Dress Code - Pansmione

Chapter 1 - Troublemaker

Hermione had been expecting school to be solemn and dull for her eighth year. People were still in mourning of the deaths which haunted the halls. There wasn't an inch of space that was clean of horrors, and Hermione hadn't even seen all of it. When on the hunt for Horcruxes the Golden Trio had assumed they were in a worse situation than the friends they left behind. It wasn't a picnic for sure, but it didn't outdo the regime of the Carrows at Hogwarts.

Hermione had felt the cruciatus curse, the burning pain which engulfed her entire body. She had known the terror of being tortured, the shame that flooded her when she cried out in pain. She knew what it was to feel weak, but she didn't know what it would be like to feel evil, to torture another student and watch them suffer at her own hands.

She told herself she wouldn't have done it, that she'd be like Neville or Ginny and protect others at her own risk. But, there was no way of truly knowing. For this reason, Hermione tried to not feel disdain for the students who weren't brave enough to stand up to the Carrows, but sometimes it slipped through.

She saw first years cowering in the hallways. She saw bloodstains that wouldn't fade. She saw scars from the Battle of Hogwarts, that Essence of Dittany would never be able to fix.

Hermione knew she wasn't the only one who was haunted by the war. Pavarti Patil had started sobbing on the Hogwarts Express. Ron traveled home to check in on his parents more than ever as they mourned the loss of Fred. Harry finally had a weight lifted from his shoulders, but he still had his guard up. Being a hero isn't something you can turn off overnight.

The tension between people who took different sides in the war was an elephant in every room.

All in all, the student population of Hogwarts was broken. Some students had different ideas from Hermione on how to heal.

You would've expected Slytherins to have an ounce of shame or the common sense to keep a low profile, but no. Slytherins held their heads high and seemed determined to cause trouble in their final year, repercussions be damned.

Pansy Parkinson in particular had taken a staunch opposition to the Hogwarts dress code. Her tie was undone, slung over her shoulders. Her button-down shirt was tied tightly, only one button was done. It must've been a size too small because it puckered around her chest, leaving gaps around the buttoned section. The bra she wore underneath was dark enough to show through and it poked out of the top. Black lace. Her skirt was worn high-waisted, she had cut off the bottom, so threads hung off the edge. It barely grazed the tops of her thighs. The only component that she seemed to follow was her knee socks, they were pulled up high on her exposed thighs. She looked less like a real student and more like the sexy Halloween costume version of one.

The get-up was hardly appropriate for a strip club, it was definitely not appropriate for strolling the halls.

Everything about Pansy Parkinson was inappropriate. Pansy walked like she knew everyone was watching, her movements were calculated: a little laugh, a flutter of eyelashes, crossing her arms to push her tits together, licking her fingers as she ate. Hermione thought her performance reeked of desperation.