This is the closest thing muggles have to magic—
a dark room of thudding hearts, flailing limbs, streams of neon light piercing the fog, the bass swelling around her and lifting her body.
Hermione clutches her plastic cup and swings her wild hair. A splash of cheap vodka seeps into her sleeve. Who cares?
It’s only one night.
The music shifts to a spacious thrum with a pulsing beat. The muggles don’t feel it, but the magic in her veins fizzes pleasantly, linked to the buzzing network of elation.
She weaves: loose, carefree movements. Sweat clings to the back of her neck.
“My my,” a low voice basses around her like vapor. “The Hogwarts head girl, drunk in a dodgy disco.”
He slides behind her, fitting the tight curve of her mini skirt against him.
“Shocking,” he says, his smirk pressed to her ear.
Hermione scoffs, rolling her traitorous hips smooth as water.
He smells like leather and cognac.
“You’re far less clever than you imagine, Riddle.” She lifts her hand and the black opal on her finger winks at them. “Christmas presents shouldn’t violate one’s privacy.”
Diamond flashes of light swirl across their intimate darkness. She glimpses his hands, disappearing under the hem of her blouse.
“But you wore it.” He bites her neck.
Her lashes float downward, savoring his fingertips roaming upward, electrifying bare skin. His possessive grip fans across her waist, pulling her deeper, pressing his cruel length against the springy cleft of her skirt.
Her heart kick-kicks.
“I did.”