Authors Note
Dear Readers,
Happy New Year! I hope your 2025 is going well so far! A Little bit of internal conflict for Pansy in this chapter, the real drama for our girls will start picking up soon...
I hope you like this chapter, and if you do, leave me a comment! It always makes my day.
Thanks for Reading,
IronManRidingaNimbus.
Chapter 4
Pansy woke to the sound of muffled footsteps and distant chatter filtering through the corridors outside the dormitory. Morning sunlight slipped through the curtains, cutting thin slants of light across her bed. She lay still for a moment, the warmth of the blankets tempting her to linger.
But the memory of Hermione's words from the night before dragged her back into reality.
"Professor McGonagall wants the 8th years to design and create a memorial for the battle."
Pansy had barely slept, her mind circling back to that announcement over and over. The idea of participating in something so symbolic made her stomach twist. A memorial wasn't for people like her. It was for the brave, the selfless, people she'd never pretended to be. She'd made her choices, and she'd live with them, but standing alongside the others as if she belonged with them? That was laughable.
Rolling out of bed, Pansy dressed quickly, her movements sharp and precise. Across the room, Hermione's side was empty, her bed made with irritating neatness. Pansy supposed Granger was probably already off somewhere organizing her latest crusade. She sighed and ran a hand through her hair, willing herself to block out thoughts of her insufferable roommate.
The 8th Year Common Room was its usual mix of subdued conversation and hushed whispers when she arrived. A few students glanced her way, their eyes flickering with the usual blend of wariness and disdain. She ignored them, moving to one of the tall windows overlooking the grounds.
The sight of the Black Lake caught her attention. Its dark waters were still, reflecting the pale morning sky, and for a brief moment, the tranquillity of it all drew her in. She wrapped her arms around herself, letting out a slow breath.
"Pansy."
Pansy turned to find Blaise Zabini leaning casually against the nearest sofa, his expression unreadable. His dark eyes glinted with faint amusement, though his posture was deceptively relaxed.
"What do you want, Blaise?" Pansy asked, her voice sharp.
"I was going to ask you the same thing," Blaise replied smoothly, straightening. "You've been skulking around like a ghost all week. Not like you to keep such a low profile."
Pansy rolled her eyes, turning back to the window. "Maybe I'm just tired of your company."
"Doubtful," Blaise said, crossing his arms. "So, heard about this memorial?"
Her shoulders stiffened. "Granger was prattling on about it for ages last night, keeping me awake."
"You don't seem particularly thrilled about the idea." Blaise said.
"I don't care about it," Pansy said flatly, though her voice lacked conviction.
Blaise raised an eyebrow. "Really? Because you look like you've been brooding over it all night."
Pansy scowled, spinning to face him. "What's your point, Blaise?"
"My point," Blaise said, his tone infuriatingly calm, "is that maybe you should stop pretending you don't care about anything. It's not like anyone's buying it."
Pansy's hands clenched into fists at her sides. "What do you know about it? You didn't stand in the Great Hall and tell everyone to give Potter to the Dark Lord. No one's questioning whether you deserve to be here."
Blaise's smirk faded, replaced by a rare seriousness. "You think you're the only one carrying guilt around? News flash, Pansy—none of us are clean. But if you keep isolating yourself, you're just giving them more reason to keep you on the outside."
Pansy's jaw tightened, her pulse pounding in her ears. She didn't have an answer for that—at least, not one she was willing to say out loud. Without another word, she brushed past Blaise and left the common room, her robes billowing behind her.
Pansy's aimless wandering eventually brought her to the castle's upper floors, where sunlight streamed through the tall, arched windows. The warmth of the light did little to ease the cold knot in her chest. Her footsteps echoed against the stone floor, a steady reminder of the empty space around her.
Her thoughts refused to quiet. No matter how much she tried to focus on anything else, Hermione Granger's voice seemed to follow her. The way she'd looked by the Black Lake yesterday—so determined, so sure of herself. The way she'd spoken about the memorial, as though it were some kind of noble crusade. The way she'd insisted, so maddeningly earnestly, that Pansy should be involved.
Pansy stopped in front of one of the windows, pressing her palms against the cool stone sill. She leaned forward, letting the fresh air from the enchanted panes wash over her face.
Why does she care?
It wasn't the first time Pansy had asked herself that question, and it likely wouldn't be the last. Hermione's persistence, her irritating willingness to reach out, was unlike anything Pansy had experienced. Most people gave up on her quickly, but not Granger. Granger had looked at her with something that felt dangerously close to compassion.
And Pansy hated it.
It wasn't just because it made her feel exposed—though it did. It was because it forced her to see herself the way Granger might see her: a coward, a failure, a person who had stood on the wrong side of history.
Pansy squeezed her eyes shut, gripping the sill until her knuckles turned white. She didn't deserve Hermione's concern. She didn't deserve to sit in the same room as the people who had fought and suffered and lost for a cause they actually believed in rather than just parroting the beliefs of their elders.
She's probably writing a letter right now, Pansy thought bitterly. Planning the memorial, organizing the world, saving everyone while I… what? Stand around and brood?
The thought annoyed her even more than usual, and she pushed off from the windowsill, resuming her brisk pace down the corridor. But no matter where she went or what she tried to distract herself with, Granger was always there—in the corners of her mind, in the gaps between her thoughts.
When she finally returned to the 8th Year Dormitory late in the afternoon, the common room was quiet, most of the students out enjoying the crisp weekend weather. Pansy sank into one of the armchairs by the fire, staring into the flames. Her mind churned with fragments of memories, arguments, and the infuriating persistence of a certain Gryffindor.
Later, as evening fell and the common room began to fill again, Pansy found herself watching Hermione without meaning to. Granger was seated at a table, surrounded by a pile of books and parchment, her quill moving steadily as she scribbled notes.
Of course she's working, Pansy thought, rolling her eyes. She probably doesn't know how to do anything else.
But despite her disdain, Pansy's gaze lingered. There was something about the way Granger moved—efficient, precise, with an energy that seemed unshakable. It was almost admirable, though Pansy would rather hex herself than admit it.
Her lip curled as she noticed Granger pause, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. The small, unguarded gesture caught Pansy off guard, and she looked away quickly, her pulse quickening for reasons she didn't want to examine.
Get a grip, Parkinson.
She shifted in her seat, pretending to focus on the magazine in her lap. But no matter how hard she tried, her eyes kept drifting back to the girl across the room—the girl who, despite everything, seemed to have lodged herself firmly in Pansy's thoughts.
The dormitory was quiet, save for the soft rustle of fabric and the occasional creak of floorboards. Pansy sat on the edge of her bed, her arms crossed as she pretended to skim through a magazine she had no real interest in. Across the room, Hermione was moving about with her usual efficiency, gathering her things as she prepared for bed.
Pansy's eyes drifted to her roommate despite herself. Hermione's hair, always wild and untamed, seemed softer in the dim light, catching the golden glow of the enchanted lamps. She moved with a purpose, folding her robes neatly and setting them aside before pulling her hair back into a loose braid.
Pansy's gaze lingered longer than it should have, her thoughts starting to veer in an unsettling direction. She scowled, her fingers tightening on the edge of the magazine.
What is wrong with me?
She forced her eyes back to the page, determined not to think about the curve of Hermione's neck as she tied the braid, or the way her expression softened in these quiet, unguarded moments. But it was no use. Her thoughts churned, slipping past her defences despite her best efforts.
It wasn't admiration, Pansy told herself. It was… curiosity. Granger was so different in these moments—so unlike the tireless, know-it-all Gryffindor who had spent the day trying to fix everything and everyone. There was something strangely disarming about seeing her like this, stripped of her usual sharpness.
Pansy hated it.
Her stomach twisted with frustration, and she slammed the magazine shut with a sharp snap. Hermione glanced over, her brow furrowing slightly.
"Are you alright?" Hermione asked, her voice even but cautious.
Pansy bristled, the question breaking the fragile veneer of her composure. "Why wouldn't I be?"
Hermione shrugged, her expression unreadable. "No reason. You just seem… tense."
"Tense?" Pansy repeated, her tone sharper than she intended. "You're imagining things, Granger."
Hermione gave her a long look but said nothing more, turning back to her routine. Pansy watched as she carefully tucked herself into bed, reaching for a book she'd left on the nightstand. The sight of her so calm, so unbothered, only fuelled the storm inside Pansy's chest.
"I don't know how you do it," Pansy muttered before she could stop herself.
Hermione paused, looking up. "Do what?"
"Act like everything's fine," Pansy said, her words spilling out in a rush. "Like you're perfectly at ease, even when the whole world's watching."
Hermione frowned, closing her book. "You think I'm at ease?" she asked, her tone incredulous. "Pansy, I've spent the last few months feeling like I'm being pulled in a hundred different directions at once. The only reason I look calm is because I have to be. What other choice is there?"
Pansy blinked, caught off guard by the honesty in Hermione's voice. She hadn't expected her to admit to anything less than total confidence, and it left her momentarily speechless.
"Well," Pansy said after a moment, her voice carefully detached, "you hide it well."
Hermione studied her for a beat longer, then gave a small nod. "Goodnight, Pansy," she said, her tone soft but firm.
"Goodnight," Pansy mumbled, turning away as Hermione extinguished her bedside lamp. She stared at the magazine in her lap, the words blurring as her thoughts spiralled.
She couldn't let this happen—whatever this was. She couldn't afford to let her guard down around Granger, to let her see the cracks beneath the surface. Pansy had spent too long building her walls, too long perfecting the mask that kept the world at bay.
But the more she tried to push the thoughts away, the more they lingered, circling like a storm she couldn't escape.
The soft sound of Hermione's breathing filled the room, steady and calm. The dormitory was cloaked in darkness now, but the faint glow of the enchanted window cast pale shadows across the walls. Pansy lay on her back, staring at the canopy of her bed, her arms crossed tightly over her chest.
She couldn't sleep. Not with the thoughts swirling in her mind, each one more unwelcome than the last.
It's just curiosity, she told herself again. That's all it is. There's nothing unusual about noticing things. People notice things about each other all the time.
But the rationalization felt hollow. The truth, sharp and unrelenting, whispered at the edges of her mind: she wasn't just noticing Hermione Granger. She was watching her, analysing her, thinking about her far more than she should.
It was maddening.
The image of Hermione braiding her hair surfaced again, unbidden. The delicate curve of her neck, the way her fingers moved deftly through the strands, the faint furrow of concentration in her brow—it was all seared into Pansy's mind, and no amount of frustration could scrub it away.
She let out a quiet groan, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes as if she could physically block out the thoughts. This is ridiculous. She's Hermione Granger. Gryffindor princess. A walking lecture in morality and virtue, and she's bloody infuriating.
But the memory of Hermione's voice earlier that night—soft, genuine, vulnerable—refused to be ignored.
"You think I'm at ease? Pansy, I've spent the last few months feeling like I'm being pulled in a hundred different directions at once."
The honesty of those words had struck a chord Pansy hadn't been prepared for. She'd expected Granger to brush her off, to come back with some self-righteous remark about perseverance or bravery. But instead, she'd admitted to the very thing Pansy thought was impossible: doubt.
It made her… human. And that was dangerous.
Pansy turned onto her side, glaring at the faint outline of Hermione's sleeping form across the room. The way her arm rested against the blanket, the rise and fall of her breathing—it was all too much. Too distracting. Too real.
She clenched her fists, biting the inside of her cheek to ground herself. Stop it, Parkinson. This isn't you. You don't get flustered over Gryffindors, least of all Granger.
But no matter how hard she tried, the thoughts kept returning. The sharp edges of Hermione's wit, the fire in her eyes when she was angry, the softness in her voice when she spoke from the heart. Pansy hated that she'd noticed these things, hated that she couldn't un-notice them.
This has to stop.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat up, running a hand through her hair. The cool air of the room bit at her skin, but it wasn't enough to clear her mind. She considered getting up, going for a walk, but that felt like admitting defeat.
Instead, she closed her eyes and forced herself to take slow, measured breaths. She focused on the sound of the wind against the windows, the distant murmur of the castle settling into the night. Slowly, her racing thoughts began to calm, though the unease in her chest remained.
It's nothing, she told herself firmly. Just a fleeting distraction. It'll pass.
But deep down, Pansy wasn't sure she believed that.
The next morning dawned crisp and bright, the kind of autumn day that made the castle grounds glow with golden light. Breakfast in the Great Hall was a noisy affair, students chattering excitedly about weekend plans and the prospect of another Hogsmeade visit on the horizon.
Pansy sat at the end of the Slytherin table, picking at a piece of toast and pretending not to notice the pointed lack of conversation directed her way. She'd grown used to it—the whispers, the stolen glances, the way conversations shifted when she entered a room. It didn't bother her as much as it used to. Or so she told herself.
Hermione, of course, was in the middle of it all. She sat at the Gryffindor table, flanked by Dean Thomas and Padma Patil, who were deep in discussion about the upcoming memorial project. Hermione listened intently, her head tilted slightly as she tapped her quill against a parchment filled with notes. Her hair caught the light in a way that made it seem brighter, softer, and Pansy quickly looked away, scowling at her plate.
Focus, she thought irritably. Granger is not your problem.
The problem, however, came soon enough.
Their first lesson of the day was Herbology, an outdoor session set in the sun-drenched greenhouse looking out across the grounds. Professor Sprout had arranged for the students to work in pairs on the delicate task of repotting Venomous Tentacula, whose writhing vines snapped and coiled with dangerous enthusiasm.
"Now, remember," Sprout called, bustling between the rows of students, "you'll need to be gentle but firm! If you hesitate, they'll sense it and react accordingly."
Pansy stood at her worktable, glancing warily at the pot of writhing vines in front of her. She didn't mind Herbology in theory, but Tentaculas were another matter entirely. The idea of those barbed vines snapping at her wrists was enough to set her teeth on edge.
"Parkinson," Sprout said suddenly, her voice cheerful but brisk, "you'll be working with Granger today. She has a steady hand for this sort of thing."
Pansy stiffened, her gaze snapping toward Hermione, who was already approaching the table with a pair of thick dragonhide gloves and an expression of faint amusement.
"Great," Pansy muttered under her breath. Of course it had to be Granger.
Hermione set her gloves down and offered a polite nod. "Let's just get this done," she said, pulling on the gloves and examining the writhing Tentacula with practiced precision. "If we work quickly, it shouldn't be too bad."
Pansy pulled on her own gloves with far less enthusiasm. "Just try not to get me killed," she said dryly.
Hermione didn't dignify the comment with a response. Instead, she carefully gripped one of the Tentacula's main stems, holding it steady as Pansy reached for the pot. But as the vine thrashed violently, Hermione's hand slipped, the vines breaking free and sending her stumbling sideways—straight into Pansy.
"Careful!" Pansy snapped, her voice sharper than she intended as Hermione collided with her. She caught Hermione instinctively, her hands gripping the other girl's waist to steady her.
Hermione glanced up, her cheeks flushed from the effort. "Sorry," she said breathlessly, her brown eyes wide. "It moved faster than I expected."
For a moment, neither of them moved. Pansy's hands lingered on Hermione's waist, the warmth of her skin faintly noticeable even through the gloves. The proximity was suffocating, and Pansy's heart hammered painfully in her chest which was heaving as though it would never draw breath again. Hermione's hair, slightly mussed from the struggle, was close enough to brush against Pansy's cheek.
"Are you going to let go?" Hermione asked, her tone clipped but not unkind.
Firmly back in reality, Pansy jerked her hands away as if burned, taking a step back. "Don't blame me for your clumsiness," she snapped, her voice more defensive than she'd intended.
Hermione frowned but didn't rise to the bait. "Let's just focus, shall we?" she said, turning back to the Tentacula.
Pansy nodded stiffly, her jaw tight as she forced herself to concentrate on the task. But her mind refused to cooperate, replaying the moment over and over—the warmth of Hermione's waist beneath her hands, the way her green eyes had held Pansy's gaze for just a second too long.
By the time they finished the repotting, Pansy's nerves were frayed. She muttered a terse "thank you" to Sprout as they cleaned up, avoiding Hermione's gaze as they returned their equipment.
Back in the castle, Pansy couldn't shake the feeling of Hermione's proximity, the scent of her hair, the way she'd felt so solid and real in her grasp. It was infuriating.
Why can't I stop thinking about her? she thought, her nails biting into her palms. She's Granger. Just Granger.
But deep down, she knew it wasn't that simple.
Pansy stalked through the castle corridors, her expression carefully blank, though inside, her thoughts churned like a raging storm. She didn't know where she was going—only that she needed to move, to shake the feeling that had settled in her chest like a weight.
Her gloves were still in her hand, the dragonhide cool and pliable against her fingers. She clenched them tighter, her mind replaying the scene in the greenhouse with cruel persistence. The warmth of Hermione's waist, the way her eyes had widened in surprise, the faint scent of cinnamon that clung to her robes—it was maddening.
Why am I even thinking about this? she scolded herself, her pace quickening. It was nothing. Just a stupid accident.
But the more she tried to dismiss it, the more her mind clung to the details. The way Hermione had steadied herself, her breath quick but controlled. The way she hadn't flinched or pulled away from Pansy's touch, even as her expression had shifted to something unreadable.
Pansy reached an empty corridor and stopped abruptly, leaning against the cool stone wall. She closed her eyes, willing her racing thoughts to slow. But the silence only amplified the memories, and she felt the heat rise in her cheeks.
"Get a grip," she muttered under her breath. "It's Granger. She's nothing to you."
The words felt hollow, even as she repeated them in her mind. She didn't understand why Hermione had this effect on her—why her presence seemed to unsettle something deep within. It wasn't just the physical closeness in the greenhouse. It was everything. The way Hermione spoke with conviction, the way she carried herself with a quiet strength, the way she looked at Pansy with something that felt dangerously close to understanding.
She's infuriating, Pansy thought bitterly, though the anger was aimed more at herself than at Hermione.
She forced herself to breathe deeply, drawing in the cool, musty air of the corridor. Her fingers loosened their grip on the gloves, and she let them fall to her side.
Focus, she told herself. You've handled worse than this. Just… avoid her.
The thought brought a fleeting sense of relief. If she kept her distance, maybe this nagging fixation would fade. She'd ignore Hermione, keep their interactions to a minimum, and bury whatever ridiculous feelings were starting to stir.
Pansy pushed off the wall and straightened her robes, her expression hardening. She wasn't the type to let anyone get under her skin—least of all Hermione Granger.
The rest of the day passed in a haze of forced normalcy. Pansy attended her lessons, answered questions when called upon, and avoided conversation as much as possible. But every so often, her gaze would wander—to the Gryffindor table during lunch, to Hermione's desk in Charms, to the spot she'd claimed in the library later that afternoon.
It was infuriating. No matter how hard she tried to focus on anything else, her thoughts always seemed to circle back to Hermione.
By the time dinner rolled around, Pansy was exhausted. She barely touched her food, muttering a vague excuse to Blaise and retreating to the 8th Year Dormitory as soon as she could. The common room was blissfully quiet, most of the others still lingering in the Great Hall.
Pansy sank into an armchair by the fire, letting her head fall back against the cushion. The flames danced in the hearth, their soft crackle filling the silence. For the first time all day, she allowed herself to relax—or tried to.
Her thoughts betrayed her again, dragging her back to the greenhouse, to the feel of Hermione's hand brushing against hers as they worked. She groaned softly, covering her face with her hands.
This has to stop, she thought desperately. It's just… nerves. Stress. That's all it is.
But even as she tried to convince herself, the truth lurked at the edges of her mind, undeniable and terrifying.
She's getting to me.
And no matter how much Pansy tried to fight it, she couldn't shake the feeling that Hermione Granger was becoming far more than just an annoyance.
The dormitory was quiet again, the warm glow of the enchanted lamps casting soft shadows across the room. Pansy sat on her bed, feigning interest in a book she'd grabbed from the common room. The words blurred together on the page, her focus slipping with every passing second.
Hermione was at her desk, as usual, her quill scratching steadily against parchment. The meticulous rhythm of her movements should have been soothing, but for Pansy, it only added to the restlessness churning inside her.
She kept sneaking glances, her gaze darting to Hermione like a moth to a flame. It wasn't intentional—at least, that's what she told herself—but it was impossible to ignore the way Hermione moved with such quiet purpose. The way her hair, slightly frizzed from the day's humidity, framed her face. The way she bit her lip in concentration as she worked.
Get a hold of yourself, Pansy thought, dragging her eyes back to the book. But the words on the page held no meaning, and her traitorous gaze wandered again.
When Hermione finally put down her quill and began to gather her things, Pansy's pulse quickened. She watched out of the corner of her eye as Hermione folded her notes and placed them in her bag with careful precision. Then she moved to her wardrobe, pulling out a fresh set of clothes for the night.
Pansy swallowed hard, her book forgotten in her lap as Hermione slipped off her outer robe. She wasn't doing anything out of the ordinary—just unbuttoning her shirt and replacing it with a loose-fitting top—but the simple, unassuming act made Pansy's chest tighten.
She looked away sharply, her cheeks burning. What are you doing? Stop staring, you idiot.
But her resolve crumbled as Hermione turned toward the mirror, tying her hair back into a braid. The soft lamplight caught the angles of her face, highlighting the curve of her jaw, the slope of her neck. Pansy's breath hitched, her grip on the book tightening as her heart thudded painfully in her chest.
She tried to tear her eyes away, to focus on anything else, but the pull was too strong. It wasn't just the way Hermione looked—it was the way she carried herself, so unaware of the effect she had. It was maddening.
When Hermione turned back toward her bed, Pansy quickly dropped her gaze, pretending to be engrossed in her book. But the effort was futile; her mind was already racing, her thoughts tangled and chaotic.
"Goodnight, Pansy," Hermione said softly, pulling the covers over herself.
"Goodnight," Pansy mumbled, not trusting herself to look up. She kept her eyes firmly on the page, waiting until Hermione's breathing evened out before finally setting the book aside.
She leaned back against the headboard, staring at the ceiling as the room fell into silence. Her heart was still racing, her thoughts an incoherent mess of denial and something she didn't dare name.
It's nothing, she told herself again. Just a stupid distraction. It doesn't mean anything.
But the truth, as much as she tried to bury it, gnawed at the edges of her mind.
Hermione Granger wasn't just getting under her skin.
She was staying there.
The next day passed in a blur of classes, forced civility, and an undercurrent of tension that Pansy couldn't shake. By the time the sun set, she was drained—not from any physical effort, but from the sheer exhaustion of keeping up her facade.
The 8th Year Dormitory was quieter than usual that evening. Most of the students had scattered to the common rooms of their respective houses or the library, leaving the circular space empty save for a few flickering candles. Pansy had taken refuge in a corner by the window, her legs tucked beneath her as she pretended to read. But her thoughts were elsewhere—circling endlessly around a certain Gryffindor.
Hermione entered the room quietly, her arms full of books as always. She paused when she saw Pansy, her brow furrowing slightly. "I didn't think anyone else would be in here tonight."
"Lucky me," Pansy said dryly, not looking up from her book.
Hermione hesitated, then crossed the room to take a seat in one of the armchairs near the fire. She set her books down with a soft thud and leaned back, exhaling as though the day had been just as long for her.
They sat in silence for a while, the only sound the crackling of the flames. Pansy tried to focus on the words in front of her, but her gaze kept flickering to Hermione. The firelight played across her features, softening the sharp lines of her face. She looked… tired, in a way Pansy hadn't seen before.
Without thinking, Pansy spoke. "Do you ever regret coming back?"
Hermione looked up, startled by the question. "What?"
"Coming back to Hogwarts," Pansy clarified, her tone uncharacteristically subdued. "Do you ever regret it?"
Hermione studied her for a moment, then shook her head. "No. It's hard, yes, but I feel like it's where I'm supposed to be. Like I have something left to do here."
Pansy snorted softly. "Of course you'd say that."
"And you?" Hermione asked, her tone cautious. "Do you regret coming back?"
Pansy hesitated, her fingers tightening on the edge of her book. She wanted to brush the question off, to deflect with some biting remark, but the weight of Hermione's gaze made it difficult.
"Yes," she admitted quietly. "Sometimes."
Hermione didn't look surprised. "Because of how people treat you?"
"Because of everything," Pansy said, her voice sharper than she intended. "Because no matter what I do, I'll always be the girl who stood up in the Great Hall and told everyone to hand over Potter. Because I'll never be more than that."
Hermione leaned forward slightly, her expression softening. "You don't have to let that define you."
Pansy laughed bitterly. "Spoken like someone who's never made a mistake they can't take back."
"That's not true," Hermione said, her voice firm but quiet. "I've made plenty of mistakes, Pansy. Big ones. Some that I'll never stop regretting."
Pansy blinked, caught off guard by the admission. She opened her mouth to ask what Hermione meant but stopped herself. Instead, she looked down at her hands, her voice dropping. "It's not just about the mistakes. It's about who I am. Who people think I am."
"Then change their minds," Hermione said simply.
Pansy looked up, her lips curling into a smirk. "You make it sound so easy."
"It's not," Hermione admitted. "But it's possible. I believe that."
The sincerity in her voice made Pansy's chest tighten. For a moment, she didn't know what to say. She could feel the words rising in her throat, words she didn't want to say, words she didn't even fully understand.
"I don't know why I'm telling you this," Pansy muttered, her gaze dropping again. "I don't even like you."
Hermione smiled faintly, and to Pansy's irritation, it wasn't mocking or condescending. It was understanding. "That's alright," Hermione said. "You don't have to like me. But maybe talking to someone helps."
Pansy scoffed, leaning back against the window. "Don't get used to it, Granger."
"I won't," Hermione replied, her tone light but thoughtful. "Goodnight, Pansy."
"Goodnight," Pansy murmured, the word slipping out before she could think better of it.
As Hermione gathered her things and left the room, Pansy leaned her head back against the cool glass of the window. Her chest felt tight, her thoughts tangled in a way she couldn't untangle.
For once, she didn't know whether she hated Hermione Granger more for her self-righteousness—or for the fact that she might be right.