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Hermione hadn’t seen Pansy Parkinson in nearly a decade. Not since the Battle, not since their youth bled out into war and survival. So when she spotted her across the glittering atrium of the Ministry Gala, glass of champagne in hand, her breath stuttered in her throat.
Pansy looked the same and utterly different all at once — softer around the edges, but her eyes held that sharp, untouchable glint.
“Granger,” Pansy said when their paths inevitably crossed, her voice low, steady, but with something fragile breaking beneath it.
Hermione forced a smile. “Parkinson. I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“You never do.”
It wasn’t the words that cut Hermione — it was the way Pansy said them. Like an accusation, like a wound left unhealed.
And just like that, Hermione felt her heart remember. The late nights in the library, secret arguments that ended in stolen kisses, the way Pansy’s laugh had once been the only sound that cut through her exhaustion. The way it had all ended — cruel words, slammed doors, and silence that lasted ten years.
Hermione thought she had moved on.
But standing here, staring into those familiar stormy eyes, she realised the fire had only been sleeping.
Ten Years Earlier
The rumor had started small. A whisper in the corridors, a cruel laugh at the edge of the Great Hall. But now it had teeth. Someone had seen them — the hidden touches beneath library tables, the stolen glances across crowded rooms. Nearly six months of careful secrecy, unraveling in a single whisper. Someone was threatening to tell.
Hermione paced the empty classroom, heart pounding. She had begged Pansy to meet her here, knowing what she had to do would break them both.
When Pansy slipped inside, her usual smirk nowhere in sight, Hermione nearly lost her nerve.
“You look like hell, Granger,” Pansy said softly, trying to keep it light. “What’s going on?”
Hermione clenched her fists. Say it fast. Say it cruel. She’ll hate you, and that’s what she needs.
“We can’t do this anymore,” Hermione blurted. “Whatever this is—it has to end.”
Pansy froze, confusion written across her face. “What? No. Hermione, we’ll figure it out, we always do. I don’t care what they say—”
“I do!” Hermione snapped, too loud, too sharp. She saw the flicker of hurt in Pansy’s eyes and forced herself to keep going. Cut deep enough, and she won’t come back.
“This was never serious to me, Pansy. Just… distraction. A mistake.”
The silence that followed was unbearable. Pansy’s lips parted, but no words came. Her face crumpled, then hardened, like porcelain breaking and then sealing into something unrecognisable.
“A mistake,” Pansy repeated, her voice hollow. “Right. Of course. Silly me.”
Hermione’s throat burned. She wanted to take it back, to throw herself into Pansy’s arms and beg her to understand. But she couldn’t. She had to protect her, even if it meant destroying her.
Pansy turned without another word. The slam of the door echoed like a curse, and Hermione’s knees gave out. She pressed her hands to her mouth, choking on the sobs that tore out of her chest.
She had never meant a single word. But Pansy would never know.
The gala glittered around Hermione, all gold chandeliers and laughter spilling like champagne. She’d made polite conversation, shaken hands, smiled where required—but her eyes kept drifting. Searching for Pansy again, wanting to talk to her.
And then she saw her.
Pansy Parkinson stood on the balcony, back to the room, the city lights painting her silhouette in silver. She was a vision—older, sharper, her gown clinging like something sculpted. But it was the stillness that froze Hermione. Pansy used to burn with restless energy; now she looked carved out of calm, as if heartbreak had sanded her into elegance.
Hermione hesitated before walking out, clutching her own glass for courage.
“Pansy,” she breathed, too soft, too unsure.
Pansy didn’t turn immediately. She sipped from her flute, her profile etched against the night. Then, at last, she tilted her head, studying Hermione like a stranger she half-recognised.
Hermione’s throat tightened. “I never got to explain. Back then—I didn’t mean—”
Pansy’s pause was delicate. She set her glass on the rail, finally looking at her. Those eyes—still stormy, still sharp. For a moment Hermione saw the old softness flicker, the ghost of what they’d been.
Then Pansy stepped closer. Not enough to touch, but close enough that Hermione caught the faint scent of jasmine and champagne. Pansy leaned in ever so slightly, her voice low, smooth—gentle in a way that hurt more than anger ever could.
“You’ve been drinking, Granger.” The faintest smile curved her lips, tinged with sorrow. “Stay away. I don’t want to repeat old mistakes.”
Hermione’s chest caved in at the words. Not shouted, not cruel—just final.
Pansy straightened, reclaiming her glass. With poise Hermione couldn’t hope to match, she stepped back into the golden light of the ballroom, swallowed instantly by admirers and conversation.
Hermione remained on the balcony, the night air cold against her flushed skin, her heart breaking in silence.
(After party, few hours later)
It was nearly two in the morning when Hermione found herself standing in front of Pansy’s apartment door, knuckles stinging from knocking too hard, too many times.
The door finally yanked open, and there stood Pansy—hair down, silk robe tied loosely, eyes sharp despite the late hour.
“For Merlin’s sake, Granger—” she began, only to falter when she really saw her. Hermione, flushed from wine, eyes shining with a kind of desperation that was impossible to mistake.
“Pansy,” Hermione whispered, voice breaking. “Please. Just… let me talk to you.”
Pansy’s jaw clenched. “You’re drunk. Go home.” She tried to shut the door, but Hermione pressed her hand against it.
“I can’t,” Hermione said, voice trembling. “Not tonight. Not after seeing you. I can’t walk away again.”
Pansy’s breath hitched. For a moment, her mask slipped. But she recovered, biting her words like glass.
“You regret this in the morning, Granger. Just like last time. And I—” Her voice cracked before she could stop it. She looked away, shaking her head. “I can’t afford to be just a distraction again.”
The silence that followed was jagged, raw.
Hermione stepped inside before Pansy could protest, closing the door gently behind her. She stood there, only a breath away, searching her face. “You were never a distraction,” Hermione said, tears brightening her eyes. “You were the only thing that ever mattered.”
And then—slowly, painfully, inevitably—Hermione leaned in. The first kiss was hesitant, almost reverent, lips brushing as though asking permission. Pansy froze, her hands curled into fists, her whole body trembling.
But when Hermione kissed her again, deeper this time, everything broke.
Pansy’s hands shot up, gripping Hermione’s waist, pulling her close like she’d been starved for years. Their mouths clashed, desperate and aching, years of unsaid words spilling out in every slow, bruising kiss. Hermione’s fingers tangled in Pansy’s hair, tugging her head back just enough to mouth along her jaw, down to her throat, worshiping every inch.
The robe slipped from Pansy’s shoulder, her breath shuddering as Hermione’s lips trailed lower, softer now, tasting, promising. Pansy gasped, her voice raw, whispering Hermione’s name like a prayer and a curse all at once.
Clothes were discarded between kisses and hurried touches, the two of them stumbling toward the bedroom, laughter breaking through the tears in fragments—fragile, breathless.
By the time they reached the bed, it wasn’t anger anymore. It was need. It was forgiveness carved out of skin and touch. Every kiss slow and deliberate, every caress like proof they still existed for each other.
The night unraveled into heat, whispered apologies, and fierce promises neither dared to speak in daylight.
For the first time in years, they didn’t feel like ghosts.
(Morning)
The sun leaked pale light through the curtains, painting soft gold across Pansy’s room. She stirred, instinctively reaching across the bed—only to find empty sheets.
Her chest tightened.
Hermione was gone. Again.
Pansy lay still for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, refusing to let the sting in her eyes spill over. She should have known better. She should have listened to herself at the door last night. Hermione always regretted, always walked away, and Pansy… Pansy always let her.
Finally, with a shuddering breath, she sat up. She moved through the motions of her morning—silk robe tied tighter, hair brushed back, a clean dress slipping over her skin—each movement mechanical. She painted her lips a soft pink in the mirror, the trembling of her hand betraying her composure.
No tears. Not anymore.
Just as she reached for her heels, the faint knock came. She froze, her pulse spiking.
Slowly, she opened the door.
Hermione stood there, messy curls pulled back hastily, clutching a paper bag in one hand and a bouquet of tulips in the other. Her chest rose and fell with nervous breaths.
“I—” Hermione began, but Pansy cut her off, her voice breaking despite herself.
“I thought you regretted it again,” she whispered, raw and trembling. “That’s why you left.”
Hermione’s eyes widened. She thrust the flowers forward as if they could shield her. “I didn’t leave. I just—ran down the street to get you breakfast. Croissants. And coffee. And, well—” She glanced down at the tulips, then back up, her throat bobbing. “These.”
For the first time, Pansy’s perfect poise shattered completely. Her lip trembled, and she blinked furiously.
Hermione set the things aside, stepping close, her voice thick. “Pansy, I have never regretted you. Not for a second. The only thing I regret is what I said back then—calling you a distraction, a mistake. I lied. I was scared, and I thought I was protecting you. But I only broke you. And myself.”
Pansy’s breath hitched, her hands curling into fists at her sides. “Then what was I, Granger? What am I to you now?”
Hermione reached for her, cupping her cheek with a trembling hand. “The only thing that ever felt real. The only person I’ve ever wanted. My mistake was walking away from you, not loving you.”
Silence stretched—long, fragile, trembling.
And then, slowly, Pansy’s eyes softened. Her hands finally rose, covering Hermione’s where it rested on her cheek.
“Breakfast better not be cold,” she murmured, her voice breaking into the smallest smile.
Hermione laughed shakily, relief flooding her. “I’ll buy you more tomorrow. And the next day. And… every day, if that’s what it takes.”
Pansy leaned in, their foreheads pressing together, her voice a whisper: “Then start with today.”