Summary: Pansy Parkinson always did love Draco. Pity he never felt the same way.
"Little whispers; 'love me, love me'
That's all I ask for, love me, love me."
Her legs wind around his waist, and her hands grip his hair fiercely. But before she can take his mouth, he leans back, finds the light switch.
Engulfs them in darkness. He doesn't want to see her face; see who she really is.
All Pansy sighs. Putting the light back on would only endanger her in his angry wrath.
Her clothes fall off, as do his, and before long they push the limit. As always His breath is hot in her ear, whispering sweet nothings to her, his fingertips trailing across her neck. She rolls her head back, straight, dark hair falling across her shoulders.
"Draco. Draco..mm…Draco."
For a second, she can pretend. For a second, she can imagine that he does this, because he loves her. But only for a second. His hand clamps over her mouth tightly, threateningly, shutting her off. He doesn't want to hear her voice. He doesn't want to hear her at all. Because he wants to pretend, too.
"Her…Hermion..Hermione…"
Pansy closes her eyes, tears seeping down her cheeks, and into his hand. Momentarily, she wishes he'd notice, feel the wet on his fingers, switch the light back on, and tell her, "Pansy, I love you."
Pansy. Not mudblood, disgusting, bushy-haired Hermione.
He doesn't notice, of course. Or, he notices, but doesn't care. When he's had enough, he sighs in ecstasy. "Hermione…I…oh, I love you." Then he opens his eyes, and even in the dark, he can see that the narrow green glitter in Pansy Parkinson's face aren't that the bright, brown eyes of Hermione Granger. It's his turn to cry now, and throw Pansy away in disgust, pulling his clothes back on before making a run for it.
She's just a sour, leftover sweet. The one who'd do anything to have what she wanted. Hermione's the rare candy he so desperately savours. It works fine, up until they realise, that this; it's all just a fantasy. For both of them. When he's here, with her, around her, in her, she feels like the beautiful princess who's been trapped in a fairytale, and he's the dashing prince here to save her, to make love to her. She pretends he loves her. She almost believes it, until…until…
…until he says the wrong name.
"Pansy," he said to her once, one of the first times they were left in an intimidating silence, buttoning up their britches. "Why don't you pretend I'm someone else, too? Then maybe it wouldn't be so awkward between us, we'd both be living a fantasy."
"There isn't another, Draco." A pause, invisible tears, because Pansy would never, ever cry directly in front of his face. "You are my fantasy."