Harry Potter, Oral Presentations

Title: Oral Presentations [Remus/Hermione]
Rating/Warnings: PG-13 for rampant fantasizing.
Summary: Remus doesn’t mind letting Hermione’s presentation run long.
A/N: This didn’t really happen either. A stopgap birthday present for Musesfool (only for you would I write Remus/Hermione).

Oral Presentations

It really was quite improper for a professor to pretend to be so interested in what a student was saying, when really he was imagining loosening that Gryffindor tie and undoing all those shirt buttons underneath oh so slowly.

“Is that an acceptable source, professor?” The Seventh Year blinked at him, waiting for approval.

“Certainly, Hermione,” Professor Lupin answered smoothly, sneaking a glance at the book in her hand, because he had lost the thread of her question several moments before. “Although Professor Lockhart’s described methods, even if they were his own, are a bit hyperbolic, his descriptions of magical creatures are accurate, if only for the shock value.”

“He wasn’t a professor,” Ron Weasley sneered, and Lupin felt a pang of pity for the boy if he thought he was still battling Gilderoy Lockhart’s ghost for Hermione’s affections. “And what’ve you even still got those books for, have you forgotten that nitwit tried to Obliviate Harry an’ me?!”

“Now now, Mr. Weasley,” Lupin cleared his throat as other boys in the room started glancing at the suddenly misty-eyed girls and exchanging dark glances. “Perhaps we had better let Hermione get on with her oral presentation.”

“Yes, do,” Lavender Brown muttered in a voice she probably thought was inaudible to everyone but Parvati Patil, “we’re going to be here till the hols as it is.”

Lupin rather agreed, given the heft of the of the portfolio Hermione was clutching, but he couldn’t say that he minded as he slipped back into his chair, settling in for the show.

Not that anyone would need an excuse to look at 17-year-olds in school uniforms, but the real attraction here was that Hermione was a bit of a nervous speaker, probably owing to years of peer torment. She wasn’t a poor speaker by any stretch of the imagination, but she was a fidgiter.

Like twisting a piece of hair around a finger, that’s how it always started. Her hair would swing in her face when she leaned over to adjust her notes, she would reach up to push it back, and somehow a few strands would snag on her fingers. If Lupin was lucky, she’d continue toying with the piece the entire way through her opening remarks, giving him plenty of time to imagine those long fingers tangling in his own hair while she pleaded with him to hurry…

“Would it be all right if I wrote on the board, Professor?”

Lupin took a moment to process the question before nodding, digging around in a pocket of his cardigan to produce the one piece of chalk he had managed to keep safe from the overzealous janitorial House Elves, who discarded every partially used piece they could lay their hands on every night. He had lost his sole eraser to them long ago, and had since been reduced to Scourgifying the blackboard whenever his layers of notes became illegible.

Hermione’s blackboard notes, unlike his own, were organized to within an inch of their lives, names of spells and potion ingredients arranged into rigid charts. She was stretching on her toes to reach the very top of the board, the back of her white shirt pulling taut across the soft rise of her breasts, nicely rounded, her hips too, not like most of the other girls these days. Like that Weasley girl, all elbows and ribs, you could poke an eye out just hugging her.

But Granger’s body, there was something you could get ahold of, all smooth curves, her shirt clinging to her, her skirt just this side of regulation length…

“Professor, she’s loads over the time limit!” Seamus Finnigan was waving his hand wildly in the air. Beside him, Dean Thomas’ eyes had more glaze over them than a Christmas goose. “Can’t you do something?”

“Mr. Finnigan, I seem to recall that I let you go on for quite a length of time about your family’s Banshee problems, so perhaps we could afford Miss Granger the same courtesy, hmm?”

Several of Seamus’ classmates turned their scowls from Hermione to him, and Neville Longbottom flicked a wad of paper over to smack him in the back of the neck.

“Five points to Gryffindor for excellent aim, Neville,” Lupin watched with satisfaction as Longbottom’s face bloomed red, nor did he miss the reassuring smile Harry sent Neville’s way. “Perhaps you had best try to wrap it up, Hermione?”

Applying just the right amount of pressure to Hermione was a bit of a challenge, but this time Lupin had struck the perfect balance between stress and performance in the little obsessive-compulsive, prompting his favorite fidget of all.

Setting her notes down on the table where Lupin kept various specimens at the front of the room, Hermione leaned one hip onto it as she talked, then slowly, she edged the other up until she was fully sitting on the edge of the table, legs swinging back and forth slowly, skirt bunching a bit as she slid back.

Lupin leaned his chin on one hand and imagined edging in between those smooth thighs, nudging them apart, rucking the skirt up from under her the rest of the way, making her tip her head back and bare that creamy throat for him at just the right angle…

“…slaughtering every last member of the village,” he heard her finished dimly, further noticing that the rest of the class were packing up their things in a very loud and deliberate manner.

“Yes, should end on a high note,” Remus cleared his throat, “time for lunch then, is it? Excellent, I’ve worked up quite an appetite.”

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