for littlesleepingbird

He's here alone.

That wasn't intentional, actually. He came here with the aim of meeting someone for a business deal and the other man sent a text some time ago citing a medical emergency.

But it's not like he's got anywhere else to go tonight, so it's at this bar he remains.

It's dim, here. The lights hum and flicker over every table and in various locations other than that. Gold and red lamp shades keep the atmosphere hot. It's fairly crowded, but he can still hear the music over the chatter and the piano that's being played is beautiful.

The people here are exotic. Some are dressed for work, but many are not: they dress like they've got something to prove. Low cut blouses and short skirts or overly extravagant dresses are favored here by the women and the men wear much the same. It's not a place he would normally frequent but he likes it.

"I think you and I are the only sensible ones here, don't you?"

He turns to find a woman nursing a thin glass with clear liquid; he's not sure if it's alcohol or not. Her wildly curly hair is artfully arranged to look like a mess, but that may also not be the case: he has an idea that everything a woman does is planned, but this woman looks like her life is all spontaneity. Her eyes brighten when they meet his. "Hermione," she says, laying her glass down on the counter and holding her hand out.

"Harry," he says as he shakes it. "And I have to ask what makes you think I'm sensible."

"You and I are the only ones in jeans, which is the attire I thought would be normal for a bar."

She has a point. Harry just shrugs. "Not this one," he says.

Hermione hums her agreement, picking up her glass again. "Did you come here knowing that?" she asks.

"No," he replies, casting his eyes over the bar's other patrons critically. "My business partner chose this. I've never been here before."

"Quite an odd place for business, isn't it?"

"Quite."

They lapse into silence. Harry orders a shot and downs it quick. The burn settles soon enough, and when he looks over, Hermione is staring in quiet contemplation.

Harry stares back. There is nothing that's cliché about it; no magic, no sparks, nothing life changing. It's not overly romantic. Harry isn't sure if he'd like to change it or not. "Let me buy you a drink," he says anyway.

"That, and a dance?" she counters, sliding her now empty glass over to him.

This is no place for dancing, not really. There's music and drink, but the people here are more interested in finding a bed partner than a dance partner. Hermione had not struck him as one that would request either, but he's been wrong before. So he nods, inclining the drink in her direction before ordering her a refill.

She ignores the drink once it's given to her, instead standing and holding her hands out expectantly. Harry grins, slipping his hands into hers and guiding her to the center of the room.

It's slow going; neither of them know how to actually dance, but that doesn't seem to matter. Harry has her smiling within moments, and when her slippers prove problematic, he catches her easily. It becomes smoother after that, short twirls and laughter at stupid mistakes.

"I was always warned about strangers," Hermione whispers, her hand tucked into the crevice between his neck and shoulder and her chin upon it. "And I've always taken those words to heart. I don't know what made me chose to talk to you tonight."

"Do you have to know?" Harry asks, turning his head so that his nose brushes her cheek. "No one knows all the answers anyway."

"I prefer to know," she returns. "I've always been the type to seek the answers."

"Ignore them," he advises, his lips brushing over the skin on her cheek. "Just follow the moment."

"I have been," she admits. "Not sure how I like it."

He steps away, and then he smiles when she follows automatically. "I think you like it fine," he says.

She grins indulgently.

"Just call it fate," he suggests. The song ends, and he slows to a stop, eyeing her. "I think your drink is gone," he says.

She laughs and rolls her eyes. "Obviously," she says. When she sobers, she holds out her hand. He takes it. "Thank you," she says.

He doesn't know what the thanks is for. "You're welcome."

She leans in and kisses him. He tugs her close and someone whistles but they ignore it. It's smooth and nice in an abstract sort of way. It doesn't last long. "That's not the reason?" Harry guesses, and she laughs.

"No, I guess not."

"Did you want it to be the reason?"

She pauses to think, resting her chin on his shoulder. "Not really. But it seemed to be the most logical."

"The world isn't always logical," he counters.

"And here I thought you were sensible," she mourns, shaking her head.

"I asked you why you thought so," he reminds. "I've never considered myself sensible."

"Don't be stupid, I chose you; clearly, there's something sensible somewhere."

He rolls his eyes, turning to kiss her cheek. He reaches up and tugs at her hair, pulling more curls loose round her face. She allows it, and still they take simple, short steps, mostly in circles, in the middle of this dance floor that isn't much of a dance floor. "Did you want to get out of here?" he asks.

"To your bed or to dinner?" she asks bluntly, pulling back slightly to knock their foreheads together.

"I thought we'd established we weren't here for that," he says. "I was thinking dinner."

"See?" she says, smiling ever so gently. "Sensible. I like Italian."

He huffs a laugh and kisses her shortly. "So be it."