Pansy loves it when Hermione comes undone, when her seams, so tightly bound, loosen under Pansy's insistent tugs.

The most unexpected times. Hermione walks down a hall with Ron and Harry and is suddenly grabbed behind a suit of armor, Pansy's greedy little hands throwing off her knapsack and hoisting her school skirt up to her hips. Rough, hard, bruises later on her thighs and teeth marks on her neck that make Hermione blush with embarrassment and pride.

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Always about Hermione and never about Pansy, or so Hermione thinks, but Pansy loves the pliant texture of Hermione's flesh beneath her hands, like kneading bread; the feel of hardened nipples on her palms through two layers of clothing; the abject mewling sounds even Hermione doesn't know that she makes while Pansy's fingers work inside her.

Hermione doesn't know, when she sidles into Arithmancy five minutes late, still flushed, that Pansy slides to the floor behind the suit of armor and shudders, unceasing, as she realizes all over again that she loves Hermione more than Draco, Mum, Higgs, Krum, Brocklehurst, and even herself.