Categories > Books > Harry Potter
The Breadth of Dusk
After Hogwarts, Hermione Granger slipped back into the muggle world. After two years of hormone replacement therapy, Hermione has legally changed his name to Faunus and is successfully passing as m...
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The Breadth of Dusk - Chapter 1: I've Got All This Ringing in My Ears and None on My Fingers
[Faunus POV]
I sat sipping my rum and Coke at a small, round table cloaked in a gauzy purple table cloth, an ornate metal box in the center of it with candle light flickering through holes shaped like stars and crescent moons. I was at a bar called Northern Downpour, a lively, artsy place on Clark packed with Chicago’s college crowd off the Belmont red line stop. The walls were made of dark, rough brick and covered with contemporary works by students at Columbia University and the Art Institute, illuminated from above by dim gas lamps. The whole place smelled of frankincense and patchouli punctuated by vague whiffs of weed and kerosene.
At the front of the room was a stage. On a high wooden stool in the center sat a young woman with short, curly red locks playing a purple acoustic guitar. Her jeans were ripped and her jacket was covered in patches bearing feminist slogans and the logos of 90’s punk bands. She crooned in a velvety alto that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up:
“Triangles are my favorite shape:
Three points where two lines meet, toe to toe, back to back.
Let's go, my love; it's very late.
'Til morning comes, let's tessellate.”
I could usually be found here on Friday nights, Northern Downpour’s weekly open mic night, sometimes performing slam poems, other times just listening. I was friends with the staff and many of the regulars. Tonight was the first open mic of the fall semester. Glancing about, I caught sight of a group of girls from my psychology of gender class. I made eye contact with one of them, a petite, brunette Latina named Luz, and she waved excitedly to me, standing on her toes in her bright orange floral sneakers. The tall, long-haired young man in a denim vest holding her hand gave me a small, awkward smile. I recognized him as one of the jazz trumpet majors from the performing arts school that shared a dormitory building with my university. I tried to recall his name: Aaron? Eric?
I was pulled from my musings by the sound of the MC announcing the next performer:
“New to the Lionel Mavis College of Performing Arts, help me welcome vocal performance major Draven Moore, here tonight singing an acoustic cover of Fallout Boy’s ‘I’ve Got All This Ringing in My Ears and None on My Fingers’!”
The crowd clapped politely as a pale, thin blonde made his way to center stage where a keyboard had been set up. Standing before it, he grinned at the audience, his long fingers splayed over the keys. I noticed at once how lovely he was. His skin was as smooth and fair as porcelain, eyes a brilliant emerald green matching the long-sleeved shirt that covered is slender torso, a charcoal-covered tank peeking out from underneath. A scarf similar in color to the tank is situated loosely around his long neck, and a silver earring in the shape of a feather glints in his right ear, the other ear covered silky platinum hair that reaches his shoulders. Light washed denim jeans clung to his shapely legs and pert ass. I blushed slightly.
Draven sang in a gorgeous tenor,
“You're a canary, I'm a coal mine,
'Cause sorrow is just all the rage.
Take one for the team;
You all know what I mean.”
I watched has pretty, pale lips, transfixed. He was feminine-looking; beautiful.
“And I'm so sorry, but not really.
Tell the boys where to find my body.”
His eyes fell on me.
“New York eyes,”
Suddenly, I was locked in a staring contest with brilliant green gems.
“Chicago thighs,”
He winked at me slyly. I felt my face grow abruptly hot, quickly looking down at my hands wrapped around my glass.
“Pushed up the window to kiss you off.
The truth hurts worse than anything I could bring myself to do to you!”
I kept my eyes fixed on the ice cubes bobbing in my drink until Draven’s song was finished. Once he exited the stage and the MC began collapsing the keyboard stand, I made a beeline for the back door.
Outside in the alley, I opened the brown leather bag over my shoulder, pulling out a pack of Newport shorts, the currency of stressed out Chicago college students. I didn’t smoke often, maybe once or twice per week if I was having a tough day. I placed one between my lips and flicked my lighter once, twice, a third time. No such luck.
“Need a light?” asked a voice from my right. My blood froze. I turned to face the chuckling tow-headed young man in green who reached over and politely lit my cigarette. I took a drag.
“Thanks.” I said, exhaling.
“No problem.” He grinned a lopsided little grin and lit up himself. “What’s your name?” he asked. I smiled slightly. A light rain was beginning, and I pulled my coat closer around me.
“I’m Faunus,” I answered, “Faunus Granger.”
“It’s nice to make your acquaintance, Faunus,” he stuck out his hand, “I’m Draven Moore.” His speaking voice possessed an English accent that wasn’t present when he sang. I had mostly lost my own after living in the States for two years, my speech like a true blue Chicagoan now.
“I know,” I replied with a laugh, shaking his outstretched hand. His fingers were cool and bony. “I enjoyed your performance. You have a wonderful voice.”
“Why, thank you.” He said, and I saw what I thought may be a blush paint his cheeks. He looked at me for a moment, a long, calculating look.
“What?” I asked, running my hand through my brown curls self-consciously. He laughed again.
“Just wondering if you’d want to come back to my place for drinks?” He asked, eyebrows raised, an amused smirk playing across his face.
“S-sure!” I said with the awkward, surprised enthusiasm of a fourteen-year-old whose crush had just asked him to the winter formal.
With a sly chuckle, he grasped my hand and took off down the alley, pulling me along. At the end was parked a black Honda XL250 from the early 1970’s. He hopped on the motorcycle and looked at me expectantly, pulling on a black helmet and handing me one that had been held to a back rack with several bungee cords. I hopped on behind him and held tightly to his waist as we took off in a cloud of exhaust and back alley brick dust.
[Faunus POV]
I sat sipping my rum and Coke at a small, round table cloaked in a gauzy purple table cloth, an ornate metal box in the center of it with candle light flickering through holes shaped like stars and crescent moons. I was at a bar called Northern Downpour, a lively, artsy place on Clark packed with Chicago’s college crowd off the Belmont red line stop. The walls were made of dark, rough brick and covered with contemporary works by students at Columbia University and the Art Institute, illuminated from above by dim gas lamps. The whole place smelled of frankincense and patchouli punctuated by vague whiffs of weed and kerosene.
At the front of the room was a stage. On a high wooden stool in the center sat a young woman with short, curly red locks playing a purple acoustic guitar. Her jeans were ripped and her jacket was covered in patches bearing feminist slogans and the logos of 90’s punk bands. She crooned in a velvety alto that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up:
“Triangles are my favorite shape:
Three points where two lines meet, toe to toe, back to back.
Let's go, my love; it's very late.
'Til morning comes, let's tessellate.”
I could usually be found here on Friday nights, Northern Downpour’s weekly open mic night, sometimes performing slam poems, other times just listening. I was friends with the staff and many of the regulars. Tonight was the first open mic of the fall semester. Glancing about, I caught sight of a group of girls from my psychology of gender class. I made eye contact with one of them, a petite, brunette Latina named Luz, and she waved excitedly to me, standing on her toes in her bright orange floral sneakers. The tall, long-haired young man in a denim vest holding her hand gave me a small, awkward smile. I recognized him as one of the jazz trumpet majors from the performing arts school that shared a dormitory building with my university. I tried to recall his name: Aaron? Eric?
I was pulled from my musings by the sound of the MC announcing the next performer:
“New to the Lionel Mavis College of Performing Arts, help me welcome vocal performance major Draven Moore, here tonight singing an acoustic cover of Fallout Boy’s ‘I’ve Got All This Ringing in My Ears and None on My Fingers’!”
The crowd clapped politely as a pale, thin blonde made his way to center stage where a keyboard had been set up. Standing before it, he grinned at the audience, his long fingers splayed over the keys. I noticed at once how lovely he was. His skin was as smooth and fair as porcelain, eyes a brilliant emerald green matching the long-sleeved shirt that covered is slender torso, a charcoal-covered tank peeking out from underneath. A scarf similar in color to the tank is situated loosely around his long neck, and a silver earring in the shape of a feather glints in his right ear, the other ear covered silky platinum hair that reaches his shoulders. Light washed denim jeans clung to his shapely legs and pert ass. I blushed slightly.
Draven sang in a gorgeous tenor,
“You're a canary, I'm a coal mine,
'Cause sorrow is just all the rage.
Take one for the team;
You all know what I mean.”
I watched has pretty, pale lips, transfixed. He was feminine-looking; beautiful.
“And I'm so sorry, but not really.
Tell the boys where to find my body.”
His eyes fell on me.
“New York eyes,”
Suddenly, I was locked in a staring contest with brilliant green gems.
“Chicago thighs,”
He winked at me slyly. I felt my face grow abruptly hot, quickly looking down at my hands wrapped around my glass.
“Pushed up the window to kiss you off.
The truth hurts worse than anything I could bring myself to do to you!”
I kept my eyes fixed on the ice cubes bobbing in my drink until Draven’s song was finished. Once he exited the stage and the MC began collapsing the keyboard stand, I made a beeline for the back door.
Outside in the alley, I opened the brown leather bag over my shoulder, pulling out a pack of Newport shorts, the currency of stressed out Chicago college students. I didn’t smoke often, maybe once or twice per week if I was having a tough day. I placed one between my lips and flicked my lighter once, twice, a third time. No such luck.
“Need a light?” asked a voice from my right. My blood froze. I turned to face the chuckling tow-headed young man in green who reached over and politely lit my cigarette. I took a drag.
“Thanks.” I said, exhaling.
“No problem.” He grinned a lopsided little grin and lit up himself. “What’s your name?” he asked. I smiled slightly. A light rain was beginning, and I pulled my coat closer around me.
“I’m Faunus,” I answered, “Faunus Granger.”
“It’s nice to make your acquaintance, Faunus,” he stuck out his hand, “I’m Draven Moore.” His speaking voice possessed an English accent that wasn’t present when he sang. I had mostly lost my own after living in the States for two years, my speech like a true blue Chicagoan now.
“I know,” I replied with a laugh, shaking his outstretched hand. His fingers were cool and bony. “I enjoyed your performance. You have a wonderful voice.”
“Why, thank you.” He said, and I saw what I thought may be a blush paint his cheeks. He looked at me for a moment, a long, calculating look.
“What?” I asked, running my hand through my brown curls self-consciously. He laughed again.
“Just wondering if you’d want to come back to my place for drinks?” He asked, eyebrows raised, an amused smirk playing across his face.
“S-sure!” I said with the awkward, surprised enthusiasm of a fourteen-year-old whose crush had just asked him to the winter formal.
With a sly chuckle, he grasped my hand and took off down the alley, pulling me along. At the end was parked a black Honda XL250 from the early 1970’s. He hopped on the motorcycle and looked at me expectantly, pulling on a black helmet and handing me one that had been held to a back rack with several bungee cords. I hopped on behind him and held tightly to his waist as we took off in a cloud of exhaust and back alley brick dust.
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