Chapter Text
Chapter One:
Damage Control, According to Pansy Parkinson
The pub is too loud, too warm, and entirely too full for a Friday night that Hermione would rather have spent anywhere else.
She sits tucked into the corner of a long, scarred wooden table, one hand curled loosely around a glass she hasn’t touched in several minutes, and wonders—again—why she agreed to this.
It isn’t the company.
Not entirely.
Across from her, Pansy Parkinson lounges like she owns the place, one leg draped over Harry’s beneath the table, her dark eyes sharp and amused as she listens to Theo spin some ridiculous story about a Ministry audit gone catastrophically wrong. Harry looks relaxed in a way Hermione hasn’t seen in years, one arm slung over the back of Pansy’s chair, fingers idly tracing the line of her shoulder like it’s second nature.
To Hermione’s left, Ginny leans back in her seat, boots propped against the rung of her chair, drink in hand and grin easy, her hair pulled into a messy knot that somehow still looks intentional. She’s off rotation for the weekend, which means she’s in a particularly good mood—something about a win last week and an upcoming match she’s already confident about.
Further down the table, Blaise and Astoria sit close enough to be considered one person, murmuring to each other between sips of wine, while Theo and Daphne occupy the other end, their conversation quieter but no less engaged. It’s familiar. Comfortable. The kind of group Hermione has come to rely on more than she ever expected.
No. The problem isn’t the company.
The problem is seated directly beside her.
“And I’m just saying,” Ron continues, already halfway through his second drink and entirely too pleased with himself, “if you’d just approached it a bit more simply, it wouldn’t have taken nearly as long. You’ve always had a habit of overcomplicating things, Hermione.”
Hermione doesn’t look at him.
She keeps her gaze on the condensation sliding down the side of her glass and breathes in slowly through her nose, counting to three the way she’s been doing for the better part of an hour.
“It was a multi-layered legislative proposal, Ron,” she says, her tone even, measured. “It wasn’t meant to be simple.”
Ron snorts softly, waving a hand like she’s missed the point entirely. “Yeah, but that’s exactly it, isn’t it? You make everything into this big, complicated ordeal when half the time it could be handled with a bit of common sense.”
Hermione presses her lips together.
Across the table, Pansy’s eyes flick up, narrowing just slightly. Harry shifts beside her, posture tightening in a way Hermione recognizes immediately.
“Common sense?” Hermione repeats, finally turning her head just enough to look at Ron. “You mean cutting corners.”
“I mean not turning it into some grand crusade every time,” Ron says, leaning back in his chair as if he’s made an excellent point. “Not everything has to be about proving how clever you are.”
The words land.
Not because they’re new.
But because they’re familiar.
Too familiar.
Hermione exhales quietly and looks away again, her attention drifting back to the table, to the scattered glasses and plates, to the conversation that has noticeably stalled.
Theo has stopped talking. Daphne is watching Ron with open disapproval. Ginny looks like she’s two seconds away from launching something at his head. Blaise doesn’t even bother hiding his expression. Pansy, however, is very still.
That’s worse.
“I wasn’t aware competence required your approval,” Hermione says after a moment, her voice calm in a way that feels practiced.
Ron huffs out a laugh, like she’s being dramatic. “Oh, come off it. You know that’s not what I meant.”
Hermione lifts her glass and finally takes a sip, letting the cool bite of it settle on her tongue as she considers, briefly, all the ways she could respond.
She doesn’t choose any of them.
Because she’s tired. Not angry. Not even particularly upset.
Just… tired.
Tired of explaining herself.
Tired of defending things that shouldn’t need defending.
Tired of the way every conversation seems to circle back to this—this subtle, constant undermining wrapped up as casual commentary.
“You’ve been saying that for years, Ron,” she says quietly. “I think I understand what you mean.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Ron shifts, clearly not expecting that. “Well, yeah, but—”
“Another round,” Pansy cuts in smoothly, not even looking at him as she lifts her hand to catch the bartender’s attention. “For everyone except Granger. She’s done pretending that’s drinkable.”
Hermione huffs out a quiet laugh despite herself, setting her glass down.
“Thank you,” she murmurs.
Pansy glances at her then, quick and assessing, something sharp flickering behind her eyes before she looks away again like it didn’t happen.
Harry leans forward slightly, elbows on the table. “The proposal passed, didn’t it?” he asks, directing the question at Hermione.
“Yes,” Hermione says, grateful for the shift. “With revisions, but yes.”
“Then it sounds like it worked exactly as intended,” Harry says simply.
Hermione meets his gaze and nods, something in her chest loosening just slightly.
Ron makes a noise under his breath. “Sure, if you like doing things the hard way.”
Ginny sets her glass down with a little more force than necessary. “Or,” she says, voice deceptively light, “if you like doing them properly.”
Ron rolls his eyes. “Merlin, not you as well.”
“Just offering a perspective,” Ginny replies sweetly.
“Yeah, well, everyone seems to have one tonight,” Ron mutters, reaching for his drink again.
Hermione doesn’t respond. She doesn’t need to.
The conversation shifts after that—back to safer ground, to Quidditch stats and Ministry gossip and Theo’s increasingly dramatic storytelling—but the tension lingers, threading through the edges of everything.
Hermione leans back in her chair, letting the noise of it all wash over her, and realizes, with a clarity that feels almost startling, that she is no longer even pretending to enjoy this.
Not the conversation. Not the dynamic. Not him.
She glances at Ron as he talks, watching the way he gestures too broadly, the way he laughs at his own jokes, the way he looks at her like he’s still entirely certain she’ll agree with him in the end.
Something in her settles. Not abruptly. Not dramatically. Just… quietly.
A shift. A decision waiting just beneath the surface.
Across the table, Pansy catches her eye again. This time, she doesn’t look away immediately. She tilts her head slightly, one brow lifting in silent question.
Hermione holds her gaze for a moment, then exhales softly through her nose.
Not yet. But soon.
Pansy’s lips curve, faint and knowing, like she’s already three steps ahead.
Of course she is.
Hermione looks back down at the table, fingers brushing the rim of her glass, and lets the noise of the pub fill the space between her thoughts.
For now, she sits. She listens. She waits. But something has already begun to unravel. And once it does—It will not be put back together.
Hermione lets the conversation move around her like water, voices rising and falling, laughter breaking in uneven bursts that don’t quite reach her. It should feel familiar. Easy. It used to.
Instead, it feels like sitting at the edge of something she’s already stepped away from.
Ron shifts beside her, his arm draped across the back of her chair, fingers brushing her shoulder every now and then in a way that used to feel grounding.
Now it just feels… there. Present. Heavy. Unnecessary.
“…just saying, the Cannons’ line-up this season is a mess,” Ron is saying, leaning forward now, his attention fixed squarely on Ginny. “No structure, no consistency. It’s like they don’t even understand how to—”
Ginny lets out a short, sharp laugh, cutting him off. “Oh, that’s rich.”
Ron frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” Ginny says, sitting up straighter, eyes narrowing just enough to make her point land, “that hearing you talk about Quidditch strategy like you’ve got any authority on it is a bit… ambitious.”
Ron scoffs, waving her off. “I played for years, Gin.”
“You tried,” Ginny corrects easily, not even blinking. “There’s a difference.”
Blaise makes a choking sound into his drink. Theo doesn’t bother hiding his grin.
Ron’s jaw tightens. “I could have gone pro.”
Ginny arches a brow. “But didn’t.”
“That wasn’t—”
“I’m first string,” Ginny says, her tone turning deliberately light, though the edge underneath it is unmistakable. “International matches. Weekly press. Actual contracts.” She takes a sip of her drink, then adds sweetly, “But yes, please, tell everyone at the table how it should be done.”
A beat of silence follows.
Hermione doesn’t look at Ron. She doesn’t need to. She can feel the shift in him—the irritation, the bruised ego, the need to reassert himself.
He laughs, but it’s tight. Forced. “All right, no need to get defensive.”
Ginny just smiles at him. It’s not kind.
Across the table, Pansy lifts her glass in a silent toast to Ginny, who clinks it with a grin.
Hermione exhales quietly, something like relief threading through her chest. Not because Ginny said it. But because she didn’t have to.
Ron shifts again, his arm sliding further along the back of Hermione’s chair as he leans past her slightly, his attention already drifting away from the conversation.
Hermione notices the movement before she registers why. Then she follows his gaze. A group of witches at the bar—laughing, leaning into each other, one of them catching Ron’s eye for just a second too long.
Ron doesn’t look away. He smirks, just faintly.
Hermione stills.
It’s not the first time. That’s the part that settles something deep in her chest with a quiet, final sort of clarity.
It’s not even subtle anymore.
His arm is still behind her.
His body still angled toward hers.
But his attention?
Elsewhere.
Always elsewhere.
“You’re being obvious,” Pansy says mildly, not even looking up from her drink.
Ron glances back, frowning. “What?”
“The staring,” Pansy clarifies, flicking her gaze toward the bar and then back to him. “It’s undignified.”
Ron scoffs. “I wasn’t staring.”
“Of course not,” Pansy says, her tone dry. “Merely appreciating the scenery. How noble.”
Harry shifts beside her, a hand settling briefly against her knee in quiet agreement.
Ron rolls his eyes. “Oh, relax. It’s a pub. People look at people.”
“People with sense,” Blaise murmurs, “generally avoid doing it while their girlfriend is sitting directly beside them.”
Hermione doesn’t react. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even look at Ron. She just reaches for her glass again, takes another slow sip, and lets the conversation continue without her.
Because what is there to say?
That she noticed?
That it bothers her?
That she’s tired of pretending it doesn’t?
All of it feels… unnecessary. Pointless.
Ron huffs out another laugh, dismissive. “You lot are unbelievable tonight.”
Theo leans back in his chair, stretching his arms above his head. “No, tonight we’re just honest.”
Daphne nudges him lightly with her foot under the table, but she doesn’t disagree.
Ginny glances at Hermione, something softer slipping into her expression. “You all right?” she asks.
Hermione meets her gaze and nods once. “Fine.”
It’s not entirely a lie. She isn’t upset. Not in the way she should be. She’s just…done.
The realization settles over her slowly, but once it’s there, it doesn’t move.
She glances at Ron again, taking him in properly this time.
The easy arrogance.
The careless comments.
The way he still assumes she’ll be there at the end of it all.
Something in her chest tightens. Then loosens. And just like that—it’s gone. Whatever had been holding her here, holding her to him, keeping her quiet and patient and willing to work through it—it slips free.
Across the table, Pansy watches her. Really watches her. And this time, Hermione doesn’t look away. There’s no question in Pansy’s expression now. Just recognition. A small, satisfied curve of her lips. Hermione exhales softly and sets her glass down.
Not yet. But soon. Very soon.
Beside her, Ron launches into another complaint, something about training schedules and management decisions he clearly knows nothing about.
Ginny cuts him off again, sharper this time. “Merlin, Ron, give it a rest.”
He opens his mouth to argue.
Hermione doesn’t hear the rest.
Because she’s already pulling away.
Not physically.
Not yet.
But mentally, emotionally—
she’s halfway out the door.
And for the first time all night, the thought of leaving doesn’t feel like defeat.
It feels like relief.
The door to the pub swings open with a rush of cool night air and a shift in the atmosphere so immediate it’s almost physical.
Hermione feels it before she sees it.
The noise changes.
Not quieter—never quieter—but sharper, attention pulling in one direction like a tide turning.
“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” Pansy mutters, not even bothering to hide the faint curl of her lips as she glances toward the entrance.
Theo lets out a low whistle. “Speak of the devil.”
Ginny groans softly, dragging a hand down her face. “If he starts talking about last week’s match, I’m leaving.”
“He will,” Blaise says, already amused. “He absolutely will.”
Hermione turns, almost despite herself.
And there he is.
Draco Malfoy.
He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t hesitate. Just steps inside like the place rearranges itself around him, shrugging off his coat and handing it to someone near the door without breaking stride.
He looks—
Ridiculous.
In the way that makes people stare.
Tall, straight-backed, every movement precise without looking rehearsed. Broad shoulders beneath a fitted shirt, sleeves pushed just high enough to reveal forearms lined with muscle and faint, familiar ink. His hair is slightly out of place, like he’s run a hand through it one too many times, and it somehow makes him look worse.
Better.
Annoyingly so.
And then there are the whispers.
“Malfoy—”
“Is that—”
“Merlin, he looks—”
Hermione looks away.
Immediately.
Because she absolutely refuses to be one of those people.
“He’s been voted Britain’s sexiest wizard, what, five times now?” Theo says lightly, clearly enjoying himself. “I’m starting to think it’s rigged.”
“Six,” Daphne corrects without missing a beat.
“Unbelievable,” Theo murmurs. “Truly.”
Ron makes a scoffing noise beside her. “It’s all publicity. Half those things are bought anyway.”
“Of course,” Pansy says dryly. “Entire publications bending to Malfoy influence. A tragic misuse of power.”
Harry snorts into his drink.
Hermione doesn’t turn again.
She doesn’t need to.
She can feel it.
That awareness.
That presence cutting through the room, getting closer, closer—
And then—
There’s a pause at the table.
A shift.
A shadow falling across the edge of it.
“Well,” a familiar voice drawls, smooth and faintly amused, “this looks… cozy.”
Hermione closes her eyes for half a second.
Of course.
“Malfoy,” Harry says, casual but not surprised.
Draco inclines his head slightly. “Potter.”
“Try not to start anything,” Ginny adds, though there’s no real bite to it.
Draco’s mouth curves. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He doesn’t look at Hermione immediately.
Which is worse.
He lets the moment stretch just long enough to be intentional, greeting the table, exchanging a few brief words with Blaise and Theo, a nod to Daphne, a lingering glance at Pansy that says something unspoken and knowing.
And then—
He turns.
His gaze lands on Hermione like it was always going to.
Slow. Deliberate.
Familiar.
A smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth.
“Granger.”
There’s nothing heated in it.
Not really.
Just that same old tone—half challenge, half amusement—that has always had a way of getting under her skin.
Hermione lifts a brow, entirely unimpressed. “Malfoy.”
He studies her for a second longer than necessary, like he’s taking stock of something only he can see.
Then, without asking—
He pulls out the chair beside her and sits.
On her other side, Ron goes rigid.
Actually rigid.
Hermione can feel it.
It’s almost impressive.
“Is there a reason you’re here?” Ron asks, his voice tight in a way that gives him away immediately.
Draco doesn’t even look at him at first.
He leans back in his chair, stretching his legs out slightly, entirely at ease.
“I was invited,” he says lightly. “Shocking, I know.”
Ron’s jaw tightens. “By who?”
“By several people who don’t require your approval to extend invitations,” Draco replies, finally turning his head just enough to acknowledge him. His tone is pleasant.
Too pleasant.
Theo snorts.
Blaise looks delighted.
Pansy doesn’t even pretend to hide her smile.
Ron shifts in his seat, clearly bristling. “Right. Of course.”
Draco hums softly, like the conversation has already lost his interest.
Which, judging by the way his attention slides right back to Hermione, it has.
“Long night?” he asks, his gaze flicking briefly to her untouched drink, then back to her face.
Hermione huffs quietly. “Something like that.”
“Mm.” His eyes linger for a second, something assessing in them before it smooths over into something lighter. “Thrilling company, I take it.”
Hermione glances forward, where Ron is already reaching for his drink again, muttering something under his breath.
She looks back at Draco.
“Endlessly.”
His mouth twitches.
“Tragic.”
“Devastating,” she agrees dryly.
Draco lets out a soft breath that might almost be a laugh, leaning back slightly in his chair.
There’s no heat in it.
Not yet.
Just familiarity.
Ease.
The kind of banter that slips into place like it never left.
And somehow—
that’s worse.
Because it’s comfortable.
Because it’s easy.
Because it doesn’t feel like work.
Beside her, Ron shifts again, clearly unhappy with the direction of things.
“You’ve been busy, then?” he says abruptly, cutting in, his tone edged. “Flying around, signing autographs, that sort of thing?”
Draco glances at him, unimpressed. “Something like that.”
“Must be nice,” Ron mutters. “Having that much time to waste.”
Ginny exhales sharply. “Oh, here we go.”
Draco tilts his head slightly, considering Ron for a moment.
Then he smiles.
It’s not kind.
“I imagine it is,” he says. “Though I wouldn’t know. The schedule tends to be rather demanding.”
Theo actually laughs at that.
Ron flushes. “Right. Because chasing a ball around the sky is such hard work.”
“Careful,” Blaise says mildly. “You might offend half the table.”
“Only half?” Theo adds.
Ginny lifts her glass. “I’m offended on principle.”
Hermione bites back a smile, shaking her head slightly.
Draco’s gaze flicks to her again, catching the movement.
There’s a brief, quiet beat.
Then his expression shifts—just slightly—something sharper, more focused, before it smooths out again.
He leans in just a fraction.
Not enough to draw attention.
Enough that she notices.
“Still overcomplicating things?” he murmurs, just low enough that it doesn’t carry.
Hermione narrows her eyes at him. “Still talking nonsense?”
“Only when necessary.”
“Then you must be exhausted.”
That does it.
A real smile this time—quick, fleeting, gone almost as soon as it appears.
“Something like that,” he says.
And across the table, Pansy watches the entire exchange like she’s just been handed exactly what she was hoping for.
Ron lasts all of thirty seconds before he snaps.
“Unbelievable,” he mutters, leaning forward like he can’t physically help himself. “You sit there acting like you’ve done something impressive when all you do is fly in circles and wait for a lucky catch.”
The table goes quiet again.
Not tense.
Not awkward.
Just… anticipatory.
Draco turns his head slowly, like Ron has finally done something worth noticing. “If luck were involved, Weasley,” he says pleasantly, “you might have managed it.”
Theo chokes on his drink. Blaise outright laughs.
Ron scowls. “I could have gone pro.”
Ginny doesn’t even hesitate. “But didn’t.”
Ron throws his hands up. “Oh, come off it, Gin.”
“I’m just saying,” Ginny replies, shrugging, “there’s a difference between thinking about something and actually being good at it.”
“Right,” Ron scoffs. “And you think you’re brilliant because you made a team.”
Ginny leans forward, resting her elbows on the table, eyes sharp. “I know I’m brilliant because I made first string, Ron.”
There’s a beat.
Pansy raises her glass slightly. “And because she can actually back it up.”
Astoria smiles into her drink. “It does help.”
Daphne tilts her head, gaze sliding to Ron. “Confidence is admirable. Delusion is less so.”
Ron looks around the table like he’s been personally attacked by all of them. “You’re all unbelievable.”
“No,” Blaise says easily, “we’re just consistent.”
Draco, meanwhile, looks bored.
Which somehow makes it worse.
Ron notices.
Of course he does.
“What?” Ron snaps. “Got something to say?”
Draco exhales softly, like this is mildly inconvenient. “Several things,” he says. “None of them particularly worth the effort.”
Theo leans back, grinning. “Oh, no, go on. This is the most entertaining Ron’s been all night.”
Harry snorts. “Seconded.”
“Brilliant,” Ron mutters. “Glad everyone’s enjoying themselves.”
Draco shifts in his seat, one arm draping casually over the back of Hermione’s chair—mirroring Ron’s earlier position without even acknowledging it. It’s effortless. Unintentional-looking.
It’s not.
Hermione feels it immediately.
Feels him there.
Closer than necessary.
Her spine straightens slightly before she can stop it.
Draco doesn’t look at her.
Still focused on Ron.
“If it helps,” Draco says, tone light, “there’s no shame in recognizing one’s limitations.”
Ron lets out a humorless laugh. “Coming from you?”
“Especially from me.”
That lands.
Even Harry lets out a quiet, surprised huff of laughter.
Ron glares at him. “You’re taking his side now?”
“I’m taking the side that’s making sense,” Harry replies. “Which, currently, is not yours.”
Pansy hums in agreement. “A rare occurrence, admittedly.”
Ron rubs a hand over his face. “Merlin, I don’t know why I even came out tonight.”
“Habit,” Daphne says. “Poor judgment.”
“Low self-awareness,” Theo adds.
“Masochism,” Blaise offers helpfully.
Ginny raises her glass again. “All valid options.”
Hermione presses her lips together, trying not to laugh.
Draco notices.
Of course he does.
His attention shifts again, settling fully on her now, the conversation around them fading just slightly at the edges.
“There it is,” he murmurs, just for her. “Proof of life.”
Hermione rolls her eyes. “Don’t get used to it.”
“Unfortunate,” he says. “I was beginning to think I’d lost my touch.”
“You never had it.”
“Cruel.”
“Accurate.”
Draco’s mouth curves again, that same quiet, amused expression that shouldn’t affect her as much as it does.
Across the table, Pansy watches them like she’s witnessing a performance she’s been waiting years to see.
Ron, however, is very much not amused.
“Can you not?” he snaps, gesturing vaguely between them. “This isn’t entertaining.”
“It is, actually,” Theo says.
“Extremely,” Blaise agrees.
Ginny nods. “Top tier.”
Harry lifts his drink. “Best part of the night so far.”
Ron glares at all of them. “Unbelievable.”
Draco finally turns to him fully, expression polite in a way that’s almost mocking. “If it’s any consolation,” he says, “you’re contributing more than usual.”
Ron’s jaw tightens. “You think you’re funny?”
“I don’t think about it at all.”
Theo loses it at that, laughter breaking free properly now.
Even Daphne’s lips twitch.
Ron pushes back slightly in his chair, clearly struggling to regain some sense of control. “Right. Of course. Because everything just comes so easily to you, doesn’t it?”
Draco considers that for a moment.
Then shrugs.
“Yes.”
Silence.
Then—
Ginny barks out a laugh. “Oh, that’s foul.”
Pansy looks delighted. “Truly.”
Hermione presses her fingers briefly to her lips, failing to hide her smile this time.
Draco glances at her again, catching it.
Something in his expression shifts—subtle, but there.
More focused.
More interested.
“Well,” he says lightly, leaning a fraction closer, “at least someone here is enjoying themselves.”
Hermione lifts a brow. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
“No?” he murmurs.
“No.”
“Shame.”
His voice is quieter now.
Not enough to draw attention.
Enough that it feels… different.
Ron notices anyway.
Of course he does.
“For Merlin’s sake,” Ron mutters, pushing his chair back again. “Can you not do this right now?”
“Do what?” Draco asks, glancing at him with mild curiosity.
“This,” Ron says, gesturing again, more sharply this time. “Whatever this is.”
Draco follows the motion of his hand, then looks back at Hermione.
Then back at Ron.
“Oh,” he says. “This.”
His tone is thoughtful.
Considering.
Then—
He leans in just slightly closer to Hermione.
Not touching.
Not quite.
But enough.
“If it makes you feel better,” he says to Ron, “it’s not about you.”
That’s it.
That’s the line.
Theo makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like applause.
Blaise is openly grinning now.
Ginny shakes her head, laughing under her breath. “Merlin, you’re awful.”
“So I’ve been told.”
Hermione exhales slowly, pressing her fingers more firmly into the edge of the table.
Because now—
Now she is very aware of exactly where she’s sitting.
Ron on one side, simmering.
Draco on the other, entirely too close, entirely too comfortable, entirely too—
much.
And the worst part?
He knows it.
She can feel it in the way he doesn’t move.
In the way he doesn’t apologize.
In the way his attention doesn’t drift away from her again.
“Still drinking this?” he asks casually, nudging her glass slightly with his finger.
Hermione glances at it. “Debating.”
“Don’t,” he says. “It’s terrible.”
“You haven’t even tried it.”
“I don’t need to.”
“That’s not how that works.”
“It is for me.”
She huffs out a quiet breath. “Of course it is.”
Draco’s expression softens—just slightly, just for a second.
Then it’s gone again.
Back to that easy, confident, entirely self-assured composure that makes people stare when he walks into a room.
That makes Ron grind his teeth.
That makes Pansy look smug.
That makes Hermione—
Very aware.
Of everything.
And for the first time all night, something in her chest doesn’t feel tired.
It feels—
awake.
Draco tilts his head slightly, gaze still fixed on Hermione like the rest of the table has faded into background noise. “Still buried under Ministry paperwork,” he says, tone casual, but the question underneath it isn’t. “Or has something more interesting finally managed to hold your attention?”
Hermione woke to pain.
Not a gentle, creeping discomfort. Not a manageable ache.
No.
This was sharp, bright, and entirely disrespectful.
Her head throbbed like someone had decided to test a percussion charm directly against her skull, her mouth felt like parchment, and there was a very real possibility she had died sometime during the night and simply hadn’t been informed.
She groaned, dragging an arm over her face and burying herself deeper into the pillows.
“Absolutely not,” she muttered into the fabric. “Unacceptable.”
There was a pause.
Then—
“Up.”
Hermione didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
Didn’t acknowledge the voice.
If she ignored it, it might go away.
It did not go away.
“Granger.”
Hermione groaned again, louder this time. “No.”
“Yes,” Pansy said, already moving somewhere in the room. Drawers opened. Fabric shifted. There was far too much energy happening for this early in the morning.
Hermione cracked one eye open.
Immediately regretted it.
Light stabbed directly into her brain.
She hissed and slammed her eyes shut again. “Why is it bright?”
“Because it’s morning.”
“Rude.”
Pansy made a small, unimpressed sound. “Drink this.”
Something cold was pressed into Hermione’s hand.
She frowned at it without opening her eyes. “What is it?”
“Pepperup.”
Hermione hesitated.
Then, reluctantly, pushed herself up just enough to take a sip.
The effect was immediate.
Heat rushed through her system, sharp and invigorating, clearing the fog from her mind with almost alarming efficiency.
She blinked.
Then blinked again.
“…oh,” she said.
“Yes,” Pansy replied.
Hermione sat up slowly, pushing her hair back from her face. “That’s better.”
“Obviously.”
She glanced around her room, taking in the state of it—blankets slightly twisted, her shoes abandoned near the door, a glass of water half-finished on the bedside table.
Memory came back in fragments.
The pub.
The argument.
Ron.
Draco—
Hermione froze.
Then pressed her fingers to her temples.
“Don’t,” Pansy said immediately. “We are not doing that right now.”
Hermione looked at her. “Doing what?”
“Overthinking,” Pansy said. “Analyzing. Replaying. None of it is relevant this morning.”
Hermione frowned. “It feels relevant.”
“It isn’t,” Pansy said firmly. “What is relevant is that your wardrobe is a disaster, your ex is an idiot, and I finally have full creative control.”
Hermione blinked. “You already had control.”
“Limited control,” Pansy corrected. “Now I have freedom.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
“It is,” Pansy said. “For your current clothing choices.”
Hermione groaned, flopping back against the pillows. “No. Absolutely not. I am not going shopping today.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I just survived a breakup.”
“Exactly.”
“That feels like a reason to rest.”
“That feels like a reason to upgrade,” Pansy shot back.
Hermione dragged her hands down her face. “Pansy—”
“No,” Pansy cut in, pointing at her. “No arguing. No negotiating. Get up.”
Hermione stared at her.
Pansy stared back.
Hermione sighed.
Deep. Long. Dramatic.
“Fine,” she muttered, pushing herself upright again. “But I’m not wearing anything complicated.”
“That’s not your decision.”
“It absolutely is.”
“It isn’t.”
Hermione squinted at her. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”
“Immensely.”
A knock sounded at the door before Hermione could respond.
Harry stepped in a second later, already dressed, already far too put together for someone who had been at the pub until late.
“Alive?” he asked.
“Debatable,” Hermione said.
“She’s fine,” Pansy said dismissively. “Pepperup.”
Harry nodded, unsurprised. “Good.”
He crossed the room, setting something on Hermione’s bedside table.
“Tea,” he said. “Just in case.”
Hermione smiled faintly. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Pansy clapped her hands once. “Right. Up. Both of you, stop hovering. We have places to be.”
Harry raised a brow. “We?”
“Yes,” Pansy said. “You’re coming.”
“I am?”
“You’re carrying things.”
“That sounds like a trap.”
“It is,” Pansy said. “Now move.”
Hermione let out another soft groan but swung her legs over the side of the bed anyway, the last remnants of sleep slipping away as the potion settled fully into her system.
She paused for a moment, sitting there, hands resting on her knees.
“…I broke up with Ron,” she said quietly.
Harry leaned against the doorframe, watching her. “Yeah. You did.”
Hermione nodded slowly.
Pansy crossed her arms. “And?”
Hermione considered it.
Then—
“I feel… better,” she admitted.
Pansy’s expression softened—just slightly. “Good.”
Harry smiled. “That’s because it was the right call.”
Hermione exhaled, something easing in her chest.
Then she looked up.
“Wait,” she said.
Pansy narrowed her eyes. “No.”
“What happened after we left?”
“Nothing you need to concern yourself with.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“It’s not meant to be.”
Hermione squinted at her. “Pansy.”
Pansy smiled.
Sharp. Knowing.
“Get dressed,” she said.
Hermione very quickly realized she had made a mistake.
A terrible, irreversible mistake.
Because the moment she stepped fully into her living room—hair barely brushed, tea in hand, still trying to hold onto some shred of dignity—Pansy turned.
And smiled.
Not kindly.
Not gently.
No.
This was the smile of a woman who had been waiting for this exact moment.
“Oh, this is going to be fun,” Pansy said.
Hermione froze. “Pansy—”
“Absolutely not,” Pansy cut in, already moving. “No talking. No negotiating. No sentimental attachment to anything currently in this flat.”
Hermione blinked. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” Pansy said, yanking open the nearest wardrobe door with dramatic flair, “we are starting fresh.”
Hermione took a cautious step forward. “That sounds expensive.”
“That sounds necessary.”
Harry, already halfway across the room with a box in his hands, didn’t even look up. “It is necessary.”
Hermione stared at him. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“I am on your side,” he said. “Which is why I’m helping.”
“With what?” she demanded.
Harry lifted the box slightly.
Hermione looked inside.
Paused.
“…why are Ron’s things in my living room?”
Harry shrugged. “Because apparently he’s been leaving them here.”
“They don’t even live together,” Pansy muttered, already pulling dresses from Hermione’s wardrobe and tossing them onto the bed without a second thought.
Hermione followed her, horrified. “Pansy—what are you doing?”
“Fixing this,” Pansy said simply.
“That’s my blouse.”
“It’s tragic.”
“It is not tragic.”
“It is,” Pansy repeated, holding it up like evidence. “When was the last time you wore something that didn’t look like you were attending a Ministry briefing?”
“I attend Ministry briefings.”
“You attend life as well,” Pansy said sharply. “Or at least you’re meant to.”
Hermione opened her mouth.
Closed it.
Because—
Unfairly—
Pansy had a point.
Still.
“That doesn’t mean you get to throw everything out,” Hermione said, crossing her arms.
Pansy turned slowly, one brow lifting. “I’m not throwing everything out.”
Hermione narrowed her eyes. “You’re thinking about it.”
“I’m considering it.”
“That’s worse.”
“It’s better,” Pansy said. “It means I’m being selective.”
Harry snorted quietly.
Hermione shot him a look. “Stop encouraging her.”
“I’m not encouraging her,” Harry said. “I’m agreeing with her.”
“Traitor.”
“Practical,” he corrected.
Meanwhile, Pansy had moved on entirely, now pulling out something else—a dress Hermione vaguely recognized but hadn’t worn in months.
“This,” Pansy said, holding it up critically, “has potential.”
Hermione blinked. “That’s—”
“Too safe,” Pansy finished. “Which means we fix it.”
“How?”
Pansy smiled again.
Dangerous.
“We replace it.”
Hermione sighed, dragging a hand down her face. “This is going to be a disaster.”
“It’s going to be an upgrade.”
Across the room, Harry sealed the first box and set it aside, already reaching for another.
Hermione glanced at him. “How much of his stuff is here?”
Harry paused.
Then—very carefully—“More than you’d think.”
Hermione stared at him.
Then at the boxes.
Then back at him.
“…we don’t even live together,” she said again.
Harry nodded. “I know.”
There was a sharp tapping at the window.
All three of them turned.
An owl.
Hermione closed her eyes.
“No,” she said immediately.
“Yes,” Pansy said, already striding across the room.
“Pansy—”
Too late.
The window swung open, and the owl swooped in, dropping a letter directly onto Hermione’s table.
Pansy caught it mid-air.
Read the name on the front.
Then made a face.
“Absolutely not,” she said, and without even opening it, turned and marched straight back to the window.
Hermione blinked. “You didn’t even read it.”
“I don’t need to.”
“You might—”
“I won’t.”
And with that, she tied it right back to the owl’s leg.
“Return to sender,” Pansy said, dismissing it with a flick of her wrist.
The owl blinked once.
Then flew straight back out the window.
Hermione stared.
Harry tried—and failed—not to laugh.
“That was efficient,” he said.
“Thank you,” Pansy replied.
Another tapping.
Another owl.
Hermione groaned. “You’re kidding.”
Pansy didn’t even hesitate this time. She intercepted it before it could fully land.
“Persistent,” she muttered.
“Pansy—”
“Denied.”
Back out the window it went.
Hermione dropped her head into her hands. “This is my life now.”
“This is your improvement,” Pansy corrected.
Harry set another box down. “He’s not going to stop.”
“Then neither will I,” Pansy said.
Hermione peeked up through her fingers. “You’re terrifying.”
“I’ve been told.”
Pansy turned back to the wardrobe, entirely unbothered, and began sorting again—this pile stays, this pile goes, this pile is questionable and will be revisited later.
Hermione watched her for a moment.
Then sighed.
“…fine,” she said.
Pansy didn’t even look up. “Good.”
“But I’m keeping some things.”
“We’ll discuss it.”
“That means no.”
“That means negotiation.”
“That means you win.”
“Exactly.”
Harry laughed under his breath, sealing another box.
And for the first time since the night before—
Hermione didn’t feel heavy.
Didn’t feel stuck.
Didn’t feel like she was holding onto something that had already slipped away.
Instead—
She watched as her flat was slowly, ruthlessly, and very deliberately taken apart and put back together again.
Piece by piece.
And maybe—
Just maybe—
That wasn’t a bad thing at all.
A third knock sounded at the door—quick, impatient, familiar.
Hermione barely had time to lift her head before Ginny pushed it open, already halfway inside, broom slung casually over her shoulder like it belonged there.
“Morning—” Ginny started, then stopped, taking in the scene.
Clothes everywhere.
Boxes stacked near the door.
Harry kneeling on the floor with a roll of tape.
Pansy in the middle of Hermione’s wardrobe like a general surveying a battlefield.
Ginny’s grin spread instantly. “Oh, this is brilliant.”
Hermione groaned. “Please tell me you’re here to rescue me.”
“Absolutely not,” Ginny said, dropping her broom by the door and stepping further in. “I’m here for entertainment.”
“Of course you are.”
Ginny looked her over, head tilting. “You look rough.”
“Thank you.”
“Very pale,” Ginny added.
“Stop talking.”
Ginny laughed, flopping onto the arm of the sofa like she had nowhere else to be. “Worth it, though.”
Hermione froze.
“…oh no.”
Pansy leaned back against Harry, who immediately rested his hands at her waist like it was instinct, pressing a quick, absent kiss to the top of her head.
“Worth it,” Pansy echoed.
Hermione stared at them. “It was that bad?”
Harry huffed a quiet laugh. “Depends on your definition of bad.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
Ginny lit up. “Oh, it was incredible.”
Hermione dragged her hands down her face. “I hate all of you.”
“No, you don’t,” Ginny said cheerfully. “You love us. Especially after last night.”
Hermione squinted at her. “What does that mean?”
Ginny exchanged a look with Pansy.
Pansy smirked.
Harry sighed. “We’re telling her.”
“We are absolutely telling her,” Ginny said.
Hermione’s stomach dropped. “Telling me what?”
Pansy straightened, crossing her arms as she considered where to begin. “Let’s see. You drank far too much.”
“I gathered that.”
“You were very… affectionate,” Ginny added.
Hermione blinked. “Affectionate with who?”
Pansy and Ginny both looked pointedly at each other.
Then back at her.
Hermione’s eyes widened. “No.”
Harry winced. “Yes.”
Hermione stared at him. “No.”
“You leaned on him,” Harry clarified.
Hermione froze.
“On purpose?” she asked weakly.
“No,” Ginny said. “Which somehow made it worse.”
“Oh my god.”
Pansy nodded. “Very comfortable.”
Hermione covered her face. “I’m going to die.”
“No, you’re not,” Ginny said. “You’re going to live and deal with it.”
Hermione groaned into her hands.
“And then,” Ginny continued, clearly enjoying herself far too much, “there was the pout.”
Hermione’s head snapped up. “The what.”
“The pout,” Harry repeated, far too calmly.
Hermione stared at him. “What pout.”
Ginny leaned forward, demonstrating immediately—big eyes, exaggerated lower lip, lashes batting in a way that made it unmistakably clear.
Hermione recoiled. “I did not do that.”
“You did,” Pansy said.
“At him?”
“At him,” Ginny confirmed.
Hermione pressed both hands to her mouth. “No.”
“Yes,” Harry said.
“And then,” Ginny added, nearly vibrating with excitement, “you asked him for another drink.”
Hermione closed her eyes. “I hate this story.”
“Oh, it gets better,” Pansy said.
Hermione opened one eye. “No.”
“Yes,” Ginny insisted. “You said—” she paused for dramatic effect, then dropped her voice into a soft, mockingly sweet tone, “‘Please, Draco?’”
Hermione made a strangled noise.
“Exactly like that,” Harry said.
Hermione looked like she might actually collapse. “I’m never leaving this flat again.”
“That’s not an option,” Pansy said.
“And then,” Ginny went on, relentless, “he said no.”
Hermione blinked. “He said no?”
Harry nodded. “Firmly.”
Pansy smirked. “Very controlled.”
Ginny leaned back, grinning. “And then he fixed your lip with his thumb.”
Hermione went completely still.
“…he what.”
Harry rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah.”
Hermione stared at all of them.
Then pointed vaguely toward the door. “I’m going back to bed.”
“No, you’re not,” Pansy said immediately.
“I absolutely am.”
“You are absolutely not.”
Hermione looked at Ginny. “Tell her I am.”
Ginny shook her head, still smiling. “No chance. I’ve got practice in twenty minutes, but this? This was worth stopping in for.”
Hermione dropped her head back against the sofa with a dull thud. “This is a nightmare.”
“This is progress,” Pansy corrected.
Harry smiled faintly. “It was actually… good. You seemed happy.”
Hermione paused.
Then frowned slightly. “I was happy.”
“Exactly,” Harry said.
Ginny hopped up from the arm of the sofa, grabbing her broom again. “Anyway, I have to go dominate the pitch, but please—continue whatever this is.”
“This is a crisis,” Hermione muttered.
“This is the best thing that’s happened all week,” Ginny said.
She headed for the door, then paused, glancing back with a grin.
“Oh—and for the record?”
Hermione didn’t even look at her. “I don’t want to know.”
Ginny ignored that entirely.
“He was completely gone for you.”
Hermione’s head snapped up.
“What?”
But Ginny was already out the door, laughing as she went.
The flat fell quiet for a moment.
Hermione slowly turned to Pansy.
“…what does that mean.”
Pansy smiled.
Sharp. Knowing.
“We’ll get to that,” she said.
And Hermione—
Hermione was suddenly very aware that this day was only going to get worse.
The boutique was exactly the sort of place Hermione would normally avoid.
Bright. Polished. Full of mirrors and soft music and racks of clothing that looked far too expensive to exist in one room.
Pansy, of course, walked in like she owned it.
Hermione followed more cautiously, arms crossed loosely over herself, already bracing for impact.
Harry trailed behind them, resigned, carrying nothing yet but clearly aware that his role in this outing was about to escalate dramatically.
“This is unnecessary,” Hermione said, eyeing a display of dresses that looked like they belonged at a gala.
“This is essential,” Pansy corrected, already scanning the racks with a critical eye. “And overdue.”
“I have clothes.”
“You have obligations disguised as clothes.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is entirely true,” Pansy said, pulling something from a rack and holding it up to Hermione. “This, for example.”
Hermione blinked at it. “That’s… very short.”
“It’s appropriately short.”
“It’s alarming.”
“It’s perfect.”
Harry snorted quietly.
Hermione shot him a look. “Stop encouraging her.”
“I’m not encouraging her,” he said. “I’m preparing for the inevitable.”
Hermione sighed.
Then—
“Is this a full intervention?”
The voice came from behind them, amused and entirely too familiar.
Hermione turned.
Daphne Greengrass stood a few steps away, one brow lifted, arms crossed lightly as she took in the scene.
Beside her, Astoria—Tori—was already smiling, eyes bright with interest.
“Oh, this is happening,” Tori said, delighted.
Pansy didn’t even look surprised. “Perfect timing.”
Hermione stared at them. “No.”
“Yes,” Daphne said, stepping closer. “Very much yes.”
Tori moved in beside her, looping her arm casually through Daphne’s. “We were just discussing last night.”
Hermione froze.
“…I don’t want to talk about last night.”
“That’s unfortunate,” Pansy said, already handing the dress to Hermione and reaching for another. “Because we absolutely are.”
Harry stepped back slightly, clearly recognizing he was about to be outnumbered.
“Let’s maybe—”
“No,” Pansy, Daphne, and Tori said at the same time.
Hermione closed her eyes.
“Brilliant,” she muttered.
Daphne tilted her head, studying her. “You look less hungover than expected.”
“Pepperup,” Hermione said.
“Smart,” Tori replied.
“Necessary,” Hermione added.
“Still doesn’t change what happened,” Daphne said mildly.
Hermione groaned. “I hate all of you.”
“No, you don’t,” Tori said cheerfully. “You love us. Especially after that performance.”
Hermione pointed at her. “Don’t.”
“Oh, we’re absolutely doing this,” Pansy said, pushing another dress into Hermione’s arms. “Changing room. Now.”
Hermione looked down at the growing pile. “That’s too many.”
“It’s not enough.”
“It’s overwhelming.”
“It’s efficient.”
Daphne nodded. “She’s right.”
“Of course she is,” Hermione muttered, letting herself be steered toward the changing rooms.
Behind her, she could hear them already starting.
“She leaned on him,” Tori said.
“Not just leaned,” Daphne added. “Settled.”
“Like it was natural,” Pansy said.
Hermione stopped halfway to the curtain. “I can still hear you.”
“Good,” Pansy said.
Hermione disappeared into the changing room, letting the curtain fall closed behind her as she pressed her forehead briefly against the wall.
“This is a nightmare,” she whispered.
“Try the black one first,” Pansy called.
Hermione sighed, setting the clothes down and picking up the first dress.
Outside, the conversation continued.
“He didn’t move,” Daphne said.
“No,” Tori agreed. “He adjusted.”
Harry, from somewhere to the side, added, “Very subtly.”
Pansy hummed. “Of course he did.”
Hermione closed her eyes again.
“Stop talking about it,” she called.
“No,” they all replied.
Hermione let out a long breath and started changing.
Outside, Tori leaned closer to Pansy, lowering her voice just slightly—though not enough.
“And the pout,” she said.
Pansy smirked. “Oh, we covered the pout.”
Daphne’s lips curved. “That was devastating.”
Harry made a quiet noise. “For him, definitely.”
Hermione nearly dropped the dress.
“You’re all dramatic,” she called, though there was no real heat in it.
“Accurate,” Pansy replied.
Hermione finished pulling the dress into place, smoothing it down slowly.
Then she hesitated.
Looked at herself in the mirror.
It was—
Different.
Shorter. Fitted. Not something she would usually choose.
Not something she would usually feel comfortable in.
She stared at it for a moment longer.
Then—
“…this is ridiculous,” she muttered.
“Come out,” Pansy called immediately.
Hermione hesitated.
Then sighed.
Then stepped out.
The reaction was immediate.
Silence.
Followed by—
“Oh,” Tori said.
“Well,” Daphne added.
Harry blinked. “That’s—”
“Correct,” Pansy said, satisfaction evident in every syllable.
Hermione crossed her arms. “Don’t.”
“It works,” Daphne said.
“Very well,” Tori agreed.
Hermione glanced down at the dress, then back up at them. “It’s a lot.”
“It’s the right amount,” Pansy said.
Hermione huffed softly, shifting her weight.
And despite herself—
She didn’t hate it.
Not entirely.
Tori leaned against a nearby rack, smirking. “Malfoy’s going to have a problem.”
Hermione froze.
“…what does that mean.”
Daphne smiled slightly. “It means he was already struggling.”
Pansy’s expression sharpened. “And now?”
Tori’s grin widened.
“Now it’s going to be very entertaining.”
Hermione stared at all of them.
Then shook her head.
“No,” she said firmly.
“Yes,” they all replied.
And somewhere, very far away—
Hermione had the distinct feeling that this was only the beginning.
Hermione turned back toward the mirror, smoothing her hands down the sides of the dress again like that might somehow make the situation less… real.
It didn’t.
Behind her, the girls were still watching.
Closely.
Too closely.
“…stop looking at me like that,” Hermione said.
“Like what?” Tori asked innocently.
“Like I’ve done something,” Hermione replied.
Daphne tilted her head. “You have.”
Hermione frowned at her reflection. “I tried on a dress.”
Pansy snorted. “No. You’ve been oblivious for years.”
Hermione turned slowly. “I have not been oblivious.”
All three of them just looked at her.
Then—
“Yes,” they said in unison.
Hermione stared. “That’s dramatic.”
“That’s accurate,” Daphne said.
Hermione crossed her arms again, defensive now. “About what, exactly?”
Tori leaned forward slightly, eyes bright. “Malfoy.”
Hermione blinked.
Then laughed.
Actually laughed.
“Absolutely not.”
Pansy didn’t even hesitate. “Absolutely yes.”
Hermione shook her head, already turning away. “No. No, that’s ridiculous. He barely tolerated me for half of Hogwarts.”
“He was obsessed with you,” Tori said.
“He was awful to me,” Hermione corrected.
“Same thing,” Daphne said lightly.
“It is not the same thing,” Hermione insisted.
Pansy stepped closer, arms crossing as she studied her. “He’s been pining after you since third year.”
Hermione stared at her.
“…third year?”
“Yes.”
“I punched him in third year,” Hermione said.
Pansy smiled.
Sharp. Certain.
“And that,” she said, “was the start of it.”
Hermione blinked.
Once.
Twice.
“That is not how that works.”
“It is exactly how that works,” Tori said, clearly delighted.
Daphne nodded. “You humiliated him. Publicly.”
“He deserved it,” Hermione said.
“Of course he did,” Daphne agreed. “That’s not the point.”
“The point,” Pansy said, stepping even closer now, “is that no one had ever done that to him before.”
Hermione frowned. “Plenty of people disliked him.”
“Disliking him is not the same as hitting him,” Tori said.
“Or standing your ground,” Daphne added.
“Or refusing to be impressed,” Pansy finished.
Hermione shook her head. “You’re all making this up.”
“We are not,” Pansy said.
Harry, from his spot near the wall. “…they’re not.”
Hermione whipped around. “You’re not helping.”
“I’m being honest,” he said.
Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Since when?”
“Since always.”
She huffed and turned back to the mirror, but the words had already settled somewhere uncomfortable.
“Even if that were true,” she said, trying to sound dismissive, “that doesn’t mean anything now.”
“Doesn’t it?” Tori asked.
Hermione paused.
Then forced a shrug. “People change.”
“Some things don’t,” Daphne said.
Hermione rolled her eyes. “He barely spoke to me for years.”
Pansy made a quiet, unimpressed sound. “He watched you.”
Hermione stilled.
“What?”
Pansy tilted her head slightly. “Not in a creepy way. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
“That wasn’t where I was going,” Hermione said quickly.
“It should have been,” Tori muttered.
Pansy ignored her. “He paid attention. Who you were with. What you were doing. Where you stood in a room.”
Hermione frowned. “That’s normal. We were all in the same school.”
“No,” Daphne said softly. “It’s not.”
Hermione looked between them, something uneasy starting to build.
“You’re exaggerating,” she said.
“We’re not,” Pansy replied.
Tori leaned against the rack again, arms folding. “Last night wasn’t new behavior.”
Hermione scoffed. “Yes, it was.”
“No,” Tori said. “It was just… less subtle.”
Hermione’s stomach flipped slightly.
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“It does if you’ve been paying attention,” Daphne said.
Hermione let out a small, frustrated breath. “He was just being—himself.”
“Exactly,” Pansy said.
Hermione opened her mouth.
Closed it.
Because—
That didn’t help.
At all.
“And the drinks?” Tori added. “He knew exactly what to get you.”
“That’s not unusual,” Hermione said quickly. “We’ve all gone out together before.”
“Not like that,” Daphne said.
Hermione shook her head again, more firmly this time. “You’re reading into it.”
Pansy stepped forward, stopping just in front of her.
“Am I?”
Hermione met her gaze.
“Yes.”
Pansy held it for a moment longer.
Then—
Smiled.
“We’ll see.”
Hermione frowned. “That’s not reassuring.”
“It’s not meant to be.”
Tori laughed softly. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”
Hermione turned back to the mirror again, staring at her reflection like it might offer some kind of clarity.
It didn’t.
Instead, all she could see was—
The dress.
The way it fit differently than anything she owned.
The way she looked—
Different.
And somewhere, beneath all of that—
The faint, unwelcome echo of a voice.
You look better.
Hermione pressed her lips together.
“No,” she muttered quietly.
Behind her, Pansy smirked.
Daphne exchanged a look with Tori.
And Harry—
Harry just shook his head.
Because whether Hermione wanted to admit it or not—
Something had already shifted.
And none of them were going to let her ignore it any longer.