Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Dear Granger, 

I hope this package finds you well. 

Your presence today at my trial was a welcomed surprise, I thank you for your candour on the stand. Until today, I was resigned to spend the rest of my days in Azkaban. I suppose I have you and Potter to thank for my freedom, I hope you’ll pass on my gratitude to him.

This package would have been sent to you regardless of the outcome of today, but I am eternally grateful to possess the freedom to write you personally, instead of having my mother send it in my stead. 

I know too well the torment Dark scars can leave in their wake, Granger. I’m forever haunted by my inaction on the day you received yours. You don’t deserve to live in pain, so I procured a remedy I wanted to share with you. Apply this paste generously to your forearm, wait four minutes and then drink the potion. If you’re hesitant about the contents of either one, I’m be happy to provide the ingredients list at your request.

To quote a brave witch I know, ‘the fight took everything from us, but only with an open mind and a forgiving heart, can we truly reclaim that which was stolen from us’. 

The path to forgiveness, at least for me, will surely be a long one. But I look forward to a day where I might earn yours, Granger.

D.M.  

P.S. The other item included in this package was found after the Manor was cleaned. I'm sorry it took so long to find its way back to you.

Chapter Text

July 17th 1998

HOGWARTS ANNOUNCES THE CONCORD: A NEW BEGINNING FOR EIGHTH YEAR STUDENTS

written by Alicia Spinnet

As Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry prepares to welcome students back this September, newly appointed Headmistress, Minerva McGonagall has announced a new initiative designed to support those most affected by the war.

The program, known as the Concord, will bring together all returning Eighth Year students in a single residential community, regardless of House affiliation.

When asked to comment on her decision, Headmistress McGonagall had this to say:

“For generations, Hogwarts students have lived, studied, and socialised within the familiar boundaries of Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. But the students returning for an elective Eighth Year are unlike any class before them. They have witnessed loss, fear, and sacrifice on a scale no child should ever know. The Concord seeks to recognise that shared trauma. The war did not distinguish between the houses, and neither should healing from it. 

All of our incoming eighth year students will be housed together in a newly refurbished wing of the castle: a former staff residence that had fallen into disrepair over the years. Restored throughout the summer, the residence now stands ready to welcome any student wishing to return to Hogwarts and complete the education that the war interrupted. The refurbished accommodation features communal study spaces, shared lounges, bathrooms and expanded pastoral support, creating an environment designed to foster both academic success and personal recovery."

Ministry officials and school governors have praised the initiative as an important step towards rebuilding trust and unity within Britain's young magical community.

Reconstruction efforts across Hogwarts continue at an impressive pace. Structural repairs have been completed in the majority of affected areas, and extensive safety reviews have confirmed the castle will be fully prepared to receive students this autumn.

In a significant endorsement of the initiative, Hogwarts has confirmed that Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and Ronald Weasley will all return to complete their education as members of the Concord this September. Their decision is expected to reassure many families who remain uncertain about returning to Hogwarts after last year's events.

For many families, we understand that the question has not been whether Hogwarts can be rebuilt. It has been whether its students can.

We at the Daily Prophet believe the Concord is Hogwarts' answer, and stand with the headmistress.

The war took enough.

It does not get to take their future too.

Chapter Text

3 months later

“Ronald! Give that back!”

Hermione broke into a run after him.

He didn’t slow.

Didn’t even look back.

Ron stormed down the library aisle and straight into the corridor beyond, her copy of Hogwarts: A History held hostage in his tight grasp. Hermione grabbed the rest of her things in a frantic blur, barely managing to shove them into her bag before sprinting after him.

“Ron!” she called, breath already thinning. “Where are you going?”

No answer.

They burst through the shadowed archway out of the library and into the corridor network beyond. Ron turned sharply, taking the stairs two at a time, his footsteps heavy and fast enough to echo off the stone.

Hermione followed, faster now, her shoes skidding slightly on the steps as she tried to keep up with the wicked game he’d initiated.

“Ron, stop!” she snapped.

Still nothing but the sound of his rough, breathing ahead of her.

She didn’t understand it, and couldn’t keep up with the sudden shift in demeanor. He’d been fine last night at dinner. She hadn’t seen him since then, had gone to bed early and woken before dawn to get to the library, determined to finish her Transfiguration essay. After completing it, she’d rewarded herself with some quiet reading time, some mental relaxation for her brain in a place she loved. 

When September had arrived, Hermione practically hurdled onto the train, and subsequently threw herself into her jam-packed timetable once they arrived, reclaiming lost lessons and missed chapters with relentless focus, determined to earn back the top marks that had once brought her such quiet pride. It was everything she had been craving since the war’s silence.

The castle itself wrapped around her like a warm, steady promise. One of healing and safety. A far cry from funerals. Memorials. And everything that had come before. 

The library, with its familiar scent of old parchment and leather, truly felt like coming home.

And Ron, it seemed, was hellbent on ruining it for her.

He’d arrived out of nowhere, snatching her favourite book from her hands without a word. 

Like that made sense.

Like any of it did.

He took the next flight of stairs without hesitation, down and down at a jog. It was already becoming too exhausting, and Hogwarts had far too many stairs for her liking.

She had to catch the railing to avoid falling as she followed, lungs tightening.

“Ron, please!”

“No!” he barked over his shoulder, sharp and clipped, like the word itself had teeth.

The sound startled her more than it should have.

Because this wasn’t just anger. It felt deep-rooted and directionless at the same time. Like he was running from something he didn’t fully understand either, but had decided she was to blame for it.

Or that her book was, rather. 

Her legs burned. Her breathing became uneven. She wasn’t used to running so much anymore. The last time they sprinted through Hogwarts, it had been toward a battle, together, not away from each other in anger. 

That stark difference sat sickeningly in her chest.

They hit the doors and spilled out into the Clocktower Courtyard.

Sunlight hit her all at once, altogether too bright. The rebuilt stone stretched wide and pale around them, everything so pristine, so new. She hadn’t been to this part of the castle yet. Not since it had been repaired. The fountain at the centre had been beautifully restored, as though nothing had ever burned or broken at all. Brand new wooden benches lined the courtyard in careful symmetry, while the Black Lake glittering beyond the pillars. 

This is exactly how it was before, she thought. Though it was impossible to forget what it had looked like after the battle. The smashed up fountain, the rubble, the death.

Ron kept striding across the new, unshattered flagstones, unbothered by the same memories that still haunted her.

“Stop running away with my book!” she demanded, voice cracking with exhaustion and disbelief. “Why are you being like this?”

He didn’t answer, he just kept moving.

Hermione’s frustration snapped into something sharper when it became painfully clear he had no intention of stopping. They’d likely end up trekking the Highlands if she didn’t intervene.

She halted her steps, pulling her wand free from her bag and pointing it directly at his back.

“Ron, I swear to—”

“Expelliarmus!”

The spell struck her wrist before she could even decide between Ginny’s Bat-Bogey Hex and a Body-Bind. Her wand flew from her grasp, arcing cleanly through the air towards Ron’s waiting hand. 

For a heartbeat, Hermione simply stared at her wand now clenched in his fist alongside her book, shock hollowing her chest. Her wand. He’d taken her wand from her. Stripped it away so casually it left her feeling suddenly, terrifyingly small.

The last time someone had taken her wand, she’d never seen it again. They’d escaped from the clutches of evil before she could think of getting it back.

Her new wand still felt unfamiliar in her hand.

It was powerful enough, a simple fir wand with a dragon heartstring core. Obedient when called upon, but it lacked the effortless certainty she had shared with her vine wood wand. This one didn't settle naturally into her grip. It felt borrowed, as though it were still deciding whether she belonged to it.

Perhaps she was biased.

She missed her old wand.

Still, it was infinitely preferable to the one she'd been forced to carry before it. That cold, malevolent, resentful thing that resented her touch. Because it had belonged to someone cruel, and carried that memory to its very core. She’d been glad to be rid of it.  

Her new wand was kind, if distant.

Perhaps it sensed her lingering attachment to the wand she'd lost. Perhaps it knew it was being compared to a ghost.

But no matter what her feelings were towards the wand, it was still hers. And Ron had no right to take it from her.

“You—” Her voice faltered. “How dare you?!”

Hermione surged forward, hands grasping for anything. Her book, her wand, some shred of proof he hadn’t completely lost his mind. Anything. 

“Give them back to me,” she demanded, her voice sharp and shaking, “right now!”

But he remained taller than her, and thus, her belongings remained completely out of reach.

“No!” he said, shoving off her attempts to climb him. “Do you realise what time it is?”

Hermione eyed the sun’s position. It must have been well past lunch time by now, meaning she’d taken the entire morning to finish her essay.

“After one?” she guessed.

“And do you remember what today is?”

Disbelief cut through her panic. 

“Do you?” she countered.

Hermione knew the answer. And, as was so often the case throughout their years at Hogwarts, she knew Ron wouldn't.

“Yes. We were meant to do an interview with The New York Ghost and The New Jersey Oracle this morning at eleven,” Ron said, indignant. “I’ve been owling them for over two months arranging these exclusives, and you missed them.”

Wrong. His answer was so wrong. Well, he was right about her missing the interview, but wrong about the significance of the day, just as she predicted he would be.

“I lost track of time.”

“Well, while you were busy reading, Harry and I did the interview without you. They weren’t happy, ‘Mione. They expected all three of us to be there. I can’t believe you’d do this.”

“I already told you I lost track of time, Ronald. I’m not going to grovel for forgiveness for missing one poxy interview.”

“It was two! And they were really important!”

“You say that about every interview you organise for us,” she shot back. “But tell me, what was actually so special about today, Ronald?”

One last chance. One more chance to answer correctly. 

“It was The New York Ghost and The New Jersey Oracle, Hermione!” he yelled with vitriol, as though repeating the names would mean more to her the second time.

Hermione shut her eyes, if only to escape from having to look Ron in the face, lest she punch him for once again answering wrong. She’d considered violence far too often lately, and it was causing resentment to fester in her chest like a sickness.

Ever since the war had ended, reporters had descended on them like vultures. Every paper, every magazine, desperate to get their version of the fight from the Golden Trio themselves. 

Ron had appointed himself their group liaison, offering to handle everything. Almost overnight, he became more organised than Hermione had ever known him to be; fielding owls, arranging appearances, and negotiating fees with seasoned reporters as though he'd been doing it for years.

It was difficult to reconcile the new version of Ron with the boy who had once stared helplessly at a blank roll of parchment, asking for help with the introduction to a History of Magic essay.

Apparently, drafting five coherent sentences required intervention. Negotiating interview payouts did not. It was the most effort Hermione had ever seen him put into anything that didn't involve Quidditch.

Rehashing the war was the last thing Hermione had wanted. Living through it once had been more than enough. The interviews dragged every memory back into the light. The loss, the fear, the pain, the blood. All of it splashed across front pages as if her nightmares didn’t have enough material to work with already.

She missed being just Hermione Granger. Not a symbol. Not a survivor. Not one third of the Golden Trio. Just Hermione.

If Harry hadn’t asked, hadn’t insisted it would help Ron, she would have refused outright to it all.

It’ll give him something to focus on besides Fred being gone.

Hermione understood that grief. Had seen what it had done to the Weasleys. 

Molly remained hollowed out by Fred’s death, Arthur unable to return to work. Ron never said his family was struggling, but she knew they were. The interviews paid well. Very well. Enough to rebuild the Burrow. Enough to give the family some semblance of stability while they healed.

So she agreed. She smiled for pictures. Politely answered the all-too-personal questions. Sat still while Ron did most of the talking. And accepted the overly-generous payments they insisted on gifting them for exclusive meetings.

The Burrow was repaired tenfold. New rooms were added and decorated. The cupboards were magically expanded after being fully stocked, and Molly’s allotments were flush with vegetables. There was more than enough money to last them years. The entire Weasley family would want for nothing ever again. 

Hermoine had been delighted at that, grateful even, that something good had come from what they were doing. She thought perhaps with the Weasley’s amply provided for, that the interviews could finally stop.

But Ron’s pride—which was already substantial after the first few international headlines—swelled and swelled until it eclipsed everything else. 

His insatiable hunger for fame had grown stronger than the wills of her and Harry combined. Fan mail had poured in for all three of them, and Ron used it as proof they had to stay in the public eye, that their fans deserved their time and attention. They couldn’t refuse him, not after all his hard work. 

Before long, nearly every day of August was booked solid. Appearances. Photos. Hogsmeade strolls with cameras trailing behind them. All organised by Ron. All decided without her and Harry, just a quick patronus or letter reminding them when and where to show up. 

Hermione had developed a visceral hatred for Quick-Quotes quills and camera flashes. She hoped returning to school would mean they would be free of the publicity for at least a school year. It had been foolish to think Ron had that much self-control. 

“Do you have anything to say?” he asked, holding her book behind him in case she pounced again. 

“I’ve had a lot going on lately, Ron,” Hermione explained, not that she owed him any explanation today of all days. “I needed to take this weekend to study.”

She didn’t add what she really meant. That it was her life, her Saturday. That she wanted to spend it in peace, doing what she wanted for a change.

The routine that came with being back at school steadied her in a way nothing else could, not even Ron or Harry. Especially not the Burrow, which had become suffocating in its stillness. She had nearly apparated to Diagon Alley on the spot when their Hogwarts letters arrived.

“Those reporters portkeyed across the Pacific Ocean for us, Hermione.” Ron snapped. “And instead of showing up, you were busy reading a book you’ve read a thousand times already!”

“Seriously?” she scoffed. “You were angry that I was reading?”

“When you miss two interviews, yes! The least you could’ve done was show up for the photos.”

“The least I could’ve done?” Her voice sharpened. “I think helping to win a war counts for quite a lot, actually. Sue me for spending a few minutes of my life reading my book.”

“But we had an appointment, ‘Mione, and you said you’d be there—”

“Well maybe I don’t want to do the fucking interviews anymore! Did you consider that?”

The words left her in a rush, months of restraint collapsing into a single exhausted truth.

“What?”

She inhaled deeply, composing herself from the outburst, her eyes flicking to her beloved book still in his hands. She had to reconcile somehow, she had to get her stuff back from him. 

“I’m sorry. I’m just so tired of all the attention, Ron. I think I might be done with it.”

“Done?” he repeated, as though she’d spoken a foreign language.

“Yes,” she gritted out. “I’m done capitalising on what happened to us.”

“Capitalising?”

It was like talking to a brick wall.

“I’m not defining the word for you,” she sighed, momentarily shutting her eyes so she didn’t have to look at his infuriatingly puzzled expression. “I’m too exhausted from chasing after you.”

Ron opened his mouth, but she was already dragging a hand through her hair, fighting the urge to scream. This conversation had been going in circles for far too long, and she was rapidly losing patience.

“Come on, just give me back my things,” she sighed, stepping forward. 

She reached out her hands for them, only for Ron to step back and lift both even higher out of reach.

“Ron,” she warned, clenching her fists, ignoring the familiar twinge in her left arm.

Six months ago she would have summoned her belongings wandlessly without a second thought. Now the magic remained frustratingly out of reach, her body refusing to cooperate no matter how badly she wanted it to.

“I know what capitalising means,” Ron said defensively. “And that's not what we're doing.”

“Really?”

“No. We're telling people what happened.” His ears reddened. “Merlin, Hermione, half the wizarding world spent a year believing Harry was a liar. The other half thinks we marched into Hogwarts and won the war by ourselves. People have questions.”

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Which we’ve been paid to answer a hundred times over!”

“People lost family in that battle. I lost family in that battle. People want to understand what happened, what their loved ones died for. And if someone wants to pay us for telling the truth, I don't see what's wrong with that.”

Hermione let out a slow breath through her nose.

There it was.

The part he couldn't see.

At least Harry understood. They'd spoken about it often enough when no one else was around. Neither of them had wanted this from the beginning.

During the interviews, Harry carried himself with quiet resignation, always redirecting praise, naming the dead, reminding people that victory had belonged to far more than the three faces splashed across newspaper covers.

Hermione endured it the only way she knew how: clinically. Factually. She stripped every trace of emotion from her answers because she knew the moment she allowed herself to feel any of it, she would crack.

Ron, meanwhile, came alive under the attention. 

He always spoke animatedly about the Horcrux hunt, their victories, and narrow escapes, smiling as though the war had been a daring adventure rather than something that still haunted their sleep. Every appearance, every interview, every Prophet cover only seemed to energise him further.

It was sickening that he could be so happy talking about the war, when it evoked such terror in her. 

Sometimes, when the cameras stopped clicking, she had to disappear into a forgotten corner of the library and sit beneath a Silencing Charm until the panic passed. Other times she didn't make it that far, locking herself in a bathroom and retching into the bowl until her throat burned.

She was tired. Tired of being paraded in the public eye. She was fed up with the Gringotts' owls informing her of hefty direct deposits sent from international newspapers. Exhausted by the cheering crowds proclaiming them heroes. Sickened by restaurants inviting them for complimentary dining.

She didn't want reward money, or fans, or free food.

Survival had been reward enough.

“You're not listening to me. I'm through with the interviews. Enough is enough.”

“Is this about what I said to the French reporters last Saturday?” Ron asked. 

“No,” she lied. “It's not about that.”

Not entirely.

But it certainly hadn't helped.

Last weekend, in front of two representatives from L'Observateur, Ron had casually referred to her as his fiancée.

The cameras had loved it.

Hermione had not.

At least it had been a French newspaper. At least the story hadn't landed on the front page of the Daily Prophet, complete with moving photographs and speculative wedding dates. Small mercies.

She had fled before the interview was over, locking herself in a bathroom and layering Disillusionment and Silencing Charms over the stall until nobody could find her. She'd cried so hard her head had pounded for the rest of the weekend.

And somehow, Ron still seemed baffled by her adverse reaction.

“Because I thought you’d be happy. They deserved to hear something hopeful,” Ron said, his expression softening. “Something good.”

Hermione laughed. A short, brittle sound.

“But it wasn’t true!”

The “proposal” had come back in June, after a long and exhausting day at the Ministry.

There had been no ring. No speech. No real moment of occasion. Just Ron stopping her on the landing outside the bathroom after her shower, as though it were the most natural place in the world to change her life.

He had said, quite simply, that they should get married. As if it were the next logical step. As if it required no discussion beyond his decision to voice it aloud.

Hermione had been so stunned she almost laughed.

Not because it was funny—though it bordered on hilarious—but because she genuinely had no idea what could have prompted him to think that was how any of this worked.

She had not said yes.

She had not said no, either.

She had simply stared at him for a long moment, thanked him for telling her, and said she wanted to finish school before making any decisions of such magnitude.

Then she had gone to dry her hair.

“Come on, Hermione. We both know where this is headed. Why not tell them early?”

“Because we aren’t engaged, Ron. I haven’t formally agreed to marry you.”

Ron rolled his eyes, as though her consent was an unnecessary formality. Typical. 

“If this is about me not getting you a ring yet,” Ron said, throwing his free hand into the air. “I will.”

“That's not the point, Ron! The point is, we aren’t engaged, and I don’t want to talk to the press anymore.”

“Actually, the real point is that whenever I want to spend time with you, or need you to be somewhere important, you're somewhere else.” His voice rose. “You're in the library. You're studying. You're locked in your room. You skip game nights. You skip dinners. Half the time I don't even know where you are.”

“I'm at school, Ron. We both are.”

“Exactly!” he shot back. “We're finally back at Hogwarts, living two doors apart, and yet I barely see you! You say you want to move forward, but how are we supposed to do that when you spend every waking minute burying yourself in books?”

“I am not burying myself in books.”

“Then what would you call it?”

“I call it studying, Ron.”

“Yeah? Well, I call it selfish.”

The accusation landed like a slap.

Ron pressed on before she could respond.

“You don't come to Hogsmeade. You don't come to dinners. You don't come to game nights. Everyone misses you, Hermione. Not just me.”

His grip tightened around her book.

“Honestly, sometimes it feels like you've decided there's no room in your life for anything except studying.”

The unfairness of it stole her breath.

As though she were the one dragging them to interviews every weekend.

As though she were choosing publicity over peace.

As though wanting a few quiet hours in a library after surviving a war was some sort of personal betrayal.

“I’m trying to make the most of being back here,” Hermione said, her voice tight. “There’s so much left to learn here.”

“‘Mione, you’re the Brightest Witch of Our Age,,” Ron said. “Surely you know everything worth knowing already?”

“Not by a longshot,” she snapped sharply. “And if I want to get a good job when this year is over, I’m going to have to work hard for it.”

“You’ve got an Order of Merlin, First Class,” Ron scoffed. “You could get a job anywhere you want with that.”

Maybe that should have hurt.

Instead, it just felt like another thing he didn’t understand.

And it made something inside her finally snap.

“So that's it, then?” she demanded. “You think I should just stop trying because I have a golden ticket?”

Ron blinked.

“That's not what I—”

“Because that's what you're saying.” Her voice rose despite herself. “You’re saying I don't need to study. I don't need to learn anything else. I don't need to put in any effort because the Minister for Magic gave me an Order of fucking Merlin?!”

“Hermione—”

“Do you even know me at all?”

The words cracked out of her before she could stop them.

Her heart was pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat. The fingers of her right hand tingled with adrenaline, opening and closing uselessly at her side. A cool breeze swept across the hillside, tugging at her hair, but it did nothing to stop the sweat clinging to the back of her neck.

They were getting nowhere.

Round and round in circles.

She wanted to scream. Or cry. Or apparate somewhere far away and never have this conversation again.

But not without her belongings.

“After everything,” she continued, stepping toward him, “do you honestly think I'm the sort of person who accepts things she hasn't earned?”

Ron stared back stubbornly. 

“I don't work hard because I need a line on my CV. I don't study because I'm worried someone will forget who Hermione Granger is.” Her voice shook. “I do it because I love learning. I always have. That's who I am.”

“What's insulting,” Ron shot back, jabbing her wand and book in her direction, “is you making extra work for yourself when you could be spending time with me.”

Hermione laughed once.

A short, disbelieving sound.

“Extra work?”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, Ron, I don't think I do.”

Her pulse hammered harder.

“We're at school.”

“Harry and Ginny seem to be doing just fine.”

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut. Of course he would say that.

Ginny wasn’t spending every weekend reliving the worst year of their lives for strangers. 

Harry and Ginny also respected each other.

The thought slipped in before she could stop it.

“The only one creating extra work for me around here is you. Between the interviews, the photographs, and being dragged in front of reporters every five minutes, I hardly have a moment to myself. And now this? This pathetic little game you've started with my belongings? It's so unbelievably childish I could scream. And honestly? If I decide to marry you, which is seeming increasingly unlikely the longer this conversation goes on, we'll have the rest of our lives to spend together. So forgive me for wanting to spend these last few months at Hogwarts. Forgive me for wanting to enjoy the one place that still feels like home. Because unlike you, I don't have another one waiting for me when I leave. You know that. You may have lost Fred, but you also know what I lost. So stop acting like wanting a few hours to myself is some personal attack against you. Now give me back my wand. Give me back my book. And stop making everything about you.”

She snatched her hand out for her book, but Ron immediately lifted it higher.

Stepping forward again, she extended her hand.

“Ron.”

“No.”

“Ron.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m fed up with coming in second, ‘Mione. First to Harry, and now to your stupid books.”

He was still on this? He truly still believed that something had been going on with her and Harry during the Horcrux hunt? Even after everything that happened after?

She took another step toward him, and he backed into one of the stone alcoves overlooking the Scottish valley. Sunlight poured in through the opening behind him, like a portal to another world.

Hermione's stomach dropped, knowing just how sheer the drop was just beyond the pillars.

Ron's grip wasn't loose, but it didn't matter. He was careless when he was angry. Always had been.

“What would you rather have, ‘Mione?” he asked coldly. “Me or the book?”

For a moment Hermione genuinely couldn't believe what she was hearing.

“You’re being childish—”

“Answer the question.”

Her eyes flicked again to the opening behind him, to the book dangling over empty air.

Hundreds of feet below, jagged rocks waited.

Hermione's breath caught at the prospect of losing it.

She could still remember the day she received it. Her father's bewildered smile. Her mother's excitement as they wandered through Flourish and Blotts together. The way she'd clutched the giant book to her chest all the way home, convinced she'd never own anything more precious.

Her parents remembered nothing of that day now.

Not the bookshop.

Not Hogwarts.

Not her.

The book was the only part of that day that remained intact.  

Ron followed her gaze, and his expression darkened.

“This stupid book really means that much to you?”

Hermione swallowed hard, her chest tightening painfully. 

The answer came so quickly it hurt.

“Yes,” she breathed.

More than he understood.

More than anyone understood.

Because it wasn't just a book.

It was one of the few things left that still felt like hers.

Every conversation lately ended the same way. Someone wanted something from her.

A photograph.

A signature.

A story.

A piece of her grief.

A piece of her time.

A piece of herself.

And she was so tired of giving.

Tired of people taking things from her. 

Her childhood. 

Her innocence. 

Her privacy. 

Her future. 

Her book.

Her wand.

Her life.

“What?” Ron asked, malice and disbelief plastered on his face. 

“That book means more to me than anything in this entire world,” she said, tears burning hot behind her eyes. “More than anyone. Including you.”

The words landed like a curse.

Ron flinched.

Then his face hardened.

Slowly, deliberately, he looked down at the book in his hand with visceral disgust.

Hermione's stomach dropped.

No.

No, he wouldn't—

She saw the decision happen.

Saw his jaw tighten.

Saw his wrist draw back.

“Ron.”

For one terrible second, she thought he might listen.

Then he turned toward the opening.

“RON—”

The book left his hand.

Time shattered.

The worn cover flashed once in the sunlight.

Then twice.

And then it was falling.

Spiralling end over end.

Getting smaller.

Smaller.

Smaller.

Until it was completely out of sight.

The first book her parents had ever given her.

The last object she owned that still carried a memory they no longer possessed.

Gone.

Hermione's scream tore itself from somewhere deep inside her chest.

Not a shout of anger, but something raw. The sound of something breaking.

Before she even realised what she was doing, she lunged forward.

Toward the opening.

Toward the drop.

Toward the last piece of them disappearing into the abyss.

Ron’s reflexes weren’t Harry’s, but they were fast enough.

He lunged forward and caught her around the waist, hauling her back to be flush against his chest just as she reached toward the opening. Hermione screamed, stretching helplessly for yet another piece of herself that had just been ripped away.

She fought him like something feral—clawing, twisting, elbows driving back blindly, she strained toward the open archway. Ron tightened his grip, fingers scrabbling desperately at her clothes as she bucked and kicked. Fabric tore beneath his hands. Her cardigan slipped down her arms, tangling around her elbows, turning her own clothes into restraints.

“Hermione, what are you doing?! Stop! No!” Ron shouted, panic edging his voice.

“LET ME GO!” she screamed, fingers latching onto the stone arch. She clung to it with everything she had, nails scraping painfully against the cold rock. 

The harder he tried to hold her back, the more violently she fought.

His arms were suddenly everywhere. Across her chest. Around her waist. Pinning her elbows to her sides. Every breath felt smaller than the last.

Panic detonated inside her.

She couldn't move.

Couldn't breathe.

Couldn't get away.

A strangled scream tore from her throat as she thrashed against him. She kicked blindly, heels scraping stone. Her nails clawed at his forearms. When that failed, she twisted her head and snapped her teeth at whatever part of him she could reach.

She didn't care if she hurt him.

She just needed him off.

Off.

OFF.

The pressure of his grip felt unbearable, crushing her in on herself, squeezing the air from her lungs. Her vision blurred. The courtyard vanished behind a haze of tears and terror.

Ron was saying something.

Pleading. 

Arguing. 

Apologising.

The ringing in her ears swallowed every word.

Her own heartbeat thundered through her skull, frantic and deafening.

Some distant, rational part of her knew he wouldn't let her jump after the book.

The book was gone.

She wasn't.

That should have mattered.

But all she could think about was the fact that she was trapped.

Held too tight, unable to escape.

The violation of it made her scream more.

But then the grief found her.

It struck with such brute force that it stole the air from her lungs.

Everything holding her upright seemed to dissolve at once.

Hermione sagged in Ron’s arms, boneless and trembling, as grief crashed over her in relentless waves. It was too heavy to fight, too deep to outrun.

The book was gone. 

It felt like losing a piece of her soul.

It felt like losing her parents all over again.

Ron finally loosened his grip, and Hermione tore herself from his arms as best she could, stumbling only a step before collapsing onto the stone.

Her knees struck first, then her hands.

Pain flared briefly before being swallowed whole by something far worse.

Sobs ripped from her chest as she folded over herself, fingers scraping uselessly against the flagstones. Her entire body shook with the force of it. She dry-heaved, struggling to breathe through the devastation crushing her ribs.

The book was gone.

Her book.

The first magical book her parents had bought for her.

And Ron had thrown it away like it meant nothing.

The thought hit her anew and she let out a broken sound somewhere between a sob and a scream.

Movement behind her had the sound halting in her throat.

Ron.

Hermione immediately began dragging herself away from him, palms slipping against the stone as she crawled forward. She didn't know where she was trying to go. Only that she needed distance. Needed him away from her.

Away.

Away.

Away.

“Hermione—”

His voice made her flinch.

Ron crouched beside her and reached for her shoulder.

She twisted violently away, shoving at him with what little strength she had left.

Don't touch me.

The words wouldn't come out.

They lodged somewhere behind the sobs tearing through her throat.

There was no comfort left in him.

Not anymore.

Only grief.

Only betrayal.

Only the sick, burning hatred curdling in her stomach every time she pictured her book disappearing over the edge, and his malicious face as he stole yet another piece of her.

How could he ruin so much yet care so little about it?

Still he followed.

Still he reached for her.

Hermione's breath caught, realising where his hands were going.

“No, wait, don't—”

Panic surged through her as she scrambled backwards, but the warning came a second too late.

His fingers closed around her forearms.

Everything stopped.

The sound that tore from Hermione's throat was raw and piercing, loud enough to hurt her own ears.

Ron recoiled instantly.

Too late.

Far, far too late.

The world shattered.

Hermione’s vision blurred at the edges. The present slipped away as she was thrown headlong into the darkness living beneath her skin. Pain detonated through her veins, hot and burning as a familiar magic pinned her to the freezing cold stone of the Clocktower Courtyard. 

Only she was no longer in the courtyard. 

No longer at Hogwarts.

Hermione was pinned to the drawing room floor of Malfoy Manor, trembling beneath her. 

Bellatrix Lestrange. 

No. 

“Please, I don’t want to be here again,” Hermione pleaded.

The witch’s breath came hot and sour against Hermione’s face, each cackle thick with something rancid and wrong. The scent of her spoiled perfume and sweat clogged her nose. Long, greasy curls dragged across Hermione’s cheek as Bellatrix moved, each strand scratching like wire. 

Hermione whimpered. 

Bellatrix sounded pleased by the sound.

Then came the pain.

The knife burned as it carved into her arm, dragging through skin and muscle with deliberate cruelty, deeper and deeper until it felt as if it was injecting fire from hell directly into her bloodstream.

A scream tore out of her before she could stop it, swallowed instantly by the damp, suffocating air of the room.

Agony split through her again and again in relentless waves, each one worse than the last, as though the carving of each letter was practice for how to hurt her more effectively.

“Please—”

The word broke apart immediately.

“Stop—please—”

But Bellatrix only laughed softly, her breath still warm against Hermione’s skin, her acrid presence like poison.

There was no mercy in her eyes.

Only delight.

“Kill me,” she sobbed through clenched teeth. “Please. I can’t do this again. Just kill me.”

And then came the torture. 

Crucio.

Crucio. 

Crucio. 

Her muscles locked, fists clenched so tightly her nails cut into her palms. Her body bowed under the strain, every nerve screaming as she convulsed.

When will it end? Where was the salvation that came before?

Panic surged, sharp and disorienting, threatening to drag her under again. But even through it, she searched for something solid to hold onto.

It’s the scar, a voice called out. Her own voice, steady where everything else was not. 

It’s not real, she told herself. You’re not back there. You’re not in the drawing room. You’re in the Clocktower Courtyard, and you were arguing with Ron. This is just the curse forcing you to relive the pain. Fight it, Hermione.

The words could not erase the agony, but they gave it shape. Slowly, stubbornly, she clawed back toward herself, dragging her consciousness through the fractures of the memory until the present began to reassert itself.

She had done this before. She knew how it worked. Knew how to fight it. 

The torture was not real, no matter how convincingly her body tried to believe otherwise.

There was no Bellatrix. No knife. No curse being carved into her skin. Only stone beneath her body and sunlight she could not quite feel anymore.

It’s just the curse, she reminded herself firmly, pushing through the panic as though it were something she could reason with. 

And then, at last, it began to loosen.

The curse’s grip faltered, as though whatever force held her had finally started to lose its hold. The torment mercifully receded like something dragged back beneath deep water, slipping further and further out of reach.

Sound returned to her first. The faint but steady rush of running water.

The fountain.

She was in the Clocktower Courtyard.

Safe. 

The steady, unhurried spill of water soothed the raw edges of her mind, each measured sound drawing her further back into the present the longer she lay there. 

Hermione stayed where she was, her body trembling violently, breath uneven and harsh, but no longer lost inside a nightmare. The worst of it had passed. 

Three.

That marked the third time the curse had taken her hostage.

Four, if she counted the night it had first been carved into her skin.

At Shell Cottage, after their escape from Malfoy Manor, Hermione had bathed alone beneath a heavy Silencing Charm. She hadn’t trusted herself not to break apart at the sight of her injuries. The tears fell freely as warm water loosened weeks of dirt, blood, and exhaustion she had stopped fully registering.

It should have felt like a relief to wash the blood off. 

Instead, it had waited for her to touch it.

The moment she pressed the sponge against her bloodied arm, something inside the mark seemed to recognise her.

The world had snapped away so violently it felt deliberate, as though something had been pulled out from under her mind. One moment she was in the bath, the next she was back in the drawing room, trapped beneath the knife and the laughter. The pain had not simply returned; it had replayed, precise and exact, as if it had been waiting for the chance to have a second go at hurting her.

When Hermione came back to herself, the bath water was cold and still.

After that, she understood what exactly Bellatrix had truly done to her.

Not just a wound, but also a trigger.

The second time, she tested it deliberately, because fear of the uncertain was unbearable. She needed to know what would wake it, so she could avoid it, so she could contain it, so she could learn to outsmart it.

The third time broke that illusion.

That was when she learned it was not passive.

It responded to pressure like memory made flesh. Gentle contact was ignored, tolerated out of indifference. But anything firmer, such as impact or deliberate pressure, was answered with violence. 

Healing spells provoked, not soothed. Attempts to extract the dark magic only drove it deeper, as though it had decided it belonged there. Inside her.

Hermione never told anyone. Not Ron. Not Harry. Just before they rescued her at the Manor, she had hidden it beneath her sleeve. They were so relieved to find her, convinced she had only suffered the Cruciatus Curse because she had not mentioned any physical injury.

It had been a lie.

Not out of deception, but necessity. Hermione couldn’t bear the thought of them carrying the guilt of arriving too late. They didn’t need to know the burden she would have to wear forever. She could carry it herself.

Part of her wished Ron knew about the curse.

Ron, who had spoken to countless papers about her rescue, as though he fully understood what had happened in that drawing room.

She had been rescued, yes. She knew that. She would always know that.

But before Ron and Harry had reached her, someone else had tried to.

Someone had been present for the worst of it and refused to let her believe she was alone in her suffering. That same someone had done everything possible to remind her she remained strong enough to survive it. 

And it certainly had not been Ron.

As the trickling water continued to fall, her breath hitched as the pain ebbed, leaving her trembling and hollow. Slowly, Hermione blinked up at the pale blue sky stretching above the courtyard. The water continued to flow freely, and she let it anchor her there while her shaking fingers idly traced over the rough granite beneath her palms.

A flash of blue cut across her vision, sharp and sudden, and Hermione’s head lolled to the side before she could stop it, just in time to see the spell meet its intended target.

Ron hit the stones beside her and went rigid at once, locked mid-motion in a Body-Bind. Even paralysed, his expression was still tight with irritation.

Something dark and bitter twisted in her chest at the sight of him like that. A small, ugly part of her had wanted it to hurt when he fell. To leave him aching. To make him understand, even briefly, what it felt like to be knocked breathless by something you did not see coming.

Merlin knew her own body would ache for days after this. She could already feel it settling into her bones. But that pain felt almost easier than the hollow, furious grief he’d caused by throwing her book off the cliff.

On her birthday of all days.

Footsteps broke across the courtyard, quick and closing in.

Hermione tensed at once, shoulders locking as she braced herself, instinctively expecting hands again. Another touch, another restraint she would have to fight off.

“Merlin fuck! Granger?! Fucking hell, are you alright?”

The urgent voice cut through the air, concern laced with caring. 

Familiar, too, but not in the way Hermione expected.

She tore her gaze away from Ron and found, instead, the wide, unsettled green eyes of Pansy Parkinson.

Chapter Text

Hermione Granger was rarely rendered speechless.

Yet watching her former rival hex Ron Weasley in what appeared to be a swift, decisive rescue attempt had left her utterly bereft of words.

“Granger? Granger, can you hear me?”

Pansy Parkinson was crouched in front of her, wand still raised, dark eyes searching Hermione's face. A crease had formed between her brows. A look of genuine concern that only deepened when Hermione failed to answer.

Hermione simply stared.

Pansy Parkinson was the last person on earth she would have expected to come to her aid.

The silence stretched between them. As Pansy's concern edged towards alarm, Hermione's initial shock began to give way to something more analytical.

What, exactly, must this scene have looked like to an outside observer?

She tried to picture it from another angle: Hermione dishevelled and shaking on the ground, with Ron looking incredibly culpable for all of it. It couldn’t have looked good. If Pansy had felt compelled to intervene, things must have looked far worse than Hermione realised.

The absurdity increased when Pansy slowly lifted both hands, palms open and visible.

Hermione recognised the gesture instantly. Had seen it after the battle, amid chaos and curses when victims of assault by Death Eaters were approached by the healers. 

A promise of no harm.

Why on earth was Pansy offering that to her?

Hermione pushed herself up onto her elbows and, for the first time, saw what Pansy must have seen.

Her cardigan was gone. She had no idea where. Both palms were scraped raw, streaked with blood and dirt. Several buttons had been torn from her shirt, leaving the fabric hanging open enough to expose the white lace of her bra beneath.

To anyone stumbling across the scene, it looked unmistakably like an assault.

In truth, it had been.

Miraculously, the buttons at her cuffs remained fastened, concealing her forearms, where no doubt bruises were forming around the scar. At least she wouldn't have to explain that.

“Granger?” Pansy's voice had softened considerably. “Can you hear me?”

Hermione managed a small nod.

“Good.” Pansy lowered her wand. “Are you hurt?”

Hermione opened her mouth, but no sound emerged.

“Actually, no, you don't have to answer that,” Pansy said quickly. “Will you let me take you to the Hospital Wing?”

Gratitude surged through Hermione so suddenly it almost hurt. She nodded.

Relief flashed across Pansy's face as she shrugged off her oversized blazer. With a quick flick of her wand, the dark fabric rippled and expanded, seams dissolving and reforming in the space of a heartbeat until it became a thin blanket of the same colour and material.

Something in Hermione's chest loosened at the attention to detail, at the care woven through every one of Pansy's actions.

Pansy glanced at the blanket in her hands.

“Is it alright if I put this around your shoulders?”

Hermione nodded immediately.

Only then did Pansy drape it around her, careful not to startle her, careful not to touch more than necessary. The warmth settled around Hermione like armour. It concealed the torn front of her shirt immediately. More than that, it created a barrier between them that spared Hermione from being touched directly, while still keeping her covered.

“Alright,” Pansy said softly. “Let's get you up. Can I help you stand?”

Another nod.

Even free of Ron's grip, Hermione flinched at phantom pressure on her forearm. Her heart thundered violently, Bellatrix's knife flashing behind her eyes every time she blinked. She'd expected the dissociation, the trembling, the hollowed-out feeling that usually followed the curse's brutal replay.

She hadn't expected to need Pansy Parkinson just to remain standing.

She wondered dimly if she'd be mocked for it later.

A small, broken sob escaped her chest.

Pansy's expression softened further.

“I've got you, Granger,” she murmured. “You'll be alright. You're not alone. I'm here.”

The words struck harder than any spell.

Hermione planted a trembling hand against the ground and attempted to stand. The moment she rose, her legs threatened to buckle beneath her. Every muscle felt weak and unsteady, the aftermath of the seizure still coursing through her body like residual electricity.

She swayed.

“Can I put my arm around your waist?”

Hermione's eyes burned, but she nodded.

“And your hand? Can I hold it?”

Hermione nodded again, grateful beyond words that she was being asked for such a simple thing.

One arm settled around Hermione's waist over the blanket while her other hand took Hermione's, careful of the cuts on her palm. The hold was firm, steady, and utterly safe. Pansy bore most of her weight while somehow letting Hermione feel as though she was standing on her own.

Hermione lifted her eyes to the witch’s. She wasn’t entirely sure what she was asking for. More time, more patience, more of this impossible kindness, perhaps. Whatever it was, she must have communicated it, because Pansy’s expression softened at once, and her hand gave Hermione’s a single, steady squeeze.

“I’ve got you,” she said quietly.

Hermione squeezed back.

“Do you want me to keep holding your hand?”

Her throat tightened. She answered with two small squeezes and a nod.

“Okay,” Pansy murmured. “I’ve got you. You’re alright.”

They turned slowly toward the castle.

Before they took another step, Pansy lifted her wand. “Accio.”

A wand flew neatly into her hand. She caught it against her own wand and pocketed both without breaking her hold on Hermione.

Her fingers squeezed twice again. 

“Don’t worry, Granger,” she said softly. “I’ll give it back once we get you to Pomfrey.”

* * *

For a Saturday, the Hospital Wing was unusually crowded, and the Hospital Wing was in desperate need of a freshening charm.

Judging by the smell alone, something truly putrid had exploded somewhere. Three third-year girls sat huddled together on a cot, damp hair plastered to their cheeks, medical gowns ballooning them as they sulked in miserable silence. Hermione wondered what could have warranted such an aggressive cleansing spell. 

That was, until she spotted the culprits.

Two fourth-year boys sat cross-legged on the opposite side of the room, hair standing on end in every possible direction, soot smeared across their faces like war paint. Their singed uniforms lay in a heap beside them, still faintly smoking. The lingering scent of burnt hair hung thick in the air. 

One of the girls spotted them first, her shocked gasp as she covered her mouth had every other head snapping toward the doors at once.

Each student stared openly, shock and disbelief rippling across their faces. Hermione found she couldn’t summon the energy to care. Not about the blood on her hands. Not about her torn shirt or exposed bra. Not even when one girl whispered her name and promptly burst into tears.

Lilliana Kaye.

Hermione registered it distantly. It wasn’t as though she could comfort the girl, not after what had happened in the courtyard. Hermione made a vague mental note to reassure her later.

“Avert your eyes, witchlings,” Pansy snapped. “Have some tact.”

They flinched and immediately obeyed. 

Hermione felt the reassuring squeeze against her hand. Once. Twice. 

“Just ignore them,” she murmured, guiding Hermione forward. “Stick with me. Come on.”

Gone was the girl who had once called her names and shoulder-bumped her in corridors. In her place stood someone who bared her teeth at gawking third-years without hesitation.

Still vicious. Just not toward her.

For now.

Madame Pomfrey emerged from behind a privacy screen, arms laden with goop-soaked robes, exhaustion etched deep into her features. But the moment her eyes landed on Hermione, her face drained of colour.

Her gaze immediately snapped to Pansy, and rage boiled in her eyes.

“Miss Parkinson,” she demanded sharply, “what on earth have you done?”

Pansy scoffed, steering Hermione past her toward an empty bed at the far end of the wing.

“Rein in that prejudice, Pomfrey. It’s rather unbecoming.”

“I beg your pardon?” Pomfrey spluttered, aghast, as they swept past.

Pansy lowered Hermione onto the cot. Hermione let out a shaky breath and managed a grateful smile, which Pansy returned without hesitation.

Madame Pomfrey was beside them in an instant, murmuring a wandless diagnostic while shooting Pansy a deeply suspicious look.

Pansy responded with an exaggerated groan and an eye-roll worthy of theatre. “It’s highly improbable that I’d bring Granger here if I were the one who caused this, don’t you think?”

The realisation left Pomfrey momentarily speechless, mouth working itself open and closed like a fish.

With deft efficiency, Pansy summoned several privacy screens from across the ward, snapping them into place around the three of them with a combination of wandless and wordless magic. 

“We’ll need warm water, some cloth, dittany, pain relief, a calming draught, and some spare clothes,” Pansy said briskly. She set Hermione’s wand on the bedside table, giving her a small, deliberate nod.

A promise kept to return it to her.

By the time Hermione had finally divested herself of the wonderful blanket Pansy had transfigured for her, Pomfrey slipped back through the screens with a basin and tray.

“Miss Parkinson, step aside. I’ll attend Miss Granger.”

Pansy didn’t move.

“No,” she said coolly. “I will. Thank you.”

She waved Pomfrey off as though dismissing an inconvenience. Pomfrey’s mouth fell open.

A retort hovered on the healer’s tongue—then faded as she took in Hermione’s trembling frame. Pomfrey’s brows lifted, silently asking.

Hermione nodded.

With a final, disapproving sniff, Pomfrey retreated, promising to return with whatever clothes she could find in the back.

Hermione rubbed her jaw and shot Pansy a reproachful look.

Pansy lifted a brow, unimpressed. “What? She started it.”

She pressed an unstoppered calming draught into Hermione’s shaking hands. 

Hermione drank. The chamomile reminded her of her mother’s tea, though the potion worked far faster. Her heart slowed, serenity settling over her like a soft blanket. She handed the phial back without protest and accepted the next, grimacing at its bark-like bitterness.

Minutes passed in peaceful silence.

Hermione watched Pansy work with precise, practiced movements, checking in on her wordlessly every so often. One squeeze of the hand, a brief glance, a silent question.

Are you still with me?

Neither commented on the absurdity of it all. On how different this was from every other interaction they’d ever had at school.

Somewhere between the check-ins, the gentle grounding touches, and Pansy’s steady reassurances, Hermione realised she was no longer looking at the girl she remembered from Hogwarts. Or perhaps this was who Pansy truly was, she’d just never gotten the chance to properly know her. 

“Thank you, Pansy,” she finally whispered.

Pansy let out a quiet sigh, a gentle smile lifting her cheeks.

“You don’t need to thank me,” she said softly, dabbing carefully at the abrasions on Hermione’s skin. Then, after a pause, a little more evenly, she said, “Although, if you decide you want revenge for what he did to you… Well, I’d be happy to help you get it.”

Hermione blinked at her. How much had she seen of what happened? Had she seen him throwing her book? 

“Why would you do that for me?”

Pansy didn’t look up as she worked, her voice steady. “Men have a habit of taking things that don’t belong to them. Things we never offer.” She swallowed hard. “I promised myself I’d never allow that again. Not to me … and not to anyone else, if I could help it.”

Something in Hermione went still.

Understanding seeped in slowly, like the feeling returning to a numb limb. And when it did, it stole the air clean from her lungs. Her throat tightening around questions she didn’t dare give voice to. Didn’t feel she had the right to.

And then she saw the shadows behind Pansy's eyes.

Not for the first time, perhaps. Just for the first time that she understood them.

Pansy's expression remained composed, her hands steady as she worked, but her eyes betrayed her. There was a darkness there that Hermione was certain hadn't existed during their school years. Not before the war. 

In their former school years, Pansy Parkinson had always been immaculate. Rain could be hammering sideways across the Quidditch pitch and not a hair would be out of place. Her uniform had always been pressed, her nails perfect, her make-up flawless. She'd carried herself like a queen among subjects and struck like a viper at anyone who ventured too close.

She still possessed the viciousness, but it was different now. Muted. And save for a trace of winged eyeliner, her face was almost completely bare.

Freckles dusted her nose and cheeks. Hermione had never noticed them before. Perhaps she'd hidden them beneath foundation and blemish charms. Or perhaps Hermione had simply never looked closely enough.

Pansy looked younger without all the cosmetic armour, and yet at the same time, looked older, too.

Hermione recognised the shadows in her eyes.

They were the same shadows she saw in the mirror every morning.

“Pansy,” Hermione said gently, “Ron didn’t—he wasn’t trying to...” She faltered. “He hurt me today. But not like that.”

Hermione's stomach immediately twisted regret for her choice of words. 

Why had her first instinct been to defend Ron?

Why had she said it like that? As though he hadn’t hurt her when he unequivocally had?

Pansy inhaled slowly.

“Oh.”

The single syllable carried more weight than it should have.

Something shuttered behind Pansy’s eyes, closed itself off with a slam. Pansy lowered her gaze and resumed her work, cleaning away the last traces of blood before applying dittany. A wordless Ferula followed, bandages wrapping neatly around Hermione's hands with elegant precision.

“Pansy,” Hermione started. 

“That’s everything,” she said quietly. “You're all set.”

Hermione recognised retreat when she saw it. The words were polite. Dismissive, almost.

Pansy's shoulders had drawn inward. Her attention remained fixed on the bandages despite there being nothing left to adjust. She wouldn't meet Hermione's eyes.

“Pansy,” she tried again.

The Slytherin witch shook her head, refusing to meet her eyes. “Pay no mind to anything I said, Granger. I didn’t mean any of it, really. I sh-should just, um, go now."

The sensible thing would be to let Pansy leave. Let this strange afternoon become an isolated incident. Tomorrow they could go back to being polite adversaries with a complicated history.

But Hermione couldn't bear the thought.

Pansy had protected her. Had sat with her fear without demanding explanations. Had offered comfort freely and without judgment. The very least Hermione could do was reach back across the distance between them and offer some small measure of the reassurance she'd been given.

Hermione took her hand. 

One squeeze, then another.

Slowly, reluctantly, Pansy looked up. Her eyes were glassy, and she shook her head so fervently.

“Granger, you don't have to—”

“Last year,” Hermione began softly, “when we were on the run...”

The words snagged in her throat. 

To say them aloud would make them real in a way memory never quite managed. Memory could be locked away. Ignored. Buried beneath years of pretending.

But she didn’t want to pretend anymore. Didn’t want to keep hiding it from herself.

“It was dark. He climbed into my—” Hermione stopped, swallowing hard. “He touched—put his—”

She squeezed her eyes shut.

Why was it still so difficult to say?

The memory itself had never faded. Every detail remained preserved with cruel precision. Yet the words felt lodged somewhere deep inside her, refusing to come out.

She’d defended him before easily enough.

“Ron didn’t—he wasn’t trying to...” 

But he had. 

“He did.” she finally whispered.

The admission settled between them. True and damning.

“He did,” she repeated, a little stronger this time. “Just not today.”

Silence followed her admission, followed by a warm relief of letting go of something that had remained unspeakable for far too long. 

Hermione tightened her grip on Pansy's hand, ignoring the sting from the fresh bandages.

For a moment, Pansy's composure wavered.

It was only a flicker.

But Hermione saw it.

Saw the story hiding behind those sea-green eyes. Saw the effort it took to keep everything contained. 

All those years at Hogwarts, they'd stood on opposite sides of a divide neither of them had chosen. Enemies by circumstance, by expectation, by war.

And yet here they were.

Not as Gryffindor and Slytherin.

Not as victor and loser.

Just two survivors, recognising something painfully familiar in the other's silence.

“Sit with me,” Hermione murmured. “Please.”

After a brief hesitation, Pansy sank down beside her on the squeaky cot.

Hermione fished her handkerchief from her pocket and offered it over. Pansy accepted it with a small, grateful smile before dabbing carefully at her eyes.

“Have you told anyone? Your friends?” Hermione asked gently.

Pansy's lip trembled, and for the first time since entering the room, the brave mask slipped.

“Not exactly,” she admitted. “But they know enough. Have you?”

Hermione shook her head.

“I’ve tried to just forget it happened. Brush it under the rug, you know?”

A sad sort of understanding crossed Pansy's face. 

A heavy silence settled between them, and they joined hands, squeezing now and then in a wordless, comforting rhythm.

Two squeezes. I’m alright. 

Two squeezes back. I’m alright, too.

“You aren’t to blame,” Pansy said finally, steady and unyielding. “Not for any of it. Not a single bit.”

Hermione squeezed her hand firmly.

Pansy squeezed back.

Something in Hermione’s chest shifted at the words. She had always known it, but hearing it spoken so plainly made it harder to dismiss, harder to twist into something she could argue away.

“You, too,” she said softly. “The blame isn’t on either of us.”

“No,” Pansy agreed at once, without hesitation. “It isn’t.”

“It’s on them.”

"Yes, it is," she nodded.

Madam Pomfrey returned then, thrusting a salmon-coloured jumper into Hermione’s hands.

“This was all that was left in the lost and found bin besides boys clothes. I hope it’ll suffice.”

Before Hermione could even thank her, Pansy snatched it away. She held it out in front of her, inspecting it with a pout. 

Her expression soured. “No wonder they left it behind, this is bloody ghastly.”

Pomfrey sighed deeply and stalked off. 

“It’s fine,” Hermione assured her, trying unsuccessfully to reclaim it. “It’s just until I get back to my room.”

“No,” Pansy said flatly. “I am not walking out of here with you wearing this.”

“I’m all ears if you have an alternative,” Hermione shot back.

Pansy’s grin turned dangerous.

A few elegant, wordless spells later, the jumper shimmered and reshaped itself into a sleek green satin blouse, perfectly fitted.

Hermione blinked. “…Alright, that is better.”

“I’ll just wait out here while you change,” Pansy said, sidestepping the curtain.

She unbuttoned her blouse. It was unsalvageable; torn, dirt-streaked, bloodied at the seams. She exhaled, half a sigh, half a grimace, and dropped it into the waste bin before reaching for the replacement Pansy had left for her.

The fabric was impossibly soft and silky, and it fit as though it had been made for her.

“So,” Pansy’s voice came from behind the curtain, light and laced with dry humour, “am I allowed to know what caused your spat today? Or is it classified information?”

Hermione blinked, a small smile tugging at her mouth despite herself.

The change of subject was so transparent it was almost endearing. Even if the subject in question was Ron.

Briefly, she wondered whether he was still lying where they had left him in the courtyard.

She rather hoped he was. 

Preferably in the rain.

“I missed an interview with an important newspaper,” Hermione said as she smoothed the new blouse over her shoulders. “Two, actually. He stole my favourite book in retaliation. Made me chase him for it.”

“That’s the most childish thing I’ve ever heard,” Pansy said immediately, followed by a scoff so laden with judgment that Hermione found herself wishing she could see the expression accompanying it.

“What book was it?” Pansy asked.

Blushing, Hermione feebly replied, “Hogwarts: A History.”

“Still?”

“What do you mean?”

A faint sound came from behind the curtain, like Pansy shifting her weight.

“Just… I remember you mentioning it that first night. On the way to the Sorting Ceremony. You said it was your favourite book. Then you taught me about the enchanted ceiling, how it mirrors the sky.”

Hermione’s hands slowed over the last button. 

“You remember that?” she asked quietly.

“Of course I do,” Pansy said, softer. “It was my first lesson at Hogwarts.”

Something tightened in Hermione’s throat. She swallowed it down, fastening the final button.

“I’m decent now, by the way,” she said.

Pansy peeked her head around the curtain, eyes briefly scanning Hermione with brisk approval. 

“Gorgeous. Green really suits you.”

“Thank you,” Hermione said, adjusting her cuffs.

Pansy reappeared from and returned to the bed, taking a cross-legged position.

“So,” she said, “what happened next?”

Hermione could have lied. Could have done what she had always done. Smiled, deflected, buried it deeper. 

But she didn’t want to lie to Pansy. And for the first time, she didn’t think she could bear to keep what had happened to her to herself.

So she sat down opposite her, and told her everything. 

Hermione told Pansy about the argument, the too many interviews, to the moment Ron had snapped and thrown her book off a cliff.

“Again, what an absolute prick,” Pansy said immediately.

Hermione huffed a laugh and nodded. “He knew what it meant to me.”

“And he still did it,” Pansy replied flatly. “He deserved to be hexed for that alone. What happened after he threw it?”

“I tried to get it back.”

Pansy inhaled deeply, realising exactly what Hermione meant by that.

“Of course you did,” Pansy said gently. “You realise you can’t fly, yes?”

“Yes. Ron did, too. He grabbed me. Pulled me back. And after I fought him off…” Hermione swallowed. “I had a seizure.”

Concern eclipsed everything else on Pansy’s face. 

“How did him grabbing you trigger a seizure?”

For months she’d kept the secret of the curse close to her chest, worn long sleeves to hide the damage. Convinced Harry and Ron she’d only endured a few curses. It had been a necessary lie to avoid their pity.

But Pansy wasn’t them. 

Pansy wouldn’t pity her. 

Pansy Parkinson didn’t pity anyone. 

Hermione unbuttoned her cuff and lifted her sleeve up, revealing the ugly scar. 

Pansy covered her gasp with her hand. They met each other’s eyes again, understanding passing silently between them. Hermione’s scars were visible. Pansy’s were not. But both had been carved by the same cruelty. By the same people.

Carefully, Pansy reached out to cradle Hermione’s arm, her other hand hovering over the scar.

“Please don’t touch it,” Hermione whispered, a sob catching in her throat. “I can’t relive that pain again today.”

Pansy’s expression hardened with fury. “Touching this causes you to seize.”

It wasn’t a question.

“I relive the moment it was put there,” she answered.

“You what?” She paled, moving to grasp her other hand. “Granger, why haven’t you removed it?”

“I’ve tried everything,” Hermione said with a shaky laugh. “I haven’t found a spell or potion that can undo it.”

Pansy blinked, confusion clear in the eyes that searched hers. Had Pansy really thought so highly of her that she believed even something as complex as a cursed scar would be light work for the Brightest Witch of the Age?

Hermione almost smiled at the compliment.

“I take it no one else knows about this, or what it does to you?” Pansy asked quietly.

Hermione shook her head. That, more than anything else, seemed to anger her.

“Why haven’t you told Potter or Weasley?”

Hermione shrugged, eyes fixed on the bandages around her hands. 

“They already told me how guilty they felt hearing me being tortured. I didn’t want to make it worse by showing them this as well.”

Pansy sucked her cheeks in, clearly warring with herself. She opened her mouth as if to ask something else, but thought better of it. 

“I just…” She blinked, recalibrating. “Why haven’t you told anyone?”

Hermione noticed the shift immediately. That hadn’t been the question Pansy originally wanted to ask.

“Ron’s been through a lot,” she said quietly. “It didn’t feel right burdening him with something he couldn’t fix.”

“Fuck that,” Pansy said immediately. “You’ve been through a lot too. Weasley might not know about this scar, but he knows exactly what else you’ve been through.”

Hermione opened her mouth to defend him.

Nothing came out.

Ron hadn’t known about the scar, but he had known exactly how to hurt her. Throwing the book hadn’t been an accident, or a moment of misplaced anger. It had been deliberate. Meant to land where it would do the most damage.

And if she was honest with herself, it wasn’t the first time.

The jealousy that had always simmered over her and Harry’s friendship. The cruelty of his departure, the awful things he’d said to them before Disapparating, after she’d spent so many restless nights trying to keep him together, patching him up from the splinching. And the horrid, unforgettable other things.

Even back at Hogwarts, there was something in him that felt mean. Entitled, almost. As though survival alone had earned him the right to take more than he gave.

And he had hurt her again.

Hermione hated how easily that truth settled in her chest.

Ron was not a good person anymore.

“Oi.”

Pansy nudged her shoulder lightly, pulling her back from her memories.

“Don’t spiral.”

Hermione blinked, dragged back to the present. “I’m not.”

“Come on, then,” Pansy said briskly, hopping up from the bed. “Let’s get some dinner.”

“Oh, I’m not that hungry,” Hermione replied automatically, before realising the time. “Dinner’s not for another few hours, Pansy.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean the Great Hall.” Pansy’s lips curved into something mischievous. “It’s Saturday, Granger. Hogsmeade beckons.”

It took everything not to stare at Pansy in awe. 

She wanted to get dinner with her?

Before Hermione could even begin to untangle the dozen questions crowding her mind, Madam Pomfrey reappeared, hands full of fresh sheets to remake the cot.

Pomfrey’s gaze flicked first to Hermione’s new green blouse, then to Pansy herself. After a moment, she gave a small nod of mild approval.

“Creative,” she said, then reached to pick up the discarded blanket from the edge of the bed. “Is this also your handiwork?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Pansy said easily, taking it back from her.

With a flick of her wand, she shook it out; the fabric rippled and reformed, returning neatly to its original state. 

“Can’t have this ending up in the lost and found,” she said, putting the blazer back on, “It’s far too fashionable for the bin.”

Hermione bit back her grin. 

“Please take it easy, Miss Granger,” Pomfrey added, ignoring Pansy’s jab. “Calming draughts and pain potions mean supervision for the next few hours. And I’ll still want an explanation of what exactly happened to you eventually.”

“I know, thank you,” Hermione smiled.

The medi-witch’s eyes sharpened slightly as they slid back to Pansy. 

“You’ll see she eats, won’t you?”

Pansy didn’t hesitate. She shifted slightly to Hermione’s right, careful to avoid her left arm, before slipping her own arm through Hermione’s with practiced ease.

“She won’t leave my sight, ma’am.”

Satisfied, Pomfrey gave them both one last look, lingering briefly on Hermione’s new blouse before dismissing them with a wave of her hand.

The cots that had formerly housed the younger students were empty. The room serenely silent.

That was, until the doors burst open.

Adrian Pucey and Cho Chang rushed in, levitating a stiff, frozen body between them.

Ron.

Madam Pomfrey moved in at once, wand already raised as she attempted to revive him, shooting a sharp, disapproving glance at Pansy in the process.

Hermione considered stepping in on her behalf to take the blame, but Pansy’s expression made it impossible. She was smiling down at Ron with such unmistakable pride. 

“This one,” she said. “This one you can blame on me.”

“Why on earth would you stun Mr Weasley?”

“He’s the one who caused Granger’s injuries,” Pansy said evenly. “He assaulted her in the courtyard.”

Hermione met Madam Pomfrey’s eyes then, steady and unflinching, and gave a small, confirming nod.

Ron groaned faintly, oblivious to the shock rippling through the students who had begun to gather, all of them staring down at his prone form.

“Right, off you go, the lot of you,” Pomfrey said, waving her hand to dismiss them all.

Pansy didn’t wait, not even to acknowledge the bewildered expressions of Adrian and Cho. She tightened her grip on Hermione’s arm and steered her away before Ron could so much as open his eyes.

Just as they crossed the threshold, Pansy tossed over her shoulder, “Oh, and I may have hexed him in the dick for good measure. I’ll look out for your owl with my detention slip.”

She continued on as though she hadn’t said anything remotely noteworthy.

With their arms still linked, she set off down the corridor at an unbothered pace, forcing Hermione into step beside her. Hermione managed two dignified strides before Pansy’s momentum turned them both into something suspiciously like skipping.

“Pansy—” Hermione started, but it dissolved into breathless laughter as she joined the girl in the gleeful hop.

By the time they reached the staircase leading toward the Concord, they were breathless and giggling. 

Hermione made for the stairs, but Pansy tugged her firmly away from it, steering them instead toward the exit.

“What are you doing?” Hermione asked, out of breath and half in disbelief, half laughter.

Pansy didn’t slow. “I told you, Granger,” she said brightly, tightening her grip as she guided her along. “Hogsmeade beckons.”

And miraculously, Hermione didn’t argue. In fact, she smiled.

“To Hogsmeade, then.”

Chapter Text

Being with Pansy was easy. That was the only word for it. Easy in a way so much of her life hadn't been lately.

Their arms remained loosely linked throughout their walk, neither of them making any move to let go. Hermione found she didn't want to, either. It felt nice to hold onto someone. She couldn't remember the last time she'd done it without purpose attached. Without cameras. Without expectations. Without somebody needing something from her.

Most of her time lately seemed to belong to other people.

The Ministry wanted interviews. Reporters wanted statements. Ron wanted her attention. Harry, understandably, spent most of his free time with Ginny, but still checked in with her daily. Even her other friendships felt stunted, scheduled around obligations and recovery while they all tried to figure out what life was supposed to look like after surviving a war.

But with Pansy, it was just a walk.

A nice, leisurely walk with someone who wanted to know what her favourite pudding was. Someone who listened when she answered.

The thought almost made her laugh. It was the absolute bare minimum of what a friendship was, yet Hermione soaked up each second like a sponge. She hadn’t realised how truly deprived of human connection she’d been.

She had done more talking in the last hour than she had in weeks. Proper talking. Not explaining herself. Not defending herself. Not being questioned. Just talking.

Her cheeks actually hurt from smiling.

A pair of sparrows darted between the hedgerows ahead of them, disappearing into a nearby tree. Somewhere further down the path, a blackbird sang from a stone wall, oblivious to the weight of the world and everyone in it.

Hermione inhaled deeply.

“It’s such a beautiful day out,” she said.

Only then did she realise how light she felt.

As though some knot inside her had finally loosened enough for her to breathe around it.

With Pansy beside her, she didn't feel scrutinised. She didn't feel famous. She didn't feel like she had to be brave or composed or endlessly understanding.

She didn't feel like she was being measured against the version of Hermione Granger everyone expected her to be.

She could simply be herself.

And somehow, that felt rarer than magic.

It fascinated her that in the span of an afternoon, Pansy had learned some of the darkest things Hermione had never dared say aloud. But instead of recoiling, she'd met them with understanding and kindness.

And in return, she'd offered pieces of herself.

Two survivors, comparing scars earned from not giving up.

They walked on together, talking about everything and nothing. Favourite foods. School subjects. Least favourite Professors. Childhood memories. The conversation meandered wherever it pleased. And for the first time in a very long while, Hermione found that simply existing beside another person felt like enough.

“I didn’t realise how much I missed learning,” Hermione admitted, the words tumbling out before she could second-guess them. “Ancient Runes, especially. I forgot how satisfying it is to learn the new meanings of them, and how they can be used in curse-breaking.”

Pansy hummed in agreement. “Runes are brilliant. Difficult, but I love a challenge.”

“And Arithmancy,” Hermione continued, surprising herself with how animated she sounded. “And Astronomy, too.” 

Pansy gasped, clutching at her arm tighter as they shared a look of wonderment. 

“No! Yes! I feel the same way! I love Astronomy!”

“Me too! It’s such a treat living high up again, without any trees blocking the view, or protective wards blurring the constellations.”

“I’d rather have been outside during the war than stuck indoors. My one window was north-facing. Do you know, I didn’t see the moon for nearly four months?! And I love the moon, Hermione.”

Hermione almost asked why she didn’t simply leave her bedroom, but something stopped her. If she wanted to tell her, she would. Hermione wouldn’t press.

“So, how are you liking living in Concord?” she asked, deciding she should change the subject.

“It has its challenges,” Pansy began. “I’m enjoying having a dorm above-ground, that’s for sure. And the common area’s wrap-around balcony is definitely a bonus, you don’t see much of that in Slytherin. Do you have any idea how long I’ve waited to stargaze without hiking up from the dungeons?”

Hermione blinked. “I—oh. I suppose I never thought about that.”

“Of course you didn’t. Gryffindors and your hundreds of windows. You were very spoiled, I hope you know. All of Slytherin’s windows were underwater,” she continued dryly. “Not ideal unless you’re particularly fond of hornwort and kelpies.”

“I’m sorry, that must have been miserable. I can’t imagine not waking up with the sun.”

“It wasn’t all bad,” Pansy added airily. “I quite enjoyed showing off my weekend outfits to the merpeople. It felt nice to be appreciated. And envied.”

Hermione shook her head fondly. “Of course you did.”

By the time the roofs of Hogsmeade came into view, they’d talked their way through half their schedules. Classes they loved. Classes they tolerated. Classes they loathed with a shared, dramatic intensity, like History of Magic.

“I’ve studied it all independently so I can nap during his classes. Binns makes for an excellent white noise substitute,” Pansy admitted. 

“I hadn’t noticed, but now I understand why you always sit in the back with a book in front of you.”

She beamed proudly at that. 

“You should join me, it’s great. Theo makes a great look-out.”

Hermione beaned at the invitation. She wasn’t sure she could ever purposefully nap during a class, but she appreciated the sentiment.

“So, what’s the downside?” she asked.

“Hmm?”

“You said Concord has its challenges. What isn’t working?”

“I like the new uniforms,” she said, clearly deflecting. “What was it, McGonagall said? Fostering unity or something,” she said, adjusting her black tie before giving Hermione a twirl. “I’m particularly fond of the new skirts. Plain grey did nothing for my legs.”

“It’s Hebridean tartan. They were my idea.”

Pansy raised a brow. “Colour me surprised, Granger. You do have some fashion sense afterall.”

Their new uniforms were still cut in the traditional Hogwarts style of black robes, white shirts and grey jumpers, but devoid of any distinguishable house colours. Their ties were plain black, and where House crests would once have declared allegiance, a single colourful Hogwarts crest sat proudly at the forefront instead. The skirts had been a passing idea she’d proposed to McGonagall, a way to set them apart from the lower years.

Harry had called the new uniform symbolic. Ron had called it unnecessary. Hermione disagreed. Symbols mattered. The war had shown them how easily people could be sorted into opposing sides, how quickly colours and banners could form barriers. For one year, at least, she wanted every student in the Concord to walk into a room and see classmates before Houses. 

“So,” Pansy said as they stepped out into the late afternoon sunshine, “Enough about me, how are you finding the Concord?”

A pair of sparrows erupted from a nearby hedge as they passed, scattering across the path. The grounds were unusually peaceful today. 

“I’m happy that we have a place to be together. It wouldn’t have felt right to come back and be separated again. We spent too long being divided by war and ideals.”

“I agree.”

“She came to see us herself,” Hermione said. “McGonagall. To ask us to return. That woman sure knows how to make people feel as though refusing isn't an option.”

Pansy laughed.

“That sounds about right. She’s a woman who knows what she wants.”

“Harry agreed immediately. Mostly because Ginny was returning.”

“Of course. Puppy love is often like that.”

“They’re quite serious,” she corrected.

Pansy side-eyed her, unconvinced.

“Ron was less enthusiastic about coming back. But McGonagall informed him she'd already announced his return in her interview with the Prophet, and that if he refused, she’d have his Order of Merlin taken away.”

“Can she even do that?”

Hermione locked eyes with Pansy, wordlessly shaking her head.

Pansy barked a surprised laugh.

“That might be the most Slytherin thing I've ever heard McGonagall do.”

The path curved around a cluster of trees, leaves whispering overhead as a breeze stirred the branches. Somewhere nearby, a blackbird sang.

“The article really helped, though,” Hermione admitted. “Quite a lot, actually. It’s the only piece of press I haven’t minded including my name. People who swore they would never come back changed their minds after reading it. Parents felt less scared to send their children back. Not just to the Eighth Year program, but the entire school. I think that’s quite beautiful.”

Pansy glanced at her. 

“Were your parents fine with you coming back?” she asked. 

Hermione inhaled deeply, knowing she’d set herself up for such a question. 

“They don’t know I’m back. They don’t know me at all anymore.”

Pansy waited patiently for more information, squeezing her arm for encouragement.

“It’s not a long story.”

“It’s a long walk,” Pansy countered. 

Hermione pressed her lips together. Aside from Harry and Ron, she hadn’t really discussed it with anyone. 

“I removed myself from their memories to protect them, and sent them far away so they couldn’t be hurt by the war. No one knows exactly where besides me and McGonagall. She helped me organise it all.”

Pansy clutched Hermione’s arm tightly, pressing her cheek on her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Granger.”

“Thank you,” she said, wiping her cheek with the back of her hand. “I really miss them.”

“Oh, Hermione. Wait, sorry, can I call you Hermione?”

“Yes,” she chuckled. “I’d like that.”

“Good, well, Hermione. I’m sure wherever they are, deep down, a part of them still holds immense love for you, even if they don’t quite know who it’s for.”

“Thanks, Pans.”

“You’re welcome. I mean it.”

It was only a few steps later, that she tutted, and let out a huge sigh of relief. 

“I suppose now is as good a time as any to tell you that both my parents died during the war. No great loss there. They were loyal to the Death Eaters, and I’m glad to be rid of them. I much prefer the family I chose to the one I was given, anyway. They’re far more trustworthy.”

Hermione nodded.

She believed Pansy when she said it. At least, she believed that part of her meant it.

But she tightened her hold all the same.

Because Hermione know it wasn't the whole story. She could hear it in the slight pause before Pansy spoke. See it in the way her eyes stayed fixed on the path ahead. Feel it in the tension in her shoulders.

There was more.

Far more.

Not just about her parents, but everything. The shadows Hermione had seen behind her eyes. 

When her fingers squeezed Hermione's in return, the gesture felt less like reassurance and more like an acknowledgement.

A silent yes, there are things I'm not saying.

Hermione didn't press.

She knew what it was like to hold pieces of yourself so tightly that speaking them aloud felt impossible. And she had a feeling Pansy was offering her the same grace she'd been given earlier: the chance to be understood without being made to explain.

So she followed her lead.

“It was strange at first,” Hermione said, steering them gently onto safer ground. “Not living in Gryffindor anymore.”

“Mm.”

“I think it's been good for us all.” She smiled faintly. “The castle feels alive again. It’s different, but it still feels like home.”

Pansy's expression softened, nodding amenably.

“And Harry seems happier than I've ever seen him.”

That finally earned a proper reaction.

“Let me guess,” Pansy groaned. “Ginny Weasley has something to do with it?”

Hermione snorted.

“He's become alarmingly interested in broom cupboards lately.”

“Disgusting,” she groaned.

“Agreed.”

“Hang on. Weaslette is Head Girl. Doesn’t she have a private residence they could use?”

“Exactly!”

Harry, she realised, still couldn’t manage life without a little risk. 

“Again, disgusting. And highly inconsiderate. What if someone needed cleaning supplies? Are they supposed to just wait outside until they’re finished shagging?”

Hermione chuckled at the idea.

“I suppose I hadn’t thought of that. But you’re right, it’s quite rude of them.”

“Indeed,” Pansy agreed. “So, anyway, who did you get as your roommate?” Pansy asked. 

“Padma, you?”

“The other Patil. Though I can’t say I’ve seen all that much of either.” Pansy's expression dimmed slightly. “They don't speak to me at all. Not even the one I share a room with. I don’t think she’s even slept a night in her bed yet. Too afraid I might hex her in her sleep, probably.”

The admission was delivered lightly, but something about it sat heavily between them.

Hermione frowned.

She knew perfectly well that Parvati had been sleeping in their room. They’d told her they wanted to be together. Hermione hadn’t realised there was another reason.

“I'm sorry,” she said quietly.

Pansy shrugged.

“Can't say I blame them. For all they know, I was a Death Eater, which couldn't be further from the truth,” Pansy continued. “If only they knew I was just as scared of them as anyone. Probably more, if we’re being completely honest.”

A goldfinch landed briefly on the fence ahead of them before darting away again. Hermione found herself wishing, not for the first time, that people would stop deciding who Pansy was before speaking to her. 

Concord was supposed to be a fresh start. But it seemed Pansy hadn’t quite been granted one either, despite all their hopes of unifying everything.

“I am enjoying being away from the younger students, though,” Pansy said lightly, adjusting her sleeve as they walked. “That alone is almost worth surviving the war for.”

Hermione snorted. “That’s a bleak benchmark for happiness.”

“It’s a realistic one, Hermione. They’re annoying.”

“Come off it.”

“You wouldn’t understand. They’re not scared of you,” Pansy corrected, almost gently. 

Hermione huffed, unimpressed. 

“I think I’d prefer that to how they see me now. The attention is overwhelming sometimes.”

“Don’t be silly,” Pansy said, far too knowingly. “It’s just another form of praise. You’ve always been a sucker for that, no?”

Hermione shrugged. It wasn’t as though she was opposed to being thanked for her efforts. She’d worked hard to help Harry. It had been taxing to hunt for Horcruxes, to starve in the woods, to remain constantly vigilant, always worried about whether they’d survive another day. But how long until the attention died down? How much time would it take for people to move onto someone else, give someone else the spotlight?

Pansy hummed. 

“You know, if you don’t want your Order of Merlin medal, I’ll happily take it off your hands.” 

Hermione gave her a sidelong glower. “You would, would you?”

Pansy’s eyes gleamed. 

“I’ve always thought I’d look gorgeous wearing a medal. And they don’t hand those out to just anyone, you know? Well, with the exception of Weasley, obviously.”

Hermione stopped walking for half a second. “Pansy—”

“What?” she said innocently. “I’m simply observing the standards appear to be… flexible.”

Hermione gave her a flat look. “He earned it the same way I did.”

“Debatable,” Pansy said breezily. Then, after a pause, added more thoughtfully, “Maybe you could let me try it on sometime.”

Hermione rolled her eyes at the girl, not knowing if she was truly being serious or not. Pansy Parkinson was turning out to be a bit of a wildcard.

“The medal came with a lot of pressure,” she admitted. “Now everyone expects us to go on and accomplish great things after all we did. Kingsley offered Harry and Ron places on the Auror Training Programme before the dust had even settled. Said the D.M.L.E. could use good fighters like them.”

“He didn't ask you? How sexist of him.”

Hermione huffed a laugh. She'd never considered it that way. She'd always assumed Kingsley knew she wanted something beyond fighting and policing.

“He did promise me a place in any Ministry department I wanted,” she said.

Pansy grimaced.

“That somehow feels worse.”

“It does?”

“Yes. That's not a grand offer, that's a grand load of homework. Ministry jobs are boring.”

Hermione laughed outright at that.

“You don't really want to work for the Ministry, do you?”

She sighed. The truth was she had no idea what she wanted. She'd spent so long fighting for a future that she'd never stopped to imagine what she might actually do with one.

“I don't know.”

Pansy gasped dramatically.

“Hermione Granger doesn't know something? I'm flabbergasted. And a little relieved, to be truthful.” 

“You are?”

“Yes! We shouldn't know where we want our futures to take us yet. We should live a little first and decide later. Or not at all.” She gestured broadly at the grounds around them. “We can do whatever we want, Hermione. We're eighteen. We've got our whole lives ahead of us.”

Pansy tipped her head back and inhaled deeply, face turned towards the afternoon sun.

The expression on her face was so genuinely content that Hermione found herself copying her, breathing in the warm air and scent of cut grass.

“I'm nineteen, actually,” she said.

“What?”

“I'm nineteen. Today.”

Pansy stopped walking so abruptly Hermione nearly toppled over.

“It's your birthday?! When exactly were you planning on mentioning that?”

“I just did,” she shrugged.

“After we'd walked the entire way to Hogsmeade!”

Hermione couldn't help smiling.

Pansy looked genuinely appalled.

“Hermione Granger, that is vital information you should have offered up well before discussing Arithmancy and living arrangements.”

“Is it?”

“Yes!”

She sounded horrified by the question.

“Weasley forgot, didn't he? On top of everything else, he forgot your birthday.”

The smile slipped from Hermione's face. She didn’t need to say it, Pansy could tell. Her expression darkened immediately.

“Oh, that absolute arse.”

“Pansy—”

“No. No, don't defend him. Never defend him again, that’s finished. Besides, it's your birthday. I’m only allowing you to have fun from here on out, understand?”

Something unexpectedly warm settled in Hermione's chest. 

No one had sounded angry on her behalf before. Without seeming to think about it, Pansy slipped her arm back through Hermione's and resumed walking.

“Fine. Fun only.”

“Well, then,” she declared, lifting her chin with all the authority of someone making a royal proclamation, “I'm honoured that you'd agree to share your birthday with us. I promise it’ll be the most fun you’ve ever had.”

Hermione blinked.

“Us?”

Pansy's grin widened.

They reached the Three Broomsticks, warmth and laughter spilling out as they stepped inside. Pansy guided Hermione upstairs to a quieter nook, away from the cacophony of patrons and music below.

A burst of laughter reached them as they approached a corner booth. 

Hermione recognised Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini, who were mid-joke, Blaise’s shoulders shaking with amusement.

Blaise looked up first, eyebrows raising as they caught sight of Hermione. “About time, Parkinson!”

“Unexpected delay,” Pansy replied breezily, tugging Hermione closer. “I’ve brought us a new dinner guest!”

Only then did Hermione notice the third figure in the booth, partially hidden by the high-backed seat, now turning to face her fully.

Draco Malfoy.

“Granger?”

The surprise on his face triggered a memory, which surged to the forefront of her mind without warning.

It was June, at the Ministry, and he'd been locked inside a warded holding box at the centre of the Wizengamot courtroom.

The glass had been thick, enchanted to repel touch and sound, humming faintly with containment spells. He'd looked smaller inside it somehow. Paler. Hollowed out by weeks of sleeplessness and starvation.

Still standing, though.

Still refusing to break.

Just as she had been that day.

Harry had stood beside her then. A steady ally. Together, they'd spoken for him.

They told the Wizengamot exactly what had happened at Malfoy Manor. That Draco Malfoy had not identified Harry Potter. That he had aided them, even with Death Eaters breathing down his neck, threatening him and his family.

That he had hesitated long enough for hope to reignite in their chests.

Because Draco Malfoy was fighting for them, even if it hadn't seemed that way to anyone else.

Hermione remembered her voice shaking when she spoke of the drawing room.

Bellatrix's laughter.

Her torture.

She had omitted the part about the scar, referring to it only as torture. But she told them that while Draco couldn't move, couldn't intervene without dying where he stood, he had still helped her.

He slipped into my mind, she'd said. He reminded me I was strong.

Legilimency.

Gentle. Careful.

A presence she hadn't felt coming until it was already there.

Malfoy had drawn her attention away from the pain, grounding her in whispered reassurances when the world narrowed to agony.

It'll be over soon, he'd told her, his voice a tether in the dark. You're going to be alright, Granger. I promise. I'm going to help you get out of here, and you'll never have to see her horrible face again. Just hold on a bit longer.

Miraculously, it helped.

He had helped.

And he had been right on all counts.

Hermione told the Wizengamot that had Draco not lied, had he not stalled his parents, had he not helped them escape with Dobby, the war would have ended right there in Malfoy Manor.

No Gringotts heist.

No Horcruxes destroyed.

No final stand against Voldemort.

No victory. For any of them.

She told them what he'd done, and what it had cost him. How every hesitation, every lie, every small act of defiance had placed him and his family in danger.

Hermione refused to stay silent about it. Because Draco Malfoy had helped her survive when he had nothing to gain from it.

When doing so put him in mortal danger.

He had helped her in that drawing room when nobody else could. For that, she owed him a life debt. And both Harry and Hermione agreed that the war couldn't be over while someone who had helped save the world was locked in a cell for it.

The Wizengamot listened. They thanked her for her candour.

But it was Harry's testimony that shattered the last of their doubt.

He told them much of what Hermione had said, that Draco had turned the tide in their favour.

That when it mattered most, he had thrown Harry the very wand that had ended Voldemort forever.

After that, the deliberation was brief.

The Wizengamot announced their decision to release Draco Malfoy immediately.

Hermione and Harry returned to the Burrow exhausted, wrung dry by the day, but relieved in a way she struggled to put into words.

That was the day the war finally felt over.

The last piece of a puzzle finally sliding into place.

Because at the end of the day, they had all been children dragged into a war they hadn't started, punished for circumstances beyond their control. 

Ron had been furious she'd gone to the Ministry at all. He accused her of defending a Death Eater. Of forgetting everything Malfoy stood for, every horrid name he’d ever called her.

But Hermione had never regretted it. 

Because when Hermione looked at Draco Malfoy, she didn’t see a Death Eater, she saw a boy who risked everything to help them when it mattered most. 

“Granger,” Draco said again, inclining his head just enough to acknowledge her without spectacle.

“Sorry, I’ve just been caught by surprise,” she said, shaking off the memory.

“Good evening, Granger. You’re looking lovely.”

“Theodore, Blaise, Malfoy,” Hermione replied, the corner of her mouth lifting despite herself.

Blaise dragged his stool back with his boot and patted the bench beside him. 

“Good afternoon. What brings you to the outcast table, Granger?”

“Be nice,” Pansy cut in, slipping smoothly into the seat beside Hermione and crossing her legs. “She’s been through the ringer today.”

Theo’s gaze flicked over Hermione lingering on the bandaged hands and his grin softened. 

“Sounds like a story that requires shots.”

Hermione met his eyes, surprised at how easily the room settled around her. 

“Shots first,” she said, “story second.”

Theo laughed and flagged the nearby barmaid with both hands. 

“Firewhisky. Ten.”

Ten glasses arrived moments later, clinking together as they were deposited onto the scarred wooden table. Amber liquid sloshed dangerously close to the rims.

Theo pushed one towards Hermione with exaggerated solemnity.

“As the lady commands.”

Blaise and Pansy immediately knocked their glasses twice against the table.

Hermione copied them without question.

Fire erupted down her throat.

She coughed violently.

“Merlin's—” Cough. “That's horrendous.”

The table dissolved into laughter.

Pansy leaned over and thumped her between the shoulder blades.

“First one always feels like attempted murder.”

Hermione wheezed.

“That's meant to reassure me?”

“Absolutely.”

“The burn goes away after two more,” Pansy promised.

Then, before Hermione could point out the alarming implications of that statement, she flagged down a bartender, held up ten fingers, and pointed at the empty shot glasses.

“So?” Theo prompted, already leaning in for the story she’d promised.

The second round of shots arrived and she took a glass, knocked it twice and threw it back. 

“I lost my favourite book today,” Hermione shuddered, putting the empty glass on the tray.

The table went quiet. She looked up to find all three boys staring. 

“That’s it?” Blaise asked. 

“You lost a book? That doesn’t sound like Hermione Granger.”

Hermione accepted the fourth shot that Theo nudged her way, knocked the table twice out of new habit, and downed it in one go. 

“It was Ron’s fault,” she moaned, feeling warmth enveloping her from within.

Draco’s eyebrow rose a fraction. Blaise’s mouth curved, interested.

“Weasley lost your book?” Theo asked.

“Not exactly,” Hermione said, voice going cool and sharp around the edges. “He threw it off a cliff because I wasn’t paying him enough attention.”

“And he accused her of studying too much,” Pansy added. “Can you believe him?”

Theo’s eyes rolled heavenward. 

“Was his brain damaged in the war, or did he just forget that you’ve always been a swot?”

Hermione laughed softly. 

“I also told him I was tired of talking about the war to reporters. I said I want to live my life without constant questions about defeating Voldemort.”

All four Slytherins inhaled sharply, their entire bodies flinching like they’d been stuck.

“Fuck, sorry,” Hermione said quickly.

“Old habits,” Pansy said, waving her off.

“Any mention of him makes my blood run cold, his name most of all,” Blaise added.

“At least she didn’t add Lord. That part always makes me nauseous.” Theo said with a shudder. “And this is good firewhiskey. I’d rather not waste it on a chunder.”

Hermione understood. Bellatrix’s name did the same to her. Several times during interviews, a reporter would bring up her name, sending a lightning panic through her nerves, dragging memories she’d rather forget to the surface.

Voldemort was gone, but the press refused to let him stay buried.

“I hope you hexed his arse, Granger,” Theo said.

“Didn’t have to.” Hermione tipped her chin toward Pansy. “Pansy did it for me.”

Pansy lifted her glass, smug and unapologetic. 

“Happy to be of service. With any luck, he’s still convalescing in the Hospital Wing.”

Pansy’s words earned her differing reactions from her friends 

Blaise gave a soft, disbelieving laugh. Theo offered a low whistle. Malfoy was silent, his jaw tightening with anger. 

Blaise slid a butterbeer toward her, condensation cold against her fingers. She hadn’t seen anyone place an order. 

“Must've been some book,” Blaise said, swirling the last of his firewhisky. “Let me guess. Hogwarts: A History?”

“Yes,” Hermione and Pansy said at the same time.

Across the table, Theo dropped his head into one hand.

“Of course it was.”

Pansy snorted into her drink.

Draco, meanwhile, was studying Hermione over the rim of his glass.

“First edition?” he asked quietly.

“No.”

One corner of his mouth lifted.

“You'd better not tell us it was a janky library copy.”

“It wasn't,” Hermione said, sharper than she'd intended.

Draco's eyebrow rose, waiting.

“It was the first magical book my parents ever bought me.”

The mood shifted immediately.

Theo sat back, expression softening.

“Ah. Sentimental. Say no more.”

Beside him, Blaise clicked his tongue.

“I’m sorry, Granger.” His sympathy felt immediate and entirely genuine.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Draco said. His fingers traced the rim of his glass as he spoke. “Surely Weasley knew what it meant to you?”

Hermione confirmed his assumption with a nod.

“I’ve told him multiple times. But since the story involved a book, I doubt he'd ever committed it to memory. He's never been much of a listener.”

“Oh, we know,” Blaise nodded solemnly. “Theo!”

Theo sat up so fast he nearly knocked his glass over onto Blaise’s lap. His hand cut through the air as if he were already planning logistics.

“I think it's only fair that we throw something he loves off a cliff.”

“Theo,” Blaise sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, scowling at his sodden jumper.

“What?” 

“That's insane. We’re not doing that.”

“Why not?” Theo leaned forward again, forearms planted on the table, eyes bright and indignant. “He sent Hogwarts: A History soaring off a cliff. And he’s clearly hurt her as well. That requires consequences.”

He pointed at Hermione for emphasis. 

Blaise slowly reached out and gently pushed Theo’s pointing hand back down to the table.

“Yes,” he said carefully, as though speaking to something volatile. “But it’s not our place to make him pay. It’s up to Granger to decide.”

Theo frowned, then huffed, but didn’t pull away. Instead, he drummed his fingers against the wood, thinking it through far too seriously.

“Fine,” he conceded at last, begrudgingly.

Hermione blinked.

That… had worked?

Theo immediately perked up again, energy returning in full force.

“What does Weasley love most, Granger?”

Theo leant forward immediately, elbows hitting the table with enough force to rattle cutlery.

“Quidditch, probably,” Hermione said before she could overthink it. 

“Excellent.” Theo slapped both palms down. “We throw him off a cliff with a Quaffle for moral support.”

Blaise physically closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. Across from him, Pansy laughed into her drink. Hermione, to her own surprise, laughed too.

“We’re not going to throw anyone off a cliff,” Malfoy assured them.

Across the table, Malfoy shook his head slightly, at Theo and Pansy, like it was a reprimand he’d given a hundred times before. 

He caught her look and gave the smallest shrug, as if to say this is normal behaviour for them, unfortunately.

That made her laugh harder.

Theo leaned back in his chair with theatrical disappointment.

“Fine. No cliffs. We’re being civilized. What else do we have?”

“Ooh!” Pansy raised a hand, far too pleased with herself. “We could steal his Order of Merlin medal.”

“I like your thinking, Parkinson,” Theo said immediately, eyes bright.

Draco let out a quiet breath through his nose, shaking his head again, this time more pointedly at Pansy. Blaise, meanwhile, looked like he was actively reconsidering his life choices. He rubbed his temples, then glanced at Hermione with a small, apologetic smile.

But there was something strangely warm about it, like he was sharing in the incredulity with her. 

Hermione warmed at the thought of being included.

“I suppose we could look into whether they retract them,” Malfoy offered mildly.

Hermione gaped at him over the table. 

“Malfoy!”

He shrugged back, feigning innocence. 

Pansy didn’t miss a beat. “Do they take them back if you turn out to be a massive prick?”

“Do they give them out if you have a massive prick?” Theo shot back instead, leaning in like he’d made a legal argument.

Pansy took a slow sip of her drink. “If that were the criteria, you’d never get one.”

“Oi!”

Blaise hid his smile behind his hand, shoulders shaking slightly.

Malfoy joined, running a hand through his hair, shaking his head like he couldn’t help it.

Hermione shook hers too, disbelieving. 

“You’re all joking. Please tell me you’re joking.”

Pansy’s smile only widened.

“I’m not.”

Theo pointed accusingly across the table.

“I think you’ll find, I am Nott.”

Pansy scoffed, flicking the last mouthful of butterbeer from her glass at him.

The droplets splashed across his chin and collar.

Slowly wiped them away. Then, with all the dignity of a deeply offended aristocrat, he picked up his napkin, balled it into a loose wad, and lobbed it directly onto her head.

It landed perfectly in her hair.

Blaise sighed into his drink.

Draco looked exhausted.

Pansy plucked the napkin free and threw it straight back.

Theo caught it without looking, and then reached for his full glass.

“Not the firewhiskey!” Blaise and Draco said together.

Hermione was laughing too hard to be remotely helpful.

“Fine. A toast, then,” Theo declared, lifting his glass as though none of that had happened. “To Granger's book. Lost, but never remembered.”

“That's not how the saying goes,” Blaise said.

“Sue me, I’m drunk.”

Glasses rose around the table.

Including Pansy's empty one.

Hermione watched, amused, as Pansy casually leaned across and nudged the rim of her glass against Draco's.

Without so much as a glance, he tipped a generous measure of firewhisky into it.

“Don’t be stingy, Draco.”

Draco rolled his eyes, catching her eye as he poured Pansy a sliver more.

As the evening wore on, she and Pansy shared the rest of the day's events with the boys. She left out the part about the scar and the seizure, and Hermione was grateful Pansy followed her lead and kept quiet, too.

There was no pity, or any careful, measured sympathy from the boys. Just outrage where it belonged, and humour where it helped. They congratulated Pansy on a hex well cast, and for bringing Hermione to dinner. 

Once the conversation died down, Pansy leaned toward Theo and began whispering furiously at him from behind a napkin.

Theo listened for all of three seconds before grinning from ear to ear. Without a word, he and Pansy pushed themselves to their feet.

“Duty calls.”

Pansy slid from the booth after him.

“Be right back.”

The pair disappeared toward the bathrooms.

Hermione blinked.

Across the table, Draco and Blaise exchanged a look of such weary familiarity that it was obvious this was not a new development.

“Should I ask?”

“No,” Blaise said.

“Definitely not,” Draco agreed.

Several minutes later, Pansy and Theo returned looking entirely innocent.

“Have fun?” Draco asked.

“Always,” Pansy beamed.

Food arrived shortly after. Massive plates of bangers and mash were set down in front of Theo and Blaise, the sausages glistening under a rich onion gravy that pooled into the creamy mashed potatoes. Beside them, a deep dish of cottage pie arrived still bubbling at the edges. Thick-cut buttered bread followed in uneven stacks, and a bowl of roasted root vegetables was placed in the centre of the table.

It was a smaller feast than the ones at the Great Hall, and truth be told, Hermione was grateful it was a smaller affair.

Her body hadn’t yet learned to trust such abundance yet. She resigned herself to eat lightly, carefully, stopping when her stomach rebelled. Months of mushrooms and nettle soup had left their mark. 

Ron, on the other hand, filled out again the moment they returned to the Burrow. And then back at school, he divulged in second and third helpings, even polishing off whatever was on her plate when she would push it away—sometimes even before she’d declared she was done eating. 

But, Hermione hadn’t eaten all day. And the mash looked so creamy.

They all dug in immediately, Hermione, too.

Theo, with no regard for dignity, flicked a forkful of peas across the table at Blaise. Blaise caught it effortlessly with his napkin, without even looking up, and returned it with a look of mild betrayal.

Across from her, Draco had taken the bowl of roasted vegetables and was serving them out with an unexpected, almost careful attention—starting with Pansy first, as though it mattered. He paused mid-motion when he looked up at Hermione, something light flickering across his face.

A smile.

Not the sharp, guarded thing she was used to seeing in the Great Hall. Not something performed. Just… there. Brief and unguarded, like it had slipped out before he could stop it.

It made something in her chest tighten in a way she didn’t immediately know what to do with.

“Parsnips, Granger?”

She nodded, sliding her plate a little closer without thinking.

“Thank you.”

Around them, laughter spilled easily. Theo saying something ridiculous, Blaise exhaling through his nose like he was trying not to encourage him, Pansy half-scolding, half-laughing in a way that didn’t seem like scolding at all.

Hermione learned from Blaise that they did this every Saturday and Sunday, whenever their presence at dinner wasn’t mandatory.

When Hermione asked why, he told her that the Three Broomsticks had become a refuge from the prying eyes of Hogwarts. Up in their private booth, nobody stared at them, or whispered behind their backs.

It wasn’t loud in the way the Great Hall was loud.

It was intimate. Homely.

Hermione realised she’d stopped eating altogether, watching them instead. She had never seen them so at ease like this at Hogwarts. Not without the weight of everyone else in the room pressing down on them.

And then it clicked.

With a jolt, Hermione realised they were the only former Slytherins in Concord.

The only four who had come back.

How had she not noticed before?

The answer was painfully simple. She had buried herself in coursework, committees, rebuilding programmes and lesson plans, so determined to keep moving forward that she'd barely stopped to consider whether everyone else had managed to do the same.

Whether they were settling in.

Whether they were lonely.

Whether they were being given the same chance to start over that the article had promised.

Looking around the table now, the signs felt obvious. They had not been given that same chance. They were still being judged.

But here, in the Three Broomsticks, there were no whispers following them down corridors. No eyes tracking every movement, waiting for proof that old prejudices had been justified.

Here, it was just the four of them.

Talking over one another.

Stealing food from each other's plates.

Flinging napkins.

Laughing until they nearly choked on their drinks.

Nothing measured.

Nothing guarded.

No careful monitoring of every word and gesture.

Nothing that resembled survival.

It looked, Hermione realised with a tightness in her chest, entirely like living.

This was their family now, the one Pansy had told her about. The family she’d chosen. Built from the wreckage of a war that had taken far too much from all of them.

And Hermione hated that they felt they had to come all the way to Hogsmeade to be comfortable. 

The outcast table. That’s what Theo had called them.

Hermione slammed down her knife and fork against her plate suddenly.

“You have just as much right to be back at Hogwarts as anyone,” she exclaimed. Before she could second-guess herself, looking straight at Malfoy.

He held her gaze. For a moment, something unreadable crossed his face, before he gave a small, almost reluctant smile.

“We know that, Granger.” 

“We just like having time away from the staring,” Blaise added after a beat, absently turning his fork between his fingers. “From everyone acting like we might start donning masks and dark robes at any second.”

“You’ve never been Death Eaters,” Hermione said immediately, eyes sliding pointedly to Malfoy. “Any of you.”

Theo huffed a laugh.

“Try telling that to half the Great Hall, or your book-destroying boyfriend,” he added, jabbing his fork toward the window again, towards the direction of the castle.

“I don’t believe I’ll be speaking to Ron again after today,” she decided, voice level. “He’s a right awful bastard. And if he thinks we’re still in a relationship after everything he’s done, he’s got another fucking thing coming.”

The shift was immediate.

Four pairs of eyes snapped to her. 

For half a heartbeat, there was nothing.

Blaise’s expression broke first, a slow, approving smile spreading like he’d been waiting for exactly that sentence.

Theo let out a sharp laugh and immediately started clapping—loud, delighted, utterly unrestrained.

Pansy followed at once, leaning forward as though personally offended she hadn’t thought of applauding first.

Even Draco exhaled something like a laugh, mouth curving into something sharp and unmistakably pleased as he raised his glass in salute.

Theo lifted his higher.

“Well,” he said, grinning, “hallelujah. It seems Granger has finally seen the light.”

“About bloody time,” Pansy announced.

More drinks were ordered in celebration, shots, butterbeer, and then hot chocolate. When the meal was mostly finished, Theo stretched back in his seat, arms reaching high.

“Time for dessert?” Theo asked.

“Honestly, I couldn’t eat another bite, I’m so full,” she announced, pushing her plate away defeatedly.

“True, she’s eaten more here than she usually does up at the castle,” Blaise commented.

Hermione blushed at the comment. She didn’t think anyone had noticed, especially not them. 

“But it’s dessert.” Theo argued. “There’s always room for dessert. It goes to a different stomach.”

“We only have one stomach.” Hermione corrected. 

“Speak for yourself,” Theo said, leaning back in his chair with undisguised confidence. He immediately waved down Madame Rosmerta, giving her a quick, almost imperceptible signal that looked suspiciously like code.

Hermione narrowed her eyes.

“What did you just—”

The words died on her tongue when every single plate on the table vanished, and in their place, a small, clean plate and fork appeared before each of them, except Hermione.

Instead, a cake appeared in front of her. Large, decadent, unapologetically extravagant. Layers of buttercream and sponge stacked unevenly but gloriously, dozens of candles already burning bright along the top.

Hermione froze.

Blaise blinked.

Draco actually looked startled.

Theo and Pansy, however, looked entirely too pleased with themselves. Too pleased in a way that could only mean planning had occurred.

Hermione’s gaze snapped straight to Pansy, who lifted both hands in surrender, donning the biggest grin.

“Guilty.” 

Hermione returned her attention to the cake. Around her, the group began singing.

Off-key. Loud. Warm. Delightfully unbothered.

Theo led it badly. Blaise tried to correct him halfway through and gave up. Pansy didn’t bother trying at all, she yelled uninhibited.

It had been years.

The war had made having a birthday cake feel… improper, somehow. Like celebrating herself while everything was still fractured was indulgent in a way she hadn’t wanted to feel.

Her eyes had found Malfoy over the candles. The ridiculous, flickering light caught faintly in his eyes as he sang under his breath, almost reluctantly at first. That was, until Pansy nudged him sharply in the ribs, prompting him to join in properly.

A small smile had settled on his mouth. Unguarded in a way that didn’t feel like it had been meant for anyone else to see. Something in Hermione softened at the sight of it, and she found herself mirroring it without thinking.

The song wound down into laughter and overlapping voices, the final notes collapsing into cheerful chaos.

When the song finally came to its final cadence, Hermione leaned forward and blew, the candles extinguishing out in a soft rush of smoke and melting wax. Applause broke out immediately, along with whoops of delight and Theo demanding a big slice for himself, and one for his dessert stomach.

Somewhere between the commotion of cutting slices for everyone, more firewhiskey appeared at the table, and Blaise replaced the cake knife in her hand with a shot glass before she could object.

And, to her quiet surprise, Hermione realised she did, in fact, have room for dessert.

Chapter Text

The night unfolded easily after cake.

Between small sips of firewhiskey and generous bites of buttercream, Hermione found herself laughing far more than she spoke.

The conversation drifted wherever it pleased, hopping from school memories to Ministry gossip to increasingly ridiculous stories from their Hogwarts years. She learned things about her new friends that they shared with surprising ease.

Theo, despite years of loudly proclaiming Care of Magical Creatures to be a complete waste of time, had apparently spent most mornings sneaking raw steaks from the kitchens to feed the thestrals before breakfast.

“I still can’t believe you named them,” Blaise pointed out.

“They needed names. How else would I call them for steak?”

“Did it have to be Curtis?”

“He looked like a Curtis,” Theo shrugged.

Hermione nearly snorted Firewhisky through her nose. And again when she learned he’d named the others Nigel, Barbara, and Simone.

“Barbara?” she repeated weakly.

“Yes,” Theo said. “She was destined to be a Barbara from the start. Slightly mean, and highly opinionated.”

Other revelations followed.

Blaise informed her, entirely unprompted, that Draco was incapable of resisting anything lemon-flavoured.

“Explains why he's always scowling,” Theo added.

“I do not scowl.”

The table fell silent at that, before all four of them burst out laughing.

Draco rolled his eyes and took another drink.

As the evening wore on, Hermione noticed a pattern.

Draco rarely volunteered information himself, but nobody seemed particularly bothered by it. If anything, the others appeared accustomed to it.

When conversation turned toward families, Pansy announced she'd already told Hermione about her parents, and that it was alright to bring it up in front of her. 

With Pansy’s encouragement, Hermione briefly shared the story of her own parents. How she’d sent them away to protect them, and that they wouldn’t be coming back. 

Theo frowned at that, and reached across the table to hold her hand. He spoke about losing his mother as a young child, and then his father during the war, admitting it had been more relief than grief given the man had been one of the Dark Lord's most devoted followers.

Blaise mentioned plans to visit Italy at Christmas to see his mother, who had moved back there shortly after the war, wanting nothing to do with her Death Eater ex-husband, who had, mercifully, died of natural causes.

“Naturally,” Theo echoed, in a tone that suggested the exact opposite. The look Blaise shot him only made Hermione more curious about the infamous Zabini matriarch.

When the conversation inevitably drifted toward Draco's family, he remained characteristically silent. Hermione already knew from the papers that his parents had both passed away.

Pansy confirmed it with a casual shrug, speaking as though it were old news. Draco just knocked back his drink at the mention of it.

“She practically raised Theo, too,” Pansy added.

“Yet he still ended up without an ounce of decorum,” Blaise replied.

Draco shot him a contemptuous look over the rim of his refilled glass before a smile cracked the sides of his lips. The others laughed, too.

It was strange, she thought. Not the stories themselves, but the easy familiarity with which they were told. The way they stepped around old wounds without pretending they didn't exist. The way they spoke for Draco when he didn't feel like speaking for himself.

And through it all, he remained mostly quiet. Not withdrawn or uncomfortable, no. Simply listening. 

Watching.

More than once Hermione looked up to find his eyes already on her.

Not in the way people usually looked at her. No wonderment of curiosity, but searching. 

He searched her face as though he were trying to solve a puzzle only he could see.

Each time their gazes met, he looked away eventually, but never immediately.

And each time Hermione found herself wondering what, exactly, he was looking for.

During what they'd declared to be their final round of firewhiskey, Blaise excused himself to the bathroom. Pansy seized the opportunity to steal his seat and began regaling Hermione with the idea to return to earlier Hogsmeade the next night so that they might enjoy some ice cream while the weather was still nice. 

It warmed her chest to know she now had an invitation for tomorrow.

“Yes, I’d love to,” she grinned.

“So,” Theo began, chin propped on his hand, though it wobbled slightly as he tried to keep it steady. His eyes gleamed with drunken curiosity. “You two are friends now? Just like that?”

He said it like it was a hypothesis he was deeply invested in proving.

Hermione felt Pansy shift beside her. The movement was small, but deliberate. When Hermione glanced down, Pansy’s hand slipped under the table and gave hers a brief, quiet squeeze.

Warmth bloomed instantly through Hermione’s chest.

She looked at Pansy, and something unspoken passed between them. Shared bruises. Shared defiance. Shared laughter where neither had expected it.

“Yes,” they said together, without needing to discuss it.

Theo’s grin widened as if he’d just won something.

“Well then,” he said, gesturing too vaguely with his glass, as though his arm had slightly forgotten where it was meant to go. “what about us three? Eh? Do we pass the test, or are we still on probation?”

Blaise snorted into his drink.

“Before you make your decision," he said. “You should know he’s always like this.”

“I’m a handsome delight,” Theo corrected solemnly, then squinted at him. “Don’t undermine me.”

Draco muttered something under his breath that might’ve been “helpful,” or might’ve been “hopeless,” and took another sip.

Theo leaned forward slightly now, as though the answer required confidentiality. “So go on then. Are we friends? Or are we all just pretending we don’t like each other very loudly?”

Her eyes found Malfoy before she could stop herself.

He was already watching her.

For a fleeting moment, she was no longer sitting in the warmth of the Three Broomsticks, firewhiskey in hand and laughter ringing around the table. Instead, she was lying on the cold floor of Malfoy Manor, pain ripping through every inch of her body while he caressed her mind with his voice, soothing the fire igniting the blood in her veins.

You’re going to be alright, Granger. I promise.

She could still remember the quiet urgency in his voice.

Just hold on a bit longer.

At the time, she'd clung to those words because there had been nothing else to hold onto.

She hadn't expected the world to twist itself into this shape afterwards. Hadn't imagined a future where they could sit around a table together, trading stories and insults and slices of birthday cake.

Yet here they were.

And as she held his gaze, Hermione realised she was glad of it.

More than glad, in fact.

Friends.

The word fit far more easily than she'd ever expected.

She finally looked away, finding Pansy’s blushing grin, Blaise's easy smile, and Theo's hopeful expression waiting for her.

“If you'll have me,” she said softly, the answer meant for all of them, “I would be honoured to be your friend.”

Theo immediately raised his shot glass.

“To new friends.”

“To new friends,” Blaise echoed, clinking his glass against hers.

Draco lifted his own glass a moment later.

“And old ones,” he added dryly, “that constantly kick us under the table.”

Pansy scoffed.

“You know I get restless legs.”

“You’re like a bloody kelpie.”

“See?” Pansy said, pointing at him. “This is why I kick you.”

As the last of the firewhiskey disappeared from her glass, Hermione's gaze drifted to the cake plate at the centre of the table.

Only a scattering of crumbs and a few streaks of buttercream remained. Between the five of them, they had somehow managed to defeat her entire birthday cake.

“We should probably be getting back,” Blaise announced, pushing his chair back. 

“What about the bill?”

“Taken care of,” Blaise promised her.

“But, shouldn’t we split it?”

The laughter that followed told her she’d said a silly thing, but didn’t understand how paying her way could be silly. 

It turned out, Blaise hadn’t gone to the bathroom at all, but to settle their entire tab for the evening. No one batted an eye, though. It seemed they always took turns, not really caring who paid last, so long as they’d spent the evening together.

“Was it alright? Did you have a nice time?” Pansy asked, holding tightly to her side as they navigated the uneven cobblestones.

Hermione laughed softly.

“Alright? Pansy, it was the best birthday I could have ever asked for.”

She squeezed Pansy's hand twice.

“Thank you.”

Something bright lit Pansy's face.

Ahead of them, Theo and Blaise had apparently decided that walking in a straight line was no longer sufficient entertainment. They were now butchering an old Weird Sisters song at the top of their lungs, neither of them remotely following the correct melody.

“The words aren't even in that order!” Pansy informed them.

“Art is subjective, Parkinson!” Theo shouted back.

Pansy rolled her eyes and skipped ahead to join them.

Hermione watched her go with a fond smile.

The firewhiskey still sat pleasantly warm in her chest. Not enough to make her unsteady, but enough to soften the edges of the evening. The alcohol, mixed with the pain potion from Pomfrey had taken away most of the pain from her earlier altercation with Ron, though she was grateful they were returning to the castle. Her bed was calling her name. 

The night air felt crisp against her flushed cheeks as she tucked her hands into her sleeves.

A moment later, someone fell into step beside her.

Her smile widened before she quite realised it.

Malfoy.

He walked on her right, matching her pace effortlessly.

“Have you had a good evening?” he asked, like he already knew the answer but wanted to hear it anyway.

Hermione glanced sideways at him.

Despite spending the entire evening at the same table, this felt like the first real conversation they'd had. There had been shared looks. Comments tossed back and forth. Half-finished exchanges across cake and firewhiskey.

But this was different.

Just the two of them.

Oddly, she found she liked it.

“Yes,” she said. “Very much. One of my better birthdays, actually.”

“There have been bad ones?”

She nodded solemnly.

“A few.”

A sudden gust of wind tore down the street.

Hermione gasped as it blasted through her cutting straight through the lingering warmth of the firewhiskey.

Ahead of them, Pansy threw both arms into the air.

“Wooo! I can fly!” Pansy announced.

“No you cannot! Do not climb that wall, Pansy!” Blaise reprimanded.

Theo immediately spread his own arms. 

“Don’t listen to him, I believe in us, Pansy!”

“Shut up, Theo! You’re not helping!”

“Should we help him?” Hermione asked. 

Malfoy chuckled heartily. “If you want to get accidentally kicked in the shoulder, be my guest.”

Hermione thought better of interfering, and carried on walking with Malfoy. 

The wind tugged at her hair again, sending curls whipping across her face. Without thinking, she clutched her arms to Malfoy’s side. The warmth of him seeped instantly through the layers between them.

Before she could think too much about it, she found herself nestling slightly closer against his side as they walked.

Malfoy didn't react.

Didn't tense.

Didn't tease her.

He simply adjusted his stride to accommodate her.

“What was the best one?”

Hermione glanced up at him.

“Hmm?”

“The best birthday you ever had.”

The streets of Hogsmeade glowed amber beneath the lamplight. Ahead of them, Theo had shifted from skipping and was attempting to conduct Blaise and Pansy through another disastrous rendition of a Weird Sisters song. Their voices carried through the night air, occasionally interrupted by their echoing laughter.

“My tenth,” she started. “My parents took me to Paris. Just the three of us. We ate far too much food, visited the galleries and museums, and spent an entire afternoon getting hopelessly lost because Dad refused to ask for directions.”

A laugh escaped her at the memory of his butchered attempt at French while she and her mother shared a croissant.

Draco watched her attentively as she spoke, as though he were picturing every detail.

“We ended up somewhere completely different than we intended, but remember not caring one bit. We were together. That's what made it my favourite.”

“Sounds perfect,” he said quietly. “I’ve always loved Paris. You’ll have to go back and experience the magical side of it. You’d be fascinated. They have as many bookshops as they do patisseries."

Hermione felt warmth bloom in her chest.

Perhaps it was the firewhiskey.

Perhaps not.

“It’s your turn.”

His gaze drifted ahead for a moment, and she felt him tense slightly.

“I've had many extravagant birthdays in my life, Granger. Which should come as no surprise.”

“No,” Hermione agreed. “It really doesn't.”

His mouth twitched.

“But they always came with expectations. Getting older meant more responsibility. More pressure to uphold the Malfoy name. To make my father proud.”

Their footsteps echoed softly against the cobblestones.

“This year was very different.”

He looked down at her then.

“This year started with the prospect of it being the first without my parents, and the distinct possibility that it would be my last.”

Hermione's grip tightened unconsciously on his arm.

“I was on house arrest for a month by that point,” he continued. “And the day I turned eighteen, I was told there was a very real chance I wouldn't survive the day.”

The wind stirred around them, carrying the scent of woodsmoke from distant chimneys.

“I remember sitting there thinking about all the things I hadn't done. The person I might have been. How much good I could have done if I'd been given half the chance.”

His voice had gone quieter. The others were still laughing ahead of them, the lamps still glowed, and merriment echoed in the distance from back in Hogsmeade. Yet somehow the world seemed to narrow to just the two of them.

“And then what happened?” Hermione asked softly, though she suspected she already knew.

Draco held her gaze, offering her a soft smile that confirmed her suspicions.

“When I was certain no one would have anything kind to say about me, a rather swotty witch stood up in front of everyone and did just that. I’d never been happier to be proven wrong, or more grateful.”

Hermione laughed through the sudden sting in her eyes.

“And if that weren’t enough, her speccy best friend went next, and told a similar story about a boy who'd been dealt a rather unfortunate hand in life.”

His eyes never left hers.

“A boy who'd made terrible mistakes.”

The laughter ahead of them faded into the background, his voice the only one she could hear.

“A boy who was just trying to survive.”

His expression softened.

“A boy who saved him and his friends.”

Hermione swallowed.

The memory came rushing back, his voice echoing in her head as he soothed the fire beneath her skin.

You're going to be alright, Granger. I promise. I'm going to help you get out of here, and you'll never have to see her horrible face again. Just hold on a bit longer.

“You did save us,” she said quietly. “You saved me.”

Draco's gaze flickered.

“And then you saved me.”

The words settled between them. So simple and undeniable. No arguments, no rivalry, just the truth of what they’d endured. And how they’d helped each other out from an impossible situation.

For a moment neither of them spoke.

The only sound was the rhythm of their footsteps and Theo loudly insisting he was hitting every note correctly.

It struck her suddenly that tonight might have been the first day they'd called each other friends. But it wasn't the first day she'd thought of him as one.

Not really.

Perhaps their friendship had started in a drawing room at Malfoy Manor, or in a courtroom, or somewhere in between. It had just taken them both a while to realise it.

“Thank you for your friendship, Malfoy,” she said.

His expression softened further.

“I imagine you didn't expect me to become sentimental so soon.”

Hermione laughed.

“No. I can't say I did.”

“I didn't, either, if I'm being perfectly honest. Promise me you won’t tell the others?”

“I promise.”

“I fear I’ve had a few too many drinks tonight.”

“A few?” she echoed.

“A devastating number. Though not as many as Pansy and Theo, apparently.”

Hermione stared into the distance, where Pansy and Theo were performing the Dance of the Cygnets with unremarkable accuracy.

“It would make sense,” she said slowly, “that their drunk personalities are… performers,” she explained, her gaze flicked back to him. “While yours, Malfoy, appears to be a sentimental confessor.”

He huffed something like a laugh. “It would seem so, Granger. By all means, feel free to confess something sentimental, too, if you like. Or you can join Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee in the finale over there.” 

Ahead, Theo and Pansy had transitioned, somewhat dramatically, into the finale of Swan Lake, attempting to hum the score while both insisting on being the swan.

Blaise, to his credit, hovered at their sides like a very patient stagehand, reaching out every few seconds to steady them when their balance wavered, which was often.

Hermione shook her head faintly. 

“Sadly, I’m not much of a dancer,” she lamented.

But what would she confess?

There were plenty of things she could say.

You surprised me tonight. 

I’m happy you returned to Hogwarts.

I’ve thought about you since that day at the Wizengamot.

I’d love to know if your hair feels as soft as it looks.

The options were endless, and altogether far too embarrassing. 

“Can I make a suggestion instead?” 

“Mmm?”

She had his full attention, undivided in a way that made the space between them feel smaller, and made the butterflies in her stomach do backflips at the thought of saying her silly suggestion aloud.

“How about I call you Draco?”

The reaction was immediate.

He stopped so abruptly that Hermione nearly took another step without him.

They had halted directly under the circle of light cast by a nearby streetlamp, its warm glow spilling across the cobblestones and catching in his hair. The pale strands gleamed like spun gold, a faint halo crowning his head against the darkness beyond.

She watched in mild amusement as his entire face changed, moving through myriad emotions.

Suspicion.

Confusion.

Mild alarm.

“Why on earth would you want to do that?”

“Because your friends call you Draco,” she answered plainly.

His eyes narrowed.

“And?”

She couldn't help smiling.

“And we're friends now. Doesn’t Malfoy feel a bit too impersonal?”

For a moment he simply stared at her, and she stared right back, watching the wind ruffle through his pale hair.

Then he shook his head.

“I'm not calling you Hermione.”

“I’m not asking you to,” she shrugged.

“Good. Because I’m not Pansy. I can’t just call by your first name just like that.”

His answer came with such immediate certainty that Hermione barked out another laugh.

“That’s fine,” she assured him.

They started walking again, shoulders brushing. She could practically hear him overthinking her suggestion, the deep, audible breathing giving him away.

“You're Granger. You've always been Granger.”

“I’m aware.”

Years of arguments and rivalry and reluctant respect packed into a single surname.

She glanced up at him. His eyes were already on her again. Just like they had been all evening. Not staring, just... checking. As though reassuring himself she was still there.

“Calling me anything else would be weird,” she surmised, knowing it’s exactly what he was thinking.

A faint smile tugged at his mouth. 

“I’m glad you agree.”

The answering smile that flickered across his face was small. But somehow it felt like she'd won something. 

A friend. 

That was what they had become. And somehow the conversation continued as easily as walking or breathing. Just as it had been with Pansy, talking to Draco came naturally. Comfortably, even. It felt like they had been having conversations like this for years.

There were no awkward pauses. No careful navigation around old history. Just them. Two friends. 

He told her how he’d been enjoying reading again, and shared with her some notable titles to borrow from the library. Works of fiction, which surprised her. He’d discovered a form of escapism that didn’t involve retreating into his own head. She recommended some muggle works to him, offering to lend him her own copies if the library didn’t have them.

Surprisingly, he agreed. And for a few blissful moments, Hermione allowed herself to enjoy the steady warmth at her side. The pleasant haze of firewhiskey still lingering in her veins. The ease of walking beside Draco arm in arm, just like she used to do with Harry. She hadn’t held onto him in ages, not wanting to overstep a boundary with Ginny. 

When Pansy began attempting to do cartwheels across the cobblestones, it drew their attention from literature. At the sound of hers and Draco’s laughter, Pansy seemed to suddenly remember they were there. 

“Hermione! Draco! Come cartwheel with me!”

“Not on your life!” Draco guffawed.

“No, thank you!” Hermione replied kinder, watching as the girl tried and failed to get her legs over her head, causing Theo to topple over when she inevitably kicked him between the legs. 

Draco winced like he’d been kicked, too. 

“Told you she kicks.”

Blaise stepped in, scooping her up off the floor with one arm.

“Come here, you uncoordinated wench.”

“Air jail!” Pansy sang, as Blaise lifted her onto his back. 

Hermione covered her mouth at the sight, holding in her amusement. 

“Has she always been this much fun?”

“Mostly, yes,” Draco answered. “Since the war, she’s been clawing it back, day by day, piece by piece.”

“Her happiness?”

Draco nodded. “As have we all.”

They continued to watch Blaise try to haul Theo up, while keeping Pansy steady on his back, even when she started making horse noises and tugging at his collar as though it were reins. 

“I’m sorry you had to send your parents away.”

Hermione's attention snapped back to Draco, momentarily startled by the sudden shift in conversation.

His mouth fell open at her expression, remorse clouding his eyes.

“Sorry,” he said quickly. “I shouldn't have brought it up.”

“No.” Hermione shook her head. “It's alright.”

The night air felt cooler suddenly, she gripped him tighter, not slowing her legs, pushing onward.

“I did what I had to do,” she said, repeating the same words she’d regurgitated to anyone else that brought it up. “They're safe. That's all that matters.”

Draco was quiet for a moment, his gaze fixed on the lantern-lit street ahead.

“It was smart,” he said eventually. “Assuming they'd be targeted.”

Hermione swallowed.

“There were rumours,” he continued. “That they were being searched for. Nothing ever came of it, but..." He glanced at her. "You were right to be cautious.”

The warmth from the firewhiskey seemed to fade a little.

“You saved them from a terrible fate. But I’m sorry that it cost you so much.”

The sincerity in his words hit her so unexpectedly that she stumbled against an uneven cobblestone. Draco's hand tightened around her arm immediately. He steadied her without thinking, placing himself slightly between her and the road until she found her footing again.

Hermione barely noticed her feet, though. She was too busy staring at him to care where they landed.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, breathing the word directly into her heart. 

She knew he wasn't apologising on behalf of his family, or trying to shoulder responsibility that wasn't his.

He was grieving the loss with her. Acknowledging it. Recognising her sacrifice for what it was. A heartbreaking, cruel necessity.

Most people spoke about her decision as though it had been brave. A practical strategy, like in a game of chess, to protect them from future harm. 

Draco was the first person who had ever spoken about it like he understood the hurt it had caused her.

Because he did. 

He knew exactly how it felt to lose his parents forever. 

“Thank you,” Hermione whispered, feeling a lump catch in her throat. “And I’m sorry, too, about your parents. I know you must miss them a great deal.”

He inhaled deeply, squeezing tighter to the arm she had linked around his. 

“Thank you.”

She clung tighter to him after that, focusing on their steady breathing as they continued. The turrets of the castle peeked above the trees. It wouldn’t be much further until they were back. 

Another gust of wind tore down the street, hitting them head-on.

“Ooof,” Hermione gasped as icy air slipped beneath her blouse and stole every bit of warmth she'd managed to gather. Instinctively, she pressed closer to Draco, who did the same.

He sighed deeply again. Before she could make sense of the sound, he gently disentangled her arm from his and stepped away.

The loss of warmth was immediate and unexpectedly disappointing. For a brief, ridiculous moment, Hermione felt the absence of him curl low in her stomach, and wonder what she’d done wrong.

Then she realised what he was doing.

“Oh, no, you don't have to,” she protested, holding up her hands.

Draco had already undone the buttons of his jacket.

“Less of the stubbornness,” he replied, shrugging it from his shoulders. “You're shivering.”

“I'm not—”

“You are.”

Before she could protest again, he’d draped the jacket around her shoulders. 

Warmth flooded in at once, trapped in the heavy fabric. Cedar and pine lingered all around. So clean and unmistakably his scent. It settled around her as thoroughly as the weight of the jacket did, which practically swallowed her whole. 

Hermione pulled it closer, unable to resist sinking into its warmth. The fabric still held the heat of him. With a contented little hum, she slid her arms properly into the sleeves, which were far too long, but she didn’t mind at all.

“Mm.”

“Better?” he asked, a playful grin tugging at his mouth.

Hermione smiled despite herself, burrowing a fraction deeper into the jacket. It felt far too good to pretend otherwise.

“How many girls have you done this for?” she asked, peering up at him over the collar.

Malfoy’s mouth twitched. 

“What?”

“This,” she said, folding her arms around herself. “The chivalrous gentleman act.”

His gaze flicked over her face, measured and amused, before a realisation struck. 

“You’re still drunk.”

“Not that drunk,” she countered at once.

That earned her the faintest lift at the corner of his mouth. 

“Really? You ask outlandish questions like this while sober?”

“Sometimes.,” she responded

Now he actually looked entertained. 

“Granger.”

“Yes, Draco?”

“You’re wearing my jacket.”

She glanced down at it as if she’d somehow forgotten.

“That does appear to be the case,” she said, before flailing the long sleeves around like a fun, new toy. 

“Then perhaps save your scepticism until you’re no longer benefiting from it.”

Hermione paused, then let a slow grin slip through. “Touché, Draco Malfoy, touché.”

Satisfied, he offered her his arm again, and they continued walking. But she only made it a few steps before she peered up at him, grinning from ear to ear. 

“What is it now?” he groaned.

“Thank you, Draco.” she said, softer this time.

His jaw ticked, and as he inhaled, Hermione caught him rolling his eyes. But behind the theatrics, something in his expression softened. He tightened his hold on her arm, not looking at her, not smiling, but not frowning either.

“You’re welcome.”

* * *

By the time they reached the Concord dorms, Pansy had fallen asleep draped over Blaise’s shoulder like a very opinionated, very drunk backpack, her head lolling with each of his steps. She snored loudly enough to echo down the corridor.

Draco had taken over half-carrying Theo somewhere mid-staircase, Theo’s arm slung over his shoulders as he hummed, off-key, a Weird Sisters song with stubborn enthusiasm.

At the common area, where the boys and girls dorms split off, Draco paused briefly. His gaze found Hermione’s over the chaos of their friends.

“Good night, Granger,” he said quietly, offering a small, gentle nod before disappearing through the archway with Theo still quietly singing.

“I want a bacon sandwich,” Theo announced suddenly, far too loudly for the hour, the voice echoing back to them.

“Shh,” Draco muttered at once. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Even from the end of the corridor, Hermione heard the quiet exchange, followed by the soft click of a door opening and shutting as Draco guided him inside.

“Elegant as ever,” Blaise muttered fondly, readjusting Pansy’s weight as she let out another cavern-rattling snore against his shoulder.

Hermione pressed her lips together, failing to fully hide her grin.

“Come on,” she said, glancing between them. “I’ll help you with her.”

Blaise tipped his head in thanks, already adjusting his hold as Pansy sagged further into him.

As Hermione held the door open for Blaise, her eyes drifted to the second bed.

Parvati's bed.

Untouched.

Neatly made.

Empty.

Something inside her didn’t sit right at the sight.

Together they manoeuvred the sleeping witch into her room. Hermione pulled back the covers while Blaise carefully lowered her onto the mattress.

“How are they so much more drunk than us?” Hermione asked.

“My guess is that when they snuck off to arrange your cake, they also snuck some elf-made wine. Would explain the extra charges on the tab.”

As if in confirmation, Pansy immediately rolled over and buried her face in the pillow, her snores filling the room as her leg hung off the side. 

“Such a lady,” Hermione murmured, tucking her in.

Blaise huffed a laugh.

“You don't have to mean it, you know.”

Hermione turned to him, finding his smile had faded.

“Mean what?” she frowned.

“This whole friendship thing. There’s still time for you to take it back.”

She stared at him.

“What are you talking about?”

Blaise glanced at Pansy, a troubled frown settling between his eyes.

“I know we all got a bit sentimental tonight. Firewhiskey tends to do that.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “If you wake up tomorrow and decide you don't actually want to be friends with us, that's your choice. But I need you to tell me first before you break her heart.”

Hermione's confusion only deepened.

“When your friends learn who you were with tonight, they’ll surely have plenty to say about it. They’ll likely warn you away from us, and that’s to be expected.‘ His eyes remained fixed on the sleeping figure on the bed. The words landed heavily. “We're used to people deciding we're not worth the effort. But Pansy, she—”

“That's enough,” she cut in, her voice leaving no room for argument. 

The conviction in her voice was sharp enough that Pansy stirred, rolling onto her back.

Both of them froze in place, eyes fixed on her prone state. When Pansy resumed her gentle snore, Blaise exhaled uneasily, jerking his head toward the corridor. Hermione followed him without argument.

The door clicked softly shut behind them.

“You’re a good person, Granger,” he continued. “There’s no denying that. I’m just offering you an out before you have time to regret today. Before you regret us.”

Hermione blinked at him in disbelief. 

Her eyes slid to the door, to where beyond, Pansy slept alone. Pansy, who had done more for her in one day than her other friends had done for her in years. Without question, she’d taken her under her wing, and made room at her table for her without asking for anything in return.

The friendship happened quickly. Absurdly quickly, some might say. Yet Hermione didn't distrust it, not one bit. Some friendships were built over years. Others were forged in moments of kindness, through understanding, through the quiet recognition of someone else's pain.

What she felt for Pansy wasn't politeness. It wasn't gratitude. It wasn't the lingering sentimentality of too much firewhiskey.

It was friendship.

Real friendship.

And it wasn't just Pansy, either.

“I would never do that to her,” she said, the promise coming out steady and unshaken.

When he opened his mouth to respond, she lifted a halting hand towards him. 

“No,” she said again. “I would never do that to her, Blaise. And I’m utterly offended that you would think I might.”

Blaise leaned against the wall, scrubbing a hand over his tired face. Despite the defensiveness, Hermione felt reassured by the sentiment of Blaise being so protective of Pansy’s happiness. It was clear he cared for her, much like she cared for Harry. 

“She's lost far more than just her family, Granger.”

The words were carefully chosen. Almost too careful, saying something without actually saying it. 

Hermione felt her stomach drop.

He knew. Not everything, perhaps, but enough. Just like she did.

“I know.”

Sharp eyes shot immediately to her hers, frozen in shock.

“You know?”

“I know,” she repeated softly. 

Blaise’s gaze sharpened the moment she said it.

“She told you what happened?”

“Not in so many words,” he replied at first, then hesitated. “But when girls share similar scars like that, words are rarely needed.”

That landed differently.

Hermione saw the shift in him, his expression stalling, then reordering itself as something clicked into place. His eyes moved over her again, slower now, no longer searching for idle signs of regret, but for something deeper. Something he hadn’t expected to find.

Understanding dawned, and the colour drained from his face. His gaze lifted to hers and held, something in his expression shifting as the pieces fell into place. Blaise drew in a slow breath, a crease forming between his brows as his features tightened with quiet pain. 

Hermione knew exactly what he was seeing. Not a bruise or a scar he could point to, but the shadows behind her eyes—the same ones he'd already learned to recognise in Pansy.

Feeling suddenly vulnerable, Hermione folded her arms around herself, only to realise she was still wearing Draco’s massive jacket. In all the commotion of getting Theo and Pansy to bed, she’d forgotten to take it off. For all she’d protested and teased him for letting her borrow it, she felt incredibly grateful to still have it on. 

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I’m so sorry, Granger.”

There wasn't much else to say. Some wounds didn't need explaining.

“Pansy is my friend now, as are you, as is Theo, and Draco, too. That's not up for debate, and it isn't subject to anyone else's approval. Whatever anyone says, my answer will remain the same. You have my word.”

Blaise studied her for a moment, his gaze searching her face for any hint of hesitation, any sign she might reconsider in the cold light of morning. He found none.

Slowly, his shoulders relaxed beneath his jacket. The tension he'd been carrying all evening finally began to drain away.

“Alright,” he said, giving a small nod. A genuine smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Well, in that case, Happy Birthday, Granger. Sleep well.”

Hermione smiled back.

“Goodnight, Blaise. And thank you again for dinner.”

With a final nod, he turned and headed down the corridor. Hermione watched him disappear down the boy’s corridor before making her way several doors further along. She slipped quietly inside, closing the door behind her with a soft click.

The first thing she noticed was that Padma and Parvati were already asleep. Curled beneath the blankets in the oversized bed Hermione had helped enlarge on the very first day.

A sharp flash of irritation shot through her.

Padma had asked for help expanding it, claiming she wanted her sister close for a while. Hermione hadn't questioned it. Why would she? They were sisters. She'd happily cast the spell and moved on, assuming it was exactly what it appeared to be.

Nobody had mentioned that Parvati had been sharing a room with Pansy.

Nobody had mentioned she was avoiding her assigned room on purpose.

The second thing Hermione noticed was Parvati's trunk, positioned neatly beside Padma's.

She stared at it.

Then at the wardrobe, partially open, revealing clothing that clearly belonged to both of them.

Every single one of Parvati's things was in this room.

Not halfway moved.

Not in the process of being packed.

Here.

A muscle ticked in Hermione's jaw.

She hadn't just moved rooms. She'd moved out completely.

And she'd done it without giving Pansy so much as a chance.

Worse, Hermione had unknowingly helped make it possible.

With the firewhiskey still lingering pleasantly in her veins, like liquid courage, she headed to her desk, pulled out a scrap bit of parchment, and wrote quickly and without an ounce of remorse.

Then, after a few practiced flicks of her wand, books slid silently from her shelves before disappearing into her magically extended trunk. Her school robes flew from her wardrobe, along with her shoes, and several toiletries. Quills, parchment, ink bottles and textbooks swept out from the desk drawers in an orderly procession, sliding themselves neatly beside her books.

Within seconds, everything Hermione owned sat neatly inside her trunk.

“Reducio,” she whispered, tapping gently on the lid.

It shrank instantly to a manageable size, already charmed to be weightless. Hermione reached for the handle, holding it comfortably in one hand. With the other, grabbed the note and placed it atop her covers, where the twins would surely find it in the morning.

The bed’s all yours, Vati—HG