Fic: "Another Midnight" for ankh_definition
Happy witchwinter, ankh_definition!
Title: Another Midnight
Author: ?
Recipient: ankh_definition
Disclaimer: I do not own anything. This is a non-for-profit production. JKR is the master of us all, and owns all rights to her work.
Pairing: Ginny/Pansy
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 4426
Warnings: Uh, wall!sex.
Summary: Ginny really resents Pansy's presence at Grimmauld Place. After several tense, she decides to do something about that.
The minute I saw her ugly pug face stride in the door, I knew there was going to be a problem. Oh, no, they told me. It’s all right. Pansy's on our side. Pansy's here to help. Pansy refused to get the Mark. Pansy’s provided us information. We were able to find a nest of Death Eaters because of Pansy. And on. And on.
They’re all so willing to trust, all so willing to just accept her when she claims that she’s turned to the right side. As if there was ever a choice to be made, as if a human being could take any position other than ours. She’s so proud and mighty, as if she defeated a huge demon. She hasn’t been where I have been. She thinks she’s so dark, with her black and her green and the eyeliner she mashes under her eyes to mask the circles that form there because she just can’t sleep. Oh, the nightmares must be terrible.
I hope she regrets everything she ever said to me.
Weaslette. Bint. Whore. Cunt. I want to take those words and shove them back up her gullet, want to make her feel as humiliated as I’ve felt.
But I can’t. Instead, I have to sit in this cramped living room at Grimmauld place and watch her looking over maps with Lupin or comparing spells with Hermione and say nothing.
Hermione was on my side at first. We hated Pansy, hated what she stood for. But then she turned out to be smart or something and Hermione can’t resist a good intellect, so off they went, talking about spells and arithmancy. Every day I can see the reservation fading from her eyes.
Harry’s here too, for now. He won’t really look at me, which is quite stupid. I don’t feel any safer with us not being together. All I feel is that hunger that comes from tasting something and then having it taken away from you. At first, I was fine; I accepted what he told me. We were fine. Everything was fine. But the days trickle by and somehow I just become angrier. Little things spring to mind, little insults, little bits of his damned heroism, of his arrogance. I hate him a little now, because he is so focused on this one thing that there will be nothing left of him once it is done. Even if You-Know-Who is defeated, I won’t have a Harry. The fucking martyr. He’ll hide away, shun his fame, push his friends to their breaking point. Well, I won’t be there.
I’ll probably still be here, staring at Pansy’s stupid hair and stupid face.
I keep staring at her. I know she can feel it.
She turns slightly and looks at me. Her face moves; it’s sort of a half-smile, half-shrug. I glare. After a few seconds, she seems to give up and her face hardens. She glares back. That’s better. Show me the hate you know is in you, Pans. I know it’s there.
I’m supposed to be researching. I haven’t looked at my book in ages.
I wish she’d call me Weaslette again so I could slap her. But she doesn’t even react to most of the things I say or do. She takes it all in stride. I wonder what happened, what changed to suddenly make her all patient and good. I’m thinking nothing. And I don’t believe her, whatever she says.
After a while, she turns back to the map she was looking over, rolls it up and walks out of the room. She’s wearing those knee-highs she's always favored, black with a green stripe on the top. One of them has slipped down to mid-calf. There’s a small scar on the back of her leg. I look back down at my book and when I look back up, she’s gone.
**
We eat in the kitchen. There's a dining room upstairs but we eat in the kitchen. It's dark and closed in and it reminds me of the dungeons at Hogwarts but is much too hot at the same time, the fire and the lamps going at all hours to make it seem less depressing even though it never works. Soup and stew, cold roast on bread, sausages and toast, and it all tastes like ash in my mouth. They try to get nice things, but it never works. We eat in the kitchen and everyone is so polite.
“Pass the butter,” Harry says, and Lupin gives him the dish.
Tonks requests the teapot and gets it.
The jam is near Pansy. I reach over the table and get it for myself. I don’t need her.
My arm nudges something and I look down, jar of jam in my hand, to see that I’ve spilled the coffee creamer everywhere. Its smooth whiteness cascades over the wood, following the grain. It leaks towards Pansy and drips over the side of the table onto her lap.
She shrieks, and it gives me pleasure somehow, to see her discomfited. She leaps up and the creamer drips off her skirt and onto the floor. I sit back down. I’m smiling. I lower my head down so no one will see.
Pansy pats vainly at her skirt for a moment, using her napkin and Hermione's as well, before crouching down to start wiping the creamer from the floor. Tonks and Lupin go to fetch some towels, and Hermione fumbles with her wand. No one is looking at me. I peek under the table because I can't help myself; it’s such a rare thing to see Pansy actually working. She’s on her knees. Her neat little Mary Jane shoes are bent at the toes and she balances on them by sitting on her heels as she spreads the napkins over the mess.
She looks up at me. She must have felt me staring and her eyes come up, and they are green. The light is falling so that her hair looks very black and her skin look very pale and her eyes hone in on me and flash from resignation to annoyance to determination. She looks away just as quickly and finishes what she was doing. I sit back up, a smile still playing on my lips, and resume my breakfast, even as everyone else is still running around.
Pansy stands up and smoothes out her clothes. She does not look at me.
Someone realizes finally to right the overturned creamer and the drip stops.
**
I’m walking up the stairs to my room when I see her. She’s just come out of the bathroom and her hair is wrapped in a towel above her head. She’s wearing a robe, a fancy one. It shines likes it’s silk. I wonder how she got to keep so many of her nice things when she allegedly deserted the Death Eaters. Did they let her pack a trunk?
She notices me. She pauses, seeming to consider whether to stay or go, but then she spins on her heels and heads towards me.
I stop at the top of the stairs, slink forward a little and lean against the wall as she marches on. This oughta be good.
She stops in front of me, close, very close, and I can smell her cinnamon toothpaste and apple shampoo. Her teeth are white and straight. She’s not having it. I smile.
“Can I help you, Pansy?”
She does this little thing with her mouth, I can't remember ever having seen it before. She sucks part of her bottom lip under her teeth. I suppose this is her thinking face, because she’s regarding me and taking her time.
“I don’t know what you’re about, Ginny, but it’s getting to my last nerve.”
“Your last nerve?” I scoff. “Your being here has already ruined my summer.”
“Is that all you can think about, your summer? A war is going on and all you can think of is your summer?”
I don’t know what to say. I open my mouth, hoping a witty response will come, but she’s far ahead of me.
“I am not the cause of your problems. It would do you well to get that through your head. I came here because the alternative was much much worse and I have done all that I can to help. If the others have been able to remove the large stick from their asses, then you should too. Unless you happen to like it there.”
“They have no reason to trust you,” I retort.
Pansy rolls her eyes. “If you’d listened to me for a minute at the most, you’d see many reasons. But you’re too hung up on your P.B. Shelley of an ex-boyfriend to even notice what's happening around you.”
“Harry just wants to protect me,” I say, even as something inside me twists. My response is so feeble but I can’t direct my anger into actual words. I feel my face turning, my cheeks getting redder. I straighten my back and look at her.
She leans in close. “If you had an ounce of that so-called Gryffindor courage in you, you’d protect yourself. You’re pissy about being ignored and that’s all there is to it. Get over it. Oh, and do try not to spill creamer on me again. Even Neville’s not that clumsy.”
My mind is racing. God, I hate her so much. I stretch myself to my full height and look down at her.
“You… you…” I start, but the words fail me.
“I what?” she smirks. “Come back when you have something real to say.”
She steps back, twists the towel off her head. Her hair spills out around her face. She looks dangerous, triumphant.
All I can do is stare as she turns around and walks to her room. I shrink back against the wall, and narrow my eyes. I’ll get her back.
**
Lupin asks me to search the attic for a charm of Sirius’. If Sirius were alive, he’d just find it himself, but he’s not and we need it. I can see the pain in Lupin’s eyes as he asks me, and I feel bad a little, so I go even though I don't really want to.
It’s not musty or dirty like I thought it would be. Kreacher must have kept this one part of the house clean, because it was where all the Black family’s evil little trinkets were stored. He wouldn’t have even imagined letting this stuff get out of order.
It's massive and like a maze, filled top to bottom with boxes. I dig through them for an hour before I realize what a thankless job this is. They must have sent me here to get me out of the way, that's all I can think.
The room is dark despite my Lumos charm, and by the time I find the charm, I'm so frustrated that I can feel my muscles aching with it. Why am I even here if this is all I'm good for? My eyebrows hurt and my throat is tight. When I finally pull the damned charm from its box, I am seething.
I march down the stairs loudly, holding the little disk in my hand. It’s small and gold and has an R engraved on it. I squeeze my hand around it.
The door that leads down to the kitchen is closed but there are voices coming from it. I try the knob but won't budge. Order meeting. I press my ear to the door and I can hear Harry’s voice. It’s calm, regimented, but I can't make out what he's saying. There's something so oddly appropriate about the idea that I almost laugh but don't. He finishes speaking and there's a pause before the Hermione starts to speak. Her voice is a little fast. She must be nervous.
I purse my lips. There’s no point in trying to make anything out. My hand rests on the door for a second before I turn and walk to the drawing room. There’s a comfortable chair there, and it might offer some relief.
When I turn the corner, Pansy is in my chair. She’s curled up, a small book balanced on her knees. Her hair is tucked behind her ear and she’s wearing a tank, muggle jeans and no shoes.
In two days she hasn’t said a word to me. We glare. That’s all we do. I rather like it, actually. It takes my energy away from thinking about Harry and how he doesn’t want anything to do with anything anymore and puts it into making sure she doesn’t get comfortable.
She looks up when I come in but returns to the book after only a moment, as if seeing me is just as interesting as seeing empty air. I have the overwhelming desire to force her from the chair, to push her over, to throw her to the floor and hold her down there, to see her writhing beneath me.
“Get out,” I snarl.
She ignores me. This is the last draw. I feel the last snarl of patience snap inside me. It’s a crisp, clean break.
“Get out, get out, get out!” My voice sounds like the screams of a child. I want to throw things and scream. My hands clench and unclench. Distantly, I hear the metallic clink of Sirius' charm hitting the floor, but I don't even care. I can't. It's like the entire world and everything in it has narrowed down to Pansy Parkinson.
She turns her head slowly to look at me over the top of her arm. All I can see are her eyes, as dark as ever.
I rush over to the chair and pull her from it. I grab her by the arms and yank. It must surprise her, because she doesn’t fight back, and I push her to the floor. She lands on her arm at first but then the rest of her tumbles after until only her feet are left on the chair. I stand triumphantly over her as she struggles to get to her feet. Her hair is mussed, all in her eyes.
When she finally rights herself and stands up, her eyes are determined, set. She runs a hand through her hair and it falls back perfectly to the way it was. She steps towards me once, then again, until we are face to face and I have to step back. She does it again, and I step back again. She does it again, and I step back again. Pansy advances and advances until my back is against the wall and I have nowhere else to go. She glowers at me and I can feel my anger matching hers. Beneath it is something else, too. My mouth goes dry with it. I don’t trust Pansy. I don’t know what she’ll do. I’m ashamed of my fear, and the shame colors me. I can feel it on my cheeks.
“You’re so cute when your face is as red as your hair,” she sneers. “You should try this more often. At least when you’re angry, you seem halfway alive. It’s becoming, in a way.”
She reaches her hand towards me and I want to reel back, but there is nowhere to go. I press myself against the wall hard, flatten my palms against the moldering wallpaper and feel the heels of my shoes click against the baseboard. She takes a strand of my hair and twirls it with her fingers.
“Fuck you, Pansy,” I say through clenched teeth. My jaw is so tight it almost hurts.
“Bet you’d like to,” she smiles.
“I hate you,” I say.
She keeps on smiling. “I hate you too.”
She threads her hand through my hair, twists her fingers through it until her palm rests against my bare skin and she's playing with the light, curling strands at the back of my neck like she owns me. I can't step back because of the wall and I can't step forward because she's there, so I do the only thing I can think to do and I kiss her.
She makes a surprised sound, and it feels like a triumph. I force her lips and teeth open with my tongue, my teeth. I bite at her bottom lip. Her eyes are open and so are mine.
“You’re a whore,” I whisper into her mouth.
She pushes herself up against me; her leg slides between my knees. There’s a fluttering down in my stomach, like the last time we fought, but different too.
“You’re a slut,” she whispers into mine, and my hands fly up to her hair, pulling on it, dragging her towards me.
We actually kiss. Her lips are soft, but I can only register the feeling for a second because it's all moving so hard and fast. We mash our faces together and our teeth click. I pull her back from me by her hair. Her chin is up and she’s glaring down her nose at me.
“Bitch,” I whisper. My voice sounds different. It’s low and harsh and all breathy. I hardly know what I’m doing anymore. Her breasts are against mine and I can feel her nipples through the tank. Her leg pushes up between mine, rubbing up against my cunt, and my breath catches in my throat as I grind down on it. The friction between my skirt and her jeans is incredible.
I close my eyes because I can feel myself getting wet. I’m still angry so it’s exhilarating to have somewhere for the energy to go, different from the usual where all I can do is let it boil away inside me.
I move my mouth down to her neck. The skin there is soft, sensitive. I want to leave marks, I want to hurt her. I bite down, but instead of a yelp of pain I hear a moan. I pull at the skin with my teeth and then let go, suck hard instead.
The sounds coming from me are nearly growls, but the sounds she’s making are louder. For a second, I wonder if they can hear us in the kitchen, but then I realize that I don't care. I don't care if they can hear us, I don't even think I'd care if they walked in right now.
Pansy shoves my shirt and bra up with one fell swoop and her fingers are on my nipples.
She pinches them, hard. I think she expects me to yelp or cry out in pain, but the sound I make surprises even myself. It’s a half-moan, half-choking sound. She squeezes harder, pulls one and twists it.
Then my hands are on her breasts. She’s not wearing a bra. I push her tank up. My hands slip down from her hair to her chest. She's not wearing a bra and I squeeze roughly at her breasts through the tank for a moment before reaching down to pull the fabric up and out of the way.
Her breasts are pale and smaller than I thought. Her nipples are light brown and hard. I slouch down awkwardly and take one of the nipples into my mouth. Her hands hit the wall on either side of my head with a dull-sounding thud as she leans into me. I swirl the nipple around in my mouth for a moment, and she makes a frustrated sound. I know what she wants.
I nip with my teeth at first, but I keep increasing the pressure until I'm just biting them. I know it hurts. It has to. She makes small gasping noises above me.
I slide my mouth wetly over her skin, over the shallow dip between her breasts, to work on her other nipple. She groans in the back of her throat and her body seems to shake, and I wonder is she's wet, if all this pain is turning her on.
My hand slips down her stomach to her jeans, fumbling with the button for a moment before she moves one of her hands to help me. She snaps the button open and tugs the zipper down. I need no further encouragement. I thrust my hand in. We’re not teasing or playing.
She's definitely wet, and she's definitely not wearing any knickers. It shouldn't be surprising considering who she is, but the realization sparks through me like a shot.
Normally, I’d tease, I’d arouse with my touch. But I’m not doing any favors here and this isn’t even about that. I find her clit and press my fingers hard. If the position weren't so awkward, if I could twist my hand around, I’d fuck her with my fingers. I’d do it hard and fast and have her juices down my arm. But I can’t, and there’s no time anyway, so I just dig my fingers in. My nails scrape against her clit and I know it has to hurt too, like my teeth on her breasts, but the doubt is gone. I stroke her quickly and violently, and her hips jerk against my hand, her breath heaves out above me. Her nipple is still in my mouth. I bite down hard again, drag my teeth and suck with my lips.
She makes a low, strangled sort of sound, and this time, she’s the one pulling hair. She pulls me up to her mouth, her lips are all wet and full against mine and our tongues slip together messily. We're both breathing hard as we pant and twist against each other. She comes like that, while we kiss, and she relaxes a little in my mouth, moaning into her orgasm. I pull my hand out before she even stops shaking and wipe it on her jeans.
I try to catch my breath and shift on my feet, but her body is still on mine. It's almost like she's leaning against me, almost like we're wrapped in a romantic embrace or whatever those stupid things are supposed to be called. Her hair has slid away from the side of her neck and I stare at it. There are little beads of sweat and her skin shines with it.
She swallows hard, audibly, and takes a breath, and I think that if she tries to step away, laugh me off, I'll knock her down again, and this time she won't get back up.
Lucky for her, she doesn't try.
She pushes me against the wall hard and her knees make these little popping sounds as she gets down in front of me. I know she isn’t going to eat me out because that’s too gentle, too nice. I take too long from that anyway, but how could she know that?
She expertly tucks the bottom of my skirt into its hem and pushes my knickers aside. She runs her fingers along my slit and I can feel her hot breath puff over my thigh. I lean my head back against the wall, bracing for the impact I know will come.
It’s only a few seconds before she pushes three fingers into me. I squeeze my eyes shut and bite my lip to keep from making a sound. I can feel myself stretching around her.
She has well-manicured nails, but they're longer than I’m used to and I can feel them against the walls of my vagina. She curls her fingers slightly and starts moving in and out of me, going faster and faster. I can feel her nails scratching me, but then her fingers go deeper and all I can feel is how fucking deep she is and how hard she’s fucking me. I hold myself still, dig my fingernails into the palms of my hands and take it.
When she feels me clenching around her, she curls her fingers a little more and finds some crazy spot inside me that makes me feel like I’m going to explode. Then I do, and I am coming down her arm. My back arches and I twist my face to the side, pressing my cheek to the wall. My body jerks as it rushes through me and I want to moan but I don't make a sound.
I'm ashamed when it's over, because it was too fast and I like to make love. Or I thought I did, here I’ve come faster from pain than from anything else in my life so maybe not. She pulls out of me and I inhale sharply and look down. Her hand is glistening, wet. She looks up at me and then wipes it down the front of my shirt.
“Something to remember me by,” she says as she stands and sets to smoothing her clothes. And, somehow, it doesn't sound mean.
For a moment, I can't think of anything to say, I can only watch her, and I realize that for the few minutes, I haven’t been thinking about the war, or Harry, or how much I hate nearly everything around me. I realize that for a few minutes, I felt something besides myself, and it was important because I could die tomorrow with my anger and it wouldn’t affect the world at all.
I untuck my skirt.
“Don’t think this changes anything between us,” I say.
I expect Pansy to snap back at me, to sneer and laugh, but she only looks at me for a second, an unimpressed expression on her face, before she turns away and heads back toward the chair.
As I cross the room to the doorway, the light from the oil lamps glints off of the charm from the attic, dropped and forgotten at the edge of the rug. I stare down at it. It looks tiny and useless, but the sound of the door to the kitchen opening and loud laughter coming from downstairs snaps me out of my thoughts. I lean down to pick it up.
The metal is cool against my palm and I squeeze my hand around it as I glance over my shoulder to where Pansy sits, reading her book. I press my lips together and straighten my spine but even as I force myself to look away and step out into the corridor, I realize that everything has changed.
Title: Another Midnight
Author: ?
Recipient: ankh_definition
Disclaimer: I do not own anything. This is a non-for-profit production. JKR is the master of us all, and owns all rights to her work.
Pairing: Ginny/Pansy
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 4426
Warnings: Uh, wall!sex.
Summary: Ginny really resents Pansy's presence at Grimmauld Place. After several tense, she decides to do something about that.
The minute I saw her ugly pug face stride in the door, I knew there was going to be a problem. Oh, no, they told me. It’s all right. Pansy's on our side. Pansy's here to help. Pansy refused to get the Mark. Pansy’s provided us information. We were able to find a nest of Death Eaters because of Pansy. And on. And on.
They’re all so willing to trust, all so willing to just accept her when she claims that she’s turned to the right side. As if there was ever a choice to be made, as if a human being could take any position other than ours. She’s so proud and mighty, as if she defeated a huge demon. She hasn’t been where I have been. She thinks she’s so dark, with her black and her green and the eyeliner she mashes under her eyes to mask the circles that form there because she just can’t sleep. Oh, the nightmares must be terrible.
I hope she regrets everything she ever said to me.
Weaslette. Bint. Whore. Cunt. I want to take those words and shove them back up her gullet, want to make her feel as humiliated as I’ve felt.
But I can’t. Instead, I have to sit in this cramped living room at Grimmauld place and watch her looking over maps with Lupin or comparing spells with Hermione and say nothing.
Hermione was on my side at first. We hated Pansy, hated what she stood for. But then she turned out to be smart or something and Hermione can’t resist a good intellect, so off they went, talking about spells and arithmancy. Every day I can see the reservation fading from her eyes.
Harry’s here too, for now. He won’t really look at me, which is quite stupid. I don’t feel any safer with us not being together. All I feel is that hunger that comes from tasting something and then having it taken away from you. At first, I was fine; I accepted what he told me. We were fine. Everything was fine. But the days trickle by and somehow I just become angrier. Little things spring to mind, little insults, little bits of his damned heroism, of his arrogance. I hate him a little now, because he is so focused on this one thing that there will be nothing left of him once it is done. Even if You-Know-Who is defeated, I won’t have a Harry. The fucking martyr. He’ll hide away, shun his fame, push his friends to their breaking point. Well, I won’t be there.
I’ll probably still be here, staring at Pansy’s stupid hair and stupid face.
I keep staring at her. I know she can feel it.
She turns slightly and looks at me. Her face moves; it’s sort of a half-smile, half-shrug. I glare. After a few seconds, she seems to give up and her face hardens. She glares back. That’s better. Show me the hate you know is in you, Pans. I know it’s there.
I’m supposed to be researching. I haven’t looked at my book in ages.
I wish she’d call me Weaslette again so I could slap her. But she doesn’t even react to most of the things I say or do. She takes it all in stride. I wonder what happened, what changed to suddenly make her all patient and good. I’m thinking nothing. And I don’t believe her, whatever she says.
After a while, she turns back to the map she was looking over, rolls it up and walks out of the room. She’s wearing those knee-highs she's always favored, black with a green stripe on the top. One of them has slipped down to mid-calf. There’s a small scar on the back of her leg. I look back down at my book and when I look back up, she’s gone.
**
We eat in the kitchen. There's a dining room upstairs but we eat in the kitchen. It's dark and closed in and it reminds me of the dungeons at Hogwarts but is much too hot at the same time, the fire and the lamps going at all hours to make it seem less depressing even though it never works. Soup and stew, cold roast on bread, sausages and toast, and it all tastes like ash in my mouth. They try to get nice things, but it never works. We eat in the kitchen and everyone is so polite.
“Pass the butter,” Harry says, and Lupin gives him the dish.
Tonks requests the teapot and gets it.
The jam is near Pansy. I reach over the table and get it for myself. I don’t need her.
My arm nudges something and I look down, jar of jam in my hand, to see that I’ve spilled the coffee creamer everywhere. Its smooth whiteness cascades over the wood, following the grain. It leaks towards Pansy and drips over the side of the table onto her lap.
She shrieks, and it gives me pleasure somehow, to see her discomfited. She leaps up and the creamer drips off her skirt and onto the floor. I sit back down. I’m smiling. I lower my head down so no one will see.
Pansy pats vainly at her skirt for a moment, using her napkin and Hermione's as well, before crouching down to start wiping the creamer from the floor. Tonks and Lupin go to fetch some towels, and Hermione fumbles with her wand. No one is looking at me. I peek under the table because I can't help myself; it’s such a rare thing to see Pansy actually working. She’s on her knees. Her neat little Mary Jane shoes are bent at the toes and she balances on them by sitting on her heels as she spreads the napkins over the mess.
She looks up at me. She must have felt me staring and her eyes come up, and they are green. The light is falling so that her hair looks very black and her skin look very pale and her eyes hone in on me and flash from resignation to annoyance to determination. She looks away just as quickly and finishes what she was doing. I sit back up, a smile still playing on my lips, and resume my breakfast, even as everyone else is still running around.
Pansy stands up and smoothes out her clothes. She does not look at me.
Someone realizes finally to right the overturned creamer and the drip stops.
**
I’m walking up the stairs to my room when I see her. She’s just come out of the bathroom and her hair is wrapped in a towel above her head. She’s wearing a robe, a fancy one. It shines likes it’s silk. I wonder how she got to keep so many of her nice things when she allegedly deserted the Death Eaters. Did they let her pack a trunk?
She notices me. She pauses, seeming to consider whether to stay or go, but then she spins on her heels and heads towards me.
I stop at the top of the stairs, slink forward a little and lean against the wall as she marches on. This oughta be good.
She stops in front of me, close, very close, and I can smell her cinnamon toothpaste and apple shampoo. Her teeth are white and straight. She’s not having it. I smile.
“Can I help you, Pansy?”
She does this little thing with her mouth, I can't remember ever having seen it before. She sucks part of her bottom lip under her teeth. I suppose this is her thinking face, because she’s regarding me and taking her time.
“I don’t know what you’re about, Ginny, but it’s getting to my last nerve.”
“Your last nerve?” I scoff. “Your being here has already ruined my summer.”
“Is that all you can think about, your summer? A war is going on and all you can think of is your summer?”
I don’t know what to say. I open my mouth, hoping a witty response will come, but she’s far ahead of me.
“I am not the cause of your problems. It would do you well to get that through your head. I came here because the alternative was much much worse and I have done all that I can to help. If the others have been able to remove the large stick from their asses, then you should too. Unless you happen to like it there.”
“They have no reason to trust you,” I retort.
Pansy rolls her eyes. “If you’d listened to me for a minute at the most, you’d see many reasons. But you’re too hung up on your P.B. Shelley of an ex-boyfriend to even notice what's happening around you.”
“Harry just wants to protect me,” I say, even as something inside me twists. My response is so feeble but I can’t direct my anger into actual words. I feel my face turning, my cheeks getting redder. I straighten my back and look at her.
She leans in close. “If you had an ounce of that so-called Gryffindor courage in you, you’d protect yourself. You’re pissy about being ignored and that’s all there is to it. Get over it. Oh, and do try not to spill creamer on me again. Even Neville’s not that clumsy.”
My mind is racing. God, I hate her so much. I stretch myself to my full height and look down at her.
“You… you…” I start, but the words fail me.
“I what?” she smirks. “Come back when you have something real to say.”
She steps back, twists the towel off her head. Her hair spills out around her face. She looks dangerous, triumphant.
All I can do is stare as she turns around and walks to her room. I shrink back against the wall, and narrow my eyes. I’ll get her back.
**
Lupin asks me to search the attic for a charm of Sirius’. If Sirius were alive, he’d just find it himself, but he’s not and we need it. I can see the pain in Lupin’s eyes as he asks me, and I feel bad a little, so I go even though I don't really want to.
It’s not musty or dirty like I thought it would be. Kreacher must have kept this one part of the house clean, because it was where all the Black family’s evil little trinkets were stored. He wouldn’t have even imagined letting this stuff get out of order.
It's massive and like a maze, filled top to bottom with boxes. I dig through them for an hour before I realize what a thankless job this is. They must have sent me here to get me out of the way, that's all I can think.
The room is dark despite my Lumos charm, and by the time I find the charm, I'm so frustrated that I can feel my muscles aching with it. Why am I even here if this is all I'm good for? My eyebrows hurt and my throat is tight. When I finally pull the damned charm from its box, I am seething.
I march down the stairs loudly, holding the little disk in my hand. It’s small and gold and has an R engraved on it. I squeeze my hand around it.
The door that leads down to the kitchen is closed but there are voices coming from it. I try the knob but won't budge. Order meeting. I press my ear to the door and I can hear Harry’s voice. It’s calm, regimented, but I can't make out what he's saying. There's something so oddly appropriate about the idea that I almost laugh but don't. He finishes speaking and there's a pause before the Hermione starts to speak. Her voice is a little fast. She must be nervous.
I purse my lips. There’s no point in trying to make anything out. My hand rests on the door for a second before I turn and walk to the drawing room. There’s a comfortable chair there, and it might offer some relief.
When I turn the corner, Pansy is in my chair. She’s curled up, a small book balanced on her knees. Her hair is tucked behind her ear and she’s wearing a tank, muggle jeans and no shoes.
In two days she hasn’t said a word to me. We glare. That’s all we do. I rather like it, actually. It takes my energy away from thinking about Harry and how he doesn’t want anything to do with anything anymore and puts it into making sure she doesn’t get comfortable.
She looks up when I come in but returns to the book after only a moment, as if seeing me is just as interesting as seeing empty air. I have the overwhelming desire to force her from the chair, to push her over, to throw her to the floor and hold her down there, to see her writhing beneath me.
“Get out,” I snarl.
She ignores me. This is the last draw. I feel the last snarl of patience snap inside me. It’s a crisp, clean break.
“Get out, get out, get out!” My voice sounds like the screams of a child. I want to throw things and scream. My hands clench and unclench. Distantly, I hear the metallic clink of Sirius' charm hitting the floor, but I don't even care. I can't. It's like the entire world and everything in it has narrowed down to Pansy Parkinson.
She turns her head slowly to look at me over the top of her arm. All I can see are her eyes, as dark as ever.
I rush over to the chair and pull her from it. I grab her by the arms and yank. It must surprise her, because she doesn’t fight back, and I push her to the floor. She lands on her arm at first but then the rest of her tumbles after until only her feet are left on the chair. I stand triumphantly over her as she struggles to get to her feet. Her hair is mussed, all in her eyes.
When she finally rights herself and stands up, her eyes are determined, set. She runs a hand through her hair and it falls back perfectly to the way it was. She steps towards me once, then again, until we are face to face and I have to step back. She does it again, and I step back again. She does it again, and I step back again. Pansy advances and advances until my back is against the wall and I have nowhere else to go. She glowers at me and I can feel my anger matching hers. Beneath it is something else, too. My mouth goes dry with it. I don’t trust Pansy. I don’t know what she’ll do. I’m ashamed of my fear, and the shame colors me. I can feel it on my cheeks.
“You’re so cute when your face is as red as your hair,” she sneers. “You should try this more often. At least when you’re angry, you seem halfway alive. It’s becoming, in a way.”
She reaches her hand towards me and I want to reel back, but there is nowhere to go. I press myself against the wall hard, flatten my palms against the moldering wallpaper and feel the heels of my shoes click against the baseboard. She takes a strand of my hair and twirls it with her fingers.
“Fuck you, Pansy,” I say through clenched teeth. My jaw is so tight it almost hurts.
“Bet you’d like to,” she smiles.
“I hate you,” I say.
She keeps on smiling. “I hate you too.”
She threads her hand through my hair, twists her fingers through it until her palm rests against my bare skin and she's playing with the light, curling strands at the back of my neck like she owns me. I can't step back because of the wall and I can't step forward because she's there, so I do the only thing I can think to do and I kiss her.
She makes a surprised sound, and it feels like a triumph. I force her lips and teeth open with my tongue, my teeth. I bite at her bottom lip. Her eyes are open and so are mine.
“You’re a whore,” I whisper into her mouth.
She pushes herself up against me; her leg slides between my knees. There’s a fluttering down in my stomach, like the last time we fought, but different too.
“You’re a slut,” she whispers into mine, and my hands fly up to her hair, pulling on it, dragging her towards me.
We actually kiss. Her lips are soft, but I can only register the feeling for a second because it's all moving so hard and fast. We mash our faces together and our teeth click. I pull her back from me by her hair. Her chin is up and she’s glaring down her nose at me.
“Bitch,” I whisper. My voice sounds different. It’s low and harsh and all breathy. I hardly know what I’m doing anymore. Her breasts are against mine and I can feel her nipples through the tank. Her leg pushes up between mine, rubbing up against my cunt, and my breath catches in my throat as I grind down on it. The friction between my skirt and her jeans is incredible.
I close my eyes because I can feel myself getting wet. I’m still angry so it’s exhilarating to have somewhere for the energy to go, different from the usual where all I can do is let it boil away inside me.
I move my mouth down to her neck. The skin there is soft, sensitive. I want to leave marks, I want to hurt her. I bite down, but instead of a yelp of pain I hear a moan. I pull at the skin with my teeth and then let go, suck hard instead.
The sounds coming from me are nearly growls, but the sounds she’s making are louder. For a second, I wonder if they can hear us in the kitchen, but then I realize that I don't care. I don't care if they can hear us, I don't even think I'd care if they walked in right now.
Pansy shoves my shirt and bra up with one fell swoop and her fingers are on my nipples.
She pinches them, hard. I think she expects me to yelp or cry out in pain, but the sound I make surprises even myself. It’s a half-moan, half-choking sound. She squeezes harder, pulls one and twists it.
Then my hands are on her breasts. She’s not wearing a bra. I push her tank up. My hands slip down from her hair to her chest. She's not wearing a bra and I squeeze roughly at her breasts through the tank for a moment before reaching down to pull the fabric up and out of the way.
Her breasts are pale and smaller than I thought. Her nipples are light brown and hard. I slouch down awkwardly and take one of the nipples into my mouth. Her hands hit the wall on either side of my head with a dull-sounding thud as she leans into me. I swirl the nipple around in my mouth for a moment, and she makes a frustrated sound. I know what she wants.
I nip with my teeth at first, but I keep increasing the pressure until I'm just biting them. I know it hurts. It has to. She makes small gasping noises above me.
I slide my mouth wetly over her skin, over the shallow dip between her breasts, to work on her other nipple. She groans in the back of her throat and her body seems to shake, and I wonder is she's wet, if all this pain is turning her on.
My hand slips down her stomach to her jeans, fumbling with the button for a moment before she moves one of her hands to help me. She snaps the button open and tugs the zipper down. I need no further encouragement. I thrust my hand in. We’re not teasing or playing.
She's definitely wet, and she's definitely not wearing any knickers. It shouldn't be surprising considering who she is, but the realization sparks through me like a shot.
Normally, I’d tease, I’d arouse with my touch. But I’m not doing any favors here and this isn’t even about that. I find her clit and press my fingers hard. If the position weren't so awkward, if I could twist my hand around, I’d fuck her with my fingers. I’d do it hard and fast and have her juices down my arm. But I can’t, and there’s no time anyway, so I just dig my fingers in. My nails scrape against her clit and I know it has to hurt too, like my teeth on her breasts, but the doubt is gone. I stroke her quickly and violently, and her hips jerk against my hand, her breath heaves out above me. Her nipple is still in my mouth. I bite down hard again, drag my teeth and suck with my lips.
She makes a low, strangled sort of sound, and this time, she’s the one pulling hair. She pulls me up to her mouth, her lips are all wet and full against mine and our tongues slip together messily. We're both breathing hard as we pant and twist against each other. She comes like that, while we kiss, and she relaxes a little in my mouth, moaning into her orgasm. I pull my hand out before she even stops shaking and wipe it on her jeans.
I try to catch my breath and shift on my feet, but her body is still on mine. It's almost like she's leaning against me, almost like we're wrapped in a romantic embrace or whatever those stupid things are supposed to be called. Her hair has slid away from the side of her neck and I stare at it. There are little beads of sweat and her skin shines with it.
She swallows hard, audibly, and takes a breath, and I think that if she tries to step away, laugh me off, I'll knock her down again, and this time she won't get back up.
Lucky for her, she doesn't try.
She pushes me against the wall hard and her knees make these little popping sounds as she gets down in front of me. I know she isn’t going to eat me out because that’s too gentle, too nice. I take too long from that anyway, but how could she know that?
She expertly tucks the bottom of my skirt into its hem and pushes my knickers aside. She runs her fingers along my slit and I can feel her hot breath puff over my thigh. I lean my head back against the wall, bracing for the impact I know will come.
It’s only a few seconds before she pushes three fingers into me. I squeeze my eyes shut and bite my lip to keep from making a sound. I can feel myself stretching around her.
She has well-manicured nails, but they're longer than I’m used to and I can feel them against the walls of my vagina. She curls her fingers slightly and starts moving in and out of me, going faster and faster. I can feel her nails scratching me, but then her fingers go deeper and all I can feel is how fucking deep she is and how hard she’s fucking me. I hold myself still, dig my fingernails into the palms of my hands and take it.
When she feels me clenching around her, she curls her fingers a little more and finds some crazy spot inside me that makes me feel like I’m going to explode. Then I do, and I am coming down her arm. My back arches and I twist my face to the side, pressing my cheek to the wall. My body jerks as it rushes through me and I want to moan but I don't make a sound.
I'm ashamed when it's over, because it was too fast and I like to make love. Or I thought I did, here I’ve come faster from pain than from anything else in my life so maybe not. She pulls out of me and I inhale sharply and look down. Her hand is glistening, wet. She looks up at me and then wipes it down the front of my shirt.
“Something to remember me by,” she says as she stands and sets to smoothing her clothes. And, somehow, it doesn't sound mean.
For a moment, I can't think of anything to say, I can only watch her, and I realize that for the few minutes, I haven’t been thinking about the war, or Harry, or how much I hate nearly everything around me. I realize that for a few minutes, I felt something besides myself, and it was important because I could die tomorrow with my anger and it wouldn’t affect the world at all.
I untuck my skirt.
“Don’t think this changes anything between us,” I say.
I expect Pansy to snap back at me, to sneer and laugh, but she only looks at me for a second, an unimpressed expression on her face, before she turns away and heads back toward the chair.
As I cross the room to the doorway, the light from the oil lamps glints off of the charm from the attic, dropped and forgotten at the edge of the rug. I stare down at it. It looks tiny and useless, but the sound of the door to the kitchen opening and loud laughter coming from downstairs snaps me out of my thoughts. I lean down to pick it up.
The metal is cool against my palm and I squeeze my hand around it as I glance over my shoulder to where Pansy sits, reading her book. I press my lips together and straighten my spine but even as I force myself to look away and step out into the corridor, I realize that everything has changed.