Hermione hates Draco Malfoy’s hands.
She has every right to hate them. She’s even made a list of reasons (for posterity, of course) to hand off as proof of her accusations.
Below is the unabridged version:
Eighth year: they were potions’ partners. Heated cheeks and erratic heartbeats accompany stifling heat, and because Hermione has pearl dust all over her fingers, Malfoy picks up her curls and awkwardly moves them to one side so she doesn’t burn it off over the heat of their cauldron.
Every nerve ending tickles as he draws closer, set to burst when the touch of his long fingers graze the back of her neck.
“You’re going to set your hair on fire, Granger,” he admonishes.
She burns in more than one way. “At least you will be in the direct vicinity,” she says primly.
She hears his smile when he speaks. “I’m looking forward to it.”
One year later: he’d gone off to France with his mother almost immediately after finishing at Hogwarts, and she’d found out through the Daily Prophet.
If she was upset that he hadn’t told her, she didn’t show it. And when he showed up at the Leaky Cauldron one Friday whilst she was there with Luna and Ginny, she pretended her heart didn’t skip a mutinous beat.
“Hey, Granger,” he says to her, when they meet in the hallway to the loo.
“Hey yourself.” She hopes her blush isn’t as visible as it feels. When she looks up at him, his gaze is avid, trained on her as if memorising every minuscule detail.
Her tag is hanging out from the back of her blouse, and he reaches forwards with tapered fingers to tuck it back in.
She shivers under his touch, which hovers at her heated neck for a moment more than necessary. A suggestion of a touch. Her spine welcomes the tingle that tracks its way down her spine.
His smile is melting ice, and she fights not to step closer to him.
“Who said I was waiting?” she interrupts, crossing her arms and pretending she doesn’t care (she did she does she hopes it’s not obvious).
Hermione pretends to consider, making a show of huffing as she leans against one wall. He looks—happier, lighter than she’s ever seen him before. “Oh, alright,” she concedes, giving him a small smile.
“No,” he says, shaking his head, and she realises the weight in his gaze is an apology meant to encompass years.
“Fancy a drink?” she asks, breathless. Her first mark of forgiveness. At his dubious look, she adds, “Ginny is pissed after trying some new lemony concoction at the front, and Luna smiled at you when you came in.” Hermione is tipsy enough herself, and so has the courage to step into his space and touch his arm. “Chances are you’ll at least survive one round.”
She relishes the way his throat bobs nervously. “Lead on, then.”
The next day, she finds out that Malfoy is to join her department at the Ministry. They are going to share a cubicle. She ignores the way he twirls a quill between his fingers, glaring at him when he gives her an appraising look.
She is perfunctory with him. She shows him the ropes, and he nods dutifully. When he shakes her hand in thanks, she clears her throat and returns it briskly.
A few months later (evidence shows that she held out as best she could), she has him backed into the shelf of some random supply closet. His damnable hands burn fire across her hips and waist whilst she ravages his mouth.
“I wondered how long it would take, Granger.”
She kisses him harder. “Shut up.”
She is overwhelmed, liable to combust, really, at the way his hands press into the small of her back. He smooths his thumb over her cheekbone when they’re catching their breath, and she’s startled by the almost adoring look that paints his gaze. Before she can have more time to think about it, he’s lifting her up on a table strewn with linens.
“This is as good of a height as any,” he says, his tone mischievous.
Her brows furrow. “For what?”
His damnable grin (it’s a bit crooked and it will take her five more years to admit it’s her favourite part of his face) spreads wide, and then he taps the inside of her knee with his thumb.
She opens her trembling thighs to him. His hands mark their way up her skin with reverence.
Say my name. His voice is an ache-filled whisper.
“So you’ve made a list of reasons about how my hands are evil and you’ve called it damnable hands.” Draco looks up at Hermione over her notes (the abridged version) with a pointed look, his brow raised.
“Yes,” Hermione says most seriously. “All of which is to tell you that you’ve gone too far.”
He walks over to her desk and plants his hands on either side of her desk. It’s still too close, as far as she’s aware. He’s wearing a fine-tailored suit in charcoal grey that accentuates his eyes, of which she is hard-pressed to meet fully.
“And pray tell, what have I gone too far about this time?”
Hermione huffs and stands from her chair, ignoring the flush in her cheeks that warms her skin. She moves to his side and gestures to the thin silver chain adorned by a sapphire that rests on her breastbone. “This necklace.”
He frowns. It’s not adorable. “Did you not like it?”
“I could exchange it for something better if you’d like—”
“No!” She blushes, then glares at his smirk. “It’s the way you put it on.”
“How did I—” He grins at her, seeming to realise what she means. Damnable man. Seven years they’ve been working together, and he’s seemed to memorise all her tells. “Are you so licentious, Granger, that even an innocent gesture such as putting a necklace on you is obscene?”
She scoffs. Thankfully, she’s had the same amount of time to memorise all there is to him. “Nothing is quite so innocent where you’re involved.”
“So if I…” He reaches for her, tracing his fingers over the thin skin of her neck, then palming her throat. She inhales a breath, but it does no good. “I can feel your pulse.”
“Well, you could potentially choke me like this. Of course my heart rate will rise.”
“Or it’s a kink of yours?”
“Thank you, but no thank you.”
Her heart flutters when he swipes his thumb over the curve of her jaw.
“I shall endeavour to only touch you gently then.”
She lets out a heavy sigh, as if incredibly inconvenienced. He smiles at her. “You better.”
Hands move to cup her face, his mouth (she makes a note to make a list of how she hates that part of him as well) presses against hers.
“I’ve an idea that involves both of our hands. Should you be amenable,” he whispers against her mouth.
She tugs at his hair and pulls him closer. Her hands feel as flimsy as paper. “And what’s that?”
He smiles. “I’ll tell you tonight.”
Hermione hates Draco Malfoy’s hands.
Exception: they’re at a dinner party, and his hand travels to hers under the table. She feels the press of his wedding ring against her palm, and smiles.
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