Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Summer. 

How despicable.

With each push of her foot against the railing, the old rocking chair’s worn wood sticks to Hermione’s slick thighs, peeling away with a soft noise. The summer sun beats down on her relentlessly, painting the freckles on her shoulders in the gentle rose-pink of a growing sunburn. Sweat gathers in every crevice as she tugs at the skirt of her dress, trying in vain to cool herself.

Hermione Granger hates summer. This is something she is sure of.

It is undoubtedly the hottest day in years, and the entirety of the neighborhood is out to celebrate it. Children race around the cul-de-sac, laughing and shouting, handlebars held tight as they zoom on expensive bikes. Hermione seeks only relief, tucked away on her porch while her parents labor over the garden. Her mother crouches, feeling along the ground for her shovel, and her father isn’t doing much of anything except standing there. It is all so mundane, she could almost retch.

This suffering is, of course, a yearly cycle. Same time every year, Hermione is dragged from her room to supervise her mother’s latest yard makeover. Most days, she retreats to the comfort of her porch, much like she does today—but most days aren’t this scorching hot.

"And a very gooood morning to you all!" crackles the radio perched on the patio set table. "It's time to dive into the news for August 11th, 1998—let's roll it! But first, brace yourselves, it’s a scorching 102 degrees out there.”

Hermione tugs at the hem of her skirt again, trying to cool herself, wishing for a breeze to cut through the heat. Instead, she is met with the discomfort of sweat trickling down her leg. She scowls.

Despicable doesn’t even begin to cover how terrible summer is.

“Hermione!” her mother calls. The chair creaks as Hermione rocks forward, bracing herself for what she knows is coming. She can only dodge the yard work for so long. The porch is hot against her feet through her sandals, and Hermione gives one last pathetic wipe of her brow before standing. She tugs her hat tighter over her hair as the rays bear down on her.

“Help me plant these, won’t you? And do wear gloves. You’ll get yourself dirty.”

Hermione doesn’t heed her mother’s warning because it is too hot to wear gloves, allowing the sparse dirt from the potted plant to collect in her sweaty palm. Even the soil under Hermione’s knees is too hot, but her dress provides some relief. From the corner of her eye, Hermione can see her mother open her mouth, first to sigh, second to speak. 

“Betty is coming over later,”—and Hermione could just groan, because Betty is quite easily one of her least favorite people — “and so is one of your father’s old friends. Will you be joining us?”

Hermione shoves the plant in the hole with a bit more force than necessary. She isn’t trying to be mean, but Betty—she’s just so boring, and Hermione can only take so much commentary of how she’d look so good with Betty’s son before she needs to escape. Plus, she’d just gone to the library the day before; the books were still waiting for her on the desk.

But her mother looks at her expectedly, with hope, and Hermione sighs, patting dirt around the newly planted flower. She answers her mother with a nod, rewarded by the loving, excited smile that splits across her face. Hermione barely represses a groan.

“What friend is Dad bringing?” Hermione asks, picking up her mother’s shovel and starting the next hole. The sun beats down relentlessly on the tender skin of her hand, and she regrets not wearing sunscreen as her shoulders begin to flake. 

The Potters, she guesses. She doesn’t have anything against them; Lily isn’t nearly as boring as Betty, and her son, Harry, isn’t the worst at conversation either..

“Tom.”

Hermione pauses her digging, blowing an errant strand of hair from her face with a hot, tired breath. Physical work feels so much more grueling in this weather. “Tom?” 

“College friend. He’s moving from—oh, where did your father say?” Her mother pauses, frowning slightly as she glances at her husband across the yard, busy untangling the hose. “Well, he’s nice. You’ll like him.”

Hermione nods. ‘ He’s nice ’ doesn’t mean much when all her parents’ friends are nice—as if ‘nice’ is the only quality that matters. Hermione is so bored of nicety. 

“Will you plant these lilies for me, dear?”

Hermione follows her mother’s instructions, but her mind keeps wandering. She misses school, the purpose learning gives her. Resents that her parents talked her out of taking a summer job. Doing nothing every day, living her parents' life—boring, empty, and incredibly dissatisfying—is driving her crazy.

It is unsurprising that she longs for more. 

Hermione excels at most things, if not all. Her drive in life is for knowledge, to consume every book she comes across—dissect and understand and swallow it whole, because Hermione is not herself unless she knows things. But this want lingers, something awful in the back of her mind that she’s quickly grown to hate.

Desire is a fickle thing. She knows this. 

A longing to escape, to leave the comfort of her book-filled bedroom and see something beyond the pages of fading ink. A yearning to be someone new, not just the goody-two-shoes she’s always been. More than just the A+ student, her high school’s stellar pupil. Girlhood is fading into womanhood, with little left of her youth that she still longs for.

But for now, with no other choice, she settles on being nice.

Hermione sucks her lip between her teeth to stop her groan.

“Don’t look too bored, Hermione,” Her mother teases. Bored isn’t exactly the word Hermione would use—dreading is more like it—but she bites her tongue and nods. “You’ll have fun, and besides, you can talk to Betty.”

Hermione doesn’t hold back her groan anymore.

She pats down the dirt as she goes, shoveling when instructed and planting flower after flower. The heat doesn’t lessen, even as the sun begins to set and they work under a darkening sky. Humid air fills her lungs, sweat clinging to her skin. She doesn’t look up when the first car arrives. She recognizes the engine and dreads the screeching, squealing voice that will follow soon after. 

She does not recognize the second engine.

Hermione drives her shovel into the dirt. The new engine’s gentle purr, so different from the loud roar of Betty’s old van, makes her want to gag. She’s no stranger to this side of her father’s life—the flashier, more expensive part; the facade that exists beyond the homely family man she knows and his irritating, pretentious friends.

She’s skated on the thin ice of perfection for so long that it’s impossible not to be acutely aware of her family’s status — to despise it. But she looks away from her tedious work, just to sedate her curiosity. The rich ones always look the same; dressed in expensive yet utterly boring clothes, noses turned up at how her parents choose to live instead of wasting money on meaningless things. She has little respect for them and doesn’t hold out much hope that this Tom will be any different.

But she is curious, after all. She always has been. 

Hermione turns, feeling her dress chafe against her sunburnt skin, and peers on through the dimming daylight. She’d been right about the fancy car, although not as extravagant as some of the others she’s seen. It is still sleek and shiny but looks like something easy to afford, and she angles herself away from her half-potted plant to catch a better look at the man who exits.

A man steps out of the car, briefly illuminated by the soft glow of fireflies. He’s older, a bit younger than her father, dressed in an ill-fitting, open-collar shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Hermione notes the reddish tint on his nose and cheeks, likely from spending most of the day in the sun. He’s admittedly handsome, with his slender nose yet fittingly undefined jaw, disheveled and sweaty. Dark curls fall out of place, framing his eyebrows.

Hermione’s hand settles on her shovel still staked in the dirt. She is not fixated by him, no, she could look away if she wanted to, but the thing is…

She doesn’t.

“Tom!” Mr. Granger shouts, pushing himself from the ground.

Hermione is alone now, her knees sunken into the soil that clings to her like a second skin. The sky darkens above, dotted with distant, twinkling stars. Her breaths are shallow, touched by the thick humidity. It feels like something out of an old, starry poem, out of one of her books, and it’s like a swift punch to the gut. 

Ms. Granger surges after her husband, arms open for Tom. A gentle smile splits across Tom’s face, although it doesn’t meet his eyes. 

Something swoops low in Hermione’s chest, snuffing out disdain. In its place, the twinge of excitement lingers. Her eyes follow his shirt as it stretches against his shoulders, his arms loosely wrapped around her mother; it accentuates the smooth planes of his shoulder blades, and she wonders, just briefly, what his skin is like underneath.

Hermione glances back to his car, roving over the tinted windows and the clean, shiny curves, and tells herself that she isn’t checking for a wife or kids.

Her eyes snap back to the shovel half put in the ground, blush rapidly spreading through her body. She is glad for this treacherous weather now, thankful for the patches of sunburn plastered across her body. Appreciates that she can blame the warmth of summer for dusting her cheeks. Not the acknowledgment that she’d just been mooning over her parents’ friend.

Tom laughs, and Hermione stakes the shovel further into the dirt. She can feel her father's disapproving gaze boring into her, and she takes a sharp, apologetic breath.

So much for first impressions. 

Her face flushes an even brighter red. How mortifying to be caught gaping like that, no less by her father. Her eyes dart to the door, heavily considering. She can escape if she’s quiet enough. Her parents are occupied and probably won’t notice if she slips away. Inhaling deeply, she gives a cautious look over her shoulder, hair concealing most of her face.

It is not her father watching her.

It’s Tom, and he’s smiling.

Hermione snaps back to her gardening, hands fumbling in a pitiful attempt to look busy. His smile lingers in her mind between each blink — it was much, much warmer than the one he had given her mother. But still, it was naive, not at all knowing, and she can’t help but wonder how he somehow missed her slip-up.

Not complaining, no, no at all, but still flustered by his short-lived attention. She sticks another flower in the ground and punches the dirt with unnecessary force.

Maybe I could pass out , she devises, but making a silent getaway doesn’t seem so plausible anymore. The heat, the shame, it's all too much. Her head sways in dizzying circles as her stomach churns with nausea. 

Longingly, she stares at the door.

Hermione doesn’t dare look back again, knowing his gaze is still fixed on her. The thought alone horrifies her. She doesn’t have to check to know it’s still him, confirm that this isn’t all in her head. Running is far from brave, but she considers dying of shame amid her mom’s blooming tulips to be a far more pathetic death.

So, she runs.

She tells herself it’s brisk walking, though she’s definitely running, her dress billowing out behind her. If she hadn’t caught everyone’s attention before, she certainly has now. The grass is trampled under her hurried steps, and with each stride, she becomes painfully aware of all the spots where she’s sunburned. She’s so, so close to the door, just a few steps away when—

She doesn’t even manage a scream.

She trips. It’s her mom’s favorite shovel that does her in, left staked in the yard just like Hermione’s. She tumbles into an ungraceful heap, mortified, dirt smearing across her palms and along her arms as she crashes. She keeps her head buried in her crossed arms, letting her hair spread around her, a shield against the embarrassment. Her legs twist uncomfortably over one another, curls fanned out in a tangled mess, and her discarded hat lies just inches from where she hides her face.

“Hermione?” Her mom calls out, confused. Hermione presses her face deeper into the dirt, desperately wishing the ground would open up and swallow her whole.

“Oh dear,” A voice like nails on a chalkboard says. Hermione scowls coldly, head still buried in her arms. ‘Shut up, Betty,’ she thinks miserably. 

Hermione lies still, letting the rush of blood in her ears drown out reality. Chooses to keep her eyes shut, even when a warm hand rubs her back, fingertips sweeping her neck. Silently, she begs the earth to kill her, for the ground to crack open and throw her into some inferno because her father's voice is just out of reach, and the rough hand on her shoulder isn’t a woman's.

"Are you alright?"

His words are muffled. Hermione thinks about pretending she hadn’t heard him, just staying here until death takes her, but that feels a bit too indulgent in the grand scheme of things. So, she lifts her head from the ground, takes a deep breath, and savors the fact that she can smell something other than dirt.

Hermione slowly pushes herself up from the ground, bits of grime falling away from her skin. Her dress flattens around her like the petals of her mom’s flowers, crinkled and soiled with muck. She turns her gaze to the lines her nails have scratched into the dirt, focusing on the soil beneath her fingertips instead of the man looming above her.

She’s unsure of how long the moment stretches on, how long she leans back on her heels, staring at her nails. Doesn’t know if the silence is in her head or if her audience is as attentive as it feels. Doesn’t know anything until Tom reaches for her hat, his hand in her peripheral vision, and extends the other to her.

Hermione accepts, somehow, and keeps her eyes on their conjoined hands. She’s petite in comparison, held firmly by slender fingers, the calloused drag of fingertips, and she thinks, really, that this must be temptation. That this is what exists outside of people being nice.

Hermione thinks, with utter dread, that she wants his fingers in her mouth.

Disgust floods her, sharp, giving no time to think before he’s pulling her to her feet, and he’s so close , close enough that she can see the gap between his two front teeth. 

Fuck.

He offers her a small smile, but the interest he had regarded her with earlier is barely a flicker. Hermione pales. 

“Nice to meet you, Hermione,” he says quietly, his voice opposite to his expression, soft and purposefully spoken. “Are you alright?”

Hermione nods wordlessly. 

Dimples pucker in Tom’s cheeks as his smile widens, controlled enough to not reach his eyes, but still courteous. Hermione’s stomach lurches, almost bitterly. Is he mocking her?

The skin around his eyes crinkles further, and Hermione decides with a small scowl that he very much is. 

The urge to disappear is stronger now than ever. She just wants to fade away, away from her racing thoughts, from the shame. Wants to feel anything other than the disgust lashing her insides raw. But she forces a smile, feeling her eye twitch, and squares her shoulders.

“Thank you,” she says through gritted teeth. Because embarrassment or not, the humor on his face annoys her. She takes her hand from his hands with a falsely thankful nod and forces it over the frizz that is her hair. She’s a right mess, she knows. Doesn’t have to look at herself to understand this is one of her less flattering moments. Tom doesn’t seem to mind. He’s occupied with holding her hand, and she allows herself to look at the size difference once again. Determines that the silence ringing in her ears is not reflective of reality, for she watches Tom laugh.

She hates it, hates his laugh, hates his smile, but allows him to hold her hand without another word. Hate is an unreliable thing, after all. Doesn’t hate it enough to let go though.

“Hermione, dear,” Her mother says with a smile, reassuring. Oblivious. Hermione relaxes slightly, grateful that her hiccup has gone mostly unnoticed. Her mother waves her hand toward the back gate and announces, “Come up, get yourself off the ground. Brush the dirt off. We’re going to start cooking.”

Hermione thinks, really, she has never been so grateful. The smile on Tom’s face says the same. 

Dinner goes exactly as Hermione expects it to.

The change of tide shifts nothing. The disruption that’s Tom—that’s Hermione’s senseless, stupid yearning—doesn’t lessen the monotony of family dinner. An extra variable does nothing to deter Betty from squawking her way through the silence. Although - she’s decided she doesn’t entirely hate Tom yet, not compared to her other options. She barely has a moment to settle in her seat before Betty begins on her awful attempt to marry her off. 

“Cedric has been asking about you,” she says over a martini. Hermione smiles rigidly. Does it for the sake of politeness, because she can already see the scowl on her mother’s face if she calls Betty an obnoxious bitch like she wants to. Hermione has never, not once, not ever made any indication that she cares for Cedric fucking Diggory, yet her mother hangs onto Betty’s every word, hopeful. 

“You know, he just graduated high school,” Betty beams, her smile slightly lopsided, and Hermione eyes the half filled martini sitting on the patio table. “I reckon he’d be happy to help with the construction. Make sure the ladies don’t get their hands dirty.” 

Hermione can’t help but shoot Betty a dirty look this time, nails digging into her thighs. From beside her comes a quiet snort, and she tears her eyes from watching Betty swirl her straw around to gaze at Tom. 

“I won’t be partaking anyway, I reckon,” Hermione says tightly. Her eyes dart back to Betty only briefly, the crook of her mouth twitching as a scowl threatens to come through. Betty’s eyes are bright, excited for the insurmountable challenge of scoring her son a happily ever after. 

Renovation is nothing new for the Grangers. She dares to call her mother a visionary, an artist if she’s being comical. It comes around every few years; the floorboards get ripped up and some new hideous color is slathered on the wall, accentuated by some equally as awful indie artist’s pitiful attempt at abstract. 

“I’m afraid not. Hermione isn’t the handy type,” her father replies from his place at the grill. He doesn’t sound apologetic, or particularly upset. Hermione accredits this to the fact she put a hammer through the wall a few years back by accident. Betty frowns and glances at Hermione’s mother, wordlessly asking for backup. Hermione doesn’t entertain it, doesn’t care as the two women shoot silent glances back and forth. There are more important things at hand. 

Hermione shifts in her seat, angling herself toward Tom, and it isn’t fully on purpose. More a subconscious thing, an attempt to escape from the chit-chat of privileged suburbia life. But its not only her that holds this sentiment—when she turns to face Tom, she finds him already pitched toward her, their knees brushing under the table. Hermione stills.

Up close, the fine lines of Tom’s face are easier to see. The crease around his mouth tells of years spent smoking, barely lit cigarettes caught between his lips, while the lesser crinkles around his eyes speak of a life with little laughter. He sits in silence, but his eyes speak for themselves as they roam over Hermione’s face, simply looking. 

Hermione doesn’t miss the crack in his facade, how the corner of his mouth twitches downward when Betty starts up again. The same feeling from earlier hits her hard, the swoop of a lost breath rattling around her chest.

Excitement.

A curl falls over his eye when he cocks his head, just enough for Hermione to notice. 

“Well,” her mother chirps. “I think you’d have fun with Cedric. You need some fun, you’re always holed up in that room of yours.”

Hermione’s eyes narrow as she averts them to the bottle in Tom’s hands, watching him absentmindedly twist his fingers around the neck as she gnaws on a cube of ice from her forgotten drink. There’s no ring in sight, nothing glinting under the summer sun to deter Hermione from the bad choices she’s considering making. She can smell the bourbon on his breath and scowls at the mock-tail in front of her. As if on cue, Tom tips the bottle back, sipping on the last few dreges of alcohol. Just a sip or two remains.

“Ignore them,” Tom says, low enough that the words are only shared between them. He smiles dryly, though the mockery from earlier is long gone. “If my mother was alive, I’m sure she would have done the same.”

“I’m sorry,” Hermione replies instinctively, voice too quiet — too meek. “About your mother, I mean.”

“Don’t be. I didn’t know her,” Tom dismisses with a wave of his hand. “Your mother says you’re starting senior year of high school, you must be excited.”

"I suppose, mostly for college," Hermione admits, glancing down at her hands and squirming slightly under his gaze. "I reckon I'll major in political science, though it really depends on how I do on my SAT," she adds with a small frown. "Last year's GPA was a 4.0. I can’t risk that.”

Tom frowns, and for a fleeting moment, Hermione feels a pang of embarrassment, a twinge of shame over the goody-two-shoes persona she's clung to for so long.  But his gaze has shifted away from her; he's now focused on her hands, where she's anxiously picking at her nails.

“That’s a terrible habit, Hermione,” he murmurs, his voice smooth and low. He gently takes hold of her wrist, easing her hand away. Her pulse thrums beneath his thumb, the rhythm of her heartbeat steady under his touch. “And don’t chew your ice—it’ll ruin those perfect teeth of yours.”

Something lurches hard in her gut — butterfly wings raging against the constraints of her rib cage. Hermione's mouth opens, and her face turns red. 

“I had braces,” she blurts. Her panic betrays her, with the flush spreading down her neck and across her collarbones, impossible to ignore. “Years ago, I mean.”

If she had any less sense, she would have had her face buried in her hands by now. The urge to flee plagues her once again, but there is no where to run anymore. Hermione jams her shoe against the leg of her seat, as if finding purchase from her momentary spiral. In an attempt to look anywhere but him, her eyes dart to the drink in front of him.

Since her luck has apparently run out—assuming she had any to begin with—Tom notices. She knows this because he laughs. With little joy within the sound, the ring of something hollow lingers underneath. His laugh, Hermione decides, is a good sound anyway. That charged feeling jerks in her chest again. Courage.

“Hand over your drink,” she tells him. Tom’s eyebrows shoot up, genuine surprise on his face. Perhaps the most genuine emotion she’s seen from him.

“My drink?”

“Yes. Your drink.”

He stares at her for a moment, the same look of surprise evident in his eyes. He knocks his knuckles against the neck of his bottle. Hermione checks around her because she  is cautious and finds her parents enraptured in conversation with Betty. It’s about the only time Hermione appreciates the woman’s yapping. 

“I’m seventeen,” She mutters, yet tips the bottle into her mouth anyway. Tom’s expression doesn’t shift at this information. The chemical, unappealing taste does little to deter her as she drinks it greedily. Tom tugs the bottle from her hand. 

“That’s quite enough, Hermione,” he says, placing the drink on the table. “Wouldn’t want your mother to be angry with me.”

“She doesn’t have to know,” Hermione utters grouchily. More courage, from seemingly nowhere. 

“If you intend to get drunk,” Tom murmurs, leaning in so close that she can feel his breath ghosting across her lips, “you'll need something far stronger than that.”

Hermione bites the inside of her lip, but this time, she stands firm. Their eyes lock, each holding the other’s gaze, her eyelashes casting delicate shadows on her cheeks. 

“My mom said you moved here,” Hermione begins quietly. Purposefully. “Did you move on your own?”

“If you count Nagini, no.”

Hermione's eyes narrow involuntarily, anger churning in her stomach. She had been foolish, thinking a lack of a ring meant anything. The scorn she feels for this Nagini woman is irrationally juvenile. Too teenage-girl-jealous for her liking.

“Nagini?” She asks faintly.

“My snake,” Tom clarifies, and he almost sounds… soft when he says it. “My sole companion. You’re welcome to meet her if you wish, though she can be rather…possessive.”

“Oh,” Hermione says, rubbing the back of her neck and laughing awkwardly. She feels a pang of foolishness. Glancing down at her now unappealing plate, she adds, “I’m not exactly a fan of snakes, but I’m sure she’s lovely.”

“You’re not curious?” Tom prods, his voice carrying a hint of a smile, a subtle tug at the corner of his mouth. Maybe she's delusional, seeing things that aren’t there. Delusional to think he speaks to her differently than he does to others. But maybe, she’s not. 

Maybe.

Slowly, she shakes her head.

“Your father tells me differently,” Tom tilts his head just a bit. “He told me about your penchant for reading. I would expect nothing less from a Granger — your mother has the same insatiable appetite.”

Hermione squirms at this, that same sick sense of guilt from earlier creeping up on her once again. This is her mom’s friend , and she’s over here imagining him making silent passes. 

“Exactly…when did you meet my mother?” 

Tom absently traces the edge of the discarded bottle cap with his finger. "Nineteen seventy-nine. My twentieth birthday. You were only a few months old.”

Guilt ignites into explosive shame, followed by the dawn of horror. Tom is twenty years older than her. Memories of weathered scrapbooks resurface in her mind: glimpses of the dark, curly-haired man always partially captured in photos, overexposure blurring his face. In a few of those photos, he had held Hermione, just an infant at the time. 

“Your mother has always been a nice woman,” Tom says passively. There it is again, that fucking word. “A bit older than me. Nice, but quiet. Your father said you to be the same.”

Hermione stills. Her hands fall to her thighs and she digs her nails into the fabric of her dress. She must look at least a little insane like this, her smile pulled tightly across her lips.

“What a shallow word,” she mutters sourly, “ Nice. I’m more than just nice, you know.”

At this, Tom smiles — a knowing expression, one that reaches his eyes, yet still doesn’t quite dispel the hollowness within them. With a reach into the cooler behind him, he unearths an unopened strawberry daiquiri from beneath the ice. 

Twisting the cap off in a smooth motion, he hands the bottle to Hermione, and says, “I know.”

Chapter Text

In her seventeen years of living, Hermione has only ever kissed one boy. That boy, Ronald Weasley, was in her sophomore year of high school. The kiss was nothing more than a brief, awkward brush of their lips. She has held a boy's hand twice, and once, three years ago, went on a disastrous date. Never has she had sex with one.

She has always prided herself on being incredibly, if not persistently, well-behaved. Not nice, no—that’s different. Nice is dull, and Hermione has spent too many hours buried in books for her mind to be anything but sharp.

And while that has never quite bothered her, it’s not something incapable of failure. Pressing her foot against the bed frame, she clamps her hand over her mouth, the other frantically working between her thighs. As her fingers move with purpose, she digs her heel against the wood. Her nails press into the skin of her cheek. She’s not usually this loud, okay? And maybe that’s part of the reason she’s so worked up right now — that little bit of shame lingering inside of her.

Her breathing quickens at the thought of Tom: his stubbled jaw, the deftness of his long fingers, the way his gaze lingered on her just a little too long the first day they met. The thrill of knowing that her desires, for once in her life, have a shot to actually be something. The movement of her fingers against her clit is just muscle memory at this point, so it doesn’t take long for her to get into a groove.

Her hand falls from her mouth as her hips involuntarily roll against her fingers. The flush on her skin deepens, turning bright red, and the sounds rising in her chest become harder to suppress. There's something so sick about it, too: how the shame brings her closer to orgasm, how good it feels for something to genuinely excite her. The digits slip in knuckle deep, and she grinds hard onto them – so much that her wrist aches.

"C'mon," she pants, fucking herself desperately, her movements becoming increasingly frenzied as she chases her release. If she had the mind to be embarrassed in the moment, she’d feel awful. But the fact is she doesn’t – she feels great actually! Because her fingers hit right there, right where she needs. She feels herself seize, her foot shoving hard against the bed frame, and the noise that wrenches from her is closer to a sob than anything else.

She doesn’t have to will the thoughts to mind. Images of Tom: the dark curls of his hair, how they would feel wrapped around her fingers. The stubble of his five o’clock shadow scraping the inside of her thighs. His tongue, slick and warm, gliding along the smooth flesh of her inner thigh.

The noise she makes is utterly embarrassing . Not at all like the porno girls in the videos she’s taken nervous peaks at. Her entire body shakes, and she continues to ride her fingers, head tipped back. Her stomach draws tight and—

With a final jerk of her hips, she orgasms.

A sharp gasp escapes her, stealing the breath from her lungs. She shudders, eyes clenched shut and mouth slightly open as she rocks down onto her hand. Euphoria soaks all of her thoughts, none of them coherent. When it ends, she slumps against her pillows, breathing hard. She stares off into space, heart racing. Silence settles over the room, save for her heartbeat.

“Fuck,” she says. And it isn’t an “ I just had the best orgasm of my life ” kind of fuck. It’s just fuck, because she’s screwed. Like, badly.

Yeah. Fuck.

Because this is much different than usual. Her wrist aches, and she can still feel a thin film of her arousal coating her fingers. Shame sinks heavy in her stomach. There it is again—the guilt . Certainly not strong enough to stop her, but not too great to experience. This is what she wants, though.

She’s sure of it.

Tom is meticulous, and that precision is his damning flaw.

He greets her in the morning over a cup of coffee, smiling with a grin that’s too tight, too forced. This is a routine they’ve settled into, and god, it’s the worst thing to happen to her yet. Maybe worse than her fiasco in the garden. Tom slips into the duties Hermione’s father is too busy to help with while her mother paints the upstairs to perfection (or her idea of it).  Of course, Hermione’s gone and made it all weird, but she can’t find it in her to be sorry about that.

Playing her part, Hermione sweeps into whatever room he’s hunkered down in. Today, it’s their library, by far not a big room but large enough there’s some space between them when Hermione settles into her mother’s loveseat. Most days, she sifts through her book under the slivers of sunlight that filter through the oval windows. Others, she’s more purposeful. He’s a meticulous man, intentional with how long his gaze lingers on her. He avoids her eyes, even when he bends before her, hammer jammed beneath a loose floorboard. He’s persistent—Hermione loathes this in a way—and never, ever slips up. Not even as her shorts gradually become shorter and the neckline of her shirt dips lower.

It’s sweltering hot, even in the house, so she has an excuse for the skirt she hikes high on her waist. Sweat glistens on her skin as she spreads her thighs, lifting one leg to drape over the arm of the seat. It's entirely coincidental that her panties are lacier today. Her skirt has ridden up, gathering around her waist and leaving her leg fully exposed. With a slow, deliberate motion, she taps the side of the seat with her socked heel, her gaze firmly fixed on Tom.

Tom is careful, but like all men, he’s not infallible. Hermione wouldn’t have noticed if she hadn’t been looking: the quick flick of his eyes between her legs, prolonged to a blank stare.

Hermione grins.

Got you.

Something in his expression changes. In the shade provided by the towering bookshelves around them, Tom’s face seems to darken. He looks up at her, jaw clenched, teeth gritted, and Hermione flinches.

Oh, wait. He’s…angry.

Shit. She didn’t consider that.

Hermione’s brain screams at her to flee, shrinking into the seat slightly under his glare. A second passes, another nervous beat of her heart. They hold each other’s gaze. Then, unprompted, he sighs. His face relaxes, eyebrows unfurling, and his shoulders seem to sag in relief. The sight comes as no comfort; Hermione’s blood chills in her veins, and the more she thinks about it, the more she might pass out again. Tom’s going to tell her parents, and that’s a whole other level of shame. She’s foolish for even entertaining—

“Hermione.”

She pauses.

When she looks over at Tom, his gaze is much softer now, reminiscent of the warmth he first showed her. Hermione swallows hard. He had…he had been angry with her, hadn’t he? Gently, he smiles, but the hard look in his eyes lingers.

“What are you reading?” He asks.

Hermione’s thrown for a loop. She just flashed him and he’s asking about her book? She hasn’t even checked the title, much less been reading it. Her fingers grip the book tightly, clenched around the binding. Maybe she can throw it at him, that might be easier.

Hesitantly, she shifts her focus back to her book, and heat rushes to her cheeks. In bold letters across the cover, it reads: Lolita.

“Oh,” Hermione mumbles. The copy in her hands is unquestionably old—to be honest, it might be about to fall apart. It’s not insane to think that it circulated into the library without much notice. Still, Lolita isn’t the best book to explain to the older man you’re trying to sleep with. She stares at the cover, conflicted.

“I… don’t quite think you’d enjoy this one,” She mutters.

“I have a few interests,” he says seamlessly in return. The crook of her mouth twitches into a mild smile. He’s trying so hard to be perfect, and it’s too uncanny to go unnoticed. Maybe – just maybe – she’s not too over her head with this. “But I’m quite curious about yours.”

At this, Hermione’s smile splits into a full grin. She had been right — she’s winning .

“Well, I’ve always loved learning—reading is one of my favorite things. I’m really into history and languages, especially ancient ones,” She lists off. “Oh, and I’ve always enjoyed math, particularly when it gets a bit more complex. I guess I’ve always been drawn to things that make me think more critically. Oh, and—!”

Hermione continues to ramble, listing off each interest. Tom sits patiently, watching her with slightly hooded eyes. She speaks without much tact, far less than usual. She’s also speaking…really, really fast. The words tumble from her with zero grace, breathlessly spoken with just the right amount of pitch that her nervousness seeps through.

“I’m not, uh…” she trails off in a small voice, looking a bit unsure. “I’m… not exactly the most popular. The teachers love me, of course, but socially…” She scrunches up her nose, glancing down awkwardly. She has friends, of course—there’s Harry and Ron… well, she supposes Ron still counts.

“Well, I wasn’t exactly well liked growing up either,” Tom says, almost bitterly. Hermione shrinks back in her chair at the tone. “The other children didn’t care for me much. But it doesn’t matter. Just make sure you align yourself with the right people.” He jams the hammer under the floorboard again, wrenching it until it gives with a sharp pop.

Hermione’s fingers curl against the fabric of her shirt. “You weren’t?”

Tom laughs, hard and short.

“Orphan,” he says. “It wasn’t too terrible. Had to deal with a few of the other kids—scare them off, mostly.” His eyes glaze over for a moment. “And it was the gloomiest place for a child, no doubt. But I turned out just fine.” His gaze flickers over her, pausing a moment too long on her chest, where her tank top gaps slightly from the way she’s sitting. “Seems you did too.”

Hermione squirms. Oh. There it comes again: the swift punch of adulthood knocking at her door, reminding her that this game she’s been playing—it’s real. It’s real, and she’s succeeding.

“I’m sorry,” she apologizes softly, her voice careful. “About… your childhood. My parents have always been… nice…” — she cringes inwardly at the word — “I can’t say I’ve really missed out on much in that department.”

She takes a deep breath.

“I’m…I’m not really interested in all of it, though,” she continues. She slides from the seat, her copy of Lolita smacking against the floor. She nudges it with her socked toe, pushing it away so the letters printed boldly no longer face her. “I…I suppose I’m just a bit tired of it all, really.”

Tom shifts, the soft rustle of his clothes accompanying the movement. He’s listening. He wants her to know this. Hermione takes a nervous breath.

“It’s not quite school that’s the issue. I do enjoy it, truly. At one point, I suppose I even found it exhilarating. I’m just craving something… more challenging now. Oh, that sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it?”

She’s rambling – again. Tom stays silent, digesting her words.

“Not ridiculous,” he acknowledges after a pause, a trace of amusement lacing his voice. He finds this funny , the arrogant bastard. “It’s hardly your fault that your peers are so…unremarkable. Insignificant, really. Most people are.”

Hermione glares slightly – is this asshole making fun of her again? – and moves to stand over him. He’s abandoned his work on the floor; instead, he’s gazing at her from his knees, eyes half-mast. A few loose strands of hair fall across his eyes, curling gently against his skin. At first, his expression is scrutinizing – critical, as if he’s really thinking about something. Then, it morphs into one of decision. Whatever choice he’d been thinking about, he’s made it.

“Not you, though,” he says with a faint, almost ironic smile. Something unpleasant, but not pressing enough to divert her attention. Hermione taps her fingers against her thighs, hands pinned to her side as she swallows his words.

Not her. She’s different.

Either a minute or a second goes by, it’s hard to tell with the thundering of her heart, but Hermione figures out what decision he’s made rather quickly; he reaches for her skirt, fingers closing around the material, and gives a gentle, but appreciative tug. Hermione stifles a soft, nervous sound.

They’ll have spoken many times by now, but rarely has he touched her.

“I like this,” he murmurs approvingly. Hermione swallows hard.

“Thank you,” she says softly. Her voice is too meek to belong to her, but mature or not, she’s a teenage girl. She’s not above the senseless, boy-crazy giggling from time to time. But this – oh, she’s burning hot, so hot she might die. This is far past juvenile.

There’s the thought again: fuck. She’s in over her head.

Because Tom has taken her shyness as an invitation. He smiles in what Hermione believes is meant to be reassuring. He’s not too great at that, she’s noticed. Tom’s rather normal when you take him as surface level, but he’s equally as odd as he is polite. He’s usually normal, but now, as his hand caresses her thigh, moving underneath the fabric, he is very much not.

Hermione shudders, feeling his fingers grace the lace of her underwear. He hesitates, studying her expression. He almost looks guilty, the face of a man doing something he knows he shouldn’t. But in the sliver of sunlight pouring through the window, he seems ethereal; he gazes at her with longing, the fulfillment of a starving man long denied food.

He's been waiting for this. Denying it. Fighting it.

Tom may be careful, but Hermione is determined.

In a bold move, he slips underneath her underwear, fingers pressing into the pudge of her ass. He flexes, and for a moment, his grip hurts. He inhales shakily, and – oh god, Hermione’s doing this to him. He’s feeling her up, filthy and perverse, and he’s loving it.

“Hermione ,” he groans, and the sound is a delicacy to Hermione’s ears. Something to stash away for later when she has her fingers inside of her. “God, you..”

Hermione leans into his touch, pushing her ass against the palm of his hand, and that must be what does it. That’s the final straw, the final dagger into his already flimsy morals – because Hermione’s not stupid , she understands this is taboo. With another frustrated sound, he abruptly draws away from her.

“Go.”

Hermione blinks slowly. Whatever… that moment was is gone, replaced by the unmistakable anger from earlier. He’s showing his teeth slightly, his lip curled in a faint snarl, but it’s not directed at her. At least, she thinks so. It's hard to tell with him.

“But—” Hermione objects. Tom’s having none of it. He straightens his posture, still on his knees looking up at her. Anger is too loose of a word to describe how he’s looking at her. It’s not quite disgust either, though she can see the lingering of it. It’s also not regret, and definitely not joy, so Hermione’s kind of running out of ideas on how to read him.

“Leave, Hermione. Now.”

Hermione isn’t quick enough to cover her shock. It’s clear on her face, but Tom pays no mind to it. He gazes at her for another moment, eyes hard as flint, and then returns to the floorboards.

Okay, so maybe she’s not winning. Not yet.

With a resigned sigh, she leaves.

Admittedly, Hermione spends too much time thinking about Tom. She doesn’t think she should – or can – be faulted for it. He’s objectively pretty . An unusual kind of pretty, of course – not the same solace she usually finds in books, but the living, breathing type. She dares to think of him as art: made of slopes and straight edges, a mouth that’s perpetually pitched downward, eyes that would cut you with their anger, but heal you with their softness.

So, when he takes his first break from the renovation, she accepts the chance to admire him.

Hermione finds him on her back porch with a cigarette in his fingers. It is an artistic view, she thinks as she quietly pads along, the wood wet from the earlier mist. She feels nearly exposed, despite the excess of her shirt; it hangs off her shoulders and exposes the dip of her clavicle, and it is oh so innocent , but she is thrilled by him seeing her like this. The same delicious lick of thrill she experienced in the library when he’d cradled her ass.

He leans against the railing, sleeves rolled up; his curls fall astray, one coiling before his eye. He offers no indication that he has noticed her, but she knows he has. She admires his stance: how lithe he is, how skeletal his fingers seem as they clutch the cigarette, dark hair brushing his knuckles in wisps, defined by subtle wrinkles.

Tom remains quiet as she approaches, leaning against the railing, pretending she doesn’t feel their elbows touch while she focuses on one of the many trees rising from the ground.

How boring it is to pretend.

He inhales deeply, almost regretfully, before scattering smoke into the air. It dissipates quickly, but the smell lingers. Hermione doesn’t mind—she’s come to think of it as his scent. Instead, she’s focused on taking in the contours of his face, noting how the wrinkles around his mouth ripple as he secures the cigarette between his lips. Trapped in the thought of how much she wants to kiss him. She absentmindedly pushes herself onto her toes. The wood groans under the pressure.

Tom snorts.

“Don’t even think about asking, kid.”

Hermione pouts. Okay, maybe it’s a bit juvenile trying to bum her first cigarette off of him. He’d let her have the alcohol, why is this any different?

“Curiosity can be a bad habit, Hermione,” Tom warns, and the undertone in his voice is no mistake. Hermione blinks slowly – dumbstruck, almost, because Tom’s definitely talking about her little endeavors. She squirms uncomfortably, her lip caught between her teeth.

“That is too,” He sighs. Gently, he nudges at her lip with his thumb, coaxing her to let the abused flesh go. It works the exact opposite: Hermione bites down hard in shock, yelping. She releases her lip from her teeth, and the tang of blood draws heavy on her tongue.

Oh, Hermione thinks. Okay, shit.

“I’m almost an adult,” she says grumpily, pressing harder against the railing. “I’ve done worse things than smoke”—a lie, of course—“and besides, no one else is here.”

“It’s the principle of it, kid,” Tom mutters, blowing smoke through his nose. Hermione coughs in annoyance, waving her hand through the cloud. She scowls. Smoking is only hot in concept, apparently.

“Listen,” he says in an odd tone. Hermione stills, the scowl slipping from her face as she fakes being neutral. She does not like the look in his eyes. “You’re an exceptionally clever girl, Hermione. You know when something isn’t…in your best interest.”

“You don’t mean the cigarette,” Hermione says flatly. Tom smiles wryly and she scrunches her nose disdainfully in return. Something flickers in Tom’s eyes, too quick for Hermione to catch.

“I’m mature for my age,” she insists.

Tom snorts derisively. Not the reaction she wanted from him.

“And who told you that?”

Hermione flushes red. Okay, so maybe it had only been her teacher, and it’d been meant in a totally different way, but it still counts .

“People,” She says stiffly. She glances at the door, considering escape once again. Why is she always running?

Tom groans, annoyed. He turns his head to exhale more of the smoke, the cigarette captured tightly between his fingers. Hermione takes a minor step back. Yeah, smoking is definitely not hot outside of fiction.

“Christ, kid,” He groans again. He props his elbows on the railing, flicking ash to the ground below. Hermione hesitates before stepping beside him, so close their shoulders touch. She stands on her toes, leaning as much over the railing as she needs to so they’re nearly at the same level.

“Christ, kid,” He repeats. “Why?”

Hermione smiles cutely. Tom narrows his eyes, letting out an exasperated sigh.

“You’re seventeen,” he says, his fingers tightening around the wood of the porch as if trying to anchor himself. “Teenagers…well, you all want the same thing. Surely there are others who would suit you better,” he pauses, his gaze steady. “Someone more worthy of your attention.”

Hermione gnashes her teeth together, perhaps a bit louder than intended. Tom regards her with a peculiar look, and she quickly masks it with a forced smile. She won’t keep at this forever, but it’s not hopeless. He wants her, or at least feels something toward her. She’s not delusional—this isn’t fiction, not written and outlined perfectly on the papers. This is her life, and she has to go for it.

“I don’t want them,” Hermione tells him flatly. Tom seems to mull over her words, his expression far away for an unusually long moment before—

“Oh, of course not ,” Tom laughs abrasively, hard and short. “They’re not good enough for you, huh? Teenage boys are awful. Believe me, I was one. You wouldn’t want their hands on you, anyway.”

Teasing isn’t something new to her. God, from the moment the other kids could speak, she was a topic of turmoil. Her obsession with precision had never been too well received by her peers. She had endured sarcasm, anger, and hatred countless times, yet…

Oh, of course not. They’re not good enough for you, huh?

A lump forms in her throat.

Oh.

It hurts when he laughs at her like that. It stings, a sharp and sudden burn that catches her off guard. The feeling is fresh and raw, like a child's first scraped knee. Hermione drops away from the railing, getting back onto her feet with only a minor stumble - one less embarrassment for her.

Without a word, she turns to leave. A sudden hand around her wrist twirls her right back around. Tom holds her with a firm grip, not quite iron-clad but still mildly urgent.

“I didn’t intend for it to come across that way,” he says, his voice low and apologetic. His expression shifts, softening just enough to be convincing, but Hermione knows it’s not entirely sincere. Her stomach flips, and this time it’s not full of butterflies. This time, it feels… uncomfortable.

“Tom,” she whispers.

Hermione doesn’t know what it is exactly – if it’s the tone of her voice or the way she attempts to free herself, but Tom releases her. His expression goes flat, save for an unnatural half smile as he says, “Sorry. I just couldn’t let you get away.”

He backs away, returning to his place against the railing. Hermione takes a tentative step forward. Her heart beats unevenly in her chest. This is her father’s friend, he’s safe . Of course, he is. She’s being silly. Stupid, even.

Some of Hermione’s discomfort gives way to curiosity, and she moves to stand beside him again. Tom takes a long drag of his cigarette, allowing the smoke to scatter from between his lips. He waves his hand; at first, Hermione thinks he’s trying to clear out some of the fog, but when it disperses she finds the cigarette pointed towards her.

“I merely meant that you’re unique. That’s all,” Tom continues, his tone smooth. She reluctantly accepts the cigarette, holding it away from her face with a slight frown. Tom smiles faintly. “Mature for your age, remember?”

Hermione inhales her first drag; the taste is immediate and absolutely repugnant — harshly bitter and acrid in a way that makes her want to gag. But Tom’s words bounce around her head, telling her she’s special, again! So what, she might have to suck on a few cancer sticks and flash her underwear periodically, but it gets his attention.

Hermione sputters on a cloud of smoke. Okay, so maybe she’s not a fan of this part, but the underwear thing isn’t that bad.

For a moment, the cigarette rests loosely between her lips. Tom makes a soft noise, one of realization, and Hermione watches him move as he gently taps it further into her mouth. 

“You have to actually smoke it,” he comments, and it nearly sounds endearing. He waits for her fingers to replace his, holding eye contact as Hermione successfully blows it through her nose. Her eyes dart to his face, searching for validation that she’s doing it right – that she’s being mature. He tilts his head, and for a moment, he really seems to look at her. Take in her appearance like he had the first time they met.

He skims over her chest again, following the v-cut exposing her cleavage down to her waist. He takes in her hips, staring at how her skirt hugs her waist and – he’s certainly not discreet. Hermione’s unsure if he even wants to be.

“Is it a kiss you’re after? Is that what you want?”

Hermione chokes on a breath. Tom observes her closely, his eyes guarded but surely without shame. He means his words.

“What?” she squeaks. She clears her throat, then says, “Sorry, what ?”

“Listen, what happened a few days ago… I shouldn’t have done that. You…” He pauses, and Hermione can sense what he’s thinking. She shouldn’t have enjoyed it. This sin of theirs—it’s mutual. “It’s not that I don’t find you—”

He groans, pinching the bridge of his nose, muttering something inaudible. Hermione swears she catches the end of an apology. “It’s not that you aren’t beautiful—you are. If you were ten years older, hell, you’d already be in my bed. But you’re not.”

This kicks the air right out of Hermione’s chest. Her eyes go wide, mouth hanging open in disbelief as she nearly gasps in response. No, not nearly – she does , and it’s such a sharp sound her throat itches after.

Oh, there it is. The acknowledgment that this isn’t hopeless, after all.

“You’re a teenager,” he repeats as if trying to convince himself more than her. “Far too young, baby. I understand your curiosity, but…”

Another win. Hermione absolutely glows. He called her baby! Tom exhales, exasperated, like he knows he just fueled her even more. This isn’t going the way he wants it to.

“I’m friends with your father. I doubt he’d be too pleased if I took advantage of his daughter, especially under his own roof,” he laughs, the sound cynical and devoid of warmth. His thumb grazes her lip, a subtle, but deliberate gesture, as though he’s carefully considering his next move.

Hermione holds his stare. He’s not escaping her. No, sir. Not after she’s gotten this far.

“You’re not ‘taking advantage of me,’” she says, rolling her eyes and making air quotes. “And, like you said, it’s just a kiss. It stays between us, right?” 

She’ll take a kiss. A kiss is new, it’s a gate to bigger, better things. Yeah, she can work with this. Tom’s justification is poor anyway—she doubts it’s strung together well. He doesn’t seem to have the strongest will when it comes to resisting temptation.

She brings the cigarette back to her mouth as she waits for his response. It’s somewhat nastier than earlier – straight unpleasant to every sense she has. Taste, smell, hell, even sight with the way the smoke blows back at her face. Tom smirks slightly as she tries to wave it away, the insufferable jerk.

“You’re smoking the filter.”

Hermione scowls.

“Right,” she mutters. She grinds the cigarette against the railing, then flicks it over to the grass below once she’s sure it’s dead. She’ll pick it up later – probably. “Your reasoning is seriously flawed, you know. You said it yourself! Teenage boys are insufferable, so I’m actually safer with you!”

She’s shooting for humor, but she misses massively. Tom groans, loud. Exasperated. It almost makes Hermione smile. She has that effect on people a lot.

Tom doesn’t say a word, but the hands that rise to cup her face are firm and purposeful. They’re so warm too, and they hold her so perfectly. Now Hermione has absolutely nothing to say, nothing to think because he’s leaning in. They’re so close, and her heart – shit, is this what a heart attack feels like? Her heart’s going so fast right now.

Amid all the nervousness, there’s victory. She did it . Boring, plain Hermione Granger—the bane of her classmates’ existence until they needed homework answers—has successfully seduced her father’s friend. For the most part. But it still counts!

It’s not a huge accomplishment in the grand scheme of things—her worth has never relied on her love life—but she’s been chasing this for a week now. Every time she hiked up her dress or skirt, how many low cut shirts she wore, all the times she bent over in front of him, knowing he would look. Surely not worthy of a Noble Prize, but still, it’s something.

Tom mutters something about this being a stupid move. Hermione thinks it’s a great one.

“After this, I want you to let go of this little fantasy of yours,” he tells her quietly — almost regretfully. “In a few years… if you still feel the same, I’ll be more than willing. But not now, alright? And don’t go chasing anyone else like this. You’ll give your father a heart attack.”

“No promises,” Hermione clears her throat, and she sounds so breathless when she speaks. “But whatever makes you feel better.”

Tom rolls his eyes—the jerk—but moves closer anyway. Hermione’s eyes flutter shut, her sigh coming in a deep, shuddering wave. His breath blows hotly against her lips and her cheek feels so, so warm with how he’s cradling her face just the right way—

Closing the distance between them, she leans in and kisses him first, rising onto her toes in a surge of bravery. She misses his lips at first, the clumsy inexperience of a young girl – an untouched virtue. His hold on her face tightens significantly, the pads of his fingers rough against the baby soft skin of her cheek.

Tom makes a soft noise. To say it drives Hermione forward would be an understatement; she dives clumsily into the kiss, truly kissing him now, all gnashed teeth, her tongue flicking against his lips. It’s entirely graceless, and overall godawful on her part. Tom exhales through his nose, surprised. He brushes his thumb over the soft contours of her face, tender and untouched by the passage of time.

Gently, Tom pulls away. Hermione swipes her tongue over her lip, licking away a faint string of spit. Tom continues to draw small circles with his thumb, looking at her thoughtfully. His cheeks are flushed to a faded pink, nowhere near the mess Hermione currently is, but still slightly winded. She shocked him.

“Slow down, baby,” he murmurs. Under the summer sun, his long eyelashes cast subtle shadows across his cheeks. Hermione brushes her fingers over her lips, feeling the ache of her far too aggressive kiss. Tom’s still holding her, and as his eyes sweep over her face, down to where her shirt gaps, revealing her chest, she knows he’s not going to let go just yet. She’s exceptionally glad it’s just the two of them—her mother is on a mission for the perfect wall color, and thankfully she’s dragged Hermione’s father along with her. Still – kissing on an open porch, only sparsely surrounded by enough trees to shield them from her neighbors, probably isn’t the best idea.

Too bad Hermione doesn’t care.

“Is this your first kiss?” Tom asks tentatively. He’s trying not to hurt her feelings, especially not after earlier, but Hermione frowns anyway. There’s an ugly pang in her chest. Right, she’s not good at this. She’s terrible, actually – probably the worst Tom’s ever had, and now she has to live with the memory of this for the rest of her life. She cringes slightly.

“No,” she mumbles. She tries to turn her head, but Tom holds her in place. “Just… once, a few years ago. I don’t think I was very good at it,” her frown deepens. “Honestly, I’m still not great at it.”

Her words change something. She’s not sure what, but Tom’s expression darkens. He drags his tongue over his lip, contemplating. Meanwhile, Hermione’s dying because – shitty kiss or not, that was still a kiss!

“Hm,” is all Tom hums before the distance between them is abruptly closed again. It’s not Hermione steering the ship this time. Even with the rough nature of it, the kiss they share is far more practiced - far more dizzying, the kind that makes the world spin even behind her eyelids. Tom knows what he’s doing, communicates this in the way he guides her head back, never breaking their kiss. His tongue sweeps over her lips, a much better attempt than Hermione’s, and she parts her mouth with a quiet whimper. This is – wow. Holy shit.

Her hands find his shoulders, pulling him closer with surprising strength. The thing is, time gets kind of warped when you’re wrapped up in – this , all of this – and it’s hard to tell just how long they remain connected, how long they continue to mold together. There’s definitely some obnoxious metaphor here—some shitty, two dollar romance book line about how magical their kiss is – which it is, but not like that. This is better. This is what she’s wanted.

When Tom finally pulls away, he’s gentle with it. He continues petting her, slipping one hand in her hair in an almost comforting manner. It’s… satisfaction. She puts that much together with a simple look at his face. He’s looking at her in the same way he’d gazed at her in the library: his eyes drawn half-mast, slightly glazed, but this time he’s actually worked up. He’s flushed bright red, uneven splotches of color marring his skin. He opens his mouth, visibly considering his words, then decides against them.

“Wow,” Hermione’s the first to speak. What a stupid response, really, but it’s true. She says it with the same cadence a child opening a Christmas gift would: eyes wide, a massive grin on her face. If it were socially acceptable at this moment, she’d likely be jumping up and down, but she settles for rocking back on her heels instead.

Tom says nothing. He’s still looking at her, an odd look in his eyes. Not bad, but strange. Another moment passes, and the atmosphere thickens, drawing tight like a harsh breath caught in her lungs. She thinks about what he’d said earlier—about her moving on after this, and how silly of an idea that had been. How could she move on from a kiss like that? An actual kiss, and not some awkward teenaged bump of lips.

“Jesus Christ,” Tom swears after another beat of silence. “You’re fucking jailbait , kid.”

Hermione laughs – loud. Right in Tom’s face, and yeah, not her smoothest moment, but he doesn’t seem to mind. She dares to say he even smiles, just a slight tug at the crook of his mouth.

Hermione grins even harder. There it is. There’s her victory.

Tom mutters something else – something about the incoming rain, which has begun to sprinkle on them – but Hermione’s too giddy to care. She kissed him! She kissed him! The thought is repetitive, and usually, she’d loathe the lack of substance in it, but absolutely nothing about this moment is usual.

“Jailbait,” He groans again. He draws his hands from their place on her body, parting with a careful step back. He’s doing that same useless rationalization he had in the library - not even just that, but his equally stupid morality check as if the act hasn’t already been done. Like his morals weren’t ruined the moment he slipped his hand under her skirt.

“Thanks!” Hermione says cheerfully, though she knows jailbait isn’t a good thing. For just this instance, she’ll believe that it is. Tom inhales sharply, his shoulders rising with the breath. It’s an annoyed sound, though when he looks back into her eyes, she finds no malice. No regret either. Just – thinking.

He glances at the sky, sighing at the weather. It’s starting to pour now, Hermione’s hair uncomfortably sticking to her face. The frizz is going to be unimaginable after this, but it’s worth it. Tom places a gentle hand on the small of her back, gently ushering her out from the rain. They step under the little bit of roof protruding over the porch, narrowly dodging the sudden torrential downpour that comes after.

For a moment, it’s only them and the sound of water beating against the roof. 

“Remember what I said,” Tom says firmly, though quiet. If Hermione hadn’t been around him for the past few days, she’d gloss right over the hesitation in his words. It’s a good thing she doesn’t. He’s losing an uphill battle – he knows this. She knows it, too. “This is it, Hermione. That’s all you get.”

Hermione snorts, gripping the handle of the slider door and yanking it open. 

“Oh, please.”