She makes a soft noise, a barely there protest, because it is a bit of a shock, but even she can admit that it's... Nice. It's a little awkward, considering, but her hand moves and touches his cheek, careful, as she tilts and leans into the kiss, letting herself have this one moment. If she's only going to have a few sparse flickers of romance here in this world (which seems likely, given her track record) she may as well make the most of it.
When she does lean back she rests her forehead against his, not wanting him to see just how pink and embarrassed she suddenly is.
"See?" And as if it were just as before, he tilts his head up so he can press a kiss to her forehead, chaste as anything. "Wasn't that fun? You need more intimacy in your life."
"You are terrible, I hope you know that, going around sticking your tongue down people's throats." For all that she's pink-cheeked and teasing, though, she is smiling. "I'm not just going to kiss anyone, you know. I would like to love them - or at least like them."
He laughs, even as he pulls back to dodge the hit. "If those were my qualifications, I would virtually only ever kiss my friends. And I don't have enough of those to make that feasible in the slightest. I don't even like half of the people I've slept with."
"Then maybe you should start trying. I've heard it makes it better when you love them." Which makes her think of the hundred years, of course, and how many people he might have loved and lost - and her mind skips over that, forces her to think of the now. "You've shown me that kisses can be very lovely. Are you happy?"
"Trust me: it doesn't." He reaches back over for his teacup. Innocently: "Well, mine are. I'm afraid that after this, all other kisses will be a bit of a let down."
"Everyone in the Drabwurld will have to try and compare to Dorian Gray's executive kissing technique." It makes her laugh, the sound escaping her even as she leans up to wrap her arms around his neck to hug him. "How will I possibly survive the unfortunate comparisons? My poor future husband."
"Not really? I've never really been interested in girls that way. They're beautiful, of course, but when I ever thought about relationships..." Well, it had been boys. Viktor and then Ron and then Luke, here, in this world, but she's biting her tongue on that matter. "Boys, I think."
She softens, a little wry smile crossing her lips, and she leans in to kiss his forehead gently, tender and sweet. "You'd look ridiculous sneezing non-stop, that's all I'm going to say."
"Oh, no?" He pushes to his feet. Away from the table he walks, over to the fireplace. It isn't burning so strongly, with spring coming into fullness, but still it burns to fight off the last of winter chill. And down he kneels, perfectly prepared to shove his head right into the flames—
"No!" Hermione stands up, moving over. "Accio Dorian Gray!" It doesn't pull him to her, of course, not the way the spell works, but Harry had told her he had used it on Hagrid once - and he does move away from the fireplace and closer to her, which is what she had wanted. Dropping to her knees, she glares. "Are you absolutely mental?"
His smile becomes less loud. Softer, sadder. He shakes his head.
"Sorry, Hermione. But I am what I have become. That wouldn't have been the first death by fire. Pain scales differently when you've died as much as I have."
"That doesn't mean you can joke about it," she says, voice soft, her fingers brushing over his skin. "Not this, not with me. I know that you've suffered, but you don't... You shouldn't have to suffer just because you can." Hermione's hand drops, touching his chest, where his heart lies, before she leans in and kisses him again, another chaste thing, comfort more than anything else. "I would take all of it away if I could."
There it is: one of those sudden moments of coldness. After all that play and fun and offering of protection, the wall comes down.
"You can't. And I wouldn't want you to." He draws to his feet, away from her touch. "There's no stripping back what I've been through to reveal the real boy underneath it."
"Maybe I don't want just the boy." Hermione stands up, turning to look at him. "I don't want just - whatever you want to pretend to be, or the person you might think you want me to have. I've seen your soul, Dorian, and I'm not running away. I'm not turning my back on you and wherever you go I'll go with you if you need me to." Her arms cross tight across her chest, unsure; no matter how many strides she makes she continues to ruin the friendship between them, saying the wrong thing and bringing back that ice. "I told you. I love you, not what you might think I think you are."
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Honestly.
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But Dorian Gray's definition of a kiss involves more than just lips touching.
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When she does lean back she rests her forehead against his, not wanting him to see just how pink and embarrassed she suddenly is.
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"You are terrible, I hope you know that, going around sticking your tongue down people's throats." For all that she's pink-cheeked and teasing, though, she is smiling. "I'm not just going to kiss anyone, you know. I would like to love them - or at least like them."
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Not like he's trying to narrow down who she should look through or anything.
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"Sorry, Hermione. But I am what I have become. That wouldn't have been the first death by fire. Pain scales differently when you've died as much as I have."
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"You can't. And I wouldn't want you to." He draws to his feet, away from her touch. "There's no stripping back what I've been through to reveal the real boy underneath it."
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