Disclaimer: Don't own, not making money, don't sue please.


When Pansy opened the door the next day, she found Hermione Granger standing ramrod straight with her bag clutched in front of her like Pureblood-repellent pepper spray (Muggle methods of self-defense, homework, week 6). Pansy had learned enough about Muggle clothing to know that Granger wasn't dressed for business. Pansy herself was wearing what she had picked out the previous week. Her blazer was scratchy and ill-fitting but Pansy was well-pleased with her skirt, which was strategically short. She stood as straight as Granger, but also made sure she was placed to block the entrance, so Granger couldn't push her way in or even see inside, where the hall was empty and Pansy's mother sat in a heap in a faded chair.

Granger tried to smile, but it only made her look like she'd swallowed a live salamander. "Remember that time Weasel spat slugs?" Pansy said cheerily. Granger's twisted smile got even darker.

"Minus one point," she said. "A Muggle wouldn't have any idea what you were talking about, which could give you away."

Granger turned around and Pansy stuck out her tongue.

The journey through the city was one of the most traumatic experiences of Pansy's life. She didn't like the taxi, she didn't understand the money-which she had to handle because it was her test, not Granger's, and shouldn't Pansy be trying harder. She did a bit better with the train station, but on the train the aisles and seats were tiny and when Pansy asked for pumpkin juice Granger coughed significantly beside her and the woman behind the trolley looked at her funny. Pansy pouted.

Somewhat to Pansy's surprise, Granger made no attempt to talk to her. The Mudblood only looked out the window at the endless fields. She kept her bag on her lap the whole time, and Pansy thought she could see a wand poking against the soft silk of the side. Her nostrils flared in momentary resentment. Her own wand was strapped to the small of her back, beneath the blazer that maybe was just ill-fitting enough to be of use. Even though she'd been told she was allowed to have it, Pansy knew Granger wouldn't approve of Pansy Parkinson carrying a wand into her apartment.

For the moment, though, the wand was just so much dead wood. It was like having lost a limb. Pansy itched to hold it, to feel the rush of power down her arm as she channeled her magic. She hadn't even noticed that flood of energy since she was in first year, but now she felt her heart would break from missing it. It would almost be worth the tug that told her that she had activated the Trace, almost worth seeing Granger's look of contempt and glee.

Instead, Pansy glared at a small Mudblood child until it started to cry. That cheered her up enough to last her the rest of the journey.

She was exhausted when they finally alighted from the train. There were people everywhere in the Muggle world, all of the time. Diagon Alley was never as busy as even this small station. Even more than the numbers, what shocked Pansy was the feeling of anonymity. No one spoke to them or even seemed to notice them.

Pansy's mother had forbidden her to ride the Night Bus on the grounds that it was smelly and common; she would have had a coronary had she seen Pansy on the Mudblood version. In the old days she would, anyway. Now Pansy wasn't sure that anything would provoke a reaction from her mother. Wine, maybe, she reflected. Firewhiskey certainly. Fairy port on a bad day.

She was so lost in thought about her parents that Granger had to grab her arm to tug her off the bus. Pansy waved stiffly to the driver, who sarcastically responded. Ok, so waving to the help wasn't done among the magicless. Noted.

When she took a second to look round her surroundings, Pansy was sure Granger had gotten off at the wrong stop. They were on a perfectly normal, well-kept street, the likes of which could be seen in any middle-class Wizarding neighbourhood. But no, automobiles rushed by. And no wizarding child would ever pull a cat's tail like that boy was doing. Pansy sniffed. Granger glanced at her but didn't say anything.

The house was bigger than Pansy had expected and very clean. She said, "I've seen better-kept rabbit warrens," and then ran into Granger, who had stopped dead. Without turning around, the Muggleborn said, "You are not so good a student, Parkinson, that you can afford to lose points for attitude. I'd remember that if I were you. You only get two tries at this." Well. That was... unfortunately true.

Unable to maintain the deafening silence that followed that, Pansy sifted madly through her brain for something remotely civil to say. The best she could come up with was, "Is this usual for a young Mud-eh, yes, Muggleborn? The size, I mean."

"No, it's not." Hermione didn't seem inclined to elaborate, but Pansy was relieved. She wasn't sure she could have handled the idea that Mudbloods lived better fresh out of school than wizards their age.

"You'll stay in the guest room." This with a nod to the left. "Don't go into the room there," (center) "or there," (right). "If you need me, you can knock on the door on the right. This is the living room, and the dining room and kitchen are just through there. Do you understand?"

"I understand."

"Good. You can go to your room for a bit."

"Thanks, Mum." Pansy was in her room with the door closed before Granger had a chance to reply.

The room was disappointingly usual. No matter how Granger lectured about the advancement of Muggle civilisation and blah blah blah, Pansy was half expecting to see a picture labelled Our First Witch Burning. There were no pictures at all and the bedspread had daisies on it. It would be so easy for a halfway-competent witch to transfigure that pattern to one of pansies but if Pansy asked Granger to do it, she'd probably end up with a pattern of golden lions. Daisies weren't so bad.

Granger knocked to take Pansy shopping. Pansy beamed until she realised it wasn't the kind of shopping to which she was accustomed. This kind of shopping involved walking three blocks to a Tesco. Granger tried for about five minutes to make Pansy pick what they should get, but when Pansy showed her cupcakes and a carton of eggs with one broken, Granger took over. Pansy, relegated to holding the basket, sulked some more.

Dinner was puzzling. Pansy had had pasta, but she didn't understand why the Muggles had it with hard noodles and cold sauce. Still, she diligently let the noodles sit in water for the required amount of time, poured the sauce over it, and served it up. Granger took one bite and choked. "I'll show you," she said. Pansy went back to pouting, which felt warm and fuzzy and familiar by this point.

After dinner, which tasted so good the second time around that Pansy was sure Granger must have used magic ("It's still peasant food," Pansy said.), Granger pulled out a little hidebound book and a pen. "Six points," she said. "Four for achievement, one each for effort and attitude."

"Six?!" Pansy's glare would have melted steel beams. "I did everything right."

"You tried to pay the taxi driver eight pence instead of eight pounds, don't think I didn't see you wave at the bus driver, and your pasta was so far past inedible as to be almost poisonous. I don't think you want to argue about effort or attitude. I'm not sure whether I can actually give negative points, but I am more than willing to try."

Jamming her plate and utensils into the dishwasher so hard she wasn't sure she didn't hear the pottery cracking, Pansy stalked away to the guest room.

Lying on top of a bed of cotton daisies, Pansy stared at the ceiling. All she wanted was a good duel, verbal or otherwise. Instead, Granger just made flat pronouncements of fact. It was most unsatisfying.

It had not escaped Pansy's notice that she was unpopular in school, just as it had not escaped her notice at the age of four that the other Pureblood toddlers had not liked her. She was awkward and her face was squashed and she had pointed out that Millicent looked like a gaping fish even at the age of eight. But there was a way if not to fix those things, to make them unimportant: find someone with enemies and rip those enemies to shreds. Then someone was obligated, destined, almost, to be your friend. And that had given her Blaise Zabini and dear, pompous Draco who had just loved to have someone on his side against precious Potter.

It was Draco she wanted now. Blaise liked her when she was mean, she liked him when he was vicious, and there it ended. Draco liked her all of the time, even when he caught her crying about her dead cat, Gwendolyn, and, years later, even when she had left Hogwarts before the battle and left him to fight in terror. She wasn't sure now if she wished she had stayed. She knew he wished he had left.

She rocketed out of bed and went to bang on Granger's door. Granger answered on the second knock and waited in silence to hear what she wanted.

"You said almost all Muggle houses have a telephone!"

"Yes, they do."

"You have a telephone!"

"Yes, I do."

"So Draco's house will have a telephone!"

Light dawned on Granger's face. "Oh. Yes, it does."

"Give me the number of the telephone, Granger."

"I don't have it."

How was a grown woman this bad at lying? "Oh, come on, Granger, yes, you do. You're the Coordinator for Pureblood Rehabilitation and Muggle Relations. You probably have all the numbers."

"Fine," Granger said. "I have it. But I don't want to give it to you."

"I bet there's no rule that says I can't have it." Pansy was proud of that. Granger liked rules.

"No, there's no rule. But there's no rule that says I have to give it to you, either, and I don't want to." It was almost as though Granger had said, So there. Her face said it for her.

"It would be a lesson for me in how to use the telephone for Muggle communications. It could teach me to value Muggle ways of maintaining contact and doing business."

"Against all odds, you have produced a decent argument." All of a sudden Hermione's face changed dramatically. It was the face of someone trying on cunning for the first time, but in Granger's case she was clomping around in cunning like a little girl in her mother's shoes. "I tell you what, Pansy. When you can get twenty points in a single day, I'll give you Malfoy's number."

Pansy shrugged. "Deal." How hard could it be?