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Chapter Text

Pansy Parkinson knew three things prior to hitting the club that night:

1. She was in a horrendous mood that afternoon.
2. She wanted to yell at her mother for sending that awful new marriage proposal to Theodore Nott of all people.
3. The only way to make all that go away was to bury herself. Either in work or in someone’s thighs; that was still up for discussion.

The third thing she knew was fuelling her need to evade... And the debate on what to bury herself in was settled as fast as she glanced at the dance floor and the bar, finding a pair of nice… “eyes” that seemed to capture the light around them and pull her like a magnet. It did help that those eyes were glued to a beautiful face, with pink and full lips and a smoking hot body.

Pansy smirked. Thighs it was, then.

She glided through the dance floor, letting her nerves get soaked in the humming of the bass and the rapid blinking lights that were surely designed to look like everything was slowing down all around the club.

How dare her mother propose Theo? Like she’d agree to marry that sorry excuse of a man. He was a handsome bloke, but not quite up Pansy’s alley in mind and soul. And body, mind you. She was a force to be reckoned with and enjoyed the banter and shoving people around, but… She needed a challenge for a partner, not a pushover.

The Parkinsons were growing restless upon seeing their only daughter refuse to get married and settle down, but Pansy was tired of being treated like a breeding human. Why all the fuss about a new era for the Wizarding World, if everyone expected her to be a mother, stop pursuing her career and aspire to be the best cook in her household? She’d rather choke herself to death than fulfil that old view system.

The Howler that arrived that afternoon at her potions store left no questions unanswered about her parents’ views and opinions, but she was done with their expectations. Fuck them. There were also a couple of letters she decided to ignore; there would be time the next day to check them. That night, she was hunting for other things, not for approval or work.

“Martini. Shaken, not stirred," she said to the waitress behind the bar as she reached it, carefully playing with her raven hair and discreetly checking if the mesmerising stranger to her left was paying any attention at all. It was all a game. A game she excelled at.

“Are you perchance James Bond, sweetheart? I’ve only seen him asking for that drink,” said that hotshot target. Pansy had no idea who that bloke was. James what? Bah, who cared? Shame that the beautiful body of that stranger at the bar belonged to a Muggle, because then using magic was out of the question. She’d have to either shag her silently in the loo or take her back to her place and delay the feeling of her mouth on her skin. Which, in turn, made the chase more… thrilling. She turned to face her, careful to show exactly how much the light reflected on her little sparkling dress that covered close to nothing.

“I’m whomever you want me to be tonight if you play your cards right,” answered Pansy with a knowing smirk, noticing the hunger in her companion’s eyes as they slowly swept unapologetically her whole body.

“My, my… You do seem to have his confidence,” pointed the girl. She was sipping from a bloody-looking glass that stained her lips a crimson tone. Pansy wanted to taste that flavour, but regained her composure in time by drinking a couple of sips of her martini. It tasted bitter, but with a sweet aftertaste. Much like the night, it seemed.

“I’m nothing if not confident, sweetheart,” bit Pansy back. If things were headed the way they were supposed to, words wouldn’t be the only thing her teeth would sink into that night.

“That makes two of us. Care to check which one of us wears it better? Lucy’s the name, by the way," she stated, arching an eyebrow while biting her lip.

Pansy was getting lucky that night. She so was, and she knew. But she loved the game as much as the aftermath.

“You want to compete with me, Lucy? Seems to be a poor use of our time, mind you,” purred Pansy.

“What would you rather do, oh mysterious stranger?” said Lucy, playing with a strand of curly brown hair in her long fingers. She looked cute, but Pansy knew better. That smart mouth was not only proof that Lucy was not some doe-eyed, oblivious girl who knew nothing. She knew. But she pretended not to, to lure everyone in.

“Isn’t it obvious?” asked Pansy, leaning in until her lips were close to Lucy’s ear, grazing its shell with every whisper. Pansy felt the subtle tremble in the girl’s body as her mouth lowered to that beautiful throat. Great, let her feel how lured in she was. “I’d rather scream your name, little Luce. Care to lend a hand to poor little me in that endeavour?”

“That depends,” answered Lucy through ragged breath as Pansy kissed her jaw. She tasted like honey and felt like glass. And all Pansy could think of was how those stained-bloody lips would move against hers and how far down her body she would allow them to explore. “How much do you need to walk tomorrow?”

Pansy smiled before biting that neck and hearing Lucy’s low moan. Thank goodness she could Apparate to work the next day, because that night she was determined to achieve jelly legs, unholy screams and an unknown threshold of pain and pleasure.

Pansy would feel the print of Lucy’s door on her back the next morning; she was sure of that much. And she couldn’t care less.

The Muggle was pressing her hard against it, grabbing both of Pansy’s wrists above her head and sneakily slipping her knee between the witch’s thighs.

Merlin’s beard, that was fucking hot.

Lucy was ravishing her neck with kisses, carefully biting and sucking on her skin, and Pansy was trying to regain some sort of control. How could she let that girl take on the leading role?

“Gosh, little Luce,” she said, attempting not to moan as the words left her mouth. And failing miserably when the girl pushed a little up her knee.

“What, gorgeous? Intending to still prove you’re more confident?” she purred against her jaw.

Enough. Did she cheat using wordless magic to free one of her hands from the vicious grip Lucy had? Yes, she did. Would she do it again? Absolutely.

Pansy grabbed the girl’s chin and smashed their lips together, hard. Circe, did Lucy’s mouth taste good. Like lime and spice. And Vodka. And oblivion of that awful afternoon as soon as the witch bit hard on that swollen lower lip.

“God, I want you naked now, gorgeous. If that little and lovely dress stays in my mouth’s way one more second, I’ll rip it to threads,” moaned Lucy between those soul-consuming kisses. The witch traced her lower lip with her tongue before biting it again and giving it a tug that made the Muggle whimper.

“Careful now, little Luce. Don’t threaten me with a good time,” warned Pansy with a smirk as her hand tangled in the girl’s hair and pulled, bearing her throat to the witch’s torture of licks and kisses.

“You’re such a brat, sweetheart,” replied the girl, tracing Pansy’s hip with her hand and lifting the hem of her dress to her waist. “Tell me, would you rather be fucked against the door or on my bed? Which one seems more suitable?”

“Why pick, little Luce?” answered Pansy as her lips found Lucy’s collarbone and sucked it, extracting the most divine moan up to date on that night.

“Both it is, then,” she weakly replied before her fingers moved between Pansy’s legs, finding her mark. “Black lace underwear? My, my, someone was planning to get shagged today…”

“Says the girl wearing no bra and no knickers,” whispered Pansy as she turned them around and pushed Lucy against the door.

“How do you know I…?” inquired the girl, confused.

“I didn’t. But thanks for the… Ah. Confirmation,” purred Pansy before her hand unbuckled Lucy’s shorts and started moving just beneath her. “It makes my life much, much easier.”

It was unfathomable. She, a fucking pure-blood, fucking a fucking Muggle. And fucking her so on purpose that she couldn’t erase that smile from her face. If only the Sacred Twenty-Eight knew that she’d rather do a girl who knew nothing of magic than one of the respectable gentlemen of the pure-blood families.

Lucy’s fingers started moving again against her, this time not stopping at the lace, but moving it aside and burying themselves in her.

Circe, it felt like heaven.

Pansy pressed Lucy harder against that damn door, sucking her collarbone again. One of her hands grabbed and squeezed gently the girl’s breast, marvelling at the sight of it. The nipple perked up beneath that silky, tight blouse, while her other fingers were rather occupied between Lucy’s legs, making her scream and moan and whimper.

Pansy groaned on her skin as Lucy’s pace became faster and steadier, rubbing all the right points. This was just against the door. This girl had no business making her squirm like she was just doing, becoming undone under her touch. Hell, the witch was all over her, and Lucy still could move and extract sounds that Pansy thought she could control—wrongly.

Oh, for fuck’s sake, little Luce. Just come for me so I can shag you on your fucking bed over and over, until dawn makes me regret going out tonight and fucking you until you cannot move again, Pansy thought. Lucy did not comply, as she kept stroking again and again, faster and deeper.

Pansy looked up. The girl, hot and bothered, smirked at her. The fucking nerve, I’ll—she thought, but was cut short.

“Come on, gorgeous. That’s all you’ve got?” asked the Muggle.

“Cheeky little Lu—”

Lucy flicked her wrist. And Pansy saw the stars.

Her legs could barely support her body the next morning when she changed that sign on her store’s door from closed to open using a simple flick of the wrist, pointing her wand at it.

Pansy smiled.

Last night had had a lot of flickers, a lot of things, and a lot of screams.

It was just what she needed, although her body was still rocky from the sleepless night and the sheer energy spent on that girl’s flat.

As soon as her first employee walked through the door, she went to her office. There were still loads of things to do: check the amounts of ingredients left to craft new potions, make sure the numbers matched, distribute the bonuses for the lot that worked for her, answer that damn Howler with a “No, thanks, mother” written in perfect italic calligraphy and read both the post and the Daily Prophet, with a steamy mug of coffee and maybe even a cigarette to pair it up.

After the night she had, a single smoke felt justified, even though she’d promised to stop that far-fetched addiction for a pure-blood. Another way to defy her dear family.

There was a lot of work to be done and not a lot of time to do it. August’s ending was at her door, and students would start to come in like every year before leaving for school. Maybe for ingredients, or cauldrons, or recipes. Maybe some of them would just like to glance at the fallen-from-grace pure-blood, the one and only Pansy Parkinson. The girl who had dared to suggest giving up Harry Potter to the Dark Lord to save the skin of everyone in that damn castle, who faced a tiring trial, who atoned for her crimes with tears, hard work and sweat. Or the one who could build up from nothing the most successful potions store in England, achieving the hardest and rarest elixirs and brewing the deadliest concoctions.

She was nothing if not resourceful.

And yet, every time a wizard spared her a glance, she felt a pang in her chest at the way their eyes hardened and their lips thinned, pressed together in that ‘I hate you’ narrow line.

An owl flew across her office, dropping the paper on her lap and biting her fingers with affection. Pansy smiled as she threw a gummy to her.

“You’re way too spoiled for your own good, Daisy,” she murmured, shuffling the owl’s feathers with care.

She scanned the front page of the Daily Prophet. Utter crap. There, in capital letters, was written:

Rita Skeeter is to make a comeback with a story for the readers. A scoop no one saw coming, yet everyone pines for: Read tomorrow’s paper to find out about the big secret that no one at the Ministry of Magic wants you to know.

Bullshit. It would probably be some dumb story about the Dumbledores again, or maybe Skeeter had grown rather tired of that way and decided to focus more on Newt Scamander.

Pansy didn’t give a flying fuck.

She absentmindedly read the letters she’d received yesterday, previous to being so well-fucked that she didn’t care.

Maybe she’d see little Luce again. That girl knew how to make her sing… for a Muggle. Time would tell; if she needed to blow some steam, she knew where the girl lived.

One of the letters grabbed her attention: it proudly displayed the Hogwarts logo, along with her address.

That was strange.

So, of course, Pansy opened it carefully and started reading.

Minerva McGonagall
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Scottish Highlands
United Kingdom

Pansy Parkinson
Owner of Cauldron of Snakes
99C Diagon Alley
London


9th of August 2008

Dear Ms Parkinson,

I am sorry to disturb you with such haste, but the situation requires me to do so. I was astounded when I learned of your mastery over potions—you shone always brighter in my class than in my colleague's one, Severus. This came to me as a surprise, but warmed my heart seeing that you could pursue a path for yourself after everything we all went through, and forged a successful career out of hard work, intelligence and ambition.

These, and not the bad-tongue and ill-mannered comments regarding your house, are the true qualities of a Slytherin, if I may say so.

I’m writing not just as a way to congratulate you on your hard-earned success, which was long due on my part, and I ask that you forgive your old Professor for not doing it sooner, but to, regrettably, ask a favour of you.

After stepping up in Severus’s absence after the war, Horace Slughorn is abruptly retiring for private reasons, some of which affect his capability as a teacher and his health, both of which seemed to hold age at bay altogether.

I am, then, in dire need to find a replacement both for the subject he was so attached to, Potions, as well as a new Head of House for Slytherin.

Since, per different circumstances and politics, there’s not a single Slytherin teacher left on Hogwarts grounds, I am tasked with finding a suitable replacement for our dear Professor.

Since I believe you’d be a suitable match for the role, I am therefore asking that you consider this job offer on my part, remarking that it is just a favour, and should you accept and then not wish to continue the next year, I’ll find a new replacement for the noble House of Slytherin.

I understand that this may come as a shock, but the Snakes need someone of their own to lead them, someone to understand and respect their values, but someone who has learnt from the past and ushers them not to repeat the same mistakes.

I believe you, Ms Parkinson, are that person, so I ask you to consider joining us at your former school.

But alas, one can only hope you find in your heart that this is the right call for you and your future.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Headmistress of Hogwarts School
of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Her fingers crumpled the paper with every sentence Pansy read, grabbing the letter harder and harder as her eyes devoured every word in her old Professor’s handwriting.

“Daisy, what do I do?” she whispered, closing her eyes and letting her head fall back.

She had a life in Diagon Alley.

Despite the awful glances, despite her family’s pressure into marriage, despite the yearning in her heart for more.

She had money and power; a thriving career, a security net. She had her friends—Malfoy, Greengrass, Zabini—all cocooned in their perfect bubbles, distant and unshaken by her presence.

Hell, Pansy even had sex whenever she wanted to, and with gorgeous women that fawned over her obvious striking beauty, which she surely could not do if she were under McGonagall’s discerning eye at Hogwarts. Can you imagine hitting The Three Broomsticks, looking for a nice time? No thanks, no one there deserves that treatment from the shunned Slytherin Princess. Or worse yet, picture getting somehow lucky with someone worth-worshipping, and having to watch that Professor’s hawk eyes the next morning, knowing she knows. Because she’ll know. Hard pass, she thought.

So, in short, she had everything little Pansy dreamt of and thought impossible, locked up for half a year in that dreadful place. A shiver went up her spine when she remembered Azkaban and the dementors patrolling its hallways, leaving behind shells of people and not a soul in their wake.

She shook her head, gripping tightly the edges of the table until her knuckles turned white and the sensation subsided a bit.

Pansy dried the drops of sweat on her brow with her sleeve and took a couple of deep breaths.

She was not in Azkaban. She was in her office, surrounded by money, influence, power and independence.

So, she had all life could’ve offered her. She earned it, fought cleanly for it. Survived, accomplished, conquered, proved them wrong. She rose on top.

And yet.

And yet.

She was not needed. Anywhere. Not by her clients, or her one-night stands, or even her close friends.

Draco and Astoria were closed to the world, raising two-year-old Scorpius Malfoy out of the public eye and the sneering comments of people. They didn’t have time to check up on her, or meet, or go out for a wild night.

Daphne was never around, always travelling the world and discovering new cultures, never growing roots anywhere. Whenever she came back to London, however, hell unleashed and both Pansy and Daphne shared their stories of mutual conquests, better looking trysts and new and juicy gossip going around. Those were the good times.

Blaise had, for some reason, moved in with Narcissa Malfoy. They both lived in her vineyard, on the south coast of France. Whatever was going on between those two, Pansy didn’t know—nor wanted to, as Draco so elegantly put into words whenever she asked.

At the end of the day, only Daisy depended on her. And Pansy was always surrounded by people, but the more time she stood tall at the helm of her business, the more alone she felt.

Maybe she needed a change.

She thought of it: she could go to Hogwarts and try to rewrite history. She could try to erase altogether the animadversion in every glance, every sneered comment.

Pansy could try to matter in a different way, to reshape the legacy of her house.

She could delegate her responsibilities in the shop to her employees, praying for them not to mess the business up.

And, if push came to shove and Hogwarts was really not her call, she could always come back to Diagon Alley.

Yeah, maybe that would be good.

A way to mend the world that she unintentionally helped to break.

A Slytherin way to fix. The Pansy way.

Chapter Text

Hermione frowned slightly when she stepped into the Ministry that morning. She had a sensation of panic she could not explain, slowly creeping under her skin as if trying to wear her down even more.

She chose not to wear make-up, and the dark circles below her eyes showed everyone just how little sleep she was getting every night, and not for the reasons one might wish.

She lay alone in that cold bed, tumbling around every five seconds, praying to Morpheus for the sweet sleep she craved and didn’t come.

It was maddening.

Lately, nothing seemed to go her way: from the little detail of not receiving The Daily Prophet at her home anymore, and thus preventing her from her morning routine with tea, honey and today’s headlines, to Ronald Weasley’s abstention from home for who knows how many nights in a row.

Sure, they both had strange schedules.

Sure, they both prioritise work; Hermione as the Senior Undersecretary and Ron as an Auror.

Sure, they both loved each other despite not sharing even a cold breakfast or a meaningful conversation.

But surely, they were supposed to sleep in the same bed once in a while, or make time for their relationship to progress—or to heal.

Things were going fine until mid-2003, when Harry and Ginny had announced they were waiting for their firstborn, a boy Hermione had loved as her own and showered with presents and affection despite Ginny’s warnings about spoiling him, and Harry’s carefree laughter whenever Hermione had agreed to be James’s nanny so they could take a break.

That had spurred something in Ron. Maybe jealousy, maybe longing. But they had clashed.

Ron had wanted a family. Hermione had said the two of them were already a family, that there was no need whatsoever to even think about a third member. Ron had wanted children, plain and simple. And Hermione had been so focused on work, she had said she wasn’t ready. The time hadn’t seemed right for either of them, but only she had been brave enough to voice the reality out loud. Which, in turn, had made her husband bitter and self-absorbed. Harry had tried to meddle, calming the waters between his two best friends and, to his credit, refusing to take either side as the right one. To no avail, in the end.

Molly had joined the discussion, always the Ron-protector. She had yelled at Hermione for not thinking of her son and his wishes. How dared she, a woman, be career-driven instead of pursuing a family?

Names had been called. Bitch. Liar. Unworthy of love. Sexist cow. The list had been going on until Ginny had slapped her own mother and Harry had dragged Hermione out of The Burrow, while Ron had calmly watched the two women of his life tearing each other to shreds.

Something had broken that night.

Something that neither Ron nor Hermione had known or knew how to fix.

He had started working more hours and doing night shifts. Hermione had pulled all-nighter after all-nighter in the library, or had stayed back at her office more than necessary. Both avoided home like it was some deadly curse, and refrained from interacting with each other.

And so their dance had begun, and their movements still remembered the paces that morning, when the clean kitchen had welcomed Hermione with a mug of tea and the coldness of another day alone.

Surely, they could fix it. They were Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger—they were the ones who stopped Voldemort’s rise. Surely, if they could save the world all those years ago, they could also save their marriage. Surely.

Her low heels echoed on the black tiles. Chin held high despite her obvious state of exhaustion, Hermione turned every head at the Ministry’s entrance when she passed by.

Was she looking that bad? She bit the inside of her cheek, trying to soothe her own anxiety as she stepped into that lift, alone.

She needed a break.

She needed to go on.

She needed to vent. She needed to apologise.

Her whole life felt like a contradiction every damn second, and she could not stop moving or everything would come crashing down and tear her apart.

And because that day had begun like any other, but the chills in her spine warned of a new storm brewing, luck was also out of her reach.

The doors of the lift opened, and a ginger stopped breathing for a second, just as Hermione looked at her husband for the first time in weeks.

Not that anyone knew that, still. Appearances had to be kept in politics, and especially if those involved Harry Potter’s best and most loyal friend, Ronald Weasley and the brightest witch of their age and third in that group, Hermione Granger. They, somehow, were proof that a brighter future lay ahead for all to see, despite the darkness that crept behind the doors of their home.

Ron awkwardly cleared his throat and averted her gaze, “I’ll catch the next one, love. Wouldn’t want the Senior Undersecretary to be late due to some auror’s business”.

“Don’t be silly, Ronald. There’s no need for such… theatrics,” replied Hermione, faking a smile that burned all her insides as people started to stare.

“If you say so,” he whispered while stepping into the lift.

The doors closed. And their dance continued.

“I trust that you’re working on something important, since you’ve been gone for so long,” said Hermione plainly, her voice devoid of all emotion.

Ron didn’t look at her at all before replying hastily. “Pretty much, there’s a bit of fuss going around about a new group related to blood status. Nothing to worry about it seems, but… Better be safe than sorry.”

That took out another piece of her heart. It had been almost ten years since Voldemort’s demise, and there were still people so abject that they couldn’t let go of the past and accept Muggle-born wizards and witches into their circles. “But surely you could come home once in a while. I fear Crookshanks has already forgotten you.”

“That damn cat only exists to vex me. I doubt he’s sad about my absence.”

“And what about me, Ronald?” asked Hermione, turning her face to her husband. She was tired. She wanted her best friend, not that coldness that resulted in that sham of a marriage. He said nothing. “Am I not worthy of your time?”

“You once said we two were family enough, Hermione. I reckon the same can be said for one, since you were so hell-bent on not hearing anyone out while you stomped on my dreams and broke my heart.” He didn’t yell. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t even look at her as the blow landed, worse than a slap. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do. Since that is the only thing that matters to you, that is.”

“Ron, that’s not what I—”

“Save it. I don’t want to hear any more apologies or fake promises. The only reason we’re still together is because the fucking world would crumble should we split. But what happens behind closed doors? That’s no one’s business. Live your life, Hermione. I’ll try to enjoy mine,” he said while squaring his shoulders and leaving her, once more, alone, cold, numb, and so done with the world around her. There were words in her brain, and shouts in her throat, and curses on her tongue. But her voice failed her as Ronald’s back disappeared around the corner.

Tears prickled her eyes, but she didn’t let them fall. The lift’s doors would open again any second, and she mustn’t show weakness when everyone expected strength.

Firm steps, cold glances and held-high chin.

That was what she had become. That was what the world made her.

That was everything she despised.

“Hermione, what are you doing—never mind”

“Greetings to you, too, Minister. Did we have a meeting scheduled for today? Forgive me, it must've slipped my—Something on your mind?” Hermione calmly asked, curious as to why Shacklebolt would be surprised by her presence in her own office.

“Haven’t you read the Daily Prophet today?” he replied.

“No. There must’ve been some sort of mix-up, because I no longer receive it at home. Not a painful loss, but it still stings not being able to keep up with the new—What?”

“Figures,” whispered Shacklebolt as he handed her the paper.

Hermione’s face contorted in a disgraceful scowl as she read the headline: The new book of Rita Skeeter hits the market.

“My, is that old hag still around, poking for stories from her imagination?” she asked, yet to grasp the extent of that headline if one were to look at Shacklebolt’s worried frown.

“Keep reading, honey.”

She obliged. An instant must-read, where the famous journalist-turned-novelist pokes at the holes of the most famous marriage of the century: The Weasley-Granger arrangement.

“What is that old mummy up to now? And going after me and Ron? Does her decorum know no bounds, her decency no barriers?”

Kingsley said nothing.

Her eyes scanned the whole front page. So that’s why everyone was looking rather funny at her that afternoon.

An inside source assures this reporter that the marriage between these two souls was nothing but a sham from the beginning, and now its cracks are out in the open for everyone observant enough to see. Luckily for all of you, readers, Skeeter has done the work already: every detail, from the devoid of love home that they both reluctantly share, to the brief and pointed conversations growing rather cold and distant. Did they lie to all of you to advance their careers, acting as the perfect happy couple and counting on The Boy Who Lived’s support while secretly loathing each moment they spent together? Or was a marriage born out of two traumatised teenagers that hadn’t known love before and did guilt each other out of unknowing?

Skeeter would like to remind our dear readers of the relationship that both Granger and kind and loving Harry Potter had seemed to have during their fourth year, and how the Muggle-born broke the poor hero’s heart after attending the ball with none other than handsome and famous seeker Victor Krum, who chose not to comment at the time of the matter. Granger looks like a woman who knows her way around boys and men, drinking from their fame while she strengthens her position as Senior Undersecretary and future Minister-to-be.

Buy the new book to find out about Hermione Granger’s darkest secrets: not just her dubious intentions with the Weasleys’ name, but her aspirations to get rid of all the pure-bloods and their status, angry still after ten long years of waiting to assert her dominance through laws that seek to prosecute those who wronged her in the past. A tale of fake-love, power and vengeance.

All that, and more, in Skeeter’s new book!

Hermione opened her eyes, her mouth and her arms. She wanted to yell. Again, again, again. Her legs failed her while all she could think of was how much it would take for the world to simply let her be herself. Not Ron’s wife. Not Harry’s friend. Not the brightest witch. Not the hope of the new generation. Not the brave and composed Muggle-born.

Just Hermione Granger.

Her hands ripped the damn paper to shreds, and her heart shouted that it had had enough.

Kingsley caught her before her head hit the floor, but her body went limp in the Minister’s arms.

Surely no one would believe that hag over her. Just as surely as her marriage to Ron was not broken beyond repair, her life was what she had always dreamt of. Yeah, surely…

But her mind knew, deep down: There was no dance anymore.

There was just darkness as her eyes closed and her body finally rested.

St Mungo’s was as unwelcoming as she could remember from the visits she still accompanied Neville to. The Longbottoms were growing old, but they were never alone in that.

He cried when he told his parents about the Battle of Hogwarts. How he had slain Nagini, how, at the darkest hour in the seventh year, the Gryffindor in him took charge when the Golden Trio was missing, in their Horcrux hunt. Hermione cried at the retelling. Hannah cried, hugging her boyfriend, now spouse. But the Longbottoms’ smiles shone bright from that day forward, even if they didn’t quite grasp reality around them.

Who woke up that day with a frown and not a smile was Hermione, on a white bed with scratchy sheets and a troubled Harry Potter by her side. The Longbottoms’ laugh echoed in her mind, but all she could muster was a tiny gasp.

“You scared me, ‘Mione,” Harry said while grabbing her hand upon seeing her eyes jolt open.

“Sorry, Harry. Must’ve been sheer exhaustion.”

“Kingsley called and said you fainted after reading that article in the Daily Prophet. Just what is all the fuss about?” he asked, confusion surrounding every line of his face.

“Apparently, Rita Skeeter is back with trash yet again.”

“Oh, come on. Didn’t you have the upper hand with her because she is secretly an animagus? What has she done now?”

“I did, but she’s had enough time to regularise her situation; that’s my best guess. And, of course, she came straight for me once she did. She’s destroyed my career, Harry. She said that I used you, Viktor, and Ron. That I played at affection just to gain power. I don’t think she said ‘man-eater’, but her words came close and cut deep. And she also implied I hold a secret grudge and was trying to undercut the pure-bloods with secret manoeuvres? I don’t know, it’s all bullshit… But it sold. It sold,” answered Hermione, still fighting the tears and grabbing onto Harry’s hand for dear mental sanity.

“Come on, ‘Mione. Don’t wear yourself down like that. It’s all lies, and people eventually will see through them,” Harry carefully said, stroking her hand with his thumb.

“She knows her way with words, Harry. And she can tell a compelling story with half-truths: My marriage is truly dead. That’s just the tiny bit she needs to keep all the other lies afloat. I hate her. I wish I had hexed her when I got the chance; she deserves to feel an ounce of the pain she causes with her bloody quill.”

“No, I don’t believe so. ‘Angry you’ might have sent her way one or two Furnunculus curses, but… You’re better than that. You’ve always been. Plus, the world knows you, Hermione. You’re a hero, a referent, someone little kids look up to. There’s no way she’d be able to twist all of your legacy with a badly-written piece of crap presented as a book,” he argued.

“You’re missing the point: Didn’t you recall her lies during our fourth year? Molly, who knew me as a kid since the beginning, fell for it. If she did, who—”

“My mother-in-law might be a lot of things, ‘Mione… but ‘canny’ is not among them. She does have a rather eerie taste for gossip, so it’s only natural that she fell for the tale. However, she ended up seeing it for what it truly was: a load of crap. Have faith in yourself. I do.”

“I can’t anymore, Harry. I need to stop. I need to breathe, sleep, and take a break. And Ron and I need to sort things out, because… this is not living. This is surviving. And I promised myself that I was done with all that when Voldemort met his end at the Battle of Hogwarts. I’m done being a perfect shell. I’m allowed to have cracks. And, despite not wanting to display them, I do need time to nourish myself back to who I want to be.”

“Kinglsey will be devastated, but he’ll understand. It’s just a time-out, right? And then you’ll be back to fight for SPEW and muggleborns and everyone in between and over?” he asked, getting up to kiss Hermione’s forehead.

“I think so, but—”

“I can talk to McGonagall if you want me to. I reckon she’s looking for a new Potions Professor, now that Horace is retiring, and she’d jump at the chance of you joining the staff. Plus, with me being the DADA Professor, that gives me an excuse to check on you more often…” Harry smiled as he spoke, and Hermione’s heart fluttered funny at that unexpected thought. Back at Hogwarts, with her best friend by her side, ruling the place like they used to… minus the constant death threats they used to face each year. But it didn’t sit right with her.

She wanted to go back to Hogwarts not as an excuse or a retreat, but by choice and when she felt like the best use of her time was to teach and shape the new generations.

That time hadn’t come yet.

“Thanks, Harry, but I don’t believe that’d be wise. I need time to myself, and being constantly surrounded by children is far from what I had in mind,” thought out loud Hermione, smiling a bit through her exhaustion.

“Suit yourself, then. But promise me you’ll rest while you’re at it, ‘Mione.”

“That I can do.”

She packed light and left that dreadful place she could no longer call home. She was, for the first time in almost twenty years—since before her first year at Hogwarts—officially on vacation.

Hermione left a note on the kitchen counter, addressed to her dear husband:

We need to talk. Call me.

She closed the blinds, made sure all the windows were locked, and switched off the lights.

She thought of using a portkey directly to her destination: cheaper, faster and cleaner. But Hermione felt better arriving by plane as an unknown Muggle, and just enjoying a couple of days in her own personal bubble.

Cotton towels, cucumber slices on her eyes, steady hands massaging her back, a swimming pool at her disposal, and the sunniest beaches in Barcelona had her name written all around her.

As soon as she landed and her luggage was safely tucked in the suite’s wardrobe, she lay down on that waterbed on her stomach, without even turning her face to the side.

Crookshanks purred as he found his place on the comfortable sofa, while Hermione finally fell into sweet sleep.

Who knew all it took to achieve that was to be miles away from pressure, in an expensive and posh hotel room and with just books, sunscreen, bikinis and summer? Yeah, who knew.

Chapter Text

Pansy needed a day off. Just an afternoon, really. She wanted to blow off some steam while she could, before boarding that train that would take her to her sexless life, surrounded by shouting students, dumb teachers and cold walls.

That was the hardest part, mind you: being at peace knowing that each shag had to be carefully planned and precisely scheduled. Which drove Pansy crazy, since all her instincts screamed for freedom and longed for unplanned nights in strangers’ flats.

But she already gave her word to her old Professor, and she would not recant it. Pansy Parkinson was many things. Some bad, some awful. Some mildly good, some superb. ‘Quitter’ was not one of them—unless you count that time that she went to a party and her mother showed up with a present for her: A date with Graham Montague. She quit that shit as soon as she crossed the threshold, never to be seen in the gentleman’s painfully boring presence again.

“Listen up, big, clumsy oafs.” Pansy’s voice echoed through her store, sounding determined. She heard a couple of laughs at her words and smirked. The disrespect was their way of showing affection, and it bloody worked like a charm every time. “Your dear young boss is taking the afternoon off. Try not to burn anything. Cory, darling, please keep an eye on Daisy while I am out. And Fiona… keep an eye on Cory, make sure he doesn’t get… outsmarted again by my owl’s strategic and unequivocally smart mind when she inevitably tries to steal some of the gummy bears in my top drawer. How hard can that be? That one is locked in my office. Would you do all that, sweetie? Thanks. Wish for your dear old motherly figure’s success in today’s endeavour.”

“So, you want us to wish you good luck on a small vacation?” asked Fiona with her eyebrows raised.

“Precisely.”

“Sod off, Parkinson,” shouted Cory from the adjacent room, where he was counting August’s remaining stock.

“Little devils, the lot of you,” whispered Pansy as she vanished from the shop and Apparated right next to the portkey she secured just mere minutes earlier.

Fuck, I forgot my sunscreen, she thought as her hand closed around the red heart-shaped sunglasses. The world spun around her, with her, against her. She resisted the urge to puke. It wouldn’t matter how many times she travelled by portkey: the sensation never went away.

Luckily, it vanished as fast as it had settled on her stomach when the sun showered her face with heat and her foot hit the beach’s sand.

Barcelona felt sticky, hot and bothered.

And so did Pansy.

She smirked before changing her clothes into an elegant light blue swimsuit that perfectly matched her skin tone and made her look ravishing with a simple wave of her wand. How much Pansy loved magic was a question whose only valid answer was: to infinity.

She Apparated again, this time to her favourite hotel’s pool and decided to spend the afternoon lying down on a wooden hammock, getting barely tanned and observing all the women in that area behind her veiled sunglasses.

One last free afternoon before her initiation into the sexless club, presided over by dear old Professor McGonagall.

One last feast for the eyes, and, if Merlin was kind enough, for her hands too.

Her eyes were feasting alright, as they followed the movements of a blonde, overly attached to her drink inside the Jacuzzi.

It had been two weeks since the last time she let another woman close enough to be kissed. Far too long, in her opinion. But her thoughts were occupied with Hogwarts’ letters and business finances, leaving no room for her to feel anything.

The blonde was joined by a petite and cute raven-haired woman, and they started chatting. Shame, Pansy had always thought that three was a crowd in certain situations. She’d tried it once. Enjoyable enough, but not for her. Too messy. Too exposed. Threesomes were for the weak, the ones who'd rather lose control than seize it. And she was anything but that.

So, maybe she’d have to just enjoy the view before going back to—

Her eyes landed on a woman on the other side of the pool, with tanned skin and a mixture of golden and brown curls. Pansy could not see her face, obscured by the shadow of a book that had her claws wrapped all around that woman’s attention. But Merlin, did that tan and those curves grab her attention like a hex to the chest, making her bite her lip before realising it. The woman was wearing an orange two-piece bikini; pretty basic for the witch’s taste, but suiting her so well. She looked like she didn’t even try to command attention; it just fell onto her lap by her mere presence. Circe’s spells that was as enticing as Pansy could’ve dreamed of. She was already envisioning how to approach that spellbinding woman, thinking about whether she’d prefer a compliment or casual banter. Maybe both, maybe neither.

Pansy got up and went to the bar. She didn’t need liquid courage to talk to her, but having a drink in her hand made flirting easier. One strategic sip to build tension up; one excuse to trace her lips with her tongue, coaxing the other person’s eyes to follow the movement; one glass to grip tightly before her hands found a better mark.

Once she had her dear old friend, the gin-tonic, in her grasp, she turned around to check on that alluring stranger lounging by the pool.

The woman put the book aside and was just enjoying the sun on her face. She looked relaxed, divine and—

It wasn’t the heat. It wasn’t the gin. It was the sight of her. The sheer shock sent the glass shattering from Pansy’s fingers, as if her hand had betrayed her, too stunned to function.

Her breath hitched. Her stomach turned inside out, feeling scorched and frozen at the same time. As if she had just taken another trip by portkey again. She blinked, trying to stop hallucinating. She wasn’t. Dizziness, that was all she felt on her mind, while her whole body burned. Because the woman lying there, on a hammock in some godforsaken hotel in Barcelona, completely unaware of Pansy’s attention and looking so damn hot it must’ve been a sin…? Sun-kissed. Reclined. Oblivious. Sexy as hell, even.

Fucking. Hermione. Granger.

The Gryffindor opened her eyes when the glass shattered on the floor, and found Pansy’s frame staring right back at her, clearly bothered by her mere presence in her only free afternoon.

Granger rolled her eyes, not sparing her a second glance. She reached lazily for her book, her fingers brushing the pages as though Pansy’s arrival had barely stirred her. Then, without a word, she turned, resting on her left arm and facing the sea. That was, unmistakably, the kind of turn that screamed indifference louder than an insult ever could. She had seen her and chosen to ignore her presence. Pansy’s stomach twisted, but not from lust for that fucking woman or pain like a scorned lover. It was angry at the Gryffindor’s lack of interest.

She took a deep breath. Honestly? The best course of action was to ignore each other. Yes. Back to business.

Pansy gulped, muttering a Reparo and giving back the glass intact before ordering a new drink, emptying it in one go.

She had a perfect view of Granger’s stretched back and her long legs, one on top of the other. The bikini covered her bottom, but there was no room left for imagining anything beneath—No. She could not think of her. That was out of the question; any other woman was fair game, but not little know-it-all, war hero and likely worst kisser of their age Hermione Granger. Literally, anyone but Miss Perfect… Or Mrs Weasley, if memory served right. How did someone like her end up with the basic and pathetic ginger was something beyond Pansy’s comprehension. Maybe she wasn’t as bright as she seemed.

It had been a mishap; the whole Granger not-situationship. Fuck. Who in their right mind would call lusting over someone from afar a situationship? Just mad people. And Pansy was not deranged. Well, she sort of was… in her family’s eyes. Loving women as a woman? Highly problematic. But they didn’t count as a scale of rectitude. Over her corpse. So, if Pansy was not mad, why all the fuss about what to name that moment when she felt attracted to…? Nevermind.

Backtrack to mishaps, to known territory: Mistakes could happen to her, from time to time. Mind you, not every hot woman was interested in women, although Pansy had her share of fun stories of converting the faithful into believers of a new gospel that was particularly good at chanting her name as a prayer. Issues were prone to arise, but she was too good at burying them right back beneath and therefore getting rid of all those doubts.

The sun was still far from setting on the horizon, and there were a lot of options to have one last rendezvous before reality banged on her door on September 1st. Barcelona was, after all, full of locals and tourists that could very well satisfy what she craved before dusk.

But it didn’t matter.

Because why, oh why, did the curve of Granger’s waist hold her eyes glued all afternoon, while her jaw clenched at the thought of going near that bitch?

Pansy would admit that years had indeed been kind to the Muggle-born. She was attractive; there was no denying that. Beautiful, even. Or gorgeous and… Sexy. Pansy facepalmed herself. Stop it, she thought.

Yes, Granger aged like fine wine. But so did poisons in crystal bottles, didn’t they? Pansy would rather shag a man, any man, than… her. That little lapse in judgement back then, that ill-lived attraction… before Pansy knew who she was? It wouldn’t repeat itself. It was Granger, for fuck’s sake. It didn’t even count. Couldn’t. Won’t, she thought.

September 1st came faster than a woman on Pansy’s mouth. Which, considering her track record, was saying something. Her due date was up, and the morons at the store were not ready for her to leave. Like a responsible adult, or someone doing a very good impression of one, she shoved her libido aside and focused on her employees' needs. She had to reassure them that everything was going to be alright. In her own, charismatic and sadistic way.

Cory ran up and down the stairs, recounting stock and forgetting where he’d left off, forcing a restart. Fiona tried to soothe him in the beginning, but grew rather tired and resorted to rewards: a playful blow to the head seemed to do the trick for a second. It was a brief mirage, because neither of them could calm the fuck down.

Pansy laughed. They were a mess, but they were her mess. And, somehow, better suited to take charge than she had been on opening day.

“Come here, you lot,” she said.

Cory hurtled at her side, while Fiona slowly paced, as if afraid of her boss’s reaction. “This is madness, chief. Are you really leaving me with your crazy owl and this overly enthusiastic minion?” she asked, tilting her head to the side.

“Well, yes. That has been the idea for some weeks now, you oaf. But, to show that your dear patron doesn’t forget about you, I made these: Should you ever need my help, just tap this coin twice and then say a message. Mine will then heat up, and I’ll know something’s wrong. I’ll answer as fast as I can, but keep in mind that, should I be in the middle of a class, I won’t be able to until the lesson is finished,” explained Pansy while gifting each of them with something that resembled a Galleon.

“Clever, enchanted money. What gave you that idea?” asked Cory, always curious about the wrong things.

“My nemesis in fifth year did, actually. That’s how they used to send each other messages without us, the Inquisitorial Brigade, ever finding out,” replied Pansy. Funny. Instead of Potter grinning like an idiot, coin between his fingers, the only thing that flashed behind her eyes was Granger. And how good she looked lounging on a hammock in Barcelona, orange bikini sharp against her tan skin. Bloody sex drive, I didn’t have the chance to enjoy the city as it deserved, she thought, shaking her head and trying to forget the images that flooded her brain for a couple of seconds about golden brown curls and mouth-watering hips and waist.

“Yikes, Parkinson. I pity those who went against the Slytherin Princess in her golden years,” offered Fiona, always banter-ready.

“Are you implying that my good years are long gone, young lady?”

“Perhaps,” she replied.

Pansy squinted her eyes, but barked a laugh in the end. “You’re lucky I like you, little Hufflepuffs. Now, run along and try not to call me for at least an hour using that Galleon, okay? Give Mother a chance to rest, for fuck’s sake.”

“You got it, boss. Fancy a goodbye hug?” asked Cory, opening his arms rather comically.

“I’d rather drown, young man,” replied Pansy with an open smile.

“Then… see ya, old hag,” whispered Fiona, smirking.

“Until next time, Granny”, chimed in Cory.

“Farewell, little demons. You’re lucky I’m not a bitch anymore, or I’d tear you to shreds in less time than it’d take you to set something on fire in here. Halfwits.”

“This is you being nice? Boss, you gotta work more on your personality”, added Fiona.

“This is why I pay you a fair wage?” asked Pansy, cracking her knuckles carefully.

“No, Parkinson. This is only covered by the end-of-the-year bonuses. So there better be gold at the end of this rainbow come December,” purred her employee without an ounce of shame in her voice.

“You should’ve been a Slytherin, Fiona. You’d fit in as well as they come,” assessed Pansy.

“Well, I take it their stance on Muggle-borns argued against it, seeing as both my parents are not part of the wizarding world.”

“Then, my House lost a valiant member. I’ll make sure to change that in the future,” whispered Pansy, hell-bent on achieving that end.

“And what about me?”, intervened shyly Cory. Pansy ruffled his hair, mussing it up a bit.

“You, dear Hufflepuff, ended right where you belonged: With the loyal and kind bunch. A little bit insecure for my taste, but… that tracks with you, alright,” answered Pansy. Fiona snorted. Cory rolled his eyes. “Now, off you go, oafs. The boss needs a quiet moment before disappearing”.

They shared a last smile before exiting Pansy’s office and closing the door behind them. She surveyed her little sanctuary. Took a deep breath, caressed her dear Daisy’s head, smirked and Apparated to Platform 9¾. Hogwarts was waiting for her, as well as McGonagall. And, much to her disappointment, so was forced celibacy.

She was, quite literally, walking straight into the lion’s den. And she’d never felt more thrilled.

Pansy had always found the name Platform 9¾ strange. Why three-quarters specifically? It made no sense. But then again, little in magic ever did. Wizards had always embraced chaos with suspicious enthusiasm.

She loathed it.

Disorder who? Not in her store, her life or under her watch.

But hey, she was not in the Ministry, which, thankfully, meant that that broken system of naming things and leaning away from order wasn’t her job to fix.

She boarded the train quickly, not in the mood to be stared down by parents or smug older students. She went straight to the front, ignoring the different compartments on either side of the small hallway until she almost reached the engine powering the whole thing up. There were two compartments, so she chose the one on her right. Just because.

When she opened the door, her eyes met with three curious pairs staring back at her. Shock on theirs, dread on hers. It was like she never left Hogwarts behind all those years ago.

But this time she was alone and not surrounded by her loyal Slytherins.

Longbottom, Potter and Bell, all former Gryffindors, who fought in the war all those years ago and defied the Dark Lord at every turn. Those were the ones in that fucking compartment. Why did she have to pick that door to open specifically? Just her luck.

“Bloody hell, Parkinson! Knock before barging in, will you?” Katie Bell glared at her through her long eyelashes.

“Chill a bit, Bell. No need to be that worked up about a petty misunderstanding… I thought this was empty, as you were all quiet in here,” replied Pansy, careful to keep her voice anger-free.

Longbottom rolled his eyes. He looked sharper and self-assured, far from the boy who used to stutter in Snape’s presence. “This year is off to a great start already, isn’t it?” he whispered.

Potter was laughing, like he knew an inside joke and had no intention of sharing it. He extended his hand towards Pansy, who shook it as if it were poison. She squinted, bracing for an impact; a verbal blow from The Boy Who Lived. “Fancy meeting you here, Slytherin. Are we in for an open Hogwarts House war, or are you coming in peace?” he asked, laugh still caught in his throat and those sharp, unreadable eyes that seemed to see straight into her soul. Whatever he saw, he kept it to himself.

“You can holster the moral outrage, Gryffindors,” she answered while her hand unclasped Potter’s. “I promise I’m not secretly waiting for this new age to end and claim power back. Waving a white flag or whatever euphemism you’d prefer.”

“Like I’d believe a word you said, Slytherin Princess,” retorted Bell, not caring to mask the doubt in her tone. That stung. She used to wear that title with pride, like a crown. And all she felt in that moment was detachment. It was one thing when Fiona or Cory used it in a caring way. But for Bell to throw it at her face? No, that wouldn’t do.

“Believe in what you want, darling. But for the record? I am, one, the former and, two, currently shunned Slytherin Princess. Drag me through the mud all you like, Bell. My claws might be filed, but I can sharpen them if you keep poking,” warned Pansy, glaring at the former chaser of her rival’s Quidditch team. “Pleasure seeing you both, Longbottom and Potter. Keep up the good work this year, I wouldn't want to suddenly become Hogwarts’ best teacher in the blink of an eye.”

“Will do, Parkinson. Will do,” replied Harry calmly.

Pansy shut the door a little harder than necessary. The brass handle felt hot under her palm. Or maybe it was her hand, reflecting the anger that boiled just under her skin. She hadn’t even realised she was gripping it that tight. Why was she so shaken by Bell’s words?

What did she expect? Open arms, a gin-tonic and for everyone to be at her feet?

Pull it together, love. It’s not supposed to be a walk in the park, she thought.

She found an empty compartment, sat down inside and shut its door. Her head fell against the cold window. Tiny raindrops ran down its glass. Why was it always grey and cloudy? For a second, she pictured Barcelona’s blinding sun and orange swimwear. She closed her eyes and banished the thought as quickly as it came.

Yes, it was all about fitting in with the Gryffindors. They ruled their era. And she was an echo of a past time, an afterthought barely acknowledged but stinging by its existence. She would have to push back all of it and just show them that she was worthy of playing their little game.

It was, after all and as expected, a lion’s den… and she was the only remaining snake that dared to glide in it.

Chapter Text

Hermione was still detached from reality. Because why did she have to cross paths with Pansy bloody Parkinson on her vacation? She could still feel that serpent’s eyes on her skin.

A shiver went down her spine.

Ron had called that afternoon, and they agreed to schedule a… meeting? Date? Spar session? She didn’t know how to call it anymore. But it would happen after Hermione’s vacation was officially over, on September 1st.

God, she felt like she was eleven again and about to get on the Hogwarts Express, thinking about that specific date. It tugged at the corners of her lips, forming a half smile. Those were simpler times. Deathly, but simple.

Hermione had always heard people talking about romanticising the past. She had thought she was immune to that nonsense, but that thought had just proven her wrong. How could her formative years, spent between essays, bullying, friends, and always fighting against the darkest and most powerful wizard of their time, seem more appealing to relive than her actual life at the Ministry, married to her best friend and enjoying an overall comfortable life? How?

She spent all the days before that looming date set up for September lounging by the pool and devouring books, praying to never cross paths with someone she knew—especially someone she despised, like a certain cold and manipulative Slytherin.

And her prayers, directed at a higher power she no longer believed in, seemed to reach the ears of someone in control of fate. They were fulfilled, and Hermione rejoiced in her solitude as she had never done.

And then the date came, and she felt anxious as she threw on some clothes. Her luggage was already prepared in advance, and she simply took off again in a plane, leaving oblivion, sun and decompression behind, along with the dark circles that had haunted her eyes for months… if not years.

Did her hair look more vibrant, stronger and alive? She clicked her tongue while rolling her eyes. Must’ve been her imagination.

The restaurant she’d picked was a dim-lit Muggle establishment, where she and Ron would be able to talk civilly and away from prying eyes.

He was waiting for her outside the door, getting soaked by the rain that fell thunderously on his black-fur coat. He had probably forgotten to grab an umbrella, trusting magic would keep him dry. It couldn’t. Not if he was going to be surrounded by non-magical people.

It was always like this with him: Not caring about Muggles’ artefacts, pretending that wizards were always one step ahead and refusing to backtrack whenever he slipped up. She used to find it charming, for some reason. Those times were long gone.

“Hello, Ron. Let’s get inside so you can get warmed up, shall we?”

“After you, M’lady,” he replied drily. Hermione sighed and walked through the restaurant’s door.

Ron had ordered fish and chips. Hermione asked for bœuf bourguignon with mashed potatoes. And, while they waited for their dishes to arrive, silence seemed to stretch longer than Aragog’s spider silk.

She gripped her glass tightly, organising her thoughts while she sipped sparkling water. God, it was all stale. Suffocating.

Their waiter finally came back and frowned when he politely set down Ron’s order in front of him.

“Would you like the wine list?” he asked, looking at her.

“We’re fine, thanks,” Ron answered. “Just water.”

“Actually, I’d love to have a glass of Claret. Would you be so kind as to pour me one?” Hermione requested, ignoring her husband’s scoff.

“Great choice, madam. It will pair up nicely with that bœuf bourguignon. I’ll be right back.”

Ron waited until the man had gone back to the kitchen before speaking again. “You could’ve warned me. I looked like a fool.”

“You acted like a fool, Ron. And it’s not my job to prevent you from embarrassing yourself. Not anymore, at least,” replied Hermione. She was done.

“Whatever do you mean?”

She swallowed a mouthful of beef before answering. It was delicious. “All I’m saying is that you shouldn’t have assumed I’d go with your order. I can make my own decisions.”

“Yeah, I noticed that a while back, Hermione. Then cut the crap and get to the point: what did you want to talk about? I believe we settled everything there was to—”

“You settled everything. I didn’t. And since you don’t enjoy pleasantries and want it straight, here it is: I don’t want whatever we have right now. It just hurts, and it’s toxic. I don’t want to live like that anymore, Ron,” she explained. Her voice was hard like steel, but there was a plea in her speech, clear as day. It’s not that she was just uncomfortable or exhausted. That whole ordeal was tearing her apart.

“So? Sort it out yourself, like I’ve been doing for years. Don’t ask what you denied when I implored it out of you,” Ron answered through gritted teeth.

Hermione clenched her jaw. She thought she could reach him. She had to try one last time. And the attempt had spat back at her face. Fine. He wanted ugly truths and fights? Then she’d give him a war. She didn’t care if the wine stained. Let it. Everything else was already had. “It baffles me. How can you be in your late twenties and still have the emotional range of a teaspoon? What sort of marriage is this, when we cannot even share a meal without jumping at our throats, Ronald? Why are you so keen on breaking this?”

“You tore us apart with your selfishness. Don’t put this mess on me”.

She laughed, and it was bitter. “It’s about us, which is something that you seem to forget. We’re supposed to be a team, you bloody idiot!”

How could her friendship be so shallow, so cold, so devoid of care? When did they stop looking at each other, at what they wanted? She knew. She bloody knew it all went back to his desire for children and her reluctant response to his dream. That was no marriage. That was torture.

“This is pointless, Hermione. We’re going in circles, so spit it out already. Either leave me alone or meet me halfway.”

“Halfway? You can’t have a kid halfway, Ronald! And there’s no way I’d even consider bringing a child into this world, into this broken relationship. Ever.”

“I heard you loud and clear. Now it’s your turn to pay attention. Since there cannot be a compromise, the only viable route is clear. We must keep the marriage up for appearances, both yours and mine. No more bullshit that could be leaked to Skeeter’s readers. But, as I’ve already said on that lift, live your life behind closed doors, Hermione. And leave me the fuck out of it.”

It finally dawned on her: there would never be a way to fix that. Not while she refused to backtrack and reconsider her stance, and he insisted on maintaining that hope at her expense.

And she was done with meeting the world’s expectations of her. She didn’t care about Skeeter anymore. So what if the damn beetle got one thing right? It didn’t end her career. And neither would Ronald Weasley’s absence from her side, if push came to shove. She was much more than her husband’s wife.

And she was going to put herself first, for once.

Her entire mind ached to feel whole again, and not fractured as it had been lately. Screamed for it, pleaded with itself.

The waiter came back with the bottle of wine she had ordered. Silently, he poured her a bit. She sipped it. It paired nicely with her dish. So she nodded, and more Claret got poured into her wine glass. The waiter vanished from their table, as if he too sensed that hell was about to break loose.

There were going to be consequences to her decision.

She’d probably suffer terribly, both personally and politically speaking.

But Hermione could not take another second of that lie.

It hurt her. It broke her. It showed her all the parts she hated about herself. It turned her into someone else. It became a burden.

Enough. It was enough.

She regarded her husband for a second.

Hermione could almost hear the version of herself from a decade ago, the one who used to believe in forever, and love, and fate. The one who had cried at the altar and laughed while they kissed. She would be screaming at her not to say it, but she couldn’t listen to her younger and naive Hermione anymore. She had no energy left to fight her own wishes. She took a breath. Closed her eyes. Exhaled slowly. Lifted her lids once again, staring Ron down. “I want a divorce,” she finally whispered.

Hermione counted the angry beats of her heart.

One, two, three.

Ron’s face had gone white.

Four, five, six.

Hermione’s hand twitched, grabbing that red wine glass and trying not to shatter it with that vicious grip.

Seven, eight, nine.

Ron swallowed whatever was in his throat before carefully placing his fork and knife on his plate.

Ten, eleven, twelve.

Hermione breathed, clenching her jaw.

Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen.

Ron stood up.

Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen.

“Fine, doom us both,” he answered, meeting her eyes head-on.

Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one.

“I’m just choosing myself for once,” replied Hermione, mirroring his sentiment but adding more bitterness to it.

Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four.

Ron scoffed while grabbing his coat.

Twenty-five, twenty-six.

Hermione felt the tears prickling at her eyes.

Twenty-seven, twenty-eight.

Ron turned around and left.

Twenty-nine. That was the age she was about to reach. And in that beat, she could swear her heart skipped a beat, as if to show solidarity with her mind.

For once, in agreement. Even if her soul ached for more, begged to run behind Ron and ask him to try to fix it, one last time. The body persisted, overruling everything else. And so Hermione remained seated.

Hermione let herself crack, tears rolling down her face. She said she was choosing herself, but she couldn’t help but wonder if her words had just lost her all she ever cared for.

Their dance had finally ended.

Crookshanks woke her up, jumping on her chest and cuddling there, as if her breasts were the most comfortable bed he’d ever tried.

She had cried herself to sleep last night, but refused to second-guess herself on the decision she had voiced.

Deep down, she knew she had made the right one.

She was about to curl her arms around that puffy orange cat when an owl carrying a red envelope barged in.

Hermione jumped just as the Howler started smoking on its edges.

Molly? Ron? Harry? Ginny? Which one of them would’ve sent her a screaming piece of paper? Probably her husband’s mother. Or ex-husband.

She didn’t know what to call him. They were still married. They were not together anymore.

It felt right. And bitter. And wrong. And somehow… sweet.

But it was not her former husband’s family cursing her, or her own friends checking up on her. Kingsley’s deep voice reverberated in her bedroom as the Howler began speaking. Somehow, it sounded soothing, low and quiet, not at all like all the other high-pitched and loud envelopes she had received all her life. “Sorry to disturb you, Hermione. There’s an emergency at the Ministry. I need you to come back right now. I apologise for using a Howler to reach you, but… you’ll see why shortly. Come straight to my office. That’s all.”

Strange. Really puzzling, and completely unlawful on the Minister’s part. The only reason Kingsley would bypass protocol was if everything was about to burn. Which could only mean one thing: serious trouble.

Kingsley shut the door of his office as soon as Hermione walked in.

“We have a problem,” said the Minister without skipping a beat.

“I thought as much,” replied a tired Hermione. When did they not?

“First of all, how are you? You seem more… well-rested?” he politely asked. It could seem like he was only asking as a way to fill the silence before dropping the bomb, but she knew better. Kingsley did care about her; he had since they had fought side by side to overthrow Voldemort’s regime. “Blimey, I saw your husband this morning and he looked pale. Like a ghost. Everything all right between the two of you? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“We are… done. Sort of. Getting divorced,” she replied, and her chest tightened. It was one thing knowing it. It was another entirely, saying it out loud. It felt final then, when she announced it. Up until that point, she could’ve changed her mind, but in that moment, it was stuck. Written in carved letters, on stone: The Weasley-Granger marriage is over.

“I—What? When? How—? No, I shouldn’t ask. I’m sorry, Hermione. I was just asking because I was worried about you, and—”

She waved her hand, even though the subject left a bitter taste she wasn’t ready to face. “Never mind. What was that Howler about, Minister?”

“Ah, yes. The… problem,” he replied, as if just remembering about it after the shock of Hermione’s revelation. “Do you remember Skeeter’s article about you? Sorry if that stings, but it’s highly relevant now. We’ve faced some… backlash about that. And it might’ve sparked something unexpected and dark. Worse than outrage. Not because of you, but more like—I don’t know how to put it.”

“Spit it out, Kingsley. I won’t get offended.”

“It’s not about taking offence. It’s just almost impossible to put into words without context,” he added, his usual eloquence stumbling under the weight of whatever he wasn’t yet saying. Kingsley tapped the large cupboard behind his desk with his wand, and it opened in slow motion. A Pensieve appeared, just like in Dumbledore’s old office back at Hogwarts. Since when did that hide that? Gosh, she felt like a newbie, and she hated it. Like an unprepared student staring at the blank page of her exam. Hermione frowned. Her nerves were taut, her tired mind scrambling through possibilities. What could be so dire that it couldn’t even be explained aloud? “Please, take a look at the memory, it’ll clarify everything. Even though I don’t know who it belongs to, I can assure you of its authenticity.”

Hermione walked silently towards the Pensieve. She’d never used one before. She knew how it worked—Harry’s descriptions served as a manual for it. She hesitated for a heartbeat before lowering her face into the liquid.

The water was cold when it hit her face, and then all she felt was smoke around her. In her.

She drowned for a second.

The sounds, the smells and the world disappeared around her, and she was yanked into someone else’s memory.

She was at the Ministry’s atrium, just as she had been mere minutes before diving into that Pensieve. There was not a single soul in it, and Hermione’s back straightened uneasily. That was not normal; people were supposed to walk by.

She should at least be able to see to whom the memory belonged to, but no one was there. Her body reacted like there was a looming presence circling her, but her eyes found no frame to support those fears. She felt a pull to keep walking, so she did, trying to outrun it.

She couldn’t.

It was just a memory, but she felt cold.

It was just a memory, but she was afraid.

It was just a memory. No one could hurt her there. She knew. And yet, the feeling didn’t subside.

The corridor had changed. The marble walls melted into something older, darker. Hermione observed her surroundings. She saw. And then she screamed.

A man was hanging by his wrists, tied to the ceiling. His arms were bloodied and broken, and his eyes were staring straight but unfocused. He was just wearing a pair of trousers and no shirt, which only made the almost-black bruises across his torso stand out more.

Someone she still couldn’t see whispered an enchantment, and the body lowered gently on the floor. Hermione got closer, and a sob escaped her throat. It was Marcus Flint.

Former Chaser for the Slytherin Quidditch team, and a complete arse throughout all their interactions back at Hogwarts.

It didn’t matter. They were children back then. Yes, he had been a bully. A bigot. But he didn’t deserve that. The whole situation was unfathomable. Unforgivable. Marcus looked like he’d been put through hell a hundred times, and Hermione’s chest tightened with every frozen second that passed.

She snapped and rushed to his side, desperate to help him. But she couldn’t.

She hadn’t been there. What was unfolding before her eyes had already happened, and she had no agency in it.

Her knees hit the ground beneath her. If she hadn’t been made of smoke, she would’ve shattered both of them. But she was… and Marcus wasn’t. Hermione tried holding his hand. Or doing anything to comfort the broken body that lay crumpled and alone on that cold and empty floor.

He looked older, in his mid-thirties. And, despite his ragged breathing, all her senses screamed that he was not alive anymore.

Then, with a mechanical snap, the chain binding his wrists gave way. The tension jolted something in the room: a curtain slithered down the wall behind him.

White tiles emerged behind the drapes. Old mouldings lined the wall, crumbling at the edges. And painted across them, in something Hermione prayed wasn’t blood, was a message:

The Chamber of Blood has been sealed. Enemies of the Cleansers… beware

She stopped breathing, her hand still trying to grasp Marcus’.

“Now you know. Don’t stand in our way, or else…” a voice said around her. It echoed in her mind, but Hermione couldn’t grasp a single detail. Maybe it was high-pitched, or low and reverberating. A man’s. A woman’s. She didn’t know. The memory made sure of it. All she could recall was the threat, before the voice infiltrated her mind once more. “Crucio.”

A red light hit the broken man straight in the chest.

Screams. Hermione’s and Marcus’.

He moved under the curse and begged for it to stop. It didn’t.

Hermione could not feel pain inside a memory, but watching someone being tortured and being unable to help destroyed her. Her own mind started playing tricks on her—knives, carved words on her skin, and Bellatrix Lestrange hovering over her flashed over and over before her eyes, mixing with Marcus’ yelps.

Hermione was crying.

The screams stopped.

“We will leave this one alive, so he can warn the others. The debts of the war are still unpaid. Pure-bloods need to answer for all their crimes. They shouldn’t be living amongst us, those who sought to rule over half-bloods and kill Muggle-borns. They lived in comfort while their victims buried the past. They sipped wine at Ministry galas while widows counted empty chairs. And now their time is up. We’ll repay what is owed. They sowed. And now we reap. We are the Cleansers. And you, Hermione Granger—you, who fought for retribution with an iron fist and demanded justice louder than anyone else… You are one of us.”

Hermione was back in her body, with Kingsley rubbing circles on her back. She collapsed to her knees and then scattered all her stomach contents on his rug, incapable of saying, feeling or moving at all.

When her body stopped throwing up, she rose again and made the vomit disappear with a wave of her wand. She looked at Kingsley. He stared back at her.

“Have you seen it all?” asked the Minister softly.

“Yes. Is Marcus…?”

“He’s at St Mungo’s, being examined and treated while we speak. He’s the only proof that the memory is real, because the message on the wall was erased before anyone saw it, and—”

“You made me come because the memory was intended for me. And it links with Skeeter’s words… she said something about me wanting to get rid of all pure-bloods, right?” interrupted Hermione, feeling the colour vanish from her face. They thought she was with them? Deranged individuals, she’d never asked for vengeance or retribution. And Skeeter’s words twisted the truth as she always did, but now there was a real threat alongside her declarations. “Gosh, they’re mad. We need to stop them, Kingsley. We cannot have a petty war over crimes of the past. The sons and daughters won’t pay for their parents’ crimes. I won’t allow it. There is no debt. And these people, these… insane group, these Cleansers are just misdirecting their anger and acting upon it. It’s madness, it’s against the law, it’s evil. And why would they think I agree with them? The—” she roared, pacing and resisting the urge to punch the Pensieve.

“I know, Hermione. I know. As it stands, this is highly confidential. Only the most trusted healers and members of the Ministry know of this, and we need to develop an action plan before panic spreads, and it will if we don’t contain this. There are a lot of old wounds that would take little more than words to open up again. And these Cleansers are counting on it.”

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek, breathing in through her nose and trying to calm her nerves. “We need to stop this. Wizards cannot face an all-out war yet again, Kingsley. We won’t survive it.”

“Yes. Which brings me to my next point: your stance as Senior Undersecretary and Flint’s ramblings. If you wanted to send a message—a real message of your intentions of ending the pure-blood lines… where would you begin?” asked Kingsley while his fingers drummed rhythmically on the desk.

The Malfoys? The Parkinsons? The Greengrasses? No, it needed to be someone else, someone whose demise would make the actual world crumble beneath its loss.

No, not a who.

Her legs failed when she realised it.

But a how.

If someone wanted to end the pure-bloods, they wouldn’t go after grown adults who could put up a fight. And probably win, if properly warned, which she’d make sure they were. No, to erase a bloodline, there were simpler ways: the children.

“No. Please tell me my thoughts are wrong, Kingsley. The kids are innocent!”

“I wholeheartedly agree, but I won’t take a chance. And especially considering Flint’s ramblings about his captor’s warning. I couldn’t understand it at first. But then it became clear: Hogwarts.”

“We must warn McGonagall at once and send teams of Aurors to the school. They will report back to both the Headmistress and the Ministry, and serve as a deterrent force to any of those deranged criminals—I refuse to call them by their name.”

“I agree. The well-being of our youngsters should take top priority. And that’s why you’ll be going to Hogwarts in my stead, Hermione. With both the Skeeter’s backlash and the deadly threat, I believe you’re the best fit to dissuade any violence at school. Keeping up the important work—the most sacred task, while simultaneously taking a step back from the public eye.”

“So, you’re benching me,” she sighed, rubbing carefully her temples.

“No. I’m begging you to act like the hero I know you are, Hermione. I know you can stop this. And maybe you’re the only one. They think you’re on their side, so use it whichever way you deem appropriate without endangering the students. Extinguish the flame before it burns into a pyre and ends up branding our world again, darkening it.”

“I don’t have a choice, do I?”

“Not really, but I’d like to believe you want to do this…” answered Kingsley, shifting his weight uncomfortably between his legs.

“Dear Hogwarts, it seems we’re bound yet again,” whispered Hermione to herself. She stared the Minister down. “When would I be leaving?”

“Immediately.”

Chapter Text

Pansy loved green. She also loved snakes. What she didn’t love, however, were dull moments that were not supposed to exist.

Never, in the seven years she had spent at Hogwarts, had the Headmistress halted the Sorting Ceremony to address an important matter. Students looked around, nervous, and the Sorting Hat rested on that absurdly old wooden stool. One in particular, an eleven-year-old Black boy with short curly hair, was almost incapable of breathing.

She rose from the staff table and approached the long line of wrecked, anxious first-years that seemed to be the new students.

“You, the one with the bow-tie worn inside out. What’s your name?” she whispered in the most soothing tone she could muster.

“Jack Thomas, Professor”, answered the little boy.

“Related to Dean Thomas, I presume. You’re a spitting image of him”, she said, and the boy nodded. She laughed on the inside. Because, of course, the first time she decided to be kind, it had been towards a fucking lion’s legacy. Bollocks. “Well, Jack, I noticed you were quite nervous. Is there something on your mind?”

“I want to be sorted into Gryffindor, Professor. But I’m not sure if I’m brave enough.”

She frowned, but quickly covered it up with a reassuring smile. “Ah, yes. Everyone wants to be a lion, but maybe that’s not your path. Remember that the sorting is not about what defines you: its purpose is to land you where you’ll shine the most, so believe me when I say that whatever your House ends up being, it’ll be for the best,” she replied with a smile.

An ivory-skinned girl with long black hair raised her hand, and Pansy inclined her head towards her. “But what if we’re put in Slytherin? I heard they’re… mean. And bad.”

Jack nodded alongside her. “Yeah, I learned from my father that they pick on the other Houses for fun.”

Ouch. Granted, the little wizard and witch didn’t know who she was, but still—That was what was left of her House? Just what had the stupid Head of Slytherin done before her arrival, letting these vicious rumours spread? They used to be true, to some extent. But if they were still true, that was on him—he should’ve put an end to that long ago. And if the rumours were fake… it was also his fault. They shouldn’t persist after ten years; that was more than one generation of new students after the war. To educate, to shape and to sharpen.

Really, Horace, you’ve got no excuse, thought Pansy. Then she looked at the girl as Pansy scrunched up her nose a little. “The Snakes can be vicious, you’re right. But they are also clever, resourceful and charismatic. Every House has its light and shadow: Gryffindors are brave and determined, but quick-tempered and stubborn; Ravenclaws are intelligent and creative, but arrogant and over-focused; Hufflepuffs are loyal and fair, but common and simple. To say that one is better than the other would be false, although everyone will defend their own House to the bitter end. So, in short, if you’re sorted into Slytherin, it means you’ve got the brains and the ambition, and just need to work on cruelty and viciousness.”

“May I—” whispered the girl before cutting herself. She continued when Pansy smiled at her. “Sorry, I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Vicky Corner. Can I ask you… Which one are you? My mum is a Muggle and my dad is a Ravenclaw, so I want to be sorted there. And you seem nice.”

“Well, pleasure to meet you, Vicky. I vaguely remember your dad, but we were not acquainted. And, to answer your question…” Pansy tilted her head as she spoke. Merlin, it was strange how natural it felt to be nice to children. Since when had she had this ability? She smiled at the youngsters, flashing her teeth, her tongue brushing the edge of a fang like a snake testing its poison. Well, she liked them, but she also adored having a little bit of fun. Their breaths hitched before Pansy had even told them. “I am a proud Slytherin.”

“I’m sorry, Professor. I didn’t know when I said those things about your House,” quickly replied Vicky.

“Yes, sorry. I just—” tried to apologise, Jack, before Pansy cut him off.

“I’m not offended, children. My House has a reputation I intend to erase in that area, but what I said about qualities and sorting stands,” she explained. Then, she raised her voice a little. “Now, everyone, take a deep breath. It’s just a sorting ceremony, not an exam or a trick question. It’s designed to help you, not to test you. So relax and wait for your turn; there will be plenty of time during exams to get stressed.”

A grunt shared by almost all of the remaining students yet to be sorted echoed inside the Great Hall, where the older students smiled and joked around.

The Gryffindors were, as usual, the loudest. Then the Hufflepuffs, followed by the Ravenclaws. Pansy’s heart skipped a beat when she looked towards the Slytherin table: dead silent.

“Well, look at that: kindness from none other than Parkinson. The Sorting Hat must be spinning,” grinned Potter, walking towards her. The children started fussing when they looked at him—the one who defeated the Dark Lord, the one with the scar, the hero of modern times… but he paid them no mind. “Seems like you’ll fit here, against all odds.”

“Run along, little minions. And remember: everything’s going to be fine,” she said before climbing the stairs until she was at Potter’s height. “Well, sue me for having a heart, hero. But I doubt I can thrive surrounded by Lions; Snakes don’t mix well with them.”

“Slytherin is the only House that has fewer representatives among the teaching staff, Parkinson. Hufflepuff, Gryffindor and Ravenclaw share the burden of teaching in equal measure. You just were unlucky upon choosing a compartment in the Hogwarts Express.”

“If you say so,” replied Pansy before heading back to her seat.

McGonagall finally reentered the Great Hall after that awkward pause during the sorting. Her voice filled the whole room, and students immediately quieted down. Merlin, the power she had in just a couple of words was outstanding. “We shall continue with the Sorting Ceremony as planned. I must apologise for having it interrupted in the first place, but there was an important announcement that needed to be addressed. Later on, I’ll provide the necessary explanations on the matter. However, let’s not get sidetracked and focus on our new Hogwarts students. We left it off at… Corner, Vicky!”

The little girl gulped as she strode towards the stool. When she was seated, Potter put the Sorting Hat on her head.

It seemed to take a long time weighing its decision, until its shout finally echoed on the walls of the Great Hall: “Slytherin!”

She was the first to be sorted into her House. Pansy clapped and smiled warmly at Vicky, who stood on trembling legs and made her way to the Slytherin table, green and embroidered with silver snakes. The little witch seemed to shrink into her robes with every step she took, and the unenthusiastic claps she received since the Hat had sorted her into Slytherin got on Pansy’s nerves.

She couldn’t help but notice how the applause for Vicky had been quieter than for any other student. And, when her next minion of nerves and chaos got sorted into Slytherin—a tall boy by the name of Henry—and the pattern was repeated, Pansy had had enough. She scanned the room, counting how many teachers and students from each House reacted towards where the sorting leaned. And, as usual and to no one’s surprise, the fucking bias was boundless.

Pansy stood up as McGonagall was about to call another student. Maybe later she’d face a reprimand, but she needed to do something.

“I might be your newest Professor, you lot, and maybe I don’t have the authority to address you during the sorting. But Slytherin students are your classmates, not your enemies. And I expect you to treat them with the same respect and cordial attitude you show to your other fellow Houses. I won’t stand for this ostracism,” she proclaimed, scoffing. McGonagall’s surprise was not evident, but Pansy was aware of it in the way that the Headmistress squinted a bit.

Good, Pansy thought. She was not there to make friends. She was there to right Slytherin’s wrongs, and to right the wrongs done to Slytherin.

“Thank you for your kind words, Professor Parkinson. They are, indeed, sharp and cutting, but true nonetheless. I shall reflect on this matter later with the other Heads, but, in the meantime, we’ve got a ceremony to finish. Let’s proceed,” announced McGonagall, always the epitome of pragmatism and well-mannered.

Maybe it was just her imagination, but from that point on, the students who were sorted into her House received the same level of applause as the others.

Jack Thomas’ turn came, and he also got sorted into her House. It took the hat no time at all to make the decision, and, to Pansy’s surprise, the boy didn’t seem sad or ashamed. He went to the Slytherin table, squaring his shoulders and smirking, puffing his chest.

Pansy smiled. The year was off to a great start, and she had collected an interesting batch.

Baby steps, love. Baby steps, she thought as the last name was called and sorted into Hufflepuff.

She didn’t know why this mattered so much. Yes, it was part of her legacy. Yes, she’d love to be accepted again into the circles she’d grown up in. And yes, Hogwarts was the easiest way to achieve it. But she didn’t need to care; it was enough if others thought she did.

But that wasn't it. Not really.

She wasn’t pretending or being cunning. Or scheming.

When she glanced at her House’s table, full of kids and teenagers, all she felt was a surge to protect every one of them.

Just where the fuck does my sudden need to become a shield come from? I’m going soft and losing my bite, she thought.

Maybe she had been a villain, and maybe she would always be a villain in a lot of stories. But she would make sure that those kids wouldn’t suffer the consequences of a fucking war they took no part in. Period.

The sorting was over, and so was McGonagall’s welcome speech, Pansy’s patience and dinner. Finally.

The Headmistress rose from her seat, and all the students turned their heads toward her, waiting for further instructions. “Bell, Lovegood and Macmillan, lead the students of your former Houses—Gryffindor, Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff—to their respective Common Rooms. The Slytherins will follow The Bloody Baron and Professor Potter. Heads of Houses, follow me. You’ll have to delay welcoming your newest students and greeting the older ones until tomorrow.”

Everyone in the Great Hall started moving. Students scrambled as they left; the younger ones with mischievous smiles and jokes among them, and the older with frowns and shared unrest visible in their stiff postures. They had picked up something felt off, as did Pansy. Since when were the students accompanied to the Common Room by Professors and not prefects?

Yep, that was fucking awkward, especially considering that McGonagall had summoned the Heads to her office. Was that new standard behaviour? It didn’t seem like it.

Pansy rose from her seat and followed Chang, Longbottom and Abbott through the sea of students until they reached the gargoyle of the Headmistress’s office.

McGonagall was already waiting for them. She whispered a word that sounded like Latin, and the statue moved, revealing a set of stairs.

They climbed them and stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, where the old portraits of former Headmasters and Headmistresses hung. They were all asleep, and Pansy thanked Merlin that they were. She didn’t need to feel their disappointment at her presence there; her colleagues’ was enough.

Abbott turned to Longbottom, squinting her eyes. “You wouldn’t know what this is about, would you?”

Her husband shrugged. “I have no clue, darling. Think it has something to do with Parkinson arriving?”

“I doubt that, Longbottom. There is no need to make such a fuss over little old me joining your shining squad this year,” observed Pansy, with a characteristic as-a-matter-of-fact tone.

“Let’s stop with the pettiness and let the Headmistress speak,” whispered Chang.

I was not being fucking petty, thought Pansy, but she kept her mouth shut nonetheless.

“Thank you, Cho. And no, Hannah, this has nothing to do with Parkinson,” explained McGonagall. Pansy did catch on to the fact that she seemed to address each one by their name when there were no students around… except for her. Maybe it was an honour that needed to be won, being addressed by name and not surname. “There was an emergency meeting with the Minister this afternoon, that’s why the sorting got halted. There’s been a serious incident at the Ministry.”

“What kind of incident?” asked Longbottom.

“What ties that altercation with us at Hogwarts?” queried Chang.

Pansy didn’t speak, while McGonagall stood tall and waited for them to voice their doubts.

“Should we be worried about something? The fact that you made students go to bed accompanied by professors seemed off,” added Abbott.

Ah, so it is not normal at all, I was right, thought Pansy, scratching her chin.

“Marcus Flint, a former Slytherin student, was attacked at the Ministry last night, and they have no clue who did it. But an Unforgivable Curse was used to torture him for a long time,” explained McGonagall. Pansy’s mind started to spin. Why Marcus? They were never friends, barely on a first-name basis, but still… She had known him, and he had not been that awful to anyone. Not even close to the point deserving of a Crucio thrown his way. Which begged the question: By whom? The Headmistress went on, and the Slytherin pushed her thoughts aside to pay close attention to every word. Chang's expression tightened, while Abbott clutched her arms, and Longbottom’s jaw clenched. “It seems to be the act of an unknown group who call themselves ‘The Cleansers’, and seek vengeance for the crimes committed following Voldemort’s orders ten years ago, or so it seems. The Minister and the Senior Undersecretary have informed me that these individuals have a clear goal: to eradicate the pure-bloods to ‘balance out’ the wrongs of those dark times. We don’t know if they are referring to all families or just the ones who stood for Voldemort back then. And this is where this incident affects us: the easier way to end those lines is to attack their children.”

At her last words, McGonagall’s eyes focused on Pansy, whose stomach twisted.

Not only was her house the one with the highest number of pure-bloods—Salazar Slytherin had a soft spot for them and gave those descendants of wizards and witches preferential treatment. She herself was one. Fuck, she thought. So was Longbottom, technically, but no one would go after him. His family had long been branded as blood-traitors.

“How are we going to protect the students… and teachers?” asked Abbott, sparing her a side glance. Pansy inclined her head, thankful not to be the one speaking and noticing how the Hufflepuff Head of House had thought of her well-being.

“For tonight, there’s nothing more to do. Hogwarts’ protections are strong, and the castle is still standing after all the fights and wars it has outlived. Tomorrow, it is my understanding that Aurors will arrive to protect all of our students while the investigation into that group progresses.”

“The Cleansers, you say?” asked Pansy, incapable of holding her tongue back another second. She spat the name out as if it were poison. How dare someone target pure-bloods? How dare someone target kids? Didn’t they learn anything from the war? “Well, then, I suppose it would be better if you find another Head of House for Slytherin, Headmistress. I’m only putting my students in further danger if I stay.”

“Nonsense, Parkinson. I will not let a deranged group dictate to the staff of this school. Yes, you’ve made mistakes, as we all have,” said McGonagall. Your mistakes and mine are nothing alike, Professor, Pansy wanted to shout. “But you have already atoned for them, and I would be damned if I, as Hogwarts’ Headmistress, decide to let go of someone who I believe is going to be an outstanding Head of House. So no, you won’t leave.”

Just fucking brilliant. She’d left her cosy Cauldron of Snakes, AKA her Potions store only to be thrown into the heart of a politically complicated game, in which her head had a price and her back, a target. Lucky her.

Longbottom sighed. “I don’t like you, Parkinson. But I don’t hate you, and I understand some parts of why you acted the way you did. I’m not saying you’re forgiven—You haven’t even asked for forgiveness yet, but… you’re one of us now. Harry told me what you said to the eleven-year-old kids; something about each House having light and shadow in them? I believe you’re right. You’re a Slytherin, but first and foremost, you’re a Hogwarts Professor. And here we protect our own.”

“I—” whispered Pansy, but the words got caught in her throat. She loathed how grateful it made her feel. Like she was a schoolgirl again, desperate for someone to believe in her, even when she knew she didn’t deserve it.

“That we do, Neville. That we do,” agreed McGonagall, softening her stare at her.

Pansy resisted the urge to scratch her nape. It was agonising, having to rely on her former enemies to protect her without feeling like she earned it. And yet, she needed it. Mind you, she was not defenceless, but… Not the sharpest wand in the shed when it came to combat, either. And, if said Cleansers were not above using the Cruciatus Curse… or even the most dreaded: Avada Kedavra, she still was at a disadvantage.

A shiver went down her spine, and she hugged herself tightly. Pansy pushed her thoughts of Azkaban away, and they obeyed for once. There was something about staying there, surrounded by the Heads of House and the Headmistress themselves and feeling… confusingly at peace.

Not that her nerves were not skyrocketing, but still. Better to have a dead threat looming over her at Hogwarts, within magical protection spells and with people at their side, than alone in her London apartment.

“Thank you,” she whispered at a loss for better words to convey her feelings.

Chang nodded while Abbott squeezed her shoulder. Since when had she become part of their gang? This is what it felt like to be supported with no strings attached? It was… something.

“Tomorrow I want you here at seven o’clock sharp. I’ll have more information by then. You’re all dismissed, Heads. And remember: we are stronger if we’re together and not apart. All of us.”

Pansy knew the words were directed at her, so she inclined her head slightly.

Green was her colour. Silver was her House’s. And the silver lining of it all was that, maybe, this was her chance to show how she had changed during the war, how she was a new person. A better one. And, she hoped, a witch that represented a better future for Slytherin.

Perhaps.

Green was also hope’s colour, and that’s all it took for her to remain rooted in that place: Pansy would grow better still, reach taller, and she would leave Hogwarts better than when she arrived.

She would, there was no doubt in that.

Pansy couldn’t sleep. Tired of tossing and turning beneath those sheets as cold as her heart, she decided to wake up and wander the halls, something she used to do as a student—but now without the threat of being grounded or docking points from Slytherin.

She glanced at her watch. Quarter past six.

Pansy sighed. What was she supposed to do until seven o’clock?

She reckoned the best thing to do was to go to McGonagall’s office and hope she was there. Pansy needed to sort things out. And maybe vent a little too, though McGonagall would hate that. Still, someone had to help ease the gnawing sensation in her mind. And since the Headmistress was responsible for bringing her in, it was also her responsibility to hear her out.

It was not right, the way her students felt ostracised and like outsiders at the place they were supposed to feel safest and happiest. Something needed to change: in how the staff treated them, and how the other Houses did, too.

The gargoyle looked past her. Fucking statue, I bet your life it’s easier than mine. You just move when someone says the password, while I must keep pushing just to be spoken to, she thought bitterly.

“Bona fide”, she whispered, hiding a smirk behind her hand. In good faith. Was that password an olive branch… or just a coincidence? She would have to ask McGonagall, but after she had addressed her other priorities.

She wasn’t even sure what she hoped to get out of the conversation. Reassurance, maybe. That her students would have a brighter future than she did. Permission to scream. Because it had been ten years since the war, and its wounds still tainted the newer generations and her life. Despite having atoned on her part and despite, yet again, the innocence of those who were coming after her.

Anything that might quiet the roiling in her chest long enough to breathe.

“Sorry for the intrusion, Headmistress, but—” she stepped into the room, eyes still downcast. Then she looked up… and froze.

Not sun-kissed anymore. Not in a haunting orange bikini. Not lounging by the pool and stretching her limbs.

Not anymore.

Pansy’s breath hitched, as if her lungs had forgotten how to breathe.

Fucking. Hermione. Granger.

Chapter Text

Hermione looked at Pansy Parkinson as she barged into the Headmistress’s office—and into the very private summit taking place there. Official business between Hogwarts and the Ministry.

What was she doing there? What was she doing there?

Of all the places to run into her again, of course, it had to be Hogwarts. Of course, Parkinson would show up here, strutting into McGonagall’s office like she belonged.

The sheer nerve. The way she still believed everything was in her grasp, like she had done when they were students. The arrogance. The disregard she showed over and over for rules. The—

“I… apologise?” said the intruder, stopping Hermione’s inner ranting. She studied her and noticed how flustered, pale and bothered the witch looked. “I just wanted a moment of your time, before our meeting at seven. I’ll come back later, sorry for the inconvenience.”

“You might as well stay, Parkinson. You’ll hear of this either way,” replied McGonagall. Excuse her, she was allowed to stay? She, the bloody Slytherin Princess, the almost-former Death Eater, Pansy bloody Parkinson?

“Yes, Headmistress,” she answered.

McGonagall stared Hermione down when she noticed the witch squinting slightly at her. “Don’t give me that look, Hermione. She’s the current Head of Slytherin. Moreover, a pure-blood herself, and the last to bear her family’s name. She’s bound to find it out eventually, since her life is already at stake,” chided her, and Hermione didn’t know how to process the burn she’d felt.

“I knew Professor Slughorn decided to retire. But, really, Headmistress…” said Hermione, clenching her jaw. Parkinson, Head of Slytherin? Under McGonagall’s nose… or worse: with her approval. A woman who not only openly supported Voldemort but also suggested handing Harry over to him just before the final battle. First the Cleansers, and now this? The world was going mad right before her eyes. “Wasn’t there literally anyone other than Parkinson available?”

“Mind your tongue, Granger. I won’t presume to know what you’ve been through in these ten years, so I would appreciate it if you extended me the same fucking courtesy,” spat the intruder, no longer masking her words with politeness.

“Parkinson! Show the Senior Undersecretary the respect she has earned.” McGonagall’s voice cracked like a whip. “And you…” McGonagall stared them both down. “I expected better from the Gryffindor who valiantly fought and still fights nowadays for a world of justice and second chances.”

Parkinson shrank her shoulders, and Hermione wanted to punch that cunning b—witch’s pretty face. Then McGonagall’s disappointment dawned on her like a slap, and she hoped the ground would open and swallow her body.

“Come on, she started it! Don’t ask for my respect if it’s not reciprocated from the beginning. On my first day, I already endured more than some do in a whole year. There’s a target on my back, my students are scared and treated like outcasts, Hogwarts is under threat… and the cherry on top: she comes in and out of nowhere, has the gall to question my authority as if no time has passed and we were still fucking children!” she blurted, her fists closed at either side of her body.

Hermione strolled towards her, squinting her eyes. “No, you stop it! I’ve had enough. Two weeks, that’s all I asked for. A bloody vacation. And when I came back, I got divorced, there’s lunatics around throwing threats and Unforgivable Curses and you, you, are back at Hogwarts… as the Head of House for Slytherin. I wouldn’t be surprised if this was some scheme you planned—”

“To what fucking end, you stupid moron?” countered Parkinson, with anger showing up on her reddened face.

Hermione didn’t know. She had thrown that stone without really having anything to back it up. Not even her thoughts, because it was painfully obvious that Parkinson wasn’t behind the Cleansers. But she couldn’t give her the satisfaction of withdrawing. So she doubled down and pushed through. “Maybe it’s just about the pity. About weaponising it and taking advantage of the situation. Very Slytherin-like. It would surely get people like me feeling sorry for people like you!”

“Yeah, that sounds about right. Glad to know that you still live rooted in the fucking past, Granger. It saves me time, trying to meet you halfway,” whispered Parkinson, her voice dripping venom and cold as winter.

Hermione’s mind was spinning uncontrollably. She tried to gather her thoughts, but they kept slipping through her fingers before they could take shape. She wanted to stop, to walk away, but Parkinson’s voice was all she could hear, echoing through every memory she'd spent a decade trying to rewrite. Every snide remark. Every hex. Every day of warfare, every silence filled with doubt. And then the one that never stopped surfacing. The moment it stopped being a petty rivalry and turned into a death threat. She’d buried that memory so many times, told herself it was wartime panic, not malice. But now, under pressure, it was the first thing that came back. “You tried to give Harry to Voldemort, Parkinson!” she screamed. She knew it wasn’t fair to throw that in her face again. Not now, not when so many things were already falling apart, but the words came before she could stop them. “You think we can braid our past away and play nice? What’s next, painting our nails silver and green? Are you mad?”

“I only did what I thought would save the most lives! Walk for a mile in my shoes, for fuck’s sake. We were at war. Every soul in the castle was threatened. All I could think of was preventing the deaths of people I cared about! Surely even you can understand that, can’t you? Everyone would’ve lived, Granger; everyone. It seemed simple: all we had to do was hand Potter over! I don’t care if you believe it, but I do regret ever saying it, because I was a coward who knew nothing. But I do now. I know it was not fair or right. I fucking know. But ten years ago, we were backed into a corner, and you make it sound as if I really had a choice!”

Hermione wanted to take it back. Parkinson hadn’t deserved her backlash… but pride was louder than guilt, and easier to hold on to. “You did have a choice, I did, everyone did. And you chose wrong and escaped its consequences!” yelled Hermione, no longer thinking before speaking. Parkinson was taller than her, but she seemed to shrink as the insults and reproaches flew.

“Escaped? You think I fucking escaped?” shrieked Parkinson, getting back up in her face and shaking her head. Hermione had never punched someone, but having her so close made her wish she had, so she could’ve known where the strike would hurt the most if she were to jab her with her bare fist. “You call spending six fucking months in Azkaban… ‘escape’?” bellowed Parkinson, twitching her fingers over and over. Hermione opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Azkaban. Of course, she hadn’t known. Or maybe she had… and had chosen to forget. “In what alternate reality have you been living for the last ten fucking years, you bitch? How dare you—”

“Stop,” ordered McGonagall. Her voice was so cold it froze the argument, and so sharp it cut through it. “I will not play referee. This pathetic banter is below you both. Sort your differences out like adults, because that’s what you are. Stop playing at old rivalries like children and grow up! Hermione, go outside and come back when you’re really ready to have a civil conversation. Parki—Pansy, sit down. We have to talk.”

The Gryffindor scoffed as she walked past that cunning and pretty face. She slammed the office door behind her, boiling with rage, trying to get rid of the anger tearing at her bare bones.

It didn’t work, and she ran down the stairs and through Hogwarts’ corridors, not caring where she would end up.

Hogwarts had always been the place she could count on for safety. Even after all those years, it still felt sacred to Hermione. But Parkinson’s presence tainted all that, and she didn’t know how to cope with it.

Moreover, this time, Pansy Parkinson was in her rightful place: she was a Professor, Slytherin’s Head of House… while Hermione Granger was nothing at all.

Another loss to add to her long and rapidly increasing list.

One more, and perhaps the hardest one to face: how she no longer felt safe in the place she used to call home, and how estranged and painful it felt being left bitter and alone between cold walls she no longer recognised.

Hermione roamed the empty halls and, before she knew what she was doing, she found herself in Hogwarts’ Library.

She didn’t know what to expect when she crossed those antique doors, but she certainly didn’t anticipate finding Madam Pince still at her table. Hermione thought she would’ve retired by last year—but she was proven wrong when the librarian quirked an eyebrow at her.

“Ah, Miss Granger. Are you here to do research or perhaps to despoil or befoul more of the Library’s books by…” she scrunched up her nose before continuing. “Writing on them as you and Mr Potter did in sixth year?”

“I wouldn’t dare, Madam Pince. I have the utmost respect for these racks full of knowledge,” she replied quickly, wary of inciting another person’s anger like she had just done with McGonagall. “Truth is, I don’t even know what I’m doing here. I just fled from the Headmistress’s office and, before realising it, found myself on the first floor, looking at the Library’s creaking doors.”

Pince’s demeanour shifted, erasing some of the wrinkles around her eyes and relaxing her lips, which had remained tight and thin up to that point. “Child, you came to one of the places you used to feel safest: surrounded by dusty books and marvellous histories,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone. Her voice was warmer, as if she finally understood that Hermione would never purposely damage any source of knowledge she could get her hands on. “Anything I can help you with? Perhaps you’re here to find a book you’ve yet to know you want.”

“No, I—” began to articulate Hermione, but she stopped herself. If there was one place she could find information not known—or forgotten—at the Ministry, it was at Hogwarts. So, to start, she realised she should focus on those who were threatened, since she knew nothing of the Cleansers. “Actually, could you lend me something about the pure-blood lines?”

If Pince found the request strange, it didn’t show on her face. “There was a directory in the 30s published anonymously… though it’s widely attributed to Nott, Cantankerus. I believe we still have a copy here,” she replied, rising with a creak of her chair, already on her way toward the back stacks of the Library.

Hermione paced around, impatient. The scent of ancient parchment. The creak of her old favourite chair when she leaned on it. The dust motes dancing in the morning sun. She stopped and stared out the window for a beat. A single ray of morning light filtered through the old glass, bathing the Library in a golden light. She returned to Pince’s table, waiting for her to appear.

She had a pile of books on her desk, and Hermione smiled when she read the title of the one on top: Hogwarts: A History. She tapped its cover with her knuckles, absentmindedly and thinking aloud. “That would be the wise first step: listing the pure-blood children and discreetly protecting them. It’ll be a challenge, safeguarding them without making them feel threatened or followed at all hours by Aurors. But it’s, albeit tricky, the safest way.”

Pince took her sweet time, but she returned to her desk holding an old-looking book. Hermione was certain that the paper would disintegrate between her fingers if she touched it. The librarian handed it over.

“The Pure-blood directory? Do we have anything newer, or a list of witches and wizards and their families that I can use to cross-reference? That way I’d have an up-to-date version,” asked Hermione, hoping for a positive answer.

“I’m afraid not, Miss Granger. That kind of privileged information may be found at the Ministry’s archives, but not in Hogwarts’ Library,” she informed. “But before diving into all that sea of names, you should glance at this. There are very few pure-blood families extant to this day; most of them either survived only through the female line or have gone extinct. And other families didn’t classify anymore: someone in their line between 1930 and 2008 conceived children with a half-blood or a Muggle-born, rendering their descendants as no longer pure-blood, per its own definition.”

Hermione carefully took the book from Pince’s offering hands and opened it to a random page. Some of the surnames there summoned memories of former classmates, most of them unwelcome: Carrow, Yaxley, Bulstrode, Malfoy… She’d spent so many years at Hogwarts—or during those months hunting Horcruxes—resenting them. But this wasn’t about the past. It was about children and the fact that history was poised to repeat itself.

She needed to find a way to prevent it.

Other names on that directory, on the other hand, were a welcoming sight: Macmillan, Abbott, Longbottom, Shacklebolt…

She carefully avoided reading three, skipping the pages she knew they would appear alphabetically: Lestrange, Weasley and… for some utterly dumb reason she couldn’t quite name, Parkinson.

Bellatrix: dread.

Ronald: disappointment.

Pan—No. Hermione would not say or think of her first name. Parkinson, her surname, was enough. She felt vexation when she thought of her. Maybe. Irritation, resentment. The truth was, she didn’t quite know.

She tried to stop going down the rabbit hole of unwanted memories—to no avail the first time. She succeeded the second, refocusing on the matter at hand: Pure-bloods and Cleansers.

“These families are what’s known as The Sacred Twenty-Eight, aren’t they?” asked Hermione, and Pince nodded. “I remember reading about them… but I don’t recall where.”

“I’ll inform Minerva if anything else related to this comes to mind, so she can contact you in case I overlooked something. Maybe schedule a meeting to exchange information, or a quick Floo call if it’s just a minor detail.”

“I’d appreciate it immensely,” thanked Hermione. Pince inclined her head, and the younger witch couldn’t help but wonder if maybe research could’ve been easier throughout all her years at Hogwarts if she’d been warmer towards the librarian. She would never find out. “May I…?” she asked, inclining her head towards her favourite table of the whole room.

“Please,” nodded Pince.

Hermione sat down, feeling more herself than she had been in years. Buried in work and books, she connected with the part of her that felt at peace when she needed to find answers.

So she read, and read, and read. And the anger that boiled in her before going into the Library evaporated with every word she traced with her fingertips as it got engraved into her mind.

Home. She felt at home.

“I knew I’d find you here!” shouted someone, spooking a deeply-immersed-in-the-book Hermione. She turned around with a smile.

“Neville! Oh, how I’ve missed you!” she shrieked with laughter, but quieted down when she heard Pince’s shush and saw her giving them a disapproving look. “It’s been too long since you and Hannah came by.”

He smiled apologetically. “Yeah, I know! Things have been crazy since our wedding last June, but we were actually planning on meeting you on the first Hogsmeade weekend! Just like old times, us laughing at the Three Broomsticks and exchanging stories.”

“I’d really like that, but since I’ll be staying here for a while… we can do it way earlier!” said Hermione, delighted at the idea.

“I love it, let’s do that,” he exclaimed in a hushed tone, careful not to upset Pince again. Hermione didn’t know if she could ban professors from entering the Library, but it was obvious Neville didn’t want to take that chance. “Wait, what do you mean you’ll be staying? I thought all the vacancies were covered…” he asked while tilting his head.

“I… might‘ve put my foot in my mouth. I wasn’t supposed to tell you until the meeting, and—”

“Yes, the summit, as McGonagall said. That’s why I came looking for you, actually. The Headmistress sent us Heads on a scavenger hunt for the one and only Golden Girl. Walk with me to her office?” he explained and asked rhetorically. Of course, Hermione would go with him.

The chair creaked in protest when she finally stood up, ready to leave. A pile of books on her arms and ink on her fingertips, she walked alongside Neville as he left the Library and strolled towards McGonagall’s office. She imagined Cho’s exasperated sigh and Hannah’s eye roll when the Headmistress had asked them to find her. It was pointless; Neville was always bound to sort out where she was hiding faster than any other Head. Where would Parkinson even be looking for her? Would she even be doing that at all? Did McGonagall send her out, too, in a reckless expedition?

Hermione clenched her jaw. Why did her thoughts circle back to her?

It had been happening since they had crossed paths in Barcelona, from time to time. Under the searing sun, Parkinson had shattered a glass when their eyes had met. Hermione had seen the anger veiled beneath the shock. She had turned around, trying to forget that moment, desperate for peace and quiet and not… whatever Parkinson had going on before that.

It always irked her: how easily the other witch got under her skin, like she crawled inside of it, and Hermione had never quite shaken her out.

Mind you, her thinking about Parkinson was not usual, but still… It haunted her, spending even a second on her former classmate slash nightmare slash enemy.

And seeing her at Hogwarts had been too much. At a pool in Barcelona, wearing a tight blue swimsuit like a second skin, hugging her and looking for fun, while Hermione just wanted peace and quiet? That, she could handle. But at the same school that was almost destroyed by her and her accomplices ten years ago? No, that wouldn’t do.

“Just what is all the madness with Parkinson being Head of Slytherin? I know the pond’s not that big, but… did it have to be her? Really?” she asked, incapable of resisting that voice that nagged constantly at her consciousness.

“She’s not that bad,” whispered Neville while scratching his chin. “Well, Katie seems to believe she’s hiding some ulterior motive, but there’s nothing I can think of that she’d like to achieve. Harry heard her at the Sorting Ceremony talking to some first-years that were nervous about ending in Slytherin, and—”

“Let me guess,” interrupted Hermione. “She told them it was the best House to be sorted in, and talked trash about the others. Especially ours.”

To her surprise, Neville laughed. “Quite the contrary. She was kind to them. Said all Houses have flaws, but pointed out the best qualities of each. She even said that Slytherin needed to do better, in her own twisted way. Parkinson was just there comforting them, and they did not even belong to her House. And then she got all defensive when her students were not being applauded the same as other Houses. I think she genuinely cares about them. I know, shocking.”

“But during the war, she—” tried to chime in Hermione before being interrupted.

“I’m not excusing her attitude in wartime, or her actions,” countered Neville, using a more disembodied tone. “Not even before that. I’m telling you what I see now, and it’s just a woman tired of being left out.” That hit Hermione like a punch to the gut. Was she misjudging Pansy? No, she was just judging her fairly. “Besides, you’re all about second chances, Hermione. Why are you so hell-bent on trashing her? You weren’t like that even with Malfoy, and God knows he has done much worse than she.”

“I don’t know, Neville. Something in her triggers me,” confessed Hermione. It was not easy to put into words the why that happened, but that much was clear to her. “Malfoy, I could handle, by wand or by punch. But her… I never found the words or the spell to really outsmart Parkinson beyond a shadow of a doubt.”

“You’re projecting your insecurities from ten years ago into her actual self,” said Neville, and Hermione felt it like a slap. Not because of his tone. Or his intention. Because it rang true. There were nuances she couldn’t name, other causes she hadn’t uncovered. And she hated it: not knowing and being unable to find out felt like the worst kind of curse.

“I’m not doing that!” she tried to excuse herself. But her friend knew her better than herself. Apparently.

“No?”

“No! I’m weary by nature, Neville. You and Harry always saw the best in people, but I didn’t. And sometimes I wish I were just like you, but my mind doesn’t turn that nagging sensation off!” They were almost at McGonagall’s gargoyle, so she cut herself off, trying to steer the conversation towards something that didn’t feel like she was still reeling from the earlier argument in the Headmistress’s office. Parkinson was starting to feel like an obsession, more so since the horrid encounter earlier in the morning—this constant loop of why and when and how she couldn’t shake her. And Hermione loathed it. “I don’t trust her,” she whispered as Neville said the password.

The gargoyle moved upwards in a helical movement, revealing a staircase. She was about to go up, but a hand grabbed her arm before she could take a step.

“I wasn’t asking for your trust, Granger. I never did and never will.” A chilly and condescending voice Hermione recognised all too well spoke behind her. As she turned, she felt her muscles stiffening, cold beneath those long fingers, and her throat drying out while her chest decided to skip a breath. She tried to speak, but Parkinson wasn’t done. “That said… can we talk?”

Chapter Text

Despite her best instincts, as soon as McGonagall had dismissed the Heads with clear orders to find the elusive golden girl, Pansy glided through Hogwarts’ halls. She thought she’d just wander its corridors, with moving and unsettling portraits and strange armours standing up on each side from time to time.

Did she want to fulfil the Headmistress’s request to find that bitch? Absolutely not.

And yet she didn’t take a single detour on her way to the library, as if her feet knew where Granger would be hidden. And of course she was right, as usual.

Did she end up finding her first? Of course she did.

Pansy studied Granger, who was, as expected, immersed in a book and not paying attention to anything outside of those pages.

She’d always found her lack of attachment while reading a display of utter stupidity. Every time during Hogwarts’ years, her eyes accidentally found the Gryffindor studying. But standing there, watching cautiously and half-hidden by old, dusty and terrible books—some just boring, others plainly dangerous—and looking at Granger, she felt a pang of envy. How would it feel, being so sure of oneself that absorbing from reality was allowed?

She saw Granger’s fingers carefully turning page after page, reading the names of pure-blood families. It took Pansy only a second to realise which book she was immersed in, as she had known it by heart since she could remember: the Sacred Twenty-Eight.

Granger finished with one family—Greengrass’. The next one was the Lestranges. But the Gryffindor frowned and skipped its pages, stopping only when she reached the next one: Longbottoms. Why? Why did she not read about them? Was she looking for someone in particular? It didn’t seem like it, as she studied every name like Pansy did to every girl’s curve she took to bed. With adoration.

Pansy bit the inside of her cheek, resisting the urge to go up to her and demand an explanation. Or maybe push her head down, forcing her to read all the names on that family’s pages in that damn book. She subconsciously licked her lips when she thought of tangling her fingers into those brown curls while bending her head down onto that outdated tome, and she stopped and almost gasped out loud when she realised what she had really been thinking. Pansy felt the colour burn her cheeks and shame wash over her. No, she did not just imagine her hands on Granger’s hair, playing with it, tugging at its loose strands and pulling it. She did not.

What the fuck is wrong with me today? First, I let Granger goad me into that stupid fight with her snarky comments and then this? What am I, an animal that cannot control its basic impulses? For fuck’s sake, Pansy, get your head in the game and your mind out of your cunt, you bitch, she scolded herself.

She hid behind the tall racks while her thoughts organised themselves, the heat in her body dissipated, and she no longer felt the urge to yank those brown curls at her nape.

Pansy emerged again from between the shelves, ready to say something that would break Granger’s spell. Not one she’d cast with a wand, but a much more dangerous one. The same pull she felt in Barcelona, where Granger commanded attention without realising it, was repeating itself in Hogwarts’ Library.

She was still reading and was also writing notes down on a parchment, tapping rhythmically with her quill’s tip at the bottom of it.

Either Granger was a quick reader, or time had flown really fast. She’d already gone through the Macmillans, the Malfoys, the Notts and the Ollivanders while Pansy’s mind spiralled out of control.

The next pages were her own. The Parkinson family, in all its disgusting pure-blood displayed glory. She scoffed, expecting Granger to raise her eyebrows or scrunch up her nose upon reading that name.

Pansy looked up at Granger’s face and froze.

The Gryffindor skipped all the Parkinson pages, not caring to read any word written in them.

That was not what made her lungs stop breathing.

No.

It was that, just before turning to the next family, she’d read the name, Pansy’s family name… and Granger bit her lip, hard.

Merlin. Fucking Circe. And all the famous wizards and witches between, beyond and above.

Pansy felt like an intruder, but she couldn’t look away. Her eyes were hostages to those sunken teeth on that swollen flesh, and her hands twitched at her sides, trying to grab something, anything. A glass, a book, a fistful of brown curls.

Her pulse quickened, as if her heart expected her to run a marathon to those lips. She refused to acknowledge it, forcing the beats to slow down, or trying to. Because her body kept betraying her mind, and she wasn’t sure how to steer it right.

Pansy stopped herself before her own teeth could mimic Granger’s. She clenched her jaw so tightly it hurt, as if pressure alone could cage the sheer need her lips felt for someone else’s mouth clashing against them.

She bit down the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood, and, even then, the sensation of not being able to move and wanting to run kept washing over her. She needed that kiss. Someone’s kiss, not Granger’s. It was all her fault. If Pansy hadn’t crossed paths with her in Barcelona, she would’ve shagged the blonde in that Jacuzzi. Or the raven-haired girl. Or both, just… not at the same time. Maybe.

But no, the fucking Gryffindor had to be there in an orange bikini to spoil the party and rain on her parade.

No shagging for almost a month, plus pent-up desire, equated fantasies with anyone.

It was not because it was Granger. It was because she was a woman. Yes, that was it.

The metallic taste of blood made her throat close, and she almost choked for a second. Just like her hands had done so many times to countless women, acting like a beautiful and wanted collar. Squeezing just enough.

She wondered if Granger enjoyed that in bed.

And then she wanted to evaporate as soon as that idea crossed her mind.

No, no, no. No! Enough, enough. Stop picturing her in b—in other situations. You are smart, Pansy, for fuck’s sake. Stop lusting over that sorry excuse of a witch; she’s not worth your time. Too boring for you. Vanilla, dull, stiff and—Stop listing how she’s in…! When…! Oh, for fuck's sake, just stop!, she thought in a high-pitched voice.

Granger’s eyes were unfocused, and she was still biting her lip like she was a ship and that was her anchor. Pansy wanted to set sail, but couldn’t move. So she stayed. She watched. She loathed enjoying the view. And she forced her mind to think of anything but the Gryffindor sitting in front of her, obliviously unaware of her presence.

Granger shook her head, finally leaving her lower lip alone as she scanned the Prewetts’ ancestors, and Pansy remembered that she needed oxygen to live. The spell broke at last, helped by Granger’s shift on the old chair, making it loudly creak.

Thank Merlin’s beard for that.

Leave, leave, leave right the fuck now, she thought.

Silently on the outside and screaming on the inside, she bolted, leaving an oblivious Gryffindor behind and, hopefully, whatever the fuck had just happened between those damn stacks of books.

She hadn’t been to the Restricted Section of the Library ever. But from that point on, the whole room was out of bounds. She could not go back because she knew that, much to her abhorrence and her mind’s desperate need to forget, her body would remember what it felt. Circe, it had been too much… with so little.

Forbidden fruit, both the Library and that fucking haunting bite of Granger’s lips. From that moment on, Pansy would not set foot in that old room, ever, nor would she let her own eyes roam the Gryffindor’s tempting mouth. Over her dead body she would let herself get that worked up over Granger, of all people.

When hell froze over, she’d let her mind wander and her body burn. Not a second before.

What the fuck, Pansy? What the flying Merlin, hexed Circe, crossed Hecate and fucking fuck was that, she thought breathlessly as she opened the loo’s door and splashed her face with cold water.

It wasn’t icy enough to chill her sizzling skin. Not by a long shot.

Pansy emerged from the loo not refreshed at all, but with her face and arms cold and wet and wishing it was still night. That way, she’d be able to go back to her room and take care of the heat that hadn’t quite disappeared. Alone, beneath blazing sheets. Maybe—

Her train of thought got interrupted by a conversation. She heard someone talking down the hall, and her pulse quickened as she recognised whose voice it belonged to.

Damn you, Granger, Pansy howled inside. The bane of her existence was strolling with Longbottom towards McGonagall’s office.

She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop until she heard her own name being whispered with disdain between the witch’s lips and decided to listen closer.

Pansy followed both Granger and Longbottom like a shadow, listening to their conversation and resisting the urge to hex them. She missed some bits, not wanting to get too close and blow her cover.

The Slytherin was surprised to learn of Longbottom’s thoughts on her—how he believed Pansy was being genuinely kind overall. And she was shocked whenever Granger opened her mouth. She knew the witch held grudges—and receipts for childish hexes—, but her mind hadn’t grasped to what extent.

She heard Granger yelling. “She triggers me!” and her voice sounded almost wounded. Pansy frowned. Just what the fuck was happening? First, the Library episode that haunted her body like a second burn, and then fucking Granger being unable to tell why she bothered her so much?

They were almost at the gargoyle. Pansy despised it deeply. She got close enough to hear the Gryffindor’s whisper.

She couldn’t pretend she didn’t. Something boiled inside her, something dark that she wouldn’t name. Granger was talking about trust, as if she knew anything about her or her life.

Without realising it, Pansy’s fingers clenched tightly around Granger’s shoulder. They had moved of their own volition, and the Slytherin wanted to take her hand back, but couldn’t.

Though the Gryffindor’s robes felt chilly, the warmth radiating from her skin beneath made Pansy’s fingers twitch for an instant. To latch on firmly or free from fear, she didn’t know.

Granger spun around, facing her. There was something in her brown eyes that Pansy couldn’t name. Her pupils were blown, her neck tilted. As if waiting for her command, her words.

The Slytherin recognised those signs—she’d seen them countless times in other women’s bodies, squirming beneath her own. Coaxed by her touch, lured by her promises of pleasure beyond their wildest dreams.

But the Gryffindor was angry at her, not aroused. Her fists were tense, lips pressed thin and body taut, as if she was trying to remain composed.

That jerked Pansy back to reality, helping her in finding her voice at the right time for once since their paths had crossed that morning in McGonagall’s office.

“I wasn’t asking for your trust, Granger. I never did and never will,” she spat, carefully keeping her tone even and cold. The Gryffindor’s eyes studied her face, tracing every feature slowly. Her mouth opened at last to say something. Probably an excuse, or some clever retort, or a venomous comment. What an irony: the lion being poisonous and the snake roaring. Pansy didn’t let her speak. She had to make peace. With Granger, with the Library, with whatever messed-up fantasy had surfaced in her. She needed to let go, as McGonagall had asked. After all, the Gryffindor was back for a day, not to stay. And that was something Pansy could endure. “That said… can we talk?” she added, softening her voice a bit.

“I’ll tell the Headmistress you’re talking things over, Merlin knows you need to,” said Longbottom with a weak smile. “Meet you up there in a second, Hermione. And Parkinson… stop baring your teeth if you wish to fit in. Not everyone is out to get you.”

He climbed up the stairs before Pansy could reply, leaving them alone.

“Do you mind?” asked Granger, inclining her head toward the hand clutching her shoulder. Pansy reluctantly let go. “I stand by what I said—about not trusting you,” she said, her voice quavering.

“Fine by me,” answered Pansy sharply. “I wanted to apologise for my outburst earlier. There are lots of things happening, and I lost it when you questioned me. I might’ve been too harsh in retaliation.”

Granger shifted her weight uncomfortably, looking at the floor. “I said some things I’m not proud of either,” she whispered. Her eyes met Pansy’s before speaking again, and the Slytherin saw a glint of confusion and nervousness. “Likewise, lately my life has been going off the rails, and when you walked in I…” Granger stuttered. And bit her lip again. Like she did at the fucking Library.

Pansy could only hope that the sucked breath she couldn’t keep from escaping was misunderstood, and that the Gryffindor attributed it to her clumsy apology and not what really flashed before the Slytherin’s eyes.

“I know we have some unfinished business,” said Pansy, trembling, her high-pitched voice dripping through her carefully crafted armour, displaying its cracks. “But I’d like to be able to stand you, Granger. I’m not asking for a clean slate—”

“I would not give you a tabula rasa that easily, Parkinson. But I can grant you a truce, if you’d like. For the time being and pending future evaluation.”

“Seems fair. After all, I just have to endure your dear and shiny presence for a couple of hours. How hard could that be?” she rhetorically asked.

Granger’s expression shifted. “Let’s get up already. I bet the others are waiting for us,” she pointed out.

“Ladies first,” invited Pansy, although she wished the moment could’ve lasted longer for some wild reason. Granger turned, her hair brushing Pansy’s extended hand. She repressed a shiver.

“I don’t know the password”, mentioned the Gryffindor, spinning again a bit. Pansy could see the little smirk at her lips, as she was aware of something that Pansy wasn’t. The Slytherin tilted her head, hiding the growing tension in her back. And stomach. And fingers.

“Little know-it-all, golden girl, hero of Muggle-borns, is admitting not having the answer for once? Shall I dock points from Gryffindor? My, what a glorious day to be alive, and to be a Professor,” spat Pansy, with a teasing tone. She walked up next to the Gryffindor, careful not to brush any part of her body and whispered the password. She smiled, knowing she knew something that Granger didn’t. She would take that knowledge to her grave, seeing as how the witch tensed when Pansy stood tall next to her.

Pansy could string her along forever, perfectly composed, watching as Granger slowly unravelled. Would the not-knowing haunt her? She hoped it did.

Her thoughts got cut when the Gryffindor spoke again. “I’m sure I’ll get it out of you eventually. Or Neville or Hannah. They would crack under pressure rather easily. Though I admit I would have you slip for once, it would be more gratifying.”

“Try me, golden girl. I’ve seen way worse than you,” she dared her while climbing the stairs in a slow and deliberate motion.

“Cry me a river, Parkinson,” she hissed behind Pansy’s back. Oh, so the lion still roared. How amusing.

“Bite me, Granger,” she answered, smirking to herself. She would win this first banter. She was bound by her pride.

“You wish I did, Princess.”

Pansy froze before the Headmistress’s office doors when she heard the teasing tone in Granger’s voice. That was not ‘friendly-banter’ tone. Maybe the Gryffindor hadn’t realised it, but Pansy did. She’d had to distinguish enough times friendship from attraction, and that was definitely not the tone used for the first one. It was borderline flirting, and Pansy’s body reacted before her mind could.

Her spine locked. The banter battle? Forgotten, and lost on the Slytherin’s side.

Their first encounter in McGonagall’s office had been defined by anger, spats and rage. The second, much to Pansy’s dismay, had been a regretful one-sided lusting episode in the Library. And the third? They went from apologies to banter to… something else.. She couldn’t even name it, let alone process it.

And then she felt Granger’s body colliding with hers. Why had Pansy halted in the middle of the hall? Oh, right. Because of the unaware flirting.

Pansy fell against the door, and the treacherous surface didn’t hold her weight, combined with Granger’s. Of-fucking-course it didn’t.

The Slytherin spun around to stop her fall, but the Gryffindor’s body was in her way. There was nothing to grab—or to push.

The door burst open with a bang, and they stumbled in, all limbs and chaos and confusion intertwined. They crashed to the floor in a tangled heap.

Pansy’s back hit the ground, and for a second, the searing pain was all that she could feel. That is, until another weight crashed down on her.

Trouble. That screamed trouble.

Granger was on top of her, caging her. Her breathing landed on Pansy’s throat, her lips coming painfully close to her jugular. Her legs tangled, their chests heaving raggedly in tandem.

Pansy couldn’t move, think, or inhale. She wanted to, desperately.

Pansy could pant, panic and pray. She didn’t want to, ever.

Granger looked ashamed, smelled like a new book and mint, and tasted like—No, no, no, no. You don’t know that! Get out, move, breathe!, brooded Pansy, squirming below Granger’s still-very pressed-down-on-her body.

A bolt of electricity ran through Pansy’s stomach, red roses blooming on her cheeks… and every image thought of at the Library resurfaced like it had never left her alone.

Granger’s body finally rose a bit, giving her some breathing room. But instead of standing all the way up, the Gryffindor stood there: Hands on each side of her head. Pansy was pinned to the floor, and not how she wanted to b—Hell no, not again. Stop it, damn you. Not with fucking Hermione Granger, she scolded herself.

And then, another voice she chided as fast as it had appeared. Well, maybe that’s the solution: fucking Hermione Granger, it added.

I think the fuck not. Worst idea on earth, she argued with herself.

Maybe once? Just to level off, said the voice that refused to shut up, creating all sorts of unwanted reactions in Pansy.

No. Not a fucking chance. Ever, and that’s fucking final, she rebuked herself for those loose thoughts.

Finally.

Blissful quiet inside her mind… while her body twitched under Granger’s, unable to stop fidgeting.

The Gryffindor was unaware of all the things going on beneath her, all the things she was doing to Pansy’s frame, even though she tried to resist it. Hide it. The Slytherin dug her nails into her palms, wishing pain would snap her out of the spiral. And Granger kept hovering, close enough to feel her breathing on her face. Close enough to caress. Close enough to—

“Are you alright?” whispered Granger, searching Pansy’s face as if she would find the answer. Like the Slytherin was a book she was trying to understand, a code to decipher, a will to break.

“I—” she tried to answer, but her brain stuttered.

“Well, you seem better acquainted with each other at last,” commented McGonagall. Pansy wanted to vanish right then and there.

“Allow me to speed things up, Headmistress. Wingardium Leviosa,” chanted Chang, and both Granger and she were pulled up until they were standing again, perfectly apart and proper.

Pansy couldn’t even process what had just happened. She straightened up, pretending her knees weren’t trembling. One brush of Granger’s breath still lingered on her skin, and her heartbeat was determined to be the loudest sound in that office.

Meanwhile, the conversation kept going without her.

“Cho, it’s Wing-gar-dium Levi-o-sa, make the ‘gar’ nice and long,” said Longbottom mimicking Granger’s voice as best as possible. The imitated one laughed like a child on Christmas. Pansy looked at her, mouth agape and unable to cut in with a sharp remark that would anchor her back to reality.

She was, mentally, still beneath Granger.

“Spare me the theatrics, Neville. We still have much to discuss,” replied Chang.

“Oh, come on, a little icebreaker never killed anyone, Cho. Lighten up a bit,” said Abbott, winking at her husband.

“You still remember our first Charms class?” asked Granger, turning to Longbottom and still smiling.

“Like it was yesterday,” he answered, eyebrows raised and smirking.

“Wish it was,” Granger whispered, and only Pansy was able to hear her desire. “Do you recall when—”

McGonagall hawked, and every head turned to Hogwarts’ Headmistress. She looked calm, but ready to scold whomever dared to speak again. Pansy straightened further and forced a neutral expression on her face. There was no need for anyone to know the earthquake happening in her, so a mask of serenity—albeit as fake as Gilderoy Lockhart’s deeds—would work wonders to cover it all up. McGonagall regarded each of them, squinting, and seemed displeased with the results of her examination. “May I remind you that today is the first day of classes, you’re all Heads of Houses, it’s almost eight, you’re expected to welcome your respective students, and there’s a summit that was scheduled an hour ago? Or would you prefer to keep exchanging pleasantries and old stories like senile baboons?” They all shut up immediately and took a seat. “That’s what I thought. Shall we begin?” Pansy opened her mouth to dissuade the tension, but McGonagall didn’t allow her to speak. ”No, Parkinson, that wasn’t a question. I hereby declare this summit beginning, albeit some time later than expected. Hermione, the floor is yours.”

Chapter Text

Hermione rose from her seat and stood awkwardly in front of Hogwarts’ Headmistress and Heads of Houses.

“Good morning,” she began while gathering her thoughts.

What had happened with Parkinson just before going into that office? Why had Hermione agreed to a truce? Why had she, in fact, proposed it?

She shook her head. That, the banter that followed, the awkward fall, and the strange twist in her stomach could wait until later.

“I believe that the Headmistress has already informed you, Heads, of the delicate situation we’re facing. The Ministry finds itself in the predicament of protecting lives while not announcing the existence of the threat, for all that would do is fuel the Cleansers' popularity and skyrocket their allies among witches and wizards. This means that all that will be discussed here cannot leave this room, and the words spoken inside will not be retold. Am I clear?” Neville, Hannah and Cho nodded. McGonagall muttered a curt agreement. Hermione stared Parkinson down, and the witch shifted uncomfortably. “Parkinson?”

“Look, I don’t want to stir drama or delay unnecessarily this meeting, but can’t you just give us the facts and maybe then—”

Hermione sighed, already tired. See? That’s why you don’t extend an olive branch to a snake; it just gets too comfortable and starts demanding more. The truce was already a headache. “No, I need your word first that you won’t tell a soul, living or dead. You are being informed in the capacity of Head of House at Hogwarts, and not because of your blood status. That’s why, before sharing the information at our disposal, it is required that you agree to those terms. We cannot have a leak,” explained Hermione, rubbing her temples. Neville nodded absentmindedly in agreement, while Hannah squeezed his hand with a tired smile. Cho’s brain was working overtime, carefully turning gears to fit every piece of information being fed to them.

“All my friends are on that little book of yours, Granger. Most of them are pure-bloods. Easy for you to say you won’t tattle; no one you care about is at risk. Draco and Astoria have a baby, did you know? Don’t they deserve to know that some maniacs are out for pure-blood blood? And what about Daphne, or even Theodore? Is someone going to warn them at all?” asked Pansy, clenching her fists at her sides.

“You have to trust that the Ministry will do everything in its power to protect Scorpius Malfoy and his parents, along with any pure-blood currently living on British soil. Let us do our job, Parkinson,” insisted Hermione, her voice tightening as frustration started to creep in.

“What about all the detainees in Azkaban? I know they’re guilty of unspeakable crimes, but most of them are pure-bloods. They don’t deserve to be slaughtered like and by pigs,” counter-attacked Parkinson. She was rightfully worried and not being difficult on purpose just for the sake of it, but as Hermione had told Neville on her way to the summit, the Slytherin triggered her. Much more since the truce talk, strangely.

“Despite your reluctance to believe in the Ministry’s competence, there is already a special unit reinforcing the prison’s protection as we speak. Plus, the Dementors serve as a powerful deterrent system.” Hermione’s tone rose a bit, despite not having a reason.

Why was she getting all worked up over perfectly reasonable questions? Would she be reacting like that if it were Neville asking? Or Hannah, or Cho? No, she wouldn’t. Which meant that her rising temper had little to do with the words being said, and everything to do with who was saying them. And how right she was for pointing out possible failures, how effortlessly she was saying them. Parkinson had always been sharp-tongued, witty, and a quick learner. But this matured and polished version, who sought not to break or hurt, but to understand and heal, took Hermione’s thoughts of her and threw them across the window. She reclined her lower back against McGonagall’s table, crossing her legs and looking up at the ceiling.

“I didn’t doubt the competence, I doubted its willingness. We all know that, despite being far from what we were ten or twenty years ago, now there’s a new stigma that still puts some people over others. It’s also mirrored here at Hogwarts, towards Slytherin,” doubled down Parkinson. Hermione studied her face, trying to find the words to convince her to shut up. Where was the stuttering mess that had entered the office, falling, and who was this other responsible woman just trying to look out for her own? Brown eyes met greens in a silent challenge, and Parkinson blinked. Her long eyelashes kissed her upper cheekbones. Was she wearing makeup, or did her lips always shine? They looked natural enough, but gorgeous. Cupid’s bow was always a good look on a mouth and—

“Enough, Pansy,” chided McGonagall, cutting through Hermione’s thoughts on skincare and gloss. What was wrong with her? She usually could be razor-focused on a subject, no matter who she was next to or what it was about. Maybe it was because of her shared story with Parkinson. A story of loathing, vicious, snarky comments and ill-intended hexes. “Either agree not to share the information that’s about to be divulged, or leave. I’d rather you stay as you’re Head of Slytherin and your students are more likely to be targeted, but I won’t force you to if you feel at risk of losing something that matters to you in the process. But decide hastily: we need to keep moving forward and quickly.”

Hermione mulled over how to convince her to stay until a silly idea lit a metaphorical bulb on top of her head. She hated the idea, despised making promises like that. Too many moving pieces, too many uncertainties. But looking at Parkinson, there was something raw behind the sharp tongue. Something Hermione recognised. Maybe she wasn’t the only one still patching up old wounds with frayed thread, though they were vastly different ones. Pain recognised pain despite its roots, and she would honour that. “If it makes you feel better, Parkinson, I give you my word that your friends will be as protected as the Ministry can muster,” she whispered, taking a step towards Parkinson before realising it. Cho tapped her fingers against the table, eyes narrowing, and Hannah looked at Hermione like she was seeing her for the first time.

“A war hero promising little old me something?” smirked the Slytherin Head of House.

“Parkinson, my patience is running thin, as I’m sure is the other Heads’,” warned McGonagall.

“I promise not a word said here will leave my lips outside this office, as long as Granger fulfils her oath to safeguard my friends.”

“Finally,” sighed Cho, putting into words exactly what Hermione was too afraid to voice out.

“Great, now we can really start,” said the Senior Undersecretary.

Hermione was explaining the list of concrete measures that would take place. She waved her wand and the first one appeared in thin air, written by a yellowish bright neon light.

1. Sealing off any secret passages leading outside the castle’s wards is a major priority.

“I don’t think this needs much explanation. We don’t want any students wandering outside the designated areas that we can protect. Likewise, we cannot allow unknown means to infiltrate the castle,” said Hermione.

“Most were sealed back during the war and Hogwarts’ reconstruction,” added McGonagall. “But it would be helpful if you and Harry could help me locate the remaining ones that could still be going under my radar. Merlin knows you roamed them as you pleased while you were students here, often while supposedly bedridden. You three used to be a massive headache.”

Hermione smiled, reminiscing about all the adventures that she, Ron and Harry went through. How little they were at the beginning, all three of them being able to hide underneath Harry’s invisibility cloak easily… And how much harder it had become gradually as they grew, and their ankles were at risk of being seen.

“Gryffindor’s golden trio? Breaking rules?” mocked Parkinson, sweetening her tone and feigning innocence. “Regarding secret passageways: I’d like to help, actually. I know my fair share of secrets.”

“Well, every year Voldemort was around and Harry seemed to be a magnet for disaster, so we followed him head-on,” said Hermione, turning red at the slight scolding received by her former Professor.

“Even in the first year?” inquired Parkinson.

Hermione gave it a thought. It had been so long ago, and yet she remembered it like yesterday’s dinner. “Well… there was the whole Philosopher’s Stone’s nasty business. The second year was the Chamber of Secrets. Third was Sirius Black and Scabbers—sorry, Peter Pettigrew. Fourth, Harry was forced to participate in the Triwizard Tournament, where Voldemort came back. Fifth? The Department of Mysteries, the Prophecy and Umbridge. Sixth year’s main highlights were Malfoy, Snape and memories of Horcruxes. By the seventh, we were gone,” she listed, and with every word she aged a decade. God, they had been through so much.

“Although the list is long and an enticing story to be told and heard, let’s not lose focus here, people. We are on a rather tight schedule as it is,” remarked Cho, rightfully. “About the sealing of secret passages… It’s decided: Harry, Hermione and Parkinson, along with the Headmistress, will seal them all. What’s the next point?”

The second measure appeared just below the first on Hermione’s command.

2. Quidditch tryouts and practices must be supervised by a teacher of their House and a Ministry employee, Auror or not.

Parkinson made a strangled sound. “Come on! I’m the only Slytherin! How am I supposed to act as a Head of House, Potions Professor, counsellor for my students… while having to attend every fucking practice? That’s absurd, we could create a rotation system instead… Or something else,” she complained.

“Language, Pansy,” scolded McGonagall.

“Students would complain if professors from other Houses were observing their training methods. Those tactics could easily be passed to their opponents, making them useless,” said Neville with a tight smile.

“Juggle it, honey, like we all will,” chided her Cho, looking at her nails with ennui. “Don’t make such a fuss over a couple of hours a day.”

Parkinson turned to the Ravenclaw, and Hermione was sure that she was one second away from hexing her. Which side would she back if one were to try anything funny?

Cho was her friend.

Parkinson was somewhat right in her complaint.

So, still undecided, Hermione gripped her wand, ready to cast a protection spell if things escalated. Not in anger, but in readiness. Perfectly neutral. Or so she told herself.

No harm would be done to Parkinson.

And Cho, and Cho. Obviously.

“I can lend you a hand if you ever need support,” offered Hannah, rather apologetically. She had a heart too big for her own good. The tension in the environment turned down a notch after the Hufflepuff’s intervention, much to Hermione’s relief. “I don’t think anyone would suspect me of leaking Slytherin’s play tactics. I wouldn’t, obviously, but I don’t reckon they would be too mad if I was the professor in charge from time to time.”

“Thank you, Abbott. At least someone here has compassion,” whispered angrily Parkinson.

“Shall we go on?” asked Hermione, flickering her wrist for the third measure to appear without waiting for an answer.

3. Aurors will be patrolling the school grounds by day and the castle’s corridors by night, in pairs and doing different shifts and routes each time. If students are out of bed, they would be reported to the Head of the student’s House in question, who will decide what punishment is appropriate. Under no circumstances will a student be disciplined by a Ministry employee.

Since there were no complaints on that one and it was self-explanatory, Hermione moved forward.

4. Weekly meetings between the Heads and the Senior Undersecretary would take place, one-on-one, to express doubts, adjust the different measures and suggest improvements.

“I have a bone to pick with this one. What, pray tell, would these gatherings accomplish?” asked Cho, tilting her head. “It would be a poor use of your time, Hermione. Surely you wouldn’t waste a whole day just to travel here, and then mingle with the Heads of Houses… would you?”

“Actually,” stepped in McGonagall. “This will be announced during lunchtime: Hermione Granger will be staying with us until the Cleanser’s threat has been addressed—”

“She will be doing what?” yelled Parkinson, getting up from her chair. Hermione blinked. Why did the Slytherin look like someone had hexed her lungs? Was that… panic? Outrage? Something less—or more? Was she just that eager to get rid of her?

Hermione regarded her, curious. Parkinson looked flustered, arms akimbo, long fingers and green manicured nails digging into her lovely hips.

Maybe not anger. But panic didn’t suit Hermione’s image of her nemesis. Besides, what would she be panicking about? It was just temporary, her stay at Hogwarts.

McGonagall squinted. Cho sighed. Neville laughed. Hannah smiled. Hermione rolled her eyes. And Parkinson stood there, waiting for an explanation.

“Hogwarts needed someone to liaise directly with the Ministry, and I volunteered. I’ll be here until the threat is dealt with and my presence is no longer necessary,” she said slowly, careful not to reveal too much. They didn’t know this was because Shacklebolt had decided to bench her.

“Seems a conveniently long explanation for ‘They no longer stand me at the Ministry and I was sent here, where I’m seeking refuge from Ronald Weasley’s wrath and Rita Skeeter’s quill’, if you ask me,” commented Parkinson with a smirk. Hermione wanted to hex her, but it wouldn’t have been a behaviour worthy of the Senior Undersecretary.

Neville, however, stood up and smacked lightly Parkinson’s head. “That’s for not knowing when to shut up. Now, sit down, Pansy. Don’t make me repeat myself, and give Hermione a break. It’s like your only purpose here is to push her buttons.”

The Slytherin looked at him, shiny mouth agape and blushing. Neville raised an eyebrow, daring her to disobey, and she didn’t rise to the challenge.

Parkinson sat back down, crossing her arms above her chest. Hermione suppressed a laugh upon seeing her childish behaviour. Had she always been that way around her fellow Slytherins? Funny, aloof, sharp and delightfully combative. If so, she could see why she was called ‘Slytherin Princess’, though she seemed to freeze when Hermione had used her title earlier. “Brilliant, another Gryffindor in the house. A fucking lion’s den, through and through. What could go wrong?” she whispered, and Hermione had the feeling that much more was going on than what Parkinson was letting on.

She decided to bench that thought for later and went on, explaining the more intricate measures: the routes that were to be guarded, the students more likely to be targets, the chain of command, with her and McGonagall sharing the higher and equal power in all the Cleansers’-related matters, the names of the Aurors who’d be safeguarding Hogwarts—she was relieved that Ron’s name didn’t pop up on that list—, Hogsmeade security…

Neville and Hannah listened to her intently, while Cho seemed to drink from each of her words. McGonagall nodded from time to time, stepping in to clarify when the situation required it.

Parkinson didn’t speak again. She just looked lost and grew paler, her eyes tracking every subtle moment of Hermione’s hands. Not with visible anger, or disdain, but with something quieter, almost reverent. Towards what, Hermione didn’t know.

And yet, she found the whole situation alluring. Having Parkinson’s eyes fixated on her made her pulse quicken. Surely because of old trauma wounds and hexes, but still. Danger used to be her everyday cocktail, and now she was taking a sip again. It felt comfortably warm and known.

Her skin prickled under Parkinson’s intense gaze, but that… that was a matter for future Hermione to dissect. Once the summit was over, she was alone, and her heart no longer drummed against her ribs.

The last voice faded, the door clicked shut behind Neville, and Hermione turned to leave… until McGonagall stopped her with a glance.

“A word with you, too, Pansy, if you don’t mind. I promise both of you I’ll be quick,” said her former Professor. “I’ve thought this long since last evening’s events, and I’ve come to a decision.”

Parkinson grunted and sat back down in her place, the closest to McGonagall’s. Hermione walked back from the door until she stood behind Parkinson. She decided to remain standing and rested her hands on the back of the Slytherin’s chair.

“Regarding?” she asked, careful not to tug at Parkinson’s black hair as she gripped the edge of her seat back.

“Your role at the school. If we’re to keep all this under wraps, we need you to fit into Hogwarts’ teaching structure somehow, so that it wouldn’t raise suspicions. That’s when I remembered that there’s a precedent for a position we could use to our advantage: High Inquisitor.”

Parkinson snorted loudly, while Hermione’s mouth hung open.

“You’ve got to be joking, Minerva,” she said, and the taste of that name in her mouth was almost as strange as the bile rising at the title. High Inquisitor. It reeked of pink cardigans, cat dishes and fake smiles. It felt like fear and blood-inked quills. Torture disguised as order, and hate as worry.

“Quite the opposite, Hermione. It was a flawed position, but we can use that to our advantage,” said McGonagall. “I’m aware the name carries… unfortunate weight, especially to you and Harry. But no one here will mistake you for her.”

Hermione regarded the Headmistress. She was not joking, as she hoped she had been. She, High Inquisitor? No, it felt wrong. “Under what pretext? That position only existed so the Ministry could interfere at Hogwarts,” she asked. McGonagall’s eyes darted towards Parkinson, who was still sitting down and not saying a thing, and Hermione understood. Her stomach sank. “Hell no.”

“What’s happening? Why am I here? ‘Hell no’, what?” The Slytherin spoke at last, but Hermione couldn’t see her face. Her voice was calm, despite the rapid fire of questions coming from her ever-quick mouth.

“You’re the excuse for my title, Parkinson. Minerva intends to tie my responsibilities as High Inquisitor to your presence as Head of Slytherin,” explained Hermione.

“Precisely. Correct answer as always, Hermione. Three birds with one stone: provides cover for the new reinstated position, defuses tension with those who don’t think you, Pansy, are a good fit for Slytherin and keeps you two together, protecting the only pure-blood teacher under my roof from a possible attack.”

Hermione hated how much sense it made and how uncomfortable it felt. She would be undercover, posing as Parkinson’s supervisor, whilst protecting her from the Cleansers. The Gryffindor rubbed her temples, already exhausted before the task had even begun.

It was logical, well thought-out, and practical. Which didn’t mean that Hermione liked it—quite the opposite, actually. She’d go mad if she were to be forced to spend so many hours next to Parkinson, and she reckoned the feeling was mutual.

“Joined by the hip during the daytime. What’s next? We share a dorm? What about a bed, for Merlin’s sake?” snapped the Slytherin, tense. Hermione stared at her, horrified. What a preposterous suggestion! She wanted to slap the words out of Parkinson’s mouth, but her spine had decided to avoid movement. Locked on itself, her shoulders felt the tension rising through her entire body. Professors needed their own private spaces; everyone knew that. But she wasn’t a teacher. And she dreaded McGonagall’s response, for sharing a dorm with Parkinson would prove unbearable.

“I wouldn’t go that far. Although your rooms are next to each other and connected with a shared door, since you are both the last two witches joining our staff. Beggars can’t be choosers,” said the Headmistress.

“What?” asked Hermione, astounded. She would need to cast Colloportus and an Imperturbable Charm on that door every night; there was no way that she would be able to sleep with Pansy bloody Parkinson just across an unguarded door. She blushed, but quickly covered her cheeks with both her palms to cool them down. Her ears burned, wishing they had heard the Headmistress wrong.

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” whispered Parkinson. She sounded torn between exhaustion and fury.

“Language.”

“This is not what I signed up for!” shouted the Slytherin, rising from her chair and standing between McGonagall and Hermione. All the Gryffindor could see was that raven hair, glossy and meticulously brushed, shimmering like ink in the light. She resisted the urge to caress it; she loved long hair, the kind that Ginny and Cho had. Hers was bushy and rebellious, impossible to master. But Parkinson’s fell on her shoulders effortlessly, like a black-water cascade. She blinked and looked away, taking a sidestep so the Slytherin was not standing in the middle anymore.

“I take it this is your way of resigning?” chimed McGonagall.

“What? No! I’m just venting,” yelled Parkinson.

“Then go vent somewhere else. Preferably, the Great Hall, for breakfast is being served as we speak. Have Hermione go with you, and I’ll join you both in a minute,” ordered McGonagall, sitting down on her chair and scanning some papers on her table. When neither Hermione nor Parkinson moved, the Headmistress looked at them dead in the eye. “Ladies, that’s not a request. You’re dismissed.”

Parkinson turned without a word, stomping towards the exit angrily. She opened the door and held it open for the Gryffindor.

“You coming or what, golden girl?” she snapped, looking at her as if she were an inconvenience. But her tone, oh, her tone… That told a different story, one Parkinson was trying to mask—and succeeding. Hermione blinked at the use of her nickname: it had been so long since someone had used it not like a badge, but like a bash. It felt… oddly freeing. She blushed, unsure why.

Just what was up with Parkinson today? Hot, cold, funny, snide, competent, childish. Hermione had at least seen six personalities in a couple of hours, each one more intriguing than the last.

She quickly followed Parkinson, without uttering a word until they reached the end of the staircase. Hermione’s stomach roared, enraged at having been empty for so long.

“So you’re the new Umbridge?” smirked the Slytherin, falling in step with her.

Hermione cringed at the question, and Parkinson laughed. How could she be so cheeky and carefree when her life was at stake? And why was she venting angrily one moment ago, and now she was back to ‘banter-mode’? “I’d rather not be described by that old pink toad’s sorrowful existence, thank you,” she pleaded.

“Did you know that her name means ‘painful’ in Spanish? Can we call you ‘Remedios’, which can be translated as ‘remedy’?”, insisted Parkinson, hitting her where it hurt.

“Are you done?” she replied angrily.

“For the time being, I believe so.”

“God, you’re such a pain,” whispered Hermione, as a means to end that conversation.

Parkinson didn’t take the hint. Or did, but ignored it all the same. “Then you can be its remedy.”

“Would it kill you to shut up for once?” inquired Hermione, fidgeting with the hem of her shirt.

“I believe the words you’re looking for are ‘fuck off’, golden girl,” provided Parkinson, ever-so-bloody-helpful.

Hermione smacked her arm, and for good measure. “More like ‘fuck you’, but I’m not prone to swearing.”

“Give me a time and place, and we can work it out, golden girl. Or better yet, leave the door unlocked tonight. Merlin knows you need it, and I’m not picky,” said Parkinson.

“What are you—” Hermione looked at her. The Slytherin had a lewd smile tugging at her lips, and when she saw what the Gryffindor’s focus was… she bit her lower lip. The worst part? Hermione knew she was performing to psych her out. And it bloody worked. “Oh. No! Just what is wrong with you? Do you invite everyone to share your bed?”

“No, only the hot ones. And, if memory serves correctly, you were. Barcelona, orange bikini and sun.”

Hermione’s pulse was faster than a hummingbird’s, and she was sure her cheeks were burning red. “You’re mad, Parkinson. I’d never, ever, sleep with—”

“Chill a bit, golden girl. I just find your reactions amusing,” cut in the Slytherin, still displaying that smile on her gorgeous lips. “I wouldn’t want to shag you anyway—you seem like the type to be thinking about books all day.”

“I don’t!”

“Hm?”

“I don’t think of books all day. Just… most of the time,” she said. For God’s sake, she wanted to get back at her. The banter was out of control. Her pulse was out of control. Her temperature was out of control. But her mind? Razor-sharp. So she decided to cut back and cut deep. “Shame, though. Your trauma with being so bad in bed that people dissociate from the experience and think about anything else, I mean.”

She would deny it if anyone asked, but she was enjoying this conversation way too much. Surely it was because it demanded wit and smart answers, something no one had asked from her in a long time. It was muscle memory, old banter turned new. All laced in disdain, and… curiosity? No, that wasn’t quite the word that—

“Fuck you!” shouted Parkinson, dropping the smile. Finally! Her pride had taken a jab from Hermione’s words, and the Gryffindor’s chest puffed when she noticed the Slytherin’s lack of response.

The Gryffindor tilted her head. One last bomb, to go out in style. So she dropped it. “Time and place, Princess?”

Hermione was buying a one-way ticket to hell. That was the only explanation. She didn’t even respect or trust Parkinson as far as she could throw her. God, she didn’t even like her. But something about this ridiculous exchange had flipped a switch she hadn’t known was there.

Hell, she didn’t even like women. Much less Pansy, of all people. And yet her smile, like a magic tattoo, shone brighter with every beat of her heart as she entered the Great Hall.

Chapter Text

Just what the fuck was her brain thinking when she had asked Granger ‘time and place’? Her pride was wounded, her sharp tongue got bitten, and she had been free-falling ever since Granger had spat those same words back at her.

Now she was in the dungeons, where the chill clung to her bones and flared the heat in her cheeks.

The main problem? Despite all her bravado, all Pansy wanted to do was shut the golden girl up. Preferably pushing Granger against the wall and covering her know-it-all mouth with hers.

The Gryffindor had thrown that ‘time and place’ offer so casually, had just outright implied that she was bad in bed… that the Slytherin wanted to prove her wrong. And wanted to disintegrate at the thought of doing so.

It was maddening, wanting something, wanting to refrain from saying something, feeling like that something wanted her back, but realising it was only stringing her along… or worse: Maybe that something didn’t even realise what it was doing to her. All that, and it was still only 8:55.

Fucking brilliant. A whole day ahead. Her first, in fact.

See? She knew she’d be doing better back at the store.

Pansy threw the fake Galleon in the air, waiting for it to warm up. It had been only a day since she’d been gone, but Cory and Fiona showed no signs of anything going wrong. She should’ve been relieved, but she felt anxious and sad instead.

Pansy resisted the urge to contact them—they would when, and not if, they needed her.

“What’s that?” asked Granger, stepping beside her and catching the Galleon in the air before looking at it closely.

“Enchanted money. A cleverer version of your dumb DA’s coins,” replied Pansy, extending her hand. “Give it back.”

“Who has the other pieces?” she asked in a soft voice. Why did she care?

“None of your business, Granger,” replied Pansy flatly, twitching her fingers. Her hand stayed open in the middle, waiting for the cold metal to return to its rightful owner.

It didn’t. The golden girl kept it between her fucking fingers, playing with it as they moved in a motion so fast, Pansy could not follow. Rolling the coin across her knuckles, then spinning it and starting the movement again. And again. And again. Did she play piano? Because her fingers moved with a hypnotic, practised grace. It was a spell without magic. “Back to ‘Granger’, I see. Have I done something to offend you, oh mighty Slytherin?”

“Does existing count?” snapped Pansy, whose patience was running as thin as the thread of decorum and self-preservation preventing her from doing something utterly stupid, like grabbing Granger by the collar and—

She thought banter would ease the tension. It turned out, it only built another kind. The kind that curled in her bones, forced her heartbeat to go wild, and made her blush like a fucking schoolgirl. The sticky tension she loathed the most, for she knew it would not be resolved.

“No,” replied Granger, blissfully unaware of anything. Really, how come she was called ‘The Brightest Witch of their Age’ when she was so fucking clueless and blind?

“Then, no. Why do you ask?” asked Pansy, still not following Granger’s train of thought.

“I’ve been ‘golden girl’ since the truce, but now you’re going back to ‘Granger’ like a scared kitty-cat,” smirked the Gryffindor, finally giving back her prized Galleon and leaning in slightly.

“Spare me the feline comparisons, Granger. I’m a snake, not one of your dear cubs. Now, let me be; I need peace of mind before the class starts,” growled Pansy, heart beating in her ears and in desperate need to cool off.

“Your wish is my command, Parkinson,” replied a wounded Granger, before spinning and finding a stool behind Pansy’s table.

The first students started filling the class, as if they were falling from a dropper. The professor didn’t have time to process what that conversation with Granger had meant, because her duty called. The first two first-years were Gryffindors she barely remembered from the Sorting Ceremony. Blume and Kim, maybe? She would have to check her notes on the list later.

Then, a couple of students from their own House got in and rushed to the farthest table from the board.

“Come on, Slytherins, don't be shy. I don't bite yet, scout closer to the front, or you won't listen properly,” said Pansy. When they obeyed, she flicked her wand, and the last row of tables was pushed back, their stools on top of them.

There were fewer students than seats, and she didn't want to urge every one of them not to sit down in the back row.

Then Jack came in, all nervous smiles and evident excitement on his first Hogwarts class. Vicky followed him shortly after, and they sat down together at the closest table to hers. Pansy smiled at both of them. It almost broke her heart, knowing that their pairing was about to be torn apart.

When the class was full, at nine o’clock sharp, she rose from her seat, and the conversation quieted down immediately. “Welcome to Potions, little ones. I hope you learn much this year, because my subject is not easy, and neither will be the final exams,” she said, stopping for a dramatic effect. Pansy could swear Granger was hiding a smile behind her, but she had no way of knowing. “Pay no mind the the lady sitting at the front, she's a former Gryffindor student, an old hag, here to learn more about my craft. You see? I’m a bit of a prodigy,” she added, pointing dismissively towards Granger, who hummed absentmindedly in response.

“Ah, so we’re calling nepotism ‘talent’ now?” she muttered loud enough for only Pansy to hear.

She ignored her. Students were looking at her, and she wasn’t about to make a fool of herself. “Jokes aside, Granger here is Ministry’s one and only Senior Undersecretary, and most recently and just appointed Hogwarts’ High Inquisitor.” She paused, letting the silence settle before continuing. “As I'm sure you're all aware, this is my first year teaching at Hogwarts, so don't be too harsh with me. I won't reciprocate, because I intend all of you to master all kinds of potions and excel in my subject, but alas, that's what you get with power's imbalance.” A few chuckles escaped from their students. Perfect. “Now, let's start with our first potion. Oh, don’t look so afraid! Aren't you lot, in red and gold robes, Gryffindors? And you, little snakes in my House… I expect better from you. Slytherins might not be the bravest, but we are brave enough.”

“But, Professor Parkinson… we don't know how a potion is brewed, let alone a particular type.”

“Mr Thomas, you'll raise your hand before speaking. And I understand your concerns, but I never said you'd be brewing a potion on your own.”

Vicky raised her hand. “What will we be making, then?”

“The Cure for Boils, Miss Corner. I’ll brew it alongside you and make sure you’re doing it correctly. Don’t worry if something goes wrong: it takes years of practice and a well-oiled craft to be outstanding in Potions. You’ll improve and hone your skills little by little. Shall we begin?” Pansy turned around and was about to write on the board when she dramatically hit herself on the forehead with her palm. “Silly me, I almost forgot. I’m so sick of this snickering between lions and snakes. I fell into that toxic dynamic myself, and it turned out to be the least useful, most time-consuming and anger-fuelled waste of energy I ever endured.”

“What do you—Sorry,” said a Gryffindor girl, before stopping to raise her hand. Pansy smiled and nodded, giving her permission to go on. “What do you mean, Professor?”

“You’re all Hogwarts students, are you not? And this rivalry between Houses can reach a boiling point I’m not interested in. All it does is break students apart, divide further wizards and witches, and muddle classes and potential friendships. I shall not tolerate this behaviour in my class. And, to that effect… We’ll be switching partners. Since I’m the Slytherin Head, I reckon it’s only fair that Gryffindors pick their partners for this first class. Then, it will be the snakes’ turn to choose from the lions’ ranks in the next class. Sounds fair? I don’t really care. Gryffindors, step up and choose a Slytherin to be paired with for today’s lesson.” Pansy resisted the urge to look at Granger’s face when she said all that. Would she be surprised? Unimpressed? Angry?

Pansy didn’t know. And hated that she cared.

First-years were easy enough to convince and order around. They didn’t have old grudges and an attitude, so the new pairings were not as disputed as Pansy thought. But then again… she would have to wait for the older students before assessing how difficult it would be.

Pansy wrote the instructions on the board:

1. Add 6 snake fangs to the mortar.
2. Crush into a fine powder using the pestle.
3. Take the cauldron off the fire before adding the next ingredient. Add dried nettles and horned slugs.
4. Add 2 porcupine quills to your cauldron.
5. Stir 5 times, clockwise.
6. Wave your wand to complete the potion.

She started brewing it at a glacial pace, making sure every student was following her instructions. On one occasion, she had to halt the class because a pair was bickering about whether the powder of the snake fangs was fine enough. It wasn’t.

On another, a Slytherin was about to add the dried nettles while her cauldron was still on the fire. Her Gryffindor companion didn’t seem to notice, so Pansy cast an Immobolus to prevent them from doing it. She explained what would have happened: their cauldron would have melted and smelled horrible.

“Mistakes are what make us human, first-years. But learning from them is what makes us intelligent, and I believe you are quite capable witches and wizards,” said Pansy, before removing the freezing spell on both students. To her credit and relief, no shame shone on their faces.

Good.

Snape had been a Potions Master, but also a horrendous teacher. The fact that students’ fucking boggarts resembled him and no one had batted an eye at the school still baffled her.

Pansy wouldn’t be lenient towards students just for the sake of it. But none of them should be terrified of her either.

When they were almost done, Jack accidentally knocked over his cauldron, and some of it spilt. Pansy reacted quickly, pushing both students out of harm’s way with a wordless Accio.

They apologised, and the Professor smiled kindly at them.

By the time the class was over, a dozen cauldrons were full of potions, and all of them had a pink smoke rising from the liquid.

A good job done.

“Twenty points to both Gryffindor and Slytherin, for a well-executed Cure for Boils. Now run along, little lions and snakes: Defence Against the Dark Arts is an interesting class, and Harry Potter is dying to meet you,” she congratulated them, and the students cheered.

When the last one had left, Pansy sat down, exhausted but happy. Granger was erasing the board, deep in her thoughts.

“‘Harry Potter is dying to meet you’? Really?” asked the Gryffindor while Pansy was cleaning her table with a couple of spells.

“What? Potter always enjoyed the subject, and I’m told he excels as a teacher. I’m quite envious of his fame as a Professor, it seems to outgrow the other one: Is being ‘The Chosen One’ really important if the Dark Lord is not around anymore?” replied Pansy, her question being somewhat sincere.

“Harry will always be haunted by Voldemort, like all of us. But every day gets easier,” said Granger softly, as if her voice was mending old wounds no one was allowed to see.

“I’m sorry it happened. And I’m glad it’s healing.”

“Thank you,” whispered Granger. “It suits you, you know.”

“What does?” asked Pansy with both eyes closed and resting her head between her hands.

“Being a Professor. You had all of them eating out of your palm.”

Pansy rubbed her eyes and opened them. She regarded Granger, who was done with the board and just stood there, petrified. “I’m used to people complying with my desires, golden girl.”

“Us Gryffindors opposed them on principle, if memory serves right,” she pointed out with a small smile.

That fucking smile will haunt me for days, she brooded, already regretting it wandering free.

“Or so you thought,” replied Pansy with a tired smirk.

Hermione stepped forward as if to say something else, then stopped. Their eyes caught and held each other, for just a beat too long. Silence seemed to stretch forever, and Pansy’s throat tightened, unable to swallow whatever stuck in it. Granger’s lips thinned, as if they were trying to repress the words on her tongue’s tip.

The Slytherin wanted to shout. And wanted to know what the golden girl was keeping hidden in her thoughts, what words were left unspoken… like an oath.

Another student, this time from sixth year—which Pansy had just realised was her next lesson group—entered the classroom. A Hufflepuff boy, followed by two Ravenclaw girls.

And, just like that, her break was over, and the next class started.

11:02. All that, and it wasn’t even noon. Fuck.

Pansy dragged herself to her bedroom on feet that barely cooperated. Her trunk was where she had left it this morning, open and empty, and the whole floor was covered in clothes, shoes and anything else that hadn’t made it to the bed or wardrobe.

Not wanting to look at the mess her room was, she jumped over all the obstacles from the door to her bed, like a game of forbidden paces. While she was trying to get there without stepping on her personal effects, her tired mind ran through the classes she’d endured today.

The day had gone better than expected, lesson-wise.

Teaching first-years proved to be a delight. Sixth-years were a hormone cocktail, and she had to pretend not to notice how some of the students looked at each other like animals in heat. Fifth- and seventh-years were acceptable, as they were already worried about O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s and weren’t fooling around. And second- to fourth-years, she was told by Hannah during supper, were chaos incarnate.

After the first lesson, Granger decided to use the tables at the back of the classroom. She lounged there, reading some boring book about history and taking notes on it and other matters. From time to time, when students were working and not needing Pansy’s undivided attention, the golden girl walked up to her, amused and whispering snide comments only she could hear, craftily designed to get under her skin. And making the Slytherin think, every time she glanced at the golden girl’s tempting, outstretched and relaxed body, that she was no better than a sixth-year, sixteen-year-old adolescent. A fucking animal in heat.

Pansy recalled the burning in her gut ignited by the golden girl’s flirting, and how eager she had been to go back to her room and take care of it herself.

And yet, all that effort she’d poured into teaching had left her empty.

What a joke.

As if she’d have energy left for anything else besides sleeping. So it was no mistake when she, fully clothed and still wearing her shoes, collapsed on the bed, face against her soft pillow, and refused to move.

It smelled of that same expensive cologne she’d accidentally sprayed on hours ago, clogging her nostrils. Far too sweet, far too intense. And yet, she lay there, not even wanting to reach for the wand on her thigh holster and take care of that scent.

She glanced at the door next to the chimney. That led to Granger’s room. Would she be abed already? No. The golden girl liked her books almost as much as Pansy liked her women. Before falling asleep, on the bed, room barely lit, in the silent night, with her fingers digging into their spines.

So, in short, Granger would be most certainly reading.

Fuck me, she thought in slow motion, as if just forming the words had taken all of what was left of her.

Pansy did nothing. Let the burn linger on her skin and the ache between her legs, for she didn’t have enough energy to address it. She wished someone else did, not thinking of anyone in particular. But only the cold sheets beneath her body moved as she trembled on top, and the lights turned themselves off when she closed her eyes. Pansy let sleep take her in its arms like a lover who knew her better than anyone ever had.

Around three in the morning, Pansy stirred… still half-asleep. Her clothes clung to her body, sweaty and sticky, like a disgusting second skin she didn’t need in that overly warm room. She tried to roll over and keep sleeping—if she didn’t have the energy to get herself off, she certainly didn’t have the energy to peel her clothes off either. Priorities, baby—but the sheets had other plans. They tangled around her as she tried to turn, and Pansy kissed the floor of her room with a thud.

Her hip would be bruised the next morning, but her pride took the bigger hit if she was being honest with herself.

“For fuck’s sake, can anything today not suck?” she asked the ceiling, not caring for an answer. Her hands tore at the sheets, undoing the loops around her legs and cursing them as if they’d tripped her on purpose. “Well, at least now I’m awake. Gee, thanks, Hogwarts.”

Pansy got naked as quickly as she could, getting rid of her sweaty clothes.

“Finesse, darling,” she muttered while grabbing new knickers and one of her silver nightgowns made of Chinese silk from the floor. Where was Daisy to hoot her approval, the nosy rat-eater? Fucking owl, how she missed her. The rustle of feathers on the windowsill, her judgmental stares at Pansy’s amazing—poor in Daisy’s opinion—outfit choices, the little animals she hunted and laid on her desk, as an offering to her wonderful master.

Circe, she was pining over Daisy much more than she’d ever pined over anybody. Except, maybe, that first girlfriend, first kiss, first everything, back when she was nineteen. But that was the past, and Hogwarts was her future.

“And now I’m pining over a castle. Here I thought we couldn’t suck more than yesterday.”

Pansy bit her cheek, glanced at the floor, and cringed. She really needed to sort out the mess that was her room. And her life, now that she was at it.

But not that night, Merlin.

She threw herself onto the bed with a mumbled ‘night, Daisy’, forgetting the owl was still in Diagon Alley.

Sleep claimed her again. Finally, something that didn’t need her to be bold, assertive or right. Just to be.

Pansy woke to a sound. A choked breath, maybe. Then she heard the unmistakable sound of a piercing scream. She jolted upright, eyes barely registering where she was. Her ears guided her towards the sound.

Was it the Cleansers? Were they under attack? She unhooked her thigh holster, wand at the ready.

No more playing at avoiding the floor’s mess, she ran across her bedroom. She tripped over a pair of high heels and stumbled to the connecting door leading to Granger’s room, just left of the chimney.

The screaming stopped.

It didn’t matter.

Pansy cast Alohomora before kicking the door open, expecting to see Granger mid-duel.

But she was lying in her bed, sheets soaked with sweat. She rolled violently and screamed again.

Something broke inside Pansy. She ran to her side. Her hands found Granger’s shoulders. She shook her furiously.

“Fuck. Wake up, golden girl. Wake up!” she pleaded, not caring how broken her voice sounded. Her fingers dug into Granger’s skin, nails leaving red crescent moons, but the golden girl’s body kept jerking in her sleep. “Come on, don’t do this! It’s a nightmare, Granger. Just a fucking nightmare!” she shouted with panic. The screams were louder now, and she was clutching her arm, scratching her skin until it bled. Pansy let go of her shoulders and grabbed her hands instead, stopping them from doing more harm. Granger’s eyes fluttered open, but her body kept thrashing and fighting Pansy’s soothing grip, still trapped inside the nightmare. “Hermione, please!”

She opened her eyes at last, full of tears that had refused to fall. The weight on Pansy’s chest lightened a bit, but it was still holding her heart in an ironclad grip. “Harry. Get me Harry. Please, please,” she begged, her voice hoarse and broken, hands trembling, nails streaked with blood.

Pansy didn’t want to leave her alone, not like that. She cast a Patronus—a butterfly—, which landed on her finger. She gave it a message it disappeared towards Potter’s room.

Granger did not talk or move.

“Let me heal that arm, golden girl,” suggested Pansy with a sweet voice, the same she’d used on a caged and wounded animal. She started to let go of Granger’s body to address the injury, but the Gryffindor hugged her tightly around the waist.

“No,” she whispered. “Let it bleed.” Her voice was barely a breath, but her grip on Pansy’s body was fierce. Pansy’s wand hand froze mid-air. She looked down: Granger’s arms were locked around her waist like iron shackles.

They stood like that, not moving. Granger sat on the bed, trembling, and Pansy was standing next to her, drawing soft patterns on her shoulders. The bedroom door opened violently, its hinges screaming in protest. And Potter’s frame, not caring at all about them, entered the room. His eyes found Granger’s and ran to her side. His expression mimicked hers, panic and vulnerability readable in his every feature.

“Harry…” she cried.

Pansy stepped back, and Potter swept her into his arms, as if to shield her from every ghost in the room. “I’m here, love. I’m here. Just a nightmare, we’re safe, everything is alright. She’s dead; she can’t hurt you. I’m here, I’m here, I’m here,” he whispered against her hair.

Pansy’s clue to leave was that. She turned on her heel and returned to her bedroom, careful not to make a sound. She closed the door behind her softly, as if afraid to break something else.

The scent of blood still clung to her hands, and the screams haunted her ears.

After that, Pansy lay awake on her bed, trying to block the sounds of cries and shared trauma coming from Granger’s room. Those ghosts didn’t belong to her. So she turned away. If it were her, that's what she'd wished the others would do.

Dawn came at last, and Pansy knocked timidly on Granger’s door.

Just to make sure she was alright.

But no one answered.

Chapter Text

Hermione heard the knock at the crack of dawn on their shared door. She knew it was Parkinson’s.

But tears were dry on her cheeks, her skin still bore the mess of last night’s cuts and bruises, and Harry was sound asleep in her bed, his arms wrapped tightly around her body.

Hermione didn’t find in herself to wake him up, not when he had finally fallen asleep after two long hours of Harry hugging her until Bellatrix Lestrange’s memory was a distant echo and not a ghost in her present.

Hermione held up her bloodied arm to the golden light. Beneath all that dried red gore, the engraved ‘Mudblood’ on her skin shone, as if it were proud of being looked at. Bile rose from Hermione’s stomach, but she forced it down.

Ten years, and the scar still haunted her.

Ten years, and she could still feel Bellatrix’s body on top of her own, knife in hand.

Ten years, and her skin still bore the mark of torture.

Ten years, and her mind still remembered the hex’s excruciating pain, Crucio.

Over, and over, and over.

Ten bloody years.

She closed her eyes, unable to look at it anymore. She needed to speak to Hannah again. Even though Neville’s wife was the Charms Professor, she also had a Healer’s training that came in handy—Dreamless Sleep Potion was one of the fortes of the Hufflepuff Head. Shame broken minds and trauma were no one's speciality.

God, what a mess.

First night at Hogwarts, and everything had turned upside down.

High Inquisitor, banter and classes.

Nightmare, Parkinson.

Waking up Harry because she couldn’t, wouldn’t know how to soothe herself.

She glanced at the enchanted watch dial on her wrist: half past six.

She carefully disentangled Harry’s arms from herself and covered him with the blanket at his feet. She caressed his black hair and kissed his forehead before leaving the room.

She sank into the steaming bathtub’s bubbly waters and scrubbed her nails clean, avoiding her own arm like a curse. Once her hair was done and she felt like herself again—no more dried blood on her body—, she got dressed and wandered the empty halls of Hogwarts.

Peeves inclined his head when they crossed paths, and a small smile tugged at her lips. Who would have thought that the ghost jester would end up respecting her? The strange turns and loops of fate, it seemed.

Hannah wouldn’t be up yet, so Hermione decided to head for the Great Hall and eat something. When she got there, she heard McGonagall and Parkinson already inside.

“Good morning,” she said as she entered the large room.

“Good mor—Merlin! Hermione, what happened to your arm?” asked a worried Minerva, rushing to her side.

“Nothing, nothing. Just… trouble sleeping,” she explained, trying not to worry the Headmistress and failing miserably.

“I thought the nightmares were gone. Weren’t they?” asked Minerva with a fretted expression.

“I believed so. Maybe yesterday was a fluke because I’m back at Hogwarts, and it brings back so many memories. I don’t know,” said Hermione, still at a loss as to why it had happened.

“You should’ve said something. I’ll talk to Hannah, and we’ll come up with—”

“I can brew you a Potion for Dreamless Sleep if you want, Herm—Headmistress”, offered Parkinson, joining their conversation but not meeting Hermione’s eyes. It hurt, feeling unseen by her, of all people. More so after last night’s events, when she clung to the Slytherin’s frame for dear sanity… and Parkinson had held her back.

“That would be kind of you, Pansy,” replied Minerva on her behalf.

“I shall get to it then. We’ll reprise this conversation later, Headmistress,” she said, still refusing to look at Hermione.

Minerva squeezed her shoulder. “We will, Pansy. Be on your way.”

The Slytherin nodded and passed by Hermione’s side, brushing her shoulder lightly. A shiver went down the Gryffindor’s back.

They needed to talk. She wanted to apologise. To explain, to assure her nothing of the sort would happen again. She wanted to thank her.

But Parkinson seemed keen on avoiding her, just like Hermione was refusing to look at her own arm.

Ghosts that haunted them both, she realised. She knew which ones belonged to her, but the Slytherin’s were invisible to her eyes. She wanted to see, to understand. But she couldn’t.

Her heart was beating fast, her throat felt dry, and no words were ready to be said. Before Hermione knew what she was doing, her hand grabbed Parkinson’s sleeve, stopping her in her tracks.

“Granger…? Are you okay?” she asked, not turning to face her.

“Hermione,” said Minerva, looking puzzled. Not as puzzled as she felt, though. Why had she grabbed her sleeve? Her fingers dug into the clothes, refusing to let go. “Something on your mind?”

“I—” she stuttered, trying to reply to both of them. “No. Yes.” She blushed furiously. “Sorry. I meant: ‘Yes, I’m okay’ and ‘no, there’s nothing on my mind’. I just need to talk to you, Parkinson. Alone. Could I help you with the Potion? I don’t want to add much to your already heavy workload.”

“I don’t think that would be wise. It’s an advanced and tricky recipe to follow. No assistance is necessary, and I work better on my own anyway. I’ll deliver it to your room this afternoon,” said the Slytherin, eyes still facing the door of the Great Hall. “That’s all. With your permission, Headmistress.”

Parkinson shook her arm, and the sleeve Hermione was grabbing got snatched from her fingers. Her hand twitched, but its only prize to snatch was thin air.

The Slytherin left without sparing them a second glance.

“Merlin, that was awkward. Did something happen?” asked Minerva.

“Not that I can recall,” lied Hermione.

The Headmistress regarded her for a second and then sighed. “I knew this was bound to happen. My headache by the end of the year is going to be legendary,” she whispered.

“What?” she asked, because she was sure she had misunderstood her.

“Nothing. Oh, I just remembered: there’s Quidditch tryouts this afternoon. Per your rules, someone from the Ministry has to supervise them, and you’ll be the only one available. Aurors will be coming in later today and won’t make it on time,” said Minerva.

“This early?” asked Hermione, puzzled. It was only September 3rd. “Kids nowadays…”

“Yes, Slytherin’s to be precise. They have never gone that long without winning the Quidditch Cup, and I believe this is their way of getting ahead of the other Houses. I’d be proud if they showed the same interest in studies, but alas… Sports and their blood-boiling atmospheres. Although I can understand their need for a win.”

“I’ll be at the Stadium by the scheduled time. Will Hannah be there too?” she asked, wishing for an affirmative answer. She didn’t understand why. A couple of minutes ago, all she had wanted to do was talk to Parkinson, and now she was dreading her company. Madness.

“Hermione.” Minerva waited a bit, for a dramatic effect, she supposed. “You know it’s going to be Pansy, don’t play dumb.”

“Sorry. Old habits die hard: still trying to avoid Slytherins at all costs, I guess.”

Minerva arched an eyebrow at her. “Whatever helps you sleep at night. Just… don’t burn the castle down, will you? I knew Pansy wasn’t going to be an easy fit, but she’s a necessary one. A good one, at the very least. I wasn’t counting on you being here, though.”

“Neither was I, Professor. Neither was I,” she replied, turning on her heel to leave. Hermione needed something. But she didn’t know what. She was so lost that she’d called Minerva ‘Professor’ and not ‘Headmistress’, and her blurred mind seemed to have no plans to sort itself out.

Parkinson’s scent still lingered in the air. Sweet and intense.

Maddening.

“Go get your arm checked as soon as Hannah’s available, Hermione. And be careful.”

“Will do, Minerva.”

It was still too bloody early to do anything besides stroll. So Hermione did that. She exited the castle and descended its stone steps toward the forest.

“Hermione!”

She turned at the sound of her name and saw Luna sprinting downhill, arms open in greeting. She jumped into her arms as soon as she’d reached her. “Hey, long time no see! I looked for you yesterday, but you were nowhere to be found.”

“Hm?” muttered Luna before letting her go. “Oh, that. Yes. I was tending to the Thestrals and hanging with Firenze. He helps me once in a while at the beginning of the year.”

“That’s wonderful! Neville said that you’ve been investigating something new. May I ask about it?” asked Hermione, genuinely curious.

“Hermione,” said Luna, looking at her forehead. “There’s Wrackspurts on your mind. Are you alright?”

She was tired of being asked that. Because no, she wasn’t. But saying so would mean explaining, and she didn’t have it in her. So she lied instead. And Hermione was tired of lying, and tired of being tired. She waved her hand. “Yeah, as good as I can be, given the circumstances.” Before Luna had a chance to see through her words, she faked a smile. “About your investigation…?” she added, defusing the tension creeping in her lower back a bit.

Luna hummed in response. “Rolf and—” she paused, accidentally setting off a few fireworks as she tapped her forehead with her wand. “Oh! Rolf is my boyfriend,” she added, as if Hermione should’ve known that all along. “I always forget you guys haven’t met him yet! Anyway, since I became a Magizoologist, he and I have been working on cataloguing new magical and unknown creatures. I still have faith I’ll be able to prove the Crumple-Horned Snorkacks exist. How’s Ron? Still trying to bring the Ministry down with Dark Arts and gum disease, as Aurors do?”

It felt like a knife through the heart. The guilt hit her like a missed deadline, sharp and entirely her fault. Two full days since they had last talked, and she had been so focused on the Cleansers, Hogwarts and Park—lessons, that not a single thought had gone her ex-husband’s way. Until Luna had asked, Ron had not even been an afterthought. It just showed how flawed their marriage used to be. How painful it had been to be together, that the sole act of being truly apart made her feel lighter. And that, in turn, churned up the bloody guilt again. She couldn’t catch a break, could she? “I wouldn’t know. I don’t think so…? About the whole ‘bringing the Ministry down’. But Ron and I are no longer together, so…”

“Why? I would offer to hex him or to dump a few Nargles at his place, but he’s also my friend… No, I can’t. I can offer you tea, though.”

Hermione’s fake smile turned into a real one at Luna’s words. “That seems like a kind offer. I’ll take it. Walk me back to the castle?”

“No, let’s go to Hagrid’s hut instead. He no longer lives there, but I tend to it. It’s a good place if you ever need a few hours of peace and quiet. Which reminds me: you work at the Ministry! Is it peaceful there? And what are you doing here this early? And more importantly: Where does the Minister hide his Umugubular Slashkilter? I know he has one. And do you know how to train the Ministry’s army of Heliopaths? They can be quite nasty.”

Hermione felt as if someone had banged her head, then hexed her, then invited her to tea, then asked why she seemed off while dancing barefoot on grass. That’s the effect Luna had on people. It had been so long since they’d met last that Hermione had forgotten. “I—Shacklebolt has what?” She blinked. Then frowned. “Don’t you know what I’m doing here? I’m on Ministry duty. I’m here to protect the school and the students, Luna, for God’s sake! There’s a threat looming over Hogwarts! You have to be carefu—”

Luna covered Hermione’s mouth with her hand. “That’s just the Nargles speaking. Come on, I have cinnamon tea ready.”

She raised her eyebrows, astonished at the human free spirit humming unknown songs in front of her. Hermione smiled. At least, amidst the chaos of her life, she could expect the tidy havoc that Luna Lovegood was.

But her hands kept trembling as they walked downhill, all the way to Hagrid’s old hut, like they had been since last night’s episode. Luna offered her a cup of tea, and Hermione almost spilt it. She caught it with both hands, her fingers quavering slightly. How long had it been since the last time that had happened? How long since the nightmares were gone for good? She thought they were done last time. But her shaking hands proved her wrong.

God, she hated how frail she must’ve looked. But Luna, in all her obliviousness, didn’t seem to notice. They talked about her new boyfriend—a Scamander, to Hermione’s surprise—, the Cleansers, students, investigations, conspiracies and all above and beyond.

Anything but Ron on Luna’s part, for she had tact enough not to bring him up again, and anything but nightmares and Parkinson on Hermione’s, for both things seemed to haunt her even in the quietest of moments.

Madness, plain and simple. Utter madness.

The morning dragged, dry and choking, like trying to swallow Harry’s overcooked bacon and eggs.

She went to all of Parkinson’s classes as she was supposed to do, but barely paid any attention. If the Slytherin was ignoring her, Hermione would act the same way. No banter, no comments, no smiles and no shared looks. Nothing but void glances and a barely acknowledged nod as she entered each class. She might as well have been a ghost for all Parkinson noticed her.

It must’ve been the shortest truce ever. Now their relationship screamed ‘Cold War’ louder than Luna’s voice when talking about the Rotfang Conspiracy. Or, as Hermione called it, ‘the tale of the mad and the madder’, because Aurors were not trying to overthrow the Ministry. Especially not with gum disease.

Not that Parkinson knew what the Cold War had been. A Slytherin pure-blood witch like her wouldn’t recognise Muggle history if it hexed her.

Lunchtime came, and she sat down already tired, between Cho and Minerva. It still felt awkward, being on a first-name basis with McGonagall, but that was the least of her worries.

Harry was absent for lunch, and Neville told her that he had gone to take a nap. Hannah cured her arm instantly as Hermione was done asking, and the ‘Mudblood’ scar faded under the ingenious charm that the Hufflepuff had perfected, making her skin look and feel as smooth as ice.

And then the afternoon classes took place, in which Hermione decided to start cross-referencing the names of Hogwarts’ students with the Pure-blood Directory, just in case she missed something with her first list. She knew it was deflection, but burying herself in books had always been the most efficient way to pretend nothing was wrong. She didn’t care about Parkinson, or nightmares, while her eyes scanned page after page of pure-blood ancestry. Plus, it never hurt anyone to double-check—or check for the fifteenth time. Who was counting anyway?—her work.

Nott. Carrow. Longbottom. Weasley. She’d checked them all, again and again, until the letters blurred. Except for Lestrange and Parkinson. Those, she would not read or touch. One for dread, one for uncertainty; the kind that knotted in her stomach every time her laugh echoed from across the room or the same uncertainty that had gripped her when Parkinson’s hands steadied hers in the nightmare’s aftermath. And neither dread nor not-knowing bode well with Hermione Granger, so she skipped them. Every bloody time.

The first-years started to get up from their seats, smiling at Parkinson, who beamed back at them. Hermione’s hands twitched again, and not because of the nightmares.

She waited until the last one had left before approaching the Potions Master. “See you at tryouts, Slytherin,” she bit angrily, loud enough to be heard. Parkinson’s quill hovered for half a heartbeat, then kept scratching as if Hermione hadn’t spoken. The Gryffindor turned on her heel and checked out. Of the conversation, the classroom, and whatever brief truce they’d shared.

That was what you got for trusting a snake.

She wanted to ignore her? Fine. Then that would be the new order of things.

Tears prickled at her eyes at the thought. She blamed the nightmare. She had to.

Surely that was why her bloody eyes were incapable of focusing on anything, blinded by salted water that Hermione refused to let roll down her cheeks.

Hermione was on her way to the bloody tryouts. She had two companions walking beside her: anger and fear.

“But I want to! Please, Professor? Pretty please?” she heard a student asking.

Parkinson patted the witch’s head. “I already said no, Miss Corner. First-years are not allowed to be on the Quidditch team.”

Hermione hated how at ease she looked, how gentle she seemed. With anyone but her.

“But Harry Potter was!” protested the student.

The Head of Slytherin arched an eyebrow. “That’s because Gryffindors were desperate to put his name up on the team. Scared kitty-cats, the lot of them, putting a first-year with no flying experience on top of a broom and expecting him to catch the Golden Snitch every time. Because they were eager to win… I know you want to demolish the competition. And you should, Slytherins. We are not scared, snakes. We will win fair and square, not breaking any rules out of convenience.”

“But I want to be as good as Weasley, Professor! I need to start practising,” shouted another student. Hermione cringed at the name. Ron was not that good, not enough to be admired by Slytherins. ‘Weasley is our king’ still rang in her ears.

Parkinson stared the wizard down. “Don’t, Mr Thomas. I’m sure your father has told you many stories about Gryffindor’s twin beaters or their goalkeeper, but—”

“What?” interrupted the girl from the beginning. “Who do you think we’re talking about, Professor? It’s Ginny Weasley, chaser for the Holyhead Harpies. She’s amazing! And she can also play as a Seeker. We need to start as soon as we can, so we have better odds at making it as professionals! It’s not fair to deny us chances!”

Hermione laughed. Of course, they meant Ginny. Who else would be known to these kids, if not the legendary Gryffindor and only daughter of the Weasley family? No, Ron wasn’t good enough for that. She hated herself for thinking of him first, even when he had not been the obvious answer.

Speaking of, she needed to talk to Ginny. She would write tomorrow. It was long overdue.

Parkinson sighed, and her voice hardened. “Not this today, little snakes. Quidditch is dangerous, and you lot are not ready to face that just yet. Come back next year and we’ll talk. And that’s final.”

“Can we ask the High Inquisitor? She’s right there,” said a boy, pointing at her. Well, her moment as an observer was done. Chaos erupted around her. “What if she says yes? Can we make tryouts then?”

“No,” answered Parkinson, still refusing to meet Hermione’s gaze.

Another hand was raised: a ginger boy with brown eyes and thick eyebrows. “Doesn’t her authority surpass yours, Professor?”

“Careful now, Mr Akagi. I’m not particularly keen on giving detention, but don’t mistake my kindness for leniency. I’m still Slytherin’s Head, and you’ll be wise to remember that the High Inquisitor does not hold jurisdiction over direct House matters. Does she?”

“She does,” snapped Hermione, tired of Parkinson’s attitude. “But she’ll defer that back to the Slytherin’s Head on Quidditch matters. What she says goes.”

“Aren’t you Hermione Granger?” asked Dean Thomas’ son. Jack, if she remembered correctly. “Didn’t you go with Harry Potter and Ron Weasley and defeat Voldemort?”

Hermione choked. “I—”

“Are you married to Ron Weasley? He’s Ginny’s brother, right? How often do you see her?”

“Oh, everyone knows that, Vicky. Ask her the important questions: Were you really Victor Krum’s girlfriend for a while? Was he as good as my dad told me? I heard he was an amazing Seeker.”

“Sod off, Jack. I also want to know what it was like dating him!”

“Vicky, focus! Quidditch, remember? We want to know about Quidditch, not kisses and gossip!”

“Five points from Slytherin for not knowing when to shut up. Now go and leave the High Inquisitor in peace. She’s not here to amuse you, despite your attempts to make it seem like that,” scolded Parkinson, still refusing to meet Hermione’s eyes. Her neck would end up hurting if she kept looking at the floor much longer, the stupid witch. No student moved. “Would you like me to make it ten points, gentlemen and gentlewomen? I didn’t think so. Go scatter, little snakes.”

That seemed to do the trick. Docking points always took care of part of the problem. Case in point: it was only fuelling further the first-years’ curiosity, but for the time being, their questions were adjourned. And that was a problem for older and future Hermione.

She smirked, remembering all the times she’d cost Gryffindor points, and all the times she’d earned them. How she’d broken the rules now and then for the greater good and had pretended to uphold them for dear sanity if anyone asked.

Young Hermione had been a menace. A hypocritical one, but still a menace.

“Thank you,” whispered Hermione tentatively when they were alone, even despite being so angry at Parkinson that all she wanted to do was slap that nonsense attitude out of her.

“No worries, Granger. Now let’s get to tryouts. And, please, keep your distance. I don’t appreciate being caged, and you’re like a spider, spinning a web around me. I feel trapped when I’m around you, and I despise it.”

Hermione was outraged. Her fist clenched the soft Slytherin-green fabric, pulling Parkinson close enough for the Gryffindor to feel shallow, quick breaths against her cheek. The Slytherin flinched, lips parting as if to speak, but no sound came out. “Did you just call me a bloody spider? You think I cage you, you stupid arse? What’s wrong with you, Pansy? I only wanted to—”

She stopped herself. Parkinson winced at the sound of her name on Hermione’s lips—it was the first time she’d ever said it, or thought of her not by surname, but by first name alone. As if they were friends. As if they knew each other. And she had reacted as if Hermione had burned her. Parkinson grabbed the hand, clenching her robes, digging her nails into the Gryffindor’s skin and leaving crescent moons on it. But her eyes were focused on the grass, refusing yet again to meet Hermione’s. She seemed to be at battle with herself: both a prayer to not give up in her hands, marking her own, while her eyes pleaded for Hermione to let go of her.

The Gryffindor’s fear evaporated under her boiling rage. “You know what? Suit yourself. I’m done with you. May you thrive in ostracism, witch,” she snarled, voice cracking. “Fuck you, Parkinson. Fuck you.”

Parkinson stumbled back, robes slipping like water through Hermione’s fingers, leaving only the sting of crescent nails behind.

Hermione waited a beat, just to give her one last chance to react, to scream, to do something. But the Slytherin did not move further, or talk, or reach for her like she’d done the night before.

Anything would’ve served. Even a bloody ‘time and place, golden girl?’. Anything at all.

But no words were spoken, and the only proof of Hermione’s angered speech was the glowing moons on her hand, shining bright and bloody-red.

The moment passed, and the weight of it all dawned on her. There was no point pounding on a door Parkinson had nailed shut. The charged situation became a current that passed through Hermione’s bones, fuelling more of the wrath that anchored her in the moment and didn’t let her feel other emotions.

Fury. Blunt, relentless fury.

Her feet guided her away from the Slytherin before doing anything she would later regret.

Hermione would forget Parkinson’s delightful and carefree laugh. Her sweet honeyed smell, with notes of citrus. Her bloody perfect hair, shining like moonlight on the gloomiest of nights. The feel of her flawless and smooth waist under her own hands. The caress of gentle and long fingers on her shoulders last night. The ironclad grip on Hermione’s wrists, so she wouldn’t hurt herself. The whisper of Pansy’s voice. The ‘Hermione, please’ in the dark as she woke up, like the loveliest of prayers.

She would forget. She would, eventually. Or so she told herself.

No.

She would. She needed to. It was not up for discussion.

It was bloody mandatory.

But memory had a funny way of lingering, like a curse, and she knew that some things never stayed buried. Last night was further proof of that.

The knife nightmare hurt on her arm, making her scar burn. But this? This was a bloody shot at her chest.

Wounded and unresolved memories resurfaced when she least expected them, and Hermione was not ready to face that.

So she turned away, squared her shoulders and prepared for her own mind’s retaliation.

It would come—eventually.

But first… she would forget.

Or so Hermione told herself.

She tried, she really did.

On her nightstand was a flask with purple liquid inside. The Dreamless Potion Parkinson had brewed. She grabbed it and threw it across the room.

It shattered against the chimney, dripping the very essence that should’ve been her peace.

But Hermione would not accept Parkinson’s pity, nor anything coming from the Slytherin.

She used a spell to isolate her room from the rest of the castle. And then she went to bed, with her heart in her mouth and tightly holding the sheets, as if they were the Protego she needed from her own tormented dreams.

Sleep came, and the nightmares with it. She screamed, but no one knew. To the world, she didn't make a sound, nor did she call for Harry. She endured them all in silence, like a martyr.

Fred’s death at the hands of Rookwood.

The multiple Crucios she’d endured in Malfoy Manor.

Harry’s limp body, being carried by Hagrid.

Ron, leaving during the Horcruxes’ hunt.

The ‘Mudblood’ tattoo carved by Bellatrix.

The knife shone against her arm, bloodied and silvery. She screamed. Then the weapon moved towards her chest, and she looked up at Bellatrix Lestrange.

Except it was not her. The one holding the knife and carving a pattern she could not decipher on her heart was not the mad witch who had tortured her.

It was Pansy Parkinson.

Chapter Text

Right. Best outcome possible. Granger, being angry, leaving Pansy alone to her demons and with a whole year ahead with students who adored her. Mostly, at least.

She was on neutral terms with everyone. Even on good ones with Cho, Hannah and Ernie. Potter, Longbottom and Lovegood were a tad more distant, but that was good enough for her. Bell didn’t count. The bitch was out for blood—her blood—from the moment Pansy had had the gall to accidentally open the wrong compartment door.

And Pansy knew Granger loathed her. She’d made sure of it. On purpose, for her own sanity.

All in all, it was a good place to be.

If all that was true—and it was—why, every fucking night, did she end up crying herself to sleep like some fucking lovesick sixth-year who’d just been dumped via fucking owl post?

Every tear she shed reminded her of Granger’s breath ghosting her lips, tantalisingly close and yet unreachable, just before everything had crumbled. Every fucking tear was a torture designed by herself, one which she couldn’t escape.

But it became worse. Because… Why did she keep doing it, night after night, long enough that the stone walls had memorised the sound of her muffled sobs, weeping into a stained-salted pillow… for almost two whole months?

On October 30th, an owl she knew all too well flew across the Great Hall during breakfast, dropping a package on her lap.

Pansy laughed as Daisy pricked her ears, asking already for a treat. “They spoil you too much back home, don’t they?” she asked, ruffling her feathers. The owl shook a bit, hooted, and flew to her chest.

Her tiny talons pierced Pansy’s uniform as Daisy took refuge there, refusing to move at all.

“Look at that!” cooed Cho, sitting next to her. “That’s the proof I’ve been looking for!”

Pansy turned her head, cradling Daisy with both arms. “About?”

“Proof that someone does like you,” replied Ernie, taking the seat at Cho’s left. “Any idea when this whole ordeal with the Cleansers will be done? The Hufflepuffs don’t like having Aurors wandering the halls, and are growing restless.”

Pansy squinted. “No idea, to be honest,” she said. “It’s been almost two months since the attack on Marcus Flint, and nothing else has happened. Do you reckon the Ministry might be wrong?”

“I highly doubt it. Hermione was clear about them: they went to great lengths to conceal their identities, and left a threatening message behind with a tortured pure-blood as proof,” muttered Cho, shivering slightly. “I don’t think they would attack Hogwarts directly, though. It’d be a suicide mission: half the staff are trained in duelling and highly capable of dealing with more than one attacker at once.”

“I’m not,” whispered Pansy.

“That’s because you didn’t fight in the Second Wizarding War. In fact, you were quite the pain in the arse for us in the fifth year. Remember the whole DA/Inquisitorial Brigade animosity?” added Ernie, but his tone was calm, not accusatory. “With Umbridge here, we went out of our way to learn a lot of combat style magic out of sheer necessity, while you and the rest of the Slytherins spent your time chasing us.”

“Chasing their own tails, you mean,” chimed in an overly happy Harry Potter. “If it weren’t for the snitch, I reckon you’d still be trying to figure the DA out.”

“Give me some credit, Potter. You weren’t that bright, just lucky”, replied Pansy with a smile without bite. She had apologised for all of their fifth-year… shenanigans and had been somewhat forgiven. Mostly. But if they were joking and bringing it up as ammunition, she wouldn’t fall behind.

“Sticks and stones may break my bones,” said Potter, taking a seat next to Ernie.

“But chains and whips excite me.” Silence fell as if someone had cast Oscausi. Every head turned towards the newly arrived Granger. “What?”

Pansy had gone terribly white. Bone-white. Snow-white. Cadaver-white.

And she stopped breathing while her heart jumped in her chest, running an obstacle course involving her lungs, her stomach and, possibly, her brain. It hurt, and it didn’t. That was the same maddening ache she’d been crying out every night for weeks now, gnawing at her with every fucking heartbeat.

Everyone started shouting. From the ‘I didn’t need to know’ by Cho to ‘Sod off Hermione’ by Ernie, and Potter’s ‘I know you do’, followed by Daisy’s angry screech as Pansy’s arms squeezed her involuntarily.

The Slytherin’s mouth forgot how to function.

Then Granger snorted while her best friend started laughing like a maniac. He stood up to high-five her with tears in his eyes. “It’s a song, guys. A Muggle song. But you should have seen your faces.”

“We’ve been waiting a whole week to pull this!” she added, sitting down next to her best friend.

Cho sighed. “That’s rather pathetic, don’t you think?” she said angrily while undoing the crumples on the Daily Prophet’s main cover. “Back to the original topic—”

“Pansy’s lack of self-defence skills? Pansy’s lack of ability to uncover the DA? Pansy’s face when Hermione talked about whips?”

“You’re like a dog with a bone, Ernie,” scolded Cho on her behalf. “I meant the Cleansers.”

Granger tilted her head. “What about them?” she asked.

Ernie hawked loudly. “Well, there have been no more attacks since the first one. We were wondering, if, maybe, like… if it’s possible that, you know—”

“If the threat has been dealt with or if the Ministry still has no idea of what the situation is”, Pansy cut in, tired of his stuttering. Her eyes found Granger, and the Gryffindor averted her gaze.

She gulped, her hands shaking slightly. “I’m not at liberty to discuss—”

“Figures,” interrupted Pansy. She did not want to hear her voice more than what was strictly necessary.

“Girl, chill. It’s not her fault she’s sworn to secrecy,” said Ernie.

“I just didn’t want to endure an infinite list of excuses, Boy,” she bit back with a smirk, echoing his ‘Girl’ slur. “Thought I’d do all of us a favour and keep the conversation going.”

“Yes, you seemed to do that quite well. The cutting in and then cutting off, I mean. Or shall I say the fleeing?” replied Granger, clenching her jaw.

Pansy squeezed Daisy a bit, grounding her as her owl nicked her upper arm. “Sod off, Gryffindor. I’m not in the mood to endure your righteous lectures, nor do I have the need. I’m the Professor and you’re the benched Secretary, so… let me be.”

“It’s Senior Undersecretary to you, Slytherin,” she bit back.

“You’re still benched and relegated to second-hand tasks, so my point stands.”

Pansy knew she had gone for the kill with that comment. But better to uproot the flower than try to poison it slowly until it dies.

She’d been at it for weeks, and Granger had been keen on keeping the fucking plant blooming. And what was worse: she didn’t even seem to be doing it on purpose. If anything, the golden girl found excuses to argue with her often, as if trying to convince herself they both hated each other.

Pansy didn’t. Wanted to, for it would all be easier that way. But she couldn’t hate Granger.

She could, however, pretend to. That way, at least, she would be safe from future wounds and heartbreak that were bound to tear her apart.

“Aren’t you going to open that?” asked Cho before the conversation escalated into an open war, pointing at the untouched package on Pansy’s lap while she read the headlines.

Pansy nodded and then hinted with her chin at Daisy. “Yes, but… when I’m done with my baby, she’s affection-deprived, the poor thing. I’m showering her with care.”

“There's a lid for every pot,” said Potter, glancing at her and her owl, still in her arms.

She turned to face him. “What do you mean?”

“Isn’t it obvious? You both are affection-deprived,” he clarified with a smile.

Pansy’s mouth opened, astonished. And then closed, ready to reply. “You’ve got to be joking, Potter.” She squared her shoulders. “I’ll have you know that I’m many things, but affection-deprived is not one of them.”

“Do tell, oh mighty seductress,” cooed Cho, smirking.

“I don’t need to know this,” whispered Ernie, covering his ears.

“I wouldn’t mind knowing what our dear Slytherin does in her free time,” said Potter. “But spare me the details, please. I don’t think my heart can take that much emotion,” he teased her.

Granger stared her down, and she puffed her chest in response, challenging her. “I don’t think we need to hear how you snogged a—”

Pansy cleared her throat. “Once upon a time, there was a Princess who fancied snakes and women—”

Neville, who had just arrived hand in hand with Hannah and taken a sip of tea, spat it out all over the table. “You like women? Since when?”

“What an odd question, Longbottom.” She paused, smirking and building tension up. “Since I was born. You didn’t know? I’m not exactly… subtle about my inclinations.”

“Girl, we’ve only started hanging out with you a month ago, how do you expect us to notice? No, don’t answer that,” said Ernie, turning bright red.

Hannah laughed softly. “It was obvious, you lot. She stares at my arse when I turn around.”

“Guilty as charged,” conveyed Pansy. “But, in my defence, you have a beautiful arse. Pun fully intended.”

“Hey, that’s my wife you’re talking about!” scolded Neville, shaking his head and sighing.

“I have eyes, Longbottom. Unless you want to pluck them out?” asked Pansy, passing him a blunt butter knife.

Cho caught it mid-air. “Merlin, I feel like the only adult at the table. Is Minerva going to be out much longer? I need a break from babysitting.”

“Where’s Hermione?” asked Ernie. “She was here just a second ago.”

Pansy’s neck snapped, looking for Granger as if she were the last drop of water in a fucking desert. She was nowhere to be seen. Just when had the golden girl left, barely having eaten and without so much as a sorrowful ‘bye’?

“No idea,” replied Potter. “She said she had something to do when the snake in our midst—”

“Hey!” protested Pansy.

“—started talking about her very adult one-night adventures,” he continued, ignoring the Slytherin.

“Maybe she wasn’t feeling well,” pointed Neville.

Hannah smirked, shaking her head. “Yeah, maybe it has something to do with her stomach. Like turning itself around, I mean.”

“Or she has chest pain,” added Cho, also hiding a simper. “At the centre, between the lungs. It’s quite common this time of the year.”

“What do you—” started asking Pansy, but Daisy interrupted her with a loud hoot. The owl opened its wings, flying on top of her head and getting comfortable there. The Slytherin rolled her eyes as the rest of the table roared with laughter. “Very funny, Daisy. That’s how you repay my kindness…?” Her response was a peck on the centre of her forehead. “I’ll gut you alive someday, you awful rat-eater.”

With her arms finally free and no longer serving as a bed, she picked up the package. A single line was written on the back.

Hello, bitch. Fancy a drink on Saturday? The gang’s coming. I bought you a dress from Australia. Wear it for me? -DG

She bit back a laugh. Daphne was back? Oh, then the party was going to be legendary. As she scribbled back her answer on a napkin—See you on Saturday, grimalkin. Bring fucking Firewhiskey, or else. -PP—and tied it to Daisy’s foot, her thoughts went back to, obviously, Granger.

Why had she left when Pansy had started talking about her one-night stands? She didn’t even say anything obscene that would’ve made her know-it-all brain short-circuit.

Maybe she was feeling ill. But something felt off. Cho and Hannah’s comments, the fact that the Gryffindor had been fine enough to pick a fight with her before that, as usual…

Fuck off, I already know I’m infatuated. I’ll pass. Can I just stop thinking of her, and the whys and the hows for a fucking minute?, she thought, rubbing her eyes.

Pansy swallowed the last of her blueberry toast and looked at Potter. “No, seriously, Harry… Is Granger alright?”

He studied her for a heartbeat. “Merlin, so it is true. You’re bloody blind, Pansy.”

“What? What did I miss?”

Potter scratched his chin, as if he really needed to think about the answer. “Oh, I don’t know… Everything? Go and ask Hermione, she’s as lost as you. But nastier and angrier. You’d better think of something to appease her before she bites your head off.”

The fuck is this man talking about? Did the Dark Lord hit him on the head with a club or something? I mean… utter nonsense, she thought, grasping at straws of possibilities and not obtaining a single one.

“I don’t follow”, she replied in the end.

“See? That’s your problem, Parkinson. If you start something, stick to it. Follow through. I’ll even lend you some Gryffindor courage, if you need it. But I’m not the one you should be speaking to, you know,” said Potter. He grabbed Cho’s Daily Prophet and started reading it.

Oh, so the conversation was done.

Fine then.

Let’s think. Why?, she pondered.

Why indeed. Why, why, why. Why!

What had Cho and Hannah said? Stomach and heart? And Potter, hinting at blindness on both parts.

Oh.

No, that couldn’t be. What made more sense about the whole situation was that Granger had been uncomfortable listening to her story. And that, on Pansy’s book, had a name: jealousy.

The golden girl, jealous of her? No, that couldn’t be. But what if…?

No, impossible. Besides, Granger liked men. What would she be jealous of? The story was about a random woman in a bar whom she shagged for a night.

If it had been… I don’t know, Krum, because she had snogged him, or some handsome bloke I was talking about, then that would make sense. But it wasn’t, so it doesn’t. What the fuck?, she thought as she sipped her orange juice.

Then realisation dawned on her like Daphne’s package had fallen on her lap: by surprise, and stopping her lungs from taking air in.

The thought alone was enough to twist something hot and reckless in Pansy’s chest. When had her heart become a hummingbird’s? It fluttered annoyingly fast and strong. And yet she seemed to be suffering from its failure.

The idea alone was absurd, laughable… until it wasn’t. Until the image of Granger fuming at the thought of Pansy tangled with someone else took root. It bloomed like poison ivy, fast and unstoppable.

Because maybe, just maybe, Granger had been jealous all the same. Not of her for shagging a stranger, but of her companion for shagging her. Which meant so, so many complicated things and possibilities.

She had pretended to loathe Granger for weeks. And Merlin help her, because Pansy couldn’t even pretend to hate that thought anymore. The golden girl, jealous.

How did that make her feel? Good.

Which meant that it was, actually, fucking terrible.

Fucking delightfully terrible news.

Amidst all the chaos the breakfast had unravelled, one thing was certain: by Saturday night, with the gang back and Firewhiskey flowing, there would be nowhere left for her to hide. If Daphne Greengrass had one talent, it was wringing confessions out of snakes until they sang. Pansy would spill, and they would clock her faster than chain lightning.

Merlin help her, for hell was about to break loose… And she would be ruling it, if it meant finally knowing whether Hermione fucking Granger was jealous.

“You bitch, when were you going to tell me?” shouted Daphne from across the Three Broomsticks, already holding an empty mug of Butterbeer.

Pansy hugged her, burying her head on her friend’s neck. “Tell you what, you fucking grimalkin?”

“That you were in charge of future us”, replied Draco, looming over her full glass. “Is doom already over us, Slytherins, at last, or does the great Parkinson bode good fortune?”

“Merlin Malfoy. You look horrible,” she answered. “Does Scorpius keep you up all night, or are your baggy eyes Astoria’s fault?”

Astoria smacked Pansy on her shoulder before hugging her. “Oi, don’t talk to my husband like that! He’s gorgeous. Have you seen his hair? Perfect.”

“Yikes, they still act like teenagers in love, Daph. Can we ditch them? I wanna drink, forget and fool around,” said Pansy, sitting down next to her.

Daphne patted her on the head. “We shall, little witch. But first… Gossip time!”

Draco and Pansy groaned in unison, and Astoria rolled her eyes. “Pray tell, big sis… How many men have fallen into your bed this time around? It’s been… what? Six months?”

“I’m so glad you asked, Tory. And the answer is… six,” replied Daphne. She snatched Draco’s drink and drowned it all in one go.

Pansy squinted and tilted her head. “Something smells fishy about that,” she said.

“No. Oh. Maybe I forgot a number… Or a couple.”

“And there we go—” muttered Draco. “Where’s Blaise when I need him?”

Pansy saw the opportunity. And took it. “Probably in France. Shagging your mum. How’s Narcissa? Tell her to join us next time.”

“She’s fine, thank you,” replied Astoria, smirking. “Though she’s not shagging anyone right now, because she’s our babysitter.”

“And?”, queried Daphne with a mischievous smile. “Can’t the poor woman multitask?”

“No, when it comes to my son, she cannot,” replied Draco drily.

Pansy turned towards her single friend. “What shit were you saying about a forgotten number?”

“Oh, that. Yeah, I forgot two: five and four.”

Draco stared her down. “You’ll have to guide us through this, Daph. I’m not in the mood for riddles today.”

“Killjoy. But fine, since you asked so nicely. Some were during threesomes, but since I shagged them… they count. And it’s six times five times four”.

Everyone groaned: Pansy choked, Astoria laughed, and Draco squinted. “Twenty a month?” he asked, looking calmly at his nails. “Slightly above your usual. Well done, Daph.”

“There’s our Arithmancy boy shining!” said a voice behind Pansy. She turned, and her body was crushed between Blaise’s strong arms.

“Miss me? Sorry for being late, I Apparated somewhere else by accident.”

Daphne hugged him tightly. “No worries,” she replied. “How’s Narcissa?”

“For the hundredth time: we’re not sleeping together. She’s just helping me get through some stuff,” he answered, sitting down next to Astoria.

Draco shook his hand. “And I thank you for that.”

“So does your mum,” chimed in Daphne.

“Merlin sis, do you ever grow tired of shagging and sex innuendos?”

“Never. Which brings me to Princess over here,” replied her friend.

Oh boy, here we go, Pansy thought, ready to combust on the spot.

“What’s up with your sex life, bitch?” asked the older of the Greengrass sisters. “It’s been so long, I reckon your number is quite high too.”

“I need Firewhiskey before I answer. Loads of alcohol, in fact,” replied Pansy, her hand clenching her stomach like it was her lifeline.

Blaise laughed. “You’re awfully twitchy, Princess. That bad, huh?”

“You have no idea.”

Daphne slammed her hand on the table. “Then we’re not leaving until you spill, Princess. Someone order the Firewhiskey. We’ve got a snake to squeeze.”

The afternoon turned to dusk, and alcohol flowed between them like water in a river. Golden light shone through the Three Broomsticks’ old windows, giving the inn an ethereal look.

But Pansy was anything but fucking ethereal. Her drunk self was at risk of starting to spill secrets she would’ve never said out loud otherwise. Any second now, her mouth would say words she would regret later.

Daphne regarded her for a second, playing with the golden strands of her hair. “Merlin, Pansy. What did you do that it takes this much Firewhiskey for you to open up? Not even my toughest cases of Compulsion in patients match your endurance.” She lifted her brow. “Don’t tell me you’re marrying a man. I wouldn’t put it past your parents, though. They’re relentless.”

“I did nothing. And no, I’m not marrying a man. Or a woman. Ever.”

Blaise shook her by the shoulders. “Then? What’s all this fuss about? Are you pregnant?”

“How the fuck would I be pregnant if I only shag women, you brainless twit?”

“Or worse, Blaise,” added Astoria, ignoring her outburst. “Maybe she’s in love.”

“You lot need to sort out your priorities,” whispered Draco, taking a sip from his pint.

Pansy spoke without thinking. “That’s such a Granger thing to fail at,” she whispered. Then she opened her eyes widely and wished to die on the spot.

“A what now? I seem to have misheard you, darling,” cooed Blaise, raising his eyebrows.

Daphne’s mouth kissed the floor, open as Pansy had never seen it. “You’re pining over Hermione Granger? Please tell me I’m wrong, bitch. Have some self-esteem. She’s out of your league. Below yours, obviously.”

“I—” She tried to speak, to no avail.

Astoria rolled her eyes, grabbing Pansy by the chin. “Don’t listen to those fucking morons. If you want her, shag her and be done with it.”

“Slight problem, love,” added Draco, tilting his head. “Last I checked, Granger was not a dyke.”

His wife scoffed. “Like that has stopped our Princess before.”

“Back up, all of you,” said Pansy, panicking. “I never said I wanted to shag her.”

A beat passed, the air thick with expectation at who’d break it first—and why.

Please let this go, she begged in her mind.

Then Daphne arched an eyebrow. “Well then. Do you?” she asked.

“No. She’s hot, but no,” she replied. And, as soon as the words had left her mouth, she knew she was lying.

Everyone fell silent for a heartbeat, and Pansy was sure that her own heart stopped beating. The stunned looks of her friends were nothing compared to her unravelling mind.

But she is, I’m not lying. She really shines, doesn’t she? Why am I getting flustered? I’m not lying. I’m not. I just appreciate beauty. Yes, that’s it, she thought, grasping at straws and knowing it.

Blaise bit his lip, amused. “We’ll need Veritaserum to crack her, you guys. She’s in denial.”

“The Nile is a river in Egypt, and I’d rather shag you than Hermione fucking Granger, Blaise.”

“Let me speed things up a bit, or we’ll be stuck with this nonsense all afternoon,” said Draco, fussing over his white-blond hair. He got up from his seat and looked at the door, behind Pansy, and shouted, “Oi, Granger!”

The crack of her neck as she turned could’ve very well been heard from outer space. And her heart? Oh, her heart decided to become a drum, beating as if soldiers were marching to war on its rhythm. “I don’t see her,” she whispered.

“That’s because she’s not here, you dimwit,” he replied. “But thanks for pointing out the obvious.”

Pansy resisted the urge to punch him… or to tousle his perfect hair. Whichever would hurt him the most. “And that would be…?”

Daphne chuckled. “That you’re in deep, bitch. Is she that good in bed that she has your knickers in a twist?”

“She doesn’t know, does she?” asked Blaise, more like an affirmation. “Daph, she’s pining over her like a lovesick puppy. It’s obvious our dear Princess has not touched the Gryffindor yet.”

Astoria smirked. “Blaise, she literally said that she’d rather shag you than miss know-it-all. We’re safe to assume she hasn’t so much as snogged Granger,” she said.

“Please stop,” pleaded Pansy, turning bright red.

“Look at that: our Princess is blushing and begging. I never thought I’d see the day,” cooed a very amused Draco. “And all of this over her,” he added with a scoff.

Daphne put her arm over Pansy’s shoulders. “I have to say that there could be worse possibilities.”

“Such as?” asked Astoria with bright eyes and an amused smile.

“In that castle?” replied her older sister. “McGonagall. I’m sure she was either a dominatrix or a very sweet lady. No in-between options. Maybe she still is.”

“Stop talking about Minerva like that! She’s the Headmistress, for fuck’s sake!” shouted Pansy, her hands becoming fists and getting ready to punch something. Or someone. Or various someones.

“Minerva? My, my, someone has been busy,” said Blaise with a lewd smile spreading on his lips. “First name is a huge step in a relationship.”

“You shut the fuck up, Blaise,” cut in Daphne. “Is the quip funny? Yes. But you’re sharing a bed with Draco’s mum, so you’re in no position to joke.”

“I’m not!”

“That’s besides the point. Don’t get sidetracked, y’all,” scolded the blonde sitting next to her. Then she turned to Pansy, her blue eyes scanning her face, searching for something. “Back to this… affection for Granger. Are you mad? She’s the golden girl of the Wizarding World. What the fuck was going on in your half-rot brain to fall for her?”

She tried to deny it. But the question passed through her very not-sober mind.

Brain. Not working. Too much Firewhiskey. And shots. Can’t stop mouth from… ugh, she stuttered internally.

“I don’t know! I keep pushing her away, and she pushes back, but we only argue and bite each other’s heads off. I thought it was lust. Have you seen her? She’s drop-dead gorgeous, aged like fine wine, the bitch. But the more time I spend trying to get rid of all these thoughts—because she’s fucking Granger, you idiots, how can I entertain these fantasies? Granger, for fuck’s sake—the more she sinks her claws into my brain. Am I mad? Yes, Daph. Fucking yes. She’s poison!”

Why did the words taste like ash in her mouth? Because every time she denied it, her heart did a little dance of betrayal. Truth is, she wasn’t ready to admit what was brewing and had been boiling for a while. It was not a potion, nor was it poison. But she didn’t want to pull the thread that kept her sanity stitched together. So she didn’t, and hid the truth from everyone—even from herself.

Or so she thought, because her fucking friends’ looks around the table suggested otherwise.

But maybe poison tastes like the only thing that makes sense. Am I not a snake? It’s in my nature, she thought, before chaining that rebellious part of her mind back into oblivion.

“Oh, honey,” said Draco, pitying her. His hand found hers and squeezed it a bit. “You’re fucked.”

“She might be poison, Pans… but she’s the poison you want to drink every night,” pointed Blaise out, scratching his chin.

Daphne drowned two shots in a row. “Maybe not poison but elixir, and maybe not drink but eat.”

“I’m going to pull your hair out until you’re bald, you fucking bitch,” warned Pansy, squinting.

“No thanks. I’m not into that kind of shit, but maybe Granger is. Try it out for me, will you? I want deeds,” smirked Daphne. Was she looking to get hexed? Because Pansy’s patience was running low, and her anger was no longer thinly veiled but out in the open.

Astoria regarded them both and sighed. “Give it a rest, you two. Sis, if you keep pushing her, she’ll snap. How are your counter-jinxes?”

Daphne squeaked when Pansy punched her on her chest. “Not good.”

“So maybe stop poking the most talented Potion Master of our days? Just a thought,” said Blaise.

Daphne rolled her eyes. “Okay, fine. But give me the juicy details. Is she into you? Like, if she were to shut you up, would she do it by punching you or kissing you? Maybe eating you out, if—”

“None!” screeched Pansy, whose brain had turned off a while ago, and only alcohol was fuelling her answers. “Although something funny happened this week. I joked about one of my one-night stands with Cho, Hannah and the rest… and shit got awkward. She left without saying anything.”

Draco looked at her with those piercing eyes that seemed to render her soul bare. “You think she might’ve been jealous.”

“I—”

“Well then, this just got way more interesting!” said Blaise, laughing like a boy on Christmas Eve. “Why don’t you ask her tomorrow? And then come back here since it’s the weekend, we’re all together, and we could easily use another night out. And spill whatever she tells you.”

“I have a better idea,” said Daphne, glancing towards another table and clapping once. “Tory darling, mind lending your old sis a hand?”

Pansy yanked her back. “What idiotic idea is your half-dead, alcohol-drunken brain trying to portray?”

“Tory, you’re sober, are you not? The only one of us five,” asked Daphne, ignoring her friend. Her sister nodded. “Seize her and don’t let our Princess follow me. I need to figure something out.”

She got up, leaving their table and made her way to the back of the Three Broomsticks, where Pansy saw Potter, Weasley and their children talking with someone she could not see. The Boy who Lived and Holyhead Harpies’s star juggling jobs and two children, sitting calmly in an inn and deep in conversation with someone else. Maybe it was just another of the gingers. The not-murdered twin? The werewolf? Or the pathetic goalkeeper who had married Granger? Maybe some other brother of the only Weasley girl. She didn’t care. Was Daphne about to ask Potter? Tough luck with cracking that boy about spilling his best friend’s secrets, because—

She saw familiar chestnut curls catch the lantern light through the haze, and her heart climbed into her throat. Oh no. Oh no, no, no—

“Daphne!” she shouted as locks of brown and golden hair slipped into Pansy’s vision, confirming what her heart wanted and loathed at the same time.

The blonde turned to face her, already halfway to the other table. “Sorry, Princess. If you won’t confess, I’ll get the Gryffindor to do it for you. Don’t forget to thank me when she’s keeping your bed warm, even if it’s just for a night. Or a fortnight. Or when she’s squirming beneath—”

“Don’t you dare!” she half-shouted/half-slurred, getting up to follow Daphne and preventing her from ruining her life further. A drink got spilt when she rose. Not hers, so it didn’t matter. Why was everything spinning? “Come back here or—”

Astoria’s hand closed around Pansy’s robes and yanked her back to her seat. When the older witch turned to yell at her, she saw that Draco’s wife was pointing her wand in her direction. “Sorry, love. Sis’ orders. Petrificus Totalus.”

Her limbs locked in place, cold panic flooding her veins. She could only blink wildly, trapped in her own body, as the laughter and chaos swirled around her. Only her eyes were capable of moving, and they darted, panicked, to Astoria, who shrugged.

Her body tipped sideways on the bench, rigid as a board, and Blaise had to prop her up like a fallen suit of armour from the other side of the table.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. FUCK YOU! Fuck, she tried to shout, but her mouth was not cooperating.

“Damn, love,” said Blaise, whistling in appreciation. “The Body-Bind Curse? You’re evil.”

Pansy’s limbs refused to obey her desire to punch her way out of that situation. She was like a marionette with its strings cut, suspended in the air, whose master bore no desire to see her dancing again.

“That,” whispered Draco, kissing his wife’s forehead. “Was so fucking hot.”

She arched an eyebrow. “You’ve got a thing for immobilised women, huh? Good to know.”

“Only the murderous kind, darling. And only if they are you.”

“I’m going to puke,” joked Blaise, covering his face as Astoria’s lips found his husband’s.

Pansy didn’t have that luxury, as her hands remained locked at her sides.

Me too. Blaise, you useless twit! Fucking unfreeze me! Stop Daphne, stop this fucking madness, JUST STOP! Stop it, please, she thought, incapable of speaking out loud.

But he didn’t, and Pansy’s eyes had to either watch Draco and Astoria snogging or dart towards a very drunk Daphne zigzagging to the Potter-Weasley—and Granger—table.

Pansy closed her lids and pretended it was just a nightmare.

“Twenty Galleons Daphne botches it,” drawled Blaise.

Draco’s laugh echoed around them. “Fifty says Granger hexes her first.”

“A hundred she hexes Pansy instead,” chimed in Astoria.

A thousand if you lot grow a brain, stop fucking around and bring the nymphomaniac back, she tried to shout. Her friends had too much money, too much free time, too much alcohol and too much wishful thinking.

Granger might’ve been jealous for a heartbeat. Emphasis on ‘might’. But Pansy knew that it was short-lived, and that hoarding hope was a doomed daydream.

“Well, I’m going to the loo, lovebirds. Snog to your heart’s content in the meantime. And keep me posted on the Parkinson-Granger affair, should something happen in my absence,” said Blaise, but his only audible answer was the sound of locking lips and Pansy’s internal panic screaming. Of course, no one heard her. Fucking cows, the lot of them.

There will be hell to pay for this, you sons of bitches, she promised as Daphne’s words echoed in her ears. I’ll kill every one of you. I hate you. Fucking jerks.

And then Daphne’s laugh shattered the inn, followed by: “Golden girl! Quick question: how do you feel about snakes slithering into your bed?” she slurred, loud enough for everyone in the Three Broomsticks to hear.

Is she a fucking Howler?! I’ll kill her. I really will, she thought, unable to shout it.

Pansy wanted to scream, to run, to hex every one of them into next week. For one terrifying, fleeting second, the thought hit her. What if Granger laughed at the question? Not bitterly, but with genuine amusement. What if it wasn’t all in her head?

But she wouldn’t know.

And she wasn’t sure she wanted to.

Her head was spinning, Firewhiskey coating her tongue like molten brass. Every word around her echoed a beat late, sloshing in her skull like a broken hourglass.

Between the curse, the alcohol and her spilling emotions, Pansy was on override. The jinx kept her head frozen, but all it wanted to do was loll and rest. Her heartbeat sang a lullaby she didn’t know. An enticing song, a hypnotic one. Sleep, sweet sleep. Maybe for just five minutes?

Fuck you all, halfwits. I hate you, she slurred internally before closing her eyes. Not happening. No, not happening. Not happening, not fucking happening. Circe, stop happening, sto—

Her vision faded to black, and the world ceased to exist around her.

Chapter Text

Saturday. November 1st. Finally.

Hermione had been waiting a whole month for the first Hogsmeade weekend—the wards around the village would be turned up to their maximum level of security, so she would be able to enjoy it without having to worry about the Cleansers.

There had been a discussion between Shacklebolt and her, in which he moved for the discontinuance of Hogsmeade weekends, but Hermione had been adamant about keeping them; her words ‘I’m not letting a deranged threat mess with students, their schedule, or their escapades. If we want to keep them safe, we might as well forbid them from leaving their dorms, shall we?’ made the Minister recoil at her display of anger.

And so the weekends stayed in their calendar, for anyone to go and enjoy the village’s Butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks or its sweets at Honeydukes and trinkets at Zonko’s.

And for Hermione? It meant having a day off, and spending it with her favourite gentlemen: the trickster James Sirius and toddler Albus Severus, along for her chance to hold baby Lily Luna and trade jokes and stories with Harry… and, most importantly, Ginny.

“Merlin help me, Hermione!” Ginny’s voice rang out as soon as their eyes met on Hogsmeade High Street. “You look gorgeous!”.

Both women shared a hug before one of the children tugged at his mother’s sleeve. “Mum, I want to go to Honeydukes! Pretty please? Can I have a Chocolate Frog? I want ‘Mione’s collectable card. Will you sign it, ‘Mione? Please, please?” pleaded James with his sad puppy eyes. He looked so much like Harry… and acted so much like Ginny.

Impulsive, irreverent, unapologetic and brilliant.

“Chocolate ‘fogs’? Me want,” said Albus, pointing at himself. Hermione picked the younger of the brothers up and cradled him as she’d done so many times before. “Me no baby, ‘Mione”, he muttered, as she kissed his forehead.

“You look so big! How old are you?” she asked, and Albus held up two little fingers. She feigned surprise with a smile. “Oh, I see. You’re a man, then.”

James hugged Hermione’s leg, and she caressed his hair. “I’m a man too! And I can even talk ‘poperly’, not like him!”, he protested, and Ginny snorted.

“It’s ‘properly’, honey. And stop messing with your brother,” said his mother. James squinted, but wisely decided not to answer.

Hermione bent down to the young man’s level. “Well then, I guess Auntie Hermione will have to buy these two gentlemen a couple of Chocolate Frogs, right?”

Albus squeaked, delighted, and James’ smile shone like the brightest of lights. “Two Frogs? For me?” he asked.

“Shush now, you two, or Hermione will not buy them,” scolded Ginny. Then she looked at her friend. “You spoil them rotten, girl. No wonder you’re their favourite Aunt.”

She smirked. “I try my best, thank you for noticing.” Opening the arm that was not holding Albus up, she tilted her head at the four-year-old. “Come here, you rascal. Gimme a hug!”

James obliged and then held his hand for Hermione to grab as they started strolling down High Street.

“Where are Harry and the baby? I’m dying to hold her!” she said.

“Lily’s with him, and he’s with Neville and Luna.” Ginny stopped at the Three Broomsticks’ door. “You should see her, ‘Mione. She’s growing up so fast, it’s not even funny!”

“And how are you coping with your retirement from Quidditch? Must’ve stung. Did you know that baby Slytherins are begging me for your signature every class? Who would’ve thought?” said an amused Hermione before entering the inn.

“I need a Butterbeer so I don’t start crying over not being a Chaser anymore. How’s that for ‘did it sting or not’?” grunted Ginny, guiding the group to a secluded table. “Although it does give me more time with the kids, and I’m thinking of becoming a sports editor, to stay connected to Quidditch in any way I can,” she added.

“That’s brilliant! You’d be outstanding at it!” encouraged Hermione, sitting down with Albus in her lap.

“There you are!” said Harry, walking towards them with a baby in his arms. “Gin, honey, I’ve been looking everywhere for you! Why are you so out of sight?”

Ginny rolled her eyes at her husband, and Hermione chuckled. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because I want to chat with my friend without being interrupted every five seconds? I know you’re a Professor, Harry, and Hogwarts has a strange way of shielding your fame, but… out in the world? Merlin, I’m afraid of my own shadow!”

Hermione extended both her arms, ignoring the couple’s bickering. “Let me hold my niece, Harry,” she said. Harry smiled as he handed his daughter into his best friend’s embrace. “Well, hello, Lily,” she whispered, her arms wrapped around the baby as if it were the only thing that mattered. “You look so much like your mum, did you know? I bet you’re every ounce of brave and brilliant she is.”

“What about his father?” cooed Harry. “Don’t I have any redeeming qualities?”

Ginny smacked his head. “You shush now. She’s talking about me.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, laughing.

“Dad, I want frogs! ‘Mione promised frogs. Where are they?” asked a very annoyed James, not being the centre of attention anymore.

Harry ruffled his hair. “Patience, young man. If you’re on your best behaviour today, I’m sure your Aunt will buy you not one… but two Chocolate Frogs!”

Albus held up his two fingers. “’Fo’ me?” he giggled.

“Yes, darling. I’ll buy you two Frogs.”

“Love you, ‘Mione,” he replied.

And Hermione smiled, beaming.

“Harry, darling,” said Ginny after a few rounds of Butterbeer, laughter echoing, stories flying, hugs shared, and at least three toddler near-arguments defused. “I know Hermione here is your best friend, but you see her every day. Take the kids and let us have a grown-up talk between us girls, will you?”

Hermione wanted to protest. Why should she be apart from her favourite people? She still owed James and Albus Chocolate Frogs and kisses, and she needed the weight of Lily in her arms a tad more. And, also, the baby smell, Merlin. She loved them all.

But Ginny was right. Their talk was long overdue, and Hermione was not a coward. But she might not be ready for it either, so the instinct to recoil, run and hide was there. To crawl into a tiny hole, like a snake—No, no snakes metaphors for her. None.

“Fine, darling. We’ll be back in a couple of hours, so the kids can be with their aunt a little longer. By the way, where’s Teddy? I wanted to talk to him about—”

“He wanted to spend his weekend at home with his Gran, sorry,” apologised Ginny. “Don’t pout, love. Next year he’ll be at Hogwarts, and you’ll fawn over every one of his actions.”

“I’m nothing if not a proud godfather. But fine, I’ll see him next weekend at home.”

Hermione cradled Lily closer to her chest, not really wanting to give her back. “Can’t she stay? I get why the two minions have to go if we want to talk, but… Ginny, she’s a baby! And she’s sleeping. Pretty please?”

“Who are you and what have you done with my friend? Merlin, I spend my day drowning in ‘pretty pleases’, would it kill you to act like an adult for a day?” whispered Ginny, slightly puzzled and gritting her teeth. “… Pretty please?”

Hermione smiled, her resolve softening despite herself. “Done,” she replied. “As long as I get to keep cradling my favourite niece.”

Ginny arched an eyebrow. “You drive a hard bargain, but fine. Baby Lily stays. Children, go with your dad. He’ll take you to Zonko’s. Just make sure not to touch anything. And don’t, for the love of Circe, set anything on fire.”

“Do I have a say in this relationship, or am I a mere slave?” muttered Harry, lifting Albus from Hermione’s lap.

Ginny smiled sweetly. “I’m a queen, Harry. I’m bound to have vassals, am I not?”

“Yes, your majesty. Come along, scoundrels. Daddy’s gonna buy you a trick wand from Zonko’s,” he said, rolling his eyes.

“That’s Uncle George’s invention, right? He let me test it,” confessed James.

Ginny got up. “My brother let you do what?” she asked in a menacing tone.

But Harry was long gone, and the only one disturbed by the ginger’s outburst was her daughter, still asleep in Hermione’s arms. “Ginny, calm down! You’ll wake her!”

“When I tell you that George should not be babysitting my baby, I mean George should not be bloody babysitting my baby if there are no other adults present.”

Hermione chuckled. “I’m sure he meant well.”

“I doubt it. He’d better be ready next time he shows up.”

“Merlin, help him,” whispered Hermione, still smiling.

“Now, love… let’s get down to business,” said Ginny, taking a sip of her fourth Butterbeer.

“To defeat the Huns?” asked Hermione, grinning.

Ginny sighed. “I swear to Merlin, if you and Harry keep making Muggle references, I don’t get I’m leaving him and hexing you.”

Hermione laughed, careful not to wake a cute and sleepy Lily. “Okay, fine. No more quoting Mulan. What do you want to talk about?”

“Oh, gee, I don’t know,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Your nightmares being back? Why are you’re High Inquisitor? Your divorce? Your spiral? Pick your poison.”

“My nightmares are not that bad, not anymore,” she replied, resisting the urge to twitch her fingers. It wasn’t true, but Ginny needn’t worry about her bloody silly nightly terrors. “As to why I’m back at Hogwarts… Ministry’s orders. Just trying to keep the peace.”

“Let’s say I believe you—which I don’t. Nightmares: are they the same as always? The terror of those months, that bloody witch, the curse…?”

Hermione’s smile faltered. Ginny had avoided naming directly all the sources of it, and she was grateful for her deference. And yet, the feeling of unrest rose in her chest, and she was incapable of forcing it down. “They are different. I dream of it all, every single night. I didn’t mean to say that nightmares were subsiding, but that I’m getting numb. I’m used to them by now. Two months ago, I woke up screaming with Parkinson’s hands grounding me and a bloodied arm I’d scratched myself. Now? I just endure them.”

Ginny got up to sit beside Hermione and hugged her, careful not to crush her daughter in their embrace. “Why doesn’t McGonagall offer you a potion? Merlin knows if anyone needs it, it’s you. What that bitch did in Malfoy Manor—”

“She did, but I… might’ve shattered the bottle against the wall.”

“You did what?” asked Ginny, looking at her as if she were a madwoman. Maybe she was. “Why?”

“Parkinson brewed it. I didn’t want her pity.”

“Are you bloody stupid? I get that she was awful at school, but Merlin, Hermione… McGonagall herself chose her to go back to Hogwarts, and Harry tells me she’s alright, for a Slytherin. There’s no way she’d hurt you by giving you a poisoned potion, or—”

“I knew it wasn’t. She’s not… evil,” tried to explain Hermione. “But I didn’t want her potion. That’s all.”

“Let me get this straight. You’ve been having nightmares for two bloody months. Terrible nightmares that would make me go mad if I were the one suffering them. And, instead of taking care of yourself and drinking a sip of that stupid potion that would’ve let you sleep, you decided to throw it at the bloody wall, because of… pride?”

“No,” she whispered, incapable of voicing anything else.

“Then tell me why, Hermione. Because Merlin help me, I know you’re not stupid, and getting rid of that potion was the dumbest thing you could’ve done. And, while you’re at it, tell me about why the nightmares are back, and why you and Ron are both skulking and getting divorced.”

“Stop badgering me, Ginny! I don’t know, okay? I just know that my marriage has been dead for years, and I finally found it in me to end it. I didn’t want to hurt Ron, and I’m sure he didn’t want to hurt me back. But we were, Ginny. In that bloody marriage that felt like a prison? We were. It all goes back to children, and even though I love yours, I can’t, I—”

Silent tears fell from her eyes. Ginny’s thumbs caressed her cheeks, over and over, erasing them as they dropped. “Okay, honey. Okay. Breathe, everything’s fine. I’m sorry for being so pushy, Hermione. I just want to know why you are—”

Hermione shook her head. Enough was enough. She had to tell someone, and that someone might as well be Ginny, who always stood beside her, through mud, through blood, through torment and through wars and heartbreak. “I threw the potion across the room because it was made by her,” she snarled.

“You’ve already said that—”

“No, Ginny, you don’t get it. I bloody dream of her. Every night, Bellatrix carves ‘mudblood’ on my arm. And then the knife hovers over my chest, and it pierces the skin just above my heart. It bleeds, and hurts, and I try to move, but I can’t. I’m frozen, petrified. When I look up, it’s not the mad Lestrange who’s on top of me. Pansy Parkinson is crying while her hands move and scar my chest. And I can’t, I can’t accept her pity when her eyes refuse to meet mine, when all she does is antagonise me, when she ignores me every chance she gets. Not after how she held me that first night, when I woke up screaming and she was there. She was bloody there, crying, pleading for me to wake up, as if I mattered to her. How she was breaking as she whispered ‘You’re safe’ over and over, while I couldn’t even breathe. I still feel the imprint of her nails on my wrists, her voice still echoes in my room, and her presence haunts me more than anything else ever did.”

Silence fell like a curse. Hermione felt empty, and all she wanted to do was curl into a ball and cry. But she couldn’t, wouldn’t.

Lily stirred in her arms, and she cuddled her, as if that baby was protecting her from the world and not the other way around.

Ginny’s hands rested on her shoulders, holding her close and keeping Hermione together with just sheer willpower. “Honey. I’m here.”

“I—”

“Cry, Hermione. Cry.”

“I don’t want to”

“But you need to, honey. And I’m not going anywhere. Would you like me to hold Lily…?”

“No,” said Hermione, feeling the tears already rolling down her cheeks. “No, I have her.”

Ginny nodded and patted her own shoulder. Her hands caressed Hermione’s hair as she rested her head… while her muffled cry echoed on her friend’s neck.

The dam broke, everything inside her came flooding out… and Hermione shattered with it.

An hour passed. Maybe more, if Hermione looked closely at the inn’s lanterns. They were shining a bit stronger with every passing minute.

She had finally stopped crying, and was sipping her hundredth glass of Butterbeer—probably. At least, that’s how it felt.

“Mind if I poke at this… affair with Parkinson?”

Hermione sniffed. “Yes, but has that ever stopped you?”

“Great point. No, it has not,” she surmised. “Very well. I’m going to ask you a question, darling. And I want you to answer honestly. Do you fancy women?”

Hermione choked. And then laughed. Which may have made it sound like she was deflecting, which she wasn’t. She? No, no way. “I’ve been with men my whole life, and I can assure you I fancy them.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Why do you ask?” queried Hermione, not following Ginny’s train of thought. Why the sudden question? It came out of nowhere.

“I’ll share mine if you share yours.”

“I’m not,” she replied. Because she wasn’t. How could she be? The way Parkinson described how she saw women didn’t match hers. “I like men. I’ve always liked men. I will always like men. I’ve been with men my whole life, I’ve… done things with men. Things I’ve liked.”

Hermione shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her fingers gripping the rim of her glass a little too tightly. She took another sip, but it felt more like a distraction than anything. Her hands were trembling slightly, still keeping Lily close to her chest. Was it cold in here? The baby needed warmth. Maybe they needed to leave. Maybe she—

“I know, Hermione. I’ve also snogged and shagged men. But I don’t like women.”

“Neither do I.”

“It’s not about a label,” said Ginny softly. “It’s about whether you’re feeling something. Ever looked at a woman and wondered… what it might be like to kiss her?”

Hermione froze, a dark blush creeping up her neck, but she didn’t say anything for a long moment. Her breath caught, her chest tightened for a brief second, but she forced herself to swallow the rising tension. The question lingered in the air, heavy and charged. The more she thought about it, the more her mind began to churn with possibilities she didn’t want to confront. Did she? Ever?

A rose bloomed in her chest, its peduncle twisting inside. The petals caressed her throat, burning her to say the words out loud. And its thorns nailed and punctured her heart, leaving the stain of blood as proof of all the things she could say—and chose not to.

“Not that I can recall,” replied Hermione, still blushing. “Why do you keep pushing this?”

“It’s just… the way you talk about her. It seems as if there’s… more. Not a spat between enemies or friends. But something entirely different.”

Hermione scoffed, utterly outraged. “I don’t have bloody feelings for Parkinson!”

“I never said her name, darling,” answered Ginny calmly, sipping from her glass. A bit of beer foam tainted just above her lips, and she licked it away. “See?”

“I mean it, Ginny. She’s despicable!”

“Fair. But you’re telling me you don’t feel anything? Nothing at all? That your heart doesn’t flutter, your fingers don’t wish to feel her skin? Don’t you ever wonder how her lips would taste?”

Hermione’s heart skipped, and she wanted to snap at her. But she didn’t. She couldn’t. Not when Ginny’s expression remained unreadable, not even a hint of mockery in her eyes. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said, her voice coming out harsher than she intended.

“You dream of her!”

“It’s a nightmare! She’s carving my skin with a knife!”

“On your heart, while she cries! Merlin, Hermione, I’m not saying you’re in love. But you bloody rejected the cure to your sleepless nights because she rejected you!”

“I—”

“But, surely, it’s nothing. After all, what do I know? It’s not like I pined over Harry for years under your gaze, right? Surely, I’m wrong and not seeing the same pattern here. Surely!”

“Yours was a childhood crush! This is not… not that. Not even close. It’s not a crush, no—It’s something else!”

“Care to name it?”

“Loathe”

“Oh, okay. If you say so, then—”

“I’m not lying!”

“I never said you were. Not on purpose, at least. But let me tell you something: I know exactly how this feels. For years, I thought I could only ever feel one way about one person... and it took me a while to realise that’s not how feelings work. I dated other people other than Harry, when I previously thought I had eyes only for him,” said Ginny, caressing Hermione’s cheek with her thumb. “Because feelings aren’t linear. They’re messy and complicated. They tangle around you until you’re so blind you don’t see them. You don’t have to know everything right now, but don’t pretend you don’t feel it. You think I didn’t want to be loved back by Harry right away? Of course I did! And then I denied ever liking him, just to survive. It worked, for a while. I distracted myself, I breathed, I was mildly happy. You told me that I needed to let go and be just me; be just Ginny. You told me that, back when we were practically children. Well then, love… let me return the favour. Because denial? That’s the thing. It’s short-lived. And it will snap.”

Hermione’s mind spun. Could that really be happening? Ginny was right. She did feel something... but not for her. Not for Pansy bloody Parkinson.

She clenched her fists. No. That was just... confusion. She hated her. Despised her. Bloody loathed her. It was just a reaction to how she had treated her. That was all.

Her heart raced, her pulse thumping in her ears. She was not like that. She’d never been like that.

She couldn’t stop thinking about it, about her. About how Parkinson’s hands had brushed her shoulders, how Hermione had clung to her waist, how the briefest glance could make her stomach twist. Even when she wanted to rip her apart.

That wasn’t right. Hermione shut her eyes, trying to block it out.

No. It was just hatred. Just... misplaced frustration.

But deep down, she knew it wasn’t.

And that thought terrified her. What did that make her?

The last barrier of denial emerged as a protection charm, and Hermione let it wrap around her.

If Parkinson’s arms wouldn’t, the spell would suffice. No. No, it was not that. It was not because of her; it was much more. Because it couldn’t be about that witch, the one she couldn’t shake.

It just couldn’t.

“Ginny, you loved Harry. That’s hardly the same as—” she said, as a last resort. But before she could finish that sentence, or properly form her thoughts, or, Merlin help her, sort out whatever this conversation had meant, a force of nature erupted on their table like a volcano. Its name? James Sirius Potter.

“Mum, look!” he shouted excitedly, jumping into Ginny’s arms. “Daddy bought me two Chocolate Frogs, and I got Uncle Ron’s and Hermione’s cards.”

“‘Mione sign, ‘peese’?” asked Albus as he sat on his aunt’s lap, holding up a Collectable Card.

And just like that, the dread on her body vanished, as if those kids were capable of magic way beyond any person’s abilities: they were light, and Hermione let herself be bathed in it.

“Can I hold my daughter now, Hermione?” asked Harry as he sat down, after pecking Ginny’s lips.

“No, you can’t,” she said, clutching Lily closer as the baby slept, like an angel, in her tired arms. “Today, she’s mine.”

“You’re lucky I like you,” he muttered, rolling his eyes.

“Come on, Hermione! It’s Saturday, there’s no school tomorrow, the kids are almost asleep, and I want one last round!” said Harry, looking at her with puppy eyes.

Hermione sighed. She’d had way more than her usual threshold. What could go wrong? She looked at baby Lily, refusing to let go of her. She’d take another Butterbeer if it meant holding her close. Baby smell, and her warmth, and her tiny movements as she slept: those were the definition of perfection. “Fine. Just one last—”

Her breath hitched when her eyes found another table at the Three Broomsticks, staring at hers. No, not at hers. Harry and Ginny were not the target. All the eyes were on her.

Draco Malfoy. Blaise Zabini. Astoria Greengrass.

And her. Of course, she was there. Of course, she was staring at her. Of course, she looked at her, panic in her eyes, for the first time in months, just as Ginny had bashed her with questions that uprooted her, that shook her to the core.

Of-bloody-course.

Zabini got up, and Greengrass and Malfoy started snogging. And she—because Hermione would rather burn in hell than think of her name—just was there, as if she’d been petrified, looking at someone else. Hermione followed those piercing green eyes, and she found another old face in the crowd, approaching their table.

Another old foe, another headache. Daphne Greengrass, drunk and obviously scheming something, smiled when she saw Hermione looking at her. And then, without skipping a beat, arms akimbo and arched eyebrow, she bellowed, “Golden girl! Quick question: how do you feel about snakes slithering into your bed?”

Ginny gasped and covered James’ ears, as Harry got up to do the same with Albus, since Hermione’s arms were already occupied cradling Lily, and she couldn’t do both.

Greengrass finally arrived at their table and slammed both hands on it. “Well? I need an answer. Actually, do you mind if I sit down? Everything is spinning.”

“I do mind, Greengrass. Table’s full, don’t you see?” she replied coldly.

“Actually,” said Ginny with a mischievous smile. “Harry was just leaving, weren’t you, honey? You can take his seat.”

Harry coughed, spitting his precious last sip of Butterbeer. “Am I?”

“Yes, we’ve just agreed that you were going to take the kids back home. Weren’t you listening?” replied Ginny, smirking. Hermione blinked. That hadn’t happened. In fact, they had just agreed to one last round of—

Harry rubbed his temples. “You better make this up to me, Gin.”

“Oh, I will. Later tonight, if the kids are tucked in when I get home. And Hermione, darling… don’t make a fuss. You’ll see them tomorrow, let them sleep, or Harry will have a massive headache and won’t be able to collect his prize.”

“Yuck, Ginny. Bloody yuck,” she replied.

“Oh, I like you, Weasley,” smirked Greengrass. “If you were a man, I’d try to seduce you.”

Ginny regarded her for a moment as Harry stood up. She waited until her husband was out of earshot. “And if I weren’t married… likewise, baby snake. Though I doubt you’d be able to handle me.”

Merlin, why was Ginny bloody flirting with Greengrass in front of Hermione? She wanted to puke. Thank goodness Harry had already taken James and Albus, although Lily remained in her arms.

“You two have no right having this much chemistry while being straight,” she said.

“You’re no fun, Granger,” Greengrass replied as she took Harry’s seat. “But you’re right. We straight women cannot flirt with each other, that’s blasphemy, ain’t it? That’s reserved for bisexual disasters like you and lesbian train-wrecks like Pansy. Don’t you agree, Weasley?”

Hermione wanted to punch her, but that would disturb Lily’s sleep, so she didn’t move. Her? Bisexual? No way, she’d never been attracted to—No.

“You’ve just earned the right to call me Ginny, Greengrass,” she replied. “Bold of you to throw the bisexual label her way, though. She’s the straightest witch I’ve laid my eyes on.”

Why was bloody Ginny bloody entertaining bloody Greengrass’ bloody rambling instead of bloody ordering to, respectfully, bloody leave? A hex was coming both their ways if they kept at it.

“Please, if she’s into men only, then I’m a virgin,” she cooed. “By the way, pleased to meet you, Ginny. You’ve just entered the select group of people who I allow to call me by my name.”

“Spill, Daphne,” demanded Hermione, ignoring the smirk tugging at the Slytherin’s lips. “What do you want?”

The Slytherin had the gall to tut at her. “I didn’t say you could use my first name, Granger.”

Why, just why did she have to endure that torment, sponsored by one of her best friends? Death would be gentler.

Ginny snorted. “She told you, Hermione. I believe her question was ‘how do you feel about snakes slithering into your bed?’, and I happen to be pretty interested in the answer.”

War. Ginny had just declared war on her, with bloody Greengrass as her co-queen. Bloody witches.

“That depends,” she finally answered, clenching her jaw and preparing for battle. “Are we talking about Slytherins or literal snakes?”

Greengrass glared at her. “Weird. Do you have a thing for animals? But hey, whatever works for you, golden girl.” Hermione’s skin prickled at the use of that nickname. That was not Daphne’s—Greengrass’—to throw around. That was Pa—

No one’s. That nickname was no one’s.

Ginny rolled her eyes. “She doesn’t, Daphne. She’s just being difficult. Besides, she knows you meant Slytherins. Hell, she knows you meant a Slytherin.”

“Stop it!” chastised Hermione. “Lily’s asleep, and this conversation is not baby-friendly.”

Greengrass laughed. “It’s a highly educational conversation, ain’t it, little Potter-Weasly baby? Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Lily rustled in her arms, and Hermione growled.

“Love, she’s my daughter, I know what she can and cannot hear. Besides… stop deflecting. She’s just seven months old, she won’t remember anything you say”

“That’s what you think! Babies are always listening and—”

Greengrass stared her down, and Hermione shut up. “I’m sorry, but… Why do you put up with her, Ginny? She’s awfully boring!”

“She has her moments, but mostly… Because she’s bloody brilliant, loyal, kind and has a heart bigger than she should.”

“Do you fancy her?” asked the foe at her table, turning towards her friend-turned-to-foe. “Circe, it’s the sweetest declaration of love I’ve ever heard. Does the Slytherin Princess have competition?”

The sound of laughter from other tables, the clinking of glasses, and the occasional crackling from the fire all faded into the background, leaving only Greengrass’ voice in Hermione's ears like a ringing bell.

“I—”

“I’m sorry,” interrupted Hermione. “Does Parkinson have competition… over what?”

Her heart thudded in her chest as she fought the rising panic, her fingers twitching against Lily’s blanket, but she kept her face cold. She had to. She couldn’t let them see how much this was affecting her.

Greengrass clamped her mouth shut. “Oh, shit. I wasn’t supposed to tell you that. She’ll kill me.”

“Why? Why would she…?”

Ginny giggled. “Merlin, that’s too good to be true. Earth to Hermione, hello? I know you can be dense on purpose, but this is too much, even for you. Any chance your brain wants to join the conversation?”

She was this close to snapping, and the only thing preventing the hex was Lily and the last thread of awareness; they were still at a very public place, and even though no one was paying them any mind, she was still Hermione Granger, War Hero and Senior Undersecretary.

“Because she fucking fancies you,” bit Greengrass. Hermione’s chest felt too tight, like the weight of all their stares had pressed down on her. Her heart skipped a beat when the Slytherin started raking lightly the Gryffindor’s arm with her long nails. “Really, how are you called ‘The Brightest Witch of Our Age’ if you can’t even see desire if it shot you?”

Her chest tightened. But, surely, it was because Greengrass’ nails were tracing slow circles on her hand. “She loathes me!”

Silence. Blissful silence. That’s what Hermione had wished for. And yet… it felt charged, dark. Like she was hiding something.

Which wasn’t true.

Hermione’s gaze swept across the Three Broomsticks, desperate to find her sanity somewhere in that crowded place.

She couldn’t, because her sanity was tied to a certain raven-haired girl Hermione was adamant on avoiding with her eyes. And her denial in admitting that truth made her fingers twist tighter around Lily’s baby blanket, desperate to tether herself to something real. It was madness. Pure, inexplicable madness.

Ginny tilted her head, looking at her with something that seemed like pity. “I don’t know about Parkinson, but… I reckon she loathes you as much as you loathe her. For lack of a better word, if I’m being honest.”

“She’s also in denial? Circe, what would these two fucking idiots do without friends like us?” muttered Greengrass. Ginny shrugged and raised her glass, toasting to the statement. It made her blood boil.

“I don’t know,” replied Hermione, her voice dripping sarcasm. “Live a calmer life, without feeling like the rug will be pulled at any time beneath our feet?”

“Just tell me something, golden gi—”

“Don’t call me that!”

“Why?” asked Greengrass, twitching her fingers, still on Hermione’s skin. “Pansy does.”

“Oh my God!” screamed Ginny, like a bloody teenager who has just seen her crush waving at her. “Daphne, it’s a nickname. It’s Parkinson’s nickname for her!”

Hermione hesitated just a beat, her eyes darting away briefly to Parkinson. It wasn’t, it had never been. The witch was not paying them any attention because she was asleep at her table as Malfoy and Astoria kept trying to reach each other’s throats with their tongues. “What? No! I just despise the name, because—”

“Doesn’t matter, I don’t give a flying fuck,” cut in Greengrass. The hum of conversation around them felt distant, as though it were coming from somewhere far away. The clinking of glasses became louder in her ears as she leaned in. “As I was saying: answer correctly one question and I’ll leave. Deal?”

Silence again, more unbearable than the last. The words hung between them like a weight, and Hermione couldn’t stop her mind from racing. She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Her breath was suddenly too loud in her ears. It couldn’t be that simple, could it? One answer, and she was done.

And Hermione was good with questions. Outstanding, in fact. Yes, she could do this. She could outsmart Daphne bloody Greengrass in that made-up game.

“Deal,” she replied. But her chest fluttered, the bloody traitor. What was it trying to tell her? That Greengrass’ words were hitting harder than she’d been letting on? No. No way.

They shook hands. Lion and snake, face to face, as if this were an ancient war, not a deranged debate about Hermione’s alleged feelings. Which were non-existent, obviously. Then Greengrass smirked. “What does Pansy smell like?”

The words slipped out of her mouth before she could stop them, “Sweet, like honey, with notes of citrus.” As the sentence left her lips, her pulse spiked. They had been so close in the moment she’d noticed, back at Slytherin’s Quidditch tryouts. Their breaths had mixed, and Hermione still remembered the temporary tattoos of Parkinson’s nails on her hand.

The crescent moons she’d gone to sleep looking at.

Hermione’s hand, which up until that point had held an almost empty glass of Butterbeer, twitched.

It fell.

And, just like in Barcelona with Parkinson’s, her mug broke into a million pieces.

Ginny laughed, and Greengrass raised her eyebrows.

Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no.

Why had she said that? Why had she even thought it? Why did she know? Why did she remember?

She had not outsmarted Greengrass. She’d been outsmarted.

“I rest my case,” said the Slytherin, getting up from their table. “Do take care of the rest, Ginny. I’ve got a snake to wake up.”

The world seemed to stop as Hermione stared down at Lily, her thoughts spiralling. Greengrass’ smirk was all she could see, echoing in her skull like a taunting bell. She wanted to scream. And Hermione, so prone to not swearing, only had one word escaping from her lips, as she clutched Lily, covering both her ears: “Fuck.”

All Hermione wanted to do was lie down. And never wake up. Because having to face herself the next morning, without alcohol to sweeten the blow, was madness.

That afternoon had been madness.

As she handed Lily back to her mother, who offered a sad smile, a hug that could’ve kept together Pangaea—but not her—, and a promise to chat more the next day over shots and proper Firewhiskey, Hermione turned around to go back to her room at Hogwarts.

She heard the crack of Ginny Disapparating behind her and sighed.

She was so, so done.

The night was young, and Hogsmade’s streetlamps shone brightly, illuminating High Street and all its pedestrians. Some were drunk, some were laughing, and some were making plans to head to a nightclub. The cold bite of wind made her shiver, pulling her lapels up so her neck was safe from the breeze.

She smiled.

Until she heard Greengrass’ high-pitched voice calling her name. She turned around to face her head-on.

“What do you want now, Daphne? You’ve seen my soul naked. Anything else I can help you with?” she asked drily.

“Well, you could definitely get actually naked for Pansy, but I reckon you wouldn’t, even if I were to ask really nicely.”

Hermione’s jaw clenched, and her hand gripped her wand. “Careful now, Daphne. Ginny’s not here to protect you, I’m not holding a baby anymore, and my patience has long since run out.”

“Calm down, golden g—Granger. Sorry, force of habit,” she apologised quickly, seeing Hermione’s face contort with fury. “I just need your help. Pansy’s passed out at the Three Broomsticks—”

“Remind me why I should care?” she bit, not wanting to entertain the conversation any second longer than necessary. All she wanted to do was lie in bed, and Daphne was getting in the way of that.

“Besides the fact that you want to shag her despite your insistent denial? Because we are not allowed to enter Hogwarts, and she’ll freeze to death outside.”

“So? Take her with you. It’s not my problem, Daphne. She has made it abundantly clear: we’re not friends,” said Hermione.

“Stop beating around the bush, will you? You know we can’t. Ministry’s orders. We pure-bloods are not allowed to invite people over into our houses, because of that stupid made-up threat.”

“The Cleansers, you mean.”

“The fucking-sons-of-bitches in my book, but yes. She has to either sleep at Hogwarts, her residence, or go with a Ministry employee to a safe location. Which, given her state and the time, is impossible.”

Fate was cruel, and Hermione was tired.

“Fine. I’ll drag her to her room.”

“And maybe shag her?”

“You’re on thin ice, Daphne. I’m tempted to let it crawl on Parkinson’s skin.”

“I’ll zip it. But hey, Granger… You’re decent. Thank you.”

They went back to the Three Broomsticks. The inn was almost empty, nearing its closing hour; Hermione scanned the customers still lounging and drinking, but the rest of the Slytherin gang were nowhere to be seen. She grabbed Parkinson’s arm and put it around her shoulders, pulling her up. Her other hand went to her waist to make sure she wouldn’t fall. The Slytherin groaned, and Hermione’s stomach twisted.

She had said yes to helping. Because it was the decent thing to do. The right thing to do.

And who was she? The righteous one. Fairness might as well have been her second name, and she loathed the compass that forced her to act that way. That much, at least, was still clear.

Parkinson’s breath ghosted her neck, and Hermione shivered under Daphne’s all-knowing gaze.

“Be careful, it’s rather cold outside,” she smirked. “I’ll leave you to it, then. And please… keep her safe, will you? She’s suffered enough. All of us have. Not just the Slytherins; I mean all witches and wizards who were old enough to feel the war on our bones. She might’ve been ruthless and wrong back there, but it wasn’t out of hatred, Granger. So, please, don’t let anything happen to her.”

“I won’t, Daphne,” she said. Her breath hitched when Parkinson’s lips grazed her neck. “I promise no one will touch her.”

The Slytherin smirked. “Well, I sincerely hope, for her sanity and yours, that you do!” she said, before Disapparating.

Hermione’s response died on her lips, and she sighed.

She started walking, carrying Parkinson with her, in silence, to what felt like an impending doom.

Chapter Text

Pansy stirred. Why was she walking? Where was she going? Why did her head hurt as if fucking Daphne had decided to hit her with all the force of her sarcasm, Pansy's self-loathing and Draco’s narcissism?

Merlin, her head was spinning, and her body did not cooperate with her wishes. Was she still petrified? Astoria had outdone herself with that curse, but next time they decided to meet… Pansy would avenge her wounded pride. But that day—or afternoon, or night, because she didn’t know—she desired one thing only. She longed for her bed, like one of those kids lost on that dreadful island. Peter Pan, was it? She found the story distasteful; it had no hook whatsoever. She had watched with the sole purpose of infuriating her parents, and because Daphne had asked her to watch it. Merlin knows why, but Pansy had obliged.

But in that moment…? She just wanted to lie down and survive what, according to all signs, would be her worst hangover yet.

She kept walking, against her will.

But there was something about the air…

It smelled so nice. Like new books, and rain. She wanted to bottle it up and get drunk on it every night.

She inhaled, her lips opening and grazing soft skin without meaning to.

Oh, no.

She fell to the floor, kissing it with her arse and then her head. Daphne’s voice echoed in her ears, like a daydream or a distant memory: “Thank me later, bitch.”

Pansy opened her eyes, ready to bite off her friend’s head. But what her gaze found was not Daphne Greengrass, smiling and utterly unapologetic. No. Across the haze, she saw a very blushing, undeniably hot Hermione Granger.

Merlin.

Fucking Merlin.

It had been her neck. Her smell. Her hands were on Pansy’s waist. The rain, the books, the taste of her skin, sweet and forbidden.

It had all been hers.

They were halfway between Hogwarts and Hogsmeade. The night was pitch-black, and the only thing shining was her eyes, like two fire embers, furious at her.

“I can’t. If you keep acting like that, I can’t,” whispered Granger, her voice breaking.

Pansy wanted to stand up. To shout at her, like she’d been doing these past months. To push her away, to just breathe.

But Granger had smelled so nice, and her scent clogged her brain like poisonous fog. She could not think, not while she was so close, and yet, so far away. Not when Pansy’s lips had touched heaven on her neck without knowing and then been pulled back to Earth.

“Do you hear me? I said I can’t!” she repeated, and Pansy’s chest stopped functioning. “I promised Daphne I’d take care of you, but you can’t keep doing this to me!”

Pansy’s mouth finally decided to move again. “What exactly am I doing to you?” she spat, tired already of a conversation that was bound to become her undoing.

“You drive me mad, for Merlin’s sake!” shouted Granger. Her jaw clenched, her body shivered. “But you’re awake now, so I guess you can find your own way back to the castle. I don’t need to carry you anymore.”

She turned around and stomped up the path, as if every blade of grass beneath her feet had offended her and she was trying to murder it with every step.

Pansy finally stood up and followed her, not really knowing what that would achieve. Didn’t she want her gone? Space, breathing room? She thought so.

But Granger’s hands haunted her skin, and her scent still surrounded her. So she surrendered to madness.

“Wait. Wait, Granger!” she pleaded, but the Gryffindor kept walking. “For fuck’s sake, look at me! Don’t be a coward, golden girl. Don’t drop that and just flee! I thought Gryffindors were brave, you know? I thought—” said Pansy, her voice breaking with every word. But to no avail, as Granger kept climbing the stone stairs, not glancing back. And Pansy knew. She knew what it would take for the other witch to stop. It was so simple: a name. Just that. But she couldn’t. No, that would be crossing a line, throwing overboard two months’ work of self-distancing, that would mean that—It didn’t matter. Because she was sweating despite the cold, and the only warmth she wanted was already walking away. “Please, Hermione. Please, look at me,” she begged, whispering.

She stopped. Turned. Stared Pansy down, fury in her eyes. “Why should I? Tell me why. I tried that with you two months ago. And you refused. Why should I extend you the courtesy you didn’t?”

“Because I fucking couldn’t! Merlin, Hermione,” she whispered. And it wasn’t just her smell. Her name sounded like a prayer, as if it could mend the world. As it could repair her broken self. “That night was the worst thing I felt since leaving Azkaban. Do you have any idea what that’s like? It terrified me!”

Hermione was standing still at the top of the stairs. “Oh, I’m sorry, Slytherin. Did my nightmare scare you?”

“No, not your nightmare, for fuck’s sake! I panicked because of how much I cared. It frightened me, shook me so deeply I couldn’t take it. Do you realise what you did? I was fine before seeing you, Hermione. Fine!” she yelled, climbing the stairs to look down at her. Cold sweat coating her palms, heart thundering like a rainstorm inside her. “I was content living my life. Happy to be back at Hogwarts, to make a change. To do better. And then you came bulldozing all of it down. You tore it apart without realising it!”

Pansy stood her ground as Hermione tried to push her away. “What did I do that was so horrible? Tell me.”

“You made me care!” she replied. Her hands twitched at her sides, trying desperately to grab Hermione’s frame. She didn’t let them. “You made me care about you!”

The Gryffindor scoffed, crossing her arms. “Funny way of showing it.”

“Don’t you dare mock me,” she spat, refusing to back down. Why didn’t Hermione understand? It was obvious. It was obvious in the way her spine refused to move, her legs wanting to run towards her, and her hands shaking so violently she seemed like she was about to punch someone. But all they wanted to do was throw Hermione on the floor and shut her up with her own mouth.

“What’s so wrong about caring, Slytherin? You—”

“Don’t call me that!” interrupted Pansy. “At least have the decency to use my name if you are to belittle me.”

“Fine. Tell me, Pansy,” she obliged. The Slytherin’s heart stopped beating. If Hermione’s name on her lips was a prayer, sacred and unattainable, hers on Hermione’s was truth, a curse and her undoing. “What’s so wrong about caring? You care about people. You care about your friends, your students. You care about your job, your reputation, and your values. You care. So why is making you care for me a sin on my part?”

“Because none of the things you named makes me go mad. None of those makes my pulse jump, my heart flutter,” she whispered.

“And I do?”

Of course you do. I want to kiss you, I want my fingers to trace every curve of your body, I want you to scream my name, I want to wake up next to you every morning, I want to know your favourite book, I want to understand you, I want you to tell me about your day, I want to lie down beside you, I want to mark you, I want to make you squirm, I want to smell your perfume on my pillow, I want to feel you gasp against my lips as they graze your neck, I want to hear you moan, I want to hold you at night, I want my nails to rake your skin, I want to lose myself in your embrace, I want to follow you into hell, I want your moody days, I want your tongue to trace patterns on my stomach, I want your happy mornings, I want to support you in any way I can, I want to taste you, I want your sappy explanations, I want you to want me, I want to spoil you, I want you to take me to heaven, I want to pull you out of your nightmares, I want to dream of you, I want to touch you, I want to watch you get dressed, I want to groan your name, I want to admire you, I want to yell you’re mine, I want, I want, I want. I want you, she thought, her heart stopping as if it ran out of breath. But I can’t have you, Hermione. Because you wouldn’t want me back. Because I don’t deserve to be wanted back by you.

“You have no idea the things you do to me. The things I want to do to you, Hermione. With you. You don’t have a clue,” whispered Pansy, her pulse thumping in her ears like a fucking wrecking ball. “How you haunt my day, my senses, my nights. You don’t know what I—”

Hermione’s finger poked at her chest. “I dream of you every bloody night, Pansy! I do know. I might be ignorant in lots of things, but not on this,” she bellowed, and the Slytherin’s chest tightened, wishing to puff but being unable to. Then Hermione’s voice got softer, whispering, “I still feel your nails on my skin, and your voice echoes in my ears every time I wake up from a nightmare.”

Pansy couldn’t think, breathe, or exist. Because what did it mean that Hermione’s terrors included her?

“How could you be having them?” she asked, an undertone of anger in her voice. She refused to face the Gryffindor’s words, so she deflected. “I brew a potion to stop those, so you would be okay, so that you would be safe! And why do I appear like a fucking ghost that serves as punishment to you?”

Hermione regarded her for a heartbeat. It stretched longer than what was humanly possible, and the dread Pansy felt at her answer made her skin prickle. “I didn’t take the potion.”

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t want your pity,” she mumbled.

How could she be so damn stupid? She should’ve known Hermione would do some reckless shit. She should’ve checked, made sure she was okay. Pansy bit her lip, torn between the desire to slap that nonsense out of her and yell at her for being so fucking dumb. In the end, as her shoulders squared, trying to prevent her arms from fidgeting, reason prevailed.

Sweat was covering her hands, and it took all of Pansy to prevent them from jerking.

“How could that be? I haven’t heard you scream for Harry. In two months, not a single sound.”

Hermione’s hands turned into fists, and Pansy thought she looked on the verge of breaking. Herself or the world, that much was still up for discussion. “Because I enchanted my room so that no one would hear!” she shouted.

“Brilliant. Fucking brilliant,” scolded Pansy. Hermione looked so small, so lost, in herself. Pansy knew that if she had reached out, if she’d hugged her, she’d break too. So, instead of extending an olive branch, she doubled down on the bashing. “How is your lack of survival instinct my fault?”

“At first, I didn’t take the potion out of pride. I thought I would push through the torment and be done with it. I did, as nights went on. Fred’s death, Harry’s lifeless body, Ron’s absence… and much more. The nightmare used to end with Bellatrix’s Crucio, and her knife piercing my skin. Except it morphed, and it didn’t anymore. But then it became something else.”

“What were you searching for in those nightmares? Something you lost?” asked Pansy, afraid of the answer.

Hermione nodded. “I endured it all because it was the only way to have you look at me. It didn’t matter that you were hurting me. In the dream or in life. Because at least, in that haze of hallucinations… At least you looked at me.”

The world stopped on its axis. Because no. Just no. What did it mean that Hermione was so desperate for her attention that she endured unbearable torments just so that Pansy would see her?

It was a one-sided feeling. It was supposed to be nothing at all, but Pansy had fallen. And now, Hermione’s words made it seem like she’d been tangled up in that haze with her. It couldn’t be true. “I am looking at you now,” she said softly.

“It’s too late.”

“Says who?”

“You”, replied Hermione. And Pansy’s entire beliefs were shattered, along with her hopes and heart. “Over and over and over. And I can’t take it anymore. Every interaction with you is poison, but I keep coming back for more. I’m dying, and you’re both the cause and the cure. How am I supposed to… live?”

Silence. Pansy looked at the floor.

Poison ivy.

Her heart was roaring, her skin cold and burning at the same time. A breeze passed through them, and Pansy shivered. Hermione did too, and she resisted the urge to hug her to keep the frostbite at bay.

She was cursed with it. Blessed with it.

Then she looked back up, and Hermione averted her gaze.

“Hermione,” pleaded Pansy. “Hermione, look at me. What do you see?”

She didn’t meet her eyes as she spoke, “That’s irrelevant—”

“It isn’t to me,” she interrupted. Pansy grabbed Hermione’s chin, forcing her face to tilt up so that her eyes had no way out. Green met brown in a charged stare that threatened to shatter Pansy’s soul and break her heart.

She didn’t care. Not as she looked at Hermione, who opened her mouth and closed it again. She wanted to hear her answer, to be coddled by her, to be cuddled by her. But Hermione’s thoughts must’ve been spiralling way more than hers, because no sound came out of her mouth for what seemed like ages.

And then it all snapped.

Hermione bit her lip, and Pansy’s body reacted as if it had been starved. She was famished, and that bite on Hermione’s lips was a fucking banquet.

“Stop,” begged Pansy, feeling her heart in her mouth. “Please, don’t.”

Hermione looked at her, puzzled. “Stop what?” she asked before biting it again. Pansy’s thumb caressed it, and Hermione let go. But it wasn’t enough.

The fire was lit, and there was not enough water to extinguish it. The embers in her eyes burned, and her stomach was made of fire.

Pansy’s desire overclocked her whole system. That mouth is poison, she thought. And it was her undoing. Because she was, first and foremost, a snake. And snakes were venomous, so she understood. A snake’s bite could be mortal. Hermione was a lion, not a snake. And there was no poison known to the Potion Master that could kill just by looking at it. But that mouth defied all logic.

And Pansy was a snake. The Snake.

So she bit.

She still held her chin, ironclad and adamant on not letting it go. She made her tilt her face up. Her eyes regarded Hermione’s, asking a silent question she didn’t know. And neither did the Gryffindor, because she didn’t answer it.

But it became clear. In Hermione’s gaze, that traced her whole face and ended at Pansy’s lips. In her shallow breath, ghosting her mouth. In her skin, burning up beneath her fingers. In the way she licked her own lips.

As the lion opened her mouth, Pansy claimed it.

She had dreamt of this moment. Of how she would carefully kiss her, as if Hermione was made of glass. Of how she would hold her close, worship her body like the goddess she was.

She didn’t.

As soon as her lips found Hermione’s, Pansy forgot that she could be gentle.

Her mouth kissed hers as if it had been starved, trying to make sense of something that didn’t. Pansy’s hand released her chin, so it could go to her neck and pull her closer. The Gryffindor whimpered against her lips, and that sound was all Pansy could hear, could wish to keep listening to on repeat until she died.

Her fingers tangled in her chestnut curls, dragging through her hair and clinging to its strands for dear life.

She was kissing her. Pansy was kissing her. She opened her eyes for a second and saw how the ones on the golden girl’s face were open in surprise. And how, slowly, she relaxed and shut them.

Hermione smelled like rain and old books. But her mouth tasted like glory, sweet and fresh and so, so fucking consuming.

It was not enough, it wouldn’t be. Ever. Her kisses grew erratic, her hands pulling harsher, her teeth aching to bite.

The lion bore poison while the snake roared in triumph, as she traced Hermione’s lower lip with her tongue.

Merlin.

Pansy’s nails dug into her nape, trying to pull her closer. It was impossible. All her senses were useless. All she felt was her. And her lips, moving and dancing against her own. Ever as urgent, ever as demanding.

Then Hermione opened her mouth, and her tongue invaded Pansy’s mouth. She didn’t know how good it could feel to be conquered. It was maddening. The Gryffindor’s hands roamed her body, grazing her waist, digging into her spine, blissfully resting on her shoulders, tangling in her raven-hair. Pulling at it, desperately.

Hermione gasped. She panted as Pansy’s teeth sank into her lower lip, making that maddening fantasy a reality. She tugged at it, slowing down the kiss. If she kept going, she wouldn’t be able to stop. And she couldn’t go on in the middle of the street.

She needed to put an end to that maddening kiss before the last thread of wisdom snapped, and she would be forced to rip Hermione’s clothes then and there. It wasn’t a question of decorum. It was a question of possession. She was only hers to see.

“Merlin, golden girl. That was… Oh my God. But we should stop before—” she whispered, pecking her lips.

Hermione groaned into her mouth, angry. “No. I’m not letting you go,” she bellowed as her hands grabbed Pansy by the collar and pulled hard. The golden girl’s mouth devoured hers with a fervour she hadn’t felt before. And then Pansy was being pushed backwards until her back hit something. A lamppost? She didn’t know, nor care. Not as Hermione’s lips coaxed hers open again, her hands holding her in place as her fingers explored all the places Pansy had dreamt of them finding. Her back arched against her will, pushing their chests together.

And the sound Hermione made in that moment? The moan that got swallowed by Pansy’s mouth? That was music, everything she’d been looking for.

The Slytherin turned, herding the Gryffindor with her and swapping their positions. She laughed as her leg slid between Hermione’s, at the loud gasp that escaped her lips when she pushed her knee a little up.

She was far from done.

Merlin help us all, she pleaded as her lips broke from hers, her hand pulled her brown hair back, making her head loll, and exposing the curve of her neck to Pansy’s hungry eyes. Her mouth attacked it, because there was no better way to describe her kisses, as if they were a war.

She sucked at her pulse point, and Hermione’s body went limp for a beat. “I haven’t done this before, Pansy,” she moaned.

“What? Snog? Don’t tell me you’re such a prude, golden girl,” she replied with an amused smile as her teeth grazed her skin.

“No, I mean—ah!—kissing a woman. I don’t know how to—God,” she whimpered as Pansy bit her and later soothed the mark with her tongue.

Her mouth traced open-mouthed kisses along the slope of her neck, ending just below her jaw. Hermione was panting as Pansy’s lips grazed the shell of her ear, and whispered, “Then pay close attention, honey, because I’m about to give you a masterclass in it.” Her hand left the waist, went up and rested on Hermione’s breast. It was just a ghost, but it was enough for the golden girl to squirm, first away and then against it. Pansy tugged at her earlobe, deciding that, even though the neck was enticing, nothing was as good as Hermione’s mouth. So she kissed it, messy and wet and demanding. As the hand on her chest started caressing and squeezing her breast, the sounds escaping from those lips could’ve made her come from sound alone. “You see, women like to be touched in so many places it’s easy to—” she whispered against her mouth, her fingers kneading Hermione’s nipple through her clothes. “—make them beg for anything, really. And it’s almost child’s play how to—” she continued, as the hand on Hermione’s hair untangled itself and searched for a better target. She found it in the hem of her shirt, sliding beneath it, her nails raking her stomach upwards until they reached her bra. Her laced bra. A whimper escaped from Pansy’s lips before continuing, “—turn them on. And maybe, just maybe, if you behave—” she added, as her hand went back down and tugged at the belt strap, and found a gap between cloth and skin. She smiled into the kiss, her nails tracing patterns over the hem of her knickers. “—I’ll show you how to break one and make her come on your command.”

“Oh God, oh God, oh—”

“Who are you calling for, Hermione? It’s just you—” purred Pansy, whose fingers went back up beneath the shirt, and then slid under the thin lace of her bra, touching the skin on her breast for the first time “—and me.”

Hermione jerked at the contact, arching her back and granting her better access to all of her chest. “I don’t like women.”

She hummed in response. “Then, me neither.” Pansy’s thumb pressed against her nipple and rubbed it. And Hermione's high-pitched scream got lost in the Slytherin’s mouth. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

“I can’t do this. We’re drunk and we don’t know and—Mmph!”

Pansy pinched the nipple, hard, while her mouth descended and kissed the space between her breasts, over the clothes.

“Ah, but you see, Hermione… I tried to stop this, I did, but you—what was it you said?” she hummed, going up her body, her teeth biting again that already swollen lower lip. “Oh, yeah. ‘I’m not letting you go.’ So now… lie back and enjoy, because I’m about to worship your every—”

“I mean it, Princess. I can’t do this. Not because it’s you, it’s me. That’s not who I am,” said Hermione, hitting her own head with the lamppost. Pansy started to untangle herself from her, her heart fluttering, aching, breaking, being ripped apart.

“Oh, excuse me then, Granger. I must’ve misunderstood—”

Hermione gripped Pansy’s wrists, already recoiling from the Gryffindor’s body. See? I told you. She’s poison, she thought.

But Hermione pulled her hands back on her chest. Pressed them on her naked skin. Moaned as she forced Pansy’s hands to keep touching her below her clothes. “Yes, you have,” she whispered, pecking Pansy’s lips. “I’m not telling you no. I’m not telling you to stop. Merlin, I want to go on. I’m burning, Princess. I want to do things with you I’ve never thought I would. But I want to try it. For you. With you. I’m just letting you know that lust isn’t enough for me. That I won’t be one of your conquests, one more name on your list. If I do this, I want more.”

Hermione kissed her as Pansy’s hands twitched over her frame, desperate to hear her sing. To make her chant her name as she buried herself in her. To feel her spasm and squirm and come and beg and breathe and kiss and moan. She wanted to taste her, to wake up the next day, hugging her exhausted body.

She longed for it, dreamt of it, wished it.

But she couldn’t. Not if there were so many strings attached.

Commitment? No.

Pansy was burning so hot that the sun would’ve been fucking frozen next to her. She burned for that woman, for that witch. For the know-it-all golden girl. For her golden girl. Hers alone. Her soul ached for Hermione’s, her mouth longed for Hermione’s, her heart beat for Hermione’s.

And that scared her. Because lust was short-lived, either good or bad. But what the golden girl was asking…? That never ended well, even in the best of cases.

Pansy did not deserve her. Didn’t want the chains of a promise she knew would kill her.

Hermione was asking for love.

But how could you love her if you don’t even love yourself?

She took a step back.

Everything went cold, except for their eyes. She looked at her and saw heartbreak mixed with tears. Pansy was green, Hermione was brown. But the snake held no hope or peace, and the lion no light or wholesomeness.

She looked at her. Took it all in: Hermione’s swollen lips, the work of art of bites and sucks on her neck, the dishevelled chestnut hair, the wrinkled clothes exposing her black bra, the sly pert nipples begging her to come back, the smeared gloss. The sorrow in her eyes.

Two broken women, too broken to be.

Pansy could not hurt her, not again, not more than what she already had.

“I’m sorry, golden girl,” she whispered, “I really am. But I cannot give you what you crave.”

Pansy’s throat tightened. Hermione’s broke with a sob. “Why? Don’t you—”

“I want you. I lust over you, I dream of you, your mouth, your scent, your skin, your hands haunt me. But I don’t love you—I can’t love you. I can’t even love myself. And I’m really sorry to have hurt you that much, only to do it all over again.”

“Pansy, please, don’t—”

But her words got lost in the wind as Pansy Disapparated.

Pansy knocked on her door. It opened slowly.

“Look who’s back. You never left a number. Quite rude on your part, don’t you—”

“Is someone in there with you?” she asked, done with the pleasantries.

The woman regarded her for a beat, tilting her head. “No, I don’t go out on Fridays. Too many children playing around in clubs.”

“It’s Saturday.”

“Is it now?” she smirked. “Lucky you, then. Want to come in?”

Pansy didn’t waste any time. She took a step forward. Her mouth crashed against the other woman’s, and her arms grabbed her waist, pulling them together. She heard the door close behind her, but she was occupied pushing both their bodies until they fell on the sofa.

She looks like her sometimes, she thought. And then she bit her lip until it almost bled as punishment.

“Fuck me, little Luce,” she whispered against her skin, lying on top of her.

“Needy, are we?” moaned Lucy. “You’re lucky I find you hot, stranger.”

“Shut up,” commanded Pansy while her hands roamed her body.

“Shut me up,” she replied, arching an eyebrow.

Pansy’s tongue traced patterns on Lucy’s neck and went back up to claim her mouth.

“I don’t mind being used if the sex is good, but I’m curious… Who are you trying to outrun on my account?” asked the Muggle between ragged breaths and bitten lips.

“No one,” replied the witch, showering Lucy’s neck with open-mouthed kisses. She was so hungry, so in need of that. Being in control, feeling someone either on top of or below herself. Making them moan, whimper, beg.

Yes. She wasn’t at Lucy’s because she was running from something. She was running towards her own desires.

The Muggle grabbed her chin and looked her in the eye. “Liar.”

Pansy ripped the brunette’s shirt open. “I said,” she threatened, letting her fingers caress the woman’s exposed torso and hooking them on the belt straps of her pants. She yanked them down, leaving her bare. “Shut up and fuck me.”

Because if you don’t, I’ll start thinking. And I can’t stomach that. So fuck me until I pass out. Fuck me, please. Invade my body so that my mind stays empty, she thought.

Lucy squinted as she bit her lip, feeling the patterns being traced on her skin by Pansy’s hands. “You say that, and yet you won’t let me touch you.”

Pansy paused. “Then,” she said as she lowered herself, her lips grazing Lucy’s ear. “Shut up and let me fuck you.”

“Gladly,” she smirked, opening her legs as an invitation. Pansy licked her lips before getting on her knees.

Don’t think of her. Don’t you dare, she thought as she buried her tongue between Lucy’s legs. She can’t be what you crave. Lucy screamed, pulling her hair. She’s not here. Don’t say her name. Just keep devouring little Luce. That’s all that matters, Pansy. She felt it on her mouth, tasted it on her tongue. It was sweet and salty. But tainted, because it isn't hers. This is not Hermione. Lucy came, and Pansy came undone.

The evening went on, and the witch kept the brunette up all night.

And when dawn came, she felt exhausted. Despite putting up an excellent performance, judging by little Luce’s screams and pants and all the times she came, Pansy felt empty.

The witch was wearing one of Lucy’s shirts, watching the sunrise spill gold across the skyline and showering her face with a warm and soft light, but all Pansy felt was coldness and frost.

She hated those clothes.

They smelled like cinnamon and vanilla. Not a bad combination. But that was not her scent. It wasn’t books and rain. It was not Hermione’s, so her brain rejected it like poison.

Lucy padded over quietly, her steps slow, uncertain. She wrapped her arms around Pansy from behind, lips brushing her nape. The kiss was gentle, almost apologetic.

“You fuck like you’re starving, stranger,” she said, her fingers caressing Pansy’s waist. “Not that I mind, but… This was about her, wasn’t it?” Silence. “You don’t have to tell me her name.”

“I won’t,” she muttered, turning around to shut the Muggle up with a kiss.

“That’s fine,” whispered Lucy, turning her face so the witch’s lips clashed against her cheek. “But you should probably tell her.”

A whimper escaped Pansy’s throat. What the fuck was wrong with her?

Pansy wanted to vanish. Not as in ‘I want to flee’, but more like ‘I wish I were dust so the wind could scatter me until it was impossible to tell it once had been Pansy Parkinson’.

She was in her flat, sipping a cup of coffee at six o’clock in the morning, with the worst headache known to men and the worst heartburn known to women.

Pansy blocked all the memories from last night. Especially those regarding a certain lion that she didn’t know how to face the next morning, when classes would start again, like every Monday.

Except this Monday wouldn’t be like last week’s. Or the one before that.

Because tomorrow… would come. And she knew: as soon as her eyes landed on Hermione, it would all come flooding back, and she didn’t know how to keep herself sane.

She could still feel the ghost of Hermione’s nails raking down her back, and she wanted to peel her skin off just to forget. She bore the marks with pride, and she looked at them, disgusted by herself.

Maybe she could ask Daphne to use Obliviate on her. But that would be her last resort. Lost in thought, she was playing with the enchanted Galleon as Hermione had done so many weeks before. It wasn’t complicated. But Pansy’s fingers were not as graceful as the other witch’s, nor as hypnotic.

And then the coin got heated for the first time. She smiled; those two morons had managed to keep the business afloat for almost two whole months, bless them. But they needed her.

She heard Cory’s voice, urgent and broken.

Something happened. Fiona needs your help. Come, please.

Pansy didn’t hesitate. She grabbed her wand, put on a pair of combat boots, and a T-shirt—gifted by none other than Daphne, who else?—that read ‘there’s a snake in my boot’, paired with some creepy vintage pull-string cowboy doll’s image and olive cargo pants.

She remembered Daphne’s arched eyebrow when Pansy had opened her stupid gift. And her reply: “What? It says snake, so I thought of you. Take it or leave it, darling.”

And Pansy had taken it, because it was comfortable and known, even though the message was lost to her. And she needed to feel comfortable in her skin. Or to pretend to.

She rushed to their minions as if their lives were in danger, which was highly unlikely. She didn’t know what awaited her. But whatever it was, it had to be better than silence.

Fucking teenagers in charge of my little empire, here I come, she thought. It’s easier saving you than saving me.

She left her flat behind by Disapparating.

As soon as she Apparated, she felt something was off. Cory ran into her arms, desperate. “Help her, Pansy. Help her, please,” he pleaded as tears rolled down his face.

She carefully untangled herself from his embrace and patted him softly on the back, soothing his sobs. “Are you okay, honey? Tell me you’re okay first, and then we’ll go from there.”

“I’m fine, they didn’t touch me!” he screamed, grabbing Pansy’s hand. Clinging to it like it was a lifeline, his anchor to reality.

Pansy tightened her fingers around Cory’s hand, desperate to calm his erratic breaths and panicked speech. Just what had happened? “They who?” she whispered, embracing him again as he started crying on her shoulder. “Cory, love. Where’s Fiona?”

Dread coated her nerves, and anxiety made her broken heart beat faster. And faster. And faster.

“They told me to find you. They said—they said they would take her. And that if you didn’t come, they wouldn’t let her go. I’m sorry, I didn’t know what to do, I tried to defend her, but they used—they cast—” he sobbed again, shivering. “They used it on me, Pansy. I screamed, but the pain wouldn’t go away. It was just for seconds, but I can’t—I couldn’t help her as they dragged her away. I tried to, and then I was so afraid, so, so afraid of feeling that pain again, the Cruciatus Curse, I couldn’t, I just—”

“It’s all right, Cory. You were very brave, you did everything you could,” she whispered, not letting him go. He was crying, and so was she. “I’ll get Fiona back. I will take care of this, I swear,” she promised, refusing to let Cory break. How dared they? How dared they! Using them against her. Using Crucio on the sweetest boy ever to walk on Earth. How dared they summon her, kidnap one of hers? How fucking dared they? “I will make them pay, Cory. No one touches one of mine and lives to tell the tale. No one. Not even the fucking Cleansers. I’ll wipe them out, do you hear me? No one will lay another hand on you or another spell as long as I’m alive.”

He clung to her for what felt like hours, a shivering mess of sobs and tears and broken mind and body. Pansy kissed the crown of his head, his forehead, his hands. “Hold on tight. We’re going to St Mungo’s to get you checked out. Ready?” she murmured. He nodded, not being capable of talking anymore. “One, two, and—”

Just as she was about to Disapparate, an explosion around them occurred. She only had seconds before the fire would reach them both and engulf them in flames. So, despite her mind being confused and her destination blurred, she chose to vanish from the store.

Pain. Excruciating, terrible, unfathomable pain. She looked at her waist, and she didn’t see skin. She saw red, blood.

Someone yelled. Her head rolled back, her hands twitching desperately to make the suffering go away. It didn’t; it kept climbing up, torturing her more and more with every passing second.

And despite the agony, all she asked was not for Essence of Dittany or a Healer. She kept bellowing desperately for someone to answer. “Is he all right? Is Cory fine? Did I splinch him too? Did I? Is he here?”

A hand grabbed hers. “I’m here, Pans. You Apparated to St Mungo’s—stay still so they can heal you. You saved us,” he cried. “You saved me.”

And that was enough. Because she didn’t matter. Only that he was safe, and that no harm had come his way. Her thoughts went back to Fiona. She would save her, too, if it were the last thing she did. But the witch would have to wait a little longer, because Pansy couldn’t move, breathe or think straight.

In the most excruciating agony, she passed out.

Chapter Text

“Pansy, please don’t—” she begged, but the Slytherin Princess was long gone before she finished speaking. “—leave me.”

Silence seemed to stretch longer than the last two months together. Because… what had just happened, what did it mean for them, and why did she feel so undone?

Hermione was at war with her own body. Deeply—as Ginny would put it—horny. Just what the bloody hell had just sparked between her and Parki—Pansy?

God, she’d been so putty in her hands. Was it the pent-up energy? It had to be, right?

Granted, it had been years since she’d let anyone touch her like Pansy had just done. It had been bloody years since Ron and she had…

God.

But that was not it. That had been much more. It was bloody clear that, despite her mind yelling ‘You don’t like women’, her body felt otherwise. Pansy’s hands had searched her skin as she had pleased, and Hermione had been humming with every stroke. Desiring it. She had let her turn her words into nothing but high-pitched prayers to a god she no longer believed in, not since the Battle of Hogwarts. And no, Hermione hadn’t just ‘let’ her; she’d craved her to do so, so much that she even went back to those red lips when Pansy stopped kissing her. Hermione had grabbed her hands and pressed them against herself because the witch was recoiling.

“I don’t bloody like women…?” she muttered, punching the streetlamp that had held her against Pansy during their whole… moment. “Well, thank you for that disastrous wake-up call.”

Hermione blushed and covered her face with both hands. She still felt the red marks of Pansy’s nails on her stomach. On her neck. On her… breast.

“Just what was I thinking? ‘I’m burning’? Who says that? And bloody Pansy, honestly! She’s so dumb. She’s so… so bloody stupid!” she yelled to the wind and the stars above her. Hermione punched the metal again, and her knuckles bled. “No, because who told her I want ‘love’ right away? I bloody didn’t! I just wanted her to acknowledge the truth, that this whole situation is complex. That we’re not another one-night stand for her to parade as a badge of honour! But no, the bloody witch had to understand whatever madness she wished, didn’t she? Honestly!” she scoffed. She punched the streetlamp again, smearing blood on its surface. “I’ll kill her and her pretty face and her perfect hands. I swear I will if the first words out of her mouth aren’t ‘I’m sorry, golden girl, I misunderstood, and I do want you back’. I’ll kill her with no kindness. Punch her. And Cho, too, with her bloody books and tropes in that reading club. ‘Miscommunication can’t happen in real life, it’s so unbelievable, unlikely’?” she repeated Cho’s words in a mocking high-pitched voice. And then groaned as her foot kicked the lamppost, breaking maybe her toe. “Miscommunication, my arse, Cho! Talk to bloody Pansy Parkinson and she’ll tell you it can! Moreover, if one person is dumb enough to bloody Disapparate in the middle of an argument or a heated conversation!”

She stomped up the stairs, muttering curses. Her skin burned, her knuckles bled, her legs ached, her feet protested, and her mind spun.

Her heart? Numb. She wasn’t heartbroken. Hermione didn’t do heartbreak. She was disappointed instead. In herself? No. She had done nothing wrong. Well, maybe snogging a certain witch against a lamppost in a very public space. And maybe moaning too loudly. But that wasn’t really her fault either. She was only human, and Pansy had outdone herself, the bloody witch—how could she be so sexually tuned and mentally impaired?—, with her bloody hands and nails and mouth and fingers and skin on Hermione’s quivering body. But Hermione had stopped it, hadn’t she? Despite yearning for all of it to go on. She had stopped it at the time it needed to be stopped.

So, she was disappointed in Pansy’s lack of confidence. Her lack of emotional resonance. Her lack of self-esteem. And her complete bloody lack of trust in Hermione. Pansy had disregarded her feelings because she thought she wasn’t deserving of them…?

“Bollocks! You listen to me, Pansy Parkinson. You don’t get to bloody dictate my feelings, you don’t get to erase them, and you sure don’t get to ignore them out of some poorly conceived notion of your own value, you hear me?” she shouted again. To no one. Like the madwoman she was.

“Hermione? Are you all right?”

She turned her head to meet Luna’s worried stare. Did the Ravenclaw tiptoe until she had reached her, or was Hermione so immersed in her thoughts that she failed to notice her presence before? And how much had Luna heard? “Yes. I am fine. Sorry for yelling,” she whispered.

“Why were you shouting at Pansy if she isn’t here? And what type of rash is that on your neck?”

Hermione’s hand went instinctively to the spot Luna had pointed, trying to cover it. “I—We had a spat. And I was angry, so I yelled. Nothing for you to worry about,” she replied.

“Want to join me for tea? Cho’s over at Hagrid’s, so it’ll be us three,” offered Luna.

Hermione mulled it over. Her first instinct had been to decline the invitation, crawl into her bed and sleep. But, on second thought, she needed to vent. And, since Harry was back at his home with Ginny, doing things she didn’t wanna know, Neville and Hannah had decided to visit his parents at St Mungo’s, and Ron and Hermione were no longer on speaking terms, she accepted. Because Cho would understand, and Luna would provide the haven she needed.

“Lead the way, please. And thank you,” replied Hermione.

“There’s no need for thanks, you know that! By the way, can I ask you something?”

“Anything,” she said after hesitating for a beat. Would she ask about the Ministry’s army of Heliopaths or her dishevelled looks? Who knew.

“No, I’ve changed my mind,” she said, shaking her head and smiling. “Tea first, questions later.”

“Hey, Granger! Something you want to share? You look like you’ve either lost it, cried or snogged someone,” cooed Cho teasingly as she sat down on the sofa. Luna, barefoot, chose the futon under the window as her place to rest, legs crossed and relaxed.

Hermione regarded Cho and rolled her eyes. “You’re seeing ghosts, Chang,” snapped Hermione, flinging her surname as a weapon for their friendly banter. She took a sip of her cinnamon tea, settling her nerves. “I come in peace, so don’t poke me. I’m not in the mood for banter.”

“Okay, fair. Since you asked so nicely… And just because I care about you, and my not-hexed self, mind you,” replied Cho, drily. “But, and now I’m not poking, I’m serious: I’m here if you want to share whatever is on—”

Luna tilted her head, her eyes inspecting Hermione as if it were the first time she’d seen her. “You did kiss Pansy, didn’t you?”

Hermione froze mid-sip. Would it be rude to say no and refuse to explain further? Yes. Did Hermione care? No. “I did not—”

“Merlin, that’s what’s on your neck! Hickeys and teeth marks? You let her do that to you?” shouted Cho, grinning. She grabbed Hermione by her shoulders, shaking her. “You two finally snogged? Bloody Circe, took you both long enough! Thank you, Luna, for catching her red-handed so that she wouldn’t be able to deny it.” Cho waited a beat and finally released a very blushed Hermione. “Wait. It’s two in the morning. Why are you here if you were kissing Pansy? Luna, don’t tell me you interrupted them. I swear I’ll ban you from Ravenclaw’s secret reading club if you did. If I have to endure one more second of the Slytherin fawning over little know-it-all here, I’ll pack my bags and leave.”

“You can’t go,” replied Luna. “Who would teach Arithmancy if you did?”

“That’s what you’re worried about? Classes? Are you serious?”

“And also who’d be Head of Ravenclaw?” replied Luna, shrugging. “Not me, and I don’t see any other nearby candidate. So no, you cannot leave, or I’ll fill your flat with Nargles. And maybe a couple Thestrals.”

Hermione looked at her cup of tea. How steady and smooth was its surface, even though it was hot if she drank it. Hermione was tea. “I did snog her. Or she, me. Or both? I don’t know anymore,” interrupted Hermione, not caring for their pointless banter. The cat was out of the bag, her neck was a mess, and her toe was surely broken. “Do you have ice? I might have a broken bone.”

“You would’ve broken a bone if Pansy were a man, darling,” grinned Cho.

“I’ll fetch the ice. Though I don’t get why you don’t do it yourself…” said Luna. She pointed her wand at a nearby and empty glass. “Aguamenti,” she whispered, and it was filled with water. “You sometimes forget you can do magic, Hermione. It’s quite the tragedy. Glacius,” she added, and it froze. “There you go, ice. Would you like something for the Wrackspurts?”

She could’ve done that. She should’ve done that. Why hadn’t the idea crossed her mind?

“Back to the snogging. I want deeds, receipts. And I want to know why you’re not shagging the Slytherin into oblivion but putting ice on a toe,” demanded Cho.

Hermione sipped tea, steadying her nerves. “We were going back to the castle from Hogsmeade. She was drunk and passed out, but she woke up, and we started screaming. And then we weren’t because we were making out, but—Ouch! What was that for, Cho?” she asked after receiving a smack on her upper arm, courtesy of Harry’s ex-girlfriend.

“There shouldn’t be a ‘but’. The story should’ve ended either in ‘we snogged’ or ‘we shagged’. Period,” she chastised.

Hermione’s blood boiled. Cho had no idea of what had happened, so why was she judging her? “Well, it ended in ‘we didn’t shag because of miscommunication’. How’s that for you?” she spat.

“You’re banned from Ravenclaw’s reading group,” said Cho, squinting. “Give me back your badge as the only honorary member from another House.”

“Fine by me, the books you chose are boring!” replied Hermione. She was grabbing the blanket on top of her legs so hard, her knuckles were white. It was easier focusing on books than on Pansy, so she let the argument steer towards that direction. “Have you tried reading a classic once in a while?”

“Oh, you’d rather talk about Brontë or Austen than about your snog-session with Pansy? Sure. That’s not transparent at all. Let’s do that to help your poorly designed coping mechanism: Classics are for studying, not enjoying,” bit Cho, not pulling her punches. How dared she?

Hermione sucked in a breath. “That’s because you don’t like them! Shelley, Woolf, and—”

“Precisely! I like to enjoy myself, which is something you rarely let yourself do,” said Cho, her tone warmer and softer.

“I do!”

“No, you like to pretend you do and then do some messed-up shit to prevent it,” she explained. And no. It wasn’t that. Was Hermione a self-saboteur? Maybe she used to be, but not anymore. She was just someone with clear ideas, a sharp tongue to voice them and a will of steel to bend others to them.

“I just told Pansy I didn’t want to be one of her endless list of one-night stands! How is that my fault if she’s the one being stupid?”

Cho clicked her tongue before answering, “Merlin, you’re both so dense.”

“Stars are dense, did you know?” added Luna, looking out the window.

“They are also smoking hot, like a couple of people I know,” said Cho.

“And they are millions of years apart. I suppose it suits us,” thought out loud Hermione. “Why did you say we were dense, Cho?”

“Because you’re blind. And she is. She fancies you to a point I don’t even know if the definition fits, and you like her so much without realising it. She covers it up, you deny it. Both avoid it, neither copes with it.

Hermione’s throat tightened. “What do you mean? When you said that ‘I deny it’,” she asked, fearing an answer she already knew.

“Darling, you’re trying to convince yourself you don’t like women just because you like men. You can do both. Hell, I wish I could do both, too, but alas, I only swing one way and it’s not the one I would’ve chosen. Men? Yuck,” said Cho, repressing a shiver. “Anyway, back to you. You’re trying to rationalise your attraction to her since it doesn’t fit in your mould. The one you built at seventeen, freshly off the war: happily married to your school sweetheart, in a prominent position at the Ministry and on the way to becoming the next Minister for Magic. You had all three for years. Then you lost one leg of the stool, and in trying to clutch the ghost of it, you chose to deny one part of yourself, so you could go back if it got scary. You can’t, and you know it deep down. And you also know you like women, Hermione. You do, no matter how hard you refuse to acknowledge it.”

Hermione pouted and bit her lip. Did what Cho said make sense? More than what she would like. Was she ready to confront it? Hell no. Would it blow up in her face if she didn’t? Probably. So she chose to open that gate. “But what am I supposed to do? I know now I like women. Pansy proved it, beyond a shadow of a doubt. There’s no point and no way of denying it now. What comes next?”

“I’m not a bloody wise crone with all your answers,” replied Cho, patting Hermione on her shoulder. “I can’t walk your path for you, Hermione. Ravenclaws are wise, but not all-knowing.” Silence filled the room, heavy and thick with truth. It hit Hermione like a punch to the gut. Cho smiled at her and said, “You are the all-knowing one, Gryffindor. But if you doubt yourself that much, maybe I can light a bit of the way.”

“Sometimes we have the answers,” whispered Luna. “But we are too scared or lost to notice them.”

“But I only have questions,” muttered Hermione. “I—Sorry, I don’t want to burden you.”

“Nonsense,” chided Luna. “What are friends for?”

“What Looney said. We’re here for—” added Cho, stopping herself when she saw Hermione’s frown. “What? I’m allowed to call her that; I’m her Head of House. Besides, she doesn’t mind. She knows she’s the sanest person in this hut.”

“Okay, I won’t get into that now, but you and I will talk later about the Looney nickname,” replied Hermione, squinting at the older Ravenclaw. “Back to my mess: we sort of… worked through what has happened in the past two months, via shouts.”

Hermione opened her mouth to speak again—just as the chimney roared to life. “Before or after her tongue was down your throat?” it yelled.

Hermione and Cho jumped from their seats, startled. “What the fuck?” shouted the Ravenclaw.

“Merlin, that almost gave me a heart attack!” gaped Hermione.

“Hm?” hummed Luna. “Oh, yes. I called Ginny by Floo. Hi, Gin!”

“Hi, Luna! The kids and Harry are fast asleep. Give me ten minutes, tops, and I’ll be there. Don’t you dare gossip or tear Hermione apart without me present. I might unleash my new best friend, Daphne Greengrass, on all of you if you do.”

“I thought I was your best friend, you ungrateful halfwit,” whispered Hermione to Ginny’s fire silhouette in the flames.

“Careful now, Hermione. Those are Parkinson’s words, not yours,” she replied with a lewd smile. “Is she starting to rub off on you? How much has she rubbed you, anyway?”

“Circe, give me patience. If you give me strength, Gin will end up with her head across the wall.”

“Yeah, yeah. But don’t spill until I’m there.”

“One more time,” probed Ginny. “Tell me one more time why I shouldn’t call her friend, ask her where your girlfriend’s at and bang her head with a golf club right now.”

“Because she’s not my girlfriend, it’s four in the morning, we’re all drunk, and Greengrass won’t appreciate you barging into her sleep hours,” replied Hermione.

“She does make a good point, Ginny,” added Cho. “But I’ll do it on your behalf tomorrow when classes start. Cross my heart.”

“Maybe don’t go for the head, Cho? Hermione’s quite fond of her face,” whispered Luna with a soft smile.

Hermione blushed. “I’m not—”

“Spare us the lies, darling. And spill. We know the sad bits. Tell us the juicy ones,” demanded Ginny. “Keep my brain occupied so I don’t demolish your lover’s face with a club. And remember the rules: no thinking, only quick answers are allowed.”

“I never agreed to play,” emphasised Hermione.

“Tough luck,” said Cho. “I’ll play for the first round and leave the rest to you, Game Master: Is Pansy a good kisser?”

“Yes.”

“Did she kiss you first?” asked Ginny.

“Yes.”

“Did you like it?”

“Yes.”

“Did she give you a hickey?”

“Yes.”

“Did you let her?”

“Yes.”

“Did she touch you?”

She hesitated. Because yes, Pansy had. But, also, no, she really didn’t… not in the way they thought. “Touch me where?”

“Gin, give the poor woman a rest, this is not healthy!” chastised Luna.

Cho, firewhiskey shot in hand, snorted. “Oh, I don’t know. I’m enjoying the show.”

“You shush, I’m living vicariously through her. My friendship is paid in sex secrets about her life,” said Ginny, grinning.

“Then we’re no longer friends, because it’s been years since I’ve had a good shag,” admitted Hermione, rolling her eyes. It was not a secret among the four of them how long it had been since she and Ron had shared more than a bed. Maybe… mid-2004? But she’d never admitted it out loud that openly.

“You see now why I am starved for anything,” replied Ginny. “You have an information debt to clear.”

Hermione sighed, rolling her eyes and taking a sip of tea to steel her nerves. “If it will appease your mind, fire away.”

“Let’s start with the obvious parts she would touch: lips?”

“Yes.”

“Neck?”

“Yes.”

“Tits?”

Cho rolled her eyes. “Come on, Gin. Give her a break. They kissed on the street, there’s no way Hermione would let Pansy touch her—”

“Yes,” she interrupted.

“Merlin, so it was a proper snog. I thought they stopped at the hickeys,” whispered Cho, raising her shot. “Cheers to you, Hermione!”

“See? That’s why you need a Gryffindor in the house, you useless Ravenclaws,” grinned Ginny.

Hermione snarled. “Hey! I’m also a Gryffindor!”

“Yes, you are. But you cannot be both suspect and Chief Warlock, can you?” bit back Ginny, amused. “That’s what I thought. So let’s keep going… waist?”

“Yes.”

“Hips?”

“Yes.”

“Thighs?”

“No.”

“And that, ladies and… ladies, is how you determine the extent of a snog,” showed off Ginny. “And how—”

“No… wait,” stuttered Hermione, blushing and covering her face. “I mean… she didn’t touch them—as in touch, really. But… her leg sort of did?”

They all laughed at her flushed face. Luna tilted her head and studied Hermione. “I don’t know, Gin,” she said. “Couldn’t you just… guess? Look at her neck, her hair and her shirt.”

“Fair point. I think this round goes to Ravenclaw overall, for degree of observation and least time lost,” decided Cho, drowning another shot down her throat. How many had she drunk? Ten? Fifteen? “Gin, don’t be a sore loser and loosen up a bit. But, you know… tone down the curiosity a bit. This third degree is too private.”

“Could you please stop talking about me as if I were not here?” demanded Hermione through gritted teeth. “I’m not some animal for you three to dissect!”

“Shush, Hermione. The grown-ups are discussing points. But, in the interest of the debate… which ones of all these parts did she touch with her hands, and which ones with her mouth?”

Hermione clenched her fists, trying not to punch Ginny. “Would you like me to get naked and draw a map on my skin to satisfy your curiosity, ginger?”

“I’m sure you don’t need to draw,” she smirked. “Parkinson’s nails are as sharp as a lion’s, and yes, that pun was fully intended, brunette.” Was she asking to get a temporary fist tattooed on her chest via direct impact? Because it seemed like so. “What about her body? What did you do?”

“Pant. Moan. Pray. Kiss. Pull her hair. Push her against a bloody lamppost,” she replied. “Not necessarily in that order and not necessarily only once. And that’s all you’re getting.”

“Did you want to go on, Hermione? Because, jokes aside, that’s all that matters,” asked Cho gently.

Hermione bit her lip. “I—” she gulped. “I think I did. No, I know I did. There was a moment, near the end. She thought I wanted to stop because I didn’t like it, so she… sort of started to untangle herself? And I—”

Ginny was at the edge of her chair, and Cho sat up, as if Hermione was going to reveal the truth of the universe. “You… what?” pondered Luna.

“I pulled her back in, if that makes sense.”

“Pulled what, exactly?” queried Cho.

“Her hands.”

“To where?” probed Ginny.

“Me. My… chest.”

“Oh, you dirty little—”

“Enough, Gin! She does have patience, but you’re going too hard on her.”

“Parkinson did too, Luna. Have you seen ‘Mione’s neck? And the Slytherin’s alive, so I’ll take my chances, thanks.”

“She’s alive because she Disapparated before I could end her! Bloody stupidity—” shouted Cho.

The three started bickering, and Hermione couldn’t take it. It was too much for one day. Merlin, merely twenty-four hours ago, she was straight and on non-speaking terms with Pansy.

“No, I told you to stop pushing her, Gin! You broke her, look at her!” pointed Luna, using an anger that Hermione had never heard before in her sweet and dreamy voice.

Ginny clenched her jaw. “She needed to face it, Luna! Sometimes you have to break, so you can build later!”

“You could’ve had more tact about—”

Hermione’s fists clenched. Her head spun. Pansy’s mouth, her eyes, her words, the way she stepped back like she wasn’t enough. Her apology to something Hermione had never asked, the way her actions told a story, but her words lied about it. It all came back in flashes she couldn’t fight off. Ginny was laughing, and Cho was teasing. Luna was outraged on her behalf. And no one was listening, really listening, to her.

“Could you stop, please? Could you?” shouted Hermione. Three heads turned in her direction, in utter silence.

Cho leaned in. Ginny sat next to her. Luna crawled at her feet. They hugged her silently.

Twenty-four hours. And now her mouth had been on her lips, her fingers had caressed her skin, and Hermione felt Pansy’s presence beneath it all, like a second heartbeat that fluttered, but never stopped pumping whatever it sent through her body. Arousal, desire, sadness, memories. She had no idea, but it was consuming her every thought.

It took Hermione a while to realise she was crying.

A loud crack echoed, followed by a shriek. Hermione opened her eyes, still half asleep. What time was it? Did someone just Apparate? No, it couldn’t have been. No one could do that inside Hogwarts. No one, except—

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you! Merlin, you need to get to my office hastily. And make yourselves presentable!” yelled in an awfully high and yet low pitch the one and only Minerva McGonagall. “Weasley, may I remind you that you’re no longer a student and therefore not allowed inside Hogwarts grounds?” Ginny opened her mouth to say something, but the Headmistress was not done. Her gaze snapped to Cho, Luna and Hermione. “And you three—I know it’s Sunday, so you’re not bound to be presentable at all hours, but I will not tolerate messy bands of babbling baboons and Professors with an evident hangover inside the castle ever again. Am I making myself clear?”

“Crystal, Headmistress,” whispered Cho.

“Transparent,” agreed Ginny.

“As Thestrals to a newborn,” added Luna.

“Yes. I don’t have it in me to follow this teasing. My head hurts,” supplied Hermione.

“Children. Since Filius, Pomona and Horace left, I’m surrounded by children,” she chastised, to no one in particular. “And clean all of this before leaving! I won’t allow you to use this hut for this sort of behaviour ever again, should you not refrain from looking like such a despicable spectacle! And if you try to turn it into a hangover hostel again, I will hex the furniture into chasing you out!”

Another loud crack—this time from a very fuming Minerva Disapparating.

Hermione had fallen asleep on Cho’s stomach, hugging Luna’s hips and resting her legs over Ginny’s. The untangling of all those limbs while being hangover-ed and almost hallucinating, without coffee… That was magic.

Ginny groaned. “Why has no one cured hangovers with a spell yet?”

Hermione splashed her face with cold water. “I’ll talk to Hannah. Maybe she knows something about it.”

“Keep me posted. Catch you on the next one, girls. And, Hermione? I’m one Floo call or Howler away. Whatever you need. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes, and thank you. Now go to your husband and kids.”

“Merlin, screaming children,” whimpered Ginny. “I forgot I was not twenty.”

“Good luck with that, Gin,” said Luna, handing her a cup of tea. “For the journey back, you’ll need it. It should soothe the headache a bit.”

“Thank you, Luna. You’re a lifesaver.”

Ginny opened the door of Hagrid’s old hut and left, not caring about shutting it. Hermione squinted. Too much light. The sun was too high, too bright, and—How in the Seven bloody Orders of Merlin was already half past eight?! She should’ve been up at seven!

The clock must’ve been broken, mustn’t it? Surely, they did not oversleep that much… but the sun’s position in the sky told a different and dreadful story.

“Did we fuck up?” hesitated Cho.

Luna shrugged. “We didn’t do anything wrong, but Minerva seemed very annoyed. But… ‘projecting’ annoyed. Something is up.”

“Can I have just one quiet day without an existential crisis?” begged Hermione.

No, of course she couldn’t.

Hermione, Luna and Cho had decided it: the fastest way to make themselves presentable was to use the Prefects’ Bathroom all at once. A quick escapade.

“Should I be worried, now that you like women?” smirked Cho.

“Only if you like them too, sweetie,” bit back Hermione. “Then I guess you should, because you are gorgeous. What would your boyfriend think, though?”

“Merlin, Hermione. You’re awfully confident and forward for a newborn bisexual,” whistled Cho. “But I’ll play along: what happens at Hogwarts, stays at Hogwarts?”

“Well, in that case—” Hermione teasingly caressed her cheek with her thumb, until they both burst out laughing. “—I can’t take this seriously,” she said while suppressing a chuckle.

“Cut the fake-flirting and get in. I’d rather not have the Headmistress Apparate in here while we’re naked,” pointed Luna. “We shouldn't use this bathroom, so… get in, get clean, and get out. And I hereby forbid anyone from checking anyone out.”

“Yes, ma’am,” muttered Hermione, tossing her shirt aside. “Why isn’t she Head of House, and you are? She’s way more bossy if she wishes to be.”

“Because she lacks consistency,” answered Cho, throwing away her pants. “Believe me, I tried to goad her into being it, and she refused. Minerva, too.”

Luna tutted. “We don’t have all day, ladies! I have to feed the Nargles I’ll use to bait the Crumple-Horned Snorkacks I have yet to discover into believing we’re friendly!”

“I rest my case,” whispered Cho with a laugh.

“Great, we’re all here. Finally,” muttered a still very angry Minerva under her breath. It made Hermione want to recoil and go back to the safe hut, where her feelings might’ve been all over the place, but at least she was not being chastised by her old favourite professor.

“Excuse me, Headmistress, but… we’re actually not all here?” blurted Neville, tapping his foot on the floor repeatedly, following a cadence no one else seemed to understand. It was Sunday. Surely he should’ve been more… chill?

“Yes, that seems to be the case. Also, what am I doing here?” asked Luna. “This is a Heads issue, and Cho is Ravenclaw’s so… Can I go?”

Minerva rubbed her temples. “No, you cannot. I’ve asked you here because—”

“Where is the Head of Slytherin? Does she get special treatment?” asked Cho, annoyance dripping into her voice despite her good relationship with Pansy. Hermione thought she must’ve been angry on her behalf. “Because I was awakened by Apparition, and then yelled at for having had a girl’s night out on a Saturday night, so it doesn’t seem fair that—”

“You had a girl’s night out without me?” asked Hannah, mouth agape. “How dare you!”

Luna cleared her throat. “It was more of an… improvised night. Something happened with Pan—” Cho smacked her. “Sorry, with Hermione,” corrected Luna. “And Wrackspurts, yes.”

“I’ll fill you in later, hon,” whispered Cho.

Hermione blushed and pulled her scarf tighter, so that the work of art on her neck wouldn’t be visible.

Hannah smirked when she looked at her. “Oh, this better be good, because—”

Neville looked on the verge of a panic attack. His fists trembled, his breath shallow. Something in him snapped. “Could you, please, shut the bloody hell up? This is not gossip time! I just came back from visiting my parents at St Mungo’s and—” he growled before his voice failed him.

“Children, Albus. Children. We were not that difficult, were we?” asked Minerva to Dumbledore’s portrait, sighing.

“No, you were not. But our situation was much darker than yours, Minerva. Think of it as this: you can have softer people because we have softer times. That’s a gift we must treasure,” he instructed.

The Headmistress sighed, squared her shoulders and looked at them, one by one. “There has been an attack. The Cleansers targeted a business in Diagon Alley, blowing it up.” The bickering halted instantly, and an unbearable silence fell upon the group. “No casualties were reported as of this morning, but there are several injuries, including fourth- and third-degree burns and the use of the Cruciatus Curse. A woman was reported missing and allegedly kidnapped by the Cleansers, who demanded the presence of one person at said shop before freeing her.”

Hermione knew before Minerva said anything else. A chill in her bones told her. There was only one small pure-blood-run business in all Diagon Alley. She knew, because as Senior Undersecretary, she had to approve or deny the permits. And her seal was on that shop.

Neville was mumbling to himself. “Her waist—splinched in two directions. Or more. She was begging for the boy’s safety even while she—”

“Cauldron of Snakes,” she whispered, ignoring Neville’s rambling. She didn’t care about anyone but Pansy. Her mind couldn’t focus on anyone else as her heart beat so loud in her ears that Hermione thought she was going deaf. And then she added, in a much wrecked and loud voice, “Is Pansy okay? Do they have her? Answer me, Minerva, or I swear to Merlin—”

“She splinched herself,” replied Neville, clenching his fists so hard he was surely digging his nails into his palms. And even then, he couldn’t stop his trembling, his fury overriding any other sense or emotion. “While fleeing, shielding one of her employees from the explosion. It was bad. I just saw her at St Mungo’s—I just didn’t know… Merlin, those bastards!”

“I’m going to see her now,” said Hermione.

Minerva regarded her for a beat. The golden girl turned around, before Headmistress spoke sternly, “Wait.”

“I surmise you’ll try to dissuade me. Don’t even try to—There’s no point. I’m off now, whether you like it or not. And, since I’m not really a Professor at Hogwarts, you hold no real—”

“Grab my hand,” interrupted Minerva. “You’ll get there faster if we Apparate, and only I can do it in the castle’s grounds.” The Headmistress looked at all the Heads of House—plus Luna—and added, “I’ll be back in a minute. Wait for me here.”

Hermione grabbed her arm, and Hogwarts blurred, and then morphed into St Mungo’s.

Hermione had refused to leave Pansy’s side for hours, lying awake and studying the woman’s face as if it held the secret to all the questions of the universe.

Hermione wanted to know.

The Slytherin Princess muttered random words in her sleep from time to time and thrashed around until Hermione’s thumb started drawing soothing circles on her wrist. That made her go back to sleep without so much as a flinch.

At some point, Hermione’s fingers brushed Pansy’s hand, and they decided that the warmth of her skin was the only thing that mattered, so they stayed there, interlaced, intertwined, tangled.

“Books,” whispered the Slytherin. “Rain.”

Hermione laughed. What was she dreaming about? She wanted to be angry at her. She desperately needed to shout at her for being so stupid, for fleeing instead of staying, for all of two months’ worth of distancing. For kissing her and then going, as if it had meant nothing. Because it had. It had been a life-changing moment for Hermione. Highlights of snogs over the last five years? Yesterday.

But she couldn’t shout or yell or curse—verbally or magically—her, not when Pansy was lying there, peacefully sleeping. Not when Hermione had seen the eyes of that boy, Cory, refusing to leave her side, the love and care those irises held for that fickle woman.

Why was Hermione the only one she seemed keen on keeping at arm’s length? Except last night, when Pansy had thrown it all out for all of ten blissful minutes, where Hermione’s life took an unexpected turn.

Looking at the woman, her heart twisted. What did it mean that she had fallen so fast and hard for her, without even knowing it? Yes, yesterday they had kissed. But if Hermione mulled over all their shared moments since Barcelona, she hadn’t been able to shake Pansy from her mind. The way she moved, with that grace that felt like royalty, the way she led, gentle but firm, the way her eyes shone when she talked about something she cared about. The memories were always there, in one way or another. And last night it had all imploded.

Pansy’s eyes fluttered before opening lazily and looking around.

“Hey,” whispered Hermione.

She felt her fingers tensing beneath her, and saw the panic in her eyes as her head turned slowly to where she was seated. “Hey, Granger,” she said. “We need to talk.”

Hermione was taken aback, but nodded. She expected deflection, not this sudden willingness to openly have a conversation. “Yes, we do. How are you feeling?”

Pansy sat up and grunted in pain immediately after, clutching her stomach with both hands. “Where’s Cory? Is he fine?”

Hermione’s hands forced her to lie down again, pushing her by the shoulders. “Are you mad? You’re not supposed to move!” she chastised. She spoke again, warmer and trying to calm her agitated nerves, “He’s fine. I sent him to Gin and Harry’s to sleep. He’s been awake the whole night and morning, and no one will bother him at their house. He’ll be safe there.”

“Thank Merlin.”

Hermione’s hands rested on her shoulders, kneading them carefully. “Merlin did not save him, Princess. I’m told you were almost as brave as a Gryffindor.”

“Don’t call me that, Hermione,” she replied, letting her head loll back. She closed her lids and tried to relax, but the fingers on her shoulders worked against that desire. “I’m not brave, and I’m not a princess. Much less even yours.”

“I’ll call you whatever I like, Pansy, and you’ll deal with it. Am I clear?” said Hermione through gritted teeth. “I know you won’t like me asking, but I must. What happened?”

Pansy told her. The Galleon call, the Apparating, Cory’s story, the explosion… her splinching when she Disapparated. All of it. And Hermione listened in silence.

“But that’s not what I meant when I told you we need to talk,” she said at the end.

“I know,” replied the Gryffindor. She leaned in to brush aside Pansy’s bangs. “I was wrong. When I told you I didn’t like women, I was wrong. I shouldn’t have told you that, and I am sorry,” she admitted. “I was overwhelmed, and I lied—because not only do I like women. You messed me up badly, but I was already broken. I knew it wasn’t true, but I couldn’t face it. Now I can, and I just don’t not-like women. I like you, Pansy. When McGonagall told us what happened, I almost passed out. I threatened her to let me see you. I lost it. Completely lost it. And I’m sorry if I hurt you in any way when I—”

“I slept with someone else,” she interrupted. Hermione’s hand stopped caressing her hair, and the Gryffindor’s heart ached in a way she thought was no longer possible. “Yesterday, after our kiss. I—”

“I don’t want to know,” replied Hermione, no trace of softness in her voice. All her warmth turned cold, all her aching became pain and anger. She knew she had no right to be that mad at Pansy. They were nothing, not a couple, not friends. They didn’t have any sort of understanding, so Pansy hadn’t cheated on her. And yet, the wave of fury coursing through Hermione’s every nerve was undeniable. She bit the inside of her cheek, trying to ground herself in the present and not get lost in her thoughts and emotions. “Not my business, we just shared a heated moment that I happened to read wrong. My bad.” She recoiled and rose from her seat. “I’ll send someone else to watch over you and make sure no harm comes your way.” If she stayed one more second, she would shatter. And Pansy didn’t deserve to see her break, not after that. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be taking my leave.”

“Hermione,” pleaded Pansy. “I kept thinking about you. Through it all, the only thing I tried to do was erase you. But everything felt wrong, because she wasn’t you. And I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I screwed up, I know. And I… I don’t know what to do, how to go on.”

She was crying now, and Hermione felt like being pulled in two opposite directions: anger, fury, desire to leave and be done with all the pain… and steadiness, the need to calm her down, talk, understand. On the tightrope, she stood high, still undecided. “So? Why did you do it then?”

“Because I needed to shake you out of my system, and I used someone else to do it!” Pansy was shouting while tears ran down her face, lying back in a bed. “And it fucking backfired so much that I cried when we were done, Hermione! I was so utterly disgusted with myself that I could not breathe, I couldn’t think.”

Pansy flinched as she got up, clutching her stomach.

“I kept going back to our kiss, to everything I did wrong, to everything you did right,” she continued. “Do you know how much this will haunt me? I was on the verge of asking Daphne to use Obliviate because I couldn’t keep going.”

Pansy winced as she moved, clearly fighting every instinct to collapse again. Her breaths were shallow, skin clammy. Hermione stepped forward by reflex, trying to catch her before she fell. But she froze mid-step, and Pansy did not plunge, despite her waist begging her to.

“So I tried to get rid of it like a broken-hearted teenager who doesn’t know better, by sleeping with someone else I didn’t care about,” she finished.

Pansy was in her face now, so close that Hermione had to look up to reach her eyes. She felt the cold sweat creeping down her nape, her chest rising erratically because of her ragged breaths. “But you’re not sixteen anymore, and you should’ve known better,” she replied, whispering.

“I know,” she said, and her hands grabbed Hermione’s arms.

“You said you couldn’t care. About you or about me.”

“I know,” she replied, her fingers travelling up to Hermione’s shoulders.

“You fled.”

“I know,” she repeated, one of her hands on Hermione’s spine and the other on her head.

The Gryffindor stood still. She wanted to go. She wanted to melt. She wanted to stay. She wanted so many things, so different from one another, it was madness. How she wanted to pull away, to pull in. To yell at Pansy for being stupid, to ignore her for the rest of her life. To kiss her until her lips hurt, to deny her even a glance.

She wanted so many things, and none of them seemed right.

Until Pansy hugged her, burying Hermione’s head in the crook of her neck.

Her arms stood frozen at her sides, refusing to return her embrace. But she didn’t step back.

She felt Pansy’s breathing against her own chest. How it started to even out after a minute, how the Slytherin seemed to relax while she clutched her close like a lifeline.

“Books and rain,” muttered Pansy.

“What’s that?” asked Hermione against her neck. “You were whispering those words over and over while you slept.”

“You. You smell like books and rain.”

“Damn you, Pansy Parkinson. Damn you,” replied Hermione, raising one of her hands slowly, unsure, until it hovered near the Slytherin’s shoulder. With a resigned exhale, she finally lowered it until it rested there. Not pulling Pansy in, but not pushing her away either. Just letting it be.

Still on the tightrope, but not high anymore. Closing on the abyss, wanting to fall and to hold on for dear life.

“You do know,” she said, her arm embracing Pansy a little more sure. “We still need to talk.”

“I know,” she replied. “I have to help Fiona first, but then I would like to confess—”

The door behind her opened slowly, creaking. Pansy stopped talking, and her body started trembling.

Yesterday’s Hermione would’ve let Pansy go as if she had burned her, for fear of being seen, and so many other reasons that felt so wrong. But today’s Hermione didn’t. She held on to her, refusing to let her go. There was no need for her to relinquish her claim on Pansy’s frail body. Nothing to hide, nothing to be ashamed of. Maybe they were broken. But some hidden part of Hermione shouted inside like a madwoman: the Slytherin was hers.

There were no reasons to do so. So she pulled her in.

“Hello, Mother,” she heard Pansy say, cold and angry. “Father.”

“Hello, Daughter,” replied an even colder, feminine voice. It sounded as if ice was tainted with blood, screeching as it dragged through an uneven surface. Smeared with fury, gore and disdain.

Hermione’s chest tightened, her breath quickening. Her body was preparing for battle, and her mind shouted she was in danger. But she remained still, clinging to Pansy, trying to shield her from whatever doom had just walked through that door.

“We are here to make sure you are indeed fine,” added a second voice, lower and on the verge of growling on each syllable. “Imagine our surprise when we opened the door and saw this… horrid scene. Care to explain why this Mudblood is hugging the only Parkinson heir?”

Chapter Text

The moment that slur left her father’s mouth, Pansy pushed Hermione behind her, as if her body could shield her from the verbal blow she had just received. Her hand was already going to her thigh holster, only to remember that her wand was not there. Her waist felt like an open wound, being stabbed with thousands of needles and cut in half by the teeth of a big saw… but she stood tall. Their parents would not get the satisfaction of seeing her crumble.

She hadn’t seen them since Christmas, when Daphne had forced her to go to a Selwyn party—and she agreed because Draco, Astoria and Blaise would also be there. They ended up ditching the party early and going to some Muggle club. The Malfoy-Greengrass couple mysteriously disappeared into the loo, while Blaise was cracking jokes with some dude—called DJ. What sort of name is DJ anyway?—, Daphne was drinking as two men snogged in front of her—and with her, later on—and Pansy just appreciating the chaos with a woman on her lap. The good ol’ days, as her friend would’ve put it, with that awful fake American accent.

Not anymore, she thought, squaring her shoulders and trying to look as threatening as she could muster.

“Hermione, my wand. Now,” she snarled, without turning around. Neither her nor the golden girl had their wands: both of them were resting at the top of Pansy’s nightstand. Unreachable without moving backwards.

Her father, a coot with the brain as big as Pansy’s patience around fools—that’s to say: non-existent—, regarded her with such disappointment in his face that, were she not done with his poor judgement, she would’ve recoiled. And her mother looked white, pale, angry and an instant away from hexing someone.

Hermione was frozen, refusing to move. And Pansy needed her to do it, because she could not take a step and remain standing. Her waist refused to do it without collapsing on itself.

“Golden girl. Wand,” she repeated, her voice carrying all the venom she no longer laced her words with. Not around her, anyway. But special occasions were exemptions, special fools made special occasions, and her parents were classified as the most foolish—and foulest—of them all.

“Your pet is trained rather poorly, darling,” cooed her mother, squinting her eyes. “Have you not taught the Mudblood what fetch is?”

I’ll eviscerate her guts, cook them and feed them to Father if she insults her one more time, she thought.

“Shut your damn mouth,” she bit, gritting her teeth and trembling with rage. “Shut your mouth or I’ll show you why I’m the youngest Potion Master ever to claim the title by brewing something worse than Avada Kedavra and shoving it down that old pipe you call ‘throat’ myself, Mother. I won’t have you here and insult her in my presence ever again.”

Her Father growled. “Don’t raise your voice at us, whelp. You’ll show your elders the respect they’re owed, or—”

“Or what?” snapped Pansy, stepping back towards her nightstand. She needed her wand; she needed it to feel safe and… in case push came to shove. She didn’t know how far their parents would go. “I’m curious about what you will do, you scumbag. You hold no power over me. I’m not a child anymore, your pawn or your heir. Strip me of my surname for all I care.”

Her father scoffed at the threat. “Well, look at that! The cub’s got claws. Shame you were supposed to be a snake and not a lion… have you forgotten where your loyalties should lie?”

“I have forgotten nothing. I am a snake, but, unlike you and Mother, I know I don’t need to poison everything I touch,” she replied, clutching her waist with one hand while the other darted back, grabbing her wand. “Leave.”

Her mother drew her own wand, pointing it at her. “You’re an embarrassment to the Parkinson name, girl. We thought you just needed time to adjust after the premature demise of the Dark Lord, and we gave you enough years. It seems we were wrong,” she said. Pansy stumbled back when the spell hit her in the chest, but she had no way of knowing which one had her mother just cast. “And not only did you choose to lie with women and fail to continue our sacred family name,” she added, before scowling at her. Little and large syringes started floating above her mother’s head. “You taint it with Mudblood’s presence. Oppugno.” The needles flew right at her, and she tried to duck them, but her body was still reeling from the splinching, and she was not fast enough.

Pansy closed her eyes and braced herself for an impact… that never came. She opened them and found Hermione facing her.

Hermione, arms opened.

Hermione, pained expression.

Hermione, smiling at her.

The shield. Needles all over her back, her hands, her legs. But none on Pansy.

“I didn’t have time to cast Protego, sorry,” she whispered. “Are you hurt?” she asked. And then Pansy watched her golden girl’s face as something bigger than a syringe—a flask? A flowerpot?—hit her on the back of the head, her eyes rolled back, and her body went limp.

The smell of scorched air and blood hit her first. Then the heat—not from the spell, but from inside her. A rising, blistering fury that swallowed the pain in her waist, the sting in her lungs, the ache of standing too long.

Pansy’s arms caught her before Hermione’s knees so much as brushed the floor, and carefully placed her on the bed. It didn’t matter that her Mother still pointed at her with her wand, or that her Father was reaching for his. Let them.

Pansy’s hands shook, not with fear, but with the force of holding back. Every muscle was held tight, vibrating with restrained violence. Her heart pounded against her ribs, her magic clawing at her skin, begging to be unleashed.

She couldn’t see clearly due to the rage pulsing in her body. Red pooled at the edges of her vision, sharp and searing. Her body knew only one thing: protect. Destroy. Burn down everything that dared to hurt what was hers.

“At least the Mudblood knows her place, protecting Royalty,” jeered her mother.

Pansy’s breath came in short bursts. Not gasps, but growls. The kind of sound when fury overtakes thought, when vengeance becomes instinct.

She didn’t care if it shattered her.

“I warned you. I warned you not to insult her in my presence,” she sneered, raising her wand. She flicked it, using wordless magic. The Oscausi hit them both, erasing their mouths and preventing them from speaking anymore.

The horror in their faces was the best thing she would’ve seen all year, if it weren’t for all the times her eyes had found Hermione’s during the last two months. Still, it had been a close second.

She cast an Expelliarmus, but her parents were faster. A full wordless Protego made her own spell rebound against the shield, forcing her wand to slip from her fingers. And then she watched with terror how both her parents’ mouths reappeared on their faces.

Her mother smiled, showing her white teeth. Pansy wanted to taint them with blood. “Really, Daughter. I expected something better from you,” she tutted, as if this were a class Pansy was failing at.

She was weak. Outnumbered. Overmastered. Overthrown.

I’m not enough. I don’t duel. I don’t do things right. If Hermione were awake, she would already have wiped the floor with them. But I can’t even prevent them from hurting her, she thought.

But she still stood tall. She hadn’t protected Hermione before, because she couldn’t have known she’d be that reckless. She would now. Wand-less, freshly splinched and boiling with rage. She wouldn’t let any harm come her way. “You will not touch her again. Not while I’m alive.”

Her mother rolled her eyes. “Now we can talk like civilised people, without the Mudblood standing as if she belonged in our presence.” Pansy gritted her teeth. She would get back at them. She just needed time and potions. So she played coy, trying to let the time slip through their fingers until she could get Hermione to safety. Some way. “We’re owed, Daughter. We’re owed an heir, and we’ll collect one way or another. We tried to be patient, but you insist on this abhorrent inclination of—”

“Enough, dear,” whispered her father. “No need to look into that unladylike behaviour. But since the Mudblood means that much to you, Daughter… What are you willing to give us in exchange for her life?

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“You know we would.”

“I won’t let you, Father. I will protect her with my own life if I must. But you will never, ever, lay a hand on her,” she replied, her voice trembling but her thoughts as sharp as her claws. “The Parkinson name will end with me, and there’s no way for you to prevent it… unless you find a way to give me a brother or a sister. And even then, I will make sure your line dies.”

Her mother tilted her head. “Step aside so we can take care of this mess you created, Daughter. This… Mudblood is a disgrace. Before you diminish yet again the—”

The door opened as if someone had used Bombarda on it, and a very angry Hannah stepped through the threshold, leaving behind screeching, unhooked hinges, anchored to the wall but missing the gate from the explosion.

“Out,” bellowed the Hufflepuff, not caring to even cast a spell. “Out with you, trash, or I’ll hex you until you scream mercy in a language you no longer remember.”

Her mother snapped at her, anger and disdain coating her voice. “How dare you speak to pure-bloods like this, you filthy half-blood! Know your—”

It was faster than a blur. Hannah’s wand moved at a speed Pansy couldn’t follow while she cast one spell after another. And she finally understood why no teacher at Hogwarts felt unrest at the Cleansers’ threat. They were old warriors, with scars and experience facing things way worse than some pure-blood haters, a new breed of supremacists doomed to fail in their endeavour if they ever faced one of the heroes of The Battle of Hogwarts. And she knew in that moment how far behind she was, and how easily would either of them obliterate her very existence if they wished. Hannah kept casting spell after spell, some silent, some spoken. All of them were hitting her parents, all of them making them recoil. One against two, and it couldn’t even be considered a fair fight: the Hufflepuff looked like a goddess among men, side-stepping curses and throwing one attack after another, without skipping a beat. “Impedimenta,” she said. Both her parents started moving at a glacial pace as the charm hit them. “Stupefy.” The spell’s light smashed her mother’s chest, and her consciousness slipped. “Incarcerous.” Tight ropes appeared from all around her father, tightening themselves around him.

“We’re not done, Daughter. We will be back to collect, one way or another.” He seized his wife’s hand and Disapparated.

Pansy collapsed, spent and done. She could not stand, even if she wished to. Hannah’s hands carefully helped her to the bed, where she sat down at the edge. Then the Hufflepuff regarded for a second Hermione’s limp body. Pansy could not look at it. That had been her fault. The blood, the gashes, the cuts… she couldn’t even count them. Dozens. Some just a puncture. Some deep cuts. Those were supposed to be hers to bear, not Hermione’s.

And the syringes… some of them empty, some of them full from dozens of elixirs.

She raised her knees until her chin rested on top of them, hugging her legs.

She heard Hannah whispering healing spells over the golden girl. “Merlin, those beasts… Episkey, Ferula, Vulnera Sanentur.”She kept whispering the charms, and Pansy looked at how all the wounds knitted together, leaving only smooth skin beneath the gore of them all. “Tergeo,” added the Hufflepuff, vanishing all the dried and fresh blood smeared across her back. She turned around and studied Pansy for a second. “Lie down.”

I don’t deserve to. I won’t, she thought.

“I don’t deserve to. Hermione needs the bed,” she replied.

“Then bloody share it, Pansy, Merlin knows it’s wide enough for both of you. I may be a Charms Professor at Hogwarts, but I am also a Healer. So trust me when I tell you you should lie down and let me take a look at that splinch. I need you up and running to help me with Hermione, so don’t make a fuss, take off your bloody Toy-Story shirt and—”

Pansy held up a hand. “Two things. I need my wand first. I have to warn Daphne about my parents going on a spree, because hers will follow shortly; Astoria might be safe, but not the older Greengrass, since she’s as much of a disgrace for them as I am for mine. Second, what do you mean by ‘help you with Hermione’? I thought you just healed her.”

Time seemed to freeze. It was raining outside, and each drop clicked against the window glass like an unfulfilled promise of doom. She didn’t know if the bullet had already been dodged or just shot and still headed her way. Their way.

What was clear was that caring was a weakness. She had managed to live outside her parents’ demands because there was nothing they could blackmail her with. Money? No, her income, albeit far from the Parkinson fortune, was more than enough to sustain her expensive lifestyle. Power? They lost it all ten years ago, along with their real influence. Glory? None was left to claim.

But Hermione had just changed it all.

And she, Pansy fucking Parkinson, had been so stupid to show her hand before even the game had started. Her parents now knew she cared. And, if she cared, there was something to be done. Something they could take, something they could break. Someone they could use to bend her to their will.

And yet she could not let go of the golden girl, not even to save herself.

She just… couldn’t.

The way Hermione had been taking the verbal abuse as if it meant nothing, when Pansy knew how much that rattled her. The way she had not raised a hand, much less her wand, even though it was out of her reach. And the way she had moved as if made of light, to protect her from that first attack.

How was she supposed to let go of her? She couldn’t. It would break her.

And worse: how was she supposed to hold on? She should. She must. It was the only way to keep Hermione safe from her parents’ reach. And maybe, after she’d dealt with them…

That’s the path, and you know it, she thought. She has suffered enough. You have no right to put her in distress again. Not her, and not because of you. She’s had enough for a thousand lifetimes. Free her. Fucking free her, Pansy.

Hannah looked at her. Really looked. And sighed, resigned. “Accio wand,” she whispered, summoning Pansy’s and giving it back. “I need your help because your parents knew what they were doing when they cast that spell. Normally, Oppugno it’s not that harmful, and the jinx itself didn’t do much damage. But all of those syringes were full of potions, elixirs and poisons. They didn’t care if the spells hit, only that the syringes shattered and bled their contents into her. Some combined into toxins I can’t even predict,” she answered with a pained expression. “So, yeah. I am a Healer, and I could, with time, take care of it all. But you’re the Potions Master, Pansy. You know all of these substances like the back of your hand, the possible effects they trigger when mixed, and the exact recipe to counter them. But I need you not to pass out every time you get out of bed, so let me get a look at that broken body of yours, Slytherin. It should’ve already been healed anyway.”

Pansy cast a silent Patronus and sent the butterfly to Daphne’s location, wherever that was. That would do. And then lay back, no shirt and determination in her bones.

And fear. So much fear, her heart skipped one in three beats and barely moved in the other two. One for Hermione, for her need to help her. The other for herself, because she had to survive, yet again, against a rigged system hell-bent on dictating her existence and erasing her altogether.

Her waist no longer felt like a burden, thank Merlin. Hannah had offered to make the scars of her splinching vanish, but Pansy refused. Her skin looked smooth enough, not broken and ugly. The marks were barely visible after the Hufflepuff’s careful ministrations. She could wear a bra to a club and no one would bat an eye. She wanted to keep the scars as a badge of honour, so when she looked at the mirror and saw them, she would remember that bravery and self-sacrifice were not Gryffindor’s traits alone and that she, the once cold, selfish and detached Slytherin Princess, could now bleed for someone else.

Pansy, Hermione and Hannah were all back at Hogwarts, settled in the Potions Classroom. The chill broke through her skin and cursed Pansy’s bones, but she endured it, like Hannah and Minerva. Hermione was still unconscious under the Hufflepuff’s preservation spell, and Pansy had immediately submerged her body in a potion of her own making after Apparating in the dungeons with the Headmistress. The liquid coating the golden girl’s body had been designed for freezing time while keeping all vital functions of the body in check.

Pansy’s voice was stern as she spoke. “Normally, I would try to brew the antidotes on my own, but time is of the essence”. She kept incorporating ingredients into her cauldron as she spoke, careful not to overheat it or stir it too slowly or too quickly. “Us three are the most proficient in potions in the whole school, so we’ll be working together. I understand if you find it difficult to follow my orders without questioning them,” she added, squinting at McGonagall. It was weird, being in charge of her old Professor and Hogwarts Headmistress. “But I ask that you do it anyway. Trust me, I know what I’m doing, and I would never put Hermione’s life in danger, or dream of ordering you both around without good cause.”

Minerva nodded and started chopping Dittany leaves in silence as Hannah ground Scarab beetles until the powder could be mistaken for sand. Pansy was carefully looking through her personal—enchanted, organised and portable—warehouse. She finally found the shelf with feathers and quickly searched for the hippogriff’s tail tag. She looked at the four inside and chose the brown one—hatched during a blood moon. She plucked twenty-nine hairs and put the feather back in its catalogue place before carefully adding one hair every six seconds to the cauldron on the right.

Hermione’s skin was turning bluer with every minute despite the Hannah’s spells and Pansy’s potions, as the three of them worked as a team: never stepping on each other’s toes, always lending a hand when someone needed it—when either Hannah or Minerva did, since Pansy was the one setting the tempo they followed, not the other way around. Potions Master, through and through. Pansy mixed ingredients and stirred all the cauldrons, taking care of the six potions brewing at the same time, while Minerva and Hannah worked as a perfectly oiled machine, supplying her with whatever she needed.

Dried asphodel sliced, not ground. Smelled rancid and horrible, clogging Pansy’s nose. She missed the rain and books so much it hurt physically.

Snake fangs broken into exactly thirteen pieces each. Each bit cost a lifetime to break, and her patience was running thin. But she held on, because in potions, one must be precise and not rushed.

Five drops of acromantula venom. Skin contact meant unconsciousness, and she couldn’t afford it given the situation.

And those weren’t the worst among the dozens more she worked with, each deadly or maddening in its own right.

Come on, Pansy. Come on. Think. Brew, move, save. You’ve got this, you can do it, she repeated like a mantra whenever her vision started blurring due to exhaustion. In the end, it all came back to this: She needs you, and you will rise. You must, for her.

Pansy was in her element, gliding between tables and cauldrons, supervising cuts and powders, adding ingredients and muttering words on each surface to make them do exactly what they should. If only Hermione could see her. Glowing, commanding, conquering.

“I need the frozen dice of mercury, Hannah, one inch and a quarter each,” she asked, and the Hufflepuff immediately handed them over, perfectly cut with a bone knife made from an old bicorn. “Minerva, how’s the mixture between erumpent horn powder, aconite petals and dragon blood? I’ll need it in sixteen seconds or this will blow up and—”

“I can’t seem to obtain the right texture. Maybe I need one more stir and some seawater to achieve it?” she replied, looking uncertain at her bowl.

“Hannah, check the temperature of these,” ordered Pansy, pointing to all the brewing cauldrons. “Make sure the surface stays even on each kettle and pot. If it starts boiling, take it out of the fire and tell me immediately so I can redirect it at once,” she instructed, leaving her table and rushing to McGonagall’s. “Step aside, Headmistress”.

She moved with the same ease Hannah had handled her parents, if not even more surely, faster and extremely more precise in all her movements. Hannah with her wand and spells, Pansy with her instructions and potions. Mirrors.

Pansy studied Minerva’s mixture and immediately her hand darted to her wand. “It’s missing the punch, the binding agent. Why…?” she clicked her tongue. “Ah, I see. Accio mandrake sap, Accio crocodile heartstrings. There,” she said, not even looking at Minerva as she got back to her table. “Mince these together, stir once clockwise, add them to the original mix, heat it for twelve seconds at its boiling point and let it cool for sixteen and a half seconds before stirring twice counter-clockwise while I stabilise the brew until you have this ready,” she instructed.

“You truly are a genius, Pansy Parkinson,” muttered Minerva while following her instructions to the T.

Pansy nodded in acknowledgement, trusting that the movement conveyed the thank you she felt reverberating through her mind, filling her with pride.

“Everything could be simpler if we had a phoenix,” she whispered. But they didn’t, so she worked with whatever she had at hand. Which was a lot, but not enough.

Her head was a mess of complicated instructions and formulas, finding alternatives for missing ingredients while carefully readjusting each quantity and the steps to brew each potion.

If Hermione’s life weren’t at stake, she would’ve been the happiest witch in the world, solving challenge after challenge.

But it was, and the prospect was dreadful.

Something was bugging her. She accounted for all the poisons she had identified, and their crossed effects:

An overdose of the healing bones concoction would make Hermione’s muscles turn into bones slowly. Counter-potion ready.

A light dose of anti-fever potion, plus a larger one of hypothermia-inducing, meant her body temperature would spike lower than what was viable for a human. Taken care of.

Polyjuice potion, mixed accidentally with the feathers of an owl, would have disastrous transfiguration effects. Cure was brewed and ready to apply.

A dose of untreated snake poison, which was waiting to be mixed up in a cure, was also inside Hermione’s blood. Pansy had accounted for it, and the antidote was done and bottled.

An experimental Body-Binding potion, designed to help those having schizophrenic episodes so they wouldn’t hurt themselves. That one had been easy to counter.

Anti-baldness drug, added to a skin-growing potion for burns. Yeah, that one was nasty, but not deadly. It just meant that hair would grow on scars, but the antidote was almost ready.

Everything was accounted for,

And yet, something seemed off. As if Pansy had missed something. But what…?

She smacked her head. Painfully obvious. Not something new, but a chain reaction.

Maybe they would be lucky. Maybe there hadn’t been enough time for it to act. Just maybe… Let her have this, Merlin. Let her, I’m begging you, she thought. “Hannah, when you cured her open wounds, did you see dried blood on them? Or was it only fresh?”

The Hufflepuff’s face turned white, as if she knew too that something was amiss. “Both. Why?”

Pansy’s heart skipped a beat. Then two. Then three. “A half-brewed snake poison, combined with dried human blood and healing bones, is deadly in less than two hours for whoever received the shot. Dried blood binds the poison to the bone brew, accelerating the calcification of soft tissue and turning blood into poison itself. It's a chain reaction that can't be reversed,” she explained, barely breathing. “I could manage a cure, if only I had one…”

Pansy paced the dungeon as if she were running a fucking marathon. She needed just one, but that was one of the rarest ingredients in the world. She used to have a stack of drops back at the store, but it had been destroyed and rendered unusable.

Think, you bitch. Think. Where could you find one? Diagon Alley? No. Knockturn? Just as unlikely. What about…? Yes. Fucking Merlin, yes, she thought, looking at Minerva.

Not because of her, but her title. Headmistress. The man who held that title before had been Albus Dumbledore himself. And the former Headmaster had just what she needed.

They were just a hope earlier for simpler brewing cures. Now they are a must to get Hermione through, she thought, desperation creeping into her bones as if she, too, had been injected with a healing bones overdose.

“Get me Harry now. And Luna,” she bellowed. She was not angry, but desperate. And Hannah nodded, understood and left, as fast as the wind, while Pansy clutched the table’s edge for support. “I will not let her die. I will not let her die. I will not let her die,” she whispered.

Minerva walked until she stood right beside her, and one of the Headmistress’s hands squeezed Pansy’s shoulder. “Is there something I can do? Why did you call for Harry?”

“There’s nothing we can do now, besides waiting,” she explained, clenching her jaw in sheer desperation. “I asked for him because he should know where Fawkes is. I need one of his tears. Phoenix's tears. And if he doesn’t, maybe Luna and her husband do have something, since both of them are Magizoologists.”

Minerva pursed her lips as Pansy’s fist landed against the table, making it shake. The cauldrons’ contents were not spilt… but almost. And the Slytherin felt useless, little and a fraud. She had one job: saving her. And she was failing. McGonagall’s hands guided her away from the station, just in case another outburst occurred. It was highly likely at this pace. “How long has it been since Hermione’s been poisoned? I can try to slow down her heartbeat with a variation of Arresto Momentum, maybe then she’ll—”

“Hannah already did, but by all means… she’s all yours. It’s been almost seven hours, and she’s barely hanging on”

“But you said—”

“I know what I said!” she interrupted, not caring if her voice sounded as broken as she was feeling. “Two hours at maximum. But that was without the benefit of my potions and Hannah’s charms. Either way, we’re in unknown waters now, and I don’t know how much we have left!”

Minerva flinched, but didn’t let go of her. “Behave yourself, young woman,” she scolded with the gentlest voice Pansy had ever heard her use. “Now is not the time for panic nor rage. Think. I know you can come up with a solution. What happens if we cannot obtain the tears? There must be another way, because I refuse to let Hermione die.”

Pansy looked at her. Breathed in slowly. Unclenched her jaw. Relaxed her fists. “Phoenix tears don’t just heal,” she mumbled. “They cleanse. Even the poisons meant to hide, meant to stay. Even basilisk venom cannot withstand them.”

Minerva said nothing. Just nodded.

Hermione’s skin was now clammy and greyish. Her hair was turning whiter, and her breath was ragged and hitched.

There was no time.

Pansy looked at the Headmistress. “There’s a backup plan,” she said. “It’s a suicide mission, and I might need to do something dark. But I’d rather die than lose her, Minerva. I will not fail her again.”

“No,” he said, and Pansy’s heart sank with that tiny, short, two-letter word. “Fawkes left when Dumbledore died, and I haven’t seen him since. Once a phoenix’s master dies, it flees into the wilderness and becomes a free entity again. Believe me, I’ve tried calling him more than once over the years, but he never answers,” he explained, his voice lowering and losing its spark with every syllable he pronounced.

Pansy’s face turned to Luna. Dear, sweet, competent Luna. “Is it possible that either you or your husband could locate a phoenix in less than an hour?”

The Ravenclaw scrunched her nose. “We could try to contact some friends abroad, but Rolf and I don’t study phoenixes, so we really have no clue of their whereabouts. You could also try Charlie Weasley—he’s a dragon expert, but some of his contacts might know where to find one.”

Pansy nodded, thankful for both ideas, and turned to Minerva. “Can you deal with this while I follow my… other plan? I’ll leave you in charge of this whole situation while I’m away,” she breathed. Then braced for war.

“If we succeed in getting hold of the tears,” said Hannah with a frown. She stopped herself. “Sorry, not if. When we have them, how do we incorporate them into the potions we already have?”

“You don’t need to,” replied Pansy. “Dissolve it in a teacup of honeywater and force her to drink to the last drop of it. But you won’t be here to do it, Hannah. I need you, Neville and Harry with me. Minerva will take care of this while we pursue a much more complicated route, albeit a result-guaranteed one.”

“I’ll go and get my husband. Meet you at Hagrid’s in ten?” she asked.

“Will do,” answered Pansy, and Hannah took her leave with fast and controlled steps. “Minerva, in the meantime, I want you to brew a Wideye Potion and the Draught of the Living Dead. I’ll need them both later, should the tears’ plan fail. While Luna tries to locate a phoenix, fetch Cho if you need help with either the potions themselves or the logistics of the search; the Ravenclaw’s capable enough to handle this,” she added.

Pansy took a breath. Harry had his lips pressed together in a thin line, his rage evident at seeing her best friend’s life slipping through their fingers. He wasn’t crying—not Harry Potter, not while they still had a fighting chance. But there was a tightness in his jaw that said he could’ve snapped a wand in two if he so much as blinked too hard. “What do you need me for?”

“You must go to the Chamber of Secrets and get me three basilisk fangs. Make sure they’re not cracked, especially not near the tip. I need the venom of the creature. When you have them, try to extract the poison without breaking the bone. If you don’t have enough steady hands, ask either Cho or Minerva to handle it. And then I’ll also need a… vial with your blood.”

“Okay.” He swallowed. His voice was even. Too even. “Easy enough, I still remember some Parseltongue to open it and the way around those sewers. I want to ask you why you need that, but time is racing and—”

“I’ll distil the basilisk venom, mix it with both potions with opposite effects, and hope it is enough. Your blood is key because you were in contact once with both the poison of the basilisk and phoenix tears, so it will act like a binding agent, and I’m hoping it will be enough to stop the death of—” Her throat closed. She couldn’t say it. No, she refused to say it out loud. “It will be enough to cure her. It has to.”

Harry nodded, but Minerva regarded her carefully. “And where are you going, Pansy?”

“To get the last two ingredients for this mad concoction to work. Blood of the attacker. Bone of the family who wronged her. Which, in our case, it’s the same.” Pansy waited for a beat to steady her voice. And her hands. “Wish me luck, for I’m going home,” she whispered, and the words tasted like the foulest potion of them all. And she swallowed, because it meant giving Hermione a fighting chance. And for that, she’d stroll through hell and challenge Hades himself.

Everyone had their tasks, and it was time to go. She looked one last time at Hermione. Her lips were no longer soft and pink, but blue and cracked. She knelt until her eyes were at the same level. Green ones met closed and fluttering lids, and her heart skipped a beat, wishing they would open to assure her nothing was wrong anymore.

It did not happen.

“Wait for me, golden girl. Just this once, I promise I won’t be late,” she whispered as her lips kissed Hermione’s forehead and her fingers caressed her curly hair.

So Merlin help me, for the world will burn if she dies, she thought as she rose, not daring to look back again.

While Pansy strolled downhill to meet Neville and Hannah, she tried to cast another Patronus to send a message, but her mind was so fogged and full of pain that she couldn’t.

Until she breathed, and the smell of rain hit her like a punch to the gut.

She thought of books and rain, and her butterfly appeared.

“Tell her, darling,” she whispered to the fluttering butterfly. “Tell her I need her, and warn her I’m going home. It’s time to pay off the debt. I’ll be bound by an Unbreakable Vow when you arrive. Come get me,” she whispered, and the blue light disappeared.

She could only hope the message, the plea, would be answered in time.

That’s all she had left: an unshakeable will and wishful thinking. And, somehow, that had to be enough.

It will be, she thought. It will.

Chapter Text

Her limbs were cold, her throat throbbed. Her whole body screamed to breathe, but her lungs did not comply.

Everything around her was pitch-black, except for a blurring white line on the horizon.

She just woke up, after having her skin branded with a knife for what felt like the thousandth time. Bellatrix’s mad laugh as she pierced her skin still echoed in her ears, like a buzz she could not stop hearing.

She hadn’t seen Pansy in her nightmare, which felt strange, yearning, maddening and comforting at the same time.

When Hermione opened her eyes, she knew she was dreaming. Not like a realisation after the fact; she was lucid while studying everything around her, in complete control of her senses, her thoughts and her movements… but was incapable of waking up from it.

She looked at her hands, her legs, her fingers. The best way to describe them was smoky. Not because of the colour, which oscillated between dark grey and milky white, but because everything was ethereal, incorporeal. She had an undefined silhouette, no sharp edges. Despite being able to move, the blurred rims were constantly swirling and creating tiny hypnotic whirlpools that made it really difficult to know where her limbs were.

She tried touching her face, but her hand went through it. Her vision phased, as if she were watching her surroundings through fog or translucent glass.

And yet, she could feel her fingers on her skin, her heart beating and the chill in her bones.

“What’s the point?” she yelled at the void, but no answer came. Not an echo either. She pursed her lips, as if that alone would solve the puzzle she was in. “Think, Hermione. This is not normal. It’s not my usual nightmare, or I would already be in pain. So why am I—”

She squinted as slate pillars started appearing in front of her, as if there were a hallway she was supposed to walk.

She refused, and the columns started to morph into uneven traits. Some became thinner, some reached higher. And then she started to notice the features: Limbs, necks, hair.

And blank faces, no eyes or noses or mouths. As if someone cast an Oscausi on the whole surface.

Time passed as the pillars acquired more details, and Hermione started to understand who these people were. Despite not having faces, the robes were telling enough.

One was rough and loose, designed more for function than form. Garments hanging unevenly, with jagged hems and torn edges that suggest a life lived on the edge of chaos. The layers were coarse and heavy, draping the frame in a way that felt untamed and wild, like ragged shadows clinging to a predator ready to pounce.

Another was shaped with precise, compact structure: cropped jackets with high waists and rounded collars, sleeves that ended neatly at the forearm, and straight, narrow skirts that fell just below the knee, offering no movement. Prim and rigid, evoking the illusion of gentleness pressed into something airtight, as if it all were a lie.

Standing just beside that last pillar were drapes in long, sweeping layers that clung close to the form yet billowed with a ghostly, almost unnatural fluidity. The robes were cut in broad, simple lines, creating a silhouette both imposing and ethereal. The shapes were severe, almost skeletal, emphasising sharp angles and an unsettling emptiness where curves might've been expected. The attire screamed menace and shadow.

One captured her attention in particular: clothes clinging tightly and wildly to the frame, with jagged, irregular edges and layers that seemed almost torn or deliberately distressed. The sleeves were long and fitted but flared out slightly at the wrists, creating a sense of restless movement even when it was made of stone. The garments hugged the slate with corset-like shaping but then exploded into chaotic folds and ruffles around the skirt. Ruled by unpredictability, it looked as if twisted vines or dark flames were wrapping around the pillar, a display of danger and madness.

She recoiled, feeling the burn in her skin and the print of fear still rooted in her mind.

“Fenrir Greyback,” whispered Hermione, and a feral expression appeared where his face should’ve been, a patchwork of scars and snarls, with eyes that gleamed with primal savagery on the black slate.

Hermione fought the urge to escape, like she did all those years back.

“Dolores Umbridge,” she continued. A porcelain mask with tight, pinched features that hid a venomous core.

Even though she'd never used her demonic quill, her hand started to itch. She wanted to punch her. For Harry, for Dumbledore, for the Muggle-borns. For her. But she didn’t, because she was smoke and Umbridge was slate.

“Lord Voldemort.” Nothing happened. Hermione closed her eyes, breathed and spoke again, “Tom Marvolo Riddle.” A pale, skull-like visage stripped of humanity, with sharp, serpentine angles and empty, piercing eyes, took its place above his ethereal stone-clothes.

She clenched her ghostly fingers around nothing, as if her wand might materialise from will alone, ready to cast a spell against evil itself.

Hermione waited for a beat, afraid of any of them moving if she continued. Time passed, and they stood still, as did she.

“Bellatrix Lestrange,” she finally said, sweat beading at her smoky skin. Wild, angular features twisted by manic intensity, framed by unruly hair that seemed to move with her madness, emerged, her eyes focused on Hermione’s, her frozen smile both a promise of pain and a memory of torture.

She backtracked, trying to outrun the motionless statues, the sense of danger and her past torments.

She ran, but stood in the same place. And then, when she collapsed, still facing those nightmares made of black slate and macabre reminders, she heard it.

A voice she knew.

Warm. Lost. Yearned.

Hermione gulped, her throat closing immediately afterwards. She turned around slowly, as if the moment would shatter if she moved too quickly.

She spun, her body moving swiftly in smoky tendrils and whirlpools.

Hermione had dared not to feel hope when that voice pierced the silence and the black and white void.

“Hello, darling.”

It had been six years since she last heard it. And yet, tears were pooling at the edges of her eyes and her whole body was trembling, trying to contain the sadness—and the relief.

Hermione’s voice broke as she knelt in front of her. Pleading in silence to hear her speak again, she looked up at her. “Hello, Mum.”

Chapter Text

“Why do you think she needs us? Us two, specifically,” he asked while they waited for Pansy.

His wife pursed her lips and kept pacing just outside Hagrid’s old hut. “I reckon she’s scared and needs support. And, probably, because we’re dependable in a fight and no strangers to battle, not to mention—”

Hannah bit her lip, the words tasting sour from saying them out loud. “What?” whispered Neville, just hugging her from behind. “Tell me, love.”

“Well, I’m a Healer, so I think she might need someone with that kind of knowledge for whatever we’re about to do. And you, mon chéri, are the only one, besides Pansy herself, who is still a pure-blood. I don’t know what’s going through her mind, but—”

Neville saw the blue light of a Patronus disappear as a very agitated woman joined them. She extended her arm. “I just tried to call for backup, but I’m not sure if she’ll come,” explained Pansy, her foot tapping rhythmically against the green grass. Going faster with every second. “Let’s walk outside Hogwarts grounds so I can Disapparate with you two; I need you to help me when we get there—Sorry. When we get to Parkinson Manor. My parents will be there, and I need to collect two ingredients,” she paused to breathe.

Hannah patted her on the back. Neville hummed a soothing melody, trying to ground the three of them. He felt the air sticky with dread, and fearful people made stupid choices. Pansy needed to calm down, or she would pass out due to stupid shortness of breath. “That’s it. Inhale. Hold. Exhale,” she instructed, and the Slytherin followed suit. “Okay. What were you saying about ingredients?”

“I need blood from the one who attacked Hermione: my mother. And also bone from the family who wronged her, and since I was the one who failed her, that means Parkinson’s bone,” she said. Then she laughed halfheartedly. “Preferably not mine, but at this point I’m not picky.”

“Pansy,” scowled Hannah.

She shivered. “Sorry. I’m terrified, and I shouldn’t be telling you this. I should be brave. I—”

“I’ll be your bravery, Pansy,” interrupted Neville. Merlin, the girl was a mess, but her will didn’t waver. He had no idea what she had endured from her own parents, but it made his heart ache. At least his parents loved him, despite not being able to tell him. He knew, and that was enough. “Just focus on being shrewd and ambitious, and leave me the remaining burden. Courage is kind of Gryffindor’s whole thing, so… I’ll be just that for you, and free you to focus on whatever the rest is.”

“Right. Thank you,” she said, not stopping at all. Just understanding and moving on, as if she feared not being able to do it if she stopped. “The plan is simple. While I entertain my parents with some cunning bullshit, you, Hannah, need to go to the backyard where the cemetery is, and grab a bone. Bonus points if it’s Perseus Parkinson, since the fucking former Minister for Magic had an anti-age charm on his tomb, so his bones should be in peak condition. If he has more than bones… Then I’m sorry, but you need to cut somewhere. A toe would suffice.”

“Hence the whole Healer bit.”

“Sort of. I’d like you to be on the lookout in case things get ugly. Someone with your expertise in mending is a great asset,” she added, rubbing her temples. “And, Neville, sorry but… I need you with me. Moral support. Battle support. Pure-blood support. All of the above, and none. But I need you to follow my lead in everything that happens there. And I mean everything.”

Neville nodded. How else could he help her? He wanted to do more. He was a hero, for Merlin’s sake. And yet, his whole role in this was to stand tall and quiet beside her. Fine. If that’s what it took to save Hermione, he’d swallow the little pride he’d built during the years. “I hear you, Pansy. Anything else?” he asked

“Actually, yes,” she replied. Her hand darted to her purse, extracting two tiny bottles of a golden liquid. Neville squinted, but his wife gasped. That was clearly a potion Hannah knew, but the Gryffindor avoided all kinds of elixirs for dear sanity, and that one was not different. Some scars in his mind were Snape-shaped, and no amount of time seemed to help their erasure. “I was saving these for a rainy day,” she said, handing them over. “Well. It’s pouring.”

“Felix Felicis,” muttered Hannah. “There are only two, what about you?”

“Drink up,” she ordered. “I had three potions left, so we’re safe. Mine is still safely tucked away, in case I need it later for… negotiation.”

Hannah reached for the flask, but Neville didn’t. Why wasn’t she taking her potion as they were? “I don’t feel comfortable if you don’t share our luck, Pansy. One for All, and All for One, ain’t it?”

“Don’t be a prude, Neville,” she bellowed, rage seeping through her kind intentions. “I’m saving it because my parents will be interested in seeing that potion, and I need to keep them distracted. I’ll drink it when the time comes. Bottoms up, you two, we need to go.”

Reluctantly, he drank it. He saw Hannah doing the same from the corner of his eye.

Then Pansy offered them her arm, and they both took it without hesitation. “Three walk in, and three walk out,” she whispered.

The world blurred, and the three of them Disapparated.

Hannah was on her own, silent as a stealth agent—ninja, that’s what Muggles would call her, as Neville had learnt from Hermione years ago—while he and Pansy were preparing to stroll inside the Parkinson Manor.

He thought it looked like a death trap. Pointy roofs made of black tiles, designed to attract lightning and, probably, judging by the Slytherin’s expression, doom. Lightning rods that pointed at the sky, defying gravity like daggers trying to pierce it. The walls were a deep green and rusty tone, deprived of large windows to let the light through. Instead, they shone with darkness, the only tendrils of light seeping through long and thin slits distributed evenly on its facade. Towers piled next to one another, looking as if someone had tried to simulate misaligned and pointy teeth as its skyline.

It made him desperately miss his Gran’s house, full of light, order and class.

“Now that’s just the two of us,” he whispered, afraid someone would find them. “What’s the rest of your plan? I get the part about the bone: that can be done without your parents finding out until it’s too late. But the blood…?”

“Once we set foot in the Manor itself, Disapparating will be impossible. I need you to promise me that, once you have the last ingredient, you’ll run outside and bring it to Minerva. Don’t you dare wait on my account, are we clear?”

He squinted. “I’m not leaving you behind. And you failed to answer my question, Pansy. I don’t appreciate being misled into dangerous situations,” he chastised.

“I’m not doing that. But my father is a skilled Legilimens. I’ve been versed in Occlumency since before I even knew what Hogwarts was, while you’re not. I get that you want all the facts and information, and if it were up to me only, I would give them to you straight. But that’s not the case, and I need you not to know… but to trust me, Neville,” she replied calmly. His fingers twitched around his wand, ready to cast a spell against shadows themselves. “And, whatever happens… remember that Hermione’s time is almost up, while no real harm will come my way should you leave me behind. They need me alive. Specifically, they need my fucking womb.”

He recoiled at the venom in her words. How she must’ve felt growing up just to be… a means to an end? He couldn’t help but pity her.

Neville’s stomach turned. Not at the vulgarity: at the implication. At the truth hidden behind Pansy’s sardonic tone, the same one she used to hide every crack in her voice. The same one that had protected her all her life, and cost her every scrap of softness up until that moment.

And then, as he looked at Pansy more closely, admiration replaced the sorrow.

She was a survivor, a force to be reckoned with. And caring, gentle, and surprisingly sassy and good.

“I will not leave you to them,” he declared.

She shrugged. “Then you are of no use to me, Neville,” she shot back, no malice in her tone. “And I would much rather have a friendly face in there. I need someone dependable and self-aware, not a brainless twat, a wannabe hero. So, please… just let me do this. For her. Whatever happens, make sure the blood finds Hermione.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” he asked, in a desperate attempt for her to abandon the stupid idea of staying behind for reasons he couldn’t fathom. “Who’s supposed to brew the potion if you’re not there?”

Pansy tilted her head. “Thank you for trying to convince me with logic and not feelings, but it’s all taken care of,” she explained. Neville’s throat closed. That had been his last card, the only thing left to try and convince Pansy… and it had failed miserably. “I gave Minvera the instructions, as well as an altered memory of how to create the antidote, since I have no real recollection of the brewing itself. But it will suffice if she goes through it in a Pensieve.”

He didn’t want to go in like that. He owed himself to try and convince her one last time. He owed it to her. “But—”

“Neville,” she cut, not daring to meet his pained eyes.

And maybe it was the Felix Felicis’ touch, but a voice in his head told him to go on, to accept her plea. So he did, albeit reluctantly. “All right, Pansy. I will run as soon as I have the blood and make sure Hermione’s okay. But, should you not follow me shortly after, I’ll bang these bloody doors down and come back for you.”

She smiled. But it was a sad one, one that chilled Neville and made him think that it wouldn’t be enough. “Such chivalry from a Gryffindor,” she whispered. Then added, in a much surer tone, “Let’s get inside, shall we?”

Before he could answer and give her a couple of words of reassurance, the door opened with a groan like an old curse stretching awake.

Neville followed Pansy as her shadow would. Neither of them cast one in that dimly lit hall that, according to his companion, led to the main living room.

They arrived, as if that were their everyday routine.

Mrs Parkinson was embroidering black napkins with a vicious green thread, forming a skilled ‘P’ on each.

Mr Parkinson was reading a book—Neville could not distinguish which one—, something about curses and vows. Alluring title? Probably not: surely grim, if the Gryffindor had to bet his House Sword on it.

The room had a chill much less thundering than the one in Neville’s bones. Maybe that was why both of the Parkinsons were on the elegant sofa, close to the fireplace. There wasn’t fire on it, just embers.

Suitable for cold, dangerous and bloody snakes, he thought, squaring his shoulders and grappling his wand, knowing it would become a lifesaver sooner or later.

Neville counted the doors and the windows. Two and seven, in case they needed to escape. No visible traps set on them, nor charms placed on them that needed a counter-spell to open.

“Look what the cat dragged in, dear,” muttered Mrs Parkinson with a wicked smile.

Pansy’s father scoffed. “About time she crawled to where she belonged. Her rightful place,” he said, setting aside his book and studying Neville’s face with interest. “And she even came back with a gentleman and not some Mudblood or half-blood! He is a blood traitor, but at least his lineage is pure.”

“I don’t crawl, Father,” replied Pansy, stepping in front of him. “If anything, I glide.”

“Ah, now you pretend to be a snake?” asked Pansy’s mother with a devious grin. “How charming, Daughter. And maybe a little obvious, don’t you think?”

Neville was lost in the conversation, in the push and pull happening before him. He knew they came for blood—literally—but as a part of a much larger potion. There was no way that Pansy’s parents were aware of that beforehand, which meant that something else was up. He needed to find out what.

“Blood traitor or not, I’m here to escort Pansy and make sure she leaves this place unscathed,” he said with a voice that admitted no reply. Her friend looked at him, alarmed as soon as he had started speaking, but he pushed through her anger and kept the conversation going. The sparring, if he was being honest with himself. He hoped Pansy could understand him, his need to poke for information. “Our visit is time sensitive indeed. What else did you expect us to do?” he asked, not really knowing what his real question was.

Mrs Parkinson tutted, setting aside her needle. “I thought you would figure out sooner where the Mudblood was, given your recent history of being a blood traitor,” she spat before turning to her daughter. “And you. A disgrace to our name. A Scumsucker in our midst, after all we’ve already been through.”

Pansy’s patience snapped before Neville’s. “I came here as a sign of goodwill, but I will not be insulted by the likes of you, Mother. Mind your tongue or we’ll be gone,” she said.

“I don’t think so, Daughter,” added Mr Parkinson. “Isn’t the reason you're here to not let her rot where you grew up?”

“She won’t,” replied Neville. Despite feeling off. Something was amiss. Where Pansy grew up…? Hermione isn’t here, he thought.

An evil laugh echoed against the cool and colourless walls. “Won’t she now?” hissed the man. He clapped twice, and a younger woman appeared with a tea tray, wearing nothing but rags and a blank expression.

Neville knew her as his former student at Hogwarts. She’d been sassy, funny and competent. A little bit of a troublemaker, but a good person when it mattered. He was outraged at seeing her in that state, devoid of all emotion and complying with those monsters’ orders.

And yet, his fury was nothing compared to Pansy’s, who trembled with wrath. Fists at her side, barely containing all that was going through her mind.

Mr Parkinson squinted. “You came here without knowing she was here,” he affirmed, no question in his statement. “I find myself asking… Why are you here then—?”

Several things happened at once.

Neville felt a presence in his mind, tearing it down with such brute force he almost fell to his knees. The pain was sharp, and the flashes of memories toppled onto one another:

His wedding day, and how beautiful Hannah had looked in her dress: breathtaking, perfect.

His weekly visits to St Mungo’s, sitting down with his parents and telling them stories; watching them smile and cry and nod and stay still.

His bravery, as he had slain Nagini on that dreadful day all those years ago. His determination to protect the younger students during the seventh year, enduring the tortures designated for them.

His first day of class, laughing with students while they learned about mandrakes. His recollection of yesterday’s events, seeing Pansy Apparate completely splinched by the waist. His last conversation with her, in which she told him about the blood.

Pansy forgot all her confidence and ran towards the recently appeared witch, yelling until her hands gripped her shoulders. “Fiona. Fiona, darling. Look at me,” she pleaded to that emotionless mask. She got no answer.

Neville tried to stop the violence, the shattering of his mind. This presence that was combing through his life for information, prying on his memories and feasting on his remembrances. He couldn’t.

He finally regained some agency and cast a Protego, stopping the mental assault. And, while both parents were focused on him, Pansy tipped a flask inside Fiona’s mouth. A golden liquid that Neville knew all too well by now.

“Ah, I see,” said Mr Parkinson. “They didn’t know about the Mudblood, the one we rescued from those stupid kids… Cleansers, I believe they were called.”

His wife tilted her head slightly. “Why are they here then, dear? Since we have this one under the Imperius Curse, what else could they want from us?”

“They came for your blood, darling,” he explained, his eyes never leaving Neville’s. Our daughter needs it to save the Mudblood from St Mungo’s, the one with all the nasty needles and syringes on her back. She’s at Hogwarts, and her time is almost up”.

“Yes, we did come here for your blood,” replied Neville. “Care to do the honours, Pansy? The stench of classism in here is starting to fog my mind.”

“No,” she said. “Neville, I need you to go. I thought I needed you to do this, but Fiona needs you more. Take her and leave. Wait outside the Manor, and I’ll bring you the vial of blood, and then you’ll give it to Minerva.” She must’ve seen the doubt in his eyes, because her expression softened for a beat. “You promised. You promised you would follow my lead.”

“Not like this!” he yelled. “There’s something more we can do. Why—?”

Pansy’s expression turned grim, as if they were already defeated, which made no sense. Hannah had beaten both Parkinsons, and Neville was even better at duelling than his wife. It made no sense. “I cannot tell you, Neville. I can’t, because they will know. He’ll pluck it out of your mind, and I will not allow it. Please, please… Understand,” she begged, still clutching Fiona’s shoulders. Pansy nudged the girl until she was standing right next to him. “Go. She’ll be fine in a moment; the potion will not take long to break the hold they have on her with the curse.”

“But that was your dose of Felix Felicis!” he protested.

“I’ll manage,” she whispered with a tired smile. Fiona stirred and lost consciousness, and Neville caught her before she fell to the floor. “See? You cannot save us all, and neither can I. Two out of three is the best we’re getting. Let me do this. I will get out, I promise…”

“I would say I’m sorry to barge in and break such a touching moment of self-sacrifice, Daughter, but I would be lying,” said Mr Parkinson, finally rising from the sofa and pointing his wand at Neville’s chest. “Who said you would be leaving at all?”

Pansy stepped in front of him and Fiona. “Wait outside the Manor until you have the vial of blood. But don’t come in, or you won’t be able to Disapparate,” she instructed, taking a last glance at him before cracking her knuckles and staring her own parents down. “I did. And you will not get in their way, because I came here ready to make a deal.”

“Let us hear it, then,” demanded Mrs Parkinson.

“Let them go first, and then we’ll talk.”

“No.”

Neville could see the tension in Pansy’s back, how her confidence was shaken ever-so-slightly. He counted how many times she breathed before answering.

Eleven. Eleven times, before his friend ruthlessly pushed him and Fiona back, making sure both were beyond the threshold before closing the gates. And, just before the doors slammed together, he heard her. “I’ll make an Unbreakable Vow, Father,” she said. “Last warning. Let. Them. Fucking—”

He never heard the rest.

“Pansy!” he shouted, his fists banging the uneven surface of the gates. He cast one spell after another against those obsidian doors, but none of them had any effect. They all bounced back, as if he were just a toddler trying to understand the truth of life. Impossible, useless. “Don’t you dare make a bloody Unbreakable Vow! Don’t you bloody dare, you hear me?”

She had no right to be as brave as a Gryffindor, as cunning as a Slytherin, as selfless as a Hufflepuff and as smart as a Ravenclaw. She had no right, and yet, as Neville’s fists got bloodied from hitting the gates over and over, he realised she was.

He collapsed against the door, still holding on to Fiona’s limp body.

I couldn’t help her. How could I be so bloody blind? I should’ve seen this coming, he thought. I still am that scared boy who didn’t know how to save those who mattered.

The doors opened again, revealing a broken girl. A shattered mind, an empty hope. A woman who had won it all, and the price had been herself.

Neville saw the dried tears in her eyes. What had she done? He laid Fiona down and rose with murder in his veins. Ready to storm into that bloody Manor and end the Parkinsons himself.

Pansy stopped him, her gentle fingers on his chest. And then she opened her hand, revealing a flask with a crimson liquid.

The blood. The vial, red and full, gleamed in her palm.

“Take it,” she whispered. “Save her, Neville.”

He stood there, frozen. Torn between fury, pity, duty and murderous rage. He grabbed Pansy by her shoulders and shook them. She let him do it. “Did you make it? Did you make a bloody Unbreakable Vow?” he yelled, trembling.

She nodded. “I did. I’m sorry, but I couldn’t tell you. I always knew I had to, from the moment this plan took shape.”

“Why?” he asked, his voice as broken as Pansy’s will. Surely there had to be another way to save Hermione, other than this horror. “I’ll break it. I will find a way for you to break it, I swear. I’ll go to the Ministry. I’ll murder them, Pansy. I will. They’re monsters, despicable, horrid, terrible—Why didn’t you just steal her blood? A knife, a sharp cut, a flight. Why—?”

“That’s what I didn’t tell anybody. The bone had to be stolen. Taken unwillingly. The blood had to be given. Anything else wouldn’t have worked. My mother had to cut herself and bleed of her own volition, or the antidote would’ve been useless.”

He felt the pang of truth in his chest. “You knew. You bloody knew… And came anyway,” he muttered.

She just nodded. “I couldn’t let her die, Neville. Not Hermione. Now go. Find Hannah and save her, don’t waste the Felix Felicis running through your veins,” she said. “I can’t come with you now, but… thank you for everything.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“Not being enough. Not saving you. Not helping at all.”

“Don’t be daft, halfwit,” she said with a smile. No bite, no smirk, no laugh either. “Let someone else save the day for once, will you? Now go—Oh, one last thing. Tell Hannah to brew a concoction of mandrake root, dragon scales and unicorn hair. That should help Fiona to ease her back into her former self after breaking the Imperius Curse with the help of that Felix Felicis.”

“Would you stop worrying about the others?” he pleaded, trying to carry her outside the Manor. “Why can’t you come with us right now…?”

She cut him off by rolling up her sleeve. He gasped, gulped and yelled at its sight. Red ink curled around her wrist, climbing like ivy, like chains disguised as art. Splintering the porcelain skin of her forearm. The lines danced, curling and interlacing. Elegant, fine. A prison tattooed on her, carving an intricate pattern he could not recognise. “It’s Sunday,” she whispered, as if that was an explanation for it all. “I’m bound, for now.” His heart sank. At the impossibility of helping her, of being useful. Of saving the one who sacrificed. “I must go, Neville, and so do you.

The gates started to close again as she stood frozen. Neville’s hand tried to reach her one last time, only to be bounced back by an invisible force.

“Three walk in, and three walk out,” she whispered.

The doors slammed shut, and the last thing he saw before that was Pansy’s calm smile. And her tears.

Minerva waited for them at Hogsmeade, wand already out, ready to Apparate straight to the Potions Classroom. Hannah, breathless and Neville, enraged, ran towards her. Fiona, still unconscious, was tucked safely in his arms.

Minerva studied them for a long time. “Do you have it?” she asked carefully.

“Yes,” he replied, still numb and trembling.

The Headmistress nodded. “What did it cost her?”

Hannah’s hand rested on his shoulder as Neville tried not to vomit. He handed her the ingredients without looking. He raised his eyes, barely able to speak. Then, he whispered, “Everything.”

Neville sat beside Hermione’s body, holding her hand as Harry paced at her feet.

She looked as if death was already brushing her lips, kissing her life away. Her skin was several tones too white, her hair had strands that looked like canes, and others were simply golden or brown, following no pattern. Her lips were now completely blue, just like her lids, which seemed translucent. They no longer fluttered, but stayed completely still. Her chest, too. Nothing in her moved, not even her heart. Her veins were visible, turning black beneath her milky skin, and her muscles were turning slowly rigid, as if the bone was conquering them, eroding the tissue as seconds slipped away.

Hannah ran across the room and through the door, clutching in her hand a vial.

Time stopped. He didn’t even dare to ask if it had worked, if they had managed to understand Pansy’s mad genius plan for that potion.

His wife nodded at Neville’s silent question. They understood each other without words. He let go of Hermione’s hand and carefully grabbed her head, tilting it up a bit, her lips falling open slightly.

Minerva entered the room, almost out of breath, followed by Cho and Luna as Hannah poured the antidote into Hermione’s mouth. They all held their breaths, not one of them daring to move.

Please, he begged.

Until the sound of Hermione’s heartbeat echoed, strong, sure and even. Her chest rose. Breathing.

“You bloody did it, Pansy,” whispered Neville, tears rolling down his cheeks. “You crazy witch, you saved her.”

Chapter Text

“Where am I?” asked Hermione tentatively, not daring yet to meet her mother’s eyes. She had an idea, and never in her life had she wished for her thoughts to be wrong as much as she did in that moment.

A crack sounded at her back, and the pillars started moving, as if they were machines with their erratic and composed movements. She gulped and recoiled, but her mother held her in place.

“You chose this, darling. You chose to face them head-on instead of waiting patiently for your time.”

Another shriek, and Bellatrix’s body walked down the crafted slate stairs until her bare feet were on the floor.

“For my time?” asked Hermione, afraid of the pain that monstrous woman had unleashed upon her all those years ago. She started scratching her own forearm, where the scar itched beneath all those whirlpools of smoke and fear.

“You’re on the threshold of life and death, darling. Before moving, either on or back, your mind conjured them. In a desperate attempt to keep you among the living, it conjured pain so that you wouldn’t be able to make a decision,” she explained, stroking Hermione’s smoky swirls as if she were still a little girl reading books on her lap. “The fog is your indecision, and it’s temporary. You’ll either become a corporeal ghost or a flesh body, depending on where the balance tips.

“And you, Mum?” she mumbled, feeling lost for the first time in ages. “What are you doing here? Are you also a figment of my imagination?”

“You know I’m not, sweetie. Deep down, you can tell.” Bellatrix took a step, and so did Umbridge, Greyback and Voldemort. They looked menacing, hungry for blood… and broken. A fifth pillar emerged, though no face or shape took place on its surface. “You’re close to the edge, trapped between worlds. In this limbo, ghosts that crossed it long ago can visit sometimes, with a proper anchor to bring them back so they don’t get trapped here. We heard you cry, darling, so I came for you.”

Her mother’s arms surrounded her blurry body, hugging her tightly.

“What about Dad?” whispered Hermione, ignoring the scary moving pillars. Hope overcame dread in that frozen world between space and time, made of smoke and dreams. She craved to hug her parents much more than to escape her torments. “Can I see him too?”

“No. He wished he could, but he’s my anchor back, honey. I’m afraid you’ll have to—”

Hermione didn’t let her mother finish. She clung to her, looking desperately for that last hug she hadn’t been able to give six years ago.

She remembered dancing with her father on her wedding day, her mother zipping her dress. Tea and book club on Sunday. Their shared jokes, about being dentists and having a witch for a daughter. How proud they were of her, their only child. Their laughs, their warmth, their encouragement. All of it.

How they shaped her into who she was, and how she broke down crying at their graves, when a car accident shortened their time on Earth.

“I want to go with you, Mum. I want to see Dad. I’m tired of suffering, of giving up pieces of myself so that others can be at peace. I can’t anymore. Take me with you,” she begged.

“She can’t, you filthy Mudblood,” hissed Bellatrix’s pillar. “Not before I tear you apart.” Hermione was yanked from her mother’s embrace by a vicious and cold grip. Long, black and sharp stone fingers caressed her forearm. “I see you still wear my present,” she purred, tracing the scar beneath the smoke and slamming Hermione’s body against Greyback’s chest. “Hold her,” she ordered, and his hands latched onto her. One at her throat, one at her waist.

“When you’re done with her, Lestrange, I want a bite,” he whispered.

Bellatrix didn’t even need a knife this time around: her slate and sharp fingers would suffice. She looked at Hermione as if she were a canvas, her pain an inspiration, her screams a sacred melody. “Let me enjoy this, Greyback. I’ve been waiting a decade to paint with her filthy blood again.”

She felt the witch’s claws on her shoulder, caressing it. Hermione braced for the pain before it came.

“I can’t intervene, but you can, honey. Fight them. They are your demons; you give them power. Take it away,” said her mother calmly. Hermione couldn’t move, or breathe, or think. Not as Bellatrix’s piercing eyes regarded her as an object to be carved, and Greyback’s sigh echoed on her skin.

Umbridge tutted behind her. “One must not tell lies, Mrs Granger. No wonder your daughter turned out so… difficult.”

“They cannot hurt me, Jean,” whispered her mother, using her second name. The world knew her by her first: Hermione Granger, the hero. But to them, she was simply Jean… their daughter, their baby. “They can’t, unless you allow them to. And I won’t go until you leave, darling. Face it, stop letting them torment you every night. Your time here is almost up.”

Greyback’s claws tightened around her throat, and her voice snagged in her chest. There was a scream she couldn’t force out, not this time.

She couldn’t move. She wanted to, some part of her was pounding against her ribs like a trapped bird. But her limbs had gone heavy, cemented by fear… no, not exactly fear. Shame. Exhaustion. Something colder.

“I can’t—” The words didn’t even leave her lips this time. The words died at her lips, like a curse worn out. Like her. She couldn’t face this again, be the hero. Over, and over, and over.

She looked down. Smoke peeled away from her arms, revealing skin beneath. Real skin. Breathing, bleeding. Alive. Her body was still fighting for her, even as her mind curled inward, begging for rest.

Bellatrix’s eyes gleamed at the sight. “Look at that, Greyback. It seems we have more skin to torture as time passes…” Hermione screamed as the witch’s nails pierced her waist, leaving four bloody stripes. “I wonder… how long until the toy breaks?”

“Jean. Look at me, darling,” pleaded her mother, this time more urgent. “They cannot harm you if you don’t let them.”

Their eyes met. Bloody, beaten, unwavering.

The last statue moved. “Enough,” he commanded. Then calmly walked to her mother. “Mudbloods are errors. Puppets allowed to play with magic when they should be dead. Muggles?” he growled. “They’re beasts who shouldn’t be able to talk standing in front of their superiors". Lord Voldemort stilled for a beat. Hermione could not see his face; only his back.

He raised his hand.

And Hermione looked at it as it fell, slapping her mother’s cheek and drawing blood.

Everything went still. Her breath, Bellatrix’s claws, her heart, her thoughts.

Except her mother, who, instead of staying on the floor, rose again, staring Voldemort down as if he were a mere nuisance in her way.

“Mum! You told me they couldn’t hurt you!” she screamed, the words burning in her throat as hot as her desperation.

Umbridge tilted her head and snorted. “Well, Miss Granger… she obviously lied,” she explained as the Dark Lord struck her again, this time making her fall to her knees.

“Fight them,” said her mother, spitting blood on the floor and getting up again, just to be hit again.

And again. And again.

And again.

“Fight them, darling,” pleaded her mother. “I’m sorry to ask yet one more thing from you, but… take their power away.”

“Leave, Mum!” begged Hermione, incapable of moving as Bellatrix’s claws kept drawing on her skin.

“I won’t,” she replied with a tired smile. “I love you too much to abandon you, alone, to face them.”

Umbridge scoffed and laughed in that awful high-pitched voice. Greyback licked his lips, clutching Hermione’s body closer to his. Bellatrix smirked as her knife-like nails scratched her collarbone. Voldemort raised his wand, pointing it at her mother.

His shout echoed against the horizon, just as her mother’s cry did when the hex hit her.

She fell, the Cruciatus Curse ramping free across her body.

Hermione wanted to look away. Wanted to scream. But her limbs refused. Her mother’s body shook violently under the curse, and the witch felt like a child again, powerless at the mercy of monsters.

Hermione couldn’t take it. On herself, sure. She had endured more than one Crucio at Bellatrix’s hands, and was still standing. Her own pain, she could deal with.

But on her mother? On her sweet, loving mother?

Tears pricked at her eyes. And her heart, so used to flutter and beat slowly, trying not to disturb those around her, became a drum against her ribs. So loud it echoed inside her, a battle cry. It demanded war, blood. Justice.

“No,” she yelled.

She evaporated from Greyback’s grasp and appeared in front of Voldemort. Without thinking twice about it, she punched him. She didn’t aim. She didn’t waver. She simply struck, with all the years of silence, shame, and survival behind her fist. A clean hit to his stomach, and then another to his throat when he bent down due to that first strike. Hermione’s wand materialised out of thin air in her hand, and she pointed it at her tormentors.

The irony of striking down the most powerful Dark wizard in recent history not with magic, but with rage and fists didn’t go unnoticed in Hermione’s eyes. The Muggle way. “You don’t get to torture anymore,” she said. “You’re dead.” She raised her chin as a silent challenge and stood between her mother and the four pillars. Once again, a shield.

But not a shield because the world needed it. A shield because she chose to be it.

Bellatrix’s smile chilled her bones. “But we live in your mind rent-free, Mudblood. And, as long as we do, the pain we can inflict on you is endless.”

“You’ve all overstayed your welcome, then.”

Lord Voldemort rose again, squinting. “If it were that easy, girl, we wouldn’t be here.”

She walked towards the four of them.

They were dead. She was the one allowing them to cloud her judgement, torment her mind, claim her dreams and turn them into nightmares.

No more.

Hermione walked past all four pillars. They tried to grab her again, but none could reach her. She finally stood tall in front of the fifth smooth pillar.

The one without any features, any clothes that could help to point out who they were. But she finally understood. Her hand rested on the cool surface.

“Hermione Granger,” she whispered, and the column jerked, turning into her, as the other pillars had done before. She looked at it, at her broken self. A younger Hermione, ready for battle at any second. She hugged it. “Thank you for giving me strength, but I will not be bound by those times anymore.” She caressed her mirror statue’s cheek with care, as if she were saying goodbye to a part that survived the war. The part that helped in the aftermath, the one that kept her sane and alive. The seventeen-year-old who carried the weight of the world and didn’t crack beneath it. “You’re allowed to rest,” she whispered. A tentative smile appeared on the slate, and the statue tilted her head, grateful. “Thank you, but I don’t need you anymore.”

The slate Hermione nodded, knelt and melted, leaving the pillar smooth and empty again. But this time, it was not made of black slate, but of white marble.

“I said,” she smiled through her words, facing the remaining four. “Be gone.”

Just as the last veil of fog and whirlpools, and smoke disappeared from her body, the four statues cracked and crumpled to pieces. Not white, not marble. But not composed or full anymore. Hermione turned to her mother, who smiled at her. “I knew you could do it, darling. And it seems you broke through just in time, because the other side is calling you,” she whispered.

They hugged for what seemed an eternity. And yet, it never would’ve been enough. “I don’t want you to go,” she pleaded.

“I won’t, but you will. You are needed back, Hermione. And your dad and I will be waiting for you when your time comes.”

“Mum, please—” She was crying. She felt her mother’s lips kiss her forehead.

A gift.

The last goodbye they never had.

A kiss.

“We love you so much, darling. And we’ll see you again, in many, many years,” she said, soothing Hermione’s anxiousness. “You’ve faced your demons inside, my sweet Jean. Now it’s time for you to face the ones clawing back from their ashes in the world.”

“But—”

“I can’t wait to see the woman you end up becoming, Jean. You’re wonderful, kind and intelligent. And you’ll grow even more,” she whispered, gently cupping Hermione’s cheeks again and again. They were both vanishing. Her surroundings were blurring, her mother turning transparent. “Meet me again when your knees can tell if a storm is brewing nearby, when the moon has gone through so many phases you no longer count them, when your hair is white and your smile serves as proof of your laughs through the years.” Hermione was crying, clinging to a ghost as if nothing else mattered. Because nothing did, not as long as her mother was whispering words, hugging her, guiding her. “When the wrinkles in your lips betray how many times you grinned, and the skin is showered with sunspots. When your mind is clogged with happy memories, meet me again.”

There was a white light engulfing it all. And then, darkness.

Hermione felt the water surrounding her body, cold and healing. The crisp air on her skin. The feeling of a beating heart under her rib cage. The smell of the Potions Classroom.

She was alive. She was awake. She was alone.

No, she wasn’t. Someone was holding her hand. Someone was pacing at her feet. Someone was whispering not far away from her.

Hermione opened her eyes and started breathing again.

Neville squeezed her hand. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

Harry stopped pacing. “Don’t you ever scare me like that again!”

Luna hummed a lullaby. “I missed you, Hermione.”

Even Minerva, who never faltered, looked lost for words. Relieved to see her, with a gentle smile tugging at her lips.

Cho knelt beside her. “Thank Merlin, I thought we lost you.”

Hannah smiled through the tears. “Thank Pansy.”

She smiled until her fogged mind caught their sombre expressions. Something was missing. Someone.

She stood up and lost her balance. Stumbled until Neville grabbed her by the shoulders, and their eyes met. Her voice failed her. She wanted to yell, so someone would tell her, but the words left her mouth as a whisper, afraid of its own answer. “Where is she?”

His lower lip twitched, as if it were barely containing a sob. “At Parkinson Manor.”

Hermione gulped, trying to swallow her disgust and fear for Pansy. “I’ll go and get her back.”

“We can’t,” said Hannah, rushing to steady her before she collapsed again.

She yanked away from the Hufflepuff’s hands as if they scalded her skin. She thought they would understand, help her. Pansy was one of theirs, so why was no one daring to rescue her from those monsters? “Fine, stay here,” she said, clenching her jaw with fury. Her trembling fists were desperate to hit something, and the Parkinsons looked like a gratifying punching bag. “I’ll get her myself if I must.”

Harry yanked her back, hugging her despite her attempts to free herself. Until he spoke. “We can’t help her,” he said, sadness and regret in his voice. Hermione stopped jerking. “She made an Unbreakable Vow to save you, Hermione.”

“She did what?”

Neville’s sob finally broke the silence. “You were dying, so she sacrificed herself for you.”

Hermione did not collapse, did not lose consciousness, did not crumble.

But all her world around her did.

Chapter Text

Pansy forgot everything about the plan as soon as Fiona appeared in that cold room, under the Imperius Curse. She let go of that last thread of hope when her eyes were met with that inexpressive mask, frozen in a fake grin with sour undertones.

The Felix Felicis was supposed to be her trump card, what she would exchange for her mother’s blood. Getting rid of it meant improvising and finding something else to trade it for… not to mention the added weight of Fiona’s rescue.

Pansy’s pulse did not tremble as she forced the Hufflepuff to drink every drop of the liquid luck potion.

She would find something else.

After all, she still had some leverage, and a backup plan already in motion just in case her parents refused her first offer.

Calm down. Calm down or he’ll know about the blood and the price to pay for it will go up, she thought. They must not know it has to be given willingly.

She felt her father’s stare, his presence grazing her dreamscape, the edges of her thoughts and memories, prying for information.

You won’t get inside my mind, father. Not this time.

Pansy imagined a door and shut it, with chains around its handles and thousands of keys. He took a step back, but said nothing.

“Now it’s just us, Daughter. What deal do you propose?” cooed her mother with a smirk. Her fingers tapped rhythmically on the arm of her chair; the sound grated against the thick silence in the room. Her posture was too casual for someone playing this kind of game.

Think: deceive, outsmart, overachieve, undercut.

Pansy’s lips curled into something not quite a sly smile. She stood tall, arms crossed, defiant. The embers of the fireplace flickered across her sharp features, casting erratic shadows that made her face appear both cold and dangerously calculating. She shifted her weight slightly to one foot, testing her balance and preparing to pounce.

“Father will be our Bonder. You and I will make an Unbreakable Vow, in which the conditions for our respective oaths will be established by the person fulfilling them.”

She let her words hang in the air for a moment, watching her mother’s eyes narrow slightly.

Lull them into it. Bait them. Make them feel in control.

Pansy’s breath remained steady as she kept her stance relaxed, but every muscle was coiled beneath her composed facade.

“Sound ominous, but as long as the bond is established, your father and I will be content.” Her mother’s gaze was calculating, lips pulling into a thin, knowing line. She uncrossed her legs, leaning slightly forward as if drawing Pansy into her trap.

Her father stepped forward, his boots scraping slightly on the floor. “Give me your arm, and name your conditions.”

The room felt colder as Pansy uncrossed her arms slowly, her fingers twitching almost imperceptibly. She was careful, deliberate, not rushed at all. As she offered her arm to him, her eyes met his with a flicker of defiance.

Lie. Present the blood as an afterthought, so that they won’t know how important it is. They won’t find out that Hermione’s life depends on it. Focus on the well-being of Neville and Fiona. Trick them.

She could feel the slight pressure of his grip on her wrist, too tight, but not enough to make her flinch.

“I want Mother to promise that no harm will come to my friends.”

Her mother’s lips curled into a predatory smile. “Too broad and unpredictable,” she replied smoothly, her fingers toying with the edge of her sleeve as she leaned back in her chair, all self-assurance and control. “I will vow that no harm will come directly by my hand. And I will say their names, so it doesn’t get confusing about the statuses of friendship and acquaintances.”

Good. Follow this. Let her think it’s not enough when it is more than what you expected.

Pansy’s eyes flickered, her thoughts razor-sharp, but her expression remained passive. “No. Your oath will have no names, because you’ll twist it by messing up something about them.”

Her mother’s gaze darkened, lips pressing together in a thin line. Her fingers tapped against the chair again, but this time with more irritation. “What will you give me in return for this, Daughter? We just rescued that Mudblood for you, as a peace offering… and yet here you are, angry and barging in with grand promises you are not ready to fulfil.”

Pansy’s hand clenched involuntarily at her side, but she let the fire that ignited within her fade.

She calls what they did to Fiona a fucking rescue? I’ll kill her with—Breathe. Inhale. One. Exhale. Two. One, two. Don’t let your anger cloud your judgment. That’s what she’s expecting, to play with your feelings. Don’t let her.

“What do you want, Mother? I can offer you knowledge, money, atonement or even dangerous and Dark potions no one has seen for decades. Pick your poison.”

I know it’s not enough. I know what they want from me. What they want me for.

Her father’s gaze flickered to her with a strange glint in his eyes. He took another step toward her, closing the distance. “We have no use for those, although you could give us some, as a gesture in good faith, Daughter.”

“I’d rather not, if it’s not part of your demands.” Pansy narrowed her eyes, fighting the urge to snap. She’d never been anything but a pawn to them, and it was taking all of her willpower to suppress the rage boiling inside her.

Silence stretched, dreadful and heavy.

It all comes down to this. I’m about to sell myself for Hermione.

Her father’s voice cut through the quiet. “You know what we want, what you owe us. What you should’ve done a long time ago, if you were a decent person. A decent Parkinson.”

“Marriage,” whispered Pansy, her heart beating slow and steady. The words tasted like metal on her tongue. She wouldn’t show it, but inside, she was already preparing for the worst.

That’s it. Don’t let it overcome you. Fight it, don’t cloud your thoughts. Keep your ground. Find the loophole.

The fire died, the embers extinguished behind them; no more dancing shadows on the walls. Her parents seemed to close in like predators. Her father, taller, looming over her, his stance demanding and firm. Her mother, a sleek serpent coiled in her chair, was watching every twitch of Pansy’s body.

“Yes, with a decent gentleman. And an heir. A pure-blood heir.”

Silence swallowed them all.

Find the loophole. Find it. Find it!

Pansy’s jaw tightened, eyes flickering between the two of them. She felt a bead of sweat trail down the back of her neck, but her gaze never wavered from her father’s cold stare. She had to win. “I won’t give you both. Pick one, and forget about ever getting the other one,” hissed Pansy.

Tackle one. Please say marriage. Please say marriage, because that doesn’t entail anything besides a contract. Please, pick—

Her father’s expression darkened, his lips pressing into a thin line as if he were considering her words carefully. His hand flexed at his side, fingers twitching slightly as though restraining the desire to strike. “An heir,” he surmised. “Isn’t it, dear? A Parkinson to carry on our legacy.”

The words hit Pansy like a physical blow. She felt her stomach lurch, and for a moment, her hands trembled involuntarily. She took a step back, her breath coming in shallow bursts, and swallowed the bile rising in her throat.

Pansy vomited.

Her mother’s eyes never left her. “Don’t be that dramatic, Daughter. Neither lying with a man, nor bearing a child, is that unpleasant. It’s only natural.”

She did not. She did not just throw in my fucking face that sex is not bad. She did not.

A vein in Pansy’s temple throbbed with pure fury. She tightened her fists, nails biting into her palms, but she held her tongue… Barely. “Did you know that to… ‘bed’ someone is supposed to be pleasant, Mother? Did Father fuck you so bad you think it’s a mere process to be done with?” she spat.

Dodge, hide, think, buy time.

Her mother’s knuckles whitened on the arm of the chair. Her father’s face turned crimson, but his body remained rigid, a statue of repressed rage. “I will not have you disrespect either me or your mother under our roof. Mind your tongue, Daughter.”

“I do mind it, Father. Mine does more than just talk, as opposed to yours. Mine makes people beg and scream,” said Pansy with a smirk. “I suppose it’s rather fitting. You both use yours for pain, while mine was made for pleasure.”

The slap was fast, but she was faster.

Pansy caught his wrist before his knuckles crossed her cheek. She felt the heat of his skin, the tension in his muscles, but her grip was iron. Her eyes locked on his, unblinking.

“Careful now, Father. My being here is a gesture of good faith in itself. Or do you really believe that Neville Longbottom, who is waiting just outside, wouldn’t be able to turn your sorry arses to ashes?”

“Why doesn’t he, then?” asked her mother, rolling her eyes.

Yes. Focus on him. On the why. And not on me, and the how.

“Because I deemed so. And I would rather keep it civil, that’s why I’m ready to make the vow. An heir in exchange for safety.”

“Not quite,” chastised her father. “Since we are not interested in you breaking the vow and can’t exactly put a time frame on it, you would have to promise not to leave this house until he or she is born”

Pansy’s blood turned to ice. She felt the chill shoot through her veins, her stomach sinking as her thoughts whirled. No. Not again. She’d been a prisoner once, locked in this cursed house with no freedom, no agency. Not again.

Her fingers twitched involuntarily at her sides, her nails digging into the palm of her hand. She wanted to scream. To lash out. But instead, she inhaled slowly, the cold air filling her lungs. It steadied her. She could not let them see her break. “I will not be a prisoner here again, Father.” Play them, Pansy. Play them. “How am I supposed to give you an heir if I can’t go as I please?”

Her father’s lip curled slightly, his gaze narrowing as he studied her, the corner of his mouth twitching upward with amusement, as if he knew he’d just caught her in a snare. “We’ll take care of that… inconvenience for you.”

No. I will not have them outside my door. I will not be a princess in a haunted castle. I will not be fucked for a name. I won’t.

“I will not lie with someone I don’t know, and much less if you’re right behind his selection. And knowing you’ll be there, in the background… No, I won’t.”

Her mother arched an eyebrow, a sleek, almost bored expression creeping onto her face. “But you were so confident in your bed skills earlier, Daughter. Surely you wouldn’t be ashamed of them now, would you?”

The cunning bitch—Stop, keep looking for a loophole. There has to be one. Words and intent are what matter, so make good use of them. Don’t let hers trap you.

She shifted her stance, and in the same motion, her voice came out cool, calculated. “I will vow to come back to the Manor every weekend and sleep in my room for one night, but nothing more. You can do as you please, but I won’t be forced to sleep with someone I do not wish to. The promise of the heir stands, as does the one about returning to this Manor. Nothing more. I’m not leaving behind my work at Hogwarts because of your deranged need for grandchildren.”

That should suffice. It should. An heir. Just one. Just… I can’t. Loophole, loophole, loophole! Fucking find it!

The room seemed to shrink with the weight of the words. Her mother blinked, momentarily taken aback, while her father’s eyes narrowed, calculating, a dangerous glint appearing behind them. He did not like being played, but the foundation of their control rested in Pansy’s compliance. She had struck at the core of their plans, and she was aware of it.

Her mother’s lips twisted into a smirk. “Is that all you’re offering, Daughter?” Her voice was low, dripping with mockery, yet there was a flicker of calculation behind her gaze. “No guarantee, no binding oath, nothing more than a vague promise. I’m afraid that won’t do, we need something more,” she said. “As it stands, there’s no real guarantee that you’ll ever give us an heir. You could delay it infinitely and die before completing your oath. And since you forbade the option of staying here, there must be something else you can give us, if you really wish us to waive that condition.”

Pansy clenched her teeth, feeling the fury bubbling beneath her calm exterior. Her father shifted in his seat, his posture still rigid but his eyes cold and calculating, as if waiting for her to crack.

She forced her voice to remain level. “I’ll promise to give you the location of a secret stash of potions. That location would only be revealed upon my death. There, you would find an elixir capable of bringing someone back from the dead for an extended period of time. The person is not sentient, but otherwise… biologically living. Should I die, you could use it on me. My blood would still be yours, and my legacy. If I’m not among the living anymore, do with my body whatever you wish. After all, that’s your wettest dream, is it not? For me to render control from myself to you both.”

Her father remained silent, his gaze unreadable as he absorbed the offer. The room seemed to tense, the air thickening with each breath they took.

That should do it. Don’t cry. Bite your cheek. That’s it. Don’t let them see weakness. Don’t let them look smug. You’ll laugh last.

Her mother’s eyes gleamed. Her father smiled. “Fine, consider the condition of staying here all week long lifted.”

“I want to make something clear: Should I die by your hand or in any way related to magic or assassination, the location will remain hidden.”

Her mother’s lips curled into a thin smile, eyes flickering with something almost malicious. “Fair enough. A backup plan, should you die a natural death without fulfilling your end,” she said, her voice soft and dismissive as if the conversation meant nothing to her.

You’ll never be able to use it. I won’t let you. I won’t become a breeding human. I won’t. I’ll have my friends obliterate my body before that happens, or destroy the potion—No, I can’t. If I were to ask that and make the vow, it would kill me because I’m promising something fully knowing it’s a lie.

“Oh, one last thing,” said Pansy. “I almost forgot. Since you know I need your blood, I want you to promise you’ll give me one vial. I don’t see why go through all the trouble of gutting a pig like you when you can hand it over without making such a fuss.”

Lies, lies, lies. Don’t let them see through them. Keep calm, keep the facade.

“I guess I could,” replied her mother with a devious grin.

Yes!

“Let’s do this, Daughter,” mumbled her father. “I want to hear your oaths before we start with the Unbreakable Vow.”

Blank mind, don’t focus on the intent now. Just do the words. Find the loophole.

She closed her eyes for a moment, steadying herself, before she spoke clearly, purposefully. “I promise that the location of a secret stash, where a potion to bring back people from the dead is guarded, will be revealed to my parents upon my death, should I die before fulfilling my end of the deal,” she said. Her parents nodded, so she continued. “I promise to give the Parkinson family an heir in name and legacy.” She stopped breathing. “I promise to come back to Parkinson Manor every weekend for the rest of my life, until an heir is produced.”

“That would suffice, I think. Are you ready, Daughter?”

Does he think I’m stupid?

Pansy’s heart thundered in her chest, but her exterior remained a mask. “No. I want Mother to say her oaths first, and then we’ll make the vow.”

Be better. Be perfect. Outplay them. Be the Slytherin you were born to become.

Her mother’s voice broke the silence, low and mocking. “Fine, then. My oaths.” She looked at her dead in the eye, her lips curling into a thin, predatory smile. “I vow that no harm will come to Pansy Parkinson’s friends directly by my hand or wand ever again. I vow to give my daughter a vial of my own blood, of my own volition,” she said, as if she were reciting a grocery list. “There you have it. Is it enough for you?”

“I want your oath to include a time frame. You’ll promise to hand over the vial immediately after the Unbreakable Vow is sealed.”

Her mother’s gaze hardened, the barest flicker of irritation flashing across her face, but she didn’t flinch. “Such a tiny detail…” she murmured, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. “I’ll give in, for the vow’s sake. I want this nasty business to be done.”

“So be it,” said Pansy, rolling up her sleeve and catching her mother’s forearm in a vicious grip. “Let’s get it over with, Mother.”

The tip of her father’s wand fluttered above Pansy’s forearm, linked to her mother’s.

I will rise. I have the words. Now I need to convey the intent so I don’t get trapped by them. Breathe, focus. Start with the easiest, the one that doesn’t require trickery.

She spoke.

“I promise to come back to Parkinson Manor every weekend, from Saturday morning to Sunday afternoon, for the rest of my life, until an heir is produced and I’m free again to spend my days as I see fit.”

The wand shone. A thin and brilliant tongue, similar to a flame, wound itself around their forearms. Her skin hissed at the contact, as if it had been burned by hellfire.

Her mother’s cold voice echoed around the grim walls of the living room. “I vow that no harm will come to Pansy Parkinson’s friends directly by my hand or wand ever again.”

A second tongue followed the first, interlacing itself like a chained ivy around the first mark and their wrists.

Pansy stilled for a beat.

This is where it gets tricky. Intent, intent. Get it right.

“I promise that the location of a secret stash, where a potion to bring back people from the dead is guarded, will be revealed to my parents upon my death, should I die before fulfilling my end of the deal. If, and only if, my death is a premature and natural one.”

I have every intention of revealing the location where it’s hidden. I have no intention of telling them how, when and where the potion must be used for it to work as they expect.

A third tongue followed suit, imprinting a line on Pansy’s forearm.

“Go on, Daughter,” said her father, pressing the tip more harshly against her hand’s back. She resisted the urge to let go.

He really thinks I’m that daft, that I would make all my vows without having some insurance. Fuck him. And her. Choose the words carefully. Don’t promise anything else. Just protest.

Pansy knew they were not supposed to talk while doing the Unbreakable Vow, because anything said would be subject to becoming part of the oaths bound to be completed. And yet, she did. “Mother will say hers first, and then I’ll swear mine. Not a second before.”

The wand shook against her skin, sparking amber flocks in protest.

“She will not,” said her father.

They’re ganging up. He’s doing the talking because he won’t be bound by his words as Mother would be.

Pansy’s fingers started to release her mother’s arm as a threat. “She will, or this is all over.”

“Is it? You’ve yet to accomplish the blood vial, and I believe that was your goal all along,” said her father with a rigid smirk. “Oh, yes. I knew, Daughter. The moment we started talking about an heir, your defences crumbled, and I could see. You need the blood, Daughter. Now, be a good girl and make the promise.”

Careful. Don’t let them goad you.

Pansy bit the inside of her cheek. “You need me. So far, none of the promises made have given either of you what you wish. Sure, they make my life harder, but not unbearable. Bend the knee, or this is all over.”

“The Mudblood will die without the blood.”

Careful, my arse.

She squared her shoulders, bracing for a verbal sparring while having to measure her every word. “And you will die without an heir.”

“You wouldn’t dare, not with the two promises you’ve already made,” spat her father, his expression darkening with every second. A crude smile started tugging at his mouth, and Pansy’s spine suppressed a shiver. “We could force you to bear an heir.”

The words landed like a shove to the chest, knocking the breath from her before she realised she was still standing. For a heartbeat, she saw it: herself stripped of choice, her body turned into nothing but a vessel with their name stamped on it. Her skin crawled. Her teeth clattered. Her mouth moved before her mind could lock the doors. “I will take an infertility potion, then,” she bit back.

For a fraction of a heartbeat, she thought she’d spoken only defiance, the kind that slipped through cracks in the vow. The wand didn’t move. Her father’s eyes narrowed.

Then the magic struck.

A fourth tongue coiled up her arm like molten wire, biting deep into her flesh. The air seemed to burn in her lungs.

No. You bitch, that was a promise! You just… made the vow. No!

The fourth oath had been spoken, and she had made her third promise.

Pansy’s stomach threatened to force all her contents out again. It was not that she didn’t want children. It was the realisation that it was no longer an option.

“What have you done, you stupid child?” yelled her father, his knuckles whitening around his wand.

Stop. It’s still salvageable. I will drink the fucking potion, as I vowed. But I never said when, so I’ll do it on my deathbed. Breathe, for fuck’s sake. And keep your mouth shut from now on. Use it to your advantage. Threaten, make them withdraw.

She clenched her jaw. “What is done, is done. Either have Mother speak, or so help me Merlin, I’ll be gone to fulfil my last oath.”

The silence grew thicker with every beat, and Pansy’s hand twitched ever-so-slightly. Last threat, last chance.

Her mother finally spoke.

“I vow to give my daughter a vial of my own blood, of my own volition…” She interrupted herself, but Pansy squeezed her hand. I will not let you wiggle your way out of this, you hag. Say the rest of the oath. Their eyes met, and her mother understood the veiled threat. “… As soon as the Unbreakable Vow is finalised.”

The fifth tongue shot from the wand, creating a more intricate pattern on Pansy’s forearm.

Her whole body relaxed. That was it, she had it. Hermione would live, and all that was left was for her to make the most heart-wrenching of promises.

Intent.

“I promise to give the Parkinson family a pure-blood heir, in name and legacy.”

I will give them their heir, in the same way you hand a wolf a painted lamb. Not by the means they dream of, and never in their image. The legacy will wear my name, carry my values, and bleed my defiance. Mine, never theirs. The vow will be satisfied.

Shadows danced on her face as the sixth tongue lapped against her skin, the magic purring in satisfaction as the Unbreakable Vow was complete. Across from her, her parents’ smiles spread slowly and surely. The predators were convinced they’d caught their prey. Pansy’s breath steadied, deliberate, each inhale an unspoken laugh. She let go of her mother’s arm as if it burned.

It was done.

Pansy was throwing a plastic ball in the air. There wasn’t much else to do until her afternoon was over.

As soon as the Unbreakable Vow had been sealed and she had given Neville the vial of blood, she fled to her old room and fell into the bed, arms crossed at her chest and studied the ceiling. It was the only beautiful part of the whole house.

One summer, about seven years ago, she, Astoria and Daphne had sneaked in with an almost functional invisibility cloak and painted it. The base was pitch black, but above that were all the stars of the sky. The ones that could be seen by the naked eye, and the ones that required magical means.

Later on, Draco had helped them with an enchantment so it couldn’t be erased or covered. Pansy had learned later that the spell itself had been Narcissa’s; ‘a godmother present in advance’, she had called it.

She smiled fondly at the memory for a beat, until sadness overcame all the other emotions.

She felt like a sitting duck, confined to Parkinson Manor. But she refused to face or be in her parents’ presence. Not for any unnecessary second.

And now what? I dodged the biggest bullet, but I still need to name a pure-blood heir before I can leave this haunted house.

Lost in her thoughts, she regarded the ball falling into her hands.

I’m playing fetch with myself. Truly, I’m a lost cause.

The ball rebounded against an invisible shield, and a sudden weight pressed on Pansy’s chest.

“Mistress has a visit!” yelled the newcomer, getting off her.

Pansy tried to calm herself down. She succeeded… a bit. “Merlin’s hat, Effie! You almost gave me a heart attack!”

“Sorry, Mistress. Effie tried to Apparate on the floor, but Effie made a mistake! Mistress must punish Effie, yes!”

Pansy waved her hand, rolling her eyes. “I told you not to call me ‘Mistress’ anymore. Besides, didn’t I free you years ago? What are you doing here?”

She looked at the former Parkinson’s domestic elf. Effie was wearing a sleeveless T-shirt as a dress, one flip-flop on her left foot and a sneaker on her right. On each pointy ear, she proudly wore a mitten, and on top of her head a silver bracelet, as if it were a crown.

Her movements were erratic, shifting between uptight and controlled motions and trauma-learnt spasms to avoid being kicked. It broke Pansy’s heart. Seven years, and Effie still wore the scars of her mistreatment; on her behaviour, on her eyes. “Mistress freed me, but Effie comes back whenever Mistress is home, to help her if she needs Effie!”

“Really, I appreciate it, Effie, but you shouldn’t trouble yourself. Live, be free,” she said with a smile. One prisoner was enough; there needn’t be two at the Manor.

“Mistress was always kind to Effie, so Effie will always be kind to Mistress!” she replied, her eyes gleaming in a way that made it almost impossible to say no to. “Effie is sorry she didn’t come sooner. Effie wanted to help Mistress when she was with her parents, but Effie was afraid. Effie doesn’t want to see the former Master and Mistress ever again.”

“Fret not, Effie, I share the sentiment,” she replied, getting up from the bed and snatching the poker from the elf’s little hands. “I forbade you long ago from doing this. No self-harm, remember?”

“Effie is sorry she forgot. Effie needs to punish herself.”

“No, stop it! Effie, sweet Effie. You want me to be sad?” asked Pansy, and Effie’s grimace of horror at the implication spoke volumes. “When you punish yourself, it makes me sad.”

The elf nodded. “Effie understands. Effie will punish herself no more.”

“Thank you,” said Pansy, kneeling in front of her and hugging her bony frame with terrible fashion sense. “What did you say about a visit?”

“Narcissa Malfoy will arrive in thirteen seconds,” she said. “Would Mistress like for Effie to welcome her?”

“There will be no need, I’ll do it myself,” replied Pansy, opening the door of her bedroom. She stilled for a beat and looked back. She softened her tone as she spoke. “Do you want to join me? I promise my parents won’t lay a finger on you, Effie.”

“Effie would like that very much, Mistress.”

Pansy extended her hand. “Off we go, then.”

The elf took it reluctantly.

A slow and full smile spread on Pansy’s face.

Seems the butterfly did find her, she thought. It’s showtime, bitch.

She heard the scream, the roar, before the front door was fully open.

“Where is my goddaughter, you monster?” yelled Cissy. Her eyes met Pansy’s, and words weren’t needed. She knew her so well, so she understood immediately that something was wrong. Terribly wrong. The roar grew louder and more dangerous with her next words. “What have you done to her?”

“This is not how a proper lady should behave, Mrs Malfoy,” chastised her mother.

“You listen to me, old hag. If I find out that you’ve touched a single hair of my angel, I’ll bury you alive, do you hear me?”

“How charming. It was a terrible mistake on our part, making you her godmother.”

Cissy scoffed. “Someone had to take care of her, and it sure as hell wasn’t going to be either you, halfwits!”

Pansy sprinted down the stairs and through the hall, reaching the gate. Finally. She pushed her mother out of her way unceremoniously, not caring if the bitch lost her balance and fell to the floor. Her shoulder connected with bone, but she shoved her aside. Not her problem.

She heard the hiss at her back, like a snake about to strike. And then, stillness and silence. Cissy, wand pointing at her mother, had thrown a wordless spell in the older Parkinson’s direction.

Her mother’s lips went slack and her eyes froze wide, as if something invisible had just gripped her spine.

Pansy didn’t know what hex her godmother used, but she couldn’t care less.

She ran into Cissy’s open arms, the only haven she’d known for years. And she embraced her with fondness in return, as if she were the most sacred thing in the whole Manor.

Aside from Effie, she probably was.

Everything would be fine.

Right?

“It’s just us now, darling,” she said with the gentlest of voices ever heard. Pansy nodded, crumbling already in her arms. A small laugh escaped Cissy’s throat. “I see Effie is still following you around! How are you, M’lady?”

“Mrs Malfoy is too kind to Effie,” replied the elf, hugging Pansy’s leg. “Effie is glad that Mrs Malfoy is here to help the Mistress.”

“About that… Can you please Apparate us to her room, if you’d be so kind?” asked Cissy. “We need to talk.”

“Effie will. Hold on to Mistress,” she instructed. And then bile rose in Pansy’s throat as they Disapparated from the Manor’s front gates.

Effie had left, with the promise of coming back in an hour with ‘freshly baked sweets made of sour lemon’ and ‘alcohol-free Firewhiskey’, whatever that was.

Cissy raised her wand without a word, the wards settling into place with a muted thrum against the walls. The air seemed thicker, as if the sound itself had been muffled. She didn’t let go of Pansy’s arm until she’d steered her toward the bed. The mattress gave under their weight, the heavy green coverlet cool beneath their hands.

“What did you do, darling?” whispered Cissy, her palm moving in slow circles between Pansy’s shoulder blades. “You said… Unbreakable Vow in your Patronus. Did you really—?”

Something got stuck in Pansy’s throat, and she started crying on her godmother’s shoulder. She held her tight.

“I had to, Cissy. I didn’t want to. Ever. But I… I couldn’t let her die. So I did it,” she sobbed, her fingers curling into the bedspread.

Her godmother’s hand paused for a moment, then resumed its slow path down her back. “You should’ve stalled them, honey. Until I arrived.”

“There wasn’t time. Hermione would’ve died. And my parents would’ve been on their guard if you’d been there with me. I picked on their egos, and they underestimated me.” Pansy’s voice shook, her eyes fixed on a wrinkle in the coverlet that she kept smoothing and re-smoothing with her thumb.

“Clever girl.” The corner of Cissy’s mouth lifted, and her thumb tapped twice against Pansy’s arm in a rhythm that might have been pride. “What were the vows? Retell them word by word, and, in your case, what you really meant when you spoke the words.”

Pansy did, slowly and stopping now and then to recompose herself. Cissy did not speak until she was done. Her godmother just hugged her, smiled when she needed and held her fury back behind her eyes as Pansy finished with the six vows.

“I was so afraid. I made a mistake, I—screwed up, and I couldn’t—” Her breath hitched mid-sentence, the words dissolving into shallow, uneven sobs.

A single tear slid down Cissy’s cheek; she brushed it away with a quick, almost irritated gesture. “Blaise will be sleeping in this room every weekend, just to make sure your parents don’t try anything funny,” she said, shifting her weight so her knee pressed lightly against Pansy’s in quiet reassurance. “I will also speak to both Draco and Astoria on your behalf, but I don’t think there will be a problem at all. Breathe, darling. You did good, better than anyone actually would have. You should be proud of yourself, you did outsmart the most skilled Legilimens and the most cunning Slytherin alive at the same time.”

“What about the potion vow?” Pansy’s voice was small, her eyes fixed on a fold in the bedspread.

“I’ll have Daphne look into that,” said Cissy, smoothing the crease in Pansy’s sleeve with absent fingers. “She’s now friends with the Weasley girl, maybe they will find a way to make it impossible for your parents to get the potion, should the worst come to pass. I won’t let them use you or your body, darling. Ever, not while I breathe.” She punctuated the promise by resting her palm over Pansy’s hand, her rings cool against her skin.

“I meant… the infertility one.” Pansy’s gaze flicked up, quick and uncertain.

“That depends.” Cissy’s voice softened, but she leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees. “You could fulfil it right now and be done with them. But only if you’re sure you have no wish to ever bear a child yourself, Pansy. And that is something only you can know." She paused, studying her with a tilt of the head, one brow lifting just slightly. “As you already told me, there was nothing in the vow forcing you to drink it at all, because you never established a when. So the question remains: are you certain that you won’t ever want to have a child of your own, of your flesh and blood?”

The thought of shutting that door forever left a cold ache in her ribs. It didn’t sit right with her. “No.” The word left Pansy’s mouth like a breath she’d been holding too long. Despite her parents, despite her need not to give in to their demands… she still wanted to be able to choose. It didn’t feel right to give up a part of herself, a possibility for a future she had yet to figure out.

“There you have it.” Cissy reached up, brushing a stray strand of hair from Pansy’s damp cheek. “Don’t take it, wait until your years have passed and then fulfil it, just to be on the safe side. Since it was an unwanted vow, there’s really no assurance as to how it will act.”

Pansy nodded, her tears finally not falling anymore and her breaths more even. Not sobs, but inspirations. “Could you… Stay with me until dusk? I’m bound by the vow to stay here till then,” she asked, leaning subtly into the touch.

“Until the end of time, if you ask,” she replied. Then her lips curved into something wicked. “But when the sun sets, I’d slip away to Hogwarts if I were you. I believe there’s a witch who owes you more than a thank you.”

Pansy felt the heat crawl up her neck and turned toward the window, where dust motes hung lazily in the fading light. “That’s not why I—Ugh, I hate you, Cissy.”

Her godmother hummed, laughter curling low in her throat. “I know. But someone had to tease you about falling for a Gryffindor.” She leaned back, arms crossing loosely, her eyes sweeping over Pansy as though weighing and measuring. “When shall I meet your suitor? You know I’ll have to give my approval before this goes further.” She leaned back slightly, as though appraising her.

“What? What relationship? No, that’s not—” she stuttered. “Just because we kissed once doesn’t mean that—” Pansy’s hands had curled into the coverlet again, twisting the fabric.

Cissy’s delighted squeak made her want to sink through the mattress. “You kissed her? Already? Merlin, Daphne was right, she’s the best matchmaker on Earth.”

“Oh, like you’re one to talk, in that vineyard with Blaise…”

A laugh burst from Cissy, bright enough to echo against the bookshelves. She started crying from amusement. “You think me and Blaise—” She broke off in another snort, dabbing at her eyes with the back of her hand. “Merlin, no. I’d never do him. He’s almost half my age!”

“You age like fine wine, I doubt your age would deter any man, Cissy,” said Pansy, her lips twitching despite herself.

“Thank you, but, regardless…” Her mirth faded to something steadier. “I’m still married to Lucius, even though we live separate lives. I’m just teaching Blaise Occlumency,” she said, her expression turning serious again. “That’s why he’ll be the one staying with you, because among your friends, he’s the only one who can withstand your father’s attempts at reading his mind.”

“Oh.” The single syllable felt small in the quiet that followed.

So they’re not shagging. Draco will be glad to know.

“Oh indeed, you dirty-minded youngling,” Cissy’s palm pressed briefly to the crown of her head, as though bestowing both affection and admonishment in the same touch. “Have some respect for your dear godmother, will you?”

“Shut up, crone.”

Cissy rolled her eyes with exaggerated slowness, the motion tugging at the silver comb in her hair. “First I’m wine, and now I’m a crone? Merlin, children nowadays are ungrateful brats!” Her tone was airy, but the smirk tugging at her mouth gave her away.

A loud crack split the muffled air of the room, making Pansy flinch. Effie appeared in the middle of the rug, the tips of her ears quivering, one small hand tucked conspicuously behind her back.

“Effie could not find sweet lemon sour sweets, Mistress,” the elf said, voice quick and a little breathless. “And they wouldn’t sell Firewhiskey to a free-elf. But Effie found this, so she bought it as a gift. So the Mistress would not cry and be happy.”

She stepped forward and extended her hands, palms up. A package sat there, wrapped in soft paper creased from the journey.

“You shouldn’t have, Effie,” said Pansy softly.

“Effie wanted to. Effie is free because the Mistress was good to Effie, so Effie will be good to the Mistress.” The elf straightened, her chin lifting just a fraction as though daring anyone to object.

Pansy took the parcel, the paper cool and faintly scented of sandalwood. She peeled it back, and the sight inside made her breath catch: a silver bracelet, its coiling bands designed to wrap the forearm from near the elbow to the wrist, the curves smooth and deliberate. A snake’s head gleamed at one end, red stones set deep into its eyes.

“I can’t accept this, Effie! It must’ve cost you a fortune!” She looked up sharply, and the elf’s expression faltered, the sudden hurt in her face stinging more than any rebuke.

“A good host knows when to accept a gift, Pansy. I thought I taught you that long ago,” chastised Cissy. “Wouldn’t you agree, Effie?”

She twitched slightly at being addressed directly by someone other than Pansy, but the warmth in the conversation soothed her a bit. “It would look good on the Mistress’ arm. It’s enchanted to cover the Unbreakable Vow’s marks,” she replied, her ears twitching as she glanced between them.

Pansy swallowed against the sudden tightness in her chest. She wanted to cry again, but this time it was from the fierce warmth curling through her at their kindness. “Thank you, Effie. I don’t deserve you,” she whispered, and the elf puffed her chest. “Can you help me put it on, please?”

Effie’s small fingers were deft, the metal cool against Pansy’s skin at first before it settled, clasping her forearm with a weight that felt both solid and safe. The coils hugged the shape of her arm perfectly. Elegant. Simple. And loaded with meaning.

The silver caught the light, and for a moment, she couldn’t breathe. Not from the beauty, but from the way it felt like someone had seen her—really seen her—and still chosen to protect her.

“It’s perfect,” she whispered.

“A snake for a snake,” laughed Cissy. “It suits you, Pansy.”

“Effie is glad the Mistress likes it!” she said, her voice brightening.

Cissy glanced toward the window, where pale light was beginning to seep across the floorboards. “Look outside, darling: it’s dusk. We’ll talk tomorrow at noon, but, for now… go.”

Pansy didn’t need to hear it twice. She smiled at Cissy, extended her hand towards her and Effie in a silent question… and, with Effie’s help, Disapparated from the torment as the last ray of sunshine illuminated her face.

Free for five days. Free to scheme, to teach, to laugh.

Free to see a certain witch.

Pansy smirked. She could win. When all had seemed lost, she had become a guiding light. The snake, being the hope? She supposed it suited the green in both.

I won’t just survive this. I’ll live.

Chapter Text

Hermione was going mad. Bedridden in her room while Pansy was enduring who knew what in that bloody Manor? No, not her style.

There had been a discussion about whether or not to involve the Ministry in the Pansy situation, but Neville had been adamant: he explained how Pansy had requested they not share at all what had just happened. A gag order, through and through.

Hermione had been outraged. Clearly, Pansy was not thinking straight… until a Patronus—she first thought it was a lizard, until it had spread its tiny wings and proved it was a dragon, very Mushu-like in her opinion: long and slim body, four-legged and small. A Mushu with pinions had appeared in the middle of their meeting and addressed Minerva. A female voice she could not recognise assured them that Pansy was safe, albeit locked up for the time being in Parkinson Manor. That seemed to deter the Headmistress from pursuing further action until it all became clearer, which was not the case for Hermione.

The meeting was adjourned until Monday afternoon—a whole twenty-four-hour recess, to Hermione’s indignation—, when, according to the mysterious Patronus, a new plan with more accurate details would be formed. Basically, a ‘don’t move’, a stalemate on both parts.

Why did McGonagall regard that Patronus as a voice of reason, instead of urging them to rescue Pansy as soon as possible? Yes, she had made an Unbreakable Vow, but magic always had its loopholes, for Merlin’s sake. And they were not short of volunteers: Neville, Hannah, Cho, and even Harry were willing to step up, but Minerva advised otherwise.

So, in short, Hermione was mad, restless and decided. She did what she used to do best: think of a plan to get rid of her guardian—also known as Harry, who wouldn’t leave her side—and flee to help in whichever way she could. Because, apparently, all the others were satisfied with waiting a bit.

Ditching her best friend proved difficult, since Harry knew her so well. She almost had to fake dehydration and famine for him to go to the kitchens to grab a glass of water and some leftovers from lunch.

“I’ll get you something to eat, maybe Winky has saved some beef casserole with sprouts… but I’ll be back soon,” he warned. “Don’t try anything funny, or I’ll know.”

“Tell her I say hi!” she replied, sidestepping his caveat with an airy voice.

He squinted, but left anyway.

Hermione got up and started getting dressed as fast as she could. Which was almost at a glacial pace, since all the effects of the potions and antidotes had taken a severe toll on her body. But her magic was strong, and her will, even stronger. And they were all supposed to vanish during the night, leaving her brand new and well-rested.

“Where is my bloody wand when I need it…? Oh, there it is!” she mumbled, finally finding it tucked away inside her left boot, right next to the chimney. A chill went down her spine. Maybe she could light it up: that way, when she came back, her room wouldn’t feel as cold as it did now. With the sun setting, the cool breeze filtering through her open window felt like a bite on her shoulders. Hermione clicked her tongue, knelt in front of the fireplace and whispered a harmless Incendio, pointing her wand in the dry wood’s direction. The flame roared to life, casting dancing shadows on her walls and orange rays on her hair.

As she tried to get up, her left knee protested and gave way under her weight.

She would’ve fallen inside those embers, had it not been for two steady hands anchoring her in place. Hermione hissed. “I told you I’m fine, Harry! I don’t need your bloody help to get up!” She took a breath. The plan had failed, and Winky couldn’t entertain her best friend as long as she needed. So, to hell with the plan. She would turn around and gently push him aside.

One way or another, she was getting out of that room.

The hands on her waist didn’t move. If anything, they held her tighter, and Hermione was ready to lash out.

Until she smelled honey and citrus in the air.

“What’s the hurry, golden girl? Got yourself a date?” A purr. The bloody purr in that voice did unspeakable things to her.

To say that Hermione froze would be an understatement. Her body refused to move, even an inch. No twitching, no breathing, no hitching, no beating. Nothing but motionlessness.

She couldn’t even get up to her full height and stood half-bent instead. The fingers dug slightly deeper on her waist, and she gulped.

Time stood still for a long beat, like a spell that lingered even after it was done.

Hermione felt her leaning in, to the point where her chest brushed her upper back and her lips grazed her ear. “Cat got your tongue, love?”

That was a zap, the one she needed. No hesitation at all after it.

She stood up, turned around and kissed her. “You’re here. You’re real,” she whispered against her eager mouth.

Pansy pulled away with a smile. “I am.”

Hermione tilted her head up. The Slytherin was the most beautiful kaleidoscope she’d ever seen. Green eyes, black hair, red lips, rosy cheeks, porcelain skin.

She looked smug, untouched, brazen. Unaffected.

Hermione knew that wasn’t true, but she had felt so helpless, so unable to move, to plot, to aid, that seeing her there, casually joking as if nothing had happened, flipped a switch in her.

The relief and angst in her chest turned to fury. She pushed her, and Pansy stumbled backwards until her knees collided with the bed. She fell on it and decided to stay there, seated. “What were you thinking, you dumb bitch? Who permitted you to make a deal for my sake? How could you do it?” shouted Hermione, shortening the newly found distance with two strides. Pansy remained silent and averted her gaze. “No, please, by all means, keep quiet the one time you’re supposed to be talking. And just turning up here and taunting me? How could you sell yourself to them like that? Nothing is worth doing that, do you hear me? Nothing!” The rush of relief curdled into rage before she could stop it, and she slapped her. “I was worried dead! I was… Merlin, Pansy! Did you have no other way? Couldn’t you just…?”

The words got caught in her throat.

The Gryffindor’s fury cracked, and she fell to her knees in front of her. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her eyes focusing on Pansy’s combat boots and refusing to look up. “I shouldn’t have done that. I…”

The sound of the slap seemed to hang in the air. Hermione’s palm tingled, reddening and burning beneath her skin. Pansy didn’t flinch, didn’t speak… she just breathed, slow and steady. A mark started blooming on her cheek, but she still refused to acknowledge it.

The Slytherin looked at her. She had allowed Hermione to push her, slap her, shout at her. She just took it all in and let her decompress at her own expense. As if she hadn’t done enough already for her. Hadn’t sacrificed enough for her.

It wasn’t true. She did look like she’d been through hell and back: green eyes with a faint shadow beneath, black hair not as sleek as it had always been, red lips not as smooth as they used to.

She felt Pansy’s forefinger resting lightly just below her chin, forcing Hermione’s gaze to look up. “I’m sick and tired of us apologising all the time,” said the Slytherin, staring at her. The Gryffindor felt naked in front of her green gaze, and she swallowed hard. Her lips opened, with the intention of replying, but the words died before they were spoken when Pansy kept talking. “We’re past the point of pretending whatever we do is actually meant to hurt each other. We might, but never on purpose.” Her finger left Hermione’s chin, so her knuckles could caress her cheek. The Gryffindor leaned into her touch. “So, for the sake of… whatever this is, let’s stop apologising, golden girl. To ease your mind, say it just once more. Use this time to get rid of all the guilty things you’re holding in, and be done with those regrets.”

Hermione bit her lip, thinking, and Pansy’s grip on her cheek tightened, while her eyes darkened. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for blowing you off that night when we kissed. I’m sorry for scaring you with my nightmares. I’m sorry for insulting you when we met in Minerva’s office. I’m sorry for slapping you now. I’m sorry for not understanding everything earlier and losing so much time. I’m sorry for forcing you into that vow with those monsters. I’m sorry knowing me has brought you that much pain. If I could take it all back, I would. I wish you had never met me, so you would—”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence, Hermione. Ever. If anything, I’m sorry you almost died because of my parents. And I’m sorry for worrying you,” she said. “Come here.” Pansy grabbed her by her shoulders, forcing her up to sit beside her on the bed. The fire crackled, filling the silence stretching between them. “There, we’re sorry, great,” she grinned and tilted her head, studying the still-trying-to-recompose Hermione. “Can we snog now, or is it too soon for you? You know, I did risk it all for you. I think I deserve something in return.”

Hermione smirked and straddled Pansy’s legs without skipping a beat. Both her arms rested lazily on Pansy’s shoulders, one of her hands playing with raven hairs on the back of her neck. The bed creaked, and the Gryffindor studied the shock and wonder on the other witch’s face. She smirked, leaning in slightly, letting her weight fall onto her. She shifted a bit, biting her lip as Pansy’s knee brushed her thigh. “Cat got your tongue, love?” she purred.

The Slytherin’s breath hitched, but then her fingers caressed Hermione’s waist. Warm, not firm. “Merlin, I was messing around. I didn’t think you would—” she chirped.

The rest of her sentence got swallowed by her lips.

Even though it was Hermione the one who started it, she had no clue what to do once her mouth found Pansy’s. She had fire in her veins, and everywhere the Slytherin’s hands touched her, it felt like a burn and a balm all at once.

She forgot what she was supposed to do for a short beat, until Pansy sighed against her lips and she entered the kind of haze where one didn’t need to think, just let go and feel.

Hermione pecked her as if she were still dreaming. Something was boiling inside of her, but the kiss was gentle, sensual. No lust, or rush in it, just the dizziness of not believing what she was doing out of sheer happiness. As if they were discovering each other for the first time, a slow dance of lips and caresses.

She broke the kiss after a while, bringing her forehead to Pansy’s. “That enough for you?” she asked. “I still have so many questions…”

The Slytherin clicked her tongue, still trying to even her breathing. “Why did I have to fall for such a savvy witch?” She repressed a yawn with great effort.

“Because you have good taste,” replied Hermione with a smirk. She rolled her eyes as she got up, despite Pansy’s protests. The Slytherin dropped her upper body on the bed, letting her legs hang over its side. Hermione went around her and left her wand on top of her nightstand. She sat down next to Pansy and undid the laces of the witch’s shoes. Then, she untied hers. No need for them anymore, since who she had put them on for was lying down beside her. “What happened, Princess?” she whispered, beckoning her to climb next to her and rest fully on the bed.

Pansy crawled slowly until her arms hugged Hermione’s waist and her head sought refuge in her neck, with her lips lazily grazing her collarbone. “I’m fine. You’re fine; they cannot hurt you or anyone here, really. I made them promise that, so rest assured that nothing is going to happen. At least not tonight, golden girl.” She kissed her jaw and snuggled closer. “Can we just… talk tomorrow? I’m tired,” she mumbled, slowly and slurring her words.

Hermione kissed the top of her head and cuddled her. “Okay, but just because I like you,” she whispered, smelling the honey on her hair. “Sleep, Princess.”

“Your wish is my comma—”

A snore interrupted her own sentence, as Pansy fell into Morpheus’ arms and Hermione’s embrace. “Sweet dreams,” said the Gryffindor, and the Slytherin stirred slightly, clinging tightly to her.

Hermione opened her eyes when a bloody ray of sunshine decided to land on her face. Which wasn’t bad. No, correction: it was terrible.

Her neck snapped to the left, her eyes looking for her alarm clock, a clever reinvention of the Tempus charm. Quarter to ten.

No, she couldn’t have overslept that much. Why had no one bothered to wake her up?

She shifted, trying to get up… and then it dawned on her: Pansy.

Pansy, asleep, in her bed. After kissing and fighting and shouting and snogging and… dozing off.

She blushed, and her whole body twitched for a beat. The Slytherin, still in dreamland, clutched her closer. Hermione was facing up. Pansy was facing her.

Pansy’s lips on her neck. Pansy’s leg around her knees. Pansy’s breasts against her arm. Pansy’s hair on her pillow. Pansy’s hand over her heart. Pansy’s thigh pressing… Merlin. Not just ‘Merlin’, also Circe, Morgan, Hecate, Medea, and every other name crossing Hermione’s mind as if they were prayers.

She moved a bit, and what happened was not what she envisioned. What the Gryffindor wanted to accomplish: untangling herself a bit from Pansy. What actually occurred: getting sucked into her embrace, feeling every bit of her on her skin. And the Slytherin’s hand, previously innocently over her heart, moved until it was on her breast, almost gently cupping it.

Panic. Heat. Blush. Breathlessness. Not necessarily in that order, and definitely not in the same amount.

Hermione cleared her throat awkwardly. “Princess… could you… move?”

Pansy hummed in response, sending a shiver down the Gryffindor’s spine with that tiny contact at her collarbone.

“I’m serious, please. You’re all over me, and not in the way I’d prefer right now with you dozing off,” she repeated, earning a soft laugh against her neck. “You’re awake?”

“Now? Yes,” she replied, her nose tickling Hermione’s neck in slow circles. The Gryffindor felt Pansy’s wicked grin on her skin before she spoke. “Why? Got something in mind?”

She tried to recoil, but the Slytherin’s grip on her body was ironclad. “We have to get up, it’s so late,” she argued, feeling her self-control slipping through her fingers as she clutched the bedspread.

“I could make it worth your while, you know,” she teased, kissing her chin and scraping her teeth lower, until she reached the point where the neck meets the shoulder. Hermione’s body betrayed her with a not-so-subtle hitch and a very obvious shudder.

“I mean it, it’s Monday!” she replied with a groan. “You should already be teaching the first-years in—!”

“Their grasp of potions is borderline nonexistent, like your understanding of a woman’s body, golden girl. So, yes: I am teaching,” said Pansy, smirking. Hermione’s eyes decided to look at the back of her skull as the Slytherin sucked at that treacherous point in her neck, while her finger started circling her nipple, as if waiting for the perfect moment to claim its prize and make her lose all rationality. “I’m teaching you.”

Hermione covered her eyes with her arm, trying to even her ragged breaths. “Minerva is going to kill us both.”

“Way to sour the mood, golden girl. Invoking the Headmistress’s name while yours truly is showering you with more affection than you’ve seen in years,” chastised Pansy, licking her throat from the base until her lips were again on her jaw. “You’re such a killjoy.”

“I’m a responsible killjoy, mind you,” she replied, biting her lip to stop the moan from breaking out. And, strangely, succeeding.

Pansy hummed again. “Shame, though. If you just let go of the ‘kill’ part, I’d make sure to bring you ‘joy’ in a couple of minutes.”

Hermione tried to resist the offer. She tried bargaining with herself; just a moment or two of indulgence wouldn’t actually kill someone.

As if sensing her hesitation, Pansy got up, resting all her weight on Hermione’s body. Hips against hips, stomach against stomach, chest against chest. Thighs intertwined. The Slytherin’s elbows were on either side of her head.

No, they had to get up. They had to talk. They had to—Pansy’s leg, the one in between her own, pressed down slightly.

Bargaining? Out of the question.

Hermione was hungry.

Her hands found Pansy’s waist and clasped it, letting one of them explore under the Slytherin’s shirt and rake her nails on her lower back.

“Oh, the cub’s got claws,” purred Pansy with a smirk, hovering just above her. “How amusing.”

Boiling. With desire and rage. She locked away the voice that told her about the consequences, about how reckless she was being. Not important, as long as she was being pinned down and ravaged by a certain green witch. Hermione simmered. The Slytherin wanted to play? Fine, the Gryffindor would play.

She pushed Pansy back, rolling them on the bed. The one on top became the one below, and Hermione hovered over her. Knees digging into the mattress, on either side of the Slytherin, the Gryffindor grabbed both her wrists and pinned them down next to her head.

Pansy hissed, pulling up her mouth to torture Hermione’s neck. Her teeth sank into her, and the Slytherin sucked.

The Gryffindor almost let go of her hands when the combined sensation hit her: the tongue, the bite, the lips. Her knees almost buckled, but she managed to hold Pansy down.

“Oh, the hatchling's got fangs,” hummed Hermione, nails digging into soft wrist skin as the witch’s mouth refused to let go of her neck. “How charming. Tell me, Princess… is it a fetish for you? My throat, I mean. You—Merlin—go for it as if you’ve been starved.”

Pansy stopped lapping at her skin, and Hermione protested. Internally. “Trust me, golden girl. You’ve not seen me starving yet.”

Hermione smirked. “Oh, you’re right. Silly me… Want to bet how much time until I do?” she whispered, letting go of one of Pansy’s wrists so her fingers could travel down her body. She pinned it back quickly with her other hand. The Slytherin was pinned, and the Gryffindor had five fingers to spare. She lazily caressed her jaw. “Gorgeous.” Then her shoulder, dodging her chest and finding the hem of her shirt. Pulling it up until it rested on Pansy’s elbows, above her head.

Dark green, low-cut bra. Hermione bit her lower lip at the sight, and her hand froze, hovering over the cup for a beat.

“Golden girl…” she warned her, with a deep voice that made her shiver. But she didn’t stop. How could she, when her bra’s hook was not at her back… but right in front of her, in the middle of her chest?

Slowly, leisurely, she reached for it. She looked at Pansy, not really asking for permission… but checking if this was okay. A slight nod. Aside from that, the Slytherin didn’t move or flinch when her fingers tugged gently at the hook. And neither did she as Hermione unclasped it, leaving her bare waist-up before her eyes.

“Enjoying the view?” purred Pansy, twitching when the Gryffindor’s hand cupped one of her breasts.

Hermione didn’t know what she was doing because she’d never done it. But she knew what she enjoyed more than anything. So that’s what she tried to do: find what she liked in someone else, and letting the breaths, the sounds and the shifts in Pansy betray if she was doing well… or outstanding.

She kissed her way down Pansy’s neck and torso, in a straight line and ignoring her breasts. It tasted like honey, and Hermione’s heartbeat hummed with the taste. She was really doing that. She was alive, and Pansy was with her. She was under her, squirming and trying not to beg for her kiss.

When Hermione reached her navel, she looked up and found Pansy’s glazed eyes digging holes into her skull.

“Teaser much, huh? Don’t worry, I’ll repay the favour,” whispered the Slytherin, gripping the bed sheets for dear life as Hermione’s teeth grazed the lower part of her left breast for a beat, and then moved again towards the centre. Pansy’s gaze was fixed on her mouth, more intent on watching than interrupting.

“In a rush, Princess?” she bit back, both with words and fangs.

Then she went back to her left breast, eating and sucking the skin until she reached her nipple. Her tongue traced one circle around it, and Pansy’s back arched.

She repeated the same motion once, twice, thrice… while her free hand drew patterns on Pansy’s stomach. Hermione felt the witch’s muscles tensing beneath her touch, and she decided to take pity on her. She finally sucked the nipple into her mouth and heard the low moan reverberating in Pansy’s throat.

“Golden girl, I’ll go mad if you keep edging me on like that.”

Hermione smirked. Pansy had no idea how right she was… yet.

The Gryffindor clicked her tongue on her skin, and the Slytherin screamed. “Was that a beg, Princess?”

Pansy gasped, torn between admitting what Hermione already knew the truth to be or denying it to cling to her pride. “Never, golden girl.”

Pansy’s hands flexed under her grip, but she didn’t pull away. Not really. Not enough to break free.

“Well then, I suppose… ‘no hex, no foul’, right?” she asked, letting go of Pansy’s wrists. The Slytherin lost no time getting rid of both her bra and her shirt completely, before one of her newly freed hands went to Hermione’s nape and pressed it down, making her mouth crash harder on her breast. Pansy groaned.

She had such a beautiful, unravelling voice, so deep and so hers. A shiver went down the Gryffindor’s spine when she heard the low moan, the sounds escaping that mouth that she had yet to kiss that morning.

She smirked and allowed her to squirm for a minute, in which her sole purpose was that perked nipple. Biting, scraping, grazing, licking, sucking.

“Who taught you to do that?” breathed Pansy, and Hermione was thrilled to hear the jealousy in her voice, low and dangerous.

She didn’t answer, just started lowering herself more, her lips tracing her skin as if their lives depended on it. Her sanity certainly seemed to.

“Bear in mind I could’ve done this much sooner, but I decided to give you some leeway, golden girl,” she said, her fingers tugging at the Gryffindor’s hair. Her voice dropped, teasing, and Hermione looked up to find her smirking. “Bracketing my legs was a bold move, love. It gives me all the space in the world to do… this,” she purred, pushing her leg up and pressing between Hermione’s. She groaned against the navel, her knees failing her. She fell on top of Pansy, breathless for a beat. “That’s what I thought.”

The Gryffindor was barely breathing, feeling the heat everywhere. That wasn’t the plan. The plan was to lead the Slytherin on and then pull away. Just to prove she could, to demonstrate she would not be teased all the time. She was allowed to tease back.

To do that, she had to stick to the plan.

So she slid off the mattress, knelt on the floor, and yanked Pansy’s legs until they hung over the side of the bed. “Up,” she demanded with a wicked grin. And the witch? Obeyed, like a little lamb. She raised her legs, and Hermione pulled down her pants, but left her knickers in place. Her mouth attached itself to the Slytherin’s inner thigh, kissing it hungrily.

“Again, golden girl. Who taught you that?” she inquired, looking at her with her head tilted. She was lying back, propped up by her elbows. Rays of golden sunshine illuminated her skin in straps on her lower stomach. Hermione traced them with her fingers, feeling her shiver on her fingertips.

The Gryffindor sucked at her thigh, and Pansy’s head lolled back while her hips jerked forward.

That was the plan. So she stood up, smoothing out the folds in her clothes. “There. That’s you starved, Princess,” she purred. “Have I seen you yet, love? Famished would be the accurate description. Although ‘a mess’ comes as a close second—not like you, who didn’t.” She bent down slightly, so her nails could rake Pansy’s stomach in slow movements. “I warned you: I am a killjoy.”

She got up with a smile and walked away to her trunk, carefully opening it to put on some fresh clothes.

Pansy was still sprawled on her bed, not caring to hide her body at all. Her arm draped across her face, and Hermione took the opportunity to admire the mess she had just created. Pansy was flushed, both legs clamped together and fighting for breath. “Fuck you, Hermione.”

The Gryffindor smiled, turning around to face the mess that had been and still was Pansy Parkinson under her. “Time and place, Princess?”

She saw her throat working as she swallowed, gulping hard. “You’ll pay for this, golden girl. Tonight, you’ll pay.”

“We shall see, Princess. And don’t you dare try to take care of that heat on your own. That’s my job for later,” she hummed, pecking her temple.

Hermione laughed before darting into the loo and leaving Pansy lying on her bed. She was fuming, bare—except for her lovely green knickers—and on the brink of something more, something that Hermione had built up and then denied. Yes, that should teach her a lesson: if you play with a lioness, you’d better be ready to get bitten.

The bell toll announced it was ten o’clock. A little late for breakfast, just in time for confessions after the not-released… tension.

“Brush your teeth, Princess,” she said, not caring to hide the smugness in her voice. “Maybe then I’ll give you a proper good-morning kiss. And get dressed, we do have to talk.”

Pansy got up and glided towards their shared door. Before opening it, she studied Hermione. The Gryffindor was already focused on brushing her teeth, but something in her shifted when she noticed Pansy’s narrowed eyes on her.

“Enjoy that little win, golden girl. Trust me when I tell you I won’t let you have another in a long, long time,” she said, her voice low.

A shiver went down Hermione’s spine, but she was careful not to show it. And yet, it seemed that Pansy knew. “Bite me, Princess.”

Her reply was a lewd smirk. “Oh, I will. Tonight, and everywhere. You might be a lioness, golden girl, but you’re still a cub… and you just decided to jump into a snake pit. I just hope you and your legs are ready for retaliation.”

Before Hermione could answer, the door opened and Pansy glided through, leaving her alone and feeling like her win was only a mirage.

It wasn’t.

Wasn’t it?

“Let me get this straight.” Hermione and Pansy were alone in the Great Hall, eating a late breakfast at half past ten as if it were the most common thing in the world. Alone, since everyone else was already either learning or teaching.

“I’m lots of things, golden girl. Straight is not one of them,” she smirked. Hermione ignored her.

“You came back yesterday. Went to Minerva’s office, spoke to her at length about what happened. Then crossed paths with Hannah, Neville and Harry, and you regurgitated the tale again. But when you came to me, you were too tired to tell me what happened to you?”

“In my defence, your tongue kept mine occupied in ways theirs did not,” replied Pansy, resting her hand casually on Hermione’s thigh. “Besides, what did you expect me to do? Go directly to your room and then leave you alone to speak with my boss? I thought you, of all people, would appreciate my thorough will to follow the real chain of command.”

“I do!” she growled, squirming as Pansy’s hand travelled higher on her thigh, too close to where Hermione wanted it and begged it not to be. At least, not in the Great Hall. She crossed her legs, trapping it. “And I hate me and you both for it.”

“Hate is such a strong word, isn’t it?” she smirked, leaning in, a wicked light shining in her eyes, and fingers kneading the soft skin of her inner thigh through her robes. Hermione almost choked on her cinnamon tea, but kept her cool. “Besides, it didn’t seem like it this morning, when your mouth was—”

Hermione blushed, and her throat closed. “Pansy!”

“What? If your room weren’t enchanted, someone would’ve heard us. I bet you didn’t think of that as you ravished me, did you? I did, by the way. Not that we’re keeping count, but… just in case you want to,” she whispered. Pansy grabbed an apple from Hermione’s plate. A Red Delicious. She took a bite, licking the juice from her lower lip, deliberately tracing every inch of her pink mouth, before it could fall down her chin. Hermione mimicked her tongue’s movement before she could catch herself, and Pansy hummed, delighted. “So, really… there’s no need for such theatrics. Everyone knows Hannah and Neville shag, and no one bats an eye. And we didn’t shag, so—”

“That’s different!” she yelled, smacking the hand on her thigh away. “They’re married!”

“Are you proposing? Second time I get to see you on your knees for little old me today, golden girl. Not that I’m complaining.” Pansy tilted her head and stood up. Her robes shifted, exposing her collarbone, and Hermione’s eyes fell prey to the sight. “Hold on a second, I need to get my rings off so there’s space for yours…”

Hermione shook her head, getting out of that trance, the lust-fuelled train her thoughts had become. “Would you stop and spill?”

“I tried earlier and you took that away from me, love,” she replied, sitting back down and placing her hand once again on Hermione’s leg. “Mouth on thigh was close, though. ‘A’ for effort, ‘D’ for ability to actually follow through.”

“Pansy.”

“Killjoy,” she whispered with a pout. The Slytherin was edging her on verbally, fully on purpose. The worst part? It was working all too well. And that bloody pout screamed to be erased by Hermione’s lips. The Gryffindor breathed slowly. “Fine, I won’t tease you for half an hour, until I’m done with yesterday’s recap of events. But, after that… nothing will be a haven for you, golden girl.”

Hermione leaned back against the chair, arms crossed, watching the slight smirk curl across Pansy’s mouth.

“Let me make sure I understood it all,” she began, tone brisk, almost like she was delivering a report for the Wizengamot rather than having a conversation. “You’ve not only outwitted a Legilimens and the most cunning woman you’ve ever met—who, incidentally, also happen to be your parents—, but also brewed a potions solution so advanced it saved my life, which no known Healer or textbook method could have managed.” Her eyes narrowed, though a trace of awe slipped in. “And, while doing all that, you somehow kept every single one of our friends safe by binding yourself to an Unbreakable Vow with the sole purpose of reverse-engineering a cure for a disease with a literal zero-per cent survival rate?” Hermione paused, letting the incredulity sharpen each syllable. “Do you have any idea how absurd that sounds? And yet…” She tilted her head toward the infuriatingly composed witch. “Here we are.”

That was an impossible feat. Nonetheless, all evidence proved that the peak had been conquered by none other than a very smug-looking Slytherin.

Pansy tipped her head, lips twitching. “Pretty much, yeah.” Her gaze swept Hermione up and down, lazy and deliberate. “Good way of summarising it all, golden girl. Are you perchance the first in your class?”

Hermione arched a brow, ignoring the jab even as heat prickled at her neck. “And then you explained everything to Narcissa Malfoy…” She paused, noting the faint lift of Pansy’s chin. “She sharpened your initial plan to keep you safe, while making sure you were upholding your part of the deal. We have to talk about your vows, but, in the grand scheme of things… everything is under control, and you’re safe.”

“Well, yeah.” Pansy’s shrug was almost elegant.

“When your house elf—”

“Effie is a free elf, Hermione. She’s not mine,” she corrected her. Not with bite, or snark. Just stating something obvious.

Hermione’s hand twitched. The words landed like a pebble in still water, the ripples hitting her in places she didn’t expect. She recalled old speeches in the Gryffindor common room, stacks of S.P.E.W. pamphlets nobody had read, the sting of ridicule when she’d cared too much and spoken too loudly. How later the movement had made progress when she became Senior Undersecretary, two years ago… but never fully settled.

And now here was Pansy—Pansy, of all people. Parkinson’s, pure-blood heir—saying it as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

She’d spent years shouting this truth into empty rooms… and Pansy had dropped it like weather. Circe, help her. She wanted to savour the moment. And savour the woman who’d just given it to her. “I want to kiss you so bad right now.”

A slow, wicked smile spread across Pansy’s face. “Don’t stop on my account.”

“I’m stopping on mine or we won’t ever be able to have a conversation,” she replied, rubbing her temples as if that could hold back the blush prickling her skin. “So, after Effie brought you back here, you went straight to Minerva and explained everything. And she gave you a day off.”

“Precisely.” Pansy leaned in, the faintest whiff of her honeyed perfume curling around them. “Which is why, since having a day off means you do too, spending it in the castle seems like a poor choice. And, just so we’re clear…” Her eyes glinted. “Your thirty teasing-free minutes are up.”

Hermione exhaled slowly, putting back some distance between them. “Actually, it’s not that bad, staying here. Not with the Cleansers’ threat. And this way we can enjoy a relaxing day.” She got up from her seat and offered her hand to Pansy. “Let me show you something…”

Pansy’s laugh was low and dangerous. She took Hermione’s hand and yanked, pulling her close so her lips brushed Hermione’s ear. Her voice dropped, rich and lethal. “I swear, if you take me to the Library, golden girl, I’ll pin you to the dusty shelves for everyone to see. Arms above your head, legs just far enough apart…” She leaned in closer, a sly, cutting edge in her tone. “I’ll make you remember why a little and inexperienced cub like you should not play with a snake like me.” Her tongue traced Hermione’s ear shell, sending a shock down her spine. Her voice sank to a purr. “I’ll shag you against the racks so hard the books rattle. I’ll make you come once, twice, so many times you lose count and beg for it to be over. I’ll make you scream until Madam Pince throws us out. And then I’ll do it again, on every surface in your room.”

Hermione’s pulse thudded hard enough that she was sure Pansy could hear it. Her hand, in between the Slytherin’s fingers, was trembling. “Tempting as that punishment is, Princess,” she said, lifting her chin and refusing to clamp her thighs together, despite the obvious pull of her own body to do so. “I had another room in mind.”

Pansy tilted her head, her perfectly arched brow lifting as she strolled beside Hermione, one manicured finger tracing lazily along the cold stone wall. “You’re telling me that this recommended—”

“The Room of Requirement,” supplied Hermione, without slowing her brisk pace.

“Whatever. This… Room has been here all along.” Pansy’s voice dripped curiosity, gaze lingering long enough for Hermione to notice. She kept her own eyes locked forward, telling herself it was better not to give Pansy the satisfaction.

“Yes.”

Pansy edged closer, her shoulder brushing Hermione’s sleeve. A deliberate and tiny contact, but enough to send a faint spark racing down her arm. “And it morphs into whatever the person needs in that moment?”

“Yes. A bathroom, a closet… the DA’s secret headquarters,” she replied. Hermione’s mouth tugged at the corner before she could stop it. Fifth-year memories rose unbidden: battles, secrecy, firelight, teaching lessons, clandestine duels… Who would’ve thought she would be leading Pansy Parkinson here now, and not for anything remotely as innocent…? Movie and wine, but still. Not exactly ‘for educational purposes’.

The corner of Pansy’s mouth curved upward. “A sex dungeon?” Her voice was low, the suggestion barely louder than the torch crackle.

Hermione didn’t turn, but she heard the flicker of amusement under the words. “Probably, though I never tried that,” she replied, keeping her voice flat… though she felt the tug of a smile at the corners of her lips.

“So, all those times Draco and I fooled around, we could’ve just shagged in peace here?”

Hermione froze mid-step, blinking at her. “You’ve slept with Malfoy? No, scratch that. You’ve slept with men?” Why was she jealous? Shouldn’t Hermione be jealous of the countless women Pansy had slept with, and not of the prick whose greatest achievement to date had been having a pure-blood surname and a fortune?

And shagging Pansy, apparently.

Hermione clenched her jaw, and Pansy’s smirk widened. “What, golden girl? Did you think you were the only one?”

“Why did you? I did it because I enjoyed it. I do like men, but you don't.”

Pansy shrugged, the silk of her robe shifting against the stone as she leaned back casually. “I didn’t know any better. I was brought up to believe that liking men was the only option, so it was only natural that, as years passed, we took things further.” She clicked her tongue and smiled ruefully. “It was a disaster on so many levels, and not for lack of trying on our part. Not Draco’s fault, though. He was such a sweetheart, mind you. But I… fancy other virtues.”

Hermione crossed her arms, brows narrowing. “Such as?”

The Slytherin’s smile was a wolfish grin. “To be blunt… Cunt, golden girl. For starters.” Pansy’s eyes sparkled, and she said it like she was ordering tea.

Hermione rolled her eyes, even as heat threatened to crawl up her neck. “I meant… what’s your type?”

“Bitchy, brunette, know-it-all. Hot and irresistible.”

“You’re not subtle.”

“Who said I was talking about you?”

“I didn’t, but you clearly thought so.”

Pansy sighed like she’d lost some private bet. “You got me there.” She stepped in close enough for Hermione to feel the faint warmth radiating from her, pressing a single finger to her forehead. Hermione fought the urge to swat it away… or worse: to lean into her gentle touch. “What can I say? I find your mind thrilling.”

Hermione choked. And blinked, not daring to believe she’d heard her right. She knew people praised her brains. But it landed entirely differently when Pansy had said it. Her heart joined her head in losing all sense of function. “My mind? Out of all the things you could’ve picked…”

Pansy nodded slowly, gaze dipping for a heartbeat before returning to Hermione’s eyes. “I’m a sucker for intelligence, golden girl. Sue me. Your mind is one of your best qualities, although you have your fair share of them.” She leaned back against the wall, eyes flicking over Hermione in a way that made her stomach tighten. “And, also, your smart mouth… Always trying to one-up mine. I live for the tease.”

“As long as you control the situation. Otherwise, you despise it.”

“Precisely.”

Hermione stopped in the middle of the hall, boots clicking softly against the flagstones. The torchlight threw long shadows behind her as she stared at the blank wall, jaw tightening.

“Before going into the room, I need to know what you want to do, so it can conjure the exact setting needed,” she explained, turning to face her. “As I see it, we could do two things. One: pretend that this pull between us doesn’t exist and lounge all day, watching movies and sipping wine while laughing and talking. Two: get the tension over with and then do option one.”

Pansy’s lashes lowered, her grin turning feline. “Let’s just enjoy the day, chill on the sofa and criticise old films as snobs who pretend to know better.”

Hermione arched an eyebrow. “Who are you and what have you done with my Princess?”

“I choose to have decorum for once, and this is how you repay my kindness? Fine, golden girl. Wish for a bed so I can wreck you.”

Hermione planted her hand against the wall beside Pansy’s head, leaning in just close enough to watch her pupils widen. “Who says I need a bed, Princess?” She let a small smile play at her lips. “I was just messing with you. Though the prospect isn’t that bad.”

“You want to shag, golden girl?” Pansy bit her lower lip, and for one reckless heartbeat, Hermione imagined leaning in and ending the conversation entirely. “Ask nicely and I’ll consider it.”

“You forget, Princess, that two can play that game.”

Pansy’s voice dropped, rich and deliberate. “By all means, play to your heart’s content. But beware, love: inexperience does take a toll on you, and my self-restraint, ability to tug at your heartstrings and stamina are way above yours.”

Hermione let her thumb brush Pansy’s lower lip before answering, leaning in until there was barely space for air between them. “Or so you say. This morning surely didn’t look like it.”

“Oh, no, golden girl. I’m not surmising, nor betting. I’m just stating a fact.” Pansy stepped in, lips a breath from Hermione’s. That honey-warm scent reached her again, threaded with something sharper. It made her head feel lightweight and lost. “I let you take the lead, and it did blow up in my face later.” Her knuckles caressed Hermione’s cheek. “I could’ve switched things, but I just chose not to: it made an interesting perspective.”

“Enlighten me, oh all-knowing goddess of women on women sex,” said Hermione, rolling her eyes. And yet, her spine was locked, as if her body was sensing the truth behind Pansy’s words.

“Teasing you back is so easy, I hardly have to even try,” she continued. “You tremble, and buckle, and arch on reflex: you’d be putty in my hands if I wished it, but I enjoy a challenge.

“What was in it for you, anyway? You ended up getting denied, Princess,” she recalled, arching an eyebrow at her.

“For me? Just seeing how far you were willing to go. To be there the first time you were trying to top a woman…? Trying to top me? That I had to see. You did not disappoint, but…” Her smirk deepened. “As I’ve said, practice does wonders. And you don’t have that.”

Hermione leaned in, her lips grazing Pansy’s—then pushed her palm harder against the wall, swinging open the newly formed door behind her.

Pansy stumbled back, but Hermione’s hand shot to her waist, steadying her before she could kiss the floor.

“Well…” Hermione allowed herself the faintest smirk. “Welcome to the Room’s version of a speakeasy. Welcome to sin with wine and whispers, Princess. No bed… but we shouldn’t need one, should we?”

Chapter Text

Hermione held her close, but Pansy was forced to turn around. The golden girl’s lips were close to her ear, and she refused to show how much that affected her.

“Ever been to one, Princess?”

She smirked. “You wouldn’t believe the places I’ve set foot into, golden girl.”

All bravado, but nothing to back it up, really. Muggle clubs? They could be counted by hundreds. But this retro-last-century place? No, she hadn’t.

First time for everything, ain’t it? Getting wrecked this morning? Check. Verbally edging a certain witch until she goes mad? Work in progress. Discovering what a speakeasy is? About to happen. Making sure Hermione knows who’s in charge? Saved for later, she thought. Then, a smile tugged at the corner of her lips. Oh, and the golden girl’s first time sleeping—really sleeping—with a woman… I’ll take care of that too. Question is… does she like it gentle or rough?

Heat pooled at her stomach, but she ignored it. She would address it later, and the satisfaction would be… exponential.

Pansy crossed the threshold of that wavering door, untangling herself from Hermione’s hands. She knew she followed, because the door creaked as it shut.

Inside, the air shifted. The sharp bite of gin and cigarette smoke wrapped around her like a familiar coat, muffling the chill from outside. Low light pooled in amber pockets over small round tables, each crowded with glasses sweating condensation. Somewhere in the corner, a trumpet wailed, warm and lazy, the kind of sound that made people forget the world had rules.

It was a whole speakeasy, with all its dim lights, the harsh smells, the soothing sounds… but just for two.

The bar stretched long and narrow, all dark mahogany and polished brass, its surface reflecting the glint of bottles lined like soldiers… except these soldiers wore silken labels and promised sin instead of salvation.

“Wine or cocktail, Princess?” asked Hermione, going behind the bar, her voice curling through the smoke, sweet and dangerous as the liquor being poured in her glass.

It wasn’t just a room. It was a confession booth without a priest. And Pansy had been a sinner long before she stepped into the den.

“Since you’re starting with gin for yourself, golden girl… keep the liquor flowing.” She replied, a smug grin plastered on her otherwise calm face. “I have a feeling you’re going to need the courage.”

Hermione took a sip of her Martini. Slowly, deliberately. Keeping her eyes focused on Pansy as she did. Subtly licking her lips afterwards.

Pansy did enjoy the challenge. A lot. But she hadn’t expected Hermione to be so… intense and teasing. She thought of her as someone wicked on the surface, pushing for control, but easily breakable as things got more serious. As fire that turned to embers if Pansy blew it off.

She was thrilled to be proven wrong.

“Careful, golden girl. This alcohol is top-shelf… You better not waste a single drop,” she warned, turning around and walking to the nearest low table, swaying her hips ever-so-slightly. She didn’t need to look back to know where Hermione’s eyes were glued. After she sat down, lounging on the brown leather Chesterfield sofa, her eyes glinted for a second. She raised her glass as an invitation. “Are you going to join me, or should I find ways to entertain myself?”

Pansy heard the soft clicks of her boots following the same route she had walked. But Hermione, instead of sitting right next to her—very obvious, lied back, outstretched and inviting—body, chose to rest on the chaise lounge in front of her.

Pansy bit her lip when the Gryffindor passed by her, brushing her cheek with her sleeve.

Books and rain. Maybe a trace of mint. Never thought that this scent would make me go as feral as it does. Does she feel the same when I’m close? Does her breath hitch, her lips smile when she tastes it on my skin? Or is it just me?

“Your brow is furrowed,” she said. “Something wrong?”

“Nothing, really. Ramblings of lust and revelations of sex,” smirked Pansy, covering up that vulnerable thought with snark.

Hermione regarded her for a beat, as if she intended to push the subject… before letting it all go. “Can we… talk? Not about the world, or the threats we’ve faced. About us.”

Pansy pursed her lips. “If soothes your mind, fire away. I’m an open book… and I might even open my legs for you if you beg enough.”

A smile spread across Hermione’s face. But it wasn’t lustful or lewd. Just… sincere. “What changed, Pansy? We did kiss that night, and you pulled away when I asked you for more. I know you care enough to try—You literally put your life on the line for mine. But I want to know… why?”

She bit the inside of her cheek. Then took a sip from her glass, the gin tasting like regret. “I don’t know. Genuinely. I got tired of denying what I wanted, and that was you. Maybe it happened when I saw you on death’s door, or when I fled and couldn’t find solace anywhere.” The sofa creaked as she shifted slightly. The leather sticking to her skin protested when her legs came up, so she could rest her chin on her knees. “I just… decided you were worth it. That maybe getting hurt by this would be a price I was willing to pay, knowing I could spend time with you.”

“That’s awfully cheesy of you, Parkinson,” she replied, shifting her tone towards a dangerous edge. Pansy looked at her, astounded. I’ve just decided to bare my feelings, and that’s what kind, loving Hermione does with them? No more heart-to-heart conversations then. Pansy thought she was done teasing, but she was wrong as the next question hung in the air between them. “Where’s the bite? The double meaning? The innuendo?”

“Sod off, Granger.” Pansy rolled her eyes and lounged back on the chesterfield sofa, all vulnerability gone and leaving behind the familiar tug of banter.

“Nice pick of words, not using the ‘fuck you’, Princess. You know how easily that riles you up,” she bit, smirk and confidence bleeding from her every gesture. “But, jokes aside… I’m glad you are opening yourself up. When you said you couldn’t love yourself… Merlin, Pansy.” Hermione got up from her chaise longue and took a couple of steps in her direction. “I wanted to hold you forever, because you are worth loving. As a friend, as a teacher… as a person. And I’m sorry if someone made you feel otherwise. If I made you feel that way ever.”

Pansy moved aside so Hermione could sit with her. She was stretched over the chesterfield, and the Gryffindor perched on its edge, right next to her waist. “Look at you, being so soft now. But I thought we agreed on stop apologising, so… Let it go, golden girl. We’re fine, and this last couple of days taught me a lot in self-care, believe it or not,” she said, looking up at her. How the dim light shone on Hermione’s face, the shadows dancing on her cheeks. The curve of her jaw, her neck tensing—Merlin, that neck was Pansy’s weakness if she ever had one. More than her lips, or even her waist or her… Keep calm, you’re better than this. She’s the banquet, but don’t you dare let her see you begging to eat, bitch. You take, you don’t ask, don’t you? Start acting like it. “You baffle me, golden girl. Assertive and blunt, but caring. How do you manage that?”

“Same as you: years of practice and experience,” she replied, taking another sip from her almost empty Martini. She carefully put the glass down, picking up the toothpick that rested inside the cocktail. “I would offer to teach you, but I find your personality weirdly attractive.”

Pansy arched an eyebrow. “If something works, don’t touch it?”

Hermione smirked. “Are you hinting at something?” she bit, tilting her head to look down at her. “I thought you craved my touch, Princess.” She popped the toothpick’s olive in her mouth, her lips forming a perfect ‘o’ that sent Pansy’s insides directly to hell. Not fire, not hot, not scorching. Hell.

“You’re so full of yourself, golden girl,” she replied, rolling her eyes as a mask for what she was truly feeling. “How are you so confident? You’re out of your depth, and yet you act as if you were the wisest person in the room.”

Hermione’s hand reached for Pansy’s waist, pulling her shirt up a bit. She started tracing feather-light patterns on her skin with the tip of her toothpick. “I’m nothing if not a quick learner.”

Pansy shook her head in disbelief. “Really? Enlighten me: what have you learnt so far?”

“You act all tough, but melt if your buttons are pushed exactly how you like. You enjoy the teasing at least as much as the shagging itself.” The toothpick got replaced by Hermione’s fingertips as she spoke, her voice even, controlled. As if she were reciting her grocery list, and not Pansy’s undoing tells. “You lend control, but try to always keep the upper hand. You enjoy watching other people trying to outsmart you, and failing at it.” Hermione leaned in and licked her lips while her eyes searched Pansy’s face.

I’m mentally naked. The way she looks at me makes me feel like I am. I know I’m not, and that, if I really wanted to, she would be the one on the edge. But there’s something about this that’s addicting.

“You,” continued Hermione, “Have a kink for exhibitionism and praise. You like filthy threats and get a rush from being denied and denying.” As Hermione kept talking, Pansy’s hand reached up to tuck a rebel strand of curly hair behind her ear. “You like to show off how much power you have.”

Hermione’s hand grabbed her lifted wrist, pulling it towards her mouth. She bit the tip of Pansy’s finger, and her traitor of a throat gulped without the Slytherin’s permission. The Gryffindor’s tongue soothed the bite, and Pansy almost passed out. It was taking all in her not to show this cub what she could really do. How she could break her, edge her, make her beg.

“You’re constantly holding back your need to throw me against something, anything, and have your way with me…” she went on. “Because you enjoy the tension, and all the ways I get under your skin.” Hermione’s fingers were no longer playing at her navel, but creeping slowly up, nails leaving red traces of all the places she was raking. “You groan when my mouth is playing with your nipple as if I were breaching you, breaking an oath you made to yourself.” Hermione kissed her wrist, tugging at her arm and leaving a trace of kisses until she reached her shoulder. Then she bit it, and a shudder went down Pansy’s spine. “You go feral when I moan, and you love to hear your name on my lips. Not ‘Princess’, but ‘Pansy’, although I have yet to give you that satisfaction.”

She’s prodding me until I snap. She wants me to snap, she thought. Well, I won’t give her the satisfaction of retaliating. Not yet, at least. She’ll have to work harder for it, and when I do snap… Merlin… help her.

“Quite the list you have there, golden girl,” she replied, ignoring all the places where her skin was being touched, caressed, bitten, licked. Pansy studied her nails lazily, as if she was completely unbothered by all of it. Which was far from the case, as her legs begged to be crossed and her heart was preparing for battle. “Care to hear mine on you?”

“No, not really. I like to be kept on my toes, and knowing my tells would be a disaster begging to happen,” she replied, her nose brushing Pansy’s crook.

“Self-awareness as an armour? Can’t say I’ve seen this one before.”

Don’t swallow. Don’t swallow or she’ll notice and I won’t hear the end of it. Keep being composed; it drives her mad. Play her, Pansy. Fucking play her, tug at her unknowing desires.

“Don’t you ever get tired, Princess?”

Pansy let her head loll back a bit when Hermione’s lips started kissing her neck upwards. Baring her throat on purpose, a controlled motion that, to everyone else, might’ve screamed ‘surrender’. Not to her, who knew exactly how much she was inclining it back, and pondering for how long. “Of what?” she asked, her even voice as a shield that betrayed nothing.

“Talking too much,” clarified Hermione, humming against her pulse point.

Let her come to you. Force her to meet you on your terms. Goad her.

Pansy’s laugh echoed in her throat, clear and inviting. “Then, shut me up.”

My, my… How sweet victory tastes.

And Hermione, unaware of Pansy’s smirk and intentions, obeyed.

Again, Hermione kissing her.

Her lips are so soft.

Again, Hermione on top of her.

Her weight sits perfectly on me.

Again, Hermione was sure she was the one in control.

Sweet summer child, she has no idea.

Again, Hermione trying to dictate the tempo.

This feels good. Then again, it will feel better when I’m feeling her up.

Pansy indulged her because it was fun. When Hermione’s hungry mouth crashed against hers, she willingly parted her lips. When Hermione’s hands roamed her body, she let them explore. When Hermione’s legs straddled her, she tugged her closer.

But when Hermione’s fingers started lifting her shirt, she grabbed her wrist.

Not again, not this time.

Pansy was fine with letting Hermione stay in control… for a short beat. But getting naked again, just to be teased mercilessly by her?

No, that won’t do. As much as I enjoy her, now it’s my turn to play.

Her hand shot up and grabbed Hermione’s neck, pushing her backwards. “It seems you had the wrong idea, golden girl,” whispered Pansy, forcing the other witch off her and pressing her until she was lying down on the chesterfield’s soft leather. The Slytherin grinned as she placed herself on top, never releasing her grip on that throat. “Who gave you permission to undress me?”

“Do I need permission to make you feel good, Princess?” she smirked.

Pansy squinted, and her hold on Hermione’s neck tightened, extracting a choked sound from the witch beneath her. “It looks like you think we’re on the same level, love,” she whispered, lowering down and breathing the same air as her. “Let me prove to you how wrong you are.” She kissed her hard, coaxing her lips open. Pansy seized her mouth fully, her tongue pressing forward in fierce, claiming strokes that left Hermione reeling. The Gryffindor was chasing the tempo, breathless, always a beat behind.

Time stretched and snapped all at once. Seconds bled into minutes, then vanished in an instant. Pansy finally drew back, leaving Hermione gasping for air, her mouth agape.

Did I break her? So easily?

“No clever retort, no bite? My, my, golden girl… That was just a simple kiss. What will happen when I get rid of all these clothes? When I’m kissing not just your mouth, but your neck?” Pansy’s fingers traced the pace she was describing, enjoying every little one of Hermione’s shivers. “Or lower…”

“You wouldn’t shatter me,” she hissed, her hands twitching at her sides, trying to grab the smooth leather… And failing, her fingers just slipping on the surface.

Oh, I absolutely would if I wanted to, golden girl. You have no idea.

“Trying to hold on to something, love?” she smirked, her finger tracing Hermione’s neck in a shameless caress until it reached her shirt’s collar. “I told you. You have so many tells, and not enough stamina to challenge me.” Pansy tugged at her V band and let go.

“Do I now?” she replied, grinning. Pansy was tired of her banter because she was hungry for more, but that seemed to go unnoticed by the Gryffindor. “So far, I think you overestimate your capabili—”

Pansy’s hand jerked, pulling Hermione up by the collar until their noses were touching. She let her weight rest comfortably on top of Hermione’s hips… and then she rolled hers.

Once.

Hermione, to her credit, didn’t make a sound. Probably because she had wisely chosen to keep her mouth shut by biting her lower lip. Pansy smirked and pecked her. “Tell me, golden girl: How does it feel, being so powerless?”

Hermione gulped before answering. “You tell me, this morning you were—”

Pansy rolled her hips again on top of her, and Hermione’s eyes took a detour to the sky. “Don’t be daft, love. It doesn’t suit you… And you’re very aware that I might’ve been surprised, but not as powerless as you’re right now.” The Gryffindor hissed when Pansy’s hand pulled her shirt over her head. The Slytherin smiled, amused. “Stop baring your teeth, golden girl. You’ve got no bite left. Bare your neck instead, and I might be inclined to show you mercy.”

Hermione did try to look composed, but her shivering, the way her body moved reaching for her touch and pulling away—it was so easy to read, too easy to exploit. “Wouldn’t you like that, Princess…? Work for it.”

“There seems to be a misunderstanding again, golden girl.” Pansy grabbed her chin, forcing her to look up while pushing her back down on the sofa. “I don’t ‘work for’, I ‘get offered’. But since you seem inclined to defy me, I think it’s about time I really teach you a lesson.” Her fingers tugged at Hermione’s bra strap, sliding it down her shoulder. “Just this once, and just because you’ve never been with a woman, I’ll let you choose,” she whispered, getting rid of the other band. “Gentle—” Pansy’s fingertips caressed the upper part of Hermione’s breasts, the part that wasn’t covered by the thin bra. “—or rough?” The caress turned into a scratch, nails digging in.

Pansy’s prize was a whimper so undignified, her own bones reacted as if they were being called to melt. She didn’t let it show, though.

“Judging by your… reactions, love… rough it is,” she sentenced.

Hermione’s bra wasn’t like hers, with the hook at the front. But it didn’t matter, because without the straps, she just had to tug the cup… down.

Pansy's mouth fell agape. She had touched them that night at Hogsmeade, but this... this was different. Watching them, staring at them with no rush…

Oh my—Get a grip. Get a grip, get a fucking grip! You’ve seen tits before, Pansy! The fact that these are hers shouldn’t… won’t… agh!

Hermione’s breasts rose and fell with each ragged breath, soft curves that glued Pansy’s attention to them like a moth to the flame.

She snapped out of it and cupped one with hesitation.

She has no right to be this perfect. This messed-up pinnacle of beauty and sensual presence.

It pressed against her palm, warm and pliant, the soft weight fitting perfectly in her hand. Her thumb brushed over the peak, and she gasped as it tightened beneath her touch.

Hermione’s hand hit the soft leather with a thump as Pansy traced her nipple again and again.

And the Slytherin smiled like a snake baring its fangs, warning that the worst was not the bite… but the venom that lingered. “I’ll let you in on a secret, golden girl. Remember what you did to me this morning? The way you tortured my neck, my chest…?” Pansy twitched her fingers at her nipple, twisting it a bit. And the moan that followed… Gods, her low, incoherent moan, made Pansy’s knickers wet. “I know that’s what you like. What you dream about being done to you, because you fuelled your actions by your past experiences to cover up for your naivete.”

It was clear that Hermione wanted to bite back, but she had no voice left. Not between her moans, her whimpers and her gulps. Not as Pansy claimed her mouth once more, adding a second hand to shower with caresses her very unattended right breast.

Do I go for the kill, or do I drag it out?

Hermione buckled beneath her, her mouth barely capable of following Pansy’s relentless pace. “This feels like a monologue, Hermione. Has that fire you so proudly show off finally been snuffed out?” she bit against her lips. Pansy started to find a rhythm: her tongue invading her mouth, her teeth scratching her chin, her hands digging on her breasts, her fingers kneading her nipples. And Hermione found her rhythm too: Moan, squirm, whimper, buckle.

Dragging it out is always the best option.

“Do you feel it now, golden girl?” she asked, her tongue lapping against her collarbone and travelling south. “The difference.”

“Yes,” she breathed, her back arching when Pansy’s lips closed around her perked nipple.

Hermione’s mouth was victory. Her skin was mint. And her breast, heaven.

“Come on, my little lioness cub. Where are your claws now?” she poked. “I thought you said you could match me, Hermione.” Pansy rolled her tongue, and she felt the other witch’s spine arching even more beneath her mouth. She smirked.

I could go on. Go south. Go north. Nestle here. What should I do…? Ah, yes. First, I’ll return the favour.

Pansy drew back, repositioning herself so that her hips were no longer rolling on Hermione’s. Her mouth was still attached to that nipple, while her finger played ruthlessly with the other.

At this point, Hermione was barely hanging on.

Let’s tip the balance.

Pansy’s spare hand flew until it stroked Hermione’s thigh, and her nails raked it as her fingers went up. It didn’t matter that there were clothes in between them, for Hermione was so close to the edge that Pansy didn’t need really skin-to-skin contact to make her go mad.

The Gryffindor crossed her legs, trapping Pansy’s hand. She tutted. “Who gave you permission to do that, golden girl?” Her teeth grazed her nipple. “Open.”

“No.”

Pansy bit down, and Hermione screamed, her legs going limp and granting Pansy access. She rubbed her palm between her thighs, slowly.

That will do.

When she felt Hermione’s legs starting to tremble, her breathing so shallow and loud it could be an animal’s, her stomach tightening beneath her fingers… Pansy stopped.

Deny her like she denied you. Just with more… flair.

And she did, leaving her on the brink of release. Pansy rose and walked back to the bar, feeling like the queen she was. “Did you like that, love?” she smirked. “Wine or Martini?”

Hermione’s breath was still ragged, and her reply was barely a whisper. An exhausted one, at that. “You’re a monster.”

“‘The Monster and the Killjoy’ does have a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?” Pansy poured herself a glass of rosé and walked back to Hermione. She grinned at her flushed cheeks, her rapid breathing, and all the teeth marks that were on her skin. Mine, mine, mine. “That was just the appetiser. Ready for the first course?”

“You’re joking.”

Pansy took a sip from her wine, arching an eyebrow. “I taught you power. Second lesson is stamina, golden girl.” She placed the glass down on the table and started tracing Hermione’s collarbone with her fingertips. “I thought you always sought to be the first in class, love. Don’t you enjoy the thrill of being praised?”

“Not when the teacher is hell-bent on destroying my body!” yelled Hermione, smacking her hand away and adjusting her bra so it covered again her perfect breasts.

I can’t wait to bite them again and taste the desperation on her skin as I do.

Pansy licked her lips. “Don’t make such a fuss, love. Your body is just fine.” Her hand caressed Hermione’s forearm, and she yanked it away from her touch. “Your pride… not so much.”

She scoffed. “Cheeky little minx, wait until…”

The door of the speakeasy burst open in a cloud of smoke, and four silhouettes strolled inside.

There goes my chance to actually fucking Hermione Granger as many times as I want in one go, she thought with a sigh. The witch next to her darted behind the chesterfield, covering her chest with both arms, and she laughed at her sudden shyness.

Behind the smoke, Pansy squinted at the quartet barging in.

One Slytherin, one Gryffindor, two Hufflepuffs.

One nightmare, one wildcard, two innocents.

“Hermione Jean Granger! You’d better have an excuse for—Merlin’s beard! Sorry!” Ginny Weasley’s shouts died in her throat as she saw Hermione’s frame, shirtless and flushed. Her hands shot to Cory and Fiona’s eyes, shielding them from the image. “Children here, you bitches. Cover up!”

“I’m not a child!” protested the Hufflepuff. “I graduated last year!”

Daphne’s laughter echoed on the speakeasy’s walls. “Let them see, Gin,” she said. “It’s not like kids nowadays don’t know what sex looks like. The smell itself still lingers, or maybe it’s just the cigarette smoke. I can’t tell anymore.”

“Again, old hag,” said Fiona through gritted teeth. “It’s not our fault you’re so traumatised by your own age that you refuse to acknowledge the younger grown-ups.”

Daphne tilted her head and then looked at a very calm and composed Pansy. “I like this one. She has… bite.”

“She’s fierce, for a little badger challenging a snake,” agreed Pansy, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. She stopped looking at the quartet for a beat to regard a still very shirtless Hermione. “Love… Put on some clothes, will you? You’re only mine to see.”

“Fuck you, Pansy Parkinson,” she mumbled, getting up to retrieve her discarded shirt from the floor.

“I’ll let you if you behave properly,” she said, smirking. “You four, come here and join us. You’ve already shattered the mood—might as well share some drinks. You too, underlings. Your dear boss is giving you the whole month off… even though it’s only because the shop has been blown up.”

Once Fiona, Ginny, Daphne and Cory were brought up to speed on the whole situation—the Hermione’s-at-death’s-door story, the Pansy’s-Unbreakable-Vow tale, the Cissy-Malfoy’s-intervention and the Minerva-McGonagall’s-vacation-day’s-reward, everything started to follow the familiar path of people loosening up as alcohol flowed.

Hours stretched as they joked, shared fun stories and ate the food that kept appearing on their table when someone was hungry.

Holy fuck, this Room is a blessing. Why didn’t I know it existed until now?

Morning gave way to afternoon, and the drinks, jabs, and laughs kept coming.

“Want to play a little game?” asked Daphne, already sipping from her fifth wine glass. Pansy groaned, her head spinning from the alcohol and the rush of her earlier teasing.

I’m done for, but I refuse to let anyone see that.

“I do,” said Ginny, wrapping an arm around Hermione’s shoulders. “And she’s playing too.”

Pansy let the silence linger for a beat before speaking. “Hard pass. Your games are always a synonym for no decorum, headaches and broken egos.”

Daphne smirked. “Which is exactly why you should be playing, oh mighty Queen of Sin.” Her nails tapped on Pansy’s knee. “Or should I tell dear Granger about that time in Paris when—”

“I’ll play,” she interrupted. “And, since I’m being coerced into this debauchery of a scheme, so will my underlings. If the boss is getting dragged, the employees are too.”

“But I—” tried to say Cory.

“Silence, young man. If you’re not a child—as you told us earlier—, abide by the grown-up’s laws,” chastised Daphne. “The rules are simple: a question is asked, and all of us have to answer it. You can either tell the truth or twist it. If you’re called out and you’re lying, you must tell the real story. And don’t try to dodge the question, because I happen to have Veritaserum on hand and I’m not afraid to force it down your throats. But if you’re accused of being deceitful and you weren’t, then you get to dare the person who called you out to do one thing. Simple enough, ain’t it?” Daphne looked at them, one by one.

This is going to be a disaster.

“I’ll go first,” said Ginny. “Most thrilling shag of your life: when, with who, and where.”

The room seemed to close in on Pansy. Luckily, Daphne answered first, giving her more time to think. “New York, last month. Against the railing of the Empire State Building at midnight. I don’t remember their names, though. She was good with her fingers, and he was… long.”

“Bullshit,” bit Pansy before she could stop herself. When all the eyes turned to look at her, she pursed her lips. “You don’t shag women, Daph. Try to be a little more difficult to read, for fuck’s sake.”

“My bad, then. It was two men, and the rest of the story stands,” she replied, smirking.

“Two men—How—In what posit—Never mind, forget it,” stuttered Cory, shaking his head. Poor little badger, he’s getting flustered so early on. “Carina, seventh-year. In the Potions Classroom, while Slughorn slept in his office.”

“Where, Cory?” inquired Pansy, her voice a low warning growl. “Where have you desecrated my classroom?”

The Hufflepuff recoiled. “I lied! Merlin, it isn’t true! Calm down, boss,” he begged, his eyes opening in fear. “It was with Carina, but in my Common Room while everyone was at an illegal duelling club.”

“You’d better, young man.”

“My turn, I guess,” chirped Ginny with a smile. “Not a secret: Harry, about two years ago. Holyhead Harpies’ locker room, just before my Quidditch final. It wasn’t meant to happen, but… it did.”

“I know for a fact this is true,” said Hermione, shaking her head in disbelief. Her eyes locked on Pansy’s before she spoke again. “Ron, Eighth-year. In the Forbidden Section of the Library.”

Lies. She would never… And Weasley didn’t come back for that year, just after the war. Hermione’s love for the sacred space that the Library represents wouldn’t allow her to… No. Unfathomable.

“That’s a lie,” said Pansy, jealousy bubbling in her throat.

I’ll shag her in there just so she knows what it feels like—

The glint in Hermione’s eyes made Pansy’s thoughts halt. “I guess it’s dare time for you, Princess.”

Daphne leaned in, smirking. “This just got interesting.”

“You let him fuck you against the shelves?” asked Pansy, her voice low, velvety and dangerous.

Hermione grinned before taking a sip from her seventh Martini. “I fucked him on the floor, to be accurate, the one time he came to visit during those months.” I’ll kill him. I’ll erase every time he has touched her, every mark he has left on her. “Now, about your dare… Change out of your boring and plain clothes.”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “Of all the things you could’ve picked for her to do, ‘Mione… Really?”

Hermione snapped her fingers. “I have my reasons, Gin.” Pansy felt rather than saw her robes disappearing and being replaced by what could only be classified as a teenager’s sexy outfit: buttoned white shirt that left little to imagination about her cleavage, tied in a knot above her midriff and showing off the perfect curvature of her waist, fully exposed until the hips—where a short pleated skirt started and covered the upper part of her legs… barely, ending just below her arse. High heels on black leather boots that reached her knees complemented the look.

Really, this barely covers anything. What is she trying to do, show me off like a prize…? Really, I look like a fucking Muggle schoolgirl. Where’s the flair, the elegance, the decadence?

Pansy hissed when her eyes saw the clothes, and not because of the outfit. No, she looked fabulous, despite the ‘a-little-on-the-nose’ sexiness. It was the skirt’s colours: Red and golden stripes. “I will not wear Gryffindor’s motif—” she protested.

“You will. My dare, my rules, Princess.” Hermione stared her down. “That said… It’s rather cold here. Cover yourself with this, I wouldn’t want you to get cold,” she purred, throwing an orange blanket over her legs, covering the hideous colours of her skirt.

“Is it me, or the air is simmering?” asked Fiona, grinning. “She’s got you in a chokehold, boss.”

“She does,” agreed Daphne, her eyes laughing even louder than her mouth. “Pansy Parkinson, Gryffindor Princess.” She pointed at her stomach, now fully visible. “Are those hickeys, bitch?” Daphne turned her head towards Hermione. “You did that, Granger? My sincere apologies, I thought you didn’t have in you to tame her. I hereby declare you fit to use my first name.”

Pansy’s nails bit the inside of her palm. “You’re suspended without pay, little Hufflepuff. That should teach you that arrogance is not always the answer. I enjoy your bite, but go sink your teeth somewhere else,” said Pansy. She turned her head slowly towards her dear friend. “And you, bitch… Mind your tongue, or you’ll find yourself with a nasty case of low libido due to a mysterious potion.”

“You wouldn’t dare! Sex is the only reason worth living.”

“Don’t test me then.”

“Talk about pettiness,” mumbled Ginny, adding a low whistle to her words. “Fiona, darling… I believe it’s your turn.”

The girl looked ashamed, and Pansy regarded her for a beat. Either this is too juicy and she’s hiding it, or she’s about to lie her arse off. Either way, I’m not calling her out. One dare per round is enough. “I went to a masquerade orgy two months ago—I don’t know who I did there, though. Masks and all that…”

“That’s why you left me alone with Daisy on September 9th?” yelled Cory, perplexed. “You said you had to go to a doctor’s appointment!”

Ginny and Daphne snorted at the same time, and Hermione took advantage of everyone’s distraction to slide her left hand under the blanket and put it on Pansy’s thigh, not covered anymore by her pants. The Slytherin turned her head towards her and arched an eyebrow, but said nothing. Hermione just shrugged, her thumb tracing slow circles on her sensitive skin.

That’s how she wants to play this? Fine.

Pansy smirked and opened her legs slightly.

Let’s see how you do, golden girl.

“It was a doctor’s appointment! Sort of—She said I was too tense and needed to relax!” snapped Fiona, a very cute blush taking over her cheeks.

Hermione’s laugh echoed against the walls as her hand stroked Pansy’s thigh. “Moving on…” said the Gryffindor. “Any idea for our next statement or question?”

“Hold on, pretty lioness,” purred Daphne. “Our dear snake has yet to share her story.”

Pansy rolled her eyes. She had so many of them, choosing one over the other felt like a sin.

Use it to torment, not to share.

She took a sip of her gin-tonic, bathing in the expectant silence building up around her answer. Pansy smirked and held Hermione’s gaze without blinking.

“Spit it out, Queen of Sin,” protested Daphne, clicking her tongue. “I know all your stories and none of them are worth this much reverence—”

“Hermione Granger. Tonight, in a couple of hours—” The golden girl choked on her Martini and her hand stopped caressing Pansy’s thigh. “—If she can take it.”

Ginny was the first to react after Pansy threw down the gauntlet at Hermione, making sure everyone saw. “‘Mione, I don’t know if I want to take pity on you, or if congratulations are in order.”

Daphne grinned, drowning the last drops of her drink. “Definitely extend your condolences, Gin. I’m sorry, Hermione: you’re getting absolutely destroyed when the sun sets. Pray to whatever god or goddess you believe in.” The silence stretched, and Pansy felt Hermione’s fingers twitching on her skin. Still, the witch remained silent as a broken bell. “Okay, next question. To keep up with the heat brought by our dear ginger, let’s try this: drop the name of your first shag.”

Fiona sighed. “Hector Rowle.”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “Harry Potter.”

Cory shook his head. “Joanna Clearwater.”

Hermione bit her lip. I want to bite it for her—Stop, Pansy, for Merlin’s sake! Keep your cool. You just threw her under the bus; have the decency to at least appear to be in charge. “Ron Weasley.” Hermione’s fingers started moving again on Pansy’s thigh, creeping closer to where she wanted them most. She tried to hide it, but a ragged breath escaped her lips now and then. “Everything alright, Princess? You seem to have trouble breathing.”

When I tell you she’s getting destroyed tonight, I mean it.

“I’m fine, just a little cold. I suppose you couldn’t change my clothes into something less revealing? And with different colours,” she replied, her voice low and even.

Control. I need to chill. Breathe, Pansy. Breathe.

“I like to enjoy the view, so no. You do look rather ravishing in my colours, Princess,” she bit back, her nails raking Pansy’s thigh. “Daphne, darling, I believe it’s your turn.”

Daphne smirked, as if she knew something was up. “Theodore Nott.”

Pansy tapped her fingers. “Draco Malfoy. Although it shouldn’t count, my first real and truly good shag was not with him. So, to keep things honest… Tracey Davies.”

“That’s the shittiest lie you’ve ever told, Pans!” yelled Daphne, squinting. “Tracey was too much of a prude to open her legs for you. At least think of someone you had a chance with!”

“Fine, I lied. But I did it for your sake, Daph, not mine…” Pansy’s leg jerked when Hermione’s fingers absentmindedly stroked the apex between her legs. The Gryffindor hummed, and the Slytherin’s neck snapped to her right, ready to bite her head off.

“Spit it, Pansy.” Ginny was looking at her nails while she spoke. “You’ve been caught lying, so now share the truth. Who was your first woman?”

Cory and Fiona were at the edge of their seats, while Daphne was lounging and sipping from a new Bloody Mary.

Pansy opened her mouth to answer the question, and Hermione chose that precise moment to apply some very specific pressure on her. Rubbing. It was maddening. “Astoria Greengrass.” The high-pitched voice was not a drill.

Luckily for her, the name itself carried more weight and masked the very poorly disguised mewl.

Oh my Merlin. She’s cruel. She’s devious. She’s mine. I’m so done—No! No, no. Remember who’s in charge. You’re letting her play there, not the other way around. Don’t close your legs, or she wins. Don’t moan, or she wins. Resist everything she throws at you. I know you can.

Daphne spat her drink. “You’ve slept with my fucking sister? Why wasn’t I informed of this detail before?”

Pansy’s legs begged to be crossed as Hermione continued with her caresses under that blanket and under her golden and red skirt.

“Who cares about that? You’ve shagged the Malfoy marriage in full? Damn, girl,” said Ginny. “I would ask you who’s better, but you have your preferences, so it wouldn’t be fair to the poor gentleman. Kudos to you, though. They’re both hot as fuck.”

“Thank you,” she replied, inclining her head.

Cory cleared his throat. “Okay, next question: Body count?”

Ginny snorted. “One. Though many times, in many places, and with so many gratifying results.”

“Damn, Gin. Potter sure looks like he knows what he’s doing,” hummed Daphne. “Lucky gal.”

A smile tugged at the ginger’s lips. “Lucky? Oh, no, sweet Daph… I wouldn’t call ‘training’ him in the art mere ‘luck’.”

“Scandalous,” replied Daphne, faking a libellous expression. “My turn: I sincerely don’t know. Maybe a thousand?”

Hermione opened her mouth to call her out, but Pansy’s hand shot up to cover it. She leaned in and whispered in her ear: “Don’t. It sounds fake, but I assure you it isn’t. And I don’t want her to dare you: only I can do that, love.”

Fiona’s voice echoed, sure and smug. “I don’t know why, but I strangely believe that. Mine is lower: Only sixteen.”

“I’m calling you out,” said Cory. “I guess it’s higher.”

There was a beat of silence, and Fiona’s smile started to vanish. “You’re right. It’s actually twenty-two. I’d like to keep them matched to my age, so the number will go up by one in a month. What about you, boss?”

Pansy took her sweet time thinking, to no avail. She truly had no clue. “I guess it’s quite high, though I’m not sure exactly what the number is. Are we counting threesomes as one or as two?”

“Pans, you hate those. Do they make a difference in your number?” chastised Daphne.

“I guess not.”

Hermione licked her lips and extended her free hand towards Greengrass. “She’s lying. She does know, but doesn’t want to share. Give me the Veritaserum, Daphne. I’ll crack her.”

The fuck am I? I don’t know! Besides, my friend would never turn on me and lend her the—

“I like your style, Hermione,” hummed Daphne. “Here you go.”

She threw her the vial of transparent liquid, and the Gryffindor seized it, uncorking it with her thumb. Hermione’s lewd smile as she spoke should’ve been immortalised. “Open, Princess.”

“My mouth or my legs, golden girl? You only get to pick one,” she replied with a smug voice.

I’ve got this. There’s no way that she forces me to drink that.

“Legs, then,” purred Hermione.

Pansy was all confident in her power… until Hermione did something reckless and unexpected, throwing all Pansy’s bravado out the window: the Gryffindor tipped the vial on her own mouth.

It didn’t matter that Pansy’s knickers were still on, because she wasn’t ready for what happened. In one swift motion, Hermione stopped with the teasing strokes and pressed her thumb directly on Pansy’s clit, with just the right amount of force. Her legs jerked without her permission, and her lips parted in a whimper.

And then Hermione kissed her, devouring the moan that ripped Pansy’s throat. She invaded Pansy’s mouth with her tongue, coated with Veritaserum, forcing Pansy to swallow it.

You’ve got to be kidding me, bitch. How did you let her do that to you? Where’s your self-respect, all that power you showed off earlier? Queen of Sin, my arse. More like Clown of Sin.

Hermione broke the kiss in the midst of whistles and laughs, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “There, one dose of truth-telling portion. Again, Princess… Body count?”

Pansy tried to bite her tongue to prevent the answer from escaping her lips. It failed, and she spit it out. “Two-hundred and seventy-four. Twenty-seven more if you count threesomes and more not as one but as the number of people involved.”

Fucking Hermione Granger.

The silence that followed that could be cut with a blunt knife.

“There,” said Hermione, her thumb wiping Pansy’s lower lip, her other hand touching her between her legs mercilessly. There was a drop of Veritaserum in the corner of Pansy’s mouth, and Hermione’s finger swiped it away. “Was that so difficult to answer, Princess, or were you just being difficult on purpose?”

Pansy remained silent, still trying to process what had just happened. The utter humiliation, Hermione’s power-trip, her confession. How the Gryffindor’s left hand hadn’t moved away from the apex of her legs, and kept stroking over and over with feather-light touches that point.

This is madness. I’m going mad.

“How do you know the exact number if it’s that high? Do you have a spreadsheet or something?” inquired Ginny, curious.

Daphne snorted. “Oh, I don’t know… She likes to spread legs on sheets. Does that count?”

Fiona rolled her eyes. “I knew you enjoyed fooling around, boss… but not that you were such a slut.” Her voice didn’t carry even a touch of hate or bashing. Just joke and humour. Which was fun, but…

Pansy sipped her gin-tonic, hiding her rapidly growing ragged breaths. “Two-month suspension, Fiona,” she whispered.

“Unfair, boss,” said Cory, shaking his head. “We should be allowed to tease if we’re being forced to play.”

Everyone shut the fuck up.

“Don’t worry, beautiful underlings,” purred Hermione. “I’ll make sure she lifts the punishment later. Tease the Princess to your heart’s content.”

It felt like another kick to her already very wounded pride. Hermione had also drunk Veritaserum earlier, when she had forced it down Pansy’s throat… so her declaration wasn’t empty: she really thought that she held power over Pansy’s decisions.

“That’s a queen dethroned if I ever saw one,” mumbled Daphne. “Never dreamed I would live to see the snake eating out of the lioness’ palm. Eating her out, maybe. But this? Unfathomable.”

“I did,” piled up Ginny. “Hermione might play innocent, but she’s a menace. Give her time, and she’ll tame not only a snake, but the whole pit.”

Save face, change the subject before you do something stupid. Like tearing Hermione’s clothes and showing her exactly how one should shag a woman and who’s in charge between us two.

“Don’t get sidetracked, we were playing a game, were we not?” said Pansy, raising her chin. “Underling two… your turn to answer.”

Cory scratched his cheek, undecided. “Five.” He waited for a beat, in case someone were to call him out, but no one did. “Which leaves only one person remaining…”

All heads turned to Hermione, and she puffed her chest. “Two.”

“Two?” inquired Pansy, tilting her head. “Who?”

“That’s not how the game works!” replied Hermione, her cheeks blushing.

“Then I’m calling your bluff. It’s supposed to be just ‘one’ in your case, golden girl.”

“Pans, she drank Veritaserum. There’s no way she’s lying,” said Daphne, rolling her eyes.

“She only took a small dose, and trust me—the Potions Master par excellence—it’s already out of her system,” explained Pansy, leaning in. “Names, golden girl. Spill: I know for a fact you’re lying.”

“I’m not!” she yelled, furious, her hand finally stopping those maddening patterns on Pansy’s knickers and pulling away. “My body count is just two: Ron and you.”

Gotcha.

Pansy’s knuckles caressed Hermione’s cheek, as one would a loved one. An oblivious child. “Oh, love… No. That’s not true, because I haven’t shagged you yet.”

“Liar!”

Pansy smirked. Her voice dropped to a low purr, so only Hermione would hear. “Have I been inside you? Have I tasted you at all? Have I eaten you out completely? And, most importantly… Have I made you come?” Hermione’s cheeks flared up, and her body started shivering. “I don’t think so, hence… body count: one.”

“I second Pansy in whatever she just said!” yelled Ginny. “Sorry, ‘Mione. But it shouldn’t count unless you have gone all the way. Which doesn’t seem to be the case here.”

In what world does my friend side with Hermione, and her friend side with me? It’s a Slytherin-Gryffindor pairing against a Gryffindor-Slytherin pairing. Never in my life has something felt more unnatural and off. But who cares now? This round is mine, just as Hermione. Mine to tease, mine to worship, mine to destroy.

Hermione squeaked. “That’s not—”

“Do you want a dose of Veritaserum to prove how wrong you are, golden girl…” hummed Pansy so everyone would hear. “Or are you going to take the loss?”

Daphne sighed. “Retreat while you can, Hermione. Pans is vicious, and more so when she’s right. All hail the newly re-crowned Queen of Sin.”

Pansy leaned back in, lowering her voice once more, her lips grazing Hermione’s jaw. “Shame, though. If we had played tomorrow, golden girl, you would’ve been right, because tonight I plan to feast on you.”

She recoiled as if Pansy’s kiss had burned her. And maybe it did, because her skin reddened and her breath turned erratic, as if she were gasping for air.

Fiona cleared her throat. “I believe a dare is in order, is it not? She lied and refused to acknowledge the truth.”

“Fiona, honey, your punishment is hereby withdrawn. Work and pay reinstated. Thanks for the remainder,” purred Pansy. “Now, dare-wise… let’s mimic what little know-it-all did before, shall we? I believe a change of clothes is in order for our dear Senior Undersecretary.”

“Don’t you dare—”

Pansy snapped her fingers, and Hermione’s shirt and pants vanished. She piped when the new clothes materialised over her body: A tight little silver dress that hugged all her curves. Strapless, showing off the marks of Pansy’s nails on her neckline. And a thin dark green belt, paired up with fishnet garter stockings of that same colour. Heels so high that, were they to stand up, Hermione would be on Pansy’s same height.

Flair and elegance, wrapped in sultriness.

“Oh my God—Merlin isn’t enough!” yelled Ginny, covering her mouth with both hands. “You look… I don’t even have words. Like Sin and Temptation personified, if they were human.”

“Pansy Parkinson! Have you no decorum at all?” roared Hermione, outraged and ignoring Ginny’s compliment. She crossed her legs faster than a speedster. “Do you want me to hex you?"

Pansy tilted her head, feigning innocence. “What? Don’t you like the colours, silver girl—?”

Daphne snorted. “Snake’s palette on a lioness? Bold move. Approved by yours truly, impeccable taste. Slutty as hell, but impeccable.”

You have no idea, Daph. She looks ravishing, but she’s not mad because of the shade of the dress or the accessories. No…

Pansy’s wolfish grin was hidden by Hermione’s curls when the Slytherin leaned in once more to whisper in her ear. “—Or maybe it’s just that, beneath the dress, you’re wearing nothing?”

Hermione gulped and jerked away from her. “Give me back the blanket.”

“I’d rather not. Careful if you uncross your legs, though. What’s under that dress is only mine to see,” purred Pansy.

Hermione scoffed, clamping her thighs, much to the Slytherin’s joy. “Next question: What’s the worst pick-up line that has worked on you?” said the Gryffindor, trying to regain the lost momentum.

It was a cacophony. Cory, Daphne, Pansy, Ginny and Fiona spoke all at once.

Underling two: “I want to suck your father’s dick so I can taste the recipe.”

Slytherin slut: “Nice legs, when do they open?”

Queen of Sin: “You remind me of my little toe. I’ll probably bang you on the coffee table, regret it later and do it all over again.”

Gryffindor captain: “Are you a Barbie, doll? Because I’m Ken and you look like the box I want to come in.”

Underling one: “Excuse me, my dick just died. Can I bury it in you?”

Hermione’s horrified face was a poem. “Bloody hell! You people are mad! No one has ever told me something that forward and dirty!”

Ginny tilted her head. “No, we aren’t. What is strange is that you’ve never received lines like those.”

“I’ll let this one slide, golden girl,” purred Pansy. “Because I have taunted you enough that at least a comment or two could be put in this list. But, since technically none of them have worked on you yet, you’re not lying.” Pansy waited for a beat, bathing in her power over Hermione in that moment. “Next question is sponsored by the Slytherin Princess herself, also known as Queen of Sin… or ‘me’. Are you halfwits a top, a bottom, or a switch?”

Ginny laughed. “I’m a top, darling. Isn’t it obvious?”

Cory squirmed. “I… switch.”

Fiona smiled ruefully. “I’m a proud bottom.”

Daphne bared her teeth. “Switch here.” She looked at Pansy and smiled. “Don’t bother answering, I’m sure it’s clear as day which one you are.”

The Slytherin inclined her head. “Thank you. Hermione, love? Care to share with the rest? I reckon you’re about to lie your arse off as you answer this one.”

She scoffed, rolling her eyes… and refusing to meet Pansy’s as she spoke. “I’m a top.”

Daphne and Fiona snorted. Cory leaned in, almost at the edge of the chaise longue. “Oh, this should be fun. Power struggle incoming between these two…”

Ginny studied Hermione for a beat. “You’re not, ‘Mione. I mean… You can be. But mostly you’re a switch, if I have my facts straight. Ron is a bottom—have you seen my brother? Merlin, he’s kind of a wallflower sometimes—, and you acted as a top with him for your sex life’s sake, but... energy-wise? Switch to the bone.”

Nothing in her is straight, Ginny, but I get what you mean.

Pansy arched an eyebrow. “Don’t worry, golden girl. Either way, I’ll make a bottom out of you soon enough.” Her finger traced Hermione’s neckline, and she squirmed.

Yeah… just wait until we’re alone, golden girl.

“Back off, Princess,” she warned with a snark, before clapping her hands. “Let’s call it a night, people. You’ve seen more of my soul than what I intended to, so… rain check?”

Cory gulped. “Fine by me, I don’t want to risk another month’s pay suspension.”

“I was just joking, little badger,” said Pansy, faking a yawn. “I never intended to follow through on that. But I agree, this little game is fun, so we should save some prompts for next time.”

“You just want to shag Hermione senseless after the stunt she pulled with the Veritaserum,” pointed Ginny out.

“Guilty as charged, ginger,” agreed Pansy with a grin. “Now, scatter. Your Queen of Sin has more pressing matters to address.”

Daphne rolled her eyes. “Pressing? More like ‘pressed against’, but okay, bitch. Might I steal you away for a beat, though? You too, underlings. Gin needs to talk to Hermione alone before we go.”

Pansy stood up, smoothing her Gryffindor-themed skirt. “You’ve got five minutes, girls. After that… Well, someone is getting wrecked, and it’s not you, ginger. Golden girl, I’d ask you if your knickers are already wet from imagining it, but I know the real answer.”

Since you're wearing none.

Cory and Fiona were arguing in hushed voices down the hall, while Ginny and Hermione had stayed behind in the Room. Pansy had already said her goodbyes to her two underlings, who hugged her as if she were their own mother… and then she was left alone with Daphne.

Pansy leaned against the door and pursed her lips.

“Spill, Daph. I know you well enough to see through you. What is the bad news?”

“While those two sort out whatever is bothering Gin, I’ll bring you up to speed,” she said, one arm around Pansy’s neck, as if that would soften the blow she was about to deliver. “The Ministry has permitted me to host your two underlings under my roof while this mess with the Cleansers is being sorted out. They couldn’t go back to their homes despite their blood status, because they are still Cleansers’ targets and the Ministry doesn't have enough people to protect all of us under threat, plus our close ones.”

“How come?” asked a perplexed Pansy. We literally are a minority, and with each new generation, our numbers shrink. Most of the young ones don’t even classify as pure-bloods, seeing as their heritage is likely mixed with half-blood or Muggle-born blood. “Surely at least this means that they are dedicating more resources to the investigation itself? Trying to uproot the problem is always better than addressing its effects.”

Daphne shook her head. “Maybe, but I wouldn’t bet on it. And even if they did, it’s not like those morons are making much progress, mind you. It seems like they’re more focused on protecting us with everyone at hand than they are on uncovering the threat.”

“Any luck with either Fiona or Cory’s memories that could shine some light into their identities?”

“Fiona’s has been altered, and there’s a risk of shattering her mind if they try to break the blockade that was put in there, so no,” replied Daphne with a sigh. “And Cory’s were tainted with fear, and thus very unreliable… not to mention not very useful, since their faces were covered when they ganged up on the poor boy,” said Daphne, her expression turning sombre. “The Unspeakable in charge of this did find something odd, though: Fiona had a strange magical mark on her ankle. A hook. And Cory…”

“I swear if you tell me he has a fucking Peter Pan tattooed, I’m hexing someone.”

Daphne smiled a bit, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “No, actually. He bore the same mark, but on his wrist.”

“Any idea what they mean?” asked Pansy. “At this point, if I had to place on a scale from one to ten my faith in the Ministry, I would say it’s close to reaching negative numbers.”

Fucking bunch of useless halfwits.

“Flint also had a tattoo, though it was rather diffuse, and they didn’t know what it was… Thanks to these marks on Cory and Fiona, the Ministry believes that it was a carp,” explained Daphne. “In any case, maybe you can use the weekend to goad your parents into sharing more information about the Cleansers, because we have close to none.”

“I’ll try.”

“Which brings me to the other point: your Unbreakable Vow. The rare potion you promised them has been taken care of. I mean, it’s still there, or you would die right now, but nothing else is in that nook, and neither are the instructions on how to use it.”

Her breath hitched, relieved.

Thank fucking Merlin. I couldn’t pretend that this wasn’t scary, even though I would technically be dead if they used that potion… but I refuse to let them use my body, dead or otherwise.

“Thank you, Daph. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

“Live the dullest life ever, that’s what!” she joked. “Going back to the vow: I’ve talked to Draco and Tory. And yes, some other day I’ll force the story of how and when my best friend ended up between my little sister’s legs, but not today.” Daphne pursed her lips, hesitant to keep talking. “They’ve agreed to your plan. Obviously. But they need to take precautions first.”

“Fine by me, it’s more than what I expected…” she whispered. “How did you manage to find the Room of Requirement, though? And how is it that you four are allowed to roam Hogwarts as you please?”

“Perks of being friends with Gin, who happens to be the wife of a very important wizard… and you, because you single-handedly saved the Brightest Witch of Our Age.” Daphne smiled and shook her head. “Who would’ve thought that snakes, badgers, lions and even eagles wouldn’t just get along, but sacrifice their own well-being for the others’ sake. Merlin, I still find it hard to believe… In any case, we four got a free pass for today, as a sign of McGonagall’s gratitude. Don’t get used to it, though. I believe it’s a one-time thing.”

“We made the most of it anyway, didn’t we?” asked Pansy, a slow and steady smile tugging at her lips.

“As we always do, darling.”

“Extend to Draco and Astoria my sincere gratitude, and say it with those words to make it sound posh. I know they’ll hate it. I would do it myself, but I don’t want my parents to get a sniff of this…” Pansy rolled her eyes and sighed. All that secrecy was killing her. “I love y’all, from our vineyard expert to you, you clumsy nymphomaniac.”

“We love you too, dethroned Queen.”

A rueful smile splashed Pansy’s lips. “Dethroned? Since when?”

“Since a lioness cub tamed you back there. I’ll leave you to reclaim your rightful place, though,” smirked Daphne. I wasn’t tamed. I… played along for a while. Yes, that’s all it was. “I have a feeling both of you have so much pent-up energy that you’re one kiss away from imploding.”

“That’s not—”

“Breathe, darling. And be careful with Hermione… don’t shatter her completely on your first shag, or she’ll lose her bite, bitch.”

Pansy smiled. “She’s stronger than she looks, Daph. I know she’ll be able to take what I have planned… but I'll give it some thought.”

Daphne arched an eyebrow. “Will you, really?”

Pansy laughed, and her lips outlined a wolfish grin. “No. She came for the Queen, and now the Queen will make her come.”

Pansy and Hermione were walking back to their dorms, arm in arm. The Gryffindor was lost in her thoughts, while the Slytherin was lost in her scent.

Hold up. Two more corridors. No, you cannot slam her on the wall and fuck her there. No, you cannot kiss her now, or you’ll never make it to your room. No, you cannot tease her until she’s pinned against your shared door. No, you cannot…

Pansy might’ve been able to—barely—not ravish Hermione then and there. The other witch wasn’t.

Pansy sensed the shift in the air right before Hermione pushed her against a—thank Circe—empty portrait. The stone wall scraped her shoulders as the Gryffindor’s hands roughly kept her there. “I can’t wait anymore,” she whispered, stealing the breath directly from Pansy’s lungs as she kissed her.

“Too bad, golden girl,” she muttered in return, her smile being eaten by that demanding mouth devouring hers. “You must, at least one minute. Levicorpus.”

Hermione’s mouth detached from hers as her whole body was hoisted into the air by her ankle. Her curly hair fell like a waterfall, upside down. And her glare could’ve turned to ash anyone… except Pansy, who was turned on instead.

Oh, right. She’s not wearing any undergarments. Merlin, I forgot. No, I really didn’t. This is… delicious.

The coy Slytherin smirked. “You’re lucky the dress fits you so well, golden girl, or your arse would be on display for everyone to see.”

Hermione’s hands grabbed the hem of her dress, keeping it in place… just in case. Without knickers, the risk of it sliding off her body wasn’t something she was willing to take. “Are you mad? Who breaks a snog session with a spell? Who?” she yelled, her face getting redder with every passing second. “Do you have a Spider-Man fetish and want to kiss me upside down, or are you just as daft as a shoe?”

“Why would I want to kiss a fucking spider?” hissed Pansy. She pointed her wand at Hermione’s door, and her body started moving in that direction.

Yeah, why? Is she playing dumb, is she suddenly stupid or has her blood left her brain to gone to her cunt?

“Sod off, Princess. It’s not my job to educate you in Muggle references. Liberacorpus,” whispered Hermione. Her body kissed the floor with a thud when the jinx was lifted… Just in time for Pansy to pull her up and slam her against the Gryffindor’s door, before even going into her room.

“Last words before you become a mumbling mess of stutters and prayers, golden girl?” purred Pansy, her knee already sliding between Hermione’s legs.

A millennium could go by, and I would still be hooked to books and rain on her skin.

The Gryffindor yanked Pansy’s hair back to look into her eyes, her expression betraying how much she really needed this to happen. “Let’s see what you’ve got, Princess. I would hate to be disappointed.”

Oh, honey… You shouldn’t poke the hand that’s about to be both inside you and your undoing. Rough, wasn’t it? Then that’s what you’ll get.

As she had promised herself, the door was shut with a soft click, right before Hermione, in high heels as tall as a skyscraper, a silver dress woven in sin, and a lack of knickers that was bound to be her undoing, got pushed against it.

Well, we’re here.

Pansy’s hands rested on the Gryffindor’s tiny waist, hugging it as if it would vanish if she let go. For the first time, she didn’t need to look down for her gaze to find Hermione’s, as the high heels put them on the same level. “Arms up, golden girl. Cross them above your head.”

“Kiss me first, and then we’ll see.”

Okay, let’s give her this saving grace. For now.

They met like they were out of time. Maybe they were, because patience was a luxury Pansy no longer had.

No pause, no testing the waters. Their lips hit hard, all heat and clumsy urgency, mouths locking and breaking in fast, uneven bursts. It was unsteady, almost rough, breaths catching between each press, but neither pulling away for long. No, because that would mean admitting defeat, and Pansy was wired to rise as a winner.

Every second was about closing that gap again, harder than before.

Messy, loud with the sound of quick gasps and the faint smack of lips meeting. There was no rhythm, just need. Chasing the next hit of contact. They kept going until the only thing in their heads was the taste of each other and the pounding of their own hearts.

While Hermione was distracted, Pansy grabbed her wrists and slammed them in position, holding them there with just one hand. Once she had done that, she could break the kiss. Whenever she wanted.

Except she didn’t want to.

Her free hand explored Hermione’s body harshly, roaming free in frenetic movements and not stopping anywhere. Her neck, her hair, her nape, her collarbone, her breast, her waist, her hip. Until she reached the hem of that dress, and everything slowed down. “You’re mine, Hermione Granger,” she growled against her mouth, as her fingers bypassed the fabric and touched heaven between her legs.

The Gryffindor’s back arched so much, Pansy thought it would break itself. She kept kissing her, holding her wrists up, even when they were desperately trying to break free.

And with that spare hand, she started tracing patterns. Never going inside, alternating between rough movements and feather-light touches, than extracted the most exquisite moans out of Hermione’s chest.

“You’re so desperate, golden girl,” she purred, one finger sliding slowly through all of her slit, just to then circle her clit. Hermione’s breath was close to nonexistent, silent begs that Pansy was hell-bent on turning into screams. “Look at me.”

The Gryffindor tried. Pansy knew she did, but her wicked game between her legs of strokes and caresses was making her squirm, not letting Hermione’s eyes focus on anything.

Pansy kept that maddening rhythm of giving enough to make Hermione’s whole body burn, while holding at bay her release.

Not yet.

She built up the moment, her fingers relentless against Hermione. Her palm cupped her briefly before breaking apart.

More, and more, and more.

Pansy’s breath hitched, her skin cold from the air around them, her bones melting against Hermione’s fire.

How easy it would be to thrust in, to feel her around. To make her beg… No. Not yet.

Close to everything needed, not enough to break that wall down.

Hermione’s arms ached in Pansy’s hold, her hair sticking to damp skin, but the thought of stopping never crossed her mind.

More, and more, and more.

“Tell me, Hermione… would you like to come?” she purred into the kiss, her tongue tracing the Gryffindor’s lower lip with ease as her fingers repeated the motion on her heat.

She tried to break the hold Pansy had on her wrists, desperate for more. Flushed skin, loud moans. And then she spoke. It was barely a whisper, a desire so deep that her voice was hoarse and coated with need. “Yes.”

Pansy flicked her wrist, rubbing her clit in slow circles. “Yes, what?”

Whimper.

Shaky breaths, shaky thighs, shaky voice. Pansy was shaking her world.

Hermione tried to clamp her thighs, desperate to draw Pansy’s fingers closer, to feel them inside her, going faster. The Slytherin kept them apart with her own legs, knees digging into the Gryffindor’s skin. “Uh-uh, golden girl. You look perfect with your thighs parted for me… shaking, begging for more. Again: yes, what?”

Hermione gulped. “Yes,” she whispered, dragging the word out like it cost her her pride. Pansy grinned as her fingers pressed harsher on her, and Hermione couldn’t keep the word in anymore. “Please,” she moaned.

Pansy clicked her tongue, breaking the kiss for the first time in what seemed hours.

Have I been edging her on for that long? Twenty minutes already… She deserves a reward. Just… not yet.

She caressed that point that made Hermione cry out with two fingers, her third toying at her entrance. Not in, no. Never in.

More, and more, and more.

And less.

“Good, Hermione, good. Now—” Hermione’s legs started to tremble, and her fingers twitched in Pansy’s hold. Ragged breaths and unintelligible cries. And just before she broke, Pansy pulled away.

She released her wrists, and the Gryffindor pulled her in by the collar. That kiss tasted like fury… and denial.

Pansy escaped from her and sat on the bed, the mattress creaking under her weight. Her gaze never left Hermione’s as Pansy held up her hand, the one that had been almost her undoing… coated and soaked.

She tilted her head, locking eyes with Hermione as she slid each finger into her mouth, slow and deliberate, teeth grazing just enough to make Hermione’s breath hitch. She didn’t just clean them, no: she savoured them. “Delicious.”

Oh. She tastes so fucking good I… I need to… No! Not yet, not yet, not yet. But I need her on my… No!

“You’re a fucking monster, Pansy! Will you ever finish what you start?” she yelled, crossing her room and pushing the Slytherin back into the bed. “I was so close, I—”

“I know, golden girl. Do you still want to come for me, or are you so angry that you want me gone?” she asked, well aware of the answer.

“Stop playing games.”

“Games are fun, golden girl,” she replied, her now clean hand tracing Hermione’s collarbone. “I don’t like repeating myself. Do you want to come?”

“Bloody yes, you stupid bitch!”

Pansy smirked, getting up from the bed and walking Hermione back, until she was against the wall next to the chimney. “I always liked a show, did you know?”

“What does that have to do with—”

Pansy kissed her. “Show me,” she said, stepping back like a queen granting permission. “Exactly how you do it when no one’s watching, Hermione. How you touch yourself.”

Chapter Text

Ginny’s mouth twitched into a wicked smile as she swirled the last sip of wine in her glass. The liquid caught the firelight, throwing fractured sparks across the table. “Do you know what you’re playing at with her? Who are you trying to compete with? Legend says she could make iron bend to her will with a glance.”

Hermione arched an eyebrow, fingers drumming once against the cool stem of her own glass before she stilled them. “Is ‘legend’ Daphne’s name now?”

“If we hadn’t been such pricks growing up, Hogwarts probably would’ve banned our friendship. Either that, or it would’ve gone up in flames. Not even George and Fred would’ve stood a chance against our chaos.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, a smile tugging despite herself. She sat straighter, as if good posture could keep the warmth of the wine and gin from showing in her face. “It was a mercy you two were rivals then.”

“It’s funnier now that we’ve all grown up. I cannot wait for our Christmas Party this year. Daphne invited, you shagging with Pansy on New Year’s Eve… Who knows, maybe it will be the first Silver & Gold themed party; Slytherin and Gryffindor reunited.” She snorted, setting her glass down with a careless clink. “McGonagall would have a seizure if that happened. Remember all the scolding we took because of our spats? And now, years later, we’re not mere acquaintances. We’re friends. Or, in your case, lovers pending shagging.”

A smile tugged at the corner of Hermione’s lips, amused by the idea. Her glass had grown pleasantly warm in her hand. “Oh, yes. And meanwhile, in that decadent hypothetical Christmas party of yours, Albus and James will be running with fake wands, hexing everyone or themselves, and Lily’s tantrum will be heard all the way to Australia.”

“I know, spoiled children spoiling my fun, what a nightmare.”

Hermione smacked her arm. “Hey, don’t talk like that about my nephews and niece!”

“They’re my children, girl. I’m allowed to taunt their very existence.” Ginny sighed, setting down her empty glass at last. The faint scrape of it on wood seemed loud in the hush. “I need to ask you a favour… and then I’m sorry but there’s something you should know.”

Hermione nodded, the alcohol making her head swim just slightly. Ginny pursed her lips.

“Harry and I are thinking of taking a weekend off… from everything, just to decompress after the latest events. He’s starting to feel caged, like the war never ended with this Cleansers’ mess… and you both scared us. I was told about it all when you were already fine, but he… he had to watch you… wither. Harry got in war mode and was ready to kill the bloody Parkinsons; you know how far he’s willing to go for those he loves. Luna was the only one who could calm him down, and even then, his panic attack was so severe that McGonagall had to drug him.”

The fire in the grate hissed and settled lower, as though the air itself had thickened. A shiver went down Hermione’s spine, though the room was warm. “I didn’t know—I mean, I knew, but really I didn’t. I haven’t talked to him since he went to the kitchen last night to fetch some water, and Harry never said—”

“You know him, Hermione. He felt helpless, and that awakened some deep-rooted stuff. But he pushed it down, because you needed a friend.”

Hermione’s throat tightened, the taste of wine suddenly bitter on her tongue, a shiver going down her spine. She knew the feeling all too well. Brave face in the unknown, because someone else needed her to stay tall, strong, and unshakeable. The weeks of running without a plan, chasing Horcruxes and grasping just failures were the toughest of her life. “If he’s that close to breaking again, he needs a rest, Gin! And I’ll talk to him so he doesn’t dare to keep me in the dark about something like that, ever again!”

“Yes, that’s what I said, and what I thought… I think I’ll be good for him if we go out for the weekend. Just to breathe on our own after all this; now that you’re fine, and that Pansy seems also okay. Just the two of us, so… Could you watch over our three scoundrels for a couple of—?”

“And of course I’ll babysit! Like you even have to ask, Gin! It’s hardly a favour to ask the favourite Aunt to spoil her favourite baby niece and reckless nephews,” interrupted Hermione with a reassuring smile. She set her glass down firmly, as if to punctuate her words. “What are you going to do?”

"Maybe we’ll go to Los Angeles by portkey. I’ve always wanted to make the Hollywood letters vanish for a couple of seconds, just to see Muggles grasping at straws, trying to explain the glitch.” Her smile grew wider, her eyes glinting with mischief as she leaned forward on her elbows. “Can you imagine the headlines? ‘New production in Hollywood makes the sign disappear. Is there a new move in the works?’ or ‘Aliens walk among us, this is the first clue, don’t ignore it!’ Sounds fun.”

Hermione let out a sigh that melted into laughter, shaking her head. The room swayed softly around the edges of her vision. “You do enjoy your chaos and international incidents brewing, don’t you?” she sighed, shaking her head in disbelief. “Can you at least try to be civil? The Statute of Secrecy is fragile enough without you trying to turn it into a Muggle conspiracy theory.”

“Better yet, I’ve woven chaos into your mind, because… Young Hermione?” Ginny smiled, barely resisting to laugh out loud. “She would be barking about using magic recklessly. Reciting the law by heart. Maybe Pansy is rubbing off on you, and her influence is not that bad.”

“At least she’s a good kisser, I don’t have to go the the awkward open mouth with too much tongue phase. Ron was such a slow learner.”

Ginny snorted, nearly choking on her laughter. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, eyes watering from mirth. “Okay, first? I’m always down to drag my brother through the mud. Sister complex binds me to, and I enjoy it way too much. Besides, what did you expect? You went from snogging international Quidditch Seeker sensation, Durmstrang Champion chosen by the Goblet of Fire, older and experienced Viktor Krum… to a ginger who barely knew how to give a peck.” Hermione opened her mouth to retort, but Ginny wasn’t done; a knowing smirk conquered the ginger’s previous mischievous smile before she spoke again. “And… second? Too much tongue in her case won’t be your problem when she’s eating you out, darling.”

Hermione smacked her head. “Gross. You’re actually worse than her, with all these dirty-minded sentences and the innuendos.” he dropped her forehead into her hand with a groan, her palm cool against her flushed skin. “You’ve missed your calling, Gin. You should’ve been a Slytherin with that filthy imagination. At least then you’d have had Pansy for competition.”

Ginny shamelessly shrugged, and a smile ghosted her lips “I live vicariously through you, and you seem to be on the brink of a shag. Sue me for teasing you about it when it’s been years since the last one,” she said, grinning.

But then her shoulders sagged. She turned her empty glass in slow circles, the faint squeak of glass on wood filling the pause.

“In all seriousness now, there’s something else you need to know.”

The warmth in Hermione’s chest cooled. “Spit it out already, Gin.” She set her own glass down a little too hard; the clink echoed in the quiet room.

“I’ve talked to Ron,” she blurted. Hermione’s brows shot up. The room felt suddenly smaller, the plush back of the sofa pressing firm against her spine. “Not about you—Well, not about you both, as in… together,” she rushed on. Ginny smoothed her palm over the worn leather cushion as if stalling, then leaned forward, elbows braced on her knees.

“Then…?”

“I asked him about the Cleansers, right after I heard about Pansy. He’s worried because the Ministry seems to be doing virtually nothing, kicking the can down the road and expecting the issue to resolve without much help. True, her attack was the first to occur after they deployed all their security measures, and Pansy’s happened because she was somewhere she wasn’t supposed to be, and every other pure-blood has been safe so far, but… He thinks they are not doing enough. That they need to start going on the offensive, not just playing defence.” Ginny smirked as she recalled their conversation. “He said something about chess… ‘discovered check’, pretending to move a piece while threatening checkmate in a couple of moves? I didn’t understand until he talked in human-understandable terms.”

Hermione arched an eyebrow, absently tracing the stitching of the cushion beneath her fingers. “You mean he told you about some weird Quidditch play, didn’t he?”

“Precisely,” she said, flashing teeth. Then her expression darkened. “But he was worried, as if there was more underneath it all that no one bothered to tell him. Despite him being an Auror, and therefore being an indispensable piece in this situation, he feels… sidetracked.”

“Ron’s right. Defence won’t work forever. If the Cleansers are coordinating or just waiting for a misstep, then a passive Ministry response is the same as surrender. Someone has to go on the offensive. And if they won’t, then I will,” said Hermione, gripping her wineglass so tight she thought it was about to break. Then she breathed, trying to calm down. Recklessness had never achieved anything; she needed to think that through. “Since the beginning of the School Year, I felt something was amiss, but… I’m cut off while I’m at Hogwarts,” murmured Hermione. The wine left a dry tang on her tongue as she wrinkled her nose. “It’s strange, though. I can’t imagine Kingsley not addressing the conflict on purpose. It’s out of character for him, and borderline irresponsible for the Minister for Magic.” Hermione waited for a beat, feeling the gears shifting in her mind, trying to connect the dots. “It doesn't add up. Kingsley wouldn’t ignore this unless someone’s blocking him, or unless the Ministry is compromised. And if that’s the case, we’ll need a strategy.”

“Can you try to meddle from here and put some pressure on the issue? You’re still the Senior Undersecretary,” asked Ginny, her hand absently twisting the ruby ring on her finger. The leather creaked as she shifted, restless. “If someone doesn’t, it will get out of hand sooner or later, and I would rather live peacefully than face another blood-spilling all-out war because of some misconceived idea of ‘Justice’.” Ginny rolled her eyes and sighed. “If that happened, we’re the ones who would have to, once again, rise to the challenge. And I don’t want to.”

Hermione leaned back into the sofa, the cold of the leather seeping faintly through her silver dress and naked skin alike. “I already tried to interfere, but it feels as if I’m being hindered. I talk to the Aurors on patrol every chance I get, but they don’t share much. And, since I’m benched, my face is not exactly welcomed at the Wizengamot Council.” She bit the inside of her cheek, frustration buzzing like static in her chest. Two months gone, and the world was crumbling before her very eyes. Despite her having the power to redirect it all… she was being denied the opportunity. “Why hasn’t Ron been posted here, though? Despite our… differences, we could work together on this more efficiently.”

“That has Shacklebolt’s prints all over. I’m sure he was trying to spare your feelings on the matter,” said Ginny, grinning faintly.

Hermione huffed a humourless laugh, her shoulders sinking back into the chesterfield. The cushions dipped under her weight, soft but unsteady. “Of course he did. Of course, he would look out for me as much as he could.”

Ginny’s expression sobered. Her fingers slid across the cushion, brushing against Hermione’s. “Can’t you… Go back to the Ministry? The backlash from the gossip about Skeeter and your divorce has almost faded, but you’re absence keeps it alive. And you should show your face there before something worse drops—Just in case.”

The thought alone made Hermione’s stomach lurch. She pressed her palms against her knees, grounding herself in the smooth leather beneath. “I don’t know about going back to the Ministry right away. Here, at Hogwarts, I feel at home. I don’t think I’m ready to go back just yet—”

“There’s more I should tell you, so… brace yourself.” Ginny regarded her for a beat and reached for both of Hermione’s hands. Her palms were warm, wine-soft, the grip steadying. Hermione felt the air thin around them, a heaviness pressing close. “Since now I work at the Prophet, I get… what you can say is a scoop or an advanced copy to fat-check before it goes to print. I don’t have power over anything that’s not Quidditch-related, but I can read articles not tied to sports in advance, and—”

Hermione groaned, rubbing her temple with the heel of her hand, the leather squeaking faintly as she shifted uncomfortably. “What is it now? Am I being accused of vanishing now that the world needs me? Of running in the face of danger? Of never being what everyone was told, but a lucky girl who happened to trap valiant, unshakeable Harry Potter?”

“I—No.” Ginny inhaled, her thumb tracing small circles over the back of Hermione’s hand. “It’s worse. They’re taking a jab at you through Pansy and the Cleansers… St Mungo’s got eyes everywhere, despite what most people think. And your… episode with the Parkinsons didn’t go unnoticed. They’re speculating about what you were doing hugging Pansy, and why there was evidence of a duel after Hannah Disapparated with both of you from there.”

Hermione’s head dropped back against the high chesterfield, her curls spilling over the leather. “Skeeter is saying that the Parkinsons acted in self-defence after I attacked them, isn’t she?”

Ginny nodded, fury sharpening her freckles. “She’s poison. A liar, a bitch, an old hag who never should’ve been allowed to publish the rubbish she does.” She smacked her fist against the coffee table, and it rattled on its legs, glasses trembling with the impact. “And she’s insinuating that you no longer show up to work because you have some ties to the Cleansers. She said something about a memory of the night Flint was found? About how they addressed you as one of them. Nothing but lies—”

“That’s true,” cut in Hermione.. Her voice was low, almost drowned by the muted pop of the fire. She pressed her fingertips against her temple, nails grazing her hairline. “Though I don’t know how that bitch got her hands on it, it was supposed to be safeguarded in the highest level of security. Only Kingsley and a bunch of people knew of its existence.”

“She must’ve stolen it,” spat Ginny, fist still hovering. Hermione caught her wrist and lowered it gently, fingers brushing in soothing patterns that tempered her fury. “But… the article will hit next Monday’s front page, and not even Shacklebolt can prevent it. Trust me, I talked to him this morning, but… He insisted on the paper’s independence from the Ministry. Said something about ‘not repeating old times and censoring the dissonant voices’ as it happened when Voldemort returned and Fudge used it to pretend otherwise… or when the Death Eaters themselves used to control the masses. Shacklebolt was adamant on trusting the people to distinguish lies from truths.”

“And I agree in principle, but Kingsley’s being naive if he thinks truth can win on its own. Facts don’t speak louder than lies unless someone fights for them,” said Hermione. She wanted to punch something—anything would suffice, especially if it had Skeeter’s face printed on it—but her hands were still clasped with Ginny’s. “It’s just that… some articles are not dissonant or disagreeing with the Ministry’s policies. Some people are wrong and decide to raise their voices despite knowing it. Skeeter, for instance. She knows she’s lying, but she still keeps going after people like a hobby. There should be some way to prevent people like her from outright lying!”

Silence stretched, broken only by the fire’s pop and the faint rustle of Ginny shifting nearer. She wrapped her arms around Hermione’s shoulders, pulling her close into the chesterfield’s deep corner. “What are you going to do?” asked Ginny. “Hogwarts won’t get the Prophet, per McGonagall’s ban—she said it’s nothing but gossip that distracts students—but the aftershocks will arrive sooner or later.”

“If that article hits print, it’s not just my reputation at stake. Now I’m not just Hermione Granger, a girl beside Harry Potter. I’m High Inquisitor at Hogwarts, Senior Undersecretary at the Ministry, immediate superior to the Aurors’ patrols here, at the castle—it’ll undermine every institution I’m part of, everyone will take a hit. I need you to get me an advance copy, or for you to draft it from memory if you can’t get me the whole shitty article. I’ll write a rebuttal before Skeeter’s poison spreads too much.” Hermione winced, tired and furious at the same time. “I don’t know what else to do besides that, but I’ll come up with something. It’s getting more dangerous, and not just for me. If Skeeter is dragging the Cleansers into this… I have a feeling someone’s going to pay the price.” Hermione bit her lip, Ginny’s hands rubbing her arms in slow, soothing strokes. “I’ll think more about it tomorrow, when my head is clearer,” whispered Hermione. Her words slurred faintly with fatigue and wine. “Too much alcohol to mull it over now and come up with something that sober me would think is a good idea. But I’ll probably… storm Kingsley’s office the first chance I get to sort some things out. He can’t keep me here forever.”

Ginny’s palms slid up to cup Hermione’s cheeks, thumbs brushing her skin. The scent of wine lingered faintly between them. “You do that, darling. Tomorrow will be a terrible day, but… enjoy the rest of the night. Merlin knows you deserve to.”

“I’ll try,” she smiled, breathing raggedly. Two bloody months. She was gone—forcefully removed—for two months, and the entire Wizarding World was crumbling again. How was she supposed to get a rest? Hermione’s chest ached. “Will we ever be free, Gin?”

“Not likely, no.” Ginny sighed, her gaze meeting the floor. Then she looked back up, and Hermione saw the fire in her beautiful eyes, shining. “That’s why you must find happiness in the little moments, Hermione. You should learn to enjoy the present and let go of anything that troubles you that cannot be helped. Otherwise, you’re not living. You’re just surviving, darling. And I would hate to see you doing just that.”

“You’re right. I can’t just sit here waiting to be free. I’ll fight for the little moments, and for something bigger, too. For all of us.” Hermione smiled through tears threatening to spill, the cushions dipping as she leaned closer. “I don’t deserve you.”

“You’re probably the only one in the world who does,” replied Ginny with a smirk. Oh, and my three children.”

The brunette hugged her tightly, a chuckle escaping from her lips. “What about Harry?”

Ginny’s arms wrapped her in a loving embrace, tight and safe. “He does, but just sometimes.”

They stayed like that for what seemed an eternity, and an instant; time folding in on itself.

A blink that mercifully took aeons.

“I’ll see you this Friday, to pick up the three scoundrels, won’t I?” asked Hermione softly.

“Like you even have to ask, darling.”

They both smiled at each other, years of playing each other’s confidant, friend, secret keeper and much, much more passing in their gazes, meeting like old friends for whom time never passed as they grew older, grew different—but never grew apart.

“I love you, Gin.”

“I love you too, ‘Mione.” Ginny kissed her forehead. “Now go shag that poor woman, or she’ll combust on the spot.”

“Gin!”

“What?” she asked, tilting her head and feigning innocence. “I won’t pretend to be blind just because you suddenly are shy about having sex, Hermione.”

“I hate you,” she sighed.

“You love me,” she replied, smirking. “Go, Pansy is waiting for you… And she does look menacing. I made the whole ‘bending iron with her will’ up, but… She looks like she will if you don’t run up to her.”

A shiver went down Hermione’s spine, and she shook her head. “Let her wait a little longer. I’m not done hugging you.”

“Suit yourself, ‘Mione,” she replied, embracing her tighter through her thick sarcasm and wit. “Where shall I send the flowers for your funeral once she’s done with you?”

Her back was against the wall, her skin getting cold everywhere as the night’s breeze filtered through the window’s gaps. The stone pressed unforgivingly against her shoulder blades, the chill seeping through her dress.

Her body protested, on strike. How dare she promise that craved release to it twice to finally get it there? How dare she get it worked up? How dare she let it be teased relentlessly… and then never finish the job?

Pansy kissed her, pressing her harder against the stone wall. “Show me,” she said, stepping back with a smug grin. “Exactly how you do it when no one’s watching, Hermione.”

A shiver went down Hermione’s spine when she heard her name. The sound was husky, deliberate. Her breath caught in her throat, the space between them buzzing like static. Pansy rarely used it. But she’d never spoken it as a tease, as a challenge before. Hermione bit the inside of her cheek, not understanding what she was being asked to do. And even if she knew, she had no desire to oblige, not after what Pansy had just pulled.

The Slytherin bit her lip, looking at her like she was the most delicious meal she’d ever tasted, before clarifying: “How you touch yourself.”

If someone had splashed her with freezing water, it wouldn’t have made her reel as half as those words did.

“I’m going to need you to repeat that.”

A slow, feline smile spread on Pansy’s face as her eyes glittered in the firelight. “I want to watch you while you get worked up on your own. I want to admire your face while you’re getting near. I want—”

“No,” she breathed. “No.”

“Why? It’s so fucking hot… There’s no shame in it, golden girl.”

“I know that!” she screeched like a banshee. Her voice cracked, bouncing off the close walls of the room. Then she breathed in and out, slowly. Her chest rose and fell as she forced her body back under her control. Calming her burning nerves, her spinning head, her sizzling skin. Her voice dropped back to her original whisper. Not ashamed, never ashamed. Just honest. “I don’t want to do it, Pansy. If you’re so eager to experiment with it and find it that hot, you do it.”

Pansy tilted her head. “You want to watch me?”

She was being cocky. As if all those other women somehow meant that she was bound to be the director in this. Deciding the what, the when, the how—everything. And that? That was insulting.

Hermione might’ve been new to all knowledge of women’s pleasure, but she’d always been the best at everything, always ready to excel. Never letting anyone drag her down, ever. And this? This wasn’t going to be any different.

“Not particularly, no,” she replied through gritted teeth. Her fingers curled tight against her palms, nails biting her skin. Twice had Pansy left her on the edge. Twice! It was starting to become the usual, and Hermione was done with playing nice. “I want to do other things to you, Princess. Like strangle you, for instance.”

“Gryffindor’s golden girl, renowned war hero, Brightest Witch of Our Age… has a choking kink and fantasises about her hands on my pretty little neck?”

Hermione blushed. Heat bloomed high on her cheeks, betraying her even as she tried to scowl. “What? No, I don’t! You’re just twisting my words!”

“Come here,” she said, grabbing her by the waist and sitting down on the armchair by the fire, so Hermione was straddling her legs. The armchair groaned under their weight, the worn leather warmed by the flames licking in the hearth. Pansy’s eyes searched hers, and her expression shifted from confident, all-knowing seductress to worried, soft lover. “What’s wrong?”

The hem of her dress went up her thighs, but she couldn’t care less. Her bare skin prickled at the change, but her focus stayed locked on Pansy’s face. “Why are you so aggressive about all this? I get it, you enjoy control. I do too. But you’re leaning in too hard on it. You don’t need to. I don’t know what I’m doing, but I trust that you do, and that’s enough.”

Pansy’s eyebrows twitched in a frown. “You’re aggressive too,” she whispered. “I’m just… trying to match you. To show you how good it feels. Don’t you want that?”

The fire cracked behind Hermione, sparks jumping as if punctuating Pansy’s words. The heat spread across the cold stone walls of her room, chasing the draft from the window but never quite dispelling it.

“Yes. But every time I think you won’t pull back, you do. I just—”

Pansy’s thumbs caressed her waist, the silk of her dress brushing effortlessly against her skin. “You pulled back, too. Why is it wrong for me to do it? This morning, and then while drinking with Daphne and the rest, you—Merlin, Hermione. Do you know what your hand did to me there? How hard did I have to resist the urge to kick them all out? You’re just like me, a teaser. So… I don’t get it.”

“I-I don’t know either. I think there’s some part of me that still believes that this isn’t happening. That you will run away,” said Hermione, tears prickling at her eyes.

Her lashes clung together; she blinked furiously, refusing to let them spill.

“Everyone leaves me, sooner or later. My parents, Ron…” she continued. “Even the ones that are still beside me: Harry, Ginny, Neville, Luna… Everyone has lives, and I’m stuck in a limbo. And you, Pansy. You left me, too, that night that we kissed. I cannot take another rejection like that after all that’s happening now. As mad as it seems, this means too much for me, and I won’t be able to bounce back if this ends with you abandoning it, for whatever reason. Not easily, at least. I’m broken, but healing, slowly.”

Hermione closed her eyes for a beat, and shadows of slate and ivory pillars flooded her mind. She shushed them; it was not their time. She didn’t want to add Pansy’s statue to that realm between worlds, so she needed the Slytherin to understand. This was not about sex, not really. It was about much, much more.

“And every time you pull back… I get scared you might leave. That you’re second-guessing this, and are using that thin thread to stop the madness,” she said.

Pansy opened her mouth. Closed it. “Merlin Hermione. No. I’m not stopping as a punishment or because I might regret it. I could never regret this. I still don’t understand how you want me back. How someone as good as you would desire someone rotten like me.” Her voice broke softer now; her eyes shone strangely in the shifting firelight. “Lust, I understand. I know how that works, but you tore it all up. You broke the armour.”

Hermione tried to cut in, but the Slytherin wasn’t done.

Pansy’s hands cupped Hermione’s face, her fingers caressing her cheeks. Her palms were warm, steady, her touch a quiet contradiction to the sharpness of her words moments ago. “Do you know how much I pined over you? You had me at your feet since last summer. I was star-struck. And I tried so hard to deny it. I saw you in the Library after our first spat back here. I was doomed. I was so obsessed with you that I deemed the whole Library as out of bounds. Just because I couldn't bear the thought of losing control as I did back there.”

Pansy pulled her in softly until their foreheads were touching. Their breaths mingled, uneven, as though the air between them was thinner than anywhere else in the world.

“It’s not that I don’t want you, or that I’m thinking of leaving,” she went on, spilling every thought that seemed to cross her mind. “If anything, I want you too much. Every second, I want you next to me. I dream of inventing a spell so I could bottle your smile. When I close my eyes, I see yours, shining with mischief. I fantasise about how it would feel to wake up next to you every morning, to fall asleep next to you every night. I want to map every inch of you, from the way your lip curls when you’re smug to the hitch of your breath when I touch you. I would die to know which of your freckles make you giggle, and which ones make you shiver.”

Pansy’s words tumbled out faster and faster, her usual composure cracking. One hand had slipped from Hermione’s face to her throat, not gripping, just resting there. The Gryffindor felt her thumb right on her pulse point, as if the rhythm of her heart kept Pansy tethered to her. Her voice lowered to a whisper, “I wish I had enough time to taste every sound you make until I can recognise them blindfolded. And when I pull back, it’s just because that’s what I thought you enjoyed. What you showed me—the tease, the denial, the delayed gratification. I play by the rules I know, not because I don’t care, but because I want to show you I do.”

The fire snapped in the grate, throwing their shadows long against the wall, two outlines tangled into one. Hermione gulped. “I did—I do enjoy all that, sometimes. Just not now. God, this is embarrassing. I’m ruining everything, aren’t I? Sorry—”

“Please, stop apologising. Do you know how much I should be apologising to you, Hermione? Six years’ worth of letters, perfectly written, explaining that I was stupid, reckless, dumb, scared and envious of you. One letter every day, one for each insult I threw your way when we were kids growing up. For every hex, every snap. That’s how long I would have to apologise to you before dreaming of you remotely looking my way with something similar to a neutral expression, instead of a disgusted one. I should be begging at your feet, and yet you pull me up onto your pedestal as if we’re equal.” Her voice broke, and with it her poise. Pansy let her forehead drop briefly to Hermione’s shoulder, her breath warm and uneven against her collarbone. When she lifted her head again, her eyes were damp, not with tears yet, but on the edge of it. Her fingers kneaded unconsciously at Hermione’s hips, like she was terrified of letting go.

“I’m not perfect.”

“I never said you were. But you’re good, golden girl. Kind, wise, brave, loyal. And you deserve better than me. But since you picked me…” Pansy’s lips curved into the ghost of a smirk at the word “picked,” but her eyes betrayed her: wide, almost fearful, as though she were waiting for Hermione to snatch the choice back. “I just want to be worthy of it. To be the best I can, for you. I’ll make sure—”

“Pansy.” Hermione’s hands grabbed Pansy’s. The storm outside rattled faintly at the window, underscoring the fragile hush between them. “If I wanted someone to admire me blindly, I would use a love potion.”

“You’re worth admiring, golden girl. Deep down, you must know at least how impressive you are. I refuse to believe you’re oblivious to your own magnificence.” Pansy sighed. Her gaze flicked briefly to the window, where the wind rattled the old glass, before she forced herself back into Hermione’s eyes. “This is me trying to say ‘I won’t leave you’. If you want us to take it slow, we’ll do that. If you need time to think it through, fine. I—”

“How are you so daft? I don’t want to bask in the moment and slow down; it’s quite the opposite. I want you to stop pulling back. At least now, Pansy. I-I need you to be all in.”

“Did you mean that as a double meaning?”

Hermione smacked her. “No. You know that.” Her lips quirked despite herself, and for a fleeting moment, the tension softened. “I know you like to control everything. I get it. But, just this once… can you share it willingly?”

“Just this once, and just for you, golden girl.” A smile tugged at the corner of Pansy’s lips. “Although I reserve my right to mutiny against the High Inquisitor of Hogwarts. Did I tell you I find women in power hot? It makes it all the sweeter when they bend to my will—”

Hermione smiled in response, but it was more a way of baring her fangs than anything else. “I won’t bend, Princess.”

Pansy smirked. “You’ll fold like a cheap copy of Hogwarts: A History once you try it.”

Hermione bit her lip, deep in thought. “We shall see, Princess. In the meantime… Can I… undress you?”

“Whenever, wherever you feel like it, golden girl. I would never say no to that question,” she whispered softly.

Hermione leaned in, capturing Pansy’s lips in a kiss. Soft, slow, soothing; ethereal.

It felt as if Hermione had been trying to breathe underwater, and suddenly she was able to gasp for air.

Like watching stars with a cloudless sky, as if she could dance to a song only they knew.

Her fingers found the knot of the Slytherin’s shirt and started undoing it carefully, without any rush. Pansy’s hands remained at her legs, steadying her. Her thumbs were playing with both garters softly, relishing the feeling of skin and the crocheted piece of elastic cloth wrapped around her thighs.

The shirt was off, and Hermione smirked at the sight of Pansy’s bra. “Red and gold do look good on you,” she whispered against her lips.

“Cheeky much?” she breathed, shaking her head. “Take it off, golden girl, before my skin rejects the poison. And please, get rid of the awful skirt too. I do have my pride and self-respect, despite what you may think.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Queen of Sin? More like Drama Queen, Princess.” She tugged at the bra and released it, slapping the ivory skin. Pansy’s breath hitched, and Hermione’s fingers played at the clasp.

“You’re enjoying way too much this easy access to my tits, golden girl. Again, a front fastener—?” The words died in her throat as Hermione undid the hook and slid the straps off her shoulders. The cold of the room made her nipples perk, or maybe it was Hermione’s burning gaze. Either way, the Gryffindor felt like the luckiest woman alive to enjoy such a vision. “Do you always stare this much? Last time you did too before wickedly ravishing them.”

“I only do when the art is worth staring at.”

“Are my tits art, then?” asked Pansy, a smirk blooming on her lips. Her hands grabbed Hermione’s and placed them over her waist, pressing in slightly. “Well, golden girl. Some art was created to be observed. Some was created to be critiqued. This? This was born to be felt, so enjoy it… and let me enjoy it.”

Hermione obeyed, hesitantly. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“This morning you did well enough,” she whispered, lolling her head back as Hermione’s left hand pulled them closer by Pansy’s waist, while the other cupped one of her breasts, her thumb tracing circles around her brown nipple. “You’re doing fine, golden girl. Stop overanalysing everything. Feel it, enjoy it. Let go.”

Before she could second-guess herself, she lowered her mouth to Pansy’s throat and kissed it. Not like she had done that morning; not desperate and hungry, trying to prove she too could play the game of seduction. This was more like a caress, a way for her lips to tether themselves to Pansy. To ground her, to feel her breathing on her own skin. The shallow breaths, the gasps, the hums.

It was instant. Honey and citrus.

She wanted to stay there, her hands on Pansy’s body, exploring how to make her feel good. Her thoughts on Pansy’s reactions, trying to guess what she would enjoy the most. Her lips on her throat, tasting and not just smelling that maddening scent.

Minutes went by, during which she didn’t stop caressing all the skin available. Her mouth travelled down to Pansy’s collarbone and then back up to her jaw.

Hermione looked down at her breasts. How they rose rapidly, as if trying to breathe faster and faster. She wanted to put her mouth on them. To close her lips around her nipple. To lick it with her tongue.

“Do you trust me?” she asked shyly.

Pansy looked into her eyes before lolling her head back again. “With my life, golden girl.”

Hermione rose from her legs and opened them, so she could kneel between them. She pulled Pansy by the waist, so she was at the edge of the armchair… And her mouth crashed against her chest, a heap of lips and skin that met like a magnet.

“Merlin!” Pansy’s gasp as Hermione’s lips closed around the peak rivalled with the fire cracking at her back. “Circe, golden girl. Is there a switch to turn you on I don’t know about?”

Hermione shrugged, her tongue playing with the nipple as her hands kneaded Pansy’s spread thighs.

Maybe there was a secret switch, but Hermione wasn’t aware of it. She just knew she wanted to feel her. To hear her gasping, to be the cause of her undoing.

Pansy’s nails raked her shoulder blades, leaving bright red marks on them. “Golden girl. You’re doing it again. Teasing mercilessly,” she hummed, her throat barely able to articulate her thoughts. “I can take it, if you want. I can endure it longer. But… please don’t ask me to unless you really want me to become a real mess, in which case I might recant on my word.”

Hermione sucked at the nipple one last time before leaving it be. She straddled Pansy’s legs again, and one of her hands grabbed her by the throat so she could kiss her lips. “I’ll… try. But I’m leaving the skirt on. I like it.”

“I hate you,” replied Pansy, her teeth sinking into Hermione’s lower lip and tugging at it.

“Please,” she scoffed. “Will you ever stop lying?”

A wolfish smile spread on Pansy’s face. She snapped her fingers once. “I will, when I fuck you properly for the first time. Enjoy this, Hermione. Skirt on, knickers off. See how you do.” Pansy’s mouth captured hers in a heated kiss, and Hermione’s lips opened to invite the Slytherin’s tongue in.

She stopped thinking. The buzzing in her mind stopped as soon as Pansy hummed into her mouth, and her hands grabbed Hermione’s wrists, sliding them into place. One to her breast. One to her stomach.

Pansy released her. “Do as you please with me, golden girl. But don’t you dare stop until I tell you to.”

She didn’t. She couldn’t.

The hand at her breast did what she was already used to.

The one lower… kept travelling south with every second. Navel, hip. Then the inner thigh, going up.

Until her fingers grazed the apex of Pansy’s legs, beneath that Gryffindor skirt. The Slytherin resisted the jerk that ripped through her body.

“You’re so wet,” whispered Hermione, feeling the truth of her words on her fingertips.

Pansy groaned as she grazed a sensitive spot. “And you suck at dirty talk.”

“Okay, first? Rude.” Hermione bit Pansy’s lip. “Second? I was just in awe, not dirty talking.” She slid her fingers back a bit. “Third? I think you would enjoy it if I actually sucked.”

She let one finger get inside Pansy.

And Circe.

Hermione knew what it felt like. Hot, wet, soft. But her knowledge was blown away by how Pansy felt. Yes, she was hot, wet, and soft. But there was much more to it.

Circe. It was everything.

Pansy moaned into the kiss and whispered a soft ‘yes’ against her lips.

At first, Hermione didn’t know how to do it. But then she decided to let the fear go. And she started moving in slowly. Curling it when it was in, hitting the spot she enjoyed for herself… and it seemed that Pansy did too, because her breaths grew inconsistent, her skin started getting damp, and her body jerked every time Hermione’s finger thrusted in her.

“Yes, golden girl—right there,” she moaned.

Hermione shifted on her lap, so her wrist wasn’t bent awkwardly and her finger could get in deeper. She started getting more sure of her movements, building up the tempo. Faster, harder.

Pansy was panting in her mouth.

Hermione decided to add a second finger and had to force Pansy’s mouth back to hers after the witch had detached it to moan to the sky.

“Do you like that?” she poked her, a smile tugging at her lips as she curled them both inside, not caring to draw them out. Curl, uncurl, curl again… and then pull back, just to thrust in.

“You know I do, gold—”

Hermione added the last pieces as she taunted Pansy. “Sorry, what was that?” The palm cupping, the thumb pressing, tracing circles as her fingers touched that spongy spot inside, hitting it over and over. “I didn’t get it.”

“Don’t stop,” said Pansy, her lips almost incapable of returning Hermione’s eager kisses.

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Princess,” she replied, keeping the movements of her hands erratic on purpose.

Letting Pansy suffer a bit, as the wave of pleasure was building inside, with every stroke of her fingers, was an extra. Hermione felt so good, making Pansy feel good. She wanted to keep going, feeling her around her fingers, beneath her, shaking her legs, against her lips, mumbling impossible words to decipher.

But she knew how Pansy well enough to understand how close she was. Her breath hitched, her spine arched, her legs twitched, as she fought to keep them apart for Hermione’s hand. And the Gryffindor understood.

Her teeth sank into Pansy’s throat and sucked the skin into her mouth, as her fingers thrust in and out, curling, and her thumb grazed her clit over and over.

Hermione felt Pansy tense on her fingers, how her walls tightened around them. How she screamed, how her nails dug into her back, how her teeth sank into Hermione’s shoulder. And she kept the movements, not stopping at all, until Pansy was limp and done.

She was drunk on the sensation. On Pansy coming for her. Because of her.

Hermione was drunk, and there were not enough doses of it for the thirst to be satiated.

She finally pulled out of Pansy, completely hazy about what she had done. Of what Hermione had made Pansy’s body do. The Gryffindor looked at her fingers for a beat. She bit her lip, torn between shame and desire… And the scale tipped just as Pansy gasped, her gaze razor-sharp, looking at Hermione’s eyes as they regarded her own hand. And in that beat, she decided to copy what the Slytherin had done before. Not to tease or challenge; Hermione was just curious. When she put her middle finger into her mouth, she closed her eyes.

She didn’t know what she had expected, but Pansy tasted good. So fucking good it was intoxicating. A little bit salty, and a little bit like citrus, for some reason. Tangy, maybe.

Addicting, as she sucked clean her ring finger, under Pansy’s glazed gaze.

“You taste good,” said Hermione, her teeth grazing her own fingertips as she licked the rest clean.

Dark crimson circles conquered Pansy’s cheeks. “You—Just—Oh, my—Me—”

“Did I do good?” she asked, kissing her neck. She bit the soft skin, and then her tongue lapped against the mark.

Pansy’s mouth fell open. “You made me come, on your first try, with just one hand.”

“Is that a yes?” she asked, pulling back and tilting her head.

Pansy’s hands grabbed Hermione’s bottom as she stood, fingers digging into silk and flesh, keeping their bodies as if they were one. Hermione’s arms wrapped around her neck, while her legs wrapped around Pansy. Her back hit the wall violently, her body pressed between stone and skin with no gaps in between. “That’s a fucking yes, golden girl. Gold star for you. Now, let me get my silver, will you?” Pansy smirked as if there was a joke buried in her words, something only she understood.

“Still clinging to House motifs? Just what do you—”

Her words got lost in Pansy’s hungry kiss, every breath pulling their bodies impossibly closer. “Could you shut up so I can fuck you properly now?” she snapped, lips, tongue, fingers, skin… claiming every bit of Hermione. “I’m done with pulling back.”

“Yes, please.”

Hermione felt Pansy’s smirk against her lips. “Just don’t blame me if you can’t walk tomorrow, golden girl.”

“Don’t worry about—”

“I’m not worried”, she said, thumbs kneading her arse. “I’m dying to see you like that, I’m betting on little old me to achieve that feat.”

Hermione’s breath hitched as Pansy’s hand crept higher on her dress, dragging the fabric with it. “Such big words for such a small snake hatchling.”

“Such big confidence for such a deaf cub,” she growled, punctuating each word with a kiss. “You’re a work of art, Hermione.”

Her head lolled back a bit, and she bit her lip just as Pansy’s hand lifted her dress more up her thighs. “Art is meant to be worshipped.”

“Then call me a mutineer,” she said, pulling Hermione’s lips back to hers. “Because I know you’re meant to be admired, but I plan to destroy you instead.”

Hermione’s kisses had been hesitant and hungry. Pansy’s? Famished and starving. Hermione’s head was pushed between stone and lips, her breath sucked from her mouth, and she was left almost senseless. No sight, no smell, no hearing.

Soft lips, piercing stone. And, somehow, Hermione felt right where she was meant to be.

She was reduced to taste and touch, heightening both to unbearable limits.

“I want you, golden girl. I need you. Please, please, let me show you fucking how much—”

Hermione buried her hand in Pansy’s hair, tugging her head to pull her back, just to slam their mouths together harshly. Teeth biting, crashing, tugging. “Yes,” she breathed, head spinning and skin ablaze.

And then there was no more cold stone at her back, but air as Pansy walked both of them to Hermione’s bed.

Her dress was up to her waist, and the Slytherin licked her lips as she lowered the Gryffindor on the mattress, making quick work of the silver silk.

Hermione shifted uncomfortably under her gaze as she was stripped of the only fabric separating her skin from Pansy’s eyes. They seemed to devour her whole.

Her hands tried to cover her body, but Pansy grabbed both wrists softly, pulling them out. “You’re so fucking gorgeous, golden girl. Don’t ever feel ashamed of it. Don’t you know how good you look?” she asked, tilting her head and searching Hermione’s eyes. “Yours is the image people fantasise about. Naked, in high heels and fishnet garter stockings. On a bed, legs slightly parted. Teasing at more. Do you have any idea how perfect and ravishing you are right now?”

“I—” gulped Hermione, unable to think straight, much less to talk.

Pansy let go of her wrists, but Hermione did not attempt to cover her body. Instead, her spine straightened and she raised her chin. Pansy shook her head before taking the image in again. “Merlin, golden girl. Fucking Merlin,” she whispered, and it sounded like a prayer. Pansy unclasped her skirt and got rid of her high-heel, knee-high leather-skinny boots, leaving her equally bare. “Better?”

Hermione’s mouth fell open as her eyes focused on the witch’s body. Her whole, very naked, very inviting body. Her hand reached out to caress her waist, and the Slytherin stood still, letting her touch her as she wished.

“You’re beautiful,” said Hermione, her eyes travelling her frame. She bit her lip, feeling both the heat creeping in, beneath her skin… and the coldness of Pansy’s moonlight-kissed skin on her fingertips. The reverence of it all, both a pull and a push. She looked up until their eyes met, and her breath hitched at the intensity of the gaze. Charged, like the lightning of the storm outside, threatening to tear the world apart. She didn’t care, not as long as they were like that.

Seeing each other, really seeing, for the first time.

Pansy’s throat swallowed something. “I know you said you’re sure of this. I know. But I just want to ask you, one last time, before losing my mind, drowning my eyes in your body, and feeling my skin on yours. Do you want to go on, golden girl?”

Hermione tilted her head. “I got drunk in it. While I was in you, Princess, I lost it. So yes, fucking yes.”

“The golden girl, swearing. Now I’ve seen it all,” she purred, leaning in. “I think it’s time I also tasted it, don’t you think?” Pansy mouth claimed hers without skipping a beat, forcing Hermione to lie back on the bed as the Slytherin climbed on top. “I want you to understand how fucking maddening you look right now.” Pansy’s skin was cold against hers, pressing her down on the creaking mattress, like a boa suffocating its prey. Except her prey was praying to be under her. “Tell me if you’re uncomfortable at any point, golden girl.”

Hermione nodded, already squirming just from feeling Pansy’s naked skin sliding against hers on her body with every kiss, every push and pull of their lips. “I will, but… do whatever you want, Princess. Unless stopping, otherwise I’m yours.”

And Pansy—Oh, Merlin, Pansy—was just kissing her. As if she had been starved, yes. But there was also a question in every kiss, an afterthought of care in every linger. A chance for Hermione to stop if she wanted to.

The problem was, she didn’t. She was screaming on the inside, begging for more. Maybe her body did show it, because Pansy’s weight shifted on top of her, so it was leaning more on one side. Still on stop, still teasing her mercilessly through mere skin contact. How their breasts touched, their stomachs kissed. Their legs tangled, one between each other’s. Pansy’s thighs clamped around one of hers, pulling it to the side slightly.

And then Hermione felt the palm on her stomach, inching lower with every kiss.

The world stopped spinning the moment Pansy’s fingers arrived at their destination. Her thighs clamped on reflex, and she had to force them open again.

The whiplash was astronomical, because lots of things happened at once:

Pansy kissed her nose. Sweet, loving, innocent.

“Good girl, keep them open,” she purred. Filthy, menacing, raw.

Her fingers toyed at her entrance. Harsh, pulsing, maddening. “Don’t—Don’t call me that. I’m not ‘good girl’, I’m not—”

Hermione whined, one arm wrapped around Pansy’s waist to pull her closer, the other grabbing the creamy sheets in a fist, pulling at them. “Are you bad, then? Or just my golden girl?” One of Pansy’s fingertips dipped inside her and then retreated. “Mine?”

Hermione’s nails marked Pansy’s back at the touch.

The Slytherin kissed her mouth again and hummed. “Someone’s feisty. Careful with the linen, golden girl. You’ll rip it before I have even fucked you yet.” She slid her fingertips up and down Hermione’s slit. Lazily, as if she were caressing any, not sinful, other part of her.

“Then fuck me,” she bit, her head lolling back and exposing her throat to Pansy’s kisses…

The Slytherin licked Hermione’s throat, from the collarbone to her jaw. She tugged at her earlobe, her lips caressing it before travelling back up. “Don’t mind if I do,” she whispered. “Relax, breathe, and… feel.”

Pansy’s fingers stopped toying and went in. Not just one, but two. Slowly, steadily, until Hermione panted, her breath ragged. It was not pleasant, nor painful. Just sudden.

Until Pansy pulled them out, following the same glacial pace. Once, twice, thrice. Slow, caring, as if she weren’t shagging her, but learning all of Hermione’s secrets. The pleasure started taking over her nerves, her senses, her reactions and her body. “Good?” asked Pansy, kissing her jaw and kneading one of her breasts with her free hand.

“Yes,” replied Hermione. She squirmed, fighting to stay still as Pansy’s hand dove back inside her with a humming laugh.

“You feel good, golden girl. Beyond good,” she purred, thrusting in agonisingly slow.

All this leisure was killing Hermione. “I need more.”

“I know you do. More like this—” she asked, her hand going faster between her legs, while she lowered her lips to her chest and licked them. Hermione’s hand left the crescent moons on Pansy’s back alone to tangle in her hair, pushing her mouth harsher on her chest. “—or like this?” Pansy’s tempo slowed again, but this time the thrust was directed and deeper. Hermione gasped when she felt something cold just at the entrance, near the end of the fingers. She reeled, mouth agape. The Slytherin just smirked, curling them once they were almost all in. “Oh, silly me… Did I forget to take off my rings?” she asked, while pushing deeper.

“Devious little—”

The kiss stopped her from replaying, as Pansy kept the rhythm steadily growing faster. Just two fingers, ring-deep, going in, curling, and out.

It felt hot, cold, wonderful, not nearly enough, like too much.

“More,” she begged.

“No,” replied Pansy, biting her breast. “This is enough.”

She wasn’t right. She couldn’t have been right. What did Pansy know of her body, of how much she needed to—Oh. She felt them, inside her, caressing that spot, and her legs closed without her meaning to. The Slytherin tutted, still in deep, still hitting that place. Over and over.

Pansy’s weight shifted again, her knee forcing Hermione’s thighs apart so she could pull out and thrust in. “Take it, golden girl. Fucking take it.”

The rings weren’t cold anymore, but every time they touched her skin, Hermione recoiled and then moved to meet them.

She might’ve moaned, or talked, or begged. Truth is, she didn’t know.

Pansy rose, her free hand pinning Hermione down by the throat. Not choking, but just staying there. “I told you,” she purred, and Hermione’s feet curled when Pansy hit her inside again. The Gryffindor tried to pull her back down, but the Slytherin smacked her hand away. “Uh-uh. I. Want. To. Watch. You,” she said, punctuating each word with a thrust.

Hermione felt it. The wave, building inside her with each passing second. The glass, being almost full, was ready to spill.

She didn’t want to give Pansy the satisfaction.

No, not like that. She wasn’t a movie to be enjoyed, her orgasm a kink for Pansy to fulfil.

And yet, as Hermione tried to resist it all, the Slytherin’s words echoed in her mind, adding fuel to an already uncontrolled fire.

Knee between her thighs. Fingers thrusting in. Hand at her throat, her thumb caressing her pulse point. And Pansy’s eyes.

Merlin, Pansy’s eyes.

Insatiable green irises, blown pupils, long eyelashes, unblinking stare, as if trying to memorise every mark on Hermione’s skin. As if it weren’t just her fingers in her, but her touch everywhere over her body. As if Pansy’s mind conquered her own in a battle of wills.

Hermione’s legs jerked. She moaned. Pleasure was rising and rising in her.

Pansy smirked. “Come for me, golden girl,” she purred.

And that command was Hermione’s undoing, just as Pansy’s fingers thrust in and her thumb circled her clit for the first time. Her vision blurred, her hands clung to the sheets, her nails bit her palms.

Pansy grabbed her jaw tightly. “Open your eyes and look at me,” she ordered, thrusting faster and faster.

Hermione panted, desperate, but obeyed.

“Good,” she purred again, her hand tightening around her throat.

She was at the edge. One of her hands left the sheets alone, so Hermione could muffle her moans by sinking her teeth into her own skin. Hard. Deep. Harsh. And yet, Pansy’s thrusts were harder, deeper, harsher.

Her legs trembled, her back arched, leaving her in shambles, and her chest shivered. It was overwhelming; she was overwhelmed. And with one final thrust, Hermione crossed the threshold.

“Pa—Oh my God, Princess!”

The wave of pleasure crashed over her, under Pansy’s unwavering gaze and her expert touches.

She didn’t stop. Her fingers kept stroking her relentlessly, helping her ride the wave that was making every nerve of her body crack alive, every muffled moan feel like a prayer for it to be over, for it to last forever.

Until she breathed, for the first time in what felt like ages. She tried to speak, but her voice failed her.

Pansy smirked and finally pulled her fingers out, leaving Hermione feeling physically empty, mentally depleted, and emotionally happy. But the Slytherin’s hand lingered there, between her legs, like a ghost refusing to let go of life. “Did you like it?” she asked with a smug smile. “I did.”

“I hate you,” she weakly replied, her voice hoarse and tired, feeling all of a sudden how straining moaning and screaming were.

“I’ve already fucked you once, golden girl. You can stop lying.” Pansy leaned in to peck her lips. “You did good,” she whispered.

Hermione was about to answer when she felt Pansy’s hand between her legs again, this time focusing on her clit. “What a—aah—are you doing?” she asked, paralysed.

“Oh, love… I said I would fuck you. I didn’t say how many times. I do have a plan, you know? I thought you’d appreciate a little… Arithmancy.”

Fear washed over her at the monster she had awakened. “You cannot mean that.”

“Trust me, golden girl,” she purred, kissing her. Pansy tugged at her lower lip as her fingers started sliding up and down, pulsing at her clit whenever they were near. “I meant every fucking word.”

“I can’t—I need more time. Gods, Pansy. I just came, give me a haven before wrecking me.”

Pansy hummed, kissing the hinge of her jaw. “You have a breather. Until I taste you, that is.”

She didn’t lose time. Her lips started descending on Hermione’s body, all soft and adoring. Kissing her neck, her collarbone, her sternum, her navel. Steadying there for a beat before Pansy rose and knelt at the bed’s feet, yanking Hermione’s legs so her hips were almost at the edge.

“Breathe,” she said. The Gryffindor propped herself up on her elbows, her gaze locking on raven hair and pink lips. The Slytherin bit the inside of her inner thigh and decided to go even lower, until her lips grazed Hermione’s garter. “I would’ve loved to do this with your knickers, but since you never had them on, thanks to yours truly…” she hummed, the sound reverberating through her body like an unstoppable current. “I’ll just play with this instead.” Her teeth closed around the garter and tugged, the fishnet stocking going down her leg as Pansy’s mouth dragged it, her hands later caressing the free skin.

She undid one of her high heels, and the stocking pooled at her feet. The other shoe fell to the floor soon after, and Pansy’s fingers yanked at the remaining garter, just to let it slap back in place on Hermione’s skin, earning a soft cry.

“I think I’ll leave this one for later. I quite like silver and green on your golden, sun-skin.”

Pansy lifted effortlessly her stocking-free leg and started kissing her calf. Pepper kisses trailing up, never stopping, never dragging out.

Until her lips reached her thigh, and a sharp gasp escaped from Hermione’s throat. “Look at you,” murmured Pansy, her breath hot against skin that hadn’t been kissed in ages. “Already shaking, and I haven’t even tasted you properly yet.”

Hermione wanted to deny it, to conjure some clever retort, but the words stuck in her throat the moment Pansy slid lower. She kissed the inside of her thigh, soft, maddeningly soft, before sinking her teeth in just enough to make Hermione yelp.

“Merlin, Pansy—”

“Say my name like that again.” Her smirk glinted wickedly in the firelight. “I could live on it.”

And then she was there, between her legs. Tongue teasing, lazy strokes at first; exploratory, unhurried. As if she was sizing her up, learning how Hermione’s hips would jerk, despite herself, with every lick.

“God, you do enjoy toying—” she gasped.

Pansy pulled back just far enough to speak, her lips glistening. “This is me not toying. You’ll know the difference later on, golden girl.”

When she finally sucked properly, Hermione nearly arched off the bed. One hand shot to Pansy’s hair, tugging, but the Slytherin only chuckled into her skin and kept going, unrelenting.

Then she stopped, and the world halted with her… until Hermione felt her tongue thrusting in, licking her inside, and she lolled her head back, limp, incapable of holding on.

Hermione bit her fist to keep quiet. She wouldn’t give Pansy the satisfaction of knowing how much this was breaking her… But the Slytherin knew, because long fingers yanked her wrist from her mouth, pinning it to Hermione’s stomach. Her palm was flat, keeping all her body locked in place. Pansy thrust in a couple more times before her tongue went back to her clit. “No hiding, golden girl,” she ordered, voice rough. “I want to hear you.”

And Hermione—Merlin, Hermione couldn’t stop herself. Every swirl of tongue, every suck of lips, dragged sound after sound from her throat. Desperate gasps. Pleas she hadn’t meant to voice.

Pansy then slid one finger inside her, her tongue never stopping, lapping faster, sucking harsher. And then another one, curling them over and over inside her.

It was overwhelming, unbearable. Perfect.

Her climax came hard, sudden, ripping through her before she could brace for it. She cried out, half ‘Princess’, half broken nonsense, all while Pansy dragged it all out of her, never stopping, never reeling back. Pushing in just enough to keep the wave cresting higher and higher as it broke against itself.

Until Hermione couldn’t take it anymore, and yanked Pansy by the hair to tear her apart from between her legs.

But the worst, the best, was that Pansy didn’t stop. She rose, no longer kneeling, licking her lips clean of Hermione’s taste.

She looked down at Hermione’s broken and sprawled body and laughed, low and menacing. Her nails raked her stomach, and the Gryffindor jolted, trying to squirm away. She was oversensitive, sparks already down her spine and stars beneath her lids. She couldn’t take another one, not a third, and especially not after how devastatingly intense the first two had been. No way.

Hermione climbed up the bed, fleeing from Pansy’s hungry eyes, hungry hands and hungry mouth. It didn’t matter. She tried to sit up, but Pansy’s hand pressed her flat against the mattress, palm splayed over her sternum, pinning her down like a butterfly to glass. “Pansy—”

“You trust me?” she whispered, almost reverent, but the weight of her body, the gleam in her eyes, made it a dare.

Hermione swallowed hard. “Yes. But I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” growled Pansy against her, tongue merciless between her legs again. “You will.”

The new first touch to her clit made Hermione jolt so violently she nearly knocked Pansy back. Her thighs clamped shut, but Pansy forced them apart with both hands, pining to the mattress, relentless.

“Good girl,” she crooned. “Keep them open for me.”

“I bloody told you not to call me that!” she snapped, her hands clawing at the sheets, her thighs still trying to close. But Pansy dipped her tongue again, holding her open, determined to devour every bit of Hermione.

“Scream my name, then, so the whole fucking castle knows you’re mine,” she purred against her. The circles grew slow, deliberate, cruel. Hermione’s nerves screamed, her body torn between shoving her away and begging for more.

The Gryffindor’s vision blurred, stars exploding behind her eyes as another wave built, faster, sharper, crueller. “Princess, I can’t—please—Too soon, too soon, too—”

Pansy pulled back just a bit to eat her with her eyes. “Yes, you can. I won’t stop again, golden girl, so enjoy this little reprieve until my tongue is back in you.” The Slytherin’s voice was silk over steel, her smirk dripping sin. Hermione felt her hot breath against her, every whispered word reverberating in. “And you will come. Again. And again. Until you forget your own fucking name.”

She needed time. More time. Possibly infinite time. “Please,” she whispered, without really knowing what she wanted.

Pansy tilted her head, raking her nails up and down Hermione’s thighs. “‘Please’ what?” she teased. Pansy licked her slit in one sweep, and Hermione grabbed the damp sheets tight, as if that could save her. “‘Please slow down’… like that?” She lapped viciously at her clit, sucking it in her mouth, her tongue tracing circles on it. “‘Please go faster’?” She looked up at her with a gleaming grin, soaked in Hermione. “Or did you mean ‘please fuck me, Princess’?”

Pansy didn’t wait for her reply. Her tongue lashed out, thrusting, licking, her lips kissing, sucking, her nails raking, biting.

Too much, again. Hermione hadn’t really surfed the last wave entirely before a new one formed inside her, arching her back and pushing Pansy’s tongue deeper.

And when it broke, shattering her, she screamed, hoarse and unrestrained, and Pansy drank every bit of it like she’d been starving her whole life.

And still—STILL—Pansy didn’t stop.

Hermione sobbed, incoherent, clawing for something to hold, because sheets were no longer enough. “Princess, please, I can’t—I’m beg—” She stopped herself. She would not beg.

But Pansy had heard her, and Hermione could feel her smirk on her skin as she kissed her thigh, sweet and obscene at once. “That’s it, golden girl. Beg for me.”

It was too much. Fingers sliding in again, tongue circling, thumb pressing, rhythm brutal now. Hermione’s legs shook, her nails tore crescents into the sheets, into Pansy’s shoulder blades, her throat went raw with sounds she couldn’t hold back.

Another wave built, faster this time, merciless. Hermione thrashed, trapped in her own body, her pulse racing under Pansy’s palm at her throat.

When she finally broke again, her scream tore through the room, ragged and primal, and then she collapsed—utterly wrecked, chest heaving, sweat cooling on flushed skin.

Pansy finally relented, easing her down.

“You’re insane,” mumbled Hermione hoarsely, words scraping her throat.

She smirked, brushing damp curls off her forehead. “You love it.”

“I hate you.”

A velvety laugh echoed on stone walls. “You hate how much you love it.”

When it was finally over, Hermione lay boneless, trembling, barely coherent. Pansy kissed her whole face, smugness radiating from every inch of her, but when she reached Hermione’s mouth, her voice was surprisingly soft.

“Silver star worthy?” she hummed, kissing her temple.

“Gold star doesn’t even begin to cover it,” panted Hermione.

Pansy smirked against her lips. “Darling, I’m just getting started.”

Hermione groaned, burying her face in Pansy’s shoulder, already too far gone to argue. She told herself that Pansy was just joking and closed her eyes, nestled against her moonlight skin, hugging her close.

She didn’t fear Pansy leaving anymore. Not when she was still trembling from her touch, drowned in her scent.

Hermione fell asleep with her arms around her and a small smile on her lips.

Chapter Text

Hermione had dozed off, clinging to Pansy’s body, relishing how close she felt to the Slytherin. Her scent surrounded her, and she felt just the right amount of warmth lying next to her.

That is, until she felt the coldness biting into her naked skin, and her eyes opened to find an empty bed. Her pulse quickened, alert at the disappearance, until her eyes got used to the darkness and she saw Pansy’s silhouette, gliding bare feet to their shared door. Something got stuck in her throat. A broken sob?

“You’re leaving,” she whispered, with a dry tone, dripping sadness despite herself. They had shagged, so there was no reason for Pansy to stay anymore. Maybe she needed her space. Maybe she got tired of sharing a bed with Hermione.

Pansy turned and walked back to her, sitting down on the bed. “I was… just getting something from my room.”

“Not leaving?”

Pansy grabbed one of Hermione’s hands and tucked one of her half-damp brown curls behind her ear. “No, not leaving. Why would I ever abandon your side, golden girl? It makes no sense.”

“It got cold. Without you, it got cold.”

Pansy arched an eyebrow. “Are you going to act like a clingy toddler all night?” Hermione smacked her head. “Ow. I get that this was intense for you, golden girl. But I thought Gryffindor’s pride would overrule useless and incoherent babbling.”

Hermione recoiled, rolling her eyes. No more soft talk? Fine by her, she would switch to banter and bite back. “Oh, you’re back in your icy throne, I see.”

“Excuse you, it’s a serpent’s throne, made from green scales and snakes coiling around themselves and each other, if you must know,” hissed Pansy.

“Merlin, Princess, thank you for taking your time to talk to peasants like me.” Hermione punctuated the title with flair and then faked a pair of puppy eyes. “Surely you have better things to do.”

A slow and dangerous smile spread on Pansy’s face, illuminated by the embers of the fire. “Oh, I do. Fuck you again, for instance. How does that sound?”

“You’re joking. I’m spent, you cannot possibly mean—”

Pansy smirked, sliding off the mattress again, bare feet hitting the floorboards with the unhurried grace of a predator who knew her prey wasn’t going anywhere. Hermione propped herself on her elbows, heart still a runaway drum line in her chest, and watched the Slytherin cross the room stark naked, moonlight playing on every pale curve.

She went into her room and came back a second later, a hand hidden behind her back. She then bent down, catching her wand from the floor where it lay, discarded among their clothes. She pointed it at the fire, and it roared back to life, tongues of flames hitting the stone and warming up the entire room.

“Are you still cold, golden girl?” she asked, innocently. Too innocently. “Don’t worry, I’m about to make you feel as if you had fire in your veins.”

Hermione squinted. “Fire is my colour anyway. Red and gold, remember? Do your worst,” she said, taunting her by opening her legs, challenging her head on. After all, what more could she do to her?

The answer came easily as Pansy stopped hiding her arm behind her back. It was dangling casually from her hand. Silver. Sheened silicone. Shining even in the dim moonlight. Hermione’s mouth went dry.

“If you want to stop, I need you to tell me now. I won’t take your word later, golden girl, because I know your mouth will beg me to stop out of some misguided sense of pride, shame or exhaustion, and your body will beg me to go on.” Pansy arched an eyebrow. “Which one is it?”

“You did say something about having a plan, didn’t you?” she replied, heat already coiling in her stomach. The sane answer would’ve been to stop. The best answer would’ve been to stop. Hermione’s answer…? “I’m a sucker for plans and Arithmancy, Princess. Do continue.”

A delighted smile flashed on Pansy’s lips before her cold composure erased it. A shiver went down Hermione’s spine.

She could take it, couldn’t she? After all, a strap was supposed to be familiar territory for her… She had had men. This couldn’t be that different.

The Slytherin threw her wand, landing it on her pillow, and then her gaze locked on Hermione’s. If eyes could smirk, hers did.

Oh, no. What had she just agreed to?

“You came for me; tongue, fingers and skin alike,” purred Pansy, voice dripping with amusement as she bent to fasten the harness around her hips. Buckles whispered tight against leather. “Now you’ll come with this filling you. Tell me, golden girl…” She adjusted the gleaming length and gave it a lazy stroke, like she was already thinking about how it would look buried inside Hermione. She gulped, both scared and aroused. Pansy licked her lips. “How will your Gryffindor pride take it? Being undone by me again… while stuffed full of my House colours? The fire roaring in the chimney might be Gryffindor, but this… This that’s about to be inside you, breaking you open, is Slytherin.”

Heat rushed to Hermione’s face, indignation and arousal colliding in her chest. Her fists clenched against the sheets. “Don’t flatter yourself that much. I don’t do breaking.”

“I don’t ‘flatter myself’, golden girl. Your screams stroke my ego enough.” The leather clung to her hips, highlighting her curves. Hermione’s mouth went dry. “And my strap will stroke you in return.”

“You’re relentless. And deeply insufferable,” she spat, hoarse and tired already.

Why had Hermione said yes if she was already broken and done? Pansy had made her come… what, three times? Four? Wasn’t that enough?

Apparently, the answer was a no that admitted no rebuttal whatsoever.

“You keep saying that.” Pansy glided back onto the bed, deliberate, crawling up Hermione’s body until the cool press of the silver strap nudged her thigh. “And yet—” she kissed the corner of Hermione’s mouth, smug—“here you are, ready to take it. Not a lioness, not even a cub. A cute kitten, waiting eagerly to be played with.”

Hermione could’ve rolled her eyes. She didn’t. She turned her head and caught Pansy’s lips hard, biting back with enough force that Pansy hissed. She tasted blood. Slytherin blood. And she smiled.

A lightning cracked the sky outside her window, and the fire danced, like daring the cold to try and take over her room.

Their kiss broke when Hermione’s knees were nudged wider. Not roughly, but not gently either. Pansy’s wicked grin as she did was infuriating. “Still got teeth, then. Good. I like it when they fight.” She licked her split lower lip, soothing the wound.

Hermione’s retort turned into a gasp when Pansy lowered her hips, not entering, just letting the blunt head of the silver strap slide lazily across her entrance. Back and forth. Up and down. Teasing. Her hand was at the hilt, guiding the movements with precision.

“No—” Hermione swallowed, her fingers darting down to Pansy’s wrist in protest, but the witch only pressed harder, smearing wetness from past crimes committed to her body across her without slipping in.

“You’re drenched for me,” whispered Pansy against her ear. “And I haven’t even given you the courtesy of a thrust yet. Tell me, golden girl—” The toy traced a slow circle over her clit, coaxing a sharp sound out of Hermione’s throat. “—what does that do to your pride?”

Hermione grit her teeth. “It tells me you talk too much.”

That earned her a laugh, low and pleased. “Keep spitting fire, sweet little Gryffindor. I’ll fuck it out of you with just five inches.”

Pansy’s palm lay flat on her stomach, pressing her down against the mattress. And with a roll of her hips, she slid in.

Hermione’s breath punched out of her chest, body arching at the sudden stretch. It was too much and not enough all at once, her body tightening around the cold-silver intrusion as Pansy pressed in deeper, steady, unhurried. She squeezed her eyes shut, her fists clenching the sheets. Not pleasant, borderline painful, but not quite.

“Oh, don’t close those pretty brown eyes,” drawled Pansy, pulling back an inch before sliding forward again, deeper. “I want you looking at me while your body betrays you, while the silver in you makes you lose.”

Hermione forced them open, glaring up, meeting smug green eyes that glowed with hunger. The weight of Pansy’s body pressed her down, the rhythm building as the Slytherin rocked her hips, withdrawing and sinking back in, each time further, firmer, harder.

The fire dimmed, or at least that’s what Hermione thought was happening. It dimmed, losing to the cold, just as she was losing to the silver.

The sounds—wet, obscene, echoing off the old stone walls—made Hermione’s skin burn. Every thrust had her panting, every withdrawal left her clenching around nothing, desperate and unwilling to admit it.

Why had she said yes? Why was logic useless when it came to sex, when it came to Pansy? When Hermione came all those times before?

The fire roared to the roof, and the toy got buried to the hilt.

“You feel that?” whispered Pansy. “That’s you, gripping my colours, the silvery Slytherin strap. Tight, needy, trying to drag me deeper. Brave Gryffindor, reduced to this.”

Hermione hissed, summoning defiance even as her back arched into the rhythm. “It’s… average. Silver, was it? That’s second place at best. Adequate.”

Pansy stilled mid-thrust. The wicked smile that spread across her lips made Hermione’s stomach drop.

“Adequate?” she repeated, incredulous. “Golden girl, you’re trembling, barely capable of taking it.”

“I’ve had worse. I’ve had better.” Hermione forced the words out on a jagged breath, victory flashing for half a heartbeat. It was true. And it was also a lie.

Pansy stilled. The toy was, after those thrusts, comfortably inside Hermione. A roll of hips made her gasp. “I was being merciful, out of sheer willpower, not to break you. But since you’re still very much in one piece, I guess I can go harder, can’t I?” And then Pansy shifted. She leaned back, lifting Hermione’s thighs with unyielding strength, folding her knees toward her chest until the silver strap angled differently against her raised hips. The sudden thrust hit so deep that Hermione’s mouth fell open on a strangled cry.

“Better?” taunted Pansy, voice smug. She pushed again, deeper still, the new angle stealing every ounce of air from Hermione’s lungs.

Her pride rallied through gritted teeth. “Still… adequate.”

“Oh, you stubborn, stupid golden girl. Gryffindor’s pride will be your undoing,” murmured Pansy, voice dripping with relish. “Let’s test this then.”

With a swift movement, she pushed Hermione’s legs higher, resting them on her shoulders. The shift made Hermione’s body spread open, helpless, utterly vulnerable. No leverage. No escape. Just the ruthless slide of silver filling her to the hilt.

The first thrust at this angle had Hermione clawing the sheets, a strangled gasp tearing from her throat. The second left her half delirious, her body lighting up in sparks. The third broke a whimper from her lips that she couldn’t choke down.

Cold, cold, cold. Fire-less. Slytherin inside, devouring Gryffindor. The scarlet was on Hermione’s cheeks, the gold behind her eyes as she started seeing stars. The green was Pansy’s taunting irises, and the silver was buried in her.

She tried to close her legs, but it was useless. Pansy gripped them both on her shoulders, not allowing Hermione to move, to shift, to decide anything.

“Defenceless now, aren’t you?” purred Pansy, her pace cruelly steady. “Nothing you can do but take me. Pride can’t save you here, only silver… If I deem it so.”

Hermione tried. She tried to muster words, to fling back something sharp, but her voice cracked under the rhythm, reduced to fragments of sound.

Pansy only laughed, rolling her hips to grind deeper. “Every noise you make, golden girl, it’s mine. Say it’s adequate again. I dare you.”

“Adeq—” Hermione clenched her teeth, breath ragged, the sheets tearing at her nails. Her voice failed her.

The thrusts built a fire under her skin, each one dragging her closer to the edge she swore she’d resist.

The fire was silver and green, no longer proudly displaying her colours.

And then Pansy slowed.

The shift was maddening. She withdrew completely, leaving Hermione clenching around emptiness, then pressed the slick and drenched head against her clit, rubbing and circling. Hermione jolted, a desperate gasp escaping before she could stop it.

“I—”

“Mm?” Pansy’s grin was venomous as she dragged the toy back down, nudging shallowly deep inside, lazily stroking every bit of Hermione, before retreating again. “What is it, golden girl? Can’t take the edging? All you have to do is beg, and I’ll oblige with every thrust.”

The rhythm repeated. Slide out, rub, press in just enough to sting, withdraw. Over and over.

Hermione’s body betrayed her, hips twitching toward the pressure even as she tried to scowl through it. “You—” she managed, voice breaking, “—you think this will break me? Me?”

Pansy thrust in at a glacial pace and bent down, forcing Hermione’s knees to her chest and her legs to the sky. Deep, so deep inside that Hermione started seeing stars again. The Slytherin’s teeth grazed her throat, lips curling against her skin. “It already is. Gryffindor’s pride, the golden girl, is being undone by silver on the Slytherin Princess. Fitting, isn’t it? As good as this fits in you.”

Another withdrawal. Another rub, circling her clit until her thighs shook on Pansy’s shoulders. Hermione bit her lip until she tasted copper, forcing herself not to moan. Maybe it was Pansy’s blood from the kiss before. Maybe it was hers, just drawn.

“You’re holding on because I’m allowing you to,” whispered Pansy, smug, thrusting in. “But I can feel you flutter every time I pull out. You’re begging inside even if you won’t say it.”

Hermione snapped. She wanted to shatter her pride? Hermione would shatter hers first. This was a war, and no woman took any prisoners. Hermione bit, voice raw: “At least Ron didn’t need toys to make me come. Or to coax the orgasm out of me by sheer brutal force, like you do, Princess,” she spat.

The name tore through the air like a curse.

It wasn’t fair. Pansy was leagues above him… The Gryffindor knew it. The Slytherin knew it. But Hermione was out of things to throw at her, so she chose the one that would sting the most, shattering her pride. And the one that would force Pansy to stop taunting her and actually either stop or finish. At that point, both were fine by Hermione.

The fire died, snuffed out. Not even embers, not even a trace of ash.

Pansy froze mid-thrust. Pulled out slowly. Her eyes flashed with something feral, her jaw tightening. Then, with a snarl, she slammed forward, burying the strap to the hilt in one savage thrust that rattled the headboard.

“Don’t you dare think of him while you’re with me,” she hissed, fucking her hard, ruthless, every thrust punctuated by fury. “Don’t you dare say his name while I’m inside you.” Hermione’s legs fell onto the bed, Pansy’s nails almost drawing blood on her thighs as she kept them spread. “Don’t you dare conjure his image while you’re at the brink of an orgasm. My orgasm.”

Hermione’s body seized around the intrusion, strangled cries breaking past her lips with every brutal drive. Her pride was a fragile shield against the onslaught, shattering bit by bit as Pansy fucked her senseless, merciless, relentless.

“You’re mine now,” snarled Pansy, her thrusts deeper, harder, the silver strap bruising in its persistence. “Say adequate again. Say his name again. I’ll fuck you until all you can say is mine.”

Hermione’s head thrashed against the pillow, her hands desperate, clawing for an anchor. Her body betrayed her utterly, walls clenching, fire building unbearably fast under the vicious rhythm.

She wanted to resist. She tried to resist. But every slam of Pansy’s hips ripped her closer, every taunt shattered her pride further. She bent down and bit Hermione’s collarbone, the strap thrusting inside at just the right angle.

And she couldn’t resist it anymore.

The pressure broke. Her body arched, helpless, her voice tearing out in a cry as orgasm tore through her, violent and overwhelming. She convulsed under Pansy’s unyielding weight, her legs trembling under the Slytherin’s grip, clinging to her own shattered dignity like smoke in the wind.

Pansy’s thrusts never faltered, driving her through it, forcing her to ride every aftershock until she sagged back into the mattress, wrecked, undone, and utterly conquered.

“Adequate my arse,” whispered Pansy against her throat, finally letting her legs fall as she eased herself down on top of her. “Liar.”

The Slytherin’s weight pressed her down on the mattress, the strap still inside her, motionless as a snake readying itself for a strike… again.

“Fuck you, Princess,” she mumbled, her eyes closing from exhaustion.

“Don’t you dare fall asleep now, golden girl,” she mumbled, planting open-mouthed kisses on the slope of her throat. “We’re not done yet.”

The world was still pulsing from the last orgasm when Pansy pulled out, agonisingly slow. Hermione’s body twitched, oversensitive, yet already aching for more, even as she told herself she couldn’t possibly take it again so soon. She was mad, going down the rabbit hole.

Pansy didn’t give her the option to linger; she shifted her weight, rolling them until Hermione was flat on her back again, breathless, and then guided her to straddle her instead. The motion left Hermione flushed and blinking down at her, her thighs shaky but spread over Pansy’s hips.

She expected some sly comment right then, but Pansy reached back to grab her wand instead. “Wouldn’t want your fire to die so soon, would we? Incendio.” Hermione exhaled slowly. The hearth timidly cracked back alive, deciding if it should burn green or scarlet. The Gryffindor had expected worse, as if Pansy was about to use magic to make the sex more—“You didn’t think it would be that easy, did you?” she asked, with a smug grin. Then her hand was between them, wrapping long fingers around the harness. “Engorgio.”

Hermione’s eyes widened as she saw the strap thicken and lengthen—five inches turning into something that looked closer to eight, silver catching the light like a wicked grin. Her stomach dropped. Her body clenched around nothing, nerves jangling.

She had tried it once, something as big as that… years ago. She knew she could take it. Didn’t mean she wanted to, because there was no need for it to be that big.

“You’ve got to be joking,” managed Hermione, though her voice cracked around the edges.

“Mm, no,” purred Pansy, looking smug beneath her. Hands behind her head, chest inviting Hermione to ravish it… If it weren’t for the threatening silver strap under her. “You took five because you had no other option. Because I made you. Let’s see if you’re brave enough to take eight… because you want to.” Pansy smirked, tilting her hips so the tip nudged at Hermione’s entrance again. Hermione winced. “Aren’t you a Gryffindor, golden girl? Take the silver to the hilt. Conquer it, take revenge for how it broke you.”

Hermione’s cheeks flamed, her hands instinctively braced on Pansy’s shoulders. “Don’t be ridiculous—” she started, but Pansy’s hands darted to her hips and pushed her down an inch, slow and deliberate.

The stretch burned immediately, sharper than before, and Hermione hissed through her teeth, fighting not to give Pansy the satisfaction of seeing her flinch.

“That’s one,” said Pansy smugly, eyes glittering. She squeezed Hermione’s hips and pressed another inch inside. “And two. Look at that—already split wider and you’re still clinging to me like I’m the first you’ve ever had.”

Hermione’s breath stuttered, and the retort caught in her throat, strangled by the unfamiliar fullness. She wanted to throw her pride like a shield, but the sheer sensation made words scatter. She finally spat, “Don’t act like you’ve conquered anything. I’ve taken worse.”

Pansy laughed; sharp, delighted, unbothered and knowing. “Worse? You’re gripping me like you’ve never been fucked by even half of this in your life.” Another inch buried in her. “Admit it, golden girl, this is better than anything you’ve ever had.”

Hermione bared her teeth. “You wish.”

“I don’t make a habit of wishing for reality,” she purred, lifting her hips and burying another inch inside a gasping Hermione. “Four deep, four to go.”

It wasn’t that the strap was too big. It was big and intimidating, but she could take it. She had, once. Hermione just needed time… and control.

Which she didn’t have at the moment.

Instead of arguing, Hermione pushed herself up, letting almost all of it slip out until just the tip pressed inside her again. One inch, she could take. For now. So that’s what she did. The relief was immediate, almost dizzying, and it gave her back some ground, some leverage. She leaned down until her lips brushed Pansy’s ear, forcing another inch. On her terms. Two inside. “Maybe I’ll just keep it like this,” she whispered, lips grazing her ear shell. “A taste. Teasing you, never giving you more. How would your Slytherin pride survive that?”

Hermione rose back up, pulling the strap out but feeling its pressure right under her, ready to dive back in.

The smile vanished from Pansy’s face. Her fingers dug into Hermione’s arse, nails biting. “You wouldn’t dare, you would only be toying with yourself.”

Hermione bounced a little, up and down three inches. Yes, that felt good. “Oh? So you would be okay if I just… edged myself on your silver and proud strap?” She fondled one of Pansy’s breasts, marvelling at how her nipple hardened as she touched it. Four inches. Then five. Yes, that was good, that was working. “I thought Slytherins were cunning, but it seems you only feign control, don’t you?”

Pansy hissed, pulling her up so the strap was almost out. “You little—” And then she slammed Hermione down. All the way. No warning, no patience. Her scream tore through the room as all eight inches buried inside her in one brutal thrust. Her body convulsed around the stretch, her hands clawing at Pansy’s shoulders for purchase, every nerve ending screaming at once, her nails scratching her breasts, almost drawing blood.

“Stop,” she hissed, choking at the words, feeling out of depth and control. It was too sudden, too much.

Pansy froze immediately. “Okay. We’re stopping. I’m not moving until you tell me what you want. Do you need me to pull out?” She waited for Hermione to say something.

The Gryffindor opened her mouth. And then closed it, without uttering a sound. She didn’t want to stop. She just didn’t. She needed to feel control back, but by stopping… no one would. And Hermione wanted back her pride, wanted to get back at the Slytherin for what she had just pulled. And she just pulled inside her an eight-inch strap, so the Gryffindor in her made her bite down the word. She would endure. She would find a way out. And she would make Pansy pay.

Hermione shook her head.

“Ah, I see… Speechless in the face of pleasure, even when your pride is at stake.”

The Gryffindor breathed in once, slowly, steadying herself. Getting used to the strap inside. “I’m not mute, you know,” she managed between gritted teeth. “I just… needed a moment. I’m fine now—I think. We can… go on.” Her hand found Pansy’s stomach, and she tried to anchor herself to that point. Tried controlling the depth… if the Slytherin let her.

Pansy’s laugh came hot against her throat, triumphant and filthy. “Then… brace yourself. If you want to stop, we will, but, for now—” She rolled her hips, grinding against her, and Hermione screeched. “—That’s a ‘no’ on your part and a ‘no’ on mine, golden girl. You don’t want this to stop, I know you don’t… And you do too.”

“Shut up, bitch. Stop gloating,” she replied through gritted teeth.

“I’m not gloating.” The Slytherin smirked as she pulled a bit out and then back in, making Hermione’s throat swallow a whimper. “I warned you… If you said ‘yes’, we would be just beginning.” Pansy kneaded her hips, almost like a caress. She rose so her lips were close to Hermione’s ear and then whispered, low and velvety, “That’s it. If you want this my way, it’s all of me; or we end this round right now. Your call. Do you understand?”

“We’re not stopping,” gasped Hermione, voice ragged. “You’re insufferable—”

“And you’re full,” cut in Pansy, falling back on the mattress and rolling her hips to grind deeper still. “Stuffed with Slytherin ingenuity. You think you can rise above me? You’re pinned. Helpless. A Gryffindor riding for her life.”

“I knew Slytherins enjoyed crawling under things, but not that they did it that much. Always below, slithering, writhing… Tell me, Princess: will you keep crawling much longer, like the good little snake you are?” she asked, breathless.

“We mostly glide,” replied Pansy, biting her lip. “Don’t you feel it inside you already, doing just that? Gliding like a snake between your trembling legs—”

Hermione snapped back, voice shaking, “You call this control? You’re still the one underneath me.”

Pansy’s grin was feral. “Yet you’re the one impaled. The ‘control’ you speak about doesn’t care about positions, golden girl, but about power. And who do you think is holding it? Who's winning?

“If that’s your argument—”

Pansy clicked her tongue, her nails raking Hermione’s legs from calves to hips. “Besides, I did the same when I was the one rising above you. Will you be a good girl and ask me to put an end to your eight-inch deeply satisfying torment?”

Hermione wanted to claw at her, to twist the words back, but the weight and stretch inside her made her shudder too hard to think. Still, she managed, “If you think this will make me beg, you’re mistaken.”

“Oh, you’ll break,” promised Pansy, grabbing her arse again and lifting her a fraction only to slam her back down. Hermione’s cry was loud, raw. “You’re stretched enough, golden girl. This won’t hurt. But every thrust you endure, every cry that escapes your throat—they belong to me. Just like you.”

The fire outside mimicked the one within Hermione, stilling, waiting for any sign of rebellious intent. Not glowing, not vanishing. Enduring, still displaying some gold against all that silver.

Hermione couldn’t even muster a reply before Pansy’s mouth was on her chest, lips closing around her nipple, sucking hard enough to make her spine arch. The shock lanced straight through her core, amplifying every pulse of the strap inside her, still. And then Pansy’s hands forced her to move up and down, making her pulse quicken beyond what was supposed to be humanely possible. First one inch, then two, then three… and back down to the hilt, each thrust making her go higher, only to fall harder.

Hermione tried to shift, to find a rhythm of her own, but Pansy’s hands were already dictating it, squeezing, adjusting, forcing her to grind at angles that made her gasp.

Finally, Hermione found her leverage. Her thighs, albeit shaky and overworked, were stronger than Pansy’s hands. She lifted an inch, then another, moving against Pansy’s hold. The pace was erratic, but hers.

Hermione smiled through blurred vision, her body damp with sweat.

Because this? This was Gryffindor’s comeback. And the fire roared with her, burning scarlet again.

She leaned forward, hand slipping down between them, pressing firmly against the harness base until her fingers found the damp heat beneath it—Pansy’s clit, wet and abandoned.

So Hermione gave it the attention it was craving with her fingertips.

The reaction was instant. Pansy jerked, teeth scraping Hermione’s skin, her moan muffled against her breast. Hermione’s lips curled in grim satisfaction. “Who’s breaking now?” she taunted, grinding down harder while circling Pansy with quick, precise flicks.

Pansy tried to laugh, but it came out ragged. She bucked upward, trying to keep the upper hand, but Hermione kept her pressed down, kept working her relentlessly. “You think you’ve won?” rasped Pansy. “Look at you: stuffed full, shaking—”

Hermione cut her off with a hissed, “And making you come undone while riding you, Princess.” She bore down on the strap in a hard, punishing slam, at the same time rubbing Pansy harder. “You forget that maybe this is not my first time with something as big as your ridiculous strap, has that—ah!—ever crossed your mind? I just needed to get used to it… to retaliate.” The dual assault drew a cry from the Slytherin, muffled but real, raw around the edges.

“You—Merlin!—think you have this under contr—Hermione!” Pansy’s grip on her arse tightened, desperate, as her hips lost their rhythm.

There it was. Her breaking point, the way she had called her name in a moan. Not taunting, but desperate. Pansy tried to thrust up, trying to force control back, but Hermione anticipated, rocking down harder, faster, using her own weight and precision until Pansy shuddered beneath her.

The fire roared back to life at its prime, scarlet and gold dancing flames lighting it all up, chasing the coldness and the silvery night away. Snuffing the green out of its tongued flames, the frostbite receded in the face of burning lions, and Hermione grinned through the fog.

She had been scattered, but the Slytherin was about to be wrecked.

The moment cracked. Pansy’s eyes rolled back, her head tilting as a broken moan ripped free. Hermione’s hand gripped her chin, forcing her head back so she could watch her as she became undone. So Pansy would feel her eyes on her as she lost control.

Her thighs trembled against Hermione’s, body seizing as climax tore through her first. The smug Gryffindor rode her through it, chest heaving, sweat slick between them, pride flaring even as her own body screamed for release. Pansy lay back, arms at her side, limp for a heartbeat.

“You first,” whispered Hermione, voice dark with triumph. “You had eight inches; I had two fingertips. And I made you come first.”

The words barely left her mouth before her own control almost shattered.

Though blurred vision, Hermione’s hand reached for Pansy’s sternum, trying to balance herself as she took the strap in one go. And then, her other fingers caressed her own stomach… then lower.

Until she was touching herself, ready to let go. While she kept relentlessly riding.

The pressure that had been mounting through every thrust, every taunt, every forced inch finally detonated. Her cry was loud, unrestrained, ripped from her throat as her body convulsed around the strap, clenching tight, ripping herself apart. The orgasm consumed her, hot and merciless, breaking past every wall of pride until she was writhing on Pansy’s lap, gasping her name, voice gone.

Her nails dug into Pansy’s shoulders as wave after wave rolled through her, her cries echoing, sharp and desperate, until she thought she’d never stop. Pride and ruin, tangled together in heat.

And still Pansy’s smirk lingered, low and wrecked beneath her. “Mine,” she whispered, her hands finding Hermione’s waist again and refusing to let her pull the strap out.

“Yours, but the pride is still my own,” she replied, smirking. The fire cracked, agreeing. “You were right, though: Power doesn’t care about positions, does it?”

Pansy scoffed, but her fingers twitched at Hermione’s hips, betraying her. “You look way too smug for a small victory.”

“Perhaps it looks meaningless to you, but to me…” Hermione’s brown eyes reflected the scarlet from the flames, and the mischief of having one-upped the witch beneath her. She forced herself up, finally pulling the strap out. She winced as she did, before collapsing against Pansy’s chest, pressing her down on the mattress without meaning to. She tucked herself under her neck, her lips pepper kissing it. “To me, this win felt like heaven. Tell me, Princess… did you enjoy the ride?”

A whimper escaped Pansy’s lips as Hermione boldly traced her thumb over her chest. “You still rode silver,” she managed to say.

Hermione’s smug smile widened. “And you still came for gold.”

Hermione wasn’t sure how she still had the strength to move. Her body felt wrecked, her thighs quivering, every nerve already burned raw from round after round of Pansy’s relentless touch. And yet, when Pansy’s weight shifted, moving again above her, when the Slytherin pressed their slick bodies together, skin to skin, nothing else between them—Hermione’s body surged forward as if drawn by some magnetic force she had no control over.

“What are you plotting now?” she sighed, closing her eyes. That made everything worse. Without sight, touch became her most focused sense, even though neither of them moved.

“I’m not scheming!” protested Pansy, in a tone so fake that Hermione opened her eyes to glare at her. “Okay, maybe I am. Sue me for wanting more of you. Not my fault: you’re intoxicating.”

The Gryffindor rolled her eyes. “No more pride-fuck, then? Tired already? My, you do have more bark than bite…”

Something wicked flashed behind those mesmerising green eyes. It said ‘Hazard ahead if you keep poking.’ “Careful now, golden girl. I could destroy you again… but I have a feeling that’s what you’re after.”

She shrugged. “I’m addicted to danger.”

“And I’m addicted to you. Can’t we just enjoy this, without dragging our Houses through the mud and… basically you pretending not to be in over your head and me pretending not to be deeply in awe at you?”

“Again?”

Pansy nodded. “It’s been an hour,” she said, as if that were enough explanation.

“Oh, yeah, that makes complete sense—Are you daft?! How is an hour enough, after all that you’ve put me through already in one bloody night?”

Pansy arched an eyebrow. “I thought you said you were unbreakable. That you’re bound by your pride to rise above it all. Were you lying, golden girl?”

“Unbreakable doesn’t mean mad enough to go for another round blindfolded, you moron!”

Pansy tilted her head and bit her lip, her eyes smirking. “Blindfolded? That can be achieved, you know—”

“Don’t you even try to mask that as a kink you made up!” she bit back, interrupting her before more filthy thoughts and words slipped through her mouth.

“Who said anything about a kink?” she asked innocently, before her voice dropped lower as her lips grazed Hermione’s ear. “And… Seriously, ‘mask’? Interesting choice of words. Golden girl, at this point, you’re the only one digging the hole deeper.”

“Stop talking then!” Hermione closed her eyes. Inhaled. Her breasts pressed harder against Pansy’s, and her stomach clenched. Something got stuck in her throat when she felt Pansy’s perked and hard nipples bearing down, piercing her skin with every breath of hers. Something that sounded dangerously a lot like a moan… that she, thank Circe, could suppress.

“I would love to find other ways to keep my tongue occupied if you don’t want it talking, but you seem keen on preventing them.” Pansy’s knee moved up a bit until she was right against her heat. “Buried just here, between your legs, was my first option—”

“Enough!” she squeaked, fury making her twitch. That was a terrible mistake, since Pansy was pressed down on her, motionless… which made Hermione accidentally grind against her.

She saw the stars for a brief second before calming her ragged breaths down, refusing to move even an inch.

Too late, she realised, as Pansy had clocked it.

“Ever Gryffindor’s little overachiever, by sheer force of will… Making the first move, the first grind,” she smirked, her hand caressing Hermione’s waist and moving up, until her fingers were at the slope of her breast. “Starting already without me? Hermione Granger, deeply aroused, started rubbing on poor, defenceless Pansy—”

“I—No!” she said, gulping. “And stop it already with the Gryffindor trash. Just to be clear, you’re the one who kept poking at my House, not the other way around.”

Pansy’s smile widened. “Am I wounding your pride, kitten?”

Hermione regarded her for a heartbeat “You have a weird kink for Gryffindors, don’t you? About destroying their self-esteem.”

“Believe it or not, you’re the first lion I’ve shagged,” she said, shrugging. “I tend to go for the less soul-tiring type.”

“Oh, then you’re kink is about me, not scarlet and gold…?” she smirked, shaking her head. “It’s fine, I guess. Makes me feel a tad special, even. Whatever works for you, silver Princess.”

Pansy sighed, caressing Hermione’s cheek. “Okay, first? Yes, I do have a strange kink about you. Sue me, have you seen you? All self-righteous… I am bound by House honour to wreck you. Fortunately for you, I chose to break you through sex.” Pansy’s hand moved upwards until she was at Hermione’s forehead. It started fussing over her brown curls lovingly, sorting them back with care so they weren’t a mess. “Second? This… time, or round, is different; it’s… sweeter. Not ‘fucking’, not really. And I won’t poke. I just want to enjoy it. Enjoy you.” Pansy looked down at her and smirked, her hand abandoning her face to rest next to her head. “Third? I’m starved, golden girl. Have mercy on my sex drive.”

Hermione stared her down from below her. “No funny tricks?” she asked.

“None, cross my heart,” said Pansy with an open smile. It got turned into a smirk in a heartbeat. “Unless you count making you come again as magic. Which it is after all the other times, and not because I’m a witch, but… what can I say? I’m just that good.”

“Pansy,” she warned.

“Hermione,” she replied, mimicking her tone while rolling her eyes.

Silence stretched for a beat. Then two. And then Pansy did what Hermione would’ve never guessed.

She pouted. “Please.”

“No straps. No fingers,” said Hermione, squinting. She was overworked, overwhelmed and overexcited. But she was, as Pansy had pointed out, an overachiever. “No world-wrecking orgasms. I mean it when I tell you I physically can’t do that tonight. Not anymore.”

Pansy nodded. “Just me, golden girl. Our skin. Just us. Easy.” Each of her fingers closed around Hermione’s, intertwined, pressing them down on the mattress.

Not as a cage, she realised. But as a link that would not be broken.

“Can I…?”

Hermione looked up at her. At her cascading short black hair, tickling her cheeks. At her almond green eyes, begging just by looking at her. At her rosy cheeks, conquering her otherwise ivory skin. At her pink lips, slightly parted. “Yes,” she whispered.

And Pansy obliged.

Their breasts pressed flush, nipples dragging with every tiny motion, and Hermione’s stomach flipped violently at the sensation. She was so wet that every slow grind sent shock-waves up her spine, the ache at her core tightening with humiliating ease.

Pansy’s lips curved into a smirk against her neck. “Still trembling, golden girl?”

Hermione hissed out a breath. “You talk like that again, and I’ll hex your mouth shut. You said no poking.”

“Oh, but then how would I tell you how gorgeous you look falling apart?” Pansy’s hips rolled forward, slickness sliding against slickness, dragging a ragged gasp from Hermione’s throat before she could bite it back. “How would I whisper every filthy little thing I plan to do to you until you’re clawing at me?”

“You’re a filthy liar, Pansy Parkinson,” she mumbled against her ear. “Fine, I’ll wreck you verbally while you wreck me physically. Let’s see who wins yet again, since this seems to get you going.” Hermione’s nails dug into Pansy’s hands, thrashing but refusing to let go, desperate for some sturdier anchor. “You overestimate yourself.”

Pansy chuckled darkly. “You keep saying that. While writhing under me.” She licked a stripe along Hermione’s jaw, whispering, “Tell me again how unimpressed you are while your thighs are begging to wrap tighter around me. I can only imagine how you would clench if I were to put something inside you—”

Hermione gritted her teeth, refusing, even as her legs betrayed her, curling firmly around Pansy’s hips to grind harder. “I’m highly unimpressed that after three hundred women, you still enjoy your own voice more than the moans of your lover. My moans, Princess. Don’t you pry on them?”

“There we are.” Pansy’s laugh was low, smug, vibrating through Hermione’s skin. “My little kitten, ready to bite. How many whimpers do you wish me to force out of your pretty chokeable throat before making you come?”

Hermione snarled, desperate for footing. “Snakes and stones may never break my bones, Princess. And, please… Stop with the feigned confidence. I’m barely tolerating you as we stand.”

“We’re not standing, golden girl,” replied Pansy, pressing her down further into the mattress and grinding on her, proving her point by making Hermione squirm. “That, fucking while standing, comes later.”

“As if you are ever going to end this... stop talking about the ‘later’ if you can't even handle the ‘now’,” she bit back through gritted teeth.

“Oh?” Pansy dragged her hips slowly, deliberately, the friction almost unbearable in its precision. “Then why are you already gasping? Why are you this wet? You could’ve said no, stopped me hours ago, but instead you keep letting me ruin you. This is the ‘now’ and the ‘later’, golden girl. This is what you chose and kept choosing, over and over. For little old me to shag you until you give out”

Hermione’s breath caught, fury and pleasure colliding. “You really don’t know when to shut up.”

“Never have.” Pansy’s teeth grazed her earlobe. “Not when I can make Gryffindor’s golden girl shake just by rubbing against her.”

Hermione let out a ragged moan despite herself. “It all comes back to Houses to you, doesn’t it? How small do you have to feel to hold on to the pride of your House while shagging me?”

Pansy laughed into her skin, slow and filthy. “As small as a snake, filling you with venom with every orgasm.”

“Snakes get scared of Lions in real life. Are you sure you can keep up with the banter, Princess? Or are you too busy losing yourself in me, that you’re content in losing at this?”

“True, but you’re just a kitten, golden girl.” Her tongue was at her throat, licking the sensitive bite marks that Pansy had left there hours ago. Hermione shuddered. “And snakes eat kittens for breakfast and choke them for lunch. Wanna test how right I am?”

“Remind me who won the last round, then, Princess.” Hermione barked a laugh. “Ah, yes. The ‘kitten’ did, taming both the snake and the hatchling she wore, her precious silver strap-on.”

Pansy hummed, but didn’t answer. And that was Hermione’s small victory in their exchange… for a beat.

The rhythm built—slow at first, languid drags of wet skin, grinding that left Hermione’s nerves frayed. Each movement of Pansy’s hips sent sparks through her, her nipples catching against Pansy’s, her clit pressed and teased by the relentless friction. She was melting and fighting all at once, desperate not to give in, desperate not to be first.

Hermione’s grip on Pansy’s tightened, shaking uncontrollably, as her fingers dug into the back of her hands. And yet she didn’t want to let go. It was a sacred tether, not a pin.

Merlin, she was so, so close…

“I can see it,” murmured Pansy, lips hovering at Hermione’s temple. Nose grazing curls, chin touching cheekbone. “The way your jaw clenches when you’re close. You think you can hide it from me?”

Hermione bared her teeth in a half-snarl, half-moan. “I can outlast you, Princess. I’m so wrung out I could.”

“Not really how that works, but let’s pretend you’re right, love. I still would win.” Pansy’s smirk widened. “I’ve had more women than you’ve read books—”

“Liar,” gasped Hermione, voice trembling but defiant. “The number of books I've read in the last year alone is greater than the number of women you’ll ever shag in your whole sorry life.” She glared at her. No one, ever, was authorised to mock the books she’d read. Not even gorgeous, smug and best-shag-of-her-life Pansy Parkinson. “If last round proved anything, is that nothing lasts forever, Princess. Not even your control,” she muttered.

That landed. Pansy’s breath hitched—anger, arousal, something sharp—and then her hips drove harder, pressing them together ruthlessly. Hermione cried out, back arching, fingernails carving red down Pansy’s skin.

Pansy growled against her throat. “I’ll make you scream before I even blink.”

Hermione’s pride flared, blazing. “Not a chance—”

Her words broke on a sharp gasp as Pansy shifted angle, grinding just right, slick heat dragging mercilessly against her clit. Her thighs spasmed, her body seizing with the sudden flood of sensation.

“That’s it,” hissed Pansy, voice breaking filthy and reverent all at once. “Give it to me. Fall for me. You’re mine, golden girl.”

Hermione was tired. Tired and on the brink. “Kiss me to prove it.”

Pansy’s mouth crashed against hers, fusing them with a force that left no room for hesitation, lips colliding, teeth catching, breath breaking apart in ragged bursts. It wasn’t measured or graceful; it was messy, frantic, a kiss that felt less like a blessing and more like doom, as if something were tearing free inside Hermione. Each pull and press carried an edge of desperation, as if stopping for even a second would be unbearable, as if the only answer to the rising tension was to devour each other until nothing was left but the raw, dizzying urgency driving them forward.

And yet, Hermione could taste how much Pansy cared in that kiss, on her lips.

How utterly, simply, dangerously she doted on her.

Hermione’s head thrashed, hair plastered with sweat, her lips breaking free of Pansy’s as her whole body arched upwards, pressing even more into the Slytherin’s. The orgasm slammed into her, violent and unrestrained, going limp on the mattress as the wave swallowed her. She screamed into Pansy’s shoulder, nails digging so deep in her hands they nearly broke skin, body convulsing against the Slytherin’s relentless grind. And yet, despite wanting to claw at Pansy, to twitch freely, to mark her back… Despite her whole body jerking, she refused to unwound her fingers from Pansy’s, laced together the whole time since they had started.

It felt intimate. It felt special. It felt perfectly and everlastingly theirs.

Through the blur of pleasure, she heard Pansy whimper, a raw sound ripped free, nothing like the control she so proudly tended to display. Her rhythm faltered, then bucked hard, and Hermione felt her come undone too, grinding helplessly against Hermione’s trembling body, gasping into her ear.

And then Pansy, incapable of holding on longer, finally untangled her fingers from Hermione with a ragged gasp, as if that was the worst hex she’d ever faced.

The room was filled with the sounds of them—wet drags, ragged breaths, gasps and moans swallowed into sweat-soaked skin. Hermione barely had the energy to keep her arms looped around Pansy’s neck, pulling her close for dear life.

For a long moment, there was nothing but the thundering silence of the aftermath, their hearts hammering in wild sync. Hermione’s pride, usually so quick to rear back, was oddly muted. She had come undone too loudly, too unrestrained to pretend.

Pansy was the first to speak, voice raw but still laced with smugness. “Loud little kitten. Did I wake the whole castle with that scream I pried from your throat?”

Hermione tried to bite back, but her lips only managed a broken laugh. “You sound awfully proud for someone who whimpered first.”

Pansy stiffened, then chuckled low, rolling them on the bed so Hermione was on top. “Cheeky much? Don’t push your luck, or I may be inclined to recline you against something and fuck you senseless.”

“That’s a low blow even for you. Sex as a threat?” Hermione whistled, just to mock her even more. “And without anything to back it up, you’re just as tired as I am at this point.”

“Wanna bet, golden girl? Have you ever been pressed hard against a railing, facing the view? I can put the strap back on, bend you over and fuck you until you black out—”

Hermione laughed humorlessly, not letting the fear slip into her face or tone. “Let’s leave it at this, shall we?” She smiled faintly, exhaustion dragging her down. “This round was a tie, Princess.”

Pansy kissed her jaw, filthy softness turning reverent as her lips travelled to her mouth. Her lips pecked hers, and she sighed. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, golden girl.” She pressed her forehead to Hermione’s, a slow smile tugging at her lips.

The fire dimmed, letting the coldness creep in a bit. Gold sparks welcomed silver moonlight like an old friend, and scarlet flames shone green for a beat. A tie, though and through.

They stayed there, pressed together, slick skin cooling in the night air, neither moving to break the fragile, dangerous closeness. Hermione’s eyelids fluttered, heavy.

She fought it for a moment, then let herself collapse against Pansy’s chest, surrendering at last—not to the sex, not to the pride games, but to sleep.

Pansy’s arms tightened around her instantly, holding her as if she were something precious, and for once, Hermione didn’t resist.

Hermione woke to the weight of an arm around her waist and the brush of lips at her ear, at the crack of dawn. For one moment, she thought she was still dreaming. Then Pansy spoke.

“You know something, golden girl?” That low, husky murmur curled straight down her spine. “Three and seven. Arithmancy taught me that those two are the most magical numbers.”

Hermione made a small sound of protest, still half-asleep, her lashes fluttering but her body refusing to move. Why couldn’t she go back to sleep? Who cared about stupid Arithmancy when she was dreaming of honey and citrus? She did, but that was when she hadn’t been fucked into an almost black out by a certain smug Princess, coiled around her body like a snake at that very moment.

“I came three times tonight,” went on Pansy, the smile audible in her voice. “And you? Only six.” Her hand at Hermione’s waist shifted, teasing its way lower, fingertips pressing into the soft skin of her hip. “That doesn’t sit right with me. You’re one short. One shy of perfection.”

Hermione groaned, curling a little tighter into the pillow and pulling away from her grasp. "Princess…”

“Mm, don’t tell me you’re too tired. Not when I can feel you already clenching your thighs around nothing.” Pansy tugged her back so she was pressed against her chest, beneath the sheets. A kiss landed at the curve of her ear, followed by a taunting nip. “Not when you melt every time I breathe on your skin.”

Hermione swallowed hard, fighting the pull. “I want to sleep.”

“You will,” promised Pansy, her tone suddenly coaxing, wickedly tender. “But only after I’ve given you your seventh. Balance, Hermione. You wouldn’t want to leave an equation unfinished, would you?”

The Gryffindor huffed. “Don’t bring numbers into this. You make everything sound like sin and filth.”

“It’s a gift, golden girl… And you’re wet. Again,” whispered Pansy, her hand dragging lower, pausing at the very top of Hermione’s thigh. Not touching, not quite. Just close enough that Hermione’s breath caught.

“No,” she protested, her thighs squeezing shut.

“I won’t touch you there,” soothed Pansy, kissing her throat this time. “Not until you say yes. But I’ll have it out of you. You’ll give me permission.”

Hermione’s eyes opened at that, a flare of indignation cutting through the haze. “I won’t.”

“You will,” purred Pansy, tugging her hair until her throat arched. “Because I know you. Because you want me to ruin you again, even if your pride won’t let you say it.”

Hermione trembled, her body screaming betrayal. “Stop bickering about my pride, it’s sheer exhaustion—”

“Say yes,” cut her off Pansy, her hand now kneading her thigh, insistent. “Say yes, or I’ll leave you like this. Wet, aching, writhing all day.”

The whimper that escaped Hermione’s throat was raw, humiliating.

“Stubborn,” taunted Pansy, biting down on her shoulder. “Always so fucking stubborn.”

Her nails scraped down Hermione’s thigh, sharp enough to sting. Hermione gasped, her body jerking. “It’s already dawn, Princess. And you have to teach today. Let me rest for a few more minutes. Sleep.”

“Don’t worry about my classes, love. I’ll take care of those on my own… Let me take care of you now,” she purred, her mouth closing on her pulse point and sucking hard enough to leave a hickey.

Hermione’s moan reverberated in her chest before breaking her throat.

Another hickey, among the countless she surely already had all over her.

“I can’t, Princess. I gave you way too much, I’ve never—I simply can’t.”

“Why not?” she asked, her teeth grazing the point where the jaw met the earlobe. “I know your tells by now, golden girl. And maybe you don’t think you are capable, but I know you are.” Her hand travelled up her thigh, resting just before reaching where Hermione’s world would crumble if she did. She gasped, unable to swallow the sound, and Pansy laughed. “See?”

“I have nothing left to give you,” she whimpered.

Pansy’s other hand started caressing her breast over the sheets. “That’s fine. I’m the one who’ll give you a seventh orgasm if you’ll let me. If not—” Pansy kept stroking, but never touching Hermione. Never really touching her, as if she was respecting some invisible boundary. “—I’ll keep this up until breakfast is served in the Great Hall. Your pick.”

Hermione turned her head to bite back at her. She wanted to sleep. She wanted to be left alone. She needed to sleep. She needed to be—

Pansy kissed her before she could muster a word, her lips soft against hers, coaxing them open so her tongue would be able to play too. To convince her to say yes.

Hermione closed her eyes and kissed her back fiercely, not pulling back as minutes passed. Pansy kept her touches light, not invading her anywhere. Teasing enough to build up, far enough to be cool if Hermione wished so.

“I could live on by just kissing you, Hermione Granger.” Pansy half-sighed, half-moaned into the kiss—and with that sound, her resistance fractured.

“Yes,” she whispered, barely audible.

“Yes?”

“Give me the seventh.”

Pansy’s smirk pressed against her lips. “You won’t regret it, love.”

And then the finger slid in.

Just one, careful, almost shy. Mapping her out with every stroke, stretching her little by little. Hermione gulped and stood perfectly still while Pansy kept the pace steady.

At one point, Hermione shifted slightly, moving to face Pansy. “You’re being strangely soft,” she whispered.

“You’re tired. I’m starting slow. That said—” she smiled as she added a second finger. “—slow-fucking has never been my style.”

“Your loss then,” gasped Hermione. “I’ll teach you how enjoyable that is tomorrow.”

“Mm,” she muttered, lost in her thoughts as her fingers kept moving inside Hermione. “Maybe I’ll let you, as long as I get to shag you again.”

“Wouldn’t miss it, Princess,” she whispered back through glazed eyes. “Still. Awfully soft of you, this seventh. Something on your—ah!—mind?”

“Awfully?” she repeated, incredulous. “Do you want it rougher, golden girl?”

Hermione bit her lip. She didn’t know. Did she? Rougher would mean faster. Faster would mean more time to sleep. That was good. A wrecking release and the promise of sweet dreams… surely the most dangerous kind of wish.

But softer felt so, so good…

Dangerously good.

Roughness carried its own intensity. But softness… softness was bound to burn deeper still.

“I don’t know anymore,” she admitted, closing her eyes to feel. Highlighted senses, once the sight was gone, took over her completely. Honey smelled, citrus tasted, gasps heard, and fingers felt.

Circe, it stole every word but awe itself.

Despite the regular pace, not seeing it but only feeling it… Cold fire and burning ice, deciding to melt together, as her body was doing against her lover.

Pansy clicked her tongue, making her open her eyes once more. “I’ll tell you what I want, then. I want both. To worship you and wreck you. It’s tearing me apart, because I don’t do soft, I don’t know how to do soft. But you…” she whispered, stopping for a beat to gather her thoughts. Hermione looked at her in awe. Pansy was doubting. Because of her. “With you, it feels like this is the only way I can end this night. I could do as I already did, going hard, telling you how good you feel, how you’re clenching, demanding that you beg, playing at denial… and it would work, you would come, and I would be somewhat satisfied with it. But it doesn’t feel right. Not with you, Hermione.”

Hermione blinked at her, dazed, eyes barely open against the dawn light bleeding through the curtains. She had no energy left, her body heavy, but her mind still caught the shift in Pansy’s tone. It wasn’t sharp or taunting anymore. It was low, careful. Almost tender.

“You’re… overthinking,” whispered Hermione, her words slurred from exhaustion, her lips brushing against the line of Pansy’s jaw as she turned her head slightly. Her hand slid up to cup her face, her thumb caressing over and over her cheek. “Just… stay with me.”

Pansy stilled, then caught Hermione’s wrist with surprising gentleness. She kissed the inside of it, slow, deliberate, letting her lips linger against the thin skin where her pulse fluttered weakly. Then she let out a shaky breath and pressed her fingers in deeper, curling just enough to make Hermione’s chest quiver, gasping. “Stay with you?” echoed Pansy, her voice husky. “Always, golden girl.”

There was no sharpness in her rhythm. No cruelty. Just patience. Her fingers moved slowly, deliberately, steadily, as though she had all the time in the world and intended to use it. Each drag, each curl, was unhurried, designed to make Hermione feel everything.

No game, no denial. Nothing.

Just reverence.

Hermione’s thighs relaxed against the sheets, trembling faintly as her body grew hotter than colourless fire, no longer fighting if it should burn scarlet and gold or green and silver. It just blazed.

Every muscle unwound by degrees, until the only thing holding tension was the desperate clutch of her nails against Pansy’s arm.

“See?” Pansy murmured, pressing her lips against Hermione’s temple, brushing along her hairline with the faintest of kisses. “You can.”

Hermione exhaled shakily, turning her face away as if that might hide her reaction. Her shoulder blades rolled, her eyes closed. “You’re unbearable.”

Pansy chuckled, a low vibration against her ear. She kissed her shoulder, then dragged her mouth lower, teeth grazing lightly before sucking at the hollow of her collarbone. “Unbearably devoted,” she corrected. “And you’re beautiful, golden girl.”

Hermione laughed despite herself, tired and amused. “Please, I’m wrecked, spent, sweaty, dishevelled, done—”

“And yet you’ve never looked more gorgeous to me, just like this.”

Her thumb brushed over Hermione’s clit then, feather-light, so slow Hermione almost sobbed from the ache.

“Princess—” she tried, but her voice broke on the name.

“Shh,” soothed Pansy, lips pressing into her throat, tongue tasting her skin in languid strokes. “Let me take care of you.”

Hermione tried to shake her head, to summon words of resistance, but they failed. Her lips trembled instead, and when Pansy kissed them, she clung back desperately. The kiss was slow, drowning, her breath stolen with each glide of tongue and press of lips.

Her hips betrayed her, rolling to meet every thrust of Pansy’s hand. Every curl drew a new broken sound, every circle of Pansy’s thumb stole another piece of her control.

“You’re—” Hermione gasped into her mouth, “Circe, what have you done to me? I can’t stop getting more of you.”

Pansy smirked softly, kissing her deeper, whispering against her lips. “That’s better. That’s what I wanted, just what you’re doing to me every excruciating second my eyes land on you.”

The rhythm beneath the sheets was steady, devastating in its patience. Hermione couldn’t fight it, couldn’t slow it, couldn’t do anything but ride the tide higher and higher.

She didn’t, though. This was not a battle, not a war. This was a reckless peace after a night of clashes. Peace through kisses, through soft words spoken, through caresses that worshipped her whole body, mind and soul.

Every nerve burned, every breath caught, every muscle trembled under the unbearable tension coiling inside her.

“You feel that?” whispered Pansy against her ear, her breath hot, her words a spell, her soft tone something that would haunt Hermione until she died. “That pressure? That ache, building, waiting to break? That’s me, golden girl. That’s you.”

Hermione whimpered, her body shuddering as the tension stretched tighter. “I can’t,” she sobbed. “But I want to.”

“You can,” countered Pansy softly, reassuring her as her thumb circled perfectly in sync with the curl of her fingers. “You will. I’ll give you all you need to. Don’t fight it.”

Pansy’s hand never faltered, never rushed. Every thrust was deep but unhurried, every curl angled perfectly, as though she knew Hermione’s body better than Hermione herself. And maybe, at that point, she did.

Hermione’s thighs trembled, pressing against Pansy’s hip and the mattress, restless without meaning to be. Her chest rose and fell too fast, her breath shallow, her throat tight. Each inhale dragged in Pansy’s scent; sharp citrus still clinging to her skin, mixed with sweat and the faint warmth of sleep. And honey, thick and cloying, wrapped around her senses, filling her, drowning her.

“Breathe,” coaxed Pansy, her lips brushing Hermione’s ear. “Slow. Deep. For me.”

Hermione tried, tried to ground herself in those words, but every slow circle of Pansy’s thumb, every deliberate press of her fingers, scattered her into pieces. She gasped instead, broken and needy.

“Good,” whispered Pansy, kissing her cheek, her jaw, her temple. “I feel it, golden girl. Do you?”

Hermione shook her head weakly, but her hips rolled, chasing the pressure, her body screaming its own answer.

Her skin was burning, heat crawling from her chest outwards, leaving her trembling. She could hear her own pulse in her ears, feel the damp heat building between her thighs, slick against Pansy’s hand. Every movement inside her stretched her tauter, closer, unbearably close.

“You’re perfect,” murmured Pansy, pulling back enough to watch her face. Hermione tried to turn away, desperate to evade her glazed gaze. It would be too much, those intense eyes would be her undoing if she got lost in that blazing green… but Pansy caught her chin. Kissed her softly right after. “No hiding. Not from me. Not now, not when you look so blissfully gorgeous.”

Their lips met again, slow but consuming, tongues sliding, breaths mingling. Hermione moaned into her mouth, the sound raw, unrestrained.

Pansy swallowed it greedily, whispering between kisses. “That’s it. Give me every sound. Every breath. I’ll take it.”

Hermione’s body convulsed under her, her thighs shaking harder, her hands clawing at Pansy’s shoulder now. “It’s too much—” she gasped.

“It’s not enough,” replied Pansy, voice low and steady, though Hermione could feel her own breathing falter. “I’m just realising that it’s never enough when it’s you.”

Her hand never changed pace—steady, patient, devastatingly perfect. It was worse than any denial, because it wasn’t cruel. It was inexorable. Hermione could feel the orgasm building like a storm, stretching her tighter with every wave, but it wouldn’t break. It kept climbing, higher, higher, higher, until her chest felt like it might burst, until she thought she might shatter from the pressure alone.

Her body arched helplessly, back curving, breasts pressing into Pansy’s chest. Her lips parted in a sob she couldn’t swallow, her pride crumbling piece by piece.

“Say it,” murmured Pansy, kissing the corner of her mouth. Soft, soft, soft. Too soft to be tearing apart that easily, that harshly, without meaning to. “Tell me you want it.”

Hermione shook her head, tears stinging her eyes, but another cry broke from her lips as Pansy’s thumb pressed harder.

“Say it,” urged Pansy again, her voice trembling now, too. “Say my name, golden girl.”

Hermione gasped, clawing at her arm. “I—” Her voice broke, body convulsing with the effort of holding back. “I can’t have another—”

“You can,” said Pansy firmly, kissing her hard. “Because your will has always made everything else bend down to it. Your will breaks anything it wishes to, golden girl. So if you want it, really want it, you’ll have it.”

Her fingers curled deeper, her thumb circling faster, finally breaking the steady patience just enough to tip her. Hermione’s scream ripped through the kiss, muffled but fierce, her body arching violently against her.

“I want it,” she cried, clawing desperately at Pansy’s back, Pansy’s arms, Pansy’s shoulders.

“Then you will, Hermione.”

And the way that Pansy had said her name. Sweet, loving. Caring, soft. Like she meant it, like she would tether herself to Hermione forever if she could.

It was too much, a tide she could no longer withstand. And she shattered beneath it, powerless to hold herself together.

The orgasm didn’t crash. It tore.

Hermione’s entire body arched off the bed, her spine bowing, her mouth torn open in a raw, broken cry that filled the room.

She clutched at Pansy as if she’d drown without her, nails digging hard enough to leave a constellation of crescent moons, rivalling the one that watched from the sky. Silently, as a mere witness to Hermione’s unravelling.

Every nerve in her body was ablaze, her muscles seizing in violent tremors as wave after wave slammed into her.

Pansy froze for half a second, stunned by the sheer force of it. Hermione’s body clamped down around her hand so tightly she could barely move. “Merlin, Hermione,” she rasped, breathless herself. “You’re—fuck—you’re wrecking me.”

Hermione’s sobbed moans answered, high and unrestrained, spilling into the air with every convulsion of her body. Her legs shook uncontrollably, her thighs jerking as though the pleasure was too much to contain. Tears streaked her temples, caught in her hair.

Pansy kissed them away, frantic, desperate to anchor her. “That’s it, love. That’s it. Let it take you. I’ve got you.” She pressed kiss after kiss to her temple, her damp cheek, her lips, murmuring reverent words between them. “Perfect. Beautiful. Mine.”

But Hermione didn’t hear them. She couldn’t. The orgasm dragged her under too deeply, ripping through her in relentless waves. Just when she thought she was finished, another wave crashed, pulling another moan, another violent shudder. Her chest heaved, her throat raw from the cries.

She screamed Pansy’s name to the roof, to the sky, to anyone willing to hear it. For the first time, Hermione didn’t bite herself down not to shout it, not to moan it all the way. She let it hang there in the air, broken and strong at the same time. A prayer answered.

And Pansy, despite herself, was shaking too. The sight, the feel, the sound of Hermione unravelling like this—softly, slowly, devastatingly, hazily. Unrestrained—was undoing her more thoroughly than any rough conquest had. She groaned into her hair, half in awe, half in disbelief. “I didn’t know you could break like this,” she whispered. “I didn’t know softness could do it.”

Hermione clung harder, her body still convulsing as the storm slowly began to ebb. She turned her face blindly, finding Pansy’s mouth, kissing her with trembling lips. It wasn’t steady, not like Pansy’s unrelenting pace. It was ragged, desperate, broken, needy; a kiss offered like the last prayer she could give.

Pansy kissed her back, grounding her with the slow press of lips, the gentle stroke of her tongue, until Hermione sagged into her arms, boneless and completely wrecked.

The tremors lingered, aftershocks jolting through her every few breaths, making her gasp softly into Pansy’s mouth. Her thighs twitched, her body slack but still sensitive everywhere she was touched.

“Merlin, Hermione,” she whispered against her lips. Hermione could taste the awe in her words, and despite being absolutely done for, she smiled. “This was the best of them all.”

Finally, finally, the waves eased enough for Hermione to collapse entirely. She buried her face in Pansy’s neck, sobbing once more—not from pain, not from shame, but from sheer release.

Pansy eased her hand out slowly, careful not to startle her. Sweet, loving Circe, who was this woman, taking care of her with such devotion? Where was her conqueror, her fierce Princess, and what kind of witch could cradle her ruin as though it were something sacred?

And Pansy immediately proved her thoughts right by wrapping her arms around her. She stroked soothing circles into Hermione’s back, kissed the crown of her head, cradled her like a baby, whispered loving words into her hair.

Hermione didn’t answer, couldn’t. Her lips just brushed weakly against Pansy’s skin, her breath ragged, her whole body trembling in the aftermath.

Pansy pulled the sheet up over them both, cocooning her in warmth, holding her tighter. She pressed kiss after kiss into her damp curls, her temple, the line of her jaw, as though she couldn’t stop.

“You gave me everything,” she whispered, her voice hoarse now. “And I swear, golden girl… I swear I’ll give it all back. Every bit.”

She let out a faint hum in response, barely a sound, but her body melted even further against her, surrendering at last. Her breathing began to slow, her lashes fluttering closed as sleep pulled slowly at her.

Chapter Text

After Hermione collapsed in her arms, utterly spent after that unexpected wrecking climax, Pansy stayed awake. Sleep hummed in her ears, a lullaby waiting to soothe her into dreams. But she refused to listen to it, just so she could linger longer in the moment, holding her, her own chest still heaving as she tried to steady herself. She couldn’t stop looking at her, couldn’t stop memorising the sight of Hermione slack and peaceful in her arms.

She’s so perfect, so utterly perfect. It makes no sense that she would want me back. And yet, she’s mine.

The tidal wave had shaken her, too, more than she wanted to admit. She hadn’t expected softness to undo them both. But it did, landing heavier than any other of the times they had clashed, using pride as a shield and words as swords.

As the dawn light warmed the sheets, the fire forgotten long ago, she pressed one last kiss to Hermione’s shoulder and closed her eyes, letting the lullaby wash over her.

“Seven,” she whispered. “Three and seven. Merlin, I don’t know how she could endure it. Seven is way too much, and she took it. She surfed them like a seasoned pro. I lo—” Pansy gulped. “I loathe the day you try to get back at me for this already,” she corrected.

Pansy smiled absentmindedly.

“Seven. Fucking seven.”

Only then did she let herself drift, both of them tangled together, undone and whole at the same time.

The first thing Pansy registered was warmth. Not the fire, as it had gone out hours ago. Not the blankets, because they’d been kicked halfway to the floor.

Hermione.

Dishevelled, sun-kissed and gorgeous Hermione.

She was curled against her chest, brown, golden and mahogany curls a wild storm against Pansy’s collarbone, breath caressing her skin. A leg thrown carelessly over Pansy’s thigh, her arm banded tight around her waist like she was afraid Pansy might vanish.

The sight would have been endearing if Pansy hadn’t felt like she’d been trampled by a herd of hippogriffs as she tried to move. Her hips ached, her arms were heavy, and her throat felt scratchy from too much teasing and too much laughter.

Three of her own were not nothing. Not enough to make it obvious to others—she had had nights as wild as yesterday’s for her body to survive, so three, albeit a lot, wouldn’t really pose a problem. But giving seven… that may have been an overstretch on her capabilities.

I should be able to walk as if nothing happened, shouldn’t I?

She moved one calf cautiously under the sheets and winced.

Merlin, Pansy. You’ve officially shagged yourself sore.

But the wreck tucked in her arms was worth it.

Maybe… ease up for a beat, and pretend you’re fine after this self-imposed truce. Look smug, even if you’re wincing. She’ll be much, much worse.

Hermione twitched in her sleep, a tiny whimper escaping her throat. Even unconscious, she looked deliciously ruined. Curls plastered to her damp temples, lips swollen, thighs trembling faintly when she shifted. And those teeth and scratches? Pansy smirked against her hair, pride blooming hot in her chest.

That’s my mess. My destroyed mess. Merlin, she looks ravishing even like that. Not, not ‘even’. She looks ravishing, period.

She pressed a kiss into Hermione’s curls, breathing her in. Rain, books… and sweat. Triumph and tenderness.

“Pathetic little overachiever,” she whispered into the dawn, though her voice carried no venom. Her arm tightened around Hermione, palm splayed over her back and fingers caressing it. “Wake up, we have to get to breakfast or Minerva will storm our dorms looking for us. Maybe we’ll give her a heart attack if she sees this… mess.”

Hermione stirred, eyes half-shut against the creeping sunlight. She hummed low in her throat and tried to burrow deeper into Pansy’s chest, mumbling something that sounded like ‘five more minutes.’

Pansy laughed softly, a real laugh, surprising even herself. Her hand traced idle patterns on Hermione’s spine. “Five more minutes, seven more orgasms… you’re a greedy little kitten, aren’t you?”

“Shut up, Princess,” mumbled Hermione without lifting her head, voice cracked and hoarse.

Pansy grinned into her curls. “I like you better when you actually bite back.”

Hermione’s nails pressed faintly into her side… too weak for a scratch, but the intent was there. “Still got teeth if you keep poking,” she muttered.

Pansy’s heart throbbed traitorously at the sound, at the ridiculous bravery of it. Exhausted, trembling, clinging to her as though the world might collapse, and still she snarled. “Predictable yet again, more empty threats from an exhausted and cute kitten,” whispered Pansy, softer than she meant to. “But I’ll give you your wish, golden girl. Doze off for five more minutes.”

The room was quiet again, save for the birds waking in the grounds outside and the soft, uneven breaths of the witch in her arms.

Pansy rested her chin on Hermione’s hair, basking in the moment. Just for a few more minutes. She’d earned this, hadn’t she? Seven and three were a feat that surely deserved some reprieve.

Pansy sighed when the five minutes passed. Waited for another one, just to be on the safe side… and took advantage of those precious sixty seconds to savour every instant of that blissful morning.

She kissed Hermione’s forehead. “We really have to get going now, love.”

She shifted again, more deliberate this time, her lashes fluttering open. Brown eyes blinked blearily up at Pansy’s throat before tilting higher, locking onto hers. She looked beautifully wrecked.

Pansy smirked down at her. “Good morning, golden girl. Or should I say… reckless survivor?”

Hermione groaned, voice rasping. “Circe. Don’t.” She tried to roll onto her back, but her body locked, muscles stiff and quivering. She winced, then froze when Pansy’s laugh purred low in her chest.

“Careful,” teased Pansy. “Wouldn’t want you to sprain something after such an exertion.” She trailed her fingertips lazily along Hermione’s hip, grinning as she earned a shiver from her. “I did warn you that walking would be… difficult.”

Hermione glared weakly. “You’re a bloody sadist.”

“I prefer the term ‘realist’,” said Pansy, in a smug tone that screamed ‘as a matter of fact’. She leaned down, pressing a feather-light kiss to Hermione’s temple. “You’re lucky I didn’t keep to my original plan. Edging and denial for a couple of beats as revenge for yesterday morning, before letting you taste the first orgasm. That was on the menu, and you luckily didn’t have to go through that. Although the number you managed last night was… monstrous enough, wasn’t it? Sev—”

Hermione let out a strangled laugh that dissolved into a sigh. “Wait until I’m not sore and I’ll be sure to make you unable to move.”

Pansy tilted her head, amused. “Careful, kitten. As it stands, you’ll barely be able to sit down. And… don’t try to cross your legs at breakfast. You would only embarrass yourself.”

A flush crept across Hermione’s cheeks before determination settled on her cute frown. “Just to prove you wrong, I will.”

Pansy hummed smugly. “Ah, that I have to see.” She tucked a damp curl behind Hermione’s ear, her touch uncharacteristically gentle. “I wonder how many people will notice. Not that you would care about most, but… Will our dear, weak of heart and already tired from all the stirred-up drama, Headmistress grasp at what happened to you?”

Hermione hesitated. Pride flickered in her eyes, the instinct to argue, to deny. But then she closed them, exhaling against Pansy’s chest, her arms tightening faintly around her waist.

“Is it really that difficult? I never had… that many,” she admitted, barely above a whisper.

Pansy’s heart ached for a beat, smugness reeling to give some space for care. “The truth is… Yes. You’re not used to it, so everything will be more sore, and you’ll be more prone to notice it.” She tried to soothe her worried expression with a soft kiss to her nose. “I’m not untouched, but I am used to both the intensity and the periodicity. You will feel it more, especially since you haven’t had a… proper workout in some months.”

“Try years.”

Pansy choked, utterly unable to breathe for a couple of seconds. “What do you mean by ‘years’?”

“Well… ‘years’ mean ‘years’,” she said. “Doesn’t take a genius to figure it out.”

“Years. Years? Years!” she repeated, astounded.

Something twisted in Pansy’s chest. Dangerous, that word. More dangerous than all the screaming, biting, clawing of the night before.

But she was married until a couple of months ago, wasn’t she? Is Weasley stupid, blind or impotent? Even then, why would he… abandon her? She said ‘years’. Years? Not even in singular. That’s plural. That’s… Merlin, no, I didn’t think. Oh, fuck. And I went for seven, am I mad? No, no, I—How is she so calm about this? Lord, she must be not just sore, she must be wrecked, but truly wrecked, not funny-wrecked. I broke her. Why didn’t she tell me it had been that long…? Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck—

“Stop panicking,” said Hermione, trying to cup her cheek and wincing at her own movement. “I can hear the gears in your brain shifting, your mind overthinking. Your ears are fuming.”

“But—I mean, you should’ve said something! I knew you were… inexperienced, to put it mildly. But I always thought that you at least had endurance. Men-level-shagging endurance, but still better than nothing.” Pansy couldn’t help but scoff amidst the internal panic seeping through her words. “Merlin, Hermione, three were already too much for you! Scratch that, two should’ve been!”

I used the strap. I fucking fucked her sore with a strap after fucking her with fingers and tongue and OH MERLIN. And I used it twice on her! And—No, not just that: I made it bigger to taunt her. Engorgio-ed it, for fuck’s sake! Way too big, she shouldn’t have—She—Merlin, I thought she would be… comfortable with it. Known territory since she had slept with a man, even if the setting or person was… different. Like, yeah, I’m no man—and thank Merlin for that—but the strap was supposed to be something… somewhat familiar for her. Or that’s what I had hoped, even when I taunted her with it viciously. But years? YEARS? No. Just… no. What have I done?

Pansy paced mentally through the room, unable to actually move and clutching Hermione close, as if her gentle touch in that moment could erase the havoc she had cursed her with the night before.

Hermione arched an eyebrow. “It’s not like I had been celibate, Princess. I am more than capable of taking care of myself, and that’s what I’ve been doing. Besides, shall I remind you who kept coming back, insisting on dragging one orgasm after another?”

Fucking madwoman! And I wasn’t even gentle at that; I overwhelmed her for sure. She didn’t have enough to—Oh Merlin, she was too pure and I was too… indecent. I shouldn't have done all that. Not even half. And I thought I was starved for her? I wasn’t paying attention, I should’ve guessed, known, been more careful with her, I—Pansy twitched slightly, repressing a shiver from sheer shame at what she had put Hermione through. “You should’ve said no! If you haven’t slept with him in a couple of years, your body is not used to this, even if you have been ‘flying solo’. It’s not the same with a partner, and you know it. The lust, the intensity… everything toned down a lot. The loss of absolute control and pacing fucking matters! It’s irrelevant that you took care of yourself, you should’ve stopped me way before—.”

“Stop treating me like a bloody cripple!” she hissed, her patience thinning like Pansy’s smugness. Hot that she admitted to touching herself… but HOLY FUCK yesterday was too much. I was her first, and maybe I overwhelmed her. Maybe she felt forced to go on, maybe—Hermione’s voice cut through her thoughts, sharper than an enchanted scalpel. “Five years is not that—”

“FUCKING ‘FIVE’? You haven’t shagged with Weasley since you were… twenty-three? Twenty-four?” Pansy’s jaw unhinged itself, her mouth agape for what seemed an eternity, in which she tried—and failed—to process the amount of time Hermione had just said. “Does he have a brain? Who in their right state of mind would choose not to shag you every minute of their lives? I would. How the fuck did you get that long without—”

“Pansy. I’ll survive. Stop smearing fear and regret into what was a memorable and wonderful night.”

“But, golden girl, you—I don’t—Why is it that—How are you so chill about it?” she finally said, after her thoughts kept overwriting her speech as her mouth was reciting it.

“Because I enjoyed it. Immensely. So stop with all—” Hermione gestured at Pansy’s whole frame “—this bloody uncalled worry. It’s sweet, but if you keep fussing like that, you’ll ruin it for me. I expected you to be smug and teasing, not self-loathing after giving me one of the best shags of my life, Princess,” scolded Hermione, her frown accentuating with every word she said.

Best? She said ‘best’, didn’t she? I’m her best? Okay, my competition is literally herself and Weasley, but still. She called it ‘best’. No, she said ‘one of’? Oh, I need the title. ‘THE BEST’. I’m not bouncing back from that revelation any time soon, am I? Pansy bit the inside of her cheek and swallowed hard. “I mean—Merlin, golden girl. Fucking Merlin.”

“No, you fucked me, not Merlin. Did you hit your head?”

Pansy clenched her teeth. “Would you stop?”

“Why are you getting flustered and worked up all of a sudden? You wanted it, I wanted it. It worked out beautifully, so… please, please, don’t break it now. If anything, be in awe instead at my superior and raw level of endurance—”

“I can’t help but worry! Don’t you realise that—stop fucking laughing! This is serious!” she shouted, gripping her chin in fury. Hermione winced at the movement, and Pansy let go immediately, afraid of hurting her further. “What if something had gone wrong and—?”

“You can’t die from being over-orgasm-ed!” she screeched. “Your body shuts down way before something serious happens, and mine didn’t. I told you, stop fussing over it. If last night I hadn’t wanted to shag you over and over, I would’ve bloody told you. Did I?”

Pansy shook her head, still taken aback. “No.”

She’s fucking mad. Delirious. Hot, gorgeous, fucking madwoman golden girl.

“So?” demanded Hermione, her eyes scolding Pansy as if she had just caught her doing something illegal.

You made her come seven times. That feels illegal enough, given her… lack of recent activity.

Pansy gulped, her fingers frozen at Hermione’s jaw.

“So you’re fine,” she surmised, as if she was repeating Binns’ bring lessons back when she was a student. “You’re fine.”

Hermione smirked. “There it is, my tamed snake hatchling.”

“Do you really want to poke at my House now, when you won’t be capable of even getting dressed without my help?” she snapped finally, anger taking over worry the second Hermione had called her that awful word. ‘Hatchling’ was teasing. ‘Snake’ was fitting. ‘Tamed’ was insulting.

Pansy got up from the bed, legs protesting at the sudden weight being dropped on them without proper warning. She suppressed a yelp and straightened her spine, cracking her neck to both sides, and started carefully stretching her sore muscles and forcing them into submission: the premise was ‘no pain’, and she would accomplish it before leaving the bedroom.

She wants to bite? Fine, I will bite until it stings.

Hermione looked at her and smiled widely. “Ah, there she is: the Princess rises again from her ashes,” she said, a grin tugging at her lips. “Or should I say ‘from her moult’?”

Pansy’s body protested, but she paid it no mind as she kept moving her limbs in slow stretching motions through low hisses and shifting her weight on her less and less wobbly legs. “Do try to get up before spitting too much venom, golden girl,” replied Pansy, squinting at her. “It will come back to poison you faster than you think.”

Hermione shifted on the bed, trying to prove Pansy wrong, pushing herself upright. The effort drew a sharp hiss through her teeth.

I fucking told her, didn’t I? Stupid little kitten.

Hermione froze halfway, her thighs trembling, shoulders hunched. “Oh. Yeah, this is hell.”

Pansy scoffed, bending down to pick Hermione’s wand from the floor. “And there it is: the consequence biting you in the arse,” mocked Pansy, mimicking Hermione’s voice. “Or should I say ‘biting you fucking everywhere’?”

Hermione shot her a murderous look, cheeks flaming. “Do shut up, Princess. I would like to see what you would look like if our roles were reversed.”

“More regal and composed, that’s for sure,” she bit back with a heinous smile. “You look like a jellyfish flopping on shore.”

“And you look too smug for someone barely standing,” snapped Hermione, breathing slowly as she attempted to sit completely on the bed.

“At least I am standing, not like some poor kitten I know about,” she mused, still grinning amidst the aching of her body. Every second made it more bearable, every stretch pushed the pain into oblivion. “But don’t fret, you’ll survive. I’ll brew something once we’re in class to make the soreness more… tolerable.”

“I don’t need it.” Hermione shook her head, popping herself up with both hands on the pillow, legs still unbent on the mattress as if she were afraid to move them. “I’ll manage on my own.”

“You can’t even handle getting out of bed,” drawled Pansy, reaching lazily for the abandoned sheets on the floor, draping them back where they belonged… and covering Hermione’s shaky legs. “Do lie back down before you embarrass yourself further and heed my advice for once, you stubborn and brought-to-heel lioness.”

Hermione bristled, self-willed to the core. She swung one leg over the side of the bed… and nearly toppled. Pansy caught her by the wrist, laughing low.

Oh, she’s done for. Do I bite with venom or with sweetness? Mm, difficult decision, and when in doubt… pick both.

“Merlin’s tits, you really can’t walk straight at all,” she bit, delight threading her tone. “Pathetic. Utterly pathetic. And yet—” she tugged Hermione gently back toward her chest, “—completely adorable.”

Hermione groaned, rolling her eyes. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

“Of course I am,” replied Pansy, kissing her shoulder. “When else will I get to see the one and only Hermione Granger trembling and undone at the mere prospect of standing? Besides, you literally asked for it; your words were ‘do not worry’, weren’t they?”

“I hate you,” muttered Hermione.

“You screamed my name half the night,” countered Pansy smoothly. “Forgive me if I don’t believe you.”

“I only moaned it once,” she replied.

“That is such a bleak counter, golden girl,” she tutted. “I’ll give you another go at it.”

Hermione shoved her weakly in the shoulder, which only made Pansy chuckle more. “Once, the rest of the night, your name was not on my lips, Princess,” huffed Hermione. “Tell me instead how many times I won last night. How many times have you lost control with a partner as much as you did because of how I kept one-upping you. How many times has a newbie wrecked you as much as I did. Go on if you dare, Princess. Tell me.”

“Once,” said Pansy without flinching. Never before had someone consistently defied her that much, making her lose her composure. A clash of wills sometimes happened, but Pansy always found ways to come on top. Yesterday… there were beats in which she just didn’t.

You are something else, Hermione Granger. And I don’t know if I want to see you grow bold and confident or force you to submit.

“That is such a bleak counter, little hatchling,” bit Hermione, grinning.

Game on, golden girl. You want to take a shot at the Queen? You’d better not miss, and your aim is worse than your dirty talk.

Pansy arched an eyebrow. “I’m not afraid to admit when someone has been top-notch at something. When someone—” she leaned it, lips brushing Hermione’s, teasing mercilessly, “—has been a good girl.”

Hermione reacted with a growl, crashing their mouths together. She winced at her own movement and then made Pansy yelp by biting her lower lip hard again, making last night’s wound reopen. “I told you not to call me that,” she hissed, pulling back from that teeth-y kiss. “Will I have to shag you into submission, or are you going to act like the tamed hatchling you pretend not to be?”

Pansy licked her lower lip, tasting a hint of copper. She grinned. “Feisty.” The Slytherin grabbed Hermione’s hips and pushed them flush against hers, grinding for a beat, and the Gryffindor almost passed out from the contact. “Sore and aching, yet begging for another… You, golden girl? Shagging me into submission? Please, as if.” Pansy shook her head, a low laugh purring deep in her chest. “You forget your place rather easily for someone who brags about her superior memory. And… I’m okay with ‘hatchling’, but I draw a line at ‘tamed’. Lying is below you, love.”

“You keep bragging about me being ready for another… shouldn’t it worry you instead?” A slow smile bloomed on Hermione’s lips. “My base endurance is already quite high; what will it reach once we… practise more?”

She truly means it. She thinks this is her answer, that being able to keep coming undone is a flex she can bait me with. Cute. It just gives me more to play with, if anything.

Pansy laughed, calm and sure of herself. “When wizards cease existing, the Ministry actually becomes competent and Hogwarts is a mountain of crumpling rocks, ward-less… then I’ll worry. Not even eternity could pull such a gap closer, golden girl.”

“I’m a quick learner, Princess,” she replied, without backing down. “Do keep in mind that when I outlast you in the near future.”

Pansy clicked her tongue. “You’re lucky I have class in an hour, golden girl, or I’ll shag you again just to prove how wrong you are.”

“Using responsibilities as an excuse? You?” asked Hermione rhetorically, smirking. “Scared kitty cat.”

Oh, she’s using Gryffindor names with me now? Feline comparisons? Fine, let’s label her with Slytherin’s vibe… With just a touch of mockery.

“Arrogant venomous jellyfish,” replied Pansy, grinning. “Are you done with the banter, love? Time is racing toward us…”

“'til the Huns arrive?—Sorry, force of habit,” she corrected in one breath. “Muggle reference, you wouldn’t get it.”

Pansy laughed. “Sure, I wouldn’t.” She grabbed her wand from the nightstand and flicked it, tidying the whole mess of a room and materialising two outfits on top of Hermione’s bed. Pansy grinned. “Can you get dressed on your own, golden girl… or do you need me to ‘make a woman out of you’?”

Hermione took a step back, no longer held straight by Pansy’s arms, gulped and tried to stand on wobbly legs. Succeeding—if barely. “You know Mulan? How?”

Pansy shrugged. “I might, if only because Daphne likes Disney movies, and won’t shut up until at least one is watched every time she invites me over,” she replied, her eyes glinting at the memories of learning how the fucking TV worked, only to be tethered to children’s movies. “Plus, Cissy’s Patronus is basically Mushu, according to Daph. Which drives my godmother mad, because she thinks that hers is a proper small dragon, and that… ‘despicable drawing’ as she calls him, is barely a lizard.”

“You enjoy Muggle movies. With Daphne Greengrass and Narcissa Malfoy,” she repeated, whispering to herself.

“Scorpius likes them, too. His favourite is ‘Da Yion King’ and he finds ‘Nawa’ pretty. Although he does have a soft spot for ‘Woo-ee’, the cowboy, and his friend ‘Buh Yite-yah’. Oh, and he once said that ‘Moo-wan boy yook yike Dada wif bwack hair’,—Mulan-boy looks like Dada with black hair—and his father nearly passed out when he understood,” she added, relishing in the bewilderment on Hermione’s face.

I don’t think I have ever seen her so surprised.

“Draco avoided movies at all costs after that, and keeps on not acknowledging their existence,” continued Pansy. “Astoria lingers until halfway, and then vanishes to ‘check’ on her husband. Cue to ‘shag him’, actually, while I babysit. Quite the ordeal, if you ask me.” Pansy shrugged with a relaxed smile. “Anyway, enough about the inner workings of my unpaid hours as the best non-Aunt to ever exist, also known as ‘the third wheel who prevents the fourth, innocent one, from finding out what mommy and daddy do’. Back to getting dressed.”

Hermione grabbed her arm tightly. Lips stained with blood-red, eyes glinting with confusion, nose scrunched with concern and eyebrows raised with perplexity. “Since when do pure-bloods care for Muggle things?”

She looks so kissable when she’s looking for footing. So fucking gorgeous all the fucking time. A five-year fuck-drought should be a sin on its own. A five-year drought when you look as hot as her? When you are as bright, gorgeous and good…? Unforgivable. But since it happened, let’s mock her for it.

Pansy tilted her head, sizing her down. “I don’t know. Between a decade and a lustrum. That is… roughly between your first shag and your last. Not counting yesterday, obviously. Ten to five, isn’t it?”

“You woke up and chose violence, didn’t you?” Hermione rolled her eyes, her hand releasing the vicious grip it had on Pansy.

“Actually, I chose softness. You forced it out of me with taunts and mockery.” She smirked. “You look fucking ravishing, golden girl, but maybe… Get dressed. I don’t want to be late for breakfast, and it will take you an eternity to walk down each staircase.”

“I think I’ll take a shower first, Princess. I think I smell awfully, like sin, sex and honey,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“Honey?” asked Pansy. The sex and sin, she understood. The honey was an unusual fragrance to describe an all-night shagging experience.

Hermione nodded. “You smell like honey, Princess. Didn’t you know?” she said.

She—I—What? How does she know my smell? Does it make her go mad, like hers does to me? I swear I’m this close to throwing a book into a storm and eating its pages, just to compare. Books and rain… And she says I’m ‘honey’? I—Am I melting? Stop, stop! Back to smugness, back to temptress! Back!

Pansy gulped, regaining composure. “Can we at least shower together? I will be faster than—”

“No,” cut Hermione.

“But why—?”

“Because you would get handsy,” she surmised.

“I wouldn’t—” started replying Pansy, but stopped herself at Hermione’s raised eyebrow. “Okay, fair. I would. Can you really blame me? Have you seen… you?”

“Every morning when I look in the mirror, Princess.” Hermione Wingardium leviosa-ed herself to the bathtub, and Pansy followed her into the loo. “It’s not an image that’s that irresistible,” she added, flinching when her body touched the cold porcelain.

Pansy scoffed. “I take offence at that.”

“Why? I’m describing myself.”

“You’re describing my impeccable taste as down to earth… as common,” spat Pansy, disgusted. “I won’t allow it.”

Hermione laughed. “Then don’t, but go get ready while you vent your lack of taste. Time is of the essence, isn’t it?” she said with a smirk.

“Brat.”

“Minx.”

Silence stretched, only pierced by the sound of water filling the bathtub, smelling wonderfully like rain.

How can lotion, or bubbles, or whatever the fuck is in there smell like rain?

Pansy turned on her heel and looked at Hermione’s frame over her shoulder. Naked, stretching, smirking. The Slytherin gulped. “Make it fast, golden girl. I have to get ready, too.”

Hermione laughed, open and sincere. “You have your own loo, Princess. Do use your brain from time to time.”

And then the door closed with a flick of Hermione’s wrist, leaving Pansy speechless.

She’s such a brat. And I’m so fucked.

Pansy, clean and refreshed after an invigorating shower that soothed all her—no longer—sore muscles, went back to Hermione’s room, unapologetically naked, to get dressed. She found the Gryffindor in a towel next to the bed, looking fresher and even more ruined.

Hermione bent down to grab her robes and had to brace herself not to fall on the mattress, trembling.

Pansy laughed, deliciously whirring at her utter inability to move.

“Don’t just stand there, bitch,” she barked through gritted teeth. “Lend me a hand before I hex you.”

“Oh, I’ll help,” purred Pansy, gliding gracefully to her. She reached for Hermione’s hand, tugging her upright with exaggerated care. “But only because I’d like the honour of dressing you up myself. Think of it: the indomitable Hermione Granger, too weak to fasten her own buttons.”

Pansy plucked the towel from Hermione’s body and let it fall to the floor, leaving her as naked as she was. The Gryffindor’s mouth fell open, scandalised. “Absolutely not, that’s not what I—”

“Yes, absolutely,” interrupted Pansy, already reaching for the pile of clothes at the foot of the bed. She held the bra up like a lady-in-waiting with a wicked grin. “Arms in, golden girl. Don’t make me force you.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes, pride warring with practicality as she tried to steady herself on the cold floor. Her knees wobbled, her thighs clenched, and her jaw locked as though sheer stubbornness could keep her upright.

Pansy, smug as a cat, extended the bra further. “What’s the matter? Lost your nerve? Or simply your balance?”

Hermione scowled, snatched the undergarment, and shoved her arms into it. “You are utterly insufferable.”

“And yet,” said Pansy, slipping the bra’s straps up over Hermione’s shoulders with maddening tenderness and then hugging her to clasp the hook at her back, “you keep coming back for more.”

Hermione flushed scarlet but said nothing. Her silence was victory enough. She swayed on her feet, sliding her knickers over her long and deliciously looking, already-marked-with-Pansy’s-teeth-marks legs, and securing them in place, jaw tight with stubborn pride. Pansy drank in the sight like it was champagne. Wrecked, trembling, glaring at her as though that might erase the evidence of the night.

“This is what the Brightest Witch of Our Age has been reduced to,” she hummed, deliberately slow as she plucked Hermione’s white blouse from the heap of clothes. She held it up, shaking it once, the crisp white fabric catching the dawn light. “Go on. I’d hate for you to collapse before you’ve even buttoned up.”

Hermione’s glare sharpened, but her legs wobbled again when she tried to snatch it. She bit her lip, caught between refusing on principle and admitting defeat.

“Oh, don’t pout now, golden girl,” teased Pansy, stepping closer, slipping one sleeve over Hermione’s arm. “It’s not the end of the world to be taken care of. Not when you’ve been… seven-times ruined.”

Hermione growled low in her throat, but she let Pansy slide the blouse over her shoulders.

“See? Not so hard.” Pansy’s hands smoothed down the fabric, fingers deliberately brushing over the bruises on Hermione’s collarbone. She startled at the caress. “Mm. Except here. These will be tricky to hide.”

Hermione flushed scarlet. “Scarf. Scarlet scarf,” she muttered.

Pansy tied the long, tight burgundy cardigan for her with deft fingers, lingering a beat too long at her waist. She leaned in, lips brushing Hermione’s ear. “Or—” she whispered, fastening the blouse’s button over her chest, her fingers grazing her breast very intentionally and making Hermione gasp. “—you could wear them proudly. A Gryffindor badge of honour, courtesy of one very smug Slytherin. They are rather red, isn’t that your colour?”

“Absolutely not,” hissed Hermione, shoving at her shoulder.

Next came the stockings. Pansy picked up the first pair and twirled it around one finger. “These again?” she drawled. “I distinctly remember shredding the last ones. Though the fishnet pattern was way hotter.”

Hermione’s cheeks blazed. “Stop edging me. You’re strutting around naked like it’s a bloody runway.”

“Oh, hush.” Pansy crouched again, lifting Hermione’s foot with infuriating care. She slipped the stocking over it, inch by inch, up her calf, then her thigh. She glanced up through her lashes, voice low and velvet. “You’re blushing like I’m seducing you. But really, golden girl, this is just me being helpful.”

Hermione groaned into her hands. “Liar. You’re a filthy liar, Pansy Parkinson.”

“Of course I am,” murmured Pansy, kissing her knee before pulling the stocking taut. “I enjoy the teasing way too much. And knowing you’re dying to push me against something and ravish me with kisses and more, but being incapable of because you would collapse the moment you moved… oh, teasing though constant restraint is so satisfying.”

“Wait until I can move, Princess,” she snapped. “Payback’s a bitch, and I can be even worse.”

Pansy chuckled and reached for the white pants. “Step in.”

Hermione blinked. “I can manage—”

“I said—” She dangled them in front of her. “—Step. In.”

Hermione huffed, muttered something foul under her breath, and did as ordered. Pansy crouched gracefully, sliding the palazzo pants up her legs, fingers deliberately grazing over trembling thighs. Hermione’s knees nearly buckled, and Pansy had to steady her by the hips.

“Oh, Circe, you’re shaking,” purred Pansy, fastening the waistband with an elegant knot. Silk elegantly fell, cascading down her legs until it pooled at her feet. “Do you have any idea how satisfying this is?”

Maybe the pants should’ve been a tad shorter… But Merlin, silk looks good on her.

“What, you kneeling for me again?” Hermione gritted out.

“Well, yes,” agreed Pansy cheerfully, smoothing the fabric down. She rose slowly, letting her hands trail all the way up Hermione’s waist to her ribs under the cardigan, her smirk widening when Hermione shivered. “This outfit is too Muggle-ish for Hogwarts aesthetics,” she mused mockingly, her fingers kneading her waist. “Do you want me to do it again and undo all the hard work you’re putting into getting dressed, so you can look like a last-century witch and not as ravishing as you do now? Since you’re obsessed with me kneeling, I could lend you a hand—or mouth, or tongue, or all of the above—while having a little fun myself by making you reach the eighth.”

Hermione hissed, muttering a warning that, had it not been for her teaching responsibilities, Pansy would’ve been happy to ignore.

The Slytherin brushed an imaginary dust from the Gryffindor’s shoulders. She then applied some Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion to tame her dishevelled curls with a soft smile as she brushed it carefully, humming under her breath as she did.

When Pansy was done, she, still naked, took a step back to admire her handiwork. Hermione looked composed enough now: robes neat, sleek hair, face flushed but presentable.

Scarf-less still, she looked like all the breakfast Pansy needed.

Only I’ll know how her legs wobble beneath the fabric, how her pride is the only thing barely holding her upright. Merlin, I did that. Only the shoes are missing now.

Pansy bit her lower lip.

This is a dream come true. Why am I this lucky all of a sudden?

She went to her wardrobe and picked a pair of ballerina flats. “Give me your right foot, Cinderella,” she whispered, caressing her calf, her hand sneaking under the freshly adjusted pants and tracing idle patterns on her stocking. “Your Princess is about to dust you with a shoe.”

“Clever Disney pun, but allow me to doubt it. I’m not letting you win this,” she said, a slow and feline smile clawing its way onto her lips. “Is my clothing some sort of strange transfiguration made from a pumpkin?”

“Don’t be silly,” chastised Pansy. “Although by midnight it will vanish. I’ll make sure of it.”

Hermione arched an eyebrow, but decided not to comment. “Either way, I’m not wearing flats. Fetch me the heels,” she demanded, pointing at the shiny wine-red stilettos right next to the ballerinas.

“Are you daft?” hissed Pansy. “I conjured a perfectly comfortable, respectable and lovely outfit so you could wear flats and look absolutely beautiful and professional. I even made the cardigan Gryffindor-coded for your sake!”

“Fetch. Me. The. Heels,” she repeated, tilting her head. “I need them for support.”

“Support? They are more likely to be the cause of your demise!” argued Pansy, astounded. “You can’t even walk barefoot. And you want to strut on stilettos?”

Hermione shrugged, carefully taking a step towards her desired shoes. “I meant moral support: they are empowering, and I feel absolutely destroyed. Positively destroyed, but still. I need power. Plus, more exercise for my core muscles will do them some good.” She tumbled. Pansy rushed to steady her, only to find Hermione regaining balance on her own with a smirk. “If I could survive a night with you, I can survive a pair of heels, Princess.”

“But why?” asked Pansy, refusing to let go of her waist.

Hermione turned slowly, angling her body to face Pansy’s. She leaned it, her lips getting closer to the Slytherin’s… only to dart at the last second to her cheek, kissing it. “Because I’ll look way hotter with them,” she purred, untangling herself from Pansy. “And I refuse to let you pick my whole outfit. I disagree on principle.”

“Can you disagree on a flat principle?” replied Pansy, bewildered. “I’m just looking out for you.”

“Flat is boring, Princess. And I’m nothing but,” she said, bending down to pick up the heels from the cobbler and placing them on the floor… before stepping in. She rose back up, a good four inches taller.

Hesitantly, she took a step forward. Then another. And, on the third, her ankle twisted and, should it not have been for Pansy’s hands steadying her by the waist, she would’ve kissed the floor.

“Happy now, you stubborn kitten?” scolded Pansy through gritted teeth. Her worry was met by Hermione’s carefree laugh.

The Gryffindor whispered an ‘Accio’, her wand flying back into her hand. Her brow furrowed in concentration as she kept muttering spells, her wand moving in a blur; Pansy lost count at the seventh incantation. She caught something that sounded suspiciously like ‘Arresto Momentum’ and ‘Impedimenta’, but she couldn’t be sure.

The fuck is this madwoman doing now? Is she hexing me? Am I dying? Is this panic, or is the air really getting thinner—? Okay, enough jokes. But… what is she doing with all these spells? The number is outright insane.

“There, all done,” cheered Hermione, a pair of golden rings flashing around her ankles before disappearing. “The soreness will keep hitting me like a truck and make me wobble—or try to, because I won’t allow it—but I won’t fall. For a couple of hours, I can reel and stagger all I like, but I will remain on my feet, standing. Magic does have some clever uses.”

Pansy regarded her for a beat, mouth agape in astonishment. “You’ve woven a dangerously high number of charms together… just so you could defy me and wear stilettos?”

“Yes,” she said, smirking. “You’re good at Potions, Princess. I’m excellent at spell-work. Don’t look so surprised about it: I am, after all, the Brightest Witch of Our Age.”

“Oh, pardon me, I mistook you for someone who only used magic when it was warranted, not to prove a point,” mocked Pansy, rolling her eyes. “Where is the little and boring know-it-all I grew up with?”

Hermione laughed again, pecking Pansy’s lips. “We’re witches, Princess. It’s only normal to use magic to make our lives simpler. And, besides, no one will know I charmed myself to not fall unless you tell them. Will you?”

“I don’t know. I do have a strange wish to announce what a wild night we had, but I surmise you would argue against it.”

“Adamantly.”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “Killjoy,” she whispered, capturing Hermione’s lips in a sweet kiss.

Hermione surged forward, pressing her mouth harder against Pansy’s. Her legs did wobble, but she didn’t fall as she pushed Pansy back a couple of steps. “Monster,” she replied.

Pansy laughed against her lips before breaking it and taking a step back to admire the fruit of her labour. She then smirked, tilting her head. “Perfect. Almost respectable. If only everyone else knew how long it took you just to get dressed—”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “If you say a single word at breakfast—”

Pansy cut her off with a kiss, quick and smug. “What, and rob myself of the fun? Don’t worry, golden girl.” Her grin widened as she reached for her own robes. “Heels or not, I fully intend to make you squirm without saying a thing.”

“Fine. But if I trip on the stairs, Princess, I’m hexing you in my fall.” Hermione adjusted her freshly put-on scarf, covering the marks of last night’s sins. “Could you get dressed now, or are you getting down to the Great Hall naked?”

I could, but then half of Hogwarts would want to shag me, and the other would die of a heart attack. Not the wisest move as a Head of House, though. Shall I fetch my boring Slytherin teaching robes, or do I go for something more… unconventionally styled?

“Killjoy to the bone,” she whispered, strutting to the bed and grabbing her clothes. “But fine, I’ll get dressed. If only because all this—” said Pansy with a smirk, her hand travelling from head to thigh and pointing lower, to her feet. “—is just yours to enjoy.”

Hermione gulped and rolled her eyes. “You’re an irredeemable seductress.”

“Your irredeemable seductress, golden girl,” corrected Pansy with a knowing smirk. “And yours only.”

Now we’ll see how long you last on those heels before you crawl back to me.

By the time they finally left the room, Pansy looked untouched. Immaculate robes, beautifully applied makeup and concealer strategically placed… all over her. The neck had been particularly tricky with all those bruises.

She’s feisty when it comes to kisses, isn’t she? Very… hickey-inclined. Not that I’m complaining.

Chin up and no longer jelly legs. Not see-able, at least. Pansy had the wobbling under control.

Hermione, poor soul, tried. She wasn’t in danger of falling, but every step made her wince under Pansy’s gloating gaze.

The Gryffindor looked composed enough, from afar. But there, in close quarters and held by Pansy by the waist, the Slytherin felt the tremors in Hermione’s knees on her own body.

The corridor stretched ahead, long and merciless. Hermione squared her shoulders and started forward, steps clipped, deliberate. Too deliberate. Pansy stifled a laugh behind her hand.

“Graceful as ever,” she drawled against her curls.

She still smells like books and rain.

“Don’t,” muttered Hermione through clenched teeth.

“Don’t what? Don’t admire the way you’re strutting like you’ve just dismounted a broom after a six-hour Quidditch match?”

Hermione’s glare was murderous, but her cheeks betrayed her, pink creeping higher with every step.

They descended the first staircase. Hermione gripped the bannister a fraction tighter than usual. Pansy leaned casually against the rail, matching her pace.

“If I didn’t know any better, golden girl, I would say you’re sore,” she taunted.

“Oh, shush,” replied Hermione with a forced smile, her fingers digging in Pansy’s shoulder with every step. “How does all that ego fit in your body?”

“It doesn’t. That’s why I had to fit inside yours, remember?” she purred, walking beside her, tapping her fingers absentmindedly against her waist.

Hermione hissed when Pansy forced her to go faster. “Keep this up, and you won’t have the pleasure of fitting anything inside me ever again, rings or not.”

Ah, fake self-imposed celibacy? She’s bluffing.

“Then I guess I’ll see you at breakfast,” replied Pansy, no longer supporting her by the waist. “If I can’t shag you anymore, I guess I don’t have any obligation to help you down the stairs, do I?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Do as you wish, Princess. I’ll get there soon enough.”

Pansy, of course, studied her. She saw the stiffness in her gait, the way she braced her hand against the wall before flinching, the faint shiver in her thighs as she took one step after the other.

Seven orgasms didn’t lie.

What else can I do to… increase her pace?

“Relax, kitten,” she mused, drinking the small orange vial she had saved for emergencies. Swallowing it in one go, just to taunt Hermione further? Fucking of course. “Let me help you—”

“Don’t you dare—” yelled Hermione. “Pansy Parkinson, I swear on Circe’s bones—put me down now!”

Pansy laughed, tightening her grip. “What, golden girl? Don’t you enjoy a little old-fashioned bridal style as a way to carry you down?” she purred, picking up the pace of her steps.

“Let me go!”

“Why? I’m sure the portraits would love the scandal once we enter the main corridor. And the students, of course.”

“Are you mad?” she yelled, her voice echoing against stone walls and empty frames.

Hermione kicked the air and punched Pansy on the shoulder, but the Slytherin only smirked.

I am cheating, but it’s warranted if I get to see her flustered like that. She looks adorably cute while she blushes like a teenager in l—Nope. Not going there.

“How are you so bloody strong?” asked Hermione, resigned to being carried down a bit. “I get that you don’t do wobbling, Princess… But effortlessly carrying me is a whole other level.”

“Strengthening Solution,” she simply said, strutting down the second and third staircases. “For emergencies.”

“Carrying me down is not a bloody emergency, you brat!”

“It is to me. I pride myself on punctuality, golden girl, and we are cutting it awfully close for my taste,” said Pansy, and smiled. “Don’t worry, I’ll put you down before anyone sees you being such a… pillow princess.”

Hermione yelped. “You know I’m not!”

“Three and seven suggest otherwise,” said Pansy, finally putting her down.

“Do you want me to hex you?”

“Do you want me to poison you?” Pansy smirked, stepping back. “You may be bright with spells, golden girl, but I’m still the youngest Potions Master in history. It’s not even a competition.”

Hermione laughed, and Pansy shrank at the sound. Was it her imagination… or did the Gryffindor command power with ease as she spoke? “I’m faster with my wand than you with your vials, Princess,” said Hermione before shaking her head in mock disgust. “Your potions wouldn’t stand a chance against me.”

Retreat. Wave the white flag, she’s got you cornered. Change the subject, gain back the upper hand.

“Be that as it may… you’re still awfully close to being a pillow princess, golden girl.”

“Do you want me to act like one?” she threatened, squinting.

Pansy nodded with practised lewdness. “Fine, more to eat for me. Do you reckon you can make it to ten?”

Hermione gulped, scandalised. “I won’t let you. I’ll physically fight you,” she whispered. “I’ll flip you over and shag you instead—”

“More ways for me to come, thanks to you,” cut Pansy. “I’m not complaining.”

“You’re relentless.”

“And you’re easily manipulated,” she bit, her hand reaching for Hermione’s. “And you also are undone for and by me.”

The Gryffindor intertwined her fingers with Pansy’s. “Blissfully so. Regrettably so.”

Pansy smirked as they walked, but noticed Hermione getting more and more twitchy. Not ‘sex consequences’ twitchy: ‘nervous’ twitchy.

“Relax, love,” she murmured, just for her. “They’ll think you’re simply tired. No one has to know your poor thighs are still trembling from my hands.”

Hermione’s eyes flashed, but the corner of her lip twitched, betraying the smallest smirk. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re irresistible,” replied Pansy smoothly.

They resumed their descent. Students were beginning to filter into the hallways now, chattering and laughing, darting curious glances at their professors. Hermione kept her chin lifted higher, spine stiff with Gryffindor dignity. Pansy, meanwhile, sauntered as though she were on a runway, entirely unbothered by the whispers that followed.

At the doors of the Great Hall, Hermione slowed. Just a heartbeat, barely a pause—but Pansy caught it. She leaned in, lips brushing her ear.

“Ready to sit through breakfast without wincing?” she whispered, her smirk curving wickedly.

“I’ll cross my legs just to shut you up,” she said.

“Careful, golden girl. I need you up and running for tonight.”

Hermione inhaled sharply, then pushed the door open without answering.

Pansy laughed under her breath, following her inside.

This is going to be fun. Cross your legs all you want, Cinderella. At midnight, I’ll pry them apart again.

The Great Hall was bustling, but Pansy owned the space the moment she entered. Shoulders back, chin up, smirk fixed. Yes, her thighs ached faintly from last night’s exertions, but no one would ever see it. Slytherins didn’t limp, because snakes didn’t. They glided.

She took her seat with perfect poise, poured her tea, and waited.

Hermione came in moments later. They had agreed to enter at separate times, not that anyone who knew them, who had seen them prior to that night, would be fooled. But there was no need to embarrass the poor Hermione further.

She was doing that, the whole embarrassment act, fine on her own.

Pansy muffled a laugh when she saw her gait, crossing between Hufflepuff and Gryffindor’s tables to take her seat by Minerva’s right. Thankfully, the Headmistress’s chair was empty.

Oh, the sight of her. Lips tight, robes immaculate, curls wrangled into obedience—and still, utterly undone. The stiff set of her shoulders, the too-careful way she lowered herself onto the bench, the slight tremor in her legs… exquisite.

Pansy smiled smugly, sipping her tea. Pumpkin? How… adequate for Cinderella’s Princess.

I told her she wouldn’t walk straight. That wobbling, ladies and gentlemen, was thanks to yours truly. Also, can we talk about how good silk looks on her? How it hugs her, falls, heightens her natural beauty? Someone better comment on her outfit today, or heads will roll. Stilettos be damned, she looks like a vision. Is she a Veela? Merlin, I dressed her up like a doll. Silk, of all the options available. A wonder for her soreness, since it won’t hurt her already strained muscles… and a constant reminder, with every glide, of every touch. It’s stunning, gentle, glowing and smug. Two G’s for her, and two S’s for me.

“Morning,” said Neville gently, brow furrowed with concern. “Rough night? You look… stiff.”

Hermione nearly drowned in her mug. “Still reeling from the… poison,” she managed, voice raw, eyes fixed on her cup.

Cho’s brow arched, subtle as a dagger. Hannah’s mouth twitched as she buttered her toast.

Oh, so both of them know. Neville clearly hasn’t figured it out yet. What about the rest? Shall I… test the waters?

“How strange,” murmured Hannah sweetly, too sweetly. “You should’ve been fine by dusk. Pansy said as much, didn’t you?” she asked, turning to face the very smug, zero-sneaky Slytherin.

Hermione dropped her knife. Pansy nearly clapped.

The waters tests themselves. How amusing.

“Well, some bodies wear the aftershocks better than others,” said Pansy smoothly, stirring her tea as if it were the most innocent comment in the world. She didn’t even look at Neville or Hannah, though she could imagine the Longbottom-Abbott marriage’s expressions: confused for him and simpering for her. No, she wasn’t looking at them, because Pansy’s gaze was focused solely on Hermione’s flushed cheeks.

“Mm,” hummed Cho into her teacup, her smirk entirely undisguised. “Will you be bedridden tomorrow due to the poison?” she asked, punctuating the last word with a knowing leer.

And then Luna, darling, delicious Luna, chimed in dreamily. “Since when do we call each other by mundane things?”

Hermione shook her head under Pansy’s unwavering eyes. “Mundane?” asked the Gryffindor, turning to face the newly arrived Luna and wincing slightly as she did. “What do you mean, darling?”

I don’t understand what’s happening, but I like it.

“Oh, nothing. It was just strange, but I guess it’s fine. Can I be ‘Star’? I like stars. They are detached, bright, beautiful and unreachable.”

Hannah chuckled, and Cho’s laugh echoed around them. Neville looked even more confused about the undisclosed joke. “Why would you need any other name besides your own?” he asked, still trying to understand.

Thank you, Neville. I wanted to know too, but I wouldn’t risk asking for the answer to be painfully obvious. With this dreamy chaos storm, it really could be anything.

Luna pointed at her fellow Ravenclaw, ignoring all the looks of bewilderment directed at her. “She said something about Hermione being bedridden because of the poison,” she explained. “Is ‘Poison’ code for ‘Pansy’?”

Brilliant. She’s fucking brilliant.

Pansy bit the inside of her cheek to keep from bursting into laughter.

Neville’s mouth fell wide open, and Hannah gently closed it for him with her hand.

Cho laughed, no longer hiding her snark.

And Hermione… Oh, poor, sweet, sore Hermione. She coughed so violently that Luna had to push a napkin into her hand.

Now it makes sense, her being a Gryffindor. Her cheeks couldn’t be any more scarlet if she tried.

Silence stretched until a very unaware Harry walked in, taking a seat next to Pansy. “Morning. Did I miss anything?” he asked.

“Just the most enlightening moment Luna has had in a week,” said Cho, still stirring her teacup. “Fancy a sugar cube, Hermione? I heard they are good for… soreness.”

Hermione gulped. “No, thanks. I’m fine,” she said, straining her voice so it wouldn’t sound hoarse.

This is more fun than what I could’ve ever dreamed of.

Harry frowned, predictably obtuse. “Is that… actually a thing?”

“Of course,” said Luna serenely, buttering her roll with maddening calm. Her eyes twinkled as they flicked toward Hermione. “Nargles are quite fond of sugar too, you know…”

Pansy leaned back, savouring the view. Harry was clueless, Neville shook, Hannah and Cho were barely suppressing laughter, and Luna had just gifted Hermione the best alibi nonsense could buy.

The proud Gryffindor raised her chin and looked around the table. “Where are Ernie and Katie? It’s not like them to be this late to breakfast.”

“Minerva asked them to look into something, though they were quite cagey when I asked what it was about,” said Harry, shrugging. “They were in Katie’s classroom, and they looked like they had been duelling.”

“Men,” muttered Pansy, resisting the urge to laugh. How are they so fucking clueless? “What were they practising, Harry? Incendio to set someone’s eyebrows on fire? Or something more subtle… like an Engorgio spell?”

The whole bloody staff table went silent. Hermione froze, crimson from throat to hairline, while Pansy nearly purred into her teacup.

“I don’t know—” he answered. “Though something more advanced, a simple Incendio is below their expertise.” Harry dipped his toast in his glass of milk, immersed in his thoughts. “How are you feeling, ‘Mione? I reckon the recovery from—”

“I’m fine, Harry!” snapped Hermione, too sharp, too quick. The kind of denial that cut deep, her voice high as though volume might cover the quake in her it.

Harry flinched at the roughness of her voice. “Jesus, okay!” he replied with a frown, recoiling a bit. “You’re sketchy today. Are you sure completely recovered? Minerva will agree to give you one more day off if you ask her… and if you don’t, at least take it easy.”

“I don’t need you fussing over me!” she yelled. And then she winced and added, quieter, “I’m just… tired.”

Pansy tilted her head, letting her lips brush Hermione’s ear. “Tired?” she whispered silkily, low enough for only Hermione to hear. “Darling, you look positively ravished. And you can’t even cross your legs, can you?”

Hermione’s spoon clattered against her plate. If gazes could kill, Pansy would be dead. Luckily, she was not a basilisk, but a girl. Golden, prideful… but just a woman.

Perfect. Utterly perfect.

Cho’s smile widened. Hannah smothered a laugh into her sleeve. Luna reached serenely for the marmalade.

The spell broke when the Headmistress entered the Great Hall. Her stride was purposeful, sharp and fast—the complete opposite of what Hermione’s had been.

Oh, that made victory all the sweeter.

Minerva took her seat, her chair at the middle of the table, her eyes glinting with something only she knew. One look at Hermione, one at Pansy. “I trust that you both are fine to resume with your professional activities today.”

The Slytherin smirked and nodded. “Fresh as a daisy, Headmistress. A little light-headed, but nothing that a couple of yells at oblivious students deserving of it won’t cure.”

“I—Yes. We had a good night’s rest,” added Hermione.

This will be good. I knew she liked to claw. I just didn’t know she also enjoyed digging her own grave.

Minerva arched an eyebrow. “We?”

Hermione choked, and her cheeks flushed once more. “I mean… I surmise she slept well, too. Why wouldn’t she? She surely could—” Pansy’s hand flew to Hermione’s thigh, pressing a little on it and making her squeak.

“What she means to say, Minerva, is that she slept well,” said Pansy. Lend the poor girl a hand, for fuck’s sake. Also, could the Headmistress separate our rooms? I don’t think so, but I won’t take any chances. “She came to check on me, and I supplied her with a vial of Dreamless Sleep Potion.”

“I see,” said Minerva, her tone crisp as winter air.

Pansy buttered her toast with regal calm, every movement deliberate. “Careful, golden girl,” she murmured just loudly enough for her to hear, her thumb tracing circles on Hermione’s inner thigh. “You might give poor Harry the wrong impression if you keep squirming like that.”

“Pansy—” hissed Hermione under her breath.

“Yes, love?” Pansy beamed at her, wicked and triumphant, and raised her teacup in a mock toast. “Cheers to hard work.”

Harry still looked lost—he had never been the sharpest wand in the shed, had he?—, while Hannah was whispering into Neville’s ear to catch him up to speed—he still looked puzzled, and then scandalised—, Cho and Luna were commenting on Ravenclaw’s schedules… And Minerva? She hadn’t looked up again from her porridge, but Pansy knew she’d heard, knew she understood, and chose silence anyway.

“The only reason you’re not hexed is because we have witnesses,” hissed Hermione. “I’ll have your head later for what you’re pulling, Princess.”

Pansy simply smiled and leaned in. “Where? Between your legs? That’s the dream.” Her thumb kneaded more purposefully the inner thigh, making Hermione squirm. “Oh, you said ‘head’… Which one? The silver or mine?”

Hermione’s hand yanked Pansy’s away with a wince, and then… she crossed her legs. “Neither if you don’t shut up and drink your bloody beverage in absolute silence,” she threatened.

Merlin, she did it. She crossed them just to spite me. Okay, I’ll let her have this one. Just because I can. And, while her thighs stay like that… She won’t forget. The soreness won’t let her.

“Yes, ma’am,” agreed Pansy with a knowing smirk.

Pumpkin tea has never tasted better anyway. And, at midnight… the spell will break, won’t it? Silk to rags, banter to prayers… and Cinderella back in my bed, leaving ‘the adequate’ in the dust.

Breakfast had been a delight, hadn’t it?

Cho knows. Neville knows. Luna knows. Hannah knows. Minerva knows. Ginny knows. Daphne knows—Actually, it would be faster to list all those who don’t know, wouldn’t it?

“Are you skulking, golden girl?” asked a very amused Pansy. “Whatever it is, get it out of your chest. I have class in ten minutes, and I would appreciate it if you weren’t glaring daggers at me throughout the next two hours.”

Hermione stopped her furious pacing in Pansy’s empty classroom. Wasn’t she sore? How could she be kicking in stilettos with every step she took? It looked like she was trying to murder the tiles with the needles of her shoes. “You!” she yelled, her finger poking repeatedly Pansy’s chest. “You smug, awful, treacherous banshee!”

“Me? Banshee?” countered Pansy, utterly displeased at being called a wailing woman of death. “How dare you—”

Hermione shushed her and went on. “They all know, thanks to you! I’m not ashamed, before you even ask—but there was no need to display it as if you conquered the most unattainable peak! Bloody hell, Pansy! I’m a private person, not a scandal brewing, despite what the headlines suggest. I don’t enjoy my private life being made a mockery of!”

“I was next to you and never spoke about it during breakfast!” bit Pansy. “I didn’t tell them anything, it’s not my fault you’re so easily read that even fucking Luna got it out of you! I as sure as hell didn’t tell Cho and Hannah, so don’t put it on me! They knew before we even sat down, they’re your friends. And all of them knew I liked you before anyone even looked at your… wreckage of a body. So they just… connected the dots.”

Hermione scoffed, her eyes locking on Pansy’s. She shook her head, refusing to believe her. “How would they know before breakfast?”

“Maybe because they saw me pining over you for two fucking months, and saw you being jealous of my sexcapades, you stupid arse?” supplied Pansy, recoiling at the fury in Hermione’s eyes. “And because I panicked when you were almost dead, and they were all witnesses to my meltdown.”

“Your meltdown?” she asked, quieter this time.

Pansy nodded. “Yes, golden girl. I lost it when you were dying.”

“Why didn’t you tell me—”

“Because I don’t do soft. I don’t give people things to gloat about,” interrupted Pansy, reclining her body against her table, suddenly tired. “That’s not me, and I thought you knew.”

Hermione’s face was right in front of hers in an instant, pace sure as if she were no longer sore at all. “I wouldn’t gloat, Pansy. Not about something like that,” she whispered, her voice no longer furious, but concerned. “I won’t ever use something that could hurt you to gloat. Ever.”

“Why?”

Hermione tilted her head, bewildered. “Because… I care about you. Circe, it’s common sense. Would you hurt me knowingly?” she asked.

“Of course not!”

“There you have it, you bloody idiot,” she said. “You can tell me anything, Pansy. Anything at all.”

Pansy gulped at the sudden intensity of Hermione’s gaze, her smugness being snuffed out by the Gryffindor’s determination. “Okay,” she breathed. “Do you want to tell me something?”

“Actually, yes. Lots of things. But… later. This afternoon, we’ll talk. No innuendos, no banter, no jokes. Just us, talking,” she said, a small smirk tainting her lips. “I will tell you this, though: I am stronger than what most people realise.”

Pansy arched an eyebrow. “Am I supposed to be impressed?”

“Not yet. But—” Hermione checked the hourglass at the back of the class. “—you’ll be in a couple of minutes.”

“Just what are you—mmph!”

What is she doing? Why is she kissing me when I have class in… seven fucking minutes? Merlin, her lips are soft. Too soft, even when she goes rough. She’s going all in. She’s too good a kisser. I love how my arms rest on her waist while I devour her. Oh, now she’s tangling her hands in my hair? We don’t have time for this! Seven minutes is not enough—Don’t yank it!

Wait, she’s pushing me back. Is that—Ow! Yes, that was the table’s edge against my back. And now—Holy fuck, she is strong. She just lifted me on top of it. And… wait. She’s actually pinning me down.

Get it together, Pansy! Yes, she’s hot, she’s perfect, but don’t you dare let her do with you as she pleases—Stop melting when she kisses you, for fuck’s sake! Wait, why are her hands…

Oh. She is pinning my wrists. No, I can break her grip easily if I just—Ow! Not fun, golden girl. Not fun having your nails digging into my soft skin.

Merlin, I love how she kisses. With just enough fire, just enough teasing. Her teeth are on my lip. Breathe steady, don’t let her rattle you! Panting is forbidden. Repeat after me: ‘FORBIDDEN’. Turn her around and pin her instead! Cease control, go for it.

I can’t. Cheeky brat, she dropped all her weight on my chest. She’s smart. Okay, I’ll go for the hips. If I just jerk them, I can—Why is she not flinching? She’s supposed to be sore, unable to move—Merlin, she’s actually pressing harder.

I didn’t teach her that. How does she know how to pin my wrists with one ha—aaah… No! We said ‘no panting’, stupid bitch! What is her other hand doing on my navel? Why is she tracing runes on my stomach? Why am I allowing her to do that? Don’t squirm, don’t move. She’s climbing higher. Her teeth are tugging my lip, tongue tracing its swollen flesh. Now she’s in my mouth, and I can’t do a fucking thing.

Don’t let her dictate the pace. Keep breathing, bite her back—I can’t. Her hand is on my breast. When did the sneaky bastard go below my shirt?

What the fuck was that gasp, you clumsy idiot? She has heard it, and I can feel her smirk on my throat.

And… Merlin, block her thigh. She’s trying to wedge hers between mine; I can’t let her do that. If she does, I can kiss goodbye to my chance of switching our positions, don’t—Stupid bitch! Yes, I know it feels good to have her thigh there, but you shouldn’t have let her get that far. What if she moves it and—Don’t. Don’t react, don’t tighten at that grind. Don’t, don’t do—

Why did you flinch? She knows. She’s back, kissing me, deeper this time.

I’m losing it.

Okay. Fine. Twist your wrists again and free them. It’s a simple motion, but you have to be sharp. On three.

One.

Two.

Th—I can’t think. Her hold is locked, I can’t move. And her fingers are on my breast again. Under my bra.

She’s trembling. That’s the soreness telling her to ease down. It’s my chance, now that she’s distracted—No, not the neck, not the pulse point, no don’t suck there, don’t bite, don’t—Why is she doing it?

Don’t groan, don’t groan, don’t—Why, Merlin, why? Bite down the sound, bite it down. Don’t let her hear it.

Okay, I can do this. I can arch my back to throw her off and roll us. Yes, that should work.

Yes, I’m arching. Okay, we’re chest to chest, slick heat is all I feel now. Why is her thumb on my nipple—No! I was supposed to roll, not melt into it.

Recover, roll her, roll her! Come on—Merlin, she kisses too good to break this. It’s so hot in here, her breath and mine are mingling together.

Stop fucking arching into her touch, Pansy! Stop giving her your body or you’ll… you’ll…

Her hand drifts lower, almost under my pants. Do something, for fuck’s sake! Bite her lip, jerk your hips, anything! Don’t let her turn you into her playground!

I should hate this, but Merlin help me, I don’t.

I can feel her laugh against my mouth as her hand travels back up. Her fingers are on my breast again. And her thigh… is pushing up.

I lost.

She kisses me deeper still.

Fingers at my nipple. Tongue in my mouth. Teeth grazing my lip. Weight pressing me down. Thigh grinding.

I can’t—

Yes, you can. Don’t let her get this, don’t—

Bitch! You had ONE job, and that was ‘don’t moan into her kiss’! She’s devouring my mouth again. No, no! For fucks sake, don’t moan again, don’t you dare—

“Ah, there it is,” purred Hermione. “My prize, my moan. Thank you, Princess, for complying with my wishes… not that you had any say in the situation. You’re my tamed hatchling, aren’t you?”

No, the fuck I’m not!

I said ‘DON’T MOAN’! I don’t care if she swallows it or if she doesn’t, don’t do it ag—

Merlin, come on!

She has learned too quickly how to play with breasts.

Stop it with the moaning, the panting, the messiness. Stop, stop, Pansy, stop! She’s wrecking you!

Oh, but losing has never tasted this sweet, has it?

Hermione released Pansy’s wrists and climbed back down, just in time for the bell to announce the beginning of classes.

The Gryffindor turned around and went back to her usual table, full of books, parchments and quills.

What the fuck was that.

“Something on your mind, Princess?” she asked, without sparing Pansy a glance.

What the fuck was that.

“No.”

Hermione smirked, smug and proud. “Figures,” she whispered, biting her lip as she flicked her wand, opening the door to the classroom.

What the actual fuck.

“You had no right—! Weren’t you sore—?” Pansy’s words kept tumbling into each other, unable to finish a full sentence.

What the actual fuck.

Hermione’s eyes met hers. “I had every right after the night you pulled me through,” she said, smirking. “And yes, I’m bloody sore, but I can endure it for seven minutes if it leaves you this dishevelled, can’t I? Believe me, my thighs were begging for mercy… but you were deliciously squirming under me, so I decided to ignore them.”

What the actual fuckable fuck has just fucking happened.

Pansy’s temper rose like the tide. “What if someone had walked in? Are you that daft, or has the soreness infected your brain?”

Hermione laughed, her wand moving lazily, charming the whole room. “They couldn’t. Magic does wonders, doesn’t it? I’m not that mad, Princess.”

“You’re too cocky for someone who can’t bend down to pick up her own dignity,” scoffed Pansy, trying to brush her hair with her fingers.

What the actual fuckable fuck has just fucking happened. What is this fucking mess I just became…? Who the fuck is this girl, and where is sore Hermione Granger? I want her back, not this dominant bitch in silk and stilettos who just wrecked me in seven minutes. I want Cinderella, not Mulan, for fuck’s sake.

“Now that was unwarranted indeed, Princess,” she said, strutting confidently until she was back in front of her. “Do you own a scarf? Those bruises won’t cover on their own,” whispered smugly Hermione, her fingers tracing her collarbone and throat.

The bitch. She marked me on purpose, just before the class started. The concealer is smeared for sure, so… my neck is a canvas, her lips the brush, and she the artist. The painting: ‘The Lioness’ bite’. I hate her. She got me, but I hate her so fucking much.

“Get ready for tonight, golden girl,” she hissed through gritted teeth. “I’ll fuck you until you black out.”

Hermione smirked. “Wouldn’t miss it.” She kissed her once more and broke it so fast that Pansy couldn’t even properly react. “That is, if you don’t black out before I do, Princess.”

“You’re dead.”

I can taste her on my lips. Her scent is curling around me like a fucking snake. How am I supposed to concentrate after that? I don’t care if she tastes like rain and smells like books; this is my fucking classroom. I can’t—Merlin, she destroyed me in seven minutes, didn’t she?

Hermione smiled and got rid of her scarf, wrapping it around Pansy’s neck. “There you go, a way to cover these nasty marks,” she whispered, her fingers grazing the love-bites on her throat and collarbone. The Slytherin recoiled instinctively. “Don’t be picky now, Princess. You buried the silver strap in me, it’s only fair I get to wrap scarlet around your pretty throat—Unless you want every student to see the red markings in your neck. Either way, that’s a Gryffindor colour.”

“Make it green,” she demanded.

Hermione crackled. “Endure it, Princess. I took the silver to the hilt, you’ll strut with scarlet coiling around you,” she teased, raking her nails on Pansy’s jaw. “Except if you want to beg like a weakling, proving that you cannot match me.”

“I’m not a coward, golden girl,” she spat.

“Brilliant.” Hermione tightened the scarf with a smirk. “Then it’s settled… although bravery is a Gryffindor trait, isn’t it? What has bewitched your cunning mind to admit that?”

I’m cooked. Weren’t I showing off when she was digging her own grave with Minerva? I was laughing at her utter inability to be cool and composed… and now I’m doing worse, because I’m losing to her. Can’t I get just one fucking sentence right?

“Slytherins are brave enough, but with self-preservation on our minds,” she hissed. “Gryffindors are stupidly brave to the point of death. Please, don’t mix us up, for we are not dumb.”

Hermione leaned in and kissed her jaw. “And yet, Princess… you’re dumb enough to keep coming back to me, only to be bested.”

Fuck! One job, I had ONE. FUCKING. JOB.

“We’ll see who gets bested tonight, golden girl,” she whispered, pushing her back. “Once I fuck you so hard you won’t remember your own name.”

Hermione tilted her head just as the first student entered the classroom. Her voice went down to a purr, so only Pansy would hear. “There are children here, mind your words,” she stated. As if she hadn’t been the one pinning Pansy to her desk a minute ago. As if she hadn’t been the one ravishing the Professor just before class. “Your precious cubs and hatchlings, your dearest first-years. Do try to make a good impression, Princess. After all… you’re the smug, unbent and unconquered Head of Slytherin, aren’t you? With a scarlet scarf poking at your immunity, the least you can do is look the part.”

She has a death wish. I will oblige with it.

“Sit back down, golden girl,” ordered Pansy, devouring her with her gaze. Her jaw was clenched, her breath still uneven. “I have more pressing matters than your cockiness to address. But, rest assured, I will press it down after I’m done here. You won’t be able to fucking move,” she hissed.

“I love when you hiss. It’s such a snake move.” Hermione shook her head, delighted. She turned around and sat on the table, perched at its edge and crossing her legs like a confident lion. Not a wince, not a flicker of anything but smugness. Looking like that, she had stilettos for miles, and elegance and power for eternity. “Try to come for me and see how it goes, Princess. I dare you.”

Oh, I will. Don’t worry, I most definitely will. And when I do, you’ll beg me to stop at seven. Midnight will be your undoing, golden girl. You’ll beg, and I won’t comply.

Pansy teared her gaze from Hermione’s hypnotic legs, covered by stockings, silk and power. Looked at the newly arrived students, cleared her throat and smiled.

“Welcome back, little snakes and lions,” she said, her voice easing back to her Professor tone. “I will collect your assignments now on the ‘Effects of stirring incorrectly the potion and ways to reverse the clockwise malfunction’. Leave them on my desk. You’ll be doing another for next week, this time for ‘counter-clockwise’; I’ll need them by Wednesday morning or points will be docked.”

A collective groan filled the classroom.

That’s it. Don’t look at her. You’re a Professor. You’re a Potions Master. Act like it. You’ll have time later to get revenge; now, these little cubs and hatchlings demand all your attention.

She tried. But every time the silk caught the light, it shimmered, and Pansy’s glance flew to those maddening legs, like a magnet to metal. Except Hermione was not any metal; she was gold, and Pansy, despite being a silver-girl type of woman, was addicted to it.

Chapter Text

A sharp knock interrupted Pansy’s scheduled routine hour for grading papers. She put Vicky’s assignment down—seriously, child, who in their right mind would imply that not stirring a potion right might result in creating an accidental Time-Turner to the future if the motion is clockwise, because you’re moving time forward?—with a sigh. She drew a ‘T’ on it, only to feel bad about it and change it to a ‘D’. ‘Dreadful’ was better than ‘Troll’, but her grades would take a toll nonetheless.

I’ll have to speak with her and advise one of her seniors to help her with tutoring. Maybe one of the fourth-years I’m considering for Prefect roles next year—Brad Deverill? No, he’s too much of a prick for poor Vicky. Maybe a gentler touch would be a better fit—Angélique Deveraux? Could work. I’ll check in with the actual Prefects and seek their advice on the matter.

She lowered her quill, ink smudged faintly on her fingertips, and she rubbed it off against the coarse fabric of her robes. The smell of drying parchment and ink clung thick in the air, familiar, almost comforting… until the second knock snapped it all brittle.

“Come in,” she said, her voice sharp and commanding.

Hermione is a genius, but I didn’t come back here for her. No, I’m here for the Slytherins, for their future. Lately I’ve been… distracted. That ends today.

The heavy oak groaned on its hinges, and a draft of cooler corridor air brushed against Pansy’s face, prickling the back of her neck. Minerva stepped inside, crisp tartan robes whispering against the stone floor, her presence cutting the warmth of the room like ice dropped into hot tea. She strutted like Pansy’s study was hers: her chin raised and her lips pursed.

Oh, oh. Storm incoming.

“Pansy, we need to talk,” she said, already taking a seat before the Slytherin had even had the chance to invite her.

“Minerva, always a pleasure,” she replied, her expression composed, but with a spark of intrigue. “Tea?”

The Headmistress nodded. “Peppermint, please.”

Pansy flicked her wand.

The porcelain clinked sharply as it materialised, and fragrant steam curled upward, peppermint sharp enough to sting her nose while Baihao Yinzhen—Pansy’s pick—released a mellow, grassy warmth that settled deep in her chest. The table grew humid with the sudden heat, and she curled her cold fingers around the mug, grateful for the warmth. To add some flair, Pansy had added, along with the silver cutlery, a small teapot and some milk and sugar.

In case she has a strange taste in tea and wants—Merlin forbid—milk foam. You never know.

“Really, Pansy? Out of all teas, you pick the Silver Needle?” Minerva arched an eyebrow. “You bring your House colours everywhere you go, don’t you?”

You have no idea, she thought with a smirk, reminiscing about last night’s… endeavours.

“I have a soft spot for snakes, Minerva,” she said, stirring her tea with swift and controlled motions. “If you don’t mind cutting the small talk, I would appreciate it. I have a ton of essays to grade and some… inner House shenanigans to sort out.”

Minerva grinned. “Ah, yes. I remember those quite fondly. Now I’m drowning in paperwork and permits instead of grades, and those who receive my reviews are old crones and unsatisfied elitists.” Minerva’s eyes gleamed for an instant before refocusing on Pansy, a soft and sad smile plastered on the Headmistress’s face. Her voice dropped so low it barely carried over the faint bubbling of the cauldrons. For a beat, Pansy swore the entire room leaned toward that whisper, the peppermint steam ghosting across her lips, bitter-sweet. “I miss being a Professor,” she whispered.

Ouch. Why does my chest ache at her confession? I mean, since when do I care about all these… people?

Pansy tilted her head, surprised at the sudden softness displayed by the most self-righteous woman she had ever met. “I don’t know if it counts for anything, Minerva,” she said with an easy smile. Her hand clasped Minerva’s forearm reassuringly. “But you’ll always be my Professor, Professor.”

“That was kind of you, Pansy. Thank you.” Pansy felt her intense gaze regarding her for a beat, and her cheeks flushed uncharacteristically bright. “Now, let’s cut to the chase, shall we? I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“Please,” replied Pansy, inclining her head. The three cauldrons at her back burbled, making strange wet noises and leaving a scent of scrunched beetle shells and hippogriff sweat—which, oddly enough, smelled like chocolate chips.

Minerva sighed. She rubbed her eyes and took a sip of her tea. “I will not have a member of my staff being such a useless, woefully inadequate fool when it comes to spell-work,” she sentenced, glaring at Pansy. “You need to be properly trained.”

Ah, and she’s right back. I hope that this isn’t a Gryffindor thing. If Hermione ages into this brand of tartan fire, I’ll be toast—Wait. Did I imagine the golden girl growing old beside me after a single night? Oh, Merlin. I’m in deep. What has Minerva just told me? I forgot.

“What?”

Minerva took another sip of tea. “I said,” she repeated after an exaggerated sigh. “You must work on improving your duelling skills. After the… encounter with your parents, and with the threat of the Cleansers still looming, you should be able to protect yourself.”

Pansy arched an eyebrow. “Ah, I see. Is this you trying to become a Professor again?”

“Me? Heavens, no!” Minerva stifled a laugh. “I don’t have the energy to deal with the likes of you again, nor do I have the time. I thought the burden should be carried by someone your age.”

“Who? Harry?”

Minerva’s lips thinned in a strict line. “No, he has a schedule issue, his is incompatible with yours because he goes back to his family every afternoon, and—”

Pansy waved her hand in dismissal. If the Boy Who Lived wasn’t available, then who was the best next candidate? “Hannah?” she chimed, hoping for a positive answer. The Hufflepuff was a gentle teacher and one hell of a dueller, a match made in heaven.

“Skilled as she is, her current workload is too high, and her schedule too tight to fit you in. Duties you must understand, being a Head of House yourself. The same goes for Cho and Neville. Luna is unavailable, because I need someone centred and grounded enough to put you up to speed, and not beat around the bush—”

“That leaves Bell or Ernie,” surmised Pansy, rolling her eyes. She clasped her untouched tea mug harder, begging for it to be a giant ‘no’. Bell would hex her arse out, and Ernie was too much of a pushover to make the experience of learning… enjoyable. Her mouth twitched at the rim of the cup.

“Katie hates your guts,” said Minerva with a flat voice. “And this would go much faster if you stopped playing Twenty Questions.”

Pansy laughed. She gestured for the three cauldrons behind her back to stop brewing with a simple flick. This conversation required far more of her attention than she had thought at the beginning, and she wasn’t in the mood to clean goo if she lost her concentration even for a split second. “Where would the fun be then, dear Headmistress?”

Minerva’s lips betrayed her with a slight twitch that she hid as fast as lightning, but Pansy had seen it. “The fun is in the learning, dear. And I’m sure the candidate I have in mind will meet your… expectations. Tick every container, as I believe you say nowadays.”

“Box.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Tick every box,” clarified Pansy with a delighted grin. “Tell me, who is supposed to be my knight in shining armour? Silver shining, naturally. Got to stay on brand. If I get a say—”

“You don’t,” cut Minerva. Then her eyebrows furrowed, making her face show the wrinkles she otherwise hid with poise and elegance. “Haven’t you guessed already?”

A beat passed.

Two.

Who else in this castle is skilled enough to teach me at a high level of defensive magic? I have already ruled out all the viable and acceptable candidates.

Minerva sighed. “Sometimes I wonder if you fake the cunning or the obliviousness,” she whispered, returning her empty mug to the table. The smell of peppermint lingered around them, masking the one of the cauldrons. “Slytherin’s minds are utter nonsense to me, I’m afraid. She’s not a profe—”

And then it clicked. Her chest tightened. It couldn’t be. She couldn’t be that lucky to get assigned to her.

“Are you propositioning Hermione to take care of the job?” asked Pansy, mouth agape.

Of course she is. The schedule makes sense. She’s one of the most skilled witches. We get along well—more than well. It was painfully obvious. Why did I assume that Minerva meant someone from the staff?—Oh, but Hermione is a member of Hogwarts personnel, even if it’s just an honorary title. Merlin, I’m dumb. I knew my body was sore after yesterday, but not that my wit was as blunt as a fucking unicorn wand.

Minerva rolled her eyes. “Out of all the verbs available in the English language, you had to choose ‘propositioning’, hadn’t you?”

“I’m slow today, Headmistress. Do give your only snake Professor a break,” said Pansy, feigning an innocence she most certainly didn’t feel. Then her voice dropped all pretences before speaking again, “Does she know about this?”

“She doesn’t, though I surmise she’ll have little to no problem. It gives her a purpose and keeps her—and you—occupied… on something actually useful.”

Pansy arched an eyebrow, but decided not to comment on the Headmistress’s lewd accusation. Entirely true, accusation, at that. But unwarranted.

I doubt she really wants an answer to that.

“Sounds devious, telling me before her, seeing as she has to be the one in agreement before this moves forward… But don’t worry, Minerva, you won’t hear me complaining.” Pansy smoothed the wrinkles of her pants before looking back to the Headmistress. “Fret not, I can tell her myself. Although we need to sort out the details: periodicity, duration, direction and… Wait, will I be examined about this?”

“Don’t be daft, dear. Of course you won’t; this is for your own safety. I count on your own intelligence and maturity to take every advantage of these lessons to progress in your charms,” explained Minerva, already rising from her armchair.

I’ll take every advantage. Is there a charm to pin someone down gently? Or—roughly?

“That’s a relief. Exams were never my forte,” muttered Pansy, letting go of a breath that got momentarily stuck in her throat.

Minerva’s eyes glinted with amusement. “Trust me, dear,” she said. “I remember.”

Pansy sighed, shaking her head. Her chair creaked as she shifted, trying to find a comfortable position. “So, then—?” she started, without really knowing what she intended to ask.

“Then,” interrupted Minerva. “You and Hermione will start lessons as soon as tomorrow. I won’t have another episode like the two you experienced in St Mungo’s. Not when I can easily prevent it.” Minerva smiled and regarded her for a beat too long, making the Slytherin squirm under her unwavering gaze. “As always, Pansy, it’s been a pleasure.”

“But we need to work out the specifics of these… lessons,” she replied, the word sour in her mouth. She, the youngest Potion Master in known history, was being reduced to a mere student. Again. It was infuriating.

“I’ll leave the details to you both,” she said with a knowing smile. “I’m sure you’ll be able to work it out fine on your own.”

Minerva’s hand was already on the handle, her back to Pansy, when the Slytherin replied, “Will do, Headmistress.”

Her words were answered with a curt nod, and the latch clicked with deliberate finality. A cold draft from the corridor swept across the room again, lifting parchment edges on Pansy’s desk and ruffling the steam trails from her tea.

“Oh, and one more thing,” said Minerva, looking at her over her shoulder. “Don’t think I’m blind to you and Hermione, dear. Keep it between yourselves, keep students out of it, and I’ll look the other way. Your… relationship is the whole reason she’s to be your instructor, since any other candidate would’ve made you implode when you had to follow their first order.”

And then, before Pansy could muster the courage to reply or sort out her thoughts, Minerva was gone. The faint scent of peppermint clung stubbornly in the air long after her heels had faded down the hall.

The cauldrons hissed as the flames licked higher when Pansy wavered her wand to bring the potions back to life, heat pressing against her shins. Spices and acrid fumes layered over the peppermint, wrapping her in the familiar suffocating perfume of her trade. Her laugh echoed in the stone room, brittle but steady, until it melted into the wet bubbling of potion brew.

She shook her head, amused, before revising again Vicky’s paper. Yes, a ‘D’ was the most she could give her.

Pansy sighed and waved her wand again, checking the time. Half past one; perfect. Neither would be in class. She would check later with her six prefects from fifth-, sixth- and seventh-year. And maybe even ask for the Head Boy and Girl’s opinion, even though they weren’t members of her House. He was an entitled Ravenclaw and she, a conceited Hufflepuff. Surely they had other redeeming qualities, but Pansy hadn’t had time to study other Houses’ students. She had her hands full with her own.

If she intended to build strong bridges between Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff and Slytherin, she had to start seeking the opinions of others and not just go by her own judgement. Broaden her horizons.

Actually, it would be highly beneficial if each student falling behind had two tutors, one from Slytherin and one from another House. Strengthens the inter-House bond. Maybe we could implement a points award system, so higher-ups would be more inclined to help their youngsters.

But first… she needed a pilot, before pitching the idea to anyone.

“I summon Vicky Corner to my study in ten minutes. Angélique Deveraux, in twenty,” she said.

Let’s rule the snakes. I had two months to get a grasp—and a grip—of how things are working. Now it’s time for me to actually stay true to my word and intentions when I accepted this job. It’s time to lead.

“Sit, Corner. I promise I won’t bite,” said Pansy with what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “Help yourself to a biscuit, if you wish,” she added, pushing the full dish of freshly magic-baked chocolate chips—none of which contained traces of hippogriff sweat or beetle shells. To her knowledge, that was.

“Thank you, Pro-Professor,” she half-muttered, half-stuttered, her small hand reaching out to grab one of the most toasted ones. “You wanted to see me?”

Dear Merlin, she’s terrified. How am I supposed to cradle a child so that she won’t feel afraid and still impose enough for her to follow my orders? This is difficult. No, this is terrifying. I’m more terrified than her. What would Hannah do? She commands through understanding each student to a T. Cho is followed because she’s practical and intelligent. Neville is brave and decisive. Me? Snarky and cunning? I should’ve thought this through before having Vicky here, shouldn’t I?

“Deberaux should be here in ten minutes, but in the meantime…” Pansy pushed slightly her paper with a green ‘D’ stamped on it. Vicky squeaked and then gulped. “What happened here, Corner?” she asked, almost whispering. Pansy tried to channel her inner Hannah—calm, compassionate, grounding and sincere.

But the truth was that she sounded more like a mix between a strangled Moaning Myrtle and Draco that one time she made him bald by accident—The arse drank from an unfinished solution, that’s hardly my fault. And I made it grow back in two minutes. But my, what a delicious scream that was.

Vicky winced, refusing to meet Pansy’s eyes. She started fidgeting with the hem of her robe.

Oh, no, no! What am I doing? For fuck’s sake, Pansy, get your head out of your arse. Stop trying to act like someone you’re not. Weren’t you here to leave your mark, to find your way out of this mess that the war created for the Slytherins? Stick to that. You’re Pansy Parkinson, not anyone else. Show it.

“Vicky,” she said, softening her voice and leaning in, putting aside the paper. “You can tell me, child. Are the lessons too straining? I have talked to other professors, and they want to help you, too.”

“I don’t know!” she blurted out, her feet dangling from the chair and kicking the air, following no rhythm at all. “I get distracted. I try to pay attention, I swear I do! But then things start to blur, and anything pulls me out of it. You may be explaining what a bezoar is, a fly lands on my notes and suddenly you’re talking about the third step on a potion I don’t know anything about, because I’ve been focusing on its wings and how can they move that fast, and what does a fly exactly do, and if does have a family, and… a lot more.”

Pansy hummed, her fingers drumming on the surface of her desk, thinking. “So you can’t be fully immersed in the class?” she asked, offering her another biscuit. “Is it because you find it boring?”

She shook her head vehemently. “Classes are interesting—well, maybe not Binns’. History is tiring.” Pansy had to stifle a laugh behind her mug of tea. “I don’t know, Professor. I get lost, and then put off making assignments, and have to finish them without enough time… but I can’t seem to do things otherwise. Jack tries to help and lends me his notes, but I-I don’t know, sorry!”

“Okay, child,” she whispered, smiling at her. Pansy covered her fidgeting hands with her own, stopping the movement with care and ease. “I hear you, Vicky. And I’m here to help you. That’s what Professors are for, after all.”

“But there’s nothing wrong with me to be helped with!” she yelled, meeting her gaze for the first time. Pansy saw tears threatening to fall over her flushed cheeks. “I’m just lazy, aren’t I? I don’t care enough.”

Careful with your words now. You wouldn’t want to scare her away or break her, so… deep breaths. What would Hermione say? I’m sure she would know how to soothe her instantly—No. This won’t work if I’m trying to be someone I’m not. I have to be me, and help her as we are. Understand her through Slytherin lenses; no one else would suffice.

Pansy studied her for a beat, tilting her head. “A Hufflepuff would tell you to stop beating yourself up. A Ravenclaw to try to learn why you’re putting off work. A Gryffindor, to push through even among the unknown information. But the Sorting Hat put you in my House, hatchling. And it has never assigned mediocre people to Slytherin, so you’d better get those ideas out of your head.”

Vicky said nothing.

Try harder. She needs someone to ground her, to understand her lack of understanding. Be that fucking person, you twat. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To help them to the best of your abilities.

Pansy studied the fidgeting student for a beat, trying to come up with the words to soothe her anxious behaviour. “Laziness is not a defining quality; it’s a state that prompts from time to time and bugs us with this need to stand still. And even if it were a trait that cannot be changed—and it isn’t—, you’re not displaying it. Lazy people wouldn’t bother with completing an assignment; they would just leave it be. And you don’t do that, little snake. You persevere, you push yourself to finish it.” Pansy smiled, cupping Vicky’s cheek with her palm and getting rid of the tear with a swipe of her thumb. “You care, or you wouldn’t be here, on the verge of tears. I’m just sorry I didn’t see it sooner.”

“I should be the one apologising, Professor,” whispered Vicky.

“Why? It’s my job to teach you and guide you, not yours to sort your missteps out. If you are doing the best you can, and I know you are, the burden lies on me and my colleagues,” said Pansy. “So what if you get distracted? We’ll find a way for you to focus, Vicky. I’ll make sure you have every opportunity to become the bright witch I know you’ll be.”

Vicky gulped, taken aback. “How?”

“I’m putting together a plan, but I’ll need your assistance. Can you help me? I’ll have to be our secret for a little while, though.”

A bright smile took over her otherwise tired and ashamed face. “Yes, anything!”

Nothing a child enjoys more than the thrill of knowing something they shouldn’t. They feel like they have been let in by someone, and try to keep it that way. Even if it’s something meaningless, like this… she’ll treasure it and take it more seriously. And she’ll work unconsciously harder.

Pansy grinned in return. “I’m going to ask a… senior to help you with assignments. You’ll have to do as she says, but I reckon your grades will improve if you heed her advice. She’s a star pupil and a very organised person. I believe that her method will do wonders for you.”

“That seems… good,” replied Vicky, doubt blooming in her cute little frown.

The brewing potion at her back popped a bubble soundly, and Vicky recoiled. Pansy arched an eyebrow, but said nothing. “About your lack of focus during classes… I can’t speak for my colleagues, but I’d like to help you with that too. Can you think of any way to keep you in the loop?”

“I don’t know. I’m sorry for being a useless—”

“Don’t you dare finish that thought, young lady. No one is all-knowing, and I wouldn’t expect an eleven-year-old to have all the answers to the universe,” she said, reaching out again to clasp her tiny hands. This is not new to her. She knows that she can’t focus like everyone else. I wonder if she knows… does her family do too? And if they are aware of it… Maybe there’s a method to help her, thought Pansy. “Is there anything your parents do when you’re not listening?”

“My dad… not so much. He keeps forcing me to read stupid books, says that ‘knowledge is power’ and blah, blah, blah.

Typical Ravenclaw, thought Pansy, rolling her eyes. Active problem-solving abilities, where? If it’s not already written in a book, then it doesn’t exist. So, not him. What about her mother, though? Vicky said she was a Muggle. They tend to find… creative solutions to challenging problems, don’t they?

“I’m sure Francis Bacon didn’t mean his quote the way that your father does. And what does your mother think?”

“My mum listens and likes to use highlighters when she talks to me. She says it’s out of habit, but I know she’s lying,” replied Vicky, her eyes glinting. “Colours help me… understand. Not just while writing, but also when she’s talking to me. She points at things while grabbing highlighters of different shades. And she gifted me a notebook. It’s full of ramblings and thoughts that pop up in my mind. I write them down, and then I can go back to whatever I was doing.”

I’ll look into that. Maybe I can make cards for her during lessons. Colour-coded by importance…? Sounds promising. And the notebook… might act like her mind’s scapegoat. Something that allows her to acknowledge the random idea, and lets her put it to rest, so it doesn’t fester.

Pansy pursed her lips, deep in thought. “Give me until Monday, Vicky. I’ll make sure to have something by then,” she said. “In the meantime, don’t beat yourself up—” A knock interrupted her motivating speech. I’m sure Hannah is not as unlucky as I am while trying to build self-esteem for her little badgers. “—and don’t let these nagging and negative thoughts get the best of you. You are valid and intelligent. I know you are, and it’s time you learn it too.”

Vicky said nothing, just nodded.

Pansy sighed. “Come in, Deveraux,” she said, still smiling at the young girl. “Here comes who I believe will be your Guardian Angel, child.”

The oak creaked once more, and Angélique stepped inside, a combination of faux-confidence and reassuring grin. “You wanted to see me, Professor?”

Pansy nodded and gestured towards the empty armchair by Vicky’s. “Sit down, please. I have a proposition for you, if you’d be so kind as to listen.”

Angélique nodded, looking confused when her eyes landed on Vicky, but sat down as asked. The first-year shifted uncomfortably, but said nothing.

“What can I help you with, Professor?”

Pansy smiled. “Help yourself to a biscuit first, Deveraux. I’m sure you didn’t have time to finish lunch.” She turned her gaze to Vicky and added, “Do you mind waiting outside for a beat, child? I need to talk to Deveraux alone.”

Vicky nodded and ran out of Pansy’s office, closing the door as she exited.

Pansy waited until Angélique had sat down and had eaten a biscuit before laying out her proposition.

The fourth-year looked curious enough, but a faint frown of uncertainty and slight fear was plastered on her face.

I need to be assertive with her. She values clear instructions and even clearer intent.

“Let me be straight with you, Deveraux: I’m considering you for the role of Prefect next year. You’re showing initiative and are an avid student, competent enough to impress Professors Bell and Potter, whose praise means a lot among the staff.

Angélique beamed before quickly hiding her puffing chest.

That’s it, girl. You should be proud, but not cocky.

“You’re showing potential,” continued Pansy. “I’d like to assess your leadership capabilities. Slytherin has long been stuck in uncertainty. It needs new blood to mend what’s broken.”

Pansy waited for merely a heartbeat, scratching the surface of her desk with her perfectly manicured green nails.

“I’m not asking you to step up on your own, don’t fret,” added Pansy, seeing the tremor in Angélique’s lips as she gnawed at the biscuit’s half-cooked rim. “I’ve already been putting little schemes in play as to that end, but I believe it’s time to… escalate the plan. To accomplish our goals, it’s important to show the other Houses that we take care of our own—”

“Professor, if I may,” interrupted Angélique. “The idea of a united front it’s not exactly outdated, but the problem doesn’t lie in inner-House workings. Slytherin might be slightly ostracised, but we don’t let that dread sink into our ranks.”

Insightful as ever. I knew I was not mistaken with her.

Pansy smiled and nodded. “I’ve been many things throughout my life,” she said, getting up from her chair to attend the brewing cauldrons at the back. She was facing the wall, and the stone made her voice echo. “One of them is a Slytherin, and I understand your suspicion; it’s not entirely unwarranted. Kin recognises kin, Deveraux.”

Pansy cracked her neck to the side, stirring a goo-looking potion, orange with dark purple spirals forming.

Meet her apprehension with the truth; don’t let her get to you. Push-back was to be expected, especially among Slytherin students. How would you have reacted if Snape were to have said what you just stated to Angélique? Rather poorly, and you lived during the years were your House was not under constant scrutiny.

“I know how Horace liked to rule things. I’m not him. I won’t give out compliments to be on your good side, nor will I punish someone undeserving of a chastisement,” she continued, calmly adding a couple of snake fangs onto the mix. “I intend to build something here. A great legacy, not for Slytherin alone, but for Hogwarts. If these last ten years have taught me something, it’s that dividing people from a young age and letting those divisions fester into an unhealthy competitiveness is never the answer. Now I’m going to lay out a plan, and you’ll listen, Deveraux. Not because I order you to, but because you want to. You might think of it as eerie, but you’ll also see its… possibilities.”

Angélique pursed her lips, scratching her jaw. “What if I’m happy as everything is? ‘Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t’, right? I mean—” she faltered, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “That’s what they say, anyway.”

“Curiosity kills cats, not snakes, Deveraux.” Pansy sipped the last of her Silver Needle tea, the mug clattering as she put it back down on the glinting tray with a simple spell, as she was still with her back turned to Angélique. “Listening is not a sin, but refusing to reach your full potential out of fear is. At least, according to Slytherin’s views. We are made for greatness, not mediocrity, and you are not an exception.”

Angélique seemed to give it a thought before nodding. “Do tell.”

“Next year will be the first that Hogwarts receives students who were not born when the war ended, but there’s an echo of it in this castle that’s impossible to ignore. The other Professors don’t understand the struggles of being a Slytherin because they can proudly say they fought for the right side,” said Pansy, stopping herself to bite the inside of her cheek. She breathed deeply, calming herself, before going on. “Well, I don’t. That’s why I can see the cracks of the system more clearly, because I’m not prejudiced.”

Pansy finally turned to face Angélique again, clapping her hands to get rid of the beetle shell’s powder.

Show her. Show her how broken it is.

“Tell me, Deveraux… when was the last time you willingly talked with a student outside of your House?”

Angélique hummed in response, and later shook her head. “I… don’t remember.”

Pansy nodded, taking her place back on her chair, her spine straight as an arrow and her eyes focused on a shrinking fourth-year. “That’s my point. Other Houses interact freely, but there’s a wall between us and them that I want to tear down.”

Angélique’s frown deepened, her arms crossing defensively. “That wall keeps us safe, sometimes,” she muttered.

Pansy leaned forward, undeterred. “The first piece is making you all understand there are no enemies among students,” pressed on Pansy. Her nails tapped sharply on the wood, punctuating each word. “The first-years understood me; they haven’t yet been taught to ignore us. But the older ones…” she exhaled, steadying herself, “the older ones carry the resentment of the war. That burden isn’t theirs, Deveraux. It’s ours. We should teach them to be better, but it’s difficult with the cards we are given.”

“What are you proposing?”

“A partnership. Not forced, not demanded, but offered. An inter-House way to help students who are falling behind at first, strengthening the bonds between people who otherwise would’ve never spared us a second glance,” explained Pansy, waving her wand to make the tea tray vanish and a new plate of biscuits appear. “Three-year difference, so it doesn’t feel like a lesson to the youngsters, yet is enough for the older ones to understand what’s at stake. At first, I reckon the interactions will feel forced, but I’m confident that friendships between mentors will bloom over this shared guidance of the young minds.”

Three is a good number. That way, I can have up to fourth-years being guided by their peers. The hinge year is that complicated age: thirteen or fourteen. They can be both mentored and mentors up until then; they can grow up with a model for years and then teach what they have learned to their underlings. And if they need further assistance after that fourth-year… Well, I’m still here.

Angélique arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow and pointed at the door. “Let me guess, you want me mentoring Corner, don’t you?”

“Yes,” agreed Pansy, “and no. Not just you, but a fourth-year from another House, and I want your thoughts on who to ask.”

“I’m not against the idea, since it would be beneficial for Corner and me if it works out. You’re our Head of House, so having you on our side is important,” she said, punctuating her words with her fingers drumming on Pansy’s table. “But… what about this other student? Why would they even want to help?” Her fingers moved to her knee and kept tapping, betraying her impatience.

“That is between them and me; you don’t have to worry yourself with it.”

“It concerns me directly, as their motivation will be key in making this succeed,” countered Angélique, setting aside her biscuit.

She’s too smart for her own good. Which is exactly why she’s perfect for this, a Slytherin through and through.

Pansy tilted her head, studying her student. “You’re right. I intend to implement a much broader plan than that. It will involve House points at the beginning, to motivate students, or maybe a whole other thing: a title adjacent to Prefects. Maybe something like ‘Mentors’. Different duties and responsibilities, same privileges.”

“Same as the Quidditch Captain title, then,” cut in Angélique.

Brilliant, I forgot that such a status already existed.

Pansy nodded. “Yes, but… A tad higher. Maybe ‘Mentors’ could also dock points, but with a cap that Prefects don’t have… and award them for good behaviour and completed goals. In truth, I’m still mulling it over.” Pansy pursed her lips. She played silently with her thigh-holster, not caring to put her wand back in it. “I will first schedule a meeting with our Prefects to hear their thoughts on the matter before making a decision and pitching it to McGonagall. Nevertheless, I wanted you to be the first to know, since it will affect you more than them. After all, you’re to be the first to try this method, should you accept.”

“Thank you for telling me the truth.” Angélique sighed, her hands fidgeting on her lap. “It’s a good plan… if it works out. Maybe it will be better for those that come after us, and should it prove to be a good use of our time, there is a chance for it to go forward, at least among Slytherins. I can’t tell about other Houses, though. But, if you wanted someone from fourth-year who might be persuaded to try this… Anthony Vole.”

That rang a bell in Pansy’s mind. There was a first-year with the same surname in her house, a girl who was, if she was not mistaken, one-eighth-part Veela. “Cassandra’s older brother, I presume.”

Merlin, I guess Veela blood in men is not as easy to identify as in women, because I hadn’t noticed him as being… pretty. Or maybe I just find men’s looks disgusting. I don’t know, could be both. Doesn’t matter. Focus.

Angélique nodded. “He’s in Ravenclaw. Used to be tiring, but since his sister was sorted in Slytherin, he’s a tad more… welcoming toward us.”

“I’ll talk to Professor Chang about it then,” said Pansy, clapping once on the desk as if that sentenced it. “Can I take this as you’re willingness to try the mentorship idea out?”

“Yes,” whispered Angélique. She raised her voice and met Pansy’s unwavering gaze. “But reluctantly until the full idea is fully established.”

“Understandably,” she agreed.

Merlin, were we that complicated to Snape, or am I just too soft to impose enough? Maybe I care too much, but I refuse to acknowledge that as a flaw. It isn’t. He would’ve sneered and scared her into submission. I’ll have her follow me because she wants to.

“That said…” continued Angélique. “I’ll try it. But only because Corner’s manageable. And, in case this doesn’t work out… at least it will help me in the long run for the Prefect title, won’t it?”

Slytherin material to the bone. Good job, snake.

Pansy grinned, not caring to answer and flicked her wand. The oak door opened once more, welcoming the cold breeze that seemed to settle on her bones every time the old hinges moved to let anyone in.

“Little hatchling, meet snake-in-the-brewing,” she said to a very scared Vicky, pointing at a very composed Angélique. “Sit.”

“He-hello,” she said, averting her eyes.

Angélique offered her a soft smile, nothing like the scorn Pansy had received just before that moment. Very well. At least she knows when to be gentle and when to hold her ground and rile up. Leading requires that. “Hello, Vic,” she offered.

Pansy regarded them. She then rolled her shoulder blades once to release the tension. “Deveraux, I’m trusting you with something important here,” she said, her voice devoid of any warmth. It needed to sound professional and grounded, not as a mother worried about her children. She had to show respect to both of them through words and posture. “Corner here has wit and spark, but she hasn’t found the right method to channel them. I could lecture her over and over, but it would prove useless. She doesn’t need a scolding from yet another professor, but a model to follow. Someone young who understands her struggles and is clever enough to guide her down the right path. You’re organised, disciplined and possess a sharp mind and foresight, and I’m asking you to take her under your wing and show her how good those traits can be—if applied the way that you do.”

Vicky’s hands were shaking, but Angélique took one of them carefully. “Let’s help you be the best version of yourself, okay?” she whispered.

Pansy smiled. “This is the promising beginning of something big, baby snakes. The first step of a new era for Slytherin,” she said.

Pansy offered each of them one last biscuit. The fourth-year declined it with a shake, and the first-year, after seeing her senior do it, followed suit. The Professor crackled internally at the obvious display of mimic.

“Vicky, I genuinely believe that we’ll find a way for all of it to work. Deveraux will aid you on your assignments—half an hour a day should be enough, although I trust her judgement on the matter. I’ll also talk to some students from another House to broaden our options for you, but rest assured that I will be supervising from afar. As I’ve already said… I’ll have thought of something else by Monday for the lessons themselves, okay?” Pansy’s eyes softened. “And, should those nagging thoughts come back to haunt you… Remember that you are a Slytherin. You are my student. And, as long as I am your Professor, I will not let you fall.”

A smile tugged at Vicky’s lips.

“And, Deveraux… when she succeeds—because I’m confident she will, so it’s not an if, but a when—, both of you do. She’ll rise to her full potential, and you’ll prove to me—and everyone at Hogwarts—that you can lead, not just follow. That you can work with another House and succeed in helping someone. The first stone, torn down.”

Angélique nodded. “Can I pitch the idea to my friends?”

“Not yet. Let’s keep it a secret while I work on it. A half-brewed potion is the worst kind of poison, so let me sort it all out before someone else hears it,” she said. Then, after looking at both students, she added, “But I want both of you to start with the mentoring at once; do not waste another second.”

“Do you mean… now?” inquired a perplexed Angélique.

“Well… I did put an assignment for their class, due next Monday. Perhaps you could start by showing young Vicky here how to organise her time so she has enough to spare and relax, while completing her tasks successfully. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

For a moment, Vicky’s hands trembled in her lap. Then, suddenly, her face lit up.

There it is, the spark I knew she had. The one I saw at the sorting, thought Pansy with relief.

Angélique blinked at the change, caught off guard.

“Yes, please!” burst out Vicky, eyes gleaming. She tugged at the other girl’s sleeve with surprising strength. “Let’s go, I want to learn!”

“O-Okay, Vic, I’m going!” said Angélique, letting Vicky guide her outside of Pansy’s study. “We’ll talk soon, Professor,” she managed before disappearing after an overly happy first-year closed the door on her face.

“Thanks, Professor Parkinson!” yelled Vicky through the door. “You’re my favourite!”

Pansy laughed, releasing all the tension at once.

Breathe, darling. You did well. I did well. This will work. It has to.

Chapter Text

Hermione was done waiting around. After the conversation with Ginny, there was an itch she could not seem to get rid of; something was amiss, and she wanted to tear it all down to find it.

What was clear was that while she had been at Hogwarts, zero progress had been made on uncovering the Cleaners’ identities, and the leash on which the Ministry had pure-bloods was starting to get too thin and too tight, only for it not to be completely foolproof.

After Pansy’s first class, during which she had woven something that looked like a plan, she excused herself and went to Minerva’s office.

Dressed in white silk and wine-red heels—courtesy of Pansy’s sense of fashion—she stepped inside the chimney, careful not to get ashes on her brand new and shiny shoes.

“Are you sure about this, Hermione?” asked a worried Minerva, her frown increasing with every passing second. “You’re not fully recovered and will face backlash just by going there.”

Hermione sighed and turned to face her old Professor. “I am, Minerva. Something has to be done. Especially after the close call on Pansy… it just further proves that what we are doing is not enough. Ron has been saying it for weeks, but no one cared to listen, and I was too far here at Hogwarts to even hear his thoughts on it.”

“Mr Weasley is spot on,” she whispered. “Say what you will, Hermione… but you should not be facing those wolves alone, not after what happened at St Mungo’s—”

“It is precisely because of everything that has recently gone down that I need to, Minerva,” replied Hermione, squaring her shoulders and trying to portray an appearance of self-confidence she wasn’t sure she actually possessed. “If I don’t step up, no one will.”

Minerva pursed her lips. “I’m sure Kingsley—”

“He can’t, not by himself, or he would’ve already,” cut in Hermione. “Don’t you see, Minerva? Despite Kingsley being Minister for Magic, he needs to gather support, or nothing will move forward. My vote carries weight, and I’m confident I can reverse the situation much more quickly from there.”

Hermione closed her hand around some Floo Powder.

Minerva glanced at her feet before meeting her gaze again. “Then the only thing I can do is wish you luck on your endeavours. Whatever happens, Hermione, you’ll always have a place here,” she said, her voice softening, as if she were speaking with a scared kid and not the Senior Undersecretary. “And I’ll be waiting for you to be back before noon—you’re still High Inquisitor, and as such, you’ll abide by this old castle’s rules and sleep within its wards. Am I being clear?”

Hermione smiled, understanding the true meaning behind her words: the care in her voice, the unique way in which her old Professor wished her luck, and the confidence she had in Hermione’s success. “Will do, Headmistress.”

Her heart thundered against her ribs. Not out of fear, but anticipation. She couldn’t falter now, not after everything else that had happened.

Hermione allowed herself one last grin at her old Professor before a serious expression took over her face, determined.

The High Inquisitor was gone, and in her place rose the Senior Undersecretary. Her voice carried weight and sounded regal as she threw the Floo Powder down, making long, tall tongues of flames engulf her frame in green fire. “The Ministry of Magic.”

And Hogwarts vanished.

The chamber was already roused when the doors banged back against the brass stops and Hermione stepped through, silk cut like a blade, hair both wild and pinned into submission by Pansy. People in purple robes snapped their necks, quills paused mid-scratch, and the murmur rippled up the tiers in a slow-building wave. Two months of absence made her a rumour; walking in made her real.

“Order,” called someone, too late to matter. The vaulted ceiling, charmed to mimic a pale afternoon, felt suddenly lower, warmer, too close.

Hermione didn’t slow. Her heels rang against the black marble, the sound climbing the stone like a challenge.

She walked the central aisle without slowing, robes cutting a clean line through dusted shafts of light. The circular benches hunched around her like a coliseum.

She didn’t bow, nor ask permission.

She reached her seat, set her palm on the wand-carved armrest as if staking a flag, and said, clear enough to ring against stone, “I’m exercising my seat.”

“Merlin’s knees,” breathed Zacharias Smith from the second tier, loud enough for the whisper to carry. “She’s alive. After two months of cowering, she finally shows up.”

“Alive and interrupting,” snapped Regina Selwyn, voice like a whip crack over silk. The crisp purple of her robes didn’t dare rustle; everything about her posture was deliberately precise. “We have an order of business, Senior Undersecretary. Barnstorming the floor is not it.”

“Your ‘esteemed order of business’ is outdated, Counsellor Selwyn,” said Hermione, not looking at her.

She had to act fast and be strong. The floor welcomed decisiveness; it always had, and always would.

Hermione lifted her chin toward the dais. She met Kingsley’s eyes across the well and counted her breaths before speaking, steeling her nerves. “Minister. With respect, waiting for the next item on ‘patrol efficiencies’ is exactly the problem. We’ve been sitting ducks for weeks regarding the ongoing Cleansers threat.”

A murmur: sitting ducks?—the phrase dropped like a pebble in a well, honest and unvarnished amid the chamber’s usual ceremonial fog. Hermione didn’t care. Shock value meant attention, attention meant space, and space meant power.

Regina Selwyn rose before anyone else, her lilac robes rigid as armour. Tall and slim, with glossy ash-blond hair pinned in intricate coils and pale, sharp features that seemed carved rather than softened, she looked too eager to cut in. Her dark eyes had a glassy, assessing stillness, like mirrors that never blinked. She could only be about five years older than Hermione, but her poisonous glaze rivalled a basilisk’s. “Senior Undersecretary,” she said, the title bitten like an insult, “the Wizengamot is currently in session. There are procedures—”

“Then record this properly,” interrupted Hermione, already angling toward the clerk’s desk. She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to do it to command attention; since the war, she never had. “I’m here to speak to the Cleansers threat. Defence has held for now; it will not hold forever.”

The hum sharpened—so that’s what she was here for—and a scatter of voices cut in at once.

Names clicked between teeth. Malfoy’s pale profile turned, attention narrowing. On the opposite side, Theodore Nott’s expression scarcely moved at all.

“After two months of hiding at Hogwarts, you come back and expect to decide the agenda?” Felix Rowle’s laugh came high and thin from the second tier. His square jaw was shadowed with perpetual stubble, and his once-blond hair had gone a muddy brown, usually slicked back.

Hermione regarded him for a heartbeat before deciding his verbal thrashing was unworthy of her acknowledgement.

“Poor form,” added Zacharias Smith, lounging like it was a tavern and not the high court of wizarding Britain. “Lack of manners, lack of timing—”

Kingsley didn’t look surprised to see her; there was a knowing glint in his eyes when their gazes met. He seemed to have aged a decade since the last time Hermione had seen him, roughly two months ago; it made her heart ache. “The Senior Undersecretary has a seat. She may speak.”

Hermione didn’t sit. She planted her hands on the rail between the dais and the floor. “Two days ago, Pansy Parkinson was nearly killed,” she said, clean and unadorned. “I came back expecting this chamber to be up in arms, trying to counter the threat… and instead I find this lack of backbone that will doom us sooner than later.”

“Backbone?” repeated Selwyn with a condescending smile. “There has been a single successful attack under current measures, and not even deadly. Therefore, they are working. This—dramatic entrance aside—sounds like you want a hammer in search of nails.”

Hermione clenched her jaw, careful to keep her temper under control. Regina was trying to get under her skin, but she wouldn’t let her. “We locked doors, tightened schedules, and told people to keep their heads down,” continued Hermione, as if she hadn’t been interrupted by that vile sneer accompanied by poisoned words. “It kept those in danger alive. It also kept them caged. The Cleansers are counting on us to keep playing that game.”

“Protection is not a cage,” replied Theodore Nott, jaw tight, voice too careful. “It is survival. It’s my survival you’re toying with, Miss Granger, not yours. Don’t forget that.”

“Mind your tongue, Counsellor Nott,” said Susan Bones, inclining her head in deference to Hermione. “She’s to be addressed by her title, not her surname.”

“Thank you, Counsellor Bones,” she replied.

Then, her gaze found Nott’s and squinted in his direction, letting the outrage skim past her. The chamber loved its theatrics.

Wolves, Minerva had called them. Hermione saw their teeth now, white and sharp, snapping over protocol. She turned slightly, so the tiers had to lean forward to catch every word. “It’s a gilded pen if that’s all we do. We’ve posted guards at every pure-blood’s doors; we’ve rerouted travel paths. But attacks don’t stop just because someone asks nicely. They stop when the fight is taken to the people planning them.”

Everett Avery’s ring clicked against wood. “And how many doors do you plan to kick down to look brave while you do it?”

“None without warrants,” cut in Percy Weasley before she answered, spine arrow-straight, ginger hair and quill equally neat. “And we all know the statute allows for urgent writs under threat to life. This is not a free-for-all, Counsellor Avery. It’s a plan.”

“Whose plan?” Marietta Edgecombe’s smile was as sweet as vinegar. “The Senior Undersecretary’s, from her comfortable vantage point at Hogwarts?”

Hermione’s gaze slid over her, unblinking. Marietta still bore, beneath all her expensive make-up, the ‘SNEAK’ word on her skin, courtesy of her loose tongue back in fifth year. “From my vantage point, where a witch bled out across a hospital corridor and only survived because we moved faster than the paperwork,” she said, voice still even. The tilt of Edgecombe’s mouth twitched; the fake sweetness cracked.

On the far tier, Susan Bones rose without fanfare. “Field reality,” she said. “The defence net is a stopgap. We’ve been lucky so far, but you all know what luck does: it runs out.” She looked around the chamber, brown eyes steady. “We need stings. We need to seed false routes, shake the tree, and see who comes for the fruit. Sitting still means letting them map us.”

“Lovely,” murmured Nott. “With whose resources? If shaking the tree means having less protection because Aurors are split between safeguarding pure-bloods and chasing empty leads, then let’s call it what it actually is: a well-disguised scheme to maim the old families. Don’t try to fool us with sweet words of forgiveness and brighter futures: we all know where your loyalties lie, and it’s not with my kind.”

A collective hum of outrage on Hermione’s behalf rose from all places. She waited until it had quieted down to continue. “Don’t assume what you think is the truth, and don’t believe everything you hear is the only plausible explanation for events, Counsellor Nott,” breathed Hermione, letting the murmur die at last. “I’m not asking for Auror positions to shift, leaving you unprotected. My goal is to address this with resources from other departments, to uproot the threat instead of letting it loom.”

“Are you moving for a reshaping of the Ministry’s policies regarding Defence mechanisms?” asked Penelope Clearwater, tilting her head. “That would prove an efficient method. Volunteering—”

“Volunteer your own assets, then,” snarled Avery.

“Counsellor Clearwater makes a valid point. The volunteering doesn’t have to be solely about funds,” said Susan, a dry cut of a smile. “Other departments, and only in a temporary manner, could lend a hand. Volunteers from among those trained to do it, but destined to other activities.”

Felix Rowle snorted. “Ah, yes, send children of mud to play bait while the old families sit as target dummies.”

“Watch your mouth,” said Draco Malfoy, standing in a smooth, bored way that wasn’t bored at all. The chamber tilted toward him out of habit, old reflexes.

Hermione braced for a fight, like all those times before, when they had crossed paths at Hogwarts. But when her eyes met Malfoy’s, he bowed his head in acknowledgement, before directing his sharp and angry gaze toward Avery and Rowle.

“My friend, Pansy Parkinson, was their target once,” he said. “If we keep at it like we’re doing, my mother could be next. Or my wife, or my only son.” He held Rowle’s stare until the man blinked. “I support the Senior Undersecretary’s position. I won’t spend the rest of the year walking in a box because you’re afraid to let Aurors do their work.”

A whisper ran the length of the benches: Malfoy, of all people, openly backing her. It was bizarre.

Strange, the hands history dealt in that game of cards that was the Wizengamot. Hermione was going all-in, and Malfoy was becoming her shield while others sharpened knives.

She allowed herself a couple of seconds, in which she closed her eyes and breathed. She refused to think of Pansy, of how she had almost died. How frail she had looked, lying on a bed in St Mungo’s.

She refused, because she could not show weakness, not if she wished for her motion to pass. And she needed it to; not just because it was her duty as Senior Undersecretary, but because she would sooner die than let those bastards, those Cleansers, lay a hand on Pansy again.

Felix Rowle’s mouth twisted. “Of course you do. Malfoy House loves a Ministry leash now that it’s gold-plated. The same goes for the Greengrasses, so keen to abide by the new world order, tearing down… honourable and centuries-old traditions.”

Draco didn’t bother to look at him. “Some of us learned the price of being on the wrong side of arrogance,” he said. “I’m not keen to pay it twice.”

Hermione tracked the ripple of surprised hums and outraged murmurs, then let it go. If it were any other time, she would’ve been among the ones in awe at this event, but she didn’t have the time or agency to look anything less than imperturbable.

Taking advantage of the silence, Penelope stood next. Papers in hand, voice crisp and looking determined. “Framework,” she said, as if she were pinning cloth to a form. “Targeted warrants signed by a Rapid-Response Bench. Limited decoy operations with pre-approved parameters. A rolling list of investigative authorities that does not require this body to convene every time someone blinks. This is not radical. It’s work.”

Regina Selwyn’s smile was knives. “And in the meantime, Senior Undersecretary, you would have us tell vulnerable families to… what? Act as bait on your false routes?”

Hermione mulled her words, suspicious. Something wasn't adding up. Selwyn’s tone didn’t match her expression; it was silk over iron, the wrong fit.

“No, I thought I made myself clear on that,” she replied. “We tell both the Cleansers and the rest of the world the truth: we’re not just waiting for a second Parkinson corridor. We’re moving. Offence buys us options.” She let her hands fall to her sides, deliberately unclenched. “And we put the Auror Office lead on it, full authority on the Cleansers case.”

Marietta didn’t bother with silk. “Oh, that’s tidy. Appoint your ex-husband to run your war?”

There it was, thrown like a rusty knife meant to catch and fester. The backlash of her divorce, tossed like change in the middle of an argument that was to determine the future of the Cleansers’ threat.

Spoiled grown-ups, cowards. All of those who were afraid to act and used her personal life as an argument to stall.

The room tensed, the scent of blood almost audible. Hermione didn’t look away; she let the comment hang, then tilted her head.

She knew this was bound to come out, so she had been prepared, even if she wished she didn’t have to.

“I’m appointing Auror Weasley as the Lead Investigator on the Cleansers case because he’s the best pattern-reader in that Office and half the people in this room know it. Plus, he was the only one brave enough to voice his concerns when no one else cared to listen. There wouldn’t have been an attack on Pan—Parkinson if we had heeded his advice earlier,” she corrected herself, calm as tea cooling. “He answers to the DMLE and the law, not to me. If you want to challenge his record, do it. If you want to sneer at my personal life, don’t waste the chamber’s time.”

A low, involuntary chorus of “hear, hear” met the remark. Susan’s voice echoed among them, a dry note; Roger Davies added his, unexpected but firm. He leaned forward on his bench, hands clasped.

“The longer we broadcast fear, the worse the market jitters get,” said Roger, much to Hermione’s happiness: Ravenclaw’s neat logic wrapped in a businessman’s impatience was on her side. “Shops are closing early. Vault transfers are up. People are hiding and waiting for the next headline. It’s not just safety—it’s stability. Offence stabilises. It says we’re not prey.”

Zacharias rolled his eyes. “Listen to the broom boy talk about markets.”

“Listen to anyone who isn’t too proud to admit the obvious,” shot back Roger, colour high, and Hermione marked the speed of that flush, the way it steadied him rather than scattered him. Not grandstanding: fed up. “Even someone as obtuse as you ought to understand this, Smith.”

“Mr Davies,” snapped Selwyn, “your Quidditch career did not prepare you to speak on state security.”

“It taught me about momentum, Counsellor Selwyn,” he returned, unruffled and emphasising her title to signify how she hadn’t addressed him with the correct one. “When you turtle for too long, the next hit knocks you flat. I’d prefer not to see that happen to our—” he glanced across the benches, met Draco Malfoy’s eye and didn’t flinch “—to our neighbours.”

“Minister,” said Percy, cutting cleanly through the sniping, “I move we reconstitute the Counter-Hostile Action Tasking within the Auror Office, with explicit mandate to initiate offensive operations against the Cleansers under the oversight framework outlined by Counsellor Clearwater. Lead Investigator: Auror Ronald Weasley. Liaison authority from Hogwarts: the Senior Undersecretary.”

Kingsley steepled his fingers. “And the guard rotations?”

“They will continue as scheduled,” said Hermione. “We’re not dismantling what works. We’re refusing to stop there.”

Avery’s ring clicked again, once, deliberate. “You want to run stings in my district? You want to dangle false names and routes and hope the wolves bite? You will drive the Cleansers underground and make them harder to find.”

Hermione’s nails pressed crescents into the rail; if she let go, she feared her hand might shake.

“They already live underground,” said Susan. “We’re turning on lights.”

Selwyn’s gaze cut like a curse. “Lights, and then what? Drag anyone whispering the wrong thing into custody? We have seen this posture before.” Her voice held steady, but her fingers wrung the edge of her sleeve; the seam twisted. “I will not trade one terror for another because the Senior Undersecretary thinks noise looks like action.”

Hermione let the word noise sit between them. Selwyn’s tone and face still didn’t match; her poise was fine china over a table someone had nudged off-balance. “No one is proposing terror,” said Hermione. “We’re proposing work someone doesn’t want done. Every request I’ve pushed from Hogwarts takes three reroutes and five signatures to go anywhere.” She let her gaze pass across the benches the way one might pass a lamp over a map. “If caution were all that slowed us, I’d be standing somewhere else making the same speech.”

A murmur flickered—short, sharp—died. Kingsley’s eyes narrowed by a fraction, as if catching the same off-note. He didn’t call her on it. He didn’t shield her either.

“I oppose,” said Felix Rowle, chin up, voice loud enough to echo. “You set Aurors loose like hounds, and it’s our doors they nose first.”

“You think too much of our doors,” said Draco, bored again. “No one’s interested in your sideboard.”

“Interesting that you’re in favour of giving Aurors freer rein now that you dine with them. Or are you going to deny that little scene between your sister-in-law and Ginevra Weasley at The Three Broomsticks, just a couple of days ago?” asked Nott, and that, finally, made Draco’s mouth curve—a sleek, dangerous thing.

“I’m in favour of not getting knifed wherever I go. I reckon that has nothing to do with my friends, but maybe that escapes your grasp. This is not about breaking yet again our society in two halves, but about reacting unanimously,” said Draco, ignoring Nott’s jab. “I don’t want my mother spending the rest of the season escorted from fireplace to fireplace by three bored men with wands; I’d like my life back. Protection without pursuit is prison with better curtains.”

Hermione shifted uncomfortably. She wanted to interject, to raise her voice, but she knew that doing so would alienate the swaying votes she needed, so she remained silent, letting Malfoy spar with Nott. Every vote in this room was a wand at Pansy’s throat, and Hermione wouldn’t add fuel to the still flames, burning brighter since the whole Cleansers thread had surfaced.

Theodore Nott’s voice arrived cool and clean. He didn’t move much when he spoke; he never had to. “Forgive me if I decline your so-called ‘pursuit’. We are targets by birth, and some of us remember what it is to be hunted by your Aurors.” His eyes did a sweep, regarding everyone in that chamber. “‘Offence’ is a polite word for more power placed in the same hands that have abused it before.”

Referring to them as ‘wolves’ was a disservice to those animals. How could they remain proud and accuse Hermione—especially her among all people—of attempting to concentrate power for dubious reasons?

She bit back a humourless laugh and remained silent. She couldn’t speak, or it would look like she was reacting… and reacting to that attack could be read as having something to hide.

“Some of us remember being hunted by Death Eaters, Nott,” countered Percy, fury in his eyes as he spoke. “Don’t come to this chamber with accusations that will backfire on you with so little as a single reality check,” he added through gritted teeth, not bothering to sand the edge from his tone.

Hermione had never wanted to hug him as much as she did in that moment.

“We also remember that dithering behind ‘protocol’ was a good way to get people killed,” he continued. “Or are you so forgetful that you refuse to acknowledge the atrocities that were committed under Voldemort’s regime?”

Silence fell louder than any other voice.

Percy puffed his chest and continued speaking. “The Senior Undersecretary’s proposal can live within the established statute without putting your precious necks at risk.”

Marietta leaned over her desk, voice too bright. “And if your big, brave pursuit lands on the wrong doorstep? If an Auror team trips a ward and hexes a house-elf? Who eats that headline?”

“Your newsroom,” replied Hermione without blinking, seizing back power by speaking again, “and this Bench, which will review every error like it always has. No one is asking for blank checks.” She glanced at Kingsley. “Time is the ask. Authority is the ask. Oversight remains.”

From the back row, Penelope added, quieter, “We can write this so it doesn’t become a cudgel.”

Kingsley exhaled. “We are not so far apart as the volume suggests,” he said, voice steady. “Defence remains. No doors kicked without law. But I hear the point: we cannot live under siege and call it peace.” He looked at Hermione again, and then at the benches. “Votes will follow motion and amendment.”

Regina’s eyes flicked toward a runner who had materialised by the doors, whispering up at a clerk; the clerk bent, scribbled, and slid a note toward her without looking. Hermione watched the path of that slip of parchment with a stillness that wasn’t passive, but thoughtful. The way Selwyn’s rebuttals clicked into place before the arguments landed felt too neat for Hermione. As if Regina had been waiting and preparing for that moment.

Hermione’s fingers itched toward her temple, but she caught herself. Not weakness. Not here. She smoothed the prickle on her arms, told herself it was only politics, not war.

Maybe she was out of practice and imagining things instead; Wizengamot’s meetings were always difficult and ran long, and she felt like all her energy was being drained by stupid countermoves from the opposing voices that made close to no sense if isolated.

She resisted the urge to massage her temples.

Maybe she was seeing past war ghosts where there were only worried frowns and self-protecting arguments due to exhaustion. At least, that was a possibility Hermione knew she would need to contemplate later. Maybe the Ministry was not compromised, but simply acting in a cowardly and lazy manner.

“Amendment,” said Selwyn, quickly after reading the note. “No decoy operation without dual sign-off: Minister and Head of the Auror Office. Weekly reporting to an oversight panel seated from this body, composed of at least half of pure-blood members, seeing as we are the targeted ones.” She didn’t smile this time. She didn’t need to.

“Second,” said Avery, already leaning back as if victory were a soft chair.

“Counter,” said Susan, just as fast. “Add an emergency clause: in-flight authorisation by the Lead Investigator when life is at risk, subject to immediate post-action review. And both the signature of the Minister and that of the Head of the Auror Office may be replaced by that of the Senior Undersecretary, always requiring at least two of them.”

“Second,” drawled Draco, eyes half-lidded.

Zacharias groaned. “Circles. You people love circles.”

Roger spread his hands. “That’s called process. It keeps your wine parties intact while the rest of us try not to get blown up.”

Hermione let the sniping run its short course. When she spoke again, it was over them, not through them. “You can wrap this in as many clauses as you like,” she said. “The choice is simple. We keep pretending that guarding doors is the same as winning, or we make it clear to the Cleansers that we are not prey, and that every path they think they’ve mapped leads to a dead end and a wand in their face.” She finally stepped back from the rail, the move controlled. “I’m willing to be held to oversight. I’m not willing to keep writing condolence notes because we were too polite to move first.”

Silence, real this time. The old stones seemed to hold it for them.

Kingsley tapped the crystal again. “Motion, with amendments as discussed,” he said. “All in favour?”

Hands went up—Percy’s, Penelope’s, Susan’s, Draco’s, Roger’s. Across the way, Kingsley lifted his own: measured support, not a shield. Opposing hands followed—Selwyn, Nott, Avery, Rowle, Zacharias, Marietta—and the count ran tight enough that the clerk glanced twice at his tally.

Every raised hand felt like a wand aimed, every count like the drum of gladiators waiting for blood.

Hermione’s chest refused to move, holding her breath hostage.

“Carried,” said the clerk at last, voice a shade too loud. “By two.”

Relief didn’t break across Hermione. It settled like a weight rebalanced.

She almost smiled, releasing her shaky breath at last and unclenching her jaw.

A win.

Despite the chamber’s reluctance, the motion had passed: the hope of addressing the problem the way they should’ve done from the beginning was a reality at last.

“Do be careful, Senior Undersecretary,” snarled Selwyn, already back on her feet, as if the loss hadn’t clipped her stride at all. “If your dear ex-husband abuses this—if your offensive push turns heavy-handed—the oversight panel will not hesitate to pull the teeth you’ve just filed.” She held Hermione’s gaze, something hard and brittle behind the polish. “You wanted accountability. Don’t squeal when it bites.”

Hermione regarded her, cool and level. Selwyn’s voice still didn’t match her face; the words were right and wrong at once. “I look forward to your diligence,” said Hermione, and the smile she let her mouth shape was not friendly. “And to your speed. We’ve all seen what happens when memos take the scenic route.”

A twitch at the clerk’s desk. The runner at the door shifted, uncomfortable. Selwyn’s hands went still on the rail.

Kingsley rose. “We’re done.” He struck the crystal one last time. “Defence holds. Offence begins. We meet again in three days for the first report.”

The chamber broke the way chambers do: suddenly, a storm of lilac robes and whispers and judiciously loud sighs. Draco did not come down; Susan did, with a small, firm nod as she passed. Percy was already speaking to Penelope, folding amendments into cleaner language. Roger Davies shook a hand he didn’t care for and moved on.

Hermione turned toward the aisle. The wards eased. The doors were far and close, and she felt every gaze. Two days ago, a woman—hers. Not ‘a’: ‘her’ woman—had almost bled out on St Mungo’s because someone had learned how to slip the nets. Today, the nets moved.

No harm would come Pansy’s way if she could prevent it. She couldn’t as just Hermione Granger. But she bloody hell had, as Senior Undersecretary.

Behind her, the chamber restarted its favourite sport: talking about the thing it had already decided. In front of her, the corridor ran cool and quiet, torches guttering against stone. She didn’t rush. She didn’t slow. The echo of her heels marked the next thing, and the next.

Defence would hold.

Offence would begin.

And somewhere in the gears, a hand she knew was there but hadn’t seen was still trying to ride the brake. Which only meant one thing: compromised or not, there was still so much work to be done.

Behind her, the wolves kept gnashing their teeth. Ahead, the hunt was finally starting.

The Minister’s door was shut, which meant the corridor outside his office had learned to pretend it didn’t notice people waiting. Clerks ghosted past with folders tucked to their ribs. A brass clock muttered to itself above two chairs that had never been comfortable on purpose. When Kingsley opened the door and stood aside for her, Hermione stepped through without pausing.

His office looked like it always did at the end of a long Wizengamot meeting: lamps turned low, a city of parchment stacked in careful skylines across the desk, the map of Britain spelt to quietly flicker where patrols moved. The window showed a rinsed-grey sky that wasn’t quite real and a rain that was. He closed the door with a thought and didn’t sit right away.

“You dropped a storm on them, Senior Undersecretary,” he said with a smile. It wasn’t an accusation. He gestured to the chair opposite, palms open. “Tea?”

“Coffee,” she said, returning his smile.

She wanted something harsher than leaves and ritual. Coffee grounded; tea soothed. Today, she needed grounding.

She stayed standing, fingers resting on the back of the chair as if testing its weight. Fidgeting. “I’m putting out a statement, Kingsley.”

His brows lifted by a fraction. He waited instead of filling the space, which was one of the reasons she trusted him.

“Not a leak, not a whisper campaign,” went on Hermione. The words came clean; she’d been carrying them too long to let them tangle now. The speech was practised, her tone even and controlled. “A signed statement under my name as Senior Undersecretary. The truth, as far as we can responsibly share it: who the Cleansers are, what we know of what they are, what the Ministry has done and is about to do. Where I stand. And—briefly and carefully—what happened at St Mungo’s.”

She stopped, because her throat threatened to close at the memory. A bloodied stomach, pent-up feelings, and Pansy’s parents attacking their wounded daughter. Her own close call with death.

Hermione’s heart fluttered before resuming its normal rhythm, if only reluctantly.

“A witch was almost killed,” she continued. “The public is already telling that story to itself. I’d rather tell it straight than let bloody Rita Skeeter twist a half-truth into a noose, with the sole purpose of dragging me down.”

Kingsley’s gaze flicked to the window, then back. “You want to put the attack in the open.”

“It is in the open,” she said. “Just in pieces and whispers. The Cleansers blew up a business in Diagon Alley just to kill Pansy. Hannah Disapparated us out of a room soaked in blood, and the Parkinsons fled amidst yelled threats and thrown spells; half the ward knew before sunrise.” Hermione sighed, resigned to accept that gossip was one of the deadliest career killers. “We pretend silence buys dignity; what it buys is panic.” She finally took the chair, the leather warmer than it looked. If she softened her words, she’d see Pansy pale against white sheets again. And Hermione would rather choke herself than let that image live rent-free in her mind. Her voice came hoarser, angrier. “I’ll strip it to the bones, but I will not pretend it didn’t happen.”

“And you’ll name the Cleansers, and the Parkinsons.”

“I’ll name their choices,” said Hermione. “Targeting pure-blood families to pay old debts is murder dressed up as a cause. And the Parkinsons attacked their own daughter just because she was… hugging me. A Mudblood, they said.”

Kingsley exhaled through his nose, scrunching it at the slur. He did raise his eyebrow at the mention of that hug, but remained silent on the matter. Hermione thanked him silently for that.

He sat, at last, and the desk seemed to remember whose it was. “You’re moving faster than they want you to.”

“They,” she repeated, mildly. The lamps hummed. “Funny pronoun.”

“You know what I mean,” he said, and now the tiredness in his voice wasn’t the ordinary kind. “Two months, Hermione. Every motion I pushed hit a wall, and when I went around it, there was another. Committees grew teeth. New sub-panels appeared with rules about ‘sequence of review.’ With your vote here, I could call a question. Without it, they forced ‘prudence.’” His mouth twisted, too small to be a smile. “Caution can be a cage, when wielded by people who like prisons.”

“Why didn’t you call me back sooner, if my vote meant that much?” she asked.

“Because if I had summoned you, it all would’ve seemed staged. You had to decide when to return, or it wouldn’t have changed a thing,” he said, looking once more out his window.

A bolt of lightning split the sombre sky in two.

“It was not my idea to bench you—” he continued, “—not really. ‘A kind gesture’, whispered by voices I no longer recall. I should’ve seen that heeding that advice was ill-thought-out, but I didn’t. I believed I was protecting you.”

Then the thunder echoed.

“I couldn’t backtrack,” went on Kingsley. “Not without losing face—and if I don’t look sure, my vote doesn’t sway. If I’d asked you to come back—openly or privately—it would’ve doomed us both and our chances at the Wizengamot.” Kingsley clenched his jaw. “Your motion passed by only two.”

“You thought you were protecting me. You were protecting them from me.” Hermione crossed her arms and smiled. “I’m here now. I’m still High Inquisitor; I won’t relinquish my position at Hogwarts, so it won’t weaken your stance. But… I won’t be gone from the Ministry as long as I have. I hate these corridors, but I have endured way worse than hate.”

“I just didn’t think it would take you this long to come back,” he confessed. “I tried everything I could come up with on my own to address this mess about the Cleansers, but… to no avail.”

She let that sit. The paper towers threw soft shadows; the map pricked with white lights that didn’t quite hold still. “You tried to move,” she said. “And someone arranged the rug so you’d trip, from the beginning.”

“Not one someone,” said Kingsley. “A handful of them, each with a lever. And before you say it: yes. I’m the Minister. No, that doesn’t make me a god. I can’t magic past the processes we built to stop people like Fudge.” He held her eyes. “Percy threatened to break into Hogwarts if you weren’t back by this month’s end.”

Hermione, despite herself, had to stifle a laugh. “No need, I’m afraid. I’m back for good. At least, officially. Though Minerva will have my head if I’m not back in my room by midnight, and Pansy will too. Circe, I feel like a student again!”

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” he said, grinning. “You always thrived between books and Hogwarts’ walls.”

“To that effect,” added Hermione, her expression turning sombre once more. “I want an internal audit on document routing for anything tagged Cleansers-related. Quiet. Chain-of-custody on evidence and memos. Who touches what, who signs when, what gets ‘lost’ and for how long.”

“You think Selwyn’s office is the bottleneck.”

 She didn’t look away from him. “I watched her receive notes before arguments were made.” Her hand twitched the same way that the clerk’s had when he had handed Regina that scrap of parchment. “Someone is riding the brake, Kingsley. Maybe for reasons they can dress up as respectable. Maybe not. The point is: the brake exists.”

He didn’t ask how she knew. He’d been in that chamber long enough to hear the same wrong notes.

“Bottleneck-wise… I think too many memos developed a scenic sense of direction,” she continued, refusing to let her dispersed mind scatter her thoughts. They were too important to get lost in the immensity of her other worthless ideas. “I don’t care which desk they admired along the way, as long as the admiration stops.”

Exhaustion was taking its toll on Hermione, even after a single morning.

He weighed that. “I’ll ask Bones to run it. She takes after her aunt: trustworthy and competent,” he said.

“Good,” she said, but not as a praise. It was a marker placed on a map. “When the audit gives us names, we tighten routes. Until then, my requests’ll be routed directly here or to the Head Auror. Use Howlers if you must, but do it in a way that gives me time to run somewhere safe before they explode in my face.”

He smiled at that, but his expression seemed more tired than genuinely happy. He looked at her for a long breath, his hands closing around his empty cup of tea. “It’s not nothing, what you did today. It was what they feared: you swinging with enough force to break through the blockade.”

Hermione smoothed a thumb over the chair’s seam, the stitch catching and letting go under her skin, trying to feel a calmness she was surely not mirroring in her body. “They’ve seen me swing. Now they’ll see me speak.” She leaned forward. “Going back to the statement… I won’t disclose sensitive information, but people need to know that we’re shifting strategies, not sitting calmly for the storm to only grow wilder around us, hoping hoplessly for it to pass. People need to hear that offence has begun from a voice they recognise.”

“Ron,” whispered Kingsley, and the name had the careful weight of a step across thin ice.

“Not Ron; he’s ‘Auror Weasley, Lead Investigator on the Cleansers case’, and that’s how I’ll address him,” she said, matching the care, keeping it factual. “I won’t gild it. I won’t hide it. He’s earned the role. The public needs a point of contact who isn’t a faceless office, and that has nothing to do with our personal lives.”

“Will you tell him?”

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek. She would need to talk to him sooner rather than later. Especially since, by her own hand, he had been named Lead Investigator. But she was too tired to face her ex-husband.

Her night with Pansy had been long and exhausting… but not even a quarter as exhausting as the Winzengamot and this conversation, plus the actual writing of her statement, were proving—and would further prove—to be.

She didn’t have enough energy. “Could you break the news to him? I’m afraid I can’t endure any more stressful situations today.”

“I will, on your behalf and the Wizengamot’s. Fret not, I will do it with… care.” Kingsley rubbed a hand once over his jaw, the rasp of beard audible in the quiet. “You will make enemies with this, Hermione. People will assume you’re playing favourites.”

“They always do. More so if Skeeter gets the scoop before I put out a statement… She has a quill,” said Hermione. “I have a name. Let me use it.”

He huffed, not quite a laugh. “There’s a line between responsible transparency and feeding a fire.”

“And there’s a line between caution and paralysis,” she countered. “We were on the wrong side.”

“You want my blessing,” he said, softer.

“I want your eyes on my draft,” replied Hermione. “Out of respect, and because if I miss a landmine, I’d like you to tell me before I step. But I’m not asking for permission to speak under my own name. I’m telling you I’m going to.”

He nodded once, slowly. “You’ll get hit by the backlash once again.”

“I know, but I’ll be ready this time.” She let the admission live where it belonged, small and unimportant compared to the next thing. “I’d rather get hit for telling people what we’re doing than for letting them think we’re hiding because we have nothing to say.”

Kingsley flicked his wand, and a black coffee appeared alongside a couple of sugar cubes. He offered it to Hermione and then reached for the teapot to pour himself a cup.

As if that gesture alone settled the question.

Steam ribboned up, smelling like mint mixed with coffee. “You’ll send me the draft tomorrow.”

“Before midday,” she said, her heart beating annoyingly fast. “The official press office will receive it at the same time the Prophet does, by sundown tomorrow. No one gets to pretend I leaked to the papers to dodge Ministry channels. So will the Quibbler. I won’t play favourites.”

His mouth did the almost-smile again. “You’re going to make my press chief swear creatively.”

“He needs the practice.” She wrapped her hands around the cup, heat soaking into fingers she hadn’t realised had gone cool.

“When this goes out,” said Kingsley, after a moment, “Not’ll call me reckless. Selwyn, naïve. Rowle will call me worse. You’ll get all that, and more. Are you ready to—”

She lifted the cup, sipped, and let the coffee sit on her tongue until the taste left. The window rain slowed as if remembering it was only a charm. In the corner, the map pinged once, a patrol turning.

“Yes,” she asserted.

He accepted it as the only answer worth giving. “Then go write. And Hermione… If you need the Ministry seal—”

She set the cup down and stood. “No need for the seal,” she said. “My name alone will suffice.”

He smiled properly, fondness slipping through all the wrinkles on his expression. “It will.”

Hermione exited his office. She stretched her sore muscles discreetly.

The corridor outside was quieter than before, which meant the building was thinking. A junior aide straightened when Hermione passed and then pretended he hadn’t. Down the hall, someone closed a door too soft to be natural. The brass clock still muttered, not quite in time with itself.

It was not even lunchtime, and she was already spent.

Hermione didn’t look back. The Wizengamot’s echo lived somewhere behind her sternum; the office’s warmth had loosened her shoulders without making them slack. She walked toward the lifts with the taste of coffee in her mouth and the shape of sentences in her hands. The rain on the window was a trick. The storm she meant to bring was not.

Chapter Text

Pansy had an overall boring day. After talking with Vicky and Angélique, she arranged a meeting with the six Slytherin Prefects for later in the afternoon. As expected, Angélique’s pushback had been meaningless when faced against her older peers. Distrust between the other Houses against Slytherin ran deep, but the scars from Pansy’s House made convincing older students almost an impossible task.

She had decided to ease up on the conversation by breaking it down by year, starting with the—on paper—easier ones to reach: fifth-years.

Maribel Pucey was the first to arrive. Pansy thought she looked like she had just dismounted her Starsweeper XXI. Despite having her long, chestnut hair tied back, wild strands were flying around her head. She was pretty in a bright, approachable way, though her calculating eyes dissuaded many of her current suitors.

She seems to be analysing everything, always alert. Good. Being vigilant means being aware of patterns and changes. I can persuade her.

A minute later, Adrian Rosier joined them. He carried his family’s elegance at fifteen, even when his frame was still stretching into height. He had a strange resemblance to Draco, if Pansy’s friend had been a less ‘trying to impress everyone’ type… and if Draco had had black hair.

He gives the impression of aloofness to fool those who don’t look closely. He has this… intentional, polished cut that simulates quite the opposite: messy presentation under false pretences. I need to be really careful around him; he has that ‘I’m not paying attention while listening to every conversation happening around me at once’ energy.

Both their families had strong ties to Slytherin, especially his: the Rosiers were like the Parkinsons, proud to appear on the Sacred Twenty-Eight. The Puceys, even though not listed in that—awful and flawed—register, were still among those considered pure-bloods.

I need to have a chat with the Sorting Hat. I don’t give a fuck about what that old twat of Salazar valued; blood and inheritance should not matter if you’re to be sorted by personality.

Their meeting had been as hard as she expected. Maribel was a wrecking ball, and Adrian directed her at will. Both of them questioned the need for a change in Slytherin, and Pansy understood their perspective. After five years of being on their own, they had adapted… and change was scary.

Pansy could not danggle the same carrot she had on Angélique—they were already Prefects, and their titles couldn’t be taken away just because they disagreed with their Head of House, not if that same disagreement was born out of political differences.

That’s when Pansy changed gears: she stopped talking about bridges and started talking about duty. She framed cooperation as the most efficient way to keep younger Slytherins learning and safe—fewer corridor flare-ups, steadier marks, bias blunted by shared accountability. Maribel’s hackles smoothed at the promise of calmer patrols and solid progress she could point to; Adrian’s attention lingered where reputations were repaired by outcomes, not speeches, and where playing clean with the institution bought quiet influence later.

Pansy made it clear the stigma didn’t belong to the younger students and that ending it required contact, not isolation; he didn’t agree so much as concede the logic. By the time she finished, refusal would have meant neglecting their badges, and Adrian would rather be expelled than leave his name next to negligence.

The sixth-years—Corvin Montague and Selene Selwyn—proved to be easier to convince than expected.

The moment that he—broad shoulders, strength patent on every part of his frame, with an obvious lack of grace and elegance in his features—walked in, Pansy smiled reassuringly.

He’s intimidating on the surface, but quite manipulable if you stroke his ego. I’ll lean in that direction.

Selene was quite the opposite: the epitome of beauty by most standards: icy blue eyes framed ash-blond waves, all of them tamed to curl exactly how they were supposed to over her pale face. With her sharp jawline and symmetric features, no one could deny how striking she was. There were rumours of Veela ancestry, but the Selwyns would never taint their bloodline with anything less than reputable pure-blood matches; no, Selene was beautiful with no magical blood to enhance her alluringness.

She’s akin to her aunt, Regina. They project that same aura of cold authority, with practised, unhurried and precise movements designed to make everyone recoil at their mere presence. Selwyn prestige, I believe it’s called… Well, I’m not ‘everyone’. And I do have something she’s bound to desire: the opportunity to become the first Head Girl from Slytherin in more than a decade.

Despite first appearances, Corvin proved more difficult to convince than Selene; physical similitudes were the only thing linking her to that awful crone—she’s just five years older than me, but I hate her guts—Regina. The Prefect was easily convinced and more attuned to Pansy’s ideas than everyone else she had met, more so than Angélique.

So, in short, Selene agreed just because it fit her own agenda, and forced Corvin into submission with just one careful look and a smile that surely had already broken countless hearts.

Pansy smirked.

That makes her even more of a candidate for the Head Girl badge. Hogwarts needs someone who spurs change with gentleness. And Selene is… weirdly up-to-date, sharing none of the traits that her family is associated with. Atuned to reconstruction, at the age of sixteen and being brought up the way that she for sure has, like I was, is a feat worth celebrating.

Then came the last two: Marius Bletchely and Camille Hopkirk, holding hands like a pair of lovebirds. When Pansy lifted her eyebrows ever-so-slightly at the sight, Camille quickly let go of her boyfriend’s hand, while Marius shrugged and grabbed it back with a smirk.

They made quite a pair: he, tall and lean, with freckles that softened his serious face and grey eyes, carried the approachable charm of a former Quiddith Captain who had grown confident, while she, ink-black hair falling in a smooth curtain, green eyes that resembled Pansy’s—though less intense and calculating, verging towards a more olive tone—and slim and graceful frame, radiated elegance edged with nervousness under Pansy’s unwavering gaze.

Both have their N.E.W.T.s this year and will be leaving Hogwarts; I can use that to my advantage. Helping younger Slytherins would solidify their own knowledge; seventh-year students could achieve higher marks on those exams with that method… and I can even sprinkle the possibility of a recommendation letter for when they leave school on top of that. Maybe mine, or someone else’s, depending on where they want to end up. Having them on board would mean completing the plan within Slytherin, and as much as they don’t seem to have that much respect for other Houses… the world does. A letter from Harry, Neville or Hannah would open many doors—maybe even my gi—Hermione.

So that’s exactly what happened.

When Camille and Marius left, Pansy exhaled at last. She had done it. She had persuaded those prideful, cunning minds to follow her lead on a plan to close the existing gap that tore at her heart. She was partly responsible for its existence, so she would do all within her power to close it.

As luck would have it, the first pair had been the most difficult to convince; Adrian and Maribel proved to be quite challenging, while Pansy had found in Selene an unexpected ally that overcame Corvin easily, and the possibility of a recommendation letter had smoothly persuaded Camille and Marious.

I have to branch out and pitch the idea to Minerva and the rest of the staff… but I’ll leave that for tomorrow. Enough inner-House politics for today; I still need to think about how I can help Vicky and other students like her, who don’t fit as tidily as the rest of their classmates in this educational system. Merlin, this is complicated… but I am succeeding, am I not? I already have the Slytherins in my pocket, now I need the eagles, the badgers and the lions.

The Pansy way had never looked that enticing.

Pansy hadn’t seen Hermione at all after that first class; not at lunch, not at supper and definitely not in the Library—she had gone there trying to bump into her, and the only person older than seventeen in that dusty place had been Pince.

She thought about asking Minerva where Hermione was, but refused the idea. Pansy Parkinson would not be alarmed just because she had been abandoned for less than a day; she was not that clingy.

Wasn’t she?

When nighttime came, she sighed and bid goodnight to her fellow professors, not missing the smirk in some of their faces. Cho’s was particularly dreadful, whereas Minerva’s looked more like a crooked grin.

She was exhausted, but she still checked one last time where Hermione was. The last resort: the Gryffindor’s room. She knocked on her door, waited… and got no response.

Pansy sighed, her shoulders hunching as if she were Quasimodo’s younger sister—or older, if one were to judge by the dark circles under her eyes, fruit of stress and some sleepless nights in a row.

Stop it with the self-loathing. Hermione’s an occupied person; you couldn’t possibly expect her to spend every second of her day and night next to you, could you? Are you seriously that naive, Pansy Parkinson? I shall think not.

Despite her self-scolding and pointless try at denying the obvious, she was.

When she went into her room, the first thing she noticed was the lack of clothes splattered on the floor, and the crackling fire in the lum. It smelled strangely of coffee and mint—not books and rain, which was odd. And then her eyes went to the armchair by the chimney, where a humming witch with wild hair was reading a book.

Pansy laughed. “This is where you’ve been hiding all day? My private quarters?”

“Hiding?” she asked. Hermione glanced at her for a beat before going back to her book. “Can’t a girl read in peace?”

Pansy walked towards her with the practised grace of a predator, a seductress trained by the best masters to make her the most desirable woman to set foot in every room she entered.

Hermione wasn’t looking at her, glued to that book of hers like it was the most—

Is she trying to develop a new method that involves deciphering words… upside down? Merlin, she’s pretending.

“Golden girl,” she whispered, plucking the book from her hands with ease. Hermione squeaked, but Pansy tutted and shut down her protests immediately. “Do try to look more convincing next time, please. Inverted reading is not a thing.”

Colour rushed to her cheeks, but she smiled softly. “You got me. I panicked,” she said, and shrugged. “I had just arrived when I heard the door, so I did the only reasonable thing.”

Pansy arched an eyebrow. “Lie?”

“Pretend not to be snooping!” she yelled, getting up from the armchair and pacing. Pansy smiled at her flushed cheeks.

“Were you going through my things?”

Hermione opened her mouth, but no sound came out of it. She closed it. Sighed. And then, said, “Not so much as ‘going through’, more like ‘organising’. How are you so keen to arrange everything everywhere but in here?”

Pansy shrugged. “I always plan to, but something comes up when I’m about to do it. Besides, I knew you’d save me from disorganisation sooner or later. It’s the whole reason I pursued you.”

Pansy’s fingers pulled Hermione flush against her by one of her belt loops.

Merlin, she is drop-dead gorgeous. Will I ever stop being in awe at how pretty she is? I hope not.

Pansy leaned in to capture her mouth with a kiss.

“Oh?” cooed Hermione, turning her face so Pansy’s lips got her cheek. “And here I thought it had been for my amazing talents in potions.”

“You got me. I need your help brewing some… strange concoction,” she joked, not letting Hermione go as Pansy’s hands steadied her by the waist. “I wouldn’t be able to distinguish a wand from a cauldron if it weren’t for you. Me, a Potions Master, would be lost without—”

“No one likes it when you act so high and mighty,” interrupted Hermione, rolling her eyes. “Stop gloating.”

“What? Do you find it ‘grandstanding’?” she asked with a smirk, getting lost in those beautiful brown eyes. “You Gryffidors are more show-offs than we ever were, golden girl.”

“Still… you lack finesse, Princess,” she bit back, wrapping her arms around Pansy’s neck and biting her lip. “Boasting requires a more… graceful touch, and I’m not sure you possess it.”

Let me kiss you. Please, let me kiss you.

Pansy smiled with practised ease, her old grace resurfacing like a rising tide. “Please, as if my almost noble background hadn’t made sure I had anything but. Among witches and wizards, golden girl, I’m aristocracy.”

Hermione laughed wholeheartedly and unpreoccupied, and Pansy melted at that sound. “Shall I bow?” whispered the Gryffindor, her face inching slowly towards the Slytherin’s.

Pansy couldn’t help herself. The joke was too easy to pass on. “Bow? Oh, no, golden girl. I’d rather have you on your knees, if you’d be so kind. Preferrably between my legs, but I’m not picky.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, and a memory of a laugh got stuck in Pansy’s throat before she bit it back down with poise. And then, finally, the Gryffindor answered the Slytherin’s prayers by kissing her. Unhurried, sweet. Just lips barely caressing, exploring already known territory, but at a pace that made it look new and beautiful all over again.

Pansy’s hands tightened around Hermione’s waist, relishing in the feeling of the soft silk beneath her fingers. She kneaded her skin under her delicate clothes, pulling her closer with every heartbeat they spent intertwined.

This is a dream. It can’t be real. She can’t be kissing me back. Merlin, I love my life.

No war, no tug, no battle, no fire. Just calmness, eternity and the feeling of being discovered and discovering.

If it were up to Pansy, she would’ve stayed like that forever, classes and responsibilities be damned… but Hermione seemed to have other plans.

The mirage was broken as the Gryffindor tore her mouth from Pansy’s, much to the Slytherin’s sorrow.

“Sit, Princess. Let’s just… talk. For now, that is,” she whispered, so close still that every word grazed Pansy’s lips, making it so fucking difficult to listen to what Hermione was telling her. “And don’t pout.”

“Killjoy,” muttered Pansy, obeying her. “You ought to know I reserve my right to pout at any given time I deem appropriate.”

Hermione smiled, sitting next to her on the sofa, right in front of the chimney. Her eyes reflected the flames, shining like coal embers. “You’re such a spoiled baby, Princess.”

That got a laugh out of Pansy. She grabbed Hermione’s hand and tugged it, making her fall against her chest as the Slytherin lay back down. “Well, hello there, golden girl.”

Hermione leaned in with a smile that could’ve started wars if it were up to Pansy. The Gryffindor pecked her lips once. “Hello, stranger,” she replied, pulling back but staying on top of her. “How was your day?”

“Awful. I love teaching, I hate politics,” replied Pansy, earning a snort from Hermione. “What? I had meetings with all six Prefects for a… reconstruction, of sorts.”

“Reconstruction?” she inquired, with a gleam in her eyes. Her fingers started tracing circles on Pansy’s collarbone. “Are you plotting an insurrection within your House, Princess? I wouldn’t put it past you.”

“Sod off, golden girl! I’m only trying to mend Slytherin’s reputation through an inter-House tutoring program,” replied Pansy with a smirk that exuded every bit of confidence she felt.

Be in awe at me. I’m rather fabulous, aren’t I? Who else could’ve thought of such a plan and have the brains and standing actually to accomplish it, if not me?

“You, the snakes, are taking a liking to being friendly?” said Hermione, mocking her. “And here I thought my day couldn’t get any weirder.”

That got Pansy’s attention, but she was busy showing off.

Shouldn’t she be more proud of me? I mean… this could be a new beginning for Hogwarts! No, scratch that, for Slytherin and world order! Okay, maybe I’m getting too ahead of myself here. Calm down.

“Well, it’s not every day that someone manages to help students while reconstructing the entirety of the most cunning and self-absorbed House,” said Pansy, feigning outrage while tucking a curl behind Hermione’s ear. “Can’t you be at least a little bit impressed?”

The Gryffindor rolled her eyes. “As if you need me to boost your already impossibly high confidence.”

Yes, I fucking do! Does she have any idea how monumental this moment could be?

“On the contrary, golden girl,” she purred, getting back up to brush her nose against Hermione’s. “You should be thanking me for not getting into politics, or I could very well have your position. I’m awfully good at… ‘manoeuvring’.”

“Oh?” hummed Hermione with a knowing smile. “Are you suggesting you’d be able to convince the whole wizarding world you’re a better candidate than a war hero like myself?”

Pansy kissed her again, wrapping her arms around Hermione’s waist. “Well, war and politics are nothing alike, are they? They are opposites: War happens when politics fail,” she mused. “You being a war hero doesn’t make you good at being a politician.”

“I was a politician long before the war broke out, I’m afraid. And I disagree with your statement,” said Hermione. “There’s war in politics, and politics in war. One cannot exist without the other. Tied together in an endless cycle.” She kissed the corner of Pansy’s mouth before continuing. “Sometimes the conflict becomes violent, but both war and politics are quarrels waiting to be resolved, but neither fully accomplishes it.”

Agree to disagree.

Hermione’s kisses moved to her cheek.

“I agree on one front: they are inherent to one another, but not necessarily at the same time,” countered Pansy, looking at the ceiling and pursing her lips.

I can’t think straight when she’s so fucking close. She’s literally on top of me, for fuck’s sake. And she wanted to talk? She’s toying.

Hermione’s teeth were at her earlobe, threatening to tug it but refraining to do so… which was making it all so more maddening. “History needs both to be explained,” went on Pansy after a poorly hidden gulp. “But that doesn’t mean that it will always be this way.”

Hermione recoiled and tilted her head, studying Pansy for a beat. “Utopia.”

The Slytherin shook her head, determined to prove her point. “Yes, and no. It’s a paradox: the utopia we’re after is unreachable, and yet we keep getting closer with every new year.”

“In maths, we call that ‘asymptote’: a function that grows infinitely closer to that imaginary line but never touches it,” explained Hermione, making Pansy regret ever debating her, for this was only making her look even hotter.

Pansy didn’t know she had a teacher fetish. That—Hermione acting as a professor—was an odd way of discovering it, with her heart beating so fast and loud it could’ve been a thunderstorm.

Oh, fuck. This is getting worse.

“But the concept of ‘utopia’ changes as times do,” went on Hermione, completely unaware—or seeming to be oblivious—of Pansy’s canundrum. The Gryffindor lowered herself so her nose was caressing the Slytherin’s jaw. Pansy felt Hermione’s hot breath on her neck and resisted the urge to gulp… or move at all. She would not give her the satisfaction of flinching. “What we deem desirable and appropriate now has nothing to do with what our ancestors envisioned a thousand years ago.”

“It’s not fair,” said Pansy at last, careful not to react as Hermione’s soft lips grazed her throat. “You, debating me, without letting me think straight. I forget whatever I was about to say as soon as you kiss me.”

Hermione pulled back and smirked. “Don’t you get it, Princess?” she asked. She leaned in once more, this time kissing Pansy’s nose tip. “I’m playing politics. Winning by not letting you counter my arguments. I’m just proving how much better I am at it, compared to you.”

“It’s ‘all is fair in love and war’, not ‘in politics’, golden girl,” said Pansy, grabbing Hermione’s face with just one hand and not letting her tease to her heart’s contempt. “Didn’t think I would ever catch the Senior Undersecretary cheating to win,” she added, licking her lips slowly and watching Hermione’s eyes follow the movement. “See? I could easily replace you at the Ministry if I were to put my mind to it. Watch yourself, golden girl. I’m lurking.”

Hermione smacked her cheek jokingly. “You’d be terrible at it, Princess. If memory serves right, your whole copying mechanism when faced with conflict is avoidance until the fight becomes inevitable.” Her soft smile while she was scolding Pansy was maddening. The Slytherin wanted to erase it with another kiss, but the other witch pulled back, slipping through Pansy’s fingers. “Case in point: us. Until I was almost dead, you didn’t dare to admit what you felt.”

“And how do I feel, according to your presumptuous and all-knowing self?” asked Pansy, meeting her gaze steadily, her heart beating so loudly it was almost all she could hear.

Pansy’s pulse fluttered as the Gryffindor’s lips brushed hers, the first contact so soft it felt like a question. She answered by pulling her closer, letting the kiss linger. Hermione’s mouth was warm, insistent yet gentle, carrying the faint bitterness of coffee and the intoxicating sweetness of Hermione. It was a steady rhythm that drew Pansy in before she could think to resist.

Merlin, Merlin, Merlin. I’m addicted to her, to this.

When her tongue traced the rim of Pansy’s lips, careful and unhurried, asking yet another question, the Slytherin felt her breath falter. Hermione waited, and Pansy’s chest tightened with the ache of wanting more.

After too long a treacherous heartbeat, she parted he lips, eager to deepen the kiss. When Hermione’s tongue finally brushed against hers, the spark of it made her breath catch and her fingers twitch at Hermione’s waist. Pansy answered her with a need that surprised her. Without meaning to, she tried to pull her closer—to no avail, since there was no distance between them anymore.

How? How could I ever live without this, without expecting her sharp mind and smart mouth to challenge mine? I don’t want this to end.

The kiss unfolded slowly, like a secret being shared, each movement deepening, coaxing, savouring. Pansy melted impossibly closer, the world falling away until there was only the taste of Hermione, the rhythm of their shared breaths, the promise in the way their mouths lingered against each other.

It left her weak, light-headed, and happy. Pansy tried to cling to that feeling, to the dizzying sweetness of being wanted like this.

Hermione finally pulled back, whispering against her lips, stealing the breath from her lungs. “That’s how you feel, Princess. Voice it if you wish, but I’m not going to do your work for you. If not… well, actions always speak louder than words.”

Pansy gulped, looking up at those irises that put to shame any other pair of eyes in the entire world. “You’re impossible, golden girl,” she whispered, inhaling slowly to replace all the air that she lost in the last minutes. “How was your day? Since I managed to start a revolution within Slytherin, I doubt yours was more eventful.”

That made Hermione laugh. “Let’s see… I stormed a Wizengamot session, forced the chamber to listen to me, proposed new measures to stop the Cleansers, gathered enough support to make the motion be approved—”

“You did what?” shouted Pansy, in awe.

She’s joking, right? There’s no fucking way she did all this in a fucking day… Oh. She’s not done. There’s more…? Merlin, she’s mad. I’m head over heels over the maddest witch on Earth.

“—watched Malfoy defend me against Nott, Avery, Rowle and Selwyn,” continued Hermione, ignoring Pansy’s outburst and simply closing gently the Slytherin’s jaw with a finger. “Made Kingsley agree to let me publish a statement regarding my private life and the recent movements made by the Ministry, appointed Ron as the Lead Investigator on the Cleansers case, organised your room… Yes, I think that’s all I did today,” she said, smiling as if she had just recited her grocery list.

Draco went against that quartet? About damn time. And Hermione… Merlin, she… what? She went… did… what?

“But yes,” she went on. “I’m sure you had a more difficult day than I, Princess. Poor you, dealing with stubborn teenagers and children, nothing compared to stupid grown-ups who still cling to old beliefs and refuse to be helped.”

She’s maddly perfect, for fuck’s sake. And she’s putting my day to shame by comparison. Will I ever win with her? I hate her, and I hate how much I like it.

“I’m speechless,” she managed to say.

“Figures,” muttered Hermione with a grin. “I was speechless, too, when you told me about your plan with students, though I managed to hide it better. Or distract you with kisses, to be more accurate,” she purred. “It’s great, by the way. The idea to open Slytherin to the rest of the Houses was long overdue, and I’m so happy you thought of a way to do so. If I can help you with anything… I’m here. You’re amazing, Princess.”

Pansy looked her up and down. “I—Thank you, golden girl. I’ll keep it in mind,” she replied with difficulty; Hermione’s list of achievements and sincere praise had short-circuited her brain.

She looks so beautiful, so perfect, so… White?

“You went dressed like that to the Wizengamot? You refused to wear purple robes…?”

Hermione lifted an eyebrow. “Out of all of what I did today, that’s what surprises you the most?” she asked, slowly getting up from where she had been resting. Pansy’s body protested at the absence of weight on top of it. “Yes, I didn’t wear the lilac. I wanted to make an impression, and a woman’s suit made of white silk, combined with a pair of wine-red stilettos and a matching belt, did the trick. Thank you, by the way. Credit where credit is due, this is actually your outfit.”

“I have so many questions right now.”

Hermione sat, spine straight and cross-legged, at the other end of the sofa, feet tucked under her knees, as if she were stretching before a yoga session. “Fire away, and I’ll answer to the best of my ability.”

Pansy rose, no longer lying down, to imitate Hermione. She let her back ease against the cushions, let her legs fall over the edge of the sofa, crossing them at the ankles, as if she were a queen.

This is the most ladylike sitting position ever. I fucking hate it.

When she was nervous, that was the most comfortable pose for her. It had been drilled into her mind from a young age, ‘how a proper lady should behave’, and despite her numerous tries to rebel against it, her body betrayed her at every turn.

“How are you so fucking perfect, golden girl?”

I can’t believe I’ve just asked her that. Merlin, my heart is beating louder than thunder. Is there a rock nearby? I’d like to crawl under it.

Hermione looked taken aback, because she didn’t reply straight away. “It’s an odd question to ask. I don’t know. I don’t think I am,” she finally whispered. “But if that’s what it seems to you… I must be trying to match you subconsciously, Princess. You did sacrifice it all for me.”

Pansy bit the inside of her cheek, easing her nerves. “I want to kiss you again so bad, and not stop after that. Ever.”

Hermione laughed. “Later, if you behave yourself.” Her knuckles caressed Pansy’s cheekbone before the Gryffindor’s finger traced lower: her jaw, her throat… until Hermione’s palm was over Pansy’s heart, warm and teasing. Her pulse quickened, reverberating through her whole body, the fast beating easily felt in that well-placed palm on her chest. A green grin met a scarlet smirk. “The night isn’t over yet, Princess.”

Hermione’s hand had travelled from Pansy’s chest to her inner forearm, where her nails raked the skin absentmindedly while they talked.

“I need to know, Pansy,” she said.

“This must be serious. You never call me by my name—”

“I am. Serious, I mean.”

Pansy sighed, her grin turning crooked and then vanishing altogether. “You want to know all the details with the… vow. Must you, really?”

Hermione nodded, making Pansy’s anxiety spike. “I want to know what your plan is, because I believe you have one, and I’d like to be in it.” Hermione’s hand closed over hers, her grip tight and reassuring. “I understand why you were out of options and agreed to your parents’ demands, but I know you enough by now: you wouldn’t have set foot in there without plotting at least one way out.”

“And you’d be right, golden girl,” answered Pansy. She sighed and breathed a couple of times, steeling her nerves. “I agreed to give my fucking parents something in exchange for my mother’s blood and her word of not hurting my friends ever again.”

“What did you give them, Pansy?” asked Hermione, pushing the subject. “What was the price to pay for my life?”

“I gave them what they always wanted. Or, at least, that’s what they think. ‘I promise the Parkinson family a pure-blood heir, in name and legacy’; those were my exact words.”

This was the first time that Hermione bit her lip and Pansy had no desire to kiss her—and bite it herself—as a result. The Slytherin felt the Gryffindor flinching—at the blood supremacy reference or at the revelation of the magnitude of the vow, Pansy didn’t know.

“What’s on your mind, golden girl?” she asked, seeing as Hermione remained silent.

Is this too much…? I… I don’t want to burden her, of all people. She’s had more weight on her shoulders than anyone I’ve ever met.

“I’m thinking… Ron and I divorced because he wanted children, and I couldn’t—” She faltered, colour rushing to her cheeks. “And now here I am, offering—Circe, I don’t even know what I’m saying.”

Hermione covered her face with both hands for a beat before meeting her gaze.

She’s rambling. She’s losing herself in this, and I haven’t explained anything yet. I—Wait. Did she agree to have children with me without even knowing what it entails? Co-parenting a hypothetical child while she was unwilling to do it with Weasley? Really, that bloke is stupid for ever letting Hermione fucking Granger escape his grasp.

“I’m saying this out loud,” she continued without so much as breathing between sentences. “And I’m horrified at myself—We never agreed on what we are, on if we’re together, but this… I don’t do casual, I—Maybe you don’t want me there all the way, though you sacrificed your freedom to save my life by agreeing to—”

Is she mad? Agreeing to something without knowing the full story. And, most importantly… Has she just fucking said we’re not together?

“Let me stop you right there, golden girl,” said Pansy, interrupting Hermione’s incoherent speech. “Did you agree to have children with me… when we’ve been seeing each other for less than a week?”

Hermione’s hands started trembling uncontrollably until Pansy steadied them, covering the smooth skin with her fingers. “I—Not like that! I mean, if you do need to have them, I’ll be there,” she stuttered. “This is not a proposal for—Circe, I’m phrasing it all wrong. Sorry—”

“It’s huge, golden girl. What you just said is fucking enormous! And we’ll revisit the topic later, if you wish, but I wouldn’t chain you to children if it came to that. Talking about starting a family so early on is unwarranted—”

“I didn’t think it through, I blurted it out,” interrupted Hermione, panicking. “But I stand by what I said. I do not not want children; I just… wasn’t ready when he asked it of me. I’m not ready now, but the setting is different, and so are the motives. You didn’t want it either, but agreed for my sake… And I’ll be damned if I let you carry it all by yourself.”

“It won’t come to that, I believe. Breathe, and let me tell you the rest before you jump into any rocambolesque conclusions. And, as I’ve said… we can talk about children later. Much, much later,” whispered Pansy, meeting Hermione’s bewildered gaze.

The Slytherin started tracing patterns on the Gryffindor’s skin, trying to ground her and soothe her nerves.

What did I expect? She doesn’t know the actual plan, so she jumped to conclusions… and then—sort of—agreed to something she’s not ready to give, and neither am I. Let’s take it one step at a time. First milestone? The ‘we’re not together’ disgraceful comment.

“At a risk of sounding like a silly schoolgirl—I will deny this if you ever tell someone—let me ask you something,” said Pansy, meeting Hermione’s gaze. For once, hers was the one that carried the fire, while the other witch’s was lost and cold. “I thought it was obvious, but it seems you’re unexpectedly dense sometimes, so we’d better make it clear now,” said Pansy, interrupting Hermione’s incoherent speech. “Hermione Jean Granger, will you be my girlfriend?”

Pansy’s heart had never beaten so fast. Not even when they had kissed for the first time. Not even when they had slept next to each other for the first time. Not even when they had slept together for the first time. Not ever, because none of these moments left Pansy as exposed, as vulnerable as this question did.

If she doesn’t say yes, I’ll just leave the country.

A second passed, though, to Pansy, it seemed like an eternity.

“How do you know my full name?” asked Hermione.

Is she stupid?

“That’s your take after my question?” she rebutted, the taste of both ask and answer bitter. Pansy got up from the sofa and paced to the chimney, where the fire warmed her cold bones. She rested her forehead on the stone wall, hiding the rising colour on her cheeks.

Hermione laughed at her back, and Pansy heard her getting up and strutting to her. “I’m joking! Come here, you spoiled brat!”

Hermione’s hand shot out, curling around Pansy’s wrist, forcing her to turn and tugging her closer until their bodies nearly brushed. Pansy gasped, the sound caught between indignation and surprise, but before she could speak, Hermione’s mouth was on hers. The kiss was insistent, demanding. Lips clashing at first, sharp and heated, desperate to prove with touch what they had failed to say with words.

Then, slowly, the edges softened. Pansy’s resistance melted into a low hum as her hand found Hermione’s shoulder, steadying herself, drawing them closer still. The kiss deepened, less a battle now than a surrender, their breaths mingling as they lingered, unwilling to let go.

“Yes,” whispered Hermione. “Yes, Pansy Parkinson, I will be your girlfriend.”

Did she just…? I knew she would, but I really didn’t, and now what am I—Merlin, I’m worse than a giddy schoolgirl.

For a moment, Pansy forgot how to breathe. The word rang in her ears like a spell breaking, like the rush of magic after a dam had given way. She leaned back just enough to search Hermione’s face, to see if this was some cruel joke. But there was no mockery there, only that maddeningly earnest warmth that always managed to unravel her defences.

“Could you repeat that? Just to make sure I didn’t mishear you,” said Pansy.

She said yes, and I still can’t believe it. What is wrong with me?

Hermione’s grin widened. “I said yes, Princess.”

“You’d better not regret it,” muttered Pansy, though her voice shook with something dangerously close to joy. One of her hands was at Hermione’s neck, and it crept up until her fingers were tangling in those chestnut curls, pulling her back in until their mouths clashed again, more urgently this time.

Hermione smiled, brushing her thumbs along Pansy’s cheeks, cupping her face and slowing the kiss down, as if she’d been waiting for this exact moment all her life. “I won’t. Not even if you drive me absolutely insane.”

Pansy scoffed, but the sound was weak, betrayed by the way her lips curved into a trembling smile. She buried her face in Hermione’s neck for a heartbeat, inhaling the familiar scent of parchment and rain, before pulling her closer again, their mouths meeting in a kiss that was slower this time. “Don’t worry, I’m mad enough for both of us. Mad about you, golden girl,” she purred, capturing Hermione’s lips again, walking back until her back was against the stone wall, right next to the rumbling fire.

“You don’t get to say those things and kiss me like that, Princess,” said Hermione, devouring her mouth while her hands roamed Pansy’s body, unsure where to land and desperate to go everywhere. “I wanted to talk,” she whispered, breathless.

“Your words don’t match your actions, golden girl,” replied Pansy, feeling the Gryffindor’s hands all over her, while her own were stuck on Hermione’s neck and hair. “I’m all-in for talking, but I won’t be the one to pull away.”

Hermione let out a frustrated laugh against Pansy’s lips, the sound muffled by the way she refused to stop kissing her. “I hate you for forcing me to stop kissing you. I hate you, Princess,” she murmured, pressing her forehead to Pansy’s for the briefest pause, though her hands still traced restless patterns down her sides.

“And yet,” drawled Pansy, her voice husky with triumph, “you just agreed to be mine.” Her fingers tightened in Hermione’s curls, tugging lightly, pulling another sharp breath from the Gryffindor.

Hermione’s eyes fluttered shut, and when she opened them again, the firelight caught in her gaze, molten and unguarded. “Circe help me, Princess. I can’t,” she said, before crashing her lips to hers once more, hungrier this time, almost desperate.

The stone wall at Pansy’s back was cool, but Hermione’s body pressed warm against her, all fierce intent and unrelenting touch. Pansy gave in, gladly, kissing her like there was no tomorrow, every movement threaded with the thrill of victory and the terror of how much she suddenly had to lose.

The fire cracked loudly, startling Pansy, making her shudder as she jumped back, hitting her head with the stone at her back.

“Ow!” she yelled, flinching.

“Are you alright?” replied Hermione, pulling back to study her face, searching for any sign of damage there.

Pansy closed her eyes, ashamed. “I am. My pride…? Not so much.” That brought a smile to Hermione’s lips, effectively breaking the moment.

“Should I thank you for stopping the kiss, Princess, or would it be better if I just laughed at you for being afraid of a chimney?” drawled Hermione, brushing her nose to Pansy’s.

“Snakes hate fire for a reason,” she mumbled, letting her forehead rest on Hermione’s shoulder, her hands falling free at her sides.

Hermione’s carefree laugh echoed against the walls. “And here I thought you loved hot things…” Her fingers intertwined with Pansy’s, and she stepped back, pulling her with the movement.

Pansy expected Hermione to guide her to the sofa, but the Gryffindor smirked and walked back to the Slytherin’s bed.

“What?” she asked with a smirk. “We’ve slept in mine twice, it’s only fitting you host sometime.”

“I thought you wanted to talk, golden girl,” said Pansy, letting Hermione pull her. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but one might mistake your intentions with the wrong ones if you keep guiding me towards my bed.”

“Who said my intentions were entirely pure, Princess?” she asked, grinning. “I told you, the night’s still young.” And, with that, she fell on the bed, pulling Pansy on top of her with ease. “You were telling me about the vow…” whispered Hermione, caressing the Slytherin’s cheek with her thumb.

I don’t want to talk anymore. I want to worship her.

Pansy gulped and then directed a menacing side-eyed gaze to the treacherous fireplace, daring it to startle her again. “Yes. That—” She turned, falling flat on the bed with her stomach, right next to the Gryffindor. “I’m not—I don’t know if I ever would want kids. But since I’m the only Parkinson left with the appropriate age, I was expected to give the family an heir.”

Hermione popped herself on her elbow, drawing patterns on Pansy’s back. “But that means… that you’d have to sleep with a man.”

Pansy nodded. “Yes. I had managed to thwart their plans so far, either by living the life I wished for or being independent, both financially and politically. Until… you came along, and they read me like an open book. They used you to force my hand and, to save your life, I made that vow.”

Pansy’s eyes were glued to the headboard, not daring to meet Hermione’s gaze.

“The thing is… I don’t really need to have children to fulfil my vow,” she continued, her feet kicking the air, trying to soothe her nerves. “I phrased it so it would be vague, and… I have a way out.”

“How so?” asked Hermione, grabbing Pansy’s chin softly and forcing her eyes to meet hers. Pansy expected to see fear, or second thoughts… but the only thing on Hermione’s irises was determination.

I don’t deserve her at all, do I? How doesn’t she realise that is something that escapes me.

Pansy smiled softly. “I need an heir, but they don’t have to be mine by blood. I said ‘in name and legacy’. The ‘legacy’ bit is easy, since that only means that they will share my view of the world to an extent, carrying my beliefs and making them their own.”

“And the name…?”

Pansy sighed. “That part is trickier, because my father was adamant on maintaining the heir’s pure-blood status, narrowing down the options a lot. The plan is quite simple, but the execution is long and difficult, and it relies on… Draco and Astoria.”

“On their son?”

I wish. I love that boy with all my heart. He’s the most perfect thing to ever walk the Earth.

“No, Scorp wouldn’t qualify. He’s already been born, and my name is not tied to his, despite how much he means to me,” she said, shaking her head. “The vow would not take him as my part being fulfilled.”

Hermione gulped. “Then…?”

Pansy bit the inside of her cheek. “It was Cissy’s idea, actually,” she whispered. “They have been trying to have another child for quite some time. No luck so far, but… Once they do and he or she is born, they’ll name me the kid’s godmother, and I’ll change my will to leave it all to him or her: an heir to the Parkinson fortune.”

Castles in the air, but that’s the only option available… Unless I comply and give them my womb. Which I would never do.

The fire crackled again, startling her for the second time in a row. A shiver went down Pansy’s spine. “That way, all the conditions are met: the Parkinsons will have their pure-blood heir, and my name will be tied to the child’s,” she went on. “But until then… I have to spend all my weekends at the Manor.”

“Maybe I could… go there with you? So you won’t be alone—”

“That’s kind of you,” replied Pansy, playing with the loose ends of Hermione’s curls. “But Blaise has got that covered. And I don’t want to put you in harm’s way—”

Hermione clasped her wrist. “Didn’t they vow not to harm your friends?”

“Mother did, Father didn’t,” clarified Pansy, resuming the hair-brushing without paying any attention to it really. “And I won’t tempt fate by putting you somewhere they could hurt you again.”

“They have no reason to,” mused Hermione. “They believe the vow secures them what they crave, and I’m not someone who could… sully their precious pure-blood heritage in any way. It’s not like we could have children together; they couldn’t doubt—”

“I’m going to stop you right there,” said Pansy, melting at the thought of having Hermione close even during weekends, but resigned to the impossibility of it. “They see us, together, as an aberration. To them, purity also means tradition, and I’m the farthest thing from it. Your presence there wouldn’t be just unwelcome and dreaded, but despised.”

She can’t come. She has to understand that I’ll be perfectly safe, and I need her to stay as far away as she can from that awful Manor.

“Maybe you could join me,” continued Pansy. “My parents might not risk hurting you again; you could come up with a loophole of your own—Ministry support, or a veiled threat to strip them of all they hold dear. They did attack you, back at St. Mungo’s, although they could argue it was… an accident.”

Hermione opened her mouth to argue, but Pansy covered it with her hand.

“But there’s always a chance of you getting hurt, and I won’t risk it. It’s just the weekends, and, besides… it’ll be nice to catch up with Blaise and get on my parents’ nerves. I have to find out how they rescued Fiona from the Cleansers, so it’s fitting. Horrible, but fitting.”

“Promise me you’ll send me a message if you need me,” whispered Hermione against the palm of Pansy’s hand.

I’d never ask her to go there. Is she mad, or does she have a death wish I need to erase from her very precious and beautiful soul?

Pansy took a long breath, rolling her eyes and pretending to be dismissive. “Spare me the dramatics—”

Hermione cut in by merely staring her down. She shook her head, getting rid of the hand that covered her mouth. “Promise me, Princess, or I swear to Circe I’ll bang those doors the first chance I get.”

“Look at you, playing already the part of a worried girlfriend,” purred Pansy, trying to redirect the conversation—and failing miserably. “Fine,” she breathed. “Should something terribly awful happen, I’ll send for you at once, my darling knight in shining armour.” Hermione’s gaze softened at last, lightening Pansy’s spirit enough to joke again. “Now you also give me orders… I’m no longer master of my days—”

“Don’t worry, Princess,” replied Hermione with a husky and velvety voice, accompanied by a lewd grin. She grabbed Pansy’s wrist, pulling it until it was near her lips. “I’ll make the nights memorable enough.” Hermione half-bit, half-scraped her teeth over the thumb’s tender skin, and then soothed the mark with her tongue.

Oh, Merlin. Why do I enjoy a challenge that much? Why can’t I just melt into her? I want to.

Pansy arched an eyebrow sculpted by the gods, pretending to be as unaffected as a statue. “Since when are you the filthy one in this relationship?”

“Since you became the romantic one, Princess. Come here, you little crybaby,” she whispered, grabbing Pansy’s neck and pulling her until their breaths mingled. “Jokes aside, I’ll be by your side. And if the plan fails, I’ll find a new way to free you… if it’s the last thing I do.”

Pansy smiled, inhaling the rain and books she was already so familiar with. “You can’t expect me to come up with something to match your words in sweetness, golden girl. So I’ll do the one thing I know I’m the best at…”

Pansy kissed her again, for what felt like the hundredth time that night… and it still wasn’t enough.

It never will.

Hermione kissed her back with equal fervour, one hand fisted in the sheets as though anchoring herself, the other clutching at Pansy like she might vanish if she let go. When they finally parted, Hermione was breathless, her lips swollen, her gaze alight with something that made Pansy’s stomach twist and flutter all at once.

“You know,” murmured Hermione, brushing her thumb along Pansy’s jaw, “you talk about vows and legacies like they’re unshakable laws of nature. But you’ve already rewritten your fate once. You’re bloody doing it with Slytherin right now. And nothing is stopping you from doing it again.”

Pansy huffed a laugh, though her throat tightened around it. “Only you could make rebellion sound like an academic essay, golden girl.”

“Maybe. It’s a gift.” Hermione’s grin softened into something almost shy. “But I’m serious. If there’s one thing you’ve taught me, it’s that you don’t break, Princess. You bend the world until it fits you.”

Pansy wanted to scoff, to dismiss the words as mere idealism. Instead, she found herself leaning into Hermione’s touch, her chest aching in a way that was both terrifying and exhilarating. “I’ve never been a dreamer, Hermione Granger. You’re going to ruin me,” she whispered.

Hermione’s smile widened, mischievous and warm all at once. “Good. That makes two of us.”

Pansy laughed—an unguarded, almost startled sound that she hadn’t heard from herself in years—before silencing Hermione with another kiss, deep and unhurried this time, like a promise etched in firelight.

“I owe you my life, Pansy Parkinson,” whispered Hermione against her lips, never breaking the kiss that was the reason Pansy woke up in the morning. “And I never forget a debt.”

Whatever Pansy’s response would’ve been, it was swallowed by those lips that she was starting to call home.

Pansy lost track of time while her lips were glued to Hermione’s mouth like a lifeline. Between soft words, harsh clashes, sudden tugs and sharp teeth, time bled endlessly until the fire died, and the only remaining sounds were Hermione’s hums and Pansy’s low purrs.

“Are you going to let me get sleep tonight?” murmured Hermione, against Pansy’s neck… and devouring it as if she’d been starved.

Her throat throbbed at the attention before she could speak. “You tell me, golden girl. It’s you who’s ravishing poor little old me.”

Hermione shifted on top of Pansy, her whole body resting on top of hers. “Can you blame me?” she asked, and then her tongue was on last night’s teeth marks, lapping against the tender skin.

“Not really, but—Merlin, golden girl!—Don’t pretend you want to sleep!” whispered Pansy, resisting the need to make a much more revealing sound with everything she could.

I need her to stop. I need her to go on.

Hermione’s mouth travelled up the slope of her neck until she was right on her face again. Lips hovering over hers, their breaths no longer mingled because Pansy forgot how to breathe. “I just wanted a quick snog,” purred the Gryffindor. “It’s not my fault you’re this addictive, Princess.”

“What you’re pulling is most definitely not a ‘quick snog’. It’s a ‘let me shag you all night long’,” she whispered, covering her eyes with her arm. “Believe me, I have enough experience to know the difference.”

“Are you poking by trying to make me jealous, Princess?” purred Hermione, letting her hands wander for the first time lower than Pansy’s collarbone. “Because it’s working.”

“You’re insatiable,” she whispered against her mouth, rolling them both over and grabbing Hermione’s wrists, pinning them to the mattress alongside her body. “Do you really want this today, golden girl?”

Pansy studied her face and saw the hunger in her eyes… and the intent to disguise a yawn as a tight line on her lips.

I knew it. Between last night and the day she had… she’s spent. But if I outright order her to sleep, she’ll be furious. How can I tell her off without wounding her pride? I want her, but she needs rest more than me right now. Tomorrow morning… We’ll see.

“I do,” purred Hermione, moving her face upwards to kiss her.

Ah, I know.

“Then let’s play a game,” hummed Pansy, looking at Hermione’s curious expression and smirking as a result. She shifted, releasing the Gryffindor’s wrists and escaping from her grasp.

She looks delicious right now, I—No. She needs sleep.

Hermione propped herself on her elbows, eyes gleaming with a mixture of suspicion and hunger. “Go on, then,” she said, looking up at Pansy’s standing frame over her lying back body.

“It’s called Watch Closely.” Pansy let her blazer slide from her shoulders in a careless sweep. It fell to the floor like a dark puddle, leaving her in a green satin shirt that clung indecently. “Your only task is to keep your eyes on me. No touching, no talking. Just watching.”

Hermione’s lips parted, already breathless, already caught.

She’s hooked. She’s mine.

Pansy let the silence do half the work. She drew a finger down her own throat, tugged at a collar with deliberate slowness, baring skin in maddening increments. Her movements were graceful but unhurried, every pause designed to thrum against Hermione’s nerves. Each sway of her hips was almost lazy, like she wasn’t trying at all, yet knew she had Hermione wrapped around her finger.

The Gryffindor’s breath grew heavier, body sinking lower into the pillows without realising it, her eyes glassy but riveted. She licked her lips once, twice, as if trying to stay sharp.

Pansy undid the buttons of the shirt and lazily let the fabric slip down her arms, leaving her only in her simple bra. “Enjoying the show, golden girl?” she purred, smug grin conquering her face when her eyes met Hermione’s. The hunger was mixed with the exhaustion, and the first one was losing to the second.

Hermione gulped and nodded, remaining silent.

I’d be outraged and offended if this weren’t my intention, but… oh well, I’ll make up for lost time tomorrow.

Pansy leaned down just enough to tease a glimpse of cleavage, then straightened, tugging at the ties of her slip. Hermione’s head lolled back, just to be snapped back in place. “Not falling asleep on me, are you?” she mocked softly.

Hermione’s laugh came out as a mumble, slurred at the edges. “Not… bloody likely…” she managed to say, her eyes fluttering, fighting to stay open.

Mmh. We’ll see, love. And she’s not supposed to be talking, but I’ll let it slide this time.

Pansy let the satin slide halfway down her body, then stopped. Just enough to frustrate. Just enough to keep Hermione burning without relief. Just enough to almost render herself bare, but stopping before the Gryffindor’s eyes could find Pansy’s naked breasts.

With perfect timing, she pulled the fabric back up, winked, and said, “Stay put. I’ll fetch us something to make this interesting.”

She swept out of the room with deliberate poise, making sure Hermione’s gaze clung to her until the door clicked.

When she returned, barely a couple of minutes later, Hermione was sprawled sideways across the bed, lips parted, breaths deep and steady, fast asleep amid the tangle of sheets.

Pansy froze in the doorway, then grinned slowly, wickedly.

Perfect.

Careful not to wake her, Pansy started getting rid of Hermione’s clothes so she’d be more comfortable. Silk looked amazing on her, but it was not suitable for nightwear.

“Accio Hermione's pyjamas,” she whispered, and the clothes came flying from Hermione’s room.

Cotton shorts and a sleeveless top—white, with ridiculous little teddy bears. Merlin. She fights battles in silk, but she sleeps like this. Maybe that’s the part she never let anyone else see. That’s so fucking adorable.

Pansy made quick work of Hermione’s remaining clothes before putting her in her nightwear. Once she was dressed and covered, Pansy unclasped the Gryffindor's bra, taking it off with her eyes closed.

There, soundly asleep and comfortable in her pyjamas. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if I… saw her naked again; I didn’t really need to close my eyes while undressing her, but… it somehow felt like the right thing to do. I guess I’m a prude now that she’s my girlfriend; Merlin save me. Or, better yet, someone hex me.

She draped the blanket over Hermione’s bare shoulders. “That’s one game you’ll never win, golden girl,” she whispered against her hairline.

Pansy then turned and opened her wardrobe. Once her eyes found her own nightwear—Hermione’s organisation was both a blessing and a curse—she plucked her silver nightie, stripping down to put it on just after.

And then she carefully joined Hermione on the bed, sighing as soon as the Gryffindor wrapped her arms around Pansy’s waist.

Oh, fuck. I haven’t told her about the duelling lessons—back up. If I almost devoured her when she talked about maths, what will I do when she’s actually acting as my own private Professor? Fuck. Where does this kink of being schooled come from? Merlin, help me. And her. I will not be able to withstand it.

Hermione mumbled something intelligible on her neck, making Pansy shiver.

“Hermione Granger is my girlfriend,” she whispered, closing her eyes and letting sleep claim her. Testing the words as if they were magic, letting them settle into the silent room like a prayer.

And for the first time in longer than she could remember, Pansy Parkinson let herself feel safe.

Chapter Text

Hermione was woken up in the sweetest way she’d ever known: being peppered with kisses all over her face. Lids, cheeks, forehead, hairline, nose, chin… lips. There was no place that Pansy forgot as she showered her with affection.

“Good morning,” drawled Pansy, pulling back. “Did you sleep well last night, golden girl?”

Hermione stifled a yawn. “I did,” she said, her lids heavier than Fluffy. “Circe, I needed this—”

Then it dawned on her: how she fell asleep, how Pansy had dared to tease her and then leave under false pretences.

Last night, she had said she wanted more and had been ultimately ignored by her girlfriend.

Hermione flushed at the memory, at the title and at her own stupidity. She pushed Pansy back, and the Slytherin smirked as if she knew why.

“You tricked me!” Hermione got up from the bed and yanked the blankets covering her girlfriend in anger. “You stupid cow, how could you!”

Pansy stretched her limbs, her nightie inching up her thighs and forcing Hermione to look away before more colour found its way on her cheeks. The Slytherin lifted her brow, dragging out the movement on purpose. “I was stripping for you, and you fell asleep. That’s hardly my fault.”

“It is! I was exhausted but willing, and you vanished to force my hand.” She fell back on the bed, burying her face in the pillow.

“Someone might’ve called that ‘caring’,” said Pansy, suppressing a yawn of her own. “Especially considering how much I wanted to do otherwise.”

Hermione ignored her and reached for her wand, finding it in her nightstand’s upper drawer. Where she always put it before bed. How did it get there? Last time she had checked, it was on her belt, and—

Why was she wearing her bloody teddy-bear pyjamas if she had fallen asleep in her suit? Terrible mistake, as the silk would’ve crumpled easily… but how in heaven—?

Her gaze found Pansy’s, and the witch smirked. “Sue me,” she muttered. “If it makes you feel any better, I undressed you with my eyes closed. Wouldn’t want to spoil any surprises.”

“I hate you with every bone in my body,” said Hermione between gritted teeth, colour rushing to her cheeks.

Pansy beamed. “Please, as if.”

Hermione ignored her and cast a Tempus charm—quarter to seven. She rolled over, so she was facing a very smug-looking Pansy, not caring to cover herself one bit. Her nightie was barely in place, and Hermione closed her eyes, feigning exhaustion to stop the urge to climb Pansy like a tree—a Whomping Willow, judging by past encounters.

“Remind me why I should wake up at the same time as you do, even when I don’t teach here, please,” she said, rubbing her eyes lazily, without daring yet to open them.

“Because you love to get an early start on the day,” whispered Pansy. Hermione felt the mattress creaking as the Slytherin shifted her weight, and the tug of the sheets told her how close she was getting. “And because you’re to be my shadow, per our dear Headmistress’s orders.”

A caress on her cheek. Soft and sweet, almost reverent.

Hermione flinched at the contact and flinched when it disappeared.

“Tell me, golden girl,” purred Pansy. “Do you want a rematch from yesterday before breakfast, or are you content with leaving it until noon?”

Hermione opened her eyes to find the most cocky expression Pansy had ever shown her.

And, Circe help her, the hottest one.

Looking that good on waking should've been illegal.

Pansy was looking intently at her, making Hermione’s insides burn under her relentless gaze. Propped up on one elbow, her hair draping with careless grace in short waves over her cheeks, giving her an ethereal presence that Hermione envied and admired.

Before she could stop herself, her eyes traced down Pansy’s face in a slow sweep. Then lower.

To the perfect slope of that moonlight-kissed neck, showered with marks from previous… brushes.

To the gentle curve where it met her shoulder, the point that made Pansy melt into her embrace.

To the delicate collarbones, bare and taunting, begging her lips with every stolen breath.

To the mesmerising cleavage, the lushest sight she had ever had the pleasure to enjoy.

To the sinful reveal of her left breast, the nightie barely veiling the peak.

Hermione’s blown pupils traced back up again, not daring to travel any lower over that… that…

That wickedly virtuous sight.

Within that body, she lost all rationality.

“Unfair,” she breathed, closing her eyes again, refusing to meet Pansy’s smirk.

“All is fair in love and war,” she whispered in response. “Your actions, not mine.”

Facing that sharp mind, Hermione lost all self-control.

Pansy cupped her face with a single hand, sweeping over her lower lip with her thumb. Giving it a gentle tug, so she would stop biting it down.

Hermione hadn’t even known she was sinking her teeth into it.

“I’ve already told you, golden girl,” purred Pansy, getting closer. “Only I can bite it.”

“Don’t be—”

The words faltered as Pansy’s lips brushed against hers, smugness pouring into the kiss as if she’d won another duel. Hermione’s protest died, drowned by the heat that set her nerves alight.

The caress sharpened into a push. Pansy’s honeyed mouth was claiming hers, coaxing it open, and charming her way inside.

Devouring Hermione as if they were at time’s end.

Not letting her think. Forcing silence. Stealing breath.

Tongues brushing, lips clashing, hands still. It was only a kiss, but it was much, much more.

Pansy’s teeth found Hermione’s lower lip and tugged at it slowly.

Hermione’s fist closed around the sheets, begging for her sanity not to snap when Pansy repeated the motion.

A thread that grew more precarious under Pansy’s relentless pace of conquering her mouth.

But Hermione would not let her see how much on the brink she was.

The thread held, and she clung to it.

Pansy broke the kiss as fast as she had started it and chuckled. “Deny it all you want, golden girl. I know a beg when I taste it.”

Hermione gulped and blushed, incapable of speaking. Her mind was blank; her brilliance shorted out… and her eyes betrayed her once again, moving downwards.

Same pattern. Until she arrived at her chest, where…

Pink, perked. Half-hidden beneath silk, half-exposed to the cool air. Hermione’s sultry groan got stuck in her throat when she tried to choke it down.

She regained some composure and forced her gaze up, only to meet Pansy’s green eyes, regarding her with a knowing spark. “Seen anything you like?” she purred again.

How could her voice sound so velvety, so dark, so smug? So enticing and maddening…?

“Remember our game, golden girl?” she hummed, licking her lips. “Watch Closely.”

Pansy lazily tugged at her nightie strap, sliding it down her arm.

Hermione whimpered when one breast was bared.

She wanted to do so many things to her skin. To her naked chest.

Kiss, caress, bite, lick. Every other verb her mind forgot.

Her girlfriend smirked and pressed her finger against her lips. “No speaking, golden girl.”

Pansy’s hand went back to her breast and started fondling it, moaning as she did.

Hermione’s brain shut down. Shattered into dust.

“Do you want to touch me?” she muttered, arching her back to bring her body closer to Hermione’s.

Her hand left her body to rest on Hermione’s neck, cupping it, her thumb tracing circles on her cheek.

Pansy’s nipples dragged against Hermione’s breasts through the cotton as she inhaled, forcing her breath to falter at first.

And then, to stop functioning altogether.

Pansy inched closer, all smug and confident, drawing them against Hermione again.

Once.

Twice.

Over her thin cotton pyjamas. Tracing slow lines on them. Over them. Against them. She couldn’t pick a description, because all of them fit. She endured it in silence; every drag hardened them.

The fabric didn’t matter. Hermione felt the caress all over her, teasing, restless. She was burning from within, scorching her own skin where they rubbed against her. Going mad over Pansy’s soft cries as she dragged her nipples against her, over and over.

“I said,” she half-moaned, half-hummed, “do you want to touch me?”

Pansy eased back, giving just enough space for her hand to tease her breast again, as it had been doing mere minutes ago.

Hermione swallowed slowly. Closed her eyes, surrendering.

She looked at her gorgeous girlfriend, bare from the waist up.

Nodded.

Timidly, guardedly, as if she could take it back if things took the wrong turn.

But she couldn’t. No one could, not when Pansy was a goddess on earth, offering her body to be worshipped.

She had been defeated.

Why pretend she hadn’t when all she desired was to feel that skin against hers?

She knew it.

Pansy knew it.

Anyone with two eyes and a mildly functioning brain who looked at Hermione knew it.

How she burned for her.

Pansy’s eyes twitched with amusement before her head lolled back as she pinched her own nipple, groaning.

That was the hottest sound Hermione had ever heard. She was incapable of moving, her spine locked, her gaze glued.

Pansy’s throat was bared, and she couldn’t do anything to claim it.

She wickedly leaned in, sharing her breath with Hermione, kissing her mouth once more. Hermione’s eyes were still open, still focused on that hand, playing on a breast that was supposed to be hers to adore.

Pansy licked Hermione’s lower lip before whispering, “It’s a shame we have to get up then.”

She couldn’t believe her ears. Surely, she had misheard her. There was no way—

Pansy rose from the bed with ease, her nightie falling from her body to pool at her feet.

Naked.

She was bare, and Hermione couldn’t touch her. Pansy was out of her frozen grasp.

“Better hurry up, golden girl,” she tutted, turning around to give Hermione a view of her perfect arse.

Pansy dipped lazily to grab her wand from the floor, and Hermione choked.

Her girlfriend could’ve knelt. She bent instead—at the waist—leaving nothing to imagination.

Hermione couldn’t take another second of this, or she’d go up in flames. After seeing Pansy’s whole bottom on full display, she was closer to losing it than she’d ever been.

Touch-starved was an understatement. Scorching didn’t come even close. Desiring to shove Pansy back on the bed and part her thighs didn’t do her thoughts justice.

“Tempus,” hummed Pansy, turning to face her again, swaying her hips. “My, my, we’ve been here for half an hour…”

“Who cares?” barked Hermione.

Pansy shrugged. She was caressing her collarbones with one hand absentmindedly while her eyes darted to the wardrobe. “Breakfast starts in ten minutes,” she said, letting the corner of her mouth go rogue.

“I can live with an empty stomach for a morning, Princess,” hissed Hermione. “Come back to bed.” She patted the mattress more energetically than she had intended to, but she was well past the point of hiding how needy and ashamed she sounded.

Pansy quirked her head, amused. “But alas, golden girl, I can’t,” she drawled. “Besides, something tells me that, were I to come back, you’d have a feast at my expense.”

The Slytherin strutted back to the bed and leaned down a bit, towering over Hermione. Her hand reached for the cotton pyjama’s collar and she jerked it up, pulling the Gryffindor to her feet… and kissing her again. Hard, commanding, and feverish.

“One last, for the way down,” hummed Pansy before releasing Hermione’s collar.

Her knees failed, and she fell on the bed with a thump, covered by the Slytherin’s delighted chuckle.

Pansy regarded her for a beat. “Femme fatale or not, golden girl, I can still make you bend,” she declared, going back to her wardrobe. She looked at Hermione over her shoulder. “Oh, and don’t plan anything for this afternoon: Minerva has ordered you to be my duelling te—partner.”

“You don’t know what’s coming for you, Princess,” she managed to say, her voice raspy.

“Coming? No,” she replied, taking a velvety, dark and dull purple blazer off the hanger. “But change a vowel and I know exactly who will, and who wishes she had.”

Hermione said nothing because she had no more bravado to cover for her non-functioning brain. Silence was her best weapon; exchanging more verbal jabs with Pansy would only result in further humiliation.

And yet, she couldn’t stop herself from muttering a half-hearted: “Fuck you, Princess,” as she bit the inside of her cheek.

She got out of bed, strolled—feigning disinterest without much success—to her room and closed the door with a bang that made the hinges protest, threatening to snap. She was used to being frustrated, one way or another. What she was not used to, because she normally got what she wanted regarding that heat she felt in certain places, was being flustered and frustrated.

Hermione heard Pansy’s thrilled laughter and later her answer, even across the stone wall: “Time and place?”

She ignored her, furious, and darted to the loo to brush her teeth and tame her wild hair.

Despite the minted toothpaste, Hermione felt the lingering sensation of Pansy’s lips long after her mouth had left hers. The flavour of honey, the memory of the only part that Pansy had allowed her to touch.

And, overall, the bittersweet taste of surrender.

The morning routine did not soothe her arousal, nor smooth it into calm as she stepped out of the loo, clean and refreshed. She had spent ten minutes trying—failing.

No, because the ache between her legs was maddening: raw, insistent, impossible to ignore.

In the solitude of her room, where the door remained closed, Hermione decided to take care of it before going down to eat breakfast. Pansy wanted to play? Fine, let her. In the meantime, while the Slytherin toyed—because there was no way that she’d been left unaffected after that… show—Hermione would take matters into her own hands. She’d had enough edging, enough teasing.

No more.

Pansy talked a bigger game than she let her deliver—except when she, for some strange reason beyond the Gryffindor’s comprehension, decided to wreck her mind and obliterate her soul, like that first night with those bloody seven. Since then, nothing. Hermione wasn’t attuned to her teasing dance. Her body demanded more.

It was not lust. It was pure need.

Hermione spared a glance from under hooded lids to the bed, already made and spotless. She bit the inside of her cheek, deciding against that surface—too much of a headache if she tumbled on it and had to make it again.

She tossed her wand onto the sofa cushion, sinking beside it with an unsure gait.

Hermione stilled for a beat—did she really want this?

Yes, if she wanted to remain sane and pay attention to anything else.

She lifted her skirt to her waist, slid her knickers down her legs. The movements were not soft but ragged and sharp.

This had to be quick—but rewarding enough to erase her greedy desire until noon.

Hermione lost no time at all as her hand settled between her thighs, her fingers tracing expertly, touching and filling everything she needed to get even more worked up.

She closed her eyes, lolling her head back, sinking on the feathered cushions. And the images started blooming in her mind at the same pace that heat bloomed within her body.

Hermione’s ragged breaths masked the wet sounds from her movements, and suddenly, it was not her hand coaxing her gasps—her mind conjured Pansy’s, and her heart responded like a thunderstorm, quickening and pushing against her ribs.

Purring, kneeling for her, licking her skin.

It was too much.

Her hips jerked, meeting her hand’s desperate thrust.

Her pace was all over the place, and yet Hermione felt the wave drowning her with every push. Saw its crest, and shuddered with need.

The spell froze as a knock broke through the atmosphere like thunder. Hermione could swear that even the subtle strike of those known knuckles against dark oak sounded smug.

“Do you need help getting ready, golden girl?” said Pansy through the door. “I could lend you a hand.”

Hermione was about to combust. She went still—desperate to hold the pace, to keep building to shatter. “No,” she muttered through gritted teeth, her voice sounding more hoarse than she’d wished. “Be there in ten, Princess. Don’t wait on my account.”

The silence became unbearable, so much so that Hermione thought Pansy had heeded her advice and fled.

Thank Circe for that, because there was no way that Hermione would be able to stop, not after what she had started.

So the witch resumed her… activity. Her pulse thudded from thighs to temples, quickening with every stroke. Her mouth fell open in a silent ‘O’ as she climbed, shuddering on the brink of release.

And, amidst the wave she was riding, a voice like an echo reached her deaf ears.

The release came, swift and demanding, and Hermione muffled her groan with the back of her hand, sinking her teeth into it to keep her voice under control.

“Are you sure? I don’t mind waiting and being… fashionably late,” replied Pansy, unaware of what she was intruding on. The door creaked as she leaned against it, as if the Slytherin was trying to guess what was happening behind it.

With hazed eyes and a limp body, Hermione found the strength to snap her head in that direction, barely capable of moving.

Her chest rose rapidly, her breathing erratic after that… moment.

And then she saw it.

The brass handle started turning slowly, and Hermione yelped.

She could not allow Pansy to see her as she was, dishevelled… and right after a self-achieved orgasm.

Her free hand—no longer on her mouth—shot to her right. Firm fingers curved around her wand, resting on the cushion, and moved it in a swift arc, faster than Harry’s Firebolt. She was too rattled to manage silent magic. She didn’t even whisper the charm.

“Colloportus!” The door locked itself, preventing Pansy from going in. The grip on her wand slackened as the shock ripped through her, forcing the stick to slip from her fingers as if it had been charmed to fly away.

There was a beat of silence.

“Come on, golden girl,” shouted her girlfriend from the other side of the door. “I’ve already seen you naked, you don’t need to cover yourself or anything.”

Hermione’s breathing was now more controlled, even. But she refused to unlock the door. “Go away,” she said, her voice low, raspy, dangerously close to a plea.

Pansy waited a couple of seconds. “What are you doing in there that’s so—Oh.”

Hermione blushed, perfectly aware of what her girlfriend knew. Of what she’d just done. Her hand was still, but still there. And Pansy had figured it out so bloody fast—

Heat still clung to Hermione’s skin, but now it burned for another reason. Not desire, but exposure. Embarrassment.

“Don’t, golden girl,” she said, her voice low, almost a growl. “Don’t tell me you’re touching yourself while I’m out here.”

Hermione ignored her, flushed cheeks burning, and pulled her fingers out, gasping. She slowly got up from the sofa, careful not to accidentally brush her blazed skin against anything. The air was already too bloody scorching.

She got naked, went to the loo, and washed her hands.

Hermione splashed her face, trying to un-flush her cheeks—failing.

There was no possible escape: she put her hair up in a messy bun and jumped in the shower, praying that Pansy had left her alone and decided to have breakfast with the other professors. Her girlfriend had been skulking just yesterday about someone nicking her favourite flavoured jam; maybe she’d gone to the Great Hall to make sure no one stole it again.

Hermione welcomed the freezing water, letting it slide on her sizzling skin.

Two minutes of peace before she scrubbed herself clean. Wetness dripped from her, and lush images flashed behind her eyes that she erased sponge-sweep after sweep.

Hermione wrapped her body in a cotton towel and went back into her room, silently unlocking the door when no sound came from the other side of it.

Pansy was gone, much to both her disappointment and relief—

Then the front door of her room—not the one that connected it to Pansy’s—burst open, and her girlfriend ran inside, her hands gripping Hermione by her shoulders.

Nails leaving another set of brand-new crescents on her skin.

“You’re a fucking cheater, Hermione Granger,” she snarled.

“No, I’m a relieved woman,” she bit back. “If you don’t know how to finish a job, Princess, don’t expect me to wait until you figure it out.”

Pansy’s nails dug deeper crescents into her shoulders. Hermione jerked back, wrenching free, clutching the towel to her chest as if it were armour.

She watched Pansy’s jaw clench, fingers twitching in the air. “And if you don’t learn how to deal with denial, don’t blame me when you’re incapable of keeping up,” she hissed. “Did you finish, at least? Or were those clever hands of yours not clever enough?”

“None of your business,” growled Hermione. “Breakfast started fifteen minutes ago. Better hurry before your jam’s gone; wouldn’t want both your breakfasts ruined.”

“Keep pushing my buttons, and blueberry be damned—I’ll eat you out until you beg me to stop,” she replied, taking a step towards her until they were almost touching everywhere. Towering over Hermione, Pansy grabbed her chin, tilting her head up to meet her murderous gaze. “And don’t think I’ll waver. I’ll make you come again and again until you’re wrung dry.”

A choked sound caught in Hermione’s throat.

Pansy released her hold on her chin with a flourish. She then turned and strutted, her hips swaying, until she reached the doorframe, leaning against it, and facing Hermione once more. “Get dressed.” Her eyes dipped slowly from her girlfriend’s hairline to her feet, and her lips pressed in a thin line.

Hermione clutched the towel covering her as if it were her most prized possession.

“Not while you’re looking at me like you want to devour me,” said Hermione, darting back into the loo to grab her clothes.

Pansy followed her. “Fat chance then: I always want to,” she drawled. “Every fucking second, I’m trying not to part your thighs and bury my face in between. And there’ll be a time when I snap.”

Hermione gulped. “Then why aren’t you ravaging me already?” she inquired, her voice dull and even. She lifted her brow in defiance. “Are you perchance still deciding whether to punish or worship me?”

“There’s not much difference in my book,” she muttered, crossing her arms, leaning against the white tiles. “Besides, if you want to put your foot down, golden girl… try not to sound thrilled at either prospect.”

“I’m not—”

“Excited?” interrupted Pansy, lifting her brow. “Then why are your pupils blown and your cheeks flushed? They were perfectly normal when I walked into your room.”

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek. “Go away, Princess. I’m no longer in the mood to put up with your bratty behaviour.”

“There’s only one brat in this relationship, and it’s not me,” whispered Pansy, squinting.

Hermione stared her down. “Then quit snapping and do as you’re told, or you’ll just be proving me right. Leave.”

Pansy leaned in. “Fine. But next time you dare to touch yourself, you’ll do it in front of me.”

“Keep dreaming,” hissed Hermione.

Pansy smirked, squaring her shoulders. Her stance was threatening in its own right, as if it were her right to be obeyed. “I wasn’t asking.” The tension was so thick that even the sharpest of knives couldn’t have cut it. “See you at breakfast, golden girl.”

And, with that threat, she was gone.

She clenched her fists. “I’ll kill her,” she muttered to the empty room.

Hermione had taken care of herself—proudly. But the taste that lingered on her tongue was honey and surrender, now soured by shame.

She hadn’t done anything wrong. In fact, she had done it phenomenally, given the extenuating circumstances.

And yet, there she was—embarrassed by her own achievement.

She sighed, got dressed, grabbed her wand—where the bloody hell had she thrown it after that locking charm?—and started walking towards the Great Hall.

Well, at least her girlfriend was right on one thing: ‘Being fashionably late’, Pansy had called it. As for the rest of that last exchange… Pansy was wrong. So mistaken that Hermione doubted whether her girlfriend knew her at all…

Or worse, whether Pansy knew her better than she knew herself.

Breakfast was painfully dull. Pansy had whinged when she found no blueberry jam waiting for her, Neville and Hannah were nowhere to be seen, Harry was busy reading Teddy’s letter, and Cho and Luna were deep in conversation about why Ravenclaw’s animal was an eagle and not a transfigured crow.

And when the bell announced the imminent beginning of classes, Hermione had followed her girlfriend to the Dungeons. Pansy had smirked and hummed lewd comments and filthy menaces as they turned a corner and found themselves alone.

That, she had grown accustomed to, and even enjoyed the thrill. But things took a turn when Pansy toyed with a subject, striking a chord with Hermione.

Away from lost students and earnest professors, Pansy grew bold and whispered threats and promises to Hermione, with kiss-swollen lips ghosting along her jaw. She couldn’t understand it all, because rage had deafened her to the purring—something along the lines of Hermione not being allowed to touch herself without putting on a show, because her orgasms were Pansy’s alone to enjoy.

The Gryffindor snapped.

She had had enough of it all.

Hermione shoved Pansy against the wall and grabbed her by the throat, pinning her as if she meant to sink her into the stone.

Hard enough to choke, soft enough not to bruise.

“I bloody told you, Pansy,” she warned. “I won’t touch myself for your amusement. I’m not your marionette, and you’re not my puppeteer.”

Her girlfriend tried to interject, but Hermione’s hold tightened, her thumb steady, measuring pressure like a scalpel, not a fist.

“No, I’m speaking, you’re listening,” she growled. “I won’t be at your beck and call. I enjoy our banter and our… bedroom life. A lot, to be honest. You push me to thrive every time we butt heads, and I’m not ashamed to say how much I relish it. How much I enjoy you.”

Pansy smirked, and Hermione glared at her, effectively erasing that smug grin from her girlfriend’s face.

“But I draw a line at performing for anyone. And if you ever try to push me again to do it—if you ever so much as hint or threaten me with that…” she continued, feeling the fire in her veins fuelling her every word. “Circe help you, Pansy—You’ll find yourself locked out of my bed for a so long that eternity will feel like a blink.”

Hermione’s heartbeat echoed in her ears, and her vision was blurred, still red with fury.

“This is not a challenge for either of us,” she went on, not waiting for a reply. “I don’t enjoy it in the least, so I’m not doing it.  I’ll spar with you, but I won’t perform for you.”

Hermione wasn’t allowing Pansy the space, the time, or the air to muster enough words to form a sentence; her hold was tight enough to force submission, not enough to harm.

“Have I made myself clear?” she asked, finally taking a step back and releasing her neck.

Her girlfriend gulped, carefully rubbing her throat where Hermione had dug her fingers in. “Yes,” she said at last, sounding… uncharacteristically small. “You don’t need a reason to stop something, Hermione. Ever,” she whispered. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to give me a motive, because you don’t. A simple ‘no’ is reason enough, and I’ll listen every time.”

The sheepish look in Pansy’s eyes was a dagger to Hermione’s heart, and so were her words.

“But I feel that there’s something rooted deep in your mind; you’re not merely thrown off by the idea of me watching you… You’re repulsed by it,” continued Pansy, still unsure. “May I ask… what is it? You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

The insecurity of her voice startled her. Hermione faltered, the red wash of anger peeling back. She had wanted to be heard, not to frighten her—and yet there she stood, sounding like the very people who once tried to control her.

The thought made her stomach churn.

Hermione shook her head, determined to undo some of the damage caused by the unnecessary ruthlessness she had displayed.

She pondered the answer, trying to gather her thoughts and explain to Pansy the why, instead of just expecting her to do as she asked.

The edges of her vision were going back to their normal colours, no longer heightened and blurred.

“Since I was eleven, everyone’s wanted something from me. I grew up with eyes on me, drowning me in expectations I couldn’t always fulfil. I can’t enjoy myself if I feel like I’m performing for someone. I hate it,” she surmised, not completely sure of her words.

Circe, she had sounded like her younger self, just fresh out of Hogwarts and starting in the Ministry—desperate to be heard, desperate not to be used.

Hermione’s heartbeat slowed, shame prickling in where fire had been, and her gaze met the floor, bleeding with insecurity.

Her voice lowered to a whisper. “When you ask me that, I feel like I’m putting on a show, as I’ve done countless times before. I can’t bear it anymore—I loathe it with my whole soul, Pansy.”

“I didn’t know,” murmured her girlfriend, tucking a curl behind Hermione’s ear. “I’d never ask anything from you knowing you’re not actually willing. I thought you were… being difficult for the rush of the chase. I’m sorry for being pushy.”

Hermione’s hands fell, and with them the fire. What replaced it was colder, prickling—guilt.

Her fury melted at Pansy’s genuine worry, at her care. “I wasn’t,” she said, meeting her eyes with shyness. Hermione thought she knew what was about to come—anger or mockery from her girlfriend at the chokehold—but she needed to apologise anyway. Too rough, too commanding. “Sorry about the… neck. I shouldn’t have been that aggressive—”

Pansy’s low chuckle went through her bones. “Merlin, don’t apologise. If you hadn’t been baring your soul, golden girl, I’d have told you straight: you looked fucking hot with your hand on my throat.”

Hermione pushed the arousal that threatened to take over her mind once again aside—would every morning feel like that, beside Pansy? That intense, mixed, needy.

She tilted her head, studying her girlfriend as if she were learning all of her secrets. “You’re strange, Pansy Parkinson.”

“How so?”

“You want to control me, yet melt whenever I challenge you.” Hermione exhaled slowly, tasting the words as if they were betraying everything she held true. “Are you sure you’re not secretly rooting for me to tame you?”

She expected a sound ‘no’, a remarkable ‘as if’ dripping disdain. But Pansy looked at her like Hermione had undressed her very soul, and the Gryffindor’s breath hitched ever so slightly.

And just like that, the mask was back, and Pansy was untouchable again. Fleeting as it had been, she had just been bared only for Hermione’s eyes. Her reply came as a soft purr, all faux-confidence and sharp demeanour.

“We’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we, golden girl? Who becomes the puppet… and who the puppeteer.”

Hermione stared at the blank parchment, trying to come up with the right words for her statement to the press.

The incident at St. Mungo’s is spreading countless rumours
about me and my close ones. I’m here to clarify them […]

No, that’d fuel the rumours further. It had enough bite to hook readers, but perhaps it relied a tad too much on it. She wasn’t trying to fuel a gossip magazine, but to put out a serious statement.

Somehow, it all flowed when she had been talking to Kingsley, but words grew scarcer with every ticking second.

The Ministry is addressing the Cleansers’ threat
with swiftness and determination […]

Hermione crumpled the parchment, just because she needed some way to decompress the fury. That beginning was too bland, too soft. It needed to punch harder from the first sentence.

“Evanesco,” she muttered, flicking her wand in a fast and tiny flick. The failure of a statement vanished, leaving another blank parchment to haunt her.

She sighed and met Pansy’s gaze ruefully. She still felt bad about shoving her girlfriend; it didn’t matter that the Slytherin had assured her it had been a very… impactful and revealing experience.

Pansy was teaching the sixth-years the Draught of Living Death. She’d paired the students, as always, breaking up the Houses: Slytherin meeting Ravenclaw on equal footing.

Hermione’s eyes swept the whole class: the atmosphere was relaxed, not filled with laughter but not quite clouded with animosity.

Just two months, and it was painfully—blissfully—evident the effect Pansy had had on the students: even the most proud ones—in both Houses—were openly cooperating without snarking.

Selene Selwyn was careful, her movements measured while she instructed her classmate, Ravenclaw’s Quidditch Captain Rose Moon. Was Hermione imagining the sparks, or did the little snake shake her hand when her fingers had grazed the smug eaglet’s?

She stored the thought away. None of her business.

Hermione’s eyes found Pansy; she studied her the way she’d just studied that odd pair—really, since when did Quidditch duty and Prefect righteousness mix that well?—toward each other, like two planets orbiting but never colliding.

Pansy grinned, amused at Hermione’s greedy noisiness, strutting her way.

“What’s on your mind?” Pansy’s spine was straight as an arrow, her posture impeccable, commanding the respect of a Slytherin Professor at her best, a seasoned professional. “You look two seconds away from hexing someone or your parchment. Maybe both.”

“Shouldn’t you be teaching?” asked Hermione, throwing a Muffliato so no one would hear their conversation… just in case.

Pansy shrugged unceremoniously. “They have their instructions, and all of them got at least an E on their O.W.L.s. Eaglets and hatchlings can manage without me for a minute, while I check on my esteemed colleague—” Pansy leaned in, her voice lowering to a whisper so only Hermione would hear. “—or should I just say ‘my girlfriend’?

“You’re worse than a dog with a bone, Princess,” she hissed with a relaxed smile, putting her quill down.

“If I were a man, I’d have a bone any time I was in the same room as you.” Pansy studied her nails while she delivered that line, all poise and composure drilled in every fibre of her being. How could she say something like that, in the middle of class, and still make it sound like poetry?

Hermione rolled her eyes, concealing what Pansy’s words had achieved: her heart drumming. “Aren’t you supposed to be pretending to loathe me in front of students? Safer for you and your standing as an Icy Snake Queen, and all that.”

“I couldn’t care less about the position, except the ones I plan to bend you into later,” she whispered. Although her words were worthy of an unholy purr, Pansy kept her voice sharp, brittle, as if she were explaining Potions theory instead of promising filth with every syllable.

No student turned to look at them, but Hermione’s cheeks flushed slightly. She tried to cool them with her hands, earning a low chuckle from her girlfriend. Pansy’s teacher’s tone dropped then to a hum, almost as if she were speaking to herself.

“I’d loathe my blood sooner than you, golden girl,” she said, hinting at something raw but covering it up behind sass. Pansy sighed, taking a step back from the heat she had created and looked at the blank parchment. “Trouble with prose?”

Hermione bit her thumb, her mind forgetting the banter and focusing on the dread she felt. “Yes, exactly that. Plain and simple. I know what I want to say… and yet words seem to be playing hide and seek every time I try to come up with them.”

She curled her fingers around the quill, glaring at the parchment like she could scare the words into appearing.

Pansy tilted her head, all effortless poise. “You know, love, you don’t usually have this problem.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed, bracing for an impact that would rattle her. “Excuse me?”

“In casual conversations, in declarations at the Ministry, in the Wizengamot… in bed—” Pansy’s smirk was immediate, unrepentant. “—you never shut up. Words trip over themselves just to fall out of your mouth. Always. You command attention by just existing.”

Hermione groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “That’s not remotely helpful. This is not a speech, it’s almost an affidavit.”

“Mm, maybe not.” Pansy tapped a finger against the parchment, leaving no ink but plenty of irritation behind. “But it’s curious. When you speak, people listen—even if they hate every syllable. On paper?” She shrugged, sharp and careless. “Suddenly, you sound like a boring Ministry memo. And people don’t go for forgettable when you’ve made them be used to remarkable.”

Hermione bristled. “I’m trying to be careful. I don’t want it to be too much.”

“Careful’s just another word for dull, love.” Pansy leaned closer, her honeyed perfume curling around Hermione’s senses. Her voice dropped low, wicked but brittle at the edges. “When you talk, you make people feel small. Or proud. Or furious. Or brave. Whatever it is, it’s never nothing. And—”

A student’s hand shot up, interrupting Pansy’s speech. She turned at once, her mask as a competent teacher back in place.

“Professor, can we ask you something? We’re having a bit of a… disagreement.” Selene’s voice was a cat’s claw—retractable: soft-paw caress one moment, terrible scratches the next. “I know what the instructions are, but—”

Rose rolled her eyes. “She thinks she knows better than the book how to brew this.”

Hermione studied Pansy’s arched eyebrow with devotion before her girlfriend spoke. “What instructions are we referring to?”

Selene’s cheeks flushed, but she kept her eyes glaring at Rose. “The Sopophorous Bean releases the juice better if we crush it instead of cutting it.” She looked at Pansy, expecting her to corroborate this information, but the Professor stayed silent. “I know it does,” she insisted.

“That’s a… common yet unacknowledged variation,” concluded Pansy. “Popularised by none other than Severus Snape.” Selene beamed, smacking Rose’s arm. “Not Ministry-approved, though—”

Pansy’s eyes twitched with amusement for a beat, looking at Hermione. Was she trying to get into a fight with the Senior Undersecretary? Because Hermione would oblige, she’d pounce.

Then Pansy snapped her gaze back to her students. “—That’s why I’m not at liberty to… teach it. But… off the record? You’re right, Miss Selwyn,” she concluded. “For the exam, follow the book. For mastery, know why the variation works.”

“Told you!” said Selene, smiling at a very unimpressed Rose.

Pansy shushed them before going back to her table, her eyes regarding every cauldron as if looking for danger in any of them. When she seemed satisfied, she started reading their essays, not sparing Hermione a glance.

Infuriating, yet… perfectly normal.

Hermione was a mess—weak, at that. Pansy, as a teacher, rattled her far more than she let it show. She was caring, competent, elegant, polished… So bloody good it twisted something in Hermione’s chest. Jealousy, she told herself. Anything but the other thing tugging at her ribs.

“Well, if it’s a forbidden method, how should I have known it?” bit Rose back, loud enough for Hermione to hear.

The Gryffindor shook her head and chewed at her thumb again, glaring at the parchment. Pansy’s jab still echoed: ‘Careful’s another word for dull’. She had the fire in her chest, but every time she put quill to parchment, the words turned into Ministry mush.

At the far bench, Selene Selwyn frowned at her cauldron. “It doesn’t have to be perfect, but the best method isn’t always the one advertised,” she muttered, more to herself than to Rose. “It just has to be true to the recipe, even if we branch out to follow it.”

Rose chuckled, stirring the potion. “You’re mad, Selwyn. But mad is interesting.”

Selene gave her a withering look, but the line hung in Hermione’s ears like a charm.

Not perfect. Just true.

Hermione sat back, quill poised in midair. That was the missing piece, wasn’t it? She wasn’t writing a polished Ministry decree. She wasn’t smoothing her edges for Rita Skeeter. She just needed to write what was true—her truth, no one else’s.

She bent forward, ink pooling at the tip of her quill. The first line spilt onto the parchment, sharp and certain:

I will not allow rumours to speak in my place.

A small note found its way next to her inkwell. She opened it. Perfectly written, calligraphy pristine, cursive and beautiful.

There’s the Gryffindor bite.
There’s my girl.

Hermione looked up at Pansy, but the Professor didn’t seem to be paying her any mind. Her eyes were glued to an essay, her quill a prisoner between her soft lips as she graded it.

Hermione knew better. Knew her girlfriend was always paying attention.

The Gryffindor didn’t look up again after that. For once, the words weren’t running from her—they were racing to catch up.

She tucked the note away, keeping it in her shirt’s chest pocket, as if it were a charm, a blessing… And started writing.

I will not allow rumours to speak in my place. You might know me by many names, by many titles: War Hero, one of Hogwarts’ brightest alumni, current Senior Undersecretary, High Inquisitor.

Some are accurate, some exaggerated.

But none speak for me.

My true name is just Hermione Granger, and today I address you directly.

The group calling itself the Cleansers has brought violence into our homes, businesses, and hospitals. Their actions are not resistance. They are crimes, driven by blood prejudice and fear. The Ministry has investigated them from the beginning, and, under Lead Investigator Auror Ronald Weasley, that work is progressing without delay.

Questions have been raised about the incident at Diagon Alley that preceded the events at St Mungo’s. The explosion was their doing, and it almost killed two people. Had it not been for Pansy Parkinson’s quick reflexes, they would have achieved their purpose.

Later, when she was being tended to at St Mungo’s due to her injuries, another confrontation, completely unrelated to the Cleansers, unfolded. There was confusion, violence, and choices made in the heat of the moment—choices that endangered lives, including my own. What matters is this: spells were cast, blood was spilt, and only the swift action of Hannah Abbott-Longbottom and Pansy Parkinson prevented greater loss.

Rita Skeeter will twist these events into stories of allegiance or scandal to sell papers. Let me be clear: she is lying. She will say that I sympathise with the Cleansers, that I have abandoned my duties, and that my presence at St Mungo’s was due to some ulterior motive rather than demanded by honour. These are lies.

I have never stood, nor will I ever stand, with the Cleansers. I have not abandoned my duties. And no private gesture in a corridor changes the truth: the only reason anyone walked out of that ward alive is because others stood against violence, not with it.

My private life is not a stage for their lies. My public duty remains unchanged: to pursue security and justice without fear or favour. I stand for peace, for accountability and, where appropriate, restorative justice. For order.

I do not claim perfection. But I claim my name. I am Hermione Granger. I will continue to do my work—at the Ministry, at Hogwarts, and in the fight against those who believe fear is strength.

The public deserves truth, not whispers, not distortions. This is mine. And no one will speak for me again.

Hermione cleared the room with a neat sweep of her wand. Desks slid to the walls, the wards she’d set earlier hummed to life, and a chalk strip divided the floor into clean halves. Order first. It steadied her hands and, today, steadied the rest of her.

This was bound to be challenging: out of all the teachers, why her? And out of all the students, why her?

A pairing made in heaven.

Or hell, depending on how much Minerva counted on Pansy actually learning something. Didn’t the Headmistress know how… easily distracted Pansy got when she was around?

The door opened without a knock. Of course it did. She’d learned that lesson this morning, it seemed.

Pansy arrived with a waistcoat, a mouth like a dare, and the kind of perfume that travelled on the air and behaved like it owned it. She shut the door with her heel and leaned against it as if they had all day.

“If you’re planning to ravish me with footwork, do make it quick,” she said. “I skipped my precious snack time for this.”

Hermione lifted her brow. This was going to be a disaster. “We were late to breakfast, and you didn’t care then,” she said, wand low. “Don’t pretend you care about some silly appetiser when they don’t serve blueberry jam.”

“You know me so well already. Have you been studying me?” drawled Pansy, jerking forward with a step towards Hermione. Menacing.

The Gryffindor regarded her, unimpressed. She was used to her theatrics. “You will not be late again.”

“Oh, I’m right on time. Don’t make such a fuss, love.” Pansy’s eyes skimmed the chalk line, then Hermione. “I like what you’ve done with the place. Very… disciplinary. When do we start?”

Hermione clenched her jaw. “Feet on the line, Professor Parkinson.”

Pansy’s chin tipped—defiance, habit—and then, surprisingly, she followed suit. Hermione didn’t know which looked hotter on her: obedience or insurrection. She stored the thought for later. She was there to teach, not to thirst over… her.

Hermione stepped in and took her wrist, turning it so the wand aligned with the forearm.

“Knees soft,” she instructed. “Weight forward. Shoulder down.”

“You’re bossy. I like it when you are,” breathed Pansy, and Hermione felt the pulse under her fingers kick. “I do so love extracurriculars.”

“Beware of your stance, Prin—Parkinson,” she said, letting go before she forgot why she was touching her. “I’ll make you an offer: Ten seconds. Think you can survive them?”

“Survive?” Pansy’s smile sharpened. “I was hoping to conquer.”

Hermione smirked, regaining some confidence. “Conquer? As if. You need to learn how to crawl before you can run.”

“But I thought you liked me when I crawled for you, golden girl.” Pansy was using that velvety voice that drove her mad. The bedroom voice. “Would you like a demonstration right now? I think I can crawl where you want me and manage ten—” She licked her lips and looked at her through hooded lids. “—strokes before you crumble.”

“You’ll need to survive first,” hissed Hermione, recoiling. The distance between them felt like a blessing and a curse.

Her pulse thundered: too fast. Her muscles protested: too stiff. And still, she pushed through anyway.

If she didn’t, the lesson would soon turn into another entirely different kind of exercise. And it wouldn’t involve wands.

They began. Pansy’s shield came up too flat. Hermione’s Expelliarmus kissed her knuckles and sent the wand skating. It clattered against the stone; Pansy watched it go, affronted and clearly aroused by her own affront.

When she bent down to grab it, Hermione used a silent Accio to summon it to her palm, and Pansy froze mid-dip.

“You’re cruel,” she told her, rising and then strutting her way. “If you wanted me close, golden girl—” Her finger traced Hermione’s throat, lowering until she was skimming the collarbone. “—you only had to ask.”

The Gryffindor batted the hand away unceremoniously and offered Pansy the wand without muttering a word.

She accepted it back with a smirk. “Am I rattling you? What happened to my playful girlfriend...? Is she suddenly too shy to make an appearance for yours truly?”

“I’m not shy, but precise,” said Hermione once Pansy was over her chalk marks again, at a safe distance. “I’m doing this to keep you safe. Do take it seriously, Princess. If not for your sake, do it for mine. Let’s go again.”

“Stupefy,” snapped Pansy, faster this time before the duel had even begun; Hermione lazily angled her shield and watched the bolt singe the ceiling. Pansy followed with a nonverbal jinx that fizzled. Her mouth tightened. Hermione almost said something kind… and didn’t. She sent instead a tidy Impedimenta; Pansy’s ankles snagged, and she went down.

Before she kissed the floor, Hermione used a cushioning charm so the fall wouldn’t hurt her… and to show off a little.

Pansy’s arse hit the floor with a hiss.

She lay there, hair loosening, eyes very dark. “I am going to disarm you,” she said conversationally, like a weather report. “And then I’m going to take you somewhere with a door that actually locks.”

Hermione offered a hand. “We both know you struggle with doors.”

Pansy took it and didn’t let go. “I don’t struggle," she hissed. “I simply prefer them closed when your legs are open and I’m in between.”

Hermione ignored the flick of heat low in her belly. “I can always tell what your next move will be,” she said, not feeding the fire. “You’re telegraphing with your eyes before you throw a jinx.”

“I can’t help that my eyes enjoy your… instructions,” said Pansy. “Perhaps stand closer so I can study the correct stance—”

Hermione stepped closer because she had to adjust the elbow anyway, and because she hated herself a little.

“There, there,” purred Pansy. “I like it when you obey.”

“Take this seriously, Princess,” snapped Hermione, flat voice, poise for ages and squinted eyes. “Take it seriously or tonight we won’t share a bed.”

Pansy froze, her bravado dropping faster than Luna's ability to hold a serious conversation. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would. It seems it’s the only way for you to work with me, and I’m not in the mood to peel your clothes off while I’m angry,” declared Hermione, stepping back to her chalk line.

Pansy bit her lip. “You can totally angry-fuck me then. It’ll calm you for sure.”

“Your hand will be the only thing shagging you tonight if you keep this up,” said Hermione, trying desperately not to give in. Why was her body so eager to drop all pretences and do what Pansy was inviting her to?

She took a breath, shut her eyes, and listened to her heartbeat until the rhythm went back to normal. Then she looked at her girlfriend, still high and smug.

“If I disarm you, you’ll let me kiss you however I want.”

Hermione tilted her head. Maybe she could give her the option, so she’d go all out and finally try to improve. Dangling a carrot for a snake? Child’s play. “Just one kiss?”

“One. Cross my heart,” replied Pansy.

“Fine, Princess. But you won’t make it.” Hermione’s hand shook a little. She forced it to stop. She wouldn’t lose this duel, or any other. Not even at the prospect of a kiss she craved.

“Got any advice?" asked Pansy, perked up and finally taking the lesson—somewhat—seriously.

“Use what you’re good at,” she said, pointing her wand at her. “You don’t muscle a potion into behaving. You set a chain in motion so it fits what you wish to accomplish.”

“You’re telling me to cheat,” said Pansy, delighted.

“I’m telling you to think.”

Pansy faked a yawn. “That’s much worse.”

“Shut up and disarm me, Princess,” she drawled before flicking her wrist to begin.

They reset. Pansy breathed in and let her gaze go unfocused, finally listening to the part of Hermione’s voice that gave orders without volume. Smoke—Fumos—bloomed between them. A clipped Ventus shoved it toward Hermione’s face. Hermione banished it mid-step—

—and a silent Jelly-Legs Jinx slid under her shield. It brushed, but did not catch. Hermione anchored her stance with a blink of magic and found, to her irritation, that she was smiling.

“There you are,” she said. “But I’m still holding my wand, and you didn’t hit me straight. Again.”

Pansy’s mouth curved. “Reward me later,” she murmured, lifting her wand. “When I earn it.”

“Survive ten seconds and I’ll even throw in an extra: I’ll buy you the blueberry jam.”

Pansy made a noise that would have scandalised the portraits. “You keep promising me dangerous things, Hermione.”

“Footwork,” replied Hermione, but her voice wasn’t as crisp as it should have been.

They moved through drills. Hermione’s corrections were quick touches—wrist, elbow, the set of Pansy’s hip—and each one cost her… just a little. Pansy learned in bright, stubborn inches. Shields were angled instead of bracing. Nonverbals sparked, sputtered, then caught. Her mouth was pure mischief whenever she managed anything at all.

Between bouts, Pansy flexed her fingers and cocked her head. “Does the Headmistress know you’re this… thorough? Have you even talked to her about it?”

“No, but I know Minerva. She would’ve wanted it this way,” said Hermione, steady. “I wanted it to work.”

“And you like watching me try.” It wasn’t a question. Pansy’s voice softened, not to sweeten—Pansy didn’t sweeten—but to allow. “Say it.”

Hermione should not have. “I like watching you get better.”

Pansy’s breath hitched, small and real, the sound of armour deciding not to clang. Then she gathered herself and set the world tilting again. “Good,” she said. “Witness me, golden girl.”

“Your best has been six seconds,” warned Hermione, raising her wand. “Still believe you can make it to ten, Princess?”

“For your lips?” purred Pansy. “I’ll stretch it to twenty.”

“Prove it.”

Pansy feinted high, snapped low, then—Circe—stepped inside Hermione’s reach on purpose, close enough that Hermione felt the heat of her. “If, perchance, I do get your wand in the near future—” murmured Pansy, eyes on Hermione’s mouth now. “—I’m going to make the most irresponsible use of school property in recorded history.”

Hermione parried on muscle memory. Her heartbeat wasn’t helpful. “Focus now, mischief later.”

“I am focused, golden girl,” she replied, her eyes slowly tracing Hermione’s mouth again and again.

The honey scent was bloody maddening, curling around her, pulling her towards Pansy despite Hermione knowing how bad an idea that was. “I meant on the duel, not on me,” she whispered.

“Who says I can't do both?” said Pansy. She sent a Rictusempra threading neatly along the rim of Hermione’s last-second-cast shield. It skittered like champagne bubbles against her ribs, and her laugh broke out before she could stop it, clean and horribly helpless. Pansy’s grin flashed—victory, desire, victory again.

Her leg gave out for a scary instant before she regained balance.

Hermione cut it with a viciously tidy Finite and returned an Expelliarmus that plucked Pansy’s wand into her palm with humiliating ease.

“Bully,” breathed Pansy, flushed and—Circe help Hermione—very pleased.

“You were overconfident,” she stated, pressing the wand back into Pansy’s hand. She let her fingers linger for the smallest beat; she wasn’t a saint, and her control was wavering more than a flag on a windy day. “But that was the correct thread. Sequence first, triumph later.”

“Do I get a pity kiss at least?” offered Pansy, hopeful. “We could be terribly late to everything if you keep refusing.”

“Kisses are for winners. You get homework,” said Hermione, more briskly than she felt. “Five minutes of stance in front of a mirror. Ten of shield angles—watch the deflection, not your face. Three nonverbal charms cast before breakfast. Do not overdo it.”

“Before breakfast?” Pansy’s eyes went wicked. “What do I get if I’m obedient?”

Hermione pretended to think, mostly so she could breathe. “The jam. And… my undivided attention.”

“Fine,” said Pansy. “I’ll do it naked with your eyes on me every morning. And don’t worry, I’ll be exactly, exquisitely on time and inflict that punctuality upon you.”

They faced each other again. Pansy adjusted her feet without being told this time. Hermione felt the change—small, important. Maybe she’d even get to ten seconds now. She wouldn’t be able to disarm her, but ten she could do—if Hermione was feeling generous.

She wasn’t.

“Ready, Princess?” she asked.

“Yes,” answered Pansy, and this time the word didn’t perform; it belonged to her.

They moved. Pansy tried the smoke trick again, but cut it short, slipping in a soft-voiced Confundus like a hand under a hem.

Clever.

Hermione diverted it and punished the attempt with an Impedimenta that would have toppled anyone not prepared for humiliation. Pansy wobbled but did not fall.

Almost nine seconds.

Hermione ended it with the same clean theft of the wand because some lessons had to end clean. She was starting to see why Harry loved Expelliarmus that much.

“Eight and a half,” said Hermione, and allowed herself a smile. “You’ll hit ten this week if you keep at it.”

“Better be prepared, then, golden girl,” she whispered. “If I reach ten, I’ll disarm you. And it’ll be the best kiss of your life.”

“The bar’s already sky high, unless you’ve been slacking on me.”

The wards hummed like they understood English. The air felt a degree warmer.

Pansy’s eyes softened in the way that always undid her far faster than any bravado.

She tucked a curl behind Hermione’s ear with her free hand—outrageously quick, disarmingly reverent. “I always have one more trick up my sleeve,” she said. “And you'll always be dying to know what it is.”

“We’ll see.” Hermione flicked her wand; the wards thinned, and desks drifted back to their exact places. Practical magic, a lid on a simmering pot.

At the door, Pansy paused with her palm on the brass. “You are terrifying when you’re kind,” she said without turning. “It’s very bad for me.”

“It’s very bad for me too,” admitted Hermione, because she thought she’d earned the right to be honest once per lesson. “Same time tomorrow.”

Pansy looked back, entirely wolfish now that the door was open and witnesses theoretically existed somewhere beyond it. “Try to stop me, golden girl.”

“Bring your best,” said Hermione. “And your mirror.”

“What about my mouth?” suggested Pansy, taking one exquisite step backwards into the corridor.

“Your mirror. You’ll learn stance by looking at yourself, since ogling me won’t help you learn,” repeated Hermione, refusing the bait with an effort that felt visible. “It does nothing.”

“It does wonders,” said Pansy, smirking. “Just not the ones you’re aiming for.”

“Go now, Princess. Before you say something you regret.”

Pansy went, laughing under her breath, pleased enough to see her own reflection in it. When the door clicked shut, Hermione let her head tip back and exhaled. The chalk line across the flags was smudged where Pansy’s feet had finally settled true.

Progress was measured in inches. Sanity was measured in self-control. And a promise—foolish, thrilling—humming in Hermione’s hands where she’d held Pansy’s and not dropped her wand.

A kiss that wasn’t, but was bound to be… when Pansy learned how to disarm Hermione physically. Because… disarming her mentally? She didn’t need to learn what she already knew.

Two afternoons later, the wards hummed, the chalk line was fresh, and the last two minutes of their session were bleeding out of the clock. Pansy had just dragged a clean nine and a half from the jaws of humiliation, and Hermione could taste the difference in the air—hotter, sharper, closer.

It was driving her mad.

Pansy was a relentless teaser, but never quite finished what she started. Since that first night—four days ago—when she’d made Hermione reach heaven seven times, all Pansy had done was promise and not deliver.

A kiss that hummed and melted Hermione’s bones here, a caress that left her breathless there, a scorching look that forced her heart to stop beating whenever their gazes met.

But then, Pansy always found an excuse not to follow through.

They shared a bed and exchanged heated kisses on it. Shameless snogs when no one was looking in dark corridors. Hands under hems that left no marks, as they recoiled before it became too much.

Except it all was already too much. Hermione had been used to no sex for years, but now the dam was broken, and she had no way of stopping the current.

Pansy had either vanished, delayed, or skimmed over her desire like a master at work.

It didn’t matter what Hermione did; kiss her, saunter naked in front of her, match her energy, bait her. Pansy always found a way to escape her grasp and leave her wanting more. Always on top, even when she was beneath Hermione.

It was rattling her beyond what was humanly possible, and her body felt like tinder, one spark from flame.

Hermione outright refused to calm her urges by herself, as it all felt like a test from Pansy.

And she wouldn’t lose.

She’d break Pansy instead.

“Again,” said Hermione, walking back to her chalk line, her gait not betraying how much she wanted to strut the other way.

“Ambitious,” murmured Pansy, resetting her stance. “Is the kiss promise still in play?”

“You’ll get the jam at ten,” said Hermione, deadpan. “And my undivided attention, as advertised.”

“Tempting as that is, that wasn’t my question,” she replied.

“Disarm me and you’ll see.”

Pansy’s smile went positively feral. “Don’t overpromise and then underdeliver, golden girl.”

Hermione scoffed. “Don’t be overconfident when you’re underachieving, Princess.”

Pansy snarled and moved. She feinted high, snapped a nonverbal low, and—bless her—didn’t look where she was going to cast. Hermione countered, angled, corrected, and was still prepared when Pansy did something new: she stepped in. Not to preen—Hermione would have punished that—but to crowd the angle, to force a choice between perfect form and the heat of her breath against Hermione’s cheek.

They stood locked like that for two seconds. The Gryffindor’s wand was terribly still against Pansy’s jaw, but she couldn’t find it in herself to end the duel.

Because ending it meant distance, and her body rebelled against it.

“That’s ten seconds, golden girl,” whispered Pansy, her breath hot on Hermione’s cheek. “Give me my reward.”

“Cheater. Homework first,” countered Hermione. Too fast, too crisp.

Pansy leaned, not quite touching. “Or,” she hummed, wicked and sincere all at once, “we test my nonverbals the practical way.”

Hermione gulped, and her wand left her girlfriend’s frame to point at the top drawer of the desk. “Blueberry. Prepared in advance.”

Hermione crossed to the desk and took out the toast spread with jam, leaving the plate on the table. Pansy’s eyes gleamed, and just when her fingers were about to curl around her prize, Hermione snatched it away.

“Hey!” snarled Pansy. The Gryffindor ignored her pleas and took a bite, moaning loudly as if it were the most delicious taste in the world. “That’s mine!”

Hermione finished the toast under Pansy’s razor-sharp eyes. “You didn’t win. I let you go over nine, because you were growing tired.” She licked her fingers clean of any trace of jam. “But you know, deep down, you don’t deserve this.”

“I didn’t think you were coward enough to go back on your word,” said Pansy promptly, voice low, eyes flicking to Hermione’s mouth with catastrophic intent. “If you won’t give it to me, I’ll take it in other ways.”

Hermione should have stepped back.

The bell chimed, indicating the end of the hour.

The lesson was over, and the wards fell.

So Hermione, instead of recoiling, met Pansy’s gaze. Steady, unwavering.

She really should’ve stepped back.

She didn’t. Pride, restraint, all the scaffolding of her day tilted. “There’s no more blueberry,” she managed.

“There is,” countered Pansy. “Your mouth will still taste like it.”

“You didn’t disarm me. I still have my wand,” warned Hermione.

Pansy agreed with a subtle nod. “But I made it to ten. And you still have my blueberry.”

Tension snapped—in the good way, the way that felt like they were choosing themselves at last. Pansy caught Hermione by the lapels and hauled her onto the nearest desk, mouths meeting with all the argument they hadn’t had time for, precise and ruinous. Pansy’s knees bracketed Hermione’s hips; Hermione’s hand bracketed Pansy’s jaw; Pansy’s fingers slid into Hermione’s hair and held, greedy. It wasn’t soft. It was honest.

Hermione’s back protested on the desk, and the toast’s dish broke as she tossed it out of the way.

“Blueberry. Mine,” breathed Pansy against her mouth, hazed and reverent.

“Not in here,” said Hermione, and kissed her again anyway, because she was allowed one mistake per day and she chose this one. “The wards are down, someone could—”

Pansy yanked her hair, and her lips started tracing her bared throat. “I don’t give a fuck.”

Hermione’s low moan betrayed her as Pansy’s mouth found her collarbone and sucked. “Pansy, please—”

Her girlfriend looked up, meeting her hazed gaze. “I love it when you beg.”

“You—Oh, fuck!—You have waited days, can’t you—” Pansy’s hand unbuttoned Hermione’s trousers while her tongue was tracing runes on her cleavage. “—wait until we get to our—”

“No,” she growled, and her fingers got under the hem of her pants, just shy of her knickers. “I can’t.”

And just as Hermione was about to surrender to the stupidity of it all, just when she was sure she’d finally broken Pansy into really touching her—

The door opened.

“Hermione—”

They tore apart, but the damage was done: Pansy’s legs were still bracketing Hermione’s hips; Hermione’s fingers were still tangled in Pansy’s hair; Pansy’s hand was still under Hermione’s pants.

Both of them were flushed and breathing like they’d sprinted the length of the Quidditch pitch.

Hermione turned, wand already half-raised out of reflex, and found Ron in the doorway, hair windblown, expression frozen somewhere between apology and horror.

“Merlin’s—sorry,” he blurted, eyes doing frantic, gentlemanly loops between ceiling and floor. “McGonagall said you had a free slot for the Auror liaison meeting—something about the St. Mungo’s statement and its outcome—didn’t realise you were—er—busy.”

Pansy did not remove her hand—Thank Circe he couldn’t see it from the door.

Of course she didn’t. She turned her face slightly. “She is, Weaselfeet,” said Pansy pleasantly. “Exquisitely.”

“Pansy,” warned Hermione, soft and lethal. Pansy’s hand recoiled in slow motion, closing the button of her pants as she did without Ron noticing.

Her fingers squeezed Hermione’s shoulder in apology. She subsided, but only just.

Hermione straightened, tugged her waistcoat closed with one efficient flick, then pushed Pansy back carefully so she could rise.

Enough to breathe like a professional, despite the circumstances. “Knock next time, Ronald. Even Aurors need to learn protocol,” she said, and hated that her voice wasn’t as steady as she wanted. “I’ll be in the staffroom in five minutes.”

Ron’s eyes, when they finally settled on her face, were kind in a way that made her both grateful and irritated. “Right. Sorry. Again.” He backed out like the room might bite him and shut the door very carefully.

Silence stretched; even without wards, the room seemed to hum its disapproval. Hermione stared at the place where Ron had been and willed the blush down.

“This just got interesting,” murmured Pansy at her ear, unbearably pleased. “Reckon he’ll be jealous, or aroused? Two women kissing is very high on male lists.”

“Shut up,” said Hermione, failing to keep the snark out of it. She smoothed Pansy’s collar, thumb brushing a kiss-swollen lip with shameless affection, then tapped the waistcoat to vanish a dusting of chalk. “Mirror work tonight.”

“No. Not tonight,” promised Pansy. “Tonight, you’re my homework, golden girl.”

“I’m leaving to pick up James, Albus and Lily.” Hermione lifted her wand; desks slid back into place like they hadn’t been witnesses. “I can’t tonight.”

Pansy hopped down from the desk with infuriating grace and, as she passed, stole one last, quick, secret kiss from the corner of Hermione’s mouth. “It’ll have to be quick then.”

“I doubt you can manage that,” she hummed, grabbing Pansy’s jaw to kiss her properly.

Her girlfriend smirked when she stepped back. “Oh, but I can, Hermione. You have no idea of how fast I can make you come undone,” she warned. “To reward your patience before we part ways for the weekend,” she breathed, taking another step back. “One hour. My room. Don’t be late, or you won’t come as many times as you deserve.”

Pansy slipped out without waiting for a reply.

Hermione refused to believe that her words were true. Her girlfriend had lied too many times these last days to really trust her.

She couldn’t risk being disappointed again by the relentless tease. She couldn’t dare to hope Pansy had finally decided to—She bit her cheek, cutting through her thoughts.

Better that way, because if the Gryffindor were to take her word for it…

No, she couldn’t. She had a last-minute meeting on that Friday afternoon.

Hermione pointed her wand at the shattered dish, muttering a Reparo and then a quick spell to send it back to the kitchens, unscathed. There was no reason to leave it there, as broken as her own desire.

Hermione took one steadying breath, checked that her lips didn’t look like a confession, and went to meet her ex-husband with her head up and her wand exactly where it belonged.