fic: This Could Be Love for scarletladyy

We always have this, every year. The absolute final post.

Apologies to scarletladyy and the author of this fic for the mod's confusion. Really sorry about the confusion!

Title: This Could Be Love
Recipient: scarletladyy
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Pansy/Hermione, Pansy/Rose, mention of Ron/Hermione.
Summary: Pansy watched as Hermione ran her hands over the nape of her slender neck, as she wiped the tears from her eyes with the backs of her hands, and as she reached for her robes.
Warnings: D/s, cross-gen, infidelity, light bondage, manipulation, dub-con by way of duress.
Word Count: ~2200
Author's Notes: the dub/non-con elements are mostly implied (strongly, I suppose), but there's nothing graphic. scarletladyy, I had so much fun writing for you – your requests were wonderful and, although I've not managed to use one of your prompts directly (I wanted to write them all but simply couldn't choose), I've tried to capture the feeling you were after in them. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!


Pansy licked her lips at the sight before her: Hermione Granger, stripped naked and bound to her bed. It never failed to amuse her, to excite her. Her bed; Pansy's. She was hers. She stalked across the room in her heels, the soles of her shoes clack-clack-clacking against the timber floor and she could not suppress a gratified moan as she watched Hermione struggle against her bindings; as she watched Hermione's breasts and belly rise and fall with the rapid succession of her breaths

Pansy bit her lip. "Is there something you want, Hermione?" she asked, arching a thin, dark eyebrow.

Hermione said nothing coherent, only moaned. She thrust her hips upward, spreading her thighs as she did so.

Inviting.

"My apologies, Hermione," Pansy said. She approached the bed and leaned in close. She could feel Hermione's breath, hot and sweet, against her cheek. She closed her eyes. "I didn't quite catch that. You'll have to repeat –"

"You!" Hermione spat suddenly, arching her body fiercely against her bindings. "I want you."

"And what is it that you want from me?" Pansy asked as she mounted the bed. Throwing one leg over Hermione's torso, she straddled her, and eased back on her haunches.

"Well?" she whispered, brushing her lips lightly over Hermione's. Teasing.

"Your cunt," Hermione whimpered, "I want your cunt."

"Well," Pansy said, "why didn't you say so?" Grinning, she inched her way along Hermione's body, her soaked knickers and damp thighs leaving a sticky sheen over Hermione's breasts, neck, and chin before Pansy positioned herself over Hermione's eager, open mouth. Tugging her lacy knickers to one side, Pansy lowered her exposed cunt to meet Hermione's searching tongue and, as they met, a deep, guttural moan rose up from her belly.

Hers, Pansy thought as she gripped the headboard for balance and Hermione's practised tongue sought out her clit.

All hers.

*

Pansy watched Hermione's back, the intensity of her gaze travelling along the ridges of Hermione's spine: the shifting protuberance of vertebrae beneath the skin; the curved lines of her slumped posture, bare, and dejected.

"What am I doing here?" Hermione asked, her voice a whisper. Hoarse, and ragged. Stripped.

In reply, Pansy said nothing. She heard what was asked, but did not answer. Instead, she shrugged her shoulders. Leaning back against the headboard she reached for a crumpled pack of cigarettes lying on the dresser. Taking one between thumb and forefinger, she raised it to her lips, muttered and incantation to ignite the tip, and inhaled.

Hermione repeated her question, not to Pansy but to herself: to the heavy silence and the scent of sex that still clung to the air. In wordless reply once more, Pansy merely rolled her eyes and exhaled.

And she watched.

She watched as Hermione ran her hands over the nape of her slender neck, as she wiped the tears from her eyes with the backs of her hands.

Pansy watched as Hermione told her she couldn't do this again, anymore; as she reached for her robes and left.

She watched, as Hermione's purse fell from amongst her things as she departed.

*

Without warning, Pansy pushed open the door to Hermione's office. Reaching into her robes, Pansy fingered the lined leather of Hermione's forgotten purse just as the open door revealed to her the sight of Hermione seated behind her desk, her brow furrowed and eyes narrowed in concentration as she perused the parchment laid out before her. The scratching of her rapidly moving quill on the paper tore through the silence of the room, its sharp nib cutting it into tiny, imperceptible shreds. Like paper-cuts through the air.

"Ron, we can deal with this later, I –" Hermione started before looking up from her work. When she did raise her head, however, the words died in her throat; and her quill stilled, frozen to the parchment.

"What are you doing here?" Hermione hissed through gritted teeth. Getting quickly to her feet, she crossed the room and, pushing past Pansy, closed the door to her office.

"I thought I told you, Parkinson, I wasn't going to –"

Without a word, Pansy held up a hand, indicating to Hermione to stop.

"Relax, Granger," she said. "I only came by to drop this off." Pansy reached into her robes and extracted Hermione's purse. Holding it between thumb and forefinger, Pansy offered it to Hermione, but when she reached out for it, she withdrew it from her grasp. Teasing.

"I must admit," Pansy said, as she stepped around Hermione and perched her bottom on the edge of her cluttered desk. "I must admit, I had a flip through."

Pansy arched a dark, slender eyebrow in expectation of Hermione's reaction.

She didn't have to wait long.

Rage crossed Hermione's features; her pale cheeks suddenly streaked by a fierce blush as she tried to contain her anger.

"You went through my purse?!" Hermione spat, incredulous.

Pansy shrugged; she smiled cheekily. "You must forgive me, Hermione," she said, "I simply couldn't resist. The temptation ... well, it was too great." Pansy lowered her gaze, and let her eyes travel laboriously over the clothed curves of Hermione's body.

"Surely you understand that? Temptation?" Pansy leaned toward Hermione, waving the purse in front of her. Silently fuming, Hermione grabbed for it once more, but Pansy was too quick, snatching it out of the way.

Seemingly disinterested in Hermione's desperation to reclaim her possessions, Pansy turned on her heel and rounded the desk, increasing the distance between them.

"As I was saying," Pansy resumed, as she opened Hermione's purse, "I had a flip through ..."

Pansy paused, and folded the worn leather over so that Hermione's photographs were facing out: one, of her and Ron, huddled close together in the backyard at the Burrow; and the accompanying pictures of her children, Hugo and Rose.

From the corner of her eye, Pansy could see Hermione's fists being clenched and unclenched at her sides. She narrowed her gaze, before raising it to meet Hermione's.

"... so, I had a bit of a nose around in here," Pansy thrust Hermione's purse outward – as though Hermione needed any further indication of what it was that Pansy was talking about - "and I was struck by how like her mother Rose is."

"Pansy, please," Hermione said, breathless, "please. Just give me back my –"

"It is 'Rose,' isn't it?" Pansy interjected.

Hermione nodded. Her face streaked with fearful apprehension.

"Such a pretty little thing," Pansy said. Smirking. Taunting.

"Pansy, please," Hermione repeated, barely able to muster more than a whisper at this stage, and she lunged across the desk, parchment crumpling beneath her weight as she finally got a hold of the prize in Pansy's hand. Tearing it from her grasp, Hermione slid from the desk in a flurry of flailing limbs as she slumped to the floor with a dull thud.

Pansy, feigning surprise, allowed Hermione this small victory, looking down upon her with amusement. "Honestly, Hermione," she said, smiling, "if you wanted your purse back, all you had to do was ask."

Pansy glanced once more at Hermione before turning on her heel to leave, her eyes glittering with equal parts mischief and malice as she swept out of the room.

It would almost be too easy.

*

Pansy smoothed the front of her dress robes. She straightened her posture and rolled back her shoulders. Glancing at her reflection in the Ministry windows as she walked, she set herself for the night's proceedings.

Ordinarily, she avoided these Ministry functions like she would a plague of Dementors. Or Hufflepuffs.

Tonight, however, she was excited.

Tonight, she had a plan.

And as she saw the Weasley family enter the ballroom from the corner of her eye, she ran her tongue over her lips and turned to make her way through the crowd.

*

"Weasleys," Pansy said cheerfully as she approached, her arms outstretched in good-natured welcome. "How lovely to see you all on this fine evening."

Hermione nodded in reply, but did not look at Pansy. Ron, however, clutching his wife's arm as though he believed she would take an opportunity to escape at any moment, regarded Pansy with suspicion, his blue eyes narrowing to little more than slits.

"Parkinson," he said coolly, "what're you doing here? I thought you hated these Ministry things?"

Pansy shrugged. "Well, you know, one must put in an appearance every now and again, Weasley. Never mind me, though, who are these two?" she asked, gesturing to Hugo and Rose.

"Surely these aren't yours, Weasley?" Pansy said to Ron, determined to keep a smile on her face and a light-hearted tone in her voice.

Ron snorted. "Hugo," he said, indicating his son, and "Rose. Now if you don't mind, Parkinson, I've just seen someone I know, so ..."

"Of course," Pansy said with a cordial wave of her hand as if to usher the family through the throng. "Lovely to meet you Hugo" – here, Pansy gave a slight bow of her head – "and Rose."

With a stiff nod, Ron bid Pansy good evening before stepping away with Hugo and Rose in tow, followed by Hermione. As Hermione passed, Pansy grabbed hold of her wrist, tugging her back. "So like her mother," she said to Hermione in a hushed voice.

"Let me go," Hermione said, trying to jerk her hand free of Pansy's grip.

"So like her mother," Pansy repeated, staring directly into Hermione's eyes, "I bet she even tastes like you," she added before subjecting Hermione to a long, lascivious glare and releasing her wrist from the strong grip of her slender fingers.

*

Having staked out a place by the bar, Pansy did not approach Hermione, or any of the Weasleys, for the remainder of the evening. At least, she had not intended to. And indeed, when next she saw any of them, it was Rose who had approached her.

"Mrs. Parkinson," Rose said shyly as she sidled up to the bar and ordered a glass of wine.

"Miss, actually," Pansy said.

"Oh," Rose said flatly, a blush rising in her cheeks. "I'm sorry."

Pansy smiled. She laughed. "No, no," she said, "don't be. I much prefer it that way. What some people have – your parents, for instance – it isn't for me." Here, Pansy lowered her gaze. She glanced up at Rose through her long, dark eyelashes.

She would never have guessed she was capable of a gesture of such modesty.

"Oh," Rose said, resting her fingers on the stem of her wineglass. "I don't think ..."

"What?" Pansy asked, leaning forward. "You don't think what, Rose?"

The girl fingered her glass. She looked away, down the length of the bar before returning her attention to Pansy. When she did, she shifted closer, as if about to divulge some great secret.

"I don't think it's for me, either," she whispered. Her pale chin and lightly freckled cheeks were suddenly ablaze with embarrassment.

"No?" Pansy enquired, leaning closer still. She hoped that Rose could feel the heat of her breath, of her body, against her skin.

Rose shook her head. She lifted her glass to her full lips and sipped and as she did, Rose's eyes flitted to Pansy's face; to her high cheekbones and bright eyes, before tumbling down the length of her neck and settling on the subtle curves of her small breasts and the shifting lines of her body beneath her robes.

Pansy couldn't help but notice.

*

Pansy watched Hermione's back as she sat hunched over the photographs laid out on her desk. She watched as her hands trembled and her tear-filled eyes examined the pictures of Rose bound, gagged and begging for Pansy – for her cunt, and her own pleasure.

Pansy watched as the first sob tore through Hermione's body and the pieces that had been holding her together crumbled and fell away.

"What did you do?" Hermione shuddered, her words and breathing all mixed up into a strangled sound of distress. "What did you do to my daughter?"

Pansy said nothing. Instead, she leaned against the closed door of Hermione's and plucked a cigarette from her jacket pocket.

"Nothing she didn't want to do, I can assure you of that," Pansy answered. With that, Hermione dropped the photographs, the moving pictures falling to the floor as she threw herself at Pansy.

"What did you do?" Hermione wailed, beating Pansy with her fists, "what's it for? Why are you doing this? Why?"

Pansy looked down at Hermione: at her quivering lips and the tears that streamed over her face and chin before collecting in her décolletage. She flicked her unlit cigarette to the ground and grabbed Hermione's wrists, stilling them in her iron grip.

"Why?" Pansy hissed through pursed lips. "Why?"

Hermione tried to thrash her way out of Pansy's hold, but Pansy held her tighter still and pulled her close.

"For love, Hermione," she whispered to Hermione before pressing her tongue flush against Hermione's cheek and running it languorously over the wet salty skin.

"For you."

Shuddering in Pansy's arms, Hermione collapsed against her. Exhausted. Defeated.

And as they fell to the floor, Pansy made Hermione hers again.

Hers.