Work Text:
Tight Fit
Hermione was swirling what was left of her martini from side to side, pretending to listen to Neville. Her eyes were fixed on the bar and Malfoy standing behind it, ordering everyone another round. He was wearing brown tweed trousers.
It was bizarre.
“Martini for the lady, beer for the gentleman, and whatever this is for whatever you are," he said as he brought Nott his franky appalling choice of a drink. He set the drinks down as he usually did, as if he wasn't wearing brown trousers like some impostor who had taken over Malfoy's body.
When had he worn anything other than black? Three years of potion mastery in Edinburgh spent in sleepless nights in dusty libraries and dungeons, two years of job hunting, internships and fellowships, a year and a half at St. Mungo's for her. He always wore a black shirt, black tie, black robes or a midnight black wool coat. As a Potions professor he followed in Snape's fashion footsteps.
He was up to something, like Harry said. She was sure of it.
“Anything new at work?” she asked innocently. A dress code, maybe?
“Wilkins is planning our murder. I can't wait for her to finally finish school,” groaned Malfoy and down his very expensive whiskey. He went about the shenanigans of young hufflepuff girl, who could put Weasley twins to shame.
“Two more years, Draco, and she'll be gone,” sighed Neville.
“Did she ruin your wardrobe?” she asked him. He just raised an eyebrow in confusion.
“No, why?”
“No reason.”
“Don't even say it, Wilkins will smell it somewhere in ether and I'll have to go to work on Monday in Pamona's old robes.”
“You could pull them off, no problem,” said Nott nonchalantly.
“Really?”
Debate about Willkins went on for a while, with Malfoy and Neville describing in vivid detail how she was ruining their lives at Hogwarts. The whole night no one but her paid any attention to the trousers. She waited for somebody to say something. Anything.
At three o'clock they went for their little walk, like they used to during their mastery years, less exhausted than then, much more drunk. They walked along the dark cobblestone streets of Edinburgh, she leaning against Neville and Draco and Nott in front of them.
She couldn't help but stare the whole time. They fit very well.
The Vest
The Potioneers´Parlor was an ancient, dingy pub tucked away in a back alley in old Edinburgh, where the academics of Ross College drunk their poisons (literally). The small but prestigious institution offered masteries in a number of subjects and boasted a distinguished number of alumni who often met in the local club, only accessible to faculty members. Hermione loved it there. No journalists, no fans, just strange one-eyed witches and extravagant wizards with burnt eyebrows. And them of course.
They sat in their corner by a small barred window, Theo and Neville lost in conversation, only Malfoy was missing. She would never have thought that she and Neville would spend most of their time with them. They were closer now than they had been with Harry and Ron, each of them single and absorbed in their work, while they were busy with their growing pile of children.
They met just two years after Hogwarts at a college entrance soiree. After rather tense month or two, they burried their hatchets and unionized againts their demanding professors. It was a strange thing indeed.
But the strangest thing that day was surely The Vest.
Malfoy arrived later, apparently held up by Wilkins, who had just finished her tenth detention this month. (“I don't know who is punished here, she enjoys wasting my time far too much.” ).
He sat down opposite her, buttoned down his shirt and adjusted his vest. The Vest. It was a thick, knitted thing, with a diamond pattern. He was also wearing gray wool trousers and a white shirt in stark contrast with the tattoos on his arms. Apart from them, there was nothing black on him. He had completely lost the aura of a well-dressed Dementor.
She didn't know whether to point this out. No one was paying attention again. What was happening to everyone? Did they go on a shopping trip without her? Did she wake up in some alternate world? Was she in coma?
He was looking at her, a faint smile playing on his face. The candlelight from the old chandelier reflected on his features and she could see that he was mocking her. What the fuck.
“Did you, by any chance, have a another raid at the manor?” She asked.
“You've been asking very strange questions lately, Granger. Do they let You sleep at St. Mungos? Are You feeling well?”
She leaned into him, not willing to stand down. “Just peachy. Comon, You know what I am talking about.”
He smiled one of his devious smiles and shrugged innocently. “I'm afraid that I really don't .”
“Don't play coy. You really are doing this on purpose.”
“I assure you, I am absolutely innocent. I have no idea what are you accusing me of.”
God, he was making her mad.
“I am talking about the woolen elephant in the room. The vest, Malfoy. What's up with that? Did you lose a bet?”
“In a sense.” He admitted.
She pointed her finger at him.
“Ha!”
“Well, You got me. I bought new clothes. What a revelation.”
“No, this is something else. You are being grating on purpose.”
Smile was playing at his lips and he cocked his head to the side. She had to admit, that it did suit him. He looked better. The blonde and black didn't clash anymore and he didn't look sickly. The look of disheveled profesor was doing something for him, for sure. One could say he looked hot. Not her, but somebody.
“Actually it is something that I was compelled to change by You.”
“By me?”
“You don't remember?”
She furrowed her eyebrows. They spend a lot of their time drunk at this very cozy establishment, she said a lot of stuff, some of it even stupid. He had to be more specific.
“Well, think about it.”
He changed the topic and than Neville and Theo wanted their opinion on some obscure academic journal review and their exchange was forgotten. But when she returned home and fell into the bed she could not stop thinking about it.
She will find out.
Hugh’s Hair and the Seductive Bowtie
On saturday morning she went to see Madam Pomfrey for a consultation for a student with a persistent full body discoloration. Lying on the bed was a young girl, her short black hair was sticking out in all directions and she had a determined expression on her very blue face - famed Jane Wilkins in a flesh.
Nothing worked. After about four hours of trial and error (and Madam Pomfrey had been trying for a few days now), she had managed to come up with an emulsion that at least softened the shade. She was certain, that in a few days she will be back to normal.
“Don't forget to give Malfoy hell." she said to her and gave her conspiratory wink as she was leaving.
She stopped by the dungeons, hoping to catch up with Malfoy, but he was having Neville over.
They opened a bottle of whiskey Neville had found buried in the greenhouses. He was determined that it was some kind of deep mystery, founders secret kind of a bottle but was mistaken. It was vile drink, suited probably only for desinfection.
They drank and smoked and talked about nothing.
Neville had heroically drunk most of the bottle and was now indisposed on the carpet. Malfoy was sprawled over the bed, his hair disheveled as if after a good shagging, instead of a tie a small colorful bow tie, which now remained carelessly thrown over his shoulder.
What the hell was that.
He looked like Hugh Grant in four Weddings and a Funeral, like the month of December from the calendar of sexy librarians, like the sexy professor from every student's dream.
She unbuttoned the top two buttons of her shirt. A forgotten feeling came over her. She hadn't felt her neck tighten, her chest warm, her legs trembling in a long time.
He looked at her sleepily. “You didn't remember, did You?"
She did not but wasn't in a mood to admit it so she rolled her eyes in response.
“I will take it as a no. I will stay on Your mind a little longer, at least."
“My mind is rather full, You will not stay there for very long."
He smiled and little strand of hair fell over his forehead.
“Pity."
She looked at him and was frozen. He looked like a vision of something very dear, smiling very fondly at her. She wanted, wanted...
Moment was interrupted by a very loud snore from the floor.
Malfoy sighed and levitated Neville to his bed, quite proficiently despite the amount of alcohol he had drunk. Then he had lured her into his classroom with the promise of freshly made sobering potion.
It had been a bad idea.
He stood behind his desk, in all his didactive glory, rummaging through the shelves. She sat down in the front of the classroom, her legs crossed, leaning on her hands like a student in love. She could see it vividly. Him as he was now, her in a short skirt.
She shook her head. This room was full of strange fumes. Amortentia had definitely spilled somewhere, because the smell was unbearable and it was everywhere and it smelled so sweet and it smelled like him and she was dizzy. He was turning behind his desk now, tall, very tall, and she could imagine having a detention and…
Fuck.
When had he become this? They had been friends for years and she had always seen him as a skinny, arrogant bat. He was funny, she spent a lot of time with him, and somehow it hadn't occurred to her that he was also... this.
Was it some woman? Had he started dating someone? Did she buy him new clothes? Some swot, no doubt, considering the choice.
Something about the thought hurt her. She wished him luck, yes, but it felt like a betrayal. They were in club of perpetually single workaholics. They were supposed to be miserable together.
He wouldn't spend time with her anymore. He wouldn't lean across the desk and say things in such a velvety voice...
“Five points for Gryffindor, miss."
He leaned over and handed her a small green vial.
“I won't ask why you have a sobering potion right by Your desk."
“The days are long."
She drank it and realized with disappointment that the feelings weren't caused by the fumes or the drunkenness.
He was still cute with his long hair falling over his forehead.
“Don't you have a surgery tomorrow?"
“Hm", she said absentmindedly and watched him roll up his sleeves and rearrange the ampoules on the shelf. She was sober and didn't want to go to her cold apartment. She would have preferred to wrap herself in his brown woolen sweater and sleep on his bed.
“Will you walk me?" she asked and he agreed. They walked together through the empty and silent school, he was telling her something but her mind was elsewhere. She could have asked him if he had anyone, after all they were friends. It was just a question. But why couldn't she even open her mouth and ask?
They walked together until the gates.
Night was fresh and promising, his bright eyes were shining like a fallen stars and when she apparated she felt such a loss it took her breath away.
Slutty Little Glasses
He was late. Why did it bother her so much? When he wasn't here, she still felt his presence, his voice, his gaze still followed her. He left behind a hollow place in her heart. It wasn't that she missed him. Well, okay. Maybe.
“I'm going to get Malfoy.” she anounced.
She left the basement club, took the narrow stairs up into the dark hall of the main building and then down the long corridor to the potions laboratories. Malfoy kept renting one, said it produced better results with more advanced and unstable potions than the one at Hogwarts.
She found the door with his name on it and knocked. He was packing, his sleeves rolled up, sweat glistening on his forehead from previous concentration. He was dressed absolutely ridiculously, all tweed and suspenzers and a bowtie, like a stereotype of the disheveled professor. He wore small rectangular glasses with thin frames.
Small, sexy, slutty little glasses. She blinked rapidly.
"They miss you downstairs," she said.
"Just a minute, I'll clean up here."
She leaned againts the doorframe and watched him put away and sort the ingredients, cast nonverbal spells almost without a second thought, sort everything around him into it´s place. He was careful and methodical. He was always very thorough. When he wanted good results he waited patiently.
Oh.
"It was that stupid thing I said a few months ago, wasn't it?"
He stopped and leaned against the table. Hermione moved closer, and he looked at her over his new sexy glasses.
"That I'm only tempted to date a clone of Indiana Jones crossed with John Keating from Dead Poets Society if I ever considered serious relationship."
It was early spring. She had been drinking gin that day and was annoyed by being asked about her love life. She was single for a very long time and didn't want to make a big deal of it. She was lonely, yes, but coudn't bother to go on the date with the ususal ministry type, uninteresting, gawking at her. She was over it and said so.
The kept pushing her, there had to be special somebody to lure her back from the loneliness she built for herself. She said it half jokingly, half admidting her forgotten kink. But she wasn't truly lonely, she spent time with them. With him. She realized how big of a fixture his presence in her life was. They were constantly together drinking on weekends, doing lab work often enough for her to know his sorting system, meeting for lunch during a week. She realized, just now in this clean, orderly room, that if he asked anytime in the last year or so, she would have said yes in an instant.
"Why didn't you just ask me out?"
He shrugged, smiling. What a silly man.
"Well... I wanted You to want me."
Hermione didn't date and if she did, it ended badly. She hated how everybody wanted her to change, to fit some mold that wasn't truly her - a golden girl, ministry hotshot, perfect muggleborn. Her distaste became her reputation and after a while no one really tried. He just waited. He was luring her like a peacock in tweed waiting for her to make the first move.
He stepped closer, tall and imposing and and dressed frankly, very funny.
"Do you?"
She didn't answer him. She put her hands on his chest and ran them up into his wavy hair.
She was wearing short skirt and this could be a classroom if You closed one eye. He looked like a stern professor. She put one knee between his legs.
"What I want is to say how sorry I am for my essay. I am really struggling. Could I have an extension?"
She felt him smile on her lips. A promise of something marvelous.
"Only if you're a good girl, Miss Granger."
Meanwhile
"They are doing it, right?", asked Nott, not really wanting an answer. Neville obliged anyway.
"You bet."