FD/HG. Four-shot.
Writing Inspiration: JK Rowling's Harry Potter series, Aucune Defense Pour Toi (D. Geheimnis), and 365 (aoxomoxoa).
Musical Inspiration: Life in Mono (Mono), In A Manner Of Speaking (Nouvelle Vague), Your Hand In Mine (Explosions In The Sky), and Kiss Me Again (Jessica Lea Mayfield).
Sitting in the small Muggle café, she felt naked. It was not merely due to the fact that her professional business suit did nothing to insulate her slender body from the chilled autumn air; this was a different nakedness. A bareness that resulted from having been dressed down, analyzed, and spit back out. Normally, she dealt with this feeling as one would something inevitable: I guess it can't be helped...
Now, however, was a different story.
In this cafe, she was going to finally (hopefully) achieve complete closure. Finally, maybe, she would gain some profound insight.
A breeze that would have been welcome in the past sifted her curls and set off a round of shivering. To combat the cold, she held her hot mug of chai tea to her chest. The sky was a grey beast blanketing the world with claws of white and blue, promising an overcast pleasantness while threatening storms and tumult. The pavement was wet from last nights rain, and leaves were clumped in a futile attempt to avoid the torrent. Inhaling through the nose, one could smell the sharpness of winter, just around the corner.
Unconsciously, her booted foot had begun to tap. Was it with impatience, or was it with worry; who knew? She longed for a cigarette, just to quell the nervousness. Addiction was not a problem for her – it had never been a problem, but it was something akin to a stress ball. Except stress balls were not nearly as suave. Someone walks by with a stress ball, people know that person has his or her fair share of issues, whereas someone walks by with a cigarette, people assume that he or she is one or several of three things: French, an art student, or some form of musician. Wait...if it alleviates stress, wouldn't that make it an addiction? No, she decided. Because it was an addiction only if it couldn't be helped. Besides, smoking, for her, was all about the look. If she looked suave and cool, then she would gain a kind of strange confidence in herself.
Hermione Granger was none of those three things. Instead, she was the English, working Auror. Truth be told, she was held in higher regard as a protector than were her counterparts, Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley. War had changed her studious and peaceful bookworm ways; she was well known not for her bushy hair or phenomenal intellect, but for her ruthlessness and cunning in a duel. Therefore, it made no sense to the outside observer that she felt naked, defenseless, and nervous. However, if that speculation were to be voiced, out of pure denial Miss Granger would hex the speaker into oblivion. Witches and wizards are defensive in their own way.
She was waiting, and as usual, the one she waited on was late. Naturally, she thought with a small humourless smile. Sometimes she wondered why she waited at all - there was nothing keeping her there, no reason to wait for one who obviously could never be bothered with something as trivially important as punctuality. It had been like this since she was eighteen; always waiting on something that had a sixty percent chance of not happening, hoping that the rare forty percent would come into play. Ten years like this. It took its toll. This rings true especially now, in a time of relative peace, with no Death Eaters to take her frustration out upon.
A sip of now-lukewarm chai.
More waiting.
She had been waiting for ten years.