A/N:

Now, this is the first time I'm posting on FFN for nearly half a decade. I was a very regular writer and user before switching full time to Ao3 in 2017, and, well, my writing from before then is embarassing. I elected to make a new account, but I am romantashas on all other platforms, other than YouTube, where I am SunnyVids, if you want to verify that I am a real person!

DISCLAIMER: I am not a lawyer because of J.K. Rowling, so I truly hope she doesn't sue me. #transpeoplearepeople

CROSS POSTED ON AO3 & WATTPAD!

10:24pm on Friday, 13 December 1996

Hermione Granger and Pansy Parkinson had never gotten along.

(That was an understatement.)

Hermione Granger and Pansy Parkinson monumentally hated each other.

Hermione never let Harry or Ron in on the extent of it, that Parkinson and Millicent Bulstrode would corner her in the bathroom just to make fun of her hair, taunt her blood status, and hex her. Bulstrode had even once tried to dunk Hermione into the toilet, all while Parkinson cackled in the distance.

While the boys had their own nemeses, Hermione had hers.

The pug and the hag.

She had tried her darndest to simply ignore it. ("The best way to get the bullies to leave you alone is to not give them the attention they're looking for," her father had told her when she wrote a tear-stained letter in her first year. "They'll get bored and leave you alone eventually.") But they never stopped, never got bored. She'd roll her eyes in their face and weep herself to sleep in private. They never saw an ounce of her hurt, yet they were relentless.

Harry once commented on her ability to ignore the Slytherin girls.

("Stunningly pretty? Her?" Pansy Parkinson had shrieked the first time she had come face-to-face with Hermione after Rita's article had appeared. "What was she judging against — a chipmunk?"

"Ignore it," Hermione said in a dignified voice, holding her head in the air and stalking past the sniggering Slytherin girls as though she couldn't hear them. "Just ignore it, Harry.")

Truthfully, it was only because she had years of experience in the situation.

Eventually, her practice of ignoring Pansy Parkinson and Millicent Bulstrode became a well-seasoned habit. She had unwittingly trained herself to actually fully ignore their hateful remarks. Their daily malevolence simply flew over her great bushy head, and unless things became physically involved, she hardly notices it these days. The Slytherin girls are nothing but a faint whisper in the wind.

Instead, she's now more plagued by boy problems.

She's not sure which is worse.

Hermione hates the term "moping about", especially as it pertains to a boy, but, unfortunately, that is exactly what she is doing at this moment.

She also didn't expect to catch feelings for one Ronald Weasley, but, unfortunately, that is exactly what has happened.

All of Hermione's studying hadn't prepared her for the quintessential adolescent angst. She just wants to learn magic, excel in her exams, and maybe help the famous Boy Who Lived defeat the most dark wizard of all time along the way.

Instead, she's stuck avoiding her housemates at all costs. Ever since the Quidditch game the other day, Ron and Lavender can't spend two seconds without their tongues down each other's throats. She's tormented every moment of her day with the sight of her (oh, goodness) crush neglecting their friendship for some daft dimbo who she shares a room with. It's infuriating.

If she ever has to hear the phrase Won-Won again, she might absolutely lose it.

Her moping sessions haven't thus yet been as violent as her first one, where she flung the golden birds at Ron for even daring to be in her vicinity, but her heart hurts just as much, if not more, with each night. She hides in the corner of the abandoned classroom whenever she feels the emotions getting the better of her. Crying herself to sleep, no matter how discreet she's been in the past, just isn't worth the risk of Lavender potentially discovering her. Hermione doesn't think she'd ever hear the end of it if word got back to Ron.

Harry knows, of course. He's very well aware of her thinly-veiled jealousy, even if he's too oblivious to realise the depth of her pain. Nor does he take sides — he's steadfast in his Swiss approach, refusing to grant either of them the satisfaction of being "right". He does, however, spend a good amount of their time together trying to convince her that it'd be all right to talk to Ron, and she knows he gives the boy in question the same speech.

Not that it changes anything. This may be the worst week she's ever had to endure, and she's been attacked by a troll, petrified by a giant magical creature, thrown around by the Whomping Willow, held captive by merpeople for the sake of a game, and abused by Death Eaters in her efforts to help Harry save Sirius Black.

It's probably a good thing that her parents really only know about the bullies she faces.

So, yes, she's hiding away in a little abandoned classroom, once again practising the spell that brings about a pleasant army of birds (who may attack at her beckon call, if she pleases).

The last thing she expects to barge into her solitude is a sobbing Pansy Parkinson.

Hermione's mouth gapes open, and the twittering birds immediately dissipate before another tweet can be heard. She's never seen such raw emotion from the Slytherin bully before. She's seen her dramatics, her overreactions, but here, the tears are flowing freely, genuinely, as if Pansy Parkinson is a real human being with real human feelings. It's an odd sight and Hermione isn't quite sure how to navigate it. She's frozen at the prospect.

It's evident that Parkinson hasn't noticed that she wasn't alone yet, or else she would've been screaming vitriol and running the other direction.

There isn't a clear path in what to do. Perhaps Parkinson would be gone soon enough, and never realise that someone was watching her, almost like a voyeur. It doesn't feel right, but the alternative of making her presence known and facing the Slytherin wrath seems equally unappealing, and the growing length of time to make the decision just makes that option grant even more consequences.

Hermione sits there, listening to her tormentor's heaving sobs. It's evident that whatever is plaguing Parkinson has been bottled in for a long while. She knows the feeling quite well — the emotional waves that crash within a body, the tides building up and up and up and up until finally it crashes into the barrier hard enough to spill —

"What the fuck are you doing in here, Granger?" Parkinson cries out in raw, bitter surprise, hastily trying to wipe any evidence of her emotions away. "Get out!"

Hermione scrambles to her feet in shock. Now, she's face to face with Pansy Parkinson, and she can see her clearly. Her face is red and puffy, black rings around her eyes where her makeup runs. It's evident she's trying her hardest to appear like her normal awful self, but can't seem to keep the tears at bay. They leak out of her eyes as she frantically blinks, tipping her head back in a desperation to keep them in, the arms of her sleeves wiping below her eyes frantically. She's a deer caught in headlights.

"What's wrong?" is the only thing Hermionecan think to ask.

"What part of get out did you not understand, Mudblood?" she shrieks in return.

"You know, you don't have to be so awful all the time," Hermione replies quietly, tired.

There was another helpless heave coming from Parkinson as she turns away. Hermione only had half the heart to feel a tiny bit bad — she had spent enough of her own nights crying after the Slytherin gang's horrible taunting of her to almost feel a slight sense of satisfaction.

"I'm sorry," Hermione swears she hears as she slams the door closed behind her, a whisper that carries itself in the wind of the corridors.

05:01pm on Monday, 19 September 2005

Hermione has only seen Pansy Parkinson once since graduating Hogwarts. It was nothing significant; just a small sighting at one of Blaise's parties. Fairly recently, if the fact matters.

She's heard things about her over the years, certainly. She knew the Slytherin had moved to Italy shortly after the Battle of Hogwarts and her subsequent acquittal and graduation, and that after a few years, she had gotten married. A marriage that ended in a record time. Cho had been her Counsellor during the process of the separation, and Hermione had actively avoided the case entirely.

Cho, surprisingly, had nothing bad to say about her client.

("She is a lot quieter than I remember her being," Cho had commented after Hermione got curious. "She's... I don't have much to say.")

Cho hadn't been willing to divulge much more, and Hermione didn't care for the information, bar the slight satisfaction of doing well in life compared to her school rival.

Well, she's certainly doing better now. At least she wasn't recently arrested for murder.

Despite this very fact, the first thing Hermione notices about Pansy Parkinson is that she doesn't even seem fazed. The Defender has yet to pass the threshold, so the accused is unaware of the new company, but she seems...uncharacteristically calm. There's no panic, or fear, or anger, or even sadness. There's just a blank serenity, as if she is simply enjoying a quiet moment at teatime.

Hermione stares. She expected a lot of things, coming into this room, but she didn't quite expect this.

"You could've warned me," she huffs at Harry, knowing full well the accused couldn't see or hear her until the warded barrier has been crossed. He simply responds with a sheepish shrug.

She takes note of Parkinson's accommodations. The room is barren, only hosting a table with two chairs, a ragged cot, and a small alcove that serves as a private restroom. There's nothing lining the tiled black walls, and it feels endless, yet claustrophobic.

"I can — " Harry starts, but Hermione doesn't let him finish.

"No," she cuts in. "I'll handle it from here. I expect full privacy."

"Okay," comes the slow reply. "Uh — I suppose I should mention... She's fully restrained. Flint was found with his head bashed in; we can't discount physical violence."

"I'll be fine," she tells him firmly.

"We won't be able to hear if you yell for help — "

"I won't."

There's a moment of silence.

"Okay," Harry finally agrees.

Hermione manages to send one withering glare at Harry before he closes the door behind her. With a heavy breath, she takes five steps forward, and pushes through the barrier.

She can feel the shift in the air that informs her that her magic doesn't work as strongly in this room. Magic-dampening wards — actually attributed to Ron and George, when the latter had experimented with a Minute-Muggle prank device (Temporarily turn your unsuspecting friend into a Muggle, just long enough to see them panic!) and the former had recognised its potential. It was a nifty trick, as the only previous defence against wandless magic was the presence of Dementors within their prison system.

Parkinson barely reacts at her sudden appearance within the space. There's only an annoyed scrunch of her brow as she regards her disdainfully. "I told them I didn't need a Defender."

"I've been summoned, regardless," Hermione answers. She pulls up a chair and sets out her notepad and quill.

"I don't know why they insist," she scoffs, haughty.

"It's every witch or wizard's right for a Defender," Hermione explains patiently, not unlike she was talking to a small child. Her subject's glare shows that she's understanding, and not liking, the tone. "It can be waived, of course — "

"Then I waive it," she interrupts rudely. "I don't care to have a Defender. I don't need you defending me, Granger."

She bites her tongue from an unprofessional response. Instead, Hermione replies with, "The Aurors were adamant in my involvement, but if it is such an insult to you, I can attempt to arrange a more acceptable representative."

"Like who?" Parkinson barks. "Cho Chang?"

"She was your Counsellor during your divorce, wasn't she? Unfortunately, she doesn't cover murder accusations or use of Unforgivables."

"It was an annulment," Parkinson clarifies quickly, as if it matters greatly.

Hermione ignores it. "I'm sure you're aware of your old housemate Blaise Zabini's position within my Department," she continues. "I believe you two would be much more suited."

It's in both their best interests, after all. Hermione certainly didn't want to be here, and Pansy Parkinson certainly didn't want her there.

It's quiet for a moment as the accused seems to ponder. "I don't have the money for a Defender."

That admission shocked her. Hermione had always assumed — no, known — that the Slytherin girl was rich. Her family is a part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, and with that legacy, came money. Old money. Galleons upon galleons, stacked within Gringotts' bank vaults, tucked between ancient heirlooms and priceless artefacts.

Yet, Parkinson does not seem to be lying. So, what had happened?

Humbled, Hermione relaxes her stance. "Well, I do a lot of pro-bono work as well."

"Well, I don't think there's a need anyway. I killed him." She sounds bored.

"Alright," Hermione tries to start. "Why?"

"Because I wanted to."

"Why did you want to?" At Parkinson's silence, Hermione presses, "Sometimes the reason can make a difference. If you felt like you had no choice but to kill him, because he was threatening you in some way, we'd be able to make a case for self defence."

"He was annoying me. Does that count?"

Hermione sucks in a heavy breath. She's not sure why she expected any easiness from her childhood tormentor. "Annoying you how?"

"By existing. Think he breathed the wrong way and I cracked."

"This isn't a joke, Parkinson," Hermione snaps. "You could be facing life in Azkaban. Do you want that?"

"I thought I needed a change of scenery."

"Ever the beauty," she deadpans. "A quaint little vacation, Azkaban is."

"Besides, little birdies are whispering that I'm going to spend rather a lot of time here first," Parkinson points out. She gives a content little smile as she leans back in her chair. "I'm quite liking it. The privacy, the lack of wet floors and Dementors — it's not the mansion of my dreams, but it'll do."

"Azkaban doesn't have Dementors anymore."

"Hmm, well, it still has the leaking ceilings and the awful cots," she tsks. "I have an uncle in Azkaban, you know. Terribly dreadful."

"Then why aren't you seeking counsel?"

Parkinson taps her fingers a little, debating her answer. She neglects to gives one.

"Just let me help you," Hermione tries.

Parkinson's face immediately loses all amusement. Her eyes narrow as she scowls. "I don't need help from a Mudblood."

Hermione slams her notes closed. "Fine," she grits out, standing. "You've made it very clear you wish to waive your right to a Defender. I'll gather the necessary paperwork to make this decision very clear with the law, and notify the Aurors it pertains to."

Parkinson meets her glower with just as much intensity. And with that, Hermione Granger storms out of the room in a moment of teenage nostalgia.

Returning back to the main office is a peculiar experience. Robards and Ron await her eagerly, interested in what she has to report back. And Draco Malfoy lurks in the background, but there's an obvious intrigue in his expression, like he's trying to remain cool and indifferent, but is ready to catch any whisper that may leave her lips.

"She is adamant about waiving her rights," Hermione answers before the question is even asked.

Robards seems to deflate a little. Harry barks out a disbelieving laugh. And Malfoy seems to sink into the shadows a little bit more, a slight flicker of disappointment in his eyes.

"I informed her of the right to a Defender, and offered to provide her one she'd deem more acceptable if she wished." She levels Malfoy with a hard stare. He stares back. "But she still insisted that she was not in need of one."

"Usually they're jumping at the chance," Harry grumbles. "Anything about Muggle customs is a taint to the world, but as soon as it starts saving their arses, they're suddenly all over it."

"What now?" Robards asks.

"Now, I'll have my Department draft up a Waiver of Rights for the accused to sign. I'll bring that by tomorrow morning, and once Miss Parkinson signs it, that will be that."

Malfoy scoffs. "'That will be that'."

"I did the best I could," she retorts calmly.

"Then you didn't try hard enough."

Tension fills the air of the room. Harry freezes, glancing between the two of them, as if he's ready to spring into action as a referee to a wrestling match.

"Malfoy," Robards warns.

"I provided her with all the information, and she did not accept my representation," Hermione justifies with a level tone. "There is nothing more I can do."

"Bollocks."

She turns to Robards, ignoring the blond prat. "I can do my best to guide you in your legal obligations as a Department, but I cannot represent an individual who refuses to accept my counsel," Hermione asserts, with a quick glare at Malfoy. "I've already notified my Department to begin drafting up the papers — I'll be back first thing tomorrow for the accused to sign them."

"Understood," Robards sighs. "Thank you for your assistance, Miss Granger. I'll be taking you up on your offer for guidance."

"I'll walk you out," Harry says. Hermione nods, and he begins to lead her out of the office.

"Could've told me it was the pug," Hermione mumbles unhappily when they're out of earshot. "I think she classifies under a magical beast."

Harry rubs her shoulder in sympathy.

11:56pm on Monday, 19 September 2005

Hermione can't sleep.

It's the last few minutes of her birthday, which she normally doesn't care a lick about, but she feels that the course of her day, and her current thoughts, make it quite ironic.

Malfoy's words spin in her head every time she tries to clear her mind and go to sleep.

("Then you didn't try hard enough," he had said.

And he had been right.)

As soon as the M-word has flown out of Parkinson's mouth, Hermione had lost the ability to be concerned about the accused's case. She can rot in Azkaban for all she cares, except...

Except she does care.

A lot.

She cares enough about it to be tossing and turning in bed at the insinuation that she hadn't tried hard enough. That Parkinson's words flow aimlessly in her head, taunting her.

("I don't know why they insist," she had scoffed.

"I don't care to have a Defender. I don't need you defending me, Granger," she had told her firmly.

"I don't have the money for a Defender," she had admitted hesitantly.

"Well, I don't think there's a need anyway," she had said carelessly.

"I don't need help from a Mudblood," she had ended, finally.)

Hermione had let her childhood dramas get the better of her. She hates that she was put into this situation, that she was forced to work with the very girl who had made her school years absolute hell. She didn't owe Parkinson a thing as a person, but she did owe it to her career, her ethics, to provide Pansy Parkinson just as good of representation that she'd provide anyone else. It's her job.

Harry does it every day, she can too.

No, she can't force Parkinson to accept a Defender, but she, at the very least, deserves to get the full outline of rights, and her chances if she actually fought the sentence.

Thinking that thought should be enough contentment to allow her to finally sleep, she settles further back into her pillow and relishes in Crookshanks' warmth against her side.

But it's all for naught.

Within a few minutes, it is very clear that Hermione will not be getting rest anytime soon. With a frustrated huff and the meowl of an unhappy cat, she flings the bedsheets off of her and gets out of bed. "Lumos Maxima," she grumbles. The light protrudes out of her wand, bursting out into a small ball that hovers over her head.

She settles into her slippers and fastens her robe around herself before venturing out into the cool air of her flat, the ball of light following her. She makes her way to the kitchen and starts her kettle with a small flurry of her wrist. Crookshanks follows dutifully, zig-zagging between her legs as she walks. As she's passing her bookcases, her hands skim along the titles until she reaches a novel that's been on her to-read list for a while now. She pulls it out of its place, caressing the spine of the book as she opens to read it.

This will do.

Her kettle whistles, and Hermione whisks off to the kitchen. She pours herself a cuppa, hoping that the soothing warmth and herbal benefits will be just enough to finally kick her off to sleep after a chapter or two.

She sits at the dining table, enjoying her tea, and begins to open the book —

There's a paper in her stack of birthday letters that she swears wasn't there before.

Hermione pauses. She sets the book and the cup down, frowning slightly. It's just a folded piece of paper, absent of an envelope. She debates even touching it; she's dealt with more than enough cursed letters to provide more than enough paranoia.

A quick diagnostic charm indicates that there is absolutely nothing magical about the paper. It's literally just a piece of paper, with regular ink.

Hermione hesitates only a little before grabbing the piece of paper and unfolding it.

It only says two words.

Help her.

Hermione frowns, and throws the letter into the fireplace.

08:44am on Tuesday, 20 September 2005

The next morning, Nathaniel provides her with a Waiver of Rights and Hermione sets off to the Auror office bright and early. But before she even can step inside the office, Daphne Greengrass suddenly is in front of her, eyes wet and hollow. At the sight of the Defender, something within Daphne seems to go into overdrive, looking between Hermione's face and the paperwork in her hands.

Daphne Greengrass, to Hermione, was simply a bystander. She had never been cruel or participated in the Slytherin games. The worst she'd endured was some petty gossip and quiet giggles behind her back. She never seemed to care to join in on the abuse, but also never seemed to care to stop it. They had interacted minimally, with indifference. There was very little to note.

Just like that night so many years ago when she had witnessed Pansy Parkinson crying, Hermione is at a loss at how to react to Daphne Greengrass's painful expression and avoiding eyes.

Not that she is given much time to react. Before Hermione can fully process anything, Daphne's running away from her, from the crowd, from the Auror office.

"She's in shock," comes Ron's voice. Hermione startles slightly as she realises that he has been there through the whole encounter. "I can only feel so bad when she was married to Marcus bloody Flint."

"Greengrass married Marcus Flint?"

Ron looks at her, a bit wide-eyed at the fact she wasn't aware. Maybe she had been, as she does feel like the idea of Daphne being married was familiar, but she wasn't in the habit of remembering every detail about her former classmates. Other than the news of Astoria, she feels woefully out of the loop on Daphne's life. "Yeah, that's Mrs. Daphne Flint. They have a little girl."

"Does... Does she know?" Hermione asks vaguely. She can't imagine being married to someone, and having a child, and not being aware of all the illicit activities of someone living in the same household. Daphne had never been cruel or evil, but she was a bystander. How far does that go?

Ron shrugs. "I, uh. We haven't told her. We're not sure what she knows, if anything, but we're working to figure that out." He grits his teeth. "Before we took in her report about Flint's, er, disappearance, I would've bet that she was a part of it. But now... She was genuinely upset and confused that he didn't show up home last night, and she was immediately worried about her daughter."

Hermione ponders this. Pansy Parkinson and Daphne Greengrass had been close friends back at Hogwarts — the only thing they didn't do together was torment Muggle-borns. What had led to Parkinson murdering her best friend's Death Eater husband certainly has Hermione intrigued.

Too bad that she was on her way with the very materials to allow the accused to sign her life away without even a chance at redemption.

(Not that Hermione believes she deserves it, but nonetheless.)

Something registers in her mind.

"Wait, you haven't told her that Flint is dead?"

Ron grimaces. "She came to us. To file a missing persons report. We don't have the clearance to tell her what we know, just that we'll look into it for her."

Hermione gapes.

Daphne doesn't know her own husband is dead.

Their daughter doesn't know her father is gone forever.

"Anyway, I gotta go," Ron says apologetically. "I gotta..." He motions after where Daphne just left, and Hermione understands. He's on assignment. She's seen it with plenty of cases prior; sending an Auror to tail after the immediate family of those who are accused, in hopes of gaining further evidence. Instead, this time, it's the victim's family that is in suspect.

Hermione nods, clutching the paperwork with her in her arms.

Hermione stares at Parkinson from behind the barrier for longer than she'd like to admit. The accused is laying on the cot, over the covers, obviously awake and staring straight at the ceiling. The moment is so innocuous, but it feels like an intrusion to be there. Yet, Hermione watches her, not unlike a viewing at a zoo. In all their years at Hogwarts together, she had rarely regarded Parkinson as anything but a bully; this power dynamic switch is within uncharted waters.

Eventually, Hermione steps through the barrier. Parkinson doesn't even sit up; she only turns her head.

"I have the paperwork drafted as per your request," she tells her matter-of-factly.

Slowly, she sits up on the cot as Hermione gets things settled at the desk. She waits until Parkinson stands and approaches the table before she sits, motioning for the accused to do the same.

But Hermione doesn't hand her the quill.

"Before you sign everything away, I'd like to further discuss your options," she tries. "I understand the system of Defenders is relatively new to the Wizarding world, so I want to ensure you comprehend your rights."

"I comprehend perfectly," Parkinson answers. "I killed someone, so now I go to Azkaban. Now, hand me the quill and we'll be on with it."

"I don't think you do understand it," Hermione insists. "Even if you did kill Marcus Flint, sometimes intent does make a difference. The fact that he was a Death Eater could mean — "

"Death Eater?"

There's a deep, unsettling frown that settles into Parkinson's face as she processes this info. It's now apparent that she had not been aware that the man she — allegedly — killed was a Death Eater. Which certainly was interesting.

"That's why they're keeping you in here," Hermione explains carefully. "The Aurors need to investigate thoroughly, and unfortunately, nothing in the law says they need to put in a motion for trial anytime soon. They haven't even informed his next of kin." Something in Parkinson's eyes withers. Hermione sets the quill down and folds her hands together before she continues: "Having a Defender would be in your best interest. They would be able to make sure you are treated justly and provide you with the counsel that could be invaluable to you. Providing information to the Aurors might win you a lesser sentence with the Wizengamot if you play your cards right."

It's quiet for a long time after that. Parkinson continues to stare at Hermione, blankly, and Hermione almost doubted that her explanation had even been heard. But she doesn't dare move, doesn't dare speak; she simply waits.

"All right, Granger," Parkinson finally decides. "I'll accept your counsel."