Work Text:
Where are you?
The text from Ron pops up on her phone like a punch in the gut, the screen glaringly bright and full of accusation. She contemplates a lie—they had all agreed not to go, after all—but decides against it.
Hogwarts
You didn't…
A burst of laughter reaches Hermione's ears, the sound loud and hearty; so very familiar in its timbre, and yet alien in its unconstrained exuberance. Hermione has never seen her cloaked with such freedom before. It suits her. Her skin, warm and rich like pinecones, glows all the more golden in the face of her joy.
Such a shame she had to be away from Hermione to achieve it.
Eyes prickling, Hermione presses into the stonewall of the Great Hall, and hopes, rather pointlessly, that she might melt into its cold embrace and disappear.
She doesn't know why she decided to come to the Hogwarts reunion—not without Ron and Harry, who are likely cuddled up in their bed debating whether she's gone insane (it's likely to be a short debate because they'll agree very quickly that she has)—all she knows is that Pansy hasn't stopped dancing with Malfoy all night and it's driving her insane.
Text if you need us to come get you.
In her periphery, a small group is gathering by the drinks table. Neville and Luna, hand in hand, are amongst them. They wave her over and she nods her head in their direction in acknowledgment, though her gaze remains on Pansy. Always on Pansy. She can't remember a time when her eyes could voluntarily part from the sight of her in the five years since their Hogwarts graduation—at Ministry galas; at international press conferences; on wizarding news network channels, as Hermione touched herself to the sight of Pansy reporting on Korean wizarding politics.
She always looks as immaculate as she does now. Her jet-black hair shimmers and ripples down her back as Malfoy spins her around. Her accompanying laughter pulls at Hermione's chest as though her heart is sprouting a rose bush—fragrant and beautiful and so very bloody.
Hermione wonders if Pansy still thinks of her.
She wonders a lot of things.
Though she does not have to wonder whether Pansy's smile still leaves her breathless—she hasn't stopped smiling since she stepped on the dance floor; and Hermione is confused about how she, herself, is still standing with how little oxygen is flowing through her body.
***
We're going to bed. Wards are open and leftover lasagne is in the fridge. Ice cream is in the freezer.
Call if you need anything.
***
Pansy wraps an arm around Malfoy’s shoulders, so comfortable and familiar with each other, her lips against his ears. She says something that makes him wink in Neville and Luna’s direction, and the couple's respondent smile is radiant even meters away. Pansy snaps her fingers in Malfoy's face to redirect his attention back to her. With a smirk, she hooks her legs around Malfoy’s, and he dips her back in a smooth glide.
That pang returns tenfold inside Hermione's chest, now shooting outward into her lungs. She worries she might cough petals if she tries to speak.
It hasn't even been all that long, has it? Five years. Five short years since Hermione had those very arms warped around her shoulders during their Yule ball in eighth year. Five short years since those legs intertwined with her own while lying in their shared dorm. Five short years since those lips pressed against hers, so soft and tasting like home, when she taught Pansy to cast Expecto Patronum for the first time.
Hermione is heading for the door before she's conscious of her decision to leave. The air is crisp and nips at her skin. It's a welcome reprieve from the burning of her heart.
“Mind if I sit?”
The heat inside Hermione turns inferno, and her head makes jerky, uncontrolled movements as if she doesn't know whether to nod or shake her head.
With all the space on the step leading into the courtyard, Pansy sits almost thigh to thigh with her, and she thinks she might really pass out now with how frantically her heart beats against her rips like a drum roll.
Silence grows like a thick fog between them, and Hermione becomes less and less certain of what she's supposed to say or do with each second that ticks by.
Pansy shifts her dress aside to reveal a sleek holster, attached to her fishnet tights, and pressing flush against her thigh. Hermione has to clench her palms to quell the itch to touch. Pansy pulls out a cigarette holder, a box of cigs, and her wand. “Want one?”
Hermione stares as Pansy lights a cig with her wand, her slender fingers wrapping around the holder as she takes a long drag. “No. I didn't know you smoked.”
Pansy regards her from the corner of her eye. “Turns out you were right. I don't have asthma and those really were panic attacks in eighth year, so no need to worry for my lungs.”
“Oh it's not that. It's just… I never expected to see you doing something so… Muggle.”
“Because I'm Death Eater scum?” Her tone is light, as if she's simply enquiring about the weather.
Hermione slutters. “No,” she says, voice breaking. Firmly, she repeats, “No,” and adds, “I never thought of you that way.”
Pansy lets out a deep breath, the lines of Pansy shoulders softening. She hums. It sounds like she's giving up the fight. It sounds like she finally believes her.
“You seem different. Better. Are you happy?” Hermione asks—without me goes unsaid.
“I am. And you… you haven't changed very much.”
Hermione doesn't know if it's supposed to be a compliment or an insult—she rarely ever knows with Pansy. "What did you expect to be different?”
"I thought the years would have hardened you, that I would no longer be able to read you like I can."
Hermione wraps her hands around herself. "What do you think you can read?"
"Come closer and I'll show you."
Curious, and unsure how much closer she can get, she turns her body further into Pansy. This close, her rose perfume is all she can smell and she leans in closer for more.
With her free hand, Pansy trails along Hermione's cheekbones then tucks a stray loc behind her ear. Slowly, she leans closer to press their lips together with barely there friction. The kiss is soft, with an ember of a flame that grows and grows as Hermione kisses back with five long years worth of yearning, five long years worth of wanting, five long years worth of missing her.
The heat implodes and explodes until Hermione remembers the eventual burn of having this but not getting to keep it. She springs apart from Pansy, fingers ghosting over her lips. "That's awfully presumptuous of you."
"I know you want me,” she says, her tone soft or maybe softly cruel, Hermione can't tell with the ringing in her ears. "You know that I know that you want me. You've been staring at me all night.” Her wide eyes belie the certainty of her tone.
Hermione presses her fingers on the edges of Pansy's lips, through her hair, and rests it at the side of her face—almost mirroring Pansy's ministrations on her only minutes ago. “And you? What do you want?” Pansy's swallow is audible, and Hermione is emboldened, “You'd have to have been looking at me too, to know I was staring.”
Pansy's gaze wanders somewhere far beyond Hermione's shoulder. When her eyes return to Hermione's, it's full of such a gentle warmth that her heart melts with it. “You, Minnie. I never stopped wanting you.”
Hermione wants to say, then why did you leave? but Pansy is here, right now and the last thing she wants is to spoil it.
"Come back to my place," Pansy says.
Hermione snaps her hand away, the cold air settling in her lungs. “What about your date?”
Pansy looks confused for a moment before he breaks out in a smile. "Oh, Draco?" She stands, reaching out for Hermione. "He won't miss me, trust me."
Hermione doesn't dare ask for an elaboration.
She takes Pansy's offered hand. It's warm and safe, and so much like coming back home.
***
No need to send the cavalry. I'm fine xx