Edenic

The Wild Haired Girl//Pansmione College AU- Part 2

@slytheringirlsgang event: Slytherdor Ships

A/N: It’s literally taken me so long to finish this because I write like one sentence a day with all the studying and stress I have going on at the moment! I don’t know whether to keep uploading these here or to stick to AO3, so let me know whether you want to keep seeing these on Tumblr! 

Also callout @fortesques I love u so much

Part I

It’s raining heavily when Pansy sees her for the second time.

Her head is still pounding from the alcohol that slid down her throat so easily at 3 am, with chants of encouragement from her friends. 

Millicent and Draco didn’t seem to be aware that their encouragement wasn’t actually necessary; the taste of menthol tainted vodka sticking to her throat is the only thing that almost erases the memory of the sweet scent of jasmine that still lingers in her nose before she drifts to sleep at night. 

It’s a very cloudy day, but the sun is still too fucking bright, making her squint behind her sunglasses as she takes a sip of her Americano, the taste of gin that she’d carelessly chucked in from her flask burning at the sides of her cheeks.

“Fuck.”

The rain starts suddenly, pouring down and drenching her within seconds, hair sticking to her face and her sunglasses now covered in droplets that now completely obstructed her vision. 

“Fuck,” she mutters again, pushing her sunglasses to the top of her head and rushing towards the nearest possible roof. The fucking cherry on top though, is stepping into a massive puddle and feeling the muddy water soak through her brand new white Adidas trainers and find its way inside her socks. 

Finally sheltered under the roof of a nearby bookstore, she whips out her phone, swiping past the drunken group photo that graces her lockscreen and dialing the first number in her call log; the same number that permanently held the spot. 

“Malfoy, bring me an umbrella.”

The voice on the other end of the phone is that of a hungover 20 year old man that had clearly just woken up.

“Good morning Draco, how are you today? Would you maybe consider being so kind as to bring me an umbrella?” the irritation and sarcasm in the voice of her best friend causes her to roll her eyes and sigh in frustration. 

“I’m drenched." 

"I’m asleep." 

"You’re an ass, that’s what you are.”

“Goodnight, Parkinson.”

“Draco–” she groans at the dull sound of an ended call. 

A frigid wind causes her to shiver and, with another groan, she opens the door to the bookstore, immediately colliding with a bent over figure and feeling the heat of her coffee trickle down her front. 

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The Wild Haired Girl//Pansmione College AU

Request: Pansmione college au!!!!!!!!!!!!!

A/N: Here you go @pansyparquinson, hope I did it justice and you don’t divorce me u dick. This is only a part one/preview, which is why it’s so short. I will be posting this as a multiple parts fic on AO3 so if you want to be notified about that, let me know! You can find my AO3 here if you’re interested! xoxo

Leaves falling to the ground become an every day occurrence this time of year, as does the strong scent of freshly brewed coffee that fills Pansy’s every sense as she enters the small coffee shop, discovered only a few days back on a rushed trip to the library.

The soft ding of the bell that dangles above the door makes the hint of a smile flicker on her face, clearly worn by nights spent awake by the light of her laptop. She walks towards the counter, trying to ignore how heavy her head felt on her shoulders. The smiling face of the familiar barista greets her, as it has for the past week, and she mumbles a greeting, surprised by the hoarseness of her own voice.

“Skinny caramel latte, please.”

With a friendly nod, the barista writes her already familiar name on the paper cup. Why he’d remembered her name so quickly, she doesn’t really know. Maybe it was because it was an odd one, and maybe he’d developed a crush. Before she ingested her daily dose of caffeine, Pansy didn’t really care.

“Hermione Granger?” a question mark practically floated through the air at the end of the name, the puzzled boy clearly wondering whether he’d pronounced right. Or whether he’d spelled it right, perhaps.

Before she knows it, the familiar scent of coffee is almost erased by the sweet scent of jasmine, almost pouring out of a wild haired girl that has somehow appeared right by her side. The stranger comes closer and closer, with seemingly no intention of stopping, and for a moment, Pansy thinks she’s going to kiss her, her heartbeat suddenly racing past the speed of her suddenly jumbled thoughts.

“Excuse me,” the girl utters with a smile, grabbing the cup that, apparently, had been right behind Pansy the entire time.

“Oh,” she stutters back, “Sorry.”

She’d never admit it, but in that moment, Pansy almost felt her heart break a little, the anticipation of the stranger’s smiling lips still stuck in the back of her head. 

Okay so this was difficult for me because I’m a big Romione shipper, but I gave it a go, even though it may be a tad ambiguous, so I hope you like it even if it wasn’t exactly what you wanted @antoniaang!

Her kisses give him toothaches. Sugar burns holes in his cheeks, seeps into his veins, sticks to his skin. She’s soft as cotton candy. Sweet, sweet cloud bubbling in his mouth, fireworks of his heart crackling on his tongue.

Eye of the hurricane. A deceptive lull, a foreshadowing of frenetic situations, desperate fingers tangling in his hair and his tongue allowing her name to slip off of it, smooth as silk.

Red wine. Bitter and sweet and sour, that’s what he tastes when his lips are on her neck, coated with secrets and innocence and unsaid words.

Power. It’s what she has, so much power over him, the softness of her voice when she calls his name, the flutter of her eyelashes on a hot summer’s day, sound of her laughter sinking into his skin like a painless tattoo.

Forbidden fruit tastes the sweetest, but how could one know that if its flavour never touched their tongue, never burned its way through their throat and stuck to the lining of their stomach.

Temptation. It’s the strongest when something is impossible, like the sound of her voice pouring love-filled words into his ear as the moon watches their banished passion and whispers to the stars.

Forbidden fruit tastes the sweetest, even if it means he must pocket his sins and run and hide, even if it means tasting her breath only when midnight passes, and clocks strike 1,2,3 in the morning.

Forbidden fruit tastes the sweetest, and Hermione, well… She was the most beautiful piece growing off the branch.

She’s fire and ice. You’ll fear the cold and crave the burn.//The Story of Hermione Granger

Request: Hi! Could you do “She’s fire and ice. You’ll fear the cold and crave the burn” Thank you!

Only 6, and still hiding behind coats of innocence, Hermione Granger wishes for a cherry blossom to fall from the tree in the park by her house. She looks up at the extending branches, her eyes narrowing with concentration, and a pink bud finds its way to her outstretched finger, the sweet breath of ending summer landing on her fingertip. Just a coincidence. It must just be a coincidence.

9 years old, and hearing loud “NERD"s thrown at her through the air, she clutches her book closer to her chest, her brows furrowing, her blood boiling. Seconds later, the bellowing stops and she turns to see the miserly souls toppling over, shocked squeals following their fall. Startled, yet unsurprised, she hides a small smirk and makes her way to the library. Just a coincidence. It must just be a coincidence.

10 years old, and spending sleepless nights searching through books with ‘Magic’ etched into leather covers, frantically flipping pages, tears welling in her eyes. There are no answers to be found, no explanations scribbled onto worn sheets of paper. She is lost in herself, completely bewildered by who she may be. I must be going insane.

11 years old, and tracing the shapes carved into red wax, her mouth agape at the curling "H” beneath her fingers. She reads printed words and suddenly everything makes sense, toffees appearing out of nowhere when the bowl seems empty, flowers growing atop snowed ground in the middle of winter. Her heartbeat quickens, sweat covering her palms, a smile spreading across her young face. I’m not insane. It’s not a coincidence.

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