Chapter Text
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Pansy walked through the Great Hall, her footsteps steady and deliberate on the stone floor. While the usual familiar hum of chatter filled the air, things were different now. The space had been redefined by the war.
There were no longer large groups of Slytherins congregating at the tables, heads held high, eyes gleaming with shared ambition. Now, there were just clusters, isolated pockets of students and smaller friend groups huddled together over their meals.
Pansy’s gaze fell across the room, noting the absence of familiar faces. Greg, Millicent, even Blaise, they hadn’t come back. It seemed the war had taken more from Slytherin than it had from any other house. Her eyes drifted over to the large hourglass that stood at the front of the hall, its glittering jewels meant to represent the collective success of her house. The glass, near empty, held barely a handful of green gems scattered among the sand. It was clear, no one in her house cared anymore.
With a sigh, she slid into the bench at her house table, her presence causing the usual ripple of unease in the students around her who, as usual, shifted away from her.
She had grown somewhat accustomed to the shift in dynamics, to how things were for her now every time she entered a room. Heads turned, some whispered, others laughed behind their hands, and most often, many cast sidelong glances in her direction filled with disdain.
It was the kind of thing she used to do, something that she had mastered over the years. She was an expert at giving looks that spoke of superiority, of contempt, of being above it all. But now? Now, she was now on the receiving end, and as much as she wanted to give up and accept her place in this new world, a world where the rules of who was and who wasn’t elite had shifted; She couldn’t.
Not only was her inheritance on the line, but her social circles, once the epitome of elite wizarding society, had all but disbanded. All of it seemed a distant memory. Half the people she had once rubbed elbows with at exclusive events were either in hiding due to their crimes or like her, shunned by the public.
She remembered, almost vividly, the time she had nearly been denied service at Madam Malkin’s. The assistant casting her a look of disdain before leaving her to stand at the counter for an uncomfortably long time, and when she finally returned with her self-ironing robes, they had been severely overpriced. She found herself reflecting fondly on the stunned expression on the assistants face when she didn’t spend a second balking over the price, after all she could afford to be spiteful more than ten times over.
Pansy’s smirk fell as her thoughts shifted. She could hear the assistants voice and many others ringing through her mind as she recalled the many howlers that had made their way into the Parkinson manor, how they exploded in her face, full of accusations of cowardice and betrayal. Each one spitting venomous words, reminding her of what she had done with a level of sheer hatred that she may as well had been the dark lord himself.
Her father in his rage about her grave error had ignored them and the impact they had had on her, at least until they had become a daily occurrence driving him to subscribe to a post filtering service. Though by that point she was no longer upset; the full range of her emotions had already been snuffed out by a course of rather unpleasant potions, courtesy of St. Mungo’s.
Even now she still couldn’t stand the taste. Shaking her head to clear her thoughts, she began picking at her food as her eyes flicked across the room landing on the Gryffindor table, everyone there surrounded by friends. Pansy felt it, the weight of the house’s legacy pressing on her, more than ever now. Nothing would ever be the same, not for her, and not for Slytherin. Draco, Greengrass, Crabbe, none of them were here. Draco had disappeared after the war, and the others had been lost in it.
Again she shook her head willing her mind to focus, her delicately manicured fingers tightening around her goblet as she thought back to her last conversation with her parents. The manor had been cold that evening, the air heavy with the scent of old wood and desperation. She stood in the drawing room, arms crossed, chin lifted, as her parents laid out their new expectations. The room once a symbol of status, dark wood paneling, towering bookshelves filled with old family tomes, and a grand chandelier that scattered light across the marble floor now no longer commanded the respect it once had. The heavy curtains, the ornate furniture, it all felt like a desperate attempt to hold onto something that no longer mattered. Her ancestral home had a rich history, but that’s what it was. History. The new world was looking ahead. Their mind already made up about people like the Parkinson’s.
“You must understand, Pansy,” her mother said, her voice trembling. “The Parkinson name is in ruins. If we are to recover, you must do something— You’re young, the world could forgive you in time. If you do something public, something undeniable, some sort of work,” Her mother’s mouth appeared to struggle with the word. “….to align yourself with the course history is now taking.”
Even now, her parents had refused to state that they had been wrong to put all their stock into the dark lord. Her father, who like most Slytherin, had a penchant for coming out unscathed from most difficult situations did not this time. He had nearly worn a hole into the floor, his usual collected demeanor marred by the weight of knowing that his associations, his core beliefs… had ruined them.
“The Malfoys…,” Her father began, no longer pacing but looking at her commanding her complete attention. “The betrothal to Draco is gone and anyone I could align you with would be of no benefit to us. ….This cannot be our legacy.” His expression flickered but she caught it. Desperation. “You must secure another… alliance. Someone respected and well regarded to ensure you earn your inheritance. Do you understand?”
He had said alliance, but she read directly between the lines he had opened for her. Her father wanted her to do something entirely unheard of in families that prided themselves on impeccable blood purity. He wanted her to sort out her own betrothal contract.
She was stunned into silence. He had never once bestowed upon her even a small responsibility. If something mattered, it was his to deal with because he was a man, a man who had great plans, a man who upon finding out that he was going to have a daughter did the work needed to ensure she would enhance their status.
He secured her attachment to Draco before the sorting hat had even hovered above her head the short millisecond it did and now? Now that man was here, leaving something as important as uplifting the family name to her, and pinning her inheritance on the line.
“Well?” he asked, his tone deceptively mild, a mere formality, nothing more. He wasn’t really asking. Her answer had already been decided for her.
“Yes, Father. I understand.” And she did. She understood her parents were as desperate as she was to salvage her reputation and by proxy, theirs.
“Men are simple creatures,” her father began, clinging to the fleeting flicker of confidence that wiped away any thought of the amount of work she would have to do just to get someone of value to look at her with barely concealed contempt instead of overt disgust.
“They may be disinterested in you at first, but… a man is a man. Just use what you have. I’m sure you learned a thing or two on what to do with Draco,” Pansy’s fingers curled into fists as he looked at her with presumptuous disappointment, assuming that she had been defiled. That she had diminished her value. It wasn’t her fault she had sought to lay with the man she was supposed to marry only for the world to crumble around them because of the choices their parents made. “I’d suggest you expedite the process,” He continued. “With what you did… maybe someone less handsome... older… would treat you well enough. It’s what women have done f-.”
Before Pansy could consider speaking her mind, her mother fearing the consequences of Pansy’s back talk interrupted her husband.
“Pansy darling, you’re cunning. You move with grace, with confidence. You’re beautiful, and anyone would be happy to have you.” Her mother offered, brushing a cool hand over Pansy’s cheek while serving a pointed look to her husband who seemed to realize that he had put his foot in his mouth, that Pansy in this moment was not his daughter but closer to something of a business partner that he shouldn’t cross.
He cleared his throat and tried again. “…Yes, Pansy dear.” He pulled her to his side in an awkward hug. “Your attention—diligent…unwavering— and your support, that with well-timed affection… would be enough for anyone to overlook… our name. Treat them will the level of respect, grace, and devotion they deserve.”
Thus, helping them renew their legacy, the implication hung silently in the air.
Abandoning the memory and grounding herself in the Great Hall, Pansy finally deciding to commit to their plan, with a renewed sense of purpose, scanned the Gryffindor table. After all, it would be the best place to look for someone whose interest and commitment would help her begin to cement her place on the “right” side of history.
Pansy felt the stirrings of amusement, the novelty of the idea of choosing her own suitor provided a decent distraction from the sharp reality that the boys at that table likely very rightfully despised her. Her green eyes landed on Neville Longbottom who now carried himself with an unusual confidence these days, no longer the unsightly stuttering boy who lost his toad, but the good-looking man who had slain Nagini. As well suited as he could have been, his awkward and distinct interest in Luna was evident to anyone with eyes.
Her eyes flickered to a very handsome Dean Thomas. She didn’t know much about him besides knowing he had the type of charm that made girls giggle. That and that he’d had a brief fling with the youngest Weasley. Decent looks aside, for all intents and purposes, Pansy thought, he was altogether unremarkable. She couldn’t recall a single thing he’d done in all his years, let alone a thing worth noting during the battle of Hogwarts. No prestige, no status, nothing to help her regain her footing in this new world.
Her gaze drifted momentarily to the empty space at the Gryffindor ‘eighth year’ table where Potter and Weasel might have sat had they not swanned off to become aurors determined to continue risking their lives for glory instead of completing their education like sensible people.
A flicker of annoyance passed through Pansy. Either of the two would’ve been great options—glorious, heroic options. Especially ‘the chosen Potter’, who she had made the grave mistake of promising to turn over to the dark lord right when the war began. The reminder of her gravest mistake made her stomach turn bringing her back to reality. No, she thought, they would have been insufferable and absolutely would have gotten in the way of anyone she pursued.
Good riddance.
An annoyed huff of air escaped her lips as she cast a glance at the brain behind the Golden Trio. The one who had outmaneuvered them all, time and time again. The Golden Girl herself. Too bad she wasn’t a lad, Pansy thought, lips twitching in faint amusement.
She watched as Hermione gathered her books, the girl’s movements efficient and precise, her brow furrowed in deep concentration. Had she been a lad there could have been something almost compelling about the way she carried herself, certainly not attractive of course, but…interesting at the very least.
Pansy took in Hermione’s appearance. She was thin, almost wiry, with long limbs that gave her a nearly slight air of elegance despite her complete lack of effort. Objectively decent enough, well at least symmetrical, but her clothing, Merlin, muggle through and through. Those dreadful trousers paired with a jacket made from the oddest, noisiest material that Pansy had ever heard. So often the dreadful thing would distract her in class with its rustling every time the witch dared to move even a fraction of an inch.
Like everything about Hermione, her clothing certainly did not do a thing to flatter her. Pansy just couldn’t understand it.
The black-haired witch reflected on her own morning routine. Each morning every detail of her appearance was meticulously attended to, her hair, glossy and smooth, was styled perfectly, each wave soft and controlled, with not a strand out of place. Her makeup, precise and expertly applied to highlight her sharp features, her robes tailor fitted, the curves of her figure accentuated with precise tailoring, all topped off with a touch of parfum.
Her eyes lingered on the golden girl, her gaze narrowing as Granger laughed at something Neville said. Another sigh escaped Pansy as she stared. Granger now had the joy of knowing the world would make space for her no matter what. A fact that was once at the core of her and every elite witch’s confidence. But Hermione wasn’t elite, at least not in the way Pansy had been taught to recognize. In fact, prior to the war, more often than not Pansy had found the girl pathetic and even now following the war, she could tell Hermione still hadn’t come into herself.
She recounted how annoying the witch had been over the years. Pansy had seen how often she was desperate to be seen or heard, how it often appeared that she couldn’t decide between whining for her dear friends’ attention or fleeing. In fact, Pansy had noticed just how often the bushy-haired witch elected to stomp out of the great hall, books squeezed against her chest when her best mates failed to pay her any mind.
Unlike Pansy, who had always been confident, the only time Hermione appeared certain of herself was when her morals took over leaving no room for doubt, usually when she was fighting for something or someone she believed in, usually something related to prejudice. At this thought, Pansy felt ill, though it wasn’t her deeply rooted prejudice that unsettled her, it was what the prejudice had ultimately culminated in. The value of lines drawn by blood had all burned down around her in this new world where anyone could rise not because of their lineage and rich history, but because of their own merit… well unless they were her of course.
Her name was no longer a privilege but a brand of infamy. No one would forget what she had done, the choices she had made, the moment she stood in that hall and spoken those damning words: But he's there! Potter's there! Someone grab him!
No matter what she did, the world would remember, any merit on her end be damned.
The thought of her father’s suggestion, aiming for someone beneath her own good looks slipped into her mind unbidden. Perhaps even Granger, she mused, would be better than the tragic sight of some old wizard draped in robes that reeked of mothballs and a fringe relation to the side of the ‘light’ she thought as she looked at such men in the portraits of the great hall. She found herself looking at Hermione again, a small, amused smile playing at her lips as she found herself indulging in a little thought exercise. How would I even begin?
Granger was as strait-laced as they came and even if in all her years one had never given her even a second glance, liked blokes. The Weasley boy in all his graceless glory, had managed multiple entanglements. Romilda Vane was one of a few who had tried to dose Potter with a love potion and even the youngest Weasley girl had made her way around a few houses.
Pansy nearly pouted in playful mock sympathy watching the way Hermione poked around her plate with a fork, watching intently as everyone chattered around her, her own best mates gone. It was almost tragic. And even now, though she was the brain behind the wizarding world’s saving grace, behind these walls she was just Hermione Granger, long time insufferable know it all.
No one within these walls had succumbed to her fame. In fact, it was almost as though within these walls she wasn’t famous at all. Had she been outside in the real world, Pansy was positive the girl would have found herself with no shortage of suitors, but here, within these walls she had never been wanted. Never had anyone pursue her.
Pansy used to remind her of it so often that it wasn’t difficult for her to imagine how the girl might react if someone finally showed an interest in her. She’d probably throw herself at the first person who so much as looked at her with flirtatious intent.
Pansy nearly found herself relieved that McGonagall had dedicated herself to ensuring no sort of fan letters, interview requests, or gifts would make its way through the post.
How easy it would be, Pansy mused. How little effort it would take—well, little difficult effort. She’d just have to do the ‘hard work’ of being kind, which would certainly be far easier than the multitude of things she would have to do to capture the attention of someone she traditionally would have considered elite now that her own status was as marred as it was. She balked at the idea, a woman arranging a dowry to secure the luxury of being married… how pathetic.
When it came to someone with such strong moral conviction like Hermione Granger, instead of producing a certain number of heirs she’d only have to play the long game of being polite and caring. From this newfound perspective, Pansy decided there was something almost endearing about the curly-haired witch, something that made her feel less like a cat toying with well… not a cute mouse but a rather important mouse. One that was, at the very least, decently symmetrical and, thankfully, not some ancient, mothball-scented wizard.
This mouse didn’t see its own value. Sure, she knew she was the beloved and virtuous girl who had helped defeat the dark lord, but she had no clue the influence she now held, and her ignorance was all because of something Pansy knew but no one else had seemed to notice.
That underneath it all, Granger was just a deeply insecure muggle girl whose brightness was driven by a desire to prove herself, to be noticed. She was brilliant, but she was just a girl. A girl who’d never been properly kissed, had never been wanted. Pansy recalled how her and her table mates had laughed as they watched Hermione flee the great hall when Weasel had started snogging Lavender Brown on the bench beside her.
She remembered cornering her in potions that day just to crawl under her skin by asking if it had bothered Hermione that no one had ever bothered with her. The way the curly haired witch’s throat had worked, the way her eyes had flickered with something raw. Once amusing, the memory of her reaction was now an indicator of just how much work she would have to do just to get off of Granger’s bad side, let alone get on her good side.
She knew Hermione craved recognition, she could see it in the way Hermione carried herself, a quiet, unspoken yearning that spilled out in her relentless drive for achievement. Pansy smirked as she reflected on a truth, that Hermione likely craved a lot more than academic achievement.
The kind of affection she had only ever glimpsed from a distance, a heat that distracted her fellow students from the sharp edges of the world but had never found the bushy-haired witch.
Pansy could almost imagine it, the exact second Hermione would get her first taste of it, a brush of intimacy so alien, yet so intoxicating. Even if it baffled her, Hermione would be helplessly hooked wanting to experience it again either to indulge herself or perhaps study it, Pansy chuckled at the thought. It would consume her, that longing, and she would never let it go again for fear of again going unnoticed in that very special way.
It would be so easy for Pansy to give the attentive and thorough validation Hermione was likely sorely desperate for. She could weave herself into the one place no one would expect to find her, firmly by Granger’s side. She could make her feel seen in a way none of those Gryffindor boys ever had. Make her blush, make her stammer, make her want.
All she would have to do was show her that she had changed, and when she least expected it, her train of thought was abruptly interrupted by a far less amusing concept: Could she even bring herself to snog a witch? Let alone Granger?
Pansy frowned, considering it seriously for the first time. Could she press her lips to Granger’s? Let her hands wander, let herself seem to bask in the full weight of Hermione’s want? Could she fully throw herself into the snog, into the level of affection and attention needed to ensnare the witch? To appear to give in enough to come across as fully authentic and committed?
The idea should have been revolting, and yet, the more she thought about it, the less objectionable it became. It wasn’t as if Granger was hideous, she was decent enough considering the alternatives. Her eyes flickered again to the old stuffy men in the portraits around the great hall. She imagined their grubby hands reaching with entitlement. The thought of their thick, smelly beards brushing against her, the stale odor of pipe smoke clinging to their cloaks, what she would have to do to make them feel special. The thought made her stomach twist.
The type of old man her father would pair her with if she finished the school year without securing a relationship would likely be someone just like him. It wasn’t difficult to envision how they might wield their position, never hesitating to take more than was freely offered by her. At the very least, Granger had integrity.
Pansy couldn’t help but to indulge further in the amusing, dare she think, fantasy. If she played her cards right, not only would she avoid being betrothed to a smarmy old prat, but if she became entwined with the war heroine, the brightest witch of her age, then Pansy Parkinson’s name wouldn’t just be a stain in history books, it would be rewritten, uplifted by Granger’s legacy.
The prospect of a snog escalating to that seemed rather unexpectedly appealing, especially when weighed against the dismal alternatives awaiting her, an older, unattractive wizard with a sour disposition, or worse yet, some pitifully desperate man willing to disregard her infamy, not out of kindness, but because his desire for her figure managed to outweigh his revulsion for her tarnished name.
Could she do this?
Of course she could, she thought. As a daughter of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, Pansy had been groomed for this. She was trained in the subtle art of flirting, lavishing attention, affection, and offering feigned devotion, when necessary, all with the sole intent of making one feel not just like they were the center of her world, but the whole world.
Yes, Pansy only preferred men, but there was no denying the appeal of rewriting her legacy entirely. For the first time, she found herself feeling that her name might survive the outcome of the war. Though she was more than content to be betrothed to Draco, she had enough time since the war to know that this would certainly be a better option. Though his snobbish ways were never directed at her, she knew her parent’s marriage, she knew his parent’s marriage and she knew that someday down the line that a boy raised like him well… eventually their friendship which she deeply valued would not survive. And where was he now? In hiding. He hadn’t even written her.
Pansy shook her head, clearing her thoughts. With Hermione’s newfound fame, her status now above even the most sacred of the twenty-eight families, even before the war, Pansy couldn't help but acknowledge that Granger was now far more valuable than any man, save for Harry or Ron, who shared similar glory. But alas, weren't here, and no matter how unconventional she would absolutely pick this path if she could prime Hermione into presenting it to her if it meant her status would be uplifted. She could almost see it: after all the effort, after breaking through Hermione’s carefully constructed walls, Hermione would stand before the wizarding world, her voice steady and unwavering, proclaiming how Pansy had changed. It wouldn’t just be a defense, it would be a declaration, a testament to Hermione’s belief in redemption and her unyielding desire to see the good in people. She knew that Hermione had always craved connection, craved a sense of belonging that went beyond accolades and achievements. She wanted to be seen, truly seen, and wanted everyone to see others in return. She would extend her protection to Pansy and the bond they’d forged.
But how would she do it? She would expose Hermione to a different approach entirely, one that wasn’t about her intellect or achievements. Pansy would focus on the little things, the small, subtle affirmations that would catch Hermione off guard and lodge themselves in her mind. A lingering glance when Hermione wasn’t looking, accompanied by a knowing smirk when she finally noticed. A quiet comment, something light but loaded. Simple, unassuming, what’s a little flirt between girls, Hermione would think, at first.
But then Pansy would pay attention to the things no one else seemed to notice, the way Hermione absently tucked her hair behind her ear when she was concentrating, or the soft flush on her cheeks after she returned from the chilly outdoors. And she would comment on them, casually, as though it were second nature. And then she would graduate to a bit of playful banter, a little teasing, but not cruel. Never cruel. She would make these moments linger just a beat longer than expected.
It wasn’t about grand gestures; it was about making Hermione feel like more than just the brainy, dutiful war heroine. It was about reminding her that she was, at her core, just a girl, one who could be admired for something as simple as the way she smiled when she thought no one was looking. Pansy could make her feel noticed, truly noticed, and let Hermione draw her own conclusions from there. That, Pansy thought, would be far more effective than words alone.
With her betrothal to Draco securely in place, she had never needed to tap into this skill set. A skill set that was honed through an upbringing steeped in the art of manipulation. Her mother taught her early that beauty and charm were tools to be wielded, that appearances and influence mattered more than anything.
Pansy reflected on the exclusive gatherings, where she watched the older women, the ones who commanded attention with a glance making even the most refined and obstinate man flush with a carefully placed smile, and a soft word. It wasn’t just observations that had helped her develop this skill. Pansy had access to books and tomes passed down from elite woman to elite woman. Guides on how to keep a husband satisfied, how to obtain control, and how to wield allure as both a weapon and a shield.
She had spent many, many, hours over the years devouring these texts, studying the subtleties of attraction, the art of reading desires, and how to manipulate them to her advantage in hopes that it would one day be enough to keep Draco from straying, not because she loved him, but because she did not want her reputation tarnished by the poorly kept secrets that would spread behind closed doors had he found himself in someone else’s bed as many men of elite status often did, something Pansy knew she would never have to worry about if she captured the busy haired girl’s affections. The girl had moral conviction and a tendency to give everything to others, to stand for what she believed was right.
And if Pansy could make herself right well… that thought was undeniably satisfying.