Coven. Ch. 11: Clean

During the half hour that was still needed for the food to cook itself in yet another one of those scientifical devices –which she had gathered were ordinary-looking things that performed muggle magic, or science– she understood that Granger's father was the expert of the house. He understood how the science worked, unlike Granger's mother, and took care of the maintenance of all the devices.

She was shown the telly –like a radio, but with images, Granger had explained–, she talked to Mike through the tellyphone despite being separated by at least two walls, gone around two house blocks with the car –the muggle carriage that actually drove itself, without any need for invisible thestrals, and was quite more smooth in movement– and observed the mincrowave heat water.

She was equal parts astonished and fascinated. Mike had actually explained to her that he had not been the one to make all those devices, that there were workshops destined to produce them, and he only had to make them enter in contact with ilictricity. He had explained that muggles had developed them through many years, in order to combat the lack of comfort in their day to day lives. As they did not have magic, they had needed to become ingenious, and finally found a workaround.

Pansy had been raised being repeatedly told otherwise, but she was not stupid, and she could appreciate the truth when she saw it. The truth was actually screaming at her face. Muggles were kind of smart.

It made sense, actually. How else would they survive without magic? Their handicap had made it necessary to develop some intelligence, or perish. She had shared her deduction with Mike, in a soft voice, as she did not want to be seen making a mistake in judgement by the woman, clear head of the household, or Granger herself.

He had laughed warmly, and had explained that, just as it happened with wizards, not all muggles were smart. Some neighbour named Jones, apparently, was a good example of that. They had managed to develop all the useful devices because they were many, and diversified their jobs: each one of them specialized in one very little thing, and then they summed up all their knowledge. That was how the science worked. Pansy pictured it a bit like an ant colony.

So, she gathered, Mike took care of the science, and Granger's mother took care of the politics. Cooking required science, so now she understood why he had been in charge of that.

As they sat for dinner, Pansy had long forgotten her fear for what would end up on her plate. Granger's mother sat first, and Mike served the food –which smelled delicious– and continued with his previous explanation.

"And so a car and a bus actually work in the same way," he was saying. Pansy thought that it may only be the case for muggle cars and buses, because she had just taken the Knight Bus to the nearest stop to get there, and she had almost puked her dinner from three days before. Mike's car was soft and smooth, and it actually waited for other cars to pass by instead of sneaking in between them and squeezing its passengers.

"But not with illictricity," she remembered. He nodded, and said, "Though some actually can, nowadays."

Pansy nodded, confused. It was like they had different types of magic. Veritably puzzling.

At the other side of the table, Granger and Sarah were having a heavy discussion on creature rights that she herself would have had trouble following.

"Well, mum," Granger said indignantly, "It's not like I can consult the Statutes of Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures anytime I want. They are actually kept in the Ministry Archives, and you won't believe it, but the only existing copy is the original. Written in West Saxon."

Sarah looked horrified at that, which Pansy could not quite understand. "Where else would they be?" she asked.

"Oh, I don't know. Somewhere people could actually access them?" Granger answered, sarcasm dripping in her voice. Her own mother shushed her, "Don't be rude, Hermione. It's not like wizards have Internet."

"Internet?" she asked, yet again encountering another unknown word. She was starting to develop a headache.

"Oh, Pansy," Mike laughed, "You have yet to see the greatest invention of humanity."


Hermione led Parkinson to her room, eager to get her away from her parents. She could not say what was worse, the initial tenseness in their interactions, or the way they had ended up taking to each other. Parkinson was actually being nice to them. And while she looked half scared of all objects within the house, she also seemed somewhat interested. She had to admit that was the most bizarre plot twist she had ever experienced.

"But everything is there?" she insisted, now that they were out of earshot. "Absolutely everything?"

Hermione actually laughed at that. "Yes, Pansy," she answered patiently. "If I wanted to know the temperature in Bahamas on the day I was born, I would find in in a matter of seconds. I just need to write the question in Yahoo. Do you remember Yahoo?"

She nodded, eyes wide. "The purple letters. Mike asked them if it would rain tomorrow."

Hermione had planned to drag Parkinson straight to her room at her arrival, barely greeting her parents, and get to work. However, she had arrived two hours earlier than planned. It would have been unthinkable for her parents not to invite her to dinner, and so she had found herself in a very compromising situation. Its consequences had been most unexpected.

"How can you tell it will rain without seers?" she asked, genuine curiosity evident in her tone. She had not sneered even once in the past hour.

"Modelling the atmosphere," she explained. "We take values of many different parameters: pressure, temperature, humidity… For many years. And we also note the weather that results from them. Then, we try to predict what weather we can expect, given the current values of the parameters," she tried to simplify. "It's a bit more complex than that, and it involves computers and physics."

"Ah," Pansy said in understanding, "computers," she said in a tone that was almost reverential. She had understood that everything complex muggles solved thanks to "thinking machines", or computers.

"You can find any sort of information you want, actually," she said, and realizing Parkinson would most likely be interested, added, "You can even browse clothes on the Internet, pay for them, and someone brings them to your door."

"Even if you are poor?" she gasped in surprise.

Hermione sighed, "Yes, even if you're poor."

She swung her wand and the door closed right behind them. The books they needed were piled up on her nightstand in precarious equilibrium, and other than that her room was very muggle. It had to be, in case family visited. Pansy was staring at a pair of jeans with obvious disdain, "Are these things actually comfortable? You're always wearing them."

"Well, you don't have to worry a bit of wind will show everyone your knickers," she answered.

"Why would it?" Parkinson asked, and snorted. "Charm your skirts not to flail around."

Hermione blushed slightly and inwardly admitted she had a point. It was hard to get past preconceived thoughts, even after more than five years in the wizarding world.

Parkinson took a pillow and sat on the floor, while Hermione moved away the carpet. Bloodstains were a pain to remove, even with magic. "Here," said Pansy, and handed her the most ridiculously ornate knife she had ever seen. It was a miracle there was even a bit of blade left to cut on the baroque thing.

She must have been paying attention to her expression, because she added, "It does matter, Granger," the familiar condescending sneer back on her face. "Magic is about intention. We only learn about wand-waving at school, but there is much more to it. Trust me on this one."

She frowned. It was true that Parkinson was most likely to know about ritualistic, old magics than her. Maybe she should listen, for once. And later try to find some bibliographic evidence, of course.

Parkinson took out a bunch of candles from her fancy bag and settled them on a perfect circle all around them. Hermione switched off the fluorescent lights, guessing they did not go with the ambience she was trying for.

They sat facing each other and, for the first time ever, performed the ritual in a friendly atmosphere. Hermione thought Pansy might have been right about the whole intention theory, because she could feel her blood already buzzing in her veins in anticipation. Her whole body knew it was about to happen, and it was calling for it. Judging by the eager brightness of Parkinson's eyes, she was not the only one.

She gave Pansy her hand and she seemed surprised only for a second, before taking it and cutting much more delicately than she ever had. She licked the blood that was dripping down her palm, and already they could feel their magic starting to swirl, as if waking up from a long slumber. It called for the other, it drew them together, pushed them to go on. This time, Hermione thought, the wound on her hand barely hurt.

She cut Pansy slowly, even though she was trembling in anticipation, barely able to hold back. Once her blood flowed free she went for it with hunger.

It was back.

It was back, back, back and it was better.

She laughed, joyous, eyes unfocused as the pleasure tingled all her nerves and completely took over her. She licked and licked for more until Pansy's wound started healings and then she kissed her palm, thanking her hands for the wonderful gift they provided. She felt it all over again. Fire, fire within her veins. She was burning inside, and yet the fire would not –could not– hurt her. She welcomed Pansy's magic within her and it felt wonderful; like a lover's caress that stroked your very soul.

She cried out, feeling so much stronger, so much closer to Pansy, so much more at home. This, this was where she belonged. This was how she should be feeling all the time. The two of them together, souls embracing, standing as one. Having only her own magic within felt wrong, it felt empty.

"I needed this," Pansy whispered roughly, and Hermione nodded that yes, she had needed it too. Finally, finally together once more.

As their cuts healed completely and their magic buzzed and seeped out of their pores, twirling all around them, they locked eyes. They wondered, at the same time, how to continue. They were holding hands, and their magic flowed together from one to the other and it was great. But there was more to it. There was a way to carry on, a way to continue, they knew it. They could feel it with their whole being, and yet they did not know how to proceed. They could kiss again, embrace each other, even become a tangled mess of limbs, but it was not that. It would not bring them as close as they wished, yearned to be.

They clung onto each other fiercely wondering how, just how to go on. She had Pansy in her arms, and she had Pansy in her veins, but how could she have Pansy in her soul? They were so close their noses touched and they gazed into each other's eyes, desperately wondering how to merge into a single being. They could not find out.

It was something else that they were failing to do, that could let them become one as they wished. They were so close, and yet… something was missing.


They laid down, hours later, hands and arms and legs intertwined, as close as they could physically get. They supposed it would suffice, for the moment.

Granger broke the peaceful moment, which for all she knew must have lasted hours, as she asked, "Do you think this is affecting us?" in a soft whisper.

Pansy thought about it. Right now, she wanted nothing more than staying there, the two of them together, forever. That was certainly a non-predicted consequence. But she could tell Granger's question went in a different direction. "In which way?"

"The Occlumency books, they all tell you how to control your emotions but I–I find it hard, lately, to do so," she said, caressing down her arm, sending ripples of magic through her. "And I read that the Dark Arts are supposed to unbalance you, make you irascible, more prone to outbursts."

Pansy had heard that, too. Had she been acting unbalanced? She thought that, maybe, her last conversation with Theo would have gone differently in other circumstances. Maybe she had been acting with a too obvious defiance within her own house. She guessed it would have been better to play it safe. Such recklessness was unlike her. Maybe it was an after-effect of the magic.

"I think I am," Granger kept on, "irascible. More than before. I find myself thinking things, saying things, that are unlike me. I yelled at McGonagall," she confessed in a horrified whisper.

Pansy laughed. "Bitch needs some more yelling, I think." Granger hit her softly on her arm at that. "It's supposed to be a side-effect," she admitted, "of Dark Magic."

"I got into the Room of Requirements just to destroy things," she kept on. Apparently, it was Dear Diary day.

"Sounds like a sensible use of that room," she said, making a mental note to take that over as a hobby. Blowing things up was just fun, and a young lady had many frustrations in the modern days. "In my opinion, Granger, you could use a bit of spicing up. You let the Golden Morons walk all over you. Snap more often, it's a good thing."

She heard Granger huff in frustration. "I just don't like the feeling that it's controlling me," she said.

Well, that was kind of creepy. But what to do about it? "It's a small price to pay," she said, "for such a great reward. Don't you think?"

"I just wonder if it's the only one."


They ate breakfast –burnt egg on burnt toast, the only thing she had managed to cook, and then some fruit– with the vicious hunger that overtook them every time. They had gone down before her parents had awoken, driven by the need to eat, but also not wanting to be seen in such a state of desperation. Parkinson had actually said she refused to look like a Weasley in front of her mother.

She could not understand how it had even happened, but the pureblood snob had actually developed some sort of respect for her parents. She thought she might have been told, in her childhood, so many completely awful things about muggles that the truth just looked unexpectedly nice in comparison.

"Let's start quickly," Pansy said, munching her third serving of eggs, "I need to be home before the afternoon tea with Grandmama."

They had hours before that, she supposed, but the spells were demanding enough they might need the time. Drawing the runes would be especially time-consuming.

The day went by with them spelling every inch of the house, chanting loudly as her parents went around and threw them curious, half-amused glances. They started inside, secured walls, windows and doors, and then went out to the garden. By that point, they had devoured her father's roast voraciously, much to his delight, and were starting to get tired.

"Are you sure about this bit? Seems quite unorthodox to me" Pansy asked, almost in a mood. She supposed her arms were starting to hurt, too.

"Garcia suggested it," Hermione said, biting onto her quill. "She's good at mixing spells, has a, well, an unorthodox understanding about the arithmancy behind them. This should make the wards mingle with their surroundings, not stand out in the middle of a muggle neighbourhood," she had gotten the idea from her conversation with McGonagall, some time ago. Not that she would ever admit to it. Garcia had managed to modify the outer layer of the wards in a way that, she thought, might work.

Mike chose that moment to interrupt, opening the window that gave to the front garden, warm cups in hand, "You girls need some tea to help you through your difficult bit of magic?" he offered.

Pansy accepted the cups gracefully, and she was again amused at how perfectly nice she became when dealing with her parents. "Fake little shit," she thought almost with affection.

"Do they even realize," she asked in a hush, once her father had closed the window, "that they're in mortal danger?"

Hermione made a face that was answer enough. Parkinson nodded, thoughtful, and kept writing runes as accurately as she could manage.

After the events of the previous night, they felt more at ease with each other. In fact, Hermione thought she felt completely at peace only when Pansy was close enough. Any other moment, her magic stirred and searched for her, whirring in agitation.

Separating after the day's work was almost unbearable. They said nothing about it, but they lingered at the front door longer than necessary. It was still a day to Christmas and the start of the semester felt too far away.


Theodore excused himself to retire to his chambers. As the heavy oak doors of his father's office closed behind him, he reached for his tie and loosened the knot. It still did not help him breath. He knew he was white as chalk and only hoped he could reach his bedroom without throwing up.

The elves had set up sparkly decorations on every corner of the dark monument that was his house, and even on the very Christmas day they felt grim and cheerless.

He understood now. The meaning of Pansy's words, why she had gone mad; how the sides had changed, at least for her. He might even understand if she decided to side with Dumbledore and his mudbloods. That was, if they were willing to take her in.

Opposing the Dark Lord was a foolish endeavour, but his friend was done for anyway. Doomed, even worse than the rest of them.

He had tried to help. He had hinted, and then suggested and finally outright begged his father –on his knees– to let him marry her. He felt foolish now, remembering how he had dismissed Pansy as too shrilly, too bossy, not pretty enough. The light tint of red on his otherwise deadly pale visage was due to embarrassment, at having been so very shallow.

It had not worked. His father had sentenced her not enough for the House of Nott. The Parkinsons were not loyal enough to the cause, and not rich enough to buy acceptance. A second son would suffice for their daughter, and she better be grateful for it.

He knew better than to insist. His father was unmovable.

He reached the safety of his room and left himself fall to the floor, lamenting Pansy's fate. For the first time since his mother had died, he let himself cry to sleep. The war, always looming in the distance, felt real to him for the first time.


Harry laid on his bed in the Burrow, staring at the new flying gloves Hermione had sent as a Christmas gift two days ago. He didn't understand. If Dumbledore was right, why had she sent them?

Of all the crazy things to believe, after the renewed confirmation that Snape was good, now came the shocking revelation that Hermione was bad. He just couldn't wrap his head around it.

Dumbledore was certain. So very certain. As much as about Snape, a little voice in his mind pointed out. Could he be wrong about both? He'd seen the bastard offer to help Malfoy. He bet no one could say the same about his best friend.

Still, as always, Dumbledore had made a good point. Hermione had been angry and irritable the last few days before Christmas vacation. Snappish, prone to answer with sharp and scathing remarks. He had even heard her swearing, which was a first. He had thought her bad moods were because of Ron and Lavender, but if so they were coming a bit late. And the Dark Arts were known to influence people in exactly such ways.

When he thought about it, Hermione had not spoken to Ron even once, and Harry himself had been busy spending time with both parties while also meeting Dumbledore and paying attention to Malfoy. Could Pansy Parkinson have gotten to her, taking advantage of her recent solitude? He remembered seeing Hermione with two Hufflepuff girls he did not know, so it was not like she had been left completely alone. Why would she feel the need to befriend the Slytherin bitch?

Dumbledore had told him he would not expel any of the two –Hermione and Parkinson– even when they had been involved in Dark Magic within Hogwarts' boundaries. He had said it was better to observe their actions up close. Better not to rush them to Voldemort's side even faster. He had told him he could speak to her if he so wished, but sternly advised against disclosing the secrets of their conversations. Well, he would speak to her. He would ask her in person what was going on, because there was no way he would believe she had turned unless she told him herself.

He played with the seams of his new gloves as he remembered how Remus had advised him not to use them. He had yelled at him for that. Said mean things about how he had not trusted Sirius when it mattered, when Dumbledore had been wrong. Remus had been hurt by them. He was not proud of his outburst.

He knew what that meant, though. The adults in The Burrow were discussing Hermione. Speaking about her in hushed tones that betrayed both horrified surprise and pity. He hated the way they spoke about her. As if she were some criminal. As if she were Malfoy himself. In his opinion, they should be speaking about the blond prat instead. He was the real Death Eater.

He could not tell what was worse, their worries or Ron's. He did not know yet, and he spoke only about Slughorn's party and whether Hermione had truly attended alone or not. Harry still thought about how to break the news to him.

He had told Scrimgeour he was Dumbledore's man through and through, but right now he was just a bloody mess. And the only person who had ever helped him see clearer within misty thoughts was Hermione.


The hot, hot tears felt scalding rolling down her cheeks as she sobbed and fought to grasp for air. She could hear the loud thump, thump, thumping of blood rushing past her ears but no other sound came through. No matter how deeply she inhaled, she still had not enough air. She felt she needed to grab something –anything– with her hands, to hold onto, but as she clutched one thing, her hands shook and she felt the need to clutch another.

Her vision was getting blurry, though whether that was brought by the lack of air or the damned tears, she could not tell. She felt hot, around her chest. She needed air. She tore her scarf and pulled at her robe until the front ripped and yet it was not enough. She could not stand, legs and arms shaking as she kneeled, feeling powerless.

She was seeing stars now, colours mixing and sparkling within a narrower and narrower kaleidoscope. Her heart was beating faster than ever before, and she clutched her chest, thinking it could not be good, could not be healthy. Something was wrong with her.

She took a deep breath, but it felt shallow, and as she sobbed she let out a strangled cry for help that nobody heard. Nobody was there to care.

She needed to get out. Get out from that hellish place in which nobody cared. There was no other thought in her confused mind but that need.

But go where?

She felt herself convulsing, sobs raking her whole body. Her mother could not help even if she wished to. Theodore would not do, not against that. Millie and Draco might be the worst choice of all.

Get out. The scream was confined within her mind, as she could not articulate words. Her magic buzzed at the thought. She could feel a pull, at the edge of her senses; a presence, hiding just beyond the corner of her eye. If she closed her eyes, that small light was all she could see; a guide, much like a lone lumos in the darkness. She knew, purely through intuition, to let herself fall into that tugging sensation. An unfamiliar twist followed and her stomach churned as the floor vanished and reshaped under her hands and knees.

She opened her eyes once more, disoriented. The floor was now softer and warmer than the cold, stone room in which she had collapsed, back at the manor. Her tears would not let her see and she felt so dizzy and breathless she might not recognize the place anyway, but a warm hand settled on her arm and the worry in that voice was unmistakable.

"Pansy? Pansy, what's wrong?"

Pansy could not speak. She could barely breath. She could only cry. And so she held onto Hermione and buried her head on her hair and just sobbed uncontrollably.


She sat sniffling on Granger's bed, propped on some pillows, having finally calmed down enough for the muggleborn to force a mug of hot chocolate into her hands. Apparently, it could fix anything.

Granger sat next to her, having left her alone for barely a minute to procure them the hot beverages, and went back to patting her back in a reassuring manner.

"Want to talk about it?" she asked awkwardly. Pansy snorted at her poor attempt at dealing with the situation.

She forced herself to take a sip and found it less sweet and more bitter than she had assumed. Good. She felt she needed bitter in order not to throw up.

"Congratulate me, Granger," she said in a tone even more sour, so harshly the other girl flinched. "I'm engaged."

The silence was deep and prolonged, and she thought Granger might not even be breathing. "Whom to?" she finally whispered in a dread. How humorous, Pansy thought, that only Granger would fear for her. Who would have ever guessed?

"Lestrange."

Granger did not gasp in horror as she had thought, nor mumble quick sorrys and empty nothings. She just jumped on her and hugged her fiercely, forcing Pansy to cover her chocolate mug in a hurry, lest it spill. She felt her eyes water once more, against her will. Her lower lip trembled and she gripped Granger's arm and basked in her warmth. Their magic slowly intertwined and she felt better.

"Yes, yes, I know you're devastated," she drawled, trying to force her voice through the knot in her throat, "but our love was always impossible, Granger."

Granger actually hit her arm at that, making her yelp, and then just held her even tighter, until she was sobbing out of control once more.

"Can they force you?" Granger asked once she had gathered herself enough. "You're not underage anymore."

"You think I'm gonna be standing in front of that man and say no?" she snapped, but Granger was not offended at her tone. She was angry on her behalf.

"Then don't stand in front of the man!" she exclaimed, all righteous conviction. "He's still in Azkaban, isn't he?" Pansy nodded. They ignored how the still meant they both believed he would be set free once more. "And you're in Hogwarts. They can't pull you out in the middle of the year to marry you off!"

"Yes, they could," she corrected. It had been done before. Granger looked horrified, which made her chuckle. "As soon as he's out, I'm guessing." The man would surely be eager.

"Then don't go," Granger asked her, taking her hand. They locked eyes. She was dead serious. "When they tell you to, don't go. You're seventeen. You stay at Hogwarts no matter what, and then in the summer you can come here."

Pansy felt tears once more welling up in her eyes, and bit her lip to force herself to remain serene. She felt like a child, she was crying so much. She was torn between feeling grateful and feeling vexed at having to accept her hospitality. She, a pureblood witch, accepting charity from muggles. Oh, how wars changed the world.

Still, better muggles than the Lestranges.

She nodded, and Granger jumped on her once more, making her huff impatiently. "Enough feely feels, Granger. They'll catch," she sneered. Granger giggled –actually giggled! She was getting out of practice at being nasty, how preposterous!– and held on.

"You can stay until the end of Christmas break, if you want to," Granger offered. "No need to go back there."

Pansy's eyes itched but she held back. She could not help herself and smiled softly. "You'll regret this," she warned.

Hermione laughed out loud. "I'm absolutely sure I will, you insufferable woman."


Hermione woke up the next morning to a huge pile of fancy suitcases and trunks stacked up in precarious equilibrium in the middle of her room. Pansy was awake a few feet away from her, on the extra bed they kept for guests. "The shrinking charm must have worn off," she commented as she painted her nails a soft peach colour.

"You brought your luggage with you?" she asked, still groggy from sleep.

"Of course not," the girl rolled her eyes, "mother sent it half an hour ago."

There was an open letter on her covers, and Pansy's eyes were red, which meant she might have cried again in the morning.

"Did they kick you out?" she whispered, wondering if she should be fetching more chocolate.

Pansy scoffed, "They wouldn't send a thing if they had," she pointed out. "Mother just noticed I hadn't taken anything with me when I left. She wishes for me to dress properly while I impose on my friends."

"She knows where you are?" Hermione was confused now.

"She knows I'm not there," she shrugged. But at Hermione's insisting stare, she added, "She must be guessing it's better if she doesn't know. Just in case." She raised her newly manicured hand and blew softly, willing the nails to dry.

Hermione nodded, slowly grasping the situation now. "Your mother wants to help you," she tried to clarify, "and your father's the one who…?"

"Sold me off? Well, yes. Pretty much." Hermione grimaced at her answer. Pansy saw her through the corner of her eye and raised her head, "Daddy's never been the most reliable of men."

Hermione frowned at the sheer amount of luggage the woman had sent her daughter. Between her parents and herself they did not own half as much as Pansy must have piled up in there. She wondered if it was only for the ten days until they left for Hogwarts again, or everything the girl owned. She preferred not to ask.

"There's quite a few books, too," Pansy informed her. Hermione went around the pile to check the other side. At least twenty old tomes were firmly tied in strong bands. "These look obscure," she told her with a frown.

"I asked her about blood magic not too long ago," Pansy had finished with her nails and stood to join her, pulling the first one free. "She must have guessed I would need these?"

As she flipped open the tome –written in suspiciously red ink– Hermione was suddenly reminded of her own blood magic book, buried in the depths of her trunk. "Oh," she gasped, realizing it might be smart to bring it to Pansy's attention. She might have some insight into it.

Pansy, having heard her, narrowed her eyes and stared with suspicion. "What?" she asked at seeing her shift awkwardly.

Hermione fetched the book and handed it to her with an apologetic look. The same faded, golden letters read "The Coven", and yet it somehow felt much more ominous. Pansy's breath caught and she opened it with a care untypical of her.

She read the first few sentences and asked, "Where did you find this?" a certain awe tinting her voice.

"Hogwarts Library, some time ago."

"Some time ago?" Pansy sounded accusatory, and Hermione grimaced. She fumbled for an excuse, but her guest kept going. "And you kept it from me? When you must have known this is what our ritual is all about?"

Hermione felt herself go red, but before she could defend herself Pansy chuckled, looking almost proud. Hermione faltered, confused. "Keeping such a thing a secret for such a long time… It's the key to our little situation. Circe, I didn't think you had it in you."

Was she praising her? Pansy could be the weirdest person, sometimes. "You're not mad?"

"Mad? Well, I'm fucking annoyed it took you so long. We could have been making progress," she emphasized, "But it's not like I would have shared either," she shrugged.

Hermione frowned, now annoyed herself. No, Pansy would not have shared either. They were not exactly friends, after all. Well, at least not before. Now… Well, now they were so much more than just friends.

"A Coven," she said almost reverently. "Witches joined together in small groups, tied strongly through old magic. The old tales always speak of sacrifice and obscure rituals that no person alive knows anymore." She almost giggled, giddy. "Oh, it makes so much sense!"

"So you've heard of them," Hermione confirmed. "In legends, in old tales. Ever heard of a real one?" she asked, now getting excited herself. Pansy might know more about the topic.

Pansy rolled her eyes at the question. "We are a real one, Granger."


A/N: Thanks again for all comments! I truly appreciate your opinions. Things will be happening soon, in this first part of the story. As you see, some big changes are taking place! I'm excited :) What do you think? And also, anyone wants to see Pansy face a specific "device" in the muggle world? I'm running out of ideas haha

Thanks to Gremlin Jack and silverlovedragoness for betaing!