be there, for the most part. There were fairy lights (made from real fairies that upon close inspection looked either asleep or drunk) and a smoky-looking, neon sign, which had yet to be turned on or perhaps was not working.
There were also witches of all sorts loitering about. Tall ones, short ones, old and young, plain and extravagantly attractive, all seemingly dressed like they were sassy, smart-mouthed, saloon extras in some American cowboy flick.
Hermione went a bit red as she shuffled past a pretty, buxom young witch twirling a yellow parasol. She had on a matching corset and pantaloons under a red and black silk, oriental robe, and somehow made the whole ensemble work.
"Sightseeing, love?" the girl called out. A few other older ladies in the background cackled.
That rock-brained, peroxide-headed, pasty-faced wanker had probably known about the nature of the Inn and thought to embarrass her by demanding they meet directly outside.
Well, she would not give him the satisfaction. She made her way down the street, picked a nice, dingy lantern post and waited next to that instead.
And waited.
Hermione had resorted to reading the ingredients on the back of her lip balm when she felt someone take hold of her arm and lead her down from the pavement. At first she thought it was Draco, who was uncouth like that, but then she saw that it was someone else altogether and was promptly startled.
"I have a carriage waiting in the next street," said the man. He was well dressed and not that much older than herself.
"Good for you," she said, for lack of anything better to retort with. She wished she was carrying Hagrid's infamous pink umbrella.
Undaunted, the cretin took out a money bag which had been tied to his belt and jingled it, presumably for her benefit. "I pay more than the average," said the man. He had one blue eye and one green eye, which was unusual. The blue eye winked at her.
Oh, she was going to wring Malfoy's neck when he showed up.
If he showed up. God, he was coming wasn't he?
"I'm not for sale," she told the man, angry in general at the plight of any woman who felt she had no choice but to peddle her body for a living. "Take your depraved cravings with you and piss off."
"Everything's for sale," he replied, smiling. And then reached out to touch a curl of her hair.
Appalled, Hermione sharply slapped his hand away.
Further down the street, several of the women from the Cobblestone were giving her hostile looks, but the majority looked amused.
So much for keeping a low profile, Hermione thought, with a sigh. The letch was still looking at her expectantly.
"You don' t want that one, mate," said a familiar voice, "she' ll put your balls in a vise, in more ways than the usual."
The Sun God had finally appeared, though his trademark golden head was covered by a black, Muggle baseball cap, pulled down low. The cap said 'Nutrisoil Fertilizer'.
Hermione read it again to make sure.
Only Draco Malfoy could wear advertising for packaged cow manure, and still look passable.
Hermione's would-be client remained where he was, either stupid or stubborn in the face of Malfoy's well-honed 'spooky voice'. She had seen first years run for the hills when Malfoy spoke to them like he had just done.
"Push off or there'll be a scene," he emphasised. His inner Lucius was getting a good workout.
The man didn't want a scene, apparently. Perhaps he was a wizard of some standing and had as much to lose as them should his presence there be broadcasted. Or perhaps he didn't see any benefit in a confrontation when there was plenty to go around. Giving Hermione a parting wink, (with the blue eye, again) he pocketed his money bag and whistled his way down the street.
"Urgh," Hermione exclaimed, feeling the need for a shower.
Draco turned on her. "Didn't your mother ever teach you to use your knee?" he asked crossly.
She glowered at him. "My mother taught me to use my head."
Some of his anger faded. "Yeah? A good head butt is called for, every so often."
Hermione ignored his attempt at humour and glanced down at her attire, wondering if she had inadvertently given off vibes that suggested she might charge in half hour increments. She was wearing a light, floral skirt, sandals and a tank top. On yes, she thought, wryly, she was the very definition of a 'woman of the night'.