Chapter 1

Hermione Granger was not afraid of hard things.

She had fought to take down a madman. She had held her best friend’s hand as he broke into sobs after Fred died. She had impersonated Bellatrix Lestrange after being tortured at the end of her wand and rode a dragon out of Gringotts. But somehow, the most exhausting thing she had done in months was walk through the gates of the castle she once thought of as home.

She knew deep down that she would regret it if she didn’t come back to finish her education but right at this moment, looking upon the castle that was still recovering, she was second guessing her decision to not follow Harry and Ron into ministry careers.

The rebuilding effort had only partially touched the exterior. The great stone walls still stood tall, but they wore their cracks openly now. Some were patched with newer stone, rougher and lighter in color. Others had been left—memorial scars, McGonagall had said. Let the walls remember.

Hermione wasn’t sure she wanted to remember. She’d come back to finish school, yes, but more than that—to have something that felt like purpose again. Structure. Maybe even hope.

She just hadn’t expected to be this tired. Her thoughts wandered as she made her way through the halls, memories of slain classmates and friends flashed through her mind with every step she took. She could do this. She had faced worse. Her trunk bumped along behind her, floating with a lazy swish of her wand. The note in her pocket had given directions to her room with the cryptic instruction that some accommodations were still in flux due to “magical reconstruction complications.”

As Hermione neared the corridor she knew led towards the dungeons, she reached for the note in her pocket. As she opened it to double check that she had read it properly the first time.

Hermione J. Granger,
Your room has been assigned by the castle due to reconstruction complications. Head towards the dungeons and the castle will ensure you find your accommodations for the year. Passwords will be implemented once all students have arrived and will be posted in your common room.
M. McGonagall

As her eyes skimmed the note she let out a frustrated sigh . She had requested a room in Gryfinndor tower or even Ravenclaw as a second choice. The Slytherin dungeons hadn’t even crossed her mind.
“Best get on with it” she muttered as she let the castle guide her towards her new room. She hadn’t expected a private room. She hadn’t even expected quiet. But when she opened the door to her assigned room for the year, she did not expect Pansy bloody Parkinson.

She froze in the doorway. Her trunk bumped gently into her calf breaking her thoughts from heading into a further downward spiral. 

I’m to be sharing a room with Parkinson. 

Pansy looked up from a book—not a fashion magazine or a gossip rag, but an actual book and raised one immaculately plucked brow at the bewildered look on her face. 

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Hermione said. Her voice came out flatter than she meant.

Pansy tilted her head like a cat watching a bird flail. “Oh, good. You’re not mute. I was worried.”

Hermione took a step inside. The door creaked ominously behind her. It swung shut, and she heard a click that sounded suspiciously final. She turned. No handle. No visible mechanism at all.
Just blank, cold stone.

“Seriously?” she muttered, pressing her palm against it. It didn’t budge.
Pansy didn’t even blink. “It does that. You’ll get used to it.”
Hermione turned slowly to face her. “You’re… my roommate?”
“No, Granger, I just like lurking in other people’s assigned rooms with all my belongings.” She gestured toward her side of the room—trunk unpacked, wardrobe half-filled, a small stack of books arranged with casual precision on the desk. “You’re late, by the way.”

Hermione’s heart thudded in her chest—not fear, not quite. Something heavier. Disbelief. She’d prepared herself to come back to a haunted school, to whispers and stares. She hadn’t prepared for Pansy Parkinson in her living space.
She took inventory—two beds, two desks, one fireplace that hadn’t been lit in weeks. The window was small and high, letting in a shaft of dull gray light. Everything smelled faintly of damp stone and forgotten spells.
Hermione exhaled slowly through her nose. It felt like her lungs had been wrapped in cotton all summer. Every breath thick and unsatisfying.

“I asked for Gryffindor housing,” she said, setting her trunk down by the far bed.
“Well.” Pansy gave a theatrical shrug. “The castle didn’t listen.”

Hermione sat on the edge of the mattress. It dipped under her weight with a reluctant creak. She stared at her hands in her lap. They looked too still. Too clean.
Pansy’s presence was unnerving. Hermione could feel her eyes on her, like a wand drawn but not aimed. She hadn’t really seen her since the war. Not close up. Not without the chaos of blood and fire between them. Pansy looked… smaller than she remembered. Still polished, still composed, but tired. Her hair was shorter, the ends uneven, like she’d cut it herself in a fit of frustration. Her eyes—sharp, dark, assessing—were ringed with exhaustion she couldn’t conceal.
She looked like someone who’d built a wall around herself and was too proud to admit it was crumbling.

“I thought you left the country,” Hermione said softly.

“I thought you died,” Pansy replied without missing a beat.

Hermione looked up. There was no bite in Pansy’s voice. No smirk. Just flat honesty, like a pebble dropped into still water.

“I almost did,” Hermione admitted. She was surprised by how much it hurt to say.
A beat of silence passed between them. The torches flickered.
“Well.” Pansy turned back to her book. “You didn’t. Congratulations.”
Hermione stared at the cracked ceiling and told herself this was fine.

She’d survived worse.

She could survive this.

But gods, she was so tired.