EXIT

28. SLATE BLACK

28. SLATE BLACK

I'm not quite sure what wakes me up: the golden morning light streaming through the pane of the magical window into my sleeping quarters and warming my upper body, or the rushing of water from the bathroom. Either way, when I open my eyes, the first thing I see is a narrow strip of light blue sky. Judging by the position of the winter sun, it's already late midmorning, which means Granger and I have missed both breakfast and the morning workout.

Well, I definitely won't complain because, for once, I slept exceptionally well.

I have a good yawn, stretch myself luxuriously and swing my legs out of bed. Then I slip into my cargo trousers before following the sound of the running water and entering the bathroom.

Granger in my shower — that's a sight I could get used to. Regarding her intently, I blindly reach for my toothbrush and lean against the sink.

She is beautiful.

Again, that's the first and only thought that flashes through my mind as I take in the sight of her. Her hair may not be as voluminous as it was when we were in school, but I like the new version too. When she tilts her head back, as she is doing right now, it cascades down her shoulder blades in dark, shiny waves. It invites you to bury your hands in it — at least in theory.

Next, my attention shifts to her face. To her eyebrows, which are drawn together in pleasure, to her freckled, gracefully curved nose, to her full lips, which curl into a small, dangerous grin when she spots me in front of the shower stall.

As I dutifully continue brushing my teeth, my gaze drifts downward. Slender neck, delicate collarbones, small, shapely breasts that would probably fit perfectly in the palms of my hands if I were allowed to touch them. A real shame.

And damn, I'm not even fully awake yet, but already hard.

As Granger turns off the water and steps out of the shower, I quickly lean over and spit the toothpaste into the sink. When I straighten up, she's standing right in front of me, unashamedly and calmly toweling herself. I follow the slow, circular movements of the fabric against her creamy skin with my eyes, losing myself in the sight, until something very specific catches my attention.

V-VIII-MCMXCVIII

"What does that mean?" I ask bluntly.

Granger looks down at herself. In the bathroom light, the black letters of the tattoo stand out sharply against the thin skin of her ribcage. She doesn't answer right away, but slowly dries her hair before carefully putting the towel away. A few lonely drops of water fall out of her curls and trickle down her body in the most beautiful rivulets. I'm a bit wistful because I can't trace the glittering tracks with my fingertips.

"It's the date of the day the Resistance freed me," she explains tersely.

Ah, Greyback.

"Why?" I ask cautiously, stepping forward to take a closer look at the Roman numerals.

Last night, I had neither the wits nor the leisure to inquire about them, Granger made sure of that.

"Because since then I've been the woman I am today," she replies absentmindedly. Out of the corner of my eye I see her frown. "The old Hermione Granger is gone."

At those last words, I lift my head and stare at her with my mouth slightly open. The statement hits me surprisingly hard and I don't even know why. My fingers twitch and I have to keep myself from touching her face, maybe even caressing her cheek.

She doesn't miss my reaction.

"Do you think that's macabre?" she asks, raising a defensive eyebrow and putting her hands on her hips — an impressive sight, after all she's still completely starkers.