She came through the door all hunched shoulders and haste, kicking it shut with the heel of her boot as she rushed deeper into the room. Most of Tom's books were already on the coffee table in anticipation of her arrival, leaving the space beside him open for her—an unconsciously accrued habit of oblivious affection.
"No knights?" she asked.
He couldn't parse together her tone given the tension and trembling in her posture. Was she disappointed, relieved, or indifferent to their absence?
"Not until later," he said.
Her hesitation persisted long enough to make him close the textbook in his lap with a sigh as he stood. He ignored the beginning of the question she started to ask, an effort she abandoned when he held one hand between them. After four beats of silent expectation, she put one of her hands in his. The icy shock of her trembling fingers made him glare at her.
"Why in Merlin's name are you so bloody cold?" he demanded.
Thanks to Vigilio, he was already privy to the knowledge that she'd been traipsing around in the snow after cavorting with Rubeus Hagrid—of all people. It wasn't particularly surprising that the awkward half-giant two years below him would retain his known fanaticism for creatures into adulthood. Though perhaps the part about him being a professor did give Tom a moment of pause.
And now the oaf was, in Tom's eyes, responsible for the state of Hermione's pink-with-cold fingers.
"It's snowing," she said, voice wavering as her jaw trembled. Her teeth were no longer chattering now that she was removed from the frigid unforgiving elements outside their shared space. "And I figured I'd enjoy the weather for a bit since I'm ahead of my coursework schedule, for the first time all year."
Tom rolled his eyes and shifted his grip on her hand so her fingers were curled into the heat of his palm. "You're an idiot."
"Quoth the arsehole," she grumbled.
He fought a smirk and dragged her back towards their couch. "Sit close so you don't needlessly risk hypothermia."
"I'm not going to die from hypothermia indoors, you dolt." Despite her protests, she followed orders and sat beside him.
He waited for her to shed her outer robe, which he charmed dry so she could use it as a lap blanket, eyeing the unfamiliar silver shawl she pulled from her satchel as she wrapped it around her shoulders. The design of the knitwork was elegant, but not too mature for a witch her age even though it made her seem a bit older as he further studied the image unfolding next to him.
"With your luck, you're likely to perish from a strong breeze," he said. "And if you land yourself back in the hospital, I'm going to lose my temper."
"Careful, someone might accuse you of genuinely being concerned for my well-being; wouldn't want anyone to suspect you care," she cautioned.
The words were so quiet Tom was certain she hadn't even meant to say them out loud. But she did in fact voice them.
And he heard them all too clearly.
"I certainly prefer you alive, yes," he snapped, a familiar unnamable pressure in his chest. The same suffocating pressure from his Maxwell nightmare. "What the hell would I possibly gain if you died?"
"Peace and quiet?" she guessed.
Boredom. Headaches. Anger. More nightmares, probably.
"I prefer you alive," he repeated. "Significantly."
"Thanks," she deadpanned.
He glared down at her, but her face was angled at a textbook and half-hidden by her hair.
"What now, Dove?"
"I haven't said anything else."
"Aloud, no. But as per usual with you, witchling, there's a soliloquy in your silence."
She glared up at him, her eyes full of irritation and fire and a glint of defiance that lit a spark in the pit of his stomach.
No.
Thankfully he'd grabbed his textbook again as they sat down, hiding the physical evidence of his weakness, but there was no way to stop whatever tirade she was about to go on. He'd made the miserable mistake of goading her temper in an argument he'd lost, judging by his current predicament, and he had to somehow will away an erection while she challenged him.
"To be or not to be," she began, the words terse and biting. "That is the question—
"Hamlet? Really?" he said, his own voice strained from the effort of trying to regain his equilibrium and refrain from ranting about the bard's too frequently ignored plagiarism.
She ignored him (just as their civic duty dictated they ignore any resemblance shared between The Bard and her catastrophic Professor Lockhart). He let her. Some masochistic part of his mind wanted to see how much of Hamlet's soliloquy she knew. She didn't disappoint.
He would never, ever, ever, admit to anyone that this moment happened. Successful immortality in the future notwithstanding, he'd take this memory to his fucking grave.
"—and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to: 'Tis a consummation—"
He tried to channel his unwanted response into anger. Tried to fuel his glare with his discomfort. But she was too busy glaring into his soul to be bothered by his annoyance.
"Aye— there's the rub—"
Could he go back in time and throttle Shakespeare for being so bloody fond of double entendres without destroying the timeline? Was there a time turner powerful enough to go back that far safely or would it put his beloved cunning at risk?
"—for in that sleep of death, what dreams may come–"
"I'm going to strangle you," he uttered darkly.
She shifted, which would've been a minute action under any other circumstances, but in their literature drenched confines the subtle movement revealed the reality of their physical proximity. Their faces were close enough to catch or release the next couplet. With her nose raised in defiance, it almost reached his own.
In a flurry of Shakespearean anguish, he almost outed the damn spot and closed the offending gap between them. Would she stumble if he brushed against her now? Would her dramatic, impromptu performance cease if he pushed his nose against hers? What display of physical contact would he need to sacrifice to make this wrathful, overtly-literate witch relinquish her control over his senses?
"You're wasted on academics," he bit out, aiming to keep the words as dry as he could manage while she continued to talk over him. "Pity Hogwarts lacks a theater program for you to overtake."
"—That makes Calamity of so long life—"
"If you're trying to make me wish your life was shorter, it's working." His fingers itched to bury themselves in her hair. If he did, would she be entirely unafraid like the day he gave her the necklace?
"—the proud man's Contumely, the pangs of despised Love—"
Tom inhaled, briefly closing his eyes, only to open them as he released a measure exhale. He just barely caught the shift in her eyes as her pupils blew wide. In an instant, she stopped reciting Hamlet and too-casually refocused on her textbook—as if she had not just sentenced him to an existential crisis via an overwrought revenge tragedy.
"I've made my point," she muttered.
"Are you sure?" he goaded, mentally cursing as the words left his mouth. He should've taken his sudden escape route in stride. He shouldn't keep teasing her, lest she gain the advantage again with that mouth of hers.
Why was pissing her off so much fun when it was so bloody risky?
"Positive," she said.
"But you were doing so well, Dove," he continued.
"The urge to hex you again grows by the day," she sighed.
He smirked, pyrrhic victory in hand. She did technically yield.
Leaning down closer to her ear, he whispered, "I dare you."
She only moved a centimeter, just enough for him to catch her side-eyed glare.
"What are you? Five?" she asked. Her voice cracked on the first word.
No, Dove, but my, you think I'm pretty, don't you?
"What I am, Dove, is the winner of this little tête-à-tête," he answered. "Though I admire your effort."
She had him backed into a corner for a few moments, but thankfully she'd been smart enough to back down before he did something foolish…like finding out how she would've reacted if he'd chosen to pull her hair.
She mulled over his taunt for nine seconds before she moved again, away from him this time. He grabbed a fistful of her shawl and sweater to stop her.
"You're still shivering, where are you going?" he demanded. The issue raised in his lap was now in retreat—Thank Merlin—but he was still sitting uncomfortably with what to do about the exasperating form of the grown witch that met his gaze.
"Leaving your winner's circle," she said. The words were too light. He didn't like the way they made his skin itch.
"No." He tugged her sweater when she made to stand, pulling her back down and earning another glare.
"You're being an arse!" she snapped. "And if you're in one of these moods, I'd rather be cold and sit by myself."
He frowned, feeling his brows draw together in confusion. "You're touchy today," he observed.
"I'm fine," she insisted.
"And I'm certain you're lying to me, again," he countered.
"I will be fine."
He rolled his eyes. "Rookie use of technicalities, Hermione."
She grimaced at the sound of her name, the reaction notably similar to how she responded to his elder self using her proper name. Interesting.
"I stayed up late finishing my winter hols homework," she muttered, the words petulant. "I'm tired and a bit low on patience for your–"
"If you say tomfoolery, I swear to Salazar–"
She cracked the tiniest half-smile. "–nonsense."
"And you chose to chase your end of term exams with the entirety of your holiday homework because…?"
Her cheeks flushed. "I know I'm probably not going to get to it while I'm gone. So if I'm gone from tomorrow until January second then I'm only going to have three days left of break to do my homework and spend time with you before classes pick up again. Plus, you leave in February, I won't see you for six months, and unlike you, I actually care about people. I'm going to miss you, even though you're being annoying as piss lately, and I'm not exactly looking forward to it!"
Tom stared at her as he digested her words, keenly aware of the tell-tale redness starting to stain the whites of her eyes. Her breathing changed with the effort it was taking her not to cry. He was grateful crying wasn't part of his recent displays of weakness. It was far easier to keep his trousers out of sight than it was to erase the evidence of tears.
Except…his aversion to tears wouldn't always be the case, would it? He'd watched his older self cry at her bedside in the hospital when her obscurus had been extracted. Though perhaps that was due to a combination of stress and the obvious magical strain that series of spells had caused him.
Of course, none of that really mattered when he had a nearly-crying witch to deal with.
"Stand up for me?" he asked, grateful that his body was back under his control as he set his textbook on the coffee table again.
She stood up a second after he did. Her eyes were brimming with tears she couldn't suppress already. Tom shook his head as he pulled her closer, tsked when he found her hair full of half-melted snowflakes, and spelled the water out of his way before laying his cheek against the cold curls.
To his surprise, there was none of her usual hesitation in her posture. She fell against him, wrapping her arms loosely around his torso. Contrastingly, his dress shirt was tightly bunched in her palms, her face pressed into his collarbone before he could even start to move his fingers into her hair.
How do you know that I hate being constrained, Dove?
She didn't pull away after the usual couple of seconds, so he tightened his hold, settling in to relax for the few quiet moments she sorely needed.
His eyes closed. His thoughts stilled. He would ponder about her ability to be both the source of his frustrations and the cure-all later, but for now he could breathe.
I'd have no peace if you died, Hermione Granger.
She'd shaken his foundations loose. She'd stirred unrest in memories he once held under perfect control. She was a fixture in his daily routine and in his plans for the future. Her demise would certainly quiet his life again, he imagined, though not for the better. How could he possibly gain peace if he lost his most talented Knight?
"I need to reevaluate the ranks of the Knights," he murmured. "Someone inserted herself above the rest of the flock and now she needs a proper title."
A soft snort was muffled by his shirt. She said something he didn't quite catch.
"I said, 'Lieutenant Granger'," she repeated.
"And you judge my nickname creation abilities," he said with a sigh. "There's nothing accurate that doesn't sound ridiculous."
"What's wrong with Lieutenant?"
"You're four feet tall."
She lightly pinched his back through his Oxford. "I am a hundred and fifty-two centimeters thank you very much."
Tom hummed softly in disbelief. "Whatever you say, Bonaparte."
"If I'm Napoleon, you're Pedro."
"Who?"
Silent laughter rolled through her shoulders. "Don't worry about it. Modern muggle reference."
Tom rolled his eyes. "Hilarious, Lieutenant Dove."
Her shoulders shook harder. "Merlin, that does sound dumb, doesn't it?"
"Exceedingly so," he agreed, giving in to the twitch at the edge of his mouth.
Silence fell again, heavy and comfortable. Tom blinked out of his near-meditative state when her fingers loosened their hold on the back of his shirt and she started gently scratching his shoulder blades.
He fought to keep his posture relaxed and breathing even, but his hackles still raised at the contact. She stopped immediately.
"Too much?" she whispered.
He could've said yes. Part of him knew if he had, that she'd never attempt it again, but he also knew this was a pattern of hers. She'd scratch Harry's back, massage his shoulders after practice while they read their textbooks. Draco too, though less often.
If he shut her down now, would he always have to work around her reservations in his presence? Was this a test? It had to be a gesture of trust, he just didn't know how high the stakes were if he failed.
"No…" he replied. "Wrong pressure, I think?"
Her touches came back slowly and too light. He wanted to claw out of his skin. "Too soft," he said tightly.
The scratches changed immediately to something harder as she moved slowly between the quadrants of his back, and that was…tolerable. Nice, even, once he started to relax again.
"This okay?" she asked.
He hummed a quiet affirmation. "S'fine."
To Tom's surprise, lying wasn't necessary. His pulse was drumming a bit too fast, a bit too loud in his ears, but it only took a few moments for his peace to reestablish itself.
"You're the most tolerable annoyance I've ever met," he said after a few more moments of quiet between them.
"High praise coming from you," she parried.
Well played, he thought, choosing silence in her embrace; there would be time to rile her up again later. For now he didn't mind conceding a touch or two. All one hundred fifty-two centimeters of her wouldn't be that much space to make room for in his winner's circle…
This new layer to hugging would be her reward for their trust exercise. This would simply be another addition to the growing list of concessions he made for his temperamental little bird. Besides, if he'd learned anything at the orphanage, it was to always take care of his possessions.
A/N: I'm still wrestling with chapter 59 but I've made huge progress today so I decided to update tonight. As usual, my ability to think of things to say in this lil outro note evaporates the second I sit down to update, so who knows what else I wanted to say?
Anyway, to all the new readers since last update - Welcome! Hello! I haven't gone through to reply to comments yet bc I didn't have time tonight but I see you! I love you! I'm so glad you're here! I am so sorry my update schedule runs on Young Tom's Self Awareness and Vibes!
Days are getting shorter so extra hugs to all my seasonal depression sufferers and chronically vitamin d deficient baddies!
Uhhh I've gotten back into reading? Like most of the fics I follow update about as often as I do so fic-wise, I never stopped, it's just huge gaps between update emails. But like reading published fiction & original stuff. Yes this means I'm reading fantasy, romance, romantasy, smut, dark romance, etc etc. Basically, I have one (1) offline friend who said "bitch are you on goodreads bc you need to read this adult peter pan retelling series" so I dusted off the account I made who-the-fuck-knows-when and we've been our own lil bookclub for like two months. So like, yell at me about your favorite books you're reading if you want? I can like a series even if I make fun of it a lot (Never thought I'd be grateful for my past dalliance with the Twilight series but here we are) because talking about what makes people DNF a book is as fun to me as kicking my feet about the fun bits, y'know?
If you've read the Vicious Lost Boys series by Nikki St. Crowe, we're friends.
If you've read Fourth Wing/Iron Flame, or ACOTAR, or Haunting/Hunting Adeline, or Morning Glory Milking Farm, or Wren in the Holly Library, then we're friends. Got it? Cool.
Uh. Yeah idk what else I wanted to say except the usual "I love you"s and what not. It's not usually this close to my bedtime when I update and I think you guys can tell.
LOVE YOU. YOU'RE ALL THE BEST. MWUAH. XOXO
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