Fic: In his hands (Draco/Hermione, PG-13)
Feb. 7th, 2012 07:20 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
skriftlig.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
hpkinkfestTitle: In his hands
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
skriftlig
Prompt Number: 303 submitted bydormiensa
Kink Showcased: Finger partialism
Rating: PG-13 /0\
Pairing(s): Draco/Hermione
Summary: She hates everything about him, with ten beautiful exceptions.
Content Notes/Warnings: Brief mention of violence (not between main pairing). Complete and utter lack of explicit sexytimes.
Word Count: ~1,400
Author's Notes: I feel like this might be a bit tame for this fest, and not quite as kinky as the prompter was hoping for. I hope you like it nonetheless,dormiensa. Huge thank you to pern_dragon who generously beta'd this on incredibly short notice. I couldn't resist fiddling with it afterward, so any remaining mistakes are my own. Mods, could I get a partialism or finger kink tag, please? :)
Eight o'clock and Hermione is down to breakfast. Eight fifteen, the owls arrive. She estimates a minute for untying the package, thirty seconds to put the coin in its pouch and another thirty to unfold the paper. Eight seventeen, she looks across the Great Hall.
Malfoy always holds The Prophet up to his face. Today's front page looks the same as usual: a shifting back and white photo under a headline that Hermione can't quite make out. Malfoy doesn't use magic to keep the paper in place—something that used to surprise her—and instead his fingers, long and pale, are clearly visible wrapped around the edges of the greyish paper. She imagines the smudges on his fingertips, the ink from the printed text filling the microscopic ridges in his skin. If his fingers touched her, they'd leave ten small, dirty marks on her body.
Eight twenty-five, Hermione shifts in her seat.
+ + +
There were never many friends over at Hermione's house when she was young. The children in her class didn't want to play dentists, and Hermione had little interest in toys or dolls, so she often played by herself. She practised by standing on tiptoe to see into the mirror, trying to replicate the way her parents' latex-gloved hands moved deftly around her teeth during her monthly check-ups.
Dentistry became a hobby, her only one really, and she became exceptionally good at it. She once told her mum that she sometimes felt the sharp scrape of a periodontal probe along her gums or a flash of cold metal against her cheek even when her hands where empty. Her mum hadn't believed her of course, not until the letter arrived.
When she got on the train to Hogwarts, she gave up practising dentistry. Witches and wizards probably didn't need dentists—surely they could do it all by magic—even ones who could identify every adult tooth before they were 6 years old. She met Harry and Ron on the train; Ron had bright ginger hair, lots of freckles and a smudge of dirt on his nose, but Hermione noticed his fingers first. They were longer than hers and slimmer and she offered her hand for him to shake immediately. She gasped when his thumb and index finger touched over the back of her hand. Maybe she didn't need dentistry after all.
+ + +
Malfoy sits one row in front and two to the left of Hermione in Ancient Runes. About 15 minutes in, he translates the runic symbol for “dirty” into the word “Mudblood” and half the class are in uproar. Professor Babbity assigns him two feet on the correct form of the word and Malfoy doesn't even argue.
Hermione turns slightly in her chair, crossing her legs so she is angled towards Malfoy's desk. By the time she looks over, he's already writing. His fingers are curved around the nib of his quill, fingernails disappearing from view. They flex as he writes and thin tendons spread out over the back of his hand, like little roots growing from his beautiful fingers. His movements are controlled, precise, and Hermione is sure that he could have been a brilliant pianist if he had been born a Muggle.
His knuckles jut out as he grips the quill. They are slightly paler than the rest of his fingers and the shallow creases that usually surround them are stretched into small red lines – two perfect curves above the knuckle and three below. Hermione has their patterns memorised; she wonders if Malfoy even knows they're there.
The quill slides up and down his hand as he fills up his parchment, the little feathers near the base rubbing against the skin between his thumb and forefinger. Hermione has to stop her leg twitching in time with his hand.
When the lesson comes to an end, Justin and Ernie walk out behind Malfoy. Just before they go through the doorway together, Justin smashes into Malfoy and Ernie rips his bag from his shoulder. Spare quills and ink fly into the air, tangled with his Quidditch gloves and scarf and a few heavy-looking books.
Hermione has her wand in her hand before any of it has even hit the floor.
+ + +
The first time had been an accident. Malfoy had insulted Ron's family so Harry had shoved him against the wall and the inevitable fight followed. Someone had obviously got in a punch to Malfoy's nose because his cheek and chin were smeared with blood and little red circles were splattered over his robes. More people joined in as Malfoy, backed up against the wall under an onslaught of attackers, blindly threw his fists around.
Hermione and a few others hurried to separate them, dragging bodies off of Malfoy. In the chaos, Malfoy's hand had landed flat against her face, his thumb close to her hairline and fingers splayed over her cheek, nose and eyes. A blur of dark lines half covered her vision and when she blinked, her eyelashes dragged thickly across his skin. His hands were damp with a heady smell of sweat and blood and she nearly, nearly pushed it off.
Instead she inched her face up, feeling her nose and lips that were squashed beneath his hand suddenly spring free between his hard, open fingers. She held her breath, insides squirming with pleasure and horror. The sounds from the remaining scuffles surrounded her but Hermione could only focus on the pleasure of having someone else's fingers against her face. Someone else's exquisite fingers. Malfoy's thumb moved minutely, involuntarily, and her body spasmed beneath his hand.
It was over in a few seconds; Malfoy wrenched his hand away—taking a few strands of her hair with him—and the cool air hit her face again. She hurried with the others to a bathroom to clean herself up.
Ever since then, the curve of his little finger is still etched onto her bottom lip and she can almost taste the soft pad of his fingertip in the corner of her mouth. When she fantasises about that moment, she imagines opening her lips and touching his finger with her tongue and teeth. To lick at the creases on the inside of his knuckles and suck the skin into her mouth.
+ + +
Hermione lies in bed. The sound of her dorm-mates' heavy breathing sails through the gap in the bed hangings and there is a soft orange glow in the room from a candle that will soon go out. She reaches under her pillow, bringing out her wand and a single green Quidditch glove. Quietly, even though she's sure the other girls are asleep, she whispers a spell.
The incantation is one of her own design and not something she's prepared to share, no matter how many times Flitwick asks her about her research on Flesh Memory. She touches the tip of her wand to the glove and for a second nothing happens, then, slowly, it inflates, like a child blowing into a slightly grotesque hand-shaped balloon. When it reaches the exact size of Malfoy's left hand it stops, laying silently on the bed covers next to her.
Tentatively, she reaches out her fingers to the tips of the gloved ones. Her hand is trembling—she can't believe this has worked, that she has a copy of Malfoy's perfect fingers for herself—and she bumps her hand ungracefully into his. The material is thin enough that she can feel the outline of his short fingernails, like his hand is really there inside the glove.
She points her hand up and drags her palm over his nails, letting them trace light lines down her skin and over her wrist. She's barely aware of her other hand slipping down her body. Her hand moves back over the top of Malfoy's fingers, and her legs fall open as she touches his fingertips again. There's a tiny dip as the nail joins the cuticle and then his fingers rise up to the first set of joints near his fingernails. She strokes further, running her fingers along his longer ones until she reaches the next set of joints. They are hard, just as she imagined, and she sweeps her fingertips in circles over them, feeling the solid bump where the bones meet. Her fingers rub in faster circles, both hands mirroring the movement, and she wriggles down into the bed.
When her rhythm falters and her fingers slip against Malfoy's, she laces their fingers together instead. Her hand tightens around the glove, nails digging in to the soft leather as she turns her face into the pillow, muffling her cry.
Author:
skriftligPrompt Number: 303 submitted by
dormiensaKink Showcased: Finger partialism
Rating: PG-13 /0\
Pairing(s): Draco/Hermione
Summary: She hates everything about him, with ten beautiful exceptions.
Content Notes/Warnings: Brief mention of violence (not between main pairing). Complete and utter lack of explicit sexytimes.
Word Count: ~1,400
Author's Notes: I feel like this might be a bit tame for this fest, and not quite as kinky as the prompter was hoping for. I hope you like it nonetheless,
dormiensa. Huge thank you to pern_dragon who generously beta'd this on incredibly short notice. I couldn't resist fiddling with it afterward, so any remaining mistakes are my own. Mods, could I get a partialism or finger kink tag, please? :)Eight o'clock and Hermione is down to breakfast. Eight fifteen, the owls arrive. She estimates a minute for untying the package, thirty seconds to put the coin in its pouch and another thirty to unfold the paper. Eight seventeen, she looks across the Great Hall.
Malfoy always holds The Prophet up to his face. Today's front page looks the same as usual: a shifting back and white photo under a headline that Hermione can't quite make out. Malfoy doesn't use magic to keep the paper in place—something that used to surprise her—and instead his fingers, long and pale, are clearly visible wrapped around the edges of the greyish paper. She imagines the smudges on his fingertips, the ink from the printed text filling the microscopic ridges in his skin. If his fingers touched her, they'd leave ten small, dirty marks on her body.
Eight twenty-five, Hermione shifts in her seat.
There were never many friends over at Hermione's house when she was young. The children in her class didn't want to play dentists, and Hermione had little interest in toys or dolls, so she often played by herself. She practised by standing on tiptoe to see into the mirror, trying to replicate the way her parents' latex-gloved hands moved deftly around her teeth during her monthly check-ups.
Dentistry became a hobby, her only one really, and she became exceptionally good at it. She once told her mum that she sometimes felt the sharp scrape of a periodontal probe along her gums or a flash of cold metal against her cheek even when her hands where empty. Her mum hadn't believed her of course, not until the letter arrived.
When she got on the train to Hogwarts, she gave up practising dentistry. Witches and wizards probably didn't need dentists—surely they could do it all by magic—even ones who could identify every adult tooth before they were 6 years old. She met Harry and Ron on the train; Ron had bright ginger hair, lots of freckles and a smudge of dirt on his nose, but Hermione noticed his fingers first. They were longer than hers and slimmer and she offered her hand for him to shake immediately. She gasped when his thumb and index finger touched over the back of her hand. Maybe she didn't need dentistry after all.
Malfoy sits one row in front and two to the left of Hermione in Ancient Runes. About 15 minutes in, he translates the runic symbol for “dirty” into the word “Mudblood” and half the class are in uproar. Professor Babbity assigns him two feet on the correct form of the word and Malfoy doesn't even argue.
Hermione turns slightly in her chair, crossing her legs so she is angled towards Malfoy's desk. By the time she looks over, he's already writing. His fingers are curved around the nib of his quill, fingernails disappearing from view. They flex as he writes and thin tendons spread out over the back of his hand, like little roots growing from his beautiful fingers. His movements are controlled, precise, and Hermione is sure that he could have been a brilliant pianist if he had been born a Muggle.
His knuckles jut out as he grips the quill. They are slightly paler than the rest of his fingers and the shallow creases that usually surround them are stretched into small red lines – two perfect curves above the knuckle and three below. Hermione has their patterns memorised; she wonders if Malfoy even knows they're there.
The quill slides up and down his hand as he fills up his parchment, the little feathers near the base rubbing against the skin between his thumb and forefinger. Hermione has to stop her leg twitching in time with his hand.
When the lesson comes to an end, Justin and Ernie walk out behind Malfoy. Just before they go through the doorway together, Justin smashes into Malfoy and Ernie rips his bag from his shoulder. Spare quills and ink fly into the air, tangled with his Quidditch gloves and scarf and a few heavy-looking books.
Hermione has her wand in her hand before any of it has even hit the floor.
The first time had been an accident. Malfoy had insulted Ron's family so Harry had shoved him against the wall and the inevitable fight followed. Someone had obviously got in a punch to Malfoy's nose because his cheek and chin were smeared with blood and little red circles were splattered over his robes. More people joined in as Malfoy, backed up against the wall under an onslaught of attackers, blindly threw his fists around.
Hermione and a few others hurried to separate them, dragging bodies off of Malfoy. In the chaos, Malfoy's hand had landed flat against her face, his thumb close to her hairline and fingers splayed over her cheek, nose and eyes. A blur of dark lines half covered her vision and when she blinked, her eyelashes dragged thickly across his skin. His hands were damp with a heady smell of sweat and blood and she nearly, nearly pushed it off.
Instead she inched her face up, feeling her nose and lips that were squashed beneath his hand suddenly spring free between his hard, open fingers. She held her breath, insides squirming with pleasure and horror. The sounds from the remaining scuffles surrounded her but Hermione could only focus on the pleasure of having someone else's fingers against her face. Someone else's exquisite fingers. Malfoy's thumb moved minutely, involuntarily, and her body spasmed beneath his hand.
It was over in a few seconds; Malfoy wrenched his hand away—taking a few strands of her hair with him—and the cool air hit her face again. She hurried with the others to a bathroom to clean herself up.
Ever since then, the curve of his little finger is still etched onto her bottom lip and she can almost taste the soft pad of his fingertip in the corner of her mouth. When she fantasises about that moment, she imagines opening her lips and touching his finger with her tongue and teeth. To lick at the creases on the inside of his knuckles and suck the skin into her mouth.
Hermione lies in bed. The sound of her dorm-mates' heavy breathing sails through the gap in the bed hangings and there is a soft orange glow in the room from a candle that will soon go out. She reaches under her pillow, bringing out her wand and a single green Quidditch glove. Quietly, even though she's sure the other girls are asleep, she whispers a spell.
The incantation is one of her own design and not something she's prepared to share, no matter how many times Flitwick asks her about her research on Flesh Memory. She touches the tip of her wand to the glove and for a second nothing happens, then, slowly, it inflates, like a child blowing into a slightly grotesque hand-shaped balloon. When it reaches the exact size of Malfoy's left hand it stops, laying silently on the bed covers next to her.
Tentatively, she reaches out her fingers to the tips of the gloved ones. Her hand is trembling—she can't believe this has worked, that she has a copy of Malfoy's perfect fingers for herself—and she bumps her hand ungracefully into his. The material is thin enough that she can feel the outline of his short fingernails, like his hand is really there inside the glove.
She points her hand up and drags her palm over his nails, letting them trace light lines down her skin and over her wrist. She's barely aware of her other hand slipping down her body. Her hand moves back over the top of Malfoy's fingers, and her legs fall open as she touches his fingertips again. There's a tiny dip as the nail joins the cuticle and then his fingers rise up to the first set of joints near his fingernails. She strokes further, running her fingers along his longer ones until she reaches the next set of joints. They are hard, just as she imagined, and she sweeps her fingertips in circles over them, feeling the solid bump where the bones meet. Her fingers rub in faster circles, both hands mirroring the movement, and she wriggles down into the bed.
When her rhythm falters and her fingers slip against Malfoy's, she laces their fingers together instead. Her hand tightens around the glove, nails digging in to the soft leather as she turns her face into the pillow, muffling her cry.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}