Favour
Hermione groaned as her alarm clock woke her up the next morning, its loud blare shooting sharp stabs of pain into her tender skull.
She rolled over to her bedside table and slammed the alarm clock off, the slight motion making her stomach churn.
Hermione slowly lifted herself into a sitting position, wincing as she pulled herself upright and then sat hunched over, willing away the dizziness that the action had elicited. She leaned over and slid the curtain of her four-poster bed open an inch. The sky was still grey outside the dormitory window. She yanked the curtain closed again – even the meagre light of the pale dawn was enough to drive the pricks of pain deeper into her skull.
Fragments of last night flooded her consciousness. Her eyes, still thick and sticky with makeup, landed on her stained dress which was flung unceremoniously to the foot of her bed, Malfoy’s green jumper lying right next to it. Suddenly, the entirety of last night's events flooded her mind like a dam bursting.
She groaned and fell back onto her sheets.
Half an hour later, when her anxiety got so bad that she could no longer remain still, Hermione willed herself to get out of bed.
She made it to the bathroom adjoining the 8th Year Girls’ dormitory at a geriatric speed, almost stumbling upon first placing her feet on the cool stone floor. Ginny’s bed was right next to Hermione’s and she caught a glimpse of her friend’s fiery red hair peeking out from underneath her duvet. Guilt landed heavy on the nausea brewing in Hermione’s stomach, stacking on top of it like a brick.
She got into a stall and twisted the shower knob, lifting her face up to the warm stream of water. She felt the dirt and sweat and wine wash away from her body, watched the stain of last night wash down the drain.
She hoped that a shower would cure if not the guilt of deceiving her friend, then at the very least her splitting migraine.
~
The dining room was as sparse as it usually was on Saturdays, with students either sleeping in or away visiting family. Hermione sat at her usual place on the outside ring of tables, feeling marginally less like death after her shower.
She nursed a plain piece of toast – the only thing her stomach could handle that morning. She had a mountain of work to get through before the half-term break, but every time she tried to think about her Latin or French or History essays, her mind veered away from thoughts of academia and turned instead to memories of the night before.
She could handle Daphne’s little stunt with the red wine; she should have known that something was bound to go wrong at the party. In fact, it was oddly comforting that the blonde b-word had acted in that way – the stunt was a sign that the universe had kept on spinning last night and that Hermione hadn’t, unbeknownst to her, been thrust into an entirely new dimension.
“Theo’s not as good of a person as you think he is.”
Drunk, tipsy, inebriated, whatever-he-was Malfoy had surprised her. As had the revelation about Theo.
Theo had proven himself to be good; Malfoy, bar last night, the opposite.
But what is ‘good’? She had thought Malfoy to be incapable of kindness, yet there he was, extending a helping hand when she needed it most.
Who was to say that Theo wasn’t the inverse?
He’d been good to her, yes, but she still nursed that niggling suspicion, that anxious fear that something was not quite right. Why had he asked her to the ball?
For all the languages that she was fluent in, she was a novice at speaking the language of social politics and power. She didn’t know these people, didn’t know how their lives worked or the moves they made to stay ahead. No, she didn’t know them, but she was starting to realise that maybe they didn’t even know each other. She had always thought that Malfoy and Nott were thick as thieves, playing on the field and partying together, but would someone speak about a friend the way that Malfoy had spoken about Theo?
“Everyone here lies, Granger.”
She checked her watch: 7am. Ginny was sure to be up by now. Hermione crammed the rest of the slice of toast into her mouth, almost choking on its dryness, and made her way out of the dining room and to the library.
~
Ginny was seated at their usual table in the Godric’s Hollow library, her fiery red head buried in a thick textbook.
The image reminded her of how she had first met Ginny, almost 2 years ago. It had been Hermione’s second week at GHG and she was already starting to feel like an outsider – her school bag was from a uniform supply shop and not off a runway at the latest Paris Fashion Week, her family hadn’t been on an overseas holiday that year, and she didn’t have anything to show the other students what benefit befriending her would serve them.
She had been wondering through the library, snaking her way through the labyrinth-like shelves, heavy under the weight of old books, reminding herself of why she should be glad to even step foot inside the school when she spotted a red-haired girl arguing with Madame Pince, the librarian, at one of the study tables.
“I have permission from Professor Vector to borrow from the restricted section,” the girl argued, looking up at the librarian.
“Books concerning mathematics, yes. That book right there is from the history section, Ms Weasley,” hissed Madame Pince, pointing to the dusty tome that the girl was holding.
“Professor Vector didn’t specify that I couldn’t borrow books not relating to his subject.”
“You know very well-”
“She was holding it for me,” interjected Hermione, stepping out from behind the shelf from which she had been spying. She pulled out her restricted section permission slip, which she had received the day before to work on an upcoming history essay, and handed it to Madame Pince.
Madame Pince’s eyes narrowed as she skimmed over the signed piece of paper. After a few seconds, she gave it back with resigned flourish. “Do not forget to hand it back next week,” she said and walked away briskly, shushing students who weren’t talking as she went.
The girl nodded, sizing Hermione up from her seat with a glint in her eye. “I’m Ginny,” she said, grinning. She pulled out the chair next to her. “What’s your name?”
~
“Where were you last night?” asked Ginny shrewdly when she spotted Hermione approaching their table.
“I got called into work last minute, sorry. I should’ve let you know.” Hermione felt her measly breakfast threatening to make a reappearance as the lie left her mouth.
There were no secrets between her and Ginny, and she had a feeling that last night’s party would be the first. Her ruined dress, Malfoy’s kindness, the conversation they had had in his room…it was all too difficult to relay. She doubted she could coherently communicate her feelings to Ginny; she hadn’t even begun to process them herself.
Besides, she wanted to safeguard her conversation with Malfoy. Like a magpie that hoards shiny trinkets, she wanted to hide it away from prying eyes, from the threat of misunderstanding or misinterpretation.
“Well, you missed out,” Ginny shrugged, returning to her book. “The kitchen staff gave me a whole cake that they baked for a teacher’s birthday – turns out they got the date wrong. Anyway, I had to chuck out most of it.”
~
They spent the whole day and the next at the library, their heads bent over all the assignments and papers that they had due before the term ended. Hermione was grateful for Ginny’s company – it forced her to work, to push all thoughts unrelated to her subjects out of her mind.
More than once, when she felt her attention slipping, she had to remind herself of her goal.
Oxford.
~
“Shit,” muttered Hermione, suddenly stalling. Ginny stopped walking and stood right next to her, watching as Hermione rummaged through her satchel. It was evening, and they were walking back to the dorm to drop their things off before heading down to the dining hall for dinner.
“I’ll meet you at the dining hall, Gin – I forgot my Latin notebook,” she said to Ginny over her shoulder, already making her way back to the library.
Hermione ran through the deserted halls of Godric’s Hollow, her steps echoing loudly on the stone floor.
As she ran past the 2nd floor girl’s bathroom, however, she heard something that made her stop in her tracks.
Hermione paused, her chest heaving slightly from her jog. She could’ve sworn that she heard a sob over the sound of rushing water.
She quietly tiptoed into the bathroom, where all the faucets had been turned on.
Hermione made her way down the line of sinks, methodically turning off each one as she went. She reached the last faucet and twisted the brass handle. The bathroom suddenly fell quiet.
Hermione turned her head to the last toilet stall – the only stall with its door shut.
She could hear breathing behind the door. She slowly walked up to it, like an animal handler approaching an injured wild beast.
“Are you okay?” asked Hermione gently, through the crack in the stall.
“Piss off!” came the reply, thick with tears.
“Pansy?”
The toilet door slammed open and Pansy Parkinson’s mascara-streaked face stared back at her.
“Party’s over, Granger. Now, piss off.”
Hermione hesitated. Anyone in their right mind would’ve taken Pansy’s words at face-value and left, but something made Hermione stay right where she was.
She had a habit of pushing people away when she was upset; she wondered if Pansy did the same.
“What’s going on?” asked Hermione gently, taking in Pansy’s smeared makeup, her messed up hair, usually perfectly styled in a sharp bob.
Pansy simply glared at her from beneath her wet lashes, sniffling. She then swiped at her face with the sleeve of her white school shirt, further smudging her mascara. “For God’s sake,” she growled as she looked down at her stained sleeve. She collapsed onto the closed toilet seat and leaned back, deflated.
She reminded Hermione so much of her own self, the night before.
“You can tell me, Pansy. I know we’re not friends, but you can talk to me. It’ll make you feel better, I promise.”
Pansy crossed her arms and continued to sniffle, still glaring at Hermione. Hermione sighed and sat down cross-legged on the bathroom floor, the tile cool against her bare legs.
“What are you doing,” asked Pansy, scrunching her nose at Hermione as Hermione started rummaging through her satchel.
“What does it look like?” asked Hermione, pulling out a book.
“That’s disgusting.”
“Yeah, well, look where you’re sitting.”
Pansy snorted but didn’t say anything. Hermione opened her book and started reading in the awkward silence. Neither of them spoke; the only break to the loud silence was the occasional drip of a faucet.
Hermione was almost done with the first chapter of her book when Pansy finally spoke.
“There was paparazzi at the Manor last night. In the bushes, outside.”
Hermione glanced up and waited patiently for Pansy to continue.
“They took some photos. Bad ones.”
“Of you?” asked Hermione, quietly.
“Of a lot of people. But mostly of me, yeah.” Pansy’s voice was quiet too, but it had an edge to it.
“You’re of drinking age though, now. Surely, it’s not a problem…”
“It wasn’t the drinking that was the problem, Granger.”
“Right,” Hermione nodded slowly, comprehending. “Of course.”
Pansy let the back of her head bang quietly against the toilet wall. “My dad’s going to kill me,” she whispered underneath her breath.
Her father, Andrew Parkinson, a prominent Member of Parliament.
“He’s running for Parliament again, soon,” Pansy said to the bathroom ceiling. “If the photos get out it's going to ruin his campaign. Who’s going to want to vote in an MP whose daughter parties and does drugs on the weekend?” Her voice rose, bouncing off the tiles. “I wasn’t even having any, that’s the annoying thing. It was Crabbe and Goyle, being stupidly indiscreet, as they usually are. I just happened to be standing next to them. But that headline doesn’t sound as catchy as 'MP Parkinson’s Daughter Caught Snorting Snow at Wild Weekend Birthday Bash'.”
Hermione simply nodded, unsure of what to say, of how to comfort Pansy.
“If this was the first time something like this had happened, then it wouldn’t be so bad. I mean, it’d still impact his campaign and he’d be furious, but there’d be more leniency, you know? But this isn’t the first time,” she said, her voice lowering again.
“What happened the first time?”
Pansy shook her head, biting her lip. “It was bad,” she said eventually. “Nothing like this, but…worse.” She toyed with her mascara-streaked sleeve. “According to some, at least,” she said bitterly, turning her head.
“Theo’s dad had to bail me out, had to pull some strings with people that he knew, so that the story wouldn’t get published. He was still Prime Minister then, so he could do more damage control than my dad could,” she explained to Hermione. “Theo didn’t even want to ask his dad, Draco had to talk him into it.” She shook her head. “I don’t know how he did it. Theo was so insistent on not helping.”
The favour that Malfoy owed Theo. He had said that Pansy was the closest thing he had to a sister, but Hermione hadn’t really, truly considered what that may have meant.
Pansy looked at Hermione, her head still tilted back. The bathroom’s harsh lighting cast shadows underneath her eyes, making them look gaunt, tired. “Thanks, Granger. I’m still fucked, but I feel better now.” She gave Hermione a tired half smile. “Marginally.”