Authors Note
Oh Pansy, it was all going so well... Thank you for your kind reviews and your continued support! I hope you enjoy chapter 6!
Chapter 6
The streets of Hogsmeade had grown quieter as the afternoon stretched on, the earlier chaos of chattering students giving way to a more subdued hum of activity. Most of the students had returned to the castle now, and soon the bells would ring to summon any stragglers back to the gates. Pansy walked with her head down, her hands buried deep in the pockets of her cloak. The cobblestones beneath her feet felt uneven, and every scrape of a boot or murmur of conversation made her glance over her shoulder.
She hated feeling like this—like a trapped animal waiting for the next attack. It had been months since the Battle of Hogwarts, but the weight of her own words still echoed in her mind: "But he's there! Potter's there! Someone grab him!" At the time, it had felt like the only way to end the nightmare, to stop the war from swallowing them whole. But now, every time she passed a Gryffindor or even caught sight of the staff table in the Great Hall, she was reminded of what she'd done.
Paranoid, she thought bitterly. That's what I've become.
She turned down a quieter lane, the stone walls of the shops rising on either side of her like a cage. The sharp wind bit at her cheeks, but she welcomed the sting—it was a distraction, at least. But when she heard footsteps behind her, her heart began to race.
She quickened her pace, glancing over her shoulder. There was no one there. Still, the feeling of being watched clung to her, like icy fingers trailing down her spine. Her hand drifted toward her wand pocket as she rounded a corner into an even narrower alley.
"Relax, Parkinson," came a voice from behind her, calm but unmistakable. "It's just me."
She froze, her pulse pounding in her ears as she turned to see Harry Potter standing a few feet away. His hands were tucked into his cloak, his expression unreadable in the dim light. He wasn't holding his wand, but Pansy didn't let go of hers.
"What do you want, Potter?" she demanded, her voice sharp to mask the way her heart hammered against her ribs.
"To talk," he replied simply. "Mind if I join you?"
She snorted, her hand still brushing her wand. "Since when do you ask for permission? Don't you have some reporters to impress or Gryffindor fan club to appease?"
Harry didn't rise to the bait. Instead, he leaned casually against the wall, studying her with an intensity that made her skin crawl. "Hermione's been worried about you."
Pansy's stomach twisted. "Oh, so that's why you're here. You're playing the protective best friend, making sure poor, innocent Granger doesn't have to deal with the evil Slytherin all on her own."
Harry shrugged. "If I thought you were dangerous, I wouldn't be here alone."
His words stung more than she wanted to admit, but she refused to let it show. "And what's your plan, exactly? Lecture me until I see the error of my ways?"
"No," he said, his tone serious now. "Far too late for that. I just want to know why."
"Why what?"
"Why you did it," he said, his green eyes locking onto hers. "Why you tried to hand me over to Voldemort."
Pansy flinched at the name, her throat tightened, the memory crashing over her like a wave. She turned away, staring down the alley as if the answer were written in the shadows. "What does it matter? It didn't happen."
"It matters to me," Harry said, his voice low but firm. "And it matters to Hermione."
The mention of Hermione made her chest tighten, though she couldn't quite say why. She let out a bitter laugh. "You wouldn't understand."
"Try me."
Pansy hesitated, her nails digging into her palms. She could feel his gaze on her, waiting, unyielding. Finally, she let out a shaky breath.
"I panicked," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "I thought if someone grabbed you, if they gave you to... him… it would end. All of it. The war, the madness, the fear. I just wanted it to stop."
Harry didn't respond right away, and the silence stretched between them like a taut string. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer than she expected.
"You thought sacrificing me would fix everything. That Voldemort would head off into a quiet retirement? Or maybe he'd kill all the Muggleborns first and then you'd have your weird, racist utopia?"
"I didn't think at all," she snapped, her anger flaring. "I was scared, alright? Everyone was. How many times has he spoken inside your head?"
"A lot," Harry said quietly, his face morphing into an expression that was almost sympathetic. "I was scared too, but I didn't throw anyone else under the bus to save myself."
The words hit her like a slap, and she whirled on him, her eyes blazing. "Don't you dare stand there and act like you're better than me! You don't know what it was like!"
"I don't," he said, surprising her. "At least not from your perspective. But I do know what it's like to make decisions you can't take back. And I know what it's like to regret them."
Pansy stared at him, her chest heaving. His calm, steady gaze made her want to scream, to lash out, to do something to shatter that infuriating composure. But instead, she found herself deflating, the fight draining out of her like air from a punctured balloon.
"I'm not looking for your forgiveness," she muttered, turning away again. "I don't need it."
"I'm not here to forgive you," Harry said. "I'm here because Hermione thinks you can be better. And for some reason, I think she's right."
She stiffened, her fingers curling into fists. "Why do you care what I do?"
"I don't," he said, his tone light but pointed. "But she does."
Her jaw clenched, a sharp retort forming on her tongue, but it never came. Harry stepped back, his voice softening as he added, "I think you want to be better too. You just don't know how. Maybe start by not pushing everyone away."
Before she could respond, he turned and walked away, heading back into a dingy pub at the end of the village, leaving her standing alone in the alley. The silence rushed back in, heavier than before, as her thoughts churned like a storm.
She hated him for coming, hated him for saying the things she couldn't admit to herself. But more than anything, she hated the small, traitorous part of her that wanted to believe him.
Pansy lingered in the alley long after Harry had gone, the echoes of their conversation swirling around her like the cold wind that tugged at her cloak. Her fingers curled tightly around the fabric, her nails digging into her palms. She wasn't cold—she was burning. Burning with frustration, with fury, with shame.
She kicked at a loose stone on the cobblestones, sending it skittering across the alley. Who did Harry Potter think he was, marching into her life like that, spouting forgiveness and hope as though those things were simple? As though she deserved them?
Hermione Granger put him up to this, she thought bitterly as she stepped out of the alley and onto the main street of Hogsmeade. The afternoon light had faded into a muted grey, and the streets were nearly empty now, save for a few shopkeepers closing up for the day.
It wasn't hard to see Granger's fingerprints all over this. Who else would be so stubbornly invested in fixing something—or someone—so obviously broken? Granger always had to fix things. She was incapable of leaving well enough alone.
Pansy scoffed aloud as she turned toward the path back to the castle. The snow crunched under her boots, but her mind was elsewhere, replaying every word Potter had said.
Hermione thinks you can be better.
The words rang in her head, each repetition more grating than the last. What did Granger see in her that made her think she was worth saving? Worth helping? It wasn't pity—Pansy could recognize pity a mile away. No, this was something worse. Granger actually believed in her.
Her teeth clenched, the muscles in her jaw aching as she quickened her pace. It was infuriating. Infuriating because she couldn't understand it, couldn't explain it, couldn't stop thinking about it.
And it wasn't just the conversation with Potter—it was everything. The way Granger had looked at her during their late-night conversations, her expression equal parts wary and curious. The way she'd spoken to her after McGonagall's announcement about the memorial, calm and direct but without condescension. The way she'd stared at her in Potions, that flash of fire in her eyes when their sniping had reached a fever pitch.
Granger was everywhere, in every thought, in every moment. Pansy hated it.
By the time she reached the castle gates, the first snowflakes of the evening had begun to fall, dusting her cloak and catching in her hair. The sight of Hogwarts rising before her, its windows glowing warmly against the cold night, usually brought her some measure of comfort. But tonight, it only reminded her of what waited inside.
Granger.
Pansy let out a frustrated growl, her breath puffing into the air like smoke. She didn't want to think about her anymore. She didn't want to picture those brown eyes narrowing in exasperation or that infuriatingly perfect braid falling over one shoulder as she got ready for bed. She didn't want to wonder what Granger was doing right now, if she was sitting in the common room with a book or fussing over her essays.
She hated this. Hated the way Granger occupied her thoughts, twisting them into knots she couldn't untangle. Hated the way she could still hear Potter's voice in her head, calm and steady, reminding her that Granger thought she could be better.
"Bloody Gryffindors," Pansy muttered under her breath as she trudged up the stone steps and into the castle.
The warmth of the entrance hall hit her like a wave, but it did little to thaw the icy knot in her chest. She kept her head down as she made her way through the corridors, ignoring the few students she passed. She could feel their eyes on her, could hear the whispers that followed in her wake.
By the time she reached the door to the 8th Year dormitory, her nerves were frayed, and her patience was non-existent. She pushed the door open and stepped inside, her boots clicking against the polished floor as she crossed the common room.
The fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows on the walls. The space was empty, save for the faint hum of conversation drifting from one of the other rooms. Pansy headed straight for her dorm, her fingers fumbling with the clasp of her cloak as she walked.
The door creaked open, revealing the familiar sight of their shared space. Granger wasn't there, but her presence lingered in the neatly made bed, the carefully stacked books, the faint scent of parchment and ink.
Pansy sighed heavily, tossing her cloak onto her bed and sinking onto the mattress. She buried her face in her hands, her thoughts a chaotic jumble of anger, confusion, and something she couldn't quite name.
What's happening to me?
She wanted to blame Potter for stirring this up, for forcing her to confront things she'd spent months trying to bury. But deep down, she knew the real problem wasn't him. It was her.
And it was Hermione bloody Granger.
The silence of the dorm was suffocating. Pansy sat there for a few minutes, staring at the neatly made bed across the room as though it were mocking her. Every tidy corner of the sheets, every perfectly aligned book on Granger's desk, seemed to scream control.
Of course, everything in her life is so bloody perfect, Pansy thought bitterly, dragging her hands through her hair. Of course she has everything together, while I'm stuck here, unravelling.
She stood abruptly, pacing the small space as her mind raced. She couldn't sit here and let her thoughts spiral any further. She needed noise, distraction, something to drown out the voice in her head whispering Granger's name over and over again.
Dinner. The Great Hall would be crowded by now, filled with the usual noise and chaos of students catching up on the day. It wasn't exactly her idea of a reprieve, but it was better than sitting here and letting her thoughts consume her.
With a sharp exhale, Pansy grabbed her cloak and swept out of the dorm, her boots clicking against the stone floors as she made her way toward the Hall. The corridors were mostly empty, save for a few stragglers hurrying to their own meals. A group of younger students froze as she passed, their whispers following her like shadows.
She ignored them, keeping her gaze fixed straight ahead. By the time she reached the doors to the Great Hall, the hum of conversation was already spilling out into the corridor. Pansy hesitated for a moment, steeling herself before pushing the doors open.
The sight was familiar—long tables filled with students, platters of food glimmering under the warm light of floating candles. She scanned the room quickly, her eyes instinctively landing on the Gryffindor table.
There she was, of course, sitting beside Ginny Weasley, her head bent close in conversation. Granger's hands moved animatedly as she spoke, her face lit with a mixture of exasperation and amusement. Weasley threw her head back in laughter, drawing the attention of several nearby students.
Pansy clenched her fists at her sides. Perfect little Gryffindor. Surrounded by friends, adored by everyone. Always so bloody righteous.
She tore her gaze away and headed for the Slytherin table, her steps brisk and purposeful. She slid into an empty seat near the end of the table, ignoring the curious glances from the other students.
"Pansy," came a drawling voice from across the table.
She glanced up to see Blaise Zabini leaning back in his chair, his dark eyes studying her with lazy curiosity. He twirled a goblet of pumpkin juice between his fingers, his expression as smooth and unreadable as ever.
"You look like you're about to hex someone," Blaise remarked, raising an eyebrow.
"Maybe I am," she muttered, reaching for a plate of roasted vegetables.
"Let me guess." He smirked, glancing toward the Gryffindor table. "Granger again?"
Pansy shot him a sharp look, her cheeks flushing despite herself. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Oh, come off it," Blaise said, his tone amused. "You've been staring at her like a lovesick puppy since term started."
"I have not," she snapped, her voice low but venomous.
Blaise's smirk widened. "Right. Of course not. Just a casual obsession, then?"
"Drop it, Zabini," she warned, her grip tightening on her fork.
Blaise chuckled, taking a sip from his goblet. "Fine, fine. But you might want to do something about that frustration before it eats you alive."
Pansy glared at him, her stomach twisting with a mix of anger and embarrassment. She hated how easily he could read her, how quickly he'd picked up on the thing she'd barely admitted to herself.
She glanced back toward the Gryffindor table, her gaze narrowing as she watched Granger laugh at something Weasley said. Her hair gleamed in the candlelight, the loose curls brushing her shoulders as she leaned forward to pour herself a glass of water.
Pansy's jaw tightened. She needed a distraction, something to pull her mind away from Granger and the infuriating knot of emotions she couldn't untangle. She turned her attention back to the Slytherin table, her gaze sweeping over the familiar faces.
Blaise was still watching her, his smirk now tinged with something more calculating. Beside him, Daphne Greengrass was chatting animatedly with Theodore Nott, her pale hair catching the light as she gestured with one hand. Across from them, a sixth-year boy whose name Pansy couldn't remember was slicing into a roast chicken with single-minded focus.
Her gaze landed on a figure a few seats down— Harper, a Quidditch player who'd taken over Draco's role as Seeker. His dark eyes were fixed on his plate, his broad shoulders hunched slightly as he ate in silence.
Pansy tilted her head, considering. Harper wasn't exactly charming, but he was attractive in a rough, brooding sort of way. And more importantly, he was uncomplicated.
She smirked, leaning back in her chair as a plan began to form in her mind. If she couldn't stop thinking about Hermione Granger, maybe it was time to remind herself that there were other, far more fun ways to occupy her mind.
"Harper," she called, her voice light and playful.
He looked up, his brow furrowing slightly as he met her gaze.
"Pass the gravy, would you?" she asked, her tone sickly sweet but edged with something more.
Harper hesitated for a moment, then reached for the gravy boat and slid it across the table toward her.
"Thanks," Pansy said, her lips curving into a smile as she held his gaze a moment longer than necessary.
Blaise chuckled softly beside her, rolling his eyes, but Pansy ignored him, her attention focused solely on Harper.
Let's see how well this works, she thought, pushing the Gryffindor out of her mind with sheer force of will.
Dinner in the Great Hall had been an exercise in endurance. Pansy had spent most of it in silence, pointedly ignoring the chatter around her. Her eyes, however, had betrayed her, flicking occasionally toward the Gryffindor table, where Hermione Granger was engaged in yet another animated conversation with Ginny Weasley.
The sight of Granger's laughter only sharpened the knot of frustration in Pansy's chest. By the time dessert appeared, she'd had enough. Pansy pushed her plate aside and rose gracefully, her cloak sweeping behind her as she made her way toward the doors.
Harper was leaving too, his strides purposeful as he slipped through the crowd. Pansy smirked to herself, quickening her pace until she was close enough to reach out and grab his arm.
"Harper," she said, her voice smooth and teasing. "I hear you're the best Seeker Slytherin's had in years."
Harper stopped, his brow furrowing slightly as he looked at her. "So they say."
Pansy tilted her head, letting her smirk widen. "How about a private demonstration? Just to prove the rumours aren't exaggerated."
Harper blinked, a faint flush creeping up his neck. "A private demonstration?"
"Don't look so scandalized," Pansy said, rolling her eyes in mock exasperation. "I'm talking about Quidditch, Harper. Show me what makes you so great."
Harper chuckled softly, his expression shifting to one of mild amusement. "And why do you care?"
"Maybe I've decided it's time to take an interest in the sport," she replied, her tone light but calculated. "Or maybe I'm just bored and thought you could be entertaining."
"Right," Harper said, shaking his head but unable to hide the small smile tugging at his lips. "Entertaining. Sure."
He stepped forward, continuing down the hall, and Pansy fell into step beside him. "Come on, Harper," she pressed. "You don't mind a little attention, do you?"
"From you?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "It depends. What's your angle?"
"No angle," she said, though her tone didn't quite match her words. "Can't a girl show some interest without being accused of ulterior motives?"
Harper glanced at her, his gaze skeptical but curious. "With you, Parkinson? I'm not so sure."
Pansy smirked, satisfied that she'd at least piqued his curiosity. "Maybe I'll surprise you."
When they entered the Slytherin Common Room, the green-tinged light cast long shadows over the familiar dark leather furniture and stone walls. A few students looked up as they walked in, and it didn't take long for Pansy to spot Daphne Greengrass and Blaise Zabini near the fireplace.
"Well, well," Blaise drawled, leaning back in his chair with a lazy smile. "Parkinson returns. And with company, no less."
Daphne raised an eyebrow, her pale blue eyes flicking between Pansy and Harper. "This is new. Should we be taking bets on how long this lasts?"
"Mind your own business," Pansy said smoothly, shrugging off her cloak and draping it over her arm. She turned to Harper, gesturing toward an empty table. "Shall we?"
Harper hesitated for a moment, glancing toward Blaise and Daphne before following her to the table. Blaise's soft chuckle echoed behind them, but Pansy ignored it, focusing instead on Harper as they sat down.
"So," she began, resting her chin in her hand as she studied him. "What's your secret? How do you plan to take down Weasley this year?"
Harper tilted his head, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "Why are you so interested in my plans?"
"Can't I be curious?" she asked, her tone innocently sweet. "After all, we can't have Gryffindor walking all over us again, can we?"
Harper chuckled softly, leaning back in his chair. "You don't strike me as the Quidditch type."
"Maybe not," she admitted, her smirk widening. "But I do appreciate a well-executed plan. And I'm willing to bet you're the type to think three moves ahead."
Harper shrugged, his expression modest but confident. "I do what I can."
Their conversation continued, Harper gradually relaxing as Pansy's questions became less pointed and more playful. She leaned forward slightly, letting her gaze linger a moment longer than necessary, and Harper, to his credit, seemed to hold his own against her calculated charm.
Across the room, Blaise and Daphne exchanged knowing looks, their quiet laughter lost in the hum of the common room.
For Pansy, it wasn't perfect. Harper was a decent distraction—his calm demeanour and subtle humour kept her entertained—but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't quite keep her thoughts from drifting back to a certain Gryffindor. It was infuriating, and as Harper leaned closer to explain some finer point of Quidditch strategy, Pansy found herself forcing a smile, determined to push the intrusive thoughts aside.
If nothing else, she thought grimly, at least Harper didn't make her feel like she was losing her mind.
The air in the Slytherin common room had grown stifling. The low hum of conversations and the crackle of the fire seemed too loud, pressing in on Pansy from all sides. She sat perched on the arm of a leather chair, listening to Harper drone on about formations and tactics. He wasn't particularly clever, but he was uncomplicated. Predictable.
Exactly what she needed.
Her fingers drummed against her knee as she debated. It was reckless, yes. But reckless was better than drowning in her thoughts. Anything was better than the infernal chaos in her head.
Standing abruptly, Pansy snapped Harper straight to attention. She leaned down, her voice low and honeyed. "Walk me back to the dorm?"
Out the corner of her eye Pansy saw Daphne arch an eyebrow, clearly catching the underlying tone, but Pansy ignored her. Harper hesitated, his dark eyes scanning her face for a moment before he stood.
"Sure," he said simply.
Perfect.
She led him out of the common room, deliberately brushing against him as they walked. The corridors were dimly lit, the soft flicker of torches casting dancing shadows on the stone walls. The castle felt quieter now, with most students tucked away in their dormitories. It was almost too quiet, each step echoing loudly in the silence.
Pansy slowed her pace as they reached a side corridor, her lips curving into a sly smile. "You know," she said, her voice dropping slightly, "it's such a long way to the dorm. Maybe we should take a little detour. Find somewhere… quieter."
Harper raised an eyebrow, his expression cautious. "A detour?"
"Don't act so innocent," she teased, stepping closer. Her fingers trailed lightly along his arm, a deliberate touch designed to disarm. "Unless, of course, you're afraid of a little privacy."
He hesitated, his jaw tightening slightly before he nodded. "Lead the way."
She smirked, tugging him down a narrower corridor and stopping in front of an empty classroom. Pushing the door open, she stepped inside, the faint light from the corridor casting long shadows on the desks and walls.
Harper followed, closing the door behind him. The silence in the room was heavy, broken only by the soft rustle of their cloaks. Pansy turned to face him, her hands resting lightly on his shoulders as she leaned in.
"Let's see how good a Seeker you really are," she murmured, her voice low and suggestive. She lifted the golden pendant of her necklace to his eyes before letting it drop down the front of her robes. He could not possibly miss the suggestion.
Harper stared at her as if he'd won a million galleons in the lottery, his jaw on the floor, his eyes as wide as dinnerplates. She would have to be the initiator. The first touch of his lips against hers was tentative, almost hesitant, but Pansy pulled him in closer, deepening the kiss with deliberate intent. Her hands slid up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer as her movements grew bolder.
It was mechanical at first—a means to an end, a way to drown out the incessant noise in her head. She kissed him harder, her fingers tightening against his shoulders as she willed herself to lose control, to lose herself in him.
But something was wrong.
The taste was wrong. The feel of his hands on her waist was wrong. The way he kissed her back, hesitant and clumsy, was wrong.
She pulled back slightly, her breath hitching as she stared at him. But as her eyes met his, her mind betrayed her. His face blurred and shifted, the sharp angles softening, dark eyes replaced by piercing brown ones.
No.
Her heart pounded in her chest as she shook her head, her eyes squeezing shut. She kissed him again, harder, faster, desperate to banish the image. But the harder she tried, the stronger it grew.
It wasn't Harper she was kissing anymore. It was Granger.
Get a grip Pansy! She shouted inside her head. Back in the real world, Harper was becoming bolder. Clearly he didn't have a meddlesome Muggleborn invading his every waking thought. His hands were wandering with gay abandon, ruffling her robes and messing up her hair. If he carried on this way she'd be as frizzy as Granger. Merlin! Get into the moment! She pulled Harper even closer, his hands now inching gingerly upwards to where he desperately wanted them to be. Pansy sped things up for him, only to be rewarded with a fairly rough squeeze.
Does he not realize they're attached to me? Pansy thought bitterly. She ignored it, pressing on, running her hands across his broad back, cupping his face in one hand. This wasn't so hard Pansy told herself, finally sinking into the moment. Harper wasn't the best kisser in the world, but he would do.
She closed her eyes and let her senses take over, the panic was gone. She threaded her fingers into Harpers hair, no thoughts at all of Hermione Granger and how it might feel if she was in Harpers place. Wild curls brushing against her fingers, a faint scent of cinnamon filling her senses. The kiss was no longer hesitant—it was fiery, charged with the kind of tension that had been building between them for weeks.
Weeks? Pansy had only spoken to Harper for the first time that evening at dinner. Oh no.
Pansy's chest tightened, her breaths coming in short, shallow bursts as she broke away abruptly. She staggered back, her hands trembling at her sides as she stared at Harper.
"What's wrong?" he asked, his brow furrowing in confusion.
"Nothing," she snapped, her voice sharp and biting. "Just… nothing."
"You don't look like it's nothing," he said, his tone wary.
"Forget it," she said, brushing past him toward the door. Her hand gripped the handle tightly, but she couldn't bring herself to turn it. Her mind was spinning, her body frozen as the realization crashed over her like a tidal wave.
It wasn't Harper she wanted. It could never be Harper.
The truth was suffocating, pressing down on her with unbearable weight. She clenched her jaw, willing herself to keep it together, to push it down where it couldn't reach her.
"I should go," she muttered, her voice barely audible.
Harper didn't respond immediately, his confusion evident in the silence that stretched between them. Finally, he shrugged. "Whatever you say, Parkinson."
He left without another word, the door clicking shut behind him. Pansy remained where she was, her back against the wall, her breaths shallow and uneven. She pressed a hand to her chest, as though she could steady the chaos raging inside her. Bile was rising into her throat, and she had to swallow hard to force it back down.
Granger.
The name echoed in her mind, each repetition driving the truth deeper into her consciousness. Her hands curled into fists at her sides, her nails digging into her palms as she fought to keep herself from unravelling completely.
How had it come to this? How had she let this happen?
She shoved away from the wall, her movements stiff and mechanical as she exited the classroom and made her way back to the dorm. Her steps were brisk, purposeful, as though she could outrun the thoughts chasing her.
But no matter how far she walked, she couldn't escape the image burned into her mind—Hermione Granger's face, her lips, her eyes, the maddening, infuriating, intoxicating pull of her presence.
Pansy's chest ached with the weight of it, a feeling she couldn't name and didn't want to face.
When she finally burst into the 8th Year Common Room, well past curfew, she didn't even notice Daphne until she spoke up.
"Pansy," Daphne's voice cut through the silence, low but insistent.
Pansy froze, her hand still clutching the doorframe as she turned to see Daphne leaning against one of the armchairs by the fireplace. Her pale hair caught the flickering light, but her expression was unreadable—neither smug nor curious, just… steady.
"Daphne," Pansy said tightly, already bristling. "I'm not in the mood."
"I can see that," Daphne replied, pushing off the chair and taking a step closer. "You've got that look again. The one where you're pretending nothing's wrong while looking like you're ready to hex someone."
Pansy rolled her eyes, pulling her cloak tighter around herself as though it could shield her from Daphne's scrutiny. "Brilliant observation. Are you hoping for a gold star?"
Daphne ignored the barb, her gaze unwavering. "You've been off all term, Pansy. And tonight? Merlin, you look like you've seen a bloody Dementor. What's going on with you?"
Pansy let out a sharp laugh, though it was devoid of humour. "Nothing's going on, Daphne. I just had a thoroughly underwhelming evening, if you must know."
"With Harper?" Daphne arched an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "Please. That boy couldn't underwhelm his way out of a paper bag. This isn't about him, and you know it."
"Why don't you tell me what it's about then, since you're so bloody insightful?" Pansy snapped, her temper flaring.
Daphne crossed her arms, her voice cooling. "I don't need to tell you, Pansy. I think you already know. You're just too stubborn—or scared—to admit it."
Pansy's jaw tightened, the words cutting deeper than she wanted to admit. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't I?" Daphne asked softly, taking another step closer. "You've barely spoken to anyone in Slytherin since term started. You're avoiding the common room like it's cursed, and when you're not snapping at everyone, you're staring off into space like you're trying to escape your own skin. You're not yourself, Pansy. And whatever's eating at you, it's going to win if you keep this up."
Pansy's chest tightened, the weight of Daphne's words pressing down on her like a stone. She wanted to lash out, to shove Daphne away with a cutting remark, but the truth in her friend's eyes made the words stick in her throat.
"I don't need your concern, Daphne," she said finally, her voice sharp and brittle. "Or your pity."
Daphne's expression softened, but her voice remained steady. "It's not pity, Pansy. It's worry. And if you won't talk to me, then at least talk to someone. Because this? Whatever this is? It's not you."
"Maybe you don't know me as well as you think you do," Pansy retorted, the venom in her tone masking the tremor beneath.
Daphne flinched slightly, but she didn't back down. "Fine," she said quietly. "Push me away if that's what you want. But don't pretend you're fine, Pansy. It's insulting—to me and to yourself."
With that, Daphne turned and walked toward the staircase leading to her dormitory, leaving Pansy standing alone in the middle of the common room. The silence rushed in again, heavier than before, as the fire crackled softly in the hearth.
Pansy's hands curled into fists at her sides, her nails digging into her palms as she fought to steady her breathing. The knot in her chest grew tighter, and for a moment, she thought she might scream just to release the pressure.
Instead, she turned back toward the door leading to her own dormitory. The thought of entering the room and facing Hermione—even sleeping, even unconscious—made her stomach churn. She hesitated, her hand hovering over the handle as her mind raced.
What if she woke up? What if she looked at Pansy and saw the truth written all over her face? The thought was unbearable.
Coward, she thought bitterly, but even that wasn't enough to push her inside. She turned abruptly, her cloak sweeping behind her as she strode toward the exit. The castle was vast, and there were plenty of places to lose herself. Anywhere was better than here.
Anywhere but there.
The dungeons felt colder than usual, the air thick with damp and the faintly acrid scent of ingredients lingering in the corners. Pansy dragged her feet as she entered the classroom, her stomach twisting. She'd avoided Hermione all day, and the reprieve had been almost blissful. But as she slid into her seat, she knew the dungeons would be her undoing. Potions was Slughorn's favourite opportunity for forced collaboration. How could she have forgotten?
"Ah, Miss Granger! Miss Parkinson! Excellent," Slughorn's booming voice made Pansy cringe. "Such sharp minds—ideal for today's lesson! Pair up, pair up!"
Pansy's nails dug into her palms as Hermione's bag landed beside her with a thud. Without so much as a glance, Hermione opened her textbook, flipping briskly to the page Slughorn indicated. "Let's get started."
The parchment-thin civility between them grated on Pansy, who slouched in her seat, masking her unease with indifference. "Lucky me," she drawled. "Granger, queen of teamwork."
Hermione's eyes didn't leave her book. "Just follow the instructions, Parkinson."
Slughorn's voice floated over the noise of shuffling cauldrons and bustling students. "Now, today we tackle a very special potion: Amortentia! You've seen this potion in my classes before of course, but now it's time to try your hand at brewing it."
Pansy's blood froze. Her stomach churned as Slughorn launched into an explanation about its properties, its spiralling steam, and its intoxicating effects.
"This is going to be good," Blaise murmured from the table next to hers, smirking as his gaze flicked between Pansy and Hermione.
"The potion smells different to everyone," Slughorn continued, oblivious to the tension building at Pansy's workstation. "According to what, or indeed who, the person likes. A fascinating reflection of attraction, wouldn't you say?"
Pansy clenched her jaw. Perfect. She could already feel the trap closing in around her.
"Ready?" Hermione asked briskly, pulling out her neatly labelled vials. "We'll need Ashwinder eggs, powdered moonstone—"
Pansy held up a hand, interrupting. "I know how to read."
"Then you'll have no trouble keeping up," Hermione snapped.
The first few steps of the brewing process passed in a tense silence, broken only by the scrape of knives on roots and the measured bubbling of the cauldron. Pansy forced herself to focus on the movements—slice, stir, measure. Anything to keep her mind from spiralling.
But as the potion began to take shape, its pearlescent sheen growing stronger with each stir, her dread deepened. The spirals of steam started to rise, curling like fingers beckoning her closer.
"Watch your stirring," Hermione said sharply. "It's too slow. Do you want it to curdle?"
Pansy's hand froze mid-motion. "Merlin forbid we tarnish your perfect record," she muttered.
Hermione's lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn't respond. Instead, she took over the stirring and then leaned forward, inhaling the potion's steam. Her eyes fluttered shut for a moment, and when she opened them, there was a faint flush on her cheeks and an expression that hinted at... surprise?
"What?" Pansy asked, her voice laced with mockery. "Smelled something thrilling, did you? Library books and house-elf liberation pamphlets?"
Hermione ignored her, jotting something in her notebook.
"Your turn," Hermione said curtly, stepping back.
Pansy hesitated, her heart pounding as she leaned over the cauldron. The first scent hit her immediately—lavender, warm and soothing. Then parchment, crisp and clean. And finally, cinnamon, sweet and sharp, the scent she had come to associate with Hermione Granger.
She jerked back, her stomach lurching as though the ground had tilted beneath her. No. No, no, no. This couldn't be happening.
"Well?" Hermione pressed. "What did you smell?"
"None of your bloody business," Pansy snapped, shoving her chair back. The scrape of wood against stone was loud in the suddenly quiet room.
Pansy stormed out of the classroom the moment Slughorn dismissed them, her mind spinning. She had almost made it to the stairs when Hermione's voice called after her.
"Pansy!"
Pansy stopped, her fists clenched at her sides, but she didn't turn around.
"What is wrong with you?" Hermione demanded, her footsteps echoing in the empty corridor as she caught up. "You didn't even try in class. Again."
Pansy spun around, her eyes blazing. "Oh, I'm sorry, Granger. Was my performance not up to your impeccable standards?"
"This isn't about standards," Hermione shot back. "It's about effort. You're capable of so much more, but all you do is sneer and undermine—"
"Capable?" Pansy's laugh was sharp and bitter. "Of what? Being a model student like you? Earning your approval? Get over yourself."
"This isn't about me!" Hermione's voice rose. "It's about you refusing to take responsibility for anything—"
"Responsibility?" Pansy's temper snapped. "Like you and your little hero squad? Meddling where you don't belong?"
"What are you talking about?"
"Oh, don't play dumb," Pansy spat. "You sent Potter after me, didn't you? Couldn't help yourself, could you? Always have to fix things."
"I didn't send Harry to do anything, he's a grown man quite capable of making his own decisions. I told him you'd expressed regret about what you did before the battle."
"Of course I regret it," Pansy spat, "I wish I'd told them to take you instead!"
"Now you're just being childish," Hermione said dismissively. "You don't want to be like this, I know you don't."
"You don't know a damn thing about me, and for good reason. I long for the day we graduate, and I don't have to share a room with a nosey, bookish, insufferable, whiny, filthy, Mudblood!"
The word echoed in the corridor, sharp and cutting. For a moment, the silence that followed was suffocating. Several pairs of eyes that Pansy hadn't realised were bearing witness to their fight were locked onto her, unable to react, unable to look away.
Hermione's face went pale, her eyes wide with shock. Instinctively she clamped a hand over her left forearm, scratching slightly at where Pansy knew the ugly scar with the ugly word she'd just shouted across the corridor was carved into Hermione's skin. Then, slowly, her expression hardened into something cold and unreadable.
"Don't," she said quietly, her voice trembling with controlled fury. "Don't you ever call me that again."
Pansy's chest heaved, the weight of what she'd said crashing down on her. She opened her mouth to respond, but the words wouldn't come. Bile rose up in her throat, and her cheeks suddenly gained an immense heat.
"Forget it," Hermione said, stepping back. "You're not worth it."
She turned and walked away, her footsteps fading into the distance.
Pansy stood frozen, her heart pounding and her breath shallow. The word hung in the air, mocking her, a cruel reminder of everything she had tried—and failed—to leave behind.
The door to the 8th Year Common Room slammed behind Pansy as she stumbled in, her chest heaving like she'd run the length of the castle. The room was dim, lit only by the flickering fire, and for a moment she thought she might be alone. But then she heard a sharp voice cut across the room.
"Have you completely lost the plot Pansy?"
Pansy froze for a second, her stomach twisting. "Leave me alone Daphne, I'm really not in the mood for another lecture right now."
"I don't care what kind of mood you're in," Daphne said, rising from her seat and cutting across Pansy's path, "I thought I'd gotten the point across but obviously not. You can't go around acting like a nutter towards all of Harry Potter's inner circle."
"I'm not acting like a nutter-" Daphne cut her off with a loud snort.
"Don't play dumb and insult my intelligence Pansy. Half the castle already knows what happened. You and Granger screaming at each other in the dungeons? You calling her a—"
"Don't say it," Pansy snapped, her voice cracking.
Daphne arched an eyebrow, her tone cool and cutting. "Why not? You said it loud enough for the entire corridor to hear. Figured you'd want to own it."
"I didn't mean—"
"Didn't mean to?" Daphne interrupted, her voice becoming sharper. "What were you thinking, Pansy? No, scratch that—were you even thinking? Or have you just decided to torch whatever shred of dignity you have left?"
"I know I screwed up," Pansy spat, her hands curling into fists. "You don't need to lecture me."
"Oh, I think I do," Daphne said, stepping closer, her voice growing sharper. "Do you have any idea what you've done? Granger might not say anything, but do you think the rest of the school will just let this slide? You're already on thin ice, Pansy. Now, you've gone and set it on fire. You literally won't be able to walk the halls without one eye looking over your shoulder. I wouldn't be surprised if the Weasley girl marches in here now and kills you on the spot!"
Pansy flinched, the weight of Daphne's words pressing down on her chest like a vice. "It's not like I planned it," she muttered.
"Oh well that makes it all better," Daphne snapped sarcastically. "That word—Merlin, Pansy, you know what it means. You know what it does, why it can't be just casually thrown around. I can't help you out of this one, and Draco isn't here to bully people out of your way anymore. Do me a favour and don't drag me down with you."
Pansy stood frozen, Daphne's words hanging in the air like a noose tightening around her neck. Every muscle in her body screamed at her to fight back, to snap something biting and cruel in response. But no words came.
"I didn't ask for your help," she muttered finally, her voice trembling with suppressed anger.
"Good," Daphne shot back, folding her arms. "Because you're bloody beyond it at this point."
Pansy turned her head sharply, glaring at Daphne. "I don't need you to spell out every mistake I've made, alright? I know. I know I screwed up. I know I said something unforgivable. Merlin, you think I don't feel like complete rubbish about it?"
Daphne's expression softened for a fraction of a second before hardening again. "Then why do you keep doing this? Pansy, it's like you want to destroy every chance you have left. Granger didn't deserve that, and you know it."
"I know!" Pansy barked, her voice cracking again. She dragged her hands through her hair, pulling at the strands in frustration. "I know, alright? But I panicked. She cornered me, and I... I just..."
"You just what?" Daphne asked, stepping closer, her tone cold but less biting. "You lashed out because she got too close? Because she's spent too much time in your head?"
The words hit too close to home, and Pansy's cheeks burned as she turned away, refusing to meet Daphne's eyes.
"That's what I thought," Daphne said, her voice quieter now. "Look, you're my friend—Merlin knows why—but if you keep this up, you're going to be completely alone. And don't think for a second that Blaise or I can shield you from the fallout. You called Granger a—"
"Stop," Pansy said through gritted teeth, her hands clenching at her sides. "I don't need to hear it again."
"No, you need to feel it," Daphne said sharply. "You need to understand that you've made yourself a target, and not just from the Gryffindors. Do you really think the rest of the Slytherins are going to stick their necks out for you when they're already hanging by a thread themselves?"
Pansy sank into a nearby armchair, her head in her hands. She couldn't argue with Daphne, no matter how much she wanted to. The truth of it was like a dagger twisting in her chest, and the weight of her own shame was unbearable.
"Fix it," Daphne said after a long pause, her tone firm but not unkind. "I don't care how but fix it. Apologize, grovel, do whatever it takes. Because if you don't, Pansy... you're done. Here, outside, everywhere. You'll be done."
Pansy didn't respond, her throat tight as she stared at the fire. The flickering flames blurred in her vision, and she blinked rapidly, refusing to let the tears fall.
"Think about it," Daphne said finally, turning toward the stairs. She stopped at the bottom step and glanced back, her expression unreadable. "For what it's worth, I don't think you're a completely lost cause. Yet."
She disappeared up the staircase, leaving Pansy alone in the common room. The silence was deafening, broken only by the crackling of the fire and the faint murmurs of students in the dorms above.
Pansy sat there for what felt like hours, her mind replaying the scene in the dungeons over and over again. The way Hermione's face had paled, the way her voice had trembled with barely controlled fury. The way her own chest had tightened with a strange, unbearable ache when she'd seen the pain in Granger's eyes.
She couldn't go to bed. Not tonight. The thought of facing Hermione, of seeing that hurt and anger up close, was too much to bear. She grabbed her cloak and slipped out of the common room, the cool dungeon air hitting her like a slap.
Her feet carried her aimlessly through the castle, her thoughts a storm she couldn't escape. She didn't know where she was going, but she knew one thing for certain.
She had to find a way to fix this.
The corridor was quiet, save for the faint drip of water echoing from somewhere deep in the castle. Pansy moved quickly, her footsteps sharp against the stone floor. She wanted to get away—away from the whispers, the stares, the echoes of her own cruel words reverberating in her head.
She rounded a corner, her breath catching in her throat when she saw a figure leaning casually against the wall up ahead, her head buried in a strange piece of parchment. A flash of fiery red hair and an unmistakable Gryffindor tie. Ginny Weasley.
Pansy hesitated for a fraction of a second, but it was too late. Ginny's head snapped up as if she had been waiting for her to arrive, her brown eyes locking onto Pansy with a look so fierce it stopped her cold.
"Weasley," Pansy muttered, forcing a smirk onto her face even as her palms began to sweat. "Shouldn't you be off playing Quidditch or fawning over Potter?"
Ginny pushed off the wall and took a slow, deliberate step forward. "Oh, don't worry about Harry. I'm sure he'll want to know the details later," she said, her voice deceptively light. "But right now, I'm much more interested in you."
Pansy tried to summon a retort, something sharp and cutting, but before she could open her mouth, Ginny's wand was out. It moved so fast Pansy barely had time to register it before the tip was inches from her face. A faint crackle of heat and energy radiated from it, and Pansy instinctively stepped back, her breath hitching.
"Call her that again," Ginny said, her voice low and deadly, "and I swear to Merlin, Parkinson, you'll never walk out of this place."
Pansy forced herself to stand tall, though her knees threatened to buckle beneath her. "You think you can scare me, Weasley?" she said, but her voice wavered, betraying her.
Ginny stepped closer, her wand unwavering. "I don't think, Parkinson. I know. You don't know the first thing about me, do you? You don't know what I've seen, what I've done while you were running away to save your own skin. But let me put it in simple terms for you—I've fought people a hell of a lot scarier than you, and I've won."
Pansy's mouth went dry. She could feel the heat of Ginny's wand, could see the fire in her eyes, and for the first time, her false bravado failed her.
Ginny tilted her head, her voice softening but losing none of its edge. "You don't even know how lucky you are, do you? Lucky that Hermione told me not to touch you. Told me to leave you alone. All term she's protected you from people like me."
Pansy's stomach twisted. "Granger… told you that?"
"She did," Ginny said, her eyes narrowing. "Because she's a better person than you'll ever be, and I listen to her, for now. But don't think for one second that means you're safe. If you ever hurt her again—if you so much as look at her the wrong way—I won't care what she says. Half of Gryffindor wants to curse you in the hallways, Hermione stopped that on day one. There were whole gangs of them queuing up to have a pop at you tonight, they only calmed down when I threatened them off, said I had special plans for you. The next time I see Hermione Granger in tears because of something you've said or done, you're fair game, and you best hope I don't get to you first."
The heat from the wand grew stronger, the faint scent of singed fabric curling into Pansy's nose. Her throat tightened, but she forced a smirk onto her face, desperate to salvage some shred of dignity. "I'm not afraid of you, Weasley."
Ginny let out a sharp laugh, devoid of humour. "No? Then why are your hands shaking?"
Pansy glanced down before she could stop herself. Her fists were clenched at her sides, trembling ever so slightly. She snapped her gaze back up, her cheeks burning, but Ginny had already noticed. A satisfied smirk played across her lips, though the fire in her eyes hadn't dimmed.
"Stay well away from her," Ginny said, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "You don't deserve to be in the same room as her, let alone share her air. I don't care if you have to spend the rest of the year sleeping in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, if you upset Hermione like that again I will properly mess you up. Do you understand me?"
Pansy didn't respond. She couldn't. Her throat felt like it had closed up, and for once, her sharp tongue had nothing to offer.
"I said, do you understand me?" Ginny repeated, jabbing her wand roughly into Pansy's neck and pushing her hard against the wall. The tip of Ginny's wand burned against Pansy's skin, and she felt dazed as the back of her head collided with the rough stone of the castle walls.
"Yes," Pansy managed to choke out through held back tears, her voice barely audible.
Ginny held her gaze for a moment longer, then stepped back, lowering her wand but not putting it away. "Good," she said simply. Without another word, she turned and strode down the corridor, her steps confident and unhurried.
Pansy remained frozen in place, her chest heaving and her mind reeling. The air in the corridor felt impossibly heavy, and the burn of humiliation prickled at the back of her neck. She'd never felt so small, so exposed.
As she turned to make her way back to the dorm, her legs shaking beneath her, one thought rang loud and clear in her mind.
She's right. Pansy had spurned every opportunity Hermione had given her with petty insults and drama she'd concocted just to try and break Grangers' composure. The result? The whole school definitely hated her now, and Ginny Weasley would make good on her threats, Pansy had no doubt.