heather11483 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
heathershaped) wrote2007-09-21 01:24 pm
heathershaped) wrote2007-09-21 01:24 pm
Entry tags:
Fic: Technicalities (Hermione/Roger, Adult)
Title: Technicalities
Rating: R
Pairing: Hermione Granger/ Roger Davies
Summary: On her first trip by herself since the war's end, Hermione finds a lot more than she expected.
Word Count: 8578
Beta:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
florahart (Thanks so much!)
Author's Notes: Written forinell for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
hp_summersmut. ♥♥♥
It couldn't have been further from anything she was used to, and it wasn't just the scenery: green and tropical, with miles of pink sand and water clear enough to see straight though to the bottom. It was also the atmosphere on Bermuda that seemed to run opposite to everything she'd come to know. Relaxed and slow-moving; carefree in a way that she just wasn't. Even so, she could appreciate the beauty and tranquility of such a place. It was, she thought, precisely what she'd been going for.
The word 'hideaway' had a connotation Hermione didn't much care for. As such, she preferred to use the term 'vacation', or 'getaway'. No one was after her, not anymore, and she certainly wasn't hiding or running -- though, admittedly, she'd left rather suddenly and no one was exactly aware of her whereabouts. She'd left word for the boys that she'd gone away so they wouldn't worry, of course, but this trip was for her. And over the next, well, however long it ended up being, so was this place.
She stood on the balcony of the guest house and tried to shake the feeling that she was being watched. It was silly, she thought; the war had only just ended a month earlier, but it was over, and there was no reason to believe that anyone could, or would, track her here. If anyone was good at covering her tracks, it was Hermione, as she'd been doing it for herself and the boys for years. While she firmly believed that there was absolutely nothing wrong with a little paranoia if it meant you were safer, to a certain degree it defeated the purpose of a vacation to constantly be looking over her shoulder the way she'd done when she'd been moving from place to place around the Continent with Death Eaters at her back.
The shiver that moved down her spine didn't seem to follow that logic, though, and her brow knit as she rubbed her hands over the goosebumps on her upper arms and wished she'd selected a more secluded spot.
When she felt something brush against her left arm, she started violently and whipped around. Her wand was in her hand before she'd even realized it, but the only thing she found on the balcony with her was a tall, leafy fern to which she'd been standing a bit too close. She closed her eyes and let out a short laugh, the sort that didn't convey very much humor, and looked out at the water again. By then, of course, she was hugging herself much too tightly and her relaxed mood was gone. The breeze continued to move through her curls until she stepped back into her room and shut herself in.
She moved back to her suitcase. If she unpacked, at least; got herself organized, perhaps she'd actually feel comfortable enough stay here and enjoy herself instead of follow the urge to shut her eyes and Apparate back home. As beautiful as the island was, it was lonely here, she realized; but for the next little while, it would be lonely anywhere Harry and Ron weren't. And maybe, at this point, she wasn't ready to be on her own, she thought as she hung a tidy white skirt on a hanger and slipped it into the wardrobe. But she could at least try and prove to herself that one day, she could be. She was fully aware that she should be; that at twenty- four years old, feeling quite so dependent on the boys wasn't healthy.
The new clothes were more practical than stylish, even if she'd had an eye for such things, but she hadn't bought anything new -- hadn't, in fact, bought much of anything at all -- in over six years. That in itself had been a step.
After her clothing was carefully stored away in the small wardrobe in her bedroom, Hermione stepped back and turned a slow circle where she stood, moving her fingers back through her hair somewhat nervously. This was the part where normal people went sightseeing, to the beach, or out to eat. She could do that. She concealed her wand and took a last look at her room before she headed downstairs and outside into the heat.
*********************
The prospect of facing her second day on the island was somewhat less nerve-wracking than she'd expected. The previous day had been too ungrounded and unsettling to enjoy anything, but today might be different. After all, today she had a plan of action that went beyond just getting here and unpacking, then wandering around town without direction. Perhaps with time she'd become comfortable enough to do that, but she simply wasn't there yet, nor was she sure she wanted to be. She assumed most people would be at one of the beaches today, which was exactly why she'd decided a hike around Harrington Sound would be more suitable as a first outing. Hiking was something she was used to, though not necessarily for pleasure, and while she walked she could learn to identify the wildlife and flora listed in the guidebook she'd purchased in a gift shop. She wasn't above admitting, at least to herself, that she needed that to feel more grounded and secure in such an unfamiliar place. Not only that, but it was fascinating.
Her pack was loaded with the essentials; she'd followed her guidebook to the letter and packed a quart of water, some fruit and nuts, suntan lotion, compass, and a map. Shifting it on her back, she set out to skirt the inland lake, pleased to find it a lot less crowded than she'd feared, and she found it easy to enjoy the walk without feeling stifled or closed in. It was really quite something to be able to just walk with nothing to burden her except her lightweight backpack, and after the first mile passed and she'd identified her first Bermuda palmetto, she felt the dregs of the previous night's dream begin to fade away.
Over the next mile and a half the trail rose slightly, and as she reached the top of it her right knee begin to throb dully. While she'd never been particularly athletic, she knew perfectly well that before she'd been hit with the unnamed curse eighteen months ago, even she could have taken the incline at a jog. As such, the idea that she'd be limping soon if she didn't stop was more than a little irritating. Still, there was no rush, and the view from here was outstanding. She could rest here, as briefly as she dared, and just take everything in.
The sun had crept higher in the sky since she'd first set out, though, and if she rested right here she was fairly certain that the sunscreen she'd packed wasn't likely to protect her from its rays. Perhaps there was a suitable place to rest a bit further back into the cedar forest. It was off the designated trail, but she'd not go far. Just enough to get some shade. Her heart began to race, though, as she stepped off of the trail.
"Honestly, Granger," she muttered to herself as she began to pick her way over soft forest floor. "This whole bloody island is unfamiliar, and you're skittish about venturing off of a trail?"
Resolutely, she kept walking, sidestepping puddles from the last rainfall as she made her way further off the beaten path. She huffed slightly as she rolled her shoulders to shift her pack. Wasn't there some huge rock she could sit on, or something? The ground here was at least level, and therefore less offensive to her knee, but she would still need to take a break, as by this point her muscles were beginning to protest in general.
It was cooler here, more quiet; there was something at least a little unsettling about it. Not only that, but that damned sensation was back. Like she was being watched. "Oh, get a grip," she hissed, even as she silently cast mild protection charms around herself. She rounded a thicket of trees too close together to weave through and began to stalk. "Nothing to be afraid of. It's just a bloody cedar wood. With trees, and birds, and the occasional lizard or tree frog. It's not the sodding Forbidden Forest."
"Well, that's telling it."
She gave a yelp and whirled; it took nearly six years of ruthlessly honed reflexes not to fall smack on her arse. But her wand was in her hand.
As far as surprises went, she would have rather come across a writhing boa constrictor than the fully-grown man currently stretched across a large, flat rock with a paperback novel turned down across a rather broad chest. He was talking -- to her -- from beneath a narrow-brimmed straw hat.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, her hand tightening on her wand even as instinct told her she'd nothing to fear from this man. Nothing, at least, that her wand could help with at all. Even if she needed to defend herself, she'd then need to Obliviate him, which was irritating.
"I was napping," he said lazily, and tipped back his hat to reveal an inky fringe that nearly covered startlingly blue eyes that were just full of the relaxed security she'd never been able to imitate herself. His lips curved. "Lost?"
"Of course not," she scoffed, but looked around in a way that belied her words. She took in the bungalow -- that was the only word she could use to describe it despite not ever believing people actually lived in such dwellings -- beyond where the man lay, prone and watching her. "I was just having a walk," she said, falling back on politeness. "Apparently, I'm trespassing."
"Looks like it," he said agreeably, then glanced down at her wand. "I've one of those in my house, if you'd like to wait. I can fetch it, then proceed to defend my property from the intrusion."
She looked up, hardly in the mood for jokes when she was feeling a great deal more unsettled by him than the situation warranted and couldn't figure out why. "No, that's -- that's quite alright," she began, her mind working quickly. A wizard, then, a Welsh one, judging from the accent. What was more, he looked familiar, and she tried to place him. "You live here?" she asked dumbly, taking an involuntary step back when he sat up suddenly and she realized she'd been standing far too close to him for comfort. Bloody hell, he could have reached out and touched her.
"That's right," he murmured, eyes narrowing slightly as they moved over her and he set his book and hat onto the rock. "Hermione."
She began to feel slightly self-conscious in her practical rip-stop hiking shorts and tank top. The way he looked at her had her shifting where she stood, but her voice was even when she spoke. "Who are you?"
"Well, now you've hurt my feelings." His smile spread over a face that was entirely too handsome. He tilted his head up to look at her more intently, if that were possible. "Roger Davies, at your service. What can I do for you, of the wild hair and fantastic legs?"
Now her eyes narrowed. She hadn't been flirted with in ... since ... anyway, it had been long enough that she couldn't be sure that was even what he was doing. It certainly felt like something different than the sweet fumblings with Viktor, or the ... whatever it had been, with Ron. Less innocent than any of that, to be sure. Besides, her legs were much too thin after the war to be termed fantastic by any definition. She put aside her confusion and latched onto something she could understand.
"From Ravenclaw? The Yule Ball?" There was somewhere else she'd seen his name, though, in the years since. She couldn't quite place it.
"Correct, and correct," he said, unfolding yard-long legs to stand and step closer. This time, though the compulsion was strong, she refused to step back, and he was closer than before. He must have been at least as tall as Ron, and he smelled like cedar and -- just -- man. "Small world, yeah?"
Her hand tightened on her wand again. "Not really," she said when she found her voice again. She didn't believe in coincidences, and the chances that they would both be somewhere so far from home at the same time were slim to none. "What's your story, Davies?"
"Weren't you the one trespassing?" He didn't take his eyes off of her, only rocked back on his heels and lifted a brow. "Besides, I thought we'd established that I live here. Granger."
"Why should I believe that?"
"It's not up to you to believe it or not," he said, moving a shoulder. "Take me, for instance -- and feel free to interpret that in any way you'd like," he added, quirking a grin when she blushed. "You've walked onto my property, brandishing a wand. I could ask you what your story is, wordlessly accusing you of all manner of subterfuge, but even if you were guilty of said subterfuge, you wouldn't be likely to own up to it. So, instead, I choose to accept that, for whatever reason, we're here together, on an island more than large enough to hold us both."
She could only stand silently and look at him, because there was no arguing the logic of it. "Yes, well," she began primly, shifting her pack as she realized she'd been taking undue notice of the fullness of his bottom lip. "I'll just continue with my hike, then. Enjoy what's left of your day."
"I plan to." There was that ghost of a smile again, just barely curving those lips as he watched her in that thoroughly unnerving way.
"Good afternoon, then."
"Cheers."
"Bye." On a breath, she turned back in the direction she'd come.
He grinned; she could hear it in his voice. "See you around."
She didn't respond to that, only walked unconsciously faster back towards the trail. She wasn't the least bit sure it would be wise to see Roger Davies around. He made her uncomfortable in a way that she couldn't quite place, and that certainly hadn't been why she'd come to this island.
*********************
By the time her fourth day was ahead of her, Hermione found she could place thoughts of black hair and overly full bottom lips firmly from her mind. Her dreams the previous two nights, of glittering red eyes and Cruciatus Curses, had been chased with other images, just as unbidden, and far more vivid than they should have been given her lack of experience. But they were only that: dreams, and meant absolutely nothing, especially when she doubted she'd see Roger Davies again before she decided to head back home.
It had been difficult to discreetly locate a place on the island from which she could send owl posts, but she managed to find one and send word to Harry and Ron that she was still fine and enjoying her trip. That done, she made her way to the tiny local restaurant where she'd had her breakfast for the last three mornings. When she entered, the woman behind the counter sent her a smile. She found herself rather pleased that she was becoming something of a familiar face here. She ordered the fruit salad she typically got in the morning, then turned to find a seat.
When she spotted him alone at a table, worrying his dark hair as he busily scrawled over a dog-eared notepad, she froze. What was he doing so close to where she was staying? Had he followed her here? Perhaps he'd sought her out just to distract her from the relaxation of this trip and make her uncomfortable. Though, at least he wasn't watching her the way he'd been the other day. That actually helped a lot. Perhaps she could hang by the counter until her order was up, then quietly leave.
"It's a bit rude to stare at someone you know without saying hello," he murmured, his hand stopping its furious pace across the paper as he lifted his gaze to land directly onto hers. She had a moment to note that when he was writing like that, he didn't seem nearly so relaxed or leisurely with his movements.
"I don't know you," she said matter-of-factly, shifting as he pinned her with his gaze and turned his stub of a pencil over and over between his fingers. "I know of you; there's a difference. Besides, you look quite busy and probably want to be alone. As do I, for that matter." For some strange reason, however, she couldn't make her legs work enough to turn back towards the counter. He was wearing a clean, if ratty, blue button-up with the sleeves cut off, and his arms were more distracting than they should have been, considering they were only arms, for heavens' sake. However defined and tanned they were.
"Well now," he said, leaning back in his seat. "Writing or no, I'd be a fool to turn down company from birds with wild hair and fantastic legs, wouldn't I?"
"I wasn't offering my company. I'm simply waiting for my food."
"We've something in common, then, as I happen to be waiting on my breakfast, as well. Why don't you sit, and we can wait together?"
"It would appear I've something in common with half the people here, then. Perhaps I should sit with one of them, instead," she said archly, even as she lowered herself into the chair across from him.
He grinned. "So, Granger, are you staying close to here?"
"Why?" she asked suspiciously.
"Prickly little thing, aren't you," he commented; she didn't respond, though her eyes flashed as she looked back at him. He shrugged and lifted his arm to rest on the back of his chair. "People tend to eat here when they're staying at one of the guest houses around. Don't worry; I'd not sneak through your window at night without express invitation."
She nodded haltingly. "Yes, I'm staying close to here. And if you ever call me a 'little thing' again, I'll make it so you don't speak for days." When he only settled back and crossed his arms, her eyes went to slits. "What are you doing here, anyway? We've established that you don't live in one of the guest houses nearby."
"I like this place," he said simply, in such a way that she really had no choice other than to believe him.
"What are you writing?" she asked curiously.
"Nothing, at the moment." He gave her a cheeky grin. "Until you walked up and provided better distraction, however, I was working on my book."
"You're a novelist? Are you published, then? What sort?" It was best not to address his 'better distraction' comment.
"For someone so guarded with her own information, you ask a lot of questions," he said mildly, though she watched his eyes change slightly. "I'm not published; at least, none of my novels are." He shifted, and she was already so surprised to see him make such an uncomfortable gesture that she was almost tempted not to indulge her curiosity further. Tapping his pencil in sharp rhythm against his pad, he continued. "I write mysteries."
He looked up at her, and her only thought as she took in the hooded gaze that belied the cocky curve of his lips was how much that seemed to fit. Right then, he was the biggest mystery in her life. "Can I see it?" She was surprised by the audacity of her own question, and fully aware that it was none of her business what he was writing. "If you don't mind."
"Why would I mind?" He got up suddenly to take the seat right next to her and edge the notepad towards her. When she felt his forearm brush hers, she felt the brief touch long after it had ended. Frowning, she took a closer look at the page and tried to ignore his scent and the fact that she could feel his eyes on her, and his face much too close to her neck and shoulder. "You'd not make off with my work, would you, Granger?"
She glanced down, flushed, as she straightened and spoke briskly. "Your handwriting's dreadful."
"So?"
She blinked, not sure how to answer, and finally settled on pulling the notebook closer to her to read. By the time she felt him watching her again, she'd reached the end of the second page. He'd been building a scene, set in a cafe much like this one, and his writing was rich, detailed -- and the prose was vaguely, vaguely familiar to something she'd seen before. She glanced up at him and cleared her throat. "Um. It's quite good," she managed, eternally grateful when their meals were brought out. Taking a deep drink of her water, she placed the bottle between them like a buffer and continued. "I read, uh, quite a lot, and I've seen published work that isn't as good as the bit I just read. Have you tried to send this to any companies?" She finally met his eyes.
"No," he said quietly, his fingers brushing hers as he drew the book back towards him. He'd still not touched his food. "But thank you."
"What if I'd wanted to read more?"
"You don't get to read more right now," he said, his lips curving again, all mysteries gone for the moment. "The next time we see each other, perhaps."
At his smug offer, Hermione arched a brow. "It's a good hook, but not that good. It's obvious where your unnamed protagonist is headed, and that the man at the bar has had what he's looking for all along. Why are you touching me?"
"Because your skin is meant to be touched." His hand, which had somehow moved to the back of her chair, stopped moving in slow circles between her shoulder blades, but he still maintained contact with her skin and flirted with the ends of her hair in a way that made her heart race. "And maybe that wasn't the mystery at all."
"Right, well. You can remove your hand, now."
"Bossy women are a particular weakness of mine."
Clearly, the man had a problem. "I could hex you before any of these people realize I've drawn a wand."
"You're trying to turn me on, aren't you?"
"No. You prat." Goodness. She felt just a bit harried. Just a little hot. "I have to go."
"Not stopping you."
Did he not understand that she could scarcely think when he was touching her, much less move away? It took some extra focus, but she picked up her fruit salad, which she'd thankfully had the foresight to order in a takeaway container. When she finally stood, she was unable to stop herself shivering as his thumb trailed clear to the small of her back. She nodded stiffly down at Roger. "Have a lovely day, then."
"Until next time."
On a huff of breath, she moved to the door and, though it irritated her, she couldn't resist a glance back as she left. He was hunched over his pad again, scribbling away, though she couldn't see his eyes through that fringe of hair.
*********************
There had been multiple 'next times' over the three days that followed. It had been a week since she'd arrived, and she'd seen Roger more days than not, as random meetings for breakfast became less random, and turned into him accompanying her on her outings. When she visited the art museum, he was there to show her his favorite exhibits. When she'd made a day trip into Devonshire Parish to explore the old churches and period homes, Roger had engaged her in a discussion on the British imperialism and its impact on the architecture in Bermuda. When she'd visited the botanical gardens, she'd not been able to fully take in the scent of the flowers in the hothouse because she'd been too absorbed in the way he smelled, instead, and it was strange: her undeniable fondness for smelling him couldn't possibly be normal, and was certainly nothing she'd ever noticed about herself before.
She'd learned that he'd been living here for six months and had been largely uninvolved in the war, though the extent to which he had been wasn't something he was willing to talk about. That he'd played professional Quidditch until the war had gotten into full-swing. That he didn't have a girlfriend or wife -- he'd volunteered that tidbit, himself. As far as she was concerned, his marital status wasn't her concern, and she'd conveyed the same to him when he'd brought it up, to his amusement.
He also had a habit of touching her, she'd learned, and while she was quite tactile herself with people she trusted, his touches tended to make her more uncomfortable than they should. In no way should he have been able to make her lose her focus on a painting just by grazing his fingers over her shoulder blades. His brushing a tiny leaf from her collarbone shouldn't have made her go wide-eyed and flushed. She shouldn't have lost brain cells just because he'd caught an eyelash from her cheekbone on the rough pad of his middle finger.
As irritating as it was to admit, she had to accept that she was attracted to him. It was the only explanation for her frazzled nerves whenever he was around, and her heated skin whenever he touched her. She wasn't a stranger to attraction, though she'd never felt anything like this. It was confusing, scary, and not what she particularly wanted for this stage in her life. The fact that he was intelligent and fascinating to her -- and seemed to know it -- didn't help matters at all.
Her first week in Bermuda was coming to a close when she finally figured out where she'd seen Roger's work before. Ron's and Harry's replies to her letters had jogged her memory. It only made him more intriguing, though she'd no idea why he'd not want to talk about it.
While she'd been hitting the cultural spots on the island that had caught her interest, Hermione had also been scouting for the least crowded beach she could find. It hadn't been the easiest thing to do, considering that Bermuda was a popular tourist attraction. After asking around, she'd learned that Clarence Cove was most secluded this time of year, and only accessible by trail. At dusk, she decided to head there on foot. She'd made it a point not to go to her breakfast spot today, as she'd decided this morning after a particularly prurient dream the previous night that it was best that she steer clear of Roger. She could never quite find her footing around him, and that was dangerous.
It was a downhill trail to the beach, lined in lush greenery but somewhat steep, and as she reached the bottom she worried briefly about the walk back up with her bad knee. Any of her concerns faded, though, when she took a look at the beach. Really, it was more lagoon than beach, lined in shelves of rock, with shady trees growing right off the shore in spots, covering the water. A smile spread over her face; it was gorgeous, and one of the more exotic sights she'd found here so far. She nearly regretted the fact that it was growing dark, but the fact that she seemed to be alone was more than mollifying.
The water sparkled, inviting, as she set down her pack and pulled her shirt over her head. The swimsuit was a two-piece, and while the tank-top style covered her torso, it didn't leave very much else to the imagination. She could only be happy that she'd found one of the more secluded spots to be had tonight. She stripped off her shorts and set out a blanket, but she was too eager for a swim to sit on it at the moment. When she waded out into the water, she found it warmer than anything she'd experienced in Britain, even this late in the evening.
She didn't waste a lot of time; it had been much too long since she'd been able to enjoy a good swim. She made her way into deeper water while the setting sun made the water around her glitter. The moon was coming out, and she couldn't wait to see what that looked like on the surface. Swimming for pleasure had become a rare indulgence over the years, and being able to do so now, where she could hear breeze whispering through the trees and water breaking gently against rocks, made her vacation complete, in a way. When she was floating on her back like this, anything else that happened on this trip seemed like icing.
When she felt her right leg and foot beginning to cramp, she frowned and straightened in the water, treading it briefly before she made her way to the closest and lowest rock ledge. Hoisting herself onto it, she grabbed her right calf and began to massage it, sighing in mild exasperation. Really, she'd gotten loads of exercise while hunting for the Horcruxes, so the fact that the aftereffects of multiple curses had affected her endurance the way it had was frustrating. She rested her back against the rock while she held her leg close to her.
The flash of movement in her periphery had her eyes snapping open, and the fact that she could sense it was Roger before she'd even turned her head to her left had her shaking her head slightly. When she looked at him, though, the concern in his eyes managed to smooth away the rawest edges of her embarrassment.
"Are you alright?" He moved closer and put his hands on her shoulders, looking her over.
"I'm fine," she said quickly, hating that he'd found her this way. "It's just a cramp; I was swimming. Have you been here this whole time?" Frowning, she moved her hands from her calf to wrap them around herself.
"Calm down, Granger, I wasn't peeping at you. I was over by the caves, west of the quay," he said somewhat irritably, and nodded on the direction he'd come. "I heard noises. Sounded like you were having some trouble."
"I certainly didn't mean to insult you," she muttered, "as for the noise, I was just climbing a bloody rock -- and I'm fine," she said again, but it came out somewhat weak-sounding when his hands were on her leg, applying gentle pressure to her sore muscle.
"Really; it's only a"-- she trailed off, unable to help slumping slightly against the rock as he pulled her leg into his lap and pressed his thumbs into the arch of her foot. She blinked, gasped. "Oh."
He looked up at her, his face half-shrouded by darkness. "Better?"
"Uh." She shifted, unbearably self-conscious given her state of dress. But ... god, his hands. And, well, he wasn't wearing much more than she, was he, with his pale brown trousers ripped off just below the knee. When she realized she'd been paying extra attention to his chest, to the soft-looking trail of dark hair that disappeared into those trousers, she yanked her foot back and tucked it close to her again. "Yes, much better," she said primly, "thank you."
He looked amused as he sat back across from her, leaning on his hands as he stretched his legs, looking supremely unconcerned with the fact that his bare feet and ankles were brushing against her legs. She cleared her throat, grasping for a topic of discussion. A nice, meaty discussion was in order. "This is a nice spot," she said lamely.
"Gorgeous," he agreed, his eyes on her. "I come here often to write or think. There's fantastic rock diving around the bend there, as well."
"I think I'll leave diving off of rocks to you." She lifted a brow and reached up to pluck a twig from an overhanging branch and run it over and over through her fingers. His mention of writing reminded her of something. "The Daily Prophet is printing again," she said, unable to keep the note of curiosity out of her voice as she watched his face.
"So I've heard," he said quietly, his gaze sweeping back up to hers. "If there's something you'd like to know, Hermione, you should ask."
She shook her head slightly and focused on what she wanted to know, rather than his penetrating stare. "It's just, I remember now, where I've seen your work before," she began. "You used to write for the paper before it was shut down. You were brilliant."
"Didn't think you had much respect for the publication," he commented, "given your history, and the tripe they used to print about you and your friends."
"Well, no, I don't," she agreed evenly, "but what you used to do, back when the war started full-stop ... traveling all over Wizarding Europe to interview survivors of Death Eater attacks, and fighters in the war." The pieces he'd used to write about the people he met had been beautiful; humanizing and gripping.
"That was a long time ago." He moved a shoulder.
"Perhaps, but those articles were some of the only quality work the Prophet featured at the time; the only things not laced with propaganda and agenda. Why did you stop?"
"It was time," he said simply, shrugging. "At least, the Prophet decided it was."
"They censored you?"
"Not in so many words," he said with a somewhat wry smile. "Let's just say that we both decided it was time to move on." He paused. "You might say I lost my inspiration."
"And started writing mysteries."
He nodded. "And started writing mysteries," he repeated. "Writing makes me happy; it doesn't particularly matter what."
"Are you ever going to go back home?"
"This is my home."
"You know what I mean," she said. "Surely you won't stay here forever, can you?"
He drew one leg up to rest an arm on his knee. "Of course I could," he murmured, then sighed a little. "I suppose I always figured I'd go back, once I felt like I had a reason."
The temptation to prod him was almost overwhelming, but she knew when a subject was closed. "I love a good mystery," was all she said. She found herself relaxing against the rock, crossing her ankles and inadvertently increasing their contact with Roger's legs.
He moved his eyes up her body, finally settling on her face. "So do I."
There was a long pause before she whispered, "How do you do that?"
"Hmm?" He moved his legs to rest on either side of hers.
She shook her head slightly. "It's the way you look at me sometimes," she murmured before she could stop herself. "It almost feels like you're touching me." She could feel goosebumps again, all over, but it wasn't cold. Not even close.
"Maybe I want to touch you," he said. "And maybe you want me to, and that's what you're feeling."
"No; I'm -- I'm sure that's not it, actually," she lied, not at all sure why that idea scared her so much. She was a fully grown woman; surely it was natural for her to feel attracted. To ache for him to touch her. Part of her wondered, though, if it was really just Roger, or if she was just love-starved in general after years with only vague memories of what she was missing. And bloody hell, that was scary.
"You sure?"
"I don't really, uh, have time for anything like that right now," she said, nodding briskly and scooting up from her position. "And my leg really feels much better, so." She nodded again. "I should head back."
There was a pause, then he nearly leaped to a crouching position, holding out his hand to her. "Fine."
She stared at his hand for a moment and, deciding she'd be wiser not to take it, she continued to scoot forward in a graceless sort of crab-walk over the short space to the edge of the ledge. She heard a splash as Roger lowered himself into the water, and then he was standing right between her dangling legs. She cleared her throat. "If you could just -- move back a bit?"
He did, but not far, and in the end she just puffed out a breath and slipped off the rock. The drop was somewhat faster than she'd intended, though, and she reached backward to try and slow herself down before she stopped suddenly. While she'd plopped into the water, her feet were still several inches off the ground.
If she hadn't been so breathless, she would have been exasperated when she felt Roger's hands on her again.
He'd caught her by the hips, and she could feel his fingers digging in slightly. "Got you," he murmured, face close to hers.
She could only nod shakily as she gripped his shoulders. "Thank you," she said in a voice that didn't quite sound like her own. When he lowered her into the water, he let her body slide along his on the way down, and their damp skin slid together in a way that had her whining before she'd realized it. She rubbed her thighs together. "Roger."
"Yeah." She was gratified, at least, to hear the answering gruffness in Roger's voice, but then his hands were moving up her sides, his breath was on her face, and she couldn't think at all.
His lips brushed against hers; they were chapped and not quite as soft as they always seemed to look. She didn't mind at all, though, because they pressed against hers more tightly, more surely, and there was an urgency in the kiss that made her shiver as he coaxed her lips wider. On a sigh, she opened her mouth to let him in.
He made a little sound, and from there the kiss intensified more quickly than she'd anticipated; his tongue moving past her lips, licking into her mouth, stroking against her tongue. Such a simple movement, but it had her thighs going lax as heat coiled into her belly. She knew about arousal, had felt her body flush with it at night when she couldn't sleep with the shadowy images in her mind, but this was more intense than anything she'd felt when she was alone. She didn't quite know what to do with her tongue, as she had never been kissed this way before. But she knew that he tasted good, that she wanted more, and so she curled her tongue around his.
His hands tightened on her ribs, pulling her closer so her barely-covered breasts rubbed against his chest. She gasped into his mouth because her nipples were hard and the friction against them, even through her top, was amazing. She didn't remember moving her fingers into his hair, but she was gripping it now, her fingers damp from it, and she was effectively holding him against her mouth with an urgency that shocked her. She moved her hands, finally, down over his arms, then along his ribs to his back, unable to get enough of the way he felt -- the hard and soft of him, the lines of his body that were so different from her own. Everything about her that was curious and fascinated itched to explore him.
Any thoughts of exploration, any thoughts at all, were brought to a grinding halt when she felt long fingers against the side of her breast and exquisite friction against her nipple, localized there as he rubbed back and forth over it with his thumb. God! She arched against him with a low, needy cry.
She felt his body quake against hers as he squeezed her breast. "Fuck, Hermione."
The words seemed to burn and sizzle along her skin; she pressed closer, far too caught up to analyze why hearing him say that only aroused her more, made her writhe against him like some slag while water sloshed around them and her back scraped roughly against cold stone.
He pressed his knee between hers, his upper thigh snug in between her thighs. "Roger!" She shifted and bucked forward slightly. It was so hard to focus on everything at once, with his lips on hers, his hand on her breast, her hip, and now this firm pressure right against her center. It was too much, and so hard to keep up. She accidentally bit his lip as she shifted again and felt him, hard and bulging against her thigh. She heard his harsh groan and drew back slightly to look at him. He was -- god, his eyes seemed an even darker blue than before, and heavy-lidded with lust. Her body seemed to throb all over as she looked at him. "Sorry," she whispered hoarsely as she moved her thumb over the spot where she'd bitten him. Shyly, she swayed forward again to flick her tongue over it. He didn't say anything, only closed his hand more tightly over her breast and rocked insistently against her leg.
She began to move her own hips, rolling them even as she blushed, because it felt too good for embarrassment and she was careening toward something she'd only ever been able to imagine before. All she knew was that if she stopped now, she'd never get there. She busied her hands over his back, closing her eyes against the need to see, to learn, instead letting instinct urge her hips faster.
"More," she heard him mutter as he slicked his hand down into the water, beneath the fabric of her swimsuit to slide over her arse and take hold. She gasped as he pulled her hard against him, over and over, and began to suck on her neck.
Hermione cried out, pressing her face into his shoulder, and came so fast her mind had no chance of catching up. The orgasm washed over her as Roger grunted and spasmed against her thigh. There was wet all around them, but she could feel his wetness against her leg, warmer and decidedly different, even through his trousers.
For a few moments, she just held him tightly, trying to process everything, just trying to think while she caught her breath, while they both did. But as the effects of her orgasm faded, there was nothing to process except rough stone biting into her skin and cold water lapping against her legs. Roger's hand spread over her arse. Oh god. Her eyes widened and she pushed against his shoulder, unable to believe she'd just forgotten herself and acted that way.
She couldn't look at him. He thought she was a slag, surely. How could she have let him just rut against her leg like that? How could she have just rutted against his leg like that? She ran a hand through her damp hair and waded away from him, frustrated by the fact that the water was slowing her down. When she chanced a look back, he had a hand braced against the rock as he looked at her.
"What's wrong?" he asked. "Did I hurt you?"
"No," she said, wrapping her arms around herself. "I need ... I can't do this. I have to go."
"Can't do what? Love, we already did it." He gestured between them with his free hand. "Where are you going?"
"I can't believe I just -- I don't even ... this is wrong," she said, her voice rising slightly as she rubbed at the spot on her thigh where he'd rubbed off on her, even though there was nothing there. His eyes flicked down and back up to hers before he nodded stiffly.
"Fine, Hermione. If that's how you want it. I'll see you around." Her mind took her back to the first time he'd said that, the teasing promise in his words that she just wasn't hearing now. He hoisted himself back up onto the rock and went back the way he'd come.
Though she was alone now, she nodded shakily before she turned to wade along the water's edge, back to the shore where she'd left her things.
*********************
He wasn't at the cafe the next morning, or the two mornings after that. He'd not been at the beach either over the next three days, and it got to the point where Hermione was growing increasingly irritated to notice herself looking for him when she went out. Especially when she'd been the one to walk away.
And for good reason, she thought as she shifted her backpack while she walked. The fact that he'd made himself scarce over the past three days only proved her suspicions that she was, in fact, a wanton slag, that Roger thought so, and that he was staying away from her accordingly. The best thing for it was for her to leave him alone. She'd been here for a week and a half, anyway. A week and a half to prove that she could be on her own, to take the time to enjoy the things she liked to do, and find out more about herself apart from being one of three; apart from being a fighter.
A week and a half to find out that apparently, when left to herself, she got in over her head with men she barely knew.
Oh god. Maybe it was time to go home.
It wouldn't be running or hiding simply because she was thinking of putting an ocean between Roger and herself. She missed her friends; that was all. Missed Ron and Harry, and other such people who didn't have the ability to kiss her and make her stop thinking. Make her do scary, stupid things and not even care because it felt so good. There had to be safer men back in Hogsmeade.
She ran a hand through her hair as she started to pick her way over soft forest floor. Again. When she skirted the thicket of trees and looked up to see Roger's bungalow, she came to a full stop. The fact that she'd simply gone for a morning walk and hadn't planned to come here at all only proved how pathetic she was.
It was just was well. As long as she was leaving, she could apologize for her behavior and bid him a happy life. Nodding, she strode to Roger's door and knocked.
He opened it, blinking blearily for a moment before he stepped back and swung the door wide. "Morning," he said huskily.
"Good morning," she said politely, as if she hadn't been squirming against him three nights ago. She looked around the house; it was small and sparsely furnished, but it looked like him.
His scent was everywhere.
"Something you wanted?" He rubbed a hand over his tousled hair.
"What?" She turned back and blinked. "Oh. No; just -- I'm leaving," she blurted, glancing up from his bare chest to his face.
He nodded and yawned. "You want some coffee, before you go? I'm going to have some coffee," he said groggily and padded into his tiny kitchen, gesturing to for her to follow.
It wasn't exactly the reaction she'd been going for, but she could work with it, she decided. She folded her hands in front of her. "Yes, thank you."
He glanced down at her hiking shorts, the same ones she'd worn when they'd met. "You don't look like you're ready for a trip back to Britain."
"Hmm? Oh, I wasn't thinking of leaving today; I was thinking tomorrow, or ... soon." She found herself hedging as she looked back at him. "Um. I really just wanted to say goodbye and apologize for my behavior the other night. It was completely inappropriate. I'm not usually, well, ever that way," she rambled. "So, yes. It won't happen again, mainly because I'm leaving. I mean, not just because I'm leaving, of course. But I am leaving, so. Uh. Thanks for everything, and. Goodbye."
"Thanks for what?" he asked curiously, resting an elbow on the counter as he leaned against it. "Letting you peek at my manuscript? Showing you the island? Giving you an orgasm?"
"What? No! I just meant, well, you've been lovely and it's been nice getting to know you again. And I'm fairly certain you had an orgasm as well," she muttered under her breath, blushing to the roots of her hair.
"I did, at that," he said, smiling slightly, crossing his arms and watching her. "Was fantastic. I want more. I'm actually unclear as to why you're apologizing for it."
"You do?" she asked quietly, before she remembered her point. "I just didn't want you to think I'm a slag for doing something like that."
"You think I'm a slag, then? You think I like to rut against the random birds that pass through on vacation, or something?"
"No, that's not at all what I'm saying, but"--
"What if I like you?" he cut in. "What if, over the course of the week-and-few-days I've known you, I've found myself attracted on more than a few different levels? What if I haven't felt this way about anyone else, and want to explore that?"
He looked far too comfortable, considering how frazzled and harried she felt. It was just her luck to be falling for his type. Handsome, charming, intelligent, with a hint of something deeper beneath the surface. Not to mention smug, cocky, and given to leaning against things. Bloody hell. She puffed out a breath. "I just ... it just surprised me," she said quietly, honestly. "I surprised myself. I've never done anything like that, and I barely know you, and you live thousands of miles away from me, so it's ridiculous to even think that anything like this could work. That's not even taking into account that this isn't even anything I'm looking for." Agitated, she ran a hand through her hair.
The smug and faintly amused smile he'd worn nearly since she'd arrived turned decidedly boyish, and he straightened and walked towards her. "Technicalities," he said easily, moving his hands down her arms. "Still regret what we did the other night?"
Actually, she felt a bit foolish. "Not so much," she conceded.
"How about what we're going to do? Will you regret that?"
She lifted a brow. "Smug git."
"Maybe you've just got a dirty mind."
"Or maybe you're an unbelievable prat and I'm losing my mind."
"What have you." He stepped closer, only grinning when she tutted. "Still leaving?"
"Soon," she murmured, placing her hands, then her forehead, on his chest. "But not yet. Still staying?"
"For now," He tipped up her chin before he repeated his words from the other night. "But I suppose I always figured I'd go back, once I had a reason."
Roger leaned down and brushed his lips against hers. It had only been a week, she knew, and when she thought about everything she didn't know -- about him, about relationships, about all the other things that she couldn't even begin to read about, she felt utterly and undeniably afraid. But in that moment, as she returned his kiss, Hermione could only see possibilities.
End
Rating: R
Pairing: Hermione Granger/ Roger Davies
Summary: On her first trip by herself since the war's end, Hermione finds a lot more than she expected.
Word Count: 8578
Beta:
florahart (Thanks so much!)Author's Notes: Written for
inell for hp_summersmut. ♥♥♥ It couldn't have been further from anything she was used to, and it wasn't just the scenery: green and tropical, with miles of pink sand and water clear enough to see straight though to the bottom. It was also the atmosphere on Bermuda that seemed to run opposite to everything she'd come to know. Relaxed and slow-moving; carefree in a way that she just wasn't. Even so, she could appreciate the beauty and tranquility of such a place. It was, she thought, precisely what she'd been going for.
The word 'hideaway' had a connotation Hermione didn't much care for. As such, she preferred to use the term 'vacation', or 'getaway'. No one was after her, not anymore, and she certainly wasn't hiding or running -- though, admittedly, she'd left rather suddenly and no one was exactly aware of her whereabouts. She'd left word for the boys that she'd gone away so they wouldn't worry, of course, but this trip was for her. And over the next, well, however long it ended up being, so was this place.
She stood on the balcony of the guest house and tried to shake the feeling that she was being watched. It was silly, she thought; the war had only just ended a month earlier, but it was over, and there was no reason to believe that anyone could, or would, track her here. If anyone was good at covering her tracks, it was Hermione, as she'd been doing it for herself and the boys for years. While she firmly believed that there was absolutely nothing wrong with a little paranoia if it meant you were safer, to a certain degree it defeated the purpose of a vacation to constantly be looking over her shoulder the way she'd done when she'd been moving from place to place around the Continent with Death Eaters at her back.
The shiver that moved down her spine didn't seem to follow that logic, though, and her brow knit as she rubbed her hands over the goosebumps on her upper arms and wished she'd selected a more secluded spot.
When she felt something brush against her left arm, she started violently and whipped around. Her wand was in her hand before she'd even realized it, but the only thing she found on the balcony with her was a tall, leafy fern to which she'd been standing a bit too close. She closed her eyes and let out a short laugh, the sort that didn't convey very much humor, and looked out at the water again. By then, of course, she was hugging herself much too tightly and her relaxed mood was gone. The breeze continued to move through her curls until she stepped back into her room and shut herself in.
She moved back to her suitcase. If she unpacked, at least; got herself organized, perhaps she'd actually feel comfortable enough stay here and enjoy herself instead of follow the urge to shut her eyes and Apparate back home. As beautiful as the island was, it was lonely here, she realized; but for the next little while, it would be lonely anywhere Harry and Ron weren't. And maybe, at this point, she wasn't ready to be on her own, she thought as she hung a tidy white skirt on a hanger and slipped it into the wardrobe. But she could at least try and prove to herself that one day, she could be. She was fully aware that she should be; that at twenty- four years old, feeling quite so dependent on the boys wasn't healthy.
The new clothes were more practical than stylish, even if she'd had an eye for such things, but she hadn't bought anything new -- hadn't, in fact, bought much of anything at all -- in over six years. That in itself had been a step.
After her clothing was carefully stored away in the small wardrobe in her bedroom, Hermione stepped back and turned a slow circle where she stood, moving her fingers back through her hair somewhat nervously. This was the part where normal people went sightseeing, to the beach, or out to eat. She could do that. She concealed her wand and took a last look at her room before she headed downstairs and outside into the heat.
The prospect of facing her second day on the island was somewhat less nerve-wracking than she'd expected. The previous day had been too ungrounded and unsettling to enjoy anything, but today might be different. After all, today she had a plan of action that went beyond just getting here and unpacking, then wandering around town without direction. Perhaps with time she'd become comfortable enough to do that, but she simply wasn't there yet, nor was she sure she wanted to be. She assumed most people would be at one of the beaches today, which was exactly why she'd decided a hike around Harrington Sound would be more suitable as a first outing. Hiking was something she was used to, though not necessarily for pleasure, and while she walked she could learn to identify the wildlife and flora listed in the guidebook she'd purchased in a gift shop. She wasn't above admitting, at least to herself, that she needed that to feel more grounded and secure in such an unfamiliar place. Not only that, but it was fascinating.
Her pack was loaded with the essentials; she'd followed her guidebook to the letter and packed a quart of water, some fruit and nuts, suntan lotion, compass, and a map. Shifting it on her back, she set out to skirt the inland lake, pleased to find it a lot less crowded than she'd feared, and she found it easy to enjoy the walk without feeling stifled or closed in. It was really quite something to be able to just walk with nothing to burden her except her lightweight backpack, and after the first mile passed and she'd identified her first Bermuda palmetto, she felt the dregs of the previous night's dream begin to fade away.
Over the next mile and a half the trail rose slightly, and as she reached the top of it her right knee begin to throb dully. While she'd never been particularly athletic, she knew perfectly well that before she'd been hit with the unnamed curse eighteen months ago, even she could have taken the incline at a jog. As such, the idea that she'd be limping soon if she didn't stop was more than a little irritating. Still, there was no rush, and the view from here was outstanding. She could rest here, as briefly as she dared, and just take everything in.
The sun had crept higher in the sky since she'd first set out, though, and if she rested right here she was fairly certain that the sunscreen she'd packed wasn't likely to protect her from its rays. Perhaps there was a suitable place to rest a bit further back into the cedar forest. It was off the designated trail, but she'd not go far. Just enough to get some shade. Her heart began to race, though, as she stepped off of the trail.
"Honestly, Granger," she muttered to herself as she began to pick her way over soft forest floor. "This whole bloody island is unfamiliar, and you're skittish about venturing off of a trail?"
Resolutely, she kept walking, sidestepping puddles from the last rainfall as she made her way further off the beaten path. She huffed slightly as she rolled her shoulders to shift her pack. Wasn't there some huge rock she could sit on, or something? The ground here was at least level, and therefore less offensive to her knee, but she would still need to take a break, as by this point her muscles were beginning to protest in general.
It was cooler here, more quiet; there was something at least a little unsettling about it. Not only that, but that damned sensation was back. Like she was being watched. "Oh, get a grip," she hissed, even as she silently cast mild protection charms around herself. She rounded a thicket of trees too close together to weave through and began to stalk. "Nothing to be afraid of. It's just a bloody cedar wood. With trees, and birds, and the occasional lizard or tree frog. It's not the sodding Forbidden Forest."
"Well, that's telling it."
She gave a yelp and whirled; it took nearly six years of ruthlessly honed reflexes not to fall smack on her arse. But her wand was in her hand.
As far as surprises went, she would have rather come across a writhing boa constrictor than the fully-grown man currently stretched across a large, flat rock with a paperback novel turned down across a rather broad chest. He was talking -- to her -- from beneath a narrow-brimmed straw hat.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, her hand tightening on her wand even as instinct told her she'd nothing to fear from this man. Nothing, at least, that her wand could help with at all. Even if she needed to defend herself, she'd then need to Obliviate him, which was irritating.
"I was napping," he said lazily, and tipped back his hat to reveal an inky fringe that nearly covered startlingly blue eyes that were just full of the relaxed security she'd never been able to imitate herself. His lips curved. "Lost?"
"Of course not," she scoffed, but looked around in a way that belied her words. She took in the bungalow -- that was the only word she could use to describe it despite not ever believing people actually lived in such dwellings -- beyond where the man lay, prone and watching her. "I was just having a walk," she said, falling back on politeness. "Apparently, I'm trespassing."
"Looks like it," he said agreeably, then glanced down at her wand. "I've one of those in my house, if you'd like to wait. I can fetch it, then proceed to defend my property from the intrusion."
She looked up, hardly in the mood for jokes when she was feeling a great deal more unsettled by him than the situation warranted and couldn't figure out why. "No, that's -- that's quite alright," she began, her mind working quickly. A wizard, then, a Welsh one, judging from the accent. What was more, he looked familiar, and she tried to place him. "You live here?" she asked dumbly, taking an involuntary step back when he sat up suddenly and she realized she'd been standing far too close to him for comfort. Bloody hell, he could have reached out and touched her.
"That's right," he murmured, eyes narrowing slightly as they moved over her and he set his book and hat onto the rock. "Hermione."
She began to feel slightly self-conscious in her practical rip-stop hiking shorts and tank top. The way he looked at her had her shifting where she stood, but her voice was even when she spoke. "Who are you?"
"Well, now you've hurt my feelings." His smile spread over a face that was entirely too handsome. He tilted his head up to look at her more intently, if that were possible. "Roger Davies, at your service. What can I do for you, of the wild hair and fantastic legs?"
Now her eyes narrowed. She hadn't been flirted with in ... since ... anyway, it had been long enough that she couldn't be sure that was even what he was doing. It certainly felt like something different than the sweet fumblings with Viktor, or the ... whatever it had been, with Ron. Less innocent than any of that, to be sure. Besides, her legs were much too thin after the war to be termed fantastic by any definition. She put aside her confusion and latched onto something she could understand.
"From Ravenclaw? The Yule Ball?" There was somewhere else she'd seen his name, though, in the years since. She couldn't quite place it.
"Correct, and correct," he said, unfolding yard-long legs to stand and step closer. This time, though the compulsion was strong, she refused to step back, and he was closer than before. He must have been at least as tall as Ron, and he smelled like cedar and -- just -- man. "Small world, yeah?"
Her hand tightened on her wand again. "Not really," she said when she found her voice again. She didn't believe in coincidences, and the chances that they would both be somewhere so far from home at the same time were slim to none. "What's your story, Davies?"
"Weren't you the one trespassing?" He didn't take his eyes off of her, only rocked back on his heels and lifted a brow. "Besides, I thought we'd established that I live here. Granger."
"Why should I believe that?"
"It's not up to you to believe it or not," he said, moving a shoulder. "Take me, for instance -- and feel free to interpret that in any way you'd like," he added, quirking a grin when she blushed. "You've walked onto my property, brandishing a wand. I could ask you what your story is, wordlessly accusing you of all manner of subterfuge, but even if you were guilty of said subterfuge, you wouldn't be likely to own up to it. So, instead, I choose to accept that, for whatever reason, we're here together, on an island more than large enough to hold us both."
She could only stand silently and look at him, because there was no arguing the logic of it. "Yes, well," she began primly, shifting her pack as she realized she'd been taking undue notice of the fullness of his bottom lip. "I'll just continue with my hike, then. Enjoy what's left of your day."
"I plan to." There was that ghost of a smile again, just barely curving those lips as he watched her in that thoroughly unnerving way.
"Good afternoon, then."
"Cheers."
"Bye." On a breath, she turned back in the direction she'd come.
He grinned; she could hear it in his voice. "See you around."
She didn't respond to that, only walked unconsciously faster back towards the trail. She wasn't the least bit sure it would be wise to see Roger Davies around. He made her uncomfortable in a way that she couldn't quite place, and that certainly hadn't been why she'd come to this island.
By the time her fourth day was ahead of her, Hermione found she could place thoughts of black hair and overly full bottom lips firmly from her mind. Her dreams the previous two nights, of glittering red eyes and Cruciatus Curses, had been chased with other images, just as unbidden, and far more vivid than they should have been given her lack of experience. But they were only that: dreams, and meant absolutely nothing, especially when she doubted she'd see Roger Davies again before she decided to head back home.
It had been difficult to discreetly locate a place on the island from which she could send owl posts, but she managed to find one and send word to Harry and Ron that she was still fine and enjoying her trip. That done, she made her way to the tiny local restaurant where she'd had her breakfast for the last three mornings. When she entered, the woman behind the counter sent her a smile. She found herself rather pleased that she was becoming something of a familiar face here. She ordered the fruit salad she typically got in the morning, then turned to find a seat.
When she spotted him alone at a table, worrying his dark hair as he busily scrawled over a dog-eared notepad, she froze. What was he doing so close to where she was staying? Had he followed her here? Perhaps he'd sought her out just to distract her from the relaxation of this trip and make her uncomfortable. Though, at least he wasn't watching her the way he'd been the other day. That actually helped a lot. Perhaps she could hang by the counter until her order was up, then quietly leave.
"It's a bit rude to stare at someone you know without saying hello," he murmured, his hand stopping its furious pace across the paper as he lifted his gaze to land directly onto hers. She had a moment to note that when he was writing like that, he didn't seem nearly so relaxed or leisurely with his movements.
"I don't know you," she said matter-of-factly, shifting as he pinned her with his gaze and turned his stub of a pencil over and over between his fingers. "I know of you; there's a difference. Besides, you look quite busy and probably want to be alone. As do I, for that matter." For some strange reason, however, she couldn't make her legs work enough to turn back towards the counter. He was wearing a clean, if ratty, blue button-up with the sleeves cut off, and his arms were more distracting than they should have been, considering they were only arms, for heavens' sake. However defined and tanned they were.
"Well now," he said, leaning back in his seat. "Writing or no, I'd be a fool to turn down company from birds with wild hair and fantastic legs, wouldn't I?"
"I wasn't offering my company. I'm simply waiting for my food."
"We've something in common, then, as I happen to be waiting on my breakfast, as well. Why don't you sit, and we can wait together?"
"It would appear I've something in common with half the people here, then. Perhaps I should sit with one of them, instead," she said archly, even as she lowered herself into the chair across from him.
He grinned. "So, Granger, are you staying close to here?"
"Why?" she asked suspiciously.
"Prickly little thing, aren't you," he commented; she didn't respond, though her eyes flashed as she looked back at him. He shrugged and lifted his arm to rest on the back of his chair. "People tend to eat here when they're staying at one of the guest houses around. Don't worry; I'd not sneak through your window at night without express invitation."
She nodded haltingly. "Yes, I'm staying close to here. And if you ever call me a 'little thing' again, I'll make it so you don't speak for days." When he only settled back and crossed his arms, her eyes went to slits. "What are you doing here, anyway? We've established that you don't live in one of the guest houses nearby."
"I like this place," he said simply, in such a way that she really had no choice other than to believe him.
"What are you writing?" she asked curiously.
"Nothing, at the moment." He gave her a cheeky grin. "Until you walked up and provided better distraction, however, I was working on my book."
"You're a novelist? Are you published, then? What sort?" It was best not to address his 'better distraction' comment.
"For someone so guarded with her own information, you ask a lot of questions," he said mildly, though she watched his eyes change slightly. "I'm not published; at least, none of my novels are." He shifted, and she was already so surprised to see him make such an uncomfortable gesture that she was almost tempted not to indulge her curiosity further. Tapping his pencil in sharp rhythm against his pad, he continued. "I write mysteries."
He looked up at her, and her only thought as she took in the hooded gaze that belied the cocky curve of his lips was how much that seemed to fit. Right then, he was the biggest mystery in her life. "Can I see it?" She was surprised by the audacity of her own question, and fully aware that it was none of her business what he was writing. "If you don't mind."
"Why would I mind?" He got up suddenly to take the seat right next to her and edge the notepad towards her. When she felt his forearm brush hers, she felt the brief touch long after it had ended. Frowning, she took a closer look at the page and tried to ignore his scent and the fact that she could feel his eyes on her, and his face much too close to her neck and shoulder. "You'd not make off with my work, would you, Granger?"
She glanced down, flushed, as she straightened and spoke briskly. "Your handwriting's dreadful."
"So?"
She blinked, not sure how to answer, and finally settled on pulling the notebook closer to her to read. By the time she felt him watching her again, she'd reached the end of the second page. He'd been building a scene, set in a cafe much like this one, and his writing was rich, detailed -- and the prose was vaguely, vaguely familiar to something she'd seen before. She glanced up at him and cleared her throat. "Um. It's quite good," she managed, eternally grateful when their meals were brought out. Taking a deep drink of her water, she placed the bottle between them like a buffer and continued. "I read, uh, quite a lot, and I've seen published work that isn't as good as the bit I just read. Have you tried to send this to any companies?" She finally met his eyes.
"No," he said quietly, his fingers brushing hers as he drew the book back towards him. He'd still not touched his food. "But thank you."
"What if I'd wanted to read more?"
"You don't get to read more right now," he said, his lips curving again, all mysteries gone for the moment. "The next time we see each other, perhaps."
At his smug offer, Hermione arched a brow. "It's a good hook, but not that good. It's obvious where your unnamed protagonist is headed, and that the man at the bar has had what he's looking for all along. Why are you touching me?"
"Because your skin is meant to be touched." His hand, which had somehow moved to the back of her chair, stopped moving in slow circles between her shoulder blades, but he still maintained contact with her skin and flirted with the ends of her hair in a way that made her heart race. "And maybe that wasn't the mystery at all."
"Right, well. You can remove your hand, now."
"Bossy women are a particular weakness of mine."
Clearly, the man had a problem. "I could hex you before any of these people realize I've drawn a wand."
"You're trying to turn me on, aren't you?"
"No. You prat." Goodness. She felt just a bit harried. Just a little hot. "I have to go."
"Not stopping you."
Did he not understand that she could scarcely think when he was touching her, much less move away? It took some extra focus, but she picked up her fruit salad, which she'd thankfully had the foresight to order in a takeaway container. When she finally stood, she was unable to stop herself shivering as his thumb trailed clear to the small of her back. She nodded stiffly down at Roger. "Have a lovely day, then."
"Until next time."
On a huff of breath, she moved to the door and, though it irritated her, she couldn't resist a glance back as she left. He was hunched over his pad again, scribbling away, though she couldn't see his eyes through that fringe of hair.
There had been multiple 'next times' over the three days that followed. It had been a week since she'd arrived, and she'd seen Roger more days than not, as random meetings for breakfast became less random, and turned into him accompanying her on her outings. When she visited the art museum, he was there to show her his favorite exhibits. When she'd made a day trip into Devonshire Parish to explore the old churches and period homes, Roger had engaged her in a discussion on the British imperialism and its impact on the architecture in Bermuda. When she'd visited the botanical gardens, she'd not been able to fully take in the scent of the flowers in the hothouse because she'd been too absorbed in the way he smelled, instead, and it was strange: her undeniable fondness for smelling him couldn't possibly be normal, and was certainly nothing she'd ever noticed about herself before.
She'd learned that he'd been living here for six months and had been largely uninvolved in the war, though the extent to which he had been wasn't something he was willing to talk about. That he'd played professional Quidditch until the war had gotten into full-swing. That he didn't have a girlfriend or wife -- he'd volunteered that tidbit, himself. As far as she was concerned, his marital status wasn't her concern, and she'd conveyed the same to him when he'd brought it up, to his amusement.
He also had a habit of touching her, she'd learned, and while she was quite tactile herself with people she trusted, his touches tended to make her more uncomfortable than they should. In no way should he have been able to make her lose her focus on a painting just by grazing his fingers over her shoulder blades. His brushing a tiny leaf from her collarbone shouldn't have made her go wide-eyed and flushed. She shouldn't have lost brain cells just because he'd caught an eyelash from her cheekbone on the rough pad of his middle finger.
As irritating as it was to admit, she had to accept that she was attracted to him. It was the only explanation for her frazzled nerves whenever he was around, and her heated skin whenever he touched her. She wasn't a stranger to attraction, though she'd never felt anything like this. It was confusing, scary, and not what she particularly wanted for this stage in her life. The fact that he was intelligent and fascinating to her -- and seemed to know it -- didn't help matters at all.
Her first week in Bermuda was coming to a close when she finally figured out where she'd seen Roger's work before. Ron's and Harry's replies to her letters had jogged her memory. It only made him more intriguing, though she'd no idea why he'd not want to talk about it.
While she'd been hitting the cultural spots on the island that had caught her interest, Hermione had also been scouting for the least crowded beach she could find. It hadn't been the easiest thing to do, considering that Bermuda was a popular tourist attraction. After asking around, she'd learned that Clarence Cove was most secluded this time of year, and only accessible by trail. At dusk, she decided to head there on foot. She'd made it a point not to go to her breakfast spot today, as she'd decided this morning after a particularly prurient dream the previous night that it was best that she steer clear of Roger. She could never quite find her footing around him, and that was dangerous.
It was a downhill trail to the beach, lined in lush greenery but somewhat steep, and as she reached the bottom she worried briefly about the walk back up with her bad knee. Any of her concerns faded, though, when she took a look at the beach. Really, it was more lagoon than beach, lined in shelves of rock, with shady trees growing right off the shore in spots, covering the water. A smile spread over her face; it was gorgeous, and one of the more exotic sights she'd found here so far. She nearly regretted the fact that it was growing dark, but the fact that she seemed to be alone was more than mollifying.
The water sparkled, inviting, as she set down her pack and pulled her shirt over her head. The swimsuit was a two-piece, and while the tank-top style covered her torso, it didn't leave very much else to the imagination. She could only be happy that she'd found one of the more secluded spots to be had tonight. She stripped off her shorts and set out a blanket, but she was too eager for a swim to sit on it at the moment. When she waded out into the water, she found it warmer than anything she'd experienced in Britain, even this late in the evening.
She didn't waste a lot of time; it had been much too long since she'd been able to enjoy a good swim. She made her way into deeper water while the setting sun made the water around her glitter. The moon was coming out, and she couldn't wait to see what that looked like on the surface. Swimming for pleasure had become a rare indulgence over the years, and being able to do so now, where she could hear breeze whispering through the trees and water breaking gently against rocks, made her vacation complete, in a way. When she was floating on her back like this, anything else that happened on this trip seemed like icing.
When she felt her right leg and foot beginning to cramp, she frowned and straightened in the water, treading it briefly before she made her way to the closest and lowest rock ledge. Hoisting herself onto it, she grabbed her right calf and began to massage it, sighing in mild exasperation. Really, she'd gotten loads of exercise while hunting for the Horcruxes, so the fact that the aftereffects of multiple curses had affected her endurance the way it had was frustrating. She rested her back against the rock while she held her leg close to her.
The flash of movement in her periphery had her eyes snapping open, and the fact that she could sense it was Roger before she'd even turned her head to her left had her shaking her head slightly. When she looked at him, though, the concern in his eyes managed to smooth away the rawest edges of her embarrassment.
"Are you alright?" He moved closer and put his hands on her shoulders, looking her over.
"I'm fine," she said quickly, hating that he'd found her this way. "It's just a cramp; I was swimming. Have you been here this whole time?" Frowning, she moved her hands from her calf to wrap them around herself.
"Calm down, Granger, I wasn't peeping at you. I was over by the caves, west of the quay," he said somewhat irritably, and nodded on the direction he'd come. "I heard noises. Sounded like you were having some trouble."
"I certainly didn't mean to insult you," she muttered, "as for the noise, I was just climbing a bloody rock -- and I'm fine," she said again, but it came out somewhat weak-sounding when his hands were on her leg, applying gentle pressure to her sore muscle.
"Really; it's only a"-- she trailed off, unable to help slumping slightly against the rock as he pulled her leg into his lap and pressed his thumbs into the arch of her foot. She blinked, gasped. "Oh."
He looked up at her, his face half-shrouded by darkness. "Better?"
"Uh." She shifted, unbearably self-conscious given her state of dress. But ... god, his hands. And, well, he wasn't wearing much more than she, was he, with his pale brown trousers ripped off just below the knee. When she realized she'd been paying extra attention to his chest, to the soft-looking trail of dark hair that disappeared into those trousers, she yanked her foot back and tucked it close to her again. "Yes, much better," she said primly, "thank you."
He looked amused as he sat back across from her, leaning on his hands as he stretched his legs, looking supremely unconcerned with the fact that his bare feet and ankles were brushing against her legs. She cleared her throat, grasping for a topic of discussion. A nice, meaty discussion was in order. "This is a nice spot," she said lamely.
"Gorgeous," he agreed, his eyes on her. "I come here often to write or think. There's fantastic rock diving around the bend there, as well."
"I think I'll leave diving off of rocks to you." She lifted a brow and reached up to pluck a twig from an overhanging branch and run it over and over through her fingers. His mention of writing reminded her of something. "The Daily Prophet is printing again," she said, unable to keep the note of curiosity out of her voice as she watched his face.
"So I've heard," he said quietly, his gaze sweeping back up to hers. "If there's something you'd like to know, Hermione, you should ask."
She shook her head slightly and focused on what she wanted to know, rather than his penetrating stare. "It's just, I remember now, where I've seen your work before," she began. "You used to write for the paper before it was shut down. You were brilliant."
"Didn't think you had much respect for the publication," he commented, "given your history, and the tripe they used to print about you and your friends."
"Well, no, I don't," she agreed evenly, "but what you used to do, back when the war started full-stop ... traveling all over Wizarding Europe to interview survivors of Death Eater attacks, and fighters in the war." The pieces he'd used to write about the people he met had been beautiful; humanizing and gripping.
"That was a long time ago." He moved a shoulder.
"Perhaps, but those articles were some of the only quality work the Prophet featured at the time; the only things not laced with propaganda and agenda. Why did you stop?"
"It was time," he said simply, shrugging. "At least, the Prophet decided it was."
"They censored you?"
"Not in so many words," he said with a somewhat wry smile. "Let's just say that we both decided it was time to move on." He paused. "You might say I lost my inspiration."
"And started writing mysteries."
He nodded. "And started writing mysteries," he repeated. "Writing makes me happy; it doesn't particularly matter what."
"Are you ever going to go back home?"
"This is my home."
"You know what I mean," she said. "Surely you won't stay here forever, can you?"
He drew one leg up to rest an arm on his knee. "Of course I could," he murmured, then sighed a little. "I suppose I always figured I'd go back, once I felt like I had a reason."
The temptation to prod him was almost overwhelming, but she knew when a subject was closed. "I love a good mystery," was all she said. She found herself relaxing against the rock, crossing her ankles and inadvertently increasing their contact with Roger's legs.
He moved his eyes up her body, finally settling on her face. "So do I."
There was a long pause before she whispered, "How do you do that?"
"Hmm?" He moved his legs to rest on either side of hers.
She shook her head slightly. "It's the way you look at me sometimes," she murmured before she could stop herself. "It almost feels like you're touching me." She could feel goosebumps again, all over, but it wasn't cold. Not even close.
"Maybe I want to touch you," he said. "And maybe you want me to, and that's what you're feeling."
"No; I'm -- I'm sure that's not it, actually," she lied, not at all sure why that idea scared her so much. She was a fully grown woman; surely it was natural for her to feel attracted. To ache for him to touch her. Part of her wondered, though, if it was really just Roger, or if she was just love-starved in general after years with only vague memories of what she was missing. And bloody hell, that was scary.
"You sure?"
"I don't really, uh, have time for anything like that right now," she said, nodding briskly and scooting up from her position. "And my leg really feels much better, so." She nodded again. "I should head back."
There was a pause, then he nearly leaped to a crouching position, holding out his hand to her. "Fine."
She stared at his hand for a moment and, deciding she'd be wiser not to take it, she continued to scoot forward in a graceless sort of crab-walk over the short space to the edge of the ledge. She heard a splash as Roger lowered himself into the water, and then he was standing right between her dangling legs. She cleared her throat. "If you could just -- move back a bit?"
He did, but not far, and in the end she just puffed out a breath and slipped off the rock. The drop was somewhat faster than she'd intended, though, and she reached backward to try and slow herself down before she stopped suddenly. While she'd plopped into the water, her feet were still several inches off the ground.
If she hadn't been so breathless, she would have been exasperated when she felt Roger's hands on her again.
He'd caught her by the hips, and she could feel his fingers digging in slightly. "Got you," he murmured, face close to hers.
She could only nod shakily as she gripped his shoulders. "Thank you," she said in a voice that didn't quite sound like her own. When he lowered her into the water, he let her body slide along his on the way down, and their damp skin slid together in a way that had her whining before she'd realized it. She rubbed her thighs together. "Roger."
"Yeah." She was gratified, at least, to hear the answering gruffness in Roger's voice, but then his hands were moving up her sides, his breath was on her face, and she couldn't think at all.
His lips brushed against hers; they were chapped and not quite as soft as they always seemed to look. She didn't mind at all, though, because they pressed against hers more tightly, more surely, and there was an urgency in the kiss that made her shiver as he coaxed her lips wider. On a sigh, she opened her mouth to let him in.
He made a little sound, and from there the kiss intensified more quickly than she'd anticipated; his tongue moving past her lips, licking into her mouth, stroking against her tongue. Such a simple movement, but it had her thighs going lax as heat coiled into her belly. She knew about arousal, had felt her body flush with it at night when she couldn't sleep with the shadowy images in her mind, but this was more intense than anything she'd felt when she was alone. She didn't quite know what to do with her tongue, as she had never been kissed this way before. But she knew that he tasted good, that she wanted more, and so she curled her tongue around his.
His hands tightened on her ribs, pulling her closer so her barely-covered breasts rubbed against his chest. She gasped into his mouth because her nipples were hard and the friction against them, even through her top, was amazing. She didn't remember moving her fingers into his hair, but she was gripping it now, her fingers damp from it, and she was effectively holding him against her mouth with an urgency that shocked her. She moved her hands, finally, down over his arms, then along his ribs to his back, unable to get enough of the way he felt -- the hard and soft of him, the lines of his body that were so different from her own. Everything about her that was curious and fascinated itched to explore him.
Any thoughts of exploration, any thoughts at all, were brought to a grinding halt when she felt long fingers against the side of her breast and exquisite friction against her nipple, localized there as he rubbed back and forth over it with his thumb. God! She arched against him with a low, needy cry.
She felt his body quake against hers as he squeezed her breast. "Fuck, Hermione."
The words seemed to burn and sizzle along her skin; she pressed closer, far too caught up to analyze why hearing him say that only aroused her more, made her writhe against him like some slag while water sloshed around them and her back scraped roughly against cold stone.
He pressed his knee between hers, his upper thigh snug in between her thighs. "Roger!" She shifted and bucked forward slightly. It was so hard to focus on everything at once, with his lips on hers, his hand on her breast, her hip, and now this firm pressure right against her center. It was too much, and so hard to keep up. She accidentally bit his lip as she shifted again and felt him, hard and bulging against her thigh. She heard his harsh groan and drew back slightly to look at him. He was -- god, his eyes seemed an even darker blue than before, and heavy-lidded with lust. Her body seemed to throb all over as she looked at him. "Sorry," she whispered hoarsely as she moved her thumb over the spot where she'd bitten him. Shyly, she swayed forward again to flick her tongue over it. He didn't say anything, only closed his hand more tightly over her breast and rocked insistently against her leg.
She began to move her own hips, rolling them even as she blushed, because it felt too good for embarrassment and she was careening toward something she'd only ever been able to imagine before. All she knew was that if she stopped now, she'd never get there. She busied her hands over his back, closing her eyes against the need to see, to learn, instead letting instinct urge her hips faster.
"More," she heard him mutter as he slicked his hand down into the water, beneath the fabric of her swimsuit to slide over her arse and take hold. She gasped as he pulled her hard against him, over and over, and began to suck on her neck.
Hermione cried out, pressing her face into his shoulder, and came so fast her mind had no chance of catching up. The orgasm washed over her as Roger grunted and spasmed against her thigh. There was wet all around them, but she could feel his wetness against her leg, warmer and decidedly different, even through his trousers.
For a few moments, she just held him tightly, trying to process everything, just trying to think while she caught her breath, while they both did. But as the effects of her orgasm faded, there was nothing to process except rough stone biting into her skin and cold water lapping against her legs. Roger's hand spread over her arse. Oh god. Her eyes widened and she pushed against his shoulder, unable to believe she'd just forgotten herself and acted that way.
She couldn't look at him. He thought she was a slag, surely. How could she have let him just rut against her leg like that? How could she have just rutted against his leg like that? She ran a hand through her damp hair and waded away from him, frustrated by the fact that the water was slowing her down. When she chanced a look back, he had a hand braced against the rock as he looked at her.
"What's wrong?" he asked. "Did I hurt you?"
"No," she said, wrapping her arms around herself. "I need ... I can't do this. I have to go."
"Can't do what? Love, we already did it." He gestured between them with his free hand. "Where are you going?"
"I can't believe I just -- I don't even ... this is wrong," she said, her voice rising slightly as she rubbed at the spot on her thigh where he'd rubbed off on her, even though there was nothing there. His eyes flicked down and back up to hers before he nodded stiffly.
"Fine, Hermione. If that's how you want it. I'll see you around." Her mind took her back to the first time he'd said that, the teasing promise in his words that she just wasn't hearing now. He hoisted himself back up onto the rock and went back the way he'd come.
Though she was alone now, she nodded shakily before she turned to wade along the water's edge, back to the shore where she'd left her things.
He wasn't at the cafe the next morning, or the two mornings after that. He'd not been at the beach either over the next three days, and it got to the point where Hermione was growing increasingly irritated to notice herself looking for him when she went out. Especially when she'd been the one to walk away.
And for good reason, she thought as she shifted her backpack while she walked. The fact that he'd made himself scarce over the past three days only proved her suspicions that she was, in fact, a wanton slag, that Roger thought so, and that he was staying away from her accordingly. The best thing for it was for her to leave him alone. She'd been here for a week and a half, anyway. A week and a half to prove that she could be on her own, to take the time to enjoy the things she liked to do, and find out more about herself apart from being one of three; apart from being a fighter.
A week and a half to find out that apparently, when left to herself, she got in over her head with men she barely knew.
Oh god. Maybe it was time to go home.
It wouldn't be running or hiding simply because she was thinking of putting an ocean between Roger and herself. She missed her friends; that was all. Missed Ron and Harry, and other such people who didn't have the ability to kiss her and make her stop thinking. Make her do scary, stupid things and not even care because it felt so good. There had to be safer men back in Hogsmeade.
She ran a hand through her hair as she started to pick her way over soft forest floor. Again. When she skirted the thicket of trees and looked up to see Roger's bungalow, she came to a full stop. The fact that she'd simply gone for a morning walk and hadn't planned to come here at all only proved how pathetic she was.
It was just was well. As long as she was leaving, she could apologize for her behavior and bid him a happy life. Nodding, she strode to Roger's door and knocked.
He opened it, blinking blearily for a moment before he stepped back and swung the door wide. "Morning," he said huskily.
"Good morning," she said politely, as if she hadn't been squirming against him three nights ago. She looked around the house; it was small and sparsely furnished, but it looked like him.
His scent was everywhere.
"Something you wanted?" He rubbed a hand over his tousled hair.
"What?" She turned back and blinked. "Oh. No; just -- I'm leaving," she blurted, glancing up from his bare chest to his face.
He nodded and yawned. "You want some coffee, before you go? I'm going to have some coffee," he said groggily and padded into his tiny kitchen, gesturing to for her to follow.
It wasn't exactly the reaction she'd been going for, but she could work with it, she decided. She folded her hands in front of her. "Yes, thank you."
He glanced down at her hiking shorts, the same ones she'd worn when they'd met. "You don't look like you're ready for a trip back to Britain."
"Hmm? Oh, I wasn't thinking of leaving today; I was thinking tomorrow, or ... soon." She found herself hedging as she looked back at him. "Um. I really just wanted to say goodbye and apologize for my behavior the other night. It was completely inappropriate. I'm not usually, well, ever that way," she rambled. "So, yes. It won't happen again, mainly because I'm leaving. I mean, not just because I'm leaving, of course. But I am leaving, so. Uh. Thanks for everything, and. Goodbye."
"Thanks for what?" he asked curiously, resting an elbow on the counter as he leaned against it. "Letting you peek at my manuscript? Showing you the island? Giving you an orgasm?"
"What? No! I just meant, well, you've been lovely and it's been nice getting to know you again. And I'm fairly certain you had an orgasm as well," she muttered under her breath, blushing to the roots of her hair.
"I did, at that," he said, smiling slightly, crossing his arms and watching her. "Was fantastic. I want more. I'm actually unclear as to why you're apologizing for it."
"You do?" she asked quietly, before she remembered her point. "I just didn't want you to think I'm a slag for doing something like that."
"You think I'm a slag, then? You think I like to rut against the random birds that pass through on vacation, or something?"
"No, that's not at all what I'm saying, but"--
"What if I like you?" he cut in. "What if, over the course of the week-and-few-days I've known you, I've found myself attracted on more than a few different levels? What if I haven't felt this way about anyone else, and want to explore that?"
He looked far too comfortable, considering how frazzled and harried she felt. It was just her luck to be falling for his type. Handsome, charming, intelligent, with a hint of something deeper beneath the surface. Not to mention smug, cocky, and given to leaning against things. Bloody hell. She puffed out a breath. "I just ... it just surprised me," she said quietly, honestly. "I surprised myself. I've never done anything like that, and I barely know you, and you live thousands of miles away from me, so it's ridiculous to even think that anything like this could work. That's not even taking into account that this isn't even anything I'm looking for." Agitated, she ran a hand through her hair.
The smug and faintly amused smile he'd worn nearly since she'd arrived turned decidedly boyish, and he straightened and walked towards her. "Technicalities," he said easily, moving his hands down her arms. "Still regret what we did the other night?"
Actually, she felt a bit foolish. "Not so much," she conceded.
"How about what we're going to do? Will you regret that?"
She lifted a brow. "Smug git."
"Maybe you've just got a dirty mind."
"Or maybe you're an unbelievable prat and I'm losing my mind."
"What have you." He stepped closer, only grinning when she tutted. "Still leaving?"
"Soon," she murmured, placing her hands, then her forehead, on his chest. "But not yet. Still staying?"
"For now," He tipped up her chin before he repeated his words from the other night. "But I suppose I always figured I'd go back, once I had a reason."
Roger leaned down and brushed his lips against hers. It had only been a week, she knew, and when she thought about everything she didn't know -- about him, about relationships, about all the other things that she couldn't even begin to read about, she felt utterly and undeniably afraid. But in that moment, as she returned his kiss, Hermione could only see possibilities.
End
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