One would think, what with magic having been around for several thousand years, basic illumination wouldn't be so hard to come by in the Wizarding world, but there wasn't even a bit of candlelight in the service hall.
It was pitch black, and I realised, after my shins had collided with a fourth wooden packing crate, that my wand was in my bag in the main hall where the banquet was still going on.
I cursed under my breath while leaning over to rub my leg. I should just go back out. It was absurd to be sneaking around like a teenager in an unlit hallway, trying to find someone who probably wasn't even there.
I straightened and sighed. I was about to turn back when a burnished red light glowed briefly in the darkness before disappearing.
I swallowed and released a low breath. "Malfoy."
The butt of his cigarette glowed again, longer, bright enough to illuminate his eyes.
"Granger."
The way he pronounced my name curled and wafted through the air like the smoke. I could hear the cigarette in the corner of his mouth.
It made his drawl more overt. More caressing.
He'd always liked to toy with words with that poisonous tongue of his; experimenting with the inferred meaning of a particular form of emphasis.
Why say what he meant when he could imply it a dozen different ways without the inconvenience of real commitment?
Like the rest of us, he lived his post-war life on a short leash. His was the shortest but most luxurious lead that the Ministry kept constantly under its heel.
His constraints had caused him to make the unspoken a type of art form.
I envied the ability as often as it annoyed me. I wished sometimes that I could keep from saying what I meant.
I have never been coy. I am "sincere."
"I thought you'd quit smoking," I finally said.
The cigarette glowed again.
I made my way gingerly towards the light
"I am exclusively a social smoker these days." He'd pulled the fag from his mouth. His words were crisp again.
I extended my hand, trying not to run into anything or trip over him as I kept moving towards his voice.
A hand slipped under mine, as though he were escorting me onto a dance floor. His fingers drew me forward and downwards onto the rickety service stair he was seated on.
The stairs were narrow and could barely accommodate the width of both our hips. As I settled in beside him, the cigarette glowed again, just long enough to illuminate his profile.
I watched until it faded and then glanced away. "How does this qualify as social smoking?"
A pause. I heard him breathe.
"You're here."
He shifted slightly so that my hip bone stopped digging into him.
"There are about five hundred people on the other side of that wall," he said after a moment.
I snorted and angled myself towards him in the darkness. "The wall being imperative. You aren't attending a party if you spend the entire time sitting in a dusty service passage smoking."
"Ah..." his tone was light. "But only if you're operating with a Grangerless presupposition. I'm not. Your interference is presumed therefore my eventual appearance is inevitable. I'm smoking preemptively."
