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The halls of Hogwarts were loud again.
It had been more than 15 years since the Battle of Hogwarts, which had at least partially destroyed the ancient school. The first few years after the battle, everything was quiet. Students rushed from one class to another, timid and hushed as they went.
But year after year, life returned to the school, until it felt almost as if the war had never come to Hogwarts at all.
Hermione Granger found comfort in her new routines. She walked from her offices to the classroom, carrying large satchels of graded scrolls as she went, and she politely chatted with the other professors at mealtime. At the weekend, she’d visit Harry and Ginny or Ron and Padma, but besides that, she didn’t often interact with those outside of Hogwarts’ great walls.
People no longer referred to her as Golden Girl or Brightest Witch of Her Age, instead they called her Professor, and she liked it that way.
Which is why when the shrill voice of Pansy Parkinson interrupted her morning coffee, Hermione’s eyes immediately widened with confusion.
“Granger, you’ve got to be kidding me,” the black-haired witch shouted.
Hermione took in the sight of the irate women in front of her. Pansy’s angular bob was reminiscent of the look she’d been sporting back during their school days, but now instead of a school uniform, she was wearing a smart set of black robes that were the kind of garment that looked simple but were actually highly stylized. Time—or an assortment of highly specialized permanent glamour charms— had been kind to Pansy’s features, softening out her angles and giving her a more approachable look.
Hermione laid the article she was reading down on her desk and took off her reading glasses. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Parkinson?”
Pansy rolled her eyes at Hermione’s obvious jab. “It’s Malfoy now, as I’m sure you know.”
“How could I forget,” Hermione’s voice was calm but frigid. She was not one for ostentatious displays, yet was famous for her long grudges. “And I’m guessing you’re not here just to discuss the fact that we’ve dipped our pens in the same ink?”
“Quite right, I’m not.” Hermione had not seen Pansy since finding the witch in her then husband’s bed nearly ten years ago, but she found herself drawn to the way that the witch fizzled with energy and righteous anger. “I’m here to talk about your blatant and inappropriate targeting of my son.”
Hermione blinked, genuinely confused. Scorpius was a quiet boy, small for his age, and he’d never caused any problems in her class. Sure, he wasn’t the best at Transfiguration, but he certainly wasn’t the worst. He wasn’t a troublemaker, and if anything, she worried that he wasn’t making many friends in Slytherin house. In her expert opinion, he was just a remarkably average student—socially and academically.
“I’m sorry, I don’t think I quite know what you’re talking about—”
Pansy cut her off, maternal rage flowing through her body. “Don’t play dumb with me, Granger. You and I both know you are much too clever for that to be convincing.”
“No, really. I’m not sure what you’re referring to,” Hermione supplied, summoning the large file of first year student records from the cupboard behind her. She waved her wand, the pages of the folder flipping rapidly until it opened to Scorpius’ records.
He’d done well on the first exam of the year, receiving a 90%. The next few assignments, he’d done similarly well, except for the most recent essay, where he earned an 80, which was bang on average for the whole class.
“See here,” Hermione turned the book around to show Pansy the gradebook. “Scorpius has gotten above average on every assignment apart from one. Despite what you think, I would never target a student based on my opinions of their parents.”
Pansy leaned over, her nose practically touching the paper as she reviewed Hermione’s notes on her son’s performance. Hermione was nothing if not meticulous, her analysis and reasoning behind each grade made clear through superfluous notes on the rubric for each assignment.
“I still find this situation unacceptable.” Pansy crossed her arms, and Hermione found herself amazed that she didn’t stomp her foot to match the level of insolence.
Hermione stood up and walked to the cabinet on the other side of her office and pulled out the copies of all of her students’ written assignments. She silently cast an Accio to summon all of Scorpius’ exams, quizzes, homeworks and essays and walked back to her desk, placing the stack on her desk. “You are welcome to look through his work for yourself, but my grades will not be changed because of some helicopter parent storming into my office.”
The two witches were standing eye to eye now on the same side of the desk, and Hermione did her best to look intimidating, even though she didn’t feel it. Pansy had always been more beautiful and more commanding than her, and this was one of those moments that made that incredibly clear. Age had only made the other witch more austere in her beauty, and Hermione found her heartrate quicken as they stood beside each other in the continued stare down.
“He’s received above a 90 in all his other courses,” Pansy provided, her eyes narrowing but still maintaining eye contact.
“I don’t take his performance in his other courses into consideration when evaluating his performance in my course,” Hermione countered.
“It could affect his future.” She didn’t sound as angry now, her voice closer to desperation. Hermione marked that as unusual. Pansy—wife of the most prominent wizard in the country—was not one who often felt desperate.
“It could, but I doubt it.” Hermione shrugged, breaking eye contact as she picked up Scorpius’ most recent quiz. She tried to reassure her former classmate. “Many first-years struggle with Transfiguration but go on to be top of their class by seventh year. It’s one of the harder concepts to grasp at the beginning. And no advanced certificate programs or jobs will take his first-year grades into consideration.”
“Hermione, please,” Pansy asked, grabbing Hermione’s wrist. The motion startled her slightly, and she realized that she didn’t think that she’d ever touched the other witch before. Pansy’s magic was soft and felt warm on Hermione’s skin. “He’s going through enough right now, and I’m worried that his marks are slipping.”
There was something here that Hermione didn’t know. Some implication under the surface. “If you’re really worried, you and Malfoy can get him a tutor.”
Pansy’s gaze soured, her nose scrunching up more than usual. “Malfoy and I won’t be doing anything together anymore—or don’t you know?”
“Oh, I hadn’t heard,” Hermione responded, sympathetically. She knew just how legally aggressive the Malfoy family was after her divorce from the same wizard twelve years before. “I’m sorry, you know.”
“I found his secretary in our bed.” Pansy sighed. “I guess I know how you felt when you walked in on him and I all those years ago.”
Hermione swallowed, the memories of that night coming back to her. She’d felt betrayal, but there was something more to it.
Pansy’s had was still on hers, her thumb now rubbing over the top of Hermione’s. The motion sent a spark of magic through her body.
She pursed her lips. “I’m not sure you felt the same way I did.”
Pansy’s eyes widened. “You don’t think I felt betrayal? The hurt of my husband visiting the bed of another witch?”
Hermione felt a blush creeping up her neck. “It wasn’t just that. I felt jealous.”
“Jealous?” Pansy asked, her thumb stopping its circular moment over Hermione’s hand. Her voice quivered slightly as Pany’s followed up. “Jealous of what?”
It was almost as if she was there again. She and Pansy had moved from enemies to cautious allies to friends during Hermione and Draco’s courtship, but she’d always felt a pull towards the other witch. She’d catch her eye across the room and feel a little burst of excitement in her chest. She’d feel a giddy excitement when they shared a private joke. She’d catch her eyes lingering a little too long when Pansy walked into the room.
So, when she found the witch in her husband’s bed…
“I was jealous that you hadn’t found your way into my bed.” The words—forbidden and secret—fell from her mouth unbidden. As she said them, she watched Pansy’s expression flicker from shock to confusion to disbelief, and she knew she’d opened a Pandora’s box.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s in the past.” She went to pull away her hand.
Pansy, however, didn’t let her go. Instead, her grasp tightened on Hermione’s wrist before pulling her in closer. “Hermione, you know for a long time, I thought the feelings I felt for you were jealousy, that I wanted the life that you had. It wasn’t until I was already pregnant with Scorpius that I realized I didn’t want your life—I wanted to be in your life.”
They were close now, Pansy’s other hand finding her way to Hermione’s waist. Her breath seemed caught in her chest, unable to inhale or exhale at the risk of what the scent of Pansy’s intoxicating perfume would do to her.
“Granger, usually you won’t shut up, but now’s the time you decided to lose your gregarious nature?”
Hermione tried to keep her mind calm, worried that if she was too excited that the moment would pass by as just an embarrassing blip. She didn’t want to ruin the moment, but she had to know. “And this isn’t just some ploy to get me to change Scorpius’ marks?”
A flicker of hurt crossed Pansy’s face, which both gripped Hermione’s heart and reassured it. “I might be a Slytherin, but I’m not cruel.”
“I just had to check. You know, you’ve hurt me before,” Hermione reminded her.
“Do you think I can make it up to you?” Pansy asked. Her lips practically touching Hermione’s.
“As I tell my students, anything’s possible for those who put in the work.”
After the last syllable left her lips, it wasn’t a moment more before Pansy’s mouth was on hers.
The kiss was electric, in an attempt to make up for twelve years of yearning. Pansy was an expert with her mouth, sliding her tongue into the other witch’s as her hand moved from her waist to her arse. She gave Hermione’s rump a good squeeze through her thick robes.
Hermione let out a little moan before diving back in for a deeper, more intense kiss.
It felt like she’d always imagined. Magic crackled in the air around them.
She moved her hands up and over Pansy’s bosom, feeling her supple breasts under her fingertips. They were soft, and the feeling of them sent a shiver of anticipation down her spine. She let her fingers wander gently over them, almost worshipful in their small movements.
“Professor Granger, I wanted to ask you a question about my paper—” the door swung open, a fourth-year student bursting into the room with a large scroll trailing on the ground behind her.
Pansy and Hermione wrenched themselves a part, and she turned away from the door briefly to collect herself.
Pansy, her voice suddenly cold, snapped at the student. “Do you have no manners? A locked door is not something you burst through.”
The timid girl student stuttered out, “I—Professor Granger told me to meet her at noon to revise my—”
Hermione interrupted. “Yes, I’m sorry, Sandra. I lost track of time.” The younger girl still couldn’t seem to make eye contact. “Pansy, I’m sorry. I have to go—”
“Noted.” Pansy nodded. She grabbed her purse from the chair, and headed to the door before asking, “Granger, same time next week? At the Three Broomsticks this time?”
Hermione smiled. “See you there.”