"Stay safe now, all of you. I wish to heaven I could hide here 'til it's over, but the time has come when a man must stand for what's right over what's comfortable," their Head of House murmured pensively as he saw the last Slytherin student safely into the Hog's Head. The night was still black as pitch when Professor Slughorn, in his emerald green silk pajamas, took leave with Aberforth.
"Fuckin' Parkinson, out to get us all killed?" Sebastian Daly spat, rounding on her as the door shut behind them.
"Cool it, Daly," Zabini said smoothly, stepping between the large blonde and his target. "She was only saying what the rest of us were thinking. I know for a fact at least a handful of Ravenclaws felt the same way, but you didn't see them sticking their necks out."
"Yeah, because they're not as stupid as our very own Parkinson!" Daly vented, balling his hands into fists.
"Gentlemen! Ladies! Let's not waste time on petty arguments when we have the riches of the Hog's Head at our disposal," a persuasive voice called out from the back. The resourceful sixth year had cracked open liquor from behind the bar and served the group, starting with the most senior. Pansy blindly accepted a tumbler pressed into her hands, and choked down what could only properly be described as dragon's piss. By the time the first years got their share though, the sensation of being held at wandpoint by the entire school had dulled enough for her to go back for a second round.
"What in Merlin's name do you two think you're doing?" Pansy demanded as the freshly topped glass made it halfway to her mouth. The Greengrass sisters had removed a large portrait adjacent to the bar, exposing a yawning hole.
"I heard a rumor that there's a tunnel here connecting to Hogwarts," Astoria explained. "We're going back to fight for the school if we can," she said, hoisting herself into the cavern.
"Are you mad?" Pansy blurted out.
"Look, Pansy—I don't hold it against you for speaking your mind back there in the Great Hall, but we don't all feel the same way," Daphne admitted, gripping Astoria's hand for a lift. "I believe with enough help, the old teachers—Harry Potter—we could lick that noseless bastard once and for all."
Tears pricked her eyes. Was it because this might be the last goodbye? Or was it because she was perilously close to hoping they were right? Pansy gave them a curt nod. "Then get the hell out of here," she whispered, swallowing a lump in her throat. She carefully levitated the portrait back to its proper place. It wouldn't do to have the rest of the house follow suit and get killed.
Quickly she and Zabini came up with a plan to station sixth and seventh years at the doors and portrait hole on rotation, as guards against intruders. Then together they warded the bar counter with every protective spell known between them, and corralled the first and the smallest of the second years behind it.
"You, you, and you," Pansy pointed, picking out the students with top marks in Transfiguration, "See if you can't change these tables and chairs into something more shield-like, and metal," she ordered. Metal reflected spells; wood absorbed them.
She did not want to die. She did not want to die. She didn't survive the worst year Hogwarts had ever seen and Amycus Carrow's disgusting hands on her body only to perish in the crossfire between these two zealous factions. Pansy hoped that no matter which side came banging into the Hog's Head, the remaining students would be offered a truce. And if not… well, she didn't intend to go down without a fight.
Dawn cut a fleshy streak into the horizon, but sleep was the last thing on Pansy's mind. For hours she and what remained of her housemates had cowered to varying degrees in the Hog's Head. Some students sat calmly, whispering to each other. A few others were crying. One had actually fallen asleep, and several pairs were desperately snogging in an attempt to make the most of what could be their final hours. But Pansy paced fruitlessly, as the dingy, vaguely goaty atmosphere only heightened her anxiety.
The world was crumbling around her ears. The tension of waiting for the other shoe to drop for any information outside was maddening. She felt sick thinking about Draco—had he survived? She felt sick thinking about what was going to happen to her once the Dark Lord took over. Perhaps she'd be granted immunity because of her betrothal to Draco—but perhaps not. Her father had turned down an invitation to join the Death Eaters more than once, and Pansy knew firsthand that the Dark Lord was anything but merciful.
She thought of the classmates she had already lost to the Dark Lord's side. Draco. Crabbe. Goyle. Nott… She thought of Professor Slughorn, and of the Greengrass sisters. They all believed they could make a difference in the outcome of this struggle. She wanted to believe one person could tip the scales, but she was so afraid. The truth was if she had to choose a side, she wanted—
With a crack, a diminutive house elf disturbed her train of thought, and hastened over. "You is coming home now with Dinky, miss," the creature said.
"All of us?" Pansy asked as little Ann Speake clutched at Pansy's larger hand.
"Dinky is sorry miss, but Master only sent for Miss Pansy Parkinson."
"Ron!" Hermione winced, gasping as he plunged into her without preamble. Her blood still sang with the heat of battle coursing through her body, and the neediness of their shared kisses shrouded a certain rawness screaming at the back of her mind. The thrill of flirting with death dulled a panicky uncertainty rising up in her throat as he lunged on, gloriously unaware of anything but the prize between her legs. It was the stiffness of her arms though, preventing him from bending down to put his hot mouth on hers, that made him pause for the first time. She could hear a sharp exhalation through his nostrils and knew even in the dimly illuminated night the parenthesis around his mouth accompanying that sound.
"What is it, 'Mione?" Ron asked in a faraway voice. Now he looked tired. Hollow. Tense. She had a flash of Ron wearing the Horcrux locket around his neck, and emotionally recoiled.
This is all too fast, she thought, her heart racing as the enormity of the moment began to sink in. This, her first time. Half undressed in a shambled dormitory, on a bed that didn't belong to either of them, with a boy who only just realized he loved her.
In a rare moment of synchronicity, Ron whispered as if he had heard her and understood. "But we're alive, y'know? We did it. We made it. We're alive while the others—while Fred…" He stopped, unable to continue. She swallowed her objection and searched his sweaty, dust-streaked face as his feeling of loss seeped into her as well.
"Oh, Ron…" she trembled, now clutching him tight.
"Don't you love me, 'Mione?" he pleaded earnestly.
"How could you even question such a thing, Ronald?" she said defensively, tears springing to her eyes.
"Alright, alright! Blimey. I'm a prat, 'Mione. I know you love me," he muttered, lowering his heart on top of her. She could feel him wrinkling, fading smaller inside of her, and tried not to think about it. About any of this.
So that was it, she supposed. The pair lay in silence for a few moments while she tried not to struggle under the weight of his ribcage. Eventually, Hermione propped herself up on her elbows and attempted to sit up, wondering what had become of her pants.
"Please—" Ron begged, firmly pressing her back into the mattress. "I've waited—for so long," he said, his voice cracking.
It wasn't quite true, strictly speaking. But the fact that their adrenaline-fueled first kiss had only been just hours before, was easily shelved for a more romantic version of events. Languishing sounded…good. It felt right to hear that in this moment—this twilight of victory and heartache—that she had been wanted for so very long.
"Have you?" she wavered, desperately wanting to salvage this experience. Hermione brought a hand to Ron's forehead, gently combing his hair back with her fingers.
"Oh yes," he said enthusiastically, thrilled that she was warming to the idea. He began to grind his hips into her again to prove the point. And there he was once more, ready to go. Hermione grimaced as Ron pushed and tugged inside her walls, feeling a sensation akin to pinching. "Oh 'Mione—baby!" the boy moaned, grabbing a handful of breast with a wide palm.
Hermione shut her eyes tight and lay back, jiggling rhythmically as she tried to catch on to Ron's apparent enjoyment. But all she could see were flashes of light. All she could hear were the sound of stones tumbling. Lavender's screams as Greyback descended on her. The sickening thud of her professor's body as he hit the boathouse floor.
"Think sexy thoughts," Ron urged in a hoarse whisper.
With an effort, she reached deeper into her mind. Fourth year, Victor, catching her in the library and running his curved nose down the soft inside of her arm. Planting a kiss where the collar of her shirt dipped down just so. Fifth year, her professor quite alive with warm his hand splayed above her naked chest in the infirmary as he purged Dolohov's souvenir from the Department of Mysteries. Sixth year, she is pushed up against a wall—a pair of dark eyes punishing her, a curtain of black hair obscuring everything but him—
She gasped slightly and Ron slid deeper with ease.
"Oh baby!" he crooned. "That's the ticket!"
With a bellow, he tensed and collapsed onto her. Hermione lightly stroked his humid back, comforting him in his conspicuous exertion. She sighed deeply, relieving his crushing weight momentarily.
"Ron," she whispered, after a minute ticked silently by, "I can't breathe."
He sleepily nuzzled the crook of her neck and she felt slightly mollified, before heaving him off to the side. They peeled apart unceremoniously, and Ron's soft snoring seemed so absurdly mundane in contrast to this hellish night that Hermione almost leaned over to kiss his freckled nose.
Instead she Evanescoed herself and the bed, and shook loose her curls from the confines of their ponytail. Girlish fingernails, ragged to the quick and sandwiching bits of blood and grime, massaged her aching scalp before exhaustion dragged her limbs back down to the mattress. She crawled under the sheets-dirty, sweating, and aching-and gratefully buried her childhood. Hermione barely registered Harry hours later, softly wedging himself in the space between her and Ron as daybreak pinked across the Hogwarts grounds.
"Oh, you're home," her mother said by way of greeting. Pansy stared at the rail-thin figure standing at the top of their sweeping staircase. Times must be serious indeed if Iris Parkinson was willing to step foot outside of her sanctuary in the west wing. "Your father has instructed that no one is to leave the house until further notice," she announced, clutching the opening of her dressing robe to her chest and staring at Pansy pointedly.
Pansy stared back, and decided to hold her tongue. Right. Lovely to see you, too. Thanks for asking how I survived an assault on the castle! "Hogwarts is under attack," she said thickly.
"Of course it is, you daft girl. Why else do you think you ended up here at this ungodly hour?"
"Perhaps because you ordered Dinky to fetch me?" Pansy retorted.
"Don't be ridiculous. Your father sent for you, not I," she sniffed.
"Father's not in France?" Pansy asked sharply.
"He has finally come to his senses and returned to prepare for the Dark Lord's ascendency," her mother said triumphantly. Pansy felt distinctly ill and began to climb the stairs to her room. "I warned him this was going to happen," Iris Parkinson continued shrilly, "I told him he should have joined the Dark Lord when he had the chance—but no! He would not listen to me, not even to save our sons!"
Of course, her sons. It always came back to her sons. Blood pounded between Pansy's ears furiously, and she rounded on her mother. "And what about me? You feel no outrage on behalf of your living child?"
"What of you, you ungrateful brat? Seem to be holding up just fine, with no regard for the privilege of being under the Carrows' tutelage this year. Shocking that the Dark Lord is finally in control of the school and you have the audacity to complain! If only we could all be so lucky."
"Mother, you pathetic fool," Pansy whispered, as Amycus' putrid breath and sickening leer flashed through her mind, "You have no idea what it's been like, existing under his regime!"
"How dare you speak of His Darkness in that manner," Iris cried, lunging at the back of Pansy's robes in retaliation. A brief struggle ensued and Pansy reached for her wand.
"You will unhand her at once, Iris," a deep voice suddenly commanded.
"Papa?" Pansy stumbled as she was released, and looked out into the foyer.
"Come, Pansy. We have much to discuss," the broad shouldered man ordered icily as he headed to the study. Breathlessly, Pansy ran to meet him. She hadn't seen him since Christmas, and his sudden reappearance at their home meant her world had shifted indubitably—but for better or worse? The sense of desperation that had been steadily creeping into her bones these last several months finally settled and gave way to a grating fear.
Mr. Parkinson threw the heavy drapes of the study open, letting in the budding morning light. Pansy was surprised at how late it was.
"Sit. Eat," he said, waving his hand at a breakfast tray that had been set upon the mahogany desk.
"Please Papa," Pansy begged, "Have you heard any news about Draco?"
"Draco is alive," he confirmed, looking at her intently. Pansy's visible exhalation of gratitude affected her entire body. "But he is no longer your fiancé. Pack up your things, daughter. I'm taking you to France."
A/N: I'm referring to the fanon trope of Snape healing Hermione's Department of Mystery wounds in this story. To read a really excellent version (and my favorite version) of how that blossoms into canon-compliant and angst-filled attraction, please read Self Slain Gods on Strange Altars by scumblackentropy. You can find it in my favorites.
Wow thanks for all those who have started following this story! Remember to follow if you want to be notified when I update. Thanks to my beta Kci47! All characters belong to J.K. Rowling.