Chapter Text
Title: Cinnamon
Author: reallybeth
Selected Trope: Meet Cute
Brief Summary: An excited shiver ran down Hermione’s spine and she had to remind herself that this was just an act. This was just his job. She was just a paying customer. But despite knowing all that, the moment felt electric, private, even with the large amount of people watching their every move.
Rating: Mature
oOo
I swore to myself that I would not start another chapter-ed fic…but here we are 😭. This was supposed to be a looong one-shot, but I knew I wasn't going to be able to get it finished in time to submit it for trope-fest so…chapters it is!!
Long story short, I was scrolling through reels one day, saw a video, and thus, this idea was born.
I regret nothing.
oOo
Hermione Granger did not spend three and a half years at university building a reputation of being responsible and studious only to be kidnapped by her four flatmates, forced into a dress far too tiny for her liking, subjected to hair and makeup against her will, and dragged down a neon-lit street on her twenty-first birthday.
“No!” she said, laughing despite herself as Padma tugged her forward by the wrist. “Absolutely not. I don’t—this isn’t—why is the building vibrating?”
“That, dear roomie,” Lavender announced cheerfully, grabbing onto Hermione’s other wrist, “is the sound of fun.”
“I’m fun,” Hermione protested. “I just don’t need… whatever this is, to prove it.”
Luna, who was drifting along beside them in a dress that looked like it was from another dimension, peered at the glowing sign above the door they were quickly approaching. “Gravitational Pull,” she said dreamily. “It sounds like something that happens during a prophecy.”
Hermione groaned as she realized exactly what this place was. “Gravitational Pull?” she repeated. “Please tell me this is a joke.”
Parvati grinned. “Oh, it was a joke. For about ten minutes or so. Then we bought the tickets.”
“You did say,” Lavender reminded her, “that you didn’t want a boring birthday.”
“I meant a nice dinner and maybe a little bit of dancing,” Hermione said weakly.
“This is dancing,” Padma said, gesturing toward the door as it opened briefly, releasing a loud burst of music and cheers. “Just better! ….and more educational.”
Hermione stopped short, an excuse entering her mind. “Viktor wouldn’t like this at all,” she said, shaking her head.
Lavender snorted. “When we told Viktor where we were taking you, he thought it was hilarious.”
Hermione blinked. “He did?”
“Oh yes,” she said, delighted. “I told him our plan and he said, and I quote, ‘Hermione deserves a night to let loose.’ Then he laughed. A lot.”
Traitor, Hermione thought. Absolute traitor.
The club was dark, lit in shades of red and gold that felt more theatrical than anything. A stage framed by velvet curtains dominated the back wall, with tables scattered in front of it. The air smelled faintly of citrus, and the bass thrummed through her body in a way that almost made it difficult to breathe. There wasn't a designated dance floor, but there was plenty of space around the tables where people were laughing and dancing to the beat.
“Birthday girl gets the best view,” Parvati said as they made their way over to a reserved table near the stage. “Drink?”
Hermione stared down at the laminated list thrust into her hands. “These are… strong.”
“That’s the idea,” Padma said. “Start with something sweet.”
“I don’t need...” Hermione began, then stopped. She looked around at her friends excited grins and smiled reluctantly. “All right. One drink.”
oOo
One drink turned into two, and by the time the first dancers took the stage, Hermione found herself having a genuinely good time.
The dancing men moved in sync, their fit, muscular bodies lit by spotlights. They wore little more than tight fitted jeans, boots, and the occasional accessory (suspenders, an open vest, a tie) Their dancing was all rhythm and control, with slow rolls of hips and sharp turns, hands skimming over their own bodies in a deliberate, teasing way. They danced to the music, alternating between languid and bold, exaggerated movements that made it very clear they knew exactly what they were doing and who they were doing it for. Hermiomne and her friends all whooped and clapped loudly as Lavender provided a running commentary that had them giggling the whole way through.
More drinks arrived, and then another act. Hermione found herself easing back into her chair, the tight coil of self-consciousness in her chest slowly unwinding. She watched the stage with a growing appreciation for the male form, her eyes on the flow of bodies and the clever timing of the performances.
“The one on the left has a very strong core,” Padma noted. “Very impressive."
Luna tilted her head. “I think they enjoy being observed.”
Hermione watched the stage as a whole, but somehow her attention kept snagging on one dancer in particular. He moved a little differently than the others, less showy, like he knew exactly how much to give and when to hold back. He was the tallest one, with a slim but muscular build, and most noticeably, a head of bright ginger hair. Despite the sensual movements he was making, he carried himself with a casual ease that suggested an absence of ego, unlike many of the others onstage.
Near the end of the act, as if he could feel her eyes on him, the red-headed man glanced her way and their eyes met. He smiled crookedly at her, and then, to her horror, winked. Hermione nearly choked on her drink, and launched into a coughing fit while her friends burst into laughter around her.
“Oh my god, I’m mortified,” she breathed once she managed to regain control of her airway.
Lavender beamed. “He liiiikes you,” she said in a sing-song voice.
“No, he doesn’t,” Hermione said, face hot.
“He does.”
The dancers left the stage and the music quieted, the energy in the room changing.
“This birthday is the most ridiculous one I’ve ever had,” she said, grinning around the table, “but I have to admit, it’s been really fun.”
Parvati clapped her hands. “I knew you would love it! Well …I knew you would love it eventually.”
“Aren't we the best birthday planners ever?” Lavender asked, nudging her.
Before Hermione could answer, the background music cut abruptly. The lights dimmed, and a deep, velvety voice rolled through the club from numerous speakers.
“We’ve heard,” the voice drawled, “that there’s a birthday girl here tonight.”
The crowd erupted into cheers, none louder than Hermione’s friends who were now positively manic.
Oh no. No, no, no. Absolutely not.
Hermione shrank into her seat, eyes darting left and right as if the birthday girl might be someone else…anyone else.
A beat picked up, joined by a drumroll. From the side of the stage, the dancer who’d winked at her earlier stepped into the spotlight. He wore the same jeans, boots, and tie from before, though now a cowboy hat completed the ensemble.
The crowd went feral.
Hermione barely noticed the microphone in his hand until he lifted it to his lips, smirking as he scanned the room. Within seconds, his gaze locked on her and another spotlight snapped on, blindingly bright. Hermione gasped in a sudden, horrifying awareness that every single person in the club was now looking directly at her.
“Hermione,” the dancer said smoothly, his voice so sultry it nearly hurt, “care to join me up here for your birthday present?”
She shook her head immediately.
No. No, absolutely not.
She waved her hands in a frantic gesture, but Lavender was already on her feet and pulling Hermione into a standing position.
“GO!” she screamed, “You have to!!!”
Everyone started chanting her name. Hermione wished she could sink into the floor and disappear. She regretted everything. She regretted being there. She regretted making friends who would bring her there in the first place. She was in college for goodness sake! She was there to study, what did she need friends for?!?!
She was going to throw up. She was going to pass out. She was going to throw up and pass out.
The man onstage grinned, clearly enjoying her mortification far too much. He crooked one long finger, beckoning her forward. “Oh come on,” he said into the mic, voice warm and coaxing. “It’s your birthday. You don’t want to leave your present unopened, do you?”
The crowd screamed louder.
Hermione looked at him and shook her head in refusal once again. He tilted his head, feigning thought. “Twenty-one,” he said into the mic, “that’s an important one. Your friends seem to think you deserve something…. memorable.”
Lavender leaned in, voice urgent. “Hermione, if you don’t go up there right now, I will never forgive you.”
Luna piped in, “Also, we promised to give Viktor all the details.”
Knowing she had no other choice but to comply, Hermione groaned and, at last, relented.The crowd applauded as she made her way toward the stage, her legs trembling, heart racing, vision half-blinded by the spotlight that was still on her.
When she reached the steps, a large, freckled hand reached down, and after a beat, Hermione took it. His hand was warm, strong, and to her surprise, rough with calluses that betrayed what must have been years of hard work.
Cautiously, she took the three steps from the floor to the stage, determined not to stumble or embarrass herself in the heels she was not used to wearing. When she made it up there, the man, who was still holding onto her hand, leaned in impossibly close. The arm that was holding the mic went behind his back as he bent his head down to talk in her ear.
“Hey,” he said quietly, suddenly all professional beneath the charming act. “Before this happens, our policy is full consent, all the way through. There is a hands-off option if you would prefer, but be reassured that at no point will there be any explicit touching if you do choose the hands-on option. Nothing involving intimate areas such as the chest, bottom, or between the legs. Also, if at any point you want this to stop, you just say the word. You're in control.” He stepped back a little so he could meet her eye. “What option do you choose, and what do you want your safe word to be?”
Hermione blinked. Her eyes went to her friends, who were all nodding eagerly, all except for Luna, who was just smiling serenely. “I suppose they’ll murder me if I choose the hands-off option,” she said, biting her lip.
Her stomach did a weird flip as he chuckled, his face still so close to hers. “Alright. Safe word?”
“Cinnamon.” The word came to her easily but she regretted it instantly when his brow furrowed.
Only then did she realize why she’d chosen it. She could smell it on him, smell the strong, familiar scent of cinnamon gum on his breath. The same kind she just happened to chew. The same flavor she was inexplicably obsessed with. Hermione had never had much of a sweet tooth, but cinnamon was her one weakness. Candy, lollipops, gum. If it tasted like cinnamon, she wanted it. She always kept something cinnamon flavored within reach, especially during exam season, when stress made the craving even more impossible to ignore.
“I smell your gum,” she tried to explain before realizing she was only embarrassing herself even more.
The man smiled, his eyes mischievous. “My gum, eh? Perfect.” He paused, his eyes narrowing. “Just out of curiosity, did you happen to know that Cinnamon is my stage name?”
Hermione’s mouth dropped open in surprise. “No, I didn't,” she said honestly.
He chuckled again. “Crazy coincidence, huh?” It was then that he seemed to realize that there was currently an act going on and cleared his throat. “Right. Remember,” he said, stepping back slightly, his eyes on hers, “you’re in control here.”
His reassurance made her feel better, and with one last nod, he guided her, his touch light and respectful, to a chair that had been placed squarely at the center of the stage.
Once she was settled, he turned the mic off and set it down to the side. The music shifted into something slow and sultry, and then he stepped back….and danced.
Every movement rolled through his body, his torso and arms flexing, hips swaying in time with the music. He circled her, boots striking the stage in rhythm, hands gliding over his own middle towards the hem of his way-too-low slung slacks.
He dropped to one knee, one hand on the floor, the other sliding up his thigh in time with the music. The move was pure theater, but the effect was devastating and the cheering got even louder.
Hermione sat frozen, acutely aware of her own heartbeat. She’d always found this kind of thing corny, but despite herself, there was something about this man that was definitely…alluring.
You have a boyfriend, she internally chided, right before ‘Cinnamon’ stood and swung a leg over her lap, drawing a startled squeak from her mouth.
He didn't press his weight down onto her, his weight on his own legs as his body moved in slow, sensual movements, unmistakably mimicking something far more intimate than dancing.
He was so close, his chest level with her face, and he smelled… good. Better than good, actually. He reeked of cinnamon, probably unhealthy by any reasonable standard. But Hermione didn’t mind in the slightest. She breathed him in deeply, careful not to let him notice just how much she was doing it.
Her attention was wrenched from his scent as he dipped a hand into the front of his jeans and revealed a sliver of red fabric, no more than a hint.
“Pull the rest of it out,” he ordered with a wink.
The crowd went wild as she did what was asked, and drew out a long, silky, scarf from his jeans. It was warm and she tried not to think about where it had been as she pulled it all the way out.
He stood up again before pulling his tie over his head and tossing it into the crowd. Cheers exploded and Hermione couldn't help but laugh as Padma caught the tie with a triumphant yell.
‘Cinnamon’ was now back in front of her, leaned down, bracing a hand on the back of her chair as he moved his hips in a slow, suggestive manner.
Damn. He’s hot. Ridiculously hot, Hermione’s brain supplied unhelpfully.
He straightened, his blue eyes never leaving hers. Then he reached down, offering her his hand.
“Up,” he said. It wasn't a command, not exactly, but it was close enough.
An excited shiver ran down Hermione’s spine and she had to remind herself that this was just an act. This was just his job. She was just a paying customer. But despite knowing all that, the moment felt electric, private, even with the large amount of people watching their every move.
As he helped her to her feet, the crowd was losing its mind. Lavender was screaming something incoherent, and all of her friends had their phones out and were recording.
He positioned her carefully in the center of the stage, so she was facing the crowd. The chair was nudged back with his foot, removed from the act.
He circled her once, eyes moving up and down her body, unhurried, like he was giving the audience time to take her in too. Self consciously, Hermione folded her arms in front of her.
“No, no,” he murmured, voice pitched only for her. He took her hands and gently moved her arms.
He took the scarf from her fingers before using it to tie her wrists together and moving her arms so they were raised up above her head. He didn't tie it too tight, though, she knew she’d easily be able to get free if she’d really wanted to.
The crowd was still making a fuss, but Hermione could scarcely hear them over the music and her own ragged breathing.
He then stepped up behind her, one hand at her waist, the other still holding her tied wrists up in the air. His body brushed hers, light but intentional, matching the music. Hermione inhaled sharply, eyes widening. Her first instinct was to stiffen, but instead, she found herself swaying with him.
“That’s it,” he said softly into her ear. “Just breathe. You're doing great.”
After a minute or so of this, he untied her hands and she lowered them. He shoved half the scarf into his pocket as the music pulsed lower and he stepped in front of her.
He reached for her hands, interlacing his fingers with hers for just a moment before placing them, very deliberately, on his chest. Hermione’s brain went haywire as she stared, shell-shocked, at her hands splayed on his freckly skin. She could feel the hard muscles underneath her fingers, feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing. His eyes flicked down, then back up to her face, eyebrows lifting in a silent question.
What now?
She didn’t pull away. Hermione could hear her friends screaming louder than ever, knowing they would surely be recounting every detail from their point of view of this whole thing later and she would never hear the end of it.
He rolled his shoulders, chest moving under her hands. Hermione swallowed, heat blooming everywhere at once. He leaned in, forehead nearly touching hers, then spun away, leaving her standing there with her hands in mid-air.
When he returned, he took her hands once more,this time placing them at his hips. The message was clear. You can touch, or you can let go.
Hermione’s fingers tightened, just a little, and the crowd howled.
He dipped his head, eyes level with hers.
“You okay?” he murmured.
Unable to speak, she merely nodded.
A smile curved his mouth. Satisfied.
He then reached up with a practiced motion and tugged off his hat. The gesture alone drew a chorus of whistles. He twirled it once on his finger, then, stepping even closer, he tipped the brim lightly against her forehead before settling it fully onto her head.
Hermione stopped breathing as the hat slid into place. His fingers lingered at the edge of the brim, adjusting it, his knuckles brushing her temple in a touch so fleeting it almost felt accidental.
Almost.
He finished with a flourish. One last slow roll of his body before stepping back and grabbing the mic.
With a wink, he offered her the scarf. “For the birthday girl,” he said into the mic, the crowd applauding. He bowed deeply to her, then leaned in one last time, mic behind his back. “You can keep the hat too. Happy birthday, Hermione,” he murmured.
Hermione stood there for a second, stunned, as the applause washed over her. All gentleman again, the dancer took her hand in his and escorted her back to her friends.
After he’d left and returned backstage, Hermione collapsed into her seat, heart still racing.
Lavender looked as if she’d just witnessed a miracle. “Oh my god,” she breathed. “That was fucking hot.”
“We’re definitely coming here for my birthday,” Padma said.
“As your twin,” Parvati nodded, “I wholeheartedly agree.”
“I think I understand why people pay for this,” Luna said dreamily. “There’s something very captivating about a man who knows how to move his body. He’s probably very good at sex.”
Hermione bit her lip, trying her best not to think about that particular statement.
Parvati fanned herself dramatically. “That was…”
“Borderline illegal,” Padma finished.
Hermione groaned, dropping her face into her hands. “None of you are ever going to let me forget this are you?”
“Of course not,” Lavender said sweetly. “Especially because we have video proof it happened!”
“You touched him,” Parvati added, eyes wide.
“It was part of the act,” Hermione defended, “It’s not like I enjoyed it.”
“He danced around you,” Luna said, “like you were the sun. He orbited you.”
Hermione peeked at her friends through her fingers. “You’re all making it a bigger deal than it actually was.”
Lavender stared at her. “You squeezed his hips!”
“I did not!”
Padma raised an eyebrow. “You so did.”
Hermione buried her face again as their laughter bubbled over the table.
The music changed and a group of dancers took the stage, but Hermione’s attention drifted almost immediately away from the stage.
Because she saw him.
‘Cinnamon’ was no longer under the spotlight. Instead, he wore a black button-up now, sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he moved through the floor, a tray of drinks balanced on one hand, smiling and chatting with people as he went. As she stared, he glanced up and caught her staring and gave her a quick smile.
“Oh,” Lavender murmured.
Hermione’s head snapped to her friend. “What?”
Lavender grinned. “Nothing.”
But then he passed again, closer this time, and Hermione risked another glance to find him already looking at her. He smiled again. Small, quick, almost shy. She looked away first, using the hat she was still wearing to shield her.
Parvati leaned across the table, biting her lip to keep from laughing. “He keeps looking at you.”
“He is working,” Hermione said firmly. “He’s just doing his job.”
“He does seem rather taken with you,” Luna chimed in. “It was obvious that the sexual energy between you two was very high. I’d say you are very compatible to be lovers.”
Hermione resolutely ignored her and turned her attention back to the stage. The dancers blurred together, movements registering only distantly. Her thoughts were tangled and inconvenient.
This is ridiculous, she told herself. He’s attractive. Of course he’s attractive. That’s the entire point. There is nothing wrong with me noticing that.
“Should we tell Viktor he has some competition?” Lavender sang softly.
Hermione shot her a glare. “No.”
“Ohhh, I think we should tell him,” Padma said sweetly, leaning her chin into her hand as if this were a perfectly reasonable discussion.
Hermione drained the rest of her drink in one long gulp before setting the glass down with more force than necessary. “Viktor knows where I am. He knows what happens here. According to you, he thought this was funny.”
Lavender’s grin turned wicked. “Uh-huh.” She laughed. “We’re just messing with you, Hermione. After a show like that, taking the mickey is necessary.”
Onstage, the final performers struck their last pose, chests gleaming under the spotlight. The room erupted into whistles, cheers, and the pounding of hands against tabletops.
The lights brightened gradually, pulling everyone back into reality. Laughing, Padma, Parvati, Luna, Lavender, and Hermione linked arms, and followed the crowd towards the exit.
“Happy Birthday!” someone from another table called, raising a glass in Hermione’s direction.
She forced a smile and gave a small wave in thanks, mortified and strangely happy all at once.
When they stepped outside, the air was crisp. Hermione inhaled, the chill clearing the haze of heat and bass from her lungs. The noise of the club was replaced with distant traffic and the hum of the city at night. She tilted her face up toward the dark sky, heart still racing in a way she couldn’t entirely blame on embarrassment.
Twenty-one felt different already.