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He smells like her copy ofHogwarts: A History.
Like the old leather bindings of the more popular books in the Ministry's library. The ones picked up regularly. The ones stroked by a multitude of fingers as they're read and ingested by their numerous borrowers; oils seeping into the covers and softening them. Patternizations occurring where the dirtier hands have touched or the sun's rays have lingered too long.
Hermione does not lean closer in an attempt to inhale more of it. But for a moment she considers it. Wants to lean in and sniff like she would a rare book. Favoured habit. Unconscious obsession.
Muggles don't favour leather bindings anymore. Too much expense or too controversial, Hermione's not sure, though she'd lean towards the former. They don't seem to favour the old well-worn tomes with their history of previous readers either. Seems they lock them away in safe, carefully controlled rooms to be forgotten under the guise of protection. Or else discard them. Forgotten and deemed dirty with their decades of collected dust and the stains that come with too much enjoyment or interest in their content. Hermione remembers the horror at reading of a dictator's book bonfires and wonders if somewhere there are rubbish piles of them now. Apathy - the new self imposed censorship of the western world.
The backs of her fingers catch on the edge of his coat and it's like being back at school. Like that last year of the war. Digging around in her trunk to find her favourite tome. Recognising it only as her fingers brush the familiar ridges along its spine.
She doesn't jerk back, but the temptation is there; thick and heavy, and coiled tightly around some insane desire to curl her fingers into his jacket.
He leans closer, pushing up on his toes in an exaggerated stretch to reach some book above, buttons brushing her chest as his coat gapes. He smiles down at her. Except, it's more a smirk than any smile she's seen. Cocky and overly confident, making the hairs on Hermione's arms prickle with the urge to knock him down a peg or two. Quick witty barb or a simple Knock Back charm.
After she broke up with Ron, and her eyes had started drifting somewhere just as tall, but with almond eyes and the kind of ego that rivalled Lockhart's (though with more smugness and less boasting), Ginny had laughed and said she certainly had a type. 'Is it the challenge or do you really just like to butt heads that much?' her friend had laughed. Luna had just eyed her curiously over her cup of green tea, exhaling in a way that seemed a little too insightful. Somehow, it caused Hermione's skin to flush far redder than Ginny's accusations ever could, even the vulgar ones.
Paper skims down her arm as he drags the retrieved book over it in a mock caress. Flutter of the pages as they spread their wings and catch on the stitches of her jumper; palpable, almost as if they are brushing naked skin and not thick wool. He draws a pattern on her forearm with one corner, and Hermione sets her lips, bites into her cheek, denies him the satisfaction of acknowledging he's just hit about five of her buttons.
She looks up at him, but he's focused somewhere south of her face. Eyes skimming down just past her hips before rolling up again, widening and shrinking back in a way that makes the guy look like a four year old being presented with chocolate cake. Hermione almost swears they glitter, but then chastises herself for sounding so clichéd.
He's good looking, Hermione allows herself to admit. If she went for that.
So was Blaise.
But Blaise had something else, and even with the wall of insufferableness he so successfully drew around himself, that something was always there for anyone to see. One of the things he didn't want or bother to hide.
Even Harry had got it. On the night of her first date with the ex-Slytherin, he'd stood in the doorway of the kitchen at Grimmauld Place, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. Said, "I get why, okay? It… Books… I can see why. Just don't expect me to like it. I still think he's a prick."
One hand braces against the shelf to her right, hemming her in closer. The other lifts to do the same, but pulls back at the last minute. Green eyes narrow quickly and sweep over her again. Hermione bites back a curse, forces herself calm – muscles relaxing and becoming looser. Yet his free hand hovers, clutching the book and sliding it almost against her hip. Not quite a touch, easy to brush aside.
The rush of panic always makes her angry. Because she's not weak. She fought in a war for Merlin's sake. Was one of the main people responsible for the downfall of the megalomaniac who'd caused it. And she was not placed in Gryffindor for being a coward. Never shied away from any of Snape or Draco's crueller barbs. Still, weak is the only conclusion Hermione can see other people drawing every time she flinches when she starts to feel boxed in and trapped.
Blaise taught her to mask it. Taught her control over her reactions. He was the only one who seemed to understand her resentment for something that her other friends all tiptoed around. Something they tried to make her believe was a perfectly natural reaction to the 'incident' – their words not hers - with Bellatrix.
And she usually does.
She can't remember the last time someone spotted her discomfort. She's clearly having an off day. It's not an excuse by any means, but it's better than the alternative.
"Thanks," the guy says. And it's not soft and tentative like he thinks she's a skittish kitten about to run and hide at any minute. Instead, it's rough, deep and with the hint of an accent that belongs further south. He sounds like Ron first thing in the morning. Like Blaise when she'd run out of the coffee he liked.
Hermione huffs out a breath and folds her arms, looks past him with impatience as she replies, "No problem. Can I have some aisle back now you've finished, please?" There's less bite to it than she'd been intending a few minutes earlier.
"Name's Dean," he drawls, ignorant.
"Hermione," she replies, voice as flat and expressionless as she can manage when he still smells like – She coughs. "You know this isn't a bar, right?"
The guy, Dean, grins and she refuses to admit it's maybe a little blinding, his eyes crinkling mischievously. "I'd noticed that, yeah. Books kinda gave it away, you know?"
Hermione starts to tap her foot. "Really? I wasn't sure you'd even noticed," she replies, eyeing his posture, lips twisted in a sarcastic smile.
Dean nudges her elbow with the book in his hand, cocks one eyebrow and waits.
"Funny."
Dean spits out a coughing hiccup of a laugh. Rubs the back of his neck with the spine of his book, and Hermione's eyes catch on something tucked into the inside pocket of his jacket.
"Yeah, my brother says that a lot too. That exact same tone. Hmm."
It's brown. Indented cover inscribed with something she can't quite make out. Stuffed with papers. She can see the edge of a newspaper clipping sticking out above the rest. Looks old and well thumbed. And the urge is almost too much.
Hermione remembers the first time she was called into Snape's office. All Harry had talked about after his visits had been the jars of 'things' lining the shelves, but Hermione had looked straight past them. Almost missed what Snape had been saying because there had been this shelf of books just behind his desk; titles she hadn't even heard of before.
Her head tips to the side, tries harder to find an angle that will allow her to make sense of the image on the cover.
It's the tang of something bitter, almost metallic underlying the warmth of the smell of old leather that makes her realise how close she is. She bites back the automatic impulse to apologise and pushes the journal or whatever it is inside his coat to the back of her mind. Curiosity, dead cats and all that.
Dean's grin just widens and Hermione thinks she might just hate it.
"I have research to do." She huffs, sliding out from under him and turning to peer back up at the shelf she'd been studying before he'd tapped her on her shoulder and said, 'Excuse me.'
Hermione waits for footsteps; for the telltale sign of this 'Dean' finally realising that he'll have a better chance with the two college girls sat at a table left of them. The ones who've been eyeing him since he walked in.
Except, they don't come, and he's still behind her when she swivels and glares at him, hands on her hips. "Look," she bites out, thinks about the case she's been asked to look into by the Department of Mysteries' American counterpart, and the way her boss back in Britain had looked at her as he'd assigned her to work with them on this. What he inferred with his words and tone. "I'm pretty busy, never mind the fact that I'm on a very tight schedule, so if you don't mind I think you'll find something a little more rewarding just over there." She points distractedly and turns back to the books; finger tracing Dewey numbers, looking for the one the library assistant had instructed her to locate and ignores the distraction behind her.
Warm breath drifts across the back of her neck. Goosebumps spring up on her arm and the book brushes again over her skin, this time the back of the hand searching the spine labels; textured paper bumping over each knuckle.
"Somehow, I don't think so." Dean hums, his voice vibrates in a half chuckle, and he finally steps back. "If you want someone to study with, Hermione -" he continues, drawing out each syllable of her name, "- when you've found what you want, I'll be at the table over in the back."
And then he's stepping back.
Hermione listens to him retreat, breathes out her frustration and runs a hand through her hair, pushing it back out of her face, rearranging it around her neck. She concentrates on the line of books; stretched up and straining to read the neatly printed numbers. Considers asking for a kick stool. Follows the disjointed sequence until she gets to the spot where her book should be.
Except - it's not there, and Hermione frowns; deep lines crease her forehead and her hands clench and flex.
Instead, there's a gap.
Inch wide.
She checks the numbers again - the paper in her hand where the girl had written down the location, then looks again at the shelf. At the wood. Fresh lines drawn in the dust where someone's pulled it out. She drags her finger through them and stares. No time passed for new dust to settle.
Hermione's lips thin and she turns, eyes catching on broad leather clad shoulders and following the line of fabric down one arm to the book he'd been teasing her with. The book she'd studiously ignored every time it had brushed against her. The one he's now reading.
She bites her lip, swallows down a string of curses that wouldn't be out of place on Ron's brother, Charlie's tongue and sets off down the aisle. Pauses at the edge of the stacks.
Hesitates.
She had planned on just marching right up to him. Asking if he thought he was being clever by stealing the book she'd been searching for before she had chance to claim it. Questioning if this is how he usually picks up women -- by annoying them!
Instead, she stops and looks. Really looks at him. Past the cocky smirk and jock physique. Past the bad boy aura and rakish attitude.
He's hunched over the book, brow furrowed as he switches his attention between it and another one. A scraggy patchwork of paper that Hermione's seen before. His brow draws down further, and he makes a few notes on a pad before pulling his phone from his pocket and sending a text. And suddenly - suddenly Hermione's not sure she had him pegged right at all. Knows Blaise would be disappointed.
She feels her lips tug up.
The phone vibrates across the desk, low thrum that shuts off quickly as Dean claims it and picks it up.
"Sammy!" he answers, voice low and discreet enough to slip past the library staff. A practiced quiet that's too familiar, raising Hermione's hackles in a sharp, uncomfortable rush.
"Yeah, looks like it. Hmm, yeah. It's pretty vague though. No, not much in Dad's journal. Just some lore and a couple of references to old folk tales. I'll look them up later, bring them with me. What about you?"
Hermione watches as he hums into the phone, makes a few more notes. And she doesn't get it. Because he's a Muggle. She's sure he is. Or she was. But it doesn't make sense that he's reading that particular book like he was actually looking for it regardless of her interest. And he's talking to this Sammy like they're –
"Yeah, sure. Say six? Uh huh. Oh, and that other thing, umm, I think you were right. No, not yet. Fuck, Sam." He tips his head back and Hermione catches the corner of an eye roll, before her eyes dip down to an emblem strung around his neck that she remembers from a Runes text book maybe.
"Yeah, yeah of course, bitch."
Egyptian, Hermione remembers, thinks she saw it in tome she'd read as part of her extended study for fourth year History of Magic. And there's really something weird going on here because Horton would have advised her if anyone else was looking into the case, and Hermione really doesn't appreciate being the one left in the dark and feeling like an idiot.
She's still staring down at the head when Dean clicks the phone off and looks straight at her.
"You gonna come sit down? Or maybe we should go find one of those bar things you mentioned?" He says, leaning back, face relaxed in a way that seems too carefully neutral.
Hermione steps out. Moves around the desk to stand opposite him, finger tracking the grain in the wood only to find it's disappointingly just melamine. "You have my book."
"I thought it was the property of Oakland Public Library," Dean replies flipping to the front, checking the stamp and looking back up.
"Funny."
"You say that a lot," he says, and Hermione watches Dean close the other book. The one far more tempting than local history. He's all false casualness as he slides the cover closed, trying to hold her attention with the jibe and a quick smile. But his hand's resting wide and heavy on the binding, long fingers with blunt nails stained dark around the cuticles curled over the edge of the spine, and the message is clear.
Hermione's own hand's in her pocket, finding the reassuring feel of her wand and the spell is there in her head almost before she realises. Four syllables so ready to slip out and she's better at it now. Practiced and actually trained at aiming the spell at direct memories. But her fingers stall and the spell slips and fades.
It's a last resort anyway. A course of action she has only ever taken with some reluctance. Conflictions over basic human rights and the way her mother never quite looked at her the same after far too audible. Too bright.
Besides… she wants to know!
"If I sit down, will you answer some questions?" she asks.
"If you answer mine."
Hermione looks around, and though the library isn't busy, it's not suitable for this kind of conversation either. There's a certain amount of discretion she needs to use and a memory charm, should it prove necessary, would be performed more easily and with more accuracy elsewhere. "Not here, and I want to go first."
Dean looks her over, but it's different from earlier. Less caveman, more assessing. He nods at whatever evaluation he's made, tips his head. "There's a park near by," he suggests and for a moment Hermione's surprised, having expected, based on her earlier observations, that he would suggest they go wherever he's staying. But the park's a good choice. She can't find fault.
"And we can take it in turns with the questions," he adds.
Hermione nods. Gives him one last look and turns. She spins back as soon as she hears his chair shift against the wooden boards of the floor, grabs the library book, smiles and says, "Better take this with us. We can discuss ownership afterward, should that still be an issue." Then she takes off towards the desk to check it out, hears Dean muttering something about 'demanding' and 'probably bossy as hell' behind her. She smiles wider as she hands her book and temporary library card over to the girl at the counter, hearing Blaise in her head agree wholeheartedly with Dean's assessment.
She licks her lips, pushes the book into the safety of her satchel and gestures to the door when he re-enters her line of sight. "Ready?"