A/N: Probably only this before New Year, chums. Have a good one and thank you for staying with me. Enjoy!
WARNING: Here be smut *covers eyes*
All characters belong to JK Rowling, all Shakespeare quotes to Shakespeare.
Hermione woke early the next morning - the immediate, irrevocable wakefulness where you know there is no chance of further sleep. Shrugging into an old jumper – maroon wool unraveling at the wrists, so stretched out that she didn't remember anymore whether the H stood for Hermione or Harry – she left Ginny snoring gently and unclasped the window, gripping the top of the frame, pulling herself out and onto the slim lintel. From there, it was simply a matter of clambering for a few ungainly moments until she was on the roof.
The dawn was still a soft smudge of violet-yellow above the squared edges and points of the skyline; the air sharp and crisp as an apple. A thin note rose into the pale light, the lonely voice of a siren from the ring-road. Hermione shivered, struck suddenly by the strange, almost wistful sense of another life.
This happened from time to time, those moments when she had the incipient feel of another Hermione, one who never received a green-inked letter; who went through school being brilliant but not remarkable; who buried herself in books and was never wrenched from them by wonderful, kind Harry Potter and sweet, sure Ron Weasley. Who always had to put the kettle on five minutes before she wanted tea. Who got cold waiting for trains that are electrified but somehow always delayed. Whose bags were too heavy and never large enough to carry all of her books. Who would marry a sweet, thin man with a timid smile and ink-stained hands. A man like her father; a good man whose goodness would never be tested, with whom she would live a small life that wouldn't ever really feel small.
Hermione knew that her life was already writ large, that the life of a Hermione without her Hogwarts letter wouldn't be enough to fill a single afternoon of the one that she was living. But still, the sense of exclusion was inescapable, and after the traumas of the past couple of weeks it was just that little too much to bear. Hermione gasped, feeling her throat thicken with tears even as a whoosh of magic ran up her spine.
"No no no no!" Hermione whispered. She could feel her fingers sparking on the roof, see the way that her tears glowed as they spilled. She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes, breath coming in sharp sobs, clouding thick and hot and white on the cold air.
Hermione's fists clenched, trying to hold onto the rising tide of energy. Only McGonagall was aware that her magic could do this, and Hermione knew even as the sparks on her fingers became flames that this was why she hadn't been recruited as a Seeker. Because she wasn't just a brilliant witch: her connection to magic was so instinctual that it took deep skill to keep her power in check, lest it run amok like the undirected magic of a child. Unlike juvenile magic, however, which usually manifested itself harmlessly, if mischievously, the results when Hermione's control lapsed had proved themselves…somewhat spectacular.
The first and only time that she had lost control of herself like this was over two years ago, after the fight with Ron, when she had shut herself in a room of the tent that Harry didn't know about and screamed herself hoarse, the magic spilling out of her in a torrent of heat and light, feeling as though it would never stop. She'd sealed the room afterwards, scared and shaken by (and a little proud of) the torched destruction of her secret, private bathroom.
There was something different about this - a private, selfish anger that burnt all the brighter for it. She clenched her fists again, trying to rein in the flood of raw energy. But McGonagall could have told you about the Seekers, even if she wasn't going to recruit you, said a nasty, peevish part of her mind, and Hermione felt herself waver on the edge of a complete loss of control.
Before she could tip over, however, a different kind of warmth pressed into her spine and two hands circled her wrists, strong fingers closing, squeezing the fragile bones tight. A shake started between her shoulder blades, gradually working its way down her body, the fire burning itself out and the magic coiling itself back into the hidden heart of her. Hermione inhaled deeply and opened her eyes. The whole sky burnt pink and orange; a bright, bloody dawn. Wisps of mist clung to the church spires, and a pair of red kites wheeled high above against the deep blue of the receding night.
Draco didn't move as the tremors subsided, his grip on her wrists relaxing only very slightly. He felt Hermione's long sigh, the way the tension bled from the taut line of her shoulders. He curled his nose into the nape of her neck, feeling the tickle of the soft hair there, trying not to betray his relief.
Perhaps the only lesson that he was grateful to his father for was that magic, pure magic, was a matter of instinct. This, his father had said, was what distinguished Pureblood wizards from all others – the natural ability to understand magic in its most basic, elemental forms, and wield it unflinchingly. He wouldn't call what he'd just done wielding, exactly, but he knew that it was that magical instinct that had wrenched him from his bed, and had told him to simply grab Hermione and hold on to her as whatever the hell just happened burnt itself out.
He let his lips ghost over her skin, feeling the goosebumps rise against them. "Wash me in steep-down gulfs of liquid fire," he whispered, and felt her skin slip beneath his mouth as Hermione turned in his arms, twisting herself so that it was her lips against his. Draco could taste the fire and spark of powerful magic on her tongue, but he didn't fight as she pressed him back against the small, flat area of rooftop in the shadow of the chimney.
Her hands were careless but efficient, ripping at his t-shirt and pulling down the jeans he had hastily jumped into. Draco kicked them off, hoping they wouldn't fall off the roof as he tugged Hermione's remarkably intact jumper over her head. Beneath it she was wearing a white cotton top through which her small, dark nipples were just visible. Her hair fell around them like the bars of a shimmering cage as she bent her face to his again, and Draco pulled her pyjama bottoms off in one swift movement, the hot clash of their mouths driving him to urgency.
Hermione moaned and the sound shot through him like an electric current, turning him rock hard. Draco could feel her, slick and ready as she rubbed herself against his cock, and fitting his hands about her hips he lifted her slightly so that he could thrust himself deep into her. Hermione gave a little cry and dug her nails into the skin of his chest with such force that Draco knew it would bruise even if she hadn't broken the skin. All patience gone, driven by pure need, he lifted her again before bucking his hips to drive the two of them together.
Their mouths met again, breaths short, wet gasps against one another, teeth and flesh tangling in what would surely result in at least one fat lip later on. Hermione could feel the roiling magic burning just below her skin, but it was nothing to the burn of desire, nothing to the heat building down in the depths of her where – somewhere – she ended and Draco began. She wondered whether she might simply split in two and die in some sort of explosion of pleasure, and when she came it was with a little yelp, mouth leaving Draco's and trailing a shuddering exhale down his jaw to bite deeply into the curve of muscle that joined his neck and shoulder.
Draco made a sound like a cut-off howl that hovered between joy and pain, and his hips jerked once, twice, three times; before, with a rippling groan, he went still beneath her boneless, spent weight. For a minute or so they simply breathed together, the newly-risen sun cutting through the chill air. The fingers of Draco's right hand were fisted in Hermione's hair, though he couldn't remember grabbing it. Absently he rubbed her scalp, and felt her nuzzle against him before she raised herself up on her knees, breasts shifting enticingly beneath the cotton top that she had somehow managed to keep on.
She ran her fingers along the neat line where his collarbones drew together, straining as though to kiss beneath the hollow of his throat. In the pale yellow light his skin glowed like a pearl, dusted with fine, golden hair. Hermione was conscious of the softness of her body against his; all spare, taut muscle. She wondered why she hadn't noticed it before, how his body betrayed what he was– a hunter, a fighter. Hermione stared at her fingers as they traced the sharp contours of his torso, until finally Draco caught her hand and stilled it against him. When she lifted her eyes to meet his, she found the pale grey dancing with curiosity, and just a little mischief. "I told you you'd forgive me," he grinned, and then, in a more sombre voice, "What was that?"
Hermione dropped her chin and gathered herself for a second before meeting his gaze again. "It's…well… I mean, I'm not entirely sure. Dumbledore had a theory about 'raw magical potential' but then he unfortunately…er…" she trailed off, eyeing Draco, whose cheeks had turned pink, though he didn't look away.
"He unfortunately…was murdered?" he offered, eventually.
The sigh felt as though it had dragged itself from somewhere below her ribs, and her shoulders sagged as it finally left her. "Yeah, but…that wasn't your fault."
Draco's mouth made a funny expression somewhere between a scowl and a smirk. "That's utter bullshit Granger, and you know it. I'm making a habit of admitting to my crimes, and I was very much a culpable party in Dumbledore's death." His gaze didn't falter, became a challenge that Hermione met silently. Some of the tightness in his face relaxed, and when his mouth twisted this time it was rueful. "So that's why you're not a Seeker?"
Hermione nodded, "That would be my guess. I can normally keep it in check, if I have enough to think about – books, research, you know, distractions -" there was a flash of something wicked in her eyes and Draco felt his fingers twitch with renewed desire, but Hermione went on, "If I'm bored, or really, unexpectedly upset, well…you saw."
Draco frowned, "What about in Duke Humfrey's? What about the Battle of Hogwarts?! That must have been…"
It was Hermione's turn to give a rueful smirk, "Distracting, to say the least. In Duke Humfrey's...it doesn't really work when I'm terrified, just angry or, or frustrated, mostly. It's why I've always studied so hard; why I need problems to solve, projects to work on. Hunting the Horcruxes with Harry and Ron –" she paused, wondering whether Draco knew all of that, but he didn't look confused so she went on, "I had something to think about, to focus my energy on, so in spite of the boredom I was sort of…carried through. For the most part anyway, I mean - " She felt herself starting to babble, "I nearly, when Bellatrix..." Hermione swallowed, "But I just knew, I knew, I had to stay in control, and so then it was only the one time when we had this really huge fight and that, well, you saw, but I only told McGonagall and that's the only time before this that-"
Draco's brow creased, "Then how did Dumbledore know?"
Hermione gave him a dark look. "How did Dumbledore know anything? He just did, sat me down in our first term, right after that bloody troll, and said I was to come to him if ever I found my magic getting out of hand."
Draco nodded slowly, his gaze on Hermione's and yet somehow also far away. She cocked her head and his focus returned, zeroing in on her. "It's funny," he said slowly, "There are some very interesting theories about muggle-born witches and wizards being researched in the Department of Mysteries at the moment." He regarded her in a way that managed somehow to be both lascivious and analytical. Hermione punished him by shifting just so on top of him, and saw lust win out.
"I'm sure the theories are fascinating, and I would be happy to discuss them with you at some length. But" she presses a soft kiss against his mouth, "Ginny is still asleep in my room and," another feather-light brush of her lips, "I promised her we'd go shopping before you and I have rehearsal this afternoon." She attempted to sit up, but Draco was quicker, catching her arm to pull her back down and roll her underneath him in the narrow space. The freckles on her shoulders looked like little flecks of melted chocolate in the winter sunlight, he thought, and he ran his tongue quickly over one golden curve before bringing his mouth to her ear, "Not so fast."
A/N: I'm sorry for butchering my Shakespeare - I promise you we'll be back to play in no time, but scene-setting is a necessity. Please stop and say hello if you have time!