Thump.

It was Tuesday night.

Thump.

Thump.

They'd been at it for almost an hour.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

I shouldn't have still been listening,

Slower… I need… oh…

If it was any slower, I'd age a year.

I'll go as slow as you want, baby.

I groaned and scrubbed my hands over my face. The guest room was beginning to look like it might become my permanent bedroom.

I'd woken the instant the first thump pounded into the wall. There was one fraction of a second where my sleep-addled brain tried to integrate the sound into my dream, but that same sleep-addled brain also recognised the sound for what it was; my neighbour and what was apparently her Tuesday night tryst.

I'd avoided her in the two weeks since our — my — embarrassing meeting in the hallway. But it hadn't been all that difficult. I had listened for her leaving in the mornings and arriving back home in the evenings, and only ventured out during those times. She was gone for long hours; whatever job she had clearly kept her busy, which gave me time to safely exit the building and enjoy the gardens. I was sure she'd not given me another thought, but she was rarely out of my mind.

And Tuesday nights had become my own personal hell.

After the first three nights of wall-thumping sex, it had been quiet until the following Tuesday, when the thumping began and I thought I'd been dreaming again. I'd bolted upright at her ear-shattering cry, completely disoriented and wondering why a woman was screaming so euphorically in my bedroom. My disorientation lasted little more than a few seconds before I registered the reality of that sound. I'd been groggy and still half asleep, leaving my bedroom without listening further, and spending the night on the couch again.

Then groaning man disappeared and the quiet returned once more. There was clearly some kind of arrangement in place — six nights of peace broken by one night of thumping, screaming, groaning ecstasy. Tuesdays seemed an odd choice, but I was in no position to pass judgment. I didn't know her schedule or who this man was; Tuesday nights might have been their only shared free night. Or maybe she spent other nights with him at his place.

That thought made me cringe.

Maybe he was married and this was their weekly rendezvous.

That made me cringe even more.

My gorgeous, dark-eyed neighbour wasn't that woman. She couldn't be that woman. My ex-wife was that woman, not the beautiful phantom who haunted my dreams.

God, I was pathetic.

And tonight had been a special kind of hell.

As requested many times by said neighbour, it had been slow. The steady rhythm of the bed frame hitting the wall was almost hypnotic and the words hadn't been shouted in exaltation. Instead, they had been as hypnotic as the thumping. Quiet, incomprehensible murmurs interspersed with groans and more coherent words of wants and needs and encouragement.

Draco was right; I did have free porn.

But he was also right when he'd told me I should sleep in the other room. Especially now that I'd seen her face and could imagine that face while I listened to the show.

And the fact I now knew what she looked like hadn't helped my dreams.

My nights had become impossibly erotic; her face was a constant in my unconscious mind. And the things she did to me in those dreams...

Her delicate fingers ghosting along my thighs. The gentle press of her lips on my chest. Her palm wrapping around my aching cock.

But now…

I could see her face. The sparkle in her eyes. The crazy way her curls bounced as she kissed her way down my stomach.

And my fantasies had become more vivid; my dream the previous night had been so intense I woke groaning her name, twisted into the sheets and covered in my own orgasm.

My neighbour and I had been in her bed, her eyes looking up at me from between my legs. Her lips and tongue were teasing me, kissing my thighs, my hips, her tongue dipping into my navel. Her fingers taunted along with her mouth, touching me in ways that spread heat down my spine. Then she was over me, straddling my thighs while her hand continued to stroke me. Her words were murmured, unintelligible, but it made no difference; I simply nodded as her lips moved, wanting everything she was willing to give.

Then my dream shifted and she was riding me, my eyes watching the place between her thighs where her body swallowed mine. And even in my dream state, I could feel the heat of her, the slide of her body over mine, the softness of her skin. She was beautiful above me, moving in that fluid way I had witnessed when she'd descended the stairs.

I touched her everywhere, tracing my fingers over her breasts, across her stomach, along her thighs, and finally gripping her hips and guiding her up and down my cock.

And when my dream neighbour smiled down at me, I lost it.

My orgasm had shaken me awake, my cock twitching and throbbing, my boxers soaked with sweat, and my stomach covered with my release. I'd groaned in frustration — and embarrassment — and a long, luke-warm shower at three in the morning brought me back to some semblance of control.

But that control was being tested again.

An hour.

They'd been at it an hour. And that was the hour I'd been awake. Who knew how long they'd really been at it. This guy apparently had some kind of superhero stamina.

I'd lost count of how many times this guy had groaned out "that's it, baby," when she would find her climax volume and cry out.

I really shouldn't have still been listening.

...that's it, baby…

Did he not know any other words?

...that's it, baby…

Apparently not.

Charlie… oh…

And now groaning man had a name.

Fantastic.

I squeezed my eyes shut and let out a slow breath. The instant hatred I felt for Charlie bordered on insanity.

Standing, I dragged the comforter from the bed and glanced at the wall once more. I couldn't keep doing this. I couldn't keep fantasising about a woman who was clearly involved with another man. Another man who was, without a doubt, fulfilling her needs.

I closed the door quietly and walked towards the living room. The couch wasn't the most comfortable place to sleep, but the guest room seemed like a desperate last resort.

Laying down, I curled my arm across my eyes. The silence was overwhelming; I hated the noise in my bedroom, but this was worse. Knowing she was on the other side of the wall, with him, burned me in a way that shouldn't have. My wife cheating had been humiliating, my divorce even more so.

But this…

My life had hit a new low.

She was at least half my age. She had a weekly wall-thumping session. And I was sure she thought me a complete snob after our meeting in the hall. Or a complete idiot.

I rolled to my side and stared at the hallway in the dark.

My constant fantasy about a woman I had only spoken two words to had to stop.

Later that morning, I sat at a small table under a rather grand oak tree, my book open and the coffee I had purchased on my stroll to the small cafe three blocks away sat steaming in the mildness of the mid-October morning. The days were slowly becoming cooler but the autumn sun was just warm enough to allow for the woollen coat I'd worn that morning to be discarded on the chair beside me

The gardens were quiet which was a blessing to my ears. The occasional twitter of birds and the distant traffic were the only sounds that broke the silence. The high walls were the perfect buffer and allowed me to believe I wasn't actually living in the city, that I was in the Manor house of my childhood. My upbringing may have been cold and distant, but I spent hours as a child exploring the vast gardens of my home.

I breathed deeply, pulling the cool air into my lungs and clearing my head. I settled into the padded outdoor chair and began to read. I would spend another day losing myself in someone else's words and hoped they helped me find some of my own.

My own book series had come to a screaming halt — my divorce had led to a distressing case of writer's block and I'd not written a single word in over six months — so at the recommendation of my son, I'd begun reading about private investigator and wizard Harry Dresden and his investigations into supernatural disturbances. It was entertaining, but I struggled with the fantasy side. Wizards and the supernatural? It was a little unbelievable. But I lost myself anyway. The words were a perfect distraction from the only thoughts that had been filling my mind. Thoughts of her, of the man who had her, of how much I hated that he did.

Thoughts of how crazy I had become.

After promising myself I'd stop obsessing over her, I'd done little else.

I'd slept restlessly on the couch and woken early — the sky was still mostly dark, the sun barely a spark on the horizon — which allowed me to hear the muffled goodbyes outside my door. I hadn't been privileged to the morning after as yet, assuming he left immediately after the boot-knocking was done. But to discover he stayed longer than I assumed just burned me more.

The squeak of the garden gate caught my attention and I glanced up at the sound, then quickly dropped my eyes again.

It was her.

A rush of panic surged through me. She wasn't supposed to be home. It was mid-morning. She was never home this early. What if she saw me and came over? What if she asked me why I was so rude to her?

I glanced up.

What if she was smiling at me, waving when she saw me look up?

I returned her smile and nodded, holding her gaze for a few seconds then looked back at my book. She was even more beautiful in the sunlight.

I turned the page of my book, despite the fact I'd not finished it, and felt the heaviness of her eyes still on me. I fought the urge to look up again, my eyes skimming the words on the pages in front of me, but not taking them in. I turned another page, then another a minute later, before I heard the door close with a heavy thud.

Had she been hoping I would talk to her? I could only assume she'd been watching me the entire time, and in the grand scheme of things, a few minutes was no time at all. But under the scrutiny of my fantasy woman, it felt like eons.

I snuck a quick glance at the building and breathed a sigh of both relief and disappointment. The ridiculous notion she was watching me from her window had me continuing to stare at my book, slowly turning pages without reading a word. I sat tensely for the next ten minutes, hoping she'd only forgotten something and would leave again. But I was out of luck. She never reappeared.

I sighed. I wanted this woman with a passion I couldn't explain, but without even knowing her, she had a hold on me that no one else had ever had. She made me nervous, made me feel inadequate, made me feel like we belonged in different worlds.

And her world was one I didn't ever think I would belong to.

The loud knock on my door startled me from my trance.

Moving back indoors after my ridiculous panic attack in the gardens, I'd paced like a caged animal for an hour before finally convincing myself I needed to stop this foolishness and act my age.

I'd managed to push her from my mind and had become so engrossed in my book, I'd hardly noticed the waning light outside the windows. I had obviously turned the lamp on — it was the only light on in my flat — but I had done so unconsciously.

The knock came again, and I called out, "One moment."

I placed my book on the side table and made my way to the door, clicking the lock, and opening it.

"Hi, neighbour!"

"Ah, hello," I said to the giant basket of fruit being held in front of me.

Her head appeared around the side and her smile was bright. "I thought I should say a proper hello."

"Oh… right. Hello."

My heart thumped against my ribs. She was standing there. Right outside my door. Her. My fantasy. The woman who had tormented my dreams, had turned my nights into some of the most erotic imaginings of my life. No woman had ever done that, including my ex-wife. But here she was and she was even more beautiful standing this close. Her eyes were like magic, the colour of smoky sepia and flecked with golden champagne, glowing and playful, and full of knowledge.

And despite the fact that I'd already seen her, I only just now realised how delicate she was. She was petite, tiny, her head barely reaching my shoulder. An image of her curled against me and tucked beneath my chin while we slow-danced flittered quickly through my mind before I shoved it away. She was here only to introduce herself; it'd do no good to be fantasising about her while she was this close.

"I'm Hermione Granger." She shifted the basket as she tried to hold out her hand, but it wobbled precariously and she quickly grabbed it with both hands again. "Sorry. This thing is heavy."

"Oh, right," I said again, reaching out to take the basket from her. "Thank you."

She put her hands on her hips and tilted her head to the side. "Do you have a name or do I have to stand here until I guess it?"

"Sorry." I shook my head and told myself to stop being ridiculous. She was just a woman. I could talk to a woman. "I'm Lucius Malfoy."

"Lucius?" She appeared to mull it over then nodded. "Lucius. You look like a Lucius."

"And what does a Lucius look like?"

She waved her hand in front of me. "Blond. Well-dressed. Incredibly handsome." She winked. "A little dangerous."

"Ah, but Lucius means light," I pointed out. "There's absolutely nothing dangerous about me."

"With a name like Lucius, danger is assumed."

"And what about Hermione?" I asked, shifting the basket in my arms. It was heavy. "You don't look Greek."

"I'm not, but I'm glad you know your name origins."

"A habit of trade, I'm afraid."

"Trade habit? What is it that you… Wait..." Her brow creased and she peered past me into my flat. "Your flat..."

I quickly moved aside as she stepped through the door. Her frown increased as she looked around.

"Is there a problem?" I asked, following her into the living area, highly amused that my neighbour didn't seem to have any boundaries. I placed the basket on the kitchen counter and watched as she glanced around the room.

"No... I think..." She turned in a slow circle, taking in the lay of my flat. "Your flat... Is it a mirrored version of mine?"

"I'm not sure," I said, glancing around. "I've no idea what your flat looks like."

"But if it's mirrored..." She finally caught my eye — her face holding an expression of horror — then bolted down my hallway. "Fuck."

I chuckled at her language. I'd heard it already, just in a different context.

"Is something wrong?" I called.

She came back down the hallway, her cheeks flamed red. "Your bedroom wall and mine..."

This time I did laugh. "Yes, we definitely share a wall."

"No wonder you wouldn't look at me." She covered her face with her hand. "What did you hear?"

Your delightful groans.

Your cries of yes, yes, yes!

Your loud moans as you came.

"Nothing really. Just a few thumps against the wall. But… I have been sleeping on the couch since those first few nights."

"Oh god."

"That was definitely something I heard."

She made a choking sound. "You heard… And the note… I'm so..."

"You don't have to be embarrassed," I said. "You're a young woman. You're allowed to have gentleman callers."

She dropped her hand and looked up at me. "Gentlemen callers? Were you educated at Austen University?"

I snorted. "No, it was Tennessee Williams College, actually."

She huffed out a laugh and I was a little shocked she understood my reference.

"I'm so sorry," she said again. "I didn't know you slept on the other side of my wall. I assumed our flats were opposites."

"That design would have made more sense," I agreed. "But, honestly, you have nothing to be embarrassed about. I didn't listen… not for long, anyway."

"This is not how I wanted to meet my new neighbour."

"You didn't meet me like this," I explained. "You met me in the hallway a couple of weeks ago. I was the mute."

She laughed. "Oh, that was you?"

"I'm not usually quite so silent."

"And I'm not usually quite so loud."

"Oh, I doubt that." I winked at her. "Now, what did you bring me?"

Her cheeks flushed pink for just a moment before she turned the basket on the counter to face us, seemingly happy to have something to distract from the awkward conversation. "There's fresh fruit, muffins. Belgian chocolate. Cute little bottles of wine — red and white. Gummy bears—"

"Gummy bears?"

"I had to make some guesses." She shrugged. "And I took another guess—" she looked me up and down "—Macallan, single malt."

"That you guessed correctly. But, I live here alone," I told her, opening the cello wrap. "This is a lot of food for one person."

"Oh, you're not married?"

I shook my head, not missing her quick glance at my left hand. "Not anymore."

She stared thoughtfully at me and the urge to squirm under her scrutiny was great, but I held my nerve.

"Nasty divorce," she finally said quietly. "Had to be. No one would deliberately leave you."

"Well, you're half right." I picked up an apple from the basket, turning it over in my hands. "The divorce was indeed nasty, but she certainly left me deliberately."

Hermione touched my arm. "I'm sorry."

I stared at her fingertips on my skin. All those nights of wondering, of dreaming, of assuming it would be like fireworks when we first touched were wrong. It was none of that. Instead, I felt soothed, felt safe, like I had known her for my entire life, not just a few minutes.

And soothing and safe surprisingly stirred my insides more than fireworks ever could.

"My wife — ex-wife — very deliberately got naked with another man and I discovered them." I winced, apparently soothing and safe gave me the sudden need to share my life with her. "The divorce was swift. I got nasty and she got nothing."

"Sounds fair," she said. "Wives are arseholes."

"You've had a few then?"

"Nah, too much hassle." She plucked a grape from the bunch and chewed it slowly. "Besides, I like men."

"I know how much you like men."

"You did listen!"

"It was difficult not to!" I pointed a finger at her. "Maybe you should move the bed away from the wall."

"Maybe you should sleep on the couch more often."

"Maybe you should entertain your gentleman callers in your guest room."

"That was his best play." She took another grape and leaned her hip on the counter. "Everyone says Streetcar or Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, but Glass Menagerie was definitely his best."

I stared at her, my brain trying to catch up with the turn in conversation as she waved her arm dramatically.

"'Yes, I have tricks in my pocket, I have things up my sleeve. But I am the opposite of a stage magician. He gives you an illusion that has the appearance of truth. I give you truth in the pleasant disguise of illusion'."

I continued to stare at her; very few people her age could quote the opening lines from a classic play.

"I'm a nerd," she admitted. "I like to read."

"It's a rarity indeed to find someone so young who reads Tennessee Williams."

"I'm twenty-five." She screwed up her face. "Is that considered young?"

"It is," I assured her. "I have a son the same age. Although, he has a son who is two, so I guess that makes him — and you — ancient."

"Oh, you're a grandpa," she crooned sweetly. "I bet he's cute."

"Very cute." I crossed the room to the mantle and returned with a picture of my son and his family. "Scorpius. He takes after his grandfather."

"Pfft, if this is your son—" she pointed at Draco "—he's a clone of him."

I had to agree. Scorpius was exactly like Draco, but I couldn't resist teasing. "Well, you said cute, so I had to assume…"

"I believe I said incredibly handsome." She reached into the basket again, this time retrieving several blueberries. "I think at your age, you're past cute."

"Thank you… I think."

"Plus, you definitely don't look old enough to be a grandpa."

"I started young."

"Are you avoiding telling me how old you are?"

"I've known you for two minutes, I'm not sure you're privileged to that information yet."

She glanced at the clock. "It's been seventeen minutes."

"Oh, that's different then. I'm forty-nine." I watched her pull more blueberries from the basket. "Did you buy this for me or you?"

"Forty-nine isn't that old." She grabbed another grape. "And you said this was a lot of food for one person so I'm just helping."

"Well, thank you," I chuckled. "Would you like some wine with all that fruit? Apparently I have red and white."

She shook her head. "No, I can't tonight. I have class early tomorrow so I need to be alert."

"Tea then?" I asked, walking behind her to fill the kettle when she nodded. "Class? You're a teacher?"

"No. Dance class." She moved to sit on one of the stools at the counter. "I'm a dancer."

"You're a dancer?" I nodded then smirked. "Exotic?"

"You wish." She threw a grape at me. "No, I'm with the Royal Ballet."

That explained the gracefulness in her movements.

"The Royal Ballet. You must be very talented."

She curled a little into herself at the praise, then shrugged. "I'm a principal, so I guess."

"You guess?" I paused in my retrieval of tea cups. "A principal dancer at the Royal Ballet isn't something to be waved away. It's quite the achievement, especially at only twenty-five."

"It was three years ago, so I was only twenty-two," she corrected with a small smile.

"Well, that makes you exceptionally talented. But I'm not at all surprised. I'm guessing that's why I've not seen you before now?"

"Yeah, I've been in France for three months, working with some dancers at the Paris Opera Ballet. But I have rehearsals starting in a month for our next production, so I'm back for at least the next year."

"You'll be busier than usual, I assume?"

My hopes of her weekly screaming session coming to an end were rising with the thought of her being so occupied.

"Dancing keeps me busy anyway." She narrowed her eyes at me, "Have you been keeping tabs on me?"

"Not at all, but I did live in complete silence until a few weeks ago." I set the cups on the counter and reached for the teapot.

"You make real tea?" she asked, ignoring my remark.

"Real tea?" I raised an eyebrow at her. "Please do not tell me you make tea with those horrendous paper bags on strings."

She grimaced, looking guilty. "I might have used them once or twice."

I scowled at her, making her laugh. "I'll buy you a teapot. Consider it my welcome gift."

"And I shall add prim and proper to the list of what a Lucius should look like." She watched me move around the kitchen, her scrutiny making me uncomfortable once more. "You said you weren't surprised I'm a principal. Why? You hardly know me."

I glanced at the clock. "Oh, I've known you for thirty-three minutes now."

"Lucius is a comedian as well."

"There's a certain air about you," I said and dipped my head to stare directly into her eyes. "You have an old soul. I think you've faced many battles in your short life and I may not have guessed dancer but the classical movement of ballet suits that soul."

"Old soul, huh?" she mused, but I saw a flicker of something — pain — in her eyes. "I'm not certain about that. Sure, there are days I feel forty-nine, but usually I've just got a regular soul."

"Hermione is also a comedienne."

"My dad used to tell me that. The old soul thing, I mean." She waved a finger in the air. "You know far too much, missy, you've been here before. Probably as an elephant. He was a little eccentric, my dad."

I didn't miss the past tense, but didn't acknowledge it. The flicker of pain at my earlier comment had been too raw and this conversation, so far, had been light.

"Well, my father was extremely prim and proper and never once compared me to an elephant. I would have preferred the eccentricity."

"Did he make real tea?" she asked as I placed the cup in front of her.

"Oh no," I chuckled. "My father had a houseful of staff who did everything. I learned to make tea at my fancy boarding school."

"I'll add rich to the list." She lifted the cup to her lips and took a sip, and I suddenly felt like a creepy stalker watching her so closely.

I picked up my own cup and nodded towards hers. "Does real tea meet your approval?"

"Well," she said, taking another sip of tea and winking at me. "If your fancy boarding school taught you nothing else, it taught you how to make perfect tea."

An hour later, I was seeing her to the door. My mind was a blurred mess of conversation; her ability to change subject mid-sentence had me struggling to keep up. But I'd also discovered a young woman whose intelligence and talent far outweighed the madness.

Her laughter had been infectious, and the mischief in her eyes had led me to wonder why the strict routine of ballet had been her choice. But the absolute joy in her voice when she spoke of her love of dance told me everything I needed to know. She had done what most people didn't; she took the less secure path and followed her dream. And had succeeded.

It made me fall just a little bit more.

"It's been great talking with you, Lucius. And I'm sorry about the thin walls."

I waved her apology away, "Unless you were the builder, you've nothing to apologise for. And for future reference, I'll be sleeping in the guest room on Tuesdays."

Liar. You'll be listening and wanking like a filthy perv.

Her cheeks glowed pink and she lowered her eyes. "I have a guest room. I can move, you don't have to."

"Yes, you could. But that would mean an explanation to your gentleman caller."

She snorted a laugh. "I'm never going to be able to watch that play again." She was still chuckling as she walked towards her flat. "Goodnight, Lucius. Sleep well."

"You too," I called as she disappeared behind the door.

I closed my own door, pressing my palm flat against the stained wood. Squeezing my eyes shut, I let out a long, slow breath.

She was more than I could have ever imagined.

And I was totally fucking screwed.