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Pansy sways to the beat of the music. She's determined to enjoy this soiree that Draco's insisted she attend at his new flat, though she'd felt no compulsion to go out tonight. He's dragged her out the last three weekends, and without his interference, she knows she'd still be working fourteen-hour days and going straight to bed once home, even on Saturdays. In a way, she owes the prat for demanding she maintain a semblance of a life.
And she likes this song. It's one of her old favourites from around fifth year, before everything went to utter hell. She's had a few Firewhiskies, and her head is buzzing, so it doesn't feel like such a bad thing to lift her arms sinuously over her head and move her body to the driving bass. There are others cramped into Draco's living room doing the same, or roughly thereabout. She can blend into the crowd, maybe have one more drink in a moment, and then, having done her duty, Floo home for a hot bath and early sleep.
It's with this thought safely in mind that she turns, and her step falters.
Hermione Granger is possibly the last person she expects to meet dancing in the middle of Draco's living room. Pansy's lips part on her gasp. She blinks. In the short space between her riotous heartbeats, she makes room for the wisp of a thought that she may be murdering her best mate tonight when all's said and done.
But the Firewhisky's still working on her. And Granger is right there. She's so close; Pansy would hardly have to reach out to be able to touch her. She smells the same, like ylang ylang and newsprint, and, Merlin help her, the curve of Granger's neck looks deliciously warm. Pansy can see her pulse firing there under the skin. She remembers, with perfect precision, how that skin tastes against her lips. Pansy's remaining breath leaves her in a hot rush.
For one awkward moment, they're simply staring at one another and standing far too close. But in the next, in that split second when Pansy knows she should turn away, she doesn't. She takes a step toward Granger instead. Granger doesn't step back, her heavy gaze dropping to Pansy's lips.
Granger's waist meets Pansy's palm so easily. It fits, Granger's ribs expanding and contracting against the slow search of Pansy's fingers. Pansy's thigh nudges between Granger's own, and she gasps. Granger has yet to touch her, her arms hanging at her sides. But she's not pulling away.
Pansy sways. And Granger goes with her.
A few beats of the song more, a smattering of notes, and Pansy slips her hand onto Granger's lower back, drawing her but an inch closer. Granger shivers. The heat of her body through the sleek dress she's wearing stokes something in Pansy. She's wet. Her body remembers what to do now. Her hands ache to grip. Her lips are so close to Granger's. Her other hand, currently frustratingly vacant, wants, with a stark, undeniable ferocity that shouldn't surprise her, to sift up Granger's body and, in the heat and enclosure of the bodies around them, cup her full breast until Granger quivers. She has to ball her hand into a fist to keep from it.
Her own nails biting into her palm works like an Enervate.
Abruptly, she steps back. Granger frowns a question at her. Pansy swallows hard. Her breath catches. She parts her lips to speak, but nothing comes out.
She turns, pushing through the crowd now maddeningly stifling her exit.
She pushes until she finds a door and opens it to the cool dark night. She steps out, the music becoming a muffled throb through the door. Pansy leans back into the solidity of a brick wall. She looks up into nearly-bare trees, small stars dappling through. Then she closes her eyes.
*
Hermione watches Pansy walk away from her, her body still warm from the places they touched. There are reasons why she shouldn't follow; good ones, she's quite sure. But as Hermione stands stupidly in Draco's living room, bodies sliding around her for another drink or another dance, she can't think of a single one.
Her feet move before she's given them permission, following Pansy's path to the door. Her gaze catches on a couple in the hallway. Draco's pulling Harry to his bedroom, but, the way they're kissing, it doesn't seem as if they care whether they get there or not. Hermione smiles wistfully.
It should be that easy.
The cool air hits her face, but that isn't the reason her cheeks flush. Pansy leans against the building, the smoke from her cigarette dissipating in a graceful arc into the night sky. The moment she sees Hermione, her lip quivers. She stomps out the fag with the toe of her high heeled boot. Her eyes go hard.
Hermione swallows down her fears, leans in, and kisses her.
Pansy tastes of Firewhisky and nicotine, harsh and spicy, but her lips are halting, hesitant. Her hand flutters to Hermione's waist, then drops, slipping free.
Hermione can't blame her. How many times have they been here before? And how many times has Hermione been the one to run away?
She's not running now. Her head's finally caught up to her heart, but she doesn't know how to tell Pansy this. For the first time in her life, words are stumbling blocks that can't help her. So she takes Pansy's hand and guides it back to her waist. She cups Pansy's neck and curls her fingers into her hair. Pansy trembles and exhales sharply against Hermione's mouth. She pulls back, her eyes dark and unreadable, but Hermione does her best to let her resolve shine through her gaze.
Her heart thuds once, twice, then Pansy grabs her arm and pulls her into the cramped, dark alleyway, the only light puddling at their feet from a nearby streetlamp and the dim, twinkling stars above. She presses Hermione against the brick, and her kisses turn brutal, demanding, desperate. Hermione falls into them like quicksand, and her hands catch on the curve of Pansy's hips, pulling her closer.
Pansy's hands descend, and she starts hiking up Hermione's dress. Her hands slide up Hermione's thighs, lifting the silk as they go. When Pansy pulls back to look into her eyes, Hermione can only nod. Pansy's fingers tremble against her as she pulls Hermione's knickers down, kneeling to strip them off over her heels.
Hermione drops her head back, panting, so wet. Pansy stands, crowding her against the wall, her hand sifting up under the dress and greeting the apex of Hermione's thighs. Pansy's fingers sink into her heat, stroking, coaxing. Hermione wraps her leg around Pansy's hip and moves against her fingers, breath harsh and loud. She's never felt so alive or so reckless.
And then Pansy is everywhere, her lips open against Hermione's neck, her hand cupping and lifting her breast so that the strap of Hermione's dress falls off her shoulder in surrender.
Pansy's inside her, fingers plunging into her, her breath shuddering under Hermione's ear. Hermione groans, body moved against the brick. She comes apart, her skin alight, body singing for this again. She holds onto Pansy tightly and trembles.
As the last tremors leave Hermione weak, the hand that had held her breast drops, and Pansy links their fingers. Their gazes lock. Pansy's lashes are wet. She extracts her hand from between Hermione's legs, and the dress falls again past her knees.
Pansy lifts their joined hands and presses a warm, lingering kiss to Hermione's knuckles, to her own. Hermione exhales, a smile hovering at her lips, her heart racing hopefully. Pansy's slow return smile over their hands warms the whole night.
They start back toward the flat, and without her knickers on, Hermione feels dangerously near-exposed. She spies a bit of the silky pink fabric peeking out from Pansy's trouser pocket, and Hermione cannot help but laugh.
And it's easy.
Pansy spares her a backward glance, a conspiratorial smile, and, hand-in-hand, they return.