Chapter Text
Crisp air surrounded Hermione as she walked through Cambridge, excitement swirling through her veins with every step she took. With the start of October, the leaves had begun to change from their luscious, verdant green into an array of bright oranges and yellows. Autumn had always been Hermione’s favourite season. Despite the fact it was the season where things began to die, she always thought of it as the true start of new beginnings. While the world around her prepared for slumber, Hermione viewed this part of the year as the time to begin planning the next fruitful season of her life. She would revel in the quiet months of cold and solitude, perfecting her plan for the year down to the very day. Hermione was nothing if not the epitome of a woman with a mission to become the very best version of herself as she could.
Which is why this particular day felt different than all the autumns past. This was the day that she started her first year of classes at Cambridge University. This was the day she took her first steps toward becoming something more than just the nerdy girl in school who barely had any friends, the girl who would always become the teacher’s pet, the girl whose parents couldn’t care less about her.
No, this would be the year she finally turned herself into something more—into someone who could take her traumas and turn them into something good—into stories to help others, just like the ones that had helped her, too.
Hermione could count on her fingers the number of times her parents were around for anything of significance in her life. Between working long hours and travelling the world, they rarely found the time to actually be parents to their only daughter. All they ever did was throw their Black Card at her, hoping the money would appease her for the time being. When she was a young girl, Hermione did everything she could think of to garner their attention. But no matter how many times she tried, no matter how many different approaches she took, nothing seemed to matter.
So, Hermione turned to the one thing that never failed to bring her solace—literature. Every time she picked up a book, she fully immersed herself in it. Stories were the only places she ever felt welcome, felt at home. She knew that no matter what was happening in her real life, no matter what terrible emotions were coursing through her due to her parents’ neglect, the characters of her book would welcome her with open arms.
As she got older, Hermione longed to dive even deeper into these worlds. She wanted not only to submerse herself into fantasies but to create some of her own, as well. Soon, the nights she would spend reading turned into nights of writing. Her fingers would fly across the keys of her laptop as a constant string of words flowed out of her with the current of the strongest river. She poured everything into her writing—every emotion, every heartbreak, every trauma she experienced. What started as a hobby to help Hermione work through difficult parts of her life soon became so much more than that. It blossomed into a true passion, and she knew that she wanted to pursue this as a career—to be the author to provide the solace she found in books to the next generation who also needed some comfort.
And the creative writing department at Cambridge University was the first step in this journey.
Hermione adjusted her AirPod as she strolled across the grounds, the soothing notes of her favourite playlist of classical music reverberating in her ears. The familiar music acted to soothe the nerves beginning to build in her as every step took her closer to Madingley Hall. The grass was soft underneath her feet, and a part of Hermione wished she could slip her boots off to feel it beneath her soles. But, of course, walking into the first class of the term barefoot would certainly not make a great first impression—and she needed to make the best one.
She passed a small pond with an array of lilypads floating around as a fountain gracefully flowed in the middle. It was gorgeous, serene, a place next to which Hermione could imagine herself spreading out a blanket to lie on as she fell into the world of another story—whether that be her own or someone else’s. She kept walking, sipping on her Earl Grey as she pulled her cashmere sweater more tightly around her body, taking the stone steps two at a time, anxious to get to class.
Madingley Hall looked as if it had come straight from a fairytale story itself. With a myriad of luscious foliage surrounding it, casting it in an almost ethereal glow, and its worn bricks covering every square inch and towering high over the grounds, it felt as if it could have been a manor set in a world filled with magic.
It didn’t take Hermione long to find the classroom as soon as she entered the hall. A dark forest green painted all four walls, perfectly complementing the dark wood floors and matching decorative wood panelling on the walls. A dark mahogany desk sat at the end of the room, and atop it, a small stack of books and papers enshrouded in a warm glow from the desk lamp with a green glass lampshade. Next to the desk stood an old school chalkboard with the words Professor Malfoy, Creative Writing written in elegant cursive handwriting. Beneath that was a list of authors—Nabakov, Twain, Chbosky, and Sedaris.
Hermione quickly strode to the table that sat front and centre in the room, not that there were many to choose from to begin with. Must not be that many students enrolled, she thought to herself as she set her to-go cup of tea on the desk and shrugged the leather strap of her book bag off her shoulder. Hermione slipped into the chair and immediately rummaged through the bag, grabbing everything she’d need for class—books, notebook, favourite pen. Even if note-taking on her laptop would be more efficient, there was something about putting pen to paper, the ink gliding along the parchment, that brought a certain level of serotonin to Hermione.
Once she was sure everything was out and in its proper place, Hermione grabbed one of her books and settled back in her seat. She’d only gotten through a couple of pages of James Joyce’s Finnegans Wake before resounding footsteps echoed behind her, swiftly entering the classroom.
“Oh,” a surprised voice said, causing Hermione to close her book and look up. “Class doesn’t start for another hour.”
Her response sat on the tip of her tongue, but the moment she laid eyes upon her professor, the words instantly vanished just as the breath was stolen from her lungs. She hadn’t known what to expect when it came to her professors for the term. Hermione assumed that most of them would be stuck-up and old, an air of haughtiness surrounding them as they instructed the students on the proper way to read, to write and construct, to do anything in regard to their own individual creativity. She certainly wasn’t expecting this.
Professor Malfoy, while obviously in his mid to late forties if the faint lines around his eyes and mouth were any indication, was nothing like Hermione imagined. Light blond locks were expertly styled and slicked back to show the dusting of grey near his temples. Though with the way a few strands fell to the side, it seemed as if the professor had a penchant for running his hands through it. His hands. Once Hermione’s amber gaze settled on them, she couldn’t manage to pull herself away. They were large, at least twice the size of her own, if not more, and adorned with a perfect design of protruding veins.
With a soft clearing of his throat, Professor Malfoy brought the young woman’s attention back to his face. The beginning of a smirk played on the corner of his lips as Hermione sat up straight in her chair, tucking one of her dark curls behind her ear.
“Yes, I know,” she finally responded, a soft smile spreading across her mouth as she met his gaze and reached for her tea, bringing it to her mouth.
Hermione had never seen such mesmerising eyes before. His irises were a piercing blue, so light that it looked as if they were flecked with the sharpest shades of silver. They held an intensity akin to a sky filled with the electricity of a lightning storm. If there was one thing that Hermione knew at that moment, it was that she would gladly allow herself to step into the middle of that storm, beckoning the bolts toward herself, willing it to burn her—so that she could burn for him.
“What have you got there?”
Professor Malfoy turned and set down the stack of freshly printed papers on his desk as the question rolled off his tongue. She couldn’t stop her eyes from tracking his every movement, admiring the way his dark grey suit fit his body, moving with him as if it had been made specifically for him. Perhaps it had been.
“Joyce,” Hermione said simply, knowing fully well he wasn’t referencing the book she had been reading when he walked into the classroom.
A smirk toyed on her lips, though it was covered by the cup of tea she kept in front of her mouth when the professor turned back toward her. Crossing his arms, he leaned against the mahogany desk.
“Awfully big man for such a small cup.”
A flutter of butterfly wings erupted within her at the playful tone of his voice and the grin pulling on his lips. Her skin warmed as a blush broke out along her decolletage, but thankfully, her sweater hid the rosy tint of her golden skin from him.
“Shocking what you can fit in a venti.”
His only response was his grin transforming into a full-fledged smile as he ran a hand through his perfectly styled hair. Despite only knowing him for mere minutes, Hermione’s fingers twitch with the desire to run her hand through the platinum locks, yearning to feel the silkiness of the strands gliding against her skin.
“It’s an Earl Grey,” Hermione continued after a brief pause. “With milk and honey, of course.”
A string of light laughter escaped from the professor at the revelation of Hermione’s drink order, acting as if he already knew her answer before she said it.
“Oh, but of course.”
Hermione sat in silence for a moment, bringing the tea to her lips once again and taking a long pull of the warm beverage. Yet she never pulled her eyes away from his. She couldn’t deny that a thrill danced straight down to her bones when he didn’t break the connection either.
“I’m not exactly a morning person.”
She set the tea on the table before her, speaking as if that was all the explanation needed to defend her drink of choice. Her professor only continued to smile at Hermione in return, and again, butterflies took flight within her stomach at the way his eyes seemed to actually sparkle at her.
“Based on your arrival time, I’d have guessed otherwise.”
Crossing one ankle over the other, Professor Malfoy lifted his arm, pulling on the sleeve of his suit to reveal a Rolex secured around his wrist. He glanced at the watch before returning his gaze to Hermione with a pointed look and one pale brow raised high on his forehead. However, his lips had fallen back into the little smirk they were in before, and Hermione felt her blood warming once more.
“Just eager to get started with my collegiate career. Plus, I’ve heard great things about you and your classes, Professor.”
Hermione laid her arms on the table before her and clasped her fingers together as she leaned forward. A flash of something crossed the professor’s eyes as she spoke. Perhaps it had something to do with the way ‘professor’ rolled off her tongue in almost a purr.
“What’s your name?” he asked, reaching behind himself to grab one of the papers from the stack he had placed there only moments before.
“Hermione Granger.”
Her heart skipped a beat when he pushed away from his desk and took a step toward her, and Hermione had to dig her fingertips into her hand to stop the digits from shaking as every nerve ending in her body alighted with tingling sparks.
“I’m Professor Malfoy.”
Another flash of a smile in her direction. Another twinkle of those piercing irises.
“I know.”
It was all she could trust herself to say without giving away the fact that she was quickly succumbing to the tantalising aura of charm that the professor wasn’t even aware he had been emanating.
“Well, Hermione Granger, I assume you got this with the welcome email when you were accepted into the program. Have you had a chance to look it over?”
Now standing in front of her table, Professor Malfoy laid a paper before her. A quick glance down showed her that it was the class syllabus, something she was already quite familiar with, having read through it multiple times in advance. He stood so close to her that Hermione could smell the enthralling scent of mahogany and dark oak tinged with sweet apple and the smokey remnants of his last cigarette exuding off him.
“Yes, I’ve read them.”
Surprise coursed through Hermione at the steadiness of her voice, considering how it took everything in her not to lean even closer to him. She wanted to suffocate in his aroma. But instead, she straightened her posture, reached for her cup, and took another sip of her tea as she waited for his response.
“I know it looks intimidating, but we’ll move through these quick enough.”
He tapped his finger against the syllabus as he spoke, and Hermione caught a glint as the light bounced off the band of silver wrapped around his finger. His ring finger, to be exact. Disappointment flooded through Hermione at the realisation that her professor—her very attractive professor—was married.
Of course, he’s married, she thought to herself. Just look at him. He probably has quite a beautiful and successful wife at home. Why would he want anything to do with a young nobody like me?
“I mean that I’ve read the books,” Hermione corrected, once again surprising herself with the strength in her voice despite the weight of disappointment pushing down on her.
Incredulity flashed across Professor Malfoy’s features as her words registered. He adjusted the rectangular, wire-rimmed glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose. Despite the chagrin she felt at the revelation of his marital status, Hermione couldn’t stop the fresh wave of attraction that washed over her, warming her to her very core, when he did so. She always had been keen on a man in glasses.
“You’ve read all of these books?”
He placed his other hand on the table, leaning over, as he pointed to the list of books on the syllabus. He trailed his finger along the paper, the tip running over every title. Hermione’s skin broke out in gooseflesh as a vision of that same finger gingerly trailing along her skin invaded her mind. She fell so deep into her imagination that Hermione could practically feel his touch against her.
“Yes.”
Tilting his head to the side, brows furrowing, Professor Malfoy blinked unbelievingly at her as he said, “There are twenty-eight books on this list.”
He spoke the words as if saying them aloud would prove the impossibility of them, though his expression betrayed him when a flicker of intrigue passed over it. All that did was inflate Hermione’s ego, knowing that she had already impressed him. This was exactly the first impression she had hoped to make today.
All while never tearing her eyes from him, her lips twisted into a grin as she leaned back against the chair. Hermione crossed her arms over her chest, subtly pressing her breasts together even further. The action was so minute, so imperceptible, most people wouldn’t have paid it a second thought. Though it was for just a fraction of a second, Hermione didn’t miss the way that Professor Malfoy’s mercurial gaze flickered down to her chest.
“What can I say, Professor? I like to party hard.”
She winked at him as she jested, confidence swiftly replacing the previous feeling of disappointment. Especially when a faint blush stroked across the alabaster skin of his cheeks. The professor pushed himself off the table, clearing his throat as he took a step back. He lightly shook his head as if he was dispelling unwarranted thoughts. The idea only made Hermione’s smile widen even further.
Maybe that ring on his finger doesn’t mean so much to him after all…
“So what’s on the agenda today, Professor Malfoy?”
Hermione tightened her arms together, pressing her breasts up even further before dropping them altogether—once again attracting her professor’s attention for the briefest moment. One hand reached for her Earl Grey while the other grabbed her pen, popping the cap off as if she was ready to begin taking notes, despite the class not officially starting yet.
“We’ll be discussing the censorship in the British education system and its effect on young writers.”
Professor Malfoy walked over to his desk as he answered Hermione, grabbing the stack of papers he had walked in with and straightening them out into a perfect pile. If she didn’t know any better, she would have thought it was an anxious tick the professor had. But surely someone like her couldn’t possibly make someone like him nervous.
“Quite an important topic, Professor.”
Hermione leaned forward once again, resting her elbows on the table. With her chin in her palm, she used her other hand to grab hold of one of her chocolate curls. When the older man lifted his gaze from the papers, Hermione innocently twirled the curl around her finger as she smiled at him.
Something in her statement sparked a light in Professor Malfoy. His silver eyes shone with ardency, and he once again stepped away from the stack of papers. He took only one step in Hermione’s direction before stopping completely. But the fire burning in his gaze didn’t lessen. If anything, it did quite the opposite.
“But not just the banning of books. It’s the banning of ideas. And without ideas, what are we?”
The excitement in his voice enthralled her. It was rare for Hermione to have a conversation with anyone about a shared interest, let alone with someone who held such a passion for it. It felt invigorating.
“Pop musicians.”
A genuine smile spread across Professor Malfoy’s face at Hermione’s response. The sight of it caused her stomach to clench and a heat to arise within her. As covertly as possible, Hermione adjusted herself in the chair, crossing one legging-clad leg over the other.
“You’re not wrong. Do you know why?”
The older man took a few more steps in her direction, pointing at her to answer if they were sitting in a lecture filled with students rather than a practically empty classroom. Not one typically agreeable to the act of being pointed at, Hermione decided in one singular breath that she quite enjoyed the way his finger was directed at her. Like he wanted her. Or perhaps that was wishful thinking on Hermione’s part.
“Censorship distracts us from what’s important. If we don’t have ideas, then we won’t have any idea what’s going on.”
He looked at her as though he hadn’t expected such an answer from her. As if he thought Hermione was just like any other eighteen-year-old girl beginning her freshman year of university, not one whose mind was already well beyond her years. And for the second time that morning, Hermione had impressed Professor Malfoy.
“Yes. Precisely.”
Enamoured by the way he looked down at her, admiration painted across his features, Hermione continued her short oration, desperate to keep him staring at her with such approbation on his face. She was positively greedy for more of his praise.
“If we’re taught something is wrong at an early age, we develop a conditioned aversion without being aware until it’s too late, and by then, we’re likely too apathetic to care. It narrows our perception. Narrow perception is certain death for writers.”
Professor Malfoy now leaned against the table at which Hermione sat. He placed one hand atop the wood, the other sliding in the pocket of his trousers. With being in such close proximity again, Hermione was once again overcome with his rich aroma. The sweet apple ridden with rich mahogany and dark oak assaulted her senses, sending her heart racing into a pitter-patter so intense that she worried he’d be able to hear it for himself.
Her thumping heart only increased in velocity when he gave her a radiant smile and leaned his head down just a bit closer to her level. Hermione longed to meet him halfway, to press her lips against his. The desire scared her, though. Never before had she ever felt a connection so strong to a man before—never mind one she had only known for a mere twenty minutes.
“And censorship is certain death for readers. Clever. I think you’re going to do quite well in my class, Miss Granger.”
A chill trickled down her spine at his chosen name for her, leaving a trail of burning heat in its wake. Of course, she’d been called that name by her secondary school teachers before, but it had never caused such a reaction. And, of course, it had never been said by such an alluring man before.
As Professor Malfoy pushed away from her table—but not before throwing her one last beaming smile—Hermione knew one thing with absolute certainty.
She was willing to do anything within her power to be the best student. To be his best student.