Summary:
Being the only Muggleborn in Slytherin wasn't particularly easy for Hermione Granger, but apparently, Pansy Parkinson had to make life even harder. How? By pissing her off, all simple. Why? Because every time Hermione snapped back, it was exactly like fireworks.
Except this year is their last at Hogwarts, and Hermione has decided to make Pansy's life hell back.
Or,
That time when Pansy decided to flip her life upside down because she saw boobs for the first time, and that time Hermione definitely participated in it.
[ALTERNATE UNIVERSE: NO VOLDEMORT, SLYTHERIN HERMIONE GRANGER]
Notes:
/!\ ON HIATUS. WON'T BE UPDATED FOR NOW. TAKE CHAPTER 15 AS THE STORY'S ENDING FOR NOW. /!\
Spotify Playlist:
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5AxHkHdYn6u3GQM9PyZwih?si=qp2Zo45NRIC6pb6-cYsvMg&pi=TkFdiaeYRpyd1
(See the end of the work for more notes.)
Chapter 1: Declaration Of WarChapter Text
"I'm telling you, I hate this bitch."
"Bloody hell, Granger!"
The latter rolled her eyes and kept sorting through her books on the ground, jaw clenched. Her clothes and shoes and school supplies were scattered on the floor, dimly lit the corridor's torches.
As if being the only Muggleborn in Slytherin wasn't hard enough, fate had decided to slide Pansy Parkinson in Hermione Granger's life. When the Sorting Hat had yelled "Slytherin!" after staying on Hermione's head for what felt like years, she hadn't fully grasped the implications.
Shock had taken the most space in her mind. Because why would the hat sort her in Slytherin? Hermione was a Muggleborn, and hadn't been afraid to say it at first. She was stubborn, but smart enough to know how to keep a low profile. She had prayed and begged and implored her director, Severus Snape, to arrange a meeting with Headmaster Dumbledore and to sort her into another house. But Snape hated her, and it was greatly reciprocated. Surprisingly, Hermione's first three years at Hogwarts had been lonely but peaceful. She didn't make friends in her house, she had no time for that. She wanted to nail all her exams and show everyone she belonged in Ravenclaw, heck, even in Gryffindor, instead of the House of Serpents. That led to her becoming Slytherin's Know It All. Hermione didn't mind. She didn't need friends. She wished she had some when fourth year began.
If at first, Draco Malfoy, Pansy Parkinson and all their minions didn't pay much attention to her, when Hermione started dating Viktor Krum, Parkinson died of jealousy. From that point on, she apparently decided to make Hermione's life miserable. The icing on the pumpkin pie was eventually discovering Hermione was a Muggleborn in Slytherin, on that dreary day of January 1995. Pansy had made learning about this fact her life accomplishment. Hermione hadn't had a day of peace ever since. Pansy had jinxed her teeth, lit her hair on fire, purposely pushed her in the corridors, always looking for a fight. Hermione had always kept her chin up, refusing to engage in such idiotic ministrations.
But today, Tuesday, September 1, 1997, at 11 in the evening, Hermione decided she had enough when she opened her school bag and discovered someone had slipped a Chizpurfle inside. The little crab-like creature had left bites on almost all of her books, and excrements on her school scarf, notes and parchments.
"Are you even sure she did this?" mumbled Harry Potter, waving his wand to repair the gnawed book covers.
"Certainly. You don't know her like I do," replied Hermione. She interrupted herself, grabbing the nearest thing that could trap the Chizpurfle, and trapped the little creature by slapping the glass hard on the floor.
Hermione's social life hadn't been so disastrous as one might expect. Strangely, she had found some friendly acquaintances in other houses. She had never been close to Harry Potter or his best friend, Ron Weasley, despite briefly sitting with them in the Hogwarts Express in 1991. Being sorted in other houses didn't help for a friendship to bloom. But she had always been cordial and a bit friendly with them, and they had reciprocated, since Hermione was the only Slytherin student who didn't want the Gryffindor House dead and buried.
Hermione also often found herself studying in the library next to Luna Lovegood. The younger girl was strange, to be concise. She almost always looked completely lost in her own world, but she could have interesting conversations, though Hermione had to refrain herself from laughing at her face when Luna started talking about Nargles. Luna also baked prodigious chocolate chip cookies. Hermione suspected her of adding unicorn hair to her cookies as they were addictive.
But Hermione's closest friends were Theodore Nott and Daphne Greengrass. Theodore had asked her out in fifth year. She had looked at him with wide eyes, immediately thinking he was doing it as a dare or something. She was surprised when she realised her classmates, whom she had almost never interacted with, was actually really intelligent and didn't care about her Muggle origins. He was also a bit like a child, with a lopsided grin and a boyish face. They went on a few dates in Hogsmeade, before Hermione realised she looked at him more like a little brother than anything else after dating him for three months. Kissing him was... icky.
Daphne hated Pansy and Draco, and Hermione had bonded with her over this shared experience. Pansy had stolen Draco from her when they were fourteen, snogging him in the hallways while Daphne was supposed to be his girlfriend. Hermione had found her crying in her bed, which was next to hers, and they had made a pact to destroy this duo.
"Granger, how could Parkinson even add a Chizpurfle into your bag?" asked Harry, scratching the back of his head.
"I told you, I left it unattended for a minute in the compartment to go to the bathroom. I crossed her in the hallway when I went back to my seat, and her pug face was much too proud to be innocent."
Harry kneeled to gather the last of Hermione's books, and she addressed him a brief smile.
"Thank you, Potter. For making this easier. I know being named Head Boy with me wasn't exceptionally great news for you."
"It's not supposed to be hard, you know," Harry replied. "The only thing that would have made me want to kill you was for you to be Parkinson, or Crabbe, for example."
Hermione had a shiver of disgust.
"Maybe we could get to the first name basis?" proposed Hermione, getting up.
Harry put his wand in the back pocket of his jeans and shrugged.
"Maybe. I still don't exactly trust you."
"What, because I'm a Slytherin?"
"Yes. That, and because Slytherin is known for rarely-slash-occasionally-slash-never accept Muggleborns in its house. How mischievous and unhinged and determined must you be to still get sorted there?"
Hermione didn't detect any aggression in his tone. Instead, Harry appeared kind of cheeky. She flattened her skirt and crossed her arms.
"I don't know. I must have repressed it because I was desperate to change houses."
"I wouldn't want to be there when you decide to let it out," chuckled Harry.
Hermione smiled, easing the tension in her shoulders. She leaned back down, grabbing the lid of her jar and imprisoning the Chizpurfle inside. She put the jar back in her bag and started walking to her dorm, feeling a bit more light hearted than before.
"Good night, Harry," she said over her shoulder.
"Good night, Hermione."
A fresh whiff of wind blew through her curls as Hermione reached the lower floors. When she got down the last stairs, the corridors leading to Slytherin's common room were already dark, the torches dimly lighting the stone walls. Hermione sighed when she approached the hidden stone door behind some pillars. She pressed her hand against the cold surface and looked right in front of her.
"Et serpentes semper uniuntur."
The door opened, rolling on the floor. Hermione lowered her eyes, stepping down the stairs leading to the common room. Really, if she had been the one to choose the password, then she clearly wouldn't have picked this one. "And the snakes will always unite..." Dragon crap.
She noticed Draco and Astoria in the middle of a heated snogging session and smirked. Apparently, Parkinson got dumped. Hermione made sure she noted this fact in the back of her head. Daphne, who was in the middle of a chess tournament with Theo, got up from her chair and briefly hugged her.
"Hey, you're late! What happened?"
"Pansy Parkinson happened," shrugged Hermione. "She slipped a Chizpurfle in my bag, so it gnawed the handles. Potter helped me to gather all my stuff after our reunion with Dumbledore and the house directors."
"You know how much I love the beef between you and Pansy," yawned Theo. "How do you know it's her, though?"
"Who else?"
"Draco?" suggested Theo.
"Yeah. No. He's too busy reaching my sister's glottis," interrupted Daphne, glancing at them with a disgusted frown.
"You sound tense, Daphne," smiled Hermione.
"It's because I am! Our parents are way too happy that she's dating this dickhead. I hate that he's snogging my baby sister," she said through gritted teeth, glaring at Malfoy.
"Yes, how come he broke up with Pansy?" asked Theo, pushing his chair to look at the two girls better instead of getting up.
"They probably got sick of each other. I wouldn't blame them. Evil people date evil people," replied dryly Daphne. "This doesn't apply to my sister, though. Hence why I can't understand what she's doing with this jerk."
"I haven't finished my Chizpurfle story," slid Hermione.
Unable to refrain her proud smile, she took out the jar of her handbag.
"Let's just say Pansy Parkinson is going to spend a terrible night when she realises her Chizpurfle is eating her silk gowns," murmured Hermione, leaning closer to Daphne.
The latter opened her blue eyes wide, and Theo fell off his chair.
"Wicked," whispered Daphne, ignoring Theo. "We better do it now, she's in the bathroom!"
"So this it it?" Theo yelled, as the two girls started to run down the stairs leading to their dorm. "Revenge time?"
Hermione stopped and addressed him with a solar smile. "Theodore, this isn't revenge time. See, for years, I've been losing battles after battles. This, my dear Theo; is a declaration of war."
Theo looked like he had just realised Christmas was happening tomorrow. Hermione didn't wait for his approval and rushed inside her dorm, throwing her handbag on her bed.
It was the closest to the big windows under the lake, basked in a constant green light. Hermione had always made sure her bed space was neatly organised, her textbooks on her right bedside table, her personal books on the other table. There were knitted covers on her bed because strangely, she was always, always cold in the dorms, and a never ending candle she charmed on her left table. This time, however, Hermione didn't immediately put her handbag at the feet of her bed like she always did for seven years. Instead, she completely ignored it and focused on the jar in her hand. She tiptoed to Pansy's bed. It was the farthest from hers, four beds away, always a bit messy, reeking of perfume and with clothing magazines all over the covers and tables. Hermione carefully opened the lid, letting the little crab-like creature slither in Pansy's covers. Daphne looked at her like she had suddenly fallen in love.
But the door of the dorm opened again, and the noise of Pansy and all the other girls chatting echoed in the room. Hermione grabbed Daphne's arm and threw her in her bed, closing the posters.
"I can't believe you're finally entering the game. What made you take this decision?"
Hermione crossed her legs, untying her green and silver tie. Harry's words resounded in her mind.
"I don't know. It's not about the Chizpurfle. It's more about stopping to repress myself. Finally admitting I want to strangle her."
"I thought you always wanted to be the bigger person by never responding," replied Daphne.
"I can still be the bigger person and make her life considerably harder. I'm tired of letting her walk all over me. I'm tired of being a doormat, Daphne."
"You're not a doormat. You're genuinely one of the kindest people I know, and that's why I like you, Hermione," she said, concerned.
"I can still be kind and crush Pansy's will to live at the same time."
"Do you have ideas? Because me and Theo will help, you know that."
"I do. And yes, I know I'll need you two. Thank you, Daphne."
The blonde witch bounced on Hermione's bed, sitting more comfortably on her mattress.
"So how do we start?" she inquired, lowering her tone, as the other girls started sitting on their respective beds.
"Green is Pansy's favourite colour, right?"
"Probably."
"You know what's really hard to wash off? Murlap blood. You know what's also recognised for its dark green colour? Murlap blood. And you know what's on our ingredients list for potions this year?"
"Murlap blood," cut off Daphne. "Spilling this on her clothes would be fun, yes, but I'm sure she'd find a way to style it anyway."
Hermione pouted. "It'd be a shame if Pansy found Murlap blood in her expensive keratin shampoo, right?"
Daphne's eyes brightened. She looked almost like a demon.
"It'd be such a shame. Careful, me and Theo are going to fall in love with you if you keep being this evil."
"You two are already engrossed with me anyway," chuckled Hermione, blowing her a kiss. Pink sparkles took the form of a lip print flew from her hand to Daphne.
Daphne giggled, raising her hand to catch the kiss print.
"Sounds like Pansy's going to bed," she said in a low voice.
Hermione opened her posters, and Daphne settled on her own bed next to Hermione's, grabbing a book. She was a terrible faker, and it was obvious her eyes were fixated on Pansy's bed, a few metres away.
Hermione's eyes were glued on her too. Pansy's black hair was ridiculously shiny, reaching the base of her neck. Her short black bangs covered her forehead impeccably, making her almond eyes look even darker. Pansy took off her brick lipstick with a tissue with exaggerated mannerism, sitting graciously on her bed. She was wearing pink lace shorts and a quite revealing top of the same colour. She looked like a doll. Always perfect, polished and conventionally pretty. The strap slipped, revealing Pansy's naked shoulder when she sat. Hermione was already seething. She turned her head, sharing a glance with Daphne. The latter was doing her best to hide her smile, and was very poor with it. When Pansy slid her long, impeccably shaved legs under the covers, Hermione didn't control her smile either.
"And... show time."
"AAAH!"
Hermione grabbed the nearest book and hid her face with it, occasionally stealing glances. Pansy was going into hysterics, throwing all her bed covers on the floor. Tracey David and Millicent Bulstrode, next to her, immediately joined her in her panic, screaming and jumping on their bed to avoid the little crab creature who was now running on the ground. Pansy's covers had holes everywhere, and almost all her magazines were ripped apart. Hermione's smile enlarged when she saw the excrements in Pansy's sheets.
"GRANGER!"
"Music to my ears," mumbled Hermione, lowering her book. "Yes Parkinson?"
"What the fuck did you do to my bedsheets?!" yelled Pansy, quickly walking up to her, her cheeks red with anger.
Hermione raised an eyebrow.
"Me? Nothing. Believe me, if I'd had defecated on your sheets, they wouldn't look like this."
Even Tracey snorted. Millicent was quiet too now. Daphne was in the middle of a silent laughing attack. Pansy took another step closer.
"Don't play smarty pants with me now, Granger. You slid this Chizpurfle in my bed! And it just shat everywhere!"
Hermione suddenly leaned over her bed to catch the creature again, imprisoning him back in the jar. She pushed it into Pansy's hands, raising an eyebrow.
"This is a wild accusation, Parkinson. Furthermore, without any evidence! I'm afraid I can't buy this kind of creature. They're quite expensive. Remember? I'm too poor to belong in this world. You said it yourself," said Hermione in a sweet voice.
Pansy's face went from red to almost greenish. She looked like she was about to start having an asthma attack.
"Whatever," she eructed. "You better change my sheets real quick now."
"Why would I change your sheets? I didn't do anything. You could always use a cleaning spell. Are you a witch or not?"
Hermione knew adding this last sentence was what would make Pansy explode. However, the latter didn't seem to react at all. Her dark eyes scanned Hermione's face, and she pursed her lips.
"Alright. Game on, Granger."
On those last words, Pansy abruptly turned her back to her and rushed to her bed, grabbing her wand to try to apply cleaning spells. She looked positively furious. Daphne rolled on her bed to face to Hermione's side.
"This is going to be fun."
Hermione simply hummed in response.
Hermione woke up to the raspy strokes of Crookshank's tongue on her cheek. She groaned, opening briefly her eyes. Her watch hadn't even beeped yet. It was seven in the morning. Hermione decided she could be up early for the first day of class. It wouldn't hurt to be the first one to arrive to Snape's potions lesson. He already despised her enough. Groaning, Hermione got out of her bed and forced her legs to guide her to the bathrooms, further downstairs. She quickly brushed her teeth, before dressing up, sticking her wand between her teeth when she wrapped her green tie around the neck of her shirt. She stared at her comb, mortified. No, she would worry about her hair another day. She was sick of curling and uncurling it all the time. Yawning, Hermione climbed the stairs, adjusting the strap of her bag, buttoning up her Slytherin robes. Theodore was waiting for her in front of the exit of the common room. The green light made his brown eyes sparkle. Hermione smiled at him.
"Hi."
He smiled back. "I'm guessing you spent a really good night."
"Oh yeah. Very good."
Theodore chuckled. He passed his arm around her shoulders and they stepped out of the common room. Hermione yawned again, allowing her head to rest on him.
"So what's your next step?" he asked, nibbling the nails of his free hand.
"I'm waiting for a reaction first. See, that's the plan, Theo. I will never be the one initiating. But I will always respond. And my responses will always make her perfect little life harder."
"I kind of think it's hot."
Hermione frowned. "What?"
"The way you and Pansy hate each other so much. You're obsessed with each other."
Hermione immediately took off his arm and he laughed.
"That's gross. And if I had to date a girl it would probably be Daphne anyway. Although this almost feels incestuous."
"Daphne?" repeated Theodore, grinning. "I thought you also enjoyed Ginny Weasley's Quidditch aptitudes. You said, I quote, she has wonderful biceps."
"Strictly on the athletic level."
"You don't want to lick Ginny Weasley's biceps?"
"No!" exclaimed Hermione, her cheeks inflaming.
"So that's why you dumped me two years ago? Because you like girls?" murmured Theo with a snarky tone.
"I-no! Would you stop it?!"
"I don't blame you, I like girls too," shrugged Theo.
Hermione waved her hand to make him shut up, as they crossed the huge doors of the hall. It was already a little crowded, with a quarter of the students sitting and eating quietly at their house table. Hermione's eyes immediately went to the end of the table, where Parkinson and Malfoy usually sat. And they were indeed there, quietly chatting, not paying attention to her. Slightly reassured, Hermione sat at the middle of the table, as she always did for six years, and heard a few snickers.
The hairs on her neck immediately straightened, but she tried to keep a neutral face. Nothing seemed odd. She glanced at Pansy. The latter smirked to her, waving her fingers to say hi. Hermione clenched her jaw, forcing herself to pour coffee into her cup, ignoring the tension in her shoulders.
But Theo elbowed her, and she almost spilt her coffee. She turned her head, her heart skipping some beats when she saw Pansy getting up, clearly walking to her.
"'Morning Granger."
"Slept well, Parkinson?" asked Hermione neutrally, refusing to look at her.
"I did, thanks for asking. I meant to apologise. For the Chizpurfle. I hope this year, you and I never find ourselves in some... sticky situations."
Hermione didn't believe her at all. This was exactly what she hated about Pansy. Playing with fire all the time, blatantly lying to create a fake feeling of peace before chaos.
"I reckoned you said the game was on."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Pansy purred. "Well, good day, I guess."
On those words, she walked away to sit back at her place. Draco, who was watching the scene, seemed like he couldn't hold back his laughter. Astoria, next to him, looked politely disgusted in him. Hermione was on edge, and Theo looked worried too. He kept his posture firm.
"We don't believe her at all."
"Nope, we don't," murmured Hermione back, accentuating the "p".
"What's your first class?" he asked, sipping his tea.
"Potions with Slughorn."
"Where's Daphne by the way? I haven't seen her at all this morning."
"She's still sleeping. She begins her day at 10 with divination," explained Hermione, before munching on her toast.
Theo tilted his head, studying her with that quiet, perceptive gaze.
"Did you add our plannings to yours to make sure we have common free time?"
Hermione only offered a small, satisfied smile. Of course she did. Always three steps ahead. Before she could answer, the huge bells of the castle tolled overhead, echoing through the Great Hall and rattling the silver goblets on the table.
"That's my cue to go," she said lightly, pulling away from her coffee. "I'll catch you in two hours for Charms."
Theo nodded and shifted on the bench to let her pass, but the moment Hermione pushed her hands against the table to rise, she felt resistance. It was a faint tug, like the fabric of her skirt had snagged on something rough. She frowned and tried again, shifting her weight, but the tug intensified. It was sharp, yanking backward.
Before her brain could even yell at her to beware, she stood, her first thought being assuming it was just a splinter or a nail. But she heard it. A rrrrip that echoed far too loudly in the sudden hush near their end of the table.
Hermione froze. Air swept over the backs of her thighs, cool, terrifying. Then higher. Her breath hitched, and for a split second she didn't dare look down. But she felt the absence of fabric. A draft where her skirt's fabric should definitely be.
The table's far end exploded into laughter.
"Ay, look at that!" Goyle groaned like a gorilla.
"Nice view, Granger!" Malfoy's voice stabbed across the table. "Do us a spin!"
Hermione's blood turned to lava. Her ears roared with humiliation, and heat surged up her cheeks so fiercely she thought she might ignite on the spot. Theo reacted first. The bench screeched against the floor as he lurched up, rapidly unbuttoning his robe and wrapping it around her hips so quickly it almost startled her.
But Hermione barely felt it.
Because her eyes were already locked on Pansy. She was leaning back with one hand delicately over her mouth, falsely trying, and insufferably failing to stifle her laughter. Her other hand curled casually around her wand, still faintly glowing at the tip. The gleam in her eyes was unmistakable. Hermione knew it too well.
Her pulse hammered. She knew that wand glow. She knew that spell, because she had helped catalogue its variants back in fourth year. A simple sticking charm, like the innocent sort used on hanging streamers or classroom posters.
This was exactly Pansy's mark. Using the simplest spells to hide her lack of magical knowledge, and always making sure the way she applied them made Hermione seethe. Because Pansy was inherently stupid to Hermione's eyes, always crushing the others to hide her own weaknesses. She must have jinxed the bench the moment Hermione sat down with a latching tack-hex, one that targeted specific fabrics, pulled threads together, then fused them to wood like a magical adhesive. It didn't hold instantly; it sank, burrowed into the fibers, waited for movement. The moment Hermione stood, the hex tightened and ripped the fabric at its weakest points.
It was vicious. Deliberate. Calculated. And terribly simple. Hermione should have seen it coming.
Pansy had planned this. She had planned for her to feel stupid because she hadn't seen it coming. She wanted her on edge.
The laughter continued to ripple across the Hall, each cackle hitting Hermione like a slap. The worst part wasn't even the cold air or the rip or Malfoy's jeering voice. It was that Pansy had wanted her to stand. To be exposed.
Hermione's fingers curled into fists so tight her nails bit her palms. Never again. She absolutely refused to let Pansy Parkinson walk away smirking, pretending she'd won.
Somewhere under the rage, under the burn and embarrassment and the heat threatening to spill from her eyes, professor McGonagall and professor Slughorn had walked quickly to their table, wondering what the fuss was about. Hermione didn't hear Theo accusing Pansy coldly, nor did she listen to the latter's high pitched voice saying he had no proof. McGonagall took her by the shoulders and they walked silently to the laundry room a few corridors away.
"Miss Granger?"
"Sorry, I was elsewhere."
"If you want to talk about it, my door is opened. You don't always have to go to your House director's office."
There was a strange and very unusual pity behind McGonagall's rectangular glasses. Hermione shook her head.
"No. Nothing to talk about anymore. I've spent six years begging to deaf ears to change houses because I thought I had nothing to do here, in Slytherin. I'm sick of defending myself. I'll see you in Transfiguration, professor."
"Miss Granger, you're a Head Girl. Don't forget to give the right example to younger students. I know it's a tough role to have, especially considering the mutual dislike between you and some of the students of your house. But always remember to be the bigger person. And if anything happens, please come to my office. I will talk to the Headmaster."
"Thank you," Hermione replied mechanically, her tone flat.
But something cold crystallized inside her.
Hermione needed to break Parkinson's perfectly polished. She needed to see her losing her cool. She needed to see the real, ugly Pansy. She had a plan. She would execute it flawlessly. And Pansy wouldn't even see it coming.
Hermione lifted her chin, grabbing a new skirt of her size.
She hated this bitch.
Chapter 2: DykeNotes:
CW: homophobic slurs
Chapter Text
It wasn't funny. Strangely, this time, it actually wasn't funny. Pansy had looked at Granger's torn skirt and hadn't felt an ounce of hilarity. She had smiled, sure, because this was Granger, of all people, and because Pansy wanted to make her pay for the ruined silk bedsheets. But the strange calm and anger that she read in Granger's eyes hadn't provoked that peculiar part of Pansy's brain that made her want to laugh whenever something bad happened to Granger. She didn't find that same fury, indignation.
"Come on, Pans', let's go to Slughorn's class. We wouldn't want to miss the next Club invitation."
Slughorn's club. Pansy had almost forgotten about it. Apparently, this year, he was supposed to organize a masked ball for Halloween. Pansy wouldn't miss a party. She wasn't a member of the Club, so she had to make sure Blaise would invite her. She nodded and grabbed her bag, walking into the corridors.
Pansy knew she had always been obsessed with Hermione, somehow. Every reaction she could get from her was like a reward, every sign of attention and anger like a medal. It was strange, but Pansy loved hating her. It was familiar, comfortable. The hate they shared was Pansy's anchor, a pillar in her life. Every scream, every fight, every slur gave her a slight boost of adrenaline, pushing her to always get more, to always provoke Granger. It was like a drug. Why her? Pansy couldn't exactly tell. Granger was everything Pansy wasn't, perhaps that explained it.
But today felt different. As she stepped into the cool corridor, her shoes clicking sharply against the stone floors, Pansy found her mind circling around the image of Hermione's face, too calm, too steady. Not the flustered, outraged, righteous fury Pansy was used to. Hermione's expression had been... quiet. Controlled. And somehow that bothered Pansy more than any shouted insult or wand jab ever had. That and the Chizpurfle disaster? Yes, Granger was about to fight back.
But what gave Granger the right to look so completely unshaken?
Pansy's fingers tightened around the strap of her bag. She told herself it was irritation, the familiar itch under her skin whenever Hermione didn't behave the way Pansy predicted. But beneath that irritation was something hotter, something that coiled in her stomach like resentment sharpened to a point. Because she noticed. Every shift of Hermione's voice, every twitch of her brows, every time Granger tucked that ridiculous hair behind her ear; as if it mattered. As if any of it should matter to Pansy Parkinson.
It infuriated her how easily Hermione could disrupt her internal balance without even trying.
"Still thinking about it?" Blaise asked lazily beside her, twirling his wand between elegant fingers.
Pansy scoffed. "Hardly."
But she was. More than she wanted to admit. The image of that torn skirt, Hermione holding the fabric together with a set jaw, shoulders stiff with what looked suspiciously like dignity, kept flashing through her mind. Pansy had expected embarrassment. Rage. But Hermione had given her nothing. Nothing except those unsettlingly steady eyes.
As they walked, Pansy felt the obsession coiling tighter around her like a familiar, unwelcome scarf. Hermione infuriated her simply by existing. By being clever, and kind, and brave in that insufferable way. No, Granger shouldn't have been placed in Slytherin. Pansy had thought about it again and again, and she still couldn't understand why. Granger was simply unbearable. By proving, over and over again, that she could rise above every petty trap or insult Pansy crafted. It drove Pansy mad.
Because she wanted Hermione to react. Needed it. Craved it.
Hermione Granger's attention, her hatred, validated Pansy more than the admiration of half of Slytherin ever had. When Hermione shouted, when she snapped, when she glared at Pansy as if she were the most frustrating creature alive, Pansy felt seen. Tangled in something fierce and electric, something she could grip with both hands.
But that quiet anger? That silence?
It terrified her. And Pansy Parkinson did not get terrified. She pushed open the door to Slughorn's classroom with a little more force than necessary. The warm scent of caramelized potions ingredients washed over her, but Pansy barely noticed. Her eyes drifted immediately, traitorously across the room.
Hermione was already there. Hair tied back. Quill poised. Unbothered. Her skirt brand new. As if nothing had happened at all.
A dangerous, smoldering heat curled in Pansy's chest. Fine, she thought. If Granger wouldn't give her the reaction she wanted, she would find a new way to take it.
But her train of thoughts were rudely interrupted when Slughorn clapped his hands together, his face blooming with the kind of excitement.
"Now then, my dear students," he boomed, belly jutting forward as he waddled toward the front of the classroom, "today marks the beginning of something very special. You will begin to brew a potion, that will be studied by professionals for your NEWTs at the end of the year. This potion is extremely special, kids. One of the proudest achievements in any brewer's repertoire. A potion so coveted, so notoriously tricky, that even the most skilled wizards shy away from attempting it without years of study!"
A few Gryffindors straightened in their seats. The Ravenclaws leaned forward collectively, quills poised as though in a synchronized dance. Draco, to Pansy's right, watched Slughorn with mild interest, already calculating how this announcement might benefit him.
Slughorn paused theatrically.
"We are going to begin brewing Felix Felicis!"
A ripple of shocked murmuring swept through the room. Pansy arched a brow. She'd heard of the potion before, of course, liquid luck, shimmering and warm, rumored to make even a troll charming and a fool brilliant. Difficult. Temperamental. Dangerous if brewed incorrectly. The sort of thing Slughorn would salivate at the thought of guiding them through. His mustache was already shivering with euphoria.
"It will take three months to complete," Slughorn continued, his mustache twitching with barely contained pride. "Three long, careful, excruciating months." His eyes gleamed. "Patience will be your friend. Rashness your downfall. But you won't do it alone, no, no. That would simply be suicidal."
Beside her, Blaise groaned under his breath.
But Pansy barely heard any of it.
Her gaze had slipped to Granger.
She sat toward the front, of course. Perfect posture, quill already moving at a speed that made Pansy want to snap it in half. Hermione's hair was pulled back again, though a few curls had escaped, curling lightly against the side of her cheek. Pansy's eyes drifted to that single curl and lingered. She wondered if it sprung like that naturally. If it felt as soft as it looked.
Hermione shifted in her seat, and Pansy's attention followed helplessly. Her eyes traveled the slope of her neck, the line of her jaw, the quick, efficient movement of her hand writing notes nobody else had even begun to conceptualize.
Of course she was already ahead.
Of course.
Pansy crossed her legs, mostly to stop her foot from tapping, though it didn't help in the slightest when her attention snagged on Hermione's legs as she shifted, crossing them neatly beneath the desk. Lean, toned, annoyingly strong from whatever physical activity she was practicing. Probably sex with that twink, Theodore Nott. The skirt of her uniform slid just a bit as she moved, revealing an inch more of skin than before.
Pansy's throat tightened. Irritation. Obviously it was irritation.
Her eyes landed next on Hermione's mouth. Her lips pursed in thought as she underlined something Slughorn had said. They were annoyingly pink. Soft-looking. Always drawn tight in disapproval around Pansy, which somehow made them even more impossible to ignore.
Slughorn's voice droned on, muffled and meaningless to her ears.
"… must add the powdered Ashwinder egg only after ensuring the surface has cooled, or risk the entire cauldron combusting, and we wouldn't want that, now would we?" he chuckled. "A disaster! A complete disaster!"
Hermione scribbled that down too, naturally.
Pansy wondered what it would take to make her drop that quill. Irritate her enough to ruin her perfect concentration. Just once. Just long enough to get her to turn, to glare, to react the way she used to.
But Hermione didn't turn. She didn't flick her eyes toward Pansy, didn't even seem to sense the way Pansy watched her, hungry, angry, fascinated, furious.
Slughorn continued his explanation, but the room had narrowed to a single point of focus. Hermione's eyes, bright and deep brown, completely absorbed in the lesson. Her lashes fluttering every so often when she reread a line. Her lips moving in silent repetition of a difficult step.
The door opened. Minerva McGonagall swept into the classroom like a sharp breeze, her green robes crisp, her expression tight with concern. Conversations halted. Even Slughorn paused mid-sentence.
"Oh! Minerva," he said, blinking. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"
She didn't answer immediately, only leaned close to him, her voice a low whisper. The class leaned forward on their desk almost comically to hear, but McGonagall was too experienced to be overheard. Pansy only caught fragments, nothing useful. Something about house unification. She couldn't tell. Bored, Pansy took out some lip gloss of her bag and applied it on her lips. Slughorn's expression shifted from curiosity to concern, then to something softer. Sympathy, perhaps.
"Important business," he murmured. "Do keep me updated, my dear. But I shall do what is intended."
McGonagall nodded stiffly and stepped back. Her eyes swept the class briefly, passing over Hermione, Pansy, Draco, but lingering nowhere long enough to glean meaning. Then she turned and left, the door closing behind her with a quiet thud. Slughorn cleared his throat and attempted to smile, though it sat crooked on his face.
"Well then! No need for alarm, kids. Simply a bit of staff business."
Pansy didn't care about staff business. Not at that moment. Her eyes had flicked back to Hermione the instant McGonagall left.
Hermione was frowning slightly, brow pinched in worry, and something about that expression tugged at Pansy's ribcage, sharp and sudden. This. This was exactly the kind of look she wanted to see on Granger's face. And she wanted to be one provoking it.
She forced her gaze away.
Slughorn disappeared into one of the tall storage cupboards at the back of the classroom, muttering something about having misplaced his "finest Ashwinder eggs—terribly inconvenient, terribly!" The door swung shut behind him with a hollow wooden thump, and the class erupted into soft chatter.
Pansy took out her mascara.
Her eyes had slid right back to Granger again, drinking in the line of her shoulders as she leaned over her notes. The scratch of Hermione's quill pulled at Pansy's nerves like a taut string. Everything about her was infuriatingly precise, maddeningly focused. Pansy hated her so much it was almost making her shake.
Blaise leaned sideways until his shoulder bumped hers.
"Pansy," he murmured under his breath, "for Salazar's sake, stop staring at Granger like you're going to hex her or snog her. I can't tell which."
Pansy's head snapped toward him, heat rising to her cheeks. "As if I would ever snog a Mudblood."
"You haven't blinked in about two minutes. Mudblood or not, she's in Slytherin, and it's been seven years, you have to drop that."
"She has nothing to do here," replied Pansy with aggression. "And shut up, Blaise." She straightened her spine, lifting her chin. She didn't need him pointing out the painfully obvious. It wasn't her fault Granger had sat directly in her line of sight.
Blaise gave a lazy, knowing smirk that made her want to punch him. "You know," he whispered, "there are better hobbies than obsessing over other girls who barely know you exist."
"Granger knows I exist," Pansy hissed. "I spent years pissing her off."
"Oh, I'm sure she does. In that way one knows a persistent cold exists."
Pansy's glare could have burned holes through a cauldron.
"I'm not obsessed with her."
Blaise raised a brow. "Your voice does this funny little tremor whenever you say her name. It's very… disgusting."
Pansy clenched her fists under the desk. "I don't tremor."
"You tremor." Blaise accused, leaning closer. "You also stare at her hair like you're trying to decide whether you want to comb it or set it on fire."
Blaise was leaning closer, which only irritated Pansy more.
"You're imagining things," she snapped.
"Am I?" he asked lowly, flicking his gaze toward Hermione. "Because every time she moves her quill, your neck tenses like—"
"Will you stop?" Pansy's whisper was sharp enough to slice parchment. "Merlin, Blaise, do you ever mind your own business? I'm not a fucking dyke, alright?! It's fucking disgusting!"
"When your business is glaring at Granger like a deranged Kneazle? I think you're actually a dyke."
Pansy wanted to scream. Instead, she kept her voice low, her tone venomous. "You think I like her or something? Honestly? You think that's what this is?"
Blaise shrugged. "I don't think you like her. I think you're fascinated by her. Which is worse."
"It's not fascination. It's irritation. Hatred."
"Hatred doesn't usually involve examining someone's lips for thirty seconds straight."
Pansy flushed hot enough to boil potion.
"I was not looking at—"
"Yes, you were."
"It's fucking disgusting! I could never like a girl that way, it's… unnatural!"
"Yeah, and that's why I'm trying to make you realise your obsession for Granger is really fucking gay, Pansy. It's gross. Seriously. You should stop."
Pansy's jaw clenched so tightly it ached. She flicked her eyes back to Hermione, purely out of spite, and found the brunette still immersed in her notes. Completely unaware of the storm raging three rows behind her. Somehow, that only made the pressure behind Pansy's ribs worse.
"This is your fault," she murmured.
"How," Blaise deadpanned, "is your embarrassing fixation on Hermione Granger my fault?"
"You're distracting me. Saying I could even like her this way is fucking nauseating."
"You were distracted before I opened my mouth. I'm just trying to tell you that your obsession is weird, Pansy. I wouldn't hate you if you were actually gay, but not everyone is like me. Is that why you broke up with Draco this summer?"
The words hit her like a slap. They were sharp, unexpected, uninvited. For a moment, she didn't breathe. The air around her seemed to thin, pressing against her ribs until they ached. Something inside her reacted instantly, a surge of heat rising in her throat, not anger this time but something far worse, something raw and fragile.
Her mind recoiled. Dyke. Lesbian. The words were too loud even when they were only in her head, echoing with a force she wasn't prepared to face. She wanted to bat them away like annoying pixies, pretend Blaise's voice hadn't found the one crack in her armor she'd worked so hard to polish.
Of all the things he could have thrown at her, why that?
Her breakup with Draco had been a shadowy subject all summer. There were whispers from friends, probing questions from mothers, curious glances from their Housemates. She'd brushed it off each time, tossing the answer aside with a casual shrug she didn't feel. "It wasn't working," she had said. "We got bored. We argued. I wanted something else."
She had never defined what "something else" meant.
And now Blaise's question twisted the words into something sharper, something uncomfortable, something that scraped too close to truth.
A tightness welled behind her eyes, sudden and unbearable. Tears. Real ones. Rising before she could shove them down. She blinked hard, forcing her gaze to the table, to her hands, anywhere but at Blaise or Hermione or the blur of students around her. Any flicker of eye contact would shatter her into something she couldn't piece back together.
She tried to summon anger, her favorite shield, her sharpest weapon, but it wouldn't come. Not fully. It sputtered weakly inside her chest, collapsing under the weight of the question she didn't want to answer.
She looked at Draco. He was tall, handsome, perfectly matched in blood and family name. He had been safe, expected. When he kissed her, she knew exactly what it was supposed to look like. What it meant. She had liked the idea of him, the ease of their pairing. Their relationship had always been neat, polished, presentable. When he fucked her, it was exactly like this. Empty, perfect, suited.
But she remembered the hollow feeling that came after kisses and sex, the way her mind drifted elsewhere, the quiet sense of wrongness she never spoke aloud. She'd felt as though she were reading a script she didn't believe in, saying the lines without understanding the story.
And when she finally ended things, she'd told herself it was because Draco was moody, demanding, impossible. The reasons were good enough. Easy enough. Nobody questioned them.
Blaise's words dug deeper, turning over stones she had never dared lift. She felt something twist inside her. Grief, shame, fear, confusion. A hundred tangled threads she couldn't unravel.
She didn't want to be gay. She didn't want to want things she wasn't allowed to want. She didn't want to look at another girl and feel her pulse skip, her breath catch, her thoughts spiral. She didn't want the truth to be staring her in the face, reflected in every glance she pretended wasn't lingering.
She stayed silent.
Her throat burned. Her hands trembled slightly where they rested on the table. She kept her face angled away from Blaise, from anyone who might see the fracture in her expression. She folded into herself, letting the silence settle like a cloak over her shoulders, heavy and suffocating. If she didn't speak, then none of it was real. If she didn't answer, then nothing had to change. But deep down, the silence felt like an admission.
After a minute of silence only broken by some of their peers' conversations, Pansy shoved his arm with her elbow. Hard. "Don't ever insult me like that again."
"I was just telling you that you should stop the Granger thing before you become a dyke."
She was about to retort, something ugly, something sharp, when the cupboard door banged open with a violent clatter. Slughorn emerged in a flurry of robes and dust, clutching a large jar of shimmering pale powder.
"Found them!" he announced triumphantly, utterly oblivious to the tension radiating from the Slytherin table. "Now then, where were we? Ah yes, Felix Felicis, the trickiest of temptresses!"
Blaise sat back, but no smirk was on his face. Pansy forced her attention to Slughorn. He bustled back to the front of the room, arms overflowing with jars, vials, and an entire tray of shimmering silver instruments. He set everything down with a heavy clatter, sending a faint cloud of golden Ashwinder dust into the air. The room quieted instantly.
Pansy forced her face into something neutral, collected, composed. Her heartbeat still felt uneven, as if Blaise's words were echoing through her bones, but she kept her hands steady on her desk. She didn't dare glance at him. She didn't dare glance at her, either.
Slughorn cleared his throat, puffing his chest like a pleased rooster.
"Now, now! Since Felix Felicis is such a delicate and lengthy endeavor, you'll be working in pairs, as I said before—pairs I've chosen with great care and consideration."
Pansy's stomach dropped. Of course he had chosen. Of course she had no control left today.
Slughorn continued, flipping open a long parchment.
"These partnerships will last the full three months, so do try to get along. Cooperation is the bedrock of advanced potion-making, after all!"
A murmur rolled across the classroom. Students exchanged hopeful glances, nervous ones, resigned ones.
Pansy sat very still, fingers curling against the edge of the table. She felt Blaise shift beside her, felt the air change.
Slughorn began listing names.
"Abbott and Macmillan!"
"Greengrass and Nott!"
"Zabini and Weasley!"
Blaise groaned quietly. Pansy almost laughed. Almost.
"Longbottom and Potter!"
"Malfoy and Finnegan!"
Another wave of chatter.
Pansy waited, breath held tight in her chest. Surely she would be paired with someone tolerable. Even Boot would be fine. Anyone would be fine.
Anyone but—
"And next," Slughorn announced, oblivious to the tightening coil in her gut, "Parkinson and Granger!"
She whipped her head up, eyes wide before she could stop them. Hermione was already looking back, startled, brows raised. That calm, steady gaze, so infuriating, so unreadable, hit Pansy with the force of a misfired Stunning Spell.
Her heartbeat stuttered.
Three months. With Hermione. Alone. Working together. Breathing the same potion fumes, sharing the same cauldron, standing shoulder-to-shoulder. Panic crawled up her spine, hot and electric.
Slughorn continued reading the list, oblivious to the way Pansy's world had tilted sharply sideways. She barely heard him; the words were a distant buzz behind the rushing in her ears.
Hermione turned forward again, already writing something down, her quill scratching in that steady, infuriating rhythm. As if the news meant nothing to her. As if the idea of working with Pansy wasn't horrifying.
Pansy's breath came too fast. She tried to force her face into neutrality, but she could feel her pulse in her lips, her fingertips, her temples. Every part of her felt too alive, too aware, too exposed.
Three months.
She couldn't do this. Not with Granger. Not when she couldn't even trust her own reactions anymore. Not when Blaise's words were still echoing inside her, stirring up everything she wasn't ready to face.
She felt like she was standing on a precipice, and Slughorn, in his blissful ignorance, had just given her a shove toward the edge.
"Oh no. Nope, no way," said Pansy, her throat tight and her voice crisp.
Hermione gathered her notes with a neat, efficient sweep of her hand and stood, moving toward Pansy's table without hesitation, without even a flicker of discomfort. As if this arrangement were perfectly ordinary. As if Pansy weren't seconds from either fainting or throwing herself out the nearest window.
Students all around them shuffled seats, scraping chairs across stone, murmuring to their newly assigned partners. The room buzzed with excitement. Granger sat beside her. Right beside her.
Close enough that Pansy felt the warmth of her arm through her sleeve. Close enough that the faint scent of cinnamon, Hermione's shampoo, of course she had noticed it before, she wasn't deranged.
Granger calmly opened her book, smoothing the page with the flat of her palm. Still maddeningly composed. Still focused. Still so Grangeresque.
Meanwhile, Pansy's mind ricocheted wildly.
Her chest was too tight. Her hands too stiff. Her thoughts too loud. She couldn't let Hermione see any of it.
Hermione glanced at her briefly, her expression polite, unreadable. "We should start by reviewing the first stage," she said mildly, pointing at a line of instructions.
Pansy stared at the page. She couldn't read a single word. Her pulse drowned everything out, every thought, every instruction, every carefully crafted lie she'd ever told herself.
"You think so?" replied Pansy with poison, unable to refrain herself.
"Well, yes, that's usually how you begin to brew a potion," replied Granger neutrally, tilting her head.
"Shut the fuck up, Granger."
"You're so hard to follow, Parkinson. At least try to maintain a consistent attitude."
Pansy glared at her. Reluctantly, she leaned a little closer to the textbook, jaw tight, resisting the urge to snap again. Hermione's calm was insufferable, more than that, it was humiliating. As if Hermione were humoring her. As if Pansy were a tantrum-prone child.
She shifted in her seat, trying to gather her scattered thoughts, when she caught a faint yellow light blinking at her, from Granger's wand.
And suddenly, her chair split beneath her, a loud crack! echoing in the classroom.
There was no warning, only the sudden plunge of her weight and the brutal smack of her chin slamming into the edge of the table before she collapsed inelegantly onto the floor. A flash of pain shot up her jaw, bright and sharp.
And then came the laughter.
A wave of it, rolling over her in cruel bursts, Ravenclaws chuckling behind their hands, Gryffindors howling openly, someone actually snorting. even some of her friends were trying to hide their laughter. The sound hit her harder than the table had. Heat flooded her face, pain, humiliation, rage coiling like smoke beneath her skin.
She pushed herself up, breath shaking, vision blurring around the edges. Hermione leaned forward in concern, which only twisted the knife deeper.
"Are you alright Parkinson? You should've seen this chair was fragile."
Before Hermione could finish, Pansy snapped. Her hand shot out, fingers closing around Hermione's calf with white-knuckled force, yanking sharply. Hermione stumbled with a gasp, falling sideways off her stool and hitting the flagstones with a thud.
Gasps erupted, the laughter shrinking into shocked silence.
Good. Let them watch.
A tremor of fury surged through Pansy as she lunged forward, her fingers tangling in Hermione's hair, fist closing around a thick curl, the exact one that had taunted her all morning. She yanked viciously, not thinking, not caring, driven purely by instinct, by the molten anger that exploded the moment her chin hit that table.
It felt like everything inside her had snapped with that chair.
The humiliation. Blaise's words. The pressure of sitting beside Hermione, breathing the same air. The forbidden, confused, infuriating thoughts she couldn't escape. All of it erupted at once, like a tidal wave she had no control over.
And Granger, perfect Granger, was the closest target.
She hated her. She hated her more than she hated anyone. Hated the calm, the intelligence, the maddening composure. Hated how Hermione never cracked, never stumbled, never lost control the way Pansy did. Hated how Hermione made her feel seen without even looking at her.
Hermione struggled beneath her, trying to free her hair from Pansy's grip, but Pansy only tightened her hold, her pulse thundering in her ears. She wanted to tear that calm apart. Wanted Hermione to glare, to shout, to react, to show anything other than that infuriating, silent resilience.
Because if Hermione reacted, then Pansy could pretend this wasn't something else, anything else, lurking under her skin.
Students whispered sharply around them, chairs scraping, someone calling for Slughorn, but the world had narrowed, all noise fading behind the strange, burning singularity of her anger.
Pansy pulled harder. Granger's hands dug into the skin of her hips, trying to push her away. Pansy yanked her hair closer, until Granger's face was only centimeters away from her.
Heat rose to her cheeks again.
She hated Hermione Granger.
She hated this bitch.