InsaneJournal

Fic: Amortentia, Pansy/Hermione, R
Title: Amortentia
Author: foreword
Rating: R
Pairing: Pansy/Hermione
Disclaimer: JKR creates and I mooch.
Warning: Some HBP included. :)
Summary: For once in her life, Hermione doesn't understand.
A/N: A second gratification for moriath's request in hp_slashfantasy.

Thank you to cloudsurfing and lunicanca for the excellent beta-ing. :)

Hermione hated lying to Harry.

She managed, though, flushed and a bit rumpled, to mutter something of an excuse when Harry, clearly noticing her current dishevelled state, questioned her.

“What’s happened to you?”

Hermione’s brain raced and she swallowed hard, remembering that she was supposed to be here with Cormac McLaggen.

“Oh, I’ve just escaped – I mean, I’ve just left Cormac.”

When Harry still looked unconvinced, she added in an undertone, “…under the mistletoe.”

She flushed slightly, but secretly congratulated herself on such a convincing, on-the-spot cover up.

She tried her best to not take offence at Harry’s reprimand, and allowed her thoughts to wander back to the previous hour as they compared McLaggen to Smith. It didn’t, after all, take much concentration to find both of them annoying and offensive.

At eight o’clock, instead of meeting Cormac, she’d found herself delayed in the library. Though this was not in itself unusual, her company was certainly something worth remarking on. Hermione hadn’t spent time alone there for quite some time.

Harry, of course, had been accompanying her on her revising missions for a while, probably believing that she was horribly broken up over Ron and needed the company. And Hermione was irritated with Ron – his trysts with Lavender were tasteless and overdone, and the whole thing was so insincere that she could hardly stand it. And maybe, sometimes, she wished she could be the girl in his lap, but she didn’t think she could bear being so cheapened.

And after all, she was rather preoccupied.

The first time it had happened, Hermione had been in the library. Fifth year was almost over, Dumbledore was gone, OWLs were approaching, and Hermione was spending every spare moment revising.

The detail that stuck with her about that first time the most was the scent. Not the scent of her, not the scent of anything hugely significant, but the smell - familiar, comforting and exciting – of the fresh, new parchment before her. She hadn’t even written yet. Her quill was inked, her book was open, and the parchment was blank. Then there was a whisper at her ear, and after that, studying was lost on her.

“Working hard, Granger?”

She frowned and turned in her seat, searching for the source of the voice, but no one was there. Swallowing hard and glancing over her shoulder again for good measure, Hermione tried to go back to work, tried to focus on the words in the book in front of her. But at the moment, Goblin Rebellions didn’t seem quite as important as the hand that had just brushed her thigh underneath the table. Hermione nearly started at this, glancing hurriedly around her, but still she found no one.

Her voice was shaky when she managed to speak, suggesting an answer she knew was incorrect.

“Harry?”

The voice hadn’t been his, even in a whisper, and the laugh that answered her certainly wasn’t. Shrill, high-pitched … No, there was only one person who laughed like that. Hermione scowled, gripping her quill more tightly and staring down at the parchment.

“Parkinson.”

The chair next to her moved, and again she felt breath on her neck as the other girl whispered to her.

“Afraid of something, Granger?”

Hermione scowled, but stood (or sat, rather) her ground.

“What could I possibly be afraid of?”

She felt rather stupid about murmuring to the parchment and was glad, not for the first time, that this section of the library was so rarely used.

She felt rather than heard the other girl’s laughter this time. It was another moment before she realised a hand was on her knee.

She swallowed hard and bit her lip, resisting the urge to flinch away from the touch.

“What are you doing?”

Her only answer was the slow, steady, torturous movement of invisible fingers up her inner thigh.

Hermione was starting to feel rather warm, and the all-but-forgotten parchment in front of her was now marred with splotches of ink. It was at this point that she realised her hand was shaking.

“Stop it,” she whispered, but the invisible fingers kept moving, underneath her skirt now, the breath still warm on her neck, the sound of the other girl’s breathing echoing in her ears.

“Do you really want me to?”

And at that precise moment, Hermione realised that she didn’t. She wanted Pansy Parkinson to touch her, to whisper to her, to want her. She swallowed. She couldn’t admit it; she’d never live it down. But the girl had pulled her cloak down the next minute, letting it fall to the floor between them, and Hermione thought for a moment, as she regarded Pansy’s solemn expression and cool dark eyes, that she could trust her.

“…No.”

And Parkinson had laughed. She’d laughed, pulled her hand away, and practically skipped out of the library, her shrieking giggle reverberating around Hermione. She had never hated anyone more in her entire life.

But that had only been the beginning. Hermione pretended as if the incident had never happened, though she was perhaps a bit more vocal in her dislike of the Slytherin to Harry and Ron. To her great surprise, however, Parkinson kept it a secret as well.

She was given the opportunity to question her two weeks later, when they met in the library once more. Hermione had been spending even more time there, jumping at the slightest sound and looking around hopefully in what she convinced herself was courageous refusal to be chased out of her favourite place.

In perfectly apt fashion, she had just begun to settle down into revising, giving up on expecting another encounter, when one found her.

What she initially passed over as a slight breeze continued to move up her bare legs, causing her to freeze up at the realisation that it was, in fact, the cleverly light touches of a feather. She swallowed hard, tensing slightly, but giving no other indication that she realised what was happening. The feather continued its movements until it was brushing the uppermost regions of her thighs. Hermione, though slightly flushed, continued staring at the parchment in front of her, determinedly ignoring this intrusion.

This was apparently not what Pansy had in mind, as a moment later there was an angry whisper against her ear. Hermione closed her eyes.

“That’s not playing nice, Granger.”

The point of what she now realised was, in fact, a quill, was digging into a rather sensitive area above her knee. She wondered idly, in an odd, detached manner, if she was bleeding.

“What do you want, Parkinson?”

She spoke softly, as if she were trying to remember the correct sequence for the runes in front of her.

She felt the breeze around her ankles that meant the cloak had dropped and glanced boredly at the girl now seated beside her, flushed with rage. Pansy slammed the quill down on the table, and Hermione followed its movement, her eyes locking on the bloodied tip. There was a small silence as Pansy followed her gaze, finally lifting the quill, examining it closely with a frown.

“You’ve soiled my quill, Granger.”

Hermione bit back her indignation and scowled at the other girl, hissing her response as quietly as possible.

“What do you want, Parkinson?”

Pansy looked up from the quill in surprise, letting it dangle from her fingertips as she frowned, apparently considering Hermione’s question.

“Nothing a Mudblood like you could offer, I’m sure.”

Hermione didn’t realise she had raised her hand before the sound of it hitting Parkinson’s sneering face was echoing around them.

Parkinson stared at her for a moment in shock, her face flushed where Hermione’s hand had left its mark. And then, as abruptly as Hermione’s hand began to sting, Pansy was kissing her, hard and sudden, her fingers gripping Hermione’s face, pulling her forward, forcing her to succumb to Pansy’s advances. Hermione couldn’t object, couldn’t pull away, couldn’t breathe… so she kissed her back.

This singular action seemed to momentarily shock Pansy into releasing her face, and Hermione quitted her tentative exploration of the other girl’s mouth, flushing a deep crimson and pulling away. She fixed her attention on the bookshelf opposite Pansy, and wasn’t surprised to find that the girl had disappeared when she turned around again.

There hadn’t been any laughter that time.

After doctoring her quill-inflicted wound that evening in the prefects’ bathroom, Hermione found the bubble bath Pansy used. She told herself it wasn't intentional. It was mere curiosity which led her to twist each of the many taps in turn, and she wasn’t sure what exactly propelled her to stop once she’d caught a whiff of that suddenly-familiar aroma. It took her only a moment to place the scent. And surely it was only natural for her to want to know what sort of bubble bath Pansy used, even if it was intentional. It wasn’t as if Hermione wasted time on such trivialities for herself, anyway.

It was a ridiculously sweet-smelling kind, a frivolous one that Hermione would never have used of her own accord. It reminded her of flowers and fruits and those sweets she’d been denied in her dentist-ruled youth simultaneously. When it streamed from the tap into the swimming pool-sized bathtub, bubbles like jewels filled the tub, reflecting light off of various multicoloured diamond-cut edges. The opulence was precisely the sort of thing she would have expected of Pansy, and Hermione found that she couldn’t wait to have it touch her skin.

She would later return, night after night, basking in the jewels and the aroma of someone that wasn’t her. Her thoughts invariably drifted to Pansy, the cloying fragrance invading her just as effectively as the living, breathing girl did as her fingers dipped under the jewelled surface. Overcome with her memories and fantasies, there were nights when she could swear she heard Pansy whispering to her as she touched herself there, surrounded by the scent of the other girl. Hermione began to crave it.

Though she waited, Pansy never returned to harass her in the library those last few months of fifth year.

Over the summer, she made do without the bubble bath – she had to, after all – but found herself strangely affected by the scent of something so familiar and vanilla it didn’t make any sort of rational sense. But as the summer progressed, Hermione’s subconscious seemed to cling more tightly to the images evoked by the scent of fresh parchment. By the end of the summer, she was having trouble studying.

She had hoped, initially, that a new term was precisely what she needed – she would be able to find distractions in the form of academic pursuit, Harry and Ron, and perhaps even other romantic interests. So it came as quite a surprise to Hermione when she found herself in the Prefects’ bathroom, twisting the same, familiar tap and watching the sparkling, delicately crafted jewels fill the tub.

She took her time that night, soaking in the scent she’d missed for months, her eyes closed and her hair soaked as her fingers traced the curves of her body, and she imagined they belonged to someone else. The jewel-bubbles created a soft, dulcet tone as she moved her hand lower, teasing herself.

Whispers surrounded her again, none friendly and all belonging to the same spiteful girl. Hermione bit her lip; she had forgotten how very erotic this was, had neglected her fantasies for far too long… But the whispers she’d imagined before had never come with the feeling of hot breath on her neck. She tensed, keeping her eyes tightly shut as her mind raced for an explanation – any explanation other than the obvious one. Maybe this was all part of the magic of the bubble bath. Maybe it was just like the Amortentia that had almost given her away her first day of Potions.

Or maybe Pansy Parkinson was using her invisibility cloak again.

Hermione had never been so horrified, so embarrassed, in her entire adolescent life. And even worse than the overwhelming, immobilizing sense of mortification was how incredibly turned on it had made her.

She cleared her throat, stilling her hand as the whispers died around her, echoing off of the walls and painting the mermaid an entirely new shade of scandalised.

“Parkinson?”

She had opened her eyes but there was still only the reminder of warmth on her neck, where she’d felt the breathing. Silence answered her and Hermione felt a rush of hope – one which was quickly vanquished with the familiar swishing of a cloak behind her.

“Oh, don’t let me interrupt, Granger. You’d hardly even started.”

Hermione closed her eyes again, her face hot with embarrassment and rage and the water now mockingly cool against her skin.

“Get out.”

Only Pansy's shrill laughter answered her. When Hermione opened her eyes, the girl was perched on the edge of the tub, dipping her fingers into the water and brushing the jewels across the surface. Her skirt looked decidedly rumpled against her thighs, in stark contrast to the freshly starched shirt and knee socks of her uniform.

“Nice taste, Granger.”

Hermione ignored her sneer, now staring fixedly at the water as she crossed her arms over her chest. She felt hot tears threatening to escape now, and she had no intention of crying in front of her.

“Please leave.”

She hated her voice, wished it was stronger, more like a demand than a pleading whisper.

Pansy traced designs in the water with her long crimson nails, the jewels parting before them. She didn’t respond, and after a minute, Hermione looked up at her.

Pansy’s eyes were focused on her now; dark, soulless depths fixating on her, probing and invasive. Hermione shivered. Her perfectly manicured fingernails disappeared beneath the surface, followed by slim fingers, but Hermione didn’t notice because suddenly Pansy was kissing her. She hadn’t felt the water moving, the jewels chiming as they brushed against each other, until fingernails were brushing her stomach. Hermione jumped, her eyes wide as she recoiled, her arms wrapping more tightly around herself.

“What are you doing?”

Pansy didn’t flinch, instead examining her nails under the surface, tilting her head as she watched the light reflecting off of the jewels, refracting to make her fingers crooked and discoloured. Hermione couldn’t help but watch her, unable to move without exposing herself to Pansy, and unable to look away from the girl who was poised like a trap about to be sprung.

“Do you know why I like it, Hermione?”

Hermione swallowed, unsure of how to answer her, and whether or not she should be worried about the use of her first name. When she spoke, it was a whispered plea, not a question.

“Like what.”

Pansy looked up then, swirling her fingers in the water as she stared at Hermione, before glancing down at the surface. She continued speaking as if Hermione had never spoken.

“I’m not sweet. I’m not precious, I’m not breakable, I’m not fragile. But I’m expected to be.”

She looked back up at Hermione then, her fingers stilling in the water as she withdrew her hand, shaking it with a look of disgust on her face and standing.

“I hate it, Granger. It’s foul-smelling, it’s heavy and it’s overpowering. I hate the stench of it. I hate that you’ve wrapped yourself up in it for months now. I can’t stand to be near you. I can’t bear smelling it on you. I hate watching you defiling it, wallowing in it like it’s your own. Like it’s your right. It isn’t.”

Hermione suddenly wanted to throw up, and Pansy’s expression reflected her nausea briefly before the girl turned, picking up her cloak and disappearing underneath it. The door slammed a moment later and Hermione realised she had been holding her breath.

That was when she stopped her nightly visits to the Prefect’s bathroom.

She had no intention of ever speaking to Parkinson again (not that she had intended to before, of course).

It was, then, quite a surprise for her when she found herself pinned against the shelves of the Invisibility Section in the Library the night of Slughorn’s Christmas party, Parkinson’s knee shoved roughly between her legs as Hermione tried, in vain, to kiss the other girl. When Pansy’s lips ghosted by her own for the third time, her grip on Hermione’s wrists tightening every time, Hermione let out a whimper of protest, arching away from the shelves and trying to touch the other girl with her body. Parkinson laughed, but it wasn’t the shrill giggle Hermione was used to. This time her laughter was low and soft, suggesting she was something other than amused.

“Couldn’t bear to be touched before, Granger. Have a change of heart?”

She did kiss her then, not allowing Hermione to answer. Upon reflection, Hermione realised this was probably wise – her body and mind were currently working toward opposite ends, and though she couldn’t be trusted to rely on instinct at the moment, she didn’t want to be guided by intellect.

Pansy pulled away at last, her face flushed and her lips red and abused looking. She grinned at Hermione, releasing her wrists and stepping back before turning to leave.

Hermione trembled as the other girl started to walk away. She couldn’t leave again. Not now.

“Parkinson?”

Pansy paused and glanced over her shoulder at Hermione, a bored expression on her face as her gaze swept Hermione’s (likely dishevelled) figure.

“You still use it.”

A look of surprise flitted across Pansy’s expression before her features broke in a grudging, carefully-controlled smile. She crossed the space between them and paused, bringing her mouth to Hermione’s neck. Hermione could feel her breathing and she closed her eyes. She wondered if Pansy could still smell it on her.

“It certainly serves a purpose, as we both know.”

Hermione’s heart pounded as the image of Pansy touching herself under the jewels flashed through her mind - Pansy thinking of her this time.

And then she was gone.

Cormac McLaggen was twenty minutes late for Slughorn’s party, his date having forgotten him.


*

Opening dialogue taken from page 296 of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, UK edition.