Chapter 15: GeraniumsSummary:CW: explicit sexual content
Chapter TextSomething brushed against Hermione's nose.
She frowned, half-asleep, and shifted her head away. The sensation followed, light and ticklish. Her nose itched from the inside. She scrunched her face, breath hitching as the tickle intensified, turning from annoying to unbearable.
"Go away, Daphne," she murmured thickly, still not fully awake, her mouth pasty and her tongue dry.
She sneezed.
The sudden motion propelled her forward, and her forehead collided hard with something solid. Pain burst behind her eyes, knocking the rest of the sleep clean out of her. Hermione yelped, clutching her head as she blinked furiously, vision swimming.
"Ow, for Christ's sake," she snapped, already furious as she forced her eyes open.
The first thing she saw was a flash of dark hair and pale skin, followed by a very familiar scowl twisted in pain. Parkinson was sitting beside her on the bed, groaning, one hand pressed to her own forehead. In her other arm, unmistakably guilty, was Crookshanks, his enormous mossy green body relaxed and utterly unrepentant, tail flicking lazily.
Hermione stared. It took her a second longer than she liked to put the pieces together. Her gaze dropped to the aggressively green fur that had once been orange, then snapped back up to Pansy's face.
"You dimwit," Hermione hissed, her voice hoarse with sleep. "You used my baby to wake me up?!"
Pansy winced, eyes squeezed shut, still rubbing her forehead. "You headbutted me," she muttered, clearly aggrieved, as if this were somehow Hermione's fault.
"You put Crookshanks' tail in my nose," Hermione shot back, sitting up and immediately regretting it as her head throbbed. "What did you think was going to happen?"
Crookshanks chose that moment to purr loudly, entirely pleased with himself, kneading Pansy's arm as if she were a perfectly acceptable piece of furniture. Pansy grimaced and adjusted her hold on him, clearly torn between irritation and the fact that the cat had decided she was his chosen victim for the morning.
"He likes me," Pansy said defensively, opening one eye to glare at Hermione.
"He hates everyone but me," Hermione retorted. She reached out and flicked Crookshanks gently on the nose. "He tolerates you at best."
Crookshanks blinked slowly, then swished his tail again with deliberate insolence. Hermione recoiled just in time, narrowing her eyes at both of them.
"You are never allowed to touch my cat again," she said darkly. "And even less allowed to wake me up, even if you're dying."
Pansy snorted despite herself, then immediately winced again. "Oh, come on Granger. It can't be worse than the time I cursed your clock to spit mud on your face when it rings," she said with a smile, looking far too pleased with herself.
Hermione opened her mouth to retort, then paused. She groaned and dropped back against her pillow, pressing the heel of her hand to her eyes. "I can't believe you," she muttered.
Crookshanks climbed out of Pansy's arms and promptly settled on Hermione's chest, heavy and warm, as if declaring the matter resolved. Hermione sighed, defeated, while Pansy watched with a crooked, unapologetic look that made it very clear she would absolutely do it again.
"I told her it was an excellent way to end her own life, but she didn't listen!" exclaimed Daphne's voice at her left.
The blonde's head popped between the curtains of her bed.
"I must admit you're way more calm than usual," she added, glancing at Pansy.
Hermione chose this moment to kick the latter, still sitting next to her, making her curse under her breath.
"You're so sensitive," Pansy scoffed, before leaving her bed.
Hermione answered with a muttered curse. By the time she finished dressing, the morning light had fully claimed the room, pale and wintry against the stone walls. She buttoned her robes, fingers slightly clumsy, her thoughts still tangled between sleep and the emotional breakdown Pansy went through earlier this week. Pansy's voice echoed uninvited in her head, not the sharp, cutting version she was used to, but the broken one. The shaking hands. The quivering lips. The way her anger had seemed too painful to hold.
Hermione paused with her wand halfway to her pocket and frowned faintly at herself. She was not supposed to be dwelling on this. Parkinson's emotional collapse should not be occupying this much space in her morning routine. And yet, it was there, stubborn and vivid, clinging to her like static.
It had touched her. Deeper than she thought. She hadn't been able to see herself do anything else but listening to Pansy and trying to calm her down. She should have been happy to see her unraveling like this. But the tears in Pansy's eyes, the shakiness of her voice... Hermione wasn't that cruel. And her lack of cruelness had been confirmed when she had felt her heart clenching at Pansy's words. Never had she imagined the strictness of Pansy's education. She had mocked it for a while, using it as a weapon to make fun of Pansy with Daphne and Theodore. But seeing how it affected Pansy made her feel so distraught and profoundly sad she knew she could never weaponise it against Pansy again.
Daphne was suspiciously cheerful for the hour. They walked together toward the Great Hall, footsteps echoing through the corridors, Daphne chatting idly about something Hermione barely registered. She nodded in the right places, offered a hum of agreement when expected, but her attention drifted inward. Theodore glanced at them when they left the common room, stepping towards them, but both of them ignored him.
Hermione kept seeing Pansy's posture as she had finally sagged into the bench of the Slytherin table in the Great Hall. The way the fight had drained out of her all at once. Hermione had witnessed her anger before, plenty of it, but her despair had been something else entirely. It was not performative like the dramatic fury Pansy used to attack her. It was not strategic. It was just raw. It unsettled Hermione. It made her care. Empathy was a crueller emotion than Hermione had thought.
The Great Hall was buzzing with the low roar of breakfast, cutlery clinking, chairs scraping, voices overlapping in familiar morning chaos. The smells of toast and coffee washed over her. She poured herself a cup of coffee out of habit, then stared at it for a moment before taking a small sip.
Her appetite was absent, replaced by a tight, distracted feeling in her chest.
As Daphne reached for a croissant, Hermione's gaze drifted across the Hall, stopping almost instinctively at Pansy, Malfoy and Zabini's usual spot, a few seats away. Pansy's place was empty. Hermione frowned slightly.
She looked again, more deliberately this time, scanning the table as if Pansy might materialise if summoned by attention alone. Blaise was there, leaning back in his chair, talking animatedly to someone across from him. Malfoy was there, obviously. Theodore arrived a few seconds later. But no Pansy.
Hermione felt a strange dip of disappointment, immediately followed by annoyance at herself for feeling it at all. She forced her attention back to her plate, poking half-heartedly at a piece of toast. She took a bite, chewed without tasting it, then set it back down.
"Parkinson's not here," Daphne remarked casually, following Hermione's gaze without comment.
Hermione stiffened just slightly. "Hmm?"
Daphne gave her a look. Not accusing. Just observant. "Pansy. You know, that girl you were supposed to torture this year for being such a cunt to you for years."
Hermione shrugged, lifting her cup again. "She skips breakfast sometimes," she said, aiming for neutrality. "And what is that supposed to mean?"
"It means I'm disappointed. You had promised me Pansy Parkinson's nosedive. I didn't see none of that," Daphne replied, unconvinced. "I'm almost starting to think you tolerate her now."
"I'm just more focused on class than I had thought."
Which was a terrible lie, considering Hermione had never felt so uninterested by classes. She needed to progress on her homework today. It would make her feel better about ditching her notebook like that; meaning, only finishing her essays five days before the deadline instead of a week.
She took another sip of coffee, then another, hoping the bitterness might ground her. It did not. Instead, her mind replayed the moment when Pansy had finally stopped yelling. The fragile quiet that had followed. Hermione remembered how it had felt to simply stand there and let her unravel, to be trusted with something so volatile and unguarded.
It had felt intimate in a way she was still trying to understand. And that kiss? That soft, almost intimate kiss? It almost felt like the time Pansy had kissed her during the masquerade. Hermione barely touched the rest of her breakfast.
"I'm surprised you're not going back to your parents' place this year," said Daphne, curling her eyelashes with a stroke of her wand, looking at her reflection in her coffee.
"I just wanted to appreciate my last Yule at Hogwarts. Plus, my parents are Christians, and I don't believe in God. I didn't want to go through the usual prayers."
"I know you already explained what being Christian means but I still find it so strange," murmured Daphne. "I believe in my outrageously gorgeous arse. People should be devoted to it."
"I sure am," joked Hermione, making her laugh.
"If you are, would you help me finish my History of Magic essay? It is a pain in my arse," said Daphne casually. "Consider it my Yule gift."
"Nope," replied Hermione, accentuating the "p".
"Oh, come on Granger! I'm failing so hard!" begged Daphne.
"Stop begging and go, you're going to miss the Hogwarts Express," smirked Hermione.
"Oh yeah. I need to use that family time to convince Tori to stop seeing Malfoy," grunted Daphne.
"Good luck with that," chuckled Hermione.
"And my essay?"
"Alright. I'm expecting a really good gift this year, Greengrass."
"Granger!" exclaimed a high pitched, feminine voice, disgustingly sweet and melodious.
Hermione sighed loudly, putting her fork back on her plate. Pansy sat at her usual spot, her red lips almost shining in this light. She offered her a toothy smile, her eyes narrowing.
"Yes Pansy, what do you want now? More money, a check, a car, my soul?"
"Now that you mention it, I do need to buy a new designer cloak—"
Horrified, Hermione abruptly banged her fist on the table to cover her last word, making Daphne spill her coffee. Pansy herself was wide eyed, immediately realising her mistake.
"What the fuck, Hermione?!" groaned Daphne, waving her wand to clean the mess.
"Sorry. I thought I saw a—"
"Chizpurfle?" interrupted Pansy.
Hermione felt like dying at that moment. She glared at Pansy, wondering if it would be socially acceptable to drown herself in her coffee mug and be done with it. Of all the moments for Pansy Parkinson to materialise, it had to be this one. Calm breakfast.
Pansy leaned against the table, arms folded loosely, eyes flicking between Hermione and Daphne.
"Don't tell me you've never heard of them," Pansy added lightly. "They're practically everywhere in the dungeons this time of year."
"I think you're the one who knows what it is the most, considering one shat in your bed."
Pansy's cheeks took on a pink tint. She looked like she had swallowed a whole lemon. Daphne snorted. She then cleared her throat pointedly, standing and slinging her bag over her shoulder.
"As riveting as this is, I should go," she announced brightly. "I don't want to be late for begging my baby sister to dump the blonde rat. Family obligations."
She leaned down and kissed Hermione's cheek, then the other, warm and familiar.
"Oh, and try to hex Parkinson since you two are going to have the dorm all by yourselves."
"Gladly," Hermione muttered, though she smiled despite herself.
Daphne didn't even glance at Pansy when she sighed. "Behave."
Pansy inclined her head politely. "Tell that to Granger the Good. She was the one to put dye in my shampoo."
Hermione grinned. Daphne laughed, then turned and walked away, boots echoing softly across the Great Hall as she disappeared into the crowd of students filtering out.
The moment Daphne was gone, the space between Hermione and Pansy felt louder. The fact they would both share an empty dorm for two weeks felt suddenly much more real. Hermione reached for her bag, jumping over the bench. She refused to look directly at Pansy, focusing instead on the motion of standing, the familiar weight of her books.
But she saw Pansy smiling. Hermione hated that smile. She hated how it made her stomach flip despite herself. She did not give Pansy the satisfaction of another look. She hoisted her bag onto her shoulder and walked away, pulse racing. She could feel Pansy's gaze on her back for several steps, like a physical thing, before she finally rounded the corner and headed toward the Slytherin dorms. She was overheating again.
As the familiar green-lit corridors closed around her, Hermione quickened her pace toward her dorm, already longing for the quiet, for the illusion of distance, knowing full well it would do absolutely nothing to untangle the mess she was in. And being alone with Parkinson was as frightening as it was exciting. Looking back, Hermione still couldn't understand how far things had snowballed between them. Never once had she thought sharing an empty dorm with Pansy for a couple of weeks would be exciting.
One part of her also yearned to see more of that vulnerability Pansy had shown her in the library. That realness in her eyes during the masquerade. It was intoxicating.
"Hermione, please, let me talk to you."
She raised her head, facing a very tired-looking Theo. He had bags under his eyes, and his usually perfectly combed hair was messy. He wasn't wearing his tie either. Hermione couldn't keep pushing him away. It had been weeks. And she hated how Theodore made her best friend suffer, but she also hated how they had started to drift apart.
"Alright," she said softly.
He sat on one of the sofas, both hands on his knees. Hermione sat on one arm of the nearest chair, crossing her legs.
"I can't stand how little time we spent together," said Theodore, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "I know I fucked up, and I'm sorry. I shouldn't have hooked up with Sarah."
"Who?" asked Hermione, confused."
"Sarah Runcorn... the Sixth Year who got out of my dorm during the party."
"Oh," just said Hermione, waiting to see where he would be going from that point.
"I've just realised I've been behaving like a douchebag. But I'm still a bit mad at you and Daph' for ditching me for weeks instead of talking to me," he admitted carefully. "I wish you had given me the time to talk sooner than that."
"I know, and I apologise for avoiding you. You're right, we should have talked sooner," replied Hermione slowly, her fingers fidgeting with a thread of the chair's arm.
"I just... I can't handle the mixed signals anymore, Hermione..." he said painfully. "One day, you invite me to the masquerade, joke with me, kiss my cheek... and the other, you're avoiding me, shooting me nasty looks, whispering about me with Daphne."
Hermione opened her mouth and closed it, seized with a sudden doubt. Behind Theo, the passage of the common room opened again, revealing Pansy and Zabini. The latter directly went to his dorm but Pansy stopped, looking at her.
"That night, I slept with that girl because I was sad. Because I needed reassurance. I needed to feel like I was attractive. I need to feel like you could be attracted to me too. I know, I know, it's stupid. And I acknowledge it now. Daphne made me realise it, actually," he added quickly.
He breathed deeply, massaging his temples. Then, he reached for her hand and squeezed it.
"What I meant to say is that I still love you. I never stopped, actually. You made me think our breakup was necessary, that we were too friends and too platonic for it to work but in fact, I've never felt so understood by someone, so reassured. And then everything went tits up and you started pushing and pulling me. And I don't know how to feel anymore. I just know I love you, and I want us to be together again."
Hermione was floored, to say the least. She watched him for a few seconds, wide eyed, lips open. Behind him, Pansy walked quickly to the stairs, climbing them before disappearing behind the door of their dorm.
She never expected that. Never, in a million years. All this time, she had thought Theodore was attracted to Daphne back, but that he was just too stupid to make a move. The truth was worse than that; Theodore was so stupid he was still convinced he had a chance with Hermione.
One part of her also felt bad for leading him on unconsciously, but the biggest part was feeling even more terrible for Daphne. Hermione knew she was at fault too, for making her best friend believe she could maybe have a chance with Theodore. Now, she was extremely glad Daphne was getting closer to Harry.
"Are you going to say something?" he asked, looking at her with intent.
"No, I mean, yes, I just—"
"I understand if you need time to think. But deep down, you know we're meant to be, Hermione. You know our relationship was amazing in Fifth year."
"No, no," replied Hermione, losing her cool. "It wasn't amazing, Theo. It wasn't amazing because it felt like snogging my little brother. And now you want me to do it again?"
"What?!"
"I never gave you mixed signals! If I did, alas, it wasn't conscious! I pulled away from you because you were being an inconsiderate jerk in general, not because I was lost with my feelings!" exclaimed Hermione, raising from the chair. "Listen, I'm sorry I could never reciprocate your feelings, Theodore. But I told you two years ago that you needed to move on to protect yourself!"
A little crowd of students was now forming around them, whispers rising in the air. Theodore got up too, his lips twitching in anger, his jaw clenched.
"You asked me to go to the masquerade with you!"
"As a friend!" hissed Hermione, lowering her tone.
"You kissed me!"
"On the cheeks, to thank you!"
"You immediately avoided me after I slept with Sarah!" retorted Theodore.
"Hey!" protested the latter, in the front row of the crowd.
"Because I was mad at you for—"
"For what?! You were jealous, Hermione! Everyone knows it!"
A few students nodded, some murmuring inaudible words to their friends.
"You were jealous and you're still unable to sort your feelings out!" Theodore continued, raising his voice. "But I don't want to wait for you anymore! I'm done! I love you, but it's over!"
The noise level of the whispers considerably augmented. Hermione took a step forward, infuriated. She pointed a trembling finger against his chest.
"Don't you dare turning this on me!" she spat. "I don't love you, I never have, never even when we were dating, and that has always been the reason why we broke up! I always knew I didn't love you, I always made it perfectly clear, and somehow, your big head got in the way, twisted things up and you convinced yourself I was just confused! I'm not confused! I just don't feel any kind of romantic attraction for you, Theo, that's all! But congratulations, you just ruined our friendship! And you did that the moment you implied I was just a confused little girl who didn't want to admit she was attracted to you!"
Furious, Hermione pushed three girls, Sarah Runcorn included, to make her way to the stairs and go to her dorm.
"She must be gay or something to push away Nott, the lad is so handsome," murmured one of them.
Hermione closed her mouth hermetically to avoid yelling she was indeed gay. She shut the dormitory door harder than necessary, the sound echoing off the stone walls, merging with the hubbub. Her hands were shaking from anger. Theodore's voice replayed in her head with infuriating clarity, calm and wounded and patronising all at once. You're just confused. As if confusion were a diagnosis he could hand her. As if her lack of feelings for him were a mistake to be corrected rather than a truth to be accepted.
And he had to make this public, had he? He had to turn this against her and accuse her of being a cold, heartless cunt who was struggling to understand reason. Because why would she ever reject someone as perfect as him?
She pressed her forehead briefly against the cool wood of the door, exhaling sharply through her nose, then straightened and marched into the bathroom before she could think herself into saying or doing something reckless. She locked the door behind her with a flick of her wand and turned on the shower without bothering to undress properly first. Steam immediately began to bloom in the air, fogging the mirror.
She stripped mechanically and stepped under the hot water, letting it pound against her shoulders and spine. The heat was almost scalding, but she welcomed it. It gave her something physical to focus on, something that drowned out the thoughts trying to claw their way to the surface. She braced her palms against the tiled wall and closed her eyes, jaw clenched, water streaming down her curly hair and face.
She was so angry, so disappointed in Theodore for assuming entitlement to her feelings.
She leaned her forehead against the tile and let her shoulders sag. Theodore had been her friend. Not a casual buddy, not a convenient classmate. A real one. One of the first friend Hermione had made in Hogwarts, and God knew how bad she needed one. She had been so lonely, so sad during her first years. She had been so miserable without him.
Late-night conversations, shared jokes, quiet understanding, a hand behind her back, grins and laughs. Losing that felt like a kind of she had not fully prepared for. She had not expected rejection to cost her companionship too, had not realised how often men mistook kindness for invitation. The thought made her chest tighten.
Gradually, her breathing slowed. The steam thickened, wrapping around her like a cocoon. She thought of Pansy, against her will, of the way their mutual hate had merged into a kind of comfort. Of listening. The comparison was uncomfortable and illuminating all at once.
By the time she turned the water off, her skin was pink and warm and her thoughts, while still heavy, were no longer sharp enough to cut. She dried herself slowly, deliberately, as if moving too fast might stir the anger back up. Pulling her white bathrobe on, she tied it securely at her waist and glanced at her reflection in the fogged mirror. Her eyes were kinder now, tired but steady.
Back in her dorm room, she crossed to her bedside table where her Walkman sat waiting, not caring to check if Pansy was there too or not. She slipped the headphones on and pressed play, the familiar opening notes of Axel Bauer filling her ears, smooth and nostalgic. The French lyrics rolled gently over her, melodic and aching, and she sank down onto her bed with a long sigh, her feet agains the pillows and her head against the footboard. She had always enjoyed 80s music more than she liked to admit.
Crookshanks stirred immediately, lifting his flat face and blinking at her before clambering closer. Hermione smiled faintly and reached out to stroke his mossy green fur, fingers sinking into the warm, comforting thickness of him. He purred loudly, a deep, vibrating sound that resonated through her hand and into her chest.
She hummed along with the song without realising at first, soft and tuneless, the melody slipping out of her like breath. The music gave her permission to feel without naming it, to exist in the in-between. She scratched Crookshanks behind the ears, and he leaned into her touch, utterly content, unbothered by the complexities of human emotion.
As the song faded into the next, Hermione lay back against her pillows and stared at the ceiling, listening, petting, breathing. She closed her eyes, Axel Bauer humming softly in her ears, Crookshanks warm and solid against her side, and let herself sing the lyrics more clearly now.
"Mais cette machine dans ma tête, machine sourde et tempête..."
When she opened her eyes, Pansy was above her, looking at her from upside down. Hermione jumped.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" she groaned.
Pansy didn't reply at first. Her lips were pressed so hard they almost looked like a thin line.
"Listening to romantic music after getting back with your boyfriend?"
She threw this at her like it was supposed to be a scathing joke, but the slight tremor in her voice was enough to show cracks in her composure. Hermione spun, sitting cross legged on her bed to face her.
"Did you actually listen to the whole conversation, or just jumped to conclusions?"
"It looked pretty clear in my point of view—" started Pansy.
"Listen Parkinson, my patience is already running thin. You should have stayed, you would have seen him calling me confused because I didn't like him back."
"Well, are you?"
"Confused?"
"I'm a lesbian, Parkinson. It was hard enough to swallow that in a four months span, so don't blow on embers now," said Hermione tiredly. "Can't you just let me listen to music alone?"
"Dyke," said Pansy, rolling her eyes.
She stepped away. Hermione let out a quiet curse and rested her back against the footboard, pressing play again.
Pansy lasted approximately fifteen seconds before forcing her to stop her song again. She was kneeling on the ground, head resting against her crossed arms on Hermione's mattress.
"What're you listening to?"
"Axel Bauer. Are you bipolar?"
"No, I'm confused."
"Christ," whined Hermione, already exhausted by this day. And it wasn't even eleven.
"Yeah, Christmas is tomorrow. Did you get me presents?"
"In what mad world would I do that?"
Little lie. Hermione had wrapped her gift two weeks before, and Pansy was currently sitting twenty centimetres from it.
"Merlin," grunted Pansy. "I didn't get you anything either. Anyway. Bye, bitch."
On those words, she got up (again) and dropped her Slytherin robe on the ground, revealing black thongs that matched her bra. Hermione choke on her saliva.
"What, you get to strut here dressed like that and I can't?" asked Pansy, tilting her head.
"I'm not almost naked!" protested Hermione, but her eyes were almost glued on Pansy's buttocks.
"You have a boob slipping out."
Horrified, Hermione lowered her head. She had in fact, a boob slipping out. She quickly tightened the knot of her bathrobe, her cheeks burning.
"Oh come on, don't be prude. I already saw them."
"I—that's not—I haven't even seen yours back!" cried Hermione before she could stop herself.
Pansy fully turned to her, frowning.
"What, you want a tits reveal? I'll think about wrapping them with ribbons for Christmas."
Hermione could only produce a dull sound back, though it looked suspiciously like a strangled moan. Pansy looked far too pleased with herself. Hermione was so tired now.
10:58.
The Great Hall glittered with enchanted snow and floating candles, laughter echoing off the enchanted ceiling, but Hermione barely registered any of it. She sat stiffly at the Slytherin table, shoulders slightly hunched, eyes fixed on her plate as if it might offer answers if she stared hard enough. Theodore ignored her. But whispers followed.
She ate too much. Not because she was hungry, but because it gave her something to do with her hands, something to concentrate on that was not the absence across the table. Roast potatoes, parsnips glazed in honey, thick slices of turkey she barely tasted. She accepted pudding she did not want and ate it anyway, spoon moving mechanically from plate to mouth while conversations flowed around her without touching her. Hermione always felt alone without Daphne. But during Christmas dinner, it was rougher than usual.
By the time she excused herself, her stomach was heavy and her thoughts heavier still. She went to bed early, ignoring the distant sounds of celebration that crept through the stone walls, and slept fitfully, dreams shallow and restless.
When she woke again, it was still dark.
Hermione lay still for a moment, listening. The dormitory was quiet, the slow, even breathing of Pansy filling the space. She checked her watch, satisfied to see the early hour, and carefully slipped out of bed. She dressed quickly, pulling on a jersey, joggers and thick socks, moving quietly. Crookshanks stretched, following her.
She wanted the common room to herself.
The Slytherin common room looked different at dawn. The lake beyond the tall windows was dark and still, shadows of the squid and some fish gliding slowly through the water like ghosts. The Christmas tree stood proudly near the centre of the room, its silver and green ornaments catching what little light there was, enchanted candles floating lazily above it. Presents were everywhere. Stacked beneath the tree, scattered near armchairs, tucked against the legs of tables. Bright paper, ribbon, name tags glittering softly.
Hermione paused at the threshold, her breath catching despite herself. Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe she should have come home. Be with her parents. With her grandparents. Then she moved closer, scanning the pile until she spotted her name, as Crookshanks settled in front of one of the windows.
Three packages.
She knelt, heart beating a little faster and gathered them into her arms before retreating to one of the sofas. She hesitated only a second before opening the first, already recognising the handwriting on the tag.
Harry and Ron.
Inside was a thick, beautifully bound volume. The Revised Magical History of Europe, by Bathilda Bagshot. Hermione's lips curved into a genuine smile, warmth blooming in her chest. Of course they had chosen that one. Of course they had remembered the offhand comment she had made about wanting this new edition weeks ago during the Hogsmeade weekend. She trailed her short nails against the binding before setting it aside carefully.
The second parcel was from her parents. She unfolded soft white wool, fingers lingering on the fabric. The jumper was elegant and simple, clearly handmade, and tucked into the folds were small packages of cat toys. A little stuffed mouse, and some elegant feathers, clearly not made to write. Hermione laughed quietly, imagining her parents selecting them with Crookshanks in mind. She pressed the jumper to her cheek for a moment, inhaling the faint scent of home.
The third gift made her pause. Daphne's handwriting was neat and familiar. Hermione unwrapped the paper slowly, curiosity prickling as the title came into view. Witches Who Loved Witches: A History of Queer Magic and Resistance. Her throat tightened unexpectedly. The book was heavy, authoritative, its cover understated but proud.
She smiled, touched in a way she had not anticipated. Daphne, perceptive as ever. Her best friend. Her closest friend. She couldn't have made it this far without Daphne. Hermione knew she would have probably dropped Hogwarts and come back to the Muggle Word after her first years in the Wizarding World without her.
For a brief, treacherous moment, Hermione glanced back at the remaining pile of presents beneath the tree. Her heart sank just a little when she found nothing else with her name on it. No sharp and elegant handwriting. No sly comment scribbled on a tag. Nothing.
She told herself it was foolish to expect anything. Told herself she was reading meaning into absence. Still, disappointment settled quietly in her chest, unwelcome but persistent.
Hermione straightened, stacking her gifts neatly beside her. She forced herself to look away from the tree, to focus instead on the weight of the book in her lap, the warmth of the jumper folded beside her. She had enough. She was grateful. She was fine. She inhaled slowly, climbing back the stairs to her dorm with heavy legs.
When she opened the door, Pansy was sitting on her bed, already looking at the entrance of the dorm, right at her.
"You got me the cloak," she murmured, her voice strained.
Hermione refrained a smile. Pansy was holding the cloak Hermione had bought it discreetly after they had been (almost) discovered in the toilets of Madam Rosmerta's bar. She had brought back Pansy's cloak to Rosmerta, claiming it was found. That day, she had excused herself and rushed to the nearest and most expensive clothing store of Hogsmeade. The winter cloak Pansy was holding was black, velvety, with silver threads at the hems, and a large hood with Hippogriff feather in the lining.
Pansy's eyes were shining. She had just woken up, the wrapping of Hermione's present still laying on the foot of her bed, where Hermione had put it the night before. Her hair was messy, and one of the thin straps of her tank top had slipped, revealing her shoulder.
"I don't know where you got that idea," said Hermione quietly, tongue suddenly very dry.
But Pansy didn't listen to her. She got up, her bare feet pressing against the cold stone. Slowly, she walked up to Hermione. The brunette closed her eyes briefly when she felt Pansy's hand cup her face.
"You're disgustingly sweet, are you?" murmured Pansy.
Hermione breathed the citrus scent of her hair. When she opened her eyes again, Pansy had caught the hem of her tank top, and was passing it above her head. Hermione died. And if dying felt like this, she would gladly spend her life doing it.
Pansy was probably the most beautiful and fragile thing Hermione had ever had the chance to put her eyes on. Her skin was milky, soft and smooth, with some little acne spots on the back of her shoulders. Her breasts were small, almost flat. Her nipples were pink, pointy, just like—
"Geraniums."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You're like a flower."
"What—"
But Hermione couldn't wait any longer, so she reached for Pansy's hand. She took her fingers to her mouth. Red nails contrasting on her white skin, pistils on petals.
She kissed her so softly Hermione thought her heart had jumped out of her chest to settle in Pansy's. Hermione kissed her back, her lips moving against hers, delicately, as if she could break any moment.
It bloomed. It wasn't rushed, angry, or even hateful. Pansy's mouth lingered, warm and careful, as though she were learning Hermione by touch alone. There was nothing sharp in it, nothing cruel or challenging like before. Hermione's chest ached. Her hands came up almost without permission, fingers curling around Pansy's waist, her palm pressing against her skin.
Pansy breathed out against her lips. It sent a shiver through Hermione. Their foreheads touched, noses brushing, breaths mingling. For a second Hermione thought Pansy might pull away, might laugh about her flower comment or say something biting to break the spell. Instead, Pansy kissed her again, deeper this time. She was still gentle. Her tongue played with hers almost reverently, meeting and breaking apart like a dance.
It was slow, until Hermione felt the mattress at the back of her knees. She sat, then lay back, heart racing, eyes never leaving Pansy's face. Pansy followed her down, one hand braced beside Hermione's shoulder, the other hovering as if she were asking permission without words.
Hermione answered by pulling her waist closer.
Pansy ended up on top of her, knees on either side of Hermione's hips, her weight warm and grounding rather than overwhelming. Hermione became acutely aware of every point where they touched, the press of Pansy's hands, the brush of her hair against Hermione's cheek. Her world narrowed to this small space, the quiet room, the low light, the soft sounds of their breathing.
Hermione broke the kiss only long enough to tug her jersey over her head, movements a little uncoordinated. Pansy watched her with an intensity that made Hermione's skin prickle. Socks followed, then her joggers, discarded carelessly on the floor. There was no embarrassment in it, only a strange, steady trust that made her feel lighter, braver.
Pansy's hands traced slow, reverent paths over Hermione's arms and shoulders, not demanding, not rushing. She leaned down again, kissing Hermione's jaw, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. Each kiss felt like a promise rather than a conquest. Hermione's fingers slid into Pansy's hair, holding her there, anchoring herself in the reality of her warmth.
Then Pansy leaned further down, until she switched her position, bending her legs, her knees hitting the back of her bed. She placed her hands against Hermione's ribs, spraying light kisses on her belly. Two fingers softly pinched both of Hermione's nipples, before hands palmed their roundness, their weight. Hermione let out a trembling breath, crossing her legs around Pansy's waist.
The knot that had formed into her belly tightened even harder when she felt the soft flick of a tongue against the very tip of her nipple. Then a second one. Then Pansy's lips wrapped around it. Hermione was breathing loudly now, her voice almost slipping out at each exhales. Pansy's nails raked her ribs, making her chuckle for a few seconds, before Pansy caught her lips again. Hermione's fist tightened slightly in Pansy's short black hair. When she broke the kiss, the deep brown-black of Pansy's irises was all Hermione could see. Her eyes hesitated between both of Pansy's, taking every detail, every darker spot, observing the large ring of deep black at the frontier between the whites of her eyes and the beginning of her irises.
Pansy broke the contact, her red lips pressing against Hermione's nose. She descended again, from her chin to her other nipple to her belly button to the hem of her knickers. Hermione loosened her fist, her heart racing in her chest.
"I didn't shave," she quickly said in a slightly panicked voice. "I never did, actually. I just... trimmed, I..."
"Shut up," cut off Pansy, gaining back her smirk.
"But you do, because when I had sex with you, it was smooth and shaved and..."
"Shut up," repeated Pansy in a harder voice this time, though her fingers were still stroking Hermione's ribs.
Hermione listened. It was probably the first time she ever did, actually. But she couldn't care. She couldn't care about anything else right now. Pansy hooked her fingers around the hem of Hermione's knickers.
"Okay?"
"Okay."
She kissed her belly again, sliding her underwear down her legs. Hermione had never been fully naked in front of anyone before. She had never let anyone this close before. Yet in this insane reality, she wanted no one else but Pansy to indulge her in this moment.
She heard Pansy's breath hitch, and her fingers, that she had put back on Hermione's hips, slightly gripped her skin, nails digging in her flesh. Hermione was so hot she could feel sweat already beading on her forehead, a curl staying stuck against her skin. She thought Pansy would hesitate, or pull away, or change her mind. She didn't. Instead, Hermione felt her lips press against the skin of her thigh.
Higher.
Pansy kissed her lips, her nose nudging her clit. Hermione's heart was beating in there. Her thighs began to shake, so Pansy passed her arms around them to keep them apart.
And she started to feast.
Her tongue parted her folds, dragging against every centimetre of skin she could reach. It was warm, wet, agile. It reached her clit. And Hermione's eyes squeezed shut. Her nails scraped Pansy's head. Pansy flicked her tongue over it slowly, tracing circular, steady shapes. Pleasure started to build in the entirety of Hermione's body, radiating from her core to spread until her fingertips. It built in waves. Wave after wave of pure pleasure, languid, slow and regular.
Pansy Parkinson shouldn't be this good at eating a girl out, especially for a beginner. But Hermione was out of her mortal envelope. She knew she was vocal. She knew Pansy was proud of eliciting such unholynoises from her. And Hermione couldn't give a shit.
She grabbed the pillow behind her head and gripped it, arching her back when Pansy added more pressure with her tongue, flicking it against her clit faster and rougher.
"PANSY!"
The knot snapped, tearing off Hermione's body with it. She screamed, her hips jerking against Pansy's face. It was more powerful and shattering than anything Hermione had ever lived. It was making all her muscles clench, her jaw opening wide, her eyes closing so hard she saw sparks.
And when it started to slow down, to dull, something entered Hermione. A single, slim finger, breaching in without any restraint. Hermione felt her walls clamping on it. Her breathing stopped, her voice cut. She gripped Pansy's shoulders so hard she heard her hiss.
"Hurting?"
Hermione barely registered her question. She shook her head. Pansy shifted her position to lay on top of her again, catching her lips. Hermione tasted salt on her mouth. Whether it was her own tears, her juices, or Pansy's saliva, she couldn't tell, and she minded neither of those options. She kissed her back clumsily, wrapping her arms around her neck.
Pansy started a slow movement of back and forth, her finger stretching this untouched part of Hermione, which was forcefully clenching around it. After a few minutes, a different kind of sensation started to come, less regular and perhaps even more enjoyable.
It doubled when Pansy added a second finger. At first, Hermione gritted her teeth. It was foreign, and she couldn't tell if she wanted Pansy to be faster or slower. It was painful. It stretched her too hard. Pansy slowed down, pressing kisses against her lips, her nose, her chin. After a few minutes, Hermione opened her eyes, and immediately, tears rolled down her cheeks. Pansy immediately stopped.
"You want me to pull out?"
"No," Hermione articulated.
Pansy nodded. Her fingers pumped again. She was attentive, careful. Hermione felt like melting. Pansy fingered her softly, slowing down every time Hermione frowned, until she stopped frowning at all and fully relaxed her muscles, her back sinking in the mattress again.
"I'm close," she breathed, her hands printing on Pansy's shoulder blades.
"Of course you are," replied Pansy in a low voice.
"Fuck off—OH! SHIT!
Pansy added a third finger. And Hermione lost herself. Her hips began to accompany Pansy's pace. Sweat was making her arms slippery against Pansy's flesh, so she hardened her grip. Strands of her hair were stuck against her face. She moaned Pansy's name like a prayer, listening to the lewd sounds of three of her sworn enemy's fingers fucking her quickly, more messily with each thrusts.
"PANSY! H—HARDER!"
Her whole hand flapped against Hermione's core, her palm hitting her clit every time, her three fingers reaching deep and rubbing places in her body Hermione didn't know could bring her this much pleasure.
Her orgasm hit her suddenly this time. Hermione held Pansy so tight she heard her groan in pain. Unable to think, Hermione bit the nearest patch of skin she could find, planting her teeth deep in Pansy's shoulder, making her yelp.
When Pansy pulled out, Hermione's body went completely limp, her eyelids so heavy she struggled to keep her eyes open. Pansy was breathing hard and loud. She wiped a tear still running on Hermione's face.
"Do you have plans today?" she panted.
Hermione took a good twenty seconds to answer, trying to catch her breath. Pansy conjured a quick Scourgify. Hermione's entrance was aching, her clit still throbbing. She painfully raised her head, squinting her eyes at Pansy.
"No... why?" she mumbled.
"Good. Because I want you to keep losing this hard all day. Or maybe you can't handle it?"
"I can."
Hermione was able to do many things, but realistically, not spending the whole day having sex with her nemesis.
"Did I just let you take my virginity?" she murmured.
"Happy Christmas, Granger."
"I hope you got me another present, bitch."
"Duh, bitch.
Hermione looked at Pansy's naked profile. The curves of her body, the shape of her nose, the moles on her skin. And it felt like a damnation, but a flower had bloomed in hell. Hermione Granger was growing feelings for Pansy Parkinson.
Notes:/!\ ON HIATUS. WON'T BE UPDATED FOR NOW. TAKE CHAPTER 15 AS THE STORY'S ENDING FOR NOW. /!\
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