A/N: much love to you all. Writer's block is being a hoe but I think (?) we're past it for now, so new chapters should be coming soon! And ive finally gotten some work done on my own books so we're calling it a tentative win.

Hope you enjoy it!

It's only her second time patrolling with Pansy, but—she doesn't mind at all, really.

They fall into an easy silence as they did the first time, though they both make occasional comments as they come to mind.

They'd both picked up other people's patrol shifts, tonight, as there's a Quidditch match and most of the other Prefects likely hope to partake in post-game festivities, so their lack of interest in the sport is serving as one more point of commonality.

Pansy is—incredibly witty, and clever, and funny in a way so full of fire it reminds her of Ginny, largely. Hermione's started paying more attention to her in class and the Great Hall, and—she keeps to herself, mostly.

(So much so the brunette wonders if she should worry.)

The other girl is in the midst of a story about something idiotic Crabbe did in the Slytherin common room last week when her voice goes suddenly silent, her body freezing stock still.

"What—" Hermione looks over to see the blood gone from her face, panic in her eyes.

(A familiar kind of horror.)

Pansy's lips tremble, but she clenches her jaw, remaining frozen as Roger Davies and a sixth year Gryffindor girl stroll past without glancing at them.

Pansy slumps against the brick wall as soon as the pair have rounded the next corner, her eyes closed.

"Pansy?" Hermione asks tentatively. "Is there—anything I can do?"

The dark haired girl takes a deep breath before re-opening her eyes, straightening. "I-I'm fine. Don't worry about it."

Hermione doesn't push, allows it to sink back into silence.

(But the day Pansy had begged to switch patrols—it had been to avoid Ravenclaw Tower.)

(And now she's having a panic attack at the sight of Roger Davies. It doesn't take much guesswork.)

/

"Mia," Harry groans, spitting Hermione's hair out of his mouth after she jerks her head too fast and whacks him with the mass.

"Sorry!" She gives a brief smile before turning back to the fireplace—the one in the RoR they're using to floo call into Order meetings.

They'd tried to get Remus and Professor McGonagall to let them go with them physically, but she'd insisted it would be too suspicious, which—while not wrong, they still hated not being able to actually be at Grimmauld.

There's not much news—McGonagall reveals the newest info from her source (aka Draco), which is just more of the same: the Death Eaters are after the weapon, and it's in the ministry.

(The Order is aware and rotating guard shifts, but they won't disclose the specifics of the what or where within the Ministry it is, which—Hermione has a bad feeling.)

Percy recounts that the Minister is still staunchly denying Voldemort's return—the rumors of his recent strife with his family have done their job, getting him closer to Fudge and other central players. His role has the unfortunate consequence of his not being allowed to be viewed with Tonks (who everyone knows is tight with the Dumbledore/Weasley/old-Light-side gang), but it's a necessary sacrifice—and one the woman in question doesn't mind, claiming that the secrecy is "spicy" and will be a fun story for either kids or nieces and nephews.

"How's ASA going, you two?" Ted asks, making Molly scowl with disproval.

"Well," Harry smiles nervously. "I, er—still feel out of my depth, but all the members are great and everyone's making awesome progress. And I think that's making them do better, too, because they feel more confident and less incapable if the war—yeah."

"Harry's being modest—he's doing a phenomenal job teaching," Hermione promises, sticking her tongue out at him when he pinches her side in retribution. She looks to the where Minevra is seated. "Professor, have you heard anything about whether Umbridge has been convinced we're not doing it? Or you, Remus?"

McGonagall tilts her head thoughtfully. "She's definitely suspicious of something, because the interhouse relations have been—better than in living memory, in all honesty. I don't believe she's considered that the defense group is still meeting, because she doesn't know about the RoR, so from her perspective there's no physical way you could still be holding it. And that clever charm of Miss Weasley's is working perfectly, as no students have said anything, so—continue being cautious and behaving as though she's on your tail, but I personally see no reason to actively worry."

Remus nods, mentioning that he's interpreted the situation similarly.

And even though that's pretty much what they'd already assumed, she feels just a bit of the tension seep out of both her and Harry at the confirmation.

(They're making a difference.)

(And maybe it's not big—maybe it will only end up changing things for one person.)

(But to save one person is to save an entire world.)

/

Honey.

It's such a small, inconsequential word.

(And yet—)

(It's enough to send her spiraling.)

(Honey.)

As soon as it came out of Draco's mouth she'd locked up, dissociated entirely; he pulls back immediately, knowing something's clearly wrong, but she can't explain at the moment, just—

(turns her head away from him, cringing and tamping down the urge to throw up because for whatever reason that word is one her brain has decided to cling to.)

She curls in on herself further, wishing it were possible to crawl out of her own skin and not know the thoughts in her brain, the memories that revolt her, just—jettison out of her body and not let them feel like hers anymore.

"You have to breathe, Juliet," Draco says softly after a moment, and he's right, he's absolutely right, but breathing hurts and to release a breath is to release a modicum of control, and—

She feels more stable after a few minutes, leaning back against the headboard of the bed and squeezing Draco's hand in thanks when he hands her a cup of water.

His eyes are full of guilt, and it—sends a pang to her heart to see.

"Hey. I love you. You didn't—do anything wrong," she promises, voice raspy. "I just—don't call me that. Please. Baby is—good. Perfect."

(Untainted.)

Draco worries at his bottom lip. "Mia, why—"

"I don't want to talk about it." She says the words firmly, not meeting his eyes.

"I think we should at least—"

"I said no, Draco!" her pitch is getting higher, and she can feel her breathing get shallow at the thought that he might not let it go this time. "I don't make you talk about what's happened to you, or why certain things—I leave you alone about the shit you've gone through at home!"

"Yes, but I've actually said the words! You're—bottling it all up, and if you don't let out a little bit one day you're going to explode. Just—please, Hermione."

She can feel her whole body trembling—for only the third time in her life, physically pulls away from her soul mate.

(He recoils at the look in her eyes—the fact that in this moment, she's seeing him as a threat.)

But she can't help it, it's—he means well, and he's probably right, but she doesn't want to and it makes it feel out of her control and—

(she's had enough out of her control, and it's not worth the fight but she can't help the urge to do it anyway because she's in that headspace and the honey just sent her straight to the darkest parts of her mind and it just—)

Draco turns his face so she can't see the anguish he wears—the horror, at knowing a part of her believes him capable of doing anything to hurt her.

(it's not her fault—life has taught her to believe it, and she has every reason to; love doesn't override years of conditioning.)

(but he hates that life has done enough harm for her to be conditioned so thoroughly.)

He holds his hands up—not moving fast or close to her enough to make her flinch, just to gesture that he's relenting. "Okay, baby, we can—whatever you want. Whenever you're ready. I don't…" fingers through his hair, tugging at the roots. "I don't want to upset you, or make you feel…I just—you haven't seemed like yourself, lately. And if me being there for you would help, then—I want to."

She tugs the blanket she'd pulled over herself up to her chin, clenched knuckles hiding her mouth, because it's all she can do to hold back tears and screams of pain and frustration, and it's really, really not her soul mate's fault.

"I know," she whispers. "And I—when I'm ready, I promise. I just—" her voice breaks, and she shakes her head, swallowing heavily. "I'm not there. I—right now it's all I can do to keep breathing."

(a brutal truth, but honesty about that much feels like something he deserves.)

Draco bites his lip but nods in understanding—hates it, but has been there too. "Can I—are you—do you want to go to bed?"

Hermione doesn't respond verbally, but lays down, scooching closer until he does the same. She slides her arms around his waist, tucking her face into his bare chest and breathing more easily when the familiar scent envelops her.

And it's—as tense as it felt a few minutes ago, as volatile as they both feel internally, at the end of the day they know they're okay if they're with each other; even during spats like this, even during full-out fights they've had, they understand each other so deeply, are too committed to each other and each other's happiness to ever truly take it to heart.

"I want to do something not in secret," she blurts out sleepily. "Together. The Polyjuice you use for ASA meetings, or I can get hair from someone or—I don't know. But I just want one day where we can go to lunch or coffee or something like normal people."

Draco hums, a hand moving up and down along her spine. "That sounds great, baby. I'm sure we can figure something out. Tonks would help—Sirius too."

Another moment of silence, and then, so softly he almost misses it. "I—I really am sorry about before. I know I overreacted, but I—"

Her face is hidden, but they're so close together he can feel the beginnings of tears spill against his sternum, where her head is tucked under his chin.

"I'm sorry too. I pushed, and that's not what you need right now. I just—" he stares at the bookshelves adorning the walls in the dim of the room. "It's like you're Atlas—you carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, and you do it so well no one thinks to worry that it's hurting you, and I just—want to help shoulder the burden. You always do for me, but I don't feel like I'm always…contributing as much."

"Well you're very good in bed, so that is a great contribution."

Draco pokes her in the side but snorts, familiar to her humor deflection during emotional moments—something he's noticed she and Harry both do frequently, so unused to expressing emotion, to having others speak positively about and to them.

(as hellish as his home life is, he's always had his mother—has always known he's loved.)

"Really, though," Hermione speaks. "I feel like you're my emotional support crutch constantly. You do…so much more for me than you will ever know. I—I couldn't do it without you and Harry. I really, really couldn't. You—" she breathes, and he tries not to flinch when the soft puff of air tickles the bare skin of his chest. "You make this world bearable."

(They whisper I love you, and they're both passed out within ten minutes, while Crookshanks lays at their feet.)

/

They're leaving double potions, the one class Gryffindor and Slytherin fifth years all have together this year; the hallway is packed, obviously, and it's the last class on a Friday, so everyone is noisy and distracted.

(Hermione's just a couple feet behind her, but it's not just the proximity—she's the only one paying enough attention to notice.)

Pansy's walking alone, and Hermione doesn't notice until Roger Davies is right there—until he's "accidentally" bumping Pansy's shoulder,

He whispers something as he passes, too soft for Hermione to hear, but Pansy's entire body goes rigid.

Roger smirks—and it's a familiar smirk to Hermione, the expression of a man without a care in the world.

(The expression of a man who knows no harm he causes will ever have consequences.)

She'd had a strong inkling she and Pansy had that in common, but at the predatory golden-boy smile, she knows it's him—he's Pansy's monster.

Pansy stands frozen where she'd paused, but before anyone else can notice Hermione hurries to her—gently reaches for her arm where she can see it coming.

"Just breathe," she whispers, steering the other girl down the hallway. "I know somewhere we can go. Somewhere safe."

Pansy nods, muscles tight and fists clenched, but follows her up to the eighth floor, where she does nothing more than raise an eyebrow at the manifestation of the Room of Requirement.

Hermione asks the room for plush couches and a pile of soft throw blankets, and the magic doesn't disappoint; they curl up on opposite seats, facing each other, and she can tell the weight of blankets is soothing to Pansy like it is herself; the weight feels safe, and grounding, and reminds her that she's here.

They're both quiet for a moment, and Hermione can guess from experience that Pansy's unable to tear her mind from hellish memories, so she says, "Liquor?" and Pansy says, "Merlin, yes," and then they're making their way through a handle of tequila.

(Which, she knows Harry will frown about, but—long term repercussions of alcoholism are the least of her worries.)

(That's the thing—nothing anyone says will deter her, because yeah drinking has some negative impacts but it's all she can do right now to make it through the day, and when it feels so hard to breathe every moment of the day she thinks it's a hell of a lot better to fuck over her liver than abstain from the coping mechanism and end up caving to the dark impulses in her mind she never mentions to her boys.)

(To do so would be…much more permanent.)

Which, in all honesty, is probably why Harry hasn't pushed the issue yet this term, hasn't tried to talk to Draco about the severity to get him to help have an intervention.

(If it gets her through the day, if it keeps her alive long enough to someday have an intervention…it's the best she can do, right now.)

All of her energy goes to holding herself together at the cracks—pushing the broken pieces together so tight no one can tell she's crumbling.

(Which means the broken pieces just keep hurting her more, but she doesn't have it in her to deal with right now.)

She turns her attention to Pansy, though, because it's easier to help someone else through hell than try to escape her own—isn't that why she plays the mothering role in all her friendships, after all?

"I was surprised to see you at the ASA meetings," she says tentatively, fumbling for something to talk about. "From what I'd heard…well, I just expected that you wouldn't want to risk your family finding out."

"Well, they won't what with your security spells, will they? And," Pansy contorts her lips into a smirk, though her eyes remain hollow. "I really don't care if they do. They'd be livid, but there's nothing they can do to me I haven't already been through."

Yes, something in Hermione screams, because the sentiment resonates—it's something she thinks whenever her mother tries to remind her of safety precautions to take, of dodgy places to avoid.

"It's really cool of you to do, by the way—and to let everyone join."

Hermione shrugs bashfully. "It's—it shouldn't be a surprise that we did. I hate the house rivalry, and Dumbledore….well, anyway." After a beat, she swallows before gently saying, "He—if you don't want him there, I can—kick him out, obliviate him, whatever we need to do."

She's not talking about Dumbledore, now; carefully avoids saying his name, in case it sets Pansy off like her uncle's does herself.

Pansy blows out a heavy breath, shaking her head rapidly. "I—I appreciate the offer. Really. But…it would be more trouble than it's worth. Everyone thinks he's…"

She trails off, because it's obvious—he's Quidditch captain, and beloved to both his house and the school; he has a golden reputation and no one would be capable of doing anything bad.

And Hermione's heart screeches with feeling so fucking validated, because she knows this—gets it, viscerally.

They both down two more shots, and after a few moments of content quiet, once the alcohol has kicked in a bit more, Pansy quietly speaks. "We dated. Last year. He—he wanted to keep it a secret, said it was romantic that way, and…he's older, and a Quidditch star, and just seemed so far out of my league, and I felt so lucky that he wanted to be with me." A bitter laugh escapes her, and she pours another drink before continuing. "And it felt—so exciting, at first. Like I was special, and this thing being just between us meant it was precious.

"And then he—it—" Pansy closes her eyes, swallowing heavily. "The whole thing became a horror show. And it was in the middle of the Triwizard Tournament, so no one was paying attention anyway. And then he was—hurting me every way a person can, and no one knew to worry, and—" she chokes, fists clenching with frustration.

Hermione laughs bitterly. "And telling would be useless, because no one would believe him capable of any of it. Of fucking course. He's a hotshot superstar man, and they can do no wrong. Everyone always…god, they all always think they know a person, that they know they wouldn't do it, but just because he's never preyed on them they don't think he's a monster."

The other girl gestures in emphasis, nodding. "Exactly. Telling would be—just, useless. I'm in Slytherin, and everyone in this fucking hell school thinks we're evil, so why the fuck would anyone ever believe me? Over him?" She chuckles darkly, and both of them finish off the drink they have in hand.

"What a shitty world. Be nice if our bodies just—I don't know, belonged to ourselves."

"What a fucking concept."

Hermione hums, before gently asking. "No one else knows?"

"Nope. Madam Pomfrey—suspects, I guess. I tried to handle it all on my own, but I went to the hospital wing for a few broken bones, and…anyway, when she started getting suspicious I stopped going. Started healing them on my own. Not that I was good at it at first, but I got the hang of them after a while."

"Nifty talent," Hermione raises her eyebrows, impressed.

"What about you?" Pansy asks—and it's about whether she's had to go to Pomfrey, but also deeper than that.

(When you've been there, you know—so Pansy can see her soul right back. Wouldn't have opened up about any of it if she didn't know she was among her own.)

"She's never…it's over breaks, for me. And before Hogwarts."

And Pansy's face twitches—

(because before Hogwarts means before age eleven, and no one likes to acknowledge that it happens then; no one talks about how it can be your earliest memory, the main thing you recall from childhood. it's too horrifying for them all to consider.)

(so they don't.)

(Hermione's never had the luxury.)

But Pansy doesn't dwell, or pity her—she has a look like she knows something about going through fucked up things at a young age, so she sails along, as Hermione had done for her. "Muggle, then?"

"Yep. And beloved by the community, like they all are—a politician, actually."

The other girl mimes gagging irreverently, pouring another shot for herself and then Hermione as well. "Of course he is. Men are monsters with or without magic."

They toast to the sentiment, and it's—wonderful and horrible, and Hermione can already tell that being close to Pansy is going to be so good for her.

(she knows the darkness, too.)

A few hours in, when they're both properly plastered, the door swings open and Draco strolls inside; he doesn't spot Pansy at first, just clambers onto their usual couch and draws Hermione into his arms before she can stumble through a warning.

Pansy raises her eyebrows, making Draco jump by saying, "That's cute but I'm not one for watching so don't get too steamy over there."

"Merlin, Pans," he moans, pressing a hand to his chest. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"We're friends now," Hermione informs him. "I love her."

"That's wonderful, love, but—" Draco sniffs at her, raising an eyebrow. "Mia, are you drunk?"

She nods with a giggle. "Very. We've been—destressing."

He rolls his eyes, pulling her closer to him. "Of course you have. You realize it's not even dark out yet, you heathens."

(She feels guilty—that she's hidden it so well that he doesn't know to worry.)

His mind is far away; he stares down Pansy with a worried expression.

But the girl just snorts at his narrowed eyes. "Chill, Malfoy. I'm not going to tell anyone about your little secret relationship. I've known for a while, anyway."

Hermione's neck snaps towards her, this surprising even through the haze of drunkenness. "You what?"

Pansy laughs, a bemused smile on her face. "Yeah. I mean, I'm sure you're both careful, but you stare at each other when the other person isn't looking way more than any enemies do. Like, you're good at hiding your emotions when you need to and all—I mean, all of us with fucked up childhoods are, it's just a thing—but anyway, as much as your expressions are closed off, you can't keep your eyes off each other. Not to mention…well, I know you, Malfoy. And I pay attention."

"Yeah, I really love you," Hermione announces decisively, reaching her cup out to cheers with an amused but beaming Pansy.

Draco just shakes his head, fingers massaging at his temple. "At this rate everyone but the middle weasel knows. Hell. Not that I don't trust you, Pans, but…anyone knowing is dangerous."

She purses her lips. "So then why don't you have all of us who know make an Unbreakable Vow not to tell? Or use that secret keeping spell you concocted for ASA." They both blink in surprise, and she arches an eyebrow. "How can you be two of the smartest people on the planet and yet so lacking in common sense?"

Hermione shrugs. "That's what we keep Blaise and Ginny around for."

Pansy heads out a bit later, citing having had enough social interaction for the day and needing some alone time, but she hugs Hermione goodbye in a way that lets her know this isn't a one-time thing.

(How could it be? When you find someone with the same wounds on their soul…well, you keep them.)

"So, what exactly did you and Pansy Parkinson talk about while getting plastered for several hours?"

"Just girl stuff." Draco gives her a look, so she acquiesces. "Shitty childhoods and trauma and whatnot. It was…really good. I think her and Harry would get along. If she doesn't terrify him."

He tenses. "She and Ginny are never allowed to become friends."

"The fact that the prospect is so terrifying makes me think that is exactly what is going to happen."

They get out their homework, eventually, but her thoughts drift to Roger Davies.

It's—she understands why Pansy hasn't said anything. Why she never will.

(Understands it more than she understands almost anything in this life.)

But the fact that he's just a student—just some asshole breaking things to feel powerful.

(breaking skin and bones and spirit.)

He deserves retribution—doesn't deserve his reputation. And Pansy deserves so much more than to have to hear all of her peers, her friends, singing his praises. It makes Hermione nauseous to even imagine what the other girl is feeling, to imagine feeling some of the things Pansy had mentioned he'd done—

(at which point she remembers that yes, actually, she can imagine, because she's been through it to.)

It's not the same, of course, it's different for every person—even every time—but the fact remains she's so horrified when it's someone else—

(so desensitized to the violence that's been wrought over her own body—so dissociated from it.

(it's…Sirius might have a point, about her needing to talk to someone. and Harry, about telling Draco being good for her.)

(soon. She'll—figure things out, soon.)

But in the meantime…Roger Davies needs to be dealt with. The side of her that made a rare appearance to handle Rita Skeeter…it's thrumming, more angry than ever, and she has a feeling Sirius and Aunt Andy would absolutely be willing to lend a hand.

(Hermione will find a way to fuck him up.)

/

"I have a question," George announces, sitting down beside her on the bleachers.

It's a Gryffindor Quidditch practice, and she's been coming (with homework) fairly regularly since Ron is still new and can use the support; Ginny's there, too, having been made the reserve player (which she was uniquely qualified for as someone good at every position, thanks to all of her experience rotating in for whichever brother wasn't around or playing any given game).

It's their mid-practice break, and the others are all laying on the field allegedly trying to read the clouds divination style, thogh Hermione's fairly certain they just didn't feel like getting up to walk to the locker room and grab a snack.

"Go for it," she says to George, turning to face him expectantly.

"How do you and Boyfriend's roommates not notice that you're gone all the time? You stay in the RoR at least one if not several nights every week, and they just—don't catch on?"

Hermione grins. "Perks to being a bookworm—everyone just assumes I'm doing homework somewhere or in the library. I've been known to fall asleep there in the past, so they usually just figure I'm there till after they've fallen asleep, and they think I get up early to start on studying as early as possible. They actually are under the impression I'm quite the naturally early riser."

George's jaw drops. "You're kidding me—you are the opposite of a morning person. I have scars from trying to wake you up early!"

She shrugs, eyes shining with laughter. "I can't help that they've come to some incorrect conclusions. And it works to my advantage, so."

"Of course it does. Merlin." He shakes his head. "And Boyfriend?"

"Oh, well they think he sleeps around a lot, so they assume he's there if he's gone at night—and he's similarly a good student, so they likewise think he's doing work. He also—" she snorts, but continues, "most of them aren't convinced that he's not the Heir of Slytherin—his father coming to campus after the last day the chamber was opened fueled the rumors, and of course they're all too terrified to ask and he's never going to deny it. There's a rumor among them that he has more plush accommodations set up for himself in the Chamber, and so he spends lots of time there. It's kind of hilarious, actually."

"To be fair, the RoR is more plush accommodations."

"Touche."

They sit in companionable silence, until a few minutes later when Fred and Harry both shout—and Ginny's cackle rings across the field.

"What on—oh my god." Hermione presses a hand to muffle her own giggles at the sigh of both boys drenched and shivering, the now-empty water cooler sideways on the ground beside them, and Ginny a few yards away looking entirely guilty and unapologetic.

A/N:

* chapter title from drown by Bring Me the Horizon

Next chapter: career advising mtgs w Minnie my queen (ft umblegh), more pansy, ASA. Lmk if there's anything particular you'd like to see and I will see where/how I might squeeze it in

Also WERE GETTING A PJO SHOW NOTHING ELSE MATTERS IN THE WORLD

lots of love—take care of yourselves.