Chapter 9

Hermione stirred, blinking against the soft morning light streaming through the dormitory window. For a moment, she felt a strange warmth pressed against her side, a solid weight that didn't quite make sense. She turned her head slowly and froze.

Pansy Parkinson.

Fast asleep, her dark hair spilling messily across Hermione's pillow, her face oddly peaceful in a way Hermione had never seen before. It took Hermione a moment to piece together the events of the night before—the emotional revelations, the comfort they'd shared, and the questions about rollercoasters?

Merlin help her, Pansy was in her bed.

Hermione's heart kicked into overdrive, and she gently shifted, trying not to wake the other girl. But as she moved, Pansy stirred, her eyelids fluttering before they snapped open. Their gazes locked, and for a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, as if the awkwardness of the situation weren't already overwhelming, Pansy's eyes darted around, taking in her surroundings. "Oh, bloody hell," she muttered, sitting up quickly and smoothing her hair. "Well, this is mortifying."

Hermione sat up too, clutching the edge of her blanket as if it might shield her from the sheer awkwardness of the moment. "You're telling me," she muttered, her cheeks burning. "What are you even doing here? I thought you went back to your own bed."

Pansy raised an eyebrow, a flicker of her usual haughty demeanour returning. "Clearly, I didn't," she said, crossing her arms. Pansy's eyes narrowed as she caught Hermione's expression. "Oh, don't look at me like that. It's not as if I planned this. You're the one who wouldn't stop prattling on about Muggle trains or whatever. You were exhausting."

Hermione blinked. "Rollercoasters," she corrected automatically, her embarrassment quickly giving way to irritation. "And for the record, you were the one who kept asking questions about them."

"Oh, well, excuse me for trying to understand your bizarre Muggle nonsense," Pansy shot back, though there was a faint flush creeping up her neck. "Next time I'll be sure to keep my ignorance to myself."

Hermione bit back a laugh, deciding to let the jab slide. She stretched, the morning light catching her hair as she glanced over at Pansy. "You know," she said lightly, "for someone who's always so keen to criticize me, you seem awfully comfortable here."

Pansy's glare sharpened, but her cheeks darkened further. "Don't push your luck, Granger."

The tension between them was palpable but different—less volatile, more uncertain. Hermione couldn't decide if the lingering awkwardness was a good thing or a disaster waiting to happen.

"Well," Hermione said, breaking the silence. "If you're done trying to reclaim your dignity, perhaps we could try being civil today? We've already crossed several awkward bridges." Pansy groaned in response. Hermione glanced at Pansy, who was still sprawled across her bed like she owned it, one arm flung over her face as though the weight of her existence was too much to bear.

"You do realize you're in my bed, right?" Hermione said, crossing her arms.

Pansy let out an exaggerated sigh and peeked at her through half-lidded eyes. "Yes, thank you for the reminder, Granger. I'm acutely aware of the circumstances."

"Well, if it's so mortifying, maybe you should leave," Hermione suggested, trying to sound stern but failing to hide the twitch at the corner of her lips.

"Leave? After the emotional rollercoaster you dragged me on last night?" Pansy snorted, sitting up and running a hand through her tangled hair. "I might need a Healer just to recover."

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "I seem to recall you being the one to start smashing up my room and launching into dramatic speeches about cinnamon and braids."

Pansy groaned, flopping back onto the bed. "Merlin's sake, are you ever going to let that go?"

"Not a chance," Hermione said with a smirk, finally relaxing a little. She picked up a pillow and threw it lightly at Pansy's head. "Now get up. We're going to be late for breakfast."

Pansy caught the pillow with a scowl, but the corners of her mouth betrayed the faintest hint of a smile. "You're awfully bossy for someone who begged me to come back to the dorm last night."

"I did not beg!" Hermione sputtered, her cheeks flushing. "You were in a state, and I was being compassionate."

Pansy sat up properly this time, her smirk fully formed. "Compassionate, huh? Is that what you call cuddling me all night?"

Hermione's mouth fell open, her face burning. "We did not cuddle!"

"Fine," Pansy said with a shrug, standing and stretching. "You held me, I held you—it's all semantics, really."

Hermione gave her an incredulous look. "Semantics? You're impossible."

"Thank you," Pansy replied, smirking as she made a dramatic show of smoothing out her hair. "I try."

Hermione sighed and grabbed her dressing gown from the back of her chair, wrapping it tightly around herself. With a flick of her wand, she levitated Pansy's crumpled robes from the floor and sent them sailing directly into the Slytherin girl's arms.

"Get dressed," Hermione said firmly. "I'm not letting you use my bed as a retreat every time you're overwhelmed."

Pansy caught the robes effortlessly, her smirk deepening as she examined them. "We'll see," she said airily, clearly enjoying how flustered Hermione had become.

Hermione turned her attention to tidying the rest of the room. Pansy's bed sat neatly across the room, untouched since the night before, its perfectly smooth duvet starkly contrasting the mess of clothes she'd left strewn across her desk chair. Hermione couldn't help but glance at it, a further twinge of exasperation bubbling to the surface.

"Your bed's right there, you know," she said, nodding toward it. "Not even five feet away. You could've just gone there."

Pansy shrugged as she began pulling on her robes. "What can I say? Your bed's more comfortable. Plus, it smells like cinnamon."

Hermione froze mid-motion, her cheeks flushing a deep pink. "Shut up Parkinson."

Pansy laughed softly, pulling her robe into place, and sitting down on her own bed. "Oh, relax, Granger. If it makes you feel better, I won't make a habit of it... unless, of course, you find it comforting. Then, who am I to deny you?"

Hermione's eyes narrowed, and she pointed her wand at Pansy, though there was no real menace in her gesture. "Don't push your luck."

Pansy raised her hands in mock surrender, her smirk never faltering. "I'd never dream of it."

Hermione turned back to her desk, muttering as she adjusted the books she'd stacked there. I will not tell Ginny about this. I will not tell anyone about this, she repeated to herself. What the hell is happening to me in this cursed dorm?

Hermione hurriedly gathered her things, her mind racing as she tried to suppress the growing unease bubbling within her. Sharing a dorm with Pansy Parkinson had proven to be more challenging—and confusing—than she'd ever anticipated. She could still feel the heat of Pansy's smirk lingering in the air, a reminder of the unexpected vulnerability they'd shared the night before.

"I'll see you downstairs," Hermione muttered, more to herself than to Pansy, as she slung her bag over her shoulder and made for the door. She didn't wait for a reply, though she could practically feel Pansy's amused gaze following her.

As soon as she stepped into the hallway, Hermione let out a deep breath she hadn't realized she was holding. What the hell is happening to me in this cursed dorm? she thought again, the question gnawing at her as she made her way down the staircase.

Ginny and Luna were waiting in their usual spot when Hermione reached the Great Hall to cram in a bite of toast before Care of Magical Creatures. "How'd it go with the wicked witch?" Ginny asked as Hermione took her seat.

"Fine," Hermione replied, hoping her tone wasn't betraying her, "We talked through some stuff, set some boundaries."

"Well, I hope it worked," Ginny said, "We've got the Thunderbird again this morning."

Hermione froze mid-bite, her toast hovering inches from her mouth. "The Thunderbird?" she echoed, her voice tinged with dread. Memories of the chaotic Care of Magical Creatures lesson flashed through her mind—Pansy's sharp tongue, the panicked creature, the near catastrophe.

"Yes, the Thunderbird," Ginny replied, her tone making it clear she wasn't thrilled either. She grabbed an apple from the table, her expression dark. "Hagrid said something about a follow-up lesson to teach us how to handle him properly. You know, after last time."

Hermione sighed, her appetite fading. She could already imagine the disaster waiting to unfold. Pansy's snarky comments, combined with a highly reactive creature, was a recipe for trouble. She glanced at Luna, who was serenely buttering a scone as though the impending chaos didn't concern her in the slightest.

"Thunderbirds are fascinating creatures," Luna said dreamily, as though she'd read Hermione's thoughts. "But I'm not sure I want to get caught in a storm again."

"Maybe we'll get lucky, and Parkinson will skive off class again. Or we could all wait in Hagrid's hut while Elvis does his thing and fries her with a bolt of lightning."

"Ginny!" Hermione hissed.

"Oh, come on Hermione! If you'd just let me hex her one time…"

"We've been over this," Hermione groaned, "It's not worth you getting into bother with Professor McGonagall over some schoolyard arguments." Ginny bit her lip, clearly keen to say more, but thankfully keeping Hermione's secrets. Wait till she finds out you slept with each other, Hermione thought, feeling heat rush to her cheeks. Ginny will not be finding that out, Hermione firmly told the voice in her head, and we did not sleep with each other, we just slept… together.

Hermione pressed her fingers to her temples, willing her thoughts to settle. She could already feel the storm brewing—not from the Thunderbird but from the tension crackling in the air between her and Ginny. Thankfully, Luna, with her uncanny ability to diffuse conversations with her peculiar insights, spoke up.

"Thunderbirds rarely target individuals unless provoked," she said, her voice as calm as ever. "Though Pansy does have a talent for provocation."

Hermione shot Luna a look that was somewhere between exasperated and grateful. "We're not provoking anyone today, alright? Let's just get through this lesson in one piece."

Ginny shrugged, taking a bite of her apple. "I'll behave," she said, though her tone made it clear she wasn't promising much. "But if Parkinson starts something, don't expect me to play nice."

Hermione groaned, pushing herself to her feet. "Let's just go before Hagrid comes looking for us."

As they made their way to the paddock, Hermione found herself falling into step beside Luna, whose serene demeanour was a balm to her frazzled nerves. Ginny walked a few paces ahead, her wand twirling absently in her fingers. The sight made Hermione uneasy, but she kept her concerns to herself.

When they arrived, the Thunderbird was already out, its enormous wings half-spread as it watched the gathering students with a keen, almost regal gaze. Pansy was there, standing a little apart from the others, her arms folded tightly across her chest. She didn't look at anyone, but Hermione could feel the weight of her presence, a gravity she couldn't quite explain.

Ginny followed Hermione's gaze and let out a quiet snort. "Speak of the devil."

"Don't," Hermione warned, her voice low. "Just leave her be."

Ginny arched an eyebrow but said nothing, though her eyes lingered on Pansy for a moment longer before she turned her attention to Hagrid, who was calling the class to order.

"Right, everyone!" Hagrid bellowed, beaming at them as if their last Thunderbird lesson hadn't nearly ended in catastrophe. "Today, we're gonna practice approachin' Elvis here safely. Remember, Thunderbirds are sensitive creatures. Keep calm, move slow, and show respect, yeah? Let's come up in groups of two or three, and don't be pulling out any of his feathers!."

Ginny muttered something under her breath, and Hermione shot her a sharp look. "I mean it," she whispered. "No funny business."

"Relax, Hermione," Ginny said, flashing her an innocent smile. "I wouldn't dream of it."

But as the lesson began, Hermione couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that Ginny wasn't the only one she needed to keep an eye on. Pansy had taken a step closer to the paddock, her expression unreadable as she watched Elvis. Hermione's stomach tightened. Whatever happened next, she had a sinking feeling it wasn't going to be smooth sailing.

The students formed hesitant groups, each eyeing Elvis warily as the Thunderbird ruffled its feathers and gave a low, rumbling call that seemed to shake the ground beneath them. Hagrid stood at the edge of the paddock, gesturing for the first group to step forward.

Hermione clutched her wand tightly, her eyes darting between Ginny and Pansy. Ginny had grouped herself with Luna and Dean, her posture relaxed but her eyes sharp. Pansy, on the other hand, had been paired—more by circumstance than choice—with a pair of nervous-looking Hufflepuffs.

"Right, you three," Hagrid called, waving them forward. "Just like I showed ya! Nice an' slow."

Hermione watched as Pansy approached Elvis, her movements cautious but confident. She couldn't help but notice the faint tension in Pansy's shoulders, the way her hand hovered near her wand despite Hagrid's insistence that spells weren't necessary. The Thunderbird eyed them with a sharp, almost calculating gaze, its talons digging into the earth as it shifted its weight.

"Keep yer hands visible, now," Hagrid called. "He don't like sudden movements!"

The Hufflepuffs nodded vigorously, their hands trembling slightly as they followed Pansy's lead. Pansy, to her credit, managed to maintain a calm facade, though Hermione could see the faintest flicker of unease in her eyes.

"Elvis is just curious," Hagrid said, his voice booming with encouragement. "Go on, let him get a good look at ya."

As the group stepped closer, Elvis extended his neck, his beak glinting in the sunlight as he sniffed the air around them. One of the Hufflepuffs let out a small squeak, and Elvis's feathers rippled in response, the air around him crackling faintly.

"Easy, now," Hagrid said quickly, stepping closer. "He's jus' tryin' to figure ya out."

Pansy shot a sharp look at her trembling companions. "Would you stop shaking? You're going to set him off."

Hermione sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. Of course, Pansy's idea of reassurance was thinly veiled criticism. But before she could intervene, Ginny's voice cut through the air.

"Careful, Parkinson," Ginny called, her tone laced with sarcasm. "Wouldn't want you to end up singed. Though, come to think of it, a lightning bolt might do wonders for your personality."

Pansy stiffened, her jaw tightening as she turned her head slightly toward Ginny. "Why don't you come and try it, Weasley? Or has the big Gryffindor hero lost her nerve?"

"Enough!" Hermione hissed, stepping forward before the exchange could escalate. "Both of you, stop it."

But the tension had already unsettled Elvis. The Thunderbird let out a sharp cry, its feathers sparking with electricity, wind rapidly picking up as he spread his wings. The Hufflepuffs stumbled back, their fear palpable, and Pansy's wand was in her hand in an instant.

"Pansy, don't!" Hermione shouted, her voice cutting through the chaos.

For a moment, Pansy hesitated, her wand raised as she stared at the magnificent creature before her. Then, slowly, she lowered it, her expression hardening as she took a deliberate step back.

Hagrid quickly intervened, stepping between the students and Elvis. "Alright, alright," he said, his voice calm but firm. "That's enough fer now. Everyone take a step back an' give him some space."

The students retreated, the air heavy with tension. Hermione shot Pansy a sharp look, her frustration evident, but before she could say anything, Pansy turned on her heel and walked away, her movements brisk and uncharacteristically subdued.

Ginny snorted, crossing her arms. "Well, that went about as well as expected."

"Ginny," Hermione said sharply, her tone a warning. But Ginny merely shrugged, her expression unapologetic.

Hermione glanced toward the edge of the paddock, where Pansy had stopped, her back turned to the rest of the class. Much as Ginny would think her stupid, Hermione felt like she was finally making some progress with Pansy, and she didn't want that progress to be ruined by the first class of the day.

Once Elvis had calmed down, Hagrid let the students approach him again. Warily, Dean and Padma approached the Thunderbird, who regarded them imperiously from his perch. Dean tossed Elvis a couple of fish from a bucket Hagrid had provided, and this soothed the magnificent bird further. Soon, a carousel of students was approaching the thunderbird to feed him a fish and give him a nervous pat on the beak. Hermione was keen to finally study the bird up close, but she kept glancing towards Pansy whose back remained turned to the class.

Making her decision, she strode purposefully towards the dark-haired girl. Pansy let out a sigh as she approached.

"Can't help yourself Granger, can you?"

"I could say the same about you, but then we'd just stand here and argue about it. Come on," Hermione replied, jerking her head towards the Thunderbird.

"I'm not getting fried by that bloody storm pigeon."

"Well, you will if you call him that again."

"Then maybe it's better I stay back here." Hermione could tell Pansy had tried to respond with her usual snarky tone, but her armour had cracked a little.

"And then how will you get a passing grade for this class? Why don't you just stop cutting everyone off all the time?"

"Why can't you just leave it?"

"Because I can see it eating away at you, because I have to live with you for the rest of the year, and because I don't want a repeat of the other night." Pansy's cheeks flushed at Hermione's words, but she was still prepared for another snide response.

"Really? Which part? Just so I know not to do it again."

"Would you like me to shout out which part for the whole class to hear?" Hermione whispered. Pansy scowled, but dropped the act, and stomped past Hermione towards the Thunderbird. "Steady on," Hermione whispered, "try and approach him a bit calmer than last time."

"Difficult to stay calm with you whispering into my ear."

"I can't imagine why you'd get flustered being close to me," Hermione whispered again, this time a lot closer to Pansy, "I thought you rather liked it?" Where the hell did that come from? She thought, mentally chastising herself.

Pansy froze mid-step, her back stiffening as Hermione's words hung in the air. Slowly, she turned her head, her expression a mix of disbelief and indignation. "Granger," she hissed through gritted teeth, "are you actually teasing me right now?"

Hermione bit her lip, her face betraying a flicker of surprise at her own audacity. "I—well—maybe," she stammered, her blush deepening. She quickly averted her gaze, pretending to straighten her robes. "It's not my fault you've made it so easy recently."

Pansy stared at her for a long moment, her dark eyes narrowing as though she were trying to decide whether to snap back or simply combust on the spot. Finally, she let out an exasperated huff and turned back toward the paddock. "Unbelievable," she muttered under her breath.

As they reached the paddock, Elvis's piercing gaze shifted to them, his feathers shimmering faintly with electricity. Pansy hesitated, her hand twitching at her side. Hermione stepped closer, lowering her voice to a more supportive tone. "Just keep your movements steady. Hold out a fish and let him come to you. He won't hurt you if you're calm."

Pansy glanced at the bucket of fish, wrinkling her nose. "This is disgusting."

"Yes, well, welcome to Care of Magical Creatures," Hermione replied, her tone tinged with dry amusement. "You'll survive."

Grumbling, Pansy grabbed a fish and held it out, her arm stiff and awkward. Elvis tilted his head, his sharp eyes studying her as though he could sense her hesitation. Hermione stepped a fraction closer, her hand lightly brushing Pansy's arm. "Relax," she murmured. "He can feel it when you're tense."

Pansy shot her a look but didn't pull away. Taking a deep breath, she extended the fish again, this time with a bit more composure. Elvis's beak snapped up the offering with surprising grace, and he let out a low, melodic trill before nudging his head slightly forward.

"Go on," Hermione encouraged softly. "You can pet him."

Pansy blinked, clearly unsure whether to believe her. But when Elvis didn't move away, she cautiously reached out, her fingers brushing against the Thunderbird's feathers. A soft crackle of static tickled her fingertips, and Pansy's breath hitched.

"There," Hermione said with a small smile. "See? Not so bad."

Pansy stepped back, her expression unreadable as she rubbed her fingers together. "Well, at least he didn't fry me," she said lightly, though her voice carried a hint of something more—relief, maybe even pride.

Hermione smiled, folding her arms as she watched Elvis settle back onto his perch. "I knew you could do it."

"Don't start with the whole 'I believe in you' speech," Pansy warned, though the edge in her tone had softened.

"I wouldn't dream of it," Hermione replied, though the glint in her eyes suggested otherwise. "But maybe now you'll stop calling him a storm pigeon."

"Don't push your luck, Granger."

Hermione laughed softly as they turned back toward the group, the tension between them easing ever so slightly. For all her snark and bravado, Pansy Parkinson had faced the Thunderbird—and herself—in a way that even she couldn't entirely deny. It wasn't much, but it was a step forward, and for now, Hermione was willing to take that.

The warmth of the moment didn't last. By the time the class had ended, the subtle shift in Pansy's demeanour had been eclipsed by the storm brewing in Ginny's sharp gaze. Hermione barely had time to exchange her final notes with Hagrid before Ginny grabbed her by the arm and steered her toward the path back to the castle.

"What's gotten into you?" Ginny demanded, her tone low but scathing. She kept her grip firm, as if to stop Hermione from bolting.

"What are you talking about?" Hermione asked, feigning ignorance, though she could already feel the heat rising to her cheeks.

Ginny shot her a look that could have melted ice. "Oh, don't play dumb, Hermione. You were practically mooning over Parkinson the entire lesson."

"I was not!" Hermione protested, wrenching her arm free. She crossed her arms defensively, glaring at her friend. "I was trying to keep the situation under control, unlike some people."

Ginny stopped in her tracks, spinning to face Hermione. "Control? Is that what you call it? Because it looked to me like you were fawning over her while she did her usual snarky routine."

"That's not fair," Hermione said, her voice tight. "She actually listened this time, Ginny. She tried."

"Right. And the fact that you haven't been able to stop glancing at her since this morning has nothing to do with it?"

"I'm just trying to help her adjust!" Hermione snapped, her cheeks burning. "It's not like I want her to fail or get herself expelled. She's already—"

"She's already what? A mess? A disaster? A complete and total liability?" Ginny's voice was rising now, her frustration palpable. "You think she's your responsibility, Hermione? She's not. And whatever weird thing you've got going on with her, it's messing with your head."

Hermione opened her mouth to argue, but Ginny cut her off.

"You've barely talked about Ron lately," Ginny continued, her voice quieter now but no less cutting. "You're keeping things from me, aren't you? About her. About you. What is going on, Hermione?"

Hermione froze, the words sticking in her throat. She didn't know how to explain the whirlwind of emotions she'd been wrestling with, the tension between her and Pansy that seemed to shift and change with every interaction. And she certainly didn't want to admit that she didn't have all the answers.

"It's not what you think," she said finally, her voice softer, pleading.

Ginny's gaze softened, but only slightly. "Then what is it? Because whatever it is, Hermione, it's not just you it's affecting. People notice. I notice."

Hermione sighed, running a hand through her hair. "It's... complicated. I do have to live with her Ginny."

Ginny studied her for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, with a small shake of her head, she turned and started walking again. "It's Pansy Parkinson, Hermione. Pansy Parkinson who wrecked your bedroom and then kissed you. Pansy Parkinson who tried to hand your best friend over to Voldemort. Pansy Parkinson who fed that Rita Skeeter all those lies about you. Slytherin's Queen Bitch for seven years, remember her? There shouldn't be anything complicated about it."

Hermione flinched at Ginny's words, each accusation landing like a blow. She quickened her pace to keep up with her friend, her heart hammering in her chest. "I know who she is, Ginny. Believe me, I know better than anyone."

"Then why are you doing this?" Ginny stopped again, rounding on Hermione with a look of exasperation. "Why are you letting her get so close? Why do you even care what happens to her?"

"Because people can change," Hermione said firmly, though the tremor in her voice betrayed her own uncertainty. "Because if we don't give people the chance to be better, then what's the point of everything we fought for?"

Ginny's eyes narrowed. "That's very noble of you, Hermione. But are you sure you're doing this because you believe she can change? Or because you've already started making excuses for her?"

"I'm not making excuses!" Hermione shot back, her frustration bubbling to the surface. "She's trying, Ginny. And whether you like it or not, I see something in her—something that makes me think she's worth the effort."

Ginny let out a hollow laugh, shaking her head. "Merlin, Hermione. She wrecked your room, kissed you without warning, and has spent most of her life making yours miserable. And now you're standing here defending her? It doesn't make sense."

"It doesn't have to make sense to you!" Hermione snapped, surprising even herself with the force of her response. "I don't expect you to understand, but I do expect you to trust me."

Ginny's expression softened, but the tension between them didn't dissipate. "I do trust you, Hermione," she said quietly. "But I don't trust her, and I don't want to see you get hurt because you think you can fix her."

Hermione swallowed hard, her throat tight. "I'm not trying to fix her. I'm just... I'm trying to understand her."

Ginny sighed, her shoulders slumping. "Fine. Just don't forget who she is—or who she was and don't forget who you are in all of this."

Without waiting for a response, Ginny turned and strode ahead, leaving Hermione standing alone on the front lawn, her thoughts swirling like a storm.

Who was she in all of this? And what exactly was she doing with Pansy Parkinson? The questions lingered, unanswered, as she finally followed Ginny back to the castle.

Arithmancy was normally one of Hermione's favourite classes. She liked that it was logical when most wizards didn't possess an ounce of logic. She liked using numbers, working sums and equations to find a satisfactory answer. It reminded her that even though she was a witch, and a very decent one at that, there was still a little Muggle girl inside of her that knew nothing of magic but still had the present-day Hermione's passion for learning. Today though, Hermione couldn't focus on Arithmancy.

Hermione tapped her quill absently against her parchment, her eyes scanning the same equation for what felt like the hundredth time. Normally, she'd have worked out the solution within minutes, her mind eagerly diving into the patterns and possibilities Arithmancy offered. Today, however, her thoughts were as jumbled as the numbers on the page.

She sighed, her frustration growing. The numbers didn't make sense, didn't add up. As for logic, it had gone right out the window when Pansy Parkinson had kissed her.

Hermione's quill slipped from her fingers and rolled onto the desk as her mind wandered. She had replayed the moment in her head more times than she cared to admit. The anger, the desperation, the sudden, undeniable pull that had brought their lips together—it all swirled in her thoughts like an unsolvable puzzle. What unsettled her the most, though, wasn't the kiss itself. It was the fact that she didn't know how she felt about it.

"Miss Granger?" Professor Vector's voice broke through her haze, sharp and questioning. Hermione blinked, her head snapping up to see the professor's raised eyebrow. "Is there something particularly fascinating about the ceiling today, or would you care to share your thoughts on this equation?"

Heat rushed to Hermione's cheeks as the rest of the class turned to look at her. "I—I'm sorry, Professor," she stammered, straightening in her seat. "I'm just... distracted."

Professor Vector's gaze softened slightly, though her tone remained brisk. "Well, focus your distractions elsewhere for the time being. I'd like to see your solution before the end of class."

Hermione sighed, forcing herself to refocus on the numbers before her. For once, though, the logical, orderly world of Arithmancy didn't feel like a refuge. It felt like a cruel reminder that not everything in life could be broken down into neat equations and satisfying answers.

Some things—like Pansy Parkinson, and the tangled mess of emotions that came with her—simply refused to be solved.

Hermione let out another quiet sigh, her quill scratching half-heartedly at the parchment as she attempted to refocus on the problem in front of her. But her mind was already leaping ahead to the awkward dinner that awaited her in the Great Hall.

Her conversations with Ginny had grown increasingly tense, each one a skirmish in the unspoken war over Pansy Parkinson. Hermione couldn't blame her for being angry or concerned—it made sense. Ginny saw Pansy as nothing but a threat, a living reminder of everything Hermione had suffered at the hands of Voldemort's supporters, and from Ginny's perspective, Hermione's continued interactions with her must look like some bizarre form of self-sabotage.

Hermione rubbed her temples, the weight of the day pressing heavily on her. She hated the rift forming between her and Ginny, but what was she supposed to say? That Pansy wasn't the same person they remembered from school? That the snarky, defensive exterior hid someone much more complicated, someone who was trying—however clumsily—to make sense of her place in a world that had shifted beneath her feet?

She barely understood it herself.

"Miss Granger?" Professor Vector's voice startled her again, pulling her from her thoughts. "Are you quite sure you're feeling well today?"

"I'm fine, Professor," Hermione said quickly, trying to ignore the murmurs from her classmates. She cast a sideways glance at Padma, who raised an eyebrow but said nothing. "Just... preoccupied."

Professor Vector gave her a long, measuring look before nodding. "See that you regain your focus, then. You're capable of better."

Hermione nodded, ducking her head to avoid the stares of her peers. She heard a faint snicker from the side of the classroom and didn't have to look up to know who it was. Daphne Greengrass, of course. The only Slytherin to take Arithmancy, and Pansy's closest confident. Even when she wasn't physically present, Pansy managed to find a way under Hermione's skin. She could imagine the dark-haired girl sitting next to her right now, smirking with that superior, smug little face she wore like a mask. Focus on your work, Hermione told herself.

Pansy's smirk lingered in Hermione's mind as she turned back to her notes, willing herself to concentrate. But the tangled mess of her thoughts refused to untangle, and her anxiety about dinner crept back in.

Hermione wasn't ready for another argument, but she knew one was inevitable. Ginny wouldn't let this go—and truthfully, Hermione wasn't sure she wanted her to. At least it proved Ginny cared, even if her concern felt like judgment most of the time.

By the time the class ended, Hermione had scribbled out a half-hearted solution to the problem and packed up her things with far less precision than usual. The next logical step would be to head back to the dorm and steel herself for whatever dinner would bring. But logic wasn't her refuge today, and as she walked out of the classroom, her feet carried her in an entirely different direction.

Toward the library.

The library was quieter than usual, the faint rustle of pages turning and the occasional whispered conversation the only sounds that reached Hermione's ears. She moved automatically toward her usual corner, a secluded table by the large windows that cast a soft, ever-shifting light over the room.

Setting her bag down, she pulled out her Arithmancy notes with a sigh. It was a comforting ritual—finding her spot, laying out her materials in a neat, precise order—but today it felt hollow. The numbers still didn't make sense, and her mind refused to focus on the formulas that usually calmed her.

Hermione stared at the parchment in front of her, her quill poised above it but unmoving. Her thoughts churned relentlessly, pulling her back to Pansy and Ginny and the impossible knot she'd tied herself into. She wasn't sure what was more exhausting; trying to untangle it or pretending it didn't exist.

Conceding that her Arithmancy homework would have to wait, Hermione pulled out a book she had been reading in every free moment she'd allowed herself: Restoration of the Mind: Advanced Theories in Memory Recollection and Cognitive Reconstruction. The title gleamed faintly on the well-worn spine, its gilded letters a testament to the countless hours she'd spent pouring over its dense and technical pages. Yet, despite all the hours she'd spent buried in this, and countless other books, she still hadn't found the answers she was looking for.

"Planning on how to save the world next?" A familiar voiced drawled from a behind a bookshelf. Hermione snapped the book shut and stowed it into her bag. As much as she was enjoying making progress with her, Pansy Parkinson wasn't who she needed to see right now. "No need to stop on my account."

"I won't get much done with you skulking around in the background."

"I do not skulk!" Pansy said, scandalized, "I flounce, tiptoe, or lurk seductively."

"Really? Which one was that?"

Pansy stepped out from behind the bookshelf, her smirk firmly in place as she leaned casually against the edge of the table. "That, Granger, was lurking seductively. You'd know if you weren't so busy trying to burn a hole through that book with your eyes."

"I think it needs more work." Hermione said dryly, "It was better than your last attempt though, so points for that." Pansy's cheeks flushed pink, and her smirk turned into a scowl.

"I thought we weren't mentioning that again."

"No, you would like me to never mention it again, there's a difference."

"So, I went a bit nuts for a couple of days, is it really a big deal?"

"It is," replied Hermione, "But I'm not keen to go over it again today, I've enough going on."

Pansy tilted her head, narrowing her eyes as she studied Hermione. "You mean like the personal book you just shoved into your bag as if I wouldn't notice?" Her voice carried its usual mocking tone, but there was a faint edge of curiosity beneath it.

Hermione sighed, straightening her posture. "It's nothing that concerns you, Parkinson."

"Of course not," Pansy replied, her tone dripping with faux sweetness. "Because I'd clearly have no interest in whatever deep, dark secrets keep you buried in the library instead of gallivanting around the castle with Weasley and her merry band of followers."

Hermione rolled her eyes, though she couldn't quite stifle the faint twitch of her lips. "It's called studying, Pansy. Something you might consider trying instead of lurking seductively."

"Ah, back to that again." Pansy crossed her arms, a hint of a pout forming. "Fine, Granger, keep your precious secrets. But if you're hiding something this fiercely, it must be good."

Hermione hesitated, her hand resting protectively on the strap of her bag. "It's not good," she said finally, her voice quieter. "It's complicated. And I don't have the energy to explain it to you right now."

Pansy arched an eyebrow, her scowl easing into something closer to genuine interest. "Complicated, huh? Well, if anyone's got the brainpower to unravel a mess like that, it's you."

The unexpected compliment caught Hermione off guard, and she blinked at Pansy, unsure how to respond. "I—thank you?"

"Don't get used to it," Pansy said quickly, her cheeks tinged pink again. She shifted her weight, glancing toward the exit. "Anyway, I'll leave you to your brooding. Wouldn't want to disrupt your… complicatedness."

"Very considerate of you," Hermione deadpanned, though her tone was lighter now.

Pansy flashed a quick, almost shy smirk before turning to leave. As she disappeared around the corner, Hermione let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. For all her infuriating quirks, Pansy Parkinson had a way of keeping Hermione on her toes—and, annoyingly, of making her feel slightly less alone in the chaos of her own thoughts.

You came here to get Pansy out of your thoughts, Hermione said to herself. In all fairness, it was pretty hard to do that when Pansy showed up in the library. Ginny's words from earlier resurfaced once more; You've barely talked about Ron lately. The truth was, she'd barely spoken to Ron lately.

Hermione stared down at her parchment, her quill poised uselessly above it. The numbers and symbols of Arithmancy blurred together, meaningless in the face of her jumbled thoughts. Ginny's words echoed in her mind, a relentless reminder of the person she was supposed to be thinking about.

Ron.

Her boyfriend. Her... what, exactly? The boy who had stood by her side through war and chaos. The boy who had made her laugh even when the world was falling apart. The boy who had kissed her so passionately in the midst of battle that, for one fleeting moment, she had believed everything might be okay.

But now?

Now, they barely spoke. When they did, the letters felt stilted, forced. She knew Ron was trying—he always did—but every time he reached out, she found herself pulling away. She didn't know why. Or maybe she did, and the thought of confronting it terrified her.

It's Pansy Parkinson, Ginny's voice hissed in her head. Hermione shook her head fiercely. No. It wasn't just Pansy. It couldn't be.

Her mind wandered unbidden to the kiss. Not Ron's kiss, but Pansy's. Hermione's cheeks burned at the memory, her fingers tightening around the quill. She'd tried to justify it to herself a hundred different ways: it was an accident, a fluke, an explosion of tension that didn't mean anything.

But it had meant something.

Hermione groaned softly, burying her face in her hands. The library's quiet hum seemed to mock her, as if even the books were judging her inability to make sense of her own emotions.

"I'm such a mess," she muttered under her breath.

The truth she didn't want to admit—not to Ginny, not to herself—was that Ron felt like a memory these days. A warm, comforting memory, but a memory, nonetheless. And Pansy... Pansy felt like something new. Something infuriating and unpredictable and maddeningly real.

That, Hermione realized with a sinking feeling, was what scared her the most. Maybe she just needed to get out of the castle for a bit, spend another Hogsmeade weekend with the boys if they could make it up. Christmas was still many weeks away, but Hermione also presumed that the Golden Trio as the media had taken to calling them would spend it together somewhere.

What would Pansy be doing for Christmas? Hermione wondered. You aren't supposed to care what Pansy Parkinson is doing for Christmas, or for any other day of the year, she reminded herself. Deciding that her blank parchment should at least be used for something, she began crafting a letter to Ron.

Ron,

How are things in London? It's still a bit tense here rooming with Parkinson, but we're making some progress I guess. We're at least not openly hostile towards each other in class nowadays. I still really miss having you and Harry around. Ginny and Luna are great company, but it isn't the same, you know?

Do you think you and Harry could make it up for another Hogsmeade weekend? Perhaps I could Floo from the Hog's Head and come and visit you in London? I'm sure Aberforth won't rat us out to Professor McGonagall.

What are your plans for Christmas this year? I don't want to go home without my parents there…

I hope you're doing well, and I look forward to your reply.

Love,

Hermione.

Hermione set down her quill, rereading the letter carefully. It felt a little false, but it would do. She folded it neatly and slipped it into an envelope, resolving to send it off with one of the school owls later. At least reaching out to Ron felt productive, like she was taking a small step toward fixing whatever had been fraying between them.

But as she sat back and gazed out the library window, her thoughts betrayed her once again. She pictured Pansy, her sharp wit, and unexpected moments of vulnerability, and wondered—not for the first time—what lay beneath all of that bravado.

Stop it, she scolded herself. She had enough to sort out without adding Pansy Parkinson to the mix.

Still, the question lingered, stubborn and unshakable. What would Pansy be doing for Christmas? The thought of her returning to a cold, oppressive manor, alone, her parents in adjoining cells in Azkaban, tugged at Hermione's heart in a way she didn't want to acknowledge.

"You're a masochist, Hermione Granger," she muttered under her breath, gathering her books and parchment.

She headed toward the Owlery, clutching Ron's letter like a lifeline. The fresh air would help, she told herself. It had to. Anything to keep her thoughts grounded in the present and away from the tangled mess her feelings had become.