Chapter Text
Hermione stared open-mouthed at Ron from across the kitchen, knuckles burning as she gripped the back of the chair in favour of tearing out her own hair. And by the time her fingernails had sunk deep into the wood, she’d had enough.
“No, do you know what?” she said, hands raised. “I can’t do this tonight.”
She ignored his baffled comments as she stormed past him, deciding that anywhere was better than here. A place where she could finally breathe and—
Her foot flew out from underneath her. She just caught the edge of the counter before plummeting to the ground. Heart pounding, she spotted the culprit on the floor.
Picking up a loose piece of Lego that he was supposed to have cleaned up, she looked at it in disbelief, her anger beginning to boil over.
“See this?” she said, thrusting it in his face. “This is what I’m talking about. I asked for one night, Ron, one night to myself, and all you had to do was—”
She huffed out a breath, watching that expression form on his face, which said she was being ridiculous, like everything that came out of her mouth was completely and utterly incomprehensible.
She sighed. “All you had to do, Ron, was look after them for one night. One night where I could do what I wanted, and—”
“You just went to the gym, Hermione. What’s the problem?” He snatched the Lego brick from her hand.
“The problem is that I would have liked to have stayed there for at least ten minutes before my partner rings up and tells me that the children don’t have dinner!”
“It’s just the gym,” he said. “And why do you even want to go to the gym anyway?”
“Because, I—”
“It’s full of sweaty teenagers and men that walk around with no clothes on, flaunting themselves in front of girls like you! Why would you want that?”
“Because!”
Her chest heaved.
This argument wasn’t going anywhere. It’s not like he’d ever understand that it wasn’t the gym she really wanted, but merely to do anything that made herself feel normal for once, like she was an actual human being with wants and needs.
“No.” She turned away. “Not tonight, Ron.”
“Hermione, wait.” He grabbed her arm, but she wrenched it out of his grip.
“No! What part of that word do you not understand?”
He stared at her. And she knew those eyes. Those were the eyes that, to anyone else, would be the regretful gaze of a boyfriend who was sorry for what he had done. But she knew better; they were the eyes of a man who knew this fight was insignificant. Inconsequential. That in a few hours, she would be back home from wherever her feet had taken her, and everything would be forgotten. Like nothing had happened.
That was the way it always went.
And, as always, she told herself that tonight would be different. That this time, when she came back, she would grab the children and leave for good.
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Enough.” She tossed the piece of Lego on the floor with the rest he hadn't bothered to pick up, then, without looking back, strode through the door. “Enough.”
*****
Two hours later…
or possibly three.
Hermione downed the shot of whatever alcohol Harry poured into her glass and let her forehead drop to the bar, not bothering about the droplets of some unknown liquid covering its surface. It could’ve been cider, wine, or—
“Beer,” she confirmed with a quick sniff, the vile smell turning her stomach. “Definitely beer.”
“Rough night?”
The unrecognisable voice caught her off guard.
Heaving her head up off the bar, she squinted at the woman who had appeared on the next stool, a tumbler of what looked like whisky in one hand and a phone in the other, her thumb typing frantically on the keyboard.
Glancing around, she couldn’t see anybody else nearby. “Are you—” She cleared the croak in her throat. “Are you talking to me?”
The woman cocked her head toward the stack of empty shot glasses piled up on the bar without looking away from her phone. “That’s the third tequila I’ve seen you tip down your neck before it even left the barman’s hands. Just an observation.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Hermione said, straightening up as much as her spinning vision allowed, “is my drinking bothering you?”
The woman’s thumb froze on the screen, and for a split second, Hermione’s heart jumped out of her chest, realising her tipsy brain had just snapped at a complete stranger with unknown reactions.
But the woman just huffed and said, “I'll take that as a yes.” She shoved the phone into her jacket pocket, tipped back the last dribble of whisky, and slammed the glass on the bar, leaving behind a deep red lipstick stain on the rim.
Harry appeared almost instantly at the sound of the glass.
“Manhattan, please,” the woman said without being asked.
Hermione frowned. A cocktail? How odd. She was almost certain she was in the dingy, student-filled bar she intended to go to, and Harry hadn’t magically gotten a job at an expensive cocktail bar on the other side of town. a glance at the dancefloor behind her, confirmed that there were no suits and ties of the extravagantly dressed upper-class, nor a cocktail in sight; the only things the sparse young crowd appeared to be holding were a cheap bottle of beer and a mobile phone.
In all her years coming here, no one had touched the cocktail menus. Even she succumbed to tequila shots when she came here. There was a time when every event she attended only served drinks in crystal glasses. But not here; even if she were still invited to those events, this bar would be the place she'd happily drown in whatever alcohol Harry had on hand.
Well, maybe she used to be classy. Not so much anymore.
But the woman next to her certainly seemed to be. The tailored suit—a black jacket with a deep-red inner lining that she was positive was silk, a crisp white shirt, and six-inch heeled boots—appeared more expensive than her monthly rent bill. Nothing suggested that this was her typical place of attendance. She oozed extravagance. And with style like that, she would be more suited to a business meeting for a million-pound company, working in the top office as a CEO, or perhaps a—
“You’re staring.”
Hermione jolted, snapping her eyes up to the woman. She expected an angry expression to be glaring back at her. But the woman wasn’t even looking at her. Instead, she was swirling her new cocktail around in the petite glass, bringing it up to her eyes, and almost analysing it like it was some kind of specimen.
If she thought it was drugged, she’d be mistaken. Harry would never do such a thing.
“S-sorry,” Hermione said eventually, averting her eyes. “I was just—”
“Don’t apologise.”
The calm, smooth tone was unexpected, and somehow it captivated her immediately.
“We are born curious, the human species; the instinctual craving to learn and to understand what we don’t know is fundamental to our development. So it’s only natural to be curious.” She turned her attention to Hermione, her eyes as dark as the curls falling over her face and glazed with a captivating sense of mystery. “And I’m merely curious what it was about me that seemed to keep your mind occupied for so long.”
She blinked, not expecting to be questioned, and suddenly became very conscious that the amount of alcohol in her system could corrupt the minute amount of self-control she had left. “W-well, I was”—she cleared her throat—“I was thinking that you don’t really belong here.”
The woman raised both perfectly sculpted eyebrows, and Hermione panicked.
“No!” she said, raising both hands in apology and shaking her head. “I mean, of course you belong here. You can…you can stay as long as you want. I just meant that, you know, you look like”—she gestured down the woman’s body—“well, that. And I, we—and by ‘we’ I mean everyone else here in this room—look…like…this...” When all she got in response was a blank look, she sighed and dropped her forehead back on the bar with a thump. “Forget it.”
The evening couldn’t possibly get any worse.
Forget being able to hold a stable relationship; she couldn't even say one measly sentence to a stranger without making herself look like an incomprehensible fool.
A husky chuckle managed to catch her ears over the music droning in the background. Through the one eye she managed to pry open, she saw the woman shaking her head and smiling as she sipped on her dainty, expensive cocktail.
“What’s so funny?” Hermione said, frowning.
“Nothing at all,” the woman said, swiping the remnants of alcohol from her painted lips with a thumbnail. “But your way of telling me that I’m attractive was quite impressive. I can’t say I’ve heard that one before.”
Sitting bolt upright, Hermione blinked through the wave of dizziness, catching herself on the bar, and said, “That…that was not what I was doing. I was—”
“No?”
The woman smirked, drawing Hermione’s attention to her mouth.
“O-of course not, I was—”
The words died in her throat as the woman plucked the floating cherry from her glass, brought it to her lips, and used her tongue to draw it into her mouth, sucking it from the stalk in a way that Hermione definitely should not have enjoyed.
“Are you sure about that?” The woman said, toying with the cherry in her mouth until only the stone remained, which, after a few heartbeats, was pushed out between two juice-covered lips and dropped into one of the empty shot glasses.
Hermione swallowed. “No…”
Wait, what did she just say?
“I mean, y-yes! Yes,” she added more assuringly, bringing her eyes back to the woman’s and far away from the danger of her lips. “I-i was merely wondering if—”
Harry appeared at the bar. “Can I get you another, Hermione?”
“Oh, thank God,” she said, thankful he’d arrived just in time to save her from another embarrassing conversation. “Yes, another tequila, please.”
Harry turned to the woman with an unspoken question, who replied, “I’ll take a Martini,” and pushed her half-drunk, cherry-less Manhattan aside.
It baffled Hermione why this woman didn't finish her drink; the bloody thing cost an arm and a leg, so the least she could do was drink—
Her mind blanked.
All thoughts halted in their tracks as the woman slipped off her jacket, revealing an incredibly low-cut blouse that, just like the rest of her clothes, looked as glossy and luxurious as silk. The number of buttons left open at the top just bordered on being inappropriate, and was certainly going to turn a few heads in this student-filled room. probably just like the way she was staring right now…
She grabbed Harry’s arm before he walked away. “Uh, do you know what, Harry? Make that two, please.” He nodded and disappeared to fetch a new bottle.
She groaned, rubbing her temples. “Get it together, Hermione.”
What was wrong with her? She hadn’t thought about another person in that sort of way since she’d started dating Ron. And that was seven years ago! He was the only person who had ever grabbed her attention. Not once had she even looked at anyone else in that time…
Maybe more alcohol wasn’t a good idea after all.
“Do you know him?”
Surprised, she turned to the woman who had leaned a bare elbow on the bar, chin resting on her hand.
She cleared her throat and pushed down the dangerous thoughts that weren’t going to lead anywhere good, focusing instead on the conversation. “I do, yes. Harry.” She gave a little smile when Harry’s head turned at the sound of his name, then continued. “I’ve known him for years. He’s how I met my boyfriend, actually. They were best friends…once upon a time.”
“Boyfriend?”
A glance at the woman’s curious expression only filled her with dread. Normally, she’d love to talk about him, but it was like he was everywhere. And she’d taken two buses and walked four miles to breathe in some air that wasn’t tainted with frustration; couldn’t she just get a moment to herself?
She nodded, slowly. “Yeah. Harry and I went to Cambridge together—well, we studied different subjects, but we were always bumping into each other in the library. He invited me to his home for the summer in the first year, and…that’s where I met Ron.”
“You went to Cambridge?”
The question surprised her. With the confident, alluring demeanour the woman sported, she expected her to be more interested in her love life than her education.
Maybe she underestimated her.
Hermione smiled. “I did, yeah.”
“A good school. What did you study?”
Hermione shifted on her stool. No one had asked her these questions for years; nobody was ever interested in what she did. “Well, it took me a while to decide, but I eventually settled on History and Modern Languages.”
“Fascinating. Why languages?”
She paused for a moment, thinking. "I suppose I find language to be the bridge between the known and the unknown. We can learn a lot from people, and I suppose I found it beneficial that I could speak to most of those people across the world.”
“Across the world?” The woman smiled. “How many languages do you speak—three, four?”
“Seven.”
The woman looked shocked, and it gave her a little thrill to know she could still have that effect on someone.
“That’s nothing,” Hermione said, giggling. “You should meet my university professor. He could soak up vocabulary like a sponge. I never did quite master that ability. I don't think there was a language he couldn’t at least lead a basic conversation in.”
“Well, have you considered learning an eighth? You could always catch him up.”
“I could never. He’d always outshine me, and rightly so. Though I did get quite far with Latin and Arabic when I took my Master’s in Linguistics, but I wouldn’t call myself fluent. I haven’t had the time since to go back to it, which is something I regret. I've missed learning: diving into a new textbook, writing essays, and conversing with such a diverse and incredible group of people from all over the world. Even to the point where I’ve recently considered pursuing a PhD.”
The woman raised both eyebrows and pulled away from the bar. A move that wouldn’t have been so terrible if it weren’t for the way her eyes dropped down to the old trainers on her feet that Hugo had spilled spaghetti on yesterday, and then trailed up the rest of her body with the same unbelievable expression.
“What?” Hermione said, sucking in her cheeks in irritation. “Do I not look like the type of person who should be contemplating a PhD?” She gestured down her body, and when she only received silence in response, she huffed and turned away, stacking and restacking the tower of shot glasses in front of her. “Of course. Not all of us can afford designer clothing and have time to drink cocktails on a Thursday evening.”
Honestly. Maybe she didn’t underestimate her after all. They were all the same: rich, aristocratic, upper-class women. She remembered being that confident once, wearing all that alluring poise with pride, and walking around with such ease in life that even in a horrid place like this, one would ooze certitude and sophistication.
Thank God she was no longer like that…
“You know, you would do well to improve that terrible lack of self-assurance.”
Hermione dropped the last shot glass and narrowed her gaze at the woman. “Excuse me?”
When she didn’t reply, Hermione opened her mouth to bite back but withdrew when the woman leaned closer, resting an arm on the bar, and said:
“I didn’t say that your style of clothing, how you conduct yourself, or even what you do in your spare time affected my opinion of your intelligence, and yet, that’s exactly what your mind concluded I must have been thinking.”
“I…”
“And, considering you chose to implement a lot of your judgement on my own looks this evening, I’m unsurprised that you thought I would do the same.” She pulled away a little. “Respect yourself. Self-esteem is important.”
Harry appeared with their drinks, and she was sure he said something, but the assertive, dark eyes she was currently staring into held her in place and did nothing but leave her speechless.
“Thank you,” the woman said to Harry, taking the Martini. “Harry, is it?”
She wasn’t really sure what their conversation was about after that. Her mind was still repeating the last few words the woman said over and over again like a never-ending loop.
She had self-esteem.
She had respect for herself.
She even went to the gym.
“You know,” the woman said, swirling the new cocktail around in front of her face as she did with the previous one, “if it’s that important to you—my opinion, that is—then I’ll tell you that I was merely impressed.”
Hermione frowned. “I’m sorry?”
“And surprised. It’s not everyday one meets a woman who’s both beautiful and intelligent.”
Right…
Hermione chucked back one of the shots and slammed the glass on the bar, hoping that the burn in her throat might whittle away the thoughts that were spinning around in her head like a tornado.
But It didn’t.
Appraisal. She didn’t even know what that word meant anymore. And she was a lot of things, but beautiful wasn’t one of them, not currently anyway. Somewhere on her jeans there was bound to be a porridge stain, or chocolate on her shirt that Hugo had smeared in.
Maybe the woman was right….
“So, what did you do with this degree? Intelligent girl like yourself, you must have used it well, I imagine. A good career?”
Hermione stifled a scoff. She used to, before she had to quit. But that’s not what she told her. Instead, she said, “I suppose you could say that.”
MI5.
And she was going far, too—or so they told her. Being the one and only Foreign Language Analyst who was fluent in over seven languages, she flew up the ladder and even overtook some of the employees that had been there for years.
But then, out of the blue, Ron developed a dream. His ambitions were few and far between, so when he told her he wanted to open his own high-street shop, how could she say no? She wanted the best for him, and when he asked if they could move halfway up the country to the location that was apparently perfect for the shop, of course, she said yes.
It was only about half an hour later that she realised just what she was giving up in return.
But she didn’t regret it. She couldn’t.
He was so happy. And still is.
She fiddled with the little pile of shot glasses, trying to dull down the grief of losing the job of her dreams. “It’s the best job in the world,” she said.
Turning to the woman, she quickly changed the subject before she could ask more about it, going for something that would take the focus far away from her own life. “So what is it that you do, exactly? Your job. Tell me what you do for a living.”
Before the woman replied, she swiftly removed the phone from her pocket and frantically typed at the keys. “I have my own company.”
“Oh? A successful one, I imagine?”
The phone was hastily shoved away, and Hermione’s stomach did a little somersault as the woman swivelled on her stool with a smile.
“Now, what would make you say that, hmm?” She picked up her martini, taking an elegant sip that was accompanied with a smirk that should not have made arousal shoot to Hermione’s core…
But it did.
“The, um”—she cleared her throat—“the clothes. Your clothes, they look…expensive.” Quickly averting her eyes, she downed the second tequila shot and prayed that Harry would be back any second to hand her the entire bottle. Maybe she could pass out before she had the chance to make this worse.
Or maybe she should just leave, go home, back to the kids, back to R—
“What’s with all the tequila?” the woman asked, ignoring Hermione’s discomfort. “A strong drink for a Thursday, don’t you think?”
“Thankfully, yeah.” When all she received was silence, she continued, “My boyfriend. We, um...” All the memories of their arguments rushed back to her, anger settling somewhere in her stomach. “Look, it’s not exactly been my favourite night, okay? I don’t want to talk about it.” She turned away and started stacking and restacking the shot glasses. “It’s not like I actually did anything wrong. I mean, is it wrong of me to want a little time to myself every now and then? To want something new and exciting? Maybe a little gratitude for the things I—” She stopped herself. “No. No.” Sighing, she looked around for Harry. “I need more tequila.”
The woman huffed a laugh. “I’m not convinced it’s tequila that you need.”
Looking over, she noticed the woman had found the little bowl of peanuts from a few stools away, popping them into her mouth one at a time. “Pardon me?” The woman didn’t respond; instead, she simply munched on the peanuts, looking at her with a sly smile. “So what is it that you think I need?”
“Sex.”
Hermione’s eyes widened. A bold statement for a stranger. Not to mention the assumption she was making.
“Well,” the woman said, “I can tell from your expression that it was the answer you were expecting.”
“I-I don’t need…that’s not…no. I’m very satisfied in that department, thank you very much.” She reached over and dragged the bowl of peanuts away from the woman's hands, throwing a handful into her mouth.
The woman hummed, amused. “Well, it appears I have made a terrible misjudgement.”
“My personal life is none of your business,” she said, quickly munching on the peanuts, the salt masking the foul taste of tequila on her tongue. “You don’t know a thing about me, and I know nothing about you.”
“I haven’t stopped you from asking.”
“Fine. What brings you here? I recognise practically every face that comes in here, and I haven’t seen yours before. And you’re not the typical customer that this”—she glanced around, noting the young man who was falling asleep in the corner, mouth wide open, bottle dangling in one hand—“charming place normally draws in.”
The woman chuckled, her slim fingers playing with the little cocktail stick of olives in her glass. “Well, seeing as you have that impressive degree in linguistics—which, to my very limited knowledge, requires a certain understanding of psychology—why don’t you tell me?” She smiled playfully. “What did bring me here?”
“Are you…challenging me?”
“Impress me.”
Feeling a smile tug at her lips, she quickly pulled one between her teeth and said, “Challenge accepted,” and swivelled on her stool, giving the woman her sole attention. “Okay. Well, you came alone.”
“I did.”
“You…could be meeting someone? Though, I suppose nobody has arrived yet, and it’s”—she checked her watch—“midnight. God, is it really?”
She should really go back home. It would only cause more arguments if she didn’t.
“Fortunately, yes,” the woman said, “it is.”
“Fortunately?”
“Mm, I prefer the evenings.”
“You do?” Hermione said, following the delicate baby finger that lifted up as the woman sipped on her drink. “My evenings tend to be filled with screaming and cursing.”
“Not the good kind, I’m assuming?”
“Hmm?” she said, then realised: “Oh, God, no. Definitely not…” Her thoughts trailed off as she thought about how long it’d actually been since Ron had touched her, since she’d felt that twang of desire…
She shook herself. “Anyway, why do you have a preference for the evenings? It’s miserable and…dark.”
The woman hummed and reached for a peanut. “I like the darkness.”
“But you can’t see anything in the dark.”
“On the contrary,” she said. “I can see more in the dark than I can in the daylight.”
Hermione smiled, inquisitively. “What are you…some kind of vampire?”
“No,” the woman replied with a small chuckle, and a thoughtful expression appeared on her face. She considered her next words for a moment before saying, “I’ve found that daylight is fraudulent. There’s comfort in the light. People go through their normal routine of work, eating lunch with people they have nothing in common with, looking after the children, and pretending that everything they’re doing is exciting and that their life is exactly how they want it to be...”
She leaned forward, and Hermione hung on her every word.
“But, only when the lights go out, when you settle in for the evening and bathe in your own company in the absence of authority, deadlines, and expectations, do you feel your true self. Some people have typical hobbies—dancing, photography, ice skating, perhaps. But others…escape to places where they feel most at ease. A strip club, a colleague's house to have an affair under your wife’s nose, or even”—she gestured around her—“running to a terribly dismal bar where you can pretend your life in the light of day doesn’t exist.”
She paused, and Hermione waited for more in anticipation, staring into eyes that oozed so much wisdom that it both impressed and scared her.
“People come alive in the dark. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“U-um…” She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been rendered a little speechless. But, as things stood, she was. “I suppose I’ve never thought of it like that.”
“Well,” the woman said, straightening up (when had she gotten so close?) and picking up her glass, “If you spend many years doing what I do, you start to notice these things.”
“And what…what exactly do you do?”
The corners of the woman’s mouth twitched into a half-smile. “One question at a time. I believe you were in the middle of deciding why I was here at such a late hour.”
“Right,” Hermione said. “Yes. O-of course.” She cleared her throat—and her thoughts—before focussing back on the original question. “So, midnight. Near closing time. An unlikely time to meet a partner, so…that could only mean that you didn’t intend to meet anyone at all. That you came on your own.”
“Correct.”
“Why would you come on your own…? There aren’t many reasons why people choose to do that.”
“You did.”
Hermione smiled. “I did, and I suppose you could have had a ‘rough night’ as you so delicately put it, but you don’t seem particularly distraught.”
The woman scoffed, almost choking on her drink. “‘Particularly’?”
Chuckling at the unimpressed look on the woman’s face, Hermione refused to answer, merely shrugging which she hoped would tease her. And considering the expression now morphing into amusement, it worked.
“Any other reasons?” the woman said, smirking.
The playful look only managed to make Hermione's stomach flutter with butterflies, but she ignored them and trailed her eyes over the woman once more, looking for further clues.
A businesswoman, most likely, possibly in her late thirties—though she had an inkling the long, glossy hair and white-as-snow skin coated in elegant makeup could be masking her true age. She spoke and held herself with a confidence that only came with experience, likely indicating a good education. She has a phone that commands her attention; she’s popular—or busy. She likes cocktails, or more accurately, the fruit that comes with them, and never fails to finish a single one of them either…
“Well,” she said, “there’s alcoholism?”
The woman snorted. “You think I’m an alcoholic?”
“It’s an option. I mean, if I’ve noticed correctly, that is a Martini in your hand—the third on the cocktail menu after a Manhattan, which you’ve also ordered—which could indicate that you are working your way down the list. So, well, yes, maybe you are indeed an alcoholic.”
Narrowed eyes squinted over the rim of the Martini glass. “Maybe I'm just indecisive.”
Hermione shook her head. “No,” she said, looking the woman up and down. “You definitely seem like the type of woman who knows exactly what she wants—”
She clamped her mouth shut.
God, was she flirting now, too?
The woman grinned, her pristine white teeth glistening in the lazy disco light above their heads. “Correct again…Hermione.”
A rush of something foreign.
Electricity washed through her body like a current, settling right between her legs at the sultry way her own name was spoken.
She panicked. It startled her; the long-lost feeling she hadn’t felt for years only grew stronger as she watched the woman pick the cocktail stick of olives out of her glass and wrap full, red lips around it before dragging them into her mouth…
She needed to get out of here.
“Excuse me,” she said, clearing the croak in her voice, “I’m just going to…” She gestured to the bathroom and slid not so elegantly off her stool, the alcohol suddenly rushing to her head. “Wait, are you…are you going to be here when I get back?”
The woman smirked, chewing slowly on the remainder of the olives. “Do you want me to be?”
God, what was she doing?
“I-I’ll be right back.”
It was just the conversation. It had to be. She hadn’t had a decent conversation with someone who didn’t say the words ‘mum, I’m hungry’ or ‘when’s dinner?’ since she quit her job. And especially not with someone who wanted to know about her life—and definitely not with someone who was as articulate and intelligent enough to keep up with her.
Maybe it was the tequila.
She pushed open the door to the ladies’ bathroom in the hope of pouring a bucket of water over her head and drowning in it, but instead, she froze on the spot.
A young woman, no older than twenty, slapped a hand onto the mirror, panting, and sprawled atop the counter as the man kneeling between her legs hooked one over his shoulder.
They clearly didn’t hear or see her; the girl’s eyes were squeezed shut. But Hermione heard everything. The moans of pleasure, the whimpers.
The man devoured and groaned in a way that made Hermione’s thoughts run wild, her heart crashing against her ribcage at the memory of what that felt like—the feel of fingers squeezing and digging into her thighs, the warmth of a mouth, lips, and—
“Shit.”
The girl must’ve opened her eyes because she was now frantically pushing away at the man's head. “Shit, I-i’m sorry, I—”
“N-no,” Hermione said, too stunned—and embarrassingly turned on—to avert her gaze, “Don’t…don’t worry about it.”
The man toppled to the side as he looked over his shoulder at Hermione, then jumped to his feet, grasping onto the sink for stability.
“Please, don’t…don’t say anything,” the girl said, yanking the underwear up from her ankle quicker than lightning and hopping off the counter. “We’ll just leave.” She pulled at the man’s shoulder and dragged him out of the room, leaving Hermione behind, staring at the counter in silence as the door clicked closed behind her.
“Well,” she said, “that was unexpected.”
And in all honesty, considering the amount of arousal stirring in her stomach, it wasn’t entirely unwelcome either.
God, maybe she was sex-deprived.
She rushed to the sink and splashed her face with water. “Shit,” she said, wincing at the icy cold water. Or maybe her skin was warmer than she realised.
And apparently she looked sex-deprived, considering it was the first thing that a woman she'd never met before had told her, which is embarrassing enough—let alone the fact that she was right.
Despite her attempts over the years, Ron hadn’t been interested in sex for a long time. At least not in the way that she wanted. Other than that quick trist in the kitchen last month, she couldn’t remember the last time they did it outside the bedroom.
Whatever happened to the passion? The excitement, the want of each other's touch, the burning desire to be as close as possible at any given moment?
Before she met him, she was adventurous and spontaneous—hell, she’d even spent many of her weekends at events with friends where most people were half-dressed and taking their pleasure in front of everyone. And really, it’s not unlike the couple just a minute ago.
Seeing them reminded her of those times. Good times. Empowering times.
There was even a time when a Dominatrix had taken her under her wing, so to speak, and taught her the basics of BDSM.
The thought made her laugh.
What was her name?
She doubted she would even spot her in a lineup now; it’s been eight years since she last saw her, and a lot has changed between then and now. Two children, a boyfriend, multiple hamsters, and guinea pigs later, and here she was, staring at her reflection in the mirror in a rundown club on a Thursday night.
She looked older. The woman she was looking at wasn’t even close to the person she once knew. Once carefree, full of life and spontaneity…all she saw now were frown lines on her forehead that came with too much arguing and deep bags under her eyes from sleepless nights.
Sighing, she scrubbed her hands clean of all the sticky alcohol and then left the bathroom.
It surprised her to see that the woman was still there, alone at the bar with only a stack full of cocktail glasses and a mobile phone for company.
Hermione leaned against a pillar, wondering what it was about this woman that made her so intriguing. Because she did, she intrigued her more than anyone she’d met in a long time. There were two more glasses in front of her now, too, one short and square in stature, still half full, and the other tall and thin, with pink liquid and a strawberry stuck to its rim.
She seemed carefree, assertive, sure of herself, and all the things that Hermione no longer was.
But maybe that could be changed.
Striding up behind the woman, she cleared her throat and, not waiting for her to turn around, blurted out, “Do you dance?”
Before she could scold herself for the outburst, black curls cascaded over the woman’s shoulder as she glanced back and lifted a questioning eyebrow.
“Do I…dance?”
“Yes. Dance. I’m told it’s something people do for fun. The thing these people are”—she gestured to the dance floor, where only a sprinkle of students remained, dawdling around in their drunk state—“well, not doing, actually. But do you dance?”
The woman swivelled around on the stool, narrowly missing Hermione’s stomach as she elegantly crossed one leg over the other and leaned both elbows back on the bar. “Is this your way of asking me to dance with you? Or are you merely establishing if I have the ability to move two feet at the same time?”
Hermione narrowed her eyes, but the woman just chuckled, making a deep, husky noise that managed to send tingles in places she really wished it hadn’t.
Huffing, she threw a hand out, palm up. “Would you like to dance?”
After a few heartbeats, a slender, cold-to-the-touch hand slipped into her own.
“Alright,” said the woman, gliding effortlessly off her stool and momentarily throwing Hermione off with the six inches she had on her own five-foot-six frame. “Lead the way, then.”
Nerves hit her like a tonne of bricks. Her heart thumped the entire short distance to the dance floor, which suddenly felt like a million miles away, all the while shoving down the guilt that came with enjoying the feeling of the cold, soft hand clasped in hers.
This wasn’t acceptable.
Yes, it was.
Of course it was. She wasn’t doing anything wrong.
At least that’s what she thought until strong fingers wrapped around her waist and pulled her flush against a warm body, forcing her to come face to face with a woman that looked like she could devour her in one sitting if she wanted to.
…Did she want to?
For a moment, she forgot she was supposed to be dancing and quickly refocused, shuddering out a breath as she placed a hand on the woman’s shoulder, latching on to the material beneath her fingers that she could now confirm was silk. Incredibly soft silk; the feeling of luxury and extravagance; and a world so far from her own.
“You know, for someone who practically dragged me onto the dance floor, you seem very uncertain all of a sudden.”
Hermione blinked, looking up at the woman’s concerned gaze. “I’m sorry, it’s just…it’s been a long time since I’ve done this.”
“Do I make you uncomfortable?”
The hand on her waist retreated, but she grabbed it quickly and placed it back, saying, “No. No, you don't, you're—”
Intriguing, beautiful, everything I wished to be, could’ve been…used to be.
She inhaled deeply, gulping back all the words that she’d never say out loud. “I just can’t remember the last time I danced like this, that’s all.”
“I see. And by ‘like this,’ do you mean”—she glanced around, grimacing—“in a shitty bar?”
Hermione laughed, but in reality, it wasn’t so amusing. “No. With Harry being here, I actually come here a lot. Though, more recently these days,” she added. “But, dancing with…with someone else? Like this? No. No, I can't remember the last time.”
“Ah.” The woman nodded in understanding. “Your partner isn’t one for such frivolities, then, I gather.”
“Ron? Gosh, no. I couldn’t get him on the dance floor if I paid him. He claims it’s because he can’t dance. And apparently I’m the one to blame for his two left feet, and refuses any attempt I make at encouraging him to give it a go anyway. He hates it. That and the music. And the crowds. To be honest, there’s not much he does like.”
“Well, he sounds charming.”
The sarcasm in the woman’s words made her chuckle, but it quickly faded, leaving behind a sad smile.
He used to be.
“Yeah,” she said, “he is.”
“Tell me more about him.”
“Really? There’s, uh…there’s nothing really to tell. He’s perfect.”
The woman‘s cheeks sucked inward as her lips parted, clearly irritated by her answer. “Listen,” she said, using that assertive voice for the second time that evening, “a little thing you need to know about me is that dishonesty has no place in my life, no matter how little the lie may be.” The calm tone didn’t help the guilt she felt for lying to the woman who’d been so nice to her all evening. “If you would prefer not to answer with the truth, saying nothing would be more appreciated than a lie that would corrupt my view of you.”
Hermione sighed, averting her eyes from the intensity of the ones looking down at her. “I’m sorry.”
“Stop apologising. You do it too much.”
Did she?
The music changed, but firm hands made no attempt to let her go, still swaying to the odd choice of music that really didn’t match their dancing style; it was somewhat a cross between acoustic folk and seventies disco.
Honestly, it was a surprise this place was still open.
“How long have you been together?” The woman said, bringing her attention back.
“Uh, seven years. Well, a little more than that if you count the summer I told you about.”
“Seven years, hmm? A long time to be with someone.”
“Is it?” she said, recalling any friends she knew that were in long-term relationships. She couldn’t think of one. “I suppose it is.”
“And are you happy?”
Well, that was an unexpected question.
A terribly unexpected question.
“I, uh…I—” The lie she was forming stuck in her throat the moment the woman’s words came flooding back to her. What was the point in lying anymore anyway?
Sighing, she ducked her head. “I don’t think so, not anymore.”
“Why so?”
Hermione gazed up. The frown, along with the amount of keen interest looking back at her, made something warm bubble in her chest. “Why are you so interested in me? Why do you want to know?”
The woman shrugged. “Maybe I don’t. Maybe I’m just making pointless conversation to pass the time. Or maybe I’m giving you a false sense of security by pretending to care so I can get into your pants—”
“What?” Hermione retreated, but strong hands pulled her back.
“Or…” the woman said, giving her a significant look, “perhaps I’m just a stranger who wants to know what kind of man makes the most gorgeous woman in the room so damn miserable.”
It only took one look at the woman’s intense, dark eyes and a glance at her smirking lips for Hermione’s adrenaline to skyrocket. The warm, tingling sensation of that foreign feeling bubbling deep inside her once again sprung out of nowhere and became more intense as she realised she was staring at the woman’s mouth.
Panicking, she buried her face in the woman’s neck, avoiding the temptation of her lips.
But it was a poor decision.
The sweet, heady scent of perfume overwhelmed her senses.
She smelled like apples. And that, along with the subtle waft of alcohol that came with every one of the woman’s breaths, formed something that she could easily bottle up and label as an aphrodisiac.
She brushed her nose over sweet-smelling skin, basking in the soft curls that surrounded her face. The urge to push her lips just that little bit closer was overwhelming, and she almost did when a deep chuckle vibrated through the woman’s throat, sending tingles against her lips that hovered just millimetres away.
“I think someone’s had a little too much tequila.”
“What”—Hermione swallowed, almost choking on the saliva that had unexpectedly filled her mouth—“What makes you say that?”
‘Well, I’m afraid if it weren’t for me holding you upright, you’d be a little puddle at my feet. It seems to me that you should go home and sleep before you—”
She couldn’t help it.
The woman was too close to resist.
She brushed her lips against her neck. Softly, barely touching. “Sleep,” she said, “is the last thing I want.”
Pressing her lips against hot skin once more, she felt the woman’s shoulders stiffen, and for the briefest of seconds, she realised that she may have misjudged her again; all the subtle flirtatious gestures could have quite easily been just that, a friendly gesture.
But, a moment later, her panic subsided as hands glided around to the small of her back and gripped tightly, fingertips digging in through her T-shirt in a way that removed any lingering doubt she had left.
“You don’t want that,” the woman said, her voice deeper than it had been a moment ago.
“Mm, and who are you to decide what I do and don’t want, mysterious woman?”
The music in the bar faded away. Everything around her seemed to disappear, and all that remained was this woman, whoever she was. But it didn’t matter who she was; she was here, and Hermione hadn’t felt this alive in years.
She trailed her fingers down the line of buttons on the woman’s shirt, humming at the warmth of her stomach bleeding through the silk. But she wanted more. Heart pounding, she tugged gently at the last button before daring to move further down and skim the tips of her fingers inside her trousers’ waistband.
“Do you know what I really want?” she said, feeling fingers squeeze into her back in response.
“What?”
“I want to know what you taste like...”
She didn’t wait for a reply. Instead, she latched her lips back to the woman’s neck and sucked. Hard. And the moan that reverberated against her lips sent molten heat straight to her core.
But as suddenly as it came, it left as a cold hand wrapped around the back of her neck and dragged her away from the delectable warmth of the woman’s neck, only to be caught in a gaze that managed to draw her in further.
“Have I given you the impression that I’m the type of woman to fuck people I don’t know?” the woman asked, her unexpectedly vulgar language turning Hermione's legs to jelly. “Not to mention women who have a partner already. Hmm? What makes you think I'm interested in ruining someone's relationship?”
It only took one glance at the woman’s eyes, which were dripping with desire, for her to know exactly what she wanted.
“You’re not ruining it,” she said, glancing at the woman’s lips. “…I am.”
Chest heaving, she grabbed the back of the woman’s head and pulled her down to her mouth, latching onto lips that, after a brief second, moved and moulded against hers in a way that made her head spin more than the tequila.
She tasted like gin. Olives. And somewhere in there, she could swear, was a hint of cigarette smoke.
But it didn’t matter. The more she kissed and devoured the soft lips moving so confidently against hers, the more her mind turned to mush. She wanted more. To get closer. Run her hands over every part of the warm body that she could reach.
Her resolve broke as hands travelled up her body and ran through her hair, then after a moment slid all the way down to the swell of her backside, squeezing and caressing with a firmness that made her feel desired.
She remembered now.
This was what want felt like.
She fisted at the woman’s shirt, desperately tugging it free from tight trousers so she could feel the skin underneath.
The woman moaned in her mouth, but then clamped her hands over hers, halting their movement. “Steady, now,” she warned against her lips, breathing heavy. “I don’t fancy getting arrested tonight. Do you?”
Hermione didn’t think twice. Snatching the woman’s forearm, she pulled her off the dancefloor and weaved down the back corridors until she reached a dark spot, where the shadows enveloped them and the music was nothing but muffled background noise.
She heard the woman chuckle, but she ignored it and grabbed a fist full of silk and pushed until she was pressing her against the wall. Body flushed with hers. Waiting. Chests heaving. Breaths clashing.
“What’s your name?” Hermione asked.
A breathy laugh breezed across her face, making her eyes flutter.
“Now you ask that question? Tell me, is that why you brought me back here? Why you have me pinned so firmly into this wall that I can feel you grinding into me?”
With a moan, Hermione pulled away and finally freed the woman’s shirt from her trousers.
“Because I thought you wanted to know something else. Something that doesn’t require the use of my mouth but rather”—Hermione gasped as the woman grasped her by the back of the neck and pulled her close—“yours…”
Hermione gulped, and moved her hand that was squished between their bodies, blindly feeling around until she found the button to the woman’s trousers…and popped it open.
An intake of breath.
”I do want that,” Hermione said, slowly pulling down the zip.
“Right here?”
“Yes.”
“There are people walking past you, Hermione. You would drop to your knees right here in the hallway?”
Hermione bit her lip, wanting to tease her a little. “Tell me your name first.”
After a few moments of silence, she thought she would actually get to prove that she would do something so risky. But instead, she felt the woman smile against her lips and say, “Cute. Come with me.”
Hermione almost fell into the wall with how quickly the woman slid away, dragging her a few paces before pushing through a door where bright fluorescent lights burned her eyes. Before she could understand what was happening, firm hands twisted her hips and pushed sharply between her shoulder blades, forcing her against the sinks. She gasped, bracing trembling hands against the ceramic.
The toilet flushed.
When a cubicle door opened, a speechless girl came face to face with the woman, who merely said, “Get out.” The strict tone suggested it was non-negotiable, and she followed the scurrying girl all the way to the door…
Then locked it.
Hermione swallowed in anticipation, and by the time the woman was back at her side and turning her around to face the sinks, a small pang of guilt pinched inside her. But then she looked in the mirror ahead, and the hungry gaze that wandered over her body for what seemed like a lifetime managed to send it whittling away. And then, when dark eyes finally locked onto hers…she’d forgotten all about it.
“Let’s play a game,” the woman said, stepping close enough to press against the back of her thighs.
“A-a game?” Her eyes fluttered closed as hands slithered round her hips and tugged her shirt free from her jeans. She gasped as ice-cold fingers brushed against her stomach. Playfully. Teasing.
“You want to know my name, Hermione?”
“Yes…”
“I’ll give you three guesses.”
Hermione huffed in disbelief. “Do you not answer any question with just the answer? Can’t you just tell me this one time?”
The woman leaned forward, her firm body pressing against her back so deliciously that she couldn’t help the small moan that slipped from her mouth. “Now where would be the fun in that?” she said, and popped open the button of her jeans. “Three guesses.”
“And if I don’t work it out?”
“Then I suppose you’ll only have the feel of my fingers to remember me by.”
Hermione could barely think. All focus was on the fingers dragging her zip down at an agonisingly slow rate. So she said the first name that came to mind.
“Raven.”
“Raven?” the woman said, smiling at her in the mirror. “Do I look like a bird to you?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Your…your hair, it’s—” She groaned with impatience, pushing herself back into the firm thighs behind, only for the woman to grasp onto the waistband of her underwear and tug slightly, forcing pressure on where she ached and wished she would just—
She gasped as a finger traced over her clit, and the word she hadn’t said in a long time just slipped from her mouth as she moaned, “Fuck...”
“If that’s what you want.”
“Yes. But if you don’t hurry up…I’ll jump to the part where I put you on the counter instead.”
The woman hummed, seemingly amused. “I’d like to see you try.”
God, what was happening? She could barely breathe. Her elbows struggled to keep her upright as the woman's weight settled against her back, encasing her; the warmth, the hands and fingernails dragging up and down her stomach like she needed her, wanted her; it was almost too much, too—
The bathroom door swung open.
Hermione jumped and looked to see Harry standing wide-eyed in the doorway, hand frozen to the key in the lock. “Shit,” she said, pushing away from the sink. Looking between him and the almost nonchalant woman next to her, a mixture of panic and embarrassment ran through her like hellfire.
Trembling, she ran. A quick push past Harry and a few corridors later, she tumbled out the back door, breathing in freezing cold air that didn’t even begin to ease the pain in her chest.
She’d cheated.
Something she’d scolded Ron for in the past and swore she would never do herself.
She sunk against the brick wall, letting the noise of the outside world override the buzzing thoughts in her mind as tears clouded her vision.
What was happening? She didn’t think her relationship was this broken—not enough to cheat on him with some stranger in a bar just because she talked to her like a normal human being.
But it was futile.
Something had to change or she would physically explode. Which, although virtually impossible, certainly described how she felt right now. She couldn’t keep doing this—and judging by how tonight had gone, she needed to fix this fast.
Otherwise, her relationship would be over.
Running back inside, she crossed the now empty dance floor and headed straight to the bar to at least explain to Harry what she’d done.
“Harry,” she said, waiting for him to turn around. “Listen, I—“
“No, no, I don’t need to know.” He kept tidying up and stacking glasses away, a look on his face she recognised too well as ‘just leave me out of it’.
“I didn’t see a thing,” he said. “Everything is as it was ten minutes ago.”
She sighed. “Where did she go? Is she still here?”
“No, she left. Though she did tell me to give you this.” He slammed a shot glass down in front of her and topped it to the brim with tequila. “She said you’d need it.”
She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
Without further thought, she downed the shot in one, and on slamming the glass down to the bar, a red leaflet stuck to the wood with an unknown liquid caught her eye.
She squinted, just about reading the title of a masquerade party. A hedonistic party;. The cover was erotic, and even her slightly blurred vision managed to work out the abstract image of two bodies, skin on skin.
Well, if that wasn’t a blast from the past, she didn't know what was. Or…was it a sign? It could be a sign.
Fate, maybe?
She hummed.
Well…
She wanted spontaneity.
Peeling it from the bar, she stuffed it in her back pocket and with a wave goodbye to Harry, strode out the door.