Postal

One

It all happened so unexpectedly. One moment she was just staggering in to the dreary flourescent light of the entrance hall, shaking her umbrella out on the landing. Stopping briefly to lean in to the little post cubicle, she caught hold of the card. It bore the face of the man she had seen only in her dreams, or so she thought.

As a tugging sensation threaded through her waist, the entrance hall and the stairs to her apartment dissolved into a blur. Blackness. Then a cold thump as she landed on what felt like stone. Blinking rapidly, she regained her focus, but sensed with a stomach-tightening certainty that she was no longer in Boston.

Two half-burnt, weary-looking candles flickered atop a carved oak desk in the centre of the room, piled high with books and heavy scrolls of parchment. Rows of shelves on the far walls housed jars filled with strange-coloured pickled objects, arranged with clinical precision.

"What are you doing here?" growled a low feral voice in her ear. She jumped back, speechless. It was the very question she had been asking herself.

In the darkness she could barely discern the gaunt, pale face with its hawk-like profile, the dark, piercing eyes and a shoulder-length mass of tangled raven hair. He was quite tall, she thought irrelevantly.

A firm, commanding grip took hold of her right arm, pinning her against the mantelpiece. Then that velvet voice again, snarling in her ear. God help her. She felt herself go weak and tense all at once.

"Who are you?" he asked, keeping his grip on her, though slightly gentler. "Give me one good reason not to turn you over to the Dark Lord. Just one," he purred.

At once, she knew the only answer she was prepared to give§that she wanted to give. Pulling him towards her with her free hand, she smiled. And it was he who covered her mouth with his.

("Oh!" squeaked a faint voice in the corridor. "I think Snape's... busy.")