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"Oi! Quit groping my arse, Granger!"
Hermione snatched back the hand that had accidentally grazed her colleague's backside, and glared daggers at the curly-blond back of his head.
"In your dreams, McLaggen! Why don't you quit being one, instead?"
"A dream?" He flashed her a lopsided grin over his shoulder. "Look, it's fine if you have those secret fantasies about me, but wouldn't it be less awkward for everyone if you don't tell me about them while we're trapped in a ten square feet closet?"
"An arse," she snapped. She had to crane her neck back to meet his gaze; they were standing that close. "Quit being an arse!"
He smirked. "Oh, that."
"It would be very helpful." She pressed her palm to her forehead, rubbing with the heel of her hand as if the situation were some fault of perception that she could forcibly erase. "You're about the last person I'd want to be stuck with at close quarters and I'm sure I'm no higher up on your list, so can we be quiet while we wait and just..."
"Breathe? Be? Or did you have a more exciting suggestion?"
McLaggen turned away from the door to face her again, sheathing his wand. He rolled his shoulders, looking like he longed to straighten his spine and stretch out his arms. Tall and broad-shouldered, he easily took up two thirds of the space in the closet on his own, or at least, that's how it felt to Hermione. "I'm not getting anywhere with this. It's bloody tricky curse-work, and it wouldn't be very smart to trigger some nasty protective ward when we're trapped in a mouse-hole with nowhere to go. Not when two Aurors know where we are and will come looking for us sooner rather than later. As far as I can tell, it should still be unproblematic to open the door from the outside."
She let out her breath in a tense rush, dragging her palm down the seam between door and jamb and testing the magic. "It's pitiful that an Unspeakable and a curse-breaker can't get out of a bloody closet, no matter how well warded. I'm going to try another blasting spell. Step back."
"Oh no, you're not." McLaggen clamped a large hand firmly around hers, wrangling her wand out of her fingers. "Step back to where, exactly? Your first attempt ripped my trouser leg open and knocked my head into the ceiling. I'm going to be nursing this goose egg for a week. I'd rather not end up starkers and unconscious on your second try." Another smirk curled up the corners of his mouth as he let her have the wand back. "Merlin knows what you'd do with me, helpless and at your whim."
The room was chilly and damp, but it was the way his gaze lingered on her that made her wish that she'd put on jeans and long sleeves this morning rather than the t-shirt and summer skirt she'd gone for. She yanked back her wand and sheathed it, long past any efforts to hide her irritation. Her legs and back ached, she dreaded the prospect of the coming hours, and McLaggen's smirking innuendoes were a perfect demonstration why. "The spell backfired because you had miscalculated the square area of this place."
"Look, it's hard to take exact measurements of a cracker-box when you're trying to circumnavigate a person who cries sexual harassment at the least stray physical contact."
"I did no such thing," she said indignantly, hands on her hips. "Who was it that accused me of groping his arse, again?"
"That was a joke. And you may not have cried sexual harassment, but you got extremely huffy. I could hear you huff."
"You fondled my—" Hermione pressed her lips together to abort the sentence.
"Your tits? They do somewhat protrude, and I brushed them accidentally with the side of my arm. How is that fondling? Was Weasley really that inept, Granger?"
"Oh, shut up!" She pressed her hands to her ears. "I've no intention of discussing anything p... protruding or personal with you."
His lips twitched as he studied her. Shaking his head, he closed his hands around hers and eased them away from her ears. "Granger, would you please relax? Weasley and Potter would no doubt be delighted to let me perish here, but I assume they're loyal enough to come back and look for you when you don't catch up with them as agreed."
His hands around hers made her heart beat too close to her throat, and she snatched them free and folded her arms across her chest as she leaned against the wall, partly to buy a few inches of space, partly to take some of the pressure off the small of her back. "Of course they'll come back. But it could take a while. Harry and Ron aren't the most punctual people on earth, so they tend to assume that others aren't, either."
She'd seen McLaggen's jaw tighten when she jerked her hands out of his grip, but he didn't comment. "Well, it must be an hour by now since they left. And they've got to know that you are punctual."
"I didn't actually tell them a specific time," she pointed out, with a miserable sinking sensation in her gut.
Oh, the boys would be back to look for her, but if she knew them correctly — and did she, ever — it could easily take another couple of hours. Or more.
She pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead again, almost groaning out loud at the mere idea of it. Fuck.
Initially, this had seemed such an ideal assignment for a warm summer day, an outing to the Lake District with her two best friends to search one of the hideouts of an importer of illegal magical substances who'd been arrested this week. Six months after their break-up, she and Ron were getting more relaxed around each other again, and a job assignment like this could only help on that.
It had made a solid dent in her enthusiasm when she'd discovered who was the curse-breaker assigned to their team, but she'd never have dreamed that she'd end up in a situation this intolerable. Harry and Ron had headed into the nearby village to question some of the wizarding neighbours, and when she'd joined McLaggen in a basement closet where they'd picked up an incongruous emanation of magic — the door had slammed shut and locked behind them both.
Biting back a wince, she leaned down to slip off her shoes. They were just medium heels, not inappropriate for the job, but still high enough to be a pain when stuck standing practically immobile in them for this long. She would have taken them off long ago, except that now McLaggen would tower over her even more, and she already felt crowded and claustrophobic.
"Tired, Granger? Hey, why don't you sit down, yeah?" He took her elbow by the hand, and although the touch seemed solicitous, she jerked her arm back stiffly.
"I know it's especially hard for you, but could you please try to refrain from—"
"Fuck."
She jumped at the way McLaggen breathed out the oath, an exasperated hiss of air between teeth suddenly on edge. He leaned a hand against the wall above her head, ducking in closer to eye level with her. "Granger, get over it, all right? I know I was a prat to you back in school." His voice was gruff with frustration, his gaze boring into hers. "And hell, we both know you led me on, batting your lashes all sweetness when you asked me to that party, but who cares, right? I was a stupid kid, full of myself, and didn't take no for an answer. And I'm sorry. If it helps at all that I say it right now, I'm sorry."
His outburst had her wide-eyed, pressing back against the wall. She wasn't scared of him, not exactly, but the intensity in his voice and the temper flashing in his eyes as he leaned in seemed too much, too intimate in the tiny space. "You're still full of yourself. And you don't seem that sorry," she said, her voice cool. "Actually, you're forcing yourself into my space right now."
If she hadn't known this man to be blatantly lacking in shame, she'd have sworn she saw a blush creeping over his cheekbones. He straightened himself as if on command, biting off the tail end of a curse as he banged his head, and leaned on the opposite wall, which still didn't have him even at arm's length.
"Well, I'm actually, honest-to-God sorry," he said in clipped tones as he rubbed the top of his head. "Do with that what you like. Just sit the hell down. You obviously need to rest and the sighing and squirming are getting on my nerves."
"Pardon me for inconveniencing you with my discomfort," she snapped. She cast a number of cleaning, drying and cushioning charms on the floor and then lowered herself gingerly, making a face as her behind met the concrete floor. The magic in the room wouldn't let the charms take. The surface of the floor was icy and ungiving and so saturated with damp that the drying charm would have been like trying to mop up a marsh with a handkerchief, anyway. It was going to be a matter of minutes before this was as uncomfortable as standing.
She shuddered and jerked her hand up to a fist as she felt something scuttle over her fingers, something that was disconcertingly big for being something little.
He clenched his jaw as he studied her, and crouched down on his haunches, patting the floor with one hand. Hermione braced herself for another jibe about her whininess. As if anyone wouldn't be tired and testy under the circumstances. Granted, McLaggen didn't seem too bothered yet, but then he was six foot three of solid muscle and about as delicate as a rhino.
He sighed. "That's not going to help," he muttered.
Before she had time to figure out what he meant by that, he stood up again and shrugged off his cloak, dropped it in a heap on the floor and sat down on it. He squeezed in next to her, and Hermione hissed out a protest as she was pressed against the damp wall.
"Oh God, what now?" She rolled her eyes at herself for thinking for even a second that the cloak had been chivalrously meant for her behind.
"Be my guest." McLaggen patted his lap. The matter-of-factness of the gesture made it seem more practical than inviting, although there was a grimly amused glint in his eyes when he turned his head against the wall and caught her alarmed gaze. "It's a bit on the hard side, but better than concrete, and a good sight warmer and drier. And yes, I know I'm in your space, but I can't see how we can avoid that as long as we're stuck here, so I vote we make the best of it. Come on, climb up."
Hermione sank her teeth into her bottom lip, hating that she found McLaggen's warm, dry lap so horribly tempting. Of course, she was also tempted to put her shoes back on and kick his over-confident arse. "You must be joking."
"No, see, this time I'm really fucking serious. I can't stand fully upright in this damn place, if you've noticed anything past the tip of your own prim little nose. There's only room for one of us to sit comfortably, and me cosying up in your lap seems counterintuitive."
She had noticed, even before he banged his head, how he had to bend his neck slightly for the ceiling, but hadn't reflected on the discomfort it must cause him. It made her feel rather rotten; guilty, in fact. Guilty enough to take a breath and actually consider what he'd said.
It was true, McLaggen had even less manoeuvring room in here than she did. Perhaps he really hadn't meant to brush up against her breasts while he measured the room, even if he still was too much of a hands-on octopus for her taste.
He seized at her hesitation with surprising acuity, his voice growing softer, almost coaxing her. "Also, I'm immune to the creepy-crawlies. Pretty much a prerequisite for being a curse-breaker." Again, he gave his thighs a pat. "You know you want to, Granger. It could be hours yet. Your arse will thank you."
The reminder of the creepy-crawlies was what tipped the scales. While not quite as arachnophobic as Ron, Hermione wasn't exactly happy at the thought of many-legged cellmates that she couldn't see. "What about yours, though?" she asked, as she slowly, hesitantly pushed herself up on her feet and shifted to hover over his thighs. "Your arse will hate me."
His arm curled around her shoulders as he unceremoniously tugged her the last couple of inches down. "Probably. But my arse has been outvoted by my neck."
He was warm, and even if his muscular thighs didn't make the most pliable cushions, they were much more comfortable than the concrete floor. She made an involuntary noise of relief in her throat as he settled her against his chest, and felt herself blush as he chuckled at the revealing sound.
"Right. That's not so bad, is it?"
"Hmm," she said noncommittally, and he laughed again, low in his throat.
It truly wasn't so bad at all. Amazingly, his hands didn't stray, and he smelled nice, warm. His cologne or aftershave was a spicy cedarwood, mingling with a clean, musky scent of man, and at such close proximity it blotted out the dank smell of the room. The scent reminded her of Ron, as did the even, solid heartbeat through a hard male chest, closer than she'd been to a man in nearly half a year. The association was comforting and bitter-sweet at once.
"I didn't think you'd know and use words like 'counterintuitive', McLaggen," she mused, attempting to force her thoughts away from that rather alarming train of thought. "Or 'circumnavigate'."
"Yes, because I became a curse-breaker by being an inarticulate idiot," he countered dryly. "For the last five years you haven't given me the time of day, let alone invited any more advanced conversations, so how would you know?"
"Fair point," she said reluctantly. They'd occasionally worked together as Ministry-employed curse-breaker and Unspeakable over the last couple of years, but she'd always kept her distance, and the small talk to a minimum. She shifted again, settling herself in less tensely when his arms still lay relaxed around her waist and shoulders. A wonderful amount of warmth seeped from his hands into her chilled body.
"You can be fantastically snooty, you know?" he murmured after a minute. "I mean, that comment there about my vocabulary — how the fuck do you say something like that and expect not to cause offence?"
Hermione felt a defensive heat rush into her face. "Well... er... it seems to me you have pretty thick skin," she mumbled.
"And that's good reason for you to insult me? You've been sniping at me since we were locked in."
Had she? Probably. She'd felt in roughly the same mode as a hedgehog cornered by a cat.
"No," she admitted quietly, looking up to meet his gaze. "I suppose it's not. I'm sorry, McLaggen. Fair or not, I still feel uncomfortable around you, and this situation is stressful for me." She dropped her gaze to his thigh where his trouser leg had been torn off, and tanned skin dusted with blond hairs lay taut over long, strong muscle. "I'm sorry about your trousers, too. And the goose egg."
"That's all right. Apology accepted, on all counts. On the condition that you'll call me by my first name, at least until we're out of this bloody cupboard. I'm sorry that I make you uncomfortable, but it's a bit cramped for formalities, yeah?"
With a wry quirk of her lips, she nodded, and rested her head again in the hollow between his jaw and shoulder. It seemed to fit there very nicely. "I accept yours, too," she said after a moment. "Your apology, I mean, about... that time. I actually appreciate that a whole lot."
"And I appreciate your forgiveness, Hermione." She could hear the smile in his voice, something more genuinely pleased than his usual smug smirks, and his jaw rubbed slowly against her head. "This is already better, isn't it?"
"It is, for me. Your legs are going to be all pins and needles in a while."
"No worries. Strong thigh muscles," he said, gratuitously flexing them under her bum. "Comes in handy in all sorts of situations."
She heaved a sigh at the friendly leer in his voice. "You simply can't help yourself, can you?"
"Well, I'm a bloke. Innuendo is my standard defensive reaction when I'm feeling emotionally exposed and vulnerable."
She glanced up at his serious tone, eyebrows raised — and surprised herself by bursting out laughing when she saw the little grin playing around his mouth.
"Believe it or not, I'm more bark than bite." He drew her a little closer and held her gaze. For the first time, she noticed — or, at least, she admitted for the first time to herself — how pretty his eyes were. Hazel green, gold-flecked, framed by indecently long lashes. "Although my bite is damn nice, too, I've been told. If you should ever wonder."
"Right," she said dryly, firmly covering up for the strange somersault her stomach had made at that wicked warmth in his eyes. "If I should ever find myself curious, now I know."
"Truce, then? Temporary, at least?"
"Truce," she agreed after only a moment's hesitation, and her arms went snugly around his waist, offering some warmth in turn as they settled in for the wait.
-end-