Chapter 3: Mint Breath And Wanking SuppositionsNotes:
CW: homophobic slurs, implied sexual content
Chapter Text
The library was silent, but not the comfortable, studious kind of quiet Hermione was used to. Instead, it was a heavy, suffocating one, thick with dust and tension. Outside, darkness pressed against the tall windows, the lanterns inside flickering weakly against the glass like they were trying to escape.
Hermione pushed the rag along the highest shelf she could reach, fingers stiff and aching. She was starting to get blisters on her fingertips, and it haven't even been twenty minutes.
Two hours. Two entire hours stuck in detention with Parkinson, all because the girl had decided to yank her to the floor like a deranged toddler. And now, as if the humiliation in Potions hadn't been enough, she had to scrub shelves, by hand, with no wand, no magic, no shortcuts.
Sure, Hermione had jinxed her chair. Still, she hadn't thought Pansy would grab her hair and push her to the ground. It didn't hurt, but Pansy was surprisingly strong for such a skinny and sort of lanky body.
She took a slow breath through her nose. She could do this. She wouldn't ever give Parkinson the satisfaction of seeing her angry again.
Behind her, footsteps dragged lazily across the floor. Hermione didn't have to turn to know who it was; Pansy moved like a cat, one that wanted everyone to hear how irritated it was. Hermione could almost hear her hissing.
"Pathetic, isn't it?" Pansy's voice sliced through the quiet. "Hogwarts' star student, Head Girl Granger, reduced to scrubbing dust like a House-Elf."
Hermione closed her eyes briefly. Slow inhale, slower exhale. "It's detention, Parkinson. We're both doing the same task."
"Except at least I'm not pretending I enjoy it. Maybe you do enjoy it. It must remind you of your pathetic Muggle life before you inserted yourself between actual wizards."
Hermione ignored her. She would not rise to it. She dipped the rag into the bucket Slughorn had left them, the water already gray and murky from the first hour. Her hands were numb, chilled from the cold stone floor where the bucket rested. Her knees ached from kneeling so long. Her jaw hurt from keeping it clenched.
Still, she forced herself into the steady rhythm of cleaning. Shelf, dip, wring. Shelf, dip, wring. Maybe if she focused hard enough, she could pretend Parkinson wasn't behind her whispering like a particularly petty Poltergeist.
A thud echoed somewhere behind her. Hermione didn't turn.
"Oops," Pansy simpered. "Dropped a book. Probably because someone jostled me earlier and I still have a headache."
Hermione's rag froze mid-swipe. Don't look at her.
"You know," Pansy continued, "I thought Granger the Good would apologize by now."
Hermione's fingernails dug into the rag. She turned, not fully, just enough to glare over her shoulder. "I didn't start that fight. You pulled me to the floor."
"You humiliated me," Pansy snapped, and Hermione could hear the tightness, the strain, the emotion stitched between the words.
Hermione blinked, thrown for just a moment. "Your chair broke," she replied calmly.
"Because someone cursed it—obviously."
"Obviously," Hermione repeated, voice bone-dry. "And of course I'd be the prime suspect."
"I saw your wand lightening," Pansy barked. "But you were sitting next to me. And I know how your little brain works."
Hermione's temper flickered, heat rising in her chest. She turned fully now, rag dangling from her hand, breathing steady but sharp.
"I didn't curse your chair," she snarled, knowing it was only a partial truth.
She didn't exactly cursed her chair. She jinxed it. Not the same.
"Oh? Was it below you?" Pansy sneered. "Too immature a prank for Hermione Granger?"
Hermione's jaw tightened. She turned back to the shelf. She refused to have this argument in an empty library.
"It doesn't matter," she said flatly. "We're here. Just clean so we can finish sooner."
Parkinson scoffed loudly behind her. The sound echoed through the aisles. Hermione scrubbed harder.
She wasn't very inspired to annoy Pansy tonight. A lot had already happened today and she didn't want to be perceived as a turbulent student. For Salazar's sake, she was Slytherin's Head Girl. She needed to find more... ingenious solutions to make Pansy enrage.
Minutes dragged.
Hermione tried to focus on the shelves, the dust, the faint smell of old parchment. Anything but Parkinson's restless pacing behind her. Anything but the memory of her hair being jerked so hard her neck still ached. Anything but the way Parkinson's breath had stroked her face, her expression twisted with something Hermione hadn't seen before. There was fury, yes, but something was tangled inside it.
A book slammed onto a table.
Hermione flinched. She hated that Parkinson saw it.
"Oh, did that bother you?" Pansy's voice lilted with mock innocence. "My apologies. I forget how sensitive you are."
Hermione's rag stilled. She took a long breath through her teeth, then set it down with deliberate calm.
Slowly, she turned and met Pansy's eyes.
Not anger, not screaming, just cool, controlled quiet. Hermione knew what she was doing. Pansy was easily manipulable. She just needed to find the right balance.
"Why do you do this?" Hermione asked. Her voice was level, but her tiredness seeped through, and it was intentional.
Pansy blinked, thrown off balance. "Do what?"
"Try to get a rise out of me. Constantly. Every day. Even now."
For a heartbeat, Parkinson's mask faltered. It was just a flicker, almost nothing, but Hermione saw it.
Then Pansy straightened, rolling her shoulders back. "Because it's fun. And because you make it easy."
Hermione held her gaze for another beat, then turned back to her shelves.
"Right," she murmured, smiling. "If that's what you have to tell yourself."
The silence that followed was different. Not peaceful, no, not with Parkinson in the room, but heavier. Tense. Something simmering beneath the surface that Hermione didn't have the patience to dissect.
She picked up the rag again, focusing on the repetitive motion, the rhythm of cleaning. She could feel Pansy's stare burning into the back of her neck.
After a few minutes of silence, Hermione wiped her hands on her skirt, the rag hanging loosely between her fingers. The silence that lingered after their fight had left a crack in Parkinson's armor. A small one. Barely visible. But enough.
Hermione Granger wasn't proud of what she was about to do. But Hermione Granger had had enough today. Pansy had humiliated her in front of the entire Slytherin table, tore up her skirt, then yanked her hair, dragged her to the floor, and had just spent the last an hour and a half making deliberate noise simply because she knew it grated on Hermione's nerves.
If Pansy wanted a fight, Hermione decided she would give her one. On her own terms. She inhaled slowly, letting the calm settle back over her. Control. Confidence. She had always been good at control. Better than Pansy ever would be. And now, the second part of her plan, the part she prayed she wouldn't use, unfolded neatly in her mind.
She turned, her expression composed, head tilted with a kind of clinical curiosity.
"You know," she said lightly, "it's almost impressive."
Pansy froze mid-step, a book balanced on her hip. "What?"
"How bad your Potions work was this morning after Slughorn broke us apart."
The book nearly slipped. Pansy recovered quickly, scowling. "My work was fine."
"No," Hermione said, her tone unbothered, "it really wasn't."
She stepped closer, wiping dust off her fingers with slow precision.
"I didn't say anything because I didn't want to make you cry, considering how on edge you were. But you couldn't even slice the baubles evenly today. And your stirring pattern was off—clockwise too many times, then counter-clockwise in jagged bursts. Anyone watching could tell you were lost."
"I was not lost," Pansy snapped.
Hermione shrugged gently. "Slughorn disagrees. He winced every time smoke sputtered out of our cauldron." She lowered her voice in mock conspiracy. "He thought you were going to blow something up."
A flush crept up Pansy's neck.
Hermione noted it, catalogued it, and continued.
"I stayed after class to fix your mess while you were combing your hair. But honestly? It's not entirely your fault. A potion like Felix Felicis requires... precision." She paused. "And concentration."
"Are you calling me stupid?" Pansy's voice rose an octave.
Hermione smiled sweetly. "No, Parkinson. I'm calling you incompetent."
Pansy's jaw dropped, outrage flooding her expression.
Hermione stepped past her, brushing a film of dust from a shelf. "It's strange, though. You have the pedigree, don't you? The upbringing." Her voice sharpened. "But you can't do anything without getting distracted."
"I don't get distracted," Pansy said too quickly, too defensively.
Hermione lifted a brow. "Really? Because it seems like I'm all you think about."
Pansy went very still. Hermione glanced back at her, letting the silence sharpen the sting. Her head tilted again, studying Pansy like she was examining a potion ingredient gone wrong.
"You glare at me in every hallway. You follow my reactions like you're collecting them for a hobby. You can't even sit in class without staring."
"I do not stare at you."
Hermione hummed as though considering it. "You do. Constantly. It's almost sad."
Pansy's hands curled into tight fists.
Hermione pressed, voice softening in a way that made the words hit sharper. "It's pathetic, Parkinson. Truly. Don't you have anything better to do than obsess over me?"
Pansy's breath hitched in fury.
Hermione could almost feel the heat radiating from her, anger tightening every muscle, every line of her face. The same fury Hermione had noticed earlier in Slughorn's class. The same heat she'd felt at her ankle when Pansy had yanked her down. Wild, uncontrolled, impulsive.
It was almost too easy.
Hermione stepped closer. Her body was ten centimetres away from Pansy's back. She could almost rest her head on her shoulder. "I understand being upset about your grades. I'd be upset too if I'd fallen behind in half my classes," she murmured softly.
Her hand almost hovered over Pansy's hip. Hermione's smile widened. Pansy was completely still.
"I am not behind—"
"But this fixation?" Hermione cut in, flicking her hand dismissively, brushing her hip. "It's childish. You act like poking at me is the only thing that gives your life purpose."
Pansy bristled, shaking with anger. "You think you're so clever—"
"No," Hermione interrupted softly. "I simply think you're very predictable."
The words landed like a blow. Pansy's breath came too fast, her chest rising and falling with barely contained rage. She suddenly turned, her nose almost bumping Hermione's. Her eyes were blazing, but Hermione didn't move. She held her ground, posture calm, crossing her arms around her chest.
"I didn't start this," Hermione said neutrally. "You did. You always do. Every insult. Every jab. Every time you try to make me feel small just to make yourself feel bigger."
Pansy flinched. Hermione leaned in slightly, enough that Pansy could feel the whisper of her breath. She could now see every lash of her eyes, every growing hair of her eyebrow that she had just shaved.
"And the funniest part? You're terrible at hiding how much you need me to react. It's obvious. Every time you speak to me. Every time you look at me."
Pansy made a strangled sound in her throat. Anger, humiliation, something else tangled beneath it. Her cheeks were reddening. Hermione had rarely seen her so furious. It was a delight.
Hermione pulled back slowly. Controlled. Unhurried. And even if her heart was fluttering in her chest, she didn't let the adrenaline show.
"You want my attention, Parkinson? Fine." She brushed her hands off on her skirt. "Consider this a gift."
Pansy's eyes lowered, dark and furious. "You think you're better than everyone."
"I don't," Hermione said simply. "I'm just better than you. I'm everything you wish you were."
Hermione turned to walk away, heading toward the next shelf. Behind her, she heard the scrape of Pansy's shoes on stone, the tremor of breath that meant another explosion was coming.
Good. Let her get angry. Let her unravel. Hermione could handle fury. She did so for years. It was the silence, the strange, unreadable moments, that unsettled her. But this? This she could use.
Pansy moved before Hermione even registered the sound. One sharp step, a rustle of fabric, the sudden heat of another body cutting into her space. A hand clamped around her wrist, fingers tight, almost trembling. Hermione gasped as she was spun and pushed back, her shoulder blades thudding against the wooden shelf behind her.
Books rattled. Dust shook loose. Her breath caught.
Pansy stood inches away, far too close, the closeness electric and shocking, her grip firm, her eyes burning with something far more volatile than anger alone. Her face hovered just near Hermione's, close enough that Hermione could see the faint rise and fall of her chest, the flare of her nostrils, the tremor beneath her fury.
"You think you can talk to me like that?" Pansy hissed, voice unsteady, shaken, furious.
Hermione swallowed, her pulse kicking violently at her throat. She had expected yelling, maybe more hair-pulling, but not this. Not to be pinned, not for Pansy to invade her space with such reckless intensity.
Hermione's back pressed deeper against the shelf, the wood cold through her sweater. She should have pushed back. Should have twisted free. Should have said something sharp, something cutting, something that would snap Pansy out of whatever this was.
But she didn't.
She couldn't.
Because Pansy's face was right there. And the last time someone had stood this close to Hermione, it was Theodore, right before he kissed her.
Hermione's eyes flicked instinctively downward to Pansy's mouth.
Only for a second.
That was because she thought of the last time Theo kissed her. Of course.
Her lips were red and plump, generous. Hermione's chest tightened painfully, heat rising under her skin. She forced her gaze away, blinking hard, but the air between them felt charged, thick as honey, tense as a drawn bowstring. She could feel Pansy's breath ghosting across her own lips, uneven and hot. She smelled like mint. She smelled like cleanliness and makeup and shampoo.
"Don't," Pansy said, though Hermione wasn't sure what she meant. Don't talk? Don't move? Don't look?
The hand around her wrist tightened, then loosened, as if Pansy couldn't decide whether to hold on or let go.
Hermione's voice finally scraped out, thin and breathless. "Let me go."
"No." The word shot out immediately, raw. Too raw. Pansy leaned closer, just a fraction, but the movement jolted through Hermione like a spark. "You don't get to walk away after saying things like that. You don't belong here, not in Slytherin. You're an intruder. An impostor."
Hermione swallowed again, throat tight. She drew in a shaky breath, trying to steady herself. Pansy was furious, Hermione could feel it radiating off her, but there was something else braided into the anger, something wild and confused. That made Hermione's heart stumble.
"You're obsessed with me..." Hermione tried to keep her voice calm, but it came out softer than she intended, almost tentative.
"Shut up," Pansy snapped, but her voice cracked on the last syllable, breaking the edge of her rage.
Hermione blinked. The crack, small, fragile, was unexpected. Human. Too human.
The air felt wrong. Or right. She couldn't tell, and that suddenly terrified her.
Pansy's grip on her wrist faltered, then steadied, as though she were fighting with herself. Her eyes locked with Hermione's, dark and storming, searching her face for... something.
Hermione's breath shook again. Her eyes—traitorously—dipped to Pansy's lips one more time. Pansy inhaled sharply. And for one suspended second, neither of them moved. Neither of them breathed.
Hermione's pulse skittered, frantic and misplaced, but her mind, always sharper under pressure, began stitching itself back together. Pansy had cornered her, pinned her, rattled her. Hermione felt it in the tremor in her legs, in the ridiculous stutter of her breath.
She needed control back. And she knew exactly how to take it. Pansy's grip on her wrist had weakened, not much, but enough for Hermione to feel the hesitation bleeding through her fury. Enough to tell her that Pansy didn't actually know what she was doing, only that she couldn't stop herself.
Hermione slowly lifted her free hand.
Pansy tensed instantly, muscles coiled under her robes. Her eyes darted to Hermione's hand, suspicion flaring, but she didn't move away. Didn't even step back. She couldn't. That would admit losing against Hermione. And Hermione knew Pansy would never do that.
She had to use this fact against Pansy. Hermione brushed her fingertips lightly against Pansy's cheek.
The effect was immediate.
Pansy's breath hitched audibly, her entire body going rigid. Hermione felt the sharp inhale against her own chest, so close were they. Her skin beneath Hermione's touch was warm, too warm.
Hermione didn't push. She didn't need to. All she did was trace the faintest, gentlest line along Pansy's cheekbone, letting her touch hover somewhere between a mockery and a promise. Her skin was cold and soft. Pansy had pretty features. It was a shame her behaviour made her so ugly in Hermione's eyes.
Pansy blinked. Once. Slow. Her anger didn't evaporate, it burned hotter, confused and volatile, no direction, no barriers.
Hermione leaned in just barely, close enough that their noses brushed, close enough that Pansy's breath trembled across her lips.
"Look at you," Hermione whispered.
Pansy did. Her eyes were wild. Hermione felt her advantage crystallize.
"You're completely addicted to me."
Pansy's composure shattered.
"SHUT—SHUT UP!" she stammered, but the words collapsed in her throat, soft and cracked, nothing like her usual venom. Her grip on Hermione's wrist spasmed, then loosened, then tightened again as if she couldn't decide whether to shove Hermione away or drag her closer.
"You're disgusting," Pansy breathed, but her face betrayed her. She was almost leaning into Hermione's touch like she couldn't stop herself.
Hermione's heart had flown out of her chest to jump very high in the sky. Pansy didn't need to know that, so the brunette stayed devastatingly calm.
"Then why do you look like you want to kiss me?"
Pansy made a sound, frustrated, helpless, furious, confused. The kind of sound that told Hermione she had struck the center of something Pansy had been denying for a very, very long time.
Hermione wished she had stopped this madness sooner now. She was beginning to feel incredibly hot too. Her thumb brushed the corner of Pansy's mouth.
Pansy was completely stiff now.
"You can't stop thinking about me," Hermione murmured. "You can't stop reacting to me. You can't even stand this close without falling apart."
"I'm not a fucking dyke!"
Hermione raised an eyebrow. Interesting. Maybe that was the reason why she had dumped Malfoy, after all.
But Hermione had ethics. She wouldn't dare to use that fact against Pansy. This was crossing a line she wouldn't cross. This wasn't being the bigger person. Pansy's breath trembled after saying that. She was undone. Her eyes darted down, toward Hermione's mouth, and then immediately back up as if she realized what she'd done. Her cheeks flushed, a deep, furious color. Her entire body radiated panic and want and denial all tangled into one combustible mess.
Hermione had never seen her like this. It was something she would never forget. It was exactly like Christmas. If only she had gathered enough courage to do that earlier...
And then—
CLANG—CLANG—CLANG.
The castle bells struck.
The sound exploded through the library, echoing off the shelves, rattling the suspended air between them. Pansy jolted at the noise, grip slackening completely.
Hermione stepped away before Pansy could recover. Her wrist slipped from Pansy's fingers like they had never touched at all.
Pansy was so red it was almost comical, breath shaking, still pressed against the shelf as if she'd forgotten how to stand without it.
Hermione didn't give her a single second more. She turned sharply on her heel, her expression cold and composed, not betraying the adrenaline roaring beneath her ribs. The dusty aisles stretched long and dim ahead of her, and she didn't look back. Didn't slow. Didn't acknowledge the girl she had just reduced to trembling silence.
At the library's entrance, Hermione grabbed her wand from the table, her fingers curling around it like reclaiming a part of herself.
Behind her, she heard Pansy let out a sound that resembled a sob of frustration. Anger? Confusion? Hermione didn't turn around. She didn't need to. She'd already won today.
She stepped through the doors, letting them creak closed behind her, leaving Pansy Parkinson alone in the dim library, breathless, furious, undone. The heavy library doors thudded shut behind her, swallowing the charged air she'd left inside. But it clung to her anyway, under her skin, in her pulse, in the trembling that hadn't yet settled in her hands.
Her breath hitched. Merlin.
She pressed a palm to her chest, as though she could force her heartbeat to calm. It didn't listen. It drummed wildly beneath her ribs, echoing the heat she'd walked away from far too quickly.
Pansy's face.
Pansy's breath.
Pansy's body pinning her against the shelves.
Pansy's eyes when Hermione touched her face, wide, furious, wanting, afraid.
Hermione shut her eyes, inhaling sharply.
That had not been part of the plan. She hated things that weren't part of the plan.
She had meant to destabilize Parkinson, yes. She had meant to rattle her, confuse her, give her a taste of her own medicine. But she hadn't meant for herself to get swept into the chaos. She hadn't meant to notice how soft Pansy's skin was under her fingertips. She hadn't meant to stare at Pansy's lips like an idiot.
She certainly hadn't meant for her legs to feel weak after leaving the library.
Hermione's steps echoed along the empty corridor, her shoes clicking softly on the stones. She walked faster, trying to lose the memory of the way Pansy sucked in a breath when she touched her, trying to replace it with anything else. Logic, maybe. Or anger. Or the familiar satisfaction of a well-executed strategy.
But her mind kept replaying the moment Pansy's entire body went still. The moment Hermione whispered, You're completely addicted to me.
The way Pansy had fallen apart.
Hermione wrapped her arms around herself, forcing another deep breath. Fresh air. That was all she needed. Space. Distance. Perspective.
The torches along the walls flickered, casting warm gold light across the stone and brushing her skin with gentle heat. It barely helped. Her pulse still fluttered at the base of her throat like a creature trying to escape.
She turned a corner, and nearly collided with someone.
"Oh—Hermione!" Harry caught himself before their shoulders bumped, stepping back with a grin. His Head Boy badge gleamed under the torchlight. "Everything all right? You look a bit... flushed."
Hermione blinked. She pushed the loose curls out of her face and mustered a small smile.
"Just came from detention," she said lightly. "Not exactly relaxing."
Harry chuckled, shaking his head. "That doesn't look like you. I missed talking to someone while patrolling around tonight."
Hermione laughed, but it was thinner than usual. "Trust me, I would have preferred it like that too. Parkinson drives me nuts."
Harry's eyebrows shot up. "Tell me something I don't know. Your mutual hate is almost an entertainment for people at this point. I have to admit that... hair pulling fight looked painful though."
She shrugged, the motion too casual, her heartbeat much too loud. "It was fine. Parkinson has the grip strength of a four year old."
Harry looked at her for a moment longer, concern softening his features. "Well... you seem okay. Just tired. Make sure you get some sleep, yeah?"
"I will," she promised, smiling.
He squeezed her shoulder, a brief, warm gesture.
"Hey, Harry?"
"Yeah?" he breathed, surprised.
Hermione swayed on her feet, a bit embarrassed.
"Would you like to go grab a Butterbeer with me and Daphne this weekend, for the first day in Hogsmeade? You should bring Wea—Ronald too."
He smiled at her.
"Yeah, gladly. McGonagall's going to love this."
"Yeah," winced Hermione. "I still feel really bad for disappointing her by getting into a fist fight during the first day."
"Believe, she's seen worse," laughed Harry.
She chuckled and he waved his hand, before continuing down the hall on his patrol route. Hermione watched him go, grateful for his acceptance. Part of her had always regretted not talking to him after they had been placed in different houses in First Year.
Once Harry turned the corner, Hermione exhaled shakily. Her smile faded. She leaned against the wall, letting the cool stone press against her back, grounding her. But no matter how many breaths she took, no matter how much distance she put between herself and the library, one truth pulsed hot and insistent under her skin:
She couldn't stop thinking about Pansy Parkinson. Not even for a second.
Hermione didn't remember half the walk to her common room. Her feet carried her on instinct alone, her mind still vibrating with the memory of Pansy's breath on her lips. Before she knew it, she stood in front of the cool stone archway that sealed the Slytherin common room. The wall slid open, green light spilling across her shoes.
The room was mostly empty, dinner had dragged on longer for most of the house. Perfect.
Hermione slipped inside, the low, humming quiet of the dungeons wrapping around her like a heavy blanket. She didn't bother pretending she wasn't unraveling. She didn't bother playing composed Head Girl anymore.
Not here.
Not with Daphne.
She headed straight for the girls' dorms, pushing the door open and climbing onto Daphne's bed in one movement, like her body moved before her mind caught up. She didn't sit. She didn't speak. She collapsed face-first into Daphne's pillows.
The duvet smelled faintly of strawberry shampoo and some expensive vanilla perfume Daphne pretended she didn't wear. It was soft, familiar, grounding. Hermione clutched one of the pillows to her chest like a lifeline, burying her burning face in it, letting out a groan.
Hermione shut her eyes tightly, letting the mattress cocoon her in stillness. She just needed a minute.
"Tough day?" said Daphne, sitting on Hermione's bum without any hesitation. Hermione grunted, shifting to give her more space.
"You could say that," she shrugged.
"Come on, spill," replied Daphne. "How was detention?"
"Um... boring, mostly. Parkinson was quite furious."
Daphne suddenly grabbed her chin, forcing her to turn her head. She squinted her eyes.
"I'm not buying that. Drop the Quaffle, Granger."
Hermione sat back up, irritated.
"Alright!" she exclaimed. "She was being particularly loud and annoying, so I threw back some jabs at her and told her how pitiful if a witch she was being! And then she pinned me to the wall!"
"She what?!" snorted Daphne.
"She pinned me to the wall," repeated Hermione through gritted teeth. "She felt cornered so she had to regain control over the whole thing. I didn't want to let her do that, so..."
"So?" encouraged Daphne.
"So I stroked her face and whispered that she was obsessed with me."
"You what?!" Daphne choked, her eyes wide open.
"I said she was addicted to me, and that I was the only thing that she actually cared about, or something like that."
"Yeah yeah yeah, we know that, that's common knowledge at this point. You did what to her face?"
Hermione rolled her eyes. She grabbed Daphne's arm and pulled her closer to her, making the blonde yelp, before repeating her gesture. Her heart wasn't beating as fast as it did with Pansy, and Hermione thanked Merlin for it.
Or maybe she shouldn't have, because now it was the ultimate confirmation her relationship with Pansy was extra weird.
"Wow," blew Daphne. "Are you about to kiss me, Granger?"
"You wish, Greengrass," sighed Hermione.
"No seriously, you did that to Pansy?"
"Yes. I wanted to destabilise her. I didn't want to say some petty stuff. I feel kind of bad for shaking her this much."
"You do realise that it's very... gay of you?" Daphne said carefully.
"No!" yelled Hermione, as her cheeks inflamed again. "I just wanted to piss her off!"
"How did she react?"
"She froze, essentially. She looked gobsmacked. It was brilliant," she admitted. "But she looked... bizarre. I feel like I went a bit too far."
"Did you look at her lips?" asked Daphne suspiciously.
"What?"
"I mean you already look at her legs. I wouldn't be surprised if you looked at her lips."
"Why would I do that?!"
"Because she's a pretty girl? And because you obviously like pretty girls?"
"I don't even like girls," scoffed Hermione.
Daphne let out a groan of frustration. She suddenly grabbed Hermione's jaw and kissed her right on the lips, holding her face tight for a few seconds. Shocked, Hermione didn't move, frozen in place.
It felt oddly nice. Daphne's lips were soft, moving skilfully against hers. She smelled nice. Hermione almost closed her eyes. Her head was spinning now.
"Alright. How would you rate this kiss?" asked Daphne, wiping her mouth.
Hermione blinked twice, stunned. She suddenly shook her head.
"Um, a six? I guess? But what the hell Daphne?!"
"A six?" the blonde repeated jubilantly. "You're gay!"
Yes, the blonde had definitely lost her mind.
"I'm not attracted to you, Daphne, I'm very sorry," replied Hermione, laughing this time.
"How did you rate Theodore's kisses?"
"A solid four. He had dry lips and there was too much tongue. But it doesn't mean that..."
"That actually explains a lot. You and Parkinson are obsessed with each other. Just shag and then it should be gone!"
"You're insane for this by the way."
Daphne giggled. Hermione let herself drop back on the blonde's bed, letting a deep exhale.
"I got you a date with Harry Potter by the way. I saw him when I got out of detention and proposed him to grab a drink with you and me. Ronald Weasley will be there, I'll try to find a way to leave with him to give you alone time."
"Hermione! I don't want a date with Potter!" exclaimed Daphne, terrorised.
"Daphne, you can't spend the rest of your life hoping Theo will ask you out. You need to see other people, to go out and have fun until Theo finally pulls his head of his ass and snogs you. Please, go see other people. You need it," said Hermione gently. "Plus, Harry is a good guy. He's quite smart. We're sort of friends now."
"You're really insufferable sometimes, Hermione."
"Thanks will be enough."
Their conversation was rudely interrupted by Pansy, who bursted into the dorm, followed by Bulstrode and Davis, and immediately propelled herself into her bed like a spring. Hermione sat up, looking at her bed. She glanced at Daphne and murmured:
"Watch that."
Hermione smiled and crossed her legs.
"Good night, Pansy!" she chanted.
A muffled groan answered to her. "Good night. Bitch."
"She's going to wank for sure," whispered Daphne.
"Gross. Hopefully not in public while we're all sleeping there."
"Silencing charms. As if you didn't want to join her rubbing the nub session."
"Oh, shut up Daphne."
And what repulsed Hermione even more was that a little part of her wasn't actually repulsed by the idea of Pansy wanking. At all.
She jumped in her bed too, immediately taking off her skirt and shirt. Crookshanks started to purr, scratching her thighs.
Hermione pressed her hands on her eyeballs. She could perfectly picture the small moans leaving Pansy's lips. Her hand moving fast between her legs. How sweet it would be to see her being this weak and vulnerable.
Hermione had no idea what was wrong with her. It was this bitch's fault anyway.
Chapter 4: Brown And GreenNotes:
CW: explicit sexual content
Chapter Text
Pansy had not slept.
She wasn't entirely sure when night had ended and morning had begun, only that the black hours had crawled past with every uncomfortable heartbeat, every pulse of heat beneath her skin, every image of Hermione Granger that her mind refused, absolutely refused, to let go of. She had observes the dark shadowy figures of the squid passing in front of the windows, producing a dull green light.
By the time the enchanted clock on her bedside table flickered from 4:59 to 5:00, she was already staring at it, eyes dry, body rigid, sheets twisted around her legs like restraints she'd fought in her sleep. Crap, there were still little holes of the Chizpurfle's bites in her sheets.
She exhaled sharply. Enough. She wasn't going to lie in bed like some pathetic lovesick idiot, she wasn't lovesick, she was infuriated, humiliated, cornered, and letting Granger take up the only space in her brain she'd never been allowed to have in the first place was unthinkable. Pansy pushed herself up, ignoring the stiffness in her shoulders. The room was dark, the other Slytherin girls still asleep, their curtains drawn tight. She slipped out of bed silently, the cold dungeon air brushing against her bare arms.
It grounded her.
Her fingers twitched, remembering the way Hermione had touched her cheek in the library. She was slow, deliberate, devastating. She squeezed her eyes shut hard, trying to scrub the memory away. But her body still remembered the warmth. Pansy stomped to the bathroom before her thoughts could betray her further.
The shower hissed to life immediately, steam fogging the air as she stripped down and stepped under the pounding spray. Boiling water hit her skin, drowning her senses in punishing heat. She tilted her head back, letting the water soak her hair, run down her face, her shoulders. Anything to wash away the night she'd had.
Anything to get Granger out of her skull.
But she saw it again, the shelf behind Hermione's back, the dust falling, the tiny gasp Hermione made when Pansy shoved her against it. The way she looked up at Pansy.
Pansy growled, slamming her palm against the tiled wall, water splashing back in a violent spray.
"No," she muttered through clenched teeth. "No, no, no."
Her heart thrashed angrily. This was Hermione Granger. The bane of her existence. The insufferable, self-righteous, know-it-all Slytherin wannabe who smirked when she brewed something perfectly and frowned when something she didn't plan happened. The girl Pansy had spent years attacking, despising, obsessing over—
Obsessing.
Hermione's voice whispered in her head: You're completely addicted to me.
Her stomach twisted painfully. This was exactly why Pansy needed her routine. Her structure. The rituals she'd crafted since fourth year to keep herself sharp, controlled, impenetrable.
Makeup.
The one thing that always steadied her hands. The one thing she could do perfectly. She forced her breathing to calm, letting the water drum harder on her skin. Primer, foundation, powder. Eyes sharp. Contour clean and discreet. Lips perfect. She pictured each step like an anchor.
It gave her precision, symmetry, control. Everything Granger was not allowed to disrupt, because she disrupted everything else.
Pansy squeezed her keratin shampoo into her palm and scrubbed it harshly through her hair, trying to massage away the thoughts clinging to her like thorns. Her movements were too sharp, too hurried, betraying how rattled she still was. But she didn't slow down.
Slowing down meant thinking.
Thinking meant remembering.
And remembering meant Hermione's lips, inches away. Hermione's breath on her cheek. Hermione staring at her, like she was taking mental notes on how to redraw Pansy's face later. Hermione's thumb brushing the corner of her mouth.
Pansy slammed her eyes shut so tightly it hurt.
Stop.
The water wasn't hot enough. Not for this.
She rinsed quickly, then grabbed her body wash, scrubbing so hard her skin turned pink. She wanted Hermione's touch off her cheek, off her wrist, off her mind, off every inch of her that felt like it was still reacting hours later. Why had Hermione touched her like that? Why had Pansy let her? Why hadn't she shoved Hermione away?
Worse, why had she slightly leaned in?
Her throat tightened.
Once rinsed, she shut off the water abruptly, as if the sudden silence could stop her thoughts. It didn't. Nothing could. Not even the sting in her skin.
Pansy stepped out, water dripping from her in thin streams, the cold dungeon air biting at her flushed skin. She wrapped a towel around herself and moved toward the fogged mirror, each step feeling heavier than the last. She wiped a clear circle in the condensation, her reflection appearing slowly. Dark green hair plastered to her neck, eyes too bright, cheeks still tinged with heat.
Dark green hair? Green?
Pansy blinked hard. She leaned in until her breath fogged the mirror again. She swiped at the steam and stared. Her hair, her perfect, meticulously cared-for hair, was not its usual ebony black.
It was green. Not a soft emerald. Not a fashionable olive. A dark, mossy, swamp-ridden green.
"Shite," Pansy whispered, voice cracking. "What the actual fuck?!"
She grabbed a lock of it, jerking it in front of her face as though the lighting had to be wrong, as though her eyes must be malfunctioning. But the strand glistened unmistakably green under the bathroom sconces.
Her stomach lurched.
Panic shot through her chest like lightning.
Someone had put dye in her shampoo. Someone had touched her things. Her shampoo. Her sanctuary. Her perfection. Her one place of order.
Her hands trembled.
"No fucking way," she hissed, scrambling back under the still-warm spray of the shower. She shoved her head beneath the water, letting it pound onto her skull, soaking her hair again.
Green water spiraled down the drain.
She scrubbed frantically, her nails digging into her scalp, shampoo slipping between her fingers, the scent turning nauseating as fear strangled her breath.
The water stayed green. And her hair stayed green.
"Come on!" she choked out, slamming her palm against the wall. Water splashed back; the shampoo bottle toppled and clattered loudly on the tiles.
She rinsed again. Again. And again.
The mirror fogged over once more. She wiped it, dragging her towel roughly across her face before staring at her reflection again. Still green.
"No. Fix. Fix!" she snarled at herself, at the dye, at the universe.
She snatched her wand off the counter, water dripping from her elbow onto the marble floor. She pointed it shakily toward her hair.
"Scourgify!"
Nothing. The green remained. Her pulse raced harder.
"Scourgify!" she repeated, voice cracking.
Still nothing.
Her wand trembled in her grip. This wasn't a prank charm. It wasn't a simple dye. It was stubborn, deliberate, crafted to cling to her hair like moss on stone.
Her breathing hitched.
"Finite!" she tried, desperation heating her cheeks.
Her hair didn't change.
It draped over her shoulders in heavy, forest-colored waves, mocking her. Her throat tightened painfully. She grabbed the sink for balance, steam swirling around her ankles as the shower continued to run behind her.
This wasn't just a prank. It was a direct attack. Someone wanted her rattled, unsteady, unhinged. The old Pansy would've snarled and stormed out ready to hex someone and drown them in the lake. This Pansy stood frozen, dripping, shaking, breath too fast and uneven.
And then a horrifying thought struck her like a punch to the ribs.
Granger.
Hermione had wished her good night last night with the most smug and disgustingly sweet expression Pansy had ever seen on her.
Had she—?
Pansy's breath stopped. Her reflection stared back, green hair, wide eyes, fear lurking beneath the fury.
Pansy gripped the edges of the sink until her knuckles went white. Her pulse surged. Heat rose up her throat, flushing her cheeks, burning behind her eyes. For a moment, she wanted to destroy something. To scream. To turn and storm through the dungeon corridors soaking wet and half dressed and hurl a curse the moment she saw that stupid curly brunette hair.
But another sensation crept in beneath all that rage. If this was Hermione's retaliation for the torn up skirt and the fight, then she wanted Pansy shaken. She wanted her unravelled, emotional. She wanted her to show up late to breakfast looking like she had lost, and for everyone to see it.
Pansy closed her eyes, inhaled slowly, and forced the air out in a long controlled exhale.
No. Absolutely not. She would not lose this battle and let Granger win again.
Anger remained, hot and bright, but she pushed it down with the same ruthless focus she used during exams. Yes, she had mostly failed them, but still. She ground it into something usable, something sharp. There was no universe in which she was walking out of her dormitory acting like the victim of someone else's prank. If she could not wash it out, and if spells only made the color sink deeper, then she had no choice but to adapt.
And if she had to adapt, she would do it properly.
Pansy lifted her chin. Her reflection followed, green hair and all. The color was dark, earthy, almost mosslike. Not neon, not garish. It reminded her of enchanted forests in old wizarding paintings. It was making her brown, almost black eyes shine with coldness and charisma. It almost suited her. That was all she needed.
If she committed to the look, if she acted like it was intentional, then there was no prank. There was no lost battle. There was only a choice she owned completely.
She would walk into the Great Hall looking like she had done this on purpose. She would strut. She would look at anyone who dared raise an eyebrow with withering disdain. And Hermione would sit through Potions pretending she was not bothered that her sabotage had turned into an aesthetic triumph.
Pansy stepped back from the mirror. She straightened her shoulders, refusing to give herself time to falter. She reached for her vanity drawer and opened it. Her makeup collection gleamed inside, arranged with clinical precision. Foundation, powders, brushes, palettes, glosses, potions for radiance and for concealment. Her armour.
The simple act of sitting down at her vanity calmed her more than anything else could. She reached for her primer pot, the lid clicking softly as she opened it. The familiar weight of routine soothed her thoughts. Her fingertips dipped into the cool mixture and spread it over her face with practiced strokes. A clean base. A controlled beginning. Every movement served as a reminder: she dictated the narrative, not Hermione.
Once the primer set, she blended her foundation with steady motions. She added a sweep of powder, light contouring, enough to give structure without looking theatrical. The more she focused on each step, the more her breathing steadied. This was who she was: composed, polished, collected. Their fight, the detention, the humiliation, the green hair, none of it mattered more than how she carried herself afterward.
She opened her eyeshadow palette and held up a light brown shade, richer but lighter than her eyes. It matched the green colour surprisingly well. With slow, deliberate wand strokes, she blended the shadow across her eyelids, shaping it into a smoky gradient. Her eyes sharpened instantly, turning predatory in the mirror. She lined them next with black kohl, dragging the tip into a wing as sharp as a blade.
There. Now she looked intentional. She looked in control.
She finished with a deep red gloss over her lips, smoothing the shine with a steady hand. She refused to think about how Hermione had accidentally glanced at her mouth the night before, and how the memory still flickered uninvited in her thoughts. This morning wasn't about Hermione, no matter how tightly she had pressed herself into the corners of Pansy's mind.
Pansy stood again, towel wrapped around her, droplets still sliding down her arms. Her reflection gazed back with a defiant steadiness that made something inside her settle back into place. She reached for her blow-dryer wand, flicked it on, and lifted her hair with deliberate care.
Hermione thought she had found a way under her skin. But Pansy was already imagining the look on her face when she walked into Potions this morning as if nothing had gone wrong. As if the prank had never happened. As if she had transformed sabotage into style.
Pansy moved quietly through her dormitory. Skipping breakfast was not her usual habit, but today she refused even the smallest possibility of running into someone before she was fully prepared. She needed time, space, and absolute control over her presentation. No wandering eyes, no questions, no early commentary on the green that now framed her face. She dried her hair thoroughly, smoothing it into glossy, deliberate waves that fell over her shoulders like dark ivy. The color was still mossy and stubbornly vibrant, but the texture and shine were unmistakably intentional.
Once she slipped into her crisp Slytherin uniform, fastening each button with slow, composed movements, she tied her tie perfectly, tugging the knot until it sat where it should. The green of her hair contrasted with the silver trim in a way that almost looked coordinated. She finished by adjusting her skirt and robes, smoothing the front of her collar, and rechecking her eyeliner for any signs of smudging. Perfection mattered. Poise mattered.
The corridors were already busy with students heading toward their first classes of the morning. Pansy walked among them as though she were floating, back straight, chin lifted, a smooth stride carrying her forward with quiet authority. She heard the whispers before she even reached the stairs to the dungeons. Muted voices, quick glances, the unmistakable rustle of gossip beginning to bloom. Her green hair caught the light as she moved, drawing eyes like moths to a flame. Someone gasped behind her. Someone else muttered what sounded like "Did she really—?" followed by a stifled huff of surprise.
Pansy ignored all of it. Her expression stayed carefully neutral, if not subtly amused. Her breathing stayed calm. This was a game, and she would play it beautifully. Every look she received only confirmed that she had chosen correctly. If she acted as though it were a deliberate style decision, then by midday the rumor would already be that she had made a bold fashion choice, perhaps a new trend, certainly something only a confident witch could pull off. Green hair on a Slytherin wasn't an accident. It could be a statement.
By the time she arrived outside Slughorn's classroom, students were loitering around the entrance. Their conversations faltered the moment they saw her. Blaise and Draco stared openly, confusion flickering across their features. A couple of Gryffindors stared too long and then looked away quickly, unsure whether to laugh or shut their mouths. Pansy did not acknowledge a single one. She simply adjusted the strap of her bag and swept past them with a slow grace.
Inside the classroom, Hermione was already seated at their shared desk, flipping through her potions text with a serene focus that made something sharp twist inside Pansy's chest. Hermione's hair, annoyingly messy and curly, framed her face like nothing in the world was wrong. Pansy walked straight toward her, letting her robes billow just slightly behind her, careful not to rush or hesitate. The room fell quieter with every step she took. Even Slughorn, who was arranging flasks at the front, paused and blinked in surprise.
Pansy didn't break stride. She sat down in her seat as though she'd been doing it her whole life, crossed her legs neatly, and set her bag on the table with a soft, controlled thud. Then, with all the calm of a queen settling onto her throne, she opened her book. Her eyes flickered toward Hermione, catching the girl's brief glance of confusion.
Pansy let a slow, knowing smirk curl at the edge of her mouth.
"Good morning Granger. Slept tight?"
"Good morning Parkinson. I slept well, thanks for asking. Are you trying a new hair trend? It's... bold."
Pansy's smirk widened into a smile.
"Only a fool wouldn't dare changing. Maybe you should do something with your hair too," she suggested, tilting her head.
Hermione's cheeks tinted pink, and she quickly glared at her. The class settled into its usual rhythm, students gathering ingredients and filling cauldrons with water that soon began to bubble faintly. Pansy flipped to the correct page with a perfectly manicured finger, pretending not to notice how Hermione kept glancing at her hair with an expression that was far too concentrated to be innocent.
Hermione adjusted the flame beneath their cauldron. "You're heating it too fast," she murmured flatly, not even looking up.
"No," Pansy replied coolly, "you're just used to compensating for your own mistakes."
Granger's jaw tensed. "Right. Because I'm clearly the one who can't follow simple instructions."
"Oh, I'm sure you can follow them." Pansy tilted her head, flipping her hair over her shoulder and letting the green catch the torchlight. "It's just your personality that's insufferable."
Hermione didn't dignify that with more than a faint exhale out her nose, but her stirring grew noticeably sharper. Pansy watched out of the corner of her eye, amused. Last night's confrontation still lingered between them, a taut thread humming with leftover electricity. Every movement felt charged, every glance razor-edged.
"Five clockwise stirs," Hermione muttered, mostly to herself, but loud enough that Pansy could hear.
"Noted," Pansy replied. "You always count for both of us anyway."
Hermione's head snapped toward her with a look that suggested she was two seconds from snapping her quill in half. "If you're implying I'm bossy—"
"Oh, I don't imply," Pansy interrupted smoothly. "I state."
Hermione opened her mouth, probably ready with something cutting, but the moment crumbled when light footsteps approached their table.
A Hufflepuff girl, small and soft-spoken, hovered beside Pansy with a shy smile. "Um... Parkinson?"
Pansy's first instinct was suspicion. Hufflepuffs didn't talk to her unless they wanted homework answers, and even then, they rarely had the courage. She looked up slowly, one eyebrow lifting.
"Yes?"
"I just... wanted to say your hair looks incredible." The girl clasped her hands, suddenly bashful. "It's really bold. I love it."
For a heartbeat, Pansy was too surprised to speak. Compliments were not unusual for her, but this one, given under these circumstances, felt almost unreal. She reached up and touched a strand reflexively, ensuring her face remained effortlessly composed.
"Of course it does," she said. "Why else would I have chosen this dye then?"
"I like the boldness," the Hufflepuff said, shrugging. "It feels good to see a Slytherin finally breaking out of the mould."
Pansy frowned. "I'm glad it's being noticed."
The girl nodded and wandered back to her workstation. Pansy's smirk deepened as she returned to her potion, enjoying the pleasant flicker of triumph in her chest. Still, a sentence the girl said echoed in her brain. Breaking out of the mould...
Anyway, Hermione looked like she had just swallowed a mouthful of swamp water. Her grip on her spoon had tightened visibly, knuckles whitening. Her eyes were locked on the cauldron. She was quiet, hiding that fury that Pansy loved so much on her face.
Pansy tilted her head, letting her hair fall perfectly into place again. "Is something wrong, Granger?"
Hermione didn't look up. "No."
Her tone suggested she would rather fight a Hungarian Horntail with her bare hands than say anything more.
Pansy leaned closer, lowering her voice so only Hermione could hear. Her chin was almost resting on her shoulder. "You look tense."
Hermione inhaled sharply through her nose.
Pansy smiled, slow and syrupy. "Must be the fumes."
Hermione stirred the cauldron with surgical precision, jaw clenched so tightly it seemed miraculous her teeth didn't crack. Pansy sat back, thoroughly satisfied. The potion bubbled between them, but seeing Granger being livid must have felt better than actually drinking Felix Felicis.
The last hour of class passed in an odd, muted haze. Slughorn rambled cheerfully about the delicate brewing phases that would follow next week, and students packed their bags one by one as the clocks chimed the end of the period. Hermione closed her textbook roughly, refusing even a single glance in Pansy's direction. Pansy pretended not to notice, despite tracking every flick of Hermione's curls as she left the room in a brisk, irritated stride.
Pansy remained seated, brushing an invisible speck of dust from her robes before rising. She refused to rush, refused to let anyone think she was eager to leave. Image mattered, even in moments as small as exiting a classroom.
She drifted toward the back of the room, where Blaise was slipping his quill into his bag. He looked up as she approached, expression unreadable. His eyes flicked briefly to her hair, and his lips twitched to show his amusement.
"Well," he drawled, "someone's made a... choice."
Pansy placed a hand on her hip, angling her head slightly. "You mean a fashion choice."
Blaise's gaze roamed over the mossy straight strands cascading down reaching the middle of her neck. "It's brave," he admitted after a moment. "And somehow, against all logic or reason, it looks good on you."
Pansy allowed herself a small, pleased smile. "Of course it does. I don't do things halfway."
"No," Blaise replied, closing his bag with a soft thump, "you definitely don't."
He slung the strap over his shoulder and stepped past a cluster of Hufflepuffs leaving the classroom. Pansy fell into stride beside him, the two of them slipping into the corridor's cool, dim light. Students were still whispering as she passed, marveling or questioning or outright gossiping, but she carried herself with the same composed indifference she'd perfected over years of scrutiny. If anything, the attention only sharpened her satisfaction.
When they reached a quieter stretch of hallway, Pansy nudged Blaise lightly with her elbow. "I've been meaning to ask," she said, lowering her voice as if discussing something significant, "did Slughorn confirm organizing a masquerade ball for Halloween this year?"
Blaise snorted. "You didn't hear him? He's been bragging about since yesterday. It's practically his magnum opus. Masks, enchanted lanterns, a charmed orchestra, the whole ridiculous package."
Pansy's eyes widened with genuine excitement. Masquerade balls were rare, far too elaborate for the school's usual holiday festivities. The idea of swirling fabrics, glittering masks, enchanted dancing, the promise of glamour and secrecy... it sent a warm jolt through her.
And of course, she already pictured the perfect dress. Something dark. Dramatic. Something that would make even Granger forget how to breathe.
She suppressed a smile. "I want to go," Pansy announced.
Blaise raised an eyebrow. "Naturally."
"I want to go with you," she clarified, and her voice slipped into a tone she rarely used. A softened one. "We'd look brilliant together. Everyone knows it."
Blaise stared at her for a long moment, his expression shifting into something almost uncertain. "Pansy..." he sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "You can't always expect men to agree to everything you say. I'm not your puppet. I'm not someone you can manipulate to do everything you want because you hate yourself so much it's seeping into your relationships."
She stiffened. Right. Their argument. His accusation. The part of her she refused to think about. But Pansy wasn't in the mood for vulnerability. Not now. Not when every inch of her armor was freshly polished.
"Don't be dramatic," she said, flicking her hair over her shoulder. "We've fought worse. Besides, you know I'm right, everyone expects us to show up together. It's practically tradition."
Blaise didn't immediately answer. His silence stretched long enough that irritation pricked at Pansy's nerves. She turned to face him fully, brows knitted with impatience.
"Please," she said finally, the word tasting unfamiliar on her tongue. She didn't beg often. But she knew how to use it when necessary. "It's one night. And it's not like people will recognize us, it's probably going to be full face masks. And I promise not to talk about—"
She hesitated, throat tightening for a fraction of a second. "—Granger, I guess. Or my complicated interactions with the... male part of the population."
"You're fucking toxic, Pansy," he muttered. "I don't want to interact with you other than friendship."
"Alright! I wasn't exactly talking about giving you a blow job after the ball anyway," Pansy replied, rolling her eyes. "Being unapproachable is your defining trait, right after disgustingly good cheekbones."
Pansy knew she should have corrected him. She wasn't exactly toxic with men. Well, she was kind of difficult for them to handle. But that was mostly because none of them lived through her expectations.
Blaise let out a reluctant laugh. "You're impossible."
"Is that a yes?"
He sighed, looking at the ceiling, as though consulting some unseen cosmic force for patience. "You're not going to let it go, are you?"
"Absolutely not."
Another pause. Longer this time. Then, finally, Blaise huffed with the resignation of someone who knew he had lost the moment she opened her mouth.
"Fine," he said. "I'll go with you."
Pansy beamed and Blaise shook his head like he'd just been tricked into something disastrous.
"But," he added, raising a finger, "you behave. No touching. No snogging. No schemes. And don't talk about Granger. Never talk about Granger."
Pansy nodded eagerly and smiled. "Not even once?"
Blaise snorted. "Parkinson. Please."
She shrugged, lips curling into something vaguely wicked. "I'll behave."
He groaned, but she could tell he was secretly relieved.
And as they continued to walk, Pansy lifted her chin higher, her green hair swaying behind her like a banner.
"What's your next class?" yawned Blaise, unbothered.
"I have two free periods. Remember I failed Transfiguration and Defense Against The Dark Arts?"
"Yeah. You turn the chair into a warthog instead of a pig and it shat on the old McGonagall's carpet. And you cried when the boggarts showed your parents."
Pansy's smile turned crooked.
"Shut up, Blaise."
He smirked and continued to walk towards the stairs. Pansy walked down the quiet stone hallway after parting ways with Blaise, the soft click of her heels echoing in the stretch of dungeon corridor. She was considering getting back to bed now, waiting until lunch to make her big appearance in the Great Hall. Her hair shimmered dark green in the torchlight, swaying with each movement. She pressed her lips together, pleased. She had survived the morning.
She was halfway to the stairwell when she slowed, something small catching her attention. A murmur. A low voice. Then another, softer, unmistakably familiar.
Granger.
Pansy froze before she even fully registered why. She should not care. She should keep walking. But her feet rooted to the stone as if they no longer belonged to her.
The voices were coming from a narrow side-corridor, barely lit. No students ever went there except to sneak away for private conversations. Pansy leaned just slightly toward the sound, not enough to be seen if someone emerged, but enough to catch the tone.
Hermione sounded hesitant. Almost shy.
"Are you sure?" she whispered.
Then came Theodore's voice, smooth and low. "Of course. I'd be happy to. Daphne will be there too, so it's only fair."
Pansy's stomach twisted sharply before her mind could even decipher the words. She felt it immediately, a flash of heat that startled her. She edged a step closer, quietly, breath held without realizing.
"You'd really go with me to the masquerade?" Hermione asked, her voice a little breathy, a little too gentle.
Pansy's nails dug into her palm.
Theodore chuckled quietly. "I'd be honored, Hermione. Plus it's not like we'll recognize anyone else, since the masks are mandatory. We could have a little fun playing hide and seek with Daph'."
"She's going to hate us," chuckled Hermione.
"Nothing new under the sun," laughed Nott.
Something inside Pansy lurched so violently she nearly stumbled. Masquerade. Granger. Nott. Going together.
Why did that make her feel like she'd been punched?
She swallowed hard, but her throat stayed painfully tight. She could picture the scene even without seeing it: Granger's earnest eyes, Nott's lazy confidence, Granger probably smiling that soft, infuriating smile she reserved for people she actually liked.
A sharp, unfamiliar burn crawled through Pansy's chest.
This was stupid. She didn't care who Hermione dated. She didn't care who Hermione flirted with. She didn't care.
Hermione was asking someone to take her. Not just someone. Theodore. A Slytherin. Someone Pansy actually knew, tolerated. a classmate. Someone who could easily, effortlessly charm Hermione into smiling at him. Pansy had thought they had broken up. She had rejoiced about this fact.
Heat rose behind Pansy's eyes.
Then she heard it. A tiny sound. Barely audible. Soft. Quick. A kiss.
Not a dramatic smack or anything theatrical. Just a small meeting of lips, near enough to a wall that it echoed faintly. The unmistakable sound of Hermione letting someone close. Letting someone touch her.
Pansy's breath stopped like it had been yanked out of her. Her heart slammed so violently against her ribs she thought it might bruise. Something primal and immediate ripped through her torso. Not sadness, not simple annoyance, but a searing flare of jealousy so strong it nearly doubled her over. It shot through her like wildfire, hot and all-consuming, turning every coherent thought into static.
Hermione Granger had kissed someone.
Touched someone.
Let someone else's face be close where Pansy's had been only hours ago.
Someone else?
Something in Pansy's chest yanked painfully tight, like a rope pulled until it nearly snapped. Her breathing grew fast, shallow, uncontrollable. She didn't understand. She didn't want to understand. But her body reacted before her brain could reason.
Her skin burned. Her fists clenched. Her jaw locked. Her eyes darkened, flooding with a heat she couldn't name.
Why did it feel like betrayal? Why did it feel like Hermione had done something deeply, personally wrong? Why did the idea of Hermione's lips touching someone else send such violent nausea twisting through her gut?
Her heartbeat grew erratic, slamming against her ribs like it wanted out.
And the worst part, the most terrifying part, was that she couldn't dismiss it. She couldn't bury it under anger or sarcasm or pride. The jealousy came too fast, too raw, too overwhelming. It felt instinctive, like the way you flinch at fire. It was emotion stripped to its ugly core: possessive, irrational, involuntary.
Hermione hated her. Hermione couldn't stand her. But hearing her giving attention to someone else felt like having something ripped out of her.
Pansy stepped back from the corridor, her breath trembling without her permission. Her vision sharpened to a painful clarity. Every sound in the hallway felt too loud; every heartbeat felt like a hammering warning she couldn't decipher.
She turned quickly, forcing her legs into movement. Her stride was stiff, almost uneven, nothing like her usual grace. She needed to be alone.
She didn't know why her chest hurt. She didn't know why jealousy was clawing its way up her throat like she was drowning in acid. She only knew one thing with absolute, terrifying clarity:
Hermione Granger kissing someone else felt wrong.
But maybe it wasn't about Granger. Maybe it was about Nott. Yes, it must have been about Nott. Nott and his tall silhouette, his thin face and boyish smile, his brown hair and hazel eyes, his straight nose and little dimples.
Yes, Pansy had probably a crush on him she didn't realise she had until Granger, of all people, got what she wanted.
That was it. Pansy had a crush on Nott. That was why it felt so wrong. Pansy had feelings for Nott she didn't know about until he wasn't available anymore. It made sense, really, she spent years with him sharing a House.
Pansy needed to take her mind off him and Granger.
She almost ran to the dorms, practically screaming the password. She rushed inside, jumping the stairs to reach her dorm. She glanced around. She was alone.
Perfect.
Pansy threw herself in her bed. She was thinking about Nott. His white teeth, childish grin, thin brown hair. Nott was handsome. It wasn't a secret.
Pansy thought about Nott taking his shirt off. He probably had noticeable abs.
She thought about Nott pulling his pants down. He probably had strong, athletic thighs and legs.
She pressed her arm against her eyes, slipping her other hand under her skirt.
She could see his brown eyes looking up at her, while he was kneeling in front of her. She could hear his soft voice telling her to relax while he was sliding her knickers down her legs. She could feel his breath against the inside of her thighs.
Pansy let her fingers reach the apex of her thighs, feeling the wet and hot flesh. She blinked hard, thinking of Theodore, kissing the skin of her crotch, getting closer and closer to where she wanted him.
She closed her eyes, letting her fingers part her folds, imagining the hotness of his breathing stroking her skin. Slowly, almost apprehensively, she dragged a finger from her entrance to her clit, forcing herself to feel his skin against hers.
She was desperately unaroused.
Brown eyes.
Brown hair.
Moles on pale skin.
Pink lips.
Pansy could now feel her lips kissing her entrance, trailing her tongue around it without daring going inside. She could see her chocolate irises looking up at her while she was steadily licking her clit.
Pansy's fingers accelerated, rubbing tight circles around her clit, keeping her eyes closed, her back arching off the bed, her toes curling. She imagined her brown curly hair tickling the skin of her thighs.
"Fuck," she groaned, feeling her arousal now coating her fingers.
Pansy rubbed faster, harder. She blocked her own breathing. The knot was tightening inside her lower belly.
Hermione entered a single, long finger, dragging inside her walls, stroking that deep spot Pansy enjoyed touching so much. She was slow but firm.
Pansy let out a small moan when Hermione entered a second finger. She was getting close now, hoping Hermione would accelerate the pace now. The brunette did so, listening to her plea. She was perfect. Her warm brown eyes were stuck in Pansy's, her curly, frizzy hair cascading against Pansy's skin, between her legs.
"Fuck!" Pansy repeated.
Hermione kept lapping on her clit, her two fingers rubbing that deep spot inside of her. The knot in Pansy's belly suddenly snapped, and a burst of pure, unsweetened pleasure rushed through her veins, her nerves. Tears prickled to her eyes.
Pansy opened her eyes, breathing hard and choppy. She slowly sat back up, looking at her own hand, coated by threads of her own arousal. Tears kept rising to her eyes, until they eventually poured down her cheeks.
"Granger, you bitch..." Pansy murmured weakly, legs still trembling.