Pansy and Panic Attacks
The warmth of Diagon Alley was gone, replaced by the familiar chill of the castle as Hermione and Draco returned to Hogwarts. The corridors were quiet—most students still gone for the holidays, leaving only a handful of Eighth Years and professors behind.
As they entered the common room, a voice rang out from the sofa.
“Well, well, look who finally decided to grace us with their presence.”
Hermione turned to see Pansy Parkinson lounging comfortably, a smirk playing at her lips.
“Pansy,” Draco drawled, setting down the bags from their shopping trip. “Didn’t expect you back so soon.”
Pansy shrugged. “Decided to return early. Someone has to keep things interesting around here.” She turned her sharp gaze toward Hermione, giving her a once-over.
“So,” Pansy said, tilting her head, “I hear you’re attending the gala at Malfoy Manor.”
Hermione blinked, glancing toward Draco before hesitantly nodding. “Yes, Narcissa invited me.”
Pansy’s smirk softened slightly. “Good. You’ll need someone to do your hair.”
Before Hermione could refuse, Pansy waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t even think about arguing, Granger. You’ll have the finest dress and jewelry—your hair should match.”
Draco snorted. “She’s right, you know.”
Hermione sighed, about to relent—when suddenly, something cold and sharp lodged itself in her chest.
The gala.
At Malfoy Manor.
The realization hit her like a curse.
She might be stepping foot in the very room she had been tortured in.
The air thinned. The walls tilted. Her vision blurred as memories rushed forward with cruel clarity.
The cold stone floor beneath her knees.
Bellatrix’s shrill laughter.
The agonizing pain as her skin burned under the Cruciatus Curse.
A gasp tore from Hermione’s throat as she stumbled backward, her chest heaving. Her vision tunneled, the room fading away as she struggled to breathe past the rising panic.
Hands caught her. Strong, steady hands.
“Hey, hey—look at me,” Draco’s voice cut through the haze, low and soothing.
Hermione barely registered being pulled onto his lap, her body trembling as she gripped the front of his robes like a lifeline.
“It’s gone, Hermione,” he murmured, his arms tight around her. “That room is gone. It’s been destroyed.”
She squeezed her eyes shut, her breath shaky and uneven. “But—”
“I promise you,” Draco whispered, his lips brushing her temple, “you will never have to set foot in that room again. It’s not there anymore. You are safe.”
Hermione let out a choked sob, her body still trembling, but the vice around her chest began to loosen.
Draco’s hands moved gently, stroking slow, calming patterns along her arms. One hand drifted into her hair, fingers threading through her curls with aching tenderness.
Pansy, surprisingly quiet, knelt beside them.
“That’s why you panicked, isn’t it?” she said softly. “You thought you’d have to be back in that room.”
Hermione nodded weakly.
“Well, that won’t do at all,” Pansy declared. “I’ll make sure you’re too busy looking stunning to think about the past.”
Draco pressed a soft kiss to Hermione’s temple, his arms still firm around her. “See?” he murmured. “You have two Malfoys and one determined Parkinson making sure you’re alright. You’ll be fine.”
Hermione let out a small, watery laugh.
She wasn’t sure if she’d ever be entirely fine.
But right here, in Draco’s arms, with Pansy fussing over her, she thought—maybe she’d be okay.