Hermione Granger is just fine with books, isn't she?
Hermione Granger loved a good old fashioned romance novel and always had, she still had the first copy of Pride and Prejudice she had ever owned, though she had been through several since. Despite this guilty secret, she didn't particularly consider herself to be romantic, it had taken her a long time to come to terms with that. She had imagined when she was a child that she would grow up to be a heroic, often misunderstood, but ultimately beautiful and successful woman, with a handsome, charming husband. The older she got the more this seemed a bit hollow, after all, what happened after the curtains closed and the sun set?
Her first idealistic romance with Ron had answered that question, and to her dismay, 'happily ever after' became, actually tidy up after yourself and I'll be happy after. As it happened, sharing a small London flat with a messy man-child did not compare to the glorious beach side cottages, or sun bathed stately homes her fantasy future was set in.
She didn't blame Ron, it wasn't his fault he couldn't live up to the cravat wearing men who'd claimed her heart so long ago. After all, what flesh and blood man could? It was this bumpy arrival into the reality of romance outside of the pages of books that led her to become more pragmatic in love. She wanted someone she could spend time with, who shared her passions, who could be relied upon to put his socks in the laundry basket.
So Hermione Granger set about finding herself such a man, and find him she did. A nice, sensible wizard who liked the classics, could operate a microwave and knew who the Prime Minister was.
When she found herself getting annoyed at the way he folded his underpants before putting them away, she realised that perhaps she'd gotten this romance thing wrong after all.
After that she took some time to collect herself and re-think. She looked at Harry and Ginny, and observed how they seemed incapable of being in the same room without touching, and decided that physical attraction might be the way to go. She dated for a bit, but nothing ever lasted. She went on three dates with gorgeous men, and even made it home with one of them. The overwhelming desire to get into a hot bath as she tiptoed down stairs of his grubby apartment the next morning, heels in hand, grimacing at the sticky carpet underneath her bare feet, made her think that she had missed the mark again.
At last she decided that perhaps she should stick to what she was good at, books. They never disappointed her, and they always finished when the curtains closed, so the rude reality of Mr Darcy holding questionable views about equality for magical creatures, never saw the light of day. She still couldn't believe Mr. House-Elves-Enjoy-Servitude had thought she'd be interested in attending his cousin's wedding with him after she'd told him where she'd like to stick her cocktail umbrella. She'd taken great pains to slowly explain what she'd do with each of the dozen roses he'd sent (thorns and all) if he darkened her doorstep again, and he'd been blissfully silent since.
Yes, she could be content with her books for company, she always had, hadn't she?
She told herself that each time she turned down an invitation for drinks with the handsome wizard from the Department of Mysteries, who happened to pass her office on 'official business' at least once a day.
She told herself that when Ron asked if they could try again, that he would try harder to be neater around the house.
She told herself that when she felt a bubble of jealousy when Luna asked her to be a bridesmaid at her wedding to Neville.
She tried to tell herself that the first time she bumped into him, literally, not figuratively, as she'd exited a muggle musical on Leicester Square of all places. He had been leaving an expensive looking (very obviously not Muggle) restaurant at the time.
They collided with enough force to cause her to stumble back a step, leaving her a touch witless. She blamed what she said immediately after on what was definitely (she ignored his very skeptical face at her explanation) a mild concussion.
'Oh Mr Malfoy, I didn't realise you enjoyed 'Kinky Boots' too?' she'd exclaimed.
To say he had been stunned would be an understatement, but in hindsight, it seemed only fair considering he had nearly knocked her to the ground only moments before.
'I beg your pardon Miss Granger!' he'd finally spluttered when he regained the capacity to speak.
He hadn't even sneered she mused. Not that she really minded when he did, she thought, but that was for a later chapter.
She'd turned a deep shade of magenta almost immediately, as she realised how that had sounded.
'I didn't mean… I only meant. It's a musical!' she squeaked, hating how she'd regressed to school age in less than a heartbeat.
'Excuse me?' he'd ground out in response.
In a second, and despite recent events rare, moment of impulsiveness, she huffed and grabbed his arm. She dragged the rather annoyed but surprisingly compliant man to a halt beneath the sign for the musical she had just seen.
The exquisitely dressed aristocratic Luicus Malfoy looked comical staring up at the figure of a proud looking man in red, wearing knee high boots and little shorts.
As he blinked against neon glare of the backlit poster, apparently unable to fathom the correct response, Hermione finally came to her senses enough to realise how insane her present predicament was.
At last the wizard dropped his gaze back to her face.
She swallowed and licked her lips.
His eyes snapped to her mouth as she did so, and then just as quickly back to her face.
His face had smoothed back into an implacable mask, and he seemed to look down at her from a great height.
She realised she was still holding onto him; she also noted the bulk of his bicep beneath her almost too firm grip.
His lips pursed slightly as if were about to speak.
She licked her lips again, trying to think of something to say. When nothing came to mind, she just shrugged helplessly and released him.
He stayed rooted before her, his face alert and intense.
She swallowed and shifted a bit under his scrutiny, debating whether she could Apparate in her present state of mind without splinching herself.
'What,' he said, drawing the word out, 'in Merlin's name, is a musical?' he enunciated each word as if it caused him pain.
Quite how she'd ended up in the box office buying two tickets, (balcony is all we have left the man in the office told her, it would do she replied) and then watching the whole damn thing with the dour faced wizard, she still wasn't sure.
In the dark of the theatre as the plot unfolded, she tried to ignore the feeling of his knee bumping against hers from time to time, or the subtle scent or bergamot and musk that occasionally washed over her, she especially tried to ignore the pounding of her heart when the lights came up for the interval, and he looked over at her, his face completely unreadable.
The moment was broken as the man next to her coughed politely, asking if he could sneak past. The scathing look Lucius directed at him when the same man patted his shoulder in thanks as he'd stood to let him by, was just too much for Hermione.
To stop herself from laughing at the ludicrousness of the scene, she once again took him by the arm and directed him towards the bar. Slipping her membership card out of her purse, she guided them to the roped off section at the end, where they would be served immediately, rather than after the hundred or so people excitedly discussing the musical in the queue behind them. She ordered a glass of house white wine and a whiskey for her companion, shoving the plastic cup into his hand.
He raised an eyebrow as he took it, but in favour of commenting, took a generous sip.
Hermione coughed and took a long sip of her own drink, wondering why she hadn't ordered a large.
He watched her mouth, his gaze tracing a path down her throat as she swallowed, and her heart began to hammer in her chest again. What on earth was she doing here, more precisely, what was he doing here?
'I suppose this is a common place amusement for Muggles?' he said at last, casting a slightly wary eye over the excited group of giggling teenage girls to their right.
'Err yes, it's fairly common. Very popular actually, though not everyone's cup of tea.' She tittered, hating herself for sounding nervous.
He nodded, and appeared about to say something else when the intercom announced that the audience should begin heading back to their seats. Flinching a bit at the crackly sound at the end, he nevertheless took her by the elbow and dutifully lead her back into the main house of the theatre. Before she knew it the lights were down and the second half had begun.
At last the curtain fell and the audience applauded, rising to their feet in ovation when the cast came back onto the stage. Apparently assuming this was social etiquette at these things, and ever a stickler for society expectations, Mr Malfoy too rose and bemusedly offered a half-hearted applause.
The show was over, the sun had set, and Hermione Granger found herself standing outside the theatre once again, as they had several hours earlier, idly thinking that the bit that came after hadn't looked so damn hot in a long time.
She licked her lips once more, and she could only assume he agreed with her, because he growled in frustration and then firmly took her face in her hands. He paused just long enough for her to suck in a breath of surprise (and run away she supposed), before kissing her soundly. It was a good thing she'd taken that breath she mused, given the brazen moan he'd elicited as he dragged his teeth over the bottom lip.
They stood there, once again bathed in the artificial the glow of the musical sign, snogging like teenagers. At last, a wolf whistle from a taxi of rowdy clubbers on their way to their next watering hole, brought them back to reality.
He still had her face cupped in his hands as the taxi came to a screeching halt, and she was dragging his mouth back to hers by the lapels of his frock coat, when she heard the driver tell them they'd have to get out as he'd got a flat tyre.
He stifled a giggle in her throat as he kissed her again to the sound of drunk men and women swearing about their bad luck, as they reconciled themselves to walking the remaining two hundred yards to the club. She'd asked her blonde haired companion about the timing of the flat much later, his smirk had been all the confirmation she'd needed.
She'd Apparated them back to her little cottage in a small town just past the suburbs of London, where she'd hung pictures of the sea and Pemberley, not even considering she probably wasn't in the best frame of mind for such an activity at that time. They were clawing at one another's clothing, with buttons popping off and, in some cases, disappearing into thin air, in an effort to hasten the process, before Hermione dimly decided, if she ever had been OK with just books, then she had since changed her mind.
Shortly after, around the time Lucius Malfoy had driven her to the brink several times with his hands and his mouth, she concluded that reality was perhaps a bit underrated after all. When she determined she'd had quite enough of that, and decided to find a curtain call they could both enjoy, she concluded that there were definite pros to writing one's own story.