Frustration, Sensation
Title: Frustration, Sensation
Pairing: Pansy/Hermione
Rating: R
Word Count: ~4700
Summary: This is wrong. This is so, so wrong. Why does it feel so right?
Note: Solely, completely for zofbadfaith, because it was her birthday present. Love ya, Zee <3
December: 2000
It’s a wintry night, the streets cobbled with snow and the sound of boots crunching over the white can be heard from miles away. Everything is quiet as people hop out of their carriages and rub their hands together in fragile attempt to stay warm, their cheeks tainted pink from the crisp air.
Pansy pushes pass those rosy cheeks, off the cold streets and into a grand ballroom. Golden curtains hush the fall of snow against the windows and tinsel hangs from the ceiling above. She couldn’t say she was properly dressed for the occasion but she was presentable, and no one paid her much mind during these sorts of events anyway. She knew she didn’t belong but that didn’t stop her from being a part of something she so desperately needed.
There were beautiful people here for no reason at all; Pansy thinks that the men needed a reason to drink brandy together by the fireplace and the women needed a reason to spend all day working on their appearance so that they could impress each other. Pansy only spent about twenty minutes getting ready before she arrived here but she likes to stand in the corner and admire all the beautiful women standing on the arms of each other, on the arms of men that look like they could sweep you away and never look back.
There’s a lady dressed up in such a lovely way Pansy’s sure that she won’t recognize herself the next morning. Her crimson hair is hung from her neck, bearing pale, pale skin and she wears the darkest dress in the room. Her blue eyes are ice and shake Pansy down to the core (she’s rather thankful that the woman doesn’t notice her). Her smile is sly, the wrinkles around her eyes saying more than the curve of her lips do. She holds onto the arm of a man with graying hair and a thick moustache, her laugh elegant, dancing around the room. She makes everyone else in the room seem inferior and Pansy thinks that’s all she will ever need in this life.
Pansy doesn’t know her, doesn’t want her or need her or feel like she’s vital. But this confident, beautiful woman is just someone Pansy likes to know exists. She likes knowing that it’s possible for a person like this to be a reality.
But that woman is so totally and completely at a loss for words when she enters the room.
She bears no jewelry and no powder. Her olive skin is such a contrast, such a spectacular difference to her white dress. She is the winter. Her long brown hair tumbles over her shoulder in captivating curls, bunches and rustles. Her dark eyes dart around the room, searching for no one but searching out of habit. Her hands curl into her middle because she has no arm to rest them on, but she keeps her head held high as the sound of her feet crossing the room meet everyone’s ears. All heads turn to look at her as she passes by. All heads follow her as she makes her way to the fireplace and thanks someone for her wine. She turns, smiles at everyone and just like that, she’s one of them.
Pansy had never seen anything so amazing.
I can see a lot of life in you
I can see a lot of bright in you
And I think the dress looks nice on you
I can see a lot of life in you
The Dress Looks Nice On You - Sufjan Stevens
She greets everyone with a bright smile and a nod of her head, because that’s formal, that’s proper. She doesn’t know when she became part of this society (and Pansy doesn’t know when she became below this) but she knows that this is part of her lifestyle now. It may not be apart of who she is, exactly, but it gets her by and she thinks that’s all she needs.
Gentlemen and various women come by to see her, to talk to the beauty that she has transformed herself into, and even though she knows lingering by the mantle isn’t really where she’s supposed to be, she stays there anyway because that’s where people will find her. And the only thing she wants right now is to be found.
Pansy puts down her glass of liquor and pulls up her collar, trying to blend into a crowd that doesn’t even match her shade. As she passes by the beauty, she wraps cold fingers around her left bicep and tugs the woman in the white dress into a secluded hallway. She takes the wine and throws it against the wall and kisses Hermione Granger because that’s all she’s ever wanted to do.
They both know that this isn’t supposed to work; Pansy isn’t supposed to be here in the corner waiting for her and they aren’t supposed to go back to one of their flats together. But that’s what will happen, because that’s what always happens and they can’t stop it.
Hermione puts a hand on Pansy’s chest and pushes, half-heartedly, because this isn’t right. This is so, so wrong.
“We have to stop,” Hermione breathes against an icy cheek, and the hands that are holding her sides only grip harder in response.
She agrees wholly and kisses Pansy again because that’s what feels right. Her fingers tangle the raven hair and her lipstick starts to smear as their addictions become deeper and deeper. She feels her hips practically jump into Pansy’s when the raspy voice in her ear suggests that they leave. Hermione hasn’t even been here for ten minutes but everyone else has seen enough of her, she decides, and she’s spinning in wild circles in Pansy’s arms before she even realizes that she’s holding for everything that she’s worth.
Pansy’s flat is dark when they stumble in but it doesn’t matter because their eyes are closed and they’re kissing and it’s bliss. It’s oblivion, pure, sweet, oblivion because they’re together again, Hermione is up against the wall under Pansy’s hands and they don’t know when this happened. They don’t know when this lust became so powerful and they don’t know when things turned down this path.
But they aren’t going to stop.
So Pansy holds Hermione tight against her as she navigates in the blackness to her bedroom and there’s enough moonlight shimmering in through the window to see. Hermione’s dress is off before their lips meet again and Pansy is throwing off her coat and trousers before she’s pushing Hermione down into the bedspread. They can’t remember the last times things were this wanted; they can’t remember the last time they were together so they have to make this memory to always remember.
They become a tangle of legs and uneven breathing, Pansy’s body rocking with Hermione’s as hot, wet tongues slick themselves over warmth. Heated palms slide over sweaty skin and bodies arch into each other. There is nothing but this moment, nothing but this kiss and these words and these breathless moans. They don’t know if anything was more surreal than the sight of them united by moonlight, but they’re sure that it’s the most beautiful thing that they’ve ever seen.
They’re shaking when they’re done, shaking from excitement and exhaustion and from fear (what if this was all just a dream?). Hermione closes her eyes and collapses into the pillows, Pansy pulls the sheets over them and waves her wand so that a lit candle dances above them, flickering its small light over their skin.
Her eyes are half open as she brushes the brown hair back from her forehead, but Pansy doesn’t care because there’s nothing that compares to the feeling of Hermione’s smooth, smooth skin under her hand. She wants to say something to the brunette, tell her that she’s… everything, but Pansy doesn’t know how to form those words on her lips. But she thinks Hermione understands when she opens her eyes halfway and smiles a sleepy smile, putting a hand on Pansy’s cheek and her fingers stroke easily, naturally.
“How does this work?” she asks the raven-haired girl, moving closer and entwining their legs, their fingers.
“How do you mean?” Pansy replies, her hand running along the length of a spine, against the softest olive skin. This is all that she lives for: moments with her, just like this, just like this.
“We always find each other,” Hermione’s voice is fragile, timid, and she doesn’t mean it that way but she is so afraid. She is so afraid.
“That’s because…” Pansy is used to having the answers in this relationship, used to reassuring Hermione whenever she is frightened and used to being the strong one. But what is she supposed to say to this? Because I love you. That wasn’t like her. But maybe that’s what she needed to become.
“That’s because we love each other.” She says, and she’s solid, she’s sure. And saying it for the both of them is so much easier than saying it for just her. There isn’t rejection when they are together, there never has been.
Hermione’s brown eyes meet Pansy’s and she smiles her small, special smile for Pansy. She leans close enough so that their lips brush together in the faintest, faintest kiss and everything is so clear in that moment. Everything is understood.
“Yes,” Hermione murmurs, “That’s exactly it.”
February 2001
They meet this time in a collaboration of surprise and pink-yes, pink, because Pansy doesn’t even like to look at cartoon hearts but Hermione doodles them in the margins of her books all the time so they must be significant. Pansy smiles at her as they pass each other in Hogsmeade and they find each other again in an old abandoned pub.
And it was the most amazing night they had ever spent together.
Pansy had found a way to make candles glow pink light around them as they danced to songs on the wireless she had brought with her (Hermione loved to dance to slow songs). And then they dimmed themselves into a faint white glow when the two became each other and became one. And they were beautiful.
April 2001
The kitchen smells like tea and oranges this morning. Pansy doesn’t know why, though, because Hermione hates oranges and only makes tea when she’s particularly stressed (and that’s what scares her). She had spent the night at Pansy’s flat after a conference they had both attended for people who had fought in Harry’s war. It was the first time they had been together since the middle of February, and that was only when Pansy had deliberately found Hermione to surprise her for a stupid holiday she didn’t even like.
But now Hermione is crying as she fusses over the tea and she’s wearing one of Pansy’s long shirts. She’s smashing oranges with her shoulders hunched up and she doesn’t know what the hell she’s doing, she really doesn’t, but she knows that she’s done with this. She’s done.
“Hermione…?” Pansy’s voice startles Hermione from the doorway and she turns around to face her lover with red eyes and tear stained cheeks. She wants to scream for no reason at all and the orange in her hand becomes pulp under her fist. And when Pansy asks what’s wrong, Hermione collapses because she knows.
“I can’t-we can’t keep doing this.” Hermione says between sobs. It’s the most painful thing she’s ever had to say.
Pansy wants to scream because of the hurt spreading from her chest but she refrains because Hermione needs her to be stronger than that. She tucks away all of her fears and kneels down next to the brunette, rubbing her back and murmuring to her. She presses her face into the other woman’s neck and Hermione can feel her tears leaking onto her olive skin.
They say their goodbyes at 11:42 that morning in front of a red brick building.
Pansy watches Hermione walk away in her perfect white dress and once she’s gone from sight (it takes her seven blocks to get that far away) Pansy turns on her heels and heads for a pub. She doesn’t know what else to do with herself except drink. She never found answers in whiskey but they liked to take her questions and most of the time that’s all she really needed.
She goes home later that night with a woman she can’t remember the name of but she’s sober, the woman, so she figures she’s safe enough and she didn’t bring any good amount of money along with her (she had spent it all on the liquor). She hopes that maybe she’s a good enough fuck for the stranger and maybe they’ll meet again. She’s glad the stranger has blonde hair and that only makes her think of Draco, who was always terrible in bed. She hopes that this new woman will give her a new opinion, a new sight.
She just goes home the next day with a headache.
October 2002
Pansy’s been an alcoholic since last year’s May and things haven’t gotten better, especially since the blonde she’s been fucking for that long doesn’t have any depth to her-she’s a great tussle, but when it gets down to it, she’s really just a bore. She doesn’t know anything that’s going on with the world and she hasn’t read a book all the way through since she got out of school. She’s beautiful, really, and takes Pansy to balls that are fabulous and Pansy gets to feel gorgeous for a night, but when they sit in her flat on Sunday afternoons, something inside of Pansy just dies and she wants, she longs for conversation, not sex or snogging or anything like that.
She doesn’t know how to change that, though, because things have been the same for so long. She doesn’t think she’ll ever be in love with this woman (she doesn’t think she’ll ever be in love again) but this faux sort of relationship that they’ve got is the only thing that keeps Pansy from feeling like she’s the only person left on Earth.
Pansy stares into her whiskey that night because that’s the only thing she does anymore (it feels like it’s the only thing she knows how to do properly anymore). She tells herself that this was how things were supposed to be; she was supposed to be in the press because of her fortune, her fame and she was supposed to be on the covers of everything as a beautiful, beautiful maiden.
And Pansy was supposed to stay here, drinking to the Harpies’ win over the Cannons.
Late nights won't do me justice
’Cause when I drink I just get so damn depressed,
And it’s not like, I ain't trying to get over you.
It's just hard to look at all the seasons pass me over too
Stars and Boulevards - Augustana
She doesn’t know why it happens, but when Pansy returns to her flat that evening, the woman’s things are gone; her blonde hair isn’t in Pansy’s hairbrush and her long dresses aren’t stored away in the closet. Her tubs of ice cream are out of the freezer and her collection of makeup isn’t taking up the entire bathroom counter. It almost feels kind of bare without her here, but Pansy notices how quiet it still is. It was always quiet with her around.
Pansy sighs and mutters a swear to herself as she sinks into her mattress. And she closes her eyes because all she wants to do is forget.
“Do you remember that time you sent me roses and I couldn’t figure it out for-“
“Three weeks? Yeah, ‘course I do.” Pansy grins at Hermione, because they’re still girls and they’re beautiful, both of them, separate and together. Pansy’s hair is still short and dark, just barely brushing her shoulders and Hermione’s mane is pulled up into a messy bun (but only after Pansy got to play with it for a good half hour).
“I’ve always wanted to get some revenge for that. You know, send you a surprise gift and you wouldn’t know it was me.” Hermione folds the corner page of her book and lies down all the way next to Pansy in the soft grass. Pansy’s got her arms tucked behind her head in a pillow and her eyes are closed because the sunlight feels so wonderful on the inside of her eyelids.
“But if you did it now, I’d know it was you.”
“That’s not true.”
“No one else would bother to send me something.” Pansy feels a shove against her thigh and her heart flutters for a moment at the other girl’s touch. “Come on, you know I’m right.”
“What about Astoria?” There’s a hint of jealously in Hermione’s voice but it’s overruled by curiosity, the need to know if she could ever be replaced.
“Astoria would only bring me roses if I showered her with presents and chocolate and maybe did something especially physically pleasing. And then I’d be on the list for roses.” Hermione snorts with laughter and rolls into Pansy, resting her cheek on a bicep and finding comfort there. “It’s ancient history.”
“I’m glad.” Hermione replies, and her voice is the cheeriest thing in the world.
Pansy opens her eyes because it’s always been too hard to brush away her tears with them closed.
March 2003
It’s been months since Pansy can remember the last time she skipped a day from running; she’s fit now, fitter than any woman her age. She sometimes wonders if she could kick Ginny Weasley’s arse at something (but she knows she couldn’t do it just because of the past) and if maybe she should have done this earlier. She never knew she was built for being strong.
She runs when she’s lonely, finds weight when she’s upset-it makes everything easier. She’s forgotten things in the midst of exercise and she doesn’t know if that’s a good thing or not. She almost hates who she is because she loved herself when she was different (and now she’s just the same).
But it helps her forget those harder things and that’s all she wants.
May 2000
“You know we were supposed to meet each other at some bar tonight, right?” Hermione says with a sly grin to her voice and Pansy gives her a bit of a shove with her hand because they both know spending the day with each other is better than the night.
“What is this?” Hermione asks; Pansy’s got some kind of strange music on the wireless. It’s all soothing and miraculous, but Hermione can’t help but wonder what in the world it is.
“Don’t have a clue,” Pansy replies lazily as she twirls one of Hermione’s curls around her finger. Her other hand runs along olive skin and the brunette sighs with contentment.
“That sounds familiar.” She says without thought, and without looking up, she knows Pansy is smiling.
June 2003
There is a rose on Pansy’s front step when she gets home one Tuesday from running. She’s sweating and crying-it’s their fucking anniversary, of all things-and when she picks it up her hand, she barely manages to stumble into her flat before she’s a heaping mess of sobs.
She curls into her bedspread when she’s done crying because sometimes she imagines the sheets smell like her. And sometimes they really, really do and Pansy will spend all afternoon trying to figure out why they did. Everything is a disappointment without her; everything is darker without her moonlight and everything is quieter without her mumbles. Pansy hates the world for the lack it has of her.
She dreams a memory because that’s the only time she can’t control everything.
“I think we’d be good together,” Hermione says with a small smile, her hand flipping hair over Pansy’s shoulder.
“Do you?” Pansy’s trying her very hardest not to lean over and kiss the brunette right now.
“Yeah. In fact,” she plays with the collar of Pansy’s shirt, “I think we’d be great together.”
There’s a hand on her back when she wakes up and she doesn’t really know what to think of that. So she looks up and there’s one thousand memories sitting in one hundred days for her. There’s long hair pulled into a messy bun (she didn’t get to play with it) and there’s warm eyes with wrinkles around them from smiling (why wasn’t she there to see them form?). There are Sunday evenings under the trees and Monday mornings under the stars in front of her. There are so many different things and Pansy has no idea what to say.
“Why?” Is the only thing she knows how to say because it’s the only thing she wants to really know.
“I made a mistake,” says the voice she’s wanted to hear for over two years, and the fingers on her back move slightly in that way they used to on Friday mornings.
Pansy sits up and shakes her head and closes her eyes. She can’t handle this. She feels her hand being encompassed in another’s and it’s warm, it’s right. It used to feel so wrong, whatever they used to have, and now it feels like something else; it feels like a second chance.
But she doesn’t know if she can give a second chance.
She opens her eyes to find the other’s and they are waiting.
“Why did you leave me?” It’s something she’s wanted to know since she first went home with a blonde she knew nothing about.
Hermione pauses, seems taken aback but leans forward again, as if there is too much distance between them. “I thought we were doing something wrong. I couldn’t handle that.”
“And I could?” Pansy doesn’t know when her voice became this cold; she doesn’t know why she doesn’t just snog the Granger right now, but she isn’t. She wants answers.
“Why are you being like this?” Hermione doesn’t understand. She doesn’t understand a thing.
Quick kid quips, so harsh and cynical
Touches stricken cold and clinical
Such a transformation to behold
I don't like this new, I like the old
Happier - A Fine Frenzy
“I wanted you back from the moment you left.”
“Don’t you still want me?”
Pansy pauses, a retort caught in her throat because she knows the answer to that question. She’s known it for years.
But she says, “No.”
December 2003
It’s been a miserable six months since Pansy last saw Hermione. She’s at a pub this time of night for the first time in a long time. She hasn’t been running since September and she knows she won’t be fit for anything anymore. She was never strong enough for this.
She looks into her whiskey and for the first time wishes that it would talk back to her. Sass her, scream at her, tell her to turn back and change. But she can’t, and it won’t, and nothing has been working since the day she let her leave.
Sometimes she thinks it would be easier if she could find that beautiful blonde again-does she even remember where the girl lived?-and she could go back to the robotic life she had for so long. She would live in the silences and with all of the makeup and everything, and it would be awful. She would never think about anything and that would be the only, only upside to it because lately, thinking about cheese has made her start crying. She doesn’t know why.
It’s late into the night and Pansy isn’t smashed-not yet. She isn’t sure she plans to but if she downs a few more of these shot glasses she might be drunk enough to forget who she went home with.
And then a beauty walks through the doors and Pansy is pretty sure that’s who she wants to take home.
She’s wearing a white dress with no jewelry, no makeup, nothing but that white dress. Her hair is dark but it looks like the in between of brown and black; it’s absolutely stunning against the bright of her clothing. She looks around the room before her eyes settle on Pansy and she smiles-she’s all white teeth and pink lips. Pansy sucks up her gasp of surprise before the girl reaches her.
Her hands are on Pansy’s back before she knows what’s happening and she’s being dragged out the back while the bartender has his back turned and she’s being pressed up against the cold brick. And the softest lips are kissing her and there are hands, hands, hands and Pansy hasn’t been able to not think like this in years.
“We should stop,” Pansy says breathlessly, stupidly when she can. The hands on her side grip harder in reply and Pansy can only agree more. She feels kisses, sloppy, wet kisses being pressed to her neck and she feels teeth graze her earlobe and it’s fucking fantastic, this girl, this stranger. She can’t speak, can barely breathe and Pansy’s hands somehow find their way into the soft, tangled hair that belongs to the girl in the white dress.
“Get me out of here,” Pansy manages, and she spins tightly in her arms as they Apparate away. She can only think about how right it feels, how safe she feels with a stranger even though she knows it’s just so wrong.
Pansy can’t see anything when they arrive, only the thread of moonlight making it through the windows but the girl knows her way around. They collapse into a bed somewhere and the girl is soft beneath her, her curves feel like they match and her legs are long. Her fingers are slender as they probe and search and find, and they make Pansy forget her own name because that’s how long it’s been for her.
She doesn’t remember the last time she wanted to make a girl scream, but Pansy did, she made the girl arch into her hands, into the tips of her fingers because if there was anything Pansy knew how to do, it was worship. She found every crook of pleasure there was and she searched for that piece of missing something there always was. And she found it this time and she didn’t think about it because the girl was screaming and it was perfect.
She keeps her eyes closed, she does, and Pansy keeps her eyes open because there’s so much to see. She doesn’t want to miss the image of this stranger moving desperately into her, with her, doesn’t want the sight of her skin glistening with the moonlight to disappear from her grasp. They can’t handle each other; there’s too much to feel, too much to see and comprehend and too much to think about. So they collapse into themselves, into each other, and they’re beautiful.
The girl won’t let her turn on a light when she’s ready to see everything, so Pansy settles for stroking the damp hair back from her forehead and feeling the soft skin under her thumb.
“Can I have your name?” she asks, because she knows some girls she’s been with don’t even like her to know what they were wearing that night. (It never mattered, though, seeing as she was always so hammered)
“Hermione,” the girl tells her, and something inside of Pansy starts living again.
And they kiss because it’s oblivion and it’s right, it’s everything they’ve ever wanted. It’s all of their memories and all the Sunday afternoons and all of the heart doodles in the margins, it’s all the dancing candles and all the slow songs on the wireless, it’s all the ball gowns and all those nights of wine and a couch. It’s the secluded promises of forever in the corners, it’s the stolen kisses under the snow, it’s all there ever was to have.
It’s a second chance.