Summary: "Why are you nervous?" He asked, his eyes still transfixed on the flowers he had begun painting on her skin. "Because I'm naked," She hissed, trying to will her shaking hand to be still in his grasp. He paused. "You aren't naked, stop exaggerating." Tomione. Rated M.

When she agreed to help Harry with his photography project, she thought it would be like all the times she had helped him through high school. Walking through the park at sunset while he took photos, joining him in his room where he set up a make-shift studio by hanging white sheets all over his room, sitting in front of his camera fully clothed, sans-makeup, just as she normally looks while he plays with the different settings on his camera and experiments with different angles and lighting.

But she walks into the university studio and the first thing he tells her is she needs to take her clothes off and then points in the general direction of a terrifyingly angry-looking gentleman who will apparently be painting her.

Painting her.

"It's—It's Hades and Persephone, Malfoy is getting painted too—"

Oh, and of course she has a counterpart in this photography session, and its Draco sodding Malfoy.

"And who's painting Malfoy?" She asked quietly, examining the man in the far corner of the room who is mixing his paints on a pallet to form a pretty shade of lavender.

"Um…" He hesitated, not meeting her eyes and instead focusing on his camera on its tripod. "Luna is painting him."

"Luna?" She hissed, "Malfoy get's Luna but I get some bloke who looks like he would rather chuck me out the nearest window than paint me? Why can't I have Luna? Shouldn't I get Luna? I'm the girl—"

"Your paint is more complicated—" Harry insisted, pulling his eye away from his camera in order to watch her beseechingly, "Please, Hermione," He begs, "Riddle is better at—"

"Fine, fine," Hermione conceded begrudgingly, knowing that if she did refuse she would only feel horribly guilty. "Why did you ask me? Wouldn't Ginny be better for Persephone?"

"Nah," Harry smiled, "You're my favorite person to photograph."

"Unfortunately," She parried, only half joking, holding the bra and underwear in her hands that she would have to change into and wondering if she should just say sod it all and take the guilt instead of the anxiety of waltzing around here practically nude and allowing the scary artist to spend hours painting her.

Painting her. Jesus Christ.

She sighed loudly and hurried to the back corner of the studio where a small set of curtains were set up to allow her privacy to change. She saw Ginny and Ron helping set up the lighting, placing huge light fixtures and arranging the area she would later be posing. Naked. With Malfoy. After the scary man painted flowers all over her.

Damn it, why had she agreed to this?

She would allow herself a moment of visible anxiety when she was behind the curtain, she decided. Not here, in the open, while Ginny turned and saw her and waved excitedly (Hermione forced herself to smile and wave back). She would freak out when no one could see her and not a moment before—

She pulled the curtain back to step in but Malfoy was there—in all his pale, practically naked, muscled glory—with a big fat smirk on his face when he saw her horrified expression.

"Christ," She gasped, throwing the curtains closed again and turning away. She heard him laughing—the prat—and she heard the scrape of the curtain rings as he opened them again.

"Granger," He greeted, his voice holding every ounce of spoiled, misguided superiority that she expected. "You alright? You look a bit peaky—"

"Oh, sod off, Malfoy," She spat, stepping into the curtained area as he stepped out (Christ, he was only wearing a pair of nude briefs, she was going to lose her mind). He caught the curtain before she could pull it closed.

"Nervous, Granger?" He asked, his lips stretching into an even larger smirk, his tall form looming over her in what she was certain was meant to be some sort of flirtatious intimidation and damn him, it was working.

"Malfoy, I don't care if you're supposed to be posing with me, I will break you nose if you don't leave me alone." She threatened, her fingers clutching the curtain and glaring up at him with all the fury her little body could muster. His smirk faltered for a moment, and his fingers fell from the curtain. He raised a haughty brow and peered down his nose at her.

"Alright, Granger," He sneered, "No need to get your panties in a twist." His lips tipped up in the corner once again, "That's all you'll be wearing in a moment, after all."

"Oh, sod off Malfoy," She hissed, pulling the curtain shut and waiting until she could see his bare feet pad away from the curtain before changing. She peeled off her jeans and top and the underwear she was already wearing, changing into the things Harry had given her. They matched her skin tone perfectly, which was probably a good thing in terms of the photoshoot but in terms of her sanity there was certainly nothing good about looking completely naked.

She spotted Malfoy's zip-up hoodie thrown in the corner of the changing space, so she picked it up and donned it, clutching it closed in the front and padding out from behind the curtain. She bee-lined to the painter.

Objectively, he was handsome. She had seen him around the university once or twice, if he was ever outside painting or sometimes reading. She recognized him, though she didn't know his name. But he just looked so spectacularly angry at the moment and she wasn't sure if she was interested in bearing the brunt of that anger.

She thinks Harry called him Riddle, right? "Uh," She started once she had stood behind him for about a minute without him noticing, "Riddle?" He turned in his seat, his dark eyes and aristocratic features catching the light that streamed in through the window at his side. His eyes slowly appraised her, starting at her bushy hair and trailing down to her feet. She fidgeted.

"You need to take that off." He told her simply, the timbre of his voice not exactly surprising her but still affecting her. She frowned.

"Yes, I know." She agreed, but she didn't move yet. She didn't want to take it off yet. She thought maybe she could talk to him first, get comfortable before she strips practically naked in front of him and allows him to be in close proximity, painting her, feel a bit more at ease with his presence before her—

"Take it off and stand over here," He tells her suddenly, rising from where he was seated and walking toward the window, pulling up the blinds to the sunlight filtered in more fully. She frowned.

"Can't you just…start with my legs?" She asked. He paused, eyeing her with nothing short of contempt in his gaze in front of the window. His eyes narrowed, and in her attempts to avoid his glare, she noticed that his hair was so dark it shined shades of blue in the sunlight instead of brown.

"Fine," He conceded after a long moment of silence, leaning forward to pull the stool he had been sitting on earlier toward the window. "Sit." He ordered.

She shuffled to the stool, perching careful on the edge, keeping the jacked clutched in her hands, not bothering to zip it up because she knew she would have to take it off soon. He picked up his pallet, alight with different shades of lavender and pink and red and blue and green, and in his other hand his long fingers held a paintbrush. There was something inarguably elegant about the way he wielded it, perched precariously in his hand, the gentleness of his hand contrasting so strongly with the ever-present scowl on his face. He squatted on the floor by her legs.

She was so focused on his hand she didn't see his frown until he placed his paintbrush between his teeth, and his now empty hand wrapping around her ankle to pull her leg straight, almost pulling her entirely off the stool. Her hands, on instinct, left the fabric of the jacket to grip the stool to keep herself from falling off. "Watch it," She scolded, too angry to even flinch at the way his eyes snapped up to hers like a broken rubber band, somehow stinging in the same way. She grit her teeth and pulled the jacket shut again.

"I'm painting you," He explained evenly, releasing his grip on her ankle to withdraw the brush from his teeth, "I will need to move you at times."

"You can ask," She spat. He ignored her, dipping his brush into the pale pink and carefully pressing it against the top of her foot. She jerked.

"Stop moving," He said sternly, his dark eyes lifting to meet hers in another glare. She glared right back.

"It was cold," She defended herself, scowling when he rolled his eyes. He placed his pallet on the floor so that his left hand could wrap around the bottom of her foot, his paintbrush meeting her skin again, his harsh grip keeping her from jerking again.

This part wasn't so bad. The paint was cold, but it also felt silky against her skin, and watching the elegant way he moved while he painted was oddly entrancing. Seeing the flowers form on her skin as her slowly worked up her ankle was nothing short of mesmerizing, and she understood why Harry wanted so badly for Riddle to paint her. He was quite talented.

She was certain Luna could have done a fantastic job as well, but nonetheless.

However slow the process was moving, she knew that inevitably she would need to remove her safety jacket and allow him to paint the rest of her. And he seemed to lean very close to what he was painting, if the feeling of his breath against her ankle was any indication. She gripped tightly at the jacket.

"So…" She started slowly, attempting to put herself at ease by filling the silence. "What's your first name?"

"I don't want to speak to you." He replied flatly. Her brow furrowed on its own accord, her chin snapping down to watch him as he continued to paint, acting as if he hadn't just completely shut her down.

"Pardon?" She finally said, her mood very quickly darkening. He paused in his painting, sighed deeply and tipped his chin up to meet her eyes.

"I'm here to paint you," He told her, speaking slowly and calmly as if trying to placate her, but it only made her more angry. "I'm not here to make conversation."

"Well, excuse me if I don't want to sit here in awkward silence for the entirety of your painting," He turned back to her leg, his brush moving along her skin. She ignored the pleasant tingles it caused.

"It isn't awkward," He argued, his voice hardly above a murmur and his breath fanning across her painted skin.

"It is awkward," She argued, "And all I did was ask your name, it's not as if I asked anything personal, so there's no reason to be rude."

His eyes briefly flicked up to hers, but ultimately he kept his focus on his work. "Tom," He offered simply. "You can speak if you feel the need to fill the silence with empty words, but I'd prefer to remain silent."

"Do you have any people skills?" She asked, "Or are you one of those artists whose talents come at the expense of their social graces?"

His hand smoothed up her calf and stopped just under her knee, bending her leg so he could paint over her knee. "May I point out that your insulting me seems like a poorer use of manners than myself simply stating that I don't want to speak to you."

"No, you may not point that out," She grumbled, and because she had taken that moment to cast her eyes around the studio, she missed the brief upturn of his lips. "Besides, I didn't insult you. It was an honest question."

"I have people skills," He answered evenly, his hand sliding around to the inside of her thigh to hold her leg still while he traced his flowers. She felt twitchy and uncomfortable, caught between liking the feeling of his hands on her and feeling as if she probably shouldn't like it, "I'm just not using them with you. I've been asked to paint you, not charm you."

"Cant you do both?" She muttered, watching him turn to dip his brush into his pallet, but he paused. He looked up at her, one eyebrow raising as he regarded her, looking strangely amused.

"You want me to charm you?" He asked. She frowned and rolled her eyes.

"I just think if I'm going to be spending an hour with you while you paint me, you could at least be charming," She snarked in reply, not liking the way his lips twitched upward because it felt like he was disregarding her. "But then I suppose nothing I say is going to make you act like any less of a prat." It surprised her when he laughed—quick and short, more of a puff of air than a real chuckle, but still—and he returned his brush to her skin.

"Correct," He affirmed, and she saw the barest flash of teeth in his smile before it was gone. His hand slid up her thigh, not for any purpose other than to steady her while he worked, but it still felt far too nice for Hermione to stomach. She kept silent for a moment, trying to keep her thoughts from turning anywhere unsavory, focusing on the feeling of the brush on her outer thigh, the paint that was drying down her leg, the way his brow puckered in concentration, but his hand proved exceedingly distracting.

"Um—could you—" She asked vaguely, glancing down at his hand on the inside of her thigh. His eyes flickered up to meet hers before glancing at his hand on her inner thigh. He pulled away.

"Apologies," He muttered, withdrawing his hand and instead sliding it up her hip, pushing the bottom of her jacket up in the process so he could continue painting up her thigh and onto her hip.

"It's alright," She said, then regretted it, because she felt like that wording made it sound like she wanted it, so she changed the subject, saying, "My name is Hermione, by the way," And in a much quieter voice, she mumbled, "I never told you."

"And yet you were the one lecturing me about my manners," He commented, placing his brush between his teeth so he could use the nail of his thumb to scratch away the still wet paint of the flower, wiping away the imperfection. For some reason, the sensation jumped to her stomach, twisting in her abdomen. So she laughed, because with the feelings his hands were bringing, she didn't trust herself to say anything at that exact moment.

He watched her briefly from his place at her feet as she gazed out the window, the smile slowly fading in the aftermath of her laughter. It took him a moment before he finally said, "You need to remove the jacket now."

She snapped her chin down to meet his eyes. "But what about my other leg," She said, lifting her unpainted leg toward him almost as if it was an offering. He frowned, placing his hand on her knee and pushing her leg back down.

"No," He said, "I'm not painting that leg." He pulled his hand away to glide his index finger across the space above her leg, "The flowers go up your leg," He gestured vaguely across her body, "Up your torso, your neck, and the side of your face. Not the other leg."

She hesitated, not removing her hands from where they were still clutching onto her jacket. He sighed heavily.

"We can start with your arm if you like." He offered. She nodded. His hand came to rest on her lower back, ushering her off the stool as he ordered, "Stand," So she did. She examined the flowers as she allowed her jacket to fall to the floor, admiring the pretty pastels of the petals and the vibrant green of the leaves. They looked beautiful over her skin.

He stood, using the stool as a table for his pallet, and she hadn't noticed how tall he was until he was beside her. She was appreciative that he didn't loom over her the way Malfoy did, try to make her feel small. Instead he gently held her hand—because as serious and angry as he always seemed, she noticed he was always gentle when it came to his art—and began tracing a similar pattern of flowers over her knuckles, but he stopped.

"Stop shaking." He told her. She huffed angrily.

"I can't just stop shaking, I'm nervous," She said, shifting her weight between her feet, rolling her shoulders and attempting to be still. He used his other hand, holding the brush carefully between his fingers so he didn't unintentionally mark her with paint, to clasp her shoulder and attempt to force her to be still.

"Why are you nervous?" He asked, his eyes still transfixed on the flowers he had begun painting on her skin. She wasn't sure if she would prefer that he looked at her or not, she wasn't sure if it would calm her or make her even more nervous.

"Because I'm naked," She hissed, trying to will her shaking hand to be still in his grasp. He paused, his eyes slowly, languidly examining her bare shoulders, gliding down her body and back up to meet her eyes. She glared viciously at him.

"You aren't naked," He said evenly, "Stop exaggerating." He lifted the hand he had resting on her shoulder to return his brush to her hand, but it was still shaking. "And stop shaking."

"I can't just stop shaking just because you tell me to, Tom," She scolded, and he tilted his head back and closed his eyes, breathing harshly through his nose.

"Talk about something that calms you then."

She ransacked her mind for something to talk about that would calm her, but she couldn't think about much to be honest. She was just nervous, standing nearly naked in the middle of a studio. She took a deep breath and held it in.

Tom watched her curiously for a moment while she thought, his brush poised above her hand which he still held in his. After a long moment, he offered quietly, "Ask me questions, then."

She met his eyes, surprised by the offer, but his eyes dropped to her hand almost immediately. She only needed to think for a moment before she knew what to ask.

"How do you know Harry?" She asked.

"We know each other from Wool's," He said, "Met again in University." Her mouth twisted into an apologetic frown.

"Wool's is awful," She commented, remembering the year she had volunteered there when she was younger, "I'm sure you're glad to be out of there." He hummed in agreement but made no further comment, his brush working his magic over the back of her hand. She watched his expression while he painted, the way he looked so intensely focused, his mouth a thin, straight line, his jaw twitching. She forced back a smile while she watched because she thought that might be a bit creepy. "What is your middle name?" She asked.

His brush paused, his eyes meeting hers and blinking twice before he carefully replied, "Marvolo," As if he really had not expected that question.

"Marvolo?" She repeated, her nose scrunching up, "That's an odd name." He ignored her, painting a green vine wrapping around her wrist. "My middle name is Jean," She offered.

"I didn't ask," He replied plainly, and she laughed at the monotone response. He paused again, but he didn't look at her, just continued painting as if her laughter hadn't caught him off guard.

"Um," She hummed, trying to think of another question. He had been right to offer she ask him something, because she felt calmer now that she could focus on him instead of her nearly bare body. "Are you majoring in painting?"

"I don't attend university," He answered.

"But I've seen you around—"

"I teach." He answered plainly, "Or rather, I assist Slughorn in his lessons. Don't bend your arm." He had traced his flowers up to her elbow, and the command had followed shortly after he painted a pale pink rose on the inside of her elbow.

"I like Slughorn," She said, "He always looks so happy when he paints." She paused for a moment, examining his face again while he focused on his work. "You always look a bit angry when you paint." She observed. He shot her a withering glance. "Or maybe you just always look angry."

"Most likely the latter," He says evenly, this time not showing any reaction when she laughs in response.

"I major in political science," She told him. "But I don't want to be in politics. I want to do non-profit stuff and…activist stuff."

"Specific," He muttered, working his way up toward her shoulder. She glared at him, but it didn't have the ferocity her previous glares had.

"Well, I still have two years," She said, "I can figure it out." He hummed in agreement, his brush sweeping over her shoulder and dipping into her collarbone as her worked.

"What do you do for fun?" She asked.

"I don't have fun," He replies dryly, his brush detailing the flowers at the bottom of her throat. She could feel his breath against her collar bone as he worked, heating her skin before it was cooled by the paint. She had the fleeting thought that she rather liked this, how close he was, the feeling of his paint brush against her skin, the easy conversation and the intimacy of being part of the medium for his art. She hadn't considered being painted before as being something like foreplay, but she found herself rather endeared to him. She smiled, and his hand rose to slide around the back of her throat under her jaw and angle her head so he had access to her neck.

"I don't have much fun either," She admitted, "At least by some people's standards." His brush started on the sensitive skin of her neck and her breath caught. She tried to hide it by continuing on. "I read. A lot. Or I go to museum exhibits or tours. There was one recently at—"

"Stop talking," He cut in, and she turned her head back toward him to glare at him in half anger, half confusion. "I'm starting on your throat," He explained, seeing her expression, "When you talk, you move. When I'm done you can speak."

She nodded, appeased, and allowed him to reposition her head and continue along her throat. Without the distraction of her ramblings, she couldn't focus on anything except the feeling of the paint gliding across her skin and his breath warming her, leaning in so close she could count the hairs that fell across his forehead. He was very handsome when he wasn't scowling, she realized. And for once he wasn't scowling while he painted. She couldn't get a good look, with her face angled away, but she could see him if he turned her eyes and for once he didn't look like he was painting out of spite. She thought he almost looked peaceful.

He traced the shape of the flowers up the column of her throat and along the side of her face, and with time, the anxiety-inducing twists of her stomach quelled to a pleasant buzzing in her fingers and toes. With time and with silence she found it easier to withstand the intensity of his eyes on her skin while painted, the feeling of his fingers and his brush, the sensations his breath left along her skin.

When he pulled away, he raised the hand that held his paintbrush and swept the hair off his forehead, leaving a trail of green just above his eyebrow. Hermione laughed and, without thinking, said, "Wait," as she reached for him. She steadied him with a hand on his cheek and her other hand rose to his forehead, her thumb smudging the green paint away. But when she focused on his eyes, her thoughtless touch suddenly felt a step too far.

She didn't think he looked angry, really, but she didn't have any other word for his expression. His eyebrows had pulled together, his dark eyes somehow smothering her in their intensity. She pulled her hands away, clearing her throat, but his expression didn't change. "Sorry," She said, "You had…paint on you."

There was a beat of silence where he continued to gaze down at her before he averted his eyes downward and, without a word, lowered himself to his knees and started at her hip, intent on finishing his work. She was glad for it, because if he was back to working that meant she could go back to talking to him.

"So," She continued after a brief hesitation, "How did you come to work with Slughorn?"

"Talent," He answered simply, leaning forward to focus on the strokes of his brush, unaware of the hair brushing against her abdomen.

"Ah, yes," She smiled, "And modesty, no doubt,"

"Modesty is irrelevant," He told her evenly, "Art critics do not care about modesty."

"Something tells me you don't care much about art critics to begin with." She parried, enjoying the way his eyes briefly flashed up to meet hers. She was momentarily distracted from her newest fixation when she caught sight of Malfoy in the corner of her eye, his paint complete and terrifying. "He looks evil," She commented.

Riddle glanced in his direction before refocusing on her flowers, "He looks like death," He said, "Which I'm certain was the intention. I'm not sure I would say he looks evil."

"You don't think the god of death is evil?" She asked.

"I don't believe in good and evil," He answered simply, his hand resting on the curve of her waist to hold her still as he continued to paint up her stomach.

"Well what about…Hitler?" She asked, "Is he evil?"

"I believe Hitler was foolish," He told her, "But evil is a term created by society to demonize deviant behavior."

"I thought you were an artist," She commented with a smile, "Not a sociologist."

He pulled the stool closer so he could sit upon it while he painted, rising too high to remain on his knees but knowing if he stood he would have to hunch over to continue up her chest. "I read," He told her, his hand coming around to press against her back to attempt to hold her still as he continued to paint his flowers over her chest. She was dealing quite well with it until his brush swept over her breast, and her breath stuttered.

"Don't move," He scolded her lightly.

"Sorry," She apologized, semi-sarcastically in order to attempt to hide the effect he was having on her. It might've worked if it weren't for the breathiness of her voice, but if he noticed he gave her no reason to believe so. "I'm only breathing."

"Don't breathe." He said, continuing until the flowers met the ones he had already painted along her collarbone. He hesitated when he was done, his hand remaining at her back even as he set his brush down. He met her eyes, his hand sliding down her spine until it was pressing into her lower back. She took a deep breath, and his eyes flickered down to the movement of her chest. His hand at her back pulled her an inch closer, urging her to step forward toward him, as he blew against the still damp paint on her chest. Her breath hitched, and his lips twitched in that almost-smile once more.

Then, suddenly, as if remembering where they were, he stopped. He pulled away, his stool scraping back as he stood. "You're finished," He told her, picking up his supplies and making his way to the back of the room which led to the bathroom, presumably to clean his brushes and his pallet. She felt cold, and vaguely annoyed, but swallowed her pride and ignored him, making her way toward Harry who was helping Ginny and Ron in finishing setting up the equipment for the shoot.

"Hermione!" He greeted when he saw her, "Oh man, that looks beautiful!" He looked around her briefly, before asking, "Where is—?"

"I think he's cleaning his brushes or something," She answered quickly, ready to get this whole thing over with. Harry nodded, nonplussed, and called Draco over.

When everything was set up and ready, Hermione and Draco took their places in front of the camera and the easy part began. Posing with Draco was preferable to anything else with Draco, because at least this way he couldn't talk. So when his arm wound around her waist or his head dipped down to her throat, she didn't have to worry about any or his snide remarks or flirtatious comments to throw her off or make her uncomfortable.

"Wait, wait," Harry cut in suddenly, pulling his camera away from his face, "I have an idea, hey, Riddle?" Hermione's eyes jumped from her posing partner to the artist in the corner of the studio, whose dark eyes listed to meet hers over Draco's shoulder before turning his attention to Harry. "Come over here for a second."

He did, and Draco pulled back from her to linger at the side of the shoot, while Harry squatted beside Hermione with Tom, pulling her arm out. "Can we paint some black flowers along her arm here?" He asked, trailing his finger up the inside of her arm, "And Hermione, you'll reach for Draco like you just did."

She nodded along with Tom, who left her side to retrieve her paint before squatting beside her, extending her arm and beginning to add black and gray roses along her forearm. "You look uncomfortable," She said.

"I'm not" He deadpanned.

"No, I mean your position," She clarified, "Sit down." She used her other arm to tug at his arm. He fixed her with a withering glare before following her instructions, sitting beside her with his knees bent. She turned toward him, resting her arm on his knees, her own knees tucked up against her chest. She couldn't tell if he was happy or not to be painting her again when he thought he was done, but she knew she was certainly happy. "I've never been painted before," She told him. He glanced at her—his one indication that he was even listening—but otherwise didn't respond. "Have you ever painted someone?" She asked.

"I haven't painted someone's body before, no." He replied evenly.

"I like it," She admitted, watching his expression while he worked. He didn't respond, but she felt his grip tighten where he held her wrist to keep her arm still. She fought against the smile trying to claim her lips. "Do you?" She asked.

He stopped mid-rose and turned his eyes to meet hers.

"Oh, that looks great Tom!" Harry complimented at their side. Hermione flinched, not having noticed Harry approaching them, while Tom just looked annoyed. "I like the half-black rose. That looks great, ok, Draco?" Tom stood, walking away from her again and Hermione didn't even attempt to hide her displeasure as he departed.

"Almost done Hermione, don't need to get sour-faced." Harry teased, and she sent a weak glare in his direction. Malfoy reached her side, leaning over her while Hermione followed Harry's instructions and rested her newly painted arm to cup his jaw. He leaned in close.

"Never thought I'd get to see your bedroom eyes, Granger," He breathed. She clenched her jaw and stopped herself from snapping back. "But the way you look at Riddle makes me think I ought to leave the room."

"Stop talking, Malfoy," She murmurs.

He laughs lowly, and she's momentarily distracted when she catches a glimpse of Tom over his shoulder, who is sitting on his stool, his arms crossed across his chest and his paintbrush drumming against his arm. When he notices she's watching him he stills, and there's something very odd in his expression, that almost angry expression he donned when she wiped the paint from his face. She wanted to ask him what it meant, what he was thinking, what he wanted, but at the moment wrapped up in Malfoy's arms she could do nothing else but watch him.

She thinks Malfoy noticed, because he suddenly reached his hand down to squeeze her arse and she retaliated by sliding her hand from his jaw to his hair and pulling as hard as she could.

"Shit, Granger, you fucking—"

"No, no, no!" Harry interjected, "No, that was great, Hermione do that again!"

"Are you out of your bloody mind, Potter?" Malfoy spat, glaring at the photographer. Harry shrugged.

She pulled his hair again, and Draco's nails dug into her waist. "Alright, guys, calm down," Harry muttered from behind his camera. She lifted her foot to dig her heel into his toes, and he lowered his head to her throat and bit down.

She pulled away, "He bit me!" She cried, and Harry laughed. She snapped her head to his, "This isn't funny—"

"I told you two to calm it down," He protested with a smile, "I think I got the shot anyway, so—"

She punched Malfoy in the face.

"What the fuck, Granger—" He howled, clutching his cheek and staring at her in horror.

"Don't ever touch me again," She spat, "And especially don't ever bite me again, you—"

"Alright, alright!" Harry interjected, "You're all done! How about you guys go get washed up and we can all go out to dinner or something to celebrate a job well done?"

"I'm washing up first," She said, running toward the bathroom at the back when Malfoy started to race her. She made it there before him, slamming the door shut and locking it. He pounded twice on the door but said nothing, and Hermione huffed a quiet laugh, but when she turned around and saw Tom Riddle bent over the sink, washing the black paint out of his brush, watching her, she jumped.

"Oh," She said, "I—we're—I'm washing up and then we're going out to dinner." She explained, clearing her throat and forcing away her discomfort. "Did you want to come with us?"

He hesitated. "Sure." He said, turning the sink off and shaking the excess water off the brush. She grinned, watching as he dried the brush in his shirt before starting toward her. She contemplated opening the door, allowing him to leave to she could wash the paint off her skin but she hesitated. By the time he reached her she still had not moved, resting against the door. He raised an eyebrow and reached for the doorknob but her hand caught his wrist.

"Do you want to help?" She offered. His expression went blank, for a moment, like he wasn't sure what exactly she was offering. He hesitated, his hand still poised over the doorknob, examining her with dark eyes. She smiled, drawing her lower lip into her mouth when she saw his eyes drop to her mouth, his brow furrowing. She pulled his hand away from the doorknob, let his wrist slip from her fingers as she slid around him and started toward the sink. She turned and leaned against the basin, hooking her thumbs under the waistband and smiling impishly as him as he remained by the door, watching her.

"Stop." He said evenly. She did, her smile falling when she realized how drastically she might've misread the situation. She had thought he was handsome, and intelligent, and mildly interesting—and she had especially thought that he was interested in her as well. She bit her lip and averted her eyes away from his, feeling increasingly awkward and waiting for him to just leave so she could wash the paint off in the sink in peace and forget this ever happened.

But he didn't leave. Instead, he moved toward her, and he was able to cross the small expanse of the washroom and set his hands on her waist before she even realized he had elected to stay. She let out a small, startled yelp as he lifted her and set her on the edge of the basin, hooking his hand under the knee of her painted leg and hoisting it over the edge. He ran the water, held his fingers under the flow as he tested the temperature as she watched him in abject fascination.

He was so peculiar, she thought, as he cupped the water in his hand and let it spill over her shin. His hand meet her leg moments thereafter, smoothing over her skin from her knee down to her ankle, smearing the paint. She watched as the paint swirled in the sink, down the drain, watched as his hand smoothed up the underside of her leg. She watched the way he was focused so entirely on washing the paint from her skin.

His other hand remained on her waist, she noticed. And the way he had situated her on the edge of the sink—her painted leg in the basin as he washed it, her other leg hanging off the edge—left her with her legs spread open in front of him. She still hadn't been able to gather if she had misread the situation and he was truly uninterested or not, especially considering he was only currently touching her to wash her leg even when she had clearly made a show of being willing to strip off the little clothes she had on for him. She watched his face as his hand smoothed over her leg, watched the calm way his eyes fluttered around her leg and—was he truly not aware? Or was he simply unbothered that every movement of his hand was driving her insane—

But then his hand moved up over her knee, smoothing up her thigh in a purposeful way, a way that told her he knew exactly what he was doing. As soon as his hand neared her hip, and his thumb which ran up the inside of her thigh neared something much more exciting, he ran his hand back down her thigh to smear away the paint.

"It's a shame," She said a bit breathlessly, smiling when his hand paused at the sound. She wondered if he might've been distracted by the image of the paint running down her leg. "It was quite pretty."

He hummed distractedly in response, curling his fingers so he could drag his nails down the outer side of her thigh, scraping the paint off her skin. She thought she saw his lips twitch at her sharp intake of air. She wanted to say something else, something forward, but for all her assumptions he still had done nothing to ensure her that he was interested. While she had been confident enough to invite him to help her, she certainly wasn't going to make a fool of herself—he had told her to stop, after all, and just because he stayed to help her wash the paint off her skin didn't mean he meant anything by it. So she stayed silent, watched him, weighed her options and tried to discern if she should make the first move or wait for him to.

When the paint was washed off her leg, and he moved his hand over her hip and he hesitated briefly, his thumb remaining on the waistband of her underwear. She didn't even think about what she was saying, she just said it—"Take them off."

He didn't move, didn't even avert his eyes from where they were fixated on her hip. She felt hand he still held at her waist—the one ha hadn't been washing her wish—tense ever so slightly, his fingers flexing against her ribcage. She watched his jaw twitch, and she expected him to oblige her if his reaction was any indication, she expected him to do something, but instead he took a breath and calmly said, "No."

She frowned, her brow furrowing, feeling a bit embarrassed that she had now practically thrown herself at him twice and both times he blankly turned her down. She shifted—though there wasn't much room for her to move while she was perched on the edge of the sink—and she made to lower herself off the sink, "Tom—"

His hands held tight, not allowing her to move. Feeling unbalanced, because she had been shifting forward to set her foot that had been hanging off the sink onto the ground before he halted her, she hooked her ankle around the back of his leg to stop herself from toppling over. She's fairly certain she wouldn't have fallen anyway, considering the way he was holding her. And she wasn't certain if it was the fact that she had been about to move away or the fact that she suddenly clung to him, but something prompted him to move forward, and he murmured sharply, "Not yet."

She paused, her eyes flicking up to meet his, but he had refocused on the movement of his hand. Her ran it under the faucet once more, sliding his wet hand up over her waist to wash the painted flowers off her skin. If she had thought that the sight and feel of him painting her had been somewhat arousing, the way he washed her was so much more. His dry hand slid around her waist, up her back, his finger tucking behind the clasp of her bra and for a moment she thought he might divulge her of it, but he didn't. He tugged on the elastic while his other hand continued to rinse the paint off her skin. His wet thumb ran over the fabric of her bra, across her nipple, and she arched her back at the feeling. His hand at her back held her there, arched against him, and he leaned in to allow his nose to skim along her cheek, down the unpainted side of her jaw.

"Would you just—" She started irritably, becoming increasingly impatient at how slowly he was moving, wishing he would just kiss her—

"Quiet," He interrupted, the harshness of the command softened by the press of his lips against the corner of her jaw. She had the conflicting feeling of her breath hitching at the feel of his lips while also feeling irritated that he would tell her what to do.

"I wouldn't have to say anything if you would just—" She started, but his hand which had started to rinse the paint off her shoulder suddenly moved to clasp the back of her neck and press his lips to hers. It was shocking how nice it felt—like liquid fire seeping through her veins—and she lifted her arms to wrap around his neck, linking her tingling fingers behind his neck, lifting her leg out of the basin in order to hook it around his hips as he pulled her to the edge of the sink. His tongue swept across her lips, but when she parted her lips to grant him entry he pulled away and she groaned.

He trailed his lips down to her chin, down the column of her throat, lips and teeth and tongue terrorizing her skin in a way that almost made up for the attention he refused her lips. Her eyes, which had fluttered shut the moment his lips met hers, opened to see that the paint on her arm which he had yet to wash off had been wet and was now smearing on the fabric of his shoulder. She let out a breathy laugh, unwinding her arms from his shoulders to reach down and slide her hands under his shirt.

"I got paint on you," She breathed with a smile. He caught her earlobe between his teeth

There were three dreadfully loud knocks on the door.

"Granger would you hurry the fuck up—"

"Oh, find another sodding washroom, Malfoy!" She snapped irritably, her hands gripping at Tom's shoulders again to keep her steady as she glared murderously at the door. A low, dissatisfied sound rumbled out of his chest, something like a growl, and his tongue ran the length of her collarbone to regain her attention.

"Am I supposed to wander around campus painted like the goddamn reaper so you can—"

"Fuck off, Malfoy!" She called. Tom's shoulders tensed under her hands, his own hands seeking out her hips to pull her flush against him, so she was barely resting on the edge of the sink. It was heavenly enough to just be pressed against him, but then one of his hands slid past her underwear and—

She moaned, loudly, loud enough for Malfoy to suddenly stop pounding on the door. Tom's slid one finger up the length of her cunt, the single teasing touch sending her head spinning.

"What are you doing in there—where is—" She heard Malfoy's cutting laugh, "—Is Tom in there with you?"

"Ignore him," Tom commanded at her ear, his hot breath fanning out across her throat. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak when his finger lightly circled her clit. His other hand slid down from her hip, under her thigh, hooking underneath her knee to draw her leg up around his waist. His finger slid back down from her clit, slowly down until it slid inside of her, a keening moan spilling out of her throat. "Do you often entice strangers to fuck you in the closest washroom?"

"Did I entice you?" She asked teasingly, gasping when he curled his finger inside of her in response. He slowly, torturously drew his finger out, the steady way in which he did it prompting her to amend her answer. "No," She gasped, "No, only you—"

"I want to paint you," He said suddenly, his tone quiet and sure, and so wrapped up in the ministrations of his hand was she that she hadn't realized he had pulled away enough to see her face, and he watched her with quite a severe expression on his face.

"You already have," She said. He shook his head, his finger sliding inside of her again while his hand at her leg lifted to wind into the hair at the nape of her neck, his thumb fanning her cheek.

"No," He said, soaking in the way her head tilted back while his finger stroked her, "A portrait." He clarified. "As you are now." She closed her eyes against the intensity of his stare, focusing on the feeling of his hand as another finger slid inside her, his thumb pressing into her clit. His other hand curled its fingers into her hair, pulling, a pleasant pressure at her scalp as his nose skimmed her cheekbone.

"Okay," She agreed, a bit desperately, "Okay, just—please get on with it—" She pointedly rolled her hips against his hand, half-opening her eyes to see the corners of his lips tilt up.

"Are you always so impatient?" He breathed against her cheek.

"Yes," She hissed when he curled his fingers inside of her again, that squirming, lovely feeling building in her core as she bucked her hips against his hand. "More, please—"

"Having fun in there, Granger?" She heard Malfoy call again from outside the door.

"Son of a—" Hermione started, cutting herself with a groan of discontent when Riddle pulled his hand away from her center. He tucked his fingers into the sides of her waistband, pulling them roughly off her hips. She almost slipped completely off the sink but as soon as her knickers were divulged his hands found her again, her hands undoing the button of his jeans and yanking down the zipper.

Something slid under the door. Hermione looked over Tom's shoulder to see a condom on the floor and she rested her forehead on Tom's shoulder in humiliation. He turned his head to see what prompted her reaction, his chin bumping lightly against the side of her head as he did.

"Do you have one?" She asked.

"No." He admitted.

Despite herself, she smiled, lifting her head from his shoulder. "Best not let it go to waste then," She said lightly, her hands pressing against his abdomen to give her room to slide off the sink. It took her two steps to reach the packet on the floor, and Tom had followed her, his hands never quite leaving her hips until she bent down to pick it up. As soon as she tore it open, she turned, and still on her knees she tugged down Tom's jeans just enough to pull out his length, sliding her tongue up his shaft until his hand wound in her hair and pulled her back painfully.

"Put it on." He ordered, and she felt something warm bloom in her stomach at the timbre of his voice. She did as he said, rolled the condom on and allowed him to draw her up, press her agains the door. He drew one of her legs up around his hips, aligning himself at her entrance. She had her eyes turned down, watching his hand flex against her thigh, watching his dick as he drew it up and circled her clit before pressing against her entrance. "Look at me." He said quietly.

She did, and as soon as she met his eyes he sank into her. She moaned, low and guttural in her throat, her head falling back to hit the door with a dull thud. His nails dug into the skin of her thigh, his other hand reaching down to hoist her other leg up around him so that she was entirely wrapped around him, pressed against the door. She couldn't even begin to articulate how relieved she was that he didn't draw it out any further, instead pounding into her against the door. She was half-aware of the noise the door made, of how obvious it would be what they were doing, but the feel of Tom's hands digging into her thighs, his length diving into her, and the weight of his gaze as he watched her come undone made her care very little who may or may not know what they're doing.

Her hands gripped at his shoulders, one hand sliding up his neck to wind into his hair. When she dragged her nails lightly through his scalp, she felt him shudder and lean into her, his lips pressing against her pulse. It wasn't a kiss, quite, but he kept his lips pressed there so that she could feel his breath against her skin. She let out a startled cry when he moved ons of his hands to draw small, quick circles around her clit.

Her orgasm was quickly building, her breath coming in quick, short, uneven gasps, punctuated by moans. He was marginally less vocal, but she was discovering if she clenched just so he would let out a quiet groan against her throat. She hooked her ankles behind him, her nails digging into his shoulder as that pleasant, overwhelming pressure in her stomach built and built—She felt like the entire room was spinning around her, the only steady thing being Tom's thrusts into her. Her hand clenched into a fist in his hair when the building pressure finally snapped, and his teeth carved patterns into her throat, riding out her orgasm. It didn't take long for him to come undone within her, too, a hot breathy moan escaping him.

Once the room stopped spinning, and her breath had calmed at least a little, she unclenched her fist from his hair.

After a much longer moment, Tom begin to move. He didn't move away from her, didn't even pull out of her, but he did move his hands up her waist, one hand running down the arm that he never managed to wash. He spent a moment quietly examining it before returning his hands to the underside of her thighs and pulling her from the door.

She basically slumped against him, winding her arms around his shoulder again and allowing him to carry her the short distance to set her on the sink again. He slid out of her, did up his jeans, and she hadn't realized but they had left the faucet running, so he dipped his hand back into the water and let it run over her arm, scrubbing the remaining paint off, working down past her elbow until he was holding her hand under the water. His thumb moved over the back of her palm, removing the flowers. She turned her hand in his grasp just enough to thread her fingers through his under the water, just to see his reaction, watching the way his lips twitched.

When they were done, he pulled away. He gathered the paint brushes that he had been washing before she came in. She pulled her underwear back on, watching as he ran a hand through his hair to calm it.

She opened the door and Malfoy turned from where he was chatting with Luna to look at her with a big, fat smirk on his face.

"Sounds like you had fun—" He started, but she had already kicked him as hard as she could in the shin. "Ow! Fuck—I have you a condom you should be thanking me—"

She ignored him, made a beeline for the curtained area where she could retrieve her clothes. She heard the slam of a door and assumed that was Draco finally claiming the washroom. She felt a little awkward—not necessarily because everyone in that studio knew she just had sex, although that was certainly an odd feeling—but because she wasn't even necessarily certain where she stood now.

This wasn't something she normally did, after all. She never took strangers into a corned and allowed them to ravish her its just—she rather liked him. He was a bit sullen, a bit curt, but she liked him a lot. She still liked him now, but she couldn't be certain he had any interest in her past their little tryst in the bathroom—this could just be something he did, after all. This could just be another day for him.

She dressed and emerged from the curtain, spotted Tom at the far end of the room packing up his art supplies. She was debating whether or not she should approach when Harry approached her.

"So…" He said slowly, looking both amused and embarrassed, "Are you two, like—?"

"He's joining us for dinner," She said instead, avoiding his question because she truly did not have an answer, and moving past him to approach Tom by the window. She slid her fingers into the front pocket of her jeans as she approached. He glanced up at her as she neared him, eyeing her posture before dropping his eyes back to his task at hand.

"Are you still joining us?" She asked.

"Yes," He agreed, eyeing her closely as if he could tell she was nervous. He probably could. She nodded.

"Ok, great," She said with a smile, "Do you need…help?" She offered.

"No." He said evenly.

"Right," She replied immediately, feeling mildly foolish, because of course he didn't. She gnawed at her lower lip—he really was handsome, she thought, especially bathed in the sunlight from the window. And he was an artist, for christ's sake, he probably had women chasing him down the street, she was ridiculous for thinking that there was any connection. Connection—she had known him for a couple hours, she was being ridiculous—

His fingers found her wrist, holding her still as he lowered his lips to her ear. She hadn't realized he had stepped that close. "I'd still like to paint you," He assured her, his voice low. He pulled back to meet her gaze, his eyes dark and his expression surprisingly calm, "You look beautiful when you come."

She pulled her lower lip between her teeth to keep her smile at bay. He raised his hand, pressing his thumb below her lower lip to draw it out from between her teeth, lowering his lips to hers again.

"Oh—are you two not bloody done yet?" Malfoy griped, exiting the washroom.

Hermione pulled off her shoe and chucked it at him.

—

honestly i don't know what this is

I have so many half finished stories on my computer and this was one of them so i finished it today and TADAAAA! just so happens that this is the ONLY ONE that isn't a prompt someone gave me which means all of those r still waiting to be done IM SORRY GUYS OK IM EASILY DISTRACTED

anyway let me know what you think? I love u all