Work Text:
"You've got -" Fingers, stained and smeared with oil paint reach out and hover over the skin on Hermione's cheek, not quite touching, but almost. The sense memory of the pressure she would feel if they closed those last few millimetres is a palpable heat that buzzes in Hermione's mind and has her itching to lean in. "- just here."
Her eyes flick away from the outstretched digits that, much to Hermione's chagrin, have conjured the memory of Ginny's voice whispering to a smuggled-in-Luna in the dark of their old dorm room. "He was always good with his hands. Very – dextrous," Ginny had said, giggling in a way that, at the time, had made Hermione roll her eyes, half embarrassed on behalf of her friend over how asinine she sounded.
Hermione takes a step back, moving her hand up to wipe at her cheek roughly and feeling ridiculously awkward in the aftermath of the unexpectedly intimate moment. Her teeth bite down on her bottom lip whilst she tries vainly to clean the smudge away, mentally chastising herself for her reaction. She feels clumsy and self-conscious, not quite sure how exactly to be around this man right now. When she looks up and asks, "Is it gone?" her discomfort deepens as she's met with the casual and comfortable smile gracing Dean's face. Hermione bites off a curse that would have had her scolding Ron without a second thought.
Dean shakes his head in reply and his smile widens, tilting into a smirk that would be more at home on George Weasley. Hermione feels her frustration at her own behaviour snap into impatience with the whole situation. She huffs and starts to turn, deciding that the bathroom at the back of the workshop holds more than just the allure of a sink and a mirror.
"Wait!" Dean's voice calls out, but it's the hand that pauses - a hair's breath from actually fastening around her elbow - that actually stops her.
She looks down at it, her body half turned away, eyes watching the long fingers that are flexing slightly as if flirting with the temptation to reach out and touch. The gesture makes her hesitate, and Hermione cocks her head to one side and takes the opportunity to study Dean's face for a moment, curious about his behaviour and not for the first time in the past week.
"I have a handkerchief," he says. "Hang on."
Before Hermione can say 'it's okay' and that she'll just go and wash it off, Dean's half way across the cramped studio they're renting above the Diagon Alley store of Weasley Wizarding Wheezes. It's an odd place for a painting-restoration and consulting business, she supposes, but George's rates have been good and, as they'd just been starting out when they signed the lease, money had been tight. In another year and if their business continues to grow at the rate it has been, they'll be able to move out and find bigger premises, hopefully ones in a more prominent position. They've been lucky so far; the contacts that Hermione made during her stint training in curse-breaking under Bill Weasley, and the one's Dean retained from his position as an Assistant Art Curator for The National Wizarding Portrait Gallery, being enough to bring them in a respectable amount of work. Enough to get them both started and cement their reputation in their chosen field, at any rate. But word of mouth, while invaluable, only gets you so far. Hermione knows they'll need to spread out and expand their clientele if their business is to continue to grow.
While she waits for Dean to return, Hermione sets to studying her notes on the painting of Alberic Grunnion she's currently working on for the Library of Dublin. She shifts from foot to foot as she looks over the spells that she's so far managed to decipher from the magic bound into the painting. It's easy to get lost in it. The incantations and rune work on the painting are fascinating and at this point she's still only brushed the surface of its secrets. However, the attraction that the logical and pragmatic path to unravelling it's various mysteries poses is not enough to prevent her from looking up as soon as she registers the absence of the sound of any footsteps other than hers in the room.
She catches Dean watching her quietly, studying her with an intensity that rivals the attention he concentrates on a new restoration project. Their gaze meets and he quickly tosses an almost shy smile over his shoulder at her then bends to sort through the drawers of his desk. The gesture causes Hermione to pause again and if her eyes linger on the line of his shoulders as he searches then she'll deny it later. She's spent the last year since they started this unlikely partnership trying to reconcile the reserved and conscientious demeanour of the man she works with on a daily basis, with the salacious tales she's heard gossiped about by her two closest female friends. She's still not quite sure how they add up, but Ginny, and surprisingly even Luna in her absent, dreamy way, have been pretty explicit.
And that's perhaps the main problem.
Hermione's not a prude. She dated Blaise Zabini for nine months the year after she and Ron broke up, and Hermione's pretty sure that no one could come out of a relationship with Blaise and still have most of their inhibitions intact. And it's not that she's judging Dean either. It's not that she thinks he's a slut or something, because she knows he's not. He's just as picky about his relationships as Blaise is, rumours about the Slytherin's promiscuity not withstanding. Besides, Hermione likes to think of herself a very non-judgemental person, so it's really not that at all. It's just that there's something about the knowledge that both Ginny and Luna know what Dean's like in bed that makes her falter over her attraction to him.
When Dean steps back in front of her, Hermione's gaze is still focussed somewhere between his left shoulder and the spot where the material of the faded Jimi Hendrix t-shirt he'd said belonged to his mum back in the seventies is clinging to the subtle hint of muscle in his arm. She swallows and looks up, hating herself for how immature this attraction to him makes her feel. For how unsure she is. She wasn't like this with Blaise. Hasn't felt like this since before she and Ron finally got their act together, in fact.
"Got it," he states with a grin that draws his mouth into a wide smile - she's heard things about that mouth too, or rather those lips. He brandishes the white scrap of fabric in front of her face for inspection. "I had to do a quick charm to clean it up 'cause it was muckier than I remembered, but it should be okay now."
Hermione nods dumbly and rubs her hand absently over her right forearm. She feels awkward again. She thinks she hates this awkwardness more than she hates her indecision over her feelings. But then she's had seven months to get used to her reluctance to allow herself to just give in and admit she fancies Dean and only a week to get to grips with this whole not knowing how to act around him.
A week!
That's all it has taken to reduce the carefully fostered and maintained working relationship between the two of them into something that more closely resembles two thirteen year-olds on their first date at Madam Puddifoot's.
Dean takes a step closer, wrapping the hankie carefully around his middle and index finger as he approaches, his eyes focussing on the task and seemingly innocent of the affect it's having on Hermione. She silently curses Ginny and her anecdotes for what feels like the hundredth time and then she curses George.
George is perhaps more at fault than Ginny for Hermione's current anxiety over her work colleague. All Hermione can really blame Ginny for is an unintentional aggravation to the thoughts already running through her brain. George on the other hand is the reason this last week at work has been a living hell for Hermione.
Since they'd taken the flat, George had taken to abusing the opportunity of have two handy test subjects just upstairs from his main base of operations. Hermione scowled and placed her hands on her hips every time one or both of them were subjected to the newest item in the Weasley Wizarding Wheezes range, but she didn't quite bite George's head off like she might once have done. It had taken the remaining Weasley twin almost a year to get back to work after the death of his brother in the battle that saw the end of Voldemort. Even longer for him to really get back into the flow and try producing something new. And whilst George laughed and shrugged it off, Hermione wasn't oblivious to the fact that he seemed to take comfort in their presence just upstairs, herself particularly. It had become almost routine for George to seek her out in search of a discussion or an opinion concerning combining various ingredients or charms for a new product idea. Hermione didn't delude herself; she didn't think the same way Fred and George did. Her path of expertise was more tried and tested – book learnt, than experimental. But she could follow what George talked about, and was interested in the theory behind it, even if she did think that the use of his unexpected talent and flair was rather a waste. And she guessed that was one of the things George missed most about not having his twin around. Someone to talk theory with.
At some point, they'd come to some sort of truce, her and George. She helped him when he needed, and in return he only tested products on her once he'd already gained her express permission. Dean wasn't so lucky. Only the previous week he'd taken a bite of a biscuit only to grow a beak a moment later. On the whole though he took George's pranks and experiments a whole lot more good naturedly than Hermione would have, so she supposed that it all evened out.
Surprisingly, though it wasn't one of George's experiments that had Hermione cursing him over this mess with Dean. George hadn't welched on his arrangement with her once, but he had abused her trust.
Two months earlier George had asked her to test out a new and improved variant on the Patented Daydream Charms that were one of his shop's biggest sellers. George had somehow got hold of a new variant of Valerian that had recently been bred successfully for the first time. Supposedly, this new and improved version of the herb seriously increased the strength of its properties that were beneficial to lucid dreaming. The result of which George hoped would not only increase the realism of the daydream, but it would also give the subject far more control over its events too.
Hermione had acquiesced, feeling a little uncomfortable about being observed whilst under the charm's effects, but interested enough in the new variant to not want to pass up the opportunity to study it. When she finally snapped out of the charm she'd found herself confronted with a smirking George.
"Dean, eh, Hermione?" The git had actually leered down at her. "Never knew you felt quite like that about him. So, what was this about brushes?"
Hermione had made him promise to keep his mouth shut, threatening him with a number of particularly nasty curses she'd picked up during some of her forays into the Restricted Section. George had stayed silent, only betraying his knowledge of her affection for Dean with the occasional snarky comment or double-entendre. Stayed silent right up until the previous Saturday when he'd asked Hermione and Dean to join him for a drink. They'd both said yes and thought nothing of it. It had become common place for the three of them to go out after work. And as they were quite often joined by various friends also finishing their day off with a tipple, Hermione thought nothing of it when George mentioned that Katie Bell would be joining them and why didn't they grab a bite to eat out in Muggle London first. The last thing she had expected was to find herself sat in the middle of an impromptu double date.
Dean snaps her out of the mental list she'd been making of just how exactly she was going to pay George back by drawling, "Come here." His hand reaches out and tugs her forward by the belt loops of the old jeans she keeps for working on the studio floor.
Hermione lets him, too busy being surprised by the sound of his voice and the puzzle it poses to protest at the manhandling. It'd been deep – low. And the way he'd slurred 'here;' the origins of his London upbringing slipping out in a way she hasn't heard since their second year of high school stood out. In the past, she's only noticed a hint of his childhood accent when he's tired or drunk.
Hermione watches, still trying to work out just what's going on with him, as he lifts the hanky covered fingers to his mouth and wets the fabric. It's not possible to ignore the way his tongue darts out and licks over the material. In an attempt to justify her attention she finds herself babbling about how he reminds her of Crookshanks and the way he used to like to lick her school ties.
In her subsequent embarrassment at her verbal diarrhoea, Hermione finds herself thinking about the previous Saturday again.
The thing with the not-exactly-a-date was that Hermione had known what George had been trying to do. And in a way she thought it was sweet - still wanted to castrate him in his sleep for putting her in such a ridiculously awkward situation with her business partner, but she knew that in his own way George had had the best intentions. Hermione had however, still found herself spending half the night apologising to Dean for inadvertently putting him in the situation. Because while the whole thing was awkward for her, she at least found her not-really-a-date date attractive. Dean on the other hand had been stuck in some overly romantic restaurant with a lovey-dovey couple on a first date, and someone he had no real interest in past friendship. That had to be ten times more awkward, particularly when Hermione was certain the George's plan had so clearly given away her secret.
Hermione had known Dean had no interest in her. She was even okay with that. He was never anything but professional around her. Always maintaining some distance between them. Not enough to appear rude, but enough so that Hermione got the picture. They were friends and work colleagues and that was it.
Except this past week hadn't been anything like that. Aside from the fact that Hermione felt awkward about Dean now suspecting she liked him, he'd become touchy and attentive, and she had caught him staring at her on more than one occasion. And that she wasn't okay with. It was confusing and it contradicted the picture she held in her head of him almost as much as the too well remembered tales from her friends. Hermione didn't think that Dean was making fun of her attraction for him, but she couldn't see any other reason for his sudden change in behaviour.
At the first press of wetness against her cheek Hermione starts. Dean just smiles, his tongue poking out and wetting his bottom lip as he concentrates on removing the mark.
"Lift your head up."
Hermione complies numbly, distracted by how close he's standing and the way she can smell the scent of linseed oil on his skin as clear and strong as if she's just finished mixing paint herself. A second later though her daze snaps. Hermione pulls her head back down sharply and draws her lips into a thin line, exasperated at her simpering behaviour and just a little embarrassed about how easily she's taken to letting him jostle her around at his whim. "Why are you doing this?" she bites out, harder than he really deserves, but after a week of eyes and hands and barely there caresses she's had enough.
Dean chuckles. "Uh, so you don't go out looking like you had an argument with a paint box."
Hermione rolls her eyes. "Very funny, but I didn't mean that." She pauses, then backtracks. "Or I did, actually. But what I really mean is all this. This past week. You've been – different."
Dean smiles, but doesn't answer. Instead he just continues to dab gently at the apple of her cheek and Hermione feels her frustration coil tighter in her belly.
"I just realised something that's all," he says at last, stepping back and balling the handkerchief up in his hand.
Hermione's eyes narrow. "What?"
Dean looks her over, studying the side of her face where the paint had been carefully. "All gone," he announces, avoiding her question and stepping back to drop the once more stained tissue on the top of Hermione's desk. As he turns, he ambiguously adds, "Just something."
Hermione looks at him questioningly as he walks away. She thinks that perhaps he must feel her eyes boring into his back like they did that time after they'd just moved in – they'd been sharing a desk and Dean had spilt dirty paint water over her notes on a Marryat - because he turns and grins at her.
"I was thinking that for our next date I'd cook you dinner instead. You know, given how you seemed to find the restaurant last week so disagreeable."
Hermione opens her mouth for a second before closing it; this is one time when she really doesn't want to look like a fish. She grins instead, teeth biting down on her bottom lip as she turns back to her notes. Maybe she won't castrate George after all, just maim him a little instead.