Fly, Gift For: ever_obsessed
Title: Fly
Author:
Pairing: Pansy/Ginny
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Not mine, all JKR's.
Summary: Funny how broomsticks have a way of connecting people.
Recipient: ever_obsessed
A/N: Not completely DH-compliant. I tried to fit the request as much as possible, so I hope you like it, ever_obsessed! Many thanks to hidden_tugboat for the beta.
It’s strange how much effort the sun still makes to break through the clouds without Harry here.
Ginny knows she should feel worse, being left behind by people she cares about. She’s always hated being left behind - her brothers liked to do it when she was little, insisting that she was too young or too tiny or too girly. Girls don’t play Quidditch. Girls don’t like to throw gnomes around. It’s what has driven her to the broom shed when she six to steal Bill’s broom and practice on it. It’s what has driven her to become, if not the strongest gnome thrower, then the most elegant. Eventually her brothers had to concede defeat - only to retract their words a moment later and run off laughing, the gits. Even now she hates being made feel like the little sister.
It’s why she’s so angry with Harry. She’s not his little sister. She would expect that sort of thing from Ron, but not her boyfriend. Boyfriends aren’t supposed to leave the girlfriends they love behind, even if it’s for all the right and noble reasons.
Her boyfriend. She really should be feeling worse than this, but Hogwarts is experiencing an exceptionally warm autumn and the walls of the castle seem to be humming in lazy contentment. All around her people have rolled up their sleeves and skirts to soak up the last of the year’s warmth. Third years are luring the Giant Squid to the surface. It’s as if last year didn’t happen; she half-expects Dumbledore to stroll by, humming Weird Sister songs. The thought that he will never do that again doesn’t make her as sad as she would expect.
Things might be changing, but when she stepped onto the train, shakily gathering herself with something that resembled confidence, she had expected it to be much worse. She had expected evenings that would make her cry, empty spots at the table that would take her appetite away. Truth is, she feels more angry than anything else and has enjoyed more treacle tart this week than she has in the entire year past.
Strangely, that in itself makes it worse.
The one thing that she does notice is how much time she used to spend with Harry, Ron and Hermione. It was never an issue before, but the bonds she had with her classmates seem to have lost some of the solidity they had before she became involved with Harry. The sixth year girls aren’t unwilling to take her back into their circle, but she feels their distance. They talk about things that she didn’t even know had happened - mothers and fathers splitting up, family overseas going into hiding, fights, break-ups. Break-ups. Ginny smiles thin smiles at the girls crying over their latest heartbreak and flees to the sanctuary of the Quidditch pitch. She wishes they would all stuff it or at least go be the pathetic damsel in distress somewhere else.
It’s why she sort of hates herself when she feels tears brimming in her eyes. The windswept, empty Quidditch pitch stares back at her without pity.
“Men,” she mutters angrily and swipes at her eyes with rough fingers. It just doesn’t do to have her happiness depend on someone else, let alone Harry bloody Potter, who always wants to do things right but never does, and somehow that’s supposed to make everything better. ‘I’m sorry, darling, I didn’t mean to belittle you and make you feel like you’re a thousand times smaller than I am. Take me back into your arms?’ Not bloody likely. Git. She doesn’t admit to herself how many times she’s imagined Harry’s glorious return, after which he tells the whole school that he just wants to be with her and then takes her away to somewhere private and…
She’s not sure she wants it anymore. Lately, the fantasies have always featured her shaking his hands off and saying no. It ends with her breathing hard, feeling good about herself and infinitely confused. Sighing, she starts climbing the stands - she hasn’t brought her broom anyway, and what she needs most is some quiet thinking, maybe some loud, solitary screaming. She goes to sit almost completely at the top, where the sun-warmed seats are pleasant against the inside of her knees and her back. It’s hard to truly be unhappy when the sun is lavishing attention on your body.
She’s been sitting like this, slipping further and further into a pleasant doze, for at least half an hour when something stirs down below, on the pitch. Blinking the stupor out of her eyes, Ginny straightens to see what’s going on. Someone is walking across the pitch, a broom slung over their shoulders. They’re moving stealthily, as if they’re trying to avoid being seen, which is stupid because the sun paints the pitch a bright yellow and illuminates the figure as if on a stage. Ginny can’t quite make out their face, but it’s strange enough as it is - private Quidditch sessions have been something of a rarity since You-Know-Who has been casting his shadow over Britain. Risky times seem to decrease the desire people have for conscious dangers. (Not so for Ginny, who loves putting herself in danger even more knowing that there are dangers nobody can stop out there. It has something to do with control, although she hasn’t really completed her thoughts on that yet.)
Her curiosity has been awakened, and Ginny gets up and starts to descend. Maybe, if it’s someone she knows, she could ask to join in - the clear day and the pleasant breeze do tickle her mood for Quidditch.
About halfway down she recognises the person now sitting astride their broom, about to kick off and she freezes. She must still be dreaming because - Pansy Parkinson on a broom? Parkinson with her long nails and perfect hair? Who always complains about the roughness of Quidditch with that horrible tight pull of her mouth? Ginny watches the other girl in surprise. Within a few moments she notes that this is probably the first time Pansy’s been on a broom since her flying lessons in first year: the broom is still only hovering a couple of feet above the ground, but Pansy has clamped her legs and arms around it as if she’s a hundred yards up, about to fall and the broom is the only lifeline she’s got. The broom, trembling, remains where it is, waiting for a command to rise that doesn’t come.
Ginny can’t help but laugh. Pansy looks comical. She’s wearing her fashionable customised Hogwarts uniform with the shortened skirt and the rolled up sleeves (for which she’s had Slytherin lose around a hundred points already), but she looks clown-like, pressed to the broom like that, as if it’s been glued to her - descending further, Ginny can make out her intensely cramped expression. You’d think she was about to die.
“Oi, Parkinson,” Ginny calls cheerfully, still making her way down the stands, “better pull up; you’re defying the laws of gravity!”
The other girl promptly falls off the broom and hits the ground with an oomph. She quickly gets up, dusts herself off and looks up to Ginny.
“Weasley!” she screeches, face red, “you made me fall!”
“No, that particular honour was all yours, Parkinson.” Ginny’s reached the ground now and, smiling calmly, goes to stand next to the older girl. “You know, the tricky thing about flying is… you’re supposed to do it in the air.”
“I know that,” Pansy bites. She picks up her broom and glares at Ginny (which only makes her look funnier - she’s got a twig from her broom in her hair that’s sticking out at the most noticeable angle). “What are you looking at?”
Ginny grins. “Nothing. You’re just so hot with your hair full of broom.”
Pansy says nothing, but bares her teeth.
“No, really, I think it’s a look that’s going to catch on. It’s so sexy.”
“Shut it, Weasley.”
“Okay,” Ginny says and starts to turn around, “although I do believe Draco will be most pleased to hear you’ve taken out some twigs of his… broomstick.”
Pansy lets out a strangled sound and starts to say something, but Ginny is already gone.
“If you say a word to Draco, Weasley, I will make you hurt.” Pansy’s make-up and hair is immaculate again, but Ginny can see the flush spreading from her neck up. Her dark eyes are glittering with something that looks like extreme nervousness. In fact, Pansy’s whole highly strung frame reminds Ginny of the rats on students’ desks, waiting to be turned into goblets.
She stares at the other girl. “You really think that I have any desire to go and say something to that slimy git? I was under the impression we were just exchanging playful banter.”
Pansy’s mouth pulls. “Banter?”
“Yes, banter. You know, sexually tinted, lust-filled, electricity-charged I-want-you-in-that-broom-closet-now banter.”
“You are so disgusting, Weasley,” Pansy says coldly. Ginny can detect the relief in her voice.
“I didn’t know you liked it dirty, Parkinson,” she replies easily. She thoroughly enjoys how easily the Slytherin lets herself be wound up by the innuendo.
Pansy’s flush is rising again. “I don’t like it dirty enough to appreciate sullied blood, Weasley,” she snaps and spins around. Over her shoulder she adds, “I’m not like Potter.”
Ginny continues to stare at the spot where Pansy was. Her stomach is somewhere around her ankles, filled with acid.
It’s curious how the mere mention of Harry sent her mood crashing down. She’s thinking of him again, inventing all sorts of scenarios - he’s been killed, he’s become a Death Eater because they’ve threatened to kill everyone if he doesn’t, he’s fallen in love with Hermione, he’s fallen in love with Ron, he’s been kidnapped by Muggles who think he’s a royal and want to ask ransom, only to kill him afterwards because he’s not a royal at all, he’s tripped and broken his leg and has resorted to eating his own limbs, he’s climbed a tree for food and is unable to get down again, he’s gone to live with a pack of werewolves, he’s -
She skips class and goes outside because she thinks she might be going crazy. What shocks her most is how the thought of him affects her; not in the soothing, warm way it used to, but in a way that makes anger bloom throughout her body. She realises how unfair she’s being, but the thought of the three of them, huddling together, feeling as if they’re actually doing something, making a difference… while she’s sitting around trying to turn crows into letterboxes. It makes her blood boil. She wishes she could write them (him), but she has no address to send the letters to.
Between all of these furious thoughts: the look on Pansy Parkinson’s face as she sends her acid remark over her shoulder. Ginny wants to pound that face until it’s not so perfect anymore. The strength of the vision startles her.
Suddenly there is a warm hand on her shoulder. She whips around and stares into the big pale oceans of Luna Lovegood’s eyes.
“You missed Charms,” she says. It’s like a question.
“Yeah,” Ginny nods, feeling some of the tension bleed out of her body with Luna nearby - Luna, whose happiness doesn’t depend on anything but herself and the mating season of the Nargles. “I didn’t feel like being inside.”
“Being inside locks up the mind,” Luna agrees, taking her hand off Ginny’s shoulder and sitting down next to her. “But not only did you miss Charms, I think I missed you during Charms.”
Ginny smiles and swings her arm around Luna’s shoulders. “It’s a lot nicer to be next to me outside than during Charms, don’t you agree?”
“I also quite like being next to you during Charms.”
“I won’t miss it next time,” Ginny says, trying to banish Pansy’s face from her head.
“You’re distracted,” Luna notes. Ginny knows this is her way of asking if she’s okay.
“A bit,” she concedes and takes her arm off Luna’s shoulder to look her in the face.
“It’s about Harry.” And again it’s like a question; Luna can say a lot of things with just a few words. It’s about Harry, you’re angry he left, you’re confused, you don’t know how you feel about him, you’re scared, you wish he was here and yet you wish he would stay away. You want him not to affect you so.
“Yes,” she says, to all of the things that Luna didn’t say and yet did say.
“You have time to make up your mind,” Luna smiles.
“Except what if he dies and I haven’t made up my mind? What if I can’t decide? What if he comes back and expects things of me that I can’t give? What if I hurt him?”
“He hurt you as well,” Luna says simply.
“That doesn’t make it okay, Luna,” Ginny reacts.
“It makes it understandable.”
“It’s not because you understand something that you also accept it.” Ginny’s voice is getting louder.
Luna squeezes Ginny’s hand. “No, but it helps.”
They look at each other in the silence that follows. Then Ginny says: “What I don’t understand is why Parkinson had to say those things to me.”
Luna doesn’t even ask what ‘those things’ are. “Maybe she’s in the process of learning to accept some things as well.”
Ginny snorts. “I’m sorry, Luna, but I sincerely doubt that.”
Luna shrugs and smiles. “Nap in the sunshine?”
Ginny gladly accepts.
As the days and weeks pass, Pansy Parkinson starts to look different - worse in one way, better in another. She’s not wearing any make-up anymore. Passing her in the hallway, Ginny is struck by how naked it makes her look, as if she was wearing a mask before. In a way, she’s a lot more beautiful.
She seems ill, though. With dark bags under her eyes and almost colourless lips. Ginny decides not to wonder why; the Slytherin has given her nothing but cold looks since their little convo in the halls and Ginny’s anger at the unwarranted jab about Harry doesn’t diminish. In fact, every time she sees Pansy Parkinson, she feels a powerful urge to punch her in the face.
She says so to Seamus Finnigan one day at dinner, interrupting his story about Sprout and the disaster of the overgrown Twittering Tulips. He eyes her strangely and only says: “Why do you care about anything Parkinson says?”
She looks at him, her dinner buddy since she’s lost most of her contact with the other sixth years, and realises she can’t really answer his question.
Is it because looking at Pansy makes her think about Harry? Confusingly, she realises she hasn’t really thought about Harry at all since her talk with Luna at the lake. It’s just the sight of Pansy Parkinson with her skin that looks so bare without the usual make-up. It’s something about how her collar is always standing open more than the uniform does naturally, stretching over her pale skin. It’s infuriating somehow. Her eye has landed on Pansy again. Ginny starts to feel a little bit sick and drops her knife onto her plate.
Seamus, oblivious, continues his Sprout story.
She promises herself to allow herself to think about Pansy later (because this seems really important somehow), redirects her attention and laughs as Seamus reaches the point of his anecdote.
So it’s only later, in the safety of her four-poster, that she opens the box in her mind in which she’s shoved “Pansy Parkinson”. The thought seems to leap out from its confinement and immediately drives everything else from Ginny’s head.
Pansy’s trying to fly in her head, frame comically rigid, Pansy’s mouth is pulling, she’s yelling at Ginny and the flush is racing up from under that collar standing open open open and - Merlin. Ginny has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep herself from crying out in surprise at the strength of the images in her head that are washing over her. They’re quite overwhelming. The warmth blooming between Ginny’s legs doesn’t help at all. It takes a moment before she realises that she’s actually getting aroused from thinking about Pansy bloody Parkinson and this time, she does make a sound that she quickly smothers in her pillow.
Merlin Merlin Merlin Merlin where the bloody fuck did that come from? She can see Pansy turning around with that haughty face of hers and that skirt that she always catches herself looking at -
Ginny presses a hand against the throbbing between her legs and grinds against it.
Then, suddenly, Harry’s staring at her in her mind’s eye. The warmth immediately drains out of Ginny’s limbs, she stops her movements and she curses softly. It feels strangely like being caught.
She can only think one thing and it shocks her: why did he have to ruin everything?
It’s out before she can stop it: “I can teach you how to fly.”
A second passes before Pansy turns around. Her eyes are wide, her face uncharacteristically expressive. The surprise is written all over her.
“What?” Her mouth is a little more open than it usually is.
“Don’t act as if I made an indecent proposal,” Ginny says, instantly defensive, kicking herself mentally. Why did she say it? It works perfectly as a fantasy, but this is real life.
“Did you just -” Pansy still hasn’t blinked. She doesn’t finish the sentence, just gapes at Ginny.
“I could - if you want - I fly pretty well, you know.”
They stare at each other for a moment. Pansy’s bag slips off her shoulder.
“Unless you don’t want to?” Ginny starts to turn around, muttering to herself, wanting to flush herself down the toilet, what was she thinking, stupid stupid stupid -
“What makes you think I want to learn how to fly, Weasley?” Pansy says, and her genuinely interested tone makes Ginny turn towards her again.
She takes a breath, gathers herself, tries to sound confident. “Oh, I dunno, the fact that you were trying to fly before, maybe?”
“How do you know that wasn’t just a passing fancy I don’t wish to repeat?” Pansy says in the same tone, while picking up her bag from the ground.
“I don’t,” Ginny answers truthfully and then adds rather waspishly, “I’m sorry for trying to help.”
Pansy looks at her strangely, wonderingly and once again, Ginny is struck by the open bareness of her face. She feels heat rush to her face and starts to turn around again, mentally hitting herself for being so nervous.
“Tonight? Quidditch pitch at eight?”
Pansy doesn’t wait for an answer, but Ginny’s already puzzled enough over the genuine question.
She must have been waiting here for at least half an hour, but there is still no sign of Pansy Parkinson. Despite the warm day, the evening is dark and rather chilly with clouds hanging overhead, hiding the stars. Inside Ginny’s head, anger and disappointment are fighting with one another for dominance. What had she been thinking? Was she that much of a fool to immediately believe in a seemingly genuine voice and face? She can imagine Pansy, comfortably down in the dungeons, laughing privately at her own joke and feels the strong need to hit something. The growing autumn’s chilly bite is making her face and hands smart.
Well, that was that. Fuck Parkinson, she thinks, I’m going inside. Leaving the deserted pitch, the strange sinking in her chest intensifies and she startlingly realises she really, really feels like crying.
It’s because Harry’s disappointed me and this is reminding me, she says to herself, pressing her cold hand to her forehead. Yet it’s Pansy’s face, open and sincere, that remains on her mind.
She’s reaching over to open the entrance gate, thinking longingly of her warm bed up in the Common Room, when the gates burst open and Pansy Parkinson runs straight into Ginny Weasley and knocks both of them down the broad entrance stairs in a tangle of brooms and limbs. Ginny screams, reflexively trying to fight the other girl off with her hands and legs.
Pansy’s yelling “get off me, get off me, you lunatic!” and finally frees herself out of gravity’s grasp enough to roll away.
“What in Merlin’s fuck?” Ginny shouts, scrambling to her feet. There’s a pause in which she recognises Pansy, her mind yelling at her she was on top of you she was on top of you! Pansy stares at her, face illuminated by the light falling through the entrance gate.
“What the hell, Parkinson?” Ginny says, a lot more meekly, feeling warm inside - from the fight, from the idea of having Pansy so close.
Pansy scowls and inelegantly gets to her feet. “Excuse me, Weasley,” she says a bit snidely, “I hadn’t expected you here.”
“Can’t you bloody look where you’re going, then?” Ginny’s anger, that had evaporated at the sight of Pansy Parkinson lying sprawled on the ground with a spontaneously shocked expression, is making its way back to her - how dare Parkinson act like it’s her fault, while Ginny’s certainly not the one who was forty-five minutes late for an appointment. How dare she look so compelling with her hair messed up from the fall, how dare her mere presence evoke all of Ginny’s fantasies from the last couple of nights?
There’s a pause. “I’m not blind, Weasley. I was just trying to get the Quidditch Pitch and I was expecting you to be there, not here.”
Ginny realises Pansy’s holding a broomstick. “Well, I was there,” Ginny replies quickly, to mask her surprise, “but then you decided to be fashionably late, and I do actually have some things to do.”
“Sorry about that.” Pansy’s face remains so smooth and passive that Ginny isn’t sure she actually said it for a moment. “Snape was being an arse.”
The one reason that Ginny could believe. She hesitates, because she feels like she should be angrier, but the confused happiness about seeing Pansy, knowing Pansy still wanted to come is seeping into her limbs and driving the anger away. So she says: “It’s okay.”
They stand in silence for a moment. “So, do you, erm, still want to teach me how to fly?” Pansy asks. Ginny’s mind is saying yes yes yes - to keep up appearances, Ginny pretends to think about it. “Yes, I think I do.”
It soon becomes obvious that Pansy’s element is the ground, where she can strut and flaunt and generally be unfazed. The air seems to take away all of her security, so she can do nothing more than hang onto the broom, looking as though she’s genuinely afraid to die.
“Why do you want to learn if you’re so afraid, Parkinson?” Ginny asks, after having tried to explain that you need to guide the broom if you want it to move for ten times.
Pansy shrugs. “I don’t know,” she says. Something about her suggests that she does, but Ginny doesn’t press the point.
“Okay, but you do want to learn, right?”
A moment of hesitation, but then: “Yes.”
It seems like Ginny only has one option left, and she tries to ignore the excited flame boiling in her stomach when she thinks of it. “Maybe we should try… you know… one broomstick,” she says and thanks whatever god is out there for the darkness masking her face. It’s unlikely that there is any blood left in her limbs - it feels like it has all gathered at her cheeks.
“You mean, like, together?” Pansy says, sounding indifferent.
“Yeah.” Ginny swallows. For some reason, Luna’s voice is in her head: maybe she’s in the process of learning to accept some things as well and it seems to ring true to her, looking into Pansy’s relaxed face. She looks prettier without the smirk.
Pansy grabs Ginny’s broom from out of her hand, leaves it to hover and sets herself astride it. “Well, what are you waiting for, then?”
Ginny wills herself to move and swings her leg over the broom, behind Pansy. The broom wasn’t made to hold two people; Ginny has no choice but to press rather close to Pansy’s back, almost full on touching it, and reach over Pansy’s waist to hold the broom. She was expecting the hot feeling inside her to explode being so close to the other girl, but it doesn’t - it burns on pleasantly instead, leaving Ginny with only one desire: rest her head on Pansy’s back and not move at all. The other girl smells of girly flowery perfume but also of Quidditch and brooms.
“Weasley, are you, erm, are you going to fly or what?” Pansy breaks the silence, looking over her shoulder. Ginny realises she’s been relishing the closeness of Pansy for a moment that has been significantly too long now. Face burning, she doesn’t respond, but kicks off. Apparently she kicked off too hard for Pansy’s tastes, because the other girl shrieks. Ginny can feel her muscles seizing up as she directs the broom higher and higher.
“Relax,” Ginny tells Pansy’s back, “I’ve got it. It listens to me.” Her broom is like an extension of her limbs - it responds to her every touch, almost her every thought.
Pansy mumbles inaudibly, still mightily cramped up. Ginny starts doing rounds over the pitch - they’re not very high up yet, they’re not going fast. Ginny feels the strong urge to go higher and faster and feel the wind, but she knows Pansy would be terrified, so she continues her leisurely pace.
“Are you okay?” she asks Pansy.
“No,” comes the quiet reply, “I hate it, bring me down, bring me down -”
Ginny stares at Pansy’s shoulder, feeling disappointment bubbling up in her stomach; somehow she had been expecting that Pansy would find this kind of flying, so close together, wonderful and splendid and romantic and -
“Are you sure?” she says.
“I - I don’t know,” Pansy says. There is a short silence between them, gliding slowly forward through the sky. Then Pansy says, almost too quietly to hear: “Come closer.”
“I - what?” Ginny squeaks, not sure she heard right.
“Come closer,” Pansy repeats.
“What do you -”
“Come closer to me, I think it might - I think it might help.”
There is an excited kind of panic bubbling in Ginny’s chest as she slides a bit forward over the few centimetres separating them and presses herself fully against Pansy’s back, her chin resting against Pansy’s shoulder. The contact sends small shocks running up her arms and legs. She swallows so hard she’s sure Pansy must hear it.
Pulling herself together a bit, she says: “So - so does it? Help?”
The answer doesn’t come for a long time. They circle the pitch slowly for a couple of minutes, until Pansy says: “It does help. But I want to get down now.”
Ginny’s heart is hammering. She wonders if Pansy can feel it beating against her back. “Okay,” she squeaks, throat dry and she sends the broom down.
Back on her feet, Pansy again looks the epitome of togetherness and relaxation. Ginny imagines she herself must look a complete mess, flushed and scarlet-faced.
“Thanks for that,” Pansy tells her (Ginny thinks she even smiles a little).
“Yeah, you’re… you’re welcome.”
“You’re so hot with your hair full of broom, Weasley,” Pansy suddenly says. Ginny’s paralysed for a moment, until she remembers it’s just a mirroring of what she had once told Pansy. The other girl is fully smiling now.
“Right, banter,” Ginny says weakly. They’re standing too closely together.
“Yes, banter,” Pansy agrees. A pause and then, before Ginny’s mind can even register it, she leans in and kisses the corner of Ginny’s mouth. It’s not a full-on kiss on the mouth, but it’s definitely not just a kiss on the cheek either and Ginny can’t do anything but stare.
“Do you have time to do this again, Weasley?” Pansy asks and she does wait for an answer this time - which is good, since Ginny needs a moment to gather herself enough in order to just say the yes, not shout it out.
Oh Merlin, oh bloody fucking Merlin’s cock, Ginny thinks frantically as she’s lying with her eyes wide open in her four-poster. Her heart is still beating too fast for her to be able to relax and her insides are squirming - not unpleasantly, but incessantly. She doesn’t remember ever feeling this way before; not with Dean, not with Harry, not with anyone. It scares her.
It’s not the girl part of it that scares her, really. She knows she’s been too appreciative of the swell of Parvati’s breasts inside her robe or the creaminess of Luna’s neck before to have it just be friendly admiration and she’s dreamt of kissing girls, she’s dreamt of touching breasts. Although she’s never let it on to anyone (although she does suspect Luna knows), she’s not uncomfortable knowing that she loves girls and their softness.
It’s the Pansy Parkinson part that terrifies her out of her mind - a Slytherin, a friend of Death Eater’s children, someone she doesn’t know, maybe can’t know. On the way to bed, something horrible entered her mind: what if it’s a trick? What if Pansy Parkinson picked up on her attraction and decided to play a very, very nasty trick? What if tomorrow the whole school will have heard to rumour that Ginny Weasley is a lesbian? What if, and this is much, much, much worse, Pansy confronts her smiling nastily and tells her that she’s only into white-haired Slytherin boys, not red-haired Gryffindor girls?
Her mouth, where Pansy kissed it, is still tingling with the memory. Ginny groans into her pillow. When dawn comes, she’s still awake.
Ginny’s been strengthening the border of her body and her mind with the steel of hard thoughts all day, as if wearing an armour. She knows she’s just desperately trying to protect herself against anything that might come - but when Pansy Parkinson leaves the Charms classroom which Ginny’s heading for, she already feels her inner protection crumbling.
Pansy’s chatting easily with Millicent Bulstrode. Ginny catches sight of her collarbones peeking out from her open collar. Pansy doesn’t seem to see her until they’re crossing each other: at that moment her eyes flicker to Ginny and such a worry, such a fear flashes across her face that she almost looks as though she’s been slapped.
It’s enough to make Ginny go look for her on an impulse after class.
Pansy’s always travelling in a pack of seventh-year Slytherins who wouldn’t be too pleased to see Ginny, so she makes sure to corner Pansy on her way to the girls’ bathroom.
“Weasley,” Pansy says upon catching sight of Ginny, and there’s such a resignation and fatigue in her voice that Ginny can only stare at her. Pansy’s shrinking away against the wall, looking as though she’s expecting to be hit.
“What in Merlin’s name is wrong with you?” she asks incredulously.
Pansy’s eyes snap open, her tired attitude seems to melt away. “Yeah, do go ahead, do lecture me about how sick I am,” she snaps angrily, “how perverted, how wrong, it’s not like I don’t fucking know it yet, Weasley -”
Ginny gapes at her rather goldfish-like. “What are you talking about?”
“Why did you even come to find me? Don’t you have to tell all of your little Gryffindor friends how I forced myself on you, how I infected your fucking pristine little soul?” Pansy just keeps on ranting and starts to advance on Ginny, hands outstretched as if wanting to strangle her, and something clicks inside Ginny’s head.
She lunges forward and grabs Pansy’s hands. “I wasn’t - I wasn’t -” she stammers, trying to tell her that it’s not like that, she was never going to; but Pansy just keeps on yelling at her.
Then she does the only thing she can think of. She grabs Pansy’s head and forcefully kisses her.
The ceiling of the Great Hall is snowing. Seamus is telling Ginny how he and Dean had sneaked into the Hog’s Head the past weekend when Ginny’s owl drops a note on Ginny’s plate.
It reads: if you’re in love with me, then i can be in love with you too. Parkinson
Ginny stares at it, at the two different “love”s. Blinking, she wonders what it means - it sounds almost like a petulant challenge.
So she writes to Pansy: Are you challenging me? Weasley
The next day she gets in return: no, i was asking you. are you?
The notes are so warm Ginny can feel them burning through her robe.
The first time Ginny calls Pansy “Pansy”, they look at each other for a long time, as if frozen in time. Ginny’s heart is beating fast, because this is what she’s been thinking of - are they just kissing each other a lot or are they something more? She think they might be more, but when two people are more, they don’t call each other by their last names anymore, do they? Pansy says nothing for a moment, and Ginny panics - did I cross some kind of invisible line, are we not something more, why doesn’t she say anything?
Pansy smiles are her then, a true, genuine smile. Pansy doesn’t smile often, but when she does, it warms Ginny’s entire body. “I wish everyone else would call me Parkinson so only you could call me Pansy,” she says.
Ginny feels warm and tries it again: “Pansy.” Pansy Pansy Pansy. It’s fresh. “Are we something more, Pansy?” she asks.
Pansy looks thoughtful for a moment. “We certainly aren’t less, are we?”
“That’s unsatisfying and you know it.”
A shrug. “I’ve never known something that could show me when something is more. But you’re definitely something else.”
And for that, Ginny kisses her.
Pansy doesn’t learn anything about flying as they continue their lessons, but Ginny doesn’t mind - as long as the fear remains, she had a wonderful excuse to be really close to Pansy. She loves kissing Pansy’s neck while they’re flying, only to get frightened cries of “Stop that and concentrate on flying!” in return. When they get down, Pansy gladly takes revenge and kisses Ginny so openly that it had actually happened that random lone late night flyers crashed into the stands. A third year Hufflepuff still wasn’t out of the hospital.
She thinks she might be figuring out why Pansy wants to fly so badly. It’s got to do with control, but also with freedom. It feels like Pansy, just like Ginny herself, wants the self-imposed danger more whenever the danger from the outside, the danger they can’t control - Voldemort and Harry and Hermione and Ron - reaches their ears. Ginny knows that Pansy will want to fly one day on her own, but she’s not ready yet.
As it is, she’s loving it. The showers afterwards are almost better than the flying itself. Not sex, though; just two islands in seas of water that connect. They often kiss without touching anywhere else, sharing their breath.
They pass the winter just flying and kissing.
One day Ginny gets another note: don’t want to fly today. meet me at the arithmancy classroom at eight? p
Ginny counts the hours.
When she’s finally there (ten minutes early), there is no sign of Pansy, but the desks in the classroom have been put to the side to make place for a big and horrendously ugly pink satin pillow. Loads of beautiful, floating lights are hanging in the air. It all looks very… un-classroom-like and romantic. Ginny wishes Pansy were here to complete the picture.
Curiously, she sits down on the pillow, which is even bigger than a four-poster and very comfortable despite its ugliness. It’s like lying on a cloud. She’s about to doze off when Pansy comes charging into the room.
“Ginny!” she exclaims, as if surprised, “you’re not supposed to be here yet.”
“You said eight,” Ginny says slowly and yawns. “It’s eight.” She notices Pansy’s carrying a steaming tray. “Did you make tea?”
Pansy smiles (warming Ginny’s entire body). “Not tea. I was going to set this all before you were here, but here you are, so…” She puts the tray on one of the desks.
“What is it?”
“I thought, since you’re always sharing your passion of flying with me, maybe it was time I shared my passion with you as well. It’s not much, but I hope you like them…” Pansy picks up two things from the tray, looks at them for a moment and them comes to sit down with Ginny. “I must admit the house elves did the broomsticks.”
Ginny laughs. “I cannot tell you how much I love these.” They’re muffins, rather larger than how Ginny’s mum usually makes them, with chocolate pictures of brooms on them. Ginny wraps her arms around Pansy and hugs her tightly for a moment (something they don’t do often, but that sends Ginny’s heart into frenzies).
“I’m glad you like them,” Pansy smiles, “eat!”
For a couple of minutes, they simply enjoy the muffins together.
“Merlin, Pansy,” Ginny mumbles through a mouthful, “they’re delicious!”
“I’m glad. And… I’ve got another surprise.”
“Really? What is it?”
“Chocolate.”
Ginny’s confused for a moment - with the chocolate muffins in front of them, why would chocolate be a surprise?
Pansy, seeing her confusion, adds (rather nervously): “It’s… er, it’s… kind of a sort of… body chocolate.”
Ginny stares.
“You know, to… to put on someone’s body.” Pansy’s face is red.
“Oh!” Ginny suddenly understands and feels blood rush to her face as well. She represses the insistent urge to burst out laughing.
Pansy grins nervously. “Yeah, you know, I…”
There’s a silence. Ginny’s still fighting not to laugh. Then Pansy says, so seriously that it calms Ginny’s nerves somewhat: “Do you want to?”
It’s about something much more than just the chocolate, Ginny knows, just like they are much more than what they say. Inside her something starts itching. Sex, her mind is saying, she wants to have sex.
“Sex,” Ginny blurts out and then can’t stop the laugh bubbling up inside her. She throws her arms around Pansy and laughs hysterically into her hair. She’s laughing so hard she starts crying. When she’s finally calmed down somewhat, she pulls away from Pansy and sees that the other girl is sporting a huge grin as well.
“I’m sorry,” Ginny giggles, “it’s just very funny.”
“Well, that’s good, I guess?”
“Yeah, maybe it is.” Wiping the tears from her eyes, Ginny breathes in deeply and then says: “I - I do want to. I think.” Pansy’s looking at her with an intense expression on her face. “But I don’t know… this is really sudden, Pansy,” Ginny continues. “With the chocolate and -” she pauses to stop herself from starting to laugh again, “- maybe we should talk about it first?”
“Okay,” Pansy says, face scarlet, “Let’s talk about it.”
“Okay.”
They stare at each other.
“Someone should say something for this to qualify as talking,” Pansy says, blushing ever harder.
“Yeah, uh, okay. Sex.” Ginny suppresses another burst of laughter. “I’ve, erm, I’ve never had it before.”
“Me neither,” Pansy says quickly, now very much resembling a tomato.
“Really? I thought you had - with Malfoy? Really?”
“Don’t sound so surprised, please.”
“But Malfoy?”
“Is as gay as I am.”
“Oh.”
They stare at each other for another moment.
“You’re the first person I’ve ever wanted to do it with,” Pansy says very quickly.
“I think you might be the first person for me, too. That’s good, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, I - I think it is.”
And then, Pansy seizes Ginny and kisses her very hard on the mouth. Ginny is taken aback for a moment, then threads her fingers through Pansy’s hair, kissing her back. Pansy opens her lips and gently slides her tongue between Ginny’s lips. Ginny’s heart is racing - she’s kissed Pansy so many times, but it still makes her burn, especially now with her head screaming SEX. The urge to laugh has passed; now there’s just Pansy’s marvellous mouth and her fingers pressing urgently into the nape of Ginny’s neck.
They break apart, panting.
“I really really want to now,” Ginny breathes. Looking at Pansy’s heaving chest and her flushed neck, she remembers how she used to think of Pansy as icy and overly confident and impenetrable, while along the way she learned how open and uncertain her girlfriend can be.
“Me too,” Pansy squeaks. Ginny grabs her by the collar (standing open) and kisses her again. She slides her hand in a rather awkward position down the opening of the collar and pops the first button. Pansy’s pulling a bit at her hair, but it feels good, not painful, and Pansy’s making small sounds at the back of her throat now. She tastes like chocolate.
Ginny pulls back and pops another button. “Let’s not use that chocolate tonight,” she says, breathing heavily, because she really just wants Pansy’s blouse off now and kiss the breasts she’s come to love under the showers. Without complications, just their skin.
“Okay,” Pansy agrees immediately (Ginny thinks she might just want her blouse off now as well) and gets into a more comfortable position on the pillow. “Please kiss me,” she says, closing her eyes.
Ginny pops another button and kisses the skin that’s been exposed. Pansy’s soft and warm, sliding her hands up and down Ginny’s back. Ginny struggles a bit with the blouse, which causes them to laugh for a moment and wring their bodies into strange positions to get rid of the excess clothing. Ginny pushes Pansy’s bra - the nice black one, probably chosen for the occasion, she thinks - upward over her breasts so the nipples are exposed. She carefully kisses one of them, and encouraged by Pansy’s approving sounds, closes her mouth over the pink stiffening bud, sucking it softly. Pansy’s sounds assure her that it’s good. They pause for a moment to pull Ginny’s shirt over her head - it catches on her hair, resulting in a momentary fight, which causes Pansy to laugh.
Ginny smothers her laugh by kissing her and smiles into the kiss. Pulling back, she wrestles Pansy’s bra off, then stops for a moment to look at her breasts. Pansy doesn’t wait and seizes the opportunity to take control and flip Ginny onto her back.
“Oomph,” Ginny says and has to laugh again.
“Stop laughing,” Pansy says smiling, before licking her way down Ginny’s neck (effectively shutting her up). Her breasts, now unrestrained, swing so temptingly that Ginny just has to put her hands on them. It’s not the first time they’ve touched each other like this, but Ginny feels a warmth that is more intense than anything she’s ever felt pooling between her legs - she really wishes Pansy would put her leg there so she could grind against it. “Lower,” she whines, “lower!”
Pansy almost tears her bra off her, which hurts a little - she reciprocates by giving Pansy’s breasts a squeeze, then lets her hands fall to the pillow as Pansy presses her torso against Ginny’s, rubbing their breasts and bellies together. They simply slide their bodies together for a moment, enjoying the closeness. Pansy hooks her thumbs around Ginny’s trousers and Ginny lifts her hips off the pillow so Pansy can tug them down her legs.
Her knickers are soaked through and the skittish touch of Pansy’s fingers makes her moan in earnest.
“I don’t really know -” Pansy begins, but Ginny just says: “It’s good, it’s good, please -”
So Pansy presses her fingers a little harder into Ginny’s throbbing cunt and Ginny can’t believe how deeply she already feels it. Pansy slides down a little until she’s kneeling between Ginny’s legs.
“I’ll just…” she’s smiling at the sounds Ginny’s making as she runs her fingers over the wetness of her knickers. “I’ll just take them off.”
“Yeah,” Ginny pants. Pansy very slowly begins pushing the knickers down, so slowly that Ginny says: “Oh come on, you’ve seen it before, please just -”
Pansy laughs. “Not like this,” she says sincerely, but quickly pulls the panties down to Ginny’s ankles.
For a moment nothing happens. Pansy’s simply looking at Ginny’s cunt, her expression curiously tender. “It’s beautiful,” she says breathlessly.
“Come here,” Ginny says, reaching down to pull Pansy up to her face again. She kisses the other girl deeply while unfastening Pansy’s trousers. “It’s not fair,” she breathes into Pansy’s mouth, “that I should already be naked… while you’re still wearing this.”
Pansy pushes down her own trousers, immediately taking off her knickers as well. Ginny goes to lie on her side and pulls Pansy on her side as well, facing her. She kisses Pansy softly and slides her hands down her belly until she reaches the curly hair between her legs. Pansy gasps as Ginny carefully dips even lower, into the wetness.
“Wait,” she says and takes Ginny’s hand away. “Let’s do it like this -” She lifts one of Ginny’s knees and puts her own leg between it, her thigh pushing against Ginny’s throbbing cunt. Ginny, catching on, positions her own leg in the same way.
“Mmm,” she says, pressing down against Pansy’s legs, “good idea.”
They begin moving, and the warmth grows - Pansy reaches between them to add her fingers for extra friction. They kiss until their breathing grows too irregular and they can only breathe into each other’s mouth. Ginny’s whining.
“I think I might actually -” she pants, increasing the pace and pushing urgently against Pansy’s hand. Suddenly she seizes up and trembles out her orgasm, pushing her forehead against Pansy’s.
When she’s come down from her high, their movements slow. “No,” Ginny whispers, “you haven’t -”
“I don’t think I will,” Pansy whispers back, “but it’s okay.”
Ginny looks at her. “We’ve got so much time to make up for it,” Pansy smiles, and kisses her forehead. Ginny wraps her arms around her more tightly, feeling almost painfully happy.
They don’t make it to their common rooms, but instead fall asleep as they are, a tangle of limbs.
Dear Ginny
Remember when we told you you needed to stay away from all those boys? Well, little sister, this is not what we meant. Nevertheless you know how much we love you, despite all of the gnome-related trials we’ve put you through in earlier and more immature years. We might’ve spent the entire night trying to bleach our mind from the thought of you in any kind of relationship, but that doesn’t mean we care what gender you bring home to have tea with mum and dad. (We might, though, wonder if it was your youth with all those boys and all that Quidditch that caused this - feel free to smack us when you get home.)
In all seriousness, dear sister, it might not be the girl part you should be worrying about, but rather the Pansy Parkinson part. You know dad doesn’t want us to fall in love with purebloods. Then again, you never listen to dad. You also know mum will still want you to have children. Then again, you never listen to mum either. We suddenly remember with clarity why we love you, little sister.
One tip: prepare Parkinson for mum and dad. She might want to leave you otherwise.
With love
Gred and Forge
PS: the shop’s doing great. We might need your assistance for some product-testing when you’re home.
- end -
Author:
Pairing: Pansy/Ginny
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Not mine, all JKR's.
Summary: Funny how broomsticks have a way of connecting people.
Recipient: ever_obsessed
A/N: Not completely DH-compliant. I tried to fit the request as much as possible, so I hope you like it, ever_obsessed! Many thanks to hidden_tugboat for the beta.
It’s strange how much effort the sun still makes to break through the clouds without Harry here.
Ginny knows she should feel worse, being left behind by people she cares about. She’s always hated being left behind - her brothers liked to do it when she was little, insisting that she was too young or too tiny or too girly. Girls don’t play Quidditch. Girls don’t like to throw gnomes around. It’s what has driven her to the broom shed when she six to steal Bill’s broom and practice on it. It’s what has driven her to become, if not the strongest gnome thrower, then the most elegant. Eventually her brothers had to concede defeat - only to retract their words a moment later and run off laughing, the gits. Even now she hates being made feel like the little sister.
It’s why she’s so angry with Harry. She’s not his little sister. She would expect that sort of thing from Ron, but not her boyfriend. Boyfriends aren’t supposed to leave the girlfriends they love behind, even if it’s for all the right and noble reasons.
Her boyfriend. She really should be feeling worse than this, but Hogwarts is experiencing an exceptionally warm autumn and the walls of the castle seem to be humming in lazy contentment. All around her people have rolled up their sleeves and skirts to soak up the last of the year’s warmth. Third years are luring the Giant Squid to the surface. It’s as if last year didn’t happen; she half-expects Dumbledore to stroll by, humming Weird Sister songs. The thought that he will never do that again doesn’t make her as sad as she would expect.
Things might be changing, but when she stepped onto the train, shakily gathering herself with something that resembled confidence, she had expected it to be much worse. She had expected evenings that would make her cry, empty spots at the table that would take her appetite away. Truth is, she feels more angry than anything else and has enjoyed more treacle tart this week than she has in the entire year past.
Strangely, that in itself makes it worse.
The one thing that she does notice is how much time she used to spend with Harry, Ron and Hermione. It was never an issue before, but the bonds she had with her classmates seem to have lost some of the solidity they had before she became involved with Harry. The sixth year girls aren’t unwilling to take her back into their circle, but she feels their distance. They talk about things that she didn’t even know had happened - mothers and fathers splitting up, family overseas going into hiding, fights, break-ups. Break-ups. Ginny smiles thin smiles at the girls crying over their latest heartbreak and flees to the sanctuary of the Quidditch pitch. She wishes they would all stuff it or at least go be the pathetic damsel in distress somewhere else.
It’s why she sort of hates herself when she feels tears brimming in her eyes. The windswept, empty Quidditch pitch stares back at her without pity.
“Men,” she mutters angrily and swipes at her eyes with rough fingers. It just doesn’t do to have her happiness depend on someone else, let alone Harry bloody Potter, who always wants to do things right but never does, and somehow that’s supposed to make everything better. ‘I’m sorry, darling, I didn’t mean to belittle you and make you feel like you’re a thousand times smaller than I am. Take me back into your arms?’ Not bloody likely. Git. She doesn’t admit to herself how many times she’s imagined Harry’s glorious return, after which he tells the whole school that he just wants to be with her and then takes her away to somewhere private and…
She’s not sure she wants it anymore. Lately, the fantasies have always featured her shaking his hands off and saying no. It ends with her breathing hard, feeling good about herself and infinitely confused. Sighing, she starts climbing the stands - she hasn’t brought her broom anyway, and what she needs most is some quiet thinking, maybe some loud, solitary screaming. She goes to sit almost completely at the top, where the sun-warmed seats are pleasant against the inside of her knees and her back. It’s hard to truly be unhappy when the sun is lavishing attention on your body.
She’s been sitting like this, slipping further and further into a pleasant doze, for at least half an hour when something stirs down below, on the pitch. Blinking the stupor out of her eyes, Ginny straightens to see what’s going on. Someone is walking across the pitch, a broom slung over their shoulders. They’re moving stealthily, as if they’re trying to avoid being seen, which is stupid because the sun paints the pitch a bright yellow and illuminates the figure as if on a stage. Ginny can’t quite make out their face, but it’s strange enough as it is - private Quidditch sessions have been something of a rarity since You-Know-Who has been casting his shadow over Britain. Risky times seem to decrease the desire people have for conscious dangers. (Not so for Ginny, who loves putting herself in danger even more knowing that there are dangers nobody can stop out there. It has something to do with control, although she hasn’t really completed her thoughts on that yet.)
Her curiosity has been awakened, and Ginny gets up and starts to descend. Maybe, if it’s someone she knows, she could ask to join in - the clear day and the pleasant breeze do tickle her mood for Quidditch.
About halfway down she recognises the person now sitting astride their broom, about to kick off and she freezes. She must still be dreaming because - Pansy Parkinson on a broom? Parkinson with her long nails and perfect hair? Who always complains about the roughness of Quidditch with that horrible tight pull of her mouth? Ginny watches the other girl in surprise. Within a few moments she notes that this is probably the first time Pansy’s been on a broom since her flying lessons in first year: the broom is still only hovering a couple of feet above the ground, but Pansy has clamped her legs and arms around it as if she’s a hundred yards up, about to fall and the broom is the only lifeline she’s got. The broom, trembling, remains where it is, waiting for a command to rise that doesn’t come.
Ginny can’t help but laugh. Pansy looks comical. She’s wearing her fashionable customised Hogwarts uniform with the shortened skirt and the rolled up sleeves (for which she’s had Slytherin lose around a hundred points already), but she looks clown-like, pressed to the broom like that, as if it’s been glued to her - descending further, Ginny can make out her intensely cramped expression. You’d think she was about to die.
“Oi, Parkinson,” Ginny calls cheerfully, still making her way down the stands, “better pull up; you’re defying the laws of gravity!”
The other girl promptly falls off the broom and hits the ground with an oomph. She quickly gets up, dusts herself off and looks up to Ginny.
“Weasley!” she screeches, face red, “you made me fall!”
“No, that particular honour was all yours, Parkinson.” Ginny’s reached the ground now and, smiling calmly, goes to stand next to the older girl. “You know, the tricky thing about flying is… you’re supposed to do it in the air.”
“I know that,” Pansy bites. She picks up her broom and glares at Ginny (which only makes her look funnier - she’s got a twig from her broom in her hair that’s sticking out at the most noticeable angle). “What are you looking at?”
Ginny grins. “Nothing. You’re just so hot with your hair full of broom.”
Pansy says nothing, but bares her teeth.
“No, really, I think it’s a look that’s going to catch on. It’s so sexy.”
“Shut it, Weasley.”
“Okay,” Ginny says and starts to turn around, “although I do believe Draco will be most pleased to hear you’ve taken out some twigs of his… broomstick.”
Pansy lets out a strangled sound and starts to say something, but Ginny is already gone.
“If you say a word to Draco, Weasley, I will make you hurt.” Pansy’s make-up and hair is immaculate again, but Ginny can see the flush spreading from her neck up. Her dark eyes are glittering with something that looks like extreme nervousness. In fact, Pansy’s whole highly strung frame reminds Ginny of the rats on students’ desks, waiting to be turned into goblets.
She stares at the other girl. “You really think that I have any desire to go and say something to that slimy git? I was under the impression we were just exchanging playful banter.”
Pansy’s mouth pulls. “Banter?”
“Yes, banter. You know, sexually tinted, lust-filled, electricity-charged I-want-you-in-that-broom-closet-now banter.”
“You are so disgusting, Weasley,” Pansy says coldly. Ginny can detect the relief in her voice.
“I didn’t know you liked it dirty, Parkinson,” she replies easily. She thoroughly enjoys how easily the Slytherin lets herself be wound up by the innuendo.
Pansy’s flush is rising again. “I don’t like it dirty enough to appreciate sullied blood, Weasley,” she snaps and spins around. Over her shoulder she adds, “I’m not like Potter.”
Ginny continues to stare at the spot where Pansy was. Her stomach is somewhere around her ankles, filled with acid.
It’s curious how the mere mention of Harry sent her mood crashing down. She’s thinking of him again, inventing all sorts of scenarios - he’s been killed, he’s become a Death Eater because they’ve threatened to kill everyone if he doesn’t, he’s fallen in love with Hermione, he’s fallen in love with Ron, he’s been kidnapped by Muggles who think he’s a royal and want to ask ransom, only to kill him afterwards because he’s not a royal at all, he’s tripped and broken his leg and has resorted to eating his own limbs, he’s climbed a tree for food and is unable to get down again, he’s gone to live with a pack of werewolves, he’s -
She skips class and goes outside because she thinks she might be going crazy. What shocks her most is how the thought of him affects her; not in the soothing, warm way it used to, but in a way that makes anger bloom throughout her body. She realises how unfair she’s being, but the thought of the three of them, huddling together, feeling as if they’re actually doing something, making a difference… while she’s sitting around trying to turn crows into letterboxes. It makes her blood boil. She wishes she could write them (him), but she has no address to send the letters to.
Between all of these furious thoughts: the look on Pansy Parkinson’s face as she sends her acid remark over her shoulder. Ginny wants to pound that face until it’s not so perfect anymore. The strength of the vision startles her.
Suddenly there is a warm hand on her shoulder. She whips around and stares into the big pale oceans of Luna Lovegood’s eyes.
“You missed Charms,” she says. It’s like a question.
“Yeah,” Ginny nods, feeling some of the tension bleed out of her body with Luna nearby - Luna, whose happiness doesn’t depend on anything but herself and the mating season of the Nargles. “I didn’t feel like being inside.”
“Being inside locks up the mind,” Luna agrees, taking her hand off Ginny’s shoulder and sitting down next to her. “But not only did you miss Charms, I think I missed you during Charms.”
Ginny smiles and swings her arm around Luna’s shoulders. “It’s a lot nicer to be next to me outside than during Charms, don’t you agree?”
“I also quite like being next to you during Charms.”
“I won’t miss it next time,” Ginny says, trying to banish Pansy’s face from her head.
“You’re distracted,” Luna notes. Ginny knows this is her way of asking if she’s okay.
“A bit,” she concedes and takes her arm off Luna’s shoulder to look her in the face.
“It’s about Harry.” And again it’s like a question; Luna can say a lot of things with just a few words. It’s about Harry, you’re angry he left, you’re confused, you don’t know how you feel about him, you’re scared, you wish he was here and yet you wish he would stay away. You want him not to affect you so.
“Yes,” she says, to all of the things that Luna didn’t say and yet did say.
“You have time to make up your mind,” Luna smiles.
“Except what if he dies and I haven’t made up my mind? What if I can’t decide? What if he comes back and expects things of me that I can’t give? What if I hurt him?”
“He hurt you as well,” Luna says simply.
“That doesn’t make it okay, Luna,” Ginny reacts.
“It makes it understandable.”
“It’s not because you understand something that you also accept it.” Ginny’s voice is getting louder.
Luna squeezes Ginny’s hand. “No, but it helps.”
They look at each other in the silence that follows. Then Ginny says: “What I don’t understand is why Parkinson had to say those things to me.”
Luna doesn’t even ask what ‘those things’ are. “Maybe she’s in the process of learning to accept some things as well.”
Ginny snorts. “I’m sorry, Luna, but I sincerely doubt that.”
Luna shrugs and smiles. “Nap in the sunshine?”
Ginny gladly accepts.
As the days and weeks pass, Pansy Parkinson starts to look different - worse in one way, better in another. She’s not wearing any make-up anymore. Passing her in the hallway, Ginny is struck by how naked it makes her look, as if she was wearing a mask before. In a way, she’s a lot more beautiful.
She seems ill, though. With dark bags under her eyes and almost colourless lips. Ginny decides not to wonder why; the Slytherin has given her nothing but cold looks since their little convo in the halls and Ginny’s anger at the unwarranted jab about Harry doesn’t diminish. In fact, every time she sees Pansy Parkinson, she feels a powerful urge to punch her in the face.
She says so to Seamus Finnigan one day at dinner, interrupting his story about Sprout and the disaster of the overgrown Twittering Tulips. He eyes her strangely and only says: “Why do you care about anything Parkinson says?”
She looks at him, her dinner buddy since she’s lost most of her contact with the other sixth years, and realises she can’t really answer his question.
Is it because looking at Pansy makes her think about Harry? Confusingly, she realises she hasn’t really thought about Harry at all since her talk with Luna at the lake. It’s just the sight of Pansy Parkinson with her skin that looks so bare without the usual make-up. It’s something about how her collar is always standing open more than the uniform does naturally, stretching over her pale skin. It’s infuriating somehow. Her eye has landed on Pansy again. Ginny starts to feel a little bit sick and drops her knife onto her plate.
Seamus, oblivious, continues his Sprout story.
She promises herself to allow herself to think about Pansy later (because this seems really important somehow), redirects her attention and laughs as Seamus reaches the point of his anecdote.
So it’s only later, in the safety of her four-poster, that she opens the box in her mind in which she’s shoved “Pansy Parkinson”. The thought seems to leap out from its confinement and immediately drives everything else from Ginny’s head.
Pansy’s trying to fly in her head, frame comically rigid, Pansy’s mouth is pulling, she’s yelling at Ginny and the flush is racing up from under that collar standing open open open and - Merlin. Ginny has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep herself from crying out in surprise at the strength of the images in her head that are washing over her. They’re quite overwhelming. The warmth blooming between Ginny’s legs doesn’t help at all. It takes a moment before she realises that she’s actually getting aroused from thinking about Pansy bloody Parkinson and this time, she does make a sound that she quickly smothers in her pillow.
Merlin Merlin Merlin Merlin where the bloody fuck did that come from? She can see Pansy turning around with that haughty face of hers and that skirt that she always catches herself looking at -
Ginny presses a hand against the throbbing between her legs and grinds against it.
Then, suddenly, Harry’s staring at her in her mind’s eye. The warmth immediately drains out of Ginny’s limbs, she stops her movements and she curses softly. It feels strangely like being caught.
She can only think one thing and it shocks her: why did he have to ruin everything?
It’s out before she can stop it: “I can teach you how to fly.”
A second passes before Pansy turns around. Her eyes are wide, her face uncharacteristically expressive. The surprise is written all over her.
“What?” Her mouth is a little more open than it usually is.
“Don’t act as if I made an indecent proposal,” Ginny says, instantly defensive, kicking herself mentally. Why did she say it? It works perfectly as a fantasy, but this is real life.
“Did you just -” Pansy still hasn’t blinked. She doesn’t finish the sentence, just gapes at Ginny.
“I could - if you want - I fly pretty well, you know.”
They stare at each other for a moment. Pansy’s bag slips off her shoulder.
“Unless you don’t want to?” Ginny starts to turn around, muttering to herself, wanting to flush herself down the toilet, what was she thinking, stupid stupid stupid -
“What makes you think I want to learn how to fly, Weasley?” Pansy says, and her genuinely interested tone makes Ginny turn towards her again.
She takes a breath, gathers herself, tries to sound confident. “Oh, I dunno, the fact that you were trying to fly before, maybe?”
“How do you know that wasn’t just a passing fancy I don’t wish to repeat?” Pansy says in the same tone, while picking up her bag from the ground.
“I don’t,” Ginny answers truthfully and then adds rather waspishly, “I’m sorry for trying to help.”
Pansy looks at her strangely, wonderingly and once again, Ginny is struck by the open bareness of her face. She feels heat rush to her face and starts to turn around again, mentally hitting herself for being so nervous.
“Tonight? Quidditch pitch at eight?”
Pansy doesn’t wait for an answer, but Ginny’s already puzzled enough over the genuine question.
She must have been waiting here for at least half an hour, but there is still no sign of Pansy Parkinson. Despite the warm day, the evening is dark and rather chilly with clouds hanging overhead, hiding the stars. Inside Ginny’s head, anger and disappointment are fighting with one another for dominance. What had she been thinking? Was she that much of a fool to immediately believe in a seemingly genuine voice and face? She can imagine Pansy, comfortably down in the dungeons, laughing privately at her own joke and feels the strong need to hit something. The growing autumn’s chilly bite is making her face and hands smart.
Well, that was that. Fuck Parkinson, she thinks, I’m going inside. Leaving the deserted pitch, the strange sinking in her chest intensifies and she startlingly realises she really, really feels like crying.
It’s because Harry’s disappointed me and this is reminding me, she says to herself, pressing her cold hand to her forehead. Yet it’s Pansy’s face, open and sincere, that remains on her mind.
She’s reaching over to open the entrance gate, thinking longingly of her warm bed up in the Common Room, when the gates burst open and Pansy Parkinson runs straight into Ginny Weasley and knocks both of them down the broad entrance stairs in a tangle of brooms and limbs. Ginny screams, reflexively trying to fight the other girl off with her hands and legs.
Pansy’s yelling “get off me, get off me, you lunatic!” and finally frees herself out of gravity’s grasp enough to roll away.
“What in Merlin’s fuck?” Ginny shouts, scrambling to her feet. There’s a pause in which she recognises Pansy, her mind yelling at her she was on top of you she was on top of you! Pansy stares at her, face illuminated by the light falling through the entrance gate.
“What the hell, Parkinson?” Ginny says, a lot more meekly, feeling warm inside - from the fight, from the idea of having Pansy so close.
Pansy scowls and inelegantly gets to her feet. “Excuse me, Weasley,” she says a bit snidely, “I hadn’t expected you here.”
“Can’t you bloody look where you’re going, then?” Ginny’s anger, that had evaporated at the sight of Pansy Parkinson lying sprawled on the ground with a spontaneously shocked expression, is making its way back to her - how dare Parkinson act like it’s her fault, while Ginny’s certainly not the one who was forty-five minutes late for an appointment. How dare she look so compelling with her hair messed up from the fall, how dare her mere presence evoke all of Ginny’s fantasies from the last couple of nights?
There’s a pause. “I’m not blind, Weasley. I was just trying to get the Quidditch Pitch and I was expecting you to be there, not here.”
Ginny realises Pansy’s holding a broomstick. “Well, I was there,” Ginny replies quickly, to mask her surprise, “but then you decided to be fashionably late, and I do actually have some things to do.”
“Sorry about that.” Pansy’s face remains so smooth and passive that Ginny isn’t sure she actually said it for a moment. “Snape was being an arse.”
The one reason that Ginny could believe. She hesitates, because she feels like she should be angrier, but the confused happiness about seeing Pansy, knowing Pansy still wanted to come is seeping into her limbs and driving the anger away. So she says: “It’s okay.”
They stand in silence for a moment. “So, do you, erm, still want to teach me how to fly?” Pansy asks. Ginny’s mind is saying yes yes yes - to keep up appearances, Ginny pretends to think about it. “Yes, I think I do.”
It soon becomes obvious that Pansy’s element is the ground, where she can strut and flaunt and generally be unfazed. The air seems to take away all of her security, so she can do nothing more than hang onto the broom, looking as though she’s genuinely afraid to die.
“Why do you want to learn if you’re so afraid, Parkinson?” Ginny asks, after having tried to explain that you need to guide the broom if you want it to move for ten times.
Pansy shrugs. “I don’t know,” she says. Something about her suggests that she does, but Ginny doesn’t press the point.
“Okay, but you do want to learn, right?”
A moment of hesitation, but then: “Yes.”
It seems like Ginny only has one option left, and she tries to ignore the excited flame boiling in her stomach when she thinks of it. “Maybe we should try… you know… one broomstick,” she says and thanks whatever god is out there for the darkness masking her face. It’s unlikely that there is any blood left in her limbs - it feels like it has all gathered at her cheeks.
“You mean, like, together?” Pansy says, sounding indifferent.
“Yeah.” Ginny swallows. For some reason, Luna’s voice is in her head: maybe she’s in the process of learning to accept some things as well and it seems to ring true to her, looking into Pansy’s relaxed face. She looks prettier without the smirk.
Pansy grabs Ginny’s broom from out of her hand, leaves it to hover and sets herself astride it. “Well, what are you waiting for, then?”
Ginny wills herself to move and swings her leg over the broom, behind Pansy. The broom wasn’t made to hold two people; Ginny has no choice but to press rather close to Pansy’s back, almost full on touching it, and reach over Pansy’s waist to hold the broom. She was expecting the hot feeling inside her to explode being so close to the other girl, but it doesn’t - it burns on pleasantly instead, leaving Ginny with only one desire: rest her head on Pansy’s back and not move at all. The other girl smells of girly flowery perfume but also of Quidditch and brooms.
“Weasley, are you, erm, are you going to fly or what?” Pansy breaks the silence, looking over her shoulder. Ginny realises she’s been relishing the closeness of Pansy for a moment that has been significantly too long now. Face burning, she doesn’t respond, but kicks off. Apparently she kicked off too hard for Pansy’s tastes, because the other girl shrieks. Ginny can feel her muscles seizing up as she directs the broom higher and higher.
“Relax,” Ginny tells Pansy’s back, “I’ve got it. It listens to me.” Her broom is like an extension of her limbs - it responds to her every touch, almost her every thought.
Pansy mumbles inaudibly, still mightily cramped up. Ginny starts doing rounds over the pitch - they’re not very high up yet, they’re not going fast. Ginny feels the strong urge to go higher and faster and feel the wind, but she knows Pansy would be terrified, so she continues her leisurely pace.
“Are you okay?” she asks Pansy.
“No,” comes the quiet reply, “I hate it, bring me down, bring me down -”
Ginny stares at Pansy’s shoulder, feeling disappointment bubbling up in her stomach; somehow she had been expecting that Pansy would find this kind of flying, so close together, wonderful and splendid and romantic and -
“Are you sure?” she says.
“I - I don’t know,” Pansy says. There is a short silence between them, gliding slowly forward through the sky. Then Pansy says, almost too quietly to hear: “Come closer.”
“I - what?” Ginny squeaks, not sure she heard right.
“Come closer,” Pansy repeats.
“What do you -”
“Come closer to me, I think it might - I think it might help.”
There is an excited kind of panic bubbling in Ginny’s chest as she slides a bit forward over the few centimetres separating them and presses herself fully against Pansy’s back, her chin resting against Pansy’s shoulder. The contact sends small shocks running up her arms and legs. She swallows so hard she’s sure Pansy must hear it.
Pulling herself together a bit, she says: “So - so does it? Help?”
The answer doesn’t come for a long time. They circle the pitch slowly for a couple of minutes, until Pansy says: “It does help. But I want to get down now.”
Ginny’s heart is hammering. She wonders if Pansy can feel it beating against her back. “Okay,” she squeaks, throat dry and she sends the broom down.
Back on her feet, Pansy again looks the epitome of togetherness and relaxation. Ginny imagines she herself must look a complete mess, flushed and scarlet-faced.
“Thanks for that,” Pansy tells her (Ginny thinks she even smiles a little).
“Yeah, you’re… you’re welcome.”
“You’re so hot with your hair full of broom, Weasley,” Pansy suddenly says. Ginny’s paralysed for a moment, until she remembers it’s just a mirroring of what she had once told Pansy. The other girl is fully smiling now.
“Right, banter,” Ginny says weakly. They’re standing too closely together.
“Yes, banter,” Pansy agrees. A pause and then, before Ginny’s mind can even register it, she leans in and kisses the corner of Ginny’s mouth. It’s not a full-on kiss on the mouth, but it’s definitely not just a kiss on the cheek either and Ginny can’t do anything but stare.
“Do you have time to do this again, Weasley?” Pansy asks and she does wait for an answer this time - which is good, since Ginny needs a moment to gather herself enough in order to just say the yes, not shout it out.
Oh Merlin, oh bloody fucking Merlin’s cock, Ginny thinks frantically as she’s lying with her eyes wide open in her four-poster. Her heart is still beating too fast for her to be able to relax and her insides are squirming - not unpleasantly, but incessantly. She doesn’t remember ever feeling this way before; not with Dean, not with Harry, not with anyone. It scares her.
It’s not the girl part of it that scares her, really. She knows she’s been too appreciative of the swell of Parvati’s breasts inside her robe or the creaminess of Luna’s neck before to have it just be friendly admiration and she’s dreamt of kissing girls, she’s dreamt of touching breasts. Although she’s never let it on to anyone (although she does suspect Luna knows), she’s not uncomfortable knowing that she loves girls and their softness.
It’s the Pansy Parkinson part that terrifies her out of her mind - a Slytherin, a friend of Death Eater’s children, someone she doesn’t know, maybe can’t know. On the way to bed, something horrible entered her mind: what if it’s a trick? What if Pansy Parkinson picked up on her attraction and decided to play a very, very nasty trick? What if tomorrow the whole school will have heard to rumour that Ginny Weasley is a lesbian? What if, and this is much, much, much worse, Pansy confronts her smiling nastily and tells her that she’s only into white-haired Slytherin boys, not red-haired Gryffindor girls?
Her mouth, where Pansy kissed it, is still tingling with the memory. Ginny groans into her pillow. When dawn comes, she’s still awake.
Ginny’s been strengthening the border of her body and her mind with the steel of hard thoughts all day, as if wearing an armour. She knows she’s just desperately trying to protect herself against anything that might come - but when Pansy Parkinson leaves the Charms classroom which Ginny’s heading for, she already feels her inner protection crumbling.
Pansy’s chatting easily with Millicent Bulstrode. Ginny catches sight of her collarbones peeking out from her open collar. Pansy doesn’t seem to see her until they’re crossing each other: at that moment her eyes flicker to Ginny and such a worry, such a fear flashes across her face that she almost looks as though she’s been slapped.
It’s enough to make Ginny go look for her on an impulse after class.
Pansy’s always travelling in a pack of seventh-year Slytherins who wouldn’t be too pleased to see Ginny, so she makes sure to corner Pansy on her way to the girls’ bathroom.
“Weasley,” Pansy says upon catching sight of Ginny, and there’s such a resignation and fatigue in her voice that Ginny can only stare at her. Pansy’s shrinking away against the wall, looking as though she’s expecting to be hit.
“What in Merlin’s name is wrong with you?” she asks incredulously.
Pansy’s eyes snap open, her tired attitude seems to melt away. “Yeah, do go ahead, do lecture me about how sick I am,” she snaps angrily, “how perverted, how wrong, it’s not like I don’t fucking know it yet, Weasley -”
Ginny gapes at her rather goldfish-like. “What are you talking about?”
“Why did you even come to find me? Don’t you have to tell all of your little Gryffindor friends how I forced myself on you, how I infected your fucking pristine little soul?” Pansy just keeps on ranting and starts to advance on Ginny, hands outstretched as if wanting to strangle her, and something clicks inside Ginny’s head.
She lunges forward and grabs Pansy’s hands. “I wasn’t - I wasn’t -” she stammers, trying to tell her that it’s not like that, she was never going to; but Pansy just keeps on yelling at her.
Then she does the only thing she can think of. She grabs Pansy’s head and forcefully kisses her.
The ceiling of the Great Hall is snowing. Seamus is telling Ginny how he and Dean had sneaked into the Hog’s Head the past weekend when Ginny’s owl drops a note on Ginny’s plate.
It reads: if you’re in love with me, then i can be in love with you too. Parkinson
Ginny stares at it, at the two different “love”s. Blinking, she wonders what it means - it sounds almost like a petulant challenge.
So she writes to Pansy: Are you challenging me? Weasley
The next day she gets in return: no, i was asking you. are you?
The notes are so warm Ginny can feel them burning through her robe.
The first time Ginny calls Pansy “Pansy”, they look at each other for a long time, as if frozen in time. Ginny’s heart is beating fast, because this is what she’s been thinking of - are they just kissing each other a lot or are they something more? She think they might be more, but when two people are more, they don’t call each other by their last names anymore, do they? Pansy says nothing for a moment, and Ginny panics - did I cross some kind of invisible line, are we not something more, why doesn’t she say anything?
Pansy smiles are her then, a true, genuine smile. Pansy doesn’t smile often, but when she does, it warms Ginny’s entire body. “I wish everyone else would call me Parkinson so only you could call me Pansy,” she says.
Ginny feels warm and tries it again: “Pansy.” Pansy Pansy Pansy. It’s fresh. “Are we something more, Pansy?” she asks.
Pansy looks thoughtful for a moment. “We certainly aren’t less, are we?”
“That’s unsatisfying and you know it.”
A shrug. “I’ve never known something that could show me when something is more. But you’re definitely something else.”
And for that, Ginny kisses her.
Pansy doesn’t learn anything about flying as they continue their lessons, but Ginny doesn’t mind - as long as the fear remains, she had a wonderful excuse to be really close to Pansy. She loves kissing Pansy’s neck while they’re flying, only to get frightened cries of “Stop that and concentrate on flying!” in return. When they get down, Pansy gladly takes revenge and kisses Ginny so openly that it had actually happened that random lone late night flyers crashed into the stands. A third year Hufflepuff still wasn’t out of the hospital.
She thinks she might be figuring out why Pansy wants to fly so badly. It’s got to do with control, but also with freedom. It feels like Pansy, just like Ginny herself, wants the self-imposed danger more whenever the danger from the outside, the danger they can’t control - Voldemort and Harry and Hermione and Ron - reaches their ears. Ginny knows that Pansy will want to fly one day on her own, but she’s not ready yet.
As it is, she’s loving it. The showers afterwards are almost better than the flying itself. Not sex, though; just two islands in seas of water that connect. They often kiss without touching anywhere else, sharing their breath.
They pass the winter just flying and kissing.
One day Ginny gets another note: don’t want to fly today. meet me at the arithmancy classroom at eight? p
Ginny counts the hours.
When she’s finally there (ten minutes early), there is no sign of Pansy, but the desks in the classroom have been put to the side to make place for a big and horrendously ugly pink satin pillow. Loads of beautiful, floating lights are hanging in the air. It all looks very… un-classroom-like and romantic. Ginny wishes Pansy were here to complete the picture.
Curiously, she sits down on the pillow, which is even bigger than a four-poster and very comfortable despite its ugliness. It’s like lying on a cloud. She’s about to doze off when Pansy comes charging into the room.
“Ginny!” she exclaims, as if surprised, “you’re not supposed to be here yet.”
“You said eight,” Ginny says slowly and yawns. “It’s eight.” She notices Pansy’s carrying a steaming tray. “Did you make tea?”
Pansy smiles (warming Ginny’s entire body). “Not tea. I was going to set this all before you were here, but here you are, so…” She puts the tray on one of the desks.
“What is it?”
“I thought, since you’re always sharing your passion of flying with me, maybe it was time I shared my passion with you as well. It’s not much, but I hope you like them…” Pansy picks up two things from the tray, looks at them for a moment and them comes to sit down with Ginny. “I must admit the house elves did the broomsticks.”
Ginny laughs. “I cannot tell you how much I love these.” They’re muffins, rather larger than how Ginny’s mum usually makes them, with chocolate pictures of brooms on them. Ginny wraps her arms around Pansy and hugs her tightly for a moment (something they don’t do often, but that sends Ginny’s heart into frenzies).
“I’m glad you like them,” Pansy smiles, “eat!”
For a couple of minutes, they simply enjoy the muffins together.
“Merlin, Pansy,” Ginny mumbles through a mouthful, “they’re delicious!”
“I’m glad. And… I’ve got another surprise.”
“Really? What is it?”
“Chocolate.”
Ginny’s confused for a moment - with the chocolate muffins in front of them, why would chocolate be a surprise?
Pansy, seeing her confusion, adds (rather nervously): “It’s… er, it’s… kind of a sort of… body chocolate.”
Ginny stares.
“You know, to… to put on someone’s body.” Pansy’s face is red.
“Oh!” Ginny suddenly understands and feels blood rush to her face as well. She represses the insistent urge to burst out laughing.
Pansy grins nervously. “Yeah, you know, I…”
There’s a silence. Ginny’s still fighting not to laugh. Then Pansy says, so seriously that it calms Ginny’s nerves somewhat: “Do you want to?”
It’s about something much more than just the chocolate, Ginny knows, just like they are much more than what they say. Inside her something starts itching. Sex, her mind is saying, she wants to have sex.
“Sex,” Ginny blurts out and then can’t stop the laugh bubbling up inside her. She throws her arms around Pansy and laughs hysterically into her hair. She’s laughing so hard she starts crying. When she’s finally calmed down somewhat, she pulls away from Pansy and sees that the other girl is sporting a huge grin as well.
“I’m sorry,” Ginny giggles, “it’s just very funny.”
“Well, that’s good, I guess?”
“Yeah, maybe it is.” Wiping the tears from her eyes, Ginny breathes in deeply and then says: “I - I do want to. I think.” Pansy’s looking at her with an intense expression on her face. “But I don’t know… this is really sudden, Pansy,” Ginny continues. “With the chocolate and -” she pauses to stop herself from starting to laugh again, “- maybe we should talk about it first?”
“Okay,” Pansy says, face scarlet, “Let’s talk about it.”
“Okay.”
They stare at each other.
“Someone should say something for this to qualify as talking,” Pansy says, blushing ever harder.
“Yeah, uh, okay. Sex.” Ginny suppresses another burst of laughter. “I’ve, erm, I’ve never had it before.”
“Me neither,” Pansy says quickly, now very much resembling a tomato.
“Really? I thought you had - with Malfoy? Really?”
“Don’t sound so surprised, please.”
“But Malfoy?”
“Is as gay as I am.”
“Oh.”
They stare at each other for another moment.
“You’re the first person I’ve ever wanted to do it with,” Pansy says very quickly.
“I think you might be the first person for me, too. That’s good, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, I - I think it is.”
And then, Pansy seizes Ginny and kisses her very hard on the mouth. Ginny is taken aback for a moment, then threads her fingers through Pansy’s hair, kissing her back. Pansy opens her lips and gently slides her tongue between Ginny’s lips. Ginny’s heart is racing - she’s kissed Pansy so many times, but it still makes her burn, especially now with her head screaming SEX. The urge to laugh has passed; now there’s just Pansy’s marvellous mouth and her fingers pressing urgently into the nape of Ginny’s neck.
They break apart, panting.
“I really really want to now,” Ginny breathes. Looking at Pansy’s heaving chest and her flushed neck, she remembers how she used to think of Pansy as icy and overly confident and impenetrable, while along the way she learned how open and uncertain her girlfriend can be.
“Me too,” Pansy squeaks. Ginny grabs her by the collar (standing open) and kisses her again. She slides her hand in a rather awkward position down the opening of the collar and pops the first button. Pansy’s pulling a bit at her hair, but it feels good, not painful, and Pansy’s making small sounds at the back of her throat now. She tastes like chocolate.
Ginny pulls back and pops another button. “Let’s not use that chocolate tonight,” she says, breathing heavily, because she really just wants Pansy’s blouse off now and kiss the breasts she’s come to love under the showers. Without complications, just their skin.
“Okay,” Pansy agrees immediately (Ginny thinks she might just want her blouse off now as well) and gets into a more comfortable position on the pillow. “Please kiss me,” she says, closing her eyes.
Ginny pops another button and kisses the skin that’s been exposed. Pansy’s soft and warm, sliding her hands up and down Ginny’s back. Ginny struggles a bit with the blouse, which causes them to laugh for a moment and wring their bodies into strange positions to get rid of the excess clothing. Ginny pushes Pansy’s bra - the nice black one, probably chosen for the occasion, she thinks - upward over her breasts so the nipples are exposed. She carefully kisses one of them, and encouraged by Pansy’s approving sounds, closes her mouth over the pink stiffening bud, sucking it softly. Pansy’s sounds assure her that it’s good. They pause for a moment to pull Ginny’s shirt over her head - it catches on her hair, resulting in a momentary fight, which causes Pansy to laugh.
Ginny smothers her laugh by kissing her and smiles into the kiss. Pulling back, she wrestles Pansy’s bra off, then stops for a moment to look at her breasts. Pansy doesn’t wait and seizes the opportunity to take control and flip Ginny onto her back.
“Oomph,” Ginny says and has to laugh again.
“Stop laughing,” Pansy says smiling, before licking her way down Ginny’s neck (effectively shutting her up). Her breasts, now unrestrained, swing so temptingly that Ginny just has to put her hands on them. It’s not the first time they’ve touched each other like this, but Ginny feels a warmth that is more intense than anything she’s ever felt pooling between her legs - she really wishes Pansy would put her leg there so she could grind against it. “Lower,” she whines, “lower!”
Pansy almost tears her bra off her, which hurts a little - she reciprocates by giving Pansy’s breasts a squeeze, then lets her hands fall to the pillow as Pansy presses her torso against Ginny’s, rubbing their breasts and bellies together. They simply slide their bodies together for a moment, enjoying the closeness. Pansy hooks her thumbs around Ginny’s trousers and Ginny lifts her hips off the pillow so Pansy can tug them down her legs.
Her knickers are soaked through and the skittish touch of Pansy’s fingers makes her moan in earnest.
“I don’t really know -” Pansy begins, but Ginny just says: “It’s good, it’s good, please -”
So Pansy presses her fingers a little harder into Ginny’s throbbing cunt and Ginny can’t believe how deeply she already feels it. Pansy slides down a little until she’s kneeling between Ginny’s legs.
“I’ll just…” she’s smiling at the sounds Ginny’s making as she runs her fingers over the wetness of her knickers. “I’ll just take them off.”
“Yeah,” Ginny pants. Pansy very slowly begins pushing the knickers down, so slowly that Ginny says: “Oh come on, you’ve seen it before, please just -”
Pansy laughs. “Not like this,” she says sincerely, but quickly pulls the panties down to Ginny’s ankles.
For a moment nothing happens. Pansy’s simply looking at Ginny’s cunt, her expression curiously tender. “It’s beautiful,” she says breathlessly.
“Come here,” Ginny says, reaching down to pull Pansy up to her face again. She kisses the other girl deeply while unfastening Pansy’s trousers. “It’s not fair,” she breathes into Pansy’s mouth, “that I should already be naked… while you’re still wearing this.”
Pansy pushes down her own trousers, immediately taking off her knickers as well. Ginny goes to lie on her side and pulls Pansy on her side as well, facing her. She kisses Pansy softly and slides her hands down her belly until she reaches the curly hair between her legs. Pansy gasps as Ginny carefully dips even lower, into the wetness.
“Wait,” she says and takes Ginny’s hand away. “Let’s do it like this -” She lifts one of Ginny’s knees and puts her own leg between it, her thigh pushing against Ginny’s throbbing cunt. Ginny, catching on, positions her own leg in the same way.
“Mmm,” she says, pressing down against Pansy’s legs, “good idea.”
They begin moving, and the warmth grows - Pansy reaches between them to add her fingers for extra friction. They kiss until their breathing grows too irregular and they can only breathe into each other’s mouth. Ginny’s whining.
“I think I might actually -” she pants, increasing the pace and pushing urgently against Pansy’s hand. Suddenly she seizes up and trembles out her orgasm, pushing her forehead against Pansy’s.
When she’s come down from her high, their movements slow. “No,” Ginny whispers, “you haven’t -”
“I don’t think I will,” Pansy whispers back, “but it’s okay.”
Ginny looks at her. “We’ve got so much time to make up for it,” Pansy smiles, and kisses her forehead. Ginny wraps her arms around her more tightly, feeling almost painfully happy.
They don’t make it to their common rooms, but instead fall asleep as they are, a tangle of limbs.
Dear Ginny
Remember when we told you you needed to stay away from all those boys? Well, little sister, this is not what we meant. Nevertheless you know how much we love you, despite all of the gnome-related trials we’ve put you through in earlier and more immature years. We might’ve spent the entire night trying to bleach our mind from the thought of you in any kind of relationship, but that doesn’t mean we care what gender you bring home to have tea with mum and dad. (We might, though, wonder if it was your youth with all those boys and all that Quidditch that caused this - feel free to smack us when you get home.)
In all seriousness, dear sister, it might not be the girl part you should be worrying about, but rather the Pansy Parkinson part. You know dad doesn’t want us to fall in love with purebloods. Then again, you never listen to dad. You also know mum will still want you to have children. Then again, you never listen to mum either. We suddenly remember with clarity why we love you, little sister.
One tip: prepare Parkinson for mum and dad. She might want to leave you otherwise.
With love
Gred and Forge
PS: the shop’s doing great. We might need your assistance for some product-testing when you’re home.
- end -