”—-H-Hermione.”
Her cheeks are flushed, that’s for sure, and she’s a bit
confused as to why a handsome gentleman like himself
would want to buy her a drink, when there were other ladies
in the bar who were much more… his type, than Hermione.
She wasn’t sure if she was anyone’s type any more— not
even Ron’s. But she smiles, nonetheless, small as it is,
and nods her head timidly at him.
“And you are— er… I’ve
seen your face before…
on the papers. Wow. I
can’t remember.”
She really ought not to drink; alcohol is bad, very, very
bad. Hermione Granger not remember something?
God have mercy on us all.
’ ———-Missss, Hermione a drink. ’
His attempt at trying to roll her British accent off his tongue is phenomenal, if failure was able to be described as such.
Pensive brown eyes, which indeed are capable of more than perverse observation flicker briefly to hers, then back down to his twiddling thumbs.
’ Anything you want. I may, possibly suggest a soda though. ’
Humbly, however abruptly, the mechanic extends casually as he introduces himself in return.
’ Yeah, I get that a lot. Name’s Tony Stark—- or Iron Man, if you prefer. ’