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Hermione’s heart pounds in her chest, a heavy thudding against her ribs that she swears echoes in her ears. Her skin is warm even though the heat isn’t on in the office yet; it’s not quite fall weather yet. Hermione isn’t quite sure why she’s nervous today, why the tingle of pins and needles seem to reverberate over her entire body, but she is a bit anxious despite having done this before.
The office door opens and in walks Draco Malfoy, renowned artist and professor at the arts school – though he hates being called Professor. He asks how she is with a concerned smile, but she just smiles back and says she’s fine. His hand is cool when he offers it, a refreshing temperature given how clammy she feels. Without a word, he leads her out of the office and into the classroom, now filled with students. The sound of their chatter and preparation for the class is a background hum. She stares down at the floor as she follows Draco. She doesn’t like looking at the students, doesn’t want to chance making any sort of connection with them.
She steps up onto the small dais in the center of a not-quite-complete circle of students.
The noise quiets and the air swirls over her skin as Hermione disrobes. Draco takes the fabric and drapes it over a simple wooden chair placed next to her. He stands in front of her, feet on ground level, and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “May I touch you?”
“Yes,” she says softly. Since she signed the agreement form earlier, she knows his question is a courtesy for her and a way to let the class know they’re about to begin.
One of his hands braces her back, the other on her hip, and he straightens her spine. He lifts her arms above her head, crossing her wrists, making minute changes to the placement of her fingers. When he asks her to also cross her legs at the ankle, she does so, faltering only a bit before she keeps her balance. Draco moves the chair closer to her, lets her lean on it slightly if she needs it. He shifts her hair, moving all of it to trail down her back; the movement makes his fingers brush against the curves of her breasts, but the touch is methodical and barely registers in her mind.
“You can close your eyes if you’d like,” he tells her as he lifts her chin up and just slightly to the right. “One hour, alright, Miss Granger?”
She blinks once at him as an answer. The smile she receives is amused but thankful that she didn’t nod or speak, lest she ruin the figure he’s created for his students. He steps away from her and she shuts her eyes. He’s speaking to his class, something about depths and shadows, but Hermione is only half-paying attention. She doesn’t need to know the intricacies of the class, only that they are meant to use her as a starting point for their sketches of the human body.
“Begin.”
As soon as Draco says the word, Hermione takes a deep breath and allows her mind to sink into a relaxed state. She knows Draco will pause the class if he sees any discomfort for her, but an hour isn’t terrible, even in the standing position she’s currently in.
Slowly, almost like an old-fashioned camera countdown reel, images flicker through her mind. They’re silly, mostly, but the thoughts during these times are usually the same. While posing for art classes isn’t something she ever actively thought about doing, she’s glad she found that flier on the bulletin board about it. Her first assignment had been to pose at a table with her hands folded, and her face turned toward a wall.
Her love of posing made her return, especially when the professors praised her ability to be still for long stretches of time. It’s easy, really, to find that quiet place in her mind, so she’s often the eager one when requests are made for a model. The fee at the end of classes isn’t terrible either.
Hermione thinks of her first nude assignment. That one had been for Draco as well. He’d posed her on a chaise lounge for a painting seminar. While most of the students didn’t paint her face, a few had, and it had been both strange and exciting to see so many depictions of herself.
These are the images that flicker through her mind like flames of a candle. Then the brightest image pops into her mind. It’s one she’s imagined ever since Professor Brown told her she had the body of a muse. The comment - compliment - had made her smile, but the more she thought about it, the more Hermione wanted it. In her mind, she walks into a gallery, an artist’s first show, and she sees her body on canvas, her face beneath lights. It’s a bit vain, she knows, but oh , how she wants to see the way a single artist views her. Would her hair flow like a river or jut out like an electric shockwave? Are the curves of her breasts and hips and thighs meant to make people want her, be jealous of her, hate her, revere her?
Her honest truth is that she wants to be the reason an individual is showcasing their work. She wants to be someone’s pride, itches to hear patrons discussing the details of the art that is her body. Would two people discuss the colors used to create the tone of her skin? Would someone’s eyes dissect the freckles across her right shoulder and down her arm? Would another person’s hand year to reach out toward a work of art to feel, to know, to understand?
“Hermione?” Her eyes pop open at Draco’s voice. She checks herself and thinks there is no way an hour has gone by already. “Some of the artists would like a closer look at you. Would you be amenable to having them come up one or two at a time to circle you?”
She blinks again as her answer.
This time, for a reason she’s not quite sure of, she keeps her eyes open. Like Draco said, the students walk up to her, some in pairs, but most of them individually. Their eyes study her body, rove over her skin, but she never once feels judged.
And then she senses a change in the air. Her body warms up, flushes lightly, and she hears a sharp intake of breath. A student walks into her peripheral vision before coming completely in view. His eyes are bright blue, appreciative as he gazes at her. He murmurs, “Freckles are so difficult in sketches. They never come out as beautiful as they are in real life.”
Hermione wants to say something, but knows she can’t, not when the session is still ongoing.
That doesn’t stop the man though. He brings his arm up in front of him, a pencil in his fingers, and he waves it around slowly, almost like he’s trying to draw another version of her right before her very eyes. “You have a beautiful body.”
It is not the first time she’s received such a compliment, but it’s the first time her heart seems to skip a beat. It’s the first time she wishes she could move, if only to speak with this man.
He looks up. Their eyes meet and something passes between them. Hermione allows the corner of her mouth to twitch, a small smile that she hopes is inviting. It must work because he grins widely at her and nods.
Draco interrupts their locked gaze. “Theodore. Do you have what you need?”
Theodore.
The young man nods. “Yes. I believe I do.”