Cappuccino After Eleven
Again, I'm overwhelmed with the amazing support you guys give me. Consider these words a big, warm hug from me to you.
P.S.: I'm going to have a friend visiting me for a week and I'm going traveling right before, so the next chapter will be published when I find time to write it. Until then, enjoy this chapter!
Chapter Four
Bird
She only gave the window a fleeting glance, but it was enough for her to do a double take.
He was out there again. Sitting on the windowsill, but this time without any cigarette or cappuccino.
Out of curiosity, she got closer to the window and peeked out.
His tousled hair was reflecting the sun, seemingly illuminating his entire being. He was wearing a pair of worn black pants that were too short at the ankle, showing off another set of mismatched socks – one lime green, the other white.
Her eyes scanned the rest of him, from his puffed jacket to his eyes – which she then realized where observing her back.
Embarrassed, she staggered backwards, pulse racing.
"Embarrassing," she hissed to herself, "Stupid, stupid, stupid,"
He had seen her peeking at him.
It was too late.
He had seen her and now she would have to pretend that she was on the way out.
Looking down, she grimaced. She wore oversized sweatpants and a hoodie, and she knew her hair was a mess.
A quick glance in the mirror told her that it wasn't that bad. She patted down a few stray hairs and tucked the rest behind her ear before she deemed herself mildly presentable.
Opening the door, she pretended not to notice him.
She was, after all, just going out on the balcony to get some fresh air. Not to see him, of course.
Certainly not.
"Hey! Hermione!" he shouted, his crystal eyes squinted in the sharp sun.
Fizzy, light-hearted joy bubbled from her chest, and all into the tips of her fingers.
"Hey!" she chirped back, not even bothering holding back the lightness she felt.
The dread she'd felt when she'd seen him from behind the window melted away instantly when she saw his beaming smile.
"I wanted to say thank you for yesterday!" he shouted across the backyard.
His eyes locked with hers, and she had to keep hers from swaying away to admire him in the light.
"You're welcome. It looked like you needed the help," she tried to sound teasing, but ended up sounding more mocking than she meant to.
He blushed and looked away. Hermione felt a knot in her stomach looking at how his smile faltered, and how he turned his eyes down to his socks – lime green and white dangling high above the ground.
She had embarrassed him, she realized with horror.
"I'm sorry!" she said quickly.
He shrugged, then whipped out a cigarette from his pocket.
Blinking away her blurry sight, she looked at his hands. His fingers were long and slender, just like him.
"Smoking is bad for you, you know!" the words slipped out of her mouth so easily.
The cigarette was hanging from between his lips. He put it between his fingers to reply.
"It's a Muggle thing," he shouted back, "I can't not try it!"
"It's addicting and bad for your lungs,"
"It would be contradicting to the Muggleexchange, wouldn't you think?" he challenged her, cigarette back on his lips and his wand whipped out to light it.
"Lighting it like that would be contradicting to the exchange, don't you think?" she yelled back, smiling, face still warm in the cold breeze.
He looked down at his wand, then back up at her.
"You're right," he admitted and tossed it down on the tarmac below.
Instinctively, Hermione's arm lashed out as if to catch it.
"Don't do that! You shouldn't litter!" she yelled out.
He looked surprised for a moment, blinked, then pointed with his wand at the cigarette where it lay so far below him.
The redhead said a spell, then the cigarette came soaring back into his hand.
"And don't do that, there can be Muggles living here, too!" she yelled again, an edge of annoyance to her words.
He opened his mouth to reply when the window beside Hermione's balcony flew open and her flatmate, Pansy Parkinson, looked at her angrily.
Her eyebrows were furrowed, and she had angry lines in her face.
"Can you shut the hell up?!" she shouted. Hermione could hear the rage boiling in her voice.
Even from her distance, she could see the redhead cringing in her side vision.
Pansy could be loud when she wanted to.
Then she took a deep, shuddering breath and said harshly, "You've been shouting back and forth for forever now. I'm trying to study in here. Can't you just take your fucking flirting somewhere else, please!"
Hermione felt the blood rush to her face at the mention of flirting but decided that Pansy was not in the mood to be corrected.
"Yes, I'm sorry, Pansy. I didn't realize we were being so loud," she said, cringing.
"Of course, you didn't," she retorted sarcastically and slammed the window shut behind her.
From across the backyard, Hermione met the redhead's gaze. He made a grimace at her, his eyes wide and eyebrows raised, as if saying what the bloody hell was that.
Hermione shrugged back. No use in arguing with Pansy.
The redhead lifted his hands in a surrender.
Or an apology. Hermione couldn't tell.
It hadn't occurred to her before that their conversation was very far from private.
Even though they were the only ones sitting outside, there were people hidden inside their rooms behind every window in both their buildings.
She grimaced, too.
He held up a finger, "one moment", and graciously crouched back and disappeared through the window.
She enjoyed the piece of silence and tranquillity, forcing herself to breathe in deeply. It was shuddering at first, but her breath smoothed out eventually, like butter on bread.
A minute passed.
Two minutes.
Three and counting. Hermione was beginning to worry that he would not come back at all.
Then, there was a rustling in the curtains of his window. Those boring grey curtains she'd grown to love.
He sat down, mismatched socks dangling over the edge, with a cup of something brown.
Cappuccino, she realized. A badly made one, too.
She checked the time. It was definitely past eleven. It showed five thirty.
Hermione held up a finger, then ran back inside.
She glanced at herself in the mirror, swallowed, then opened her door slightly. When no sounds came, she figured the coast was clear.
There were no flatmates in sight in the kitchen either.
It took her a swift moment to boil water, pour it into a cup, and plop a teabag into it.
Then, she was back in her spot on her balcony. He greeted her with his cup lifted in a "cheers!", like the first time, and she replicated his move.
They enjoyed the nice spring day in silence for a while, their beverages cooling.
The redhead waved at her. She looked at him, and he pointed at his cup, then at hers.
What is in your cup?
She lifted her teabag.
Yours?
He looked from side to side, as if to make sure Pansy wasn't there, "Cappuccino!"
Pansy's window swung open again. She gave her a hard stare, then glared at the redhead, "Really?" she asked.
"I'm sorry. We'll stop now," Hermione apologized.
Pansy didn't reply but shut her window.
Hermione put her finger to her lips and "shhh"-ed, even though she knew he couldn't hear her.
I'm sorry, he mouthed at her.
She took a sip of her tea.
The redhead put his cup of coffee down, balancing it on the broad windowsill he was sitting on. He reached a long arm inside, then pulled out a sheet and a marker.
Hermione leaned closer, interested.
He wrote something, then brought out his wand. He bit his lip, and with scrunched eyebrows, he performed some clever spell. Although it took a couple of tries before he got it right, the sheet folded itself a few times over in the end, sharp yet clean edges.
Then, it started moving.
Towards her.
And it was flying.
With a gasp, she realized what it was.
A bird. Made out of paper.
Hermione couldn't contain the gasp. That was a smart move.
Truly and impressively creative.
It landed in front of her feet, then unfolded itself. She saw a streak of burnt ashes on the paper, where the spell had been inadequately performed and burnt away at what it couldn't move.
In a shaky scribble, the redhead had written her a message.
Drinking tea, I see. Continue like this, and you will become more English than you are American.
She let out a chuckle.
From inside, she grabbed a pen, then started her reply.
Yes, but I would sadly not think of you as a person who could teach me how to survive without it, she started writing, then regretted it and erased it with a small eraser.
There was something she wanted to ask first.
The sheet folded back into the shape he'd given it, and the paper bird launched itself over the edge of her balcony, heading straight towards the redhead on the windowsill with the message she had given it.
Before my tea gets cold: what is your name?