In The Back Beat

"Harry Potter" belongs to J.K. Rowling and several Very Big Corporations she has deputized on her behalf, NOT ME.

I breathe in the air hanging over the dance floor, heavy with sweat, perfume and pheromones. My fingers dance over the controls of the mixing panel, adding a sax track to the guitar-driven song already pouring out over the dance floor, channelling the aggression built up by the guitar and bass into sex rather than anger. Quickly I line up the next three songs; and if they have a distinctive sexuality, well, it's better for the club -- and my chances of getting a repeat gig -- if the toilets are full of people shagging their brains out rather than beating each other up on the dance floor.

I don't call myself Witchlight for nothing, after all.

This is my first gig at this club. I've mixed for school dances and friends' parties, and a few fringe clubs out there, but the Wheeze is the first 'real' club to give me a chance. I am not going to fuck it up.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm doing the right thing, getting into the DJ scene. I'll tell myself I can give it up anytime I like, but then I'll feel the power of the music, the way it can manipulate the quixotic mood of the dance floor, and I know that this is a part of myself that I can no more deny than the colour of my skin or my blood type. People say I'm talented, but I know I'll have to work hard to be anything more than a mediocre mixer. Still, better to try and be the best mixer I can than to walk away.

Of course, I've set myself a bar by mixing tonight that might well mark the rest of my career. Tomorrow night, the Green Lightning will be mixing the sounds here. He's a legend - he's been mixing since he was in his early teens, and they talk about his skill, his sense of timing and his control in hushed tones. My performance tonight will be compared to his tomorrow, and I have little doubt that the neo will be deemed inferior to the master. Still, to hear him mix will be a lesson in itself, and well worth the cash to get in.

"Nice save," a voice comments outside the DJ's booth, not that it's more than a table, chair and mixing panel in the corner. I look up and feel like my heart just exploded.

He's a god -- well, close enough to make no never mind -- with clear green eyes and a head of messy black hair, with a fringe that falls over and almost hides a jagged scar on his forehead. His red shirt and black jeans fit snugly enough that I can see very clearly that he's got a body well worth the checking out. Abs of steel ain't got nothing on this guy's six-pack. And, if the outside weren't droolworthy enough, he's tuned in to the atmosphere and the music enough to see the building tension I sensed and recognize the way I redirected it.

Yep, I'm in serious lust and I've never felt more dowdy in my life. I'll bet my curly hair's gone frizzy in the sweat-created humidity, and my t-shirt's motto of 'Somebody Has To Do Something, And It's Just Incredibly Pathetic That It Has To Be Us', which seemed so innocently humourous earlier tonight, strikes me as simply inane.

But still, this isn't the first time I've been struck by a man's beauty and I can handle it. I'll just take a toilet break and bring myself off in the ladies. And probably later tonight after I get home, too; this isn't a face that'll go away easily.

But for now I have to be civil and polite and not grab his shirt and snog him senseless. It would not do to shag him on the dance floor. For one thing, men tend to be startled when a girl tackles them in public.

"Thanks," I say, "it wasn't that hard."

He shrugs. "If you say so. I'm Harry, by the way."

"Call me Witchlight."

"Surely that's not your real name."

"While I'm working, I prefer to be called by that name. It keeps my mind on the job."

"That's cold."

I shrug. "Us neos can't really relax while we're mixing. If I had the experience to relax, I'd be warmer."

"You'll get it. You're a natural."

"I work hard, you mean. But thanks. I appreciate the sentiment."

He nods, makes a request, and is swallowed up by the crowd on the dance floor. I watch him retreat, and let a smile cross my lips as I watch what has to be the hottest butt I've ever seen vanish into the morass.

Dammit, I need that toilet break right now.

I line up a set of eight songs, starting with Harry's request, program them into the mixer and then make a beeline for the ladies.

All the stalls would bloody be occupied! None appear to be being used for the purposes for which they were intended either. And I can't wait for a couple to be finished -- I need privacy now. The passageway out the back is unoccupied....

Usually. I forgot to add 'usually' to that sentence. Because he is there, Harry of the tight sexy arse and hard abs and angel's face. I stare at him, speechless, for one long, hard second.

For there, in his face, is a look that I never thought I'd see on that face directed at me -- long hard lust that scorches in intensity. And somehow, I know he's there for the same reason I am.

The bass beat vibrates through the walls and up through the soles of my feet as I walk over to him, grab his shirt, pull his head down and begin to snog him senseless.

Somehow he must have gotten the same idea, because he opens his mouth over mine, sliding his tongue over my lips and into my mouth; the sensation is intoxicating, almost as intoxicating as the feel of his hands sliding up under my baby-doll t-shirt and stroking the small of my back.

Turnabout is only fair, I think, pulling his shirt out of his jeans and stroking the long, lean, lovely planes of his back. I feel him groan as my fingers dance down his spine. His hips are already grinding against mine, thrusting in time with the throbbing beat that's shaking the walls. We're dancing in place, our hearts pounding in rhythm with each other and the music, I'd swear there's no way I can be any more turned on, and we're both still fully dressed.

His fingers unhook my bra clasp, sliding forward to cup my breasts. I break the kiss to catch my breath and he takes the opportunity to attack my neck with heavy, sucking kisses. I'm going to be wearing the marks tomorrow, but right now all I can think about is how I want that mouth and those hands and that heavy throbbing cock I'm grinding my hips against. I slide my hands down -- I'd love to play with his nipples but that would mean stepping back -- and under the waistband of his jeans, into his boxers. His arse is just as perfect as I'd imagined -- soft silky smooth skin over firm muscle. I cup and squeeze and I can feel his sudden groan vibrating against my throat. It mingles and meets with the vibration of the heavy bass and I can feel the rhythm of our mating reflecting the music.

Without breaking our hold on each other, I slide one hand over his hip, towards the front of his jeans. Looking into his jade-green eyes, I whisper, "All right?"

He nods. "All right...." and without any further ado he's in my hand, hard as a branch of holly, silken as a bird's feather. Oh, this is going to feel so good....

I'm caught by surprise when his nimble fingers unbutton the waist clasp of my denim miniskirt, slipping in under my panties, dipping into the folds of my sex. He zeroes in on my clit and I arch back so hard I damn near brain myself on the wall. He strokes me in the rhythm I'm stroking him, in the rhythm of the beat that's pounding against us, and all I can think is how right this is.

What an idiot I've been, avoiding taking lovers here, avoiding those I encounter while the beat throbs through my veins. Did I really think that this wasn't 'real life', that Witchlight was just a part of my wardrobe? The beat's a part of me, the bass the heartbeat of my soul, and I've never been so hot, so in tune with a lover, than with this angel-faced man I've barely met whose heart and soul throbs to the same rhythm.

Our stroking intensifies. Oh, fuck anticipation, I need him now. Pulling away from his body -- and it's almost painful -- I shove my skirt and panties down past my knees and reach for his jeans, only to find that he's beaten me to it. He's got a condom in his fingers and we roll it onto him together.

Our eyes meet -- Is this all right? his ask, and, Do it now before I do it to you, mine reply -- and then he lifts me up and slides in.

Oh dear God. Has anything ever felt so right? He fits so neatly inside, and it's all I can do not to shatter just from the weight of him in me. And then he begins to move, thrusting in the rhythm of the music, helped by my hands on that perfect arse pulling him in closer, closer, because our heartbeats are twinning in time with the music, my mouth's sucking on his neck and all I want is this perfection to go on and on and on. I'm so close that when he snakes his hand down between us, he has only to touch my clit and I explode so hard I almost black out.

I barely notice his own orgasm, or his withdrawal. We both stare at each other. He looks thoroughly destroyed -- dear God, did I really bite him that hard? It looks like I drew blood -- and I hardly imagine I look much better.

"How are you feeling?" I ask, in lieu of anything more sensible. Wonderful, now he thinks I'm an airhead.

"I'm good. You?"

"Good."

He doesn't move and neither do I. It's surreal. The rhythm of the music changes -- oh yes, my signal song, the last one in the lineup, that goes for four minutes. I use it to tell me to hurry up and get the hell back before the programme ends.

"I've got to get back," I say, standing up and pulling up my clothes. Thank goodness I'm not wearing any makeup. He starts to straighten himself up too. When I've repaired my appearance, as much as possible, I step up to him. "Talk to me after I've finished?" I ask, and kiss him. I don't want to let this guy go -- maybe I only met Harry half an hour ago, but something tells me he's a keeper.

"Uh, sure," he says. I grin and fly back to the sound booth.

He's gone.

I search the club for a half an hour and I can't spot him anywhere. Well, this is just wonderful; how the hell can I give my number to a guy who goes poof-i'm-gone on you?

Finally I give up, collect my discs and make my way to the exit. "Hey," I say to Ginny Weasley, a friend and the younger sister of the club's owner, who's sitting at the door, carding the masses as they enter. She's the one who got me this gig, and it wouldn't be right for me to just vanish on her.

Unlike someone else I can mention.

"Hey," she says, "oh, Green Lightning left this for you."

"The Green Lightning?" I ask. "He was here? You know what he looks like?"

"Sure I know!" she grins. "He's a friend of my brothers' -- that's why he'll be here tomorrow." She sighs dreamily. "He's so gorgeous, with those piercing green eyes and that lightning-bolt scar, don't you think? I saw you talking with him earlier."

"Yeah," I reply, dazed. Harry? Harry was the Green Lightning, and he'd -- I'd --

Oh, hell.

I take the piece of cardboard Ginny offers without looking at it, and set off for home. Halfway there, I remember the slip of cardboard in my hand, and lift it up to read it in the glow of a streetlamp.

It's a pass to the club tomorrow night. An excuse to see him again? I'm about to jam it in my pocket when I see there's something written on the back.

'Call me.' And a mobile phone number.

I take a deep breath, girding my courage up. This shouldn't feel like this -- it's not like we're meeting for the first time tonight, is it?

No, definitely not, I think as my body warms in response to the memories. A final check-over -- hair loose and tumbling down the back, tied neatly at the nape of the neck, so it'll look casual rather than careless. Red silk t-shirt -- no motto this time. Black pleather mini -- almost the same as the denim one I wore last night, save for the material and colour. Finally, my knee-high Docs complete the outfit. I look good.

On an impulse, I dart over to a vending machine and buy two cans of lemonade, and then I enter the club. Ginny waves me through and I plunge into the morass of humanity inside.

There's an undeniable touch of genius in the mixing of the music that pumps out of the speakers. Each song seems calculated to drive the energy higher, pushing people onto the dance floor. Yet, listening, I can hear an ache behind the mix - each song touches on frustration, on an unattainable lover or an unreachable goal.

I smile as I weave my way across the floor. Of course, I may be imagining things, but it's nice to think that, just maybe....

His eyes are focussed on the mixing panel I was bent over just the night before, and his long, skilful fingers are resting on the bass control.

"Nice to know I'm not the only one addicted to bass."

Harry jumps, fortunately jerking his hands away from the mixing panel, avoiding a feedback squawk or other embarrassment.

"Uh, hey. Sorry," I apologize. "Um, want a drink?" I offer him one of the still-sealed cans.

He looks at me, and his eyes widen appreciatively. "Sure." He takes the can, and pops the ring, slugging down the sweet, cold liquid.

Sipping from my own can, I take a deep breath before deciding to take the bull by the horns and do what I came for.

"I'm Hermione. Want to talk for a while?"

He blinks, and then a slow grin spreads across his face. "Sure. Let me set up the panel for a while, okay?" He quickly programmes a playlist of eight songs and stands up, taking my hand and leading me out back.

I grin as I'm pulled away. It is probably entirely coincidental that all of those songs are about celebrating a happy relationship. Probably.

Author's Notes:
    I admit I'm not a DJ and don't have that deep an experience of the scene. So, all DJs out there, if I totally screwed up the terminology, I apologize.
    The motto on Hermione's shirt, 'Somebody has to do something, and it's just incredibly pathetic that it has to be us', was said by Jerry Garcia, lead guitarist of The Grateful Dead.