This is the beginning of an answer to the "Prudish Hermione" challenge on WIKTT. While it is SS/HG and involves sensuality, I'm keeping it at a PG-13.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is owned by J K Rowling, Scholastic Books, Warner Entertainment and others, not by me. No copyright infringement intended or implied, and I'm certainly not making any money off this.
Glance
She simply doesn't like to be touched. She doesn't cringe, or push people away, but I can tell she's just waiting for the contact to be over. And it doesn't seem to matter who it is, either. Whether it's her little sidekicks who she seems to trust so much, or other girls, or Minerva with a friendly hand on the shoulder.
Of course, I know I'm looking at her far too much to have noticed this at all. I tell myself that it is only me and my discreet eyes, and that I would never deliberately disturb her in any way.
Sometimes I wonder if she were somehow abused. Such enormities can of course happen to even the strongest of women with the most loyal of companions. But still, I can't help suspecting that if anyone hurt her I would have long ago heard of some student or wizard who knows her dying a mysterious and painful death. Also, she doesn't seem otherwise depressed or cowed, simply uninterested, perhaps mildly aversive, to physical contact.
I don't know if she was always like this, because certainly I didn't always look at her. Painful to admit, but it was her emerging womanhood and not her amazing intellect that has focused my attention in this way. I know I should be highly ashamed. Did I already say that I would never trouble her?
I consider touch, sometimes. What if it were my hand on her shoulder? Could I even embrace her, hold her, show her that humans do this and it's quite acceptable to enjoy it? It's a laughable picture though, and I realize that. If she doesn't appreciate such from Harry or Ginny, why on earth would she suddenly change her mind when her sternest, most oppressive teacher presents himself?
Why should I bother to lie? I think of other forms of touch as well. Kissing her hand, perhaps, or drawing a finger slowly, gently down the side of her neck. A lover's touch, and I will admit it, though even in my imagination I don't take it any further than such small gestures. My wish for her response, of eyes closed in appreciation, of that soft intake of breath, would never be fulfilled. Even if she embraced physicality, it would never be with me.
She will be gone forever soon. School is nearly over; the dark threat is gone. I will become only a shadow on her memory. The severe one, the one who taught Potions with a fervor and served the Order with abrasive resentment. If I am really unlucky she has seen the direction of my gaze, and I will be the one who should have kept his glance to himself.
I won't bother to deny thinking she is uniquely lovely, admirably strong-minded, and completely brilliant. If I ever had the good fortune to be able to choose a woman, it would a woman like her. No, it would be her, simply that, and I won't pretend otherwise.
I will almost certainly see her again in private before she leaves. She has spoken with me alone before, about class assignments or work for the Order, and once even to plead my mercy on poor Neville. She will say good-bye to me individually I am certain, and I won't deny myself that interview. But I will have to be on watch, not to ask her what it is that makes her almost imperceptibly shrink away from everyone, why this seems to be the only fear she has ever shown. Not to say to her that I constantly wish it could be me to help her appreciate hands, and skin, and simple caresses.
What shall I say to her then? Nothing much, I imagine. Simple good wishes and encouragement, perhaps a dark warning or two to keep her from thinking too well of me. Nothing else. Because not all the wizardry in the world can make Hermione Granger comfortable in her own body, or cause her to accept me of all men as her teacher in matters of the senses.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is owned by J K Rowling, Scholastic Books, Warner Entertainment and others, not by me. No copyright infringement intended or implied, and I'm certainly not making any money off this.
Glance
She simply doesn't like to be touched. She doesn't cringe, or push people away, but I can tell she's just waiting for the contact to be over. And it doesn't seem to matter who it is, either. Whether it's her little sidekicks who she seems to trust so much, or other girls, or Minerva with a friendly hand on the shoulder.
Of course, I know I'm looking at her far too much to have noticed this at all. I tell myself that it is only me and my discreet eyes, and that I would never deliberately disturb her in any way.
Sometimes I wonder if she were somehow abused. Such enormities can of course happen to even the strongest of women with the most loyal of companions. But still, I can't help suspecting that if anyone hurt her I would have long ago heard of some student or wizard who knows her dying a mysterious and painful death. Also, she doesn't seem otherwise depressed or cowed, simply uninterested, perhaps mildly aversive, to physical contact.
I don't know if she was always like this, because certainly I didn't always look at her. Painful to admit, but it was her emerging womanhood and not her amazing intellect that has focused my attention in this way. I know I should be highly ashamed. Did I already say that I would never trouble her?
I consider touch, sometimes. What if it were my hand on her shoulder? Could I even embrace her, hold her, show her that humans do this and it's quite acceptable to enjoy it? It's a laughable picture though, and I realize that. If she doesn't appreciate such from Harry or Ginny, why on earth would she suddenly change her mind when her sternest, most oppressive teacher presents himself?
Why should I bother to lie? I think of other forms of touch as well. Kissing her hand, perhaps, or drawing a finger slowly, gently down the side of her neck. A lover's touch, and I will admit it, though even in my imagination I don't take it any further than such small gestures. My wish for her response, of eyes closed in appreciation, of that soft intake of breath, would never be fulfilled. Even if she embraced physicality, it would never be with me.
She will be gone forever soon. School is nearly over; the dark threat is gone. I will become only a shadow on her memory. The severe one, the one who taught Potions with a fervor and served the Order with abrasive resentment. If I am really unlucky she has seen the direction of my gaze, and I will be the one who should have kept his glance to himself.
I won't bother to deny thinking she is uniquely lovely, admirably strong-minded, and completely brilliant. If I ever had the good fortune to be able to choose a woman, it would a woman like her. No, it would be her, simply that, and I won't pretend otherwise.
I will almost certainly see her again in private before she leaves. She has spoken with me alone before, about class assignments or work for the Order, and once even to plead my mercy on poor Neville. She will say good-bye to me individually I am certain, and I won't deny myself that interview. But I will have to be on watch, not to ask her what it is that makes her almost imperceptibly shrink away from everyone, why this seems to be the only fear she has ever shown. Not to say to her that I constantly wish it could be me to help her appreciate hands, and skin, and simple caresses.
What shall I say to her then? Nothing much, I imagine. Simple good wishes and encouragement, perhaps a dark warning or two to keep her from thinking too well of me. Nothing else. Because not all the wizardry in the world can make Hermione Granger comfortable in her own body, or cause her to accept me of all men as her teacher in matters of the senses.