Chapter Text
Hermione told him that she only visited him for his record collection. It was a good thing that he would chuckle at that comment, taking it as a joke, because she was lying. The real reason why she would spend six days of the week waiting for the day they'd meet in his living room was so that she could quietly admire how his form came to life and his face was so animated, his hands gesticulating gracefully as he talked about the unlikely link between David Bowie and Carly Simon, raved about Blood Money, or compared Oasis and Blurs to the skiffle bands of the 50s and 60s.
Then there were the moment those elegant fingers pick a record, the corners of his mouth lifting in a smile every time he knelt down and produced a vinyl, a CD, anything obscure and unlike anything she'd ever listen to out of her own volition.
"You'd like this," he would say and hand her the record. She made sure every time she took them to accidentally brush hands, and every time she felt electricity run through the tips of her fingers when they met the soft skin of his hands.
Today, it was her turn to make a suggestion. "You'll like this," she smiled at him. He chuckled at the cover - a black-and-white photography of a woman with piercing eyes, lying on the floor with her face partly obscured by a guitar's headstock and neck.
"I know what I like, Granger, and it's not nouvelle chanson."
He had been wrong. She noticed the hitch in his breath bobbing in his throat and his eyes misting during the first track. What she didn't notice - she was too busy with his hands on her waist and his lips suddenly on hers - was that he was reacting to the way her lips parted and her pupils dilated every time she had stopped to admire him for the past year and a half.