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[personal profile] cryptaknight
Title: Pigs and Pawns
Author: [personal profile] cryptaknight
Recipient: [personal profile] teenage_hustler
Rating: R/NC17
Pairing: Hermione Granger/Pansy Parkinson
Summary: Hermione isn't the type to back out of a wager. Even if it means getting up close and personal with Pansy Parkinson.
Warnings: Infidelity. Pedicures. Smut, obviously.
Word count: ~3300
Author's notes: [personal profile] teenage_hustler, I hope this fic meets your expectations. I started from your prompts and things took on a life of their own. They gave me a hard time, for a while, but then Pansy and I figured out how to push Hermione out of her comfort zone. I think it worked out well for the pair of them! Thanks go out to K for the beta and encouragement and kicks in the pants, when needed.

"If I win, you have to give me a pedicure."

Hermione gave Pansy a long-suffering look. She looked at Pansy's nails, varnished an immaculate shade of deep green, and managed to refrain from looking at her own, knowing she would find them unpainted and bitten and ink stained.

"Why would you even want me anywhere near your toenails?" Hermione asked, folding her arms over her chest.

Pansy shrugged, toying with the black queen on her side of the chessboard. "What other forfeit can I really ask for, given the situation?"

Hermione glanced around the hotel room that had become Pansy Parkinson's whole world, and sighed. "Fine."

"Excellent," Pansy said, flashing a sly grin before looking down at the chessboard, already plotting her strategy, Hermione assumed.

"Don't you want to know what I want, should I win?" Hermione said pointedly, though she uncrossed her arms and sat down.

Pansy looked up, her lips twitching into a smirk. "It doesn't matter. You're not going to win."

"You can't be that certain." Hermione rolled her eyes, and tried to think of a suitable forfeit. Pansy hated Muggle literature. Hermione stifled a smirk of her own, and said, "If I win, you have to read something by Jane Austen."

Hermione did not win.

Pansy taunted her as she put away the chessboard. "You'd think your husband would have taught you better." The former Slytherin shook her head, the movement making her short, straight hair slice across her high cheekbones. "Oh well. Lucky me, poor you. I fancy something in red, I think."


Protective custody.

Hermione had never thought of Pansy Parkinson as someone who had needed to be protected, but that was the current situation. Hermione had also never thought she would be the one helping to do the protecting, but here she was. And it was her own fault, because she hadn't been able to say no to Ron when he'd asked her to help.

The long and short of it was that they needed Pansy's testimony, and that testimony endangered Pansy. The Ministry was putting her up in a Muggle hotel- one posh enough that Pansy hadn't balked despite the location, and the fact that it was really just a very fancy cage- until they were ready to try the case before the Wizengamot. Ron was too well known, and too unlikely to venture into Muggle London, to check in on Pansy without someone noticing and asking questions. Hermione was also recognizable, of course, but she was also known to flit about Muggle areas regularly, and she wasn't an Auror who was constantly landing her face in the Daily Prophet. She could come and go much more discreetly.

That was the argument her husband had made, anyway. Hermione suspected Ron just didn't want to have to see Pansy Parkinson on anything resembling a regular basis, and he was happy to foist the job off on her, knowing that her humanitarian nature would make it difficult for her to refuse. She hadn't even bothered arguing that Harry had Muggle ties, too, because Harry was still consistently featured in the gossip columns as well as the new pages. Near daily visits to a hotel by him would draw far too much attention. And Harry hadn't totally forgiven Pansy for attempting to turn him into Voldemort. When he'd been told about the situation, he'd muttered, "Once a turncoat, always a turncoat."

Hermione thought Pansy was being rather brave, herself. It couldn't be easy to testify against a lover. It had to be even harder when that lover was a dark witch, not a dark wizard, and her private life was sure to come under scrutiny as well. But Hermione hadn't liked to argue about it with those two, so she'd just sighed and agreed and taken on the duty.

At first she'd been perfunctory- Here are some necessities. This is how you order food. Yes, you have to use the telephone, sorry. This is the remote control. Is there anything I can get you?

In return, Pansy had barely acknowledged Hermione's presence, aside from sniffing disapprovingly at Hermione's choice in toiletries and sneering at the Muggle devices that were now her sole form of entertainment.

One her fourth visit, however, Hermione had arrived to find Pansy's eyes reddened and her cheeks uncharacteristically puffy. Hermione suspected the other witch had been crying. Awkwardly, she'd rephrased her usual question to ask if there was anything she could get Pansy to make her stay easier. Pansy had surprised her by asking for books, giving Hermione a list that ranged from magic theory to biographies to trashy romances- all written by witches and wizards, of course. Hermione liked to visit Flourish and Blotts, so she'd agreed. She'd gotten the Ministry to pay for it, too. That seemed fair.

One of the books on Pansy's list was particularly intriguing, a biography of Rowena Ravenclaw that Hermione hadn't read before. Hermione picked up a copy for herself while she was at it. It had turned out to be excellent, and when she'd carefully asked Pansy if she'd gotten round to reading the book, that was when things had shifted between them. One lively discussion later, and they might not be the fastest of friends, but they had found common ground, and things had gotten easier for them.

The next request had been the chessboard.

To Hermione's surprise, Pansy had proven to be as adept a player as Ron, though Ron played almost off the cuff, as if by instinct, while Pansy narrowed her eyes and drummed her impeccable fingernails against the table and strategized every move. She liked to wager on the matches, to keep them interesting, she said, and Hermione always ended up agreeing despite not yet beating her- Gryffindor competitiveness and impulsiveness according to Pansy. The wagers had been small things: a pastry from Pansy's favorite shop, a small journal for Pansy to write in, things like that.

This was the first time Pansy had ever asked for anything that seemed, well, personal.

Hermione had managed to put it out of her mind, the discovery that Pansy liked women. That Pansy had been in a long term and apparently quite intimate relationship with the witch she was meant to testify against, enough so that she was privy to the dark witch's secrets. And it wasn't that Hermione was repulsed. No, Hermione was intrigued. And that scared her a little. She was married, happily enough. She didn't want to feel nervous flutters at the thought of touching Pansy's bare feet.

But a wager was a wager. And Hermione had never backed down from a challenge.


When Pansy let Hermione back into her hotel room, Hermione's movement to the small table was brisk. Business-like, she took three bottles of nail varnish in varying shades of red from her bag, and set them on the table.

"Pick," she instructed.

Pansy arched a cool eyebrow, her look questioning, though she didn't say anything. She sauntered over, picking up each bottle and examining it closely. Finally she chose, a deep red flecked with gold, and held it out to Hermione, the bottle dangling from her fingers. "This one will do."

Hermione plucked the bottle from Pansy's claws. "Fine."

She had also bought a foot bath, on the suggestion of the salesgirl at the chemist's. Scrubbing salt and lotion, as well. Hermione had never administered a pedicure before, but she supposed she could figure it out from the context clues. She took the shallow basin into the hotel bathroom, filling it with warm, soapy water. It was easier than casting multiple spells for the same result, no matter the look on Pansy's face.

When Hermione returned to the sitting area of the suite- never let it be said the Ministry didn't put people up in style, though part of it was because Pansy was accustomed to a certain lifestyle and they wanted her kept compliant- she found Pansy sitting in one of the comfortably stylish chairs, wearing her dressing gown. If such a short and silky thing could possibly be called that. She bent and placed the foot bath in front of Pansy, sitting crosslegged on the floor next to it.

"You're prepared," Pansy observed, an amused note in her throaty voice, as she slipped her feet into the frothy water. "Not that I expected anything less from you, Granger. You may not be prone to pampering yourself, but you always were thorough with your research."

Hermione paused in setting out the lotion and the sea salt scrub and met Pansy's eyes. "I owe you a forfeit. I'm not one to half-arse things. And I'm certainly not about to give you any reason to say I didn't fulfill the debt properly and demand another one."

She set about performing her task, determined not to let Pansy taunt her any further. Hermione kept her mouth shut as she scooped the scrub into her hands, reaching into the soapy water for Pansy's foot. Pansy's foot was small and slim, like the rest of her, the arch high. Hermione spread the scrub over Pansy's foot, massaging it into the already smooth skin as she went. One foot, then the other. Then she cupped her hands, rinsing the salt from Pansy's lower calves with the water from the bath. As she dried the other witch's feet and smoothed lotion over them, Hermione dared a look up at her. Pansy's face was serene, giving no clue how she felt about the proceedings so far.

Hermione considered that perhaps she had been wrong. Perhaps Pansy hadn't wanted intimacy with her. Perhaps she'd simply wanted pretty toes. Hermione told herself that was a relief.

Picking up the chosen varnish, Hermione gave the bottle a shake, tapping it against her palm the way she had seen Lavender and Parvati do countless times in the dormitory. She unscrewed the cap, sliding the brush from the bottle and sloughing the excess paint off in the process. Then she bent her head, picking Pansy's foot up in her hand and applying it to the big toe. Painting the toenails was fiddly work; Hermione was a meticulous person, in general, and Pansy's small nails required focus and attention. Hermione was grateful for that. She got lost in the work of it, applying herself to the task in the same way that she did any assignment she took on. One coat, precisely applied. A second. Top coat, another item the salesgirl had assured Hermione was essential. Every so often, Hermione's eyes flickered up to Pansy's face, but the other witch's face was impassive. Finally, the job was done. Now the nails just had to dry.

Unthinking, Hermione leaned over, blowing across the slick, wet paint.

Faintly, so faintly, she heard Pansy's sharp intake of breath. When Hermione's gaze darted upward this time, Pansy's face was anything but neutral. Her dark eyes were hooded, sooty lashes nearly obscuring her irises, and her lips were parted. Hermione tried to look away, but she seemed to be frozen.

She wasn't sure anyone had ever looked at her like that.

Hermione forced herself to stand, meaning to put the wet brush back into the bottle and cap it. But Pansy reached for her, and god help her, Hermione didn't resist. She found herself dragged gently against the other woman, the nail polish falling from her hand, forgotten, as Pansy's mouth descended on hers.

Pansy's lips were so soft. That was Hermione's first thought. Then Pansy's tongue stroked her lower lip, and Hermione stopped thinking for a while. Something inside Hermione turned eager, and she dimly realized that she'd been curious about this for a while; her hands clutched at Pansy's shoulders, their kiss intensifying, lips parting, tongues clashing. Hermione felt fierce in a way she never had, not even with Ron.

Ron. Oh. Ron.

Hermione froze again, this time in abject shame rather than in suddenly realized lust. She had a husband, and she shouldn't be kissing anyone else, and especially not Pansy Parkinson.

Pushing away abruptly, Hermione stood straight, her hands covering her mouth. Pansy looked up at her, stunned, and started to get out of the chair.

"No," Hermione said quickly, holding out a hand as if she could keep Pansy distant that way. "I just can't do this. I'm sorry."

She snatched up her handbag and fled the room before Pansy could say anything that might convince her to stay.


Hermione had to go back, of course. She'd agreed to help Ron this way, after all, and what excuse could she possibly give her husband for reneging? Oh, sorry darling, it's only that the last time I was there I snogged Parkinson silly and I don't want a repeat performance. No. Just no. Ron would stop her from going, alright. But it would cost her their marriage, the family she'd gained by marrying him, and one of her best friends in the world. He was still that.

So back she went. It was stilted and awkward in the worst way. Pansy was uncharacteristically quiet, as if she wisely sensed the riot of emotion Hermione was experiencing and wanted to steer well clear of it. Hermione didn't delude herself that Pansy felt any such confusion herself. She knew Pansy was bored, and lonely, and probably missing her former lover, no matter that she'd agreed to testify against her. Pansy probably just didn't want to completely regress their friendship to the point that she lost her books and little luxuries.

Hermione's habit had been to visit the hotel four times weekly, making sure Pansy had what she needed and wasn't too isolated. She maintained this, visiting the suite every other day, though she simply dropped off the necessities, and whatever items Pansy had requested, and left as quickly as she could manage. She felt a bit of an arse, to be perfectly honest, scurrying away before she was forced to confront what she'd done and the damage she'd done their fledgling friendship by having an actual conversation.

On the fourth ridiculous visit, however, Pansy chose to speak to her first. It was as Hermione was leaving, her hand nearly on the doorknob, when that low, throaty voice spoke up.

"I'm sorry, you know. For scaring you. I didn't mean to frighten you."

Hermione stopped in her tracks. Scared? She was not scared. She was a bloody Gryffindor; she never tucked her tail and ran from something. She had faced Death Eaters and dragons and shopping for formal dress robes. She certainly wasn't frightened off by Pansy Parkinson. And it was infuriating that Pansy would even suggest it.

There was a part of Hermione- the part that had got her sorted into Gryffindor in the first place- that shut down rational thought when her temper kicked in. It was the part of her that had seen her through those years with Harry, and it was the part of her that never allowed her to back down from a challenge. It was the part of her that couldn't stand to be called a coward.

She spun, crossing the room in a matter of seconds. Pansy was lounging on a chaise, and Hermione bent low over her, her face not even inches from Pansy's.

"You don't scare me," Hermione hissed. Then her mouth was on Pansy's.

It was as intense as it had been the first time. Hermione was aware that Pansy's lips had curved into a smile, under hers, that Pansy had likely provoked her to get just this reaction, but her body felt like it was on fire and at this point kissing Pansy was the only thing she could think to do- though whether it would put out the fire or fan the flames, Hermione couldn't say. Savagely, Hermione deepened the kiss, her teeth dragging over Pansy's bottom lip, her tongue invading Pansy's mouth. Blindly, Hermione's hands sought out the sash holding Pansy's short dressing gown closed, tugging it free with little finesse.

Oh, sweet Circe. Pansy wore nothing beneath the silky robe, not even the flimsy little lace knickers Hermione had imagined she'd be wearing. There was nothing but a gloriously smooth and unbroken expanse of pale skin, covering Pansy's slender frame. The open gown skimmed Pansy's gently flared hips and revealed small, pert breasts whose coral tips had already become taut points. Hermione sucked in a gasping breath, and lifted her eyes to meet Pansy's. Pansy's face was a mix of arrogance and desire, her mouth wet and swollen from Hermione's hungry kiss and her cheeks flushed with wanting. Hermione imagined her own face looked much the same.

Hermione dropped to her knees in front of Pansy, determined that Pansy shouldn't mistake her pause of appreciation for apprehension or hesitation. She pressed her lips to a small, dark freckle just above Pansy's knee, on the inside of her thigh. Pansy released a small, happy sigh, and somehow that faint sound made Hermione feel a rush of power. It pushed her forward, kissing a trail higher inside of Pansy's thigh. When she reached the apex of Pansy's legs, Hermione leaned forward, pressing the tip of her nose against the mound there. Pansy's scent was musky, heady, and entirely enticing. Hermione nuzzled her, eliciting another sigh.

"Gods, Granger," Pansy murmured, her voice husky.

It was Hermione's turn for a sly smile, just before she placed her lips where her nose had been, her tongue darting out to slide into Pansy's crevice, slowly teasing until it touched Pansy's clit. Pansy let out a stifled, keening sound; it might as well have been a lust inducing spell, for the effect it had on Hermione.

Hermione was sure she was artless; she only knew what she liked done to herself, but she did these things to Pansy, her tongue teasing that tight little bundle of nerves, delving between Pansy's folds to explore, then back up, licking, suckling, circling, until Pansy cried out and her thighs trembled and her hands tightened almost painfully in Hermione's hair. Hermione waited until the other woman had stilled, but for the ragged breaths she took in, and then drew back. She felt absolutely wanton looking up at Pansy, drinking in the results of what she'd just done. Pansy's face glowed, her prettily parted lips clearly having been bitten in pleasure, and a faint dewy sheen dusting her brow.

Rising, Hermione kissed Pansy again, covering that panting mouth with her own, a hunger in her kiss that not yet quite been satiated. Pansy met the hunger, her tongue gliding over Hermione's lips as if licking off every trace of herself from them.

Finally, Pansy pulled back ever so slightly, her voice low when she spoke. "Wasn't expecting that."

Hermione shook her head, a small self-deprecating smile curving her mouth. "Yes, you were."

Pansy lifted one eyebrow. "Alright, perhaps I was. Or was hoping for it, at least." She lowered her mouth to Hermione's collar bone. "But I'm happy to return the favour."

Hermione bit her own lower lip. The haze of desire was clearing, a little, though the gentle nips Pansy was making on her neck threatened to pull Hermione back in completely. This couldn't last. It wouldn't. The trial loomed in the next few weeks, and then Pansy would be free to go on her merry way.

Until then…

Pansy's hands had begun to roam, sliding under the hem of Hermione's blouse, those perfectly manicured nails making sharp trails upwards toward Hermione's breasts. Alright. Until then, and only until then.

Their chess matches would probably become much more interesting.

That was Hermione's final thought for a good long while.

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