Harry and Ron made their way through the train as it pulled out of the station, searching each compartment for Ginny.
"Do you think she's with Dean?" Ron asked, his expression shifting to one of mild annoyance. "I swear, if they're snogging again—"
Harry was peering into each compartment — looking for Ginny's tall frame, her athletic build, her red hair — no. No, he wasn't going to look for Pansy. He was looking for Ginny.
Get a grip, he scolded himself. He was looking for Ginny, not some Slytherin who had no business taking up space in his head.
"Oi, are you even listening?" Ron asked, nudging Harry in the ribs.
"Yeah," Harry muttered, dragging his gaze away from a compartment where, for a fleeting moment, he thought he'd spotted a familiar dark-haired figure. But it wasn't her. Of course it wasn't.
Ron sighed dramatically. "If she's with Dean, I'm sitting somewhere else."
Harry nodded as they pressed on, coming to a halt in a sudden bottleneck of students wrestling their trunks into the overhead racks.
Ron's eyebrows shot up, and he elbowed Harry, leaning close as he whispered, "What d'you reckon Parkinson got up to last night?"
Harry snapped his head in the direction Ron had nodded.
Pansy was standing just outside her compartment with Blaise Zabini, rising onto her tiptoes to shove her trunk into the rack above her. Her blouse had ridden up slightly, and thanks to her low-rise trousers, the purple bruises left by Harry's fingers — barely hours old — were plainly visible to anyone who happened to glance her way.
Harry felt his stomach drop. A slow, creeping heat spread through his chest, and his fingers curled instinctively at his sides. The image was already seared into his mind — the faint marks on her skin, the exact shape of his grip, proof of what had happened between them. Proof that it hadn't been a dream.
Ron snorted, nudging Harry again. "Blimey, someone had a good night," he said, clearly entertained. "Wonder who the poor sod was."
Harry forced a laugh, but it came out tight and unnatural. "Yeah."
As though she could feel their eyes on her, Pansy turned towards them and raised an eyebrow. "Weasley, if you keep staring, I'll hex your eyes out."
"Just wondering what poor bloke you paid to shag you," Ron returned.
Pansy's gaze flickered to Harry.
"Careful, Weasley — you sound jealous," Blaise drawled.
Harry gave Ron a nudge. "Let's just go. It's not the time to start anything." He muttered.
Ron shot Blaise one last glare as they squeezed past them and made their way a few compartments further down, where Neville, Luna, and Ginny were already settled.
"You alright?" Ginny asked as Harry sat down across from her.
Harry nodded. "Just tired."
"Why?" Luna asked.
"Didn't sleep well," Harry said simply.
Luna was asking him something else, but he'd already caught Pansy passing their compartment, her eyes meeting his for the briefest instant before a small nod told him to follow her.
He stood up abruptly. "I… bathroom."
If anyone said anything, Harry didn't hear it. He stepped out into the corridor just in time to see Pansy disappearing around the corner.
He followed.
He kept enough distance between them that no one would think anything of it.
When she reached the single-person lavatory, she pushed the door open and began to pull it shut behind her. Harry caught it just before the latch clicked and squeezed inside.
Pansy turned around to face him, glaring as she shoved him back against the door. "Why the bloody hell is Weasley asking who I shagged last night?" she hissed.
Harry's back hit the door with a dull thud, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs. Pansy's hands pressed firmly against his chest, her eyes flashing with irritation. The close quarters sent an odd thrill through him, though he shoved it aside at once, forcing himself to focus on the fury in her expression.
"Maybe because when you were putting your trunk away, he saw my fingerprints bruised into your hips," Harry hissed back. "I'm not a bloody idiot. I didn't tell him."
"That's debatable."
"That's rich."
"You're the one who decided to sleep with me," Harry pointed out.
Pansy narrowed her eyes. "Just don't go blabbing to Weasley and Granger about it like it was your first time. I doubt you told him when you were with his sister."
Harry felt heat rise to his cheeks, a mixture of embarrassment and irritation. "Ginny and I aren't like that."
Pansy's lips curled into a smirk, her eyes gleaming with amusement. "Oh? So I was your first," she drawled, tilting her head.
Harry clenched his jaw, refusing to answer, but the way his fingers twitched at his sides betrayed him.
Pansy let out a short, sharp laugh. "Merlin, Potter, that's adorable," she mocked. "The Chosen One, the Boy Who Lived — and a virgin until last night? That's actually pathetic."
Harry scowled. "Shut up."
Pansy smirked, leaning back against the sink with her arms folded across her chest. "You know, if I'd known you were so inexperienced, I'd have gone easier on you."
He scoffed. "Don't act like you weren't as desperate for it as I was."
Pansy let out a soft, derisive laugh and tilted her head as she looked up at him. "Desperate?" she echoed. "Please, Potter. If anything, I was doing you a favour."
"You were practically bouncing on my—"
Her wand was in her hand before he could finish the sentence. "Finish that thought, Potter. I dare you. Finish it and I promise I'll hex your cock off," she said, her voice low and dangerous.
"I said," Harry stepped closer, his voice dropping to something just above a growl, "you were practically bouncing on my cock."
For a second, he was certain she was about to slap him, and before he could stop himself, his hand shot out — fingers wrapping around her throat, pressing just firmly enough to part her lips slightly as he pushed her back against the very sink she'd been leaning on with such easy confidence.
Pansy sucked in a sharp breath, her hand flying to his wrist, nails digging into his skin. But she didn't push him away. If anything, she tilted her chin up slightly.
That infuriating smirk was still there, as though she'd wanted exactly this, as though she'd expected it.
Because, of course, she had.
She let him. Let him press his body flush against hers. Let him lean in until his breath was warm against the shell of her ear.
"You were begging for it," he muttered, voice dropping low. "Don't act like you weren't."
"You're awfully sure of yourself for someone who was begging me not to stop," Pansy sneered back, her breath hitching, her pulse thrumming against his thumb.
"And you're acting like you weren't moaning my name loud enough to wake half the castle." His lips were so close to hers he could feel her breath, shallow and uneven.
And then, to his surprise, she closed the distance — pressing her lips to his as though she were the one inviting him in, as though he weren't the one with his hand around her throat, as though she were still entirely in control.
The kiss was sharp and hungry, a collision of tension that had nowhere else to go. For a moment, he'd almost convinced himself he had the upper hand — that he was in control, that he was the one leading this, whatever it was.
But she was letting him do this. Letting him pin her against the sink, letting him keep his hand at her throat. And no matter what he did, no matter how rough he was, no matter how much he thought he was in charge — he wasn't.
His mouth moved against hers, all teeth and intent, and Pansy simply moved her hand to cover his and squeezed, as though granting him permission.
"I could do anything I wanted to you right now," Harry gasped against her lips, like she was the very air he needed.
Pansy's lips curved into a slow, challenging smile, her breath shallow as she held his gaze — even as his grip tightened fractionally at her throat. She didn't flinch. Didn't seem to mind in the slightest. If anything, she looked almost pleased.
"Is that so?" she whispered, her voice a low, teasing drawl. "Perhaps you'll finally learn how to properly please a woman."
Something between a growl and a groan left Harry's throat as he crashed his mouth back against hers. Pansy responded immediately, her body arching into his as he pressed her harder against the sink, his hand still firm around her throat.
Her hands slid up his chest, nails raking lightly across his skin beneath his shirt, and Harry shuddered at the sensation. It was maddening — the way she kissed him back as though she owned him, as though she'd already decided how this would end before he'd even stepped into this bathroom.
Pansy let out a soft, quiet moan. Harry swallowed it in a bruising kiss as his free hand slid to her waist, gripping the exposed skin between her blouse and the waistband of her trousers. His fingers pressed into the faint bruises he'd already left there — claiming them again — before sliding further down, grabbing her just beneath her arse and lifting her onto the sink, stepping between her legs.
Pansy placed her hands on his shoulders and applied a slow, deliberate pressure downward.
Harry pulled back from her mouth — lips red — and met her eyes.
She tilted her head slightly, raising her eyebrows as she pressed down on his shoulders again. It took Harry all of two seconds to sink to his knees, spreading her legs before him.
Perhaps he wasn't as thick as Pansy had once thought.
Harry stepped out of the lavatory first, glancing both ways down the corridor before tapping twice on the door to signal Pansy, then made his way back towards his compartment.
Pansy emerged a moment later, straightening the hem of her blouse and smoothing down her trousers. She didn't spare him so much as a glance as she walked the other way, but the smirk playing at her lips told Harry everything he needed to know.
He swallowed hard, running a hand through his already dishevelled hair before forcing himself to move, his tongue absently sweeping his lower lip.
What in Merlin's name was he doing?
Last night was supposed to have been a mistake. A one-off. Except it wasn't a one-off anymore.
Back in the compartment, Harry quickly scanned his friends' faces. Ginny was flipping through a magazine, Luna was gazing serenely out the window, and Neville was occupied with some plant he'd somehow managed to smuggle aboard. Ron, however, was watching him with narrowed eyes.
"Long trip to the loo," Ron remarked, leaning back in his seat with a smirk. "Or did you get lost?"
Harry rolled his eyes and dropped down across from Ginny. "Yeah, Ron. Got lost on a train I've ridden for six years."
"You look a bit flushed," Ginny observed without looking up from her page.
His stomach turned uncomfortably. "It's stifling in here. Like a bloody furnace," he muttered.
Luna tilted her head and studied him in that particular way she had when she suspected something.
Ron stretched his arms above his head, already shifting the conversation.
Harry barely heard him. He could still taste Pansy on his tongue, could still feel her legs draped over his shoulders, her fingers threading through his hair, the breathless little sounds she made when his tongue —
He shook his head sharply, reaching over to pluck one of Ginny's magazines from the pile, hoping to lose himself in Quidditch gossip rather than the mess of his own making.
Luna was still watching him. He could feel it.
"What?" he huffed, setting the magazine down to look at her.
Ginny glanced up with a curious look.
Luna smiled. "Nothing. Only there's a curious smear on your collar, that's all."
Harry's stomach lurched. His hand shot up, fingers brushing the fabric. "Probably toothpaste from this morning. Hermione was rushing us." But he could already feel the faint, waxy trace of it.
Ron snorted. "She really was in a foul mood."
"It's a lovely shade, though," Luna continued. "Ruby Rush or Velvet Cherry?"
Ginny looked up and studied Harry with careful eyes. "Didn't know you had a girl."
"I don't," Harry said through gritted teeth.
"Good. Wouldn't want you crying on her like you did Cho Chang." Neville shuddered. "Or carrying on like Ron and Lavender."
"Oi," Ron said.
Ginny chuckled quietly to herself. "Or like Hermione and—"
Harry shot her a sharp look, silently willing her to stop.
"McLaggen," Ginny finished, eyes bright with mischief. "I heard they were snogging all through Slughorn's party. Though I did hear from Blaise that—"
"Ginny." Harry's voice was firm. He had no desire to revisit that particular disaster, and even less desire to hear Ron's reaction to it. He'd gone spare over Krum; Harry didn't want to imagine how he'd respond to Malfoy and Hermione's situation — whatever that situation was.
Ron rolled his eyes. "Come off it, Ginny. There's no way Hermione was snogging McLaggen."
Ginny shrugged. "Blaise said Malfoy's staying at Hogwarts for the holidays. Maybe we'll come back and find she's snogged him too." A smirk spread across her face as she watched her brother's complexion turn an interesting shade of red.
Ron made a gagging noise. "That's disgusting, Ginny. Hermione would never."
Harry said nothing, pressing his fingers to his temples. "You should talk to Zabini a bit less."
Pansy had slipped back into her compartment and settled into her seat, smiling at her friends.
Blaise barely glanced up from his book, but Theo fixed her with a suspicious look.
"Where have you been?" he asked.
She shrugged. "Bathroom."
"Took you long enough."
"I was fixing my makeup. I like to look nice, you know. Unlike some people."
Blaise hummed, turning a page. "You look exactly the same as when you left."
"Because I don't need much to look this good."
Daphne slid the compartment door open, not sparing Theo so much as a glance as she smiled. "Mind if I join?"
"Never," Pansy answered, crossing her legs.
Daphne settled herself beside Blaise. "Are we all looking forward to the holidays?"
Pansy sighed. "Not especially. Mother's already arranged tea with Narcissa and is dragging me along."
"You love Cissa," Theo pointed out.
"Normally, yes. However, I can already hear exactly how the conversation will go." Pansy cleared her throat and pitched her voice higher. "'Pansy, dear, how is my son? What has he been getting up to?' 'Oh, nothing much, Narcissa, just falling head over heels for a Muggle-born witch. Which witch, you ask? None other than Hermione Granger!'" She dropped back into her natural voice and folded her arms.
Daphne snorted. "Please — Narcissa would be relieved to hear Draco's distracted enough to fall for someone."
"Not a Muggle-born," Blaise sighed. "What about you, Daph?"
"Well, since you ask — yes, actually. Father has found me yet another prospect. I think this time round I'll at least try to be civil about it."
Theo glanced at her, his jaw tightening. "Why?"
"He's from a respectable family. Well-mannered, funny, kind, intelligent." She listed them off.
Pansy looked between the two of them, suppressing the urge to roll her eyes. Theo had been foolish enough to let Daphne's interest slip through his fingers, and now he was acting the possessive idiot?
"Doesn't seem your type," Theo said.
"Well, I've come to realise I've had quite enough of stupid boys. Figured it was about time I played the part of the respectable Greengrass heir and listened to my father."
Theo shifted uncomfortably in his seat, shooting Blaise a look that said please help. Blaise returned one that said don't make this worse.
Daphne raised an eyebrow. "A few nice dinners, and who knows — maybe he'll turn out to be the love of my life."
"Because your true love is just sitting around waiting to be found between supper courses with your parents?"
"Well, he certainly isn't sitting around waiting for boys to make up their minds." Daphne's tone sharpened. "I believe it's about time I moved on to men."
"You seem to have it all sorted, then," Theo said, his voice carefully measured.
Daphne hummed. "Well, you know how it is. Our lives. I'm not getting any younger. My mother had already decided to marry my father by the time she was my age."
"At all of sixteen?" Blaise snorted.
She turned a withering look on him. "Sorry — how many times has your mother been married, Zabini?"
Pansy snorted before she could stop herself. "Now, now. No need to get sharp with each other." She lowered her voice to Blaise. "I wish you the best, Daph. Though I must say, boys do have their merits."
"I'm sure," Daphne agreed. "However, my suitor is taking me to dinner at a stunning restaurant in Diagon Alley — takes months to get a reservation, but he pulled some strings. Private room, Italian wine imported directly from the continent."
"Perhaps you'll have a ring by spring," Theo muttered.
"Wouldn't that be something?" she replied sweetly.
"So Snape was offering to help him? He was definitely offering to help him?"
"If you ask me that one more time," Harry said, scowling, "I'm going to shove one of these sprouts somewhere unpleasant."
"I'm only checking!" Ron huffed.
They were in the Burrow kitchen, alone at the sink, working through a mountain of sprouts for Mrs Weasley, snow drifting steadily past the window in front of them.
"Yes, Snape was offering to help him," Harry whispered. "He said something about promising Malfoy's mother he'd protect him — that he'd made an Unbreakable Vow, or whatever the bloody hell that means."
Ron set his peeler down, looking stunned. "An Unbreakable Vow? He couldn't have. Are you sure?"
"Yes. What does it mean, exactly?"
"Well, you can't break it."
Harry rolled his eyes. "Yes, I'd worked that much out, thanks."
"You die if you break it," Ron said. "Fred and George tried to get me to make one when I was about five. Dad found us before it could happen. Fred reckons his left buttock has never been quite right since."
Fred's voice rang out from the doorway as he and George strolled in. "Georgie, look at this. Using knives. Bless."
Ron scowled. "I'll be able to do it wandlessly in two months' time."
George laughed, pulling out a chair and kicking his feet up. "What's this we're hearing from Ginny about you and a certain young lady named Lavender Brown?"
Ron turned slightly pink. "Mind your own business."
"Did she suffer some kind of accident?" Fred wondered aloud. "How severe must the damage have been for her to fancy our Ronald?"
Ron glared at him, his face deepening to scarlet. "Shut it, Fred."
George leaned forward, a mischievous gleam in his eye. "And where is our dearest Hermione this festive holiday? Her absence wouldn't have anything to do with the aforementioned girl, would it?"
"She's been strange lately. Running around with Slytherins and such," Ron muttered.
Harry's knife slipped.
Fred and George exchanged a significant look before turning back to their brother and Harry.
"Oh?" said Fred.
"Do tell us more," George added.
"Haven't you got anything better to do?" Harry asked.
George sighed, hopping off the table. "Fine. Keep your secrets. There's apparently a rather fetching girl working at the village paper shop."
Ron muttered something under his breath as they watched the twins leave.
"I'm going to tell Dumbledore about Malfoy and Snape. I might have a word with your dad too."
"Pity you couldn't hear what Malfoy was actually doing."
"That was the whole point, wasn't it? He was refusing to tell Snape."
Silence fell between them for a moment, broken only by the steady sound of their knives against the board.
Then Ron spoke. "You don't think Hermione knows, d'you?"
Harry looked at him. "What?" He feigned surprise at the question well enough, though not quite as well as he'd have liked.
He'd asked himself the same thing when it happened, hadn't he? He'd had a go at Pansy over it, too. It was precisely what had led to — no. He was absolutely not revisiting that.
"I mean, she has been spending loads of time with that lot," Ron pressed.
"She'd tell us if she knew something."
Ron shot him a look. "She's staying at Hogwarts for the holidays. Same as him. Alone."
"If anyone was helping him, it'd be his friends. Parkinson and the rest of them all went home. We saw them on the train."
"Not to mention that day she vanished for eighteen hours — skipped all her classes — just to turn up conveniently at our last lesson with Malfoy arriving not long after."
Harry didn't like where this was heading. He picked up his knife again and sliced a sprout rather more aggressively than necessary. "That doesn't mean anything."
Ron sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "And then Ginny made that joke about Hermione snogging him, and—"
Harry's grip tightened on the sprout. "Ginny was joking."
"Right, but what if—"
"Hermione is not snogging Malfoy, Ron."
Ron raised an eyebrow. "You sound awfully sure of that."
"Because it's ridiculous," Harry snapped, shoving another sprout towards Ron. "Hermione would never."
Ron didn't look convinced. "Right, because she would never keep things from us. Like, I don't know, having a Time-Turner, or sneaking off to found a house-elf movement, or—"
"All right, fine," Harry muttered. "But Malfoy? Really?"
He wanted to scream. Actually scream. If Fred and George were still there, he was certain they'd be mocking Ron for how deranged he sounded.
But the thing was — there was a chance he wasn't wrong. Harry had seen how they acted around each other. He'd tracked them on the Marauder's Map, spotted them in the library or empty classrooms late into the night. He'd seen first-hand how Malfoy had behaved when he caught Hermione with McLaggen at Slughorn's party.
And worst of all — Harry himself had just slept with Pansy Parkinson. Twice. Four days ago, even the thought of it would have had him calling anyone who suggested it completely off their rocker. If he was capable of it, why not Hermione?
Ron sighed, tossing a peeled sprout into the bowl. "Look, I'm not saying she's off writing 'Hermione Malfoy' in her diary — but she's been acting strange, mate. And it's always him. It's been him for weeks now."
The silence between them stretched, thick with unspoken thoughts. Harry kept his eyes fixed on the sprouts, his jaw clenched. Ron, for once, seemed to be thinking rather than just talking.
It was the last thing Harry wanted to dwell on. He'd been successfully avoiding it until now, largely because no one else seemed to have noticed. No one except Ginny, who had so helpfully pointed it out at the first opportunity.
But Harry knew what he'd seen. And worse — he knew what he hadn't heard. Hermione had been brushing off their questions, deflecting their suspicions at every turn.
Ron groaned, dropping his knife. "Bloody hell. She is snogging him, isn't she?"
Harry gritted his teeth. "No."
"She is," Ron said, looking slightly pale. "She's been sneaking around, staying at Hogwarts for the holidays, spending all that time alone with Malfoy — Merlin, Harry! I—"
A laugh — well, more of a cackle — erupted from behind them.
Harry nearly jumped out of his skin as he spun round.
Ginny was bent double, laughing hard enough to wipe tears from the corners of her eyes.
Ron snarled, turning to face her. "What's the matter with you?"
"You're both absolute idiots." She was still laughing as she straightened up. "It's like watching two toddlers try to stack playing cards."
Ron scowled. "Care to explain yourself, oh wise one, or are you just going to stand there cackling like a madwoman?"
Ginny smirked, crossing her arms. "Honestly, it's painful to watch."
"Hadn't you better be setting up your room for Fleur? I heard you're sharing," Harry said through gritted teeth. He really did not need Ginny confirming Ron's suspicions.
Ginny groaned. "Don't remind me."
"What do you know?" Ron asked.
Ginny shrugged, leaning against the counter. "Well, I can tell you one thing for certain."
Ron and Harry stared at her, the tension thick between them — Ron desperate for confirmation, Harry praying she'd hold her tongue for once.
Ginny grinned, clearly relishing every second of their torment. "Hermione is not snogging Malfoy."
Harry let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding.
"And you know this how?" Ron crossed his arms.
She raised an eyebrow. "Oh, let's see — because she's my friend. Because I actually talk to her like a proper person, not just a walking encyclopaedia. Because I haven't spent the last month taking the mickey out of her to impress a dim-witted girlfriend." She paused. "Honestly, Ron."
Ron snarled.
"Besides," she continued, "Blaise told me as much."
"Blaise?" Ron's tone went flat. "You've been talking to Blaise Zabini?"
Harry groaned.
"What in Merlin's name are you doing talking to Blaise Zabini?" Ron snapped.
Ginny gave him a supremely unimpressed look. "Don't start, Ron. It's not as though we're best mates. But Blaise isn't exactly tight-lipped after a few drinks."
"You were drinking with Zabini?" Ron's face was reddening by the second.
Harry was sincerely hoping Voldemort would walk in through the front door and put him out of his misery.
She shrugged. "Hermione and I played strip poker with the lot of them."
Ron's face went completely crimson, his mouth opening and closing like a fish yanked from a pond. Steam seemed to practically rise from his ears.
"YOU WHAT?" Ron spluttered.
Ginny smirked, clearly in her element. "It's a Muggle card game. You play poker, but if you lose a hand, you also lose—"
"I know what strip poker is!"
"Well, then what's the confusion?" she asked, wide-eyed. "It was during that snow day. Me, Hermione, Pansy, Daphne — oh, and Blaise, Theo, and Malfoy."
Ron shot Harry a look of pure, undiluted horror. "Did you know about this?"
"No!"
Ginny fought the urge to cackle again. "Malfoy's dreadful at it. He was down to his boxers by the end. You should have seen the look on Hermione's face."
Ron appeared to have briefly left his body.
"She's definitely not snogging him — but, Merlin, I wouldn't blame her if she was. You could practically see the outline of his—"
"Mum!" Ron bellowed.
The grin vanished from Ginny's face instantly.
"Shut up!" Harry hissed, eyes wide.
"You idiot!" Ginny snapped, smacking Ron's arm. "I'm going to murder you!" She spun towards the door as Mrs Weasley bustled into the kitchen, looking alarmed.
"Tell me no one's cut their finger off," Mrs Weasley said.
"No, everyone's intact," Harry said quickly.
Ron opened his mouth. Ginny stood on his foot.
"Ow!" Ron yelped, shoving her. "Mum, Ginny's been playing strip poker!"
Ginny shoved him back. "You snitch!" she yelled.
Meanwhile, at Parkinson Palace, Pansy had spent the previous two days being ferried from one high-end boutique to another, her mother inspecting every bolt of fabric, every accessory, every minute detail with the precision of a Ministry Auror processing evidence.
It had been two days of pure, relentless exhaustion. She'd been paraded through every wizarding dress shop in Britain before being Portkeyed to Paris, trailing in her mother's wake as lavishly dressed shop attendants hung on Cassandra Parkinson's every word.
Shopping with Cassandra was both a privilege and a test of endurance — one Pansy had learned to survive through a careful balance of indulgence and quiet rebellion. She was fairly certain she had tried on every robe and gown in Paris at least twice.
As gruelling as it was, she could admit it had its charms.
At her core, her mother was a woman who believed in the power of appearances. She wasn't cruel about it — not like some of the other pureblood matriarchs — but there was an expectation, an unspoken pressure that clung to their outings like a second skin.
The first day had been manageable. They'd begun in Paris, where Cassandra had steered her firmly towards gowns in muted jewel tones, reasoning that winter gatherings called for elegance rather than spectacle.
The robes were hand-stitched, the Potion-infused silks adjusted to one's figure with an artistry no Muggle designer could hope to match. Pansy had genuinely enjoyed herself — trying on gowns that shimmered like liquid moonlight, cloaks lined with the softest velvet, and gloves that fitted her fingers as though they'd been conjured for her alone.
"Pansy, dear, stand up straight," Cassandra murmured as they swept into yet another boutique in Diagon Alley, one gloved hand resting lightly on her daughter's back.
Pansy barely suppressed a sigh, offering her mother a smirk instead. "You know, Mother, if you simply wanted to spend time with me, we could've done something enjoyable."
Cassandra regarded her daughter with a tilt of the head. "Since when don't you enjoy me throwing money at your wardrobe?"
Pansy exhaled with exaggerated suffering as she allowed herself to be steered further into the boutique. "Oh, I adore it," she drawled. "There's nothing I love more than being poked, prodded, and draped in fabric like a shop mannequin."
Cassandra sighed, unimpressed. "Theatrics don't suit you, darling. That's more of a Nott trait."
Pansy couldn't quite argue with that. Theo did have a flair for the dramatic when the mood struck him.
She ran her fingers along a rail of robes, pausing on something in a soft, velvety sage green.
Cassandra sighed. "That colour again. Pansy, you know darker shades suit you better. Try this one." She gestured towards a navy gown.
Pansy took it, running her fingers over the fabric. "It's beautiful," she admitted, then added with a grin, "But I was thinking something with a higher slit. Lower neckline—"
Cassandra shot her a sharp look. "We are shopping for family dinners, not a seduction, Pansy. Wear whatever you like with your friends, but you will not turn up to your father's family in something unsuitable."
Pansy winced at the mention of her father's family, the weight of the Parkinson legacy pressing down on her like a gathering storm. Her father had passed when she was young, leaving Cassandra to manage both the estate and the delicate art of preserving their family name. Pansy understood how much it mattered — she always had — but the pressure never stopped feeling like a noose.
"Fine," she muttered, taking the gown and heading to the fitting room.
The enchanted fabric laced itself up at the back as she dressed. She ran her fingers along the bodice, feeling it settle into place.
The silk clung to her in a way that felt both regal and faintly suffocating. She studied her reflection, the gown's neckline cut just low enough to remind her of the woman she was expected to be: poised, composed, and always, always in control.
With a soft exhale, she walked out to show her mother.
"You're slouching."
"I'm exhausted."
"No, you're cross because I mentioned your grandparents." Cassandra said simply, crossing the room to straighten her daughter's posture with a practised hand. "The gown will do. The neckline's slightly lower than your grandmother would prefer, but it'll pass."
She could already picture it — her mother's quiet satisfaction, the approving glances from the other pureblood women at the forthcoming gathering.
And yet...
Her thoughts wandered. Back to Draco, still at Hogwarts. To Hermione — her friend, apparently — so thoroughly besotted with him it was almost painful to watch. To Daphne and Theo, locked in an argument Theo was too thick to understand and Daphne too proud to step back from. To Blaise, who had said almost nothing lately, content to let everyone else's dramas occupy the centre of attention.
And then to Potter.
Pansy's lips curved slightly as she recalled the last time she'd seen him — dishevelled, flushed, watching her like she was some puzzle he couldn't quite work out.
There had been something deeply satisfying about ruining Harry bloody Potter.
Especially because, judging by the way he'd kissed her — the way he'd dropped to his knees for her —
She hadn't just ruined him.
She had wrecked him entirely.
"I don't like them any more than you do, Pansy." Cassandra sighed, smoothing Pansy's hair back into place, reading her daughter's drifting expression well enough. "I used to be fun, believe it or not. Ask Cissa."
For a moment, Pansy caught something unfamiliar in her mother's eyes — a flicker of nostalgia, and perhaps something closer to regret. It reminded her that Cassandra had once been like her: full of sharp edges and restless energy, pressing against a world that demanded only perfection. That spirit had since been worn smooth by age and obligation, but it was still there, somewhere beneath the surface.
"Do you ever miss it?" Pansy asked quietly, unable to resist.
Her mother's fingers stilled in her hair. The silence stretched between them, long enough that Pansy wondered whether she'd overstepped. Then Cassandra's lips curved into a soft smirk — one that looked startlingly like Pansy's own.
"I wouldn't be your mother if I didn't, would I?" she said at last.
The bond between the Parkinsons and the Malfoys predated both Pansy and Draco by a generation. Their mothers had been matched around the same time, thrown into a world of unspoken alliances and careful obligations. While Pansy and Draco had never been formally betrothed, there had always been an unspoken understanding that they were meant to move in the same circles, to look out for one another — even if not to marry. She was quietly grateful her mother had granted her that particular freedom — to choose for herself — unlike Daphne, whose family dragged her from one suitable prospect to the next.
"Well, if you ever fancy going rogue again, do let me know. I could use a co-conspirator," Pansy said, turning to her mother with a grin.
Cassandra shook her head, though her eyes were bright. "Merlin help the man you eventually convince to marry you."
Pansy grinned wickedly. "Who said anything about marrying? Perhaps I'll be an eccentric spinster. Keep a boy-toy for weekends."
Cassandra pinched the bridge of her nose as though warding off a Headache Draught-worthy migraine. "Pansy."
"What?" She laughed. "You married young. I might do the opposite just to see how scandalised grandmother can get."
Cassandra dropped her hand and fixed her daughter with a dry look. "You like being adored far too much to end up a spinster, darling. No matter how convincingly you pretend otherwise."
Pansy rolled her eyes, but chose not to argue. She did enjoy attention — though she'd sooner perform a Bat-Bogey Hex on herself than admit her mother was right. "And here I thought you were worried about the Parkinson legacy."
"Which is precisely why I sincerely hope that, whatever else you do, you have the sense to choose a boy-toy with some degree of social standing."
Shock passed over Pansy's face for a full two seconds before she burst out laughing. "Mother!" she gasped, pressing a hand to her chest in mock outrage. "Tell me you don't have personal experience in that particular area."
Cassandra simply rolled her eyes. "A lady never tells. Particularly not to her innocent young daughter. Now go and change out of the gown so we can buy it."
"Innocent?" Pansy huffed, desperate for even a crumb of gossip. "Please, Mother, if you knew half the things—"
Cassandra levelled a look at her, and Pansy went very quiet.
These were the rare moments she truly treasured with her mother — when the weight of expectation lifted just enough to let the real Cassandra show through. It was easy to forget that before she had been a Parkinson matriarch, she'd simply been Cassandra: a girl who had probably stood exactly where Pansy stood now, full of sharp wit and barely contained energy, trying to navigate a world that demanded far too much. Their relationship was complicated — it probably always would be — but Pansy wished they had more moments where they were friends rather than simply mother and daughter.
Pansy stepped into the fitting room, still talking through the closed door. "You can't just say something like that and expect me not to ask questions. I mean, honestly, you're telling me—"
"I'm telling you that, as I recall, there was a time when a certain young Mrs Malfoy and I did not always observe the rules laid out for us quite as strictly as we were supposed to."
Pansy's jaw all but hit the floor. She stood on her tiptoes, peering over the edge of the fitting room door. "What exactly does that mean?"
Cassandra merely smirked, taking her time adjusting her gloves as she met Pansy's wide-eyed stare. "It means exactly what I said, and nothing proper enough to discuss in a boutique. Now, do hurry up."
Pansy walked out and handed the gown to a sales witch to be wrapped and sent to the estate.
"You know," Cassandra mused as they made their way back out onto Diagon Alley, "if you do eventually settle down, I hope you choose someone with a little sense. Merlin knows you'd drive a fool to Azkaban."
Pansy grinned wickedly, her thoughts drifting — inevitably — to Potter. Always so self-righteous. Always so certain he had everything sorted. And yet she'd had him on his knees twice now, and she was fairly certain he was still thinking about it.
Cassandra raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. "That expression does nothing for my confidence, young lady."
Pansy simply linked her arm through her mother's. "How does tea and crumpets sound?" she offered, nodding towards the little tea shop across the lane.
Once they were seated with menus in hand, Cassandra hummed and looked up at her. "So. Are you going to tell me who he is?"
Pansy didn't look up from her menu. "The raspberry crumpets sound wonderful, don't they?"
"Pansy."
"Or perhaps the honey blueberry—"
"Darling, you've had that insufferable smirk for the past quarter-hour. It's either a particularly delicious piece of gossip or a man. Or a girl?"
Pansy finally looked up and met her mother's gaze. For a moment, she genuinely considered playing dumb.
She could lie. She could redirect entirely.
Or — she could see exactly how far she could push it.
She set her menu down, drumming her nails lightly against the table as she considered her options. "Hypothetically — if there were someone. Which there isn't."
"Of course not," her mother agreed, playing along.
Pansy leaned back in her chair. Cassandra was watching her the way she watched every other socialite at any pureblood gathering — steady, patient, waiting for the crack.
"He's unconventional," Pansy said simply.
Cassandra's eyes narrowed. "Shall I start guessing, or are you planning to get to the point today?"
Pansy grinned. "I do love a guessing game."
"It's not Blaise, is it? He'd bore you senseless within a year."
"Blaise is like a brother at best, Mother."
"Theodore?"
"Theo and I would kill each other," Pansy laughed. "Besides, I wouldn't do that to Daphne. She's utterly mad about him at the moment."
Cassandra tilted her head, considering. "Not Draco, obviously."
Pansy's lips twitched.
Her mother's eyes went wide. "Not Draco. Of course. Right, Pansy?"
"Not Draco. We know far too much about each other. I'd never win an argument in my life," she agreed. "Though he has found himself in something of a scandal."
And there it was — the flicker of interest behind her mother's eyes, just as Pansy had known it would come.
Cassandra leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "A scandal, you say?"
Pansy smirked, lifting her teacup with perfect composure. "Mm. Quite a delicious one, actually. I may have had a hand in it, though for once it wasn't entirely planned."
"Do tell."
"You'll tell Cissa."
"Obviously. Now spill, or you're grounded."
"Does that mean I won't have to attend dinner?"
"I will send you to spend the rest of the holidays with your grandmother. See if she'll let you wear that shade of lipstick."
Pansy placed a dramatic hand over her heart. "You wouldn't dare."
Cassandra simply raised an eyebrow — the same arch she had wielded since Pansy was a small child whenever she needed her daughter to understand she was absolutely serious.
"Fine. He's been spending a great deal of time with a certain Gryffindor Golden Girl," Pansy huffed, sinking back into her chair.
"You're joking."
She should have kept her mouth shut. She'd known better than to bait her mother, had always known — and yet she'd done it anyway, and the following day of shopping had been ten times worse for it, with Cassandra peppering her with questions about what Draco was thinking and whether he'd lost his mind entirely.
Now, back at Parkinson Palace, Pansy sat in her room while the grand chandelier above her cast a soft glow across the walls. The faint scent of fresh roses hung in the air — her mother insisted on enchanted floral arrangements in every room.
A sharp knock pulled her out of her thoughts. "Mother, I swear, I am utterly exhausted!"
"It's me," came the familiar voice from the other side of the door.
Pansy sighed and waved a lazy hand, wandlessly unlocking the door. Daphne stepped inside, looking, as always, effortlessly composed — her blonde hair tied back with an elegant ribbon.
"Shopping torture again?" Daphne asked, leaning in the doorway with amusement playing at her lips.
"Two days," Pansy said, not looking up.
She flung her arm across her face. "I told her about Draco and Hermione."
Daphne sat up sharply. "You've lost your mind."
"She knows how to push my buttons!" Pansy looked at her with wide eyes. "I didn't mean to. I really didn't. But I did. Not everything, mind you — there isn't much to tell yet. They haven't actually snogged it out."
Daphne snorted. "Well, if they don't manage it before we get back, I'd say it's a hopeless cause. They're even more oblivious than I thought."
Pansy groaned in agreement, pressing her fingertips to her temples.
Daphne smirked, tucking her legs beneath her in the chaise. "So what did your mother say?"
Pansy let out an exaggerated sigh. "What do you think she said? She barely believes me. Not that I blame her. Merlin, I need a drink."
Daphne pulled a small bottle from the folds of her robes and wiggled it between two fingers. "Fortunately, I came prepared."
Pansy sat up instantly, reaching for it. "You are my absolute favourite Greengrass."
"Do please tell my mother that. She hasn't stopped going on about Astoria since we arrived."
The living room at the Burrow was alive with noise and warmth, the fire crackling and sending shifting shadows across the mismatched furniture. Enchanted fairy lights along the walls cycled slowly through colours, and the whole house smelled of cinnamon and pine. Mrs Weasley had truly outdone herself — platters of biscuits and mince pies crowded the table, and a bottle of Ogden's Old Firewhisky had appeared beside the Butterbeer seemingly of its own accord.
Ginny sat between Fred and George, directing a scowl at Ron as she muttered something about how outrageously unfair her grounding was.
Fred nudged her with an elbow. "Honestly, Gin, I don't know what you were thinking."
"Strip poker," George said, shaking his head. "Unbelievable."
"It wasn't even my idea!" Ginny threw her arms in the air.
George leaned back in his chair with a smirk. "No, but you didn't exactly run screaming either, did you?"
Fred waggled his eyebrows. "And here I always thought our little sister was such a sweet, innocent thing."
Ginny glared daggers at both of them. "I was winning," she muttered, crossing her arms.
Fred and George exchanged their usual identical look before breaking into matching grins. "Who else was playing?"
Ginny looked over at Ron and Harry. "You know, I hope Hermione does end up snogging Malfoy, just because you decided to be a prick about it, Ronald."
Ron made a rude gesture in her direction, earning himself a swift clip round the ear from Bill.
"Behave," Bill said flatly.
"Our little Hermione, tangled up with Draco Malfoy?" George mused.
Fred was grinning. "Best Christmas present yet."
"She's not tangled up with anyone," Harry said — the first time he'd spoken all evening. He'd had the Marauder's Map out for most of the afternoon, which was becoming an unsettling habit.
"I always knew she'd show better taste than to end up with either of these two," Fred said, nodding at Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumb.
"Taste?" Ron spluttered.
"Well, Malfoy's a prat," George said, "but he is rather pretty."
Harry looked like he was very seriously considering lobbing something at them. "Do you spend a lot of time looking at Malfoy, George?"
George tossed a piece of popcorn at him. "No, but you do. Put that bloody map away unless you're planning to tell us what they're up to."
Ron turned to Harry with wide eyes. "Where is she? What's she doing?" He lunged for the map before Harry could pull it back.
Harry glared at George. "Why'd you say that?" he hissed, yanking the map away from Ron's reach.
"Not our fault your friend is having a very interesting holiday," George said with a grin.
Ron looked positively ill. "What if they're—" He stopped himself, his complexion going slightly greenish.
"Oh, they are," George nodded sagely.
"Stop." Harry's voice was sharp. "They haven't even seen each other. Hermione's been in the library the whole time, and Malfoy's just—"
"Holed up in her?" Fred offered helpfully, with a wicked grin.
Ron made a strangled noise, going from green to an alarming shade of puce. "That is not funny!" he yelped, looking genuinely like he might be sick over Mrs Weasley's carefully arranged mince pies.
Fred and George, naturally, dissolved into laughter, clinking their Butterbeer bottles together in gleeful celebration of Ron's misery.
Ginny, for her part, looked entirely too entertained, reclining against the sofa cushions with a smirk firmly in place. "Why do you even care? You've been awful to her all term, and you're with Lavender."
"Because it's Malfoy!" Ron snapped. "Just give me the bloody map, Harry!" He made a grab for it, snatching it clean out of Harry's hands before Harry could stop him.
Ron was on his feet in an instant, muttering the incantation to activate the map, watching the familiar parchment bloom with the layout of the castle and the tiny labelled footprints of the few souls still in residence.
His eyes scanned frantically. "Where is she?" Fred asked, craning over Ron's shoulder.
"Don't rush him," Ginny said sweetly. "You know he struggles with anything more complex than pictures."
"There!" Ron jabbed his finger against the map. Hermione's name hovered alone in the courtyard.
Harry leaned in. "See? She's on her own. Now give it back," he said, desperately hoping Malfoy wouldn't appear before Ron could be talked down.
Ron didn't hand it over. His eyes remained locked on the small dot marking Hermione's location, a deep furrow in his brow.
Then, before their eyes, Malfoy's name appeared — moving fast, skidding down from somewhere above as though he'd come flying round a corner. His label swept past Hermione's for a moment, then stopped. And a beat later, Hermione's name broke into motion too, chasing after his, coming to rest just a few footsteps away.
"What the—" Ron muttered, eyes wide. His finger hovered uselessly over the parchment. The two names were now side by side. Close together. Moving.
Fred leaned in further, his expression shifting from amusement to something more genuine. "Well. I didn't think we were actually serious."
Ginny stepped back, a broad grin spreading across her face.
"That's enough," Mr Weasley said quietly but firmly, appearing at the edge of the group. "The pair of you are supposed to be celebrating the holiday, not surveilling a sixteen-year-old girl." He plucked the map cleanly from Ron's hands. "You'll get this back after the holidays."
"But—"
"No buts."
"She's got to be joking!"
Harry woke with a start to find a bulging Christmas stocking draped over the end of his bed. He pushed his glasses on and squinted across the room, where Ron was sitting bolt upright, holding what appeared to be a thick gold chain.
"What?" Harry scrubbed a hand over his face. "Decided to start accessorising, have you?"
"It's from Lavender," Ron said, sounding pained. "She can't honestly think I'd wear—"
Harry hauled himself to the edge of the bed and leaned forward to get a better look. He let out a laugh. Dangling from the chain in large gold letters were the words MY SWEETHEART.
"Lovely," he said with a grin. "Very classy. You should wear it when Fred and George come down."
"If you breathe a word," Ron began, "I — I—"
"Stutter at me?" Harry grinned.
"How could she think I'd want something like this?" Ron demanded of the air, looking genuinely bewildered.
"Well, think back," Harry said. "Have you ever given her any indication that you'd enjoy walking around with 'My Sweetheart' hanging from your neck?"
"Well… we don't really talk much," said Ron. "It's mainly…"
"Snogging," said Harry.
"Well, yeah," said Ron. He hesitated. "Did you get the map back?"
Harry groaned. "Write to your girlfriend and thank her for the gift, Ron, instead of spying on Hermione and Malfoy." He reached into his stocking.
A knock at the door was followed immediately by Ginny letting herself in. "Morning," she said, wearing an expression of barely concealed mischief.
Ron narrowed his eyes. "What are you so pleased about?"
Ginny shrugged, strolling in as though she owned the place before flopping onto the end of Harry's bed and helping herself to a chocolate frog from his stocking. "Nothing. Just wondering whether our dear Hermione had a pleasant evening."
Harry shot her a warning look. "Ginny."
"What?" She unwrapped the frog with cheerful innocence. "I'm only wondering whether Malfoy got her anything for Christmas. They are friends, aren't they?"
Ron's ears reddened considerably as Ginny stretched out the word.
"Harry, just check," Ginny said, settling herself more comfortably. "Then we'll know whether she's in his room or not."
Harry launched his new jumper at her. "Stop before you send him over the edge!"
Bill stepped into the room, flicking through a handful of letters. "Harry, you've got one — Hermione, Ron, you've got… Merlin, eight between you, I hope you got that girlfriend of yours a decent quill — Ginny, you've got three. One from Dean, one from Hermione, and the others from…" He glanced at the last envelope. "Blaise?"
Ron's expression curdled. "Blaise?" he repeated, staring at Ginny as though she'd sprouted antlers. "Why is Zabini writing to you?"
Ginny's eyes went wide, and she darted forward to snatch the letters from Bill's outstretched hand. "I don't know. I haven't read it yet," she hissed.
"Who's Blaise?" Bill asked, glancing between them. "I thought you and Dean were going steady."
"Going steady?" Ginny repeated, staring at her eldest brother. "Merlin, you're getting old."
Ron lunged for the parchment, but Ginny yanked it clear out of his reach. "No. My letter. My business."
"Ginny, if that Slytherin is trying to chat you up—"
"What, you'll what?" Ginny snapped, tearing the letter open. "We're just talking. Like friends. I do have a boyfriend, if you recall!"
"Does he know that?"
"Everyone at Hogwarts knows that!" she shot back. "Why don't you sort out your own mess of a relationship before poking your nose into mine?"
"So you admit you and Dean are having problems!" Ron announced, as though he'd just cracked a particularly difficult puzzle.
Ginny turned a look on him that would have made a Basilisk think twice. "That is not what I said, Ronald."
Harry, wisely, chose to eat another chocolate frog and pretend he wasn't witnessing a Weasley sibling war before nine in the morning.
Ron looked around, scanning the room for support. "Bill?"
Bill raised both hands and backed towards the door. "Don't drag me into this, mate. I'm just delivering the post." He dropped the remaining letters onto the nightstand and made a swift exit, muttering something about needing tea urgently.
Ginny turned back to Blaise's letter, eyes moving quickly across the page.
Ron huffed, arms crossed tightly. "What could Zabini possibly have to say to you that isn't complete rubbish?"
Ginny didn't look up as she replied. "Oh, you know. Just checking in. Being thoughtful. Unlike some people."
Harry nearly choked on a Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Bean. "Blaise Zabini is being thoughtful?"
Ginny glanced up with a smirk. "Apparently more thoughtful than Dean, who sent me a note that just says 'Merry Christmas, see you soon' with a smiley face. A smiley face, Harry."
Ron looked aghast. "You're seriously comparing Zabini to Dean? Zabini's a Slytherin!"
"I'm not comparing anyone! Honestly — this is probably why Hermione doesn't confide in you anymore. You hear exactly what you want and run with it."
Harry tuned out the bickering and unfolded his letter from Hermione.
Harry,
Merry Christmas. I hope you're having a lovely time at the Burrow. Stop watching me on the Marauder's Map — don't lie, I know you are. Hogwarts hasn't been too dreadful. I am perfectly fine and in full possession of my senses. I am not under the influence of any Love Potion.
Please just trust me, Harry. I'm still me, even if Draco is my friend now.
Love,
Hermione.