Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The silence in the flat had become a living thing. Not malevolent, not sharp—just… thick. Slow. It filled the corners like fog, muffling the tick of the magical clock in the kitchen and the gentle clink of cups that hadn’t been cleared away from breakfast. The air felt like it hadn’t been stirred in days, and maybe it hadn’t. The curtains hung stiff, motionless despite the cracked window that let in a dull April breeze. It smelled faintly of smoke from a nearby chimney and rain on pavement.

Hermione sat at the table, spine straight despite the deep fatigue curling in her bones. Her fingers wrapped around a cup of tea that had long gone cold, and she stared at the letter in front of her like it might blink first.

It didn’t.

The parchment was thick, the edges neatly folded, sealed with the elegant mark of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Her name—Miss Hermione Jean Granger—was printed in looping, dignified calligraphy, as if she were someone important. Someone who mattered.

She’d already read it. Twice. She could recite the entire thing backwards if she had to. But still, she kept looking at it like some hidden meaning might reveal itself if she waited long enough.

They were offering her a placement. A fast-track role in a department she had fought to change during the war. A chance to make real, lasting policy. A desk of her own. A title. A purpose.

Or something that looked like one.

She blinked slowly and let her eyes drift to the window. The sky was grey. She couldn’t remember the last time she had noticed the sun.

Her eyes burned, but she didn’t cry. She hadn’t cried in weeks. Not properly. She’d gone through the war sobbing, screaming, breaking—and now, in peacetime, she was just… numb.

She had made it. Survived. Fought, won, lived. That should have meant something. But the reality was quieter than she expected. Colder. She had always imagined a finish line, some final moment of peace or joy or clarity. Instead, there was just this flat. This silence. This job offer that tasted like ash in her mouth.

The floor creaked softly behind her. She didn’t turn around.

Ron’s steps were always easy to recognize. He walked like he was trying not to be noticed and somehow made more noise than anyone else in the process. He paused in the doorway, his weight shifting once, twice.

“You read it?” he asked.

Hermione nodded. She didn’t look up.

A beat of silence.

“Are you going to take it?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

He walked to the sink, filled a glass from the tap. She heard the sound of water hitting the rim. He drank slowly. No rush. No pressure. That was the thing about Ron—he’d learned to wait for her. Even when he didn’t understand.

She traced a finger along the rim of her mug. The tea inside had a skin on it now.

“This isn’t working, is it?” he said quietly.

That made her look up.

Ron’s eyes were soft. Tired, but kind. He didn’t look angry. Just honest.

She opened her mouth to argue, but nothing came out.

“No,” she said after a long moment. “It’s not.”

He set his glass down, ran a hand through his hair. It was longer than it used to be. Curlier. She hadn’t noticed when it had started to curl again.

“I thought it would help,” he said, half-smiling. “Us living together. Thought maybe if we were in the same place, things would get better.”

“I thought so too.”

“But we don’t talk anymore.”

Hermione’s throat tightened. She hated how true that was. She’d always been the talker, the planner, the explainer. But lately she couldn’t find the words. She came home from work—or from the library, or from walking around aimlessly—and just… sat. Ron would try, ask her about her day, tell her a joke, cook something she liked. But she was somewhere else. Not gone, exactly. Just unreachable.

“I love you,” Ron said suddenly. “I always will.”

She blinked fast. That was the worst part—because she loved him too. Just not like that anymore. Not in a way that felt alive.

“I know,” she whispered.

He reached across the table. She took his hand without hesitation. They sat like that for a long time, palms warm against each other, the way they had for years. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t even sad, really. Just inevitable.

“I think we’re holding on because it’s safe,” Ron said. “Not because it’s right.”

Hermione nodded. “You’re right.”

When he stood, he kissed the top of her head. He lingered there for a second, breathing her in like it was the last time. Maybe it was.

“I’ll stay at George’s for a bit,” he said. “You keep the flat. You like it more than I do.”

Hermione didn’t argue. There was nothing left to say.

The door clicked shut behind Ron, and Hermione sat there in the stillness for a long time. She hadn’t moved. Her hand was still resting on the table where his had been, as if the warmth might linger if she held still enough.

But it didn’t.

Eventually, the clock ticked loud enough to make her blink. She stood, slowly, and poured the rest of her tea down the sink. The mug clinked against the porcelain with a sound that made her wince. She didn’t know why.

The flat felt bigger now. Or maybe emptier. There was no real difference.

She found herself folding the Ministry letter again, even though she wasn’t reading it. Her fingers moved automatically, smoothing out the parchment, lining up the corners, as if neatness could protect her from everything spinning outside her control.

She wasn’t sure how long she stood there before the knock came.

It was soft. Hesitant. The kind of knock that asked permission without words.

Hermione turned her head slightly, half-expecting Ron to have forgotten something. But when she opened the door, it was Harry.

He was holding a brown paper bag in one hand and a six-pack of Butterbeer in the other, looking deeply uncomfortable.

“Hi,” he said.

Hermione blinked. “Hi.”

“I, um…” He held up the bag like an offering. “Crisps. And drinks. Not very… profound, I guess.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Do I look like I need crisps?”

Harry flushed. “You look like you need something. And I panicked at the shop.”

Hermione opened the door wider and stepped back to let him in. “You brought salt and vinegar?”

“Two-for-one special,” he mumbled, placing the bag on the table like he wasn’t sure it belonged there. “And cheese and onion. I wasn’t sure which was your favourite anymore.”

She didn’t answer that. Because she wasn’t sure either.

He stood there, hands awkwardly shoved into his pockets now that they weren’t full, looking at her like she might break if he said the wrong thing.

“Ron told you,” she said, more statement than question.

“Yeah. Sent me an owl an hour ago. Just said… it was mutual.” He looked around the flat like it might give him clues about how she was really doing. “Are you okay?”

“No,” Hermione said simply. “But it was mutual.”

Harry nodded slowly. “He didn’t say much. Just that he hoped you’d be alright. That you were both… tired.”

Hermione laughed once—dry and humorless. “That’s a kind way to put it.”

He didn’t smile.

She moved toward the couch and sat down heavily. After a moment, Harry followed, leaving a respectful amount of space between them, like he wasn’t sure if she’d want to be touched.

“I hate this,” he said after a while.

“Hate what?”

“Not knowing what to say.”

Hermione looked over at him. His jaw was tense, his hands clasped in his lap like he was back in fourth year waiting for detention.

“You don’t have to say anything,” she replied.

“Brilliant,” he muttered. “Because I’m shit at it.”

That made her smile, just a little.

They sat in silence for a bit, but it wasn’t the same silence she’d had with Ron. This one felt lighter. Or maybe it just had more room to breathe.

“I thought I’d feel something,” she said suddenly. “When it ended. Grief. Anger. Something sharp. But I just feel… blank.”

Harry nodded. “I felt like that after the war. Like my brain was still bracing for the next battle. And when it didn’t come… I didn’t know what to do with the quiet.”

Hermione looked at him. Really looked.

“You’ve never said that before.”

He shrugged. “I didn’t want to worry you.”

“I was already worried. I think I just forgot how to talk about it.”

Harry leaned back against the couch. His eyes were tired. Not in the way of someone who didn’t sleep—but someone who didn’t know how to rest.

“You always had a plan,” he said. “You always knew what came next. And I think… for the first time, you don’t. And that’s terrifying.”

Hermione’s eyes stung, but she blinked fast. “What do I do, then?”

“I don’t know.” Harry offered a helpless, lopsided smile. “I just brought snacks.”

They sat in silence again. A better one, this time.

After a few minutes, Hermione spoke, her voice low. “I think I might take the job.”

Harry perked up a little. “The Ministry one? Magical Creatures?”

She nodded. “It’s work. It’s… something.”

He didn’t press. Didn’t ask if it was what she wanted. Just said, “If you do… I think you’ll be brilliant.” Hermione nodded once. “Thanks.”

When he left, it was with a quiet pat on her shoulder and a promise to check in again soon. She watched him disappear down the street through the kitchen window, the paper bag swinging from one hand.

That night, she sat back down at the kitchen table. Pulled the letter in front of her again. It looked the same. But she didn’t.

She reached for a quill, her hand steady.

Accepting the offer. Please confirm assignment date.

She signed it and set it on the sill for the owl in the morning.

It still didn’t feel like hope. But it felt like motion. And that was enough.

Chapter Text

Hermione Granger stood outside the Ministry of Magic, looking up at the towering building that had once felt like a fortress of power, a place where rules were made and changed. Now it felt… ordinary. Concrete, drab, and impersonal. The golden statues of witches and wizards holding their wands high above the entrance seemed out of place, as though they were desperately trying to remind everyone of some distant, idealized version of what the Ministry had once represented.

She straightened her robes, brushed an invisible speck of dust off her shoulder, and squared her shoulders. It wasn’t the first time she’d been here—of course not—but this was different. This wasn’t a clandestine mission or an emergency summit. This was her job. Her life now, post-war. The war was over, the prophecy fulfilled, and now—now she had to learn how to live in a world that didn’t need saving.

Her stomach churned at the thought of it. She had imagined the next step after the war in such bright, clear terms. She would take on a role with the Ministry. She would make real, lasting change. But this… this felt small. Less important than the stories she had spun in her head while they were holed up in the tent during the war. She hadn’t imagined it like this. She hadn’t imagined herself like this.

It wasn’t that she regretted taking the offer—it was just… unsettling, the idea that she’d spent so much of her life fighting for something, only to find that achieving it left her cold and unsure. It was what she had wanted, wasn’t it? The respect. The power to change things for the better.

But what if she didn’t know how to change anymore?

Shaking off the thought, she passed through the familiar security checks, her ID badge swiped with a click, her wand passed through the enchanted detector without incident. The corridors of the Ministry were just as dreary as she remembered—grey walls, flickering lights, the faint smell of old parchment and cleaning potions. It was all business here, sterile and soulless. No more dark magic, no more desperate scrambling. Just the hum of paperwork, regulations, and forms.

She stopped in front of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, her destination. The door to the department was unremarkable—plain wood with a faded brass sign. She hadn’t imagined it like this, either. A part of her had envisioned walking into a grand office with windows overlooking the entire Ministry, something full of sunlight and prestige. But this was a room no one would ever notice unless they were already looking for it. A few desks, a half-filled bookshelf, a tired old coffee pot in the corner. It was the quietest department she could imagine.

“Ms. Granger, welcome.”

Hermione turned to face a woman with a clipped voice and neatly pulled-back hair. She was wearing a pristine robe and carrying a stack of parchment, her expression a mix of polite indifference and professional interest.

“I’m Ophelia Greaves,” the woman said, holding out her hand. “You’ll be working under me for the foreseeable future. There are a few things to catch up on. I’ll take you to your desk.”

Hermione shook the woman’s hand and followed her through the small department. There were only a few other witches and wizards, mostly middle-aged, staring at their work with the kind of concentration that suggested they were counting down the hours until the end of their shift. It felt… mundane. It didn’t feel like making history. It felt like waiting.

“You’ll be working directly with Ms. Parkinson,” Ophelia continued, glancing over her shoulder. “She’s already here—came in early as usual.”

Hermione frowned, momentarily distracted. Parkinson?

She had expected to be placed with someone—competent, sure—but maybe a bit older. Someone who’d seen it all. She hadn’t expected that name. The memory of their time at Hogwarts flickered through her mind—the constant barbs, the insults, the disdain that Pansy had always aimed in her direction.

"Yes, you two will be reviewing werewolf legislation and updating the guidelines for magical creature welfare. It’s an important project." Ophelia continued without missing a beat, oblivious to the awkwardness that Hermione could already feel curling in her stomach.

"Of course," Hermione said, not sure what else to say. Her mind briefly flashed to the mental image of Pansy Parkinson’s sneering face, the same one that had made school days a bit more miserable than they should have been. That sneer would probably be back in full force today, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about that.

They reached the back of the room, where a small desk was tucked against a window. The person sitting behind it didn’t look up as Hermione approached. She was scribbling something onto a parchment with exaggerated concentration, the tips of her black hair falling over her face.

"Ms. Granger, this is Ms. Parkinson," Ophelia said, gesturing to the woman at the desk. “Ms. Parkinson, this is Ms. Granger.”

Pansy’s head lifted slowly, and Hermione met her eyes. There was no surprise in Pansy’s gaze, just a sharpness that cut through the air between them. She gave a thin smile—mocking, but not quite cruel—and pushed a strand of hair behind her ear before going back to her work. She didn’t stand.

Hermione blinked. This was Pansy Parkinson, who had once made her life miserable in the hallways of Hogwarts? This was the woman she was supposed to work with?

“Well, I’ll leave you two to get acquainted,” Ophelia said, before walking off, leaving Hermione standing awkwardly in front of the desk.

Pansy finally spoke, her voice casual, almost bored. “So, Granger. Here to clean up our mess, are you?”

Hermione hesitated. “I didn’t think it was my mess to clean,” she replied, trying to keep her tone level.

Pansy raised an eyebrow but didn’t respond, instead pushing a pile of papers towards Hermione. “We’ll need to review these regulations, make sure they’re still applicable after the war. You can start with these.”

Hermione nodded, her fingers brushing the edge of the papers, feeling the weight of them more than she expected. This was real now. No turning back.

She sat down at the desk beside Pansy’s, trying to ignore the slight tension that clung to the air between them. They didn’t need to be friends. They didn’t even need to like each other. They just needed to work.

But as Hermione opened the first sheet of parchment and began reading, the silence between them felt heavier than the war itself. She set to work on the werewolf legislation, scanning the old documents. The sentences were dense and filled with arcane language, much of it redundant, but the task was familiar. She could deal with bureaucratic tediousness—it was the part of the war that had always been less glamorous, the paperwork they’d had to shove aside to survive.

Pansy, however, wasn’t just a passive coworker. As Hermione flipped through the parchments, she noticed the faint sound of quill on parchment beside her. Pansy was scribbling something, almost too quickly to be legible.

After a moment, Hermione couldn’t resist glancing over. Pansy’s notes were sharp, precise, filled with comments about ethical dilemmas that Hermione hadn’t considered. Adjust for the welfare of magical creatures in circumstances of war trauma, one of the lines read. Are the laws more about containment than rehabilitation? Should they be?

Hermione blinked. Pansy Parkinson was actually asking important questions.

But before she could contemplate it further, Pansy’s voice broke through the silence, casual but with an edge of something Hermione couldn’t quite identify.

“You’re too focused on the rules,” Pansy said without looking up, tapping her quill lightly on the edge of her parchment. “You’ll never fix anything if you don’t ask the right questions.”

Hermione set down the parchment she’d been reviewing and turned towards Pansy. “And what would those be, then?”

Pansy finally looked up, her sharp green eyes assessing Hermione with a kind of cold curiosity. “Well, for starters, the entire premise that werewolves need to be treated like a problem to be contained. That’s where the regulations go wrong.” She leaned back in her chair, stretching her arms behind her head, clearly comfortable in her stance. “It’s not a matter of fixing them—it’s about understanding them.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “That’s… not how the Ministry sees it.”

“No,” Pansy agreed, a small smile playing at the corner of her lips. “That’s why you and I are here. To challenge it.”

Hermione didn’t know whether to be impressed or frustrated. She’d spent years fighting to change laws and policies, only to find herself in a situation where she had to do it all over again, this time alongside someone she’d spent years loathing. But Pansy wasn’t wrong. There was merit in the argument, even if it came from an unexpected source.

She let out a slow breath. “I don’t know if I’m here to challenge anything. I’m just… trying to do my job.”

Pansy’s smile widened, her eyes glinting with something like amusement. “That’s the problem, Granger. You’ve always been good at following the rules. But sometimes, you need to break them if you want to fix things.”

Hermione shook her head, feeling the familiar unease creep back into her chest. “You’re not exactly the picture of rebellion, Parkinson.”

Pansy raised an eyebrow, unfazed. “No? Maybe I just know when to pick my battles.”

Silence stretched again, but this time it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was… analytical. Hermione found herself more invested in the conversation than she had expected, even if Pansy’s presence grated on her nerves. She didn’t want to admit it, but she was learning from her. Pansy’s ideas had substance. She wasn’t all spite and mockery like she had been at Hogwarts.

Without thinking, Hermione found herself leaning forward, her finger tracing the edge of the parchment. “So, how would you change the laws?”

Pansy’s gaze flickered, a brief flash of surprise crossing her face before she masked it with her usual indifference. “It’s about rehabilitation,” she said, slowly. “You don’t just lock them away in cages. Werewolves deserve the right to protection, the same as any other creature. There should be more research into treatments that don’t involve imprisonment.” She glanced at Hermione. “What do you think?”

Hermione stared at her for a long moment. It was a simple idea, but one that felt so right . Of course, that was the issue with the Ministry’s regulations—there were no long-term solutions. No sense of empathy. They’d always been about containment. About keeping things quiet .

“I think…” Hermione hesitated. “I think you’re right.”

Pansy’s eyes flickered, her smirk tugging slightly at the corners of her lips. “Well, I’m not always wrong.”

“I never said you were,” Hermione replied, feeling a strange mix of frustration and respect. It was so much easier to hate Pansy, to label her as just another former Slytherin who never cared about anything beyond herself. But now? Now, Hermione wasn’t so sure.

Pansy turned back to her notes. “Of course, none of this matters unless we can actually get the Ministry to listen. But it’s a start.”

“Do you think they’ll listen?”

“Not unless we make them.” Pansy’s voice was a little softer now, less biting. She leaned forward, her quill poised to make a note. “But that’s why we’re here, Granger. To make them listen.”

Hermione felt the pull of something unfamiliar in the back of her mind—a kind of drive . Pansy Parkinson had always been a puzzle, but this version of her was different. Less mockery, more substance. And while Hermione wasn’t entirely sure what to do with this new dynamic, she found herself oddly... intrigued.

The sound of quills scribbling filled the silence again, this time with an undertone of collaboration. They were working. Actually working. For the first time that day, Hermione felt like something was shifting. Like there might be more to this job—and this woman—than she had expected.

Maybe, just maybe, this new chapter wouldn’t be so bad after all.

The sun was dipping below the horizon by the time Hermione stepped out of the Ministry, her satchel heavier than when she had arrived. The golden hour light didn’t warm her like it used to. It only cast long, slanted shadows that made the world look like it had been tilted slightly off balance.

Her feet moved automatically. Down the front steps, across the pavement, into the first empty alley she could find. A soft crack echoed as she Apparated.

She landed in her tiny flat, a one-bedroom tucked above a secondhand bookshop in Islington. It was warm and clean and quiet, exactly what she had thought she wanted when she moved in. But now, as she dropped her satchel on the floor and peeled off her robes, the silence pressed in, thick and expectant.

The kettle made a soft whistling sound in the background—she had enchanted it to start the moment she walked through the door. She poured herself a mug of tea, letting the steam rise into her face like it could somehow melt the tension lodged behind her eyes.

She sank onto her sofa with a sigh, bringing her knees to her chest. She stared out the window at the dusky sky and tried to feel something other than tired.

The day had been long. Not difficult, exactly, just… draining. Pansy Parkinson had a way of digging beneath Hermione’s skin with unsettling precision. Not cruel, not even overtly hostile—just sharp. She had always been like that, but today it had felt more complicated. Less schoolyard animosity, more something else.

She didn’t want to admit that Pansy had made good points. Or that she had kept Hermione on her toes in a way Ron never had. No, she corrected herself quickly, not fair to Ron. But it was true.

Working with Ron had been familiar, warm, safe. They had loved each other—or something close to it. But Pansy? Pansy was none of those things. She was challenging. Wary. Distant. And maybe that was exactly what Hermione needed right now—someone who didn’t treat her like she was fragile or broken or about to unravel at any moment.

She took a sip of her tea, burning her tongue slightly. She didn’t bother healing it.

Her eyes wandered to the small writing desk in the corner. A letter sat there, half-written. It had started as a note to Harry—a simple “how are you?” turned into “I’m fine” turned into nothing at all. She’d been trying to write him for days, maybe weeks. But the words wouldn’t come.

He wanted to help. She knew that. But every time he looked at her with that helpless expression—like she was a riddle he’d never been taught to solve—it made her feel like a failure. And he didn’t mean to, of course. Harry never meant to hurt her. But there was something in the way he watched her now that made her feel like a problem he didn’t know how to fix.

She set the mug down and stood abruptly, pacing. Her flat was too small for real pacing, but she tried anyway. Back and forth. Back and forth. Until finally she stopped, her eyes flicking toward the window again, where the sky had turned a deep shade of blue.

She sat back down and picked up a quill.

She didn’t write to Harry.

Instead, she pulled out the file she’d brought home and began reviewing Pansy’s notes again. The handwriting was sharp and elegant, like Pansy herself. Her phrasing was clinical but thoughtful. Hermione found herself scribbling a few comments in the margins, not to correct, but to expand. Agree. Build on.

She didn’t like that it felt a little like having a conversation with Pansy.

—

Across town, in a more luxurious flat with higher ceilings and an actual fireplace, Pansy Parkinson kicked off her heels and collapsed onto her velvet sofa with a huff. She poured herself a glass of wine—not elf-made, but decent—and stared up at the ceiling.

Granger.

Of course it had to be Granger.

She had known the name would show up eventually, but that hadn’t made the reality of it any easier. Working together wasn’t the same as sitting opposite her in Potions or sneering at her across the Great Hall. It wasn’t Hogwarts anymore. There were no house banners, no divided dorms, no safe categories.

And worse—much worse—was the fact that Hermione Granger was actually good at her job. Smart, prepared, principled. The kind of woman who would fight a dragon if the policy required it. The kind of woman who terrified half the department without even trying.

Pansy sipped her wine and leaned her head back.

Granger had looked exhausted today. Not in the superficial, I’ve-had-a-long-day way. It was deeper than that. Like something inside her was running on fumes.

It was familiar. Too familiar.

And that was the worst part.

Because Pansy didn’t want to see herself in Hermione Granger. Didn’t want to recognize that brittle edge of burnout or the way she flinched when someone looked too long. But it was there, plain as day. And Pansy had always been good at spotting cracks in people. That’s how you survived Slytherin.

She rolled her eyes at herself and stood. What are you doing, Parkinson? Getting sentimental over Hermione bloody Granger?

She glanced at the open file on her kitchen table. Her own notes, her own version of the day. She thought about editing them, maybe sending over a few suggestions before their next meeting.

Then she poured another glass of wine instead.

Tomorrow would come soon enough.

Chapter Text

Ginny had warned her.

“Just a heads-up,” she’d said over brunch two Sundays ago. “Luna’s flat is… not normal.”

Hermione hadn’t really known what that meant. After all, Luna wasn’t normal. She was brilliant, sweet, completely in her own world—and, if rumors were true, also entirely immune to awkward silences. Ginny had rolled her eyes when Hermione said she was fine with weird. But now, standing inside Luna’s living room, Hermione was starting to understand.

It wasn’t the dirigible plum mobile hanging from the ceiling or the mismatched chairs or even the fact that the entire wall was covered in newspaper clippings connected by multicolored thread. It was the warmth. The strange, gentle chaos of it all. It reminded her of something she couldn’t quite name—maybe the Gryffindor common room, or maybe her childhood before she knew how the world could fall apart.

“Tea?” Luna asked, appearing beside her like a whisper. She wore a long jumper that looked two sizes too big and a pair of socks that had once been yellow.

“Sure,” Hermione said, still taking in the collection of tiny glass figurines on the window sill. Most were magical creatures, but one looked suspiciously like a bottle of Pepperup Potion with googly eyes.

Ginny emerged from the kitchen a moment later, balancing three mugs in her hands. “Don’t ask what kind of tea,” she said with a smirk. “Just drink it. Luna makes potions when she’s bored.”

Hermione accepted the mug with a small smile and perched on the edge of the couch. “Thanks for inviting me.”

Ginny flopped down beside her. “We’ve been meaning to. Figured you could use a break from being the Ministry’s golden girl.”

“I’m not—” Hermione started, but stopped. She was too tired to correct the label. “I’ve just been busy.”

Luna sat cross-legged on the floor, staring at her with that unnerving, all-seeing gaze. “You’re sad.”

Hermione blinked. “I’m fine.”

“No,” Luna said gently, “you’re functioning . That’s different.”

Ginny groaned, half-laughing. “Luna, subtlety?”

But Luna just tilted her head. “It’s alright. It’s not a bad thing to be sad. I was, for ages. After Dad died. But pretending to be fine made it worse.”

There was no judgment in her voice. No pity either. Just… honesty.

Hermione tightened her grip on her mug. She wanted to laugh, or deflect, or ask about the weirdly glowing plant on the windowsill. But the words stuck.

Luna leaned forward. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Hermione looked at Ginny, who was pretending to read something on her sleeve. Then back to Luna. “Not really.”

“That’s alright,” Luna said. “But if you ever do, this flat is protected against eavesdropping charms and unkind memories.”

Hermione frowned. “Unkind what?”

“Memories,” Luna said, as if it were obvious. “I enchanted the walls to repel things that don’t belong to you anymore.”

For the first time in days, Hermione felt something almost like a smile. “That’s not how magic works.”

Luna just sipped her tea and said, “Are you sure?”

The silence that followed was thick but not uncomfortable. Ginny pulled her legs up onto the couch, leaning against Hermione with casual familiarity. Luna hummed something soft and ancient under her breath. The wind outside rustled the string-web of clippings and threads across the wall, and for a moment Hermione let herself forget about work and grief and the confusing way Pansy Parkinson looked at her when she thought Hermione wasn’t paying attention.

She leaned back into the couch. Let her body sag. Let her shoulders drop.

“I think I might be broken,” she said suddenly.

Ginny turned her head. “You’re not.”

“I feel like I’ve been stuck on autopilot for months. Like I did everything I was supposed to, and now I don’t know what I’m supposed to be .”

Luna looked up, serene. “Maybe you’re meant to be something no one planned for.”

Hermione didn’t know what that meant. But it made something in her chest ache in a way that felt good.

—

The meeting room on Level Four had no windows. Just pale walls, harsh lighting, and chairs that looked more comfortable than they actually were. It was the kind of space designed to make you forget how long you’d been there—and how much of your life you’d given away to bureaucracy.

Hermione sat at the far end of the long table, a fresh stack of parchment and color-coded notes in front of her. She had arrived ten minutes early, not because she was eager, but because she couldn’t shake the fear that being late would make her unravel.

Around her, people filtered in. Most were familiar faces—senior policy advisors, department heads, one very bored-looking wizard from Magical Transportation who Hermione suspected had no idea why he was invited.

She barely registered them.

Her eyes were on Pansy.

Pansy entered like she owned the room—or at least like she didn’t care if she did. She wore crisp navy robes with silver detailing that looked both expensive and sharp enough to cut. Her hair was pulled back into a low, sleek twist, and she held a leather-bound folder in one hand, wand in the other like it was an accessory.

She didn’t look at Hermione.

Hermione didn’t look away.

“Granger,” said a voice to her left.

She turned slightly. “Director Whitcombe.”

The man offered her a clipped nod and dropped into the chair beside her. “I hope you’ve reviewed the Parkinson file.”

She nodded. “I made notes. She’s thorough, if a little... abrasive.”

Whitcombe smirked. “You’ll get used to her.”

Hermione wasn’t sure that was true.

The meeting began with a flurry of magical charts, dry legalese, and everyone trying to sound more intelligent than the person next to them. It was the usual post-war performance: pretend everything’s normal, that their job is more important than the lives they were rebuilding.

Pansy spoke with calculated confidence, correcting a mid-level bureaucrat without ever raising her voice. Hermione noticed the way several people flinched when she did it.

She couldn’t tell if she was impressed or furious.

At one point, Whitcombe called on her to explain their department’s revisions to the newly proposed legislation on magical creature protections. Hermione laid it out in clear, steady terms, drawing lines between existing policy and what needed to change.

She didn’t think about Pansy while she spoke.

But she felt the weight of her gaze.

When she finished, there was a pause. Then, Pansy’s voice: “It’s a solid proposal. Though I’d suggest clarifying clause 17C—Ambiguity there could be exploited. Particularly if you’re dealing with foreign trade unions.”

Hermione’s spine straightened slightly. She met Pansy’s eyes. “Noted. I’ll revise the language.”

A beat.

A flash of something unreadable passed over Pansy’s face. Approval? Surprise?

Then it was gone.

The rest of the meeting blurred. A heated disagreement over funding allocations. Someone shouting about dragon habitats. A man named Percival who Hermione was fairly sure once cursed a memo because it “looked smug.”

Eventually, people began to file out, muttering about lunch and deadlines and terrible coffee.

Hermione stood to leave, tucking her notes into her folder with practiced efficiency.

“Granger.”

She looked up. Pansy stood a few steps away, unreadable expression firmly in place.

“I’ve annotated the draft you sent over,” she said, extending a single sheet of parchment. Her tone was brisk. Neutral. “There’s a copy on your desk too, but I figured you’d want the physical one.”

Hermione blinked. “Oh. Thanks.”

Their fingers brushed as she took it.

Neither of them moved.

Then Pansy said, quietly, “You were right about the cross-jurisdiction clause. I meant to tell you yesterday, but—well. You looked like you needed to breathe.”

Hermione stared at her.

Pansy blinked slowly. “Not an insult.”

“I didn’t think it was,” Hermione said, and she didn’t know why her voice was so soft. “I just—thanks.”

Pansy gave the smallest nod, then stepped back. “See you tomorrow, Granger.”

She turned and left.

Hermione watched her go.

Then turned over the parchment in her hands and saw that Pansy had not only annotated the draft, but had rewritten three sections with unnervingly precise logic. The handwriting was elegant. Sharp. Somehow familiar.

Hermione didn’t know whether to be annoyed or… oddly relieved.

She left the meeting room and walked slowly back to her office, ignoring the way her heart was beating a little too fast.

—

The Burrow smelled like cinnamon and roast chicken and something vaguely on fire. Hermione stepped through the front door and was instantly hit with a wave of warmth—physical and emotional—and a blur of noise.

“Watch your step!” Arthur called from the living room, where something metal and sentient was scuttling across the floor. “One of George’s prototypes—don’t worry, it only bites once.”

Hermione sidestepped the offending object and made her way toward the kitchen, where Molly Weasley was casting a stirring charm on four pots at once and berating a floating ladle that had clearly developed a rebellious streak.

“Oh, Hermione, there you are!” Molly said, turning with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You’re too thin. Sit down, I made enough to feed an army.”

Hermione opened her mouth to protest but didn’t have the energy. She slid into her new usual seat at the table, instead of next to Ron, between Ginny and Percy’s empty chair.

Across the table, Harry gave her a sheepish little wave. “Hey.”

“Hey,” she replied. Her voice felt thin. Like it wasn’t quite attached to her.

Ginny leaned in, lowering her voice. “Brace yourself. Mum’s been cooking since sunrise. It’s some kind of emotional ambush.”

“I can handle it.”

“I said brace , not run toward the fire .”

The door slammed open as George entered, tracking mud onto the floor with zero guilt. “Who forgot to charm the chickens again? One of them’s nesting in my broom cupboard.”

Molly turned to scold him, and the momentary chaos gave Hermione a sliver of peace. She let her gaze drift to the kitchen window. The sun was low in the sky, casting long golden beams across the cluttered counter. The same view she’d seen a hundred times, maybe more. Back when things had been simpler—or at least when the war had made everything feel clearer.

A plate clattered down in front of her. Roast chicken, mashed potatoes, buttered carrots, something that might’ve once been a turnip. And of course, a steaming bowl of treacle tart directly beside it.

“You haven’t been eating properly, have you?” Molly asked gently, hovering.

Hermione flushed. “I—yes. I’m fine.”

Molly gave her the Look. The one that could peel paint. “You’ve got shadows under your eyes, love. You need sleep and real food and maybe a few days off.”

Hermione nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Ginny reached beneath the table and gave her knee a light squeeze.

Dinner passed in a blur of overlapping conversations and clinking silverware. Ron wasn’t there—off on assignment with the Aurors, apparently—and that left a gap like a missing tooth in the family rhythm. Percy talked shop. George made inappropriate jokes. Harry kept watching Hermione like she was about to burst into flame.

Eventually, as plates cleared and tea appeared like magic on the table, Molly turned to Hermione with the same look she used when she was about to fix a button or bandage a wound.

“You know,” she said lightly, “you could always stay here for a few nights. We’ve got the attic room free again, and it’s quiet.”

“I appreciate that, really,” Hermione said. “But I’m okay at my flat.”

“It’s just… you don’t have to be alone,” Molly continued. “You’re family. And family doesn’t let each other—”

“Mum,” Ginny cut in gently. “She hears you. Let her breathe.”

Molly blinked, caught mid-maternal spiral. “Of course. I’m sorry. I just worry.”

“I know,” Hermione said, softer this time. “Thank you.”

Harry cleared his throat. “I, um, I wanted to ask if you needed help with anything. At work, or—well. Outside of work. I know things are weird right now.”

Hermione tilted her head. “Weird how?”

He looked stricken. “Not—bad weird. Just… I don’t know how to help you.”

There it was. That helpless, honest look. It used to comfort her. Now it made her stomach twist.

“You don’t have to fix me, Harry.”

“I’m not trying to. I just—” He rubbed the back of his neck. “You always fix everyone else. Thought maybe it was our turn.”

Hermione looked down at her tea. “I don’t know what I need.”

“That’s okay,” Ginny said. “We’re still here.”

The room fell quiet. The kind of quiet that only happens when people are trying not to say too much.

Hermione swallowed hard.

She had no words for this particular ache. No spell to make it easier. But she knew she was grateful, even if gratitude felt like too small a thing to hold all the weight of this love.

Chapter Text

There was a charm on the windows in her office—one that kept the sun from glaring off the glass while still letting in just enough warmth to pretend she didn’t work in a government tomb. Pansy leaned back in her chair and stared out at the Ministry courtyard below, watching the tiny, blurred figures come and go.

Granger would be down there somewhere. Or in one of the policy meeting rooms with that aggressively color-coded clipboard of hers and the absurd habit of annotating her own notes twice .

Pansy hadn’t spoken to her today.

She wasn’t avoiding her. Not exactly.

She was… managing her own expectations.

“Miss Parkinson?”

Pansy blinked and turned toward the doorway. Her assistant—a far too chipper Ravenclaw intern named Marley—hovered there with a parchment in one hand and nervous energy in the other.

“Yes?”

“The Muggle Relations draft came in for review. And there’s… uh… a note attached from Granger.”

Of course there was.

“Put it on the desk,” Pansy said.

She waited until Marley left before reaching for the file. The note was tucked neatly inside, in Granger’s relentlessly neat handwriting:

I believe clause 14 is legally redundant under recent magical confidentiality amendments.

Feel free to challenge me if you disagree.

—H

Pansy’s lips twitched.

She did disagree. Slightly.

She grabbed a quill.

Clause 14 isn’t redundant if you’re still negotiating with the Eastern Bloc—your amendment hasn't been ratified there yet.

Don’t tempt me with challenges.

—P

It was idiotic, this paper-passing flirtation. If it even was flirtation. Maybe it was just banter. Maybe it was war repurposed. Maybe Pansy was imagining all of it, projecting things onto Hermione bloody Granger because she was too clever and too sad and too impossible not to look at.

She folded the note back into the file and set it aside before her thoughts could spiral. Again.

She had other things to focus on. Like the upcoming budget review. Or the memo she needed to send to Magical Creature Liaisons. Or the fact that every time she was in the same room as Granger, she felt like she’d swallowed a spark.

Pansy got up and crossed the room to the bookshelf, needing the movement. She pulled a random volume from the shelf— Historical Bias in Postwar Policy —and pretended to skim it.

Her eyes caught on a name: Hermione Granger, listed as a contributor in a footnote about standardizing educational access to magical law.

Of course.

Of course she’d even managed to footnote herself into dry political history.

Pansy sighed and closed the book.

She knew what people thought of her. They still flinched when she walked into rooms. Still whispered about her family’s affiliations. Still waited for her to say something sharp and cruel so they could file her neatly back into the “unredeemable” column.

She didn’t blame them. Not really.

But she wasn’t interested in redemption. She was interested in results. Change. Power, maybe—but the kind that let her fix the mess the old world left behind.

Granger, though… Granger still believed in goodness .

And maybe that’s what made her so impossible to ignore.

—

Pansy didn’t frequent Flourish and Blotts.

She preferred shops with dark wood shelves, overpriced tea, and owners who didn’t blink twice when she ordered obscure potion theory journals from Eastern Europe. But her usual shop had caught fire—literally—after someone tried to test a self-replicating book charm.

So now she was here, in Diagon Alley’s most unreasonably crowded bookstore, muttering about disorganization and trying to find a single, sodding copy of The New Legal Realism in Post-War Britain .

She turned down an aisle, paused, and immediately considered turning around.

Granger stood at the end of the row.

Alone.

Reading.

Of course.

She was tucked against the shelves like she belonged there, hair frizzing slightly at the edges, brow furrowed in concentration. She was holding a paperback novel—fiction, from the look of it—and biting her lip the way she did when she was about to be annoyed with herself for enjoying something too much.

Pansy hesitated.

Then, as if fate was feeling particularly cruel today, Hermione looked up.

They locked eyes.

Hermione blinked. “Oh. Hi.”

Pansy cleared her throat. “Granger.”

A pause. Neither moved.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” Hermione added, slipping a thin bookmark between the pages and hugging the book to her chest like a shield. “You don’t seem the... paperbacks and teenagers solving crimes type.”

“Thank you?” Pansy replied, unsure if that was an insult or a flirtation.

Hermione half-smiled. “It’s not all murder mysteries. Some of them are about found families and… quiet things.”

Pansy arched an eyebrow. “You read for comfort ?”

Hermione shrugged, suddenly looking down at the book like it had betrayed her. “Sometimes.”

Pansy crossed her arms. “You, the eternal overachiever, the human library catalogue, willingly reads stories about people falling in love and learning lessons in under 400 pages?”

Hermione’s mouth twitched. “Do you always mock people for liking things?”

“Only when I’m feeling defensive.”

Another beat.

Then—Hermione laughed. Quiet, real.

And Pansy’s stomach flipped.

She hadn’t meant to make her laugh. But she didn’t regret it either.

Hermione shifted slightly, brushing her hair behind her ear. “What are you doing here?”

“Research. Budget law. Very sexy stuff.”

“Always.”

Another pause. Not awkward, exactly. Just… suspended.

Then Hermione said, softly, “Are you avoiding me?”

Pansy stiffened. “No.”

A look.

“Well, not intentionally.”

Hermione tilted her head, waiting.

Pansy glanced away. “You’ve been… difficult to read. And I’m not exactly looking to repeat seventh year’s emotional circus.”

“I’m not a circus.”

“You’re an entire ecosystem of repression.”

Hermione snorted. “And you’re not?”

Pansy smiled, unwillingly. “Touché.”

The silence that followed was gentler. Familiar. Like the quiet that comes after the last line of a really good book.

“I’m trying,” Hermione said finally, voice barely above the rustle of pages around them. “To feel like a person again.”

Pansy looked at her, really looked at her, and saw the weight behind her eyes. The kind that didn’t go away just because the war had ended.

“Some days you’ll manage it,” Pansy said, surprisingly honest. “Other days you’ll want to hex your flatmate and cry into takeaway.”

Hermione blinked. “Did you just give me advice?”

“I’ll deny it if asked.”

Another silence. This one comfortable.

Hermione tucked the paperback under her arm. “Well. I should go.”

“Right.”

But neither of them moved.

Hermione finally offered a small, crooked smile. “Thanks. For not being... terrible.”

“I aim for ‘barely tolerable’ and work my way up.”

Hermione turned, then hesitated. “Do you want to grab a coffee?”

Pansy stared.

Not rejection. Not avoidance. An invitation.

She should say no. It would be safer.

But instead, her mouth betrayed her.

“Sure.”

—

The café Hermione chose was quiet—thank Merlin. Tucked between a secondhand robe shop and a tiny magical stationery store, it smelled like cinnamon bark and ink, with soft jazz filtering through an enchanted gramophone in the corner.

Pansy eyed the mismatched furniture, all swooping velvet and claw-footed charm, and wondered if she was being tricked into a vibe . She ordered a flat white because anything with foam felt like an unnecessary performance, and Hermione got something with cardamom and clove because of course she did.

They settled into a small table by the window. The world outside was grey and drizzly, casting a cozy blur across the glass. Inside, everything felt muted—like someone had put a silencing charm over the rest of the world, just for a moment.

“This is weird,” Hermione said after a beat, hands curled around her cup.

Pansy took a slow sip of coffee. “Extremely.”

“Did you think we’d ever have coffee that wasn’t under Ministry duress?”

“I didn’t think we’d talk again after the Hogwarts thing.”

Hermione glanced at her. “The ‘thing’ where I saved your life?”

“More like the thing where we all nearly died and then had to pretend we were fine.”

Hermione didn’t laugh. She looked down at her cup, steam kissing her face. “I’m not pretending very well.”

Pansy tilted her head. “You think that’s a bad thing?”

“I think I was supposed to have already healed. Or something like it. I did everything right—finished school, got the job, joined the right committees—”

“And somehow you still wake up with your chest on fire and no name for it.”

Hermione’s eyes lifted sharply. “Yes.”

Pansy leaned back. “You’re not broken. Just bored of being a phoenix.”

Hermione blinked. “That’s… poetic.”

“I dabble.”

They sat with that for a moment, both staring out the window like the rain had something to say.

Hermione spoke first. “You’re different than I remember.”

“I get that a lot.”

“No, I mean—back then, you were always so sharp-edged. Like you were waiting for someone to accuse you of something, so you could beat them to it.”

Pansy smiled faintly. “Still am, most days.”

“But now it feels like… you’ve decided you don’t care what people think. That you’re going to do the work anyway.”

Pansy looked at her, really looked, and saw the weight behind the words. “And you? Still carrying everyone else’s burdens?”

Hermione hesitated. Then nodded, just once. “I don’t know how not to.”

Pansy sipped her coffee, eyes flicking to Hermione’s hands—tight on the cup, like she was holding onto the only solid thing in the room.

“You don’t have to keep everything inside, you know.”

“I don’t trust many people with it.”

“I’m not asking for your diary.”

Hermione gave her a look. “Good. Because I’d redact half of it.”

“Do you do this with Potter and Weasley?”

“Do what?”

“This... honesty game.”

Hermione tilted her head. “Ron tries, but he’s too kind. Harry wants to help, but he doesn’t know how. You—”

She paused. Frowned. Looked down at the swirling dregs of her tea.

Pansy waited.

“You don’t expect anything from me,” Hermione finished. “You don’t try to fix it.”

“I’ve always preferred damage over denial.”

Hermione smiled again—quietly, this time. Like something inside her had unclenched a little.

They sat in silence after that, not awkward but still sharp around the edges. Rain streaked the window. The café buzzed softly with background noise. And between them, something began to settle. Not comfort. Not ease. But... maybe the beginning of understanding.

Pansy stood first. “Back to work?”

“Always.”

They stepped into the rain together, neither reaching for a charm, neither rushing to leave.

Just... walking side by side.

And that, somehow, felt like the most honest thing they’d done all day.

Chapter Text

Hermione Granger had always been good at being alone.

It wasn’t that she enjoyed it, per se—she simply found it necessary. Necessary for thinking. For planning. For processing everything life had thrown at her and coming out the other side mostly intact.

After the war, after the funeral speeches, after the final battle and the slow rebuilding of her own sense of self, Hermione had learned that being alone didn’t have to feel like loneliness. It could feel like... recovery. Space to breathe.

But lately?

Lately, the silence in her flat felt oppressive. Heavier than usual. Like it was waiting for something—someone—to fill it. And all she could hear was the echo of a conversation she’d never expected to have, and the faint taste of coffee on her tongue.

Pansy’s words rang in her head, repeating like the refrain of a song she couldn’t stop listening to. She hadn’t expected to feel so… seen. So understood. Pansy’s eyes had been too sharp, too knowing, as if she could read Hermione’s soul in a way no one else had tried to in years. In a way Hermione wasn’t sure she was ready for.

And yet, here she was—staring at the same mug, same untouched pages of her report on Magical Education, and wondering what the hell had just happened in that café. The café that wasn’t supposed to be anything more than a simple coffee run.

Was she wrong to feel something shift between them? Was she just desperate for connection, any connection, after so long?

She hadn’t seen Pansy in years, not in a way that was personal. They’d shared brief, awkward encounters at the Ministry, quick exchanges of “I’m fine, you’re fine, we’re all fine,” but nothing that lasted. Nothing that reached past the walls they’d built around themselves. And yet, there was something about that conversation, that look in Pansy’s eyes, that made Hermione feel exposed .

It wasn’t just pity. It wasn’t sympathy. Pansy hadn’t been trying to fix her. She hadn’t been trying to pretend Hermione wasn’t scarred, wasn’t fragile.

Hermione wasn’t used to that.

With Ron, it had always been about fixing. About the “we’re a team” mentality, the pushing through, the trying to patch up what was broken without ever really acknowledging the cracks.

But with Pansy... there was no effort to mend anything. Just acceptance. A quiet understanding of what it meant to be in pieces.

It was maddening.

Hermione stood up abruptly, pacing across the room in frustration. She ran her hands through her hair and exhaled slowly, trying to reign in the whirlwind of thoughts and feelings that had suddenly sprung up.

She was not going to overthink this. She was not going to read more into one coffee date, one brief interaction. Pansy had been... polite. Maybe even a little kind. But that didn’t mean anything. Not in the grand scheme of things.

But still... why did it feel like it meant everything?

There was a soft knock at the door.

Hermione froze, hand hovering just above the door handle. Her heart skipped—who the hell would be visiting her at this hour?

She opened the door, and there stood Harry, holding a bag of what looked like—oh Merlin, not more food—biscuits and a few other grocery items.

“Thought you might be hungry,” he said, smiling awkwardly. “And I—I didn’t know if you were doing okay, so I brought you a little bit of everything.”

Hermione blinked, momentarily thrown off. She hadn’t even realized how much time had passed since their coffee. Hours? Days?

“Harry, you didn’t have to do that,” she said, forcing a smile. “But thank you. Come in.”

He stepped inside, still holding the bag out in front of him like an offering. She took it from him, setting it on the counter and quickly unpacking the items.

“Are you still working on your Ministry proposal?” Harry asked, glancing at the mess of papers on the table.

“Yeah,” Hermione replied. “I’ve got some edits to finish, but...”

“But?”

Hermione rubbed her forehead. “It’s just... it’s been hard to concentrate. I don’t know why, it’s just...”

Harry’s gaze softened. “Because of everything. You’re allowed to be distracted, Hermione. You’ve been through a lot.”

She swallowed hard, her throat tight with something she couldn’t quite name. “I know. I just feel... I don’t know, like I should be doing better by now. Like I should be over it.”

“You’re not supposed to be over it,” Harry said firmly. “You’ve been through something massive , Hermione. You don’t just get to walk away from that. I don’t know how to help, but I’m not going anywhere.”

She let out a shaky breath, overwhelmed by the mixture of guilt and gratitude.

“I’m sorry for making everything feel like a burden,” Hermione said quietly, wrapping her arms around herself. “You and Ron, both of you—”

“No,” Harry interrupted, taking a step toward her. “You don’t need to apologize for any of this. If anything, I should be thanking you for always holding it together for everyone else. You’ve been everything to us, Hermione. I don’t think you realize how much we depend on you.”

“I’ve been so... so broken, Harry.”

“And you’re still you , Hermione. You’ll always be you.”

Her heart clenched. He was right. But it wasn’t just about the war. It was about the pieces of herself she’d left behind, the parts she’d never learned how to put back together.

After a long moment, Hermione looked up at him. “You don’t mind that I’m... a mess?”

Harry chuckled softly, a wry grin on his face. “I think you’ve earned the right to be messy. Besides... Ron might not be able to fix anything, but that doesn’t mean we’re not going to try.”

She smiled back, and for the first time in days, the weight on her chest felt just a little lighter. Maybe not gone. But lighter.

“Thanks, Harry. Really.”

“I’ll always be here, you know that.”

And for the first time, Hermione didn’t feel quite so alone.

—

Pansy Parkinson didn’t do flustered.

At least, that’s what she told herself as she dropped her coat over the back of the chair, toed off her boots, and headed straight for the liquor cabinet.

She poured two fingers of firewhisky, paused, then added a third. The glass was heavy and familiar in her hand, grounding. She took a sip, then turned to face the empty flat like it had personally offended her.

Why the hell couldn’t she stop thinking about Granger ?

It wasn’t like they’d had some revelatory, soul-baring moment. It had been coffee. A bit of awkward small talk, a dash of reluctant honesty. Nothing worth writing home about.

But there had been something in Hermione’s eyes. Not quite a cry for help—no, that wasn’t the right metaphor. Hermione Granger would never beg. She’d just sit there, breaking apart in dignified silence, because that’s what good little war heroes did. That’s what survivors did when they thought they weren’t allowed to ask for softness.

Pansy finished the whisky and poured another, pacing now. Her flat was all clean lines and curated chaos—books stacked where they didn’t belong, too many half-burned candles on the mantle, a record player that hadn’t worked in two years but looked impressive next to the armchair.

She liked things that were aesthetic but broken. They matched.

Hermione Granger was not aesthetic. She was frayed edges and anxious energy, always two steps from snapping and still trying to pretend she was perfectly fine.

She’s not fine, Pansy thought, slumping onto the couch. And I don’t know what’s worse—that I noticed, or that I cared.

She hated caring. It was messy. It made you soft. Vulnerable. And Pansy had made it through the war by becoming a steel trap—sharp, self-contained, a little mean when necessary.

But when Hermione had sat across from her, biting the inside of her cheek and fiddling with her tea, Pansy hadn’t wanted to bite. She’d wanted to ask questions. The real kind. The kind that hurt.

And that? That was dangerous.

She flopped back against the cushions and stared at the ceiling, letting her mind drift. Her mother had written again, some passive-aggressive note about “being seen with respectable people” and “restoring the family’s name.” Pansy hadn’t responded. She hadn’t needed to.

She didn’t live her life to make the Parkinson name shine. That ship had sailed with the Dark Mark and all the blood on the Manor floors.

But there was a part of her, buried and bitter, that still wanted to be something. Not for the family. For herself.

Maybe that’s what made her so curious about Hermione Granger. Because she was someone. She meant something to people. Even broken, even unraveling—Hermione still walked into a room like she’d earned the right to be there.

And Pansy… well. Pansy had spent the last five years trying to be someone worth keeping.

She hadn’t meant to get involved. She hadn’t even planned on talking to her beyond polite Ministry-required nods.

But then there she’d been, standing in line for coffee, and there Granger had been, frowning at her cup like it had committed treason. And Pansy—who normally would’ve rolled her eyes and walked away—had said something. Had offered something.

And Granger had accepted.

That was the part that stuck, like a splinter in her chest. That this girl who barely spoke to anyone anymore had let her in, even for a moment.

Why?

She stood and crossed to the window, staring out at the city below. Diagon Alley’s lights glimmered in the distance, muted behind the frost-streaked glass. Somewhere, someone was laughing. Somewhere, life was happening.

She pressed a hand to the pane. It was cold. Real.

Pansy hated questions without answers. But here she was, full of them.

Why did she care that Granger wasn’t okay? Why had she looked forward to that coffee more than she should have? Why had she lingered, just a little longer than necessary, when they parted ways?

And why, for the first time in a very long time, did she feel like she’d missed something after it ended?

It wasn’t attraction. Not quite. Pansy had known attraction. That was easy, predictable. This was something else. Something uncomfortable. It was recognition.

She knew what it looked like to drown while pretending to swim. She knew what it was to wake up every day and wear armor, even when no one asked you to fight.

Maybe that’s why Granger had gotten under her skin.

Because she saw it, too.

The difference was—Hermione was still pretending she didn’t.

Pansy stepped away from the window and sat down at her cluttered desk. Her quill hovered over the stack of parchment she’d been meaning to sort for days, but her thoughts were far away.

Maybe I should write to her.

The idea was ridiculous. What would she even say? Thanks for the coffee and the quiet existential crisis. Let’s do it again sometime?

She snorted at herself, scribbled a few nonsense words on the corner of a page, and ripped it off. Then, after a long pause, she wrote a new line—quick, scrawled, almost careless:

You still look like someone trying to hold the sky up by yourself.

Let me know if you want a hand next time.

—P.

She stared at it.

Folded it.

Didn’t owl it. Not yet.

But she kept it tucked beside her wand that night.

Just in case.

Chapter Text

The library was supposed to help.

It had always been Hermione’s sanctuary—rows of books, quiet corners, the soothing scratch of quills on parchment. In the years since the war, she’d returned to the Hogwarts library like someone revisiting a childhood home: part nostalgia, part desperation.

But today, the magic wasn’t working.

Hermione sat at her usual table, near the enchanted window that flickered between rain and sun depending on her mood. Today it showed grey skies and the faint shimmer of fog. Her notes were spread in perfect, linear rows: a project on improving Muggle-born integration into wizarding academia. Important. Urgent. Necessary.

But the words wouldn’t settle.

She kept catching herself staring into the middle distance, the quill in her hand suspended mid-sentence. The parchment remained half-empty. Her mind—usually her greatest strength—felt fogged, slippery, untethered.

Because she wasn’t thinking about integration policy.

She was thinking about Pansy.

Hermione let out a breath, leaned back, and rubbed her eyes like it might reset something in her brain. It didn’t help. Every time she tried to focus, her thoughts drifted—back to the café, to that look Pansy had given her, to the letter she’d found tucked into a borrowed book the week before.

She hadn’t responded.

Of course she hadn’t. That would mean acknowledging that it had meant something.

And that was... terrifying.

Still, she’d folded the letter three times, then again, then tucked it into her pillowcase like it was something sacred.

She hadn’t been able to throw it away.

“Still here, Granger?” a familiar voice called from between the stacks. “You look like someone stuck in a looped memory charm.”

Hermione blinked. Neville.

She smiled automatically, even as something inside her winced at the sudden presence of the real world. “I needed a change of scenery,” she said. “The flat feels... heavy.”

Neville appeared around the corner, a stack of herbology journals tucked under his arm. He looked relaxed in that way Neville had mastered—like he never needed to try too hard. There was a soft strength to him now that hadn’t existed when they were younger. He wore it well.

He glanced at her parchment and raised an eyebrow. “Is this for work or for penance?”

Hermione snorted. “A bit of both.”

He dropped his journals on the table and pulled out the chair opposite her. “Take a break.”

“I can’t.”

“You can. You just won’t.”

Hermione hesitated.

He was right, obviously.

And maybe she was tired of pretending otherwise.

She let her quill fall and stretched her arms over her head. “Fine. Five minutes.”

Neville smiled in victory. “Perfect. You can use them to meet someone.”

“What—?”

Too late.

A second figure approached—tall, elegant, with dark curls swept into a loose knot and an expression of mild, amused disdain.

Hermione blinked. “Daphne Greengrass?”

Daphne inclined her head in a way that could have passed for a bow or an insult. “Granger.”

Neville grinned, clearly oblivious to the tension. “She’s helping me with a plant research project—Slytherins know how to source illegal ingredients, apparently.”

Daphne arched an eyebrow but said nothing.

Hermione stood, mostly out of habit. “It’s been... a long time.”

Daphne gave her a once-over that felt more analytical than judgmental. “It has.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward so much as tense with possibility. Hermione didn’t know what to say. Did she ask how Daphne had been post-war? Was that too much? Too soon?

“I’ve heard you’re working in Muggle legislation,” Daphne said finally. “Good. About time someone fixed that mess.”

Hermione blinked. “I—thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. I’m just glad it’s you and not someone stupid.”

Hermione wasn’t sure if that was an insult or a compliment, but the weirdest part? It made her feel a little better.

Maybe Slytherins had a strange kind of comfort to them—cutthroat, but clear. Like Pansy.

“Are you free tomorrow?” Neville asked, breaking the spell. “Some of us are meeting for drinks—Daphne’s coming too. You should join.”

Hermione hesitated. The words yes and no warred on her tongue.

Then Daphne looked her dead in the eye and said, “You could use it. One evening of being a person instead of a political symbol.”

Hermione opened her mouth—then closed it.

She nodded.

—

The pub was one of those tucked-away spots in Diagon Alley that most people missed if they weren’t looking for it. No flashing signs, no trendy music—just low lighting, sturdy tables, and shelves of mismatched glassware behind the bar. The Levitating Cauldron wasn’t popular, and that was exactly why Neville liked it.

Hermione arrived early, instinctively punctual, already scanning the place for an exit strategy in case things went sideways. She didn’t know why she was nervous. It was just drinks. With Neville. And... Greengrass.

That part was still a little weird.

She spotted them in a corner booth—Neville waving enthusiastically, Daphne sipping something clear from a tall glass and looking like she'd rather be anywhere else.

“Hermione!” Neville stood, pulling her into a quick, warm hug. “Glad you came.”

Daphne gave a nod, the corner of her mouth twitching upward in something that might’ve been a smile if you squinted.

“Hi,” Hermione said, settling into the booth. “I almost didn’t.”

“But you did,” Daphne said, smoothly. “So let’s pretend that decision didn’t take twenty minutes of internal debate.”

Hermione blinked. “How did you—?”

“You have the face of someone who overthinks everything.”

“She does,” Neville added helpfully, already signaling for drinks. “Two meads and another tonic?”

“I’ll try whatever Daphne’s having,” Hermione said before she could overthink it.

That got an actual smile out of Daphne. “Careful, Granger. That’s a dangerous offer.”

Neville chuckled. “This is nice, though, right? Us not saving the world or fighting off trauma monsters?”

Hermione laughed softly. “It is nice.”

And it was. For a while, at least.

They talked about nonsense—Magical Plants Quarterly, absurd Ministry regulations, a story about someone hexing all the teacups in the Department of International Cooperation to whisper inappropriate gossip. It was simple, and it was good. Hermione found herself leaning back, her drink in hand, the tight coil in her chest loosening slightly.

She was just starting to forget herself—when the door creaked open.

And in walked Pansy.

She was alone. Her coat hung open, black and elegant, her lipstick a shade too dark for polite society. She walked like the room owed her something—and maybe it did.

Hermione sat up straighter, instantly hyperaware of her posture, her breathing, her everything.

Neville glanced over and waved. “Pansy!”

“Oh, no,” Hermione muttered under her breath, heat rising in her cheeks.

“You invited Pansy?” she hissed to Daphne, who gave a one-shouldered shrug.

“She invites herself.”

Pansy approached, looking entirely too calm. “Longbottom. Greengrass. Granger.”

“Parkinson,” Hermione replied, trying for even but landing closer to breathless.

“I see the revolution’s alive and well,” Pansy said, glancing at the drinks and pulling up a chair. “Didn’t peg you for pub nights, Granger.”

Hermione took a very long sip of her drink. “And yet here I am.”

Daphne smirked. “And now it’s a party.”

Pansy ordered something that came with a lemon twist and sat down with the kind of composure only Slytherins seemed to master. She didn’t look at Hermione—not exactly—but she felt like she was watching her anyway.

“So,” Pansy said after a moment. “Is this one of those tragic bonding nights where everyone takes turns unpacking their trauma?”

Neville nearly spit out his drink. “No! No. Just... a chill evening.”

“Pity,” Pansy replied, glancing at Hermione. “I was in the mood for something honest.”

Hermione swallowed. “You could just say what you mean instead of speaking in riddles.”

“But where’s the fun in that?”

Their eyes locked. And for one sharp second, the whole room seemed to still.

Neville cleared his throat. “I’m going to... get more chips.”

Daphne stood too. “I’ll help him pick a basket. It’s a very complicated process.”

And just like that, they were alone.

Hermione didn’t speak. Neither did Pansy.

The silence between them was too loud.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Hermione said finally.

“Likewise. But here we are.”

Hermione looked down at her hands. “I got your note.”

Pansy sipped her drink. “You didn’t respond.”

“I didn’t know how.”

“That’s not the same as not wanting to.”

Hermione looked up sharply. “I don’t know what I want, Pansy.”

Pansy tilted her head, something soft and dangerous in her gaze. “Then maybe you should stop trying to solve yourself like a bloody riddle and just feel something.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Hermione shot back. “You don’t—feel things the same way.”

“Don’t I?” Pansy asked, voice suddenly quieter. “Or do I just hide it better?”

The table between them felt too small now. Too intimate.

Hermione exhaled. “I’m tired, Pansy. Of pretending I’m fine. Of carrying it all by myself.”

“You don’t have to,” Pansy said. “Not if you let someone in.”

Hermione looked at her. Really looked.

And for the first time, didn’t immediately look away.

—

The flat was dark when Hermione stepped inside, save for the soft glow of the enchanted window that always mimicked the weather in her mind.

Tonight, it flickered between dusk and moonlight. Uncertain. Unsettled. But not entirely cold.

She shut the door behind her and leaned against it, exhaling slowly. Her heels ached, her throat was dry, and her heart was still pounding with everything left unsaid. She’d made it through the evening without falling apart — barely.

And somehow, Pansy Parkinson was still in her head.

Hermione moved on autopilot—shoes off, cardigan over the back of the chair. The flat was exactly how she’d left it: a stack of unfinished work by the sofa, two unread letters from the Ministry on the side table, a cat-shaped mug waiting by the sink. Her little world of order and stillness. But tonight, it didn’t soothe her like it usually did.

She sat down at the small desk near the window, lit a candle, and stared at a blank sheet of parchment.

She didn’t know why.

Or—no. That was a lie.

She knew exactly why.

The words were already forming in her head, uninvited and inevitable.

Pansy,
I’m not sure what I’m doing.

I’m not sure I’ve known for a while.

Tonight scared me. Not because you were there — but because something about seeing you made everything feel too real.

I haven’t felt real in months.

And I think that’s why I’m writing.

Hermione

She stared at the letter. It wasn’t enough. It was too much. It was everything she couldn’t say out loud and didn’t know how to live with.

But she didn’t crumple it up.

She folded it slowly, hands shaking just a little, and slipped it into an envelope. Her fingers hovered above the owl perch near the window, where her familiar — a sleek, amber-eyed barn owl named Alder — was already watching her like he knew she’d cave eventually.

Hermione held the letter there, suspended in that moment of indecision, heart pounding.

Did she want to open this door?

Did she dare?

She thought of Pansy’s eyes across the pub table. Of the softness under the sarcasm. The invitation beneath the bite.

“I’m not ready,” she whispered.

But she tied the letter to Alder’s leg anyway.

The owl blinked once, understanding, then took off into the night.

Hermione stood at the window long after he disappeared, arms wrapped around herself.

The night outside had settled into something still and starlit.

And for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel completely alone.

Chapter Text

Pansy wasn’t a morning person.

She made this known by hexing any enchanted alarms that dared to chirp before ten, and by ignoring owl post until at least noon. But the barn owl tapping at her window just after sunrise was persistent — and annoyingly familiar.

She recognized it immediately. That golden tint to the feathers, the oddly graceful way it shifted on the sill. Granger’s owl.

Pansy sighed.

She opened the window, not bothering with a robe, and let the cold wind bite her bare arms. “You’re lucky you’re pretty,” she muttered as she untied the letter.

The owl hooted — smugly, if such a thing was possible — and took off again into the pale grey sky.

Pansy closed the window and padded barefoot to her kitchen, letter in hand. She didn’t open it right away. Instead, she poured herself tea, took a long sip, and let the envelope sit on the counter like it might explode.

She wasn’t sure she wanted to know what was inside.

Because if it was an apology — if it was nothing — she wasn’t sure she’d come back from that.

When she finally opened it, she didn’t read it all at once. Just the first few lines. And then she folded it back up and sat down hard at the table.

Her chest felt tight.

Granger had written to her.

Granger had felt something.

She read the whole letter again. Then a third time. Her tea went cold.

There were no declarations. No clarity. But there was vulnerability — raw and real in a way Pansy hadn’t expected. Hermione wasn’t trying to be clever or careful. She was just… lost.

And reaching.

Pansy traced the handwriting with one finger. It was perfect, of course. Even when falling apart, Hermione Granger wrote like she was submitting it for a final grade.

Pansy should respond.

But her mind was already spinning with reasons not to.

This wasn’t supposed to be anything. Not really. A few unexpected conversations. Some tension. Maybe curiosity. But she hadn’t meant to care. And now here she was, with a letter in her kitchen and something like hope twisting under her ribs.

Pansy got up and paced the flat.

She could write back. She could say, “Me too.” Or something stupid and honest like “You scare me, and I want to kiss you anyway.”

But that wasn’t how she operated.

Instead, she conjured her own parchment. Smooth. Unblemished.

She stared at it for a long time.

Then finally, she wrote:

Granger,

If you’re going to start writing letters like that, the least you could do is let me take you somewhere.

Pick a day.

P

No signature. No mess. No feelings.

But the subtext — Pansy knew — was a scream.

She folded it. Sealed it. Stared at it like it might change into something better.

Then she called for a Ministry owl. No dramatic delay. No poetic hesitation.

Just a decision.

Because maybe Granger was scared.

But so was she.

And maybe that was the whole point.

—

Hermione didn’t check the post.

She pretended not to check it, which was arguably worse. She walked past the window twice an hour, rearranged the owl perch unnecessarily, and cleaned the entryway — a task that hadn’t needed doing since Christmas. No owl came.

It had been two days since she sent the letter.

And now it felt like all she did was wait.

Wait for answers. Wait to feel better. Wait to want something again.

By the time late afternoon bled into twilight, she gave up on pretending. She pulled on a jumper that still smelled faintly of Ron’s aftershave — gross — and went for a walk through Diagon Alley.

The streets were quieter than usual. Shop lights flickered softly in the windows, casting warm shapes onto cobblestone. Hermione moved slowly, aimlessly, until she found herself outside The Spindle & Flame — the little shop Luna rented a studio above.

She hadn’t planned to visit.

She hadn’t planned anything, really.

But before she could talk herself out of it, she was knocking on the pale lavender door with the moon-shaped knocker.

It swung open before the third knock.

“Hermione,” Luna said, like she’d been expecting her all along.

Hermione blinked. “How did you—?”

“You knock like someone who doesn’t want to be doing it,” Luna replied dreamily. “Also, I saw you through the window.”

Hermione huffed a laugh, then let herself be pulled inside.

Luna’s flat smelled like sage and honey. Crystals hung in the corners like wind chimes, and her furniture didn’t match — but somehow, it all made sense. It felt like stepping into a place where time unraveled gently instead of rushing past.

“You look very serious,” Luna said as she poured tea into mismatched cups. “Are you thinking about running away to Albania, or is it something smaller?”

Hermione sat down hard on the sofa. “I’m thinking about whether I’m capable of forming normal human connections.”

“Ah,” Luna said, as if that explained everything.

She handed Hermione a cup of tea that shimmered slightly when it caught the light.

“Is this going to make me float?” Hermione asked warily.

“Only if you want to,” Luna said. “But emotionally, I find it’s helpful. Sometimes I drink it and cry for twenty minutes, and sometimes I remember all the things I’ve forgotten I survived.”

Hermione stared into the tea. “That sounds exhausting.”

Luna nodded. “So is bottling everything up until you think too loud and forget how to breathe.”

Hermione let out a low breath. “Luna… do you ever just… not know what you want? Like, at all?”

“All the time,” Luna said easily. “Especially when I really want something.”

Hermione looked up.

“I sent Pansy a letter,” she admitted.

Luna didn’t blink. “Did she explode?”

“No. I don’t know if she’s read it. Or if she’ll answer. Or what I want her to say if she does.”

“She will,” Luna said.

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because you wouldn’t have written if there wasn’t something worth answering.”

Hermione stared into her tea again. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“You don’t have to.” Luna leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. “You just have to keep doing something.”

They sat in silence for a while, the kind that felt like exhaling.

Then Luna said, out of nowhere, “You’ve always tried so hard to be whole, Hermione. Maybe that’s why it’s so hard to let anyone see the cracks.”

Hermione swallowed. “She sees them.”

“And you haven’t hexed her yet. That’s promising.”

Hermione cracked a smile. “You’re a menace.”

“I prefer oracle,” Luna said, leaning back. “But I’ll take menace.”

They stayed there until the tea went cold and the light shifted from lavender to gold.

When Hermione finally left, Luna gave her a hug that lasted just one second too long — exactly the kind of hug Hermione didn’t know she needed.

As she walked back to her flat, something in her chest felt a little less sharp. She still didn’t know what would happen next.

But maybe, just maybe… she was ready for it.

—

Hermione was on her way home from Luna’s when she passed The Bent Broomstick, one of those half-hidden wizarding pubs tucked behind Knockturn Alley. It was shabbier than The Leaky Cauldron, but quieter — the kind of place people went when they didn’t want to be seen.

She wouldn’t have stopped if she hadn’t glanced through the fogged glass and seen a very familiar mop of ginger hair.

Ron, nursing a pint alone.

She stood outside for half a minute, weighing her options. They hadn’t spent much time together since the breakup. Not because of bitterness — but because space was easier than navigating whatever came after "I love you, but not like that anymore."

Still, something about the way he was hunched over his drink — slouched but comfortable — made her open the door.

His eyes lit up when he saw her.

“Oi! Look what the Kneazle dragged in.”

Hermione rolled her eyes but smiled as she slid into the booth opposite him. “I should’ve known you’d be hiding in a corner pub. Classic Weasley move.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

They sat in the low, warm light for a few moments in comfortable quiet. Then Ron signaled for a second pint and nudged it toward her without asking.

“I’m okay, you know,” he said eventually.

She blinked. “Okay?”

“I mean… about us. In case you were wondering.”

Hermione let out a slow breath. “I was.”

“I miss you,” he added, then quickly, “But not in the torch-carrying sort of way. Just… miss having you around.”

She took a sip of the beer and made a face. Still bitter. Still too cold. “I miss you too.”

They clinked glasses in silent agreement.

“How’s work?” she asked.

“Still pretending I know what I’m doing,” he said with a shrug. 

“Scandalous,” she said. “But maybe effective.”

He smirked. “You always did have faith in me I didn’t earn.”

She looked at him carefully. “No. You earned it. You just never believed me.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared down into the foam of his pint like it held a prophecy.

Then, without looking up, he asked, “Is it Parkinson?”

Hermione froze.

“What?”

Ron shrugged. “You’ve got that face. The one you used to make before exams. Like you might throw up or cry, but you’re not sure which.”

She couldn’t help but laugh — the sound surprised her.

Ron leaned back, smug. “Knew it.”

“I don’t know what it is,” she said honestly. “I just know it’s… something.”

“And you’re scared?”

She nodded.

“Well,” he said, “that’s not new.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Excuse me?”

“You get scared of everything that matters,” Ron said softly. “You were scared before the war. Scared before Hogwarts ended. Hell, you were terrified before our first kiss.”

“I was not—”

“You were shaking, Hermione.”

“Shut up,” she muttered, cheeks warm.

He grinned but his voice stayed gentle. “You do things anyway, though. That’s the part no one sees. You’re scared all the time — and you never let it stop you.”

Hermione looked at him for a long moment.

And suddenly, she felt the burn of tears behind her eyes. Not because she was sad. But because someone saw her.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.

“Don’t mention it.”

They didn’t stay much longer — just long enough to finish their pints and fall into a few soft silences. When they walked out, the sky was dark but gentle, clouds like ink stains softening the stars.

“Let’s not wait another month to do this,” Hermione said as they reached the corner where they’d part ways.

Ron nodded. “Yeah. I like being your person, even if I’m not your person, you know?”

She squeezed his arm. “Me too.”

Then they went in opposite directions, and the ache in Hermione’s chest felt just a little bit easier to carry.

—

The letter arrived while Hermione was brushing her teeth.

She heard the tapping first — a light, precise rhythm against the windowpane. Not frantic like Harry’s owl or patient like Ron’s. This one had attitude.

Hermione froze, toothbrush mid-air.

She moved to the window slowly, like the owl might vanish if she moved too fast. But it didn’t. It stared back at her with bright eyes and an unnervingly smug tilt to its head.

“Right,” she whispered. “Of course she’d have an owl like you.”

She opened the latch. The owl hopped inside like it owned the flat, dropped the envelope onto her desk, then immediately began grooming itself like this whole situation was boring.

Hermione didn’t move for a moment.

The envelope was smaller than hers had been. Pale grey. Her name — just Hermione — written in a sharp, elegant script.

No second names. No formality.

She picked it up like it might be cursed and sat on the edge of her bed. The owl gave a soft hoot, impatient.

“Okay, okay…”

She broke the seal.

Granger,

If you’re going to start writing letters like that, the least you could do is let me take you somewhere.

Pick a day.

– P

Hermione blinked.

That was it?

No emotional reply. No questions. No commentary on the page she’d bled out like a teenage diary. Just… an invitation?

She read it again. And then again. And each time, something warm built beneath her ribs. Not fireworks. Not even a proper smile. Just… possibility.

And more than that — permission.

She stood up, the letter still in her hand, and paced the room.

Her brain spun in three directions at once. What did take you somewhere mean? Was this a date? Was Pansy mocking her? Did she want to talk, or pretend everything was casual, or—

She stopped.

She looked down at the paper again.

There was no mention of the letter’s contents. No “me too.” No over-explaining.

But Pansy had written back.

And she wanted to see her.

Hermione sat at her desk and stared at the blank parchment in front of her. Her hands shook just slightly.

She didn’t want to ruin this with overthinking.

So, after a deep breath, she wrote:

P,

Friday. 6pm.

Don’t be late.

– H

No location. No fluff. Let her ask.

Hermione folded it, charmed it closed, and tied it to the owl’s leg.

“Be nice,” she muttered. “She probably feeds you better than I do.”

The owl clicked its beak and took off with a sharp flutter.

Hermione stood there for a long moment, heart thudding, mouth dry.

Then she whispered to the empty flat:

“Holy shit.”

Chapter Text

Hermione didn’t plan to tell anyone.

Not because she was keeping it a secret — she wasn’t sure it was anything yet — but because it felt too fragile, too new, to say aloud. She wanted to hold it for a while. Let it warm up in her hands like a cup of tea.

But Luna had a way of knowing when Hermione was trying not to say something. And Ginny had a way of blurting out exactly what Hermione wasn’t ready to admit.

So when Hermione met them for a quiet breakfast at the Burrow, she lasted all of eight minutes.

“She wrote back,” she said, halfway through her toast.

Ginny looked up mid-chew. “Who did?”

Luna didn’t ask. She just smiled.

Hermione gave her a flat look. “Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“Doing that dreamy seer thing like you already know.”

“I don’t know,” Luna said softly. “I just hoped.”

Ginny narrowed her eyes. “Wait. Are we talking about Parkinson?”

Hermione nodded once, eyes on her teacup.

Ginny immediately slammed her fork down. “No way. Did she say anything awful? What did she write? Did she apologize for being a world-class cow for six years?”

“She invited me out.”

Dead silence.

Ginny blinked. “Like… on a date?”

“She didn’t say it was a date.”

Luna tilted her head. “Did she say it wasn’t?”

Hermione opened her mouth. Closed it.

Ginny let out a low whistle. “This timeline is wild.”

Hermione looked away, suddenly unsure. “It might mean nothing.”

Luna reached across the table and gently touched her hand. “Or it might mean everything. You won’t know unless you go.”

Ginny nodded. “Also, she’s hot. Just saying.”

“Ginny—”

“What? Look, if you’re going to panic about this, I think you’re allowed to panic and also acknowledge that she’s terrifyingly attractive.”

Hermione groaned and dropped her head onto the table. “She’s not that attractive.”

Luna and Ginny: “She is.”

Hermione made a strangled noise into the woodgrain. But a moment later, she laughed. It felt ridiculous. Terrifying. Good.

She was allowed to want things again.

—

Friday.

6:00 p.m.

It was currently Friday.

5:12 p.m.

Hermione stood in front of her mirror wearing her fifth outfit in twenty minutes, and she wanted to scream.

This was ridiculous.

Absolutely absurd.

She had fought Death Eaters. She had faced a troll in first year. She had rewritten time and survived Bellatrix Lestrange and broken into Gringotts. And here she was, losing her mind over trousers.

“These are fine,” she muttered, staring at the charcoal slacks and soft jumper combo she’d just changed into. “Completely fine. Normal. Approachable.”

She turned. Looked again.

Too casual?

Too serious?

Would Pansy show up in, like, silk and spite?

Was she overdoing it? Underdoing it?

She tore the jumper off with a growl.

Her bedroom looked like a storm had blown through — clothes thrown over every surface, books left half-open where she’d attempted to distract herself, a half-drunk mug of tea growing cold on the windowsill.

5:17 p.m.

Bloody hell.

This wasn’t a date.

She wasn’t dating Pansy Parkinson.

She was meeting her. To… talk? Drink? Exchange mutual confusion in a public space?

Hermione flopped backwards onto her bed and stared at the ceiling. She hated this. This not knowing. This fragile space between expectation and disappointment. There was a reason she’d clung to certainty her whole life — exams, goals, the war — it was all black and white, pass or fail, live or die.

But this?

This was all shades of maybe.

5:22 p.m.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

In.

Out.

It’s not a test, she told herself. It’s a chance. And you’re allowed to want it.

After a long minute, she got up and changed again — this time, jeans and a fitted button-down under a soft brown blazer. Neat but comfortable. Like someone who hadn’t tried too hard (even though she had).

She looked in the mirror.

“It’s not perfect,” she told her reflection. “But it’s me.”

She nodded once, grabbed her bag, and cast a breath-freshening charm out of sheer panic.

Then she Apparated.

—

The pub Pansy picked was tucked into a narrow street just off Diagon Alley — not trendy, not flashy, but dim and warm and quiet. A fireplace flickered in the corner, and the bartender barely looked up when Hermione stepped inside.

Hermione scanned the room once, nerves buzzing just under her skin.

Then she saw her.

Pansy was already there, seated in a booth in the far corner like a queen surveying her court — one arm stretched along the back of the bench, legs crossed, her wand resting lightly on the table. She was wearing something dark and effortless and vaguely infuriating. Her expression was unreadable.

Hermione walked over before she could psych herself out.

“You’re early,” she said, sliding into the booth across from her.

Pansy raised a brow. “You’re late.”

Hermione checked her watch. “I’m two minutes early.”

“And I was ten. So technically—”

“Oh, shut up.”

A beat of silence.

Then Pansy smirked. “Nice blazer.”

Hermione tugged at the lapel self-consciously. “It’s… weather-appropriate.”

“Mm. Is that what we’re calling flustered fashion now?”

“I—look, if you invited me out just to insult me—”

“I didn’t,” Pansy said smoothly, eyes glittering. “If I’d wanted to insult you, Granger, I would’ve sent a much longer letter.”

Hermione opened her mouth. Closed it.

Then — slowly, almost in disbelief — she laughed.

Pansy looked pleased.

“I don’t know what I was expecting,” Hermione said, reaching for the drink menu. “But you’re exactly as irritating as I remember.”

“And you’re exactly as dramatic.”

“Oh, bite me.”

“Later,” Pansy said, utterly deadpan.

Hermione choked on air.

Pansy blinked innocently and sipped her wine.

They ordered drinks — Hermione defaulted to something with ginger, Pansy to red wine she’d brought herself. Of course she had. They didn’t talk about the letter at first. Or the war. Or anything too sharp.

Instead, they danced around the edges — books, job, exasperating coworkers, strange magical law quirks. Pansy teased. Hermione bit back. The rhythm wasn’t perfect, but it was real.

And then, somewhere between a shared laugh and a too-long silence, Hermione said, “I didn’t think you’d respond.”

Pansy tilted her head. “Why not?”

“I just… I don’t know. We aren’t exactly friends.”

“No,” Pansy agreed. “But we aren’t nothing either.”

Hermione looked at her.

Pansy held her gaze.

“And I liked your letter,” she added. “Even the messy bits.”

Hermione swallowed.

“You’re not what I expected either.”

Pansy smiled. Not sharp. Not smug. Soft.

“Well,” she said. “Stick around. I get worse.”

Hermione’s heart thudded wildly.

Oh, she thought. Oh no.

She might actually like her.

Chapter Text

Hermione didn’t sleep.

Not well, anyway.

She kept waking up — too hot, too cold, brain ticking like a clock with no hands. Her sheets were tangled around her legs, her pillow had somehow migrated to the floor, and her thoughts were stuck on an endless loop of what did she mean by that and you laughed too loud at that one joke and was that actual flirting or just Pansy being evil with charm?

By morning, she’d convinced herself she’d hallucinated the entire night.

The outfit she’d dropped on her bedroom chair said otherwise.

So did the faint trace of perfume on her collar that was definitely not hers.

She buried her face in her hands.

What was she doing?

Hermione Granger — war heroine, obsessive planner, literal Minister-in-training candidate — had somehow fallen into a maybe-kind-of-something with Pansy bloody Parkinson.

And she didn’t hate it.

That was the worst part.

She made herself tea. Strong, black, two sugars. The mug shook slightly in her hand. She sat on the couch in the flat she’d barely bothered to decorate, stared at the far wall, and tried very hard to be logical.

It was just drinks, she told herself.

It doesn’t have to mean anything.

But her chest felt warm in a way she hadn’t felt in ages. Her skin still remembered the heat of Pansy’s gaze across the table. Her mind replayed that stupid, flirty little “Later” like a cursed record.

She groaned out loud and let her head fall back against the couch cushion.

“Get a grip,” she muttered.

The problem, she was starting to realize, wasn’t that she didn’t know what this was.

The problem was that she wanted to know.

She wanted another meeting. Another conversation. Another smug, ridiculous smile thrown across a too-small table.

She hadn’t wanted anything — not really — since the war ended. Not like this.

It was… terrifying.

And thrilling.

She stared at the ceiling.

“What if she thinks it meant nothing?” she whispered.

She hated how much that thought hurt.

She finished her tea and tried to read. Failed. Tried to clean. Rearranged her bookshelves twice before giving up. She even considered Floo-calling Ginny, but she wasn’t quite ready to hear I told you so just yet.

It wasn’t until early evening that she allowed herself to write.

Not a letter — not yet.

Just a page in her journal. Just for her.

She looked at me like I wasn’t broken.
Like I was annoying, yes — deeply so —
But not broken.

Her quill paused.

I think I liked it too much.

—

“You’re being weird,” Ron said, mid-scone.

Hermione didn’t even look up from her tea. “You’re always weird. Why are you allowed and I’m not?”

“Because I’m consistently weird,” he said, licking jam off his thumb. “You, on the other hand, are acting like someone just told you Crookshanks is actually a secret Death Eater.”

She shot him a look. “That’s… unnecessarily specific.”

Ron grinned. “You’ve got that face.”

“What face.”

“The one where your brain’s chewing through your own soul.”

Hermione blinked. “That’s—disturbing.”

“Also accurate.”

They were sitting in a sun-drenched little Muggle café not far from her flat, one of those places Ron had randomly discovered and grown inexplicably attached to. The waitress already knew his order. Hermione didn’t come often, but she’d agreed when he’d owled that morning. She figured tea and pastries might slow the emotional landslide.

She was wrong.

Ron watched her for a minute. Just… watched. Not poking, not pressing. And then:

“So,” he said, very casually, “how was last night?”

Hermione nearly choked. “What—what do you mean?”

Ron gave her a look. “You were jittery yesterday, and now you’re glowy and terrifying.”

“I am not—glowy.”

He leaned back, arms crossed. “You absolutely are. In a… weird, what’s-happening-to-me kind of way.”

Hermione fiddled with her spoon.

She didn’t want to say it out loud.

Saying it made it real.

But Ron, bless him, didn’t push. He just sat there, sipping his awful sugary coffee, being irritatingly perceptive.

Eventually, Hermione said, “It was… good.”

Ron raised his eyebrows.

“Unexpectedly good,” she added.

More eyebrow.

Hermione groaned. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“I’m just sitting here. Radiating support. You’re the one being cagey.”

She hesitated. Then, softly, “I got a drink with Pansy. I was good, I think”

There was a long pause.

Then Ron, very slowly, smiled.

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

Hermione blinked. “You’re… okay with that?”

He shrugged. “Look, I’ve seen you sad, and angry, and so exhausted I thought you might spontaneously combust. But this?” He gestured vaguely at her. “This is different. You look… kind of alive again.”

She felt something twist in her chest.

Ron gave her a soft smile. “I want that for you. Whoever it is.”

Hermione looked at him for a long moment. Then, quietly, “Thank you.”

“Besides,” Ron said, smirking, “I always thought you might fancy someone who could go toe-to-toe with you in a snark-off. I’m just mad I didn’t put money on it.”

Hermione laughed — loud, real, full-body.

And for the first time in a long while, it felt easy.

—

Hermione wasn’t expecting anything.

That’s what she told herself, anyway.

After the café with Ron, she came home and made the very rational decision to do laundry, reorganize her potion supplies, and read two chapters of a terribly dull policy book she’d been putting off for weeks. She wasn’t waiting. She was filling time.

So naturally, the owl arrived right as she was elbow-deep in spell-bleached socks.

The tap on her window made her jump. She looked up, fumbled with the latch, and opened it to reveal a sleek black owl with bright gold eyes and the unmistakable air of someone who would absolutely hex you for leaving them hanging too long.

It stuck out one leg.

Hermione took the note.

No envelope. No parchment seal. Just folded parchment, neat and sharp and smelling faintly of bergamot and ink.

She unfolded it with cautious fingers.

You didn’t bore me to death.
I’m as surprised as you are.

Same time next week?
Same place. I’ll try to be five minutes late so you can win the punctuality game.

P

Hermione read it once.

Twice.

She smiled — small at first, then wide, then completely unstoppable.

There was something wickedly casual about the message, but underneath the sarcasm, she could feel it: intent. Interest. Not obligation. Not pity.

She read it again.

Then she went to her desk, pulled out her stationery, and wrote back:

Only if you promise not to bring that judgmental wine again.

And I demand at least five minutes of civil conversation before you insult my taste in tea.

-H

She tied it to the owl’s leg and sent it off before she could overthink it.

And then, for the first time in days, she exhaled without feeling like her lungs were lined with thorns.

Chapter Text

Hermione arrived five minutes early, just like last time. This time, she wasn’t pacing in her apartment  for twenty minutes beforehand.

Progress.

She wore the same boots she’d worn to their first meeting — not because she thought Pansy would notice, but because she did. The familiarity grounded her. She’d pulled her hair back into a low twist that said effortless but had actually taken three tries. She told herself it wasn’t a date.

She didn’t believe it.

She slipped into the booth — their booth, she realized — and placed her wand neatly beside her napkin. The pub was quieter tonight, a soft Thursday kind of quiet, where everything felt hushed and conspiratorial. The candles on the table flickered low and slow, throwing warm shadows across the scratched wood.

Pansy arrived exactly five minutes later, just like she’d promised.

Hermione was sipping her tea when the door swung open and a gust of spring wind followed Pansy into the room.

She looked ridiculous, of course.

Effortlessly cool in dark slacks, a green silk blouse under a sharp black coat. Her lipstick was darker this time — plum instead of red — and her eyes were rimmed in something smoky and witchy and unfair.

Hermione’s heart stuttered like it had forgotten the right rhythm.

Pansy spotted her instantly and smirked. “Look who’s on time again.”

“I live in fear of tardiness,” Hermione said, raising an eyebrow. “Unlike some people.”

“Fear’s such a turn-on,” Pansy replied, sliding into the booth.

Hermione nearly choked on her tea.

They ordered — nothing fancy, just drinks and something fried and entirely not on Hermione’s usual meal plan. And then, just like that, they were talking.

Not about politics.

Not about work.

Real things.

Pansy asked her what she’d been reading lately, and didn’t roll her eyes when Hermione spent five minutes explaining the fascinating flaws in a recent report from the Department of Magical Transportation. In fact, she nodded along. Asked questions. Laughed at the parts Hermione thought only she’d find funny.

Somewhere between the second drink and the third round of chips, the mood shifted.

Pansy said, “I used to hate Thursdays.”

Hermione blinked. “Why?”

“They always felt… in-between. Like nothing important ever happens on a Thursday. You’re either tired from the week or waiting for the weekend.” She took a slow sip of wine. “But this —” she gestured lazily at the space between them “— this doesn’t feel like nothing.”

Hermione’s throat went tight.

She wanted to say something. Anything.

Instead, she reached for her tea, fingers brushing Pansy’s as she did.

The contact was brief.

But Pansy didn’t pull away.

And neither did Hermione.

They talked for another hour. About childhood pets, terrible school assignments, who should’ve really won the Triwizard Tournament. It felt… normal. In a way Hermione hadn’t felt in a long, long time.

When they finally stood to leave, the air between them crackled just a little.

Pansy walked her to the door.

“Same time next week?” she asked.

Hermione met her gaze. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Pansy gave a half-smile — something soft at the edges. “Try not to pine too hard until then.”

And with a flick of her coat and a wink that shouldn’t have made Hermione’s knees weak, she Disapparated.

Hermione stood in the street for a long moment, breath fogging in the night air, before letting out a shaky little laugh.

Not a date, she thought.

But maybe the start of something.

—

Ginny had been watching her for the last seven minutes with the kind of expression that made Hermione regret every life choice that led her to agree to brunch.

“What,” Hermione said finally, not looking up from her toast, “is your problem.”

“You’re annoyingly chipper,” Ginny said, stabbing a piece of fruit with unnecessary drama. “And I’m trying to figure out if it’s just the Parkinson Effect or if you’ve finally done something about it.”

Hermione sighed. “Define ‘something.’”

Ginny’s grin was immediate and wicked. “Oh, I knew it. What was it this time? Matching trauma? Snarky banter? Eye contact that lasted too long while she made fun of your tea?”

Hermione gave her a flat look. “We talked. That’s all.”

Ginny snorted. “You’ve been talking for weeks. What’s changed?”

Hermione hesitated. Stirred her tea like it held answers.

“…She touched my hand.”

Ginny froze. “Oh my god. That’s it. You’re gone.”

“I am not gone.”

“You are so far gone, Hermione. You’re practically writing her initials in the margins of your planner.”

“I do not—!”

Ginny leaned across the table. “Do you think about her when you’re not together?”

Hermione stared at her.

“That’s a yes,” Ginny said. “Do you replay conversations in your head afterward, wondering what she really meant?”

Hermione glared. “That is not a fair question.”

“Do you keep checking your messages to see if she’s owl’d, even though she clearly only writes on Thursdays?”

Hermione groaned. “Why are you like this?”

“Because you’re in it, love. You’ve got that soft, startled bird look you get when you actually like someone.”

“I do not—okay, maybe. A little.”

Ginny grinned like she’d won a bet with herself. “I’m happy for you.”

Hermione blinked. “You are?”

“Of course I am. You deserve something good. Something sharp and strange and a little wicked.” Ginny paused, then added, “And let’s be real — makes sense that your type are terrifying women with great eyebrows.”

Hermione choked on her tea.

“Just saying,” Ginny said innocently. “Parkinson fits the bill.”

They sat in silence for a moment, Ginny sipping her juice, Hermione recovering from emotional whiplash.

Then Ginny leaned in again. “But if she hurts you, I am still prepared to fight her in a public square.”

Hermione smiled, warmth blooming in her chest. “Thank you.”

“Anytime.” Ginny smirked. “Now — tell me everything. Especially the hand-touching. I want detail.”

—

Pansy let the door fall shut behind her with a dull click. She didn’t bother with the lights.

The flat hummed in that quiet way it always did — the sound of spells gently maintaining everything in her absence. It was tidy, cool, carefully uninviting.

She tossed her coat over a chair, kicked her boots halfway across the room, and stood for a second in the dark, keys still in hand.

Then, finally: a breath out. A slow, tired laugh.

“Well, that happened.”

She poured herself a glass of wine. No rush. No overthinking. Or so she told herself.

The evening was still curling around her — soft and golden and oddly warm. Not warm like firewhisky. Warm like… someone reaching for your hand because they want to, not because they’re trying to fix you.

She hated that it mattered.

She sipped the wine. It didn’t help.

Hermione had smiled at her tonight. Really smiled — like Pansy was something unexpected. Not a punchline. Not a memory she flinched from. Just a person. One she might even like.

She sat on the edge of her sofa and stared at the far wall like it might do her the courtesy of responding.

Of all the things Pansy thought she'd be doing a year after the war, this — her — wasn’t even in the top hundred. But here she was. Somewhere between the ache of survival and the terrifying thrill of possibility.

She picked up the notebook she kept tucked under the armrest — the one she’d sworn she wouldn’t use tonight — and flipped to a clean page.

After a long pause, she wrote:

"I think she’s going to stay. And I think I want her to."

No dramatic declarations. No lightning bolts. Just the quiet truth of it, scribbled in the margins of a life Pansy never thought she’d get to rewrite.

She set the notebook down and leaned back against the couch, wine glass loose in her fingers, eyes soft.

The world was still broken. They were still figuring it out.

But maybe — just maybe — they didn’t have to do it alone.