Chapter 5Notes:I don't know how these chapters keep getting longer and longer, but here we are again :D Thank you so much to everyone reading, commenting, and leaving kudos. Hope you enjoy this chapter!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter TextIt's been six hours since Hermione replied to her parchment pal.
Well, six hours and twenty-seven minutes, but who's keeping track?
(She is. She's keeping track.)
Conversation flows relaxed and easy throughout the Gryffindor common room, but Hermione is decidedly neither of those things. She's sitting stiffly on a squashy, red couch, her chin resting on her knees and her eyes trained on her parchment.
Harry and Ginny are seated beside each other on a neighboring couch, shoulder to shoulder. They made their relationship official three weeks ago to both Hermione's delight and Ron's immense discomfort. But Harry and Ginny have so far been careful to avoid anything that might alienate Ron. They studiously avoid displays of affection, they wait until he's out of the room to discuss dates, and they've made it clear that their relationship won't get in the way of their friendships. Little by little, Ron is warming to the idea of his best mate dating his sister, and while he still eyes them with wariness from time to time, he's more or less settled into the new dynamic. Which is why he's currently sprawled out comfortably on the floor in front of the fireplace, propped up on an elbow as he recounts the story of a long-ago Christmas mishap to the three of them.
Harry laughs loudly at something Ron's said, startling Hermione out of the broody silence she's been stewing in for the past few minutes. With considerable effort, she manages to drag her eyes away from her parchment and back to Ron, who's grinning broadly.
"Every last one of them!" Ron is saying, his eye shining as he regales them with one of Fred and George's long ago exploits. "To this day, we don't even know how they managed to do it. Nine-years-old, and they managed to buy twelve Stink Pellets! Where did they get the money?"
"My question is how'd they manage to get them into the Christmas crackers without anyone noticing they'd been tampered with?" Harry asks.
"No one knows," Ron says, his voice reverent. "I've asked them, but they refuse to tell me. Say they can't give away the tricks of the trade, whatever that means."
"It means they're planning to sell them in their shop so they can profit off other wankers torturing their families on Christmas," Ginny puts in with a fond eye roll.
"Sounds about right," Harry says. "Speaking of…how'd your Mum react?"
"Oh, you know Mum. She's nothing if not cool and collected," Ron says, with a sly smile.
"She marched into the living room and cast Bombarda on every single one of their presents," Ginny says, grinning at the memory. "All that was left was a little smoldering pile of ash under the tree where their gifts had been. Dad was livid. Said they weren't made of money, so why couldn't they just return the gifts, rather than destroy them?"
"Mum said it was the principle of the thing," Ron says. "But Fred and George couldn't have cared less—the whole house smelled of Stink Pellets for a week, and that was the only Christmas gift they needed."
Harry laughs, and Hermione makes an effort to smile and look engaged, but her traitorous eyes stray once more to her parchment.
It's still blank.
Restlessly, she taps a finger against the arm of the couch, tuning out from the conversation once more. She's starting to feel somewhat desperate, which is honestly ridiculous, and she knows it. She lost any right she had to be impatient when it took her two days to answer her parchment pal's message.
Heat that has nothing to do with the crackling fireplace in front of her crawls up the back of Hermione's neck as she remembers the distressed messages she had received.
I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Robin. I truly never meant to hurt you. Please say something. Anything.
I miss you.
And God, had Hermione missed them, too. Desperately. Two days without their voice in her life had felt like an eternity.
But she hadn't missed them at first. After she had read the initial message, she had been upset. Upset and humiliated and confused that the person she had trusted so deeply could have been leading her on in such a spectacular manner. Even after a night of sleep and a re-read or two (or three, or four, or five…) of the message, Hermione had remained unreasonably bothered. She had spent an entire day brooding and snapping at anyone who asked her what was wrong, and every little thing had set her off. When she saw Neville writing a message to his parchment pal at breakfast, her glare had been so intense that Ginny had to nudge her and mutter Neville's our friend, remember? When Harry had noticed her lack of interest in her parchment and asked why she wasn't spending time with her boyfriend, she had gone on a lengthy rant about the dangers of assumptions. And when her rant was finished and Ron had muttered must be her monthlies to Harry under his breath, she had scrambled to find her wand to teach Ron that there were repercussions to tone-deaf and sexist remarks.
By the next evening though, Hermione had cooled off significantly and had finally taken the time to think logically about the situation. And when she was done, she realized what an absolute fool she had been. Worse than that, she had been cruel. Her parchment pal had been enormously brave, and she had responded with icy silence. Had she witnessed anyone treating another person that way, she would have been absolutely furious and leapt to their defense. But in this case, there was no one to be furious with but herself.
So she was. Furious and ashamed. And that shame had fueled her to finally reach for her quill and start penning a long overdue message. It had taken her ages to figure out what she wanted to say. And once she had finally found her rhythm, she had been interrupted by Parkinson, sticking her nose where it didn't belong. But by the time she had finally sent her reply during her free period after Potions, she was more or less content with how she had handled the situation. More than anything, she had hoped her parchment pal would be sympathetic as to why it had taken her so long to reply. And even though her parchment is still blank, she's still somewhat optimistic that they'll be understanding.
That she'll be understanding, Hermione thinks, hastily correcting herself.
It's an odd switch to make, considering that she's spent the past month absolutely convinced the voice on the other end of her parchment belonged to a man. And not just any man—the man of her dreams.
Which is of course another reason why Hermione had been so taken aback by the message. Because for the first time in her life, she had had actual feelings for someone. They had started slow, but over the past month, they had blossomed into something she had never expected, creeping into her carefully guarded heart like wild growing ivy. And once the feelings had taken root, all logic had flown out the window. Gone were the days of second-guessing herself over whether or not it was wise to have feelings for a voice on a scrap of parchment. Instead, she had welcomed the feelings with open arms. And truth be told, she had never been happier. She'd catch herself humming on her nightly patrols, beaming at students who were out past their curfew before remembering she was supposed to be enforcing said curfew; she'd recall a joke her pal had made and find herself grinning at her dinner plate like a fool, while Harry and Ron had looked on with matching frowns; she'd think about her parchment pal first thing in the morning, when she was still heavy with sleep, and last thing at night, when her thoughts turned soft and dreamy.
So to have the entire fantasy turned upside down with the stroke of a quill…
It had been…confusing, to say the least. And was still confusing, if she's being honest. Because as much as she wants to deny it, the feelings are still there, lurking deep down inside her. But she knows that there's a logical explanation for that. After all, it's not the sort of thing you can just turn off and be done with, like a light switch. Feelings that strong don't happen every day, so naturally, it'll take time for her to recalibrate and adjust to the new dynamic between the two of them. That's all it is.
…Right?
Hermione's knee bounces restlessly as she thinks about it, the same question ringing in her mind that's been there for the past two days—should the feelings have gone away immediately? Is it strange that they hadn't? And if they hadn't, could that mean…
"Hermione? Are you alright?"
Hermione lifts her head quickly to find three sets of eyes, watching her curiously.
God, she hopes her cheeks aren't as red as they feel.
"Yes, sorry. Just a bit distracted," she says, repositioning herself on the couch and wincing as she straightens out her legs. "You were saying something about Christmas crackers?"
Harry and Ron exchange a look, and Hermione knows she's been caught out. "Yeah, like…three minutes ago," Ron says, raising an eyebrow. "A bit distracted?"
"Perhaps more than a bit," Hermione admits quietly. Her eyes tick down to her parchment, and when she glances up again, Ron's rolling his eyes.
"Ah. Still obsessed with that thing, then?" he asks, having clocked her glance. His voice is gruff and the tips of his ears are turning pink, and Hermione sighs, readying herself for the conversation to come.
Over the past few weeks, Ron's grown to despise Hermione's parchment pal. It hadn't started out that way—he had been interested in them at the start of the experiment. He had asked questions and had seemed eager to figure out who Hermione was talking to. But the more invested Hermione had become, the more annoyed Ron had grown. Snide remarks became the norm, and now, it's reached the point where anytime Hermione so much as brings out the parchment in his presence, he turns surly and petulant. It's why she generally tries to answer their messages (her messages, she corrects) in private. But right now, she's so on edge and so worried that she's botched everything that she doesn't particularly care. If Ron wants to be upset, she'll manage.
Tonight, the parchment is staying in her eyesight.
"I'm not obsessed," Hermione says. "And I'm sorry. I am listening, it's just…I'm waiting for a reply to something."
"Aren't you always?" Ron grumbles, picking at a loose thread on his jumper with a scowl.
Harry gives Hermione a little wince, like he's apologizing for Ron's outburst. "Anything interesting?" he asks, keeping his tone light.
Hermione fidgets a bit under his gaze, but manages a shrug. "No, not really. I just…I asked them something…something rather delicate, I suppose."
"Ooh," Ginny says leaning forward, her eyes flashing with interest. "Hermione Jean Granger. You didn't."
"Didn't what?" Hermione asks with a puzzled frown.
"You finally told him you're interested?" Ginny asks.
Almost immediately, Ron makes a strangled, violent sound, somewhere between a cough and a yelp.
Ginny rolls her eyes at him. "Alright then, Ron?" she asks dryly, raising an unamused eyebrow as Ron devolves into a small coughing fit.
Once he finally gets a hold of himself, he glares back at Ginny. "Don't encourage this," he says, his face flushed. "You don't know who's on the other side of that paper. It could be anybody," he stresses, his eyes narrowing as if he's considering every single suspect on the long list of dodgy people Hermione could be talking to.
"Honestly, Ron. She's talking to a Hogwarts student. You're acting like we're all penpals with nutters in Azkaban," Ginny says.
"It could be a future Azkaban nutter, for all you know! And in case you've forgotten, Quirrell was a professor. Just because it seems like it's on the up and up, doesn't mean it is, and I think we'd all do well to remember that."
"Please. You're just being paranoid," Ginny says.
"I'm not! Harry agrees with me. Don't you?" Ron asks, turning his gaze swiftly and expectantly to Harry, who seems to shrink back against the couch cushions.
"Oh, does he?" Ginny asks, turning her head to study Harry, who somehow manages to press himself even further into the couch, as if he's hoping it will take pity on him and swallow him whole. His gaze darts between them and he looks a bit like a trapped mouse caught between two predators. Finally, he glances at Hermione with panic in his eyes, and she sighs heavily, deciding to save him from his predicament.
"It doesn't matter what Harry thinks, and to be frank, it doesn't matter what you think either," she says, gazing sharply at Ron, who seems to wilt under her stare. "You seem to have forgotten that I'm my own person, and I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself."
"I haven't forgotten. I know all that," Ron replies earnestly. "I'm just trying to protect you."
"Oh, spare me. What is this, the Dark Ages?" Ginny asks. "Women don't need protecting."
"That's not what I mean! You're purposefully twisting my words. It doesn't have anything to do with the fact she's a girl. I'd look out for Harry in the same way," Ron says. "It's just dangerous is all. You don't know who you're talking to. Like what if…what if you're spilling all your deepest, darkest secrets to Malfoy?" Ron asks, looking at Hermione somewhat desperately.
Harry scoffs and shakes his head. "Impossible. Hermione's got better taste than that. She'd know if she was talking to a Slytherin wanker."
"Mm. Besides, Malfoy would only talk about himself. Or his father," Ginny says, dropping her voice to imitate Draco. "He couldn't manage an actual conversation, even if you paid him."
"That's not the point," Ron says, rubbing the back of his neck in frustration. "Even if it's not Malfoy, it could still be anybody. And you're giving them a whole arsenal of information to use against you."
"Oh, yes, I'm sure they'll be able to do irreparable damage, now that they know I like sticky toffee pudding," Hermione says, rolling her eyes. When Ron continues to desperately stare at her though, she sighs. "Honestly, you're getting yourself worked up over nothing. I haven't told them anything that could be used against me. And I know more about them than they know about me, if that makes you feel any better."
Ron grumbles something that sounds like it doesn't, but Hermione doesn't care to ask him to repeat it. Before she can glance down at her parchment again though, Ginny says, "now then! If Ronald's done with his little temper tantrum, can we get back to the matter at hand?" She leans forward and says, "did you tell him you're interested?"
Heat prickles again on the back of Hermione's neck, and she's acutely aware that they're all watching her—Harry and Ginny with interest, Ron with wariness. "No," she says hesitantly, looking down and rubbing the fabric of the couch absently, all while refusing to make eye contact.
Ginny huffs in frustration. "Well, why not? You clearly are, and there's no doubt he is," she says, gesturing toward Hermione's parchment. "You should tell him how you feel."
Hermione feels the heat from her neck spread to her cheeks at the implication, but before she can reply, Ron mutters, "you know, just because you two are coupled up, doesn't mean everybody has to be."
"Obviously," Ginny says, rolling her eyes. "And no one is saying otherwise. But the fact of the matter is, he makes her happy," she says, gesturing toward Hermione's parchment. "Which is a fat lot more than you're doing right now with all your bloody paranoia."
"I'm not being paranoid! I'm being a good friend," Ron says, thrusting a hand through his hair in frustration. "Why is this so difficult for you to comprehend?"
"Oh, honestly," Ginny says, anger flashing in her eyes. "You're not being a good friend. A good friend wouldn't keep harping on the same thing, even after Hermione's said she's perfectly capable of taking care of herself. What you're being is a judgmental prick."
"I'm not—"
"And more than that," Ginny says, refusing to let Ron get a word in edgewise. "You're throwing yourself some ridiculous pity-party because you can't stand that your friends have found people to be interested in and you haven't. Honestly, just because Lavender saw sense and decided to stop letting you maul her every two seconds doesn't mean you get to be a massive bellend."
Ron turns bright red and glances at Hermione with apologetic eyes before turning his gaze back to Ginny. "I didn't maul her, we were dating! And I'm not being a bellend," he says hotly.
Ginny scoffs. "You were hardly dating, you were together for two weeks. And yes, you're a bellend, and it's annoying. Hermione's happy, you twat. And you're her friend, so you should be supporting her. Instead all you've done from day one is borrow trouble and try and put doubts in her head, which isn't something an actual friend would do. So why don't you do yourself a favor and stop? Try supporting her decisions, for once. Because she's old enough to make them without you sticking you nose in and offering your unsolicited opinion. Is that understood?" she asks. Her eyes are narrowed and her head is tilted to the side, and in that moment, she both looks and sounds uncannily like her mum.
Ron turns beet red, perhaps cowed into silence by Ginny's resemblance to their mum. Instead of continuing to argue his point, he simply shrugs and glares at the floor, seeming to give up the fight for now.
Hermione spares Ginny a small, grateful smile, which Ginny returns.
Frankly, Hermione's still surprised that Ginny had been so quick to support her burgeoning relationship with her parchment pal. Because of all the people to want Hermione and Ron together, Ginny had always been the most vocal. But the past few weeks of Ron fooling around with Lavender, coupled with Hermione's very obvious interest in her pal seem to have made Ginny reconsider her stance. Ever since, she's been pushing Hermione to drop subtle hints that she's interested in her pal, while simultaneously berating Ron for his appalling lack of taste.
(Ginny's words, not Hermione's.)
And while it's become blindingly apparent to everyone that Ron is immensely jealous that his friends have romantic interests while he doesn't, it's even more apparent that Ginny has completely run out of patience and sympathy for him. It's why she's leapt to Hermione's defense anytime she happens to be around when Ron starts to glower.
Hermione had asked her two weeks ago why she was so quick to berate her own brother, and Ginny had shrugged. "He missed his chance," she had said, simply. "He could have asked you out, but he didn't. So he doesn't get to act like the world's biggest arsehole about it when you have the audacity to be interested in someone who's actually showing interest in you, too."
"I thought your end goal was for me to be an official member of the family, though," Hermione had said, tilting her head curiously.
Ginny had rolled her eyes fondly. "Don't be daft. You already are. With or without Ronald."
Hermione had been ridiculously touched, and ever since then, she's been quick to show her appreciation whenever Ginny jumps into battle against Ron on her behalf.
"Right, then! Now that the big baby has settled down…" Ginny says, clapping her hands together and startling Hermione out of her memories. She glances up to find Ginny's eyes on her, bright and expectant. "No more distractions. I want an answer. Did you tell him? What did he say?"
Hermione frowns and reaches for her long-forgotten mug on the table and takes a sip of her cold tea. It's honestly revolting, but she needs to buy herself time while she ponders how to reply.
She is going to tell them. She'll tell them everything, eventually. But right now, she doesn't want to face the reactions she knows she'd get—wide, surprised eyes from Harry, disappointment from Ginny, and a palpable sense of relief from Ron. Considering she's still grappling with her own feelings from the fallout, she doesn't think she could handle theirs.
Swallowing the tea with a slight grimace, she shrugs. "It's nothing like that." She reaches for her wand and taps the tip to the bottom of her cup lightly, watching as tendrils of steam rise and curl from her now-hot tea. Lies fly through her mind as she takes another sip and tries to settle on a story that sounds believable, but not gossip-worthy. Finally, she decides on one. "I just asked if they'd like to meet in person," she says, as nonchalantly as she can manage.
"You did?" Harry asks, his eyebrows raised in surprise. "That doesn't sound like you. What happened to degrading the assignment is wrong and quite frankly, against the whole spirit of the thing?" he asks, his voice pitched up to mock hers.
"Right, or and besides, we don't need to meet in person. We're enjoying things as they are," Ginny adds, settling against Harry with a grin
"Can't forget doesn't the secrecy give you a thrill? There's something refreshing about communicating like this," Ron adds, seeming to forget he's sulking long enough to join the mockery.
Hermione glares at all of them. "Perhaps the reason I asked to meet in person is because I'm desperate for a friend who isn't a complete tosser," she grumbles.
Harry laughs. "Oh, come off it. Those were decent impressions. Uncanny, really."
"Hardly," Hermione says with a snort.
"Fine, fine. We'll work on them," Harry says with a grin. "But really, though," he adds, leaning forward with interest. "You asked them to meet?"
Hermione's hands tighten around her mug as she nods, hoping they can't tell that she's lying.
All things considered, it's a believable enough lie. After all, it's not as though people can't meet their parchment pals in person before the three months are up. They're just not supposed to. But like the other, smaller loopholes in the parchment's concealment charms, this one had been discovered a few weeks ago and abused ever since. All students have to do is sprinkle a thinly veiled invitation to meet up throughout their message, all while avoiding specific days, times, and places, and they're able to evade the parchment censors. It's a massive oversight, but one the professor's can't seem to figure out how to fix without calling off the entire experiment. Eager students had jumped on the opportunity, and McGonagall had been forced to make a special announcement, strictly prohibiting parchment pals from meeting before the three month time period had elapsed. Anyone caught breaking that rule was automatically disqualified from their house's tally.
The threat has only been semi-successful; Hermione's only heard of a handful of people who have been caught and punished. But strangely enough, it seems as though most students are content to let this particular loophole alone. Most participants seem genuinely interested in the process and have made no attempts to meet their pals before the three month mark. Even Ron had shrugged and said what's the hurry when Hermione had broached the subject with him.
And that's certainly how Hermione feels about it. There was something magical about the entire process—no preconceived notions, no biases, no outside influences. Just her, her bard, and their messages.
So yes, while the opportunity is there, Hermione and her parchment pal have refused to take advantage of it.
But that doesn't mean she can't cling to it as a plausible story.
"Why do you want to meet? You'd risk house points for this person?" Ron asks, suspicious now that the amusement has worn away.
"I don't know," she says with a small shrug. "It was just an idea. I wanted to broach the subject and see how they felt about it. Two months is a long time to wait."
"Little less than two months now, though," Harry puts in.
"Yes, but still. And it doesn't have to be immediate. I'd just rather meet them for the first time face-to-face, rather than see their name show up on my parchment. I don't know why, but that feels a bit…anti-climactic, don't you think?" Hermione asks, surprised to find a kernel of truth hidden in her lie. She hadn't thought about it until now, but she'd much rather meet her parchment pal for the first time face-to-face.
"Not really," Ron says. "You'll find out one way or the other. And for what it's worth, I don't think you should be risking house points over this," he adds, his tone vaguely supercilious. "What if we end up losing the House Cup, all because you had to meet this person two months early?"
"Oh, since when are you the purveyor of justice and righteousness?" Ginny says, tossing Ron a dirty look. "Hermione's not stupid. She won't get caught. And if we lose the House Cup, it won't be because of her. It'll be because you lost us sixty points when you decided to transfigure Malfoy's bag into a massive bloody cockroach," Ginny says, rolling her eyes when both Ron and Harry grin at the memory of Draco, scrambling to get the huge roach off of his back.
"If memory serves, you bought me a butterbeer for that," Ron says, smirking at Ginny.
"All I'm saying is, the House Cup isn't riding solely on Hermione's shoulders, and it's daft to act as though it is. So if she wants to meet him early, she should." She turns to Hermione and glances at her parchment. "But he hasn't replied yet?"
Hermione follows her gaze and almost spills her tea all over herself.
There, shining in silver ink, is a reply.
Immediately, she sets her mug aside and grabs at her parchment.
"Suppose that answers your question," Harry says with a laugh.
"I just don't understand how he sends one message, and suddenly the rest of us are completely inconsequ—"
Ron's complaint fades into the background as Hermione tilts her body away from them. The sounds of the common room fade away as she starts to read.
Robin,
Your reply was more than I could have hoped for. Not many people would be understanding of what I've told you. That's putting it mildly—most would go out of their way to be cruel. And yet, you didn't. I had hoped you wouldn't, of course, but I learned a long time ago never to trust people. Even those you're closest to.
You certainly have an uncanny knack for surprising me. In every conceivable way, it would seem.
And I did tell you to take as much time as you needed, so I certainly can't fault you for that. I understand why you needed to take two days—it's not easy adjusting your views, is it? Especially not ones you've held onto so tightly.
If it's any consolation, know that I'm struggling with the same thing right now.
That said, I find that I don't want to stop talking to you, either. Even though things may be different or hard going forward. And I must confess, I may be a bit…stilted in the days to come. I suppose it comes with the territory when one is relearning how to interact with someone. But I'm happy to make the change, so from here on out, our messages will be strictly friendly. I'll be on my very best behavior.
(Hermione tries not to focus on why that sentence makes her feel curiously disappointed.)
But that said, I'm afraid I have to end my note prematurely. I'd like to write more, but my cat has decided the most comfortable seat in our entire common room just so happens to be my hand. As you can imagine, it's a bit awkward to write with just the one. Perhaps this is his way of telling me to take an early night—you wouldn't believe the day I've had. Do you ever reach the end of a particularly long day and feel as if you've aged thirty years, all at once? I'm afraid that's my current lot in life. I have a feeling that I'll wake up tomorrow and be greying, saddled with a dead-end job in the Ministry, and wearing horribly sensible shoes.
I hope you'll still want to know me when you eventually see me for who I am.
(By which I mean, a middle aged, Ministry flunkey in dingy brown penny loafers.)
Enough about me, though. How was your day?
Your (suddenly ancient),
Bard
Hermione exhales slowly. The knot that's been slowly tightening in her chest all day has loosened somewhat at her parchment pal's familiar voice, but it's not completely gone. Because there's something about this message that reads differently, and it's making her feel uneasy. There's still the same, familiar dryness, and she hadn't seemedupset by Hermione's late reply…
Hermione frowns, skimming over the letter again. She can't quite put her finger on it, but it almost feels…
Stilted, that was the word her parchment pal had used. It feels stilted. Perhaps it's just the lack of flirtatious comments that's throwing her off balance, but it almost feels like her parchment pal is trying to navigate a completely new relationship with her. Which is preposterous—they were friends before the messages had turned flirtatious. It stands to reason that they can make the switch back without any issues.
The strange pang of disappointment zings through Hermione once more at the thought, but she pushes it away. After all, there's no reason for her to want to continue flirting, now that she knows her parchment pal is a woman. And any disappointment she may be feeling over the change…well, it was as her parchment pal had said: it's not easy adjusting views.
Especially not ones that had taken over her mind and filled her heart to the brim.
"Well? What did he say?"
Hermione glances up to find Ginny watching her with interest. She takes a moment to both remember the lie she had fed to her friends, as well as to create a plausible conclusion to said lie. Slowly, she puts the parchment back down on the table and picks up her mug, gathering her thoughts. "I think we're both eager to finally meet in person," she says slowly, "but it would seem my parchment pal is more cautious about breaking the rules than I am. They requested we continue corresponding via letter for the time being."
Ginny's face falls, but Ron looks delighted. "Sounds like a sensible bloke," he says, which is the first kind thing he's said about Hermione's parchment pal in weeks. He sits up straighter and grins. "D'you reckon it's because he's hideous and he just doesn't want you to find out yet?"
"Honestly," Ginny mutters, glaring at Ron.
"No, really! He's probably squat and sweaty and covered in spots. Balding too, I'd bet. Not that there's anything wrong with that, mind you," Ron adds, giving Hermione something that resembles an encouraging smile. "If anyone can look past that and see the good inside, it's you."
"And what, you think you're a prize?" Ginny asks sharply, glaring at Ron.
"I didn't say that, I just said—"
Hermione tunes out the rest of their argument as she glances back toward her parchment, a small frown creasing her brow as she skims over the words. She doesn't want things to be awkward between the two of them, but she's worried she's changed their dynamic for good. But there was no other option; she had to request the change. There was no way she could have continued flirting with her parchment pal, all the while knowing it was a woman on the other end. Just thinking back over some of their earlier messages makes something strange simmer deep down in her gut, and she shifts uncomfortably on the couch, hoping the unfamiliar sensation passes quickly. While she waits for it to pass, she takes a sip of tea and reassures herself for the hundredth time that she made the right choice. Because as hard as it was to tell her parchment pal they'd have to change the cadence of their messages, she couldn't have kept flirting with a girl.
…Right?
"Hermione?"
Harry murmurs her name quietly, as to not draw any unnecessary attention. He's scooted away from Ginny and is now seated on the far end of the couch. Ginny and Ron are none the wiser, still fiercely arguing with each other.
"Hm?" Hermione hums, keeping her voice low.
"Are you alright? You look a bit…flushed."
Hermione absently raises a hand to her cheek, pressing it against the overheated skin. "Oh. I suppose I am. Probably just the tea," she says, taking another sip.
Harry glances at her mug with a raised eyebrow. "Must be scalding," he says, amused.
"It's… " Hermione trails off and glances at him. He's watching her with a small smile and she knows he doesn't believe for a minute that her lukewarm mug of tea is the reason for her flushed cheeks. "I'm fine," she finally says. "Just…thinking about something, I suppose."
"You seem to be doing that a lot more nowadays. Anything I could help shed some light on?"
Hermione starts to shake her head, but before she can, her eyes catch on Ginny, who's jabbing a finger toward Ron in the middle of an impassioned speech. She watches for a moment, then looks back to Harry, whose eyes are still on her, open and attentive.
"How did you know?" she asks.
Harry frowns. "How did I know what?"
"Ginny," Hermione says, turning her gaze back to Ginny who's now openly mocking something Ron's said. "How did you know that…that you had feelings for her?"
Harry follows her gaze and watches Ginny for a moment, his eyes softening. "Oh. I don't know. I suppose I just…I just knew." He glances back at Hermione with a wry look. "That's not very helpful, is it?"
"No, not really," Hermione says with a small smile.
Harry sighs and runs a hand through his hair, his eyes far away. "I guess…I thought about her. Every second of the day, it felt like. Something would happen and she'd be the first person I'd want to talk to about it. And even when I was in a foul mood, I still wanted to be around her. It was like…like I knew she'd make it better. I'd find excuses to talk about her, just so I could say her name. She was my first thought in the morning and my last thought at night. Sounds a bit obsessive, doesn't it?" Harry asks, with a sheepish grin.
"No," Hermione replies, vaguely aware that she sounds a bit breathless. "No, it doesn't."
If anything, it sounds horribly and achingly familiar.
Harry nods, and turns his gaze back to Ginny, who's now off the couch and beside Ron, roughly shoving at his shoulder with her open hand. "She'd sit down next to me and I'd feel like I was on fire, anywhere her body touched mine. Even the slightest touch. It drove me insane. She crashed into me once after Quidditch practice. Practically landed on top of me. I don't think I took a breath for a solid minute and a half. God knows how I didn't pass out around her constantly," Harry adds with a small chuckle. "I collected every fact I could about her. Even the stupid, little things that no one would need to know. I made excuses to talk to her. I'd find myself smiling just thinking about her. …It really sounds a bit obsessive," Harry breaks off, shaking his head with wonder.
"It doesn't," Hermione says. "It sounds…it sounds perfect. And I'm so happy for you. You know that don't you? You're lucky. You're both very lucky," she adds, reaching toward Harry and squeezing his hand. He squeezes it back and gives her a small smile.
"For what it's worth, I think you could be that lucky, too. The way I've seen you look at that parchment," Harry says, nodding toward the paper with a small, secretive smile, "it's the same way I catch myself looking at Ginny."
Hermione abruptly lets go of Harry's hand with a small frown. "I'm not sure it's exactly the same…" she starts, but Harry cuts her off.
"Trust me. It is." He leans closer to Hermione, his green eyes sincere and open. "Look, I know Ron and I have been worried about all this. And maybe we've been a bit overprotective. Well, Ron more so than me," he says with a small grimace. "But more than anything, I just want you to be happy. And I've never seen you as taken by someone as you are by this bloke," Harry says, smiling at Hermione encouragingly. "I mean, the sheer amount of times he's managed to make you ignore an assignment in favor of talking to him?" He gives a low whistle and raises an eyebrow with mock-impression. "He must really be something special."
Hermione manages a weak smile and hopes Harry doesn't notice the discomfort swimming in her eyes. "I suppose so, but…"
Whatever she's about to say is cut off by Ron, yelping from the floor. Hermione and Harry both glance over to find Ginny scrambling to sit on top of him with a face like thunder. She's brandishing a pillow and is walloping him in the face with it, completely oblivious to the fact they've managed to draw the eye of everyone in the common room.
Harry frowns at the display before him. He watches it for a moment, then says, "I should probably…"
"Deal with that? Yes, you should," Hermione agrees, watching as Ron gives a mighty bellow and manages to flip himself over to regain the upper hand to the cheers and shouts of Seamus and Dean, across the room. Harry shakes his head with a sigh, gets up, and kneels on the floor to break up their tussle. Once he's gone, Hermione's eyes stray to her parchment again, and she can't help the ache that fills her heart.
Everything Harry had said rang true. Every last thing. From thinking about them constantly, to collecting every fact she could, to smiling for absolutely no reason…
Hermione frowns. There was one thing that hadn't rang true.
Harry had mentioned the physical side of things. And even though they've only corresponded via parchment, it's something Hermione is confident wouldn't be an issue. Certainly because she's never experienced physical attraction toward a woman, but mostly because she's never really experienced physical attraction period. It's always been something she's struggled with. It had seemed to come so naturally to her dorm mates as they sat up and gossiped about boys well into the night, but Hermione had never joined in. Instead, she had rolled her eyes behind whatever book her nose was buried in and had done her best to tune them out. But her own lack of interest had never bothered her; she had simply assumed her classmates were the bizarre outliers, burdened with an abundance of hormones that made them capable of having far too many feelings for far too many people.
But what if she was the outlier all along?
Her frown deepens as she thinks over her one and only brush with physical intimacy. She had gone through all the motions with Viktor and hoped that eventually, something would click into place and she'd finally understand what Lavender and Parvati were always giggling about. She'd feel the way she was supposed to feel. But by the end of the day, the only thing she'd felt when she was with Viktor was a desperate need to get away. Anytime he had come close to her, she'd immediately found a way to put space between their bodies. If she noticed his hand inching toward hers, she'd whisk hers away and use it to hastily fix her hair. The few times he'd tried to put an arm around her, she'd immediately thrown her own arms out in an absurd, comical yawn. And the one time he had tried to kiss her while sitting on the stone ledge of a fountain, in her haste to get away, she'd tumbled backward and landed with an inelegant splash in the water. He had sulked as he offered her his hand and pulled her out of the fountain, and she'd had to pretend she had seen a bee in order to spare his feelings.
Her face warms at the memory. At the time, she had written it all off as a simple matter of not being attracted to Viktor. And surely, that's what it still is.
But what if it's not?
The thought enters her mind unbidden, and she bounces her leg restlessly as she desperately casts through her mind for any time she's felt some kind of physical attraction.
Her eyes fall on Ron, red in the face and speaking animatedly to Harry while gesturing at Ginny, and she cocks her head thoughtfully as she surveys him. He's…nice looking, isn't he? There's certainly something about him—he has clever eyes and strong hands and full lips. She's not embarrassed to admit she's imagined those lips against hers once or twice. And each time it had left her feeling…fine.
Hermione huffs at herself impatiently. Because fine is an overstatement. Her imaginings had left her feeling absolutely nothing.
But that's completely normal, she reassures herself. It just means that like Viktor, Ron isn't the right one to be fantasizing about.
What she needs is someone that every girl seems to find universally attractive.
There's Cormac McLaggen, but he's a complete tosser, and the thought of his perpetually chapped lips anywhere near her own makes her want to gag.
She remembers Lavender had thought Oliver Wood dead gorgeous, but she had never quite understood the appeal. He had been too lanky, like a wooden puppet come to life.
Blaise Zabini is objectively very attractive, but she can't very well fantasize about a Slytherin, can she?
Hermione's mind goes blank and she almost scoffs at herself. How is it possible that she can't come up with one bloody person at this school to think about snogging?
Perhaps you're thinking about the wrong type of people…
The thought pushes its way to the forefront of her mind, and this time she does scoff. It's absolutely mad. She's never fancied a woman. She's never even looked twice at a woman. Obviously, she can appreciate when a woman is pretty—she'd have to be blind to not notice Fleur, with her shining, silvery hair and captivating eyes. Or Cho, with her perfect skin and dazzling smile. Or even Tonks, who had made Hermione feel like a tongue tied mess more than once with her effortless confidence and self-assured manner. But it's not because she's attracted to any of them—it's simply because she's able to recognize when a person is attractive. And she certainly has never wanted any of those women to touch her.
The thought alone makes her cheeks burn and floods her stomach with the same vaguely uncomfortable, simmering heat she had felt before. But this time, the sensation isn't unwelcome. Instead, it makes the tension riding on Hermione's shoulders vanish, and she sighs in relief.
Well, then, there's your answer, she thinks. If the feeling is any indication, it's clear she's uneasy with this train of thought, which means she absolutely made the right choice in calling things off with her parchment pal. Honestly, she doesn't even know why she's doubting it. She knows herself, and she knows that while this will be a strange adjustment to make, it's the right one. And it's one she knows she can do. After all, Hermione Granger is no stranger to facing down difficult situations.
So what if she had been just a little bit in love with her parchment pal?
She'll get over it.
***
"Come on, Hermione. Just this once?"
Hermione shakes her head as she walks toward the Potions classroom, keeping her gaze trained straight ahead. Ron has been trying to persuade Harry and Hermione to skip class today and take full advantage of the most beautiful day they've seen all year, but his pleas are falling on deaf ears.
"You're wasting your breath," Hermione says flatly. "It wouldn't matter if today was the only day of sunshine we get all year—I've never skipped a class, and I don't plan on starting now."
"It's just one class!" Ron says, stepping ahead of Hermione quickly and walking backwards to maintain eye contact with her. "And you wouldn't have to deal with Parkinson! Come on, doesn't a whole day without her sound amazing?"
"It wouldn't be a whole day without her. We're both on Tuesday and Thursday night patrols," Hermione says, rounding a corner on her way to the dungeons and getting in front of Ron once more.
"Yes, but not together!" Ron whines from behind her. "You could avoid her tonight, and you could avoid her today. What do you reckon, Harry? Fancy sitting outside and enjoying the sunshine?"
Hermione glances over her shoulder to find Ron gazing at Harry hopefully. Harry however, shakes his head ruefully. "I want to, but we don't need Snape docking even more points from us than he already has. But if you want to skip, we can tell him you took sick at breakfast?" he offers.
Ron scoffs. "And what, I'd sit outside all by myself? No thanks." He turns back to Hermione with desperation. "I just don't understand. You of all people should want to skip, rather than be stuck with that cow for an hour."
"Of course I'd like to skip," Hermione says, lowering her voice as they approach the Potions' doorway. "But I can't take the easy route every time something difficult pops up."
"Yes, but—"
"And we're brewing Felix Felicis today. That's a N.E.W.T.-level potion," she adds, her tone turning serious. "Wouldn't you like to get an O in Potions this time around? Not that there's anything wrong with an E, mind you, but there's room for improvement! And if you want to improve…"
"Which I don't," Ron mutters.
"Then you'll come with us to Potions," Hermione finishes brightly, ignoring Ron's comment.
She turns from Ron and walks through the doorway, but immediately stops short and stares at her table. Pansy is already seated in front of the cauldron and Daphne is in Hermione's seat beside her, whispering something urgently. Pansy looks tense and uncomfortable, and she shakes her head harshly at something Daphne's said.
"What do you make of that? Reckon they're up to something?" Ron asks, following Hermione's gaze.
Hermione shrugs. They probably are, but she'll cross that bridge when she comes to it. "Who knows?" she says, then squints toward the cauldron on their table. "I just hope Parkinson picked out the right cauldron for once. She knows I have a favorite, but she's ignored it every time to spite me."
"I wouldn't worry about it. A wise witch once told me that the cauldron doesn't make the potioneer," Harry says with a smirk.
Hermione rolls her eyes at the familiar words. "And I stand by it. But that doesn't mean I can't have a favorite. And I can't tell if that's…" She tilts her head as she studies the cauldron on the table, ignoring Harry and Ron as they make fun of her in the background. But before she can pass judgment on the cauldron, Pansy glances over her shoulder and catches sight of her.
Their eyes meet, and Pansy's body visibly tenses. Her gaze tracks quickly over Hermione and comes back to rest on her eyes for a moment. They stare at each other for a beat, then suddenly, Pansy whips her head back around. Daphne must notice something is amiss, because she glances to the back of the room with confusion to see what's spooked Pansy. When she notices Hermione, she smirks, gives a small wave, then turns back to Pansy, whose shoulders are practically level with her ears.
Bewildered, Hermione turns to ask if the boys had noticed the strange display. Before she can though, Neville arrives at the door, panting and red in the face.
"Am I late?" he asks, putting his hands on his knees and bending over to catch his breath. "I was tending to the Mandrakes and lost track of time," he wheezes. "If I'm late one more time, it's detention for me."
"Snape isn't here yet. You live to fight another day," Harry says, patting Neville on the back.
"Thank goodness," Neville says, straightening back out and putting his hands on top of his head, his chest still heaving. "Blimey, I don't know how you two manage to stay in shape for Quidditch," he says. "I feel like my heart might explode."
"Not sure Pomfrey can fix that, mate," Ron says.
"Best to play it safe and sit down, then," Harry adds with a laugh, and starts forward toward his table. Ron and Neville follow, leaving Hermione, standing in the doorway, frowning at Pansy's still-tense back.
"Hermione? You coming?" Harry asks, glancing over his shoulder.
Hermione tears her gaze away from Pansy and nods. She starts toward her table, eyeing Daphne and Pansy suspiciously. It's been quite a while since Hermione was jinxed in the halls by a Slytherin, or was made the butt of some cruel, practical joke, and she has an uncomfortable sensation that today might be the day to change that.
When she arrives at her table, she drops her bag on the stone floor to announce her presence. Daphne turns to eye her with something akin to curiosity, and Pansy looks almost…afraid? Her face is slightly pale and her leg is bouncing restlessly.
Hermione's eyes narrow as she glances between the two of them. Ron was right—they're definitely up to something.
Maybe she should have skipped Potions, after all.
"Granger," Daphne says, surveying her cooly. "You're looking well."
"Greengrass," Hermione replies. She bends to pull her Potions book from her bag. "You trained your owl to land in my hair last year because it was practically the same as a nest," she says, her tone measured. "You'll have to forgive me if I don't believe you."
Daphne smirks. "Nashira still misses you, you know. She glances your way with such longing, every time she drops off a letter. It would seem that every nest pales in comparison to you, Granger."
Hermione straightens up, her gaze hardening, and Daphne lifts her hands. "A compliment, I assure you. Nashira is accustomed to only the finest things in life." She tilts her head and scrutinizes Hermione closely, letting her gaze slowly wander her entire frame. "But really. There's something about you today…I don't know what it is. Can't seem to put my finger on it, though. Can you, Pans?" Daphne asks, turning to Pansy with wide, innocent eyes.
Hermione turns to Pansy and readies herself for whatever insult is about to fall from her lips, but surprisingly, Pansy doesn't even spare a glance toward her. Instead, she glares at Daphne. "No. But perhaps you can try to put your finger on it from your own seat," she murmurs, her green eyes flashing dangerously.
Hermione glances at Pansy, surprised by her dark tone. Because in all the years she's known them, they've always been thick as thieves. So what could have happened to make Pansy react so vehemently to Daphne's question?
Suddenly, Hermione remembers the commotion that had occurred yesterday at breakfast. She had missed most of it as it had happened, too distracted by her reply to her parchment pal, but she had been treated to a full reenactment from Ron on the way to Transfiguration. And it had been quite a decent reenactment, too—Ron had raised his voice and said "fuck you, Pansy," with all the fervor of a stage actor. Unfortunately, he also had all the projection of one—McGonagall had overheard and immediately docked fifteen points from Gryffindor for spreading gossip and had refused to overturn it, even when Ron launched an impassioned defense that he had simply been keeping his fellow students abreast of the current news, as was his civic duty. For her part, Hermione had assumed Ron was blowing things out of proportion, simply to amuse her. But if the way Pansy is currently glaring daggers at Daphne is any indication, they might still be sore at each other.
Except Daphne doesn't look angry at all. She looks…almost giddy, Hermione thinks, more puzzled than ever.
"Oh, you're no fun. If you'd only look at her, you'd see there's something different," Daphne says, turning back to Hermione. "A sparkle in the eyes, perhaps? A flush on the cheeks…" Suddenly, Daphne's mouth falls opens and her eyes shine. "Why, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you were in love."
Hermione frowns, completely taken aback. Of all the things she expected Daphne to say, this certainly wasn't one of them. Why on earth would she think she's in…
Oh.
Parkinson. Parkinson and her big mouth. She must have told Daphne about her long letters to her parchment pal, and now they're both going to mock her mercilessly for it.
Hermione feels a fire flicker in her. It's been an emotional few days, and she doesn't have the patience for this.
She slams her book down on the table, slightly pleased when both Pansy and Daphne jump at the noise. "That's what this is about? My parchment pal? God, you're relentless," Hermione says, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring at Pansy. "I know it must drive you absolutely mad to see me happy, but let me assure you—if you think you're going to make me feel embarrassed or guilty over this, you're sorely mistaken. You can make fun of me all you like, but it won't make a bit of difference to me. And you know what? If you were so bloody keen to talk about parchment pals all day, perhaps you should have made the effort to write to your own."
"Mm, she's got you there, Pans," Daphne says, pulling a rueful face at Pansy.
Pansy glares at Daphne for a moment, then turns her eyes to meet Hermione's gaze. She opens her mouth to reply, but before she can, Snape sweeps past their table.
"One would think that after a month it wouldn't be difficult to remember who you've been partnered with," he says as he walks. "That said, if you continue having issues Miss Greengrass, I'm happy to assist you with a wit-sharpening potion," he finishes smoothly, turning to face Daphne as he reaches the front of the class.
Daphne's cheeks turn pink and she huffs. Then she stands up primly and spares one more amused glance at Hermione. She turns to leave, but before she's taken a step, she pauses, then leans toward Pansy and murmurs something in her ear. Something that sounds suspiciously like remember what we talked about.
Hermione stiffens.
So they are planning something.
She watches Daphne as she sits down beside Harry, then turns her attention back to Pansy.
"I don't know what you're planning, but if I see you make even one move…" she murmurs as she slips into her seat, taking care to both keep her voice low and to put as much space between her body and Pansy's as she possibly can.
Pansy glances quickly at her, then immediately lowers her gaze back down at the table. "We're not planning anything," she whispers back, her voice curiously flat and her shoulders tensed.
Before Hermione can reply, Snape crosses in front of his desk and begins his lesson on Felix Felicis, effectively shutting down her line of questioning for the time being.
Hermione remains on edge throughout the lecture. When she raises her hand to answer a question and feels Pansy's gaze on the side of her face, her other hand closes around her wand in her pocket, almost instinctively. An attack in the classroom would be brazen, but not out of the question, so she remains alert. But when the lecture comes to an end and Snape tells the Slytherins to gather ingredients, Pansy simply slips off her stool and heads toward the ingredient cupboard without a word.
Hermione watches with a small, suspicious frown as she disappears from view. She's up to something. She doesn't know what, but she'll figure it out.
Slowly, she thumbs through her Potions book until she lands on Felix Felicis, skimming the steps, all the while waiting for Pansy to pounce.
A minute ticks by, and nothing happens.
Hermione re-reads the steps, wondering if she should also be keeping an eye on Daphne. Either one of them is liable to strike without warning.
Another minute, and still, nothing happens.
She reaches for her wand in her pocket and places it on the table. She feels safer, having it so close at hand.
One more minute gone.
Hermione glances up from her book to find Pansy, returning with the ingredients. She reaches their table and carefully places the jars and vials down, all while Hermione scrutinizes her face in silence. Pansy is purposefully avoiding her gaze, but there's still a slight flush on her cheeks which is enough to further Hermione's suspicions.
"Why did Daphne ask about my parchment pal?" she says quietly, noticing as Pansy's hands hesitate for the briefest of moments.
"I don't know." Pansy says, placing down the last of the ingredients.
"You're lying."
Pansy exhales sharply. "I…may have mentioned something about it yesterday." She glances at Hermione quickly, then looks back toward the vials. "It's nothing nefarious, though. You were right—she just wanted to have a laugh at your expense. You can relax."
"Oh, that's rich. Do you tell mice to relax around cats, too?" Hermione asks coldly, lighting the fire underneath their cauldron. Once she's adjusted the flame, she turns back to Pansy. "I know you're up to something."
"I'm not," Pansy says, flipping her own book open to the recipe and trailing a perfectly manicured finger down the list of steps. The flush on her cheeks has spread down her neck and Hermione's suspicions double at the sight.
"I heard what Daphne said."
Pansy grows rigid and her finger pauses on the last step in the book. "Oh? And what do you think you heard?" she asks. Her tone is light, but she can't disguise the undercurrent of tension running through the words.
"She said remember what we talked about. And right after all that nonsense about my parchment pal. I'm not daft. It's all obviously connected, so…what is it? What's your end game?"
Pansy's body seems to relax as she reaches for a frozen, bright red Ashwinder egg and adds it to the cauldron with a small splash. "I already told you, there's no end game."
"I don't believe you."
"Which is your prerogative," Pansy says, opening a vial of horseradish and carefully measuring out the required four grams. Once she's packed it down, she deposits it into the cauldron, then glances to Hermione quickly and somewhat expectantly.
Hermione immediately tenses under her gaze. Is this it? she wonders. Is Pansy about to strike? Her hand twitches toward her wand, but before she can reach for it in earnest, Pansy sighs. "You need to adjust the heat," she says.
"…What?" Hermione asks.
Pansy sighs again, clearly realizing that Hermione isn't focused on the task at hand. "The heat, Granger? You need to increase it."
Hermione blinks a few times before glancing stupidly toward her open Potions book. Once she's confirmed what Pansy's said is true, she picks up her wand and adjusts the flame under the cauldron accordingly.
Once it's done, Pansy gives a nod and turns away from the cauldron, reaching for a squill bulb and a press. Once the bulb is secure, she squeezes the handles of the press together and collects the juice in a clean, empty vial, which she then holds out toward Hermione without making eye contact.
Hermione doesn't take the vial. Instead, she simply stares at it, long enough that Pansy has to turn to her to see what the hold up is.
"…Are you going to—"
"What are you doing?" Hermione asks, keeping her voice low.
Pansy glances down at the vial in her hand, then back up at Hermione. "I'm…passing you the squill bulb juice," she says, slowly. "For the potion? You know…the one we're supposed to be brewing?" she adds, the tiniest bit of irritation finally seeping into her tone.
"You're up to something."
Pansy places the vial down between them and exhales sharply. "I'm not. Merlin, Granger, what do I have to do to convince you? Let you use Legilimency on me?" She sounds annoyed, but as soon as the words leave her mouth, she glances at Hermione with a concerned frown. "You're not a Legilimens, are you?"
"So you are hiding something," Hermione says, almost triumphantly.
"Bloody hell…"
"Well, why else would you ask if I'm a Legilimens? Andyou're acting bizarre. You haven't even insulted me once today—"
"Merlin knows how…" Pansy mutters, picking up the glass vial of squill bulb juice and reaching past Hermione to deposit it into the cauldron.
"So I'll ask you one more time—what are you planning?"
Pansy exhales sharply and glares at Hermione. "Currently? I'm planning to fail this potion, because my bloody partner is refusing to do her job. So you know what?"
Suddenly and without any warning, Pansy reaches for her wand. Hermione immediately scrambles for hers, but before she can close her fist around it, Pansy flicks her wrist.
Hermione's eyes squeeze shut as she braces for the impact of whatever spell Pansy's fired at her.
But nothing happens. No pain floods her body, all of her limbs feel intact. Hesitantly, she cracks open an eye to find a wooden spoon in their cauldron, enchanted to vigorously stir their potion. She glances at Pansy with a puzzled frown, but she's already watching Hermione. Her eyebrow is arched and something that looks suspiciously like amusement dances around the corners of her mouth.
"And here I thought you were a competent dueler," she says.
"I am," Hermione replies defensively, as she watches Pansy turn away from her to begin chopping the anemone-like growth from the back of a Murtlap.
"Mm. Is that one of your signature moves, then? Closing your eyes and waiting to be hexed?" Pansy asks, this time with an actual smirk. "Shame I didn't know about that back in our Dueling Club days. I might have had a better record."
"I…what?" Hermione asks, completely confused.
Pansy sighs and puts down her knife. "I'm not going to hex you, Granger. And I'm not planning anything awful, so can you do us both a favor and just…relax? I'd rather not fail this potion. It'll be on the N.E.W.T.s., you know."
Hermione blinks at her. Of all the people to know the contents of the N.E.W.T.s., she would never have expected Pansy. "I know, but…"
"And I've already told you, I don't make a habit of doing things that land me in detention. Do you honestly think I'm going to attack you in the middle of class?"
Hermione hesitates for just a moment, and Pansy's eyes flash with something that almost looks like guilt. She turns away from Hermione and quietly says, "well. I suppose that's only fair." She pushes a brown glass bottle toward Hermione. "Tincture of thyme," she says. "Three drops, then stir slowly."
Hermione takes the bottle, unscrews the top, and squeezes three drops into their cauldron. Once it's done, her eyes widen as she finally takes in what she's neglected to notice up until now. "You picked my favorite cauldron," she murmurs with surprise, running a finger gently over the rim.
"What?" Pansy asks, glancing toward her, an Occamy egg in her hand.
"Nothing, I just…" Hermione sighs and scrutinizes Pansy through narrowed eyes. "What's wrong with you today?"
Pansy raises an eyebrow at the question. "Nothing? I'm perfectly fine."
"You're not. You're acting bizarre."
Pansy snorts. "Need I remind you that I'm not the one who marched in here like the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, hurling accusations left and right?" she asks without a trace of rancor.
"Like that!" Hermione says, taking hold of the wooden spoon and starting to stir. "That sentence, right there. Why did you say it like that?"
Pansy stares at her blankly. "Like what?"
"Like you don't think I'm dragon dung, stuck to your shoe! You're acting strange. And if you're not up to something…"
"Merlin, you're like a dog with a bone, aren't you?" Pansy says, shaking her head.
"Oh, I'm sorry. You'll have to forgive me for being suspicious. It's not as if the past seven years of torment have led me to doubt your intentions," Hermione says, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "You've treated me horribly, day in and day out. So logically, you must have a reason for acting like this," Hermione says, gesturing toward Pansy. Her eyes narrow. "You haven't been Imperiused, have you?"
Pansy scoffs. "Don't be daft."
"Well if you haven't been cursed, then that leads me back to my original conclusion—you're planning something. Why else would you be treating me so…" Hermione trails off. She knows that kindly isn't the right word, but she finds herself at a loss in regards to the best way to describe Pansy's current mood. "So…so differently?" she finally settles on.
"You're not going to drop this, are you?" Pansy mutters, her voice tight.
"I'm not."
"Even at the risk of spoiling our potion?"
"There will be other potions," Hermione replies evenly, all the while desperately hoping her eyelid doesn't twitch at the statement. She's never meant a sentence less in her life, but she can pretend that failing a second potion doesn't bother her if it means getting to the bottom of this mystery.
Pansy squints at her, the reply seeming to take her by surprise. "Merlin, Granger. You're sure you haven't been Imperiused?"
"Stop deflecting," Hermione says, refusing to break eye contact. "Tell me what you're up to."
Pansy sighs, frustrated. "I already told you, I'm—"
"You've called me Mudblood filth more times than I can count," Hermione interrupts, her tone even and her eyes hard. "Called me pathetically inadequate. Insulted my looks, insulted my intelligence. You've implied that I only have friends because they want to use me. Worse than that, you've implied that I'm so desperate for love, I'd let someone use me in the worst possible way. And you've reminded me at every turn for the past seven years that I'm beneath you. But for some reason, today, you're acting like we're…what? Casual acquaintances? Not one insult, not one snide comment." Hermione removes the spoon and taps the excess liquid off on the side of the cauldron, then turns to study Pansy. If she didn't know any better, Hermione would almost think she looked ashamed at hearing her long list of insults rattled off with cold precision. Hermione sets the spoon down on a cloth beside the cauldron and says, "despite what you might think, I'm not stupid, Parkinson. I know you're up to something, and I'm going to find out what, mark my words."
"I…"
Pansy frowns and trails off. A muscle in her jaw works as her gaze flits around the room for a few moments, before finally landing on the back of Draco's head. Her gaze seem to lock onto him, and a new, determined glint enters her eyes. She places the egg on the table and turns to Hermione. "Fine. You want to know what you overheard? Then fine. If it'll get you to focus on the bloody potion, I'll tell you. Merlin, if it makes you focus on the potion, I'd tell you how to break into our vault at Gringotts," she adds. She glances around the room to make sure no one is listening. Hermione waits patiently.
"What you overheard…what Daphne said…it had nothing to do with you. It's…I…"
Pansy takes a deep breath, then slowly exhales. "I'm…I'm breaking up with Draco," she mutters. As soon as the words are out, her shoulders slump a bit, as if she's released whatever long-held tension has been riding on them, and she glances at Hermione out of the corner of her eye. "Happy? Now you know. Nothing sinister at play, I'm just a bit…out of sorts over it, I suppose. And I don't feel like picking a fight with you today, because I just…" she breaks off and shakes her head, looking tired. "I just don't. All you overheard was Daphne giving me a pep talk. And as for your parchment pal…" Pansy trails off for a moment, then shrugs again. "Like I said, I discussed it with her yesterday. She was just…giving you a hard time, I suppose. She's a twat, though. It's in her nature. She'd do it to anyone, me included," she adds.
With that, Pansy reaches for the egg again, cracks it open, and carefully deposits the contents into a waste bin before tossing the shells into a stone mortar. Her movements are fluid and casual, almost as if she hadn't just revealed something massive to Hermione. The only sign that she's divulged anything lies in her jaw, which is tightly clenched.
Hermione bites her lower lip as she watches Pansy grind the shells with vigor. She glances away from her and studies the table, lost in thought.
She knows what Pansy would do, if their situations were reversed—she'd gleefully mock Hermione for the rest of class, finding new and increasingly inventive ways to slip pointed, gouging insults into their standard Potions discussion. It would become something of a game for her: how far can she push before Hermione shatters into pieces? So knowing all of that, it's positively absurd that Hermione is sitting here, feeling almost guilty for having forced the information out of Pansy.
No part of her should feel guilty. Not after Hermione herself had just listed out the long list of grievances she holds against Pansy. She despises her with a passion, so all things considered, she should be positively delighted that Pansy's hurting. She should be reveling in it.
But she's not. Had she just left well enough alone, Pansy wouldn't have felt the need to confide her secrets to her worst enemy. And while Hermione knows that rationally, she should never feel guilty around Pansy Parkinson for any reason whatsoever, there's still a little, niggling part of her, whispering at her to apologize. Because while someone like Pansy might take delight in mocking a person when they're at their lowest point, that's not who Hermione is. She's not cruel. She's better than that, and she was raised better than that. So with a small nod, she straightens her shoulders and makes up her mind to say two words she never thought she'd say to Pansy.
"…I'm sorry."
"Why? It's not your fault," Pansy says without looking up from her task.
"No, but I shouldn't have pushed you. Or jumped to conclusions. It wasn't fair of me," Hermione says, somewhat stiffly.
Pansy's hand pauses for just a moment. She glances at Hermione and studies her face for a second, looking for any sign of mockery or derision. When she doesn't find anything to make her doubt Hermione's intentions, her jaw relaxes and she shrugs. "It's for the best, really. He and I…we were never going to work." With a final tap of the pestle to the mortar, she passes the ground eggshells to Hermione, who adds them to the potion, picks up the spoon, and resumes stirring.
"Why? Because he's a massive bloody git?" Hermione mutters bitterly and without thinking. But once her brain catches up to her mouth and reminds her of who she's talking to, her eyes grow wide. She looks to Pansy, certain that she'll find fury in her eyes for defaming not just a pureblood, but her soon-to-be ex. But instead, Pansy's regarding her almost wryly.
"He can be," she agrees with a nod, reaching for the last vial on the table, a dark blue bottle of powdered, common rue. "But it's not his fault," she adds, studying the back of Draco's head thoughtfully. "Not really."
"Is that right? It's not his fault that he's a horrible, intolerant prick? Pray tell, then, whose fault is it? No, let me guess," she says coldly. "It's my fault, for having the audacity to be a Mudblood studying at Hogwarts."
Pansy's knuckles grow white against the glass bottle as she tightens her grip on it, and she shakes her head. "No. It's not your fault. It's…" she sighs. "He's just the product of his raising. As are we all."
Hermione snorts. "And what, you think that conveniently excuses yo…his behavior?" she asks, catching herself from saying your behavior at the last moment.
Pansy shakes her head. "No. No, it doesn't excuse anything, but…" Pansy exhales heavily and opens the bottle of rue. "There are things people like you wouldn't understand."
"Mudbloods?" Hermione asks, the word coming out harsh and sharp.
Pansy hesitates, then slowly nods. "Yes. Things about pureblood families. Expectations. Sometimes, in our mad attempts to appease our family, we do things we might ordinarily not. Believe things we might ordinarily not," she adds, quietly. She shakes a bit of the powdered rue into a silver spoon, levels it out, then places it on the table. "We're all carefully taught from a young age how the world works," she says, staring at the spoon, speaking quietly, as if she's forgotten Hermione is there. "But it's our parents' idea of how the world works. They teach us that people who aren't like us are horrible, wicked abominations. That they're going to destroy our families. And when you're a child, what else are you to do but believe them? And even if you don't…even if you fight against those ideals, it's…" she pauses and the muscle in her jaw jumps again. "It's ill-advised," she finishes.
Hermione gazes at her, stunned into silence. It's certainly the most Pansy has ever said to her without an insult or two being slipped in, but that's not why she feels as if someone's cast a particularly strong Stupefy on her. No, Hermione is gobsmacked because if she didn't know any better, she would almost think that Pansy was showing…remorse.
Which is ludicrous. She knows Pansy Parkinson. She's never shown remorse for a single thing. She takes delight in stomping others beneath the heel of her expensive shoe, and she's never shown any indication that she doesn't wholeheartedly believe in pure-blood supremacy.
Or…had she?
Hermione thinks back to their detention over a month ago, and a moment that had stood out to her at the time as being strange. She remembers telling Pansy something along the lines of how Muggle borns couldn't help the blood they were born with, and how those simple words had practically frozen Pansy in place. Her face had paled and when she had spit back some half-baked line about how pure-blood supremacy was never to be questioned, she had seemed…
Shaken, was what Hermione had thought at the time. And something else, too, but she had been too mad to think about it in depth. But now, she remembers the slight tremble in Pansy's hand, and the haunted look in her eyes. Had she been…scared?
Hermione scrutinizes Pansy now. She's gazing at her open book, her jaw clenched and her eyes guarded. But there's also something different in her energy…something that seems almost vulnerable. And there had been something real and almost raw behind Pansy's words.
A voice within Hermione urges her to fight against her natural instinct to be harsh, cruel, and antagonizing. She has a feeling this is the first time Pansy has ever voiced these particular thoughts to another person before, and she doesn't want to immediately berate her, or deride her for coming to these conclusions far too late. While it could be a stupid miscalculation—there's an excellent chance that Pansy's just become an extraordinarily good actress and is baiting Hermione for her own twisted amusement—she decides to listen to her gut.
She dickers back and forth on how she wants to reply, all the while feeling like one of those bomb disposal people in Muggle movies, staring at a tangled mess of wires. If she snips the wrong one, everything might blow.
"I can understand that," she finally says, reaching for the spoonful of rue and taking care to reply in a calm, measured way. "But at a certain point, he's responsible for his own actions. Draco's parents aren't here. There are no expectations to live up to, but he still chooses to act the way he does." She deposits the rue into the cauldron and watches as the potion turns a muddy yellow, then she begins to stir it vigorously. "Sympathy can only go so far, especially when faced with the reality of the world. Had y…had he," Hermione says, correcting herself again, "decided to change his views at any time over the past few years…had he made even the slightest effort to show change or growth, then I'd be far more sympathetic to his upbringing and his home life. But at a certain point, that can't be the thing he clings to to excuse his intolerance. I told you once before—my forgiveness is given to those who show genuine remorse. And much as I'd love to be proven wrong, based on every interaction we've ever had? I'm just not sure I can believe that's the case with…with Draco," she finishes awkwardly, again fighting the urge to say with you. She puts down the spoon, adjusts the flame beneath the cauldron once more, then looks toward Pansy, who very surprisingly, shrugs.
"You're right," she says.
Hermione raises her eyebrows. "I'm what?" she asks, mildly stunned.
"You're right. Everything you said…it makes sense. But that doesn't negate what I said. There are things you wouldn't understand. And at a certain point, it's easier to fall in line with a particular way of thinking if you know it will spare you from…from things you wouldn't wish on anyone. Horrid things," Pansy adds quietly, with a small wince. "But it's a dangerous game—once you fall into that line of thinking, once you genuinely make yourself believe in it, it's almost impossible to see outside of it. To admit that you might be wrong, or that all the people you've ever loved and trusted were wrong. When something is the cornerstone of your life, it's…it's not easy," Pansy finishes, staring down at the table.
Hermione doesn't reply. Instead, she puts down the wooden spoon, stares at Pansy's profile, and lets herself fully comprehend the insanity of what's currently happening.
She's having a conversation. With Pansy Parkinson. And somehow, against all odds, it hasn't devolved into a mess of insults and slander.
Hermione glances down at their cauldron, wondering if they've mistakenly brewed Essence of Insanity and the fumes are starting to get to her.
This is impossible. It's absolutely mad. It's…
"Why are you telling me this?" Hermione asks suddenly. "I mean, of all people…why me?"
Pansy frowns. "I…I…" She lifts her gaze and stares at Hermione. There's a storm of emotions swirling in Pansy's eyes that takes Hermione by surprise, but she can't make heads or tails of it. Before she can try and work out what any of the emotions might be (pain? Longing? Anger? Fear?), Pansy blinks and shakes her head. "I don't know. I guess…it's like I said—I'm out of sorts. This whole ordeal…it's been mad, and it's made me a bit…" Pansy trails off and stares into the distance. Then all at once, she seems to return to herself. She shrugs, her guard up again. "Anyway. You asked what was wrong with me. I told you." She glances at the cauldron. "The potion needs finishing," she says, nodding toward it.
Hermione watches Pansy for a few seconds, then nods, deciding not to push her luck. She can think about whatever just happened between the two of them later. For now, she picks up her wand, waves it over the cauldron in a figure-eight pattern, and says Felixempra. The potion immediately begins to bubble and Pansy and Hermione watch closely. Once the bubbles clear, they can see that their potion is against all odds, perfect. It's a thick, molten gold, and every now and then, tiny droplets rise from the surface and leap and sway, like dancing water.
"Huh. Not bad, Granger," Pansy says, sounding genuinely impressed. "Perhaps even good enough to get us an O on the N.E.W.T.s. Had I known spilling all my sordid secrets was the key to a perfect potion, I'd have started long ago."
Hermione raises an eyebrow at the remark. Once again, there's that strange hint of dry amusement lurking in Pansy's words. Which doesn't stand to reason, because if there's one thing she knows, it's that Pansy hates her. And what's more, she hates Pansy. That's how it's always been. They don't have cordial conversations, and they certainly don't joke with one another. So they've finally managed a civil conversation after seven years—that's hardly something to be celebrated. And even if Hermione is right, and Pansy is finally putting some thought into her awful, intolerant views, it doesn't mean she has to be nice to her.
But that said, Hermione isn't in any hurry to disturb this very strange, very tenuous peace that's somehow settled between them. And if by some miracle, she can get through the next few weeks of Potions without wanting to pull out her hair or hex Pansy into oblivion, then she can play along with whatever madness has descended upon their table. After all, it's one less stress on her overflowing plate. So for the time being, she simply hums in agreement. "I believe you said something about the secrets to your Gringotts vault?" she asks innocently.
Pansy turns to her with surprise in her eyes. It's clear Hermione's comment has taken her off guard, but she seems to quickly find her footing. "I did. Maybe if we don't botch the next one, I'll let you in on the secret. But let's just say, however you managed to keep Potter from getting killed in the first task of the Triwizard Tournament? It might come in handy," she says, with the smallest hint of a smile. Then, as if she's just realized she's smiling at Hermione, she abruptly stands. "I'll just…return all this," she says, beginning to gather their unused materials.
"I'll…I'll bottle," Hermione says, more baffled than ever. Both by the knowledge that an actual dragon is guarding the Parkinson's vault in Gringotts, and that Pansy had actually told her about it.
Pansy finishes gathering their ingredients, but before she can leave, Hermione looks up swiftly. "Wait. How did you know I helped Harry with the first task?"
Pansy rolls her eyes. "You're the only one of his friends with a brain, Granger. And Flitwick hadn't taught us The Summoning Charm yet. I sincerely doubt Potter mastered it on his own, and you're the only student in our year both clever enough and capable of teaching it to yourself, so…" she shrugs. "Simple deduction." With that, she walks away, leaving Hermione to stare after her in stunned silence.
Was that…a compliment?
Hermione once again looks at their potion. It must be Essence of Insanity. Because if it's not, then…
What the bloody hell is happening?
***
A week passes by quickly, and the following Tuesday, Hermione finds herself trudging into the Great Hall for dinner at a quarter to seven. Tuesdays are always exhausting—minus her free period post-Potions, she's in back to back classes until six-thirty. Normally, she can make it to the Great Hall with plenty of time for dinner before her patrols at seven, but Ancient Runes had run long today. And while she's usually delighted when classes run long, today, it's just made her exhausted. It would seem that the stress of a busier than usual Spring semester, coupled with her less than stellar sleep schedule are finally taking a toll. She knows she told Ron that she's never skipped anything in her life, but she's seriously considering asking one of the prefects to cover her shift tonight so she can catch up on her long-neglected sleep.
Once she reaches the Gryffindor table, she sits down heavily beside Ginny and pulls a plate to her without so much as uttering a greeting.
"Well, hello to you, too," Ginny says.
"Alright then, Hermione?" Neville asks with an amused smile.
"Sorry, just…exhausted," she replies, putting a thick slice of roast beef on her plate, followed by a hefty spoonful of creamy, buttery mashed potatoes. "And seriously considering making someone else take my patrols tonight," she adds, pouring a ladle of thick, rich gravy over her plate.
As expected, Ron snorts. "Oh, now it's okay to skip. But when I wanted to last week, it was unheard of. What happened to I couldn't possibly take the easy way out just because something is difficult?" he asks, putting on a ridiculously posh accent to mimic her words.
"That was a week ago. And why is it you all seem to remember everything I've ever said, verbatim?" Hermione asks, cutting the roast beef on her plate with a small smirk. "Honestly, it's like you're all obsessed with me." She takes a bite and says, "for the record, I'm not considering skipping because it's difficult. It's because I'm completely knackered."
"Still not sleeping then?" Neville asks with a sympathetic wince.
Hermione shrugs, but before she can reply, Ginny jumps in. "Yes, but it's not insomnia that's keeping her awake…" She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively, and Hermione feels heat creep into her cheeks at the reference to her late night chats with her parchment pal. Hastily, she takes a sip of water to avoid replying.
She glances at Neville to find him staring at her, his fork hanging in midair with a forgotten roasted potato skewered on the end of it. There's a small flush on his own cheeks and his eyes are strangely wide, but then he seems to snap out of whatever strange trance he's in and he begins to nod furiously. "Right! Well! I mean…good for you, that's…that's really…I mean…" He glances at Ron uncomfortably, then back to Hermione. "So I suppose that would mean you two are…?" he asks, trailing off and raising his eyebrows.
Hermione frowns as she glances at a red-faced Ron, then back to Neville. "We're what?" she asks, trying to understand what on earth Neville's going on about, and why Harry is suddenly smirking at his plate.
"I mean…I just assumed, if you're up at night…doing…doing…well…you know," Neville says, his face turning bright red. "Who else could it be?"
Harry is now grinning broadly, and Ginny looks between Ron and Hermione slyly. "Why, you cheeky bastards," she says. "Were you planning on telling us?"
Hermione's frown deepens, as she glances around the table. Ron and Neville are now the same shade of red, but she doesn't know why they're both being so…
Oh.
Oh.
"Honestly. What are you, twelve?" Hermione asks Ginny, crossly stabbing at another piece of roast beef. "That's not what she meant," she adds, glancing at Neville, who by now looks completely miserable. "She meant I've been staying up late to talk to my parchment pal, and you can stop laughing at any point now, thank you very much," she adds, tossing a glare toward Harry across from her, who's still trying to stifle his laughter.
"It's not that funny," Ron mutters, pushing a roasted carrot around his plate with a small, irritated frown.
"Sorry, it's just…blimey, I've never met someone with such a knack for getting the wrong end of the stick," Ginny says, grinning at Neville.
"Well, what else was I supposed to think? You did that…that thing with your eyebrows, and Hermione and Ron have always been…" he trails off and looks at Hermione desperately.
The implication makes her a bit uncomfortable, but she still manages a small shrug as reaches for a roll. "It was a perfectly valid assumption to make, given the delivery of the statement," she says, cutting the roll open and smearing fresh, salted butter into the still-warm interior.
"It was?" Ron asks, glancing up at Hermione with a mixture of surprise and hope glimmering in his eyes. It's clear this is excellent news to Ron, and Hermione feels a little flicker of anxiety race through her as she considers why he looks so optimistic. Before she can either confirm or deny anything, Neville clears his throat.
"So your parchment pal, then?" he asks, seeming desperate to steer the conversation to safer waters. "Still going strong?"
"Oh, more than strong. Last week she asked him to meet," Ginny says, lowering her voice like it's some big, dramatic secret. "Head over heels, she is," she adds as she uses her roll to soak up the leftover gravy on her plate.
"I'm not—"
"Really? Blimey. What'd he say?" Neville asks, cutting Hermione off before she can protest what's just been said.
"No," Ron says, too quickly to be casual. "He said no, I mean," he adds, quickly correcting his tone to something nonchalant as he cuts himself a thick slab of apple pie. "I reckon that means he's trying to hide something, don't you?"
Hermione glances down at her plate as Neville replies, hoping they don't notice her blush. She could tell them right now what her parchment pal had actually been hiding and why she'd felt the need to concoct a story in the first place, but…
It's a lot of people to tell at once, she reasons to herself. It's just one in a long list of convenient excuses she's been creating over the past few days, but she doesn't let that deter her from clinging to it. After all, if she's going to confess this, it'll be to just Harry and Ron, or maybe just Ginny. Less people leads to less questions, and less confusion, too.
Questions about what? Why are you so hesitant? a voice in her head asks. It's been popping up more often than usual as of late, always with some variation of the same questions.
She takes another bite of roast beef and chews it slowly, thinking over tonight's question. It's not that she's hesitant, it's just that…it's just…
You're afraid that if you tell them, they might think you're gay, too?