Chapter Text
T he day everything fell apart started just like any other. A flawless blue sky stretched over London, unmarred by a single cloud, as a deceptively warm May breeze hinted at anything but the chaos to come.
For Hermione, her rare days off were a chance to indulge in the simple pleasures of the Muggle world. It wasn’t that she preferred to spend them alone; it was just hard to find anyone in her wizarding circles who shared in her interest. Ron, her husband, was the perfect example—he quickly grew bored of anything Muggle-related and gravitated instead toward the familiar comforts of the wizarding world. She didn’t fault him for it; not really. She understood it was just who he was. But still, there were moments when the loneliness crept in, when it felt as though half of who she was remained unseen, unshared. Or worse, as though he simply didn’t care to see it.
Particularly today, when the weight of disappointment had arrived in the unassuming form of a pregnancy test. They had been trying for a while—Ron had always insisted that having children was vital to him, dreaming of a large family like the one he’d grown up with. When she’d noticed she was late, a quiet flicker of hope had kindled within her. Maybe today would be the day she could finally tell him the news he so desperately wanted to hear: that they were expecting a baby. But instead, she found herself staring at a stark, negative result, her hopes quietly unraveling.
She had even gone out of her way to take the test somewhere she wouldn’t risk running into Ron or anyone she knew. The Victoria and Albert Museum in Muggle London might not have been the most practical choice, but it was a place she loved—a sanctuary of beauty and history. The grand indoor atrium, with its towering statues bathed in soft light, always felt like a place of possibility, of hope. If anywhere could bring her a bit of luck, surely it would be here. But as she stared down at the result, that hopeful notion crumbled. Clearly, it was not to be.
So now, her plan was simple: grab some takeout and retreat to a very special park—one her parents used to take her to when she was little. It was a place full of happy memories, and she wondered if revisiting it might help her piece together the fragments of yet another broken hope. Desperation was starting to creep in, though she wasn’t sure if it was entirely hers or more of Ron’s. She hadn’t even fully made peace with the idea of being a mother, but she wanted it—for him, if nothing else. Yet lately, it felt as though their entire relationship had been consumed by this relentless race toward pregnancy. Intimacy no longer felt like intimacy, but an obligation, a calculated attempt to maximize her fertile days. How long had it been since they had connected in a way that wasn’t tied to this singular end? She found herself slipping into daydreams of better times, when love had felt effortless and full of possibility.
The sound of children’s giggles and jubilant shouts was the first sign that she was nearing the park. Though it was still hidden behind clusters of thick bushes and low-hanging trees, she could hear the gentle murmur of the grand fountain near the main entrance. Its cascading waters blended with the cheerful hum of people enjoying the sunny day, their voices carrying an unmistakable warmth. For a brief moment, the lively sounds tugged at her heart, reminding her of why she had come here—to seek solace in a place that once felt so full of wonder.
She turned onto the main lane, her steps unhurried, but her attention was quickly snagged by a red squirrel perched atop a garbage can, smugly hoarding French fries from an abandoned lunch. The little furball froze for a moment, locking eyes with her before darting under a bush and disappearing behind the first line of trees. Hermione fumbled with her camera, hoping to snap a picture, but the squirrel was far quicker than her fingers.
It made her smile, though. Something about its mischievous demeanor reminded her of Ron. She imagined how much he would laugh at the story, and with that thought, she decided to follow the little creature deeper into the park.
Moving slowly and carefully, she tracked the squirrel through the greenery until it finally paused on a bushy hill, happily munching on its prize. Hermione crouched low, angling herself to avoid the glare of the sun on her camera lens. She smiled at the scene before her, determined to capture the perfect portrait of her cheeky little squirrel friend.
It was in that moment, crouched low with her camera poised, that her ears caught a voice calling out joyously in the park. It was a voice so familiar, she thought she would recognize it in her sleep. Slowly, Hermione raised her head, scanning the open space beyond the trees. And then she saw him.
There, playing catch with two small children—perhaps three and two years old—and what appeared to be a young Muggle woman, was none other than Ron Weasley. The children’s bright red hair glinted in the sunlight, making them look unmistakably like him. The woman stood close by, her face glowing with laughter, and the whole scene seemed plucked from the pages of a picture book.
Something cold and sharp began to coil around Hermione’s heart. Her breath hitched as she strained to hear more clearly. And then it hit her. The children weren’t just calling out to Ron—they were calling him "Dad."
Three letters, so simple and unassuming, had never felt so devastating.
The world around her dimmed, the vibrant colors of the park fading into muted grays. The sound of the fountain and children’s laughter disappeared as if someone had turned the volume of life all the way down. All she could see—seared into her vision—was the image of Ron. Ron, pulling the young woman close, embracing her like a lover. Ron, kissing her passionately while the children giggled at their feet.
The sight shattered Hermione’s world in an instant. Before she could even think, her body reacted on instinct. A sharp crack echoed through the trees as she Disapparated, leaving behind the life she thought she knew.
W hen Hermione opened her eyes, slightly disoriented and struggling to steady herself, she realized where her shattered heart had brought her. She stood outside the Leaky Cauldron, the familiar sign creaking gently in the breeze.
Apparently, her subconscious had decided she needed a drink, and honestly, who was she to argue?
A drink—or maybe several—felt like the only thing that might dull the image still burning in her mind. Those three red heads. In her park. Her park! How dare he?!
Pushing open the heavy wooden door, Hermione strode inside, her emotions simmering dangerously close to the surface. She made her way to the bar, dropping heavily onto a stool.
"Gimme a glass and a bottle of firewhisky," she barked at the bartender, her tone sharper than she intended. She noticed a few curious glances from nearby patrons and scowled. What? Couldn’t a witch drink in peace these days?
The bartender, wisely, didn’t comment, setting down the glass and bottle without question. Hermione poured herself a generous measure and tossed it back in one swift motion, feeling the firewhisky burn its way down. Then another. And another.
With each gulp, the sharp sting of betrayal dulled ever so slightly, giving way to something hotter, angrier. She slammed the glass down on the counter and poured again, her hands trembling slightly—not from the alcohol, but from the flood of emotions she couldn’t quite contain.
Anger. That was better than hurt, wasn’t it? Let it burn. Let it all burn.
It wasn’t a loud, explosive anger—it was quiet, simmering, and unlike anything Hermione had ever felt before. It consumed her entirely, burning through her veins and taking control of every fiber of her being. Even her hair felt puffier than usual, like it, too, was reacting to the firestorm within her.
She had given so much to Ron, so much of herself, trying to make him happy. She had been willing to invest her body, her future, into building the family he so desperately wanted. And all the while, he had gone off and built a family on his own—without her. In the Muggle world, no less! The same world he had refused to share with her, leaving her to navigate her loneliest moments without him.
That betrayal cut deep, but it was tangled with another grief, one she rarely allowed herself to think about. The Muggle world was where her parents had lived, and when they’d permanently lost their memories, that world had been ripped from her too. Ron’s actions felt like a cruel mockery, rubbing salt into wounds that had never fully healed.
The firewhisky burned her throat, but it couldn’t compete with the flames roaring inside her. For the first time in a long time, Hermione didn’t feel guilt or shame—only rage. And with it came clarity, sharp and liberating. She had nothing left to give him. She was done being the golden wife everyone had expected her to be.
No longer would she blame herself, her body, or her womb for their failures. She was done tiptoeing around the issue of her “defectiveness” to spare Ron’s feelings, avoid Molly’s disappointment, or match up to Ginny’s effortless perfection. Her so-called fruitful womb be damned!
The glass clattered loudly against the bar as she downed yet another drink, spilling a little onto her hand and skirt in the process. She didn’t care. With each gulp, her spirit rose, little by little, as the fiery drink loosened the knots of hurt and expectation that had bound her for so long.
And then she saw it. A vision of a future—her future. One that didn’t include a redhead in any form. A future where she was no longer defined by anyone else’s desires or expectations. Where she wasn’t a baby maker, wasn’t tiptoeing, wasn’t invisible.
She was a woman, and she was damn tired of not feeling wanted. It was time to take her life back.
"Well, isn’t this a sight for sore eyes? The golden girl, piss-drunk at the Leaky. Never thought I’d see the day, really," came a melodious, familiar voice from behind Hermione’s shoulder.
Hermione twisted around, the motion far too sudden for her compromised equilibrium. The room swayed, her stool wobbled, and before she knew it, she was falling. With a graceless flail of limbs, she tumbled straight into the arms of none other than Pansy fucking Parkinson.
"Careful there, Granger," Pansy drawled, her voice dripping with amusement as she steadied Hermione with surprising ease. "Wouldn’t want you face-planting on this lovely floor. Merlin knows there are stains here that even a Scourgify wouldn’t dare touch."
Hermione glared up at her, though her slightly unfocused eyes dulled the effect. She swatted at Pansy’s arm in an attempt to regain some dignity, but the gesture was more of a clumsy pawing.
"F-fuck off, Panshy," she slurred, managing to stumble back onto her stool with an unsteady wobble. She waved a dismissive hand in Pansy’s direction, her fingers fumbling in the air like they’d forgotten their purpose. "’M in no—hic—no mood t’deal with… with you. Go… flounce somewhere else or whatever it is you do."
Pansy smirked, clearly entertained by the whole spectacle. "Oh, Granger," she said with a mock sigh. "You’re even more amusing when you’re utterly smashed. This might just make my night."
Pansy didn’t seem fazed by Hermione’s protests, her smirk widening as she slid onto the stool beside her with the effortless grace of someone who had never tripped over their own feet. She waved to the bartender, signaling for another glass, all the while studying Hermione like a particularly entertaining curiosity.
Hermione’s bleary eyes couldn’t help but be drawn to Pansy’s fingers—delicate and adorned with a glittering array of golden rings, most shaped like serpents or set with emeralds. Her long, iridescent green-tipped nails curled under her chin as she tilted her head in amusement, her sleek chin-length raven-colored bob perfectly in place, not a single strand daring to misbehave.
Hermione, by contrast, suddenly felt very aware of her own disheveled state. Her hair was a wild, frizzy mess of brown curls, and in a desperate attempt to fix it, she ran her fingers through the tangled locks—only to get them stuck. "Bloody hell," she muttered, yanking her hand free with a sharp tug that sent a few strands flying and nearly knocked over her glass in the process.
"Pans—Panshy… go away," Hermione slurred, glaring at the sleek witch through slightly unfocused eyes. "Fer real thish time."
Pansy only laughed, leaning in closer, her smirk downright devilish. "Oh, Granger, don’t be so uptight. I’ve always dreamed of seeing you like this—completely smashed and delightfully messy. Don’t you ever get tired of being Miss Too-Good-To-Be-True?" She raised her own freshly poured drink. "Live a little! Come on, let’s toast—to getting drunk in thoroughly disreputable places!"
Before Hermione could form a coherent reply, Pansy had refilled her glass and somehow tipped it against her lips. The fiery liquid spilled down Hermione’s throat before she even realized what was happening. She coughed, blinking in confusion. "How’d—how’d that…? Did you jusht—hic—pour that in me?!" she demanded, pointing accusatorially at her now-empty glass.
Pansy cackled, leaning back in her seat. "Oh wow, you’re really gone if you’re arguing with a glass. What’s next, an impassioned debate with the flower pot over there? Or are you just determined to pass out with your head in it later?"
Hermione scowled, her tongue heavy as she mumbled, "Ron’s a—an ashrole, tha’s why."
Pansy’s perfectly arched brow lifted, her smirk deepening. "Ah, now this is getting interesting."
"Yes, I always knew that," Pansy said, her voice dripping with mock patience. "Care to be more specific?"
Hermione squinted at her, as though trying to decide if Pansy was real or some figment of her firewhisky-soaked imagination. "Why… wha’d you even care, huh?" she slurred, waving a hand that narrowly missed knocking over Pansy’s glass.
Pansy leaned in, her smirk widening as if she’d just been handed the best entertainment of the night. "Why wouldn’t I care?" she replied, her tone rich with sarcasm. "Hearing the golden girl take the piss out of Ron Weasley? Second only to Harry Potter, the savior of Gryffindor, champion of the valiant Order of the Phoenix, and Muggle-lover?" She raised her perfectly groomed eyebrows. "Honestly, this is better than the Prophet’s gossip column."
Hermione scowled, the words slamming against her like a taunt. She seriously considered clamming up right then and there. But the firewhisky in her veins made her bold, and besides, who else was she going to talk to? Ginny? Ginny, the little sister extraordinaire with her perfect bloody womb, who’d probably faint at the first hint of Hermione criticizing Ron? Or Harry? Harry, who had a history of siding with Ron against her since they were eleven bloody years old at Hogwarts?
The bitter thought hit her like a gut punch. Who in her life was truly, firmly on her side?
And then another, darker thought followed. Maybe they already knew. Maybe Harry and Ginny, all their friends, even Molly—weaving scarves for Ron’s secret spawn—knew all about his duplicitous second life.
Hermione’s blood boiled, the anger rising to match the alcohol coursing through her system. Her lips parted, and she felt the first flood of words spill out. She’d later wonder if she ever really stood a chance of stopping the deluge once it started. It felt like years of neglect, resentment, and loneliness were clawing their way out, unchecked and unstoppable.
And then there was Pansy Parkinson. Pansy with her sharp, laser-focused attention that made Hermione feel seen in a way she hadn’t felt in years. For a moment, the way those dark eyes stayed locked on her, Hermione thought, Damn it feels good to be listened to.
So she told her. Some of it. Too much of it. Maybe all of it.
"The prick’s been hounding me for years to get pregnant," Hermione slurred, her words tumbling over one another, "and—hic—and it looks like the asshole got tired of waiting and went and got the Muggle family of his dreams on the bloody side!"
"Wait, what?" Pansy’s eyes widened, genuine shock flickering across her usually composed face.
"Ron has a fucking Muggle family!" Hermione screamed hoarsely, her voice cracking under the weight of her fury. She slammed her glass down on the bar, nearly tipping it over. "Hope his dick falls off, his balls shrink back, and he gets some horrible pox that leaves him looking like a leper! Like… like some Middle-age peasant!"
The words kept pouring out, unstoppable now, her drunken brain spilling every sordid detail. "He hasn’t touched me in years, Pansy. Years! And when he does, it’s like I’m nothing more than—than a baby factory." Her voice cracked again, her emotions crashing down like a tidal wave. "And I—I’ve been so blind, so stupid… so alone."
Her head fell forward into her hands as a sob wrenched its way out of her throat. She sniffled, then groaned, her drunken filter completely gone. "Oh, why am I telling you all this? Why you, of all bloody people? I just… I just wanna feel seen, Pansy. For once, I want someone to fucking see me! I’m so… tired. So damn tired of always doing what’s right and what everyone expects of me. So… bloody. Fucking. Tired."
Pansy leaned back, swirling her firewhisky in her glass with deliberate ease, her expression contemplative. She let Hermione’s words hang in the air, clearly savoring every bit of the scene unfolding before her.
After a long pause, her smirk returned, sharp as ever. "So why don’t you stop, then?" she said, her voice silky but pointed. "Clearly Ron’s a lost cause. What do you want to do now, Granger?"
Hermione looked up at her, eyes red-rimmed and glassy, her breath hitching.
Pansy’s gaze didn’t waver. "When," she asked, her voice lower, "was the last time you actually felt good?"
"If you must really know," Hermione mumbled, tracing the rim of her glass with a wobbly finger, "it was… back at school."
Pansy raised an eyebrow, leaning in with exaggerated interest. "No surprise there. Being the best student probably stroked your ego quite nicely."
Hermione snorted, a messy, unladylike sound. "Actually, no." She tilted her head back, eyes unfocused as she stared at some far-off memory. "It was a Slytherin party I went to… while polyjuiced."
Pansy froze mid-sip, nearly choking on her firewhisky. "I’m sorry—what?! You did what?"
Hermione waved her hand, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "What?" she slurred defensively, hiccupping between words. "It’s not like it was even hard!" She took another gulp of firewhisky, then burped loudly, her face lighting up in a tipsy grin. "’Scuse me!"
Pansy gawked at her, utterly dumbfounded. "Oh my god, who are you, and what have you done with Hermione Granger?"
"No, no, hear me out," Hermione said, leaning forward with wide, unsteady eyes, her tone conspiratorial. "This party was ahhh-may-zing!" She spread her hands for emphasis, nearly smacking her glass off the bar. "No one knew who I was. I played cards and—hic—kinda made out with Malfoy… sat on his lap… and, oh my god, it was soooo good!"
Pansy’s jaw dropped.
"I laughed and danced and drank, and it was… it was so freeing!" Hermione continued, her voice rising with giddy enthusiasm. "And, like, so… hot!"
The hiccup halfway through her declaration ruined what might’ve been a dramatic finish, but Hermione didn’t seem to care. She sat back with a self-satisfied smirk, swirling her glass.
Meanwhile, Pansy was sputtering, her firewhisky spraying back into her glass as she wheezed, "Draco Malfoy? You… what?"
For once, Hermione felt like she had the upper hand. "Yep," she said, popping the p. "Malfoy." She leaned back, grinning at Pansy’s wide-eyed, speechless expression. "Best. Night. Ever."
"You didn’t!" Pansy gasped, her eyes practically bulging out of her head.
Hermione grinned, a lopsided, tipsy smirk spreading across her face. "Damn right I did," she slurred, tapping her empty glass with a finger. "Second time I ever drank firewhisky, actually."
Pansy rolled her eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn’t get stuck. "Not that, you dimwitted Muggleborn. You didn’t smooch Draco!"
Hermione leaned in, her smirk deepening. "Oh, I definitely did," she said, drawing out the words for effect. "If you must know, he wasn’t into it at first. I was polyjuiced as Astoria, you know, but—"
"Astoria?!" Pansy nearly shrieked, looking ready to pass out.
Hermione waved her hand dismissively, as if it were a trivial detail. "But he kept staring at me," she continued dreamily, "like I was this… interesting puzzle he wanted to figure out, and, oh my Merlin, it was just so hot." She sighed dramatically, her cheeks flushed from both the firewhisky and her storytelling. "Krum never came close to being that hot. And Ron? Pfft, don’t even get me started on Ron."
Pansy stared at her, mouth agape, completely at a loss for words. After several beats of stunned silence, she finally managed, "Oh my god, Granger. I… I am at a loss for words. And let me tell you, I’m never at a loss for words!"
Hermione straightened up in her chair, swaying only slightly. "Damn right," she declared, her chest puffing out with pride. "I can be a bad girl too! And enjoy it!"
A fleeting memory of her time polyjuiced as Bellatrix tried to worm its way into her mind, but she shook it off. Nope. That’s a different kind of bad. That’s… Bellatrix bad. Not going there tonight.
Pansy leaned in, her eyes narrowing with curiosity. "What else?"
Hermione blinked, her hazy brain trying to process the question. "What do you mean?" she asked, tilting her head like a confused Kneazle.
Pansy’s smirk returned, sharper than ever. "I mean… what else are you hiding in that Gryffindor closet of yours? What else did you do? Clearly, I never knew you had it in you, but I am all for it!" Pansy exclaimed, clinking her glass against Hermione’s with an almost feral grin.
Hermione grinned back, sloppily tilting her glass before both women downed their drinks in a cheerfully reckless toast.
"Oh, you mean that night?" Hermione hiccuped, setting her glass down a little too hard. "Well… I kinda ended up making out with Draco in a corridor, but—hic—I had to skedaddle ‘cause, you know, the potion was gonna run out. No more in my flask. So when the clock struck midnight, I, uh… I left."
Pansy froze, glass halfway to her lips, her expression twisting into theatrical disappointment. "Ugh, so boring! Are you kidding me?!" she groaned, throwing her head back dramatically. "We had this rumor—this legend!—that Draco was very, um, well-endowed down in the dungeons. And here I thought I was finally getting a first-person account of the snake’s snake!"
"PANSYYY!" Hermione screeched, her face turning as red as a Weasley Christmas sweater. She slapped her hands over her ears. "Don’t call it that! That’s so… so yuck!"
Pansy smirked wickedly, swirling her drink with flair. "Anyhow," she sighed, leaning lazily against the bar, "I feel so cockblocked, Granger. Really, you’ve let me down."
Hermione snorted, nearly choking on her drink. "Oh, please! Like you haven’t tapped that!"
Pansy gasped in mock horror, clutching her chest as if mortally wounded. "I have not! Wash your mouth out this instant!" She almost shoved her glass at Hermione’s lips as if to punctuate her outrage.
"For real?!" Hermione squinted at her, teetering on her stool. "We all thought Draco was kinda banging, like… all of you!"
"All of us?" Pansy shrieked, looking positively scandalized. "What do you mean, all of us? We’re not some—some group deal, Granger!"
Hermione shrugged, trying and failing to look innocent. "You know… all you Slytherin girls!"
Pansy gasped, clutching her pearls—or rather, her imaginary ones. "That is so… reductive and simple of you, Hermione Granger. I am offended! Deeply offended. And," she added with a smirk, pointing a perfectly manicured finger, "just a little disappointed in you too. To tell the truth."
Hermione blinked, taking a long, dramatic sip from her glass. "Yeah, well, I’m disappointed in me too. But not for the same reasons."
Hermione frowned, her foggy brain turning over her preconceptions. It hit her, slowly but surely, that she’d never really bothered to know Pansy or any of the other Slytherin girls. Everyone in her circles had always just assumed they were all loose, amoral, and a bit evil. But when she thought about it now… how was that fair? How was that just or good on her part?
She sighed, slumping a little on her stool. "I’m sorry, Pansy," she mumbled, her words more heartfelt than slurred for once. "That was bitchy and biased and… very…"
"Gryffindor," Pansy finished smoothly, her smirk returning as she sipped her firewhisky.
Hermione winced. "Well… yes. I guess I deserve that."
Pansy tilted her head, watching her with a curious gleam in her eye. "For what it’s worth," she said, her tone lighter now, "I didn’t even float that way back then, you know."
Hermione blinked, confused. "What do you mean?"
Pansy swirled her glass, her grin turning a little mischievous. "I wasn’t into boys."
Hermione’s brow furrowed as she tried to process that. "Oh… so you like girls?"
"Don’t be daft," Pansy replied with a dramatic eye roll. "I said back then. These days? I’m an equal opportunist." She smirked, her iridescent nails tapping lightly against her glass.
That made Hermione grin despite herself. She liked this—this unfiltered, no-holds-barred girl talk. It was refreshing. She’d never had anything like it with the other girls in the Order, who were always a little too proper, or with Harry or Ron. Definitely not with Neville, bless his awkward, earnest heart.
Pansy tilted her head, a playful glint in her eyes. "You look like you’re having an epiphany over there, Granger. Care to share with the class?"
Hermione chuckled, shaking her head. "No, just… this is nice. Unexpected, but nice."
"Of course it is," Pansy replied with a smirk. "I am delightful company. So… Have you?"
Hermione blinked at Pansy, her hazy vision swimming in and out of focus. There were two Pansys for a moment, but only one seemed to be speaking. "Me… what?" she mumbled, squinting suspiciously.
"Ever kissed a girl," Pansy clarified, her grin devilish. "In your wild polyjuiced years, of course."
Hermione snorted, a messy, unladylike sound. "Nooo," she drawled, shaking her head so enthusiastically that her hair flopped into her face. She tried to push it back, only for her hand to miss. "That… hic! …never came up. I did learn ‘El Meneadito’ from this Latin student who lived near my Muggle parents, though!"
Pansy raised an eyebrow, looking thoroughly intrigued. "Okay, pause on that, because I will ask you more about that later. But seriously, how do you even know you’re only into boys if you’ve never tried anything else?"
Hermione paused, her mouth opening and closing like a fish as she considered the question. Finally, she slurred, "I mean… after Ron? I’m not… mmph… saying no to anything. At least once. The bar is so low it’s—" She hiccupped loudly, cutting herself off. "—not even funny!"
Pansy burst out laughing, doubling over and clutching her stomach. "Oh, Granger," she wheezed, wiping a tear from her eye. "You are an absolute mess, and I am living for it!"
Pansy’s gaze traveled up and down Hermione with a slowness that made her cheeks burn hotter by the second. Hermione knew she wasn’t exactly dressed to turn heads—her muggle jeans were well-worn, her ankle boots scuffed, and her long knitted cardigan more cozy than chic. Her only saving grace was the peasant blouse underneath, which, she grudgingly admitted, did give her a flattering figure. It nipped in just right at the waist and emphasized her modest assets—her boobs, or, well… what little she had to work with.
Pansy, on the other hand, looked like she had stepped straight out of a Witch Weekly photoshoot. Her long, statuesque legs were crossed in a way that made her black skirt part just enough to reveal a tantalizing stretch of thigh above her high-heeled, over-the-knee boots. And then there were her robes—sleek, flowing, and made of a material Hermione desperately wanted to reach out and stroke. Velvet, maybe? Whatever it was, the fabric shimmered faintly, embroidered with tiny stars that glimmered when she moved.
The way it hugged her figure was almost unfair. Her curves, her waist, and, most annoyingly, her décolletage—all were highlighted to perfection. Hermione couldn’t help but stare. Her boobs—yes, her boobs, dammit—looked plump, soft, and… bountiful. The kind of cleavage that made Hermione feel self-conscious about her own lack thereof.
Pansy looked hot. And Hermione could objectively appreciate that. Right? That was all it was. Appreciation.
But then her tipsy brain wandered. What would it feel like to touch another woman’s boobs? Would they be as soft as her own? Heavier, maybe? Would they fit in her hands with room to spare, or—
Her thoughts derailed even further as her gaze flicked up to Pansy’s lips. They looked soft. Plush, even. Were they as soft as they looked?
Hermione blinked and shook her head slightly, trying to snap herself out of it. Merlin, I need water. Or more firewhisky. Definitely one of those.
Hermione had to admit, a small part of her had always fantasized about looking like Pansy back in their school days. Pansy had been poised, polished, and exuded a confidence Hermione could never quite master. But if she couldn’t be Pansy, then, well… she could damn well say she’d kissed her!
Across from her, Pansy could feel Hermione’s gaze, warm and lingering.
Pansy knew she looked hot—she always did, and she dressed with intention. In her world, presentation wasn’t just important; it was survival. The right look could be the difference between command and irrelevance, and she’d learned early how to wield her appearance like a weapon.
This wasn’t new for her, being watched. Sometimes it felt sticky and uncomfortable, especially when the attention came from someone she wouldn’t give the time of day. Other times, it made her feel invincible, like she could conquer the world with just a glance.
But Hermione’s gaze was different. It wasn’t envious, or leering, or dismissive. It felt… appraising, like Hermione was truly seeing her in a way that most people didn’t bother to. It made Pansy feel strangely exposed, like a painting under a magnifying glass.
So, when Hermione wobbled unsteadily on her stool, stretched onto her tiptoes, and grabbed Pansy’s chin with surprisingly firm fingers, Pansy wasn’t prepared.
And she was even less prepared for what happened next.
Without a word, Hermione pressed her lips against Pansy’s in a smooch that was both impulsive and determined, the firewhisky clearly fueling her boldness. Pansy’s eyes widened in shock, her mind racing to catch up. Of all the things she thought Hermione Granger might do tonight… this wasn’t even on the list.
It was a sloppy kiss, no doubt about it. But Pansy, ever the perfectionist, wasn’t about to let Hermione Granger’s first experience of kissing a girl be anything less than stellar. No, if Hermione was going to kiss her, she’d walk away knowing exactly what it meant to kiss Pansy fucking Parkinson—kisser extraordinaire.
Taking charge with practiced ease, Pansy slid one hand to Hermione’s waist, pulling her closer, while the other gently tilted Hermione’s face into position. She moved deliberately, nibbling softly at Hermione’s lips, brushing them with her own in teasing, languid strokes. When she finally coaxed Hermione’s lips apart with a soft flick of her tongue, an involuntary gasp escaped, granting Pansy access to deepen the kiss.
Hermione, for her part, was too stunned to do much of anything. Her body simply relaxed, surrendering to the moment as Pansy took the lead. And what a lead it was. Pansy’s lips were warm and silky against her own, moving with a patience and skill Hermione hadn’t even realized she’d been craving.
It was nothing like Ron’s usual rushed, let’s-get-this-over-with enthusiasm. No, Pansy kissed her like they had all the time in the world. It was slow, deliberate, and oh-so-pleasurable.
When they finally broke apart, both witches were panting softly, their faces mere inches apart. Hermione’s lips tingled, swollen from the kiss, while Pansy’s cheeks were flushed, her smirk softer but no less confident.
Hot breaths mingled between them as they stared at each other, eyes hazy and slightly dazed. Hermione felt like she was floating, her thoughts sluggish as they tried to process what had just happened.
Then, the sound of slow clapping cut through the moment like a glacial gust of wind.
Hermione blinked, her reverie shattered, and turned toward the sound. A pair of striking silver eyes locked onto hers, sharp and piercing, as if they could see straight through her soul.
"Well, well," drawled a familiar voice, rich with amusement. "This might just be the most entertaining thing I’ve seen all year."
Draco bloody Malfoy.