For the last week of summer, Hermione ignored Ron. If he tried to speak to her, she wouldn't answer. If he walked into the room she was in, she got up and left.
Harry, meanwhile, wouldn't stop pestering her about Malfoy's business at Borgin and Burkes, and the repetition was wearing her patience to a thread.
"Yes, I've already agreed it looked suspicious, Harry." Hermione sighed. "Haven't we also agreed there could be a number of explanations?"
"Maybe he's broken his Hand of Glory," said Ron vaguely, as he attempted to straighten his bent broomstick. "Remember that shrivelled hand Malfoy had third year?"
Hermione scoffed and turned to look out the window. Of all the theories he could put forward.
"…But he's up to something, and I think we should take it seriously. His father's a Death Eater and —" Harry's words broke off mid-sentence. Hermione glanced at him and found him staring past her through the window, mouth open.
"Harry?" She crossed to him. "What's wrong?"
"Your scar's not hurting again, is it?" Ron asked nervously.
"He's a Death Eater," Harry said slowly. Then, louder: "He's replaced his father as a Death Eater!" He leapt to his feet.
Hermione felt the last of her patience give way.
Ron burst out laughing. "Malfoy? He's sixteen, Harry! You think You-Know-Who would actually let Malfoy join?"
"It's unlikely," Hermione agreed. "Why would you even think —"
"At Madam Malkin's — she never touched his left arm, but he yelled and wrenched it away when she went to roll up his sleeve. The Dark Mark is on the left forearm. He's been branded," Harry said.
"He said she caught him with a pin, Harry," Hermione replied, glancing sideways at Ron.
Harry pressed on, undeterred. "He showed Borgin something we couldn't see — something that genuinely frightened the man. It was the Mark. He was showing Borgin exactly who he was dealing with. You saw how seriously Borgin took him."
"I went in after he left," Hermione said. "I spoke to Mrs Parkinson. She implied — indirectly — that the Malfoys wouldn't put themselves in that position. Not now."
"Yeah, I still can't see You-Know-Who letting Malfoy join…" Ron muttered.
Harry snatched up his Quidditch robes and stormed out of the room.
Hermione let out a long breath and sank back onto the windowsill. She glanced sideways at Ron, who was still muttering to himself about Harry's fixation on Malfoy.
"You know," Ron said after a moment, "Harry might be off about the Death Eater bit, but that doesn't mean Malfoy isn't working for him. Maybe he's trying to prove himself."
"Then perhaps he should spend more time in front of a mirror," Hermione muttered. "After all, that's apparently what gets your attention. Why wouldn't it work on You-Know-Who?"
Ron groaned, clearly sensing the conversation had turned on him. "You're not still going on about that, are you?"
Hermione didn't answer. She left the room, crossed the landing, and pushed open the door to the one she shared with Ginny. "I cannot stand your brother."
Ginny looked up from where she was folding robes into her trunk. "I still don't know what he actually said, Hermione. I was fully convinced you'd ask him out by the end of summer."
"Well, he's an arse. And I told you — I did not fancy him." Hermione opened her own trunk and placed her copy of Advanced Rune Translations carefully inside.
Ginny paused her folding. "Right. Because ignoring him for an entire week is definitely how someone who doesn't fancy him behaves." Her voice was rich with sarcasm. "Come on, Hermione — that's not how this works."
Hermione tossed a robe into her trunk with rather more force than necessary. "I'm not ignoring him because I fancy him. I'm ignoring him because he needs to understand that his words have consequences."
"What did he actually say?"
"I just never realised how superficial he could be."
Ginny raised an eyebrow. "Superficial? As in — looks and that sort of thing?"
"Yes! He made this absurd comparison between me and Parkinson and Greengrass," Hermione said, the frustration creeping back into her voice. "As if the only qualification for being taken seriously is being decorative. It's infuriating."
"Hermione, you've never once cared what anyone thinks of you. Least of all Malfoy." She said his name as if it were something unpleasant she'd stepped in.
"It's not about Malfoy! It's the fact that my friend — my friend — sees me as somehow less than those girls, just because I look different." She dropped onto her bed and put her head in her hands. Was it really too much to want to be seen for something other than her marks?
Ginny sat down beside her, searching for the right words. "Look," she said quietly, "forget about it. It's a new year. Fresh start. Maybe Dean has a friend for you. There's always Seamus."
Hermione groaned and lay back. "I'm going to sleep."
---
The four Hogwarts students stood outside the Burrow in the early morning light, waiting for the Ministry car. Mr and Mrs Weasley stood alongside them, with Fleur and Bill a little further off.
Hermione tucked Crookshanks under one arm as Fleur said her goodbyes to Harry, kissing him on both cheeks. Ron's eyes lit up, and he immediately jogged forward, clearly hoping for the same treatment — but Ginny stuck her foot out with perfect timing, and Ron went sprawling.
Hermione pressed her lips together to keep from laughing too loudly as Ron scrambled into the car, covered in dirt, his face crimson.
Ginny slipped her arm through Hermione's with a grin. "Right then. On to Hogwarts."
---
When they arrived at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, Harry tried to wave them onto the Hogwarts Express to find an empty compartment.
"We can't, Harry," Hermione reminded him. "We've got to report to the prefects' carriage first, and then do a patrol."
Harry turned to them with a resigned look. "I'd forgotten."
They said their goodbyes to the Weasleys and boarded the train, leaving Harry behind to have a quick word with Mr Weasley.
Hermione followed Ron toward the prefects' compartment, her gaze drifting over the other students filling the corridors. She wasn't paying Ron any attention — his attempts at conversation simply washed over her.
As they entered the compartment, the familiar buzz of a new school year took hold of the room. A number of prefects were already seated, and Hermione felt a fond smile cross her face at the barely-contained excitement of the new fifth-years. She remembered exactly how it had felt to receive her own letter. Only a year ago, and yet it already seemed like a different life. She hoped very much that their sixth year would treat them better.
Ron took a seat and gestured for Hermione to join him. She rolled her eyes and settled beside Padma Patil instead.
"Can you believe summer's over already?" Padma sighed.
"I thought it would never end," Hermione admitted. She was genuinely glad to be back. "I heard from Ginny, who heard from Parvati, that you've been seeing someone in Slytherin?"
Padma flushed. "Oh, it's nothing serious," she said quickly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "We're just talking. He's… nice."
"Are you really into Slytherins now, Padma?" Ron asked, disbelief plain on his face. "What's next — green and silver dress robes?"
Hermione shot him a sharp look. "Ron, stop."
Ron shrugged, expression stubborn. "I'm just saying it's a bit odd."
Padma's smile dimmed. "I — I mean… yeah. Maybe you're right."
"Ron, you're being ridiculous. She's happy. Let her be." Hermione scoffed, just as the Head Boy and Head Girl swept into the compartment. All the prefects fell quiet at once.
"Good morning, everyone!" The Head Girl beamed, clapping her hands together. "I hope we're all ready for an exciting and distinguished year."
Hermione studied her with mild unease. She didn't recognise the girl — she'd never been introduced — but a glance at her tie confirmed she was a Ravenclaw. The Head Boy beside her was rather less exuberant; he looked around the compartment with a measured calm. His tie was green and silver. It was unusual for the Head Boy and Head Girl to come from different houses — Dumbledore typically chose two students from the same house for the sake of practicality. Students from the same house generally worked together more naturally.
Hermione leaned toward Padma and murmured, "What do you know about her?"
"Celia Ashford," Padma replied. "Very… cheerful."
"I can see that," Hermione muttered.
The Head Boy spoke. "Our primary responsibility this year is the safety of the younger students. You're all old enough to understand the nature of what's happening outside these walls and how it may affect us here. Our job is to demonstrate to the first-years, in particular, that they are safe."
"As you may have noticed, we're from different houses," Celia added brightly. "It's a first in quite some years."
"Dumbledore is committed to inter-house unity this term," the Slytherin explained, leaning against the wall with his arms loosely folded. "As a result, things will be slightly different this year."
"Let's start with the register, shall we?" Celia waved her wand to summon the list, then began calling names, starting with the fifth-years.
As she worked through the roll, Hermione kept half an eye on the room.
"Padma Patil?"
"Here!"
"Ron Weasley?"
"Here," Ron replied, turning an earring between his fingers.
"Hermione Granger?"
"Present."
"Hannah Abbott?"
"Here."
"Draco Malfoy?"
Silence. The Head Boy scanned the compartment — searching, no doubt, for the distinctive white-blond hair. "Malfoy?" Still nothing. He turned to Celia. "Who's next?"
"Pansy Parkinson?"
Another silence.
Celia lowered her voice and turned to the Head Boy. "Where on earth are your prefects, Vexley?" she hissed.
"Maybe they just didn't fancy turning up," Ron muttered under his breath.
"Ron —" Hermione said quietly.
A clatter from outside the compartment door cut her off. Everyone looked round.
"Get inside!" a voice hissed.
"I don't want to, Pansy — I already told Snape —"
"I don't give a rat's arse what you told Snape. I'm telling you otherwise!"
Vexley's face tightened, and he crossed the compartment in a few strides, yanking the door open just as an exasperated Pansy Parkinson swatted Malfoy over the head.
Malfoy's eyes flew wide. Vexley cleared his throat. "Good of you to join us. You're late. Sit down — unless you'd like to start the year down house points before you've even earned any."
Pansy shoved Malfoy forward, and the two Slytherins dropped into their seats, still muttering to each other. Whatever the argument was about, it hadn't resolved itself.
Celia drew everyone's attention back to the front with a bright clap of her hands. "Now that we're all present — we need to talk about our responsibilities for the year. As I said, our goal is to foster a genuine sense of unity between the houses." She beamed. "We're trying some new things with the patrol schedule. This first week, you'll be partnered with your own housemate. Your rotas have already been sent to your dormitories."
Hermione raised her hand. "Sorry — what do you mean, 'this first week'?"
"Going forward, we'll be pairing you across houses," Vexley explained. "You'll still patrol with your housemate at times — but not always."
At this, Pansy rolled her eyes and leaned toward Draco, muttering something that sounded very much like, "So now we have to babysit Ravenclaws."
"Right — let's get started!" Celia said. "Abbott with Weasley, compartment A. Malfoy with Patil, compartment B. Granger with Parkinson, compartment D."
Hermione closed her eyes briefly. 'Of course,' she thought.
The list continued. Eventually they were all let go to begin their patrols.
The silence between Hermione and Pansy as they walked toward their assigned compartment was thick enough to cut. Neither of them looked at the other.
Pansy was the first to speak. "So. Did you manage to get what you were after?"
Hermione glanced at her, opening her mouth — then finding she had nothing to say.
"Cat got your tongue, Granger?" Pansy stopped and turned to face her. "I mean, if you were going to impersonate me, the least you could do is tell me whether it worked."
Hermione gaped at her, her heart hammering. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't play coy now. You really think my mother wouldn't tell me?"
A beat. Then Hermione dropped the act entirely. "So what if I did? It was necessary."
Pansy gave her a slow, assessing look. "Necessary, was it?" She tilted her head. "I'd be more flattered if you'd done a better job of it."
Hermione's cheeks tinged pink. "I didn't need to be perfect. I just needed Borgin to believe I was someone he could trust."
Pansy scoffed, though there was a glimmer of amusement behind it. "And what exactly were you after?"
"As if I'd tell you," Hermione shot back.
Pansy rolled her eyes, but the smirk was already tugging at her lips. "Oh, come on. You know I'm not the enemy here. It's actually rather entertaining, watching you try to play Slytherin."
Hermione narrowed her eyes. "You think this is some sort of game?"
"Life is a game, love," Pansy replied airily. "You'd do well to learn the rules. I'm not about to run to Draco and repeat everything you say. If anything, you'd actually be interesting — if you'd just say something worth hearing."
Hermione's flush deepened at the bluntness of it. "I don't have anything to say. And I want no part of whatever game you're playing."
"You're the one who broke into Borgin and Burkes wearing my name," Pansy pointed out. "I'm just calling it as I see it. The way you've been ignoring Weasley all week, though — that tells me plenty about what you're not saying."
"I am not —!"
"See, that's why you could never be me," Pansy said smoothly. "I would never raise my voice."
Hermione scowled and turned her attention to the compartments they were passing, checking through each window.
"Hey!" She pulled one compartment door open. "Wands away, please. I don't care how excited you are — you're not to use magic before we've arrived at Hogwarts." She addressed the group of second-years firmly, and they mumbled apologies as they stowed their wands.
Pansy raised an eyebrow once the door was closed again. "You could have left them alone. They weren't hurting anyone."
Hermione folded her arms. "Rules exist for a reason, Parkinson."
"But they don't apply to you, naturally."
She could feel a headache building. First Ron, now Parkinson — everyone seemed determined to push her buttons today.
Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose, exhaled slowly, and said it before she could think better of it: "I saw Malfoy in Borgin and Burkes. Borgin looked frightened. I wanted to know why."
Pansy went very still.
The amusement drained from her face. Her expression shifted — calculated now, deliberate, as though she was working through something carefully.
A third-year compartment door slid open and two students moved to step out.
"Back inside," Pansy said quietly, without even looking at them.
"But I need the —"
The look Pansy levelled at the girl sent her retreating without another word.
Hermione watched her, waiting. She didn't owe Pansy an explanation — she hadn't owed her that admission at all, and yet she'd given it anyway. There was something about the way the smug certainty had dropped from Pansy's expression, the way she was suddenly just — still — that made Hermione want to keep going.
"I know what you're thinking," Hermione started.
"Shut up, Granger." It came out rough, strained.
Hermione blinked.
Before she could argue, Pansy's hand closed around her arm and pulled her into the nearest empty compartment. She cast a quick look around at the younger students who were already there.
"Out," she said. They scrambled.
The door slid shut. Pansy let go of Hermione's arm and stepped away without facing her, standing with her back to the room.
Hermione's fingers moved toward her wand. She stopped herself. If Pansy wanted to hex her, she'd have managed it already.
"Well?" Pansy asked, her gaze fixed on the passing landscape beyond the window. "What did you learn?"
The sarcasm was entirely gone. In its place was something raw and tightly controlled.
"Not much," Hermione admitted, her hand drifting toward where she kept her wand. "He wants something repaired. Something his mother can't know about."
She saw Pansy's shoulders stiffen, saw her knuckles whiten at her sides. "What else?"
"Nothing. I couldn't get more out of Borgin before your mother arrived."
"You're lying."
"You know what he's doing, don't you?" Hermione stepped forward. "Maybe you should tell me. If it's something dangerous, we could —"
Pansy turned around.
Her eyes were glassy — not quite wet, but close. She blinked whatever it was away before it could become something more.
"I don't know what Draco was doing this summer," she said, her voice low and tight. "All I know is that he stopped answering my letters. And when we got on the train, he told me he wasn't going to be a prefect anymore. That he'd spoken to Snape about it." Her jaw set. "I told him there was absolutely no chance of that."
Hermione sank into a seat. She listened to the noise of students in the corridor, the rhythmic clatter of the train on the tracks, and let herself think.
Harry couldn't be right. Whatever Malfoy was involved in, he was not a Death Eater. But if even Pansy didn't know what he was planning — if Harry were ever to find out that…
Pansy's admission hung in the air between them, thick with things neither of them was saying.
"What does Potter think?" Pansy asked finally.
Hermione almost laughed. "If I told you what Harry thinks, you'd defenestrate him."
The ghost of a smirk crossed Pansy's face. "You're probably right."
"He's convinced Malfoy is some kind of Death Eater-in-training."
"Typical Potter," Pansy scoffed, leaning back against the compartment wall. "Always reaching for the most dramatic conclusion available."
Hermione studied her. "You didn't even flinch when I said it."
"I beg your pardon?"
"If there were any real possibility Harry was right —"
"Potter is never right, Granger." Pansy's voice was flat. "And even if he were — Narcissa would never allow it."
"With her husband in Azkaban —"
"You know nothing about it," Pansy said sharply. "I'd stop while you're ahead. Narcissa Malfoy is a mother first and everything else second. Whatever has happened with Lucius won't change that."
Hermione shifted, unsettled by Pansy's certainty. "You trust her that much?"
"My mother does," Pansy answered. "That's enough for me."
She glanced at her watch. "Patrol's over. I should go."
"Wait —" Hermione stood.
"Keep Potter and Weasley off Draco's back. I'll keep an eye on him — but he can handle himself, whatever it is he's got himself into."
Hermione's pulse quickened. "You can't just leave it there! What if he's in danger? What if —"
Pansy shrugged off the hand Hermione had placed on her arm, her expression shutting down into something smooth and unreadable. "That is not your concern, Granger." A pause, and then, with something almost like humour: "Careful, love. One might start to think you're developing an interest in him."
Hermione's face went hot. "I'm not interested in him. I'm worried — about everyone."
"Of course you are," Pansy said pleasantly, and walked out.
Hermione stared at the space she'd left. For a moment, Pansy had been something Hermione hadn't expected — frightened, stripped of her usual armour. And then, as quickly as it had come, it was gone. She'd sealed herself back up without so much as a visible seam.
Hermione turned and walked slowly back to the compartment she shared with Harry, Ron, Neville, and Luna.
"— no punishment, of course, because he's Head of Slytherin! Bloody biased, is what it is," Ron was saying when she pushed the door open and sank into the seat beside Harry, resting her head on his shoulder.
"I've got a headache."
"That's what spending an hour with Parkinson will do to you," Harry chuckled. "Sleep it off, Hermione. We've at least another hour before we arrive."
Hermione muttered something about not needing a nap, but her eyes were already drifting shut, and the voices of the others around her softened and faded as she slipped into sleep.
---
Draco lay with his head in Pansy's lap, eyes closed, half-listening as Crabbe and Goyle speculated loudly about wherever Blaise had gone.
"I still don't understand what took you so long on patrol, Pansy," he muttered.
Pansy sighed, combing her fingers lightly through his hair. "I told you. Granger was desperate to catch out every second-year with so much as a wand in their pocket. It's practically hereditary with her."
He scoffed. "Bet all Muggle-borns are like that."
"Probably. She had to get it from somewhere." Pansy paused. "What did you do with yourself all summer?"
Draco grunted. "You know. The usual."
"No," Pansy said quietly. "Not the usual." She hesitated. "Your father —"
"Don't." He shifted slightly, his eyes still closed. "I don't want to discuss him."
Pansy pressed her lips together. She knew better than to push. When Draco locked something away, it stayed locked — and she didn't need him shutting her out any further than he already had.
"Fine. We don't have to talk about him," she said, softening her voice. "But at some point, Draco, you have to let someone in. You can't just keep cutting everyone off."
Draco cracked one eye open to look up at her. "What exactly would you do about it? Sit here while I brood about my father rotting in Azkaban?"
Pansy didn't answer. He wasn't wrong.
"Your father says yours should've thought twice before going after Potter at the Ministry," Goyle offered helpfully from across the compartment.
Draco's eyes snapped open. He sat up. "Shut your mouth, Goyle," he said, his voice quiet and dangerous. "You don't know the first thing about my father."
Goyle blinked. "I was only saying —"
"It doesn't matter what you were saying." Draco's voice remained level but left no room for discussion. "If you'd rather I didn't hex you, I suggest you keep your opinions to yourself."
Pansy placed a steadying hand on his shoulder, feeling the tension coiled in him. "Come on. He doesn't mean any harm. Let it go."
"Your father's point is he should've thought it through more carefully," Goyle tried again, apparently immune to all social cues.
Crabbe nodded earnestly. "Yeah — going to the Ministry for a fight, you're practically asking to get caught."
"Get out," Draco said.
"Draco —" Pansy murmured.
"Get out!" The words came out like a hex.
Crabbe and Goyle exchanged a look, then shuffled out of the compartment without another word.
Silence settled between Draco and Pansy — the heavy, uncomfortable kind.
"You can't keep doing that," Pansy said. "They're trying to understand."
"Understand what?" Draco got to his feet, jaw tight. "Understand that my family is a laughing stock? That my father is sitting in a cell because of his own catastrophically stupid decisions?"
"Yes, Draco — because you haven't spoken to any of us in three months!" Pansy's composure finally cracked. "Your mother was at mine nearly every day, and you were nowhere. I was alone and worried out of my mind."
"My father is in Azkaban and our family name is in the mud," Draco said. "I spent my summer trying to clean up a mess that isn't even mine to fix."
"I'm your friend." Pansy's voice dropped to something quiet and careful. "You could have talked to me. We could have worked through it together." She reached her hands out toward his.
He pulled away. "We're not friends, Pansy. Our mothers are friends, which is why we spend time together. But you and I —" He looked away. "We're not friends."
Pansy sat back in her seat, swallowing once.
Draco kept his gaze elsewhere. He knew, from the corner of his eye, exactly how much damage those words had done. But she had to understand. It was better this way.
The compartment door shuddered open, and Blaise took one look at the near-empty carriage and the charged atmosphere between the two of them. "I don't want to know," he said, reaching back to close the door — which promptly stuck in place.
"What's wrong with it?" Draco asked, watching as Blaise smacked the sliding door repeatedly, meeting the same resistance each time.
The door was suddenly thrown open from outside, and Blaise leapt back. "What the —"
Draco's expression flattened. He'd had more than enough encounters with Potter to recognise the shape of that particular coincidence.
"So," he said, settling back. "What did Slughorn want?"
He listened as Blaise described the new Potions professor's attempts at courting students with notable connections — fishing for another generation of his famous Slug Club.
"Naturally he'd want Potter," Draco said. "But what's so special about the Weasley girl?"
"Plenty of boys like her," Pansy said. "Blaise thinks she's pretty."
Blaise scowled. "Shut up, Pansy."
"Must be going soft in his old age," Draco muttered. "My father always said he was a fine wizard once." He paused. "He probably doesn't even know I'm on the train, or —"
"I wouldn't count on an invitation," Blaise said. "He asked after Theo's father, but when he heard he'd been caught at the Ministry, the interest died on the spot."
Draco's face tightened. "Who cares. He's just a professor. Besides —" a small, deliberate pause — "I might not even be at Hogwarts next year."
Pansy's eyes sharpened. "What do you mean?"
"I mean I might have bigger things ahead of me. Better things."
Pansy's voice was very careful when she spoke again. "You mean — Him?"
Draco shrugged. "Mother wants me to finish my education. I don't see the point. When the Dark Lord takes power, is he really going to ask how many O.W.L.s we've got?"
Pansy's mouth tightened. She looked at Blaise, whose expression gave nothing away.
"So that's it, then," she said quietly. "You're just — done? You're going to walk away from all of it?" She tried to keep the bitterness out of her voice. She wasn't entirely successful.
Draco looked at her steadily. "What are you bitter about? Don't tell me an hour with Granger has made you soft."
"You're sixteen," Blaise said. "You're not even a fully qualified wizard."
"Maybe the task he has in mind doesn't require a full qualification."
Pansy turned toward the window. "Hogwarts," she said abruptly, reaching for her robes. "I can see the castle." She stood. "Go on without me. I want a moment."
Draco watched her for a second, then nodded. "Go ahead. I'll be along."
He wanted to check something first.