Archive of Our Own

It was something about her hands, the precise, economical twist of her fingers. Hermione noticed during their first encounter and hasn’t been able to stop watching Millicent’s hands ever since, even as the scope of her attraction has expanded.

Beyond those hands, there was the rhythmic glide of Millicent’s arms, muscles flexing under her skin, as she smoothed the sandpaper back and forth.

“You get a finer texture this way, closer than with charms,” Millicent told her, though Hermione could barely focus on the words. Her gaze lingered on the fine particles of dust that clung to Millicent’s collarbone, the freckled skin covered with a damp sheen.

The balcony was in full sun and Millicent had stripped off her habitual blue shirt to reveal a sleeveless vest and the toned swell of her shoulders. Hermione watched as beads of sweat trickled down Millicent’s jaw; saw how the hair at the nape of her neck grew dark with exertion. It was all she could do not to reach out and touch.

She had met Millicent the morning after moving into this flat. By the time she’d arrived, alone and exhausted amidst the piles of furniture and boxes, it had been nearly midnight. Hermione had been unpacking the kitchen things - just the things she’d need for the morning - and organised the bottles neatly on a shelf beside the stove, only to have the shelf collapse and send bottles of cooking oil and balsamic and god-knows-what-else crashing to the floor. The mess of liquid pooled beneath her feet, seeping under the cupboards and into the edge of the carpet, and Hermione had taken a series of deep, wracking breaths in the effort not to cry.

Cleaning it up took hours, a host of unfamiliar and largely ineffective spells, and the consultation of both her domestic charm books: “Nobody has yet to find a reliable method for removing dark stains from a pale carpet. First try Scourgify; if that doesn’t work then apply lemon juice.” She had collapsed into bed fully clothed, and awoken the next morning to find that the kitchen was still in a state of chaos and lacking a shelf.

The easiest thing would have been to call Ron, but Hermione was damned if she would rely on her ex-boyfriend to fix things - the whole point of moving out was that she didn’t have to see him all the time. Besides, how hard could it be to put up a shelf?

Neither of the household charms books had anything to say on the subject, and the best Hermione could think of was to attach it with a temporary sticking charm, which was probably why the shelf had collapsed in the first place. After examining both the shelf and the wall she concluded that perhaps she should do it the Muggle way, at which point Hermione remembered refusing her father’s offer of a tool kit.

“Never know when a drill might come in handy,” he’d said.

“You’re just saying that because you’re a dentist, dad,” Hermione replied with a smile. “Normal people don’t get excited about drills.”

“Single girl, living alone, you’ll thank me for it later. How about the socket set, then? And maybe a tape measure? You know that you can always call home if you need to borrow a spirit level, but there’s things you just need to own.”

“I don’t need any of it,” Hermione had insisted. “I’m a witch, remember? Magic means not having to do things by hand.”

Hermione had sighed, assessed the degree of embarrassment involved in Apparating home to borrow a screwdriver, and then knocked on the doors of her neighbours in the hope that one of them would own tools. The third door opened to reveal Millicent with close-cropped hair, low-slung jeans and what looked like a men’s shirt, but at the mention of tools the scowl vanished from her face.

During the first month that Hermione lived in the apartment Millicent fixed the shelf, built three window boxes for the balcony and replaced the tiles in the shower. Calling on Millicent to fix things had become a bit of a habit.

“You should lube it more often,” Millicent says, from where she is crouched on the floor, her hands greasy from adjusting Hermione’s bicycle. “Running dry is hard on the components; they’re designed to be wet.”

“Right,” Hermione says, trying not to think about lube and what else the quick, sure movements of Millicent’s hands could achieve. “Got it.”

This is ridiculous. Surely any self-respecting feminist should fix her own bike and assemble her own window boxes, but manual labour had never been Hermione’s forte. If Millicent ever needs help with something that Hermione is good at - doing her taxes, perhaps, or locating something in an archive - then she would be more than willing to help out. Still, it is hard to see how that would be a fair exchange, because surely no-one gets an erotic thrill from watching a friend do tax calculations.

“Got a rag?” Millicent asks eventually, straightening up, and Hermione proffers an old t-shirt with one hand and a beer with the other.

Millicent smiles, wipes her hands, and then reaches for the beer, brushing Hermione’s hand with one calloused thumb.

Hermione watches Millicent drink, eyes lingering on the long pale line of her throat. One of these days she will work up the courage to stop watching and do something. Millicent shoots her a long lazy look, smiling in a manner that suggests she knows exactly what Hermione is thinking, and Hermione’s heart skips a beat.

With practice, Hermione thinks, as Millicent extends one still-grimy hand to touch her wrist, perhaps she’ll learn to be good with her hands too.