Chapter 3
Pansy Parkinson sat by the fire in the Slytherin common room, her gaze drifting lazily over the flickering torches that cast dancing shadows across the darkened walls. Six years at Hogwarts had taught her many things, chief among them the intricacies of power dynamics within Slytherin house. As she watched her fellow students mingle and converse, her thoughts inevitably turned to Hermione Granger.
In their first year, Pansy had been among the many who had sneered at the Muggle-born girl sorted into Slytherin. Hermione had been a curiosity—a brilliant mind in a house that valued lineage above all else. Pansy had dismissed her as an outsider, unworthy of the traditions and prestige that defined their house.
But over the years, Pansy's disdain had slowly turned to pity. She had watched as Hermione navigated the treacherous waters of Slytherin with a grace and intellect that demanded begrudging respect. Pansy had seen the way Hermione had forged alliances and earned accolades, her determination a stark contrast to the superficial ambitions of many of their peers.
Yet, despite Hermione's resilience, Pansy couldn't shake the knowledge of what went on behind closed doors. She remembered the first time she had heard Hermione scream—a sound that had echoed through the common room, chilling Pansy to the core. It had been a stark reminder of the darkness that lurked beneath the surface of their world.
Draco Malfoy's treatment of Hermione was an open secret among Slytherins, whispered in hushed tones and concealed behind masks of indifference. Pansy had seen the bruises that Hermione had tried to hide, the haunted look in her eyes when she thought no one was watching. It was a shame—a tragedy—that someone as brilliant and brave as Hermione Granger was subjected to such cruelty.
As Pansy glanced across the room, her eyes met Draco's briefly. There was a flicker of something in his expression—never guilt or remorse. It was hard to tell with Draco, whose emotions were as carefully guarded as the secrets he held.
Turning her gaze away, Pansy sighed softly. She knew that intervening would be futile, that the world they inhabited had its own rules and consequences. But that didn't stop the knot of unease from tightening in her stomach, nor did it ease the ache of sympathy she felt for Hermione.
In the dim light of the common room, Pansy Parkinson silently vowed to remember the sound of Hermione's scream—the sound that echoed the injustice that had become an unspoken part of their lives. Hogwarts may have been spared Voldemort's return, but the scars of their past lingered on, shaping their present and uncertain future.
As she watched Hermione retreat to her dormitory, Pansy couldn't help but wonder how much longer the fragile balance would hold, and what sacrifices would be made to maintain it.