Pouring rain clouded her vision, the young woman raising her hand up to her forehead as a makeshift visor. Her black bob hung wetly to her icy cheeks, and she flipped it out her face. The wig was worn in addition to heavy makeup. That night, she was going to be someone else. Grabbing ahold of the collar of her trench coat, Hermione Granger turned it upwards to warm her neck. The late London night was turning to be more of a disaster than she realized. She had gone out to one of the up and coming London nightclubs, but unfortunately had to leave early due to overcrowding. Which, in turn, left a slightly drunk Hermione standing on the curb in the pouring rain, hailing a cab down. All she had wanted was one last night of freedom before going back to Hogwarts. She had spent the last four years training with several Potions masters, preparing her to begin an apprenticeship, and eventual professorship.
It was far too crowded to obliviate back to her house, let alone to find a site to floo back. Stepping out into the street slightly, Hermione leaned down the line of parked cars, looking through the thick rain for a cab. One bright headlight blinded her momentarily as the object rounded a bus, hurtling at her. Hermione jumped out of the way just as the motorcycle came to a screeching halt. She let out a shrill scream, clutching at her chest. Muddy water covered her black trousers and thigh-high suede boots. The pair she had just bought the day before for £100, a going away present to herself. Groaning, she shook her head, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her coat.
“What the fuck were you doing in the middle of the road?” The person asked, their voice muffled by the helmet, but clearly annoyed.
“Trying to flag a cab!” She shouted in response.
“Well, watch where you’re going!”
“Watch where you’re going! You could have run me flat!” Hermione shouted. “You also ruined my boots.”
“Sorry about that.” The person apologized, switching off their bike. Studying the motorcyclist, she enjoyed what she was looking at. Hermione had discerned that it was a male. A muscular man, the dark denim pants he wore sticking to his legs with the rain. He wore a black leather jacket, black gloves and a pair of heavy black leather boots. It had been months since she’d taken a man home, let alone a stranger.
So what if she couldn’t see his face? His body was fantastic and wet from the rain. All it would take is an invitation inside, a warm bit of liquor, and she would have him in bed.
“Why don’t you give me a lift home to make it up to me?” She asked, smirking.
“How far away?”
“A couple kilometers north, then onto Easterling, thanks.”
“Get on, then.”
Hermione climbed onto the back of the motorcycle, wrapping her arms around his waist. He kicked the motorcycle on and they sped off. As she held onto him, speeding through the busy, chaotic streets of London, Hermione caught a familiar scent. The man she clutched smelled terribly familiar, but she could not name what she picked up. Turning right, they found themselves down a row of townhomes in which Hermione then tugged on the hem of his sleeve.
“Number 17!” They rolled down the street, rumbling on the motorcycle. As they arrived at the sidewalk before her house, Hermione felt herself grow anxious. What a fun game she was playing--wearing a wig that night to alter her identity. Now, she was going to sleep with a complete and utter stranger. “Come in for a quick drink to warm you up. I’ll get my fire going!”
There was a brief moment of hesitation on the man’s part, but then he obliged. “Alright, then.”
Climbing off from behind the man, she hurried up the front steps of her house, her wig and clothes still sopping wet.
As Hermione unlocked her front door, opening it, she turned. The man removed his helmet, flipping shoulder-length black hair out across his leather jacket.