Chapter 9: What's Up Granger?Notes:
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Chapter Text
Hermione slipped the headphones over her ears as she stepped into the cooler air of the corridor leading toward the dungeons. The contrast from the warmth of the library in the upper floors made her shiver, though she welcomed it. It cleared her head. She pressed play on her Walkman and the soft, melancholy guitar of Back to the Old House began to fill her ears. Morrissey's voice followed, soft, quiet, yearning, and Hermione let her shoulders relax for the first time all day.
She mouthed the first verse, then sang under her breath once she was sure no one was around.
I would rather not go
Back to the old house...
Her footsteps matched the gentle rhythm. She had always loved the way this song made her feel suspended between past and present, held in a strange tenderness that she could never quite explain. A part of her wished she had never brought the Walkman to Hogwarts. Daphne didn't judge her for using it, though she thought it looked like a torture device, but Hermione was certain her other Slytherin peers would mock her endlessly for it. Yet another part of her could not imagine surviving her days without it.
The saddest thing I've ever seen...
Her voice drifted softly through the torchlit hallway. She walked with her eyes slightly unfocused, following the familiar path toward the potions classroom. Tonight was another thirty minutes of endless, tedious stirring. She dreaded it with every fibre of her being, especially after the tension in class and the disaster in the cupboard. Still, she forced herself forward.
And you never knew...
Hermione turned the corner, still singing, lost enough in the music to forget herself entirely.
How much I really liked you...
A movement at the far end of the corridor made her pause. Her voice trailed off. She blinked once, twice, certain she was imagining it.
Pansy leaned against the entrance to the dungeon stairwell, arms crossed, expression unreadable. She was half in shadow, half bathed in the flickering orange of the nearest torch. Her dark hair was immaculate despite the humidity, and her green tie hung perfectly straight. For a moment Hermione did not breathe.
"What's up Granger?" she purred.
Then, looking closer at her, Pansy lifted an eyebrow with studied disdain. Hermione jumped, nearly dropping the Walkman, and yanked the headphones off her ears.
Pansy's gaze slid to the tangle of wires and metal in Hermione's hands. She looked back at Hermione with a theatrical curl of her lip, as if she had stumbled upon a creature in the process of doing something deeply embarrassing, like a Blast-Ended Skrewt tap-dancing.
"What," Pansy said slowly, her voice smooth but cutting, "is that thing on your head supposed to be. It looks absurd."
Hermione felt her face heat. She cleared her throat and held the Walkman a little closer to her chest, as if shielding it from judgment could make the moment any less weird.
"It is a Walkman," she said, trying very hard to sound calm. "It plays music. You listen through the headphones."
Pansy blinked, clearly unimpressed. "A device that sits on your head and traps you in your own world. How... typical of you."
Hermione rolled her eyes because it was easier than letting Pansy see she had been caught singing like an idiot. "It is completely normal in the Muggle world. People use it to enjoy music privately while they walk. It is convenient. It avoids others to hear what you hear."
"Trust me Granger, I think everyone in a two hundred metres radius heard you singing."
Hermione raised an eyebrow, noticing Pansy didn't insult her voice directly, though her voice was laced with mockery, as usual. Pansy pushed off the wall with elegance, taking a few steps closer. Her shoes clicked softly on the stones. She examined the Walkman again as though it were a particularly inelegant stick bug.
"It looks heavy," she said.
"It's not."
"And clumsy."
"It's not."
Pansy made a hum of false sympathy and tipped her head. "If you say so."
"You almost sound like you want to try it."
"Please," scoffed Pansy, rolling her eyes.
Hermione's pulse drummed unpleasantly in her ears. She hated how every interaction with Pansy became a delicate balancing act between wanting to hex her and wanting to undress her.
She shoved the headphones into her pocket. "Some of us enjoy art. You should try it sometime."
"I do enjoy art."
"Sure you do."
"Not that I need to justify myself, but I spent an hour reading poetry at the library today," replied Pansy, as they started to walk to the empty potion classroom together. "Together" was a great exaggeration, since they just walked with three metres of space between their shoulders.
"Really?" said Hermione, glancing at her.
"Byron."
"I beg your pardon?" stuttered Hermione, her heart accelerating.
"I've heard about Byron so I wanted to see what the fuss was about."
"So?"
"Meh," yawned Pansy. "Not a big fan of romance."
"When did you learn about Byron?"
"Wouldn't you like to know."
"I do. It means you have Muggleborn acquaintances."
"Mind your own business, Granger."
Hermione shrugged. She opened the heavy door of the potion classroom, where their cauldron was peacefully simmering in the back, aligned with the ten other cauldrons of their classmates. Pansy sat in front of it, resting her handbag on the table.
"I'll adjust the heat, you stir," she declared.
Hermione nodded. She cracked her knuckles and grabbed a ladle in the drawer under their desk and started to stir clockwise when Pansy lit up the fire, sitting next to her.
"Don't ever do that again," snapped Pansy.
"Do what?"
"Crack your knuckles."
Hermione looked at her right in the eye and stretched her arms, cracking her elbows this time.
"Stop that!"
"No?"
"You need to hit the club more often," commented Pansy, glaring at her. "It's abnormal to have arthritis at that age."
Hermione simply snorted, not taking care to respond. Pansy shifted slightly on the bench, leaning closer to the cauldron to monitor the heat. Her arm brushed Hermione's every time the brunette's arm turned the ladle.
"Do you like Byron?" asked Pansy after a few minutes of silence.
Hermione parted her mouth slightly, surprised by her initiative.
"No," she lied.
Pansy looked at her more deeply, more intently. Hermione held her gaze.
"I like Alfred de Musset."
"Sounds French."
"That's because he is."
"You can read French?" asked Pansy.
"I can speak French," responded Hermione, her arm slightly trembling when she felt Pansy's robes brushing against it. "My mum's family comes from the French Riviera."
"Say something in French."
"Why?"
"I like how it sounds.
"Je trouve que les cheveux vert foncé t'allaient bien," said Hermione after a few seconds, looking at Pansy's bangs instead of her eyes, because the latter's gaze was becoming almost unbearable to hold.
"Merci. Je savais bien que c'était toi," smirked Pansy.
This time, Hermione's jaw opened wide before she could control it.
"You tricked me," she groaned.
"You could have chosen to insult me instead of complimenting my hair."
"I'm not that childish."
"Connasse," muttered Pansy under her breath.
"I heard that."
"Good, you can hear."
Hermione clenched her jaw and rolled her eyes again. One day, they would surely fly out of her head considering Pansy made her do that so often.
"Are you coming to the Quidditch game tomorrow?" asked Pansy, almost casually.
"I don't care about Quidditch."
"Yes, but your boyfriend plays in the opposite team."
"My boyfriend?"
Pansy looked almost pissed. Hermione smiled, looking at the potion glowing golden.
"Weasel-bee. You lowered your standards. At least Nott was handsome."
"Ronald is handsome," argued Hermione. "What he isn't, most importantly, is my boyfriend. He's Harry's best mate, and I'm friend with Harry. So that makes him my friend too."
"I don't think he's aware of that," replied dryly Pansy. "He's been ogling you for days."
"Why do you care?"
"I care about Slytherin's image, not yours."
"If you really cared, you'd care about how almost all the school hates Draco and wishes he would stop snogging Astoria everywhere because it's very embarrassing to witness. I swear I saw a condom fall out of his pocket once."
"At least he gets laid," snickered Pansy.
Hermione repressed a shiver of disgust, and when she felt Pansy's arm tremble against hers, she understood the latter had just done the same thing. Their eyes locked for a second, and Pansy let out a small laugh, making the brunette chuckle.
"I think I'll come to the game, but just to support Theodore, Harry and Ron. Will you come too?"
"You can't support both teams."
"I stand with the winner," shrugged Hermione.
"That's such a basic boring bitch answer."
"I didn't ask your opinion."
Pansy's smirk widened. She was smiling like the Cheshire Cat. Hermione had expected the usual tension, the brittle sort of silence that always fused itself between her and Pansy whenever they were forced to share space and time. Yet they had settled onto their desk and actually talked. The cauldron gave off a low, steady bubbling sound, golden and thick, the half-formed Felix Felicis catching the firelight in warm ripples.
She kept stirring clockwise, slow and careful. Pansy added more fire under the cauldron, her forearm fully touching hers, without even looking at her. Minutes seeped by. No sneer. No roll of the eyes. No venomous remark. Hermione's shoulders loosened a fraction, though she kept her gaze firmly fixed on the potion so Pansy wouldn't see how unexpectedly light she felt.
Hermione found her breath easing, her mind settling into something she hadn't experienced around Pansy Parkinson in... well, ever.
Lightness.
That was the word.
It drifted through her chest like a new kind of spell, one she didn't quite trust. She could not remember the last time she had spoken to Pansy without her pulse rising in fury or her spine tightening with defensiveness. Even their civil moments were barbed, charged with something prickling and unpredictable.
But here, with the warm glow of the cauldron reflecting off the dungeon walls, there was less of it. Enough that Hermione could breathe properly.
She risked a sideways glance. Pansy looked focused, lips slightly parted in concentration, brows drawn together but not in anger. She was beautiful, in that old fashioned way women were gorgeous in the fifties. Pansy looked like a model fresh out of a fashion magazine after the Second World War. She had pulpous lips, low eyelids, dark eyes, dark hair, porcelain skin, high cheekbones. Hermione imagined the dip of her perfectly shaved eyebrows when Pansy was angry, the downward curl of her lips, the way her eyes were widening, shining with fury. Hermione thought she was even more pretty when she was losing her shit.
Her stomach dipped at the thought, but she forced herself back to the potion before her mind wandered too far. Still, the thought lingered. It always lingered. Tonight it felt less frightening.
This absence of venom felt suspended between them like a fragile bubble, and Hermione stirred carefully, as though the softness in the air required just as much precision as the potion itself.
She found herself enjoying it. And the realisation unsettled her more than any insult Pansy had ever thrown at her. By the time the half hour was nearly done, Hermione could feel the lightness spreading, warm and unfamiliar. She felt almost buoyant.
It had been ten days since the masquerade. Pansy's behaviour had changed. It was true that her whole attitude with Hermione had shifted, from absolutely unbearable and poisoning, to almost normal. During their first meeting to stir the Felix Felicis, Pansy had acted cold, but not insulting. But now, they had actually talked, and Hermione realised how much things had changed between them in this short span of time. Sure, the progress wasn't mind-blowing. But at least, she could exchange two sentences with Pansy without wanting to punch her. And that felt really foreign.
And Pansy was gay.
It still startled her to think it, not because she found it strange or shameful, but because it shifted something fundamental in the way she had always imagined Pansy Parkinson. Pansy had, for years, been a storm to Hermione's peace, a snake poised behind her shoulder blade, a snarl in the dark. A brute, a rival, an irritant she expected to clash with until they both left Hogwarts.
But now she felt... human. Not exactly softer. Just... real.
There was something about knowing a secret that powerful, something that pulled Pansy out of the narrow, rigid caricature Hermione had built of her. Suddenly she wasn't just sharp words and perfect hair and splendid makeup and caustic remarks. She was a girl with fear and hope and longing, a girl who hid pieces of herself the same way Hermione hid her own doubts and insecurities. It made Hermione feel unexpectedly exposed, like simply knowing this secret created a fragile, invisible thread between them. It wasn't just knowing that secret. It was also sharing it.
But Pansy didn't need to know that.
Hermione did not know what to do with the sensation. It prickled under her skin, too intimate to ignore and too complicated to examine, unless she had a whole week of nothing planned. She had never imagined Pansy having a private life that did not involve cruelty or men or money. Never imagined her blushing, hesitating, wanting. But now Hermione could not stop seeing those possibilities in her every movement. The dark circles under Pansy's eyes that morning after the masquerade. The trembling in her voice in the cupboard, the shaky breaths she had left when Hermione had pinned her in the library. The way she had talked to her almost normally tonight. Hermione closed her eyes briefly.
She felt strange. Not frightened, but unsteady, as if the ground beneath her had shifted a few degrees. Her mind kept circling back to Pansy, no longer with irritation only, but also with curiosity.
That curiosity was terrifying. Because if Pansy could be more than the villain in Hermione's story, then everything between them would meant something else entirely.
"Granger, stop stirring. You're going to mess things up," snapped Pansy's voice.
Hermione immediately stopped, a bit taken aback. She sighed, putting away her ladle. She got up in a groan, her handbag pulling on her shoulder.
"Sorry. Enjoy your dinner, Parkinson."
"You're not eating?"
"I'm not really hungry."
"Alright. Fuck off, then."
There wasn't any poison in her voice, and Hermione understood it was her way of telling her to do what she had to do. She smiled briefly.
"Careful with your shampoo, Parkinson. Green suited you well, but blue..."
"You bitch," spat Pansy.
Hermione blew her a kiss and left the classroom. Her legs felt so light it almost felt like flying, or parading.
She had barely made it halfway down the corridor when Harry and Ron appeared from the opposite direction, bickering loudly about something involving quaffles, strategy, or possibly who had forgotten to book the pitch. Their voices carried like always, familiar and boisterous, and she straightened instinctively. Harry noticed her first. He folded a long piece of parchment paper and folded it in his pocket. He slowed, squinting at her with that oddly perceptive look he sometimes had.
"Hermione," he said, drawing out the name. "Are you okay?"
"Hmm? Hi. Yes. Splendid," said Hermione, but she thought her voice sounded almost chirpy.
Ron leaned in, eyebrows lifting. "You look like you're blushing. Merlin, what were you doing down there? The dungeons aren't that warm."
Hermione saw Harry's hand plunge in his pocket where he had previously put the parchment. She felt heat crawl even higher up her throat. Wonderful. Exactly what she needed.
"I am not blushing," she insisted, though her voice betrayed her with the slightest tremor. "It's just the steam from the potion. And the torches. And—"
"Potter. Weasley," interrupted a cold voice.
Pansy passed through them, shamelessly elbowing Ron. Harry exchanged a knowing look with him that made Hermione want to vanish through the nearest wall.
She cleared her throat, trying to force the warmth out of her cheeks through sheer willpower. "Anyway... what are you two doing? Shouldn't you be at dinner?"
"We decided to practice a bit for tomorrow's game," explained Harry.
Ron brightened immediately, puffing his chest a little. "We just finished! Ginny nearly took my head off with a bludger, but I dodged it brilliantly. Harry said it was the best reflex he's ever seen."
Harry rolled his eyes, but he was grinning. "You tripped over your own broom and fell sideways. The bludger missed you out of pity."
Hermione let out a small laugh out of politeness, but her mind felt far away, still lingering somewhere in the dungeon where Pansy's perfume had mixed with the fumes of Felix Felicis. She willed herself to focus.
"Speaking of Quidditch," Harry said, nudging her lightly, "Gryffindor versus Slytherin tomorrow afternoon. Thought we'd see where your loyalties stand."
Hermione exhaled slowly, careful with her words. "I'll support both of you," she said. "And I'll also support Slytherin. Obviously I'll cheer for my house team. But I'll cheer for you two as well."
Ron snorted. "So you'll be clapping politely no matter who scores?"
"Well," Hermione said with a small shrug, "it sounds very diplomatic."
"It sounds like being a seal waiting for treats," commented Ron, but Harry stepped on his foot.
He laughed, but then tilted his head. "You sure you're alright? You look... distracted."
She stiffened. "I'm just tired," she replied quickly. "Long day. Lots of homework. Parkinson and I's potion is brewing correctly but... It's quite a commitment."
"Oh, so that's what you were doing with her! We were looking at your names and wondering why you two seemed so close!" exclaimed Ron.
"What?"
Harry crushed his foot so hard Ron yelped.
"Our names?" said Hermione, frowning.
"It's, um, a Gryffindor way of speaking. We were looking at you through the classroom door," said quickly Harry.
"It was closed," said Hermione dryly. "And you arrived at the opposite angle of the corridor. By the way, why are you two even here? Dinner is upstairs, you passed in front of the Great Hall to go here when you came back from practicing Quidditch."
Harry pinched the bridge of his nose and groaned, glaring at his friend.
"Nice, Ron."
"Cut it," Hermione interrupted, crossing her arms. "And what's that in your pocket? Why do you need a piece of parchment when flying? That's highly unpractical."
"Alright, alright," sighed Harry, exasperated. "We weren't spying on you, I swear. But I was given a map of Hogwarts during third year, and it happens that this map also shows the exact location and identity of every student. So Ron and I decided to check if you were okay, since your name was practically merged with Parkinson's."
"That's probably violating a good dozen of rules!" exclaimed Hermione, furious. "And you two were spying on me!"
"We were just wondering why it looked like you were shagging Parkinson every night for the last ten days!" whisper-yelled Ron.
"We were stirring our potion! And even if we were shagging as you said, that's not something you should investigate!"
Ron made a face that suggested this sounded like the worst fate imaginable. "Please don't tell any teacher. I'm sorry. It's my fault, not Harry's. I was too curious."
"Well don't be," snapped Hermione.
"Hermione, I'm sorry, we were just worried about your safety," said Harry, almost begging. "Think about how easier our Head duties can be with this map. It could help us immediately locating trouble."
He wasn't wrong, and she hated him for it. But this map, as forbidden as it was, could also be a great way to keep annoying Pansy. Hermione could locate her all the time, and prepare her mischief in advance. It was a golden opportunity.
"Give me the map and I won't tell anyone. I'll give it back to you when I'm done studying it."
"That's not fair," protested Ron.
Harry's teeth gritted. He cursed under his breath and gave her the folded parchment, looking extraordinarily pissed.
"Thank you. Anything I should know in particular about this map?"
"No."
"Perfect. Good night, boys."
She heard them mumble something back and smiled, turning on her heels. She hurried through the corridors, steps quick and focused, heart thudding too fast for reasons she refused to examine. The torches blurred as she passed them, shadows stretching long across the stone walls. She did not slow down until she reached the familiar stretch of green-lit stones leading to the Slytherin common room entrance.
Hermione pronounced the password, immediately rushing to her dormitory. Once inside, she practically leapt on her bed, bouncing on the mattress. She grabbed the parchment out of her robes and unfolded it.
It was desperately blank. Hermione kept her calm.
"Aparecium."
Thin characters started to appear on paper, traced in black ink. Hermione leaned, frowning.
"Messrs Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs, Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief-Makers are proud to let Miss Granger know she shan't open this map until she pulls her broom out of her arse."
"What in Merlin's name is that..." murmured Hermione, offended.
Immediately, she folded back the parchment, furious. She tried folding it again, tearing it, but it wouldn't budge. She tried other spells, even yelling another Aparecium, but the black ink shone again, mocking her. It was charmed, obviously. Harry and Ron were the only people able to read it correctly, and they knew it wasn't a big loss to give her this map because she couldn't use it.
Yet Hermione didn't really feel like giving this map to Slughorn, or McGonagall. She wanted to know how it worked. She knew Harry was right. It could be useful for their Head Students duties. But it was also against the rules, and she had no idea how they had found that map.
Frustrated, Hermione realised she was in fact, very hungry, and that it was acting on her mood. Tiredly, she stretched, sniffing her arm. And groaned. She couldn't go the Great Hall smelling like sweat. Why was she sweating so heavily when Parkinson was near?
Hermione closed the dormitory door behind her with a soft click. The room was dark except for the warm glow of a single enchanted lantern hovering above the vanity, and for a moment she simply stood there, letting the silence settle around her.
she grabbed her towel and clean nightclothes and headed straight for the showers. The hot water was a relief, scalding just enough to force her thoughts into a slow, hazy drift. Her mind circled through images of the map, of Pansy, of their Felix Felicis brewing, of Pansy, of Harry and Ron's guilty faces, of Pansy. Merlin, Hermione couldn't stand that way she herself was obsessed with Pansy. She was starting to think she was projecting when she attacked Pansy for being obsessed with her.
By the time she stepped out, wrapped in her towel, the fatigue had sunk deep into her bones. She padded barefoot across the cold stone floor back toward her room, expecting it to be as quiet as she left it.
It wasn't.
Voices, loud, laughing, familiar, filtered through the door before she even opened it.
Hermione froze for just a second before pushing the door gently. Inside, all the girls were already there, scattered across their beds or at their desks, chatting, brushing hair, polishing boots. Pansy was painting her nails; Tracey had somehow procured a pack of exploding snap cards; and Daphne sat cross-legged on her bed, wand tucked behind her ear, braiding the ends of her hair.
Hermione blinked, disoriented. She had missed dinner. Completely.
The annoyance snapped at her immediately, because how could she have let that happen? She prided herself on routine, on control, on never letting exhaustion swallow her whole. Missing something as basic as dinner felt like a stupid mistake, and the frustration simmered beneath her skin.
She tightened her grip on her towel and headed for her bed, avoiding everyone's glances. She knew Pansy was watching her. But when she approached her old cabinet, a loud meow interrupted her train of thoughts.
Crookshanks jumped on her bed. Or more like, what looked like Crookshanks. His fur was the exact same mossy green colour that Pansy had worn. Horrified, Hermione took him in her arms and rushed in front of Pansy's bed.
"What did you do to my cat?!"
"Le vert lui va si bien," replied Pansy casually, looking at her bright red nails
"I'm not laughing with you, Parkinson!"
"Relax, Granger, Murlap blood is pet friendly. He'll lick it off in a day or two anyway," sneered Pansy.
"I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!" hissed Hermione. "How dare you touch my cat?! And here I thought you could almost be a normal person an hour ago!"
Pansy tilted his head. Crookshanks meowed again. He jumped from Hermione's arms, stretching his paws on Pansy's bed. He started to rub his head on her knee, purring. Pansy gave her a radiant smile.
This was too much. Hermione wanted to slap her.
"You're quite pretty when you're angry," Pansy whispered, leaning in so only Hermione could hear.
"I—I mean, what—oh, sod off!"
This was catastrophic. Petrified, Hermione walked back to her bed. Crookshanks didn't follow her. She sat numbly on the sheets, her cheeks so warm she was sure she looked scarlet.
Daphne looked up, poorly hiding her amusement. "I didn't know for Crookshanks, but he loves Parkinson so she obviously didn't torture him—"
"Knock it off!"
Hermione closed the posters of her bed. The duvet sank around Hermione like a cloud, and finally, she could breathe a little, still enraged at this betrayal from her cat.
"Where were you, Hermione? Theo asked to talk to you during dinner, but you weren't there," asked Daphne's voice.
"Lost track of time."
That was when she noticed it.
On her bedside table, on a little enchanted plate, sat a square of chocolate cake. Moist, rich-looking, with a perfectly glossy layer of ganache on top. It looked freshly cut, still warm even.
Hermione stared. Her stomach gurgled traitorously.
She hadn't eaten since lunch. And she was tired, angry, and confused. She grabbed her wand, throwing quick detection spells on it.
It wasn't poisoned, charmed, or anything. It was a regular chocolate cake.
Surrendering, she reached for the fork laid neatly beside it and took a bite. The sweetness hit her immediately; her shoulders loosening for the first time all day. She closed her eyes briefly, savoring the taste, then took another bite, and another, until half the cake was gone.
"Thank you, Daphne" she murmured, regretting snapping at her. "I just needed sugar, I think."
Daphne opened her posters and paused mid-braid, brows lifting. "What are you talking about?"
Hermione gestured lazily to the cake. "This."
But Daphne only blinked at her again, confusion plain. "I didn't bring you anything."
Hermione frowned at her plate. Strange.
Tracey chimed in from across the room, "Wasn't me either! Though if someone's sneaking us cake now I'd happily accept some."
Daphne snorted. "It probably just appeared. House-elves panic when students skip meals."
Hermione wanted to believe that. It was simple. Logical.
But something tugged at her mind nonetheless.
She smothered another yawn, brushing crumbs from her nightshirt. "Well... whoever left it, it was lovely. I was starving."
Her vision swam slightly. She had been tired before, but now the exhaustion came in waves so thick she could barely keep her head up. She reached for the map on her table, intending to keep studying it before bed, but her hand shook faintly, the world blurring around the edges.
"Merlin," she whispered, "All I needed was chocolate and my bed."
Daphne chuckled. "Hermione, you look like you're about to collapse. Just sleep."
She tried to nod in agreement, but halfway through the gesture her head dipped forward and her forehead landed softly against the parchment spread across her desk. Her eyes fluttered shut without her permission.
She meant to move. She meant to shift to her bed properly.
But her limbs were too heavy, her thoughts too distant, the warmth in her stomach blooming outward in a slow, drowsy haze. The warm pile of hair that was Crookshanks jumped on her back and kept purring, scratching his claws against her towel. And within seconds, she was asleep, cheek pressed to the paper, breathing deep and even while the lantern flickered quietly above her.
When Hermione woke up, slowly, she felt like her mind had risen from the bottom of a warm lake instead of a bed. At first, she did not know where she was. The air smelled different. Like perfume, citrus, lime, grapefruit. The window next to her was casting its usual muted greenish light. Her cheek was still pressed to parchment. Her neck ached. Her back protested.
But she felt rested, in a way she hadn't felt in weeks.
Her eyes blinked open, slow and heavy. For a few seconds everything was blurred and quiet, as though sound arrived a moment late. She inhaled deeply, the smell of citrus and mint pulling her back into herself.
A warm shape rested against her hip.
Hermione tilted her head.
Crookshanks lay curled beside her on the bed, snoring softly with his squashed little face buried in the blanket. He was still blindingly green. Hermione smiled faintly in spite of her groggy confusion, lifting her hand to stroke his fur. He didn't stir.
She stretched, joints popping, and sat up. It wasn't until she rubbed the sleep from her eyes and blinked properly at the room that the shock hit her.
Parkinson stood in the middle of the dormitory, halfway through changing into her winter robes.
Hermione froze.
Pansy hadn't noticed she was awake. She had her back slightly turned, unhurried, clearly assuming the room was empty at this late hour. A pile of neatly folded clothes lay beside her trunk. Her hair tumbled loose just above her shoulders as she shrugged out of the night gown she had slept in, the fabric sliding away.
Hermione's breath caught.
Pansy was practically naked, her white panties almost looking back at Hermione. When she took off her gown, it fell on the ground, and Hermione saw the long, pale spine of her back, fully bare.
Merlin's sake, she could see the curve of Pansy's breasts without seeing them fully, but still.
The intimacy of the moment hit her with startling force. Hermione had never seen Pansy unguarded. They had been sharing a dorm for years, but Hermione had never seen her with so little clothing.
Her heart jumped into her throat. Her eyes widened. Her face burned instantly, hot enough she felt it in her ears.
She scrambled to look away, too fast, her elbow knocking into her ink pot and nearly sending it off the bed. She grabbed it instinctively, fingers fumbling, breath stuttering, cheeks growing hotter and hotter.
What was she doing awake? Why had she looked? Why was Pansy almost naked next to her?
Her brain refused to finish the thought. Everything inside her felt tight and fluttering, as though panic and arousal tangled together in a single, overwhelming knot. She pulled her blanket up instinctively, as if hiding behind it made her less of a witness to something she was never meant to see.
Her pulse thudded in her ears. She dared a small glance, only a tiny one, just to check if Pansy had noticed.
She hadn't. She was still here, almost strutting to her bed, practically bare. Her buttocks were round and perfect, her back slightly muscled. Hermione felt a spot under her stomach tighten so much it was almost painful.
Pansy grabbed her bra, attaching it. She put on a shirt, lifting her winter robes over her head with a fluid movement. The fabric fell around her like dark water. She adjusted the collar, pinned her House crest in place, then reached for her hairbrush, smoothing her glossy black hair as she faced her vanity mirror.
Hermione's cheeks flamed hotter. She swallowed thickly, pressing a hand to her forehead as if that could cool her down. It didn't. The fogginess of waking was gone, replaced by sharp, painful arousal. She could feel a damp spot forming uncomfortably in her knickers.
Hermione felt intrusive. Embarrassed. Startled. Most of all, horny.
Her heartbeat struggled to settle into anything steady.
For a moment, she stayed very still, barely breathing, unsure whether to speak or pretend she was still asleep or vanish under the duvet entirely.
Pansy lifted her brush, sweeping it through her hair in slow strokes, and Hermione's throat tightened. She needed to move. She needed to say something. She needed air. She needed—
"What's up Granger?"
Pansy's voice felt like a dagger. Hermione opened her lips but didn't reply anything, petrified.
"I saw you staring in my mirror. Like what you see or something?"
"No, no, I'm sorry, I didn't want to intrude, I..."
Pansy turned to her. She was smirking. Hermione hated her so much at this exact moment that she felt the damp spot in her knickers get even wetter.
"See you at the game. Bye, bitch."
Chapter 10: Game OnNotes:
TW: alcohol use
Chapter Text
Pansy was jubilating. She shouldn't have been. She was almost floating when she took her seat at the highest spot of the Slytherin Quidditch tower, overlooking the whole field. Her gloved fingers wrapped tightly around the her wand, emitting a constant heating charm. Yet she couldn't stop her limbs from trembling.
Pansy knew she was playing a dangerous game with Granger. Almost exhibiting her bum to her had maybe crossed the line. But crap, it had been worth it. It had been so worth it. From Granger's scarlet cheek, to her slightly parted lips, to her brown eyes opened wide, looking like a deer in headlights. It was brilliant. The rush of adrenaline and the excitement Pansy had felt had held more worth than any fit of rage she could tear out of Hermione. It felt scary and weird and unexplainable and incredibly problematic, yes, but it felt so good.
The early afternoon wind rushed past her ears in long, whistling breaths, grabbing back her attention. It carried with it the unmistakable scent of wet earth, wood and leather. The air was cold enough to sting Pansy's cheeks, but the sky was perfectly clear, washed in a pale winter-blue that made the distant treetops glow. Looking at the sky, Pansy could know it would snow tomorrow.
Far below, the Quidditch pitch stretched out in a wide, perfect oval of frosted grass. The white boundary lines stood stark against the ground, bright as cut chalk. The goal hoops shone in the sunlight, three silver arcs on each side of the field that sparkled whenever the sun caught them at the right angle. Shadows of the towers fell long across the grass, slicing the field into strips of dark and gold.
The stands creaked with every gust of wind, old wood shifting under the weight of a structure that had held generations of students cheering, screaming, cheering, booing. Pansy pulled her cloak tighter around herself. Even with warming charms woven into the lining, as well as Pansy's own heating spell, the cold found its way in through the seams, settling into her bones.
She looked down again.
From this height the field looked deceptively peaceful: empty, waiting, holding its breath. But she knew the quiet would not last. Soon, the doors to the locker rooms would burst open and the players would flood out, emerald robes gleaming, broomsticks tucked under their arms, boots crunching against the gravel path.
Pansy liked this moment before all that happened. The stillness. The clarity. It was everything she had been unable to feel in weeks, because of Granger's sudden decision to bite back.
The wind whipped strands of her hair across her face, and she brushed them aside impatiently, leaning forward slightly over the railing. Beneath her boots the wooden plank floor groaned, as if reminding her just how high above the ground she was. From up here, the castle looked distant, like some shadowed stone crown perched against the horizon.
She stared at the locker room doors. Any minute now.
Her breath formed small white clouds, dispersing quickly in the open air. Pansy exhaled slowly, the chill stinging her lungs.
"I told you, we should have come here sooner! There's almost no seats left!" shouted a familiar voice two benches below.
Pansy looked down, and her heart jumped in her chest.
"I didn't know you were a Quidditch fanatic," scoffed Granger, looking around for empty spots. "Tracey and Millicent didn't even bother to come, why should we—"
"Because Theo wants us there! And Potter and Weasley too! Do you understand what this means, Hermione? Whichever house wins today, we get to party tonight at the winning house!"
"As if I cared," groaned Granger, though Pansy had to lean forward to hear her.
"Hey, up there!" exclaimed Daphne, pointing directly at the spot next to Pansy.
The latter waved her fingers, smirking right at Hermione. The brunette's cheek took the same tint as earlier. She swore something Pansy didn't hear behind her hand and followed Daphne, climbing the benches. The blonde purposefully sat further, leaving Hermione no choice but to sit directly next to Pansy.
"You're not going to say hi, Granger?" asked Pansy, tilting her head.
"Hi. Whatever."
She was still so red. Pansy was ecstatic. Hermione turned the blonde murmured something to her, making her gasp. Daphne elbowed her and Hermione sat straighter, her forearm touching Pansy's.
"Are you going to apologise for my cat?" she asked dryly.
"Are you going to apologise for my hair?" answered Pansy sassily.
"No."
"Right, because you admitted it yourself, it suited me well."
"Why didn't you keep it then, may I ask?" she gushed.
"Honey, fashion is ephemeral. I have good taste, I'm not suicidal."
"I forgot fashion was the most important thing in the world."
Pansy studied her for a few seconds. She was wearing her robes and a hideous wool sweater under it, with flared jeans and fur boots.
"Yes, I've figured."
Even Greengrass snorted. Granger flipped the curls that had flown to her face with an irritated head nod. When she did, Pansy felt a whiff of perfume entering her nose, something like soap that lingered after a long shower, mixed faintly with the warmth of amber. She smelled exactly like tea.
The Slytherin team burst onto the field at that exact moment, and the stands erupted. The scream of students hit her like a wall, vibrating in her skull so hard she felt it behind her eyes. The banners snapped violently, the roar rising and folding over itself as green-robed players shot into the air, brooms slicing upward toward the sun. The noise should have swallowed everything else.
But it didn't, because Granger was sitting too close.
Pansy tried to keep her eyes fixed on the pitch. She really did, and only lasted about two minutes, the time that Gryffindor players took to make some spins and looping, making the opposite house cheer. But Granger's presence was a pulse at the edge of her senses, insistent and impossible to ignore.
It drifted toward her each time Hermione shifted even slightly, brushing Pansy's concentration to ribbons.
Pansy curled her fingers around her wand, knuckles whitening. Merlin, she was twitchy. Her knee bounced before she realised it, and she stilled it violently. It wasn't supposed to make her nervous. She was supposed to grab this golden occasion to nag at her, not become all jumpy and stressed. Pansy couldn't understand her own reactions when it came to Granger.
A roar went up as the Quaffle was released. Brooms dove. Players shouted. The wind sliced across Pansy's cheeks.
And she kept sneaking glances at the curl at Hermione's temple that the wind kept lifting.
"So," Pansy said loudly, eyes glued ahead as if the players depended on her absolute focus. "Did you use your Walkman to sing under the shower before coming to this game?"
Hermione's head snapped toward her, scandalised already, though Pansy thought her sentence wasn't really offensive. "What is that even supposed to mean?"
"You smell like soap." Pansy shifted one inch, even though Hermione was objectively giving her more space than Daphne was. "Your hair keeps hitting me. And I just pictured you taking a shower while singing this stupid song."
"I cannot control the wind, Parkinson."
"Try harder."
Hermione made an indignant sound in her throat. Pansy was absurdly satisfied by it. The cold air helped hide her smile.
"Why are you even thinking about me taking the shower?"
"It must be so rare," Pansy lied.
Granger had always been sparkling clean. Whether it was with her books, notes, clothes cabinet, shower products, or even herself.
"Is that all you got today?"
Another scream of the crowd rose as a Slytherin Chaser looped around a Gryffindor and shot the Quaffle clean toward the goal. Pansy tried to redirect her mind to the match. It should have worked. She wasn't a big fan of Quidditch, but she always loved a clean dive, a perfect feint, the strategy of it all. But Hermione exhaled beside her, soft and warm, and the tiny puff of air brushed Pansy's ear.
Her stomach flipped so sharply she nearly hissed.
She forced her gaze downward, trying to watch the players streaking below. The movements were blurs of green and scarlet. She knew the match was intense because the crowd kept lurching with every turn, but her focus slipped like water through her fingers. Her thoughts kept circling dangerously close to the girl on her right.
Hermione shifted again. A strand of her hair brushed Pansy's shoulder. Pansy flinched like she'd been burned.
"Honestly," Hermione yelled sharply over the noise, "if you are going to act like I am a contagious disease, at least have the decency to shift and take another spot!"
"I came her first!" Pansy snapped back, heat flashing across her face because she was absolutely acting like Hermione was dangerous, and she hated that it was true in an entirely different way.
Before Hermione could retort, Daphne, sitting to Pansy's left, let out a long, suffering sigh.
"Both of you," she exclaimed, exasperated, "can you please, for the love of Merlin, stop bickering for five minutes and watch the game?!"
Pansy blinked. Daphne rarely snapped. She had always been a quieter girl, never really interacting with her. Now, seeing her being so close to Hermione, Pansy figured she hid her game pretty well.
Hermione muttered an apology. Pansy pretended not to hear it, staring stiffly forward.
She tried to concentrate. The game was moving fast now, players streaking in sharp arcs beneath them. Blaise, the Keeper, blocked a shot with a dramatic twist that sent half the stands into a frenzy. Pansy cheered loudly, and she saw him wave.
But her chest was tight. Her pulse too quick. Every time Hermione leaned forward or back, the warmth of her body changed the air between them, panicking Pansy's senses.
She hated how aware she was, and she hated that she couldn't stop it. She also hated that the game she usually enjoyed at least a little bit felt like nothing but noise around the small, unbearable space between them.
Hermione's sleeve brushed hers lightly as she leaned forward to get a better view of a Bludger streaking across the field.
Pansy's breath hitched. She set her jaw so tightly it ached.
The crowd kept roaring, but she barely heard it.
"Hey, look! It's Harry! I think he's chasing the Snitch!" shouted Hermione, nudging Daphne's arm.
"Hah! You're supporting the enemy!" accused Pansy.
"Will you shut up for one second?!" Hermione barked. "Think about how unbearably smug Draco will get if he catches the Snitch! Do you want to go through that?! Isn't it why you broke up with him?!"
"I dumped him because his cock is so small it looks like the foetus of a white wyrm!" yelled Pansy, making Daphne burst out laughing so hard she kicked her feet and accidentally hit a Fifth Year boy sitting in front of her.
"A wyrm?! Because it spits fire?!" the blonde screamed.
"It can't even spit anything truly!"
A tear of cold, or hilarity, Pansy couldn't tell, rolled down Daphne's cheek. Hermione herself was laughing, hiding behind the hem of her robes.
When Pansy glanced up, Draco was flying at a remarkable speed behind Potter, trying to grab the end of his broom to destabilise him. But suddenly, Potter surged, and Draco narrowly avoided crashing on the Hufflepuff tower, following him.
Potter shot upward like a red comet, hand outstretched, fingers closing around nothing but air as the Snitch darted just out of reach. Pansy saw it all in a single sharp instant. The gleam of the wings. The determined line of Potter's jaw. And then Draco recklessly gripped the tail of Potter's broom to throw him off balance.
The stands gasped. Potter jerked sideways, wobbling for a heartbeat.
Hermione surged forward before Pansy herself could react, a strangled sound caught in her throat. Pansy felt the bench jolt as Hermione's weight shifted.
Potter recovered, diving toward the pitch with his absurd Gryffindor determination. The crowd screamed, the sound swelling like a storm against the wooden towers. Hermione released a shaky breath and collapsed backward into her seat.
Except she missed.
The wood was slick with melted frost, and her boots slipped out from under her. There was no time for her to catch herself, no room for her to grab anything. She fell sideways, cloak sweeping out in a swirl of black and green fabric.
Straight into Pansy's lap.
For one stunned moment, Pansy did not breathe. Hermione was suddenly all warmth and softness and startled movement against her. Instinct, sharper than sense, made Pansy grab her by the hips to steady her, fingers splaying automatically against the fabric of Hermione's robes.
Hermione froze. Pansy froze. The game continued roaring around them. Then the smell of Hermione's hair hit her again, closer now, dizzying in its warmth. The white cloud of her breath mixed with Pansy's.
Pansy swallowed.
"Well," she said, forcing her voice into something slow and drawling because anything else would betray the wild pulse thundering in her chest. "If you wanted to sit on me, Granger, you could have simply asked."
Hermione jolted upright so fast she nearly elbowed Pansy in the ribs. Her face was still red, and her cheeks looked disgustingly adorable with that tint. Pansy almost gagged.
"I slipped," she hissed, smoothing her robes in a frantic, utterly transparent attempt at dignity.
"So you say," Pansy sneered, leaning back with a smirk she barely managed to hold steady. "I am beginning to think you have very creative ways of showing affection."
Hermione glared at her, which only made her look more flustered. Her curls were mussed, a strand caught against her cheek. She brushed it away with trembling fingers.
"Oh yeah? What other kind of ways have you seen already?"
"I don't know, there was that time when you openly admitted to me you thought I looked pretty with my green hair. When was it? Yesterday?" replied coldly Pansy.
Her palms still tingled where they had gripped Hermione's hips.
"This is a great exaggeration!"
"Sure."
Daphne, on Hermione's other side, leaned forward to check if she was alright, but Pansy barely heard them. Hermione turned back toward the match, pretending nothing had happened. Pansy pretended too, but her heart had not slowed even a little.
She pressed her palms against her eyeballs, hoping this need to have Granger sitting on her again would quickly be gone.
Of course, it stayed.
A roar tore across the pitch as a burst of scarlet and swept past the Slytherin goalposts. The Quaffle shot cleanly through the hoop, and the Gryffindor stands erupted with triumphant screaming. Blaise kicked his foot in the air, looking angry at himself. Pansy rose, giving him a "you better focus or we'll lose" look.
She groaned loudly, tipping her head back against the cold wood of the bench.
"Brilliant," she muttered. "Absolutely marvelous. Shall we just hand them the Cup now and save everyone the time?"
Hermione scoffed. "It's only ten points, Parkinson. Try not to faint."
Pansy's head snapped toward her. "I do not faint. And do you want our house to win at this point or not?!"
"I don't care about winning," Hermione said, lips twitching.
"You better, because I can't stand another year losing to Scarhead and Weasel-bee," Pansy hissed.
Hermione raised a brow. "Why don't you do try outs then?"
"That's uncouth."
The game thundered on. Broomsticks streaked through the pale November sky, the whooshing of air and rumble of the crowd vibrating through the tall wooden tower. The wind had picked up, cutting through cloaks and scarves. Pansy watched Nott narrowly avoid a collision with a Gryffindor Beater and grimaced.
"Open your eyes, Nott," she muttered at the pitch. "Or get off the broom."
Hermione breathed out a small laugh beside her. Pansy pretended she did not hear it.
Their shoulders brushed whenever the stands rocked, whenever the crowd surged, whenever Hermione forgot to stay properly on her side of the bench. Pansy tried not to focus on it. She had a match to watch. A match, and freezing wind, and a hundred people crammed into a single tower. She had absolutely no business noticing the arm pressed against her own, especially when Granger was the source of it.
A particularly messy tangle of players swooped low over the pitch, and everyone leaned forward at once. Hermione braced her hands on the bench. Pansy leaned backwards.
"Weasley is down!" shouted Daphne.
He was indeed down. And it was a weak word. Weasley's broom was on the ground, and he was stuck on one the goal hoop, arms tightly holding the metal. Some Gryffindors yelled, probably asking for help.
"NOW" roared a Sixth Year boy below Pansy.
It seemed all the Chasers of Slytherin heard him. Nott kicked a Gryffindor Chaser, taking the Quaffle from his arms. He threw it in the middle loop, and Pucey caught it once it had passed through, throwing it back to Nott. Nott stayed almost still on his broom, passing and throwing the Quaffle while the Slytherin Beaters were defending him from the Bludgers.
"That's... ugly," commented Daphne.
Nott scored at least fifteen goals. The Slytherin tower had completely erupted. Slytherin now led the score with 200 points, Gryffindor barely hanging on with 30 points.
And somewhere between the movement and the shouting, her little fingers brushed Hermione's.
Pansy did not notice at first. She was busy breaking her vocal cords to boo Gryffindor players trying to help Weasley getting back on his broom while avoiding Bludgers. But then the contact stayed. A slight pressure. A faint warmth. And her attention evaporated again.
Hermione's little finger was resting against hers. Barely there, like a secret. It wasn't intentional, and Pansy wondered if Hermione noticed it too.
She went very still.
Hermione did not pull away. She did not react at all. Her jaw was tight with focus, curls whipping in the wind as she followed the players. Pansy's heartbeat picked up. Ridiculous, traitorous thing.
She should pull her hand back. She absolutely should. It was improper. Stupid. Pointless. And it made her feel like a giddy fourteen-year-old.
She did not move. Instead she said, lightly and scathingly, "If Potter stops showing off and tries catching the Snitch for once, he is going to crash into a Gryffindor banner and take half the tower down with him."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "He knows what he is doing, which is more than can be said for Draco. And even if he catches the Snitch now, Gryffindor will still lose."
"How dare you," Pansy whispered, pretending outrage, refusing to look at their hands.
"How dare you," Hermione mimicked in a soft, mocking voice that made Pansy's stomach twist.
The stands shook with another collective gasp as the Snitch streaked by again, a flash of gold and frantic wings.
Pansy leaned forward, breath caught. Hermione leaned forward too, shoulder pressing warm and solid into hers.
Their little fingers were still touching. Neither of them moved. Neither of them mentioned it.
Slytherin was now leading with 250 points, and Weasley had gotten back on his broom. But, as some Slytherin were surging towards him to mark again, Potter caught the Snitch right in front of Draco's nose, as the blonde was about to grab it, high above the Ravenclaw tower.
The Snitch glinted once, twice, then vanished into Potter's outstretched hand. The whistle shrilled. A wave of sound rolled across the stands as everyone erupted into cheers.
But the scoreboard blazed the result in bright, enormous letters. SLYTHERIN WINS.
The Slytherin tower exploded.
Green and silver banners whipped through the air, students launched themselves to their feet, and someone behind Pansy screamed so loudly her ears rang. Bodies shoved forward in celebration, hands grabbing her shoulders, her arms, anything they could reach in their frenzy.
Pansy did not wait for the crush to swallow her.
She bolted. Down the wooden stairs, boots pounding. Her heart felt as if it were trying to claw out of her chest. The cold tore at her lungs but she did not slow until the tower was behind her and she was sprinting across the grass toward the cloakrooms.
"Parkinson!" Daphne's voice carried behind her. "Slow down!"
Hermione was right beside her, already breathless, cloak flapping wildly as she tried to keep up. Pansy did not slow, not until she pushed open the door to the cloakrooms and stumbled into the quieter dimness inside. The heavy stone walls muted the roar from the pitch, turning it into a distant thunder.
She barely had time to catch her breath before the door slammed again. Blaise shot inside, roaring like a rutting beast, jumping on his feet. He skidded to a stop when he saw her.
Then he erupted again.
He grabbed her around the waist and spun her clean off the ground in a rare burst of euphoria, laughing like a madman. His joy was so sudden, so unfiltered, Pansy almost forgot how to breathe.
"You see that?" he shouted, though the words were barely intelligible through his laughter. "We crushed those fuckers!"
Pansy clutched his shoulders, dazed, letting herself be carried by his excitement. A massive burst of cheering shook the cloakroom entrance. Nott appeared, red-faced and beaming, hoisted onto the shoulders of two brawny sixth-years who barrelled in to grab spare brooms and gear, chanting his name.
More teammates spilled in, shouting, clapping, thumping lockers. The room filled with steam from the adjoining showers, with the sharp scent of grass, sweat, and cold air. The victory glow made every surface feel warmer, brighter.
Hermione and Daphne slipped in behind the crowd, both flushed and breathless, but smiling despite themselves. Even Granger looked caught in the moment, her chest still rising with adrenaline.
Outside, the procession began.
Students gathered around the players, escorting them back toward the castle like conquering heroes. Nott was carried high on shoulders, waving triumphantly, broom raised like a banner. Laughter and chants echoed against the castle walls.
"Weasley is our king,
He cannot block a single ring,
That's why Slytherins all sing,
Weasley is our king!"
"That's really mean," protested Hermione, but she was quickly interrupted by Nott screaming at her ears.
Blaise finally released Pansy, only to grab her hand and tug her toward the open air again.
"Come on!" he yelled. "Let's party!"
Pansy blinked once, letting the air burn cold in her lungs as she steadied herself, Hermione and Daphne at her heels.
Then she ran after the others, swept away by the roaring tide of green and silver marching back to the castle.
Dinner was a mess. Gryffindors were exceptionally silent. The whole Slytherin table was on fire, students cheering, clicking their cups. Pansy saw a Fifth Year boy throw his own cup of water on his hair. It was ridiculous. But this euphoria felt good.
It was nighttime when she reached the entrance of the common room. The stone wall slid open, and the Slytherins poured inside in a tidal wave of green and silver. The moment the first boot crossed the threshold, someone flicked their wand at the ancient gramophone in the corner. It jolted awake with a crackle, then blasted a triumphant, rock and roll melody that shook dust from the ceiling beams.
Cheers ripped through the room.
Students vaulted over armchairs, collapsing onto sofas, tossed scarves into the air. Cloaks and Quidditch goggles were discarded wherever they landed. Someone lit the floating lamps brighter than usual, tinting the green-stone walls with a shimmering emerald glow that rippled like water.
Fifth Years thumped their fists rhythmically on the tables, singing "Weasley is our king" so loud that some girls of Sixth Year had to yell at them to stop screaming. First and Second Years zigzagged between legs, shrieking with excitement, chasing enchanted confetti that a gleeful Third Year kept shooting out of his wand.
Draco was hoisted next to Theodore now, even though he hadn't be useful a single minute. He took full advantage of it anyway, raising his arms like royalty and shouting something pompous over the music.
Pansy, hair bouncing and cheeks flushed, was swept into a hug by Tracey before she could dodge. She protested loudly but did not pull away, swept up in the energy. Daphne was beaming, twirling a silver ribbon between her fingers like a streamer.
Granger, however, had already shifted into Head Girl mode. When Montague appeared at the threshold of the room, three bottles of rum in his hands, she immediately grabbed his shirt and pushed him to the side.
"Where did you get that?!"
"My girlfriend's a Hufflepuff! She told me how to break into the kitchens! You just need to tickle the pear on the huge fruit painting at the—"
"I don't care!" interrupted Hermione, frantically looking around her. Hide that until every students is in bed but Sixth and Seven Years!"
He nodded. Blaise appeared to Pansy's side, and she hooked her arm around his.
"As if the whole house didn't hate her enough already," Pansy commented.
"She's not wrong, they're still kids," laughed Blaise.
"I know, but I can't wait to—ah, here it comes."
The younger students booed dramatically as Granger clapped sharply for attention, voice slicing cleanly through the bedlam.
"Under Sixth Years," she called out, "you've celebrated enough. You can keep doing that but in your dorms!"
A chorus of groans rose instantly.
"Ten more minutes!"
"We won! Please!"
"Granger, please!"
Hermione crossed her arms, eyebrows raising with such authority that even the ones who wanted to argue shrank a little. Her expression made it clear she was not negotiating. Eventually, one by one, the littler Slytherins trudged toward the dorm stairs, muttering dramatically under their breath.
The instant the last one disappeared up the stairs, the Sixth and Seventh Years roared their approval and the party surged back with almost doubled force.
Someone dimmed the lamps to a sultry glow. Someone else levitated a collection of green glass bottles into a decorative spinning circle overhead. The gramophone switched tracks with a crack and a hiss, plunging the room into a deeper, darker beat that pulsed through the floor stones.
Pansy loved this kind of chaos. the kind where everyone could let loose and stop caring for a little while. She craved that.
Students danced between the sofas, half-dressed in Quidditch padding, even after dinner. Cloaks twirled, boots scraped stone, and the air itself seemed to vibrate. The room smelled of butterbeer, sweat and deodorant abuse. Whistles cut through laughter. Someone conjured silver sparks that rained harmlessly over the crowd.
Granger stayed near the back for a moment, observing with that stiff, reluctant amusement she always wore during Slytherin celebrations. Her hair was still wind-ruffled from the game, and though she pretended to survey the room critically, her eyes kept drifting toward the more jubilant pockets of the party, softening despite herself.
The music thickened into something fast, pulsing, electric guitar tearing the air. The kind of rhythm that tugged bodies onto the improvised dance floor. Pansy did not resist it. Not tonight. She sat on the sofa, stretching her arms, watching from the corner of her eyes Greengrass, Nott and Granger talk next to the chimney.
Blaise slammed four little green-glass vials onto the low table and grinned lazily.
Shots.
Draco, already flushed from the game, lifted his with a proud smirk. Millicent took hers in two gulps. Tracey coughed after hers and demanded another. Pansy tilted the glass to her mouth, tossing the potion-like liquid back until it seared her throat, spreading an instant, dizzying heat. Smoke escaped her nostrils and Blaise cheered. Astoria sat on Draco's lap and he whistled, holding her hips.
"You look awfully proud for someone who was perfectly useless during this game," slid Pansy, resting her empty glass.
His smile disappeared and he grunted, making Astoria laugh.
"Fuck off, Pansy."
Blaise poured her another shot. She took it. The world softened. Then brightened. Then pulsed.
She laughed, head tipping back, as Millicent clinked her second shot against hers. Blaise nodded approvingly, clearly impressed by their capacity. Pansy felt the room sway deliciously beneath her. The celebration roared around them, people dancing, shouting, drinking, and somewhere in the chaos, Granger stood with her arms crossed, lips pressed together in disapproval. Pansy could feel her eyes burning the back of her neck.
Perfect.
Before she could second-guess it, Pansy gulped a third shot and strode through the mass of bodies. She seized Hermione's wrist and tugged hard. Hermione stumbled, eyes wide, but Pansy only grinned, teeth flashing.
"Move," she muttered over the music, and then she spun Hermione under her arm just as the beat dropped.
Hermione's hair whipped around her face, catching light like a wildfire. She glared at Pansy as soon as she landed the spin, but Pansy just pulled her closer, swaying sharply, forcing Hermione to follow the tempo.
The common room cheered at the sight. Or maybe Pansy just imagined they did. Her head felt light, giddy, dangerous.
"You're drunk," Hermione said tightly, leaning away from her while still trapped in the dance. "Why are you dancing with a Muggleborn?"
"You're stiff," Pansy shot back, flicking her gaze down Hermione's body and up again.
She was still wearing those flared jeans but had discarded her brown jersey for a mossy green shirt. It was short, and when she moved, Pansy could catch a glimpse of the skin of her belly.
Hermione stepped on her foot in retaliation. Pansy hissed, then laughed. "See? You can have fun when you're not policing everyone."
"I'm not policing anyone. I'm trying to make sure the castle doesn't burn down because your friends think firewhisky is like pumpkin juice."
"It is," Pansy said solemnly, as if delivering profound wisdom, before spinning Hermione again.
Hermione's lips twitched. Almost a smile.
The music swelled again and for a moment they fell into a rhythm neither acknowledged but both sustained. Their breaths mingled. Their shoulders brushed. Hermione's hand was almost on Pansy's waist, not firmly placed, just hovering.
It was too close, too tempting, too confusing.
Pansy's stomach twisted and her mind scrambled for safer ground. Which meant provoking her, of course.
"You know," she said, leaning in so her lips nearly brushed Hermione's ear, "you dance better than I expected for someone who looks like she stores brooms up her arse instead of flying on them."
Hermione pulled back sharply, scowling.
"And you dance exactly as expected from someone who avoids feelings like they're contagious."
Pansy clicked her tongue. "Feelings are a weakness. You should know that. It's a core Slytherin value."
"That's just an interpretation." Hermione's eyes gleamed with rage. "Is that why you dyed Crookshanks green? Slytherin values and obsession with green?"
Pansy snorted. "It was funny."
"It was cruel," Hermione snapped, voice slicing through the noise. "It's not like he can actually do something about it like you did! I am still furious about it!"
Pansy waved that off with a loose, smug gesture. "You started it."
"No I didn't! You started it with the Chizpurlfe!"
"He looked adorable anyway, stop wailing. A little swamp creature with whiskers," cooed Pansy.
"Parkinson."
Hermione's voice dropped to a low, tight note that could have cut marble. Pansy laughed again, tipsy and too bold. "Come on, Granger. You cannot tell me you did not snicker even a little when he hissed at himself in the mirror this morning."
Hermione's face hardened. The warmth vanished from her eyes, replaced by something icy and brittle. Without warning, she yanked her hand free of Pansy's grip.
Pansy blinked. "What? Oh, come on, don't be such an uptight bitch—"
Hermione turned on her heel and stormed away, disappearing into the shifting bodies and green light before Pansy could finish the sentence.
Her absence hit like a cold splash of water through the fog of alcohol. Pansy stood very still, music pounding in the hollow space Hermione left behind. She could still feel the ghost of Hermione's hand almost on her waist, the faint heat of her breath near her cheek.
She swallowed hard, before Blaise shook her shoulders and led her to dance again. The alcohol's warmth faded faster than it should have. Pansy felt it draining from her blood with every beat of the music, leaving her sober-sharp and vaguely irritated. Blaise spun her, his hands light on her waist, laughter bright and unbothered, but the high she'd been riding earlier was gone.
She let him guide her through the steps anyway, though her mind wasn't in it. Her gaze kept drifting to the crowd, searching unconsciously for a flash of brown curls she knew she shouldn't search. The room felt too loud, too hot, too full.
"Pans, you're dancing like a corpse," Blaise said directly into her ear, grinning.
"Maybe I'm dead inside," she muttered back.
"That's not new."
She elbowed him, earning a wince, but even that didn't amuse her. Draco vaulted onto one of the green-velvet couches and shouted loud enough to silence half the room. "RIGHT, EVERYONE. WE'RE PLAYING TRUTH OR DARE!" Pansy groaned out loud.
Tracey cheered. Millicent pumped her fists. A couple of Sixth Years who were definitely too drunk screamed like banshees.
Daphne, hands on her hips, snapped at Draco, "Oh, grow up. What are you, twelve?"
Draco clutched his chest. "Daphne Greengrass thinks she's too mature for truth or dare—tragedy strikes the Wizarding world!"
"Oh, shut up," cut off Granger, appearing behind Nott and Montague.
But even Daphne couldn't resist when Blaise whooped and dragged a large emerald-glass bottle out from under the refreshments table.
"Circle!" he called, herding people like an overzealous sheepdog.
A good dozen of students, most of them being Seventh Years, sat down on the rug. Blaise pushed the table on the side, making some glasses spill. The buzzing music felt distant now, swallowed by the sudden anticipation that hung sharp in the air.
Pansy reluctantly sat between Blaise and Tracey, crossing her legs and flicking her hair with practiced disdain. Actually, it could be fun. It could be the perfect way for her to make Granger even more furious. Pansy just hoped she wouldn't run away from her like she had just done this time.
Draco plopped down at her right with an empty rum bottle, setting it dramatically in the centre of the circle like it was some ancient artefact. Granger sat directly across Pansy, looking like she really, really didn't want to be here. But Daphne's hand was gripping her thigh, forcing her to sit.
"Ground rules!" Blaise announced.
"Oh Merlin," Pansy muttered under her breath.
"No backing out, unless you want to take a shot," Blaise said cheerfully. "If someone gets asked to duel, no curses. No public indecency, we're not animals. But a good snog doesn't hurt. And no crying because of emotional damage."
"Emotional damage?" Theo echoed, deadpan.
"You know what's bound to happen," Blaise said, staring directly at Pansy.
She raised her chin. "If anyone here can't handle emotional damage, they're in the wrong House."
Draco smirked. "Beautifully said. Now let's spin."
Everyone shuffled closer, excitement building. The firelight painted their faces in a dancing green glow; shadows curved along the stone walls, and laughter rose like smoke. The old gramophone continued humming a low, lazy tune, serving as the background hum to the chaos that was about to unfold.
The bottle gleamed in the center of them all, catching firelight along its neck.
Blaise rubbed his hands together mischievously. "Ready? I'll start spinning."
Pansy's stomach tightened. Blaise grinned and reached forward. The bottle spun. It landed directly on Granger. The latter let out a groan.
"Granger, truth or dare?"
She stayed quiet for a moment. "Truth."
"No fun," sighed Nott.
"Have you ever had a wet dream about a teacher?"
"What?!"
"Or would you rather take a shot?" murmured Blaise, looking at her.
"I'd rather take a shot," said Hermione quickly.
"She definitely did," murmured Tracey, as Hermione drank the content of the small glass Nott gave her. "Pretty sure she thirsts over Dumbledore."
Pansy laughed. "Gross."
"Come on, she willingly dumped Nott. Who in their right mind would do that? The lad is so handsome."
Pansy shrugged. Hermione leaned forward, making the bottle spin with a flick of her wand. It landed on Draco. She looked at him with disgust and he smirked.
"Dare," he said loudly.
"Good. Malfoy, I dare you to block three of my Stupefy. If you can, I'll take another shot. If you can't, you'll have to go to bed."
A loud wave of whistle and laughs echoed in the circle. Draco got up after Granger, glaring at her.
"Who do you take me f—"
"Stupefy!"
Hermione's wand moved so quickly Pansy barely saw it. Draco reacted at the last second, narrowly blocking the spell.
"That's not fair!" he yelled.
Hermione grinned. The blonde's wand whipped the air.
"Tarantallegra!"
Hermione blocked the spell with surprising ease. Draco's face scrunched up with concentration. She took a step forward, faking a dramatic wand movement. Draco built another shield instinctively, before throwing another Stupefy at her. She leaned on the side to avoid it. Then, she turned on her heels and he simply stared at her, dumbfounded. She sat back in the circle. Pansy, confused, looked at her face. She saw nothing but satisfaction.
As Draco was about to sit down too, not without a few insults because he couldn't understand what she was doing, she softly moved her wand.
"Stupefy."
The spell hit directly his chest, and he flew against the nearest wall, choking.
"Good night Draco," Granger sang. "Sleep tight!"
Horrified, the blonde raised his head, staggering. Astoria rushed to him, helping him to stand up.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?!" he yelled, furious.
"Rules are rules. Sorry man," snickered Theo.
"Who gets to spin the bottle now?" asked Daphne.
"Well, you can," said Blaise, scratching the back of his head. "I hadn't thought someone would just send Draco to bed, to be honest."
Pansy sneered, looking at the blonde, who disappeared down the stairs in a torrent of insults. Daphne's perfectly manicured fingers reached toward the bottle with a little smirk, nails gleaming dark in the green firelight. She gave it a practiced flick of the wrist. The glass spun smoothly, rapidly, and the entire circle leaned in as though pulled by a single breath.
Pansy tried to look bored. She tried to look like she wasn't invested in any of this childish nonsense. But her stomach still tightened when the bottle slowed. Its base dragged lazily across the rug, turning, turning, wobbling, until it gave one final twitch and stopped.
Pointing directly at her.
A chorus of ooooh went up immediately, loud and merciless. Daphne's smirk widened, blooming like something wicked. "Perfect," she said lightly. "Parkinson."
Pansy lifted her chin, preparing for something stupid but survivable. A dare to hex someone's eyebrows off, or drink something disgusting, or perhaps insult a prefect to their face. She braced.
"Truth or dare?"
"Dare. Truth is for pussies."
Some boys snickered. Granger rolled her eyes. Then Daphne turned her head, scanning the circle.
Her eyes landed on Granger, still sitting right next to her.
Hermione froze mid-breath, wide-eyed, shoulders tensing as though she sensed a predator about to pounce.
Daphne announced, "I dare Parkinson to spend seven minutes in heaven with Hermione in the cupboard under the stairs."
Silence hit like a Bludger to the gut.
Then laughter burst around the circle, howls, shrieks, disbelieving gasps. Someone whistled. Someone else slapped the floor. Even Nott let out a stunned crack of laughter before choking on it.
Hermione's reaction was immediate and unmistakable: pure panic. She jerked upright, her whole face flooding red, hands coming up as if to defend herself from the very idea. "Absolutely not!" she sputtered. "Absolutely not, Daphne, what kind of—this is—no!"
"You already backed out once, Granger! Back out again and you go to bed!" chanted Blaise.
Pansy's panic was quieter, tighter, coiling low behind her ribs. For one moment, her brain went utterly blank. Heat flared up her spine. Her throat closed. Her body forgot how to sit or breathe or exist.
Seven minutes in heaven with Granger was her personal definition of hell.
Her heart punched against her ribs, sharp and fast, as though it were desperately trying to flee her own chest.
She wanted to shout no. To tell Greengrass she was out of her mind. To remind everyone she was not fourteen anymore and had no interest in juvenile dares, least of all ones involving Hermione bloody Granger.
But the circle kept cheering, egging them on.
"Do it!"
"Oh, this is too good!"
"Granger's gonna faint!"
"Come on, it's not that bad!"
"Oi, Parkinson! Don't chicken out now!"
Granger made another strangled noise, looking like she wanted the earth to swallow her whole. She glanced around for help, but Blaise was not in a helping mood tonight. Pansy swallowed hard.
But through the noise and the heat and the pounding of her heart, another thought slid into her mind with startling clarity.
It was a perfect opportunity, after all.
Granger was already flustered. Blushing. Off-balance. If Pansy said yes, she would be holding something explosive in her hands. Something she could wield. Something she could use to unravel that irritating Granger-ian calm in ways that anger never could. She could pull and push. So many embarrassing things had already happened to them since the beginning of this year. All Pansy had to do was press the right buttons and watch Granger explode.
Seven minutes to prod, tease, push, experiment. Seven minutes with no audience, no rules. Seven minutes to watch Hermione Granger lose her shit.
Pansy let a small, dangerous smirk curve her mouth.
"Well," she said, loud enough for everyone to hear, "I never refuse a dare."
Hermione let out a tiny squeak. The circle roared.
Pansy was going to tear apart this bitch.