this bitch!

by cxgarettesaftersex

Summary:

Being the only Muggleborn in Slytherin wasn’t particularly easy for Hermione Granger, but apparently, Pansy Parkinson had to make life even harder. How? By pissing her off, all simple. Why? Because every time Hermione snapped back, it was exactly like fireworks.

Except this year is their last at Hogwarts, and Hermione has decided to make Pansy’s life hell back.

Or,

That time when Pansy decided to flip her life upside down because she saw boobs for the first time, and that time Hermione definitely participated in it.

[ALTERNATE UNIVERSE: NO VOLDEMORT, SLYTHERIN HERMIONE GRANGER]

Notes:

Discord server:

https://discord.gg/32uc2FK72

Spotify Playlist:

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5AxHkHdYn6u3GQM9PyZwih?si=qp2Zo45NRIC6pb6-cYsvMg&pi=TkFdiaeYRpyd1

Apple Music Playlist:

https://music.apple.com/fr/playlist/this-bitch/pl.u-pMyl1paUW9xV84r?l=en

Chapter 1: Declaration Of War

"I'm telling you, I hate this bitch."

"Bloody hell, Granger!"

The latter rolled her eyes and kept sorting through her books on the ground, jaw clenched. Her clothes and shoes and school supplies were scattered on the floor, dimly lit the corridor's torches.

As if being the only Muggleborn in Slytherin wasn't hard enough, fate had decided to slide Pansy Parkinson in Hermione Granger's life. When the Sorting Hat had yelled "Slytherin!" after staying on Hermione's head for what felt like years, she hadn't fully grasped the implications.

Shock had taken the most space in her mind. Because why would the hat sort her in Slytherin? Hermione was a Muggleborn, and hadn't been afraid to say it at first. She was stubborn, but smart enough to know how to keep a low profile. She had prayed and begged and implored her director, Severus Snape, to arrange a meeting with Headmaster Dumbledore and to sort her into another house. But Snape hated her, and it was greatly reciprocated. Surprisingly, Hermione's first three years at Hogwarts had been lonely but peaceful. She didn't make friends in her house, she had no time for that. She wanted to nail all her exams and show everyone she belonged in Ravenclaw, heck, even in Gryffindor, instead of the House of Serpents. That led to her becoming Slytherin's Know It All. Hermione didn't mind. She didn't need friends. She wished she had some when fourth year began.

If at first, Draco Malfoy, Pansy Parkinson and all their minions didn't pay much attention to her, when Hermione started dating Viktor Krum, Parkinson died of jealousy. From that point on, she apparently decided to make Hermione's life miserable. The icing on the pumpkin pie was eventually discovering Hermione was a Muggleborn in Slytherin, on that dreary day of January 1995. Pansy had made learning about this fact her life accomplishment. Hermione hadn't had a day of peace ever since. Pansy had jinxed her teeth, lit her hair on fire, purposely pushed her in the corridors, always looking for a fight. Hermione had always kept her chin up, refusing to engage in such idiotic ministrations.

But today, Tuesday, September 1, 1997, at 11 in the evening, Hermione decided she had enough when she opened her school bag and discovered someone had slipped a Chizpurfle inside. The little crab-like creature had left bites on almost all of her books, and excrements on her school scarf, notes and parchments.

"Are you even sure she did this?" mumbled Harry Potter, waving his wand to repair the gnawed book covers.

"Certainly. You don't know her like I do," replied Hermione. She interrupted herself, grabbing the nearest thing that could trap the Chizpurfle, and trapped the little creature by slapping the glass hard on the floor.

Hermione's social life hadn't been so disastrous as one might expect. Strangely, she had found some friendly acquaintances in other houses. She had never been close to Harry Potter or his best friend, Ron Weasley, despite briefly sitting with them in the Hogwarts Express in 1991. Being sorted in other houses didn't help for a friendship to bloom. But she had always been cordial and a bit friendly with them, and they had reciprocated, since Hermione was the only Slytherin student who didn't want the Gryffindor House dead and buried.

Hermione also often found herself studying in the library next to Luna Lovegood. The younger girl was strange, to be concise. She almost always looked completely lost in her own world, but she could have interesting conversations, though Hermione had to refrain herself from laughing at her face when Luna started talking about Nargles. Luna also baked prodigious chocolate chip cookies. Hermione suspected her of adding unicorn hair to her cookies as they were addictive.

But Hermione's closest friends were Theodore Nott and Daphne Greengrass. Theodore had asked her out in fifth year. She had looked at him with wide eyes, immediately thinking he was doing it as a dare or something. She was surprised when she realised her classmates, whom she had almost never interacted with, was actually really intelligent and didn't care about her Muggle origins. He was also a bit like a child, with a lopsided grin and a boyish face. They went on a few dates in Hogsmeade, before Hermione realised she looked at him more like a little brother than anything else after dating him for three months. Kissing him was... icky.

Daphne hated Pansy and Draco, and Hermione had bonded with her over this shared experience. Pansy had stolen Draco from her when they were fourteen, snogging him in the hallways while Daphne was supposed to be his girlfriend. Hermione had found her crying in her bed, which was next to hers, and they had made a pact to destroy this duo.

"Granger, how could Parkinson even add a Chizpurfle into your bag?" asked Harry, scratching the back of his head.

"I told you, I left it unattended for a minute in the compartment to go to the bathroom. I crossed her in the hallway when I went back to my seat, and her pug face was much too proud to be innocent."

Harry kneeled to gather the last of Hermione's books, and she addressed him a brief smile.

"Thank you, Potter. For making this easier. I know being named Head Boy with me wasn't exceptionally great news for you."

"It's not supposed to be hard, you know," Harry replied. "The only thing that would have made me want to kill you was for you to be Parkinson, or Crabbe, for example."

Hermione had a shiver of disgust.

"Maybe we could get to the first name basis?" proposed Hermione, getting up.

Harry put his wand in the back pocket of his jeans and shrugged.

"Maybe. I still don't exactly trust you."

"What, because I'm a Slytherin?"

"Yes. That, and because Slytherin is known for rarely-slash-occasionally-slash-never accept Muggleborns in its house. How mischievous and unhinged and determined must you be to still get sorted there?"

Hermione didn't detect any aggression in his tone. Instead, Harry appeared kind of cheeky. She flattened her skirt and crossed her arms.

"I don't know. I must have repressed it because I was desperate to change houses."

"I wouldn't want to be there when you decide to let it out," chuckled Harry.

Hermione smiled, easing the tension in her shoulders. She leaned back down, grabbing the lid of her jar and imprisoning the Chizpurfle inside. She put the jar back in her bag and started walking to her dorm, feeling a bit more light hearted than before.

"Good night, Harry," she said over her shoulder.

"Good night, Hermione."

A fresh whiff of wind blew through her curls as Hermione reached the lower floors. When she got down the last stairs, the corridors leading to Slytherin's common room were already dark, the torches dimly lighting the stone walls. Hermione sighed when she approached the hidden stone door behind some pillars. She pressed her hand against the cold surface and looked right in front of her.

"Et serpentes semper uniuntur."

The door opened, rolling on the floor. Hermione lowered her eyes, stepping down the stairs leading to the common room. Really, if she had been the one to choose the password, then she clearly wouldn't have picked this one. "And the snakes will always unite..." Dragon crap.

She noticed Draco and Astoria in the middle of a heated snogging session and smirked. Apparently, Parkinson got dumped. Hermione made sure she noted this fact in the back of her head. Daphne, who was in the middle of a chess tournament with Theo, got up from her chair and briefly hugged her.

"Hey, you're late! What happened?"

"Pansy Parkinson happened," shrugged Hermione. "She slipped a Chizpurfle in my bag, so it gnawed the handles. Potter helped me to gather all my stuff after our reunion with Dumbledore and the house directors."

"You know how much I love the beef between you and Pansy," yawned Theo. "How do you know it's her, though?"

"Who else?"

"Draco?" suggested Theo.

"Yeah. No. He's too busy reaching my sister's glottis," interrupted Daphne, glancing at them with a disgusted frown.

"You sound tense, Daphne," smiled Hermione.

"It's because I am! Our parents are way too happy that she's dating this dickhead. I hate that he's snogging my baby sister," she said through gritted teeth, glaring at Malfoy.

"Yes, how come he broke up with Pansy?" asked Theo, pushing his chair to look at the two girls better instead of getting up.

"They probably got sick of each other. I wouldn't blame them. Evil people date evil people," replied dryly Daphne. "This doesn't apply to my sister, though. Hence why I can't understand what she's doing with this jerk."

"I haven't finished my Chizpurfle story," slid Hermione.

Unable to refrain her proud smile, she took out the jar of her handbag.

"Let's just say Pansy Parkinson is going to spend a terrible night when she realises her Chizpurfle is eating her silk gowns," murmured Hermione, leaning closer to Daphne.

The latter opened her blue eyes wide, and Theo fell off his chair.

"Wicked," whispered Daphne, ignoring Theo. "We better do it now, she's in the bathroom!"

"So this it it?" Theo yelled, as the two girls started to run down the stairs leading to their dorm. "Revenge time?"

Hermione stopped and addressed him with a solar smile. "Theodore, this isn't revenge time. See, for years, I've been losing battles after battles. This, my dear Theo; is a declaration of war."

Theo looked like he had just realised Christmas was happening tomorrow. Hermione didn't wait for his approval and rushed inside her dorm, throwing her handbag on her bed.

It was the closest to the big windows under the lake, basked in a constant green light. Hermione had always made sure her bed space was neatly organised, her textbooks on her right bedside table, her personal books on the other table. There were knitted covers on her bed because strangely, she was always, always cold in the dorms, and a never ending candle she charmed on her left table. This time, however, Hermione didn't immediately put her handbag at the feet of her bed like she always did for seven years. Instead, she completely ignored it and focused on the jar in her hand. She tiptoed to Pansy's bed. It was the farthest from hers, four beds away, always a bit messy, reeking of perfume and with clothing magazines all over the covers and tables. Hermione carefully opened the lid, letting the little crab-like creature slither in Pansy's covers. Daphne looked at her like she had suddenly fallen in love.

But the door of the dorm opened again, and the noise of Pansy and all the other girls chatting echoed in the room. Hermione grabbed Daphne's arm and threw her in her bed, closing the posters.

"I can't believe you're finally entering the game. What made you take this decision?"

Hermione crossed her legs, untying her green and silver tie. Harry's words resounded in her mind.

"I don't know. It's not about the Chizpurfle. It's more about stopping to repress myself. Finally admitting I want to strangle her."

"I thought you always wanted to be the bigger person by never responding," replied Daphne.

"I can still be the bigger person and make her life considerably harder. I'm tired of letting her walk all over me. I'm tired of being a doormat, Daphne."

"You're not a doormat. You're genuinely one of the kindest people I know, and that's why I like you, Hermione," she said, concerned.

"I can still be kind and crush Pansy's will to live at the same time."

"Do you have ideas? Because me and Theo will help, you know that."

"I do. And yes, I know I'll need you two. Thank you, Daphne."

The blonde witch bounced on Hermione's bed, sitting more comfortably on her mattress.

"So how do we start?" she inquired, lowering her tone, as the other girls started sitting on their respective beds.

"Green is Pansy's favourite colour, right?"

"Probably."

"You know what's really hard to wash off? Murlap blood. You know what's also recognised for its dark green colour? Murlap blood. And you know what's on our ingredients list for potions this year?"

"Murlap blood," cut off Daphne. "Spilling this on her clothes would be fun, yes, but I'm sure she'd find a way to style it anyway."

Hermione pouted. "It'd be a shame if Pansy found Murlap blood in her expensive keratin shampoo, right?"

Daphne's eyes brightened. She looked almost like a demon.

"It'd be such a shame. Careful, me and Theo are going to fall in love with you if you keep being this evil."

"You two are already engrossed with me anyway," chuckled Hermione, blowing her a kiss. Pink sparkles took the form of a lip print flew from her hand to Daphne.

Daphne giggled, raising her hand to catch the kiss print.

"Sounds like Pansy's going to bed," she said in a low voice.

Hermione opened her posters, and Daphne settled on her own bed next to Hermione's, grabbing a book. She was a terrible faker, and it was obvious her eyes were fixated on Pansy's bed, a few metres away.

Hermione's eyes were glued on her too. Pansy's black hair was ridiculously shiny, reaching the base of her neck. Her short black bangs covered her forehead impeccably, making her almond eyes look even darker. Pansy took off her brick lipstick with a tissue with exaggerated mannerism, sitting graciously on her bed. She was wearing pink lace shorts and a quite revealing top of the same colour. She looked like a doll. Always perfect, polished and conventionally pretty. The strap slipped, revealing Pansy's naked shoulder when she sat. Hermione was already seething. She turned her head, sharing a glance with Daphne. The latter was doing her best to hide her smile, and was very poor with it. When Pansy slid her long, impeccably shaved legs under the covers, Hermione didn't control her smile either.

"And... show time."

"AAAH!"

Hermione grabbed the nearest book and hid her face with it, occasionally stealing glances. Pansy was going into hysterics, throwing all her bed covers on the floor. Tracey David and Millicent Bulstrode, next to her, immediately joined her in her panic, screaming and jumping on their bed to avoid the little crab creature who was now running on the ground. Pansy's covers had holes everywhere, and almost all her magazines were ripped apart. Hermione's smile enlarged when she saw the excrements in Pansy's sheets.

"GRANGER!"

"Music to my ears," mumbled Hermione, lowering her book. "Yes Parkinson?"

"What the fuck did you do to my bedsheets?!" yelled Pansy, quickly walking up to her, her cheeks red with anger.

Hermione raised an eyebrow.

"Me? Nothing. Believe me, if I'd had defecated on your sheets, they wouldn't look like this."

Even Tracey snorted. Millicent was quiet too now. Daphne was in the middle of a silent laughing attack. Pansy took another step closer.

"Don't play smarty pants with me now, Granger. You slid this Chizpurfle in my bed! And it just shat everywhere!"

Hermione suddenly leaned over her bed to catch the creature again, imprisoning him back in the jar. She pushed it into Pansy's hands, raising an eyebrow.

"This is a wild accusation, Parkinson. Furthermore, without any evidence! I'm afraid I can't buy this kind of creature. They're quite expensive. Remember? I'm too poor to belong in this world. You said it yourself," said Hermione in a sweet voice.

Pansy's face went from red to almost greenish. She looked like she was about to start having an asthma attack.

"Whatever," she eructed. "You better change my sheets real quick now."

"Why would I change your sheets? I didn't do anything. You could always use a cleaning spell. Are you a witch or not?"

Hermione knew adding this last sentence was what would make Pansy explode. However, the latter didn't seem to react at all. Her dark eyes scanned Hermione's face, and she pursed her lips.

"Alright. Game on, Granger."

On those last words, Pansy abruptly turned her back to her and rushed to her bed, grabbing her wand to try to apply cleaning spells. She looked positively furious. Daphne rolled on her bed to face to Hermione's side.

"This is going to be fun."

Hermione simply hummed in response.

 

 

---

 

 

Hermione woke up to the raspy strokes of Crookshank's tongue on her cheek. She groaned, opening briefly her eyes. Her watch hadn't even beeped yet. It was seven in the morning. Hermione decided she could be up early for the first day of class. It wouldn't hurt to be the first one to arrive to Snape's potions lesson. He already despised her enough. Groaning, Hermione got out of her bed and forced her legs to guide her to the bathrooms, further downstairs. She quickly brushed her teeth, before dressing up, sticking her wand between her teeth when she wrapped her green tie around the neck of her shirt. She stared at her comb, mortified. No, she would worry about her hair another day. She was sick of curling and uncurling it all the time. Yawning, Hermione climbed the stairs, adjusting the strap of her bag, buttoning up her Slytherin robes. Theodore was waiting for her in front of the exit of the common room. The green light made his brown eyes sparkle. Hermione smiled at him. 

"Hi."

He smiled back. "I'm guessing you spent a really good night."

"Oh yeah. Very good."

Theodore chuckled. He passed his arm around her shoulders and they stepped out of the common room. Hermione yawned again, allowing her head to rest on him. 

"So what's your next step?" he asked, nibbling the nails of his free hand. 

"I'm waiting for a reaction first. See, that's the plan, Theo. I will never be the one initiating. But I will always respond. And my responses will always make her perfect little life harder."

"I kind of think it's hot."

Hermione frowned. "What?"

"The way you and Pansy hate each other so much. You're obsessed with each other."

Hermione immediately took off his arm and he laughed. 

"That's gross. And if I had to date a girl it would probably be Daphne anyway. Although this almost feels incestuous."

"Daphne?" repeated Theodore, grinning. "I thought you also enjoyed Ginny Weasley's Quidditch aptitudes. You said, I quote, she has wonderful biceps."

"Strictly on the athletic level."

"You don't want to lick Ginny Weasley's biceps?"

"No!" exclaimed Hermione, her cheeks inflaming. 

"So that's why you dumped me two years ago? Because you like girls?" murmured Theo with a snarky tone. 

"I-no! Would you stop it?!"

"I don't blame you, I like girls too," shrugged Theo. 

Hermione waved her hand to make him shut up, as they crossed the huge doors of the hall. It was already a little crowded, with a quarter of the students sitting and eating quietly at their house table. Hermione's eyes immediately went to the end of the table, where Parkinson and Malfoy usually sat. And they were indeed there, quietly chatting, not paying attention to her. Slightly reassured, Hermione sat at the middle of the table, as she always did for six years, and heard a few snickers. 

The hairs on her neck immediately straightened, but she tried to keep a neutral face. Nothing seemed odd. She glanced at Pansy. The latter smirked to her, waving her fingers to say hi. Hermione clenched her jaw, forcing herself to pour coffee into her cup, ignoring the tension in her shoulders. 

But Theo elbowed her, and she almost spilt her coffee. She turned her head, her heart skipping some beats when she saw Pansy getting up, clearly walking to her. 

"'Morning Granger."

"Slept well, Parkinson?" asked Hermione neutrally, refusing to look at her. 

"I did, thanks for asking. I meant to apologise. For the Chizpurfle. I hope this year, you and I never find ourselves in some... sticky situations."

Hermione didn't believe her at all. This was exactly what she hated about Pansy. Playing with fire all the time, blatantly lying to create a fake feeling of peace before chaos. 

"I reckoned you said the game was on."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Pansy purred. "Well, good day, I guess."

On those words, she walked away to sit back at her place. Draco, who was watching the scene, seemed like he couldn't hold back his laughter. Astoria, next to him, looked politely disgusted in him. Hermione was on edge, and Theo looked worried too. He kept his posture firm. 

"We don't believe her at all."

"Nope, we don't," murmured Hermione back, accentuating the "p". 

"What's your first class?" he asked, sipping his tea. 

"Potions with Slughorn."

"Where's Daphne by the way? I haven't seen her at all this morning."

"She's still sleeping. She begins her day at 10 with divination," explained Hermione, before munching on her toast. 

Theo tilted his head, studying her with that quiet, perceptive gaze.

"Did you add our plannings to yours to make sure we have common free time?"

Hermione only offered a small, satisfied smile. Of course she did. Always three steps ahead. Before she could answer, the huge bells of the castle tolled overhead, echoing through the Great Hall and rattling the silver goblets on the table.

"That’s my cue to go," she said lightly, pulling away from her coffee. "I’ll catch you in two hours for Charms."

Theo nodded and shifted on the bench to let her pass, but the moment Hermione pushed her hands against the table to rise, she felt resistance. It was a faint tug, like the fabric of her skirt had snagged on something rough. She frowned and tried again, shifting her weight, but the tug intensified. It was sharp, yanking backward.

Before her brain could even yell at her to beware, she stood, her first thought being assuming it was just a splinter or a nail. But she heard it. A rrrrip that echoed far too loudly in the sudden hush near their end of the table.

Hermione froze. Air swept over the backs of her thighs, cool, terrifying. Then higher. Her breath hitched, and for a split second she didn’t dare look down. But she felt the absence of fabric. A draft where her skirt's fabric should definitely be.

The table's far end exploded into laughter.

"Ay, look at that!" Goyle groaned like a gorilla.

"Nice view, Granger!" Malfoy’s voice stabbed across the table. "Do us a spin!"

Hermione’s blood turned to lava. Her ears roared with humiliation, and heat surged up her cheeks so fiercely she thought she might ignite on the spot. Theo reacted first. The bench screeched against the floor as he lurched up, rapidly unbuttoning his robe and wrapping it around her hips so quickly it almost startled her.

But Hermione barely felt it.

Because her eyes were already locked on Pansy. She was leaning back with one hand delicately over her mouth, falsely trying, and insufferably failing to stifle her laughter. Her other hand curled casually around her wand, still faintly glowing at the tip. The gleam in her eyes was unmistakable. Hermione knew it too well.

Her pulse hammered. She knew that wand glow. She knew that spell, because she had helped catalogue its variants back in fourth year. A simple sticking charm, like the innocent sort used on hanging streamers or classroom posters. 

This was exactly Pansy's mark. Using the simplest spells to hide her lack of magical knowledge, and always making sure the way she applied them made Hermione seethe. Because Pansy was inherently stupid to Hermione's eyes, always crushing the others to hide her own weaknesses. She must have jinxed the bench the moment Hermione sat down with a latching tack-hex, one that targeted specific fabrics, pulled threads together, then fused them to wood like a magical adhesive. It didn’t hold instantly; it sank, burrowed into the fibers, waited for movement. The moment Hermione stood, the hex tightened and ripped the fabric at its weakest points.

It was vicious. Deliberate. Calculated. And terribly simple. Hermione should have seen it coming.

Pansy had planned this. She had planned for her to feel stupid because she hadn't seen it coming. She wanted her on edge.

The laughter continued to ripple across the Hall, each cackle hitting Hermione like a slap. The worst part wasn’t even the cold air or the rip or Malfoy’s jeering voice. It was that Pansy had wanted her to stand. To be exposed. 

Hermione’s fingers curled into fists so tight her nails bit her palms. Never again. She absolutely refused to let Pansy Parkinson walk away smirking, pretending she’d won.

Somewhere under the rage, under the burn and embarrassment and the heat threatening to spill from her eyes, professor McGonagall and professor Slughorn had walked quickly to their table, wondering what the fuss was about. Hermione didn't hear Theo accusing Pansy coldly, nor did she listen to the latter's high pitched voice saying he had no proof. McGonagall took her by the shoulders and they walked silently to the laundry room a few corridors away.

"Miss Granger?"

"Sorry, I was elsewhere."

"If you want to talk about it, my door is opened. You don't always have to go to your House director's office."

There was a strange and very unusual pity behind McGonagall's rectangular glasses. Hermione shook her head.

"No. Nothing to talk about anymore. I've spent six years begging to deaf ears to change houses because I thought I had nothing to do here, in Slytherin. I'm sick of defending myself. I'll see you in Transfiguration, professor."

"Miss Granger, you're a Head Girl. Don't forget to give the right example to younger students. I know it's a tough role to have, especially considering the mutual dislike between you and some of the students of your house. But always remember to be the bigger person. And if anything happens, please come to my office. I will talk to the Headmaster."

"Thank you," Hermione replied mechanically, her tone flat.

But something cold crystallized inside her.

Hermione needed to break Parkinson's perfectly polished. She needed to see her losing her cool. She needed to see the real, ugly Pansy. She had a plan. She would execute it flawlessly. And Pansy wouldn’t even see it coming.

Hermione lifted her chin, grabbing a new skirt of her size.

She hated this bitch.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 2: Dyke

Notes:

CW: homophobic slurs

It wasn't funny. Strangely, this time, it actually wasn't funny. Pansy had looked at Granger's torn skirt and hadn't felt an ounce of hilarity. She had smiled, sure, because this was Granger, of all people, and because Pansy wanted to make her pay for the ruined silk bedsheets. But the strange calm and anger that she read in Granger's eyes hadn't provoked that peculiar part of Pansy's brain that made her want to laugh whenever something bad happened to Granger. She didn't find that same fury, indignation.

"Come on, Pans', let's go to Slughorn's class. We wouldn't want to miss the next Club invitation."

Slughorn's club. Pansy had almost forgotten about it. Apparently, this year, he was supposed to organize a masked ball for Halloween. Pansy wouldn't miss a party. She wasn't a member of the Club, so she had to make sure Blaise would invite her. She nodded and grabbed her bag, walking into the corridors.

Pansy knew she had always been obsessed with Hermione, somehow. Every reaction she could get from her was like a reward, every sign of attention and anger like a medal. It was strange, but Pansy loved hating her. It was familiar, comfortable. The hate they shared was Pansy's anchor, a pillar in her life. Every scream, every fight, every slur gave her a slight boost of adrenaline, pushing her to always get more, to always provoke Granger. It was like a drug. Why her? Pansy couldn't exactly tell. Granger was everything Pansy wasn't, perhaps that explained it.

But today felt different. As she stepped into the cool corridor, her shoes clicking sharply against the stone floors, Pansy found her mind circling around the image of Hermione's face, too calm, too steady. Not the flustered, outraged, righteous fury Pansy was used to. Hermione's expression had been... quiet. Controlled. And somehow that bothered Pansy more than any shouted insult or wand jab ever had. That and the Chizpurfle disaster? Yes, Granger was about to fight back. 

But what gave Granger the right to look so completely unshaken?

Pansy's fingers tightened around the strap of her bag. She told herself it was irritation, the familiar itch under her skin whenever Hermione didn't behave the way Pansy predicted. But beneath that irritation was something hotter, something that coiled in her stomach like resentment sharpened to a point. Because she noticed. Every shift of Hermione's voice, every twitch of her brows, every time Granger tucked that ridiculous hair behind her ear; as if it mattered. As if any of it should matter to Pansy Parkinson.

It infuriated her how easily Hermione could disrupt her internal balance without even trying.

"Still thinking about it?" Blaise asked lazily beside her, twirling his wand between elegant fingers.

Pansy scoffed. "Hardly."

But she was. More than she wanted to admit. The image of that torn skirt, Hermione holding the fabric together with a set jaw, shoulders stiff with what looked suspiciously like dignity, kept flashing through her mind. Pansy had expected embarrassment. Rage. But Hermione had given her nothing. Nothing except those unsettlingly steady eyes.

As they walked, Pansy felt the obsession coiling tighter around her like a familiar, unwelcome scarf. Hermione infuriated her simply by existing. By being clever, and kind, and brave in that insufferable way. No, Granger shouldn't have been placed in Slytherin. Pansy had thought about it again and again, and she still couldn't understand why. Granger was simply unbearable. By proving, over and over again, that she could rise above every petty trap or insult Pansy crafted. It drove Pansy mad.

Because she wanted Hermione to react. Needed it. Craved it.

Hermione Granger's attention, her hatred, validated Pansy more than the admiration of half of Slytherin ever had. When Hermione shouted, when she snapped, when she glared at Pansy as if she were the most frustrating creature alive, Pansy felt seen. Tangled in something fierce and electric, something she could grip with both hands.

But that quiet anger? That silence?

It terrified her. And Pansy Parkinson did not get terrified. She pushed open the door to Slughorn's classroom with a little more force than necessary. The warm scent of caramelized potions ingredients washed over her, but Pansy barely noticed. Her eyes drifted immediately, traitorously across the room.

Hermione was already there. Hair tied back. Quill poised. Unbothered. Her skirt brand new. As if nothing had happened at all.

A dangerous, smoldering heat curled in Pansy's chest. Fine, she thought. If Granger wouldn't give her the reaction she wanted, she would find a new way to take it. 

But her train of thoughts were rudely interrupted when Slughorn clapped his hands together, his face blooming with the kind of excitement.

"Now then, my dear students," he boomed, belly jutting forward as he waddled toward the front of the classroom, "today marks the beginning of something very special. You will begin to brew a potion, that will be studied by professionals for your NEWTs at the end of the year. This potion is extremely special, kids. One of the proudest achievements in any brewer's repertoire. A potion so coveted, so notoriously tricky, that even the most skilled wizards shy away from attempting it without years of study!"

A few Gryffindors straightened in their seats. The Ravenclaws leaned forward collectively, quills poised as though in a synchronized dance. Draco, to Pansy's right, watched Slughorn with mild interest, already calculating how this announcement might benefit him.

Slughorn paused theatrically.

"We are going to begin brewing Felix Felicis!"

A ripple of shocked murmuring swept through the room. Pansy arched a brow. She'd heard of the potion before, of course, liquid luck, shimmering and warm, rumored to make even a troll charming and a fool brilliant. Difficult. Temperamental. Dangerous if brewed incorrectly. The sort of thing Slughorn would salivate at the thought of guiding them through. His mustache was already shivering with euphoria.

"It will take three months to complete," Slughorn continued, his mustache twitching with barely contained pride. "Three long, careful, excruciating months." His eyes gleamed. "Patience will be your friend. Rashness your downfall. But you won't do it alone, no, no. That would simply be suicidal."

Beside her, Blaise groaned under his breath.

But Pansy barely heard any of it.

Her gaze had slipped to Granger.

She sat toward the front, of course. Perfect posture, quill already moving at a speed that made Pansy want to snap it in half. Hermione's hair was pulled back again, though a few curls had escaped, curling lightly against the side of her cheek. Pansy's eyes drifted to that single curl and lingered. She wondered if it sprung like that naturally. If it felt as soft as it looked. 

Hermione shifted in her seat, and Pansy's attention followed helplessly. Her eyes traveled the slope of her neck, the line of her jaw, the quick, efficient movement of her hand writing notes nobody else had even begun to conceptualize.

Of course she was already ahead.

Of course.

Pansy crossed her legs, mostly to stop her foot from tapping, though it didn't help in the slightest when her attention snagged on Hermione's legs as she shifted, crossing them neatly beneath the desk. Lean, toned, annoyingly strong from whatever physical activity she was practicing. Probably sex with that twink, Theodore Nott. The skirt of her uniform slid just a bit as she moved, revealing an inch more of skin than before.

Pansy's throat tightened. Irritation. Obviously it was irritation.

Her eyes landed next on Hermione's mouth. Her lips pursed in thought as she underlined something Slughorn had said. They were annoyingly pink. Soft-looking. Always drawn tight in disapproval around Pansy, which somehow made them even more impossible to ignore.

Slughorn's voice droned on, muffled and meaningless to her ears.

"… must add the powdered Ashwinder egg only after ensuring the surface has cooled, or risk the entire cauldron combusting, and we wouldn't want that, now would we?" he chuckled. "A disaster! A complete disaster!"

Hermione scribbled that down too, naturally.

Pansy wondered what it would take to make her drop that quill. Irritate her enough to ruin her perfect concentration. Just once. Just long enough to get her to turn, to glare, to react the way she used to.

But Hermione didn't turn. She didn't flick her eyes toward Pansy, didn't even seem to sense the way Pansy watched her, hungry, angry, fascinated, furious.

Slughorn continued his explanation, but the room had narrowed to a single point of focus. Hermione's eyes, bright and deep brown, completely absorbed in the lesson. Her lashes fluttering every so often when she reread a line. Her lips moving in silent repetition of a difficult step.

The door opened. Minerva McGonagall swept into the classroom like a sharp breeze, her green robes crisp, her expression tight with concern. Conversations halted. Even Slughorn paused mid-sentence.

"Oh! Minerva," he said, blinking. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

She didn't answer immediately, only leaned close to him, her voice a low whisper. The class leaned forward on their desk almost comically to hear, but McGonagall was too experienced to be overheard. Pansy only caught fragments, nothing useful. Something about house unification. She couldn't tell. Bored, Pansy took out some lip gloss of her bag and applied it on her lips. Slughorn's expression shifted from curiosity to concern, then to something softer. Sympathy, perhaps.

"Important business," he murmured. "Do keep me updated, my dear. But I shall do what is intended."

McGonagall nodded stiffly and stepped back. Her eyes swept the class briefly, passing over Hermione, Pansy, Draco, but lingering nowhere long enough to glean meaning. Then she turned and left, the door closing behind her with a quiet thud. Slughorn cleared his throat and attempted to smile, though it sat crooked on his face.

"Well then! No need for alarm, kids. Simply a bit of staff business."

Pansy didn't care about staff business. Not at that moment. Her eyes had flicked back to Hermione the instant McGonagall left.

Hermione was frowning slightly, brow pinched in worry, and something about that expression tugged at Pansy's ribcage, sharp and sudden. This. This was exactly the kind of look she wanted to see on Granger's face. And she wanted to be one provoking it.

She forced her gaze away.

Slughorn disappeared into one of the tall storage cupboards at the back of the classroom, muttering something about having misplaced his "finest Ashwinder eggs—terribly inconvenient, terribly!" The door swung shut behind him with a hollow wooden thump, and the class erupted into soft chatter.

Pansy took out her mascara.

Her eyes had slid right back to Granger again, drinking in the line of her shoulders as she leaned over her notes. The scratch of Hermione's quill pulled at Pansy's nerves like a taut string. Everything about her was infuriatingly precise, maddeningly focused. Pansy hated her so much it was almost making her shake.

Blaise leaned sideways until his shoulder bumped hers.

"Pansy," he murmured under his breath, "for Salazar's sake, stop staring at Granger like you're going to hex her or snog her. I can't tell which."

Pansy's head snapped toward him, heat rising to her cheeks. "As if I would ever snog a Mudblood."

"You haven't blinked in about two minutes. Mudblood or not, she's in Slytherin, and it's been seven years, you have to drop that."

"She has nothing to do here," replied Pansy with aggression. "And shut up, Blaise." She straightened her spine, lifting her chin. She didn't need him pointing out the painfully obvious. It wasn't her fault Granger had sat directly in her line of sight. 

Blaise gave a lazy, knowing smirk that made her want to punch him. "You know," he whispered, "there are better hobbies than obsessing over other girls who barely know you exist."

"Granger knows I exist," Pansy hissed. "I spent years pissing her off."

"Oh, I'm sure she does. In that way one knows a persistent cold exists."

Pansy's glare could have burned holes through a cauldron.

"I'm not obsessed with her."

Blaise raised a brow. "Your voice does this funny little tremor whenever you say her name. It's very… disgusting."

Pansy clenched her fists under the desk. "I don't tremor."

"You tremor." Blaise accused, leaning closer. "You also stare at her hair like you're trying to decide whether you want to comb it or set it on fire."

Blaise was leaning closer, which only irritated Pansy more.

"You're imagining things," she snapped.

"Am I?" he asked lowly, flicking his gaze toward Hermione. "Because every time she moves her quill, your neck tenses like—"

"Will you stop?" Pansy's whisper was sharp enough to slice parchment. "Merlin, Blaise, do you ever mind your own business? I'm not a fucking dyke, alright?! It's fucking disgusting!"

"When your business is glaring at Granger like a deranged Kneazle? I think you're actually a dyke."

Pansy wanted to scream. Instead, she kept her voice low, her tone venomous. "You think I like her or something? Honestly? You think that's what this is?"

Blaise shrugged. "I don't think you like her. I think you're fascinated by her. Which is worse."

"It's not fascination. It's irritation. Hatred."

"Hatred doesn't usually involve examining someone's lips for thirty seconds straight."

Pansy flushed hot enough to boil potion.

"I was not looking at—"

"Yes, you were."

"It's fucking disgusting! I could never like a girl that way, it's… unnatural!"

"Yeah, and that's why I'm trying to make you realise your obsession for Granger is really fucking gay, Pansy. It's gross. Seriously. You should stop."

Pansy's jaw clenched so tightly it ached. She flicked her eyes back to Hermione, purely out of spite, and found the brunette still immersed in her notes. Completely unaware of the storm raging three rows behind her. Somehow, that only made the pressure behind Pansy's ribs worse.

"This is your fault," she murmured.

"How," Blaise deadpanned, "is your embarrassing fixation on Hermione Granger my fault?"

"You're distracting me. Saying I could even like her this way is fucking nauseating."

"You were distracted before I opened my mouth. I'm just trying to tell you that your obsession is weird, Pansy. I wouldn't hate you if you were actually gay, but not everyone is like me. Is that why you broke up with Draco this summer?"

The words hit her like a slap. They were sharp, unexpected, uninvited. For a moment, she didn't breathe. The air around her seemed to thin, pressing against her ribs until they ached. Something inside her reacted instantly, a surge of heat rising in her throat, not anger this time but something far worse, something raw and fragile.

Her mind recoiled. Dyke. Lesbian. The words were too loud even when they were only in her head, echoing with a force she wasn't prepared to face. She wanted to bat them away like annoying pixies, pretend Blaise's voice hadn't found the one crack in her armor she'd worked so hard to polish.

Of all the things he could have thrown at her, why that?

Her breakup with Draco had been a shadowy subject all summer. There were whispers from friends, probing questions from mothers, curious glances from their Housemates. She'd brushed it off each time, tossing the answer aside with a casual shrug she didn't feel. "It wasn't working," she had said. "We got bored. We argued. I wanted something else."

She had never defined what "something else" meant.

And now Blaise's question twisted the words into something sharper, something uncomfortable, something that scraped too close to truth.

A tightness welled behind her eyes, sudden and unbearable. Tears. Real ones. Rising before she could shove them down. She blinked hard, forcing her gaze to the table, to her hands, anywhere but at Blaise or Hermione or the blur of students around her. Any flicker of eye contact would shatter her into something she couldn't piece back together.

She tried to summon anger, her favorite shield, her sharpest weapon, but it wouldn't come. Not fully. It sputtered weakly inside her chest, collapsing under the weight of the question she didn't want to answer.

She looked at Draco. He was tall, handsome, perfectly matched in blood and family name. He had been safe, expected. When he kissed her, she knew exactly what it was supposed to look like. What it meant. She had liked the idea of him, the ease of their pairing. Their relationship had always been neat, polished, presentable. When he fucked her, it was exactly like this. Empty, perfect, suited.

But she remembered the hollow feeling that came after kisses and sex, the way her mind drifted elsewhere, the quiet sense of wrongness she never spoke aloud. She'd felt as though she were reading a script she didn't believe in, saying the lines without understanding the story.

And when she finally ended things, she'd told herself it was because Draco was moody, demanding, impossible. The reasons were good enough. Easy enough. Nobody questioned them.

Blaise's words dug deeper, turning over stones she had never dared lift. She felt something twist inside her. Grief, shame, fear, confusion. A hundred tangled threads she couldn't unravel.

She didn't want to be gay. She didn't want to want things she wasn't allowed to want. She didn't want to look at another girl and feel her pulse skip, her breath catch, her thoughts spiral. She didn't want the truth to be staring her in the face, reflected in every glance she pretended wasn't lingering.

She stayed silent.

Her throat burned. Her hands trembled slightly where they rested on the table. She kept her face angled away from Blaise, from anyone who might see the fracture in her expression. She folded into herself, letting the silence settle like a cloak over her shoulders, heavy and suffocating. If she didn't speak, then none of it was real. If she didn't answer, then nothing had to change. But deep down, the silence felt like an admission.

After a minute of silence only broken by some of their peers' conversations, Pansy shoved his arm with her elbow. Hard. "Don't ever insult me like that again."

"I was just telling you that you should stop the Granger thing before you become a dyke."

She was about to retort, something ugly, something sharp, when the cupboard door banged open with a violent clatter. Slughorn emerged in a flurry of robes and dust, clutching a large jar of shimmering pale powder.

"Found them!" he announced triumphantly, utterly oblivious to the tension radiating from the Slytherin table. "Now then, where were we? Ah yes, Felix Felicis, the trickiest of temptresses!"

Blaise sat back, but no smirk was on his face. Pansy forced her attention to Slughorn. He bustled back to the front of the room, arms overflowing with jars, vials, and an entire tray of shimmering silver instruments. He set everything down with a heavy clatter, sending a faint cloud of golden Ashwinder dust into the air. The room quieted instantly.

Pansy forced her face into something neutral, collected, composed. Her heartbeat still felt uneven, as if Blaise's words were echoing through her bones, but she kept her hands steady on her desk. She didn't dare glance at him. She didn't dare glance at her, either.

Slughorn cleared his throat, puffing his chest like a pleased rooster.
"Now, now! Since Felix Felicis is such a delicate and lengthy endeavor, you'll be working in pairs, as I said before—pairs I've chosen with great care and consideration."

Pansy's stomach dropped. Of course he had chosen. Of course she had no control left today.

Slughorn continued, flipping open a long parchment.
"These partnerships will last the full three months, so do try to get along. Cooperation is the bedrock of advanced potion-making, after all!"

A murmur rolled across the classroom. Students exchanged hopeful glances, nervous ones, resigned ones.

Pansy sat very still, fingers curling against the edge of the table. She felt Blaise shift beside her, felt the air change.

Slughorn began listing names.

"Abbott and Macmillan!"

"Greengrass and Nott!"

"Zabini and Weasley!"

Blaise groaned quietly. Pansy almost laughed. Almost.

"Longbottom and Potter!"

"Malfoy and Finnegan!"

Another wave of chatter.

Pansy waited, breath held tight in her chest. Surely she would be paired with someone tolerable. Even Boot would be fine. Anyone would be fine.

Anyone but—

"And next," Slughorn announced, oblivious to the tightening coil in her gut, "Parkinson and Granger!"

She whipped her head up, eyes wide before she could stop them. Hermione was already looking back, startled, brows raised. That calm, steady gaze, so infuriating, so unreadable, hit Pansy with the force of a misfired Stunning Spell.

Her heartbeat stuttered.

Three months. With Hermione. Alone. Working together. Breathing the same potion fumes, sharing the same cauldron, standing shoulder-to-shoulder. Panic crawled up her spine, hot and electric.

Slughorn continued reading the list, oblivious to the way Pansy's world had tilted sharply sideways. She barely heard him; the words were a distant buzz behind the rushing in her ears.

Hermione turned forward again, already writing something down, her quill scratching in that steady, infuriating rhythm. As if the news meant nothing to her. As if the idea of working with Pansy wasn't horrifying.

Pansy's breath came too fast. She tried to force her face into neutrality, but she could feel her pulse in her lips, her fingertips, her temples. Every part of her felt too alive, too aware, too exposed.

Three months.

She couldn't do this. Not with Granger. Not when she couldn't even trust her own reactions anymore. Not when Blaise's words were still echoing inside her, stirring up everything she wasn't ready to face.

She felt like she was standing on a precipice, and Slughorn, in his blissful ignorance, had just given her a shove toward the edge.

"Oh no. Nope, no way," said Pansy, her throat tight and her voice crisp.

Hermione gathered her notes with a neat, efficient sweep of her hand and stood, moving toward Pansy's table without hesitation, without even a flicker of discomfort. As if this arrangement were perfectly ordinary. As if Pansy weren't seconds from either fainting or throwing herself out the nearest window.

Students all around them shuffled seats, scraping chairs across stone, murmuring to their newly assigned partners. The room buzzed with excitement. Granger sat beside her. Right beside her.

Close enough that Pansy felt the warmth of her arm through her sleeve. Close enough that the faint scent of cinnamon, Hermione's shampoo, of course she had noticed it before, she wasn't deranged.

Granger calmly opened her book, smoothing the page with the flat of her palm. Still maddeningly composed. Still focused. Still so Grangeresque.

Meanwhile, Pansy's mind ricocheted wildly.

Her chest was too tight. Her hands too stiff. Her thoughts too loud. She couldn't let Hermione see any of it.

Hermione glanced at her briefly, her expression polite, unreadable. "We should start by reviewing the first stage," she said mildly, pointing at a line of instructions.

Pansy stared at the page. She couldn't read a single word. Her pulse drowned everything out, every thought, every instruction, every carefully crafted lie she'd ever told herself.

"You think so?" replied Pansy with poison, unable to refrain herself.

"Well, yes, that's usually how you begin to brew a potion," replied Granger neutrally, tilting her head.

"Shut the fuck up, Granger."

"You’re so hard to follow, Parkinson. At least try to maintain a consistent attitude."

Pansy glared at her. Reluctantly, she leaned a little closer to the textbook, jaw tight, resisting the urge to snap again. Hermione's calm was insufferable, more than that, it was humiliating. As if Hermione were humoring her. As if Pansy were a tantrum-prone child.

She shifted in her seat, trying to gather her scattered thoughts, when she caught a faint yellow light blinking at her, from Granger's wand.

And suddenly, her chair split beneath her, a loud crack! echoing in the classroom.

There was no warning, only the sudden plunge of her weight and the brutal smack of her chin slamming into the edge of the table before she collapsed inelegantly onto the floor. A flash of pain shot up her jaw, bright and sharp.

And then came the laughter.

A wave of it, rolling over her in cruel bursts, Ravenclaws chuckling behind their hands, Gryffindors howling openly, someone actually snorting. even some of her friends were trying to hide their laughter. The sound hit her harder than the table had. Heat flooded her face, pain, humiliation, rage coiling like smoke beneath her skin.

She pushed herself up, breath shaking, vision blurring around the edges. Hermione leaned forward in concern, which only twisted the knife deeper.

"Are you alright Parkinson? You should've seen this chair was fragile."

Before Hermione could finish, Pansy snapped. Her hand shot out, fingers closing around Hermione's calf with white-knuckled force, yanking sharply. Hermione stumbled with a gasp, falling sideways off her stool and hitting the flagstones with a thud.

Gasps erupted, the laughter shrinking into shocked silence.

Good. Let them watch.

A tremor of fury surged through Pansy as she lunged forward, her fingers tangling in Hermione's hair, fist closing around a thick curl, the exact one that had taunted her all morning. She yanked viciously, not thinking, not caring, driven purely by instinct, by the molten anger that exploded the moment her chin hit that table.

It felt like everything inside her had snapped with that chair.

The humiliation. Blaise's words. The pressure of sitting beside Hermione, breathing the same air. The forbidden, confused, infuriating thoughts she couldn't escape. All of it erupted at once, like a tidal wave she had no control over.

And Granger, perfect Granger, was the closest target.

She hated her. She hated her more than she hated anyone. Hated the calm, the intelligence, the maddening composure. Hated how Hermione never cracked, never stumbled, never lost control the way Pansy did. Hated how Hermione made her feel seen without even looking at her.

Hermione struggled beneath her, trying to free her hair from Pansy's grip, but Pansy only tightened her hold, her pulse thundering in her ears. She wanted to tear that calm apart. Wanted Hermione to glare, to shout, to react, to show anything other than that infuriating, silent resilience.

Because if Hermione reacted, then Pansy could pretend this wasn't something else, anything else, lurking under her skin.

Students whispered sharply around them, chairs scraping, someone calling for Slughorn, but the world had narrowed, all noise fading behind the strange, burning singularity of her anger.

Pansy pulled harder. Granger's hands dug into the skin of her hips, trying to push her away. Pansy yanked her hair closer, until Granger's face was only centimeters away from her. 

Heat rose to her cheeks again.

She hated Hermione Granger.

She hated this bitch.

 

 

 

Chapter 3: Mint Breath And Wanking Suppositions

Notes:

CW: homophobic slurs, implied sexual content

The library was silent, but not the comfortable, studious kind of quiet Hermione was used to. Instead, it was a heavy, suffocating one, thick with dust and tension. Outside, darkness pressed against the tall windows, the lanterns inside flickering weakly against the glass like they were trying to escape.

Hermione pushed the rag along the highest shelf she could reach, fingers stiff and aching. She was starting to get blisters on her fingertips, and it haven't even been twenty minutes.

Two hours. Two entire hours stuck in detention with Parkinson, all because the girl had decided to yank her to the floor like a deranged toddler. And now, as if the humiliation in Potions hadn't been enough, she had to scrub shelves, by hand, with no wand, no magic, no shortcuts.

Sure, Hermione had jinxed her chair. Still, she hadn't thought Pansy would grab her hair and push her to the ground. It didn't hurt, but Pansy was surprisingly strong for such a skinny and sort of lanky body.

She took a slow breath through her nose. She could do this. She wouldn't ever give Parkinson the satisfaction of seeing her angry again.

Behind her, footsteps dragged lazily across the floor. Hermione didn't have to turn to know who it was; Pansy moved like a cat, one that wanted everyone to hear how irritated it was. Hermione could almost hear her hissing.

"Pathetic, isn't it?" Pansy's voice sliced through the quiet. "Hogwarts' star student, Head Girl Granger, reduced to scrubbing dust like a House-Elf."

Hermione closed her eyes briefly. Slow inhale, slower exhale. "It's detention, Parkinson. We're both doing the same task."

"Except at least I'm not pretending I enjoy it. Maybe you do enjoy it. It must remind you of your pathetic Muggle life before you inserted yourself between actual wizards."

Hermione ignored her. She would not rise to it. She dipped the rag into the bucket Slughorn had left them, the water already gray and murky from the first hour. Her hands were numb, chilled from the cold stone floor where the bucket rested. Her knees ached from kneeling so long. Her jaw hurt from keeping it clenched.

Still, she forced herself into the steady rhythm of cleaning. Shelf, dip, wring. Shelf, dip, wring. Maybe if she focused hard enough, she could pretend Parkinson wasn't behind her whispering like a particularly petty Poltergeist.

A thud echoed somewhere behind her. Hermione didn't turn.

"Oops," Pansy simpered. "Dropped a book. Probably because someone jostled me earlier and I still have a headache."

Hermione's rag froze mid-swipe. Don't look at her.

"You know," Pansy continued, "I thought Granger the Good would apologize by now."

Hermione's fingernails dug into the rag. She turned, not fully, just enough to glare over her shoulder. "I didn't start that fight. You pulled me to the floor."

"You humiliated me," Pansy snapped, and Hermione could hear the tightness, the strain, the emotion stitched between the words.

Hermione blinked, thrown for just a moment. "Your chair broke," she replied calmly.

"Because someone cursed it—obviously."

"Obviously," Hermione repeated, voice bone-dry. "And of course I'd be the prime suspect."

"I saw your wand lightening," Pansy barked. "But you were sitting next to me. And I know how your little brain works."

Hermione's temper flickered, heat rising in her chest. She turned fully now, rag dangling from her hand, breathing steady but sharp.

"I didn't curse your chair," she snarled, knowing it was only a partial truth.

She didn't exactly cursed her chair. She jinxed it. Not the same.

"Oh? Was it below you?" Pansy sneered. "Too immature a prank for Hermione Granger?"

Hermione's jaw tightened. She turned back to the shelf. She refused to have this argument in an empty library.

"It doesn't matter," she said flatly. "We're here. Just clean so we can finish sooner."

Parkinson scoffed loudly behind her. The sound echoed through the aisles. Hermione scrubbed harder.

She wasn't very inspired to annoy Pansy tonight. A lot had already happened today and she didn't want to be perceived as a turbulent student. For Salazar's sake, she was Slytherin's Head Girl. She needed to find more... ingenious solutions to make Pansy enrage.

Minutes dragged.

Hermione tried to focus on the shelves, the dust, the faint smell of old parchment. Anything but Parkinson's restless pacing behind her. Anything but the memory of her hair being jerked so hard her neck still ached. Anything but the way Parkinson's breath had stroked her face, her expression twisted with something Hermione hadn't seen before. There was fury, yes, but something was tangled inside it.

A book slammed onto a table.

Hermione flinched. She hated that Parkinson saw it.

"Oh, did that bother you?" Pansy's voice lilted with mock innocence. "My apologies. I forget how sensitive you are."

Hermione's rag stilled. She took a long breath through her teeth, then set it down with deliberate calm.

Slowly, she turned and met Pansy's eyes.

Not anger, not screaming, just cool, controlled quiet. Hermione knew what she was doing. Pansy was easily manipulable. She just needed to find the right balance.

"Why do you do this?" Hermione asked. Her voice was level, but her tiredness seeped through, and it was intentional.

Pansy blinked, thrown off balance. "Do what?"

"Try to get a rise out of me. Constantly. Every day. Even now."

For a heartbeat, Parkinson's mask faltered. It was just a flicker, almost nothing, but Hermione saw it.

Then Pansy straightened, rolling her shoulders back. "Because it's fun. And because you make it easy."

Hermione held her gaze for another beat, then turned back to her shelves.

"Right," she murmured, smiling. "If that's what you have to tell yourself."

The silence that followed was different. Not peaceful, no, not with Parkinson in the room, but heavier. Tense. Something simmering beneath the surface that Hermione didn't have the patience to dissect.

She picked up the rag again, focusing on the repetitive motion, the rhythm of cleaning. She could feel Pansy's stare burning into the back of her neck.

After a few minutes of silence, Hermione wiped her hands on her skirt, the rag hanging loosely between her fingers. The silence that lingered after their fight had left a crack in Parkinson's armor. A small one. Barely visible. But enough.

Hermione Granger wasn't proud of what she was about to do. But Hermione Granger had had enough today. Pansy had humiliated her in front of the entire Slytherin table, tore up her skirt, then yanked her hair, dragged her to the floor, and had just spent the last an hour and a half making deliberate noise simply because she knew it grated on Hermione's nerves.

If Pansy wanted a fight, Hermione decided she would give her one. On her own terms. She inhaled slowly, letting the calm settle back over her. Control. Confidence. She had always been good at control. Better than Pansy ever would be. And now, the second part of her plan, the part she prayed she wouldn't use, unfolded neatly in her mind.

She turned, her expression composed, head tilted with a kind of clinical curiosity.

"You know," she said lightly, "it's almost impressive."

Pansy froze mid-step, a book balanced on her hip. "What?"

"How bad your Potions work was this morning after Slughorn broke us apart."

The book nearly slipped. Pansy recovered quickly, scowling. "My work was fine."

"No," Hermione said, her tone unbothered, "it really wasn't."

She stepped closer, wiping dust off her fingers with slow precision.

"I didn't say anything because I didn't want to make you cry, considering how on edge you were. But you couldn't even slice the baubles evenly today. And your stirring pattern was off—clockwise too many times, then counter-clockwise in jagged bursts. Anyone watching could tell you were lost."

"I was not lost," Pansy snapped.

Hermione shrugged gently. "Slughorn disagrees. He winced every time smoke sputtered out of our cauldron." She lowered her voice in mock conspiracy. "He thought you were going to blow something up."

A flush crept up Pansy's neck.

Hermione noted it, catalogued it, and continued.

"I stayed after class to fix your mess while you were combing your hair. But honestly? It's not entirely your fault. A potion like Felix Felicis requires... precision." She paused. "And concentration."

"Are you calling me stupid?" Pansy's voice rose an octave.

Hermione smiled sweetly. "No, Parkinson. I'm calling you incompetent."

Pansy's jaw dropped, outrage flooding her expression.

Hermione stepped past her, brushing a film of dust from a shelf. "It's strange, though. You have the pedigree, don't you? The upbringing." Her voice sharpened. "But you can't do anything without getting distracted."

"I don't get distracted," Pansy said too quickly, too defensively.

Hermione lifted a brow. "Really? Because it seems like I'm all you think about."

Pansy went very still. Hermione glanced back at her, letting the silence sharpen the sting. Her head tilted again, studying Pansy like she was examining a potion ingredient gone wrong.

"You glare at me in every hallway. You follow my reactions like you're collecting them for a hobby. You can't even sit in class without staring."

"I do not stare at you."

Hermione hummed as though considering it. "You do. Constantly. It's almost sad."

Pansy's hands curled into tight fists.

Hermione pressed, voice softening in a way that made the words hit sharper. "It's pathetic, Parkinson. Truly. Don't you have anything better to do than obsess over me?"

Pansy's breath hitched in fury.

Hermione could almost feel the heat radiating from her, anger tightening every muscle, every line of her face. The same fury Hermione had noticed earlier in Slughorn's class. The same heat she'd felt at her ankle when Pansy had yanked her down. Wild, uncontrolled, impulsive.

It was almost too easy.

Hermione stepped closer. Her body was ten centimetres away from Pansy's back. She could almost rest her head on her shoulder. "I understand being upset about your grades. I'd be upset too if I'd fallen behind in half my classes," she murmured softly.

Her hand almost hovered over Pansy's hip. Hermione's smile widened. Pansy was completely still.

"I am not behind—"

"But this fixation?" Hermione cut in, flicking her hand dismissively, brushing her hip. "It's childish. You act like poking at me is the only thing that gives your life purpose."

Pansy bristled, shaking with anger. "You think you're so clever—"

"No," Hermione interrupted softly. "I simply think you're very predictable."

The words landed like a blow. Pansy's breath came too fast, her chest rising and falling with barely contained rage. She suddenly turned, her nose almost bumping Hermione's. Her eyes were blazing, but Hermione didn't move. She held her ground, posture calm, crossing her arms around her chest.

"I didn't start this," Hermione said neutrally. "You did. You always do. Every insult. Every jab. Every time you try to make me feel small just to make yourself feel bigger."

Pansy flinched. Hermione leaned in slightly, enough that Pansy could feel the whisper of her breath. She could now see every lash of her eyes, every growing hair of her eyebrow that she had just shaved.

"And the funniest part? You're terrible at hiding how much you need me to react. It's obvious. Every time you speak to me. Every time you look at me."

Pansy made a strangled sound in her throat. Anger, humiliation, something else tangled beneath it. Her cheeks were reddening. Hermione had rarely seen her so furious. It was a delight.

Hermione pulled back slowly. Controlled. Unhurried. And even if her heart was fluttering in her chest, she didn't let the adrenaline show.

"You want my attention, Parkinson? Fine." She brushed her hands off on her skirt. "Consider this a gift."

Pansy's eyes lowered, dark and furious. "You think you're better than everyone."

"I don't," Hermione said simply. "I'm just better than you. I'm everything you wish you were."

Hermione turned to walk away, heading toward the next shelf. Behind her, she heard the scrape of Pansy's shoes on stone, the tremor of breath that meant another explosion was coming.

Good. Let her get angry. Let her unravel. Hermione could handle fury. She did so for years. It was the silence, the strange, unreadable moments, that unsettled her. But this? This she could use.

Pansy moved before Hermione even registered the sound. One sharp step, a rustle of fabric, the sudden heat of another body cutting into her space. A hand clamped around her wrist, fingers tight, almost trembling. Hermione gasped as she was spun and pushed back, her shoulder blades thudding against the wooden shelf behind her.

Books rattled. Dust shook loose. Her breath caught.

Pansy stood inches away, far too close, the closeness electric and shocking, her grip firm, her eyes burning with something far more volatile than anger alone. Her face hovered just near Hermione's, close enough that Hermione could see the faint rise and fall of her chest, the flare of her nostrils, the tremor beneath her fury.

"You think you can talk to me like that?" Pansy hissed, voice unsteady, shaken, furious.

Hermione swallowed, her pulse kicking violently at her throat. She had expected yelling, maybe more hair-pulling, but not this. Not to be pinned, not for Pansy to invade her space with such reckless intensity.

Hermione's back pressed deeper against the shelf, the wood cold through her sweater. She should have pushed back. Should have twisted free. Should have said something sharp, something cutting, something that would snap Pansy out of whatever this was.

But she didn't.

She couldn't.

Because Pansy's face was right there. And the last time someone had stood this close to Hermione, it was Theodore, right before he kissed her.

Hermione's eyes flicked instinctively downward to Pansy's mouth.

Only for a second.

That was because she thought of the last time Theo kissed her. Of course.

Her lips were red and plump, generous. Hermione's chest tightened painfully, heat rising under her skin. She forced her gaze away, blinking hard, but the air between them felt charged, thick as honey, tense as a drawn bowstring. She could feel Pansy's breath ghosting across her own lips, uneven and hot. She smelled like mint. She smelled like cleanliness and makeup and shampoo.

"Don't," Pansy said, though Hermione wasn't sure what she meant. Don't talk? Don't move? Don't look?

The hand around her wrist tightened, then loosened, as if Pansy couldn't decide whether to hold on or let go.

Hermione's voice finally scraped out, thin and breathless. "Let me go."

"No." The word shot out immediately, raw. Too raw. Pansy leaned closer, just a fraction, but the movement jolted through Hermione like a spark. "You don't get to walk away after saying things like that. You don't belong here, not in Slytherin. You're an intruder. An impostor."

Hermione swallowed again, throat tight. She drew in a shaky breath, trying to steady herself. Pansy was furious, Hermione could feel it radiating off her, but there was something else braided into the anger, something wild and confused. That made Hermione's heart stumble.

"You're obsessed with me..." Hermione tried to keep her voice calm, but it came out softer than she intended, almost tentative.

"Shut up," Pansy snapped, but her voice cracked on the last syllable, breaking the edge of her rage.

Hermione blinked. The crack, small, fragile, was unexpected. Human. Too human.

The air felt wrong. Or right. She couldn't tell, and that suddenly terrified her.

Pansy's grip on her wrist faltered, then steadied, as though she were fighting with herself. Her eyes locked with Hermione's, dark and storming, searching her face for... something.

Hermione's breath shook again. Her eyes—traitorously—dipped to Pansy's lips one more time. Pansy inhaled sharply. And for one suspended second, neither of them moved. Neither of them breathed.

Hermione's pulse skittered, frantic and misplaced, but her mind, always sharper under pressure, began stitching itself back together. Pansy had cornered her, pinned her, rattled her. Hermione felt it in the tremor in her legs, in the ridiculous stutter of her breath.

She needed control back. And she knew exactly how to take it. Pansy's grip on her wrist had weakened, not much, but enough for Hermione to feel the hesitation bleeding through her fury. Enough to tell her that Pansy didn't actually know what she was doing, only that she couldn't stop herself.

Hermione slowly lifted her free hand.

Pansy tensed instantly, muscles coiled under her robes. Her eyes darted to Hermione's hand, suspicion flaring, but she didn't move away. Didn't even step back. She couldn't. That would admit losing against Hermione. And Hermione knew Pansy would never do that.

She had to use this fact against Pansy. Hermione brushed her fingertips lightly against Pansy's cheek.

The effect was immediate.

Pansy's breath hitched audibly, her entire body going rigid. Hermione felt the sharp inhale against her own chest, so close were they. Her skin beneath Hermione's touch was warm, too warm.

Hermione didn't push. She didn't need to. All she did was trace the faintest, gentlest line along Pansy's cheekbone, letting her touch hover somewhere between a mockery and a promise. Her skin was cold and soft. Pansy had pretty features. It was a shame her behaviour made her so ugly in Hermione's eyes.

Pansy blinked. Once. Slow. Her anger didn't evaporate, it burned hotter, confused and volatile, no direction, no barriers.

Hermione leaned in just barely, close enough that their noses brushed, close enough that Pansy's breath trembled across her lips.

"Look at you," Hermione whispered.

Pansy did. Her eyes were wild. Hermione felt her advantage crystallize.

"You're completely addicted to me."

Pansy's composure shattered.

"SHUT—SHUT UP!" she stammered, but the words collapsed in her throat, soft and cracked, nothing like her usual venom. Her grip on Hermione's wrist spasmed, then loosened, then tightened again as if she couldn't decide whether to shove Hermione away or drag her closer.

"You're disgusting," Pansy breathed, but her face betrayed her. She was almost leaning into Hermione's touch like she couldn't stop herself.

Hermione's heart had flown out of her chest to jump very high in the sky. Pansy didn't need to know that, so the brunette stayed devastatingly calm.

"Then why do you look like you want to kiss me?"

Pansy made a sound, frustrated, helpless, furious, confused. The kind of sound that told Hermione she had struck the center of something Pansy had been denying for a very, very long time.

Hermione wished she had stopped this madness sooner now. She was beginning to feel incredibly hot too. Her thumb brushed the corner of Pansy's mouth.

Pansy was completely stiff now.

"You can't stop thinking about me," Hermione murmured. "You can't stop reacting to me. You can't even stand this close without falling apart."

"I'm not a fucking dyke!"

Hermione raised an eyebrow. Interesting. Maybe that was the reason why she had dumped Malfoy, after all.

But Hermione had ethics. She wouldn't dare to use that fact against Pansy. This was crossing a line she wouldn't cross. This wasn't being the bigger person. Pansy's breath trembled after saying that. She was undone. Her eyes darted down, toward Hermione's mouth, and then immediately back up as if she realized what she'd done. Her cheeks flushed, a deep, furious color. Her entire body radiated panic and want and denial all tangled into one combustible mess.

Hermione had never seen her like this. It was something she would never forget. It was exactly like Christmas. If only she had gathered enough courage to do that earlier...

And then—

CLANG—CLANG—CLANG.

The castle bells struck.

The sound exploded through the library, echoing off the shelves, rattling the suspended air between them. Pansy jolted at the noise, grip slackening completely.

Hermione stepped away before Pansy could recover. Her wrist slipped from Pansy's fingers like they had never touched at all.

Pansy was so red it was almost comical, breath shaking, still pressed against the shelf as if she'd forgotten how to stand without it.

Hermione didn't give her a single second more. She turned sharply on her heel, her expression cold and composed, not betraying the adrenaline roaring beneath her ribs. The dusty aisles stretched long and dim ahead of her, and she didn't look back. Didn't slow. Didn't acknowledge the girl she had just reduced to trembling silence.

At the library's entrance, Hermione grabbed her wand from the table, her fingers curling around it like reclaiming a part of herself.

Behind her, she heard Pansy let out a sound that resembled a sob of frustration. Anger? Confusion? Hermione didn't turn around. She didn't need to. She'd already won today.

She stepped through the doors, letting them creak closed behind her, leaving Pansy Parkinson alone in the dim library, breathless, furious, undone. The heavy library doors thudded shut behind her, swallowing the charged air she'd left inside. But it clung to her anyway, under her skin, in her pulse, in the trembling that hadn't yet settled in her hands.

Her breath hitched. Merlin.

She pressed a palm to her chest, as though she could force her heartbeat to calm. It didn't listen. It drummed wildly beneath her ribs, echoing the heat she'd walked away from far too quickly.

Pansy's face.

Pansy's breath.

Pansy's body pinning her against the shelves.

Pansy's eyes when Hermione touched her face, wide, furious, wanting, afraid.

Hermione shut her eyes, inhaling sharply.

That had not been part of the plan. She hated things that weren't part of the plan.

She had meant to destabilize Parkinson, yes. She had meant to rattle her, confuse her, give her a taste of her own medicine. But she hadn't meant for herself to get swept into the chaos. She hadn't meant to notice how soft Pansy's skin was under her fingertips. She hadn't meant to stare at Pansy's lips like an idiot.

She certainly hadn't meant for her legs to feel weak after leaving the library.

Hermione's steps echoed along the empty corridor, her shoes clicking softly on the stones. She walked faster, trying to lose the memory of the way Pansy sucked in a breath when she touched her, trying to replace it with anything else. Logic, maybe. Or anger. Or the familiar satisfaction of a well-executed strategy.

But her mind kept replaying the moment Pansy's entire body went still. The moment Hermione whispered, You're completely addicted to me.

The way Pansy had fallen apart.

Hermione wrapped her arms around herself, forcing another deep breath. Fresh air. That was all she needed. Space. Distance. Perspective.

The torches along the walls flickered, casting warm gold light across the stone and brushing her skin with gentle heat. It barely helped. Her pulse still fluttered at the base of her throat like a creature trying to escape.

She turned a corner, and nearly collided with someone.

"Oh—Hermione!" Harry caught himself before their shoulders bumped, stepping back with a grin. His Head Boy badge gleamed under the torchlight. "Everything all right? You look a bit... flushed."

Hermione blinked. She pushed the loose curls out of her face and mustered a small smile.

"Just came from detention," she said lightly. "Not exactly relaxing."

Harry chuckled, shaking his head. "That doesn't look like you. I missed talking to someone while patrolling around tonight."

Hermione laughed, but it was thinner than usual. "Trust me, I would have preferred it like that too. Parkinson drives me nuts."

Harry's eyebrows shot up. "Tell me something I don't know. Your mutual hate is almost an entertainment for people at this point. I have to admit that... hair pulling fight looked painful though."

She shrugged, the motion too casual, her heartbeat much too loud. "It was fine. Parkinson has the grip strength of a four year old."

Harry looked at her for a moment longer, concern softening his features. "Well... you seem okay. Just tired. Make sure you get some sleep, yeah?"

"I will," she promised, smiling.

He squeezed her shoulder, a brief, warm gesture.

"Hey, Harry?"

"Yeah?" he breathed, surprised.

Hermione swayed on her feet, a bit embarrassed.

"Would you like to go grab a Butterbeer with me and Daphne this weekend, for the first day in Hogsmeade? You should bring Wea—Ronald too."

He smiled at her.

"Yeah, gladly. McGonagall's going to love this."

"Yeah," winced Hermione. "I still feel really bad for disappointing her by getting into a fist fight during the first day."

"Believe, she's seen worse," laughed Harry.

She chuckled and he waved his hand, before continuing down the hall on his patrol route. Hermione watched him go, grateful for his acceptance. Part of her had always regretted not talking to him after they had been placed in different houses in First Year.

Once Harry turned the corner, Hermione exhaled shakily. Her smile faded. She leaned against the wall, letting the cool stone press against her back, grounding her. But no matter how many breaths she took, no matter how much distance she put between herself and the library, one truth pulsed hot and insistent under her skin:

She couldn't stop thinking about Pansy Parkinson. Not even for a second.

Hermione didn't remember half the walk to her common room. Her feet carried her on instinct alone, her mind still vibrating with the memory of Pansy's breath on her lips. Before she knew it, she stood in front of the cool stone archway that sealed the Slytherin common room. The wall slid open, green light spilling across her shoes.

The room was mostly empty, dinner had dragged on longer for most of the house. Perfect.

Hermione slipped inside, the low, humming quiet of the dungeons wrapping around her like a heavy blanket. She didn't bother pretending she wasn't unraveling. She didn't bother playing composed Head Girl anymore.

Not here.

Not with Daphne.

She headed straight for the girls' dorms, pushing the door open and climbing onto Daphne's bed in one movement, like her body moved before her mind caught up. She didn't sit. She didn't speak. She collapsed face-first into Daphne's pillows.

The duvet smelled faintly of strawberry shampoo and some expensive vanilla perfume Daphne pretended she didn't wear. It was soft, familiar, grounding. Hermione clutched one of the pillows to her chest like a lifeline, burying her burning face in it, letting out a groan.

Hermione shut her eyes tightly, letting the mattress cocoon her in stillness. She just needed a minute.

"Tough day?" said Daphne, sitting on Hermione's bum without any hesitation. Hermione grunted, shifting to give her more space.

"You could say that," she shrugged.

"Come on, spill," replied Daphne. "How was detention?"

"Um... boring, mostly. Parkinson was quite furious."

Daphne suddenly grabbed her chin, forcing her to turn her head. She squinted her eyes.

"I'm not buying that. Drop the Quaffle, Granger."

Hermione sat back up, irritated.

"Alright!" she exclaimed. "She was being particularly loud and annoying, so I threw back some jabs at her and told her how pitiful if a witch she was being! And then she pinned me to the wall!"

"She what?!" snorted Daphne.

"She pinned me to the wall," repeated Hermione through gritted teeth. "She felt cornered so she had to regain control over the whole thing. I didn't want to let her do that, so..."

"So?" encouraged Daphne.

"So I stroked her face and whispered that she was obsessed with me."

"You what?!" Daphne choked, her eyes wide open.

"I said she was addicted to me, and that I was the only thing that she actually cared about, or something like that."

"Yeah yeah yeah, we know that, that's common knowledge at this point. You did what to her face?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. She grabbed Daphne's arm and pulled her closer to her, making the blonde yelp, before repeating her gesture. Her heart wasn't beating as fast as it did with Pansy, and Hermione thanked Merlin for it.

Or maybe she shouldn't have, because now it was the ultimate confirmation her relationship with Pansy was extra weird.

"Wow," blew Daphne. "Are you about to kiss me, Granger?"

"You wish, Greengrass," sighed Hermione.

"No seriously, you did that to Pansy?"

"Yes. I wanted to destabilise her. I didn't want to say some petty stuff. I feel kind of bad for shaking her this much."

"You do realise that it's very... gay of you?" Daphne said carefully.

"No!" yelled Hermione, as her cheeks inflamed again. "I just wanted to piss her off!"

"How did she react?"

"She froze, essentially. She looked gobsmacked. It was brilliant," she admitted. "But she looked... bizarre. I feel like I went a bit too far."

"Did you look at her lips?" asked Daphne suspiciously.

"What?"

"I mean you already look at her legs. I wouldn't be surprised if you looked at her lips."

"Why would I do that?!"

"Because she's a pretty girl? And because you obviously like pretty girls?"

"I don't even like girls," scoffed Hermione.

Daphne let out a groan of frustration. She suddenly grabbed Hermione's jaw and kissed her right on the lips, holding her face tight for a few seconds. Shocked, Hermione didn't move, frozen in place.

It felt oddly nice. Daphne's lips were soft, moving skilfully against hers. She smelled nice. Hermione almost closed her eyes. Her head was spinning now.

"Alright. How would you rate this kiss?" asked Daphne, wiping her mouth.

Hermione blinked twice, stunned. She suddenly shook her head.

"Um, a six? I guess? But what the hell Daphne?!"

"A six?" the blonde repeated jubilantly. "You're gay!"

Yes, the blonde had definitely lost her mind.

"I'm not attracted to you, Daphne, I'm very sorry," replied Hermione, laughing this time.

"How did you rate Theodore's kisses?"

"A solid four. He had dry lips and there was too much tongue. But it doesn't mean that..."

"That actually explains a lot. You and Parkinson are obsessed with each other. Just shag and then it should be gone!"

"You're insane for this by the way."

Daphne giggled. Hermione let herself drop back on the blonde's bed, letting a deep exhale.

"I got you a date with Harry Potter by the way. I saw him when I got out of detention and proposed him to grab a drink with you and me. Ronald Weasley will be there, I'll try to find a way to leave with him to give you alone time."

"Hermione! I don't want a date with Potter!" exclaimed Daphne, terrorised.

"Daphne, you can't spend the rest of your life hoping Theo will ask you out. You need to see other people, to go out and have fun until Theo finally pulls his head of his ass and snogs you. Please, go see other people. You need it," said Hermione gently. "Plus, Harry is a good guy. He's quite smart. We're sort of friends now."

"You're really insufferable sometimes, Hermione."

"Thanks will be enough."

Their conversation was rudely interrupted by Pansy, who bursted into the dorm, followed by Bulstrode and Davis, and immediately propelled herself into her bed like a spring. Hermione sat up, looking at her bed. She glanced at Daphne and murmured:

"Watch that."

Hermione smiled and crossed her legs.

"Good night, Pansy!" she chanted.

A muffled groan answered to her. "Good night. Bitch."

"She's going to wank for sure," whispered Daphne.

"Gross. Hopefully not in public while we're all sleeping there."

"Silencing charms. As if you didn't want to join her rubbing the nub session."

"Oh, shut up Daphne."

And what repulsed Hermione even more was that a little part of her wasn't actually repulsed by the idea of Pansy wanking. At all.

She jumped in her bed too, immediately taking off her skirt and shirt. Crookshanks started to purr, scratching her thighs.

Hermione pressed her hands on her eyeballs. She could perfectly picture the small moans leaving Pansy's lips. Her hand moving fast between her legs. How sweet it would be to see her being this weak and vulnerable.

Hermione had no idea what was wrong with her. It was this bitch's fault anyway.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 4: Brown And Green

Notes:

CW: explicit sexual content

Pansy had not slept.

She wasn’t entirely sure when night had ended and morning had begun, only that the black hours had crawled past with every uncomfortable heartbeat, every pulse of heat beneath her skin, every image of Hermione Granger that her mind refused, absolutely refused, to let go of. She had observes the dark shadowy figures of the squid passing in front of the windows, producing a dull green light. 

By the time the enchanted clock on her bedside table flickered from 4:59 to 5:00, she was already staring at it, eyes dry, body rigid, sheets twisted around her legs like restraints she’d fought in her sleep. Crap, there were still little holes of the Chizpurfle's bites in her sheets. 

She exhaled sharply. Enough. She wasn’t going to lie in bed like some pathetic lovesick idiot, she wasn’t lovesick, she was infuriated, humiliated, cornered, and letting Granger take up the only space in her brain she’d never been allowed to have in the first place was unthinkable. Pansy pushed herself up, ignoring the stiffness in her shoulders. The room was dark, the other Slytherin girls still asleep, their curtains drawn tight. She slipped out of bed silently, the cold dungeon air brushing against her bare arms.

It grounded her.

Her fingers twitched, remembering the way Hermione had touched her cheek in the library. She was slow, deliberate, devastating. She squeezed her eyes shut hard, trying to scrub the memory away. But her body still remembered the warmth. Pansy stomped to the bathroom before her thoughts could betray her further.

The shower hissed to life immediately, steam fogging the air as she stripped down and stepped under the pounding spray. Boiling water hit her skin, drowning her senses in punishing heat. She tilted her head back, letting the water soak her hair, run down her face, her shoulders. Anything to wash away the night she’d had.

Anything to get Granger out of her skull.

But she saw it again, the shelf behind Hermione’s back, the dust falling, the tiny gasp Hermione made when Pansy shoved her against it. The way she looked up at Pansy. 

Pansy growled, slamming her palm against the tiled wall, water splashing back in a violent spray.

"No," she muttered through clenched teeth. "No, no, no."

Her heart thrashed angrily. This was Hermione Granger. The bane of her existence. The insufferable, self-righteous, know-it-all Slytherin wannabe who smirked when she brewed something perfectly and frowned when something she didn't plan happened. The girl Pansy had spent years attacking, despising, obsessing over—

Obsessing.

Hermione’s voice whispered in her head: You’re completely addicted to me.

Her stomach twisted painfully. This was exactly why Pansy needed her routine. Her structure. The rituals she’d crafted since fourth year to keep herself sharp, controlled, impenetrable.

Makeup.

The one thing that always steadied her hands. The one thing she could do perfectly. She forced her breathing to calm, letting the water drum harder on her skin. Primer, foundation, powder. Eyes sharp. Contour clean and discreet. Lips perfect. She pictured each step like an anchor.

It gave her precision, symmetry, control. Everything Granger was not allowed to disrupt, because she disrupted everything else.

Pansy squeezed her keratin shampoo into her palm and scrubbed it harshly through her hair, trying to massage away the thoughts clinging to her like thorns. Her movements were too sharp, too hurried, betraying how rattled she still was. But she didn’t slow down.

Slowing down meant thinking.

Thinking meant remembering.

And remembering meant Hermione’s lips, inches away. Hermione’s breath on her cheek. Hermione staring at her, like she was taking mental notes on how to redraw Pansy's face later. Hermione’s thumb brushing the corner of her mouth. 

Pansy slammed her eyes shut so tightly it hurt.

Stop.

The water wasn’t hot enough. Not for this.

She rinsed quickly, then grabbed her body wash, scrubbing so hard her skin turned pink. She wanted Hermione’s touch off her cheek, off her wrist, off her mind, off every inch of her that felt like it was still reacting hours later. Why had Hermione touched her like that? Why had Pansy let her? Why hadn’t she shoved Hermione away?

Worse, why had she slightly leaned in?

Her throat tightened.

Once rinsed, she shut off the water abruptly, as if the sudden silence could stop her thoughts. It didn’t. Nothing could. Not even the sting in her skin.

Pansy stepped out, water dripping from her in thin streams, the cold dungeon air biting at her flushed skin. She wrapped a towel around herself and moved toward the fogged mirror, each step feeling heavier than the last. She wiped a clear circle in the condensation, her reflection appearing slowly. Dark green hair plastered to her neck, eyes too bright, cheeks still tinged with heat.

Dark green hair? Green? 

Pansy blinked hard. She leaned in until her breath fogged the mirror again. She swiped at the steam and stared. Her hair, her perfect, meticulously cared-for hair, was not its usual ebony black.

It was green. Not a soft emerald. Not a fashionable olive. A dark, mossy, swamp-ridden green.

"Shite," Pansy whispered, voice cracking. "What the actual fuck?!"

She grabbed a lock of it, jerking it in front of her face as though the lighting had to be wrong, as though her eyes must be malfunctioning. But the strand glistened unmistakably green under the bathroom sconces.

Her stomach lurched.

Panic shot through her chest like lightning.

Someone had put dye in her shampoo. Someone had touched her things. Her shampoo. Her sanctuary. Her perfection. Her one place of order.

Her hands trembled.

"No fucking way," she hissed, scrambling back under the still-warm spray of the shower. She shoved her head beneath the water, letting it pound onto her skull, soaking her hair again.

Green water spiraled down the drain.

She scrubbed frantically, her nails digging into her scalp, shampoo slipping between her fingers, the scent turning nauseating as fear strangled her breath.

The water stayed green. And her hair stayed green.

"Come on!" she choked out, slamming her palm against the wall. Water splashed back; the shampoo bottle toppled and clattered loudly on the tiles.

She rinsed again. Again. And again.

The mirror fogged over once more. She wiped it, dragging her towel roughly across her face before staring at her reflection again. Still green.

"No. Fix. Fix!" she snarled at herself, at the dye, at the universe.

She snatched her wand off the counter, water dripping from her elbow onto the marble floor. She pointed it shakily toward her hair.

"Scourgify!"

Nothing. The green remained. Her pulse raced harder.

"Scourgify!" she repeated, voice cracking.

Still nothing.

Her wand trembled in her grip. This wasn’t a prank charm. It wasn’t a simple dye. It was stubborn, deliberate, crafted to cling to her hair like moss on stone.

Her breathing hitched.

"Finite!" she tried, desperation heating her cheeks.

Her hair didn’t change.

It draped over her shoulders in heavy, forest-colored waves, mocking her. Her throat tightened painfully. She grabbed the sink for balance, steam swirling around her ankles as the shower continued to run behind her.

This wasn’t just a prank. It was a direct attack. Someone wanted her rattled, unsteady, unhinged. The old Pansy would’ve snarled and stormed out ready to hex someone and drown them in the lake. This Pansy stood frozen, dripping, shaking, breath too fast and uneven.

And then a horrifying thought struck her like a punch to the ribs. 

Granger.

Hermione had wished her good night last night with the most smug and disgustingly sweet expression Pansy had ever seen on her.

Had she—?

Pansy’s breath stopped. Her reflection stared back, green hair, wide eyes, fear lurking beneath the fury.

Pansy gripped the edges of the sink until her knuckles went white. Her pulse surged. Heat rose up her throat, flushing her cheeks, burning behind her eyes. For a moment, she wanted to destroy something. To scream. To turn and storm through the dungeon corridors soaking wet and half dressed and hurl a curse the moment she saw that stupid curly brunette hair.

But another sensation crept in beneath all that rage. If this was Hermione’s retaliation for the torn up skirt and the fight, then she wanted Pansy shaken. She wanted her unravelled, emotional. She wanted her to show up late to breakfast looking like she had lost, and for everyone to see it.

Pansy closed her eyes, inhaled slowly, and forced the air out in a long controlled exhale.

No. Absolutely not. She would not lose this battle and let Granger win again.

Anger remained, hot and bright, but she pushed it down with the same ruthless focus she used during exams. Yes, she had mostly failed them, but still. She ground it into something usable, something sharp. There was no universe in which she was walking out of her dormitory acting like the victim of someone else’s prank. If she could not wash it out, and if spells only made the color sink deeper, then she had no choice but to adapt.

And if she had to adapt, she would do it properly.

Pansy lifted her chin. Her reflection followed, green hair and all. The color was dark, earthy, almost mosslike. Not neon, not garish. It reminded her of enchanted forests in old wizarding paintings. It was making her brown, almost black eyes shine with coldness and charisma. It almost suited her. That was all she needed.

If she committed to the look, if she acted like it was intentional, then there was no prank. There was no lost battle. There was only a choice she owned completely.

She would walk into the Great Hall looking like she had done this on purpose. She would strut. She would look at anyone who dared raise an eyebrow with withering disdain. And Hermione would sit through Potions pretending she was not bothered that her sabotage had turned into an aesthetic triumph.

Pansy stepped back from the mirror. She straightened her shoulders, refusing to give herself time to falter. She reached for her vanity drawer and opened it. Her makeup collection gleamed inside, arranged with clinical precision. Foundation, powders, brushes, palettes, glosses, potions for radiance and for concealment. Her armour.

The simple act of sitting down at her vanity calmed her more than anything else could. She reached for her primer pot, the lid clicking softly as she opened it. The familiar weight of routine soothed her thoughts. Her fingertips dipped into the cool mixture and spread it over her face with practiced strokes. A clean base. A controlled beginning. Every movement served as a reminder: she dictated the narrative, not Hermione.

Once the primer set, she blended her foundation with steady motions. She added a sweep of powder, light contouring, enough to give structure without looking theatrical. The more she focused on each step, the more her breathing steadied. This was who she was: composed, polished, collected. Their fight, the detention, the humiliation, the green hair, none of it mattered more than how she carried herself afterward.

She opened her eyeshadow palette and held up a light brown shade, richer but lighter than her eyes. It matched the green colour surprisingly well. With slow, deliberate wand strokes, she blended the shadow across her eyelids, shaping it into a smoky gradient. Her eyes sharpened instantly, turning predatory in the mirror. She lined them next with black kohl, dragging the tip into a wing as sharp as a blade.

There. Now she looked intentional. She looked in control. 

She finished with a deep red gloss over her lips, smoothing the shine with a steady hand. She refused to think about how Hermione had accidentally glanced at her mouth the night before, and how the memory still flickered uninvited in her thoughts. This morning wasn’t about Hermione, no matter how tightly she had pressed herself into the corners of Pansy’s mind.

Pansy stood again, towel wrapped around her, droplets still sliding down her arms. Her reflection gazed back with a defiant steadiness that made something inside her settle back into place. She reached for her blow-dryer wand, flicked it on, and lifted her hair with deliberate care.

Hermione thought she had found a way under her skin. But Pansy was already imagining the look on her face when she walked into Potions this morning as if nothing had gone wrong. As if the prank had never happened. As if she had transformed sabotage into style.

Pansy moved quietly through her dormitory. Skipping breakfast was not her usual habit, but today she refused even the smallest possibility of running into someone before she was fully prepared. She needed time, space, and absolute control over her presentation. No wandering eyes, no questions, no early commentary on the green that now framed her face. She dried her hair thoroughly, smoothing it into glossy, deliberate waves that fell over her shoulders like dark ivy. The color was still mossy and stubbornly vibrant, but the texture and shine were unmistakably intentional. 

Once she slipped into her crisp Slytherin uniform, fastening each button with slow, composed movements, she tied her tie perfectly, tugging the knot until it sat where it should. The green of her hair contrasted with the silver trim in a way that almost looked coordinated. She finished by adjusting her skirt and robes, smoothing the front of her collar, and rechecking her eyeliner for any signs of smudging. Perfection mattered. Poise mattered.

The corridors were already busy with students heading toward their first classes of the morning. Pansy walked among them as though she were floating, back straight, chin lifted, a smooth stride carrying her forward with quiet authority. She heard the whispers before she even reached the stairs to the dungeons. Muted voices, quick glances, the unmistakable rustle of gossip beginning to bloom. Her green hair caught the light as she moved, drawing eyes like moths to a flame. Someone gasped behind her. Someone else muttered what sounded like "Did she really—?" followed by a stifled huff of surprise. 

Pansy ignored all of it. Her expression stayed carefully neutral, if not subtly amused. Her breathing stayed calm. This was a game, and she would play it beautifully. Every look she received only confirmed that she had chosen correctly. If she acted as though it were a deliberate style decision, then by midday the rumor would already be that she had made a bold fashion choice, perhaps a new trend, certainly something only a confident witch could pull off. Green hair on a Slytherin wasn’t an accident. It could be a statement.

By the time she arrived outside Slughorn’s classroom, students were loitering around the entrance. Their conversations faltered the moment they saw her. Blaise and Draco stared openly, confusion flickering across their features. A couple of Gryffindors stared too long and then looked away quickly, unsure whether to laugh or shut their mouths. Pansy did not acknowledge a single one. She simply adjusted the strap of her bag and swept past them with a slow grace. 

Inside the classroom, Hermione was already seated at their shared desk, flipping through her potions text with a serene focus that made something sharp twist inside Pansy’s chest. Hermione’s hair, annoyingly messy and curly, framed her face like nothing in the world was wrong. Pansy walked straight toward her, letting her robes billow just slightly behind her, careful not to rush or hesitate. The room fell quieter with every step she took. Even Slughorn, who was arranging flasks at the front, paused and blinked in surprise.

Pansy didn’t break stride. She sat down in her seat as though she’d been doing it her whole life, crossed her legs neatly, and set her bag on the table with a soft, controlled thud. Then, with all the calm of a queen settling onto her throne, she opened her book. Her eyes flickered toward Hermione, catching the girl’s brief glance of confusion.

Pansy let a slow, knowing smirk curl at the edge of her mouth.

"Good morning Granger. Slept tight?"

"Good morning Parkinson. I slept well, thanks for asking. Are you trying a new hair trend? It's... bold."

Pansy's smirk widened into a smile.

"Only a fool wouldn't dare changing. Maybe you should do something with your hair too," she suggested, tilting her head. 

Hermione's cheeks tinted pink, and she quickly glared at her. The class settled into its usual rhythm, students gathering ingredients and filling cauldrons with water that soon began to bubble faintly. Pansy flipped to the correct page with a perfectly manicured finger, pretending not to notice how Hermione kept glancing at her hair with an expression that was far too concentrated to be innocent. 

Hermione adjusted the flame beneath their cauldron. "You’re heating it too fast," she murmured flatly, not even looking up.

"No," Pansy replied coolly, "you’re just used to compensating for your own mistakes."

Granger's jaw tensed. "Right. Because I’m clearly the one who can’t follow simple instructions."

"Oh, I’m sure you can follow them." Pansy tilted her head, flipping her hair over her shoulder and letting the green catch the torchlight. "It’s just your personality that’s insufferable."

Hermione didn’t dignify that with more than a faint exhale out her nose, but her stirring grew noticeably sharper. Pansy watched out of the corner of her eye, amused. Last night’s confrontation still lingered between them, a taut thread humming with leftover electricity. Every movement felt charged, every glance razor-edged.

"Five clockwise stirs," Hermione muttered, mostly to herself, but loud enough that Pansy could hear.

"Noted," Pansy replied. "You always count for both of us anyway."

Hermione’s head snapped toward her with a look that suggested she was two seconds from snapping her quill in half. "If you’re implying I’m bossy—"

"Oh, I don’t imply," Pansy interrupted smoothly. "I state."

Hermione opened her mouth, probably ready with something cutting, but the moment crumbled when light footsteps approached their table.

A Hufflepuff girl, small and soft-spoken, hovered beside Pansy with a shy smile. "Um... Parkinson?"

Pansy’s first instinct was suspicion. Hufflepuffs didn’t talk to her unless they wanted homework answers, and even then, they rarely had the courage. She looked up slowly, one eyebrow lifting.

"Yes?"

"I just...  wanted to say your hair looks incredible." The girl clasped her hands, suddenly bashful. "It’s really bold. I love it."

For a heartbeat, Pansy was too surprised to speak. Compliments were not unusual for her, but this one, given under these circumstances, felt almost unreal. She reached up and touched a strand reflexively, ensuring her face remained effortlessly composed.

"Of course it does," she said. "Why else would I have chosen this dye then?"

"I like the boldness," the Hufflepuff said, shrugging. "It feels good to see a Slytherin finally breaking out of the mould."

Pansy frowned. "I’m glad it’s being noticed."

The girl nodded and wandered back to her workstation. Pansy’s smirk deepened as she returned to her potion, enjoying the pleasant flicker of triumph in her chest. Still, a sentence the girl said echoed in her brain. Breaking out of the mould...

Anyway, Hermione looked like she had just swallowed a mouthful of swamp water. Her grip on her spoon had tightened visibly, knuckles whitening. Her eyes were locked on the cauldron. She was quiet, hiding that fury that Pansy loved so much on her face. 

Pansy tilted her head, letting her hair fall perfectly into place again. "Is something wrong, Granger?"

Hermione didn’t look up. "No."

Her tone suggested she would rather fight a Hungarian Horntail with her bare hands than say anything more.

Pansy leaned closer, lowering her voice so only Hermione could hear. Her chin was almost resting on her shoulder. "You look tense."

Hermione inhaled sharply through her nose.

Pansy smiled, slow and syrupy. "Must be the fumes."

Hermione stirred the cauldron with surgical precision, jaw clenched so tightly it seemed miraculous her teeth didn’t crack. Pansy sat back, thoroughly satisfied. The potion bubbled between them, but seeing Granger being livid must have felt better than actually drinking Felix Felicis.

The last hour of class passed in an odd, muted haze. Slughorn rambled cheerfully about the delicate brewing phases that would follow next week, and students packed their bags one by one as the clocks chimed the end of the period. Hermione closed her textbook roughly, refusing even a single glance in Pansy’s direction. Pansy pretended not to notice, despite tracking every flick of Hermione’s curls as she left the room in a brisk, irritated stride.

Pansy remained seated, brushing an invisible speck of dust from her robes before rising. She refused to rush, refused to let anyone think she was eager to leave. Image mattered, even in moments as small as exiting a classroom.

She drifted toward the back of the room, where Blaise was slipping his quill into his bag. He looked up as she approached, expression unreadable. His eyes flicked briefly to her hair, and his lips twitched to show his amusement.

"Well," he drawled, "someone’s made a... choice."

Pansy placed a hand on her hip, angling her head slightly. "You mean a fashion choice."

Blaise’s gaze roamed over the mossy straight strands cascading down reaching the middle of her neck. "It’s brave," he admitted after a moment. "And somehow, against all logic or reason, it looks good on you."

Pansy allowed herself a small, pleased smile. "Of course it does. I don’t do things halfway."

"No," Blaise replied, closing his bag with a soft thump, "you definitely don’t."

He slung the strap over his shoulder and stepped past a cluster of Hufflepuffs leaving the classroom. Pansy fell into stride beside him, the two of them slipping into the corridor’s cool, dim light. Students were still whispering as she passed, marveling or questioning or outright gossiping, but she carried herself with the same composed indifference she’d perfected over years of scrutiny. If anything, the attention only sharpened her satisfaction.

When they reached a quieter stretch of hallway, Pansy nudged Blaise lightly with her elbow. "I’ve been meaning to ask," she said, lowering her voice as if discussing something significant, "did Slughorn confirm organizing a masquerade ball for Halloween this year?"

Blaise snorted. "You didn’t hear him? He’s been bragging about since yesterday. It’s practically his magnum opus. Masks, enchanted lanterns, a charmed orchestra, the whole ridiculous package."

Pansy’s eyes widened with genuine excitement. Masquerade balls were rare, far too elaborate for the school’s usual holiday festivities. The idea of swirling fabrics, glittering masks, enchanted dancing, the promise of glamour and secrecy... it sent a warm jolt through her.

And of course, she already pictured the perfect dress. Something dark. Dramatic. Something that would make even Granger forget how to breathe.

She suppressed a smile. "I want to go," Pansy announced.

Blaise raised an eyebrow. "Naturally."

"I want to go with you," she clarified, and her voice slipped into a tone she rarely used. A softened one. "We’d look brilliant together. Everyone knows it."

Blaise stared at her for a long moment, his expression shifting into something almost uncertain. "Pansy..." he sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "You can't always expect men to agree to everything you say. I'm not your puppet. I'm not someone you can manipulate to do everything you want because you hate yourself so much it's seeping into your relationships."

She stiffened. Right. Their argument. His accusation. The part of her she refused to think about. But Pansy wasn’t in the mood for vulnerability. Not now. Not when every inch of her armor was freshly polished.

"Don’t be dramatic," she said, flicking her hair over her shoulder. "We’ve fought worse. Besides, you know I’m right, everyone expects us to show up together. It’s practically tradition."

Blaise didn’t immediately answer. His silence stretched long enough that irritation pricked at Pansy’s nerves. She turned to face him fully, brows knitted with impatience.

"Please," she said finally, the word tasting unfamiliar on her tongue. She didn’t beg often. But she knew how to use it when necessary. "It’s one night. And it's not like people will recognize us, it's probably going to be full face masks. And I promise not to talk about—"

She hesitated, throat tightening for a fraction of a second. "—Granger, I guess. Or my complicated interactions with the... male part of the population."

"You're fucking toxic, Pansy," he muttered. "I don't want to interact with you other than friendship."

"Alright! I wasn't exactly talking about giving you a blow job after the ball anyway," Pansy replied, rolling her eyes. "Being unapproachable is your defining trait, right after disgustingly good cheekbones."

Pansy knew she should have corrected him. She wasn't exactly toxic with men. Well, she was kind of difficult for them to handle. But that was mostly because none of them lived through her expectations. 

Blaise let out a reluctant laugh. "You’re impossible."

"Is that a yes?"

He sighed, looking at the ceiling, as though consulting some unseen cosmic force for patience. "You’re not going to let it go, are you?"

"Absolutely not."

Another pause. Longer this time. Then, finally, Blaise huffed with the resignation of someone who knew he had lost the moment she opened her mouth.

"Fine," he said. "I’ll go with you."

Pansy beamed and Blaise shook his head like he’d just been tricked into something disastrous.

"But," he added, raising a finger, "you behave. No touching. No snogging. No schemes. And don't talk about Granger. Never talk about Granger."

Pansy nodded eagerly and smiled. "Not even once?"

Blaise snorted. "Parkinson. Please."

She shrugged, lips curling into something vaguely wicked. "I’ll behave."

He groaned, but she could tell he was secretly relieved.

And as they continued to walk, Pansy lifted her chin higher, her green hair swaying behind her like a banner.

"What's your next class?" yawned Blaise, unbothered. 

"I have two free periods. Remember I failed Transfiguration and Defense Against The Dark Arts?"

"Yeah. You turn the chair into a warthog instead of a pig and it shat on the old McGonagall's carpet. And you cried when the boggarts showed your parents."

Pansy's smile turned crooked. 

"Shut up, Blaise."

He smirked and continued to walk towards the stairs. Pansy walked down the quiet stone hallway after parting ways with Blaise, the soft click of her heels echoing in the stretch of dungeon corridor. She was considering getting back to bed now, waiting until lunch to make her big appearance in the Great Hall. Her hair shimmered dark green in the torchlight, swaying with each movement. She pressed her lips together, pleased. She had survived the morning. 

She was halfway to the stairwell when she slowed, something small catching her attention. A murmur. A low voice. Then another, softer, unmistakably familiar.

Granger.

Pansy froze before she even fully registered why. She should not care. She should keep walking. But her feet rooted to the stone as if they no longer belonged to her.

The voices were coming from a narrow side-corridor, barely lit. No students ever went there except to sneak away for private conversations. Pansy leaned just slightly toward the sound, not enough to be seen if someone emerged, but enough to catch the tone.

Hermione sounded hesitant. Almost shy.

"Are you sure?" she whispered. 

Then came Theodore’s voice, smooth and low. "Of course. I’d be happy to. Daphne will be there too, so it's only fair."

Pansy’s stomach twisted sharply before her mind could even decipher the words. She felt it immediately, a flash of heat that startled her. She edged a step closer, quietly, breath held without realizing.

"You’d really go with me to the masquerade?" Hermione asked, her voice a little breathy, a little too gentle.

Pansy’s nails dug into her palm.

Theodore chuckled quietly. "I’d be honored, Hermione. Plus it's not like we'll recognize anyone else, since the masks are mandatory. We could have a little fun playing hide and seek with Daph'."

"She's going to hate us," chuckled Hermione. 

"Nothing new under the sun," laughed Nott.

Something inside Pansy lurched so violently she nearly stumbled. Masquerade. Granger. Nott. Going together.

Why did that make her feel like she’d been punched?

She swallowed hard, but her throat stayed painfully tight. She could picture the scene even without seeing it: Granger's earnest eyes, Nott's lazy confidence, Granger probably smiling that soft, infuriating smile she reserved for people she actually liked.

A sharp, unfamiliar burn crawled through Pansy’s chest.

This was stupid. She didn’t care who Hermione dated. She didn’t care who Hermione flirted with. She didn’t care. 

Hermione was asking someone to take her. Not just someone. Theodore. A Slytherin. Someone Pansy actually knew, tolerated. a classmate. Someone who could easily, effortlessly charm Hermione into smiling at him. Pansy had thought they had broken up. She had rejoiced about this fact. 

Heat rose behind Pansy’s eyes.

Then she heard it. A tiny sound. Barely audible. Soft. Quick. A kiss.

Not a dramatic smack or anything theatrical. Just a small meeting of lips, near enough to a wall that it echoed faintly. The unmistakable sound of Hermione letting someone close. Letting someone touch her.

Pansy’s breath stopped like it had been yanked out of her. Her heart slammed so violently against her ribs she thought it might bruise. Something primal and immediate ripped through her torso. Not sadness, not simple annoyance, but a searing flare of jealousy so strong it nearly doubled her over. It shot through her like wildfire, hot and all-consuming, turning every coherent thought into static.

Hermione Granger had kissed someone.

Touched someone.

Let someone else’s face be close where Pansy’s had been only hours ago.

Someone else?

Something in Pansy’s chest yanked painfully tight, like a rope pulled until it nearly snapped. Her breathing grew fast, shallow, uncontrollable. She didn’t understand. She didn’t want to understand. But her body reacted before her brain could reason.

Her skin burned. Her fists clenched. Her jaw locked. Her eyes darkened, flooding with a heat she couldn’t name.

Why did it feel like betrayal? Why did it feel like Hermione had done something deeply, personally wrong? Why did the idea of Hermione’s lips touching someone else send such violent nausea twisting through her gut?

Her heartbeat grew erratic, slamming against her ribs like it wanted out.

And the worst part, the most terrifying part, was that she couldn’t dismiss it. She couldn’t bury it under anger or sarcasm or pride. The jealousy came too fast, too raw, too overwhelming. It felt instinctive, like the way you flinch at fire. It was emotion stripped to its ugly core: possessive, irrational, involuntary.

Hermione hated her. Hermione couldn’t stand her. But hearing her giving attention to someone else felt like having something ripped out of her.

Pansy stepped back from the corridor, her breath trembling without her permission. Her vision sharpened to a painful clarity. Every sound in the hallway felt too loud; every heartbeat felt like a hammering warning she couldn’t decipher.

She turned quickly, forcing her legs into movement. Her stride was stiff, almost uneven, nothing like her usual grace. She needed to be alone.

She didn’t know why her chest hurt. She didn’t know why jealousy was clawing its way up her throat like she was drowning in acid. She only knew one thing with absolute, terrifying clarity:

Hermione Granger kissing someone else felt wrong.

But maybe it wasn't about Granger. Maybe it was about Nott. Yes, it must have been about Nott. Nott and his tall silhouette, his thin face and boyish smile, his brown hair and hazel eyes, his straight nose and little dimples. 

Yes, Pansy had probably a crush on him she didn't realise she had until Granger, of all people, got what she wanted. 

That was it. Pansy had a crush on Nott. That was why it felt so wrong. Pansy had feelings for Nott she didn't know about until he wasn't available anymore. It made sense, really, she spent years with him sharing a House. 

Pansy needed to take her mind off him and Granger. 

She almost ran to the dorms, practically screaming the password. She rushed inside, jumping the stairs to reach her dorm. She glanced around. She was alone. 

Perfect. 

Pansy threw herself in her bed. She was thinking about Nott. His white teeth, childish grin, thin brown hair. Nott was handsome. It wasn't a secret. 

Pansy thought about Nott taking his shirt off. He probably had noticeable abs. 

She thought about Nott pulling his pants down. He probably had strong, athletic thighs and legs. 

She pressed her arm against her eyes, slipping her other hand under her skirt. 

She could see his brown eyes looking up at her, while he was kneeling in front of her. She could hear his soft voice telling her to relax while he was sliding her knickers down her legs. She could feel his breath against the inside of her thighs. 

Pansy let her fingers reach the apex of her thighs, feeling the wet and hot flesh. She blinked hard, thinking of Theodore, kissing the skin of her crotch, getting closer and closer to where she wanted him. 

She closed her eyes, letting her fingers part her folds, imagining the hotness of his breathing stroking her skin. Slowly, almost apprehensively, she dragged a finger from her entrance to her clit, forcing herself to feel his skin against hers. 

She was desperately unaroused. 

Brown eyes. 

Brown hair. 

Moles on pale skin. 

Pink lips. 

Pansy could now feel her lips kissing her entrance, trailing her tongue around it without daring going inside. She could see her chocolate irises looking up at her while she was steadily licking her clit. 

Pansy's fingers accelerated, rubbing tight circles around her clit, keeping her eyes closed, her back arching off the bed, her toes curling. She imagined her brown curly hair tickling the skin of her thighs. 

"Fuck," she groaned, feeling her arousal now coating her fingers. 

Pansy rubbed faster, harder. She blocked her own breathing. The knot was tightening inside her lower belly. 

Hermione entered a single, long finger, dragging inside her walls, stroking that deep spot Pansy enjoyed touching so much. She was slow but firm. 

Pansy let out a small moan when Hermione entered a second finger. She was getting close now, hoping Hermione would accelerate the pace now. The brunette did so, listening to her plea. She was perfect. Her warm brown eyes were stuck in Pansy's, her curly, frizzy hair cascading against Pansy's skin, between her legs. 

"Fuck!" Pansy repeated. 

Hermione kept lapping on her clit, her two fingers rubbing that deep spot inside of her. The knot in Pansy's belly suddenly snapped, and a burst of pure, unsweetened pleasure rushed through her veins, her nerves. Tears prickled to her eyes. 

Pansy opened her eyes, breathing hard and choppy. She slowly sat back up, looking at her own hand, coated by threads of her own arousal. Tears kept rising to her eyes, until they eventually poured down her cheeks. 

"Granger, you bitch..." Pansy murmured weakly, legs still trembling. 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 5: Double Date(s)

Notes:

CW: Draco Malfoy

"I'm telling you, this bitch is preparing something."

"I know," sighed Hermione. "I was so... distraught when she decided to go along with the green hair. I hate how good it suits her."

Daphne raised an eyebrow, smirking. "It does look good on her."

Hermione hummed, unfocused. She glanced around them. Almost all the tables of the Three Broomsticks were full. She could see Pansy, Malfoy, Astoria and Zabini talk a few tables from them. Pansy wasn't very talkative for once, contenting herself to look at Zabini and Malfoy chat without really interjecting. She looked deep in her thoughts.

Hermione didn't know she had any.

"Will you stop ogling her? It's bordering on obsession, Hermione."

"I will when your knee stop jumping under the table," the brunette replied cheekily.

"I'm sure Potter and Weasley won't even come," groaned Daphne. "I don't even know why I'm so nervous."

"Because they're pretty boys. You don't say no to pretty boys."

"I just wish... I just wish Theo would stop looking at me like I'm his annoying little sister who has the Hogwarts rules plastered on her chest instead of two actual boobs."

"The Hogwarts rules are interesting," argued Hermione painfully. "It's important to know them by heart."

"Hermione, please, shut up."

The latter laughed in front of the blonde's fatigue.

"Seriously though, I think you should stop waiting for Theo. You need to make him realise what he's missing out instead of patiently looking for a sign, because he won't give you any."

"Maybe he still has feelings for you," said Daphne dryly.

Hermione closed her mouth, feeling a sudden pang of unease in her chest.

"I don't think he does."

"You invited him to Slughorn's masquerade and he immediately accepted," replied Daphne.

"Yes, because I didn't know who else to ask. And when I did ask him, he immediately brought your name in the conversation. We chatted for a bit about playing hide and seek during the ball with you, he asked me if I was sure you were coming, I said yes and I kissed his cheek before going to my next class," Hermione explained, walking on eggshells.

"He did?" asked Daphne, looking almost shy.

"Yes. He always brings you up when I talk to him. He's just too scared to ask you out because he thinks it can wait, he thinks you're safe," said Hermione, imitating quotation marks with her fingers on that last word. "He needs to realise other boys could be interested in you, and that you could reciprocate. Me pushing him towards you won't work. Trust me, I've done that for the last twelve months and he didn't budge. He's very thick."

Daphne smiled, looking down at her gloved hands. "You're right. I need to move on and stop waiting for him to ask me out without doing anything myself."

Hermione quickly nodded. A few metres away, Pansy laughed really loud at something Astoria said.

"Hey..." the brunette started, unsure. "Didn't you notice how strange Pansy is behaving with Theo these days?"

"Here we go again..." sighed Daphne, amused.

"I'm telling you. She's actually talking to him outside of classes. I saw her touch his arm once."

"He hates her," shrugged Daphne.

"I think she's doing it to piss me off."

"Hermione—"

"She probably thinks I still have a crush on him since Fifth year because the three of us hang out a lot."

"Hermione, they—"

"Theo is like a brother to me, I'd hate the idea of this bitch getting in his pants—"

"Good morning girls," said a calm masculine voice.

Hermione abruptly shut her mouth and looked up. Harry and Ronald were waiting for them to realise they were here. The ginger looked uneasy, guarded. Harry sat next to her and greeted Daphne with a polite nod. Ronald took a seat in front of Hermione, tense.

"Did you get anything already?" asked Harry.

"We ordered four butterbeers, it shouldn't be long now," said Daphne. "Sorry, I didn't present myself. I'm Daphne Greengrass."

"Nice to meet you. I guess you already know who I am," Harry said, chuckling. "This is Ron, my best mate. Ron, you already know Hermione."

He bobbed his head. "Yeah. The only Slytherin who doesn't treat us like shite or simply ignore us."

"Malfoy could never," slid Daphne.

"You hate him too?" asked Harry, surprised.

"It is rare to find someone who does these days," she said.

"I guess we all have that in common," replied Ron.

"Weren't you the guy who beat him up last year after the Quidditch Cup?" asked Daphne, looking at Ron.

"No, that was me in Fifth Year. Ron beat him up after a potion exam last year."

"He's just so punchable," snorted Ron.

"Parkinson too," laughed Daphne. "Hermione wishes she could slap her sometimes."

"All the time," corrected the latter. "Maybe we shouldn't talk about our violence urges right now, though..."

"Still, that hair pulling fight was insane!" exclaimed Ron.

Harry and Daphne laughed, the sound light and surprisingly well-matched. Ron, who had been stiff as a broomstick for the first ten minutes, finally softened, shoulders loosening as if someone had gently untied the knot in his spine. Rosmerta brought four pints of butterbeer to their small table, the froth spilling generously over the rims, and they all raised their cups. Ron's hit Hermione's hard, making her spill. She slightly tensed her jaw in annoyance but refrained herself to manifest it. She didn't forget about how she had to get along with him to leave Harry and Daphne alone.

The air inside the Three Broomsticks smelled like caramel and cinnamon, warm enough to melt away at least half of the awkwardness. When Hermione set her cup down, the warmth still tingling on her tongue, her gaze lifted instinctively, and landed on Pansy at the other table, staring at her with an intensity that could have cut glass. Hermione held her stare, lifted the corner of her mouth into the subtlest, most satisfied smile she could manage, and watched Pansy flush a shade of scarlet so vivid it nearly rivaled Luna's face paint during a Quidditch match. Pansy jerked her eyes away like she'd been caught. She looked almost... sheepish. Odd.

Hermione hid her amusement behind another sip. Daphne, perched comfortably beside her, leaned in. "She's going to combust at this rate."

"I sure hope so," Hermione said lightly, returning to her pint as if her pulse hadn't just spiked.

Across the table, Harry had been watching the exchange with a puzzled frown, but he didn't comment. Instead, he gave Hermione a careful, almost shy smile.

"So, Green, I mean, er, Daphne" he began, fingers tapping nervously on his glass, "I didn't know you liked butterbeer this much."

The blonde blinked. "Who doesn't?"

He laughed softly. "Right. Good point."

Hermione nudged Daphne's knee under the table, as if to say he's trying, be nice. Daphne offered Harry a gentler smile in return.

The silence that followed wasn't exactly tense; it was more like everyone was figuring out how to rearrange themselves into a shape they'd never tried before. Four barely adults, two Gryffindors, two Slytherins, trying to pretend House lines didn't exist. House lines had never been a real concept for Hermione, but she could understand the awkwardness of the other three.

Ron slurped noisily from his drink, then wiped the foam from his lip with his sleeve. "So, er... how's Slughorn treating you? Heard he practically faints of joy when you walk into the room."

Hermione chuckled. "Not that dramatic, but he's been kind."

Ron grinned. "That's basically fainting, then."

Daphne snorted. "He fawns over Harry, too."

Harry made a face. "Unfortunately."

Daphne smirked. "You love the attention."

"I really don't," Harry insisted, though his cheekbones betrayed a faint blush.

Hermione tilted her cup thoughtfully. It was strange, sitting here with them. She was sort of happy to have finally found the courage to create a friendship. She had always looked over Harry and his best friend from a distance, never really interacting. Why would she? They had nothing in common, except Luna, who was Harry's best friend. Stupid House politics forced them into parallel lines instead of intersecting ones. Separated not by choice but by tradition. Yet now, with Daphne's comfortable presence beside her, the soft glow of butterbeer lamps washing over them, and the tavern's easy atmosphere taking the edges off everyone's nerves, Hermione felt the strange sensation of possibility.

Harry cleared his throat. "Daphne says you're top in almost every class."

Hermione lifted a brow. "Almost?"

Daphne grinned. "Well, Parkinson still beats you in Astronomy."

"That's only because I don't like heights. Why must that class happen at the Astronomy Tower anyway?"

Harry's smile grew real this time, warm rather than hesitant. "You're brilliant. I mean—obviously I knew you were smart. Everyone knows about the 'Slytherin genius' thing."

Ron nodded. "Yeah, McGonagall keeps trying to brag about you in Transfiguration, then remembers who she's talking to and gets all stiff."

"It's honestly uncomfortable," Harry added.

Hermione covered a stiff laugh with her hand, heat rising to her cheeks. "Well... that's kind of her."

"I don't want to be a bitch, but should we change the subject? Hermione hates when people tells her she should have been in another house," intervened Daphne. 

Hermione glanced at her, relieved. It had been enough of an internal struggle. She didn't need the subject to be thrown at her face all the time.

"Okay. But I don't think you should have been in another house," said Ron. "Dyeing Parkinson's hair green was wicked. It's a shame it almost fully dissolved today."

"How did you know it was me?!"

Harry violently elbowed Ron, making him huff.

"Harry told me you told him," he admitted.

The latter groaned, massaging his forehead.

"Well, thank you. I hate that it suits her so well," replied Hermione dryly.

Daphne shared a glance with Harry.

"Anyway," said Hermione rapidly. "Are you going to the masquerade in a few weeks, Harry?"

"Yes, I will. I'll take Luna. She's a cool girl."

"Looney Lovegood?" said Daphne, baffled.

Hermione crushed her foot under the table and she yelped.

"I'll take Luna," repeated Harry a bit coldly.

"Hey, Ron, will you come with me outside for a second?" asked Hermione abruptly.

"What? Er, yeah, sure..." mumbled Ron, his ears suddenly (comically) reddening when Hermione grabbed his sleeve.

Hermione and Ron stepped out of the Three Broomsticks together, leaving Harry and Daphne still inside. Daphne was leaning unconsciously toward Harry in a way that made Hermione grin and Ron roll his eyes. The pub door swung shut behind them with a soft thud, muting the warm chatter inside. Outside, the September air was crisp, bright, and startlingly clear, sunlight glinting off the cobblestones as though Hogsmeade had been polished overnight.

Hermione drew in a long breath, letting the slight chill settle into her lungs. It should have cleared her head, but it didn't. Just before she and Ron left, her gaze had drifted of its own accord to the corner table where Pansy had been sitting earlier. It was empty now. No green-haired girl, no insufferable blonde guy, no untouchable black skinned boy, no brunette.

Hermione couldn't relax knowing that. Maybe it was her instincts or being teased and harassed for years kicking in, maybe it was something else. Still, her fingers tightened around her wand in her pocket. Pansy had looked at her, while she was sitting with Ron and Harry. There was no doubt that if Pansy saw if, Draco saw it too. This was the worst possible outcome.

Ron was talking beside her, hands gesturing vaguely as he launched into some story, probably about Quidditch or something Harry had said earlier. The wind tugged at his hair, lifting it slightly as he spoke.

"...Hermione? Are you even listening?"

She wasn't.

Her eyes drifted toward the street that led back to Hogwarts, scanning the groups of students strolling between shop windows, laughing, wandering without hurry. There was no sign of green hair. No black uniform. No fast, parading footsteps. No Pansy.

A strange discomfort tightened her chest.

She touched her lips unconsciously.

Ron exhaled loudly. "Why did you want to see me outside?"

She turned to look at him, mouth parting as though she might respond, but her thoughts tripped over themselves. She had left Pansy fuming and rigid in the library a few nights ago. Four days before this afternoon at Hogsmeade, Parkinson had walked into Potions with green hair like it was a crown. Three days ago, she had started shamelessly flirting with Theo. Today, Hermione had smirked at her across the room, and Pansy had flushed, then disappeared before Hermione could look again. Not to mention their total lack of dialogue in Potions. Pansy was avoiding her, and Hermione couldn't get why.

"Sorry. I just... had my mind elsewhere."

"Are you, er... going to ask me to go Slughorn's masquerade with you or something? Is that why you wanted to see me outside? Harry said you talked about me once, and, er..." Ron asked in a lower voice, his ears turning a deeper shade of red, practically matching his scarf.

Hermione's jaw dropped. Heat rushed to her cheeks so fast it left her dizzy.

"Well, Granger, are you about to ask him to go to the ball with you or not?"

Draco's voice cut through the air like a blade, sharp and dripping with disdain.

Hermione and Ron both jumped, spinning around. Draco stood a few paces behind them, arms crossed, silver-blond hair perfectly arranged despite the breeze. His eyes glittered with smug contempt.

Parkinson was beside him. She giggled lightly, or at least made the sound of a giggle, but it sounded more like a gargling. Her posture was wrong. Too stiff. Too deliberate. Her eyes were circled by dark rings, poorly hidden under makeup, visible in the sunlight. Her fingers pressed together, knuckles nearly white. Her gaze flicked between Hermione and Ron with frowned eyebrows, scrunching up her nose. She was trying to make herself act tough and detached as usual, and she was wonderfully failing.

Something was wrong with Pansy and Hermione wanted to know what.

Hermione instinctively straightened her shoulders. "Don't you have somewhere else to be, Draco?"

"Clearly not," Draco said, scoffing. "I mean, this is precious. You, asking Weasley of all people to a masquerade? I suppose desperation comes for everyone eventually. Is it because Nott dumped you for Pansy?"

Hermione squinted her eyes. Pansy's jaw was closed really, really tight.

Ron bristled immediately. "She wasn't, I didn't mean what I said. And even if I did, it means at least she's not asking someone who spends half his day staring at himself in a mirror!"

Hermione softly sighed. Theo himself spent half his day staring at himself in a mirror. It was a common trait in the Slytherin dorms.

"Oh, please," Draco drawled. "If she had any sense, she'd be begging someone with a spine. Keep dishonouring our house Granger, like you always did. You don't belong here. You never belonged anywhere near us anyway. You're a disgrace."

"You too, Weasley," finally chipped in Pansy. She looked considerably pissed, now that Hermione was really looking at her. "But I guess being a blood traitor runs in the family."

Ron stepped forward, face reddening for a different reason now. Hermione put a hand on his arm on instinct, though she wasn't sure why she bothered. She'd kill anyone to see Draco get beaten up again.

But Pansy? That was another thing. She was the only one allowed to beat up Pansy. Verbally. A little physically, too.

Draco's eyes landed on her hand, and his smile curled cruelly. "You really are serious, aren't you? Granger and the Weasel. Adorable."

Hermione opened her mouth to retort, but Draco wasn't done.

"Although..." He tilted his head, examining her with that serpent-like scrutiny. "I suppose you are used to downgrading. House, bloodline, romantic choices—it all fits."

"Shut your mouth, Malfoy," Ron snapped, lunging forward again.

Hermione stepped in front of him this time. "Ron, don't."

Her voice came out sharper than she intended, strained with a frustration she couldn't pin down. Pansy stiffened slightly behind Draco at her tone.

Ron faltered, glaring between Hermione and Draco, torn between anger and confusion.

Draco smiled triumphantly. "Look at that. She's defending you already. How sweet. Though I must say, Granger..." His grey eyes sharpened. "You're awfully jumpy today. Guilty conscience about something?"

Hermione's stomach clenched. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, nothing," Draco said casually, waving a hand. "Just seems to me like you've been... everywhere lately. Fist fights. Being sent to detention. Stirring trouble in every corner of the castle. You're the worst Head Girl Slytherin ever had."

Ron scoffed. "Funny, coming from the person who practically lives for trouble."

"Yes, but at least I do it because I can afford it." Draco flicked an approving glance at Pansy. "Isn't that right?"

Pansy lifted her chin, but her voice was quiet. "Obviously."

Pansy didn't sound invested in the argument. She sounded... distracted. Like she was trying to anchor herself in Draco's presence and failing. She did look like she wanted to spit on Ron, though. For once, it wasn't directed towards Hermione.

Draco leaned forward slightly, voice dropping to a mocking whisper. "So, Granger. You going to admit it? You and Weasley, the big romantic pairing?"

Hermione inhaled sharply, ready to respond, but Ron stepped in first.

"For Merlin's sake, Malfoy, she wasn't even—"

Hermione cut him off, louder than intended. "It doesn't matter what I was or wasn't doing! It's none of your business!"

Draco blinked, surprised by the sudden heat in her voice. Pansy tensed even more, eyes widening faintly at Hermione's burst of anger.

Hermione dragged a hand through her hair, trying to steady her breath. She hated how off-balance she felt. Draco and Pansy always got under her skin, but this felt different. More volatile. More tangled. Pansy's presence behind him only made it worse, like an unseen tether pulling at her thoughts. This was new, and Hermione hated it.

Ron said something to her again, softer this time. She didn't hear him fully. Her pulse was too loud in her ears. Her fingers curled and uncurled around her wand. She kept it deep in her robes' pocket, mentally repeating the curse, her eyes quickly glancing at Draco and Pansy's feet. Wait.

Pansy finally took a step forward. Hermione clenched her teeth. Keep waiting.

"Touched a nerve, did I?" Pansy scoffed at her.

Hermione smiled, shrugging. Now.

Locomotor Wibbly.

A soft yellow light circled both Pansy's and Draco's feet.

"Is that a new perfume, Pansy?" Hermione asked, the calm in her voice deliberate, almost gentle. The spell humming beneath their shoes remained invisible to everyone else. It was a perfect silent trap.

Pansy briefly raised her eyebrows, lips curling. "Something you could never afford anyway." Her tone was airy, dismissive, meant to glide past Hermione like a knife disguised as silk.

Then she took another step forward. And her legs froze. Her balance tipped.

Her eyes widened just a fraction, and for a split-second she looked almost startled, almost vulnerable.

But gravity won, and Pansy pitched forward.

Hermione's hands moved before she could think, instinct overriding everything else, the fight, the fury, still crackling in her ribs. Her hands shot out, catching Pansy by the forearms with a solid thud. Pansy's weight toppled into her, warm and tense, their faces barely ten centimetres apart.

For a heartbeat neither girl breathed.

Hermione felt Pansy's pulse hammering beneath her fingers. Her breath smelled like mint again. And her perfume was something citrusy, fresh and clean. Hermione felt her own chest stutter with the shock of contact. She felt everything tilt, hard and confusing, in ways she didn't dare examine.

Then Pansy reacted. She seized Hermione's arms in return, fingers digging in with enough force to bruise, twisting, pulling, trying to wrest control. Her expression snapped into fury so sharp it almost glowed.

"You bitch—" Pansy hissed, using Hermione's grip as leverage, yanking her closer.

Her other hand swung upward, fast, palm slicing toward Hermione's hair again. Merlin, Pansy had an obsession with her hair. Or just her.

Hermione blocked it without hesitation. Their arms collided in midair. Hermione's hand closed around Pansy's wrist, pushing it away, turning the momentum. In a single practiced motion, one she'd learned from her father at his judo club and drilled day after day when she was 9, Hermione forced Pansy's arm down, then behind her back.

Pansy gasped at the sudden pressure. Not in pain, but in outrage. Hermione held her there, just enough force to keep control. Pansy's chest heaved against hers, their bodies flush with tension, caught in a snarl of anger and heat neither of them could name.

"You—let—me—go," Pansy spat, trembling with infuriated pride. Her dark green hair stuck slightly to Hermione's cheek, her breaths sharp, ragged.

"Stop trying to hit me," Hermione murmured, voice low, steady, infuriatingly composed despite the adrenaline pounding through her. "You're a witch, aren't you? Why don't you use your wand? Funny to me the only class you're decent at is Astronomy, a class where magic isn't needed. Are you a squib, Pansy? That's pitiful, considering you spent years screaming at me I'm a Mudblood who belongs in the Muggle world. Yet I still use more magic than you every day."

Hermione panted, her breath uneven, but she knew her words had infuriated Pansy even more, and it was exactly what she wanted. Pansy twisted again, her trapped arm flexing, shoulder straining, but Hermione held her firm. Their legs were nearly tangled, Pansy half-pinned against Hermione, unable to step back because the spell still held her in place.

It was a stalemate, close enough that Hermione could feel the warmth of Pansy's cheek against her own. Pansy's fury felt like static.

Hermione wished she weren't so aware.

"What the fuck are you doing to her?! Leave her alone, you filthy Mudblood!" yelled Draco, taking out his wand.

But before either could speak, a roar of movement erupted beside them.

Ron lunged.

And Draco never saw it coming.

Ron's fist connected with Draco's stomach with a sound that echoed across the empty courtyard. Draco doubled over instantly, air leaving him in a violent whoosh, his arms clutching at his abdomen. He stumbled backward, coughing, shock etched across his pale face. Hermione's leg blocking spell immediately took action, and he fell butt first on the ground.

Ron's punch was a perfect punch, clumsy, angry, and fueled by an hour's worth of Malfoy's taunts.

"Don't—talk—about—anyone—like—that!" Ron panted, red-faced and livid.

Draco wheezed, struggling to straighten, hair disheveled, pride bleeding out onto the cobblestones. "Mudblood and blood traitor skunk—"

"Ron!" Hermione exclaimed, turning her head, still holding Pansy pinned.

But Ron didn't hear. His fists balled again, stance ready, wild and reckless and entirely earnest.

Draco glared up, trembling with rage and humiliation.

"You're going to regret that, Weasley," he hissed.

"Oh, really?" Ron barked, stepping forward again.

Hermione inhaled sharply and her grip on Pansy softened. Pansy could have just jumped forward, undone her leg blocking jinx. But she stayed here, frozen. She was watching the scene unfold with an expression Hermione had never seen on her before. Fury, yes.

But her eyes were glassy and her cheek, still against Hermione's, was warm and almost red.

Hermione tightened her hold again. This time, Pansy tugged once more at Hermione's grip, trying harder now, more desperate, yet still unable to break free. Hermione kept her pinned, breath mingling with Pansy's.

"You're so obsessed with me," Hermione said. "You could have attacked Ronald, but you keep choosing me. You always choose me."

It came out softer than she meant.

Pansy's chest was rising and falling rapidly, small pants and vocal gasps leaving her lips. Behind them, Ron and Draco continued shouting, their voices climbing higher, tension spiraling.

But Hermione barely heard it. She could feel Pansy's pulse under her fingers. She could feel her breathing. She could feel the trembling anger radiating off her.

But there was something else, something that terrified Pansy enough she would rather fight Hermione than acknowledge it.

Hermione had to know what it was. She swallowed, her grip tightening for a heartbeat longer. Then, slowly, she released her.

Pansy stepped back, the spell finally wearing off, legs unsteady and eyes wide open. Hermione could still feel the imprint of her wrist against her palm, still feel the warmth of her skin pressed against hers moments earlier. The absence of contact was sudden and jarring, as if the air between them had been stretched too thin.

Before either girl could speak, the door of the Three Broomsticks slammed open. Hermione briefly turned her head. Dozens of students were watching them behind the windows.

Harry and Daphne burst outside at full speed.

"Ron! Get off him!" Harry shouted before he'd even fully crossed the threshold.

Daphne's voice cracked like a whip. "Draco, move back before you make this worse, Merlin's sake—"

Hermione's head whipped toward them. Ron had lunged again, grabbing Draco by the collar, and Draco was half doubled over but still glaring with murderous fury. Harry dove between them, shoving Ron back with both hands, while Daphne caught Draco by the sleeve and yanked him away before he could retaliate.

"Harry, let go! He started it!" Ron protested breathlessly.

"I don't care who started it!" Harry snapped. "I'm ending it!"

Draco wheezed. "Get your—filthy hands—off—"

Daphne jerked him harder. "Shut up. You're not helping." She shot Hermione a look of exasperated fear. "What happened?"

Hermione opened her mouth, but her words tangled into nothing. Because Pansy was still standing right in front of her.

And Pansy was blushing. A soft, unmistakable pink flushed across her cheekbones, climbing toward her ears. It wasn't the cold. It wasn't even cold outside. It wasn't exertion. Hermione recognized that kind of flush instinctively, though she had no business recognizing it now, here, after what had just happened.

Hermione stared, breath caught, her own pulse stumbling. Pansy, noticing Hermione's eyes on her face, looked away, schooling her expression into something cool and disdainful. But the blush stayed, betraying her.

Hermione couldn't stop staring. She felt as though she had just discovered a secret she wasn't meant to see. Something forbidden and electric.

Pansy brushed imaginary dust from her sleeve, forcing her shoulders back in a show of poise. "This was ridiculous," she muttered, mostly to herself. "Utterly ridiculous."

Her voice, however, betrayed a tremor. Hermione's chest tightened at the sound. Her fingers still remembered the shape of Pansy's arm beneath them. And now, this blush, this fragile, unexpected softness that cracked through Pansy's armour...

It did something to Hermione she wasn't prepared for. Before she could process more, Daphne tugged Draco farther down the path, muttering under her breath about how he shouldn't fight with people while he was dating her little sister, and reputations. Harry managed to haul Ron back by the collar, forcing distance between the boys, who were still panting like angry kneazles.

Pansy inhaled slowly, steadying herself. Then she turned her gaze back toward Hermione.

Hermione's breath hitched. Now, up close, Pansy's face was even redder. And Hermione hated how that made her feel. Or rather, she should have hated it.

She hated how she didn't hate it at all.

She felt lightheaded, unsteady. Pansy broke the stare first. A tiny, sharp breath escaped her, one Hermione wasn't meant to hear. She gathered her composure, pivoted on her heel and walked away, steps stiff but deliberate. Merlin; she was still strutting even after all that just happened.

Draco followed, still pressed to his stomach, muttering curses. Daphne scolded them both all the way down the lane.

Hermione remained rooted in place, barely aware of Ron yelling at Harry in the background. All she could see was the sway of Pansy's almost faded green hair as she disappeared around the corner.

And all she could think about, absurdly, uncontrollably, was the brief moment when Pansy's face had been inches from hers, warm breath brushing her lips, eyes wide, soft gasps leaving her mouth.

A shiver went down her spine. Hermione raised her fingers to her own lips, suddenly aware of the heat blazing under her own skin.

She was blushing too. Badly.

Her heart pounded hard enough that she felt it in her fingertips, in her throat, in the places Pansy had touched her. She tried to steady her breathing, but it came too fast, too uneven.

Harry noticed first. "Hermione? You okay?"

She didn't answer. She could still hear Pansy panting and gasping against her. A sudden rush of heat washed over her, making her belly surge forward, a place somewhere below stomach jumping inside of her. Why was she thinking of Pansy's ragged breaths and why was she feeling so hot because of it?

Her eyes were still fixed on the empty path where Pansy had been. And the realization crashed over her like cold water and fire all at once.

She wasn't feeling hot because of exertion. And she was certainly not blushing of embarrassment, she had won this fight.

She was turned on because of this bitch.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 6: Masquerade

Notes:

CW: slut-shaming, internalised homophobia

"Come on, Draco! Let me in" groaned Pansy, banging her fist against the wooden door of the boys' dormitory. She hissed when she felt her nails hit the wood and immediately regretted her act. Those nails had been way too expensive, breaking them against a wooden door was uncouth.

"I'll let you in if you suck my cock."

"I would, but for that you need to open the bloody door."

Finally, she heard the handle move. The door opened, and a whiff of cologne immediately attacked her nostrils, making her scrunching up her nose.

"Slut," mumbled Draco while taking off his pants, stepping away to let her in.

"It stinks in there," commented Pansy, barely looking at him. "Do not take off those boxers, I'm not here to get traumatised again by the white worm you have instead of a proper cock."

Blaise, at the last bed facing the green windows, stifled a chuckle. Crabbe and Goyle burst out laughing, their deep and gravelly voices echoing against the wall, making Pansy's ears ring. She glared at them.

"You used to like my white worm," replied Draco in a scathing tone, disappearing behind the curtains of his bed.

"Things changed. Ten centimetres don't reach my standards anymore. It barely reached my G-point. I pity Astoria."

"Vincent, what's a J point?" murmured Goyle.

Crabbe shrugged his huge shoulders, confused. Draco insulted her in a muffled voice, and this time, even Nott, who was putting on his suit, let out a snort. Pansy sat directly on Blaise's bed, chewing her gum, waiting for him to greet her. Realising he wouldn't budge, she laid her head on his lap and smiled.

"Show me your suit and your mask."

"Is that why you're here? I reckoned you wanted to shag Nott."

"No way," exclaimed the latter, stretching his arms. "Parkinson isn't my type."

Pansy thought her heart would hurt at this sentence. She thought it would painful, it would feel bad, like she had read in some romance books of the library. But the only thing she felt was a pang of annoyance.

"I'm everyone's type."

"Just because you fucked almost everyone here but me doesn't mean I want you. I like girls who don't get passed around like a cheap blunt. I'll pay you for a blow, though."

"Fuck off, Nott," spat Pansy, actually getting angry this time. "You're just bitter because your little girlfriend doesn't give a single shite about you."

Blaise grunted, trying to get away from Pansy, but she pushed her head harder against his lap, forcing him to stay. Nott took a step closer.

"My girlfriend?" he repeated, disgusted.

"Granger doesn't care about you. She cares about three things: her books, the Weasel boy and cursing me out."

"Hermione isn't my girlfriend. Get help, Parkinson."

But Pansy saw the tremor in his voice, and knew she had won. Again. She simply smiled at him and rolled over to free Blaise. The latter pushed her away and got up, opening his drawers.

"Here," he said, throwing a pile of white velvet fabric. "That's my suit." He then tossed a metal face mask on top. "And my mask. I hope we match enough for you."

Pansy took the mask and observed the intricate patterns, the white fabric hiding his eyes.

"It's perfect. Mine looks almost the same."

She took a small mask out of her handbag and gave it back its real size with a flick of her wand.

"You'll be unrecognisable with this mask," commented Blaise.

"She'll be able to fuck anyone she wants with that! The only good thing about her is her arse and tits," screeched Goyle.

Almost all of the boys immediately laughed. But Pansy felt a deep, strangling pain. Heat shot through her cheeks first. It was humiliation, a blazing flush that made her head feel too light, too exposed. It crawled down the back of her neck like a stain. Her fingers tightened around her mask until the edges dug into her palm. She could feel their eyes on her legs, on her waist, on the shimmer of fabric she'd chosen so carefully. 

For once, it disgusted her.

She saw Goyle mimic her walk, hips swinging in an obscene parody. Draco was laughing in a high pitched tone, clasping his hands as if praying to the image of her. Nott tilted his head back in silent laughter, nothing but joy in his eyes at the idea of mocking her.

Her throat closed. It felt like drowning standing up.

She didn't move at first. Her body locked in place while her heart hammered against her ribs in something between fury and shame. Their jeering grins blurred at the edges, yet every expression carved itself into her memory, every mocking glance, every cruel smirk. She felt small and large at the same time, as though she both filled the room and was disappearing inside it.

Her stomach clenched. The humiliation tightened into something sharper, something dark and burning low in her chest. Anger surged up like wildfire, hot enough that she could taste it, metallic and furious at the back of her tongue. She imagined hexing the laughter off their faces, imagined wiping the smirks clean. Her nails bit into her palms. Her shoulders trembling, though she held them square.

She didn't want them to see her break, and that was what snapped her back into motion.

Without a word, because words would crack, and she refused to give them that, she walked across the room, fast and breathless. Their laughter chased her to the doorway, echoing down the stairs as she fled. Her heels clicked too loudly against the stone, betraying her urgency.

She didn't wait for Blaise. If she stayed a second longer she might scream or cry or lash out, and none of those options belonged to her tonight. Not in front of them.

The moment she reached the stairs, cold air rushed against her burning skin. She gulped it in like she'd been suffocating, pressing a hand to the wall to steady herself as the laughter finally dulled behind closed doors.

Pansy hated how humiliated she was feeling. It was worse than anything. She was used to her reputation. She had indeed slept with most of those boys, but it was a private matter, not some joke they could share. For the first time, Pansy was ashamed of having let them do that to her. It was easy for them to mock her, so why had they asked her to sleep with them in the first place? 

Pansy got out of the Slytherin common room feeling extraordinarily hot in the usually freezing temperatures of October under the lake. She readjusted her dress, putting on her own mask. She had made sure no one would recognize her when she wore it. Anonymity could give power, and considering how this night had started for her, Pansy wanted to enjoy being a faceless character in a crowd of faceless characters. 

Blaise joined her a few minutes later, dressed up. She barely looked at him. 

"Sorry."

"Why?" asked Pansy coldly. 

"You know how they are," sighed Blaise. 

"I thought you apologized for not defending me."

He tightly nodded, and Pansy had the ultimate confirmation she truly hated men. Men and their way of being so entitled to women's body, men and their smell, men and their postures, men and their deep and unmelodious voices. 

"I'm sick of being seen as a whore," said Pansy, as they began to walk in the empty corridors. 

"Then maybe you shouldn't have fucked all of us."

Pansy's jaw tightened. She hated how right his words sounded in her mind. 

"Your problem is that you love attention too much, Pansy. You'd give free hand jobs if it could give you a single ounce of attention. And now everyone thinks you're a slut."

The good thing with masks was that Pansy could cry without anyone noticing. 

Thankfully, the Great Hall wasn't far. Blaise grabbed Pansy's arm and they walked in. For a moment, everything painful, sharp, and humiliating that had clung to her ribs loosened. The sight before her was too overwhelming, too dazzling for anything else to survive. Even Blaise paused with her, the faintest twitch of his fingers betraying that he too was impressed.

The ceiling was a spellbound storm of drifting black clouds, suspended like silky curtains that swirled without wind. They glowed faintly from within, lit by flickers of gold as if lightning were trapped under velvet. Thousands of candles floated low tonight, closer to the guests, their flames pale blue instead of warm amber. The light produced strange, dramatic shadows over the floor, over robes and masks and jewels. The air shimmered with enchantments that twisted shapes and reflections. It felt otherworldly, like stepping into a painting made of dark starlight.

Black drapery hung from the walls in heavy folds, embroidered with silver thread that caught the candlelight like thin spiderwebs. The long tables were replaced by small round ones scattered across the room, each draped in deep green satin and topped with crystal bowls overflowing with luminescent fruit. There was a faint perfume in the air. It wasn't floral, but something older, resinous and rich, smelling faintly of cypress and old books.

And the people.

Masks everywhere. Every shape, every color, every impossible design. Feathered masks that arched like wings. Masks of ivory carved with constellation patterns. Ones gilded in gold leaf, shimmering like melted sunlight. Venetian shapes, predator shapes, delicate lace masks that concealed everything while revealing the suggestion of cheekbones beneath. All of the masks covered the entire face, offering a complete erasure of identity.

It was as intoxicating as it was unsettling.

Because truly, no one could be recognized. Not under these designs, not under this lighting. Not under the careful extravagance of the evening.

The Great Hall was unrecognizable, far from the usual medieval dining area Pansy knew. It was elegant, velvety.

This felt familiar. This, she knew.

Pureblood soirées in the Parkinson ballroom had the same atmosphere. Marble floors polished to a mirror sheen, guests in elaborate robes drifting through candlelit corridors, older witches in beaked masks gossiping behind fans, music drifting from charmed violins that hovered above the heads of dancers, her father's hand always on the small of her back, guiding her through introductions with names that mattered.

She remembered her childhood self watching from staircases, small and breathless, watching adults swirl and bow and glide. A world of whispers and secrets and elegance. She had always loved the mystery, the elegance, the refinery. 

This Great Hall felt like that. A piece of her upbringing transplanted into Hogwarts stone. It both grounded her and lifted her, offering familiarity when she had desperately needed something stable.

Slughorn appeared through the shimmer of candlelight, his mask a ridiculous gold monstrosity in the likeness of a hog, which only made Pansy nearly smile again. He took it off and she imitated him. He then put it back on and laughed. 

"Ah! Zabini! Miss Parkinson!" he boomed, though the mask muffled his voice oddly. "Marvelous costumes, both of you. Very refined! Very dignified! Do enjoy yourselves, plenty of refreshments, plenty of mingling, that's the spirit! Don't take off your masks though. The idea is to make new, anonymous friendships tonight. Have fun!"

Blaise inclined his head politely, and Pansy curtsied with a grace she had been drilled in since age six. Slughorn wandered off, exceptionally pleased with himself.

Blaise guided her toward an empty table near the edge of the dance floor. Her stomach, still tight from earlier, eased a little more with each step. The music, a haunting waltz played by a dozen invisible instruments, drifted lazily through the air, soft enough that conversation still hummed over it.

Crystal champagne flutes floated onto their table as soon as they sat. The liquid inside glowed faintly from an enchantment, bubbles rising in slow-motion spirals as though gravity was a suggestion rather than a law.

Pansy watched them with a fascination that surprised her. Perhaps she was just grateful to look at anything that didn't involve males' gazes.

Students in extravagant masks drifted past. Some laughed, some whispered, some stared openly, with no way to know who anyone else was. A few paused as if trying to guess who she and Blaise might be, but no one lingered long enough to be sure.

And Pansy relaxed a little.

Not fully. The bruised feeling in her chest still existed, raw and recent. The memory of mocking laughter still clung to the back of her throat like smoke. But here, under the dim blue candles and among masks where no one could point or judge or jeer, she felt less exposed. Less vulnerable.

She picked up a champagne flute, slightly lifted her mask and touched the cool glass to her lips. The bubbles brushed her tongue with a sweetness that surprised her. Soft. Light. It was no wonder none of students other than Seventh Years weren't allowed. 

Blaise leaned back in his chair, observing the crowd behind his fox-shaped silver mask. 

For the first time since entering the boys' dormitory, Pansy let her shoulders lower slightly. The tight coil of anger inside her chest loosened. The air felt less sharp. The light less cruel.

"You heard Slughorn. It must be a great opportunity for you to get new bed partners tonight."

She immediately glared at Blaise after he said that, but he chuckled and she finally got the irony in his tone. His sarcasm felt out of place. 

"I'm not laughing with you."

"I'm sorry I didn't defend you. It was unfair for them to reunite and attack you like that."

"Thank you," replied Pansy curtly. 

Realizing she didn't have much to say to him, Pansy rose from the table when the next waltz surged into the air, its sweeping violins echoing against the walls. For a moment she imagined herself out there among the masked dancers, gliding effortlessly, robes catching candlelight, her movements graceful and assured. It would be easy. It should be easy. Dancing was one of the few things she had always been praised for, even by the strictest relatives.

She turned to Blaise with a flicker of hope warming her chest. He sat as relaxed as ever, sipping slowly from his champagne flute, silver mask tilted back just enough to show he was bored.

She extended her hand slightly, not a full invitation, just enough that he would understand.

He barely glanced at her and shook his head.

Her jaw tightened beneath her mask. The faint warmth inside her chest extinguished with a soft, bitter hiss. Blaise didn't even offer an excuse. He simply leaned back and let his gaze wander across the dance floor as though the idea of dancing with her had been laughable.

She stood there for one long, humiliating heartbeat, her hand suspended uselessly in the air before she let it fall back to her side. The music swelled again, more couples swarming the center of the room, swirling in elegant arcs that made her stomach twist. Merlin, Nott was probably in there with Granger. She should have snooped in their stuff and checked their robes and masks before going. 

If Blaise couldn't be bothered, she would find someone else. She was Pansy Parkinson. She had danced at galas where pureblood heirs had lined up for her hand. She was not someone who waited to be chosen.

But the Great Hall was different. The masks made everyone strangers, their movements cautious, hesitant. People paired off quickly with whoever they had come with. Others clung to their friends. A few students attempted awkward steps at the edges of the floor, laughing when they trod on each other's robes.

Pansy tried approaching a group of boys, but they were deep in conversation, and when she lingered a second too long, they gave her the same subtle, dismissive nod Blaise had given her. It wasn't cruel. It was worse, indifferent. They didn't know who she was, otherwise, they'd have been blessed to take her. 

Her throat tightened.

She turned away sharply, the feathers of her mask brushing her cheek, and marched toward the buffet.

If she couldn't dance, she could at least make use of the champagne.

She plucked a flute from a floating tray and drank half of it in one swallow. The bubbles hit her tongue, sweet and cool, and the warmth coiled pleasantly through her ribs. She reached for a second glass the moment the first was empty. Then a third. The burn in her chest softened into something numb, something manageable.

Around her, students laughed, danced, whispered behind masks. The Hall sparkled like the door of an old dream she no longer had the key to.

Pansy lifted another glass, letting the champagne fizz against her lips. Maybe if she drowned the ache deep enough, it wouldn't claw its way up again. Maybe bubbles could smother jealousy, humiliation, and the sting of being unwanted.

Pansy slowly lost track of how many glasses she'd taken from the floating trays, five, six, perhaps more. The bubbles were beginning to pool warmly at the base of her skull, softening the edges of the world. The chandeliers shimmered in a faint, dreamlike haze, and the masked figures around her seemed to sway even when the music paused. She didn't care. The warmth was pleasant. It drowned thought. It dulled the sharp places inside her.

Or so she hoped.

But Granger kept rising up in her mind, clearer than any candlelight, sharper than any violin. The more Pansy drank, the harder it became to push her away. Perhaps the alcohol had dissolved her defenses; perhaps she had never had any to begin with.

She tried to remind herself that she was here to forget. To enjoy the masquerade. To be admired and envied and mysterious.

Instead she found herself remembering the way Granger had pinned her, locking her arms, forcing her to be stuck against her chest in front of the Three Broomsticks. The way that damned smirk had tugged at Hermione's lips, small but unmistakably triumphant, as if she'd figured out something Pansy herself had not.

Pansy lifted another champagne flute, taking a much larger swallow than intended. The bubbles rushed straight to her head, and her knees wobbled for a moment before she regained her balance. She set the empty glass on the table with more force than necessary.

Her mind drifted again, uncontrollably, toward the detention in the library, the way Hermione's fingers had brushed her face so unexpectedly, so softly, so deliberately. Pansy felt the ghost of that touch even now, feather-light at her cheekbone, as if Hermione stood right beside her.

Hermione's breath had been warm when she leaned in, warm enough that Pansy had felt it tremble along her jaw. Warm enough that it had made her stomach twist and drop and clench all at once. Warm enough that Pansy had wanted—for half a second she had almost wanted—

She started to remember how good it felt to imagine Granger's hair against the skin of her thighs, her tongue between her legs.

She shivered. No. That never happened. She thought of Nott. That was why she came so fast. 

Pansy grabbed another glass. She needed something in her hands or she would start remembering too vividly. She took a long swallow, but the warmth in her chest only deepened, spreading through her ribs in a slow, dizzying pulse.

She remembered the scent of Hermione's hair when they had been so close in the library. Something soft, clean, something maddeningly pleasant, nothing like the harsh scents of her dormitory or the acrid potions she brewed. Hermione had smelled like lavender, mixed with a hint of paper warmed by sunlight, like something gentle she didn't deserve to breathe in.

The memory twisted sharply inside her. She took another drink.

Why had Hermione looked at her differently these last weeks? Why had her voice become less aggressive, ever so slightly, when they argued during potion? Why had she almost stopped being so vicious, so cutting, so wonderfully easy to hate?

It was like Hermione had become gentler on purpose. Yes. She was manipulating Pansy.

She finished another flute, barely tasting it. She leaned back against a table, eyes half-lidded, watching the dancers blur into streaks of gold and black. Her head felt heavy, pleasantly fuzzy, but her thoughts were too sharp, too focused on one person she couldn't afford to think about.

Hermione Granger, with her too-bright eyes and too-steady hands. Hermione Granger, who infuriated her, unsettled her, made her breath catch and her skin prickle and her stomach twist because she hated her so much.

Hermione Granger, who had been quiet since Hogsmeade, almost cordial, but whose presence still scraped at Pansy's nerves like a spark against tinder.

Pansy lifted another glass to her lips, her vision blurring at the edges, her thoughts floating and sinking like bubbles rising and bursting.

If she drank enough, perhaps Granger would blur too.

Pansy reached clumsily for another glass, her fingers brushing the cool stem but failing to close around it. The flute drifted just out of reach, carried away by a passing tray. She stared at her empty hand for a moment, feeling strangely betrayed.

"You look already drunk."

The voice slipped into her ear like a ribbon of cool water. Not loud, not sharp, low enough to blend with the muted violins. Pansy blinked and turned her head too quickly. The room tilted for a moment, then righted itself. She squinted, trying to focus on the figure standing beside her.

At first she assumed it was a man. The tailored black suit, crisp and sharp in its lines. The straight posture. The glint of polished cufflinks catching candlelight. But then the details sharpened through the haze.

A woman. Definitely a woman.

She stood with an effortless stillness, hands loosely clasped in front of her. Her hair was pinned up so tightly Pansy couldn't see where it began or ended, and the flat brown strands smoothed back along her skull gave her face a clean, androgynous shape. Her mask was ivory white, simple and stark, covering everything from her forehead to her chin. Beneath it, a pair of deep brown eyes watched her, calm, observant, unreadable.

She was the opposite of Pansy in every way. No glitter. No feathers. No elaborate cosmetics or carefully styled curls. Just soft simplicity wrapped in very well cut suit. Pansy could see the slight bump of her breasts under it.

Pansy narrowed her eyes. Or tried to. Her eyelids felt heavy.

"Are you talking to me?" she muttered, her voice thick, though she tried to keep it sharp.

The woman shrugged. "Unless there's another girl drinking champagne like it's a pumpkin juice."

Pansy bristled, though the reaction was dulled by alcohol. She opened her mouth to retort, but the words tangled messily in her throat and dissolved. Good thing the stranger couldn't see that. So she closed it again and lifted her chin a fraction, trying to reclaim dignity she absolutely did not have.

"You shouldn't stand so close," Pansy mumbled instead. "People will think you're... interested or something."

The stranger didn't move away. If anything, she leaned in a fraction, so small Pansy wouldn't have noticed if she weren't hyperaware of every breath around her. The soft violins made their little pocket of space feel oddly intimate.

"That's a bold hypothesis," The woman's voice remained calm, low, that steady murmur that almost blended into the music. "But it doesn't bother me. Does it bother you?"

For a moment Pansy forgot how to breathe.

She took in the stranger fully now, the slender column of her throat where her shirt collar opened slightly, the clean but subtle line of her jaw visible beneath the mask, the small beauty mark tucked just under her collarbone. The absence of anything flashy made her even harder to ignore.

Pansy swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. "You don't even know me."

"That's the point of a masquerade," the woman pointed out, "you get to be whoever you want. Or no one at all."

Pansy stared at those brown eyes behind the mask. Calm. Focused. Not laughing at her. Not judging her drunkenness. Just... watching. Seeing.

No one ever looked at her that way.

She hated how warm her cheeks felt. It must have been the champagne.

The stranger tilted her head slightly, assessing Pansy with quiet interest. "You seem sad."

"I am not sad," Pansy snapped. It came out slurred and defensive.

The woman's eyes betrayed a smile. "No?"

"No," Pansy insisted, even as her chest tightened around the lie.

The stranger reached out slowly, as if testing boundaries, and brushed an imaginary speck of glitter off Pansy's shoulder. The touch barely existed, light as a feather, but Pansy felt it all the way down her spine.

Then the woman lowered her hand again, stepping back. 

The next waltz unfurled through the Great Hall, coaxing bodies toward the center of the room. Pansy stood very still, fingers curled around her half-empty flute. The champagne had softened everything, blurring her thoughts into warm colors, but the feeling of that quiet voice lingered sharp and clear.

The woman, extended a hand toward Pansy's. Not a word spoken. Not needed.

Pansy's heart lurched upward, snagging against her ribs. Her hand lifted as if pulled by a string, placing itself in the woman's palm before Pansy even realized she had moved.

The woman's fingers wrapped gently around hers.

And just like that, Pansy said yes. No hesitation. No conditions. Her body answered before her mind remembered it shouldn't.

She was led into the center of the room, where masked dancers spun in elegant circles beneath swooping enchanted banners. The moment they found space to stand, the stranger placed one hand carefully on Pansy's waist, the other guiding Pansy's fingers into proper position.

Her touch was soft, steady, unmistakably confident. She smelled good. Something faint and floral, swirling around a muskier, sweeter scent. 

Pansy exhaled shakily, the warmth of champagne blooming deeper now that she was pressed so close to another body. She fought the instinct to stiffen. She was aware of every possible pair of eyes in the room, hidden behind masks, yes, but watching. Someone could recognize her figure, her walk, her posture. Someone could whisper.

Pansy Parkinson. Dancing with a woman.

The idea sent a flicker of panic down her spine.

But the stranger's hand tightened slightly at her waist, the smallest, softest reminder to breathe, and Pansy's shoulders loosened despite herself. She let the music guide her, let her body fall into familiar steps. The woman led smoothly, sometimes a bit clumsily, and Pansy followed without effort, her movements growing fluid again, her balance returning.

She had always been graceful. Even tipsy.

The stranger's voice slipped softly beneath the music. "Relax."

The word brushed against Pansy like warm velvet.

Pansy swallowed. "I am relaxed."

"You're tense," the woman murmured. "Here."

Her hand at Pansy's waist shifted, thumb tracing lightly along the curve of her hip, a gesture so subtle no one watching would notice, but Pansy felt it like a spark beneath her skin. Her breath caught, and she hated how easily her body responded.

The champagne made everything warmer. Softer. Too soft.

She forced her gaze away from the woman's mask, letting her eyes drift over the swirling dancers instead. Masks everywhere, gold, black, white, feathered, beaded. No one knew who anyone else was. No one would remember every couple dancing.

And yet, fear tightened her chest.

What if someone recognized the shape of her shoulders? The way she moved? Her infamous black bangs that were thankfully fully black again, even if they were hidden under her mask? What if someone decided to announce it, repeat it, twist it into something ugly?

Pansy Parkinson. A lesbian. Dancing with another girl. Pansy Parkinson the dyke. 

Her stomach twisted sharply, a sour edge cutting through the champagne's warmth.

But then the woman twirled her gently, bringing her back into the circle of her arms with a smooth, practiced motion. Their bodies aligned again, closer this time, and Pansy felt the faintest breath graze her cheek.

"You dance beautifully," the stranger said softly.

Pansy's chest tightened for an entirely different reason.

Compliments were nothing new. She'd received more than she could remember growing up. But something about the softness here, anonymous, genuine, unweighted by reputation or expectation, felt dangerously intoxicating. Being complimented by another woman felt good. Genuine, for once. 

She forced her voice to remain detached. "You're not terrible yourself."

The stranger's quiet laugh vibrated through Pansy's fingertips.

They continued moving, the world around them blurring into patterns of floating candles and drifting masks. The music wrapped around them like warm night air. And little by little, Pansy's fear eased. It wasn't gone, but pushed to the edges of her awareness where the champagne could dull it.

Here, with the stranger's hand steady at her waist and the waltz sweeping beneath her feet, Pansy could pretend for a moment that she was not Pansy Parkinson. Just a masked girl dancing with another masked girl, no one knowing, no one judging.

Just for tonight.

The music rose, swelled, then softened again into a quiet, lingering end. The woman slowed their steps with delicate precision, letting Pansy come to a stop without breaking the spell of the moment.

"That wasn't so terrible," the woman murmured.

They slipped out between two columns while the next song rose behind them, Pansy half-floating from champagne and the waltz and whatever spell that soft-spoken stranger had woven around her. She didn't even remember deciding to leave the dance floor. One moment she was watching the candlelit swirl of masked faces, the next she was tugging a half-full champagne bottle from a passing tray and slipping into the shadowed corridor beside the Great Hall.

The woman followed.

The corridor was lit only by pale strips of moonlight cutting through the lancet windows. Rain pattered steadily in the courtyard beyond, soft and rhythmic, filling the silence with a quiet music of its own. The air felt cooler here, sharper. Pansy's overheated skin welcomed it.

She leaned against the stone railing that overlooked the inner courtyard, letting the cold seep through her thin masquerade gown. The woman sat beside her in one smooth motion, folding her legs to the side, mask glowing faintly in the moonlight.

Pansy held out the bottle.

The woman accepted it without ceremony, lifted a little her mask, took a surprisingly unpretentious sip, and passed it back. Pansy didn't look at her lips. She didn't want to recognize her, and she reckoned the woman probably felt the same. 

"You stole that," she murmured.

"It was unattended," Pansy replied, taking a long drink. "Finders keepers."

"Slytherin logic. Criminal logic."

Pansy smirked behind her mask. "I've heard worse."

Silence settled again, comfortable, surprisingly. The rain created a soft veil over the courtyard, blurring the stone paths and the fountain into a watercolor wash of silver and shadow. Pansy let her head fall back against the wall behind her, listening to the storm.

Maybe it was the champagne. Maybe the waltz. Maybe the anonymity. But the quiet between them wasn't uncomfortable. It was soothing, somehow. A rare, fragile thing.

"You sound like a Ravenclaw," Pansy yawned, stretching her arms. "I don't like Ravenclaws. They think they know everything. 

The stranger snorted. "I'm not a Ravenclaw."

"Why did you ask me to dance?"

"Because I like your mask. I think you're pretty."

"I'm not gay," said Pansy abruptly. 

She shrugged. "Who cares? Even if you were, it wouldn't matter.

"Right. The anonymity and everything."

"That's not what I meant. Do you read?" the woman asked.

The question was so unexpected Pansy blinked.

"Read?" she repeated. "Like... books?"

"Yes. Those things with paper and ink. Occasionally words."

Pansy snorted an ungraceful laugh. "I read sometimes."

"What do you mean sometimes?"

"I mean," she said, letting the champagne make her bold, "I read what I have to read. School books. Some magazines. Letters from mother when she remembers I exist."

The woman made a thoughtful sound. "That doesn't count."

Pansy rolled her eyes, then paused. "Do you read?"

"I do."

"What?" Pansy leaned closer. "Tell me you don't read textbooks for fun."

"Sometimes, yes," the woman laughed, her voice warm. She had a pretty laugh. She almost sounded like someone Pansy knew, but couldn't name. "But I also read novels. Essays. Poetry."

Pansy snorted again. "So you're pretentious."

"Mildly."

"What kind of poetry?"

"Romantics."

Pansy shook her head. "Of course. So does everyone."

"And you wouldn't?"

"I don't like poems," she said, waving the bottle lazily. "They're always about the same things. Love. Pain. Loss. More love. More pain."

"This is factually wrong."

"Poems are written by dead men in forests."

The woman chuckled, and Pansy glanced at her, surprised by the warmth that sound put in her stomach. She had definitely heard that laugh before. Where? 

Most importantly, did it matter? Pansy didn't know this girl, and she was glad this girl didn't know her either. 

"You've never read Byron," the woman said. "Clearly."

"I don't want to read Byron."

"You sound like you've never tried."

"Are you always like this?" Pansy muttered. "Quiet and smug?"

"Maybe."

The honesty startled her into a small burst of laughter. She took another long drink, the champagne slipping quickly into her bloodstream.

"Fine," Pansy said. "If you're so well-read, impress me. Quote something."

The woman didn't hesitate.

"'She walks in beauty, like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies.'"

Pansy's breath caught, not at the words, but at the way the stranger said them. Soft. Unhurried. Like she wasn't quoting but remembering something she felt.

"That's... painfully basic and uninspired," Pansy said.

"You're being unfair now."

"Say another."

"'And all that's best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes.'"

"Better."

The rain outside thickened, a steady curtain falling across the courtyard. Pansy stared at the rippling water pooling in the stone gutters below. Something pulled warm and heavy in her chest. She lifted the champagne again but stopped halfway.

"Why Byron?" she asked abruptly. "Why him?"

"Because he understood wanting things you're not supposed to want."

The words were simple. Quiet. But they landed in Pansy like a weight. She swallowed, throat too tight.

"That's vague," she said lightly.

"Its vagueness makes it true," the woman replied.

The rain hissed more intensely, sheets of silver sliding down the windows. The corridor smelled faintly of wet stone and wood polish. The woman's shoulder brushed Pansy's lightly, as if by accident.

Pansy didn't move away.

"What about you?" the woman asked. "What do you read? If not Romantics."

"I don't know," Pansy said honestly, her voice softer than she expected. "I like simple stories. Stories where people behave normally. Stories where feelings make sense."

"Feelings never make sense," the woman said. "You must read shitty stories."

Pansy laughed again instead of taking offense like she'd usually do. "You sound really sure of yourself."

"I am."

Pansy's breath trembled. She hoped the stranger didn't notice.

"Tell me something you like," the woman continued. "Anything."

Pansy looked into the courtyard, watching the raindrops splash into the glowing puddles below.

"I like storms," she said. "It feels like everyone else is hiding while everything inside me isn't."

The stranger nodded slowly. "Because you feel a lot of things you can't accept or name, I reckon. You're not alone. I know some girl in my house who's just like you. Repressed."

Pansy exhaled, surprised at how much that sentence eased something in her chest. She passed the champagne to the woman again.

Their fingers brushed.

She felt it everywhere.

The woman took a slow sip, her mask tilted downward. "You seem lonely tonight."

Pansy scoffed, ready to deny, but the sound came out thin and hollow. She didn't answer. The woman didn't push.

Moonlight pooled across the flagstones, spilling pale silver over their ankles, the champagne bottle, the railing, the stranger's crisp suit. Pansy felt the quiet settling deeper into her bones, softening the jagged places left over from the boys' dormitory, from the fight in Hogsmeade, from everything she'd been trying not to feel for weeks.

The stranger tipped her head back, looking at the ceiling as though searching for constellations through stone.

"You asked about novels," she murmured. "I like political ones. I like George Orwell, I like Franz Kafka. But I also like the ones where the characters fall in love slowly. Not the dramatic declarations, not the crashing heartbreaks. Just... the moments in between. The moments when someone finally sees you, even if you're trying not to be seen."

Pansy's pulse jumped too fast, too suddenly. She shifted slightly, not enough to seem obvious, but enough to angle her body toward the woman. 

"What kind of novels?" she asked, pretending her voice wasn't thin at the edges.

"Classics," the woman said. "Austen. Brontë. Eliot."
She glanced sideways at Pansy, eyes gleaming behind the mask. "Though it sounds like you've never tried them either."

Pansy scoffed. "Please. Those Muggle books are all about marriage plots."

"So you know about Muggle books?"

Pansy nodded. She had seen them in the library, looked rapidly through them. She liked the writing style. 

"They're about yearning," the woman corrected softly. "Longing. People who spend entire chapters wanting someone they believe they can't have."

Pansy looked away quickly, out at the rain-slick stones below, where the courtyard shimmered like liquid starlight. Her fingers tightened around the champagne bottle. She didn't drink, she held it like an anchor.

A beat passed. Then another.

"And," the woman added, voice warm as breath on the back of a neck, "they're about characters discovering that desire isn't shameful. Only frightening because it matters so much."

Pansy's stomach flipped so hard it almost hurt. She felt every word on her skin. Her breath fogged faintly in the cold air. She pressed the back of her hand against the stone beside her, grounding herself. The stranger shifted, leaning an inch closer, not enough to crowd her, just enough to let their shoulders brush again. It was deliberate this time.

The air changed. Pansy swallowed, throat dry despite the champagne.

The woman's voice dipped lower, soft as velvet. "Have you ever read Jane Eyre?"

She sounded so sweet and kind. Pansy laughed under her breath. "Do I look like someone who reads governess novels?"

The woman's lips tilted under the mask. "It's not about governesses. It's about a girl who thinks she's plain and unworthy of love, until she realizes she isn't."

Pansy blinked. Her chest tightened.

"Sounds unrealistic," she said weakly.

"It isn't."

Something fluttered traitorously under Pansy's ribs. A bird trapped in her sternum, wings beating hard enough to bruise.

She turned her face toward the woman. Moonlight framed the stranger's mask, catching on the pale edges, glinting softly over the curve of her cheekbone. Her brown eyes were dark and steady, reflecting the rain-slick courtyard.

So close. Too close.

And yet, Pansy didn't move away.

The champagne hum softened her fear, dulling the sharpness of shame. Behind the mask, she wasn't Pansy Parkinson. She wasn't her mother's daughter or the Slytherin girl with too much attitude and not enough courage. She wasn't the girl people judged before she ever spoke.

She was anonymous. Free.

And it felt dangerously easy to want something when she wasn't herself.

The stranger looked at her again, deliberate, lingering. "What about you?" she asked. "Do you like stories about love?"

Pansy's lips parted, though no answer followed.

Her pulse thrummed in her throat, a wild rhythm she hoped the other girl couldn't hear.

She suddenly imagined kissing her. Not a grand, sweeping kiss. Just a soft, testing press of lips in the shadowed corridor. Something that felt safe because no one would know. Because she wasn't supposed to want it, and yet she did.

And maybe, just maybe, the mask made it possible.

"I..." Pansy started, then stopped. Her voice was unsteady. "I don't know."

The woman didn't tease her. Didn't pressure. She only tilted her head, eyes gentle.

"It's all right not to know," she said quietly.

Pansy exhaled shakily, a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Her heart thudded hard when the girl reached out, slowly, giving her time to pull away, and brushed dust from her shoulder.

Pansy went still as stone. Heat shot through her like a spell. Her lips parted without her permission. The woman's fingers withdrew, leaving fire behind. The champagne bottle slipped slightly in Pansy's grasp; she caught it clumsily, her hands suddenly useless. Her thoughts scattered like startled birds.

If she leaned forward—just a little—

If the stranger leaned in—

If the rain hid them, masked them further—

No one would know. It would be so easy. The thought terrified her just as much as it thrilled her.

The woman shifted, closer still. 

"You look like someone deciding something."

Pansy's breath stuttered.

"I—maybe," she murmured.

Outside, lightning flashed silently behind the clouds, illuminating the courtyard for a heartbeat.  She wanted to kiss this stranger.

Inexplicably, the image of Granger flashed through Pansy's eyes. 

Pansy mentally told her to go fuck herself and leave her alone. 

Her fingers trembled as she reached for the edge of the stranger's mask, brushing it lightly with a touch that was almost reverent. The stranger didn't move, didn't protest, just let her linger, hand hovering, waiting. Moonlight glinted off the smooth surface of the mask, and for a brief moment, Pansy's heart stuttered, not from fear, but from the audacity of what she was about to do.

"What are you deciding about?" the stranger whispered, her voice low, soft, a sound that made Pansy's stomach twist in anticipation.

Pansy didn't answer. Words felt clumsy, inadequate, unnecessary. Instead, she lifted the mask just enough to reveal the curve of the stranger's lips, the warmth of her breath against the cool night air. She traced the outline of her mouth with a fingertip, heart hammering against her ribs, and realized with a rush that she wanted this, just as much as she wanted to see Granger getting mad at her. Meaning, she wanted this a lot.

She lifted her own mask, careful to keep the rest of her face still hidden, letting the cool moonlight hit her lips. Every nerve felt alive, electric. And then she pressed her lips softly against the stranger's.

It was immediate, startling, and entirely intoxicating. Pansy's fingers slid through the woman's hair at the nape of her neck, holding her steady against the trembling of her own hands. The kiss was warm and gentle, yet it set her entire body alight, a blaze that drank away all remnants of shame, fear, and caution.

And in that moment, it felt right.

So much more right than any encounter with boys had ever been. Every kiss she had ever shared with men had been shallow, perfunctory, tinged with obligation or curiosity or something she barely understood. Their lips were dry, uncared for. They were rough and only sexual. But this was different. There was weight here, depth, softness and fire all at once. Her body ached to explore, to feel, to memorize every contour of warmth pressed against her own. It wasn't just desire. It was clarity. 

If it felt so right, why was Granger's face flashing again behind her closed eyelids?  

Her pulse roared in her ears, her heart threatening to burst. She felt her cheeks burn, her lips swell with need. The rain drummed softly against the courtyard below, a steady rhythm that matched the frantic beating of her own heart. The stranger's hand slipped around her waist, stroking her skin over her dress. She smelled like paper. Something floral.  

And then, suddenly, the spell broke.

Panic clamped down on her chest like iron. Her rational mind, buried under months of denial and the dizzying haze of champagne, surged forward in panic. What was she doing? Who would see? Who knew? She couldn't allow anyone to see her like this. Pansy Parkinson, the girl with a reputation to uphold, a family to impress, a world to maintain.

Her fingers released the stranger's hair. She pulled back abruptly, a jolt of heat and embarrassment flooding her senses. The stranger's eyes met hers, wide and unjudging, but Pansy saw only her own reflection in them: exposed, vulnerable, a little trembling.

Without a word, without another glance, Pansy turned. Her legs moved on their own, carrying her swiftly through the shadowed corridors, the cold stone floor biting at her bare ankles beneath her gown. Her breaths came sharp and uneven, chest heaving. She could feel the heat of the stranger's brown gaze lingering at her back, but she couldn't stop. She had to disappear before the intoxication of the moment became more, before she let herself sink fully into something she wasn't ready to admit she wanted.

Her mind raced. She had kissed a girl. A girl she didn't know. A girl who hadn't even asked for permission. And she had liked it. Liked it more than anything she could remember. And she had thought of Granger during it. 

She rounded a corner, heart hammering, chest tight, and pressed her back against the cool wall, hands trembling. The corridors stretched endlessly, dark and silent, and for a long moment, she just leaned there, trying to regain composure. The warmth of the kiss still lingered on her lips, a phantom ache she could not soothe.

Panic and exhilaration tangled in her chest, dizzying and overwhelming. She had crossed a line she had never dared approach. And now, alone in the moonlit corridors, she wondered if she had run too far to come back.

And yet, beneath the pounding panic, beneath the fear and self-reproach, a tiny spark of exhilaration remained. She had kissed someone she wanted. Someone she actually wanted.

Pansy put her hand against her knees. One question remained. Why in Merlin's name had she thought of Granger while she was kissing this stranger? 

She let out a raspy laugh, but her stomach reminded her of the litre of champagne she had just drank. There was no way this bitch was the stranger anyway. 

But before the opposite thought rose to her head, Pansy threw her mask on the ground, leaned towards the nearest window, opened it, and vomited. 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 7: "I Kissed A Girl"

Notes:

CW: homophobia, alcohol abuse

"Where the hell have you been?!"

Hermione barely had time to step past the gilded entrance before Daphne and Theo descended on her like two glittering hawks. Daphne's hand clamped around her wrist, tugging her closer, while Theo hovered behind her shoulder.

They looked her up and down as though she'd returned from a battlefield rather than the corridor outside. Hermione didn't respond. She could still feel the cold imprint of the night air on her skin, the distinct echo of her pulse in her ears, and speaking suddenly felt like more effort than she had to spare. Mostly, she could still feel the hot press of the stranger's lips on hers.

She lowered herself into the nearest empty chair, elbows resting on the polished table, head bowed for a moment as though she might steady herself on the wood.

Daphne gasped and crouched to Hermione's level, her red dress pooling dramatically around her. "You disappeared for thirty minutes," she hissed, hands fluttering like startled birds. "Thirty. Minutes. That is more than enough time to snog someone senseless. To fuck them thrice. Did you? Did you kiss that student? Did you faint? Did someone faint on you?"

Theo pulled out a chair and dropped into it backward, arms crossed over the top. "Was it the person in the silver mask?"

Hermione blinked at them both, still catching up to the speed of their barrage.

Daphne narrowed her eyes behind her lace mask. "Hermione Jean Granger, if you do not answer me within the next three seconds, I will assume you eloped with some stranger and wrote a tragic farewell letter we have not yet found."

Theo hummed. "She's probably thinking about the fact she just snogged the woman she was dancing with. Your first snog with a girl! Congrats, Granger."

His voice sounded chirpy, almost too joyful and loud to be real. Hermione finally exhaled a long, thin breath, but she didn't speak.

Daphne leaned closer, squinting her eyes. "Come on now. Spill."

Theo tapped the table with a single finger, studying her. "Yes. I want to know who's my opponent."

Daphne tensed next to him. Hermione never felt so bad about this whole situation between the three of them. Sometimes, she really wished to know if Theo was just clumsily sarcastic, or if his awkwardness was malicious. She stared at a candle's flame, letting Daphne's hand settle on her shoulder.

"Theo, please go away," she said in a calmer voice than she expected.

"What?" he exclaimed, surprised.

"You're being a douche right now. And I'd like to speak with Daphne alone."

He groaned, but ended up walking to the buffet, searching for some toasts.

"Why did he say that?" murmured Daphne.

"I don't know. I think he was joking, but that was incredibly insensitive. Can we go back to the dorm? I need... I need to speak to you, privately."

Daphne shrugged. She looked around, shoulders slumping slightly.

"Yeah. Let's get you to the common room, alright?"

Hermione let Daphne tug her out of the Great Hall, the swell of music fading behind them as the doors shut with a soft thud. The corridor outside felt strangely quiet after the whirl of masks, lights, and shifting crowds. Their footsteps echoed faintly over the flagstones, Daphne's heels clicking with theatrical irritation.

Hermione kept her hands clasped in front of her, fingers twisting, heart fluttering far too quickly for someone who was merely leaving a party. The cool air of the hallways soothed the flush on her cheeks, but her mind refused to calm.

The kiss returned to her in sharp, dizzying flashes. Fingers against her jaw, the brush of a thumb near her ear, the soft warmth of lips meeting hers, tentative at first, then blooming. The strong scent and taste of champagne between them. The way the stranger had leaned in ever so slightly, like she hadn't wanted to pull away. And their voice...

Hermione swallowed hard, her breath catching as the memory flickered again. That strange pull low in her stomach resurfaced each time she replayed the moment.

"Are you going to explain," Daphne asked, though her voice was softened by tiredness now, "or is it too hard and you want to keep it to yourself?"

Hermione murmured an absent apology, gaze drifting somewhere past the torches lining the walls. She couldn't think clearly enough to form explanations, not when the phantom sensation of lips still lingered against her own.

Her thoughts spiraled again. Who had kissed her? The woman's hands had been soft. Her voice low. Her posture elegant. Her scent... strangely familiar. Citrus. Something tugged at Hermione's mind. The woman's silhouette... a particular tilt of the head... a nervous tension right beneath their calm...

Her heart sped up violently. No. She couldn't allow herself to think of it now.

She had tried to chase the thought down anyway, tried to rationalize why the woman's touch had felt so oddly electric, why she knew her smell, why she knew some of the cracks in her voice, why it felt like she could predict her way of wording her thoughts, why something in her had recognized her without understanding. But the idea forming in her mind was too big to bear. She shook her head sharply, banishing it before it could solidify.

Daphne kept talking, something about blisters on her feet, the horrors of wearing lace masks, how Theo had acted like a jerk and what he meant by his "opponents", but Hermione barely heard her. Her pulse thrummed too loudly in her ears.

They turned a final corner, the path narrowing, the air cooler. Hermione breathed in deeply, trying to calm the dizzy swirl in her chest. She was overthinking. Of course she was. She always did. And whoever that woman was, she had already vanished into the corridors, leaving Hermione alone because she wasn't ready to face whatever had just happened.

Daphne finally slowed, brushing a loose curl behind Hermione's ear with unexpected softness. "You look like you're solving three Arithmancy proofs at once," she murmured.

Hermione forced a faint smile. "Just thinking."

Daphne didn't believe her, but she didn't press. They stepped together toward the familiar stretch of bare stone wall, but no one said the password. Hermione felt twitchy now. She glanced at Daphne, and then finally took off her mask. The blonde did the same, sighing of relief when she felt the cool air of the corridor hit her face.

"Did you know who that girl was when you pushed me to talk to her?" Hermione asked.

"Of course not. I just thought it would do you good to finally have a chance to experiment with a woman instead of obsessing over Pansy Parkinson. Why, do you think you know her?"

Hermione swallowed her saliva hard, fleeing Daphne's eyes.

"At first, I was sure I couldn't possibly know this girl. She was nice and honest, but she didn't remind me of anything. And then we danced, and I could smell her, and she just... her perfume reminded me of something. Like I had spent a lot of time smelling it without remembering where it came from. Then we left to talk more privately in the corridors, and I started to have doubts. So I talked about books. To let her know some clues about who I was. I think she was pretty tipsy, and she didn't connect the dots, and—"

Hermione interrupted herself to take her breath. Her heart was racing now, her lungs filling up and empty quickly. She batted her eyes, swaying on her feet. Daphne's eyes suddenly opened wide.

"And then what?" she asked, her voice more high pitched than before.

"I think Pansy Parkinson kissed me."

"NO WAY."

Hermione turned around to see if anyone was listening, hissing at how loud Daphne yelled.

"I'm almost one hundred percent sure it was her, Daphne, but she was so different and so nice, and open, I don't know! It felt like I was talking to Pansy without her mask! Which is kind of ironic, admittedly, but..."

"Wait," suddenly cut off Daphne. "When did you start to think she was Parkinson?"

Hermione bit her lip.

"After the dance."

"You talked to her afterwards?! You let her kiss you?! PANSY PARKINSON KISSED A GIRL?!"

Panicked, Hermione casted a quick Silencio, and Daphne's lips kept moving but no sound came out.

"I was curious to see if I was really talking to the real, unwatered version of Pansy, alright?! And then I... I lost control! And she lifted her mask and kissed me! I'm trying so hard to convince myself it wasn't her, that Pansy Parkinson couldn't ruin my real first kiss with a girl! But Daphne, as hard as I try to deny it, I swear it was her!"

After saying that, Hermione rested her back against the cold stone wall, trying to breathe normally. She lifted the spell of Daphne and took her face in her hands. Her legs were still trembling harder than ever.

"I knew Parkinson was hiding something. She's way too polished, too perfect, too fitting."

"Her sexual orientation shouldn't be weaponised, and that comes from someone who hates her. I hate her Daphne, but I won't hit her there. It's too much. It's not me. It's not who I am, what I believe. I don't know. I should use this against her. She treated me like garbage for years. But..."

"But you like women too," continued Daphne in a softer voice. "That would feel like a personal betrayal."

"I don't even... I never even connected with that aspect of myself before," stuttered Hermione. "I never cared."

Daphne took a step closer, resting her hand on Hermione's arm.

"What are you going to do?"

"Nothing. There's nothing to do. Parkinson probably didn't recognise me, and that's for the best. But if she did..."

"You need to come up with a plan to outsmart her," guessed Daphne.

"I think so, yes. If she did recognise me, why did she kiss me?"

"Press on the matter. Only fools don't realise Pansy has one of those playground crush on you. The sort of crush that makes you look for the slightest bit of attention from that person. Pansy chose to anger you because it's the only way she has to talk to you and... Merlin, I can't believe I'm saying this, but... it's her own twisted way of being close to you."

"Am I drunk too or does that makes twisted sense?" sighed Hermione.

"It does. Use it wisely, Hermione. It could be your best shot at finally walking over her. Or... it could be a chance to change the way you two act together and maybe create something else."

"No," abruptly cut off Hermione. "I can be okay with liking girls. I can't be okay with liking Pansy."

"I agree," replied Daphne. "She made your life hell. She never apologised."

"And I don't want to force an apology."

"Then we keep going like we planned to. You keep making her life hell back. And we ignore what just happened."

Hermione nodded. Daphne was right, this was the best solution, the safest. Still, one point remained.

She had kissed Pansy back. She hadn't told that to Daphne. She wouldn't do it.

"You should go back to the party. Make Theodore suffer a little for being... well, being Theodore," suggested Hermione for a while.

"I don't want to leave you alone," said Daphne in a little voice.

Hermione smiled, feeling her heart warming up. "I'll be fine, Greengrass. I want to be alone anyway. You give Theo a piece of your mind. He doesn't get to play with your feelings like that. You deserve so much better."

Daphne sniffled, carefully wiping her eyes to avoid smudging her mascara. She hugged Hermione tight, her long nails slightly scratching her skin over her suit. Hermione didn't mind. She hugged her back, kissing her forehead.

"Sometimes I wish I was gay because you'd be a much better boyfriend than him."

Hermione laughed. "Bloody hell, go, Daphne. Kick your man's arse for me."

"Certainly," the blonde answered.

She turned away, and Hermione watched Daphne disappear down the corridor in a swirl of deep blue satin before turning back toward the entrance of the Slytherin common room.

The stone door groaned shut behind her. A heavy hush settled over her shoulders immediately, a familiar weight, cool and still, the slight scent of kelp entering Hermione's nostrils. Slytherin's house quarters always smelled like kelp.

The common room was dark except for the faint shimmer of enchanted lanterns drifting lazily beneath the vaulted ceiling. Their green glow reflected in the black marble floor, turning the room into a dim, shimmering pool of light and shadow. The lake outside pressed against the broad windows, a dark mass broken only by ribbons of moonlight slicing through the water. Occasionally, a ripple showed an eerie, wavering pattern of silver-green across the far wall.

The large fireplace at the center had burned low, embers pulsing in soft, tired breaths. The smell of ash and old books lingered in the air, mixed with the faint tang of damp stone. Everything felt deserted, chairs left slightly askew, textbooks stacked carelessly on a table, a discarded mask hanging crookedly on the back of a leather armchair.

Hermione took two steps inside before a soft sound reached her. A stifled, uneven gasp. Then another.

Her gaze snapped immediately toward the long emerald sofa near the fire.

Parkinson lay curled there, half-sprawled, half-folded into herself like she had collapsed rather than chosen a position. One arm dangled limply off the edge, fingers grazing the floor. Her short black hair pilled messily over the cushions. The expensive silk of her robe was wrinkled and twisted around her legs, one strap slipping down her shoulder.

Her mask had been tossed aside, lying on the floor like something she'd ripped off in a moment of panic. Her boots were gone. One heel lay abandoned near the fireplace.

And she was crying.

Not the sharp, furious tears Hermione saw people shedding when they were angry or humiliated. These were quieter, broken in a way Hermione had never heard from Pansy before. Her shoulders trembled with each sob, her breath catching dangerously between them.

A champagne bottle glittered on the low table, catching what little light the lanterns offered. One flute rolled slowly along the surface as if recently nudged.

Hermione froze when she looked more closely at the mask. Yes, its owner had definitely kissed her tonight. And its owner was currently wearing that same black dress Hermione had gripped.

Her first instinct was to turn away, to step back and let Pansy tear herself apart alone, but it felt cruel even for her. The sight of Pansy like this, undone, soft, small, rooted her to the stone floor. The lanterns' shadows seemed to hold their breath around Pansy, the lanterns glowing faintly as if dimming out of respect.

Hermione swallowed.

She couldn't remember ever seeing Pansy Parkinson look fragile. Not even once. And yet she was here, a collapsed tangle of silk and alcohol and tears on a sofa far too big for her.

Hermione took a slow, quiet step forward. Then another. She took a closer look at Pansy's face. She was pissed drunk, black mascara cascading on her cheeks, her eyelids closed, her lipstick smudged. Hermione thought with a pang of irony it was a stupid idea to wear makeup under a mask, and realized with horror she could guess the taste of Pansy's lipstick, simply because there were still remnants on the brunette's lips.

"Parkinson? Are you alright?"

"Life's over," grunted Pansy, pressing her hands against her eyeballs.

Hermione sighed, already irritated because of the decision she was about to make.

"No it's not. Come on, let's get you to bed."

"I'm disgusting..."

Pansy sobbed harder. Hermione's heart clenched. She grabbed her arm, lifting her to make her sit on the sofa, before sliding it under Pansy's shoulders.

"Come on, get up. I'm taking you to bed, but I need help."

"I'm an error of nature..."

"There's no such thing," argued Hermione, huffing when she yanked her forward and helped her to stand up. An overwhelming cloud of alcohol attacked her nose. "You were born the way you are. Your education influenced you to think you were abnormal. Abnormality doesn't exist, or else we'd all be freaks."

"I kissed a girl," eructed Pansy. "It's filthy."

"It's not. You liked it."

"Yes I liked it," she cried, her voice loud and whiny.

Hermione rolled her eyes but smirked interiorly. She eased Pansy's legs by casting a silent Wingardium Leviosa, making her foot float above the stairs. Pansy gripped her shoulder and made her wince in pain, but Hermione didn't protest. When they arrived at the dormitory, Hermione slowly opened the door. She nudged Pansy to keep walking and carefully helped her lying on her bed. When she was about to drop Pansy, the latter gripped her shoulders harder, her nose brushing her neck.

"I don't want to be a freak, I don't want to be rejected, I don't want to be sick like this," she sobbed, snorting against Hermione's neck.

"You're not a freak. It's normal, Pansy, and you don't have to let it define your life."

"You don't understand," she whined, hitting Hermione's back with her palm. She reeked of alcohol so strong Hermione herself started to feel more tipsy than she already was. "People will hate me... and I'll never be happy..."

Hermione felt a sudden wave of sadness hit her. It was brutal. She didn't expect to feel empathy towards Pansy, but here she was. She rooted out of Pansy's arms and helped lying on her bed, delicately grabbing her hips to make her lie on her back.

"Do you have sobering potion in there?"

"Nuh..."

"Good luck then," whispered Hermione.

Pansy emitted a small moan, followed by a snore. Hermione estimated she had done enough. She looked at her one last time. She didn't understand why there were tears in her eyes now. Nor did she understand why her heart was clenched so hard. As she was walking to her own bed, she distinctly heard Pansy murmuring in her alcohol indulged sleep.

"Granger..."

Hermione clenched her teeth. She closed her four posters bed and took off her dress, slipping into her pyjamas.

She didn't know what this half-moaned "Granger" meant. Did Pansy realise whom she had kissed? Or was she just thinking of her? Actually, did Pansy realise Hermione had been the one putting her to bed? Hermione wasn't sure, but she knew tomorrow morning would be interesting, to say the least.

Surprisingly, sleep found her quickly. She closed her eyes, and the last thing she thought about before falling asleep, was the feel of Pansy fucking Parkinson's lips.

Unsurprisingly, the first thing Hermione thought about after waking up, was the feel of Pansy fucking Parkinson's lips. Hermione started to believe the latter had cursed her or something, because she swore she could still feel the hotness, the wetness of her lips and the small kissing sounds they had produced when Hermione responded.

So, the first thing Hermione did when she woke up was groaning, and jumping to the showers. She let the dormitory door close behind her with a soft click, the image of Pansy curled and trembling on the sofa still heavy on her mind. She didn't know why she stayed rooted there last night, watching from a distance rather than approaching for a few minutes. Why she had taken so long to finally help Pansy instead of just ogling her like a madwoman. And she didn't know why she had fled to bed afterward with her heart hammering and her thoughts spiraling into madness.

Now, early morning light filtered through the high, underwater windows of the Slytherin girls' bathroom, pale and wavering as if she stood at the bottom of a green-tinted sea. Hermione stepped inside, shutting the door behind her. The tiles were cold under her feet. The air smelled faintly of eucalyptus and lake water.

She turned on the shower tap.

Steam filled the room almost immediately, curling around her ankles, rising up to fog the mirrors. Hermione stepped under the stream of hot water and let her head fall back, eyes slipping shut.

It should have calmed her, but it didn't.

Because all she could think about, again, impossibly, unavoidably, were Pansy's lips.

Not bare. Not visible. Hidden beneath the edge of that mask. But she remembered them anyway, she remembered their warmth, their softness, how gentle Pansy had been at first, as though unsure she was allowed to take what she wanted. Hermione's breath caught in her throat as the memory pressed against her mind with disarming clarity.

Her hands reached the back of her neck, massaging her scalp in an attempt to ground herself. She had to stop thinking about it. Everything about that kiss was insane, absurd.

Because the moment she touched her own skin, she remembered the stranger's fingers sliding into her hair. Pansy's fingers. She had forced herself to think it wasn't Pansy. And at the same time, another part of her brain had yelled at her to keep going, to see how Pansy could be when she was her true self. Because Hermione would recognise that faint scent of citrus and green apples she'd smelled a thousand times passing Pansy in class.

Hermione swallowed hard, letting the water rush over her shoulders.

"Mental," she whispered to the empty shower stall. "Completely mental."

She had kissed Pansy Parkinson.

And she had liked it. Worse! She had wished it could last a little longer. She had wished to have time to taste her tongue too. She had wished to hear all the quiet and wet sounds Pansy could emit.

Hermione scrubbed her skin harder. She had to get a grip on herself.

And now? Now she didn't know what to expect from her. Pansy had been drunk and distraught when Hermione found her last night. She'd been in no state to pretend, no state to manipulate, no state to hide behind her usual cruelty.

Of course she had been in such terrible state because of the kiss.

Hermione pressed her palms over her face, letting the water crash down her arms in heavy sheets.

Had Pansy known who she was kissing?

That was the question that refused to let her go.

Had Pansy realised the girl in the white mask was Hermione Granger, her lovely roommate she loved to despise, the one she bickered with every single day? Or had she simply kissed a stranger because, for once in her life, she had been able to choose desire without judgment?

Hermione's stomach tightened.

And if Pansy had known, why had she made the first step? Could Daphne be right about that... playground crush?

It wasn't a playground crush. Pansy had insulted her for years. She had ridiculed her, made classist comments to her, discriminated her. Hermione couldn't forgive that. She also couldn't understand why Pansy was intriguing her so much.

The steamy air felt too thick. Hermione dragged her fingers slowly down her arms as if that could settle her racing thoughts, but her mind only spun faster. Every detail of the masquerade scene replayed itself in unforgiving clarity, the moonlight, the hush of the corridor, the way Pansy had looked at her like she was something dangerously alive.

Hermione braced one hand against the tile wall, lowering her head as hot water coursed down her back. Her heartbeat was too loud. Her breathing too shallow.

"What has this bitch done to me..." she whispered.

She didn't have answers, but she could feel the shift inside her, the awareness she couldn't unfeel, the electric tension she knew would snap taut the next time she saw Pansy in the corridor, in Potions, anywhere.

And what would Pansy do? Pretend nothing happened? This was the best outcome, the most plausible one.

Attack her with insults to cover up her fear? No one had seen them. Pansy probably hadn't even realised Hermione had been the one to take her to bed. No one had seen them. Pansy had no reason to fear that and attack back.

Maybe she would look at her with that same flushed, shaken expression she'd worn when Hermione pinned her? This was the worst outcome, worse than the attacks, worse than pure ignorance. Hermione didn't know how to face this.

Her breath hitched. She shut off the water before her spiraling could drag her any deeper.

Stepping out, she wrapped herself in a towel, the air cool against her flushed skin. The mirror was still fogged, giving her reflection a blurry, ghost-like softness she didn't quite recognize. For a long moment, she simply stared, as though expecting the fog to lift and give her answers she didn't have.

When she finally dressed, uniform crisp, hair still damp around her shoulders, her movements were brisk, almost hurried. Daphne would be waiting for her in the Great Hall, ready to chatter, to tease, to spin last night's chaos into something manageable. Hermione desperately needed that.

She grabbed her bag, took one last steadying breath, and rushed out of the bathroom, her footsteps echoing through the quiet dungeon corridor as she hurried toward breakfast.

Hermione entered the Great Hall with her hair still slightly damp, the collar of her uniform scratching her neck. Breakfast was well underway, clattering cutlery, chatter bouncing off stone walls, owls swooping overhead in a flurry of wings. She scanned the Slytherin table, already braced for Daphne's usual morning theatrics. Pansy wasn't there. Draco was snagging Astoria, and Blaise looked at them with nothing but boredom.

She spotted Daphne immediately. She sat stiffly beside Theodore, arms crossed tightly over her chest, jaw clenched. Theo attempted a joke, Hermione could tell by the way his lips stretched, hopeful and lopsided, but Daphne didn't even spare him a glance.

Oh dear.

Hermione approached, quietly sliding into the seat across from them. Daphne's eyes snapped to her.

"There you are," she muttered, relieved but still brimming with irritation. "Finally."

Hermione lifted her hands defensively. "I overslept."

"You never oversleep."

Hermione didn't reply, instead reaching for the nearest carafe of coffee. "Well. I did today. You could have woken me up by the way." She poured her cup a bit too quickly, almost spilling, but the familiar smell was grounding, warm. She clutched the mug with both hands and took a long sip.

Theo opened his mouth as if about to greet her, but Daphne cut him a glare sharp enough to impale.

He wisely shut it.

Hermione blinked. "Everything... all right?"

Daphne's nostrils flared. "Ask him."

"Nah," Theo muttered, looking down at his plate.

Hermione took another sip of coffee, choosing survival over curiosity. Whatever argument the two had gotten up in last night, she absolutely did not have the emotional bandwidth to untangle it. Not today. Not after the night she'd had. And certainly not with thoughts of Pansy still ghosting through her mind whenever she blinked too slowly. She felt bad for Daphne, but certainly not Theo.

She drained her cup in three efficient swallows.

Daphne stared at her. "You're not eating?"

"Not hungry."

Daphne's expression softened. "Still stressed about last night?"

Hermione nearly choked. "Something like that."

Daphne sighed, sweeping her blonde hair back with a quick, impatient motion. "Fine. Come on then. I'll walk you to class."

Theo perked up. "I can walk—"

"No." Daphne grabbed her bag with a single decisive motion, like she was ordering a dog around. "You stay."

Theo frowned, wounded. "I didn't even do anything!"

"You don't even realise what you do and what you don't! That's the problem!" Daphne snapped before turning on her heel and stalking toward the doors.

Hermione hesitated only a moment before following, catching up to Daphne's brisk, stormy stride in the corridor.

Once they were out of the Great Hall, the tension around Daphne deflated, only slightly, but enough for Hermione to breathe again. She kept her gaze forward, grateful her friend didn't mention Pansy, didn't mention the kiss, didn't mention anything Hermione wasn't ready to confront. For once, it was blessedly quiet between them.

They descended the dungeon stairs, the stone walls cooling the air around them.

Daphne exhaled slowly. "Sorry about that. Theo pissed me off last night."

Hermione nodded. "He usually is."

A reluctant, tired smile tugged at Daphne's lips. "Fair point."

"Did you tell him how insensitive he was?"

"How could I say that without showing how I truly feel—hi Harry!"

Hermione adjusted her bag and smiled, waving at Harry and Ron who were entering the potions classroom. The knot in her stomach tightening as they approached the classroom door looming ahead, the familiar greenish torchlight reflecting off the cold floor.

Daphne stopped, turning to her with a raised eyebrow. "You're sure you're all right?"

"Fine," Hermione lied smoothly.

Daphne hummed, unconvinced but willing to let it go. "I'll see you after, then."

Hermione nodded, forced a breath, and stepped toward the classroom just as the dungeon clock chimed the start of the hour. Her heartbeat thudded hard when she saw Pansy already at their shared workstation.

She'd half expected to find the table empty, or worse, to hear that Pansy had drunk herself straight into Pomfrey's ward overnight. But there she was. Upright. Present. Breathing.

Pansy looked put together, technically. Her hair was immaculate, black bangs perfectly straight. Her uniform was crisp, pressed, even elegant. But there were dark circles under her brown-black eyes, poorly muted with makeup that creased faintly at the edges. Her posture was stiff, shoulders high, as if her spine were holding her together on sheer pride alone.

Hermione approached the table cautiously and slid onto her stool. Pansy didn't turn her head. She snapped it, sharp and venomous, her dark hooded eyes narrowing with a glare that could cut through cauldrons.

"What d'you want?!"

Hermione blinked at her. Then simply rolled her eyes, opening her notes with deliberate calm. Rabid dog it was. "It's class, Parkinson. I want to learn."

Pansy scoffed and looked away, arms crossing tightly over her chest, jaw set in a way that made her cheekbones stand out even more.

Hermione refused to be rattled. She straightened her parchment, tightened the tie of her apron, and focused on the golden, far from being completed Felix Felicis simmering in the cauldron between them. It had been brewing for weeks now, long, careful weeks full of stirring patterns and precise temperature shifts and ingredients added. Today they were beginning the third stages, the trickiest.

She checked the consistency. Silky. Frothy at the edges. Good.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Pansy reach for the ingredients list, hands steady but movements short, brittle. Hermione tried not to look at her too openly, but she couldn't ignore the faint tremor when Pansy uncorked a vial, or the way she sniffed once, quietly, as if her composure were beginning to be hard to maintain.

Hermione measured out the powdered moonstone.

Pansy glared at her again, as if the very act of existing in her vicinity was a personal affront.

Hermione kept her voice level. "Do you want to add it, or should I?"

"I don't care," Pansy muttered, eyes fixed on the cauldron but not truly seeing it.

Hermione shrugged and added it herself, stirring clockwise. If Pansy wanted to keep being a cunt, it was not Hermione's problem.

The potion shimmered briefly, catching the torchlight like flecks of sunlight on metal. Beautiful. A small, perfect moment.

She allowed herself one single thought:

At least she's here, alive, hungover, furious... but here. Hermione needed her for the potion, whether she liked it or not.

Pansy shifted beside her, chin lifted stubbornly, as if daring Hermione to comment on anything, her mood, her appearance, her exhaustion.

Hermione smiled.

She kept stirring. Let the potion thicken.

"Looking good today, Parkinson."

"What?!" she shrieked.

A few heads turned to them.

"I like the makeup. It makes the circles under your eyes even darker," said Hermione casually, tilting her head.

Pansy banged her spoon against the table.

"What's your issue, Granger? Why do you always get on my nerves this easily? Piss off!"

"Be quiet, do you want me to take points from you? I'm a Head Girl, I could always do that even if you're in my own house."

"Piss off," repeated Pansy aggressively.

"You're acting like a rabid dog. I thought you would thank me for helping you during the aftermaths of your activities last—"

Hermione got abruptly cut off when Pansy pressed her hand against her mouth. The latter was opening her eyes wide, as if Hermione had confirmed one of her deepest fears. She cursed under her breath, looking around her to check if Slughorn was looking at them. 

"Do you know something?" she murmured, her forehead almost bumping against Hermione's.

Alright, maybe Pansy wasn't drunk enough to forget Hermione had been the one to put her to bed. Which meant, she knew Hermione had heard everything she said about... being gay. Hermione bit the skin of her palm, making her hiss. She crossed her arms and braced herself. There was nothing else to do anyway. "I might know something."

Pansy squinted her eyes even harder, almost closing them.

"Meet me after class. Bitch."

 

 

 

 

Chapter 8: Switching Sides

Pansy kept her eyes fixed on the golden surface of the potion, letting the soft simmer lull her so she could concentrate better. Anything was better than thinking about how close Granger was, or how Granger smelled despite the heavy fumes that filled the dungeon. It was ridiculous that she could notice it at all. The air was thick with ingredients, with steam, with chalk dust and boiling extracts, yet underneath it all was something warm and clean that did not belong in a dungeon. She caught it whenever Hermione leaned forward slightly, whenever she brushed a stray curl behind her ear, whenever she breathed. This floral cloud threaded through the fog of scents like a quiet intrusion, uninvited but impossible to ignore. Pansy hated that she recognised it. She hated even more that it made her stomach twist.

She measured out a pinch too much crushed valerian and clicked her tongue with irritation, brushing it off her fingers. She refused to look to her right, refused to acknowledge the steady presence of Hermione's body beside her. They never sat close, not truly, but today it felt unbearably noticeable. She was too aware of the slight warmth radiating from her shoulder, too aware of the soft scrape of her quill on parchment, too aware of the faint breath Hermione released when reading something carefully. It was absurd that Pansy heard it at all. The dungeon was full of clattering cauldrons and muttering Slytherins and first year Hufflepuffs who kept letting their spoons clank like idiots. Yet somehow, Hermione's small, quiet sounds pressed at her attention like fingertips against glass.

It was a constant reminder of Pansy's internal questioning. Did Hermione know...? 

Pansy didn't remember most of last night's events. She remembered dancing with a woman, talking about poetry, kissing. She remembered running away with a bottle of champagne. She couldn't remember properly what had happened between the moment she had went to bed and the moment she had entered the common room. But she knew Granger was here, somehow. Pansy couldn't tell if she had let out something embarrassing during her alcohol coma, and cursed herself for it. Granger could potentially detain very compromising information. And that was freaking Pansy out.  

Every few minutes, they muttered something sour at each other. A snide comment about stirring technique, a remark about reading comprehension, a haughty reply about patience or common sense. Nothing sharp enough to draw blood. Nothing that would have counted as real venom. It was almost polite, in the way two cats might hiss without lifting a paw. Pansy could not decide if the gentleness irritated her or relieved her. Something between both kept digging under her skin.

Hermione leaned closer to adjust the flame beneath the cauldron, and the movement pushed a soft wave of warmth against Pansy's arm. Pansy held her breath for a moment as if that would help. It did not. Hermione's hair smelled faintly of jasmine and something like parchment sun-warmed in a window. Tea. She smelled like tea. It was this exact smell Pansy had tried to decipher for the last hour. And Pansy wished she did not know that. 

She also wished she could forget last night entirely, could wipe the taste of masked lips from her memory, could pretend that she had not made a catastrophic mistake in a dark corridor with rain streaking the courtyard outside. And she also wished it hadn't felt this amazing. 

Even hungover and exhausted, she could recall the softness, the warmth, the way her breath had hitched. She had kissed a stranger, a faceless girl that had made her float out of her body for a night. She had kissed a girl. She had liked it. She had enjoyed finally feeling free for one little night. She had remembered how enticing and hot the moment had felt when she woke up with champagne dried at the corner of her mouth and panic punching at her ribs.

She stirred the potion and kept her face still. She hoped Granger didn't know she had kissed a girl. She hoped she hadn't let out anything about it when Granger had been there during her alcohol peak. 

Hermione wrote something in the margin of the recipe. Her sleeve brushed Pansy's wrist, barely a whisper of contact, and Pansy flinched almost imperceptibly. Had they always sat this close in potions? She forced her hand to relax immediately. Hermione did not look at her, and Pansy was grateful for that small mercy.

The Felix Felicis had begun to glow with the soft sheen Slughorn loved to brag about, the kind of glow he described as molten sunlight. Pansy usually found that description unbearably dramatic, but today she could not deny it. The surface rippled with liquid gold, smooth and bright. It was perfect. Or nearly perfect, if they did not ruin something in the next five minutes. She forced her mind to settle, to focus on the way the liquid thickened, on the precise clockwise motion required to keep it stable. She could do this. She had brewed complex potions before, never this complex, but still. She had been praised for her precision since she was old enough to hold a wooden spoon in her mother's kitchen. She was Pansy Parkinson, and she did not unravel over a girl, especially not Granger, when all her brain would think was that anonymous kiss. 

She added the powdered moonstone at exactly the right second. Hermione adjusted the flame with the same instinctive timing. Their actions synced without any words exchanged, something that would normally irritate Pansy greatly. Today it only made her pulse behave strangely.

Slughorn's cheerful voice burst through the haze of potion fumes. He waddled toward their table with his usual enthusiasm, clasping his hands dramatically in front of his chest. Pansy stepped back slightly to give him room, although her breath still felt trapped in her ribs.

He peered into their cauldron with wide, gleaming eyes. The golden light reflected off his small spectacles, and his mustache was making him look almost like a seal. Pansy waited for the usual fuss, the rambling, the tangents about talented former students. Instead, he clapped his hands once, delighted and loud.

"Magnificent," he declared, letting the word hang heavily over the room. "Truly magnificent. Look at that sheen. Look at that texture. Perfect. Absolutely perfect."

Pansy's stomach tightened, although she did not show it. Instead, she quickly glanced at Granger and showed her a proud smirk.

Hermione straightened, posture crisp but a small smile tugging at her lips.

Slughorn continued praising the potion's clarity and glow, then finally announced what Pansy had secretly feared since the beginning of the lesson.

"You two may begin the next phase," he said with satisfaction. "Half an hour of careful stirring every evening for the next three weeks, starting from today. A long commitment, but one that will yield extraordinary results, I assure you."

Pansy felt the blood drain from her face.

Three weeks. Every evening. Stirring the potion. Here. With Granger. Alone in the quiet dungeon while other students disappeared into the castle. Three entire weeks of sitting close enough to feel her breath, close enough to smell her hair, close enough to remember every mistake Pansy had made.

She swallowed once, sharply, as if trying to force her panic back down her throat.

Three weeks.

She might actually die.

Slughorn quickly looked at his watch and gave them a radiant smile. "Tonight, at exactly 8:13. Be on time! I'll make sure Professor Snape will adjust your Head Girl patrol, Miss Granger. You're both free to go now. And twenty points for Slytherin, for this flawless brewing. Keep going, young ladies!"

Pansy did not hear any of it. Her pulse thudded so loudly in her ears that the room might as well have gone silent. She watched Hermione gather her notes with that maddening calm, tucking a curl behind her ear as if she had not just been informed they would be chained even tighter to each other every evening for three unbearable weeks.

Pansy did not think. Her body moved before her mind caught up. Her hand shot out and closed firmly around Hermione's wrist.

"Hey—" started Hermione, irritated.

"Shut your mouth and follow me. I said I needed to talk to you!"

 Pansy felt the tiny jolt under her fingertips, the quickened beat beneath Hermione's skin, the warmth of her pulse. It made her breath falter.

She tugged sharply, leading Hermione through the tables of students looking at them with envy, some of them looking at their greenish potions that were about to fail. Hermione followed, stumbling once, recovering, then walking stiffly beside her, letting Pansy guide her without protest. Pansy did not dare look at her. If she did, she might lose what little remained of her composure. She didn't question why Granger was so lenient with her today. It would drive her into madness. 

The cupboard door was just ahead, half-hidden between two supply shelves. Pansy yanked it open, unceremoniously pushed Hermione inside, and stepped in after her. The moment she pulled the door shut, darkness swallowed them whole.

The space was small. Too small. Their shoulders brushed. Their breaths mingled immediately in the warm, stale air. Hermione exhaled sharply, the sound soft, confused, and far too close. Pansy pressed her back against the shelves, trying to create distance, but the cupboard offered none. They were caught between wood and stone and the steady pounding of Pansy's own heart. She could almost feel Hermione's body heat.

Pansy could smell her again. Tea. Jasmine. Something clean, something unbearably gentle. The scent drifted through the confined space like a provocation. Pansy shut her eyes tightly for a moment, trying to steady herself. She had dragged Hermione in here with a purpose, a clear and necessary purpose, but the closeness made her thoughts unravel like loose threads.

Hermione shifted, her shoulder brushing Pansy's, and Pansy nearly flinched. The slight brush felt amplified in the darkness, intimate and electric. Hermione's breathing was even, controlled, but Pansy could hear the faintest hitch now that they were trapped in each other's air.

Pansy realised her hand was still around Hermione's wrist. She let go immediately, as if burned, fingers twitching from the lingering warmth.

The cupboard felt too hot. Too quiet. Too full of everything Pansy had been trying not to think about.

Hermione said something. Pansy could not immediately process the words. Her panic roared beneath her ribs, pushing at her ribs and throat, a rising tide that made it difficult to breathe normally. She focused on staying upright, on keeping her expression sharp even though Hermione probably could not see it in the dark.

Hermione shifted slightly closer, not enough to touch, but enough to feel the air move between them. The cupboard was suffocating. Their proximity was even worse.

"Parkinson, are you alright?"

"Yeah, yeah!" exclaimed Pansy, waving her hand as if she were chasing flies away. "I needed to talk to you," she repeated, feeling her face getting increasingly hotter. 

The light was dim, only coming from the embrasure of the door, but she saw Granger smirk, amused. "Yeah, I gathered that, since you told me at least three times. Come on. Spill now."

"Were you with me last night?" abruptly asked Pansy. 

Granger raised her eyebrows. She took a step back, crossing her arms. She took her time to answer, looking like she was searching a way to carefully word her response. 

"You don't remember anything?"

"I remember some... things," replied Pansy with disdain, mimicking her posture, her foot nonchalantly kicking a pebble on the floor. The pebble directly hit Granger's calf. She grunted. 

"Pansy, we had sex."

"THE FUCK?"

Pansy's jaw opened so wide she heard it cracking. There was no way. Granger was lying. It was impossible. But after a few seconds, Hermione pressed her hands on her knees and burst out laughing. Offended, Pansy kicked her calf. Willingly, this time. 

"Why would you say that?!" hissed Pansy. 

"Because I love watching you go mad," giggled Granger, raising her head. 

Pansy grabbed Hermione's tie and clenched her jaw. 

"Tell me what happened and how, somehow, we talked."

"Christ, okay," groaned Hermione, still chuckling. 

Pansy didn't drop her tie. She yanked it closer, until Hermione had to step closer again to avoid being choked. 

"I found you almost passed out drunk in the common room with a bottle of champagne. So I helped you get into bed."

"How... chivalrous. Did I say something to you?"

"You weren't very loquacious," said Granger. 

She looked more serious now. 

"Did I say something in particular?" repeated Pansy, her patience running thin. 

Hermione chewed her lip. She sighed, closing briefly her eyes. 

"Yes, you did."

Pansy's heart felt very low in her chest, reaching the ground before sinking below it. 

"What did I..." she choked. 

"You... you were crying. You said you were a freak. That what you did was unnatural and dirty."

Pansy kept her mouth tightly closed, feeling tears rising to her eyes. 

"Parkinson, I... I really, really don't like you," said Granger softly. "But... you're not a freak for being attracted to women. It's just who you are, a part of your identity. It's not something you should blame yourself for. It's not something you can change either."

Pansy dropped her tie. She pressed her back harder against the stone wall, feeling burning tears running down her cheeks. She gripped her wand, taking it out of her robes, and pressed it against Hermione's throat. She heard her breath hitch. 

"If you repeat this to anyone, I'll make sure to be the last thing you see before you die."

"I didn't plan on telling anyone," replied Granger, looking down at Pansy's wand. 

"Good."

Pansy didn't put her wand away. She looked deep into the warm brown of Hermione's irises, and tried to gather her focus to correctly apply the spell she was about to cast. 

"Oblivi—"

"No!" abruptly cut off Granger.

She grabbed Pansy's wrist with surprising strength, making her wand fall off her hand. Suddenly, she pushed Pansy harder against the wall, pressing her forearm against her throat to block her. 

"You will not erase this from my memory, Parkinson! You should have thought about it before getting pissed drunk on a Thursday night!"

"You think I'll allow you to use this as a way to pressure me?!" exploded Pansy. 

"If it can stop your constant habit of ruining my life, then yes, I will use it!" yelled Hermione back, her face five centimetres away from hers. "I hate you, Pansy, I hate you like I've never hated anyone before in my life! But I'll never go as low as to ruin your life like you ruined mine! I should go out in the corridors and scream at who-wants-to-hear-it that you're a dyke, and that you're disgusting, and that's the closest thing I can do to replicate what you did with me by saying that I'm a Mudblood! But I won't do it! Do you know why?! Because I'm fundamentally a better person than you are! And it's not about your sexual orientation or my blood status or what not, it's about being able to sleep safe and sound because I know I'm a good person and you aren't!"

Granger took out her wand so fast Pansy had barely the time to process her speech and her actions. She felt the hard tip of it against her chin. 

"I won't menace you with your sexuality, Pansy. But if you don't realise life isn't all black and white and that blood status and appearances don't build your future, I'll make sure you'll remember me until your last breath. I'll carve my name on your skin and my face on your heart so that you will never be able to live without remembering every day the way you insulted me for years."

"Get away from me," hissed Pansy through gritted teeth.

Hermione softened her grip, but didn't put her wand back into her pocket. 

"Why do you always want to make things so difficult?"

"I don't want to make things difficult," spat Pansy back. "I just like seeing you angry."

Hermione opened her eyes wider and Pansy immediately regretted saying this. 

"So you admit you're obsessed with me?" she murmured, her voice low and a bit menacing. 

"Yes, I'm obsessed with you, Granger!" exclaimed Pansy, gripping the wall for support. Her brain was overheating, and Granger's breath against her lips didn't help her to function normally either. "Succeeding in making you so mad that you yell at me is exactly like a reward, alright?! And I don't know why! And it's starting to make my life considerably harder now that you—"

"Now that I bite back?" interrupted the brunette. "Good job, Pans'. You've made me reach my fucking limits, and you're getting what you want."

She suddenly opened the door of the cupboard and put her wand back in her robes. 

"But that doesn't mean I'll let you enjoy your sick game anymore. From now on, I make the rules, and you will lose and beg for mercy," Granger said in the coldest voice Pansy had ever heard her use. 

On those words, Granger disappeared in the corridors between some Sixth Years. 

The cupboard seemed to vibrate with the echo of Hermione's footsteps, the air still warm and sharp with the intensity she had left behind. Pansy stood frozen, her back pressed to the shelf, breath stalled somewhere between her lungs and her throat. The darkness felt heavier than before, thick with the residue of their fight.

She tried to swallow. Her tongue felt like sand.

Beg for mercy? Hermione had said it without blinking, without a tremor of hesitation, as though she had been holding that line in reserve, saving it for the exact moment it would strike deepest. The confidence in her voice still scraped against Pansy's skin, leaving marks she could not see but certainly felt.

Pansy inhaled sharply, then instantly regretted it. The scent still lingered. That maddening, familiar softness that clung to Hermione like a spell designed to torment her. It stirred something in Pansy's chest, something too warm, too alive, something that twisted into places she could not control.

Her knees weakened. She sat down on the crate behind her, too hard, the wood creaking under her weight.

This was insane. This was absolutely, clinically insane.

She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. Anger should have been the only thing in her veins right now. Fury was safe. Fury was expected. Fury was the only emotion she had ever allowed herself to feel around Hermione.

Yet her pulse still stumbled at the memory of Granger leaning forward, pressing her forearm against her throat, speaking through clenched teeth, her breath brushing Pansy's lips in the heat of their argument.

Pansy lowered her hands, fingers trembling.

What on earth was happening to her?

The fight had left her blood fizzing, her heart pounding not only with rage but with something dangerously close to... arousal.

No. Absolutely not. She refused to acknowledge that word.

Her nails dug into her palms, the sting grounding her slightly as panic tightened around her ribs.

This is Granger, she told herself. Granger. The girl she hated most. The girl who ruined her sheets and her hair and her days and her sanity. The girl who bit back her every chance she got. The girl who challenged her in ways no one else dared.

The girl who, moments ago, had been close enough that Pansy could have counted the freckles on her nose if there had been light. Close enough that she had felt Hermione's fury like heat on her skin. Close enough that Pansy's own breath had faltered, not out of fear, but out of something far more dangerous.

A sound escaped her, half a laugh and half a sob. She clapped a hand over her mouth, horrified.

She had been turned on. Not just a little bit. By Granger's voice. By her anger. By the razor-edge of her control.

Impossible. Humiliating. Terrifying.

Pansy's knickers were terrifyingly damp, and she couldn't ignore it.

She curled forward, elbows on her knees, breathing unevenly in the suffocating dark. She could still feel Hermione's grip on her wrist, the ghost of it, as though her skin remembered what her mind denied.

This was not normal. This was not acceptable. This was not something she could ever allow herself to admit to anyone. Not even Tracey. Not even in her own mind.

Hermione had walked away victorious.

And the growing desire to make her lose again was making heat pool down Pansy's stomach. The idea of seeing her confidence break and her eyes widen made her thighs clench. 

Pansy forced herself out of the cupboard the moment her breathing stopped wobbling. Her eyes still burned, and her throat felt raw, but she held her head high as she stepped into the corridor. She moved quickly, not wanting anyone to see her face in this state, not caring if she nearly walked straight into a pair of confused first years.

The nearest toilet was empty. Thank Merlin.

She closed the door behind her and leaned over the sink, gripping the porcelain so tightly her knuckles whitened. When she caught sight of herself in the mirror, she flinched. Her eyes were rimmed with red beneath the powder. Black smudges clung to her lower lashes. Her lips were colorless. She looked shaken.

Weak.

A hot wave of shame rolled up her spine. 

Granger knew her secret. Granger could end her life by snapping her fingers. She said she wouldn't, but still, she detained power over Pansy. And the latter hated that. 

She needed to find a way to break Granger's balance, something else than the virulent casualties they shared daily. 

She grabbed a wad of paper towels and pressed them harshly beneath her eyes, wiping away any trace of tears, refusing to let even a memory of them remain. Splashing cold water across her cheeks helped steady her breathing, though her hands trembled as she reached for her makeup bag.

Routine would save her. Precision. Control.

Foundation first. She dabbed it on methodically, smoothing it over every uneven patch. Powder next, setting everything in place. Dark circles were concealed layer by layer until no sign of distress remained. A touch of rouge restored color to her cheeks. She reapplied eyeliner with a steady hand, forcing the line to remain sharp even as her vision blurred for a moment.

She blinked the last of the sting away, inhaled, and examined her work.

Perfect. Polished. Impenetrable.

Hermione Granger could have been a distant fever dream. A hallucination. A mistake she would never repeat.

Pansy snapped her compact shut and let her mask lock into place.

By the time she left the bathroom, no one would have suspected that she had nearly fallen apart over a single girl’s voice, and get horny about it.

The walk to Herbology felt mechanical, each step chosen, controlled, deliberate. The autumn wind cooled her flushed cheeks, carrying the damp scent of the greenhouses. Students gathered in clusters outside the glass doors, talking loudly, greeting one another, laughing.

She saw Blaise leaning against a crate of pots, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed. Draco wasn't far, Vincent and Gregory emitting groans of approbation at the end of each sentence of the blonde's monologue. Blaise glanced up as she approached, one eyebrow lifting in silent question.

She didn't look at him.

As Professor Sprout called the class to attention, Pansy kept her gaze fixed on the plants ahead, ignoring Blaise’s presence entirely.

"Come on, Pansy, are you going to talk to me?" Blaise whispered, as other students were beginning to gather their pots and scissors. 

"What do you want me to say? Thank you for being such a shitty friend, Blaise?"

"You know how the guys are, and you were fine with it until recently, so..."

"Was I? Or were you just too self absorbed not to notice I always hated being treated like a common whore?"

"Then maybe don't act like one!" exclaimed Blaise, exasperated. "I know it's just an image you're trying to give yourself, I know it's appearances, Pansy, I'm not dumb! I know you've been masking all your life, because honestly, who would act this shallow and centred around men like their cock was all they could think about?! I know you're not like that, and I'm trying to make you realise it's tiring. I feel like... I feel like I don't know you. I've tried to, but you always led the conversation back to sex."

"So that's your way of wanting to get to know me more? Insulting me and manipulating me instead of saying what you want out loud?" said Pansy coldly, arranging her scissors on the table in front of them. 

"I'm sorry," replied Blaise through gritted teeth. "But when I saw you dance with that girl yesterday, I understood that I was right, and..."

Pansy pinched the bridge of her nose. She was sick and tired of talking about this today. 

"And what?"

"Life is going to be really hard for you, Pansy. If you're really what I think you are, then... it won't be easy. Your parents could curse you or disinherit you over this in the best case scenario, and in the worst case scenario..."

Pansy kept her jaw clenched so hard her teeth hurt.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I can offer you the safety you lack if you decide to assume the truth to me."

"What?!"

"We could pretend to be in love. Our parents will love it, and we can both see other people. You can date girls, boys, I don't care. It's just about appearances. We'll get married like it's probably bound to happen anyway, and I'll let you fulfil your needs with other people. Our parents would never know."

Pansy looked at him, and he took his hand under the table. 

"Seeing you happy with that girl yesterday made me realise I wanted to see you like that. You were smiling, and you looked so... I don't know. Normal. Unguarded. Think, Pansy. I'm offering something no men or women could ever offer you. Safety, a good lifestyle, and..."

"You're going too far, Blaise," Pansy cut off. 

She heard him swallow.

"Think about it," repeated Blaise. "Think about what's best for you. And stop pushing me away."

Pansy refused to look at him. She took her hand off his and began to carefully cut her mandragora tentacles, her fingers trembling around the scissors. 

At the other end of the table, Granger was laughing with Greengrass, Potter and Weasley. They were gathered around a single pot, Hermione explaining something with a small animated smile, Daphne leaning her chin on Hermione’s shoulder with amused fondness, Potter watching with attention, and Weasley laughing too loudly at something Harry muttered under his breath.

They looked comfortable. Effortlessly so.

Hermione nudged Daphne in the ribs when she teased her about mislabeling a plant. Daphne shoved her back. Weasley tried to interject with a joke and got playfully smacked on the arm by Hermione, and Potter nearly dropped his gloves because he was laughing too hard.

The scene hurt. 

Not sharply. Not like humiliation or anger or the familiar burn of rivalry. This feeling was duller, deeper, an ache Pansy did not have a name for. She watched the four of them for a long moment, unable to look away.

Friendship looked warm.

Pansy had acquaintances. People like Tracey or Millicent, who tolerated her because she was sharp and witty and could insult half the school in thirty seconds flat. She had status. She had reputation. She had presence.

But she did not have this. Whatever this was.

The way Hermione leaned into Daphne without hesitation. The way Potter's eyes softened whenever the blonde girl spoke. The way Weasley looked at all of them like he had finally found the right table to sit at during his lunch breaks. They were four wildly different people, yet somehow they fit.

It fascinated Pansy. And it hurt.

Would Hermione tell Daphne what had happened in the cupboard? Did she laugh about it? Did she mimic Pansy’s panic or describe the way Pansy choked on her words? Did she confide something softer, something real? Did she admit anything at all?

Pansy imagined Hermione and Daphne sitting together on their dormitory beds, knees brushing, voices low. Hermione’s head tilted as she whispered secrets into her friend’s shoulder. Daphne listening with that calm, patient expression she always wore around her.

The image twisted something sharp inside Pansy’s chest.

She wanted that. Wanted someone she could speak to without calculating every syllable, someone who didn’t judge her worth based on cruelty or composure or tradition. Someone she could trust with the parts of herself she did not understand. Someone she didn’t have to hide from.

Her gaze flicked toward Blaise.

He stood a few centimetres away, trimming the leaves of his plant with steady, precise movements. His eyes were lowered, his expression unreadable, but the set of his shoulders told her he was aware of her watching him.

He wasn’t Hermione. He wasn’t Daphne. They weren’t soft together. They weren’t the type of friends who whispered secrets in the dark. They were childhood friends, sure, but they hadn't shared any bonding moments. Blaise had always been there, but distant.

Yet he was… here.

He had always been here, even when he was irritated with her, even when they didn't talk.

Pansy swallowed, throat tight. Her fingers twisted uselessly in the hem of her robe. Blaise kept pruning his plant. Pansy opened her mouth. Nothing came out. Her chest tightened painfully.

Say it, she ordered herself.

She took a breath and let the words fall, soft, fragile, barely audible over the sound of the greenhouse vents.

"I think I'm a lesbian."

Blaise’s clippers paused mid-air.

He did not gasp. He did not stare. He did not ask for confirmation or explanation or details. He simply set the metal tool down on the table, not even turning fully toward her.

Pansy kept her eyes on the floor, bracing for mockery, or dismissal, or disappointment. Her stomach twisted so tightly it hurt. She had never said the words aloud before. They tasted like fear and like freedom.

Then a cold hand slipped into hers.

She looked up.

Blaise’s expression was calm. Neutral, even. He nodded once. As if she had just told him something as unremarkable as the weather. His hand tightened around hers, just enough to anchor her, just enough to say I know without needing to speak.

Pansy blinked rapidly, eyes burning again. This time she did not wipe them angrily; she simply let herself breathe.

For the first time since she had woken up this morning, she did not feel like her entire world was collapsing in on itself. She did not have Hermione’s warmth. She did not have the laughter of that four-person friendship she envied.

But she had Blaise’s hand wrapped around hers in a quiet greenhouse, a small gesture that felt like more than she deserved, more than she had expected, and exactly what she needed.

She squeezed back.

Pansy’s gaze drifted back toward Hermione as soon as Blaise released her hand and returned to trimming leaves. She told herself it was only habit. She told herself Hermione was simply loud, spreading her knowledge in class to everyone though no one ever listened, simply distracting, simply in the way of her thoughts. But her eyes found her anyway.

Hermione stood with her curls pulled back in a loose ponytail that still allowed a wild halo of strands to frame her face. Her hair always looked like it was moments away from breaking free entirely, like a spring tense to the extreme. Sunlight from the greenhouse roof caught in the brown waves. Her skin, flushed faintly from the humid air, glowed in a way that made Pansy’s breath tangle in her throat. Granger's mouth looked soft, focused, slightly pursed as she explained something to Harry. Her hands moved delicately, precisely, every gesture full of that infuriating  certainty she carried everywhere. Even the smudge of soil on her cheek made her look more alive, more real. Pansy thought she looked like an oil painting.

She stared longer than she meant to. Long enough to admit silently that Hermione Granger wasn't ugly. She was definitely not pretty in the fragile, polished way Pansy herself curated. Granger was pretty in a way that felt like a challenge. Like sunlight that could not be dimmed after a long summer day. It drove Pansy wild. It drove her furious. 

Anger had been the only reaction she managed to pull from Hermione so far, and at first Pansy had thought that was enough. Fury was something she understood. It was familiar. Safe. Predictable. But now that she had tasted something different, the flicker of tension in that cupboard, the way Hermione’s breathing quickened every time they were close, Pansy found anger painfully insufficient.

She wanted more. She knew she shouldn't. She had already wanked thinking about Granger once, for Merlin's sake! (She had just decided that she must have had lost her mind that day and forced herself not to think about it ever again, but the aftertaste still haunted her thoughts after everyone had turned off their lamp in the dorm.)

She wanted Hermione to react to her in a way that was not simply born of spite. She wanted to see confusion in those brown eyes. Or anything that proved Pansy could reach her, shake her, pull something from her that no one else could.

Pansy had been weak enough today. But now, Blaise was by her side, kind of, and she didn't feel so lonely anymore. Tonight would be the night things changed between Granger and herself.

Pansy wanted to unravel this bitch in other ways than rage. And she already had some... ideas. 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 9: What's Up Granger?

Notes:

Hi! I created a Discord server to chit chat about pansmione fics, give recommendations, sneak pics and updates about my work! It's also a safe space where you can share your favourite pairings and meet new people who like pansmione and other lesbian ships if you want to :)

Here's the invite link:

https://discord.gg/5hHMTgAD

I hope you'll be interested :)

Hermione slipped the headphones over her ears as she stepped into the cooler air of the corridor leading toward the dungeons. The contrast from the warmth of the library in the upper floors made her shiver, though she welcomed it. It cleared her head. She pressed play on her Walkman and the soft, melancholy guitar of Back to the Old House began to fill her ears. Morrissey's voice followed, soft, quiet, yearning, and Hermione let her shoulders relax for the first time all day.

She mouthed the first verse, then sang under her breath once she was sure no one was around.

I would rather not go
Back to the old house...

Her footsteps matched the gentle rhythm. She had always loved the way this song made her feel suspended between past and present, held in a strange tenderness that she could never quite explain. A part of her wished she had never brought the Walkman to Hogwarts. Daphne didn't judge her for using it, though she thought it looked like a torture device, but Hermione was certain her other Slytherin peers would mock her endlessly for it. Yet another part of her could not imagine surviving her days without it.

The saddest thing I've ever seen...

Her voice drifted softly through the torchlit hallway. She walked with her eyes slightly unfocused, following the familiar path toward the potions classroom. Tonight was another thirty minutes of endless, tedious stirring. She dreaded it with every fibre of her being, especially after the tension in class and the disaster in the cupboard. Still, she forced herself forward.

And you never knew...

Hermione turned the corner, still singing, lost enough in the music to forget herself entirely.

How much I really liked you...

A movement at the far end of the corridor made her pause. Her voice trailed off. She blinked once, twice, certain she was imagining it.

Pansy leaned against the entrance to the dungeon stairwell, arms crossed, expression unreadable. She was half in shadow, half bathed in the flickering orange of the nearest torch. Her dark hair was immaculate despite the humidity, and her green tie hung perfectly straight. For a moment Hermione did not breathe.

"What's up Granger?" she purred. 

Then, looking closer at her, Pansy lifted an eyebrow with studied disdain. Hermione jumped, nearly dropping the Walkman, and yanked the headphones off her ears.

Pansy's gaze slid to the tangle of wires and metal in Hermione's hands. She looked back at Hermione with a theatrical curl of her lip, as if she had stumbled upon a creature in the process of doing something deeply embarrassing, like a Blast-Ended Skrewt tap-dancing. 

"What," Pansy said slowly, her voice smooth but cutting, "is that thing on your head supposed to be. It looks absurd."

Hermione felt her face heat. She cleared her throat and held the Walkman a little closer to her chest, as if shielding it from judgment could make the moment any less weird.

"It is a Walkman," she said, trying very hard to sound calm. "It plays music. You listen through the headphones."

Pansy blinked, clearly unimpressed. "A device that sits on your head and traps you in your own world. How... typical of you."

Hermione rolled her eyes because it was easier than letting Pansy see she had been caught singing like an idiot. "It is completely normal in the Muggle world. People use it to enjoy music privately while they walk. It is convenient. It avoids others to hear what you hear."

"Trust me Granger, I think everyone in a two hundred metres radius heard you singing."

Hermione raised an eyebrow, noticing Pansy didn't insult her voice directly, though her voice was laced with mockery, as usual. Pansy pushed off the wall with elegance, taking a few steps closer. Her shoes clicked softly on the stones. She examined the Walkman again as though it were a particularly inelegant stick bug.

"It looks heavy," she said.

"It's not."

"And clumsy."

"It's not."

Pansy made a hum of false sympathy and tipped her head. "If you say so."

"You almost sound like you want to try it."

"Please," scoffed Pansy, rolling her eyes.

Hermione's pulse drummed unpleasantly in her ears. She hated how every interaction with Pansy became a delicate balancing act between wanting to hex her and wanting to undress her.

She shoved the headphones into her pocket. "Some of us enjoy art. You should try it sometime."

"I do enjoy art."

"Sure you do."

"Not that I need to justify myself, but I spent an hour reading poetry at the library today," replied Pansy, as they started to walk to the empty potion classroom together. "Together" was a great exaggeration, since they just walked with three metres of space between their shoulders.

"Really?" said Hermione, glancing at her. 

"Byron."

"I beg your pardon?" stuttered Hermione, her heart accelerating. 

"I've heard about Byron so I wanted to see what the fuss was about."

"So?"

"Meh," yawned Pansy. "Not a big fan of romance."

"When did you learn about Byron?"

"Wouldn't you like to know."

"I do. It means you have Muggleborn acquaintances."

"Mind your own business, Granger."

Hermione shrugged. She opened the heavy door of the potion classroom, where their cauldron was peacefully simmering in the back, aligned with the ten other cauldrons of their classmates. Pansy sat in front of it, resting her handbag on the table. 

"I'll adjust the heat, you stir," she declared. 

Hermione nodded. She cracked her knuckles and grabbed a ladle in the drawer under their desk and started to stir clockwise when Pansy lit up the fire, sitting next to her. 

"Don't ever do that again," snapped Pansy. 

"Do what?"

"Crack your knuckles."

Hermione looked at her right in the eye and stretched her arms, cracking her elbows this time.

"Stop that!"

"No?"

"You need to hit the club more often," commented Pansy, glaring at her. "It's abnormal to have arthritis at that age."

Hermione simply snorted, not taking care to respond. Pansy shifted slightly on the bench, leaning closer to the cauldron to monitor the heat. Her arm brushed Hermione's every time the brunette's arm turned the ladle.

"Do you like Byron?" asked Pansy after a few minutes of silence. 

Hermione parted her mouth slightly, surprised by her initiative. 

"No," she lied.

Pansy looked at her more deeply, more intently. Hermione held her gaze. 

"I like Alfred de Musset."

"Sounds French."

"That's because he is."

"You can read French?" asked Pansy. 

"I can speak French," responded Hermione, her arm slightly trembling when she felt Pansy's robes brushing against it. "My mum's family comes from the French Riviera."

"Say something in French."

"Why?"

"I like how it sounds. 

"Je trouve que les cheveux vert foncé t'allaient bien," said Hermione after a few seconds, looking at Pansy's bangs instead of her eyes, because the latter's gaze was becoming almost unbearable to hold.

"Merci. Je savais bien que c'était toi," smirked Pansy. 

This time, Hermione's jaw opened wide before she could control it. 

"You tricked me," she groaned. 

"You could have chosen to insult me instead of complimenting my hair."

"I'm not that childish."

"Connasse," muttered Pansy under her breath.

"I heard that."

"Good, you can hear."

Hermione clenched her jaw and rolled her eyes again. One day, they would surely fly out of her head considering Pansy made her do that so often. 

"Are you coming to the Quidditch game tomorrow?" asked Pansy, almost casually.

"I don't care about Quidditch."

"Yes, but your boyfriend plays in the opposite team."

"My boyfriend?"

Pansy looked almost pissed. Hermione smiled, looking at the potion glowing golden. 

"Weasel-bee. You lowered your standards. At least Nott was handsome."

"Ronald is handsome," argued Hermione. "What he isn't, most importantly, is my boyfriend. He's Harry's best mate, and I'm friend with Harry. So that makes him my friend too."

"I don't think he's aware of that," replied dryly Pansy. "He's been ogling you for days."

"Why do you care?"

"I care about Slytherin's image, not yours."

"If you really cared, you'd care about how almost all the school hates Draco and wishes he would stop snogging Astoria everywhere because it's very embarrassing to witness. I swear I saw a condom fall out of his pocket once."

"At least he gets laid," snickered Pansy. 

Hermione repressed a shiver of disgust, and when she felt Pansy's arm tremble against hers, she understood the latter had just done the same thing. Their eyes locked for a second, and Pansy let out a small laugh, making the brunette chuckle. 

"I think I'll come to the game, but just to support Theodore, Harry and Ron. Will you come too?"

"You can't support both teams."

"I stand with the winner," shrugged Hermione. 

"That's such a basic boring bitch answer."

"I didn't ask your opinion."

Pansy's smirk widened. She was smiling like the Cheshire Cat. Hermione had expected the usual tension, the brittle sort of silence that always fused itself between her and Pansy whenever they were forced to share space and time. Yet they had settled onto their desk and actually talked. The cauldron gave off a low, steady bubbling sound, golden and thick, the half-formed Felix Felicis catching the firelight in warm ripples.

She kept stirring clockwise, slow and careful. Pansy added more fire under the cauldron, her forearm fully touching hers, without even looking at her. Minutes seeped by. No sneer. No roll of the eyes. No venomous remark. Hermione's shoulders loosened a fraction, though she kept her gaze firmly fixed on the potion so Pansy wouldn't see how unexpectedly light she felt.

Hermione found her breath easing, her mind settling into something she hadn't experienced around Pansy Parkinson in... well, ever.

Lightness.

That was the word.

It drifted through her chest like a new kind of spell, one she didn't quite trust. She could not remember the last time she had spoken to Pansy without her pulse rising in fury or her spine tightening with defensiveness. Even their civil moments were barbed, charged with something prickling and unpredictable.

But here, with the warm glow of the cauldron reflecting off the dungeon walls, there was less of it. Enough that Hermione could breathe properly.

She risked a sideways glance. Pansy looked focused, lips slightly parted in concentration, brows drawn together but not in anger. She was beautiful, in that old fashioned way women were gorgeous in the fifties. Pansy looked like a model fresh out of a fashion magazine after the Second World War. She had pulpous lips, low eyelids, dark eyes, dark hair, porcelain skin, high cheekbones. Hermione imagined the dip of her perfectly shaved eyebrows when Pansy was angry, the downward curl of her lips, the way her eyes were widening, shining with fury. Hermione thought she was even more pretty when she was losing her shit.

Her stomach dipped at the thought, but she forced herself back to the potion before her mind wandered too far. Still, the thought lingered. It always lingered. Tonight it felt less frightening.

This absence of venom felt suspended between them like a fragile bubble, and Hermione stirred carefully, as though the softness in the air required just as much precision as the potion itself.

She found herself enjoying it. And the realisation unsettled her more than any insult Pansy had ever thrown at her. By the time the half hour was nearly done, Hermione could feel the lightness spreading, warm and unfamiliar. She felt almost buoyant.

It had been ten days since the masquerade. Pansy's behaviour had changed. It was true that her whole attitude with Hermione had shifted, from absolutely unbearable and poisoning, to almost normal. During their first meeting to stir the Felix Felicis, Pansy had acted cold, but not insulting. But now, they had actually talked, and Hermione realised how much things had changed between them in this short span of time. Sure, the progress wasn't mind-blowing. But at least, she could exchange two sentences with Pansy without wanting to punch her. And that felt really foreign. 

And Pansy was gay.

It still startled her to think it, not because she found it strange or shameful, but because it shifted something fundamental in the way she had always imagined Pansy Parkinson. Pansy had, for years, been a storm to Hermione's peace, a snake poised behind her shoulder blade, a snarl in the dark. A brute, a rival, an irritant she expected to clash with until they both left Hogwarts.

But now she felt... human. Not exactly softer. Just... real.

There was something about knowing a secret that powerful, something that pulled Pansy out of the narrow, rigid caricature Hermione had built of her. Suddenly she wasn't just sharp words and perfect hair and splendid makeup and caustic remarks. She was a girl with fear and hope and longing, a girl who hid pieces of herself the same way Hermione hid her own doubts and insecurities. It made Hermione feel unexpectedly exposed, like simply knowing this secret created a fragile, invisible thread between them. It wasn't just knowing  that secret. It was also sharing it. 

But Pansy didn't need to know that.

Hermione did not know what to do with the sensation. It prickled under her skin, too intimate to ignore and too complicated to examine, unless she had a whole week of nothing planned. She had never imagined Pansy having a private life that did not involve cruelty or men or money. Never imagined her blushing, hesitating, wanting. But now Hermione could not stop seeing those possibilities in her every movement. The dark circles under Pansy's eyes that morning after the masquerade. The trembling in her voice in the cupboard, the shaky breaths she had left when Hermione had pinned her in the library. The way she had talked to her almost normally tonight. Hermione closed her eyes briefly.

She felt strange. Not frightened, but unsteady, as if the ground beneath her had shifted a few degrees. Her mind kept circling back to Pansy, no longer with irritation only, but also with curiosity. 

That curiosity was terrifying. Because if Pansy could be more than the villain in Hermione's story, then everything between them would meant something else entirely. 

"Granger, stop stirring. You're going to mess things up," snapped Pansy's voice. 

Hermione immediately stopped, a bit taken aback. She sighed, putting away her ladle. She got up in a groan, her handbag pulling on her shoulder. 

"Sorry. Enjoy your dinner, Parkinson."

"You're not eating?"

"I'm not really hungry."

"Alright. Fuck off, then."

There wasn't any poison in her voice, and Hermione understood it was her way of telling her to do what she had to do. She smiled briefly. 

"Careful with your shampoo, Parkinson. Green suited you well, but blue..."

"You bitch," spat Pansy. 

Hermione blew her a kiss and left the classroom. Her legs felt so light it almost felt like flying, or parading.

She had barely made it halfway down the corridor when Harry and Ron appeared from the opposite direction, bickering loudly about something involving quaffles, strategy, or possibly who had forgotten to book the pitch. Their voices carried like always, familiar and boisterous, and she straightened instinctively. Harry noticed her first. He folded a long piece of parchment paper and folded it in his pocket. He slowed, squinting at her with that oddly perceptive look he sometimes had.

"Hermione," he said, drawing out the name. "Are you okay?"

"Hmm? Hi. Yes. Splendid," said Hermione, but she thought her voice sounded almost chirpy.

Ron leaned in, eyebrows lifting. "You look like you're blushing. Merlin, what were you doing down there? The dungeons aren't that warm."

Hermione saw Harry's hand plunge in his pocket where he had previously put the parchment. She felt heat crawl even higher up her throat. Wonderful. Exactly what she needed.

"I am not blushing," she insisted, though her voice betrayed her with the slightest tremor. "It's just the steam from the potion. And the torches. And—"

"Potter. Weasley," interrupted a cold voice.

Pansy passed through them, shamelessly elbowing Ron. Harry exchanged a knowing look with him that made Hermione want to vanish through the nearest wall.

She cleared her throat, trying to force the warmth out of her cheeks through sheer willpower. "Anyway... what are you two doing? Shouldn't you be at dinner?"

"We decided to practice a bit for tomorrow's game," explained Harry.

Ron brightened immediately, puffing his chest a little. "We just finished! Ginny nearly took my head off with a bludger, but I dodged it brilliantly. Harry said it was the best reflex he's ever seen."

Harry rolled his eyes, but he was grinning. "You tripped over your own broom and fell sideways. The bludger missed you out of pity."

Hermione let out a small laugh out of politeness, but her mind felt far away, still lingering somewhere in the dungeon where Pansy's perfume had mixed with the fumes of Felix Felicis. She willed herself to focus.

"Speaking of Quidditch," Harry said, nudging her lightly, "Gryffindor versus Slytherin tomorrow afternoon. Thought we'd see where your loyalties stand."

Hermione exhaled slowly, careful with her words. "I'll support both of you," she said. "And I'll also support Slytherin. Obviously I'll cheer for my house team. But I'll cheer for you two as well."

Ron snorted. "So you'll be clapping politely no matter who scores?"

"Well," Hermione said with a small shrug, "it sounds very diplomatic."

"It sounds like being a seal waiting for treats," commented Ron, but Harry stepped on his foot.

He laughed, but then tilted his head. "You sure you're alright? You look... distracted."

She stiffened. "I'm just tired," she replied quickly. "Long day. Lots of homework. Parkinson and I's potion is brewing correctly but... It's quite a commitment."

"Oh, so that's what you were doing with her! We were looking at your names and wondering why you two seemed so close!" exclaimed Ron.

"What?"

Harry crushed his foot so hard Ron yelped.

"Our names?" said Hermione, frowning.

"It's, um, a Gryffindor way of speaking. We were looking at you through the classroom door," said quickly Harry.

"It was closed," said Hermione dryly. "And you arrived at the opposite angle of the corridor. By the way, why are you two even here? Dinner is upstairs, you passed in front of the Great Hall to go here when you came back from practicing Quidditch."

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose and groaned, glaring at his friend. 

"Nice, Ron."

"Cut it," Hermione interrupted, crossing her arms. "And what's that in your pocket? Why do you need a piece of parchment when flying? That's highly unpractical."

"Alright, alright," sighed Harry, exasperated. "We weren't spying on you, I swear. But I was given a map of Hogwarts during third year, and it happens that this map also shows the exact location and identity of every student. So Ron and I decided to check if you were okay, since your name was practically merged with Parkinson's."

"That's probably violating a good dozen of rules!" exclaimed Hermione, furious. "And you two were spying on me!"

"We were just wondering why it looked like you were shagging Parkinson every night for the last ten days!" whisper-yelled Ron.

"We were stirring our potion! And even if we were shagging as you said, that's not something you should investigate!"

Ron made a face that suggested this sounded like the worst fate imaginable. "Please don't tell any teacher. I'm sorry. It's my fault, not Harry's. I was too curious."

"Well don't be," snapped Hermione.

"Hermione, I'm sorry, we were just worried about your safety," said Harry, almost begging. "Think about how easier our Head duties can be with this map. It could help us immediately locating trouble."

He wasn't wrong, and she hated him for it. But this map, as forbidden as it was, could also be a great way to keep annoying Pansy. Hermione could locate her all the time, and prepare her mischief in advance. It was a golden opportunity. 

"Give me the map and I won't tell anyone. I'll give it back to you when I'm done studying it."

"That's not fair," protested Ron. 

Harry's teeth gritted. He cursed under his breath and gave her the folded parchment, looking extraordinarily pissed. 

"Thank you. Anything I should know in particular about this map?"

"No."

"Perfect. Good night, boys."

She heard them mumble something back and smiled, turning on her heels. She hurried through the corridors, steps quick and focused, heart thudding too fast for reasons she refused to examine. The torches blurred as she passed them, shadows stretching long across the stone walls. She did not slow down until she reached the familiar stretch of green-lit stones leading to the Slytherin common room entrance.

Hermione pronounced the password, immediately rushing to her dormitory. Once inside, she practically leapt on her bed, bouncing on the mattress. She grabbed the parchment out of her robes and unfolded it. 

It was desperately blank. Hermione kept her calm. 

"Aparecium."

Thin characters started to appear on paper, traced in black ink. Hermione leaned, frowning. 

"Messrs Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs, Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief-Makers are proud to let Miss Granger know she shan't open this map until she pulls her broom out of her arse."

"What in Merlin's name is that..." murmured Hermione, offended. 

Immediately, she folded back the parchment, furious. She tried folding it again, tearing it, but it wouldn't budge. She tried other spells, even yelling another Aparecium, but the black ink shone again, mocking her. It was charmed, obviously. Harry and Ron were the only people able to read it correctly, and they knew it wasn't a big loss to give her this map because she couldn't use it. 

Yet Hermione didn't really feel like giving this map to Slughorn, or McGonagall. She wanted to know how it worked. She knew Harry was right. It could be useful for their Head Students duties. But it was also against the rules, and she had no idea how they had found that map. 

Frustrated, Hermione realised she was in fact, very hungry, and that it was acting on her mood. Tiredly, she stretched, sniffing her arm. And groaned. She couldn't go the Great Hall smelling like sweat. Why was she sweating so heavily when Parkinson was near?

Hermione closed the dormitory door behind her with a soft click. The room was dark except for the warm glow of a single enchanted lantern hovering above the vanity, and for a moment she simply stood there, letting the silence settle around her.

she grabbed her towel and clean nightclothes and headed straight for the showers. The hot water was a relief, scalding just enough to force her thoughts into a slow, hazy drift. Her mind circled through images of the map, of Pansy, of their Felix Felicis brewing, of Pansy, of Harry and Ron's guilty faces, of Pansy. Merlin, Hermione couldn't stand that way she herself was obsessed with Pansy. She was starting to think she was projecting when she attacked Pansy for being obsessed with her.

By the time she stepped out, wrapped in her towel, the fatigue had sunk deep into her bones. She padded barefoot across the cold stone floor back toward her room, expecting it to be as quiet as she left it.

It wasn't.

Voices, loud, laughing, familiar, filtered through the door before she even opened it.

Hermione froze for just a second before pushing the door gently. Inside, all the girls were already there, scattered across their beds or at their desks, chatting, brushing hair, polishing boots. Pansy was painting her nails; Tracey had somehow procured a pack of exploding snap cards; and Daphne sat cross-legged on her bed, wand tucked behind her ear, braiding the ends of her hair.

Hermione blinked, disoriented. She had missed dinner. Completely.

The annoyance snapped at her immediately, because how could she have let that happen? She prided herself on routine, on control, on never letting exhaustion swallow her whole. Missing something as basic as dinner felt like a stupid mistake, and the frustration simmered beneath her skin.

She tightened her grip on her towel and headed for her bed, avoiding everyone's glances. She knew Pansy was watching her. But when she approached her old cabinet, a loud meow interrupted her train of thoughts. 

Crookshanks jumped on her bed. Or more like, what looked like Crookshanks. His fur was the exact same mossy green colour that Pansy had worn. Horrified, Hermione took him in her arms and rushed in front of Pansy's bed. 

"What did you do to my cat?!"

"Le vert lui va si bien," replied Pansy casually, looking at her bright red nails

"I'm not laughing with you, Parkinson!"

"Relax, Granger, Murlap blood is pet friendly. He'll lick it off in a day or two anyway," sneered Pansy. 

"I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!" hissed Hermione. "How dare you touch my cat?! And here I thought you could almost be a normal person an hour ago!" 

Pansy tilted his head. Crookshanks meowed again. He jumped from Hermione's arms, stretching his paws on Pansy's bed. He started to rub his head on her knee, purring. Pansy gave her a radiant smile.

This was too much. Hermione wanted to slap her. 

"You're quite pretty when you're angry," Pansy whispered, leaning in so only Hermione could hear.

"I—I mean, what—oh, sod off!"

This was catastrophic. Petrified, Hermione walked back to her bed. Crookshanks didn't follow her. She sat numbly on the sheets, her cheeks so warm she was sure she looked scarlet.

Daphne looked up, poorly hiding her amusement. "I didn't know for Crookshanks, but he loves Parkinson so she obviously didn't torture him—"

"Knock it off!"

Hermione closed the posters of her bed. The duvet sank around Hermione like a cloud, and finally, she could breathe a little, still enraged at this betrayal from her cat. 

"Where were you, Hermione? Theo asked to talk to you during dinner, but you weren't there," asked Daphne's voice. 

"Lost track of time."

That was when she noticed it.

On her bedside table, on a little enchanted plate, sat a square of chocolate cake. Moist, rich-looking, with a perfectly glossy layer of ganache on top. It looked freshly cut, still warm even.

Hermione stared. Her stomach gurgled traitorously.

She hadn't eaten since lunch. And she was tired, angry, and confused. She grabbed her wand, throwing quick detection spells on it. 

It wasn't poisoned, charmed, or anything. It was a regular chocolate cake.

Surrendering, she reached for the fork laid neatly beside it and took a bite. The sweetness hit her immediately; her shoulders loosening for the first time all day. She closed her eyes briefly, savoring the taste, then took another bite, and another, until half the cake was gone.

"Thank you, Daphne" she murmured, regretting snapping at her. "I just needed sugar, I think."

Daphne opened her posters and paused mid-braid, brows lifting. "What are you talking about?"

Hermione gestured lazily to the cake. "This."

But Daphne only blinked at her again, confusion plain. "I didn't bring you anything."

Hermione frowned at her plate. Strange.

Tracey chimed in from across the room, "Wasn't me either! Though if someone's sneaking us cake now I'd happily accept some."

Daphne snorted. "It probably just appeared. House-elves panic when students skip meals."

Hermione wanted to believe that. It was simple. Logical.

But something tugged at her mind nonetheless.

She smothered another yawn, brushing crumbs from her nightshirt. "Well... whoever left it, it was lovely. I was starving."

Her vision swam slightly. She had been tired before, but now the exhaustion came in waves so thick she could barely keep her head up. She reached for the map on her table, intending to keep studying it before bed, but her hand shook faintly, the world blurring around the edges.

"Merlin," she whispered, "All I needed was chocolate and my bed."

Daphne chuckled. "Hermione, you look like you're about to collapse. Just sleep."

She tried to nod in agreement, but halfway through the gesture her head dipped forward and her forehead landed softly against the parchment spread across her desk. Her eyes fluttered shut without her permission.

She meant to move. She meant to shift to her bed properly.

But her limbs were too heavy, her thoughts too distant, the warmth in her stomach blooming outward in a slow, drowsy haze. The warm pile of hair that was Crookshanks jumped on her back and kept purring, scratching his claws against her towel. And within seconds, she was asleep, cheek pressed to the paper, breathing deep and even while the lantern flickered quietly above her.

When Hermione woke up, slowly, she felt like her mind had risen from the bottom of a warm lake instead of a bed. At first, she did not know where she was. The air smelled different. Like perfume, citrus, lime, grapefruit. The window next to her was casting its usual muted greenish light. Her cheek was still pressed to parchment. Her neck ached. Her back protested.

But she felt rested, in a way she hadn't felt in weeks.

Her eyes blinked open, slow and heavy. For a few seconds everything was blurred and quiet, as though sound arrived a moment late. She inhaled deeply, the smell of citrus and mint pulling her back into herself.

A warm shape rested against her hip.

Hermione tilted her head.

Crookshanks lay curled beside her on the bed, snoring softly with his squashed little face buried in the blanket. He was still blindingly green. Hermione smiled faintly in spite of her groggy confusion, lifting her hand to stroke his fur. He didn't stir.

She stretched, joints popping, and sat up. It wasn't until she rubbed the sleep from her eyes and blinked properly at the room that the shock hit her.

Parkinson stood in the middle of the dormitory, halfway through changing into her winter robes.

Hermione froze.

Pansy hadn't noticed she was awake. She had her back slightly turned, unhurried, clearly assuming the room was empty at this late hour. A pile of neatly folded clothes lay beside her trunk. Her hair tumbled loose just above her shoulders as she shrugged out of the night gown she had slept in, the fabric sliding away.

Hermione's breath caught.

Pansy was practically naked, her white panties almost looking back at Hermione. When she took off her gown, it fell on the ground, and Hermione saw the long, pale spine of her back, fully bare. 

Merlin's sake, she could see the curve of Pansy's breasts without seeing them fully, but still. 

The intimacy of the moment hit her with startling force. Hermione had never seen Pansy unguarded. They had been sharing a dorm for years, but Hermione had never seen her with so little clothing.

Her heart jumped into her throat. Her eyes widened. Her face burned instantly, hot enough she felt it in her ears.

She scrambled to look away, too fast, her elbow knocking into her ink pot and nearly sending it off the bed. She grabbed it instinctively, fingers fumbling, breath stuttering, cheeks growing hotter and hotter.

What was she doing awake? Why had she looked? Why was Pansy almost naked next to her?

Her brain refused to finish the thought. Everything inside her felt tight and fluttering, as though panic and arousal tangled together in a single, overwhelming knot. She pulled her blanket up instinctively, as if hiding behind it made her less of a witness to something she was never meant to see.

Her pulse thudded in her ears. She dared a small glance, only a tiny one, just to check if Pansy had noticed.

She hadn't. She was still here, almost strutting to her bed, practically bare. Her buttocks were round and perfect, her back slightly muscled. Hermione felt a spot under her stomach tighten so much it was almost painful.

Pansy grabbed her bra, attaching it. She put on a shirt, lifting her winter robes over her head with a fluid movement. The fabric fell around her like dark water. She adjusted the collar, pinned her House crest in place, then reached for her hairbrush, smoothing her glossy black hair as she faced her vanity mirror.

Hermione's cheeks flamed hotter. She swallowed thickly, pressing a hand to her forehead as if that could cool her down. It didn't. The fogginess of waking was gone, replaced by sharp, painful arousal. She could feel a damp spot forming uncomfortably in her knickers.

Hermione felt intrusive. Embarrassed. Startled. Most of all, horny.

Her heartbeat struggled to settle into anything steady.

For a moment, she stayed very still, barely breathing, unsure whether to speak or pretend she was still asleep or vanish under the duvet entirely. 

Pansy lifted her brush, sweeping it through her hair in slow strokes, and Hermione's throat tightened. She needed to move. She needed to say something. She needed air. She needed—

"What's up Granger?" 

Pansy's voice felt like a dagger. Hermione opened her lips but didn't reply anything, petrified. 

"I saw you staring in my mirror. Like what you see or something?"

"No, no, I'm sorry, I didn't want to intrude, I..."

Pansy turned to her. She was smirking. Hermione hated her so much at this exact moment that she felt the damp spot in her knickers get even wetter. 

"See you at the game. Bye, bitch."

 

 

 

 

Chapter 10: Game On

Notes:

TW: alcohol use

Pansy was jubilating. She shouldn't have been. She was almost floating when she took her seat at the highest spot of the Slytherin Quidditch tower, overlooking the whole field. Her gloved fingers wrapped tightly around the her wand, emitting a constant heating charm. Yet she couldn't stop her limbs from trembling. 

Pansy knew she was playing a dangerous game with Granger. Almost exhibiting her bum to her had maybe crossed the line. But crap, it had been worth it. It had been so worth it. From Granger's scarlet cheek, to her slightly parted lips, to her brown eyes opened wide, looking like a deer in headlights. It was brilliant. The rush of adrenaline and the excitement Pansy had felt had held more worth than any fit of rage she could tear out of Hermione. It felt scary and weird and unexplainable and incredibly problematic, yes, but it felt so good. 

The early afternoon wind rushed past her ears in long, whistling breaths, grabbing back her attention. It carried with it the unmistakable scent of wet earth, wood and leather. The air was cold enough to sting Pansy's cheeks, but the sky was perfectly clear, washed in a pale winter-blue that made the distant treetops glow. Looking at the sky, Pansy could know it would snow tomorrow. 

Far below, the Quidditch pitch stretched out in a wide, perfect oval of frosted grass. The white boundary lines stood stark against the ground, bright as cut chalk. The goal hoops shone in the sunlight, three silver arcs on each side of the field that sparkled whenever the sun caught them at the right angle. Shadows of the towers fell long across the grass, slicing the field into strips of dark and gold.

The stands creaked with every gust of wind, old wood shifting under the weight of a structure that had held generations of students cheering, screaming, cheering, booing. Pansy pulled her cloak tighter around herself. Even with warming charms woven into the lining, as well as Pansy's own heating spell, the cold found its way in through the seams, settling into her bones. 

She looked down again.

From this height the field looked deceptively peaceful: empty, waiting, holding its breath. But she knew the quiet would not last. Soon, the doors to the locker rooms would burst open and the players would flood out, emerald robes gleaming, broomsticks tucked under their arms, boots crunching against the gravel path. 

Pansy liked this moment before all that happened. The stillness. The clarity. It was everything she had been unable to feel in weeks, because of Granger's sudden decision to bite back.

The wind whipped strands of her hair across her face, and she brushed them aside impatiently, leaning forward slightly over the railing. Beneath her boots the wooden plank floor groaned, as if reminding her just how high above the ground she was. From up here, the castle looked distant, like some shadowed stone crown perched against the horizon.

She stared at the locker room doors. Any minute now.

Her breath formed small white clouds, dispersing quickly in the open air. Pansy exhaled slowly, the chill stinging her lungs. 

"I told you, we should have come here sooner! There's almost no seats left!" shouted a familiar voice two benches below. 

Pansy looked down, and her heart jumped in her chest. 

"I didn't know you were a Quidditch fanatic," scoffed Granger, looking around for empty spots. "Tracey and Millicent didn't even bother to come, why should we—"

"Because Theo wants us there! And Potter and Weasley too! Do you understand what this means, Hermione? Whichever house wins today, we get to party tonight at the winning house!"

"As if I cared," groaned Granger, though Pansy had to lean forward to hear her. 

"Hey, up there!" exclaimed Daphne, pointing directly at the spot next to Pansy. 

The latter waved her fingers, smirking right at Hermione. The brunette's cheek took the same tint as earlier. She swore something Pansy didn't hear behind her hand and followed Daphne, climbing the benches. The blonde purposefully sat further, leaving Hermione no choice but to sit directly next to Pansy. 

"You're not going to say hi, Granger?" asked Pansy, tilting her head. 

"Hi. Whatever."

She was still so red. Pansy was ecstatic. Hermione turned the blonde murmured something to her, making her gasp. Daphne elbowed her and Hermione sat straighter, her forearm touching Pansy's. 

"Are you going to apologise for my cat?" she asked dryly. 

"Are you going to apologise for my hair?" answered Pansy sassily. 

"No."

"Right, because you admitted it yourself, it suited me well."

"Why didn't you keep it then, may I ask?" she gushed. 

"Honey, fashion is ephemeral. I have good taste, I'm not suicidal."

"I forgot fashion was the most important thing in the world."

Pansy studied her for a few seconds. She was wearing her robes and a hideous wool sweater under it, with flared jeans and fur boots. 

"Yes, I've figured."

Even Greengrass snorted. Granger flipped the curls that had flown to her face with an irritated head nod. When she did, Pansy felt a whiff of perfume entering her nose, something like soap that lingered after a long shower, mixed faintly with the warmth of amber. She smelled exactly like tea. 

The Slytherin team burst onto the field at that exact moment, and the stands erupted. The scream of students hit her like a wall, vibrating in her skull so hard she felt it behind her eyes. The banners snapped violently, the roar rising and folding over itself as green-robed players shot into the air, brooms slicing upward toward the sun. The noise should have swallowed everything else.

But it didn't, because Granger was sitting too close.

Pansy tried to keep her eyes fixed on the pitch. She really did, and only lasted about two minutes, the time that Gryffindor players took to make some spins and looping, making the opposite house cheer. But Granger's presence was a pulse at the edge of her senses, insistent and impossible to ignore. 

It drifted toward her each time Hermione shifted even slightly, brushing Pansy's concentration to ribbons.

Pansy curled her fingers around her wand, knuckles whitening. Merlin, she was twitchy. Her knee bounced before she realised it, and she stilled it violently. It wasn't supposed to make her nervous. She was supposed to grab this golden occasion to nag at her, not become all jumpy and stressed. Pansy couldn't understand her own reactions when it came to Granger. 

A roar went up as the Quaffle was released. Brooms dove. Players shouted. The wind sliced across Pansy's cheeks.

And she kept sneaking glances at the curl at Hermione's temple that the wind kept lifting.

"So," Pansy said loudly, eyes glued ahead as if the players depended on her absolute focus. "Did you use your Walkman to sing under the shower before coming to this game?"

Hermione's head snapped toward her, scandalised already, though Pansy thought her sentence wasn't really offensive. "What is that even supposed to mean?"

"You smell like soap." Pansy shifted one inch, even though Hermione was objectively giving her more space than Daphne was. "Your hair keeps hitting me. And I just pictured you taking a shower while singing this stupid song."

"I cannot control the wind, Parkinson."

"Try harder."

Hermione made an indignant sound in her throat. Pansy was absurdly satisfied by it. The cold air helped hide her smile.

"Why are you even thinking about me taking the shower?"

"It must be so rare," Pansy lied. 

Granger had always been sparkling clean. Whether it was with her books, notes, clothes cabinet, shower products, or even herself. 

"Is that all you got today?"

Another scream of the crowd rose as a Slytherin Chaser looped around a Gryffindor and shot the Quaffle clean toward the goal. Pansy tried to redirect her mind to the match. It should have worked. She wasn't a big fan of Quidditch, but she always loved a clean dive, a perfect feint, the strategy of it all. But Hermione exhaled beside her, soft and warm, and the tiny puff of air brushed Pansy's ear.

Her stomach flipped so sharply she nearly hissed.

She forced her gaze downward, trying to watch the players streaking below. The movements were blurs of green and scarlet. She knew the match was intense because the crowd kept lurching with every turn, but her focus slipped like water through her fingers. Her thoughts kept circling dangerously close to the girl on her right.

Hermione shifted again. A strand of her hair brushed Pansy's shoulder. Pansy flinched like she'd been burned.

"Honestly," Hermione yelled sharply over the noise, "if you are going to act like I am a contagious disease, at least have the decency to shift and take another spot!"

"I came her first!" Pansy snapped back, heat flashing across her face because she was absolutely acting like Hermione was dangerous, and she hated that it was true in an entirely different way.

Before Hermione could retort, Daphne, sitting to Pansy's left, let out a long, suffering sigh.

"Both of you," she exclaimed, exasperated, "can you please, for the love of Merlin, stop bickering for five minutes and watch the game?!"

Pansy blinked. Daphne rarely snapped. She had always been a quieter girl, never really interacting with her. Now, seeing her being so close to Hermione, Pansy figured she hid her game pretty well.

Hermione muttered an apology. Pansy pretended not to hear it, staring stiffly forward.

She tried to concentrate. The game was moving fast now, players streaking in sharp arcs beneath them. Blaise, the Keeper, blocked a shot with a dramatic twist that sent half the stands into a frenzy. Pansy cheered loudly, and she saw him wave.

But her chest was tight. Her pulse too quick. Every time Hermione leaned forward or back, the warmth of her body changed the air between them, panicking Pansy's senses.

She hated how aware she was, and she hated that she couldn't stop it. She also hated that the game she usually enjoyed at least a little bit felt like nothing but noise around the small, unbearable space between them.

Hermione's sleeve brushed hers lightly as she leaned forward to get a better view of a Bludger streaking across the field.

Pansy's breath hitched. She set her jaw so tightly it ached.

The crowd kept roaring, but she barely heard it. 

"Hey, look! It's Harry! I think he's chasing the Snitch!" shouted Hermione, nudging Daphne's arm. 

"Hah! You're supporting the enemy!" accused Pansy.

"Will you shut up for one second?!" Hermione barked. "Think about how unbearably smug Draco will get if he catches the Snitch! Do you want to go through that?! Isn't it why you broke up with him?!"

"I dumped him because his cock is so small it looks like the foetus of a white wyrm!" yelled Pansy, making Daphne burst out laughing so hard she kicked her feet and accidentally hit a Fifth Year boy sitting in front of her. 

"A wyrm?! Because it spits fire?!" the blonde screamed.

"It can't even spit anything truly!"

A tear of cold, or hilarity, Pansy couldn't tell, rolled down Daphne's cheek. Hermione herself was laughing, hiding behind the hem of her robes. 

When Pansy glanced up, Draco was flying at a remarkable speed behind Potter, trying to grab the end of his broom to destabilise him. But suddenly, Potter surged, and Draco narrowly avoided crashing on the Hufflepuff tower, following him.

Potter shot upward like a red comet, hand outstretched, fingers closing around nothing but air as the Snitch darted just out of reach. Pansy saw it all in a single sharp instant. The gleam of the wings. The determined line of Potter's jaw. And then Draco recklessly gripped the tail of Potter's broom to throw him off balance.

The stands gasped. Potter jerked sideways, wobbling for a heartbeat.

Hermione surged forward before Pansy herself could react, a strangled sound caught in her throat. Pansy felt the bench jolt as Hermione's weight shifted.

Potter recovered, diving toward the pitch with his absurd Gryffindor determination. The crowd screamed, the sound swelling like a storm against the wooden towers. Hermione released a shaky breath and collapsed backward into her seat.

Except she missed.

The wood was slick with melted frost, and her boots slipped out from under her. There was no time for her to catch herself, no room for her to grab anything. She fell sideways, cloak sweeping out in a swirl of black and green fabric.

Straight into Pansy's lap.

For one stunned moment, Pansy did not breathe. Hermione was suddenly all warmth and softness and startled movement against her. Instinct, sharper than sense, made Pansy grab her by the hips to steady her, fingers splaying automatically against the fabric of Hermione's robes.

Hermione froze. Pansy froze. The game continued roaring around them. Then the smell of Hermione's hair hit her again, closer now, dizzying in its warmth. The white cloud of her breath mixed with Pansy's.

Pansy swallowed.

"Well," she said, forcing her voice into something slow and drawling because anything else would betray the wild pulse thundering in her chest. "If you wanted to sit on me, Granger, you could have simply asked."

Hermione jolted upright so fast she nearly elbowed Pansy in the ribs. Her face was still red, and her cheeks looked disgustingly adorable with that tint. Pansy almost gagged.

"I slipped," she hissed, smoothing her robes in a frantic, utterly transparent attempt at dignity.

"So you say," Pansy sneered, leaning back with a smirk she barely managed to hold steady. "I am beginning to think you have very creative ways of showing affection."

Hermione glared at her, which only made her look more flustered. Her curls were mussed, a strand caught against her cheek. She brushed it away with trembling fingers.

"Oh yeah? What other kind of ways have you seen already?"

"I don't know, there was that time when you openly admitted to me you thought I looked pretty with my green hair. When was it? Yesterday?" replied coldly Pansy.

Her palms still tingled where they had gripped Hermione's hips.

"This is a great exaggeration!"

"Sure."

Daphne, on Hermione's other side, leaned forward to check if she was alright, but Pansy barely heard them. Hermione turned back toward the match, pretending nothing had happened. Pansy pretended too, but her heart had not slowed even a little. 

She pressed her palms against her eyeballs, hoping this need to have Granger sitting on her again would quickly be gone. 

Of course, it stayed. 

A roar tore across the pitch as a burst of scarlet and swept past the Slytherin goalposts. The Quaffle shot cleanly through the hoop, and the Gryffindor stands erupted with triumphant screaming. Blaise kicked his foot in the air, looking angry at himself. Pansy rose, giving him a "you better focus or we'll lose" look. 

She groaned loudly, tipping her head back against the cold wood of the bench.

"Brilliant," she muttered. "Absolutely marvelous. Shall we just hand them the Cup now and save everyone the time?"

Hermione scoffed. "It's only ten points, Parkinson. Try not to faint."

Pansy's head snapped toward her. "I do not faint. And do you want our house to win at this point or not?!"

"I don't care about winning," Hermione said, lips twitching.

"You better, because I can't stand another year losing to Scarhead and Weasel-bee," Pansy hissed. 

Hermione raised a brow. "Why don't you do try outs then?"

"That's uncouth."

The game thundered on. Broomsticks streaked through the pale November sky, the whooshing of air and rumble of the crowd vibrating through the tall wooden tower. The wind had picked up, cutting through cloaks and scarves. Pansy watched Nott narrowly avoid a collision with a Gryffindor Beater and grimaced.

"Open your eyes, Nott," she muttered at the pitch. "Or get off the broom."

Hermione breathed out a small laugh beside her. Pansy pretended she did not hear it.

Their shoulders brushed whenever the stands rocked, whenever the crowd surged, whenever Hermione forgot to stay properly on her side of the bench. Pansy tried not to focus on it. She had a match to watch. A match, and freezing wind, and a hundred people crammed into a single tower. She had absolutely no business noticing the arm pressed against her own, especially when Granger was the source of it.

A particularly messy tangle of players swooped low over the pitch, and everyone leaned forward at once. Hermione braced her hands on the bench. Pansy leaned backwards.

"Weasley is down!" shouted Daphne.

He was indeed down. And it was a weak word. Weasley's broom was on the ground, and he was stuck on one the goal hoop, arms tightly holding the metal. Some Gryffindors yelled, probably asking for help.

"NOW" roared a Sixth Year boy below Pansy. 

It seemed all the Chasers of Slytherin heard him. Nott kicked a Gryffindor Chaser, taking the Quaffle from his arms. He threw it in the middle loop, and Pucey caught it once it had passed through, throwing it back to Nott. Nott stayed almost still on his broom, passing and throwing the Quaffle while the Slytherin Beaters were defending him from the Bludgers. 

"That's... ugly," commented Daphne.

Nott scored at least fifteen goals. The Slytherin tower had completely erupted. Slytherin now led the score with 200 points, Gryffindor barely hanging on with 30 points. 

And somewhere between the movement and the shouting, her little fingers brushed Hermione's.

Pansy did not notice at first. She was busy breaking her vocal cords to boo Gryffindor players trying to help Weasley getting back on his broom while avoiding Bludgers. But then the contact stayed. A slight pressure. A faint warmth. And her attention evaporated again.

Hermione's little finger was resting against hers. Barely there, like a secret. It wasn't intentional, and Pansy wondered if Hermione noticed it too.

She went very still.

Hermione did not pull away. She did not react at all. Her jaw was tight with focus, curls whipping in the wind as she followed the players. Pansy's heartbeat picked up. Ridiculous, traitorous thing.

She should pull her hand back. She absolutely should. It was improper. Stupid. Pointless. And it made her feel like a giddy fourteen-year-old. 

She did not move. Instead she said, lightly and scathingly, "If Potter stops showing off and tries catching the Snitch for once, he is going to crash into a Gryffindor banner and take half the tower down with him."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "He knows what he is doing, which is more than can be said for Draco. And even if he catches the Snitch now, Gryffindor will still lose."

"How dare you," Pansy whispered, pretending outrage, refusing to look at their hands.

"How dare you," Hermione mimicked in a soft, mocking voice that made Pansy's stomach twist.

The stands shook with another collective gasp as the Snitch streaked by again, a flash of gold and frantic wings.

Pansy leaned forward, breath caught. Hermione leaned forward too, shoulder pressing warm and solid into hers.

Their little fingers were still touching. Neither of them moved. Neither of them mentioned it. 

Slytherin was now leading with 250 points, and Weasley had gotten back on his broom. But, as some Slytherin were surging towards him to mark again, Potter caught the Snitch right in front of Draco's nose, as the blonde was about to grab it, high above the Ravenclaw tower. 

The Snitch glinted once, twice, then vanished into Potter's outstretched hand. The whistle shrilled. A wave of sound rolled across the stands as everyone erupted into cheers.

But the scoreboard blazed the result in bright, enormous letters. SLYTHERIN WINS.

The Slytherin tower exploded.

Green and silver banners whipped through the air, students launched themselves to their feet, and someone behind Pansy screamed so loudly her ears rang. Bodies shoved forward in celebration, hands grabbing her shoulders, her arms, anything they could reach in their frenzy.

Pansy did not wait for the crush to swallow her.

She bolted. Down the wooden stairs, boots pounding. Her heart felt as if it were trying to claw out of her chest. The cold tore at her lungs but she did not slow until the tower was behind her and she was sprinting across the grass toward the cloakrooms.

"Parkinson!" Daphne's voice carried behind her. "Slow down!"

Hermione was right beside her, already breathless, cloak flapping wildly as she tried to keep up. Pansy did not slow, not until she pushed open the door to the cloakrooms and stumbled into the quieter dimness inside. The heavy stone walls muted the roar from the pitch, turning it into a distant thunder.

She barely had time to catch her breath before the door slammed again. Blaise shot inside, roaring like a rutting beast, jumping on his feet. He skidded to a stop when he saw her.

Then he erupted again.

He grabbed her around the waist and spun her clean off the ground in a rare burst of euphoria, laughing like a madman. His joy was so sudden, so unfiltered, Pansy almost forgot how to breathe.

"You see that?" he shouted, though the words were barely intelligible through his laughter. "We crushed those fuckers!"

Pansy clutched his shoulders, dazed, letting herself be carried by his excitement. A massive burst of cheering shook the cloakroom entrance. Nott appeared, red-faced and beaming, hoisted onto the shoulders of two brawny sixth-years who barrelled in to grab spare brooms and gear, chanting his name.

More teammates spilled in, shouting, clapping, thumping lockers. The room filled with steam from the adjoining showers, with the sharp scent of grass, sweat, and cold air. The victory glow made every surface feel warmer, brighter.

Hermione and Daphne slipped in behind the crowd, both flushed and breathless, but smiling despite themselves. Even Granger looked caught in the moment, her chest still rising with adrenaline.

Outside, the procession began.

Students gathered around the players, escorting them back toward the castle like conquering heroes. Nott was carried high on shoulders, waving triumphantly, broom raised like a banner. Laughter and chants echoed against the castle walls.

"Weasley is our king,

He cannot block a single ring,

That's why Slytherins all sing, 

Weasley is our king!"

"That's really mean," protested Hermione, but she was quickly interrupted by Nott screaming at her ears. 

Blaise finally released Pansy, only to grab her hand and tug her toward the open air again.

"Come on!" he yelled. "Let's party!"

Pansy blinked once, letting the air burn cold in her lungs as she steadied herself, Hermione and Daphne at her heels.

Then she ran after the others, swept away by the roaring tide of green and silver marching back to the castle.

Dinner was a mess. Gryffindors were exceptionally silent. The whole Slytherin table was on fire, students cheering, clicking their cups. Pansy saw a Fifth Year boy throw his own cup of water on his hair. It was ridiculous. But this euphoria felt good. 

It was nighttime when she reached the entrance of the common room. The stone wall slid open, and the Slytherins poured inside in a tidal wave of green and silver. The moment the first boot crossed the threshold, someone flicked their wand at the ancient gramophone in the corner. It jolted awake with a crackle, then blasted a triumphant, rock and roll melody that shook dust from the ceiling beams.

Cheers ripped through the room.

Students vaulted over armchairs, collapsing onto sofas, tossed scarves into the air. Cloaks and Quidditch goggles were discarded wherever they landed. Someone lit the floating lamps brighter than usual, tinting the green-stone walls with a shimmering emerald glow that rippled like water.

Fifth Years thumped their fists rhythmically on the tables, singing "Weasley is our king" so loud that some girls of Sixth Year had to yell at them to stop screaming. First and Second Years zigzagged between legs, shrieking with excitement, chasing enchanted confetti that a gleeful Third Year kept shooting out of his wand.

Draco was hoisted next to Theodore now, even though he hadn't be useful a single minute. He took full advantage of it anyway, raising his arms like royalty and shouting something pompous over the music. 

Pansy, hair bouncing and cheeks flushed, was swept into a hug by Tracey before she could dodge. She protested loudly but did not pull away, swept up in the energy. Daphne was beaming, twirling a silver ribbon between her fingers like a streamer. 

Granger, however, had already shifted into Head Girl mode. When Montague appeared at the threshold of the room, three bottles of rum in his hands, she immediately grabbed his shirt and pushed him to the side.

"Where did you get that?!"

"My girlfriend's a Hufflepuff! She told me how to break into the kitchens! You just need to tickle the pear on the huge fruit painting at the—"

"I don't care!" interrupted Hermione, frantically looking around her. Hide that until every students is in bed but Sixth and Seven Years!"

He nodded. Blaise appeared to Pansy's side, and she hooked her arm around his. 

"As if the whole house didn't hate her enough already," Pansy commented. 

"She's not wrong, they're still kids," laughed Blaise. 

"I know, but I can't wait to—ah, here it comes."

The younger students booed dramatically as Granger clapped sharply for attention, voice slicing cleanly through the bedlam.

"Under Sixth Years," she called out, "you’ve celebrated enough. You can keep doing that but in your dorms!"

A chorus of groans rose instantly.

"Ten more minutes!"

"We won! Please!"

"Granger, please!"

Hermione crossed her arms, eyebrows raising with such authority that even the ones who wanted to argue shrank a little. Her expression made it clear she was not negotiating. Eventually, one by one, the littler Slytherins trudged toward the dorm stairs, muttering dramatically under their breath.

The instant the last one disappeared up the stairs, the Sixth and Seventh Years roared their approval and the party surged back with almost doubled force.

Someone dimmed the lamps to a sultry glow. Someone else levitated a collection of green glass bottles into a decorative spinning circle overhead. The gramophone switched tracks with a crack and a hiss, plunging the room into a deeper, darker beat that pulsed through the floor stones.

Pansy loved this kind of chaos. the kind where everyone could let loose and stop caring for a little while. She craved that.

Students danced between the sofas, half-dressed in Quidditch padding, even after dinner. Cloaks twirled, boots scraped stone, and the air itself seemed to vibrate. The room smelled of butterbeer, sweat and deodorant abuse. Whistles cut through laughter. Someone conjured silver sparks that rained harmlessly over the crowd.

Granger stayed near the back for a moment, observing with that stiff, reluctant amusement she always wore during Slytherin celebrations. Her hair was still wind-ruffled from the game, and though she pretended to survey the room critically, her eyes kept drifting toward the more jubilant pockets of the party, softening despite herself.

The music thickened into something fast, pulsing, electric guitar tearing the air. The kind of rhythm that tugged bodies onto the improvised dance floor. Pansy did not resist it. Not tonight. She sat on the sofa, stretching her arms, watching from the corner of her eyes Greengrass, Nott and Granger talk next to the chimney.

Blaise slammed four little green-glass vials onto the low table and grinned lazily.

Shots.

Draco, already flushed from the game, lifted his with a proud smirk. Millicent took hers in two gulps. Tracey coughed after hers and demanded another. Pansy tilted the glass to her mouth, tossing the potion-like liquid back until it seared her throat, spreading an instant, dizzying heat. Smoke escaped her nostrils and Blaise cheered. Astoria sat on Draco's lap and he whistled, holding her hips. 

"You look awfully proud for someone who was perfectly useless during this game," slid Pansy, resting her empty glass.

His smile disappeared and he grunted, making Astoria laugh.

"Fuck off, Pansy."

Blaise poured her another shot. She took it. The world softened. Then brightened. Then pulsed.

She laughed, head tipping back, as Millicent clinked her second shot against hers. Blaise nodded approvingly, clearly impressed by their capacity. Pansy felt the room sway deliciously beneath her. The celebration roared around them, people dancing, shouting, drinking, and somewhere in the chaos, Granger stood with her arms crossed, lips pressed together in disapproval. Pansy could feel her eyes burning the back of her neck. 

Perfect.

Before she could second-guess it, Pansy gulped a third shot and strode through the mass of bodies. She seized Hermione’s wrist and tugged hard. Hermione stumbled, eyes wide, but Pansy only grinned, teeth flashing.

"Move," she muttered over the music, and then she spun Hermione under her arm just as the beat dropped.

Hermione’s hair whipped around her face, catching light like a wildfire. She glared at Pansy as soon as she landed the spin, but Pansy just pulled her closer, swaying sharply, forcing Hermione to follow the tempo.

The common room cheered at the sight. Or maybe Pansy just imagined they did. Her head felt light, giddy, dangerous.

"You’re drunk," Hermione said tightly, leaning away from her while still trapped in the dance. "Why are you dancing with a Muggleborn?"

"You’re stiff," Pansy shot back, flicking her gaze down Hermione’s body and up again.

She was still wearing those flared jeans but had discarded her brown jersey for a mossy green shirt. It was short, and when she moved, Pansy could catch a glimpse of the skin of her belly. 

Hermione stepped on her foot in retaliation. Pansy hissed, then laughed. "See? You can have fun when you’re not policing everyone."

"I’m not policing anyone. I’m trying to make sure the castle doesn’t burn down because your friends think firewhisky is like pumpkin juice."

"It is," Pansy said solemnly, as if delivering profound wisdom, before spinning Hermione again.

Hermione’s lips twitched. Almost a smile.

The music swelled again and for a moment they fell into a rhythm neither acknowledged but both sustained. Their breaths mingled. Their shoulders brushed. Hermione’s hand was almost on Pansy’s waist, not firmly placed, just hovering.

It was too close, too tempting, too confusing.

Pansy’s stomach twisted and her mind scrambled for safer ground. Which meant provoking her, of course.

"You know," she said, leaning in so her lips nearly brushed Hermione’s ear, "you dance better than I expected for someone who looks like she stores brooms up her arse instead of flying on them."

Hermione pulled back sharply, scowling.

"And you dance exactly as expected from someone who avoids feelings like they’re contagious."

Pansy clicked her tongue. "Feelings are a weakness. You should know that. It's a core Slytherin value."

"That's just an interpretation." Hermione’s eyes gleamed with rage. "Is that why you dyed Crookshanks green? Slytherin values and obsession with green?"

Pansy snorted. "It was funny."

"It was cruel," Hermione snapped, voice slicing through the noise. "It's not like he can actually do something about it like you did! I am still furious about it!"

Pansy waved that off with a loose, smug gesture. "You started it."

"No I didn't! You started it with the Chizpurlfe!"

"He looked adorable anyway, stop wailing. A little swamp creature with whiskers," cooed Pansy.

"Parkinson."

Hermione’s voice dropped to a low, tight note that could have cut marble. Pansy laughed again, tipsy and too bold. "Come on, Granger. You cannot tell me you did not snicker even a little when he hissed at himself in the mirror this morning."

Hermione’s face hardened. The warmth vanished from her eyes, replaced by something icy and brittle. Without warning, she yanked her hand free of Pansy’s grip.

Pansy blinked. "What? Oh, come on, don't be such an uptight bitch—"

Hermione turned on her heel and stormed away, disappearing into the shifting bodies and green light before Pansy could finish the sentence.

Her absence hit like a cold splash of water through the fog of alcohol. Pansy stood very still, music pounding in the hollow space Hermione left behind. She could still feel the ghost of Hermione’s hand almost on her waist, the faint heat of her breath near her cheek.

She swallowed hard, before Blaise shook her shoulders and led her to dance again. The alcohol’s warmth faded faster than it should have. Pansy felt it draining from her blood with every beat of the music, leaving her sober-sharp and vaguely irritated. Blaise spun her, his hands light on her waist, laughter bright and unbothered, but the high she’d been riding earlier was gone.

She let him guide her through the steps anyway, though her mind wasn’t in it. Her gaze kept drifting to the crowd, searching unconsciously for a flash of brown curls she knew she shouldn't search. The room felt too loud, too hot, too full.

"Pans, you’re dancing like a corpse," Blaise said directly into her ear, grinning.

"Maybe I’m dead inside," she muttered back.

"That’s not new."

She elbowed him, earning a wince, but even that didn’t amuse her. Draco vaulted onto one of the green-velvet couches and shouted loud enough to silence half the room. "RIGHT, EVERYONE. WE’RE PLAYING TRUTH OR DARE!" Pansy groaned out loud.

Tracey cheered. Millicent pumped her fists. A couple of Sixth Years who were definitely too drunk screamed like banshees.

Daphne, hands on her hips, snapped at Draco, "Oh, grow up. What are you, twelve?"

Draco clutched his chest. "Daphne Greengrass thinks she’s too mature for truth or dare—tragedy strikes the Wizarding world!"

"Oh, shut up," cut off Granger, appearing behind Nott and Montague.

But even Daphne couldn’t resist when Blaise whooped and dragged a large emerald-glass bottle out from under the refreshments table.

"Circle!" he called, herding people like an overzealous sheepdog.

A good dozen of students, most of them being Seventh Years, sat down on the rug. Blaise pushed the table on the side, making some glasses spill. The buzzing music felt distant now, swallowed by the sudden anticipation that hung sharp in the air. 

Pansy reluctantly sat between Blaise and Tracey, crossing her legs and flicking her hair with practiced disdain. Actually, it could be fun. It could be the perfect way for her to make Granger even more furious. Pansy just hoped she wouldn't run away from her like she had just done this time. 

Draco plopped down at her right with an empty rum bottle, setting it dramatically in the centre of the circle like it was some ancient artefact. Granger sat directly across Pansy, looking like she really, really didn't want to be here. But Daphne's hand was gripping her thigh, forcing her to sit.

"Ground rules!" Blaise announced.

"Oh Merlin," Pansy muttered under her breath.

"No backing out, unless you want to take a shot," Blaise said cheerfully. "If someone gets asked to duel, no curses. No public indecency, we're not animals. But a good snog doesn't hurt. And no crying because of emotional damage."

"Emotional damage?" Theo echoed, deadpan.

"You know what's bound to happen," Blaise said, staring directly at Pansy.

She raised her chin. "If anyone here can’t handle emotional damage, they’re in the wrong House."

Draco smirked. "Beautifully said. Now let’s spin."

Everyone shuffled closer, excitement building. The firelight painted their faces in a dancing green glow; shadows curved along the stone walls, and laughter rose like smoke. The old gramophone continued humming a low, lazy tune, serving as the background hum to the chaos that was about to unfold.

The bottle gleamed in the center of them all, catching firelight along its neck.

Blaise rubbed his hands together mischievously. "Ready? I'll start spinning."

Pansy’s stomach tightened. Blaise grinned and reached forward. The bottle spun. It landed directly on Granger. The latter let out a groan. 

"Granger, truth or dare?" 

She stayed quiet for a moment. "Truth."

"No fun," sighed Nott. 

"Have you ever had a wet dream about a teacher?"

"What?!"

"Or would you rather take a shot?" murmured Blaise, looking at her. 

"I'd rather take a shot," said Hermione quickly. 

"She definitely did," murmured Tracey, as Hermione drank the content of the small glass Nott gave her. "Pretty sure she thirsts over Dumbledore."

Pansy laughed. "Gross."

"Come on, she willingly dumped Nott. Who in their right mind would do that? The lad is so handsome."

Pansy shrugged. Hermione leaned forward, making the bottle spin with a flick of her wand. It landed on Draco. She looked at him with disgust and he smirked. 

"Dare," he said loudly. 

"Good. Malfoy, I dare you to block three of my Stupefy. If you can, I'll take another shot. If you can't, you'll have to go to bed."

A loud wave of whistle and laughs echoed in the circle. Draco got up after Granger, glaring at her. 

"Who do you take me f—"

"Stupefy!"

Hermione's wand moved so quickly Pansy barely saw it. Draco reacted at the last second, narrowly blocking the spell. 

"That's not fair!" he yelled. 

Hermione grinned. The blonde's wand whipped the air. 

"Tarantallegra!"

Hermione blocked the spell with surprising ease. Draco's face scrunched up with concentration. She took a step forward, faking a dramatic wand movement. Draco built another shield instinctively, before throwing another Stupefy at her. She leaned on the side to avoid it. Then, she turned on her heels and he simply stared at her, dumbfounded. She sat back in the circle. Pansy, confused, looked at her face. She saw nothing but satisfaction. 

As Draco was about to sit down too, not without a few insults because he couldn't understand what she was doing, she softly moved her wand. 

"Stupefy."

The spell hit directly his chest, and he flew against the nearest wall, choking. 

"Good night Draco," Granger sang. "Sleep tight!"

Horrified, the blonde raised his head, staggering. Astoria rushed to him, helping him to stand up.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?!" he yelled, furious. 

"Rules are rules. Sorry man," snickered Theo. 

"Who gets to spin the bottle now?" asked Daphne. 

"Well, you can," said Blaise, scratching the back of his head. "I hadn't thought someone would just send Draco to bed, to be honest."

Pansy sneered, looking at the blonde, who disappeared down the stairs in a torrent of insults. Daphne’s perfectly manicured fingers reached toward the bottle with a little smirk, nails gleaming dark in the green firelight. She gave it a practiced flick of the wrist. The glass spun smoothly, rapidly, and the entire circle leaned in as though pulled by a single breath.

Pansy tried to look bored. She tried to look like she wasn’t invested in any of this childish nonsense. But her stomach still tightened when the bottle slowed. Its base dragged lazily across the rug, turning, turning, wobbling, until it gave one final twitch and stopped.

Pointing directly at her.

A chorus of ooooh went up immediately, loud and merciless. Daphne’s smirk widened, blooming like something wicked. "Perfect," she said lightly. "Parkinson."

Pansy lifted her chin, preparing for something stupid but survivable. A dare to hex someone’s eyebrows off, or drink something disgusting, or perhaps insult a prefect to their face. She braced.

"Truth or dare?"

"Dare. Truth is for pussies."

Some boys snickered. Granger rolled her eyes. Then Daphne turned her head, scanning the circle.

Her eyes landed on Granger, still sitting right next to her.

Hermione froze mid-breath, wide-eyed, shoulders tensing as though she sensed a predator about to pounce.

Daphne announced, "I dare Parkinson to spend seven minutes in heaven with Hermione in the cupboard under the stairs."

Silence hit like a Bludger to the gut.

Then laughter burst around the circle, howls, shrieks, disbelieving gasps. Someone whistled. Someone else slapped the floor. Even Nott let out a stunned crack of laughter before choking on it.

Hermione’s reaction was immediate and unmistakable: pure panic. She jerked upright, her whole face flooding red, hands coming up as if to defend herself from the very idea. "Absolutely not!" she sputtered. "Absolutely not, Daphne, what kind of—this is—no!"

"You already backed out once, Granger! Back out again and you go to bed!" chanted Blaise.

Pansy’s panic was quieter, tighter, coiling low behind her ribs. For one moment, her brain went utterly blank. Heat flared up her spine. Her throat closed. Her body forgot how to sit or breathe or exist.

Seven minutes in heaven with Granger was her personal definition of hell.

Her heart punched against her ribs, sharp and fast, as though it were desperately trying to flee her own chest.

She wanted to shout no. To tell Greengrass she was out of her mind. To remind everyone she was not fourteen anymore and had no interest in juvenile dares, least of all ones involving Hermione bloody Granger.

But the circle kept cheering, egging them on.

"Do it!"

"Oh, this is too good!"

"Granger’s gonna faint!"

"Come on, it’s not that bad!"

"Oi, Parkinson! Don’t chicken out now!"

Granger made another strangled noise, looking like she wanted the earth to swallow her whole. She glanced around for help, but Blaise was not in a helping mood tonight. Pansy swallowed hard.

But through the noise and the heat and the pounding of her heart, another thought slid into her mind with startling clarity.

It was a perfect opportunity, after all.

Granger was already flustered. Blushing. Off-balance. If Pansy said yes, she would be holding something explosive in her hands. Something she could wield. Something she could use to unravel that irritating Granger-ian calm in ways that anger never could. She could pull and push. So many embarrassing things had already happened to them since the beginning of this year. All Pansy had to do was press the right buttons and watch Granger explode.

Seven minutes to prod, tease, push, experiment. Seven minutes with no audience, no rules. Seven minutes to watch Hermione Granger lose her shit.

Pansy let a small, dangerous smirk curve her mouth.

"Well," she said, loud enough for everyone to hear, "I never refuse a dare."

Hermione let out a tiny squeak. The circle roared.

Pansy was going to tear apart this bitch.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 11: Like A Prayer

Notes:

Little advice: listen to Like A Prayer by Madonna and Seven Minutes In Heaven by Mindless Self Indulgence.

trust. me.

(I am very very proud of this chapter and I want you to have the best experience reading it <3)

"Give me your wand."

"Sure! What else do you want?! My sanity?! Yes, right, you won't get it because you destroyed it!" exclaimed Hermione, raising her hands to the sky, infuriated. 

"Come on, Hermione! I'm just helping you there! I thought you wanted to torture Parkinson this year!" whispered Daphne. 

Hermione glared at her and gave Daphne her wand. Behind the blonde, Pansy looked awfully smug, already handing hers to Blaise. Hermione knew it was just a game, but still. She had seen the panic in Pansy's eyes after Daphne decided to seal her fate, before she immediately masked it. And Hermione wanted to exploit this fact as much as possible. Gathering what was left of her dignity, she walked straight to the cupboard, her heart racing in her chest. 

What approach would she use? Should she directly provoke Pansy as much as possible and see stars? Or should she use a more insinuating approach, spreading venom until Pansy was forced to yell at her?

She didn't have time to reflect on it too much. Pansy strutted to the cupboard. Hermione was already annoyed just by looking at the sway of her hips. When Pansy entered, Daphne, Blaise, Theo, Tracey, Millicent and all the other Seventh Year students rushed in front of them. 

"Do you think they're going to fight?"

"Yes, that's probably what will happen!"

"I bet you one Galleon that Granger wins!" murmured Baddock. 

"Shut up Malcolm," hissed Pansy. 

"We'll be back in seven minutes," said Daphne, smiling. She leaned to Hermione's ear. "I put a silencing spell on the cupboard. Have fun!"

"Fun?!" repeated Hermione, offended. 

Daphne blew her a kiss and closed the door, leaving thin rays of green light filtering through the aeration holes of the door. Hermione felt the cupboard shrink by half when Pansy rested her back against the opposite wall. She had known the cupboard would be small, but not like this. In the dimness, Hermione could see only lines and shadows, the faint glimmer of dark hair and the pale oval of Pansy's face. They were pressed close enough that Hermione could feel the shift of Pansy’s breath. When Pansy fully settled opposite her, their knees collided. Hermione tried shifting to the left, then the right, but the cupboard walls offered no mercy. No matter where she moved, her knee remained locked against Pansy’s.

The silence stretched, thick and stifling, as Hermione tried to slow her breathing. The only things they could hear were the faint conversations of the students in the common room, the music still pulsing. Hermione recognised with surprise "Like A Prayer" by Madonna. She knew this was Daphne's antics. The blonde must have had used her Walkman. Pansy was far too quiet, and Hermione could feel her attention on her, like a predator waiting for its prey to jump. 

Hermione's jaw clenched. She would not be Pansy's prey. Never. 

Finally Pansy exhaled a short, mocking little laugh. "What is it, Granger? Scared your precious goody-two-shoes values will be tainted if your knee touches mine?"

Hermione let out a slow, irritated breath, grateful for the familiar spark of annoyance. "Please. If anything is in danger here, it is my patience. Do you ever stop talking?"

"Only when I am bored," Pansy replied, leaning back against a shelf as if she owned the cupboard. "And right now I am extremely entertained."

Hermione rolled her eyes, though Pansy probably could not see it clearly. "You have a very strange sense of entertainment."

"I could say the same," Pansy murmured. "Considering you actually walked in here with me. I'm starting to think the most twisted part of you actually enjoys my presence."

Hermione felt heat crawl up her neck. Of course Pansy would twist this into some taunt. It was predictable. The brunette smiled. If Pansy kept walking on known lands, Hermione would definitely win this. 

She straightened her back, but the motion only pressed her knee more firmly against Pansy’s. Her breath slightly hitched against her will. Pansy did not move away.

Hermione swallowed, the air feeling warmer now. She could feel the shape of Pansy’s knee through the thin fabric of her tights, warm and steady. Pansy’s posture had stiffened just slightly, barely noticeable except at this distance. Hermione felt the shift and understood it as clearly as if Pansy had spoken it.

So she was uncomfortable. It was perfect. 

Hermione lifted her chin just a little and let her knee press more deliberately against Pansy’s, not enough to be obvious, just enough to make a point. Pansy drew in a breath, sharp and soft at the same time. Hermione's smile grew.

"You know," she said lightly, pretending to examine the shelf behind Pansy, "I am beginning to think you are the one who should be nervous."

Pansy scoffed, though the sound trembled almost imperceptibly. "You are delusional."

"Am I? Because your knee is not moving."

"It is a tiny cupboard, Granger. We are practically sitting on top of each other. There is nowhere to move. Why do you sound and look like you're enjoying this too much?"

"Oh?" Hermione shifted again, slow and deliberate, letting the contact travel slightly higher along Pansy’s leg. Pansy stiffened instantly. "Funny. I managed to find room. And I do enjoy myself, thank you very much."

"Yeah, well your little game could perfectly turn against you," Pansy snapped, her voice too tight.

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek to keep the satisfaction from showing. "I am simply getting comfortable. Is that a problem?"

"Yes," Pansy said, almost too fast. "No. I mean stop being so weird."

Hermione tilted her head, letting her hair brush Pansy’s shoulder as if by accident. "You are very easy to annoy."

Pansy sucked in a breath that was almost a hiss. "And so are you. Are you still mad about your cat?"

Hermione grunted. "Yes, I am."

"I made sure the dye wouldn't be bad for his health," replied dryly Pansy.

"How thoughtful of you."

Their knees were fully aligned now, pressed together from joint to mid thigh. Hermione knew she should move, create distance, restore neutrality. Instead she leaned in a fraction more, just enough for Pansy to feel it. Something fluttered in Pansy’s breathing, so quick Hermione might have missed it if she had not been paying such close attention.

Her voice had lost its aggressive tone when she spoke. "Are you going to keep making my life hell, Granger?"

"I'm giving you a taste of your own medicine, Parkinson."

"But you're so bad at doing it. You're inherently a softie."

She saw Pansy swallow in the dim green light. For a moment neither of them spoke. The silence was no longer uncomfortable. It was charged. Hermione’s skin tingled where their legs touched. She had not expected this level of awareness, not this intensity.

Pansy shifted only enough to brace herself against the shelf behind her, the movement making their knees press even more firmly together. Hermione felt it, a subtle change in the pressure of their knees, then the faint slide of Pansy’s fingers along the wooden shelf beside Hermione’s hip. 

Pansy tilted her head, her dark hair catching the dim green light of the common room. Hermione glanced at her watch. It was 11:43. It hadn't even been three minutes.

Even in the cramped cupboard, even half-shadowed, Pansy managed to look unbearably sure of herself. A smile curved at her mouth, lazy and smug and entirely deliberate.

"So," Pansy murmured, her voice low and velvet-soft in the tiny space, "is this how you imagined it, Granger? Locked in a cupboard with me, pressed against each other, nowhere to run?"

Hermione exhaled slowly through her nose, refusing to let her heartbeat show on her face. She knew exactly what Pansy was doing. She was trying to take control of the moment. To turn the tension into something she could wield like a weapon. Hermione had expected it; Pansy Parkinson did not know how to exist without some kind of upper hand.

But knowing did not make Hermione immune to the sudden blaze in her chest when Pansy leaned in, just slightly, narrowing the space between their faces.

"That is an interesting kink you have," Hermione replied, her tone snide and cold, even as her stomach flipped. "Maybe you should get your head checked."

Pansy’s smile grew sharper. "You are awfully quick to assume it is my fantasy." Her knee pressed more firmly into Hermione’s. "Maybe it is yours."

Hermione felt heat tightening a very specific point below her stomach. and settle beneath her skin, infuriating, electric, undeniable. She needed to stay calm. She needed to stay focused. 

Pansy shifted again, just enough for Hermione to feel her breath skim her cheek. It was smug, teasing, confident in a way that made Hermione want to shove her away and pull her closer at the same time.

"You are blushing," Pansy whispered.

Hermione forced a smirk, lifting her chin to avoid Pansy from getting a height advantage. She was barely five centimetres taller than Hermione, but the latter wouldn't let her take advantage of it. "You wish."

Pansy laughed almost softly. "Oh, I do."

Something in Hermione snapped, annoyance, desire, challenge, she could not tell. She leaned forward boldly until their knees pressed flush together, thigh to thigh, their breasts almost touching. Pansy’s breath caught, just for a second. Hermione felt it. She felt the shift, the crack in her composure.

"If you think I am going to be intimidated by you sitting too close," Hermione murmured, her voice steady despite the hammering in her chest, "you clearly overestimate your own charm."

Pansy blinked, thrown for the briefest moment. Hermione pressed the advantage.

"Let me make something perfectly clear," she continued, leaning in just enough that her hair brushed Pansy’s shoulder, "if anyone here is getting flustered, it is you. Not me."

Pansy’s jaw tightened. "You are lying."

"Am I?" Hermione let her voice drop. "Am I lying when you literally blushed when I used an arm blocking technique on you at Hogsmeade? When I pushed you against the shelves of the library at the beginning of September? Parkinson, you can't stop blushing when I'm near. It's almost pitiful. And your desperate attempt at making me blush too this morning by undressing yourself in front of me on purpose was nothing but shameful."

Pansy opened her mouth, but Hermione did not let her speak. She shifted again, deliberately dragging her knee between, Pansy’s with slow, unhurried pressure. Pansy inhaled sharply, her fingers curling against the shelf behind Hermione.

The brunette smiled like she had just won a duel. Her head was spinning, her heart was two seconds away from an attack, but she was winning.

"You see?" she whispered. "I can play this game too."

Pansy moved, and Hermione barely had time to register the shift. Pansy’s fingers were on her jaw, firm and sure, tilting her face upward. Hermione’s breath stuttered. The politically correct space between them collapsed.

Pansy’s thumb brushed the corner of Hermione’s mouth, slow, assessing, hungry. Her other hand slid around Hermione’s waist, fingers finding the curve of her lower back with a confidence that made Hermione’s stomach drop straight through the floor. Heat erupted along her spine, sharp and overwhelming.

Hermione’s mind flashed white. She was going to pass out. Actually faint. Her heart thundered against her ribs like it wanted out, her knees felt unsteady, her limbs trembled with nerves she could not control. She tried to breathe, slow and steady, tried to claw back even a scrap of composure, but Pansy’s grip on her was too deliberate, too intimate.

Pansy leaned in closer, lips just shy of touching Hermione’s cheek. "You can't win this one."

Hermione’s heart roared in her ears. Pansy smelled like rum and citrus, something dangerously addictive. Hermione could not let her win. Not now. Not when her whole body was threatening to literally melt into Pansy’s hands.

She forced her trembling fingers to move.

Hermione’s hands lifted to Pansy’s shoulders, gripping them with more force than she meant to. She felt muscle beneath her palms, tense and coiled. Pansy froze for half a breath, surprised, but she did not loosen her hold.

Hermione tilted her face, refusing to look away despite the heat rising in her cheeks. No. Never. Hermione would not be the one to break.

Her fingers tightened on Pansy’s shoulders.

"You already lost the second you stepped into that cupboard," Hermione whispered.

Pansy’s fingers tightened along Hermione’s jaw. Her breath brushed Hermione’s cheek, warm and uneven, and she murmured it so quietly Hermione almost wondered if she imagined it.

"I hate you."

Something in Hermione snapped.

Maybe it was the words, maybe it was the tone beneath them, maybe it was the certainty that Pansy was about to overwhelm her again, take control again, tip the balance in her favour as if Hermione’s resolve were a toy to bat around. Whatever the cause, Hermione abandoned her brain somewhere and didn't look back.

She kissed her.

Their teeth clashed. It was clumsy at first, too quick, too forceful, as if Hermione were shoving the whole feeling out of her body all at once. Pansy jerked slightly, startled, but she didn’t pull back. The cupboard felt suddenly smaller, the air hotter, the world reduced to the wild, chaotic point of contact where everything tangled and crashed together.

Hermione’s heart hammered so violently she felt the tremor in her fingertips. Every nerve sparked at once, ringing in her bones. Her mind didn’t just go blank, it felt like it burst open, scattered by the shock of what she had done and the indescribable rush that followed.

Pansy kissed her back. It wasn't gentle nor cautious. It was transcendental. 

The kiss was sharp and urgent. Pansy's lips were hot, generous, wet. She tasted like alcohol and mint. Hermione could sense the challenge in the press of Pansy’s mouth, the push, the pull, the demand to take control of this too. 

Heaven help me.

Hermione refused to give up a centimetre of her space. Her hands were still gripping Pansy’s shoulders, knuckles tight, body trembling uncontrollably. She tried to steady herself, tried to keep her legs from giving out, but the intensity of it made her feel as if the floor tilted under her. Pansy leaned in harder, trying to steer the moment, to claim it, to overwhelm Hermione the way she always tried to overwhelm her in every argument, every stare, every second of rivalry. There were a lot of seconds in seven years. And they were collapsing during those seven minutes in heaven.

Hermione held her ground. 

She tilted her head just enough to counter Pansy’s pressure, answering every push with equal insistence, refusing to be swept into Pansy’s rhythm. It was heated, angry, messy in its urgency. Hermione could feel the weight of everything unsaid, everything denied, and everything they had spent years hurling at each other under different names.

Hermione stopped holding her ground when she felt Pansy's hot tongue caress her lips. She collapsed. Her lips parted open, and she couldn't refrain the small moan escaping from her throat when she felt her tongue meet hers, her nose pushing against her cheek. 

It was dirty. It was beautiful. 

Pansy dropped her chin, slipping her hand against Hermione's neck. When the empty space where Hermione's sanity had once stood screamed at her to do something, Hermione didn't listen to it. She swirled her tongue around Pansy's, dragging a high pitched whine from her. She felt Pansy's knee parting her legs wider. Hermione was floating out of her body. This was everything. This was prophetic.

Pansy tasted infuriatingly good. She felt infuriatingly good. It was better than anything Hermione had ever lived. Pansy's lips were the most addictive substance had ever tasted. Theodore's kisses were cold and messy but not in the good way. Viktor had been stiff and awkward. Daphne didn't even count. But Pansy? Pansy was sick and twisted and beautiful and irresistible right now. 

Pansy broke the kiss. She pushed her knee higher, until Hermione felt it rub right between her legs. She held Hermione so tight against her that their breasts were pressed. She caught a fistful of Hermione's hair and pulled, but it wasn't painful, it wasn't violent. It was aggressive, but Hermione felt her passion, her anger more than anything else. Pansy forced her to raise her head, opening access to her throat. 

This time, Hermione openly, almost brazenly moaned. The pressure was unbearable. It was delicious. Pansy let out a small groan. Her lips pressed right against Hermione's jugular vein. And she sucked so hard Hermione's legs trembled even harder, shaking uncontrollably. It didn't hurt. Hermione felt a rush of pleasure flow from the hair that Pansy was pulling, to the pulsing point of her neck that was being attacked, to the centre of her thighs. She felt Pansy's hips move, her knee pressing harder between her legs. She heard herself breathe hard and fast.

Pansy was panting. She trailed her tongue on the column of her throat, and right before Hermione could catch her lips again, a shrilling voice echoed in the cupboard. 

"Time's up!"

Hermione barely recognised Daphne's timbre. Pansy suddenly dropped her, making her collapse against the shelves. Hermione's heart was still pounding hard. The door opened, and Hermione had just two seconds to stand right. 

Pansy immediately pushed her and ran out of the cupboard, tearing off her own wand out of Daphne's hand. 

The blonde's voice filled the space, sharp with triumph and nosiness, but Hermione couldn’t make out a single word of it. She took her wand back from Daphne's hand absentmindedly. Everything sounded muffled, like she had plunged underwater.

Her own breath was too loud in her ears. Her heart was like a wild, unsteady drum. Her lips felt too warm, swollen. She could still taste Pansy's saliva in her own mouth.

She stared forward without really seeing, aware only of the sudden emptiness where Pansy’s body had been, the abrupt shock of distance. Daphne was talking directly to her now, waving a hand in front of her face, but Hermione couldn’t seem to make her eyes focus on anything. She offered some kind of nod or noise, she wasn’t sure what, and stepped past Daphne before she had fully decided to move.

Her legs wobbled under her.

She gripped Daphne's arm as she walked, forcing her knees to lock, forcing her breath to steady, forcing her expression to flatten into something that did not scream I just got snogged my brains out. Her face felt hot. Her hands were shaking. Her knickers were uncomfortably wet. 

Pansy was nowhere in sight.

Of course she wasn’t. Hermione wasn’t sure if that made it better or worse, the absence hitting her with a strange blend of relief and disappointment.

The Slytherin common room swallowed her the moment she stepped inside again. Heat, noise, and the deep bass rumble of old enchanted music pulsed against the stone walls. Students were draped across couches, shouting over one another, laughing too loudly, singing off-key, or slumped with dazed smiles in groups on the floor. Someone had transfigured cauldrons into makeshift punch bowls. Someone else was dancing on a table. The smoky green lanterns cast everything in a shimmering haze.

Hermione stood just inside the doorway, blinking at the chaos, pretending she wasn’t still dizzy. If anyone looked at her right now, she hoped they would assume it was only fatigue or the stifling heat of the room. She kept her chin lifted even though her stomach was still flipping over itself, even though her lips still tingled, even though her mind kept replaying the moment she had lost control.

She didn’t look for Pansy. She refused to.

Instead, Hermione slipped into the nearest shadowed corner, trying to blend into the swirl of drunken celebration, praying no one would notice how unsteady she still felt. The circle of the Slytherins playing Truth or Dare had completely dissolved. Millicent and Tracey were now singing off key near the gramophone, and Zabini was snogging a Sixth Year girl. Hermione couldn't see Theo. 

"Did she drug you or something?"

"What?" blinked Hermione.

"You look so strange."

"No, no... we just... fought," she said, smoothing her skirt, breathing deeply. 

"You look like you've been politely fucked, Hermione," murmured Daphne.

"No!" she exclaimed, her voice much too loud. "No, nothing like that! We just spent all our time bickering. I can't stand her."

Hermione wanted to press the nearest cushion against her face and choke to death.

"I'm sorry about that. Everyone kind of forgot about it when Theo kissed me and..."

"Theo kissed you?!" yelled Hermione. 

Daphne hissed, pressing her hand against Hermione's mouth.

"Yes, he did. During Truth or Dare," Daphne added, smiling. "I wish you were there."

"I wish I had been there too, but—"

Hermione interrupted herself. It was past 12. Meaning she had spent twenty minutes in the cupboard. She glanced at Daphne. 

"Yeah, you totally forgot about us."

"I'm sorry," the blonde wailed. 

"But you kissed Theo! How was it?"

"Oh, it was so good! He was so soft and gentle!" exclaimed Daphne, pressing her arm against her eyes. 

"Did he look like he wanted it?" asked Hermione, sitting straighter.

"Yes, I think he did!"

"That's amazing, Daph! I..."

A yawn abruptly cut Hermione off. Daphne giggled. 

"Already? You're such a granny," she laughed.

"Lots of emotions for me today," groaned Hermione.

"Yes, Parkinson isn't exactly easy to deal with. Let's get you to bed, alright?"

"Yes, okay. But you better tell me about the kiss in details."

Hermione felt slightly strange asking for her friend to describe her kiss with Theodore. But she just couldn't find strength to tell Daphne what had just happened with Pansy. She needed to think about it, to stir. 

They started to climb the stairs, but Daphne abruptly stopped in front of the boys' dormitory. A Sixth Year girl got out, her hair mussed, her skirt crumpled, her shirt opened. Behind her, Theodore was buttoning up his pants, no shirt on, his house tie still around his neck. Daphne froze. He glanced at them. 

"Good night, girls."

Hermione immediately felt anger roaring inside her chest. She started to run up the stairs to catch his wrist and probably yell at him, but the door of the dormitory closed, leaving them alone. The girl excused herself and got down the stairs. Daphne was still standing there, not moving. Hermione grabbed her hand. 

"He's a jerk."

"Yes, he is."

"Do you want to talk about—"

"No," abruptly cut off Daphne. Her face was neutral, but her eyes were colder than Hermione had ever seen. "Go to bed, Hermione. I need to get drunk."

"I can stay there and watch over you," argued Hermione. 

"I want to be alone."

Hermione sighed, stroking her hand with her thumb. 

"Alright. Stay safe. I love you, Greengrass."

Daphne responded with a groan, disappearing down the stairs. Hermione painfully arrived at her dormitory. She didn't look at any of the bed, seeing the room was empty. Exhausted, she collapsed on her bed, looking at the map Harry and Ron had given her. She needed to find the time to decipher it. But now, she was simply exhausted, and her heart had finally started to calm down. 

However, when Hermione heard a ruffle of fabric coming from the opposite side of the room, she raised her head. Pansy was coming back from the bathroom. She got inside her bed, closing its posters. 

"Parkinson?"

"What."

Her tone was flat. Hermione twitched on her bed, trying to steady her breathing.

"Are we going to talk about it?"

"Nope. Good night, bitch."

"Good night, bitch."

Hermione sank against her mattress. She had enough sense left to flick her wand in two tired motions, muttering quick cleaning charms over her face and teeth. The magic tingled across her skin, cool and efficient, and then she all but melted into her pillow, taking off her clothes with tired gestures. Once she was in her pyjamas, Crookshanks jumped next to her, purring. He rubbed his green head against her hand. 

The sheets felt impossibly soft, the darkness thick behind Hermione's eyelids. She didn’t even pull her blankets fully up before sleep caught her like a wave breaking over her head.

The next morning, the memory of the kiss hit her before she was fully awake. Her eyes snapped open, but the dorm was quiet, washed in the pale early light of a Sunday. No urgent class schedule, no voices, nothing except the quiet thrum of the castle breathing around her.

And the echo of Pansy’s mouth against hers.

Hermione lay there for a long time, staring at the green canopy above her, unable to piece together any single coherent thought. It had been heated and furious and reckless and very extremely addictive. Hermione hated that she enjoyed it that much.

She told herself she should be horrified. She told herself she should be angry at Pansy, at herself, at the entire situation. But the memory of the kiss kept pulling her in strange, dangerous directions.

When she went to the bathroom, she realised she had a huge hickey where Pansy had kissed her neck. She quickly applied a camouflage spell, horrified. Horrified, yes. But also, she couldn't help but touch the mark every time her mind was drifting to Pansy.

She spent the rest of the day floating in that strange fog. She didn't see Pansy. She crossed her glare a few times during meals, and they exchanged some grunts as a hello, but they didn't talk. It made Hermione crazy. Daphne was extremely hungover and spent the weekend sleeping. Hermione wrote two essays and rewrote one of them, but she barely remembered a word she put on the parchment. She didn't even have strength to try to understand how the map worked. 

She sat through meals without tasting anything. Every time her mind wandered, it went right back to that cupboard, to the heat, to Pansy’s hand sliding behind her waist, to the shock of their mouths colliding, to the way her entire body had reacted. She could still hear Pansy's small moans, her gasps and breaths, and the wet noises of their mouths ravaging each other. And it drove her insane. It was maddening.

By Monday morning, Hermione was a mess of nerves she tried very hard to hide.

She woke early but moved slowly, distracted by her own thoughts, by the way her stomach tightened every time she imagined seeing Pansy in the corridors again. When she and Daphne walked toward their first class of the week, Transfiguration, she had already lost track of three things Daphne had said to her. Theo had tried going with them, but Hermione had given him the fingers; something she never did. He had registered the message. 

She barely even noticed the cold bite of the draft that always ran through the sixth-floor hallway. Her mind was too full and too empty at once.

When they reached the classroom, Hermione hesitated on the threshold. Most students were already settled, their chatter bouncing lightly off the tall stone walls. They shared this class with Hufflepuffs, and most of them were already sitting. She chose a seat in the middle of the row, the one she usually shared with Daphne, and set her books neatly on the desk, though her hands shook slightly.

Daphne nudged her.
"You’re white as parchment. Did you sleep at all yesterday?"

"I’m fine," Hermione replied, a little too quickly. She wasn’t. She really wasn’t. "You look like shit too."

Daphne snorted. "I think it's time for me to stop desperately hoping for something."

Hermione nodded. "When you told me he kissed you, I was finally hoping this could wake something in him. He just gives mixed signals. You can't keep going. It's time to move on."

Daphne sighed. 

"I know. I spent some time with Harry today. I told him everything. He was so kind, I... I'm lost, Hermione."

"I know, I know," whispered Hermione, feeling her heart clenching for her friend. "It'll be okay."

"Are we still... friends with Theo?" asked Daphne, almost sheepishly.

"Right now? I really don't like him," answered Hermione. "But I'll just wait and see if he acknowledges he's being a dickhead. And when he does, if he does," she corrected herself. "Don't take him back until he makes a real grand gesture."

Daphne raised her eyebrows and closed her eyes in approbation. McGonagall had not yet arrived, so the room buzzed with the restless energy of students waiting to begin. Daphne dug through her bag for a quill. Hermione tried to focus on her own parchment. She read the title of the chapter three times and still couldn’t absorb a word.

Then the door slammed open. Hermione jumped.

Parkinson walked in, late enough to draw attention, her short hair pulled back in half of a small pony tail with more precision than necessary, her robes perfectly arranged, her expression cool and composed, if slightly sharp around the edges. She didn’t look hungover. She didn’t look flustered. She looked as composed as ever. Hermione knew it wasn't her case, and she wished it could be.

Pansy scanned the room. Her gaze slid over everyone else. Then, it landed on Hermione. Perhaps because it was the only seat left. 

Pansy said nothing. She simply rolled her eyes. She walked down the aisle, heels tapping with confidence, and stopped directly beside Hermione’s desk. Without looking at her, without acknowledging any tension, she rested her bag on the table.

"Move," she ordered. 

"Piss off," replied Hermione.

"Move," repeated Pansy through gritted teeth.

Hermione did, reluctantly. Pansy sat. She was so close Hermione could sense the warmth radiating from her shoulder. Hermione forced her eyes to stay on her book. She swallowed hard.

If Pansy noticed how stiffly Hermione was sitting, how shallow her breathing had become, she didn’t show it. She opened her own textbook with calm, precise movements, as if nothing at all had changed between them.

Hermione's left hand gripped the wood of the bench. McGonagall entered and told everyone to calm down. She talked about the NEWTs. Hermione knew already everything she was saying. She couldn't focus anyway. She pulled out her quill and started to write. 

Pansy was left handed. Hermione wondered why she had forgotten about this fact. Her free hand fell on the bench, right next to Hermione's. 

Hermione forced herself to ignore it, turning her head to Daphne, who murmured something about McGonagall having her own cat hairs all over her robes. Hermione forced herself to laugh, because indeed, there were numerous cat hairs on her dark green cloak. But the sound of it died in her throat. 

She turned her head to Pansy, who was glaring at her, as always. 

But her pinkie was wrapped around hers. 

 

 

 

 

Notes:

I should have put a trigger warning for sacramental snogging

Chapter 12: "Do Owls Fly?"

Notes:

CW: explicit sexual content

Pansy sat beside Blaise at the Slytherin table during dinner, but she barely registered her surroundings. Plates clattered, voices rose and fell. Someone a few seats down was retelling the moment Nott flipped midair to score during the last Quidditch game, and the table burst into laughter. Blaise nudged her once, then twice, rambling about something she would normally care about. A new rumour about a girl who had slept with Nott. A pair of second years who had accidentally dyed their eyebrows silver. Something about upcoming Hogsmeade and Yule plans. It all sounded like static.

Pansy stared at her untouched shepherd’s pie, her fork resting uselessly in her hand. She observed the snow falling and accumulating outside, darkening the windows until the deep black of the night was dulled into a boring and pale grey.

Pansy was spiralling. She had snogged Granger. Hermione Granger.

Worse than that, she had wanted it. She had wanted it so bad, cramped in that cupboard before Granger took the lead that it had felt almost painful. 

She could still feel it. The press of Hermione’s mouth, sudden and fierce, as if the brunette had snapped and poured every anger she had accumulated against her straight into that kiss. Pansy had been stunned for less than a heartbeat before instinct took over, pulling her in, deepening the contact, letting her own fury and confusion and desire ignite. Her body had responded before her mind had any say in it. Her lips had parted. Her tongue had explored. Her hands had pulled. Her pulse had thundered. She had craved that kiss.

She had yearned for it.

And now, days later, when the first half of December was starting, surrounded by the usual Slytherin noise and comfort, she felt as if she were sitting at the bottom of a lake, everything muffled and too heavy for her shoulders.

Blaise nudged her again. "You are not listening to a word I am saying."

She blinked and looked at him, trying to assemble her face into something neutral.

"I am listening," she lied. It came out weak, barely convincing even to her.

Blaise rolled his eyes. 

"Did something happen? Did you meet that unknown girl from the masquerade again?" he whispered.

He looked a bit awkward asking her that, surprisingly.

"No," Pansy shook her head. "I'm fine. Don't worry."

He didn't press. Pansy was grateful. She would have shattered if he asked the right question.

Because her thoughts would not stop.

First, that kiss she had shared with that girl during the masquerade. As if it hadn't been enough of a life changing event, Granger had to put her nose where it didn't belong and add fuel to the fire. Pansy didn't know who was that girl, and now, she spent much less time wondering who she was, and much more time asking herself why Granger's lips tasted so good, why her moans sounded so nice in her ears.

If anyone found out… if anyone had seen them in that cupboard… 

Her stomach twisted painfully. Girls did not kiss girls. Certainly not girls from Pureblood families. Not girls raised on strict propriety and reputation. Not Pansy Parkinson, whose parents had spent her entire childhood drilling into her spine the image she was meant to uphold. 

Be nice to your husband. Do the house chores until you get a House Elf. Prepare his dinners, his organisation. He must be at least as rich as you, masculine and puritan. He needs to protect you and you need to give him a son back. That's what you ought to do, since you're a woman, Pansy.

She imagined her mother’s face if she ever learned the truth. Cold disappointment. Disgust. A clipped announcement of disinheritance. A letter to the Parkinson relatives explaining Pansy’s sudden removal from the family records. She imagined the Pureblood social circles whispering behind fans. The revulsion. The exile.

Her breath stuttered, and she pressed her fingers to her temples. She should be terrified. She was terrified.

But something else was hiding beneath that fear, too profound and relentless to be ignored.

Pansy had adored that kiss.

The memory of it lit a fire low in her stomach, something hot and shameful. It was impossible to deny. The way Hermione’s lips had felt, impossibly soft but fierce and bruising. The way Hermione had tried to refuse her dominance, pushing back with equal intensity, their kiss becoming more like a fight. Pansy had never felt anything like it, not with boys, not with anyone. It was electrifying. 

It had felt exactly like reaching heaven, like winning the most important fist fight of her life. 

She had kissed boys before. With Draco, it was polite, mechanical. She had a few sloppy snogs at the back of the Slytherin common room. She had had sex with men, for Merlin's sake. Yet nothing had ever made her feel like that kiss in the cupboard had. Nothing had ever made her feel so alive. 

And that terrified her too.

What sort of person wanted to kiss someone she constantly fought with? Someone who pushed every single one of her buttons? Someone who made her furious every time she opened her mouth?

Every time she thought about Hermione, annoyance rose immediately, like it was instinctive. Granger drove her mad. Granger lectured. Granger argued. Granger looked at Pansy like she was a walking a pebble in her shoe. Or Murlap blood in her shampoo.

Yet the image of Hermione’s face, flushed, stubborn, with her eyelids almost closed and the thread of spit that had linked their mouths for a second hovered at the front of her mind. Pansy could still feel the tremble in Hermione’s body when she had grabbed her jaw. She could still remember the way Hermione’s breath had hitched right before she kissed her, or the small noises she had made when Pansy had sucked on her neck.

Merlin, Pansy had sucked on her neck.

She crossed her arms on the table and plunge her head against them, feeling heat take on her cheeks.

A twisting need unfurled inside her at the memory, something she refused to name. She wanted to kiss Hermione again. She desperately wanted to. It wasn't like craving water after two hours of flying on a broom under the sun. It wasn't a luxury. It was like swimming faster and faster before reaching the surface, and finally filling her lungs with oxygen. Right now, Pansy was drowning.

She wanted to do it without the cupboard, without the seven minutes, without the noise and drunken shouting downstairs. She wanted to grab Hermione by the collar and kiss her until she stopped pretending she did not want it as well.

Because Granger had kissed her back. Why? Pansy hadn't even thought about that. To Hermione, it was probably just a way to shut her up. A strange way to do so, sure, but still, it worked. 

Had Granger won that one?

How could Pansy want to win again and still want to shove Hermione away half the time?

How could both feelings exist at once?

Blaise was watching her now with subtle suspicion. Pansy forced a bite of food into her mouth, hoping it would steady her. It didn't. She kept her eyes fixed on her plate until a a big plate of pie popped in front of her. She grabbed the plate, looking up.

Granger was staring at her, reaching for it at the same time. For the smallest fraction of a second their eyes locked, and Pansy felt a sharp jolt run through her chest, like someone had tugged an invisible thread tied too tightly around her ribs.

"Stop being so selfish Parkinson. Give the pie to other people, Christ," said Hermione coldly, rolling her eyes.

But her expression flickered. Pansy could not read it, so she reacted the only way she knew how. 

Her chin tilted sharply upward. Her eyes narrowed. She put every ounce of venom she could muster into that look, even though her pulse was hammering. Hermione blinked once, lowering her eyes. Pansy squinted her eyes harder. Granger's cheeks were pink. 

Maybe Pansy had actually won their last... fight. 

If it meant Granger had been reacting like that when she was near for the last days, it definitely meant Pansy had won. Granger was probably seething. It wasn't that bad.

"Pansy." Blaise’s voice cut through her spiralling thoughts. He sounded surprisingly gentle but firm. "Would you listen for one moment?"

She turned to him, forcing her shoulders to loosen. "I am listening."

"You are lying again," he said with a sigh, but his tone held no judgment. "And you look like you are about to hex someone or faint. Possibly both."

Pansy scowled, though there was no real heat behind it. "What is it, Blaise?"

He hesitated only a second before saying, casually but with underlying intention, "I want to take you to Hogsmeade next weekend. Just the two of us. A proper day out."

Pansy blinked. A day in Hogsmeade would mean distraction. Space. Something normal. Something she desperately needed before her mind combusted.

She straightened, smoothing her expression. "Fine," she said, too quickly, but she did not correct herself. "Yes. Of course."

Blaise studied her with that quiet perceptiveness she sometimes hated him for. Then he nodded. "Good."

Pansy returned her gaze to her dessert, pretending she cared about it. Pretending everything was perfectly under control.

A few seats away from her, Hermione laughed at something Daphne said, the sound faint but unmistakable. Pansy’s fork dug into the tart a little too hard.

She left the Great Hall the instant dessert ended, not wanting to risk another accidental glance in Granger’s direction. Blaise didn't try to go after her, and it was for the best. The corridors were cold and empty, but she cut through them quickly, refusing to let her thoughts catch up with her.

She needed silence. Structure. Something that did not involve lips or Granger or brown hair or the unbearable memory of someone kissing her like they were trying to win a duel.

The library was nearly empty when she slipped inside. Tall windows held the last slivers of evening light, fading into indigo. Rows of shelves towered over narrow corridors, and the familiar scent of old parchment embraced her as she walked deeper, past tables and sofa to work on shared projects, all the way to the quietest corner hidden behind Arithmancy references. 

Here, no one ever looked for her.

She slid into a seat at the small round table tucked between two shelves, the wood scratched by decades of students seeking refuge. She reached for the poetry section behind her and pulled out a worn green volume of Byron. She grew to like this copy. Its pages had softened, the spine gently cracked, as if her own hands had shaped it over the years.

She opened it and let the words drown her.

Her pulse slowed for the first time all day. Lord Byron’s melancholy, his sharp longing, the way he weaved desire and bitterness into each stanza, felt like a presence she could settle against. A mirror she did not have to acknowledge but could rest beside.

Her eyes traced lines she had memorised years ago, yet they still stirred something unsteady inside her.

 

"Away with your fictions of flimsy romance;

Those tissues of falsehood which folly has wove! 

Give me the mild beam of the soul-breathing glance,

Or the rapture which dwells on the first kiss of love."

 

She paused. Her throat tightened.

How ridiculous, to imagine anything in her life resembled this love. She should have chosen a different poem. Something about war, or death, or anything else, truly. Something safer.

But she kept reading.

Minutes dissolved. Snow was falling even more. The longer she stayed tucked in that hidden corner, the more she slipped into the soothing cadence of poetry, letting it form a wall between her and the chaos still churning inside her chest.

She lost track of how long she sat there. Her muscles unwound, her breath matched the rhythm of the verses, and the knot of panic she had been dragging since she woke up loosened inch by inch.

The library dimmed around her as the candles burned lower. A distant clock chimed softly, but she barely heard it. She turned another page, hungry for just one more poem, then another.

If she stayed here long enough, maybe the world outside would disappear. Maybe she'd be free.

Pansy shut the book with a soft thud and let out a long sigh, stretching her spine until she felt the knots between her shoulder blades loosen. The quiet corner had grown cold, the candles nearly burned down to stubs. She rubbed her eyes, expecting to see the familiar warm glow of the library still lingering.

Instead, she blinked into near-total darkness. Every lamp had been extinguished. The windows were black, reflecting nothing but her own startled silhouette. Somewhere near the front desk, a chair creaked as the building settled for the night, and only then did Pansy fully register the stillness.

Madam Pince had definitely locked up without checking the alcoves.

Pansy scoffed under her breath, snapping the book shut and sliding it back into its place on the shelf. Of course she would get forgotten. She chose the quietest corner on purpose. Still, irritation buzzed beneath her skin as she made her way between the tall shelves. 

"Lumos."

The tip of her wand lit up. Her heels clicked sharply on the stone floor, the only sound in the vast dark room, and she muttered curses at the librarian under her breath. When she reached the front doors and tugged one open, a cold draft slipped in, ruffling the hair at her temples.

The corridor outside was dimly lit by torches, the air cooler than she expected. She stepped out, tugging her cloak over her shoulders.

She took three steps before the beam of a wand lit the closest corridor angle. Pansy froze.

Granger was standing there, hair pulled into a loose bun, Slytherin Head Girl badge gleaming faintly in the low light, her wand raised. Her winter cloak swept around her ankles, giving her a weirdly heroic silhouette.

The moment Hermione recognised her, her eyes widened. Pansy felt her stomach swoop unpleasantly, as if she had walked straight into the one person she wasn’t remotely ready to face. Of all the corridors in the castle. Of all the hours of the night.

"What the hell are you doing here? It's almost 11!" Hermione whispered vehemently. 

"I didn't check my watch. Pince didn't check and she forgot about me," groaned Pansy. "Can I go now? Or are you going to take points from me?" she added in a high-pitched voice, faking sadness.

"No, no, you can't go," replied Hermione, pinching the bridge of her nose. "You're as slippery as an eel these days. I've been wanting to talk to you."

Before Pansy could roll her eyes properly, Hermione’s hand closed around her sleeve with a firmness that left no room for argument. Pansy let out a very undignified squeak as Hermione yanked her down the corridor, pushing open the nearest classroom door and pulling her inside.

The door slammed shut behind them.

The classroom was dark except for the faint glow of moonlight through tall windows, dust motes spinning lazily through the beams. Desks were shadows. This classroom was used as a study place for students, though none of them except a few Ravenclaws actually used it. The air smelled faintly of old parchment and stale chalk. Hermione dropped her hold on Pansy’s robe but stayed between her and the door.

Pansy brushed the sleeve indignantly. "Merlin, Granger, a little warning? Or are you kidnapping people now?"

"We need to talk," Hermione said, voice taut.

"No, you need to talk," Pansy retorted, folding her arms. "I need to sleep. Preferably away from your interrogation fantasies."

Hermione inhaled sharply, holding on to what looked like rapidly fraying patience. "Parkinson, stop it. Stop pretending nothing happened. You've been running away from responsibilities all your life. If you want to make a change, you can do it now."

Pansy’s jaw clenched. She glanced at the far wall as if it had suddenly become fascinating. "Nothing did happen."

"That is a lie and a pathetic one," Hermione snapped.

Pansy’s heart lurched violently against her ribs. She kept her arms crossed, nails digging into her sleeves so hard the fabric strained. "Whatever you think you felt, Granger, it was the alcohol or the fact that you cannot resist competing with me in literally everything. Even snogging."

Hermione stepped closer. Too close.

Pansy's back tightened automatically, as though bracing for impact.

"Then why are you always looking for a way to touch me since? You think I don't notice your little finger against mine during the few classes we sit through together?"

Pansy's heart fell low in her chest. She stared determinedly at a desk leg in the moonlight. Her ears felt hot. Her breath unsteady. She hated this. She hated feeling cornered like some ridiculous animal. "I really do not have time for your delusions," she murmured.

"You’re being stupid. I shouldn't be surprised."

"I am being careful."

Hermione blinked. "Careful about what?"

Pansy’s lips pressed to a thin line. There were a thousand answers, all of them choking her throat: careful about being seen, careful about being wrong, careful about wanting something she should not want, careful about wanting her. But she said none of them.

Hermione let out an exasperated breath and took another step forward. Their shadows merged on the floor.

"If you’re not going to talk to me," she said slowly, "if you are going to keep dodging this like a coward, then fine. I’ll go speak to someone who actually wants me."

That got Pansy’s attention.

Hermione lifted her chin a fraction. "Maybe I will go find Ron. He's waiting for me anyway."

Pansy’s head snapped toward her so fast it almost hurt. Her stomach plunged cold and sharp.

"You're bluffing."

Hermione arched a brow, pretending to think it over. "He did say he wanted to spend more time together. And if you have nothing else to say to me, I suppose I can go see my boyfriend."

"He is not your boyfriend," Pansy hissed, before she could stop herself.

Hermione’s gaze narrowed, satisfaction flickering beneath her controlled expression. "He could be."

Pansy stepped forward. Hermione held her ground, backlit by moonlight, unflinching.

"Do you think I care?" Pansy asked, but her voice trembled almost imperceptibly on the last word. She swallowed, hard. "Merlin, Granger, go snog Weasley in a broom cupboard. Go braid each other’s hair. Go have wholesome redhead babies for all I care."

Hermione crossed her arms, mirroring Pansy, but her eyes sharpened in a way that made Pansy feel absolutely skinned. "You do care," she said simply. "Because you lost."

Pansy’s breath caught, her chest constricting painfully. "I care about nothing involving you. And I didn't lose."

Hermione stepped closer. So close their shoes nearly touched. Her voice dropped to a whisper.

"That kiss says otherwise."

Pansy’s throat closed. A pulse beat desperately at the base of her neck. She forced her gaze to the window, to the chalkboard, anywhere except the girl in front of her.

"That way you gripped my back says otherwise," Hermione whispered.

Pansy stayed silent.

"Those little sounds you made when you had your tongue down my throat say otherwise."

Pansy still said nothing. Her tongue felt numb. Her lungs leaden.

Hermione nodded once, as if talking herself into leaving. "I am going, then."

Pansy couldn't let her have the impression she won, right? Because Hermione didn't. She absolutely didn't. Pansy caught her arm. 

"Tell if I'm wrong, but the only way you found to shut me up that night was kissing me. That shows a lot about your... assertiveness."

"Like you wouldn't have kissed me too anyway," scoffed Hermione. "Your obsession for me would have pushed you to beg for me in any case."

"You moaned, Granger," cut off Pansy with a smug smirk.

"Yeah, and you ran! Again!"

Hermione's eyes suddenly widened. 

"What do you mean, again?" asked Pansy. 

"Nothing. But you ran."

"What else was I supposed to do, huh?! Fuck you in front of your friend?!"

"No! But at least acknowledge you have a problem with me!" exclaimed Hermione. 

Her confidence was breaking, and Pansy wanted to see more.  She escaped from Pansy's grip but didn't turn her back and leave the classroom.

"Well I'm not running right now. What are you going to do? Kiss me again?"

"Perhaps I should!" yelled Hermione, furious.

"Perhaps you should, yes!" shrieked Pansy.

"What?"

"What?"

Pansy stayed frozen for a moment, stunned. Hermione's lips parted, her eyes still wide open. 

"Nothing," Pansy abruptly. 

"No, no, you said something."

"I didn't mean it. You said something too."

"Shut up. You said I should kiss you again."

"No I didn't," interrupted quickly Pansy. Her heart was beating so fast she could feel it in her neck.

Hermione took a slow step further, until Pansy was backed up against a desk. 

"You want to kiss me again," she said, her voice trembling. 

Her eyes didn't show anything else but curiosity. Pansy was losing again, and so quick it was almost ridiculous. 

"And what if I do?" she murmured, before she could stop herself. 

Hermione stopped approaching her. She stayed on her spot, suddenly looking almost timid. 

"Right, umm... I mean, I… That’s nice. I'm just... I'm going to... you know. Bed. See you around," the brunette stuttered. 

She looked so positively confused that Pansy was ready to jubilate again. Hermione turned and started to walk back to the door. 

Pansy couldn't let that opportunity go. She couldn't. It was out of the question. As Hermione's hand reached for the handle, Pansy almost jumped on her, pushing her shoulders hard against the door. 

For a heartbeat, Hermione froze beneath her hands, petrified, eyes wide in the dim, dusty classroom light. Pansy felt something electric crackle between them, a dangerous current that had been simmering for weeks now. 

Hermione’s breath hitched, warm and quick. Pansy could feel it against her cheek. She hadn’t even expected to move, not consciously. Her body had simply lunged, pulled by some deep instinct. Her hands stayed pressed to Hermione’s shoulders, fingers tight enough to feel the muscle beneath her robes, tight enough to betray that she was shaking.

Hermione looked at her like she was something wild, unpredictable, something that ought to terrify her. But she didn’t look away. Pansy hated that. And loved it. And couldn’t stand one more second of not touching her properly.

"Pansy..."

The sound of it hit Pansy like a fist to the ribs. It was too raw, too real, too close to the truth she wasn’t ready to face. Every inch of her felt like it was on fire, lit from within by something she had tried to deny all week. She felt reckless. She felt alive. She felt cornered by her own desire and charged head to toe with the need to win whatever this was.

Her thumb brushed Hermione’s collarbone without meaning to, and Hermione shivered.

That was it. She snapped.

Pansy grabbed Hermione’s jaw, fingers sliding along the line of her cheek until her palm cupped the hinge of her throat. She felt Hermione gasp against her hand, and her own breath came out shaky. She hated how badly she needed this. She hated how her body trembled with anticipation. She hated how right it felt.

Hermione’s hands shot up, gripping Pansy’s waist like she needed something to hold on to. Her touch was sure, hot through the fabric, steadying Pansy even as it set fire to every nerve ending she had. Hermione’s fingers dug into her hips, dragging her closer, refusing to yield. Pansy felt a laugh catch in her throat, breathless and disbelieving.

Hermione Granger. Touching her like that. Merlin help her.

Their foreheads nearly brushed. Hermione’s eyes were half-lidded, her lips parted, breath warm against Pansy’s mouth. The room tilted. The world narrowed to the two of them, pressed together in the dusty dark, breathing each other in.

Pansy's voice was barely more than a tremor. "You're such a bitch."

Hermione’s eyes flashed. "I hate you."

So Pansy kissed her. 

Again, it wasn’t gentle, it wasn’t careful, it wasn’t anything sane. But it felt exactly like the drug Pansy had been craving for days. 

Hermione crashed into her like she had been holding herself back for far too long, and Pansy’s entire body lit up in an instant. Their mouths collided with a force that felt like fury and relief and something Pansy never dared name. Hermione’s lips were hot and demanding, every movement a challenge, every breath a provocation.

Pansy didn’t yield. She refused. She met Hermione head-on, matching her ferocity, biting at her bottom lip until Hermione gasped, then chasing that sound with her tongue, deepening the kiss until she tasted her, until she felt Hermione melt and tense all at once.

Hermione trembled. Pansy felt it everywhere they touched. It shot straight through her, made her dizzy with triumph and desire. Hermione pushed her back with a grip on her waist, but Pansy only slid her hand lower along Hermione’s spine, pulling her even closer, forcing Hermione’s body flush against hers.

Hermione’s breath hitched. Pansy felt her knees weaken.

It was a fight, a kiss made of teeth and heat and fury, of two people who despised conceding anything. Hermione kissed like she was trying to win. Pansy kissed like she couldn’t afford to lose.

Their tongues clashed, hungry, messy, desperate. Hermione pushed forward. Pansy pushed back. Hermione refused to let her dominate. Pansy refused to let Hermione breathe without her.

She kissed her harder. She needed more. Much more. 

Hermione pushed her against a desk, until Pansy had to sit on it. She kept pushing her, using the strength of all her body, until her hair fell out of her bun to stroke Pansy's face. She smelled so good. She smelled like tea. Pansy panted, sliding her hands under Hermione's shirt, feeling the boiling skin, soft and smooth. She needed to regain an ounce of power—

"Fuck, Parkinson…"

Granger bit her lip, breaking the kiss. Pansy's hands flew to her hair. She needed something to hold onto because she knew she was losing this one. 

Or maybe... maybe she could scare Granger. Hermione didn't have any experience, from Pansy knew. Pansy just had to show her bra and Hermione would freak out. Yes, this was the best way to win. 

Pansy wrapped her hair around her hand, forcing her to look at her, pulling away. She loved pulling Granger's hair. It was soft. Curling. A bit crazy. 

It surprised Pansy, but Hermione sat on her thighs, on the desk. She had probably lost her mind too. The Hermione Granger she knew wouldn't snog a girl during her Head Girl patrol. 

Pansy unbuttoned her shirt. She needed to be fast. After a few seconds, the shirt fell to the ground. Hermione's eyes dropped directly to her breasts. And she reached. Her hand flew to the side of Pansy's ribs. Pansy attracted her in another kiss. She grabbed Hermione's hand, guiding her to her breast, hidden under a thin layer of lace. Hermione gasped in her mouth when she felt her nipple. 

Pansy was shamefully wet. She took her time kissing her, savouring her lips. Hermione wasn't backing away. She was responding. Pansy closed her eyes when the brunette started to kiss her neck, then her chest, before her lips grazed her nipple. 

When Pansy opened her eyes, Granger had no shirt on. She didn't have a bra on either. The moonlight was making her skin almost glowy. She had round, perky breasts, with larger nipples than Pansy's. 

And it was the most beautiful thing Pansy had ever seen. Her heart was fighting to get out of her chest. Her head was spinning, her throat tightening, her hands gripping Granger's waist for dear life. Pansy knew she would never forget this vision the moment she had laid eyes on Hermione's naked chest. It was too much to bear, too much to see, and not enough at the same time.

"Merlin—you’re so... uh, you're..." 

Hermione stifled a small laugh. Pansy's eyes were open as wide as she could to never forget this image. Her hand was trembling when she pressed it against Hermione's breast. She felt the weight of it, feeling the pink nipple stiffen under her fingers. Hermione was breathing so hard. It felt like music to her ears.

"Do something to me," Pansy suddenly said, not even thinking about the words that were leaving her mouth. 

"What? I've never done—"

"I don't care. Do something to me."

Hermione nodded. Pansy's hands were shaking when she hooked her fingers on her tights and knickers, as she slid them along her legs. Hermione's breath caught, and Pansy knew they were sharing the same expression. 

It didn't make any sense. But if it stopped now, Pansy wouldn't survive. Hermione kissed her, and it was softer this time, more cautious, more exploratory. Her hand was on Pansy's thigh, stroking, searching. Pansy was a puddle on the floor. She was about to burst. There was a bomb waiting to explode in her chest and she needed Hermione's fingers inside her to action it, because she wanted it to explode. 

Hesitantly, Hermione put both her hands on Pansy's thighs, parting them. She leaned forward, kissing her knee, the interior of her thighs. 

"Ouch!" hissed Pansy. 

This bitch had just bitten her.

"I'm not sorry."

"I know you're not."

"I don't know how to do it," whispered Hermione.

"But you want to?"

"Yes," she answered quickly. 

"It doesn't make sense right?"

"Nope."

"You still want to do it."

"Shut up and tell me how to do it."

Pansy's heartbeats were the only sound coming to her ears. More softly, than she intended, she caught Hermione's hand. She guided it slowly, letting her the time to map, to trace, to remember. Hermione's brown eyes weren't leaving hers. She looked hypnotised. When Pansy put her hand right between her legs, Hermione's fingers immediately found her the warmest point of her flesh. 

And the bomb exploded. Pansy pressed her forearm against her mouth, squinting her eyes so hard she saw white sparks.

Slowly, Hermione dragged her fingers, touching every fold, every patch of skin and flesh she could find. She hovered against her entrance, rubbing it in delicate circles. Pansy had to push her hand to make her understand that not only did she want her inside, but that she would die if Hermione didn't go inside. 

"Granger. Please."

"What did I just hear?" cooed Hermione.

"I hate you so—ah!"

Granger pulled one finger in. And Pansy didn't know why, but it felt better than any other times. She knew she was drenched, and she knew Hermione felt proud of it. She could feel her smiling against her lips. 

She started careful, attentive in and outs. Pansy knew she was listening to her breathing, to her noises. Fuck, Granger was a quick learner. 

"Add another one," Pansy asked, breathless. 

Hermione did. She kissed her cheek, and two fingers went inside of Pansy, stretching her walls. Pansy couldn't stifle the moan of pleasure it dragged out of her. It was too much. But still not enough. 

"Don't change your pace," she groaned. "Merlin, yes…"

Hermione was taking her time, and she was good. She fingered her steadily, never changing her rhythm. Pansy was already starting to feel a coil forming below her stomach, heat pooling on all her body, nipples straining against her bra. 

"Fuck, Granger, don't stop!" Pansy cried, gripping Hermione's back as the pleasure kept building, wave after wave. 

"I don't plan to," murmured Hermione against her lips. 

The curly hair that was in Pansy's nose pulled away. She felt Hermione kiss her belly. It tickled Pansy, and she giggled a bit, before biting her lip when the friction of Hermione's fingers started to become unbearable. She knew she would be coming soon. 

At this point, Pansy didn't even care about winning or losing. She had Hermione between her legs, kissing her skin and fucking her oh-so-well for someone that inexperienced. 

"Granger, if you keep going, I'm going to—oh, FUCK!"

Something wet and warm found Pansy's clit. She felt teeth grazing it, before a hot mouth wrapped around it, sucking softly. 

This bitch!

Pansy's mind was obliterated. Her reason was a distant memory. Her sanity was thrown into oblivion when she felt Hermione's tongue circling her clit, licking every centimetre of flesh she could find. It was too good, too much, too wet, too hot. 

Pansy's head hit the desk. Her back arched. She was drenched in sweat. Her nails scraped Hermione's head. The brunette flicked her tongue three more times on her clit, before Pansy crumbled on the desk. 

Her orgasm hit her so hard her vision fully whitened. Her legs started to shake, her hips jerking erratically, her hands gripped Hermione's hair even harder, pushing her face against her core, riding it until she couldn't stand it anymore.

After a good minute, Hermione raised her head from below Pansy's skirt. She was smiling. She wiped her mouth on her arm, climbing up to kiss Pansy's lips. 

"Loser," Hermione murmured against her mouth. 

"Piss off," grunted Pansy, reaching for her shirt. 

"Did I do well?"

"Do owls fly?"

Granger was smirking. Pansy wanted to slap her.

"Should I do this every time I want to shut you up?"

"Definitely."

Hermione put on her bra and pulled her sweater back over her head. Pansy stayed on the desk, unable to stand up. She was shaking too much. Hermione gripped her chin, pecking her lips. Pansy crossed her arms. Granger looked far too pleased with herself.

"You definitely lost that one."

"Fuck you."

 

 

 

 

Notes:

Discord server:

https://discord.gg/32uc2FK72

Spotify Playlist:

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5AxHkHdYn6u3GQM9PyZwih?si=qp2Zo45NRIC6pb6-cYsvMg&pi=TkFdiaeYRpyd1

Apple Music Playlist:

https://music.apple.com/fr/playlist/this-bitch/pl.u-pMyl1paUW9xV84r?l=en