Cappuccino After Eleven

Thank you so much for your wonderful reviews! It truly inspires me to write more;)

Also, a big thanks to chemrunner57: can't believe you've supported me since like 2016.

merendinoemiliano: I hope you like chapter two just as much;)

Chapter Two

Cigarette

The next time she saw him was at a party.

No, she corrected herself, "at" the party was not the correct term. It was more outside the party than in it anyways.

She saw the flashing lights from inside. She heard the girls scream, then the boys roar when they hit the beer pong ball straight into the cup. And then, there, with his foot dangling in the windowsill, sat the redhead again.

Hermione curled her nose. He had lit a cigarette now and seemed to be smoking.

Being the daughter of two dentists, Hermione was not a fan of smoking. Yet, she didn't seem to mind when it was him doing it.

His head turned, and she caught a glimpse of his freckled jawline before his eyes glided over her.

The red head lifted his hand in a casual salute, his fingers brushing over a soft lock of auburn hair. Even in the dim streetlight, it seemed to glimmer in gold.

Hermione suddenly felt very exposed where she sat on the balcony, sipping tea in her pyjama pants and knitted sweater. She waved back, before discreetly trying to flatten her hair with her hands.

Another head popped out beside him in the window, and he jumped a little, sliding a good inch towards free fall.

Hermione gasped.

She put her teacup on the floor beside her feet, afraid of spilling it. Her hands were shaking. He could have died.

The redhead nodded at something his dark-haired friend was saying. Then, his friend's head popped back into the room, and the Hermione and he were left alone yet again.

He flicked away the ash of his cigarette.

Then, he took a long drag from the cigarette. He held it for a second, before breathing it all out into the cold air.

With a shrug, he put the cigarette out on the wall and let it fall to the ground.

"You shouldn't do that, you know!" Hermione yelled.

Shit.

Coldness spread in her chest, as if she just stabbed herself in the heart with an ice spike.

She stopped breathing.

She had yelled. Out loud. To him.

To him.

He looked up, surprised. Eyes wide.

For a moment, seemed confused as to who she were talking to. He looked around, and when there were no others, his eyes focused on her.

Hermione was thankful for the darkness of the night, lying over her like a blanket.

"What?" he yelled back, his British accent slurred by the alcohol, "Smoking, you mean?"

For a split second, Hermione pondered if she should just keep silent instead of answering him, but the temptation to continue was too strong.

"No," she said.

Well, yes.

"Sitting in the windowsill!" she shouted back.

He looked down, as if only now realizing that he was sitting a couple inches away from certain death. Or, at least two broken legs.

"I think I'm good," he shouted back, his smile glinting in the dim streetlight, "But thank you for the concern!"

Hermione's brain blanked out, uncertain of what to reply without sounding awkward.

Luckily, she didn't have to, because he drew a hand through his glinting red hair and swiftly disappeared back in through the window from where he had come.

Weirdly disappointed, Hermione felt her shoulders slump, and her eyes return to her own nervous, shaking hands folded in her lap.

"Hey!"

Her head snapped up.

It was his voice. Loud and a little deep, yet high enough to be distinguishable. She wondered why the neighbours hadn't stuck out their grumpy heads and yelled at them yet.

"What is your name?" he called at her, red cup in his hands swooshing over the edge with a new drink.

"Hermione!" she yelled back, trying hard to contain the bubbles in her chest.

He looked at her for a moment, a sober look coming over his face, "Nice to meet you!"

A warmness swelled in her chest.

She opened her mouth to reply, and just then the curtains fluttered, and he disappeared again.

Hermione exhaled and closed her mouth.

She didn't get his name, but now the redhead knew hers. That must at least mean something, right?

With a deep breath meant to calm her racing heart, she smiled.

At least she was not completely incapable of making friends.

Her breath hitched.

What a bittersweet thought, she realized, that the one friend she had made in Italy, also seemed to be the most complete stranger.

Unintentionally, her smile paled, leaving only the feeling of the smile lines in her face, like the imprint of the shoe in the sand.

Could they even be friends? Even now, when she knew nothing about him, except that he drunk cappuccino and smoked Muggle cigarettes, and wore socks in mismatched red and white?

Hermione shook her head.

It was best not to think about it.

She took a deep sip of her tea, grimacing when she found it too cold.

Yet, she realized, his sweet smile and different socks always lingered in the back of her mind.