After Ginny, the nights were longer.
Harry pecked away at the hours inside his office, flicking through criminal records and newspapers, pouring mugs after mugs of tea into his stomach. He knew that it wouldn’t let him sleep later on. It was just that tea somehow dulled the pain and removed the propensity for thinking about anything unrelated to his job. When night came, he would go somewhere. Girls flew by his bed like streetlights.
–Your stubble looks cute,†said the one who was currently lying next to him. She had fair hair, full lips and big brown eyes.
He couldn’t recognise her. His senses seemed to, though, because when his hands moved over the smooth skin and his nose trailed along her collar bones, the familiarity greeted them with warmth. Afterwards, when the room was no longer disturbed by the rickety bed’s protests, that familiarity dissipated. The only thing that remained was the slightly annoying fact that he had limited space in which to lie and wait for morning.
–Do you remember my name?†she asked as she pushed the mug across the table.
Tea. He struggled for an adjective to describe how he felt as he watched the steam rising languidly, no longer interested. –Ann,†he said.
–Ann. And?â€
He stared at her. The tea was too sweet. –Ann ... Lippens.â€
She leaned towards him, the sunlight reflecting off her face. Her eyes are hazel, he thought, while his eyes travelled down her neck. –Brestas,†he replied before she could open her mouth. –Brestas Ann Lippens.â€
–That’s right,†she said. To Harry’s relief, she was smiling. –Can I push your hair back? It’s all over your face.â€
He tried to object, but her fingers were already slicing through his hair. If she asked about the scar, he’d have to leave. She didn’t.
–So, Jimmy Cockton, what do you do?â€
Jimmy Cockton? Was that the alias he’d made up the night before?
–I’m a freelance writer,†he said, the idea popping up in his head as he opened the Daily Prophet.
–You were a policeman last night.â€
–Oh.â€
For a whole minute, neither of them spoke, ostentatiously preoccupied with the scalding hot drink that Harry found too sweet. At last, he snapped. –You can’t be called Brestas Ann Lippens. That doesn’t sound like a real name.â€
She didn’t respond immediately, making him wait as she pulled up her hair into a bun. She is beautiful, he admitted to himself.
–It isn’t,†she said. Her arms were now folded across her chest. –But we both knew that, didn’t we?â€
–What’s this game we’re playing?†Harry said, irritation now creeping into his voice. –What’s the bloody point?â€
–I like you.†It sounded like the statement it probably was. –I want to see you again.â€
–Why? I wasn’t exactly a gentleman last night, and I’m not being a gentleman now.â€
She laughed. –You don’t give yourself enough credit. There are certain things you’re very, very good at.â€
–Like biting off people’s head first thing in the morning?â€
She pushed back her chair in reply and got up. His gaze followed her as she approached him, stopping only when she’d reached him. Grabbing his hair with both hands, she rested the top of his head against her belly. –Tell me if you want to see me again,†she murmured.
He shut his eyes. –Do you ... Could you leave your number then?â€
–Just shoot me an owl.â€
–Okay.â€
She was walking away now, picking up her clothes from the floor and heading for the bathroom. Somewhat dazed, Harry shook his head and returned to his tea. The day’s Prophet was its usual self. Somebody had won a lottery. A shop in Diagon Alley had been broken into. Gilderoy Lockhart had managed to find a publisher for his book, Sauntering Down St. Mungo’s. There was nothing suspicious about the summary; it appeared to be a harmless, although probably glorified, account of his stay at the hospital. Harry knew that most of the leading publishers had refused to touch the project. The newly opened Greengrass Publishers, however, had bought it to honour the engagement of their youngest daughter with Draco Malfoy.
For some reason, he found himself chuckling. Draco Malfoy was getting married. Draco Malfoy had found a wife when Harry, the Bloody Boy Who Lived, had lost his girlfriend to someone else and was overdosing on one-night stands in an effort to feel alive. He was tired of it. He had to move on, and Brestas Ann Lippens or whatever she was called was beginning to sound like a good place to start.
She had asked him to owl her.
She was a witch.
Swearing loudly, Harry scrambled out of his chair, pulled on his pants and ran towards the bathroom. It was open, and it was empty. She had left. She had Apparated.
–Freaking Merlin,†he muttered. He’d been with a witch the whole time, a witch who must be aware of his true identity. No wonder she didn’t ask him about his scar. No wonder she hadn’t bought his name or his attempt at passing off as a Muggle. But what had she been doing in a Muggle bar?
And did any of it matter? Now that he came to think of it, it made things easier. He walked towards his desk and opened a scroll of blank parchment.
Tonight. 8 pm. The same place.
- Harry
He would use an owl from the Ministry to send that – except he didn’t know her name.
–Oh hell.â€
Crumpling the parchment in frustration, Harry went back to the kitchen. What kind of a girl wants a bloke to owl her without telling him her name or address? Maybe, she’ll turn up at the bar anyway,he thought, turning the first page of the newspaper over. Draco’s face was splashed on the third page. Harry amused himself with the expression on his old rival’s visage: it alternated between a smirk and a grimace. When his eyes reached the fiancée, however, Harry felt the wind knocked out of him.
It was Brestas Ann Lippens, or Astoria Greengrass, as the caption read. She had her face averted.
Harry opened his fist and let the ball of parchment roll onto the table.
Now what?
New Girl's Trouble by hestiajones
Chapter Endnotes: Lol. Although written as a joke, I am now entertaining thoughts of taking this further someday.