Dracula. It was a deeper read than most preferred, especially the young, innovative stallions that she attended Uni with. It was no bother to her, really, that they teased her for her old English novels. She was passing every class with flying colors, and allowed herself some well-earned reading time in this semi-quiet library corner that she had dedicated to herself.

"You're in my spot."

A low voice drawled over her paper back and she lowered it politely, looking up at her visitor.

He was tall. Extremely so, and lanky with dark, errant curls and eyes that reminded her of the pool in the basement. Perhaps in his second year?

"I beg your pardon?" she replied amiably, saving her page with her finger just in case.

He sighed, as if repeating himself were a chore greater than the labors of Hercules and gestured vaguely to where she was sitting.

"This is my spot."

She blinked at him.

"It isn't."

"It is though," he retorted sharply, crossing his arms.

"It is not. It's a chair in a public library that anyone is welcome to sit in, and just because you like it best doesn't mean you get to shoo anyone out of it as it crosses your fancy."

Molly huffed at him and held the book back up to her face, concentrating on relocating her paragraph. Whoever this gorgeous boy was, he was rude. And probably posh. She hadn't ever met anyone quite so blatantly disapproving as he was now, and it was grating on the nerves worn thin from the stress of her lonely life.

"Dracula. Old fashioned. You're trying to be interesting. Individual by reading books that you think nobody else reads anymore-"

"Don't think to presume my life!" she snapped, flopping the book down onto her knee. "I'm reading it because I like it. I'm not trying to be anything except alone at the moment, so if you would kindly-"

"Alone," he interrupted, cocking his head to the side and bringing her up short. "Alone. Yes that's what you are. Only child probably, but where are your parents? Dead, if the tightening of your fingers and the pressing of the lips are anything to go by. Very telling. That would explain the book then because it's a gift! Oh I didn't see the writing inside the cover. Always miss something."

He finished with a baroque shrug and she stared at him. Moments passed in hot silence, her gaze never leaving his, and Molly was impressed that he didn't even blink.

"You can tell all of that just by looking at me?" she asked him.

He nodded. Her legs uncrossed themselves and re-crossed in quiet speculation. "Has anyone told you that you've a very peculiar skill set?"

A foreign expression flitted across his face, and for a moment, he looked completely different. Brighter. But it was gone before she could register and he was smiling at her with the tiniest crinkle at the corner of his left eye.

"People seldom tell me otherwise."

Molly settled back into the chair and pulled her book back into optimum position, scanning the passage until she found her place.

"Well it's remarkable."

"You think so?"

"Yes. But you're not having this spot."

"Fine."

"Fine."

Silence. Her eyes scanned the same sentence over about 3 times before he spoke, and she was wondering why he didn't just leave.

"Sherlock Holmes."

"Molly Hooper." She met his searing stare one last time before dropping them to her reading, intent to focus entirely. He was quiet again, but still leaning intimidatingly against the bookshelf, not saying a word.

"My favorite is Frankenstein," he said, and then he was gone.

Molly curled into the seat, falling deep into the world of Dracula with a small smile on her face, idly stroking the fraying spine of an old book hidden deep within her bag. Although she had finished it the day before, her subconscious was strolling amiably along the track of an idea that maybe it wouldn't hurt to read it again.