LEMON LEMON LEMON
Something quick I threw onto the page. Don't own the characters, etc. etc.
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It's becoming harder and harder not to kiss him.
They are unlikely friends, their relationship built on required dinner seating and surprising discussions of pedagogy and finally airing out all the apologies and hurt that needed to be spoken aloud: there's peace between them, between the prejudice he was raised on and the hurt she harbored so long. There's also—currently—just a few centimeters of couch cushion separating Hermione's right thigh from his left, and as the movie plays she hugs a throw pillow to her chest and watches everything but the screen.
The dim blue light of the television isn't the only light in the room—there's a faint glow coming from the kitchenette behind the couch—and Hermione keeps stealing glances at his face, his head so close to hers, his white-blonde hair loose and messy and smelling of soap. He went flying earlier in the evening, not caring about showing up outside her faculty apartment with damp hair and Muggle sweatpants under his robes.
As it turns out, Draco Malfoy is a lot more fascinated by Muggle things than she would've expected. Movies, for example—he's seen movies, more than she has. He prefers high-end Muggle-produced clothing to most magically-produced garments. And as the Potions professor, he's become interested in Muggle pharmaceuticals, in the Muggle scientific method, in the whole mess of that industry. Honestly, Hermione has never met any wizard more interested in the concept of ibuprofen.
Now, he's just next to her, watching the second movie of the week on her couch, flickers of emotion passing across his regular neutral expression as the story plays out in front of them. Hermione could so easily lean into him, rest her head against his shoulder, tip her face up and press a gentle kiss to his neck and ghost her lips up his jaw. She imagines how it would feel, but the part she can't begin to imagine is the more important part: what he'd do next.
It's going to be a long week. Though they have this Monday evening open, the rest of the week they're set to roam the castle into the late hours of the night, watching to catch students out of bed. As it happens, they often take duty shifts together, whether it's patrolling the campus or chaperoning Hogsmeade trips; and luckily McGonagall likes to schedule them that way. Hermione's spent a lot of time lately wondering whether McGonagall does this for any purpose in particular. Hermione's spent a lot of time lately wondering too if there could be further reasons that Draco spends time with her—reasons beyond that he's fallen out with most of his old Hogwarts friends and maintains an uncertain relationship with his parents.
It's a pattern, or seems to be. Lots of things had fallen apart by the time they were a year out from the war. Most of Hermione's friendships, for example. –Oh, of course she's still friends with Harry and Ginny and Ron, Luna and Neville. But she barely sees them anymore now that she's back at Hogwarts again without them. And while it feels wrong to admit it, it's probably for the best. After the war, after he was out of Hogwarts for good, Ron had become a different person. It wasn't that he'd changed for the worse, but more that they'd realized that Hogwarts and Harry were the glue holding them together, giving them things in common. Ron had taken a job as an Auror and Hermione had vowed never to fight evil directly like that again; the split had been natural, but no less painful. And with the break in their relationship came the breakdown of all others and the start of this unlikely—whatever it is.
Hermione shifts her weight just slightly, just the smallest bit, then stills again, glancing quickly at Draco's face. They're too close to the end of the movie for her to lean onto him, and she spends the last few minutes waiting, frustrated, for the credits.
"So, Professor," Draco inclines his head toward her when the final scene ends, "what do you think?"
"I've seen it before," Hermione admits lightly, shrugging. "I still think it's good to show. Do you disagree?"
Draco leans back and rests his head on the back of the couch, unhelpful. "Sure wish I could just waste my class time on films…"
"You love films," Hermione corrects him, nudging his arm with her elbow. "That, or you love this uncomfortable couch. Probably the films."
"Probably," Draco replies faintly.
A moment passes in silence. Hermione watches his chest rise and fall—he's in a white t-shirt and a zip-up hoodie, like a Muggle pyjama model. Hermione's seen his bare chest a few times—the student/faculty Quidditch game, the time a student spilled itching powder on him, the time he'd peeled off a sweater walking into a faculty common area in early January and had the shirt accidentally follow. Hermione remembers the last incident most vividly, the lean, hard lines of his chest—
"Yes?" Draco is sitting back up, smirking at her. Somehow she didn't even notice.
"I—got another job offer," Hermione says suddenly, looking anywhere but at him. It's true—she has gotten another. Unsolicited outside job offers have been finding Hermione since the war ended; after all, that was how she ended up at Hogwarts. Most of them are rubbish, but Draco doesn't know that.
"And?"
"Oh, I don't know," Hermione says carefully. She's created for herself an opening, on a night that would be ordinary but which has found Draco especially delectable and on the couch beside her. He doesn't seem poised to strike anytime soon, so Hermione summons every bit of her Gryffindor courage and plows forward. "It depends on a few things where I'd like to be."
Draco raises an eyebrow. "Such as?" His smirk has faded, just a bit; but she notices.
"Other people," Hermione says simply. This is a hint, she thinks at him, turning on the couch cushion so that she's facing him instead of the TV, leaning sideways against the back cushions.
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If he didn't know any better, Draco would think Professor Hermione Granger has been checking him out. He's aware he's an attractive man—it's something he works on, something to take his mind off his situation. It muddles things a bit that the situation is staring intently at him from her own couch cushions. Still, Draco Malfoy never forgets he's Draco Malfoy. He's not one who can—or should—hold onto hope, and any pride he feels in catching her assessing his physique is quickly undermined by the reality of what she's just said to him. "Other people"? Just what is that supposed to mean?
"I don't see why," Draco says, keeping his expression neutral. "You can go anywhere, do anything. You're the Brightest Witch of—"
"Don't say that; it—"
Draco raises a hand, stopping her protest and finishing her thought: "—downplays the contributions of all the heroines who passed away during the war. I know, I know." It's a rant he's heard enough times he can recite it, could keep going if he wanted. It's one of the things that endears her to him—her insistence not to be put on a pedestal and simultaneous desire for praise. It makes her a bit of a Slytherin, Draco thinks.
Hermione huffs in frustration, dropping her shoulders ever-so-slightly with the sound. She wets her lips with her tongue, absently, focusing on her hands in her lap. Draco watches the dark pink tip of her tongue as it darts out, trying to beat down any thoughts he might be having about what that tongue might or might not be capable of. As far as most of the wizarding world is concerned, once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater. And though it's kept quiet at Hogwarts, he knows more than to think he might be redeemed.
The pretty little witch fidgeting with her hands in her lap is still marked by the ugly red scars that spell the slur he used to fling at her. They've cleared the air, sure; but he knows better than to think their casual companionship could ever develop into more. Secretly, he's indignant; becoming a Death Eater was hardly a choice he got to make for himself. Still, had any of the Golden Trio been in his shoes, they would've fought. It's what makes him a Slytherin and her a Gryffindor. It's what makes her a national hero. Of course she's constantly beset with job offers. Probably it would be best, he tells himself, for her to take the opening and move on.
"Would I be missed? You know, if I left Hogwarts?"
"Sorely," Draco answers immediately, his heart hammering in his chest. He doesn't have to think about his answer, but he backpedals, qualifying it as if he's not speaking of himself. "Hogwarts never deserved you."
Hermione looks up as Draco turns sideways toward her, propping one elbow on the back of the couch but still maintaining, by centimeters, the careful distance he keeps from her. He can't get any closer—he knows this—without feeling as if he'll go up in flames.
"But Hogwarts is the finest wizarding institution in all of Europe, even most—"
Draco rolls his eyes, almost anticipating her reaction. "Even then." The conversation seems to be moving in a dangerous direction. The hesitation Hermione's showing isn't her normal, snippy self—the fact that she's so subdued indicates she's about to say something difficult.
Draco's been preparing himself for this day for some time now—the day she'd go on to bigger and better things. He always supposed it would come up at a faculty meeting or dinner—not in her faculty apartment living room. Really, he should know better than to even have made the suggestion to watch films together; but he couldn't help himself. He didn't know how much time he'd have to be with her, and selfishly he wanted to grab up every minute.
Hermione bites her lip. "Ah," she begins, making a sound more than speaking, and Draco bolts. He's going to need a stiff drink for this; he's off the couch and moving away when Hermione calls out suddenly—
"Wait!"
Draco starts and looks back. Hermione blushes heavily, her outburst louder than necessary.
"I thought I might get a drink," Draco explains.
"But—I'm saying something," Hermione whines.
"Then say it," Draco prompts, sitting back down with a shaky breath. He's careful with his face, so careful. He turns to her with an eyebrow raised, a challenge to hide the storm in his chest. He deserves to lose her, really. He can't expect anything more than this.
Hermione holds his gaze for a moment, then drops her head, picking an invisible piece of lint from the couch cushion. "I suppose I'm saying… that I want to know…" She looks up, giving the tiniest shrug, her brown eyes intense and eyebrows slightly furrowed as she drops the bomb: "…what it is we're doing here."
He knows better. He knows better than to think this is going where he thinks it's going. Draco is, after all, the only faculty member her age. This friendship they've developed seems very much like the friendship she had with Harry during school—at least the way it looked on the outside. And as to the Weasel, well, she could always get back together with him. With a snap of her fingers, even.
But there's the piercing way she's looking at him, like she wants to see right through him, and his voice cracks embarrassingly as he answers, "Watch—watching a movie." He swallows. "Obviously."
"I mean as a man and a woman," Hermione clarifies, tucking a strand of her hair behind an ear. She's figured out how to tame it after all these years, though it still retains a hint of the sweet curling that Draco's grown to find so becoming on her.
His sarcastic response is automatic, defense mechanism: "I think they watch movies, too," he drawls.
Hermione looks at him expectantly, willing him to say more.
Draco drops her gaze again, glancing off in a different direction. He feels the slightest color heat his cheeks, admitting carefully, "Well, I suppose I'm a man spending time in the company of a woman he admires." Isn't she about to tell him she's leaving, after all? Wasn't this about another job?
"And how does he admire her?"
Draco stills completely, sucking in a breath without letting it go.
"What makes him want to spend his time with her?" Hermione leans closer, closer, so slowly he thinks he's imagining it until he can feel her soft exhale as she asks, "What makes him prefer her company?" She glances up at him through half-lidded eyes, and then she is whispering against his skin. "What would he do if she were to kiss him—" she presses her lips to his cheek, ever so briefly, leaving a bloom of sweet heat in her wake—"like this?"
It's everything he can do not to meld himself to her and kiss her back, but Draco isn't a Slytherin for nothing.
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He draws back, his hands going to her shoulders, his expression severe. "Aren't you telling me you're leaving Hogwarts?" he demands.
"N-no," Hermione stammers, confused, feeling lightly embarrassed for her earlier leading questions.
Draco searches her face. The look in his eyes is almost desperate as he forces eye contact, staring her down, and suddenly the mask slips. In his icy gray eyes, in the lines of his face Hermione reads all the pain and the hope he harbors—the quick defensiveness that hides his fears of rejection, the desperate loneliness he covers with sarcasm and barbs, the raw hunger of a man wracked with sexual tension. When he speaks his voice is hoarse, his eyes boring into hers as if to look into her soul: "Please, Hermione. Whatever it is you do next—don't do it lightly."
"Don't you think for a moment that I haven't thought this through." And then she is kissing him full-on, the fingers of one hand threading through his slightly damp hair and the other fisted in his jacket, holding him closer to her. He responds immediately, trying to pull her into his lap, his hands roaming over her curves, one sliding down her hip and the other cupping a breast through her casual clothes. She's unbuttoning her shirt to give him access as he blindly rips at the zipper to his own jacket, the t-shirt he's wearing. Her bra is insubstantial, her dark nipples standing out beneath the skimpy pink lace, and as she scratches one hand down his chest and up his back he moves his mouth down her throat, skimming across the tops of her breasts. Hermione presses kisses to the top of his head as Draco runs his tongue over the hardening peaks of her nipples, and Hermione responds with a sharp intake of breath, breathing out all in a huff a moment later.
Hermione puts her hands to his shoulders then, pushing him backwards until he's leaning all the way back against the couch. Then in a swift motion she straddles him, swinging one leg across his lap and pressing the heat of her sex down against his hardening member. She arches her back at the sensation, pushing her breasts back into his face.
"Mmm," Draco is the first of them to verbalize anything, pressing kisses between her breasts as his hands ghost to her back in search of the clasp to her bra. His voice is quiet, reverent, as he slips the straps from her shoulders, dropping the bra out of sight and planting another kiss between her now-naked breasts. "There's my girl." He sucks at a nipple briefly before palming both of her breasts, his face rapt.
Hermione giggles, cupping his face between both hands and pressing feather-light kisses to every inch of skin. The bridge of his nose. His eyebrows. The corner of his mouth. Soon the teasing of it all is too much for him and he captures her mouth hungrily with his. Hermione arches against him, rolling her hips as his tongue dips into her mouth.
Draco skims his hands down her sides and plants them on her hips, dipping his fingers below the waistband of her pants, teasing. He pulls back, breaking the moment and the kiss just briefly again to look her in the eyes. "You're serious, then," he says, more a statement than a question, his voice gruff. "You—this isn't just one night. You're not about to leave. You're—"
"Ssshh," Hermione puts a finger to his lips, leaning down to kiss the tip of his nose. "First off, I live here," she smiles, but Draco doesn't mirror the expression. She rolls her eyes lightly, letting go of his face and resting her hands instead against his chest. "Of course I'm serious. After all this time, do you really take me for a one-night stand?"
Draco closes his eyes, shaking his head and chuckling to himself before looking back to her. "Merlin. I can't help but feel like—this is too good to be true." His lovely gray eyes have changed; a little of the light has faded, the brooding returned.
"Then let's be clear," Hermione says, poking one finger into his chest. "I want to kiss you. And do other things to you. And keep watching movies, and taking the same supervisory shifts, and laughing and griping about our students. I pretty much want to spend all my time with you anyway. And—" she feels her cheeks go pink, which considering that she's sitting half-naked on the object of her affection feels like an absurd reaction—"just maybe—I might be falling in love with you."
Draco crushes her against him so quickly she only has a moment to see how his expression changes, how suddenly his expression in uncharacteristically joyful. She might describe it as "beaming," if she'd had more time to see it. Draco buries his face in her hair, sputtering just a moment before managing, "Beautiful—beautiful. You gorgeous, sexy, brilliant witch."
Hermione hums in response, her fingers skimming down his sides. "Ah," she teases, "so you've met me."