A/N: Continuation of the one-shot (which I guess is no longer a one-shot lol).
Hermione bolted across the street, heels scraping on wet pavement as she traveled to the adult shop about half a block down. It was called 'The Fountain of You' (the title of which she had mistaken for something to do with sexual empowerment — not the horrific sex act of the same name). Needless to say, there were more than a few passing stares as she discreetly slowed her pace near those thick and obtrusive doors. It was mid-afternoon, which meant most people were safely tucked away in their offices, but there were still some stragglers out and about; enough to make the knot in her chest tighten with each lingering second.
It happened quick after that.
Door chimes sounded behind her, offsetting the pitter patter of rain along the angled rooftop and the flit in her chest as she entered. Inside, there were an abundance of frilly, phallic and downright frightening items lining the walls and shelves. Having spent about three seconds viewing her surroundings, Hermione could count on one hand the items she didn't already own in some variation.
Even so, the unease in her bloodstream had nothing to do with the arsenal of edible lingerie and lascivious mechanisms she had acquired over her, shall we say, three years' drought.
No, her unease had nothing to do with those items.
Just one item in particular, tucked along the inner pocket of her camel trench coat, from where she felt its length probe her side, reminiscent of the night it probed her elsewhere.
All she had to do was close her eyes and without fail, that voice and those initials and the slow, titillating vibration that accompanied those memories flooded her consciousness. Hermione swallowed, stuffing the tension and lingering doubt further down her esophagus. Resolved to handle her affairs and head back to work in a timely fashion, she moved to the front counter, where the same shopkeeper from two weeks ago was seated. A bohemian, free-spirited woman in her mid-fifties with long curly auburn hair held together with chopsticks, adorned in velvet, peacock blue robes; all which was in stark contrast to the dim lighting of her shop.
In another setting, Hermione would have pegged this woman to be an earthy artist of some sort — though she supposed one could argue sex work to be an art form in its own right.
Rhiannon, the shopkeeper, tilted her head forward, smiling to Hermione as she finished up a conversation via earpiece, motioning her customer to approach.
"I'll have a word with the suppliers," Rhiannon assured her caller. "Yes…I completely agree."
Hermione took a tentative step and wheeled one look around the shop, pretending not to eavesdrop. There was a vanilla candle burning on the check-out counter, filling her nostrils with its smooth aroma. It was an appropriate scent for a sex shop; sweet and suggestive without the intrusive qualities of, say, cinnamon or cardamom.
"Of course, of course, I understand," Rhiannon furthered. "Well, listen…I'll get back to you in a few….I have another customer here…Yes, absolutely…Don't you worry…Just pop by the shop and I'll have them fixed for you free of charge…"
Now attuned to the aroma and the overall vibe of the shop, Hermione turned back to the shopkeeper, met with another smile as Rhiannon removed the earpiece.
"So sorry about that," the older witch apologized, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. If stress lines were possible on Rhiannon, her face would definitely have been lined with them east to west. "There was a small defect with the new shipment of blueberry flavoured condoms, and without going into grave detail, let's just say the flavour wasn't as much blueberry as it was blue wa —"
Hermione turned, in rhythm with Rhiannon, as the sound of door chimes filled the shop. Tall, dressed in a smart, black peacoat with his face blocked by an umbrella, another customer had entered. But the moment he closed his umbrella was the moment he ducked behind one of the nearby shelves, obstructing him from Hermione's line of vision. She didn't blame him. From what little of him she had seen, he looked normal, which meant being in a sex shop in the middle of the day was as incriminating as it sounded.
"So," Rhiannon interjected, bringing her attention back to the front. "What can I do for you?"
"Erm —" Hermione paused, opening her mouth and then closing it. She hadn't prepared for an audience. In fact, she was now fighting the urge to leave the shop altogether and simply toss the device in the bin, as opposed to returning it; the latter of which had been her original plan. "I — erm — I was wondering about your return policy on — erm — on my most recent purchase."
The woman sighed, momentarily downcast, before flipping through the file on her counter and landing on the purchase in question. "Right, here we are…" she voiced. "The Two-Way Touch."
Hermione's bottom lip twitched. "Er — yes, that one."
"Was there a mechanical problem?" Rhiannon asked, confused. "I've had nothing but rave reviews from the other ladies."
"Not a mechanical problem, no."
"Oh?"
Again, there was a twitch on Hermione's lip. "I just — erm — I've no use for it."
Rhiannon nodded along. "Nothing to worry about. There are plenty of customers with stage fright."
"It's not stage fright," she quickly added.
"Well, unless it's a mechanical problem, I'm afraid I can't refund you," Rhiannon explained. "Sorry. Store policy."
Hermione swallowed, no longer concerned with a refund. "That's no problem," she blurted. "I'll just — I'll give it to a friend." Without further word, and with her head tilted firmly to the hardwood floor, she turned on the heel of her boot and raced to the door, cheeks and neck hot with embarrassment and then alarm, as she slammed face first into the chest beneath that peacoat.
Rhiannon looked on over the counter, eyes wide as she watched the scene unfold.
"Oh my — I'm so sorry —" Hermione apologized, stepping back from the stranger and watching with sheer horror as one slender metallic device escaped the confines of her trench coat and fell to the floor with an ominous, echoing clunk.
It would probably have fared wiser to carry the device in its packaging, but she couldn't for the life of her find it anywhere in the black hole of clutter that made up her place of residence.
Only then, did things take a turn for the worst.
Despite the shrill, piercing voice in her head urging her not to, she fixed her attention forward, to where Mr. Peacoat stood. In the half second it took for her knees to buckle and the warmth along her cheeks and neck to turn into searing, scorching heat, she noticed three things about him.
Number One: He was hotter than she remembered. Like, blindingly so.
Number Two: He was smirking at her.
Number Three: He was no longer pale and wraithlike. In fact, there was a noticeable amount of colour to him, both in his complexion and his eyes, which captured hers in one fell swoop.
Hermione stumbled backward, colliding with a shelf of edible underwear, causing several candy thongs to litter the floor with her vibrator, the inner workings of which had been knocked about from the fall, rendering the device on, filling the deafening silence with its hard hum.
In the time it took for the discombobulated witch to collect her composure and race through the door, he noticed three things about her.
Number One: She was clumsier than he remembered.
Number Two: She was decorated with an Auror badge, which led him to believe the Golden Trio had done their duty and come full circle. Joy…
Number Three: She knew.
A/N: More to come! Literally.