Chapter 5: Double Date(s)Notes:
CW: Draco Malfoy
Chapter Text
"I'm telling you, this bitch is preparing something."
"I know," sighed Hermione. "I was so... distraught when she decided to go along with the green hair. I hate how good it suits her."
Daphne raised an eyebrow, smirking. "It does look good on her."
Hermione hummed, unfocused. She glanced around them. Almost all the tables of the Three Broomsticks were full. She could see Pansy, Malfoy, Astoria and Zabini talk a few tables from them. Pansy wasn't very talkative for once, contenting herself to look at Zabini and Malfoy chat without really interjecting. She looked deep in her thoughts.
Hermione didn't know she had any.
"Will you stop ogling her? It's bordering on obsession, Hermione."
"I will when your knee stop jumping under the table," the brunette replied cheekily.
"I'm sure Potter and Weasley won't even come," groaned Daphne. "I don't even know why I'm so nervous."
"Because they're pretty boys. You don't say no to pretty boys."
"I just wish... I just wish Theo would stop looking at me like I'm his annoying little sister who has the Hogwarts rules plastered on her chest instead of two actual boobs."
"The Hogwarts rules are interesting," argued Hermione painfully. "It's important to know them by heart."
"Hermione, please, shut up."
The latter laughed in front of the blonde's fatigue.
"Seriously though, I think you should stop waiting for Theo. You need to make him realise what he's missing out instead of patiently looking for a sign, because he won't give you any."
"Maybe he still has feelings for you," said Daphne dryly.
Hermione closed her mouth, feeling a sudden pang of unease in her chest.
"I don't think he does."
"You invited him to Slughorn's masquerade and he immediately accepted," replied Daphne.
"Yes, because I didn't know who else to ask. And when I did ask him, he immediately brought your name in the conversation. We chatted for a bit about playing hide and seek during the ball with you, he asked me if I was sure you were coming, I said yes and I kissed his cheek before going to my next class," Hermione explained, walking on eggshells.
"He did?" asked Daphne, looking almost shy.
"Yes. He always brings you up when I talk to him. He's just too scared to ask you out because he thinks it can wait, he thinks you're safe," said Hermione, imitating quotation marks with her fingers on that last word. "He needs to realise other boys could be interested in you, and that you could reciprocate. Me pushing him towards you won't work. Trust me, I've done that for the last twelve months and he didn't budge. He's very thick."
Daphne smiled, looking down at her gloved hands. "You're right. I need to move on and stop waiting for him to ask me out without doing anything myself."
Hermione quickly nodded. A few metres away, Pansy laughed really loud at something Astoria said.
"Hey..." the brunette started, unsure. "Didn't you notice how strange Pansy is behaving with Theo these days?"
"Here we go again..." sighed Daphne, amused.
"I'm telling you. She's actually talking to him outside of classes. I saw her touch his arm once."
"He hates her," shrugged Daphne.
"I think she's doing it to piss me off."
"Hermione—"
"She probably thinks I still have a crush on him since Fifth year because the three of us hang out a lot."
"Hermione, they—"
"Theo is like a brother to me, I'd hate the idea of this bitch getting in his pants—"
"Good morning girls," said a calm masculine voice.
Hermione abruptly shut her mouth and looked up. Harry and Ronald were waiting for them to realise they were here. The ginger looked uneasy, guarded. Harry sat next to her and greeted Daphne with a polite nod. Ronald took a seat in front of Hermione, tense.
"Did you get anything already?" asked Harry.
"We ordered four butterbeers, it shouldn't be long now," said Daphne. "Sorry, I didn't present myself. I'm Daphne Greengrass."
"Nice to meet you. I guess you already know who I am," Harry said, chuckling. "This is Ron, my best mate. Ron, you already know Hermione."
He bobbed his head. "Yeah. The only Slytherin who doesn't treat us like shite or simply ignore us."
"Malfoy could never," slid Daphne.
"You hate him too?" asked Harry, surprised.
"It is rare to find someone who does these days," she said.
"I guess we all have that in common," replied Ron.
"Weren't you the guy who beat him up last year after the Quidditch Cup?" asked Daphne, looking at Ron.
"No, that was me in Fifth Year. Ron beat him up after a potion exam last year."
"He's just so punchable," snorted Ron.
"Parkinson too," laughed Daphne. "Hermione wishes she could slap her sometimes."
"All the time," corrected the latter. "Maybe we shouldn't talk about our violence urges right now, though..."
"Still, that hair pulling fight was insane!" exclaimed Ron.
Harry and Daphne laughed, the sound light and surprisingly well-matched. Ron, who had been stiff as a broomstick for the first ten minutes, finally softened, shoulders loosening as if someone had gently untied the knot in his spine. Rosmerta brought four pints of butterbeer to their small table, the froth spilling generously over the rims, and they all raised their cups. Ron's hit Hermione's hard, making her spill. She slightly tensed her jaw in annoyance but refrained herself to manifest it. She didn't forget about how she had to get along with him to leave Harry and Daphne alone.
The air inside the Three Broomsticks smelled like caramel and cinnamon, warm enough to melt away at least half of the awkwardness. When Hermione set her cup down, the warmth still tingling on her tongue, her gaze lifted instinctively, and landed on Pansy at the other table, staring at her with an intensity that could have cut glass. Hermione held her stare, lifted the corner of her mouth into the subtlest, most satisfied smile she could manage, and watched Pansy flush a shade of scarlet so vivid it nearly rivaled Luna's face paint during a Quidditch match. Pansy jerked her eyes away like she'd been caught. She looked almost... sheepish. Odd.
Hermione hid her amusement behind another sip. Daphne, perched comfortably beside her, leaned in. "She's going to combust at this rate."
"I sure hope so," Hermione said lightly, returning to her pint as if her pulse hadn't just spiked.
Across the table, Harry had been watching the exchange with a puzzled frown, but he didn't comment. Instead, he gave Hermione a careful, almost shy smile.
"So, Green, I mean, er, Daphne" he began, fingers tapping nervously on his glass, "I didn't know you liked butterbeer this much."
The blonde blinked. "Who doesn't?"
He laughed softly. "Right. Good point."
Hermione nudged Daphne's knee under the table, as if to say he's trying, be nice. Daphne offered Harry a gentler smile in return.
The silence that followed wasn't exactly tense; it was more like everyone was figuring out how to rearrange themselves into a shape they'd never tried before. Four barely adults, two Gryffindors, two Slytherins, trying to pretend House lines didn't exist. House lines had never been a real concept for Hermione, but she could understand the awkwardness of the other three.
Ron slurped noisily from his drink, then wiped the foam from his lip with his sleeve. "So, er... how's Slughorn treating you? Heard he practically faints of joy when you walk into the room."
Hermione chuckled. "Not that dramatic, but he's been kind."
Ron grinned. "That's basically fainting, then."
Daphne snorted. "He fawns over Harry, too."
Harry made a face. "Unfortunately."
Daphne smirked. "You love the attention."
"I really don't," Harry insisted, though his cheekbones betrayed a faint blush.
Hermione tilted her cup thoughtfully. It was strange, sitting here with them. She was sort of happy to have finally found the courage to create a friendship. She had always looked over Harry and his best friend from a distance, never really interacting. Why would she? They had nothing in common, except Luna, who was Harry's best friend. Stupid House politics forced them into parallel lines instead of intersecting ones. Separated not by choice but by tradition. Yet now, with Daphne's comfortable presence beside her, the soft glow of butterbeer lamps washing over them, and the tavern's easy atmosphere taking the edges off everyone's nerves, Hermione felt the strange sensation of possibility.
Harry cleared his throat. "Daphne says you're top in almost every class."
Hermione lifted a brow. "Almost?"
Daphne grinned. "Well, Parkinson still beats you in Astronomy."
"That's only because I don't like heights. Why must that class happen at the Astronomy Tower anyway?"
Harry's smile grew real this time, warm rather than hesitant. "You're brilliant. I mean—obviously I knew you were smart. Everyone knows about the 'Slytherin genius' thing."
Ron nodded. "Yeah, McGonagall keeps trying to brag about you in Transfiguration, then remembers who she's talking to and gets all stiff."
"It's honestly uncomfortable," Harry added.
Hermione covered a stiff laugh with her hand, heat rising to her cheeks. "Well... that's kind of her."
"I don't want to be a bitch, but should we change the subject? Hermione hates when people tells her she should have been in another house," intervened Daphne.
Hermione glanced at her, relieved. It had been enough of an internal struggle. She didn't need the subject to be thrown at her face all the time.
"Okay. But I don't think you should have been in another house," said Ron. "Dyeing Parkinson's hair green was wicked. It's a shame it almost fully dissolved today."
"How did you know it was me?!"
Harry violently elbowed Ron, making him huff.
"Harry told me you told him," he admitted.
The latter groaned, massaging his forehead.
"Well, thank you. I hate that it suits her so well," replied Hermione dryly.
Daphne shared a glance with Harry.
"Anyway," said Hermione rapidly. "Are you going to the masquerade in a few weeks, Harry?"
"Yes, I will. I'll take Luna. She's a cool girl."
"Looney Lovegood?" said Daphne, baffled.
Hermione crushed her foot under the table and she yelped.
"I'll take Luna," repeated Harry a bit coldly.
"Hey, Ron, will you come with me outside for a second?" asked Hermione abruptly.
"What? Er, yeah, sure..." mumbled Ron, his ears suddenly (comically) reddening when Hermione grabbed his sleeve.
Hermione and Ron stepped out of the Three Broomsticks together, leaving Harry and Daphne still inside. Daphne was leaning unconsciously toward Harry in a way that made Hermione grin and Ron roll his eyes. The pub door swung shut behind them with a soft thud, muting the warm chatter inside. Outside, the September air was crisp, bright, and startlingly clear, sunlight glinting off the cobblestones as though Hogsmeade had been polished overnight.
Hermione drew in a long breath, letting the slight chill settle into her lungs. It should have cleared her head, but it didn't. Just before she and Ron left, her gaze had drifted of its own accord to the corner table where Pansy had been sitting earlier. It was empty now. No green-haired girl, no insufferable blonde guy, no untouchable black skinned boy, no brunette.
Hermione couldn't relax knowing that. Maybe it was her instincts or being teased and harassed for years kicking in, maybe it was something else. Still, her fingers tightened around her wand in her pocket. Pansy had looked at her, while she was sitting with Ron and Harry. There was no doubt that if Pansy saw if, Draco saw it too. This was the worst possible outcome.
Ron was talking beside her, hands gesturing vaguely as he launched into some story, probably about Quidditch or something Harry had said earlier. The wind tugged at his hair, lifting it slightly as he spoke.
"...Hermione? Are you even listening?"
She wasn't.
Her eyes drifted toward the street that led back to Hogwarts, scanning the groups of students strolling between shop windows, laughing, wandering without hurry. There was no sign of green hair. No black uniform. No fast, parading footsteps. No Pansy.
A strange discomfort tightened her chest.
She touched her lips unconsciously.
Ron exhaled loudly. "Why did you want to see me outside?"
She turned to look at him, mouth parting as though she might respond, but her thoughts tripped over themselves. She had left Pansy fuming and rigid in the library a few nights ago. Four days before this afternoon at Hogsmeade, Parkinson had walked into Potions with green hair like it was a crown. Three days ago, she had started shamelessly flirting with Theo. Today, Hermione had smirked at her across the room, and Pansy had flushed, then disappeared before Hermione could look again. Not to mention their total lack of dialogue in Potions. Pansy was avoiding her, and Hermione couldn't get why.
"Sorry. I just... had my mind elsewhere."
"Are you, er... going to ask me to go Slughorn's masquerade with you or something? Is that why you wanted to see me outside? Harry said you talked about me once, and, er..." Ron asked in a lower voice, his ears turning a deeper shade of red, practically matching his scarf.
Hermione's jaw dropped. Heat rushed to her cheeks so fast it left her dizzy.
"Well, Granger, are you about to ask him to go to the ball with you or not?"
Draco's voice cut through the air like a blade, sharp and dripping with disdain.
Hermione and Ron both jumped, spinning around. Draco stood a few paces behind them, arms crossed, silver-blond hair perfectly arranged despite the breeze. His eyes glittered with smug contempt.
Parkinson was beside him. She giggled lightly, or at least made the sound of a giggle, but it sounded more like a gargling. Her posture was wrong. Too stiff. Too deliberate. Her eyes were circled by dark rings, poorly hidden under makeup, visible in the sunlight. Her fingers pressed together, knuckles nearly white. Her gaze flicked between Hermione and Ron with frowned eyebrows, scrunching up her nose. She was trying to make herself act tough and detached as usual, and she was wonderfully failing.
Something was wrong with Pansy and Hermione wanted to know what.
Hermione instinctively straightened her shoulders. "Don't you have somewhere else to be, Draco?"
"Clearly not," Draco said, scoffing. "I mean, this is precious. You, asking Weasley of all people to a masquerade? I suppose desperation comes for everyone eventually. Is it because Nott dumped you for Pansy?"
Hermione squinted her eyes. Pansy's jaw was closed really, really tight.
Ron bristled immediately. "She wasn't, I didn't mean what I said. And even if I did, it means at least she's not asking someone who spends half his day staring at himself in a mirror!"
Hermione softly sighed. Theo himself spent half his day staring at himself in a mirror. It was a common trait in the Slytherin dorms.
"Oh, please," Draco drawled. "If she had any sense, she'd be begging someone with a spine. Keep dishonouring our house Granger, like you always did. You don't belong here. You never belonged anywhere near us anyway. You're a disgrace."
"You too, Weasley," finally chipped in Pansy. She looked considerably pissed, now that Hermione was really looking at her. "But I guess being a blood traitor runs in the family."
Ron stepped forward, face reddening for a different reason now. Hermione put a hand on his arm on instinct, though she wasn't sure why she bothered. She'd kill anyone to see Draco get beaten up again.
But Pansy? That was another thing. She was the only one allowed to beat up Pansy. Verbally. A little physically, too.
Draco's eyes landed on her hand, and his smile curled cruelly. "You really are serious, aren't you? Granger and the Weasel. Adorable."
Hermione opened her mouth to retort, but Draco wasn't done.
"Although..." He tilted his head, examining her with that serpent-like scrutiny. "I suppose you are used to downgrading. House, bloodline, romantic choices—it all fits."
"Shut your mouth, Malfoy," Ron snapped, lunging forward again.
Hermione stepped in front of him this time. "Ron, don't."
Her voice came out sharper than she intended, strained with a frustration she couldn't pin down. Pansy stiffened slightly behind Draco at her tone.
Ron faltered, glaring between Hermione and Draco, torn between anger and confusion.
Draco smiled triumphantly. "Look at that. She's defending you already. How sweet. Though I must say, Granger..." His grey eyes sharpened. "You're awfully jumpy today. Guilty conscience about something?"
Hermione's stomach clenched. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Oh, nothing," Draco said casually, waving a hand. "Just seems to me like you've been... everywhere lately. Fist fights. Being sent to detention. Stirring trouble in every corner of the castle. You're the worst Head Girl Slytherin ever had."
Ron scoffed. "Funny, coming from the person who practically lives for trouble."
"Yes, but at least I do it because I can afford it." Draco flicked an approving glance at Pansy. "Isn't that right?"
Pansy lifted her chin, but her voice was quiet. "Obviously."
Pansy didn't sound invested in the argument. She sounded... distracted. Like she was trying to anchor herself in Draco's presence and failing. She did look like she wanted to spit on Ron, though. For once, it wasn't directed towards Hermione.
Draco leaned forward slightly, voice dropping to a mocking whisper. "So, Granger. You going to admit it? You and Weasley, the big romantic pairing?"
Hermione inhaled sharply, ready to respond, but Ron stepped in first.
"For Merlin's sake, Malfoy, she wasn't even—"
Hermione cut him off, louder than intended. "It doesn't matter what I was or wasn't doing! It's none of your business!"
Draco blinked, surprised by the sudden heat in her voice. Pansy tensed even more, eyes widening faintly at Hermione's burst of anger.
Hermione dragged a hand through her hair, trying to steady her breath. She hated how off-balance she felt. Draco and Pansy always got under her skin, but this felt different. More volatile. More tangled. Pansy's presence behind him only made it worse, like an unseen tether pulling at her thoughts. This was new, and Hermione hated it.
Ron said something to her again, softer this time. She didn't hear him fully. Her pulse was too loud in her ears. Her fingers curled and uncurled around her wand. She kept it deep in her robes' pocket, mentally repeating the curse, her eyes quickly glancing at Draco and Pansy's feet. Wait.
Pansy finally took a step forward. Hermione clenched her teeth. Keep waiting.
"Touched a nerve, did I?" Pansy scoffed at her.
Hermione smiled, shrugging. Now.
Locomotor Wibbly.
A soft yellow light circled both Pansy's and Draco's feet.
"Is that a new perfume, Pansy?" Hermione asked, the calm in her voice deliberate, almost gentle. The spell humming beneath their shoes remained invisible to everyone else. It was a perfect silent trap.
Pansy briefly raised her eyebrows, lips curling. "Something you could never afford anyway." Her tone was airy, dismissive, meant to glide past Hermione like a knife disguised as silk.
Then she took another step forward. And her legs froze. Her balance tipped.
Her eyes widened just a fraction, and for a split-second she looked almost startled, almost vulnerable.
But gravity won, and Pansy pitched forward.
Hermione's hands moved before she could think, instinct overriding everything else, the fight, the fury, still crackling in her ribs. Her hands shot out, catching Pansy by the forearms with a solid thud. Pansy's weight toppled into her, warm and tense, their faces barely ten centimetres apart.
For a heartbeat neither girl breathed.
Hermione felt Pansy's pulse hammering beneath her fingers. Her breath smelled like mint again. And her perfume was something citrusy, fresh and clean. Hermione felt her own chest stutter with the shock of contact. She felt everything tilt, hard and confusing, in ways she didn't dare examine.
Then Pansy reacted. She seized Hermione's arms in return, fingers digging in with enough force to bruise, twisting, pulling, trying to wrest control. Her expression snapped into fury so sharp it almost glowed.
"You bitch—" Pansy hissed, using Hermione's grip as leverage, yanking her closer.
Her other hand swung upward, fast, palm slicing toward Hermione's hair again. Merlin, Pansy had an obsession with her hair. Or just her.
Hermione blocked it without hesitation. Their arms collided in midair. Hermione's hand closed around Pansy's wrist, pushing it away, turning the momentum. In a single practiced motion, one she'd learned from her father at his judo club and drilled day after day when she was 9, Hermione forced Pansy's arm down, then behind her back.
Pansy gasped at the sudden pressure. Not in pain, but in outrage. Hermione held her there, just enough force to keep control. Pansy's chest heaved against hers, their bodies flush with tension, caught in a snarl of anger and heat neither of them could name.
"You—let—me—go," Pansy spat, trembling with infuriated pride. Her dark green hair stuck slightly to Hermione's cheek, her breaths sharp, ragged.
"Stop trying to hit me," Hermione murmured, voice low, steady, infuriatingly composed despite the adrenaline pounding through her. "You're a witch, aren't you? Why don't you use your wand? Funny to me the only class you're decent at is Astronomy, a class where magic isn't needed. Are you a squib, Pansy? That's pitiful, considering you spent years screaming at me I'm a Mudblood who belongs in the Muggle world. Yet I still use more magic than you every day."
Hermione panted, her breath uneven, but she knew her words had infuriated Pansy even more, and it was exactly what she wanted. Pansy twisted again, her trapped arm flexing, shoulder straining, but Hermione held her firm. Their legs were nearly tangled, Pansy half-pinned against Hermione, unable to step back because the spell still held her in place.
It was a stalemate, close enough that Hermione could feel the warmth of Pansy's cheek against her own. Pansy's fury felt like static.
Hermione wished she weren't so aware.
"What the fuck are you doing to her?! Leave her alone, you filthy Mudblood!" yelled Draco, taking out his wand.
But before either could speak, a roar of movement erupted beside them.
Ron lunged.
And Draco never saw it coming.
Ron's fist connected with Draco's stomach with a sound that echoed across the empty courtyard. Draco doubled over instantly, air leaving him in a violent whoosh, his arms clutching at his abdomen. He stumbled backward, coughing, shock etched across his pale face. Hermione's leg blocking spell immediately took action, and he fell butt first on the ground.
Ron's punch was a perfect punch, clumsy, angry, and fueled by an hour's worth of Malfoy's taunts.
"Don't—talk—about—anyone—like—that!" Ron panted, red-faced and livid.
Draco wheezed, struggling to straighten, hair disheveled, pride bleeding out onto the cobblestones. "Mudblood and blood traitor skunk—"
"Ron!" Hermione exclaimed, turning her head, still holding Pansy pinned.
But Ron didn't hear. His fists balled again, stance ready, wild and reckless and entirely earnest.
Draco glared up, trembling with rage and humiliation.
"You're going to regret that, Weasley," he hissed.
"Oh, really?" Ron barked, stepping forward again.
Hermione inhaled sharply and her grip on Pansy softened. Pansy could have just jumped forward, undone her leg blocking jinx. But she stayed here, frozen. She was watching the scene unfold with an expression Hermione had never seen on her before. Fury, yes.
But her eyes were glassy and her cheek, still against Hermione's, was warm and almost red.
Hermione tightened her hold again. This time, Pansy tugged once more at Hermione's grip, trying harder now, more desperate, yet still unable to break free. Hermione kept her pinned, breath mingling with Pansy's.
"You're so obsessed with me," Hermione said. "You could have attacked Ronald, but you keep choosing me. You always choose me."
It came out softer than she meant.
Pansy's chest was rising and falling rapidly, small pants and vocal gasps leaving her lips. Behind them, Ron and Draco continued shouting, their voices climbing higher, tension spiraling.
But Hermione barely heard it. She could feel Pansy's pulse under her fingers. She could feel her breathing. She could feel the trembling anger radiating off her.
But there was something else, something that terrified Pansy enough she would rather fight Hermione than acknowledge it.
Hermione had to know what it was. She swallowed, her grip tightening for a heartbeat longer. Then, slowly, she released her.
Pansy stepped back, the spell finally wearing off, legs unsteady and eyes wide open. Hermione could still feel the imprint of her wrist against her palm, still feel the warmth of her skin pressed against hers moments earlier. The absence of contact was sudden and jarring, as if the air between them had been stretched too thin.
Before either girl could speak, the door of the Three Broomsticks slammed open. Hermione briefly turned her head. Dozens of students were watching them behind the windows.
Harry and Daphne burst outside at full speed.
"Ron! Get off him!" Harry shouted before he'd even fully crossed the threshold.
Daphne's voice cracked like a whip. "Draco, move back before you make this worse, Merlin's sake—"
Hermione's head whipped toward them. Ron had lunged again, grabbing Draco by the collar, and Draco was half doubled over but still glaring with murderous fury. Harry dove between them, shoving Ron back with both hands, while Daphne caught Draco by the sleeve and yanked him away before he could retaliate.
"Harry, let go! He started it!" Ron protested breathlessly.
"I don't care who started it!" Harry snapped. "I'm ending it!"
Draco wheezed. "Get your—filthy hands—off—"
Daphne jerked him harder. "Shut up. You're not helping." She shot Hermione a look of exasperated fear. "What happened?"
Hermione opened her mouth, but her words tangled into nothing. Because Pansy was still standing right in front of her.
And Pansy was blushing. A soft, unmistakable pink flushed across her cheekbones, climbing toward her ears. It wasn't the cold. It wasn't even cold outside. It wasn't exertion. Hermione recognized that kind of flush instinctively, though she had no business recognizing it now, here, after what had just happened.
Hermione stared, breath caught, her own pulse stumbling. Pansy, noticing Hermione's eyes on her face, looked away, schooling her expression into something cool and disdainful. But the blush stayed, betraying her.
Hermione couldn't stop staring. She felt as though she had just discovered a secret she wasn't meant to see. Something forbidden and electric.
Pansy brushed imaginary dust from her sleeve, forcing her shoulders back in a show of poise. "This was ridiculous," she muttered, mostly to herself. "Utterly ridiculous."
Her voice, however, betrayed a tremor. Hermione's chest tightened at the sound. Her fingers still remembered the shape of Pansy's arm beneath them. And now, this blush, this fragile, unexpected softness that cracked through Pansy's armour...
It did something to Hermione she wasn't prepared for. Before she could process more, Daphne tugged Draco farther down the path, muttering under her breath about how he shouldn't fight with people while he was dating her little sister, and reputations. Harry managed to haul Ron back by the collar, forcing distance between the boys, who were still panting like angry kneazles.
Pansy inhaled slowly, steadying herself. Then she turned her gaze back toward Hermione.
Hermione's breath hitched. Now, up close, Pansy's face was even redder. And Hermione hated how that made her feel. Or rather, she should have hated it.
She hated how she didn't hate it at all.
She felt lightheaded, unsteady. Pansy broke the stare first. A tiny, sharp breath escaped her, one Hermione wasn't meant to hear. She gathered her composure, pivoted on her heel and walked away, steps stiff but deliberate. Merlin; she was still strutting even after all that just happened.
Draco followed, still pressed to his stomach, muttering curses. Daphne scolded them both all the way down the lane.
Hermione remained rooted in place, barely aware of Ron yelling at Harry in the background. All she could see was the sway of Pansy's almost faded green hair as she disappeared around the corner.
And all she could think about, absurdly, uncontrollably, was the brief moment when Pansy's face had been inches from hers, warm breath brushing her lips, eyes wide, soft gasps leaving her mouth.
A shiver went down her spine. Hermione raised her fingers to her own lips, suddenly aware of the heat blazing under her own skin.
She was blushing too. Badly.
Her heart pounded hard enough that she felt it in her fingertips, in her throat, in the places Pansy had touched her. She tried to steady her breathing, but it came too fast, too uneven.
Harry noticed first. "Hermione? You okay?"
She didn't answer. She could still hear Pansy panting and gasping against her. A sudden rush of heat washed over her, making her belly surge forward, a place somewhere below stomach jumping inside of her. Why was she thinking of Pansy's ragged breaths and why was she feeling so hot because of it?
Her eyes were still fixed on the empty path where Pansy had been. And the realization crashed over her like cold water and fire all at once.
She wasn't feeling hot because of exertion. And she was certainly not blushing of embarrassment, she had won this fight.
She was turned on because of this bitch.
Chapter 6: MasqueradeNotes:
CW: slut-shaming, internalised homophobia
Chapter Text
"Come on, Draco! Let me in" groaned Pansy, banging her fist against the wooden door of the boys' dormitory. She hissed when she felt her nails hit the wood and immediately regretted her act. Those nails had been way too expensive, breaking them against a wooden door was uncouth.
"I'll let you in if you suck my cock."
"I would, but for that you need to open the bloody door."
Finally, she heard the handle move. The door opened, and a whiff of cologne immediately attacked her nostrils, making her scrunching up her nose.
"Slut," mumbled Draco while taking off his pants, stepping away to let her in.
"It stinks in there," commented Pansy, barely looking at him. "Do not take off those boxers, I'm not here to get traumatised again by the white worm you have instead of a proper cock."
Blaise, at the last bed facing the green windows, stifled a chuckle. Crabbe and Goyle burst out laughing, their deep and gravelly voices echoing against the wall, making Pansy's ears ring. She glared at them.
"You used to like my white worm," replied Draco in a scathing tone, disappearing behind the curtains of his bed.
"Things changed. Ten centimetres don't reach my standards anymore. It barely reached my G-point. I pity Astoria."
"Vincent, what's a J point?" murmured Goyle.
Crabbe shrugged his huge shoulders, confused. Draco insulted her in a muffled voice, and this time, even Nott, who was putting on his suit, let out a snort. Pansy sat directly on Blaise's bed, chewing her gum, waiting for him to greet her. Realising he wouldn't budge, she laid her head on his lap and smiled.
"Show me your suit and your mask."
"Is that why you're here? I reckoned you wanted to shag Nott."
"No way," exclaimed the latter, stretching his arms. "Parkinson isn't my type."
Pansy thought her heart would hurt at this sentence. She thought it would painful, it would feel bad, like she had read in some romance books of the library. But the only thing she felt was a pang of annoyance.
"I'm everyone's type."
"Just because you fucked almost everyone here but me doesn't mean I want you. I like girls who don't get passed around like a cheap blunt. I'll pay you for a blow, though."
"Fuck off, Nott," spat Pansy, actually getting angry this time. "You're just bitter because your little girlfriend doesn't give a single shite about you."
Blaise grunted, trying to get away from Pansy, but she pushed her head harder against his lap, forcing him to stay. Nott took a step closer.
"My girlfriend?" he repeated, disgusted.
"Granger doesn't care about you. She cares about three things: her books, the Weasel boy and cursing me out."
"Hermione isn't my girlfriend. Get help, Parkinson."
But Pansy saw the tremor in his voice, and knew she had won. Again. She simply smiled at him and rolled over to free Blaise. The latter pushed her away and got up, opening his drawers.
"Here," he said, throwing a pile of white velvet fabric. "That's my suit." He then tossed a metal face mask on top. "And my mask. I hope we match enough for you."
Pansy took the mask and observed the intricate patterns, the white fabric hiding his eyes.
"It's perfect. Mine looks almost the same."
She took a small mask out of her handbag and gave it back its real size with a flick of her wand.
"You'll be unrecognisable with this mask," commented Blaise.
"She'll be able to fuck anyone she wants with that! The only good thing about her is her arse and tits," screeched Goyle.
Almost all of the boys immediately laughed. But Pansy felt a deep, strangling pain. Heat shot through her cheeks first. It was humiliation, a blazing flush that made her head feel too light, too exposed. It crawled down the back of her neck like a stain. Her fingers tightened around her mask until the edges dug into her palm. She could feel their eyes on her legs, on her waist, on the shimmer of fabric she'd chosen so carefully.
For once, it disgusted her.
She saw Goyle mimic her walk, hips swinging in an obscene parody. Draco was laughing in a high pitched tone, clasping his hands as if praying to the image of her. Nott tilted his head back in silent laughter, nothing but joy in his eyes at the idea of mocking her.
Her throat closed. It felt like drowning standing up.
She didn't move at first. Her body locked in place while her heart hammered against her ribs in something between fury and shame. Their jeering grins blurred at the edges, yet every expression carved itself into her memory, every mocking glance, every cruel smirk. She felt small and large at the same time, as though she both filled the room and was disappearing inside it.
Her stomach clenched. The humiliation tightened into something sharper, something dark and burning low in her chest. Anger surged up like wildfire, hot enough that she could taste it, metallic and furious at the back of her tongue. She imagined hexing the laughter off their faces, imagined wiping the smirks clean. Her nails bit into her palms. Her shoulders trembling, though she held them square.
She didn't want them to see her break, and that was what snapped her back into motion.
Without a word, because words would crack, and she refused to give them that, she walked across the room, fast and breathless. Their laughter chased her to the doorway, echoing down the stairs as she fled. Her heels clicked too loudly against the stone, betraying her urgency.
She didn't wait for Blaise. If she stayed a second longer she might scream or cry or lash out, and none of those options belonged to her tonight. Not in front of them.
The moment she reached the stairs, cold air rushed against her burning skin. She gulped it in like she'd been suffocating, pressing a hand to the wall to steady herself as the laughter finally dulled behind closed doors.
Pansy hated how humiliated she was feeling. It was worse than anything. She was used to her reputation. She had indeed slept with most of those boys, but it was a private matter, not some joke they could share. For the first time, Pansy was ashamed of having let them do that to her. It was easy for them to mock her, so why had they asked her to sleep with them in the first place?
Pansy got out of the Slytherin common room feeling extraordinarily hot in the usually freezing temperatures of October under the lake. She readjusted her dress, putting on her own mask. She had made sure no one would recognize her when she wore it. Anonymity could give power, and considering how this night had started for her, Pansy wanted to enjoy being a faceless character in a crowd of faceless characters.
Blaise joined her a few minutes later, dressed up. She barely looked at him.
"Sorry."
"Why?" asked Pansy coldly.
"You know how they are," sighed Blaise.
"I thought you apologized for not defending me."
He tightly nodded, and Pansy had the ultimate confirmation she truly hated men. Men and their way of being so entitled to women's body, men and their smell, men and their postures, men and their deep and unmelodious voices.
"I'm sick of being seen as a whore," said Pansy, as they began to walk in the empty corridors.
"Then maybe you shouldn't have fucked all of us."
Pansy's jaw tightened. She hated how right his words sounded in her mind.
"Your problem is that you love attention too much, Pansy. You'd give free hand jobs if it could give you a single ounce of attention. And now everyone thinks you're a slut."
The good thing with masks was that Pansy could cry without anyone noticing.
Thankfully, the Great Hall wasn't far. Blaise grabbed Pansy's arm and they walked in. For a moment, everything painful, sharp, and humiliating that had clung to her ribs loosened. The sight before her was too overwhelming, too dazzling for anything else to survive. Even Blaise paused with her, the faintest twitch of his fingers betraying that he too was impressed.
The ceiling was a spellbound storm of drifting black clouds, suspended like silky curtains that swirled without wind. They glowed faintly from within, lit by flickers of gold as if lightning were trapped under velvet. Thousands of candles floated low tonight, closer to the guests, their flames pale blue instead of warm amber. The light produced strange, dramatic shadows over the floor, over robes and masks and jewels. The air shimmered with enchantments that twisted shapes and reflections. It felt otherworldly, like stepping into a painting made of dark starlight.
Black drapery hung from the walls in heavy folds, embroidered with silver thread that caught the candlelight like thin spiderwebs. The long tables were replaced by small round ones scattered across the room, each draped in deep green satin and topped with crystal bowls overflowing with luminescent fruit. There was a faint perfume in the air. It wasn't floral, but something older, resinous and rich, smelling faintly of cypress and old books.
And the people.
Masks everywhere. Every shape, every color, every impossible design. Feathered masks that arched like wings. Masks of ivory carved with constellation patterns. Ones gilded in gold leaf, shimmering like melted sunlight. Venetian shapes, predator shapes, delicate lace masks that concealed everything while revealing the suggestion of cheekbones beneath. All of the masks covered the entire face, offering a complete erasure of identity.
It was as intoxicating as it was unsettling.
Because truly, no one could be recognized. Not under these designs, not under this lighting. Not under the careful extravagance of the evening.
The Great Hall was unrecognizable, far from the usual medieval dining area Pansy knew. It was elegant, velvety.
This felt familiar. This, she knew.
Pureblood soirées in the Parkinson ballroom had the same atmosphere. Marble floors polished to a mirror sheen, guests in elaborate robes drifting through candlelit corridors, older witches in beaked masks gossiping behind fans, music drifting from charmed violins that hovered above the heads of dancers, her father's hand always on the small of her back, guiding her through introductions with names that mattered.
She remembered her childhood self watching from staircases, small and breathless, watching adults swirl and bow and glide. A world of whispers and secrets and elegance. She had always loved the mystery, the elegance, the refinery.
This Great Hall felt like that. A piece of her upbringing transplanted into Hogwarts stone. It both grounded her and lifted her, offering familiarity when she had desperately needed something stable.
Slughorn appeared through the shimmer of candlelight, his mask a ridiculous gold monstrosity in the likeness of a hog, which only made Pansy nearly smile again. He took it off and she imitated him. He then put it back on and laughed.
"Ah! Zabini! Miss Parkinson!" he boomed, though the mask muffled his voice oddly. "Marvelous costumes, both of you. Very refined! Very dignified! Do enjoy yourselves, plenty of refreshments, plenty of mingling, that's the spirit! Don't take off your masks though. The idea is to make new, anonymous friendships tonight. Have fun!"
Blaise inclined his head politely, and Pansy curtsied with a grace she had been drilled in since age six. Slughorn wandered off, exceptionally pleased with himself.
Blaise guided her toward an empty table near the edge of the dance floor. Her stomach, still tight from earlier, eased a little more with each step. The music, a haunting waltz played by a dozen invisible instruments, drifted lazily through the air, soft enough that conversation still hummed over it.
Crystal champagne flutes floated onto their table as soon as they sat. The liquid inside glowed faintly from an enchantment, bubbles rising in slow-motion spirals as though gravity was a suggestion rather than a law.
Pansy watched them with a fascination that surprised her. Perhaps she was just grateful to look at anything that didn't involve males' gazes.
Students in extravagant masks drifted past. Some laughed, some whispered, some stared openly, with no way to know who anyone else was. A few paused as if trying to guess who she and Blaise might be, but no one lingered long enough to be sure.
And Pansy relaxed a little.
Not fully. The bruised feeling in her chest still existed, raw and recent. The memory of mocking laughter still clung to the back of her throat like smoke. But here, under the dim blue candles and among masks where no one could point or judge or jeer, she felt less exposed. Less vulnerable.
She picked up a champagne flute, slightly lifted her mask and touched the cool glass to her lips. The bubbles brushed her tongue with a sweetness that surprised her. Soft. Light. It was no wonder none of students other than Seventh Years weren't allowed.
Blaise leaned back in his chair, observing the crowd behind his fox-shaped silver mask.
For the first time since entering the boys' dormitory, Pansy let her shoulders lower slightly. The tight coil of anger inside her chest loosened. The air felt less sharp. The light less cruel.
"You heard Slughorn. It must be a great opportunity for you to get new bed partners tonight."
She immediately glared at Blaise after he said that, but he chuckled and she finally got the irony in his tone. His sarcasm felt out of place.
"I'm not laughing with you."
"I'm sorry I didn't defend you. It was unfair for them to reunite and attack you like that."
"Thank you," replied Pansy curtly.
Realizing she didn't have much to say to him, Pansy rose from the table when the next waltz surged into the air, its sweeping violins echoing against the walls. For a moment she imagined herself out there among the masked dancers, gliding effortlessly, robes catching candlelight, her movements graceful and assured. It would be easy. It should be easy. Dancing was one of the few things she had always been praised for, even by the strictest relatives.
She turned to Blaise with a flicker of hope warming her chest. He sat as relaxed as ever, sipping slowly from his champagne flute, silver mask tilted back just enough to show he was bored.
She extended her hand slightly, not a full invitation, just enough that he would understand.
He barely glanced at her and shook his head.
Her jaw tightened beneath her mask. The faint warmth inside her chest extinguished with a soft, bitter hiss. Blaise didn't even offer an excuse. He simply leaned back and let his gaze wander across the dance floor as though the idea of dancing with her had been laughable.
She stood there for one long, humiliating heartbeat, her hand suspended uselessly in the air before she let it fall back to her side. The music swelled again, more couples swarming the center of the room, swirling in elegant arcs that made her stomach twist. Merlin, Nott was probably in there with Granger. She should have snooped in their stuff and checked their robes and masks before going.
If Blaise couldn't be bothered, she would find someone else. She was Pansy Parkinson. She had danced at galas where pureblood heirs had lined up for her hand. She was not someone who waited to be chosen.
But the Great Hall was different. The masks made everyone strangers, their movements cautious, hesitant. People paired off quickly with whoever they had come with. Others clung to their friends. A few students attempted awkward steps at the edges of the floor, laughing when they trod on each other's robes.
Pansy tried approaching a group of boys, but they were deep in conversation, and when she lingered a second too long, they gave her the same subtle, dismissive nod Blaise had given her. It wasn't cruel. It was worse, indifferent. They didn't know who she was, otherwise, they'd have been blessed to take her.
Her throat tightened.
She turned away sharply, the feathers of her mask brushing her cheek, and marched toward the buffet.
If she couldn't dance, she could at least make use of the champagne.
She plucked a flute from a floating tray and drank half of it in one swallow. The bubbles hit her tongue, sweet and cool, and the warmth coiled pleasantly through her ribs. She reached for a second glass the moment the first was empty. Then a third. The burn in her chest softened into something numb, something manageable.
Around her, students laughed, danced, whispered behind masks. The Hall sparkled like the door of an old dream she no longer had the key to.
Pansy lifted another glass, letting the champagne fizz against her lips. Maybe if she drowned the ache deep enough, it wouldn't claw its way up again. Maybe bubbles could smother jealousy, humiliation, and the sting of being unwanted.
Pansy slowly lost track of how many glasses she'd taken from the floating trays, five, six, perhaps more. The bubbles were beginning to pool warmly at the base of her skull, softening the edges of the world. The chandeliers shimmered in a faint, dreamlike haze, and the masked figures around her seemed to sway even when the music paused. She didn't care. The warmth was pleasant. It drowned thought. It dulled the sharp places inside her.
Or so she hoped.
But Granger kept rising up in her mind, clearer than any candlelight, sharper than any violin. The more Pansy drank, the harder it became to push her away. Perhaps the alcohol had dissolved her defenses; perhaps she had never had any to begin with.
She tried to remind herself that she was here to forget. To enjoy the masquerade. To be admired and envied and mysterious.
Instead she found herself remembering the way Granger had pinned her, locking her arms, forcing her to be stuck against her chest in front of the Three Broomsticks. The way that damned smirk had tugged at Hermione's lips, small but unmistakably triumphant, as if she'd figured out something Pansy herself had not.
Pansy lifted another champagne flute, taking a much larger swallow than intended. The bubbles rushed straight to her head, and her knees wobbled for a moment before she regained her balance. She set the empty glass on the table with more force than necessary.
Her mind drifted again, uncontrollably, toward the detention in the library, the way Hermione's fingers had brushed her face so unexpectedly, so softly, so deliberately. Pansy felt the ghost of that touch even now, feather-light at her cheekbone, as if Hermione stood right beside her.
Hermione's breath had been warm when she leaned in, warm enough that Pansy had felt it tremble along her jaw. Warm enough that it had made her stomach twist and drop and clench all at once. Warm enough that Pansy had wanted—for half a second she had almost wanted—
She started to remember how good it felt to imagine Granger's hair against the skin of her thighs, her tongue between her legs.
She shivered. No. That never happened. She thought of Nott. That was why she came so fast.
Pansy grabbed another glass. She needed something in her hands or she would start remembering too vividly. She took a long swallow, but the warmth in her chest only deepened, spreading through her ribs in a slow, dizzying pulse.
She remembered the scent of Hermione's hair when they had been so close in the library. Something soft, clean, something maddeningly pleasant, nothing like the harsh scents of her dormitory or the acrid potions she brewed. Hermione had smelled like lavender, mixed with a hint of paper warmed by sunlight, like something gentle she didn't deserve to breathe in.
The memory twisted sharply inside her. She took another drink.
Why had Hermione looked at her differently these last weeks? Why had her voice become less aggressive, ever so slightly, when they argued during potion? Why had she almost stopped being so vicious, so cutting, so wonderfully easy to hate?
It was like Hermione had become gentler on purpose. Yes. She was manipulating Pansy.
She finished another flute, barely tasting it. She leaned back against a table, eyes half-lidded, watching the dancers blur into streaks of gold and black. Her head felt heavy, pleasantly fuzzy, but her thoughts were too sharp, too focused on one person she couldn't afford to think about.
Hermione Granger, with her too-bright eyes and too-steady hands. Hermione Granger, who infuriated her, unsettled her, made her breath catch and her skin prickle and her stomach twist because she hated her so much.
Hermione Granger, who had been quiet since Hogsmeade, almost cordial, but whose presence still scraped at Pansy's nerves like a spark against tinder.
Pansy lifted another glass to her lips, her vision blurring at the edges, her thoughts floating and sinking like bubbles rising and bursting.
If she drank enough, perhaps Granger would blur too.
Pansy reached clumsily for another glass, her fingers brushing the cool stem but failing to close around it. The flute drifted just out of reach, carried away by a passing tray. She stared at her empty hand for a moment, feeling strangely betrayed.
"You look already drunk."
The voice slipped into her ear like a ribbon of cool water. Not loud, not sharp, low enough to blend with the muted violins. Pansy blinked and turned her head too quickly. The room tilted for a moment, then righted itself. She squinted, trying to focus on the figure standing beside her.
At first she assumed it was a man. The tailored black suit, crisp and sharp in its lines. The straight posture. The glint of polished cufflinks catching candlelight. But then the details sharpened through the haze.
A woman. Definitely a woman.
She stood with an effortless stillness, hands loosely clasped in front of her. Her hair was pinned up so tightly Pansy couldn't see where it began or ended, and the flat brown strands smoothed back along her skull gave her face a clean, androgynous shape. Her mask was ivory white, simple and stark, covering everything from her forehead to her chin. Beneath it, a pair of deep brown eyes watched her, calm, observant, unreadable.
She was the opposite of Pansy in every way. No glitter. No feathers. No elaborate cosmetics or carefully styled curls. Just soft simplicity wrapped in very well cut suit. Pansy could see the slight bump of her breasts under it.
Pansy narrowed her eyes. Or tried to. Her eyelids felt heavy.
"Are you talking to me?" she muttered, her voice thick, though she tried to keep it sharp.
The woman shrugged. "Unless there's another girl drinking champagne like it's a pumpkin juice."
Pansy bristled, though the reaction was dulled by alcohol. She opened her mouth to retort, but the words tangled messily in her throat and dissolved. Good thing the stranger couldn't see that. So she closed it again and lifted her chin a fraction, trying to reclaim dignity she absolutely did not have.
"You shouldn't stand so close," Pansy mumbled instead. "People will think you're... interested or something."
The stranger didn't move away. If anything, she leaned in a fraction, so small Pansy wouldn't have noticed if she weren't hyperaware of every breath around her. The soft violins made their little pocket of space feel oddly intimate.
"That's a bold hypothesis," The woman's voice remained calm, low, that steady murmur that almost blended into the music. "But it doesn't bother me. Does it bother you?"
For a moment Pansy forgot how to breathe.
She took in the stranger fully now, the slender column of her throat where her shirt collar opened slightly, the clean but subtle line of her jaw visible beneath the mask, the small beauty mark tucked just under her collarbone. The absence of anything flashy made her even harder to ignore.
Pansy swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. "You don't even know me."
"That's the point of a masquerade," the woman pointed out, "you get to be whoever you want. Or no one at all."
Pansy stared at those brown eyes behind the mask. Calm. Focused. Not laughing at her. Not judging her drunkenness. Just... watching. Seeing.
No one ever looked at her that way.
She hated how warm her cheeks felt. It must have been the champagne.
The stranger tilted her head slightly, assessing Pansy with quiet interest. "You seem sad."
"I am not sad," Pansy snapped. It came out slurred and defensive.
The woman's eyes betrayed a smile. "No?"
"No," Pansy insisted, even as her chest tightened around the lie.
The stranger reached out slowly, as if testing boundaries, and brushed an imaginary speck of glitter off Pansy's shoulder. The touch barely existed, light as a feather, but Pansy felt it all the way down her spine.
Then the woman lowered her hand again, stepping back.
The next waltz unfurled through the Great Hall, coaxing bodies toward the center of the room. Pansy stood very still, fingers curled around her half-empty flute. The champagne had softened everything, blurring her thoughts into warm colors, but the feeling of that quiet voice lingered sharp and clear.
The woman, extended a hand toward Pansy's. Not a word spoken. Not needed.
Pansy's heart lurched upward, snagging against her ribs. Her hand lifted as if pulled by a string, placing itself in the woman's palm before Pansy even realized she had moved.
The woman's fingers wrapped gently around hers.
And just like that, Pansy said yes. No hesitation. No conditions. Her body answered before her mind remembered it shouldn't.
She was led into the center of the room, where masked dancers spun in elegant circles beneath swooping enchanted banners. The moment they found space to stand, the stranger placed one hand carefully on Pansy's waist, the other guiding Pansy's fingers into proper position.
Her touch was soft, steady, unmistakably confident. She smelled good. Something faint and floral, swirling around a muskier, sweeter scent.
Pansy exhaled shakily, the warmth of champagne blooming deeper now that she was pressed so close to another body. She fought the instinct to stiffen. She was aware of every possible pair of eyes in the room, hidden behind masks, yes, but watching. Someone could recognize her figure, her walk, her posture. Someone could whisper.
Pansy Parkinson. Dancing with a woman.
The idea sent a flicker of panic down her spine.
But the stranger's hand tightened slightly at her waist, the smallest, softest reminder to breathe, and Pansy's shoulders loosened despite herself. She let the music guide her, let her body fall into familiar steps. The woman led smoothly, sometimes a bit clumsily, and Pansy followed without effort, her movements growing fluid again, her balance returning.
She had always been graceful. Even tipsy.
The stranger's voice slipped softly beneath the music. "Relax."
The word brushed against Pansy like warm velvet.
Pansy swallowed. "I am relaxed."
"You're tense," the woman murmured. "Here."
Her hand at Pansy's waist shifted, thumb tracing lightly along the curve of her hip, a gesture so subtle no one watching would notice, but Pansy felt it like a spark beneath her skin. Her breath caught, and she hated how easily her body responded.
The champagne made everything warmer. Softer. Too soft.
She forced her gaze away from the woman's mask, letting her eyes drift over the swirling dancers instead. Masks everywhere, gold, black, white, feathered, beaded. No one knew who anyone else was. No one would remember every couple dancing.
And yet, fear tightened her chest.
What if someone recognized the shape of her shoulders? The way she moved? Her infamous black bangs that were thankfully fully black again, even if they were hidden under her mask? What if someone decided to announce it, repeat it, twist it into something ugly?
Pansy Parkinson. A lesbian. Dancing with another girl. Pansy Parkinson the dyke.
Her stomach twisted sharply, a sour edge cutting through the champagne's warmth.
But then the woman twirled her gently, bringing her back into the circle of her arms with a smooth, practiced motion. Their bodies aligned again, closer this time, and Pansy felt the faintest breath graze her cheek.
"You dance beautifully," the stranger said softly.
Pansy's chest tightened for an entirely different reason.
Compliments were nothing new. She'd received more than she could remember growing up. But something about the softness here, anonymous, genuine, unweighted by reputation or expectation, felt dangerously intoxicating. Being complimented by another woman felt good. Genuine, for once.
She forced her voice to remain detached. "You're not terrible yourself."
The stranger's quiet laugh vibrated through Pansy's fingertips.
They continued moving, the world around them blurring into patterns of floating candles and drifting masks. The music wrapped around them like warm night air. And little by little, Pansy's fear eased. It wasn't gone, but pushed to the edges of her awareness where the champagne could dull it.
Here, with the stranger's hand steady at her waist and the waltz sweeping beneath her feet, Pansy could pretend for a moment that she was not Pansy Parkinson. Just a masked girl dancing with another masked girl, no one knowing, no one judging.
Just for tonight.
The music rose, swelled, then softened again into a quiet, lingering end. The woman slowed their steps with delicate precision, letting Pansy come to a stop without breaking the spell of the moment.
"That wasn't so terrible," the woman murmured.
They slipped out between two columns while the next song rose behind them, Pansy half-floating from champagne and the waltz and whatever spell that soft-spoken stranger had woven around her. She didn't even remember deciding to leave the dance floor. One moment she was watching the candlelit swirl of masked faces, the next she was tugging a half-full champagne bottle from a passing tray and slipping into the shadowed corridor beside the Great Hall.
The woman followed.
The corridor was lit only by pale strips of moonlight cutting through the lancet windows. Rain pattered steadily in the courtyard beyond, soft and rhythmic, filling the silence with a quiet music of its own. The air felt cooler here, sharper. Pansy's overheated skin welcomed it.
She leaned against the stone railing that overlooked the inner courtyard, letting the cold seep through her thin masquerade gown. The woman sat beside her in one smooth motion, folding her legs to the side, mask glowing faintly in the moonlight.
Pansy held out the bottle.
The woman accepted it without ceremony, lifted a little her mask, took a surprisingly unpretentious sip, and passed it back. Pansy didn't look at her lips. She didn't want to recognize her, and she reckoned the woman probably felt the same.
"You stole that," she murmured.
"It was unattended," Pansy replied, taking a long drink. "Finders keepers."
"Slytherin logic. Criminal logic."
Pansy smirked behind her mask. "I've heard worse."
Silence settled again, comfortable, surprisingly. The rain created a soft veil over the courtyard, blurring the stone paths and the fountain into a watercolor wash of silver and shadow. Pansy let her head fall back against the wall behind her, listening to the storm.
Maybe it was the champagne. Maybe the waltz. Maybe the anonymity. But the quiet between them wasn't uncomfortable. It was soothing, somehow. A rare, fragile thing.
"You sound like a Ravenclaw," Pansy yawned, stretching her arms. "I don't like Ravenclaws. They think they know everything.
The stranger snorted. "I'm not a Ravenclaw."
"Why did you ask me to dance?"
"Because I like your mask. I think you're pretty."
"I'm not gay," said Pansy abruptly.
She shrugged. "Who cares? Even if you were, it wouldn't matter.
"Right. The anonymity and everything."
"That's not what I meant. Do you read?" the woman asked.
The question was so unexpected Pansy blinked.
"Read?" she repeated. "Like... books?"
"Yes. Those things with paper and ink. Occasionally words."
Pansy snorted an ungraceful laugh. "I read sometimes."
"What do you mean sometimes?"
"I mean," she said, letting the champagne make her bold, "I read what I have to read. School books. Some magazines. Letters from mother when she remembers I exist."
The woman made a thoughtful sound. "That doesn't count."
Pansy rolled her eyes, then paused. "Do you read?"
"I do."
"What?" Pansy leaned closer. "Tell me you don't read textbooks for fun."
"Sometimes, yes," the woman laughed, her voice warm. She had a pretty laugh. She almost sounded like someone Pansy knew, but couldn't name. "But I also read novels. Essays. Poetry."
Pansy snorted again. "So you're pretentious."
"Mildly."
"What kind of poetry?"
"Romantics."
Pansy shook her head. "Of course. So does everyone."
"And you wouldn't?"
"I don't like poems," she said, waving the bottle lazily. "They're always about the same things. Love. Pain. Loss. More love. More pain."
"This is factually wrong."
"Poems are written by dead men in forests."
The woman chuckled, and Pansy glanced at her, surprised by the warmth that sound put in her stomach. She had definitely heard that laugh before. Where?
Most importantly, did it matter? Pansy didn't know this girl, and she was glad this girl didn't know her either.
"You've never read Byron," the woman said. "Clearly."
"I don't want to read Byron."
"You sound like you've never tried."
"Are you always like this?" Pansy muttered. "Quiet and smug?"
"Maybe."
The honesty startled her into a small burst of laughter. She took another long drink, the champagne slipping quickly into her bloodstream.
"Fine," Pansy said. "If you're so well-read, impress me. Quote something."
The woman didn't hesitate.
"'She walks in beauty, like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies.'"
Pansy's breath caught, not at the words, but at the way the stranger said them. Soft. Unhurried. Like she wasn't quoting but remembering something she felt.
"That's... painfully basic and uninspired," Pansy said.
"You're being unfair now."
"Say another."
"'And all that's best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes.'"
"Better."
The rain outside thickened, a steady curtain falling across the courtyard. Pansy stared at the rippling water pooling in the stone gutters below. Something pulled warm and heavy in her chest. She lifted the champagne again but stopped halfway.
"Why Byron?" she asked abruptly. "Why him?"
"Because he understood wanting things you're not supposed to want."
The words were simple. Quiet. But they landed in Pansy like a weight. She swallowed, throat too tight.
"That's vague," she said lightly.
"Its vagueness makes it true," the woman replied.
The rain hissed more intensely, sheets of silver sliding down the windows. The corridor smelled faintly of wet stone and wood polish. The woman's shoulder brushed Pansy's lightly, as if by accident.
Pansy didn't move away.
"What about you?" the woman asked. "What do you read? If not Romantics."
"I don't know," Pansy said honestly, her voice softer than she expected. "I like simple stories. Stories where people behave normally. Stories where feelings make sense."
"Feelings never make sense," the woman said. "You must read shitty stories."
Pansy laughed again instead of taking offense like she'd usually do. "You sound really sure of yourself."
"I am."
Pansy's breath trembled. She hoped the stranger didn't notice.
"Tell me something you like," the woman continued. "Anything."
Pansy looked into the courtyard, watching the raindrops splash into the glowing puddles below.
"I like storms," she said. "It feels like everyone else is hiding while everything inside me isn't."
The stranger nodded slowly. "Because you feel a lot of things you can't accept or name, I reckon. You're not alone. I know some girl in my house who's just like you. Repressed."
Pansy exhaled, surprised at how much that sentence eased something in her chest. She passed the champagne to the woman again.
Their fingers brushed.
She felt it everywhere.
The woman took a slow sip, her mask tilted downward. "You seem lonely tonight."
Pansy scoffed, ready to deny, but the sound came out thin and hollow. She didn't answer. The woman didn't push.
Moonlight pooled across the flagstones, spilling pale silver over their ankles, the champagne bottle, the railing, the stranger's crisp suit. Pansy felt the quiet settling deeper into her bones, softening the jagged places left over from the boys' dormitory, from the fight in Hogsmeade, from everything she'd been trying not to feel for weeks.
The stranger tipped her head back, looking at the ceiling as though searching for constellations through stone.
"You asked about novels," she murmured. "I like political ones. I like George Orwell, I like Franz Kafka. But I also like the ones where the characters fall in love slowly. Not the dramatic declarations, not the crashing heartbreaks. Just... the moments in between. The moments when someone finally sees you, even if you're trying not to be seen."
Pansy's pulse jumped too fast, too suddenly. She shifted slightly, not enough to seem obvious, but enough to angle her body toward the woman.
"What kind of novels?" she asked, pretending her voice wasn't thin at the edges.
"Classics," the woman said. "Austen. Brontë. Eliot."
She glanced sideways at Pansy, eyes gleaming behind the mask. "Though it sounds like you've never tried them either."
Pansy scoffed. "Please. Those Muggle books are all about marriage plots."
"So you know about Muggle books?"
Pansy nodded. She had seen them in the library, looked rapidly through them. She liked the writing style.
"They're about yearning," the woman corrected softly. "Longing. People who spend entire chapters wanting someone they believe they can't have."
Pansy looked away quickly, out at the rain-slick stones below, where the courtyard shimmered like liquid starlight. Her fingers tightened around the champagne bottle. She didn't drink, she held it like an anchor.
A beat passed. Then another.
"And," the woman added, voice warm as breath on the back of a neck, "they're about characters discovering that desire isn't shameful. Only frightening because it matters so much."
Pansy's stomach flipped so hard it almost hurt. She felt every word on her skin. Her breath fogged faintly in the cold air. She pressed the back of her hand against the stone beside her, grounding herself. The stranger shifted, leaning an inch closer, not enough to crowd her, just enough to let their shoulders brush again. It was deliberate this time.
The air changed. Pansy swallowed, throat dry despite the champagne.
The woman's voice dipped lower, soft as velvet. "Have you ever read Jane Eyre?"
She sounded so sweet and kind. Pansy laughed under her breath. "Do I look like someone who reads governess novels?"
The woman's lips tilted under the mask. "It's not about governesses. It's about a girl who thinks she's plain and unworthy of love, until she realizes she isn't."
Pansy blinked. Her chest tightened.
"Sounds unrealistic," she said weakly.
"It isn't."
Something fluttered traitorously under Pansy's ribs. A bird trapped in her sternum, wings beating hard enough to bruise.
She turned her face toward the woman. Moonlight framed the stranger's mask, catching on the pale edges, glinting softly over the curve of her cheekbone. Her brown eyes were dark and steady, reflecting the rain-slick courtyard.
So close. Too close.
And yet, Pansy didn't move away.
The champagne hum softened her fear, dulling the sharpness of shame. Behind the mask, she wasn't Pansy Parkinson. She wasn't her mother's daughter or the Slytherin girl with too much attitude and not enough courage. She wasn't the girl people judged before she ever spoke.
She was anonymous. Free.
And it felt dangerously easy to want something when she wasn't herself.
The stranger looked at her again, deliberate, lingering. "What about you?" she asked. "Do you like stories about love?"
Pansy's lips parted, though no answer followed.
Her pulse thrummed in her throat, a wild rhythm she hoped the other girl couldn't hear.
She suddenly imagined kissing her. Not a grand, sweeping kiss. Just a soft, testing press of lips in the shadowed corridor. Something that felt safe because no one would know. Because she wasn't supposed to want it, and yet she did.
And maybe, just maybe, the mask made it possible.
"I..." Pansy started, then stopped. Her voice was unsteady. "I don't know."
The woman didn't tease her. Didn't pressure. She only tilted her head, eyes gentle.
"It's all right not to know," she said quietly.
Pansy exhaled shakily, a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Her heart thudded hard when the girl reached out, slowly, giving her time to pull away, and brushed dust from her shoulder.
Pansy went still as stone. Heat shot through her like a spell. Her lips parted without her permission. The woman's fingers withdrew, leaving fire behind. The champagne bottle slipped slightly in Pansy's grasp; she caught it clumsily, her hands suddenly useless. Her thoughts scattered like startled birds.
If she leaned forward—just a little—
If the stranger leaned in—
If the rain hid them, masked them further—
No one would know. It would be so easy. The thought terrified her just as much as it thrilled her.
The woman shifted, closer still.
"You look like someone deciding something."
Pansy's breath stuttered.
"I—maybe," she murmured.
Outside, lightning flashed silently behind the clouds, illuminating the courtyard for a heartbeat. She wanted to kiss this stranger.
Inexplicably, the image of Granger flashed through Pansy's eyes.
Pansy mentally told her to go fuck herself and leave her alone.
Her fingers trembled as she reached for the edge of the stranger's mask, brushing it lightly with a touch that was almost reverent. The stranger didn't move, didn't protest, just let her linger, hand hovering, waiting. Moonlight glinted off the smooth surface of the mask, and for a brief moment, Pansy's heart stuttered, not from fear, but from the audacity of what she was about to do.
"What are you deciding about?" the stranger whispered, her voice low, soft, a sound that made Pansy's stomach twist in anticipation.
Pansy didn't answer. Words felt clumsy, inadequate, unnecessary. Instead, she lifted the mask just enough to reveal the curve of the stranger's lips, the warmth of her breath against the cool night air. She traced the outline of her mouth with a fingertip, heart hammering against her ribs, and realized with a rush that she wanted this, just as much as she wanted to see Granger getting mad at her. Meaning, she wanted this a lot.
She lifted her own mask, careful to keep the rest of her face still hidden, letting the cool moonlight hit her lips. Every nerve felt alive, electric. And then she pressed her lips softly against the stranger's.
It was immediate, startling, and entirely intoxicating. Pansy's fingers slid through the woman's hair at the nape of her neck, holding her steady against the trembling of her own hands. The kiss was warm and gentle, yet it set her entire body alight, a blaze that drank away all remnants of shame, fear, and caution.
And in that moment, it felt right.
So much more right than any encounter with boys had ever been. Every kiss she had ever shared with men had been shallow, perfunctory, tinged with obligation or curiosity or something she barely understood. Their lips were dry, uncared for. They were rough and only sexual. But this was different. There was weight here, depth, softness and fire all at once. Her body ached to explore, to feel, to memorize every contour of warmth pressed against her own. It wasn't just desire. It was clarity.
If it felt so right, why was Granger's face flashing again behind her closed eyelids?
Her pulse roared in her ears, her heart threatening to burst. She felt her cheeks burn, her lips swell with need. The rain drummed softly against the courtyard below, a steady rhythm that matched the frantic beating of her own heart. The stranger's hand slipped around her waist, stroking her skin over her dress. She smelled like paper. Something floral.
And then, suddenly, the spell broke.
Panic clamped down on her chest like iron. Her rational mind, buried under months of denial and the dizzying haze of champagne, surged forward in panic. What was she doing? Who would see? Who knew? She couldn't allow anyone to see her like this. Pansy Parkinson, the girl with a reputation to uphold, a family to impress, a world to maintain.
Her fingers released the stranger's hair. She pulled back abruptly, a jolt of heat and embarrassment flooding her senses. The stranger's eyes met hers, wide and unjudging, but Pansy saw only her own reflection in them: exposed, vulnerable, a little trembling.
Without a word, without another glance, Pansy turned. Her legs moved on their own, carrying her swiftly through the shadowed corridors, the cold stone floor biting at her bare ankles beneath her gown. Her breaths came sharp and uneven, chest heaving. She could feel the heat of the stranger's brown gaze lingering at her back, but she couldn't stop. She had to disappear before the intoxication of the moment became more, before she let herself sink fully into something she wasn't ready to admit she wanted.
Her mind raced. She had kissed a girl. A girl she didn't know. A girl who hadn't even asked for permission. And she had liked it. Liked it more than anything she could remember. And she had thought of Granger during it.
She rounded a corner, heart hammering, chest tight, and pressed her back against the cool wall, hands trembling. The corridors stretched endlessly, dark and silent, and for a long moment, she just leaned there, trying to regain composure. The warmth of the kiss still lingered on her lips, a phantom ache she could not soothe.
Panic and exhilaration tangled in her chest, dizzying and overwhelming. She had crossed a line she had never dared approach. And now, alone in the moonlit corridors, she wondered if she had run too far to come back.
And yet, beneath the pounding panic, beneath the fear and self-reproach, a tiny spark of exhilaration remained. She had kissed someone she wanted. Someone she actually wanted.
Pansy put her hand against her knees. One question remained. Why in Merlin's name had she thought of Granger while she was kissing this stranger?
She let out a raspy laugh, but her stomach reminded her of the litre of champagne she had just drank. There was no way this bitch was the stranger anyway.
But before the opposite thought rose to her head, Pansy threw her mask on the ground, leaned towards the nearest window, opened it, and vomited.