on fire, bone sore
i. to the throat
In the low light, she almost cannot make out his face.
Dazed and bone-weary, Hermione faintly wonders why he is here. The evening paints them a dusty blue, wraps them up in winter cold, engulfs them in a silence that stretches, stretches, and stretches.
She has entirely given up the notion that she is not going to invite him in. It is too cold and she is not too unforgiving, and she wants to reach out a hand to make sure he's real. She knows how her palm would feel around his wrist. Knows the way his palm would curve around the back of her neck.
But Tom doesn't need to know she's thinking all these things right now.
He cocks his head. She raises her chin.
"I suppose you'll want to come in?" She is proud her voice doesn't waver.
It's not an invitation. Tom will have to ask.
She knows he hates asking.
He smiles. It seeps over his lips like syrup, slow and sticky. She knows how it will taste against the tip of her tongue. Tries not to shiver.
"Only if it isn't an imposition." His voice is as smooth as it has always been.
"Well," she says, trying to put as much authenticity as she can into her smile, "I've been reading."
Not a lie. All night she has been comfortable on her sofa. A cup of tea on the coffee table and a new book, spine still uncracked, held close to her face. She can still smell the ink of it if she inhales deeply enough.
There is a sudden softening of his eyes, but it is gone a moment later. Almost as if he'd caught whatever he had been feeling and throttled it into submission.
"And we all know not to interrupt a Hermione Granger in pursuit of knowledge," he says.
"Actually," she says, and she doesn't know why she fucking says this, "I was reading for pleasure."
Tom's eyes darken. She finds she has to clear her throat. She will not blush.
"Far be it from me to impede upon your…" His eyes travel down to her mouth. "Pleasure."
Hermione's hand wraps tighter around her doorknob. To the point of pain.
This is deliberate. Tom would never allow himself to catalogue her so openly, so intimately. It's deliberate, it's a trap, she is not going to—
"You look cold," says her stupid, traitorous mouth.
"I am," he says.
She studies his face. His stupidly handsome face. "It would be rude if I didn't invite you in."
"Social convention would urge you to at least offer a nightcap before sending me on my merry way," Tom agrees pleasantly. He'd taken off his flat cap; it's rolled up in his fists. His hair isn't even flat. It's so unfair.
"But,' Tom continues, a corner of his lip quirking upwards, "who are you if you aren't continuously striving to defy social convention?"
She breathes out a laugh. She can't help it. Damn this man.
"I thought you'd have outgrown your schoolboy charm by now," she says. She knows - and he knows - that she's stalling.
"Why, Miss Granger," Tom says in delight, "I never knew you thought me charming. Considering the fact we shared a dorm I truly admire your restraint."
"If you wanted to reminisce old memories you should've come to the reunion," Hermione says. "Also, gross."
She has to acknowledge how strange everything is. He's on her doorstep, looking up at her. She's kept him there quite a while, his neck must be stiff by now. She's never felt so tall.
Tom laughs quietly. "You remain charming as ever."
"Flattery gets you everywhere," Hermione says, and she pulls the door back.
Tom's eyes gleam as she allows him to step inside. He holds her gaze the entire time.
.
.
She makes him tea. He leaves the steaming cup next to her lukewarm one to inspect her bookcase. It's so familiar she wants to laugh. He may have long shed his Hogwarts uniform, but his hands in his pockets, the slight slouch of his shoulders as he leans in to read the titles – it takes her back to all those evenings spent being reluctant study partners.
As if reading her mind, Tom says, "You still use the same system to organise your books."
"Because it's a system that works," she says, rolling her eyes.
"For you, maybe," Tom murmurs. "I've never met someone who organised their books in such beautiful disorder."
Hermione raises an eyebrow. "What an eloquently-worded insult."
Tom swivels slowly on his heels to look at her, smiling amusedly. "You always think so low of me."
"Hard not to, when you keep proving me right." She says this with enough airiness to make it sound like a tease, but maybe some of her bitterness creeps in.
Tom notices. Of course he notices. Perhaps he thinks now is not the time for pretense, because he draws himself to his full height.
"What are you really trying to say, Hermione?" he asks. There's no discernible shift in his tone yet she feels the atmosphere in the room change, like someone yanking a rug from under her.
Well, shit.
She tries not to cross her arms and fails miserably. "Exactly what I said."
Tom tilts his head. "How have I let you down?"
"I don't know where to start."
"Start from your smallest grievance." That stupid, stupid smile never leaves his face. "We'll work our way up."
God, she thinks, swallowing down the incredulous laughter tickling the back of her throat, we'd be here all night.
"Smallest? Okay, fine." Hermione paces the room, goes to her sofa and sits down, if only to give her several seconds to think. Where to start, where to start. She settles back into the cushions, takes a deep breath, and lets it out steadily. "You never wrote."
Tom has the grace to look contrite. "I'm sorry."
"Here's where you offer an explanation, Tom," she says through clenched teeth.
"If I had one I would have offered it," he says. "As it were, I do not. Hence the apology."
Bloody patronising git.
"Something else to say, Hermione?"
He's smirking. He thinks he can read her so well, doesn't he?
Her toes curl.
"And –" Hermione looks at him, and she hates how put together he looks, removing his robes earlier to reveal his rolled-up sleeves, folded so neatly and stopping just below his elbow; not a crease in his waistcoat and tie so infuriatingly straight.
In contrast to her bed-rumpled, oversized Molly-Weasley-knit sweater, thin from years of wear; her thick woolen socks that stopped a few inches below her sleep shorts. He has never seen her so underdressed, not even when their bedrooms were just a common room away.
"And?" Tom prompts, and she realises she'd been staring.
She flushes. "I hate your hair."
Tom lowers his gaze then, just a moment, laughing through his nose. When he looks up again he thins his lips, as if he is so very amused right now. "That can't be helped. That's not something I can fix."
If she hadn't meant it before, she does now. The fluency of the waves in his hair incenses her. She shifts where she sits, blanket clenched in her fingers. It's the way he looks so proper. Smart and clean like he hadn't just walked down a sludgy street to find her door. She eyes his neat parting with a sudden loathing.
Tom looks fascinated by whatever it is playing on her face, and he wets his mouth – don't look, don't look – and says, slowly, "But I'm open to suggestions."
"Mess it up," she says on impulse.
Tom's intake of breath is almost inaudible, if she hasn't been so trained in the study of him – his body, his responses, his voice. Almost a decade of knowing your opponent, even if was just some silly academic rivalry, would do that to you. Tom would like to claim he is the only one who takes notice of her tells, but she can be subtle too.
There is no reluctance at all when he runs his hands through his hair. The gesture itself is an answer to her challenge. A spark in eyes, one single repositioning of his gaze – from her lips to her eyes – Tom looks vindictive and maybe even a little satisfied to rough himself up in front of her. One movement and his curls spring forth from whatever it is that had been holding them down. But only just so.
Hermione takes in a breath.
The potential of the moment charges in the air between them.
It's difficult, she finds, trying to swallow that resentment that had built up in the four-hundred something days that have gone by without a single word from him. She sinks into it, doesn't think. For once in her life she doesn't fucking think. "Your tie. Take it off."
He does. He loosens the worsted wool with a single tug, then pulls it off. Rolls it up leisurely. Tosses it without care onto the coffee table separating them, where it unspools and spills over her book. He unbuttons his two top buttons for good measure, too, something she tracks almost hungrily. She drags her eyes back to his. They're focused now, brimming a pitch black.
Hermione lifts her chin. Tom submits himself to her study.
Her mouth is dry.
He is too far away.
"Come closer."
She can see Tom trying to hide his smirk, but like all things he fails at— like writing to her, or having a moral conscience— this too he fails, spectacularly. She feels a surge of triumph. Knowing that that had indeed been his intention all along.
When Tom reaches her he pauses. She's looking up at him, back cushioned by oversized pillows. His hand stretches to her cheek. If he touches her – if he touches her before she says the word, she'll scream.
After what seems like forever, knuckles just shy of her cheekbone, his hand drops.
Her lungs had been contracted into a position in preparation for a scream. But Tom's hand had dropped. The air leaves her mouth rather belatedly, and she thinks she feels a bit disappointed. Tom used to be better at this, at getting his way.
Now he's waiting for instructions.
Haughtily she says, "Get on your knees."
Finally.
That switch in his eyes she'd been looking for.
No more the dutiful soldier: his eyes had shifted imperceptibly to something darker. He looks at her with an ink blackness that emboldens her.
She raises her eyebrows, repeating her challenge—and the most terrifying thing is that he meets it. Tom gets down to his knees, eyes on hers the entire time, and then, at the last moment—
"You're playing a dangerous game, Granger."
"I don't know what you mean," she sing-songs.
His jaw hardens. "Yes, you do."
She smiles impishly. "Yes, I do."
"Are you done?" Tom asks. Beneath the playfulness, there is a hint of impatience. "I'd very much like to sit in a proper chair to drink the tea you so thoughtfully made for me."
"I don't know," she hums, "I like the look of you on your knees for me. Brings your prattishness down a notch."
Tom smiles then. But it's not a pleasant smile. It only serves to accentuate the disarray she'd caused to his appearance, the way it just changes his entire face. He's smiling like he's just been satisfied in the filthiest manner possible. "You keep surprising me tonight, Hermione Granger. Do you have any more grievances to air, or am I allowed to touch you?"
"That depends," she answers. "Are you still trying to split your soul?"
Tom shuffles closer. His knees drag on her floor. He places his hands down on either side of her thighs, giving her a wide enough berth to spread her legs if she wanted, to pull him closer. Her hands remain in her blanket.
"And if I am?"
She could be honest with what she really thinks, she knows – she could tell him how agonising the months after graduation was, when she'd still been sending out application after application to positions she knows would disqualify her on the merit of her blood alone. She could tell him how the ache curling in her lungs had turned into a bitterness as she watched Harry and Ron progress in their careers with far less dexterity than her, yet going so much further.
She could tell him tell him how she had unwillingly thought of him, every single day, wondering treacherous what ifs, wondering if maybe – just maybe – she'd been wrong.
That maybe the world was a little greyer than she'd like it to be.
That she could understand why he does the things that he does.
Obviously, she tells him none of these things.
She pulls one hand out of her blanket and traces a finger around his left fist. He tracks this movement with close attentiveness. She sees his thumb twitch from the exertion of not reaching out to graze her skin. It makes her heart leap into her throat.
She swallows. It's audible enough for him to meet her eyes again as she says, "Then we'll move on to a milder topic and pretend this never happened."
"Gracious of you," he offers quietly. "And if I no longer am?"
She leans back to deliberate. He moves as if to follow, but stops himself. She feels it in the blanket's sudden stretch across her thighs as he grips the sofa.
She words her answer in a way that leaves little to the imagination.
"Then I would give you leave to touch me."
Tom stares at her.
He stares at her like she's something incomprehensible. It's nice to be on the receiving end of this look for once. She wonders if it always made him feel powerful, to be looked at this way. She certainly feels powerful at the moment.
The only difference, of course, is that she knows how temporal this is. She accepts it. Relinquishes control even as she knows she's the one with the upper hand. Tom would never be able wield power so delicately. Tom is always greedy, Tom will always wants more.
She holds her breath while she waits for his answer.
In the low light, she almost cannot make out his face.