Happy Springsmut, Artzeechik04 Author:screamingveela Recipient:artzeechik04 Title: Sudden and Inevitable Rating: NC-17 Pairing: Pansy/Hermione Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended. Summary: A sudden and inevitable crisis of faith; takes place in the girls' sixth year. Warnings: The girls are seventeen. Word Count: 3800 Author's Notes:artzeechik04 asked for voyeurism, roughness, fight!sex, light bondage, drunken sex, cigarettes, biting, but the girls wanted to do it their way, and only one kink made it in. Still, it's very much in the spirit of tying someone up and taking control, even if the restraints aren't visible. I hope you like it!
-
She couldn't even remember losing hope, but there was nothing to be argued here: hope had, undeniably, been lost. It might have happened overnight – one day, eating toast and still believing, the next day … not – or over the course of several weeks – one nagging doubt spawning another spawning another until it was an absolute. It seemed sudden, but inevitable. It had occurred to her very suddenly, but thinking about it, she couldn't remember a time when she didn't feel this way; couldn't remember a time where this deep, cloying doubt didn't nag her.
Hermione didn't like it, but she had long learned to live with things she didn't like. The ones she couldn't change, anyways. And she knew this was one of those unchangeable things.
It had been a perfectly normal morning: up at the crack of dawn, an hour in the library until breakfast with Harry and Ron. It was then that she realised – suddenly, inevitably – that she had no hope of any of them living through this war.
Ron had made a rude joke; Harry laughed uproariously, and Hermione hid a smile behind her coffee cup. The Slytherins were glaring at them. It was a perfectly normal morning.
I'm going to miss them when we're all dead.
-
Was it possible? Had she given up all hope, already? The war had only barely begun in earnest; Harry had only been taking lessons from Professor Dumbledore for a few weeks. They would be ready; the lessons would last as long as they were needed; they would last until Harry was ready to … do whatever it was he was learning to do.
He'll never be ready.
Well, no, her rational brain countered, but who will be? Are people ever ready for war? Are people ever ready to fight to the death? And Harry has it worse than any of us: kill or be killed.
That is why he will fail.
The thought came to her fully formed in its spontaneity and a shiver ran down Hermione's spine. It came too easily, like second nature, and Hermione wondered how long she'd been thinking these thoughts without really thinking them.
As long as you've known him.
-
There was a whoosh of robes and the slamming of two doors: the one into the corridor, and the one into the stall next to the one Hermione was currently occupying. Sensing urgency and anger, Hermione tried to exit quietly, not wanting to embarrass anyone by witnessing their bathroom crying.
'Don't flatter yourself.' It was the cold, high-pitched voice of Pansy Parkinson.
Startled, Hermione paused at the sink. 'Excuse me?'
'If I were crying, do you really think I would do it in a public loo? How utterly pathetic.'
Hermione flushed red. 'Er – all right. I really was just leaving though, so –'
Pansy exited her stall, her usual haughty look firmly in place until she set her eyes on Hermione. 'Granger?'
Confused, Hermione glanced around. They were alone in the bathroom. Was Pansy expecting someone else?
Pansy came to herself, still eyeing Hermione like she was seeing her for the first time. 'You –' she smiled. 'You're different. You don't –'
'I'm late for class,' Hermione interrupted, and she fled down the corridor. She was unsure of what had frightened her more: the change in her, or the fact that Pansy Parkinson had noticed.
-
Harry and Ron, however, didn't notice. Harry, of course, was wrapped up in his own problems; his lessons with Professor Dumbledore on top of his school work and Quidditch responsibilities. And Ron – well, Ron was Ron, and would probably need to be hit over the head, quite literally, to notice anything. But Hermione felt no need to confide in her friends. She had so far managed to avoid saying the words out loud, and if they were never spoken, they might as well not exist.
Perhaps the words themselves did not exist in the real world, but it was impossible to deny that they did, at least, manifest themselves in a physical sense: her magic suffered. She could still perform the usual spells, but it took twice as much energy, and new spells were more time-consuming than ever. She lost sleep, she lost her appetite –
and she must have been losing her mind, too, because she kept imagining she could see Pansy Parkinson, watching her, out of the corner of her eye. Whenever she tried to catch her in the act, however, Pansy had already turned away, engaged in conversation with her fellow Slytherins.
In Potions, at mealtimes, in the corridor – not to mention the odd incident in the girl's lavatory – and soon Hermione was convinced that there was nothing wrong with her, it was Pansy who was acting very odd indeed.
-
'Granger.'
Hermione jumped, startled at the soft voice, somewhere between a murmur and a purr, speaking into her ear. She hadn't heard anyone approach, and she dropped her bottle of beetle dung. It smashed open on the cold stone dungeon floor.
'Reparo,' said Pansy lazily, pointing her wand, performing the spell before Hermione could collect her thoughts. She still hadn't collected them when Pansy smirked, retrieved the bottle from the floor and handed it to her. Hermione's hand tingled at the brief contact, and Pansy returned to her own cauldron.
'Hermione? Are you OK?' Ron was staring at her, an odd expression on his face.
She most certainly was not OK, but she nodded. She could still hear the whisper in her ear, feel the warm rush of breath on her bare neck. She felt flushed and flustered – and frustrated, somehow. Like Pansy had gone through the trouble of getting her attention just so she could ignore her. Pansy didn't acknowledge her for the rest of the lesson.
Of course, Hermione couldn't help herself. Every chance she got, her eyes flickered across the room, always finding the slight outline of Pansy in the smoke. Hunched over her book or her ingredients, concentrating on the task at hand. Concealed by a curtain of bushy hair, Hermione studied her. The way Pansy wrinkled her nose. The way she tucked stray hair behind her ear. The way she cut her roots and measured blood of bat – and the way she stood absolutely still, staring into the depths of her cauldron, counting the seconds before stirring.
Potions had never been anything more than mechanical for Hermione: a set of precise instructions to be followed precisely. If you followed the instructions, you passed. It was simple and automatic.
But Pansy – Pansy made Potions beautiful, almost elegant.
-
'Don't think I can't tell.'
'Can't tell what?'
'Can't tell how you've been looking at me. Staring, really. It's quite inappropriate, you should know. It makes me feel uncomfortable. Utterly wretched.'
They were in the bathroom again. Alone, again. Pansy had appeared suddenly over Hermione's shoulder in the mirror as she stood at the sink, washing her hands.
Hermione stared back coolly at the Pansy reflected in the mirror. 'I'll stop if you will.'
Pansy smiled. 'Yes, all right. You try that.' She bent in closer, and Hermione, knowing she was being watched, tried to keep her face impassive. 'You just try to take your eyes off of me.'
-
It was, of course, impossible, and Pansy made sure of it. Brushing against her unnecessarily in the hallways, walking away with a deliberate swing in her step, maybe half-glancing over her shoulder, inviting Hermione's eyes to follow her.
Try as she might, Hermione's eyes always would follow Pansy's form, down the corridor and out of sight.
Then, one Tuesday afternoon, Hermione deliberately turned down the corridor where she knew Pansy would be after her Charms lesson. There was no use pretending it was an accident, no use in pretending that she hadn't had Pansy's school schedule memorised for the past week. She was going far, far too far, out of her way, but she was feeling reckless.
Hermione spotted Pansy easily enough, mid-way down the corridor, walking with a gang of Slytherin girls. She hadn't yet spotted Hermione.
Inexplicably, her heart was pounding. She watched the approach of the girls, unable to turn, to run, to escape – unable to tell if she even would if she could. All Hermione could do was wait. Wait for Pansy to see her and react; Hermione's own active part in this was over. Just being here at all, three floors and a whole wing away from her own class, had to be something. It had to be enough to, finally, provoke Pansy.
It did. Her eyes found Hermione, and she immediately halted. Her followers stopped, too, but Pansy waved them away before ducking into the nearest door – a toilet, of course – with a dark, significant look thrown over her shoulder. Hermione followed her in without hesitation.
'Well?' Pansy asked casually, after checking the stalls to make sure they were alone.
'Well what?' Hermione asked.
'Well, why are you here?'
'I'm free to go wherever I like within the castle.' She had the right, yes, but Hermione had no idea what her mouth was saying; it seemed to act independently from her brain.
Pansy frowned at her and pulled out her wand. Hermione didn't flinch, not even when the wand was raised, pointed at her. Pansy hesitated, then flicked the wand towards the door, locking it. Slowly, wand still raised, Pansy moved towards Hermione, closing the gap between them. Hermione held her breath, trying to look like she wasn't holding her breath at all.
'Let's get one thing straight, shall we?'
'Yes, let's.'
'I don't like you.'
'No.'
'And you don't like me.'
'Certainly not.'
Pansy eyed her suspiciously. 'But there's something different about you.'
Hermione shrugged, non-committal.
'No, really. You don't look as … blissfully optimistic as you usually do. You look –' Pansy paused and smiled. Apparently unable to define exactly what Hermione looked like, she simply said, 'I like it.'
Pansy continued to stare, and Hermione was determined not to look away. Finally, Pansy broke the silence.
'What do you know?'
Know? Know about what? … Oh.
'Come on, Granger,' Pansy prompted, her voice teasing. 'I can tell. You look lost. You look hopeless. Like you know how this war is going to end – and that you might not even live to see it end.'
There was a sinking feeling in Hermione's gut; the feeling of despair and guilt and something almost like betrayal. Yes, she felt betrayed by, of all people, Pansy Parkinson. All the long looks, all the whispered words – all to throw Hermione off course. All to get her to reveal her secrets.
Hermione pursed her lips, forcing herself to stay, forcing herself to not run away. 'And why should my mental state possibly interest you?'
Pansy grinned. 'I don't know. But it does.' And she took another step forward, their faces coming within inches of each other. 'And it's really not the only thing of yours I'm interested in.'
Before Hermione could respond – before she could even formulate a thought let alone an entire action – Pansy kissed her. Unblushingly, matter-of-factly kissed her. It was pure instinct on Hermione's part to kiss her back. Pansy's lips were soft, tasted sweet, formed perfectly around her own. Pansy's empty hand cupped Hermione's face, and Hermione could feel the other hand on her shoulder, could feel the tip of her wand pressed against the underside of her chin.
Pansy broke away, too quickly, looking pleased with herself. 'It's what you want, isn't it?' she asked. Hermione was silent. 'I give you what you want, you tell me what you know.' She picked her bag off the floor and unlocked the door.
'Let me know.'
And Hermione found herself alone in the bathroom, gasping for breath.
-
A month ago, there would have been no question. Two weeks ago, it would have warranted some thought. But now, it was utterly impossible. She absolutely could not resist.
She had nothing to lose, did she? She didn't really know anything. There was a feeling in her gut, an utter certainty that this war would end before Harry was ready to stop fighting. More than that – he would lose; they would lose. And this feeling, even if it was accepted as fact, was hardly the knowledge that Pansy wanted; it was hardly tangible evidence.
Not like Pansy's lips. Not like Pansy's hands. And certainly not as tangible as any other part of Pansy that Hermione found herself thinking about at all hours: her breasts, her thighs, her cunt. Hermione could feel herself getting excited at the thought of touching that beautiful porcelain skin – the parts she could see, and especially the parts she couldn't.
The next day, Pansy sauntered casually by Hermione's cauldron.
'Yes?' Hermione said, and they both knew it wasn't a question at all.
They didn't speak of it more than that. Hermione knew: it would happen when it happened. It would happen when Pansy said it would happen.
-
Hermione was researching late into the night, her prefect's badge authority enough to be allowed to occupy the library after hours. She longed for these quiet hours, free from distraction.
She had forgotten Pansy had the same badge, had the same privilege, until she appeared, silent and sudden, from within the stacks of books.
Pansy approached, as she always did, from behind. Hermione, concentrating deeply on the theory of Runic translation, didn't hear her, but felt the air change. It had been cold, but there was a slight shift, a new warmth, a new body.
And there were Pansy's fingers, delicately brushing the hair back from Hermione's neck. There was Pansy's voice, 'Granger,' hardly louder than a sigh. There was Pansy's mouth, rough against her skin.
Immediately abandoning Runes, Hermione leaned back into the kiss, her hands wrapping themselves into Pansy's long, dark hair. She didn't speak – there was nothing to say. They understood each other.
Pansy continued kissing down Hermione's jaw line, becoming more and more frantic until she reached Hermione's lips. There was no preamble here, no soft kiss by way of hello. Pansy ran her tongue along Hermione's lips, and Hermione immediately opened to her. Their tongues slid against each other in desperate want, and Pansy moved around the chair to face Hermione, bending over all the time, never breaking their contact.
Hermione chanced a glance under her eyelashes. Pansy was gripping the arm rests, her legs positioned on either side of Hermione's and slightly bent. Her wand was in her hand, the tip just barely visible, and Hermione felt a thrill of something like danger run through her. She couldn't be afraid, however; she was too excited.
Too soon, Pansy broke the kiss and stood above Hermione, half-smiling, half-sneering. 'You know how this works, right? I give you what you want –' she ran her fingers along Hermione's leg, bare under her school robes '– and you give me what I want.'
Not breaking their eye contact, Hermione fumbled with Pansy's robes, looking to mimic Pansy's actions, looking for bare skin. 'You don't fool me, Pansy Parkinson. Not for one second.'
Pansy blinked, but otherwise didn't move. 'What are you talking about, Granger?'
Hermione's hand found Pansy's bare skin, and she quickly leaned over and kissed Pansy's upper thigh, open-mouthed and breathy, trailing her lips upwards and tracing the contours of Pansy's silky green knickers. Hermione felt Pansy's hands in her hair, pulling her closer, asking for more, but Hermione pulled away and looked up.
'You want this just as badly as I do.'
Instead of replying, Pansy carefully knelt on the chair on top of Hermione, one leg on either side of her, her robe falling open onto the floor behind her. Hermione covered her trail of kisses with her hand, stroking softly. Pansy's breath hitched in her throat and Hermione was sure that, yes, they both knew how this worked.
Working her hands up Pansy's back, Hermione pulled her close again, aching for another kiss. Pansy's lips, Pansy's tongue – the sound of their teeth clashing against each other. It was enough to fill Hermione with desire, a desire she had never felt until Pansy kissed her.
And soon, that desire, that utter need, was taking over. She tore at Pansy's robes, exposing the flesh of her stomach, revealing her pert bare breasts. And she was kissing them, too. Softly, at first, tentatively, but Pansy's moans sounded impatient and Hermione knew what she wanted. Cupping one breast in her hand, Hermione pressed her lips tightly to the other, pulling Pansy's nipple into her mouth. She traced it with her tongue, she breathed on it softly, she bit it. Just a very tiny bit, but it was enough – Pansy threw her head back, sighing, moaning; a murmured 'fuck' escaped her.
Hermione had never felt more powerful. She may have been pinned under Pansy, but Hermione was in control of the situation. Pansy was moaning and bucking her hips and she, Hermione, had done it. Yes, there was power in that.
But Pansy wouldn't stay distracted for long, and she pushed Hermione away roughly, starting to unfasten Hermione's own robes. At the sight of Hermione's sensible cotton bra and knickers, Pansy smirked, but remained silent as she traced the outline of one cup. The light touch sent tingles down Hermione's skin, all of them heading to one spot; Hermione felt herself getting wet, and she shivered in anticipation.
Keeping her eyes on Pansy, Hermione leaned her head back, exposing her neck, and Pansy didn't hesitate. She licked, sucked and bit every bit of skin she could, shifting her weight backwards so her lips could find the skin hidden by the bra. Using her tongue to trace the line of the fabric, Pansy slowly wrapped an arm around Hermione's waist for leverage.
Hermione moaned at the moment she felt Pansy's hand on her breasts, freeing them from their constraints. Slowly, carefully, Pansy lowered her mouth to tease one of Hermione's nipples. Her fingers tickled at Hermione's spine, and Hermione curved into her, longing to be close, much closer than this. Her hand found Pansy's arse, and she squeezed, urging her closer. Pansy responded, thrusting against Hermione's leg, and Hermione felt, briefly, that Pansy was wet too, that they were filled with the same need, the same want.
Not asking permission, not giving any warning, Hermione's fingers found the hem of Pansy's knickers, and she slipped one inside, stroking the soft skin she felt there. Pansy sucked in a breath, pulling her mouth away from Hermione's breasts, but only just – Hermione could still feel the heavy, panting breath there.
Hermione continued to stroke, finding the inner-most source of the wetness. She longed to taste it, but Pansy's hand gripped Hermione's wrist, freezing her hand in place, guiding her finger to the right spot. Carefully, unsure of what she was doing, Hermione slipped another finger into Pansy's knickers, slipped both fingers into Pansy's cunt. Pansy bit Hermione's breast in response, and Hermione, encouraged, thrust her fingers in and out, her rhythm eventually matching Pansy's own eager one.
'Fuck,' Pansy breathed against Hermione's neck. 'Fuck yes.'
Still maintaining her rhythm, Hermione urged Pansy closer, felt her breasts against her own. She bit Pansy's ear, pulling the lobe into her mouth, and nibbled down her neck. Pansy continued to moan, becoming incoherent, and bucked her hips against Hermione's fingers.
Suddenly – it felt sudden, though Hermione could feel it building – Pansy dug her fingernails in Hermione's shoulder, throwing her head back with a high-pitched moan-almost-scream. Hermione felt the orgasm shudder around her fingers, and she felt – desperately, impossibly – close to her own.
Panting, Pansy pushed her hair back from her face, glistening with sweat, and smiled – a genuine smile. 'Not bad, Granger,' she said, her voice hoarse, as she ran her hands over her skin as if to cool it and Hermione withdrew her fingers. 'Now it's my turn.'
In one movement, Pansy slipped off the chair and onto her knees between Hermione's legs, immediately ridding Hermione of her underwear. Hermione felt Pansy's fingers tracing patterns on her skin and Hermione raised her own to her mouth, Pansy's taste and scent filling her with desire. Out of embarrassment, or maybe something else, Hermione closed her eyes, head resting on the back of her chair.
Hermione felt lips and tongue exploring her, looking for that spot – she bucked forward on her chair when Pansy found it. Her tongue was strong and sure, leaving a trail of small explosions just beneath Hermione's skin. She felt one finger, then two, enter her, and there was a sharp, but not wholly unpleasant, burst of pain. Hermione's hands tightened their grip on the armrests while Pansy worked her mouth and her fingers together, her other hand squeezing Hermione's thigh.
She had been right: she was close to her own orgasm just by watching and feeling Pansy's. Soon, she felt a flood of warmth throughout her body, felt her orgasm coming, felt it building within her – and then it came, and she cried out, her exclamation echoing around the empty library.
Winded, Hermione took a couple deep breaths before opening her eyes. Pansy was still kneeling on the floor, looking gleeful. Hermione, suddenly filled with shame, gathered her robes around her, concealing her nakedness.
'No need to be shy, Granger. You got what you wanted.'
Stepping around Pansy, Hermione began gathering her things: her knickers from the floor, her books and parchment from the table. She knew she now owed Pansy something, but she had, in reality, nothing to give. She didn't know anything about the war, didn’t know why she was filled with what seemed like the knowledge of her imminent death.
But Pansy hadn't yet asked for anything, didn't seem to expect anything.
'And you know – I got what I wanted, too.'
Hermione turned, surprised, and found Pansy's wand pointing at her. This time, she did feel slightly afraid. 'I'm sorry – well, no, I'm not. You're a singular creature, Hermione Granger. But I've had my fun now. I suppose I should let you return to your old self.'
'Return – my old self?'
'You must have noticed, you haven't quite been yourself the past few weeks. That was my doing. I thought I could trick you, manipulate you, into sharing information.' Pansy wrinkled her nose. 'Unfortunately, you don't know anything useful, and this … it must end.
Hermione stood rooted on the spot by shock. It had been Pansy. The doubt, the certainty of loss, of death: all Pansy. She had Charmed her into giving up.
Pansy, not seeming to expect any kind of coherent response, smirked. 'If it makes you feel better, you still had free will. I didn't make you do anything you didn't already want to. And don't worry - you'll remember everything.