YOU DIDN'T MEAN TO • PANSMIONE

( THREE ! )

This was how Pansy Parkinson spent her evenings: casually scribbling adequate pieces of homework, the edges of her pages quietly folded in a reflection of her inability to keep things neat. Her fingers stained with ink - black ink, and black ink only. Her feather quill was flouncy and ambitious, as was only acceptable for a Slytherin student (for who would respect an eighth year who possesses anything other?).

This was how Hermione Granger spent her evenings: carefully marking down notes onto longer scrolls (for of course she had run out of room in class), cramming her tiny handwriting across every centimetre of the page. Her fingers were neat and clean, and on one knuckle a small lump had arisen from overwriting in her childhood. A small muggle fountain pen clutched in her grip, practical, but classy. She bit her lip in concentration - for every line had to be perfect, every word had to be the best, else what was she worth? How was she valid?

This was not how either of them usually spent their evenings: thinking of each other.

And yet.

Unwillingly, Pansy felt her thoughts drift towards the other girl. She would have liked to think it was with annoyance - after all, Hermione had essentially pointed out Pansy's inability to concentrate, and besides, she was a complete know it all - but had an observer been able to read her thoughts, they might have noted it was closer to amusement. Pansy Parkinson would never admit it, but she thought Hermione Granger was funny. And not in a mocking way, as she might have done only a few months beforehand, but in a...well, that she herself didn't quite understand.

A few other students littered the common room, but they didn't talk to her. Having been involved - and even friends - with students now despised and feared by the current pupils, she was exactly everyone's favourite person. She had been a bully, and seemed to step into that stereotype as if it was made to fit her.

But cruelty wasn't funny anymore. Not after the things she had seen.

She supposed it never really was.

Sighing, she crumpled her parchment, and stuffed her quill into her satchel. The words never flowed properly; no matter how much she wanted to sound sophisticated, they jumbled on the page and came out simplistic and wrong. And anyway, she was exhausted. She was going to murder her parents for making her come back here.

Our potions project -

Hermione and I -

Granger -

We have tried to show -

Nightmares and good dreams - what's the difference? Well, we want to show you -

FUCK.

Pansy threw the paper into the fire. It caught light quickly, and burned like a dying star.

---

"Hermione, please don't stay up too late," Ginny said, yawning. She had pulled her hair up into a rumpled plait, her her eyes were creased with tiredness. "You know...." She broke off, yawning. "We have ages for that assignment..."

"Ginny, you're paired with someone who will actually do the work," Hermione sighed, pushing away from the table and turning to look at her friend. "I'm going to have to do this all by myself."

Ginny smiled weakly. "You know, for someone as open minded as you, you really don't think much of Parkinson, do you? Who knows, maybe she'll surprise you?"

Hermione opened her mouth, and closed it. Then she opened her mouth again.

"I doubt it," she said, rather doubtfully. "She can't have changed that much - I mean - right?"

"I don't know," Ginny said. "I'm not trying to say she has. But war changes everyone. For better or worse." Her eyes glistened, and Hermione knew she was thinking of her mother, confined to her bed, unable to get through a day without crying for her poor lost boy.

"I'm sorry, Ginny," she whispered, pulling her friend into a warm embrace. Ginny's shoulders shook, and a muffled sob slipped from her mouth. Tears dripped onto Hermione's shoulder, warm and fresh and filled with pain and sorrow.

"I miss him so much." Her voice was thick with tears. "I miss him so much. How am I supposed to go on without him?"

"You will," Hermione murmured. "You'll be okay. You're strong, and beautiful, and kind, and you'll get through this. I know you will." They rocked each other, silent but for the small, aching sobs Ginny couldn't hold in any longer, and a few pops from the fire. Hermione's eyes blurred, as memories flitted across her vision, days of simplicity, knowing what she was fighting for; snow in the castle grounds, Hedwig flying over the mountains, laughing with her two best friends, reading in the library, falling asleep knowing that she was safe and warm and loved.

"It just doesn't feel like the pain will ever really go away." Ginny pulled back, smearing tears and snot across her face with the back of her hand. In the dim light, she looked like a beautiful, fiery angel. A weak smile quivered on her lips. "I'm sorry,' she said.

"It's nothing." Hermione smoothed back the tufts of red hair sticking to Ginny's cheeks. "Just...tell me if there's ever something bothering you."

Ginny nodded. For a moment, she appeared as if she was about to speak, but then she yawned, again, and laughed shakily.

"I'm going to go to bed." With a stretch, she began to stride - for Ginny never truly walked anywhere - towards the stairs.

"See you in the morning."

"I swear, Hermione, if you're not up there by eleven..."

"Just go to bed, Ginny!" She laughed.

Ginny met her eyes, and said, in a tone that would have chilled Hermione to her very core had she been anyone other than Ginny Weasley, "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Ginny. Sleep well."