Chapter Text
The Slytherin dorm was quiet, just the two of them. Two beds untouched, curtains still drawn, their occupants elsewhere.
It was a standard four-bed room, but the difference between each space was obvious.
Daphne’s bed sat closest to the window, dark green curtains embroidered with the Greengrass crest in silver thread. The fabric was thick and expensive, and everything—from the pillows to her journal—was touched with gold accents.
Across from it, Pansy Parkinson’s space was only marginally less wealthy than the Greengrass home, a fact nearly obscured by how boldly it was decorated. Her black curtains were also embroidered with her family crest, though in heavier stitching. Jewelry and bottles of perfume were left scattered across her vanity, and shoes lay strewn over the fur-carpeted floor in a distinctly Pansy fashion—on the verge of spilling into other people’s space.
Millicent’s corner was simpler. The Bulstrode name showed up in smaller ways—pressed into leather, stamped into metal—but most of her things were minimal and practical.
The fourth bed stood out in a different way. Pink sheets, slightly mismatched, patterned with small, cutesy shapes. Trinkets—expensive, glossy, a little too eager—were scattered around, filling the space. It belonged to Tracey Davis, the only muggle in the room, and it lacked the refinement of the rest.
Daphne Greengrass sat at her desk, posture straight, finishing the last line before setting her quill down. She gave the ink a moment to dry, then folded the parchment neatly. The Greengrass crest pressed cleanly into the wax as she sealed it.
“Finished your weekly report?” Millicent Bulstrode asked from behind her, voice flat but faintly amused.
Daphne didn’t answer right away. She adjusted the seal slightly, making sure it sat perfectly in the center.
“Yes,” she said. “Apparently my parents believe Astoria requires documentation now. Monthly wasn’t enough.”
Millicent snorted. “They think she’s going to ruin it?”
“They think she’s going to mess up their last chance to become one with the Notts,” Daphne said, standing. “Which, to be fair, isn’t an unreasonable concern.”
Millicent raised a brow but didn’t argue. It wasn’t a new opinion.
“Still think it’s strange, though,” Millicent said after a moment. “That your parents didn’t lose their minds over you breaking the engagement.”
Daphne gave a small smile. “Because I didn’t break anything. I replaced it.”
Millicent frowned. “With… Astoria?”
“With a better long-term position,” Daphne said. “Marrying into the Notts is their plan for securing the Greengrass future. No son, and two daughters they don’t fully trust.”
She reached for her robe and slipped it on.
“You just have to show them the bigger picture.”
Millicent leaned back slightly. “Like what?”
Daphne adjusted the front of her robe, smoothing it down before answering.
“If their eldest daughter wants to be Minister for Magic, why marry down when I can offer them even more power?”
Millicent let out a quiet huff at Daphne calling the Notts ‘poor.’ “So they push the plan onto the unambitious younger sister as a backup.”
“Of course.”
Daphne straightened her sleeve and briefly checked her reflection in the window. A strand of hair had shifted slightly; she tucked it back into place and adjusted the fall of her robe once more, making sure everything sat just right.
“The Sacred Twenty-Eight don’t care about feelings, Millicent. I’m sure you know that—” her gaze flicked briefly, almost lazily, toward her “—unless they let half-bloods like you get away with more.”
Millicent didn’t react, so Daphne looked forward again, as if nothing had been said.
“They care about power. If your goals align with theirs, you become useful.”
She picked up the letter.
“And useful daughters are favored.”
Millicent was already on her feet by then, grabbing her coat and pulling it on without much thought, ready as soon as she stood. Her steps fell naturally in sync with Daphne’s as they headed out.
As they stepped out into the Slytherin common room, the low green light from the lake-facing windows cast everything in a dim, muted glow. A couple of students lingered near the sofas, but most had already gone up or out, leaving the space quiet enough that footsteps carried.
Near the entrance, Melarion Fujiwara and Blaise Zabini were just passing through, mid-conversation. Mel was laughing at something, her voice easy and unguarded, while Blaise walked beside her, slightly angled toward her like he had no intention of being anywhere else.
“—we can make it, Gryffindor Tower isn’t even that far,” Mel said, rolling her eyes, already half-turned toward him as they moved past.
Daphne’s eyes passed over them briefly, taking in the scene in a single glance before she looked away again, uninterested.
Millicent, however, watched them a second longer.
“…I don’t get it,” she muttered once they were out of earshot.
Daphne glanced at her. “Get what?”
“Romance,” Millicent said. “Looks exhausting. Having someone follow you around like an unbearable hound all the time.”
Before Daphne could answer, another voice slipped in. “Well, well.”
Tracey Davis fell into step beside them as they moved into the corridor, fitting herself neatly between Daphne and Millicent without breaking their pace. She was smaller than both of them, but moved like she was used to finding her place, adjusting just enough to stay included. A faint floral scent followed her, like she had put something on not long ago.
“Speak of the devil,” Millicent said. “Where did you go after dinner?”
Tracey didn’t answer right away. She was still looking toward the direction Mel and Blaise had gone, a faint smile on her lips, as if she had already decided what she thought of it. Her hand brushed down the front of her robe in a quick, habitual motion, her fingers lingering near her sleeve, tapping lightly.
“How long do you think that’ll last?” she asked, tone casual. “Zabini’s track record isn’t exactly… promising.”
Millicent scoffed. “You know that rumor has no backing. He’s never even dated anyone.”
Tracey gave a small laugh. “You can’t convince me someone like that has nothing going on. Look at him. Look at how many girls want him.”
She glanced down at her nails for a second, checking the polish before looking back up. “Though I guess this one’s ‘new girl’ status might buy her a bit more time.”
Millicent didn’t respond to that, and neither did Daphne. Tracey’s attention shifted back to Daphne, a little sharper now.
“What do you think about Melarion?” she asked. “Your sister’s new best friend. Part of Draco’s group. Even Pansy seems to like her.”
Daphne’s expression didn’t change. “She doesn’t bother me.”
Tracey looked mildly surprised. “Really?”
“My opinion of her is neutral,” Daphne said. “She’s fine.”
She adjusted the sleeve of her robe slightly as she continued. “I might even like her energy, if she weren’t attached to Theo’s group.”
Millicent glanced at her but didn’t interrupt.
“She’s close to Astoria,” Daphne added. “Which makes her relevant. That’s all.”
Tracey watched her for a moment. “That’s surprising. So no issue?”
“None,” Daphne said. “Unless she gives me one.”
They continued down the corridor, their steps steady against the stone floor.
Millicent gave a quiet hum. “She will.”
Daphne looked at her.
Millicent shrugged. “You’re not exactly subtle with Astoria.”
Tracey laughed at that, quick and bright, leaning in slightly as she did. “No, she’s not.”
The verbal harassment had dialed down since Astoria started spending more time with Melarion, yes—but Daphne had expected that girl would intervene at some point soon. Surprisingly, it had been Theodore Nott who stepped in first, and that made her more irritated than it should have.
“I’ll deal with it when it happens,” Daphne finally replied, as if it were nothing more than a passing, unimportant thought.
They reached the owlery doors a moment later, and the cold January air hit as soon as they pushed them open. Daphne quickly sent off her letter while Tracey shifted the conversation, talking about how she missed her family’s annual winter trip—something called skiing.
---
January didn’t just come with freezing wind and the kind of air that ruined Hermione’s hair the moment she stepped outside. It came with something she hadn’t expected to deal with this early in the term, something that hit her the second she sat down at the Gryffindor table and reached for the morning paper without thinking much of it.
At first, it didn’t register as anything unusual. Just another issue of the Daily Prophet, folded open across the table, shifting slightly as someone nearby moved. Hermione glanced down, more out of habit than interest, and it took a second longer than it should have for her to realize what she was actually looking at.
Her name and Harry’s were printed across the front page, large enough that there was no way to miss them.
The article itself was exactly what you would expect from Rita Skeeter—dramatic, intrusive, and full of suggestions that blurred the line between truth and invention. It talked about secret meetings, hinted at emotional entanglements, and framed Hermione in a way that made her seem calculated and opportunistic, while Harry came across as either unaware or pulled into something he didn’t fully understand. It wasn’t outright absurd, which made it worse; there were just enough real details twisted in the wrong direction to make the whole thing believable if someone already wanted to believe it.
Hermione picked it up before she could stop herself, her eyes moving quickly over the lines as her grip on the paper tightened slightly.
“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” she muttered under her breath, irritation rising fast. “This is ridiculous.”
Beside her, Harry leaned in, scanning over her shoulder. “This is a lie—she’s completely making things up—”
“I know,” Hermione said quickly, sharper than she meant to, not looking at him. “I can see that.”
It came out more irritated than she intended, but she didn’t take it back. His reaction wasn’t wrong, it just wasn’t helpful. Of course it was a lie—that wasn’t the problem. The problem was everything happening around it.
The more she read, the harder it became to actually follow the words. The sentences blurred together, slipping past her without settling properly, her focus pulled instead to the shift in the room around her. The hall had gone quieter, though not in a way that helped; conversations didn’t stop so much as change, dropping lower, breaking off, then picking up again as people glanced over. Some didn’t bother hiding it at all, openly turning to look, nudging each other, murmuring behind their hands.
She could feel it building around her, that awareness of being watched settling in before she had fully processed why. Harry was still talking beside her—she knew that much—but his voice cut in and out of her focus, something about Skeeter going too far this time, something about it being obvious nonsense. It all felt distant, like it had to push through everything else to reach her, and she couldn’t quite hold onto it.
What she couldn’t ignore, though, was Ron.
She didn’t need to look at him immediately to sense the change. It showed in the way he sat, in the tension that had settled into him all at once, and when she finally glanced over, it confirmed what she had already felt. He was angry, yes, but it wasn’t just that. There was something else in his expression, something tighter and more restrained, the kind of reaction that didn’t flare up and disappear but stayed where it was.
Disappointment. That was what made her stomach drop.
She had hoped that Ron would at least question it, that he would look at her first instead of the paper, that there would be some moment of hesitation before he decided what to believe. But there wasn’t. His expression had already closed off in that familiar way, one that meant he had made up his mind and wasn’t interested in changing it anytime soon.
Quick and decisive, Hermione turned toward Ron, the paper lowering slightly in her hands as she reached for him, already halfway into what she was going to say. His name sat right at the edge of it, sharp and frustrated, something ready to spill out whether it came out controlled or not.
But Ron shifted back before she could get there.
It wasn’t a big movement, barely more than a lean away, but it was enough. Enough to break the moment, enough to make her pause mid-breath, the words catching before they could form properly. For a split second, something sharper than irritation flickered through her chest, something that felt a little too close to hurt.
And then laughter cut across the hall, loud and husky, pulling attention with it almost immediately.
Pansy Parkinson didn’t even try to keep her voice down. “Oh, this is brilliant—Granger, honestly, could you be more predictable?” she called across the room, every word edged with amusement.
The Slytherin table followed almost immediately, smirks spreading, shoulders shaking, a ripple of laughter building just loud enough that it couldn’t be ignored. Pansy wasn’t new. She had always been like this—loud, mean, and far too comfortable drawing attention to anything she could use. Most of the time, Hermione could ignore it. It was predictable, and that made it manageable.
It should have been easy to tune out. But her gaze moved across the Slytherin table and landed, briefly, on Melarion Fujiwara. Mel wasn’t laughing. She wasn’t reacting much at all. She glanced at Hermione for a second, just enough to acknowledge what was happening, and then looked away again, like she had already decided not to get involved.
And that was what stuck.
Ron’s reaction was one thing. Pansy’s was expected. But this was different in a way Hermione hadn’t really thought about before. She hadn’t realized how often Mel stepped in when Pansy started a Slytherin-style attack toward the Gryffindors, or how often Hermione’s day had been saved from the headache just from Mel distracting Pansy enough to let Hermione pass.
It was never obvious, never direct, but it worked. Hermione hadn’t needed to think about it. Now, without it, Hermione felt like life at Hogwarts was less bearable than it was, and all she had to blame was herself.
It had only been yesterday when Mel showed up at the Gryffindor tower without warning, serious in a way Hermione wasn’t used to seeing, talking about Krum and pointing out things that hadn’t seemed important at the time, suggesting there was something off in a way that didn’t quite match how Hermione understood the situation.
Hermione had listened and responded properly, or at least she thought she had. She had said she appreciated the warning, made it clear she didn’t think Mel was making anything up, but she had still tried to work through it in her own way, fitting it into something that made sense to her instead of taking it at face value. She had said Krum wasn’t that kind of person, that it was probably a misunderstanding, and at the time it had felt like a fair response, measured and reasonable.
Now, replaying it in her head, it didn’t sit the same way. It was easy to see how it might have sounded from the outside, like she had already decided what to believe and was just explaining it back.
Mel hadn’t argued with her or tried to push the point further. She had just paused for a second, said a quiet “okay,” and left, ending the conversation without making a scene out of it.
At the time, Hermione hadn’t thought much of it, but now she could picture it more clearly, the way Mel had walked down the stairs where Blaise had been waiting, the brief moment where he had looked up and met Hermione’s gaze, long enough that the expression settled in her mind and refused to leave. It was sharp, disappointed, questioning in a way that suggested he had already come to a conclusion of his own, one that didn’t particularly favor her.
Hermione stood abruptly, the bench scraping faintly against the floor. Her hands felt unsteady, her movements slightly off as she gathered her things without really seeing them. She left her breakfast untouched, stomach too tight to manage more than a glance at it, and made her way out of the hall with steps that wavered just enough to betray her.