"Hey, girly," a low voice called, "what you doing in a place like this?"
That was how it all started, with a question.
Hermione Granger hadn't intended to answer, she'd intended to turn on her heel, find Ginny and get the hell out of there. But…
"Are you lost," he said.
It was a challenge, rather than a question.
He was a tall, with long blond hair falling in front of his eyes. His bare arms were pale, and in the fingers of one hand he held a thin cigarette. Ash fell from the tip, fluttering to the ground like cherry blossom.
Hermione could feel gooseflesh prickling up her arms, the spring breeze still held some of winter's chill, and she'd left her jacket in the bar.
He took a drag.
"You look lost," he commented.
"To be in a place like this," she repeated, and gestured a hand to the broken beer bottles and stained metal bins, "you'd have to be."
He crooked a slow grin at her.
"Guess that makes me somewhere far down the rabbit hole then."
He pushed himself off the graffitied wall, which he had been leaning on. In the glow of the streetlight his features were angular and stark. It was like his skin was stretched too far.
He exhaled. Smoke curled up, catching in the artificial light.
"Do you want to get lead astray a little more?"
His lips had been firm and cool against hers.
He smelt stale, and tasted like an ashtray.
But his hands were insistent and coaxing.
His fingers were nimble, snapping clasps and buttons wide open. Musician's hands, the finger tips worn and slight rough against her skin.
Ash blond hair hung in tendrils round his face, brushing rhythmically along her forehead, nose and lips.
She gasped; her breath hot and burning against his chest.
...
Hi, thank you to everyone who read this story. Reviews are so welcome, and I really love reading them.
The chapters in this story are short and are microfictions, which is a type of short prose writing; in which I try and use description and subtlety, rather than just straight narrative.
