Hermione Granger - Beyond Academics

The library had long since fallen silent. Pansy Parkinson slipped through the doors, expecting nothing but empty tables and dust. Instead, a solitary pool of lamplight caught her eye. Hermione Granger sat beneath it, surrounded by open books and scattered parchment, her quill moving steadily across the page. She looked exhausted, but utterly absorbed. Pansy paused in the doorway, watching her for a moment longer than she intended. Hermione, sensing a presence, looked up.

“Granger.”

“Parkinson," she replied, quill stopping and eyes narrowing slightly.

Pansy stepped between the tables. “You know, most people sleep at this hour.”

“Most people aren't resitting their final year.”

The remark landed with enough bite to make Pansy’s mouth tighten. “I didn't say you were doing anything wrong. I was going to ask why you're still here.”

Hermione glanced at the books surrounding her. “Why do you care?”

Pansy gave a small shrug. “I don't. I was curious.”

Hermione studied her for a moment, then returned to her parchment, but Pansy didn't leave.

“So talkative," Pansy rolled her eyes. "Are you always this pleasant?”

“Only when my studies are interrupted.”

A faint, reluctant smile tugged at Pansy's mouth. “You know, I might have a secret that will help all those lovely words make even more sense."

Hermione looked up once more, tilting her head with specticism. Yet there was an iota of curiosity. She wasn't one for riddles or vague statements, but there was something in Pansy's tone that made her pause. Usually, she would dismiss such an enigmatic comment as mere dramatics, but the weight of her own exhaustion and the loneliness she's been feeling lately makes her a bit more receptive than usual.

"What secret?"

"Oh, now, I couldn't go around telling, could I. Especially not you. I'm sure you wouldn't approve."

Hermione let out a small, exasperated huff, crossing her arms.

"Are you implying I perfrom a Cheating Charm? Or perhaps a learning spell? THey're illegal, and you know that."

"Not a spell," Pansy said, her lips curling even more. "I just... don't think you're ready for what I have to suggest."

"I assure you, I am far more open-minded than people give me credit for," Hermione looked her dead in the eye. "I've seen plenty of things during the war that would make most people question their judgment. Now, are you going to tell me, or are we just wasting our time?"

"Well... if you're sure you want to know..."

Hermione felt a strange flutter in her stomach. Usually, she'd be thinking about revision timetables, and theoretical applications of study. But right now, all her focus was pinned on Pansy.

"I'm sure," she said finally. "Tell me, then I can at least decide whether I wish to pursue such a thing."

"I can tell by the look on your face, the books on your desk, the piles of parchment you've waded through. Your mind can't be clear. And a fogged mind is not optimal for revision."

Hermione stiffened, feeling exposed. It was exactly how she felt.

"It's not a fog," she countered weakly, though her voice lacked its usual conviction. She looked down at the mountain of parchment, the ink stains on her fingers. It was glaringly obvious. "It's just... there's a lot to catch up on after everything that happened."

"Wouldn't it be nice if there was a way to lift the fog?" Pansy said, placing both hands on the table in front of her. "To utterly clear one's mind."

"And how..." her voice caught. "How might one do that without magic?"

Pansy grinned a wicked grin. "I never had you down for something so brash, Granger. Or so daring. But the way I clear my mind, personally, is through sexual release."

Hermione's cheeks flushed a deep, burning crimson. She didn't know whether to be disgusted... or offended... or... or excited even? She wanted to stand up, to leave the cosy corner of the library and compose herself. But Pansy's glare kept her in her place.

"You're suggesting..." she managed, finally, glancing frantically around to make sure there was no one within earshot of their vestibule.

"Yes, Granger."

Hermione leant closer, and when she spoke it was as though she was fighting to keep control of her voice.

"If... if I was to consider this... as an academic exercise, of course..." she took a breath. "How might I go about that?"

"I could show you."

Her heart pounded as if expecting that exact answer, though she was still unsure whether she wanted or dreaded such a response.

"It's not proper!" Hermione whispered, again looking around to make sure they truly were alone. "I... I barely know you! And," her voice suddenly became stronger, as though grateful beyond anything for a ready-made excuse. "And, I have too much work to do."

"We do barely know each other," she conceded. "That's perfect. That means no strings attached. As for your revision... this is all about putting you in a mindstate most efficient for work."

Hermione scoffed, but the sound was weak and lacked its usual, cutting bite. The more she thought about it, the less and less it became about being an 'academic exercise', and more and more about using it as an excuse to do something deep, and carnal.

"You're... you're absolutely sure this will improve my focus?"

"Tried and tested. Dont tell me you've never touched yourself. Surely, in the shower, or alone in the girl's dormitory. Or... elsewhere..."

"Don't patronise me, of course I have. And no. Not elsewhere."

"How boring. I once touched myself during one of McGonagall's lectures on animagi."

"Fine!" Hermione said, regaining an authoratice edge. "But if we're doing this, we need somewhere private."

"Private? It's midnight in the library, Granger! Even Madame Pince has gone to bed."

The dim candlelight flickered on the table, casting long, dancing shadows. The silence of the library, usually so comforting and scholarly, was now heavy, expectant, and deeply intimate. The realisation they are truly alone, unobserved and unjudged, sent a jolt of adrenaline through her. The rules of Hogwarts, the expectations of her peers, the crushing weight of her responsibilities... they all seemed to fade into the background.

"Then... where?"

At that, Pansy laughed. "Funny you should ask. This table has seen my arse more than once... I think it's time it saw yours."

Hermione was so shocked she didn't even have time to register what Pansy had done on the very table she was sat revising at. Her jaw dropped. The thought of the very table she has sat at for hours, surrounded by centuries of knowledge and strict academic tradition, was enough to make her head spin.

“The audacity…” she whispered, almost without realising she was speaking at all. “It’s intoxicating.”

Pansy slunk around the table so she was standing behind Hermione, and placed her hands on her shoulders. Hermione sat perfectly still, but did nothing to cower or evade the interaction.

“Your robes are loose,” Pansy almost whispered. “I can see down your top from here.”

She dared to glance up, raising her head to see Pansy looming over her, dominant, commanding, and kind. The thought of her stealing a glimpse of Hermione’s exposed skin made her stomach flip in a way that was decidedly non-academic.

“Is that so?” she whispered back.

 “I’d like to see more.”

Slowly, almost tentatively, Hermione reached for the buttons of her blouse. The small click of the button releasing unnaturally loud in the silence.

“More?” she muttered.

“More.” Pansy said firmly.

The command broke her inhibitions in a way she prayed it would. She undid another, then a third. She shivered as the cold castle air touched her bare skin. Then she shrugged the garment off her shoulders, letting it fall open to reveal the lace of her bra under Pansy’s unwavering gaze.

“There.” She said in a low voice.

“Well I can’t give them a squeeze with that still on.”

Her breath hitched as the implication hit her. But barely hesitating she reached around her back. The clasp came apart. The bra fell away.

“Well?” Hermione whispered finally, he face a mixture of defiance and a plea for something more.

For a second, a long, tempting second, Pansy waiting. Then her hands slid down, from her shoulders. They gently came to rest cupping her exposed breasts.

Hermione’s eyes fluttered shut involuntarily as her warm palms covered her. She gasped gently as fingers caressed every patch of smooth skin. All semblance of anxiety, or interruption, was gone.

“Ever had a woman do this to you?” Pansy glowered, knowing full well it was.

“No,” she confessed. The admission felt like another layer of armour being carefully taken away. She’d never even considered the hands of another woman exploring her.

“Well I’d say you’re enjoying it,” Pansy leered, feeling the protrusions of Hermione’s nipples grow against her palms.

Hermione didn’t respond, unable to deny the observation. She tilted her head even further back, exposing the line of her throat to the candlelight. But her silence was as much an invitation as it was refusal. Pansy pulled her backward, Hermione’s back arching against the pressure. Her thighs touched against the underside of the table as she rocked. Pansy's palms closed around her breasts, squeezing firmly. Hermione's head fell back onto Pansy.

“What do you want me to do, Granger? I can twist them? Tug them? Press them together?”

“Press them,” Hermione said through half-closed eyes.

Pansy obliged. The firm, concentrated pressure forcing her breasts together created a new, heightened sensitivity. She felt the friction of her own skin as her nipples were exposed between the crooks of Pansy’s thumbs.

“Yes,” she whispered. “That’s nice.”

Using the side of her thumb against her knuckle, trapping it in between, Pansy rolled Hermione’s nipples. A gasp escaped the Gryffindor, a cry that echoed loudly in the cavernous, silent library, and immediately the moment was broken. Senses returned as the fear of interruption returned. Hermione put her hands over Pansy’s.

 “Don’t worry,” the Slytherin said. “Listen.” And as Hermione listened, she realised that the silence was just as undisturbed, as it ever had been. She slipped her own hands out and cupped Hermione’s fingers beneath her own. “Now, whilst your hands are here, I want to see what you do with them.”

She felt, foolish, undignified, and utterly consumed by a hunger she’d never dared face. Her hands, still trembling, closed around her own breasts. Following Pansy's instructions, she grasped, clawed at her chest, pulling and kneading while simultaneously mimicking the twisting motion with her fingers on her nipples.

“Like this?”

“Just like that. And if your hands are doing that, then mine are free to go elsewhere.”

Hermione continued to pull, to twist, and did not dare answer nor question Pansy, whose hands now left her own. Down, she felt one slide, down beneath her unbuttoned shirt. The soft arm slid against her neck, between her breasts as she worked them, and across her smooth stomach. Finally, Hermione felt the fingers rest on the lip of her skirt, then slip beneath it. Her breath caught, body tensing in anticipation. The fabric bunched under Pansy’s palm as she wriggled her determined hand past the waistband.

And with every inch, Hermione squirmed, torn between the instinct to spread her legs wider or press them together. Then, she felt the touch of skin on the top of her thigh, and now she needed no instruction to prime her nipples.

 “Are you going to spread for me, Granger?

Hermione looked up at Pansy, eyes deep and lips parted. “Yes.”

She held Pansy's gaze, her eyes burning with a silent challenge. In that moment, she was not the studious Gryffindor, nor the dutiful daughter. With a deliberate slowness, she lifted her skirt, revealing the plain cotton of her knickers. The fabric was already damp, clinging to her shape in a way that left little to the imagination as the waves of skin beneath pressed through. She pushed her knees outward, widening her stance until she was fully exposed to Pansy's access.

With another mischievous smile, Pansy’s hand stroked downwards over her thigh, coming to rest on the midriff Hermione had just opened for her. A gasp escaped Hermione as her felt the pressure of Pansy touching the fabric of her knickers. Then, halfway between a gasp and a sob, Hermione moans as Pansy pressed firmly down upon her soaking knickers.

The combination of the coarse fabric pressing against her swollen clitoris and the incredible warmth of Pansy's palm was almost unbearable. She arched her hips upward instinctively, seeking more pressure, her head rolling back. The rhythm of her breathing broke, replaced by short, hitched panting as Pansy’s circling fingers ground into her wet sensitive flesh.

“You like that?”

Hermione nodded. But then Pansy withdrew. The sudden loss of contact was jarring, leaving her feeling cold and strangely hollow. She let out a small, disappointed whine, her hips continuing to twitch in search for the pressure that had just been there. Pansy stood over her, from this angle imposing and dominant, a dark figure backlit only by candlelight. The power dynamic has shifted palpably.

“Stand up,” Pansy said. “Pull your skirt up. Pull your knickers down. And bend over the table.”

Each command was a physical blow. There was no propriety. No romance. Just the sheer, carnal will to be had. She stood, legs trembling. Reaching back, she hooked her thumbs over her knickers and let them fall to her ankles. Then she lifted her skirt, finally revealing to Pansy her most intimate parts. Her behind was round, and firm, and between her shapely cheeks was the moist area of her body Pansy had just been pressing down upon.

Hermione placed her hands on the table before bending over it, exposing herself, presenting herself to the Slytherin she’d been at odds with for the last seven years. And now, face in parchment and breasts squashed beneath her, she didn’t know whether she wanted Pansy so bury her head in her, or something more rigid. As if to answer her query, in the corner of her eye she saw Pansy hold something.

“Do you know what this is?”

It was a harness, of sorts. And fastened to the one strap was a hard, bulbous length.

“Y-yes.”

“Well,” Pansy sneered. “You always were the know-it-all. Tell me what it does.”

Hermione was going to offer an explanation, the definition a textbook quite unlike those found at Hogwarts might offer. But then, finally, let her pretence of the innocent student fall. She was bent over a table in the school library, arse in the air. She couldn’t even pretend she was the model pupil anymore.

“You’re going to fuck me with it.”

“That’s right.”

Hermione looked back to see the Slytherin step into the straps.

“Please. Be gentle,” she whispered.

“I’m going to make no promises,” she said sternly. “But you have until I put the tip of my length against your pussy to get up and walk away.”

There was something in the words of the Slytherin that dispelled all thoughts of escape. So she waited, counting the steps as Pansy made her deliberate way towards her awaiting, gagging rear. She felt the smooth, unyielding touch to the silicone upon her undercarriage. It slide once under her before withdrawing, and this time found the entrance it wanted. Again she gasped, as the teasing pressure teased the opening. It was so precise. And then Pansy began to push.

Hermione’s internal muscles spasmed involuntarily around the intrusion. She felt the slickness of her own lubricant easing the way for the impending invasion as the shaft began to intrude up her. Her fingers gripped the desk, whole body taut and ready, ready to bounce herself up and down on the rod. It surpassed her entrance, bringing a fullness to her, a fullness that seemed to keep filling with every centimetre Pansy pushed. And it cost Hermione every ounce of her dignity to await the load, rather than pushing back in impatience. She could spare giving Pansy that one sliver of pride.

“That’s it, Granger,” she said after what felt like an agonising, exhilarating eternity. “You’ve got me buried right up you. Shall I start to fuck you now?”

Hermione let out a small, affirming gasp.

“Who’d have thought?” Pansy said. “Way back in first year. That one day you’d be begging to have my dick up your dripping cunt.”

With that Pansy took Hermione by the hips. She withdrew slowly before pushing roughly up her once more, causing Hermione to cry out in shock, in pleasure, she barely knew the difference now. What she no longer had any regard for was their clandestine silence, for even hearing her own harsh gasps and moans echoing back to her, she made no attempt to soften the voice of her blows.

She shifted her weight, her palms sliding slightly on the desk as she tried to adjust herself. Her tips tilted back unconsciously. She wanted the length, the depth in each blow, each thrust the Slytherin gave to her.

And as Pansy continued to pound away, she got faster, so much that even she was grunting with the effort to satisfy her once-nemesis. It was relentless, unforgiving, the wind knocked out of her each time the silicone length was rammed home. She grasped a parchment, scrunching it beyond any kind of legibility.

“Touch yourself.” Pansy instructed.

Hermione reached back blindly, fingers fumbling beneath her belly until they reach the slick, throbbing heat between her legs. She let out a new tone of moan as a new sensitivity was unlocked. The stretching, the rubbing, the slapping of thighs hitting buttocks in the quiet library. She felt dismantled, her consciousness dissolving into nothing but raw, animalistic thrill.

The hand between her legs became uncoordinated and frantic, desperate to bleed every ounce of thrill from her body as every blast of the strapon pumped her with sensations beyond her wildest and most intimate thoughts.

Her vision began to swim, the rows of books blurring into streaks of colour. A violent, convulsive shudder seared through her, each thrust delivering renewed momentum to the sensation that made her very body spasm. Hermione’s scream was muffled against the desk, a wail of sensory-overload as she finally climaxed. Her body quivered and vibrated, and she collapsed forward onto the desk. It took her a moment, and many long, laboured breaths to realise that Pansy was no longer behind her.

“I’m impressed,” she said. “I didn’t have you down for… for this.”

“And what…” Hermione panted, head still buried amongst the parchment. “What… is this?”

“Don’t you remember? This was to clear your thoughts. And I’d say we’ve done a great deal more than that.”

“So that’s it?” Hermione protested, the rationale for such an unprecedented turn of the night crashing back to her.

“It?” Pansy crouched down do her eyes were at Hermione’s level. “Oh, Granger, there’s so much more to it. But patience is a virtue I’m sure you will understand. You know where I am. I will look forward to our next meeting.”