Chapter Text
Hermione was late.
Not late in the way professors noticed or house points were lost—but late according to her own carefully constructed reading schedule, which somehow made it worse. Sixth year had only made her stricter with herself. N.E.W.T.-level classes were no joke, and falling behind—even by a little—felt dangerously irresponsible.
She had been distracted when Ron, red-faced and furious, had taken the bait from a Slytherin student and very nearly drawn his wand in the middle of the corridor. Hermione shook her head at the memory as she power-walked on, her shoes clicking sharply against the stone floor. Honestly!
The truth, irritating as it was, lingered in her mind: she was only late for the library. For her plan. Still, the fact that she was already behind made her stomach twist with quiet annoyance. N.E.W.T. preparation waited for no one, and she refused to be the sort of student who relied on last-minute revision.
She was almost past the girls’ bathroom on the second floor when Moaning Myrtle suddenly drifted straight through the closed door, as she muttered angrily to herself.
“I will not share my toilet with her! I will not share my toilet with her if she dies!” Myrtle huffed, her voice echoing as she swept down the corridor, too caught up in her frustration to notice Hermione at all.
Hermione slowed, unease prickling at the back of her neck as she watched the ghost disappear. Myrtle was dramatic—always had been—but this felt sharper, more unsettled than usual.
She hesitated for a heartbeat, glancing at the still-closed bathroom door.
Then, frowning, Hermione reached out and pushed the handle.
The bathroom—abandoned since Myrtle’s death in the 1940s—looked worse than Hermione had ever seen it. Not merely neglected, but violently damaged. Several sinks had been shattered, porcelain cracked and blown apart as if someone had cast Bombarda in a fit of rage. Water poured freely from broken pipes, flooding the floor until a thin layer spread across the tiles, turning them slick and treacherous like ice.
Hermione’s breath caught as she took it in.
Then she noticed the colour.
Red bled slowly into the water from beneath the closed door of one of the toilet stalls, spreading outward in thin, wavering streams. Her heart slammed painfully against her ribs.
She moved toward it on uncertain legs, careful not to slip, her pulse roaring in her ears. With a trembling hand, she pushed the stall door open.
Pansy Parkinson sat crumpled on the floor.
Her dark hair was wild and tangled, as if she had dragged her hands through it over and over in frustration. Mascara and eyeliner were smeared down her pale cheeks, carved into dark tracks by tears that hadn’t fully dried. Her Slytherin uniform clung to her, soaked through with water—but Hermione’s eyes were drawn immediately to her wrists.
Long, deep gashes ran across them.
Blood flowed freely, spilling down her hands and dripping into the water on the floor, tinting it red.
Hermione didn’t hesitate.
She tore her cardigan off in one sharp motion and dropped to her knees in front of Pansy, the cold water soaking into her trousers without her noticing. She wrapped the fabric tightly around Pansy’s wrists, pressing hard in a desperate attempt to slow the bleeding.
Pansy stirred, lifting her head sluggishly, her unfocused gaze settling on the blood-soaked wool as if she couldn’t quite understand what she was seeing—hadn’t even registered that Hermione was there.
Hermione pulled out her wand.
“Episkey,” she whispered urgently.
Nothing happened.
Her chest tightened. She tried again immediately. “Reparifors,” she murmured, directing the spell toward the wounds hidden beneath the cardigan, which was growing darker by the second.
Still nothing.
Hermione’s face drained of colour as panic crept in, sharp and suffocating. “Vulnera Sanentur,” she said, her voice breaking despite her effort to stay calm.
The magic failed her again.
Pansy slowly lifted her head higher this time, her eyes dull with exhaustion as they met Hermione’s. In pure desperation, Hermione turned away for a split second and cast a Patronus. A silver otter burst from her wand and darted out through the door, carrying her frantic message.
Pansy stared at her now—really stared—as Hermione kept the pressure tight on her wrists, her eyes fixed anxiously on the doorway where the otter had vanished.
After a moment that felt unbearably long, Pansy whispered, her voice hoarse, “Why are you helping me?”
Hermione looked back at her, startled. “What?”
“Why are you helping me?” Pansy repeated weakly. “You hate me.”
Hermione swallowed hard. “I—” She faltered, then forced the words out. “I just… I don’t want you to die.”
Pansy hesitated, something unreadable flickering across her face—but she didn’t get the chance to respond.
The bathroom door swung open.
“What has happened?” Professor McGonagall demanded.
“She’s hurt,” Hermione said quickly, her voice shaking as she looked between the professor and Pansy. “I can’t stop the bleeding.”
McGonagall’s expression hardened into something grave as her eyes fell on the girl on the floor. “Give me room,” she said sharply.
Hermione scrambled to her feet and stepped back as McGonagall cast several swift, precise spells. Pansy’s body went limp, slipping into unconsciousness, and then she began to rise, floating gently toward the door in the direction of the hospital wing.
McGonagall followed at once, her steps brisk and purposeful.
Hermione lingered for a heartbeat—soaked, shaking, her hands stained red—before she turned and followed them out.
When they reached the hospital wing, Professor McGonagall exchanged a few sharp, urgent words with Madam Pomfrey. Hermione barely had time to process what was being said before both she and McGonagall were ushered firmly back out into the corridor, the doors swinging shut behind them with a decisive click.
They stood there in the dimly lit hallway, the muffled sounds of magic and hurried movement bleeding faintly through the thick wooden door.
After a moment, Professor McGonagall broke the silence.
“She is very fortunate you did not find her any later than you did,” she said quietly. “It is a particularly ugly spell.”
Hermione looked up at her at once. “You know it?”
McGonagall nodded, her mouth set in a grim line. “Yes. It was designed to resist healing spells—and to cause excessive bleeding until there is no blood left.”
The words hit Hermione like a physical blow.
Her hands curled into fists at her sides, anger flaring hot and sharp. “Who would do something like that to her?” she demanded. “Who would cast that spell on—”
She cut herself off as Professor McGonagall turned to her, surprise flickering briefly across the older witch’s face.
“Miss Granger,” McGonagall said carefully, “I do not believe this is something that was done to her.” Her voice softened slightly. “But she will receive the help she needs now.”
She turned as if to leave, then paused.
“thirty points to Gryffindor for your actions this evening.” McGonagall added.
She gave Hermione a brief, approving nod before walking away down the corridor, her robes whispering against the stone floor.
Hermione remained where she was, staring after her.
But her mind had already latched onto the truth she couldn’t escape.
Pansy hadn’t been attacked.
Pansy had cast the spell on herself.