Chapter 3
The next few weeks were a whirlwind of confusion and suppressed emotions. Hermione tried to focus on her studies, on mastering the intricacies of pure-blood life, but her thoughts kept drifting back to Pansy. Their conversations in the dead of night, the subtle brushes of skin, the lingering looks—it all left Hermione feeling off-kilter, like she was teetering on the edge of something she didn’t fully understand. Pansy, for her part, seemed content to play this strange game of half-truths and almost-touching. She never addressed the growing tension between them, but Hermione could feel it in the air whenever they were near each other.
One evening, as they sat in the common room once again, Pansy turned to Hermione, her expression unreadable. “You’re different now.” Hermione frowned. “Different how?” Pansy’s gaze was intense, her dark eyes boring into Hermione’s. “You’re more like us. The old you—the Hermione Granger who came to Hogwarts thinking she could change the world—she’s gone. You’re a Malfoy now. You see the world for what it really is.”
Hermione swallowed, unsure how to respond. Was Pansy right? Had she changed so much in such a short time? She wasn’t sure who she was anymore, but she knew one thing: the Hermione who had once seen the world in black and white was gone. Everything was shades of grey now.
“And you like that?” Hermione asked quietly. Pansy’s lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile. “I like you.” Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. The words hung in the air between them, heavy with meaning. For a moment, neither of them moved. Then, slowly, cautiously, Hermione reached out, her fingers brushing against Pansy’s hand.
This time, Pansy didn’t pull away.
The silence between them was charged with unspoken words, emotions bubbling just beneath the surface. Hermione’s hand hovered over Pansy’s, fingers barely grazing her skin, but the sensation sent a pulse of warmth through her. Pansy’s gaze flickered down to their hands, then back up to meet Hermione’s eyes, her smirk fading into something more vulnerable.
“What do you want from me, Pansy?” Hermione’s voice was low, almost a whisper, but it was filled with the weight of everything she had been trying to understand. Pansy, for once, didn’t have a sharp retort ready. Her lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. Instead, she did something Hermione never expected—she leaned forward, closing the distance between them, and her breath ghosted over Hermione’s skin. And then, almost imperceptibly, Pansy kissed her.
The touch was soft, hesitant, a question rather than an answer. Hermione froze for a moment, her mind scrambling to catch up with what was happening, but her body reacted on instinct. She pressed back, deepening the kiss, her heart pounding so loudly she was sure Pansy could hear it. Pansy’s fingers curled into Hermione’s cloak, pulling her closer. The kiss grew bolder, more certain, and for a moment, all the confusion, all the uncertainty, melted away. All that existed was this—this strange, electric connection between them.
When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathless, eyes wide, lips swollen. Hermione’s mind raced, trying to process what had just happened, but all she could feel was the lingering warmth of Pansy’s kiss.
Pansy was the first to speak, her voice unusually soft. “This doesn’t change anything, you know.” Hermione swallowed, still reeling. “What do you mean?” “I’m still me,” Pansy said, leaning back slightly, though her hand remained on Hermione’s arm. “And you’re still a Malfoy. This doesn’t magically fix things.” Hermione blinked, trying to make sense of it. “I don’t want things to be fixed,” she said slowly. “I just want to understand… whatever this is.” Pansy looked away for a moment, her expression guarded once again. “You’re not supposed to understand. Not everything has a neat little explanation, Granger.”
There it was again—Granger. Hermione wasn’t sure if Pansy was clinging to the past or trying to remind them both of where they had started. But Hermione didn’t feel like Granger anymore. She didn’t feel like Malfoy either. She felt like someone caught between worlds, someone who was still searching for where she belonged.
“I don’t care about the rules,” Hermione said, surprising herself with the intensity of her words. “I don’t care what anyone else thinks. I’m tired of pretending to be someone I’m not.” Pansy’s gaze snapped back to hers, and for a long moment, they just stared at each other. Then Pansy’s lips curved into a small, almost wistful smile. “Maybe that’s what I like about you.”
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In the days that followed, Hermione and Pansy’s relationship grew into something more complex, more intimate, but also more secretive. There were stolen moments in the common room, whispered conversations in the library, and shared glances in the Great Hall that no one else seemed to notice. Hermione found herself drawn to Pansy in ways she had never expected. Despite her sharp tongue and biting wit, there was something underneath it all—something raw and real that only Hermione seemed to see. Pansy, in turn, seemed to have dropped the worst of her mask around Hermione. She no longer felt the need to mock her or put on airs, at least not in private. But outside of these stolen moments, everything felt precarious. Hermione was still the newly-discovered Malfoy, still trying to navigate the treacherous waters of pure-blood politics. Draco had begun to notice something strange about her behavior, watching her with a mixture of suspicion and concern. The Slytherins, too, were starting to murmur, and Hermione could sense that the web of secrets she and Pansy had woven was beginning to fray.
One evening, Draco cornered her after dinner, his silver eyes narrowing as he folded his arms. “You’ve been… distracted.” Hermione stiffened, trying to maintain a neutral expression. “I’ve had a lot on my mind. I’m adjusting.” “Adjusting to what, exactly?” Draco’s voice was cold, though his concern for her was evident. “I’ve seen you spending a lot of time with Pansy.” Hermione’s heart skipped a beat, but she forced herself to remain calm. “She’s been helping me adjust to life in Slytherin.” Draco didn’t look convinced. “Pansy Parkinson is a lot of things, but charitable isn’t one of them. What are you really doing, Hermione?”
Her brother’s use of her first name sent a jolt through her, reminding her that despite everything, they were family. But how could she explain this to him? How could she tell Draco—of all people—that she had feelings for Pansy? “We’re… friends,” Hermione said, though the word felt hollow. Draco gave her a long, assessing look. “Just be careful,” he said at last, his voice softening. “There are a lot of people who would use that against you. Especially in our world.” Hermione bit her lip, her mind racing. Draco wasn’t wrong. Their world was built on secrets and lies, and her relationship with Pansy—whatever it was—could be dangerous if it became public. But that didn’t change the way she felt. It didn’t change the fact that, for the first time in a long while, Hermione felt like she was finally starting to figure out who she really was.