Chapter Text
Chapter 1: You’ll Never Know
If someone had told Pansy Parkinson four years ago that her seventh year would be spent eating breakfast with Harry Potter and Ron Weasley, she would have hexed them in the face and then sterilised her wand.
But life after war was full of things no one expected.
Like a shared Gryffindor–Slytherin common room.
Like roundtable discussions on unity and trust and “healing as a community.”
Like being able to casually insult Ron without starting a duel.
Like calling Hermione Granger her best friend.
No—Mione, now.
That was hers.
Just like Pans was Hermione’s. No one else dared try it.
Not Harry. Not Ginny. Not even Theo, who could get away with murder if he smiled right.
It was just them.
A closeness no one questioned anymore.
Because it had been there too long. Too familiar. Too natural.
And for Pansy… too dangerous.
---
The Group
Post-war Hogwarts had done something unthinkable: it made them friends.
Somehow, in the haze after battle and funerals and a thousand unspoken regrets, they’d found each other. All of them. Gryffindors and Slytherins, unlikely pairings that now moved like one mismatched family.
Harry and Theo constantly in weird debate over broom models.
Ginny teaching Daphne how to charm her hair flame-red for a dare.
Luna and Tracey hosting weekly “truth or dare-slash-chaos” nights.
Draco and Ron arguing over chess like it was a blood sport.
Neville’s plant club roping in Blaise, who surprisingly thrived with mandrakes.
Astoria curled into corners sketching them all in her little notebook, soft and observant.
And in the middle of it all—Hermione and Pansy.
Pans and Mione.
The original oddity that no longer felt odd.
---
Flashback — Yule Ball, Fourth Year
Pansy hadn’t meant to follow her.
She’d seen Hermione tear out of the Great Hall in that absurdly pink dress, and something in her teenage brain whispered: go.
She found her alone on the West Tower staircase. Curled up, heels abandoned, dress rumpled, shoulders shaking.
“Don’t even think about it,” Hermione said without looking up.
“I’m not here to gloat,” Pansy lied, sitting anyway.
Hermione let out a watery breath. “You’re always here to gloat.”
“Not always. Sometimes I just appear to mock and then vanish like a sexy spectre.”
That earned her a tiny laugh, muffled into her hand.
Pansy hesitated. “Was it Weasley?”
Hermione stiffened.
“Let me guess—he couldn’t handle the idea that Viktor Krum has actual biceps and can string a sentence together?”
Hermione laughed again—wet, real. “You’re terrible.”
“I know. But I’m right.” Pansy gave her a sidelong glance. “And honestly, that dress looks like it got hexed by a pastry spell gone wrong.”
“Oh, shut up.”
“But somehow… you’re making it work.”
Silence followed. Not uncomfortable. Just new.
Hermione turned to her, mascara streaked but with a grin breaking through. “Why are you being nice to me?”
Pansy shrugged. “Because, tragically, I don’t think I hate you.”
That night, something shifted. A strange truce.
And by fifth year, they'd stopped pretending it was strange at all.
---
Now — Seventh Year
“You’re brooding again,” Hermione said, flopping beside her on the common room couch.
“I don’t brood,” Pansy muttered. “I withhold light from my face in aesthetic protest.”
Hermione rolled her eyes and dropped her head dramatically onto Pansy’s lap. “Shut up and braid my hair. I can’t be bothered today.”
“You’re already halfway there to being a high-maintenance cat.”
“Meow,” Hermione replied flatly, handing her a hair tie.
Pansy sighed, gently pulling her curls apart. She knew this routine. Knew the rhythm of Hermione’s breathing,
the soft hum she made when she was content, the way she would sometimes reach back and
squeeze Pansy’s wrist just because she could.
It was affection. Friendly affection. Normal. Harmless.
Except it wasn’t harmless at all.
Not to Pansy.
---
Later that evening, the prefects gathered in the lounge. McGonagall had issued new schedules for patrol rounds.
And like always, Hermione had somehow “convinced” the Headmistress to give her input.
“Let me guess,” Blaise said, peering over the parchment. “You and Pansy are—oh look. Every single evening together. How surprising.”
Ginny laughed. “This is bordering on romantic comedy now.”
“It’s been there for years,” Tracey said, smirking.
Pansy didn’t bother denying it. She just raised a brow and said, “I’m a patient soul. It’s my greatest flaw.”
Hermione grinned brightly and looped her arm around Pansy’s shoulders. “You love being with me.”
“I love silence. You are the opposite of silence.”
“Oh please, you’d miss me in five minutes.”
“I’d throw a party,” Pansy replied, feeling Hermione’s fingers trace gentle shapes along her shoulder without even realising it.
Stop it, Pansy begged silently. You don’t know what you’re doing.
But Hermione just hummed. “So, same time tomorrow, yeah? After dinner?”
Pansy nodded because saying no would hurt more than the pretending.
---
Later That Night
She sat alone in her bed, curtains drawn, wandlight dim.
Her pillow still smelled faintly like Hermione’s shampoo from the last time she’d fallen asleep there, babbling about rune translations
and dreams she couldn’t remember.
It wasn’t fair.
How easy it was for Hermione to give everything except the one thing Pansy wanted.
It wasn’t fair, how she called her “Pans” like it meant something, touched her hair like it was habit, looked at her like she was safe.
And it wasn’t fair that Pansy had to pretend it didn’t mean anything.
Because she loved her.
Because she’d loved her since fifth year. Since library nights and hand brushes and stupid, slow smiles. Since seeing her go from untouchable to unstoppable.
But Hermione didn’t know.
Not really.
And Pansy didn’t dare tell her.
So she whispered the truth into her empty pillow and let it sit heavy in her chest.
“She’ll never know.”
And that was safer.
That was enough.
That was all she had.