Chapter Text
Hermione trudges wearily to class, each step heavy with dread, as if she were marching toward a level 400 master's lesson presided over by the despot Snape rather than a level 101 introductory course taught by the most competent professor she's ever had.
She's a junior, and really far too advanced for the course, but Professor McGonagall has strict rules about who can take her advanced Shakespearean seminar, and one of the prerequisites was that you take her introductory course—no exceptions, no matter how eloquently Hermione can quote the Bard by heart.
So Hermione finds herself walking to the College of Liberal Arts every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday morning at 11 o’clock, her messenger bag slapping against her thigh with every step.
The student count is low for a 101 class. Instead of the usual amphitheater seating, the room is arranged in an intimate half-circle of desks and chairs, more reminiscent of a large high school classroom than a university lecture hall.
She slides into her usual seat in the first row, while around her, the lazy sports scholarship recipients stumble in reeking of stale beer and body spray, their eyes still puffy from sleep, hungover from their never-ending frat parties the night before.
By this point in the morning, Hermione is already on her third cup of coffee. The bitter, burnt liquid tastes like gasoline, but she sips it anyway, letting the caffeine steady her nerves as Ronald Weasley drops into the seat next to her.
He's been doing that a lot lately, commandeering the seat beside her. She's certain he does it solely to disconcert her. While she sits rigid and upright in her chair, spine straight as a ruler, her feet tucked primly beneath her seat, he lounges with his long legs sprawled apart like he's at an after-party or relaxing at the beach, his knee occasionally—irritatingly—brushing against hers. Hermione’s convinced he does it on purpose, because more than once she’d caught him smirking when she’d jerked her leg away, tucking it further under her chair.
She’s detested the man from the very first moment she’d laid eyes on him—the sort of person who’d only matriculated at the prestigious Hogwarts University to go to the parties and have lots of anonymous sex, who cared not an iota for learning or thinking, who, indeed, was not even capable of critical thought.
Their eyes had locked on that first day when he’d sauntered into class, and his blue ones had skimmed past her to zero in on the blonde freshman sitting on her other side—a one Lavender Brown, an unfortunate girl who’d inherited a stripper name at birth, and who’d dropped the class within the first week because it was “too hard” and she was “supposed to be studying English, not whatever foreign language this was”—and thus, Hermione’s opinion of Ronald Weasley had been set in stone.
It was further cemented when, after she'd raised her hand and answered every question the professor asked entirely on her own (the rest of the students were too busy texting or nodding off), he'd turned to his friends, imitating the way her hand would thrust into the air, pushing up imaginary glasses to make some inane joke about her being a nerd.
She doesn’t even wear glasses.
Hermione nearly rolls her eyes remembering it. Very childish. Of course, it had been rather immature of her to snap back that she, at least, cared about her education. The comment had earned some ‘oohs’ and ‘ahs’ from the brainless twits who were only at this elite institution because they were good at throwing balls around on a grassy field.
Weasley had perked up when she’d done that. Something like interest had flashed over his features for a brief second, and then he’d leaned back in his chair, the corners of his mouth tugging into the faintest smirk.
Then, he started sitting up front, next to her.
“How’s it going, Granger?” he asks her now, his chair scraping loudly against the linoleum as he pulls it closer to hers. The metal legs of the chair protest under his massive weight, but Hermione refuses to be intimidated.
She isn’t unsubtle about dragging her seat away.
“I’m fine, thank you.” She purses her lips, her gaze fixed determinedly on her meticulously organized notes, avoiding even a glance in his direction. It irritates her that over the first three weeks of this class, she’s become… attuned to him. Even when she doesn’t look, she always knows when he’s staring at her.
It’s like she can feel it.
“Lovely weather this weekend,” he comments casually, totally oblivious to her inner turmoil. “Do anything fun?”
“No.”
The word comes out clipped, final.
“I did something you’d approve of,” he tells her lowly, his voice inappropriately suggestive. She can hear the smirk in it, and from her peripheral vision, she sees him lean over his desk toward her, flexing his bicep in an exaggerated display.
Hermione pretends not to notice how gorgeous his arms are—as the stupid prat is well aware. Corded forearms, bulging muscles stretched tight under freckled skin. She isn’t blind—she’s seen how the university-branded T-shirts sit differently on his chest compared to the other boys in her lit classes. They’re more preoccupied with writing shitty poetry than with going to the gym.
“And what would that be?” she says, her voice tighter than she’d like.
“I finished reading The Shrew Tamer.”
“The Taming of the Shrew,” Hermione corrects automatically. She slides her gaze over to him then, her expression one of mock-surprise. “I didn’t know you could read.”
Instead of being offended (as he should be), he grins like he’s in on the joke. Like her response was exactly what he’d been hoping for.
“I’m full of surprises, Granger. You just have to get to know me.”
“I’d rather choke on this coffee,” she tells him pleasantly as she pulls out her sticky-note adorned copy of the play in preparation for today’s lesson.
He leans closer, his nose almost brushing against her curls. Hermione swallows back a shudder.
“I know something else you can choke on.”
The words, murmured quietly, hang in the air between them.
Hermione whips around to shout, to yell, to eviscerate him with the full force of her vocabulary—something—but is prevented from doing so when Professor McGonagall strides into the classroom, her worn leather briefcase clasped in her age-spotted hand.
“Good morning, everyone!” she greets cheerily, totally unaware that her prized pupil had just been verbally assaulted by the biggest brute in her class.
“Good morning,” some murmur back, voices still rough with sleep.
“Now, let’s get right to it, then. I’m sure you’ve all completed the play as assigned.” McGonagall's sharp eyes sweep the classroom, and several students shrink in their seats, or hide smiles behind their hands, exchanging nervous glances with their friends.
Ron Weasley raises his hand with the same enthusiasm as Hermione usually displays, mockery being his primary object.
“I’ve read it, Professor. It was a blast.”
Hermione rolls her eyes at this pedestrian interpretation of the classic comedy, but McGonagall smiles, clearly pleased to see engagement from the usually stoic athletes.
“Very good, Mr. Weasley! I’m glad you enjoyed it. Can you tell me your favorite part?”
“Yeah,” he flashes that irritatingly attractive lopsided grin that makes it always seem like he's flirting, the corner of his mouth quirking up to reveal a dimple. "I liked when he clowned her.”
“Ah,” McGonagall says as if he’d just made the most brilliant observation on earth. She leans forward with interest. “Care to elaborate further?”
Ron slides his gaze to Hermione for a moment, his blue eyes glinting with mischief, before sucking in his teeth thoughtfully. “When he proved at the end that he could out-crazy her. That was funny.”
“It’s not just funny,” Hermione interjects, her voice more scathing than she means it to be. “It’s meant to be proof that they’re made for each other. That he’s the only man who can handle her. That he can dominate her, which is in itself problematic—”
“Is that what she wanted?” Ron asks quickly, cutting her off, his voice dropping, “To be dominated?”
The other athletes perk up at this like hounds catching a scent, and hoot and whistle as if something scandalous had just happened. One of them even shouts out, “Long live the king!”
It’s a line in that irritating song Hermione has the unfortunate experience of being familiar with. It’s echoes all over campus on the days after big wins, from the dining hall to the filthy corridors of the dormitories. Apparently, Weasley is quite good at scoring goals, or touchdowns, or whatever it is they do on that field.
A blush creeps across her cheeks now, hot and unwelcome, as she struggles not to squirm beneath his pointed gaze. She knows he’s doing it on purpose to embarrass her— he'd singled her out early, first to make fun of her for actually caring about her education, then to tease and taunt her all sixty minutes of their lesson, three times a week.
She will not cow to him.
“That’s what men believed women needed during the era, yes,” she says, lifting her chin defiantly. “Especially strong-willed, powerful women like Katherine, who were often labeled difficult for being intelligent, or simply for having opinions—”
“She was difficult,” Ron agrees quickly, leaning back in his chair with infuriating nonchalance. “It took Petruchio quite some time to… be with her.”
He flashes a smile at McGonagall, all innocent charm. “Not sure if I can fully say what I mean, Professor.”
“Please, go ahead,” McGonagall waves a hand. “Use any words necessary to express yourself. It’s all English, after all.”
Ron nods slowly, then turns to make eye contact with Hermione again. This time his face shifts, becoming suddenly serious and intense.
“He had to jump through a lot of hoops to fuck her.”
Hermione's jaw clenches, her teeth grinding together as the football players erupt into another round of hoots and hollers. Her blush intensifies, spreading from her cheeks to her throat, and embarrassingly—mortifyingly—when he doesn't look away, when those blue eyes stay locked on hers with that infuriating confidence, something twists low in her gut.
Heat pools between her thighs, and moisture escapes her, dampening her underwear in a way that makes her want to scream with frustration at her own traitorous body.
“Well, everyone,” McGonagall grins toward the usually uninterested side of the classroom. “If that didn’t convince you to read the play, I’m not sure I can say anything that could.”