A/N: I apologise for the long wait. I have to offer apologies in advance for something else too; I won't be able to update before June 2021. A chapter or two might pass through, but the probability remains very low, as the 'exams of my life' (that's what everyone says) are up. I went through all possible combinations and permutations, and the outcome is that I can't promise anything. What do they call it, putting fics on hold? Hiatus? Maybe. I can't promise anything more than one chapter.

But don't worry, I'm going to complete this fic, no matter how long it takes. Time can't stop the #Harmione & #Harmony love from prospering. H/Hr is the spirit.

Oh, Merry Christmas and Happy New Year in advance. :) (I hope '21's better than '20)

Now, without further ado ...

On with the fic!

After finally tucking James in, David walked into his room and fell on the bed. The clock read four minutes to twelve. Jamie had spent a hell lot of time trick-or-treating with his friends and had crossed the deadline of ten latest he'd set by over one and a half hours. David had started worrying by eleven and was highly perturbed by eleven-thirty. He'd set out at twenty to twelve only to find Jamie waiting for the lift at the ground floor.

He kept his eyes open to avoid falling asleep, for it was around this time he was most prone to those horrendous Hallowe'en nightmares. Every year he fell asleep, and every year the words tormented him. Surprisingly, he didn't feel anything tonight. Instead, his mind kept rambling incessantly about stray things and a light layer of sweat formed on his skin. Maybe it's the clothes. He'd not taken off the uppers he'd put on hurriedly. They were off in a few seconds as he jumped into bed once again.

The clock kept ticking. Soon it twenty-seven minutes past twelve. One glance and David was shocked. The nightmare 'primetime' had passed. For the first time in years, Hallowe'en had passed without trouble.

Not knowing whether to feel enthralled or anxious, he closed his eyes and relaxed. Sleep was still nowhere around, and his thoughts were comparable to gooey muck. He let the restraints fall and dived into the torrential flow of visions.

At first, they remained as they were. After some time, though, the thoughts began to take a particular direction. A direction which led to somewhere very comforting ...

David is wiping mugs in his shop when the bells jingle. He turns around to find a young woman walking up to him. Her attire is casual yet eerily (?) charming. He can't make out her face, but somehow she feels familiar. "Hi, David!" she coos, her voice very energetic yet soft & low. "Wanna come with me?" she asks as she offers her hand. Bewitched, he can't refuse. His hand automatically sets down the mug it held on the nearest shelf and meets with hers. Her face unblurs slightly to reveal her eyes, brown orbs with hints of gold.

The surroundings change. David finds himself standing in a completely different setting. Slightly dazed from the abrupt change, he looks around to find himself in a costume shop. James is to his left, trying to decide which one's the scariest. Just then a familiar aura makes itself known.

"David?" He turns around to find the same lovely-woman-with-a-blurred-face-but-now-unblurred-eyes. "My, where did you disappear? I was so worried. Here, take my hand." Once again, he is unable to resist the temptation. This time, her nose revealed itself upon contact.

Another swirl and the setting changes for the second time. David finds himself in very formal attire. Someone clears their throat, most probably a female. He turns around to find the same woman yet again. This time, however, she's clad in a pretty sleeveless gown. Even without seeing her face, David can tell she's breathtakingly beautiful. She smiles, and her lips made themselves visible. "Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr Walker," she apologises somewhat nervously. "Shall we?" His hand automatically goes up. She places hers in it, blushing profusely.

Another swirl, another change. But this time, something's different.

David looks around to find that he's under the shade of a tree near a vast lake. Even though he knows nothing about the place, he knew it all; an uncanny sense of familiarity calls to him.

But he isn't alone. Something moves lightly against him, something warm and very much alive. He looks down to find his arms wrapped around the form of a beautiful young woman. He can only see half her face, but he knew. It was her breathing that had made him look down.

This time, however, something happened without him holding her hand. A blur distorts his vision, and before he knew, he gets sucked into a vortex just where he'd been sitting. It disappears after a heartbeat, and the same surroundings were in place; he could tell by looking around. The young woman was leaning onto him.

He began to turn involuntarily, but something catches his eye. He doesn't know what it means, but he can't stop his eyes from welling up.

"Hermione?" he hears himself whispering.

"Hermione?" This time it was louder.

"Hermione," he spoke through a cracking larynx and gave a gentle nudge to the woman beside him. It earned him a "Hmm" before the woman moved to catch what he was looking at so emotionally. A tear rolled down his cheek.

The woman wiped it and placed her hand behind his neck. He turns to face her. She shakes her head to ask him not to cry. It was then he saw her fully. It was Freya White.

Panic seizes him, and yet he cannot stop his eyes from fluttering down to her lips as they part the slightest bit. It was wrong, very wrong, yet it seemed so right. He had to fight the urge to lean down and claim those lips for himself.

Before he can do anything, though, the vortex-thing surrounds him once again, blurring his vision. It brought back the twisting sensation with it. A twist, a swirl, and the scene changed.

Freya White is still there, only this time she looks dishevelled and completely devastated. Tear tracks and mucus mar her visage. David can't stop himself from thinking how beautiful she is, and before he knew he was -

He woke up with a start, sweating profusely. Shudders ran through his body, but they did not incite fear, for they were most different from the ones the nightmares gave him. They were eerily ... pleasurable, almost in ... that way. He wiped off some of the salty water from his face, reached for his glasses and tried to calm down. For a few minutes, he did nothing except wait for his breath to normalise. He then pushed off the covers and made for the kitchen.

As he filled a glass with water, he couldn't help thinking about what had just happened. I just had a dream about Freya White. Very true. He picked up the glass and took large gulps. If I hadn't got up on time, I'd've ventured into far nastier things -

He set the glass down with a bang, mentally scolding himself. You meet a girl in a shop, one you don't know the fucking-tiniest bit, one who's rich, beautiful, classy, and bloody-fucking-way out of your league, and you're already fantasising 'bout her? What're you, Walker? A man who dreams of shagging every fucking girl? A fucking randy teenager?

"WHAT AM I!?" he bellowed as he banged his fist on the granite slab. Of course, it hurt. "Aah!" he yelled as he brought the now loose hand to his mouth, sure of having chipped a small bone at the least. He sucked on the bruised spot lightly. His angry thoughts took a slightly different direction. And who the fuck is this Hermione? Why was I calling White Hermione? He'd given up sucking and subconsciously resorted to biting. It was the coppery taste of blood that broke the train. He licked it off and pulled his hair in anger.

Oh God, why does this all have to be so fucked up!?

Freya White couldn't sleep. It was the first time in years she couldn't. Well, apart from the days she got nightmares, which were, though not exactly common, not that few that you could count them on the fingers of your right hand.

Easter break encompassed the days when the first of them haunted her nights. A woman cackling madly and casting curses that sent jolts of extreme pain through her body, with shouts of "Hermione! Hermione!" coming from deep down somewhere in the background. And then the scene changed to a most horrific one; a beast jumping on her and ripping her clothes apart.

This was the one that incited extreme pain & fear; a fear unimaginable, unfathomable. However, surprisingly, it was not the one that bothered her the most. It was very different.

A hideous, snake-faced man who emanates death walks towards her, a large army of cloaked killers following him. She doesn't know how, but she knows they're all murderers. A shackled giant wades through them, his eyes cold & lifeless with shock, pain and grief. His arms carry something. It's a body.

She finds herself faltering, her brain confused, pained and scared simultaneously. She doesn't recognise who, but her body does, for that eerie cognisance makes her parts go uncoordinated, the pain & fear veneering over her mind with increasing intensity.

The killer-in-chief stops and surveys his surroundings for a moment, which, as she realises, is full of people, all dishevelled. The place where they stand appears to be in ruins as if Nemesis had ascended from his hibernation inside the planet's core. He'd finally staked claim to the title he gave himself.

And then come the words that do it.

"HARRY POTTER ... IS DEAD!"

Her heart stops, her lungs freeze, her conscious mind begins its descent into places unknown. She can feel life leaving her body, feel an inexplicably-unfathomably-immense sense of emptiness consume her. She can feel her soul leaving her body; she can experience ... death.

This was the one that had her. Feeling so empty, so distressed, so lifeless, so soulless, so ... dead. May the second was the date when it was most profound.

She didn't know why those words affected her so much. Heck, she didn't even know who Harry Potter was. Well, apart from through her other dreams.

Besides these horrendous, soul-sucking nightmares (at least from her perspective), her other dreams weren't any less crazy, for they involved magic. Real magic.

In those dreams, she was mostly in some old, stony castle-like place. Or perhaps somewhere near it. Spells, books, charms, potions, ghosts, flying broomsticks ... broomsticks brought something else to her mind. A boy. A boy whose face always remained blurred. She'd found herself address him as Harry several times.

His name was not the only thing. Apparently, Harry was a long-lost friend, for they were most certainly the best of pals in her dreams. And she'd heard him call her Hermione.

She'd sought professional advice at last, and had been on medication for her 'condition' since '03. Strangely, her therapist had remarked several times that another person reported similar findings as hers. Of course, they wouldn't give her the person's details; patients' privacy was among the top priorities at Dr Mortimer's. They'd so far managed to avoid having her moved into the 'special care' ward in some big hospital for 'deranged' people like her. But Dr Mortimer had made it clear that they'd do so immediately if it showed any sign of endangering her life.

The question of how she'd landed into all this was one over which she'd stopped dwelling a long time ago, but still, she couldn't restrain her mind from taking a peek at those images once in a while.

All she remembered was that she'd been standing at a kind old lady's front door, with her only memory being her name, Freya White, and that her parents were dead. The woman had taken her in without question upon seeing her dishevelled state. For several days she'd avoided asking the question about how Freya had ended up there, just taking good care of her. When she finally did ask after about three weeks, all the lady could get was that her parents were dead and she had no one left.

She'd helped Freya acquire a job at the local village primary school after about two months, which was difficult as Freya had no certification. But the headmistress found that her doubts were without basis within the first week itself, for the young kids thoroughly enjoyed Freya's company, and she theirs. At least she'd got something to get her mind off all the craziness in her life.

Freya had spent nearly a whole year at the school and was rushing 'home' happily to inform Mrs Fitzgerald, whom she'd very fittingly taken to calling Grandma, about her impending promotion when the small crowd gathered there had silenced her; Mrs Fitzgerald was dead.

The funeral was a sombre affair, and Freya had been surprised when Mrs Fitzgerald's son and her lawyer had solicited her presence at the will-reading. And true enough, Freya's name was in the will. Mrs Fitzgerald had left her one thousand pounds and a note that she'd requested her to read in secret. It had contained nothing more than two words. Find him.

To this day, Freya didn't know who she was to find. Her only clue was that the person was a male.

The train of her thoughts changed tracks, bringing her back to how she'd spent her day. Superficially, her shopping trip with Samantha. Specifically? Her unarranged (?) rendezvous with the Walkers.

James Walker had a precocious, distinct aura around him, something that had invoked a motherly instinct inside her. Granted, she loved children and had a way with them, but Jamie was, apparently, her own.

And then there was Mr Walker. That man was a different ballgame. Never in her life had she felt so bowled over by a man. He'd given her a buddy-buddy (?) feeling in the few seconds (understatement of the century!) their eyes had locked. She was almost sure she'd met him before, and perhaps would've been convinced, too, if she didn't know better.

It was here that the train's compartments detached, with strong ropes joining the two parts; a connection. Ridiculous as it may sound, what she'd felt in those few minutes with the Walkers was almost exactly the same as what she felt when she was in her 'self-imagined-bizarre-hypothetical-magical reality' (Dr Mortimer's words, not hers). A boy there exuded the exact same charisma. It was the boy with the blurred face.

Could it be?

The sound of the phone ringing butt in before she could scold herself for trying to draw parallels out of thin air.

David got up from his angry state after a few minutes and made for his room. He bolted the door and lied down, his hands locked behind his head as he tried to force his way out of the 'fuckingly-devilishly-deliriously-bloody-slimy goo' that his mind had mixed up. David Walker could brew you any coffee you want. But ask him to set his mind right, and he'd go jump off the top floor.

He needed to get out of this; there was no way he could allow Jamie to see him so acutely troubled.

Grab some shots?

That was an idea: what better way to clear your mind than drink off all your worries? Not that he was a binge-drinker, but he had plenty of experience in that arena, with Rob and other buddies as companions.

He weighed the pros & cons. Cons: he couldn't allow James to see him in his drunk state. Anything else? Not quite. Pros: (i) he would get to spend his time better than wanking off ridiculously sexy and out-of-league celebrities like some randy, hormonal teenager; (ii) he could get his mind off his dreamed-up magical reality; (iii) if he couldn't succeed in doing that, he could just flush it all out of his system with an extra bottle. So far, the pros seemed to outweigh the cons. What was the problem with a little hangover? Nothing that a few pills couldn't resolve. He could take the day off if it happened to be a bit serious. As for James, he could very well go to school and come back on his own. He could join one of his friends, or ask Mrs Little (the old lady next door). Food was not a problem; James knew enough about stoves & fires to heat up whatever there was in the fridge. He'd be up by lunch anyway.

The time was two. Few nightclubs remain open that late; the ones that did were in the town centre. God, I should've listened to Rob when he asked me to keep a bottle of Johnnie Walker handy.

Another thought struck him. Hey, why not just call Rob? He keeps some, right? He looked at the clock again. Four minutes past two. Late, but not for Rob, who happened to be a light sleeper. He went to sleep at around three or four and was up by seven, fresh as a songbird. David decided to give him a call.

He picked up the mobile phone on the nightstand and searched for Rob (he didn't remember his number). No result. He tried again. No result. Confused, he began scrolling through the contact list. Sammy Jones, Jake Simpson, Olivia Spender - who're these people. How come they're on my phone? He opened the inbox to find the same names and others, but not a single one he knew was there. He opened the reminders section. The latest one marked as '31 Oct: Shopping with Sammy'.

The phone in his hand was not his. He panicked. If this is not my phone, whose is it!? Where's mine for God's sake!?

He got up and swept off the covers, frantically trying to look for his phone. He searched the whole room, the bathroom, the kitchen, the living room - heck, he even looked in Jamie's room, careful not to wake his sleeping form, but there was no sign of it. Nibbling his nails, he walked into his room and became overexcited upon finding the phone on his bed. He was about to lash himself for his carelessness when it turned out that he'd picked up the 'other' phone once again, not his. Angry, he threw it on the bad and clutched his hair to take away his brain's attention from screaming out loud.

He brought his hands to his face and completed a wiping motion, stopping at his nose. His glasses rested on the tips of his fingers as he sunk into the bed, trying to think of where his phone could be and from where did this alien one pop up.

He'd had it with him the entire morning. He'd had it when he was with Rob, too, for he remembered it beeping when some message arrived after Rob had left. It was in his pocket when he'd gone to pick Jamie up from school, and he'd had it when they'd set out to get his costume. That left only one place where he could've lost it: the costume shop or somewhere near it.

The memory of the costume shop brought the memory of Freya White back to the front of his mind, and, for a moment, he risked getting lost in it once again. Thankfully he shook his head at just the right time to get his brain to focus.

The young woman had walked up to them, and James had a picture clicked with her. She'd wanted to have one for herself as well, so she'd given him her phone. That's when it struck him.

He'd not returned her phone.

That means ...

The one on his bed belonged to Freya White.

He swore under his breath. He had Freya White's phone, and she had his.

Bloody Hell.

As the realisation dawned upon him, he panicked for the umpteenth time. What was he supposed to do? She had his phone. He had hers. What the -

Call her. A voice said inside David's head. It was not his voice. It was not any voice he remembered hearing, for that matter, but still, it felt familiar.

Call her, the voice repeated.

David sunk his face into his hands and remained like that for quite some time, trying the decide the course of action. Finally, steeling himself as much as he could, he freed one arm and reached for the alien contraption.

Freya was just starting to chastise herself when the phone rang. The first tune confused her. She looked at the clock. Ten past two. The confusion changed to bewilderment on the repeat. And by the third cycle, she felt irritated. Who thinks this is the time to call? Irritation changed to rage. Her anger towards herself began channelling into the one towards the caller. On the fourth and last repeat, she picked up the device, ready to kill with her tongue.

"Hello, er... am I ... am I - am I speaking to F-F-Freya W-White?" came a nervous voice from the other end.

"Yes," Freya answered plainly, feeding the bomb of fury with an ignition mixture of mellowness.

"Er ... yeah ... oh, um ... thank you, M-Miss White, for ... picking up."

"To the point, please."

"Oh, er ... er, th-thing is Miss White, er ... how do I say it ..."

"Are you done?"

"Er, sorry?"

"Are you done?"

"Er ... um, no (?) - no, I-I'm n-not done."

"Then do. Quickly."

"Er ... oh-OK ... yeah ... yes ... I-I should do it."

A few seconds passed in silence. When the caller began speaking again, nothing more than oh's and um's and 'thing is' came out.

"I'm waiting."

"Er ... yes-yes, you're-you're waiting."

The ignition mixture was now giving off sparks.

"Anything else?"

"Yeah-yeah ... er, anything else?"

Sparks changed to flames.

"I'm asking you if you have anything else to say."

"Oh, uh ..."

The flames channelled into a roaring fire. The bomb finally exploded.

"My turn now."

"Huh?"

"Listen, YOU GREAT BIG FUCKING ARSEHOLE! HAVE YOU GOT NO JOB!? CALLING A SANE GIRL AT TWO IN THE MORNING TO MAKE SHITTY SMALL TALK? Where did you get my number, huh? What do you do? Drugs? Mafia killings? I bet you're trying to track me down this very second. Think you're smart, huh, you and your fucking gang of thugs? I am gonna report this to the police!"

Silence.

"M-Miss -"

"FUCK OFF!" shouted Freya as she disconnected the call.

For a few seconds, she remained seated in bed, trying to catch her breath, which had become irregular due to the shouting. Never had she sworn so much in her life. She let go of the stiffness after some time and fell back, exhausted. The phone was still in her hand. She let her anger get subdued by the warmth and comfort of her plush bed.

As the anger ebbed away, she started feeling guilty. She'd just accused someone of being criminal, that too without proof. She wasn't as big a celebrity as some of the elite ones, but still, some people did know her. Anybody would feel awkward trying to talk to someone who has made the big screen.

But still, why did that guy have to call at this unearthly hour?

Her question was answered by the phone once again. She brought it to her face and saw the same number. Some of the anger resurfaced. Do some people seriously have no business? Regardless, she picked up.

"Hello." Freya's voice oozed venom.

"Am I speaking to Freya White?" The voice was the same as before. Only this time it sounded calm & composed.

"Look, if you're calling to waste my time once again -"

"Calm down, Miss White, calm down. I know I must've sounded like a bugger the last time, but please, trust me. It's important."

Freya grit her teeth. "Fine," she mumbled (hissed?). "Continue."

"All right. You were out for shopping, right?"

"Yes," she replied, her annoyance increasing.

"And I take it you visited a costume shop?"

The bloke was tickling the beast once again. "Look," Freya said, her voice sounding slightly dangerous. "If you're trying to sell me something, then this is perfectly not the right time t-"

"Please, Miss White, let me finish."

Freya rolled her eyes and shut them in anger. "Fine," she replied. Any more shit and she'd've exploded.

"OK, so, the thing is, I have your phone."

"What? Have you gone mad or some-"

"And you have mine."

She was baffled. What the heck is this guy saying?

"If you do not believe me, check the phone number through which I'm calling."

She did, and for one moment she couldn't believe her eyes. The number was clearly hers. She swore under her breath. The vibrations of the contraption brought her back to Earth.

"Hello? Miss White? Hello?"

"But ... how?" she asked feebly.

"To answer that, I think I should introduce myself. You're speaking to David Walker."

Walker?

"Remember? You spoke with my son James and had photos taken with him."

She did remember. How could she forget? It had hardly been ten hours, and that man had given her something ...

But that still doesn't clear things! "B-but th-that still - that still doesn't explain-"

"Our phones happen to be the same model. They got exchanged during the session, apparently."

She didn't believe it. Is this some gigantic hoax? She disconnected the call and opened the contacts section. Not a single name she knew was there. The inbox was empty. This was not her phone. She put it down.

She had the phone of the man that'd managed to make her go sleepless for the first time. And he had hers.

Holy fuck.

She picked it up, frantically searched for the call logs and dialled the number from which the last call had been received. Mr Walker picked up on the second ring.

"Miss White, are you all right?"

"Tell me this is a scam. Tell me this is a hoax."

"Please, calm down, Miss White. This is not a hoax. It's true. Our phones got exchanged."

Silence.

"Miss White?"

"Yes," Freya answered feebly.

"We need to meet. We have to deal with this. While I'm not going to face that many problems, but I take that it might cause inconvenience to you without reason."

Silence.

"Miss White?"

"Huh? Oh-yes, yes."

"I think it'd be prudent if we meet tomorrow after eleven. Is it OK with you?"

"Hmm." She was only half-listening.

"I can come over to somewhere you choose." No response.

"Miss White, is everything all right?"

"Yes, yes, go on."

"So, d'you have any place in mind?" Again, no response.

"Miss White? Hello?"

"Yeah."

"I take that you don't have a suitable spot in mind. Might I make a suggestion?"

"Hmm," her voice came, sounding almost disinterested. Little did David know that she was by no way in hell disinterested.

"How about a coffee shop? I own one."

"Hmm, right." Freya sounded slightly drunk.

"Great. I'll send the address via SMS, OK?"

"Hmm."

It was the sound of the call disconnecting that pulled Freya out of her trance. Her eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Huh?

As she took the surroundings in, things came back rushing into her mind. Her eyes widened as cognisance dawned upon her. She had completely missed the last part of the conversation. She was about to chastise herself when the feel of liquid on her skin made her stop. Her befuddlement increased and changed into shock when she realised what it was. She was drooling.

'Her' phone beeped. It was a message from D. Walker (the number was, of course, still hers). She seemed unable to process why he was messaging her until she read the text. It seemed like an address.

She must've agreed to meet him there.

Fuck.

On the other side of the now disconnected call, David Walker was wiping sweat off his face. He threw the phone away and spread his arms & legs as he fell on the bed. It'd been a dauntingly difficult & demanding task, talking to Freya White. He'd put on the best salesman tone he could brew. How he'd managed to keep it in place was beyond comprehension. Then it struck him. Freya White would be coming to his shop tomorrow.

Holy moly fuck.

The rational part of his brain kicked in just at the right moment. No way, it said. Think yourself a star, Walker? Are you so important she'd take time off to come to your shop? Nah ... she's gonna send some guy - yeah that's it. She'll send someone to take her phone back ... God, can't she come? It'd be so nice if she dropped by ... I - Wait a minute, why am I thinking of her? He banged his head on the pillow (of course, the bangs were inaudible).

God, this never seems to end, right? He grabbed the ends of the pillow and shut his ears tight, hoping to squeeze out all the shit about Freya White that was circling in his head.

A voice sounded in his head, and he could've sworn it was laughing. As it subsided, David heard something. It won't end. And then it became incomprehensible. The voice muttered under its breath (?). It won't end, Potter ... oops! I mean Walker. It'll go on until you finally realise things.

David was royally grumpy when James woke him up before going to shower. His eyes were barely open and were full of sleep, for it'd been nearly five when his brain had relaxed enough to catch shut-eye. He lazily made for the kitchen and began working on breakfast very slowly, his hands doing the job for him as usual, leaving him free to get lost in his thoughts.

He breezed through the events of the previous day at a gingerly pace. James waking him up too early, the burnt eggs, the shop and the somewhat-weight-relieving chat with Rob, picking James up from school, lunch, shopping ...

His eyes began unclouding when those memories came to the front, and by the time he'd seen Freya White for the umpteenth time, they were fully open, all trace of sleep gone. Thinking of that meeting magically fuelled him. His hands began working so fast that a person couldn't've told whether he was frying eggs or squashing out juice or just trying to mix it all up and dish out a thick, slimy goo. Regardless, breakfast was ready in a (personal) record time of three minutes & forty-seven seconds, as perfect as a typical English one could be.

James walked into the kitchen just as his father exited at hypersonic speed. He was dazed. He'd expected David to be still frying eggs, but he'd just left as if he'd a bullet train to catch, and if he was even a nanosecond late he'd miss it.

He walked up to the table and sat down to eat. He was half-way through his second egg when his father reappeared and began eating - no, shovelling - all of his food into his mouth. His fork stopped halfway to his mouth as his jaw opened slightly. There sat his father, the lazy David Walker, showered & dressed in the best casual clothes he had. It had hardly been two minutes since James had started eating, and his father was already taking second helpings.

"Dad?"

"Yes?"

"Don't you think you're doing things too fast?"

David was puzzled. "No," he answered. "Why?"

"Because it's hardly been ten minutes since I woke you up."

"So?"

"You are lazy, Dad. The lazy, old (well, not so old) Daddy. And here you are, all showered & dressed, shovelling breakfast in as if you have a train to catch."

David stopped. He looked at the clock (in case you haven't got it till now, there's one in each room except the bathroom). It'd been eleven minutes since James had woken him up, seven since his first step into the kitchen to make breakfast. In those seven minutes, he'd made breakfast, brushed his teeth, sailed through his morning ablutions and had nearly finished eating.

"Uh ... yeah ... I guess I've been, er, fast (?) ..." David replied, baffled and amazed at the same time.

James shook his head. "Sometimes," he said, "I think I'm your father and not the other way round."

For the first time in her life, Freya overslept. Not in terms of sleep duration, though, considering it was still a full two hours less than her strict eight-hour routine. But time waits for none, so it was nearly half past nine when she opened her eyes.

And now she was suffering (?) the consequences of her discomposed night, as it was messing with her day. She'd rushed through her exercises & ablutions and was halfway through breakfast before she realised that she hadn't thought about why she was doing all of it at blitzkrieg speed. For it was only ten, and she had the whole day to herself, didn't she?

At that, the events of last night flooded her brain. The sleeplessness, the wandering thoughts, the unfamiliarly (!) familiar vibes she felt around David Walker, the phone calls, the phone exchange, her drooling over his voice like a randy sixteen-year-old teenage fangirl ...

In all this, she'd forgotten to check exactly where she was supposed to go. She was horribly nervous, but acting brings more than money. She tried her best to steel herself and put on a neutral-but-cheerful-in-a-girly-way mask. She opened the SMS folder and went through the address. Forty minutes, traffic permitting. She still had a few minutes at hand.

As she exited the folder she felt the devilish urge to check David's other messages. It was just like a teenage girl feeling the temptation to stalk her crush. She'd nearly opened his chat with Rob Atkinson when the rational part of her brain kicked in.

Stop! Stop! Freya, you bitch! That's a blatant violation of privacy!

Just a peek ...

No.

Just a little peek -

(With increased severity) No.

Just a tiny little infinitesimally small peek? She could almost imagine her inner self putting on the puppy-eyes look.

I SAID NO!

"Aargh!" she let out as she hastily punched the return key with her thumb and pocketed the phone. She got up and went to grab the car keys. Maybe she needed some air. The sunroof would have to retract.

Business was slow, as was becoming more & more common as winter proceeded to unfurl its wings. David had set himself a hot drink and was sipping away reading a football magazine when the bells jingled. He looked up and took in a lot of coffee in shock, spraying it all over the magazine, the table and his work apron in the process of expelling it. He'd convinced himself that someone would be coming on her behalf, but he'd been wrong.

"Mr Walker!" Freya sounded worried as she looked around for something to help him. She spotted a few plastic glasses and a water dispenser. Rushing, she grabbed a glass and filled it. She turned back to walk to David and spent a moment deciding whether to touch him or not. She placed a hand on his back, but perhaps it was too close to the exposed skin of his neck for comfort, for she felt light tingles and his frantic coughing intensified.

She placed the glass on the table and patted David's back lightly (careful to keep as far away as possible from his neck) as he tried to regain his breath. She withdrew her hand when he did. He grabbed the glass of water and chugged it down in one breath.

"Thank you," he uttered, glancing towards her to take her in. She'd yet again managed to create those casual-yet-extremely-charming vibes. On the other hand, he, ever being the clumsy local oaf he was, had managed to present himself as the dickhead standing atop the pinnacle of moronic success.

"Please don't mention it," came the reply. Freya was surprised at the fact that her mask had not worn off, and that she'd not forgotten her manners amidst the awkwardness.

A few seconds passed before David thought that maybe he should clean up the mess. He got up.

"I-I ... I'll just ... I'll be back," he managed to articulate while fidgeting nervously before he hurriedly walked away. Freya stood there and tried to tighten her mask, as she found herself squirming slightly.

David returned with a cloth & a spray bottle and began to clean the mess nervously. Freya stood there, watching. She took him in as his hands worked. The heater was on, so he was without uppers and was in half-sleeves. She couldn't resist checking him out. Neither too short nor too tall ... not overly muscular, moderately toned ... veins visible, flexing ... strong arms - What?

Her mask fell as she caught herself doing that once again.

"Er ... Miss White?" Her gaze snapped towards his face, and for a moment, they both risked getting lost in each other's eyes before she broke the eye contact. "Uh?"

"M-maybe ... maybe, y-you know, you'd-you'd like to sit down?"

She wriggled, rubbing her hands and looking in every direction except the one where he was.

"Miss White?"

"Oh! Er-um-yeah, yeah I'd-I'd like to sit down." She hurriedly grabbed the nearest chair and sunk into it.

David returned after putting things in their places and washing his hands. He sat down gingerly. "Maybe you should - I mean you'd like to - you know - remove your ... er - coat"

"Er ... yeah," she giggled nervously as she took it off and put it on the chair. Several moments passed without a sound except the dampened ones coming from outside. Both squirmed uneasily in their seats. To an outsider, they'd've looked just like a couple of nervous teens who'd been tortured into dating by their best friends. Just some de-ageing (and apron removal), and no one could've told the difference.

David shot up all of a sudden causing Freya to let out a light yelp and jerk. "Er, sorry," he apologised nervously. "I-I think - maybe - maybe I should get you something." Freya remained stiff. "M-Miss White?" (cliché)

She nodded robotically at a supersonic rate.

"Er, so ... a long black?"

The same superfast mechanical nod.

He came back ten minutes later carrying a tray with two mugs and set it down with trembling hands. He was afraid that the coffee might taste horrible but felt it was excusable. One had to consider the levels of fidgeting he was doing while brewing it.

Freya had somewhat recovered and took hold of the mug in front of her. None of the two was feeling comfortable enough to drink. They spent several minutes looking everywhere but at each other, futilely trying to bring the pointer on the discomfiture meter down from 110 (!) to 0.

It might have been on 105 when Freya, at last, took a sip. She set the mug down and announced, "I'm going."

David snapped out his daze and looked straight into her eyes. "Sorry?" he asked. She hurriedly lowered her orbs and tried her best not to blush as the pointer escalated once again. "Er, I-I ... I was ... thinking - maybe I-I ... I should leave ..."

"Oh, y-yeah, yeah, fine. You have my permission ...(why would anyone need my permission?) I mean y-you can lea - you should - you're free - feel free to leave."

She got up and left with a funny charge in her step.

David kept looking at the door for a few seconds before letting out a nervous sigh and reaching for his mug. But the bells jingled once again just as his fingers brushed the handle. He was horrified upon seeing something make a mad dash for him. He let out a very unmanly shriek and jumped out of his chair before realising that the thing was alive, human, female and Freya White.

"I-I just came back for this," said a panting Freya as she took her coat off the chair. Without another word, she turned and almost ran out of the shop, as if it were on fire.

A baffled David kept standing in that position, trying to process what had happened. Unfortunately (thankfully?), a flurry of customers gave him little time to dwell on it.

That night as David and Freya hit the bed in their respective homes, they automatically reached for their phones, for they both knew trying to sleep would be futile and that telling their best friends about the day might be a more productive option (subconsciously, they both hoped for their best friends' tirades, which they knew were a certainty, to put them to sleep). They searched for Rob's and Samantha's numbers, respectively; in vain. They scrolled down the logs; no success. They went through each number on the contact list; utterly futile. And then it dawned upon them.

Seriously?

Holy fuck.

A/N: This one felt okayish to me. Drop/post/pin your views.

Ciao!

#HarmioneForever