Chapter 13: SnowballingChapter Text"Merlin's balls, will you stop being so twitchy, Granger?"
"I just had sex," replied blankly Hermione.
She couldn't feel her limbs. Her legs were just mechanically leading her to the Slytherin common room. Pansy was next to her. She looked infuriatingly in control. Her shoes, perfectly polished double brides heels, were clicking rhythmically on the stone floor. Her skirt wasn't even rumpled. Her shirt was neatly folded. And she was applying her red lipstick back, looking at her brown-black eyes in the tiny pocket mirror she had been keeping in her handbag for years. However, Hermione could see the redness of her cheeks, and her slightly mussed hair. Her bangs were a bit messy, and Hermione could feel the slightly sour of her sweat. Strangely, she didn't mind it. It was even making her head spin even more.
"You'll survive."
"Oh I will. Will you?" replied Hermione, glancing at her.
Pansy took one second too long to answer. "Obviously."
Hermione smiled, looking at the ground. Her heart was still racing in her chest, her fingers tingling from where they had just been, and worse, she could still feel Pansy's salty essence on her tongue.
Her mind was everywhere. She couldn't even process what had just happened yet. It was too bizarre, too unexpected. Too good. It had felt too good to unravel Pansy like this. To hear her moans, her heavy breathing, to feel her hands gripping her hair, her skin, her muscles for support.
"Was I good?" Hermione abruptly asked.
"Terrible, terrible, Granger," responded Pansy lightly.
"You had an orgasm."
"Do you ever shut up?!"
Hermione snorted. "Sorry. I just... It's so... weird."
"That's surely one word for it," mumbled Pansy, looking at her nails.
"But you liked it?" asked Hermione, cursing the way her voice was trembling.
Pansy rolled her eyes. She was blushing so hard.
"Why did you think I asked you to do it?"
"Would it kill you to respond with yes or no?"
"Yes, I liked it Granger!" groaned Pansy, taking her head in her hands.
Hermione stayed silent for a few seconds.
"Sorry. I'm just trying to process this."
"So am I," snapped Pansy.
"Were my fingers alright or—"
"Yes Granger, your fingers were alright! Yes Granger, your tongue technique was exemplary! Yes Granger, you used the right amount of pressure! Yes Granger, your pace was excellent! Yes Granger, YOU'RE THE FIRST PERSON THAT MADE ME CUM!"
Pansy ended up screaming this last sentence in her face, stopping in her tracks. Hermione crossed her arms.
"Christ, you're so sensitive," she giggled.
Pansy gave her the V sign.
"So I'm the first person that made you have an orgasm?" slid Hermione, as they started to walk again.
"Please say come like everyone else."
"No."
"If you tell it to anyone, you're dead."
"I don't see why I would do such thing. It's too much of a personal victory to be tainted by the others' opinion on the matter."
"You think you won?"
"I know I won," corrected Hermione. "You screamed my name."
"Do you absolutely need to debrief what just happened like it's some kind of... I don't know, theatre performance?"
Hermione stopped again, sighing. She looked at Pansy, who was dimly lit by her own wand. She looked strangely vulnerable in this lightening.
"Pansy, this was my first time. I want to keep it a good memory. Even if it's... weird and a bit insane. I don't know what came to my mind. We violated exactly seven rules. It could get us expelled. But now it's done, and I... I just want to remember it in a good way."
She heard Pansy swallow.
"Lucky you. Not all of us have good memories of our first times."
"What was yours like?" asked Hermione softly.
"Draco Malfoy," simply replied Pansy.
"Blergh."
"As you said."
"Did he hurt you?" asked Hermione, lowering her voice.
Pansy exhaled slowly. "He was inexperienced too. And I was frustrated because I didn't feel any pleasure. When I asked him to do something about it, he laughed and said women coming were a myth spread by feminists, and that I should rather focus on his pleasure instead of acting like a rebellious cunt."
"He wasn't only being inexperienced. He was also being a douchebag."
"You know how he is," shrugged Pansy.
"Why do you accept his behaviour? You're not tied to him."
"Not anymore, no. My parents were so... disappointed when I dumped him this summer. They said I was a disgrace. That I could join the Parkinson and Malfoy family and give birth to the richest heir of the whole United Kingdom. I'll send them a letter soon telling them I'm dating Blaise. That should calm them down a bit."
Those words awoke a deep but calm fury inside of Hermione. She knew Pureblood families were conservative, to say the least. But to still treat their children like they were just something to give in exchange for money was something Hermione couldn't grasp.
"You're not forced to marry anyone," argued Hermione, her voice shaking.
"Officially? No. Officiously? I'll get thrown in the streets like a dog if I don't respect their beliefs."
Hermione kept quiet, and they started walking again. They passed in front of the Great Hall. Its doors were closed, and their imposing structure felt intimidating in this light.
"You don't know what it's like, Granger."
Hermione clenched her jaw. "Actually, I know exactly how it's like to be rejected for who I am and what I can't help about myself."
Pansy's shoulders slumped. She never looked so weak, so defeated.
"You're not going to believe me, but... I don't hate you because your parents are Muggles."
Hermione scoffed. "What?"
"I did, first. Because I didn't understand why someone like you was sent to Slytherin. It... It crossed every line of what I thought I knew. You destroyed everything I was taught. I couldn't stand it. I couldn't stand having my benchmarks obliterated by you."
"Benchmarks built on hate and classism," cut off Hermione.
"I hate you because I can't understand you. I can't decipher you. My mind refuses to understand your existence on its own, because you step and dances on all the lines my parents drew, ever since I was able to talk and walk."
Hermione didn't answer. She kept walking, quicker now. Pansy was struggling to keep her pace, slightly behind her.
"I also hate you because you're a pain in the arse," said Pansy in a much louder voice, almost making her jump. "You're irritating. You have this special talent to piss me off just by entering a room."
"This is the worst apology attempt I've ever seen," replied Hermione coldly.
"Perhaps it sucks. But it's honest."
Pansy's voice was the softest Hermione had ever heard. She turned, looking at her.
"Leave me alone Parkinson. I need to think."
"What is there to think about?! Do you realise how hard it is for me to do—to say all that?!"
"Yes, I do!" exclaimed Hermione, her voice echoing against the stone corridors. "And that's the issue! It shouldn't even be hard to begin with! But you make everything so complicated and messy!"
"You think you make everything simple too?!" shouted Pansy back.
"I don't care! I—don't—care!" retorted Hermione, articulating her words.
"That's a lie!" yelled Pansy, approaching her rapidly. "You do care!"
"Leave me alone," replied Hermione through gritted teeth. "We'll talk about all this mess later."
She accelerated her step, struggling to control her breathing.
"I can't leave you alone since we walk in the same direction!" shrieked Pansy.
"Well stay there and wait for a few minutes! I'm not your mother!"
"Thank God you aren't! You just fucked me in an empty classroom!"
"Fuck off, Pansy!"
Hermione did not slow down once she crossed the threshold of the Slytherin common room. The lake was fully black, and small condensation beads were rolling against the windows. Theodore's silhouette lifted from one of the armchairs, his mouth opening as if to call her name, yet she brushed past him as though he were part of the furniture.
"Hermione! I wanted to talk!"
"Later," she interrupted through gritted teeth.
She took the stairs two at a time, skirts tangling around her legs, heart hammering with a violence that made her chest ache. The dormitory door creaked as she pushed it open, and she slipped inside like she was fleeing a storm. Her eyes immediately fell on Daphne's bed, its dark green hangings drawn halfway. Hermione did not hesitate. She crossed the room in three strides and all but collapsed onto the mattress. She was waiting for softness, but a loud groan and the hard bones of what seemed to be legs welcomed her.
Daphne stirred immediately, a mumbled curse escaping her as she turned, pale hair spilling across the pillow. "Hermione?" she murmured, voice thick with sleep and confusion.
"I'm sorry," Hermione whispered at once, already reaching for the heavy curtains. Her fingers shook as she pulled them closed, sealing them into a dim cocoon. "I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to wake you, I just..."
She stopped, words abandoning her entirely. The silence pressed in, broken only by Daphne's slow breathing and the distant hum of the common room below. Hermione lay on her side, staring at the fabric inches from her face, trying to assemble thoughts that refused to line up properly. Everything inside her felt too loud, too fast, as if her mind were racing ahead while her mouth lagged hopelessly behind.
Daphne propped herself up on one elbow, studying her with narrowed eyes that were far more alert than her voice suggested. "It's late, and you look like you saw Dumbledore strolling naked in the corridors," she said gently. "Or like you're about to combust. Which one is it?"
Hermione let out a breath. "Thankfully, I didn't see Dumbledore being bare. Trust me, or else I'd be crying. In fact, I... I don't know," she admitted. The honesty surprised her, and something in her chest loosened just enough to hurt. She rolled onto her back, staring up at the dark canopy above them. "That's the problem. I don't even know what I want to say. I just... couldn't be alone."
Daphne did not push. She shifted closer instead, the mattress dipping under her weight, their shoulders touching. The quiet between them felt different now, less oppressive, warmed by simple shared space. Hermione became acutely aware of her own racing pulse, of how hard it was to breathe normally, of the echo of Pansy's voice in her mind.
"I saw Parkinson," Hermione continued, the words finally finding a path. "We had a talk. A real one, I mean. Without just yelling at each other or starting a duel." She swallowed, throat tight.
Daphne snorted softly. "What did you talk about?" she asked, then reached out, resting her hand lightly over Hermione's sleeve. The contact was grounding, steady. "You don't have to explain it perfectly. You don't even have to explain it at all. You can just... be a mess for a bit."
Hermione closed her eyes. The tension did not vanish, but it eased enough for her shoulders to drop, for her breathing to slow. She turned her head toward Daphne, gratitude blooming quietly in her chest, even as the confusion remained.
"I was finishing my patrol, and I saw her coming back from the library. I can't really explain but..."
Hermione interrupted herself. But I had sex with her, Daphne, I had sex for the first time in my life and it was with Pansy Parkinson.
"We talked. She sort of apologised for insulting me, I guess. She said she didn't hate me because I was a Muggleborn, she said she just hated me because I'm—well, me."
"So she's apologised for being a bigot?" murmured Daphne, confused.
"She said it half-word."
"Wow. That's... that's unexpected. What did you reply?"
"It's too much for tonight. I needed to think, so I told her so, and I also told her to piss off and leave me alone. I don't know what to do."
"I get it," replied Daphne. "But you said you wanted to be the bigger person. You have a golden opportunity to do so by telling her you forgive her and then ignoring her. That would be the best thing to do."
"Do I really forgive her though?"
Daphne stayed silent for a moment. She yawned.
"If it were me, I wouldn't forgive her now. It seems like too little too late. Make her work for your forgiveness a little."
"What if I push her away by doing so?"
Daphne rolled her eyes. "It's Parkinson we're talking about. I know you're obsessed with her, but it shouldn't really matter, unless you want to improve your relationship. Plus, you know Parkinson. She always gets what she wants, because Mummy and Daddy spoil her arse. It'll make her struggle to get something and eventually, want it even more."
"You're a devil. You should study psychology," said Hermione with a smile.
"Psychology?"
"Yes, Muggle universities propose this kind of formation."
"That's interesting."
Daphne looked anything but interested. Hermione giggled.
"Or maybe you should become an investigator, or profiler for the Aurors."
"I do love stalking and understanding the twisted side of the human mind," said Daphne theatrically, before a yawn cut her off again.
"Sorry for waking you up. I'll go to bed now," whispered Hermione, kissing her forehead.
"Sure babes. See you tomorrow, Granger."
Hermione got up, closing the curtains of her bed. When she sat on hers, Crookshanks (still green) was purring like a car's motor. Hermione scratched his ears, before undressing herself and slipping under her bedsheets, exhausted.
She closed her eyes, but all she could see was Pansy. The way she had held her, begged her to keep going, kissed her, gripped her skin and her hair and her sanity at the same time. Hermione must have had lost her mind, probably. Frustrated, she pressed her hands on her face, hoping the pressure would allow her to fall asleep quicker.
She had fingered Pansy Parkinson. She had even put her tongue on...
"Merlin's balls," groaned Hermione desperately.
She wiped her nose on her hand. A light flagrance made her eyes immediately open. She brought her fingers to her nose.
She could still smell Pansy.
Horrified, Hermione grabbed her wand on her nightstand, applying a quick cleaning spell on her hands.
There was no way she could ever continue living normally after this.
The days that followed blurred together into something restless and unsteady, as though Hermione were moving through them half a step out of sync with the world. She attended her classes, took notes with her usual focus, answered questions when called upon, and yet none of it seemed to anchor her properly. Beneath the routine, a single, impossible fact looped endlessly through her mind, quiet one moment and deafening the next. She had slept with Pansy Parkinson. She had crossed a line so unmistakable that there was no pretending it had not happened.
It left her spiralling in ways she had not anticipated. Hermione had always trusted logic to steady her, had believed that if she examined something closely enough it would eventually resolve itself into sense. This was an exception. The memory surfaced at inopportune times, the echo of soft moans in the middle of lectures or her skin burning where Pansy had touched her while she stirred her tea at breakfast, bringing with it a rush of heat and disbelief that made her lose her train of thought. Sometimes the shock came first, sharp and incredulous. Sometimes it was the lingering arousal, the awareness that despite everything she had not regretted it. That realisation frightened her far more than the act itself.
She saw Pansy everywhere, or perhaps she simply noticed her now with an intensity she could not switch off. Across classrooms, over the long tables at meals, passing in corridors where the stone echoed with footsteps, Pansy remained stubbornly present. Hermione wondered why she thought she was so pretty now. They did not speak. Not even the brittle civility Hermione might have expected. And yet there was something unmistakable in the way Pansy looked at her, a hesitation that lingered too long, a glance that followed Hermione when she thought she was unnoticed. Hermione felt each of those looks like if Pansy was brushing her fingers against her skin.
Hermione didn't know what to think about Pansy's half-worded apology. It was so sudden, so weird, maybe even more weird than the fact they had slept together in a classroom. She couldn't find what to say. Words would have demanded explanations, decisions, definitions. Silence allowed Hermione to postpone all of that, even as it gnawed at her. She found herself wondering what Pansy was thinking, whether she was as shaken, as wary, or if she had already compartmentalised the night and locked it away. The not knowing was its own quiet torment. It was perhaps even worse than the sweet flashbacks torturing Hermione all day long.
Theodore had tried multiple times to speak with her. She had found an excuse to avoid him every time, but she knew it wouldn't last. She didn't know why he wanted to talk to her, and it was the last problem to solve on her list.
By the time the weekend arrived, Hermione was exhausted from her own thoughts. When Daphne suggested spending the day in Hogsmeade with Harry and Ron, she agreed almost too quickly, eager for the distraction. The promise of fresh air, snow and movement away from the castle felt like a lifeline. She woke on Saturday with a dull ache behind her eyes and the firm resolve to think about anything other than black bangs, dark eyes, white skin and blood red lips.
The village was alive with the early signs of winter. Frost clung to the edges of rooftops, and breath clouded the air as they walked down the familiar street, boots crunching softly against the ground. Harry and Ron were already bickering amiably about Quidditch when Hermione and Daphne joined them, their voices easy and familiar in a way that grounded her. It struck Hermione how grateful she was for that normalcy, for the way these friendships required no vigilance or restraint.
"Good morning ladies!" yelled Ron, waving his hand.
"Good morning losers," smiled Daphne, tilting her head.
Ron's ears took on a bright pink tint.
"That's not nice," mumbled Hermione, elbowing Daphne.
"You're still on this?" asked Harry, raising an eyebrow.
"Are you kidding me? Of course I am. Did Hermione tell you how she humiliated Draco that night?"
"I thought me catching the Snitch right in front of him again was enough of a punishment," smirked Harry.
"Nuh-uh," corrected Daphne.
Hermione slowed down to walk next to Ron. They shared a glance, noticing how Harry had taken Daphne's arm. Ron smiled, looking at his best friend.
"... so she asked him to go to bed!"
"You're kidding me?!" exclaimed Harry, laughing. He then turned to Hermione, smiling. "You're wild, Hermione."
"I'm a professional hater," corrected the latter, winking.
Daphne laughed, and her shoulder brushed Harry's. Hermione saw the way he blushed and Ron nudged her arm, pointing his chin to Daphne. She was looking at Harry with so much tenderness Hermione wondered why she had ever been so engrossed with Theodore in the first place.
"Zonko's first," declared Ron. "I need to find a present for my sister."
"As if she didn't already hate you enough," commented Harry, amused.
"Come on. She needs a little mood boost since Dean broke up with her."
"They broke up?" asked Hermione, surprised.
Daphne turned her head, smiling like a real devil wearing a stupid Christmas beanie. She slowed down to be closer to her and murmured:
"Get the girl, Granger."
Hermione crushed her foot on the snow, making her whine.
"Yes, they did, two weeks ago," said Ron, who seemed very happy about it. "Dean wasn't the right guy for her anyway."
"Oh..."
"Why, does it matter?" Ron said.
Hermione shook her head. "No, not at all."
"Hey, Weas—Ronald," Daphne corrected herself. "Do you know if your sister also dates girls?"
Hermione opened her mouth wide, petrified. Ron seemed perplexed.
"Um, I don't... that's not something we talk about in the family. It's... weird, right?"
"Not at all," replied Daphne. "I know some gay people."
"There are gays in Hogwarts?" asked Ron awkwardly.
"Open your eyes a little wider and you'll see they barely hide," said Daphne. "Anyway, I was just asking for a friend."
Hermione hated Daphne.
They wandered in and out of shops, bells chiming cheerfully as doors opened and closed, discussing gift ideas with varying degrees of seriousness. Ron naturally gravitated toward anything loud or impractical, Harry toward items that hinted at usefulness without actually committing to it. Daphne examined displays with a thoughtful expression, occasionally making dry comments that earned surprised laughs from the boys. Hermione found herself smiling more than she had all week, the tightness in her chest easing with each step despite Daphne's improper comments.
As they paused outside a small shop window filled with enchanted ornaments, Hermione caught her reflection in the glass. She looked tired, but like herself, scarf tucked neatly around her neck, eyes bright despite the fatigue lingering beneath them. For a moment, everything else felt distant, manageable. She could manage Pansy. Of course she could. She just needed to find the right words.
By looking at a Christmas tree trapped in a little snowball, Hermione thought about Pansy for the umpteenth time this day. Pansy had indeed made a huge effort with her that night. She hadn't ran away. She hadn't insulted her or yelled at her. She had started to apologise for her actions. Had Hermione been too unfair?
"Hey, what are you thinking about?" asked Harry, popping right behind her.
"Nothing important. It's just... I had a fight with a friend and they apologised, something they never usually do. I don't think I reacted the right way when they did."
"Well, talk to them," proposed Harry. "You can solve almost everything with good communication. But it doesn't sound like they're a good person by what you're saying."
"No, I guess they're not. But I think they're trying to do better. And I kind of... I kind of like that they do."
"It's not your responsibility. You don't haver to carry the weight of people's emotional baggage on your shoulders. But you like them at least a little bit, and they like you enough to try to be a better person for you. So that's probably something you two can work on, if you both want it. Sorry if I'm not very good at wording it. I'm not exactly used to giving advice," Harry added with a little laugh.
Hermione looked at him, crossing her arms.
"I think you're quite good at it, actually."
"Thank you." They started to walk towards the Three Broomsticks, squinting their eyes when snow started to fall harder. "By the way, we're talking about Pansy Parkinson, right?"
Hermione scoffed. "You're unbearable."
"Sure. But I still think you need to be careful with her. I don't exactly know what's going on between you two, but don't trust her, Hermione. Not until she's actually shown you she's worthy of your time and patience. Honestly, you're much more mature than I am... because I would've killed her."
Hermione shrugged, looking at her feet, where snow had started to melt, making her shoes wet and uncomfortable.
"I don't know, Harry. There are things I can't explain."
He nodded.
"I brought the map back. I can't decipher it. So I'll admit it, I failed," she said dryly to change the subject, taking the said parchment out of her coat's pocket.
Harry took it and his smile grew back.
"We can learn how to use it together if you want."
"You have until the end of the day to convince me not to denounce you to Slughorn or McGonagall."
"I always love a little challenge," hummed Harry.
Snow had started falling in earnest by the time they reached the Three Broomsticks, thick flakes swirling sideways in the wind and clinging stubbornly to cloaks and hair. The warmth inside hit Hermione almost immediately, heavy with the scent of spiced drinks, damp wool, and smoke from the hearth. The pub was crowded, voices overlapping in a constant hum, laughter rising and falling like waves. They squeezed into a corner table near the wall, Harry and Ron shedding scarves and gloves with relief while Daphne shook snow from her sleeves with a small grimace.
Hermione wrapped her hands around a mug of hot cider, but she barely tasted it. Her thoughts were elsewhere as they had been all week, refusing to settle. She smiled when appropriate, nodded along to the conversation as Ron complained about the weather and Harry speculated about the next Quidditch match, but it all felt faintly distant, as though she were watching it from behind glass. Every now and then Daphne glanced at her, curious, but mercifully she did not press.
Hermione knew, with a sudden and uncomfortable clarity, that she could not keep doing this. Avoiding Pansy, pretending the silence was sustainable, letting the weight of what had happened grow heavier by the day. The thought lodged itself firmly in her chest. She had always believed that difficult conversations were better faced head-on, that uncertainty festered when left alone. Yet this one terrified her in a way few things ever had. What would she even say? What did she want from Pansy? The answers tangled together until she could not tell them apart.
Her gaze drifted around the pub without conscious intent, following the movement of students and villagers weaving between tables. That was when she saw her. Pansy stood at the bar with Blaise Zabini, one gloved hand resting casually on the polished wood as she leaned in to speak to Madam Rosmerta. She wore dark winter robes trimmed neatly at the collar, her short black hair framing her face and exposing the elegant line of her neck. The firelight caught on her cheekbones, softening the sharpness Hermione so often associated with her. She looked composed, confident, almost serene, as though the week of silence had not touched her at all.
Hermione's breath caught before she could stop it. There was a sudden, unwelcome awareness of how pretty Pansy looked like this, unguarded and warm, laughing quietly at something Blaise said. The sight twisted something deep in Hermione's chest, a mix of longing and resolve that left her fingers tightening around her mug. She realised then that if she did not speak to Pansy now, she might not find the courage again anytime soon.
"I'll be back in a moment," Hermione said abruptly, standing before anyone could question her. Harry looked up, surprised, but Daphne only raised an eyebrow, her expression knowing.
Hermione crossed the pub with strangely wobbling legs, making her way through the crowd of students, the noise swelling around her as she approached the bar. Pansy noticed her almost immediately. For a fraction of a second, her expression flickered, something unreadable passing behind her eyes before her usual mask of indifference slid back into place.
"Granger," Pansy said coolly, lifting her mug of mulled wine.
"Parkinson," Hermione replied, her voice steadier than she felt. She glanced briefly at Zabini. "Could I… speak with you? Somewhere quieter."
Zabini's gaze moved between them with open curiosity, but he said nothing. Pansy shrugged, a careless roll of her shoulders that did nothing to hide the tension Hermione could sense beneath it. She had spent years understanding her body language and the expressions she took when she was hiding.
Strangely, as her nemesis, Hermione felt like she knew Pansy the best.
"Ah, so now you want to talk to me," Pansy replied. She set her mug down. "Why should I agree?"
"I have a few reasons in mind," replied coldly Hermione, looking right into her eyes.
Pansy stayed silent for a few seconds, before nodding slowly. Hermione followed as she threaded through the crowd, pushing open a narrow door near the bar. The noise of the pub dulled immediately, replaced by the faint echo of voices and the drip of melting snow somewhere in the corridor. Pansy stopped in front of the ladies' toilets, pushing the door open and stepping inside without hesitation.
The room was small and tiled, surprisingly clean, lit by a single enchanted lantern that cast a muted glow over the sinks and mirrors. It was empty, mercifully so. Pansy locked the door, resting her back against the door of the nearest toilet. The hum of the pub was now little more than a distant murmur, muffled by thick walls. Pansy folded her arms loosely across her chest. She looked almost like a doll.
"Well?" she asked. "You dragged me away from mulled wine. This better be good."
Hermione swallowed, suddenly aware of how close they were standing again. She took a breath, grounding herself in the familiar rhythm of choosing words carefully.
"I can't keep pretending nothing happened," Hermione said quietly. "We need to talk about it."
Pansy's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. For a moment she looked away, her gaze flicking toward the mirrors before returning to Hermione.
"And what exactly do you want me to say?" Pansy replied. There was an edge to her voice now, defensive and wary. "That it was a mistake? That it meant nothing? Pick one."
Hermione's heart hammered. She had expected resistance, but the bluntness still stung. "I don't know," she admitted. "I don't know why everything snowballed like this. That's why I'm here. I just know I don't want silence."
Pansy studied her for a long moment. Her confident poise wavered just slightly.
"Silence is easier," Pansy said finally. "For both of us. Not naming this shite is the easiest thing to do."
"Maybe," Hermione replied. "But it's not better."
The lantern flickered softly overhead, casting shifting shadows across the tiled walls. Outside, snow continued to fall, oblivious to the tension coiling in the small room. Hermione held Pansy's gaze, her resolve steadying even as her heart raced. Whatever came next, she knew she had crossed a threshold. There was no turning back now.
"Did you mean what you said in the corridor?" asked Hermione in a low voice.
"No. I wasn't in my right mind," said Pansy defensively.
"I think you were, and it scared you, so now you're backpedaling."
Pansy shot her a glare, but Hermione saw her lips trembling.
"Maybe. Maybe not. What do you even want me to say to that?!"
"Take responsibility in your actions," replied the brunette. "For once."
"Alright!" exclaimed Pansy, exasperated. "Yes, I meant it. So what? What do you want me to say?!"
"Why don't you start by telling me how you feel about what happened in the classroom?" Hermione proposed, trying to steady her breathing.
Pansy took her time to answer. "I still feel like this was more like a dream than real life," she admitted, looking at her shoes.
"A dream? Not a nightmare?" pointed out Hermione, trying to calm the atmosphere.
She brilliantly failed. Pansy's jaw didn't unclench.
"You know what I mean."
"Yes, I do. Actually, I know exactly how you function, Parkinson. I spent so many years hating you that I feel like I'm the one who knows you the best. And I know that right now, you want to talk but refrain yourself from doing so.
"You think I don't know you by heart either?" replied Pansy, scoffing.
"For example, right now, you're deflecting because you feel cornered. You always try to find a way to escape things you don't understand. And that's exactly why I don't get why you opened up the other night. Or why you kissed me. Or why you let me... anyway. Believe me, I'm sort of glad you did. But I don't understand."
"I don't understand either," replied Pansy.
Hermione didn't reply. She stayed quiet, watching Pansy, observing her under the soft white light. Pansy looked more unnerved than truly mad. After a few seconds under a heavy silence, Pansy's shoulders relaxed a little.
"I just know I get horny when you make me angry."
Hermione narrowly avoided letting out a yelp of surprise. Instead, she inhaled deeply, pinching the bridges of her nose. Pansy was now smiling. Hermione knew exactly what she was doing. She was playing their twisted little game again. It was just a power play, Hermione thought. But it was so addictive it felt like a drug.
"You make me so angry I want to kiss you," Hermione said, trying to make her voice as dry and disdainful as she could, feeling her heart starting to thump hard against her chest again.
"Oh yeah? You give me homicidal urges by simply existing," scowled Pansy.
Hermione took a step closer to her, and Pansy stood straighter, uncrossing her arms.
"You must feel pretty angry all the time then," murmured Hermione.
"I feel like punching a wall every time you breathe in my direction," said Pansy in a low voice. "When you took off your bra, I was seething."
Hermione's cheeks immediately burned her. She still couldn't believe she had actually... taken off her bra. She didn't know what had possessed her to show Pansy something no one but herself had ever seen before. In a way, it made sense. Pansy always saw her ugliest side. The angry, aggressive one. Pansy knew exactly who she was too. Now, she knew even more about her. Hermione knew Pansy wanted to make her shut up again by mentioning that night, and she couldn't let her.
"Your rage probably exploded that night."
"It did," Pansy confirmed. Her nose was almost touching hers. "And I loved it."
Hermione barely had time to register the heat rushing to her face before Pansy moved. There was no warning this time, no surge of violence in the motion, only a decisive step forward and the unmistakable press of Pansy's mouth against hers.
The kiss was softer than the last ones, and that was what startled Hermione the most. It was not tentative, not hesitant, but restrained, as if Pansy were holding herself back by sheer force of will. Her lips were warm, firm, familiar in a way that sent a shock straight through Hermione's chest. Pansy's hands came up to Hermione's waist, not gripping, not bruising, but anchoring her, thumbs pressing lightly into the fabric of her coat.
Hermione inhaled sharply through her nose, the scent of citrus and mulled wine clinging to Pansy's robes, and then she was kissing her back. She did not think about it, did not weigh consequences or pride or sense. She simply responded, her lips parting, her body leaning in despite herself. The kiss deepened, grew more insistent, their mouths moving together with an intensity that made Hermione's knees feel unsteady. Pansy made a quiet, frustrated sound against her mouth, a breath that vibrated through Hermione's lips and straight into her chest.
For a moment, it felt almost controlled. Almost civil. As though they were both testing the shape of this new version of the same old fight.
Then Pansy's restraint snapped.
Her hands tightened suddenly, one sliding to Hermione's back, the other gripping her hip. In one swift movement, she guided Hermione backward until her legs hit the porcelain edge of the nearest sink. Hermione gasped as she was lifted just enough to sit, the cold surface a sharp contrast to the heat building between them. Pansy stepped in close, crowding the space, her body pressing forward.
"This is a terrible idea," muttered Hermione against her lips.
"Horrible decision," Pansy agreed, her nose almost rubbing against hers.
The kiss turned hungry. Pansy's mouth claimed hers with renewed force, lips parting decisively as she deepened it, her tongue sliding in with a confidence that made Hermione's breath hitch. There was nothing gentle about it now. It was angry, demanding, fueled by weeks of tension and years of mutual provocation. Hermione's hands flew to Pansy's shoulders, gripping the fabric there before pushing the cloak off her shoulders. Her pulse thundered in her ears, her thoughts scattering into fragments. Pansy's hands slid in her opened coat, reaching under Hermione's sweater.
She hissed when she felt Pansy's cold hands reach her belly. At the same time, heat was pooling down her belly.
"What are you doing?..." she murmured, as Pansy's nails grazed her skin.
"Winning, bitch."
Pansy tasted like wine and honey and something unmistakably like her, sharp and intoxicating. Hermione's world narrowed to the press of their bodies and the clash of mouths, to the way Pansy kissed her like this was a battle she intended to win and lose at the same time. Hermione kissed her back just as fiercely, refusing to yield, meeting every push with one of her own. Her fingers curled into Pansy's shirt now that her cloak was on the ground, pulling her closer, her spine arching instinctively toward the contact.
Pansy's hands held her there, firm and possessive now, thumbs digging into Hermione's skin as if to mark the moment into memory. The kiss broke only when they were both breathless, foreheads nearly touching, breaths mingling in the small, echoing room.
"HEY, WHY IS IT LOCKED?! HERMIONE, ARE YOU THERE?!" yelled a feminine voice.
For a second, neither of them moved. The lantern hummed softly above them, the sinks gleaming dully in the low light, the muffled noise of the pub barely reaching them. Hermione's heart felt like it might burst from her chest. Pansy stayed close, close enough that Hermione could feel the tension humming through her, the anger, the want, all tangled together.
"Hide," hissed Hermione.
"Yes please," said quickly Pansy, rushing to open the nearest toilet door. "But I wasn't done!"
"I sure hope not," replied Hermione quietly, before unlocking the door with a flick of her wand.
"What the hell were you doing?!" Daphne asked. She took a step in the room, observing everywhere. "Do you have someone in there with you?"
"Nope, I just needed some alone time away from the noise. Sorry."
"Whose cloak is that?"
"Must have been forgotten," said Hermione, her heart falling low in her feet.
"YOU HAVE A GIRL IN THERE!" shrieked Daphne.
Hermione wanted to drown herself in the sink.
"No! Merlin, Daphne, just go! I'll bring this back to Madam Rosmerta!"
"I don't believe you at all!" Daphne laughed, before Hermione pushed her out of the toilets.
"See you in a few minutes," cut off Hermione, closing the door.
She wiped sweat off her forehead. Pansy opened the toilet's door, looking unimpressed.
"Please tell me you know how to Disapparate," begged Hermione.
"Duh," said Pansy, bored. "I'm an adult, Granger. But I can't keep this cloak. Bring it to Rosmerta, I'll buy another one."
"Just dye it green with Murlap blood," replied Hermione sarcastically. "Daphne wouldn't recognise it."
"What a fantastic idea!" exclaimed Pansy, irritated. She grabbed her cloak on the ground, scrunching up her nose when she saw the dirt on it. "You owe me a new winter cloak. And a proper snog."
"Hopes and prayers," replied Hermione, rolling her eyes.
Pansy snickered. She blew her a kiss and Disapparated in a loud pop. Hermione sat back on the sink, thinking. She felt lighter now that she understood Pansy's intentions a little better. She still couldn't name what was between them, and for now, it was for the best, as Pansy had said. Hermione resigned herself to just wait and see how things were evolving. She still couldn't understand the strange path their relationship had taken. But she needed to see where this was going. It was insane. It was weird. It was also forbidden. They had violated plenty of the castle's rules. They had crossed so many lines. But Hermione couldn't stop now, because the universe had cursed her with a weird infatuation for the girl she hated the most. She couldn't stop now, and Pansy couldn't either.
"HERMIONE OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR! I NEED TO PISS!"
Chapter 14: Girls Who Are BoysNotes:CW: internalised homophobia, heteronormativity
Chapter Text"C'moooon... just one more minute," groaned Pansy.
"Parkinson, no," panted Hermione. "Slughorn—"
"Please don't mention Slughorn when I have my hand under your shirt," murmured Pansy before pressing her lips against her jugular vein once more.
Hermione pushed her away, huffing. She looked wild. Untamed. Her hair was a mess, curls spilling everywhere. Her cheeks were pink, her lips swollen and shining with spit. Pansy took a step back, admiring the results of her ministration.
"You look wrecked," she commented, before pulling her red lipstick out of her handbag, which had been forgotten on the ground of the bathroom.
"Whose fault is that?" scowled Hermione. "Do you want us to be late again for potions? Aren't we suspicious enough already?"
"I hate it when you're right," sighed Pansy. "It's always your fault anyway for looking in my direction."
"I can't keep snogging you in bathrooms and empty classrooms."
"Funny, that's what you've been doing the past week." Hermione kicked her leg at those words. "Come on, it's our last day of class before Yule! Can't we just be late one time?"
"No! End of discussion," groaned Hermione, before storming out of the Slytherin bathrooms.
"Bitch!"
Pansy snapped the mirror shut with more force than necessary and followed a heartbeat later, boots skidding slightly on the cold stone as she took off down the corridor. Her pulse was still racing, not from the run, not yet, but from the lingering memory of Hermione's mouth, the way it had crashed against hers and opened for her, the way it had felt far too right for something so catastrophically wrong. Her lips tingled as if they were bruised, and she pressed them together, annoyed at herself for noticing.
It should have been the end of the world. Pansy should have jumped from the Astronomy Tower after having been... shagged by Hermione Granger. She should have freaked out, cried and try to kill Granger. Instead, she had done none of that. She had let her get closer. She had followed the wave. And here they were today, in that confusing mix of desire and loathing. Pansy should be panicking. Yet she wasn't. She had actually never felt so alive and desired.
They ran in silence, robes flaring behind them as they cut through the dungeons. The air was damp and cool, the torches flickering as they passed, their footsteps echoing too loudly for two people who very much did not want to be noticed. Pansy kept her eyes fixed forward, jaw clenched, replaying the events of the last ten days in mortifying clarity. Hermione's breath against her cheek. Hermione's fingers clutching her skin. Hermione's fingers plunging inside. Pansy could still feel them, sometimes.
Idiot, she told herself firmly, as if that might fix anything. Dyke was the most appropriate word. Pansy was a stupid cunt enjoyer. And the worst thing about it? She couldn't even find the strength to care right now, as long as it was kept a very well sealed secret. She was still floating on her little cloud made of Hermione's breaths and groans and lips and hair and eyes and—
"Fuck," groaned Pansy.
"What?" asked Hermione, struggling to breathe as they ran.
"Nothing. You look like a goose when you run!"
"I do NOT!"
They skidded into the Potions classroom just before the door shut, Slughorn already bustling near the front, distracted by a cauldron that was emitting a suspiciously cheerful noise. No comments. No raised eyebrows. Luck, apparently, was still mocking her. Pansy slipped into her seat beside Hermione, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from her body, and immediately focused on arranging her bag with exaggerated care.
They did not look at each other.
They did not speak.
They behaved like two perfectly functional adults who had not just been snogging like lunatics in a bathroom fifteen minutes earlier. Two perfectly functional adults who had not fucked in an empty classroom ten days earlier.
Pansy stared at her textbook, at the neat, infuriatingly precise handwriting she had scribbled weeks ago, and absorbed absolutely none of it. The words blurred, replaced by the curve of Hermione's breasts, the way her nipples had hardened, pink and round and so damn gorgeous. She swallowed hard, pen pausing mid-note, and forced herself to breathe normally.
Beside her, Hermione sat ramrod straight, quill moving with determined efficiency. Hermione's focus was the kind people adopted when they were very pointedly not thinking about something. Pansy let her gaze flicker sideways to see Hermione's profile, the faint flush still clinging to her cheekbones, the way her lips pressed together when she concentrated, the way her breasts formed two perfectly shaped bumps under her shirt.
Merlin help her.
"Stop looking at my chest," murmured Hermione through gritted teeth, pretending to drop her pen and retrieve it back.
"I wasn't looking, oh my God."
"Sure you weren't."
Pansy dragged her eyes back to the page, scrawling something that might have been a sentence. Her mind, traitorous thing that it was, refused to cooperate. It kept drifting back to the classroom, to the hard wood of the desk, to the feeling of her nails scratching the warm olive skin above her, to the lava in Hermione's usual glare melting into something far less controllable. She could almost feel it, the way Hermione had broken down too, losing all her means just like Pansy had.
That was the part that unsettled her most.
Slughorn began lecturing, his voice a comfortable drone, and Pansy nodded along at the appropriate moments, raising her hand once to ask a question she already knew the answer to, just to prove to herself that she was still capable of functioning. Hermione did the same, their remarks narrowly missing each other, like two planets stubbornly maintaining their orbits.
Their elbows brushed when they reached for the same ingredient. Both of them flinched.
Pansy's first reflex was the urge to yank her hand back first and pretend to rummage through her bag. Instead, she tried to calm down. She breathed deeply, letting her elbow stay against Hermione's. She could feel Granger's awareness like a physical thing, buzzing in the space between them. It was absurd. She had been in closer proximity to people she felt nothing for at all. But this was different.
She risked another glance, quick and sharp. Hermione was still resolutely focused on the cauldron, but her ears were pink now, and that small, treacherous detail sent an unwelcome surge of triumph through Pansy's chest. Good. At least she wasn't the only one panicking like a thirteen year old getting her first kiss.
They made it through the class without incident. No explosions. No shouting. No scenes. On the surface, it was entirely unremarkable. But their arms were still touching. And for an hour and half, it brought a strange and warm comfort in Pansy's chest.
Inside Pansy's head, however, it was chaos.
She packed up slowly when the bell rang, carefully avoiding eye contact, carefully not thinking about how Hermione's lips had curved when she smiled against Pansy's mouth.
This could still be nothing. It had to be nothing. A mistake. A lapse in judgment. Something she could bury under routine and sarcasm and pretending very hard. And yet, as she stood and followed Hermione out with the rest of the class, Pansy knew she didn't have enough strength to do that. She just had enough strength to wonder when it would happen again.
Because not touching Hermione back like she had touched her that night left her oddly frustrated. Knowing Granger had made her thrash and yell and that she hadn't done that back to her was... unnerving. It was also completely weird and didn't make any sense, but Pansy was starting to get used to things not making sense at all.
"Earth to Pansy?"
"Wha—yes? Sorry," Pansy babbled, turning her head swiftly to the right.
Blaise appeared next to her, nonchalantly hanging his bag on his shoulder. He snickered. "You're so weird these days."
"I'm not. You're just spending more time with me so you start to realise I'm actually an amazing person and it feels weird for you because you have no other examples of what an amazing person can look like."
"Oh yeah, and how are your boots fitting by the way?"
"A little too tight. I sometimes get a bit too big for them" muttered Pansy, as he laughed harder.
"Did your parents write you back by the way?" asked Blaise, as they were reaching the ground floor to take a break before Transfiguration class the next hour.
"They did. I got the letter yesterday, but I haven't opened it yet," said Pansy, feeling a hard lump of anxiety forming in her throat.
"They can only rejoice anyway."
Pansy shrugged. She sat on a bench, melting the snow that had accumulated on it with a stroke of her wand. Blaise sat with his feet on the seats, watching the fog of his breath disappear in the air.
"I always knew you were different," he said.
"What is this supposed to mean?"
"You always looked particularly shallow and self centred. You are either the biggest bitch I've ever met, or someone who holds a secret," he resumed.
"That's so fucked up, Zabini," snapped Pansy, offended.
"It's a proven theory," he corrected.
"I don't even feel... gay."
Pansy's fingers jumped on the wood of the bench after saying that.
"You know, lesbians are kind of... I don't know. Girls who are boys. And I'm not even acting boyish or masculine or anything. I love makeup and high heels and skirts. I don't act gay."
"Yeah, that's weird," said Blaise, stretching his arms. "But maybe that's not really linked."
"Mother always said faggots and dykes were acting like the other gender because they're freaks. I'm starting to think she's not exactly right about that. I'm not acting like a man."
"You kind of are," argued Blaise. "Men don't show feelings. Men are manipulative and sex-centred."
"Thanks," replied dryly Pansy.
"You don't get it," sighed Blaise, exasperated. "All of what I've said, it's bullshit. Not all gay boys act like girls, not all lesbians act like boys, not all boys are sex obsessed and manipulative, not all girls like pink and makeup. It's just social constructions. When you look past them... reality looks weird. It makes you get defensive and judgmental because things aren't like you've always wanted to perceive them."
Pansy stayed silent. He wasn't wrong.
"I hadn't thought there could be gay people like me, who look normal," she said.
Blaise looked politely irritated when he glanced at her.
"Define normality."
Pansy opened her lips, and closed them after a few second.
"I think you should read some stuff about lesbians. It might help you stop hating yourself. Reading about it does not make you anything you are not. It just helps you understand yourself," yawned Blaise. "We have a two hours break before lunch anyway."
"You sound like Granger," grunted Pansy.
"Oh, yeah, Granger. I think you should start to be friends with her, by the way. She's the literal embodiment of abnormality."
"Why would I ever hang out with her?!" exclaimed Pansy, way too loud and way too fast for her liking.
Blaise raised his eyebrows.
"Salazar, I was just suggesting," he whistled.
"Well don't!"
A little panicked, Pansy got up from the bench and started to go back to the castle, feeling the cold bite her cheeks.
"Where are you going?!"
"The library!"
Pansy told herself she was being practical about it.
That was the story she repeated as she walked toward the library, arms folded tightly around herself, chin lifted with a smugness that felt slightly forced. Blaise's words echoed in her mind in an annoyingly reasonable way. Reading about it does not make you anything you are not. It just helps you understand yourself. She hated how right that sounded. Why was Blaise always annoyingly right? He and Granger should be best friends.
The library doors closed softly behind her, the familiar hush settling around her like a held breath. Pansy had spent years treating this place like enemy territory, somewhere she only entered when absolutely necessary and always with a sense of mild disdain. But this year, it felt different. She couldn't stop passing by to read poetry now. Yet today, it felt like she was sneaking into a room she had been explicitly forbidden from her entire life.
She walked past the usual shelves without slowing, past Potions references and ancient runes and Pureblood genealogies she could recite in her sleep. Her steps faltered only when she reached a narrower aisle tucked into a far corner of the library, half-hidden by a tall shelf of social history. The sign above it was discreet, almost apologetic. Wizarding Queer Literature.
Pansy swallowed.
No one was looking at her. She checked anyway. A Ravenclaw boy hunched over a desk several rows away. A Hufflepuff girl asleep on her notes. Madam Pince nowhere in sight. Still, Pansy felt heat crawl up her neck as she stepped into the aisle, as though the shelves themselves might judge her.
The books were older than she expected. Leather-bound spines. Faded gilt lettering. Titles that were poetic, coded, sometimes aggressively academic. Apparently, being gay was a much older thing in society than Pansy had thought. Her parents, her mother in particular, had always told her being gay was an issue that Muggleborns brought with them. Filth that should be cleaned. Seeing that some unknown Pure Blood wizard had wrote about loving a Muggleborn man in 1680 had twisted Pansy's guts. More than that, when she realised how many times this book had been read by students, judging by its very used pages and cover, Pansy felt like choking.
She ran her fingers along more books, pretending to browse casually while her heart hammered far too loudly for such a quiet place. Her nails clicked softly against the bindings as she pulled one out, then another, then slid them back again, flustered by words like devotion, desire, sapphic, inversion.
This was ridiculous, she told herself. She had kissed a woman. More than once. She had even been fucked a woman. She had wanted to do it again. Surely she could handle a book.
And then she saw one title in particular that caught her attention.
Witches Loving Witches, the Magic of Lesbianism.
Pansy froze.
The title stared back at her in unapologetic, looping script, the spine a deep plum colour that felt far too loud for its surroundings. Her first instinct was to shove it back onto the shelf and walk away as if she had never seen it. Her second was to laugh hysterically. Her third was to grab it before someone else could, as if the book itself might betray her.
She did the third.
The book felt heavier than she expected, solid and real in her hands. Her cheeks burned so hard as she tucked it against her chest and glanced around again. Still no one watching. Still safe. She exhaled slowly, then retreated to a small table half-hidden by a pillar in the same section.
Pansy sat, smoothed her robes, and placed the book on the table like it might explode.
She stared at the cover for a long moment before grabbing her wand and applying a disillusion spell. She wanted every students who were passing by to think she was reading a boring Transfiguration notebook.
The first pages were mercifully calm. A preface written in elegant, thoughtful prose about history, about women whose love for other women had been erased or disguised, about relationships shaped by intention and connection rather than tradition. It was not lurid. It was not shocking. It was… gentle.
That unsettled Pansy. Even more when she turned the pages randomly and fell upon the "How to please your lady with only your tongue in five steps". Pansy didn't read this page. She wouldn't forget it was the 328th, though.
She flipped the pages again, starting from the beginning. As she read, the tightness in her chest shifted, becoming something looser, something cautious but curious. The book spoke of yearning without shame, of attraction as a current rather than a failing. It spoke of fear, too, of denial, of anger turned inward. Pansy found herself bristling at some passages, nodding at others despite herself.
"Love between witches is no aberration of the soul, but a truth long taught to hide itself in shadow. When a witch learns to name her desire without fear, she does not unmake herself; she is, at last, made whole. For there is no virtue in denying the heart its natural language, and no sin in choosing tenderness where it blooms most honestly. To love another witch is not to stray from one's nature, but to return to it. Just know that if it hides, it doesn't go away."
She did not see herself reflected perfectly in the pages, but she saw fragments. Familiar thoughts. The instinct to lash out. The urge to control. The way longing could disguise itself as irritation, as obsession, as rivalry.
Granger's face surfaced in her mind before she could stop it.
Pansy snapped the book shut, breath uneven, then slowly opened it again. She was not here for Granger. She was here for herself. To understand why her skin still hummed days after a kiss. To understand why wanting a woman felt both terrifying and inevitable.
She leaned closer to the page, lowering her voice in her own head, as if the words might hear her. For the first time, the idea of being a lesbian did not feel like a verdict being passed down on her life. It felt like a question she was finally allowed to ask.
Pansy read and reread the same paragraph, her eyes tracing sentences about tenderness, about devotion passed quietly from woman to woman across centuries, about love that survived despite being named wrong by the world. Each line pressed against something inside her, loosening it, making it ache. She had expected embarrassment. She had even expected arousal, maybe confusion. She had not expected this slow, creeping sense of betrayal.
Her mother's voice rose uninvited in her head, sharp and absolute, polished with the confidence of someone who had never allowed herself to doubt. Certain things are filthy. Certain desires are learned. Certain people bring corruption with them wherever they go.
Pansy had grown up absorbing those words the way sponge absorbs water, gradually, invisibly, until it becomes part of its structure. She had never questioned them. They had been presented not as opinions but as facts, as immutable as bloodlines and vaults and family trees sewn in tapestries.
Now, sitting alone in the library with a book she had once been taught to fear, she felt something crack.
The text did not speak of filth. It spoke of courage. It spoke of witches who loved witches not because they had been led astray, but because it was the most natural thing in the world to them. It spoke of joy carved out in hostile spaces, of longing that had survived centuries of erasure. There was no corruption here. No decay. Only people, whole and complex and human.
Her fingers tightened on the page.
Her anger came next, hot and sharp, rising so quickly it made her eyes watering. Anger at the years she had spent believing there was something rotten at the core of her own wants; or rather, her own lack of wants towards men. Anger at the reflexive disgust she had learned to wield like armour. Anger at the way she had used cruelty as a shield against feelings she had never been given the language to understand.
Her mother had built walls around her with frightening efficiency. Walls of fear and superiority and righteousness, brick by brick, lesson by lesson. Pansy had been taught that questioning those walls meant weakness. That curiosity was dangerous. That empathy was something you rationed carefully, lest it contaminate you.
She saw it clearly now, with a clarity that made her stomach twist. Those walls had not been built to protect her. They had been built to keep her small, obedient, predictable. They had narrowed her world until she could only see through slits carved by prejudice and fear.
And she had lived like that. Proud of it.
The betrayal hurt more than she expected. It was not dramatic, not explosive, but heavy, settling in her chest like grief. She had trusted her mother's certainty. She had relied on it. To realise that certainty had been a lie, or at least a deliberate distortion, felt like losing solid ground beneath her feet.
If this had been taken from her, what else had been twisted? What other truths had been withheld, disguised as protection?
Her thoughts drifted, unwillingly, to Hermione. To the way her mouth had felt against Pansy's, to the heat and insistence of it, to the fact that it had not felt dirty or wrong or forced. It had felt real. Alive. More honest than most things Pansy had ever experienced.
Pansy was feeling like she had been robbed of a version of herself that might have existed sooner, freer, less defensive. She had been taught to hate before she had been allowed to understand. Lost was the word that fit best. Lost between the person she had been raised to be and the person this book suggested she could become. Lost without a map, without permission, without any reassuring authority to tell her which direction was safe.
Pansy closed the book slowly, pressing her palm against the cover as if grounding herself. Her reflection stared back at her from the polished wood of the table, eyes shining with tears. The walls her mother had built were still there. She could feel them inside her, solid and stubborn.
She now knew they were walls, not truths. But it didn't make them easier to climb or destroy. In fact, it made them even harder and more dangerous. Because seeing the walls for what they were meant admitting what lay beyond them, and Pansy did not know if she was brave enough to step into that open space. Knowledge was cruel like that. It did not free her automatically. It simply removed her excuses. It tortured her.
She sat very still in the library alcove, the book resting closed beneath her hands, its title hidden now as if it might offer her mercy by disappearing. Her reflection stared back at her from the polished tabletop, eyes rimmed with red she had not bothered to charm away. She looked young, suddenly. Exposed. Not the confident, adult version of herself she carefully presented to the world.
If she accepted this, truly accepted it, there would be no neat path forward. There would be no quiet compromise. Her family would not bend. Her mother would not soften. Love, in Parkinson households, had always been conditional, tethered tightly to obedience and appearances. Pansy had known that all her life, even if she had never named it so plainly.
She would lose everything. The manor. The invitations. The effortless security of knowing where she belonged. The future that had been sketched out for her in polished strokes. Marriage. Alliances. Children raised to repeat the same lies, the same walls. She would lose the security of known waters. And what would she gain in return? Truth, perhaps. Desire she was still terrified to claim. A version of herself that felt real but unbearably vulnerable.
Her throat tightened.
She realised then that she might never do it. Might never stand up and say the words out loud. Might never be strong enough to choose herself over everything she had been promised. The thought hollowed her out, left her feeling small and cornered. Blaise's proposition was her best option out there. Being married to a man who knew she could never love him, only love women, as long as she could hide her afflictions so perfectly their family would never suspect it.
Was that her future? Masking and faking and pretending? Or was it just what she had done her entire life? Realising this was more painful than a Cruciatus curse. It was like feeling her whole life was over. That happiness was indeed, fully unreachable.
A single tear slipped free before she could stop it.
It traced a slow, humiliating path down her cheek and dropped onto the back of her hand. Pansy stared at it as if surprised it existed at all. She had cried before, of course, but rarely like this. Not quietly. Not because she ached so much.
Her breath hitched, once, then again. The dam threatened to break, grief and fear pressing forward now that she had allowed even the smallest crack. She bowed her head slightly, shoulders curling inward, and for one fragile moment, she let herself feel it. The loss, the unfairness, the crushing weight of a life that suddenly felt like a trap she had willingly stepped into. Pansy would never be happy. Never.
She was just beginning to surrender to it when a presence shifted at the end of the aisle. Footsteps. Soft, careful.
Pansy stiffened, her head snapping up too quickly. Her hand flew to her cheek, wiping clumsily at the tear, but it was too late. She saw the flash of surprise on Hermione Granger's face as she stepped fully into the narrow aisle, a book stuck under her arm, eyes widening as they landed on Pansy, on the book in front of her, on the unmistakable evidence of vulnerability she had not managed to hide.
Hermione stopped short.
"What are you... are you alright?"
Pansy sniffed, wiping her nose on her forearm. "Why'd you care?" she croaked out. "And why are you here?"
Hermione sat down, taking care to put a few metres between them.
"Same reason as you, I s'pose."
Pansy rose, dropping her book hard on the table.
"You never saw me here," she declared coldly, despite the shakiness of her voice.
Hermione caught the hem of her skirt as Pansy started to walk away.
"I did see you here. I won't tell anyone."
"This is all your fault!" suddenly yelled Pansy.
Hermione glared at her, before waving her wand, probably applying silencing spells around them.
"And why is that?"
"This is your fault! I'm like this because of you! I'll never be happy because of you!" Pansy exploded, her breathing uneven and choppy.
"Are you saying you realised you liked girls because of me?"
The question hit exactly like a spark on oil.
Pansy spun back around so fast the chair next to her screeched against the stone floor. Her hands balled into fists at her sides, knuckles whitening, arms trembling as if her body could not decide whether it wanted to strike or collapse. She paced the narrow aisle in sharp, erratic steps, heels clicking too loudly despite the silencing charm.
She laughed once, harsh and breathless, throwing her head back before dragging both hands through her hair, ruining the careful order she had restored earlier. Her nails scraped her scalp. Her shoulders hunched forward as if bracing against an invisible blow, then squared again, defensive, furious. She pointed at Hermione, her finger shaking, then dropped her arm with a frustrated snarl, unable to hold the gesture steady.
"You don't get to stand there like that," she snapped, her voice breaking more and more at the edges. She gestured broadly to Hermione's calm posture, her composed face, her maddening steadiness. "You don't get to ruin my life and act so calm about it."
Pansy's voice trembled so much it dissolved into a sort of moan. Hermione did not move. She stayed sat at the table, her wand lowered at her side, eyes fixed on Pansy with an infuriating patience. She nodded once, slightly, as if encouraging her to continue.
That nod undid Pansy. She shoved a chair aside and leaned forward, palms slamming onto the table hard enough to make the books jump. Her breath came fast now, chest heaving visibly beneath her robes. She shook her head again and again, like she was trying to dislodge the thoughts clawing at her skull.
"I had a life!" she articulated painfully, her voice rising. "It was planned. It was clean. It made sense." She jabbed a hand against her sternum, fingers digging in as if trying to pull something out. "And now I can't even think straight without you in my head!"
Hermione's response was quiet, even. "You are allowed to be angry because things don't always turn out the way you planned them."
Pansy barked out another laugh, this one closer to hysteria. She began pacing again, faster now, movements jerky and uncoordinated. Her arms crossed and uncrossed over her chest like she could not decide where to put them. She kicked at the leg of a chair, then recoiled as if the contact hurt her more than the furniture.
"You don't understand what it costs!" she shouted, words tumbling over each other. "You get to choose! You get to say things and survive them!" Her voice cracked, and she turned away abruptly, shoulders rising toward her ears. "If I choose, I lose everything!"
Hermione got up and took a step closer, slow and deliberate. She stopped when Pansy flinched, her spine going rigid. Hermione stayed where she was.
"No one is telling you to choose anything, Parkinson."
Pansy whirled back around, eyes blazing. She stalked closer until they were only a foot apart, crowding Hermione's space, daring her to retreat. Her hands trembled openly now, fingers flexing and curling like claws.
"No one does, but in the end, I'll still end up having a choice to make! You ruin things just by existing!" she hissed. She lowered her voice, pressing her fingers on her cheeks, pulling her eyelids. "You make me want things I can't have. You make me weak."
Hermione met her gaze without blinking. "You're shaking," she observed.
That was it. Pansy's control finally shattered. Her shoulders slumped suddenly, as if the tension holding her upright had snapped. She staggered back a step, one hand flying to grip the edge of the table again, not to threaten this time but to keep herself standing. Her breaths came in sharp, ugly gasps, chest hitching, her head bowing forward as if the weight of it all was too much to carry.
She scrubbed at her face with the heel of her palm, furious even at the moisture there, smearing tears she refused to acknowledge. Her other hand clenched the fabric of her sleeve, twisting it tightly, desperately.
Hermione did not touch her. She did not interrupt. She stayed close enough to be present, far enough not to overwhelm, her posture open, grounded. When Pansy finally looked up again, her eyes were wild, rimmed red, her expression stripped raw.
"I hate this," she said hoarsely, voice barely holding together. "I hate you. I hate that you make me feel like this."
Hermione's answer was steady, unwavering. "You're allowed to hate me. You're still allowed to feel."
Pansy let out a broken sound that might have been a sob or a laugh, then sagged back into the chair behind her, spent, shaking, furious down to her bones. Hermione stayed, silent and solid, letting the storm exhaust itself.
"I didn't want to realise how fucked I am," said Pansy in a scratched voice after a heavy minute of silence. "I thought... I thought being blind about this mess would do the trick."
Hermione didn't reply. She just looked at her, and her gaze was devoid of hate, of disgust, of anything. She was almost empathetic.
"Blaise had the worst idea. I shouldn't have tried to read anything about gay stuff."
"Blaise? He knows?"
"He's too smart for his own good," said Pansy blankly.
Hermione had a small smile, looking at her hands that were resting on the table.
"Should we just stop... whatever we're doing? Ignore each other?" murmured the brunette.
"I wish I could," muttered Pansy, sitting back on the chair with wobbling legs. "But I know I can't."
"We can talk about it more when you feel ready," proposed Hermione.
"I don't want to talk about it," replied dryly Pansy, almost adding the word "yet" at the end of her sentence.
"Are you staying at Hogwarts for Yule holidays?" asked Granger.
"I can't see myself facing my parents now. I told them I was staying."
"I'm staying too. If you want to talk about it, or..."
"Drop it, Granger."
"So you just want to snog me and ignore everything else?" questioned Hermione coldly, raising an eyebrow.
"Kind of."
"I know. I'm irresistible."
Pansy rolled her eyes.
"Ew."
"That's not what you said when—"
Pansy pressed her hand on her mouth. "I'm begging you to never finish that sentence, bitch."
"I'm starting to believe you're just picking fights with me because it turns you on," said Hermione, her voice muffled against Pansy's hand.
"Do you ever shut up?"
Hermione bit the pulp of her palm, making her hiss. Pansy shook her hand, glaring at her.
"I hate you," she groaned.
Hermione smiled. She took her hand, squeezing it lightly. Pansy's heart started to race in her chest. "I hate you too."
The silence that followed felt heavy but no longer volatile. Pansy slumped in the chair, arms crossed loosely now instead of clenched, one foot hooked around the leg as if anchoring herself to something solid. Her breathing was still uneven, though slower, the kind of aftermath that came after a storm had burned itself out.
Hermione watched her for a moment, then tilted her head slightly, eyes flicking to the book still lying open on the table.
"You know," she said lightly, as if commenting on the weather, "I never pictured you as the type to get lost in nineteenth-century social deconstruction essays. Ruins your terrifying reputation a bit."
Pansy let out a short, incredulous huff before she could stop herself. She shot Hermione a glare out of habit, but it lacked its usual venom, more reflex than intent. Her shoulders loosened a fraction.
"Don't get used to it," she replied. "If anyone asks, I was researching how to hex people more creatively."
Hermione's smile widened. She leaned more towards her, posture relaxed, giving Pansy space while still staying close. "That I would believe," she said. "Although I'm fairly sure most hexes don't require annotated bibliographies."
Pansy rolled her eye again. She exhaled slowly, rubbing a thumb against the edge of her sleeve, grounding herself in the texture. The tension in her spine eased, vertebra by vertebra, as if Hermione's voice was some kind of soothing balm.
"Merlin, you're insufferable," Pansy said, but there was no heat in it. "You know that, right?"
"I've been told," Hermione answered calmly. "Usually by you."
That did it. Pansy let out a reluctant laugh, soft and breathy, startled by the sound of it. She brought a hand up to her mouth as if offended by her own reaction, then let it drop. The laughter faded quickly, but something remained behind it. A warmth. An unfamiliar ease.
She looked up at Hermione properly then, not as an adversary, not as a problem to solve or a target to strike. Just as her. Sitting there, steady and unflinching, having just absorbed everything Pansy had hurled at her without retreating or retaliating. There was something deeply unsettling about how safe it made her feel.
Pansy swallowed, her jaw tightening briefly before relaxing again. She shifted in her chair, uncrossing her arms, letting them rest limply at her sides. "I don't feel like screaming anymore," she admitted quietly, as if the statement surprised her.
Hermione's expression softened. "That's usually a good sign."
Pansy scoffed, but her gaze lingered. She felt strangely light, as though some internal pressure had eased, replaced by a calm she hadn't expected to find here, of all places. She hated how much she noticed Hermione's presence now. How it grounded her. How it made the noise in her head fade to something manageable.
"That's unfair," she said suddenly, eyes narrowing. "You shouldn't be able to do that."
"Do what?" Hermione asked.
Pansy looked away, lips pressing together before she could stop herself from saying too much. "Make things feel… less awful," she finished, quietly.
Hermione didn't reply right away. She just stayed there, close enough to matter, calm enough to hold the space. And Pansy realised, with a jolt that was equal parts terrifying and comforting, that they were still holding hands.
Pansy's cheeks burned when she realised she didn't want to take off her hand. Hermione glanced at their joined fingers, and her chair scraped against the floor slightly. Pansy could smell her hair now. She closed her eyelids, and they fluttered.
Hermione's free hand came to cup her jaw, and her lips pressed softly on Pansy's. The softness of that kiss undid her again. It was infinitely delicate. It was intimate. It was calming and exciting at the same time. Pansy responded to the kiss before even thinking, her lips pushing against hers slowly.
"Oh, umm… please check your conditioner when you use it again in the showers," mumbled Granger after pulling away.
"Tell me you didn't ruin it with that fucking Murlap blood," said Pansy in a low voice.
Hermione cringed.
"Recycling your pranks? That's so low of you," declared Pansy. "And even if you're a decent kisser, I still think you're a bitch."
"Good. So do I. I don't want that to change."
Hermione got up, and Pansy noticed her knees were trembling. She tilted her head, following her with her eyes.
"Neither do I!" she exclaimed, as Hermione disappeared behind the angle of the bookshelf.
Once she was fully alone, Pansy banged her head against the table. Sighing, she grabbed her parents' letter that she had discarded in her robes pocket the day before, slowly unwrapping the letter.
"Dear Pansy,
Your father and I are delighted to learn about those news. Blaise Zabini is a very well behaved young man, and your father and I have decided to talk with his mother about the implications of your union. I am proud of the decision you took; and most of all happy to see you decided to take the high road again. I am however disappointed of your absence for the Yule ball in the manor this year. I had hoped to talk to you face to face about your future.
Do I need to remind you of the importance of your presence in those events? How do you think your professional web will form? You might not need it a lot, considering your principal life objective is to keep the Parkinson bloodline pure and thriving, but maintaining reputation and relationships is unavoidable to keep the family's glow. You are already on thin ice for the Sacred Twenty Eight for having broken a tradition by breaking up with the young Malfoy heir. If you mess up again, whether it's with the Zabini heir, or with your reputation, you know what will ensue.
I sent you a package for Yule. Wear it to show all Pure Blood students of this damned school that you will be engaged soon, and that you will keep spreading and respecting our traditions. I am proud of you, Pansy. But don't slip up again. Remember, Pansy. Never mix. Always stay pure. Those filthy Mudbloods do not deserve even your attention, even less your respect.
Your devoted Mother."
Pansy was so, so fucked.