Authors Note

Another chapter, another little dose of doubt from Hermione, and the return of some of your favourites... Let me know what you think!

Chapter 5

"She's staring again," Ginny said, stabbing her knife into a slice of toast with far more force than necessary.

Hermione didn't bother looking up from her cup of tea. "Are you sure it's not just you staring at her?"

"No," Ginny replied matter-of-factly, her voice dripping with exasperation. "She's definitely staring at you. It's creepy. What if she's planning to do you in?"

Hermione sighed, setting her mug down with a soft clink. She'd been hearing this theory from Ginny for the better part of a week now. At first, she'd dismissed it, brushing off her friend's observations as overactive imagination or residual post-war suspicion. But Ginny, true to form, had taken Hermione's dismissal as a challenge and had doubled down on her insistence that Pansy Parkinson was staring at her with unnerving regularity.

"She's had plenty of opportunity to do it and hasn't," Hermione said, taking a bite of her cereal. "I do share a room with her, remember?"

Ginny made a face. "Does she sit at the edge of your bed and watch you sleep?"

Hermione snorted into her bowl, nearly choking on her spoonful of cereal. "No."

"Well, that's something," Ginny replied, her tone deliberately casual as she buttered another piece of toast. "Although…"

"Although what?" Hermione asked, narrowing her eyes.

Ginny raised an eyebrow, her smirk growing sly. "Does she act weird? Say anything strange?"

"Define 'weird,'" Hermione replied, rolling her eyes. "She's Pansy Parkinson. I don't think there's a day she doesn't act weird."

"Well, I mean," Ginny said, pausing for dramatic effect, "does she seem, I don't know… fascinated by you?"

Hermione frowned, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her face. "Fascinated? No. Why would she be—oh." She froze mid-sentence, her spoon halfway to her mouth.

Ginny leaned forward, clearly intrigued. "What?"

Hermione hesitated, debating whether to answer. Finally, she sighed. "She does… sometimes seem fascinated when I braid my hair at night."

Ginny's eyebrows shot up, and a wicked grin spread across her face. "Fascinated, huh? Well, maybe she doesn't want to do you in."

Hermione blinked. "Meaning?"

"Maybe Parkinson just wants to do you," Ginny said, her smirk widening into an outright grin as Hermione choked on her cereal, coughing and spluttering as she tried to regain her composure.

"Ginny!" Hermione hissed, scandalized. She grabbed her napkin, dabbing at her mouth as her cheeks flushed a deep pink.

Ginny cackled, clearly enjoying herself. "What? It would explain the staring."

"It explains nothing!" Hermione shot back, her voice rising slightly. She glanced nervously around the Great Hall, hoping no one had overheard. "You're being ridiculous."

"Oh, come on," Ginny said, still grinning. "You can't tell me you haven't noticed how she looks at you."

"I haven't!" Hermione insisted, though her voice lacked its usual conviction. She could feel her cheeks heating even more, and she hated how easily Ginny could rile her up.

Ginny gave her a knowing look, leaning back in her chair with a satisfied smirk. "Alright, if you say so. But you might want to pay attention. You never know what you'll notice."

Hermione glared at her, but Ginny only winked before returning to her breakfast, clearly pleased with herself. Hermione, meanwhile, couldn't shake the words from her mind.

Fascinated? She's ridiculous… isn't she?

Hermione's eyes flickered toward the 8th Year table at the far end of the hall. Pansy was seated there, her posture relaxed as she picked at her breakfast, seemingly indifferent to everything around her. But as if sensing Hermione's gaze, Pansy's eyes lifted, locking onto hers for the briefest moment.

Hermione quickly looked away, her pulse skipping as she buried herself in her tea. Ginny's laughter echoed faintly in her ears.

Hermione was saved from Ginny's teasing by the fluttering arrival of the morning post. A hundred or so owls swooped into the Great Hall, their wings filling the air with soft whooshes and the occasional indignant hoot. Hermione tilted her head upward, scanning the flock as a small, tawny owl spiralled toward her table, a letter clutched tightly in its beak.

"Thank Merlin," Hermione muttered under her breath, relieved for the distraction.

The owl landed neatly in front of her, dropping the letter beside her cereal before letting out a proud hoot. Hermione offered it a small piece of toast in thanks, which it accepted graciously before flying off again. She recognized the neat, slightly slanted handwriting on the envelope at once—Ron's.

Across the table, Ginny was distracted by the arrival of her own letter. A larger barn owl landed in front of her, its feathers a deep, glossy brown. Ginny unfolded the letter eagerly, her eyes scanning the page with a mixture of curiosity and delight.

Hermione tore open Ron's letter, her heart giving a faint flutter as she unfolded the parchment. She began to read:

Dear Hermione,

Training is intense, but I'm getting the hang of it. Kingsley reckons I've got good instincts for an Auror—not sure I believe him, but it's nice to hear. Harry's already top of the class, obviously. He never turns it off, does he?

The flat we've got near Diagon Alley isn't bad. It's a bit small, and Harry's got this habit of leaving his dirty socks everywhere, but it's nice to have a place to ourselves. You should come by sometime—maybe I can sneak you away during a future Hogsmeade weekend?

I hope Hogwarts isn't driving you too crazy. Ginny's probably keeping you sane, though I'm guessing she's also roped you into about a dozen crazy schemes by now. Let me know how it's going. Write soon.

Yours, Ron.

Hermione felt a small smile tug at her lips as she folded the letter. There was something reassuring about Ron's words—his casual, familiar tone, his willingness to tease himself. It grounded her in a way that few things did these days.

"Well?" Ginny asked, leaning forward with a grin. "What did he say?"

"He's enjoying having a flat near Diagon Alley," Hermione said, slipping the letter into her bag. "And apparently Harry's already top of their class."

Ginny laughed, shaking her head. "Of course he is. I'd be more shocked if he wasn't."

"What about your letter?" Hermione asked, nodding toward the parchment in Ginny's hand.

Ginny's grin widened. "Mum wrote. She wants me to make sure you're eating properly and not overworking yourself."

Hermione rolled her eyes fondly. "That sounds like her."

Ginny's teasing smirk softened slightly as she folded her letter. "You should have a little bit of time alone, you know. With Ron. It'll be good for you."

Hermione nodded, though a flicker of uncertainty lingered in her chest. She pushed the thought aside, resolving to write her reply after breakfast.

As the rest of the post filtered in, Hermione glanced once more toward the Slytherin table. Pansy was still there, twirling her fork idly in her hand, her expression unreadable. Hermione quickly turned back to her tea, pretending she hadn't noticed. But Ginny's earlier words echoed faintly in her mind, leaving her with an unsettling mixture of curiosity and confusion.

Back in the 8th Year common room, Hermione sat cross-legged on one of the plush armchairs near the fireplace, absently stirring her tea. The room was quiet, with only a few students scattered around—most off enjoying their Saturday afternoon elsewhere in the castle.

Ginny, sprawled in a chair across from her with her broom propped against the armrest, was mid-rant about the chaotic Quidditch practice the day before. Her voice rose and fell with exasperation as she recounted the endless stream of wrongdoings by her new teammates.

"It was a disaster," Ginny groaned, throwing her hands in the air for emphasis. "One of the new Chasers nearly knocked me off my broom, and a third year actually tried to duel Demelza mid-air. A duel, Hermione. During practice! Our new Seeker isn't a patch on Harry at all either."

Hermione smiled faintly, though her thoughts were elsewhere. Ginny's words barely registered, her mind circling back to the owlery, to Pansy's voice, to the frustration and vulnerability hidden beneath her sharp exterior.

"Are you even listening?" Ginny asked, snapping her fingers in front of Hermione's face.

Hermione blinked, startled out of her reverie. "Sorry," she said quickly. "I got distracted."

Ginny rolled her eyes but didn't press the issue. "Fine. I'm done ranting anyway. Just don't come crying to me when Gryffindor loses because half the team can't hold a broom straight."

Hermione smiled faintly but didn't reply. Her gaze drifted to the window, where the late afternoon light cast long shadows across the room. Her tea sat untouched on the table beside her, the steam curling lazily into the air.

"You're thinking about her again, aren't you?" Ginny's voice cut through the silence, sharp and accusing.

"Who?" Hermione turned to her, frowning. "What are you talking about?"

Ginny raised an eyebrow, leaning forward with a knowing smirk. "Pansy Parkinson. I've seen the way she looks at you. Told you, she wants to either do you in or do you, maybe both."

Hermione felt her cheeks heat, and she quickly shook her head. "Don't be ridiculous."

"Oh, come on," Ginny said, her grin widening. "She's been staring at you all week. And you're not exactly ignoring her anymore, are you?"

"I'm not… I mean…" Hermione faltered, her words tangling as she searched for a rebuttal. "She's just… difficult to avoid and gets more curious each time I hear her speak. That's all."

"Right," Ginny drawled, leaning back in her chair. "Because sharing a dorm and some classes with someone means you have to spend every waking moment thinking about them."

"I'm not thinking about her," Hermione insisted, though her tone was unconvincing even to her own ears.

Ginny studied her for a moment, her smirk softening into something more curious. "Whatever you say."

Hermione glared at her, but Ginny only shrugged, clearly satisfied with the conversation. As Ginny shifted the topic to another dramatic retelling of the practice, Hermione tried to focus, but her thoughts kept drifting back to the owlery, to Pansy's voice, and to the question she hadn't dared to ask herself.

Why does she keep doing this to me?

Later that evening, Hermione found herself back in the dormitory, sitting at her desk with a quill in her hand. She wasn't writing a letter this time—she wasn't even sure what she was doing. Her thoughts were too scattered, too restless to focus.

Across the room, Pansy was sitting on her bed, flipping idly through a book. She looked as though she couldn't care less about anything, her posture relaxed and her expression bored. But Hermione noticed the way her fingers tapped against the edge of the book, the subtle tension in her jaw.

Without thinking, Hermione spoke. "Do you ever think about what comes next?"

Pansy glanced up, clearly startled by the question. "What?"

Hermione hesitated, but the words came anyway. "After this. After Hogwarts. Do you ever think about what you want to do?"

Pansy frowned, closing her book with a soft thud. "Why are you asking me that?"

"Because I think about it all the time," Hermione admitted. "And I don't have an answer."

Pansy's frown deepened, her gaze searching Hermione's face. For a moment, it seemed as though she might respond. But then she shook her head, her expression hardening. "I don't have time to think about that," she said curtly. "I'm too busy trying to survive today."

Hermione opened her mouth to reply, but Pansy had already turned away, her focus back on her book. The conversation was over, but the weight of it lingered in the room, pressing down on them both.

As Hermione prepared for bed, her thoughts refused to settle. Pansy's words had left a mark, not because of what she'd said, but because of what she hadn't. There was something beneath the surface, something Hermione couldn't quite reach—but she couldn't stop trying.

The next day dawned bright and crisp, the morning light streaming through the tall windows of the castle. Hermione had spent the early hours in the library, losing herself in research for the memorial project. By the time she appeared, her arms laden with books, the castle was alive with the sounds of students moving between their weekend activities.

She was on her way back to the 8th Year Dormitory when she rounded a corner and nearly collided with someone coming from the opposite direction. The stack of books in her arms teetered precariously before falling in a dramatic cascade to the floor.

"Watch where you're going, Granger," came Pansy's unmistakable drawl.

Hermione sighed, kneeling to gather the fallen books. "Maybe if you didn't walk like you owned the place, Parkinson, you wouldn't bump into people."

Pansy crouched down opposite her, picking up one of the books with a smirk. "Advanced Magical Theory? Really, Granger? Haven't you read this one a hundred times already?"

"It happens to be relevant," Hermione replied, snatching the book from her hands. "Not that you'd understand."

"Oh, please." Pansy picked up another book and flipped it open lazily. "You think you're the only one with a functioning brain? I'll have you know I was top of the class in Astronomy."

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "And yet, somehow, you've spent the last week tormenting me instead of using that brain of yours for anything remotely productive."

Pansy's smirk widened. "Maybe tormenting you is productive. Keeps my mind sharp."

"Or maybe you're just bored," Hermione shot back, clutching her books tightly to her chest as she stood. "You do seem to have a lot of free time on your hands."

Pansy stood as well, brushing imaginary dust from her robes. "What can I say? Watching you try to save the world one project at a time is endlessly entertaining."

Hermione rolled her eyes but couldn't stop the faint smile that tugged at her lips. "If you're so fascinated, why don't you help?"

Pansy feigned a look of horror, clutching a hand to her chest. "Me? Help with your noble Gryffindor cause? I'd rather die."

"Suit yourself," Hermione said, adjusting her grip on the books. "But don't blame me when you're bored out of your mind."

As she turned to leave, Pansy fell into step beside her, her smirk still firmly in place. "You know, Granger, you're not half as insufferable as you used to be."

Hermione glanced at her, both amused and wary. "Was that supposed to be a compliment?"

"Take it however you like," Pansy replied breezily. "I'll admit, though, it's kind of fun getting under your skin."

"I'm glad you're enjoying yourself," Hermione said dryly. "But maybe you should find a hobby. Something that doesn't involve irritating me."

"Where's the fun in that?" Pansy retorted, her dark eyes gleaming with mischief.

For a moment, Hermione didn't reply. She couldn't quite place it, but something about Pansy's tone was different—lighter, almost playful. The usual edge of malice was gone, replaced by a teasing energy that left Hermione feeling slightly off-kilter.

As they reached the entrance to the dormitory, Pansy paused, leaning casually against the wall. "Well, Granger, as much as I'd love to continue this riveting conversation, I have better things to do."

"Like what?" Hermione asked, her tone skeptical.

Pansy smirked. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

Before Hermione could respond, Pansy pushed open the door and disappeared inside, her laughter trailing behind her. Hermione stood there for a moment, staring after her with a mixture of confusion and amusement.

Shaking her head, Hermione adjusted her grip on the books and followed. She wasn't sure what had just happened, but for the first time in weeks, she felt… lighter. As irritating as Pansy could be, there was something strangely refreshing about their banter—something that made Hermione's thoughts feel a little less heavy.

Maybe Ginny was right, Hermione thought as she climbed the stairs to her room. Maybe Pansy just needs a hobby. Or maybe… I do.

That evening, Hermione found herself back in the 8th Year common room, her usual stack of books spread out on the low table in front of her. She had tried to lose herself in her reading, but her concentration wavered. Her mind kept drifting back to her earlier encounter with Pansy, the playful lilt in her voice, the sharp glint in her dark eyes.

Why can't I stop thinking about her? Hermione thought, frowning at the page in front of her. She had read the same sentence three times and still couldn't recall what it said.

"Don't hurt yourself, Granger."

Hermione looked up, startled, to find Pansy standing on the other side of the table, holding a mug of tea. Her smirk was firmly in place, but her voice held less bite than usual. Pansy set the mug down on the table and slid into the chair opposite Hermione.

"Didn't realize this was a public library," Hermione muttered, closing her book.

"It's a common room," Pansy pointed out, leaning back in her chair. "Besides, you Gryffindors have been hogging all the good spots."

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Pretty sure this is the first time you've even set foot in here all week."

Pansy shrugged, taking a sip of her tea. "What can I say? Your dedication is inspiring. Thought I'd soak up some of your intellectual brilliance."

"Flattery doesn't suit you," Hermione said, though her lips twitched in amusement.

"Who said I was flattering you?" Pansy shot back, her smirk widening.

Hermione shook her head, turning her attention back to her book. But she couldn't focus. Pansy's presence was a distraction she hadn't anticipated. She could feel the other girl watching her, the weight of her gaze as tangible as the mug in her hands.

"Do you ever take a break?" Pansy asked after a moment.

"From what?" Hermione replied without looking up.

"From saving the world," Pansy said, gesturing to the stack of books. "Or at least pretending you can."

Hermione sighed, setting her book down. "What do you want, Pansy?"

Pansy tilted her head, her expression thoughtful. "I'm just curious. You're always so busy, so focused. Don't you ever get tired?"

Hermione hesitated. The question was unexpected, almost sincere. "Of course I do," she admitted. "But there's too much to do to waste time."

"Spoken like a true Gryffindor," Pansy said, though her tone lacked its usual sharpness. "Always so noble. So self-sacrificing."

"And what about you?" Hermione countered, her curiosity getting the better of her. "What do you do with your time, Pansy? Besides lurking in doorways and making snide comments?"

Pansy's smirk faltered, just for a moment, before she recovered. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

Hermione studied her, noting the tension in her posture, the way her fingers curled around the edge of the mug. There was something guarded about her, something Hermione couldn't quite decipher. And yet, there was a flicker of vulnerability beneath the surface, a crack in the armour Pansy wore so well.

"I would," Hermione said softly, surprising herself with the honesty in her voice.

Pansy's eyes widened slightly, but she quickly masked it with a scoff. "Careful, Granger. People might think you're actually interested."

Hermione flushed, her heart skipping at the implication. "Don't flatter yourself."

"Too late," Pansy said, her smirk returning. But her gaze lingered on Hermione a moment longer, as though she were trying to solve a puzzle she didn't want to admit existed.

The tension between them crackled like static, neither of them willing to break it. Finally, Pansy stood, brushing imaginary dust from her robes.

"Good talk, Granger," she said lightly, turning toward the dormitory stairs. "Try not to save the world all in one night."

Hermione watched her go, her chest tight with an unfamiliar mix of emotions. Confusion, irritation, curiosity—and something else she couldn't quite name.

As the dormitory door closed behind Pansy, Hermione leaned back in her chair, staring at the empty space where she had been sitting. She pressed her fingers to her temples, trying to make sense of the thoughts swirling in her mind.

What is wrong with me?

The question hung unanswered as Hermione returned to her book, though the words on the page refused to hold her attention.

The dormitory was quiet, the only sounds the faint rustle of the wind outside and the soft ticking of the enchanted clock on the wall. Hermione had been lying in bed for hours, staring at the canopy above her, her mind refusing to settle. She was just considering casting a charm to drown out the noise of her thoughts when Pansy's voice broke the silence.

"Can't sleep either?"

Hermione turned her head, startled to find Pansy sitting up in her own bed, her silhouette outlined by the faint glow of moonlight streaming through the window.

"No," Hermione admitted after a moment, sitting up as well. "Too much on my mind."

Pansy hummed in acknowledgment, her posture uncharacteristically relaxed. "Welcome to the club."

Hermione hesitated, then swung her legs over the side of the bed. "Do you always stay up like this?"

"Only when I can't stand the silence," Pansy replied, her voice quieter now, almost thoughtful. "It's easier to pretend things aren't so bad when the world is loud."

Hermione studied her, the usual sharpness in Pansy's tone replaced by something softer, more reflective. "You don't strike me as someone who likes silence."

Pansy let out a dry laugh, leaning back against the headboard. "I grew up in a house where silence meant trouble. It was either my father barking orders or my mother trying to smooth things over. If it was quiet, it usually meant something worse was coming."

Hermione frowned, caught off guard by the admission. "I didn't know."

"Why would you?" Pansy said with a shrug, though her expression betrayed a flicker of vulnerability. "It's not like I ever talked about it."

Hermione hesitated, then asked, "Was it… bad? Growing up, I mean?"

Pansy's gaze drifted to the window, her jaw tightening slightly. "It wasn't great. My father's a fanatic—a proper pure-blood supremacist. He didn't just believe in it; he lived it. Every meal, every conversation, it was drilled into us. And my mother… she just went along with it. Did whatever he said. Never once stood up to him."

Hermione's chest tightened. "That must have been awful."

"It was normal," Pansy said, her tone bitter. "Or at least it was until I got to Hogwarts and realized there were people who didn't live like that. People who didn't care about blood status or family names. At first, I thought they were pathetic—weak. But now…"

"Now?" Hermione prompted gently.

Pansy hesitated, her fingers twisting in the hem of her blanket. "Now I don't know what to think. Everything I was taught—everything I believed—it feels… hollow. Like it doesn't fit anymore."

Hermione's heart ached at the quiet uncertainty in Pansy's voice. She had always assumed Pansy's beliefs were born out of arrogance, but hearing her now, it was clear they were the product of something far more complex—and far more painful.

"People can change," Hermione said softly. "You're not defined by where you come from or what you were taught."

Pansy's eyes flicked to hers, searching her face. "You really believe that?"

"Yes," Hermione said firmly. "I have to."

The room fell silent again, the weight of their conversation settling around them. For the first time, Hermione felt like she was seeing the real Pansy Parkinson—not the sharp-tongued bully or the pure-blood princess, but a girl trying to make sense of a world she no longer understood.

"Thanks," Pansy said after a moment, her voice barely audible.

"For what?"

"For not throwing it in my face," Pansy said, her smirk faint but genuine. "You could've. Merlin knows I've given you plenty of reasons."

Hermione offered a small smile. "I'm not interested in fighting you, Pansy."

"Well, that makes one of us," Pansy quipped, though her tone was light. "Goodnight, Granger."

"Goodnight, Parkinson."

Hermione lay awake long after Pansy's breathing had evened out, her mind swirling with thoughts she couldn't quite untangle. She replayed their conversation, the vulnerability in Pansy's voice, the honesty in her words. It was a side of Pansy she had never expected to see—a side that made her… curious.

And then there was the physical aspect, one Hermione hadn't noticed before—or hadn't let herself notice. The curve of Pansy's lips when she smirked, the way her dark eyes glinted in the moonlight, the quiet confidence in her movements. It was distracting, disarming, and wholly unexpected.

Stop it, Hermione scolded herself, rolling onto her side. She's just… complicated. That's all.

But even as she tried to convince herself, the thought lingered, insistent and unsettling.

Why can't I stop thinking about her?

Hermione closed her eyes, willing sleep to come, but the image of Pansy—smirking, vulnerable, and entirely too fascinating—refused to leave her mind.

The morning sun hung low in the sky as Hermione made her way toward Hogsmeade, her boots crunching over the frost-laden path. The excitement of the other students was palpable, their voices bright as they streamed ahead in groups, already talking about plans to visit Honeydukes or Zonko's. Hermione, however, felt more subdued. Her hands gripped the strap of her bag tightly, her nerves winding tighter with every step.

She spotted Ron before he saw her, standing near the village square and shifting from foot to foot to keep warm. His red hair stood out starkly against the dull grey of his cloak, and a puff of breath escaped his lips in the cold air as he scanned the crowd. When his eyes landed on her, his face lit up with a familiar grin.

"Hermione!" he called, waving her over.

"Hi, Ron," she said, smiling despite herself as he pulled her into a hug. He held her tightly for a moment, and she couldn't help but notice how different he felt now—stronger, more grounded, but still so distinctly Ron.

"You look great," he said, stepping back to look at her. "How've you been?"

"Good," she replied, though it wasn't entirely true. She couldn't bring herself to burden him with the complexities of her thoughts—not today. "How about you? How's training?"

"Brilliant," Ron said, his grin widening. "Well, mostly brilliant. Harry keeps showing the rest of us up, of course, but what else is new?"

Hermione laughed, and for a moment, it felt like old times. But as they started walking through the village, the first flash of a camera snapped her back to reality.

"Over here, Miss Granger!"

"Hermione, how does it feel to see Ron again?"

"Ron, are you here to rekindle your romance with Hermione Granger?"

The questions came rapid-fire, accompanied by the click of enchanted quills and the bright glare of camera flashes. Hermione tightened her grip on Ron's arm, trying to shield her face from the onslaught.

"Unbelievable," Ron muttered, his expression darkening. "Haven't they got anything better to do?"

"Clearly not," Hermione said through gritted teeth. She was grateful when Ron steered her into The Three Broomsticks, the warmth and noise of the pub providing an immediate barrier against the chaos outside.

They found a small table near the back, where Madam Rosmerta brought them two steaming mugs of Butterbeer. Hermione wrapped her hands around her mug, letting the warmth seep into her fingers as Ron launched into a story about one of his Auror training sessions.

"You should've seen it," he said, grinning. "Harry had to chase a simulated Death Eater through this maze of illusions. Kingsley set it up to trip him up, but he spotted the trap in about five seconds. I'm pretty sure even the instructors were impressed."

"That sounds like Harry," Hermione said with a smile. "Always one step ahead, at least at knowing when somethings out of place."

"Yeah, well, don't tell him I said so," Ron said, winking. "His head's big enough as it is."

The conversation flowed easily for a while, Ron's humour and familiarity putting Hermione at ease. But as the Butterbeer dwindled and the noise of the pub grew louder, she felt the tension creeping back in. Ron was trying so hard to make her laugh, to bridge the gap between them, but the truth was unavoidable: something was missing.

It was a relief when the door to the pub swung open, and Ginny, Harry, and Neville walked in, their faces lighting up as they spotted the pair.

"There you are!" Ginny said, sliding into the seat beside Hermione. "We've been looking all over for you."

"Nice to see you too," Ron quipped, but his smile widened as Harry and Neville pulled up chairs. The group quickly fell into an easy camaraderie, their laughter filling the space.

After a while, Harry leaned in, his grin mischievous. "Alright, who's up for a game?"

Ginny groaned, already rolling her eyes. "Oh no. Not this again."

"What game?" Hermione asked, suspicious.

"The Invisible Reporter," Harry said, pulling out his wand. "One of us casts a Disillusionment Charm and blends in with the reporters. The goal is to ask the most ridiculous questions you can think of without getting caught. The rest of us have to answer—no matter what—or you're buying the drinks. If the invisible one gets caught, they're buying."

Neville snorted. "Harry's terrible at it, by the way. He always gets caught."

"Only because I go for the gold," Harry shot back, already casting the charm on himself. His form shimmered and disappeared, leaving only a faint ripple in the air.

The group stepped outside into the crisp afternoon, the reporters still milling about like vultures. Harry's disembodied voice rang out suddenly, high-pitched and theatrical:
"Hermione, is it true you've been teaching your cat to read?"

Ron burst out laughing, but Hermione crossed her arms, playing along. "Of course not. He already knows how."

The reporters exchanged confused glances as Neville strolled forward, pretending to look thoughtful. "Mr Longbottom," came Harry's voice again, "rumour has it you're moving in with a young witch named Tracey Davis and starting a business selling convection ovens. Any truth to that?"

Hermione bit back a laugh at the confused reporters, most of whom had no clue what a convection oven was. "No," Neville replied in an irritated tone, "I keep telling everyone, its rubber ducks we are selling and rubber ducks only. We're going to be the largest distributor of rubber ducks in Knockturn Alley."

Ginny groaned. "This is absurd."

"That's the point," Neville said, as Harry's voice echoed from behind the gaggle of flustered and confused reporters.

"Mr Weasley, is it true you've enchanted the Ministry toilets to sing the Chudley Cannons song every time someone flushes?"

"Only the ones in the Department of Mysteries," Ron replied matter-of-factly. "And it's not every time someone flushes, it's at six and a half minutes past the hour."

The game continued, each question more ridiculous than the last. Hermione couldn't remember the last time she had laughed so much, even as Harry's luck finally ran out when one of the reporters accidentally tripped over his invisible foot. Harry quickly dropped the charm, grinning sheepishly as the others roared with laughter.

"Well," Ginny said, smirking as Harry helped the flustered reporter back to their feet, "you're definitely buying the drinks."

"Fine by me," Harry said, brushing snow off his cloak as the group headed towards the Hogs Head for a final round of drinks. "Totally worth it."

"You know there's going to be a scandalous article in Witch Weekly about your Hungarian Horntail tattoo now?"

"Yes," Harry smirked, "and they will probably send some junior reporter to the Department of Mysteries to check the toilets at six and a half minutes past the hour, and that reporter will be there all day looking for them as there aren't any toilets in the Department of Mysteries."

The group broke into peals of laughter that only died down when they entered the Hog's Head. The Hog's Head was exactly as Hermione remembered—dimly lit, thick with the faint smell of goats, and covered in a layer of grime that no cleaning charm could hope to penetrate. Sawdust coated the floor, and the low hum of conversation from the few other patrons barely covered the creak of the warped floorboards as the group entered.

Aberforth Dumbledore, as cantankerous as ever, barely glanced up from the tankards he was wiping down. His sharp blue eyes darted toward them, narrowing when he spotted Harry.

"You better not be bringing bloody reporters into my pub, Potter," he grumbled.

"Of course not," Harry replied, unfastening his cloak with a dramatic flourish. "They wouldn't dream of setting foot in here. Why do you think we came?"

Aberforth snorted, clearly unimpressed, but he reached for five glasses all the same. "Just keep your lot out of trouble."

Ginny leaned toward Hermione, her voice low. "I think that's the nicest greeting Harry's ever gotten from him."

"Progress," Hermione murmured back, her lips twitching into a small smile.

The group settled at a table near the corner, where the light was faintest, but the warmth from the fireplace reached just enough to thaw their fingers. Harry and Ron took the seats facing the door, their years of vigilance still an unspoken habit, while Ginny, Neville, and Hermione arranged themselves around the rest of the table.

Aberforth arrived a moment later, slapping down their drinks with practiced disinterest. "Don't let the goats hear any of your nonsense. They've got more sense than half the patrons that come through here."

"Thank you, Aberforth," Harry said with a grin. "Always a pleasure."

Aberforth gave him a look that could have soured milk before stomping back to the bar.

Neville took a long sip of his drink, leaning back in his chair with a sigh. "You know, for all his charm, Aberforth makes a damn fine Butterbeer."

"It's probably half goat milk," Ginny said, wrinkling her nose.

"You say that like it's a bad thing," Ron quipped, nudging her with his elbow.

Hermione listened to the back-and-forth with half an ear, her gaze flickering toward Harry, who had gone quiet beside her. His eyes were fixed on the fireplace, the flames reflecting faintly in his glasses.

"You alright?" she asked softly.

He turned to her, startled, but then smiled faintly. "Yeah. Just thinking."

"About what?"

He hesitated, swirling his drink in its glass. "Everything. The reporters, the Auror training, the whole 'Chosen One' nonsense. Sometimes I wonder if it'll ever stop."

Hermione reached out, resting her hand lightly on his. "It will. You've done enough, Harry. More than enough."

He gave her a grateful smile, but there was something wistful in his expression. "What about you? How are things with you and Ron?"

Hermione hesitated, her fingers tightening around her glass. "They're… fine."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Fine?"

Hermione sighed, her shoulders sagging slightly. "It's just… complicated. We care about each other, but it's hard to keep up a romantic relationship over letters."

Harry studied her for a moment, then glanced toward Ginny, who was animatedly teasing Neville about his attempt to bluff the reporters earlier. "I know it is. You know how you feel about each other though. I'm sure you can make it work, and if not, I'll still be here for you, and so will he."

Hermione smiled faintly, but her thoughts lingered on the conversation. She appreciated Harry's reassurances, but they didn't fully quiet the unease that had taken root in her chest. Before she could dwell too much, Harry leaned closer, his voice lowering.

"And how's life with Parkinson?" he asked, his tone casual but curious.

Hermione blinked, startled by the shift in topic. "It's… challenging. She's sharp and frustrating, but there's more to her than I expected. I think she wants to change, but she doesn't know how."

Harry tilted his head, considering this. "Do you think she deserves the chance?"

"I don't know," Hermione admitted. "But I want to believe she does. I want to help her, Harry, but I don't know if I can."

Harry leaned back, his expression thoughtful. "People can change, Hermione. Sometimes it just takes someone to believe in them."

"She doesn't make it easy," Hermione said, her lips curving into a wry smile. "But I think she's struggling a lot more than she lets show. She said something the other night—that she'll always be the girl who tried to hand you over to Voldemort. I think it haunts her, Harry. Truly."

Harry's brows furrowed, his hand absently tracing the rim of his glass. "If she regrets it that much… maybe it does. It's hard to live with guilt like that."

"It is," Hermione agreed quietly. "I see it in her. She tries to cover it up with sarcasm and bravado, but it slips through sometimes."

Harry nodded slowly, his gaze thoughtful. "If you think it would help, I could talk to her. Don't get me wrong, I've never been keen on her, but if it helps your life at school out… besides, she's not exactly the first person who's tried to hand me over to Voldemort."

Hermione looked at him, surprised. "You'd do that?"

"Why not?" he said simply. "Maybe hearing it from me will give her some perspective. Or maybe she'll try and hex me. Either way, it's worth a shot."

Hermione laughed despite herself, the tension in her chest easing slightly. "Thank you, Harry."

He smiled warmly, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze. "What are friends for?"