She wound through low tables toward the long bar, immediately honing in on a vacant but precariously-splintered stool in the far corner. A coaster and a pair of darkly disinterested eyes appeared almost immediately but never met hers beneath a wispy fan of dark brown hair. They watched a charmed black rag wind itself across the bar, seeming to sniff out drops of water and whisk them away in a long arc of faded fabric. "I'll have a Hairy Navel," she requested in a voice several marks below her normal cadence. He backed away and for a moment she watched as the wiry figure plucked a bottle of clear (but undoubtedly pungent) liquid, peach Schnapps and a small container of pumpkin juice from the vast array of glimmering bottles suspended behind him, lined up like choir children standing on air. Then she ducked her head again and peeked fuzzily between eyelashes at the figures slumped about the bar.
Blonde. Gray. Too short. Brunette. Redhead. Gray. Too young. Gray. There, the black-haired one, with the sloping chin, that had to be him. She watched for a long moment, hoping he would feel the attention and glance over for even a second, but he seemed fully absorbed in whatever his companion had clutched between those grimy, weathered hands. Something small and square and light enough examine at all angles with the flick of a few fingers.
In her peripheral vision, the bartender dropped something in her glass with a dull plop and turned toward her. For a moment she continued to stare past him, drawing herself beyond still and almost twitching with the effort. He set down the drink with a dull clasp of glass on wood and, when she finally flicked her eyes to his, inadvertently made eye contact with her for a long moment. Tall. Blonde, curly hair. Green eyes. Freckles. Slightly puffy cheeks. Pointed nose. Curvy. Hermione relaxed, and filed away the information. The man blinked several times, slowly, before once again backing away.
Sufficiently warmed-up, she again focused on the black-haired slug across the way. She cleared her throat and stared, blatantly, reckless with the knowledge that he would never again see her face. She rustled the ice in her glass with a spear of a toothpick and considered flicking the small, sorry-looking wedge of peach that floated among the ice at him.
She pursed her lips, ever so slightly disgruntled, and started folding the edges of her coaster and flattening them with her fingernail. After a moment, all four corners stood straight up, like miniature paper fans. She paused for a moment, rubbing her fingers together, and then brought them to her mouth, producing a small blue wad. She murmured something, and the gum shot across the bar.
That did it – the thick figure pushed his remarkably oversized eyebrows together and rotated steely, vacant blue eyes toward the stuffy pair beside her. She feigned immense interest in her drink for a moment, repeatedly stabbing the peach with her dagger-toothpick, and then drew herself deathly still before casually glancing up, making eye contact, and boom – she had it. Hermione dropped a few coins on the counter and backed away, slipping out of the bar as quickly as possible without drawing undue attention. But not even the object of her target practice glanced up as the figure with clipped steps and a determined air vacated the premises.
They certainly noticed her three minutes later, after a brief session of pacing in the dark outside the door. Small and pale, with white skin that smacked of moonlight and long, icicle-blonde hair that streamed behind her in the absence of a fan, Hermione slid across the floor with a seamless elegance the most regal ghost could not have replicated. She tilted her chin slightly skyward, eluding a confidence gleaned from the knowledge that, with a few effortless, flowing strokes of a dance, she could reduce every last smug, self-righteous man in the bar to a blubbering idiot, capable only of attempting ridiculously self-effacing feats in feeble attempts to impress her. It seemed every last eye, even those promised with a ring to focus exclusively on another, swiveled to drink in her intangible light. She fought the urge to roll her newly crystal-blue eyes. Shallow bloody idiots.
Dork, incorporated, had not moved, nor had he reached over to remove the shiny blue circle affixed to the crook of his elbow. He had, however, managed to further dilate his pupils, and was now evidencing difficulty focusing on whatever his friend held.
Perfect.