Ladytron

Disclaimer: Harry Potter universe is property of JK Rowling. I, sadly, make no money from my fanfiction.


Pansy Parkinson hates Hermione Granger. Pansy hates her stupid bushy hair, her Gryffindor House, and her dirty mud blood. Those things are all reprehensible, but not nearly as infuriating as the fact that Granger is an insufferable know-it-all. That stupid Mudblood takes every opportunity to show off how smart she is. Whether it\'s answering questions in class or blathering on about some theory in the corridors, her annoying voice is hell on Pansy\'s delicate eardrums.

Pansy isn\'t daft. She is intelligent and well-spoken, although barely any of her professors have the opportunity to hear evidence of it in class because of Granger\'s budging in all the time. It isn\'t just classes where Granger overshadows Pansy, either. At their monthly prefect meetings, Granger practically takes over from McGonagall and runs the bloody show, asking each prefect for his report and interrogating him. She even has the nerve to arrange meetings with the Head Boy and Head Girl to act as a liaison between them and the prefects!

Granger isn\'t going to best her any longer. Pansy has made up her (very sharp) mind about that. The filthy Mudblood deserves to be put in her place and Pansy is just the one to do it. A plan has been formulating in her mind for days and it is fool-proof.

It\'s almost too easy, Pansy thinks as she watches Granger undress herself and fold her robes, neatly stacking them on a bench just beyond the south side of the large pool-like tub in the Prefect\'s Bathroom. Granger hadn\'t noticed her when she entered and Pansy thanked God for her Slytherin cunning and that she\'d had the foresight to choose a watchpost from behind a column. Grateful not for the first time for Non-Verbal Magic, Pansy flicks her wand at the door, locking it. Smirking to herself, she pockets her wand and nonchalantly saunters over to Granger. Her bare feet are but a whisper on the white marble floor. It isn\'t until Pansy clasps a hand to the nape of Granger\'s neck - nose wrinkling as her skin comes in contact with the coarse, bushy mess of muddy-coloured Mudblood hair - and shoves her hard against the wall that Granger even realises she has company.

Whatever complaint Granger has is lost because Pansy applies pressure with the heel of her palm, pushing the stupid Gryffindor\'s face against the tile wall. Pansy\'s eyes move down the line of Granger\'s back and stop at her bum, studying the pert globes she\'s sure Potty and the Weasel never got close to touching before. Of course they wouldn\'t have touched Granger there; she was too much of a goody-goody to let anyone do that to her, even if they were her boyfriends. Or whatever it was those three freaks were together. No, Mudblood Granger wouldn\'t dare let anyone sully her. She\'d be saving herself until her wedding night, no doubt.

By the time Pansy is done with her, Granger will be ashamed that she\'d ever thought of wearing white on her wedding day.

Eager to touch and mark the skin on that tight Gryffindor arse, Pansy grabs a handful with one hand and releases her hold on Granger\'s neck with the other. Nails dig deep into Granger\'s flesh, drawing blood as Pansy\'s hand moves down her back. Granger keens and writhes and Pansy laughs, grabbing more of her arse and trailing stained fingertips down the crevice between her cheeks, pushing against an oh-so-dirty and secret place, chuckling throatily as she avoids one of Granger\'s pointy elbows.

Fingers let go of arse and skirt up to Granger\'s waist, pinching and pushing and stilling the brazen beast against the tile. Other fingers exploring hidden parts go lower still and Pansy inhales deeply. Yes. Granger is wet; she can smell it. Granger is wet for her and it\'s heady. Salty and earthen and rank. All for her.

Pansy wants to see her now and so she spins Granger round, silencing whatever aggravating grievance she wishes to say with a hand. Granger\'s lips are soft and cool and moist against her palm. As she parts her robe down the middle to reveal her own naked form, Pansy idly wonders what it might be like to take from Granger\'s mouth, to snake her tongue inside that wet and proper cavern and defile it. It would be brilliant, Pansy suspects. But she won\'t dare kiss Granger. Kissing is too intimate and reserved only for when she needs to get something in return for getting off. She doesn\'t need anything from Granger other than this, this thrumming in her body from the thrill of defiling, of besting, of owning a piece of the Mudblood first, beating Potty and Weasel to the punch. Or the fuck, rather.

Arching her back, Pansy leans in to touch belly-to-belly and is surprised when Granger arcs in to meet her. She is surprised and then she is smug. The little whore needs it bad. She wants it. It must be awfully bad to be that repressed. Pansy wouldn\'t know; she has a few girls and boys at her beck and call, always ready to scratch an itch.

Granger\'s skin is heated and silky against hers. Pansy needs to touch more of it, more of her. Pinning Granger fast to the wall with her eyes, Pansy pulls her hand back, freeing Granger\'s mouth so that she can hear her soft pants and sighs. The pants and sighs turn into whimpers as Pansy\'s teeth tug and then bite down on the tip of one nipple and then the other. She doesn\'t let up, rolling the tip between her teeth and suckling at it like a babe, her knuckles skirting down over Granger\'s tender belly and over coarse, wiry curls. Granger is wetter than she was a few minutes ago and Pansy is glad. She is thirsty.

As Pansy\'s knees hit the floor and her nose nuzzles against St Granger\'s Most Sacred and Unexplored Place, fingers that smell of sugar quills and ink fist in her dark bob. Pansy smirks; she can\'t see Granger\'s face but she likes to imagine that the Perfect Prefect is wearing a look of horror mixed with lust and want.

Hips curve forward, inviting Pansy and her talented tongue to come explore. Pansy wastes no time delving in, bypassing thighs she would normally lick and suck and mark as belong to her and heading straight for Granger\'s cunt, wiry hair tickling her nose as the strong scent of Mudblood arousal fills her lungs. Pansy raises a hand to Granger\'s lips, holding them together delicately so that her tongue can run along the slit, toying with each end. Granger whinnies and Pansy retracts her tongue, swiping the back of her teeth with Granger\'s taste. It doesn\'t do much to quench her thirst because it isn\'t enough. Not yet. Her fingers part Granger, opening her up and exposing her to Pansy in a crude fashion Granger would likely beat herself up over in the years to come. Wetness drips on Pansy\'s fingers and she knows she can\'t wait any longer. Thrusting three fingers deep inside Granger\'s cunt in a fast, liquid-hot moment, Pansy then leans in to lap up the juices that spill over her knuckles. Tart and tangy and goes-down-easy. Granger gasps and begins rocking. Pansy ignores her, moving her hand in the alternately frantic-and-lazy motion that she likes best herself while dipping her head between Granger\'s thighs to attach her mouth to that hard little clit. It was beckoning her, all gleaming and standing out against pink flesh, and Pansy ravages it, attacking it with her tongue like the serpent that she is. Lick. Suck. Circle. Flick. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Granger\'s cunt pulses around Pansy\'s fingers while Granger shakes and cries. Wetness comes faster and faster now and Pansy laps it up until she feels full and sated. Granger is shivering still from her orgasm but Pansy doesn\'t give a damn. She withdraws her fingers from Granger and stands, wrapping one leg around Granger\'s waist and hauling her near. Eyes flash a message and Pansy shoves the fingers still coated with Mudblood wetness into her own cunt. One. Two. Three. Granger\'s fingers wrap round her wrist and guide her hand. Pansy rocks against her own fingers, her own fingers being guided by Granger as she ruts and writhes. When Pansy comes, she presses her face against the soft dip where Granger\'s shoulder meets her neck, teeth sinking into the skin. Granger\'s flesh absorbs Pansy\'s cry as she rides it out.

A hand palms Pansy\'s breast and she snaps her head up to glare at Granger. Granger doesn\'t seem to care, harshly kneading Pansy\'s breast. Pansy moans, a low sound mingling with breathing still laboured from her orgasm, and she hates herself for it. The Mudblood is eliciting a reaction for her and that isn’t right. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. Pansy is supposed to be the victor here. Granger is supposed to be sufficiently cowed, put in her place.

Pansy sneers at her. Granger pulls her hand back a fraction, the heat of her skin ghosting over Pansy’s breast. Before she can stop herself, Pansy finds herself leaning forward into that ink-stained hand, willing the Mudblood to resume her ministrations.

Perhaps Pansy’s plan hadn\'t been so fool-proof after all.

That Mudblood bitch just might have bested her again.