Chapter 2
Chapter 2
Hermione woke with a jolt.
For one sharp, disoriented moment, she couldn’t tell where she was. The ceiling above her wasn’t the familiar, vaulted wood of the Gryffindor dormitories, or the neutral stone of the guest quarters she’d used over the summer. This one had soft curves and pale limestone arches that shimmered faintly in the early light seeping through the draped windows.
The room.
Her heart sank.
She sat up too fast, her pulse still too loud in her ears. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep. She’d intended to pace, to puzzle through the enchantments on the door, to organize her books—anything but sleep. But sometime between testing another charm and glaring at the ceiling in frustration, her exhaustion had won out.
The castle hadn’t let her leave. Not even to get fresh air. The door had refused her—not with violence, just indifference. Like it had already decided where she was meant to be.
She swung her legs out of bed and rubbed at her eyes. The sheets were warm, the kind that made it harder to move. A soft breeze brushed through the room, though none of the windows were open.
Her eyes drifted toward the divider in the center of the space—velvet and opaque, suspended by nothing visible. Pansy’s bed was somewhere on the other side. So was her wardrobe. Her wand. Her breathing.
The other girl hadn’t said a word when Hermione had given up on the door the night before. She’d merely hummed—hummed—from behind the screen like she was mildly entertained. Hermione hadn’t even had the energy to snap at her.
She dressed quickly in her uniform, wand tucked into her belt, trying to avoid the feeling of being watched. The air around her buzzed with faint tension, the kind she normally associated with poorly-constructed wards or the moment before a magical storm broke. Her fingers itched to cast something—anything—but she held back. No point in drawing the room’s attention again.
The door opened without resistance this time.
Of course it did.
___________
The Great Hall was too bright.
The enchanted ceiling stretched wide above her, clear and cloudless, casting sunlight across the four long house tables. Everything felt too loud—clinking cutlery, rustling parchment, the occasional laugh. Not happy sounds, exactly. Just noise trying to bring a semblance of normalcy..
Hermione made her way to the end of the Gryffindor table and sat alone, deliberately. She wasn’t interested in conversation. She wasn’t even sure she could manage it.
Her tea tasted too thin. She added honey and took another sip. Still off.
She buttered a slice of toast mechanically, forcing herself to chew while she scanned the room. Everything looked just slightly off-balance—fewer students, quieter professors, empty spaces that once had held laughter, and full plates. The war lingered like fog no one could quite shake.
She saw Parvati down the table and gave a half-smile. Parvati returned it politely, but didn’t approach. Hermione didn’t blame her.
She was halfway through a second bite when a ripple moved through the room.
Pansy Parkinson entered like she was daring someone to look at her the wrong way.
Her hair was swept back into a perfect twist. Her robes weren’t fastened properly, but somehow it came across as intentional—like she was above buttons, or rules, or maybe reality itself. She wore deep red lipstick, sharp against her pale skin, and her gaze was calm. Distant.
Hermione stared at her plate.
She could feel the eyes following Pansy through the hall. And then—
No. She wouldn’t.
She did.
Pansy slid into the Gryffindor table. Not next to her—just close enough to be noticed. Close enough to make a statement.
Hermione didn’t look at her. She didn’t flinch. She reached for her tea again, steady as she could manage, and sipped like nothing had happened.
Still too thin.
________
By the time she arrived at the Arithmancy corridor, Hermione had organized herself into something close to calm.
She clutched her satchel tightly against her chest, her fingers wound around the worn leather strap. Logic. Runes. Numbers. Structure. She could breathe here. She would breathe here.
The classroom was already half-full. Professor Vector stood at the front, scribbling on the board in tight, angular strokes. Charts. Sigils. Ratios. Hermione slid into a front-row seat and began pulling out her parchment and ink. The familiar scent of chalk and old paper settled into her chest like a balm.
Then the seat beside her scraped.
Hermione didn’t have to look.
“Morning,” Pansy said lightly.
Hermione dipped her quill into her ink pot without responding.
Professor Vector began the lecture without fanfare. She always did. They launched into advanced applications of sigil chains in ward structures—loop logic, fractal expansion, recursive efficiency. Hermione took notes furiously, grateful for the pace. This was what she needed: focus, rules, control.
Until Professor Vector said “Pair up. We’ll be charting compatibility resonance in dual-cast sigil work today. Names are on the board.”
Hermione looked up.
Her name was paired with Parkinson.
Of course it was.
Pansy leaned over just enough to smirk. “Looks like the universe has a sense of humor.”
Hermione ignored her.
They shifted their chairs slightly to face one another. The spell was simple: each would inscribe a sigil of shielding, overlaid in the same space, while focusing on stability and alignment. The parchment would absorb the resonance and chart the pattern.
Hermione took a deep breath.
They cast at the same time.
The ink shimmered. Their sigils flared gold—brighter than anyone else’s in the room. For a moment, the lines pulsed in unison. Then something strange began to form: a spiral, tight and mirrored, folding in on itself again and again. Not chaotic. Not mismatched. Perfectly symmetrical. Too symmetrical.
Hermione’s breath caught.
Professor Vector appeared beside them, brows furrowed. “That’s… unusual.”
Hermione looked down again. The spiral was still glowing faintly. She felt its rhythm under her skin, like a second heartbeat.
“Rare,” Vector said, studying it closely. “Closed-loop mirrored sigils are typically only seen in bonded casters. Very rare outside of certain magical partnerships.”
Hermione flushed. “It must be a fluke.”
Vector gave her a knowing look but said nothing else.
Pansy leaned back in her chair and said, far too calmly, “Well. I suppose there are worse people to be magically compatible with.”
Hermione didn’t answer. She couldn’t.
She stared down at the parchment, willing the glow to fade.
It didn’t.
________
The corridor outside the arithmancy classroom was quiet. Students peeled away in pairs and trios, chatting softly about the lesson or plans for later. Hermione didn’t speak to anyone. She clutched her satchel tightly to her side and turned down a side passage that curved away from the main staircase. She wasn’t in a hurry to get back to her room - their room.
She needed to think.
The spiral from the chart still hovered behind her eyes, etched into her memory in golden ink. She’d seen thousands of sigils, dozens of compatibility patterns, but never one like that. Not in textbooks. Not in theory. Bonded casters, Vector had said. As though it were a perfectly reasonable explanation.
Hermione knew better.
There was no such thing as perfect compatibility. Not magically. Not personally. People weren’t puzzle pieces.
And yet…
The spell hadn’t stuttered. Their timing had been exact. Her focus, normally so rigid and solitary, had folded into Pansy’s like they’d done it a hundred times before. It didn’t make sense.
She reached the end of the hall and turned into an alcove, one she’d used often in sixth year when she needed quiet. The stained-glass window cast muted colors over the stone bench. Hermione sat down slowly, the echo of her footsteps fading behind her.
Her hands were shaking.
It wasn’t just the spell. It was everything.
The castle. The locked door. The schedule that paired them. The way Pansy sat too close, said too little, and looked at her like she was waiting for something.
Hermione hated this feeling. She didn’t understand it, couldn’t chart it, couldn’t solve it. And that scared her more than she liked to admit.
She rubbed her temples and exhaled. Maybe it meant nothing. Maybe it was a magical glitch, or the castle playing tricks, or—
Footsteps. Light. Precise. She looked up sharply but the corridor was empty. She stood, suddenly restless, and took a long breath. Her eyes drifted upward to the high windows, where sunlight filtered through the dust like static. The light felt warmer now. Not comforting, exactly—just inevitable.
She couldn’t avoid the room forever.
And Pansy—well. Somehow, she didn’t think Pansy was going to let her.