Chapter 13
The moment Hermione and Ron stepped out of the Three Broomsticks, they were met with the telltale pop of a camera flashing in their direction.
"Oi, Hermione! Ron! Over here!"
A reporter surged forward, quill poised, but Ron grabbed Hermione's hand and yanked her toward the shadowed side of the pub. "Not today," he muttered under his breath, weaving through the bust crowd of students enjoying Hogsmeade.
Hermione ducked her head, pulling up her scarf to obscure her face. She hated this. The constant scrutiny, the invasive questions. It was always the same: How does it feel to be back at Hogwarts? How does it feel to be a hero? How does it feel to be Harry Potter's best friend? As if she was some extension of his legacy rather than a person in her own right.
The crisp autumn air nipped at Hermione's cheeks as she pulled her cloak tighter around her, keeping her head down. The narrow passageway behind the Hog's Head was quiet save for the occasional gust of wind rustling through the leaves. Ron was already a few paces ahead, glancing back at her impatiently.
"Come on," he muttered, checking over his shoulder for the third time in the last minute. "I swear, if any of those bloody reporters catch wind of this, we'll have Skeeter writing about what we ordered for lunch tomorrow."
Hermione exhaled sharply but didn't argue. The thought of another headline about her—or worse, about them—made her skin crawl. She was still reeling from the last Daily Prophet article that had speculated, in nauseating detail, whether she and Ron were simply on again, off again post-war.
"I'm coming," she said, stepping up beside him.
Aberforth had been begrudgingly accommodating when Ron had asked for discreet use of the Floo network. He hadn't asked any questions, just jerked his head toward the fireplace and told them to "be quick about it."
"You ready?" Ron asked, holding out the pouch of Floo powder.
Hermione hesitated for half a second, then reached forward and grabbed a handful. "The Leaky Cauldron," she said clearly, tossing the powder into the flames and stepping into the emerald glow. The familiar tug of Floo travel yanked her forward, the world spinning in a blur of green light before she tumbled out into a dimly lit corner of the Leaky Cauldron.
She barely had time to steady herself before Ron stumbled out after her, brushing soot from his jumper. "Well," he said, flashing her a grin, "we made it. No reporters after us."
Hermione forced a smile in return. "Where to first?" she asked, though she already knew the answer.
"Lunch," Ron said, reaching for her hand. "I know a great little spot near Charing Cross. Decent food, no weird stares. Harry and I love Muggle London."
She let him take her hand, let him lead her through the passage into Muggle London. She tried to tell herself this was what she wanted—a normal day, just the two of them, away from prying eyes. Away from her.
And yet, as they stepped into the bustling London streets, weaving between Muggles who had no idea who they were, Hermione couldn't shake the nagging feeling that this wasn't quite right. That something was missing. That someone else had taken up too much space in her thoughts.
They wandered through the streets hand in hand like a normal couple for the first time ever, no camera flashes blinding them, no stupid questions, and even with Pansy Parkinson tugging at the corners of her mind, Hermione quite enjoyed the freedom she felt from the magical world.
As they strolled through the heart of London, Hermione focused on the feeling of Ron's warm fingers laced through hers. She wanted to revel in the anonymity, in the simple pleasure of walking down a street where no one knew who they were. Here, they weren't war heroes or The Golden Trio—they were just two young people enjoying a day out.
Ron led them toward a small café nestled between a bookshop and a flower stall, its windows fogged from the warmth inside. It was charming, quaint, the kind of place Hermione might have picked herself had she been in the mood for something romantic.
But as she sat across from Ron, watching him scan the menu with a faintly furrowed brow, she felt a strange sort of detachment settle over her.
"This place is great," Ron said, setting down the menu. "Harry and I found it by accident one day—best chips I've ever had."
Hermione smiled, but it felt forced. "It's nice," she agreed, glancing down at her own menu.
The conversation was easy enough—Ron filled the silence with talk of his training, of the latest chaos he and Harry had gotten themselves into at work, of George's new experimental Wheezes that had sent Lee Jordan into St. Mungo's for three hours. Hermione listened, nodded, even laughed in the right places, but it all felt... hollow.
She wanted to enjoy this. She wanted to feel the way she used to around Ron—to be swept up in the comfort of familiarity, in the safety of a relationship that had been years in the making.
But all she could think about was how none of it set her heart racing. How none of it made her ache the way one smirk from Pansy Parkinson did. Hermione took a sip of her tea, the warmth doing little to dispel the cold knot in her stomach. This is ridiculous, she scolded herself. You're here with Ron. Focus on Ron.
And she tried.
She let him brush his knee against hers beneath the table. Let him hold her hand again as they wandered aimlessly through the streets after their meal, pausing by a bakery where he bought them both pastries and grinned when she got a bit of icing on her nose.
It was easy. Simple. Everything a relationship should be. So why did it feel like she was forcing it?
Ron nudged her playfully as they walked past a red double-decker bus. "You alright? You've been a bit quiet."
Hermione snapped out of her thoughts, forcing another smile. "Just thinking," she said, squeezing his hand in reassurance.
"About what?"
About how I kissed Pansy Parkinson Hermione thought. About how I can't stop thinking about her. About how I don't think this—us—is working anymore because I betrayed you and kissed Pansy Parkinson. Because I want to kiss Pansy Parkinson again, you know, just to make sure that kissing Pansy Parkinson was a terrible idea. Oh, and did I mention that I kissed Pansy Parkinson? Yes, that Pansy Parkinson. I know she tried to hand over your best mate to Voldemort, and that she's spent seven years being a horrible bitch, but she tastes like mint and citrus, and she smells like lavender and really, really expensive perfume. How do I know? Oh, because I kissed Pansy Parkinson and then I slept in her bed!
"Just... school stuff," she lied. "McGonagall's been on at me about the memorial project."
Ron rolled his eyes. "Of course she has. That woman needs to learn how to let people breathe."
Hermione hummed in agreement, thankful for the change in topic. She wasn't ready to untangle the mess in her head just yet. She just needed to try a little harder. To remind herself why she had fought so hard for this in the first place.
And so, when Ron pulled her into a side street and grinned mischievously, saying, "Fancy seeing my flat? We've got it all sorted now, even got a telly," she nodded.
"Yes," she said, letting him Apparate them away. "I'd like that."
Maybe if she just kept trying, the spark she was looking for would finally appear.
The flat was small but comfortable, tucked away in a quiet corner of London where no one would think to look for two young war heroes trying to figure out what life after Voldemort was supposed to be. The moment they stepped inside, Hermione was struck by how lived in it felt. A pair of trainers were haphazardly kicked under the coffee table, a few empty takeaway containers littered the kitchen counter, and the couch had a well-worn dip in the middle, evidence of many long nights spent lounging in front of the television.
"Not bad, right?" Ron said, tossing his wand onto the counter and grinning. "It's a bit messy—Harry's worse than me, believe it or not—but it's home."
Hermione smiled politely, walking further into the space. It wasn't bad. It was actually quite nice. But something about it felt... incomplete.
She toed off her shoes and wandered toward the bookshelves, scanning the familiar titles—Quidditch Through the Ages, Defensive Magic for the Practical Wizard, and a few old Hogwarts textbooks that had clearly been shoved onto the shelf with little care. She reached for one of the books, running her fingers over the spine, but Ron's arms looped around her waist before she could pull it out.
"Oi," he murmured, pressing a kiss to the side of her neck, "you're thinking again."
Hermione let out a breathy laugh, tilting her head slightly. "I always think, Ron."
"Yeah, but not about me," he teased, nudging her playfully. He turned her around in his arms, his smile softening. "We finally get some time alone, no reporters, no Auror training, no school... just us."
She swallowed. "I know."
He leaned down, kissing her slowly, his hands sliding up to cup her face. Hermione let herself melt into it, let herself pretend—for just a moment—that this was everything she wanted. That this was enough. That the unfamiliar pull in her chest was simply the result of lingering nerves, not the ghost of someone else's lips, someone else's hands, someone else's smirk teasing at the edges of her mind.
Ron's fingers tangled in her hair, tugging gently, and Hermione responded on instinct, deepening the kiss, forcing herself to feel something. This was right. This was what she was supposed to want. So why did it feel so wrong? She shut her eyes tighter, willing the doubts away. She loved Ron. She wanted this. She just had to let herself.
She broke the kiss and looked up at Ron with a smile. "I miss you a lot Hermione," Ron said seriously, his eyes locked on hers.
"I know," she replied, laying her head on his chest. "I miss both of you terribly up at Hogwarts. I hate all the Golden Trio nonsense in the papers, but…"
"That's who we are," Ron said, finishing the thought for her. Hermione nodded.
"So, are you going to show me your room?" Ron grinned triumphantly, and Hermione thought he might actually be floating a few inches off the ground.
"Come on," he said, leading her through the hallway to a room overlooking the canal at the back of the building.
Ron's room was exactly what Hermione expected—lived-in, cluttered, but distinctly his. A mix of Gryffindor memorabilia, Quidditch posters, and a few half-folded bits of Auror paperwork scattered across his desk. There was a small bookshelf with a handful of books, most of them gifts from her over the years, their spines still stiff from lack of use. To Hermione's surprise, Ron's bed was made very neatly. It felt… comfortable. Familiar in a way that should have reassured her.
Instead, Hermione felt something else—something heavier.
She let Ron tug her forward, his excitement evident in the way he turned to her, hands lingering on her waist. "Told you it wasn't bad, right?" he said, a little breathless.
Hermione hummed in response, reaching out to trace her fingers over the edge of his bookshelf. "No, it's nice. It suits you."
Ron grinned, stepping closer. "And now you're here too."
Hermione forced a smile. "Yes."
He dipped his head, brushing his lips against hers again, more confident this time, less hesitant. She let herself sink into it, let herself push away the nagging thoughts creeping into her mind—the ones that whispered that this wasn't what she wanted, that this wasn't who she wanted.
She let him lead her backward until the backs of her knees hit the mattress, let him kiss her deeply as his fingers slid into her hair, let herself pretend that this was enough. That she could make it enough.
Maybe if she tried harder. Maybe if she let herself forget everything outside this room.
Maybe if she could erase the memory of another girl's smirk, another girl's sharp words, another girl's lips pressing against hers in the heat of an argument. Maybe then, it would work.
Afterward, Hermione lay with her head on Ron's chest, staring blankly at the ceiling. His arm was draped over her, his breathing deep and steady. He was already half-asleep, content, relaxed in a way that she wasn't.
Her thoughts were racing, her stomach twisting with something she couldn't quite name.
This was supposed to feel different.
She wanted it to feel different.
But as she lay there, tracing absent patterns against the sheets, all she could think about was the quiet hum of Pansy Parkinson's laughter, the way she leaned in too close, the way she made Hermione's pulse race for entirely different reasons.
Hermione squeezed her eyes shut.
Enough.
She was overthinking, as always. This was what she had wanted for years. This was what was supposed to happen. She just needed time.
But then—before she could talk herself down, before she could force her mind back into place—a soft silvery glow filled the room.
She sat up abruptly, the hair on the back of her neck standing on end.
A Patronus. A stag.
Her breath caught as Harry's voice filled the space.
Death Eaters attacked Hogsmeade, seems Ginny was their target, but she escaped and alerted me. Selwyn arrested, Travers still on the run, extra guards in place. All students accounted for with the exception of Pansy Parkinson, we are searching for her now. Your Mum demands us all at the Burrow.
"Bugger," Ron swore, leaping from the bed and pulling on his clothes, "this must've happened not long after we left. Hogsmeade is meant to have a round-the-clock patrol. Robards is gonna go nuts."
Hermione barely heard him. Her mind was stuck on a single sentence.
"All students accounted for with the exception of Pansy Parkinson."
She swung her legs off the bed, barely registering the cool air against her skin as she grabbed for her clothes. Her heart was hammering in her chest, an unfamiliar panic curling in her stomach. Pansy was missing.
Pansy was missing.
She yanked on her jumper, her fingers trembling as she fumbled with the hem. It didn't make sense—where could Pansy have gone? Had she been taken? Had she fought back? Had she—
No. Stop. Stop.
She forced herself to breathe, forced herself to focus on what she knew. Ginny had been the target. That meant Ginny had been the one to sound the alarm.
That meant—
"Hermione?" Ron's voice snapped her out of her thoughts. He was already dressed, his Auror training kicking in, his expression set in grim determination. "You alright?"
She nodded too quickly. "Yes. Yes, I just—Ginny, I need to know she's okay."
That much was true.
Ron ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. "We'll find out soon. Harry didn't sound too worried for her. Come on, let's go, we'll Floo to the Burrow from the Leaky Cauldron."
He took her hand, guiding her out of the room, but Hermione barely registered the warmth of his fingers against hers.
Because in the back of her mind, another thought had taken root.
Where the hell are you, Pansy?
It's fine, she told herself. Ginny's safe. Everyone else is accounted for. Pansy probably ran off somewhere and will turn up, sneering and making cutting remarks as usual.
But as she stepped into the fireplace beside Ron, gripping his hand as the green flames roared around them, she couldn't shake the nagging thought in the back of her mind.
What if she didn't run? What if something had happened to her?
And why did the idea of Pansy Parkinson actually being in danger make Hermione feel like she couldn't breathe?
They arrived in the Burrow's kitchen with a whirl of green flames, stumbling slightly on the uneven floor. The scent of fresh bread and something rich and savoury filled the air, but Hermione barely noticed. The room was already packed—Harry, Ginny, George, and Mrs. Weasley clustered near the table, talking in hushed voices. Ginny turned at the sound of their arrival, her face unreadable.
"What's she doing here?" Ron spat. Hermione was bewildered. Shouldn't Ron be glad Ginny was ok? It was only when she stepped out into the room properly did she realise he wasn't talking about Ginny.
She was sitting stiffly in a chair furthest from the fireplace, her black work robes smudged with soot and a faint streak of dried blood on her temple. She looked utterly out of place in the Burrow's warm, homely kitchen, like a glass ornament that had somehow ended up in a box of mismatched trinkets.
"Pansy saved your sisters life this afternoon whilst you were off gallivanting round London instead of Hogsmeade," said Mrs Weasley pointedly.
Ron's ears turned red, whether from embarrassment or anger, Hermione couldn't tell. His mouth opened and closed a few times, but no words came out.
Pansy, for her part, didn't look remotely interested in the argument about to unfold. She sat back in her chair, arms crossed, the very picture of practised, detached boredom, as though she hadn't just risked her life to save Ginny Weasley.
"Well," George said, breaking the silence with an exaggerated whistle. "Didn't have this on my bingo card for today."
Ginny shot him a glare, but her attention quickly returned to Hermione, her expression unreadable. Hermione, however, couldn't focus on anything other than the girl sitting at the far end of the room.
She was alive. She was here. And for reasons Hermione couldn't begin to fathom, the tight, anxious knot that had been sitting in her stomach since she'd heard Harry's message finally began to ease.
"Are you alright?" Hermione found herself asking, the words slipping out before she could stop them.
Pansy's gaze flicked to her, her expression unreadable. For a moment, she didn't answer. Then, with the faintest smirk, she said, "Touched by your concern, Granger."
Hermione scowled before she could stop herself, heat rising in her cheeks. This was the problem with Pansy—she could go from being a reckless, selfless hero to an absolute menace in the span of five seconds.
"I'm sure I'll live," Pansy added, her voice saccharine. "I know how devastated you would have been if something had happened to me."
Hermione's mouth snapped shut. The worst part was, Pansy wasn't wrong. She would have been devastated and that was something Hermione wasn't ready to confront.
Ron, still bristling, ignored Pansy entirely and turned to Ginny instead. "You should've told me first."
"Oh, I'm sorry," Ginny said, folding her arms. "Did you want me to send a Patronus while I was unconscious? Besides, I knew Harry was in the Ministry today, he'd get the real Aurors there quicker."
"Alright, enough," Mrs. Weasley interjected, looking exhausted. "The important thing is that Ginny is safe. Now, all of you go and get cleaned up for dinner, especially you two," she continued pointing to Pansy and Ginny, "I don't want blood dripping into the potatoes." For a split-second Hermione saw Pansy's façade falter. She wasn't used to being in an environment like this.
Pansy hesitated, her expression shifting ever so slightly—so quick that Hermione might have missed it if she weren't watching so closely. It wasn't the usual sneer or well-placed smirk; it was something more fragile, something that made Hermione's chest tighten inexplicably.
Then, just as quickly, Pansy masked it, rolling her eyes. "Well, we wouldn't want that," she drawled, rising from her chair with a deliberate stretch. "Come on then, Weasley, let's go scrub off the evidence of our near demise. We wouldn't want to offend the dinner table."
Ginny made a scoffing noise but didn't argue, pushing herself up from the chair with a slight wince. Hermione noticed Pansy flick a glance at her, barely perceptible, but still. Concern. Hidden beneath layers of sarcasm and bravado, but there, nonetheless.
She wasn't sure why that observation unsettled her.
With Ginny and Pansy disappearing up the stairs, the tension in the room eased somewhat. Hermione exhaled a breath she hadn't realized she was holding, but it did little to quiet the storm inside her head.
As Hermione stepped into the fireplace and swapped the familiar sights and sounds of the Burrow for the familiar sights and sounds of Hogwarts, she surmised that this had been the strangest dinner at the Weasley's she had ever been a part of. Pansy was clearly out of her comfort zone in a warm and loving environment, something that Hermione almost found endearing, if not a little sad. Despite their reluctance, the Weasley's had been very welcoming to Pansy too. She wondered if there was a chance that bridges could be built between them after all. For now, though, any thoughts of that would have to wait.
She stumbled slightly as she stepped out of the Floo in McGonagall's office, brushing stray soot from her robes. The familiar scent of parchment and polished wood filled the air, and the soft glow of candlelight flickered against the stone walls. The portraits of past headmasters and headmistresses eyed them curiously, though most pretended to be asleep. Dumbledore's portrait twinkled at her over his half-moon spectacles, but Hermione barely had time to acknowledge it before McGonagall's sharp voice cut through the quiet.
"Sit." Hermione sat stiffly in a chair opposite Professor McGonagall's desk awaiting the punishment she was about to receive with a mixture of shame and anxiety. The fireplace roared to life once again and Ginny stepped out with a grin on her face, a grin that was swiftly wiped off when she saw Professor McGonagall's expression. She hurriedly took a seat next to Hermione without waiting for instructions to do so.
"Miss Weasley, it is nice to see you in such good spirits after your ordeal. You will be excused from any disciplinary action on account of the circumstances of your jaunt across the country today. I am well informed that you had little control over what happened to you," the Headmistress said. "But in the future, Miss Weasley, I expect you to report to me should anything of this nature occur again. Am I clear?"
"Yes Professor," Ginny replied evenly.
"Good, you may go. See Madame Pomfrey if you need, otherwise straight to bed." Ginny nodded, smiled weakly at Hermione, and then excused herself from the room.
"As for you Miss Granger, you were neither attacked nor kidnapped, and yet, you returned from the Burrow instead of Hogsmeade, where you were supposed to be."
Hermione swallowed. "Professor, I—"
"You snuck off to London in the middle of a school-sanctioned visit," McGonagall interrupted, her lips pressed into a thin line. "Without permission. Without informing any of the staff. Do you have any idea how reckless that was?"
Hermione flinched. She had expected a reprimand, but the weight of McGonagall's disappointment stung far worse than the detention she knew was coming.
"You may be a war hero, and a talented witch, and you may well be eighteen years old, but you are also a student at this school. As such, you are bound by its rules, and you operate under the constraints of my authority." Hermione almost wilted under the weight of the intense shame she felt. She could barely look Professor McGonagall in the eye. "Fifty points will be taken from Gryffindor, and you will attend detention with Professor Flitwick every evening for the next two weeks. As a result of today's events, future Hogsmeade visits are temporarily suspended for all students, but should they resume before Christmas you will not be permitted to leave the school grounds."
"I understand Professor," Hermione replied, trying to hold back tears.
McGonagall studied her for a long moment, her sharp eyes softening just slightly. "I do not give out these punishments lightly, Miss Granger," she said, her tone losing some of its earlier severity. "I expect better from you. You have been through trials and tribulations far beyond that of your peers, but that does not give you license to flaunt the rules at your leisure."
Hermione swallowed around the lump in her throat, nodding. "I understand, Professor. I—I'm sorry."
McGonagall exhaled, adjusting her spectacles. "You will do well to learn from this." Then, after another pause, she added, "See that you get some rest tonight. I expect to see significant progress on the memorial project soon."
"Yes, Professor."
McGonagall gave her a final nod before gesturing toward the door. "You are dismissed."
Hermione rose from her chair, her legs feeling oddly weak as she moved toward the exit. She trudged through the corridors towards the eighth-year dorms with her feet feeling like lead weights. By the time Hermione reached the entrance to her room, exhaustion had fully settled into her bones. The evening had been relentless, filled with guilt, frustration, and a growing sense of unease she couldn't quite shake. All she wanted now was to crawl into bed and lose herself in sleep, to forget about Death Eaters and punishments and—Merlin help her—Pansy Parkinson.
You can't forget about someone when they are right on the other side of the door though, and when Hermione entered their room, Pansy was sat at her dresser running a brush through her hair.
"Did you get the works from McGonagall then or did she let her golden girl off?"
"Detention, banned from Hogsmeade, fifty points from Gryffindor."
"Oh well, I'm sure you'll save the day again soon and win them all back just in time for Gryffindor to win the House Cup. Isn't that how it usually goes?" Hermione didn't respond, tears welling up in her eyes once again. Pansy rose from her chair and placed a gentle hand on Hermione's arm. "Oh, come on Granger! So, you miss out on a few Hogsmeade weekends and serve a few detentions. That's not the end of the world is it? Besides, even if it were, you'd just save the world again anyway."
Hermione forced herself to look up into Pansy's eyes and found them full of genuine sympathy and concern. I'm being ridiculous, she thought, Pansy probably thinks I'm cracking up. Before she had really considered what she was doing, she stepped forward and wrapped Pansy into a tight hug. The girl stiffened instinctively but relaxed into the hug and wrapped her arms around Hermione in turn, pulling her close, and running a comforting hand through her hair.
Hermione inhaled the smell of Pansy's expensive perfume deeply, unable to get enough of it, despite the fact she shouldn't want to be anywhere near her. It was heady, intoxicating, and proof that Pansy Parkinson was alive, and safe, and real. Hermione felt the tension in her body begin to unwind just slightly as Pansy's fingers traced soothing circles against her back. She wasn't sure why she had done it—why she had closed the space between them, why she had needed this—but Merlin, she was getting tired of pretending she didn't. "I was really worried about you." Hermione admitted.
"Well, I was really worried about me for a moment too, but I made it out fine, and I even dragged Weasley with me so maybe she'll get off my back for a bit."
Hermione let out a quiet, breathy laugh against Pansy's shoulder, though she wasn't sure if it was out of relief or sheer exhaustion. "I wouldn't count on that," she murmured. "Ginny will just hate being in your debt."
Hermione felt Pansy's hand move gently through her hair again, slow, and absent, like she didn't even realize she was doing it. It was soothing—too soothing. And when Pansy shifted slightly, Hermione suddenly became acutely aware of how close they were. Her breath caught as she realized that if she tilted her head just a fraction, her nose would brush against Pansy's jaw, and from there she could tilt her head upwards and...
This was dangerous. This was foolish. This was Pansy Parkinson. This was what Hermione had explicitly made rules against, and yet, she didn't pull away.
Pansy, for her part, didn't seem in any rush to move either. The silence between them stretched, charged and fragile, like a held breath. Hermione swallowed hard, suddenly too aware of the warmth of Pansy's body against hers, of the way her fingers had stilled in Hermione's hair.
"You were really worried, weren't you?" Pansy asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Hermione felt her heart lurch violently in her chest. She should say something dismissive, something sharp to cut through whatever was building between them. But all she could manage was a weak, "Yes."
Pansy exhaled, the corner of her mouth quirking slightly. "Well, don't get used to it, Granger. I don't plan on making a habit of getting myself nearly killed."
Hermione finally forced herself to pull away, though it took far more effort than it should have. The room felt colder without Pansy's arms around her, and she immediately hated herself for thinking that.
"Good," she said, clearing her throat as she stepped back, needing to put some distance between them. "Because I don't think I could—" She cut herself off, shaking her head. "Never mind."
Pansy watched her, her expression unreadable. Then, with a slow smirk, she said, "Go to bed, Granger."
Hermione nodded stiffly, turning away, but as she climbed into her bed and pulled the covers up, her mind was still racing.
She had been worried about Pansy. Terrified, actually. More than she had any right to be, and if the way Pansy had held her just now meant anything… Pansy might have been just as terrified, too.
The following morning was not Hermione's greatest day at Hogwarts ever. She wasn't really fussed about winning the House Cup compared to when she was in her first year, but she wasn't immune to the shame brought about by the whispers at breakfast because Gryffindor had suddenly lost fifty points from their hourglass, and it turned out that all of them had been taken away because of Hermione Granger. Much worse though, was the front-page article of the Daily Prophet.
DEATH IN HOGSMEADE!
By Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent
The village of Hogsmeade was shaken yesterday by a brazen attack reportedly led by fugitive Death Eaters Travers and Selwyn, writes Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent for The Daily Prophet. The attack—believed to be targeting members of Harry Potter's inner circle—left an entire street in ruins, with several students injured and one local merchant dead from injuries sustained in the chaos.
The victim, whose name has yet to be released by the Ministry, owned and operated a small bakery stall in the heart of the village. According to witnesses, he was caught up in the initial attack when a powerful Blasting Curse ripped through the street, sending students and bystanders scrambling for cover. Despite efforts from emergency responders and St. Mungo's Mediwizards, he succumbed to his injuries late last night.
Where Was the Chosen One?
Surprisingly, Harry Potter was not present in Hogsmeade at the time of the attack despite assumptions that he was a prime target. The Daily Prophet has received conflicting reports regarding his whereabouts, but sources close to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement suggest Potter was in fact inside the Auror Office at the Ministry of Magic on the day of the attack and was the first Auror – despite still being a trainee – to attend the scene and make an arrest. Predictably, Mr Potter was unavailable for comment.
The Target: Ginny Weasley?
Several sources claim the primary target of the attack was Ginny Weasley, only daughter of Ministry Official Arthur Weasley, and long-rumoured fiancée of Potter himself. Weasley was seen collapsing in the aftermath of the explosion, gravely injured, before an unknown individual spirited her away, taking out one of the attackers in the process. Miss Weasley's current whereabouts remain unconfirmed, though sources within St. Mungo's suggest she may have been smuggled into the hospital, where she is allegedly under round-the-clock guard. Harry Potter's well-wishers will no doubt hope for Miss Weasley's speedy recovery.
An Inside Job?
A more curious—and perhaps more sinister—development has emerged from reports at the scene. Pansy Parkinson, heiress to the Parkinson Mining Company fortune, and infamous sympathizer of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, was the only individual unaccounted for following the attack.
Parkinson, a known associate of many former Death Eaters, was confirmed to have signed out of Hogwarts for the Hogsmeade visit but did not return with the other students. Witnesses claim she was last seen in the village yet vanished entirely after the explosion.
A further connection raises eyebrows—Travers, one of the attack's ringleaders, was a former employee of the Parkinson Mining Company. Could it be that Pansy Parkinson has used this connection to join the remnants of the Dark Lord's followers?
Ministry officials have not confirmed whether Parkinson is a person of interest in the investigation, but speculation is already rife. Some believe that Parkinson, whose parents remain in Azkaban under charges of providing substantial funding for You-Know-Who's regime, has provided intelligence on Potter's associates.
Was Pansy Parkinson responsible for Ginny Weasley's disappearance? Did she act alone—or was she merely following orders?
Dark Forces on the rise?
Meanwhile, many in the wizarding world are once again questioning whether the post-war peace is truly as stable as the Ministry would like us to believe. The attack raises serious concerns about security at Hogwarts and Hogsmeade, particularly as certain Death Eaters remain at large.
Minister for Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt has assured the public that a full investigation is underway and that additional security measures will be implemented to prevent future attacks. However, sceptics argue that this is not enough—and that the resurgence of Death Eater activity could signal darker times ahead.
Continued on Page 5
Hermione threw the paper down in disgust. Trust Rita Skeeter to try and whip up a panic and create several false narratives sure to grab public attention. A man had died, and he was but a cliff note in Skeeter's work of fiction.
She had expected some kind of report on the attack—it had been a brazen assault in broad daylight, after all—but the sheer amount of misinformation in the article made her stomach turn. She could already hear the whispers in the Great Hall, the way people would be looking at Pansy.
Or worse, how Pansy would pretend she didn't care, when Hermione knew full well that she did.
Her appetite gone, Hermione pushed her plate away and stole a glance towards the Slytherin table. Pansy was sitting with Daphne and Blaise, as usual, but even from across the room, Hermione could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands were clenched around the Prophet.
Blaise leaned in, speaking lowly to her, his expression unreadable. Daphne, on the other hand, looked distinctly amused, likely enjoying the spectacle of it all.
Pansy said something back, too quiet for Hermione to hear, before carelessly tossing the newspaper onto the table, as if it didn't bother her. As if she wasn't the centre of today's scandal.
Hermione wasn't fooled.
"Unbelievable," Ginny muttered beside her, shaking her head. "The Prophet's turning this into a big conspiracy now? And what's this rubbish about me being Harry's fiancée?"
"Well, of course they are," Hermione snapped, her fingers tightening around her spoon. "They never let the truth get in the way of a good story. Oh, and I suppose it would be more tragic if Harry's fiancée died at the hands of the Death Eaters when he wasn't there to protect her. Girlfriend just doesn't tug at heartstrings the same way."
Ginny rolled her eyes exhaled sharply, rubbing her temples. "People are going to believe it, though. Not just the fiancée nonsense, but all of it, especially her little exposé on Parkinson."
Hermione grimaced. She knew exactly how quickly public perception could turn. During their fifth year Ron and Hermione were among the small few who supported Harry and Dumbledore in spreading the news that Voldemort was indeed back. The Daily Prophet responded with several slander articles targeting Harry and the late Headmaster, making Harry's public life exceedingly difficult. Skeeter herself had done a number on Hermione four years ago, making her out to be a gold digger, if not worse.
Now, with an article like this, she was sure to stir up trouble again. Pansy was already an outcast. This would only make it worse.
Ginny must have seen the way Hermione's gaze kept flickering toward the Slytherin table, because she nudged her with her elbow. "You're worried about her," she observed.
"No," Hermione said automatically, then hesitated. "I mean—" She sighed. "She doesn't deserve this."
"She saved my life," Ginny said after a moment, her voice quiet. "I don't like her, but she did, and I know what wonders Skeeter's articles can do for a person. What can we do about it?"
"I could threaten to expose Rita Skeeter as an Animagus, it worked before, but I wouldn't put it past her to have snuck into the records office and sorted that out."
"Even if she hasn't," replied Ginny, "You can only use that one so many times before she does."
"What if we're just seen being friendly with her?"
"Oh Merlin Hermione, you aren't trying to rope me into your fixing Pansy Parkinson crusade are you? I'd rather stand up at the front of the entire school and campaign for spew."
"S.P.E.W," Hermione corrected, "and you of all people should be a bit more friendly to Pansy after she saved your life, no?" Ginny didn't respond right away but simply glared darkly at Hermione.
"I think," Ginny said in a low voice so that only Hermione could hear, "that time Parkinson kissed you has messed up your brain Hermione. You spend a lot of time mooning over someone you used to hate, it's worrying. You aren't, you know, secretly going at it with her up in that eighth-year dorm?"
"Ginny!"
"Well, it would explain your fixation."
"I don't have a fixation," Hermione lied, "and that theory doesn't really hold up when I got in trouble for sneaking off to do exactly that with your brother yesterday, does it?"
"Ew!" Ginny exclaimed, spitting out her pumpkin juice. "Thanks for that image."
"Any time. Now come on, we've got Hagrid's class to get to."
Ginny wiped her mouth with the back of her sleeve, still grimacing. "You're actually making me miss the days when I thought you and Harry had some secret romance brewing."
Hermione groaned, grabbing her bag. "Oh, don't start with that nonsense again."
Ginny smirked. "Fine, fine. Let's go before Hagrid lets some giant beasts maul us as a practical demonstration."
They left the Great Hall together, Hermione's mind still buzzing with everything that had happened. The Prophet article, Pansy's unreadable expression, Ginny's pointed remarks—everything was stacking up, pressing against her like a weight she wasn't ready to acknowledge.
Ginny elbowed her as they walked. "You know she won't appreciate you going all 'Hermione Granger, Defender of the Oppressed' on her, right?"
"I'm not—" Hermione huffed. "I just don't think she deserves to have her name dragged through the mud for something she didn't do."
Ginny gave her a knowing look but didn't push further. "Right, well, let's see if you still have the energy to fight Pansy Parkinson's battles after an hour of wrangling whatever monstrosity Hagrid's got lined up for us."
Hermione bit her lip, trying to shake off the last of her lingering thoughts as they made their way toward the grounds. But even as they stepped into the crisp morning air, the conversation stuck with her.
She wasn't fixated on Pansy Parkinson. She wasn't. Was she?