Hi folks, MooneyMarauder here! This is my first ever FanFic. I've been an avid reader, but never a writer. I would love to get your constructive feedback regarding my writing! I look forward to hearing from you. I hope you enjoy!
It's a stifling July evening. I sat down on the bed. The sheets need to be washed - they smell like sweat. My toes, sockless, lay flat on the wooden floor. You sit down, in front of me, on the oak chair. I had dragged it up to my flat, after it had been abandoned by it's former owner. It's frightening how similar that chair's situation was to yours. You had been kicked out of Wizarding society, abandoned and unforgiven, when we bumped into each other that fateful day.
Today, I'd mustered up the courage to invite you up to my shabby flat. It didn't go as planned.
Or maybe it did, I shrug to myself. At myself.
You look at me quizzically.
"Broken locks," I chuckle, and shake my head.
You nod, "just our luck."
Neither one of us acknowledge that with a flick of our wands, a whispered Alohamora, we could be out of here. Maybe we've forgotten. But more likely, we're simply enjoying each other's company. It seems easier to wait on the landlord of my apartment in muggle London than to admit our feelings.
I lean my head on my own shoulder as the song plays over the radio, filling the silent void in my bedroom. Your eyes pierce mine. But, it's such a pointless song. No meaning, just an electric beat and noise. We listen.
You lean forward in the chair, your blond locks casting a shadow over your features. I watch a drip of perspiration slowly glide down your face.
Again, we could be out of this predicament. But we seem to have forgotten ourselves.
The room's cracking beige walls are cramped and hot as ever, even with the dusty window being cracked open. Yet, you are the breathe of fresh air I desperately needed. You provided the clarity, all those months ago, when I first bumped into you. Literally. So, could you really blame me when all I wanted to do was breathe you in? Maybe it was my fault the lock broke?
The walls of my room are bare and impersonal; but they no longer look like those of an asylum with the setting sun dancing across them. My threadbare furniture looks homey for the fist time since I moved in here. You did that. You made it all come to life.
"Maybe we should call them, again?" You ask.
"They already know," I chuckle nervously.
My skirt is too long, my tank-top too tight. My curls are frizzing, uncontrollably; the heat is overpowering my body's cooling system. I feel beads of sweat rolling down my backbone, rolling to the end of my skirt. I shiver. I can see yet another bead of sweat roll down your temple, to your chin. It moves something inside me, and I smile inwardly.
"Alright," you jerk upright, kicking the chair back into the corner window, "only one thing to do, then!" A mischievous grin is on your face, or maybe it's a reflection of mine?
"Pray tell, what may that be?" I ask, quizzically.
"May I have this dance, mademoiselle?" your voice, a pretentious French accent.
I laugh, "you may, good sir!"
My sweaty palm accepted yours, and the bed creaked as it's relieved of my weight.
We stand tall, chest to chest, face to face. I smell peppermint on your breath. I don't mind being trapped like this, with you.
