy had to resist the overwhelming urge to backpedal. Then—slowly, almost imperceptibly—Hermione smiled. A real smile this time. Soft, surprised, touched.

"You’re asking me to run away with you for Christmas?" she teased lightly.

Pansy made a face. "Don’t make it weird, Granger. It's not an elopement. I just fancy a few days somewhere that nobody knows me, and a friend to keep me company. Daphne's busy so you'll have to do."

Hermione laughed, and the tension in Pansy's chest cracked just enough to let her breathe properly again.

 “Charming. Although, going where nobody knows me? That would be nice. But what ‘Muggle nonsense' do you want to see?”

Pansy shrugged, feigning a casual indifference she absolutely did not feel. "I don't know," she said. "One of those ridiculous rollercoaster places you told me about, maybe."

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Rollercoaster places?"

"You know," Pansy waved a hand vaguely, "those Muggle parks where people voluntarily fling themselves about in little metal carts for entertainment. You made them sound dreadful, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't curious."

Hermione grinned, pushing her hair behind her ear. "Alton Towers. Thorpe Park. Blackpool Pleasure Beach. Take your pick."

Pansy wrinkled her nose at each name in turn. They all sounded bleak. Grey. Wet. She pictured muddy paths, miserable queues, endless cold drizzle — hardly the absurd escape she had imagined thumbing through that glossy magazine.

"Those don't sound very..." Pansy trailed off, searching for a diplomatic word and failing. "Magical. Besides, who's going to a beach in December?”

Hermione laughed again, a low, surprised sound. "They're not magical, that's kind of the point of it being ‘Muggle nonsense'. They're supposed to be thrilling."

Pansy shifted, flicking through her theme parks book looking for any mention of Thorpe Park or Alton Towers. She didn't find them straight away, but once again her eyes lingered on the photo of the ridiculous pink castle with its sparkling lights and fireworks shooting high up into the sky.

“What's the one with the castle?” Hermione's brow furrowed, and she gestured for Pansy to give her the booklet. She studied the photo and gave a short laugh.

“Pansy that's Disneyland Paris.”

“Is that the one Muggles spend weeks at?”

“No,” Hermione shook her head, “That's a huge place in America, this is a smaller one run by the same company.”

“Well, is it worth going?”

“I'm sure it is,” replied Hermione, “but... Pansy it's really expensive, and it's in France, obviously.”

Pansy arched an eyebrow, the corners of her mouth turning upward into something approaching her old, confident smirk. "Granger, in case you haven't noticed, money isn't exactly an obstacle for me."

Hermione flushed lightly, clearly embarrassed. "Of course—I didn't mean—"

"I know," Pansy interrupted quickly, feeling oddly protective over Hermione's discomfort. "But money is one thing I don't have to worry about. Besides, France is hardly a trek. We can portkey or take that odd-looking train that goes under the sea."

"The Eurostar," Hermione supplied automatically, before her expression turned thoughtful again. "Are you sure about this, though? I mean, you, willingly surrounded by thousands of Muggles and their children?"

"I can behave myself, Granger," Pansy said dryly, though inwardly she felt a faint stirring of anxiety. It did sound rather overwhelming. "Besides, you’re the one always insisting that my view of Muggles needs improving."

Hermione’s lips quirked into a teasing smile again, warmth returning to her gaze. "So, this is all about self-improvement, then?"

"Exactly," Pansy said firmly, ignoring the little thrill of excitement building in her chest. "A purely academic expedition. A school trip, if you will."

Hermione chuckled softly. "To Disneyland Paris?"

Pansy held her gaze steadily, her heart thumping traitorously loud. "Are you saying no?"

Hermione considered her carefully for a moment longer, the playful look giving way to genuine curiosity and perhaps, just perhaps, excitement of her own. "No, I'm not saying no."

Pansy relaxed a fraction, the tightness in her chest easing slightly. "Good. Then it's settled. We’re going to Paris."

Hermione smiled at her warmly, eyes brightening. "We're going to Paris."

It was official. Pansy Parkinson knew absolutely nothing about the Muggle world, and the realisation hit her like a cold bucket of water.

She sat cross-legged on her bed, surrounded by a growing pile of Hermione's carefully curated brochures and neatly annotated lists, each page detailing something more baffling than the last. Hermione sat opposite her, patiently explaining—again—the complexities of the Muggle travel system. The more Hermione spoke, the deeper the crease between Pansy’s eyebrows grew.

“So,” Pansy began slowly, trying to hide her mounting confusion, “you're saying we definitely can't just Floo, we have to get this train?”

Hermione bit her lip, clearly suppressing a laugh at Pansy’s expression. “Yes, the train, Pansy. Specifically, the Eurostar. You insisted we try and avoid wizards as much as possible, travelling the Muggle way is the best way to do that. Besides, the Eurostar stops at Disneyland, you can't ask for it any easier.”

“It’s not my fault you’re too famous to step outside in Diagon Alley, but why can't we just Apparate straight to Disneyland?” she pressed, unable to fully grasp the needless complexity of it all.

“Because I've never been,” Hermione said gently. “It’s far, international, heavily populated, and Apparating across borders is heavily monitored. Besides, even if we did Apparate, we'd be Apparating straight into a crowd of Muggles—probably not the smartest plan.”

Pansy wrinkled her nose. “Muggles really do make things complicated for themselves, don’t they?”

“You have no idea.” Hermione smiled, but it was affectionate, not teasing. “Now, next hurdle: clothes.”

Pansy’s stomach sank another inch. “I was really hoping we could just wear robes. Elegant, subtle robes?”

Hermione laughed outright now, shaking her head fondly. “If you want every Muggle within a mile radius staring at you like you've sprouted a second head, sure.”

Pansy scowled. “Fine. What should I wear, then?”

Hermione reached behind her and produced another brightly coloured magazine, pushing it into Pansy’s hesitant hands. “Anything from here, really. You’ll probably need jeans, jumpers, maybe trainers…”

Pansy flipped through the magazine cautiously, her eyes widening at the sheer variety of odd-looking garments within. “This looks absolutely ghastly,” she murmured, staring at a particularly lurid pink jumper emblazoned with sequins shaped like kittens.

Hermione gave a light snort. “Not that one. But something casual. Inconspicuous.”

“Inconspicuous,” Pansy echoed, still eyeing the magazine as if it might bite her. “Inconspicuous…jeans, jumpers. What even are jeans?” Hermione rolled her eyes and threw a pair of stiff denim trousers from her wardrobe into Pansy's lap.

“I'll look horrid in these.”

Hermione’s smile softened, and she leaned forward, gently nudging Pansy’s knee with her own. “You’ll look fine, Pansy. More than fine.”

Pansy huffed, forcing herself to look away before Hermione could see the blush rising in her cheeks. She quickly changed the subject. “And how exactly are we supposed to pay for things without Galleons? Muggle money?”

“Yes, Pounds here in Britain, Francs in France. Gringotts will exchange it for you. Five Pounds to a Galleon, and probably about ten Francs to a Pound.”

Pansy groaned dramatically, sinking backward onto the bed and covering her face with both hands. “Merlin, Granger. How do you keep it all straight in your head?”

“I've had eighteen years of practice,” Hermione replied, amused, but there was genuine sympathy in her voice. “We’ll sort it out together. You’ll be fine.”

Pansy peeked through her fingers, heart fluttering uneasily at Hermione’s quiet reassurance. Somehow, amid all the nonsense—the complicated trains, the absurd clothing, the incomprehensible currencies—Hermione’s gentle patience and steady gaze made the overwhelming task seem manageable.

“Alright,” Pansy sighed dramatically, pushing herself back up onto her elbows. “Let's talk about these jeans.”

Hermione laughed again as Pansy pinched the waistband of the jeans with visible suspicion, holding them up as though they might suddenly attack.

“You’ll survive,” Hermione said, scooting the pile of magazines and leaflets into a neater stack. “Besides, if I can handle getting hexed into a lake by Ginny, you can manage a pair of trousers.”

Pansy gave her a look. “If I recall correctly, you held your own just fine.”

“I didn’t say I lost,” Hermione replied primly, though a small smile tugged at her mouth.

The quiet between them settled again, this time companionable. Outside, the light was beginning to fade to the soft gold of late afternoon. The castle beyond their windows stood in dignified silhouette against a wash of winter blue, and for a moment, neither girl moved. There was still so much to figure out—train tickets and clothing and just what exactly one did at a theme park—but Pansy found herself strangely at ease. It was the closest she’d felt to peace in months.

Hermione glanced toward the parchment list still half-buried beneath their plans. “It’s odd,” she murmured, “We’re talking about escaping for a few days. But I still haven’t finished the preparations for the memorial.”

Pansy’s stomach tightened slightly. “You’ve got all of the names sorted though, don’t you?”

“Yes, but that’s not the hard part anymore. It’s… making sure it means something.”

There was something in her voice—quiet, steady, but fragile at the edges—that made Pansy’s fingers tighten slightly around the fabric in her hands.

Hermione reached into her satchel and pulled out a folded sheet of parchment. It bore the list in her neat, tight script: names both familiar and distant, names that carried some weight whether she wanted them to or not.

“I think we’ll be starting the carving next week,” Hermione said softly. “Professor Flitwick’s enchanted the tools. They only work if you actually mean it—if you understand what you’re carving. It’s his way of making sure this isn’t just some empty gesture.”

Pansy said nothing. She just looked at the list, and for the first time, she felt the faint stirrings of nerves—not because of Muggle jeans or public trains, but because of what it might mean to carve a name into stone and not be able to pretend it didn’t matter.

Pansy crouched awkwardly in front of the long, smooth stretch of stone, chisel and hammer in hand, feeling like she had absolutely no business being here.

The Great Hall had been cleared out for the work, its familiar banners temporarily taken down so that nothing would distract from the task at hand. Along the far wall, a massive slab of dark grey marble had been conjured—cool, stark, and waiting. Waiting for names.

Professor Flitwick had explained it all earlier that morning: the enchanted chisels would only respond properly if the carver understood the weight of what they were doing—if they felt it. Otherwise, the tools would remain dull and stubborn in their hands. Pansy had rolled her eyes at the sentimentality of it all, but now, kneeling there, she wasn't so sure it was nonsense.

She glanced down at the slip of parchment Hermione had pressed into her palm earlier: Colin Creevey. A name she barely recognised. Some tiny, excitable boy with a camera who used to scurry after Potter in the corridors. That was it. That was all she knew.

Pansy set the chisel point gently against the stone, lifted the hammer—and nothing happened. The chisel shuddered uselessly against the marble, like it had no edge at all. She frowned, adjusted her grip, tried again. Still nothing. The stone remained cool, untouched.

Across the hall, students were scattered in small, solemn groups, bent over the marble in concentration. Dean Thomas was working steadily, his jaw tight, his movements smooth and sure. Hannah Abbott was gently wiping away stone dust with the sleeve of her robes, tears silently spilling down her cheeks. Even bloody Daphne was managing to coax graceful, curling letters into the stone with her usual effortless precision.

Pansy gritted her teeth and tried once more, pushing hard enough that her wrist ached. Still nothing. She didn't feel it. Not properly. Not like they did.

She didn't know Colin Creevey. She didn't mourn him. She didn’t ache the way they did—and the magic knew it.

Her hands dropped to her lap in frustration, the tools clattering against the stone with a dull clang. She opened her mouth, about to mutter something snide just to break the thick, awful silence—and that was when she heard the chisel fall from another set of hands across the room, a sharper clatter that turned heads.

Ginny Weasley.

Pansy's gaze locked onto her instantly. Ginny was kneeling by the marble too, her own carving tools abandoned beside her, her hands pressed flat against the cold surface as if trying to hold herself together. Her shoulders shook, small and violent, and when she finally lifted her face, it was blotchy and wet and furious with grief.

Fred Weasley. There, half-scratched and incomplete on the stone, the name hung jagged and unfinished — mocking her.

Ginny staggered to her feet, chest heaving. Without looking at anyone, she bolted toward the heavy oak doors. They slammed back against the walls with a reverberating crack as she fled into the corridor.

For a long moment, nobody moved, then Pansy was on her feet before she even thought about it, brushing dust from her robes and hurrying after her, ignoring the murmurs that rippled through the hall behind her.

Outside, the corridor felt colder, emptier. Pansy caught sight of Ginny just ahead, standing with her back pressed against the stone wall, fists clenched at her sides, breathing like she was trying not to scream.

Pansy hesitated—every instinct screaming at her to leave it, that Ginny Weasley was the absolute last person on earth who wanted her pity—but she forced herself forward anyway.

“Piss off, Parkinson,” Ginny said without looking up, her voice raw.

Pansy crossed her arms. “No.”

Ginny whirled on her then, red hair a tangled halo around her furious face. “What do you want?” she snapped. “Come to gloat? Come to laugh and point at me for crying over my dead brother?”

Pansy stiffened, every muscle in her body tensing to snap back something cruel, something that would keep Ginny at a safe distance where neither of them had to feel anything real. But she swallowed it down, the words clawing uselessly at the back of her throat.

"I didn’t come for anything," she said flatly. "I just... saw you leave."

Ginny let out a short, scornful laugh. "Well, congratulations. You saw me make a bloody spectacle of myself."

"You didn’t," Pansy muttered, though her voice sounded stiff and uncomfortable even to her own ears. "You’re not the first person to fall apart today."

Ginny shook her head sharply, like she could fling the shame off by force. "Yeah, but no one else froze up like an idiot with the whole bloody school staring at them."

Pansy shifted her weight from foot to foot, glancing down the empty corridor as if it might offer her an escape route. None came. She exhaled through her nose.

"It’s not about them," she said finally. "It’s not even about... doing it right." She hesitated, the words catching, strange and unfamiliar on her tongue. "It's about meaning it."

Ginny’s jaw clenched. She scrubbed at her eyes angrily with the sleeve of her jumper.

"I meant it," she snapped. "Of course I bloody meant it."

"I know," Pansy said quietly. "That’s why it hurt so much."

Ginny stared at her, chest heaving with shallow, angry breaths, and for a moment Pansy thought she might actually hex her.

Instead, Ginny sagged back against the wall, the fight draining out of her all at once.

"I wanted to be strong enough," Ginny said, voice cracking. "For him. For Mum. For everyone. Why can't I do this for him?"

Pansy considered this in awkward silence for a moment. She was not the person best suited for being Ginny Weasley's grief counsellor. The two of them had spent the entire term sniping at one another, even after the events of the Hogsmeade disaster.

“I can't do it for Colin Creevey,” Pansy supplied awkwardly. “I know this doesn't help you.”

“Not even a bit.”

“The truth is – and everyone can call me a bitch if they like, they're not wrong – I don't care enough.” The admission hung like a horrible, dark thundercloud above their heads. A lump formed in Pansy's throat that she struggled to swallow. “Sure, it's awful and I feel for his family, really I do. But I didn't know him, I could barely tell you the first thing about him, other than he hero-worshipped Potter and followed him about with his camera. It doesn't mean anything coming from me. There are people out there who knew Colin Creevey. Friends, family, people who cared deeply about him. They should be carving his name, like you are for Fred.”

“You really are a bitch,” Ginny sniffled, “an honest bitch, I'll give you that.”

“That might be the nicest thing you've said about me all year.”

“I wouldn't get used to it.”

“Don't worry, I’m quite comfortable with the fact that you and I will never be friends.” Pansy said evenly, “it's too easy to rile you up and I just can't help myself. You even duelled Hermione over me, I mean, what the hell were you thinking?”

“I was thinking my brother is down in London heartbroken over a girl he's loved for years. He's risked his life for her time and time again only to be tossed aside when it was all over, and the start point of it all was you being a nutter and wrecking Hermione's room before snogging her and running away. She's not been right since, and Ron got hurt as a result.”

“Not my finest hour,” Pansy agreed, “But I promise you I've never done that again. Regardless, as mental as it was for you to try and duel Hermione Granger, I understand why you did it. I've met your family, I've had dinner in your home. You're all very intense, a bit short-tempered, and have shocking hair. But you care for each other deeply, and you aren't afraid to show it. You aren't failing to carve Fred's name because you are weak, you're struggling because you care so much.”

Ginny dropped her gaze to the floor, her fists loosening at her sides. "You make it sound like that's supposed to make it easier," she muttered.

Pansy shook her head. "It doesn't. It’s supposed to make it harder, that was Flitwick's point."

They stood there for a moment, neither quite meeting the other’s eyes, the silence prickling awkwardly between them.

Finally, Ginny let out a shaky breath. "You’re terrible at pep talks."

"Good thing I’m not trying to give one," Pansy said dryly. "I'm just saying... if it hurts, it means you’re doing it for the right reasons."

Ginny rubbed at her face again, grimacing like she hated how much sense that made.

"You’re still a bitch," she said, but there wasn’t any real heat behind it now.

"I know," Pansy said easily.

“And if you hurt Hermione the next thing I carve up will be your face.”

“Noted.”

Another pause. Then, with a heavy sigh, Ginny pushed herself off the wall. "Come on," she said. "If I stay out here any longer, I'll lose my nerve completely."

Pansy hesitated a fraction of a second before falling into step beside her. She didn't reach out, didn't offer a comforting touch — neither of them were ready for that — but something in the space between them had shifted. Not trust. Not forgiveness. But maybe the beginning of something that could one day become both.

As they re-entered the memorial hall, the silence pressed down around them again, broken only by the soft scraping of other students still carefully carving names into the marble.

Ginny moved stiffly toward the wall, her steps still shaky but determined. Pansy stayed where she was, watching from the edge of the room, the heavy weight of her earlier failure pressing against her ribs. Colin Creevey’s name was still waiting, untouched.

Before, when she'd tried, the enchanted chisel had refused her. No matter how tightly she gripped it, no matter how carefully she pressed it to the stone, nothing had happened. Because deep down, she hadn't cared enough. She hadn't felt enough.

He'd been a name. A face. An annoyance buzzing around Potter. Nothing more. But now, standing there in the hush of the hall, the conversation with Ginny still ringing in her ears, something shifted.

She thought about the Creevey’s — whoever they were — waking up every morning to a house that would always be too quiet. About empty chairs at family dinners. About friends who would glance toward a doorway and realise, all over again, that Colin wasn't coming.

He wasn't just a boy with a camera. He was someone's son. Someone’s friend. Someone’s brother. Pansy’s throat tightened. She moved toward the bench, picking up the chisel she had dropped earlier. Her palms felt clammy against the cool handle.

This time, when she approached the marble, the chisel's tip glowed — a soft, tentative light. Pansy hesitated for a single breath, then pressed the blade gently to the stone. The first letter etched itself with a slow, deliberate scrape.

Colin Creevey.

The letters weren't perfect. Her hand shook, and she had to stop twice to steady herself. But she carved every line with a kind of raw, unfamiliar care — not for herself, not for anyone watching, but for him.

When the last curve of the y was done, Pansy stepped back. The name shone faintly in the golden light, joining the hundreds already carved into the memorial. A small boy’s memory, woven into the stone forever. Pansy set the chisel down carefully, her fingers lingering on it for a moment longer than necessary. She didn’t need applause. She didn’t need anyone to see. It was enough that it was done. Glancing over to the other side of the room, she saw Ginny Weasley crying in a heap on the floor, her tools discarded carelessly. Above her, the name Fred Weasley was carved lovingly in neat, slanting letters.

Pansy let a single tear roll down her cheek as she thought about Fred Weasley, about Colin Creevey, and about the hundreds of names slowly taking shape on the giant marble slabs. The Great Hall was silent save for the sounds of muffled sobs and chisels tapping away at stone. She had never stood in a room so full of loss and hurt, and in her own way, she finally felt a small inkling of what the Weasley’s, and the Creevey's, and the Brown's, and the Tonks's must be feeling every day. Ginny's idea to have a distinctly non-magical memorial was genius, Pansy thought, as was Professor Flitwick’s idea to charm the tools to ensure that the people who built it earned the right to carve each name into the stone.

The mood was very sombre as the students filed out of the hall and back to their dormitories. Heads were bowed, shoulders heavy, and even the usual late-night chatter was swallowed by the oppressive silence that clung to the castle.

Pansy returned to her room to find Hermione already there, laid on her side with her knees drawn up to her chest, her eyes red and puffy. She wasn’t crying anymore, just staring at the far wall as though willing herself to feel less.

For a moment, Pansy hovered awkwardly in the doorway. Part of her itched to leave — to go stalk the corridors, to find somewhere she didn’t have to deal with this raw, open sadness.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she crossed the room slowly and sat on the edge of her own bed, facing Hermione's back.

"You did good today," Pansy said gruffly, her voice thick with discomfort. "Better than most."

Hermione didn’t respond at first. Then, very softly, "It didn’t feel good."

Pansy picked at a loose thread on her bedspread. "It’s not supposed to," she said finally. "I think that was Flitwick’s point.”

Another long silence. Pansy shifted uncomfortably.

"You know," she said, forcing the words out, "if you'd rather not go on this stupid trip... if you want to stay here, or go be with the Weasley’s or Potter for Christmas, I get it."

Hermione rolled onto her back slowly, her face blotchy and tired, but her brown eyes were clear.

"I don't want to stay," she said simply. "I want to go."

Pansy nodded once, sharply, almost a salute. "Good," she said. "Because I was going either way, and it’d be bloody depressing without you."

A faint, reluctant smile tugged at Hermione's mouth. "I thought you didn’t even know what Disneyland was."

"I don't," Pansy said. "But I’ve decided it’s either going to be brilliant or an absolute disaster, and frankly, I’m ready for either."

Hermione gave a weak chuckle and sat up, dragging the crumpled parchment toward her.

"Right," she said, voice still scratchy but stronger. "We need to book soon. Especially the hotel."

Pansy leaned over to peer at the notes, frowning at the unfamiliar names and numbers.

"There’s a hotel inside the park," Hermione said, tapping the parchment. "The Disneyland Hotel. It's the closest one, but..." She hesitated. "It’s outrageously expensive. We could stay somewhere nearby and just walk in each day."

Pansy snorted. "We’re not staying in some dingy inn on the outskirts of Muggleland. If there’s a hotel inside the park, that's where we’re staying."

Hermione gave her a wary look. "It’s not a matter of pride, Pansy. It’s a lot of money."

Pansy shrugged, picking imaginary lint from her sleeve. "You think I can’t afford it?"

"It’s not about whether you can afford it," Hermione said carefully. "It’s whether you should have to. Pansy I’m not sure I can accept this, it's too much."

"I want to," Pansy said simply. "And after today, I think you deserve something outrageously expensive. Think of it as eight years’ worth of Christmas presents if you like. "

Hermione bit her lip, hesitating. Then she reached for a worn-looking brochure tucked among her notes and unfolded it. The image that greeted them showed a sprawling pink palace, crowned with white spires and twinkling fairy lights, perched grandly over an arched entranceway. The Disneyland Hotel.

Pansy stared at it. It was... absurd. Bright. Childish. Over the top in a way no respectable pure-blood manor would ever allow. But there was something about it — something inviting. Warm. Untouched by grief or loss or war. "It’s hideous," Pansy said at last, her lips twitching.

Hermione let out a real laugh, small but genuine. “So naturally you want the best room I can find?”

“Of course,” Pansy said, falling dramatically onto her bed, “I'll have the Pink Sparkly Princess of Disneyland Suite or I'm not going.”

Hermione laughed again, the sound cracking through the heavy quiet that had weighed on them all evening. It wasn’t polished or perfect, but it was real, and it filled the room like the first hint of sunlight after a storm.

"I don't think they actually have a Pink Sparkly Princess Suite," Hermione said, rifling through the leaflet with mock seriousness. "But if they did, you'd be first in line."

"I expect a tiara on the pillow and at least three servants to draw my bath," Pansy said loftily, folding her arms behind her head.

"You're going to be impossible, aren't you?"

"Obviously."

Hermione shook her head, but the tiredness seemed to lift from her shoulders a little as she flipped through the booking information.

"Two beds," she said firmly, scribbling it down on her parchment as if to anchor reality before Pansy could turn the teasing into something more dangerous.

"Two beds," Pansy agreed innocently. "One for sleeping, one for storing all the ridiculous souvenirs I intend to buy."

"You’ll have to get Muggle money for that," Hermione warned, tapping the parchment with her quill. "Your Galleons won't do you much good in Disneyland Paris."

Pansy wrinkled her nose. "I still think Muggles are unnecessarily complicated. I have gold. Surely they should just take it."

"That's... not how it works."

"I blame them, not me," Pansy said smugly, reaching for her wand and lazily flicking it to summon her pyjamas from across the room. "You’ll have to teach me how to navigate this 'currency exchange.' Preferably without abandoning me in a back alley somewhere."

Hermione smiled tiredly, her heart lighter than it had been in days.

"I'll think about it," she said. "Maybe if you’re very well-behaved."

Pansy snorted. "Well, that’s going to be a problem."

They fell into a comfortable, tentative quiet then — not because they had run out of things to say, but because, for the first time in weeks, there was nothing that had to be said. The worst of the night was behind them.

Ahead, there was just the ridiculous, glittering promise of pink castles, overpriced sweets, and a world so far removed from their own that it almost felt like stepping into a dream. For the first time since the start of term, Pansy allowed herself to believe that maybe — just maybe — this year wouldn’t be a complete disaster. Maybe, for once, it could even be something else entirely.

The common room was almost empty when Pansy finally wandered downstairs, too restless to stay in her dormitory. The day's emotions had left her drained but strangely wired, her thoughts buzzing with plans she barely understood. She curled into the corner of her favourite sofa, tucking her legs beneath herself as she stared thoughtfully into the dying embers of the fire.

Across the room, Daphne looked up from her armchair, arching an elegant eyebrow. Her book was closed, and Pansy realised she'd probably been watching her the entire time.

“Something on your mind, Pansy?” Daphne drawled softly. “You look suspiciously like someone who's done something reckless and exciting. Care to share?”

Pansy hesitated, eyes narrowing slightly. Daphne always did have an uncanny talent for reading her, even when she’d rather remain unreadable.

“What makes you think I've done anything at all?” Pansy asked lightly, hoping her voice didn’t betray her.

“You've got that look,” Daphne said calmly. “The one you get when you're either very pleased with yourself or about to hex somebody. Considering Weasley isn't here to at the moment, I assume it's the former.”

Pansy let out a reluctant laugh and pulled the sleeves of her jumper down over her hands. Daphne was infuriatingly perceptive, but in this moment, she was grateful for it.

“Fine,” Pansy conceded softly. “I might have taken your advice for once.”

Daphne's lips curled into a satisfied smile, her eyes brightening with anticipation. “Oh? And which advice would that be, exactly?”

“Christmas plans,” Pansy murmured, glancing quickly around the common room to ensure no one else was near enough to overhear. “I'm not staying here.”

“Interesting,” Daphne leaned forward, genuinely curious now. “So, you asked Granger after all, then? Is she going home with you for Christmas? Rather brave of her.”

“No!” Pansy said immediately, slightly scandalised. “Of course she’s not coming home with me. Merlin, Daphne, if my parents found out!”

“Then where are you going, exactly?” Daphne asked, clearly enjoying this more by the second.

Pansy hesitated, aware she was about to plunge headfirst into territory she might not be ready to navigate—but she'd never been particularly good at restraint. She exhaled softly and said, “Somewhere away from Hogwarts. Actually, somewhere completely away from everything—somewhere Granger suggested.”

Daphne tilted her head curiously, interest sparkling in her eyes. “Do I even want to ask?”

“Disneyland Paris,” Pansy admitted, the words slipping out with a rush. “It’s a Muggle place, apparently. Something called a theme park. It’s got these rollercoaster things, and restaurants, and a silly pink castle, and a glitzy hotel.”

Daphne's eyes widened in genuine shock. She was momentarily speechless—a rare sight indeed—before she burst into quiet laughter, shaking her head.

“You've lost your mind,” Daphne said with delighted incredulity. “You are willingly going to spend Christmas trapped inside a park full of Muggles with Hermione Granger?”

“Keep your voice down,” Pansy hissed, glancing again at the staircases. “And yes. I am.”

Daphne leaned back in her chair, visibly amused. “I mean, I’m impressed by the sheer recklessness, Pansy, truly. But have you thought this through?”

Pansy scowled slightly, crossing her arms defensively. “It’s just a trip, Daphne. We’re going as friends.”

“Friends,” Daphne echoed slowly, sounding distinctly unconvinced. “So, let me get this straight: You’ve asked Hermione Granger—whom you’ve snogged once, fought with repeatedly, and stared at constantly all term – no, stop denying it, you moon over her all the time – to run away with you at Christmas. Alone. Just the two of you. To a romantic-sounding, glittery Muggle… theme park in Paris. But it’s definitely just a friendly getaway?”

“Exactly,” Pansy snapped, though she felt her cheeks begin to heat. “Stop making it sound so...”

“So precisely like what it actually is?” Daphne teased gently. “Pansy, you’ve basically asked Granger out, and she’s said yes.”

Pansy opened her mouth to protest, but no words came. She found herself staring helplessly into the fire, her heartbeat suddenly loud in her ears.

“You realise,” Daphne continued, more softly this time, “if it were anyone else, I’d be genuinely concerned about you. But considering it's Granger, this might actually be good for you. Maybe you’ll come back slightly less miserable.”

Pansy laughed quietly, some of her tension easing. “I doubt it. This is probably going to be a complete disaster.”

“Undoubtedly,” Daphne agreed smoothly. “But perhaps a necessary one. And at the very least, you'll get a good story out of it." She paused, tilting her head. "What’s a… roll coaster? Don’t Muggles use plates for their rolls like normal people?”

Pansy gave a tired snort. “Rollercoaster. Apparently it’s a Muggle invention where you strap yourself into a small train cart and get flung around on rails at ridiculous speeds while screaming.”

Daphne stared at her horrified. “And you’re doing this… voluntarily?”

“I think that’s the general idea.”

Daphne shook her head slowly, lips pursed in that particular expression she reserved for things too chaotic to process. “You do realise Granger is going to drag you onto one of those things and then mock you when you scream louder than the children.”

“I am not going to scream.”

“Oh, you absolutely are,” Daphne smirked with dark satisfaction. “And when you get back, I expect full details.”

Pansy rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. She could already imagine it — her knuckles white against a safety bar while Hermione laughed beside her, utterly unbothered. The idea made her stomach twist… but not entirely in a bad way.

Daphne gave her one last amused glance and stretched her arms overhead, the picture of effortless confidence. “Well, do try not to die screaming on the mad Muggle roller-thingy, and maybe don’t fall completely in love with her before New Year’s, hmm?”

Pansy scowled, though it lacked any real heat. “Go to bed, Daphne.”

“Gladly,” Daphne said, already turning away. “But for the record—this might be the first truly interesting thing you’ve done in years. I’m proud. Appalled, but proud.”

With a rustle of her dressing gown and one final smug smile, she vanished up the stairs, leaving Pansy alone with the fading fire and the uneasy flutter in her chest.

She stayed where she was for a while, the warmth on her face a soft counter to the cold doubt in her stomach. This was reckless. Ridiculous. Probably doomed. But even so, the thought of going somewhere far away, somewhere loud and absurd and free, with Hermione Granger, of all people...

She wasn’t sure what terrified her more — going, or the fact that she genuinely wanted to.

Chapter Text

Chapter 19

The morning of the unveiling dawned grey and still, with low-hanging clouds pressed against the turrets and the scent of snow lingering in the air. Hermione had been awake since before sunrise, pacing quietly in the dormitory while her mind looped through last-minute contingencies she’d already checked twice the night before.

The memorial corridor was finished — the enchanted tools packed away, the final names carved, the list cross-checked and confirmed. Dean had straightened the linework the night prior, and Flitwick had personally walked the length of it with a faint, misty smile before declaring it ready.

Yet Hermione’s stomach twisted like she was waiting for an exam result.

She stood in the empty common room now, staring out through the frosted window at the far side of the grounds, watching the distant shimmer of the protective boundary that had been lowered temporarily for visitors to arrive. Somewhere beyond it, Harry, Ron, and Neville were walking toward the castle.

Her fingers curled tighter around the folder she held, containing the dedication notes and final remarks Flitwick had asked her to prepare — “in case Potter forgets how to string two words together under pressure.” It was meant as a joke, but Hermione had rewritten the parchment five times anyway.

They arrived just after breakfast, escorted in by Professor McGonagall and bundled in scarves and Auror training gear. Ron hugged her awkwardly and remarked that it was good to see her; Neville offered a shy, crooked smile and a potted plant as a gift for the common room, and Harry — Harry looked tired, a little pale, but warm as ever.

“Jeez, it’s cold up here,” he said, rubbing his hands together as they reached the entryway to the new corridor. “Feels like we haven’t been here in years.”

Hermione gave him a look. “It’s only been four months.”

“Four months, ten lifetimes,” Harry said, grinning faintly.

Flitwick met them just inside the entrance and, after a brief welcome, offered Harry the honour of performing the public unveiling — a short speech followed by a spell that would remove the protective curtain and allow the memorial to be seen in full. Before that, though, came the private walkthrough.

Harry was quiet as they moved through the corridor. His hand trailed occasionally along the wall, pausing at names that pulled a soundless breath from his chest. Ron lingered beside Fred’s, his face unreadable. Neville found the name of Colin Creevey and stood before it a long time, saying nothing.

Hermione hung back slightly, watching them — all three of them — and feeling something tight coil in her throat. The grief never vanished. It only reshaped itself, fitting into the days as best it could.

Ginny wasn’t with them this morning. She’d left early to spend the day with her mother in Hogsmeade. They were meeting up with George, she’d said. Her voice had been light, warm. Friendly.

But the easy friendship they used to share — the inside jokes, the knowing glances — had dimmed over the last few weeks. Not quite strained. Not quite broken. But there was a distance now. A subtle shift Hermione hadn’t fully acknowledged aloud.

Ginny hadn’t asked again about Pansy. But Hermione knew she didn’t need to. She hadn’t told Ginny the full truth — about how things had changed, quietly, slowly, but unmistakably. Nor about the holiday plans she was making. That omission pressed at her like a splinter she refused to pick.

But Ginny was not her keeper. She had reminded herself of that more than once lately. She was Hermione Granger — the girl who broke into Gringotts, stole from Bellatrix Lestrange, and escaped on the back of a dragon. She didn’t need permission to live her life.

She looped her arm around Harry’s and walked with him to the end of the Memorial Hallway, desperately reminding herself not to grab onto him as tightly as she felt the need to – as if he were her only anchor to the world and letting go meant she would slide off and into the abyss.

“What do you think?” she whispered quietly.

“I think you’ve all done a wonderful job.” He didn’t say it with much ceremony or grandeur. Just quiet conviction. Which made it land harder than any applause ever could.

Hermione swallowed. The final section of the wall stretched into quiet shadow, the engraved names continuing in long, deliberate rows. There were no windows lining the corridor — just the soft, flickering light of lanterns spaced along the floor, casting gentle illumination upward so that every name glowed with a warm, golden hue. The corridor felt still and reverent, not a grand hall or shrine, but a passage carved through memory — a space people would walk through on their way to somewhere else, and in doing so, be made to remember. Not alive. Not gone. Just there. Etched into stone. Unignorable.

She let go of his arm but stayed close. “Thank you for coming.”

Harry gave her a sidelong glance. “You really thought I wouldn’t?”

She looked away. “I know you don’t like big crowds, or photographers.”

“Or big crowds of photographers,” Harry reasoned, “but I’ll make an exception for today. This is important.”

“This was mostly Ginny’s idea,” Hermione continued, “she asked about putting Cedric’s name on here too.”

“I didn’t see him anywhere?” Harry replied, looking back along the corridor.

“No, Professor McGonagall decided this wasn’t the place for him. She’s in talks with the Diggory’s about hosting a Quidditch tournament between the three schools and naming the trophy after him.”

Harry nodded slowly. “That sounds more fitting, actually. He wasn’t here, not at the end. But I like the idea of bringing the schools back together again to remember him. Cedric would’ve liked it too. Something you win for playing fair.”

Hermione smiled faintly. “That was the idea.”

They stood in silence for a few moments, the hush of the corridor wrapping around them like a cloak. Behind them, the sounds of movement were beginning to filter in — footsteps, hushed voices, the occasional scrape of a chair being repositioned at the far end of the entrance hall.

Hermione’s eyes drifted to the wall again, her gaze catching on a single name. Fred Weasley. Neatly carved. Strong. She could almost picture Ginny there a couple of weeks before, shoulders stiff, fists clenched, fighting through tears and grief until the name was carved.

Harry followed her gaze. “Was she okay?”

Hermione exhaled. “It was pretty tough for her. We had a bit of a... duel, a few days before the carving.”

Harry didn’t look surprised. “So I heard.”

Hermione’s arms folded tightly across her chest, more to hold herself in than anything else. “I didn’t mean for it to escalate. It just… happened. She said things, I said things back. We were both already frayed at the edges, and—” she let out a quiet breath, eyes fixed on the names in the marble, “I think we were both too raw to be reasonable.”

Harry nodded once, not unkindly. “You’ve both been through a lot.”

“She was right to be angry,” Hermione admitted, voice low. “She thought I’d been honest with her, and I hadn’t. Not really. Not about the things that matter.”

He gave her a sidelong glance, his tone careful. “Things like Pansy?”

Hermione didn’t answer straight away. Her eyes lingered on Fred’s name again.

“She doesn’t understand how I could trust someone like her,” Hermione said finally. “And I don’t blame her for that. Sometimes I don’t understand it either.”

“But you still trust her,” Harry said quietly.

Hermione’s throat tightened. “I think I might. I—I think that…” The words hovered on her lips, dangerous and unformed. Saying them out loud would give them weight. Truth. She wasn’t ready for that.

She didn’t finish the sentence. Harry, of course, filled the silence.

“You think you might have feelings for her.”

Hermione looked at him sharply. But there was no judgement in his voice. No shock. Just calm understanding, the same steady presence he’d always been. He met her gaze with a kind of gentle patience that made her want to cry.

She looked away. “I don’t know what it is yet.”

“That’s okay.”

Hermione swallowed. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“Most of the important things never do until much later on.”

She gave a breathless, humourless little laugh. “God, Ginny will never forgive me.”

“She might,” Harry said after a moment. “She just might need time, and an explanation that doesn’t sound like an apology.”

Hermione exhaled, feeling some of the pressure lift, just a little. She glanced over at him, grateful. Not just for the reassurance, but for the fact that she could still have this — someone who didn’t demand answers, who let her have the space to find them.

“Harry,” she said softly, her voice quivering and betraying her anxiety, “You won’t… leave me, right? If this—if this is who I am?”

Harry’s expression softened immediately, a gentle warmth replacing his quiet amusement. He placed his hands lightly on her shoulders, leaning close so their conversation stayed private, shielded from the rest of the corridor.

“Hermione,” he said quietly, steadily meeting her eyes, “you’ve stood by me through things no one else would have. You followed me into places nobody sane would dare—faced down Dragons, Giants, Death Eaters, even Voldemort himself. After all we've survived together, do you really think I'd care about something as ordinary as who might make you happy?”

Hermione swallowed hard, blinking rapidly as her vision blurred.

Harry tightened his grip gently, just enough to steady her. “You’re my best friend. I just want you to be happy—and if anyone has a problem with that, they can go to hell.”

She laughed shakily, the relief making her almost dizzy. “Thank you.”

Harry smiled softly and stepped back, gently squeezing her shoulder one last time.

“Always.” He turned and faced down the now empty corridor, before flashing Hermione a more wicked smile, “I will judge you for your horrible taste though.” Hermione pouted in response.

“Because redemption is off the table?”

“No, it’s just, if you absolutely had to pick one of the Slytherin girls, Daphne Greengrass was right there.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and thumped Harry repeatedly on the arm. “Harry! That. Is. Such. A. Boy. Answer!”

“What?” He replied through a supressed laugh.

“Just because she’s a pretty blonde with big boobs!” Hermione hissed in response.

Harry grinned, rubbing his arm in mock injury. “I’m just saying, if we’re rewriting your romantic history with Slytherins, you could’ve gone for the obvious, low-effort option.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Low effort? You mean the one who would rather date a mirror than an actual person? The billionaire princess?”

He snorted. “Alright, fair. Still—Pansy?”

“She’s not what people think,” Hermione said, the words out before she could stop them. Her voice had lost its edge, and something softer crept in — not defensiveness, but certainty. “Not anymore. Besides, I’m not even sure.”

Harry’s smile faltered just slightly, replaced by something more thoughtful.

“Then that’s all that matters,” he said simply, “and you’ll have your chance to find out throughout the year.”

Hermione hesitated. Her fingers fidgeted at the hem of her sleeve, nervous and deliberate.

“I haven’t really told anyone yet,” she said, watching the floor between them. “But we’re going away. Over Christmas.”

Harry tilted his head. “You and Pansy?”

She nodded once. “To Disneyland Paris.”

Harry blinked.

Hermione braced herself.

He didn’t laugh, not at first. Just stared at her, trying to decide if she was joking. When she didn’t flinch, he let out a low whistle and grinned. “Now that I didn’t see coming.”

Hermione sighed. “She asked about rollercoasters, and I told her about theme parks, and then I mentioned it without thinking and—well, she insisted.”

“You’re taking Pansy Parkinson to the most aggressively cheerful Muggle location on the continent,” Harry said, still grinning. “I honestly don’t know whether to be horrified or impressed.”

“She paid,” Hermione muttered. “Insisted on it, in fact. So I guess she’s taking me.”

Harry chuckled. “Of course she did.”

“I’m not entirely sure what we are,” she admitted. “Friends? Rivals still, maybe. Something in between. But I think this trip is going to… clarify a few things.” Hermione let out a weary sigh and tried to quiet the voice in her head that mocked her mercilessly. Didn’t the multiple sex dreams clarify anything for you? 

Harry gave her a long look, his amusement fading back into sincerity.

“For what it’s worth,” he said, “I hope you find the answers you’re looking for.”

Hermione smiled faintly. “Me too.”

They stood like that for a moment, quiet in the stillness at the far end of the corridor, a bubble of calm carved out of the chaos of the day. Fred’s name shimmered faintly in the stone beside them.

Then Flitwick’s voice echoed from down the hall, calling Harry toward the front.

He gave Hermione a last look and a wink. “Most importantly, get me a picture of Pansy Parkinson wearing Mickey Mouse ears. I could use a good laugh.”

Hermione snorted. “I’ll do my best.”

She stepped aside and watched him go, her heart lighter than it had been in days. The truth was out now, and whatever came next, she wasn’t running from it anymore.

Hermione stood just behind the gathered crowd, her hands folded tightly in front of her, the parchment of her prepared remarks crumpled and forgotten in her pocket. She had barely breathed since Harry stepped up to the front, his frame outlined by the glow of the floating lanterns that lit the corridor in warm, golden light. Behind him a shimmering curtain covered the entrance to the corridor; the last piece of magic to be removed from the corridor.

He looked calm, or close enough. The collar of his cloak sat unevenly against his neck, and his fringe kept falling into his eyes. He didn’t try to fix it.

“I’m not much for speeches,” Harry began, his voice carrying further than she expected. Firm but rough around the edges. “So, I won’t try to make this one longer than it needs to be.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd — polite, knowing. Hermione could see Ron just to the side, arms folded, smirking faintly.

“This corridor wasn’t my idea,” Harry continued. “But I think it might be one of the most important things that’s been done since the war ended. It was built by the students who call Hogwarts their home, and serves to remind us, and future generations of students and teachers alike, of the sacrifice of the brave witches and wizards who stood for Hogwarts on the night it stood alone.”

He looked down for a moment, then back up.

“These names… they’re not just names. They’re lives. People who stood when they could’ve run. People who chose to protect instead of hide. Some of them were our classmates. Some of them were our teachers. Some of them… were our family.”

His eyes flicked, just briefly, toward the Weasleys.

“I know we can’t bring them back,” Harry said, voice softening. “But we can remember who they were, and what they did, and make sure no one ever walks these halls without understanding the cost of what was fought for here.”

Hermione felt her throat tighten.

“So… yeah.” Harry glanced at Flitwick, who gave a small, solemn nod. “Let’s show them.”

Harry drew his wand and spoke the incantation clearly — “Revelio.”

The soft shimmering curtain peeled back, slow and elegant. It dissolved like mist from the stone, and the memorial was suddenly visible in full: rows upon rows of names, carved deep and clean into the marble walls. Each letter shone with a quiet, golden glow, gently flickering in time with the lanterns at the base of the corridor.

A hush fell over the room like snowfall. There was no applause. Just stillness. A few gasps. A quiet sob from somewhere near the back.

Hermione let her eyes move over the crowd. Dean Thomas stood near the centre, eyes glassy as he stared at one of the panels he’d helped sketch. Professor Sprout clutched a handkerchief. Professor McGonagall, ever composed, stood like stone at the edge of the light, her hands clasped tightly in front of her.

The Weasleys stood together, all except Percy, who had taken a few steps ahead, head bowed as he read the names in silence. Molly reached out and touched Fred’s name with trembling fingers. Arthur placed a hand on her shoulder. George didn’t move at all. Hermione’s heart clenched, but she made her way toward them slowly, uncertain if she should interrupt.

The crowd shuffled slowly through the corridor, reading each name in silence, the way it should be. The corridor was exactly the way Ginny had described it in their initial meeting. A place within Hogwarts where magic simply vanished as though it had been sucked out of the room — not literally, but perceptibly. No enchanted portraits lined the walls. No floating candles, no moving staircases creaked nearby. Just names, stone, and silence.

Hermione had worried at first that it would feel cold — too austere, too empty — but now, standing in it as people moved slowly past the walls with bowed heads and glistening eyes, she understood. This wasn’t a place for grand gestures. It was a threshold — not a destination. A quiet reminder in the middle of daily life. You passed through it and were changed, even if only a little.

A pair of third-year students clutched each other’s sleeves as they read the names from the far end, whispering as they recognised surnames they'd heard whispered at home. A Hufflepuff girl stood still with her hand resting on the name Nymphadora Tonks, tears falling silently down her cheeks. Flitwick murmured something to Professor Sprout and stepped back, letting others pass.

Hermione looked up again at Fred’s name. George still hadn’t moved. Ginny stepped beside him, not saying a word, just gently slipping her hand into his. George flinched, just slightly — then his fingers curled around hers. Hermione turned away, blinking rapidly.

The grief in the room didn’t overwhelm her, but it filled every corner. It lived in every step, every breath. It wasn’t a grand unveiling. It wasn’t a triumphant celebration. But it was right, and as Hermione stepped aside to let a small family pass through, she felt it — that flicker of something she hadn’t felt in a long time. Not closure, but purpose. Something had been made right.

The sun had crept higher by the time the goodbyes began. The crowd from the unveiling had mostly gone, leaving behind a quieter castle and the lingering weight of what had been revealed that morning. The Weasleys stood together at the foot of the Entrance Hall steps, wrapped in scarves and coats, ready to return to the Burrow.

Hermione lingered near the door, her arms folded across her chest, trying not to feel like she was holding something in that might crack her ribs from the inside.

Mrs Weasley stepped forward first, wrapping Hermione in a warm hug that smelled faintly of lavender and roast potatoes. “Are you absolutely sure you want to stay, dear?” she asked, holding her close a moment longer than necessary. “We’d love to have you at the Burrow — always.”

Hermione stepped back with a grateful smile. “Thank you. Really. But I think I need a bit of quiet this year. There’s still work to do here… and I think I’d like some time to myself.”

Mrs Weasley studied her for a beat, her eyes full of gentle worry. “Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find us. There’ll be a bed and a warm meal waiting — always.”

Hermione nodded, swallowing against the lump rising in her throat. “I know. Thank you.”

Arthur gave her a kind smile and patted her arm. “Take care of yourself, Hermione.”

Neville hugged her next, warm and wordless, and then it was Ron’s turn. He approached with his hands jammed deep into his pockets, looking like he wasn’t quite sure what expression to wear.

“So, er… I guess we’ll see you in January?” he asked.

“I guess so,” Hermione said, forcing a small smile.

He nodded, shifting on the spot. “Enjoy the peace and quiet, I suppose. No gnomes. No exploding Christmas crackers.”

“I’ll try not to miss the chaos too much,” she said, and they both chuckled softly.

Ron rubbed the back of his neck, clearly unsure how to end things. “Alright, well… have a good one, yeah?”

“You too.”

Then Harry stepped up. He didn’t say anything at first — just pulled her into a hug and held her there. When they pulled apart, he murmured just for her: “You sure you’re okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” Hermione replied.

Let me know when you’re off,” Harry said under his breath as they broke apart. “And when you get back.”

“Tomorrow morning,” she whispered, “I’ll write to you.”

“Good, and regardless of what happens, have fun!”

“I will,” she whispered, “it is Disneyland after all.”

He gave her one last squeeze, then turned to follow the others.

She watched them descend the steps toward the carriages waiting beyond the courtyard, their voices drifting faintly through the chill December air. Ginny didn’t look back. Hermione stayed at the doorway until the last of them had vanished into the distance, their outlines swallowed by the gentle fall of snow starting to dust the stone. The castle around her felt impossibly quiet again.

But this time, the stillness didn’t feel so lonely. It felt like a beginning.

“Right then,” Pansy said from beneath a mountain of papers as Hermione stepped through the door, “go over this with me once more.”

Hermione paused in the doorway, taking in the sight: Pansy, cross-legged atop the bed in her dressing gown, surrounded by a chaotic sprawl of Disneyland brochures, rail schedules, and parchment lists—some scrawled in Hermione’s hurried handwriting, others in Pansy’s slow, elegant script, underlined with the kind of precision that usually accompanied hexes.

Hermione arched an eyebrow. “What exactly needs clarifying this time?”

"All of it," Pansy said flatly. "Again."

Hermione dropped her satchel beside the wardrobe and crossed the room, perching carefully on the edge of the bed. She nudged a flyer—Mickey’s Magical Parade! —aside with two fingers.

“Right,” she said, in the tone of someone preparing to read aloud from a very dull legal document. “Step one: you’re going home tomorrow morning to collect a few essentials apparently, and your vault key. No house elves, no enchanted hairbrushes, and absolutely no robes embroidered with your bloody initials.”

Pansy gave a long-suffering sigh. “One trunk. No family heirlooms. I’ve memorised the terms of parole.”

“No trunks, I’ll loan you a suitcase.” Hermione pointed to a nearby list. “Step two: Gringotts. You’ll exchange Galleons for Muggle money—Pounds and Francs. Enough for food, shopping, and emergencies. That does not mean buying out an entire floor of Harrods.”

Pansy cast her a sideways look. “You could just come with me, you know, discreetly.”

"No," Hermione said firmly, "the Goblins hate me. Last time I was at Gringotts I sort of broke… everything. After that we meet at the Leaky Cauldron—Muggle side, not wizard side, and find you something proper to wear."

Pansy arched a brow. “Something proper to wear?”

Hermione gave her a pointed look. “You can’t go traipsing through King’s Cross in those ridiculous dragonhide boots and a velvet cloak. We’ll draw enough attention without looking like we wandered out of an amateur pantomime.”

“I like my boots,” Pansy muttered, inspecting them defensively. “They were a gift from my godmother.”

“Well, your godmother isn’t the one navigating Muggle London,” Hermione replied sweetly. “Trainers. Jeans. A jumper that doesn’t cost more than my entire house. That sort of thing.”

Pansy made a face like she’d just been asked to bathe in a Muggle petrol station. “Fine,” she said. “But I’m not wearing anything beige. If I must be humiliated, I refuse to be neutral about it.”

“Agreed,” Hermione said, hiding her smile. “No beige.”

“Granger,” Pansy said in a tone that conveyed a hidden anxiety, “this isn’t some cruel joke, right? You won’t abandon me in Muggle London?”

Hermione blinked, startled by the shift. Pansy was still buried in her pile of leaflets, her chin lifted like always, her voice sharp — but something about the way she held her gaze, the stiffness in her shoulders, made Hermione pause.

“No,” Hermione said softly. “I won’t abandon you.”

Pansy looked away, pretending to inspect her sleeve. “I’ve just never done any of this before.”

Hermione nodded. “I know.”

A beat passed. Then Pansy sniffed and lifted her chin again. “Well. If I die tragically in a Muggle theme park, know that my will explicitly blames you.”

“I’ll make sure the gravestone says, ‘Neutral tones were considered but rejected.’”

Pansy cracked a reluctant smile, finally shifting aside the pile of leaflets and brochures. "You’re not nearly as funny as you think you are, Granger."

Hermione shrugged lightly, suppressing her own smile. "You still laughed."

Pansy rolled her eyes, but there was no real annoyance behind the gesture. She gathered up the scattered notes and tossed them onto her bedside table. "Well, I suppose I should try to get some sleep before my horrific adventure tomorrow."

"Good idea," Hermione agreed, rising and stretching gently. She hesitated at the edge of her bed, watching as Pansy drew the heavy curtains around her four-poster. "Goodnight, Pansy."

For a moment there was silence behind the velvet hangings, long enough for Hermione to wonder if she was going to respond at all. But then Pansy's voice came softly, muffled but clear enough.

"Goodnight, Granger."

Hermione stood still for another moment, absorbing the quiet intimacy of the room—no sniping, no hostility, just a gentle, slightly uncertain calm. Then, with a quiet sigh, she climbed into bed and drew her own curtains shut.

She lay awake longer than she meant to, staring upward at the dark canopy above her. The castle had settled into its familiar nighttime quiet, broken only by the faint whisper of wind outside and the occasional soft rustle from the other bed.

The entire thing had started as a joke—a reckless dare of a conversation. But now there were train tickets booked, currency ready to exchange, and hotel confirmations tucked securely into her bag. They were really doing this. No war, no politics, no houses—just two girls leaving everything behind for a weekend of noise, colour, sugar, and nonsense.

She wasn't sure whether it would be a disaster or the best decision she'd made all year.

Rolling onto her side, Hermione stared at the outline of Pansy’s curtains. The shape beneath the blankets was perfectly still, her breathing deep and even.

“I won’t abandon you,” she whispered quietly into the darkness.

Then she closed her eyes and finally let sleep take her.

The pavement outside the Leaky Cauldron was slick with last night’s rain, and the wind whipping down Charing Cross Road had that sharp, unmistakable December bite. Hermione stood with her hands tucked deep in the pockets of her coat, her rucksack resting at her feet, and the faintest trace of panic tightening in her chest.

It was eleven o’clock exactly. She knew because she’d checked her watch four times in the last three minutes.

Pansy Parkinson was not there.

Hermione shifted her weight from one foot to the other, scanning the street again. A man in a grey coat passed by, earbuds in. A woman pushing a pram glanced briefly at Hermione before continuing on. No cloaks. No dragonhide boots. No hint of Pansy.

She’s not coming.

The thought landed so suddenly and sharply that Hermione flinched. It was irrational — she knew it was irrational — but it dug its hooks in anyway. Maybe Pansy had changed her mind. Maybe she’d gone to Gringotts and remembered who she was, who Hermione was, and decided this entire ridiculous trip wasn’t worth the trouble.

Hermione stared at the empty spot beside her, where Pansy should have been, and tried not to feel too much like someone who’d been stood up. She pulled her coat tighter around herself, jaw clenched, heart tapping an unsteady rhythm behind her ribs. Maybe she should have insisted they go together. Maybe she should’ve—

A sharp pop from the alley beside the Cauldron interrupted Hermione’s spiralling thoughts, followed by a string of low, muttered swearing.

“Bloody cobbles—who thought that was a sensible place to Apparate—”

Hermione turned just in time to see Pansy emerge, brushing herself off with an air of supreme indignation. She was still in her full wizarding ensemble — fitted robes of deep navy trimmed in silver, dragonhide boots clicking against the wet pavement, and a small suitcase Hermione had loaned her trailing behind her like an insult.

Hermione blinked. “Why didn’t you just go through the pub like a normal person?”

Pansy looked genuinely affronted. “Because the pub is a ghastly place. Sticky floors. Stale beer. That leering portrait behind the bar that watches you the entire time. No thank you.”

Hermione sighed. “So, you thought appearing out of thin air on a busy Muggle street in full wizarding robes was the less conspicuous option?”

“I misjudged the angle,” Pansy said briskly. “And I thought the whole point of this shopping spree was to make me look like a Muggle?” Pansy shivered slightly as she said the last part, as if there were nothing worse imaginable. “I don’t own a single thing that would pass.”

“Figures,” Hermione replied, “Well, let’s not hang about, we’ve lots to do.”

With that, she guided Pansy through the busy streets of Muggle London towards a large shopping centre, drawing more than a few puzzled looks. Pansy, in full wizarding attire, did not exactly blend in — not with the glint of silver on her robes, the distinct clack of dragonhide boots on pavement, or the aristocratic sneer that deepened every time someone bumped into her.

“Do Muggles always walk this close together?” she muttered as a man in a puffer jacket brushed past her shoulder. “It’s like we’re in a herd of cattle.”

Hermione didn’t bother answering. Instead, she steered them through the sliding glass doors of the nearest department store — warm air blasting over them, the scent of artificial cinnamon and perfume heavy in the air.

Pansy froze just inside the threshold. “What in Merlin’s name—?”

Hermione turned back, amused. “Welcome to your first Muggle shop.”

“It’s… loud,” Pansy said, eyeing a nearby Christmas display that had a robotic Santa waving stiffly from a pile of faux snow. “And it smells of chemicals and despair.”

Hermione grabbed a basket and began walking briskly toward the women’s section. “You’ll live.”

The next twenty minutes were chaos.

Pansy regarded every hanger with open suspicion, recoiling from synthetic fibres as though they might bite. She held up a very suggestive bra at one point and turned to Hermione with an expression of utter betrayal. “Are these Muggle torture devices?”

“They’re bras.”

“They’re engineered traps.”

Hermione sighed and kept sorting through racks of jumpers. “Just find something warm, comfortable, and inconspicuous, and for goodness sake, stop glaring at the mannequins.”

“I’m not glaring. I’m studying their terrible posture.”

Eventually, Hermione shoved an armful of items into Pansy’s arms and nudged her toward the changing rooms. “Go. Try on.”

Ten minutes later, Pansy yanked back the curtain just enough to peer out. Her expression was harrowed.

“I hate everything.”

“That’s the spirit,” Hermione said cheerfully. “Now let me see.”

Pansy stepped out with visible reluctance. She was wearing a pair of dark high-waisted jeans, a fitted forest green jumper with gold thread woven through the sleeves, and a long black coat that Hermione had absolutely insisted on. The boots were still dragonhide — nothing in the store had passed muster — but somehow, she pulled it off.

Hermione blinked. “Actually… you look really good.”

Pansy raised an eyebrow. “Do I look Muggle?”

“You look like you shop exclusively in Kensington and pity anyone who doesn’t.”

“I can live with that.”

At the till, Pansy handed Hermione a roll of notes with the resigned air of someone surrendering a bribe to a low-level official. “This better be real money.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “It’s real. I can’t believe you took out so much.”

“Sickles,” Pansy muttered, watching the receipt print like it was evidence in a murder trial.

Outside, bundled in her new outfit and weighed down by shopping bags, Pansy took a breath of cold December air and looked around the busy London streets.

“Well?” Hermione asked.

Pansy adjusted her scarf with a flourish. “I feel underdressed and morally compromised.”

“You look great.”

“Obviously.”

Hermione checked her watch, heart suddenly ticking faster with the realisation: they were doing this. Train station. Paris. In a matter of hours, they’d be beneath the Channel, bound for a place Pansy had once scoffed at as “some daft Muggle carnival.” Now she was here, in jeans, no less, looking irritated, stylish, and very slightly terrified.

“Come on,” Hermione said, nudging her gently. “St Pancras is just down the road. If we time it right, we’ll have time for lunch before boarding.”

“I’d rather not be rushed,” Pansy muttered, falling into step beside her. “I need time to mentally prepare for being hurled through a tunnel in a tin can.”

Hermione bit back a laugh as they crossed the street, weaving through early evening shoppers and people in office coats rushing for the Underground. London was pulsing with that strange kind of festive energy — fairy lights, the distant sound of a street performer playing jazz, the scent of roasted chestnuts and petrol.

Pansy was watching it all with open suspicion.

“Why do Muggles move so fast?” she asked, dodging a cyclist with a murderous expression. “They’re not even being chased.”

“They’ve got places to be.”

Pansy snorted. “As do I, and yet, I manage not to sprint through traffic like a lunatic.”

Hermione just shook her head and led the way up the wide steps into the grand façade of St Pancras Station. Inside, the vaulted ceiling soared overhead, glass and steel glinting in the late afternoon light. Trains hissed in the distance, departures called out over the loudspeakers in calm, robotic voices.

They passed through security without incident — aside from Pansy loudly asking whether the scanner was going to reveal any “Muggle-borne diseases” — and made their way toward the departure lounge.

The lounge buzzed with activity, full of holiday travellers and business commuters, a sea of suitcases and winter coats, everyone quietly absorbed in their own lives. Hermione scanned the departure board briefly before checking her watch again.

"We've got plenty of time," she said. "Are you hungry?"

Pansy glanced warily around the waiting area. "It depends. Are we talking proper food, or something called a 'meal deal' from a plastic box?"

Hermione suppressed a smile. "There's a decent café just around the corner—proper plates, I promise."

"I'll hold you personally responsible if there's a salad drowning in mayonnaise," Pansy warned, but she followed Hermione willingly enough through the busy lounge.

The café turned out to be calm and pleasantly bright, decorated for Christmas with soft white lights twinkling gently from the ceiling. They found a quiet table in the corner, safely away from curious eyes, and settled themselves opposite one another.

Pansy took one look at the cafeteria menu, narrowed her eyes at the word panini, and muttered something dark about "Muggles and their crimes against proper food."

Hermione bought her a toastie and a cup of tea anyway.

Pansy didn’t thank her, but she drank the tea with small, sharp sips, her eyes scanning the terminal like she expected someone to shout Witch! at any moment.

“They’re not looking at you,” Hermione said softly, watching her over the rim of her own paper cup.

“I know.” Pansy looked away. “Doesn’t mean I don’t feel like they are.”

Hermione’s fingers tightened slightly around her cup, but she didn’t press. Not here. Not yet.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, watching the board above flick through destinations in glowing yellow text — Paris, Amsterdam, Brussels. It felt almost ridiculous, seeing Paris listed so plainly, like it wasn’t a world away.

Then the announcement came: “Platform 10 is now boarding for the 13:51 Eurostar to Marne-La-Vallée.”

Hermione stood, heart flipping. “That’s us.”

Pansy rose more slowly, smoothing down her coat, her expression unreadable. “This is either going to be brilliant,” she said, “or the worst idea I’ve ever had.”

Hermione grinned. “You haven’t even seen the ears yet.”

“What ears—”

But Hermione was already walking, and Pansy had no choice but to follow.

They joined the queue, edged down the platform, and finally stepped onto the train — sleek, silver, humming quietly with motion even before it pulled out. Their seats were by the window, facing one another, a table between them.

Pansy sat with exaggerated caution, glancing around the cabin like it might collapse at any moment.

“You do know this is one of the safest forms of travel in the world, right?” Hermione offered as she stowed their bags.

“I also know that swimming in the Black Lake is safer than riding a broomstick, and I’ve nearly drowned in it twice.”

The train gave a subtle jolt as it began to move. Pansy went very still.

Hermione sat across from her, barely containing her smile. “You alright?”

“I’m fine,” Pansy said through gritted teeth, hands white-knuckled around the armrests. “This is just… incredibly unnatural. It doesn’t even use steam.”

Hermione giggled as the train picked up speed, the city slipping past the windows in a blur of grey and glass. She watched as Pansy slowly relaxed, inch by inch, the tension in her shoulders easing as nothing exploded and the carriage remained stubbornly upright.

Outside, the last of London disappeared behind them. Paris was ahead.

As the train sped through the French countryside, Hermione pulled a colourful leaflet from her bag — glossy pages filled with cheerful illustrations and ride descriptions. Pansy eyed it with deep suspicion.

“What is it with Muggles and this mouse?” she asked, frowning at the wide-eyed cartoon figure plastered across nearly every page.

Hermione smiled, already anticipating the argument. “That’s Mickey Mouse. He’s the mascot of Disney.”

Pansy blinked. “Their mascot is a rodent?”

Hermione shrugged. “He’s not just any rodent. He’s meant to be charming. Iconic. He was the first big character the company created — he represents the whole idea of fun and imagination.”

“He has enormous ears and eyes like he’s been downing Gigglewater,” Pansy muttered, snatching the leaflet and flipping through it. “Honestly, it’s cultish. He’s on everything. Shirts, hats, even snacks.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “It’s branding.”

“It’s worship.”

Hermione snatched the leaflet back. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” Pansy said with a faint smile, “you’ve dragged me all the way to France.”

Hermione flipped to a new page and tapped her finger against an image of a sleek domed building with a rocket erupting from one side. “This is Space Mountain. It’s a rollercoaster designed to make you feel like you’re being launched into space.”

Pansy narrowed her eyes. “You cannot possibly believe I’m going to board that thing.”

“Oh, you are,” Hermione said sweetly. “You said you wanted a rollercoaster.”

“Yes, a normal one. That looks like an accident waiting to happen inside a planetarium.”

Hermione grinned. “It’s perfectly safe. They run hundreds of times a day. It’s meant to be like a trip to the Moon.”

“Muggles did not go to the Moon,” Pansy said flatly.

Hermione froze. “What?”

“They didn’t. It’s propaganda. Smoke and mirrors. The whole thing’s staged.”

“Pansy—”

“I’m just saying, if they had magic, maybe it’d be plausible, but they built a metal tube and flung themselves at the sky? Nonsense.”

Hermione buried her face in her hands. “I cannot believe this is the hill you’re choosing to die on.”

“Well,” Pansy said primly, folding her arms, “if this train derails and we go up in flames, I shall die content knowing I never pretended a cartoon mouse, and a fake Moon landing were cornerstones of human culture.”

Hermione gave her a long, slow look. The corners of Pansy’s mouth twitched.

“You’re impossible,” Hermione muttered.

“And yet,” Pansy said again, smug now, “you’re still sitting across from me.”

Hermione shook her head and turned the page. The argument — light, ridiculous, and somehow entirely theirs — carried them towards Disneyland.

The train slowed as it pulled into Marne-la-Vallée—chiming gently, brakes hissing, the countryside giving way to neat platforms and pastel-coloured signage.

Hermione stood, suddenly aware of how fast her heart was beating.

Pansy followed more cautiously, tugging her coat closed with one hand, dragging the suitcase behind her with the other. She glanced around as they stepped onto the platform — all glass and clean lines and cheerful announcements in French echoing overhead. A sign welcomed them to Disneyland Paris.

“Even the station’s trying to be adorable,” Pansy muttered.

Hermione laughed softly. “You’ve no idea what you’re in for.”

Pansy didn’t respond. She was too busy taking everything in — the polished tile underfoot, the families bustling excitedly toward the gates, the distant view of spires and towers peeking up beyond the walls.

They moved with the crowd, exiting the station into the wide plaza beyond. It was busy, but not overwhelming — and every detail seemed meticulously crafted to charm. Snowflake garlands draped from the lampposts. Festive music played softly from hidden speakers. Somewhere, someone was laughing.

But it wasn’t until they passed through the arches beneath a rose-pink building — grand and bright against the wintry sky — that Pansy slowed to a stop.

The Disneyland Hotel rose above them, elegant and impossible. Turrets, balconies, gilded trim. Like something out of a dream or a child’s picture book. Nothing dark. Nothing threatening. Nothing real.

Pansy stared.

“It’s hideous,” she said at last, her voice quiet.

Hermione glanced sideways, trying not to smile. “Hideous?”

“Utterly excessive. Ridiculous. Looks like a biscuit tin designed by a six-year-old.”

But she didn’t move. Hermione watched her for a moment, then reached for her hand — not to hold it, but to gently tug her forward.

“Come on,” she said, voice warm. “Let’s check in.”

Together, they stepped under the archway, into the grand lobby and out of the world they knew.

Chapter Text

Chapter 20

Pansy Parkinson did not second-guess her decisions.

She had suggested this trip herself, after all. A careless comment about rollercoasters, a passing remark about wanting to witness the utter absurdity of Muggle theme parks firsthand—nothing more.

She had not anticipated this. Disneyland Paris was a full-scale assault on every last one of her senses.

The second they stepped beneath the Disneyland Hotel and emerged into the park itself, she was buffeted by a chaos of sound, colour, and motion. People bustled around her, moving unpredictably in every direction. The air was thick with an impossible sweetness—caramel, chocolate, popcorn. Somewhere just out of sight, a parade was taking place, blasting the same whimsical, inescapable tune on loop every thirty seconds with maddening cheerfulness.

Pansy pressed her lips together, refusing to visibly react.

"You look like you’re going to be sick," Hermione observed mildly, adjusting her bag.

Pansy lifted her chin sharply. "I’m perfectly fine."

"You’re clutching your new jumper as though you expect it to run away."

She was not. She consciously loosened her grip, ignoring Hermione’s amused smirk as they walked on until the castle came into view. Pansy stopped abruptly.

It was, without doubt, the single most obnoxious structure she had ever laid eyes on. Pink. Pinker than in the brochure. Towers climbed skyward, gilded trims glinting shamelessly in the sunlight, shimmering as though sprinkled liberally with crushed fairies. The structure stood proudly at the street’s end, a triumphant ruler demanding worship from the citizens of this weird kingdom.

She hated it. Or at least, she wanted to.

"Well?" Hermione asked lightly, moving to stand beside her.

Pansy exhaled slowly, carefully neutral. "It’s extremely pink."

Hermione laughed quietly. "It’s supposed to be."

Pansy glanced around them, taking in the overwhelming sight of it all. "I still don’t understand why everyone worships this…Mick the Mouse."

Hermione made a choked noise. "Mickey Mouse, and they don’t worship him, Pansy, it's just…branding."

"It looks suspiciously like worship to me."

Hermione shook her head fondly. "You wanted to come here. You said—and I quote—'I wish to learn about these absurd Muggles.'"

"I am aware."

"And yet you're still pretending to be unimpressed."

Pansy met her gaze steadily. Hermione’s eyes sparkled, waiting, openly enjoying this. Pansy tilted her chin defiantly.

"I assure you, I don’t need to pretend."

With that, she strode forward, determinedly refusing to spare another glance at the garish castle.

Hermione quickly fell into step beside her. "You know," she said conversationally, "it’s funny how the moment you decide you hate something, you can’t stop looking at it."

Pansy ignored her.

A pair of children dashed past, giggling loudly—one waving a ridiculously oversized wand topped with a sparkling star, the other clutching a bag of pink, fluffy something roughly the size of their own head.

Pansy stared at the pink confection with suspicion. "What in Merlin’s name is that?"

Hermione followed her gaze and grinned. "Candy floss."

Pansy narrowed her eyes further. "That's candy floss?"

"What were you expecting? It’s sugar, mostly. You’ll probably love it."

Pansy shot her a deeply sceptical look. Hermione merely smirked.

"Don’t look at me like that. You're the one who insisted on the full Muggle experience."

Pansy sighed, already resigned to whatever fresh indignities awaited her.

"Fine," she said crisply. "But if this place tries to feed me anything blue, I’m leaving immediately."

Hermione laughed, soft and bright, and despite herself, something in Pansy’s chest loosened a fraction. Maybe, just maybe, this hadn’t been the worst decision she'd ever made. At least, she thought that until Hermione took her on Big Thunder Mountain.

Big Thunder Mountain Railroad looked like a mining accident waiting to happen, and Pansy had seen plenty of those over the years.

She had agreed to the ride under the assumption that it couldn't possibly be that bad. Muggles, after all, had no magic to protect them. Surely they wouldn’t willingly strap themselves into something lethal.

Yet, here she was—seated in a rattling mine cart, a metal bar pinning her in place, staring ahead at a track that disappeared into a black tunnel beneath a river. Her palms were clammy. Her coat was bunched awkwardly beneath her. The entire contraption hissed with steam like it was seconds from exploding.

Pansy shot Hermione a sideways glare. “Are you quite certain these contraptions don’t spontaneously derail?”

Hermione, practically vibrating with excitement, grinned. “I promise, no one’s died.”

“That you know of,” Pansy muttered darkly. “I want to get off!”

The train jolted forward. She barely had time to swear before they were swallowed by the tunnel. Darkness enclosed them instantly, the clatter of the track echoing like bones cracking underfoot.

Pansy’s stomach twisted. She had expected heights. She had expected speed. What she hadn’t expected was to be hurtled underwater in a tin death-trap designed by people who thought ‘theming’ was more important than structural integrity.

The cart jolted left, then right, and then—blinding light.

The train erupted into open air, shooting up the first incline at a punishing angle. Pansy’s breath caught. The mountain towered above them: jagged peaks, wooden scaffolding, decaying mine shafts all jumbled together in a way that absolutely would not pass Ministry inspection.

The chains clicked louder. Higher. Higher.

Below, she could see the river—the very same one they had just barrelled beneath. A slow-moving paddle steamer drifted peacefully across its surface, as if mocking her.

“Granger,” Pansy said tightly, “I hate this. You didn’t tell me it was going to be dark.”

“You’re going to love this,” Hermione replied, eyes bright with anticipation.

They crested the peak. For a heartbeat, everything stilled—Frontierland stretched wide below them, wind catching in Pansy’s hair—

Then the drop.

Pansy screamed as the train plunged, the bottom falling out of her world. The wind ripped past her, a tunnel rushed up to meet them, and then they were inside—twisting, rattling, slamming around a bend that threw her hard into Hermione’s side.

Another drop. Sharper. Deeper.

Pansy’s stomach shot somewhere into her lungs.

“We’re going to die!” she gasped, clutching the safety bar like it was the last stable object in existence.

“We’re not going to die!” Hermione laughed, breathless with joy.

The train rocketed back into the open—daylight flashing over them—then ducked into another shaft where lanterns swung like pendulums and steam hissed from the walls as if the mountain itself wanted them out.

Pansy could not believe Muggles paid for this.

Yet—somewhere between the shrieking turns and the thundering drops—she felt something begin to change. Her shrieks turned to involuntary laughter. Her fear twisted into a high, unfamiliar exhilaration.

By the time they screeched around the final bend and rumbled into the station, her heart was trying to claw its way out of her chest and her hair looked like it had lost a duel.

Hermione turned to her, smug and expectant. “Well?”

Pansy let out a long breath, pried her fingers from the bar, and stood on slightly trembling legs.

“That was completely ridiculous,” she declared, lifting her chin. “I can’t believe I let you take me on that… that thing.”

Hermione smirked. “You brought yourself, remember? You paid. Technically, you took me.”

Pansy opened her mouth. Closed it. Scowled.

They crossed the river, winding past the steamboat and toward the far edge of the park where the crowd thinned, and the colour drained subtly from the surroundings. Phantom Manor loomed at the end of the path — a crooked Victorian-style house shrouded in artificial mist and framed by dead trees. Fake crows called from the gateposts. A rusted sign creaked faintly in the breeze.

Pansy tilted her head. “They do like a dramatic entrance.”

Hermione grinned. “Wait until you see inside.”

As they stepped into the manor’s dim interior, Pansy was immediately hit with the scent of old wood, artificial dust, and chilled air — carefully engineered discomfort.

They were led into a circular chamber with high, shadowed ceilings and portraits lining the walls. The door creaked shut behind them. No windows. No obvious exits.

Pansy narrowed her eyes. “Bit on the nose, isn’t it?”

Hermione only smiled.

The floor beneath them rumbled softly. The room began to descend, ever so slowly. The portraits stretched. The faces distorted. A disembodied voice echoed from above in perfectly enunciated French.

Pansy folded her arms. “Alright,” she said, as the paintings twisted into grinning skeletons and headless brides, “this is impressive.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Not scared?”

“Of this?” Pansy scoffed. “Please. Hogwarts is full of actual ghosts. Some of them sing. I lived down the corridor from a man who reenacts his own beheading. Daily.”

“Fair.”

“But,” Pansy continued, glancing up at the shifting ceiling, “I will say… the effort is commendable. Theatrical. A little silly, but they’re clearly trying.”

They were herded down a narrow hall next, toward the ride itself — winding corridors lit by flickering candelabras and the sound of faint organ music drifting through the air. The queue moved slowly. Pansy didn’t mind.

It gave her time to look.

When they reached the loading platform, the ride cars — small black doom buggies — curved around a rotating floor. Pansy stepped into one, and the lap bar lowered with a mechanical sigh.

As the ride began, they were swept through cobwebbed corridors and haunted dining rooms, illusion after illusion crafted with meticulous care. Dancing ghosts waltzed in the ballroom below. Cackling laughter echoed from behind the curtains.

“This is elaborate,” Pansy admitted. “Overdone but elaborate.”

Then—just as they rounded the corner into a darkened crypt filled with swirling fog—the car slowed. Slowed further. Stopped.

A chime rang overhead.

“Mesdames et messieurs, en raison d’un léger incident technique, votre voyage sera momentanément interrompu. Nous vous remercions de votre compréhension.”

Hermione translated without thinking. “Technical issue. Just a short stop.”

Pansy blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

The lights dimmed further. A mechanical ghost wailed faintly from the mist, its eyes glowing red in the dark. Their car creaked softly under them. The music stuttered, then cut out entirely.

Something inside Pansy seized. Not the ghosts. Not the darkness. But the lack of control. Her hand shot out, grabbing Hermione’s tightly before she could think better of it. Hermione froze. Then — gently — she squeezed back.

They sat like that in the darkness for a long moment. Silent. Still. Hand in hand. Pansy could feel her pulse pounding in her ears. Her palm was damp. She didn’t let go.

Then, with a click and a hum, the ride jolted back into motion. The music resumed, the ghosts resumed their rehearsed haunting, and their car turned slowly toward the manor’s grand staircase.

Pansy did not mention her moment of panic. Neither did Hermione. But she didn’t let go of her hand until the ride ended.

They didn’t speak much as they left Phantom Manor, the silence between them heavy in a way that wasn’t quite uncomfortable—just fragile. Pansy kept her arms folded tightly across her chest, still feeling the residual heat of Hermione’s hand in hers, even though she’d let go minutes ago.

They crossed the bridge over the Rivers of the Far West, the sun peeking out from behind the clouds in sudden, blinding bursts. The square outside Frontierland was bustling now, filled with crowds and music—this time upbeat, brass-heavy and annoyingly catchy. Muggle children danced on the cobblestones. Someone nearby was selling massive turkey legs, and a balloon vendor floated by with a cluster of wide-eyed princesses bobbing like watchful spirits overhead.

Pansy wrinkled her nose. “Why is everyone so cheerful? Is there something in the air?”

“It’s Christmas,” Hermione said, tugging her lightly toward a shaded table beside a café terrace. “And it’s Disneyland.”

“That’s not an answer,” Pansy muttered, but she followed.

They sat down under a small canopy strung with golden fairy lights. The air smelled of cinnamon and roasted almonds, and the menu was full of things Pansy couldn’t pronounce, let alone trust. Hermione ordered them both toasted sandwiches and tea—"the safe option," she said—and Pansy didn’t argue.

As they waited, a voice over the speakers announced the start of the midday parade. Music swelled in the distance, and people began drifting toward the street to find a spot along the ropes. Pansy watched with vague suspicion as Hermione lit up beside her.

“I’m going to stand over there,” Hermione said, pointing toward the edge of the crowd. “You don’t have to come.”

Pansy hesitated. Then, to her own surprise, she stood too. “I’m coming.”

They moved together toward the line. Pansy stayed slightly behind Hermione, arms still crossed, but her eyes scanned the crowd with less disdain than before. Children dashed between the adults like confetti tossed on the wind, clutching candy floss and wearing ridiculous ears.

So many ears.

Black, round, unmistakable. Worn proudly on heads large and small. Glittery ones. Sequinned ones. Some with veils. One with a Sorcerer’s hat attached. Pansy counted at least five grown men wearing them without a trace of shame.

Then the floats arrived. The parade was ridiculous.

There was a giant dragon blowing steam. A pirate ship full of men waving swords and singing off-key. Horses—real horses—clattering down the path beside a man in an enormous red coat. Princesses spun on mirrored platforms. One of them—blonde and beaming—blew a kiss in their direction. Pansy recoiled like she'd been hexed.

“Oh Merlin,” she muttered. “It’s worse than I thought.”

Hermione laughed quietly beside her, her arm brushing against Pansy’s in the crowd. “You’re allowed to enjoy it, you know.”

“I am absolutely not enjoying it.”

“Sure, you aren’t.”

Pansy didn’t reply. She kept her gaze on the spinning floats and the wide-eyed children, on the confetti drifting through the air like petals. One little girl on her father’s shoulders waved at every single character, her face painted like a tiger, grinning from ear to ear.

A distant announcement echoed through the air, distorted by speakers: “Mesdames et Messieurs, please welcome... MICKEY MOUSE!”

An almost physical wave of excitement rolled through the crowd.

Children screamed with joy. Adults clapped. Somewhere behind her, a woman with a French accent gasped, “C’est lui—regarde! C’est Mickey!” Then the crowd surged.

Pansy barely had time to react before bodies pressed in on every side—parents hoisting children onto shoulders, couples pushing forward to get a better view, elbows and cameras jostling for position. Someone stepped directly on her toes, and another brushed past her with a muttered apology in rapid French.

She stumbled, instinctively reaching out to steady herself—and found Hermione.

Their shoulders collided, and Hermione grabbed her arm to keep her upright, fingers warm and grounding against the crook of her elbow.

“Careful,” Hermione said, half-laughing. “It’s the mouse effect.”

Pansy looked at her, breath catching slightly. Hermione was close now. Far too close. Closer than she had been since the Phantom Manor incident—and that had been her fault. This wasn’t. This was Mickey’s.

“Bloody hell,” Pansy muttered, trying and failing to keep her voice sharp. “He’s not even real.”

“You realise you’re being crushed by a crowd of people who would die for him, right?”

“I can’t decide if that makes it better or worse.”

Hermione’s hand was still on her arm. Pansy didn’t move.

The float creaked closer, Mick the Mouse now waving directly in their direction. His giant gloved hand performed slow, sweeping arcs, as if blessing his delirious congregation. The crowd shrieked. A grown man in mouse ears let out a delighted “Whoo!”

“Insane,” Pansy whispered, but her voice lacked any real heat. Because right now, she wasn’t looking at Mick the Mouse. She was looking at Hermione Granger.

Hermione’s hair had come slightly undone in the crush of bodies, a soft curl caught at the corner of her jaw. Her cheeks were pink from the cold, or maybe from the proximity, and her eyes—wide, amber-brown and shining—were fixed on the float with childlike wonder, and for a moment, Pansy forgot to be unimpressed.

She didn’t care about the parade. Or the crowds. Or the absurdity of a rodent cult leader floating by on a sleigh of glitter and marketing.

She was thinking about Hermione’s hand. Still on her arm. About the way she hadn’t moved away either.

“Is it always like this?” Pansy asked, her voice low.

Hermione looked up at her, eyebrows raised. “What, the parade?”

“No.” Pansy swallowed. “You.”

Hermione blinked, caught off-guard, and then, mercifully, the crowd began to disperse. Mickey’s float drifted further up the street, the music fading just enough for people to peel away from the rope lines in search of snacks or shops or other characters to chase.

Hermione let go of Pansy’s arm slowly.

“You haven’t even seen Space Mountain yet,” she said, with a slightly shaky smile. “Save your existential crises for after that.”

Pansy blinked, breath catching again—not from the crowd this time. She managed a scoff, brushing imaginary lint off her sleeve. “It’s a good thing I came armed, then.”

Hermione tilted her head. “Armed?”

“With an iron will and low expectations.”

Hermione laughed, and the sound settled something inside Pansy she hadn’t realised was tangled. They didn’t speak for a while after that. But they didn’t step apart either.

They reached Discoveryland just as the sky began to turn — that moody, almost-electric grey of late December afternoon, thick with the promise of early dusk. The bright pastels of Fantasyland were gone now, replaced by gunmetal curves and gleaming copper towers, and at the centre of it all, rising like a cursed cathedra, Space Mountain: De la Terre à la Lune.

Pansy stared up at the enormous turreted structure — all bolts, pipes, and strange rotating gearwork — and tried not to look intimidated.

“That’s a ride?” she said slowly, eyeing the domed roof with suspicion. “It looks like a weapons facility.”

Hermione, still buoyed by parade sugar and adrenaline, beamed. “It’s a launch system. It’s supposed to simulate a journey to the Moon.”

Pansy turned to her, deadpan. “They’re pretending to go to space.”

“Basically, yes.”

“Muggles did not go to the Moon, Granger. I refuse to be taken in by this nonsense.”

Hermione laughed. “There are entire books, documentaries—”

“Fake. Government propaganda.” She folded her arms. “Honestly, how naïve are you?”

Hermione opened her mouth to argue, then clearly thought better of it. “Come on then, conspiracy theorist. Let’s see how you handle the fake rocket launch.”

They entered the queue.

The tone shifted immediately. Gone were the shrieking children and bustling crowds. Here, everything was sterile and futuristic — cold blue light, sleek steel handrails, and occasional bursts of hydraulic hiss that set Pansy’s teeth on edge.

The line coiled upwards through a sort of simulated launch facility. Moving pictures flickered with star charts. Metal panels ticked softly underfoot. Every now and then, the entire wall would rattle as another car was catapulted through the enormous cannon overhead.

Pansy’s heart began to climb slowly up her throat.

Still, she kept her voice level. “I maintain that none of this is real. If I die, it will be from embarrassment.”

Hermione leaned against the railing beside her, grinning. “Then you’ll go out in style.”

The queue moved steadily. Pansy’s breath did not.

By the time they reached the loading bay — all glowing runes of faux circuitry and softly pulsing floor lights — her mouth was dry. She watched a ride car pull into place, its seats sleek and low, and felt the first honest flicker of panic.

An operator gestured them forward.

Hermione climbed in first. Pansy followed slowly, lowering herself into the seat like she was preparing for execution. The shoulder restraints hissed down and locked over her chest. It was like being pinned by a giant, smiling mousetrap. On Thunder Mountain she could slide around in her seat a little, but this held her firmly in place. If anything, this extra security increased her fear.

“I don’t trust this,” she said, her voice slightly higher than usual.

“You’ll be fine,” Hermione replied, brushing her hand lightly against Pansy’s before gripping her own restraints.

The car rolled forward — slowly, ominously — and entered the cannon. Their launch vehicle pointed up towards the sky, and locked in place with an audible click. This was nothing like Thunder Mountain, nothing like Phantom Manor.

The launch tunnel was dim, lined with copper coils and shimmering light. Steam vented from the walls. The ambient hum deepened, vibrating through the metal beneath them and then a voice came — not in English, but in polished, resonant French:

“Dix… neuf… huit…”

Pansy’s eyes widened.

“Sept… six…”

Pansy’s breath caught. “Granger—”

“I’m here,” Hermione said quickly, her hand finding Pansy’s and squeezing it once.

“Cinq… quatre…”

Pansy closed her eyes. “We are going to die.”

“Trois…”

“This is how it ends.”

“Deux…”

“I should’ve stayed in the castle.”

“Un.”

The cannon fired.

Or rather, the ride launched with an earth-shattering roar and a blinding burst of white-blue light, slamming them back into their seats as the train shot into the darkness. Pansy screamed. She wasn’t ashamed.

The darkness was total. The car twisted violently to the left, then plunged into a spiral so sharp her ears popped. Her shoulders pressed uncomfortably into the restraints. They were upside down. Stars and planets blinked past in dizzy flashes, strobe lights cutting across their faces, painting everything in stark white pulses.

Her brain couldn’t keep up. One moment they were diving, the next they were climbing — and then flipping, possibly upside-down, possibly inside-out, as if the laws of the universe had simply stopped applying.

Somewhere, far away, she heard Hermione laughing. It was infuriating, and deeply unfair that her body had gone numb from the neck down.

What felt like hours of chaos followed — a blur of velocity and screaming and the faint smell of scorched metal. Then, as suddenly as it had started, the ride slowed.

They coasted back into the station. The shoulder restraints lifted. Pansy did not move.

Hermione turned to her, cheeks flushed, hair slightly windblown. “Well?”

Pansy turned her head with the slow precision of someone who had just faced their own mortality. “I would rather duel a Hungarian Horntail naked in front of the whole school than do that ever again.”

Hermione burst into laughter, almost doubling over as they exited the car.

Pansy staggered onto the platform, legs wobbling. Then — to add insult to injury — they passed the ride photo screens.

Hermione paused. “Oh—oh my god.”

There, in glorious, high-resolution detail, was the image: Hermione, eyes wide with joy, hands in the air like some lunatic Gryffindor champion. Next to her — Pansy, clinging to the restraints like they were the last hope of humanity, eyes closed, mouth open in a scream of pure, unfiltered terror.

Pansy stared.

“Absolutely not,” she said, but Hermione was already pulling out her purse.

They emerged from Discoveryland slowly, the whirring machinery and glowing steel of Space Mountain fading behind them. Pansy walked with unusual care, as if her legs might still betray her, the adrenaline of near-death making her limbs feel disconnected from the rest of her.

Hermione had not stopped grinning since the photo.

“I hate you,” Pansy said mildly, as they passed a popcorn cart.

“No, you don’t.”

“I do. Profoundly.”

Hermione only handed her a tissue and said, “You’ve got wind-tears on your cheeks.”

Pansy took it without comment.

They crossed into the centre of the park, the pink turrets of the castle rising before them again like the anchor point of some elaborate illusion. The crowd thinned slightly in this part of the grounds, everyone either watching the afternoon parade or retreating to the restaurants and gift shops.

“Short cut through the castle?” Hermione asked.

Pansy arched a brow. “Through it?”

“It’s not just a façade. There’s an entire walk-through upstairs. Glasswork, tapestry, a dragon.”

Pansy blinked. “A dragon.”

Hermione smirked. “Muggles love dragons. They just think they’re fictional.”

That was too ridiculous to argue with, so Pansy followed her up the winding stone ramp toward the castle interior.

Inside, the noise softened. The air was cooler here, thick with the scent of stone and something faintly sweet. The space felt oddly reverent, like a cathedral. Stained glass windows lined the walls, each one depicting a different scene from some sugar-coated fairy tale: a golden-haired girl asleep in a tower, a brave prince fighting his way through thorns, a kiss backlit in violet light.

Pansy paused in front of one.

The prince’s face was vaguely blank. Too smooth. Too perfect. The girl’s, all doe-eyes and waist-length curls. Beautiful, in a way that felt designed more than human.

“Where are the real bits?” she murmured, almost to herself. “Where’s the blood?”

Hermione didn’t answer. Just stood beside her, looking not at the window, but at Pansy.

They continued upward.

At the top of the gallery, the windows opened onto a small balcony. From here, the park stretched out in all directions—colourful, surreal, and bustling. Pansy leaned against the stone railing, watching the crowds below move like little enchanted clockwork pieces.

“They’ve built an empire on nostalgia,” she said softly.

Hermione nodded. “It’s supposed to be about imagination. Escape. Wonder.”

Pansy made a non-committal sound. She didn’t say what she was really thinking: that despite everything—despite the commercialism and the costumes and the mouse—there was something disarmingly effective about it all. It reached into some place in people that was still tender.

They descended down the side stairs, into the dim, cavernous space beneath the castle, and there it was.

A dragon. Massive, animatronic, and uncannily lifelike. Its chest rose and fell with artificial breath, and smoke curled lazily from its nostrils. Its scales shimmered green and copper in the cave light, and when it opened its yellow eyes to look directly at them, Pansy almost forgot to scoff.

Almost.

“Muggles built this,” she said, a little breathless. “Without magic.”

Hermione smiled. “They build a lot without magic.”

Pansy didn’t answer. But she looked back at the dragon one more time before they exited the grotto, as if needing to confirm it had really been there.

They stepped back into daylight and continued toward Adventureland, the scent of water and wood and something vaguely tropical drifting on the breeze.

“Next,” Hermione said, glancing at the map with a flick of satisfaction, “is Pirates of the Caribbean.”

“Good,” Pansy said. “I’m ready to be unimpressed again.”

But her voice lacked bite. Her steps didn’t falter, and the warmth still lingered — from the ride, from the castle, from Hermione’s laugh echoing in the back of her mind.

They entered Adventureland as dusk began to deepen into evening, painting the sky in watercolour shades of lavender and navy. Lanterns flickered softly from ropes strung between palm trees, their glow warm and golden against the gathering twilight. A gentle breeze whispered through the leaves, carrying the faintly exotic scent of tropical flowers and saltwater.

Ahead stood an enormous pirate ship, sails furled and hull gently rocking in an artificial lagoon, flanked by an immense, jagged skull carved into the side of the rocks. It grinned down at them with hollow eyes that flickered eerily from the hidden torches within.

Pansy tilted her head back, studying the scene critically. “And here I thought Muggles didn’t practice human sacrifice.”

Hermione laughed softly, nudging Pansy with her elbow. “You know, you’re allowed to admit it looks impressive.”

“It’s just scenery.”

“Convincing scenery.”

“Perhaps for a five-year-old,” Pansy muttered, but there was no venom in it, only tired amusement. She was growing increasingly aware of how little space there seemed to be between them as they walked—how easily Hermione’s arm brushed against hers, how naturally their strides fell into step.

They passed beneath a weathered archway, stepping into the shadowy mouth of the attraction. Inside, the queue twisted through dimly lit corridors lined with barrels, crates, and faded flags, all of it meticulously designed to resemble a Caribbean fort under siege. The faint, rhythmic thud of distant cannon fire echoed around them.

“They’ve thought of everything,” Pansy said quietly, running her fingers across the rough stone wall. “Except reality.”

Hermione shrugged gently. “Reality’s overrated sometimes.”

They reached the loading dock, and Pansy found herself climbing into the small boat-shaped vehicle, Hermione settling quietly beside her. Their thighs brushed briefly as they sat down, and Pansy did her best not to notice.

The boat glided gently forward, slipping beneath a low archway and out into a sprawling, atmospheric cavern. The air grew humid, scented faintly of chlorine and something tropical—fake, yet strangely compelling.

Ahead, lights twinkled warmly from Captain Jack’s restaurant, its terrace nestled alongside the water. Guests sat quietly at candlelit tables, silverware gleaming, the hushed murmur of conversation drifting gently across the lagoon. It was surreal—dining guests watching riders float past, everyone briefly part of each other's scenery.

“How very voyeuristic,” Pansy murmured, eyeing the diners with mild suspicion. “Dinner with a side of drowning tourists.”

Hermione bit back a smile. “It’s romantic.”

“It’s bizarre.”

“You don’t believe in romance?”

“I don’t believe in dinner theatre,” Pansy countered, but her voice had softened, eyes lingering a little longer on the candlelit couples than she intended.

The boat carried them deeper into the cavern, leaving the restaurant behind. They passed through shadowed tunnels, pirate scenes lit dramatically on either side—golden treasures piled high, skeletons locked in eternal battle, voices chanting drunkenly. Pansy watched with half-hearted disdain, the rest of her attention reserved entirely for the warmth of Hermione beside her, solid and comforting and entirely too real.

Then the boat began its ascent, climbing slowly uphill through a softly lit tunnel. Water churned beneath them, the clanking of chains echoing in the narrow space.

“Are we—climbing a waterfall?” Pansy asked incredulously, gripping the seat edge.

Hermione’s lips twitched. “Technically yes.”

“Absolutely absurd.”

Yet Pansy’s breath quickened slightly, her knuckles whitening as the boat inched upward, tension thrumming through her body with every passing second. It wasn’t the height. It wasn’t even the water. It was the illusion of stillness—the calm before a drop she couldn’t see, couldn’t control.

Hermione glanced over and, without a word, gently placed her hand over Pansy’s on the seat between them.

The contact sent heat rushing through Pansy’s chest like she’d swallowed a shot of Firewhiskey. Her spine stiffened, but she didn’t pull away. She said nothing, only kept her eyes fixed on the darkness ahead, even as her heartbeat began to echo louder than the distant pirate songs rising through the tunnels.

Then the boat crested the peak.

There was a beat—a breathless, suspended moment in which time seemed to pause.

Then they dropped.

The plunge was far shorter than she’d expected, barely enough to scream—just a jolt, a splash, and then they were gliding once more through shadowed waters.

Pansy let out a shaky breath, aware that Hermione’s hand hadn’t moved.

They drifted around a corner and into a dimly lit pirate jail, where a huddle of animatronic pirates whistled and waved bones at a scrappy little dog holding a set of keys just out of reach.

Pansy stared. “They’re bargaining with a dog.”

Hermione, smiling, nodded toward the scene. “He never gives in. That dog has standards.”

Another small drop jolted them forward, sending a soft wave over Pansy’s boots. The scene ahead exploded into light and colour—a full-blown naval battle between a fortress and a pirate ship, complete with booming cannon fire and splashes of water as the ship’s broadside lit up in a fiery blast.

The air was thick with smoke and the sound of shouting, but Pansy could still feel the press of Hermione’s fingers between her own, grounding her, anchoring her to something just this side of real.

They drifted on, past burning buildings, drunken pirates swinging from ropes, women chasing men with brooms. The entire town looked as though it had surrendered to chaos, yet somehow the chaos was orchestrated, contained, looping forever.

“They’re not real,” Pansy whispered, more to herself than Hermione. “They’re charmed mannequins.”

“Animatronics,” Hermione murmured. “Muggle enchantments, basically. Electricity, levers, code.”

Pansy studied one of the pirates—mouth hanging open mid-song, eyes flickering as he lifted a bottle of rum to his lips, again and again and again.

“They’re stuck in a loop,” she said.

Hermione nodded, quiet now. “It’s all just a performance.”

Something about that struck Pansy harder than it should have.

They passed beneath a final archway, the noise fading as the boat slowed. The water grew still again. A gentle voice reminded them to “mind the gap” in three different languages. Hermione slowly released Pansy’s hand as they glided back toward the dock.

Neither of them spoke right away.

Pansy climbed out of the boat with careful dignity, though her knees felt oddly loose. She looked around at the guests queuing behind them, the shops glittering just beyond the exit, the sound of distant music already tugging them toward the next impossible thing.

She glanced at Hermione.

Hermione didn’t look smug. She didn’t look victorious. She looked thoughtful. A little breathless, maybe.

Pansy cleared her throat. “Well. That was… educational.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Educational.”

“Yes. I’ve learned that Muggles believe dogs can guard prisons, alcohol solves everything, and the laws of physics are entirely optional.”

Hermione smiled. “Welcome to Disney.”

Pansy rolled her eyes—but her lips curved, just slightly, as they stepped back into the open air.

The stars were out now, faint and scattered, barely visible against the light-drenched sky above the castle, and for the first time all day, Pansy didn’t feel completely out of place.

She didn’t belong. Not yet. But she wasn’t pretending not to care anymore.

The crowd outside the castle was a sea of movement—parents hoisting children onto shoulders, couples wrapped in scarves, tourists clutching glowing balloons that bobbed like will-o’-the-wisps in the thickening dusk. Lanterns swayed on wires overhead, their golden light flickering against the dark silhouette of the castle, now transformed into something that looked impossibly magical.

Pansy stood still among them all, arms folded across her chest, trying to act unimpressed. Her feet ached. Her hair was windblown. Her coat smelled faintly of cinnamon and artificial smoke.

She should have been annoyed. But instead, she was nervous.

Hermione slipped beside her in the half-dark, brushing close enough that their arms touched from elbow to wrist. “You alright?”

“I’m fine,” Pansy murmured, staring straight ahead.

“Sure you are.”

They said nothing more for a while.

The music began softly—something orchestral and sweeping—and the lights around the plaza dimmed further, leaving only the soft glow of the castle. The atmosphere shifted at once. Children fell silent. Conversations stopped. Even the breeze seemed to hush, as if the entire park was holding its breath.

Then came the first spark. A single, slow-burning golden trail arced into the sky and bloomed in a radiant circle of light. A collective gasp rippled through the crowd.

Another firework followed, and then another—gold giving way to violet, to crimson, to a flurry of blue stars that showered over the spires. The castle shifted colours beneath the explosions, transforming with each beat of the score—projected ivy curling up the towers, glowing butterflies sweeping across the walls, bursts of magic from spinning rose-shaped glyphs.

Pansy didn’t realise she’d stopped breathing.

Hermione slid her arm around Pansy’s waist. It was a small gesture. Quiet. But it sent a slow, disarming warmth through Pansy’s chest—an anchor in the chaos of sound and light.

She hesitated only a moment before resting her arm around Hermione too.

They stood like that for several long, swelling minutes. The fireworks climbed higher. The music built into crescendos. The castle flared in waves of colour. And all the while, Pansy remained still, head tilted back, something strangely fragile curling beneath her ribs.

She’d seen magic before. Real magic. Unforgivable curses, duels, blood on stone floors.

But this wasn’t like that. This was safe. Beautiful. Human.

Her gaze flicked sideways. Hermione was staring at her, not at the fireworks. The lights cast shadows across her face, gold and pink and shimmering violet. Her mouth was parted slightly, her expression soft and unguarded. Pansy’s chest tightened.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she whispered, too quietly for anyone else to hear.

Hermione didn’t answer right away. She looked back towards the castle as if contemplating the answer, and then—finally—she said, “Because I think you’re happy, and I never thought I’d get to see what that looked like.”

Pansy froze. The next firework exploded directly above them, painting the sky in white and silver. The reflection lit Hermione’s face like something out of a fairytale. Pansy’s stomach dropped. Because she wasn’t entirely sure whether she wanted to kiss her or run.

Hermione leaned in slightly. So did Pansy, and for a moment—barely a breath—everything she wanted was right there.

But Pansy pulled back. Not completely. Just enough.

She told herself she’d imagined the look. That it had all been an illusion, a trick of the light. That the noise and the warmth and the pressure of Hermione’s arm around her waist had made her see something that wasn’t there.

The final notes of the music struck like bells through the crowd. The last firework tore open the sky in a crown of gold, and then, slowly, the night began to breathe again. The lights returned. The crowd shifted, murmured, dispersed. Hermione stepped back too, releasing her. Pansy was suddenly aware of how cold the air felt without that contact.

They moved with the others, flowing into the wide arcades lining either side of Main Street—long corridors filled with shopfronts and glowing displays. The windows glittered with decorations, tiny scenes of winter and wonder: Cinderella’s slipper on a velvet pillow, Belle’s rose encased in glass, glowing from within.

Inside the shops, people swarmed around stands of sequinned ears, shelves of plush toys, racks of themed clothing. Children tugged at their parents’ sleeves. Teenagers posed in front of mirrors wearing flashing headbands.

Pansy muttered something about cultish worship and slipped sideways to examine a wall of chocolate bars shaped like the castle.

She turned back a moment later—and Hermione was gone.

Her chest tightened. “Granger?”

Nothing.

She moved through the crush of people quickly, irritation mounting under the surface of her skin. The shops were too crowded, too loud, too much. It had all been an elaborate ploy and Granger was going to leave her stranded in Disneyland Paris. A pink sequinned Minnie Mouse plush bounced off her hip. She shoved it away and growled, “Where the hell did you—”

“Boo!”

Pansy whirled.

Hermione stood behind her, holding a small paper bag.

Pansy stared. “Where did you go?”

Hermione looked innocent. “Just wanted to get something.”

She reached into the bag and pulled out— Ears. Mouse ears. Sequinned. Red. A bow perched between the offending round shapes.

Pansy blinked, horrified. “Absolutely not.”

Hermione didn’t speak, she just stepped forward—close, careful—and, before Pansy could react, placed them firmly on her head. The weight of them was light but devastating. Pansy let out a loud gasp of horror and froze in place as though Hermione had tipped a bucket of icy water over her head.

“I made the perfect choice!” Hermione beamed.

Pansy stood perfectly still, rooted to the spot in absolute shock. The sequinned mouse ears felt horrifyingly weightless, perched mockingly atop her head. It was as if Hermione had crowned her in glitter-coated treachery.

“I—I cannot believe you just did that,” she said faintly, eyes wide and voice barely above a whisper.

Hermione looked entirely too pleased with herself, her eyes bright and sparkling in the warm glow of the shop lights. “I can!” she beamed, pressing a hand over her mouth to suppress laughter. “They suit you.”

Pansy’s jaw worked soundlessly for several moments, the sheer audacity of the betrayal leaving her momentarily speechless. She could feel the sequins catching the shop lights above, tiny flashes of shameful red reflecting off the merchandise around them. Shoppers passed, casting brief, amused glances her way, as though she were part of some absurd Muggle exhibit.

She fixed Hermione with a glare that could have frozen the Black Lake solid. “I’ve never trusted anyone less.”

“Come on,” Hermione coaxed gently, stepping closer still, voice softening. “You know you secretly love them.”

“Take them off,” Pansy demanded, still frozen. “Immediately.”

Hermione’s smile only widened, mischievous now. She shook her head slowly. “Not a chance.”

“Granger, I swear—”

“They’re adorable.”

“I don’t do adorable,” Pansy hissed, mortified heat spreading rapidly up her neck. “This is sabotage.”

But Hermione merely tilted her head slightly, a small, tender smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “It’s not sabotage. It’s Disney magic.”

Pansy scowled fiercely, even as she felt her resolve weakening beneath Hermione’s gaze. “It’s glitter-coated humiliation, that’s what it is.”

“You’re smiling.”

“I’m not smiling,” Pansy protested weakly, even as her traitorous lips betrayed her, twitching upward just slightly. “I’m plotting your violent demise.”

Hermione laughed softly, the sound gentle, impossibly warm. She reached out and adjusted the ears on Pansy’s head, fingertips brushing softly against her hair, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. “You’re welcome to try.”

Pansy drew in a shaky breath, her heart suddenly pounding in her chest, loud enough she was sure Hermione must be able to hear it. For one reckless moment, she wanted nothing more than to lean forward—to close that tiny, unbearable distance between them and find out exactly how soft Hermione’s lips would feel.

Instead, she forced herself to exhale slowly and maintain some shred of dignity. “You realise this is unforgivable.”

Hermione’s eyes glinted teasingly. “I’m willing to risk it.”

Despite herself—despite every scrap of pride and every Pureblood expectation hammered into her since childhood—Pansy found herself laughing, helpless and genuine, as Hermione took her hand and tugged her gently back into the bustle of the arcade.

She kept the ears on.

Their room at the Disneyland Hotel was enormous—far more extravagant than Pansy had anticipated. She paused just inside the doorway, blinking slowly at the luxurious, whimsical interior, unsure if she should laugh or flee.

Everything was a delicate, elegant shade of cream and pastel rose, accented by touches of gold. Two large double beds dominated the main room, their headboards intricately carved with subtle castle motifs, draped with covers that bore faint, tasteful outlines of the mouse that had haunted her entire day. Fresh flowers were set neatly on polished wooden tables, and framed artwork—romantic sketches of princesses and fairy tale castles—hung gracefully upon the walls.

A small, curved window seat offered a view of the illuminated park below, where crowds still drifted beneath twinkling streetlamps, like fireflies on a pond.

Hermione moved swiftly across the room, dropping their bags by the wardrobe. “Well?” she asked, eyes sparkling with satisfaction. “How’s this for Muggle accommodation?”

“It’s…” Pansy hesitated, almost unwilling to admit it, “…tolerable.”

Hermione rolled her eyes but said nothing, instead pointing to a black, box-like contraption set neatly on a low cabinet facing the beds. “Look—there’s a television.”

Pansy stared at the strange, dark screen with scepticism. “And that’s what, exactly?”

“A Muggle device. It shows moving pictures—films, news, shows. They last for hours.”

Pansy’s eyebrows rose sharply. “Hours? That’s highly irregular.”

Hermione gave a fond, exasperated laugh. “Just wait. You’ll love it.”

“I highly doubt that.”

The bathroom was equally luxurious, tiled with smooth ivory marble, softly lit, and dominated by a deep porcelain bathtub that looked gloriously inviting after the chaotic day they’d had. While Hermione unpacked, Pansy drew herself a steaming bath, filling it with a generous amount of a suspiciously sweet-scented potion—bubble bath—and sank gratefully into the hot water.

She rested her head against the cool porcelain rim, staring at the ceiling and allowing the tension in her shoulders to ease. The day replayed itself in her mind—the laughter, the absurd rides, the brief brushes of Hermione’s hand, the barely missed kiss beneath the fireworks—and she sighed heavily, anxiety pooling in her chest once more.

She shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t feel this way—uncertain, vulnerable, achingly drawn to someone so different from everything she'd been taught to want. Granger was dangerous. Dangerous to her pride, to her beliefs, and certainly to the carefully constructed life she’d always known. Yet, in the solitude of the steaming bath, Pansy knew with absolute clarity that she didn’t want to be anywhere else.

By the time she emerged, hair damp and wearing an absurdly soft robe embroidered with a subtle golden outline of Mick the Mouse, Hermione had already ordered a staggering selection of snacks from room service. The bed nearest the window was covered in trays of chocolate-dipped strawberries, tiny sandwiches, pastries glazed with sugar, and what appeared to be an entire pot of tea.

“I thought you’d never come out,” Hermione teased lightly, already curled up at the head of the bed, changing the pictures on the mysterious television with a bizarre plastic wand.

Pansy sank onto the mattress with cautious elegance, eying the device suspiciously as bright, loud images flickered rapidly across its surface. “Is this Muggle magic supposed to give me a headache?”

“Trust me,” Hermione said warmly, passing her a cup of tea. “Just watch.”

They settled together, snacking and sipping tea, eventually landing on a colourful film filled with animated animals that sang, danced, and inexplicably wore clothing. Initially, Pansy watched with a mixture of horror and disbelief, staring wide-eyed at the television screen.

“What in Merlin’s name am I looking at?” she demanded, pointing accusingly at a talking fox dressed in bright green.

Hermione giggled softly, leaning closer. “It’s called Robin Hood. It’s a classic.”

Pansy squinted suspiciously at the screen. “But they’re animals. In human clothing.”

“Yes,” Hermione said patiently, as if this explained everything.

“And they’re singing,” Pansy added, with mounting disbelief.

“It’s Disney. Everyone sings.”

Pansy folded her arms, scowling as she watched the fox strut around the screen. “This makes no sense. Animals don’t wear clothes, and they certainly don’t form governments.”

“It’s symbolic,” Hermione replied, amused. “They’re telling a story.”

“But why can’t they hear me?” Pansy interrupted, her brows knitted in confusion. “I’ve insulted the fox’s clothing several times now, and he hasn’t responded once.”

Hermione snorted into her tea, nearly spilling it on the bedspread. “It’s not a painting, Pansy, it's a television. They’re not actually there.”

Pansy frowned deeper, suspiciously eyeing the television again. “It looks like an electric painting. You’re certain they can’t hear me?”

“Positive.”

Pansy seemed unconvinced. “So, Muggles willingly sit around staring at enchanted boxes filled with talking animals and ridiculous songs?”

“Yes,” Hermione laughed, “exactly.”

“How bizarre,” Pansy muttered, though her tone had softened, her shoulders relaxing against Hermione’s as the story continued. “I suppose it’s less annoying if you stop expecting it to make sense.”

Hermione’s laughter faded into a gentle smile, and they continued watching quietly, shoulders comfortably touching, warmth radiating through the thin fabric between them. Slowly, almost despite herself, Pansy found herself absorbed by the story, the gentle heroics, and yes—even the singing animals. It was strange and ridiculous and confusing, yet somehow, oddly charming.

Eventually, just one pastry remained on the plate—a delicate, sugary thing filled with cream.

Pansy reached for it at the same time as Hermione.

Their fingers brushed, their eyes met.

“Mine,” Hermione said with mock seriousness, pulling gently at the plate.

“I don’t share,” Pansy replied coolly, tugging it back toward herself.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed playfully, and then, quick as lightning, she snatched up the forgotten pair of red sequinned mouse ears from the bedside table and lunged toward Pansy.

Pansy shrieked in mock horror, dropping the pastry. “Absolutely not!”

“Too late!” Hermione laughed, trying to press the ears back onto Pansy’s head.

They grappled playfully, giggling breathlessly until they both lost their balance. The world spun, sheets tangled, and suddenly Hermione was sprawled atop Pansy, their faces inches apart, laughter dying abruptly as the air thickened.

Pansy’s heart was hammering furiously in her chest. She stared up at Hermione’s flushed face, soft curls spilling around them like silk, eyes wide and uncertain and impossibly warm.

Neither moved.

The air between them hummed, heavy and charged.

“Granger,” Pansy finally whispered, voice hoarse and low. “Hermione—if you kiss me now, there’s no taking it back.”

Hermione’s breath hitched softly, her eyes flickering rapidly between Pansy’s eyes and mouth. Her voice was barely a murmur, steady but edged with something fragile. “Maybe I don’t want to take it back.”

Pansy felt herself trembling, but she forced steadiness into her voice, the words coming out slow, deliberate, wrapped in velvet and steel. “You need to understand. If you kiss me now, you’ll be mine—and I’m very possessive over things that are mine.”

Hermione swallowed visibly, and for a moment her eyes widened, vulnerable and unguarded. Pansy’s heart hammered in her chest as though it would burst out at any moment, each beat a thunderous echo in the fragile space between them. She could hear Hermione’s breathing, quick and shallow, matching her own as though they were sharing the last breaths left in the room.

Hermione’s face betrayed a mixture of fear, uncertainty—and something else. Something fierce, brave, something Pansy didn’t dare allow herself to fully believe was real.

Neither girl moved, yet neither pulled away. They remained trapped together in this exquisite torture, bodies pressed impossibly close, tangled in the sheets, and yet achingly hesitant to close the final, tiny gap that remained.

“Pansy,” Hermione whispered finally, voice trembling, barely audible above the ragged sound of their breathing. “What if…what if I already am?”

The words were soft, breathless, and devastatingly honest.

Pansy’s eyes widened slightly, and for an instant, every defence she’d carefully constructed shattered into nothingness. It was raw, terrifying, and exhilarating all at once. She drew in a sharp, trembling breath, fingertips brushing feather-light against Hermione’s cheek. Hermione shivered under her touch, her lips parting ever so slightly, offering an invitation Pansy was utterly helpless to resist.

She closed the remaining distance between them slowly, deliberately, savouring the charged anticipation until, at last, their lips met.

The kiss was tender at first, cautious, exploratory—barely more than a whisper.

But as Hermione leaned into her, hand sliding gently into her hair, something fierce and possessive ignited within Pansy. The tremble in her fingertips vanished, replaced by heat and certainty. She deepened the kiss without hesitation, fingers threading tightly through Hermione’s soft curls and pulling her closer until Hermione gasped softly into her mouth—sweet, startled, utterly undone.

That sound undid something in Pansy.

Triumph and relief surged through her in a single overwhelming rush, like a dam breaking open behind her ribs. The tight knot of anxiety she’d carried all day, all term, unspooled entirely as Hermione melted against her, pliant and willing, her fingers curled into the fabric of Pansy’s robe as though anchoring herself there.

This was right.

This was how it should be.

Hermione Granger was hers now, and Merlin help anyone who thought otherwise.

Pansy growled low in her throat—something possessive, raw—and dragged Hermione even closer, chest to chest, mouth hungry and commanding. It wasn’t enough. Even with no space between them, it wasn’t enough.

Their kiss turned wild.

Deeper. More frantic.

Weeks—no, months—of frustration and tension and unbearable proximity poured out between them, released in that breathless, dizzying storm of motion. Hermione kissed back with a desperation Pansy hadn’t expected but welcomed, hands slipping to her waist, her hips, as if afraid Pansy might disappear if she let go.

She wouldn’t. She wasn’t going anywhere.

Pansy pressed Hermione back into the mattress, kissing her like she meant it. Like this was a promise. A reckoning. Like every smug remark, every petty insult, every shared secret had been building to this one impossible moment.

Hermione moaned into her mouth, and Pansy caught the sound greedily, biting gently at her lower lip in retaliation. The taste of her was heady—sugar and salt and something uniquely Granger. Intoxicating.

She broke the kiss only long enough to gasp a breath, heart hammering, eyes flickering open to find Hermione already watching her, cheeks flushed, hair wild, lips kiss-bruised and parted in a way that should’ve been illegal.

They stared at one another for a long, suspended second. Neither spoke. Neither needed to.

Then Hermione gave her a slow, dazed smile—wide and real and just a little bit wicked. Pansy stared back at her hungrily, savouring the moment for as long as possible, and just like that, she realised she’d crossed a line there was no coming back from, and she didn’t regret it for a second.

Pansy stared down at Hermione, feeling powerful and dizzy all at once. Hermione lay breathless beneath her, her eyes darkened, her hair splayed wildly against the pillow, flushed cheeks glowing in the soft lamplight. Pansy traced Hermione’s jawline slowly with one fingertip, her voice husky and dangerously quiet.

“You understand now, Hermione, don’t you?” she whispered, tone laced with a possessiveness she could no longer hide. “You belong to me. Every inch of you.”

Hermione shivered visibly at those words, her breath quickening, eyes wide with anticipation and surrender. “Pansy—”

“That’s right,” Pansy murmured, leaning down slowly to brush her lips against the shell of Hermione’s ear. “Say my name again. I like hearing it from your lips.”

“Pansy,” Hermione breathed obediently, her voice trembling and raw.

Pansy felt an almost primal thrill at that, and she claimed Hermione’s mouth again, fierce and demanding. Hermione’s lips parted willingly beneath hers, their kiss instantly deepening, desperate and greedy, an uncontrollable fire flaring to life between them.

Hands began to wander with heated intent. Hermione’s fingertips slid beneath Pansy’s robe, tracing slow, scorching patterns against bare skin, igniting nerves and making her breath catch sharply. Pansy retaliated instantly, sliding her own hand beneath the hem of Hermione’s shirt, fingertips skating slowly across warm, trembling flesh.

Hermione gasped into her mouth, her body arching instinctively under the deliberate, teasing touch. Pansy pulled back just enough to look down at Hermione’s flushed face, eyes glittering with triumph and hunger.

“You dream about this, don’t you?” she murmured, her voice velvety and commanding, a hint of teasing cruelty in the way her fingers traced delicate circles against Hermione’s bare stomach. “About my hands on you. My mouth. Admit it, Hermione.”

Hermione’s cheeks flushed deeper still, but her eyes locked boldly onto Pansy’s. Her voice was breathless yet defiant, laced with quiet, thrilling honesty. “All the time.”

Pansy’s heart leapt with fierce triumph. She smiled slowly, dangerously, and leaned down, brushing a hot, possessive kiss against Hermione’s throat, grazing her teeth gently against sensitive skin until Hermione whimpered softly beneath her.

“I suppose,” Pansy murmured in as sultry a voice as she could manage, tasting the salt of Hermione’s pulse, “it’s only fair that I reward such honesty.” She placed a row of kisses down the length of Hermione’s neck and along her collarbone, drawing little gasps of pleasure from the Gryffindor girl that Pansy wished she could replay in her mind forever. She gently ran a perfectly manicured nail and up and down Hermione’s ribcage, making her chest heave in a way that Pansy found deliciously enticing.

Hermione’s back arched under her touch, hips tilting instinctively as another gasp escaped her lips—quiet, breathless, utterly wrecked. Pansy watched her with something between reverence and hunger, utterly mesmerised by the way Hermione responded to every subtle pressure, every kiss, every teasing scrape of nail on skin.

“You’re so responsive,” Pansy whispered, voice thick with desire, her lips brushing the top of Hermione’s breast through the thin fabric of her sleep shirt. “So good for me.”

Hermione trembled. Her hands slid up Pansy’s back, gripping tightly at her shoulder blades as though trying to hold the world together. “Pansy—”

“Mmm,” Pansy’s mouth was everywhere—pressing kisses to her sternum, her throat, her jaw. She took her time, savouring every inch of skin she could reach, committing it to memory with slow, indulgent focus.

Hermione was soft and warm beneath her, entirely real, and yet it still didn’t feel quite possible that this was happening—really happening—and not some dream Pansy would wake up from, flushed and breathless and alone in the dark.

But it was real. Hermione was beneath her. Hers.

Pansy lifted her head slowly, brushing her fringe from her eyes, and looked down at her. “You like it when I take control, don’t you?”

Hermione hesitated only a beat, cheeks flushed, pupils wide. Then she nodded.

Pansy smirked, slow and wicked. “Good.”

She kissed her again—longer, slower this time. Possessive. Claiming. Hermione melted into it, hands tangled in Pansy’s hair, holding her there like she never wanted her to stop.

Eventually, Pansy pulled back, just slightly. Enough to catch her breath. Enough to watch Hermione’s eyes flutter open—hazy and dark and filled with something that looked suspiciously like awe, and then Pansy whispered, “You’re mine now, Granger. Just so we’re perfectly clear.”

Hermione blinked once. Then again, and then she smiled—soft, slow, and devastating.

“I know,” she whispered. “I’ve been yours for a while.”

Pansy woke slowly, blinking against the soft, unfamiliar light that filtered through the pale curtains. For a moment, her mind drifted in that delicate space between dreaming and waking, where nothing felt quite real—where everything seemed too perfect, too quiet.

She shifted slightly beneath the duvet, her body aching in pleasant, unfamiliar places, and for one dizzying second she wondered if it had all been a vivid dream.

But then she turned over, and there, curled in the sheets beside her, was Hermione Granger. Bare-backed, warm-skinned, hair tumbling in soft, chaotic waves across the pillow.

Pansy stared.

Her first coherent thought was Oh. Closely followed by Merlin.

The previous night came rushing back in fragments—kisses like lightning, whispered confessions, the weight of Hermione’s body beneath hers, the way she'd said Pansy like it meant everything. The ache in Pansy’s chest deepened into something bruising, something real.

She’d half-expected to wake alone. For it to have been some kind of brilliant, humiliating fever dream. A product of too much sugar and too little self-control.

But Hermione was here. Real. Breathing evenly. Her arm was draped over the pillow where Pansy’s shoulder had been. Her skin was warm and impossibly soft, and Pansy— Pansy didn’t want to move.

She lay there for a long time, watching the slow rise and fall of Hermione’s back, letting the fragile truth of it settle in her chest like morning light. She didn’t feel like running. She didn’t even feel afraid.

Pansy stayed perfectly still, scarcely daring to breathe as Hermione began to stir beside her. The moment stretched unbearably as she watched Hermione’s shoulder tense, then relax, the gentle rise and fall of her breathing changing rhythm as consciousness crept back in.

Hermione shifted again, this time turning slowly until she faced Pansy. Their eyes met immediately, locking in startled, wordless recognition.

They stared at one another. Several long seconds passed.

Then, without warning, Hermione’s cheeks flushed deeply, her eyes widening as full awareness finally dawned. She made a startled noise somewhere between a gasp and a squeak, instinctively pulling the sheet up to cover herself, though Pansy had already seen every inch of her.

"Oh," Hermione breathed softly, her voice muffled slightly by embarrassment. "Last night—we really did—"

"Yes," Pansy replied, her tone carefully neutral despite the fluttering heat rising in her chest. "We most certainly did."

Hermione bit down hard on her bottom lip, her eyes flicking briefly downward as though needing to verify again that they were both indeed unclothed beneath the sheets. Her flush deepened, staining her cheeks a vivid shade of pink.

Pansy couldn't help herself; a small, amused smile tugged at her lips. "Regrets, Granger?"

Hermione's gaze snapped back up, wide-eyed. "No!" she blurted instantly, her voice sharper than she'd intended. She softened quickly, reaching out hesitantly to touch Pansy's arm, fingertips feather-light against her skin. "No regrets. It's just—"

"Unexpected?" Pansy finished quietly, arching an eyebrow.

Hermione laughed weakly, burying her face briefly in the pillow. "A little. I mean, I’ve… you know, thought about it. But my thoughts don’t exactly do it justice."

Pansy exhaled slowly, feeling tension slip from her shoulders. It seemed impossible, ridiculous even, that Hermione Granger—Gryffindor’s golden girl, her constant rival turned accidental confidante—was lying next to her, naked, flushed, and tangled in sheets, the memories of the previous night still vivid on both of their minds.

Hermione shifted closer, sheets rustling quietly between them. The hesitant brush of her hand along Pansy’s side sent a fresh wave of warmth through Pansy’s body, delicate and tantalising. She kept her breathing even, determined not to show just how profoundly Hermione’s touch was affecting her.

“Justice is an interesting choice of word,” Pansy drawled softly, allowing a slow smirk to curve her lips as she tilted her head slightly toward Hermione. “I didn’t realise I was something you needed to be fair about.”

Hermione blushed even deeper, but her gaze didn’t waver. Instead, she met Pansy’s eyes steadily, brown depths sparkling with shy bravery and newfound confidence. “You know exactly what I meant.”

Pansy hummed thoughtfully, raising one perfectly shaped eyebrow in quiet amusement. “Maybe I want to hear you say it again.”

Hermione’s lips parted slightly, breath catching in her throat. Her voice came quieter now, vulnerable yet tinged with defiance. “I meant that no matter how many times I imagined what last night would feel like, it still wasn’t anywhere close to reality.”

“Good,” Pansy murmured, her voice dropping into a sultry whisper. She gently traced her fingertips down Hermione’s bare arm, delighting in the shiver it elicited. “Because I’d hate to think your imagination could rival the real thing.”

Hermione laughed softly, the sound rich and warm in the quiet room. “You’re impossible, Pansy.”

“You wouldn’t have me any other way,” Pansy shot back, voice deliberately teasing as she leaned forward, brushing a soft, lingering kiss against Hermione’s lips. She pulled back just enough to study Hermione’s flushed, beautiful face, committing the image to memory. “Besides, I distinctly remember you being very enthusiastic about the impossible last night.”

Hermione ducked her head, hiding a shy grin in the pillow. “Very enthusiastic,” she echoed faintly, eyes twinkling as she peeked back up at Pansy. “I’m fairly certain I wasn’t the only one.”

Pansy tilted her head back slightly, chuckling despite herself. “I’ll admit to nothing.”

“Of course you won’t.” Hermione moved closer still, softly resting her head on Pansy’s shoulder, hair tickling against bare skin. She sighed contentedly, the tension of embarrassment finally giving way to comfort. Her voice softened into something sincere and tender. “But for the record, the enthusiasm was definitely mutual.”

Pansy felt her heart give an unfamiliar, dangerous flutter. She didn’t dare respond right away, unwilling to risk exposing just how deeply Hermione’s words affected her. Instead, she pressed another soft kiss to Hermione’s forehead, allowing her lips to linger just a fraction longer than necessary.

“Perhaps,” she whispered, finally permitting herself a genuine, unguarded smile. “Now, unless you intend to stay in bed all day, I suggest we discuss our plans before we waste the morning.”

Hermione groaned softly, pressing her face deeper into Pansy’s shoulder. “Spoilsport.”

Pansy chuckled quietly, gently threading her fingers through Hermione’s tangled curls. “We have an entire theme park to explore, Granger. I can assure you, there will be plenty more opportunities for enthusiasm later.”

Hermione tilted her head up again, eyes bright with promise. “Only if you wear the ears.”

Pansy narrowed her eyes, though the corner of her mouth twitched in betrayal of a smile. “Absolutely not.”

Hermione leaned up and kissed her lightly, then whispered against her lips, “Then no more enthusiasm for you.”

Pansy sighed, dramatic and long-suffering. “Fine. But I’m not going on that bloody space cannon again.”

Hermione grinned. “Deal.”

Pansy did, in fact, wear the ears.

Not without protest, of course—and not without a scathing commentary on sequins, rodent symbolism, and the slow erosion of her Pureblood dignity—but she wore them all the same. Hermione had placed them carefully on her head just before they left the room, and Pansy, after a long moment of theatrical silence, had muttered something about “keeping the peace” and stalked off toward the lift.

Getting ready for another day at Disneyland took far longer than necessary, though Pansy certainly wasn’t complaining. Partly because she had repeatedly ensured that Hermione remained thoroughly distracted. Partly because their bed was far more comfortable than any Muggle establishment had a right to provide.

But mostly because Hermione Granger had crossed a line. Forcing Pansy Parkinson—a Slytherin, a Pureblood heiress—to don glittery mouse ears was a transgression that demanded swift, decisive retribution, and retribution was exactly what Pansy had delivered.

By the time they finally left the room, Pansy felt smugly satisfied. She glanced sidelong at Hermione, taking in her flushed cheeks, slightly mussed hair, and the lingering embarrassment still visible in the shy downturn of her eyes. It was precisely the look Pansy had hoped to achieve. That alone made the delay well worth it.

True, the park had been open for more than an hour already, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. An hour spent teaching Granger a lesson about boundaries and power dynamics was infinitely more satisfying than another sixty minutes surrounded by oversized rodents and screaming children.

Besides, Pansy noted with quiet approval, Granger looked significantly happier after having been put back in her place. She adjusted the sequinned ears perched stubbornly atop her head and smiled slowly to herself as they walked through the hotel lobby.

Perhaps—just perhaps—the ears weren’t such a bad price to pay after all.

“So,” Pansy said, grasping Hermione’s hand with the easy confidence of someone who now had every right to do so, “where are you taking me next?”

Hermione looked over, clearly trying not to smile, though her eyes gave her away. “Still pretending you’re not enjoying yourself?”

“I’ve never pretended,” Pansy replied coolly. “I’m merely tolerating the experience with as much dignity as these”—she flicked one finger toward the ears— “will allow.”

Hermione gave her a pointed look. “You could’ve taken them off before we left the room.”

Pansy scoffed. “I could have, yes. But then you’d spend the entire day sulking, and I’ve grown rather fond of you when you’re obedient and cheerful.”

“Obedient?” Hermione questioned with a raised eyebrow, “What gives you that idea?”

“Would you like to go back to the room and be reminded again?”

Hermione considered this for a moment. “Maybe later. First, Indiana Jones and the Temple of Peril.”

“Why are Muggles so obsessed with being in danger?”

Hermione laughed softly, tugging Pansy forward through the park’s bustling crowds. "It’s perfectly safe. Muggles just enjoy the illusion of danger."

"Sounds suspiciously like something a Gryffindor would say," Pansy replied, narrowing her eyes slightly. "You’d happily march straight into actual peril if given half the chance."

Hermione tilted her head slightly, smiling in quiet amusement. "And you'd follow right behind me, just to prove a point."

Pansy scoffed again, though she felt warmth rising in her cheeks. "Only to ensure you didn’t get yourself killed. Someone has to keep you in line."

Hermione turned to face her then, eyes sparkling with mischief. "And you’ve elected yourself for that role?"

Pansy stepped closer, leaning in until her voice was a low, velvet murmur. "I thought we'd already established exactly who's in charge here."

Hermione's eyes darkened slightly, her breath hitching just enough to give Pansy a rush of smug satisfaction. After a pause, Hermione cleared her throat lightly and regained her composure. "Right. Well then—shall we?"

Pansy inclined her head, feeling victorious. "Lead the way, Granger. Let's see what kind of danger your precious Muggles have conjured up this time."

Pansy couldn’t decide if the Temple of Peril was better or worse than Thunder Mountain. It was smoother, certainly—less rickety, less likely to pitch her sideways into Granger’s lap with every turn—but it went upside down, which she still felt was a deeply irregular thing to do.

“I don’t care how many safety charms Muggles claim to have,” she muttered as they staggered away from the exit, her hair windswept and her dignity hanging by a thread. “Being turned upside down in a glorified mine cart is not entertainment. It’s madness.”

Hermione, of course, was practically glowing. “You screamed.”

“I did not scream.”

“You definitely screamed. It was very dignified. Very posh.”

Pansy gave her a withering look. “That was not a scream. That was a startled exhale under duress.”

Hermione grinned and linked their arms as they walked. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

“I slept perfectly well last night, thank you,” Pansy sniffed, still adjusting the sequinned ears on her head as if that might restore some of her composure. “Though I imagine I’ll be dreaming of plummeting headfirst into ancient Muggle death traps for the next month.”

She paused, narrowed her eyes, then added, “What is the theme, anyway? Why does this ‘Indiana’ person keep voluntarily throwing himself into temples cursed by obviously evil deities?”

Hermione just laughed. “It’s another one of those movies you pretended not to enjoy last night. He’s an archaeologist who hunts for treasure.”

“He can’t hunt for treasure in a five-star hotel?” Pansy asked, utterly incredulous. “With champagne service and hex-proof windows? Or is nearly being impaled by stone spikes somehow part of the charm?”

Hermione grinned. “You’re missing the point.”

“Oh no, I think I understand perfectly,” Pansy drawled as they walked beneath the weatherworn archway near Skull Rock. “He’s an unhinged academic with a nosy streak and an alarming disregard for his own safety. He’s like you.”

Hermione choked on a laugh. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Pansy folded her arms as they stepped onto the cracked stone path. “Wanders into dangerous places she has no business being in, pokes cursed objects with a stick, refuses to run away even when all signs point to death. That’s you, except he has a hat and a whip.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “I’m flattered, I think.”

“You shouldn’t be. The man’s clearly a lunatic.” Pansy waved a hand at the temple structure they were leaving behind, where the ride’s tracks disappeared into a crumbling ruin guarded by carved snake heads. “This is not a hobby. It’s a cry for help.”

Hermione shot her an amused look. “So, you wouldn’t come adventuring with me if I wore a hat and carried a whip?”

Pansy paused, gaze drifting over Hermione appraisingly. “The hat, perhaps. I’ll carry the whip.”

Hermione shook her head with a soft smile. “Fortunately for you, our next stop involves neither cursed temples nor deranged archaeologists.”

“Oh good,” Pansy drawled. “What fresh ordeal are you dragging me through now? We’ve done a space launch, crashed through a mine, barely escaped a cursed temple, and fought pirates. I assume we’re going under the sea next? Maybe into a jungle full of venomous insects?”

Hermione giggled and tugged at her arm, steering them back toward Discoveryland. Pansy eyed the shimmering silver structures and the unnatural cleanliness of it all with deep suspicion.

“Oh no,” she said, skidding to a halt. “I’m not going in the space cannon again.”

“We’re not going on Space Mountain, I promise,” Hermione said, exasperated but still grinning. “How would you like to learn how to drive?”

Pansy blinked. “Drive?”

“A car. It’s how most Muggles get around.”

Pansy stopped dead in her tracks, forcing Hermione to halt as well. Her eyes narrowed with distrust. “You mean one of those enormous, rattling metal death-traps that go hurtling around at breakneck speeds? With no enchantments, no safety charms, and engines that explode if you so much as look at them funny?”

Hermione laughed. “They’re perfectly safe. You control them with a steering wheel and pedals. It’s not difficult.”

“That’s a lie,” Pansy said flatly. “I’ve seen Muggles drive. They honk constantly, they scream at each other out of the windows, and every other week one of them ends up crashing into a shop front. If they can’t manage it, why do you think I can?”

Hermione tilted her head with mock innocence. “Harry and Ron managed just fine. They flew a car from King’s Cross all the way to Hogwarts.”

Pansy stared. “Granger, they crashed it into the Whomping Willow and nearly died.”

“Yes, but they didn’t,” Hermione replied sweetly. “Which makes it a success, really.”

“Oh, well, that’s a flawless standard of safety, isn’t it?” Pansy drawled. “Potter and Weasley didn’t die, so clearly it’s fine.”

“Exactly,” Hermione said with a triumphant grin.

She’s mad, Pansy thought. Absolutely unhinged. But turning back now would mean losing the argument—and if there was one thing Pansy Parkinson hated more than Muggle vehicles, it was losing.

She followed Hermione reluctantly toward the entrance of Autopia, eyeing the track ahead with thinly veiled horror. The cars were cartoonish, low-slung little things that looked like they belonged in a child’s sketchbook. A ride operator handed them each a flimsy-looking paper licence. Pansy accepted hers with the same expression she might’ve worn if handed a live flobberworm.

Hermione pointed to a bright red car. “What do you think? Gryffindor red?”

Pansy sniffed. “Tacky. I’ll take the green one.”

“Of course you will,” Hermione muttered, amused.

Pansy climbed in and looked around the dashboard like it might bite. Her legs were too long, the seat was too low, and the steering wheel felt like a toy. Hermione squeezed into the car beside her, entirely too chipper.

“All right, press the pedal on the right to go, the one on the left to stop, and turn the wheel in the direction you want to travel,” Hermione suggested helpfully.

Pansy pressed the right pedal cautiously. The car gave a loud brrrrrr and lurched forward on its rail. “Granger—it’s moving! What do I do?!”

“Turn the wheel!” She laughed in response.

Pansy gripped the wheel like it might fly out of her hands at any second. The car veered hard left and smacked into the metal guide rail with a violent clang. She jolted forward, her shoulder knocking against the side.

“I am turning the wheel!” she snapped, jerking it right. The car responded by weaving drunkenly across the narrow track, nose bumping the rail on one side, then the other. “This is absurd! It’s not actually driving—it's flailing!”

Hermione, wedged tightly in the passenger seat, was laughing far too freely. “You’re overcorrecting.”

“I’m what?”

“Too much steering. Just keep it gentle. Let the guide rail help.”

Pansy’s mouth fell open in horror. “You mean it’s steering itself?”

“No, you’re steering it—just not very well.”

Another loud clang as the car hit the rail again. Pansy nearly bounced out of her seat. “This is a sabotage machine. No wonder Muggles get in accidents if this is their idea of training.”

A pair of small children in the car behind them zoomed past, giggling. One of them gave Pansy a cheerful thumbs-up.

Pansy glared back. “Wipe that grin off your face or I’ll hex it there permanently.”

“Pansy!” Hermione gasped, half-laughing, half-scolding.

“I’m serious!” Pansy cried, clinging to the wheel as they rounded a corner. “This is deranged! Why are the brakes so soft? What if a centaur runs across the path?”

“There aren’t any centaurs in Discoveryland!”

The car jolted again, bounced off the rail and nearly side-swiped a hedge. Hermione clapped a hand to her mouth to stifle her laughter, shoulders shaking.

“Stop laughing!” Pansy snapped. “This is traumatic! My first and last Muggle driving experience is going to end with me wrapped around a bloody bin.”

“You’re going five miles an hour.”

“I can feel the danger!”

But despite the bumping and cursing and Hermione’s endless mirth, Pansy kept going. She clenched the wheel like a lifeline and gave the pedals dramatic stomps. Each turn was a war, every straight a gamble. When they finally rolled into the unloading area, Pansy exhaled as if she’d just survived a battle.

A cast member waved them to a halt with a smile. Pansy ignored him entirely, throwing Hermione a look of thunder. Hermione was red-faced with laughter. “You weren’t that bad.”

“I hit every single wall!”

“On the bright side,” Granger said, brushing windblown hair from her face, “you didn’t scream this time.”

Pansy narrowed her eyes. “No, I gritted my teeth and accepted my fate. There’s a difference.”

Granger only laughed, entirely too pleased with herself as they left the platform and followed the winding path back toward the entrance of Discoveryland. Pansy didn’t bother hiding her scowl—though she suspected, from the way Hermione’s hand found hers again without even looking, that the effect was somewhat diminished by the fact she was still wearing sequinned ears.

They passed through the arched colonnade beneath the Disneyland Hotel shortly after, the cool marble floor a welcome change from the relentless paths of the park. The restaurant Hermione had booked for lunch was tucked behind a row of golden balustrades and glowing sconces, a quiet little haven with starched napkins and high-backed chairs that looked like they belonged in Gringotts’ private dining room.

Pansy didn’t say anything until they were seated, a carafe of cold lemon water between them and a basket of bread rolls already half-emptied by Hermione.

“I still can’t believe you made me drive one of those things,” she said at last, tearing a roll in half. “I could’ve died.”

“You could not,” Hermione replied, voice infuriatingly calm. “There’s a rail under the car. You literally couldn’t have veered off even if you tried.”

“I did try,” Pansy said, raising a brow, “and I still managed to bounce off every bloody post between here and the end.”

Hermione only smiled faintly, her foot nudging Pansy’s under the table. “You didn’t give up, though.”

“Please don’t start getting sentimental about it.”

“I’m not.” Hermione’s tone softened, and when Pansy glanced up, her expression had grown more serious. “I’m just glad you’re trying.”

Pansy looked away, tearing another roll in silence. She wasn’t used to being praised—not by people who meant it, at least—and certainly not for something as idiotic as piloting a fake Muggle car.

After a moment, Hermione set down her fork. “Are you... all right? Really?”

The question startled her more than she cared to admit. Pansy looked up slowly, meeting those familiar brown eyes across the table. Hermione wasn’t teasing now. She looked genuinely concerned.

“With what?” Pansy asked carefully.

“This trip. All of it. The Muggle stuff. Me dragging you from one ridiculous ride to the next.”

Pansy hesitated. The temptation to deflect was strong—to mock the glitter, the cartoon mice, the terrifying architecture of rollercoasters. But Hermione deserved more than that, especially after everything they’d shared in the past twenty-four hours.

“I don’t know,” she said at last, tone subdued. “It’s… strange. Being here. Letting myself be seen like this. Not just by strangers, but by you.”

Hermione’s gaze softened, her voice gentle. “You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

“That’s the problem, Granger.” Pansy gave a small, bitter smile. “I think I do.”

The silence between them stretched just long enough to be uncomfortable. Then Hermione reached across the table and laid her hand over Pansy’s, warm and steady.

“You don’t,” she said again, quieter this time.

Pansy swallowed hard, unsure what to say. She flipped her hand slowly, lacing their fingers together beneath the linen tablecloth.

A waiter arrived before she could speak—delicate timing, really—and she was grateful for the interruption. They ordered, Hermione choosing something wholesome and predictably vegetable-based, Pansy choosing the steak simply because she could. Conversation resumed more casually after that: observations about the guests, commentary on the food, the audacity of the dessert prices. And yet something hung between them still, something heavier and unspoken.

When their plates were cleared and coffee had been brought, Pansy finally spoke again.

“What happens when we go back?”

Hermione looked at her, brow furrowed slightly. “To Hogwarts?”

“Yes.” Pansy traced a finger around the rim of her cup. “This… thing. You and me. Is it only allowed to exist while we’re surrounded by candy floss and fireworks?”

Hermione didn’t answer immediately. She looked down at their joined hands on the table, then back up.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “It’s easier here. No one staring. No expectations. But I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen once we’re home.”

Pansy nodded slowly. “Neither do I.”

They sat quietly for a few moments longer. Then Hermione smiled faintly.

“Besides,” she added, “I’m quite fond of you in glittery mouse ears. It would be a shame to forget that part.”

Pansy groaned. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

Pansy rolled her eyes but didn’t let go of her hand. If anything, she held it tighter. “Then I won’t let go of you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Very,” Pansy nodded, “I don’t know if you’ve noticed granger, but you get very bossy in Potions, and now that I’ve found a good of way of putting you back in your place­-”

“Pansy,” Hermione rolled her eyes, but her cheeks betrayed her with a blush that spread like warmth through every line of her face.

Pansy smirked, victorious. “See? Adorable. Bossy, smug, and utterly pink when flustered. You’re lucky I find it endearing.”

Hermione made a sound that was somewhere between a huff and a laugh, but didn’t argue. Instead, she squeezed Pansy’s hand gently and tilted her head. “What now, then?”

“Well,” Pansy said, sitting back and smoothing her napkin onto the table with theatrical elegance, “I believe I’ve earned a reward.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “A reward? For crashing into every possible wall at Autopia?”

“For bravery,” Pansy corrected. “For willingly stepping into yet another death trap of Muggle design, and emerging—however narrowly—alive.”

“Right,” Hermione said, her tone dry. “And what reward, exactly, do you think you deserve?”

Pansy leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. “I was thinking… a spa.”

Hermione blinked. “A spa?”

“The hotel has one,” Pansy replied airily, as if this hadn’t been the plan all along. “Massages. Plush robes. Cucumber water. I read the brochure while you were brushing your teeth. This may be the one Muggle invention that I actually like the sound of.”

Hermione looked momentarily sceptical. “You want to go to a spa… with me?”

“I want to be oiled, pampered, and possibly worshipped,” Pansy said simply. “And yes, I want you there. Preferably shirtless.”

Hermione flushed again, this time deepening to a fierce red that made Pansy grin.

“Fine,” Hermione said, standing and grabbing her bag, though her voice wobbled ever so slightly. “But if we do this, you’re not allowed to sass the massage therapist.”

“No promises,” Pansy replied smugly, rising to follow her. “But I might let you sit in one of those sauna things with me. If you behave.”

Hermione shook her head with a laugh as they made their way out of the restaurant, hand in hand once more. And though the thought of returning to Hogwarts still lingered at the back of Pansy’s mind, for now, the idea of steam, silence, and Hermione in a towel was more than enough to push it away.

The room smelled faintly of lavender and something sweetly herbal—balm mint, maybe. It was warm, blissfully so, the air thick with steam and silence. Pansy Parkinson, who had never voluntarily been within ten feet of a Muggle wellness product, was currently face-down on a padded treatment table with only a towel draped over her hips and a rather skilled set of hands working slow, firm circles into the tension coiled between her shoulders.

She wanted to hate it.

Truly, she did. She wanted to mutter something derisive about overpriced oils and fake tranquillity and how no amount of cucumber water could disguise the fact that Muggles lived without magic. But as the massage therapist pressed a thumb just below her shoulder blade and worked a knot free with a little twist of pressure—

Pansy groaned.

It escaped her before she could stop it, half a sigh and half a hum, low and entirely indecent. The towel shifted slightly as she turned her face to the side, glaring into the soft candlelight with suspicion.

This is good. Unreasonably good.

She peeked through slitted eyes across the room. Hermione was on the next table over, eyes closed, hair pinned up, a faint smile curving her lips as the second therapist worked along her spine. Pansy watched her chest rise and fall in lazy rhythm, the pink flush at the back of her neck slowly fading as her whole body slackened into the table.

It was annoyingly charming.

“I hate how much I’m enjoying this,” Pansy murmured under her breath.

Hermione cracked open one eye. “You’re allowed to enjoy things, you know.”

Pansy sniffed. “I’m suspicious of anything that makes me this relaxed. It feels like a trap.”

Hermione gave a lazy, muffled laugh into the padded headrest. “If it is, I’ll let them catch me.”

The therapist’s hands shifted to Pansy’s lower back, pressing just hard enough to coax another involuntary sound from her throat. She bit the inside of her cheek and exhaled slowly, refusing to give Hermione the satisfaction.

“I still think the lighting is pretentious,” Pansy muttered. “And that fountain is definitely mocking me.”

“Mmhm,” Hermione murmured, clearly drifting.

Pansy turned her face to the side again, gaze falling on their joined hands between the tables. Their pinkies touched, lightly—accidentally, at first. Then purposefully.

She didn’t pull away.

Truthfully, she didn’t want to move at all. Not from this table. Not from this room. Not from this moment where the world outside didn’t matter, and nothing was expected of her except to lie still and allow herself—for once—to be at peace.

Maybe, she thought drowsily, this place wasn’t so bad after all.

By the time the massage ended, Pansy Parkinson was almost willing to forgive Muggles for everything else.

She slid off the table like warm toffee, her limbs boneless beneath the wrap of a spa robe that felt suspiciously expensive. Her hair was pinned up, her cheeks pleasantly flushed, and if she’d known this sort of indulgence existed in the Muggle world, she might’ve given fewer tantrums about coming on this ridiculous trip in the first place.

“Tolerable?” Hermione asked, amusement tugging at her mouth as they walked down a dim corridor perfumed with something vaguely lavender-scented.

“More than,” Pansy murmured, refusing to show just how close she’d come to purring under the massage therapist’s hands. “Though the music is unforgivable.”

Hermione laughed under her breath but didn’t press the point. She seemed more relaxed too, which pleased Pansy far more than she cared to admit.

They slipped into the sauna with the quiet ease of a shared secret. Pansy had spotted it in the brochure and decided immediately that it would be the perfect way to finish off their afternoon—heat, silence, and Hermione in a towel. She stepped through the cedar-scented haze like a queen into her chambers, claiming a spot on the upper bench with practiced grace.

“You know Granger, I will let you take me to see more Muggle nonsense if it involves stuff like this.”

Hermione tilted her head, clearly amused, and settled onto the bench beside her. “Stuff like what, exactly?”

“Like this,” Pansy waved an elegant hand through the steam, indicating the gentle hiss of the sauna, the smooth warmth of polished cedar, and the luxurious robes that hung just outside the door. “Quiet. Comfortable. Ridiculously indulgent. You not wearing much.”

Hermione gave a soft laugh, leaning back against the warm wood, eyes half-closed. “So, you'll endure Muggle nonsense, provided it involves excessive pampering?”

“Precisely,” Pansy replied, stretching out her legs. She allowed herself a small, satisfied smile. “I have standards.”

Hermione shook her head, still smiling softly, her cheeks flushed a deeper pink from the warmth. “Of course you do.”

They fell quiet for a moment, steam wrapping around them like a protective charm. Pansy closed her eyes, letting the warmth seep into her muscles, tension melting away slowly, layer by layer. Beside her, Hermione sighed contentedly, and their shoulders brushed lightly together.

Pansy decided she liked that too.

It was odd, she mused, how easily she'd grown used to this—the calm, the closeness, the quiet certainty of Hermione’s presence beside her. It was becoming harder to remember why she'd resisted it for so long.

Still, she supposed, there were worse things than being proven wrong—especially when it felt like this.

Unfortunately, their time in the spa was short-lived, and soon Pansy found herself trekking back through Main Street USA, her mind boggled at all of the merchandise in the shop windows. She hadn’t thought there could possibly be this many ways to emblazon the face of one oversized mouse onto everyday objects, and yet—Muggles had done it. Repeatedly. Without shame.

Pansy slowed her pace, eyes widening slightly as they passed a particularly garish window display. "Granger, look at this," she said, nudging Hermione lightly.

Hermione paused beside her, glancing at the window. "It’s a plush Mickey Mouse, Pansy."

"No, it's a giant plush Mickey Mouse," Pansy corrected, arching a brow. "It's larger than most first-years. What exactly is one supposed to do with it?"

"Cuddle it?" Hermione offered, grinning at Pansy’s horrified expression.

"Absolutely not," Pansy muttered, shaking her head and tugging Hermione further along the bustling street. "I'll tolerate the ears, but if you suggest bringing that monstrosity back to Hogwarts, I’m leaving you here."

Hermione laughed softly. "Noted."

Despite herself, Pansy found her gaze drifting from window to window—glittering ornaments, pastel confectionery arranged in dizzying patterns, and clothing bearing slogans so absurd they nearly circled back to being amusing. And at her side, Hermione’s hand rested comfortably in hers, a gentle anchor amidst the surreal chaos.

If someone had told her even a month ago that she'd find herself walking hand-in-hand through a Muggle theme park, willingly, and without complaint—well, much complaint—she'd have hexed them into next week. Yet here she was.

“I need to find something truly awful for Daphne,” Pansy said, “if I’m being forced to partake in this glittery embarrassment then I want a friend to share my shame.”

Hermione grinned, clearly entertained. “You’re not being forced. You’re holding my hand and making comments about candy floss like you’re on some sort of anthropological expedition.”

“I am,” Pansy said primly. “An elite field researcher studying the alarming rituals of Muggles and their rodent overlords.”

“Mickey isn’t an overlord, honestly.” Hermione said, rolling her eyes, “in fact, come with me.”

Pansy immediately bristled. “Granger. No. I’ve tolerated the ears, the children, the terrifying mine carts. But if you think I’m going to stand in line to meet a mascot in a velvet tuxedo—”

Hermione didn’t stop walking.

“Granger,” Pansy hissed, heels clacking as she was half-dragged across Fantasyland. “This is beneath me. I am a Parkinson.”

“Yes, and this Parkinson is about to meet royalty,” Hermione said cheerfully, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease. “It’ll be good for your humility.”

“How is meeting this Mick the Mouse fellow good for my humility?”

“Because he has a much higher social standing than you.” Hermione's eyes sparkled as she glanced over her shoulder. “He owns the entire park. You own a wand and a handful of scowls.”

Pansy huffed, trying and failing to wriggle her hand free. “I also own dignity, which I’d like to keep.”

“Too late,” Hermione replied sweetly, nodding toward the waiting area outside Mickey’s theatre. “You wore sequinned ears all morning and screamed on Temple of Peril.”

“That was not a scream,” Pansy snapped. “It was a startled exhale under duress.”

They stepped into the queue, where small children were squealing and bouncing with excitement, one even waving a plush Minnie Mouse by the tail. Pansy eyed them like she was observing a particularly wild species through glass.

“This is a cult,” she said flatly.

“It’s a mouse in a tuxedo.”

“A tuxedo, Granger. Before five o’clock. That’s how you know he’s unwell.”

Hermione laughed but gave her hand a squeeze. “Be nice.”

When they were finally ushered inside, Pansy froze. The room was dimly lit like a stage dressing room, with deep red curtains and soft music playing from nowhere, and there—waving with comically large gloves—stood Mick the Mouse. Beside him, Minnie offered a bow that, Pansy had to admit, was remarkably elegant for someone with eyelashes the size of brooms.

Mick the Mouse opened his arms to her.

“No,” Pansy said firmly. “Absolutely not.”

The mouse waddled a step closer.

“Granger, he’s approaching.”

Hermione, already halfway into her own hug, smiled over Mick’s shoulder. “Just embrace it.”

Pansy glared at her. Then, with an expression like someone preparing to touch a Blast-Ended Skrewt, she stepped forward and allowed herself to be hugged.

Minnie squeaked in delight and took Pansy’s hand, giving it a fluttery shake. There was a camera flash, and then another—Hermione now standing beside her, beaming as if this were the highlight of her year.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” Pansy muttered.

“Immensely.”

They posed again, and this time, just before the shutter clicked, Hermione kissed Pansy on the cheek. Pansy turned to snap at her—and the second flash went off just in time to catch her blushing.

As they exited back into the sun, Pansy muttered, “I hope you realise that photograph is a war crime.”

Hermione only smiled and laced their fingers together again. “It’s going in my scrapbook.”

“Burn it,” Pansy grumbled, though she didn’t let go. “Or better yet, I’ll send it to Daphne. She’ll assume I’ve been Imperiused and send help right away.”

Hermione’s laugh rang like a bell as they crossed into the central square again, Sleeping Beauty Castle looming ahead in its pastel glory. Another photographer gestured to them, and before Pansy could protest, Hermione was pulling her in again, wrapping an arm around her waist.

“Just one more,” she said, and this time Pansy leaned in willingly.

The camera flashed as Hermione kissed her cheek again, and this time, Pansy smiled.

Hermione was still chuckling under her breath as they left the castle behind, waving to Minnie Mouse like they were old friends. Pansy had kept her face carefully neutral throughout the whole interaction, offering a single, deeply reluctant handshake to the mouse in question and nearly hexing the cast member who tried to make her curtsy. She wouldn’t admit it out loud — not yet, anyway — but Hermione’s amusement had made the ordeal bearable. Maybe even worth it.

The sun was sinking now, draping everything in gold. They had maybe four hours left before the park began to close, and Pansy felt that truth settle like a quiet pressure in her chest. Tomorrow they would be back on the train. Back in shoes that pinched, robes that scratched. Back in a castle filled with stares and secrets. But not yet.

Not while the sky still shimmered and the smell of caramel and popcorn clung to the air.

They wandered lazily through the park again, no longer rushing for rides or squinting at maps. This time, they let themselves be pulled along by impulse — stopping to watch a parade of glowing floats, trailing after a marching band that played suspiciously catchy tunes, detouring into shops so Hermione could point out ridiculous keychains and Pansy could make snide remarks about plush toys shaped like lions.

They rode the carousel — Hermione insisted, and Pansy only objected once. She chose the most aloof-looking white horse she could find and made a show of looking bored, though she held Hermione’s hand the whole time.

Later, they shared something called a “Mickey-shaped pretzel,” which Hermione claimed was a rite of passage. It was far too salty, a little doughy, and inexplicably satisfying. Pansy tried a bite, made a face, tried another, then refused to give it back.

“I thought it was disgusting,” Hermione had said, laughing as Pansy licked salt from her fingertips.

“It is,” Pansy replied, taking another bite.

Dinner was a quiet affair at one of the nicer restaurants in the hotel — white linen tablecloths, low candlelight, waiters who didn’t flinch at Pansy’s tone. It wasn’t the sort of place she would’ve imagined enjoying with anyone, let alone Hermione Granger, but here they were. Sharing bites of dessert, fingers brushing occasionally beneath the table, conversation dipping in and out of comfort and something else — something new.

Hermione didn’t ask her what would happen when they returned to school.

Pansy didn’t ask either.

But something unspoken passed between them during that meal. Something warmer than the wine, steadier than the music drifting from the corner of the dining room. The storm that had defined so much of their time — all the biting remarks, the sidelong glances, the careful distance they’d kept — it had begun to unravel, and somehow, it hadn’t left her hollow.

It had left her lighter.

The sky was nearly dark by the time they found their spot beneath the castle again. Lanterns glowed softly along Main Street, casting pools of warm golden light onto the cobblestones, and anticipation rippled through the crowd, hushed and electric. Pansy leaned gently against Hermione, feeling strangely quiet despite the chaos around them. Her fingers were still entwined with Hermione’s, a quiet reassurance, a comforting certainty.

She looked up at the castle, silhouetted against a velvet sky, its spires faintly illuminated by pale pink and lavender lights. She couldn’t help but smile. It was still ridiculous, still entirely too pink—but it had somehow become theirs. Their place. Their secret, safe haven hidden inside a world they didn’t fully belong to.

The first firework exploded overhead in a brilliant burst of silver and blue. Pansy jumped slightly, her breath catching—then laughed softly at her own nerves. Hermione tightened her grip reassuringly, eyes sparkling with reflected light as the colours washed over her face.

“It really is beautiful,” Pansy murmured, almost reluctantly. “Even if it is excessive.”

Hermione’s smile was gentle, her voice warm beneath the rising crescendo of music. “I think we deserve excessive, don’t you?”

Pansy nodded, turning to face her fully. The next firework filled the sky in dazzling shades of crimson and gold, casting a gentle glow across Hermione’s features, painting them both in warm, flickering light. For a moment, the noise, the crowd, even the fireworks themselves seemed to fade away, leaving nothing but the two of them.

She knew tomorrow would bring questions—curious glances, whispered speculation, possibly even open disdain. Hogwarts, for all its wonders, was far from a forgiving place. There were expectations, reputations, shadows of the past waiting to drag them back into uncertainty. But here, standing with Hermione beneath a sky filled with fire and light, Pansy realised she no longer cared.

“Are you worried?” Hermione asked quietly, as if reading her thoughts.

“Terrified,” Pansy admitted softly. She squeezed Hermione’s hand tighter.

Hermione nodded slowly, her thumb brushing softly over Pansy’s knuckles, a gentle reassurance that felt impossibly steady amidst the blaze of fireworks above.

“Me too,” Hermione whispered. Her voice was barely audible over the music, the cheering, the distant boom of colour against the night sky. “But we’ll figure it out. Together.”

Pansy turned to look at her, catching the honesty in Hermione’s eyes, the quiet determination that made her heart ache in the best way possible.

“Promise?” Pansy asked, hating the tremor she heard in her own voice.

Hermione smiled softly, leaning in until their foreheads touched, their breaths mingling gently in the space between them. “Promise.”

Above them, the finale began, dazzling cascades of silver and gold tumbling through the sky, bathing the world in light. Pansy’s pulse quickened, and she let herself surrender to the moment—the warmth of Hermione’s hand, the quiet promise hanging between them, the brilliant lights reflecting in Hermione’s eyes.

Tomorrow would come whether she wanted it to or not, bringing all the questions and expectations she feared. But standing beneath this magical, impossible sky, Pansy allowed herself to hope.

Whatever storm came next, they’d weather it together.

Chapter Text

Thank you for reading Unravelling the Storm. If you enjoyed this story you should; 

Follow IronManRidingaNimbus to keep up to date with my latest content as soon as it becomes available.

Help others find this story by sharing it across Ao3 and Social Media. 

Check out other works by IronManRidingaNimbus on Ao3, Wattpad, and Fanfiction. 

The first storm may be over, but Pansy and Hermione's story has only just begun. Read on for an extended preview of Weathering the Storm, coming August 2025. 

After a secret holiday in Disneyland Paris, Hermione Granger and Pansy Parkinson return to Hogwarts with more than just souvenirs—they return with a secret. Behind cold glares and well-rehearsed insults lies a fragile relationship, one that depends on secrecy and survival in a castle still learning how to forgive.

But the past isn’t finished with them.

As Hermione takes on new responsibilities within the school, shadows of the war begin to stir—quiet threats, cryptic messages, and an unsettling sense that someone is watching. Pansy does what she can to protect what they’ve built, but the danger is no longer behind them. It’s here.

When secrecy becomes a weapon and trust begins to fray, they must decide how far they’re willing to go to keep each other safe.

Because unravelling the storm was only the beginning.

Chapter 1

Snow drifted softly onto the pink cobblestones of Main Street, clinging to lampposts wrapped in golden garlands and the edges of towering toyshop displays. The castle in the distance—pale and glittering under a grey December sky—looked like something out of a children’s storybook, too lovely to be real. The music, soft and tinkling through hidden speakers, mingled with the hush of snowfall and the chatter of early guests filtering through the gates.

Hermione pulled her scarf tighter around her neck, her gloved fingers laced with Pansy's as they strolled slowly through the nearly empty street. It was still early—too early for crowds—and the park felt like it belonged only to them. A private kingdom, carved out in the Muggle world and left untouched by war or wizarding bloodlines or expectations.

Pansy walked with the unhurried grace of someone trying to imprint every last detail into memory. Her hair was tied back beneath the absurd but beloved Mickey Mouse ears Hermione had bought her—red sequins with a tiny bow—and her expression, usually so carefully arranged into cool indifference, was unguarded. Soft, even. She glanced up at the falling snow.

“It's snowing,” she murmured, like she hadn’t quite believed it until now.

Hermione smiled, squeezing her hand. “I told you the weather would turn.”

Pansy gave a little hum in reply, then paused, tugging gently until they stopped beneath a lamppost strung with fairy lights. Around them, the world smelled of cinnamon, caramel, and sweet toasted almonds.

“I don’t want to go back,” Pansy said plainly. No flourish. Just the truth.

Hermione looked at her. “Neither do I.”

Three days. That was all they'd had. Three days of wandering cobbled lanes, of dizzying rides, of laughter and bickering and late nights pressed together beneath hotel sheets, safe in their own little pocket of anonymity. No staring. No whispers. No slurs murmured behind hands. In Paris, they were just two girls. Two people.

“We could stay,” Hermione offered, knowing it was foolish even as the words left her mouth. “Catch a train somewhere else. Disappear.”

Pansy’s eyes flicked to her, dry and amused. “And miss my chance to win back the hearts and minds of Britain’s magical youth? Tragic.”

Hermione let out a soft laugh. “I’m serious.”

“So am I. I’ve got a reputation to repair. It’s been a while since anyone publicly loathed me to my face, save for Weasley.”

Hermione turned toward her fully. “You know it won’t be easy.”

“It never has been.” Pansy looked away, then back, her tone softening. “But at least now, I have... something else.”

There was a pause, heavy with everything they couldn’t name yet. Snow clung to the edge of Pansy’s lashes. Her cheeks were pink from the cold. She looked heartbreakingly lovely.

Hermione stepped in close, tilting her chin up.

The kiss was slow, and full of something final—not regret, but the ache of departure. Around them, the park was waking up. A small parade float began moving somewhere beyond the square, the echo of music growing stronger. But for a moment, none of that mattered.

When they broke apart, Pansy rested her forehead against Hermione’s.

“Let’s just promise,” she whispered. “When we go back—when it gets hard—we won’t pretend this didn’t happen.”

Hermione nodded, throat tight. “I won’t let anyone make me regret this.”

Pansy smiled, small and true.

“Well then,” she said, drawing back and tucking her hand into Hermione’s coat pocket alongside her own, “let’s take one last lap before they throw us out of the kingdom.”

So they walked, arm in arm through a fairy-tale built by strangers, holding tight to the memory of three impossible days. Before the castle turned to stone. Before the whispers began again. Before the storm returned.

“Are you sure you don’t want one last ride on Space Mountain?”

“I told you, I’d rather duel a Hungarian Horntail naked in front of the whole school than ride that monstrosity again."