Plume
A week had passed, and Pansy had proven herself to be a prodigious student. Hermione had tried to not be intimidated by the fact that it generally had taken her longer to figure out every assignment when she had prepared for their tutorials than it did for her student. She couldn’t recall exactly the day she had decided to sit by Pansy’s side instead of going all the way to the teacher’s desk, but neither of them had decided to address it. As levels progressed, the trips between both their locations had increased in frequency, which is why sitting by each other’s side made more sense. At least that was the narrative Hermione had decided to follow in her mind. She often found herself looking forward to that portion of her day, knowing she’d be able to read a book and not have to deal with her friends. Ron had been particularly stressful to be around with as his relationship with Lavender had deteriorated. She had made small attempts at conversation with Parkinson, though most of those had been politely declined, or rather redirected towards transfiguration. Pansy didn’t want to get to know her, and Hermione didn’t understand why she couldn’t bring herself to return the favour. Perhaps it was simply due to the fact that she had associated the tutorial sessions with rest, and reading, two of her favourite things, impossible to achieve with Harry and Ron.
Things were different that day. Hermione could hear the Slytherin girl arguing with somebody from the hallway. She leaned against the door, hoping to catch a glimpse of their conversation.
“You have to stop this Pansy! For both of your sakes. Please!”
“You think I don’t know that?” Pansy said in between sobs. “I’m figuring it out! There’s still time seeing how poorly you’re doing over on your side! Draco you don’t know what it’s like.”
“Of course I know what it’s like! I just happen to also have more responsibilities than you do. Now is not the time to break that Gryffindor myth of ‘All Slytherins are bad’. Do it before it’s too late. Do it before we’re all dead.
“I know, I know, '' Pansy shrieked. “I don’t know how much longer I can go. I’m feeling myself break, Draco. “
“I’m sorry. That’s not an option for either of us.”
Their conversation came to an end. Draco started making his way towards the door. Hermione knew she had to beat him to it. Act surprised as she entered the detention room and found him.
“I hate you! Why did you tell me? Why did you have to tell me!” Pansy cried as the steps grew closer.
Hermione almost fell through the door running into Draco in the process.
“Malfoy?” She questioned, out of breath.
“Granger.” He replied before disappearing into the hallway, not once looking into her direction.
Hermione took a deep breath. Now came the part where she had to ‘notice’ Pansy crying. She took hesitant steps towards the girl while bracing herself for an awkward talk.
“Pansy?”
“Lesson’s over, Granger. Also don’t call me that.” Pansy growled as she packed her things.
“Everything alright?”
“What’s it to you? You should be rejoicing yourself right now. I just know you’re going to run to your little boyfriend and the stupid chosen one and brag about how you saw me cry.”
“I wouldn’t do that.” Hermione tried not to take offence at the accusation. She knew the girl was just taking her emotions out on whoever was near, which just happened to be her.
Pansy chuckled. “Oh please. Like you’re anything if you’re not with them.”
Hermione felt her swell. Pansy’s words cut like sharpened knives, making sure to pierce through her weakest spots. She hated how emotional she could be. Why did those words hurt so much, when they came from the mouth of someone she despised? Pansy’s lips trembled. She wiped her tears away with her cloak before looking up at Hermione one more time, searching for something.
“If you hate me so much, why don’t you call me that?” Hermione’s words were slow, detached, every syllable expensive to utter. She wasn’t going to let Pansy win. She gripped her wand, dissimulated in her sleeve.
“What?”
“Please like that’s ever been a problem. Come on Pansy, call me that. I know you’re dying to. All your little friends already do.” She took a step forward, not knowing whether or not her reverse psychology was effective at all. Pansy took a step back.
“I told you not to call me that.”
“What? Pansy? It’s your bloody name. Grow up.” Hermione took another step. Inches apart now, she made sure to not break eye contact. Pansy’s green eyes swelled with tears again.
“You… you… get off of me!” Pansy pushed her. Hermione fell back against another desk while the Slytherin girl snatched her bag and stomped out the door. Hermione let out a sigh of relief. She started laughing and crying at the same time, the adrenaline rush finally hitting her body. She had retaliated. Pansy’s personal problems were none of her business, which meant she did not deserve to be punished for them.
It took her minutes for her heart to start beating at an acceptable rate again. She finally raised her back from the hardwood desk, now staring at the empty room. A couple of bird skeletons flew by the ceiling, their wings moving mechanically in a manner that would in no way allow a regular bird to get off the ground. The reality of Pansy’s words sank in. More specifically, Hermione became aware of her own emotional reaction to them. Mixed in with anger and hurt was disappointment. While she wouldn’t admit it, even under veritaserum, she had started viewing Pansy differently from her Slytherin peers. Perhaps it was her need to help everyone around her. Perhaps it was the fact that Pansy was so obviously sinking, and that no one seemed to do anything about it, not even the teachers that had noticed.
Hermione shivered, remembering Draco’s words, thinking that his idea wasn’t the worst. If she went back to thinking all Slytherins were the same, then she didn't have to worry about Pansy. She could even follow Ron’s advice of teaching Pansy all the wrong things until she failed transfiguration, which was an automatic academic probation or even a disqualification from an obtention of her N.E.W.T.
Perhaps Pansy was right. There she was, alone in a detention classroom, thinking of all the ways she could follow what the guys around her said. Hermione tried to think about what it would feel like to do something for herself, or at least something that she wanted, but the idea was too distant. She felt small. More hollow than full. How she longed to feel like herself again. How impossible that felt.
The feeling lingered. Hermione made her way directly back to her room, pulling the curtains of her bed. Her friends would ask questions. She could answer them tomorrow. Her head hit the pillow. She could sense her journal tucked underneath, an opposing strength to the softness of the pillow. She had hoped that by laying it directly under her brain, memories would levitate back to it, attracted like iron dust to a magnet. This superstitious wishful thinking was all she could handle, turning the physical pages of the book all too terrifying at the moment. She prayed for her sleep to come. Dreaming about nothing felt better than thinking about Pansy’s perfume as the girl tore through her with words. Darkness was better than to think about how pathetic she was for the thrill she felt when Pansy had refused to insult her. There was no need to hold onto something so small, yet she couldn’t let go of it. No matter what she did, no matter how hard she tried to distract herself.
__________________________________________
Hermione helped herself to a second serving of eggs and toast, reminding herself to never skip dinner again. The weekend had finally arrived, meaning she wasn’t on tutoring duty for a couple of days. Enough time to digest her feelings and let the steam blow.
“We’re on patrolling duty with the Hufflepuffs tonight.” Ron mumbled. Hermione nodded. While no subjects were particularly taboo in their friend group, anything related to their prefect duties was still awkward, and to be avoided around Harry. A year had passed, but those few nights a month when Ron and Hermione had places to be he wasn’t invited to had never failed to leave a bitter taste in his mouth.
“What’s that mail you got there Mione? You’re usually so eager to open your parent’s letters.” Harry asked, changing the subject.
“It’s about my grandma. I don’t really want to read it here in case it’s bad news. Nobody wants to see me cry a second time in the Great Hall after all.” Heroine lied, feeling bad for wasting Harry’s empathic smile. She shoved the letter in her pocket, doing her best to forget about it for the time being. But the burgundy parchment weighed down her cloak, suffocating her. Hermione had grown to know Pansy’s handwriting by heart over their sessions, the delicateness of her curves, the rate at which she dipped her plume in the ink pot, a little too often, never letting it dry up. She could imagine the flick of her wrist as her quill traced her name.
Hermione.
Not Granger.
Hermione.