Naps
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Warnings: implied slash (Blaise/Draco), femmeslash (Hermione/Pansy)
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When she thinks about it, Hermione really can't understand why she started living with Blaise Zabini. In school he was just as much a pureblood elitist as Malfoy, even if he wasn't constantly voicing his opinions publicly. Sometime between after all hell broke loose and before Harry finally defeated Voldemort, Hermione realized there was more to Blaise than his calm, cool exterior and frighteningly quick mind. He'd reached out to them because he was worried about Malfoy and convinced that Voldemort was a mad man. Blaise was many things, but, idiot wasn't one of them. So, somehow they'd started talking politics over a cup of weak, lukewarm tea and hadn't stopped since.
Rolling out of bed, brown curls sticking to everything haphazardly, the bookish member of the Golden Trio yawned and reached for a comb. Heated talks about the importance of blood and house elf rights had turned into late night sessions comparing notes on strategy. Then Harry won the war, Blaise found Malfoy, and they all found themselves thrust out into the world. He'd said there was no sense going back to Italy; not when his Draco needed him close by. And because his mother cut off his allowance for joining with the Order and he very well couldn't live with Malfoy, Blaise had graciously offered to share a flat with Hermione. She'd accepted, mostly because she couldn't imagine living with a stranger and rooming with Harry and Ron was out of the question.
They kept odd hours; she was always up at the crack of dawn and slipping out the door for work before he even had a chance to take his morning tea. And Blaise was a night owl, prowling the streets of London long after Hermione was tucked neatly into bed. Her flexibility with researching for the Ministry allowed her to work until right after noon and then hurry home to take a nap. There was just something about mid-afternoon naps that made her toes curl and her body hurt with anticipation. Blaise would also roll his eyes when he'd catch her apparate home, throw down her bags, and start undressing before she hit the door to her room. He was respectfully quiet anyway.
Which was why Hermione couldn't understand what was causing the explosive shouting down the hall. Mumbling a few choice curse words under her breath, she shrugged an oversized t-shirt over her head and began rummaging around her room for a pair of socks. There were still some loose ends to tie up in regards to her latest report and she was hoping to have a quiet moment over a plate of toast. Jerking her socks on roughly, she hit her head hard on the solid wooden nightstand that had been a gift from her parents and bit her lip so hard she was sure that she'd split it. Rubbing her head furiously, as though it would cause the swelling to go down, Hermione swung her bedroom door open and was greeted with a very unpleasant sight.
"Merlin, Morgan, and Malory, Granger, you could at least have the decency to put on a pair of pants."
Of course it would be Pansy Parkinson, standing in the middle of her living room, screeching at the top of her lungs. And, of course, Malfoy, she still refused to call him Draco even if he was sleeping with her roommate, was draped casually over the couch they'd bought as a joint Christmas present. Glancing down at her legs and then up at Blaise who confirmed she had just walked out of her room clad in an extra large t-shirt and a pair of nubby socks, Hermione took a deep, calming breath and then skirted towards the laundry hamper. The socks were ugly enough but she didn't need Pans…Parkinson to know that the top of her left leg had been scarred up from the last battle. Not that it particularly mattered what she knew or not, but, Hermione didn't want that girl to have anything to hang over her head that might break her blessed composure.
The unpleasant visits were becoming more and more frequent. Malfoy and Parkinson would show up at absolutely the worst times and Blaise would serve them tea. And, true to form, the two young men would make eyes at each other and Parkinson would go ballistic. Hermione wasn't actually sure why she did it, never sticking around long enough to hear anything more than bits of pieces of shattered conversation. It wasn't like she cared that the two were fucking every which way to Sunday; hell, Hermione was sure the girl had thrown a party when she'd learned that she was no longer expected to marry Malfoy.
Pulling on a pair of boxer shorts that Ron had left the last time he'd stayed over, ignoring the fact that they were emblazoned with Cannon's insignia, Hermione grabbed a pack of cigarettes from the coat closet and walked out on the fire escape. She'd started smoking during the war, mostly because there was nothing else to do with her hands at two o'clock in the morning when she was pouring over battle strategies. Leaning over the railing and lighting it quickly, the young woman pushed thick curls out of her eyes and cringed when Parkinson's voice butchered the calm.
"I didn't know you were still fucking Weasley."
"I'm not."
Truth was, she never had fucked Ron. The only reason she still managed to uncover his clothes occasionally around the flat was that Blaise refused to touch them and Ron had trouble picking up after himself. He was constantly squabbling with his latest girlfriend of the month and every so often Harry and Ginny would refuse to put him up for the night. But, she wasn't about to explain this to the dark haired woman propped up beside her. No, Parkinson didn't need to know that Hermione was a lesbian nor that the last person she'd fucked had been Padma Patil in the very kitchen that Blaise was currently cooking dinner in. Not when the current response was enough to cut her short and bring her lips into a soft "o."
"Blaise says your research is coming along well."
Now that was almost enough to make Hermione drop her cigarette and she had to blink a few times to take it all in. She tried not to stare too hard at Pan…Park-in-son, even though her hair looked rather good worn past her shoulders with choppy bangs brushed across her forehead. The brunette suddenly felt frumpy, curls windblown and untamed, wearing one of Blaise's old t-shirts and a pair of Ron's favorite boxers. But Pans…Parks, always looked unruffled. Even wearing a canary yellow t-shirt emblazoned with the twins' logo in maroon and low-cut jeans, she still looked ever bit the perfect Slytherin princess she'd embodied during school. Finally composing herself after a long drag and a fascination with the ash fluttering down to the sidewalk, Hermione nodded and looked at the other woman out of the corner of her eye.
"Yeah, we're making a lot of progress. We're learning a lot about why pureblood families just suddenly produce squibs and why families that have been nothing but muggle for centuries suddenly start producing wizards. It's hard, the community isn't exactly the most welcoming environment for genetics and related science, but…oh, sorry, I'm boring you."
"No, really, it's all right. Sorry about waking you up…we've been doing that a lot lately."
If she hadn't been so sure that an apology from Pansy Parkinson meant the end of the world, Hermione probably would have been able to do more than just smile and mumble unintelligibly. And for a moment she forgot that she still had a report to finish and that Blaise was snogging Malfoy senselessly instead of watching the stove. Stubbing out her cigarette, Hermione straightened up and tucked her hair behind her ears. It was in that moment that she remembered that she'd had a thick, complicated school girl crush on Pansy for going on three years and that said object of affection had suddenly grasped her hand.
"Oh, I mean…yeah, you have been…but, oh, it's all right. The arguing thing, I mean. I should learn to put up silencing charms before I go to bed."
And just like that Pansy Parkinson's hot mouth is all over Hermione's and she finds herself pushed up against the fire escape railing and not caring that the landlord said it wasn't that reliable. In fact, all that she finds she can do, competently at least, is clutch onto the front of Pansy's shirt and hold on for dear life. She's not quite sure who is making the heated moans, although she sure that by now they both are, nor does she care that someone might actually see them. Pulling away from the kiss, hoping to Merlin that her lips looked just as wonderfully swollen as Pansy's do, Hermione swallowed back a rather slack jawed look and smiled.
"That's what we've been arguing about, you know."
"Oh, well, would you like to stay for dinner?"
Pansy, who can no longer be Parkinson after such an act, nods and Hermione nods and they fumble for each other's hands and trip back inside the apartment. Suddenly, the usually stand-offish young woman is wondering just how much better her mid-afternoon naps would be if she had someone to share them with. As if in response, the absolutely gorgeous woman beside her squeezes her hand hard and she knows that no matter how badly dinner is burnt, it's going to be the best thing she's eaten in a long time.