The wonderful Dynonugget wanted a drabble that had Draco and Hermione with thunderstorms. So why did Wuthering Heights pop into my head? Stupid brain. The poetic stanza is taken from 'No Dominion' by Dylan Thomas. The awesome JK Rowling owns it all, I am merely her pawn.
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The raindrops trailing down the diamond windowpane mirrored the tears on Hermione's face as she stared into the dark night; her breath quickening each time lightening arced across the sky.
"Where are you tonight?" she whispered, leaning her forehead against the cool glass.
A roll of thunder caused everything to vibrate and echoed in the deep well of her heart, as another flash precluded the deafening pulse of nature's wrath. Mahogany eyes searched the storm for any sign of his presence, refusing to give into the hopelessness that began to fill her, pondering if this was the night he chose to end his visits with her.
"Please?" she whimpered, pressing her nose to the barrier, her warm plea building condensation on the lower half of the windowpane.
As another round of thunderclap's sounded, an old Muggle grandfather clock struck three, the chimes coinciding perfectly with the rumble, and still, no sign of her beloved.
Closing her eyes longer than a moment for the first time since the storm began, she sobbed his name over and over, softly thumping her head against the wood, desperately trying to beat his memory from her brain.
Wind thrashed the water upon the windows, practically obscuring any view of the outside because of the drenching downpour. Crying to the point of exhaustion, Hermione slid to the floor and rested her back against the wooden frames that separated the windows, staring sightlessly into the darkened room in front of her.
He wasn't coming. He always came with the storm and she'd waited for hours.
Sleep overcame her as the time neared four, the storm dissipating as the wind moved the clouds off to the east, her head propped against the bottom of the window.
Before the break of dawn, with dark streaks of maroon and golden orange splashed across the sky, a faint blue image stood on the outside of Hermione's window, wavering in its intensity. Bending low, the ghostly image of a blond man laid his hand upon one of the diamonds, freezing the entire area surrounding his fingers.
He gazed at the woman he adored above all things, frowning when he recognized the now dried trail of tears; all too common in the last few meetings they'd shared after his death. His own tears gathered in his eyes as he stared for what seemed like eons at the girl who had captured his heart, only to have it taken from her weeks later because of his foolishness.
He supposed he was selfish, returning to her during the storms, but now he could see the damage he was inflicting on her; how she never laughed anymore, or the dark circles under her eyes when she refused to sleep for want of seeing him. No, he needed to let her go and be patient for her time to come.
Lifting his hand away from the glass, he traced words onto the frosty surface and laid a kiss in the middle of a heart that she'd outlined earlier in her misery. With one last look at her sleeping face, he smiled sadly and whispered, "Love you, Moptop."
An hour after sunrise, the pain in her shoulders became an insistent throbbing as she slowly sat up and arched her neck to relieve herself of the kinks. Touching her eyes with her fingertips, she could feel they were swollen from all the tears she'd shed the night before, her throat raw from her hoarse cries.
Shafts of light filtered through the windows, bringing her attention to the tableau etched into the glass, her graceful fingers savoring every line of the beauty displayed on several of the panes. It was as if a master glass carver wrought his magnum opus, with swoops and whorls, pictures of the both of them with patterns of all kinds and words, presented for her enjoyment alone.
Thou Lover's Be Lost, Love Shall Not, And Death Shall Have No Dominion. I'll be waiting… D
