Authors Note

Dear Readers,

Merry Christmas! (This chapter was published 25th December 2024.) I hope you have had a fantastic day if you celebrate Christmas, and if not, I still hope you've had a fantastic day anyway! This chapter is my little gift to all those who've left such positive comments and support for this new story. I may not post next week, but afterwards I hope to update this weekly as for once in my time writing fanfiction I am writing far ahead of publishing!

I hope you like this chapter, and if you do, leave me a comment! It always makes my day.

Thanks for Reading,

IronManRidingaNimbus.

Chapter 3

Hermione stormed into the Great Hall; her robe still speckled with orange potion residue. Ginny was already at the Gryffindor table, poking listlessly at a plate of mashed potatoes. The moment she spotted Hermione, her expression sharpened.

"Finally!" Ginny exclaimed, setting her fork down with a clatter. "What in Merlin's name happened after Slughorn pulled you two aside? I've been dying to hear how you managed not to hex Parkinson into next week."

Hermione dropped onto the bench with a frustrated huff, grabbing a goblet of pumpkin juice and downing half of it in one go. "Oh, believe me, Ginny," she muttered, setting the goblet down with a sharp clink. "I was close."

"I could tell," Ginny said with a smirk. "Your face was the same shade as the potion."

Hermione shot her a glare, but Ginny raised her hands defensively. "Hey, I'm on your side! Slughorn pairing you up with her was absolutely mental."

"You don't say," Hermione muttered, rubbing her temples. "He said it was for house unity. Apparently, we need to 'set an example.'"

Ginny groaned loudly, drawing a few amused glances from nearby students. "Unity? With Parkinson? That's like expecting a Hungarian Horntail to play nice with a Blast-Ended Skrewt!"

Hermione snorted despite herself. "Am I the Horntail or the Skrewt? Anyway, Slughorn seems to think otherwise. And now, thanks to her deliberately stirring the wrong way, we've both got detention."

Ginny's eyes widened. "Detention? With her? What did you do to deserve that?"

"Exist," Hermione replied dryly. "Apparently, Slughorn hoped pairing us up would make us get along. Now he's doubling down and making us serve detention together."

Ginny slapped her hand against the table, startling a passing first-year. "Unbelievable. That's just unbelievable! She nearly got us all killed, Hermione. And now you're the one being punished?"

Hermione hesitated, lowering her voice as she leaned closer. "I said it, Ginny. In front of Slughorn. That she tried to hand Harry over to Voldemort."

Ginny's jaw dropped, but then a wicked grin spread across her face. "Good. About time someone said it."

Hermione frowned. "I thought I'd feel better, but…" She trailed off, her fingers tracing patterns on the wooden table. "She didn't deny it. She didn't even argue. She just stood there."

Ginny's smile faded. "What do you mean?"

"I mean she looked… defeated," Hermione said softly. "Like she already knew it was true and couldn't fight it."

Ginny crossed her arms, her brow furrowing. "So what? We're supposed to feel sorry for her now? Because she feels bad about the awful things she's done?"

"No," Hermione said quickly. "I don't feel sorry for her. But it made me think… maybe she's not as impenetrable as she wants everyone to believe."

Ginny leaned back, her expression skeptical. "Hermione, people like her don't change. They act sorry when it suits them, but deep down, they're the same."

"I don't know," Hermione said, shaking her head. "Maybe you're right. But if she is trying to change, doesn't she deserve the chance?"

Ginny stared at her for a long moment before sighing and picking up her fork again. "I don't know how you do it, Hermione. I'd have hexed her ages ago."

Hermione smiled faintly. "Believe me, it's crossed my mind."

The two girls sat in companionable silence for a moment, the clatter and chatter of the Great Hall filling the space around them. But even as Hermione reached for a slice of bread, her thoughts remained on Pansy, on the way her smirk had faltered when Hermione spoke the truth aloud. Perhaps something had finally clicked inside the girl, some shred of morality had started shining through. Still, Hermione doubted their upcoming detention would reveal any new sides to Pansy Parkinson.

Hermione's breath came in short, sharp bursts as she stared at the stone chunk resting harmlessly on the ground, glowing faintly from Pansy's shield charm. The weight of what had just happened pressed against her chest, making it hard to think, let alone speak.

Pansy stood a few feet away, her wand still raised, her usual smirk nowhere to be found. For a moment, neither of them moved, the silence broken only by the faint hum of magic dissipating into the air.

"You…" Hermione's voice faltered as she turned to face Pansy fully. "You saved me."

Pansy lowered her wand slowly, her expression carefully neutral. "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 blinked, processing the bluntness of the remark. "You did. Still," she said softly, "thank you."

Pansy shrugged, brushing dust off her robes with deliberate nonchalance. "Don't mention it. Really."

Hermione hesitated, then nodded slightly, her gaze lingering on Pansy for a moment longer before she turned back to her work. Her mind buzzed with questions she wasn't ready to confront, the image of the shield charm still vivid in her mind.

The silence stretched between them, heavy but no longer suffocating, as they worked side by side. For the first time, Hermione found herself wondering if there was more to Pansy than she'd thought—and if she'd ever know what it was.

The walk back to the dormitory was eerily quiet, the soft click of Hermione's shoes on the stone floor the only sound breaking the stillness. Pansy walked a few paces ahead, her usual swagger absent. Hermione's thoughts swirled like a storm; her eyes fixed on Pansy's back as they ascended the stairs.

She wanted to say something. Thank you again, maybe. Or even just acknowledge what had happened. But the words caught in her throat, tangled with everything else she didn't know how to feel. Gratitude. Confusion. Resentment.

They reached the door to the 8th Year Dormitory, the brass plaque gleaming faintly in the dim torchlight. Pansy pushed it open without a word, stepping inside and heading straight for their shared room. Hermione lingered in the doorway for a moment, her fingers brushing against the cool wood as she tried to steady herself.

By the time she entered their room, Pansy was already rummaging through her wardrobe, her movements quick and clipped. Hermione set her bag down at the foot of her bed, the silence between them stretching thin and taut.

"Good night," Hermione said finally, her voice quiet but steady.

Pansy didn't turn around. "Good night," she replied, her tone flat.

Hermione hesitated, her gaze lingering on Pansy's rigid posture before she climbed into bed. She lay staring at the ceiling, the events of the day replaying in her mind. The moment the stone had fallen, the flash of Pansy's shield charm, the way she'd brushed it off afterward as if it meant nothing.

But it did mean something. It had to.

Hermione turned onto her side, pulling the blanket up to her chin. She couldn't make sense of Pansy—not yet. But as she drifted toward sleep, one thought stood out among the chaos: for all her sharp words and cutting remarks, Pansy Parkinson had saved her life, and no amount of sarcasm could erase that.

The Great Hall buzzed with morning activity as students gathered for breakfast, their voices mingling with the clatter of silverware and the rustling of parchment. Hermione sat at the Gryffindor table, her plate of toast and scrambled eggs untouched. Ginny slid into the seat across from her, already halfway through a steaming mug of tea.

"So," Ginny began, setting her cup down and leaning forward. "What happened during detention? And don't you dare say 'nothing.' You're too quiet for it to have been uneventful."

Hermione sighed, absently stirring her tea. "It was… something," she admitted, her voice low. "We were repairing a section of the castle. This huge chunk of stone broke loose and fell, almost landed right on my head, would've killed me. Pansy stopped it with a shield charm."

Ginny's eyes widened. "Really? Are you alright? And… Parkinson…"

"She saved me," Hermione said, her tone carefully measured. "And then, of course, she made some flippant remark about not wanting to deal with suspicions and accusations about my untimely demise."

Ginny snorted. "Typical."

"I know," Hermione said, shaking her head. "But it doesn't change the fact that she saved me. She didn't have to, but she did."

Ginny leaned back, crossing her arms as she studied Hermione's expression. "And how do you feel about that?"

"I don't know," Hermione admitted, frowning slightly. "Confused. Grateful. Frustrated, because she brushed it off like it didn't matter."

"Of course she did," Ginny said, rolling her eyes. "She's Pansy Parkinson. She probably thinks admitting she did something decent would make her combust."

Hermione smiled faintly but didn't reply. Her gaze drifted toward the enchanted ceiling; her thoughts tangled with the events of the previous night.

Their conversation was interrupted by a sudden flurry of owls descending into the hall, their wings flapping as they dropped letters and packages onto tables. A handsome eagle owl landed gracefully in front of Ginny, while a tawny owl swooped down to Hermione's plate, its beak clamped around a thick envelope.

"From Harry," Ginny said, a smile breaking across her face as she took the letter from the eagle owl. "And… Neville?"

Hermione's heart lifted slightly as she opened her own envelope, recognizing Ron's messy scrawl on the parchment inside. "They must have written together."

Ginny grinned as she unfolded her letter, her eyes scanning the lines quickly. "He's alright. Says Auror training is brutal but that Harry's keeping him sane."

Hermione nodded, her own smile growing as she read Ron's letter.

Hey, Hermione,
Auror training is no joke. They've got us up at dawn running drills before we even touch a wand. Harry's handling it well, though—I think he actually likes the punishment. Neville says hi, by the way. He's doing great with the Herbology side of things, of course. Robards has been brilliant so far, though he definitely expects a lot from us. How's Hogwarts? Hope you're surviving without me there to annoy you.
Write back soon.
Ron.

Hermione chuckled softly, folding the letter neatly and tucking it into her bag.

"What did he say?" Ginny asked, her eyes sparkling.

"Pretty much what you'd expect," Hermione replied. "Training is hard, Neville's thriving, and Harry's a glutton for punishment."

Ginny laughed. "That sounds about right." She glanced at her own letter again, her smile softening. "Harry says he misses me. And that he threatened to hex an instructor who gave Neville grief over something minor."

"That sounds about right too," Hermione said with a grin.

The tawny owl hooted softly, nudging a second letter toward Hermione. She picked it up, recognizing Neville's tidy handwriting.

Hi Hermione,
Hope things at Hogwarts aren't too strange. Training's been intense, but I'm learning a lot. Harry's a natural, of course, and Ron keeps us all laughing even when we're knackered. I miss the greenhouse, though. Everything here is so rigid—it makes me appreciate the chaos of school. Let me know how you're getting on. Kingsley says keeping in touch with the world outside the Auror Academy is essential, so I'm taking his advice. I hope you're doing alright.
Neville.

Hermione smiled, her chest warming at Neville's thoughtfulness. She glanced at Ginny, who was tucking her own letter away, her expression brighter than it had been all week.

"Feels good to hear from them, doesn't it?" Ginny said.

"It does," Hermione agreed, slipping Neville's letter into her bag beside Ron's. For the first time since the term had started, she felt a little less cut off from her friends.

Hermione sat at her desk in the 8th Year Dormitory, her quill scratching softly against the parchment. The letter to Ron had been harder to write than she'd expected, her thoughts twisting and turning as she tried to put her feelings into words.

Dear Ron,

I hope training isn't wearing you down too much, though I'm sure you and Harry are finding ways to make it more entertaining than gruelling. I can just picture you two now, laughing at something ridiculous while this Robards guy tries to keep a straight face. Neville wrote as well—he seems to be settling in better than I'd expected, but I suppose he has come a long way from the nervous boy who started Hogwarts all those years ago.

Hogwarts feels… different. I'm sure you can imagine why. Without you and Harry here, everything feels quieter, smaller somehow. Classes are the same in some ways, but the dorms are new. I'm in the new 8th Year Dormitory, which means sharing space with students from other houses. It's… challenging, to say the least.

I miss you. It's strange not having you here, making sarcastic comments in class or stealing bites of my toast at breakfast. The first Hogsmeade weekend is coming up soon, and I was thinking—maybe you could come? Just for the day. It would be nice to see you, to catch up properly. Let me know if you can make it.

Take care of yourself, Ron. And make sure Harry does the same.

Love,
Hermione

She read the letter twice before folding it neatly and sealing it with her wand. The words felt earnest, though she couldn't shake the nagging doubt that something was missing. Pushing the thought aside, she tucked the letter into her bag and made her way to the Owlery.

The cold morning air greeted her as she stepped into the open chamber, the flurry of wings and soft hoots creating a familiar symphony. As she secured her letter to a barn owl, the sound of footsteps on the spiral staircase drew her attention.

She turned to see Pansy Parkinson stepping into the room, a folded piece of parchment in hand. Pansy's usual smirk was absent, her expression unreadable as she approached one of the owls perched near the far wall.

"Parkinson," Hermione said cautiously, the tension between them still fresh after the events of the previous night.

"Granger," Pansy replied without looking at her, her tone clipped. She tied her letter to the leg of a sleek black owl, her movements quick and precise.

Hermione hesitated, her curiosity getting the better of her. "Who are you writing to?"

Pansy turned her head slightly, her eyes narrowing. "My parents. Not that it's any of your business."

Hermione blinked, surprised by the admission. "Your parents? But aren't they—"

"In Azkaban," Pansy finished flatly. "Yes, they are. That doesn't mean I don't write to them."

There was an edge to her voice, a sharpness that warned Hermione not to push further. Still, she couldn't help but wonder what kind of relationship Pansy had with her parents—parents who had supported Voldemort and landed themselves in prison as a result.

Pansy turned back to the owl, giving it a gentle nudge. "Go on," she murmured, watching as it took flight. She lingered for a moment, her gaze fixed on the window as if lost in thought.

Hermione considered saying something—anything—but before she could, Pansy spun on her heel and strode toward the staircase.

"See you around, Granger," Pansy said, her voice cool and detached.

Hermione watched her go, her mind racing with questions. The Pansy Parkinson she thought she knew didn't match the girl she'd seen last night, or the one who had just written to her imprisoned parents. The pieces didn't fit, and it left Hermione with an unsettling sense of curiosity she couldn't quite shake.

The 8th Year Common Room was unusually quiet that evening, the soft glow of floating candles casting long shadows across the room. Hermione sat curled up in one of the armchairs near the window, her Arithmancy textbook open on her lap but largely ignored. Around her, small groups of students were scattered about, some chatting quietly, others immersed in their own studies.

The sudden creak of the main door opening drew everyone's attention. Professor McGonagall stepped into the room, her presence commanding immediate silence. Her sharp gaze swept the room, and the students quickly straightened, some hastily setting aside their books and parchments.

"Good evening," McGonagall said, her voice steady but carrying an undercurrent of gravity. "I hope I'm not interrupting."

"No, Professor," Hermione said, standing instinctively. Several others followed her lead, their curiosity evident.

McGonagall inclined her head slightly. "Thank you. I've come to ask for your assistance with something important."

The room was completely still as she continued. "As you know, the castle is still in the process of being repaired. One of the corridors near the Great Hall suffered significant damage during the battle, and it has been decided that it will house a memorial for those who lost their lives defending the school."

A murmur rippled through the room, subdued and sombre.

McGonagall raised a hand, quieting them. "This memorial will not simply be a tribute to those we lost. It will be a reminder of what was fought for—and what must never be forgotten. I believe it is only fitting that those of you who lived through that day and have chosen to return to Hogwarts take part in its design and creation."

Hermione's chest tightened at the weight of McGonagall's words. She glanced around the room, seeing a mix of emotions on her classmates' faces. Some looked uneasy, others thoughtful.

"Professor," Ernie Macmillan spoke up, his voice tentative, "do you already have an idea for what the memorial should look like?"

McGonagall shook her head. "That is for you to decide. Each of you experienced the battle differently, and it is your collective perspective that I wish to see reflected in this memorial. Consider it an opportunity to contribute to the castle's rebuilding in a way that honours its history and its future."

Padma Patil raised her hand. "Will we have guidance?"

"Of course," McGonagall replied. "Professor Flitwick has kindly offered his expertise in enchantments, and Professors Sprout and Hagrid will aid with sourcing materials. However, the vision and the execution will be yours."

Hermione's mind was already racing with ideas, though the weight of the task made her heart ache. This wasn't just about creating something beautiful—it was about confronting the pain and loss that had touched all of their lives.

"Do we have a deadline, Professor?" Hermione asked, her voice steady despite the tightness in her throat.

McGonagall nodded. "I would like to see the memorial completed by Christmas if possible."

The room fell silent again as the weight of the responsibility settled over them. Hermione looked at her classmates, noting the quiet resolve in some faces and the uncertainty in others.

"Very well," McGonagall said, her voice softer now. "I will leave you to discuss how you wish to proceed. If you require anything, do not hesitate to ask."

With that, she turned and left the room, her robes sweeping behind her. For a long moment after McGonagall's departure, the room remained silent. Hermione could feel the weight of the task pressing down on them all, the enormity of what it meant. Around her, some of the students exchanged uncertain glances, while others avoided eye contact altogether.

"Well," Dean said finally, breaking the silence, "if we're going to do this, we need to start somewhere."

A few murmurs of agreement rippled through the room, but it was hesitant, subdued. Hermione glanced around, her gaze catching on Daphne Greengrass, who sat stiffly by the window, her arms crossed. Blaise Zabini lounged nearby, his expression unreadable. Neither of them said a word.

"It should be Hermione," Padma said suddenly, her voice clear in the quiet. "To lead the project, I mean. She's the obvious choice."

Hermione blinked, taken aback. "Me?"

"Of course, you," Ernie chimed in. "You're the best at organizing, and… well, you were right there in the middle of it all with Harry and Ron. You understand what this means better than anyone."

A wave of agreement swept through the room, though Hermione couldn't help but notice the pointed lack of response from the Slytherin students. Daphne's lips tightened, but she said nothing. Blaise merely raised an eyebrow, leaning back against the arm of a sofa.

Hermione hesitated, her gaze flitting between the supportive faces of her classmates and the guarded expressions of the Slytherins. "If… if everyone agrees," she said carefully, "I'll do it. But this has to be a group effort. It's not about me—it's about all of us."

There were nods and murmurs of assent, but the atmosphere remained tense. Dean shifted in his seat, glancing toward the Slytherins. "Look," he said, his tone hesitant but firm, "I think it's fair to ask… should everyone be involved in this? I mean, no offense, but some people didn't exactly… participate during the battle."

The tension in the room ratcheted up instantly. Daphne's head snapped up, her eyes narrowing. "Are you suggesting we're not worthy to help? We're in Slytherin so we're obviously Death Eaters?" she asked, her voice cold.

Dean held up his hands. "I didn't mean it like that. I'm just saying—there were people who fought and people who didn't. Maybe those who didn't shouldn't—"

"Shouldn't what?" Blaise interrupted; his tone smooth but cutting. "Be allowed to honour the dead? Pay respects? Is that what you're saying?"

"Enough," Hermione said sharply, her voice slicing through the tension. "This isn't about who did or didn't fight. The memorial is for everyone who was affected by the battle—including those who weren't directly involved."

Dean looked like he wanted to argue, but he clamped his mouth shut, his jaw tight. Daphne and Blaise exchanged a glance, their expressions unreadable, before Daphne leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms again.

"This is going to be a roaring success," Padma muttered, earning a quiet chuckle from Ernie.

After a few more minutes of strained discussion, it was agreed that Hermione would take charge of organizing the project. The rest of the details, however, remained frustratingly vague. By the time the group dispersed for the night, Hermione's mind was already buzzing with ideas and challenges.

Later that evening, Hermione returned to the room to find Pansy sitting cross-legged on her bed, staring blankly at the magazine in her lap. The usual air of superiority was missing, replaced by something far more subdued. Hermione hesitated in the doorway before speaking.

"You missed an announcement," she said, setting her bag down and shrugging off her robes.

Pansy barely glanced up, but the superior smirk was making a return, "What kind of announcement? Weasley ask you to marry him? Bit soon don't you think?"

"Professor McGonagall wants the 8th years to design and create a memorial for the battle," Hermione explained, brushing aside Pansy's jibe. "It'll be in one of the repaired corridors near the Great Hall."

Pansy stiffened slightly, her gaze lowering to the magazine. For a moment, she said nothing, her fingers fidgeting absentmindedly with the edge of the page.

"A memorial," she repeated quietly. "How… fitting."

Hermione tilted her head, studying Pansy's unusually subdued demeanour. "She wants everyone to be involved," she added. "That includes you."

Pansy let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. "Of course it does. That sounds exactly like something McGonagall would say."

"You don't want to participate?" Hermione asked, her tone cautious.

Pansy's laugh faded, replaced by a hollow expression. "Do you really think anyone wants me near a memorial wall, Granger?" she asked, her voice sharp but laced with something that sounded almost like regret. "Half the school still looks at me like I'm about to curse them. And they're not wrong."

"Maybe that's exactly why you should be involved," Hermione countered, stepping closer. "Show that you do care about what happened."

Pansy's head snapped up, her eyes narrowing. "Easy for you to say," she snapped. "You didn't stand up in the Great Hall and suggest handing Potter over to the Dark Lord. I might as well have painted a big red target on my back."

Hermione's lips pressed into a thin line, the memory of that moment flickering through her mind. "You were scared," she said softly. "We all were."

Pansy scoffed, but there was no heat in it. "Being scared doesn't excuse what I did. I wasn't thinking about anyone else—just myself. And now McGonagall wants me to help build a memorial for people braver than I could ever hope to be." She shook her head, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. "I don't deserve that."

Hermione hesitated, unsure how to respond. She hadn't expected Pansy to admit to such feelings, and the rawness of her words caught her off guard. "It's not about deserving," she said finally. "It's about honouring their sacrifice and learning from it. Maybe being part of this is exactly what you need."

Pansy didn't reply immediately. Instead, she turned her gaze back to the magazine, though it was clear her focus was elsewhere. "I'll think about it," she said at last, her tone flat.

Hermione lingered for a moment longer before retreating to her own bed. As she settled in, she couldn't help but glance at Pansy, whose expression remained guarded and distant. There was more to her than Hermione had realized—more than even Pansy seemed willing to admit, and for the first time, Hermione wondered if there was a way to bridge the gap between them. One thing Hermione was sure of as she crawled beneath her covers that night, is that getting through to Pansy Parkinson would be a slow affair. Why bother anyway? Hermione thought to herself, what difference did it make if Pansy Parkinson became less of a bitch? It's not like we're going to end up best friends after all that she's done. With confusion about Pansy swirling around her mind, Hermione struggled to drift off, which was not in her best interests. Quidditch Try-outs were tomorrow, and Hermione had resolved to show Ginny the same support she had Harry and Ron.

The crisp autumn air carried the sharp scent of freshly cut grass as Hermione made her way to the Quidditch pitch. The castle grounds were alive with activity, students darting in every direction, but the largest crowd by far was heading toward the pitch. It seemed half the school was determined to catch a glimpse of Ginny Weasley's Gryffindor try-outs.

Hermione climbed the stands, finding a seat high enough to offer a good view of the chaos below. The scene was every bit as chaotic as she'd expected. Hundreds of students crowded the pitch, many clutching brooms, some clearly too new to the sport to have any business trying out. Others didn't even bother with the pretence of joining the team, holding up banners proclaiming their admiration for Ginny—or more specifically, for 'Harry Potter's girlfriend.'

Ginny stood in the centre of the pitch, her hands on her hips, her whistle clutched in her fist. Her red hair blazed like fire in the sunlight, her expression a mixture of determination and barely concealed exasperation.

"Alright, listen up!" Ginny shouted, her voice amplified by the Sonorus charm she'd cast on herself. "If you're not a Gryffindor, you're not trying out for this team. And if you don't know how to hold a broom, or you can't get off the ground, you're not trying out for this team. Clear?"

A murmur rippled through the crowd, but few seemed inclined to leave. One Hufflepuff, broom in hand, raised his voice. "But we heard you're the best flyer in school! We wanted to see you in action!"

Ginny pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering something Hermione couldn't hear. Then she raised the whistle to her lips and blew, the shrill sound cutting through the chatter.

"Gryffindors only!" she barked, pointing toward the sidelines. "If you're not in Gryffindor, get off the pitch!"

The crowd hesitated, a few sheepishly edging away, but most remained rooted in place. Ginny's frustration was palpable, her sharp gaze scanning the sea of faces as if daring them to argue.

From her perch in the stands, Hermione couldn't help but chuckle. Watching Ginny try to wrangle the chaos was oddly entertaining, though she made a mental note to offer her friend a calming draught later.

Her amusement, however, was short-lived. As her gaze wandered across the grounds, she caught sight of a lone figure sitting near the edge of the Black Lake. Pansy Parkinson. Her dark hair was uncharacteristically loose, her arms wrapped around her knees as she stared out over the water.

Hermione frowned, her amusement fading. Pansy looked smaller somehow, the usual sharpness of her posture absent. She was still, almost unnaturally so, as if the world around her had ceased to exist.

Hermione's first instinct was to ignore her. It wasn't as if Pansy had earned her sympathy—not after years of cruel remarks and thinly veiled disdain. But something about the way she sat there, so isolated and vulnerable, tugged at Hermione's conscience.

She looked back toward the pitch. Ginny was blowing her whistle again, her fiery temper in full swing as she tried to organize the remaining Gryffindors into some semblance of order. Hermione doubted she'd notice if her friend slipped away.

Making up her mind, Hermione stood and descended the stands, weaving through the milling crowd until she reached the path leading to the lake. The closer she got, the clearer Pansy's figure became. Her robes were neatly arranged, her face turned toward the water, but there was an air of heaviness about her that made Hermione hesitate.

When she was close enough to be heard, Hermione cleared her throat gently. "Parkinson?"

Pansy didn't turn immediately, her shoulders stiffening slightly. When she finally glanced over her shoulder, her expression was unreadable. "Granger," she said, her voice flat.

Hermione hesitated, unsure of what to say now that she was here. "What are you doing out here?" she asked at last.

"Enjoying the peace and quiet," Pansy replied, her tone dry. "At least until now."

Hermione ignored the jab, stepping closer. "You looked… alone," she said carefully. "I thought I'd see if you were alright."

Pansy let out a soft laugh, though there was no humour in it. "How very noble of you. Always the Gryffindor."

"It's not about that," Hermione said, sitting down a few feet away. "I just thought you might want some company."

Pansy turned her gaze back to the lake, her expression softening almost imperceptibly. For a long moment, neither of them spoke, the gentle lapping of the water filling the silence.

"I don't need your pity, Granger," Pansy said finally, her voice quiet.

"It's not pity," Hermione replied, her tone firm but kind. "Maybe I just understand what it feels like to be alone."

Pansy didn't respond, her gaze fixed on the water. Hermione stayed where she was, letting the silence stretch between them. She didn't know what she was hoping to accomplish by sitting there, but something told her this moment—however small—mattered. The silence stretched, heavy but not entirely uncomfortable. Pansy hadn't told her to leave, which Hermione took as permission to stay—for now.

"You come out here often?" Hermione asked, her tone light but curious.

Pansy snorted softly. "Not exactly. But it seemed like the best place to avoid the circus on the pitch."

Hermione smiled faintly. "Ginny's try-outs. I don't blame you. It's chaos over there."

"Chaos?" Pansy repeated, raising an eyebrow. "That's putting it mildly. Half the school flocking to hero-worship Harry Potter's girlfriend. Honestly, it's embarrassing."

"She's more than just Harry's girlfriend," Hermione said, a touch defensive. "Ginny's a brilliant flyer and an excellent captain. She deserves the attention."

Pansy shrugged, her gaze fixed on the lake. "If you say so."

Hermione watched her for a moment, studying the way Pansy's fingers fidgeted with the hem of her robe. It was subtle, but there—a sign that the cool, detached facade wasn't as impenetrable as it seemed.

"You know," Hermione said carefully, "it's alright to feel… out of place. After everything that's happened, I think we all do, in some way."

Pansy let out a low, humourless laugh. "How insightful. Did you learn that from one of your precious books?"

Hermione bit back a sigh, trying to keep her frustration in check. "I'm serious, Parkinson. You don't have to pretend everything's fine when it isn't."

Pansy finally turned to look at her, her dark eyes narrowing. "And why would you care, Granger? Feeling charitable today?"

"It's not about charity," Hermione said firmly. "It's about being human. And despite what you might think, I'm not here to gloat or lecture you. I just… I thought you might want someone to talk to."

Pansy's lips twisted into a smirk, though it didn't reach her eyes. "And I'm sure you think I should be ever so grateful for your magnanimous offer."

Hermione shook her head, refusing to rise to the bait. "You don't have to be grateful. You just have to be honest."

Pansy's expression faltered for a split second, the mask slipping just enough for Hermione to catch a glimpse of something raw underneath. But then it was gone, replaced by the same sharp-edged sarcasm.

"Well, since you're so desperate to know," Pansy drawled, "I came out here to enjoy the view. Not to bare my soul to Saint Hermione Granger."

Hermione frowned, leaning back slightly. "You're exhausting, you know that?"

"So I've been told," Pansy replied with a mockingly sweet smile.

Despite herself, Hermione felt a small laugh bubble up. "You really don't make this easy."

"Why should I?" Pansy shot back, arching an eyebrow. "You're the one who decided to play the hero and come over here."

Hermione exhaled, glancing back toward the pitch where Ginny's voice still carried faintly over the din. "Maybe I should have stayed and watched Ginny yell at the other students."

"Probably," Pansy said, her tone light but pointed. "I'm sure that's far more entertaining than sitting with me."

Hermione looked at her again, her gaze softer now. "You're wrong about that."

Pansy didn't respond, her smirk fading as she turned her eyes back to the lake. The silence settled between them once more, but this time it felt different—less charged, more thoughtful.

Hermione stayed for a little while longer, unsure if she was waiting for Pansy to speak or simply offering her presence. When she finally stood to leave, she gave Pansy a small nod.

"See you around, Pansy," she said, her voice gentle.

Pansy didn't look at her, but her reply was quiet, almost inaudible. "Of course you will, I share a room with you."

As Hermione walked back toward the castle, she couldn't help but feel like something had shifted. It wasn't much—just a sliver of understanding—but it was enough to keep her wondering.