Just a little plot bunny that I had to write before it hopped away! Sorry for any typos - I was eager to get this up. xx

You peer out at the world from beneath hooded lids, because what use is discretion if our lives are spent staring anyway? And you spit – hard, and far – so that your little harsh mark on the world has proved your existence. But to whom? The endless waves of people swarming past, or to yourself?

And you lift the bottle with a steady hand and throw back your head, letting the droplets of amber fire stream through your insides, until you're completely and utterly set alight, and dancing to the tune of the alcohol within you. It's not easy, you think, being alone. "Being on your own for a while might help you, find yourself 'Mione," they said. Rubbish. And forget your pretty little name – 'Mione was made for bubblegum girls, but you're raging fire, through and through.

You glance up when you feel a shadow cast over you – not that your existence isn't a never ending shadow anyway - and you see the silhouette of a man. Broad shouldered, tall. Narrow waisted. Just a black shape against the falling sun's scarlet-gold backdrop, because light blurs everyone and everything, and his features aren't recognisable. What you can see is a thin wisp of smoke, weaving its way through the air from him to you.

"I'll sit down." He says, and his voice strums the string of a memory in the back of your mind. But you don't move over, and you don't stand up, because you're Hermione Granger – flame girl, you are – and screw the world, you'll do as you please.

You catch a flash of white as he grins, almost imperceptibly – and you wonder if you imagined the movement, because a second later it's gone.

"Have it your way then." And he lowers himself until he's level with you – features still unrecognisable – and takes a slow, deliberate drag from the cigarette in his right hand, the expels it from inside right in your face. And for a few, terrifying seconds, you're surrounded by a cloud of putrid grey, coughing and heaving and spluttering until you think you'll drown in this enclosure of ash; until as suddenly as it formed, it's gone.

"Fine." You manage to wheeze, and you shuffle over so that he sits down heavily beside you, and turns – most likely to interrogate you, like the rest of those bloody interferers. But he doesn't, because as you catch sight of his face you freeze.

And he laughs.

"That's right, Granger," he smirks, a sadistic grin, "we meet again."

And you can only gape, because you know it can't be him. You won't accept that it is him.

"Can't, shan't won't." he chuckles, and you shiver, because you can virtually feel cold fingers probing your mind as he reads you; like an open book. "I can anticipate your every move." He continues. "Like a chess game." He pauses – too long. "But that's life, isn't it? Just a game really." And he laughs, and you laugh, because you realise that he's completely and utterly smashed, and you're deliciously drunk too, teetering on the edge and just waiting for the inevitable fall to come.

He stops suddenly after a while, and takes a long drag from the stub in his hand; waiting, and then slowly letting the smoke trail its way back out from his open mouth – from which he speaks.

"Mudblood girl."

The words are short and sharp, and they unexpectedly stab straight into the tender place in your heart which you tried so hard to cover with sheets of iron; and they twist inside, jarring your ribcage painfully. But you look straight into his eyes – silver, clouded with smoke – and you see that he's laughing inside, so you chuckle.

"Pureblood brat."

"Mudblood Granger."

"Pureblood Malfoy."

"Granger."

"Malfoy."

It's a never ending game, you realise, just like he said.

"Here." He says, and he passes you the glowing stub, and you know what he wants – so you hand over your little bottle of glass; and just as your fingers brush you feel a current that's utterly electric –

Lightning mixed with fire mixed with a thousand crashing waves –

And you know he feels it too because he winces, and quickly thrusts the cigarette at you before grabbing the bottle. You try to breathe some comfort from the embers but they're poisoning you inside, and you just can't take in any more.

He laughs again at your discomfort – a chilling, yet eerily beautiful laugh – and pushes his face close to yours, so you can smell the harsh tang of the spirits on his breath.

"I'll show you." He murmurs, and it's terrifying, yet seductive at the same time, and this is what they must teach them in the Salazar's dungeons, you think.

He grasps the cigarette, and puts it to your lips, forcing you to suck – and you desperately imagine that its clean, fresh air you're taking in – and then he does the same, motioning with his fingers –

3

2

1

And then you both breathe out, letting the putrid fumes diffuse into a cloud between you.

"Again." He whispers, and you repeat.

"Again."

So you pass the stub back and forth, back and forth, drawing closer each time until you're practically nose to nose. And then he takes the remnants of ash and flicks them to the ground, looking straight into your eyes before leaning in.

And the embers on his fingertips ignite the fire inside of you, leaving a trail of flames everywhere they dance, and your lips meet in a clash of an inferno of desperation and smoke, and you're burned and singed but you don't care because this is what it means to be alive.

You're dragged to God knows where and you are his and he is yours, and you're just melting because you've kept that stony exterior up far too long, and now your walls are tumbling down. You're a bonfire of limbs, fuelled by alcohol and cigarettes, soaring flames beyond the reality of your everyday life until at last you collapse into his arms, and glance up at his blazing eyes before you're dragged to the depths of darkness and dreams.

He sits up.

Pulls on his clothes, and after a second thought, grabs the empty bottle of firewhisky and tucks it into his pocket as a souvenir. And you're blissfully oblivious as he grasps a new cigarette between his teeth and lights up, taking in a deep lungful of smoke.

And he walks away.

Because who were you kidding, when you thought it was something special?

((no one))

And behind him, he leaves a trail of embers, and one dancing ribbon of smoke, which seems to whisper –

"You are mine" –

Before it's gone.

Well, I guess it's pretty different to anything I've written before. As always, feedback is ridiculously appreciated...hope you liked it =)

Love you all,

Tris xx