Sneaking In

Snap of light, puff of smoke, a whiff of Floo magic. A thump, two bodies hitting each-other. No fire, no light.

There's laughter in her hushed voice.

Here, take my hand, he hears, feels a warm presence awkwardly bumping his nose, halfway down his chest, groping for his shoulder, before he grasps her hand with his own. So dark she can't tell where his face starts and his limbs hang and his body stands. Now they are joined, she pulls him forward out of the fireplace into the blackness. He follows at the length of both their arms linked at the fingers clasping.

Voices low, snorts of laughter painfully repressed.

Watch for the counter now, oh well new bruise on his hip, maybe she'll have better timing lat—Ooh, what's that chair doing all the way out here? too late.

She walks with her free arm stretched out before her, even though she knows the way. Don't want any unexpected walls jumping out of nowhere in the middle of the night. He sighs, but only a little—he doesn't really mean it, it just seems necessary. It's a pleasant habit to sigh at her little gestures, little words, little beautiful things. The sigh holds a single note of laughter, rolling and affectionate and quiet.

Have a care, let's not run into the dry sink, and they are weaving through more chairs and here's another table and bump ow, well those stairs snuck up on me, then the hall. There is a little light from the front windows, with decaying regal lace curtains instead of somber, light-killing drapes. He sees her face a little now. He feels her hand in his, agile and inviting.

"Sneaking in late with you never fails to excite."

"...we haven't even got to the good part yet."