Authors Note
Thank you all for the positive reception to chapter 1. I hope you like chapter 2. I'd welcome suggestions on how frequently you'd like updates.
Kind Regards,
IronManRidingaNimbus.
Chapter 2
Pansy Parkinson sat cross-legged on her bed, idly twirling her wand between her fingers as the faint murmur of voices drifted in from the common room. The soft hum of conversation was a reminder of her isolation—a sound she once would have been at the centre of, back when being a Slytherin still meant something. Now, even among her own housemates, she was an outsider.
She caught her reflection in the mirror across the room. Perfectly styled hair, sharp cheekbones, and eyes that could cut through glass if she wanted them to. A face she had once thought invincible. Now it felt like a mask—one she'd worn so long she wasn't sure what lay beneath it anymore.
Her gaze shifted to Hermione Granger's side of the room, tidy and precise, every book and quill meticulously arranged. It was insufferable, really, how perfect Granger managed to be, even in the chaos of their shared dormitory. Not a strand of bushy hair out of place, not a single step faltering.
And yet, Pansy couldn't stop thinking about the moment in Hagrid's class, when Granger's composure had finally cracked. It had been almost satisfying—almost—watching her lose her temper, even if it had meant a storm breaking loose. The Thunderbird had been magnificent, its raw power a mirror to the tension simmering beneath the surface of their uneasy truce. Granger had recovered, of course, playing the hero as always, but for a fleeting moment, Pansy had seen something real in her. Something messy.
Pansy let out a soft scoff, tossing her wand onto her pillow. Rooming with Granger. Of all the people in Hogwarts. She'd almost laughed when she'd seen their initials on the door. The irony was so painfully obvious that it felt like a joke, one the universe had designed solely to punish her. Because that's what this year was, wasn't it? A punishment.
She lay back on the bed, staring out the window to the night sky outside. The stars blurred as her thoughts spiralled.
It wasn't supposed to be like this. She was supposed to be back in Slytherin, surrounded by her friends, rebuilding what little remained of their house's dignity after the war. But none of that had happened. The Slytherin common room had been as cold as ever, the glances from her former allies colder still. Even Daphne, her closest confidante, had barely spoken a word to her since the train ride.
And why should they? She'd made her choice, hadn't she? Backed the wrong side in a war that had left no room for neutrality. She'd thought her pragmatic instincts would keep her safe, but now, the whispers that followed her down the corridors made it clear she was anything but.
Traitor. Coward. Death Eater in training.
The accusations came from all sides, even her own. Slytherin had no place for failure, and the rest of the school? They didn't need reasons to hate her. The war had handed them plenty.
Her fingers drummed against the blanket, the rhythmic motion grounding her. She didn't need their approval, she told herself. She didn't need anyone. She was still Pansy Parkinson. Sharp. Clever. Untouchable.
And yet…
Her thoughts strayed again to Hermione, her tireless righteousness, her infuriating composure. Sharing a room with her was unbearable, yes, but there was something else, too—something she couldn't quite name. An itch she couldn't scratch. It wasn't just annoyance; it was curiosity. How could someone so insufferable be so... unbreakable?
A sharp knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts.
"Pansy, you in there?" Daphne's voice was muffled but unmistakable.
Pansy sat up quickly, smoothing her robes. "Come in."
The door creaked open, and Daphne stepped inside, her arms crossed. She looked as composed as ever, her blonde hair falling in soft waves over her shoulders, but her expression was unreadable.
"You missed dinner," Daphne said, her tone neutral.
"Wasn't hungry," Pansy replied, keeping her voice light.
Daphne studied her for a moment before sighing. "You can't keep isolating yourself. It's not... practical."
Pansy raised an eyebrow. "Since when have you cared about me being practical?"
"Since the rest of the house started whispering about you." Daphne's voice was sharp, but there was an edge of concern beneath it. "If you're going to survive this year, you need allies."
"Like you?" Pansy asked, her smirk returning. "Funny, I don't recall you rushing to my side when everyone else turned their backs."
Daphne's jaw tightened. "I'm trying, Pansy. Don't make it harder than it has to be."
Pansy opened her mouth to respond, but the words caught in her throat. For once, she didn't have a snide remark ready. Daphne's gaze softened slightly, but she said nothing more. With a small shake of her head, she turned and left, leaving Pansy alone once again.
The room felt colder now, the silence pressing in around her. Pansy leaned back against the pillows, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She didn't need anyone, she reminded herself. Not Daphne. Not Slytherin. Certainly not Hermione bloody Granger.
But the thought didn't sit as comfortably as it once had.
Pansy paced the length of the room, her thoughts churning like a storm cloud. It wasn't just the Gryffindors or the Ravenclaws who whispered when she passed anymore—it was her own housemates, the people who had once flanked her like a personal entourage. Daphne, Blaise, Theodore… even Millicent avoided her now, their gazes darting away whenever hers lingered too long.
They didn't say it outright, of course. Slytherins were too clever for that. But their silence was louder than any accusation, their careful avoidance a statement in itself. They were all trying to rebuild what was left of their reputations, clawing back some semblance of dignity in a school that now belonged to Harry Potter's loyalists. And Pansy? She was a liability.
Her mind flashed back to that moment in the Great Hall, the Dark Lord's voice booming as he demanded Harry Potter be handed over. She could still feel the weight of the eyes on her as she'd stood and spoken. "But he's there! Potter's there! Someone grab him!" It had seemed logical in the moment, a desperate gamble to end the nightmare they were all living. But now, with the clarity of hindsight, she could see it for what it was.
A mistake. A colossal, irreversible mistake.
The Slytherins had never been united in their loyalties during the war—far from it. Some had silently supported the Dark Lord out of familial duty, while others had kept their heads down, trying to weather the storm without choosing sides. But when the final battle had come, they'd all faced the same choice: stay or leave. Most had fled, their absence sparing them the taint of open allegiance to the Dark Lord.
But Pansy? She hadn't just fled. She'd spoken, loudly and publicly, and that had made all the difference. In the eyes of the school, she wasn't just a Slytherin. She was a traitor, a coward, a symbol of everything they'd fought against.
Even the Slytherins couldn't afford to stand by her now. They were pariahs too, ostracized by the rest of the school, but at least they had the chance to quietly rebuild. Associating with her, the girl who had tried to give up the Chosen One, was a risk none of them were willing to take.
Pansy stopped pacing, her gaze drifting to the window. The night outside was clear and still, a sharp contrast to the chaos inside her head. She rested her forehead against the cool glass, her breath fogging the surface.
She wanted to hate them for it. For their cowardice, their hypocrisy. But a small, bitter part of her understood. It was survival, plain and simple. The same instinct that had driven her to speak up in the Great Hall was now driving them to leave her behind. And in a way, she couldn't blame them.
But understanding didn't make it easier.
Her gaze shifted to Hermione's side of the room, perfectly neat and orderly as always. If Granger had been in her shoes, she wouldn't have spoken up that day. Pansy was sure of it. Granger would have stood her ground, righteous and resolute, because that was who she was. Always brave, always perfect.
And maybe that's why it was so infuriating to share a room with her. Because every time Pansy looked at Hermione, she saw the version of herself she'd never been able to become. Strong. Principled. Respected.
"Ugh," Pansy muttered aloud, pushing away from the window. She didn't need this. She didn't need them. Any of them.
But as she climbed into bed and pulled the covers over her head, the truth gnawed at her, sharp and unrelenting. She didn't need them, maybe. But she didn't want to be alone either.
The first rays of morning sunlight crept through the curtains, spilling across the floor in soft, golden streaks. Pansy stirred, the familiar ache of another sleepless night weighing on her. She lay still for a moment, her eyes tracing the patterns of light on the ceiling as fragments of last night's thoughts crowded her mind.
The silence of the room was broken by the faint rustle of movement. Pansy glanced sideways to see Hermione already awake, perched at her desk with her nose buried in a book. Of course she was.
Pansy propped herself up on one elbow, her voice cutting through the quiet like a blade. "You know, Granger, it's positively unsettling how early you wake up. What's the rush? Got a world to save before breakfast?"
Hermione didn't look up, but Pansy could see the way her shoulders tensed. "Good morning to you too, Pansy," she said evenly, her tone betraying none of the irritation Pansy knew she must feel.
"Good morning?" Pansy repeated, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. "Well, aren't we chipper? Guess it's easy when half the castle worships the ground you walk on."
Hermione sighed, closing her book with deliberate calm. "If you're trying to get a rise out of me, you're wasting your time. I have better things to do than entertain your tantrums."
Pansy smirked, though the retort stung more than she'd admit. "Oh, don't flatter yourself. I'm just making conversation. It's not my fault you're such an easy target."
"I'm the one who's easy?" Hermione shot back, her brown eyes flashing as she stood. "You're the one who can't seem to get through a single morning without hurling insults like it's a competitive sport."
Pansy's smirk faltered for half a second, but she quickly recovered, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. "Well, someone has to keep you grounded, don't they? Can't have you floating off on that pedestal of yours."
Hermione stared at her for a long moment, and for a brief, disconcerting second, Pansy thought she saw something close to pity in her expression. "You know," Hermione said quietly, "it must be exhausting."
"What?" Pansy asked, her smirk tightening into a defensive sneer. "Being right all the time?"
"No," Hermione replied, her voice soft but firm. "Being so angry at the world that you can't see past your own bitterness."
Pansy froze, the words landing with more weight than she expected. For a moment, she felt exposed, her carefully constructed armour threatening to crack. But then she remembered who she was, and more importantly, who Hermione was, and the familiar surge of defiance took hold.
"Spare me the psychoanalysis, Granger," Pansy said, her tone sharper than she intended. "You're not as clever as you think you are."
Hermione didn't respond. She simply grabbed her bag and headed for the door, her footsteps brisk and purposeful. As the door swung shut behind her, Pansy let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
Her gaze drifted back to the now-empty side of the room, and for a brief, unguarded moment, she let the mask slip. Hermione's words lingered, cutting through the din of her usual self-assurances. It wasn't true, Pansy told herself. She wasn't angry at the world. She wasn't bitter. She was just… realistic. Pragmatic.
And yet, as she sat there in the stillness, the gnawing feeling in her chest refused to be ignored.
Pansy remained seated on the edge of her bed, the sound of the door clicking shut echoing in the quiet room. She stared down at her hands, the faint tremble in her fingers betraying the calm she worked so hard to project. Hermione's parting words played on a loop in her mind, soft but cutting in a way that left no room for rebuttal.
"Being so angry at the world that you can't see past your own bitterness."
What did Granger know about anger? About bitterness? She didn't know what it was like to have the world turn its back on you, to be left with nothing but whispers and glares from people who were supposed to have your back. Granger didn't know the first thing about survival, not like Pansy did.
And yet… there had been something in Hermione's voice—something almost genuine. That was the part that infuriated Pansy the most. For all her faults, Hermione wasn't cruel. She wasn't the kind of person to say something just to hurt someone. Which meant she believed it.
Pansy shook her head sharply, shoving the thought away. She didn't have time for this—not today, not ever.
With a determined sigh, she stood and crossed to the wardrobe, yanking out her robes and tossing them onto the bed. The day wasn't going to wait for her, and she wasn't about to let Hermione bloody Granger occupy any more of her thoughts.
Pansy made her way down to breakfast, the rhythmic clack of her shoes against the stone floors steadying her nerves. The Great Hall was already bustling, the low hum of conversation punctuated by clinking cutlery and the occasional burst of laughter. She scanned the Slytherin table as she approached, her sharp eyes quickly picking out familiar faces.
Daphne sat near the end of the table, her posture as poised as ever, but she didn't look up as Pansy slid into the seat opposite her. Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott were further down, their heads bent together in quiet conversation. No one acknowledged her arrival.
Pansy reached for the tea, pouring herself a cup with deliberate slowness. The silence at her end of the table was oppressive, and for a moment, she considered leaving altogether. But then Daphne spoke, her voice low and measured.
"You're late."
Pansy glanced up, arching an eyebrow. "And you care because…?"
Daphne sighed, setting her fork down with a soft clink. "Because people are watching, Pansy. They always are."
Pansy's jaw tightened. "Let them watch. What does it matter?"
"It matters because some of us are trying to move forward," Daphne said, her tone sharper now. "And you make that harder every time you—"
"Every time I what?" Pansy cut in, her voice rising slightly. "Every time I exist? Is that it, Daphne? Should I just disappear and make things easier for you?"
Daphne's expression didn't change, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes—sympathy, maybe, or frustration. "No one's asking you to disappear," she said evenly. "But you don't make it easy for people to stand by you, Pansy."
Pansy's chest tightened, but she masked it with a smirk. "Good thing I don't need anyone to stand by me, then."
Daphne didn't respond, and the silence between them stretched uncomfortably. Pansy sipped her tea, the bitterness of it matching her mood perfectly.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of monotony and tension. Classes felt endless, each one dragging more than the last. Pansy's attention drifted during Potions, though she still managed to perfect her Draught of Peace with practiced ease. It was one of the few things she had left—her sharp mind, her ability to excel where others faltered. Even Professor Slughorn had grudgingly acknowledged her skill, though the praise rang hollow in the absence of Snape's usual favouritism.
By the time the day's lessons ended, Pansy was more than ready to retreat to the 8th Year dormitory. She climbed the staircase slowly, her thoughts heavy as she pushed open the door to the circular common room. The space was quiet, most of the other students scattered across the castle.
But Hermione was there, seated by the fire with her books spread out around her. She looked up as Pansy entered, her expression unreadable. Pansy hesitated in the doorway, her gaze flickering from the firelight to Hermione, who seemed entirely at ease amidst the chaos of her open books and parchment. The Gryffindor didn't look up right away, her quill moving with practiced precision as she scribbled something in the margins of a textbook.
"Busy day?" Hermione asked lightly, her tone more neutral than Pansy expected.
Pansy stepped into the room, her heels clicking against the stone floor. "Not as busy as yours, I'm sure," she said, letting a smirk creep into her voice. "Saving the world must be exhausting."
Hermione finally glanced up, her expression calm but watchful. "It has its moments," she replied simply, turning back to her work.
Pansy frowned slightly, thrown by the lack of a proper reaction. She crossed the room and dropped onto one of the sofas, draping herself across it with deliberate nonchalance. "Really, Granger," she drawled, "you should learn to take a break. All that heroism is going to give you premature wrinkles."
Hermione didn't rise to the bait, her quill continuing its steady movements. "I appreciate the concern, Pansy," she said without looking up, "but I think I'll survive."
"Pity," Pansy muttered under her breath, though she knew Hermione heard her. She leaned back against the cushions, watching the other girl out of the corner of her eye.
There was a part of Pansy that wanted to keep pushing, to needle and provoke until Hermione finally snapped. But another part of her—the part she didn't like to acknowledge—felt... uneasy. She couldn't explain it, but something about the Gryffindor's composure made her words feel hollow, like she was swinging a sword against a stone wall.
"You know," Hermione said suddenly, breaking the silence, "if you spent half as much energy on your studies as you do trying to irritate me, you might actually accomplish something."
Pansy blinked, momentarily caught off guard. "Excuse me?"
Hermione set her quill down and looked directly at her, her green eyes steady. "You're clearly intelligent," she said matter-of-factly. "But instead of using it, you waste your time making snide comments and playing petty games. It's not just irritating, Pansy—it's sad."
The words landed like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, Pansy couldn't think of a single thing to say. Hermione's tone wasn't cruel or mocking; it was almost... disappointed. And that made it worse.
She straightened, her smirk hardening into a sneer. "Oh, spare me the lecture, Granger. I don't need life advice from someone who spends her evenings buried in books."
"No, you don't," Hermione agreed, her gaze unwavering. "But maybe you should."
Pansy's chest tightened, a flicker of something—anger, shame, resentment—sparking in her. She stood abruptly, smoothing her robes with sharp, deliberate movements. "I don't have time for this," she said coolly. "Enjoy your little study session, Granger."
Without waiting for a response, she turned and swept out of the room, her footsteps echoing down the corridor. But even as she put distance between herself and the common room, Hermione's words lingered, chasing her like an unwanted shadow. Time for some air, she thought to herself.
The night air outside the Astronomy Tower was crisp and biting, carrying with it the faint smell of rain from the storm earlier in the day. Pansy leaned against the cold stone balustrade, her hands gripping the edge tightly as she stared out at the sprawling grounds below. The Black Lake was still, a mirror reflecting the crescent moon, and the Forbidden Forest loomed in the distance, dark and impenetrable.
This spot had been her refuge once, back when being a Slytherin meant security and power, back when she had her place firmly carved out at the top of the hierarchy. She had stood here before, surrounded by Daphne and Millicent and the others, laughing as they planned their next escapade or critiqued their classmates with razor-sharp precision.
Now, she stood alone.
The tower was empty save for the occasional hoot of an owl or the rustle of the wind. It was better this way, Pansy thought. Here, in the quiet, she didn't have to deal with the stares, the whispers, or Hermione bloody Granger and her self-righteous observations.
She let out a shaky breath, her fingers loosening slightly on the stone. She'd come here to think, though her thoughts were as turbulent as ever. Every interaction, every word, seemed to cut deeper than it should. Daphne's guarded comments at breakfast, Blaise's carefully polite indifference, even Granger's unexpected insight—it all gnawed at her in a way she couldn't shake.
"You waste your time making snide comments and playing petty games. It's not just irritating, Pansy—it's sad."
The words replayed in her mind, sharper than any insult. Sad. Pansy scoffed, shaking her head. She wasn't sad. She was smart. She was strong. She was…
Her thoughts faltered, and for a moment, the mask slipped. She let herself feel the weight of everything she'd been carrying—the guilt, the anger, the crushing loneliness. It pressed against her chest, threatening to crack the facade she'd worked so hard to maintain.
But then the sound of footsteps on the stairs jolted her out of her reverie. She straightened quickly, her expression hardening as the intruder came into view.
The footsteps grew louder, echoing against the stone walls of the staircase. Pansy turned, her eyes narrowing as a figure emerged into the moonlight. For a moment, she thought she was imagining it—the last person she expected to see here, at this hour.
"Daphne," Pansy said, her voice sharp with surprise and something close to suspicion. "What are you doing here?"
Daphne Greengrass stepped fully onto the tower; her arms crossed as she leaned casually against the archway. Her blonde hair glinted silver in the moonlight, and her expression was calm, almost unreadable.
"I could ask you the same question," Daphne replied, her tone light but edged with curiosity. "Couldn't sleep?"
Pansy shrugged, turning back to the balustrade. "Something like that."
The silence stretched between them, heavy and fraught with unspoken words. Pansy didn't look at her, keeping her gaze fixed on the lake, but she could feel Daphne's eyes on her, studying her in that infuriatingly perceptive way she always had.
"You used to love this spot," Daphne said after a moment, her voice softer now. "Back when we'd sneak up here to talk about... well, everything."
Pansy scoffed, though the sound lacked its usual bite. "That was a long time ago."
"Not that long," Daphne countered. She took a step closer, her footsteps careful, deliberate. "You know, people are still trying to figure things out, Pansy. It's not just you."
Pansy's grip on the stone tightened. "Is that what you came up here to tell me? That I'm not the only one trying to piece my life back together?"
"No," Daphne said quietly. "I came up here because I wanted to see how you were. But you're not exactly making it easy."
Pansy let out a bitter laugh, finally turning to face her. "Why would you care, Daphne? You've made it perfectly clear where you stand. With Blaise, Theo, and all the others, rebuilding your little circle while I'm left to rot."
"That's not fair," Daphne said sharply, her calm exterior cracking. "You know it's not."
"Isn't it?" Pansy shot back, her voice rising. "You've barely spoken to me since the train. Don't think I haven't noticed."
Daphne's jaw tightened, but she didn't look away. "And what would you have me say, Pansy? What do you want me to do? You stood up in front of the entire school and handed Harry Potter to the Dark Lord on a silver platter. Do you have any idea how that makes the rest of us look? How it affects all of us?"
Pansy's chest tightened, the words hitting her like a slap. She forced herself to hold Daphne's gaze, though the effort made her stomach churn. "I didn't—" She broke off, swallowing hard. "It wasn't like that."
"Then what was it like?" Daphne demanded, stepping closer now, her voice low but fierce. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you made a choice. And now, we're all paying for it. They rule the roost now, Potter and his friends, his allies. If you'd at least tried to seem ambiguous that night we might have been given the benefit of the doubt, but instead we are all firmly outside of the circle. We have no status anymore, no influence."
Pansy's nails dug into her palms as she struggled to keep her voice steady. "I made a mistake, alright? I thought—" She stopped, her breath hitching. "I thought it would end everything. That it would stop the war, the killing, the… madness. I wasn't trying to—"
Her voice cracked, and she turned away, biting her lip hard to keep the tears at bay. She hated this—hated how easily Daphne could unravel her defences, how quickly she could cut through the facade Pansy showed the rest of the world.
Daphne was silent for a long moment. When she finally spoke, her voice was softer, almost hesitant. "I didn't come up here to fight with you. I just… I miss you, Pansy. But I don't know how to fix this."
Pansy closed her eyes, the admission cutting deeper than any argument. For a moment, she let herself consider the possibility—that things could be fixed, that the walls between her and her housemates weren't as impenetrable as they seemed. But then she thought of the whispers, the glares, the crushing weight of her mistakes, and the hope flickered out as quickly as it had come.
"I don't think you can," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.
Daphne didn't respond right away, and when she did, her tone was quiet but resolute. "Maybe not. But I'm not going to stop trying."
The words lingered in the air as Daphne turned and made her way back down the stairs, leaving Pansy alone once more. She stayed where she was, the cold wind biting at her skin, her mind a tangle of conflicting emotions.
She wanted to believe Daphne. She wanted to believe that things could be different. But the weight of everything she'd done, everything she'd said, pressed down on her like a stone.
And as she gazed out at the dark expanse of the Black Lake, she couldn't help but wonder if some things were too broken to be repaired.
The wind whipped against her face as Pansy stood motionless, her hands gripping the stone balustrade. Daphne's words echoed in her mind, cutting deeper than she wanted to admit. You stood up in front of the entire school and handed Harry Potter to the Dark Lord on a silver platter.
It wasn't untrue. That was the worst part.
Pansy could still see it clearly—the Great Hall, packed with frightened students and teachers, You-Know-Who's voice booming from nowhere and everywhere. The air had been electric with fear, and every heartbeat felt like a countdown to the end. She had looked around, seen the trembling faces, and thought: If we just give him Potter, it will be over. This will end.
In hindsight, it was laughable. Giving You-Know-Who what he wanted wouldn't have ended anything. It would have emboldened him, cemented his victory. But in that moment, she hadn't been thinking about victories or legacies. She'd been thinking about survival. About herself. About not wanting to die in a war she hadn't chosen.
And she had spoken. Loudly. Publicly. Irrevocably.
Even now, months later, the memory made her stomach turn. She had replayed it a thousand times, trying to convince herself she had no other choice, that anyone in her position would have done the same. But no matter how many justifications she conjured, the shame lingered, clinging to her like a second skin. Nobody else, even in Slytherin, had dared suggest – at least not as publicly as Pansy - that Potter should be handed over. The rest of her house had been far shrewder, waiting on the outcome of the battle before picking a side.
The world had moved on since then, but Pansy hadn't. She couldn't. The whispers followed her wherever she went, the weight of her own actions dragging her down with every step. And no amount of cleverness or charm could change the fact that, in what turned out to be the most important moment of her life, she had made the wrong choice.
A sharp gust of wind pulled her back to the present, and she realized her hands were trembling. She took a deep breath, forcing herself to let go of the railing. Dwelling on it wouldn't change anything. The past was done. All she could do now was survive.
But as she made her way back to the dormitory, the heavy ache in her chest refused to fade.
The dormitory was quiet when Pansy returned, the gentle breeze outside windows the only sound. The fire in the common room had burned low, casting faint shadows that danced across the walls. She slipped into the room she shared with Hermione, her movements careful as she shut the door behind her.
Hermione was already asleep, her breathing slow and steady. She lay on her back, one arm draped over the side of the bed, her fingers curled slightly. Pansy frowned, her gaze snagging on something unusual—the faint glint of ink against Hermione's pale skin.
Curiosity prickled at her. Granger? With a tattoo? The idea was absurd, almost laughable. But the thought of prim, perfect Hermione Granger doing something so rebellious was too tempting to ignore.
Quiet as a shadow, Pansy crept closer, her head tilting as she tried to make out the markings. The firelight flickered, throwing the lines into sharper relief, and her smirk froze mid-formation.
It wasn't a tattoo.
The word carved into Hermione's arm was jagged and cruel, the edges uneven as though written by a hand that delighted in causing pain. Mudblood. The word burned into Pansy's mind like a brand, a sickening reminder of the world she'd been raised in.
Her breath caught in her throat. She stared at the scar, at the way it marred the otherwise unblemished skin, and felt an unfamiliar weight settle in her chest. She had used that word before, spat it like venom in hallways and classrooms, laughing with her friends as if it were nothing. But this… this was something else. This was permanent. Ugly. Violent.
The idea that someone had done this to Hermione—physically carved the word into her skin—made Pansy's stomach twist. But what made it worse was knowing that she, too, had been complicit in the same kind of hatred. She hadn't held the knife, but she'd wielded the word with just as much malice.
Her gaze flicked to Hermione's face, peaceful in sleep, her brow furrowed slightly as though caught in a dream. Pansy stepped back, her heart pounding against her ribs. She suddenly felt too big for the room, like the walls were closing in on her.
She turned away, retreating to her side of the room. As she sank onto her bed, the image of Hermione's scarred arm burned behind her eyelids. She tried to push it away, to bury it beneath layers of pride and defiance, but it lingered, heavy and unrelenting.
For the first time in a long while, Pansy felt something she couldn't quite name. Shame. Regret. Disgust—not just at the world she'd come from, but at herself.
She lay down, staring at the canopy above her, and for the first time in years, Pansy Parkinson felt like the villain of the story. What sort of hell had Hermione been put through when she got that scar? Pansy tossed and turned for hours thinking about it, the first light of dawn had broken as she finally drifted off for a couple of hours before classes, sure that she would not be at her best for potions with Professor Slughorn.
The dungeon was as hot and stifling as ever, even as Winter began to approach, the air thick with the sharp tang of spilled ingredients and burnt cauldron bottoms. She slid into her seat near the middle of the room, her gaze sweeping across the other students as they trickled in. It didn't take long for her eyes to find Hermione and Ginny, who were chatting quietly as they took their usual spot at the front.
Pansy leaned back in her chair, her smirk forming almost automatically. Of course, Granger would sit front and centre, eager to absorb every word like the insufferable know-it-all she was.
Professor Slughorn entered moments later, his jovial demeanour doing little to brighten the oppressive atmosphere of the dungeon. "Good morning, class!" he called, clapping his hands together. "Today, we'll be brewing the Befuddlement Draught, a potion requiring precision and cooperation. You'll need to work in pairs."
The class began shifting in their seats, murmurs rippling as students exchanged glances. Pansy straightened slightly, her smirk widening when she saw Ginny and Hermione exchange a knowing look, clearly intending to partner up.
"Now, now," Slughorn continued, raising a hand to quell the noise. "I've taken the liberty of assigning your pairs today. It's important to expand your horizons, yes? Learn to work with someone new."
Hermione frowned slightly, her hand twitching as though she were considering raising it to object. Ginny leaned over and muttered something, and Hermione sighed, settling back into her chair.
Slughorn began reading off names, and Pansy's smirk slipped when she heard her own. "Parkinson and Granger," he announced, oblivious to the tension that instantly filled the room.
Ginny's eyes narrowed, and she opened her mouth to protest, but Slughorn cut her off with a cheerful wave of his hand. "Miss Weasley, you'll be working with Mr. Corner today. I'm sure you'll manage just fine."
Pansy glanced at Hermione, whose jaw was tight as she gathered her things and moved to the seat beside her. "Lucky me," Pansy murmured as Hermione sat down, her voice low enough that only Hermione could hear.
"Let's just get this over with," Hermione replied curtly, not bothering to look at her.
Pansy leaned back in her chair, watching with faint amusement as Hermione meticulously laid out their ingredients. "You know," she said casually, "you could save yourself the trouble. This isn't a bloody OWL exam."
Hermione ignored her, her focus on carefully measuring out powdered billywig stings. "If you spent half as much time paying attention to the instructions as you do running your mouth, you might actually contribute something useful."
Pansy raised an eyebrow, her smirk sharpening. "Careful, Granger. That temper of yours is showing. Wouldn't want to chip that perfect little veneer."
Hermione slammed the vial of billywig stings onto the table with more force than necessary, the glass rattling against the wood. "Do you ever stop talking?" she snapped.
"Only when I'm entertained," Pansy replied smoothly, her gaze flicking to the bubbling cauldron between them. "And you, Granger, are far from entertaining."
Hermione let out a sharp breath, clearly fighting to maintain her composure. "Fine," she said tightly. "If you won't help, at least stay out of my way."
"Gladly." Pansy leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms as she watched Hermione work. The Gryffindor's movements were precise, almost mechanical, but there was a tension in her shoulders that hadn't been there before.
The room buzzed with activity as other pairs worked on their potions, the faint clinking of glass and murmured instructions filling the air. Pansy's eyes wandered lazily across the dungeon, but her attention snapped back to Hermione when the other girl's hand faltered, nearly knocking over a vial of stewed horned slugs.
"Careful, Granger," Pansy said, her tone mockingly sweet. "Wouldn't want to ruin your perfect record."
Hermione glared at her; her brown eyes burning intensely. "If you're not going to help, Parkinson, the least you could do is keep quiet."
"Oh, but where's the fun in that?" Pansy replied, her smirk widening.
Hermione didn't respond, her attention returning to the potion as she added the billywig stings with a steady hand. The cauldron hissed, a faint plume of smoke rising as the mixture turned a vivid shade of green.
"Stir counterclockwise, Parkinson," Hermione instructed curtly, holding out the stirrer without looking at her. "Five times."
Pansy took the stirrer, her smirk never faltering. "Counterclockwise. Got it."
She plunged the stirrer into the potion and gave it an exaggerated swirl—clockwise.
Hermione's head snapped up. "What are you doing? I said counterclockwise!"
"Relax, Granger," Pansy said, feigning innocence. "It's not like it's going to explode."
The words had barely left her mouth when the potion began to bubble violently, the green hue shifting to a dangerous shade of orange. Hermione's eyes widened, and she lunged forward to grab the stirrer, but it was too late.
The cauldron erupted with a loud pop, sending a thick plume of orange smoke into the air. Shouts and coughs echoed across the dungeon as students scrambled to move away. Pansy stumbled back, waving a hand in front of her face as the smoke enveloped her.
When it finally cleared, Pansy glanced down at herself and grimaced. Her robes were splattered with sticky orange goo, the smell of burnt ingredients making her stomach turn. Across the table, Hermione was in a similar state, her hair frizzed and her expression livid.
"What did I just say?" Hermione hissed, her voice low and furious.
Pansy opened her mouth to reply, but before she could, Professor Slughorn appeared, his round face red with exasperation. "Miss Granger! Miss Parkinson! What is the meaning of this?"
"It was an accident," Hermione said quickly, though her glare at Pansy suggested otherwise.
"An accident," Slughorn repeated, his eyes narrowing. "Well, it's an expensive accident. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to procure billywig stings these days? You are not First Years anymore girls, I wouldn't expect such mistakes from my NEWT students."
Hermione flushed, her gaze dropping to the floor. Pansy, however, simply crossed her arms and met Slughorn's gaze with defiant indifference.
"Clean this up," Slughorn said, waving his wand to banish the worst of the mess. "And see me after class. Both of you."
He turned and walked away, muttering under his breath about wasted ingredients and careless students.
Hermione turned to Pansy, her expression a mix of anger and disbelief. "Are you proud of yourself?"
"Not particularly," Pansy said, brushing a glob of orange goo off her sleeve. "But you have to admit, it was entertaining."
Hermione let out a sharp breath, clearly at the end of her patience. "You're impossible."
"And you're predictable," Pansy shot back, her smirk returning. "Looks like we both have our faults."
Hermione didn't respond, turning back to the cauldron with a frustrated shake of her head. Pansy watched her for a moment, a flicker of something almost like regret tugging at the edges of her thoughts. But she pushed it aside, focusing instead on the smirk she wore like armour.
It was going to be a long year.
The classroom was eerily quiet after the other students had filed out, leaving only Hermione, Pansy, and Professor Slughorn standing amidst the lingering smell of burnt potion. Slughorn waved his wand lazily, clearing the last of the mess as he settled heavily into his chair.
"Well," he began, his voice a mix of disappointment and weariness, "that was certainly… memorable girls, and it's earned you both my first detention in years."
Pansy crossed her arms, leaning back against the table with an air of practiced indifference. Hermione, on the other hand, stood ramrod straight, her expression a mix of anger and mortification.
"Professor," Hermione started, her voice tight, "if you could just let me explain—"
Slughorn raised a hand, cutting her off. "Oh, Miss Granger, there's no need. I've been teaching long enough to see exactly what's happening here."
Hermione frowned, her mouth opening as if to protest, but Slughorn pressed on. "The two of you," he said, gesturing between them, "have been at each other's throats since term began. I had hoped that pairing you up might encourage some… reconciliation. A little house unity, yes?"
Pansy snorted, earning her a sharp look from Slughorn.
"But it seems," he continued, his tone growing sterner, "that my little experiment has only made things worse. And the other professors have noticed too. Your bickering has been the talk of the staffroom, you know."
"Professor," Hermione said, her frustration bubbling to the surface, "with all due respect, our differences are too great to simply 'reconcile.' It's not fair to try and force me to get along with someone who—"
"Someone who what, Granger?" Pansy cut in, her voice sharp. "Say it."
Hermione turned to her; her eyes blazing. "Who tried to hand Harry over to Voldemort!" The words echoed in the quiet dungeon, heavy and damning. Professor Slughorn made an awkward, high-pitched noise at the mention of the Dark Lord's name.
For once, Pansy didn't respond. Her smirk faltered, her expression slipping into something unreadable. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, as the weight of Hermione's accusation hung in the air.
Slughorn sighed, leaning forward and steepling his fingers. "Yes," he said quietly, his voice unusually serious. "Miss Parkinson's actions during the battle were… unfortunate. But this is exactly why I believe this is necessary. Hogwarts is a place for second chances, for growth and understanding."
Hermione's jaw tightened, her gaze snapping back to Slughorn. "And you think detention will fix this? That pairing us up again will magically erase what she did?"
"I think," Slughorn said, his tone firm, "that it's an opportunity. The war is over, Miss Granger. We must look forward, not back. I'm sure Miss Parkinson has many regrets about her previous year at this school and I would think she would welcome an opportunity to begin correcting them."
Hermione let out a sharp breath, her hands curling into fists at her sides. "That's easy for you to say. You weren't the one she wanted to sacrifice."
Slughorn's gaze softened, but his resolve didn't waver. "This is about more than the two of you. It's about what Hogwarts stands for—what it must stand for, if we're to move on."
Hermione looked away; her lips pressed into a thin line. Pansy remained silent; her usual bravado stripped away as she stared at the floor.
"Detention, tonight at eight o'clock sharp." Slughorn repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Together. I trust you'll both use the time wisely."
Without waiting for a response, he stood and began gathering his things, signalling the end of the conversation. Hermione turned sharply on her heel and stalked out of the classroom, her footsteps echoing loudly against the stone floor.
Pansy lingered for a moment longer, her gaze still fixed on the floor. For once, she had no clever remark, no cutting retort. Hermione's words played on a loop in her mind, their weight pressing against her chest like a stone, and she could think of little else until their detention that evening.
The air in the ruined corridor was cold and heavy with the smell of dust and damp stone. Hermione stood in the centre of the rubble, surveying the damage with her wand in hand. Pansy leaned against a crumbling pillar, her arms crossed and her expression one of barely concealed boredom.
"This," Pansy drawled, "is a waste of time." Repairing damaged sections of the castle was not what she thought Slughorn would have in mind for their detention. Weren't there fully qualified wizards who specialised in repairing and maintaining magical buildings? I guess we are free labour Pansy thought to herself.
Hermione sighed deeply, not bothering to look at her. "If you actually helped, it might go faster."
"Right," Pansy replied, her smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. "Because your enthusiasm for rubble-clearing is so infectious."
Before Hermione could retort, Professor Flitwick appeared from behind a partially repaired archway, his small frame dwarfed by the towering debris. "Ah, there you are," he chirped, clapping his hands together. "This section's been particularly tricky, so your magic will be put to good use. Remember, stabilization charms first, then repair."
"Understood, Professor," Hermione said with a firm nod.
Pansy rolled her eyes but gave a half-hearted shrug. "Can't wait."
Flitwick beamed, clearly unfazed by her sarcasm. "Good! I'll leave you to it, then. Call if you need assistance."
As Flitwick disappeared down the corridor, Hermione turned to Pansy, her expression expectant. "Are you going to help, or are you just going to stand there?"
Pansy pushed off the pillar, twirling her wand between her fingers. "Fine," she said, her tone begrudging. "But don't expect me to enjoy it."
They worked in strained silence, Hermione casting precise stabilization spells on the unstable walls while Pansy muttered incantations that half-heartedly shifted debris. The occasional clatter of falling stone broke the quiet, but neither of them spoke.
"Careful," Hermione said at one point, glancing over her shoulder as Pansy moved a jagged piece of rubble with a flick of her wand. "If you're not exact, the whole section could collapse."
"Oh, thank you, Granger," Pansy shot back, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "I'd never have guessed."
Hermione sighed but didn't respond, focusing instead on repairing a particularly damaged archway. Pansy watched her for a moment, her smirk fading slightly. Despite herself, she couldn't help but admire the other girl's determination.
But then the sound of cracking stone filled the air, sharp and sudden. Pansy's head snapped up, her heart leaping as she saw a large chunk of masonry teetering precariously above Hermione.
"Granger, move!" Pansy shouted, her wand already snapping upward.
The stone fell, but Pansy's shield charm flared to life just in time, catching the debris mid-air. The force of the impact sent her stumbling back, but she held firm, her jaw clenched as she lowered the chunk of stone carefully to the ground.
Hermione spun around, her eyes wide. "You—" she began, her voice catching. "You saved me."
Pansy straightened, brushing dust off her robes with deliberate nonchalance. "Don't read too much into it," she said coolly. "I didn't fancy facing all the suspicion and accusations for your untimely demise. As you pointed out to Professor Slughorn, I've already tried to give up Potter to the Dark Lord."
Hermione stared at her, her expression mixed with gratitude and discomfort. "You did. Still," she said softly, "thank you."
Pansy opened her mouth to reply, but the words caught in her throat. Instead, she shrugged, forcing her smirk back into place. "Don't mention it. Really."
Hermione hesitated for a moment longer before turning back to her work, though her movements were slower, more thoughtful. Pansy watched her out of the corner of her eye, the familiar ache of conflicting emotions tightening in her chest.
She had done something good—something right. And she hated how much it unsettled her.