Hermione's POV

The morning sunlight crept through the sheer curtains, casting lazy golden beams across the hardwood floor. It should have felt peaceful. Instead, I sat cross-legged on the floor in one of Draco's old Slytherin T-shirts, surrounded by parchment, ink-smudged fingers, and at least three mugs of tea—two half-drunk, one long gone cold.

Draco stirred on the sofa behind me, the rustle of blankets followed by a quiet groan. "Tell me that's not your third draft," he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.

"Fourth," I said without turning around. "And technically it's a hybrid of the second and third."

"Granger." He dragged himself upright, blanket still half-draped over his shoulder. "You've been up all night?"

I nodded, holding up the latest sheet. "It's not done. I keep changing the tone. It's either too angry or too polished."

He got up, barefoot, and padded across the room, crouching behind me. "Let me see."

I handed him the parchment.

He read in silence. I watched his face. That sharp Malfoy focus. The slight crease between his brows when something caught his attention. And when he finally looked at me again, his expression had softened.

"This is you," he said simply, a lazy smirk curling at his lips. "Very bookworm. Very Granger. Very lethal."

"But is it enough?"

"More than enough," he said, his voice still heavy with sleep as he kissed the top of my head.

He set the parchment down and reached for my hand. "You don't owe anyone a perfect speech. You're owed peace, love."

I exhaled, letting him pull me into his lap, his arms warm and grounding around me.

"I just... I don't want to give them anything they can twist," I admitted. "This isn't just about me. It's about you too. They'll find a way to slander you, Luna, Blaise—probably Harry and Cho. And now they'll paint me as hysterical or opportunistic or worse."

Draco didn't answer right away. His fingers traced slow circles on my back, his breath steady against my temple.

"You tell your truth," he said softly, "and we make damn sure it lands before they even know how to twist it."

I tilted my head back slightly. "You're not just talking about press strategy, are you?"

"I'm talking about control."

There was a knock on the window, and a small gray owl fluttered in with a scroll from Harry, marked with urgent red wax. Draco reached for it, scanned it quickly, and handed it to me.

Contact from the Ministry legal confirms Theo's team is planning a press move. You need to move fast. Pansy's the best option. If you're in—do it soon. Let me know what you need. —HP

I stared at the message for a long moment, then met Draco's eyes.

"Let's talk to Pansy."

He smiled. "I thought you'd say that."

I stood, stretching stiff limbs, and moved to gather the drafts and notes I'd scribbled in the middle of the night.

Draco's POV

"I still can't believe I'm saying this, but… I think Pansy might actually be our best shot."

I ran a hand through my hair as I paced the length of the club's back lounge—half storage, half Luna's sacred creative chaos. She'd cleared a table for us, but it felt more like a war room than a workspace.

Blaise leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, watching me with the same even gaze he always had when I started spiraling. Luna stood near the window, arms folded tightly across her chest, jaw locked like she was physically holding back the hundred things she wanted to say.

"She's good," I continued, trying to sound more confident than I felt. "She's changed. She's not the girl we went to school with anymore."

Luna raised a brow. "She used to hex people for wearing the wrong shoes."

"She also writes for The Witching Times now," I countered. "And not fluff pieces. Investigative work. She's the one who exposed the Dixon cover-up at the Department of Magical Transport last year."

"She also used to call me 'Loony Lovegood' in every corridor," Luna snapped, her voice sharper than I'd expected. "Forgive me if I'm not quick to welcome another person into this who gets to decide whether Hermione is palatable enough for the public."

Blaise stepped in gently. "Lu if I'm not mistaken Hermione called you that once too."

"No," she said, eyes still on me. "First of all that was one time and you should have seen her face. Do you trust her, Draco? Really trust her? Or is this just some misplaced nostalgia for Slytherin alliances?"

I met her gaze. "I trust that she's not the same person she was at sixteen. And I trust that she cares more about burning down the old system than preserving it. That's why she married a Muggle-born, why she walked away from her family, why she's made a career calling out the very people we're up against."

Luna didn't answer right away.

Blaise finally pushed off the counter. "She came through the Floo with receipts and headlines, Lu. No one else has offered us that."

"I heard she came through the Floo with dramatic flair," Luna muttered. "Still."

Blaise stepped beside her, his hand brushing her arm. "You'd burn down a world for Hermione," he said quietly. "So would I. So would he. But maybe… maybe we let someone else strike a match for once."

Luna's jaw tightened, but she finally nodded. "Fine. But the second she turns this into a spectacle—"

"She won't," I said. "She's not here for blood. She's here to help us control the story before they twist it into something we can't undo."

Luna sighed and finally uncrossed her arms. "Then let's get to work."

I exhaled—relief mixing with a fresh current of dread. Because even with Pansy on our side, this was going to get ugly. Fast.

Hermione's POV – At Home, Late Afternoon

The house smelled faintly of sage and citrus. I'd lit one of Luna's enchanted candles earlier, and the scent still lingered—calming. The living room was a mess of scattered notes, transcripts, and a few levitating scrolls drifting near the fireplace. This was war—but it was also just another kind of briefing. Research like this? Cake. I'd done harder things with less sleep.

Pansy Parkinson sat perched on the armrest of our sofa, all legs and attitude, her black stilettos kicked off somewhere near the door.

"I will say," she began, examining one of the files she'd conjured onto the coffee table, "I do miss how dramatic it all used to be. Back in school, if we wanted someone ruined, it took a polyjuice potion, some cat hair, and a relentless little bookworm."

"You're describing second year," I said dryly.

"Exactly," she replied with a grin. "Simpler times."

Draco entered from the kitchen with a tea tray—an odd sight, but charming as hell—and passed me a steaming cup before handing one to Pansy.

"Your fiancé has manners," she said to me. "When did that happen?"

Draco snorted. "Around the time you realized you were actually into women and stopped trying to control my hair gel usage."

"I still say the shaggy fringe era was your peak," she said, sipping delicately. "Very tortured poet. Girls cried in the corridors. And for the record, I was always into the fairer sex. I mean, if I'm being honest, I also had a thing for Granger too—oh, the fun we could've had."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Hey—only one Slytherin fiancée for her. Can we get back to the point?"

"Of course," Pansy said, instantly sharper. The playful veneer still lingered behind her twinkling eyes, but this Pansy was focused, strategic, and shrewd—a force of her own making.

She leaned forward and tapped one of the pages. "We have three objectives. One: control the narrative. Two: make it clear you're not playing the game on his terms. And three: close off any opening for the Notts' solicitor to twist your silence into complicity."

"No weepy confessional. No apology tour," I added. "Just facts."

Pansy raised a perfectly shaped brow. "Good. You're not here to beg for belief. You're Hermione fucking Granger. The facts are your domain. Let's play to that."

Draco sat beside me, close enough to touch, but quiet. Watching.

"This isn't a morality debate," Pansy continued. "It's about message. Authority. Presence. They want to portray you as erratic or vindictive? We give them calm, measured, and immovable. You're not here to convince the Sacred 28 of anything. They were never your audience."

"And the press?" I asked.

"I'll handle the release. The Witching Times isn't the Daily Prophet—they won't filter it through Rita Skeeter's fluff."

Draco finally spoke. "What about the Notts?"

Pansy's mouth twitched. "The Notts are old money, scared, and grasping. They've lost social footing, and now they're trying to clean up their reputation through manipulation. If they want to make this public, we make sure Theo's 'return to polite society' is tied to the reason he was exiled in the first place."

"And you're comfortable with the backlash?" I asked.

She shrugged. "Please. My parents practically disowned me for marrying Clara, and half the old guard still whisper that I'm a traitor to my name. I've been through worse than a few biting editorials. This? This I'll enjoy."

We sat in silence for a moment—two Slytherins and a Gryffindor. Former rivals. Unlikely allies.

"You sure about this?" I asked. Not because I doubted her competence—but because I knew what it meant to step in against people who still called themselves family.

Pansy looked me square in the eye. "I'm not doing this for you, Granger. I'm doing this with you. There's a difference."

I nodded, something settling in my chest. A quiet kind of trust.

"And besides," she added with a smirk, "it'll be fun watching Theo try to spin redemption when half the women we went to school with remember him groping their skirts at Hogwarts."

Draco let out a short, sharp laugh.

"Accurate," Pansy corrected, raising her cup.

I sipped my tea. "Alright, Parkinson. Let's write a headline."

Draco's POV – The Glass Garden

The Glass Garden was all stone walls, creeping ivy, and overpriced lunch specials—enchanted planters on every table and waitstaff who looked like they'd been plucked from a indie rockband album cover. The kind of place Luna liked for late lunches and Blaise liked for the wine list. I liked it for the exit routes—two, easily accessible, both charmed for instant Disapparition if needed.

We'd taken a back table near the window—Blaise, Luna, Cho, Harry, and me. Across from me, Luna sat with her arms crossed over a pale linen blouse, her expression a portrait of unreadable calm that meant she was anything but. Beside her, Blaise looked like a man who'd rather be anywhere else but wouldn't leave for the world. Cho sat beside Harry, graceful as always, her gaze sharp and quiet. And Harry... well, Harry was watching the door like he expected Nott to crash through it at any moment.

Pansy arrived fashionably five minutes late in dark green silk trousers and sunglasses charmed to rest perfectly in her hair.

"Well," she said as she slid into her seat, "this feels like the setup to a sabotage hearing." Pansy eased into the seat across from me with a smirk. "Sorry I'm late. Stopped by the Daily Prophet's office to hear what ridiculous angle they're prepping. It's as bad as we thought."

"Bit less grim," Blaise muttered, sipping his espresso. "But give it time."

Luna didn't blink. "Which is exactly why I'm still not convinced this is a good idea."

Harry gave her a polite nod. Cho sat beside him, fingers laced with his under the table. She hadn't said much yet, but her eyes were sharp—watching everyone.

"I'll say it," Luna said, dropping her napkin onto her lap with more force than necessary. "I don't like this."

Pansy arched a brow, glancing at her watch. "Well, that took about thirty seconds. Look—we need someone in the room before the fire spreads."

"And we're supposed to believe you're that someone?" Luna asked. "You spent the entirety of our school years undermining, insulting, and hexing people like Hermione."

"No one's asking you to believe me," Pansy replied smoothly.

Luna tilted her head, still unreadable. "You showing up out of nowhere, offering your help after being silent all this time—it makes me nervous."

"Luna," Blaise said quietly, his voice steady but warning.

I cleared my throat. "Luna—"

"No, Draco. I've known her a long time. I watched her humiliate first years, make girls cry in the corridor, and call Hermione names I won't repeat now. Forgive me if I'm not quick to throw my trust behind a glow-up and a new job title."

Pansy didn't flinch. "And you're right. I was a nightmare. I was also a child, raised by bigots. Many of us—including your husband, Luna—came from something ugly. I won't apologize for the fifteenth time, but I will say this: I'm not the same person I was at Hogwarts. I don't think any of us are."

She looked between Blaise and me. "I grew up with both of you. I know your mothers. I've had dinner at your houses. I know exactly the kind of venom that raised us. And I also know people change. Some because they want to, some because the world forces them to. You've clearly done both."

Pansy's smirk softened into something almost warm. "Clara says therapy helped too. Also, quitting the Daily Prophet. That place will eat your soul."

I snorted despite myself.

"That's cute," Blaise said dryly. "But what exactly is your angle?"

"My angle," Pansy said, folding her arms, "is that Theo's people are working the press. Laying groundwork. You think Hermione's reputation will protect her? The world is still perfectly content to gut brilliant women and hand sociopaths second chances. Theo's legal team is going to try to reframe the entire narrative. This isn't about truth for them—it's about control. Spin. And I can see the direction they're going. I know the language they use, the rules they bend. The way they'll try to paint her as unstable, vindictive."

"Tell me something I don't know," Harry said, voice calm but edged. "I've seen what this kind of campaign does. Once the story spreads, it doesn't matter what the truth is. People remember headlines, not footnotes."

Pansy met his gaze and smiled, surprisingly genuine. "That's why I'm here. Because I know how to write the headline before they can. And I know what circles Theo's family runs in. Hell, I grew up across the bloody ballroom from them."

"Which makes you a liability and an asset," Cho said finally. "You're walking a line, Pansy. Just make sure it's the one you say it is."

Luna looked at Harry, then Cho, who gave a small nod.

"She's not trying to do this for attention," Harry added. "She's doing it because she knows what it's like to grow up with those families, those expectations. You all do. And that's why she gets it in ways even I don't."

Pansy's gaze flicked to Luna. "I don't expect forgiveness. But I'm not here for absolution—I'm here for Hermione."

"She's not a symbol," Luna said softly. "She's our person. She's our family."

"I know," Pansy replied. "That's why I want her to win."

Luna exhaled sharply. "Look—I'm not trying to be a bitch. I'm not looking to dredge up schoolyard drama, Pansy. I'm here to protect my friend. My sister in everything but name. And if this backfires on her, it won't matter how well-meaning you claim to be."

"I understand," Pansy said, surprisingly gentle. "But you don't win these wars playing nice. You win them by dragging the truth out with you—kicking and screaming if you have to—and knowing how to play your enemy. And here's the thing, Lovegood: you're right. I was a total, colossal fucking bitch in school. A bully. Some might say a bigot. But that's why I can win this thing. Because I speak their language."

The table fell quiet.

I looked around—at Luna, still bristling despite her calm tone; at Blaise, whose protectiveness ran deeper than blood; at Harry, torn between strategist and brother; at Cho, sharp-eyed and loyal in her silence.

All of us so different. All of us drawn together because of her.

"I trust her," I said finally, nodding to Pansy. "Hermione does too. That's all that matters."

There was a pause. Blaise, ever the broker in tense rooms, leaned back with a sigh.

Cho reached for her tea. "If Harry trusts her, I trust her."

Luna didn't move.

Pansy looked her square in the eye. "I'm not here to ask for your forgiveness, Luna. But Hermione deserves every ounce of power in this fight—and I'm offering her another weapon."

"Just remember," Luna said, voice quiet but certain, "she's not your redemption arc."

"I know," Pansy said. "I don't need one."

The table settled into a new kind of silence. Not resolved. Not warm. But tempered.

Like metal just beginning to cool.

Harry nodded. "Then we stay ready. And we protect the fallout."

Cho's voice cut through gently. "Because it's not if this goes public anymore. It's when."

And just like that, the battle lines were drawn.

But this time, we weren't standing in separate corners.

We were building the circle around her.

Luna's POV – The Flat, That Evening

The walls of our flat were quiet. Not the magical kind of quiet—no silencing charms, no hexed doors, no humming from enchanted lamps. Just that weighty, domestic stillness that comes when the noise you carry isn't outside but inside your chest.

I curled my legs beneath me on the couch, still dressed in the pale linen blouse from earlier, but now barefoot, my earrings discarded and forgotten on the side table. Blaise had taken off his jacket, unbuttoned his collar, but his posture was still tight—shoulders set, movements deliberate.

"You're still upset," he said.

"I'm not upset," I replied, tracing a finger around the rim of my teacup. "I'm vigilant."

Blaise gave a tired huff of breath. "You were practically vibrating with it."

"I don't trust her," I said, plainly.

"I know," he replied, standing at the window. "You made that quite clear."

The air hung heavy between us for a beat.

"She's changed, Luna."

"I believe that she believes she has," I said. "And I'm not saying she's the same girl who spread rumors and tried to publicly humiliate Hermione and me relentlessly in school. But people don't get to reinvent themselves just because they a whole new life and married a potioneer."

Blaise turned, leaning against the windowsill. "So you're going to hold her worst version hostage forever?"

"No," I snapped. "But I'll be damned if I don't remember it."

His brow rose. "You think Hermione's forgotten?"

"No." I set the teacup down harder than necessary. "But Hermione is sweet and sometimes that makes her too generous with people who haven't earned it."

Blaise's expression shifted—just slightly. Like something had landed where he didn't want it to.

"You know," he said, voice low, "you're right. About her being strong. About being protective. But I think you're so focused on the old Pansy, you're not seeing the full picture."

He crossed the room and sat across from me, elbows on his knees. "Pansy might've been cruel. But she never pretended to love Hermione. She never pretended to be family. Ron did. Molly did. And look what that got her."

I opened my mouth, but he wasn't done.

"We watched it happen. Slowly. Over years. The way they chipped away at her until she felt like she owed them her loyalty, her pain, her choices. And when she stopped apologizing for being brilliant or choosing Draco or not falling apart after Ron left, they turned their backs."

He looked up at me, something sharp in his voice now. "You don't think that hurt worse?"

I flinched.

"Pansy was a nightmare, yes. But she never claimed to be anything else. She didn't put on red hair and call Hermione 'sister' while telling the Daily Prophet she was ungrateful behind closed doors."

"That's not fair," I said, softly. "They were her family."

"And that's exactly why it cut deeper." His voice dropped, quieter now. "Because betrayal only stings when it comes from the people who were supposed to love you."

I sat back, staring at the wall behind him, at the photos above the mantle—Hermione laughing beside me in her jumper with the too-long sleeves, one arm around Draco, one hand on a stack of books.

"I just..." My voice cracked. "I hate that we have to keep fighting. I hate that it's always another battle, another tactic, another person in a robe trying to rewrite what happened."

Blaise's expression softened. He took my hand, steady and warm in mine. "We've all changed, love. You. Me. Draco. Even Harry. We were all shaped by things we didn't ask for. Maybe that's why we're so fiercely loyal now—because we know what it means to survive something."

I looked down at our joined hands.

"She's not stronger than all of us," he continued. "She's stronger with us. That's the difference."

That settled something in me. Quietly.

"She deserves people in her corner who've earned the right to stand there," I said.

"She has them," he replied. "But we can't let Pansy's history matter more than her choices now."

I leaned against him, letting the quiet my anxious breath. "I know Pansy might be the best shot we've got. I'll support Hermione. I always will. I just... I don't know how to look at someone who once tried to tear her down and believe they're the one who's going to help lift her up."

"That's not blind trust," he said. "That's loyalty. But sometimes, loyalty means trusting that people can surprise you. Pansy isn't our friend. But right now, she's not the enemy either."

I let that settle. It was enough—for now.