Originally on GE; beta'd by the lovely AuntieL
GENRE: Fortnight Foray week 3 prompt
PROMPT: Breathless, sweat, swimming, grass, thirst
Breathless. It never failed. Ever.
Hermione panted and forced herself not to groan, whimper, or collapse. She had chosen this route, after all. It was impossible to make most witches and wizards understand, but, despite her bookworm I-don't-care-how-I-look façade, she was not inclined to become a blimp in robes. Research and housework were not conducive to anything but becoming said blimp in robes.
Growing up Muggle was considerably better for her health than growing up, well, not Muggle. Yes, Quidditch and degnoming a garden were active, but they weren't really exercise – and it is very hard to get any kind of benefit from Quidditch if one refuses to get on a broom in any situation that is not immediately life-threatening and no Apparation or Portkeys are available. Sitting in stands is much like sitting at a desk, after all, only with more beer, butterbeer, and various junky foods that are sold in sports venues – whether Wizard or Muggle.
Since she did not play Quidditch and she lived in a flat that did not have a gnome problem in the garden – or a garden – she had to do one thing she had learned to hate years ago in physical education classes: exercise.
Yes, Hermione Jean Granger was a gym-rat, an aerobics bunny, a freakin' health nut, as defined by current standards. She ate proper foods and very few junky ones (except at the obligatory Quidditch game where she cheered on Ron and Oliver Wood). She exercised regularly in several ways, some at a local gym, some in her home, and this particular form of torture – ahem, exercise – was the one that involved the local park. She jogged. Voluntarily. Without being in mortal danger.
And she hated every Circe-cursed second of it.
Passionately.
But.
Results, being undeniable and quantifiable, were results, and exercising in some manner every day did render results. She was fit. Tight. Toned. Slim as she'd ever be. Her breasts rode high and perky. Her hips weren't as wide as they looked because her waist was trim and tidy. Her bum was firm and full. Her legs had, literally, stopped traffic in Ministry corridors. When she had slipped out of a ruined blouse – coffee-front courtesy of a very careless young clerk who hadn't seen her coming 'round the corner – and hadn't realized her door wasn't locked, no less than the five gentlemen who had been coming to a meeting saw the muscle definition and graceful arch of her spine, as well as the sudden flare of her hips. Instead of blushing and stammering – they were doing enough of that without her help, after all – Hermione simply finished straightening her new blouse, slipped on her robes, and tried very hard not to smirk as she began the scheduled meeting.
The bookworm was, as Muggles would put it, HOT. She knew it, too.
She was also freakin' hot, out of breath, and bent over gasping like an asthmatic who'd just sucked down six packs of cigarettes without pausing.
"Why in the hell do I do this to myself?" she panted, carefully stretching her thighs because they were about to start cramping. "Three years after the damned..." She didn't finish any sentences about the war because she was in Muggle London, after all, not Wizarding London. "Still can't get it to stop cramping after a little jaunt."
Cruciatus Curses may have been Unforgivable according to the Ministry, but they were truly awful in the many, many side-effects one could experience, even years later, from a light dose. Hermione had been cursed by one of the cruelest, and her doses of the curse had been heavy, though brief. Muscle cramps, tight tendons and stiff ligaments, aches in her joints and bones – all of it was simply a part of life now. Exercise helped to keep these things at bay, though her left leg, the one that Bellatrix had strained when she'd tried to cut Hermione's throat after carving on her arm, always tried to cramp after a run, and always the cramp started at the knee and worked higher on the big, front muscles of her thigh.
The pain she could take. The tight muscles she could handle, but she could not stand being out of breath.
Whenever she ran, though, she was, at least for a little while, breathless.
Sweat poured down her back and pooled at the waistband of her shorts. Her hair was wringing wet from the scalp out to about three inches. Beads of stinging salt water were dripping into her eyes. Worst of all, her socks felt squishy.
Summer was a brutal time of year in London, without the green of the country to soak up some of the heat and breathe out the cool air. The smell of the Thames – nothing, not even magic, could fix centuries of abuse in so short a time – was an insult to olfactory nerves everywhere. It was England, where one should have cloudy skies year-round and rain every day (or so the tourists insisted), so Hermione felt a bit cheated that today had to be sunny, hot, and sticky. A little rain about now, when carrying in the last few boxes to Ginny's new flat in Muggle London, would be just about perfect. A little rain now, a little cooling down before dinner...
Alas, it wasn't to be.
Hermione huffed her way up the six flights of stairs and thought many very nasty things about the architect, the building owner (historical residence – no elevators could be added!), and, yes, her friend. She considered a diatribe on the ill-advised timing of the move, but with the fallout between Harry and Ginny being what it was, she didn't want to deal with the crying jag. She actually practiced a bit of a comedic monologue about moving the Muggle way and why most sensible witches lived in Wizarding areas, but again, fallout, crying jag.
Instead, Hermione settled for cursing. She cursed the steps with the risers just a touch higher than modern ones. She cursed the curve of the landings, so very elegant and so very impractical. She cursed the feel of the box cutting into her fingers and straining her shoulders. She cursed the need to move today and not some nice, cool day in October.
She stopped at the top of the fifth flight, wedged the box between the wall and her hip, and brushed the back of her hand against her forehead. She picked up the box again and pushed on up the last flight of stairs, cursing Ginny's tendency for tower-like residences.
Mostly, though, she cursed the sweat.
July at the shore allowed Hermione to indulge in some of her favourite vices without sacrificing her virtues.
She soaked up the sun as well as her fair skin would allow, and sunblock was her closest friend. Despite the delicious feel of the sun on her skin, she was not inclined to become a patient at a dermatologist, checking for cancer cells in potentially-deadly beauty marks.
She ogled fit men on the beach, and her sunglasses were her closest friend for this particular vice. In her bikini, with the scars she couldn't quite glamour away altered to be less hideous than they were – though they would feel exactly like what they were, should she decide to indulge her senses with one of those fit men – she was a fetching sight. Hiding her eyes, though, that was the key to ogling and appreciating the beauty of the male form without hurting feelings when she refused advances. Her favourite beaches in France had more interaction, which she had indulged and appreciated more than once over the years, but this beach, her favourite in Britain, was deliciously reserved. Most of the men and women were single, but tended to separate groups during the sunlight hours. After dark, when the drinking and dancing began, oh, then they mingled. For now, the men showed off and the women posed. Hermione, posing primly on her towel, obligingly watched the current pack of young men – soldiers on leave, from the look of them – playing an energetic game with an oddly elongated, spongy rugby ball. Ogling was a delicious vice.
She sipped sweet drinks by the water – virgin drinks until the sun dipped below the waterline – and read smutty books with steamy sex scenes. After the sun went down, she would seriously consider re-enacting some of these scenes with one of those lovely, fit soldiers – and that blond one reminded her of the Malfoy men. Utterly delicious. She licked the sweet drink from her lips and let her eyes follow the blond with the lickable chest and an arse so tight she could bounce a galleon off it. After he moved too far to the left for her to see without turning her head, she focussed her attention back to her book. The hero was also blond, and he was about to utterly ravish his sweet, sensitive, virginal, Victorian bride until she was a quivering heap of satisfied (and now guiltily sexually aware) woman. One of her vices was definitely putting the faces of wizards she knew on the descriptions of these delicious (and thankfully fictitious) men – in this case Lucius Malfoy's face on the character of a masterful, slightly wicked but ultimately decent Victorian lord.
Her number one vice, though, was also a virtue. Swimming. She couldn't resist the call of the waves: the first breath-stealing moment when the icy water came in contact with her sun-warmed skin, the pull and tug of the water against her muscles as she moved efficiently and cleanly through the waves. She knew when she got out of the water, the rivulets would stream down her skin, her bikini would show off her tan and the material would cling to her tightly, showing off the play of muscles under the fabric and her nipples would be easily visible from the cold of the water.
She always felt amazing after her swim. Like she was weightless. Floating, even as she walked. Muscles hot and just a little weak after the exertion. Every time she got out of the water, she imagined she glowed with it.
Every time she got out of the water, she felt the eyes of those men she ogled skimming over her, imagining more than the water kissing her curves and delving into the secrets under her bikini.
Every time she got out of the water, she smiled, a little sphinx-like smile. She could, in that moment, choose any of those delicious men and have them however she wanted.
Yes, swimming was her favourite, most virtuous vice.
Hermione stretched out on the grass and watched Teddy play. She was at Andromeda's, as she was at least twice every week, letting the older witch out to run her errands and take care of the shopping and such.
Maybe it was magic, maybe it was memories of her own happy childhood, but Hermione loved the feel and smell of the grass. She loved the way it slipped between bare toes and tickled the bottoms of feet. She loved the way it flattened to cushion a body stretched out to watch clouds, then sprang up partway and slowly unfolded after the body got back up. She loved the games one could play while running on it. She loved the laughter that inevitably came from such games and such moments.
Just like Teddy was laughing, running across the lawn, streaming old-fashioned soap bubbles behind him. He was four, and soap bubbles were fascinating to him.
Hermione's feet swished the air as she propped on her elbows and watched him, smiling as she remembered doing exactly the same thing when she was little.
Teddy turned quickly and tried to count the bubbles before they popped, trying to see even the littlest ones and count them – he never made it. Neither had she.
Who was it that said soap bubbles were the most beautiful and unique things in nature? Some Muggle humourist, she knew, but which one?
Did it matter?
Soap bubbles and grass and lazy summer afternoons were exactly what she needed after the work week she'd had. Yes, this was just right to unwind – and Teddy was exhausted.
"Did you finish all your bubble potion?" she asked, smiling and tousling Teddy's bright blue hair. It was just soapy water, but it may as well be a potion to a child.
"Uh-huh," he said, nodding happily. He yawned. "I'm tired, Aunt 'Mynee."
"Do you want to go in for a nap?" she asked, knowing it was a bit early.
"Nuh-uh." He shook his head as he grunted out his answer, and she smiled.
"Well, then stretch out here with me. We can watch the clouds for a little bit." Hermione rolled over onto her back and felt Teddy doing the same, just close enough that he was touching her, but not close enough to be considered cuddling. He was as sensitive as Remus had been about some things, even though he was only a little boy.
"Oh, look! A jarvey!" she said, pointing to a particularly fluffy cloud.
"I see a poodle!" Teddy said, pointing to another part of the jarvey cloud. On it went for several minutes, until, "Aunt 'Mynee? Do you know my favourite smell in the whole world?"
"Is it fresh chocolate biscuits? That was your father's favourite." Her voice was light, easy.
"No. Grass." He was quiet for a long time. His voice was so soft, so sad.
Hermione propped up on one arm and looked down at him.
"Why is grass your favourite smell?" she asked softly.
"Because it reminds me of Daddy," he said, eyes pooling with tears. "I smelled it when he would talk to me and hold me. And I smell it every time we go to see him and Mommy in the churchyard." He sniffed. "I miss Daddy."
"I miss your daddy, too," Hermione said. How Teddy knew how his father had smelled, she didn't know, but she attributed it to stories, scent-memory, or magic. Perhaps all three. "And my favourite smell is grass, too. You're right. Remus did smell like grass a lot."
He had. The comfort of that smell had followed him, but he had hated it. Grass had meant four paws and pain. Grass had meant years of loneliness as his only friends were dead or in prison. Grass had meant a loss of humanity.
Teddy cuddled up to Hermione and sniffled, trying not to cry. Hermione held him close, not telling him to shush.
Instead, she stayed quiet, which is what Teddy needed in long minutes like this, and let her mind drift back to the smell of grass and the feeling of safety and comfort it brought to her.
No werewolf could take that away, not when he had worn the smell and worked so hard to protect her and the others.
Hermione took in a deep breath, felt the slow, even breathing of a sleeping Teddy against her, and let herself grieve, once again, for a good man.
She fell asleep in the grass.
Hermione dug the spade into the ground and turned another shovelful. Some gardening could be done by magic, but mostly it was just work. The summer vegetables were ready to be picked, but it was time to prepare the autumn patch, turning the soil and getting it ready to be planted.
Magic could be used to tend to the weeds, water the seeds and shoots, and even pick the vegetables and fruits, but it couldn't be used to till the ground. There was something about the interaction of magic with earth that leeched the nutrients away, and the plants would be weak, unproductive. Neville had explained it all in Fifth-year Herbology, but she so rarely worked in a garden or greenhouse that she'd forgotten most of the magic-matter interactions.
She was sweating again, but this time she didn't mind. It always seemed to be cooler in the country, and here at The Burrow, working in the garden was just fun. Thirsty work, but fun work. Not quite as fun as degnoming the garden, mind, but fun.
"You look like you need this," came the soft, sad voice behind her.
Hermione turned, saw Bill holding two glasses of lemonade, and smiled.
"Thanks, Bill," she said. "One of the few drawbacks of working in the garden: thirst."
"I would think dirt sticking to you is on that list," he said, a flash of a smile in his eyes and on his lips. The divorce had been hard on him, but losing Victoire had been worse. Neither he nor Fleur had known she'd taken the old broomstick out, not until they found her body at the bottom of the cliff. Blame had run wild, anger fueled by agony, until whatever they had once had together had burned to ashes. Now he was living at The Burrow again, unable to face living in Shell Cottage or living alone quite yet.
"It is, but that's quickly remedied by a dip in the pond," she returned. "Speaking of, I'm done for the day. Care for a swim?" She downed half her lemonade and pressed the cold glass to her cheek. Somehow, she managed not to moan in pleasure, instead rolling the glass against her skin and closing her eyes to enjoy it.
He was taking too long to answer.
"Bill?" Her voice asked the questions she couldn't put words to quite yet. Embedded in that one word was are you okay? and did I say something wrong?
"I think I'd like that," he said softly, his lips flashing that little smile again, his eyes not quite so shadowed. "I'll go change."
Hermione watched him walk back to the house and sipped her lemonade slowly. What had that look in his eyes been? Was he... no. No, he wasn't interested in her. Was he?
What had Ron said? Bill hadn't gone swimming since the accident? Or was it since the divorce was final? Wouldn't even go down to the pond because it reminded him of finding Victoire on the rocks at the beach?
But he was going swimming with her.
Maybe, just maybe, his thirst was for more than just lemonade, and maybe, just maybe, there was something she had that could soothe him, if only for a little while.
Maybe, whispered that little voice that had found him fascinating for far too long, you can be more than just a 'little while' for him.
As she walked down to the pond, empty glass in her hand, shovel banished back to the shed, she realized that she, too, had been thirsty for too long.