Author's Note: Ok, so I am uploading chapters four through eight all today and you all need to thank Brittnay for that inspiration. Yay Britt. Okay, on with the story. As always, I still don't own the characters and I never will.


CHAPTER FOUR

Pansy awoke the next morning with a start, beads of sweat plastering her hair to her forehead and tears fresh in her eyes. She rolled over and flipped the blue sheets off of her; it seemed that Professor McGonagall had raided the Ravenclaw tower for bedding.

Her feet hit the cold stone floor and she let out a hiss of discomfort. Wiggling her toes Pansy let the bottom of her feet adjust to the temperature before standing up and padding over to the window. From here she could see the east half of the grounds which included part of the lake and the quidditch pitch. A smile flittered across her face as Pansy got an idea and turned back around to the trunk that was in front of her bed.

The spare room was equipped with everything a sudden guest might be seeking and for that Pansy was grateful. It was equipped with two standard double sized beds, both with the same dark blue bedding and silver pillow cases, and a trunk at the foot of them. It had a small wooden table in the corner with a chair, presumably out of one of the old classrooms, complete with initials and little phrases like "This class bites!" carved into it.

Pansy had to admit it was a nicely decorated room of good size and the adjoining bathroom was a plus. If there was one thing Pansy hated about the dorms it was the communal bathroom she had to share with six other girls her age, all of whom wanted to spend no less than an hour primping themselves.

Pulling out a pair of black sweat pants and a green Slytherin long sleeve t-shirt she had made custom at a muggle shop in London she ran into the bathroom to get dressed. She pulled off her pajamas and decked herself out in her outfit; she was a true Slytherin to the core and never gave up a chance to display her house pride.

She had to admit she loved the t-shirt she had made and was even nice enough to explain to the woman at the shop just what Slytherin meant. Of course, the old woman had thought she was crazy and charged her less in an attempt to get Pansy out of her store. She might scare away customers.

The shirt was deep emerald green that matched her eyes perfectly, or so said the nice lady's husband when she was trying to decide on a fabric, and had Parkinson written across the back in silver lettering. On the front, just above her left breast, was the Slytherin house crest. It was very Pansy.

Looking at herself in the mirror Pansy couldn't help but smiling, even in such difficult times. She was back at the one place that made her feel at home. Not to be mistaken, Pansy loved her actual home back in Ireland, but she was different from her parents and her sister. They accepted their roles in the world and she did not.

The thought of her parents and sister made tears well up in Pansy's eyes and she scowled at her reflection. She would have sworn she would be all out of tears by now, grieving yes, but crying? It was getting ridiculous and Slytherins just didn't cry; it wasn't part of the code of conduct.

Whipping her hair back into another pony tail Pansy slipped out of her room and out of the Headmistress office. She let out a sigh of relief as she wandered the familiar corridors just happy to be away from people. She knew getting the Order to trust her was going to be difficult, but necessary.

Hermione sat up in the stands of the quidditch pitch, with a book in hand, watching the first rays of sunlight peek over the eastern horizon, waiting for Harry to come out for his morning training. It was necessary for Harry to spend his time at Hogwarts attempting to find and destroy horcruxes, all the while gaining more intelligence on upcoming Death Eater killings. The only thing that truly kept him here, according to Hermione, was the quidditch pitch.

It was where he taught first years how to fly and referred the quidditch matches through-out the season. It was his first love and nothing, not even war, was going to keep that from him. Harry needed some sort of escape, and while Hermione had always thought he should be a bit more focused, especially after her loss of Ron, she knew he needed a way to release energy, a way to keep him calm.

After last night Hermione was even more worried for Harry and his well-being; over the years he had somehow managed to keep calm in most situations, taking everything in stride, but last night he had snapped once again. Not that she really blamed him. The wife of a deceased Death Eater had showed up at Hogwarts (which undoubtedly sent memories of sixth year through everyone's heads) begging for refuge.

Hermione still thought that Parkinson should have been thrown back out in the cold, it was what she deserved. She had chosen her side years ago, like they all had, and now it was time to start paying the consequences. There was a time when Hermione Granger, resident Know-It-All, Head Girl, and member of the Dream Team, was the logical one, the forgiving one, the person who would give anyone a second chance. That image was shattered only a year earlier.

The death of Ron had affected Hermione in ways that no one, not even Harry, could begin to understand. He had always been there and embodied everything Hermione wanted in a man. He was passionate, argumentative, and while he drove her up the walls sometimes it was only because he loved her so deeply he wanted to protect her from all harm.

He had a brilliant mind and a way of predicting moves by the enemy, but he hadn't been able to see what was coming his way. He had no idea that the raid on a muggle town in northern Scotland had been a trick, a trap, a scheme to kill one of the last important things in Harry's life.

And Harry. He was another sore subject for Hermione all together. After Ron's death, at the funeral, Harry was unshakeable. He didn't grieve, didn't cry, just muttered some nonsense about sacrifices in war and pushed on. He didn't pause for one second to think about the death of Ron or what Ron gave up for him, to help him win this war.

A figure slowly marched down the sloping grass lawns of Hogwarts causing Hermione to sit up in her seat and place the book she'd brought out with her in her lap. From far away she couldn't make out the figure, just that it was female in stature, but Hermione didn't know any females besides herself that would be up this early in the morning.

As the sun rose higher over the horizon and the small figure came closer Hermione suddenly noticed blonde hair and a green and silver shirt. Pansy Parkinson. Hermione sneered at her approaching form, mentally cursing her for disrupting the one place where Hermione, and Harry, could get a way to. What gave her the right to waltz in here and act as if everything was normal; as if she were back in school and had free run of the campus.

Pansy crossed the quidditch pitch, her trainers soaking through from dew on the grass, towards the supply shed. She hadn't packed her own broom as it was too big and at the time seemed a rather pointless item to bring. She could smell the rain that must have fallen only a few short hours early. It was a fresh smell, a clean smell, one that reminded Pansy so much of home…

No, not home. She wasn't going to think of home anymore. This was her new home. Or it was for the time being…

Hermione leaned forward against the railing in the Gryffindor stands and watched as Pansy mounted the old tattered Comet broom and shot up into the sky. She seemed a bit shaky at first, as if flying was a new concept for her, but in a few moments she had steadied herself and was lazily flying from one end of the pitch to the other weaving in and out of the stands and goal posts.

Hermione let out a frustrated growl when she realized that Pansy wasn't planning on leaving the pitch anytime soon and stood up. Marching very angrily back down to ground level she left the pitch and headed back up towards the castle to see if maybe, by some luck, there was a quiet place up there that no one knew about. It was just her luck that after all these years Slytherins still hadn't grown up and learned to stay out of the Gryffindor's way; they all simply wanted to cause trouble.

Flying was an amazing feeling to Pansy, relaxing even. Not much in the world could relax Pansy, allow her to let down her guard and forget all those prim and proper rules that had been drilled into her head for nineteen long years. Flying was a graceful form all its own that did not require knowing which fork to use or what color dress robes to wear in the summer or winter. In flying nothing mattered except the broom and the rider.

Harry strolled down towards the quidditch pitch with his broom leaning against his shoulder; it was a morning ritual, one both he and Hermione-- who for some reason always pretended to read while watching him do drills or chase after a snitch he'd nicked from the supply closet-- needed.

It was a way to let go of all emotion: anger, guilt, depression, even happiness. Nothing existed except for him, nature, and magic. On a broom the world was simple. There was no war, no death, no expectations, nothing. Just freedom.

Freedom was something Harry really wished he could have right now, but at the same time felt selfish for feeling that. The world needed him, needed his guidance and his support and his strength, and all he really wanted was a vacation. A nice, long one, perhaps to Ireland or France.

He had given up on saying life wasn't fair a long time ago; that much was fairly obvious to him at this point in his life and all he had left to do was accept it. His path was set for him, no two ways about it, and no matter what choices he made they would ultimately all be for the downfall of Voldemort.

Harry took a left at the lake, deciding to take the long way to the pitch. Hermione could wait. We all make mistakes, Potter. I plan on fixing mine. For some reason what Pansy had said the night before was skating around Harry's head followed closely by similar words spoken by Dumbledore in his sixth year. find quote

Harry snorted and switched his broom to his right shoulder. He supposed his mistakes were marginally bigger than everyone else's because they often resulted in death, and were more noticeable because of that scar on his forehead. As if by instinct Harry ran his free hand over the scar, his fingertips tracing the raised edge.

He had made those mistakes before, the kind he wished he could fix, could somehow make better, but that was impossible. You couldn't bring someone back from the dead. Their deaths were his fault, but what was he supposed to do about it? Nothing. Move on. Risk more lives trying to defeat and enemy who clearly didn't want to be defeated.

The sun had fully risen now and Harry was squinting his eyes as he made his way east trying to prevent himself from going blind. He was jarred from his thoughts when something slammed straight into his chest; as if by reflex he moved out his free hand to catch Hermione before she completely lost her balance.

His brow furrowed as she struggled out of his hold and continued at her quickened pace up towards the castle. Surely her day couldn't already be ruined. Classes hadn't even started for the day so she didn't have to teach the lower level Charms groups and he hadn't been informed of any new Death Eater movements.

"Hermione!" he called after her. She went on her way ignoring his somewhat panicky tone. Harry sighed as he spun back around. Ever since the death of Ron…

The death of Ron. That was one of those mistakes. He knew he shouldn't have sent Ron or his team of aurors into the battle, he knew it was a trap, he had this feeling; but Ron had pressed and Harry had agreed. That had gotten him far.

It just didn't feel real. It still didn't. Everything, all the deaths, all the battles, none of it seemed to be apart of reality; it shouldn't be apart of reality. It was too harsh and cruel. No one should have to face half the horrors that these men and women faced weekly, sometimes daily, just so he could get a final duel with Voldemort.

Hermione and him had grown apart, that much was true. They often fought when they were out of ear shot of others. About anything. Hermione would pick fights with him the way she once had with Ron almost as if she was trying to replace him, trying to fill the gap that was left once he had passed.

Once again Harry's train of thought was interrupted only this time Harry saw what it was that hit him and instantly over-rode his seeker reflexes and watched with a humored smile as Pansy fell to the ground.

"Wow, what a gentlemen," said Pansy as she picked herself up and dusted off her knees, "I can see why the ladies swooned over you at Hogwarts."

Harry raised an eyebrow at her. Was she trying to be funny? No. That would be impossible. Slytherins never bantered with Gryffindors.

"Sod off, Parkinson," he muttered pushing past her towards the quidditch pitch. Harry walked for a few steps when he realized she had just come from the direction of the pitch herself. Harry spun around to see she had already continued on her own path towards the castle. "Did you do something to Hermione!" he shouted after her.

Pansy stopped. Turning around she looked at Harry wondering for a brief second if he was serious in asking her that. Judging by the protective look in his eyes he was. "No."

"Are you sure?" he asked taking a few cautious steps towards her as if afraid she might hex him at any moment.

Pansy rolled her eyes. "Yes, Potter, I'm sure. I haven't seen Miss Granger--" Pansy paused before correcting herself, " Mrs. Weasley, since early this morning." Rolling her eyes once more she turned back towards the castle, retracing the familiar path towards the stone steps. "And stop looking so worried. I'm not going to hurt you!" she called over her shoulder.

Harry watched as she turned away still doubting that she had done something. While they had been merely ten or fifteen feet apart he still couldn't make out her eyes well enough to see if she was lying. Then she said he was worried.

"What makes you think I'm worried!" he shouted, anger taking an edge in his voice.

"You tell me!" she called back in response. Her voice was calm, but her blood was boiling. She knew that her past choices and current standings would make it hard to gain anyone's trust but the way Potter was treating her, as if her sole mission was to make his life a living hell, was beginning to rub her the wrong way. He honestly wasn't that important to her and shouldn't flatter himself so; he just was not worth her time.

Pansy took a deep breath as she continued walking. She was here for her own reason, for her family, and she needed to keep her temper in check. Yelling at the "holier than thou" Gryffindor was not going to help much.

Harry growled. She had no right to mess with him this way, asking silly questions and making stupid assumptions. Jogging he caught up with her and grabbed her left arm spinning her around to face him.

"I have no reason to fear you, Parkinson," he said, bringing his face so close to hers that she could feel his breath as it spread over her cheeks and down her neck. "It is you that should be worried."

"Let go of me."

Harry didn't let go. "What did you do to Hermione?" he questioned, his eyes scanning hers waiting to catch her in a lie, to prove that she meant harm to them, that she was on the wrong side of this war.

But her face and eyes remained blank, completely devoid of emotion. For a woman who had supposedly lost her family, the last thing that was supposed to matter to her, her face and eyes were calm. Her light sage eyes searched Harry's darker emerald ones in return.

"Nothing." Her eyes stayed locked with Harry's. No slight twitch, no glancing anywhere else, just locked onto his eyes that so many said reminded them of Lily. Harry frowned; not people could stand to lie to straight to someone and the thought that someone could made him sick. His grip tightened on her arm.

"Liar."

Pansy chuckled. "Slytherins do not lie, Mr. Potter," she said in a even tone. When Harry let out his own bark of skeptical laughter she expanded. "We exaggerate."

Harry stopped laughing, stopped trying to mock her, and looked down. Pansy gave him a brief, but sincere smile before wrenching her arm out of his grasp. She resisted the urge to rub the spot where his fingers had wrapped around her flesh and knew there would be bruises and simply walked past him and up the final hill before turning at Hagrid's old hut to make her final climb up to the stone steps.

Harry watched as she disappeared, furious once again. Her little charades were getting annoying and she needed to be stopped. Unfortunately that meant figuring out just why she was sent here and what information she would be leaking to the Death Eaters.