“Yeah, what was the final straw? Why did you two break up?” Pansy asked, furrowing her brow.
Hermione shrugged noncommittally. “I just got frustrated, I suppose. He acted like he knew everything. About women, about what’s best for me…” she trailed off.
“But he didn’t,” Pansy finished for her.
“He didn’t.” Hermione looked down, trailing her fingers along the edge of the sofa. She sat with her knees hugged close to her chest, a wine glass in her hand. A few loose coils of her hair spilled out from her updo.
“Weasley,” Pansy muttered with disapproval, shaking her head. That earned her a light chuckle from Hermione.
“Yeah, well,” she said. “It’s over now.”
Pansy tilted her head, letting her gaze drift across Hermione’s face, her freckled cheeks and tanned skin gleaming from the orange lamplight. Pansy bent one of her legs to rest on the cushion, propping herself up with her elbow against the arm of the sofa. She tilted her head, watching the way Hermione’s sides expanded on her every inhale underneath the folds of her jumper. It was easy to space out like this, with her, when it was just the two of them suspended in time.
This thing—whatever it was between them—had first begun a few months ago, one night at the pub. They had talked for hours. A complete coincidence, Hermione had approached Pansy as if she didn’t know her. As if the years of animosity that had built up between them in their academic rivalry meant nothing; it had melted away in that one moment.
The pub’s neon ‘OPEN’ sign flickered above them, casting flashes of red and blue across Hermione’s skin, and for the first time, Pansy saw her not as the insufferable Gryffindor know-it-all but as somebody entirely different. Somebody who was tired, raw, and a little bit broken.
What Pansy had originally thought to be a one-time thing soon became a weekly occurrence. The two of them didn’t speak much at first, instead filling the silence with smoke and the occasional drink or two. It wasn’t long before their meet-ups became routine, multiple times a week, often ending at each others’ flats. If she was honest, it was something that Pansy was comfortable with, even grateful for.
Gradually, Hermione seeped further into the corners of Pansy’s life in a way that felt inevitable. Like they belonged somewhere in each other’s orbit—even if neither of them was quite ready to name what that meant.
But however Hermione saw it? Pansy had no idea.
Pansy wrinkled her nose. “Enough about Weasley,” she said with disdain. “We’ve already established that he’s an idiot. Do you know what you want to do now?”
“I don’t know,” Hermione replied, bringing her hand to the back of her neck. This was something she did when she was contemplating something, when the labor of thought caused her eyes to turn glassy.
“The truth is,” Hermione said, “I don’t know what I want. Not anymore, at least.” She glanced away, taking a sip from her wine glass.
Pansy raised her own glass up to her lips, taking a sip as she kept her eyes trained on Hermione. “You’re a clever girl, Granger,” she said. “I bet you’ll sort it out soon enough.”
Hermione rolled her eyes, a smile tugging on the edges of her lips. “That’s an awfully nice way to tell me I’m on my own.”
Pansy chuckled. “I know… why do you put up with me?”
Hermione hummed. Hermione’s eyes were slightly narrowed as she studied Pansy, her cheeks slightly pink. “You’re not as awful as you think you are.”
Pansy felt her lips curl into a smile. “I’ll take it,” she said. “And you’re not on your own, Granger.”
“No?” she asked, tilting her head.
“No,” Pansy returned. “Because I’m here.”
As she sat there, her eyes trained on Hermione’s, Pansy suddenly felt a heat start to creep into her cheeks. Hermione’s gaze became too much, and she had to look away. She blamed it on the wine—it had to be the wine. That’s what made her mouth suddenly feel dry.
Hermione’s lips parted. “That’s good,” she breathed.
Pansy wet her lips. She looked back at Hermione, idly wondering if she was imagining the flush on Hermione’s cheeks as well. “Granger,” she said. “I think you like me.”
Hermione rolled her eyes, but the grin on her face betrayed any real annoyance. “I tolerate you,” she replied.
Pansy chewed on her cheek. “If you only tolerated me, you wouldn’t still be here.”
Hermione opened her mouth, but she hesitated.
“Or all those other times,” Pansy added.
Hermione cleared her throat. She tucked a non-existent piece of hair behind her ear. “Maybe I was just bored.”
“Bored,” Pansy echoed, swirling the wine in her glass. “So you decide to drink with me—consistently, might I add—instead of reading some ancient book on, I don’t know, cauldron thickness?”
Hermione straightened, bristling at the implication. “Reading isn’t the only thing I do, you know.”
“I suppose that’s true,” Pansy conceded.
“And I have friends, for your information.”
Pansy decided she was going to be difficult. “It’s a shame, I don’t see any of them.”
Hermione visibly bristled, her cheeks flushing. She set her wine glass down on the table with a sharp clink. “You—” Hermione cut herself off, exhaling sharply through her nose. Her fingers twitched on the table beside her glass, like she was resisting the urge to cross her arms.“Well, I can’t be with them all the time, can I?”
“So you admit it,” Pansy said, barely hiding her smirk. “You’d rather be here with me, than with them?”
Hermione scoffed. “That is not what I said.”
“I think it’s what you meant.”
“You think a lot of things, Parkinson.” A flicker of something unreadable crossed Hermione’s face before she grabbed her glass again, knocking back more wine than she probably meant to. “And you’re wrong about most of them.”
Pansy took a slow sip of wine, watching her over the rim of her glass. “Well, I suppose I can’t be perfect,” she eventually said with a shrug.
Hermione set her glass on the table again with an exasperated sigh. “Why must you make everything feel like a game? Honestly, it’s infuriating.”
Pansy raised a brow. “If that’s the case, you sure are playing by my rules.”
“Yeah, and I’m sick of it,” Hermione returned sharply, crossing her arms. She shifted on the sofa, angling herself slightly away from Pansy. But she didn’t get up, didn’t walk away, didn’t leave Pansy alone. Interesting.
Suddenly, Hermione whipped her head around to face Pansy again. “That’s another thing,” Hermione said, pointing her finger at Pansy, almost accusatory. “You’re so frustrating. I never know what’s going on inside your head. Hell, I don’t even know what’s going on outside your head.” She huffed, shaking her head. “We’ve been doing this for what—three months? I still know very little about you. You’re still such an enigma.”
Rather than feeling offended, Pansy found herself entertained by the sudden burst of emotion. Perhaps Hermione was more tipsy than she’d thought—extra talkative, extra combative, the rosiness in her cheeks making her look especially passionate, like a woman in a painting. Pansy studied her, really looked at her—the rise and fall of her chest, the wild curls framing her face, the cranberry lipstick slightly faded at the center of her lips. Pansy couldn’t deny it; Hermione was breathtakingly beautiful.
“An enigma, am I?” Pansy asked.
Hermione scoffed, frustrated. “Oh, you know what I mean.”
Pansy couldn’t hide her grin. “I didn’t realize you had devoted so much time to thinking about me.”
Hermione groaned, dragging a hand through her hair. “It’s just because it doesn’t make sense!” she exclaimed, exasperated. “You’re— Why do you even spend time with me? We’re not—” She hesitated, then shook her head. “We’re not friends. Not really.”
Pansy wet her lips, leaning in slightly. It was enough to feel the gentle puff of air from Hermione’s breath, close enough to make Hermione still. “Not friends?” Pansy murmured. “What are we, then?”
Hermione stared at her narrow-eyed, making an effort to look unfazed. Pansy saw right through it.
Steadying herself, Hermione took a slow breath. “I just don’t like it when people are unpredictable.”
Ah, so she was deflecting.
“How disappointing,” Pansy said, leaning back again. “And here I thought you liked a challenge.”
Hermione huffed, exasperated but flustered, and looked away as if willing herself to ignore Pansy altogether. But Pansy knew better. She could see it in the way Hermione’s fingers clenched against her arm, in the way her leg bounced ever so slightly. She was thinking. Overanalyzing. Probably cataloging every interaction they’d ever had, trying to fit this moment into some logical framework that didn’t exist.
It was almost endearing.
“You must drive everyone in your life mad,” Hermione muttered after a moment.
Pansy smirked. “I certainly drive you mad.”
Hermione’s nostrils flared. “That’s not the point.”
“Then what is the point?” Pansy pressed, lowering her voice just slightly, just enough to watch Hermione’s throat bob as she swallowed. “You’re the one who brought it up, Granger. You could’ve just sat here and sipped your wine in dignified silence, but instead, you’re talking to me about how infuriating I am.” She set her glass down beside Hermione’s, closing some of the space between them. “Why is that?”
Hermione didn’t answer right away. Her jaw tightened as she drummed her fingers along the edge of the sofa. It was as if Pansy could see the gears turning in her head.
She took a breath—“I just,”—paused again. She shifted even closer to Pansy now, their crossed knees just a breadth away from touching. Pansy felt her breath catch.
“It’s refreshing, I suppose. Just existing with you,” Hermione said softly. She reached out, taking one of Pansy’s hands into her own, over her lap. She traced Pansy’s wrist with the pad of her thumb, searching. For a pulse, or something else, Pansy wasn’t sure. But she let her.
“You don’t expect me to act a certain way, don’t need me to be the brains all the time, don’t expect me to solve your problems for you. I feel different around you, because I can just relax. I can just be me.” Hermione paused, and Pansy could see the color flood to her cheeks right before she covered her face with her hand. As if she meant to stop talking, but the words came out anyway.
Pansy felt something in her stomach flutter. She dragged her fingers over the wrist Hermione had touched, trying to forget the way it made her skin ignite. She swallowed, fighting the urge to reach out to Hermione, instead keeping her hands firmly stuck in her lap. It wasn’t just the words—it was this thing, this warm and buzzing energy between them—Pansy had felt it for the past few months. She wanted more. She had been unsure about Hermione’s perspective, but perhaps this was evidence that she felt it too.
Hermione dragged her fingers down, briefly making eye contact with Pansy before blushing again and looking away. She smoothed her hair back, away from her face. “Does that make sense?” she whispered, lips parted ever so slightly.
“Yes,” was all Pansy could say, barely more than a breath.
For a moment, silence stretched between them, velvet and weighted and fragile, like speaking too soon would cause the moment to break. Pansy felt a warmth in her cheeks watching Hermione’s face, eyebrows tense from the thousand thoughts that Pansy knew were racing through her head.
“Granger,” Pansy murmured, unable to keep her gaze from flicking to Hermione’s lips.
Hermione’s eyes were wide, her expression searching.
“Stop thinking.”
And Pansy leaned in, catching Hermione’s lips in hers and bringing a hand up to cradle her jaw. Hermione let out a soft sound of surprise before opening her mouth against Pansy’s, her tongue briefly darting into her mouth and tracing against her teeth. Pansy let her eyelashes flutter shut, reveling in the taste of cinnamon and vanilla and the leftover wine on Hermione’s lips—her smooth, tanned skin and the loose curls at the base of her neck that Pansy buried her hand in. She felt Hermione’s hand against her thigh as Hermione leaned farther into her, her other hand resting on Pansy’s collarbone, sending a trail of goosebumps across her neck.
The kiss was vibrant, it was ecstasy, it was their worlds colliding and Pansy allowed herself to be swept up into the feeling of it all. Her other hand grazed Hermione’s side, her fingers making contact with the soft flesh underneath Hermione’s shirt.
That seemed to bring Hermione back to the present.
She froze against Pansy, her eyes shooting open. Her hands found Pansy’s chest and she shoved her back, pushing her away.
Pansy felt the loss like a slap. Her stomach dropped, curling in on itself.
Hermione recoiled, eyes wide, her hand pressed to her lips in what looked like disbelief. Still, Pansy couldn’t ignore the rosy heat in Hermione’s cheeks, or the way her pupils had grown wider than they were before. But there was no denying the immediate, unmistakable shift in the air, the heat draining from the room and being replaced with cold, vacant uncertainty. For a moment there was only the sound of their breathing.
Her brows knit together, Hermione opened her mouth, choked, closed it, looked away, turned back, opened her mouth again. “That’s not— I don’t—” she stammered, looking utterly wrecked. Her voice was hoarse, like she was a child who had been caught in a lie.
Pansy felt something in her chest tighten. “Granger.”
Hermione held her hand up, shaking her head as if trying to rid herself of the moment. “I just— fuck, why did you do that?” she asked quietly, stunned.
Pansy faltered, because the truth was, she hadn’t thought, not really. She’d just seen Hermione, all flushed and intense and beautiful, and now Pansy’s skin burned from where they had touched. Now, her hands were growing cold, and she clasped them together to hide their shaking. She tried to backpedal: “I— I wasn’t thinking, I’m sorry—”
Hermione let out a sharp breath, her hands clenched into fists. “Why do you always—?” She shook her head. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing this time, Parkinson, but it’s not—”
“It’s not a game.” Pansy felt like she was letting something vital slip through her fingers, something she couldn’t figure out how to pull back to her chest.
“It’s not fair,” Hermione said pointedly. “You don’t get to mess with me like that. I’m a— I’m a real person with feelings—”
“You kissed me back,” fired Pansy, almost wincing as she said it, the words leaving her mouth in a rush.
“I didn’t mean—” Hermione stiffened. “I’m drunk,” she amended quickly.
“You’re drunk,” Pansy echoed numbly, well aware that Hermione was still on her first glass of the night.
“Yes,” Hermione replied. “The wine, the alcohol— it makes you do things you otherwise wouldn’t. Stupid things.”
Pansy swallowed thickly, nodding. “And this was a stupid thing.” She couldn’t suppress the bitterness in her tone.
“It’s a thing that should not have happened,” said Hermione.
“Right.” Pansy let out a quiet breath, tilting her head back against the couch. For a moment, she just stared at the ceiling, willing the lump in her throat to go away. “Of course.”
Hermione opened her mouth, and Pansy wondered briefly whether she would take it back, but Hermione decided against it, pressing her lips together instead.
“Well,” Pansy began as she sat up, “not to worry, Granger. I promise you won’t ever have to suffer through it again.”
Hermione reached her hand out. “No, I didn’t mean—”
“You did,” Pansy returned coldly, standing up from the sofa, feeling foreign in her own skin. In the back of her mind, she acknowledged that she may be overreacting, but she couldn’t help feeling hurt. This was her way to deal with it.
“Parks, listen,” Hermione looked up at her, at a loss. She pressed her palms against her thighs to ground herself. “It must be the wine, alright? Because I’m not—” Hermione sighed, gesturing vaguely between the two of them as her eyes darted anywhere but Pansy’s face.
“You’re not what?” Pansy prompted, her voice low. Almost threatening. She could still taste the remnant of Hermione on her lips, could still feel the warmth on her skin.
Hermione’s jaw clenched, and she shut her eyes. “I don’t like you like that.”
Pansy looked away, exhaling sharply. She crossed her arms over her chest, trying to ease the ache she felt. “Noted.”
Hermione sighed. “I really don’t want this to change anything. Please?” Her voice was soft, timid, meek. At the sound of it, of the shame in her tone, Pansy almost wanted to cry.
Almost.
She forced herself to meet Hermione’s gaze. In a blink, she forced her expression to go blank and her posture to straighten, covering up her emotion the best way she knew how. So, plastering on an indifferent smirk, she drawled, “Relax your pretty little head, Granger. We can forget it. Like you said—we’re not even friends, right?”
Hermione’s expression twisted, and her voice broke. “Pansy, please—”
Pansy abruptly turned to face her. “Oh, so now we’re on a first-name basis? I thought nothing changed.”
Hermione shook her head, her eyes beginning to brim with tears. “I’m sorry, that was a mistake—”
“You’re right. It was a mistake.” Cold. And Pansy meant it to be that way. They both knew she wasn’t just talking about her name.
Hermione dropped her head. “Right.” She sounded tired, defeated.
“It won’t happen again,” Pansy said, her eyes fixed on the wall.
“It won’t.”
Pansy let the silence stretch between them, trying to ignore the pressure in her ribs. The air in the room began to feel thick, almost oppressive; the breath caught in Pansy’s throat. It was too much. This was too much. She shut her eyes, feeling wetness on her cheeks.
“You should go,” she said to Hermione, not daring to look her in the face.
Hermione let out a breath, shaky and uneven. She hesitated, and Pansy caught the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, the way her fingers twitched as if she wanted to reach for something—reach for her. But then she stood up.
“Yeah, okay.”
Pansy watched her turn, watched her grab her coat with shaky hands, then head for the door. Pansy waited for Hermione to say something else, to falter, to look back.
She didn’t.
Hermione left without another word, closing the door softly behind her, because staying would only hurt more.