Pansy was silk blouses and pencil skirts. She was perfect red polish and no makeup. She stood tall and strong every day and she talked. Merlin did she talk. She had an opinion on everything and everyone. So no one was really surprised when she sneered in Granger's direction, as they all sat in the Great Hall for breakfast.
"All bloody messy buns and sweatpants and can't she take care of herself?"
"Parkinson, sit the fuck down," Draco snarled but the witch stood up and growled at her ex.
"I don't care about your Slytherin opinion, Malfoy."
Oh, he had been a Draco before, in the days where she was a snivelling, drooling little girl. Before she stood beside Vol-de-fucking-mort and quivered and shook and writhed in pain under a Crucio because she wasn't speaking enough.
But the boys, they didn't know that, do they? Malfoy sure wasn't looking, too busy puking in the bushes. Nott was Nott-ing somewhere in his manor while Nott Sr. stood in front of that completely barmy sociopath and he laughed while she felt every nerve ending of her body burn up, flare up, swallow her reason.
Pansy walked up to the Gryffindor table and she froze. What the fuck was she doing? She felt the weight of everyone's glares on her and shit, she was a Slytherin, not a bloody lion! She stared at Granger because that girl was the only one who didn't want to kill her at the moment. Her expression was nothing more than curiosity.
"Your bun is atrocious," Pansy blurted out.
And she wondered if Voldy hadn't succeeded in frying her bloody brain.
"How would you do it?" Hermione asked, raising a mug of tea to her lips.
Pansy sniffed and grinned suddenly.
"That's my favourite brew. Move, Scarhead."
Potter huffed and puffed but Pansy had already put her leg and fine stiletto between Potter and Weasley and she heard the gasp of the Measle boy behind her and she wanted to laugh. She grinned instead, catching Granger's expression.
"Lean on, I'll do it once and you better remember because I won't repeat it again, witch."
If her "w" almost sounded like a "b", it was her own problem, thank you.
And Granger leaned on the table and she smelled like firewhiskey and if Pansy hummed at the back of her throat, while she buried her hands in that mess of a hair of the witch, she didn't say anything of it.
Silence was still heavy around them.
"Bloody hell, Granger, you don't know how to put nail polish, do you? Do I have to show you everything? Are you a bloody child, a dear brightest witch of our age?" Pansy snarled and the other girl laughed, her hand resting so close, so close of Pansy's hip. "There, perfect messy bun-"
She was able to pull away when Granger caught her silk blouse in a fist and dragged the girl closer, whiskey eyes full of mirth. Pansy was forcefully reminded why she was not a Gryffindor. She was shaking in her figurative boots.
"I'll show you something, Parkinson, something you don't know."
Pansy swallowed when the girl pulled away – just slightly – before fixing Parkinson's blouse and making sure it wasn't rippled and ruined.
Granger looked at her and Pansy nodded – just a tiny motion.
Later that night, Pansy learned that Granger was wearing sweatpants and wool socks and scars like a queen; she learned that Granger smelled and tasted like whiskey, even when she wasn't drinking it. She learned that underneath these unflattering, messy clothes, she wore black lace underthings and she was humbled by the sight, in the Room of Requirement.
The next morning, when Granger went to sit beside Pansy, she wore a perfect messy bun, red nail polish and she looked just dangerous enough to worry every man around the table.
Pansy was still the only one to know that under these pants and these robes and these baggy clothes stood a woman who made her cry and scream and weep the night before, while wearing nothing else but black lace panties.