Hermione's parents left for their practice the next morning none the wiser, and when Hermione finally got up, she grumbled to herself for a while before getting dressed and going to Diagon Alley, braving the thick crowds in order to get to the post office and send an owl.
Half an hour later, Pansy Parkinson met Hermione at the Leaky Cauldon. A deep smirk slowly spread across her face as she took in Hermione's appearance, and Hermione glared at her.
"Go ahead, get all your wisecracks out now," she snapped. "I know you have them."
Pansy cackled.
"Merlin's teats, Grager, did you fall in a fire?" she wanted to know. "Did you pick up the matches instead of a blade when you went for a trim?"
"It's not that bad," Hermione protested, but Pansy only laughed harder.
"Oh, but it is," she said emphatically, eyes glittering. "It really is."
Once she had calmed down, Pansy looked over Hermione with a critical eye.
"There's only one thing for it," she declared. "We'll have to get it cut."
Hermione groaned.
"I was afraid you would say something like that," she sighed, stuffing it up into a knit cap, and Pansy snickered.
Though Diagon Alley was quite busy, Pansy managed to lead the way through the crowds with a single-minded determination that Hermione quite envied. People seemed to naturally step out of her way, perhaps sensing her purpose, and Hermione wondered if she could emulate that on her own.
Soon they were out of the main crowds and on Horizont Alley, where Pansy led her to a small door with no windows. Above the door, a golden font read Nova's, but there was no indication as to what the place was. Pansy rapped sharply on the door twice with her knuckles before pushing it open, and Hermione's eyes widened as she looked around.
It was bright in here. Very, very bright indeed.
The ceiling was enchanted to look like the sky on a clear summer's day, and the walls were a light color as well, reflecting the light around the room. A woman was standing behind another woman who was in a high cushioned chair, her wand out as she cast spells on the other woman's hair.
"Be with you in a moment!" she called out. Her focus didn't waver from her task on the other woman's head, and Hermione was content to look around, curious.
The place was clearly a hair salon of some sort. There were scissors and razors and blades assembled on a table in front of a large mirror, as well as combs and brushes and curling rags. There were only a couple chairs, and Pansy claimed one haughtily and sat down, picking up an old Witch Weekly and paging through.
"She's going to cut my hair?" Hermione asked Pansy, sitting down nearby.
Pansy raised an eyebrow.
"If you can afford her rates," she drawled.
Hermione's eyes narrowed. "I'm sure I'll be fine."
The woman casting spells at the other woman seemed to finish, and she wilted into another nearby chair in relief.
"Done," she pronounced wearily. "But I recommend never letting this happen again. Muggles have all sorts of terrible parasites, and they can't all so easily be charmed away."
"They were just playing at the park!" the client protested. "Jason hadn't taken his hat, and the other boy offered him his—"
"—and the next thing you knew, your house was infested with mites," the stylist said, folding her arms. She raised an eyebrow. "At least don't let him take anything from a muggle child. Running around and playing from a safe distance is less likely to result in something like this."
The woman sighed.
"Fair enough," she conceded.
She counted out a stack of gold and passed it to the stylist, thanking her and heading on her way. Hermione watched as she left, before turning back to the stylist again for a better look.
The stylist witch had a very short haircut herself, very un-witch like in general. It was cut in a very precise bob to about her chin, and her hair was very dark. She was also wearing what looked like a sleeveless sheath dress, and not robes at all.
Hermione noticed the witch was examining her as well, and Hermione offered her a sympathetic smile.
"Lice?" she asked.
The stylist groaned.
"Lice," she confirmed. "I hate the little buggers – have to charm every lice and nit off one by one, don't I? If I miss even one, they come back with a vengeance." She sniffed. "I told her to just hex her son's head bald. Would serve him right, bringing the nasty little parasites home."
"Nova," Pansy said, rising from her seat. "Good to see you."
Nova let her eyes fall onto Pansy, and she gave her a small curtsy.
"Miss Parkinson," she said. "Always a pleasure."
"We are in dire need of your assistance with… this." Pansy waved a careless hand at Hermione. "Granger, take out your hair."
Reluctantly, Hermione tugged off the hat that she'd tucked her hair into, and Nova's eyes grew wider and wider.
"You certainly are in dire straits, aren't you?" she said with a gasp. "What did you do?"
"It caught fire," Hermione admitted, stuffing her hat into her robes. "It was an accident."
"I can see that," Nova sniffed. "I hardly thought you would do it on purpose."
Hermione winced.
"We need you to help make it… not this," Pansy said, gesturing. "She can't be seen with it like this in public."
"No, clearly not," Nova said, frowning. She gestured for Hermione to come sit up on the raised chair before circling her, casting an analytic eye over her head.
"Your hair is naturally curly?" she asked, raising one singed piece with her wand. "Do you do anything to it?"
"It's more 'naturally frizzy' than 'naturally curly'," Hermione admitted. "I have to curse it most mornings to make it calm down. I do try to sleep with it damp in braids to help it be less of a mess, but—"
"You should never sleep with wet hair." Nova sounded appalled.
"Well, it helps," Hermione protested. "And short of using a bottle of Sleakeasy's every morning—"
"All of the burned part will have to go," Nova pronounced, ignoring Hermione. "Even magic cannot repair such damage."
Hermione winced.
"How—how short will that leave it?" she asked weakly.
Nova sniffed.
"Let me take off the burned parts first," she said, folding her arms, "and we'll see what we have left to work with."
While Nova worked, cursing and cutting off Hermione's hair, Nova kept up a steady stream of gossip and conversation with Pansy. Hermione, already submitting to the indignity of having her ruined hair cut, sat quietly and just listened, unwilling to embarrass herself by revealing her utter lack of knowledge into anything to do with wizarding high society.
"It was a modest affair, as one would expect, done on a Tuesday as it was," Pansy dismissed. "Most balls are being held this weekend, when Christmas falls."
"But the Carrows wouldn't wait?" Nova tutted.
"No one would have gone to their event if they'd held it on the weekend," Pansy sniffed. "As it is, the Greengrass Winter Ball is Saturday night, and the Malfoy Winter Ball the Friday next."
That struck Hermione as odd. She'd thought the Malfoy's were having a ball on Yule, for some reason. Maybe she'd gotten confused and they were just calling it that, even though they weren't hosting it on Yule itself?
"A ball on a Tuesday..." Nova tutted. She glanced over at Pansy. "What did they call it?"
"Something unwise, no doubt," Pansy sniffed. "I didn't go, of course. But I heard from Flora, who was horribly embarrassed. Her uncle spent the entire time trying to get her to chat up Colin Rowle."
"Colin?" Nova's voice filled with revulsion. "Isn't he a good twenty years older than her?"
"He is," Pansy said darkly.
Nova sighed. "Poor thing."
"Hestia managed to dodge the attention by dancing with Burke's son," Pansy said, making a face. "He's still a good seven years over her, but at least he's not ancient."
Nova glanced at Pansy. "Are you so engaged at these balls as well?"
"Not yet." Pansy's voice was smug. "And I'm perfectly content with that. I'm not so impatient as some – Daphne Greengrass is practically gagging to come of an age so she can have her happily-ever-after with Cassius Warrington…"
"You realize it'll come, you know." Nova's voice was carefully neutral. "Your mother won't let you escape unscathed at these events forever."
"Well, I'm not of an age yet," Pansy said, a viciousness to her tone. "And until I am, it'd be crude and low class to try and match me away."
Nova hid a sigh. "As you say."
As Pansy droned on, talking about her robes for the upcoming Greengrass Ball, Hermione wondered at Pansy's unexpected anger in her voice. She'd thought Pansy would be excited to come of an age like Daphne was, eager to go off and meet her own pureblooded prince. She'd never really given that indication before, though, had she? The most she tended to do was simper after Draco, but Hermione got the feeling it was more from habitual sucking up as a child than any genuine affection.
It was hard to imagine Pansy genuinely pairing up with anyone, actually. She played subservient to Draco by force of habit, but imagining Pansy next to Theo, for example? All Hermione could imagine was Pansy snapping and nagging him to death for not doing things exactly how she wanted. Pansy seemed utterly content in being her own person.
Which was odd, though. Hadn't her boggart fear been her mother telling her that because she'd had another betrothal contract rejection, she'd have to go be a prostitute in the streets…?
"There!" Nova said, satisfied. "The burnt parts are all off. Let's see what we have left."
Hermione looked up into a mirror and winced.
"At least there's some left," she said, trying to stay optimistic. "Not all of it got burnt. Some parts are still quite long."
Pansy snorted from behind her, not saying a word.
"You're going to have to go with something much shorter than you're used to," Nova told her bluntly. "With all the damage, there's not another option, really. But with your face shape, you could pull off something very mod, if you wanted."
Hermione gave her a strange look. "Like what?"
Nova summoned a book over to her.
"These short hair cuts are very high fashion," she said, opening it. "Very chic, and only really able to be pulled off by heart-shaped faces. This one, you could wear this pixie cut—"
"These are all from the 60s," Hermione said, astonished. She looked up at Nova. "Where did you get this book?"
Nova looked appalled.
"These are snapshots from Alina Selwyn's Winter Robe Collection runway," she said. "They are cutting edge and very avant garde."
Apparently, Alina Selwyn (presumed designer) enjoyed stealing styling for her models from old muggle trends.
"No," Hermione said, decisive. "I—nothing too short. It'd feel too unlike me."
Nova sighed, banishing the book back. She folded her arms, fixing Hermione's head with a look.
"In that case, the best we're going to be able to do is layer it some and curse the curl into it," she said.
"Curse the curliness into it?" Hermione repeated, astonished. "Wouldn't we want it less curly?"
"If it's shorter, the curls will look better more defined, less frizzy," Nova told her. "It'll grow out eventually, but until it does, we'll keep you looking respectable."
Hermione bit her lip.
"If you say so."
"I can't believe that's me," Hermione said again, looking in the mirror again. She touched her hair again, feeling the bounciness, and from behind her in the mirror, Nova looked smug.
"It's like I know my craft or something," she said snidely, but she was amused as well.
Hermione's hair usually looked like some combination of a frizzy disaster and a wavy, barely-controlled bush. If she took the time with it, she could generally manage a bit of a shiny wave with curls at the bottom, which was usually quite pretty. She'd have thought Nova would have gone further down that route, straightening her hair to lengthen it to hide the singed bits, but Nova had swung full tilt the other way, and it looked great.
Her hair, instead of the frizzy mess it usually was, was now a riot of wild curls that stayed tight and shiny. It looked like she'd gotten a perm, only nicer, and you couldn't even tell that some bits were shorter than others, with everything hidden in the cloud of curls cascading down. Nova had done something else, too, to help them catch the light – the curls seemed to have a depth of color her hair had lacked before, subtle highlights shining in the light, and Hermione was incredibly pleased with the results.
"Don't try and straighten it until summer at the earliest," Nova advised her. "After it regains some of its lost length, we can charm out the curls and see what we're dealing with, but it's better to hide the damage this way for as long as we can."
"And it'll stay like this?" Hermione asked. "I won't have to sleep in rags or anything?"
"You will not," Nova assured her. "For pretty, gentle curls, curling rags or wands are essential, but for this… we just cursed the roots of the hair itself."
Hermione didn't appreciate the implication that her own curls weren't pretty, but she couldn't deny they definitely weren't 'gentle' or 'demure' curls in slightest.
"I like it," Hermione declared. "It's like controlled chaos, but less frizzy, this time."
Pansy snorted, but Hermione ignored her judgey look as she turned around in her chair to face Nova.
"What do I owe you?" she asked.
Nova raised an eyebrow. "Twelve galleons."
Hermione counted them out, before adding another three on as a tip.
"Thank you so much," she told her. "You've entirely saved me. You have no idea."
"Oh, I think I do," Nova said, laughing, "but you're quite welcome all the same."
Pansy and Hermione left the shop with Hermione in much better spirits.
"I owe you big time," Hermione told Pansy. "Thanks."
"It was nothing." Pansy waved her hand. "I swore you an oath, remember?"
Hermione frowned. "Yeah. I remember."
The two girls walked back through the crowds to the Leaky Cauldon, but Hermione pulled Pansy aside before they went to the Floo. She insisted on buying her a butterbeer and lunch as a thank you, which Pansy accepted with some suspicion, but the two girls were soon eating in a corner booth at the dingy pub.
The food was warm and good, and after they had eaten some, Hermione managed to get up the nerve to ask her question.
"Pansy," she said. "Why did you swear me that oath?"
Pansy looked at Hermione sharply.
"It was demanded," she said. "Everyone was sitting there, and if I wanted to join and eat with you—"
"You didn't need to and you know it," Hermione cut her off. "I was protesting on your behalf, and I could have overruled them all. But you volunteered to do it. Don't try and spin it like you had no other choice or you'd be a social outcast."
Pansy looked at Hermione for a long moment, thoughtfully.
"You're sharper than you let on, aren't you?" she said finally.
Hermione snorted. "I'm first in the class—"
"That's not the same thing at all," Pansy interrupted. "Book smarts and school smarts are one thing. Social smarts… that's a trickier thing to learn."
She held Hermione's gaze for a long time, not saying anything. Hermione waited patiently, trying to blink as little as possible.
"You protect what you view as yours," Pansy said abruptly. "You protected Potter and Longbottom that first year from Quirrell. You helped Bones with her reading issue. And you protected Draco from the basilisk last year, too."
"You think I view Draco as mine?" Hermione said, astonished, but Pansy ignored her.
"I know an Oath of Loyalty is not the same thing as an Oath of Fealty," Pansy continued, her dark eyes on Hermione's. "But… if I swore the first one, I thought it'd give me a better chance of swearing the second one to you someday."
"You want to swear me an Oath of Fealty?" Hermione tried to keep her incredulity from her voice. "Why?"
Pansy's eyes glittered.
"An Oath of Fealty offers protection in exchange for loyalty and service," she said. "And as time goes on, the more I'm aware that protection offered from you would probably be worth a lot more than the protection I would find anywhere else."
"Really?" Hermione gave her a doubtful look. "You're Sacred 28, Pansy. What do you need protection from?"
Pansy rolled her eyes.
"I am a girl," she told Hermione flatly. "I am only as good to my family as the marriage contract they can make with me. I am breeding stock they will trade in exchange for social clout and status."
Hermione's eyes grew wide.
"That's not true!" she protested. "You're—you're practically a pureblooded princess, and I'm sure suitors will be—"
"I have a pug nose, and I can do nothing about it," Pansy informed her. Her tone was utterly cynical, completely disillusioned and accepting of her fate. "No matter my name, boys will always be drawn to beauty, and it's very unlikely that my name will help me get a good match despite my face."
Hermione was horrified. She had no idea how to respond.
"I have been raised to be a society wife and social planner," Pansy went on, "but I'm unlikely to manage a marriage to anyone of enough status to need a wife of such a role. There is a fair chance I'll end up a spinster, instead, entirely unwed."
"Would that be so bad?" Hermione ventured. "To not be forced to marry?"
"Of course not," Pansy said irritably. "But it does mean I'd still be forced to live under my father's house – and obey his rules long after I've become an adult."
Hermione bit her lip.
"I… my parents and I, we do not always get along," Pansy said, choosing her words delicately. "Were my parents unable to marry me off, I suspect my life remaining at Parkinson Manor would be... miserable, we'll say."
"And you think I'd help protect you from this?" Hermione asked, raising her eyebrows.
Pansy's eyes met hers in a challenge. "Wouldn't you?"
Hermione bit her lip.
There was instinctive indignation on her part for Pansy – that she'd be so devalued as a person because of a quirk of genetics that wasn't her fault at all. And for her parents to disparage her and treat her like a piece of livestock to trade away for a dowry… it was antiquated, barbaric and disgusting. It made her immediately want to storm up to the Parkinson Manor and demand to speak to her parents.
Under patriarchal pureblood houses, though, one couldn't just leave… you had to marry to leave, to carry on the family name or bloodline. If Pansy just ran away on her own to get a job… she'd effectively be orphaning herself, and she'd be socially disgraced. And for someone raised to status and high society, such a thought must be unthinkable...
Hermione sighed.
"What would you have me do?" she asked finally.
"Provide me refuge from my father, mother, and their political allies," Pansy said immediately, holding her chin up. "Don't bother lying, Granger – there's no way you'd align yourself with that side of things, and you're not an idiot – you can see what's going on as well as I can. Whatever protection plan you've got in place, I'd want in on – even if it requires me making it out like I'm betrothed to Longbottom or something."
"What makes you think I have a protection plan?" Hermione asked neutrally. "I'm friends with Harry Potter. You don't think I'd just throw in my lot with Dumbledore?"
Pansy's eyes narrowed, but she considered.
"I might have, once," she said thoughtfully. "But that was before you trashed him in the paper."
"Trashed him?" Hermione said, affronted. "I hardly—"
"You heavily implied that he was bad at running the school," Pansy said, eyes gleaming. "You went on about how Binns was crap, and about how poorly safety had been handled with the basilisk. It didn't hurt that you showed him up as a second-year, saving his own bloody school when he couldn't."
Hermione swallowed. "And?"
"And that tells me you don't think all that highly of Dumbledore," Pansy said, smirking. "If you're not about to listen to what Dumbledore tells you, and there's no way you'd ever align yourself with Dumbledore's political enemies… that means you have some third option available to you. And if it's available to you, I want in, too."
Hermione regarded Pansy silently for a long moment.
"You're none too stupid yourself, are you," she said.
Pansy preened. "I try."
Hermione finished her food slowly, thinking.
Over the summer, when there had been no classes or worries, and she'd spent long summer days with her coven, brainstorming and imagining their secret society and clubhouse... even though they'd meant every word, it had felt so far away, so fanciful. Something to happen at some point, perhaps, but not soon. But Pansy had realized, somehow, and wanted to join. Telling Pansy that she would help protect her from her family felt very different, somehow, than their far-off dreams and plans. The Shadows had been made to be a third side of the war, but Pansy was acting like she'd need to go into hiding long before a war actually broke out.
Only... that wasn't quite it either, was it? An Oath of Fealty wasn't done to an organization; it was given to a person, a person you promised yourself to in exchange for protection. So... Pansy wanted the protection of the Granger House, then? Even if Hermione hadn't yet really established it in a particularly meaningful way?
Or maybe Pansy was just fishing, and she'd take whatever protection she could get.
"I'm not doing Oaths of Fealty yet," Hermione said finally. "I don't have any kind of power structure or place set up to actually offer protection from. But… you're not wrong."
Pansy's eyes gleamed in triumph.
"Then," she said. "When you do… you'll allow me to swear under you?"
"You'd have to listen to what I say," Hermione warned her. "I'd effectively be your leader of sorts."
"I'm well aware," Pansy drawled. Her eyes glinted. "But better you than some old man who thinks he can tell women what to do."