a/n: written for my lovely three hundred followers on tumblr! i hope you enjoy!
She was fire, she was ice; she was sweet and she was bitter and she was everything else that Hermione ever could ever imagined.
One time, she had been a memory. Now, she was something real and there and oh-so hot and cold, yet burning every inch of her skin. With every touch, with every look.
They had a kind of passion behind them, a fiery rage that they both had to let out. It was a whisper and a shiver and some kind of sorrow.
Hermione could feel the memories of Pansy's hands whispering across her skin, soft yet powerful. She could remember the way Pansy had talked in her ear, had made her whimper in response to her silky words. The way those eyes, so cold, so icy, had been filled with something new, something different. The way her sorrows had fallen off her lips every time they met Hermione's skin.
Maybe there was something to be said for forgetting yourself in somebody else's life, but Hermione had seen something in Pansy that nobody else had. Maybe it was her mistake to trust that, but . . . she didn't see why it had to be a mistake at all.
They had drawn constellations on each other's backs, with dizzying intensity and though there were never any marks, Hermione could still feel them, and she often looked up to the sky, to the stars Pansy traced on her skin glowing joyously above her.
Pansy and Hermione were just . . . blocks for each other. Hermione knew this, had known it going in. Now, she wished she had never gone for it. Because the little fires Pansy ignited under her fingertips were explosive, and they shook everything.
Hermione didn't mean to fall in love. That hadn't been what it was. It had been a sharing of grief and tears and some kind of secret that nobody could ever know they were keeping. It had been a movement of seasons, from the blossom to the fall, to the snow to the sun. Some way to move forward when everything else had paused and knowing that this is what it was like to really, really be alive.
After the war, so much had happened. Hermione had lost track of it all, had forgotten why she was there at all. It had been a blur. And then Pansy had shown up.
She had been wrecked, tears streaming down her face and an apology flying off her lips, and then Hermione hadn't been able to do anything, so she'd just stood there, taken it all without remark. And Pansy had responded with a small, sad shake of her head and had leaned down to meet Hermione's lips.
She had been so entranced, then. That's why it got to where it was now at all. That's why it became some sick and twisted game of tag, the "I can't handle it anymore" for the "You don't need to" and all it became was the taste of Pansy in her mouth and the remainder of something beautiful in her eyes, and that was enough to keep her going.
It had been a year since Pansy had come to her. A year of some kind of forgiveness and hate and burning passion all thrown together for the best exchange of sex Hermione would admit she'd ever experienced, although she didn't actually have many people to base her experiences off of at this point, particularly not many woman.
She stared down at her hands, exhaling softly. Pansy was something she shouldn't have touched, and yet . . . Maybe her life would be too different if she hadn't, she reasoned; maybe she would be hurting a lot more if Pansy hadn't come to her, with her rainy, cloudy eyes and twisting lips.
There was something there, something bigger than just touching. A fragile bond, forged by mistakes and wounds and a scar screaming Mudblood. There was something deeper, something running through Hermione's veins, parallel to the blood that kept her living. Something more, something more, something more.
Her hand ached, a quill trembling gently between her index and middle fingers, and in the front of her mind she could see Pansy's smirk as she came nearer, could feel her chilled hands crawling up into Hermione's hair; her whispering breath, her mouth on Hermione's neck and her hand moving down, further, and further still.
She shook herself out of the memory and sighed.
She had written a letter, two weeks before, and she had rewritten every day since. Two weeks, yet still no nerve to send it. Gryffindor courage indeed, she thought with a scoff. Folding the parchment into neat corners, she set her quill down. Gryffindor courage, Gryffindor courage. She could send it. She could do it now.
But . . . maybe . . . would it drive her away?
Hermione ripped the letter in half, defeated.
This wasn't Gryffindor courage, anyway. This was some great level of cowardice, to send a letter. Courage is to stare the problem in the face, to fight it head-on, consequences be damned.
She was a Gryffindor, wasn't she? It was just her luck she had to fall for a snake.
Often, Pansy came knocking on Hermione's door with a small, hungry smile and a glint in her eyes. What drove her there was a mystery to Hermione—Pansy was a mystery to Hermione, with her armoured eyes and her calmness in the eyes of everything.
Sometimes it took days before she came back. Sometimes it was mere hours. But always, always, she looked like she needed something. Hermione had always assumed it was sex. That's all they were, after all: sex.
Hermione had never gone to Pansy, though. She had never found herself at Pansy's doorstep, licking her lips in some hope Pansy would rather Hermione be licking her lips. But that wasn't why she was here, now. No, now she had something to say, and it sat on the tip of her tongue, ready to spill out whenever.
She had said it all in her head, over and over again, for days. For weeks. Since before she had even written the letter.
It had been Ginny, whom Pansy worked with, who directed Hermione to a small flat in Muggle London. Pansy, Pureblooded supremacist, living in Muggle London. But this wasn't overly surprising. Hermione suspected sleeping with a Muggle-born would put any person up with the bloodtraitors.
A knock on the door and a short wait revealed Pansy, standing with sleep-ruffled hair and in her dressing gown. Her mouth opened slightly, but she quickly recovered, shaking her head. "Why are you here?" she asked.
Hermione's stomach crawled with some mixture of arousal and nerves. Pansy's hair all ruffled like that was not helping her focus. She coughed, offering her a smile. "I wanted to talk."
"Talk?" Pansy raises an eyebrow. "Hermione, we don't talk."
"We do talk!" Hermione protested. "Every time I see you, we talk. I mean, it's not like it's small talk, but we talk. And it's not all just sex talk, either." She paused, letting out a whistling breath. "Just . . . let me say the words. It's not as if it will hurt, will it?"
Pansy scrutinized her for a count of three before stepping out of the way of the entrance and admitting Hermione inside.
It was small, messy, and the last thing Hermione would have expected.
Seeing Hermione looking, Pansy frowned. "It's not much, but it's all I have right now. And I don't particularly want to leave anytime soon."
"Right," Hermione muttered, and she turned to face Pansy. "So, er, I was wondering—"
"Tea?" Pansy offered, cutting across her to retrieve a pot and cups, holding them up in question.
Hermione stared at her, then shrugged. "Sure. Thanks."
Pansy busied herself preparing two cups of tea, and Hermione was hardly fazed when she set the cup down in front of Hermione, with two teaspoons of sugar—as Hermione always drank it.
Pansy sat at the small kitchen table and waited until Hermione had sat in front of her before she smiled tiredly and took a sip of her tea.
"So, I thought—," Hermione tried again, holding her teacup tightly, white knuckled.
"Ginny told me that Muggle's have these little machines for telling the temperature. Isn't that wonderful? I never knew, and I never could get the hang of spells like that. I suppose that's why I wear a watch, too." She laughed, but it was shaky, as if she were afraid of something.
"I didn't come here to talk about thermometers," Hermione said, growing increasingly angry. "I actually have something important to say, believe it or not!"
"I'm sorry," Pansy said, and she sounded like she meant it. She exhaled slowly, and she looked up, eyes clouded with fear. "It's just . . . you don't look at me like . . . like you used to look at Weasley." Her voice shook, and she blinked furiously. "I don't know what ever made me think you might be able to, but I always kind of . . . hoped, you know? There was a time when thought we could never work, but the way everything happened, I couldn't just leave it. But how else would I have gotten you? I figured, it didn't need to be about . . . about romance, did it? Just to be able to . . . touch you, that was enough." She looked down, biting her cheek.
It was like she had slapped Hermione in the face. There was no way . . . no way . . . it wasn't possible. She swallowed, and reached an unsteady hand across the table to grab Pansy's.
"Look, Pansy, I'll never look at you how I looked at Ron."
Pansy turned her head up again, eyes confused and tears swimming in her eyes and these were the sorrows that had lingered in her kisses and had spilt on to Hermione's cheeks when they touched, and maybe it wasn't just about the sex for Pansy, either.
"Because you aren't Ron," she continued. "You're Pansy. I fell in love with Ron because he was Ron, but I fell in love with you because you were Pansy. And I don't love Ron like that anymore."
"Do you?" Pansy whispered. "Love me?"
Hermione stiffened. Something in Pansy's voice sounded inviting, but something in Hermione told her it wasn't, that telling her, yes, of course, she was in love with her, could only hurt her.
"I . . . didn't mean to," Hermione confessed. "It was just . . . it was slow, it felt easy. I feel like I know you so well, yet we've never really . . ."
"Talked," Pansy finished in a mutter. "You're right. We don't really know each other, do we?" She smiled tightly. "I always thought I envied you, you know. In Hogwarts. I always looked at you in some way that just . . . made me think I wanted to be you, but that's not right. I wanted to be with you, and I understand that now, and that's why I'm . . . here."
The silence that followed was thick, choking them both, yet their eyes never left each other. Finally, Hermione heaved a sigh.
"Then, let's talk now," she said, biting her lip.
"What is there to talk about?" Pansy said. "I just told you everything you needed to know."
Hermione shook her head. "No, we need to talk about . . . not those feelings. We need to talk about something . . . different."
"Like what? You said you weren't here for small talk." Pansy scowled, and something in Hermione burst.
Trying for a calm tone of voice, she said, "The war."
Pansy winced. "I . . . I can't. There's nothing—"
"There's nothing to say?" Hermione asked coldly. "I do think I remember you trying to hand my best friend in to Voldemort. I do think I remember you being sent away to the dungeons while the rest of us fought and you sit here now and tell me that there's nothing to talk about?"
"You think I wanted that?" Pansy snapped. "To be locked away like some kind of criminal? Because I didn't. And the rest of the Slytherins weren't overly pleased with me, either. But can't you believe that people change? I'm not . . . that girl. I was afraid, then, and I hadn't wanted to face it." She narrowed her eyes. "I guess you wouldn't understand, how it feels to be hated by the community you grew up knowing, loving, all because you were too afraid to die. I have to see it every day. I don't get the choice to leave it behind. Everyone knows. Nobody forgives a coward."
"I forgave you," Hermione said, blinking as her anger drifted out of her. She hadn't even considered that Pansy would have become ridiculed for what she did during the war.
"No, you didn't." Pansy stood up. "Maybe it would be best if you left."
"No!" Hermione exclaimed. "We're talking. We need to talk. It won't work if we don't. Please, just . . . talk to me."
Pansy eyed her for a moment before resuming her place across from Hermione.
"I forgave you," Hermione repeated.
"You didn't," Pansy said quietly. "Or else you wouldn't have brought it up in the first place."
Hermione frowned. She had thought that she'd forgiven Pansy, but . . . when had she done it? When had she told herself that Pansy deserved to be forgiven?
"I know I'm right," Pansy continued. "I haven't exactly forgiven myself, either."
"Will you?" Hermione asked, voice soft. "Forgive yourself?"
"No."
"Why not?"
Pansy stared at her hands and her eyes welled with tears, but she simply shook her head. "I don't deserve it. I'm still . . . I haven't felt the pain that I caused yet."
"You didn't cause any pain."
"Didn't I?" She laughed mirthlessly, the sounding echoing miserably off the walls. "I beg to differ. Maybe I didn't hurt people in the sense people are hurting me now, but by not fighting, by getting the Slytherins away from the war, I hurt people. Most of them wanted to fight for the school, and it's my fault they didn't get to."
"They wanted to fight for us?" Hermione stared, shocked.
Pansy shot her a nasty look. "Not everyone in Slytherin were bad people. That wasn't what put a person in the house. Some of them knew right from wrong. At least half of them were half-bloods. Some Slytherins are Muggle-born, too, you know. Not a good place for them, but they're there."
"Oh." Hermione didn't know where her voice had gone, but it felt like some kind of cord had snapped, and cold shot down her spine.
"We're too different, Hermione," Pansy said, too soft for such anger running through her voice. "We wouldn't work out."
"We have worked out," Hermione pointed out.
"We've never talked before like this, and this isn't exactly going well, is it?"
"We'll get better," Hermione said, growing desperate. She wasn't going to lose Pansy, not here, not like this. "It'll take some practice. This is just the start, isn't it?"
Pansy drummed her fingers against the table. "Yeah, I guess it is." She paused, then looked up at Hermione and something reflecting in her eyes made Hermione's pulse pick up and her skin cold yet her blood so warm. "I'm sorry, you know."
Hermione smiled. "I know."
"So, will you . . . will you stay, then?" Pansy asked, her voice small.
Hermione's lips twisted. "I don't think I could force myself to leave."
And, yeah, it was just the beginning. But Pansy was fire and ice and she was sweet yet bitter, and she was everything Hermione could have ever imagined, could have ever needed—and so much more. Hermione didn't set out to fall in love, but sometimes sorrow can tie people into a bond, to heal and to fix—and to love.