Chapter 7

The dream came first, as it always did.

Hermione was back in Malfoy Manor, the dim light of the drawing room casting cruel shadows across the pale, sneering faces of her captors. The ropes bit into her wrists, binding her to the chair, and Bellatrix Lestrange loomed over her, wand in hand, eyes glittering with unhinged delight.

"No!" Hermione's voice was raw and desperate, but it only seemed to amuse Bellatrix more. The witch's laugh echoed in the vast room, sharp and cruel, sending shivers down Hermione's spine.

"Let's see how much that filthy little Mudblood knows," Bellatrix hissed, the word dripping with malice. Then came the searing pain—hot, sharp, and all-consuming—as the tip of the knife pressed into her arm, carving the word into her skin letter by agonizing letter. She screamed, her voice breaking as the pain overwhelmed her.

The word stood out in her mind, bright and blood-red, as though it were still fresh.

Mudblood.

Hermione woke with a start, her chest heaving, the remnants of the dream clinging to her like cobwebs. Her left arm burned, the scar itching beneath the fabric of her sleeve. She sat up in bed, clutching her arm to her chest, her eyes darting around the room as she tried to ground herself.

You're not there anymore. You're safe.

But was she? The word had haunted her in the months since the war ended, an ugly reminder of what she had endured. She had tried to tell herself that it was just a word, just Bellatrix's way of trying to break her spirit, a schoolyard insult she had brushed off many times before. But now, every time she saw it in the mirror, every time she caught herself scratching at it absentmindedly, it felt like so much more.

Now it wasn't just Bellatrix's voice that echoed in her mind.

She's a filthy, insufferable Mudblood.

Pansy's voice rang through her memory, fresh and biting. Hermione closed her eyes, willing the tears to stay at bay. She hadn't cried that day, not in front of Pansy. She wouldn't give her the satisfaction. But now, alone in the dark, the weight of it all was suffocating.

It was just an insult. That's what she told herself before. She could brush it off, could push through it like she always had. But now, it wasn't just an insult. Now, the word was a scar, a brand burned into her skin and her memory. It was Bellatrix's laughter and the smell of blood and the metallic taste of fear on her tongue.

Hermione tugged her sleeve down over her wrist, her hand trembling. She didn't want to look at it. She didn't want to be reminded. But the scar was always there, even when she couldn't see it.

The common room was quiet when Hermione descended the stairs, the early morning light filtering through the high windows. She hoped for solitude, but to her surprise, someone was already there.

Ginny.

The redhead was perched on the edge of a sofa, her wand twirling absently in her fingers. She looked up as Hermione entered, her sharp gaze softening when she saw the expression on her friend's face.

"Hey," Ginny said gently. "I thought I'd stay here for a bit, in case you needed me. Couldn't sleep?"

Hermione shook her head, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as she sank into the chair opposite Ginny. She didn't trust herself to speak, her throat still raw from the dream.

Ginny leaned forward, her brow furrowed with concern. "Was it...?" she trailed off, but Hermione knew what she meant.

"Yes," Hermione admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "It was worse this time. Because of what she said."

Ginny's grip on her wand tightened, her jaw clenching. "I should've hexed her. I threatened her well enough, she nearly wet her knickers, but I think a hex would've done her the world of good."

"Ginny, no," Hermione said quickly, her voice trembling. "I don't want this to turn into something bigger. It's bad enough as it is."

"She had no right," Ginny said fiercely. "After everything—after what Bellatrix did to you—how dare she?"

Hermione looked away, her eyes brimming with tears. "I don't think she even understands what she said. Not really. She doesn't know about Bellatrix, she just knows it's a slur she can use to upset people like me."

Ginny snorted. "Then maybe she needs someone to spell it out for her."

"No." Hermione shook her head. "That won't fix anything. She's already... I don't know, broken in her own way."

Ginny's eyes softened, but the fire in them didn't dim completely. "You're too kind, Hermione. You always are."

Hermione offered a weak smile, though her heart still felt heavy. The scar on her arm itched, a dull throb that refused to be ignored. She rubbed at it absently, the motion automatic, but Ginny's eyes caught the movement.

"You should talk to someone about this," Ginny said quietly. "McGonagall, maybe. Or Harry."

Hermione shook her head again. "I'll be fine. I just need time."

Ginny didn't look convinced, but she didn't push the matter. Instead, she reached across the small table between them, her hand resting lightly on Hermione's.

"You're stronger than you should have ever needed to be, Hermione," Ginny said softly. "But you don't have to carry this all alone."

Hermione swallowed hard, her fingers curling around Ginny's for a moment before pulling away. She wasn't sure if she believed her, but the words were a small comfort, nonetheless.

For now, it would have to be enough.

The Great Hall was bustling with the usual morning chatter when Hermione entered with Ginny by her side. Despite the warmth of the sunlight streaming through the enchanted ceiling, a heaviness lingered over Hermione, though Ginny's presence provided some comfort.

"You really should eat something," Ginny said, nudging her toward the Gryffindor table.

"I will," Hermione said distractedly, her eyes scanning the room instinctively. She wasn't entirely sure what—or who—she was looking for until her gaze landed on the empty seat at the Slytherin table.

Ginny followed her line of sight and snorted. "Surely you aren't looking for Parkinson, are you? Don't worry, I doubt she'll show her face today."

Hermione frowned but didn't respond, instead reaching for a piece of toast. Across the table, Luna Lovegood appeared, as if summoned by Hermione's want of a distraction. Luna slid into the seat opposite Hermione and Ginny, her dreamy smile as serene as ever.

"Good morning," Luna said brightly, as if there were no such thing as a bad one. "You seem a bit put out, Hermione. Are you okay?"

Hermione hesitated, unsure how to explain. Ginny, however, had no such reservations.

"She's wondering where Parkinson's slithered off to," Ginny said, pouring herself a cup of pumpkin juice.

Luna tilted her head, her silver radish earrings swaying. "Pansy Parkinson? I imagine she's avoiding everyone today. I would, if I were her."

Hermione sighed. "It's not that—I mean, maybe it is. I don't know. She's been acting strange lately, but I thought she'd at least show up for breakfast."

"She's probably hiding under a rock," Ginny muttered, her tone dismissive. "Where she belongs."

"Ginny," Hermione said softly, her brow furrowing.

"What? You're seriously worrying about her now? After everything she's said? After what she called you?"

"It's not that I'm worried," Hermione insisted, though the words felt hollow. "It's just... unusual. She's been showing up, even when she's in a mood. But now she's just gone?"

Luna hummed thoughtfully, her gaze drifting to the enchanted ceiling. "Maybe she's embarrassed. Or maybe she's having a crisis of identity."

Ginny snorted. "Or maybe she's plotting her next line of insults. Honestly, Hermione, I don't understand why you care."

Hermione set her toast down, the bite she'd taken sitting heavy in her stomach. "I don't care. I just..." She trailed off, unable to articulate the knot of emotions swirling in her chest.

Ginny softened slightly, reaching across the table to touch Hermione's hand. "Look, if she wants to sulk in her dungeon, let her. You've got bigger things to worry about than Pansy Parkinson's feelings."

Hermione nodded, but Luna spoke again, her tone calm but pointed. "You do care a lot about people, Hermione. Even when they don't want or deserve it."

Hermione felt her cheeks warm at the compliment, though it didn't make her feel any better. "I just don't want this to spiral into something worse," she said quietly.

Ginny rolled her eyes but didn't argue further. Instead, she leaned back in her seat, her sharp gaze flicking toward the doors of the Great Hall. "Well, if she does decide to show up, I'll make sure to give her a warm welcome."

Luna's lips curved into a faint smile. "Perhaps a warm welcome is exactly what she needs to change her attitude."

Ginny snorted. "Sure, Luna. You can try being her new friend, let me know how it goes."

Hermione couldn't help but smile faintly at the exchange, though her thoughts remained heavy. As the bell rang, signalling the start of the first class, she followed Ginny and Luna out of the Great Hall, her mind still lingering on the empty seat at the Slytherin table.

By the time Hermione reached Transfiguration, she was certain something was amiss. Pansy's absence wasn't just limited to breakfast—her seat in the classroom remained conspicuously empty as well.

Professor McGonagall, always keenly observant, paused for a moment as her eyes flicked to the vacant desk. Her expression tightened, but she said nothing, choosing instead to sweep her gaze across the rest of the class. She resumed her lecture on advanced human transfiguration, her tone brisk as usual, though Hermione noticed a flicker of irritation in the professor's voice.

Hermione settled into her seat, carefully arranging her parchment and quill. The soft scratching of her quill filled the silence as she jotted down notes, but her focus was scattered. Despite her best efforts to concentrate on the intricacies of human-to-animal transfiguration, her attention kept drifting to the empty seat on the Slytherin side of the room.

Every now and then, her eyes darted toward the desk, as though expecting Pansy to saunter in late, her face painted with that familiar smirk. But the desk remained empty, its polished surface gleaming in the sunlight streaming through the high windows.

"She's probably skiving off," Ginny whispered beside her, leaning closer. Her voice was low, meant only for Hermione's ears. "Wouldn't be the first time a Slytherin's avoided their responsibilities. Who cares?"

Hermione didn't reply immediately, her grip tightening on her quill.

"Honestly," Ginny continued, "if she doesn't want to show up, that's her problem. She'll fall behind and have no one to blame but herself."

"She's not like that," Hermione said softly, almost without thinking.

Ginny blinked, raising an eyebrow. "Really? And how would you know? All Pansy Parkinson lives for is to make people's lives miserable, including yours. In fact, especially yours."

Hermione's quill hovered over the parchment, her stomach twisting. "She's been... different, lately."

Ginny snorted, her skepticism evident. "Different how? Because from where I'm sitting, she's the same vindictive cow she's always been. Or did you forget about yesterday?"

Hermione flinched at the reminder, the memory of Pansy's harsh words cutting through her like a blade. "I haven't forgotten," she murmured. "I just... I don't think she's as awful as she wants everyone to believe."

Ginny rolled her eyes, leaning back in her chair. "You're too forgiving, Hermione. Always trying to see the best in people, even when they don't deserve it, and Pansy Parkinson does not deserve it."

Hermione didn't respond, her gaze drifting back to the empty desk. She couldn't explain the unease settling over her, but it lingered like a shadow.

The rest of the lesson passed in a blur. Hermione dutifully took notes, but the words barely registered. Her mind kept circling back to Pansy—her absence, her strange behaviour over the past few weeks, the argument that still lingered like a bitter taste in Hermione's mouth.

When the bell finally rang, Hermione gathered her things with mechanical precision. Ginny was already chatting animatedly with Dean Thomas as they left the classroom, but Hermione lingered, her gaze once again drawn to the empty desk.

Professor McGonagall, who was tidying her own desk at the front of the room, glanced up. Her sharp eyes caught Hermione's hesitation.

"Miss Granger," McGonagall said, her voice brisk but not unkind. "Is something the matter?"

Hermione hesitated, her books clutched to her chest. "No, Professor. I was just... thinking."

McGonagall's eyes narrowed slightly, as though she were weighing Hermione's words. "If this is about Miss Parkinson's absence, I assure you, it will be addressed."

Hermione's cheeks flushed. "It's not that. I mean... maybe it is. I'm just... worried."

McGonagall's expression softened, though her tone remained firm. "Miss Granger, your compassion is admirable, but I suggest you focus on your own studies. Miss Parkinson's poor choices are her own. I would also remind you that you can make a complaint to any of the staff should you have issues with another student. If half of the rumours that have reached my office are true I would be outraged."

"Yes, Professor," Hermione said quietly, though the knot in her chest remained. "Pansy and I have our issues, but I'd like to try and resolve things ourselves first." Professor McGonagall's eyes narrowed as she studied Hermione for a moment, before nodding and returning to her work.

As she left the classroom, her thoughts continued to churn. She couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. Pansy Parkinson might have been many things—insufferable, sharp-tongued, infuriating—but she wasn't a complete coward. Skipping class without reason wasn't like her.

Hermione bit her lip as she made her way down the corridor, her mind racing with possibilities. Where was Pansy? And why did it bother her so much?

After classes ended for the day, Hermione found herself back in the 8th Year Common Room, settling into an armchair near the fire. Ginny had gone off to the Quidditch pitch for practice, and Luna had disappeared into one of her curious wanderings, leaving Hermione alone with her thoughts.

The absence of Pansy weighed heavier than she wanted to admit. It wasn't concern—not exactly. But something about the situation felt unfinished, like a thread left dangling from a tapestry. She hadn't seen the girl since their argument; Pansy hadn't even slept in her own bed.

She opened her Transfiguration textbook, trying to force herself to focus on the words. But as the fire crackled softly beside her, her mind drifted again. Where was Pansy? And why couldn't she stop thinking about her?

She snapped her book shut in frustration. This was no use at all. She thundered up the stairs to her dorm and threw her textbook onto her desk. All of Pansy's things were still scattered haphazardly across her side of the room, so she would at least need to come back eventually for a change of clothes or to grab one of those god-awful magazines she read every night.

Hermione's fingers tapped restlessly against the edge of her desk, the faint sound punctuating the silence of the dorm. Her gaze flickered back to Pansy's side of the room, to the haphazard mess that felt so incongruous with the sharp-tongued girl she knew. Ginny's words from earlier lingered in her mind: She nearly wet her knickers.

Could Pansy really be that shaken? Hermione frowned. It didn't add up. Pansy had always thrived on attention, relishing in her role as Slytherin's resident instigator. She'd certainly never shied away from conflict with Hermione before. Why disappear now?

Hermione stood abruptly, the legs of her chair scraping against the floor. She crossed the room to Pansy's desk, her hand hesitating above the open Witch Weekly. It felt wrong to snoop, but curiosity gnawed at her. With a soft sigh, she flipped the magazine shut, revealing a battered quill and an empty inkwell beneath it. A crumpled piece of parchment peeked out from under the pile.

She didn't touch it. Whatever Pansy was dealing with, it wasn't Hermione's place to dig through her belongings. Still, the sight of the disarrayed desk only deepened the knot of unease in her chest.

"She's not like this," Hermione muttered aloud, though the statement sounded absurd even to her own ears. Wasn't this exactly what Pansy was like? Chaotic. Sharp. Contradictory. Yet, there had been something in her expression during their argument—a flicker of vulnerability beneath the fury. Hermione had seen it, even if Pansy would never admit it. That brief moment of raw emotion had stuck with her, as if it had carved out a space in her thoughts and refused to leave.

Hermione paced to the window, gazing out over the chilly, autumnal grounds. The evening light was fading, and the castle glowed softly against the darkening sky. Somewhere out there, Pansy was hiding—or worse, stewing in whatever storm had been brewing inside her since the beginning of term.

The sound of the door creaking open was so faint that Hermione almost didn't hear it. She was seated cross-legged on her bed, a Transfiguration textbook open in front of her, though she hadn't read a word in over an hour. Her head snapped up at the sound, her heart skipping a beat.

The light in the dorm was dim, the evening shadows long against the walls, and for a moment, she thought she'd imagined it. But then she saw the figure slipping inside, moving with deliberate quietness, as if trying not to be noticed.

Pansy.

Hermione froze, her breath caught in her throat. Pansy's hair was slightly mussed, her robes crumpled as if she'd been sleeping in them. Her movements were cautious, her shoulders hunched as though she expected someone to leap out at her. She didn't see Hermione at first, her focus entirely on her bed.

Pansy reached for her bag, which was slumped against the side of her desk, and began rummaging through it. The tension in her body was palpable, her movements jerky and uncoordinated.

"Pansy."

The word was quiet but firm, and Pansy froze mid-motion, her head snapping up to meet Hermione's gaze. Her eyes widened and her mouth gaped, her expression horror-struck, like a deer in the headlights of a speeding car. Her eyes darted frantically towards the door, as if planning to run.

"You look bloody awful." Hermione followed up. Pansy's eyes returned to Hermione and her whole body slackened, her defences finally defeated.

"I haven't slept since…" Pansy shifted uncomfortably. "I'm truly sorry I used that word."

"Why? It's never bothered you before."

"That was before…" Pansy stared at the floor, unable to meet Hermione's gaze. There was something bothering her, but she was ashamed to admit it, Hermione could tell. "It's carved into your arm, that word. You keep it hidden at all times, except when you sleep. I came back late one night, your arm was hanging off the bed, at first… I thought it was a tattoo, so I decided to have a closer look. I thought it might be good gossip, Gryffindors prim and proper princess with a secret tattoo."

Hermione instinctively scratched the sleeve on her left arm, taking a deep breath as she processed the information. Pansy Parkinson knew.

"I suppose you find it funny." Pansy shook her head rapidly, tears forming in the corners of her eyes. "No? So why use it, knowing what you know? Why, every time I think we're about to turn a corner, do you turn round and hurl another insult at me?"

"Because I wanted to hurt you!" Pansy shouted, tears rolling freely down her cheeks, "and I knew that it would."

"Why Pansy?"

"Is it not obvious Granger? I hate you!"

The silence that followed Pansy's outburst was deafening. The words hung in the air, sharp and jagged, slicing through whatever fragile truce they might have had. Hermione sat frozen on her bed, her breath caught in her throat as she stared at the girl standing in the middle of their dormitory, tears streaking her face.

Pansy wiped at her eyes furiously, as if trying to erase the evidence of her vulnerability. Her shoulders heaved with the effort of containing herself, but her eyes blazed with a raw, unfiltered emotion that Hermione couldn't quite place.

"You hate me?" Hermione finally said, her voice quieter than she intended. "That's why you keep doing this? Hurling petty insults, storming off after every conversation, disappearing for days? Because you just hate me? Plain and simple as that?"

"Yes!" Pansy snapped, but the word rang hollow, her voice breaking at the end. She turned away, pacing the room with restless energy, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. "I hate the way you're so bloody perfect all the time! I hate the way you always know the right thing to say to people, the right thing to do. I hate the way you walk into a room, and everyone looks at you like you're some kind of saint."

"That just sounds like plain old bitterness and jealousy Pansy. I'm a bit disappointed to be honest."

"Oh, piss off! Spare me another condescending lecture on morality."

"Fine!" Hermione snapped back, rising from her bed. She wouldn't just let Pansy walk all over her. "Anything else you'd like to get off your chest while you're in the moment?"

"Plenty!" Pansy snarled, stalking back and forth between their two beds. "I hate your infuriating neatness! Your perfectly made bed!" As she said it, she grabbed the covers off of Hermione's bed and threw them in a heap on the floor. "I hate your stupidly organised desk with all your books lined up by subject, and your quills all stored in their little jar!" The jar in question was then launched at the back wall and smashed into tiny fragments, whilst the books were strewn haphazardly across the room. "I hate the fact that everything has to be proper!"

Hermione stood stunned, her jaw tightening as she watched the chaos unfold. Her pulse quickened as Pansy's tirade continued, the room transforming into a battleground littered with fragments of Hermione's carefully constructed world.

"You're acting like a child!" Hermione snapped, stepping forward as Pansy reached for her vanity. "Throwing a tantrum because—because what? Because you can't deal with the fact that someone else actually has their life together?"

"Together?" Pansy whirled around, her eyes wild. "You think you have it together, don't you? All your little plans, your perfect marks, your golden trio! But you're not perfect, Granger! You're insufferable! You think you're better than everyone else!"

"I don't think I'm better than anyone!" Hermione shouted back, her fists clenched at her sides. "And you're right, I'm not perfect, but at least I'm not tearing apart someone else's things because I can't handle my own problems!"

Pansy let out a bitter laugh, her voice dripping with venom. "You want to talk about problems? Fine. Let's talk about how you can't stop meddling in everyone else's lives. You sent Potter to talk to me, didn't you? Thought you could fix me, didn't you? That's what you do, isn't it? You fix things. You fix people. Because you can't stand the idea that not everyone wants to be like you."

Hermione felt the words hit like a slap, but she refused to back down. "I didn't send Harry. He went on his own because he thought you needed someone to talk to. Because despite everything, he believes people can change. But clearly, you're determined to prove him wrong!"

"Oh, don't act so noble!" Pansy spat. "You knew exactly what you were doing. You're always so bloody self-righteous, thinking you can save everyone. Newsflash, Granger—you can't save me!"

"Maybe I don't want to!" Hermione fired back, her voice trembling with fury. "Maybe I'm done trying to help someone who's so hell-bent on pushing everyone away!"

"Good!" Pansy shouted. "Because I hate you, Granger! I hate your smugness, your judgment, your... your stupid braid you put in your hair every night before you go to sleep!"

Hermione blinked, momentarily thrown. "My hair?" She said reaching absentmindedly for the place she normally started off her braid.

"Yes, your hair!" Pansy barked, though the fire in her eyes flickered. "And your stupid laugh when Weasley tells you a joke at dinner. And the way you chew on your quill when you're thinking. And the way you always have to have the last word! And how you smell like cinnamon! And how you go all doe-eyed whenever someone mentions the library!"

For a fleeting moment, Hermione had the strangest urge to sniff herself. Cinnamon? She felt heat rising in her cheeks and let out a short giggle.

"Don't you dare laugh at me Hermione Granger!"

Hermione clamped her mouth shut, but the giggle had already escaped, and the sight of Pansy Parkinson standing amidst the chaos of their dormitory, her face flushed with fury and her fists clenched like a petulant child, was almost too much.

"Cinnamon?" Hermione repeated aloud, her voice trembling with barely suppressed laughter. "You're ranting about how much you hate me, destroying my things, and you're really bothered by... cinnamon?"

"Yes I am!" Pansy snapped, her rage spiralling once more. She had drawn her wand now, and for the first time Hermione felt a twinge of panic. Her own wand was somewhere in the duvet Pansy had thrown across the floor. "I hate it! I hate you!"

"Then do something about it! Hermione replied defiantly. "Now is the best opportunity you'll ever get. I'm alone, wandless, vulnerable. Go on Parkinson, do something!"

It felt as though the air had left the room, the crackling fire providing the only sound, its flames casting dancing shadows on the walls. Pansy's wand clattered to the floor. The sound seemed distant, almost unimportant, as Hermione stared at her in confusion.

Then, in one swift motion, Pansy closed the space between them, her hands gripping Hermione's arms tightly. Before Hermione could protest or pull away, Pansy leaned in, and their lips collided.

The kiss was anything but gentle. It was raw, frantic, and charged with an emotion Hermione couldn't immediately name. Pansy's lips were surprisingly soft but insistent, moving against Hermione's with a desperation that seemed to demand something—what exactly, Hermione wasn't sure. She was too stunned to react at first, her mind reeling, every thought short-circuiting as the reality of what was happening sank in.

Pansy tasted faintly of mint, and beneath that, something sharper, like the tang of citrus. Her hands, trembling slightly, slid from Hermione's arms to her waist, pulling her closer. The heat of her touch burned through the fabric of Hermione's jumper, sending a shiver up her spine. It was overwhelming—her senses flooded with Pansy's scent, her closeness, the way her fingers dug into her sides as though she might slip away at any moment.

Hermione's hands hovered in the air, unsure of where to go, what to do. But as Pansy's fingers tangled in her hair, tugging gently, something inside Hermione shifted. The intensity of the kiss pulled her under like a rip current, and before she could stop herself, she was kissing her back.

It wasn't conscious, this response—just an instinct, an urge to ground herself in the moment. Her hands found their way to Pansy's shoulders, then her back, pulling her closer even as her mind pleaded and screamed at her to stop. Pansy's lips parted slightly against hers, and Hermione's breath caught at the sensation. The kiss deepened, slower now but no less intense, as if both of them were testing the edges of something they didn't fully understand.

Pansy's hands wandered, sliding up Hermione's back, her touch both hesitant and possessive. When one hand found its way to Hermione's hair again, gripping it lightly, Hermione let out a soft gasp. The sound seemed to snap Pansy back to reality.

She broke away abruptly, her chest heaving as she stared at Hermione, her wide eyes filled with terror. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound was their ragged breathing and the faint crackle of the fire.

Hermione lifted a hand to her lips, which still tingled from the kiss. Her heart was racing, her mind a whirlwind of confusion and unspoken questions.

"I—I didn't mean—" Pansy stammered, stepping back, her hands flying up to her face as if she could erase what had just happened. "I didn't—this wasn't— No! No, no, no!"

"Pan —" but before Hermione could even finish saying her name Pansy Parkinson had bolted from the room, leaving her wand behind. Hermione's mind was reeling, her heart hammering in her chest. What the hell just happened? What the bloody hell just happened? Her hands began to tremble, and her breathing quickened as she paced back and forth through the wreckage of the room. Before she could process it any further the door flew open with an almighty bang.

"HERMIONE!" Ginny shouted at the top of her lungs, "Oh thank goodness. Are you alright? Are you hurt?"

The sound of Ginny's voice made Hermione jump, her hand flying to her chest as if to steady her pounding heart. She turned to see her friend standing in the doorway, her wand drawn and her eyes blazing with panic and fury.

"Ginny?" Hermione managed, her voice trembling.

Ginny stormed into the room, her gaze sweeping over the wreckage—the scattered books, the broken quill jar, the bedclothes strewn across the floor. Her expression darkened as she spotted the state of the room.

"What happened here?" she demanded, her voice sharp with concern. "I was worried when you didn't come down for dinner, and when I came up here to find you Parkinson practically flattened me on her way out the door. She looked terrified, she was sprinting flat out. I thought she might have done something to you, and well…" Ginny gestured around the room. "Oh, I'm going to get her! I'm going to enjoy it too!"

"No!" Hermione said, suddenly coming back to the present and grabbing her friend by the arm, "Ginny no!"

"No," Ginny replied trying to wrench herself free, "I told you I wouldn't let her get away with it again!"

"It's not — it's a lot more complicated than it seems. Ginny please!"

"Look at the state of the place! It's not complicated!"

"Ginny she's scared! It's — how she must be feeling — especially because it's me — and I mean, she shouldn't have destroyed my stuff, but —"

"Hermione you sound like a proper nutter," Ginny said with a mixture of anger and pity, she grabbed Hermione by the shoulders and shook her gently, "deep breath, and explain."

"What you've been saying about her all term, you were right."

"What? That Parkinson wants to do you in?" Ginny rolled her eyes, "Duh! Can you not see the state of your bedroom?"

"No, its… the other thing…"

"Other —" Ginny's initial confusion disappeared, and she clasped a hand over her mouth, her eyes as wide as dinnerplates. She gazed around the room again as if trying to find the words, "All of this drama and wreckage, all of it, is because Pansy Parkinson… Pansy Parkinson mind you, wants to — well — to do you." Hermione bit her lip, her cheeks burning. She didn't respond to Ginny, but that seemed to be a response in itself. "Just so I'm sure I'm getting this right… you're telling me that Pansy bloody Parkinson—Miss 'I hate everything about Hermione Granger and everything she stands for'—has a thing for you? And this," she gestured wildly at the room, "is her way of showing it?"

"She kissed me," Hermione let slip, her voice barely audible. Ginny's eyes widened again, her face twisting between amusement and horror.

"Pansy Parkinson kissed you?" Ginny's voice cracked with disbelief as she tried—unsuccessfully—to suppress a laugh. "Wait—before or after she destroyed your room? Because I know some girls like it rough, but bloody hell!"

"Ginny!" Hermione snapped, her cheeks burning. "This isn't funny."

Ginny pressed a hand to her mouth, though her shoulders still shook with suppressed giggles. "It's a little funny, Hermione. I mean—Merlin, Parkinson of all people?"

Hermione ran a hand through her hair, pacing across the mess of her room. "It's not funny! She kissed me, then panicked and bolted. And now I'm left to deal with—" She gestured vaguely at the wreckage around her. "—this."

Ginny's laughter finally faded, her brows knitting together as she studied Hermione more closely. "Wait, hold on a second." Her voice took on a sharper edge. "What do you mean, you're 'left to deal with it'? How did you react?"

Hermione hesitated, her fingers tightening around the edge of her sleeve. "I… I don't know."

"You don't know?" Ginny repeated, incredulous. "Hermione, my brother is your boyfriend—or something like it. You do know that, right?"

"I know!" Hermione said quickly, guilt twisting in her chest. "I know, Ginny, and that's what makes this so—so confusing."

Ginny's arms folded across her chest, her gaze narrowing. "Confusing? Hermione, this is Parkinson we're talking about! You've spent the better part of seven years hating her guts. What's so confusing about shutting her down and setting her straight?"

Hermione winced at the harshness of Ginny's words, though she knew they weren't entirely wrong. "It's not that simple," she admitted quietly. "I didn't expect it, and I didn't… I didn't exactly react."

Ginny blinked. "Didn't react? As in, you didn't hex her into next week?"

Hermione shook her head, her face hot with shame. "No. I just… froze."

Ginny stared at her for a long moment, processing this. When she spoke again, her tone was softer but edged with warning. "Hermione… what's going on here? And don't tell me nothing, because clearly something is. Did you—" She paused, hesitating. "Did you like it?"

Hermione's heart stuttered in her chest. "No— I don't know," she admitted, her voice barely a whisper. "Everything happened so fast, and then she was gone. I haven't even had time to think. It's all a bit much to take in at the moment."

Ginny exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over her face. "Well, you better think about it, Hermione. Because Ron's out there working his arse off for this relationship to work, and you owe it to him to be honest. If you're confused, you need to sort it out. But you can't just—" She gestured helplessly toward the room. "—sit here in a wrecked dormitory, torn up over a girl who's been tormenting you since first year."

Hermione sank onto the edge of her bed, the weight of Ginny's words settling heavily in her chest. "I don't want to hurt Ron," she said softly. "I care about him. I really do. I love him, you know that, right?"

Ginny's expression softened, but her tone remained firm. "Then figure out what you want. If it's Ron, then you need to focus on him and put Parkinson behind you. But if it's… not—" She broke off, as if she couldn't even fathom the thought. "—then you need to be honest with yourself and with him. No one deserves to be strung along, Hermione."

Hermione looked down at her hands, her fingers trembling slightly. She hated this—hated how messy everything had become. She'd always prided herself on knowing what was right, on being the sensible one. But now everything felt tangled and uncertain.

"And Parkinson?" Hermione asked quietly. "What do I do about her?"

Ginny scoffed, though her voice held less venom than before. "Parkinson's a bloody mess. Let her stew for a bit; maybe it'll knock some sense into her. If she's got feelings for you, she needs to figure herself out and learn to act like a normal person before dragging you into any more nonsense."

Hermione nodded numbly, though her mind was far from settled. Ginny's words echoed in her head—figure out what you want.

But how was she supposed to do that when everything she thought she knew about herself, about Pansy, about everything, had just been turned on its head?

"This is mental," Hermione sighed, falling backwards onto her bed, "Why couldn't I have just shared a dorm with you?"

"It's bold of you to assume that I'm not madly in love with you too," Ginny smirked wickedly. Hermione scowled, which only spurred the redhead on further. "Come here and give me a big kiss!" Ginny jumped on top of Hermione, showering her cheeks with loud, obnoxious kisses as Hermione squirmed beneath her trying desperately to get away.

"Get off!" Hermione groaned, finally pushing the stronger girl off of her, "Help me find my wand so I can clear this mess." Ginny laughed, and bent down, picking up a handsome willow wand from the floor and passing it to Hermione. It felt warm to the touch, and Hermione wondered if it would perform magic for her as well as it would for Pansy. "This is Parkinsons, she dropped it before… you know…"

"Blimey," Ginny rolled her eyes, "are you sure all you did was kiss?"

"Very sure." Replied Hermione flatly, deciding to try and use Pansy's wand to straighten out the room a bit. Her books arranged themselves neatly back onto her desk, and her duvet flopped onto her bed. She found her wand as she made her bed, it appeared, falling out of one of the folds of her blankets. "Got it!" Hermione said triumphantly and had the room back to normal with a couple of swishes of the vine and dragon heartstring instrument she had used since she was eleven. It was she thought smugly, a much better wand than Pansy's.

"Well, at least the room's taken care of," Ginny sighed, hands on her hips. "I suppose one of us should give Parkinson her wand back. I know you've told people not to hex her, but all the same, it's no good her running around the castle without it."

"Where would we even find her?" Hermione muttered, though her voice betrayed a flicker of reluctance.

"Oh, that shouldn't be too hard." Ginny's tone was smug as she reached into her bag and pulled out a very familiar piece of parchment.

The Marauder's Map.

"I solemnly swear that I am up to no good," Ginny said, tapping her wand to the parchment. As ink spread like veins across the page, Hermione felt an unmistakable pang of jealousy. Of course, Harry had trusted Ginny with the map. Girlfriend privileges, Hermione supposed, though she couldn't help but wonder what she would do with it right now.

Ginny's finger traced the lines of the map, hunting. "Where are you, you slippery little—aha! There." She jabbed her finger at the Astronomy Tower, where the name Pansy Parkinson appeared in neat, black script. "She didn't go far at all."

Hermione exhaled shakily, her brows furrowing. "Right… Well—"

"I'll go," Ginny interrupted firmly, plucking Pansy's wand from Hermione's desk. Her tone brooked no argument.

"Ginny—"

"No," Ginny cut her off, holding up a hand. "Don't protest. I promise I won't even threaten her this time."

Hermione gave her a sceptical look. "You? Not threaten her? You said that last time and look how it ended up."

Ginny grinned wickedly. "I said I wouldn't hex her last time. That's different." She sobered quickly, stepping toward the door with purpose. "You, however, are going to go down to the kitchens, apologise to the elves for missing dinner, and ask if you can have a plate of leftovers. You need to eat, Hermione, because you look terrible."

Hermione crossed her arms, her indignation flaring. "I'm not giving the house-elves extra work, Ginny! They already do too much—"

"They like it," Ginny groaned, rolling her eyes skyward. "And I'm not arguing about this with you. I'm telling you what you're going to do." She stepped into the doorway, already half-turned toward the hall. "Now go. Find some food. I'll handle Parkinson."

"Handle her how, exactly?" Hermione called after her, but Ginny was already gone, leaving the door swinging shut behind her.

Hermione let out a long, weary sigh, her gaze drifting back to the room. Pansy's absence still felt like a storm cloud hovering in her mind, dark and heavy. And now Ginny had gone after her.

This can't end well, she thought miserably, dragging herself upright and reaching for her cloak.