Titanium

She hurried in the library, heart slamming against breastbone, hands shaking, one hovering over her bag, the other struggling not to grab her wand from the sheath she kept on her left forearm. She swallowed painfully, eyes catching the students in the library.

Granger.

Of course she would be there, Eight year or not, Golden Trio or not. The other two left for Auror training but Granger was too – too neat not to finish something she'd started.

Oh, she was there as well, after all, but not out of choice.

There was something about trying to send Potter to the Dark Lord that didn't sit well with the students here. Maybe if she had had Nott's money, she would have finished her studies at home.

Parkinson steadied her hand over her bag, let the other fall back to her side.

But McGonagall would have found a reason for her to get her back to Hogwarts, wouldn't she? Along the line of continuing your education to insure your future and learning from someone's mistakes.

All she'd learned in the past six months was that the Bat Bogey Hex hurt, silence hurt more than the occasional shove, and that loneliness, loneliness was a weakness.

"Move it."

She didn't have a name here anymore. She was nothing, just he ghost against the wall that everyone despised.

The woman could have gotten out of the way – she was indeed blocking the access to the library. She could have disappeared in the hallway but her feet took her to her table and she sat across her.

That bushy hair barely lifted to look at her, that golden eye was cold, analytic, burning, burning like the ice burn.

Parkinson swallowed but looked away. She took a parchment and her Advanced Potions-Making book from her bag and revised today's lesson.

Granger didn't say anything, didn't hum, didn't wince. Parkinson's heart sang in her throat, anxiety thrummed in her veins. She closed her eyes and steadied her quill, sighing.

"I warded the alcove."

She didn't remember when Granger's voice got so low, rough, like someone who didn't talk enough.

She looked up to her, noticed the faint smirk.

"Can't ward it against people but no one's going to hex us"
"I doubt someone would want to hex the Golden Know-It-All Girl, but alright."

She hated how her voice was rough from not using it – at all.

Granger snorted but didn't say anything.

Parkinson dropped mini-carrots on the table mid-afternoon, to Granger's raised eyebrow. She didn't explain how it was difficult to sit in a crowd, amidst people who ignored her, hated her, hexed her. How it was hard for her to stand tall still, to be the Pansy Parkinson, with her too short skirt, her rolled up sleeves, her sleek hair and her patented smirk.

She didn't talk about the corner she hid while in the common room, with Draco and Zabini and Greg. She didn't talk about how the First Years quivered in fear and cried when they were sorted in Slytherin, how there were only four of them.

There was no pride in Slytherin anymore.

So she had to be proud for them.

"Parkinson. Let's walk back to your House. I have to talk to Slughorn about my Dreamless Potions. It's late and I'm hungry."

Pansy nodded and packed her bag.

They walked in silence and maybe Granger didn't notice the stares, the whispers, the pointed fingers, but she did and it broke her heart. She clenched her jaw and straightened up. Someone pressed against her shoulder but –

Zabini. She recognized his cologne of sandalwood, parchment and something, something that was him. She closed her eyes and breathed in.

Things will be alright.

"Alright, snakes, talk to you tomorrow."

Granger never looked back to them but the dark-skinned man beside Pansy chuckled, took her hand, squeezed.
"What did you learn?" There was nothing left of the proud man that he once was.

He was silence, ghost steps and clenched jaws.

"Your cologne gives me a headache."