Hermione/Pansy [I Only Go Down]
Title: I Only Go Down
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Hermione/Pansy
Rating: R
Warnings: Bad language, sex, angst
Word Count: 1100
Summary: Hermione and Pansy are pulling in different directions. (Or something?? I've got really shit at summaries these days; please just read it)
Notes: Thanks to woldyfor the great beta.
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Her life is so perfect, so exemplary, so pristine. She’s the poster girl for inclusivity, a little muggle-born genius. She’s the head girl, the first female Minister for Magic to be, the messianic fucking hero to us all. She even has romance and glory in her problems, her oh-so-noble fight against He Who Must Not Be Named. Enlightenment bursts from her every orifice.
So when the hateful bitch started touching me, I couldn’t understand it. I’d be going about my normal sordid day-to-day life - trying to stave off Nott for another week, shaking the hungover morning fug from my brain, making sure my mascara didn’t flake into my eyes or my hair (the sort of things us mortals worry about, or at least us sleazy Slytherins), and she’d touch me. Just like that. She’d find some excuse to pass me something or lean over, and cop a little feel. I’m not fucking kidding! When I remembered what an angel she was, revulsion swept over me, like I was rejecting foreign medicine. The only people who had ever touched me before were Malfoy, other Slytherin boys, or my family. My older sister used to slap me several times a day, and my Mother only touched me to pinch my thighs or my waist and tell me that I would never fit into her clothes. So I wasn’t used to being touched by someone like Granger. But I never told her to stop.
It was in a toilet that she came on to me properly, and even then, I knew she loved that. She associated me with dirt and secrecy and repulsive perversion - mine, and, through me, her own - and that was what she wanted. To be dirtied.
She’s never asked me to meet her anywhere pleasant; her dormitory, the walled courtyard, round the back of Honeydukes, all those cosy places most covert couples sneak off to, hold no interest for her. She likes to meet in bathrooms, the Dungeons, the murky corners of the Hog’s Head. Once, we were down on the scrawny bit of earth next to the gorse bushes by the Great Lake; her mouth was hot and insistent on mine, but the only place to go was down. "You’ll get your skirt muddy," I said, as she tugged impatiently on my tie and the cold wind whipped her hair in my face. "Good," she said, and then she was dropping to her knees and pulling me with her. Of course, I followed her lead. I have no grace to fall from.
She never considers whether embodiment-of-carnal-filth is what I really want to play in all this. Sometimes, I’m pushing my fingers into her and my tits are straining against my black bra, and I feel so small. I want her to kiss me and caress me, and call me baby, and tell me we were meant for each other.
I was sitting in the library once, watching her. She was doing Potter and Weasley’s homework for them - or checking it, or whatever. They were sitting there with her, but of course they were making her do all the work. Potter was lounging about (and it struck me that he looked exactly like Draco often did), distracting her by telling some long story, which required constant encouragement and praise. He didn’t notice that a muscle in her jaw looked as if it was about to snap; nor that she cleared the hair from her face and rubbed her temples a combined total of 14 times that evening. Of course, at least some of that was more Weasley’s fault. If I’d had his arm round me for that long, or had to hear the sickly things he kept whispering in her ear, I definitely would have thrown up. She didn’t look at me once, but eyeballed her essay.
Eventually, she prised his arm off and explained she had to go and find another book, power-walking into the non-fiction section.
I know that stride. It’s how she always arrives when she comes to find me.
While she was gone, I overheard Potter and Weasley talking about her eighteenth birthday. I had no idea that it was coming up: it was the next week. That Saturday, I snuck down to Hogsmeade and spent two hours hanging around "Fridolf’s Fabulous Florists", looking through the window at the roses and passionflowers and lily of the valley. They all looked like the kind of thing a romantic hero would buy for his princess; they scared me. But in the end, I sidled in, and bought a small bunch of white daffodils. When I looked at them, I felt almost similar to how I felt when I looked at Hermione, although with less of the self-hatred. I thought maybe she would understand; that they would make her smile at me like she does at Weasley; I hoped it would say what I didn’t.
I hid them under my bed, and on the day, I invited her to the owlery. She started to take off her tie as soon as I locked the door, but I stopped her. She turned her head when I tried to kiss her gently, as usual, and I wanted to cry, but I put my arms round her, kissed her neck and touched her breasts. I had to push her up against the pillar, but in the end, she sighed, almost inaudibly, and let me kiss her. I brought the flowers out. She looked at them blankly.
"For your birthday," I said, voice awkwardly soft. I saw in her eyes that she hated it. She looked up at me and there was no smile on her face. She looked taken aback, but not confused: just horrified. She shook her head, ran her hand over her eyes, and they fluttered closed, like they were seeking death. I stood there like a twat, until her trembling hands grabbed the flowers and tossed them out of the window. She still didn’t speak, instead pulling my skirt down impatiently and using her mouth another way. I could see the posy break apart as it fell down, the blooms scattered before I knew it. But I knew one thing for certain, closing my eyes so she wouldn’t see tears. I knew then that we were only going in one direction.
That’s why, when school is over, whatever happens - if she gets married, or if she applies for jobs or if she has children or tries to fulfil her extraordinary potential - I’ll do everything I can to bring her down. She wants to be corrupted, after all.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Hermione/Pansy
Rating: R
Warnings: Bad language, sex, angst
Word Count: 1100
Summary: Hermione and Pansy are pulling in different directions. (Or something?? I've got really shit at summaries these days; please just read it)
Notes: Thanks to woldyfor the great beta.
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Her life is so perfect, so exemplary, so pristine. She’s the poster girl for inclusivity, a little muggle-born genius. She’s the head girl, the first female Minister for Magic to be, the messianic fucking hero to us all. She even has romance and glory in her problems, her oh-so-noble fight against He Who Must Not Be Named. Enlightenment bursts from her every orifice.
So when the hateful bitch started touching me, I couldn’t understand it. I’d be going about my normal sordid day-to-day life - trying to stave off Nott for another week, shaking the hungover morning fug from my brain, making sure my mascara didn’t flake into my eyes or my hair (the sort of things us mortals worry about, or at least us sleazy Slytherins), and she’d touch me. Just like that. She’d find some excuse to pass me something or lean over, and cop a little feel. I’m not fucking kidding! When I remembered what an angel she was, revulsion swept over me, like I was rejecting foreign medicine. The only people who had ever touched me before were Malfoy, other Slytherin boys, or my family. My older sister used to slap me several times a day, and my Mother only touched me to pinch my thighs or my waist and tell me that I would never fit into her clothes. So I wasn’t used to being touched by someone like Granger. But I never told her to stop.
It was in a toilet that she came on to me properly, and even then, I knew she loved that. She associated me with dirt and secrecy and repulsive perversion - mine, and, through me, her own - and that was what she wanted. To be dirtied.
She’s never asked me to meet her anywhere pleasant; her dormitory, the walled courtyard, round the back of Honeydukes, all those cosy places most covert couples sneak off to, hold no interest for her. She likes to meet in bathrooms, the Dungeons, the murky corners of the Hog’s Head. Once, we were down on the scrawny bit of earth next to the gorse bushes by the Great Lake; her mouth was hot and insistent on mine, but the only place to go was down. "You’ll get your skirt muddy," I said, as she tugged impatiently on my tie and the cold wind whipped her hair in my face. "Good," she said, and then she was dropping to her knees and pulling me with her. Of course, I followed her lead. I have no grace to fall from.
She never considers whether embodiment-of-carnal-filth is what I really want to play in all this. Sometimes, I’m pushing my fingers into her and my tits are straining against my black bra, and I feel so small. I want her to kiss me and caress me, and call me baby, and tell me we were meant for each other.
I was sitting in the library once, watching her. She was doing Potter and Weasley’s homework for them - or checking it, or whatever. They were sitting there with her, but of course they were making her do all the work. Potter was lounging about (and it struck me that he looked exactly like Draco often did), distracting her by telling some long story, which required constant encouragement and praise. He didn’t notice that a muscle in her jaw looked as if it was about to snap; nor that she cleared the hair from her face and rubbed her temples a combined total of 14 times that evening. Of course, at least some of that was more Weasley’s fault. If I’d had his arm round me for that long, or had to hear the sickly things he kept whispering in her ear, I definitely would have thrown up. She didn’t look at me once, but eyeballed her essay.
Eventually, she prised his arm off and explained she had to go and find another book, power-walking into the non-fiction section.
I know that stride. It’s how she always arrives when she comes to find me.
While she was gone, I overheard Potter and Weasley talking about her eighteenth birthday. I had no idea that it was coming up: it was the next week. That Saturday, I snuck down to Hogsmeade and spent two hours hanging around "Fridolf’s Fabulous Florists", looking through the window at the roses and passionflowers and lily of the valley. They all looked like the kind of thing a romantic hero would buy for his princess; they scared me. But in the end, I sidled in, and bought a small bunch of white daffodils. When I looked at them, I felt almost similar to how I felt when I looked at Hermione, although with less of the self-hatred. I thought maybe she would understand; that they would make her smile at me like she does at Weasley; I hoped it would say what I didn’t.
I hid them under my bed, and on the day, I invited her to the owlery. She started to take off her tie as soon as I locked the door, but I stopped her. She turned her head when I tried to kiss her gently, as usual, and I wanted to cry, but I put my arms round her, kissed her neck and touched her breasts. I had to push her up against the pillar, but in the end, she sighed, almost inaudibly, and let me kiss her. I brought the flowers out. She looked at them blankly.
"For your birthday," I said, voice awkwardly soft. I saw in her eyes that she hated it. She looked up at me and there was no smile on her face. She looked taken aback, but not confused: just horrified. She shook her head, ran her hand over her eyes, and they fluttered closed, like they were seeking death. I stood there like a twat, until her trembling hands grabbed the flowers and tossed them out of the window. She still didn’t speak, instead pulling my skirt down impatiently and using her mouth another way. I could see the posy break apart as it fell down, the blooms scattered before I knew it. But I knew one thing for certain, closing my eyes so she wouldn’t see tears. I knew then that we were only going in one direction.
That’s why, when school is over, whatever happens - if she gets married, or if she applies for jobs or if she has children or tries to fulfil her extraordinary potential - I’ll do everything I can to bring her down. She wants to be corrupted, after all.