Chapter 2
The days that followed were a whirlwind of confusion for Hermione. Draco, true to his word, did try to help her adjust. He introduced her to the intricacies of pure-blood customs, explained the hidden meanings behind every social interaction, and even helped her navigate the complex network of alliances that seemed to dictate every decision in the wizarding world. But it wasn’t just Draco who dominated her thoughts.
Pansy Parkinson was an enigma. For years, Hermione had viewed her as little more than Draco’s sidekick—a petty, vindictive girl who delighted in making others feel small. But now, forced to share space with her, Hermione began to see cracks in the mask Pansy wore so confidently.
It started with little things.
Pansy would always be the first to throw a cutting remark Hermione’s way, but sometimes, there was a flicker of hesitation in her eyes, as if she were holding something back. And then there were the times Hermione caught Pansy staring at her across the common room, her expression unreadable, her gaze lingering for just a second too long. Hermione tried to ignore it, but Pansy was persistent. One afternoon, as Hermione sat alone in the library, poring over an old tome on pure-blood genealogy, Pansy slipped into the seat opposite her.
“Studying?” Pansy asked, her tone deceptively casual. “What does it look like?” Hermione replied, not bothering to look up. Pansy leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. “You’re really determined to prove yourself, aren’t you?” “I don’t need to prove anything to you.” “Don’t you?” Pansy’s voice was soft, almost a whisper, and for the first time, Hermione heard something in it that wasn’t mockery. “You want them to accept you. Admit it.” Hermione finally met her gaze, surprised by the intensity in Pansy’s eyes. “Why do you care?” For a long moment, Pansy didn’t answer. Then, with a slight shrug, she stood up, her lips curving into a faint smile. “Maybe I just like watching you squirm.” wit that the black haired girl left, leaving behind a perplexed Hermione.
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Over the next few months, something began to shift between them. It was subtle at first—small gestures, fleeting moments that neither of them acknowledged aloud. Pansy still teased Hermione, but the edge in her voice had softened. And when Hermione snapped back, Pansy’s smirk held a different kind of challenge, one that was less about hostility and more about something else. Something unspoken.
One evening, after a particularly grueling day of classes, Hermione found herself wandering the empty halls of Hogwarts, trying to clear her head. She had been doing everything she could to keep up with her studies, but the pressure of being a Malfoy weighed heavily on her. It felt like everyone was watching, waiting for her to fail. Lost in thought, Hermione rounded a corner and collided straight into Pansy. Her books tumbled to the floor, scattering across the stone as Pansy, momentarily startled, regained her balance with a smirk.
“Careful, Granger. Or should I say Malfoy now?” Pansy’s voice carried its usual lilt, but there was something softer in her eyes, something Hermione had started noticing more often these days. Hermione groaned and knelt to gather her books, unwilling to engage in another verbal sparring match. She was exhausted, mentally and emotionally. To her surprise, Pansy knelt too, silently helping Hermione collect her scattered things. The gesture was so unexpected, Hermione paused, glancing at her in confusion. “What are you doing?” Pansy rolled her eyes. “What does it look like, Granger? Helping you. Don't get used to it.”
Still, there was no malice in her voice, and Hermione felt a flicker of something warm. She watched Pansy for a moment as they worked together in silence. The tension between them had shifted so imperceptibly over the last few weeks that Hermione hadn’t realized just how far they’d come from their days of mutual loathing. As they stood, Hermione brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear and looked at Pansy with a mix of curiosity and suspicion. “Why are you being nice to me?” Pansy tilted her head, her lips curling into a lazy smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Who said I was being nice? Maybe I’m just bored.” Hermione frowned, sensing there was more to it than that, but before she could press further, Pansy turned on her heel and started to walk away. Without thinking, Hermione called after her. “Pansy.” Pansy paused, her back still to Hermione, but she didn’t turn around. The silence stretched between them, filled with things unsaid, until Hermione spoke again, her voice quieter this time. “Thank you.” For a moment, Hermione thought Pansy wouldn’t respond, but then she heard her soft, almost imperceptible reply. “Don’t mention it, Granger."
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Over the next few weeks, Hermione found herself thinking about Pansy more often than she cared to admit. Their interactions, once so hostile, had transformed into something else—something Hermione couldn’t quite define. It wasn’t friendship, not exactly, but it wasn’t the same bitter rivalry either. There was a strange understanding between them now, a shared experience of navigating the treacherous world of pure-blood politics. Whether she liked it or not, Hermione was a Malfoy, and that meant she had to learn how to survive in a world that had never truly welcomed her. Draco had been helpful, but it was Pansy who surprised her the most. She seemed to have appointed herself as Hermione’s unofficial guide to Slytherin life, offering cryptic advice in her usual sharp-tongued manner. One afternoon, as Hermione was studying alone in the library, Pansy appeared, sliding into the seat across from her with a bored expression. “You’re doing it wrong,” she said, glancing at the notes Hermione had been scribbling on pure-blood customs. Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?” Pansy sighed dramatically. “You’ll never survive a pure-blood dinner party if you don’t learn the nuances. That bit about family introductions? Completely wrong.” Hermione narrowed her eyes. “And you care because...?” Pansy leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “I don’t. But watching you make a fool of yourself in front of the entire Wizengamot would be a bit too painful, even for me.”
Hermione bit back a retort, instead watching Pansy closely. There was a flicker of something in her eyes—amusement, perhaps, or maybe even… concern? It was impossible to tell. But the fact that Pansy was bothering to help at all was strange enough. Pansy reached across the table, tapping Hermione’s notes. “You’ve got to understand that this world operates on unspoken rules. Every gesture, every word, it’s all carefully calculated. If you misstep, it’s not just embarrassing. It’s dangerous.” Hermione stared at her for a moment before speaking. “Why are you telling me this?” Pansy’s eyes met hers, and for the briefest second, there was vulnerability there, quickly masked by her usual sarcasm. “Because you’re one of us now, Granger. Whether you like it or not."
That night, Hermione couldn’t sleep. Her mind was spinning with thoughts of pure-blood etiquette, Malfoy family history, and—most frustratingly—Pansy Parkinson. She tossed and turned in her bed, the cold of the dungeons seeping into her bones despite the thick blankets. Why did Pansy care? Why was she helping her? There had to be more to it than what Pansy had said. Hermione knew enough about Slytherins to recognize when someone was playing a game, but this felt different. Pansy wasn’t manipulating her—at least, not in any way Hermione could discern.
Unable to quiet her thoughts, Hermione finally slipped out of bed and wrapped a cloak around herself. She needed air, space to think. The Slytherin common room was empty, its green-and-silver décor casting eerie shadows in the firelight. As she moved toward the exit, she heard a voice behind her.
“Restless too?”
Hermione turned to find Pansy sitting in one of the armchairs near the fireplace, a book in her lap. Her eyes gleamed in the low light, and Hermione felt her breath catch for just a moment. “Couldn’t sleep,” Hermione admitted, though she hadn’t intended to speak to Pansy at all. Pansy nodded as if she understood. “The dungeons can be… suffocating.”
Hermione hesitated, then took a seat in the chair across from Pansy. For a while, they sat in comfortable silence, the crackling fire the only sound between them. It was strange, being here like this—so close and yet worlds apart. After what felt like an eternity, Pansy spoke again, her voice soft. “Do you ever think about what your life would have been like if you hadn’t found out?”
Hermione blinked, surprised by the question. She had thought about it, of course. What would her life have been like if she had remained Hermione Granger, Muggle-born, Gryffindor, best friend to Harry Potter and Ron Weasley? Would she be happier? Or would she still feel the same sense of displacement she had now?
“I don’t know,” Hermione admitted. “I used to think I knew who I was. Now… everything feels like it’s slipping away.” Pansy was quiet for a moment, then closed her book and leaned forward, her dark eyes locking onto Hermione’s. “You’re not the only one who feels that way.”
There was something raw in Pansy’s voice, something that made Hermione’s heart ache. Without thinking, she reached out, her hand brushing Pansy’s ever so lightly. It was a tentative gesture, but it was enough to send a jolt of electricity through Hermione’s body.
Pansy didn’t pull away.