She was behaving strange.
Pansy Parkinson did not do any other thing throughout the whole Herbiology lesson than coughing and wobbling. By now even Professor Sprout started worrying for the Slytherin as she supported herself with the help of her far more stabile Pickering Palm. The plant seemed appalled that someone was using it for lean on as it squirmed uncomfortably under the plus weight.
Hermione tried to pay attention to the lesson, but was unable to tear her eyes away from the former Slytherin prefect. She may have been drunk yet again – she started mumbling to the tree in the last four minutes in a slurry voice, which was, indeed, really weird.
With a sigh, she lifted her hand and asked Sprout, "Can I get Miss Parkinson to the Infirmary? She seems to have some problems."
She received a nod, and not bothered by their classmates' curious eyes – especially not by Neville's as he gawked at her much like in a starving vulture's manner –, Hermione marched to the other girl. She pulled her away from the irritated plant before it started striking them and with receiving no help from the moaning, barely conscious girl, she got out of the Second Green House.
"Momma...," Parkinson whined, her dreamy eyes sticking to Hermione's brown curls as they jumped with each of their hurried steps.
She seemed enticed by the motion and even lifted her hand to touch it, head tilted to the side.
"Imma dizzy...," and before Hermione could even comprehend, Pansy was vomiting directly at the rose bush they were walking by.
"Good god," Hemione groaned as she held Pansy's head by the hair in the right angle, not to cause more problems to the poor drunkard.
It seemed to help her as the alcohol induced fog practically faded from her eyes. She was sitting on her legs, hands grasping in the grass as she locked eyes with the reprimanding hazels of Hermione. She'd learned it from Mrs. Weasley, no doubt.
"Are you feeling better?"
Parkinson scowled at her, while, probably, not the least enjoying the foul taste left in her mouth. She answering Hermione reluctantly, "What do you think, Granger?"
"Great, you got your sarcasm on spot," the deputy Head Girl stated rigidly and dragged the other woman on her two feet, not giving her time for objections, "But it's clear you still need some time to entirely sober up. We're going to Myrtle's bathroom." Without waiting for answers, she pulled the still wobbly Pansy behind her, climbing the stairs as if there was no force able to stop her.
"Not to the Infirmary? "
"Do you wish to be expelled?" she raised a delicate eyebrow and Pansy looked away, not giving any answer to the rhetorical question.
It was hard to climb up all the staircases as they needed two breaks between each levels – Parkinson was in poor condition and extremely exhausted. When they – finally – entered the bathroom Myrtle bellowed at them and Hermione needed to hush her away while Pansy emptied her stomach yet again.
In front of the mirror, Pansy splashed some water on her face before sitting down on the cold tile, her back to the wall as she panted. Hermione sat with her, even if she couldn't help much, she'd be there should something worse happen.
"Thank you, Granger," she nodded her head in acknowledgement and gave a tissue to the black haired woman, who took it gracefully. Not that she would make it heard all across Hogwarts. "Though, you should stop with your charity project."
She knotted her brows in confusion, "You mean about the house elves?"
Pansy snorted in disbelief, "About the Slytherins, Granger. We're inferior, according to common belief. Everyone's moody, thanks to that. Draco was even jinxed because of it for a few occasions. The girls stuck in their dormitories as some boy caught Tracy alone and pulled her in an alcove. Even if inferior, we're good for whores. If it wasn't for Goyle... Tracy...," and she shook her head, unable to continue on.
Hermione looked down, studying the pattern of the tiles, trying not to imagine herself in Davis' situation, "That's... terrible, really. Can I get the names?" When Parkinson looked at her like she was dull, Hermione added, "The name of the bullies. Maybe there's something..."
Pansy grimaced, "Charity. Stop it already," and with this, she took out a flask from her robe's inner pocket, ready to down it in one go.
"Are you mental?" Hermione squeaked, ripping the metal case away from her clutch. She could be careless about the fine patterns and beautiful – handmade, no doubt – etching on the material as she cried out when feeling it heating to the point that it burned her skin.
Hermione threw the fancy flask away. It landed on the hard stone with a loud clash that seemed to shake their silence.
She looked up at the dumbstruck Pansy who had her eyes open to the point that it looked painful, "I'm sorry Granger."
"You're not yourself, Parkinson," she barked back as she tried to cool her hands, firing some healing spells on her injured skin. It helped nothing – so she gritted her teeth and bore the pain without whining. She didn't dare think about the real reason why it did burn her skin and why it did not Pansy's.
But the Slytherin was fast to provide her with answers.
Parkinson let out a shaky breath before starting a ramble. It felt endless to Hermione's ears as she tried to shut the majority out of her mind.
"I shouldn't have pulled it out! It... that flask's Draco's. Been in his family for probably forever. I... I stole it from him yesterday, when he was sleeping... or rather unconscious from the whiskey," she confessed and glanced at Hermione's puffed up, red skin. "As it seems it has some spells on."
Hermione bit in the inside of her cheek, "Spells against mudbloods," she concluded with a small voice, gulping down the bile that rose in her throat.
"As it seems," Pansy agreed, unable to meet her eyes. "I should go," she said and was on her two feet immediately, ready to storm away, before Hermione grabbed her forearm stopping the other woman. Her black hair swirled as a gown around her head as she sharply turned back.
"Can you... do you know the counter-spell?" she nodded toward the innocently lying flask, full of Ogden's finest, "I really need a drink now. And no more Malfoy family secrets."
Pansy – despite the fucked up situation they were in –, laughed hysterically. She ended up on the floor, beside her, as she continued guffawing, hot tears running down on her elegant cheekbones.
"Granger... I— I can't even fathom what's going on inside your head!" she let the laugh overrule her control once again, "I... We haven't been doing magic outside of our classes, Granger. Our wands are checked daily! How the fuck should I do the counter-spell? How would they act when seeing that I broke a seal that powerful? They won't know what spell was for... And besides, I'm sure it's blood magic on that damn thing! Freakish Malfoy ancestors, those are! I'm not even sure if Draco even knew..."
She didn't noticed her paling expression as she rambled on and on about the dark magic the purebloods' ancestors used once, or how Hermione would be in mortal danger should she once decide to visit the Parkinson Manor. Or any of the purebloods' ancestral homes for that matter.
Turns out each pureblood family's secrets were fucked up.
Hermione rocketed from her spot to cubicle to empty her stomach. She didn't even sense Pansy's presence for a good deal of minutes as she heaved above the toilet's boil until the Slytherin was rubbing her back and holding up her tangled locks. She was crouching beside her, murmuring soft words which were numb to Hermione's consciousness.
"Thank you," she pressed out through the tight lock of her teeth. Pansy looked at her with tender eyes as she nodded to her.
They agreed on not going back to the class, but rather to the kitchens. Both needed something to keep on going for this day. Hot chocolate seemed the best choice out of all.
They abandoned the flask without a second thought, leaving it entirely to Myrtle's mercy.
Thoughts on this one?