Note: Not yet Halloween, but this year the crew decided it would be fun to write little gifts for each other for Halloween. I got Ash. I can't say enough nice things about her, she always calls me out on my bullshit endings, is one of the fastest, no-nonsense betas I know, and never once complained about my procrastinating tendencies (apart from the occasionally raised eyebrows at my disorganisation). Overall, she is my internet dad with a long list of puns and has probably seen my writing grow the most over the last year and a half. I love you, darling, thanks for making me part of the family and happy spooky season!
.: Peaches and Tobacco :.
Tom's fingers were cold, but he had always run cold. The tips of his fingers and the end of his nose is red. Not that Hermione should have taken notice. Tom wasn't hers, not anymore. She didn't have a claim to his lips, his body or the bite marks on his neck. Those belonged to someone else, someone who could handle the enigma wrapped in ego.
Still, she licks her lips and traces her tongue over her teeth. Dreaming, always dreaming about him. Ron came to stand beside her, the scent of Dove soap and Axe body spray fills Hermione's nostrils. He follows her gaze and then when he sees it land on Tom, he lets out a sad chuckle.
"C'mon, you know he didn't deserve you anyway," Ron says like a good friend should, and Hermione turns to stare into Ron's blue eyes. How easy life would have been if they worked out. How happy for everyone involved if Ron hadn't needed more than Hermione and Hermione hadn't met Tom.
Their friendship had been built on the premise that they would one day fall in love. At eleven, Ron Weasley was everything that Hermione wanted. His large family with six older brothers and a sister had been the place where she got advice from. His best friend, Harry had become hers and she spent just as much time kissing Ron during her study breaks in high school as she did on her essays. Ron is her first, in every way that other people think it matters and she has not regretted it one bit. She regrets that they weren't stronger than cotton candy, although their love had been just as sweet.
"I know," Hermione murmurs. "Sometimes I just want what we had back."
"Don't we all, remember when we thought that love was as easy as Bill and Fleur?" Harry adds, setting his pile of books into Hermione's hand before rummaging through his bag. "In good news, you won't believe how lucky I am, teacher training placement at Hogwarts just got the email."
"Congratulations, but for the love of god, why won't you staple your pages, Potter!" Hermione berates. "I bought you a mini-stapler for Christmas for this reason."
Harry's laughter carries across the courtyard and Hermione refuses to blush as Tom looks her way and gives her a nod of acknowledgement. She sends a raised eyebrow back and then taps Ron's shoulders with the stack of pages when he smiles at her, judgement sitting on the edge of his lips.
"Don't judge, at least I've moved past eating a pint of ice cream and kissing a framed picture of him."
"True," Ron states. "Improvement, you wouldn't be our Hermione if we couldn't measure your progress, even during a break-up."
"He's still a terrible human," Harry pipes, taking the pages from Hermione and stuffing them into an already full folder. "At least this way, we can do a group costume for Halloween, like when we were kids. I have it all planned: Power Rangers!"
Harry shares a flat with his boxer cousin, Dudley. This means that there is no junk food in their fridge and while Hermione can appreciate the commitment they share to make healthy eating a priority, she'd like to come over without feeling the need to bring over an entire pantry's worth of snacks.
Ron is already there, with one of Mrs Weasley's freezer meals in the oven and is cutting an impressive amount of vegetables for a warmed grain salad. Hermione can taste the health and the thought of it makes her gag.
"It's just marinated chicken breasts," Ron says, seeing Hermione's disgusted look. "Dudley invited a new sponsor of his over."
This is not what Friday movie nights are supposed to look like. "I can come back next week," Hermione offers. She doesn't want to meet anyone new and she only came tonight because Dudley promised he would come drinking with her, which is code for watching rom-coms while they sip wine out of smuggled flasks in the theatre.
"Shit, was that the text that Dudley sent?" Hermione asks, placing her bag of hyper-processed snacks down onto the neatly set kitchen table.
"Yea," Dudley says, buttoning up a clean shirt. "Hey, Hermione."
"Don't you "hey" me! You even did laundry for them!" Hermione accuses, taking note of the spotless flat.
"That's all Harry and Ron, something about good impressions. Harry is picking up wine, maybe he can go with you after that," Dudley offers.
They all know it is pointless. Movies, but rom-coms at that are a Hermione and Dudley thing. Just like deep conversations on the roof are between Hermione and Harry and how Ron is the only person that shares her love for wandering antique stores and finding bargain deals neither of them needs. Hermione doesn't have friends outside of these three boys and while she loves Ginny and Luna, she feels like a third-wheel when she hangs around them.
"It's ok, I'll catch you next week when our schedules free up again. Ron, you can take the snacks home," Hermione says reaching over to give goodbye hugs.
She doesn't notice Tom passing her as she walks home. Although his fingers itch to catch his green scarf tied around her neck.
Hermione hates watching Dudley box. He has an amazing coach and a great team in his corner, but she still watches the matches through the cracks of her fingers. It was the same when Ron played rugby in high school or when someone thrice the size of Harry tackles him at community football games. Even if she knows that they've trained for this, there is something about the blood (and possibilities for brain damage) in that form that makes Hermione squeamish.
Ginny and Luna are next to her having the time of their lives. But Ginny breathes sport, just as much as her brothers, and Luna has a surprising violent streak. It is a mixture of the beer and terror that grip Hermione's heart that makes her hold Tom's gaze.
She threw his number out months ago. She burned it with every single letter he wrote to her. Because they do occupy two different worlds, even if he tried to convince her otherwise. Tom never makes the first move and Hermione wishes she didn't swoon at how absolutely feminist of him to acknowledge that she prefers the chase far more than he does.
She turns her head to watch the last round. She sees the sponsor: Riddle, on Dudley's shorts. It is a stark reminder that he is wealthy enough that sponsoring Dudley is pocket change to him. Does he know the amount of money he drops in the contract that Hermione went over with Dudley, it is the kind of money that easily changes her and her friends lives on a regular basis?
She met Tom on the library steps. He was in the MBA programme and Hermione had been tutoring Luna. He had grabbed her phone by accident, they had similar black cases and were sitting at the same table. Tom Riddle had tapped his foot with impatience and Hermione would have been as equally angry if she hadn't been sleep deprived.
"Sorry about that!" Hermione says, her eyes heavy with sleep as they exchange phones. Hermione has walked through life with an apology on her lips at any given moment. It is part of growing up in an immigrant household. There is a hierarchy of deference and Hermione is particularly low on the scale.
She is still in her hospital scrubs, having come over just after her night shift had ended, and the crocs she wears on her feet are from the Chudley Canon sale-pack that she bought for Ron, but forgot to give him.
"Oh, before I forget," she takes out a Starbucks gift card and hands it to him. "For your troubles."
Tom seems surprised, but Hermione leaves as the alarm on her phone goes off. Tom saves her number, not that Hermione ever knows.
Her parents had to give up the dentistry practice and between settling debts, sending money back home (as dutiful first-generation immigrants), there hadn't been enough of a safety net for Hermione to seriously consider anything that wasn't practical. Nursing was practical and she wouldn't have to give up several years of her life trying to get into an entry-level position.
Tom doesn't feel practical. The first time she calls him, it is by mistake. She is drunk having taken advantage of Harry finishing exams and becoming best friends with Ron's new flavour of the month. Lavender Brown is achingly pretty even with the scars that decorate her face. Hermione contemplates in her drunkenness if kissing Lavender would make Ron angry, but decides against it. Instead, she is standing outside the club, with other people who smoke, her vape cartridge is flavoured like peaches and tobacco. Her calves are sore from dancing with Lavender and Harry. She stares at the number, which isn't saved and, surprisingly, hasn't been lost in an avalanche of telemarketing calls.
"Hey Tom," she says when he picks up. "Are you free to fuck?"
Hermione is a grown human, as such, she sends a location tracker to Harry's phone and tells Ron that she is leaving. They will wake up together anyway in Harry's flat to the sound of Dudley making protein shakes. Lavender will be forgotten, just like every other girl Ron has dated while Harry and he vehemently deny that they see anything in each other.
Tom sends her his location, an upscale hotel. The location doesn't surprise Hermione, but she does stop by the corner store, ignoring the judgemental looks from the Indian Uncle as she picks out a pack of condoms, lubricant, mint gum and another peaches and tobacco cartridge for her vape.
He overcharges her for her items and stares hard at the word "ohm" dangling from her neck. It has long lost its religious meaning and ties to her, but those who don't know her seem to think that just because she hasn't stopped wearing it, they can judge her.
Tom is waiting outside for Hermione. He takes one look at her blown pupils and tells her to go home. Hermione, who has long since sobered up, stares at him. Usually, one night stands don't work like this for Hermione. They set the location, she brings condoms and lubricant and then they make the night, day, five minutes in a random stall whatever Hermione wants. As wonderful as sex can be, it is the practicality of it that fascinates Hermione. The idea that something as natural as two people with their lips on each other could turn into orgasms. In a way, Hermione treats sex as both comfort and rebellion.
"Coffee then?" Hermione offers. If he isn't going to fuck her, she might as well use this time to sober up completely before confronting her empty studio.
Tom doesn't smile. "You can come up for coffee, but we aren't fucking."
He whispers "fucking" like it is a dirty word and Hermione wonders how a man as beautiful as him could be so innocent.
Hermione picks an animated Netflix movie she means to watch, after signing into Tom's account, as Tom makes Nespresso coffee. She is sitting on the edge of the balcony smoking her second cartridge of the night. There is light pollution as far as her eye can see and Hermione wonders if Charlie will bring it up next time she goes over to the Weasley's for Sunday lunch.
Hermione takes off her jacket when the sound of the Nespresso machine turns off and kicks off her shoes before sitting on the side table. She still smells like sweat, clubs and bad decisions. Her house-training won't let her jump into bed without a shower, not that Tom wanted her there. He gives her a cup of coffee without any milk or sweetener and presses play on the movie. He has a laptop with financial reports on his lap, but ignores the excel sheets only minutes later.
They both lose themselves to the heartbreaking animated storyline and when the credits roll up, Tom is dabbing his eyes with tissues, while Hermione has gone slack-jawed in awe at the credits. They look at each other once and glance at each other again. The sun has already started coming up and Hermione licks her lips with anticipation.
The alcohol has long left Hermione's system and the carefully constructed look of leather shorts and a billowy crop top are rumpled with ugly creases. Her breath tastes of coffee, peaches and nicotine and Hermione reaches over to where Tom has gotten comfortable on the bed.
"Can I kiss you?" Hermione asks, because if he says the word Hermione probably would follow without question.
Tom nods stiffly and Hermione stands on the edge of the bed. She cups Tom's face and leans in for a kiss. She watches as his eyes flutter before closing and she decides that prolonging the aching wait for any longer will do neither of them any good. She presses her chapped lips against his smooth ones, gently pressing them together. She breathes in deeply, he smells like expensive cologne and she places her lips to the corner of his mouth before tracing his jaw with her tongue. He reaches into her hair, sliding his hands over the million bobby pins she put in place to keep her hair out of her face for the night.
Like the last time, the alarm on her phone goes off. It is five in the morning and she has work later that night.
"I have to leave," Hermione whispers in his ear, she doesn't hide the fact that she is disappointed.
"Here, give me your phone," he demands, and Hermione hands him her phone as she picks the pieces of her life scattered in his room and goes to the bathroom sink to rinse their cups. When Hermione returns, he shows her that he has put his WhatsApp details on her phone.
"So we can do this properly next time?:" Hermione asks.
"Maybe, but next time, don't call me drunk. You're worth more than that." Tom doesn't realise that his words have hurt her, not until he looks at her WhatsApp statuses two weeks later and sees a picture of her kissing a girl with golden hair, neon glow bands wrapped around her arms.
Hermione's job is hard, working with sick people is hard, but mostly she resents the fact that the healthcare system can't afford to hire enough translators to explain the complicated English jargon into something less scary for the patients they serve.
Still, even the ones that only want a male, white doctor have a sense of calm in their eyes when Hermione walks into the room and they see her brown skin and greets them in a language they understand. Hermione speaks passable French because of her Cameroonian dad and picked up Hindi and Urdu using the terrible daytime serials her mom played on a daily basis.
It is there Hermione's attention to detail shines. While her first year as a nurse felt like a rush of things she couldn't control, her second year seems to be going better. It makes her more certain that her practical decision making has paid off, even if she spends most of her free time taking short courses or filling the void of uncertainty with her friends and sex with strangers.
Hermione is a big girl. She knows how to protect herself from a world of hate. Or at least that is the lie she tells herself when the days at the hospital make her feel small and all she wants to do is wrap herself in a Weasley sweater. It is on one of those days, which start off well and end terribly that Tom asks Hermione what he did wrong.
Hermione ignores his question and asks him if he is free. This time there is no question about what is going to happen.
His lips are on Hermione's the moment the door shuts behind her.
"Bed," Hermione murmurs when he finally stops pressing butterfly kisses against her lips and cheeks. "Or couch."
She feels the burn of his stubble already and her underwear is damp against her thighs. She took a shower when she had left the hospital, but already a new layer of sweat coats her skin.
His hands are already in her hair tugging at the clip holding her hair out of her face. He looks at her fascinated, and Hermione doesn't want to break whatever bubble they have been placed in. His phone goes off and she pulls away from Tom. Her hair is still tangled in his fingers and she fumbles trying to create distance between them.
Tom doesn't let go completely, instead, he chooses to rest his hands on her waist and drag her onto the couch with him. His voice is warm, honeyed and husky against her skin. Riddle rambles about statistics and stock and Hermione snuggles in deeper and falls asleep.
Labels. Tom adores labels and Hermione detests them. They have been "official", monogamous for the last six months and Hermione is waiting for the other shoe to drop. She is waiting for him to tell her that he doesn't think they are compatible at all.
She is waiting for Tom to reject her. To find someone who can love him better than she can. As much as Ron tells her that her fears do not have a basis, she can't help but wait for the other shoe to drop and for him to tell her that he doesn't love her anymore.
Tom isn't like any of Hermione's other partners. Tom is not Ron.
He isn't a rugby player nor does he spend hours watching sport and analysing game clips, he isn't that simple. But he isn't affectionate either. Tom is old-fashioned, in the sense that he wants to meet her parents, he expects her to be able to wine and dine his contemporaries (most of whom are board members of Fortune 500 companies). Tom reserves his affection for their rooms and while he isn't against grabbing a drink at the pub, she can't drag him clubbing nor does he understand why she keeps tutoring and taking courses on top of her erratic work schedule.
Tom is traditional, and he takes pride in that. Hermione just doesn't know why that makes her feel like he is asking her to become a damsel-in-distress.
She is terrified and she doesn't tell him. Instead, she hides in the Dursley/Potter flat, watches way too many sporting tapes and smokes. It gets to a point where Ron comes over every morning to cook breakfast and to push Hermione into the shower. She texts Tom that she needs distance and that she is safe around her boys.
But she isn't sure she wants to go back to him. So she drags him around in this limbo. Dancing between the line of commitment and absolutely nothing. So when ESPN highlights Tom kissing a model, Bellatrix Lestrange, Hermione takes it as her cue to send the break-up text she has been composing for months.
They don't fit together, so it shouldn't hurt to say goodbye. She spends the next year drowning in ice cream and dragging Dudley to terrible movies.
Hermione takes a job as a school nurse. Harry is teaching at Hogwarts, and Dudley's boxing career has finally taken off. Ron has stopped second-guessing himself and he spends hours between long rugby tours watching Harry fall asleep. Ron and Harry make a cute couple.
Hermione officiates Ginny and Luna's wedding and throws autumn leaves as the newlywed couple run with the blessing of the family and friends into married life. Everyone is happy and Hermione, well, she is just her. The same person who buys condoms and lubricant to bring to one-night stands and spends too much of her money on tobacco and peach vape cartridges.
Tom should have just been a footnote in her life. But still, he finds a way to place himself back into her life. They are still in this grey undefined space, and yes, he has met her parents.
But he knows better than to chain Hermione to obligations. Hermione is a friend, a nurse and maybe, after a million other things that define her, she is his. Not that she would ever admit that to any of them.
She still comes home smelling of clubs and loads random animated movies to watch on his Netflix account. They still fight with silences and not with words. But Hermione sometimes, not very often, looks at him as if he has hung the stars at night and that is enough. So he asks if she loves him and her reply is always along the lines of "Er...I think I could love you?"
Although she phrases her love as a question, there is nowhere else he would rather her be and when she proposes to him, ring and all in the stairs of the library where they met. He realises that he has conquered her and tamed her, just as one would a lion.