Chapter Four

"Enough of this, already!" Pansy had absolutely had it with Hermione's recent squirrely demeanor. She'd even take back their former dynamic of sniping at one another rather than this twitchy witch who seemed to not have anything more to contribute to conversations than nods and 'hmm's. Her birthday party was already tomorrow, and Hermione Granger—typically the most prepared person Pansy'd ever met, and not one to shy away from a bit of work, unlike Pansy herself—had done exactly squat to help them plan when it was for her. "What has gotten into you, Granger?"

Hermione's lips tugged uncertainly to the left as she glanced about. Pansy had pulled her off to one side of the corridor as they'd left class. Days had passed since Professor Kincaid had taken her scrollwork from her, yet he'd not made a peep about whether or not he found her acceptable to be his assistant. She tried telling herself it was simply that he was a busy man and it was likely things had come up that had more weight than this matter. However, there was a niggling impression in the back of her mind that just maybe he was making her wait for his answer the way she'd made him wait for her to hand in the assignment in the first place.

Could the delay really have so petty a reason? Oh, certainly it could! Especially if he viewed her less as one of his students and more a potential subordinate. But his silence—she'd dare say he was even going so far as to ignore her—was making her edgy. Worse? It was causing their last interaction that evening in the otherwise abandoned corridor outside the library to play in her mind over and over again. How close he'd stood, the look in his eyes as he'd stared down at her, the feel of his breath ghosting over her skin . . . .

How he'd said that she was—

"Dammit, woman! Are you even listening to—?"

"He called me perfect." Immediately Hermione's eyes widened, and she gaped at Pansy. She hadn't meant for the words of her interrupted thought to come tumbling out, yet there they were.

And she certainly hadn't meant for those words to come out anywhere Pansy could hear them.

It took Pansy a second or two of holding the other witch's gaze before she reacted. "I'm sorry, who said you were perfect? And what's it got to do with any—?" Her question was abruptly cut off as Hermione grabbed her wrist and pulled her further along the corridor, putting them in a shadowy corner.

Unable to help herself, Pansy flicked a brow upward, smirking. "Ooh, are we spies now?"

"Pansy, please," Hermione whispered in a tone that managed to be both miserable and pleading. She couldn't believe she was going to continue—that she was going to confide this in Pansy Parkinson, of all people—but she knew, psychologically, it was easier to confide secrets to strangers than it was to friends. In that aspect, Pansy was the perfect person, since they'd only known one another as enemies up until a few weeks ago, so learning who she was as a friend was nearly like getting to know an entirely separate person. She was both a stranger and a friend.

After a moment of arguing with herself, Hermione decided the best way to start was with a time-honored tradition of friendship. The vow of secrecy. "I am going to tell you something, but you have to swear it'll stay between us. And while I'm hardly going to make you swear an Unbreakable, do keep in mind that I can make you pay if you breathe a word to anyone about this."

"Oh, now we're getting somewhere! This has got to be good." Pansy rubbed her hands together and grinned. She wasn't sure if she could keep a secret, but if she didn't give her word, she'd never know what secret Granger was carting around in that massive brain of hers. And, sure, there was the whole 'being friends' thing that meant she had to at least try to keep Hermione's confidence. "I swear, whatever you tell me right now will go no further."

God, Hermione was nervous about speaking any of it aloud, but she had to tell someone and Pansy seemed the least likely to judge her for any of it—in fact, the Slytherin witch would more likely clap her on the back whilst beaming proudly. Exhaling a weighted sigh and shaking out her hands, she nodded to herself and then started her explanation. Everything from the way Professor Kincaid had watched her that first night at the welcome feast, to the kiss on her bleeding knee and his statement about not wanting her to think he viewed her as a child, to that moment when it seemed he might kiss her in the corridor outside the library.

When she finished, Hermione all but collapsed back against the wall behind her, feeling strangely raw and worn out just from talking about it.

Her hazel eyes wide, Pansy merely stood there. She held Hermione's gaze in silence, appearing to gauge whether or not the other young woman was being wholly honest about her situation.

The mix of guilt and terror in Hermione Granger's face—along with the blush flaring in her cheeks and the tone of giddiness that had edged her whispered voice as she talked about the professor's touch, and perhaps more importantly the way she felt in the wake of the professor's touch—spoke volumes all on its own.

Pansy wanted to react calmly to this information—Hermione Granger in some sort of flirtation with a professor? The idea was scandalous, and utterly delicious and Pansy was in complete envy—to remain mature. To not make Granger regret confiding in her.

Instead, she found herself screeching. "Oh my God, are you serious? Of course you're serious! I can't believe this! Hermione Granger, you—" Hermione's hand slapping down over Pansy's mouth cut of her shrill words.

"Are you insane?" the brown-eyed witch asked in a terrified whisper. "No one can hear about this!"

Pansy's shoulders slumped and she gripped her fingers around Hermione's to pry them from her lips. "I wasn't going to say the actual thing, you know," she whispered back. "This is just . . . just . . . . Merlin's beard, I don't believe it. You've honestly rendered me speechless."

"I'm not sure I believe it, either." Hermione arched a brow, wary as she watched the other girl's expression.

"You should talk to him."

And now Hermione's brows disappeared into her hair. "I beg your pardon?"

Shaking her head, Pansy made a deliberate show of rolling her eyes. "I mean about the assignment you handed in, not the . . . ." She spared a moment to glance around, ensuring no one was near enough to overhear them. "Not the near-kissy-face. You can legitimately ask him about what he thought of it and quietly gauge how he reacts to your presence."

"Oh." Hermione nodded, surprised. "You make a good point."

The Slytherin witch nodded back, winking mischievously. "I know. So . . . about your party? Weasley invited your House, yeah?"

Pansy's question reminded Hermione rather abruptly of her request. "You mean a very specific member of our House, don't you?"

Shrugging, Pansy looked bored as she tossed her hair over one shoulder. "Maybe. But you should really get back to the DADA classroom. Class has only been over for a few minutes. If you're lucky, you might still catch Professor Broad Shoulders."

"Can you ever talk about him without mentioning one of his many admirable physical traits, Pansy?" First it was Baby Blues, then it was Nice Bum, she was pretty sure there had even been a Walks with a Swagger in there at some point.

"I can, I simply choose not to," Pansy answered with another wink. "Now, off you go."

Nodding firmly, Hermione mustered up her courage and started back in the direction of the second floor classroom.

And completely bypassed it to keep heading up the staircase, instead bolting to Gryffindor Tower and—for lack of a better term—hiding from Professor Baby Blues-Broad Shoulders-Nice Bum—Walks with a Swagger. Monday her assignment would still be a mystery and she could be brave and speak to him about it then.

"You're joking," Neville said, his jaw hanging open.

Hermione hadn't wanted to spill the beans, but he'd profusely apologized to her as he said he didn't feel like going to a party, even if it was for her birthday. She suspected—given the looks she'd noticed him giving Pansy of late—that he thought going to a party in the Slytherin Dungeons would mean watching the hazel-eyed witch flirting with other wizards. The only way she could convince him to accompany her was by telling him the truth.

"I would never joke about something like this, Neville." She reached out, giving his shoulder an encouraging pat. "I've seen the way she's been eyeing you lately. You know you've gotten rather fit; you should be proud and accept that women are going to look at you differently now."

His brows pinched together and he seemed to lose a little of his height as he weighed her words. "So, it's just about my looks, then?" Despite his affronted tone, he was glad his friendship with Hermione was comfortable enough that she could be so open with him.

"Well, what is it that keeps you looking at her when you think no one is paying attention? Because you and I both know she'd always been awful to you before this year."

Neville's head tipped back and he glared daggers at the ceiling. "You've a point."

She slipped her arm around his elbow and started pulling him toward the portrait exit of Gryffindor Tower. "See? You both like the same thing about each other. It may seem shallow, but it doesn't have to be anything more than a place to start."

"Fine," he said, grousing. "But I'm only going because it's your birthday."

Hermione folded her lips on a snicker, knowing full-well that five minutes ago, that it was her birthday hadn't quite been reason enough to get him to go.

"Never thought I'd see the day," Ginny said, giggling as she sipped a bit of spiked butter beer.

Hermione followed the ginger-haired witch's attention. She had noticed Neville and Pansy talking in a corner off by themselves.

The birthday girl shrugged. "I might've been forced to play matchmaker."

"That was your doing?"

Hermione shrugged, laughing. "They kind of both hinted at it. It was only on me to get Neville down here."

Ginny nodded. She tugged Hermione to fall into one of the cushy, green velvet armchairs with her. "Are you okay, 'Mione? You've seemed off lately."

Oddly, even though she'd not spoken to Professor Kincaid, Hermione had felt a little calmer, a little more rational, in the wake of her little soul-bearing session with Pansy. "I'm good, yeah. Something was troubling me, but it's better now."

"Good, because your birthday should be a day of peace!"

Again Hermione laughed. "You do realize I wasn't born on Christmas, yes?"

"Pfft," the mildly inebriated redhead sputtered the sound. "Avnyone's birthday should be a day of peace."

"Did you mean to say 'everyone' or 'anyone'?"

Ginny's face pinched in question. "Would it make a difference?"

Hermione thought over the statement. "No, actually."

"Then I meant both!"

A tall, familiar dark-haired figure moved along down one of the corridors shooting off from the common room, catching Hermione's eye. Professor Kincaid. Her heart skipped a beat before she got it under control.

Looking about—she spotted Luna and Cho giggling together by the food, Lord only knew where the hell Milli had gotten to, and with whom—she waved her friends over as she turned an apologetic look on Ginny. She was going to talk to that man about her damn assignment and get it over with. It was her birthday, she shouldn't have to wake up tomorrow still biting her nails and waiting around for him to decide when he'd give her an answer, dammit!

"Can you two keep Ginny company a bit? I have to go talk to someone."

"Sure!" the Ravenclaw witches said in unison.

As Hermione pried herself out of the seat, she realized this might not be the best idea. Certainly, she was a tiny bit tipsy herself, but Cho and Luna seemed a bit more than Ginny was. However, as the other two fell and shifted and squirmed to fit into the seat with Ginny, she considered that they couldn't exactly go anywhere. It wasn't like a Muggle party, where she'd have to worry they might wander out while intoxicated and end up playing in traffic or propositioning a police officer, or something.

"Just . . . try not to get yourselves in trouble."

"You have our word, Ma'am!" Luna hiccupped adorably between the last two words of her declaration and Hermione couldn't help laughing as she excused herself to hurry off down that corridor.

She was well aware this could be a mistake. Were his quarters along this passage somewhere? She had thought the teachers had rooms adjacent to their classrooms, which should mean his quarters were closer to the DADA classroom, two floors above their heads. What, then, was he doing down here?

It seemed the corridor was empty. She could hear her footfalls echoing off the walls as the sounds of the party grew distant and muffled. Perhaps she'd been wrong?

But then she noticed a door standing open further along.

Approaching slow, she called out, "Professor?" If she were wrong, she could play it off that she thought she'd seen any of the faculty members and simply acted curious as to what they were up to at this time of night. Now that she thought on it, she was curious about that very thing, aside from her own agenda in seeking out Professor Kincaid.

She heard movement from within and couldn't help ducking her head around the door to peek inside. "Professor?" she called again as she found herself looking into a storage room.

His back was to her as he rooted about for something on the shelves before him. "Hmm?" he answered, not looking around.

Well, that was just fine, then. Squaring her shoulders she drew in a breath. Talking to him—or perhaps at him, more appropriately—would probably be easier if she could be spared looking up into his blushingly perfect features.

"Professor, I need to speak with you about—"

And then he turned and met her gaze. His brows were pinched together and his expression was open, the look of someone patiently waiting. The words died on her lips.

"Miss Granger? Are you all right?"

"Uhhhhh . . . ." She winced, feeling like an idiot now for stopping so suddenly. "Yes, yes, I am. I just wanted to . . . wanted to know why you have yet to get back to me about what you thought of my paper."

The pinch between his dark, arched brows tightened as he shook his head at her. "Miss Granger, it's the weekend. And, as I understand it, isn't today your birthday? That party out there is for you, yes?"

Her jaw dropped a little as she scrambled to form an answer. "Well, yes, but—"

"Then can't it wait until Monday?"

She glanced behind him, seeing that he'd been sorting through potions ingredients. This room must serve as backup supply for the main potions stores. She supposed that made sense, Dark Arts Defense did often employ use of potions, which was why Professor Snape had so excelled at both. "So, your opinion is that, because it's the weekend, work can wait?"

His broad shoulders—thanks for pointing that out, Pansy—sloped a little as he noted the direction of her gaze. "That's different. I'm a teacher."

"Yes, and I'm supposed to be a teacher's assistant, except that the teacher I'm supposed to be assisting has yet to let me know whether or not he finds me an acceptable candidate for the post!"

At the fire in her voice, which—according to her expression—startled her, as well, a surprised chuckle erupted from him. What she thought just might be an abashed grin crossed his lips. "I must confess, Miss Granger, that I was perhaps keeping my decision to myself longer than was necessary in recompense for you making me wait so long on the assignment in the first place."

Chestnut eyes widening in shock, she shook her head. "I knew it! I told myself a professor wouldn't be so petty."

Professor Kincaid smirked, spreading his hands. "I am only human, and . . . it's not an exaggeration to tell you that my feelings were hurt."

She was taken aback at his statement. "Really?"

"Yes, but it is your birthday, and I don't wish to make you spend it worrying about someone other than yourself. So, we'll consider all things forgiven and you'll accept the post starting Monday?"

"S—sure." Hermione swallowed hard, nodding. "Well, I'd, um, I'd better get back, then."

Yet, she had trouble backing up from the room. Trouble turning on her heel to start away from him.

"Before you go," he said, when it seemed she finally managed to unstick her feet from the floor, causing her to snap right back around. "If you'd accept a small present, perhaps? Seeing as it is your birthday. How old are you? Twelve?"

The witch almost gave into an affronted gasp, until she noted the glimmer of mischief in his blue eyes. "You're terrible. You know how old I am."

"Oh, yes. Right. Nineteen, practically an old woman."

In spite of herself, she uttered a scoffing sound before laughing. "I only stayed a moment longer because you said something about a present. If you're only going to poke fun at me, I'd just as soon leave, thanks very much."

"Wait, wait." He held up his hand, in a placating gesture. "I was serious. I would like to give you something to mark the day."

Arching her brow, she folded her arms under her breasts and merely stared up at him. She was just barely refraining from tapping her foot impatiently. When had she gone from being just-this-side of terrified to speak to the man to this oddly comfortable to-and-fro with him?

Perhaps his admission that his reasoning for not giving her an answer about the post was simply pettiness as she'd suspected—that he was, indeed, only human—had her feeling more equal to him, now. Less that he was somehow superior to her. She revered her teachers, and that had put her at a disadvantage when dealing with him until now.

Now that he'd openly stated that he was a flawed creature, not immune to acting out of his own wounded pride, she could let him topple down off that pedestal.

Drawing his wand, he gave the swish-and-flick with which she was so familiar, and in his other hand, a perfect rose appeared.

She gasped, watching as he closed his fingers around the stem and held it out to her in offering. "Was that actual magic, or Muggle sleight-of-hand?"

"As I understand it, were it Muggle illusion, I would be forbidden from revealing it, as that might give you some idea of how I did it." He nodded. "Take it."

"All right." Hermione willed her hand not to shake as she reached out. She might feel more steady and even with him now, but she was still a bit nervous about being alone with him like this for more obvious, more base reasons.

Her fingers brushed his as she gripped the stem. She expected he would let go, but his gaze dropped to their touching hands. The witch told herself she must be imagining the spots of color blooming in his cheeks as he then fixed his attention on her face.

"Sir?" Her voice slipped out in a breathless whisper.

Brushing his curled fingers of his free hand against her jaw, he said, "So strange how different it sounds when you're the one addressing me so."

She could feel her lids sweeping downward in a slow, drowsy blink as she tried to understand what he could mean by that. She'd noticed it before, of course, his reaction to her use of the term, but still she wasn't certain why he responded to her saying it the way he did.

"But perhaps for . . . for just now," he went on, shaking his head, his expression mildly mystified, "you could call me Tom?"

Hermione was cognizant that he was leaning closer, cognizant that she was drifting to meet him. "I really don't think that's wise."

"Only this once," he said, lifting his thumb to trace her bottom lip.

She nodded, uncertain why she was letting this happen—why either of them were letting this happen, they were both perfectly rational people who knew better! "Then, only this once, Tom."

Another smirk curved Tom's lips before his mouth covered hers.